Chapter 1
Peter was out of his element.
Glasses clinked. Champagne sizzled. Blinding bleach-white teeth grinned. Attendees chattered.
Somewhere, a piano played. Did Tony Stark have a piano at his events? Probably. The man was known for his flair and dramatics. It was one of the many things Peter’s boss, Norman Osborn, hated about Stark. A few of the other things he hated about the billionaire were his attitude, his unprofessionalism, his ego, his goatee, his wealth, his fame, how he dresses, how he talks…So, everything, really. Peter wasn’t sure there was a single thing about the man that Norman didn’t loathe.
Peter raised his glass of water to his mouth and took a sip, trying to hide his nerves. He was eight months away from the legal drinking age and looked young for his age, so no champagne, even if the buzz would’ve helped. His eyes darted around the large room. Could everyone tell he got his suit from a second-hand store? He tugged at the end of the sleeve, which went just past his wrist. Was it obvious it was too large? In the mirror tacked to the door of his dorm, it seemed to swallow him whole. His roommate, Ned, assured him that he looked “snazzy” and ushered him out the door so he would arrive on time. Now, standing alone in a ballroom full of business people Dr. Osborn instructed him to network with, shifting his weight between his feet and sipping on his water, Peter felt ridiculous.
Dr. Osborn was around here somewhere, Peter just hadn’t run into him yet. He craned his neck to look over the crowd, searching for the tall man, but to no avail. Where was he?
“Young man,” someone to his left said. A man, probably mid-forties to early fifties, extended a hand in Peter’s direction. He took it, shook it, and wondered if he knew the balding guy. “What’s a kid like you doing here? Must have some friends in high places, eh?”
Peter offered a polite smile and pocketed his hand after the handshake. “I guess you could say that. I’m here with Dr. Osborn, I’m his intern-slash-undergraduate assistant.”
The man’s eyes sparkled with surprise. “No kidding. What’s he got you doing, fetching coffee and taking out the trash?” He laughed.
Peter’s smile, once semi-confident, became strained. Trying to match the man’s energy, he joked, “Between you and me, Dr. Osborn prefers chai over coffee.” He didn’t.
“Does he now?” The man clapped a heavy hand down on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed, laughing. “It was nice to meet you, kid. What’d you say your name was?”
The condensation on his glass cup made his grip slippery. He switched hands and wiped the wet one on his pants, hiding the action by tucking the hand into his front pocket. “Peter Parker, sir. And you are?”
“Jeffrey Burns.” The man—Jeffrey—finally retracted his clammy palm from Peter’s shoulder. “Good luck with your future endeavors, young man. Let’s just hope Norman doesn’t snuff out that spark by the time he’s done with you.”
With those oh-so-kind parting words, the man continued on, cheerfully greeting more guests. With a stifled wince, Peter rolled his shoulder and took another sip of his water. Where the hell was Dr. Osborn? The man never specifically said that they’d be going together, but when you invite your intern to one of the biggest and most exclusive events of the year, you’d want to be by their side. Especially after just scoring a patent on revolutionary tech that same intern designed.
Right?
Peter felt like a guppy amidst sharks. Literally sharks, in two senses of the word: Mark Cuban was in attendance, and there was an exotic aquarium with hammerheads in the lobby. As Peter first entered the tower and passed by the large, spotless tank with circling sharks, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Vector’s pet shark in Despicable Me.
He was drowning, sharks or no sharks. He tugged at his collar. Everything felt wrong. Even his shoes weren’t his, they were Ned’s. His roommate wore two sizes larger than Peter, so he wore an extra pair of socks to try to take up more room so the shoes didn’t turn into flipflops when he walked. But it was fine.
Totally fine.
Peter tipped the glass back, but nothing came out. He frowned at the empty glass. Damn. His eyes latched onto a set of double doors and, before his mind totally caught up with his movements, he was setting his empty glass on a table and making his way to the doors, opening them and stepping out into the cool March air. The doors slowly closed shut behind him, shutting out the chatter from the party and encasing him in the silence of the terrace eighty-or-so floors above the street.
Air filled his lungs easily. Running a hand down his face, Peter leaned his elbows against the railing and gazed out at the city lights. They were like fake stars, illuminating the skyline below the pitch-black abyss hanging over him. There was a time when he would’ve been able to look up and point out constellations, but now he didn’t remember half of them. And, besides, he lived in New York City now. The only stars were the ones that appeared on late night talk shows.
He hung his head and searched the dark streets below. From that high, he could hardly make out the little ants—people—walking.
“It truly is the city that never sleeps.”
Peter straightened and turned, heart in his throat. He hadn’t even realized the door had opened. But that wasn’t the most surprising part, because Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, Dr. Osborn’s sworn enemy, host of the very gala Peter was at, stood in the doorway. He let the door close and offered a smile.
Fuck. Peter hadn’t prepared for this. Was his suit wrinkled? Did his hair look goofy? Ned said he looked like a disheveled Prince Charming, which was apparently a compliment. Now, facing the man that had some of the most scientifically advanced research in multiple fields—engineering, biochemistry, thermodynamics, clean energy—Peter was aware of every little inch of his skin.
“Yeah, sure,” Peter uttered, quickly, because he realized Stark said something. To him.
Fuck.
Oblivious to—or maybe simply just unbothered by—Peter’s panic, Stark took his place beside him and rested his arms against the railing just as Peter had moments ago. He studied Peter’s face. “You from New York?”
“No,” he said. “Well. Yes.”
Tony quirked a brow.
Peter returned to his original position, his arms back on the railing and leaning his weight against them. He weaved his fingers together. “I mean, I didn’t move to New York City until I was eleven. I grew up upstate.”
“Ah. Small town boy.”
Peter’s brow furrowed.
Stark immediately backtracked. “Small town man. Sorry. I’m not around the youth very often. My handlers think I’m a bad influence.” He winked. “Peter Parker, right?”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“What, what?” Stark squinted. “Did I ambush the wrong awkward college student?”
“No, I’m Peter Parker. I just—” He turned to Stark fully. “How do you know who I am?”
“I do my homework on everyone who steps through my doors,” Stark said. He messed with the chunky gold watch on his wrist. “Sophomore. Double major in Computer Science and Biochemistry with a minor in Engineering. 4.0 GPA.”
Peter took a subconscious step back.
“Most importantly,” Stark continued, clasping his hands together and resuming eye-contact with Peter. The moonlight illuminated something mischievous in his eyes. “You’re one of Norman Osborn’s little minions.”
Ah. So that’s Stark’s angle—He wanted something. Stark Industries and Oscorp were notoriously out for each other’s throats, constantly one-upping each other. SI began as a weapons manufacturer but, after some controversy in the 90s, more recently became a research house and a manufacturer of clean energy solutions. Although Oscorp was always more of a scientific corporation, their efforts oftentimes overlapped, making them compete for clients and partners. There also seemed to be some weird history between Dr. Osborn and Stark that Peter wasn’t all that informed about but was nevertheless present. The way Dr. Osborn spoke of Stark in the lab made it sound like the man had murdered his whole family.
Dr. Osborn always said Stark was greedy, manipulative, and corrupt. Still, it surprised Peter that the man would actually approach him while he was alone to get some sort of information from him.
Instead of following his gut and getting the hell out of there before Dr. Osborn caught him alone with his rival, Peter remarked, “We prefer to be called interns.”
“Potato, patato.” Stark waved it off. “Say, that research on that reclaimed carbon fiber project sure is interesting.”
And there it was. It took everything in Peter to not roll his eyes.
“I know Norman’s name is written all over O-Fiber, patent pending,” Stark said, voice teetering between business-talk and small-talk, “but there’s no way a dinosaur like him with a carbon footprint worse than the entire country of China came up with the idea for an eco-friendlier version of carbon fiber that’s just as, if not more, durable.”
Peter shifted. “What are you asking?”
Stark feigned innocence and shrugged. “I’m not asking anything. Just curious where the concept and design came from, is all. You wouldn’t happen to have sat in on any conversations about it to do meeting minutes? Or even walk in to distribute coffee and overhear some stuff about who did what?”
Why did everyone assume all he did for Dr. Osborn was fetch him coffee? Yes, he did do that—though coffee runs were mostly for the other scientists, whereas Dr. Osborn preferred whiskey—but he was the one who came up with the whole freakin’ design for the carbon fiber that was projected to make Oscorp millions. Not to mention the amount of energy it’d be conserving.
“I don’t think I’ve heard anything about a carbon fiber…thing.”
“Really? Nothing about corrosion resistance, its energy diffusion capabilities, if some other big name got involved?”
Peter bit his cheek, physically keeping himself from saying anything related to the project. Even if it was Peter’s design and research, he could be fired. Osborn owned it. Osborn owned him.
Despite the chill, perspiration prickled under his armpits.
“Even if I did hear something about it,” Peter said, “why would I tell you anything?”
Stark tilted his head. Eyes squinted and lips pursed, he just studied Peter. Like he was seeing him for the first time, properly.
Peter threw a glance over his shoulder. Osborn was still nowhere in sight.
Stark straightened, no longer leaning on the railing, and tucked his hands in the front pockets of his tailored suit. For the first time, he and Peter were facing each other head-on.
Peter’s stomach flipped.
“You worked on it.” It wasn’t a question.
He couldn’t handle the eye-contact. He turned back to the skyline and shook his head. “I’m just a college intern.” Was he that readable? Or was Stark just that perceptive? There was no way he could have known Peter, specifically, was involved in any way. The rest of the lab didn’t even know, not really.
Stark stepped closer. “What’s he paying you? I can pay you more.”
“I’m not selling you Oscorp secrets.” Peter’s eyes darted to Tony’s. “Which I don’t have.”
“Uh-huh.” Extending a business card between two fingers, Stark leveled Peter with a steady gaze. When he hesitantly took it with a quirked brow, Stark said, “Just in case you change your mind.”
His eyes flickered to the card. On the front, a nondescript email in Comic Sans. The back, nothing. “You should really fire your graphic designer.”
“Oh, I’ve got great graphic designers. This is just a special card I made myself, so thanks for the insult.” Stark grinned. “It’s the secret email I use for free trials and to subscribe to bird watching newsletters. Don’t lose it.”
“Right.” Peter tucked it into his pocket. “Uh. Thanks, I guess.”
Stark nodded once. “Great talk. See you around, Mr. Parker. Don’t stay out here too long, the party’s just getting started.”
With that, the man made his exit, opening both double doors and sliding through, immediately garnering the attention of the formally dressed men and women nearby. Stark greeted them with his paparazzi smile that gets plastered all over the New York Post every other day. As the doors fell closed, the murmuring of rich scientists and their spouses was muted. Peter watched as Stark was swept away in the crowd.
Alone—again—Peter slipped the card out of his pocket and studied it. If Dr. Osborn knew about the conversation he and Stark just had, he’d flip. He probably would’ve preferred it if Peter threw himself off the terrace and let the impact explode his organs all over the sidewalk than accept the business card.
He considered getting rid of the evidence—ripping it in half and tossing it over the railing—but hesitated. It wasn’t like the email even remotely seemed to connect to Tony Stark. What was the harm? Dr. Osborn would never know.
Slipping the card back into his pocket, Peter took a deep breath, steeled himself, plastered a smile on his face, and walked back inside.
Almost as soon as the door closed behind him, someone with a microphone out of Peter’s line of sight starts thanking people for their financial support of some charity that helped fund…something. Probably research. The murmurs quieted as everyone turned to face the stage. Trying to fit in, Peter shuffled that way as well. He couldn’t see the stage without rising to the tips of his toes. It was slightly embarrassing—he wasn’t exactly “tall,” which didn’t help him look any older since he also happened to have a baby face—but, looking over and around people’s heads, he was able to locate the speaker: Virginia Potts, Tony Stark’s executive assistant. The tall, slender woman was donning a tight black dress that cut off at her knees, and her ginger hair was sleeked back in a tight bun.
Just as Peter started tuning in to the speech, a hand landed on his shoulder. Startling, he turned. “Dr. Osborn.”
His boss was wearing a black suit with a dark green tie. His thinning hair—which was normally a mess—was styled back and away from his face.
“Peter, I was just looking for you.”
Peter’s hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the card, making sure it hadn’t slipped out. It burned a hole in his palm. “You were?”
They were speaking quietly, but above a whisper; they were towards the back of the room where others were also leaning over to talk into one another’s ears as Ms. Potts spoke.
Dr. Osborn’s face was red, and it sounded and looked like his words were too heavy for his tongue. “Michael just called me,” he said, pausing to burp silently into a fist. “He forgot to shift the shaker to the 4-degree room for overnight incubation of the primary antibody. He won’t be back in until tomorrow morning. Could you run to the lab and take care of it?”
The lab was six miles away. Without a car or money to waste on an Uber, it was a two-hour walk in the brisk NYC night. The charity event ended in two hours. At least Peter wouldn’t have to awkwardly sip at his room temperature water for another couple hours and pretend to network.
“Of course,” Peter found himself saying. Even if he didn’t want to leave the party early, Dr. Osborn wasn’t exactly the kind of man you told no. Michael worked in molecular biology and immunogenetics lab, so Peter wasn’t technically trained to be in there, but he was constantly tasked with “taking care of” their shit anyways.
He turned, but Dr. Osborn caught his arm before he could take a step. “Oh, and Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring me a refill before you go?” Dr. Osborn held out his empty glass.
Peter forced a smile. He took the glass. “Yeah, sure.”
_
Outside, his too-big-shoes nearly made him trip as he descended from the stairs in front of Stark Tower. His fingers grasped at his collar and yanked at the tie until it loosened. Finally, he could breathe. The cold air entered his lungs like ice water.
He caught his reflection in the one-way window and paused. Did his hair look that stupid all night? How could Ned possibly think it looked good? He ran his hands through the delicately styled hair until it returned to its natural messy, tousled state.
He lingered at the window. The whole get-up—the suit, tie, shoes—it all felt so artificial. So fake. It made him wonder how many people up in Stark Tower felt the same way, and how many felt at home in their fancy suits and slicked back hair.
Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. Why did Dr. Osborn even invite him? Networking was a lazy excuse. Part of Peter wondered if Dr. Osborn invited him solely for the purpose of making him feel uncomfortable, small, and out of place. Maybe he wanted him to get a glimpse of a life he wasn’t cut out for.
He’s reminded of a scene, two weeks ago, in the lab. It was unusually sunny, but you wouldn’t have ever known because of the lack of natural light in the labs. One of the other interns, a PhD student named Ellie, was out sick with mono. She had missed four lab days; Dr. Osborn was already delegating her tasks to the other interns and instructed the supervisor of internships to suspend her graduate assistantship that was helping her pay for her tuition. She worked in the same immunogenetics lab as Michael, though her focus was on how inflammation affects neuronal growth responses. Peter was given the task of harvesting total RNA from the mice’s spinal cord tissue. This task involved killing the mice.
After the first harvest, Peter had to leave the room. The mice were bred for science; they never felt any pain. And, yet, his eyes filled with tears and his throat felt clogged.
Dr. Osborn called him into his office an hour later. He wasn’t sure how he found out—cameras, or a supervisor tipping him off—but there Peter stood, hands wringing together, eyes burning, head bowed in embarrassment.
The older man’s elbows rested on his desk, his fingers making a tent. He didn’t speak once, just stared. Peter shifted every few seconds. Finally, squinting at Peter, Dr. Osborn said, “You just don’t have what it takes, do you?”
Those words reverberated in his head like a catchy pop song. It’s overplayed. It’s nauseating. But he subconsciously keeps replaying it, over and over until it’s just background noise.
But when Dr. Osborn told him to free his schedule for tonight to attend Stark’s charity gala, Peter thought he changed his mind. He thought he’d introduce him to all his colleagues and acquaintances who had Nobel prizes and revolutionary research publications. The most deluded part of him believed, even if for only a moment, that maybe Dr. Osborn would introduce him as the mind behind O-Fiber.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked against the wind. The business card’s edges were softened by his fingers messing with it. As much as Peter wished things were different at Oscorp, he was gaining great experience and was doing important work. He was doing something with his life, something his deceased parents would be proud of. And that’s all that mattered. Right?
_
It is with great enthusiasm that we wish to offer you full tuition remission with a $20,000 stipend for the position of Undergraduate Research Assistant at Stark Industries. Attached you will find the contract with an electronic signature—
Peter deleted the email before he could finish reading. His heart was in his throat. No. His heart was everywhere. His whole body vibrated, not with excitement, but with fear.
His eyes darted around the room. Dr. Osborn was in a meeting, but what if someone else, like Trey Kennedy, the snitch who got that one senior fired, saw even a glimpse of Stark’s name on the screen?
Peter never did anything with the business card. He thought if he ignored it enough that he’d forget about the flicker of hope and excitement that flared through him at the idea of working at SI. He didn’t throw it away—Ned would’ve doused him in kerosene and set him on fire if he had—but he didn’t touch it. Didn’t use the email.
A month passed. Peter thought the opportunity passed. Maybe Stark found another low-level intern to infiltrate Oscorp and he moved on.
But then this email showed up in Peter’s inbox. This email—sent by Stark Industries’ Representative of Educational Outreach and Opportunities—proved that Stark hadn’t let him go at all.
“Parker.”
Peter jumped at his desk, eyes wide, but it was just Connor.
“Could you take a look at this?” the graduate student asked, focused on the beaker and formula sheet in front of him. “It’s not yielding the right response and I’ve tried, like, everything.”
Peter exhaled and closed his laptop. “Yeah, sure.”
_
Apparently, Stark had been trying to get other interns to leak information about O-Fiber. Peter only found this out because he overheard Dr. Osborn shouting in his office. He was working on another intern’s research project—Fabio was across the country with his mother who was dying of leukemia, but Dr. Osborn didn’t budge and made it crystal clear that it wasn’t his problem and that Fabio still needed to get his imaging done before the end of the semester—when the raised voice caught his attention. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of the man angrily pacing in the thin rectangle window in the door. Seated at his workbench, Connor looked up, too.
Michael was in there. Peter had seen him nervously wringing his hands together before knocking a few minutes ago.
“What’s that about?” Connor whispered.
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.” Whatever it was, it had to have been bad. Real bad. Michael was one of Dr. Osborn’s favorites; he’d been working for him for years. Most don’t last for one.
A crash jolted Peter from his work. Dr. Osborn stormed out of his office seconds later. His hands went to his hips. Deep, angry lines all over his forehead and around his mouth aged him. “Has anyone else been approached by Stark Industries?”
Behind him, Michael stood, paled.
Connor and Peter exchanged a look. Slowly, Connor raised a hand, followed by Yasmine in the back by the microscopes. Peter was paralyzed in fear.
Dr. Osborn’s piercing, icy blue eyes found Peter. Michael had to have told him that Stark was poking around for information on O-Fiber. None of the interns except Peter had any real insight into the project. Peter was at the gala at Stark Tower. Dr. Osborn must’ve connected the dots. The safest thing was to raise his hand. But, wouldn’t he get even angrier, knowing that Peter was approached by Stark almost a whole month ago and didn’t say a single word about it?
He should’ve shown Dr. Osborn the business card. Should’ve told him that he tried to pry but got absolutely nothing. Should’ve proven his loyalty. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.
Peter didn’t move. He held Dr. Osborn’s gaze, trying to make it seem like Peter somehow wasn’t targeted despite how convenient it would’ve been for Stark to talk to him.
Somehow, it worked. Dr. Osborn’s eyes flickered away, focusing on the interns who did raise their hands.
“Then why am I just now hearing about this?”
Connor and Yasmine immediately went red and stammered incoherently.
“I thought it was a scam email,” Yasmine eventually got out. Connor latched onto her excuse and agreed vehemently.
Dr. Osborn looked seconds away from detonating a bomb. “If the name Stark is attached to anything, you tell me immediately, even if it appears to be unimportant or unreliable. Understood?”
Everyone, Peter included, nodded.
Dr. Osborn nodded back. It was a single, firm, jerky movement. “Good.”
_
The steps leading down from the library were covered in a thin sheet of ice despite being the first week of May. They were also used more frequently around this time of year—finals being the following week—so Peter was sure more than a handful of students walking out of the library after studying until their eyelids drooped and their brains oozed from their ears sported bruises on their asses from falling.
Ned caught himself on the railing after nearly slipping. “Holy shit.”
“You good?” Peter asked. His hand was on his arm. Not like he would’ve been strong enough to catch his friend if he fell, but still. Emotional support.
“Yup.” Ned shook it off and, more carefully this time, watching his every step, continued down the stairs to the sidewalk. “They should probably get salt on these steps before they catch a lawsuit.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t gotten one yet from the ice in front of aerospace lab. I hear someone broke their arm.” Peter pulled his jacket tighter to his body. A student wearing a parka passed. Peter’s envious eyes followed them.
“It’ll melt soon, anyways. I heard it’s supposed to get up to the sixties this weekend,” Ned said.
“No shit?” Peter shivered in his light jacket he’s had since he was a junior in high school. “Can’t wait for it to finally start feeling like spring.”
The roommates stopped on the sidewalk facing each other. Ned checked his phone. “I told Betty I’d be at the south dining hall at one, so I’ve gotta go.” He started walking backwards.
Peter sniffed. “Tell Betty I said hi.”
Ned was still backtracking. “MJ will be there too, probably.” His tone was suggestive.
Peter rose a brow. “Okay. Tell her I said hi, too.”
Ned laughed, shook his head, and turned around in time to avoid backing into a guy on a bike. Peter stood there, watching his friend leave, before turning to make his way back to their dorm. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was far enough that he was able to lose himself in his head. That seemed to happen whenever Peter was alone: his thoughts would swarm. Thoughts of the future, of all the information he had just crammed in his study session, of what he could have possibly forgotten to do in Dr. Osborn’s lab, of what might be on the Eukaryotic Molecular Biology exam, of when he’s going home to visit May next, of You just don’t have what it takes, of what he’s going to eat for lunch, of—
“Mr. Parker.”
Peter froze mid-step and looked to his right. A burly man in a crisp black suit, wiry earpiece tucked in his ear, stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Like he was waiting for him.
Peter surveyed the area. Students passed without a glance. His eyes landed back on the burly man, wondering how he knew him. He seemed like the celebrity bodyguard type.
“Yes?”
“Come with me.”
“…No?” Peter took a step back. Squinted. “Do I know you?”
The man rolled his eyes, as if that was a stupid question and Peter was making his life hard by just existing. “No, but you know the man I work for.”
He waited for the guy to explain, but when he didn’t, Peter prompted, “Um. Who would that be?” And then it dawned on him. “Oh.” He didn’t dare say the name out loud, not when there were so many people around, people who could report back to Osborn, who could—
Well. Peter wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do. But he wasn’t about to take his chances.
“Right.” The man checked his watch. “Follow me.”
Peter took one last glance around, tightened his hold on his backpack slung over his shoulder, and followed the man to a sleek black car parked in the emergency vehicle lane.
He opened the door to the back. Peter just looked at him, wary, then peered inside. Tony Stark lounged on the dark leather seats, sunglasses on and dressed to the nines.
It must be exhausting to constantly dress like that.
“Get in, kid.” Stark waved him in. “Burning precious daylight.”
It was grey outside. It had been grey for days. Peter wouldn’t exactly call the daylight precious at the moment, but he got in anyways.
“Not to point out the obvious,” Peter commented, sliding in and setting his backpack on the ground. The big man shut his door behind him and got into the driver’s seat. “But this is, like, really sketchy.”
Stark shrugged. “Drastic times call for drastic measures.”
“Drastic times being the fact that none of Dr. Osborn’s interns are willing to be spies for you?”
“Exactly.”
Peter frowned. He looked out the tinted window. “Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere,” Stark replied, and Peter turned back to him. “We’re simply having a chat.”
“In the emergency vehicle lane? What if there’s a fire?”
“A car has wheels. We’ll move if the need arises.” Stark slid the glasses off his face and tucked them into his breast pocket. Finally meeting Peter’s eyes without anything between them, he remarked, “You’re making me look desperate here, and I don’t like it. Usually, people are hounding me to reply to messages and sign things, not the other way around.”
“Sorry,” Peter said, slowly, even though he wasn’t.
“Taste of my own medicine, it’s fine. Healthy, probably. It’s been a while since I’ve had to face rejection.”
“Okay.”
“Tony,” the man up front spoke, nearly scaring Peter as he had momentarily forgotten he was also in the car. “Get to the point, please. You said this would only take a minute.”
Stark patted the man’s shoulder. “Sorry, Hap.” He turned to Peter. “He’s got a hot date tonight, the first one in a looooong time. Doesn’t want to be late.”
“Tony.”
“Eh.” He brushed the man—Hap?—off. “But, yes. I suppose I should cut to the chase. Once you didn’t respond to the email with our very generous offer, I was forced to look to Osborn’s other minions. Come to find out, not only are they not willing to take my—again, very generous—offers, but they don’t seem to have much or any knowledge on O-Fiber.”
Peter blinked. “I told you, we’re just college students—We’re research assistants, not developers or designers.”
“Then why did that mousey kid…” Stark snapped. “What’s his name? Collin?”
“Connor?”
“Connor told me that I was barking up the wrong tree, that Peter Parker was the one to talk to.” Stark gave Peter an expectant look with narrowed eyes.
And, Peter…Well. Peter was going to kill Connor.
“Why would he tell you that?”
“You tell me.”
His eyes were still narrowed. Like Peter was going to crack, and he was looking for the fault lines.
“I can’t.” It was a half-truth. Connor didn’t know how involved Peter was with O-Fiber, just that he was involved in a special project with Dr. Osborn that made him work longer hours in the lab and gave him some sort of spotlight. Some of the research assistants envied him for capturing Norman Osborn’s attention, but they didn’t know just how taxing it was to have the man’s interest. Peter was constantly on the edge of his seat. He was on the receiving end of rants, of scoldings, of lectures, of insults. He was ridiculed and nit-picked. Yet, he was still in the lab. And his personal project was funded.
Connor didn’t know that O-Fiber was Peter’s project, but he must’ve figured that since Peter was constantly at Dr. Osborn’s side that he would’ve heard something about it.
“Interesting.” Stark pursed his lips. Just as Peter was beginning to have hope that the billionaire was about to give it up, the man said, “I’ll raise the stipend to fifty grand, plus free room and board.”
“No, Mr. Stark—”
“Kid, you’re killing me, you really are.” For what it was worth, Stark did genuinely look like he was at his wit’s end. It almost made Peter feel bad. “What I’m offering is so much better than what you’re getting from Osborn. Even if you didn’t have the secrets, why wouldn’t you take it?”
Honestly, if Peter wasn’t involved in O-Fiber, maybe he would’ve. God knows he could use the money. Maybe he could help pay off May’s debts, make it so that she didn’t work herself into the ground every single day. Maybe he could buy a proper coat.
But, as it was, Peter did make O-Fiber (gosh, did he hate the name) and he had a strong ally in the industry he wanted a career in. After O-Fiber, maybe Dr. Osborn could help him work on another personal project. Maybe Peter would get credited this time.
Leaving Dr. Osborn and going with Stark now would mean that strong ally would turn into a powerful enemy. His future career would be nonexistent, he was sure. Burned bridges and all that.
But there was something else bothering Peter. “Why are you so adamant that you get Oscorp’s secrets, anyways? Stark Industries is more profitable and has more global reach than Oscorp ever has. I mean, you’ve completely revolutionized the industry already.”
Stark made a face that might’ve been a wince. “Our well of ideas has seemed to run dry, R&D’s mostly just been working out the kinks in our old designs and improving them. Anyone can improve old blueprints.” He leaned forward. “What we’re missing is someone who can come up with totally new ones. I’m old and I, frankly, don’t have a lot of time to just sit around coming up with new ideas anymore.”
“What makes you think that I can do that?” Peter asked, skeptical.
Stark shrugged. “Call it a hunch. Plus, I’ve seen your record. You’re one of the brightest in Osborn’s labs, and you’ve been involved in the development of O-Fiber. If you accept my offer, I’m gaining new blood with new ideas and fresh perspectives, and I’m gaining some insider knowledge on my rival to get a leg up on the competition. Not to mention the fact that it’ll piss the guy off.”
That was for sure. “I really don’t want to piss Dr. Osborn off.”
“He’d be pissed at me, not you, don’t worry.”
Peter was doubtful. The doctor contained enough anger to be split between them both.
Tony clapped once. Peter startled.
“How about this,” the billionaire leveled. “Come by the tower and tour the labs, get a feel of the environment and happenings, then I’ll leave you alone to waste away in that goblin’s secret lair. Deal?”
Stark stuck out a hand. Peter looked between it and his face, mouth set in a firm line. He’d have to be incredibly careful not to get spotted ten feet from Stark Tower, but if this little thing—taking a quick look at some fancy labs—made Stark stop trying to steal him, then it would be worth it.
“Okay, deal.” Reluctantly, Peter shook Stark’s hand. “But only if I get to bring a friend.”
“The more, the merrier.”
_
Ned thoroughly enjoyed the tour. Peter was filled with dread the whole time.
After showing the pair around the labs and entertaining Ned’s never-ending questions, Nathan, their tour guide, dropped them off at the food court. Yeah, Stark Tower has a freakin’ food court.
While his friend ooh-ed and aah-ed over all the fancy features and embellishments, Peter had a hard time hiding his anxiety. Ever since his sneaker crossed the threshold, it was like all the air in his body was sucked right out of him.
It was a far different environment than the night of the gala where Peter had his first run-in with Stark. People dressed business to business casual were everywhere he looked. They held files, clipboards, papers, and briefcases. A forty-something year-old man with an earpiece breezed past, talking to the empty space in front of him about a portfolio of some sort. Although everyone looked busy, there was a sense of harmony among them all.
The R&D floor where the interns worked was far different from what Peter was expecting. Each intern had their own lab bench. The equipment and supplies looked brand new, state of the art. The office doors and walls were all glass, so no one could throw a tantrum and get wasted during the workday without any witnesses. Dr. Osborn would hate it.
The main difference, though, was in the interns themselves. Nathan introduced Peter and Ned to two interns who were graduating with their PhD’s the following week. Tracey and Markell. Tracey gave them a run-down on the day-to-day activities, and then Markell showcased the research he’d been working on for the past two years. It was a study on sustainable urban agriculture. Apparently there was a whole garden on the roof that he created and used for his research.
Peter would be lying if he said it didn’t stab him in the heart when Markell shared that his research would be published under his name. From how malicious, selfish, and prideful Dr. Osborn painted Stark, it was a shock that he didn’t slap his own name on it.
And another thing: the interns all looked happy. They chatted amongst themselves, they joked around, and they didn’t sport the same look of dread and hopelessness the interns of Dr. Osborn’s lab were known for.
It was nice. Which sucked.
“Peter, you have to work here,” Ned said, mouth half-full of taco from the make-your-own taco bar.
Peter put his face in his hands. “I can’t, Ned.” Heaving out a heavy sigh, he dropped his hands to the table. “I want to. I really want to. But I can’t.”
“Says who?”
Peter gave Ned a flat look. “You know how it is.”
“That your boss is a total jerk and will likely try to sabotage your entire career if you leave his lab for Tony Stark’s?”
“Yes.”
Ned shrugged as if it was nothing. Licking sour cream off his thumb, he said, “You can’t let some alcoholic, middle-aged white man with temper tantrums dictate your life. You gotta do you.”
Ned’s advice was more or less echoed by May that evening. Visiting his aunt for the weekend became a bi-weekly occurrence, a step in his routine that he needed for the sake of his sanity amidst school and lab.
Visiting home also meant home-cooked meals, one of the things Peter missed more than anything else after moving out. Tonight was pot pie night, though it was normally an Italian dish as May’s parents immigrated to New York from Italy when she was a toddler. Pot pies were her late husband Ben’s favorite, so she made sure to make one on his birthday every year.
This year, it came out burnt. But neither of them acknowledged that; Peter ignored the extra crisp and made sure to smile more than he normally did during his visits. As the topic of Peter’s tour came up, though, it came naturally.
May made circles in the air with her fork at Peter. “What are you thinking? You like this Stark guy?”
“I guess.” Peter swallowed a bite of charred pie crust and stabbed a piece of chicken a couple times. “I mean, he’s a bit…eccentric. And loud. I don’t even think he’s all that involved with the interns. He said that he’s too busy to even come up with new ideas.”
May frowned. “Isn’t that his whole shtick? Inventing, researching?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. It seems like there’s something else going on behind the scenes.” He finally got the piece of chicken impaled on his fork, then shoved it in his mouth to chew up. It was dry. “I feel like a pawn in their game. Stark said he wants to piss Dr. Osborn off.”
May pursed her lips. “Doesn’t sound like the worst thing. If I had a shot at pissing Norman Osborn off, I would take it.”
“You don’t even know Dr. Osborn.”
May placed her soft, warm hand over Peter’s. His eyes lifted to meet hers.
“Honey,” she said, voice dripping with sincerity, “I may not have met him, but I think I know all that I need to just from how he treats you.”
Peter swallowed the chicken. He searched for a response but came up dry. (Like the chicken.)
“College is supposed to be fun!” May gripped Peter’s hand and shook it a little. “Parties, drinking, vandalism, sex—”
Peter pulled his hand back and laughed-slash-coughed. “May!”
“I’m just saying,” she persisted. “My college years were a whirlwind of bad decisions, recklessness, and fun. I feel like I’m having dinner with a boring forty-year-old man with no social life. All he does is work, work, work.”
“I have fun,” Peter argued, affronted. “And, ouch. What the hell? I thought you were supposed to be supportive.”
“I can’t be supportive of my twenty-year-old nephew working himself into the ground for a man who couldn’t give two shits about him.”
Peter sat back and crossed his arms. His mouth opened, ready to counter, but whatever argument he had died in his throat. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “You’re right.”
May hummed. “I always am. Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
_
He knocked three times and took a half-step back, wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. Peter hadn’t accepted Stark’s offer, but he was leaning towards it. The inevitable conversation with Dr. Osborn was already playing over and over in his mind, each re-run a slightly different version that got worse and worse. However, that wasn’t why he was knocking on Dr. Osborn’s office that afternoon. While in his programming class, his phone buzzed with a text from Ned, who sent a link to an article announcing the news that O-Fiber is officially patented. Heart in his throat, Peter clicked out of his notes on his laptop and Googled it. The top result was a peer-reviewed article published by MIT’s research journal. But it wasn’t just any article, it was Peter’s, word-for-word. He had the same copy in Microsoft Word on his laptop. And nowhere did it even mention Peter Parker.
Peter knew about Dr. Osborn naming Peter’s design O-Fiber, and he was semi-fine with being uncredited because, without the funding and resources Osborn provided, it wouldn’t have been done. Plus, the man did actually help work out some kinks. He might’ve been a jerk, but he was still brilliant. Osborn had him gather all the research Peter had been doing and write a 40-page article. Peter assumed it was just for organizational reasons, or so they could have it on file to refer back to. He didn’t think Osborn was going to stamp his name on it and publish it.
Peter knocked on the door again. Seconds later, the door clicked—unlocking—and Dr. Osborn appeared. His eyes were only slightly cloudy, and his face wasn’t in a deep scowl. He seemed…not happy, per se, but not miserably angry as he was by default. It must’ve had something to do with the published piece.
“Mr. Parker,” Osborn greeted in his deep, scratchy voice. “What brings you to my office?”
Peter cleared his throat. “I, uh, saw that MIT published the paper on O-Fiber.”
A ghost of a smile graced Dr. Osborn’s lips. “Yes, isn’t that great news? I’ve already received great feedback from—”
“I couldn’t find my name anywhere on it.”
Dr. Osborn stilled. Although the labs were empty, he glanced behind Peter and scanned the room. Once his eyes returned to the young man, he opened the door wider. Peter stepped in. The door clicked shut behind him.
Dr. Osborn made his way to his desk and sat, releasing a subtle groan as he did. His joints were constantly in pain, it seemed. Peter supposed it happened when you were made up of nothing but bitterness and spite.
Steepling his fingers with his elbows on the mahogany desk, Dr. Osborn watched Peter take the seat opposite of him. Peter’s knee bounced. There was a heavy silence that always hung around the office like thick smoke. It could only be punctured by Dr. Osborn’s voice.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” the man spoke, thinly, “I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”
They had. “But I wrote the whole paper.”
“You’re my intern, aren’t you?”
Peter sputtered. “Y-You took my words and you claimed that they’re yours. You also took my research and put your name on it. You named my work after yourself. I—”
“It’s not your research,” Dr. Osborn interrupted. Peter’s mouth clamped shut. “It’s mine,” the man continued. He pointed a bony finger at the closed door. “Whose name is on that door?”
Peter’s jaw clenched.
“Whose resources did you use?”
Every muscle in his body felt tense. His knee wouldn’t stop bouncing.
“I asked you a QUESTION!” Dr. Osborn shot out of his chair, spit flying. Peter startled at the quick switch. “WHOSE FUCKING NAME IS ON THAT DOOR?”
Peter glared a hole through Dr. Osborn’s lined forehead. “Fuck you,” he wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, he looked away, fighting back angry tears that glistened in his eyes.
Dr. Osborn slapped a palm on the desk and loomed over him. “LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT!” His voice cracked like lightning.
Peter’s eyes darted to the man. His face was red. Peter guessed his was, too. “Yours,” he muttered.
“That’s right.” Dr. Osborn sat with a huff as he smoothed his tie against his chest. He flicked his wrist. “Get the fuck out of my office.”
_
It was dark outside when Peter returned to the research lab. His key gained him entry, but instead of tucking it back into his pocket, Peter left it on the lab table without intending to ever pick it up again.
All his things fit in his backpack: lab coat, goggles, folders, notebooks. It zipped without struggle.
Walking out of the building, heavy backpack over one shoulder and the night warm for the first time that season, Peter forced himself not to spiral into a panic attack. He needed to email Dr. Osborn. He needed to tell his academic advisor he wouldn’t have the internship credits over the summer. He needed to figure out if Stark’s internship would be worth credit. He needed to call May. He needed to check if the final grades were posted yet.
His eyes squeezed shut imagining Dr. Osborn reading the email he was drafting in his head. It would only get worse when he realized whose lab Peter left him for.
His head hurt. Peter peeled his eyes open and ran a hand through his hair as he forced his feet to carry him to his dorm. He didn’t need to worry about all of that right now. He returned his key and gathered his things. It wasn’t like Dr. Osborn was going to check his email at eleven at night, so he’d send it first thing in the morning to let him know that he quit. Something easier, more manageable, was returning the SI representative’s email to accept the offer. He’d do that before going to sleep. But first, he needed to slip into his dorm without waking Ned.
The further from the research labs he got, the lighter the backpack on his back felt, but the heavier the stone in his gut grew. He prayed he made the right decision. Otherwise, he just committed career suicide.