Chapter 1: Look me in the Eye
"Peter," says Mr. Stark, a pinched look about his face. "I –" He stops, that gruff exterior slipping ever so slightly to reveal the rumpled, haggard paleness that sticks like wet paint over his pursed features. "I need you to trust me, okay? Not like – full trust, the blind kind – but the one where you don't, you know, lie right to my face and expect me to, like, believe it? And not question it?"
Peter doesn't exactly answer, he doesn't think he can.
Instinctively his right hand draws up to his left elbow, fingers grappling through the fabric to feel the disjointed fracture of bones that have never quite healed correctly, even after all these years. It aches with a burning fervor, straining under spasming muscle and twinging painfully with every front of cold that sweeps through him.
He's always hated the cold.
He doesn't quite manage to speak in time to avoid suspicion. Already, there's a speculative look in Mr. Stark's eyes. The way he narrows his eyes whenever something problematic arises in the lab, interest piqued irreversibly, and mind set on that particular string of damaged code or malfunctioning wire or in this case, his half-fake intern's peculiar behavior.
"I – I'm fine, Mr. Stark." He answers, knowing that somehow, he's worsened his situation, because Mr. Stark doesn't just look speculative anymore, he now looks speculative and suspicious. Peter makes an aborted movement to wave his hands, as if to ward away the man's daunting interest, but instead only makes a weird flappy motion due to him still clutching his elbow which is really starting to throb like a fudger. "Really, Mr. Stark. I'm, uh, perfectly okay. Peachy. Really. I just, I'm tired is all, you know? Homework and uh, Spider-Man-ing, and um, Decathlon! It's been just really busy, Mr. Stark. I, uh, I've just been, uh, not sleeping as much, and, yeah…"
There's a beat of silence.
Peter firmly resists the urge to squirm under Mr. Stark's half-eyebrow-raise incredulous stare.
"Oh really."
"Uh. Um, yeah."
The incredulousness fades and it's replaced by a bone-deep weariness and Peter feels acutely guilty. Mr. Stark scrubs his face with one hand and sighs deeply.
"Kid," he says, tired. "I know you. At least, I think I know pretty well. And you are a horrible liar. Subpar. Really, we should get you lessons or something – wait, no, scratch that. I think I'd go prematurely grey if you learned to lie good on top of the already heart-attack inducing habits you have that often how to do with not dodging a bullet-"
Peter winces at the mention of that incident. That'd been one of the longest and most painful lectures he'd endured since that time he'd made fun of that kid with the lisp in fourth grade.
Swallowing nervously, Peter shoves those thoughts far, far away. His shoulders hitch without conscious thought.
Another sigh. Mr. Stark looks beat.
"Look. Kid. I need you to, I don't know, try –" he gestures to the air between the two of them, stifled with tension, "and trust me here. Anything. I just. You've been acting like, I don't know, some sort of skittish bird or something these last few weeks and me, being the responsible, caring adult that I am, am concerned. You know. Like any reasonable adult would be."
"I – it's nothing, Mr. Stark."
Mr. Stark's expression shutters and Peter aches more than before, this time it isn't just his elbow that beats a painful thrum under his hand. He thinks his heart hurts too.
"Then what's up with the arm."
Peter flinches violently, his hand releasing said arm with a jerk, as if burned.
"I – I don't –"
"What'd you do? I've seen you rub at it every day for the past two weeks. Why isn't it healing?" A gleam enters Mr. Stark's eyes, hard and unyielding. "Are you sick? Can spiders even get sick? Don't answer that. The question is, why haven't you healed yet, and why haven't you seen me about it?"
"MAY! MAY! PLEASE! OPEN – OPEN – OPEN! PLEASE!"
Peter swallows, the crunch of bone and squelch of muscle echoing in his ear like a war drum, loud and hollow.
"From a fight I got into," he says, truthfully. "A mugger," he lies. "It – It's nothing Mr. Stark. Really. Just aches is all, when it gets cold."
Mr. Stark narrows his eyes. "Uhuh," he says, unconvinced. "Remember that conversation we had, like, thirty seconds ago? The one about lying? And you're inability to? Yeah, huh. I know. Try again."
"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh jeez. May. Aunt May. Please. Please just let go. I'll leave. I promise. I swear I'll leave, please let go, please let go, please. I'll leave, I swear. I'll disappear, you'll never hear from me again. I promise."
"It's nothing."
Mr. Stark stares, unimpressed. Then, "Alright then. C'mon. We've been standing for like, five minutes and my old man knees are creaking like the chariot wheels of Satan. Let's move down to the lab and get that suit of your upgraded, yeah?"
Grateful, Peter nods and says quietly with a bare, naked sort of gratitude, "Thank you, Mr. Stark."
Mr. Stark look uncomfortable for a split second of a second, before he rolls his eyes and waves a hand, as if to physically swat away his affection. "Whatever. Let's get moving. C'mon, move it. Jeez, slowpoke, wanna grab shot of speed on your way down - and they say I'm old."
"May, p-please. Please, please M-May. Open the door. Ple-ee-ase."
Stifled sobs and an encroaching numbness are his only companions that night.