Feet clop by the narrow rectangle of space formed by the undercarriage of the car and the floor. Like a white Pong ball, the feet blip to one side…now to the left…right…back again…looping to the right…
Just watching them is exhausting.
There's no need to check who the feet belong to because not only does only one person in this compound have feet that small, but they're wearing two different coloured sneakers and one of them is Sharpied with math formulas.
Tony lets them pace for a few more minutes.
He's been trying to get the home-designed hydraulic brakes on this Hellcat right for ages, and they do not want to balance correctly for the lighter weight of the chassis compared to a truck. Tony hasn't had this much trouble working on a car since he was fifteen.
It's a Saturday, eight in the morning, and that alone is enough to be an unusual occurrence, both for Tony and the nervous feet. They're wide awake, the pair of them, though Tony has a feeling the reason for this is wildly different in either case. He's awake because he's mad at a car and needs to think.
The other human in his lab…he's not so sure.
"Small fry?" he calls, quiet. "Any reason for the rut you're wearing in my floor? I mean, don't get me wrong it's a nice floor. Top of the line, actually, but it doesn't seem very fun when yours truly is here designing a brake system from scratch. I'm much more interesting, if I do say so myself."
His rambling works and the feet stop.
"See? What did I tell you—riveting. People can never get enough of watching…"
Silence.
"Peter?" Tony tries again. His hands pause around a wrench, a little alarmed. He's gotten so used to Peter's increased chatter, his confidence returning—this wordlessness throws him back into the past year and therefore off kilter.
For a split second, his mind entertains injuries and blood and some crisis that mutes Peter's tongue. "You wanna talk to me?"
The feet jolt, as if Peter suddenly realizes the connotations of this question. He bends and his chestnut head appears near Tony's face under the car. Injury free. "Sorry. I've, uh…I've got a question to ask you."
"Must be some question."
"Ha." Peter laughs but it sounds just as strung out as his feet. He straightens and disappears from sight. "Yeah. Something like that."
Tony wipes his hands and rolls the creeper out using his feet. Above him, Peter has resumed his pacing, fidgeting with the zipper on his sweater. He's alternating between flushed and pale. Mostly flushed.
There's no sense trying to read the struggle on Peter's face because it's a mess of so many emotions at once, all fighting over top of each other. The pinched lips of irritation, the fast blinking eyes of anxiety, a divot between his brows that's borne of dread.
Holding out a hand, Tony snaps his fingers. "Help an old man up."
Peter rolls his eyes but obliges. "You're not an old man. You're…midlife, I guess? Old is when all your hair falls out."
"Is that so?" Tony can't help but grin, both in response to the wild strength of the grip that tugs him to standing and the adolescent tone. "I'll live forever, then. The Stark genes won the lottery in terms of hair."
Peter smiles a bit and it relaxes his shoulders instantly. Tony resists the urge to ruffle his curls, covered in grease from elbow to finger tip. He considers doing it, just to tease, but the seriousness on Peter's face stays his hand.
Whatever this is must be important.
Tony also takes a moment to consider whether this has something to do with the clandestine cooking party that Bruce mentioned two nights ago. He tried to pry Bruce for details but the physicist had just shaken his head with that half grin, eyes cheeky, miming zippering his lips.
Typical.
"So." Tony grabs another rag from DUM-E and wipes off the mess, best he can. "Since I'm assuming you didn't come all the way down here to talk about the riveting world of auto mechanics with me, what's up?"
"Actually…" Peter's eyes spark. He visibly musters his nerve. "I kinda did."
Tony nearly drops the rag. It takes a lot to catch him off guard after years of this kamikaze life but those three words do the trick. He stares at Peter with wide eyes, following the boy's gaze to a row of cars in the far garage.
His brow shoot up. "What, for real? You paced nearly a mile's worth across my lab just to ask about cars?"
Peter squares his shoulders. "Yep. I want to…I just…uh…I want to learn to drive, Tony."
Tony drops the rag this time, in tandem with his jaw.
Relative to the average teenager, a sixteen year old at that, this is a banal phrase. It is said all over the world, every day, to parents and guardians and white knuckled driving instructors. For some, this is considered a rite of passage. Many teenagers learn right away and some wait a few years.
To an outside observer, there is nothing shocking about Peter, a normal looking junior in high school, wanting to get his license.
Except Peter is not a normal teenager.
None of them, not the six of them or their families, have brought up the issue, not even once. This has been the year from hell—for them all, really—and driving is far, far down on the list of things Peter should be worrying about.
He's only been walking without a cane since January. Driving, at least in Tony's mind, has felt like the moon with how far away it is. He pictured this being a discussion they have years down the road, pun intended.
Not…not right now.
Is this the real, secret truth of how parents feel? Their children growing up faster than they can process it? It's an appalling and scary feeling, if that's true.
"Tony? Hello in there?"
Tony realizes he's still gaping and promptly runs a hand down his face, smearing even more grease, for an excuse to get his frazzled thoughts together. Peter looks concerned for him now. He holds out a water bottle.
"How long have you been down here?" Peter asks, his eyes cinched with worry at the edges.
Tony takes the water bottle but waves the question off. "I'm fine, Pete, just wasn't expecting that. What prompted this sudden want for the open road?"
That slows Peter down. He clenches his jaw, seems to notice he looks tense, then finds an interesting patch of grease on Tony's shoulder to stare at. "It's an important life skill that I feel I should have."
"It's not that important." Tony eyes his boy with something shrewd, assessing. "We live in New York, after all. Some people take taxis or the subway their whole lives and never get behind the wheel of a car."
"…It's important to me. I need to know how."
"You're sure? You've thought this through?"
Peter's eyes are to the side this time. "Mhmm! Totally."
Tony grabs two stools from the work table and wheels them closer. Sitting down, he prompts Peter to do the same. This puts them at an even level and forces Peter to make actual eye contact. He's sweating now, faint enough that Tony wouldn't see it if he wasn't looking.
The boy's eyes dart around but as soon as Tony inches close enough for their knees to touch, Peter can't look away. He briefly clenches his eyes shut and then sighs.
"Pete?" Tony's quiet again.
It is this softness, of all things, that unravels the stiffness in his son's fists, the tight line of his forehead. Like Tony's gentle voice alone is a truth serum.
"Everybody else in my class has their learner's permit," Peter blurts.
Tony cants his head, considering this. "All of them?"
Peter hesitates. "Except for a few, because their families can't afford cars. Even Trina can drive—and she's in a wheelchair! She uses hand pedals instead."
"Makes sense." Tony nods. "So you don't want to feel left out, is that it?"
"Does it matter why I want to drive?" Peter challenges. "I'll find a way to learn even if you say no, even if it's off the internet. I'd rather you teach me, though."
Tony leans back a hair.
Well, this is new. Peter is your typical kid in a lot of ways, but pushing at boundaries and authority is not one of them.
Tony squints a minute longer at that strange, unreadable glint in Peter's eye and finds it looks…familiar, if distant, like Tony saw it in the mirror many years ago. It is not Peter's normal but it was Tony's, once upon a time. Some plot is cooking up in that bushy head of Peter's.
Not a life or death secret, Tony thinks—but a critical one.
"Okay," Tony says, willing to be in the dark for a while. Certainly, Peter's version of 'rebellious' backtalk can't hold a matchstick to Tony's youth and if this is the worst he can throw at them, they're going to be just fine. "We'll get you a learner's permit and teach you—"
"Yes!" Peter pumps his fist.
"—On one condition."
Peter nods, though he hasn't heard what it is yet. Tony feels a rush of affection for him, giving in this time and mussing with Peter's hair. Peter doesn't shove him off, just giggling at the sensation.
"We're not taking your birthday gift on the road. You are learning in my old 90s clunker."
"Done," says Peter, a little wide eyed like he can't believe it's that easy. "I don't care what car I drive around in. Less attention is better."
Tony points to the blue, two door Mitsubishi 3000GT at the far end of the garage. "That's the idea, small fry."
Peter gasps, mouth open. "Are you kidding me? A sports car is your idea of low profile?"
Tony glances from a red Ferrari nearby, not even released to the public yet, and back to the two door bucket of bolts. They're decades and light years away to someone who is only used to driving the newest and the best. "Can we, in good conscience, even call that a sports car?"
"Yes! It's flashy, Tony!" Peter flaps his hands. "Why don't we just buy a piece of junk from the scrapyard? Something ugly?"
Tony pretends to look confused and finds it's only half fake. "My college GT is junky. And I'm a Stark—we don't go to the junkyard."
Peter runs two hands down his face with an exaggerated wail of distress, doing a spin, face red. And now Tony is really enjoying himself. He grins.
"Hop in, Petey pie." Peter does so in the Hellcat, door left open so Tony can lean on it and point to the dash. "Fair warning, I believe in practical experience over textbook learning."
"Oh believe me, I know. I still can't believe you almost set my hair on fire during shop class."
"Sshhh. The master is talking. Okay, so, see those two pedals?"
"I know the difference between the gas and brake pedals, Tony. I watched a YouTube video on it."
Tony sends him a glare that is one hundred percent real, no pretending required. "Did you just say to me, best mechanic of his generation, that you trust some schmuck's online advice more?"
"Uh…" Peter glances from the car to Tony. "No? I mean, he was a stunt driver but—"
"Nope. Nada. Shove over or I'm making you learn in a go kart. I can't believe my own son would betray me in such a personal way."
Tony's dramatic grumbling brings a hopeful smile to Peter's face. He slides over into the passenger's seat so Tony can close the door and adjust the seat. "Learning in a go kart actually sounds pretty fun."
"Aht! No opinions allowed from someone who trusts the internet over me. Ugh. Just the thought gives me hives. Now, see how I have to put my foot on the brake before shifting the stick out of park?"
"That has to do with the transmission, right?"
"Exactly! The hardest thing to master, however, is smooth braking and turning sharp corners…"
AN: So fun (not so secret anymore) fact about me - I'm obsessed with stunt driving technique and, like Peter, I watched YouTube videos on it before I ever got my license. Not the best way to learn, kids!