Chapter 3
It happened again and again and again.
---
Tony was bent over a 3D model of Strucker’s base when he spotted the small figure on the monitor.
He sprinted out of the room, all thoughts about possible defense systems and energy fields and secret exits gone. One hurried stop in the kitchen later, he slammed the elevator button into the stratosphere, balancing a half-finished android head and a cold box of take out in his arms.
The kid loved the head so much that he almost forgot about the food.
“Mr. Stark! This is – wow,” he squealed excitedly and, as always, Tony wiped away the gratitude with a breezy smile and a shake of his head.
“Gotta eat something, kid,” he said and the kid did, one hand clutching the head protectively, the other shovelling overcooked pieces of roast duck into his mouth as though they were the true flesh of Christ. Or something.
---
Tony watched some important guy in a tie click through a PowerPoint presentation, droning on and on about the new StarkPhone personal assistant, which Tony wanted to know precisely nothing about. Business meetings, Tony was certain, were among the most horrendously boring creations on God’s beautiful earth.
Naturally, he took to his heels at the first chance he got, which, in this case, turned out to be the newly installed and sufficiently discrete kid alarm on his watch.
“Bowel issues,” he said, grabbed his tablet from the table and threw a charming smile at Mr.What’s-His-Face, who had just pulled up the sixth hundred PowerPoint slide and was staring at him with wide eyes.
There was no food that day, but the kid didn’t seem to mind and refused to take Tony up on his offer to order pizza.
“This is better than any pizza,” he said, studying the complex coding on Tony’s tablet with an enthralled look on his face. “I mean, seriously, I wouldn’t even trade this for the deep pan pizza from that place ‘round where I live and, like, that stuff is magic. So cheesy.”
“You get it?” Tony asked, his eyebrows disappearing in his hairline because this was advanced stuff and the kid was 14.
“Yeah, I’ve always been a cheese lover.”
Tony rolled his eyes dramatically. “The coding, kid. Lordy.”
Peter’s ears turned bright red. “Oh,” he said. “That - that makes more sense.” He looked up from the tablet. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth and the crimson had spread to his cheeks, but his eyes were glowing with excitement. “It can do so many things,” he breathed.
Tony laughed. “That? That’s nothing. Best on the phone market, but really nothing compared to Jarvis.” Now he had the kid’s full attention.
“What’s a Jarvis?” the kid asked, putting down the tablet.
“He's my personal assistant. Helps me around the house and, you know, with the whole hero thing.”
Throwing Iron Man into the conversation had the desired effect. Peter’s eyes lit up. “What can he do? Can you explain the coding? Please? What's his memory capacity and does he update himself and…”
Tony smiled. He’d have to give the kid the good stuff from now on, the stuff that involved less tinkering and more thinking, because this boy – he was something else.
“Bowel issues?” Pepper hissed later, when Tony was back at the penthouse. “Bowel issues?”
“What can I do? I’m not 20 anymore,” Tony said, aiming for a light and conciliatory tone and obviously missing by a mile if the red blotches on Pepper’s cheeks were anything to go by.
“Cut the bullshit, Tony. I ask you to go to a meeting once – once – and you just – you run out!” Her voice was filled with cold rage and - Tony cringed - disappointment.
“It was more than just once,” he muttered, but it didn’t do anything to help his case.
“It is called Stark Industries, Tony. Notice something? That it’s you name, maybe? It is your business. Yours!”
“You’re the CEO,” Tony reminded her because who if not Pepper could protect him from the horrors lurking in the conference room?
“And you’re the face!”
“Iron Man’s the face.”
“You are Iron Man, Tony!”
In the end, he smiled and promised that he would be better, anything to wipe that disappointed and furious and exhausted look off of her face. She sighed and looked even more exhausted and told him that if he decided to take her literally and wear the Iron Man suit to a meeting even just once, she would murder him without hesitation.
---
If the kid was good at programming, he was brilliant at engineering and bioengineering and chemistry and physics and math. It was truly impressive, Tony had to admit. Granted, maybe Peter sucked at everything arts and humanities, but so did Tony and, also, who cared? They wouldn’t save the planet with the Mona Lisa and Eine kleine Nachtmusik.
Tony watched Peter from the corner of his eye, bent over the tablet, studying the blueprint of a hypothetical suit improvement. He was talking a mile a minute, rattling off observations and calculations and What does this do? and What if we adjusted this measurement? and This is so cool, Mr. Stark, oh my God, I can’t believe it. Just occasionally he paused to breathe or stuff a particularly cheesy piece of pizza into his mouth.
“You know,” Tony said, his heart thumping in his chest, “We could always work on some real stuff, upstairs in my lab.”
The kid swallowed a truly enormous bite and eyed Tony warily. “Is this your version of luring me in with sweets?”
Tony chuckled. “Nah, just might be easier that way. And more fun.”
Peter seemed to think about that for a moment, picking at a spot on his chin. He shook his head. “Sorry, I really – wow, I appreciate it, Mr. Stark. But – sorry – you don’t just go into a stranger’s house.”
He flashed Tony a grin and Tony smiled back, pretending that the word stranger hadn’t hurt. “You really think I’d risk kidnapping you? It would be the end of Stark Industries,” he said, lightly, and grabbed a particularly greasy piece of Pizza.
Peter looked at him for a bit too long, his expression a bit too serious. “Nah, but if you can’t get away with it, who can?”
---
“You spoke to the kid since?” Happy asked a few days later.
Tony hummed. Things had been a bit tense between them since that fateful hungover conversation. Humming seemed to be the safest option.
“So, that’s a yes.” Happy said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You haven’t told anyone, I’m guessing?”
“No,” Tony replied in his no bullshit voice, which Happy, of course, ignored all together.
“Have you at least looked into him?”
“A bit,” Tony said, curtly, and, God, this car ride was decidedly too long.
“’A bit’? A kid shows up on your doorstep and you don’t do your research? He could be a runaway –“
Tony cut him off. “Or an addict or teenage delinquent. Yeah, got it. Thanks.”
“You just don’t care?”
Tony stared out of the window. “I’m not one to judge,” he said, finally, pushing his sunglasses up his nose.
Happy huffed. “So, he’s what now? Your charity case?”
Tony shook his head slowly. “It’s not about charity. He’s … gifted.”
“He’s –“ Happy took a measured breath. “He’s gifted. Jesus, Tony, have you ever thought about the press? Have you thought about someone seeing you with a little boy? In your driveway?”
“Not the most compromising situations they’ve ever caught me in,” Tony said and shrugged. Something, somewhere deep inside him, clenched painfully.
Happy tightened his grip on the wheel. “Come on, Tony. You’re not naïve. They’d think he’s your secret son – or worse, they’d come up with all kinds of accusations –“
Tony froze, the something rising up, up, up until it had reached his throat. “Don’t go there, Happy,” he said flatly, dangerously. “Don’t you dare go there.”
“I’m not! I’m not going there. But the press would. You know they would!”
Tony scoffed. “Not sure if you noticed, Hap, but I don’t care about the press. At all.”
“That’s the problem, Tony! That’s exactly the problem! The kid could be goddamn bait from the Daily Bugle and you’d just take it like a fucking trout!”
Tony whipped his head around. “I can take care of myself. Thank you very much,” he hissed, clenching and unclenching his fist, digging his nails into his sweaty palms.
“I don’t doubt that,” Happy said tensely, shooting Tony an extremely doubtful look.
"Yeah? That why you have your staff babysit me?"
"Come on," Happy groaned, "Not this again. It's safety, Tony. Safety."
"Oh yeah?" Tony snapped because how could Happy say that? How could he say that to him? He raged on, working furiously against the something in his throat. "Feels more like control to me. I know there's a bit of an overlap there, in your pretty head, but, gotta be frank with you, it’s kinda hurting my feelings."
"God, Tony. She - she's not even on duty anymore."
"Oh, how generous of you!"
Happy's sigh sounded almost as exhausted as Pepper's. “It’s just... I’m...” He hesitated for a moment, his ears turning crimson. “I’m worried, Tony. That's all.”
“And I’m just doing something good. That’s it. That’s all.”
“Yeah?” Happy asked, his eyes fixed on the street.
“Yes. Now, would it be possible to go a bit faster? You’re driving a Tesla, not a horse carriage.”
Tony turned back towards the window, watched the city rush past and counted his breaths.
---
He was just doing something good. He was just doing his job.
And yet, there he was, slumped over his workbench, staring at the HYDRA map with unseeing eyes and clutching a cup of lukewarm coffee for dear life.
Like a trout.
He’d just have to say the word and he would learn everything there was to know about Peter’s family and friends and the criminal record Happy was so adamant about.
Runaway, addict, teenage delinquent.
Tony should have been a teenage delinquent. It would have been fair. How many police officers did his father bribe to keep him out of trouble? At least one thing Tony could be thankful for, even if it had been just another charade, an attempt to save the family name. Peter wouldn’t have had anyone with that kind of money on his side.
Teenage delinquent. Tony huffed a humorless laugh. More like victim of bad circumstances.
He took a sip of coffee. Why would it matter? Even if Peter had a criminal record longer than the Great Wall of China, why would it matter? Wouldn’t it be Tony’s responsibility to save the kid from going down that path? Wouldn’t that be the right thing, the Iron Man thing to do?
Have you ever thought about the press?
Tony shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.
Bait. Media bait.
Peter, wide-eyed, brown-haired Peter.
Media bait.
Peter was smart; as in Tony Stark or Bruce Banner smart. That was all Tony needed to know. Peter deserved the support, desperately needed it, if he were to live up to his potential and Tony was just helping out, doing something good, doing his job.
His hands were trembling. Coffee splashed onto his shirt. Sighing, he rested his head on the tabletop and closed his eyes, ready to doze off, ready to forget, only for a few minutes.
His watch buzzed. He sprung to his feet, knocked over the coffee and cursed loudly. With wild eyes, he gathered up the paper and half-finished tech pieces scattered over the workbench. Coffee was dripping from a hasty 3am suit update sketch, smudging the ink and, Tony thought as he dumped the paper in the trash with a frustrated groan, stuff like that was exactly why the future was digital.
Hastily, he sorted through the dripping mess in his arms, cursing some more. He pulled out a pair of smart glasses he deemed salvageable and scrutinized them for a moment, smoothing his thumb over a crack in the frames. Yes, he thought, nodding grimly, Peter would like this. Carelessly, he dumped the rest of the rubbish on the floor. He would come back to that later, with a cloth and a big glass of whisky.
He hurried out of the room, phone already pressed to his ear, ready to place their usual order at their favorite pizza place. When the elevator pinged and opened, he hesitated only for a moment.
It didn't matter.
---
"Mr. Stark! This is the coolest thing ever!"
Peter was grinning from ear to ear, holding a dripping piece of pizza in one hand and the glasses in the other.
Yeah?" Tony said, "I thought the head was holding that title?"
Peter wasn't even listening. He just went on and on about the features of the glasses, and Tony tried his hardest to focus on the warmth blossoming in his chest.
It didn’t matter.
---
“It’s gonna rain. Gonna be uncomfortable down here, but not in my workshop. I’ve got more food upstairs, too.” Tony nodded at the empty pizza box at their feet.
Have you ever thought about the press, Tony?
“I swear, you’re gonna pull up in an ice cream van soon,” Peter said and Tony focused on the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, focused on anything but the nagging thoughts that had made themselves a home somewhere in the depths of his mind.
It did not matter.
---
"And then I said, 'If he finds out we finished first, I'm going to be in alkynes of trouble.’”
When Tony didn't laugh, Peter's toothy grin slowly slipped from his face. Hesitantly, he dropped his finger guns and cleared his throat.
“Get it? Cause we were, like, in chemistry class and he really can't stand when someone's smarter than him - me, specifically- ”
"Is that kid bothering you? You'd tell me if - if anything was going on, right?"
---
"Kid, it's pizza! You're not saying no to pizza!"
"First you have to tell me everything about your coolest ever project that is not Iron Man. My stomach, my rules!"
Media bait, Tony. Media bait.
"It's blackmail! Blackmail!"
They laughed.
---
Like a trout. Like a fucking trout, Tony.
---
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth
Tony ran his fingers over a crack in the table. He found a weak spot, dug his nails into it and chipped off a loose piece of varnish.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a fucking trout
Another loose piece, dig, chip, repeat.
Back and forth, back and forth, back and -
"Tony? You with us?"
Tony snapped his head up and stared into Steve's quizzical eyes.
"Tony?"
Tony picked up his whisky glass and took a big sip. "No, sorry. Nope. Not with you at all,” he said.
Steve's eyebrows travelled all the way into his perfect hairline.
Tony cleared his throat. "In fact, I'm so very much not with you that I spent the last fifteen minutes thinking about how strange it is that I'm one of the richest people in world - really high up on the list, actually - and the furniture in my own conference room is still so goddamn terrible. Honestly, I'd be offended if I visited myself."
"Tony," Steve said slowly for what Tony presumed was the third time, "We really need to think this through."
“Do we? Not like there’s anything more we can do,” Tony said and raised his eyebrows to match Steve's, a silent challenge.
“I know that’s how you think, Tony.” Four times. “You’ve made that quite clear. Ignoring phone calls, disappearing somewhere when I want to chat about strategy…”
Steve's voice was strangely soft, weirdly understanding. It infuriated Tony greatly.
“Yeah, about that," he said and scoffed, "I don’t know about the others, but personally I like to spend parties with partying, not with boring myself to death.”
Romanoff coughed a little, covering up something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
Steve sighed. “Tony, this is a big deal. We have to find the scepter, you know we do, and we can’t risk –“
“Tell you what, I’ve studied that base for weeks. I found all the weak spots we can hope to find. Anything beyond that, all your meticulous planning - that kinda doesn’t work with things like, you know, battles. Thought you’d be aware of that, Cap,” Tony cut in, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of whisky.
Steve drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “It’s always better to have a plan to fall back on if things go south.”
“I’m with Tony,” Rhodey said, suddenly. “If things go south, they just go south. No plan will save us from that.” Tony shot him a thankful look.
Steve opened his mouth and closed it. He looked around the table. “Do you agree with that?” he asked. Romanoff nodded. Bruce shrugged. Clint didn’t react at all and Thor had excused himself from the meeting ten minutes ago.
Tony clapped his hands. “It’s settled then,” he announced and sprung to his feet. “I’m glad. Let’s do it Monday. Everyone hates Mondays. Can’t make them any worse.”
Steve crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking more confused than angry. “Why are you so enthusiastic? What happened to ‘Can’t a man catch a break?’”
Fire under Pepper’s skin and ships over New York and have you ever thought about the press, Tony? Have you?
Tony shrugged.
Like a fucking trout.
“No time like the present,” he said.
He needed to fly.
---
Tony pushed a piece of pizza in Peter’s direction.
They were sitting in the driveway again, huddled between the hedge and the trash cans, hidden from sight, Tony hoped. He should be upstairs, packing the things he didn’t want Pepper to pack – partly self-destructive, mostly Iron Man related and definitely secret. Two bottles of whisky were in there, too – expensive, strong and nothing Pepper needed to see.
Tony sighed. He watched Peter from the corner of his eye. The kid was bent over the tablet, his brow furrowed, a string of cheese hanging from his mouth. He was being uncharacteristically quiet and Tony wondered if, perhaps, they had finally hit an area that Peter didn’t grasp, at least not instantaneously.
Peter clicked his tongue and turned to look at him with those wide, brown eyes. “That’s how you did it,” he whispered. His face was glowing.
“That’s how I did it,” Tony confirmed.
Peter handed him the tablet. “That’s – wow. I read about it, of course. Who didn’t?”
Tony huffed out a laugh. 99.9% didn’t read about it, kid. Conservative estimate.
“You created an element from scratch, Mr. Stark. That’s – that’s like the Sorcerer’s Stone! You’re totally bending the spoon!”
“You gotta stop with the pop culture references, Pete,” Tony said lightly, but, really, a deep sense of satisfaction unfurled in his chest. “Could show you all the simulations, kid,” he added, casually ignoring the suspicious look on Peter’s face. “You know, in my extremely cool lab.”
Like a fucking trout.
He leaned forward, carefully eying the dark street, looking for - for a news van or whatever.
“Mr. Stark, sir,” Peter said, very quietly. Tony leaned back. “Mr. Stark, I appreciate it, really do. Just, I’m not coming up. I'm really sorry.”
The kid - wide eyes, bent head, furrowed brow - looked like he meant it, like his own words had hurt him, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to calm the frustration that was blooming in Tony’s heart.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asked and he knew, knew that there was too much bile in his voice, far too much.
The kid flinched terribly. Tony wanted to bite his own tongue off.
“It’s not your fault. It’s me, really. You know?” Peter murmured, uncertainly, picking at his fingernails.
“Can’t say I do,” Tony said and, God, he needed to stop. “Really is a lovely place I got up there. Big. Airy. Nice view. All the cheese lover food. And tech. You like tech, don’t you?” He pulled three circuit boards from his pockets and tossed them into the kid’s lap. “There. Weren’t meant for you, but you might as well have them.”
Peter didn’t touch them, didn’t even look at them. He just worried at his bottom lip, took a deep breath and then another one and then another one and – “Mr. Stark, I’m really grateful.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Like, really, really grateful, but I don’t think, I don’t think you should give me any more … stuff.”
Tony didn’t understand. He did not understand and not understanding wasn’t something he handled well. “Why’s that?” he asked stiffly, praying to who- or whatever was out there that the confusion hadn’t seeped into his voice.
“I sell them,” the kid said, so quickly and so quietly that Tony had to strain his ears to catch the words.
“You what?”
With a shuddering breath, the kid opened his eyes and glanced at Tony’s face, briefly and fearfully. “It’s what I do. I look for old tech, especially here where people are more, more well-off, and I fix it and I sell it on – on eBay.”
Tony mouth went dry. Blood, hot and furious, was pounding in his ears. “So, you’re telling me that you sold my stuff? That's what you’re telling me?”
The kid shrugged helplessly, shrinking further into himself, and, Lord, were those tears in his eyes? Tears were another thing Tony did not handle well.
“I’m sorry,” the kid whispered, “I know you’re trying to help and I feel really bad about it, which is why I’m telling you now, because I know those were meant for me and no one really gives me stuff and I, like, really, really appreciate it because you’re Tony Stark and you’re so busy and –“
Tony held up a trembling hand and the kid fell silent. “You sold my stuff. You sold - I gave you Stark tech and you sold it on eBay?” His voice was dangerously low, barely more than a whisper. The kid dropped his gaze, his eyes brimming with tears and Tony could not handle it. He got to his feet.
“Listen to me, kid. Actually, you know what? This should go without saying. This should be common sense. The camera? The circuit boards? Fine. Do your thing. Live out your dumpster diver dreams. Did you hurt my pride? Just slightly? Possibly, yes, but honestly – don’t care. No time. But the android? The software? That’s a different story, kid. And if you were a bit older, just a bit older, this right here would be very different conversation.”
Tony knew that his eyes were gleaming with anger. He knew that he was radiating it and he knew, somewhere, deep down, that maybe, just maybe, he was pulling a Howard Stark on the kid, but it had been his stuff. It had been his trust.
Like a fucking trout.
The circuit boards clattered to the ground as the kid scrambled to his feet, trembling and, fuck, a tear slipped down his cheek.
Tony could not handle it. He turned away. “Who bought them, kid?” he barked. He heard shuffling behind him, a sniffle, but the kid did not answer. “Who did you sell them to?” he repeated, enunciating every syllable, barely managing to keep his voice low, to keep himself together. A heartbeat, two. Tony clenched his fingers, dug his nails into his sweaty palms.
Then, finally, “Just – the highest bidder.”
The pressure in Tony's head became too much and, for a moment, he thought, no, he was certain that he was about to explode. “You ever thought about why I’m doing this?” he asked the empty driveway. Behind him, he heard the kid stiffen. “No? Let me enlighten you. I know talent when I see it and I saw it in you – thought I did. Wanted to give you a nudge in the right direction, pull you out of the literal trash, you know, that kind of stuff.” It was a low blow, he knew that, but he could not handle any of this. He could not handle it.
“I know –“ the kid whispered.
“Ah! Not done yet,” Tony snapped, “You ever thought about the press, kid? The risk I’m taking by freezing my ass off in the driveaway with you? You know what would happen if someone snapped a little picture of me with a boy in the driveway?”
(It would give Pepper a heart attack and Happy a stroke and Tony, well, he would not care enough. He never cared enough – usually didn’t have to with his mind, his reputation and his wealth.)
He raged on. “Nah, obviously you did not think about that. Obviously, you did not think. Maybe you just want to end up in the news.”
The kid sucked in a shaky breath. “That’s not – that’s not true. I don’t want that, sir. I don’t want that. I just – I can’t get a job and I really, I really –“
Tony whirled around. “Of course, you can’t get a job! You’re 14. What kind of asshole would give you a job?”
The kid froze. All color drained from his face.
Fuck.
“You – you looked me up,” he whispered. “You looked me up.” He stumbled back, pressing his back against the garage gate, and stared at Tony with wild eyes. Tony felt searing anger rush through his veins, heard hot air wheeze in and out of his lungs, fast and uncontrolled. The kid had no right, no right, to look at him like that.
“Yeah, I did a quick little search on you. What did you expect, showing up in my driveway like that? You could have been a – a…”
Runaway, addict, teenage delinquent. You could have been media bait.
“You had no right. No right!” Shakily, the kid stepped away from the garage gate, straightening his back and pointing a trembling finger at Tony. “You – I told you my name because you were nice. You’re Iron Man and you were nice and I, I –“ The kid struggled for air, opened his mouth, closed it, without a word coming out.
But Tony didn’t need any words to know what the kid had meant to say.
And I trusted you. You were nice and I trusted you.
“Yeah, feels bad, doesn’t it, kid?” Tony hissed. Red fury was bleeding into his vision.
“What else do you know?” the kid demanded. His face was ashen and his legs were shaking, but his mouth was drawn into a tight line. There was fire in his eyes. “What do you know?”
Tony thought back to that day in the workshop, when he had wanted to do some digging, find everything there was on the kid. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it, to give that one, simple order. A mistake, he realized now. A mistake.
“Enough,” he said. The lie left a sweet taste on his tongue. “I know enough.”
The kid shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe his ears, as though he didn’t want to. “I’m leaving,” he said flatly. “I’m – I’m leaving now.”
For one crazed second Tony wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him that he couldn’t just leave like that, that he wasn’t allowed, but the kid pushed past him, undisturbed. He walked out of the driveway, his steps steady and his shoulders squared. On the main street, he started running, not looking back, not even once.
Tony watched him disappear behind the corner, heard his sneakers, those damned worn-down sneakers, slap against the asphalt and then, and then –
“Kid!” he called out, when it was already far too late, when the sound of the sneakers had long faded in the distance. There was no reply, of course not, no kid running back towards him, eyes brimming with tears and mouth filled with useless apologies. “Kid. Kid,” Tony whispered, rubbing his hand over his face, and then, finally, he shut up.
He stood alone in his dark driveaway, a greasy pizza box and three circuit boards scattered over the concrete. Desperately, he clung to the anger, buried somewhere deep in his chest, reminding him that the kid had had no right, no right whatsoever, to speak to him like that, to just leave like that.
Tony swallowed heavily, shaking his head. The anger fizzed, flickered and went out.
He looked at the black sky, cloudy and almost starless over the glowing city. He looked, silently, focused on a faint glimmer in the blackness, a plane or a lonely star; he wasn’t sure. He looked and looked and, for the first time in years, didn’t put up a fight, let himself be swallowed by ships hovering over New York and explosions ringing in the distance.