Chapter 2
2008
1 day, 0 weeks, 0 months, 0 years
Tony's entire body ached when he awoke the next morning. He was caught up in his bed, sheets pulled high across his face, one hand resting protectively over the cool metal does the arc reactor in his chest.
In his tired stupor, he hasn't changed out of last night's clothes before letting himself crash into the soft mattress. They were dirty. His grey shirt was marked with grime and sweat stains. His black slacks were creased, rumpled and pushed up to bundle just below his knees. Around his waist his belt dug in uncomfortably and Tony had no doubt that there would be a clear red imprint of the buckle’s outline in his stomach from him having slept mostly on his front.
“JARVIS, what time is it?”
“It is already late morning, Sir. I might suggest it is time to get up.”
Tony let out a tired groan but forced himself to slip out of the warm cocoon of sheets he had created for himself.
Stretching, he swapped his shirt and pants and formal socks for a clean pair of boxers and sweatpants, his familiar slippers and an old worn t-shirt sing it usually only wore from really lazy days alone in the workshop. He had been right about the belt mark but it was nothing worse than what he usually got when he fell asleep in jeans at his desk.
His first port of call was the coffee machine in the kitchen. Lord knew he needed some coffee if he was expected not to fall asleep again within an hour or so.
He went to pour the steaming brown liquid into a mug that read ‘PR nightmare’ in all bold capitals across the side. They were printed in crimson had a gold shadow behind each letter, the colours of iron man. It had been a somewhat mock gift from Rhodey that he’d been given after he announced himself to be the guy behind, or more literally – inside, the gold-titanium alloy suit. Pepper rolled her eyes every time she saw Tony use it and even, the first time, had firmly stated that that was a generous and rather extreme understatement. Needless to say it had quickly become Tony’s favourite mug.
“Do you have apple juice?”
Grateful he hadn’t quite begun pouring, Tony startled at the voice and dropped the mug. It smashed with a loud crash as it clattered to the floor.
Tony turned to see the kid once again hovering in the doorway with bed hair and a sleepy look in his eyes.
“Oh,” he sighed. “It’s just you.”
He looked at the pieces of broken ceramic on the ground and grimaced. With a quick gesture to silently tell the kid not to move, he began to look for a dustpan and brush to clean it up.
“Don’t come any closer, we don’t want you getting hurt ,” Tony explained when his hand movement was ignored.
The kid just shrugged and kept getting closer.
“It’s okay,” he murmured grumpily. “I don’t get hurt anymore. Not after Mr. Toomes.”
That confused Tony.
Really, what did the kid mean ‘he didn’t get hurt anymore? And who the hell was Mr. Toomes?
“I’m sorry, Sir,” he continued shyly but more cheerfully. “That I made your mug get broke.”
“It’s not a big deal, Kid. I’m a billionaire. I have other mugs,” Tony replied. “Give me a second to clear this up and then I’ll get you some food and apple juice and we’ll talk. How does boiled eggs and toast sound?”
Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sat at one end of Tony’s enormous and almost entirely unused dining table, eating in silence. He was glad the kid had been okay with the idea of eggs and toast for breakfast since that was the only thing he knew how to cook without potentially burning down the entire tower.
The kid had requested his with a runny yolk and to have his toast cut into soldiers – ‘thin strips’ JARVIS had informed him – and was now happily dunking the crispy buttered bread into the soft orange goo. His legs kicked back and forth slightly under the table and he hummed to himself as he chewed. It was oddly endearing.
“Hey, kid,” Tony began hesitantly. “What’s your name?”
“Peter, Peter Parker,” he mumbled around a mouthful of buttery goodness.
Seriously, he eats like he hasn’t in 20 years, Tony thought.
“I’m Tony Stark,” Tony relied. “Can you tell me why you’re here?”
Peter paused a second. He looked confused and worried, as though he thought he had done something very wrong. His head tilted inquisitively to the side as he looked up at the older man.
“You said not to eat on the floor?”
Tony shook his head slightly.
“Not at the table. I meant in my home, in my tower?”
“Can’t leave.”
Stuffing another soldier dipped in egg yolk into his mouth, the kid just gave a nonchalant shrug as though him being unable to leave was both reasonable and obvious.
“I mostly stay up here because there are less people,” Peter continued. His words were muffled by the food in his mouth and he moved his hands in large, dramatic gestures as he spoke. “This one time, when I was downstairs, I saw a man trip over and went to ask if he was okay and he screamed. I think I scared him. I don’t want to scare people.”
Tony took a second to process the new information. He thought he remembered something about a lab supervisor from one of the higher-level research and development labs making a big fuss and quitting suddenly because he believed the tower was ‘fucking haunted, seriously only a psychopath would make it a workplace’. They had all just brushed it off as the stress of the job and his messy divorce causing him to have a mid-life mental breakdown.
That had been just over five years ago if he was remembering correctly.
How long had Peter been in the tower?!
“How long have you been in the tower, Peter?” Tony enquired, his tone equal parts cautious and heavily concerned.
Peter shrugged again before he responded.
“I was here before the tower. It was all dirty and was just lots of trash when I got here.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ
Tony built the tower in 1992, just after his parents’ accident.
Stark Industries had owned the plot of land for at least ten years before that. Tony’s father, Howard Stark, had bought it at an incredibly low price for it’s size and location. Tony knew this because his father liked to brag about it, even if he never actually seemed to get around to building there. After his father died, he made it his mission to build something he could be proud of on the lot, almost as though that would rub it in Howard’s face that Tony could achieve things too.
Before Stark Tower, the land had been some kind of a cross between a building site and a junk yard. People had been tossing bags of trash over the tall plywood walls for years and it was commonly used as an inconspicuous hang out spot for underage teens to drink and smoke late into the evening.
But, honestly, how could the kid know that that’s what it had been like before? He was tiny!
“How old are you, Peter?”
“I can’t count that high yet but my Aunt May was helping me plan my seventh birthday party before I came here.”
As subtly as he could, Tony pulled out his Stark Phone. Maybe a quick google of ‘Peter Parker’ would help him work out where this kid came from.