O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Shit. Shit. Fuck.

Peter had decided a long time ago that Parker Luck was nothing but a nasty, dirty lie created by his lying liar ancestors who wanted to pretend that there was actually a chance that their circumstances could change for the better. Luck implied the possibility of something working out eventually. It wasn't Parker Luck—it was the fucking Parker Curse. Or maybe it was just the fucking Peter Curse. He was like a bastardized version of King Midas—everything he touched turned to shit. 

Peter looked through his bag for the tenth time. His lab card and room key were missing. And it wouldn't be such a big deal, but also, there's four fucking ghosts from his past hanging out in his building, he's running low on painkillers, he has six more hours until he can get a drink, and he's already thirty minutes late for his appointment with Dr. Prentiss. And this would be where he'd typically call it a day, but their experiment was fragile at this stage and Peter had to get this one right if his plan was going to work. It was the whole fucking reason for being here instead of freezing to death in some abandoned warehouse in Queens. Not that the second wasn't preferable—it had just proved to be not possible. 

Some TA apparently took pity on him during his brooding, because he found himself swiped into the lab. It probably should have been concerning that he couldn't remember the last ten minutes, but if every other person in the world was allowed to forget things, he should be too. Look at that Stephen. I'm magic too. Peter felt a dark amusement bubble up as he made his way over to his station. He pulled out his notes and began working. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching behind him. 

"Mr. Fitzpatrick, glad to see you can actually be where you need to be. Even if a bit late."

"It's good to see you too, Dr. P. What took you so long? Been busy kissing the asses of Avengers' royalty?" Peter was looking hard at the laptop in front of him, trying to figure out the problem with the equation he was looking at.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick."

"I kid, I kid. Just didn't think you'd agree to bow down to the great Tony Stark in order to fund this. I told you I could figure it out." 

"Benjamin."

"I mean, you'll probably get a fucking Nobel prize for this by the time we're done. It's not like you need their super-powered blessing or anything."

"Oh, what a delightful child you are." Peter's flinch was imperceptible to the men around him, but filled him with static electricity. You got this, Parker. Keep to the plan.

"Takes one to know one. Anyway, Dr. P." Peter looked up, trying to block out an annoyed-looking Tony and amused Rhodey, and instead focused on his professor. "As much as I'm sure this reunion means a lot to you, I've got a hot date tonight and I was hoping to get out of here soon, so if we could hurry this up, I'd be," Peter did a bad imitation of a British accent, "much obliged." 

Dr. Prentiss stepped closer to Peter, looking at him concernedly. Peter took an involuntary step back. "Benjamin, are you drunk right now?" 

"No better way to science, Dr. P! Am I right? Or am I right?" Peter giggled. No one else did. "Tough crowd. No, of course not, sir. That would be illegal. I'm just an exhausted college student hopped up on Red Bull and the crushing weight of my parents' expectations." He flashed a dazzling smile at the group. 

He could just make out Rhodey's whispered "Oh my god, he was right, there's two of them,"  before Tony put his hand up as if to stop Peter from speaking. 

"No-pe. Listen up, Jack Sparrow. This is how this is going to go. Your Dr. Prentiss asked us to come and consult on some project that he called world-changing. He said he was working with a young genius—the likes we've never seen before,Anthony—and that we had to see it for ourselves. Personally, I've seen enough, but because there's no one I respect more than the good Dr. here, you're going to sit down, zip it, and play nice. And apologize for wasting his time. I may enjoy watching someone piss away his potential spectacularly, but your professor here seems to care for some reason." 

The men gaped at Tony—Rhodey, impressed, Dr. Prentiss, proudly. Peter scoffed. "Ok, dad. Don't get your panties in a twist. Sitting down now." 

"That's Dr. Stark to you."

'Tony. Please, I didn't mean to.'

'Peter, bud. Calm down. Deep breaths. What happened?'

'Pepper, Pepper she...'

'Okay, it's okay. Just breathe, please Pete.'

'Morgan! Where's Morgan? Is she ok?'

'Yes, she's fine. You did good, ok, you did so good.'

'Tony, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.'

'No, stop. Pete, listen--'

'I've got to go.'

'Peter, please just listen--'

'Mister Stark, I need to get out of here.'

'Pete!' 

Peter gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up and leaned in to answer questions about his research. The pounding in his brain was reaching a crescendo.

Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault

His senses, which he had expertly dulled thanks to a perfect cocktail of addiction and self-loathing, ratcheted up greatly throughout the conversation. And all that he could taste, smell, hear, and see was Tony. Tony. Tony. Tony. Tony. Closing his eyes hard and shaking his head violently, he blindly grabbed for his laptop, notes, and bag. 

"Yeah, this was great, and all, but I need to leave. I'll email you my notes, Dr. P. I'd say it was good seeing you, Stark, but I have this thing about lying. Colonel. Good talk."

"Benjamin, 9 AM tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Got it."

He couldn't leave the room quick enough. Grabbing his phone, he texted his roommate. 

yeah, we can host tonight. i'll get the stuff. 9 pm. thx.