It Is Not a Date
lavenderlotion

Summary:
He has to remind himself that no matter what, it is not a date, because god, does he want it to be. Wants every single damn outing to be a date. Wants every time that Mr. Stark picks him up from school to go get lunch to be a date. Wants every time Mr. Stark takes them shopping because "every man needs at least one good suit" to be a date. Wants every time they work together in Mr. Stark's lab to be a date.

He—he just wants the time they spend together to be more, to mean more. Wants them, to be more.


It is not a date. It. Is not. A date. At least, that's what Peter has to keep telling himself, over and over in his head, to keep himself from going crazy. If he doesn't remind himself, it's too easy to fool himself into seeing things that aren't there. Too easy to think that the hands Mr. Stark lays on him are something more than casual, that they linger or that they caress. That the praise he gives out so freely means more than it does. If he doesn't remind himself, it's too easy to fool himself into thinking that Mr. Stark looks at him with the same want that Peter knows shines through his own eyes.

He has to remind himself that no matter what, it is not a date, because god , does he want it to be. Wants every single damn outing to be a date. Wants every time that Mr. Stark picks him up from school to go get lunch to be a date. Wants every time Mr. Stark takes them shopping because "every man needs at least one good suit" to be a date. Wants every time they work together in Mr. Stark's lab to be a date.

He—he just wants the time they spend together to be more, to mean more. Wants them , to be more.

But, Peter knows that isn't going to happen. He knows that, no matter what he tries—and god, has he tried—Mr. Stark will only ever see him as a kid. Every time the pet name slips out of his mouth is a reminder of that, a little sting to his chest that feels like rejection, even if Mr. Stark doesn't mean it as such.

And Peter tells himself that it's okay. He can still see the man as much as he wants, much more now that the Avengers have...dispersed. Mr. Stark has much more free-time than Peter would think a man of his status should, and he seems perfectly content to spend most of it in Peter's company. It's just another thing that Peter tries his best not to focus on, tells himself that Mr. Stark is only spending time with him and around him because he is trying to shape Peter into a competent hero.

Times like this, though, make it hard to remember that.

Hours ago, Peter had been lying in bed, fiddling with his phone when he had gotten a text from Mr. Stark that simply read 'come down.' He had, of course, and found himself being ushered into the back of an empty limo, the driver handing him a pair of glossy, black dress shoes. Draped over the far end of the seat was a garment bag, and Peter unzipped it to find a blood-red dress shirt, adorned with gold buttons, and a pair of black slacks.

Inside was a note scratched out in Mr. Stark's messy scrawl, instructing Peter to change into the outfit before he arrived. The note didn't tell Peter where he was going to be arriving, nor how long it would take for him to get there. Not wanting to disappoint—especially Mr. Stark—Peter was quick to change, no matter how uncomfortable it was to shimmy out of his jeans in the car.

He got his dress shirt all the way buttoned up just as the limo pulled to a stop, and he managed to tie up his shoes before the driver opened the door for him. He had taken a moment to straighten out his shirt once he was standing, hiding behind the car as he shimmied around until everything was smooth and unwrinkled.

Now, he's sitting next to Mr. Stark in the private room of a very expensive restaurant, one Peter never thought he'd ever see the inside of. It's not a place he will ever be able to afford, and the menu he was given didn't even list prices.

He had let Mr. Stark order for him (chanting "it is not a date" in his head the entire time) and he had been surprised when the waiter had sat down a plate of chicken with potatoes. Of course, it was some of the best chicken and potatoes Peter's ever had , and he was more than a little appreciative of the simple choice.

They're chatting over dessert, something rich and chocolatey, and Peter is busy telling Mr. Stark about the college applications he's sent in. Peter had been able to use the older man as a reference, but he had chosen not too. If he was going to get into a good school, he wanted to know that he could do it on his own, that nothing else was encouraging their decision to accept him. He's already received acceptance letters from some of his last choices, and he's trying to stay hopeful.

Peter has just finished explaining what he'd written as his admission essay, complaining that he hadn't been able to write about any of the real hardships that he's faced in his short life, and he shovels another spoonful of the gooey chocolate cake into his mouth. They're sitting side by side because Mr. Stark had been showing him photos of his latest suit upgrade on his phone, and Peter shamelessly dips his spoon into the man's dessert for his next bite of disgustingly-priced deliciousness.

"Kid," Mr. Stark says, voice softer than it's been all evening.

Peter looks up at him, blinking wide eyes at the look on Mr. Starks face. It's the softest expression Peter has ever seen, his eyes glowing with fondness, the corners of his mouth tipped up in a smile. Peter is too awed to say anything, unable to look away from Mr. Stark's face. Peter doesn't move when Mr. Stark brings a hand up between them, nor does he budge when Mr. Sta— Tony , he can't be anything other than Tony right now—cups his jaw in his palm.

He sucks in a sharp breath when Tony brushes his thumb across the corner of his mouth, the pad of Tony's finger rough as he rubs it back and forth. Peter keeps himself held completely still, not daring to move as Tony stares at his mouth. His mouth falls open, just a little, and he brushes his tongue out to meet Tony's finger, shocked at his own boldness.

"Tony," he says on a breath, the name falling from his lips when the man pushes a little on his bottom lip.

Peter has no idea what the hell is going on, nor what the hell he's even doing, but he doesn't stop. He closes his lips over the edge of Tony's thumb, finally raising his eyes to meet the man's gaze. His eyes are dark, filled with something that Peter has never seen before. Tony curls the rest of his hand under Peter's chin and lifts his head further up.

He tries not to say it, really, but as much as he continues to tell himself that this doesn't mean anything, that nothing will ever happen between them, he can't stop the hope from bubbling out of his chest.

"Kiss me?" he asks, voice no more than a whisper, speaking around Tony's thumb.

" Kid ," Tony says, voice sounding wrecked, and his face looks broken open—more vulnerable than Peter has ever before seen.

When their lips meet, it's whisper soft, the dry press of their mouths. Peter doesn't make a noise, but he does inhale sharply through his nose. Tony's hand slides into his hair, and Peter steadies himself with a hand on the man's thigh, squeezing the muscle to keep himself steady. It's so much, too much, and not enough all at once. Peter wants more, wants everything , and hell, Tony must want it too.

Peter drops his mouth open, leans in further so he can suck Tony's bottom lip into his mouth and worry it with his teeth. He may not have very much experience, but this is something he can do, and a warm sense of victory settles in his chest when Tony lets out a deep moan. Peter tries to deepen the kiss further, tries to slip his tongue into Tony's mouth, but the genius tugs Peter's head back with the hand he has in his hair as he gentles the kiss.

They spend another few minutes just pressing soft kisses to one another's lips. Peter has turned in his chair so his body is angled more towards Tony's, and he's moved to the edge of his seat so his knees brush the man's thigh. Tony slips his other hand into Peter's and laces their fingers together, and that's when they have to stop kissing—the force of Peter's grin making it impossible for them to continue.

He expects Tony to pull back, to straighten up in his seat, but instead, he rests their foreheads together. Peter breathes him in, and he grips tighter to Tony's hand, letting his eyes open so he can look at where their fingers are twined together.

"Hi," Tony says, and he sounds breathless . Peter thinks, maybe, that this meant as much to the older man as it did to him. That thought alone makes it impossible to quell his smile, and he stops trying.

"So, is this a d-date?" Peter asks, ducking his head and peering up at Tony through his lashes.

Tony lets out a snort, rolling his eyes at the question as though Peter has asked him something completely ridiculous. Which, fair , but Peter has spent so long trying to convince himself that this very thing could never happen, and he wants to be clear on where they stand.

"I don't go about kissing just anyone, Kid," Tony tells him, the endearment filled with an amount of warmth that had never been there before. This time, it doesn't feel like rejection.

Peter manages to force his smile down, just enough so that he can lean in for another kiss.