"Drop 'em down, kid."
Peter quickly fixes the googles around his eyes, shooting Tony an incredulous look. "What about you?"
Tony doesn't even look up, his gaze glued to the small, intricate item in his grasp. Red and blue wires blink across the rectangular, palm sized box. "I'm an adult, kiddo."
"Mister Stark," Peter disagrees quickly, "Safety is for everyone."
Tony makes a disagreeable sound in his throat. "Hand me the soldering iron, kid." He flings a free hand out in the vague direction the tool is.
Peter sighs, twirling around in his rolling chair before kicking up to grab the tool from the table behind them. He snatches up another pair of googles.
He drops both in front of Tony, careful to avoid jostling the delicate piece of tech still clutched in the man's palm.
Tony scoffs, pushing the glasses to the side.
"Please, Mister Stark," Peter insists, employing what he hopes is his best bargaining voice. "What if you get blinded? Imagine how much that would scar me!"
"You fight actual crime in your underwear and you're worried about me scarring you?" Tony deadpans. "You've traumatized me."
Still, he gently deposits the box to the table in front of him, slipping the goggles over his head.
"I have not-" Peter starts, dropping down to his seat and rolling as close as possible to the project now securely back in Tony's hand.
"That's pretty rich, Parker, coming from you." Tony holds the box up, reaching for the soldering iron.
Excitement thrums across Peter's skin, watching as the iron kicks to life, a blue-black flame coming to life at the end. "Whaddaya mean?"
"The safety speech?" The tip of the iron touches the metallic box, sparking before settling. "You rival me in terms of self-sacrificial idiocy. Probably even got me beat. You're the exact opposite of whatever safety is."
"Danger?" Peter prompts. He likes the sound of that. Peter Benjamin Danger Parker.
"No." Tony draws the word out, distracted by the small flames licking across the box now. "Idiocy. I just said that."
Peter frowns. "Well. I disagree."
"You're free to." Tony hums in the back of his throat. "Say, kid, what you doing this Saturday?"
"Umm-" He'd mostly planned on homework and reality TV.
"Clear it. You're coming with me."
"With you?" Peter exclaims. "Where?" He's been working in the lab with Tony for months now, but they haven't really ventured outside the tower together. Unless Peter's Spider-Man, of course. They've fought plenty of crime together, and the thought brings a smile to Peter's face.
"To the amfAR gala. Big charity thing."
"What charity?" Peter asks, quietly leaning into his seat. Tony wants him to go?
"AIDs and HIV." Tony places both the iron and the box to the table, twisting around to look at Peter.
"Very important," Peter agrees softly.
"Sure, kid." Tony's watching him, his eyes blown way out of proportion in the goggles lenses. "You wanna go?"
Peter swallows. "You want me to want to go? Like you want me to go? You don't have to invite me, Mister Stark, I bet you have a million super famous science people to take, and Pepper too, and you definitely don't have to take me, plus I don't actually think I have a suit-"
"Whoa." Tony holds up a hand. "Slow your roll. Yes, I want you to go. Pepper is going too. We'll get you a suit, that's no problem. I'll have Happy pick you up Saturday."
Peter opens his mouth, closes it. "Really?" He asks, hesitantly.
Tony sighs. "Yes, Peter. I want you there."
The assurance is all Peter needs, and his face breaks into a large grin. "Okay, then. This sounds awesome!"
Tony nods his head, satisfied with the results, and rolls back around to the small box between them. It's packed with enough thermal energy to power a small toaster for a day, and the moment Tony's hands reach out for it, Peter utters a frantic, "Wait, Mister Stark-"
The small metallic box explodes, flinging shards of small metal across the room. The heat of it forces Tony back, rolling across the room, and Peter instintively grasps outwards towards him.
It's a small explosion, especially for this lab, but FRIDAY immediately butts in, "Boss, I have sensed a disturbance in the lab. Activating safety protocols now."
With that, the water sprinklers above them come to life, raining cold water down on every single available surface. Including them.
Tony grumbles.
"Mister Stark!" Peter cries, worried gaze finding his. At some point he'd taken off his goggles, and the fear is clear on his face. "Are you okay?"
Tony fumbles around, sliding his fingers between the strap of the googles and his skin. With a sputtering couch, he pulls them free. "Too much energy," he tells the kid solemnly, shoving the googles into his lap. "Not enough stainless steel."
Peter bites his lip. "Are you okay?"
Tony finally meets his gaze, the irritated crinkles around his eyes softening. "Yeah, kiddo. I'm okay. We both are. That was just a small setback."
Peter lets out a breath, finger curling around the goggles in his lap. "Okay. Good-"
His finger brushes across the front, finding something sharp, and he brings the glasses up to his view.
Embedded deeply in the material there is a small, nearly invisible piece of alloy metal. A sharp needlepoint that would have pierced Tony's mucous membrane.
Peter waves the googles in the man's direction, sending him a wry smile.
Tony spies the shard, his mouth opening, just in time to hear Peter gloat.
"Safety is for everyone, Mister Stark."
*****
"You're sure he's already in there?" Peter asks, his hands nervously twiddling in his lap. He watches the world outside of the car window intently, scrutinizing the expensive cars and reporters.
"Yeah, kid." Happy glances at him from the rearview mirror, noting the nerves. "Tony figured doing it this way would be easier on, your, uh, senses."
Peter nods, already squinting at the flashing outside the car. Reporters feverishly snapping picture after picture of all the big name celebrities making their way into the massive home. There's a large red carpet lain across the front lawn; very Hollywood-esque.
He can hear every single question being hurled at the couple currently making their way up the grand staircase to the opulent Ferris Mansion. Even from within the car, it's jarring.
"Yeah, that's a lot." He chuckles anxiously.
"You won't have to deal with it," Happy assures quickly, twisting the car to take them behind the grand entrance. "Just head in the back way, and Tony should be waiting."
Peter nods again, a little shell-shocked. "Okay."
"You'll do great. I'm going to park the car, and then I'll be in there, too. You'll see me in the shadows."
Peter smiles. "That sounds like a movie, Happy."
Happy grumbles, pulling off to the shoulder. Peter sees another entrance here, far less fabulous and much more reserved. The only people entering and exiting through the doors are those obviously working the event.
"The employee entrance," Happy confirms, following Pete's gaze. "Just head in those doors, past the kitchen, and Tony will be waiting right there. He didn't want to risk trying to come in with you. Those damn reporters, a bunch of vultures-"
"Okay, okay, thanks, Hap." Peter hastily pushes the door open, deciding to risk it with the Gala in lieu of listening to another of Happy's paparazzi tirades. "I'll see you in there."
Happy offers him a soft smile before piloting the car away. With one more deep, steadying breath, Peter makes his way up the walkway.
A couple people give him odd looks as he crosses the threshold to the kitchen, instantly being hit with the scent of amazing food, but no one moves to stop him or tell him to use the front. He figures he must be safe.
There's a large pot shimmering on one of the stoves, it's red sauce inside smelling like Heaven itself. Another pan sautéing onions and chicken. People are scrambling frantically across the large industrial kitchen, and Peter decides right then that he's looking forward to the Gala, if only for the amazing food that he's smelling in this kitchen-
A hand catches the collar of his new tux, yanking him back. Peter lets out a breathless yelp, his windpipe momentarily disrupted.
"What are you doing here?" A surly guard demands, gaze traveling up and down him. "That's not a kitchen uniform."
Peter swallows. It definitely isn't. It's an Armani suit that Tony insisted he get, even though Peter definitely didn't want so much money wasted on him. "I'm, uh, not part of the kitchen staff-"
"Obviously," the man snaps, refusing to release the fingers curled around his collar. Peter hopes that the man doesn't ruin the suit. Not after Mister Stark spent so much money on it.
"I'm here to see Mister Stark-" He starts, cut off by an unpleasant laugh.
"Sure you are, kid," the guard chuckles. "They always are."
Peter's heart sinks. "No, really, just let me call him-" His hands ghosting across the pockets in his suit, face paling at the distinct lack of a rectangular shape. He'd lost his phone?
"How about you call him in the office, then?" The officer offers, a cruel humour glowing across his face. "Come on."
He pulls Peter by the collar of his suit, and Peter casts a desperate look to the stainless steel doors that will inevitably lead him to Mister Stark.
The guard pulls him the opposite way, into a doorway that leads him to an entirely different hallway.
"I really do know Tony Stark," Peter insists, feet struggling to keep up with the guards gaite. There's no point risking his identity for something like this, so he lets himself be pulled along like a dog on a leash. "I'm his intern!"
"An intern entering through the back entrance?" The guard questions.
Peter's cheeks flush. "Mister Stark arranged it!"
"Sure." The man stops, taking one hand off of Peter's collar to open the door in front of him. Gun-metal grey, it reminds Peter of a dungeon.
The door swings open, and the guard shoves Peter a little, pushing him into the compact room. There's a desk set up in the middle, strewn with papers. A wall of CCTV video monitors across one wall, displaying an array of different views of the Gala. Peter lets his gaze sweep across them, desperately searching for Tony. Unable to find him, his eyes crawl back to the desk. A stout man sits behind it, watching him.
"What's this, Anderson?" The man asks, raising a brow in the guard's direction.
"Trespasser," Anderson replies confidently, all but blocking the door. "Figured I'd bring him to you to sort out."
The man behind the desk nods. The hair on top of his head is cropped short and dark, his face aged with an array of deep lines. "Good thinking."
Anderson inclines his head once before turning on his heels and slamming the door behind him. Peter winces as the noise reverberates across his brain.
"There's been a mistake, sir," Peter offers hurriedly, taking a few tentative steps towards the desk. "I really do know Tony Stark, and he's expecting me here, and he's probably going to be mad if I don't show up soon-"
The man watches him silently, before wordlessly motioning to the solitary chair across from him. Peter lowers himself somewhat nervously. "If you could just maybe call him and confirm?" Peter points to the phone on the table, shrugging helplessly.
"You expect me to believe that?" The man finally asks, his voice far deeper then what Peter had been expecting.
"Uh." Peter bites his lip. "Yes? Cause it's true?"
The man scoffs, shaking his head. "We get bozos like you in here all the time. Parasites. Trying to get a once-in-a-lifetime shot of some big name celebrity."
"I'm not part of the paparazzi-" Peter insists.
"They never are." The man shoves angrily back from his desk, rising to his feet. "They sneak in here, just like you. Always with those hard little eyes, those grim little smiles. Soulless. Usually washed up. Is that the future you want?"
"Uh." Peter gulps. "No, sir, of course not, but-"
"You know what I do when I find one of those soulless, parasitic reporters?" The guard demands, pacing angrily behind his desk.
"No?" Peter feels the situation somehow spiraling massively out of his control.
"I let them spend a night in jail. Trespassing." The guard affixes him a ghastly smile.
"Jail?" Peter blurts out, shocked. He can't go to jail. Aunt May will never let him out of the apartment again if he goes to the big house. "Wait, sir-"
"You, though." The guard meanders behind him, setting Peter's nerves on fire. He fights against the urge to twist around, to run. "You're not washed up. Not yet. Still young. It must be your first gig."
"No-" Peter argues, breathlessly.
The man's hands drop suddenly to his shoulders, and Peter nearly jumps out of his skin. Followed by a squeeze, and then the hands begin to roll lazily around. Oh. Shit.
Peter's eyes blow wide.
He twists around, trying to dislodge the roaming hands, but they double down. kneading hard enough to leave bruises.
He gulps, feeling like a trapped animal. "Don't-"
"Just a couple little favors," the man continues, rolling and petting. "I'll let you go back into the Gala. Won't call the cops or anything. You can get your little story. A freebie, if you will."
"I'm not- not paparazzi," Peter tries again, his mouth dry, his tongue feeling like a useless piece of rubber. "Please. I know Mister Stark."
He doesn't know why he keeps trying to convince this guy, not when it's very clear he isn't going to believe him. Has probably consciously chosen not to believe him in lieu of something else.
Something that involves petting and rolling and kneading.
Peter's stomach flips.
"Whaddaya say kid?" The guard's mouth is lowered to his ear, close enough to breathe hot, heavy air against his neck. "What's your story worth to you?"
Skip Skip Skip Skip Skip
His brain short circuits, playing the word on an endless loop as the hands continue to dance across his shoulders. Hot, burning breath.
Then the hands try to go lower, slipping under the collar of his tux, teasing above his chest-
Peter nopes the hell out of there, bolting to his feet with force.
Maybe too much force, judging by how the man staggers back, his face morphing from lust to shock.
Heart galloping, his legs feeling just as useless as his rubber tongue, Peter takes a trembling step away. "I'll just go home," he announces, a little desperately.
The man regards him suspiciously, eyes narrowing. He has rocked him back several feet, and doesn't seem too inclined to make his way back.
"This is a no trespassing event," he snarls quickly. "I need to call the police."
A flush is spreading across the man's neck and cheeks, an obvious testament to his sudden rejection. He sneers in Peter's direction.
"I'll leave," Peter tries again, shaking his head, screaming internally. This is insane. He's actually supposed to be here!
"You'll sit!" The man bellows, stalking across the room to the phone. He punches in the numbers, keeping a wary eye on Peter.
Trembling slightly, his brain replaying that same endless loop (Skip Skip Skip) he considers simply bolting. Making a run for it.
Either to the ballroom for Tony, or to the outside world to get away.
The latter was sounding pretty good right now, especially with the way his stomach was flip-flopping.
"Yes, security?" The guard speaks, his angry eyes never leaving Peter's. "I have a situation up here. A trespasser. Going to have to have someone take him downtown. Tried to fight me."
Peter makes a helpless sound, his eyes growing wider still. "I didn't."
"Maybe just let him spend a night in the hole. You know how the Stark's feel about paparazzi in the events they go to." The guard's lips quirks up into a nasty smile. "We wouldn't want to disappoint our most prestigious guests."
"Please," Peter tries one last time, shaking his head. "Mister Stark knows me. He- he probably won't be happy if I get arrested!"
Slamming the phone back into it's cradle, the man affixes him with that same ghoulish grin. "Shoulda just helped me out with some favors, huh, kid?"
The name doesn't sound right coming from someone who isn't Mister Stark.
"Enjoy your free night in jail."
Oh shit. Peter was getting arrested.
Aunt May was going to be pissed.
*****
Tony's brunello cucinelli shoes tap impatiently against the linoleum outside the doors to the Gala's kitchen.
Peter was supposed to meet him here, avoiding all the hustle and bustle of the grand walkway. The last thing that kid needed was a sensory overload.
Checking his wrist again for the time, Tony sighs impatiently. Maybe a little worriedly.
Happy wasn't usually late.
With one last glance around the hall, ignoring the curious looks of kitchen staff scurrying around, silvered trays balanced on their hands, Tony pushes his way into the kitchen.
There are a couple gasps, of which Tony is used to. He ignores them in favor of raking his gaze across the busy room.
His anxiety rises tenfold at the distinct lack of Spider-Baby in the kitchen. Not a hide nor hair of Pete.
Fighting off nerves bordering on panic, Tony fumbles around in the pockets of his suit for his phone. Hap probably still has the kid.
Someone nervously clearing their throat beside him catches his attention, and he stops just before pressing the speed dial.
"Mr. Stark? Sir?" The girl's dark hair is pulled back into a professional style, her hands clenched into a tight ball in front of her. The uniform she wears identifies her as wait staff. "Can I help you? Are you lost?"
"I'm looking for someone," Tony informs her, loud enough to address the room. "A boy. About ye height, personality of a puppy?"
He watches the girl's already pale features blanch whiter. "A boy?" She whisper-askes.
Tony's heart all but skips a beat at her panicked expression. "Where is he? Is he hurt?"
The girl shakes her head, her eyes wide. "Ander- our guard, well he thought he was trespassing. Escorted him to the boss's office."
Tony's eyes narrow, indignation flaring across his nerves. Like a fire, his anger begins to kindle. "Trespassing?"
"I'm sorry, sir!" She squeals, eyes beseeching anyone else to jump in. Begging. No one comes to her aid. "He- he was coming in the back entrance. And- and-"
Tony holds up a hand that might as well have a gauntlet affixed to it for the silence it brings. "I arranged that. Specifically for him. Did all the fuckin' paperwork for it and everything."
The girl's head drops, eyes finding the floor. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Stark sir, I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding-"
"Shove it," Tony orders, shaking his head. "Fuckin' christ."
He's already pulling up Peter's location on his phone, fire burning up his sternum. Fire that explodes into something uncontrollable when the kid's location pinges back, courtesy of the StarkWatch he's wearing.
"Jail?" He hisses, causing the woman to cower. "My kid is in jail?"
*****
Peter tries to stay very small, and very hunched into the corner of his cell.
Sure, technically he has super strength, but it isn't like he can use it in here. Not with so many people around.
So many smelly people.
Peter crinkles his nose, trying to block out the nearly overpowering scent of perspiration and vomit and booze. He's never been confined to such a small, funky- smelling space before.
Many of the men in the cell with him keep casting him looks that have him pulling in even smaller to himself. He really, really doesn't want to have to get in a fight with anyone in here.
Doesn't want to get into a situation where he'll have to even consider revealing his secret identity.
Either that, or let himself get thrashed by one of his intoxicated cell mates.
Someone burps, loud and wet, and the sound and smell of it assaults Peter. He fights back a groan, silently cursing his senses.
Jail probably wouldn't be so bad if his senses didn't allow him to hear and smell everything.
He buries his head in his knees, closing his eyes to stave off the sensory overload he can practically feel forming. He hasn't had one in months now, and this feels like a pretty inappropriate time for them to make a reappearance.
Then, his ears pick out a familiar sound; a heartbeat and footsteps he recognizes. He brightens, lifting his head up to smell Tony's Stark's signature cologne, followed very quickly by the man himself.
Oh. A very pissed off Tony Stark.
Tony's dark eyes find him immediately, opening wide, his jaw slacking in shock.
"Hey, Mister Stark," he offers softly, unfurling from himself. He sends the man a comforting smile that does little to ease the anger fizzling through the air.
The man sitting next to Peter does a comical double-take, his head jerking from Peter to Tony and back again.
"Hey, Pete," Tony greets, voice terse. He sweeps his gaze across the cell, lips tightening. "Open it!" He snaps hastily to officer standing behind him.
Tony Stark, gussied up in a very expensive suit, here to spring a troubled youth from jail.
The thought might have made Peter laugh if he didn't feel so, well, miserable.
He wants to go home.
The officer hesitates. "Sir, there's the matter of the battery charge-"
Peter pales, and Tony whirls on the officer. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"
"Officer Dalton insisted the kid tried to fight him-"
Dalton, Peter thinks numbly, He's the handsy one.
His stomach twists, a result of the stench of vomit clinging to one man's shirt, and probably, maybe his own impending panic attack.
Tony notes the queasy look on Peter's face, resolve hardening. "You're going to release him right now."
"Sir-"
"Right now," Tony continues, voice cold, "And when I inevitably sue every single person involved with this major fuckup, I'll let you, and you alone, keep your job."
The Officer hesitates again. The men in Peter's cell hesitate. Time stands still.
Predictably, the man pulls a massive set of keys off of the loop of his belt, making his way with trembling hands to the door of Peter's cell. "Parker," he calls, wavering slightly. "Come on. You're free."
Peter springs to his feet, nimbly sidestepping the bodies splayed out across his current cage.
"Thanks, Mister Stark," he offers breathlessly, crossing the threshold to the cell. The door swings shut with a loud, reverberating thud behind him, and he flinches.
He has a migraine forming behind his eyes.
"Hey, kid." The anger on Tony's face softens slightly, and he throws his arm over Peter's shoulder to lead him out of the jail. His voice is gruff.
"Thanks for coming to get me."
Tony makes a miserable sound in the back of his throat. "Let's just get you outside, okay?"
Peter nods. Outside sounds great.
Tony obliges, leading him straight through the jail to the world beyond. The air has never smelt so fresh before, and Peter takes a huge whiff before spotting Happy leaning against the limo.
"Hey, Happy!" He cries, lifting up a hand in greeting. The man seems to cringe back, his face twisted in what is obviously guilt.
Peter frowns, and lets Tony lead him across the parking lot to the car.
Only when they reach the vehicle does Mister Stark remove his arm.
"Hey," Happy offers softly, his eyes downcast. "You okay?"
Peter nods quickly, wanting to wash the guilt off of both of the men's faces. "I'm okay, really, it was just a misunderstanding-"
A misunderstanding that led to rolling, and kneading and squeezing-
The thought pinches off the rest of his assurance, and he smiles tightly.
Tony sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "Fuckin' hell. Get in Pete."
He ushers Peter into the back of the limo, sliding in behind him. Peter lets himself relax into the comfortable seat, finding it leagues better than the concrete ledge in jail.
And there, resting in the seat, is Peter's cellphone. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he got out.
Grabbing it quickly, shoving it in his pocket, Peter swallows down the bitter taste on his tongue.
"Am I really gonna get charged with battery?" Peter asks nervously, letting a hand trace out the formula to his webs across the leather seat. "Cause Aunt May will be pretty pissed at me-"
"No," Tony cuts in quickly, voice still raw. "Absolutely not kid. They're not charging you with that shit. Like hell."
Happy grunts his assent from the front, easing them out onto the road.
"Battery?" Tony continues, chagrin. At some point his tie had come undone, leaving the top two buttons on his suit open. "Fuckin' battery? Obviously they don't know you, Petey Pie, or they'd know what a bogus charge that was-"
The heft of Mister Stark's fury has him leaning away. "Sorry."
Sighing, closing his eyes, Peter can physically see Mister Stark trying to crush the anger down. Finally, after a silent moment, he opens them again. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm just furious. Not at you, but at those idiots at the Gala. What a fuckup this turned out to be. I'm sorry about all of it."
Peter shrugs, hoping to ease some of the tension. "It's okay, Mister Stark. It's just Parker Luck."
Tony scoffs, gaze trained out the window. Peter can still see the barely concealed fury pulsing under his skin. "Wanna tell me what happened?"
Kneading, rolling, squeezing
Skip, Skip, Skip
"They thought I was trespassing. That I was paparazzi."
Happy swears.
Tony looks incredulous. "So they took you to jail? We don't arrest the paps, we just toss 'em back out."
Peter shrugs again. "I don't think the main guy liked me at all."
Or, conversely, too much?
Peter decides not to dwell on the schematics.
"Not like you?" Tony demands, the same moment Happy offers, "Kid, everyone likes you. You're fuckin' polite."
Peter scrambles to find an answer that isn't he wanted favors and fails, so he mutters a very soft, very quiet, "I don't know."
Tony sighs deeply. "Okay, fair enough. Hap, take us back to the Gala."
Peter's head jerks up, and his stomach lurches. "Um." His tongue is numb again, hard to move. "Could you just take me home? Please?"
He can feel both of their gazes on him, scruintintzing. It makes him feel exposed, but if it gets him out of going back he'll take it. His stomach doesn't feel steady enough to handle all of that anymore.
Tony watches him intently, eyes tight. Finally, "Wanna split the difference with me, 'Roos? Come back to the compound instead?"
Peter shakes his head. "I don't wanna be a problem, Mister Stark, you should go back and enjoy the gala-"
"Wasn't really any fun," Tony argues quickly. "Bunch of stuffy, rich people. Not my scene."
Peter arches a brow. "You're a stuffy, rich person."
Tony mimes a shot to his heart, placing his hands dramatically against his chest. It makes Peter feel marginally better. "Oh, that hurts. My own intern."
Peter laughs. "It's true!"
The sound of Peter's laugh has Tony's lip tilting up into a small smile. "What do you say, kid? Wanna hang out with a stuffy, rich guy?"
Peter hesitates. He really wants to, but he doesn't want to wreak Mister Stark's night. "What about Mrs. Potts?"
Tony waves the thought away. "She'll give a quick little speech about our donation and then she'll leave. She's done it a million times."
Peter is undecided, torn between ruining Mister Stark's big night and having the opportunity to hang out with him some more, and then Tony's words finally tip him over the edge.
"We could work on the Spider-Man suit?" He cocks a playful brow.
"Okay." Peter admits defeat, smiling. "As long as I'm not being a bother-"
Mister Stark chuckles, reaching a hand out to ruffle his hair. "You're never a bother, Pete."
*****
It bothers him long after Peter inevitably goes to bed.
Long after they tinker around with his suit, after they order enough food to feed a small party (or one Spider-Kid), after they watch Star Wars for the umpteenth time.
Peter excuses himself, goes to bed.
And Tony is still fuming.
Dangerously so. Enough to commit, what Pepper affectionately calls, a Tony-sized mistake.
He kicks up from the couch, where he's been mindlessly watching the credits to Return of the Jedi.
"Fri, how's the kid?" He questions the ceiling.
"His vitals show him to be sleeping, Boss."
He makes his way to the kitchen, gut churning. Something about tonight, besides the utter fuckery of it, is rubbing him wrong.
Pouring himself a cup of black coffee, which would surely be enough to get him chewed out by Miss Pepper Potts at this late hour, he lets his mind wander.
It's what it's good at.
Peter curled into a little ball in that jail cell, looking unexplainably young and helpless, even though he definitely isn't. Peter's probably the strongest person Tony knows, both physically and emotionally.
Which begs the fucking question; why was he in jail to begin with?
"Fri, hack into the Ferris estate. I want video footage."
"Of course," she comes back, chipper as usual. "But I should caution you that such tampering is illegal-"
"Bah." Tony cuts her off, taking a gulp of the brew. He smacks his lips. "We'll keep it quiet, right hon?"
"Of course," FRIDAY assures amicably.
"Including Mrs. Potts."
The hesitation is telling. "If you insist."
"Definitely do. Bring up any footage of Peter."
At his command, the movie credits are replaced with CCTV footage. Tony takes one last long swig of his coffee, making his way back into the living room. Collapsing on the couch, his eyes riveted to the scene playing out on-screen, he settles in.
He watches Peter make his way up the back entrance, watches Peter offer an awkward wave to a young woman working waitstaff, causing the girl to blush and Tony to chuckle.
Then, FRIDAY automatically shifts the footage, and he's staring at an angled version of the kitchen from earlier. Everyone in full swing, he watches cooks and waiters careen about each other before Peter finally makes his way onto the scene.
There's no sound, so Tony can't hear the conversation that happens after the guard hooks his hands into the collar of Pete's shirt, but it's enough to ensure that Tony's going to make the guard lose his job at the Ferris Mansion.
It's probably for the best he can't hear. Tony is seething.
His temper only rises as the guard man-handles the kid down the hallway, the waitstaff looking on.
Tony huffs, leaning forward. "Keep it going, Fri."
The footage pauses as Peter exits the frame.
"The footage I have received may be distressing to you," she informs tersely. "May I recommend you pause this viewing-"
Tony doesn't peel his gaze away from the paused scene, his stomach sinking. He's heavy now, burdened too densely with despair. He couldn't stop watching now if his sanity depended on it. According to Fri, it does. "Play it."
There's only a breath of a pause before FRIDAY reluctantly does, and a little monitoring room comes to life. The guard, Anderson, shoves Peter into the room, and Tony decides that simply making sure the man gets fired isn't enough. He'll never hold another security gig as long as he lives.
And, Tony finds out pretty quick, this room has audio.
"There's been a mistake, sir," Peter offers hurriedly and politely, because of course he would. He's about the only one Tony can imagine imploying such manners after being manhandled and shoved around.
"I really do know Tony Stark, and he's expecting me here, and he's probably going to be mad if I don't show up soon-"
He watches Peter sit warily down. He gestures to the phone. "If you could maybe just call and confirm?"
What a brilliant fucking idea, Tony fumes. "Could have saved a lot of trouble if they'd have listened to the kid," he spits out.
FRIDAY decides not to answer.
"You expect me to believe that?" The man on-screen asks, voice rude. And Tony decides then that he's not working another security gig either.
And that's before he decides to call Peter a soulless parasite.
"Who is he?" Tony demands.
"Facial recognition places him as Officer Jared Dalton."
"Bookmark him," Tony orders through clenched teeth. This one wouldn't be working another job at all. Ever. Not even flipping burgers.
"Jail?" He hears Peter exclaim, incredulous, because obviously the kid wasn't expecting to go to jail for doing nothing wrong. "Wait, sir-"
The kid is too damned polite for his own good.
"You, though. You're not washed up. Not yet. Still young. It must be your first gig."
Tony wants to scream at the screen.
And then the bastard puts his hands on Tony's kid, and his vision fizzles out for a minute.
How dare he. How fuckin' dare he-
He can practically see Peter's brain short-circuiting, his eyes wide. He breaths out a worried, "Don't-"
"Just a couple favors," the man cuts him off, fingers splaying out across Peter's shoulders, and Tony is definitely going to end up spewing pizza sauce and cheese and pepperoni all over his very expensive wool rug-
"I'll let you go back into the Gala. Won't call the cops or anything. You can get your little story. A freebie, if you will."
"I'm not- not paparazzi," Peter says, squirming slightly. He mentally screams, tells the kid to get up but he can see the shock playing out across Peter's features and he can't blame the kid, not at all-
"Please. Iknow Mister Stark."
"Damn right," Tony mutters, because this bastard has just signed his own death warrant.
Tony's not sure when he jumped from jobless to death, but he imagines it was somewhere around the point of the man forcibly massaging his kid's shoulders.
"Whaddaya say, kid?" Dalton murmurs, voice low as he bends down closer to Pete's ear. "What's your story worth to you?"
"He's not a goddamn reporter," Tony snaps, though no one but Friday can hear him.
Dalton's fingers dance around the edges of Peter's shirt seams, finally crawling inside Peter's suit.
Tony sucks in a sharp breath, on his feet. FRIDAY was right, his breathing is tight and pained now, and he can barely draw in any oxygen at all. He clutches his chest miserably, still watching the scene play out.
Gratefully, thankfully, Peter rockets to his feet, practically shoving the man across the room.
Good.
"I'll just go home," Peter begs, and the cadence of his voice serves to break Tony's heart.
"This is a no trespassing event!" The man barks out, clearly flustered. Clearly embarrassed.
Good. He'd be more than embarrassed after Tony finished with him.
"I need to call the police."
Tony watches the desperation spread across Peter's face. "I'll leave," he insists.
The man yells at Peter. His Peter. Calm, mild-mannered Peter who definitely didn't need to be yelled at. "You'll sit!"
Dalton tells whoever is on the phone that Peter tried to fight him, which explains the clown charge, the battery thing, and would be a little humorous in a different situation because Peter could absolutely destroy this creep if he wanted. If he wasn't such a hero who believes in the value of all human life and blah, blah, blah.
"You shouldn't be watching that."
Tony whirls around to the voice, finding an irritated Peter standing in the doorway. His arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw flexing.
His cheeks are pale, and Tony can read his emotions easily across his face. He's upset.
Fuck.
"FRIDAY, get rid of it!" He orders sharply, and immediately the CCTV footage is gone.
Peter's eyes seem to drag slowly back to where Tony stands, now that the video is gone. "Why'd you do that, Mister Stark?"
Tony cocks his head, awkwardly hovering above the couch. Half on, half off. "Why'd I….." He starts, beckoning Peter to finish.
Peter uncurls his arms, gesturing to the now black screen. "You watched that!"
"Well, I had to…" Tony explains, slowly, completely lost on how to handle this situation.
Peter shakes his head vehemently. "You shouldn't have watched that! I didn't want you to watch that!" Beneath the irritation, there's the smallest hint that Peter's voice might break.
"Pete," Tony says, softly, "I was trying to figure out what happened."
Peter shrugs, the action lacking all of it's usual nonchalance. "I told you! They wouldn't let me in and they took me to jail!"
Tony pauses, stills. "But that's not all that happened."
Peter stiffens. "That's all that matters."
His voice does break, just a little on the end. It's enough to finally get Tony off the couch and across the foyer.
Peter takes a step back at his approach, shaking his head. "I'm mad, Mister Stark. That's- that's like an invasion of privacy or something."
Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment.
Tony can see that, too, riding along the blush crawling up his neck and cheeks.
"I'm sorry I upset you," Tony replies honestly, because fuck, that's not what he wanted to do. At all. "But you didn't tell me the full story. I needed to know what happened."
Tears are pooling in Peter's eyes, and Tony's heart cinches, but the kid doesn't let them fall. "I didn't want you to watch that," he repeats, distressed.
"I'm sorry," Tony offers, because what else can he do?
"I'm- I'm embarrassed, okay?" Peter finally admits, meeting Tony's eyes. "That sucked, and I didn't want you to know, and I wanted it to just go away, okay?" He gestures animatedly with his hands. "But now you've seen it, and it won't go away, and I- I don't know why you had to go and do that Mister Stark-"
"Hold on." Tony holds up his hands pleadingly. "I don't want you to be upset, kiddo. Honest."
"Can you just make it go away?" He begs. "And let's pretend it never happened? Please?"
Tony falters. Because that's not fucking healthy, but he'd do just about anything right now to make that look on Peter's face go away. To make his lip stop trembling and his eyes stop misting over. "Okay," he agrees finally, hesitantly. Hating himself for it. "We'll forget it for now, okay?"
At least until he can figure out how to get the kid into therapy or something. Someone qualified to actually help.
Peter slowly relaxes, offering Tony a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Thanks, Mister Stark."
It makes Tony wince. He's really going to mess this kid up. "What are you even doing up?" He wonders, trying to bypass the kid's obvious gratitude. Gratitude he definitely shouldn't be getting right about now.
Peter shrugs. "I was hungry. Was gonna see if you had any leftovers."
"We'll order something new," Tony decrees.
"Oh. No, that's okay, I don't need anything-"
"It's settled." Maybe food would calm the guilt rolling around in Tony's stomach.
Peter relents pretty easy, meaning he's hungry. It's a pain in the ass trying to keep up with his metabolism. "Well, okay."
"Chinese or Mexican?"
Peter deliberates, finally declaring, "Mexican. Tacos?"
"You got it. Put the order in, FRIDAY."
It does ease his guilt a little bit. Being able to offer the kid something. Not responsible coping mechanisms, obviously, but something.
Maybe revenge, too, he muses privately. Especially for the asshole whose name he's got memorized now. Jared Dalton.
Nothing soothes the soul quite like vengeance, and besides-
Nobody puts their hands on his kid.