Peter hated how much he struggled with the separation.
He really didn't mean to sound as needy as he did.
Tony was flawed in a lot of areas, this was true. But parenthood, it has to be said, does not appear to be one of them. No-one would claim it came naturally to him, not at first, but by God, did he act like a pro now.
He didn't criticise, only corrected. Guided, never forced.
Peter loved spending time with him, and that was part of the problem, wasn't it?
In the beginning, Peter swung over to the ultra-cool Tower whenever the mood struck him. He'd come up with all sorts of flimsy excuses to justify why he was kicking around: forgotten chemistry book; questions about the suit; boredom; Karen's voice was an octave lower, could he fix it? And the greatest cliché of all: erm...I was in the neighbourhood?
After a while, Tony simply came to...expect him. Laying down the blowtorch and tearing himself away from the scattered toolbox and hazardous knots of exposed wires crowding his lab table to flip up his face plate and smile adoringly when Peter barged in.
Peter would dash out of school, shamelessly geeking out with Ned over the latest Batman comic, to find Happy leaning impatiently against the polished Stark Industries' black Lexus, aggressively tapping his watch for Peter's benefit and grumbling something about, "Boss hating to be kept waiting." Peter didn't understand. But he was happy to hop in and prattle away to Happy for the duration of the ride.
Sometimes he'd get these ideas in his head. And he'd worry if Tony was aggravated by having his relative peace constantly invaded. In those moments, Peter's heart raced with uncertainty, twisting and squirming with a misplaced sense of guilt and shame. Maybe...maybe he would be better off keeping his distance for a while? Peter would reason. That was it; that was the right thing to do. Peter could do that. It would give him more time to hang out with Ned—be a good bro and stuff.
But it never really worked out as he hoped.
Tony would call. And call. And call. And when Peter pressed ignore, he would go over his head, and lo' and behold, soon he'd have May and Mr. Stark banging on his door.
What was wrong? Was he hurt? What was he hiding? What was he thinking?
What on earth had prompted him to pull away like this?
Tony was worried about him—more than that, he claimed, he was responsible for him. He didn't understand why Peter had chosen - on an impulse, no less - not to adhere to their arrangement. The billionaire could not, for the life of him, wrap his head around why Peter thought it was okay to do so without informing him (read: asking permission).
"I was worried sick," the man chastised, shoving his hands through his dishevelled hair for the thousandth time as he paced the length of Peter's room. "I thought something had happened to you, Peter! Don't ever do that to me again. Ever. Didn't anyone ever teach you not to scare the man with the heart condition? Not. Cool. If you make plans with Ned, check with me first. Understood?"
The teen had thought that was a bit of an overreaction. He fought crime as a past-time. He could take care of himself. But Peter had to concede that Tony's face was uncharacteristically pinched and pale, and there were fine tremors running down his hands. He had never seen Mr. Stark so shaken. He felt terrible. Scaring Iron Man? That had never been his intention.
This, they declared, could not go on.
Next thing he knows, the pair are strong-arming him, throwing around words like 'adult supervision,' and 'safety concerns' and 'too young for this, and that, and the other.' Basically, a load of utter bullshit. Suddenly, neither adult felt comfortable leaving the fifteen-year old home alone. 'Who would feed him?' they cried. 'Where would his meals come from?'
Their attitude, quite frankly, baffled Peter. He wasn't five. May working late had never impacted his schedule much before. He didn't see what was so different now, besides the obvious. (Did being a teenage vigilante really discredit him that much?)
It seemed Peter's days of coming and going whenever he pleased were well and truly gone. He mourned them.
To make matters worse, Ned had zero sympathy for him.
'Welcome to my world,' his best friend had ominously surmised, the effect somewhat undercut by the spoon hanging from his mouth and half-eaten pudding cup in his hand. The look in his eyes was haunted, but the smirk tugging at his mouth was unbearably smug.
Besides, he felt obliged to point out: Peter got to customise suits with Iron Man. He had no right to complain.
And he didn't... much.
Except when Tony quizzed him—a lot hypocritically, he should add—about how much sleep he was getting, or nagged about Peter skipping breakfast, blah blah blah, when's the last time he ate a damn vegetable? More unnecessary fretting…Something about needing to focus up if you want to get into a good college, preferably MIT, "Like hell am I paying for Caltech."
So, in conclusion: constantly. Peter complained about it constantly.
He especially didn't like Ned's knowing smile, twisted with wry satisfaction. His best friend didn't even try to hide his amusement at Peter's suffering.
"Oh, how the tables have turned..." he marvelled when Peter tried to get his frustration at Tony's overbearing shtick off his chest, "Who's the coddled one now?"
At least he was supportive when Ned vented about his party-pooping Dad! Not — not that Tony is his Dad. Tony just wants what's best for him, in - in a different way than a parent. He just gets all high-strung and hung up on protecting him and being there for him, and it's not the same thing at all.
Shut up, Ned.
When Mr. Stark broke the news to him, a little too gently for Peter's liking, that he had a meeting with the British cabinet over the revised Accords and Brexit, he honestly hadn't been that upset. Didn't ask questions, didn't hound him about when he'd be back or nuhin'. Three days. Big whoop.
Peter was a superhero. He could handle being apart from his…whatever Tony is.
Except, no. Not big whoop.
Not big whoop at all.
Peter was—lonely. Sure, he kept busy with homework and decathlon practice and robotics club, but that only covered a few hours after school. A couple months back, Tony had made him swear not to go on patrol when the man was too far away to be useful in the case of an emergency, and, however much he was tempted to, Peter doesn't break promises easily. Not when in doing so, he'd totally abolish Tony's trust.
Tony's lost faith in too many people already.
Which left him alone. A lot.
May wasn't around all that much, and he guessed he'd forgotten what it was like, before Tony showed up out of the blue and turned his world upside down. Were there always this many hours in the day to fill? Had May always worked these insane hours?
Ned went above and beyond to fulfil his friendship duties, inviting Peter to his strict family-only game night. He had to beg his Mom to include Peter, even going so far as to lie that Peter was down because his Dad was out of town. And boy did that take some explaining to do, given that she had gotten to know Peter's home situation pretty frickin' well over the past decade. Where had this 'Dad' suddenly come from?
But, like always, Ned came through for him. So, despite his reluctance, Peter went and it was...good. A little intense. A little, um, family orientated, duh. There were a ton of inside jokes and some things that kind of reminded him of Tony. He missed him, fiercely, but it was fun. He had fun. Even if it did sorta fail to take his mind off things.
Ned seemed a little worried, which Peter hated, because he was gracious enough to include him and here he was, putting a damper on the evening. Peter wound up excusing himself and video-calling Tony from the bathroom, which was lame, but whatever. It made him feel better.
They chatted every day, of course, but it wasn't the same.
Tony had become so integrated into his daily life. He hadn't even realised the extent of which until it was disrupted. Evenings spent decompressing with an episode of Stranger Things or The Office after a long day; joking around and scheming various ways to prank Happy; he spends hours upon hours just chilling in Tony's lab, sometimes acting as Tony's little helper or apprentice in training, other times distracting Dum-E.
Peter can't pinpoint when they made the transition, but there's rarely a day that goes by where he doesn't see or speak to Tony. Tony is just—there. Always. 24/7 access, seven days a week. Texts are answered promptly—even the silly ones about churros or rescuing a stray cat from a tree. There's no more waiting around staring intently at his phone. Peter has his own ringtone. His calls never go to voicemail. Whenever he needs him, he's there. No hesitation.
Tony may not be his father, but damn if he's not the closest thing Peter has to one.
And sometimes that's just terrifying.
Ned and MJ are arguing over horoscopes again. They're relaxing in the sallow rays of sun before practise. They've got a competition in three weeks, so they've been redoubling their efforts of late. However, it's a rare uncloudy day and they fully intend to make the most out of it, despite the chill.
"So - what? I'm a Libra? That's not even an option," Ned declares, peering at the glossy column in MJ's lap as he tugs at the corner for a closer look.
"'Course it's an option, idiot. It's always an option. Give me that," she snaps, snatching it out of his hand. She yanks down her sleeve to swipe over the fogged-up page. "Look what you did. You got your grubby thumbprints all over it."
"I don't know why you care about them so much," Ned states primly, "They're not real. Everybody knows that."
"I happen to find them interesting. It doesn't matter whether they have any merit or not. Where's your open-mindedness?"
"Horoscopes are pointless," Ned insists. "Peter, back me up."
"Huh? What-?" Peter jolts from where he's hunched over, jotting down ideas for the suit in the battered Pokémon notebook he's kept since sixth grade. There are ink smudges along his wrist and a deer-caught-in-headlights look adorns his embarrassingly easy-to-read face.
"Dude!" Ned groans, elbowing him in the ribs. "You gotta start paying more attention."
Peter scoffs, shoving and shaking his book into his bag. "Somehow, I don't think I missed out on anything important," he says tartly.
MJ laughs at him. "I wouldn't be so sure." At their twin looks of confusion, she juts her chin towards the carpool zone and summons an evil smirk. Peter's head slowly turns and he can't quite contain his sharp gasp. Ned almost goes into cardiac arrest beside him, seizing up before punching Peter's arm—hard.
Making his way towards them, in a crisp, tailored suit and his signature red lensed wayfarers—taking his sweet time about it too—is none other than Tony goddamn Stark.
"Is that…? Peter, it's Mr. Stark," Ned hisses none-too-subtly. "Here. In broad daylight. At our school."
Peter lurches to his feet.
Although thrown, an excited smile breaks out across his face.
"D-Tony!" he shouts in surprise. Conscious of Ned and MJ's gaze, he manages to reign himself in at the last second. The flushing of his cheeks, however, cannot be helped. He shuffles over to close the gap between them and wrings his hands, not knowing what to do with them. Instinct demands he throw his arms around his father-figure and clutch on for dear-life. But Peter's not so foolish as to bow to his heart's demands. Not here, in such a public space, with his friends and god knows who else looking on. He's got a reputation to uphold. Not his, mind you. Are you kidding?
No.
Tony's.
It would be a shame, Peter convinces himself, if such a striking three-piece ensemble were wrinkled.
What would a thing like that cost, anyhow? —A cool twelve, fourteen grand? It's enough just to bask in the genius engineers' presence. He can wait until they're home, er, at the Tower, and Tony's changed into his sweats.
"There's my little man," the billionaire grins equally as wide as he reaches Peter's side. He wastes no time running a hand up and down the length of the boy's back, affectionately squeezing the base of his neck. He uses the contact to reel Peter in, tucked against his side. "Long time no see."
Nervous under his friend's penetrating stares, Peter shifts his weight and scratches at his neck, cringing at the burning sensation he discovers there. "W-what are you doing here?" he blurts. "I told you. I have decathlon practise. Did I not tell you? I meant to tell you. Why didn't you wait in the car?"
"What am I? A dog?" Tony tsks with a mock-offended scowl. At least…Peter hopes it's fake. Shit. "Should Happy have rolled down the window a crack, too?"
"That's not, crap, that's not what I—"
"'Course not, squirt." He ruffles his hair fondly as Peter shies away and shoots him a foul look, attempting to smooth it back out. Not in front of MJ, he tries to convey with a deadly glare (though Tony would be inclined to go with 'puppy pout'). Be cool, man. God. "I'm just messing with 'ya."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I?" Tony tilts his head to the side, squinting behind the lenses. "Hm, I thought it was obvious."
"For the record…it's not. It's really not."
Tony heaves a dramatic sigh. "Maybe I got impatient. Did that never occur to you? It should have. Everybody knows I'm an instant gratification kinda guy. Speaking of, what kind of reception do you call this? I haven't seen you in three days, kiddo. Three. Days. Don't I at least get a hug?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope," he counters, popping the 'p'. "Deadly serious. Am I evernotserious? Don't answer that. Point is, I'm accustomed to receiving a certain degree of affection and I'd rather not go without."
"Uhh, I hate to break it to you, but…you might have to. This is my school, remember?"
A sly smile flickers across his face. "Are you saying I embarrass you?"
"Frequently. But that's not what's at stake here."
He's already committed several notable offences, including but not limited to: calling him 'kiddo' and 'squirt' in front of his friends. One of whom will happily lure it over his head forever, 'til his dying breath. Not Ned; he's not nearly as cool or mean enough. The most he'd do is fanboy about it later in private—nay, public. With Ned, you gotta be prepared to go public. MJ, on the other hand? She's ruthless. Tony knows that. Peter's just grateful he went with kiddo instead of his preferred 'spidey-baby' or any variant thereof. Thank god for small mercies.
"Righteo, then." Tony backs off, dusts off his hands. "Don't hug me. In fact, that's great, because quite frankly your hugs could do with a lot of work. I didn't wanna say anything and risk hurting your feelings, but since you clearly have so little regard formyfeelings…Between you and me, I'mrelievedI don't have suffer through your repulsive, tragically terrible, vomit-inducing hugs."
Peter stares. "Are you quite finished?"
"I think we both know I'm not."
He spreads his arms wide and faux-pouts—the big baby—until Peter rolls his eyes and relents, melting into the stiff material of his suit mingled with the calming scent of motor oil, metal, and expensive aftershave he associates with his father—uh, mentor. Tony's arms envelop him completely. He never feels safer than when he's engulfed in his caring embrace, and something tight inside Peter uncoils after days of untraceable tension.
Tony plants a chaste kiss to his temple and squeezes once more before releasing. Peter steps back and continues to grin up at him.
Casual displays of affection between them used to send Peter's head into a brief tailspin. Now they're a common occurrence for him.
Others? Not so much.
Ned gapes at them. MJ merely observes, curious and calculating.
Tony jerks his head at him. "Grab your stuff. We gotta get going before someone spots me. Plus, we have a busy evening ahead of us."
They don't. Not unless you count Netflix and homework.
"Question." Peter holds up a finger to halt him. "Will there be food?"
Tony frowns, bewildered that he need even ask. "What are you talking about?" he chides. "'Course there'll be food. I'm Tony Stark. You think I don't have food?"
Peter grins. "Good. 'Cause all I had for lunch was a squished granola bar and I am starving."
"You only had what?"
"…Oops." Pulling a face as he realises his mistake, Peter sheepishly admits, "I wasn't supposed to tell you that."
Tony breathes deeply, in and out. He counts to three. "Don't get me wrong, I am deeply upset, we will be discussing that more in detail later, but the clock is ticking. For now, let's go. Hand it over."
Without hesitating, Peter passes Tony his bag. He's lost count of how many times he lost that particular scuffle.
"Do we need to make a pit-stop at May's for clothes or whatever?"
"Nah, I've got a bunch of stuff left over at yours. I'll be fine." Peter turns to face his friends. "I guess I'll see you guys later."
"But, Peter," Ned whispers, sneaking a nervous glance at his favourite hero (second to Peter, of course). "What about practise?"
"Don't worry about it," Tony interjects, bestowing a charming smile Peter has dubbed the 'Press Conference Whammy' set to dazzle and delight large audiences while throwing off devious journalists and satisfying photographers chasing that final winning shot. Going by his friends' identical blank expressions, it appears to be working. He claps Peter's back, seemingly oblivious. "I spoke with his teacher. He gave us the all-clear."
Peter peers up at him.
"You talked to Mr. Harrington? How'd that go?"
"Later," Tony tells him, which is code for 'I'll need a drink first.' It's more about conveying the tone than enacting the meaning since Tony rarely, if ever, drinks around him. "First, say bye-bye to your buddies."
"Bye, guys." He gives a jaunty wave. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Text me," orders Ned.
"Will do."
"See ya, loser," MJ sarcastically bares her teeth. He thinks that counts as a smile. Maybe. "Do not text me."
"I'll try not to."
Inclining his head at them, Tony flashes a brief smile. "It was nice meeting you both. C'mon, Peter. We've had quite the hold up, Happy's gonna be pissed."
"You're his boss," Peter points out.
"And? He's scary when he's mad. I think we can all agree," Tony decrees, "It's best for everyone involved that I blame you."
The smile slides off Peter's face, replaced by an indignant frown. "This was your idea. You can't throw me to the wolves!"
"I wish I didn't have to, Petey—"
"Then don't—"
"—But I will."
Their bickering continues. Tony tousles those scruffy locks and swings Peter's backpack over his back, shouldering the strap and wrapping an arm around the teenager. A glinting Yoda key-light bounces from side to side as they walk towards the discreet black town car stalled by the curb.
"That…was freaky," MJ murmurs once they're out of earshot.
"What was?" Ned asks, assuming she's referring to her first, real-life, celebrity encounter. "Meeting Mr. Stark? He's a lot different in person."
"No." The crease between her brows is contemplative. "…How alike those two are."
