Tell me somethin', girl
Are you happy in this modern world?
Or do you need more?
Is there somethin' else you're searchin' for?
- Bradley Cooper.
You're absolutely late. And you need this shift. And Mario is going to be fucking pissed. That's what repeated itself in Peter's mind as he sprinted down the streets of New York City. The sun was setting, leaving an orange glare that reflected off all the buildings in the CBD, signalling to Peter the lack of time left to his starting shift.
He'd been so busy studying- so desperate to impress his tutors at his last class he really pushed it. He needed this job to attend his dream uni, he needed uni to eventually get his dream job, and so far- so not good.
A minimum wage job, a scholarship that just covered tuition costs, an apartment so unsafe and so old he actually missed his childhood bed and a lack of friends. That was Peter's life.
But there was no time to complain.
Late, Late, Late- He felt like a flash of wind, pushing past women and men in blackened suits, causing a ripple of protest against the rude Gen Z that had no courtesy. He sped around cars that were stuck in traffic, he slipped past large crowds, he avoided the buskers who would usually beg his sympathetic face to have a sympathetic wallet.
His lungs were on fire, his face red, his body heaving- and yes, he would have looked a mess getting to work- but he could have gotten there on time if he could just keep running at this speed!
If only.
What stopped him was a red light that flashed green, and Peter was only halfway across the road as traffic began to roll. He would have made it safely with the yellow taxis and sleek, silver Mercedes rolling forward, however a roaring, luxury, onyx vehicle had zipped through the lanes, speeding towards him.
If Peter could confirm one thing about near death experiences, it was that his body was locked down. It were as if he saw the car speeding towards him and shut down. His legs refused to move.
And he would have been hit- his body colliding with that vehicle, rolling over the top before cracking his head against the road. Dead. Like that.
However, as he breathed hard, heart in his throat, expecting that collision and internally begging his legs to just move- the car shrieked to a stop, tyres squealing, smoke billowing and the driver obviously very outraged.
Peter breathed out in relief, holding his hands out, "I'm so sorry-" What cut Peter off was the tenseness. It was that moment where people gather, waiting for the crescendo of the moment. It's as if the traffic dies, the pigeons stop, the loud street music halts. It's as if the whole world is watching. The sun was setting, hiding Peter's sickly pale face.
It was that moment where the shock ends and the outrage begins- did he die? No? Why was he so stupid? Why would you run across a busy road? Why would you risk your lie- Even the young boy was aking himself these questions as he waited, hands out infront of him, eyes wide and staring at the driver. Does he get yelled at? Does he get a concerned driver?
"What the fuck, kid?"
Look's like he gets yelled at.
Out of the car came an older man with tousled hair. He was smooth in his actions, quick and aggressive. Peter was certainly well aware his car is probably as expensive as his suit, glasses and shoes. He looks expensive. He looks important- and Peter? In a sweater from his uncle, jeans from K-mart and ratty sneakers? He was the complete opposite. Young, expendable. This man was SOMEONE- exuding a certain scent of importance.
But it becomes obvious that Peter knows exactly who this man is. It caused his legs to go weak and his heart drop into his stomach. Of all cars to jump in front of today in New York City- it had to be the one and only Tony Stark. The Stark Enterprises CEO, the brilliant mind of weaponry and technology. The very man who inspired Peter into STEM subjects, who he hoped would be a future employer! The man who could make more money bending down to pick up ten dollars than Peter ever would working an entire year.
He tears off his glasses, glaring at the young man. "Do you know how idiotic that was?"
"I-I'm so sorry-"
"I could have hit you-"
"I'm just late for work-" I'm REALLY late now- I REALLY need the money- I REALLY need to get there now!
The billionaire slams his car door shut, standing there. He's far more intimidating than Peter could have imagined. "And I'm late for dinner, but you don't see me running across traffic like an absolute lunatic."
"I'm sorry!" It's silent, a fuming, thick silence. Until the cars start honking behind Tony's luxurious vehicle, wondering what the fuck was taking so long. Just like that, the sound crashes around Peter, much like the rushing blood in his ears as his face goes from bleach white to crimson red. He's humiliated, upset and… and…
"Kid, use that head of yours-"
Oh GOSH- he's furious. Peter took in a deep breath, his thoughts slowly coming back, the cogs in his mind working at full speed. "A-Actually- That's wrong- I'm late for work and I shouldn't have run but -but-"
"But?"
"You shouldn't have sped! Just because your car is nice, you shouldn't have sped- So-"
The man draws back, arching a thick brow in surprise that anyone would speak back to him in such a tone. A kid, nonetheless. But Peter was sick of it. "So?" Tony laughs, "Kid, you call the cops and see who gets the fine-"
"Pro-Probably both of us!" Peter weakly fought back.
"And let's see who can afford that." He smirked. A loud honk and Tony turned to wave at the driver behind him, as if the problem was solved. Peter went a darker shade, feeling humiliated. He wouldn't be able to pay the fine. Tony could. A million times over, probably, with plenty more to spend. "Alright, kid. You keep running into traffic. See where that gets you."
He had a million things to say, a million things to yell. But as the entrepreneur sat back in his car, flashing his lights at Peter, he was forced to move on, running through the crowd of onlookers straight to work.
Mario was not happy. As the venue manager, he was quite strict on his staff. Seeing Peter, sweaty and red and a mess- late, to make things worse- he dragged Peter into his office, grilling him horrifically. Peter couldn't exactly tell him THE Tony Stark almost hit him with a car and then embarrassed him infront of a crowd of people, how was that believable?
"We have a strict guideline on staff, Peter- you're well aware. You've been here six months, not one tardy arrival, no sick days, always doing overtime if required…" Mario sighed, rubbing his bloated, red face. He was usually kind, a gentle soul who lived and breathed Italian cuisine. Having been the founder of the restaurant over forty years, he'd grown it from a small hub of migrants to a home of celebrities and Michelin stars. His staff and his guests were his family, usually he wouldn't have looked so … furious.
Tonight must be important. Peter stopped himself from furrowing his brows and took the verbal lashing, the disappointed sighs and the saddened looks. In all honesty, for Peter, it was a job. He didn't enjoy it: hospitality workers were crazy if they did. He got tipped well, sure, but the guests were snobbish and disconnected and blamed him for even the smallest dust mites sitting on their jackets. "I just don't understand why tonight- of all nights- you have to… Be late. Looking like you've run a marathon."
Because I practically did.
"I'm so so SO sorry, Mario. I was at a lecture, I had questions … I missed my bus-"
"You should have called-"
"I'm so-SO-sorry!" Peter began to panic, as he always did in the face of punishment.
The manager sucked on his lower lip, suddenly very uncomfortable with the panic of the young man. "Look, ah, Peter- tonight we have some VIP guests. It will be big for our restaurant- I … I need all of my staff to present well. Get dressed. Go… Start… Please… Just not again. My nerves," He moaned, "They cannot take much more of this tonight!"
Peter again apologised before racing back of house to the small locker room/break room. It was a room contrasting with the decadence of the restaurant: fluoro lights, cracked mirrors, old chairs and battered lockers with plenty of penis and vagina graffiti crudely painted. Technically he should be on the floor, taking orders, serving water, smiling and acting as if nothing was wrong in his life.
Yet here he was- and while it was his fault IT WAS ALSO TONY STARK'S FAULT. Never meet your heroes, Peter all but screamed to himself mentally, drinking a quick glass of water and smoothing his hair down from it's wild, wind-swept do. "PETER!" Came a familiar, hushed gasp.
"Ned?" He turned around, briefly acknowledging his friend before grabbing his uniform from his locker and quickly undressing to his boxers, "I'm so late!"
Much like the manager, Ned looked just as concerned for the night ahead and not very impressed with his friend, "I know!" The gentle giant jumped from foot to foot, dressed, ready, shoes shined- looking the part of an eager uni student ready to make money. "Mario is freaking out!"
"Yeah- he gave me a lashing." Peter sighed, pulling on his white, crisp button up and black, satin vest. "Why is it? Who's coming?" His mind raced with the possibilities. They always had high-class men and women walking in on a daily basis, so it must be big. Ticking options in his mind, he immediately spoke over Ned who had just opened his mouth, the answer on the tip of his tongue. In true Peter Parker fashion, he excitedly gripped Ned's wrists, "Could it be someone like Samuel L. Jackson?"
Scrunching his brows, Ned shot him down, "No. Man- come on, it's better than that." Peter sighed, continuing his dressing, pulling on slacks and his dress shoes. "It's like- someone you'll die over. We literally were meant for this moment!" Ned gushed, Peter and him both grinning ear to ear. The young Parker was almost done, excited, tying his bow tie, before straightening himself up.
"Well?"
"THE Tony Stark has booked a table."
In the end, Mario gave Peter the duty of being Tony Stark's waiter in a moment of twisted fate. The gods must be laughing at the eighteen year old, taunting him for some sin he did as a kid. This must be a real 'fuck you' moment.
He just hoped the billionaire would not recognise him.
Tony Stark, in true ass hole fashion (And yes, Peter had decided there was absolutely no redeeming the ass), was late for his reservation, but as he arrived, Peter was pushed by a nervous Mario to give the table their menus. And it wasn't just Stark, there were some real big names in military, education, physics and even fashion- they were all there. The only big name missing there was Harry's dad, Peter thought.
Every step towards the table felt like impending doom: Tony would recognise him and humiliate him and Oh fuck he would get me fired Peter realized, fingers tightening over the menus. Oh god, That's Bruce Banner- he's literally the biggest benefactor of my university! If that Stark shit talks me I could lose my scholarship!
He began to sweat, shake and quake- he felt like a walking earthquake. "H-Hello, my name's Peter, I'll be serving you tonight." His voice sounded weak, shaky. They all noticed, looking at him as if he were a child. They all looked so normal, just sitting there, but he knew they were important- and he? Not so much.
Tony looked at him, studying him, as if he recognised him, before- bang. There it was. Peter's eyes widened as Tony's did as well.
Oh fuck.
"Here are your menus." Peter hurriedly looked at his hands, handing each of them out, "I'll just let you know the specials tonight are…" He trailed off, eyes wondering from face to face til he was looking at the billionaire. He was so obviously rich. So obviously smug. He was smirking at Peter, probably aware of the sudden urge the young boy had to vomit. "Are…"
"Uhm?" A woman at the table urged him on, awkwardly fiddling with a crimson red curl of hair.
Peter snapped back, "Yes- the specials-" Fuck, stop screwing up- just… "We have braised duck breast, garnished with a pecorino and walnut rocket salad and wild mushrooms sautéed with chorizo and wild herbs." Memorized perfectly, delivered shakily. He knew a tip would not exist, now he knew his job was kissed goodbye- and any impact on those who could have been his future employers was fucked. "For dessert we have a Tia Maria crème on a bailey's sponge with an orange foam."
He watched Tony's face react to every shaky word which just left his mouth trembling even more. Fuck you, old man. He breathlessly attempted to speak again, before swallowing anxiously. Please, whoever has the power, he just wanted to be swallowed by the ground and cease to exist. It was like doing a presentation in front of every bully who strived to make you as miserable as they could. He felt nauseus.
But he swallowed, this time a little harder, before ensuring his voice sounded firm enough to start again, "…If I could start you with some water or wi-"
"Sparkling water for the table, waiter." Tony interrupted him, looking away to one of his friends, his eyes shimmering with disbelief at the ridiculous state of waiters in 2020 New York City. Peter didn't even blush, he could just feel the blood drain from his numb face, "I think we'll ask for the sommelier, someone who might know what he's talking about."
The woman cringed visibly, shooting Tony a look of outrage. "Shut up, Tony." She whispered. She looked towards Peter, smiling very slightly. Another guest, a very buff man- military, that Tony knows- gave him a smile. But it was all very… pitiful.
"I'll bring you your water and the sommelier." Peter gave a slight bow, twisting around to see Mario flashing him a 'I know you smashed that!' look.
"Oh boy," Mario grinned, clapping a sombre teenager on the back, "I knew you could do it. What did you say- they're laughing!"
Peter waved it off as if it were just another day at the office, all the while feeling his intestines writhing in embarrassment. "They would like the sommelier, soda water…" He trailed off.
The whole ordeal could have gone better. It could have gone worse. All Peter was thinking was: his life might as well be over.
Mario went to fetch the sommelier for the VIP table, leaving Peter to grab the crystal glasses and sparkling water. Place them on a tray, his brain screamed, stop moping, stop staring at the crystal, just get it over with! But his hands weren't complying. They were shaking so bad he almost dropped one of the crystal glasses, heart thrumming, tears building in his eyes.
"Pete…!" Ned whispered, joining him, "How's it going- man, you are so luck-" Ned's eyes were on the table, star struck at the ingenious entrepreneurs. He failed to notice Peter struggling to keep it together until he gave a quick look to his friend, "Ohshit, Pete."
The young boy shook his head, mouth pursed tight, refusing to let a single sound out. He just shook his head. That's all he could do.
It wasn't exactly sign language, Ned hardly understood what happened, but it was a very obvious SOS. "…I'll take it, Pete. Any tip they give'll be yours."
They are absolutely not going to be tipping me, I assure you.
His friend pulled a tray out and lined it with the glasses Peter struggled with, perfectly placing two, long bottles of sparkling water in the middle, before walking through the restaurant to the table in question. Peter couldn't even watch after that.
They were probably relieved- Tony was probably loudly celebrating Peter's departure- Mario would overhear- he would lose his job.
He'd already lost any opportunity of receiving respect from Steve- a celebrated captain, a patriotic hero, of Natalia, martial artist, of Bruce- holy fuck, the man who funded Peter's fucking university, of his fucking scholarship! The gravity of the situation hit him, his hands immediately clutching at his waist, rubbing up and down as if to try and calm down his heaving lungs.
Air- need air- fuck-
Oh god.
Oh god.
He made his way out to the back of house, marching through the kitchens before slamming his way out to the back of the restaurant, gasping at the air. It felt good to be out of there- the air of the city was significantly colder and fogged his sobbing breaths.
He was freaking out.
Whilst surrounded by bricked walls, cheap street lights and smelly bins, Peter was wrapped in his own arms. The cold weather was eating away at him, snipping at his wet nose and eyes. Letting out a shuddery breath, the most appropriate thing to say popped out of his mouth in a sob, "F-Fuck."
It wasn't entirely fair. He was trying to get to the top from the bottom the right way. Hard work, studying, talking to those in his community, getting those scholarships, applying for those jobs, sending money to May, renting his own place- and it's all ruined by a billionaire.
Someone who inherited his own wealth.
Someone who saw nothing wrong with humiliating a dumb kid who just needed to get to work.
"Peter…?" Came a nervous voice. Peter spun around, wiping his eyes, "…Uhm… I don't know how to say this, but you need to come back?"
"Fuck, I'm in trouble with Mario – Tony Stark complained, didn't he?" Without even trying, Ned could unlock what Peter held in, and now he was unleashing a torrent of tears. Ned's eyes widened as his friend approached him, clutching at his shoulders and moaning, "I'm gone- fired-"
"Whooaaaaa- man, you are not making any sense. Tony Stark has literally asked you to come back to serve him."
The tears stopped.
The sobbing stopped.
Hell- even the anger stopped.
Peter Parker pulled away from his friend, brown eyes wide, mouth slack- "What?"
He'd had to wash his face and stretch his arms and fingers to try and rid himself of the nervous feeling eating away at his gut. Ned, not really understanding the issue, patted his friend on the back before pushing him back into the front house, where Peter made a slow bee-line to the table in question. His heart was beating hard, attempting to jump up his throat and out of his mouth.
They were all close to finishing their meal, no dessert. It was his time to ask them, 'would you like to look at the dessert tray?'
He practised the question in his head. Say it confidently, say it with a smile. As he stood before them, his mouth trembled into a very terrified grin- his entire face feeling numb and drained of warmth. Knowing Tony Stark was there, staring, made him feel sick.
"I hope your meal was satisfactory," Peter began, gaining slight confidence when THE Steve and Natalia gave encouraging and pleased smiles, still chewing on the last scraps of their meal. "Would you like to look at the dessert tray in a moment?"
James – The Bucky – a political figure between Russia and America – had a very excited look on his face. It almost made him look nervous, "What would you recommend?"
"Well, the special at the moment seems very decadent."
Bucky waved his hand, "What would you eat if you had a choice?"
A small smile wormed its way onto Peter's face, a real one, as he felt warmed by the fact James Barnes was not, in fact, judging him for the previous fiasco. "Well, in all honesty, tiramisu is my all time favourite. We serve it here with a chai and clove gelato."
"I'll have that, then." The man sat back, pleased.
"I'll have that one, too." Natalia smiled.
Peter wrote down hastily the orders, acknowledging Bruce opting for the simple orange syrup crepe and Steve waving off any idea of dessert for himself. It became silent when he looked back up to see Tony downing his glass of wine.
"And for you, Mr Stark?" Peter felt the nerves reappear.
"I think I want an apology."
"Sorry?"
Tony wiped his mouth, finishing a mouthful of his duck, before nodding. "Beautiful food. Compliments to the chef. Compliments to the balls you have for sending someone else to get my order, really. Remarkable service from someone who so obviously resents … Me."
Peter stammers, "I-I-"
"There's absolutely no need to defend yourself." Tony sighs, rubbing his hands clean now. "Just apologise- 'Sorry.'"
Peter doesn't want to. He felt himself go cold with shock.
"Tony-" Bruce spoke up, obviously appalled at his actions.
"Really, Stark-" Steve spoke up, shooting Peter an apologetic look.
"Are you embarrassed Peter?" Tony asks, "Good. Just remember you don't fuck with me. You don't apologise? I get you- or your friend- fired. You don't apologise?" Tony gave a look of faux exasperation, pulling a few hundred bucks from his wallet, "You don't get this tip."
It was silent for a moment, the entire table going deadly silent. And it was Peter's fault. At that moment, he was filled with a cacophony of thoughts. That money would help- it certainly would mean he could pay rent off and send some to May. But his pride, it was already stinging. Hospitality itself was such a demeaning sector, and people such as Tony made it worse. Peter went from white to pink, swallowing. The power this man had was certainly not worth losing his job.
Quietly, but clearly, he looked into Tony's eyes, "I'm incredibly sorry, Mr Stark." He could feel his heart snapping and breaking
Tony arches a brow. "Perfect, sweetheart. Get me the bill. I'm out of here."
Tony had departed after that, leaving a fat stack of cash in the bill to cover the entire table and their desserts. Peter had stood there, frozen, embarrassed, as the billionaire walked past Peter coldly. Yet, as if everything was happy and dandy, farewelled Mario for an excellent night.
His friends were still sitting there, an awkward contrast to the rest of the luxurious, relaxed setting around them. As soon as he'd left, Steve had apologised for Stark's attitude, "He's… Kind of just like that."
"Going through a tough time, new projects, you know…" Bucky added.
Natalia pulled out a wad of cash, "Look, you don't need his tip- just… Here. You did as well as you could have with him treating you like that."
"Yeah," Bruce as well, was pulling out money.
"Oh- No-" Peter chewed on his lips, "It's okay, look, in all honesty, Ned should receive your tips, and please don't-"
"We had a wonderful time." Steve said, "With two hardworking waiters. It's a shame someone like Stark had to do that."
"You wonder why we're friends with him?" Bucky laughed awkwardly, trying to make light of it.
By the time they had finished their desserts, they had left a combined tip of 150 dollars. Their smiles were perhaps the better thing for Peter: he smiled back, feeling optimistic that his job was safe and he wasn't going to be absolutely hated by the most VIP people in the country.
Whilst the tip certainly would have felt good in Peter's wallet, he did give it to Ned, whilst balancing the bill Tony had paid. "Really?!" Ned gasped, "I mean- I might just frame this money instead. I can't believe they tipped so much!"
"I mean, they have the money." Peter mumbled, but took a deep breath. "They were really nice. It would have been better to meet them under better circumstances," like without a cruel billionaire in sight.
"Oh god, yeah." Ned pouted, "But what a night. You looked so scared," He teased, "it must have been because of that Stark- I felt like I was going to die just being near him."
Same. But not because I like him.
As Peter began calculating the cost of the food, drink and desserts and what Tony actually gave, he froze.
The total bill was 387, tax included. Tony had paid 700.
Was that a mistake?
He did the maths again.
"Ned?"
"Hmm?" His friend came over and counted the cash himself. "…He gave you 313 dollars too much."
"Yeah- I know- I think- Ohmygod, did I just rob Tony Stark? Did he put this much by accident?"
"It could be a tip-"
"Fuck no." Peter whispered, panicked, "No way, not with what he said-"
"What did he say?"
"Argh-"
"Look, there's a note on the bill."
Both Ned and Peter stared ta the small strip of paper listing the cost of everything- and by the very bottom was a scrawled note.
You apologised: there's the tip.