For some reason I forgot to update this story on this site! I'm so sorry! You can follow this story on AO3 where I primarily post now, but I will update this story on here as well.
Thank you for reading and taking the time to leave such kind comments! They truly make writing this story even more special!
—-
The waxing crescent moon hangs in between the trees lining the highway offering a point of reference to a destination unknown. As he drives up U.S. Route 9 headed North through the state of New York, the roar of the 1970's Ford Mustang engine thrums under Tony's loose hand on the wheel.
He catches the turn of the clock move into the hours of the next day while reaching down to fiddle with the FM dial and spares a glance at his passenger. With his head cradled by the seatbelt that curves under the weight, Peter's neck rests at an awkward angle and his jaw is slack with a deep sleep that set in about a hundred miles back when they had encountered a traffic jam on Interstate 87. The kid had groaned at the sea of brake lights and shrunk down in his seat with the impatience of a teenager mumbling a "We will never get there," even though they didn't have anywhere to be.
Tony had relayed as much, the smirk creeping up on his face as slow as the roll of the tires inching up the interstate. "You do realize we're just driving on a whim, right? I mean that was the whole point of your grandiose road trip wasn't it?"
The driver earned an eye roll worthy of loathing if he were a typical guardian of a teenager, but he's come to find that he delights in them in the way that some parents find pleasure in placing a "My Kid is an Honor Roll Student" bumper sticker on their car.
"You wanted to go to Tahiti. I'd hardly call this grandiose!"
"Making my point for me, Pete," Tony reiterated with a disappointed sigh despite secretly having come around to Peter's idea of a road trip.
The billionaire had spent the first two weeks of March narrowing down vacation spots from all over the world and by the time Peter had dropped his backpack on the kitchen counter the first Friday afternoon of his week long Spring break, Tony had them ready to hop on a jet to Tahiti for hot sand and umbrella drinks.
He had twisted a tiny, toothpick umbrella between his fingers while describing their villa over the ocean, but when he planted the drink decoration in a lock of curls at the crown of Peter's head, the boy plucked it out with a downcast expression.
"Uh…M-Mr. Stark, I- ….we don't…." Peter stuttered as he plopped down on a barstool at the kitchen island, leg jerking up and down in a rhythm like his words. "Um….this isn't necessary. Usually, I mean Spring Break isn't a big deal….just like whatever, you know …sleep a lot and hang out with Ned. I mean, Tahiti is so….really. It's…. too much."
The right front tire of the car finds a small pothole and gives the whole Mustang a shake drawing Tony from his memory. He snags a glance at Peter who gives a pathetic excuse of a snore in response, neck still craning at an angle that's going to hurt later.
—
Peter doesn't remember falling asleep, can't pinpoint where he dropped off from one safe place into something else but the cool glass against his forehead feels exactly the same. Peeling his heavy eyes open, he can see that the rural landscape blurring by the car window moments before has been replaced with the constantly changing skyline of New York City at a standstill. It's one motionless picture of people attempting to reach the heights of those above them with Peter towering over all of it.
It's as though he could reach out and manipulate the world if it weren't for the separation of glass between them. He splays his hand out wide against the barrier, jumping at the tremors vibrating the glass. It feels like a pulse underneath his hand, slow and steady in between the rapid one beating in his fingers. Footsteps join the cadence, the two mirroring together to reiterate that there's no other sound around him. He wants to turn and look, curious as to who is there with him, separated from the rest of the world with the ability to change it all, but realizes that he can't.
"You're not listening," the person says, voice in equal volume to the pulse in the barrier.
Peter pulls his gaze away from his hand still pressed against the glass to the reflection seeping into it above his shoulder. "It's alright, son. I didn't either."
His fingers curl away from the separation, tucking into his palm until he's sure that there will be fine, red-lined crescent shapes indented into his skin. He turns his back on the barrier with a gaze ignited by a fury he hasn't felt in a long time intent on burning a hole through his sudden company, but finds that he's alone.
He's met with an abundance of black that reeks of the ability to swallow him whole. He takes a step away from it, then another until his back is against the glass. He splays his hands against it again, the calming thrum offering something more than it did before. "Listen, Peter."
He wants to wake up, but he closes his eyes. "You're not listening," the voice says again, and Peter drops his head against the glass hard. "Wake up, wake up, wake up," he pleads with himself, but nothing happens.
He turns around to the glass again to see New York City still under paralysis, still under his reflection in the glass. The man appears behind him again, his image appearing like a blue stain on the city. "Just listen," Captain America says with an air of sudden urgency, "Please. We need -" But his dream begins to shake apart.
Wake up!
Peter jolts upright, seatbelt already straining to hold him in his place along with Mr. Stark's arm that's shaking in a way he's never been allowed to see. He's nearly hyperventilating by the time he remembers to breathe at all, and when he turns to Mr. Stark he notices the man is speaking to him, but he can't hear it. The pulse from his dream is too loud in his ears, or maybe it's his own. It's fast now, but skipping like a stone across a lake and Peter's afraid that if he takes his mind off of it for one second it'll sink to a stop.
But Mr. Stark's fingers curl around his right elbow where the man's arm is still stretched across him and gives him rough shake. "Peter!" It steals his attention away from the pulse in his ears and he starts panicking, if he wasn't already. He tries to find it again, but latches on to a million other things instead. The cracks in the windshield, the smoke, the… blood.
"Peter," and somehow he realizes the difference between the way Mr. Stark shouted his name before to nearly whispering it now. He tries to focus on the man, but the slow spread of crimson he can see out of the corner of his eye is demanding of an audience so he twists almost violently away from Mr. Stark and scrambles for purchase on the door handle.
It doesn't budge, locking him good and tight. The buzz at the back of his head envelops him like bees on a hive and he squeezes spider-strength fingers until the handle pops off and the door swings open. He drops out of the car, the palms of his hands catching the pavement so quickly the first few layers of skin give way. Hands are on him again, pushing him back, back, back until he's leaning against the car with his head pushed between his bent knees. His spider-sense dwindles down to a hum despite the way Mr. Stark swarms around him like a colony of bees of his own.
"Calm down, alright? Just listen to me."
You're not listening.
"You're alright. We're okay."
It's alright, son. I didn't either.
"-Okay? Huh, Spider-Boy?" Mr. Stark's hand finds the space under his chin and tugs up, bopping his knuckles against the bone Peter tries to keep from trembling. "You with me? 'Cause you still look like you've flown into a bug zapper."
Peter finds Mr. Stark's face in the dark, the blinking glow of the emergency flashers casting faint, tinted shadows on his sweaty features. "S…so do you. You're….bleeding."
The older man swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, examines the red smear across it once he brings it under his nose. "So I am. Rather have this though, than one of those ugly rash looking things from an airbag. Another reason to appreciate cars made before the ' ever had one of those pop in your face?" Peter shakes his head even when Mr. Stark grabs each side of his face to inspect it for injuries. "No? Consider yourself lucky. You alright?"
Peter blinks at up at the man hovering over him, thinks that if he should consider himself lucky then he should be alright even if his mind feels like it's swirling around like an umbrella in a Tahitian cocktail. He nods. "Yeah. What happened?"
The billionaire looks towards the front of the car and Peter remembers the cracked and bloodied windshield. He reaches up and curls his fingers around the soft material of the older man's jacket sleeve.
"Well, Bambi, unfortunately we hit your namesake," Mr. Stark says, eyes towards the damage. "Hopefully, it'd been getting royalty checks from Disney 'cause it tore up the car pretty good. Gonna have to pay for that, but uh…." he trails off while craning his neck a bit. "Pretty sure it already has."
Peter swallows the lump in his throat and attempts to stave off the shiver trying to run up his spine. Aunt May use to fawn over him because he use to get chill bumps every time they passed road kill, even a skunk.
"Fawn, huh? Puns at a time like this, you'll be alright," Mr. Stark grins and pats him on the head.
And yeah, Peter hadn't meant to say that out loud.
The older man stands from his crouch, moving towards the front of the car while talking over his shoulder. "Although your affinity for skunks has me 'deerly ' concerned."
The kid rolls his eyes, before doing the same with his whole body alongside the car until he is upright on his feet. He staggers to stand at the front of the car with , knocking into his slightly taller frame when he catches sight of the deer they hit laying off to the side. He feels rather than sees the older man step forward to inspect the vehicle damage more closely, jumping when the slightly wrinkled hood lets out a loud groan in the quiet of night only to realize….the deer did, too.
He swallows the bile in his throat at the sight, the poor doe mangled worse than the Mustang giving slight twitches of an ear when Peter kicks up a few rocks while inching closer. A glossy, black orb blinks at him while tiny bursts of pained air push out of a nose of the same color. Peter wants to comfort her, but finds himself unable to touch her.
"Hey, hey. Get away from it. That thing could have a disease or something," Mr. Stark says, appearing beside him like he'd just had to run a great distance and tugging him back behind him.
"She's still alive, Mr. Stark."
"Exactly. Why are you trying to have a family reunion with it?"
Peter shakes his head and steps out around the older man. "No, I mean, she's….. still alive ."
—
Tony Stark's idea of a vacation does not include riding in the middle seat of a tow truck at two-thirty in the morning next to a beer-gutted, balding guy named Lindsey, yet here he is. Complete with a pull out cup holder digging into his knees and the heat vent blowing straight at his face with the aroma of cigarette smoke.
Peter nudges him in the side from where he sits in the much bigger passenger seat by the door and if Tony didn't feel like he's being held together by the stitches in his clothes, he'd have them switch.
Lindsey had pulled up to tow them into the next Podunk town after a few attempts at calling in their stranded predicament with one bar of cell service. The guy seemed nice enough, but made a few wise cracks at Peter's disheveled appearance and gave the kid a couple of glances Tony wasn't sure what to make of so if he had to be the one smushed up against the sweaty, big guy….so be it.
"Hmm?"
Peter opens his mouth, but Lindsey's baritone voice echoes around the cabin of the truck. "Here we are," he says, easing the vehicle to stop more gently than he's done anything since they met. "Not much to look at, but the only hotel we got. You sure you want me to drop the car here? She ain't going to be running nowhere without a shop."
Tony bends down to look around the rearview mirror at the one story hotel. If his car wasn't decorated in deer guts and dents, it'd fit right in with the 1960's structure.
—
By the time he sinks down onto the twin mattress inside their room, Tony feels old enough to fit right in, too. He rubs his hands over his face, longer than usual stubble scratching at his calloused skin, before sluggishly finding Peter fussing over their luggage. He organizes it underneath the small kitchenette table, then turns around asking, "Oh, did you want something out of your suitcase? You probably do. You got blood on your shirt and…I think Lindsey sweat on you during the drive over."
Tony gives a small chuckle and waves the kid over to bring his bag. He dumps it on the bed beside him, but catches the sleeve of Peter's sweater before the kid can move back over to his side of the room.
"Hey."
The boy looks nervous for reasons Tony is too tired to guess at. "You good? Adrenaline's gone and all that. You were asleep when we hit so …rough way to wake up, though….I've had worse to tell the truth." He gives a smile, but it's visibly forced. "Seriously. Good?"
Peter nods once, worries the edge of his thumb between his teeth before asking, "Are you?"
"Of course, kid. Just a scratch. Now," he says standing up with an energy he doesn't feel, for a reason he does. "I need a shower, so if you want one with hot water you best go on ahead, young buck. Oh, poor choice of words. Your first response is the one I go with so you better be honest."
"I'm …okay, Mr. Stark. You go ahead."
Tony dips his head in accordance, lugging his bag off the bed. He makes an exhausted swipe with his arm in Peter's direction as an attempt at offering some sort of affection, but the kid is out of reach so his hand just flops around a couple of times much to Peter's amusement. Tony snorts back at him and shuts the bathroom door with a soft click.
—
He'd meant what he told Peter.
There would be no hot water once Tony decided to leave the privacy of the bathroom. Whether or not he actually steps under it, is another question altogether. He'd turned the stubborn handle on the faucet of the shower after making sure the bathroom door was going to stay locked and pushed it to rest at the very end of the red temperature line. He stepped back to lean against the once white tile of the bathroom as he waited for the water to warm.
That had been twenty minutes ago.
He's still in his clothes although he had toed-off his shoes and kicked them in the corner right before he sunk down the wall to sit on the floor moments ago. While counting the lines in the plaid-pattern bathmat underneath his bent legs, he rests his head against his folded arms and forces himself to calculate the area of each rectangle in the rug so that his mind can't drift.
Only there's a soft knock on the door, hesitance audible between the three strokes that come through. "Mr. Stark? Um….are y-you ok? I mean, not that you can't take a long shower or anything….and I don't care about the hot water. It's just….you've been in there for like an hour. Not that- not that I've been timing you! Oh god, no. Sorry. I'll stop bothering you. Sorry."
Despite the stuff swirling around in his head quicker than the water at the shower drain to make him not want to do so, he can't help the small upward twitch of the corner of his mouth at Peter's words.
An hour, he thinks. Can't be.
He reaches over and places his hand underneath the stream of water in the shower. Ice cold.
"Just fine, Peter," he assures, even though he feels the complete opposite. "This bathroom just reminded me of the one in the hotel that my high school prom date and I had a jolly good time in so I was reminiscing with some fun me time."
There's a disturbed choke that gets muffled by the door before Peter is yelling, "Mr. Stark! No! You can't- don't stay stuff like that! That's not-… just no! Okay?!"
Tony's shoulders bounce to a laugh he doesn't give sound to, but he attempts to placate with, "I'm kidding!" Waiting a beat and after Peter's indecipherable mutterings he says, "This bathroom looks nothing like that."
He thinks he'll get at least a tortured groan out of the kid, but the shadow underneath the doorframe stills and the shower drowns out the silence until Peter surprises him by arguing, "You didn't even go to your high school prom!"
—
He hasn't decided if he wants to fluster Peter even more or let the inappropriate joke die by the time he steps out of the bathroom after a quick and cold wash over. However, he finds that he doesn't have to pick one way or the other since the kid is already passed out on top of the covers of his bed, laying face down with his sneakered feet hanging off the end.
He feels too tired to maneuver him up the bed and too much of something else to take the kid's shoes off. Despite either, he knows he won't be able to sleep. Whether it's because of the emotional baggage he's trying to ignore or the knowledge of the bar next door, he won't chose, but he ends up leaving Peter a quick note and heads in that direction.
It's a quick walk next door made quicker by the chilly night air seeping through his thin, long-sleeved Metallica shirt. Briskly entering through the door of the small bar, he stops short at the entrance, a little thrown by the lack of motorcycle gangs and an abundance of cigarette smoke.
Pop songs circa 1970 filter through the jukebox off in the corner partially hidden by people in fairly casual attire lounging at tables across the floor. It's a bit jarring considering the outside of the building looked more like he might need a mullet and a taste for country music to enter rather than a Beatles shag and a mellow disposition.
"You gonna stand there all night, John Boy?"
It's shouted at him from the bar, but he has no idea why he's being referred to as such. It must show on his face, because the woman behind the bar waves him over with a shake of her head. By the time he's belly up to the surface, she's setting a glass in front of him like she's done this a million times. Given the wrinkles on her skin, she probably has. "Not a fan of the Waltons, huh?" She explains after his blank stare. "TV show in the '70s?"
"Ah. Not much of a TV family back then," he offers with a wave of his hand and a slouch on the barstool. "And if we were, it certainly wouldn't have been the Waltons."
"Can't say I'm sorry about that. It brought you in here in one way or another. I'll take…" she trails off while fiddling with bottles at her disposal and looking him over with a critical eye. "Daddy issues and a police record that's sealed for a thousand, Alex."
"Wow. You really had me pegged until you thought my name was Alex. Don't ruin my victory by claiming you were making a Jeopardy reference."
"Oh, still bitter they wouldn't let you on?"
"Please. That's amateur hour and it's not even an hour long show, so it's even more half-assed with those whiz kids. Seriously, you've got the worst taste in television."
The woman swipes a strand of her gray-streaked black hair back into the sloppy ponytail she's got the rest of it in and leans her elbows on the bar top. "Who needs television when I can come to work and listen to Tony Stark bitch about being disqualified from Jeopardy?"
He gives a small, bristled puff of air at that and motions her to pour something into his glass she's given him. When she doesn't move to do so, he says, " Oh, I guess you need me to tell you what I want now that you're not a physic. Whiskey. Your best."
She pours it without a retort and leaves him alone to stare down at his glass.
He's had a few drinks here and there since that argument he had with Peter right before the new year, but they were what he categorized as minuscule sips since he could never swallow past the guilt and internal panic at becoming the thing Peter had called him back then. So when his hand wraps around the glass, it's with a huge heave that it makes it to his mouth and a brief flash of staring at Peter on the side of the road hours ago that has him taking a swig. He lets it burn down his throat and allows the sound of Peter's voice to rush over him.
"Please, Mr. Stark! She's….she's suffering. We can't…can't just leave her like this. You gotta do something. Please."
He shakes his head and pushes the glass away when he thinks of the way he'd stood over the deer they hit, when he remembers what he did.
"You still want this?" The woman is back, standing in front of him like she never left. She takes it in her hand when Tony shakes his head vehemently, but he reclaims it when she's just about to pour it out.
"Look, I know how to spot a person that needs this and one that thinks they do. Now you, honestly you could go either way, but….given your odd attempt at normalcy and domesticity I've heard about on the news, let's go with the latter."
He sighs with enough air to move his shoulders and scrubs at his face. "Don't know if I can."
The jukebox switches songs, pushing out an uptempo melody, but a lyric that isn't. And God, if that isn't Tony's entire life in a nutshell.
"Well, you won't know if you don't try," the bartender encourages with a tone that says she actually doesn't care one way or the other. "Here's a tip, try giving these a little slosh."
A bucket of peanuts is pushed under his nose as well as his glass of whiskey before she's disappeared down to the other end of the bar again. He stares at the pair of things offered to him before giving an "aw, what the hell" kind of exhale. He tips the whiskey over the bucket, lets it spill a bit longer than she had probably meant for him to and then shakes the bucket to give each peanut a fair soak.
Tony hums along to Albert Hammond's voice carrying from the jukebox singing about the California rain while cracking the damp shell of a peanut. He tosses back the food like he use to pop the occasional sleeping aid after Afghanistan. He crunches a few more, delighting in the way he can taste the whiskey on them before the bartender surfaces again.
"So?"
"Nice trick."
"You learn a thing or two running a place like this for thirty years. Wanna know another?"
He doesn't respond, knowing full well she'll offer it whether he's looking at her or picking out another peanut. She reaches out and shakes the bucket under his face before tapping at the side of his head. "This isn't going to fix whatever else is going on up here, you know?"
That damn upbeat melody makes it hard to focus on the heavy things rolling around in his head and he wants to tell her that whiskey soaked peanuts might if it wasn't for the song echoing out into the room. He tugs the bucket closer to himself just as he hears the lyrics "Don't tell 'em how you found me. Give me a break."
She raises an eyebrow at him like she purposefully played this song for him and he rolls his eyes while digging into his wallet. He throws a hundred dollar bill on the bar top and says, "For the bucket and a different damn song."
He walks out the door with his bucket of whiskey soaked peanuts singing, "It never rains in California, but girl don't they warn ya? It pours. Man, it pours. "
—
The skin on Tony's hands might not have been dried out and cracked with a purple hue had he not walked as slow as possible back to the hotel room. Therefore, upon opening the door and being rushed with a wave of heat he couldn't help the relieved sigh that escaped him while stumbling over to his own bed in the dim light of the lamp he'd left on in between the two.
When he turns around with sinking knees, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his twin mattress across from Peter who's pulling himself upright and looking more awake than Tony.
"Hi," the older man offers, feeling a little self-conscious about being stared down by a kid after walking in from a bar at one in the morning with a bucket of peanuts.
Peter crosses his legs indian style on his bed and fiddles with the long sleeves of his pajamas he's changed into while Tony was gone. He looks towards the nightstand and then lets his eyes wander back to the older man. "I…got your note. I-"
"Yeah, sorry 'bout that kid. You were asleep so I just….but I didn't drink. Just a sip and-"
"Mr. Stark!" Peter chuckles, holding out pacifying arms. "It's okay! I don't care, I was just going to ask if they maybe had some food or something because…I'm starving."
Tony falls back on the bed, bucket of peanuts secured in the crook of his arm while wondering why the hell he's trying to defend where he was and explain why to this kid, and berating himself for not feeding him all at the same time. Seriously, who is the child here?
"I don't know about enough sustenance to cure starvation, but I did bring back peanuts." He reaches and plucks a few from the bucket before launching them into the air in Peter's direction. He cranes his neck to watch a few scatter on the opposite bed and one land in the fluffy mop on the kid's head.
An indignant, "Hey," comes his way before he's in an all out game of Battleship except with peanuts instead of missiles. Somewhere along the way, Tony pauses long enough to order a few burgers and an order of onion rings from the bar while promising to pay enough for a new selection of songs on their jukebox if their food could be delivered.
By the time the food arrives with another bucket of peanuts with a tint of whiskey, there's a classic rock station pushing music through the small alarm clock radio between their beds and there's an array of peanuts on the carpet. Peter opens the door wide enough to exchange the money for food, but keep their mess hidden which Tony finds hilarious as he keeps the nuts against the door anyway.
"You're a child," Peter mutters, dumping a bag of food in his lap and returning to sit on his own bed. They face each other while eating in silence, nodding along to the music and offering the occasional opinion or fact for a song.
It isn't until Peter's wolfed down his food and back to eating peanuts that he looks over at Tony and asks, "Did you ever….like think…you'd get married or..have a family?"
The older man nearly chokes on his food, but he picks off a jalapeño from his burger like they're too hot for his liking and then takes another bite. He's still chewing when he shakes his head in the negative and inquires, "What makes you ask that?"
"I don't know," but his voices goes up at the end like he isn't quite being honest. "This song, I guess."
Bob Seger's tinny voice spilling out into the room from the alarm clock speakers is singing about stealing a chance in a back alley or trusty woods, and God, Tony does not want to have the Night Moves conversation with this kid.
"If this is your way of bringing up the sex in high school discussion, I'm a bit impressed, but not happening," he says, because yeah he shouldn't care. Lord knows, he was active at Peter's age, but the kid in front of him looks all of twelve !
A peanut hits him right between the eyes hard enough he knows there was a bit of spider strength used to project it. "That's not why I was asking!"
Tony chuckles a bit before tossing an unshelled peanut back. Peter leans sideways to catch it in his mouth. "Then do tell."
"I don't know…just a question. Uncle Ben always liked this song."
"I bet he did," Tony mutters with just enough of an innuendo in his voice that Peter scrunches his face up.
"Stop it. Just forget it," and for all that he wanted this conversation to end moments ago it nearly hurts now with the way Peter's shoulders hunch.
"No," he relents, waits until Peter looks back up at him. "I never thought….wanted to get married or have kids."
Peter tosses a peanut at him that he has to rock back to catch in his mouth and asks the question all kids ask. "Why?"
"I saw how my dad was in a marriage and figured I'd be no different and I was a shit kid that couldn't hardly take care of myself, I couldn't imagine having to be responsible for somebody else," Tony answers, and he tries not to think about how easy it is to admit that right here right now.
The kid blinks at him like he's still balancing it on the scale of painfully true or complete bullshit.
"And….and now?"
And shit. Of course it would be easy to tell your newly acquired kid that you couldn't imagine having one. "And now….I feel different. What about you? Gonna marry Liz? Maybe MJ?"
Peter ducks his head with a negative shake and a quiet, "No, no, no. I don't know. I'm a kid, I don't think I'm supposed to think about that until like college or something, right?"
"Damn right." Tony agrees, because he's a boy . "But…," and because he somehow knows that Peter may have filed his confession under painfully honest he adds, "For what it's worth, between the two of us, I think you'd be a good dad to some spiderlings of your own one day."
Peter smiles at him, but tries not to. "Thanks, I guess I have a good chance of being pretty decent. I mean….I have had good examples to live up to." There's a pregnant pause that Tony thinks is going to bring something worse than a baby at age fifteen and then the kid notes, "Three to be exact."
And yeah, he'll never understand this kid.
"You know I meant actual spiders, right? Like we could get you a tarantula or something when we get back." He earns two peanuts to the forehead for that.
More silence follows, and they just keep catching peanuts in their mouths until Tony scratches at the cut on his temple from the deer fiasco earlier. Peter observes him, biting his lip to keep himself from voicing something he desperately wants to.
"What is it, kid?"
Peter bites harder and then, "What….what was bothering you earlier?"
"What do you mean?"
"In the bathroom…I mean, I wasn't trying to…but the spider bite….my senses. I could hear you. You were….upset."
Tony wants to feel violated, angry even, but Peter makes his hands disappear into the sleeves of his shirt and blinks owlishly at him. "Nothing, Peter. Don't worry about it. Alright? This is Spring Break! Remember? It's supposed to be fun!"
For some reason, Peter tenses up and sets his jaw like he's angry. Without looking up from picking at a thread on the bedspread he says, "I..I know, Mr. Stark, but I just…can I tell you something?"
"...Always."
"It's just…you and everybody, actually, keep treating me like a kid-"
"Because you are," Tony explains, but Peter twists his head in protest.
"No, I mean, yeah I'm fifteen, but so much has happened to me. My whole life…. starting with my parents. And Uncle Ben, Spider-Man, and now…now all 's just…."
Tony knows he could win this argument, knows how to make a kid feel like their thoughts don't matter much in an adult world because it's what his father did to him. However, when he leans forward and asks, "It's just what, Peter?" it isn't because Howard never did. It's because whatever it is Peter has to say matters to Tony.
"It's just I'm this kid to everybody, you know? But…Mr. Stark….Tony, I just don't feel like a kid in here anymore." Peter's slender hand splays over his too big of a heart and of course, the first time this kid calls him by his first name it's to drop something like this on him.
The billionaire takes in a big, deep lungful of air and lets it out slow. He rubs a hand through his hair he didn't wash, but should have, and moves to perch on the edge of his mattress. "Okay. I still can't believe that I'm legally responsible for another human being outside of the Iron Man gig, but I'm….learning to be okay with it and I mean, you're still alive so I must be doing something right."
Peter nods along and scoots to the edge of his own mattress like he expects Tony to go on because yeah, he never answered the question that started this particular conversation.
"And I still think I'm going to screw all this up, but if it's between the anxiety that causes or not having it at all, I'm always going to chose this. Every time, kid, I swear. But sometimes I'm just not that great at dealing with it and I'm never going to put that on you, whether your fifteen or forty-five. Capisce?"
"Y-yeah, but I'm just asking…don't treat me….just be honest with me about stuff. We're supposed to have each other's backs, right?"
Tony nods, "We do, Peter, and if you want total honesty…..I didn't kill the deer we hit."
"What?" The mop of curls in front of him raises quickly as Peter snaps his head up. "But you said…we wouldn't let her suffer!"
"I know…I know, but…think about it, okay? If you're Bambi, and that was a doe we hit, she's like your mother and if I killed her that makes me like the hunter that killed Bambi's mom and everybody hates that guy so really I just I couldn't do it."
Peter blinks at him and Tony isn't sure if the kid is going to cry because the animal wasn't put out of her misery or yell at him for lying about it, but then about seven peanuts hit him in the face and the kid, and God yes, his kid says around loud chortles, "That's so stupid, Tony! Nobody would think that! Or even think to think that!"
If Peter ends up with a bucket of whiskey soaked peanuts on his head with said excess whiskey pouring out onto his clothes….well, then Tony always figured on the off chance that he had ended up with kids, alcohol would be involved in some fashion.
—
By the time the two of them are in the elevator of Stark Tower after flying back to the city while Happy made sure the Mustang was transported back, there's four days left of Spring Break. Even though it would take a few hours at most to fix up the car himself, Tony has already decided that he'll make it last four if it means Peter's going to help him.
"Hey, Tony?" Peter cocks his head in his direction as the elevator dings their floor's arrival. "Next time, lets just go to Tahiti."
Tony grabs him by the shoulders to steer him off the lift. "Kid, I'll bribe you out of school so we can still go if you want."
Peter begins to laugh, but stops short, " Wait, really?"
"Ye-" But suddenly an intruding voice erupts their conversation.
"Tony. Peter."
Tony strides across the floor as he calls for the Iron Man suit and it's all Peter can do to not run for his web shooters.
"I'll give you one chance to get out." Tony threatens while being encased in his suit.
Peter stares at the intruder, then does a double take when another appears to the man's left. They both look nervous, but Peter can sense an air of urgency instead of danger at the back of his neck.
"Just listen," the man says, extending his hands to hold Tony's form back "Please. We need help."
And yeah, when Iron Man's fist connects to the side of Steve Rogers' face, Peter knows the man needs it.
"Please, Peter," the second intruder pleads, much softer than anything Steve had voiced. "Just listen."
That's when he remembers his dream, the dream of Captain America trying to ask for help. He takes one look at Wanda Maximoff, red swirling around her hands, before taking off in the direction of his web shooters.