Journalist
Peter didn't know which way to turn.
The guests gravitated cheerfully around him, calling out to one another, laughing heartily, exchanging smiles and glances whose meanings completely eluded him. The men were dressed in elegant suits, proudly displaying silk ties; the women wore sophisticated dresses and dizzying heels.
Peter felt entirely out of place among New York’s high society. He kept fiddling with the bow tie Tony had given him, adjusting it every five minutes. These people were nothing like those he was used to in Queens; he felt completely out of step with everything they represented. They exuded confidence, money, and peace of mind. None of them seemed like they needed Spider-Man.
If MJ had been there, she wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot them her most disapproving looks. Peter regretted not thinking to invite her, but she probably would have refused anyway.
‘Everything going okay, kid?’ Happy asked from behind him.
With his bodybuilder’s shape, he didn’t exactly blend in with the guests either. Peter smiled.
‘Hey Hap! I’m good. That little foam on the petit fours is amazing!’
‘Aren’t you getting bored yet?’
Peter shook his head.
‘Not at all! I'd never been to a party like this before. It's the first time I've seen so many guys in ties! Aside from on TV, I mean. But it's even cooler in real life. You know what I mean?’
Happy grimaced.
‘Not really, but if you say so... Anyway, if you want to head back to the Tower at any point, just say the word.’
‘Oh, no, the night’s just getting started! Tony said I could stay until midnight. No school tomorrow!’
‘Alright, whatever you want.’
Happy patted Peter’s shoulder with a stern look.
‘Take care of yourself. Don't drink from anyone else's glass. If someone asks you to follow them somewhere private, tell me right away. Eat as much as you want, but don’t answer questions with your mouth full.’
‘Yes, Happy!’ Peter said, rolling his eyes. ‘I wasn’t raised by wolves, y’know!’
‘I'll be here all evening, so if anything happens, find me, okay?’
Peter nodded, smiled, and returned to mingling.
The charity event was being held in a grand room with ceilings so high, Peter could barely make out the chandeliers swinging overhead. He grabbed a glass of soda, grateful than Tony had insisted waiters offer Pepsi and not just champagne, and swallowed it in one gulp.
The bubbles danced pleasantly over his tongue. He sat in a vacant seat, watching the guests float by like swans in a world of gold and crystal, and startled slightly when a woman sat down across from him.
She smiled at him at though she’d known him forever and clutched her phone tightly. She had long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a piercing gaze behind rectangular glasses. With her was a man who looked rather drunk; he kept slumping forward, only to jerk upright at the last second, blinking like a deer caught in headlights.
‘H-hey kid,’ the man slurred. ‘What are you doing here? Aren't you a little young for this kind of party?’
‘Come on, Ryan,’ the woman cut in, patting his arm like a scolding teacher. ’Don't you recognize him? He’s the kid Tony Stark and Pepper Potts took in last summer. It was all over the papers.’
Took in. The words made Peter feel like a rescue Labrador.
‘What was your name again?’ the woman asked, still smiling. ‘Lester? Chester?’
‘Peter,‘ he corrected. He had the strong sense she already knew that.
‘Ah yes—Peter! What a charming name.’
‘Er... thank you? And you are, ma’am…?’
‘Fisher. Miss Fisher. But you can call me Allison. And this is Ryan Byrd, my photographer.’
‘Photographer?’ Peter repeated, surprised. ‘Are you a model?’
Allison burst into laughter, as though he’d made the joke of the century.
‘You're adorable, but no, I'm not a model. Just a very curious person who’d love to learn more about you. What do you say—shall we find somewhere quieter to chat?’
Peter hesitated. Happy had explicitly warned him not to follow guests to secluded spots, but Allison Fisher and Ryan Byrd didn’t seem dangerous, and his spider-sense stayed silent.
Still, he had no clue what their true intentions were.
‘Why do you want to ask me questions?’ he asked uneasily. ’There are tons of people here way more interesting than me. I'm just a regular teenager.’
‘Oh, don't be modest! I did some research on you, Peter. Not easy—Pepper Potts did a great job scrubbing the internet clean of your name. But I heard you won an award at your school?’
‘You mean the Decathlon? That wasn’t me alone,’ Peter said quickly. ’It was a team thing. MJ—Michelle Jones—she’s our captain. She’s amazing. We wouldn’t have won without her!’
‘That's very interesting. Would you tell me more about Michelle?’ she asked sweetly. ‘You seem to think highly of her.’
‘I-if you want to, sure, but… why?’
‘I'm a journalist,‘ Allison said, as if that explained everything. “And I'm always on the lookout for young talent. Talent like you… or Michelle. Would you be up for a quick interview?’
Ah—that explained the phone, open to the voice memo app.
Ryan Byrd shifted uncomfortably.
‘B-but Allison, I thought you—’
‘Wait for us here, Ryan,’ she interrupted with a smile sharp enough to slice a melon. ‘Now, Peter, where can we talk away from prying ears?’
Peter led her to a curtained alcove. It was small, and they sat so close their knees brushed. Peter tried to shrink back, but Allison showed no such restraint, invading every cubic centimeter of air he was breathing. Her perfume—a mix of violets and raspberries—made his head spin.
‘This spot is perfect,’ she said happily.
‘Er, thanks. So… what did you want to know about Michelle?’
‘Tell me everything. How did you meet?’
Peter began talking, trying to ignore the intensity of Allison’s stare. She interrupted him often, and soon he realized she wasn’t interested in MJ at all: every question was really about him—his school, his life in Queens, his new life at the Tower. How had he met Tony? Were May and Tony close?
‘People were surprised when Potts announced that Tony Stark had taken custody of a fifteen-year-old. Sure, she said you were a family friend, a brilliant intern, and that Tony promised your aunt he'd take care of you if anything happened to her… but it was all very mysterious, wasn’t it? Before you showed up, Tony Stark had never shown the slightest interest in kids. I didn't even know he took underage interns.’
‘Oh, um, like you said, my aunt and Tony were friends…’
‘A nurse from Queens, friends with the most influential multi-billionaire in the city?’ Allison persisted.
The implication made Peter bristle. ‘So what?’
‘Please, Peter. You’re a smart boy. Haven’t you ever wondered why… you? Haven’t you ever had… suspicions?’
Peter blinked. ‘Suspicions about what?’
‘Don’t you ever wonder if he had something with your aunt?’
Peter almost laughed from the sheer absurdity.
‘No. Never. He wasn’t May's type.’
Unfortunately, Allison wasn't done.
‘What about your biological mother? Do you think Tony could’ve known her’
The question landed like a punch.
‘W-what? I don't even remember my mom! And Tony doesn’t either. He doesn't even know her name!’
‘So you’re sure you’re not—’
‘His secret child?’ Peter stared in disbelief. ‘Take my DNA, take his. Do all the tests you want—you won’t find a single shared gene.’
Allison seemed perturbed by the ardor with which Peter defended Tony. She paused, and Peter had the brief hope that she would stop questioning him.
But then, she smiled again and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. Peter felt a shiver down his spine.
‘Peter, I need you to be very honest now. Has Tony Stark ever spoken to you in a way that made you uncomfortable? Anything that made you feel like he wanted… something else from you?’
Peter recoiled.
What?!
That smile. That question.
The implication.
‘I’m just trying to understand why Tony Stark suddenly became a symbol of charity by taking an orphan into his home’, Allison continued smoothly. ‘He didn’t do it just for his media image, did he? Stark doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. That something could be you…’
Charity. His media image. That’s why they thought he was living with Tony. For that, and the unsettling possibility of a sordid, repulsive relationship—the mere of thought which made him want to throw up.
Allison must have seen it on his face, because her smile slipped for the first time.
‘Peter? Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘No,’ he managed to say. ’No, I don't want to talk to you anymore. You're completely wrong. Tony isn’t—he never wanted to—he’s the best person I know. And he expects nothing, absolutely nothing in return.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
How could he have answered that?
He was sure of it because he knew what kind of man she was hinting at. Tony had nothing in common with the kind of predator she seemed to imagine, but Peter knew they existed. He knew it perfectly. And a name, long buried in the shadows of his childhood, bubbled up like bile on his tongue.
Skip.
Skip, with his games. His smiles. His hand—
‘Is everything okay here?’ Ryan’s voice broke through the memory, slurred and unsteady. ‘You'd better hurry. Stark’s bodyguard is looking for the kid…’
Peter jumped, the nausea blossoming in his throat. Ignoring Allison's voice behind him, he rushed out of their shelter and quickly headed for the bathroom, dodging guests and sharp voices along the way.
He thought he heard a woman call out behind him: ‘Stark, your kid almost knocked over my glass! Keep an eye on him!’ before the toilet door slammed shut behind him.
OOO
The room was just as luxurious as the rest of the building—dazzling white walls bathed in a golden light that emanated from crystal chandeliers. Vases of dried flowers stood proudly on either side of the mirrors.
Peter met the haggard gaze of his reflection. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Worse—he looked like a ghost himself. Fearing anyone might see him in this state, he hastily locked himself in a cubicle and collapsed onto the floor, which was clean and smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant. He pulled his knees up to his chest and stayed there for a long time, trying to breathe, trying to block out the memories threatened to flood his mind and drag him back into his worst nightmare. Not to vomit became his mantra. Not to vomit, not to think, not to vomit, not to think…
‘Peter?’ Tony’s voice called out from the other side of the door. ’You've been in there for a while now. Without wanting to meddle in things that don't concern me… Are you all okay?’
Peter closed his eyes, stifling a moan of distress. Tony couldn't bear to see him like this. It was Peter who had insisted on accompanying him to the charity event. Tony had been hesitant, but the teenager had promised him that he’d be good and wouldn't cause trouble.
Having an anxiety attack in the toilet was definitely not part of the ideal evening Tony had envisioned.
‘Peter, it's not that I'm worried, but I'm starting to wonder. No need to go into details, but can you at least tell me if you're still alive?’
He tightened his grip around his knees, praying Tony would think he was no longer there.
‘I know you're there,’ Tony’s voice shattered his hopes. ’There's a GPS in your bow tie.’
Oh. Peter should’ve guessed. Reflexively, he ran his finger over the fabric that rustled against the collar of his shirt.
‘Okay, you win. I’m panicking. Peter, open this door right now.’
He had to open his mouth. He had to reassure Tony. He had to tell him everything was fine, that he shouldn’t worry… but the words died in his throat. His heart pounded furiously, swallowing up everything—including his ability to speak.
He could barely hear the door lock groaning under the assault of a multifunctional skeleton key Tony had cobbled together, or the shocked exclamation that Tony let out when he finally saw him.
‘Oh shit. Hey, Pete? Peter?’
Peter felt hands rest on his shoulders. The contact, normally comforting, sent another shiver crawling down his spine.
Skip….
Bile rose to his throat; he barely had time to push Tony away before leaning over the toilet bowl and throwing up violently.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Tony muttered behind him. ‘Kid, what's going on? Did you drink something that didn't sit well?’
‘N-no,’ he managed to whisper between heaving swallows. ’Just Pepsi.’
‘Did you eat something weird? Something that tasted funny?’
‘No... I-I... I...’
He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.
‘I... I just… I don’t feel good,‘ he finally murmured.
‘Are you sick?’ Tony asked right away, running a hand over Peter’s forehead.
Peter flinched again. The worry in Tony’s eyes was clear.
‘Kid, talk to me. Did someone do something? Did someone… hurt you?’
He shook his head. All he wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and forget the evening even happened. Forget the memories the journalist's questions had stirred. Erase the ghosts of sensations that still clung to his skin, memories he’d tried so hard to bury.
Tony seemed to sense his distress, because he pulled out his StarkPhone and held it to his ear, not taking his eyes off Peter.
‘Happy? The party's over. Let's pack up. Get the car ready. Pete and I will be down in a few. Yeah—no, I don’t know yet. Something happened… We'll talk later. I’ve got him.’
He hung up and turned his attention back to Peter.
‘Come on, Pete. Happy's waiting for us.’
Peter nodded and sat up, ignoring Tony's outstretched hand. Far from being offended, Tony seemed even more anxious.
He stumbled his way to the sinks, rinsed out his mouth, and followed Tony out the bathroom. The walk to Happy’s car was a blur; Peter had no memory of how he ended up in the back seat, inhaling the leathery scent of the Audi.
Happy and Tony spoke in low voices the entire ride, but didn’t ask him any questions—much to Peter’s relief. When they finally arrived back at the Tower, Peter quickly shed his suit—including his GPS bow tie—and rushed into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the bad memories that still clung to his skin.
He emerged with red, scalded skin, but his chest felt a little lighter. Back to his room, he found Tony sitting on the edge of the bed, the bow tie in his hands. He looked up as Peter entered, offering him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Hey, Pete.’
‘Hey,’ Peter murmured, avoiding eye contact. ’Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin the evening.’
‘You didn't ruin anything,’ Tony reassured him immediately. ‘Unfortunately, the same can't be said for that weasel Allison Fisher.’
Peter's heart skipped a beat. He stared at Tony, startled. How did he know...?
Tony lifted the bow tie slightly. ‘There wasn't just a GPS in there. I installed a camera too, just in case. It cut out when you went into the bathroom, obviously. I'm not as twisted as that journalist seems to think.’
‘I-I'm sorry!‘ Peter stammered, his face flushing. ‘I didn't mean to... I shouldn't have talked to her. I should’ve known it was a trap, but I—’
‘Stop. You don’t owe me an apology,’ Tony said firmly, gesturing for him to sit. ‘If I'd known they’d grill you the second I turned by back, until you got sick, I never would’ve left you alone. I’m the one who should be sorry. Forgive me, kid.’
‘N-no, it's me... I thought…’
‘I know, Pete. She knew exactly what to say to make you talk. She's no rookie.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Peter repeated, collapsing onto the bed and burying his face in his hands. ‘I shouldn't have spoken to her.’
‘Hey, Peter? Look at me’
Peter hesitated, then lifted his gaze, meeting Tony’s steady, concerned eyes.
‘You didn’t do anything wrong. It's not your fault that woman twisted things. Honestly… it’s kind of reassuring that people care enough to make sure I’m not hurting you.’
‘But...’
‘She could’ve asked differently. With some tact. Or a little empathy. She should take a lesson from Spider-Man, I hear he's great with people. And all that garbage about me rebuilding my image, or doing charity? You know that’s bullshit, right?’
Peter flinched slightly—betraying his lingering doubts. Tony caught it and sighed.
‘Pete, you're not here for my image. I don't care what people think of me. You're not a charity case, and I didn’t take you in to look good on a résumé. I've told you before, but I’ll keep saying it: you're here because I care about you. You're my favorite teenager, okay? My teenager. Period.’
‘O-okay.’
Tony reached out to touch his shoulder, but Peter instinctively pulled away. The moment the gesture registered, shame surged in Peter’s chest and he rushed to stammer an apology, face burning.
‘Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean—‘
‘Hey,’ Tony cut in gently. ‘It's okay, kid. You're tired. You want space. I get it’
But it wasn't that. Peter wanted to say something—to explain the way that touch brought memories rushing back, how the nausea still curled in his gut, how all he needed was someone to tell him it wasn’t his fault. That Skip was gone, and he couldn’t hurt him anymore. That he was safe now.
But the words stuck in his throat, so he just nodded, managing a faint, shaky smile.
‘Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day. And don't worry about Fisher and her photographer, their article’s never seeing daylight. Pepper and I will make sure of it.’
‘Thanks, Tony,’ Peter murmured.
‘Of course. Good night, kiddo.’
‘Good night...’
Tony gave the edge of the bed a gentle pat and slipped quietly out, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts.
He closed his eyes and prayed tomorrow would be better.
Prayed to forget Skip.
To forget all the bad memories.