Chapter 3: Dine with Mr. Crow
1. weird around doorways
"Uh, kid, what's with the cut and jump huh? You trying to one up me in my own building?"
"Uh, er, I – No, Mr. Stark. I'm – sorry. Sorry, it's just, uh, habit. I guess."
2. doorways. elbow?
"What's up with the arm?"
"N – Nothing. Mr. Stark."
3. food. won't eat but will take leftovers no matter what
"Not hungry? And here I thought you were willing to 'scrounge up every morsel' of that pizza in order to, and I'm quoting here, 'gobble it up 'cause I don't want to die without pizza sauce in my stomach'. 'Just not the way to go', if I remember right."
"Um, uh. Ha. Wow, jeez, did I say that? I mean, I guess at the time I might've been – uh. I'm just not very hungry right now, Mr. Stark. I'll uh, just, could I maybe take it to go?"
4. bipolar? acts all jumpy then zones out
"Kid? Hello? Anyone in there? Iron Man to extremely dorky, prepubescent girl? Come in?"
"M – Mr. Stark? I – er. Sorry, I guess I got… caught up… in something…"
"Uhuh."
5. problem with being handed things ****?
"Here, that should have all the new upgrades listed. Take a gander and tell me… Kid. Here. Take it. Don't make me beg."
"I – I can just take a look later, right? Mr. Stark? Could you – Could you just, email it to me? I – I mean, I –"
6. May?
Tony taps his fingers over the absolutely not stalkerish scrawl of notes he has cradled in his lap, fingertips dancing over the indented paper with faux gentleness as he eyes the pathetic bit of information he's gathered so far. Idly, his thumb lingers on the latest note, the pad of his thumb tracing the penned, brutish marks of his distinct chicken scratch.
It's the newest one and its freshness shows in the smear of blue ink that follows the graze of his finger.
May?
Peter had been going on about some nerd fest or another, a trip into downstate New York, wherein the kid would join the rest of his dorky and incredibly awkward peers and spout a bunch of smart shit at buzzers and long-suffering judges living check by check who absolutely needed a raise – if not for their own sanity, then for Tony's because one day someone is going to snap and Tony doesn't think he can handle going into cardiac arrest if the kid goes flying through another building. That first time had been enough.
In an offhanded and completely casual way, Tony had made some teasing remark, absent mindedly and without any real bite, about the kid needing an actual adult to sign off on the trip, right? Because you're like twelve and children need big grown up people to make big grown up decisions for them, right? Did May give the green light to your little nerd orgy?
The kid had frozen up, all sick and honest to god terrified, as if he were only steps away from being water boarded (and fuck that comparison scared the shit out of him). It'd knocked Tony's bullshit meter slightly off skew and for a second there, he'd been worried that he'd scarred the kid's poor virgin ears. But it couldn't have been that, not with how the kid had reacted. It was something more, and he'd sat up and taken notice.
Of the rigid lines of the kid's hitched shoulders and the thin, taut line of the kid's pinched lips and the sallow note that crawled across his thin cheeks.
And then the kid was laughing, a little too loud and a little too grating. Ha, I – wow, I totally forgot to ask her. I guess I'll, guess I'll have to do that. Huh.
It'd been like watching a man being led to the gallows, noose already a loose tie around their neck and death a common, too sought-after companion to be much afraid of. It'd been terrifying, watching the way the kid had swallowed almost painfully and carefully tightened his jaw, as if preparing for some nail-pulling level of torture.
But it was just May, right?
Tony sighs noisily, nose scrunching as the beginnings of frustration begin to encroach, eyes stinging and brain thumping miserably.
"Argh," says Tony.
"What is it Tony."
The billionaire nearly seizes right then and there but luckily for his continuing health, he manages only to jerk about three inches to left and back, hand coming up to his heart. He breathes heavily. "Jesus Rhodey where the fuck did you come from?"
His best friend glares balefully from across lounge, dressed in stocky blues and boring greys and looking so put-upon that Tony feels almost personally insulted. Rhodes gestures to the notepad that'd been flung from the other's grasp in surprise, to where it lies innocently between them on the wide, open plain floor.
"I've been here for the past three hours, Tony." He says, as if explaining a particularly challenging problem to a particularly dimwitted child. He waves a hand to the laptop he has propped on his braced legs. "You know, resignation forms, news, and all that?"
Tony bites back the flinch at the stark reminder that James "War Hero" Rhodes will no longer be serving as his destined 'military man'. Not anymore.
Rhodey reclines and scrubs a hand down the side of his jaw before looking pointedly at the flimsy pad of paper that maintains its stout division between the two. "What's up with you, Tones," asks the weary man, so very tired as he most likely will remain until he manages to give himself rest from the constant physical therapy. He inclines his head. "The only time you write on paper is when you're avoiding thinking about something. Please tell me this isn't another one of your sexual crises – oh god is this about Martha Stewert, please tell me this isn't about –"
"It's not about Martha Stewert," interrupts Tony quickly. "That was a one-time thing and it will never happen again so long as my di –"
"Right, right, of course," pleads Rhodey, "just stop!"
Tony reclines back into his seat, wriggling until he's nearly up on his haunches, elbows balanced precariously on his raised knees. He rests his chin on his forearms and when he speaks, his entire head jumps, lower jaw held still. "Don't tell me you're still traumatized about little ol' –"
"Yes," answers Rhodey quickly. "Yes I am. Never will I ever not be forever scarred by your recounting of that horrible nightmare of a one night stand. I'd rather leap off this building than –"
Tony rolls his eyes exaggeratingly, groaning, "Alright sugarplum, I get it, you big wussy."
There's a beat of silence, wherein only the staccato clicking of the Rhodey's noisy keyboard fills the ringing quiet.
Eventually, however, this is abandoned when Tony muffles another groan into his arms. When Rhodey looks up, face deadpan, and spies the billionaire gnawing on his unclothed arm, the ex-soldier grimaces.
"Dude, gross."
"Shush," is Tony's only muffled reply.
Rhodey shakes his head, sighs, and snaps the laptop closed. Tony's eyes catch his and there's a small softening to the man's face – one that Tony knows well he does not deserve, and one that Tony will forever remain selfishly comforted by.
Spider-Man hooks a finger under the drowsy eyed man's vest and tugs until black-blown pupils are centimeters from the blank white spectacles of the Spider Suit. It's easy enough to smell the alcohol on the man. It wafts in thick streams of repugnant, cloying mists of tangy cherry, lined by the salty musk of sex and bitter sweat.
"Ew dude," he snorts as he pushes the man away, who stumbles into the closest questionably upright wall with a loud, drunken guffaw. "Do you bathe?"
"Sometimes," slurs the grinning man. "You gonna help me wit tha' Spidey?"
Spider-Man waves a hand, as if to smack the offending stench away from his masked face before shaking his head. "No way. It's like four in the morning and I don't swing that way." Plus I got a Calculus test tomorrow – today, crap. "Also, I'm like, super self-conscious and you're like super drunk, so no beuno?"
"That ain't ah no –"
"I literally said 'No way'."
The man smacks the side of his face in a not so illustrated attempt to gesture to his ear. "Questionable hearing." A pause. "'Cause I'm drunk as shiii –"
"Alriiight-y then," cuts in Spider-Man, reeling back on his heels, "I think that's enough blasphemous curses for my pour virgin ears tonight." He comes around to the older man's side and hoists him to his side with a firm arm, supporting his weight with flaccid ease. "Let's get you somewhere that doesn't reek of murder and death, yeah? How'bout that. You wanna go home? Bus station? Homeless shelter? You have five seconds till I pull out eeny-meeny-miny-moe."
"Ahhhh, I dunno. Yer not givin' me a lot of options here Spidey. How 'bout we head home together, huh? You got a nice, perky ass, fit enough for –"
"Homeless shelter coming right up," says Peter, and hefts the man over one shoulder in a fireman's carry and begins his sprint.
It's the safest place other than the guy's home – if he had one.
"Daaamn, Spidey, you got a thick—"
Peter groans and makes an aborted gesture that resembles more of a strangle than a swat. "Stop it dude, I'm trying save you. Can't you be grateful and stop harassing Spider-Man? I'm gonna have to start charging you for every leer soon and I don't think you—"
The dude groans and let out a belch – it's like he's a child and Peter's the mother and this is some sort of pat-on-back sort of deal. Peter's weirdly grossed out by this and resolutely shoves the image to the back of his mind, never to be seen again save for the most terrible of night terrors.
In the end, Peter doesn't reach home until somewhere near three in the morning. It's still winter so it's a bit hard to grapple rightly with the ice slicked bricks of the apartment complex. The sill of his window proves even more hardy than the walls he struggles quietly to stick nicely to and he curses silently through his mask, irritated at not only the how dismal a friend his normal escape rout is proving to be, but also at the stench of alcohol that wafts from his suit and up into his overly sensitive nostrils. The scent is bitter and saccharinely sweet, to a nauseating degree – to the point of his fingers fumbling like a drunkard's in an attempt to burglary-style steal away into his room.
With a wet shliick, the bottom panel of his windowsill reluctantly joins with its topmost half.
Peter gives a quiet hoot before flinging himself through the narrow opening. In an effort to prove to him the universe's frugal attempts to sabotage him, his head kisses the bottom half of the window with a jarring thwack. He curses, not so quietly, and stumbles past the breach of his meager bedroom. With the universe's ever pressing urge to absolutely cajole him into a coma, Peter's aching heels conform to the scattered, broken bodies of previous Lego creations and he hisses at the assault as he flings his arms out wildly to catch his unwitting trip past the metal frame of his bunkbed and the biting corners of his slumped dresser.
"Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck—"
Something loud erupts out in the hall, just past his door. He recognizes it immediately, horror flushing him pale and ashen and oh, he's fucked. It's the sound a door slamming open, metal knob ringing against plaster – a warning.
He's tripping over himself trying to desperately strip himself of the Spider-Man suit, breath sharp and quick and fingers numb and yet trembling as they hurry to yank off the super, much too tight full body costume.
Each beat of a foot against the creaking, weary floorboards of the hall is another form of torture all together. With each thump, his brief, infinitesimal moment of opportunity is fleeing. If he gets caught inside of a damn spider suit…
His stomach knots and his throat collapses, practically stealing him of the remaining air he so wishes he had. He's shaking too hard, his bones almost shivering beneath his skin. He tries not to start crying. He knows it's stupid, not to mention childish, and he's not a kid. He's a freaking superhero, for God's sake! He saves people! He's helped the Avengers save people!
His small, savored moment of confidence shatters with the snap of his door as it meets the scarred wood of his dresser. Like his voice, that sliver of assurance is stolen away, shunted and collapsed, swallowed by the presiding misery not quite yet drowning him. Maybe he can talk his way out of this. Maybe—
"Peter?"
It's the quiet in her voice. The soft, falseness of it that tells him she's furious.
He discreetly, as much as his quaking limbs will allow, shoves the suit beneath his bed. He's near naked now, saved only by the elastic strap of his boxers. Pathetically enough, he savors it as if its his last line of defense. Like it's almost armor, an elixir to shield some small part of him from some swipe of a lumbering monster.
Aunt May brushes a bit of her hair from her eyes, tucking the brown strands behind an ear with false gentility. She tilts her head and steps further into the room. "Peter, what's that smell—"
Dread ignites into an all-enveloping wreath of terror. The drunkard – that fucking bastard—He fumbles forward, willing his throat to work with him, just this once. Stilted silence is all that answers him. His aunt frowns, the expression barely visible in the backlit silhouette of her robed figure. She closes the door behind her, and Peter watches, dispassionately, as the silver tongue clicks shut, sending forth a tsunami of finality.
"What about after?" questions Rhodey, something queer on his face.
Tony regards the man strangely, curious, and says in halting, deferring words, "What do you mean, after?"
"The after. After the fieldtrip, or the time before he left – right after he saw his aunt."
Tony quiets. His lips flatten, so does his face. There's an inscrutable look on him, scantly feeling and grossly cold. Rhodey watches silently, gut churning, as the billionaire draws himself in slightly, as if to shelter some kernel of warmth at the center of his chest. Clearly, something has crossed the man's mind. And it terrifies Tony.
Rhodey feels apprehensive all at once and makes to get up – but all he can do is arch forward, legs useless branches of nerveless meat and hands hovering awkwardly, as if to pat air in fruitless hope to comfort and negate.
Tony makes a face and Rhodey watches as the man's fingers twist, knuckles bleaching white with the quiet strain they seem to be wringing with. "No," mutters his friend, entirely to himself and with the distinct muster of something small and beseeching. "No, no, no," says Tony. "That's wrong. That wouldn't – He'd tell – No."
Tony's eyes are affixed to the dusk streaked linoleum tiles of the TV room, wide and searching but far gone – a continent's away. He mutters to himself more, that tell-tale rush of hysteria edging his rapid scramble of non-sensical rambling, "That's not right. I'm wrong – I've been wrong before, I mean think of Ca – But then – No, Happy would've – but that first – I heard something –"
"Tony!"
The man doesn't react, doesn't even falter to his vomit of mismatched words and half turned phrases, and instead ducks his head, fingers digging into his scalp and shoulders taut lines of long-limbed breadth. They scrub through his hair, the slightest tremble to their frantic wanderings.
"Wrong," mumbles Tony, a sharp reproof in his words. "I wouldn't not see –"
Rhodey watches the man freeze and then stumble in his streams of babbling dialogue, chin lifted and eyes caught on the innocent flap of paper that has since yet remained where it's been thrown, a splotch of white that demurs its presence by peacefully residing clear of the stark grey lines that thatch the floor paneling.
"Tones," murmurs Rhodey carefully. "Tell me what's wrong. I can't –" he gestures to wide breadth of floor separating them, "exactly come over and help if you're having, a panic attack, or something."
"Peter," is what he says, a thousand-mile stare affixing to Rhodey's general location. He blinks, and the distance breaks from his stare. He stands up, snatches his phone from his back pocket, and snaps it on, dialing rapidly.
Rhodey watches, wary, as his friend redials once, twice. Tony begins typing, thumbs blurring over the semi-transparent screen of his mobile. Texting, he guesses, the kid. Clearly, he must have been right in his assumption – for all that he wished he hadn't. A stone settles atop his tongue, heart aching.
"He's not—" The look of genuine befuddlement that crosses the billionaire's face serves only to draw Rhodey's heart even further up his chest. "Why is he not answering?"
Haha, you guys are so kind. Seriously. Thank you all for the reviews, follows, and favorites. Bro, it makes me goddamn emotional. Sorry for the wait. My muse is sorta all over the place. Thanks again :)
