Chapter Text
Peter can feel his Papa's eyes on him the moment the car shudders to a stop inside the garage. The rundown hunk of metal looks and feels out of place inside the grand, modern mansion - even the garage is fancy, all high ceilings and bright lights and expensive tools lining the walls.
He doesn't undo his seatbelt, not yet. He just needs a minute to breathe, first.
"We don't have to do this, if you're not ready," Papa says, for the millionth time that morning, voice soft. "We can stay in a hotel until the apartment is fixed -"
"Papa," he interrupts, turning slightly in the passenger seat to look at the man, at the concern in his blue eyes, the worried downturn to his lips. He offers his father a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. I want to stay here. I - I like Tony, and Harley's cool."
Papa nods, once. His lips quirk up slightly. "I just worry, that's all. The apartment has a lot of memories, and - I don't want all this change to upset you."
He knows what that man really means. That he doesn't want all the change to set him back, send him spiralling, make him go all depressed-suicidal-sad again.
He shakes his head, looking away. "Papa. It won't. It's not forever, right? Just - just until the gas leak is fixed, and then we'll be home again."
Papa nods again. "Yeah, Bug," he says, softly. "I'm glad you like Tony. You know that means a lot to me."
Peter smiles at that. He does like Tony; he has since meeting the man for the first time almost a year ago. At first, his Papa dating someone other than his Mom had been weird and uncomfortable, but when he'd met Tony, that had changed. The man has never treated him like he's weird, or a nerd, or like he's fragile. He jokes with him, guides him, helps him with homework. And most importantly, he makes his Papa happy.
Harley, Tony's son, he isn't so sure of. He's not sure the guy likes him all that much. Maybe it's because he's seventeen and a senior, or because he's into sports and football and he's popular and everything that Peter isn't - but Harley just doesn't seem to want him around.
Still, it isn't anything he can't handle. It's not like Harley is unkind to him, or bullies him, or anything like that. He's dealt with worse. He's survived much worse.
He looks at his Papa. "I like him a lot. And I like that he makes you happy."
Papa's face softens at that. "I'm happy if you are, Bug," he murmurs.
Peter smiles. "Well, I'm happy, Papa. So you should be too."
Tony comes down to the garage to help them with their bags. They hadn't been given much time to pack, so their belongings are meagre.
Still, Tony insists. He takes a duffel bag and throws it over one shoulder, then playfully nudges Peter out of the way of the trunk to snatch away his backpack.
Peter pouts, reaching out for his bag. "I got it, Tony. You're already carrying a bunch," he says, making the man smile.
"Have you seen me? I'm practically made of muscle, kiddo. Look at this," he says, flexing a bicep with a teasing smile, and Peter grins, snatching his backpack back and slinging it over a shoulder. Tony ruffles his hair, and it feels like home. "C'mon, you. Your Papa-Bear's getting impatient."
Peter looks over to where his Papa is standing by the elevator, one hand holding the handle of his suitcase, watching them both with a fond grin.
They all step into the elevator together, and Peter watches as Tony gravitates toward his Papa, wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Papa thanks the man once again, but Tony waves him off.
"I've been asking you to move in for weeks. That gas leak was just...divine intervention, or something."
Peter swallows at that, looking down. He thinks he knows, deep down, that they won't be living in the apartment again. That once the leak is fixed, they'll pack up the rest of their things, the rest of Mom's things, and they'll stay here. It wouldn't make sense, really, to move back there.
Papa is right. The apartment does hold a lot of memories, good and bad. Some he doesn't want to think about for fear he might suffocate on them.
But it was home, for fourteen years, up until now. Run down, but charming. The stairwell and its familiar graffiti. The notch in the wall beside the front door from when Papa had opened it too heavily one time and it had slammed all the way open. The permanent dip in the armchair where Peter had fallen to sleep after a million movie nights. The burned ring on the oven top from the time Mom had set fire to dinner.
Tony's place is a million worlds away from Queens. Not literally - it's just a thirty minute drive. But it screams wealth and class and interior design. Surrounded by equally fancy houses with equally massive amounts of land. Tall walls and plush couches, state of the art coffee machines and a wine cellar, plants in every corner and chandeliers on every ceiling, floor to ceiling windows and an AI built into each room. Plus, an elevator that actually works. That really tips it over the edge.
Papa touches his shoulder as the elevator stops smoothly on the first floor. His eyes are crinkled with worry again, and Peter shifts under the weight of his gaze, the weight of every gaze the man has set upon him for the past four years since Mom died.
A gaze that screams, stay here, don't leave, don't try to leave again.
And Peter returns one that whispers, I'm trying, I'm here, I won't.
"You went away for a second," the man says softly, thumb brushing over his collarbone.
Peter swallows, shakes his head, smiles. "I'm right here, Papa. Just thinking," he says.
They step out into the entry way, the foyer shiny and grand, soft music playing from somewhere down the hall. The living room, maybe.
Tony walks ahead a few paces, sticking his head into the kitchen, where Harley stands at the island, headphones on, bobbing his head along to the beat of his music as he pours himself a glass of juice.
"Harls! Just the man," Tony greets his son with a grin. "Can you show Pete to his room?" He asks.
Harley looks like he doesn't want to. Peter may be in the hall, a little too far to see clearly, but he notices. Harley is tall, hair dark blond and scruffy in that purposeful way, football jersey fitting his frame perfectly. He looks at his father, his steely blue gaze slipping over to look at Peter for a moment before he takes a breath and nods.
"Yeah. Sure," he says, setting his glass aside and taking a step back. "You comin'?" He asks, raising his brows at Peter.
Peter grips the strap of his backpack a little tighter and nods quickly, offering Tony a tight-lipped smile as he passes him. He hurries to catch up as he cuts through the kitchen and then down another hall behind the older boy.
Neither of them say anything as they walk by a couple of doors. Peter has been in this house before; for dinners and movie nights and birthday parties, but he's never seen any of the spare rooms.
"It's this one," Harley says, not turning to look at him as he opens one of the doors and steps inside.
Peter steps in behind him, eyes widening.
The room is...huge. Probably bigger than the living room and kitchen in their apartment put together.
Two of the walls are a light grey, almost white, one is a light shade of blue, and the other is glass - windows, floor to ceiling, with huge curtains tied at either side. The bed is triple the size of any he's ever slept in, covers matching the pale blue wall, with a blanket thrown over the end of the mattress that looks suspiciously Star-Wars themed.
He grins when he sees the Stormtrooper shaped cushion in front of his pillows, along with an R2-D2 stuffie. One one side of the bed, a lightsaber shaped night-light sits on top of a nightstand, beside a Darth Vader themed alarm clock; on the other side, a desk, with a brand new MacBook set on top of it, along with a stack of science books and journals.
Opposite the bed, taking up the majority of the wall, is a huge TV, complete with a gaming set up built into the wall beneath it. There's a pile of beanbags in the space between the bed and the games systems.
He'd mentioned to Tony maybe once or twice that he likes Star Wars, and science, and playing video games. And all of that, all of the things he loves, are incorporated into a room he'd expected to be blank. He feels seen, and it makes him smile, something warm settling in his chest.
"He did all this for me?" He asks quietly, still gripping his backpack as he glances at Harley.
Harley shrugs, eyeing him for a moment. "Dad's loaded. This is, like, pennies for him," he says, like this is nothing, like this hasn't just eased a ton of the anxiety rested on Peter's shoulders. "Need help unpacking?"
The way he says it, Peter can tell he's hoping for a 'no'. And Peter isn't one to go against what will make people happy.
He shakes his head, just once.
Harley looks at him for a second longer before he nods. "'Kay. Bathroom's through there," he points a finger to a door beside the TV and gaming setup. "My room's down the hall. Dad's, and I guess Steve's now, is right opposite."
Peter nods again, taking a deep breath that only seems to fill half of his lungs. "Right. O-okay. Thanks, Harley," he says, quietly.
The seventeen year old just shrugs. "Don't mention it," he says, already heading back to the door. "See ya.”
Peter just nods as the door closes, then walks towards the windows, dropping his bag down to the floor with a soft thud.
The early September sun is low in the sky, bathing the street in a golden glow, the houses opposite casting black shadows behind them. Beyond this street, the city sits like a silhouette in the middle distance. Beyond that, the sky, the sky, and more sky.
He stares for a while longer, wondering if he can see their apartment building from here but knowing that he can't. Then, he walks over to the bed, his bed, and drops down onto his back, staring up, up, up at the high ceiling. A million miles away. Unstained. No water marks or mould. Just...blank.
It'll take longer to get to school from here. Longer to get to all his favourite places, longer to get to the bodega, the park, the cemetery.
He's deep in thought when the door opens, not noticing that he isn't alone until the bed dips beside his head. He turns his head, letting out a laugh when he finds his Papa's face close to his, upside down, mirroring him.
The man grins back. "Tony's spoiled the both of us," he says. "What a room, huh?"
Peter smiles, nodding. "Yeah," he says, letting out a breath and looking up at the ceiling. "It's huge. He - he really listened to all the stuff I ramble about."
His Papa smiles gently at that. "Of course he does. The guy's crazy about you, you know?"
Peter doesn't know, not really. Not until now, at least. "I like that he pays attention. He's cool," he says quietly. "D'you think Harley likes me?"
He doesn't really mean to ask, but the words leave him before he can take them back. He turns his head and looks at his Papa, waiting for a response.
The man smiles, nodding. "I think Harley is a seventeen year old boy who doesn't like to let it show whether he likes or dislikes anything. He talks to me, from time to time, when I drive him to his games and things," he says, "and he's a lot like you, you know? He likes a lot of the same things as you. Finds the same things funny."
Peter lets his brows furrow slightly. "That doesn't mean he likes me."
"No," Papa agrees. "But it's the basis for a good friendship, I think. He just has his walls up, that's all. And once you get through them, he'll love you. But for what it's worth, I think he likes you already, he just isn't sure how to show it."
He pauses at that, then nods, looking away. "I don't like it when people don't like me," he whispers.
Papa takes a breath, leans up on one elbow and peers over him. He lifts a hand and gently brushes some of Peter's hair off of his forehead. "I know. Good thing that you're so darn likeable, then, isn't it?" He whispers, eyes soft and warm. "Anyone who doesn't like you - well, that's their loss. They don't know what they're missing out on, Petey."
Peter smiles at that, peering up at the man, scanning his gaze over his face. "Thanks, Papa. You always know what to say."
Papa just smiles at him, sitting up with a groan and then leaning over him to press a kiss to his forehead, making him laugh. "You make it easy, Bug."
Later, not much, just an hour or so, and he has unpacked the small amount of clothing he'd packed into the walk-in closet beside the desk. It looks empty and sad in there, but he doesn't mind because it's all his - his hoodies and shirts and sweaters and jeans. All his.
He stops by his door when he's on his way out, hushed voices in the hallway halting him.
"- can have all of your other things moved in here, the furniture, everything. It won't be any trouble," Tony is saying, voice an octave higher than usual. Excited, maybe.
Peter swallows when his Papa speaks, quiet and concerned.
"I want to. You know I want to, just make this permanent. But, it's Peter," he whispers.
Peter's heart stutters. His father, and happiness are on two sides of a street. He stands in between them, blocking them from one another.
"- a lot happened in that apartment. It isn't just the ghost of Mary. It's - it's all the after. The grief, and the hurt, and - you know what."
Peter knows what. The big Bad. The Thing. The It. They never call it exactly what it was, they never say it outright.
He hears Tony sigh. "Exactly," he says, and his voice isn't mad or frustrated. It's soft, sad. "This, here, is a fresh start. A happier one."
"That place is also where all the healing happened," Papa adds quietly. "It's his stability, the one constant -"
"You're his one constant, Steve," Tony says. "But I won't pressure you. There's no pressure here. Never. But I love you, and I want to be with you all the time. I want to come home to you, to our boys, and wake up every morning to the same. The offer isn't going anywhere."
Peter stops listening after that, feeling intrusive.
He distracts himself instead, because he's good at that. Only for a while, but he's good at it.
He lies on his bed and messages Ned, gives him the highlight reel - at Tony's, my room is huge! - and the like. Sets his homework packets out on his desk, ready to fill out later. Smoothes out the creases in his bed from where he lay.
When he finally leaves the bedroom, it's dinner time. He helps Tony set the table without offering - just slips the cutlery from its drawer and sets it down around the dining room table, whilst Tony dishes out his homemade spaghetti into three bowls.
"Harley's eating at a friend's house," he says, explaining before Peter even opens his mouth to ask.
Peter nods. "Thank you," he says, and when Tony looks confused, he smiles. "For the room. And all the stuff. You - you didn't have to do any of that, the extra stuff. I didn't expect it."
Tony sets the bowls down at the table and takes him by the shoulders, ducking his head down until Peter's gaze meets his. "You deserve nice things," he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I want your room here to be just that, yours. Not that you'll spend much time in there, not when you have your own workspace down in the lab too, now."
He sucks in a breath at that, eyes widening. He grins in excitement - he loves Tony's lab. Love to tinker in there with him whenever he comes over with Papa. He even comes over alone after school, sometimes, just to finish up on a project.
"Really?" He asks, voice a whisper, filled with hope. "You mean it?"
Tony laughs, nodding. "It's been long overdue, kiddo," he says, then pulls him into a hug.
Peter smiles, pressing his cheek into the man's chest and hugging him back.
Tony squeezes him, the same way his Papa does. Like he's trying to push him back together, mould him into who he used to be, before. Before before.
He's in the after, now. But he's as close to the before as he's ever been.
Later later, this time, and he stays up late to get through some of his homework. Papa works Sunday evenings at the bar, mornings in the café, like clockwork.
At the apartment, he got used to being alone. Then, the Thing happened, and Peter got used to sitting in the back at the bar, doing his homework with his headphones blocking out the sound of drunken laughter and slurred yelling, or FaceTiming Ned from the corner table of the café, drinking endless hot chocolates with whip cream.
Here, Papa feels comfortable leaving him. Because Tony's here, and so is Harley, and so is the AI in the ceiling and the cameras by the front door and the elevator.
Despite all of the watching, Peter has a superpower that makes him invisible sometimes. Or perhaps not invisible. He just has to sit there, and people will tell him things, or they'll say things around him that they should probably keep to themselves.
Papa says it's because he's trustworthy, but Peter disagrees. He thinks that sometimes, people forget that he's a person too, or maybe they just assume they can tell him things because he doesn't have anyone to spill their secrets to.
So, when Harley comes home at ten PM, Peter sits quietly at the kitchen island and doesn't look up from his homework, and he goes unnoticed.
Harley is on the phone, speaking in hushed whispers, and Peter doesn't mean to listen in but it's hard to ignore when they're in the same room.
"- I don't care. I don't even know how you got my number," he hisses, and his voice is different to how Peter is used to hearing it.
Not strong and cocky, or light and joking. He sounds...stressed. Maybe upset. Angry. Confused. Peter is good at reading people, at picking things apart, down to the bare bones.
"No, no, you stopped having any right to that title the second you walked out. Why are you doing this?" He asks, and now the fight is gone and it's all just sadness. "I'm blocking this number. Just - leave me alone."
He hangs up, stands in the dark hallway in silence for a moment, just staring at the ground. Then he looks up, into the kitchen, and his gaze lands right on Peter.
Peter flinches a little without meaning to, shoulders shrugging up slightly. He fiddles with his pen, offering a tight smile.
"A-are you okay?" He asks, of wanting to overstep, or make the older boy mad.
He and Harley go to the same school. Sometimes, they pass each other in hallways or sit on adjacent tables in the cafeteria. Harley never acknowledges him, and Peter doesn't hold it against him. High school is rough; he's only been there for a month and he knows that. He imagines Harley's friends would make fun of him for interacting with some dorky freshman, and Peter wouldn't want that.
Still, now, Harley seems less like a popular senior or more like a kicked kid.
He steps into the kitchen, the hem of his flannel shirt bunched up in his fingers, and shrugs. "It's whatever."
Peter nods, clicking his pen a few times and shifting a little awkwardly. "Do...do you want to talk about it?"
Harley shakes his head immediately at that, opening the fridge and staring into it. "No," he states. He grabs a box of leftover takeout noodles and sits on one of the stools opposite Peter. "How come you're sitting out here so late?" He asks.
Peter shrugs, setting down his pen. "Homework," he says.
That earns him a raised eyebrow. "And you have a desk in your room for that," Harley says, slowly.
Peter pauses. It's habit, he supposes. At home, he isn't allowed in his room with the door closed, so it makes more sense to just sit in the kitchen to do school work.
He just shrugs instead. Harley stares at him for a moment before tucking into his leftovers.
"Where's my Dad?" He asks.
"In the lab," Peter says.
Harley nods. "And Steve?"
"Working," Peter says.
"Right. Right," Harley mumbles, then sighs. "You know you never really say much to me. I hear you rambling to my Dad all the time."
Peter's stomach flips. He swallows. "Oh," is all he says. Then, "I'm sorry. I - I don't want you to think I'm - like, rude, or I don't like you or anything. Because I do! You're - you're cool, really, but I kinda thought - well, I thought you didn't like me, so I guess I felt sorta awkward."
Harley watches him with a small smirk, then rolls his eyes. Peter pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his fingers.
Then Harley smiles, not judging or sarcastic. Genuine. "Well, there's the rambling," he says, letting out a huff of breath. He stands, picking up his noodles and preparing to leave the room. "For the record, I don't not like you, Pete. You just...kinda haven't let me get to know you, yet."
With that, he leaves the room.
Peter watches him go, hears his bedroom door close down the hall, and then looks back down to his half-finished history essay with a furrow between his brows.
Maybe what his Papa said earlier was wrong. Maybe he's the one with his walls up.
He shrugs to himself. That was the longest conversation he's had with Harley since meeting him ten months ago, so he supposes he has to take his wins where he can.
The silence settles heavier over the room the second time around. The sounds of the city are on mute over here. He misses the music and the voices and the cars and the sirens.
He picks up his pen and carries on with his homework. Distracting himself. Ignoring the itch of his skin and the rushing in his ears. He clicks his pen, blinks every time the faucet drips into the sink somewhere behind him, and remembers Tony's words from before.
This, here, is a fresh start. A happier one.
He hopes that if he repeats it in his mind enough, he'll believe it.