Believe it or not, detention was not the most intellectually stimulating activity Tony had ever experienced. In fact, he was 99% sure that their 'punishment' was breaking at least a dozen child labor laws. Pushing a mop around would never be his idea of fun, but pushing a mop around a sweaty high school gym was damn near torture. He was sure that at the "prep schools" Fury so despised, they had interesting and educational detention possibilities—like extra lectures, or walking out to your death in the Forbidden Forest to look for Unicorn blood or something worth his time.
Across the gym, Peter Parker leaned against his own mop, looking at a spot on the floor like he just couldn't believe that this was his life, and the stain was entirely to blame (it might have been; Tony could have sworn that was the exact spot Tiberius stood in gym class, and the kid sweated hell fire). "I can't believe I get beat up, and I get detention. This has got to be illegal."
"Probably," Tony agreed. "But Fury's like a ship captain or something. He could marry you on international waters. Laws don't apply to him."
Peter raised an eyebrow but seemed to decide against arguing with Tony; generally a good course of action, as Tony would, without a doubt, argue his stupid and incorrect points to the death. "Life is great, isn't it?" Peter said instead. "This really going according to plan. I love detention."
Won over by the sophomore's sarcasm and self-deprecating smile, Tony decided once and for all that Peter Parker might just be worth his time. "So what's your problem?" he asked. "You had enough blood escaping your nose yesterday to feed a pack of vampires. Who'd you piss off?"
"Everyone. The universe, I guess," Peter said, shrugging. He pulled his mop from the dirty bucket of water beside him and pushed it around the floor a bit before giving up and dropping it entirely. He took a seat on the bleachers then looked back at Tony. "I know all about you. You really have a party with Justin Timberlake last weekend?"
Tony blinked, marveling silently at the extents to which his classmates would go to spread a good rumor. He had his mouth open, ready to agree when he caught sight of the bruise on Peter's left cheek, just barely peeking out from beneath his hairline. "No," he said truthfully. The rumors did have quite a ring to them, and he wouldn't lie and pretend he hated the sudden burst of popularity, but what was the point in bragging to a kid that had already hit rock bottom? "Rumor."
Peter whistled, seemingly impressed despite the truth of the situation. Funny. "Well, I wish people would spread rumors like that about me," he said.
Tony pushed his mop back into its appropriate bucket and shrugged. "Well then you better give them something to talk about."
The next day, as he and Clint were lounging around on his car (a normal after school activity, what with them both despising their homes and having no desire to return to them or to do something else equally horrible like homework), Tony got a call from Parker—who, for the record, he couldn't even remember giving his number to, let alone becoming 'let's talk after school' sort of friends.
"You've reached the live voicemail of Tony Stark. He's not here right now, but if you leave him a message, he probably won't call you back," Tony said into the phone. Clint rolled his eyes.
"If you didn't want to talk, why did you even answer it?" he asked.
Peter, obviously choosing to ignore Tony's genius, if ill-planned, message, spoke over the both of them, voice loud despite a quiver of fear. "Who's there?" he asked.
"Clint Barton," Tony said even as Clint hissed and gestured a hundred different ways not to tell anyone of his existence (he liked to believe he was a spy. And invisible. And a ninja. Tony was loosing track. And also he really didn't care). "The one that shoots spit balls during assemblies. Perpetually angry. Terrible hair." Clint slapped him upside the head for his last comment, but it was totally worth it.
Tony was pretty sure Peter laughed, but it was hard to tell what exactly was going on on the other end, as the kid was still having trouble speaking up. Mostly, Tony heard a whole lot of "umm blah blah umm er um" until Peter got around to his point and finally began to speak clearly. "Do you want to go out with me?" he asked.
Tony choked on his own tongue. "What? No."
Peter made a pained sort of sound. "Please, I'm desperate," he said. "It doesn't have to be a real date. It doesn't have to even be a date. If you just told people we had sex—"
"Excuse me?" Tony batted Clint away as he attempted to listen in on the conversation.
"It worked for you!" Peter continued. "Last week, no one even noticed you—"
"Thanks," Tony said dryly.
"That's not what I meant. I mean," Peter paused—like really paused for so long Tony checked his phone three different times to see if he'd hung up sort of paused. "I can't make it through high school like this. "You're cool now. And I'm not exactly close to getting a date, but if I said I'd been with you, that'd put me on the level of-of Hollywood. They already think you've slept with everyone, what difference would it make to you to add a nerdy little kid to the list?"
Tony had to admit that Peter had a point. With no prompting of his own, his 'list' was quickly skyrocketing—famous actresses and actors, models and musicians, and all of it because Tony was a Stark. Because Tony was a spoiled rich kid who got exactly what he wanted and more than he needed, and he lived with the world at his feet. It was a nice image, he supposed, and it was better than getting pushed into a locker every day simply because he was shorter and younger than the rest of his peers, but it was as fake as his Wikipedia page. Really, what was another name on his imaginary résumé?
"Fine," he said into the phone. "But I don't do anything half-assed. Thor Odinson's having a party this weekend. We'll go together. We'll make a show out of it. Whatever. But I want a good picture in the yearbook this year."
"You can have the cover," Peter said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Yeah, yeah. See you there. Don't be late." Tony hung up, tossed his phone into Clint's lap, then leaned back against the hood of the car, and buried his face in his hands. "I am so screwed."
Thor Odinson was foreign, apparently, and, apparently, in whatever land he hailed from, it was perfectly acceptable to have enormous house parties every Friday night simply because you could. With a pool the size of Texas, and a house almost as big as Tony's, his parties were always an instant hit—crowded from corner to corner, until Tony was a second away from bursting out into a chorus of School House Rock's "Elbow Room" just to get into the yard. Thor was unbelievably popular, probably because of these parties, but also, Tony suspected, because he had good hair, more muscles than God, and was impossible to hate what with his good natured attitude and easy sense of humor.
Thor was not the problem. The problem was the hoards of drunken jocks throwing each other (and innocent bystanders) into the pool, and the drunken girls falling over every poor bastard that dared to come late. By the time Tony and Peter arrived, the party was already in full swing, and Tony had polished off half a bottle of his father's best scotch. Peter, he was relatively sure, was sober, but he still staggered into the house like he owned the place, all shaking legs and cocky grins—the perfect, drunken show.
Tony found Thor first and dragged Peter along with him until the two were bumping hips for all to see. Thor gave them nothing but a smile, but it was all they needed; they'd created their audience.
Tony grabbed Peter's arm and dragged him to the bedroom with all the enthusiasm of a man desperate to get in his date's pants, and the crowd followed. The second Tony closed the door behind them, he could hear the multitudes gathering around the door, whispering in hushed tones and waiting for the show to begin.
Tony had made the rules explicitly clear: as he thought of Peter as nothing more than a cute younger kid who he had possibly paternal protective instincts for, there would be no touching. No kissing. No groping. And certainly no sex. The fact that Tony could relay these warnings while drunk was impressive even to him, but, then again, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo (man, that phrase needed to be updated; who went to the rodeo anymore?). Staggering, he made his way to the bed and plopped down, staring up at the ceiling and starting to moan aloud.
Peter watched him for a moment, struggling not to laugh, before he took his place on the bed and began jumping up and down, moaning soft "oh yeah, oh yeah"s until his cheeks burned red from the embarrassment.
Tony stifled his laughter in his fist. "Don't stop, oh yeah!" he cried.
Their night of passion lasted an entire five minutes in all, climaxing with Tony punching Peter in the nuts and watching as he moaned and groaned and grasped his crotch in a ball of pain on the floor. Once he'd collected himself, the two walked out of the room and into a quickly scattering crowd of listeners.
As Tony excused himself from the group, tripping over his own feet and squinting to see straight, he heard a boy he recognized from the football team clap Peter on the shoulder and say with envy, "I can't believe you hit that."
That. Tony let the word roll around on his tongue, let it seep into his veins and fill the holes in his heart where he'd once let hope blossom. All the rumors in the school and front page stories in the world wouldn't change who he was—a name. A brand. A product.
In his haste to leave the party, Tony bumped into something very tall and very solid; a something that turned out to be none other than Steve Rogers-the walking wall of muscle himself.
"So you did find time in your bustling schedule to come. It's good to see you," he said, and Tony really wished he could see straight, because he was 99% sure Steve was smiling at him and it was a sight he'd never wanted to miss. Thanks a lot, blurry drunk vision. Steve Smiles were like little miracles wrapped up in one big Steve bow, like puppies and rainbows all combined—no, like puppies on rainbows, and sunshine too. Bright and shining and, yeah, maybe he should stop drinking.
"Uh-hu," he mumbled, blinking. Real classy, Stark, he thought, now he's really going to think you're an idiot. "And you're here."
Steve—the kind gentleman that he was—graciously refrained from saying "duh," though it was currently the only thing playing through Tony's head. "I am," he said. Was he smiling again? Tony thought he might be. He hoped so anyway. "Are you alright?"
Tony nodded. Behind Steve's back, two jocks were dry humping the air; they caught Tony's eye and laughed. It wasn't hard to guess who the message was directed to, or what about. "I'm going to go," he said.
Steve frowned and opened his mouth—probably to tease him about his 'night's activities' too, Tony figured—but Tony was already pushing past him and heading out the door.
By the time Tony woke up the next morning, nearly all of the previous night had disappeared from his memory—just another drunken haze to add to the blurry chapters of his life. Because that was what Tony did best; he erased his life one night at a time—erased the truth with sarcasm, erased feelings with all his hardened defenses, erased his experiences with an expensive drink. As if that was not enough, it seemed he could now add whoring to the list—fundamentally erasing any chance at a relationship with a thousand fake ones.
His phone rang nonstop for the rest of the day—sleazy people wanting a sleazy night, and not-so-sleazy people wanting a pretend night because Peter Parker couldn't keep his mouth shut within his group of friends.
The weekend came and went, and by Monday, Tony had over fifty offers for fake conquests—stuffed in his locker or whispered to him in class, passed over note, or texted during lunch.
A week ago, Tony had been known only for his name, for his money, and his father, and his fame. By fourth period, Tony was known only for his body—who he'd slept with, who he might sleep with next, and who could convince him to (fake) sleep with them too.
Well, Tony figured, at least this body was his, and anything was a step up from being known for his father.
He was still just a name though.