Work Text:
It all starts with a pair of pants.
Tony’s been bent over his workbench, fiddling with a motherboard and tiny wires for hours, so when he hears Peter walk into the lab, he takes the opportunity to straighten up and stretch, his back making its displeasure known at being kept in an unnatural position for too long through ominously loud cracks.
Tony turns his head to take in the kid, doing his usual cursory visual screening for any hidden injuries. The kid looks fine, at first glance.
There is something that catches Tony’s eye though.
“Is it still all the rage to have more holes than fabric, these days?” he asks idly, a vague sneer on his face at the affront to fashion Peter’s jeans are.
Peter looks startled for a moment and looks down on himself to figure out what Tony is referring to, then a weird expression crosses his face. It’s gone faster than Tony can begin to decipher what it might mean, then the kid is sending a small, sardonic smile his way.
“Sure, Mister Stark. It’s ‘all the rage’. Though we don’t really say that anymore,” he sasses, a cheeky twinkle in his eyes.
Tony rolls his eyes, and they move on. Tony forgets all about the pants.
The next time Tony makes a remark about Peter’s clothes, it’s nearing the end of October. New York’s Indian summer has come and gone and the temperatures have dropped sharply in the last week, yet when Peter shows up for their lab time on Wednesday afternoon, he’s only wearing a hoodie over his – yet again – more-holes-than-cloth jeans.
Tony frowns. “I know for some odd reason teenagers seem to be immune to the cold – I saw one rocking shorts and flip flops today – but shouldn’t you wear a bit more than that, what with your thermoregulation snafu?”
‘Snafu’ is a bit of an understatement to describe the shivering, hypothermic mess Peter had been last winter when he’d gotten caught outside of the Tower without his badge before Tony had added his biometric information into F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s database so he could come and go whenever he pleases. He’d waited, in literal freezing weather, for an hour before Tony had checked his texts and seen that the kid was stuck downstairs and his security wouldn’t even let him wait in the lobby.
He’d stormed down, grabbed the blue-lipped kid, half carried him to the MedBay to get treated for mild hypothermia, then had marched back downstairs to take names. He’d only remembered the names long enough to make sure they were fired. What kind of idiot makes a teenager wait out in the cold in the middle of winter?
Peter stiffens briefly, his steps faltering as he heads to his workbench.
“I’m ok, Mister Stark. I have another sweater on underneath,” he says with a cheerful smile that Tony squints at. Something about it seems a bit off to him.
“Why not just wear a coat like a normal person?” the eccentric genius hypocritically asks.
Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I couldn’t find it this morning and I was running late. I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on.”
Tony snorts. That definitely tracks with Peter’s habit of constantly running late to everything and leaving unimportant details such as weather appropriate clothing to the last minute.
Which, again, is pretty hypocritical of him to have anything to say about. But he’s the adult here, so he gets to rub it in the kid’s face.
“Alright, well, here’s an incentive for you to find it. Don’t come in unless you’re wearing a coat next time,” he instructs, half distracted now that the conversation is drawing to a close. He misses Peter’s deer in the headlights look at the ultimatum, or his uncharacteristic silence over the next hour.
When the kid comes in on Friday, Tony makes a point to look him up and down, ostensibly checking Peter followed his instructions and dressed warmly enough this time. The kid is pale and stiff under his scrutiny, eyes big and dark on his face.
To his credit, he is wearing a coat. It’s clearly not his. The sleeves are too long, and it’s big around the shoulders. It’s also seen better days, and definitely won’t see him through winter. It’ll only be good enough for another few weeks before it gets too cold and Peter needs to find his actual winter coat.
Tony almost comments on the size of the jacket, but something about the drawn lines on Peter’s face activates Tony’s brain to mouth filter at the last possible moment.
He harrumphs a little instead and nods begrudgingly.
He thanks the stars for his restraint when, just as he’s getting ready to leave a few hours later, Peter quietly informs him that the jacket belonged to his uncle Ben.
Tony doesn’t ask why the kid decided to wear that instead of his own clothes. After his parents passed, he’d found himself sticking his nose in his mom’s scarves a few times when he was drunk out of his mind, desperate to feel even a little bit like she was still there, that she had existed, that there were still traces of her in the world. If Peter wants to wear his uncle’s jacket, who is Tony to say anything about it?
Except the kid doesn’t look like he really wants to wear it. He takes it off as soon as possible, hangs it carefully in the coat closet Tony didn’t even know he had, and walks out with it wrapped over his arm.
When he comes in the following Sunday for an all-day lab session, the coat is folded into his backpack – much more neatly than he ever folded his multi-million dollar superhero suit, Tony notices wrily – and the kid is soaked to the bone.
“Underoos. It’s pouring out,” Tony points out, drawing his words out slowly to express his absolute befuddlement. “Why are you not wearing your jacket?”
Peter takes the coat out of his backpack, shivering the whole time, and shakes it out gently before hanging it in the closet.
“I didn’t want to get it wet.”
Tony’s brain skips the track and jumps back a few seconds.
“You... What?”
Peter shrugs, but a small blush betrays he knows how nonsensical that answer sounds. “I didn’t want to get it wet. It’s not waterproof.”
Tony’s mouth opens, a snarky retort on his lips, but then he sees the kid sneak a glance at him, eyes tight with the anticipation of a scathing comment. His mouth snaps shut.
He’d like to think he has learned to curb his instincts to showcase everyone else’s stupidity through witty comebacks over the last few years, particularly when it comes to impressionable young superheroes.
“Alright, come on then,” he orders instead, and the kid’s head whips around to face him fully, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Come... on?” he repeats.
Tony wordlessly gestures for the kid to follow him and heads for the elevator, then takes the kid up to the penthouse.
He directs him to a guest bedroom not too far from his own room. “There’s a bathroom attached. Go take a shower, warm up. I’ll get you some clothes and leave them on the bed.”
The kid stares at him, mouth agape.
“Do you need a written invitation?” Tony snipes, and the kid jumps, color flooding his cheeks.
“Uh, no, I just, uh, thank you? But you don’t need to do this – any of this – I'm, um, I’m fine,” he stutters.
Tony levels an unimpressed look at him.
“Get. Shower. Change. Then, lab,” he commands, fully expecting the kid to obey.
The kid obeys.
Tony goes rummaging in his closet and eventually finds some old stuff from when he was a teenager at MIT that have a chance of fitting the kid’s smaller frame. He leaves it all on the guest bed and goes out to the living room to answer some emails while he waits.
When Peter emerges from the guest room, wet curls still dripping, Tony feels a weird pang of something at seeing his old MIT hoodie on his back. He must have an odd look on his face because Peter halts in his tracks and looks at him uncertainly, until Tony shakes himself like a dog, breaking out of whatever funk the sight put him in.
“Better?” he asks as he gets up off the couch.
The kid fiddles with the slightly too long sleeves.
“Yeah, Mister Stark, this is great thank you. Just, uh...” he trails off, looking uncomfortable, and Tony taps at his tablet impatiently.
“What is it, Spiderling? C’mon, out with it so we can get back to work.”
The kid trips over his words, this time. “It’s just, I don’t suppose you have, I mean, could I borrow, um, a belt maybe?”
Tony finally notices the pants do look like only the kid’s too-wide stance are keeping them on his hips. He frowns. He recalls being fairly scrawny himself at Peter’s age, he really thought the pants would fit him well.
Then he shrugs and walks past Peter to go back into his room.
“Yeah, hang on a minute, I’ll find you something.”
He manages to dig up a Hermes belt he didn’t even know he owned, and tosses it to the kid waiting in the living room as he strides back out towards the elevator.
“Alright, let’s get to it,” he says, snapping his fingers for emphasis, and Peter jogs after him, awkwardly trying to slide the belt through the hoops as he goes. Tony makes a pitstop at one of the coat closets near the elevator and grabs the first waterproof looking jacket he can find.
“Here, take this too,” he says, and Peter scrambles to catch the flying garment.
“Wha- No, Mister Stark, I can’t. This is- You don’t need to,” he babbles, and Tony waves a hand in the air, smiling in satisfaction when the kid’s mouth clicks shut.
“I don’t care if you get it wet, ok? So wear it when it’s raining, at least.”
They get into the elevator, and Peter looks like he’s literally chewing on the words, jaw working even as his eyes won’t meet Tony’s.
Finally, he grinds out, quietly but with an intensity that forces Tony to pay attention.
“I don’t want... things, from you, Mister Stark. I only want- I mean, as long as you’re ok with it, I just want to work with you. I don’t- you don’t need to get me things. Please, sir, I’m not... I’m not interested in your money.”
He still won’t meet Tony’s eyes, but that’s actually a good thing right now, because Tony’s eyes are a little too misty for his taste.
He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who have said something similar to him, and who actually meant it. Everyone wants him for his money, his power, his influence, his contacts, his inventions. They want him for what he can give them. They never want him for himself.
He lands a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder, startling the kid into looking up. Tony keeps his eyes facing straight forward though.
“I know, kid. Don’t worry about it. You can give them back some other time, if it bothers you. But I’d rather you just kept them,” he says honestly.
He can feel Peter’s eyes on him, and they stay like that, frozen, silent, until the elevator doors open to the lab level. They walk to the lab together, and as they stand side by side in front of Tony’s holo-display, Peter finally whispers a “thank you” just before Tony launches into an explanation of what he’s been working on.
Tony squeezes the back of the kid’s neck silently.
Tony looks up in satisfaction when the kid shows up the following Wednesday wearing the jacket he gave him. He’s back to torn pants and a ratty hoodie, but Tony spies a nice leather belt when the kid reaches for a tool and smiles to himself.
They stay busy for a while, lost in their own worlds, until Tony looks away from his display to think through a thorny issue. His eyes fall on the kid, who is hunched over his desk, arms holding his own waist as his lips are set in a pained grimace. Tony frowns.
“What’s wrong, kid?”
Peter jumps and drops his arms, his expression clearing instantly.
“What?”
Tony takes a few steps towards him. “Are you hurt? You’re holding your ribs. FRI, scan him.”
Peter’s hands come up to wave comically. “No, no, I’m fine! Not hurt, I promise. Don’t scan me, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”
Tony makes a displeased moue when the AI automatically obeys Peter’s command as he denies consent to a medical diagnosis. Unfortunately, even he can’t - well, ok, he could, but he shouldn’t - override that.
“Well, what’s the matter then?” he pushes, irritated that he can’t get his answer in the most expedient way possible.
The kid seems to be debating something for a minute, then checks his watch and nods decisively.
“It’s just, we’ve been here for a while, and I haven’t eaten since, uh, lunch,” he explains, his eyes shifting away as Tony narrows his suspiciously. “I’m just hungry.”
The silence stretches for a minute as Tony tries to figure out where the lie is. Because there is a lie somewhere in there, he can tell. He stares at Peter. Peter meets his eyes briefly, then looks away again, clearing his throat. He busies his hands with his web-shooters. Tony lets him stew for a few more seconds to see if the kid will break.
He doesn’t. Tony sighs. “FRI, get us something. Whatever we haven’t had in a while.”
“On it, Boss,” she replies faithfully.
The silence is definitely a bit awkward as they wait for the food, Tony sneaking glances at Peter, and Peter obviously being aware of it and sitting stiffly.
By the time they sit down to eat, they fall back into familiar patterns and the tension breaks. They discuss projects, school, and Avengers gossip, and it all feels normal. Except that Tony can’t help but notice Peter isn’t eating as much as usual, despite starting strong and fast.
He doesn’t say anything about it. Maybe Peter doesn’t like Korean as much as Tony thought.
He sends Peter home with the leftovers, despite Peter’s protests and hesitation. There’s something off about his expression, but Tony can’t put a finger on what, exactly. It’s like he’s too vehement in trying to say no, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the bags.
Tony ends up cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “I’m not talking about this anymore. You take the food, or I throw it out. Now go, it’s getting late, I don’t want Aunt Hottie getting on my case about keeping you here late again.”
The kid goes. Tony frowns, unsettled. Something isn’t adding up.
The weird feeling that’s been growing in Tony’s gut every time he thinks about the kid’s odd behavior takes a turn for the worse when Peter starts cancelling lab sessions.
At first, he’s just rescheduling them. Wednesdays and weekends are apparently not good for him anymore. He doesn’t deign tell Tony why. They switch to Tuesdays and Thursdays in addition to their standing Fridays.
He’s starting to look run down. Tony isn’t the best at gauging that kind of stuff, but it’s become obvious even to him that the kid is exhausted, drawn, and too pale. Tony starts leaving protein bars and drinks on his workbench and watches out of the corner of his eye when Peter absent-mindedly consumes everything in his reach.
He’s always wearing Tony’s coat, now. His uncle’s hasn’t made an appearance since the day he pulled it out of his bag, unused and dry while Peter himself stood shivering in a puddle. Tony sees the Hermes belt on every pair of pants Peter shows up in, not just the too-big pair he gave him. His cheeks are starting to look sunken in, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
Tony prods discretely to see if there are issues at school. The kid smiles gently but shuts him down firmly. Tony retreats.
He starts coming in late. He’s flustered the first time, full of apologetic babble that doesn’t contain a shred of actual explanation. Tony listens, bemused, as the kid trips all over his words and talks about subways, and cats, and sandwiches, and traffic lights, barely pausing to take a breath, until Tony raises a hand. Peter quiets down instantly, and Tony can’t help but think it has nothing to do with Tony’s commanding presence, and everything to do with Peter not actually wanting to talk about why he’s late. He waves the apologies aside, and they get to work.
The next time Peter comes late, he merely mumbles a “sorry” and goes to his desk, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting Tony to berate him.
Tony doesn’t say anything – not this time – but thoughts and suspicions swirl in his head. He catches the kid holding his stomach a few more times. He doesn’t ask anymore, he just orders food and makes sure the kid takes it home. Peter doesn’t protest now, but his jaw is tight every time Tony pushes the bags of leftovers across his desk.
And then, he cancels their Thursday session. Permanently.
Tony splutters in shock. “You... What?” he asks, sitting down heavily on his stool as he takes the kid’s phone call.
“I can’t make Thursdays anymore, Mister Stark, I’m sorry. But I’ll be there tomorrow, promise!”
Tony is so thrown off he just gapes in his empty lab. Peter takes advantage of his momentary silence to say goodbye and hang up.
It takes twenty minutes for something resembling irritation to replace the astonishment. People would literally give up an arm and a leg for the chance to spend an hour in Tony’s company, let alone working side by side in his lab, and the kid is standing him up?
Anger starts simmering in the back of his mind, but he pushes it down. This is Peter. He knows the kid. He’s good to his core. He’s a teenage superhero, of course he’s busy, and of course sometimes his priorities get screwed up. He doesn’t know any better yet.
Tony huffs out and magnanimously decides to let it slide. He doesn’t say anything about it when the kid shows up, out of breath and eyes wide with worry, the next day. Tony gives him a cursory once over, and notices the kid looks marginally better. The circles under his eyes look far more muted today. They have a productive session, Peter’s sass is back in force, and Tony finds himself grinning fondly at the little brat and ruffling his hair as Peter fruitlessly tries getting away from him.
A week and a half later, the kid cancels their Friday sessions. Anger is far quicker to come, this time, and Tony finds his words before the kid can escape the phone call.
“Am I not interesting enough for you, kid? Is the stuff we’re doing not groundbreaking enough? Would you really rather hang out with Ted and build Legos than create the next revolutionary prosthetics?” he asks bitingly.
There’s a heavy silence on the line, and then Peter replies, his tone strained like he’s carefully choosing his words.
“Not at all, Mister Stark. I’d love to spend all my time with you. But I have other commitments that I can’t walk away from, now.”
Tony pounces on the weak logic. “You were working with me long before these new commitments. But it’s fine to walk away from me?”
A sliver of hurt is twisting his voice and making it aggressive, cutting. He can feel all his defenses coming up fast as the kid is clearly choosing something – someone – else over him.
“I... It’s not like that. I mean, yeah, you’re right, it’s new. But I need to do this.”
Tony laughs incredulously, a horrible suspicion forming. “Do you have a girlfriend or something?”
The laugh Peter barks out is so bitter, so unlike the light-hearted teenager he knows, that it brings Tony up short.
“Not even close, Mister Stark.”
There isn’t much else to say after that, since the kid is clearly not willing to tell him what he gets up to during all his former lab time.
Their next Tuesday lab session is stilted, awkward, full of unsaid words and hidden resentment. Peter looks worse, and is moving slowly, like he just can’t find the energy to get up and fetch the tools he or Tony need.
Tony snaps at him. If the kid won’t tell him what’s taking up all his time, then in Tony’s book, he has no excuse not to give his usual attention and dedication to their time together.
Peter gets a move on the first couple of times Tony calls him out on it, but slows down again after, and Tony exhales heavily through his nose, the irritation building uncontrollably.
He looks over at Peter sharply when the kid drops his tool for the third time. Peter’s eyes are shut, his fists closed and trembling, and Tony’s eyes narrow.
“Go home, kid,” he orders coldly.
Peter’s eyes snap open. “What? No, I’m fine, I can keep going!” he protests, and Tony’s anger bubbles over.
“You can keep going? You think this is about you? You’ve been doing nothing but screwing up since you walked in. You’re not getting anything done, you’re not helping me, you’re just holding me back and distracting me. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’re no use to me in this state. Clear your schedule of whatever it is that’s taking up all your time, and don’t come back to the lab until your head is fully in the game,” he says scathingly.
Peter pales so much his skin turns chalky. He sways in his stool and swallows hard.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” he tries to apologies, but Tony cuts him off.
“I don’t care. Get out.”
The words echo in the silent lab. Peter's eyes are black smudges on his white face, and Tony distantly notes that the skin under his eyes is oddly tan compared to the pale shade his cheeks took after Tony’s dismissal. Peter slides off his stool and hurriedly packs up his things, retrieves his coat, then walks past Tony, head down, silent.
Three weeks pass before Tony sees him again. The kid walks into the lab on Tuesday, looks hesitantly at Tony despite their text exchange earlier in the day when Peter asked if he could come in, then walks over to his untouched workbench.
Tony gives him a hard look.
“Are you ready to work, today?”
Peter bobs his head hard. “Yes, sir.”
Tony keeps his eyes on him for a few seconds, letting him stew, then gives a small nod.
“Get over here, then. I have to catch you up.”
The kid is by his side almost before Tony’s done speaking, and Tony’s lips twitch.
The rest of the session is better than it was in their final couple of weeks before Peter’s break, but it’s nothing like the easy-going banter they used to have.
Before he goes home, Peter looks up at him like a kicked puppy.
“I rearranged my schedule so I end earlier on Mondays, and I don’t go patrolling after so I’m have time to sleep before our Tuesday sessions. I’m really sorry about last time, Mister Stark. It won’t happen again.”
Tony stopped listening after the first few words.
“What do you mean you end earlier?”
Peter looks stricken, drops his eyes, and shuffles towards the lab door.
“Uh, you know, I just, um, manage my time better?” he offers, and Tony gets up.
“FRI, lock the lab door. Get back here and explain yourself, Peter. What schedule are you talking about?” he demands, voice hard.
Peter stops with his back to Tony and looks up at the ceiling, then slowly turns around.
“I... have a job, Mister Stark. I have a schedule at my job. I have shifts. I had to switch things around to make sure I don’t end super late on Mondays.”
The forgotten anger surges anew from Tony’s gut before it spills out of his mouth.
“A job,” he repeats. “You have a job. What is this then, summer camp?” he sneers, and Peter flinches.
“N- no, Mister Stark,” he stutters. “But, uh, I need that job.”
Tony takes an unconsciously threatening step towards the teenager. “And you don’t need this job? You think whatever you’re doing that requires shifts is going to get you into MIT better than an internship with Tony Stark would?”
He knows he’s raising his voice. He can’t help it.
Peter takes a step back as Tony advances on him.
“No! No, of course not, this is- this is so much better! But, uh,” and his volume drops abruptly. “That job is paid, Mister Stark.”
Tony’s jaw drops as indignation overwhelms him. How dare the kid.
“So you’re choosing pocket money over the opportunity of a lifetime? You’d rather pay for movie tickets than work with me?” he snarls, incensed.
A shadow passes over the kid’s face. It’s a weird look, like he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.
Tony doesn’t dwell on it, and doesn’t give him a chance to respond.
“You know what, fine. I don’t care. This is your life, you can make your own choices, make your own mistakes and live with them.” Peter looks like he wants to interject, so Tony talks right over him. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about your job, or about anything that’s not related to what we work on here.”
The kid looks hurt, but so is Tony. He nods slowly, then turns away and wordlessly leaves the lab.
The next few sessions are uncomfortable. The dead uncle’s jacket makes a reappearance. Tony’s old clothes don’t. It’s snowing outside more often than not, and that coat is even less able to withstand the freezing temperatures than the one Tony had given him, but Tony bites his lip and doesn’t say anything. If Peter wants to be stubborn and refuse to wear actual winter clothing, that’s his problem. Tony already pointed out, not so subtly, that he must be cold in his ripped jeans and threadbare hoodie. Apparently, that’s what passes for cool in school nowadays.
Then he shows up one day tracking dirty sludge everywhere and making squelching noises, and Tony snaps.
“What’s with the shoes? You’re putting water everywhere. Don’t you have snowboots?”
Peter looks up at him, mouth open, a look of disbelief on his face.
Then, unbelievably, he snaps right back and Tony’s jaw hangs open as his eyebrows climb higher and higher.
“I... I can’t tell whether you’re just being a dick, or if you’re really that clueless, Mister Stark. Either way, I can’t take this anymore. I just- can't. It’s like you have no idea, or you just don’t care, and I can’t deal with it. So, uh, I’m done," he announces, voice firm despite his jittery hands and stuttering. "Thank you for everything you’ve done for me – feeding me every time I was this close to passing out, and the clothes, and letting me warm up, and most of all, obviously, your time. I really, truly appreciate it more than I can say. But, um, I can’t keep doing this. So, uh, yeah. I’m going to go. Text me if you need any Avengers-related help.”
And with that, the kid turns on his heels and walks out of the lab.
Tony gapes.
Did... Did the kid just walk out on him? On him? On Tony Stark?
He’s furious. He spends a few minutes raging and throwing various tools around, aggressively “cleaning” Peter’s workbench by throwing everything in the trash.
Then he stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters “What the hell was that.”
Peter put an end to the internship. The parting instructions about the Avengers made that clear. And what was that bit about passing out? Tony thought it was a joke, but there was no humor in the kid’s eyes when he said it.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he snaps behind gritted teeth. “Find out everything that’s been going on with Mr. Parker and all known and new associates for the past few months.”
“How deep would you like me to go, Boss?”
He pauses for a second. After the initial deep dive into Peter’s background when he unmasked Spider-Man, he’s always respected the kid’s privacy and hasn’t kept more than a loose, perfectly legal eye on him through whatever information is publicly available.
“As deep as you need to go. Blanket permission to hack whatever you need to.”
He doesn’t get the luxury of privacy anymore. Not after all the stunts Tony’s been turning a blind eye to.
It takes a distressingly short amount of time for F.R.I.D.A.Y. to lay out her findings and paint a story that makes Tony want to go to the penthouse and drown himself in a bottle of whiskey to forget his mistakes.
May Parker’s hours at the hospital were reduced to three quarters of what they used to be four months ago. She was switched to part-time entirely a month and a half later. The timeline corresponds to when Peter started rescheduling their sessions.
It corresponds to when Peter got a job.
Tony sits down heavily as pieces fall into place.
The holes in the pants. The threadbare sweaters. Not being able to “find” a winter coat, and eventually digging up his uncle’s old jacket that he clearly didn’t want to actually use. The hunger.
God, the hunger. He really had been about to pass out all those times. The kid’s aunt didn’t bring in enough money to feed him.
Or, knowing Peter, he didn’t tell her he was hungry when he saw the money trickling in slower.
And then, being tired all the time.
“Pull up his work schedule for me.”
There it is. The kid works at a sandwich shop every day after school until closing, and on weekends. After which, presumably, he goes to patrol. God only knows when he has time to do homework.
“FRI, pull up the security recording from the day I sent the kid home, when he was dropping stuff left and right. Skip to just before he left. Stop. Freeze image.” He leans forward in his seat. “Zoom in on his face. His eyes.”
Tony squints. “Slow mo, let it roll.”
When the kid moves, it becomes clearer. That odd coloring under Peter’s eyes that he only noticed after the kid paled so much.
He’s wearing makeup.
Tony would recognize it anywhere. Should have recognized it sooner. How often did he take to wearing concealer after spending all night drinking and partying when he was younger? Peter didn’t suddenly start looking better rested, he just figured out a way to hide the proof of his exhaustion.
Tony’s head drops into his head.
“Shit,” he swears under his breath.
Tony had thought Peter favored his paying job because he wanted pocket money. Instead, Peter was just trying to survive and help pay the rent.
Which May was behind on. Had been behind on for several months, now.
He had thought the terrible clothes were a choice, a way to fit in. He had thought the kid was wearing the clothes Tony gave him as a mark of appreciation.
He just didn’t have anything else.
And that belt, that appeared more and more often, until it became a permanent fixture on the kid’s ever shrinking waist.
Tony’s head drops lower and he swears again.
Peter’s feet hurt.
He’s been standing, moving, shifting, spinning, for hours now. Going from the cash register, to the ingredients, to the panini press, to the pickup counter. He’s moving sluggishly, exhaustion battling with a hunger so deep it doesn’t hurt sharply anymore, it’s just a constant gnawing sensation. Words come in distorted, and the effort it takes to focus on the conversation happening right in front of him rather than what he can hear happening three blocks away makes him dizzy.
He doesn’t remember the last time he sat. The shop is always busy, and the boss isn’t fond of employees taking a break. He bumps into his coworker as he tries to shuffle past to reach the sandwich ingredients. He mumbles an apology. His co-worker doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care.
His hands shake as he reaches for the lettuce, and the tomato slices slip right out of his fingers three times before he manages to keep a hold of them. The customer on the other side of the glass counter shifts impatiently, glancing up from his phone. Peter ducks his head further to hide his face under his cap.
The doorbell dings when a new customer walks in. Peter hurriedly finishes putting the sandwich together and slaps it into the panini grill before tripping back over to the cash register.
“Welcome to Gino’s, what can I get you today?” he greets automatically, eyes on the screen to input the order.
Silence.
The customer doesn’t say anything. Peter glances behind him to check on the panini grill while the customer makes up his mind. The sandwich is grilling fine, so he brings his attention back to his register. When the customer stays quiet, Peter’s eyes jump up to prompt him gently.
“Sir? Do you know...” he trails off, eyes widening to panicked saucers when he clocks the three-piece suit and familiar orange-tinted sunglasses in front of him.
He shuts his mouth, swallows hard and takes a reflexive half step back. Mister Stark gazes down at him, impassive and silent.
Thoughts swirl in Peter’s head, fast but ultimately aimless, useless, just noise bouncing around between his ears.
The dizziness slams back into him without warning, and his hand snaps forward to grip the counter, knuckles white as he tries to steady himself. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. His mouth is dry, and his breath is coming in and out of his lungs in shallow pants.
“Parker!”
His coworker’s shout snaps him out of whatever it is Mister Stark’s mere presence is doing to him, and his head whips around.
The panini grill is starting to smoke. Peter swears and lunges for it, lifting the top and extracting the crispy, blackened sandwich with the nearby tongs.
He turns back to the original customer.
“I’m so sorry, sir, please just give me a few minutes and I’ll make you a fresh one.”
The customer grumbles and swears under his breath, too low for non-enhanced hearing to make out. Peter’s face turns red.
He rushes through making a second sandwich, eyes on his hands, and tries his best not to drop anything despite the dramatically worsened shakiness in his extremities.
He deposits the sandwich on the grill, curses when he burns his fingers as he drops the lid too fast, and keeps his back to the shop for a moment.
In. Out. In. Out.
Breathe.
He turns back around and offers an unconvincing smile. “Really sorry about that, it should be just a couple of minutes.”
His eyes dart to the side and catch Mister Stark’s, who is still standing by the register, unmoving. Peter drags in a breath and walks back over to him.
“What can I get for you, sir?” he repeats, keeping his eyes on Mister Stark’s tie.
He waits him out, though he keeps an ear out for the unmistakable crackling noise sandwiches make when the cheese starts hitting the grill, a sure sign they’re almost ready to be taken out.
“I need a few moments of your time, Mr. Parker,” Peter’s former boss finally says.
Peter swallows again. “I’m afraid I can’t step away until the end of my shift.”
“Which is in ten minutes,” the man says without missing a beat.
Peter feels light-headed. He hears the tell-tale crackling and spins around, walking away without a word. He gets the sandwich off the grill, slips it into a paper sleeve, and hands it to the frowning customer who’s now looking back and forth between Peter and Mister Stark, raising his phone as if to take a picture.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Mister Stark preempts.
Startled, the customer lowers his phone. “... Why not?” he takes the bait.
“He’s a minor, and I have the best lawyers in the country on my payroll. You take a single picture without our consent, you’ll have to file for bankruptcy to survive the lawsuit,” he explains coldly.
The customer’s mouth drops open. He seems to struggle to find words for a moment, then gives up, preferring to leave the shop silently with his sandwich, phone in his pocket.
Peter’s lips twitch into an involuntary smile.
He starts cleaning up silently as Mister Stark watches him from his spot. He spies him getting his phone out with his right hand out of the corner of his eye.
“Parker, I’m going to wrap up in the back,” his co-worker calls out, oblivious to the odd tension between Peter and the lone customer-who-wasn't.
Peter nods and keeps putting lids on ingredients, then gets the broom out.
Mister Stark stays eerily silent the entire time it takes for Peter and his co-worker to close up shop. He retreats to one of the rickety tables at one point and sits, and doesn’t look up from his phone until Peter starts switching the lights off.
“We’re going to need some light for this conversation. Can you leave something on?”
Peter nervously wipes his already clean hands on his pants and flips a switch back up, flooding the dining area with light from a few light bulbs in Mister Stark’s general vicinity. He makes his way to the seated man, sweat beading above his lip.
It’s only when he’s a few feet away from Mister Stark that he notices the Stark Industries embossed folder on the table.
He peers at it curiously, but sits down across from the man quietly, intertwining his fingers on the sticky table in front of him.
They make eye contact, and Mister Stark finally removes his sunglasses from his face, folding them neatly and tucking them into his suit jacket pocket.
“I am here to offer you an internship at Stark Industries, Mr. Parker,” he begins formally, and Peter’s heart starts thudding faster as he anticipates another showdown involving him having to decline and Mister Stark getting mad at him. The weirdly distant form of address certainly doesn’t bode well.
“I-” he starts, separating his hands and raising them to try and stop the man.
“You’ll find all the details in this offer letter,” he cuts him off, sliding the folder towards Peter’s side of the table. “I believe you’ll find the terms both competitive and compelling,” he says cryptically.
Peter hesitates, wondering if he should just shut this down now and walk away before it gets ugly.
Mister Stark sighs. “Please, just take a look, Peter,” he asks softly.
Peter shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, but the familiar, gently coaxing tone he hasn’t heard in weeks is doing its work and Peter is obeying automatically before he’s really made up his mind.
His eyes jump diagonally across the page, trying to quickly find whatever it is Mister Stark wants him to see. There’s clearly something specific in there intended for him.
Peter’s breath stutters unsteadily when he spots it.
... hourly compensation rate is $25 to be applied retroactively to Mr. Parker effective original start date...
… four weeks of paid time off per year...
… tuition reimbursement for qualified tertiary education institutions, including incidentals such as room and board...
Mr. Parker’s direct supervisor will be Anthony Stark, Chief Research and Development Officer.
Peter’s mouth opens and closes helplessly.
“What... What is this, Mister Stark?” he whispers, the words swimming in front of his eyes.
“This is an offer for a paid internship. Well, this is an offer to transform your existing internship into a paid internship, which will be effective retroactively. If you accept,” he explains curtly, in that tone he uses when he’s trying to do something for someone but isn’t sure what kind of reception it’ll get. Peter’s heard him use that tone with Miss Potts a thousand times.
Peter just stares at him, speechless. Mister Stark shifts, then sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair.
“To answer your earlier question, I really am that clueless, Peter,” he says, referring to Peter’s parting jabs during their final session. “Which doesn’t preclude me also being a dick.” Peter feels clammy and flushed at the same time as he tries to process the apology. The room starts spinning. “I’m sorry, kid. I had no idea. I didn’t understand what you were dealing with. What you’re still dealing with,” he amends with a grimace and a quick glance around the room.
Peter blinks away the black spots creeping at the edges of his vision.
“I... I don’t know what you’re, uh, talking about,” he tries, and receives an unimpressed glare in return.
“Come on, Pete, it wasn’t that hard. I never imagined May’s finances were... that tight. I had no idea you were working to help her, not for yourself. So I’m fixing it. I want you to come back to me, and I’m willing to offer you whatever you need to make that happen.”
He raises a hand preemptively as Peter opens his mouth. “And before you start your valiant crusade against charity and handouts, this isn’t what this is. You’re worth it, Peter. You’re worth every single dollar I’d pay you. So, unless you’re protesting because you think we should raise the rate, don’t even bother.”
Peter licks his lips. The spinning is making him nauseated.
“Mister Stark, I...” he trails off, saliva pooling in his mouth, the hunger cramps worsening to sharp stabbing pain.
The man’s face is soft and open, seemingly hopeful as Peter fails to argue.
“I don’t feel so good.”
Peter only has time to register the look of alarm on Mister Stark’s face before his grip on consciousness finally slips. He passes out before his face slams into the table and never hears Mister Stark’s shout.
He wakes up to a hang tapping his cheek insistently, a headache that battles for a spot in Peter’s Top Five Worst Headaches, fingers gently carding through his hair, and a familiar voice above him.
His head is pillowed on top of something squishy. His eyes flutter open, squinting at the light bulb shining overhead. When the room comes into focus, he realizes his head is in Mister Stark’s lap.
Mortification drives his body before his brain can catch up, and he tries to get off the man’s legs immediately. He makes it about three inches before his vision blacks out aggressively quickly and he loses control over his limbs, flopping back down with a groan.
“Stay down, Underoos,” Mister Stark chides.
Peter closes his eyes and tries to breathe in through his nose, the nausea rising again. Mister Stark starts humming lowly, and Peter tries to make his breathing match the underlying rhythm. It takes a few minutes, but the nausea slowly recedes and Peter dares open his eyes again.
“You’ve really been having a hard time, huh, bambino,” Mister Stark remarks quietly, his voice softer than Peter has ever heard it, the hand not in his hair reaching up briefly to caress Peter’s cheek. Peter’s eyes close reflexively and he leans into the touch.
“I’m going to help you sit up now, and you’re going to drink this entire bottle,” he instructs, and Peter vaguely nods against the hand. He groans as his orientation changes and blood rushes away from his head. He inhales sharply as a combination of nausea and headache hits him all over again, and only vaguely registers Mister Stark’s voice murmuring encouragements in his ear as his arms keep him firmly leaning against his chest until both sensations start fading.
“Alright, now drink.”
An uncapped bottle of some sweet, fruity drink magically appears in front of Peter’s mouth. He holds it with both hands, but it’s pretty clear that if Mister Stark wasn’t still holding onto it with one of his hands, Peter would have dropped it.
“That’s it, good boy,” Mister Stark praises, and Peter wonders idly why he’s never tried fainting to gain the man’s approval.
He can almost feel the sugar rushing through his blood straight to his brain. He sighs in relief.
“Where did you get that?”
“Fridge behind the counter. Don’t worry about it, I left money for it.”
Peter frowns. “I’m going to have to record the sale and recount the cash, now,” he grumbles weakly, and Mister Stark’s chest shifts in what might be a chuckle.
“I think I can probably handle those complicated tasks, if you promise you can sit on a chair without falling over.”
“You don’t know how to work the register computer,” Peter protests. He feels the burning glare at the back of his head.
“Really, kid? Tony Stark here, actual genius, and you don’t think I can handle an outdated machine even DUM-E could outsmart?” he asks drily.
“It’s probably older than even you,” Peter retorts, and Mister Stark flicks his ear in retaliation. Peter smiles, relieved at the return of their normal dynamics.
“Let’s stand up slowly and go straight for that chair,” Mister Stark says, then does a mix of pushing and pulling to get Peter to his feet. Peter’s head starts hurting again, but his vision stays clear. He throws a hand out to hold onto something as his balance tilts, and finds Mister Stark’s arm.
“Steady,” the man says, holding onto Peter’s shoulder and letting him grip his other arm. “Let’s go, two steps, then sit.”
Peter crumples gratefully into a chair and lets Mister Stark ring up his drink with minimal sass. He looks through the offer letter, still sitting on its open folder on the table, while the billionaire works.
It’s more than twice what he makes, and there’s that intriguing note about being retroactive. To when, exactly? And why? And then, there’s the bit about covering tuition. What is Mister Stark trying to do? Is that offer even real? It doesn’t seem like it could be.
It would solve so many problems. Peter allows himself a few seconds to envision it. Bringing enough money home to finally cover rent on time. Maybe even enough to help chip in with the groceries. Would he be able to eat twice a day with all that money? Would he be able to buy himself new shoes, or those stupid snowboots Mister Stark was so annoyed at him for not owning? Would he have time to do his homework again, and maybe sleep more than four or five hours a night?
He lets the fantasy play out until Mister Stark shuts the register with a flourish and a “Ta da! This was almost fun. Maybe I’ll work as a cashier in my spare time to wind down.” Then, he seems to play his own words back in his head. “Or not. Definitely not. I’d die of boredom.”
Peter laughs and shuts the folder on the offer. There’s no way Miss Potts signed off on this. There’s no way this is a legit, valid, normal offer anyone who doesn’t personally know Mister Stark would get. At best, it’s preferential treatment.
“Alright, Underoos, let’s take you home,” he says as he grips Peter’s shoulder firmly and helps him stand, stabilizing him. He leaves his hand there as they walk to the door, and Peter gives in to the impulse to lean into the man’s side. Mister Stark, surprisingly, not only allows it, but pulls Peter in closer.
The car is parked right in front of the sandwich shop, emergency lights blinking. It’s only a few steps to the passenger door, but Peter is shivering harshly by the time Mister Stark opens the door and deposits him into the seat. The car is already running and the warm air is blasting through the vents, and Peter gratefully sinks into the comfortable leather, trying to get his muscles to relax.
“Let’s grab some food before I drop you off.”
Peter nods, and they drive silently for a few minutes, before Mister Stark breaks the silence again.
“So, what do you think? Can we go back to Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, or do you want to stick to weeknights only? Up to you, I can be flexible. Pep knows not to count on me to attend anything remotely regular, so we can work around your schedule,” he rambles, and Peter shifts, shaking his head lightly.
“Mister Stark... Does Miss Potts know about this?” he asks pointedly.
To his surprise, the man doesn’t do his usual shifty-eyed dance where he pretends like he doesn’t need anyone’s approval to do what he wants.
“Of course, she does,” he states plainly. “I had to run all this by HR first.”
That takes some of the wind out of Peter’s sails, but he rallies quickly enough.
“Alright, how many other interns have gotten offers like this? With retroactive payments – whatever that means – and, and, vacation time, and tuition reimbursement?” he asks incredulously, his pitch rising to unfortunate squeaky levels by the end.
“Is that why you haven’t said yes yet? The retroactive stuff – that's just because this should have been paid to start with. An oversight on my part that’s long overdue for correction. That will happen regardless of whether you come back or not, by the way. The tuition and vacation time aren’t offered to everyone, I’ll give you that, but they are on our most promising interns’ contracts,” he rebuts confidently.
“I can’t be a ‘promising intern’,” Peter repeats, air quotes and all, “I’m just in high school. Don’t even try to tell me that any of your promising interns aren’t all at least PhD students.”
Mister Stark nods his head amiably. “Granted, they are, but you’re smarter and have more potential in your pinkie than all of them put together. You’re getting this because you deserve it, not because I’m trying to bribe you, kiddo,” he addresses head-on, but Peter shakes his head in denial again.
“Mister Stark, that’s just- Our lab time is for my benefit! I don’t do anything for SI, you just spend your time teaching me stuff! It’s not like I make you any money, I just take up your time and use your materials.”
Mister Stark sends him a look Peter can’t quite make sense of. Then he looks back over at the road. Then over at Peter again, slightly disbelieving, this time.
“You really think that, don’t you?” he muses, and Peter nods hesitantly.
“Um, I mean, yeah?”
Mister Stark starts chuckling, then it turns into a full-belly laugh and he’s hitting the steering wheel with his hand.
“Impaired driving conditions detected, I will now take over control of this vehicle unless you input an override, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice chimes, making Peter jump. Mister Stark just vaguely waves his hand.
“Yeah, go ahead, FRI.”
Mister Stark turns on his seat to face Peter better, and Peter spares an amazed glance over at the steering wheel that’s now controlled by the AI apparently loaded into the car.
“Kid. When we’re together in the lab, the stuff I show you that I send you to your workbench to work on, that’s not for practice. It’s not for fun. You build prototypes, you refine existing products, you fix issues and bugs for Stark Industries all the time. You get more done in one afternoon than what entire departments get done in a week, sometimes. It’s all real, bambino. It’s not just us messing around and having fun. And yes, sometimes you work on your shooters and your web fluid, but you know what, I am personally sponsoring Spider-Man, and that includes providing space, materials, and my own expertise to help you. If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll exclude those hours from your paid SI time, alright?”
Peter gapes like a fish.
“That’s what I thought. So, old schedule?” Mister Stark steamrolls, and Peter tries to remember what his objections had been.
“Uh...”
“Great. I’ll give you this weekend to rest, but I expect a makeup day on Monday. Now, how many cheeseburgers do you want? I’m thinking five for you. Sound good?”
F.R.I.D.A.Y. has them loitering right in front of a fast-food place, ready to place the order online for them.
“Uh,” Peter repeats, and Mister Stark nods.
“Yep, five it is. Throw in a strawberry milkshake and two large fries,” he orders, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. beeps in response.
“Now,” he says, turning back to Peter. “There are some things waiting for you at home. I don’t want to hear a word about them. Mostly, I don’t want to hear from Aunt Hottie, because I’m scared of her. But it goes for you, too. You take the stuff, you use it, and you don’t say a thing about it, because I feel like a total bonehead for not seeing what was right under my nose for months.”
“Uh.” Peter is definitely breaking records for most eloquent conversationalist, tonight.
“Like I said, I don’t want to hear a single thank you. Just take the stuff and live with it, like everyone else does. This is what I do, alright? I care about you, so I’m going to get you stuff. Deal with it.”
He lets that ominous statement linger in the car as he gets out to go pick up the order inside the restaurant, and Peter gingerly gets his phone out of his pocket.
He has several texts from May. The first one reads “WHAT DID YOUR OBNOXIOUS BOSS DO NOW?!?!?!”
Peter gulps. He’d also like to know that.
Also, did Mister Stay say he cares about Peter?
An incredulous grin spreads across his face right as the man in question comes back into the car and drops a greasy bag on Peter’s lap.
“What’re you smiling about?” he asks as he takes over control of the car.
“Aw, Mister Stark, I didn’t know you cared,” he teases, and Mister Stark reaches across the central column to shove his head to the side.
“Shut up and eat your food,” he admonishes. Peter chortles but obeys happily, digging into the food and feeling full for the first time since he and Mister Stark last had dinner together, weeks prior.
He’s barely done eating everything by the time they pull up to his building. Mister Stark idles, silently, while Peter wipes his fingers on the napkins.
“Hey, kid. For real, this time. I do care, ok?” he says as he pins Peter down with that oddly intense stare of his. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand, didn’t see what you were going through. I made stupid assumptions and treated you like crap when you could have really used a hand.”
Peter nods, not in accusation, but to acknowledge the sentiment.
“Next time something like that happens, you gotta promise me you’ll speak up though, alright? Otherwise I’m going to take it as tacit permission to create protocols for the sole purpose of stalking you and making sure you’re fine.”
“No no no no, I’ll talk to you, I promise,” Peter agrees quickly. “I just... You remember that time, with the clothes and the coat, and I told you... I told you I don’t care about your money?”
Mister Stark nods, already looking impatient, and Peter hurries to finish his thought.
“It’s still true. I mean, I’ve never cared about your money. You have a lot, I don’t have much, it just kind of is what it is, but I don’t care, you know? I don’t want your money, because I’d much rather have your company, instead. And I’d much, much rather you felt the same way about me, and wanted to give me your time rather than your money. Any day. No matter what. I could be homeless, and I’d take an hour in the lab with you over a million dollars. Does that- Do you get me?”
Then, he rushes to explain himself some more.
“I know I didn’t, obviously, I chose the paying job instead of you, but I had to. I... We couldn’t pay the rent, Mister Stark. I had to help May,” he admits, feeling vulnerable as he verbalizes some of what he’s been through.
Mister Stark is staring at him. Then, he sniffs the way he does when he’s uncomfortable and about to exit out of a conversation.
But, surprisingly, he doesn’t kick Peter out of the car quite yet.
“I do. I get you. I’d take hanging out in the lab with you over a lot of things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to get you stuff when I see you could use it. So you have to let me do that, alright? Deal?”
Peter smiles, satisfied. “Yeah, deal. Thanks, Mister Stark.”
“Get out of here, then, it’s late. And don’t sic Aunt May on me, got it?” he threatens and Peter laughs.
“No promises. She does what she does, you know that.”
Mister Stark makes a vaguely rude gesture and speeds away, and Peter walks into his building.
When he gets home, May is waiting for him, a glass of wine in hand.
“Hey honey, how was work?” she greets him, with none of the anger she conveyed in her text.
“Uh, alright, yeah, it was fine. I think I might stop working at the sandwich shop and go back to working more hours at SI, though,” he informs, skirting around the lies of omission he’s been feeding her about how much time he spends working for money versus in Mister Stark’s lab.
“Oh yeah? Any reason for that?” she needles, and he eyes her warily, waiting silently for her to show her hand.
“Would it have anything to do with why there was two months worth of groceries sitting on our doorstep when I got home? Oh, and several boxes of stuff for you. I think it might all be clothes? I opened some of them to check it wasn’t more perishables. And there was even a coat for me. In my size. Now, how the hell would Stark know my size, hmm?” she asks sweetly, murder in her eyes, and Peter backs away from her with his hands raised.
“I- I don’t... May, I’m sure he doesn’t know personally, he probably- I don’t know, asked someone? Uh, I’m really happy about the groceries? That’s great news, right?”
“Did you ask him to do this?” she asks, a dangerous glint in her eyes, and Peter shakes his head frantically.
“No, nuh-uh, absolutely not. He just does that stuff, sometimes, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. But it’s not a bad thing, right? I mean, we could use it, and it’s just one time, so... It’s ok?” he pleads with her, and she deflates somewhat suddenly.
“Yes, you’re right, it’s fine. Probably. As long as it doesn’t happen regularly. I just- I don’t want to owe him. I don’t want him to think I can’t take care of you,” she explains with a sad smile, and Peter closes the distance between them, enveloping her in a hug.
“I know, May, but it’s not like that. He just... That’s just the way he shows that he cares. I know him, ok? He doesn’t think any less of you, or me, he just wants to help. Please, will you just let him?” he begs softly, and she sighs heavily into his shoulder.
“Yeah, alright, I won’t march to his ivory tower to slap him right this second. At least, not tonight. Right now, I want to enjoy this delicious Italian wine he thoughtfully included. Once I run out, maybe I’ll see about that slap,” she teases, and Peter snorts.
He goes to his room, and is greeted by the sight of open box after open box of clothes. Pants, shirts, so many sweatshirts, and at least two winter coast, at a glance. He laughs, delighted and more than a bit amazed, and pulls out his phone. He snaps a picture of his bedroom, filled wall to wall with the boxes, and shoots it off in a text.
You’re so extra. I won’t say it, but I’m thinking it really loudly.
The response comes back far too quickly for someone who’s supposed to be driving.
Oh, this is nothing. Wait until you see what I got you for Christmas.
Peter stops laughing abruptly. He’s heard the giant bunny story.
Wait wait wait can we talk about this?
Too late, it’s done. Don’t worry, I’ll help you with it.
Peter curses lightly. Any gift that requires Mister Stark’s help is bound to be a lot more than he signed up for.
But, so long as they’re in it together, he’ll probably be ok.