A/N: Just a few things to note before I get started with this. I don't know how long this story will end up being. If the chapters seem a bit weird, it's because I'm treating each chapter as it's own story, just set in the same universe, if that makes sense. Updates might be a bit slow until I finish up my last series, but this came to me and I wanted to post it! Hope you enjoy!
1. Don't Eat the Shellfish
Once May told him not to eat shrimp.
The memory wasn't as clear as he wanted it to be, or needed it to be, actually.
He just remembered May's face, her smile as she guided him by his little hand away from the snack table and back over to where the rest of the kids were playing. It was a nice memory. May didn't smile at him like that anymore. To do that, she'd have to be around.
They had been at a party when she uttered those words, but it wasn't anything like the one Peter was attending currently. Mr. Stark's party was grand, with people society labeled as important spread out around all around the penthouse, chatting and gossiping and moving from person to person with grace and sophistication. The party he'd attended with May and Ben years ago had just been with regular people, with a football game blaring on the TV, in one of their neighbor's apartments in Queens.
It was as far as that memory went.
The finer details were blurry. For instance, he couldn't remember why he wasn't allowed to have the shrimp.
He figured there was probably a reason he heard May's voice in his head as one of the waiters approached him and stuck a tray of mini crab melts in his face, offering him one. Somehow, those two events were connected, and if he hadn't snuck some shots of vodka every time Mr. Stark wasn't paying attention to him, which was pretty much all the time, he might've been able to remember how they were connected.
Mr. Stark, apparently, was done with him. He dressed him up in some suit that's more expensive than a normal person's car payment, showed him off for the first half an hour, then left him to mingle on his own. Peter wasn't sure who he was supposed to be talking to. He was youngest one there by at least a decade.
"Sir," said the waiter.
Peter blinked him back into focus. He'd forgotten he was standing there with a tray of food, and it took Peter a few seconds to realize he was talking to him. People with trays called him sir now. He still wasn't used to it.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
He nodded, and the motion was enough to knock him off balance. He stumbled around, before using the wall to steady himself. That was another thing he couldn't remember properly. Just how many shots he had thrown back.
The waiter brought the tray closer to Peter's hand and lowered his voice. "Perhaps something solid for your stomach… to soak up anything you might have consumed by… accident? Before Mr. Stark finds out?"
Peter looked around until he saw Mr. Stark. He was holding court near the windows, with Pepper on his arm, and more than a few people listening to him speak. It seemed doubtful the man would notice, but he took one anyway. Just to be polite. The waiter was trying to help him, and these days, Peter could use all the help he could get.
He thanked him, and the waiter went on his way, zigzagging through the crowd to pass out food to people who were allowed to be drunk.
His gaze fell down to the crab melt in his hand, and he thought about May again, about how she wouldn't want him to eat it, about how she wasn't here, wasn't even in New York, or in his life at all.
The decision to eat it wasn't so much of a decision as it was an impulse. There was food in his hand, and it belonged it in his mouth. He didn't regret it. Not at first. It had the most amazing taste, like spite and revenge rolled up into a flavor that melted on his tongue, but just like spite and revenge, it backfired.
Time was blurry, so he didn't how much of it ticked away before his stomach twisted with sharp, pointy flares, or before the room tilted and spun, or before his chest tightened. He made eye-contact with Mr. Stark for just a few seconds, just long enough to see his confused, worried expression, to see him drop his glass of alcohol as Peter's knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor.
He clutched his stomach, and gasped, or tried to gasp.
His breathe wasn't coming.
Mr. Stark got to him fast and was on the floor with him fast. He grabbed onto his shoulders, attempting to push him up into a sitting position and trying to get him to make eye-contact. "Peter. Pete, what's wrong? Talk to me."
He couldn't speak. The words weren't coming just like his breath wasn't coming. It hurt. Not being able to breath, and his ears hurt, too. Mr. Stark was shouting at the world as it spun around and around and around while they stayed stationary on the floor. Something cold and metal was strapped around his wrist, Mr. Stark kept shouting at FRIDAY to diagnose his problem, and then, without a warning, Mr. Stark stabbed with in the arm with something sharp.
He wheezed, but this time, breath passed through his throat.
"That's it," said Mr. Stark. "You're fine. You're fine now. Just breath with me."
Peter took another breath, then another, and each one got a little bit easier, each one let more air fill his lungs. He could feel Mr. Stark breathing in time with him. Somewhere in all the chaos, he had positioned his back up against the wall and Peter's back up against his chest. Between the alcohol and the almost dying, he didn't have the energy to feel properly embarrassed, even as he looked up and saw the rest of the party watched them silently. Pepper and Rhodey stood the closest, but for some reason, he couldn't hold their gaze.
He adjusted his eyes down and saw the discarded epi-pen lying next to his foot.
"Pete…" Mr. Stark still held on to his shoulders, tight, as if the crab melt was ready to physically pull him away and out of his hold. "Why do you smell like a brewery?"
"I-I can exsplain that –" started Peter, but he couldn't finish the rest of his excuse.
The crab melt and the alcohol were making a comeback. Before he could stop himself, before he could jerk away from Mr. Stark's grip, he threw up. Everywhere. He aimed his head down to the floor, and Mr. Stark repositioned his hands, rubbing his back while Peter puked all over the floor, all Mr. Stark's shoes, and on one of the legs of his insanely expensive suit pants.
"Jesus kid," said Mr. Stark, once all the puking was over.
Peter wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his suit jacket.
Everything was already ruined anyway.
Peter made it back to his bedroom, thanks to the support of Rhodey, who did most of the walking for the both of them. Pepper opened the door to his room, and the lights came on steadily and automatically as they entered. They were too bright. They hurt Peter's eyes, so he shut them and could only feel himself being gently pushed down to sit at the end of his bed.
When he popped them open next, Rhodey kneeled in front of him, untying his shoes, and he caught Pepper as she disappeared into his closet.
"I threw up on Mr. Stark," said Peter. He felt like he needed to inform War Machine about this, even though he'd had a front row seat.
"Don't worry about it," said Rhodey. He took one shoe off him and began untying the other, something Peter was incapable of doing himself. "Just think of it as karma for all the people he's thrown up on."
The other shoe came off and Pepper emerged from his closet with pajamas. She laid them out on the bed next to him, and slowly, the realization broke through his drunken haze. He couldn't untie his shoes by himself, he definitely couldn't get out of his vomit stained suit by himself, or into his pajamas without assistance.
He wanted to express his annoyance about that, about his limbs being completely useless to him, but instead he covered his ears and said, "The lights are too loud."
"Fri, dim the lights, please," said Pepper, and lights adjusted down to a level that made Peter's eyes happy.
Pepper and Rhodey, as it turned out, were both excellent at caring for drunk, sick people, even if Peter wanted to die from embarrassment as Rhodey helped him out of the now ruined suit and into a t-shirt and pajamas bottoms. It didn't seem fair. That these strangers were tasked with taking care of him like this. That his aunt handed him off to strangers and he was supposed to be okay with it.
He wasn't okay. He was stupid drunk and his stomach felt weird and he was miserable.
Rhodey helped him into bed, and Pepper let the comfort fall over him. He stared at them, Rhodey as he placed a trash can by the bed and Pepper as she put two bottles of water on his nightstand. She wiped his hair off his forehead, like May used to do, and followed Rhodey to the door.
"Feel better, Peter," said Pepper. "Call us if you need anything."
Her and Rhodey left, and Peter shut his eyes tight.
He didn't feel better, not on the inside, but at least he was comfortable enough under the thick, heavy covers to drift away into a restless, half-sleep. One that was terrorized by the same moment replaying over and over again.
He was little again. His eyes barely saw over the table, but he could see enough to see a strange food, one he never saw before and therefore one he had to try. His hand reached out. His hand was intercepted by May, who led him away from the food. They stopped walking, and she knelt down to meet his eyes.
Her eyes were blank. They held no emotion, and that scared him. He tried to pull his hand away, but May's grip was too strong.
"I'm going to leave you now."
Peter's eyes flew open and he shot up in bed, looking around in his giant, dimly lit bedroom. It always took him a few seconds to realize he wasn't in Queens.
"I'm allergic to shellfish," said Peter.
That's what Aunt May was supposed to say. That's what she said in his memories, but he thought his drunk nightmare version of her might be more realistic than history.
"Yeah, no shit."
Peter turned his head to the side. Mr. Stark was sitting up in his bed, all the way on the other side, with his back up against the headboard and a tablet in his lap. His bed in his penthouse bedroom was big, he still seemed like he was miles away.
"Mr. Stark?" asked Peter. He sat up and used his elbows as props, then cringed. It felt like something was growing on his tongue, and whatever it was, it tasted awful. "W-what are you doing in here?"
"Someone's got to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit in your sleep," said Mr. Stark. His voice was louder than the lights were earlier, and it made Peter's stomach hurt. "… god, I'm turning into one of those parents."
Peter frowned. He didn't know Mr. Stark thought of himself as his parent. He just figured he saw himself as some generous benefactor stepping in to prevent Peter from being thrown away like unwanted garbage to the foster care system, like someone who would watch from afar in a hands-off sort of way.
"Don't ever to do that to me again," said Mr. Stark. "And for future reference, crabs are shellfish, so are shrimp and lobster and krill –"
"Mr. Stark," said Peter. He knew it was rude to cut him off, and he couldn't believe he did, but his voice was starting to take a lecture tone. Peter couldn't hear it just then. His head pounded too much. "Just please don't list them all. I knew, I know, I just forgot I knew."
"Well that's not entirely surprising since you drank half your body weight tonight," said Mr. Stark. "Have any more food allergies I should know about? Your aunt should've –"
Mr. Stark stopped mid-sentence. It was a subject they avoided. Neither of them had brought it up in the entire two weeks Peter's been living at the penthouse, but now that it was on the table and he thought about it, it was completely ridiculous for them not to talk about her. She was the underlining factor, the reason he was there, and his biggest motivation for trying to drink his misery away.
Peter looked up at the ceiling. It was so high. Higher than the ceiling back at the Queens apartment.
A different family had moved into it already, so even in his mind, Peter stopped referring to it as home. This bedroom in Mr. Stark penthouse wasn't home, either. Home was long gone. Ben died and took a piece of it with him to the grave, then May left the city without him and took the rest with her. She was selfish. She didn't share.
"I didn't know you were taking this so hard," said Mr. Stark. "You could've said something. I could've-"
Peter didn't need any more prompting to spill his grief. "She just… gave me away."
The transaction happened quickly, but that day was forever imprinted in his head. He woke up, carried his bags to May's car, endured a silent, awkward car ride to some government office where Mr. Stark and lawyers waited for them. He sat in a room at a large oak table and listened absentmindedly to the sounds of pens scribbling across dotted lines.
Then May left. There were no hugs or goodbyes exchanged. Just his last remaining relative walking out the door, and Peter endured another silent, awkward car ride with Mr. Stark sitting next to him in the backseat while Happy drove them to the penthouse.
"It's not like that, Pete," said Mr. Stark. "She… had some stuff to figure out, and while she's figuring it out, you're staying with me."
He knew that was a lie. Figuring stuff out implied she was coming back, but there would had been no reason for lawyers and custody papers if she planned on doing that. Peter sat up fully and tilted his head at Mr. Stark.
There wasn't any need for lawyers and custody papers if he planned on letting him go or getting rid of him when he inevitably did something idiotic. Security, at least, existed here, and maybe he work on making a new home, one that didn't involve Ben or May.
"She won't even answer when I call," said Peter.
"She changed her number," he said. "She thought it would make the transition easier for you."
It was the word transition that hit him in a weird way. His eyes darted around his new bedroom and thought about Mr. Stark referring to himself as a parent, thought about May refusing to talk to him. This was permanent. May wasn't coming back, and this was the way it was going to be for now on. Logically he knew it the day the papers were signed, but it hadn't settled in and became real until that moment.
And he was so tired, and so hungover. He couldn't stop the tears from coming, so he turned around on his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.
Mr. Stark was at least kind enough not to point out that it was completely obvious what he was doing. Instead, the bed shifted under moving weight, and Peter felt a hand on his back. He needed more than just a hand, though. He lifted his head, stared at the man through his tears, then hug-tackled him. Mr. Stark accepted him. Wrapped both arms around him, and Peter cries into his chest, instead of the pillow.
"You're gonna be alright," he told him. "Staying here won't be so bad, and you're only stuck with me for three years, then you can go off to college and throw your own parties, dance with a few girls, or boys, or more than dance, if you know what I mean –"
"-Mr. Stark –"
"-and get drunk the fun way, around people your own age, instead of us dinosaurs."
Peter forced out a laugh. His head was still buried and his hands are still hanging on the back of Mr. Stark's shirt as if his life depended on it. He didn't seem to mind, and that was a little confusing to Peter. He never expected Mr. Stark to act like this when he moved in here, never expected him to act like a father, or even like he cared.
"I'm sorry I ruined your party."
"Eh, it was boring, anyway." He ran a hand through Peter's hair. "You should go back to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning. Well except your head. That's still gonna hurt like hell, and your stomach probably won't be much better off."
Peter groaned as he broke away from Mr. Stark and settled under the covers. He spared a look at Mr. Stark before shutting his eyes but didn't bother questioning him as to why he wasn't leaving. Peter was sobered up past the point of throwing up in his sleep. He didn't mention that, either, and when the sun came up the next morning, he did feel a little bit better.
Everything seemed a bit brighter, and not just because his eyes still didn't like the light. His body felt beat up, achy, his head dull, but Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts waited for him in the kitchen, with things they insisted cured hangovers, and for the first time in the two weeks, he felt like he could work on making this his home.