All Is Calm, All Is Bright

It’s the last real week of classes before holiday break, and usually, Peter would be sticking it out until the end. Not because anything important ever happened in those final days—honestly, all the teachers did was put out some cookies, maybe popcorn, and queue up the same holiday movies they’d been playing since he was in kindergarten—but because it was tradition. It was nice, in a predictable, Midtown kind of way.

This year, though? That predictability is exactly why Peter isn’t staying to finish the week out. Because while watching Elf for the umpteenth time with his friends sounds fine, it doesn’t hold a candle to what Mr. Stark had invited him to.

Holiday events. At Stark Industries. Two whole days of them.

Peter still can’t quite wrap his head around it. Sure, he’s technically an intern—well, sort of. He doesn’t actually do anything the other interns do, and he’s pretty sure he’s getting paid way more than any of them, too, if the numbers in the account Mr. Stark set up for him are accurate. (They have to be, right? Banks don’t just make typos with that many zeros.) But he doesn’t think about that too much, because when he does, his stomach knots up in this weird way that feels part guilt, part gratitude, and a whole lot of don’t think about it, Peter, or you’ll ruin it.

So yeah, it doesn’t really make sense to him why Mr. Stark—literal genius, billionaire, superhero—would ask him to tag along to this. When Tony first brought it up, Peter might’ve spiraled a little. There were a lot of questions. Could he even miss school? Why would Tony want him there? Was this some elaborate setup to hand him off to someone else—like, “Here’s your new intern; have fun with him”?

May had rolled her eyes so hard during his meltdown, he was pretty sure they’d seen the back of her skull. She’d talked him down, though, like she always does. “Tony Stark doesn’t play games, Pete,” she’d said, swiping a dish towel at him like he was a stray cat. “He’s not one of your classmates. He’s a grown man with, like, a zillion things to do. If he wanted to pawn you off, he wouldn’t be subtle about it.”

Still, the doubt lingered, just a little. Because what if May was wrong?

But if she was, it didn’t matter now. Peter practically vibrates with anticipation as the subway rumbles beneath him, Queens fading into Manhattan like magic. He’s not just excited—he’s nervous. Meeting actual employees and interns at Stark Industries feels monumental. It’s his first chance to make a real impression, to prove to Mr. Stark—and everyone else—that he deserves to be there.

The thought makes his stomach do a weird little flip, but he pushes it down, gripping the metal pole tighter as the train jerks to a stop. He’s got this. Right?

It’s strange being in Manhattan this early. Peter’s never been on this side of the city at this hour before, and if he thought Queens was chaotic, this is something else entirely. The sidewalks are alive, pulsing with energy that feels barely contained, like everyone’s been injected with a double shot of espresso and let loose. It’s not surprising, really—this is where all the bigger workplaces are. A huge chunk of the city’s population probably has jobs around here, which explains the crowds. Still, it’s… a lot.

But Peter doesn’t mind. Being born and raised in New York means the chaos is practically in your DNA. It’s part of the rhythm of your life, the background noise to everything you do. The endless stream of people rushing to their destinations, the tangle of voices, footsteps, and honking horns—it’s messy, sure, but it’s his kind of messy. And today, it’s different. The sea of New Yorkers bustling around him is awash with holiday colors: reds, greens, golds, and whites woven into scarves, coats, and sweaters.

It’s nice. Comforting, even.

There’s an unspoken unity in it, one that doesn’t require words or forced smiles. New Yorkers don’t go out of their way to be friendly—most of the time, they barely even acknowledge each other. But things like this? The quiet, collective embrace of the holiday spirit? It’s enough to make Peter’s shoulders relax a little, even amidst the chaos.

He pulls his gaze from the crowd, glancing down at his sweater—a bright red Iron Man Christmas sweater, complete with a cartoon Tony in his suit holding a gift. He presses his lips together to stifle a laugh as he crosses the street heading in the direction of the tower.

It’s the only holiday sweater he owns, and Mr. Stark told him to show up festive. So here he is, festive as can be. He can already hear the teasing—Mr. Stark won’t let him live this down. Not that Peter really minds. It’s worth it.

May, of course, had her own fun when Peter walked out the door this morning. She’d pinched his cheeks, like he was still five years old, then ruffled the hair he’d spent way too long trying to tame. “You look handsome,” she’d said, smiling that soft, fond smile. Peter may have rolled his eyes but he still secretly loved it.

Peter’s grin stretches wider as the tower comes into view, and his steps quicken, his sneakers tapping against the wet pavement. Stark Tower stands tall and proud, wrapped in a massive red bow that stretches all the way around its glass and steel frame, like Santa had dropped a giant present smack in the middle of Manhattan. The letters STARK gleam in gold, strung with what looks like an endless cascade of twinkling lights, dazzling even against the pale winter sunlight.

He can’t help but feel a burst of excitement bubbling in his chest, though it’s tangled with the ever-present nerves. He just wants to make the best impression possible. He really likes it here—more than he thought he would. Not that it’s surprising or anything; he expected Stark Industries to be cool. But somewhere along the way, the tower has started to feel like… well, he’s not exactly sure what.

It’s not home, exactly. That title belongs to the apartment in Queens with May’s cooking and hand-me-down furniture. And it’s not like school, which he tolerates because he has to. The tower has become something else entirely—a constant, a staple, nestled neatly into place in the hierarchy of Peter Parker’s world. And that’s exciting. But it’s also terrifying, because it feels too good to last.

That thought creeps in, threatening to sour his mood, but it vanishes the second the automatic doors slide open.

The lobby of Stark Tower greets him like a warm hug after a frigid walk in the New York cold. Every surface gleams with holiday cheer, from the garlands wrapped around the railings to the towering Christmas tree dominating the space with its sparkling ornaments and ribboned branches. Peter had seen the decorating crew hard at work on Tuesday when he left the lab with Happy, but the finished product? It’s like stepping into Santa’s workshop—if Santa had an unlimited budget and a love for sleek, modern design. He knows Tony’s a billionaire, but the sheer extravagance of it still catches him off guard.

“Excuse me, son, what do you think you’re doing?”

The voice jolts Peter out of his wonder, and he turns to see a burly security guard staring him down from behind the front desk. The man isn’t Vinny, the evening security lead Peter knows well. Instead, he’s someone new, someone Peter hasn’t met yet—probably part of the morning shift.

It dawns on Peter that this is his first time being here so early. He realizes, a little too late, that the morning staff wouldn’t know him.

The man’s glare cuts through Peter’s excitement, and suddenly, he’s painfully aware of how he must look: a kid in an oversized Iron Man sweater, wide-eyed and waltzing into Tony Stark’s tower like he owns the place. He shrinks back a little under the weight of the man’s stern gaze, his excitement momentarily fizzling.

Peter shifts awkwardly, glancing around the lobby for anything—anyone—that might help him out of this sudden mess. The festive decorations and cheerful holiday energy do nothing to ease the weight of the security guard’s glare, which is drilling into him like Peter’s some kind of threat.

“I, uh…” Peter’s voice cracks embarrassingly, and he clears his throat, clutching the strap of his backpack like it’s a lifeline. “I’m supposed to be here. Mr. Stark invited me.”

The guard raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Mr. Stark invited you? Right. And I’m Santa Claus.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over a Christmas sweater featuring a grumpy-looking reindeer. “Kid, you’ve got about ten seconds to tell me what you’re actually doing here before I call for backup.”

Peter’s face flushes. “No, really! I’m—uh, I’m kind of his intern? I mean, not in the normal way—”

The guard snorts, cutting him off. “Kind of? Kind of doesn’t cut it around here. You got a badge? An ID? Anything to prove you’re not just some kid off the street trying to sneak in?”

Peter glances around helplessly. The other employees bustling through the lobby are all decked out in holiday attire, chatting, laughing, and sipping cocoa from branded cups. A few glance his way, their smiles fading into curious frowns as they take in the scene.

“I—no, I don’t have a badge,” Peter admits, shrinking under the guard’s increasingly skeptical stare. “But I’m not sneaking in! I promise! Mr. Stark said I could come—he told me to be here.”

“Sure he did,” the guard says flatly. He gestures to one of his colleagues, a younger woman with her hair pulled back into a festive red-and-green scrunchie. “Hey, Jessie. You ever see this kid around?”

Jessie approaches, looking Peter up and down with a mix of suspicion and mild annoyance. “Nope. Never seen him.”

“I told you,” Peter tries again, his voice pitching higher with frustration, “I don’t come in the mornings! I’m usually here after school. You can ask Happy—uh, Harold Hogan? He knows me.”

The mention of Happy’s name earns him a collective eye-roll from the small group of security guards now gathering at the desk. “Sure, kid,” Jessie says. “Let me guess, you’re best friends with Captain America, too?”

Peter’s mouth opens, then closes. He knows protesting more will only make him sound worse. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hyper-aware of how small and out of place he looks. His Iron Man sweater, which had seemed festive and fun on the subway, now feels ridiculous.

“Look,” he tries again, his voice quieter this time. “I don’t mean to cause trouble. I’m just… supposed to be here. Mr. Stark said to come by for the holiday events.”

Another guard, a gruff older man with a no-nonsense demeanor, steps forward. “If Mr. Stark wanted you here, you’d have a badge. Or at least a pass. You don’t have either. So, unless you want us to call the cops, I suggest you leave. Now.”

The words hit Peter like a slap—not physically, but they sting all the same. His chest tightens, and his palms grow clammy. He’s supposed to be here. He belongs here. Right?

He swallows hard, looking down at his sneakers. “I’m not lying,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peter shifts uncomfortably under their stares, feeling smaller by the second. His chest tightens like someone’s cinched a rope around it. He knows they’re just doing their jobs—this is Stark Tower, after all, and he’s seen enough of the news to understand why security would be on edge. But understanding doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

“I swear,” Peter says again, his voice cracking under the strain of holding himself together. “I can prove it. Just—just call Mr. Stark. He’ll tell you.”

The guards exchange doubtful glances, clearly not buying it. One of them actually smirks, like Peter just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Oh, sure. We’ll just call Tony Stark. I’m sure he’ll drop everything to vouch for you,” the older guard drawls, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

Peter swallows hard, the burn of frustration and embarrassment creeping up the back of his throat. His fingers twitch toward his pocket, where his phone sits, warm and heavy against his leg. He could call Tony himself—but would Mr. Stark even pick up? What if he’s busy? What if this just makes him mad?

Before Peter can decide, a soft, calm voice cuts through the tense atmosphere:

“Hold your position. Mr. Stark has been alerted.”

The sound of FRIDAY’s voice over the lobby speakers freezes everyone in place. Peter blinks, his heart skipping a beat as a wave of both relief and dread crashes over him.

The guards hesitate, their postures stiffening as they glance around, suddenly unsure. The older man narrows his eyes at Peter, as if weighing the odds. “What the hell…?” he mutters under his breath.

Peter’s palms are clammy, and he doesn’t dare move, his breath caught in his throat. He knows what’s coming next. He just hopes Mr. Stark isn’t mad at him for causing a scene.

-

The holiday season is peak chaos for Stark Industries. Every department shifts into overdrive, prepping for the annual surge of Christmas orders like their lives depend on it. Out in Malibu, the factories hum with relentless energy, cranking out Stark tech at a pace that would make Santa’s workshop look amateur. The marketing team’s running so many campaigns that Tony swears they’ve figured out how to clone themselves, legal is buried in contracts and trademark disputes, and the logistics team is probably wrestling a sleigh’s worth of supply chain issues into submission. It’s the kind of high-stakes hustle that Tony loves to delegate to other people.

But Pepper, in all her infinitely wise and slightly terrifying glory, insists on interrupting the grind. She carves out two full working days during the busiest quarter of the year for something she calls "holiday spirit immersion." Tony calls it corporate daycare for grown-ups, but he doesn’t argue—mostly because he knows better. For two days, the entire company dials back on production and leans all the way into festive cheer.

The offices transform into a winter wonderland, with garlands strung between cubicles and glittering ornaments dangling from ceilings. Departments host their own Christmas parties, compete in holiday activities, and deck their hallways in increasingly elaborate themes that make Tony wonder if half of them missed their calling in interior design. Food vendors show up to deliver hot cocoa and comfort food, while a makeshift movie theater loops holiday classics on every available screen. Gift bags overflowing with goodies are handed out, and everywhere you look, there’s laughter, music, and that undeniable hum of boosted morale.

It all culminates in the big Stark Industries Holiday Gala after—a black-tie affair meant for networking and a polished kind of revelry. But this? This is for the employees, a chance to let loose and enjoy themselves. And Pepper makes sure Tony participates, much to his occasional annoyance and secret amusement.

“People need to see that you’re approachable,” she always tells him, with that tone that leaves no room for argument. “Otherwise, they’ll keep thinking you’re some unreachable, intimidating genius.”

Tony doesn’t exactly agree with the intimidating part. Sure, he’s Iron Man—big suit, bigger rep—but that’s just part of the job description. Intimidating? Please. He’s charming, charismatic. Practically the poster boy for approachable.

…Okay, maybe the “fighting villains and saving the world” bit doesn’t help. Or the cocky quips, but whatever. 

Still, he goes along with it. Pepper has a knack for being right about these things, and besides, it’s not all bad. He always makes an appearance in R&D, where the competitions usually involve some ridiculous gadgetry that makes him feel like a kid in a candy store. He even makes a point of visiting other departments, flashing smiles and quips, and letting people snap selfies with him for their holiday social posts. It’s not his favorite part of the season, but it’s always a good time.

This year, though, feels different. He’s actually… looking forward to it. Not because of the festivities themselves, but because of a certain teenage tagalong. Tony’s already made up his mind to drag Peter to as many of these events as possible. Watching the kid have fun—real, carefree fun—is something he never realized he needed until now.

And yeah, maybe seeing Peter light up at something as simple as hot cocoa and holiday games is what excites him most about the season. But that’s fine. It’s not like anyone’s keeping tabs on him and the kid anyway.

“Excuse me, boss?” FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the penthouse, calm but carrying enough urgency to make Tony pause. “There seems to be a misunderstanding involving Peter Parker and the security team downstairs. I thought you’d like to know.”

She’s right—he would like to know. His coffee cup and tablet are forgotten on the kitchen counter as he heads straight for the elevator without a second thought. He doesn’t even question it, his feet moving before his brain can fully catch up. It’s not until the elevator doors close behind him that he speaks.

“What’s going on?” His tone is sharp, and he doesn’t bother to soften it.

FRIDAY pulls up the video feed on his phone, and Tony watches, his jaw tightening as the scene unfolds. Peter is standing at the front desk, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, while three security guards loom over him. They’re clearly doing their jobs—Stark Tower is a high-stakes target, and Tony has more enemies than he can count—but something about the way they’re looking at Peter sets his teeth on edge.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand. The kid doesn’t have a badge. He looks too young, too out of place, waltzing into Stark Tower wearing a Christmas sweater and clutching a backpack. Tony gets it—he does. And yet, there’s a flicker of something in his chest that he can’t quite place, something sharp and unfamiliar.

It takes him a second to realize it’s anger.

“Take me straight to the lobby, Fri. No other stops,” he says, his voice clipped. He knows she’s already doing it, intuitive as ever, but saying it feels like taking control of something in a situation that’s already gotten under his skin.

As the elevator descends, he watches the video again. His employees are just being cautious. He knows that. It doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin, the kind that lingers long after he’s tried to brush it off.

The doors slide open to reveal the lobby, glittering with holiday cheer. Tony barely notices. Twinkling lights, garlands, an oversized Christmas tree—it all fades into the background.

His gaze locks on Peter instantly. The kid is standing a few steps inside, looking impossibly small against the polished backdrop of the lobby. His shoulders are tight, his posture stiff, like he’s trying to brace himself against the weight of the security team towering over him. The sweater Peter’s wearing catches Tony’s eye—a bright red thing with Iron Man’s face printed smack in the middle.

Tony stops short. That… wasn’t in the video feed. He blinks, the corners of his mouth twitching upward for a split second before the irritation surges back. The kid owns an Iron Man sweater? The thought lodges itself somewhere unexpected, a surprising little jolt of something warm that Tony doesn’t have time to examine.

Instead, his eyes narrow, zeroing in on the scene in front of him. Peter looks nervous—no, scared. Like a deer caught in the headlights. And something about that doesn’t sit right with Tony.

It’s not funny, though it probably will be later, that the same kid who’s strong enough to bench-press a car is standing here looking like he might evaporate under the guards’ scrutiny. And Tony… doesn’t know why that bothers him so much.

He tells himself it’s just the principle of the thing. Peter’s supposed to be here. He’s here because Tony told him to be, and no one—not even his own employees—has the right to treat him like he doesn’t belong. But it’s more than that, and Tony can feel it twisting in the pit of his stomach.

“Idiots,” he mutters under his breath, stepping out of the elevator. His jaw tightens further as his mind supplies an unbidden thought: What are they doing intimidating my kid?

The lobby must hush enough—or at least the noise must dip in its chaos at his presence—to draw the security guards’ attention. Or maybe it’s the way Peter notices him first, shoulders visibly deflating like a balloon let loose into the air. Either way, the three guards turn toward him now, their expressions shifting into something that looks suspiciously like relief.

“Mr. Stark,” the older guard starts, his tone caught between authority and apology. “We didn’t mean for the AI to alert you. I assure you, we had the situation under control, sir. You didn’t need to come all the way down here for some kid.”

Tony holds up a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. He doesn’t trust himself to speak yet—not to them, anyway. He knows they’re just doing their jobs, and normally, he’d appreciate the diligence. But there’s a fine line between diligence and whatever this was, and if they value their careers, they’ll stop shoving their feet further down their throats.

Instead of addressing the guards, Tony walks past them, letting his focus shift entirely to Peter. The kid’s standing stiffly a few steps behind the desk, his eyes fixed on Tony like he’s clinging to a lifeline he’s not quite sure he deserves.

“You okay?” Tony asks, stopping just past the guards and positioning himself firmly between Peter and them. He’s not sure why that feels necessary, but it does.

Peter nods quickly, his eyes darting downward, and Tony notices the way they catch on his sweater—the one Pepper had surprised him with this morning. Red and blue with Spider-Man in a Santa hat swinging across it, it had been too good to leave behind.

Peter’s lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through, and something in Tony’s chest eases. He hadn’t exactly planned for a dramatic sweater reveal under these circumstances, but seeing it pull even a flicker of joy out of Peter? Worth it.

No one else around would get the significance. To everyone else, they’re just two guys in silly Christmas sweaters—one with Iron Man plastered across it and the other with Spider-Man. But that’s fine. Let them think it’s some corporate stunt or billionaire eccentricity.

Tony turns now, facing the guards with his shoulders squared and his stance just a little too still. He can feel Peter hovering right behind him, and it feels like the right place for the kid to be—out of reach, shielded from whatever was going through the heads of these guards.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Tony starts, his tone low but steady, the kind of voice that makes people listen without realizing they’ve stopped breathing.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Tony begins, his voice calm but carrying a sharpness that cuts through the festive hum of the lobby. It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. This is the voice he uses when people need to stop, listen, and understand that the conversation won’t go their way if they don’t.

The guards immediately straighten, their confidence from earlier visibly faltering under the weight of his words.

“Peter Parker,” Tony continues, gesturing subtly toward the kid still standing just behind him, “is here because I told him to be. That means he belongs here. No badge, no clearance, no explanation required. If there’s ever a question about that again, you come to me first. Am I clear?”

The older guard nods stiffly, his shoulders squared but his eyes betraying just enough discomfort to satisfy Tony. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Tony glances at the other two, making sure they’re on the same page. They nod, nearly in unison, like chastised schoolkids.

“Good.” Tony’s tone softens just a fraction, but it still holds its edge. “I know you’re doing your jobs, and I appreciate that. Really, I do. But next time? Maybe take two seconds to think before you decide to interrogate someone who clearly doesn’t belong in the ‘threat’ category.”

The younger guard, Jessie, dares to speak. “With all due respect, sir, we couldn’t be sure—”

Tony raises an eyebrow, silencing her mid-sentence. “You think a kid in an Iron Man Christmas sweater is here to cause chaos? I know New York’s got its fair share of weirdos, but come on. Use some common sense.”

Jessie’s mouth snaps shut, and Tony feels the tension in the room shift.

“Now,” Tony continues, his tone leveling out, “I’m going to assume this was a one-time lapse in judgment, and we’ll leave it at that. But let’s not make this a repeat performance. Got it?”

The guards murmur their agreements, clearly eager for him to move on.

Tony turns back to Peter, the sharpness in his expression softening slightly as his gaze lands on the kid. He looks a little less deer-in-the-headlights now, but Tony can still see the tension in his frame, the faint uncertainty lingering in his eyes.

“C’mon, Underoos,” Tony says, his voice lighter now as he gestures toward the elevator. “Let’s get out of here before someone decides to interrogate you about your sweater choices again.”

Peter’s lips twitch into a proper smile this time, and Tony feels the last of the irritation in his chest ebb away.

As they walk toward the elevator, Tony glances over his shoulder at the guards one last time, his expression a mix of warning and dismissal. It’s not mean—it’s just a reminder.

They got lucky this time.

“All right, kiddo, have you eaten breakfast yet?” Tony asks as the elevator doors close behind them, sealing them off from the chaos of the lobby.

Peter nods quickly. “Yeah, Aunt May made breakfast before I left.”

Tony hums in approval, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Good. In that case…” He glances at Peter, his tone casual, but his words slow, deliberate. “We should head over to the R&D floor, if you’re all good?”

The question lingers in the air, carrying a weight Tony doesn’t entirely mean to attach to it. He doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about the way the kid looked back there—small, unsure, like he didn’t belong. But it’s sticking with him, burrowing into his chest in a way that feels both uncomfortable and oddly protective.

“I’m good, Mr. Stark. I promise,” Peter assures him, his voice firm but polite, the kind of tone that says he means it but also doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

Tony studies him for a beat, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. The kid isn’t exactly a master of deception—his face might as well be a billboard for whatever emotion he’s feeling—but Tony’s learned to watch for the cracks, the little tells that say something’s not quite right.

But Peter’s steady. A little nervous, maybe, but not broken.

“All right,” Tony says finally, leaning back against the elevator wall. “Friday, take us to R&D. We’ve got a gingerbread house-building competition to dominate.”

Peter perks up at that, his eyes widening just a fraction. “You’re building gingerbread houses?”

Tony smirks. “We’re building gingerbread houses. It’s a tradition. The engineers try to outdo each other every year, but they don’t know I’ve got an ace up my sleeve this time.”

Peter tilts his head, curiosity sparking. “Ace up your sleeve?”

“You,” Tony says simply, watching the kid’s face light up with a mix of surprise and excitement.

Peter blinks, his mouth opening slightly like he’s not sure what to say.

“Don’t get all modest on me, Parker,” Tony adds, crossing his arms. “You’re Spider-Man. If anyone can figure out how to defy gravity with a couple of graham crackers and royal icing, it’s you.”

Peter laughs softly, the sound easing something in Tony’s chest he didn’t realize had tightened.

“And after that,” Tony continues, his smirk softening into something almost fond, “we’ve got to head over to marketing. They’ve been bugging me for days to come judge their ugly sweater contest. You’re my backup. No arguments.”

Peter grins, and Tony catches the subtle shift in his posture—the way his shoulders relax just a little, the way the tension that had been lingering since the lobby finally starts to fade.

“Got it, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, his voice lighter now.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal the bustling R&D floor, the air already filled with the buzz of holiday excitement.

“Let’s go, Underoos,” Tony says, stepping out with a confidence that pulls Peter right along with him. “We’ve got some gingerbread engineers to crush.”