She looks like wealth
The first time Peter met Tony, that day at the Government holding facility, he vividly remembers how dream-like the entire situation felt. At the cusp of it all, looming like a valid threat, sat this fear that, at any given moment, he was going to wake up and it would all be taken away from him. That he’d wake up to his depressing reality, in his small little bedroom, and face yet another day uncertain of his role in the world or in their society.
He’d been so terrified that, eventually, the Government would just shed the responsibility of him and shove him off to some un-named warehouse, where the future laid out before him was beneath hundreds of faceless men as they used and abused his body. A life as a prostitue was no better than a life as a Hunter- both roles taking separate parts of your identity, yet crushing your soul all the same.
He’d wanted Tony Stark and the life the man offered him so badly it scared him. He willingly gave it away, all of it, on the off chance that Tony would ever want him back, and he did so without hesitation. He was so desperate for someone to love, and for someone to love him, that he didn’t care about all he lost- as long as, during the process, he found his happily ever after.
It’s terrifying to think that that Peter, that young, naive Peter, existed mere months ago. That he was loyal to a fault, right from the beginning. And it was all because of that look. That one single look Tony had given him. Cold, distant eyes that were calculating yet guarded- and yet, within their depths, Peter saw a sadness he could relate to. He saw it the moment he saw Tony.
He related to the man, and he desperately wanted the man to relate to him.
Perhaps it was his long-supressed hero worship, or just mere idolization. He’d been obsessed with Tony Stark since the moment he knew of the man’s existence. He could do no wrong; he was the brightest mind in the world, a literal superhero. He was perfect, everything Peter had ever hoped to become or want. He just never understood the warning, never meet your idols, and he fears it’s too late to heed it.
Champagne is still sweet on his tongue when he sees them, across the room. She’s draped across Tony, red dress with a deep v-neck doing very little to support the pale swell of her breasts as they wiggle and jiggle and threaten to pop out at any given moment. Her manicured fingernails, a charming gold, stand bold and proud on the black of Tony’s tie, where her hand rests.
Right above where the arc reactor lies.
She’s leaning into him, against him, and Tony’s head is turned towards her, dipped to form that air of intimacy as every word spoken, is spoken directly to her. He must have said something particularly funny, because she tips her head back- elongating her neck to expose the pale, creamy, unblemished skin hidden beneath delicate brown ringlets and gaudy diamond jewelry.
She looks like wealth.
They are a picture of pure perfection. Something he and Tony will never be, something he can never hope to achieve.
He’d awoken this morning, alone in bed- which wasn’t all that uncommon, Tony never slept and when he did it certainly wasn’t with Peter. There were a handful of times where he’d retire to their shared bedroom, but more often than not he’d take refuge in the lab and sleep on the couch in there. Which, Peter wasn’t complaining. They’ve made an odd amount of progress, these last couple of weeks. He feels like Tony’s been less guarded- more… open. Not in the general sense, just in the- “I’ll entertain conversation with you.” sense.
He thought they were doing well, but clearly not.
The note had been left on his pillow, a little warning of an event they were apparently hosting tonight. Peter was given strict orders on what to wear, and he saw no sense in fighting so he did as he was told. He joined the party at exactly eight o’clock, wearing the navy blue suit Tony had laid out for him that magically appeared after his morning shower.
He was greeted with far too many stimuli the moment he hit the last step. The clanking of heels, the conversations, the occasional clatter of dishes. The smell’s were too much, too, colognes and perfumes and food all wafting together to create a nauseating cocktail, but with some focus he managed to get it under control.
He didn’t spot Tony right away. He felt entirely out of place, even in his own home, and he wasn’t sure what to do or where to go- but a waiter passing him offered him a bubbling drink off his tray and Peter took it without hesitation, figuring busy hands gave him a purpose and he took a swig without even thinking about it.
That’s when he saw them, with the taste of champagne still heavy on his tongue. Three minutes into the night and he was already done with it. His eyes start stinging, he realizes with incredulity as he subtly and furiously wipes at the left one. How pathetic does he have to be, to get upset over this when he knew it to be inevitable- suspected it to have already been a truth?
He thought Tony telling him he could have loved him was him hitting rock bottom, but clearly it wasn’t. Hasn’t he suffered enough? Been hurt enough?
Clearly not.
Suddenly not wanting to be here, Peter looks around for a server and when he spots one, he tries to move as quickly and subtly as he can to deposit his still nearly full drink back on the tray without being spotted, but his luck has seemingly run out.
“Peter Stark?”
Peter freezes at the familiar voice and slowly turns on his heel, coming face to face with Pepper Potts. A man is with her, dark skin, kind eyes, smile cordial. He immediately recognizes him as Commander Rhodes, The War Machine.
Pepper’s smile reaches her eyes as she regards Peter, all warmth and sincerity. “I thought that was you! I wanted to introduce you to Commander Rhodes,” she gestures towards the man next to her, bracelets delicately clinking on her wrist.
He can’t even surface from the pain long enough to feel properly star-struck by meeting Rhodey.
“Rhodey, please,” The man insists, extending his hand for Peter to shake, which he does. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter. Pepper and Tony have told me so much about you.”
The latter was added as a soothing balm, he’s sure, because the thought of Tony speaking about him was ridiculous, but Peter offers them a tight smile in return and tries to keep his grip light as he shakes the Commander’s hand.
“All good, I hope.”
His smile feels weak and transparent, though it holds, and Rhodey chuckles at him like Peter made the funniest joke in the world when, in reality, he’s just trying so very hard not to fall apart right now.
He can’t stomach the thought of seeing Tony with that woman again, even though every fiber of his being wants him to look and see if she’s still hanging all over him. Mine, he wants to scream, wants to fucking yell from the top of his lungs, he’s mine.
But he’s not, is he? Not really.
Peter takes another swig of his yet-to-be-abandoned drink, just for something to do, and he notices the way Rhodey’s eyes dart over his shoulder, but he makes a valiant effort not to turn around and look.
“So, Peter, how are you enjoying your time as an Elite?” Rhodey asks, the skin around his eyes suddenly tight, “You let me know if Tony’s treating you right or not, cause I’ll give him a firm talking to.”
He knows- he has to know. The one thing Peter knew with absolute certainty was that this man, this literal legend before him, was Tony Stark’s best friend. They’ve dominated headlines together, fighting side by side for years prior to the assembling of the Avenger’s. He was Tony’s conscience, his right hand man. Everything and anything Tony did, Rhodey was right along side him, either encouraging him or venhemetly begging him to stop.
So he has to know of his and Tony’s relationship. Of the strain, and the tension, and the arguments and fights. He has to know that on good days, Tony tolerates him- and on the bad days? Peter tries to make himself as scarce as possible. A joke or two has probably been made on his behalf, tarnishing his image to the commander, striking him down pegs as slurs and insults regarding his virginity and lack of experience fall from Tony’s mouth.
He has to know that unlike what those men said the day of their wedding, Tony didn’t even wait until Peter was thirty to grow tired of him. He was already falling into another woman’s arms, into her bed, and there is absolutely no way Rhodey doesn’t know.
So when Peter regards the man again, the thundering of his pulse drowning out the rush of noise around him, all he can think about is that little twinkle of sympathy in Rhodey’s eye, and the fact that the man knows Tony isn’t treating him right.
A life as a prostitute or Hunter may crush your soul, but they didn’t hide their intentions behind placations and smiles. They were openly cruel. They were brutally honest.
“I think you know the answer to that.” Peter forces out, his breaths coming in short, shallow puffs. He’s not confident enough to stand against the force of Rhodey, but being married to Tony has also granted him enough back bone to not bow beneath the force of him, either. He’s not willing to lie and play pretend when they’re all adults here. They all know Tony. They’re all aware of his tendencies, and the fact that he’s openly flirting with a woman twenty feet away from his husband.
Peter wasn’t about to play whatever game they were hoping.
Rhodey blinks, surprised. “I’m sorry?” He asks, turning to Pepper with a clear question in his eye, to which the woman shrugs helplessly, before he turns to face Peter again. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Peter. Tony’s been very…” his eyes flicker, shifting back and forth as he seems to struggle for the right thing to say. Cruel, Peter’s bitter mind wants to supply, callous and cold? “Private. He’s very protective of you, it’s almost like prying out nails with my bare hands just to get him to talk about anything regarding you. I’ve never seen him like this, so I just wanted to make sure you were enjoying your time as well.”
Peter’s breath leaves him in a rush.
Tony, protective? Of him?
A bubble of laughter catches between Peter’s clavicles, inflating there like a ball of hysteria and he quickly finishes his glass of champagne in one long, suffering swallow to try and force it all back down because- Rhodey doesn’t know. He takes Tony’s unwillingness to talk about him as an act of protection, when it’s really a complete disregard laced with mild hatred. He simply doesn’t talk about Peter because he doesn’t care to. Not because he’s protecting him.
But Rhodey doesn’t know that, and that makes breathing a little easier.
Peter’s body, previously tensed in fight or flight mode, unwinds and he offers a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, excuse my behavior. It’s just loud in here, and I haven’t been sleeping all that great, and it’s just- it’s a lot. I’ve never been to any event like this.” His excuse is flat. It hangs there, between the three of them, obviously frayed and gaping open with Peter’s wounds, but nobody snags on it in an attempt to unravel it, and for that he’s thankful.
Rhodey shakes his head in mock exasperation. “There’s two of you insomniacs now, huh?”
“Perks of being a genius.” A voice behind them pipes up, and Peter’s entire body goes from relaxed and comfortable, right back to tense and rigid. Of all the people and all the places Tony could have ventured to tonight, he chose to gravitate towards them.
He stops right next to Peter, so close their shoulders are touching. So close Peter can smell her all over him.
Rhodey’s face shifts into a genuine grin, and even Pepper looks relieved by Tony’s presence.
“I thought the Senator was going to keep you busy all night.” Pepper says, an edge to her tone that Peter catches.
Tony smiles tightly at her. “Just making the rounds, Pep, you know how it goes.” Then he’s turning his full attention on Peter, and he feels his stomach sink to unidentifiable depths. “Enjoying the party, Peter?”
The empty champagne glass twinkles mockingly up at him. Peter swallows down his bile, and his initial words of scorn, and smiles at Tony- though he’s fully aware it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, or pass as being believable. “Very much so.” His eyes flicker towards the left, where she’s standing a few feet away, and he feels his blood roar in his veins. “It’s a shame I wasn’t introduced to your friend, though. She seemed very lovely. Certainly very friendly.”
Tony’s nostrils flare, his pupils dilating so his eyes appear black in the low, ambient lighting. There’s a warning, there, in the tick of his jaw- but Peter doesn’t waver, he doesn’t even look away.
“I have all sorts of friends, Peter.” Tony finally retorts, his tone full of all sorts of suggestions, “you’re free to meet all of them.”
Peter has no freaking clue what’s going on, but he feels something stir low within the pit of his gut- something he’s recently learned to be arousal, but it’s eroded by something. It feels bitter, and angry, and primal- and every single cell in his body wants him to shove Tony against a wall right now and show all his friends who exactly he belongs to, but he coils his hands into tight fists and wills his body to stay put.
Rhodey shifts next to Peter and clears his throat, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere between the two of them. “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but it’s nice seeing you Tony. Thanks for dodging my calls, by the way.”
“I’ve been busy.” Tony replies blandly, eyes never leaving Peter. There’s that familiar challenge in his eyes. “Had my hands full of… other things.”
His eyes are flinty and dark, his words suggestive as the memories from the last time Tony had his hands full in Peter’s presence float to mind. He shifts at the imagery, but it does nothing to help lessen the reaction his body has to it, paired with his sudden, violent streak of possesion.
Peter squeezes his hands shut so tightly, he can feel his fingernails popping through the sensitive skin on his palms, warm, wet blood swelling around them.
“She certainly was a handful, wasn’t she?” Peter whispers, a breath. He’s refusing to back down, and Tony acknowledges that with narrowed eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter.”
“I know what I saw, Tony.”
“What you saw was the Senator’s daughter taking a couple of photo’s with me, that is all.”
“Could have fooled me.” Peter says, eyes flickering down to the tie around Tony’s neck, to the swell of his chest, where the arc reactor lies, where her fingers had rested, and his stomach flips. He wants to rip the clothing item off of Tony, all of them, and erase her scent from his skin. He looks back up at Tony. “Couldn’t even wait until I was thirty?”
Tony inhales sharply and looks away, shifting, his movements restless, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
In any other situation that wasn’t public, Peter never would have gotten away with this. Any of it. Tony would have promptly put him back in his place, and he would have done so with whatever means necessary. He’s fighting for control right now, having to handle this with grace and calmness, when Peter knows he wants nothing more than to make good on his promise from a couple of weeks ago and just bend him over his knee.
The flutter in Peter’s veins at the thought is alarming.
Tony abruptly turns and falls into conversation with Rhodey and Pepper, who Peter completely forgot was there and now feels entirely embarrassed they’d witnessed that, but Pepper is watching him with quiet pride and he realizes he really, truly doesn’t feel bad for holding his ground.
He got the message, though. He was being iced out and ignored.
“I guess not.” He mumbles in response to himself, turning away from the trio without any objection. He goes off in search of a server, trying to locate one with a tray of champagne because if he’s expected to suffer through this, his first technical outing since their wedding, definitely his first within Tony’s society, he’s going to need all the alcohol he can get. It’ll do nothing, but it doesn’t hurt either.
For the most part, Peter manages to hold his end of the multiple conversations thrown at him by strangers who know about him, and of him, with startling accuracy it throws him through a loop for a few seconds before he sinks into the knowledge that, to these people, he’s worth getting to know and remembering details about. To them, he’s now held in the same regards as Tony- maybe not as elevated, but certainly close.
It’s mildly alarming, but he supposes he might as well try and get comfortable with it. His life is now beneath a microscope. Everything he has ever done, or will ever do, was under scrutiny. He’s just largely grateful to the fact that he was an isolated teen, for the most part, thanks to Spiderman. There was nothing embarrassing to unearth, no skeletons in the closet or high school mistakes.
He’s currently talking to- somebody, he can’t remember their name. They’re a middle aged man who’s surprisingly handsome. He has a full head of brown hair and kind, intelligent blue eyes. He’s been picking Peter’s brain all night, trying to, not so subtly, gauge his intelligence and, presumably, see if the internet was lying about Peter’s educational background. Peter was proud when, after a few minutes, the man’s look shifted from pure suspicion, to genuine shock.
He wonders how many people here think he’s just a pretty face, too. A gold digger.
The man is just diving into a long explanation about his time at MIT, and how be believes Peter would benefit from considering furthering his education- to which Peter hums and nods in appropriate responses, when he notices the group of people Tony was just with, are suddenly Tony-less.
Panic flares in Peter stomach, and he tries not to make it obvious as his eyes scan the room. The woman in the red dress is in the corner of the room, her golden claws digging into a much older balding man, and Peter feels some of his worry settle at the exact moment an arm wraps around his waist.
“Henry, I see you’ve met my wife.”
Henry’s entire stature suddenly changes, at once going from casual and open, to preening and smug as his grin turns predatory. “A pleasure, I assure you.” Henry says, subtly shifting his body so he’s facing Tony head on and Peter has to refrain from rolling his eyes. The people here, all of them, are just as pathetic as he is. They’re all so desperate for Tony’s attention, for his approval, that they’re not afraid to make a fool of themselves.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?”
Peter’s nose twitches when the perfume still clinging to Tony’s clothing wafts towards him, and he goes to move away, from beneath Tony’s arm and away from his side, but that arm around him tightens and fingers dig into his hip.
Tony doesn’t even look down at him, his attention solely on Henry.
Peter doesn’t want to be here anymore, specifically the right here right now. He wonders how much trouble he will be in if he insists Tony let him go or, even worse, pulls out of the mans grasp- he knows he can, and leave regardless of what Tony says.
“Very intelligent,” Henry readily agrees, “You have quite the package deal, Stark. Beautiful and smart. How many would kill for your luck.”
“Oh I’m aware,” Tony purrs, and he sounds casual, agreeing, but he only just sounds it. “I am the one who married him, after all.” His entire body is rigid against Peter’s, his spine so stiff Peter was half certain he could be mistaken for a statue at a simple touch. His friendly disposition is slipping, the night wearing down on him, and Peter can feel it.
It’s startling how well, and quickly, Peter has become at reading Tony.
Seemingly recognizing the faint hostility lining Tony’s words, Henry laughs, but it’s strained. “Y-Yes sir, that’s right.” his blue eyes, once regarding Peter with curiosity and genuine interest, dart around the room, wide with panic. “Oh, look, there’s James. I think- I’m going to go say hi, excuse me gentleman.”
His departure is so quick he nearly trips over his own feet, and Peter sighs, his entire body sagging against Tony’s side. Beneath the stench of that woman, Tony smells faintly of scotch and aftershave, and Peter hates so much that both feel distinctly familiar and comforting.
“He was just being nice.” Peter whispers, feeling the need to defend the man despite the silence that extends between him and Tony.
The arm around his waist tightens. “A man that looks at you like that is fully intending for his kindness to be awarded, Peter.”
“Awarded?” Peter parrots, incredulous. Henry didn’t imply he wanted any such thing. “He was more interested in speaking about himself, Tony. He showed no interest in me outside of my brain.”
Peter isn’t sure when it happened, the casual usage of using Tony’s name, but it was a frequent occurrence now and he knows it pleases Tony, the fact that he dropped the dreaded- ‘sir’ phase. It still feels largely wrong most days, foreign falling from his mouth, but it was easier to call the man by his name and see those occasional flares of pleasure in his eyes, than the usual disappointment.
Tony starts walking and given his firm grip around Peter, he does too. “Beautiful and smart,” Tony repeats in a mocking, bitter tone. “I’m entirely sure his intentions were completely innocent, Peter, why else would he keep you secluded in a corner, to himself, and gloat about all of his achievements like some second-grade talent show, all the while ensuring the profile of your ass was in constant view.”
Tony is still walking, still leading, them through the throng of guests and he nods and smiles at the ones they pass, but he never slows or stops or even looks down at Peter. He keeps his stride even and purposeful, holding that air of casual as he surveys the scene around them.
He feels anything but casual, though. He feels like a poorly contained bomb, seconds away from exploding,
People are staring at them, Peter can feel their heavy, curious gazes, but he’s not looking at them. He’s studying the side of Tony’s face, trying to decide exactly what the man's intentions were as he guides them towards the bottom of the stairs, which will lead them towards their room.
He thinks back on his conversation with Henry, trying to recall what Tony was claiming, but he was checked out ninety five percent of the entire exchange, he can’t really remember any details aside from Tony was right- Henry was gloating. And Peter was facing the crowd, rather than Henry, but all of that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, unless-
Peter’s eyes widen, and his heart hiccups in his chest. Tony was jealous. No, scratch that. Tony was seethingly jealous. His jaw was clenched tight when he was not speaking, and there was tension around his eyes. He’s not looked at Peter this entire time, but Peter’s sure his eyes will reflect the same thing, the same heat and hostility.
It makes him feel positively giddy.
“And if he was?” Peter goads, knowing it was probably suicidal but also willing to risk it.
Tony’s inhale is loud, thunderous, but he doesn’t look. Just steers. “You’re my wife.” Tony says, aiming for casualness but his voice is tight. “I’ve made it explicitly clear I don’t intend to share you, Peter, and I certainly don’t want my employees thinking they can gawk at you.”
Peter snorts. “Yes, because a harmless conversation with a little gawking is somehow worse than allowing some woman to hang off of you while her breasts were practically popping out of her dress.”
“That’s different.” Tony snaps, his fingers twitching against Peter’s hip before curling inwards to grip him hard. He swoops down and deposits his glass on a table they pass, but doesn’t break their stride. The stairs grow closer, the crowd thinner.
He turns on Peter the moment they reach the bottom step, and Peter was right; his gaze is murderous. The breath is knocked from his lungs, goosebumps erupting all over his body as Tony’s hands land on his shoulders, thumb ticking against the sensitive patch of his exposed neck.
“I belong to no one.” Tony says through gritted teeth, replacing Peter’s mild thrill with brimming anxiety. “You belong to me; you have since the moment I met you, and I don’t want to give my employees the impression that you’re free range.”
“So I can’t speak to your employees because they might stare at my ass, but you can let literal women shove her breasts in your face?”
It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all, and Peter is tired of feeling like he’s constantly being wronged and scorned in this relationship.
Tony huffs an impatient, irritated breath and drops his hands from Peter’s shoulders, turning momentarily to scan the crowd before he looks back at him. “It’s not up for discussion, Peter.” He lifts his hands up in a- ‘what can I say’ gesture, and shrugs. “You have your role, and I have mine. Cry at the injustice of it all, but it’s not going to change.”
Peter realizes why they’re at the bottom of the stairs, now. He’s being punished. He’s being sent to his room. “I didn’t even- he- I-” frustrated tears sting his eyes for the second time that night, and Peter groans, entire body taut with the sudden need to fling himself through the open air. He needs the thrill of the drop, the rush of the flight.
He’s going to rip his hair out.
“Goodnight, Peter.” Tony says in clear dissmisal, taking a step back. His eyes are back to guarded and distant, his lips pressed in a thin line.
He feels so unreachable when he closes off like this, so impenetrable, and Peter hates it. No amount of reasoning or pleading will reach him. His decision is final, his absurd claims facts.
Peter will always be buried beneath layers of misplaced jealousy and possesiveness that make absolutely no sense. Tony doesn’t want him, but nobody else can pay the slightest bit of attention to him.
“I didn’t even remember his name.” Peter chokes out, thankful their secluded enough nobody can hear them, or see as that first tear falls. This next admission is going to be pathetic and painful to say out loud, but he has to let Tony know. Has to make him see and understand that it’s always been him, always. Peter has eyes for nobody else, even though it’s painfully one sided.
He takes a shuddering breath, stilling himself, “For what it’s worth. I was barely listening to him. I was too busy watching you the entire night.”
Then, with that, he’s rapidly turning on his heels and rushing up the stairs, praying he can make it to at least their bedroom before his knees give out.
—-----
Peter is restless.
Tony never came up to bed last night, never allowed Peter the opportunity to try and speak to him or reason his way through whatever that earlier argument was, and Peter got tired of staring at the emptiness of their bed so he found his way down the stairs, evidence of the party completely absent with all the furniture put back to their rightful position.
He’s sitting on the landing pad of Stark Towers, legs dangling over the edge, cool Manhattan air ghosting over his skin.
It was only five o’clock in the morning, but Peter couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned all night; what little sleep he did manage was fitful and just left him more frustrated than anything else, so he meandered down here, attempting to see the speckles of stars through the pollution in the sky, but even with his advanced vision there was nothing to be seen.
Didn’t keep him from searching though.
Something inside of him felt… empty. Like a cavern that was hollowed a little too much; tended to with too precise of tools. Every nook and crevice within his soul felt barren and raw. He knows he could never leave Tony, would never want to at this point- no matter how bad it gets, or how poorly he feels, he gets the impression there is something more to the man than meets the eye and he just, he can’t leave him.
He’s trying so hard to understand the man, to find reasons and logic within his seemingly logicless actions. Nobody is that cruel for absolutely no reason; Peter knows there’s something else there, beneath the surface, something Tony is hiding- he can feel it. There will be those rare moments, when they are talking, and laughing, and having a genuinely good time- and then Tony will just suddenly pull back and go blank, like he’s rebooting.
His reaction to Henry’s attention felt grossly disproportionate. Peter didn’t get even the slightest impression of interest from the kind man- albeit, his track record for reading people's interest wasn’t the best, but he seemed entirely interested in Peter for the sole fact of bragging to fresh ears. The moment Tony entered the picture, all eyes were on him; not Peter, him.
People naturally graviated towards him; treating his attention like earning it was the equivalent of winning some big, grand prize. But that was okay- that was to be expected. Tony has lived within the spotlight his entire life. People have fawned over his cock and ass and general body for years, various photos of various angles plastered across magazine covers and billboards long before Peter ever entered the picture.
But that was okay. Because, in a sense, Tony’s body belonged to the world- right?
But Peter speaking to one male- one male, was somehow perceived as a threat? Even if Henry was interested in him, Peter surely showed absolutely no interest in him.
It didn’t make sense.
And Peter was determined to make it make sense.
Before standing up, he offers one last glance below him. Temptation trickles down his spine as he watches the bustle of life below his feet. Even so early in the morning, they all have a purpose. Every single person, mere ants from this height, have a purpose and Peter’s- what? He’s elevated so far above them, literally, and he has nothing.
Is nothing.
Swiping his palms down his pants, a luxurious pair of powder blue silk pajamas with a matching top, he allows that dangerous sort of thrill tingle through his body as he leans ever so slightly forward, closes his eyes to the rushing wind, to the way it parts his hair and whips at his face. His body tenses, anticipating the thrill of the fall, but it never comes.
His stomach doesn’t swoop as ground gives way to air; as he hurtles through the nothingness with just the breeze cradling his skin, reminding him, once again, that this is where he belongs.
Instead, he stands up. He offers one last glance to the city below him, then he turns and leaves- determination guiding his feet.
“Fri, let me in?” Peter says some an odd amount of minutes later, standing outside the lab doors. He can see Tony through the tinted glass; hunched over his work bench, sparks flying off of whatever he is soldering together. Peter can faintly smell it out here, the melting of metal, the bitterness of burning flesh given Tony is wearing absolutely no protection, aside from a visor.
His arms are bare, a black tank top snug around his chest and torso.
There’s a near silent hum, anticipation crawling across Peter’s skin, before Friday answers. “I’m sorry, Peter, Tony doesn’t wish to be disturbed right now.”
Peter sighs and frowns, watching the muscles dance and tense in Tony’s shoulders- the way his body subtly turns and divots with every fluid movement of the soldering gun. He uses it with skilled ease, confident with every motion, and Peter sighs again, frustrated.
“Tell him I’m not leaving until he opens the doors.” Peter says, decisive. “I just want to talk, that’s it.”
That hum is back; Peter has come to learn it happens everytime Friday uses any intercom within the tower to speak to someone. It’s like a humming of electricity, probably only audible to his ears. It’s always fascinated him.
There’s a few tense moments of silence before there’s the audible unlatching of locks and the hiss of pressurized air escaping as the doors finally slide open.
“Thank you.” Peter whispers to the AI, grateful.
He’s cautious as he walks into the lab, mindful not to gawk or ogle at all the state-of-the-art equipment surrounding him, remembering what happened last time he entered this lab. He keeps his eyes locked on Tony, a specific goal in mind.
The smell produced by the soldering gun is much more intense in here, within the closed confines of the lab, and it’s making him slightly nauseous but he tries not to pay too much attention to the rolling of his stomach, writing it off as probably nerves. He can see the little burns along Tony’s arms now, too, tiny little dots flecking across his skin like freckles. Peter refrains from hissing in sympathy and reaching out to run his fingers across the angered, mistreated flesh, and instead locks his arms behind his back and stops just shy of Tony’s right shoulder.
He takes a deep breath and is pleased to find not a trace of that woman’s scent left on Tony’s skin.
“I’m the one that’s supposed to be mad.” Peter gently reminds him, finding that he’d been trying to fuse together a pile of seemingly odd pieces of metal, but he doesn’t say anything about that; just surveys his progress. “But thank you for allowing me to enter.”
These last few weeks a tectonic shift has occurred, borrowing Peter some foreign comfortability he now wears in Tony’s presence. He’s not as afraid to speak back, to stand his ground. He’s not entirely sure what did it; the progression of their time together, perhaps, or simply because Tony has patiently helped him overcome his greatest obstacle in life; touching himself.
Or, he’s quietly suspected for weeks, it has to do with the sudden softness he sees in Tony’s eyes those rare times they actually speak civilly.
Whatever it was, whatever borrowed him this courage, he’s thankful to it, and to the fact that Tony no longer seems so intimidating.
“If you have any flaw, it’s your persistence. I knew you wouldn’t have left.” Tony says wryly, ceasing his activities and setting the soldering gun down. He’s sitting on a backless rolling stool, allowing him free maneuverability which he uses to his advantage to slightly angle himself towards Peter. “Did you come down here for another argument?” He asks, and he sounds tired, but his body is tense in preparation.
From his position, Peter is looking down on him, visor hiding his expression and eyes but Peter can vividly imagine it- the drooping of his eyes, the downward curl of his lips, the clear exhaustion written in lines across his face. He doesn’t doubt the purple bags beneath his eyes have probably tinged a tad darker, become a bit more prominent.
He softly shakes his head. “No,” he says, staring back at his own reflection, desperately wishing it were Tony’s eyes he was searching, “I came down here to talk. I’m exhausted of the constant fighting, Tony. I’m tired of… well, being tired.”
He’s only eighteen. There is absolutely no reason he should feel as physically and mentally exhausted as he does. He just feels drained. And he’s so tired of finding no peace, even within his alleged husband.
The visor remains emotionless, but Tony’s fingers on his thigh stretch out to curl over his knee, nearly brushing Peter’s thigh, and twitch before settling. “Are we freely talking right now?” Tony asks, and he sounds skeptical. “No fighting, no arguing- just a civil conversation between husband and wife?”
Peter nods, and Tony sighs. Then the visor is removed, and Peter sighs in relief- eyes drinking every single detail revealed to him until, finally, the visor is set down on the table and Tony is facing him head on, giving him unrestricted access to stare- and so closely, at his face.
Day old stubble is prominent in the harsh glow of the lab, the circles beneath his eyes- as suspected, even more prominent and darker than they’d been earlier that evening. Peter reaches a hand out before he can stop himself and cups Tony’s face- the first time he has ever touched the man like this, hesitant yet sure, and brushes a finger over the puffy, bruised skin.
He doesn’t care that this isn’t them, that it’s a bit over the intimate boundaries they’ve set for themselves; he just freely touches.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Peter whispers, battling the injustice he feels in his heart at the fact that Tony is on an unknown-amount-of-hours insomniac episode, and he is still painfully beautiful. “You have to sleep, Tony.”
To his surprise, Tony doesn’t swat away his hand or flinch away from his touch- he, ever so slightly, leans into it. His eyelashes flutter as Peter’s thumb continues to brush against the skin beneath it, and Tony just stares up at him, watching.
A triumphant sort of thrill swims through Peter’s veins.
I’m touching him,
His mind screams.
He’s letting you,
His heart sighs.
It’s going to hurt,
His brain reminds him.
But it’s so worth it. Peter decides, caressing his cheek a little more fully. The hair at the back of Tony’s neck tickle across the tips of his fingers, and Peter wants to burst with how intimate it all feels.
“I sleep.” Tony argues, but it’s weak, quiet. “On the couch, I sleep.”
Peter looks over at the couch. It’s not designer, like the one they have upstairs, but it doesn’t look comfortable, either. He can only imagine how badly it hurts Tony’s body; hot restless his sleep is on it.
“Approximately thirty six hours and thirty five minutes ago, Tony slept for three hours.” Friday’s voice offers, echoing loud and telling in the lab, to which Tony’s face drops into a glare.
“Traitor.”
Worry stampedes Peter’s heart.
“Is it me?” he asks, moving to pull his hand away but Tony stops him by grabbing his wrist, encouraging Peter’s hand to stay there by pressing it firmly back in place- and Peter’s heart skips a beat. “Do I- Do you not sleep because I’m in the room with you? Because I can leave. I can go back to the arrangements before. I can-”
Tony cuts him off, his thumb rubbing at the soft underside of Peter’s wrist, distracting but pleasant. “It’s not because you’re in the room.”
Peter frowns, confused, tingles tracing up his arm and engulfing his nervous system in flames. “Then what is it?”
Tony shakes his head, sighing, and he turns away, breaking their contact to rather face his still-glowing metal plates. Peter almost makes a noise of protest, but stops it just in time, biting his lip. “Problems you wouldn’t understand, kid,” he admits, and Peter hears it, now- the heaviness to his tone, the strain. “Problems older than you, actually. I’ve always been an insomniac, Peter. There’s nothing to worry about.”
He tries not to be hurt at the ‘kid’ nickname resurfacing again, but Tony makes the point he wanted to- Peter is simply a phase in his life which, too, shall eventually pass. Tony had an entire life before him, decades of experience and life lived, and he will have more once Peter’s gone.
Peter can’t expect to know everything about this man, or hope to, when Tony’s absolutely right. Peter is half his age. Hundreds, if not thousands, of experiences separate them.
Peter sucks on his teeth and nods, letting his hands fall limp by his sides.
“You have secrets,” Peter begins, noting with mild intrigue the way Tony’s entire body jerks in response to this, “I respect that, and I won’t push- like I said, I didn’t come here to argue. I came here for answers.”
A beeping to his right startles both of them, and when Peter turns to look he finds it’s Dum-E, the prize winning robot that bumped Tony up in newspaper headlines for weeks. Peter was sure he still had a cut out of the old newspaper clipping somewhere in his old room, back at May’s.
He wants so badly to inspect the robot, to just touch it, but he knows Tony won’t appreciate it, so he forcefully turns his attention back to Tony and tightly presses his lips together- hands fidgeting behind his back.
Tony raises his eyebrows expectantly at him. “Well?” He asks, the browns of his eyes more closely resembling black as he regards Peter. “You had questions.”
Right, those. Peter never thought he’d get this far. He’s not entirely sure what his intentions were or how he was to word any of this- but Tony was waiting, patient, and that patience would only last so long.
Taking a deep breath, Peter lays a hand over his cramping stomach and exhales slowly. “Tonight, at the party,” He begins cautiously, watching Tony and the way the man’s eyes immediately shutter, almost as if blinds were physically preparing to slam shut, “I feel like something else was wrong. I understand Henry may have had some expectations of fulfillment, but it was clear I wasn’t interested in him. Why-“ Peter gnaws on his bottom lip, searching Tony’s eyes with a thundering pulse as he tries to decide how to word this. “Why did you react like that?”
He wanted to remind Tony of the progress they’ve made. That it’s been weeks since Tony has raised his voice at him, or unfairly punished him. There were still those occasional stumbles where Peter would be sent to his room, or Tony would storm off without another word, or they’d argue. But Tony hasn’t looked at him with that much hatred in… weeks. That much anger.
Tony’s eyebrow twitches, and his eyes narrow. “Why can’t you just accept things as they are?” He asks, annoyance tugging at the corner of his lips. “You expect answers for everything- why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”
“I wasn’t raised like that.” Peter breaths, hiding his twitching fingers by fisting the material of his pants at his thighs. “My aunt told me to always question the unknown.”
“And if the answer isn’t something you like?” Tony challenges, eyebrow raising. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What if you can’t find an answer?”
“Then I create my own.”
“That’s a dangerous game, Peter.” Tony warns him, suddenly rocking back with a quickness that has the chair squeaking beneath his weight. “Assumptions are a recipe for disaster.”
“Then don’t make me assume.” He pleads, wanting to take that step forward and cup Tony’s face once again, just to feel him, just to soothe his anxiety, but that opportunity has already came and went. It wouldn’t be so readily accepted this time around. “Tell me why you were so angry. What does Henry mean to you?”
Tony’s gaze is pensive, clinical as he watches Peter- as his eyes flicker back and forth, apprehension drawing his shoulders taut.
“What if I tell you it’s best you don't know?” He finally asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Would you believe me? Trust me?”
There’s a clear question in his eye, in his tone, in his words. It feels like that day, when they first met, and Tony asked him if they could make this all up as they go. It feels like a trap.
And Peter refuses to take the bait this time.
“Was it me, then?” He redirects, inadvertently answering Tony’s question without intending to. He doesn’t miss the relief that quickly flickers over Tony’s face. “I-I’m trying to learn your world. It’s complicated, and I know today was my first actual outing within your society, so I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or upset you in any way. I just- I need to know these things, so I do better next time.”
They were the only two possible explanations Peter himself could come up with, so if he couldn’t ask about Henry- he was willing to cast the blame on himself.
The blinds slam shut with finality. “So you do better?” Tony repeats back to him, and he sounds incredulous.
And then the blinds suddenly lift as recognition dawns on Tony’s face.
It means we’d rather lie than disappoint you.
Peter had told him, not too long ago, that disappointing Tony was out of the question. Admitted to Tony that disappointing him was the last possible thing he’d ever want to do, even if it seems to be all he’s ever capable of doing.
To have it applied to a real life scenario seems to shock Tony.
“Do you remember our wedding?” Tony asks, and Peter frowns, confused to the relevance, but nods nonetheless. How could he forget? “I asked you if it was hard to control, the self blaming.”
Peter freezes, unsure of where this was going. The last time Tony told him this it wasn’t, exactly, a pleasant conversation. Of course it ended with Tony reminding Peter that he was more than happy with the arrangement, and to fulfill his spousal duties, but it was still a very dark, very detached part of Peter’s life.
He nods again, swallowing thickly. “Y-Yes, I remember.”
He told Tony he blamed himself for their wedding, for their unity. Admitted that, maybe if he weren’t so defective, Tony would want him.
That doesn’t seem to be Tony’s intention tonight, however. “And yet, you still do it. Tonight wasn’t on you, Peter. I admit I handled my end poorly, but you did nothing wrong.”
“I didn’t.” Peter confirmed with a thundering pulse. “I-“ he almost brings up Henry again, almost fuck everything up, but he knows his heart won’t rest until he reassures Tony he didn’t want to man. He hesitates. “I know you don’t want to talk about Henry, but can I tell you my side of the evening? Without expectations for answers?”
Tony doesn’t look pleased- his face is grim, his eyes disappointed, which absolutely guts Peter, but he’s already fucked up. He might as well soldier on.
Tony reluctantly nods his approval.
“He’s the one who approached me. I swear I didn’t know he had any other intentions besides casual conversation, otherwise I would have-”
He pauses. Would have what? Walked away? Reminded him he was married to Tony, which the man, and the entire world, already knows? Embarrass himself by wrongfully assuming something? No, if he’s being entirely honest, that bitter little thing he’d felt in his chest before, that desire to mount Tony right there in that open-planned room, in front of all those people, and lay claim to him- it would have wanted fuel. It would have had Peter turning to Henry, and openly accepting his advances, just on the off chance it would hurt Tony back, just as badly as Peter had been hurt seeing him with that woman.
Just the memory of her sends a sharp pang through his stomach, has his heart constricting for a painful beat.
Tony is staring at him curiously, so Peter trudges on, truthfully. “I probably would have flirted with him.” Peter finds himself admitting, that nauseous feeling that’s plagued him since entering the room amplifying. Tony’s face falls into a glare, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Peter beats him to it. “I would have. Not because I want him, Tony- I think I’ve proven to you countless times who and what it is I want- but because I would have wanted you to feel even an inkling of what I felt when I saw her all over you.”
“It’s not what you think.” Tony repeats, an exact replica to his defense he’d spoken earlier, and Peter can see his hackles rising so he’s quick to raise placating hands. “I thought you weren’t expecting answers?”
“No, no, I know- I know. It’s the price of your position, or whatever- but the entire fact is, Tony, I didn’t know that. I’m not confident in our relationship. I know where I stand, but I have no idea where you stand. You’re constantly back and forth, and I wish I could- I wish you would let me in.”
His voice is so small those last six words, barely audible when spoken, but he knows Tony has heard him. And even if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t have had to guess too hard. It’s a plea Peter has made countless of times, one that’s always met with resistance and anger.
Tony doesn’t respond with either of those this time, surprisingly. His face does this thing, where it flickers through a series of different emotions, before it settles on one and softens, just a smidge- just the bunch of his brows and the curve of his lips, but it’s noticeable, and it makes Peter feel pathetic.
Because it’s sympathy he’s getting.
“There’s not a lot of things I can promise you, Peter, especially not out in this world-” Tony says, and he’s reaching forward, reaching for Peter, his hands curling around the backs of Peter’s thighs and tugging him forward, tugging him closer until Tony’s knees press against Peter’s. Tony tips his head back, looks up at Peter, and his eyes are unreadable, guarded, but his words sincere, “but as long as I am here, in this tower, I promise that you don’t have to worry about anyone else. You’ll have me then, to yourself, can you live with that?”
And it wasn’t exactly a promise of ownership, but it was something, it was progress.
“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, nodding, trying his damndest not to cry. Tony is hiding from him, hiding things from him, and unless he wants to press and ruin this all, he’s just going to have to accept it. “I can live with that.”
He’d take it, any day of the week. It was Tony trying, he knows that. It doesn’t answer any of his questions, or excuse Tony’s actions, or that woman being allowed to hang off of him like some cheap ornament, but it does settle something in Peter. Does soothe that scorned dragon within his soul.
Tony has always responded well to his body, to his touch, and Peter now knows if nothing else in their life makes sense, this is starting to. This aspect of their marriage. It’s the only way he will ever have Tony completely.
So the guilt Peter feels as he falls into a kiss, allowing himself to be enveloped in Tony’s arms, pulled onto his lap, is lessened, and that nauseous feeling forgotten, if just for a moment.
If just for tonight.