Chapter 2
Peter was in his element.
As he weaved through the lab desks hosting a multitude of different projects and interns from different fields of study, he picked up pieces of friendly conversation, mechanical noises, Bunsen burners crackles, and chemical fizzes. A small—but very present—smile played on his lips and stayed there all the way to his own lab desk where he had his own cabinet with his own tools and his own equipment.
The contents of the box in his hands rattled and clinked as he set it on the desk. New glassware, courtesy of SI. Peter hadn’t even submitted a request to replace the old ones that were left by the last intern who inhabited his desk; Carrie, his supervisor, noticed his had faded labels and that some were chipped. That morning, Peter woke up to an email informing him that the new set of beakers, flasks, and graduated cylinders were ready for him to pick up in the mail room.
“Espresso with cream.”
Peter paused unpacking the box and looked up, brown eyes meeting green. He smiled and took the offered coffee cup. “Thanks, Gwen.”
Gwen Stacy: incoming senior at Empire State University with a major in biochemistry and a minor in botany, blonde, sometimes wears glasses, always on time, always brings coffee for the other summer interns. Although there wasn’t such thing as a “lead intern,” it seemed as though that was her unspoken rank. If Peter had to guess, it was probably because of a few things: 1. She was one of the few seniors, 2. She’s wicked smart, and 3. She made an effort to talk to everyone about their progress and offered assistance or a second look when needed.
Dr. Osborn’s lab didn’t have anyone like that. Peter was probably the closest thing since he was constantly helping everyone else, but his heart wasn’t in it the same way Gwen’s was. She seemed genuinely enthusiastic to help. Peter was more or less commanded to lend a hand.
Although it had only been a month into the summer internship at SI, Peter felt like his whole life was given new breath. He ate three square meals a day plus snacks (thanks to the complementary food court that was open even on the days he didn’t work in the lab), went to bed at somewhat reasonable hours, and wasn’t having panic attacks over his work. Plus, he was surrounded by so many cool ideas and smart people who weren’t killing themselves with work. They worked hard, of course, but there were rules in place to make sure they weren’t getting burnt out. And he was getting paid more, which meant that he could afford to live in the dorm over summer, though Ned is living back home until the fall.
For the first time since starting college, Peter’s life felt nice. Manageable. Balanced. Good.
There was still the creeping paranoia—Peter’s shoulders would be stuck up by his ears and his knee would bounce just thinking about running into Dr. Osborn—but he was dealing with it.
O-Fiber was already a huge hit. It was making waves in the new energy landscape. Dr. Osborn’s name and face were plastered on every TV and every magazine, newspapers hailing him as “the man who will single-handedly save the earth from the global crisis.” Peter was dealing with that, too.
But it was all worth it. Who cares if Peter didn’t get a scrap of the money that came from O-Fiber? Or that he didn’t get an ounce of recognition? His research was helping a good cause. It didn’t matter, not really. Besides, he was getting paid well now, wasn’t he?
It was worth it.
Peter had to remind himself that often. It was getting easier to accept.
What he needed to focus on was his new project and the research he’s doing at SI. Although being part of the SI internship means that he had to contribute to the research his cohort was assigned, SI also encouraged all the interns to use half of their hours to work on their own personal projects. It took a week or two to flip through his notebook of ideas before settling on one to focus on, which was a medical adhesive spray. It was a little less intensive than his last personal project, but it was a nice change of pace. Fun, even. Mixing chemicals and learning from trial and error were Peter’s bread and butter.
After the initial message Peter sent to the email address scrawled on the back of the folded business card from the night of the gala, Tony Stark hadn’t communicated with him. He replied to Peter’s email with a simple “Great news!” and forwarded Peter a new email to contact about the next steps, which belonged to Carrie the supervisor. Contracts were signed. A hand was shook. Peter hadn’t heard or seen Tony Stark since.
Which made sense, Peter supposed. The man got what he wanted. Maybe he finally started to believe that Peter didn’t have any inside information on Oscorp, too, otherwise he’d probably be poking around him still. As it was, the man might as well have disappeared from his life.
_
Until August.
The fall semester was right around the corner—just next week—and Peter was beginning to become anxious because he hadn’t received the contract for that semester’s internship. Without the contract, his tuition wasn’t waived and he didn’t know the terms of the internship—how many hours a week, how much the stipend was, etc. Everyone else received and accepted their offers for the fall. Peter’s inbox was empty.
He was beginning to think that, without spilling Oscorp’s secrets, Tony Stark wasn’t interested anymore.
“I think you’re spiraling,” Ned told Peter as he made his bed. It was his first day back from summer break. The dorm had been too quiet without him. “I’m sure there’s been a mix-up. Just email that Carrie lady and she’ll sort it out.”
Peter emailed her. Within minutes, she responded with an apology for the wait—apparently there were some changes being made to his offer—and then said that Peter needed to come into the tower and meet to discuss the terms. He was unaware the terms would change.
The next morning, a bright, hot Tuesday, Peter walked into Stark Tower with his head held high but his hands wringing together nervously. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to wear to this meeting with Carrie, so Ned helped him pick out a casual yet respectable outfit of his nicest jeans and an only slightly wrinkled t-shirt with the school’s emblem on the chest.
Respectable.
Casual.
Cool.
Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stepped into the elevator. “Cool, cool, cool,” he whispered to himself. He shook out his shoulders. “Be cool.”
The elevator doors opened. Stepping out, Peter made his way to Carrie’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, glasses perched at the tip of her nose, typing away at the computer when Peter knocked.
Her head popped up, and confusion filled her features as she stood and made her way to the door. “Peter?”
Peter’s heart raced. Did he get the time wrong? “Hi, Carrie. Am I early for our meeting?” He checked his watch. He didn’t have a watch. Damn. His cheeks flushed and he cleared his throat, offering a smile to pretend like he didn’t just check an invisible watch in front of his supervisor.
Carrie slid the glasses off her face and rubbed her eyebrows together with pinched fingers. “I must’ve forgotten to tell you. I’m sorry, Peter, things have been crazy lately, I’m not normally this scatter-brained.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. “It’s okay, I get it. What’d you forget?”
“Your meeting isn’t with me, it’s with Mr. Stark.”
Peter’s stomach did a weird somersault. “Oh.” He wasn’t scared of the man, but he wasn’t exactly mentally prepared to talk to the CEO. He was jittery just thinking about talking to his supervisor, and now he had to talk to Tony freaking Stark. And about what, exactly? “Did I do something wrong?”
He thought he was acing this internship thing. His personal project was progressing smoothly, and he thought he contributed substantially to the group research project.
Carrie pushed the glasses back on her face and shook her head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not about that.”
Then why did his contract not get renewed like everyone else’s? Why was his being changed?
“Mr. Stark is up in his main office, in 90B. It’s on the top floor.”
Dizzyingly, the tower had ninety floors. Peter swallowed dryly. “Okay, thanks, I’ll head up there.”
He was back in the elevator. His thumb pressed the top button, and it glowed.
Cool, cool, cool.
“Fuck.” Peter clapped his hands to his face, covering his eyes. “Fuck.” He lost the internship. Tony was firing him in person. He wanted to see the spark flicker out of Peter’s eyes. To see him crumble. To tell him himself that he wasn’t up to par.
That Peter didn’t have what it takes.
“Spiraling,” Ned would say, right now, as Peter was mentally combusting in the elevator.
Ding. Top floor. Peter wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and took a deep breath in.
The doors opened.
And out.
The elevator opened to a small, square entry way. It was empty, save for the two doors, one labeled 90A and the other 90B.
The doors slid shut behind him with a soft whoosh, startling him.
He needed to calm down. 90B was what Carrie said, right? Right. He should knock on that door.
Three raps against the wood. Peter held his breath.
The door swung open, revealing a rather casually dressed Tony Stark. Dark jeans, untucked shirt. Peter glanced behind him, into his messy office, and saw an empty whiskey glass on his desk. His mind flashed to Dr. Osborn, but as his eyes flickered back to meet Tony’s, it was gone.
“Peter Parker,” Tony greeted with a close-lipped smile. He opened the door wider, stepping aside for Peter to enter. “I’ve always liked alliteration. Feels good in your mouth to say it. Peter Parker. Peter Parker. What’s your middle name?”
Peter, now standing inside Tony’s office, wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Or face. Or…anything, really. He blinked at Tony.
“Starts with a P, I hope.” Another grin.
Peter blinked again, then looked away to gather his brain cells. “Actually, it’s Benjamin.”
Tony pursed his lips. “Hm. Disappointing.”
Peter frowned.
“Anyways,” Tony said, ceremoniously slamming the door shut. It was probably just for dramatics, but it still made Peter’s shoulders jump to his ears. “Oops, sorry. Sensitive ears?”
“No, I—” Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but what am I doing here? Did I do something to lose the internship?”
It was Tony’s turn to look startled. “You didn’t lose the internship. Who told you that?”
“No one, but when I found out that I was the only summer intern who didn’t get an offer for the fall, I just assumed.”
“Oh. Well. You didn’t lose it.” Tony walked towards his desk, but instead of sitting in the chair behind it, he perched himself against the edge and crossed his ankles. One of his hands slid into his pocket. “It was a little last-minute. Carrie probably took the blame, but it was all me, not her.” He tapped a thin stack of papers beside him. “I had your file for a couple weeks but didn’t have the time—er, I guess, I didn’t make the time—to open it and read Carrie’s notes. Wonderful handwriting, that woman has, let me tell you. She could be making bug bucks writing on cards or something.”
Peter eyed the chair that sat opposite of the desk. It would be inappropriate to sit, since Tony wasn’t sitting in his chair, and it would also set Peter at a weird angle. But standing felt too stiff and awkward. His knee wanted to bounce, but couldn’t. He shuffled his feet and tried to focus on what Tony Stark was telling him—something about Carrie having good handwriting.
“When I finally did read your file and her notes,” Tony said, plucking the papers from the desk and flipping through them, mock-reading them, “I thought to myself, wow, I’m glad I stole this Parker kid right from under Osborn’s nose. Even though you, allegedly, don’t know all Oscorp’s hopes and dreams, I still won big time by snatching you up when I did.” He set the papers back down, except there was a new one on top. There was nice cursive handwriting. Carrie’s notes, then. Tony tapped a finger against the notes. “This personal project of yours seems to have impressed your supervisor.”
Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. “Oh.”
“She referred you to be interviewed for a different position.”
“Oh.” Wait, was the interview now? Had it already begun? Peter should’ve gone with a nicer shirt. “What position?”
“Personal intern,” Tony replied. He pushed off from the desk and headed towards the door, Peter watching with wide eyes. “Walk with me.”
Wiping his palms off on his thighs again, Peter obediently followed Tony from the office, out into the entry, and then through door 90A.
“This is my lab,” Tony announced, sweeping a hand through the air.
It was a large space, taking up almost the entire top floor. The far walls were windows that overlooked the bustling city and wrapped around the corner, though this high up, most of the view was blue sky. A pigeon flew past.
“Wow.”
Tony turned and saw the awe in Peter’s face and smiled. He looked back out at his lab. “It doesn’t get used much these days. I haven’t exactly invented or built anything recently.” He stepped further in, finger gliding against a toolbox. It came back dusty. “There was a period of time, in my thirties and some of my early forties, when I’d lock myself in the lab and not come back out for weeks. Tinkering, building, inventing, researching. It was my entire life.” There was nostalgia and pride in his voice, but it conflicted with something sad that glistened in his eyes.
It was gone when he blinked. “I find the center point of my life elsewhere, these days, so it seems kind of ridiculous to have such an extravagant lab just lying around.”
Peter soaked in the atmosphere. This was where Tony invented the Arc reactor, arguably much more revolutionary than O-Fiber. Thee Tony Stark spent countless hours in this very room. Building.
A drop of curiosity—What was Tony’s center point now? It must have been big enough to steer him away from the industry that gave him his fame and fortune.
Tony dropped into a chair. Peter followed, sitting in the one across the desk from him. Although he was still wary, the nerves had started to dissipate after learning he was in fact not losing his only source of income.
Tony met Peter’s eyes. “Tell me about your project.” There was something strong in his gaze that made it hard for Peter to look away.
“Well,” Peter started, clearing his throat and sitting up straight. Interview mode. “It’s a medical adhesive spray that cools, numbs, disinfects, and closes wounds. I envisioned it being in your everyday first aid kit, so the individual would use it as a way to stop the bleeding or provide pain relief before help arrives. It dissolves—harmlessly—after around two hours, but it can be reapplied many times with no side effects or risks. Or, with a water base solution, it can be dissolved in seconds, which would come in handy for when help does arrive and they are ready to professionally treat the wound. It can be used for burns, bullet wounds, anything.”
Tony nodded throughout Peter’s explanation. “We talking design stages, development, or what?”
“I’m still developing the adhesive,” Peter replied. “I have a few trials, and they work, but not on the level I am looking for. They aren’t lasting as long as they should, so I think I made some miscalculations when I was balancing the formulas.”
Tony hummed, deep in thought. After a moment, he asked, “What was your inspiration?”
“My aunt and uncle. My aunt, she’s a nurse, she helps people. And my uncle always told me, with great power, comes great responsibility. I don’t know if I’d consider myself powerful, but my aunt always said that knowledge is power, and I have some of that, so I try to use it for good.”
“What does your uncle do?”
“He was a beat cop.” Talking about Ben always made him smile—"He was shot on the job a couple years ago, backup didn’t make it in time and he bled out”—Except for when he talked about his death. It was a tragedy, a fluke, a mistake. That’s what everyone said. If only there had been some way for his uncle to hold on for just a little longer, he wouldn’t have died alone in a dark alley with his face in the dirt and his clothes soaked in blood. Peter was hoping that this medical adhesive could help someone else’s uncle, father, sister, niece, friend, or whoever from suffering the same fate.
Something was clicking in Tony’s face. Peter watched as it happened.
Leaning back, Tony said, “So, what I’m hearing, is that you’d like to make the world a better place.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I could think of a couple people,” Tony commented, tone airy. “Or just one person, a mutual friend of ours.”
Friend was a loose term. Extremely loose.
“Did your work at Oscorp serve your M.O.?”
Peter nodded. “My work was focused on climate efforts and sustainability more than practical medical aids, but yeah, I’d like to think my work contributed to bettering the world. What good is research if it doesn’t offer something to society?” A small smile grew on the man’s face that made Peter pause. “What?”
“Nothing.” Tony cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the desk. “I suppose I should give you a more in-depth tour of the lab. Uh…” From his seat, he turned and started pointing at various things ranging from a Bactron Anaerobic Chamber to a broken Keurig. “If you don’t like anything, feel free to change it up. Paint the walls, move stuff around, replace the chairs with ones with wheels, I don’t care. Oh, also, there’s an empty mini fridge over there, but don’t worry, I’ll have Pepper fill it with healthy snacks before you start working.”
Peter was about to ask who Pepper was, but then his brain caught up with Tony’s words and he sputtered, “Wait, does this mean I got the job?”
“Yes. Was that not already clear?”
“Holy shit,” slipped from Peter’s lips. “Sorry. I just. Thank you for this opportunity, sir.” May was going to freak. Ned was going to freak. Peter was freaking. Ho-ly shit.
Tony’s face scrunched up. “Ew. Don’t call me sir, please. Tony will do just fine.” He waved a hand. “I’ll have a new contract written up and sent to your inbox by the end of the day. Also sign and return by the end of the day, because time isn’t real but it also is and I have been procrastinating literally everything. This is why I need a personal intern. I haven’t written your job description yet, but in it will probably be something along the lines of poke Tony every once in a while to make sure he actually does his job.”
Peter nodded. Did he need to write that down? He didn’t have a pencil, or paper. He made it a mental note and mentally tacked it to a mental board.
Tony checked his watch. “Shoot, it’s nearly two.” He flashed Peter an apologetic smile. “I’ll need to cut our talking time short; I’ve got an errand to run. You’ve got from here to the elevator to ask any questions.”
Peter stood, too, and followed Tony as they headed for the door. There were probably a million and one questions buzzing around Peter’s head, but they were hard to catch. Finally grasping one, he asked, “Will I still be able to work on a research project with the other interns?”
“I don’t see why not.”
They stood at the elevator. Tony pressed the down button.
As they waited, Peter tried to come up with another question, but they were slippery and fleeting. And his hands—both his mental ones and physical ones—were too shaky to hold tight to anything. He breathed out and said, “I seriously can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. Working in your labs this summer was amazing. I…yeah. Thank you.”
Tony smiled. “I’ll see you around, kid. Watch out for that email.”
As promised, the email came that evening at exactly five o’clock. Peter scanned the contract and job description—ensuring that by signing he wouldn’t be waiving his right to being credited—and nearly choked when his eyes skimmed the stipend. It all seemed too good to be true, but that’s what he thought about the summer internship, and it turned out to be true. After digitally signing the contract and sending it back, Peter lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, hands locked behind his head. His best friend would be moving back into the dorm in a couple of days. Gwen was sending him funny videos on Instagram in a way that felt almost like flirting. His body wasn’t weighed down by exhaustion. May didn’t have to worry about helping him pay for college. Things were good. Too good.
Peter turned over in bed and frowned at the wall. If everything was going great, why did he still feel a ball of anxiety in his gut, waiting for the right moment to unfurl?
_
“You want me to clean?”
Tony rubbed the back of his neck, jacket and car keys in hand. It was the first week of classes, which meant that it was also the first week of the new internship. Peter wasn’t sure exactly what to expect for the first day, but it wasn’t to be told to organize Tony’s office and lab while the man in question left for undisclosed reasons.
“It shouldn’t take you too long. I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Tony pulled back the cuff of his dress shirt to check his watch. “Around five, probably.”
Peter nodded, scanning the lab. It was as messy as it was when he came over for the meeting-slash-interview. The only noticeable difference was the presence of a fruit and snack basket in the corner with the mini-fridge.
“I know this kinda sucks for the first day on the job,” Tony said, drawing Peter’s attention back to where he stood beside him. “But it’s been on my to-do list for a while, and once it’s done, I’ll have you doing more intern-y stuff. Sound good?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Tony clapped Peter on the shoulder before backing out the door. “Awesomesauce. That’s what the kids are saying these days. I’ll be back by five. Maybe.” With vague intrigue, Peter watched the man shoot him finger guns, then spin on his heel and head towards the elevators. He was hiding something, obviously. Peter didn’t care too much to figure it out.
He turned back to the disorganized mess in front of him and sighed. It beat being an underpaid glorified servant to Dr. Osborn, though, so he got to work.
After clearing the desks, taking out the trash, and moving some things around, Peter exited the lab and meandered around the tower in search of some cleaning supplies. His search led him to the maintenance closet on the R&D floor where the other interns were buzzing around. After a quick detour to catch up with Gwen and a few others, Peter broke into the closet. Literally broke into it. The handle didn’t budge, so he went back to Gwen, borrowed a bobby pin (“It’s for science, I’ll give it back in a minute.”), and jimmied it into the lock until there was a click.
“Thanks,” Peter said, depositing the bobby pin onto Gwen’s work desk with an arm full of cleaning supplies. She eyed the broom, spray, and paper towel with an entertained glint in her eye but didn’t comment.
Clipping the pin back in her platinum hair, she said, “Anything for science.” Peter held up a fist in alliance and walked backwards out of the room, then made his way back up to Tony’s floor.
In an unsurprising turn of events, Tony didn’t show up until a couple minutes after six o’clock. He was wearing different clothes from earlier that afternoon: jeans and a t-shirt instead of the professional attire Peter was used to seeing him in. It was jarring.
“Wow,” Tony said, genuine surprise widening his eyes as he took in the newly organized and pristine lab. He ran a finger over a table and inspected the dust-free pad. “Thanks, kid. You did good. Pepper’s been on my back about this all year. Did you see the snacks and stuff she put in here for you?”
Peter did. About an hour ago his stomach started grumbling, so he checked out the fruit basket and mini-fridge, which was stocked full of carrot sticks, fruit cups, and prebiotic sodas. Healthy snacks. It was a little disappointing that there weren’t any chips or real soda, but Peter supposed he could do with a better diet.
But there was still something bothering him. “Who’s Pepper?”
Tony blinked. “Oh,” he said, like he either wasn’t expecting the question or like he thought the answer was obvious. “Virginia Potts.”
“Your executive assistant?” Were the dating rumors true? Peter didn’t care too much about celebrity gossip, but it was rare when the rumors turned out to have merit. Not that this one was confirmed, but it was definitely fishy. A gold ring around Tony’s left ring finger caught his eye. Interesting.
When Tony affirmed that, yes, he’d been calling Virigina Potts Pepper this whole time and that she was the one who stocked the lab with healthy snacks, Peter asked, “Why Pepper?”
Tony smiled fondly and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “She threatened to pepper spray my security if they got in her way. Pep was trying to show me an error she found while working in admin in the finance department a few years back, but no one would listen to her. She doesn’t take that lightly, hence the pepper spray threat, hence the nickname Pepper. Plus it just sounds nice: Pepper Potts. It’s like Peter Parker; just rolls off the tongue.”
“Sure.”
Tony eyed the cleaning supplies. He took the broom that was leaning against the wall and tilted his head. “Where’d you find this stuff?”
“Maintenance closet on the R&D floor.”
“It was unlocked?”
“No.”
Tony stared at him expectantly, waiting for Peter to elaborate, but he didn’t. Tony sniffed and placed the broom back against the wall and didn’t prompt him.
“Resourceful,” Tony commented. “Thanks again for sucking it up and cleaning all afternoon. Gold star.”
Peter let out a breathy laugh, but when Tony stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out a little white paper with metallic gold stars, he uttered, “Oh.”
Tony peeled one off and stuck it to Peter’s shirt. Peter frowned at it—not because he didn’t like it, but because it was odd. It almost made him laugh again, thinking about the stark difference between his old boss and his new boss. His old one gave him emotional trauma and insomnia. His new one gave him gold stars when he wiped down some tables with stolen supplies.
“It was no problem, really,” Peter assured the man, clearing his throat. “It was honestly a little therapeutic. And it definitely beat saccing mice.”
Tony’s brow quirked. “Saccing mice?”
“Sacrificing.” Dr. Osborn always used the full word, but the shortform “sac” made the interns in the molecular biology and immunogenetics lab feel less like assholes to animals. Peter’s first and only time saccing a mouse and then harvesting its RNA still made his stomach churn.
“Yeesh. I’m glad I got you out of that dungeon of a lab.” Tony clapped Peter’s shoulder and gave it a few pats. “It’s getting late.” It was only a few minutes after six—not late at all. “You did great today, we’ll do the same time tomorrow but you’ll get to do some real work. Go back to your dorm and do homework or go to a party and snort coke or something.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. Tony showed his palms. “Joking.” He pointed a stern finger at his face. “Don’t do drugs and post about it on social media, I’ll have to fire you.”
“Noted.”
That night, Peter did not do drugs, but he did do his homework under the light of his desk lamp while Ned snored in his lofted bed. The rush of doing complicated math equations filled him with more dopamine than cocaine probably could, anyways.
-
As promised, the second day of being Tony Stark’s personal intern was more intern-y, for the lack of a better term. Tony slid over some schematics to look at that were developed by the R&D team and needed to be reviewed and approved. This was normally completed by Tony, but now that he had a personal intern whom he could pass on whatever he didn’t want to do, it was Peter’s job. Peter was thrilled.
While Peter worked on thoroughly reviewing the schematics in the lab—which also involved doing some calculations to ensure the ones sketched into the margins were correct—Tony worked in his office. An hour into working, so around two o’clock, Tony poked his head into the lab and announced he was leaving again. “I’ll be right back, I’ve just got a quick errand to run.”
“Take your time,” Peter said, twirling the wooden pencil between his fingers. “I’ll just be here running calculations.”
Tony gave him a pointed look and said, “No fires.”
“Sure,” Peter agreed, though he wasn’t sure if he ever gave the impression that he’d set a fire in a lab containing hazardous materials. He leaned over the paper in front of him and scribbled a correction. “Have fun with your mysterious errand.”
The next two weeks followed the same routine: Peter showed up after classes ended for the day, Tony gave him some data, equations, blueprints, or proposals to look at, Peter did was he was told, Tony disappeared, Tony came back, Tony told Peter he did good, and Peter went back to the dorm before dark. On Wednesdays, Peter spent his hours with the other interns to continue their research project.
Again, Peter was starting to feel the anxiety creep in. The other shoe had to drop sometime, right?
“You’re too paranoid,” May told him during his second week, Peter’s phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he gathered his books after a study session in the library. He heard some faint background noise on the other end and pictured his aunt sitting at the velvety couch with a knee pulled to her chest and her glasses perched at the bottom of her nose as she flipped through channels on TV. There were probably a half-empty sleeve of saltine crackers and a wine glass on the coffee table. “You’ve got a good thing going, and you deserve to enjoy it. Stop worrying so much.”
Peter tried. It was easier on days that weren’t going his way and the bad evened out the good. On Thursday, Peter showed up to the lab with only one shoe because the other was stolen right off his foot in the subway and he didn’t have another pair of shoes, not even in his dorm, and he couldn’t go all the way back to Queens where his aunt lived to grab a pair that he outgrew from high school but May still kept by the doorway because he couldn’t be late to the internship. Tony didn’t even notice until Peter was getting ready to leave for the day and handed over a reviewed proposal with his barely legible notes.
“What’s up with the shoe?” Tony asked as he took the papers, nodding down at Peter’s feet.
He wiggled the toes of his shoe-less sock and shrugged. “Just not my day today, I guess.”
Tony pursed his lips. “Lab safety says you need close-toed shoes. I think wearing only one goes against that policy.”
“I’ll wear two shoes tomorrow.”
Peter showed up with two shoes the next day—the too-small converses from high school with faded sharpie doodles—and tried not to pay the cramped fit much mind, but as soon as Tony announced that Peter would be working on his medical adhesive project, his discomfort was forgotten.
Peter got to work gathering supplies—salicylic acid, toulene, methanol, carbon tetrachloride, potassium carbonate, ethyl acetate, flasks, goggles—but froze with an armful when he turned and spotted Tony lounging at his work desk.
Tony raised a brow. “What?”
Peter carefully placed everything down on the desk. “Nothing. Did you want to watch me make it?”
“I was hoping you could also explain everything so I can understand and offer my input.”
Peter nodded. The shoes felt too tight again, as did his lungs. Tony wanted to watch him work. Okay, totally fine. No pressure at all.
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” It was Tony’s lab, he could do whatever he wanted. He didn’t need to ask for permission for anything. Peter slid over his notebook and flipped it open to a full page. Tony leaned over to skim it.
As Peter worked, he explained, “That’s the formula I’m working with. It’s got everything I’ve been looking for—flexible, anti-inflammatory, sterilizing. Well, almost everything; I still can’t figure out how to make it more long-lasting. It dissolves way too fast, which means it needs to be reapplied more often, which makes it less efficient.”
Tony hummed but didn’t reply, forehead creased as he read over the notes and flipped through them. Peter let him go through them as he silently worked, occasionally glancing up to read his face. Dr. Osborn oftentimes looked disappointed as he reviewed Peter’s work. Stark looked intrigued.
Once Peter had a sample, Tony took a look at it. Peter watched him. The look of disappointment never came.
“Fascinating.” Tony sprayed a little over the back of his hand and held it close to his face. “How long does it last?”
“Only about ten minutes,” Peter replied. “I’m trying to get it to two hours, but nothing I’ve done has worked.”
Still observing the sample, Tony said, “Have you tried rising the temperature of the base before adding the ethyl acetate?”
He hadn’t. Tony watched as Peter started over, this time waiting for the flame of the Bunsen Burner to warm the bottom of the flask longer. He waited until it reached three hundred degrees Celsius, added the ethyl acetate, observed, and made some notes.
Tony held out his arm when Peter was done. He sprayed it on his forearm and started a timer.
Peter went back to his notes as they waited. Eyes darting from his arm to Peter, Tony said, “How’s school going?”
Peter glanced at Tony, then back at his notes. “Fine.” He swished the flask of the sample and observed the viscosity. It was thicker. “Is there any tingling?”
“Nope.” Tony poked it. “It feels cold. Not painfully cold, just cooler than room temperature.”
“Good.” Peter noted that, too. He tried not to squirm as he felt Tony’s eyes on his side profile.
“You know what I can’t figure out?” the man eventually said, still studying Peter’s face.
Peter waited, figuring that Tony would continue, but when he didn’t, he prompted, “What?”
“You.”
Peter looked up from his notes and met Tony’s eyes. There wasn’t much to figure out; he was a college student who had dead parents and a dead uncle. Tony knew all of that. He didn’t have any ulterior motives with anything he did. He didn’t have any real hobbies, either. He kind of just existed as an academic powerhouse. As a orphan who grew up in poverty, it was a necessity if he wanted to make ends meet and live comfortably in New York on his own one day.
“I can’t figure you out, either, so we’re even,” Peter said, glancing at the timer and then at the sample on Tony’s arm. Four minutes. When Tony made a thoughtful hum at the back of his throat, Peter asked, “What can’t you figure out about me?”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Nah, I’ll figure it out on my own. Asking you directly would feel like cheating.”
Fair enough. Peter kind of felt the same way about Tony. Like, where did he go every day around two? Was the gold ring on his left ring finger a wedding ring? What was his personal beef with Dr. Osborn? What was the new “center” of his life that he prioritized over his work? How did he run such a successful company while simultaneously being a chill boss? Why did he have multiple printed-out pictures of birds taped to the windows in his office? Why didn’t he admonish Peter and make him feel stupid when he had been working on the medical adhesive all summer and still couldn’t perfect the formula? Tony offered help without a string of belittling insults strung behind it. Why was he so nice?
What was the catch?
Ten minutes passed. Tony leaned back in his chair and released a heavy breath. “Better get comfy, we might be here for a while.”
“You know,” Peter said, “I could’ve just sprayed my own skin and waited by myself. You didn’t need to offer your arm.”
Tony tapped a quick rhythm into the table and tilted his head to a shoulder. “I figured it’d be a good opportunity to get to know my personal intern better. We’re bonding.”
“Okay.”
Tony sighed. “Aaand I suppose it gives me an excuse to not attend a meeting with people I don’t like.”
That made sense. “You’re, like, the boss. Do you have to do anything you don’t want to?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Tony said with a snap. “Unfortunately, Pepper doesn’t feel the same. And what she says tends to go, so.”
There was another lull in the conversation. Fifteen minutes.
Tony checked his watch. Instead of announcing that he needed to disappear again, like Peter was expecting, he let his hand fall to the table and asked, “Want to watch a movie to pass the time? Any movie, I don’t care.” As an afterthought, he pointed at Peter and added, “As long as it isn’t Moana.”
“Weirdly specific request, but okay.”
Tony led Peter to his office where he had a secret projector and screen that folded down from the ceiling at the press of a button. “Fancy,” Peter commented quietly.
In the end, they decide to watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off because Tony looked ready to either fire him or kill himself when Peter said he’d never even heard of it. (He had, but he knew from the way Tony asked if he’d seen it before that he’d be offended.)
As the movie started, Peter couldn’t shake how weird it was. He was watching a classic movie with his boss. Who does that? It was weirder than the strictest teacher in high school putting on a fun movie for the class period with no note sheets. This was that, but ten notches higher.
The weirdest part? Peter enjoyed it. He wasn’t anxious sitting in the chair beside Tony’s as the light reflecting off the projector illuminated their faces. His shoulders weren’t tense. His chest wasn’t tight. He even laughed at the appropriate times.
It was nice.
And, maybe, Peter was beginning to accept that sometimes things are okay and don’t need to be balanced out by bad things. Sometimes things are good, and that’s it.
Towards the end of the movie, Tony lightly smacked Peter’s arm. He jumped. Tony didn’t notice.
“It’s starting to dissolve,” Tony whispered, as though he were in a movie theater and not his private office.
Oh yeah. Science. Internship. Work. Peter grabbed his notepad and wrote the time down: two hours and seven minutes.
It worked.
“Gold star,” Tony said, whipping out the sheet from his pocket and planting a sticker onto Peter’s shoulder with a few pats.
Dr. Osborn’s voice floated through his mind: You just don’t have what it takes.
Maybe he did.