Tony Stark
Peter is- as the kids say- straight up not having a good time right now.
He thought that the week after being bitten by a radioactive spider, where he spent most of his time heaving into a toilet and becoming the human embodiment of a hot stove top, there wouldn’t be much to top his list of Bad Days™.
When aunt May- or, well, just May- kicked him out of the house after learning he was Spider-man, Peter didn’t have many options. He attempted to continue going to Midtown, but May had pulled his information from the school and his seat was taken away.
He tried going back to May’s. He tried going back to May’s many, many times. His aunt merely ignored his presence or shut the door in his face. It never stung any less.
Peter couldn’t bring himself to go to Ned. May was right when she said that continuing as Spider-man would only bring harm to himself and those around him. But Peter can’t just stop being Spider-man, it’s ingrained in his DNA- literally.
He couldn’t put Ned in danger. Not his best friend, not the only person in the world who’s ever stuck by his side through everything he’s been through. Ned deserved a long, safe life, where he goes to a good college and does something great with his genius mind.
Peter would only hold him back.
So here he is, nearly two years later, homeless, with nothing and no one.
But even after all of that and everything he’s seen on the streets, he can confidently say that today has been the worst day of his life.
Not when his parents died, not when Ben died, not when May kicked him out.
No, right now, laying in the middle of a busy street after ramming into Tony Stark himself.
Here’s the sitch. Peter needs money. It’s an unfortunate fact of life. Unfortunately, he’s without an address, a valid ID, and he doesn’t meet the requirements for any well respected job (like dressing well or smelling good).
Fortunately, he’s Spider-man! And if there’s one person who is completely blind to anything other than Spider-man, it’s J. Jonah. Jameson. Triple J, if you will. Peter can drop off loads of prime pictures of Spider-man and Jameson wouldn’t care if he was doing it in his boxers.
What J.J.J does care about, is timeliness. When Peter had initially emailed the man about photographing Spider-man, Jameson had made it clear that he was to deliver the photos of Spider-man at 9:00 A.M. on the dot, every other Wednesday.
Peter doesn’t own a working phone. Or a watch. And as hard as he’s tried, he can’t figure out a way to make a sundial that rings when the sun is at a certain point in the sky. His recent method is just staying up all night on Tuesday and crashing when he finishes dropping them off.
Unfortunately, Peter may or may not have gotten a teensy little stab wound around 3 A.M. last night, and passed out right after precariously stitching it up.
He’d woken up at 8:50 A.M. Jameson’s office is multiple blocks away even using the subway. Peter scrambled out of his makeshift bed, out of his alley for night, and into the New York City streets.
By the time he’d gotten into Manhattan, Peter is so unbelievably late, he’s sure J.J.J is going to fire him. The sidewalks have gotten increasingly busier over the past few hours, so he’s threading and weaving through the crowd, shouting apologies over his shoulder when he accidentally shoulder-checks people.
People stare at him like he’s a zoo animal. With some kind of interested disgust that only the homeless population can garner. Their lips curl and eyebrows raise as he races past, looking- and smelling- like garbage.
He’s sprinting by a particularly nice clothing store- one that had Peter openly gaping at the price tags in the display case- when his distracted mind failed to warn him of a man right in his path.
His spider-sense goes off a second too late and Peter slams straight into a hard chest. He lands straight on his ass, his envelope of pictures flying a couple feet away from him, only to be stepped on by passerbyers.
Embarrassed as he is about ramming into somebody, he’s between apologizing and standing to continue his sprint. His morals win and he looks up sheepishly at the man he hit.
And his jaw drops.
Because standing in front of him, with coffee running down his expensive slacks and black shoes, is Tony fucking Stark.
Peter wonders if the universe hates him. Seriously, after everything he’s dealt with, now he’s about to be blacklisted from every respected scientific company in existence- not that he had a chance anymore, anyway.
He stares up in horror at his idol, sputtering for an apology. His mouth opens and closes like a fish while Stark drops his gaze to look at him.
“Well,” he says, “I was actually planning on drinking that.”
It snaps Peter out of his frozen state. He scrambles off the ground, reaching to grab his- now completely ruined- envelope.
“Mr. Stark sir, I- I’m so sorry, oh my gosh, I wasn’t watching where I was going, I’m so, so sorry. I can, like, bring your suit to dry clean or- or pay for it, even though that might take me a while, please don’t blacklist me, oh my god I just hit Tony Stark.” Peter rambles, beginning to mutter to himself in panic.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down chatty Gabby,” Mr. Stark cuts him off.
Peter stares up at the man with wide eyes, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under Mr. Stark’s speculating gaze. He looks at Peter’s- most likely smudged-with-dirt- face, his tattered clothes, and tilts his head.
Mr. Stark shrugs, “I’ve got tons of other suits just like this, no skin off my back.”
Peter calms down very slightly. He nods violently as it seems his voice box is currently unable to get out words. He’s still upped on the adrenaline of ramming into someone, that someone being Tony Stark, and his run to Jameson’s.
Jameson. Fuck.
Peter’s eyes widened again, remembering why he was sprinting in the first place. He’s lost so much time now, there’s no way he’s keeping this job.
He turns back to Mr. Stark, who looks at him with his eyebrows raised. Peter must have been quiet for too long.
“Um- that’s good. Listen, I’m super sorry about all this, but I’m super, unbelievably late, so I gotta go!” Peter says, beginning to run through the street again.
As he sprints away he yells, “I’m so sorry again, Mr. Stark!”
His super hearing is the only reason he hears the man’s response. Mr. Stark mutters, “Weird kid.”
Peter sighs in relief and focuses back on the street in front of him. By the time he reaches J.J.J’s office, it’s nearly 9:45 A.M.
When he enters Jameson’s office, the man is sitting behind his desk.
“Mr. Jameson, I’m so sorry for being late, I don’t have an alarm and I got caught up and-” Peter gets cut off.
“You’re done, Parker.” Jameson says curtly.
Dread swirls in Peter’s gut. He needs this job. This is the only way he’s not completely starving on the streets.
“Please, sir, it’s my first time being late, can’t you give me another chance, sir?” Peter pleads.
Jameson rolls his eyes, “I told you my conditions when you started. If you’re late, you’re fired. You give me those pictures, I pay you, and we go our separate ways.”
Peter feels panic overtake his body, like water filling his lungs. He isn’t sure he’ll survive without this job. He’s barely afloat as it is, what’s he going to do now?
Peter tries again, “Please, sir, it won’t happen again.”
That’s obviously the tipping point of Jameson’s temper. “You’re done, Parker, get it through your head. Give me the photos.” He says shortly, banging his hand on his desk.
Peter sighs and he pulls the photos out of the dirty envelope. Thankfully, none of the pictures have been affected. He hands them to Jameson, who looks them over. He flicks through the photos, muttering and scoffing at most of them.
“Twenty-five.” Jameson finally says.
Peter stands there in disbelief. Even his blurriest photos got him over fifty bucks per bundle.
“Twenty-five? Those pictures are perfect!” Peter defends.
Jameson throws the majority of the pictures in the trash. “They’re garbage,” he says, “You’re lucky I’m giving you anything at all.”
Peter would have continued fighting it, but the look in Jameson’s eyes tells him if he makes another comment, he’ll be walking out of the building with nothing in his pockets. He tries one last time.
“Please, sir,” Peter says, “This is all I have. Please.”
Jameson pulls a twenty and a five out of his wallet, sliding it across the table.
“Leave the premises or my guards will make you leave, Parker.” Jameson says, turning on his chair so his back faces Peter.
He stands there defeatedly, his mind working overtime to come up with a reason for Jameson to keep him, but he comes up with nothing. He grabs the cash and tucks it into his pocket.
“Thank you, sir.” Peter says, walking out of the office.
Twenty-five bucks might last him a little over a week, if he stretches it. After that… he doesn’t know.
What a shitty day.
—----------
Across Manhattan, Tony Stark is entering the penthouse at the Avenger’s Tower, where most of his friends are lounging around.
He’s soaked in coffee, his clothes sticking disgustingly to his skin. The kid had shocked him more than anything. Tony wasn’t even mad that coffee had spilled on him, just slightly put out that he didn’t have anything to drink anymore.
It was slightly endearing how the kid had rambled. Obviously the boy was less off- maybe even homeless- if his clothes and overall appearance had anything to say about it. Tony wasn’t going to jump on a kid who was already down- an extremely apologetic.
Jesus, the kid would not stop apologizing.
Natasha noticed him first, “You know the coffee goes in your mouth, right?” She quips.
That garners the attention of the rest of the Avengers. Steve merely raises an eyebrow at the brown stains covering Tony’s clothes.
Clint chuckles, “You fall over on your way back?”
Tony smiles sarcastically at the man, allowing Pepper to take a small cloth to his dress shirt. He takes off his suit jacket, throwing it at Clint.
“Hilarious.” Tony deadpans, “A kid running like a bat outta hell rammed into me.”
Rhodey sets down his book, “Huh. What’d you do?”
“Nothing. The kid was apologizing so much I could barely get a word in. Then he just ran off.” Tony says.
Steve frowns, “And you just let him?”
Tony rolls his eyes, “I’m pretty sure the kid was homeless, and he obviously didn’t mean to. I’m not a monster.”
Steve shrugs and goes back to his book, stopping Bucky from flipping the page by swatting his hand.
“Homeless?” Natasha asks.
Tony turns to her, “I don’t know, probably. He looked like it, at least.”
“Poor kid.” Rhodey comments.
Tony nods, and starts walking further into the apartment, towards his bedroom. He pulls off his dirty tie, grimacing as coffee drips from the end.
He wasn’t lying when he said he has suits just like it. Who cares if some kid spilled coffee all over one of them?
Well, he’ll probably never see the kid again, anyway.