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Peter's twitchy.
Tony's watching him from the corner of his eye, all the leg bouncing and thumb twiddling, and he's trying his damndest to not be endeared. Like all things that have to do with Peter Parker, he's failing.
He smirks, reclining back against the seat. "Nervous, kid?"
Peter's gaze flits up to him. He shrugs. "A little, I guess. I've never done something like this before. I don't want to, y'know, mess it up."
Tony rolls his eyes. "They're easy peasy."
Peter huffs, wrapping his arms around his midsection. His troubled eyes slide back to the rolling view outside their car window. "To you, maybe."
"I'll be there," Tony assures, frowning. "Every step of the way. I'll do my little speech, the little auction, and then we'll blow out of there-"
The assurance doesn't seem to quiet the very obvious disquiet wafting off the kid, the thick tendrils of it curling around Tony like a gaseous fog. Peter's distress is Tony's distress, one in the same, and he's starting to seriously wonder if asking Pete to accompany him to the charity Gala tonight was a bad call. He doesn't want to force the kid into something he doesn't want to do.
"Would you rather skip?" He asks gently. He's one word away from having Happy simply turn the car around.
Peter's gaze jerks back to him, mildly scandalized. "No, no, no, you promised Mrs. Potts you'd be there, and it's for charity, you can't skip charity, Mister Stark-"
"Important shit," Tony agrees easily. "But I can just send a check later on-"
"-And you bought me this suit for it, this insanely expensive suit-"
Tony snorts. They've had this particular conversation before. Repeatedly. Ever since Pete found out about the price tag attached to the cashmere Isaia suit that Tony insisted he get for the Gala. The kid needed a good suit anyway, one that wasn't spandex. The last thing Tony cares about is the price. Especially where Peter is concerned. "Forget the suit, kid. How many times do I need to tell you to forget the suit?"
Peter scowls. "Like- a million more times. Which is how much the suit costs."
Tony arches a brow. "That is a blatant exaggeration."
Peter sighs at that, his gaze crawling back to the window and the ambient flow of traffic outside. Tony follows, fighting the urge to pry into the kid like a clam with a prized pearl inside. Peter doesn't open under pressure like that. He doesn't respond well to probing, no matter how well intended it is. As much as it activates Tony's chagrin, he needs to play this patiently.
Finally, Peter turns back to him. "I just don't want to mess it up, y'know?"
"You won't," Tony insists quickly, resolutely. He leans forward to try and catch Peter's downcast eyes, now staring pointedly at the limo floor.
"I might," Peter argues, softly. "Even with- y'know, Spider-Man , I'm kinda clumsy, I talk too much sometimes, I can be really annoying-"
Tony shares a conspiratal look with Happy in the rearview mirror. The man doesn't say anything, but he looks equally as put-out with the conversational turn as Tony feels. "What is this? The Peter-bullying hour? Because I veto it."
"I'm just saying-"
"No more saying," Tony chastises gently, wagging a finger in Peter's face. "You're gonna be fine, kid. The Gala will be fine. We'll get in and out, go back to the Tower and fire up a movie, literally anything but Star Wars-"
It's definitely going to be Star Wars. That's just one of the indelible facts of life.
That, at least, makes Peter grin. "Okay. Yeah. Yeah. That'll be- good."
"Or we can skip," Tony tells him gently. Because as much as he'd love to show Peter off, as much as having the kid around for these stuffy events would brighten them, nothing is worth stressing Peter out.
The kid stresses out too much as it is. Premature stressing.
"Are you kidding?" Peter shakes his head. "Mrs. Potts would kill you."
—————
By the time Happy maneuvers them to the private back entrance of the Cipriani on 42nd street, masterfully skirting the paparazzi and arriving luminaries clogging up the front entrance, the sun is setting.
Peter presses his face against the glass. "Whoa."
Tony chuckles. "Wait until you see inside."
The interior of the Cipriani is gorgeous. It always is.
From the soaring ceilings to the inlaid floors and everything in between. From the ornate, intricate chandeliers, designed to catch the light and ricochet it across the entire ballroom, to the orchid centerpieces arranged on every table. The servants in their black uniforms, large trays of appetizers balanced on their arms. The marble columns that have been outfitted with accent lights in dazzling golds and silvers.
The venue reeks of renaissance architectural design. It reeks of wealth.
Peter tucks into his side as they enter the building, down the long carpet that's been rolled out to receive anyone wishing to avoid the commotion of the front. It comes off a little pretentious to Tony, a red carpet for the rear entrance, but Peter is staring around with wide, amazed eyes and Tony can't help but be a little second-hand starstruck.
The kid's good at that. Making Tony's mundane shit seem extraordinary.
"Holy shit," Peter murmurs.
"Language," Tony chides half-heartedly, throwing an arm around the kid's shoulders. "We're among the aristocracy."
Peter's face goes immediately red, a little green too, and Tony has to fight back down the wave of endearment that washes over him.
"Oh man," Peter says.
Tony grins, piloting Pete towards the large ballroom where the event is in full swing. There's a few sanctioned, pre-approved reporters loitering around the open doors, a few big name hotshots standing around while frantic looking servers take their fur-lined coats for safe keeping. "You'll do great, my padawan."
Peter's face turns up to him. "This is so crazy, Mister Stark."
Tony nods sagely, keeping Peter flush against his side. He feels the attention of several reporters snap to him, their cameras raising, and immediately angles Peter away to take the brunt of it. It's unavoidable of course, Peter ending up in a photograph or two, a fact which has been cleared with both Peter and May, but Tony is still determined to keep the kid away from the limelight as much as possible.
"Wait until you try the smoked trout croquettes. That'll really blow your little teenage mind."
—————
"They're so good," Peter says enthusiastically, stuffing another of the small, breaded spheres into his mouth. The server holds the tray out in the kid's direction once more, cocking a brow, and Peter snags another before the man flits off.
Tony chuckles, fighting the insanely strong urge to reach out and ruffle the kid's hair. He knows that the hors d’oeuvres and eventual three-course meal offered won't be enough to satiate Peter's spider-sized stomach, and that they'll no doubt have a late night Burger King stop in their very imminent future.
"Told you," he gloates, scanning the crowd once more for Pepper. He spies Happy, far enough away to be invisible, close enough to intervene at a moment's notice, and he's thankful once again for the man's presence.
He's used to Happy keeping him safe at public events. Now, with Peter Parker, the stakes are higher. Keeping the kid safe is of the utmost importance. And sure, Tony has a suit, he always has a suit, but a little non-iron help never fucking hurts.
Peter nods, wiping breaded crumbs from the corner of his mouth. He flashes Tony a grin. "I shouldn't have doubted you."
Tony snorts. "Obviously. I know everything."
He catches movement in his peripherals, a person breaking from the crowd to stroll towards him. When he catches sight of their face, familiar even after all these years, he has to suppress a groan.
They've been dodging and weaving all night, Tony doing his best to keep the kid on the outskirts instead of the middle of the wolf's den. It's been surprisingly successful, only the most determined breaking from the pack to seek Tony out. They ask polite questions about Stark Industries and then Peter, who practically glues himself to Tony's side, before meandering back to the excitement in the center.
Still, Tony Stark can never remain entirely hidden, especially not at an event designed to cater to his presumed compatrients. His fellow hoity-toities, if you will, so Tony steels himself for the incoming conversation with a man who was once one of Howard's close friends.
"Anthony," Charles Castilo greets, though his tone belies that the word is a greeting at all. He pauses in front of them, his shrewd gaze raking across Tony before traveling to Pete.
That's an immediate no as far as Tony is concerned, and he takes a clandestine step forward to block the kid while simultaneously holding out a hand to shake. "Mr. Castilo. It's been ages."
Castillo eyes the hand before deciding to take it, offering his own weathered fingers back. The years haven't been kind to Castillo. That much is clear in every pockmarked, creased inch of the man's skin. To be fair, though, Castillo hasn't been very kind to the years either. Tony can't remember a time when the man wasn't scowling at the world.
"Ages. Indeed," Castillo agrees. "You don't attend many Galas, Anthony."
Tony forces a smile to his face. "I try my damnedest to avoid them."
Castillo snorts, a wholly unpleasant sound. "Yes. That's quite- obvious."
"Boring affairs, don't you think?" Tony says in an even, debonair tone of his voice. He feels Peter take a small step towards him, and Castilo's eyes flick to the tiny movement.
"Who have you brought?" He asks.
Tony spares a glance down to the kid, finding Peter staring up at him with wide, worried eyes. Like he can sense Tony's unease and is naturally mirroring it.
Peter's distress might be Tony's distress, but damn sure Tony doesn't want that to be a two-way street. Tony's stress is Tony's stress. He's not burdening this little prematurely stressed child with more stress, especially his brand of stress.
Tony forces himself to take a deep breath, reassuringly rubbing Pete's shoulder, before turning his attention back to Castilo. "This is my intern, Peter Parker. Peter, this is Charles Castilo. CEO of- well, something."
Tony knows, of course. It pays to know who's who in this world. Castilo's business specializes in electrical engineering technology. Tony just enjoys knocking Castilo down a peg. Or two.
The man scowls, his eyes fixing on the point of contact between the two, Tony rubbing Peter's shoulder. "CasOpo Enterprises. We specialize in Optoelectronics."
Tony snaps his fingers teasingly, winking in Peter's direction. "Exactly. CasOpo. That's the one."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Castilo," Peter remarks softly, because he is polite and courteous and entirely too endearing. He offers a hand out to shake, which Castilo warily accepts.
He narrows his eyes back to Tony. "Intern, you say?"
"The best of the best," Tony tells the man. "The crème de la crème of interns-"
Peter blushes under the praise. "Mister Stark."
Tony shrugs. "Take the compliment, kid."
"I don't remember Howard ever taking interns," Castilo remarks dryly. Tony feels his smile dip. "What does the boy do? Fetch coffee?"
Tony prickles. Something about that, the thought of sending Peter out to complete a task as mundane as retrieving coffee, makes him crack his knuckles in irritation.
"I help out in the lab, sometimes," Peter injects quietly, gaze flicking to Tony for approval. He clears his throat before continuing. "Mister Stark lets me help with some of the inventions that he creates. It's a great opportunity, really, and I'm very thankful for it."
"Interesting," Castilo says blandly, attention immediately shifting from Peter back to Tony. As if that wasn't enough, the blatant disregard for this kid Tony's found himself endeared to, Castilo's next words are. "It's sounds- different, then the company your father ran, Anthony."
"I would say so," Tony bites out, struggling to keep his debonair smile in place. "Considering I've dismantled his entire weapons division. Which was all he ever really cared about."
Castilo huffs. "Quite. Such a brave decision. One I'm sure Howard would never have made."
Tony stiffens. He feels the ripple effect play out across Peter, the kid tensing beside him. And as much as he wants this experience to be a positive one for the kid, he can feel his cause-a-scene-gene activating.
"Stark Industries is the largest tech conglomerate in the world," Peter blurts out, looking surprised at himself. "Even without the weapons division, the company still manages to bring in millions of dollars of profit every year, not to mention the absolutely life changing inventions Mister Stark himself creates, plus all the philanthropy work Mister Stark does, and also the fact that Stark Industries is one of the first major corporations to employ a woman for CEO-"
Jesus christ. The fondness in Tony's chest is nearly incapacitating. It's growing and growing to astronomical new sizes.
He clears his throat. "Kid-"
Castilo sneers Peter's way. "Ah, yes. Pepper Potts. Another brave decision."
Tony blinks. He blinks again.
He is undoubtedly, absolutely, about to cause the scene of the century, the kind of scene that the tabloids will bring up for years to come. Like the time he spent the night in a county jail after drunkenly punching a fellow college student, or the time he was caught half naked and unconscious in the gutter outside of a well known strip joint. He's going to cause another of those scenes.
Insulting two of Tony's people in one fell swoop? Very, very bad idea.
His lip curls. "Listen up, you dried out raisin-"
"Tony! There you are!" Pepper cries out, waving a hand high in the air as she pushes her way through the crowd to him.
His saving grace. Somehow, somewhere, someone installed a Tony's-about-to-cause-a-scene sonar system into Pepper's veins, pinging to let her know every time Tony even thinks about doing something overly dramatic. The sea of the elite parts for her, and then she's sashaying across the floor towards him wearing the most bewitching of midnight silk dresses.
He smiles tightly at her, some of that tightness relaxing as she lays a flat palm against his arm. There's silent outrage simmering in Castilo's eyes that he elects to ignore entirely. "Pepper. Darling. I've been looking for you."
"Tony. Peter." She smiles down at the kid before turning to the man, who looks like he could pop a blood vessel at any moment. "Mr. Castilo. Are you well?"
Castilo cuts that angry glare Tony's way, huffing. "Quite."
She makes a humming sound before turning back to Tony. "You're first up to the auction," She reminds him, shoving a small pile of notecards into his palm. With a little more force then he feels is necessary, but he digresses. "I've taken the liberty of writing the speech for you. Do not deviate from these notecards."
Peter snorts quietly at his side.
"Anything else, dear?" He cocks an eyebrow at her, tucking the notecards into his breast pocket. Castilo is still staring daggers at him, apparently unable to catch what Peter commonly refers to as the vibe. The vibes are off. The vibes say go the fuck away.
Castilo is not a vibe man. So he glares. And huffs.
He watches Pepper's eyes tighten with a hint of amusement before she's turning around to glare back at Castilo. "You'll have to forgive me," she says, entirely diplomatic, "I'm going to have to steal the boys away to prepare for the night's festivities."
"Of course," Castilo replies stiffly. "I wouldn't want to keep you." He glowers at Tony, a page straight out of Howard's book, before stalking off.
It takes a lot more than irritated, disappointed eyes to frighten Tony these days, though. He's literally been tortured. He's seen the inside of a wormhole. He's seen Peter bleed from a gunshot wound at one o'clock in morning. He's sterner stuff these days.
"Thank god," he murmurs, watching Castilo tootle back towards the crowd.
Pepper snorts. "His wife finds him repugnant."
Tony grins at her. "Which wife? The first? The second? Or maybe the third?"
She smiles back at him, all teeth. "All of them. His mistresses, too."
"Mistresses?" Peter all but gasps, like the idea of it is appalling. To Peter Parker, purveyor of truth, justice, and the American way, maybe it is. Little Clark Kent standing next to him.
"If you don't know what the word means, kid, you're on your own," Tony remarks wryly.
Peter scowls, tearing his gaze from Castilo to look up at him. "I know what it means, I'm not a baby -"
"Little baby spider," Tony interrupts, still grinning.
Peter's face goes red. "Mister Stark."
"Okay," Pepper interjects, reaching out a hand to readjust the tie on his chest. She shakes her head playfully at him. "Let's not bully the only teenager in a 100 mile radius who can put up with you, hmm? Especially the one who could easily crack you in two?"
"I don't really mind," Peter assures quickly.
Fondness bursts in his chest again, sending out spider web cracks that will never fill. No matter what the future holds, he's going to have crevices in his heart that only a certain Spider-Kid can soothe.
"See?" Tony says, tone softer then he means it to be, "Can't scare this one off. I keep trying."
Pepper chuckles, patting his cheek gently. "Let's show Peter to the seats, hm?"
—————
Tony peeks past the curtain again, finding Peter in the crowd.
He's sitting at their reserved table, prime seating at the front, with Pepper on one side and Happy at the other, the latter eying the room with unrelenting scrutiny. There are two empty seats, one for Tony when he finishes his spiel and one for Rhodey who won't be attending tonight. Tony always reserves a seat for him, regardless.
He's starting to think he's going to have to keep a perpetually reserved seat for a certain spiderling, too.
"Mr. Stark?" A hesitant voice asks, and he drops the flap of muslin curtain to turn and look at the mousy little coordinator standing in front of him. She swallows, clutching her clipboard tightly to her chest. "Are you ready? You're the first up-"
Tony sighs, staring down at Pepper's pre-written and pre-approved cards. It's all very cut and dry. He's going to go out there and try and sell a private, five star dinner with himself. Modified prostitution for charity.
"Sir?" The coordinator squeaks. "It's no rush, none at all, but Norman Osborn is after you and he's- rather impatient-"
"What's he auctioning?" Tony asks curiously. "He has a terrible personality, so surely it's not his time."
"Um." The woman glances at the clipboard pinned against her chest. "It looks like he's auctioning off a Rembrandt from his own personal collection-"
"Figures," Tony grumbles. Next year he's going to go into storage and locate one of Steve's long lost sketchbooks. Artwork by the Captain America has to be worth something.
If a year off of prostitution charity is all he ever gets out of his fractured friendship with the supersoldier, he'll have to count himself lucky.
Beyond the veil of the muslin curtain, Tony hears the honeyed voice of this year's host echo back to them. Some new starlet.
The coordinator looks frazzled. "Um."
He waves her off. "I'm ready. I'm ready. Let the wolves descend."
She gives him a wary look, like he's really a big enough asshole to purposely sabotage a charity event, and sure- there was that shit with Castilo earlier, the narrowly avoided scene , but that doesn't count.
Castilo started it.
"Go time," he tells her, flashing his teeth, before slipping under the muslin curtain.
The crowd breaks into booming, yet polite applause. Tony's lived his entire life in the spotlight, and he knows the difference between the feral, unbridled applause he gets from a crowd of his fans and the deferential one he's getting now.
Neither of those groups really know him, though, no matter the way they cheer his name.
"Tony Stark!" The young starlet announces to the mass, beckoning him forward with an outstretched hand. She's wearing a slip of a ruby dress, covering her curves in liquid silk, and she looks ravishing. In her own way.
He prefers midnight silk.
His gaze immediately settles on his table out in the sea of the crowd, on his people sitting at it. Where Pepper is, her lips puckered in a whistle, and Happy, clapping methodically with the crowd as he scans the room.
And Peter, clapping like his little spider-life depends on it.
Tony grins like the cat that caught the canary, feeling all tingly and happy and fond inside. Like a million tiny canary feathers are swirling around and tickling his insides.
"Here," the starlet whispers, passing him the wireless microphone. "Think you can sell yourself to this crowd, Mr. Bigshot?"
Tony looks out at the crowd again, at all the polite indifference staring back at him. All the people society considers his peers. He's spent a lifetime selling himself to them. He can do it again.
The people that matter though, the ones he's irrevocably fond of, don't require a sales pitch.
—————
"Well?" Tony asks laconically, slipping into his seat. He can see Osborn taking center stage now, an assistant wheeling out the promised Rembrant on a rolling display.
"You did very well." Pepper smiles in his direction. "Read your note cards like a good, well behaved billionaire."
"You did great, Mister Stark!" Peter says, bouncing in his seat. He fixes those wide, amazed eyes Tony's way. "Holy shit."
"Don't say shit," he admonishes with no real pluck. Peter's excitement is fucking infectious. Much like Peter's stress is Tony's stress, Peter's excitement becomes his, too. Making all the mundane shit bright.
"You just raised like half a million dollars for AIDS research, Mister Stark, that's crazy, someone paid that just to have dinner with you-"
"'I'm sure the whole AIDS research and, y'know, charity had something to do with it too, kid. Not just my pleasant company."
Peter shrugs, grinning. "Maybe, maybe not. I mean, who wouldn't pay half a million dollars to talk to Tony Stark?"
He raises a brow. "Charles Castilo?"
Peter pulls a face, leaning back in his chair. "Well, that guy sucks. He has bad vibes and he definitely doesn't count. I would have totally paid a million dollars to hang out with you- well, if I had a million dollars-"
"You hang out with me all the time, Pete," Tony reminds him dryly, reaching across the table for his already filled champagne flute. He sniffs it cautiously before drinking, satisfied to find that it's merely apple juice, per request. The same thing that the kid is getting. He's trying to make sure Pete gets the version of Tony that is sober. "For free, no less."
"Yeah, but the point is that I would pay-"
Can you overdose on fondness? Tony's starting to think maybe you can. He takes a long sip to hide his shit-eating grin, aware of Pepper's knowing eyes raking across him.
Some heiress literally just paid half a million dollars for the pleasure of his company over a dinner of steak and lobster, and he's excited about the prospect of eating Burger King with a spunky teen from Queens while rewatching Star Wars for the nth time.
Endearment is one hell of a drug.
Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Tony zeroes in. "What's wrong with you? Are you hiding another stab wound?"
Peter glowers at him. "What? No! That- was once ! And it was extraordinary circumstances! You have got to let that go, Mister Stark-"
"I'm resolved to hold onto it forever, actually. Now what's up?"
"I- have to go to the bathroom?" Peter asks sheepishly, gaze flicking between the three adults now staring at him with varying shades of alarm.
Tony barks out a laugh before he can help it. "Jesus, kid, why didn't you just say so? It's that way." He flicks a finger in the direction of the Cipriani restroom. "You need an escort, kid?"
Peter shakes his head, cheeks burning a deep red. "I absolutely do not need an escort. I'll be right back."
"Want me to go?" Happy asks gruffly, his first contribution to the entire conversation.
"Oh jeez. No ." Peter shakes his head with more gusto, pushing back from the table. "Just- no."
Tony laughs at all the tiny teenage outrage. "Don't get lost."
"I'm not gonna get lost."
The kid turns on his heels, marching across the floor with righteous purpose, weaving around tables and servers.
"Having a good time?" Pepper asks, knowingly.
He forces his attention from the kid, finding her. Whatever she sees on his face pulls a smirk from her.
"Could be worse," he tells her coyly. He is absolutely not doing the feelings talk right now, if ever. "At least as far as prostituting myself goes."
She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, Tony. Prostitution? It's charity."
"One in the same," he takes another sip of his apple juice, smacking his lips. That's when he feels it.
It. A disturbance in the force.
If Pepper has an embedded Tony sonar in her veins, he has a Peter one. And that silent alarm system, the one that pings when Peter finds himself in trouble, is tingling.
"Wait-" He tells Pepper, eyebrows furrowing and stomach swooping. He scans the sea of elites for the kid, locating him just in time to see Peter smack skulls with the man rounding the hallway corner at the same time.
Charles Castilo's skull. Spilling the man's flute of red wine all over both of them.
Tony is on his feet in an instant, weaving across the crowded floor. He nearly takes out a man himself, a server with a large tray of drinks, in his haste to reach what is undoubtedly about to be a scene.
"You klutz!" Castilo hisses.
Tony's going to end up making it a bigger fucking scene if Castilo keeps talking to his kid like that.
"Oh my god I'm so sorry, I just- I didn't see you-"
"Pete?" Tony asks, close enough now to lay a soothing hand on Peter's shoulder. The kid whirls around, his eyes so wide that Tony can see the fucking whites of them, red wine soaking into the white of his collar.
"Mister Stark- I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention-"
"You should have been!" Castilo hisses. A nervous looking server appears out of thin air, holding a handful of paper towels. Castilo snatches one furiously from her grasp, sending the rest fluttering to the floor. He dabs angrily at his own tux, before sending daggered eyes back Peter's way. "Insolent little-"
"You finish that sentence and you're going to have a black eye to match that hideous tie of yours," Tony threatens, low and quiet.
Castilo makes a sputtering sound. "How dare you-"
Peter starts to bend down, an automatic response to the server trying to gather up the fluttered napkins. Tony grabs his elbow. "Don't, Pete."
"Okay," Peter whispers, voice breaking a little. Tony does not like that. Not one fucking bit.
"This is an outrage!" Castilo fumes. He tosses his now soaked paper towel and it hits the ground with a wet sounding splack. The server flinches.
"I really should help-" Peter murmurs, pulling gently against where Tony is holding him.
"No," Tony says, more firm. "No way, kid."
"Boss?" Happy, the fucking reliable shadow he is, is standing just to the side. Tony can feel him appraising the entire situation. The spilled wine all over the kid and the floor. He gives Castilo the briefest of once-overs.
"Pull the car around, Happy," Tony says, still quiet and cool. If he lets his tone rise even a decibel higher, he's going to lose it. This is going to turn into the scene to end all scenes.
He sees Happy nod once, out of the corner of his eye, and then the man is gone.
"I'm so sorry," Peter says helplessly, his gaze flicking between Tony's face and Castilo's contorted one. "Really, really sorry-"
People are staring now. Tony can feel their judgment crawling across his back, and as much as he's used to it he knows Peter isn't. He can feel the kid's breathing coming out tighter and more pained by the second. Which he cannot abide by. No fucking way.
"Let's go, kiddo," he says softly, using the kid's elbow to steer them back towards the rear entrance. He feels Peter faltering, attempting to turn back around, and he jerks the kid's arm gently. "Don't worry about him, okay?"
"I'm sorry," Peter whispers again, tripping over his own feet.
"You owe me for this suit!" Castilo cries out furiously to their retreating backs.
"Oh man," Peter mutters.
"Don't worry about it," Tony assures, leading them down the rolled out carpet. They're about to push through the large ornate doors and make their great escape when Castilo shouts out his final, damning words.
"You shame the Stark name, Anthony! You disappoint Howard's memory!"
Peter's face whips back at that, his already pale features blanching further.
"Ignore it," Tony mumbles, using his free hand to push the door open. The cold, midnight air hits them both and Tony shivers. Halfway due to the chill and halfway due to Castilo's words.
Happy has the limo already parked by the curb, waiting on them. When he spies them shambling out of the building he pops out of the front seat to pull open the rear door.
"Get in," Tony orders softly, pushing Peter gently towards the car. The kid obliges, wordlessly slipping into the back and sliding as far away as humanly possible. Tony follows suit, but elects to give the kid his space.
"Napkins," Happy says gruffly, shoving a mysterious handful at Tony. Where he procured them, Tony has no idea. He's thankful, regardless.
"Pepper has her security detail? She good if we blow this popsicle stand?" He asks, handing the napkins off to Peter. The kid takes them silently, his gaze peeled to the car floor.
"She's good," Happy tells him resolutely before slamming the car door and rounding around to the front.
Tony sighs, turning his attention to where Peter is sitting, still as far away as the limousine will allow. He's dabbing almost lethargically at the large red stain on his chest.
"Kid," Tony says.
Peter makes a horrible sniffling noise, still refusing to meet Tony's eyes.
"Peter," Tony orders, more force in his tone.
Finally, the kid glances up, his eyes filled with unshed tears. Tony's heart cracks.
Almost immediately, Peter's gaze drops away again. He feels Happy shift the car into drive, and then they're moving out of the parking lot and onto the road. The car plunges into darkness as the parking lot lights slip behind them.
"It's not- it's not a big deal, kiddo. It was an accident, accidents happen," he says, a little desperately, into the dark interior.
"Yeah. Sure," Peter says, tone apathetic.
"Besides, you said it yourself, Charles Castilo sucks. Bad vibes, remember?" He hopes, a little foolishly, that the bad joke will help pick up Peter's plummeted mood. He can feel it in the air, permeating, pulling him down. Peter's distress is Tony's distress.
"Well, I spilled wine all over him so I'm not that great either apparently-"
Tony sighs deeply, sliding across the seat until his hip hits Peter's. He feels the kid tense away, but he's already got himself situated in the furthermost corner so there's nowhere to go.
"Lights," he orders softly, two separate rows of LEDs flickering on. It gives him a good look at that face, at the silent tears making their way across Peter's cheeks, until the kid angrily scrubs them away with the sleeve of his suit.
"Give me that," he says softly, grabbing one of the dry napkins from the little pile by Peter's side. He sighs again. "You know what happened at my first gala?"
Slowly, Peter's gaze slides back over to him. He blinks rapidly before asking a croaky, "What?"
"I was eight at the time. I hadn't been to any yet because it was just easier to toss me at Jarvis or one of my many nannies for the night. But then I turned seven, and I was a man, right? And Stark men do the Galas and act like perfect gentlemen while doing it."
Peter's watching him, staring at him with rapt attention. It makes everything he's saying right now feel like the most important thing.
"And we got there, right?" Tony continues, dipping a hand down to sop at the deep red staining Pete's white undershirt. "And I absolutely fucking hate it. I'm wearing this perfectly tailored suit that's just riding up my ass, uncomfortable as hell. The people there are boring, and stuffy, and there's nothing to do but stand around and look presentable. And I, Tony Stark, do not excel at simply standing around. Let that be known. The one thing I cannot do is sit around. So I don't. And those stuffy, hoity-toity people are staring."
"Staring?" Peter asks softly.
"At me," Tony adds, grimacing. He can recall the memory as easy as his own name, all those puckered lips and furrowed brows. The vividness of it all. "The Stark heir. Howard's prodigy son. The boy who's going to inherit the company. And they hate me."
Peter gasps loudly. "What?"
"They expect more. From Howard Stark's son. They still expect more, to this day."
"That's- insane, Mister Stark," Peter interrupts quickly, sounding out of breath. "You're, like, the best thing that's ever happened to Stark industries. Dismantling the weapons department and still pulling in enough revenue to keep the company running, that's just- insane, not to mention being a superhero and and saving people, and you invent the coolest shit I've ever seen-"
"Don't say shit," Tony remarks softly, shrugging. There's an itch in his throat that he doesn't quite like, something that feels like it might lead to actual, bona-fide tears. He's supposed to be stopping the tears, not adding his own.
Peter nods. "Yeah, yeah, of course, but seriously, you're the best."
That is dangerous for Tony's ego, and the fondness blooming in his chest. Pete's not stingy with his compliments, he gives them out to anyone and everyone, and still each one feels priceless.
"I mean, they weren't exactly wrong," Tony remarks, sighing. Peter frowns deeply at that. "I was a nightmare, kid. An asshole of a seven year tearing around the gala, stealing appetizers and running into people wearing fifty thousand dollar clothing. Pissed my old man off good. He was, well- quite displeased."
Peter's frown, impossibly, deepens. "You were seven. That's not fair."
Tony pauses, holding his now soaked paper towel in his hand. His face feels warm. "It didn't matter, bud. As far as Howard was concerned, I'd failed. Sullied the Stark name."
He falls silent for a moment, stuffing the useless paper towel into the limo cup holder before grabbing another. The kid's suit is obviously a fucking goner, Castilo's Cabernet Sauvignon seeping into every cross stitch and seam. Tony's not going to say that , though. He'll toss the suit discreetly, when the kid is gone, like a rational fucking person.
Staining a suit is nothing, nothing, compared to staining a heart. And Peter's heart is staunchly white, so it stains easily.
"What happened?" Peter finally asks.
Tony looks up, wincing. "I- well, if Howard wasn't happy, no one was.'
He's not gonna tell Pete about Howard dragging him back to one of the venue's bathrooms, to the man slapping him hard enough across the face to leave a noticeable red mark. To wearing that, like a badge of shame, for the rest of the gala. Watching everyone's eyes crawl across his aching cheek, everyone knowing but saying nothing. Watching Charles Castilo clap his father on the back and call him a good man, a good man, for finally reeling Tony in.
He's not going to tell Pete about the words his father all but spit in his face that night, words that echoed across the bathroom, across his skull, for the first of his life.
They conjure up easily for him, even now, the blackest of magics. Disappointment. Ashamed. Failure.
He's not saying any of that. Not a word. Like everything with Peter, though, he doesn't seem to need to. The kid knows him too well. "It was wrong," Peter says evenly. "All of it was."
"Maybe," Tony agrees solemnly. "But it's the past. And in the long run, it didn't even matter. There will be a million more galas, and sometimes you're gonna spill Cabernet Sauvignon all over the CEO of CasOpo. Shit happens."
Peter grimaces. "Ugh. I don't think I should ever go to another, though. You should, just, bring Mrs. Potts, or Colonel Rhodes. Someone who won't mess it up."
"Peter," Tony says softly, grasping the kid's shoulders. He waits until those eyes find him before speaking again. "I want you here. I don't care if you spill wine on the fucking president. I'd still want you here."
Tony thinks, with the sudden force of a great epiphany, that he's not just talking about the gala. He wants Peter Parker around for everything. For late night inventing sessions in the lab, for impromptu pizza parties during the week, for holidays and birthdays and days where his own heartbeat is a little too loud in his ears and silence is too quiet and noise is too loud. He wants Peter for the good and the bad.
Peter blinks. "Really?"
"Yes," Tony says, resolute. "I just- I want you around, okay?"
He's positively endeared to this kid.
Peter sniffles softly again, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. "I- want you around, too."
"That's settled then," Tony says. "We'll both stay around. I won't even charge you, kid, and you know how expensive my time is."
Peter barks out a surprised laugh at that, and Tony's chest feels a little looser for it.
"Half a million dollars," Peter agrees, his voice betraying his still lingering awe at the amount. "I can't believe- I mean, I can, you're Tony Stark, but still, a half million dollars-" Peter face pinches off. "But I'm really sorry about the suit, I think- I'm pretty sure it's stained, and Mr. Castilo's, too-"
"How many times, bud? I don't care about the suit, I cannot stress how little I care about the suit." He might care about the person in it. He's got little spider web crevices in his heart. "How about we go through Burger King and get a dozen whoppers? Go back to the Tower and watch a movie? Not Star Wars."
"That sounds good," Peter allows.
Tony grins. "Better vibes?"
Peter shrugs, before his own face breaks into a dazzling grin. " Much better vibes."
There's no sales pitch needed when it comes to Peter Parker. It just is.