Every Fifteen Minutes

After giving the students a few minutes to finish their lunches, Principal Morita activates the intercom and urges all juniors and seniors to the parking lot to witness the—simulated, of course—car crash. The teachers and participating emergency responders had planned out the simulation in excruciating detail: the police officers had donated a wrecked car from evidence lockup to be used for the simulation, and they’d already sectioned off the site of the crash with yellow tape. Two of the participants—one senior and one junior—had been selected for the fabrication and informed of their roles.

One of the seniors—Douglas Fitzpatrick, if Morita remembers correctly—would act as the drunk driver, “arrested” at the scene for all to witness. The junior, on the other hand—Peter Parker, Morita recalls faintly—would be posing as the casualty. Morita was worried, at first, that it might be too traumatic for Peter to play dead—Morita knows Peter’s family history, after all. But when asked if he would participate, Peter had agreed reluctantly and asked, All I have to do is lie still, right? 

Morita nodded at that. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Peter had merely beamed and reasoned, Great! I’m kind of tired—I didn’t get much sleep last night—so I’ll just sleep through it.

(True to his words, Peter had started dozing off as soon as they’d arranged him on the road, before they’d even finished smearing the fake blood across his forehead.)

Morita had been stunned. Mr. Harrington had choked. 

But, well, at least Peter had said yes, which means that everyone involved has now been thoroughly prepped. All they have left to do is present their demonstration to the student body and hopefully ingrain an understanding of the repercussions of drinking-and-driving in the students.

Car crash…? Ned wonders to himself in confusion, head snapping up at the sound of his principal’s voice echoing through the school hallways. He feels vaguely nauseous. Oh shit, there was a car crash? Here? 

He curses to himself and pushes his lunch away, jumping from his seat and following the other students outside. Where on earth is Peter? he asks himself, not for the first time. After leaving Mr. Harrington's classroom earlier, he’d gone straight to the cafeteria, hoping to run into Peter either along the way or inside the lunch hall. Peter’s always getting hungry, after all; Ned reasons it isn’t too farfetched that Peter left earlier to snag himself a big portion. But even after scouring the cafeteria, Ned still hasn’t caught sight of Peter, and his mind is running rampant with fear.

Morita mentioned a car crash. If there really has been an accident in front of their own school, Ned has no doubt that Peter will want to be the first one to arrive at the site of the incident, doing his best to help even if it means giving up his secret identity.

My anonymity isn’t worth anyone’s lives, Peter once told Ned, determination burning in his gaze. If it comes between keeping my secret and saving someone… I know what I have to do.

Oh, shit, Ned swears. Please tell me he hasn’t been exposed—

His worry spiking as he jumps to conclusions, Ned hastens his pace and weaves his way through the other students, trying to push through the crowd. When he finally barrels through the gates and arrives at the parking lot, he freezes, the reality of attention all juniors and seniors, there has been a car crash by the parking lot, please proceed in an orderly fashion wrapping around him like a vice.

A large number of juniors, seniors and teachers are already gathered around the site of the crash, lined in neat rows. Ned ignores the orderliness of it all and forces his way to the front, heart caught in his throat.

(If Ned were thinking clearly, he would have realized something is off about this entire situation. After all, why would Principal Morita be encouraging students to go to the site of a tragedy?

But Ned isn’t thinking clearly, partly because of his still-drowsy mind and partly because of his concerns for his best friend.)

Ned inhales sharply when he’s finally able to see beyond the assembled students to the crime scene.

Ambulances and police cars are already lined up along the street, with EMTs and police officers alike leaping out of their vehicles to respond to the accident. One officer yanks open the mangled car door and drags the driver out by the cuff of his shirt.

The driver looks young, Ned thinks, squinting his eyes. Have I seen him somewhere before…? 

Shaking it off, Ned turns back to the scene. Thankfully, Spider-Man is nowhere to be seen. Ned knows he shouldn’t be relieved about that—shame punches through him even as he thinks it—but he also knows that Peter isn’t truly ready to have his identity exposed to the world, even if he is resolved to give up his secret for the sake of others. 

As the police officer tests the driver for his blood alcohol levels—god, I can’t believe this is happening at my own school—the paramedics break off to approach someone else, a figure on the street Ned previously missed.

Ned stiffens. The pedestrian—the victim, Ned thinks faintly to himself—lies sprawled out on the street, streaks of blood painted across his forehead. The victim looks even younger than the driver, hauntingly unmoving as he rests collapsed on the road. I’ve never seen a dead body before, he thinks numbly, bile bubbling up inside him, and his mind shrieks at him to pull away. But something about the situation, macabre as it is, keeps him fixated, horror and fear curdling in his gut. The victim—my age, he’s my age—looks eerie, skin pale and—

No.

It takes Ned a moment—a moment longer than it should—to recognize the victim. Beneath the blood, Ned knows that face; he knows those freckled cheeks and that tranquil smile and that mess of curls.

He knows. 

Ned’s heart drops like lead, descending through the soles of his feet and burrowing into the pavement, as he finally understands why Spider-Man isn’t at the scene of the crime.

Answer: because Peter Parker already is.

No, no, no—

Ned watches, paralyzed, as the paramedics crowd around Peter—his best friend, his brother—in a rush of footsteps and white coats. One of them kneels down beside Peter and feels for his heartbeat, fitting two fingers against Peter’s neck.

No.

The paramedic stands, head bowed, and quietly announces Peter to be dead on arrival.

Ned doesn’t hear the whimper that exits his mouth. He doesn’t feel the sharp twinge that shoots through him as he crashes to his knees, hands shaking by his side. He isn’t aware of anything but the fragmenting of his heart, the roaring in his ears, the tears in his eyes, the blood on Peter’s face—

Dead on arrival. Dead. 

Ned only regains awareness, rapidly stumbling to his feet, when the paramedics start lifting Peter onto a stretcher. Just as they are about to cover Peter’s face with a white cloth—no no no—Ned bulldozes his way through, shoving away anyone and everyone in his path. “No!” he gasps, and the desperate objection comes out strangled. “What are you doing?” Don’t you know he’s claustrophobic? he wants to ask, rooted in denial. He’ll be so scared. He won’t be able to breathe. “Peter? Peter! Hey!”

“Hey, kid, you can’t be here—” one of the paramedics starts.

“Get out of my way!” Ned shouts, ducking under the paramedic’s outstretched hands. He can vaguely hear the other students start to murmur in confusion, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Their voices are muffled in his ears. All he can hear is Peter’s laugh, like a distant memory, an echo of another time. Like hell I can’t be here, he thinks angrily. That’s my best friend. He’s my friend and he’s not fucking dead. 

(He can’t be. Please don’t let him be dead.)

“Peter!” He skids to a stop by Peter’s side, nearly falling over onto his knees a second time. “Peter? Why aren’t you responding?” He lurches forward and grips Peter’s hands, hanging limply from either side of the stretcher, with urgency. Please respond, Peter. Please. “Peter—”

“Where the hell is he!?” an unexpected voice bellows from above, sharp and frenzied enough to be heard by the entire crowd. It’s a voice all of them have heard before, though most only recognize it from interviews and press conferences and the ever-iconic reveal of I am Iron Man. “Kid? Kid!”

“What the hell?” someone yelps from the crowd. “What is Tony Stark doing at Midtown High? In Queens?”

“Tony Stark? Here?”

“No way!”

“In the sky, look!”

“Oh, my god. It’s Iron Man!”

“Holy shit, it’s really him! Tony Stark! At our school!”

Ned tears his eyes away from the bloody face of his best friend for the first time since he spotted him. He leans back on the heels of his feet, eyes darting to the sky—and sure enough, Tony Stark hovers above them, panels of red and gold gleaming under the midday sun.

“Mr. Stark!” the name rips out of Ned’s throat with a choked gasp. And then, more desperately: “Oh, god, Mr. Stark.”

Iron Man’s repulsers power off with a mechanical whine. The suit lands mere feet away from Ned with a thud—the force of which makes Ned flinch closer to his friend until he remembers Peter is lying still and dead, unable to help—before the faceplate finally slides open, revealing the famous face of Anthony Edward Stark.

“Ned.” Tony’s voice is raw and guttural, wrecked, when he meets Ned’s eyes.

(Normally, Tony would call him Ted or Fred or Jared or anything at all besides his real name.

The use of his real name breaks Ned’s heart all over again, because he knows why Tony uses it now; he knows why the situation is serious enough to warrant Tony’s disregard of his usual sassy routine.

He knows whose body he’s standing beside.)

The thing is, all of this could have been avoided. All of this could have been prevented—if only Ned had paid attention in class, if only Peter had remembered to wear his StarkWatch to school, if only Flash had added a short disclaimer to his post, if only Peter hadn’t fallen asleep during the simulation… 

If only, if only, if only.

But none of those what-ifs happened, because this is how the story went. There is no longer any use in pondering on those niggling what-ifs. Now, one can only take refuge in the present, in reality.

And in this reality, the errors of the characters piled up one after another, leading to calamity.

A short while ago…

Minutes away from Midtown High, minutes away from finding answers, Tony makes one last effort to deny the reality staring him in the face:

“FRIDAY,” he says suddenly, “check Peter’s StarkWatch, please. Pull up his vitals for me.”

FRIDAY does so, and he waits with bated breath, hoping, pleading, praying—

God has certainly never listened to his prayers before. Or if He has, He’s never cared to answer them.

God doesn't answer them now, either.

When Peter’s details load on his screen, Tony’s hope shrivels up and dies in his ribcage.

No data available, the pop-up reads, as if the watch is simply out of range or malfunctioning.

Except Tony personally built and customized Peter’s watch. He categorically knows that there is no possible way for either of those two things to happen: Tony specifically designed Peter’s watch to have unlimited range, and his technology has never failed him before.

The only way FRIDAY wouldn’t be receiving Peter’s data is if the watch has been broken beyond repair, or if…

If there is no data to receive. If Peter’s heart is no longer pumping blood through his body.

If Peter is dead.

Tony grits his teeth, swallows down the bile rising up his throat, and urges FRIDAY to fly faster. He needs answers. (He needs to know what took his kid from him.)

It feels like hours have passed—though Tony knows it’s only been a few minutes—before he finally arrives at his destination. FRIDAY brings him to a stop in front of Midtown High, and Tony’s worst fears are realized when he spots the congregation of police cars and ambulances parked outside the school gates.

Years ago, during the Battle of New York, Tony crashed through his balcony window and hurtled through the skies towards certain death. It was the first time since Iron Man’s creation that he’d been genuinely afraid of flying. Since then, Tony made sure to keep his suit either on him or accessible at all times, unwilling to face the feeling of free-falling ever again.

In that way, Iron Man is his safety net. His suit is his greatest form of protection.

Today, hovering above the scene of a car crash, Iron Man provides him no safety, no confidence. Tony looks at the assembly of emergency responders, of bystanders, and feels like falling.

(This is so much worse than the Battle of New York.)

Tony exhales shakily, activates his external speakers, and tries to hide the tremor in his voice as he demands, “Where the hell is he!?” He winces at the sound of his own voice, made gravelly by terror. “Kid? Kid!”

He hears the murmurs almost immediately, but he ignores them; he may have grown up accustomed to being in the public eye, but right now, he’d gladly give it all up to fix this. He’d gladly give up Tony Stark, give up his fame and fortune, to be able to take Peter in his arms and keep him there – safe and sound.

It isn’t until he hears his name coming from a vaguely familiar voice that he snaps to attention, eyes immediately pinpointing the source—Ned Leeds, standing in the middle of a circle of paramedics.

Tony stops cold, sucking in a sharp breath as a glacial darkness—wispy with fear and nausea—seeps into his bones, strangling him.

Because the sight that greets him as he spots Ned threatens to break Tony all over again. He immediately recognizes him, his kid’s sidekick (How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t my sidekick, Mr. Stark, Peter would whine for the thousandth time. He’s my guy-in-the-chair!), leaning over the still form of Peter fucking Parker. Tony’s eyes unwittingly catch on the spatter of blood marring the kid’s face.

Tony doesn’t want to believe it. It can’t be true.

(Peter Parker is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Meeting Peter, taking him under his wing and getting to know him—through evenings spent in the lab going over blueprints and pranking one another, through playful fights over the TV remote and movie options, through game nights and Mario Kart competitions, through mentoring and getting mentored—are all the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

This… this is the worst.)

“Oh, god, Mr. Stark,” Ned’s voice quivers with fear, with loss, and Tony chokes back a sob, letting FRIDAY operate the Iron Man suit on auto. She powers it down and opens the faceplate for him, and he’s left staring at Peter and Ned side-by-side, one kid unmoving and one trembling. Together even at the very end.

“Ned.”

Ned crumbles.

“Mr. Stark,” Ned repeats, voice hitching and then splintering, overwhelmed by blubbering cries. “P-Peter, he’s – he’s... they declared him DOA.” The abbreviation—DOA—is nothing more than a hushed murmur as it leaves Ned’s voice, punched out by the sheer devastation in his cognizance.

Tony’s next breath stutters on its way out.

DOA. To have it confirmed is a punch in the gut. It's electricity coursing through his blood, it's ice in his veins, it's a missile exploding in his face. It's almost—almost—enough to drive Tony to his knees, except… except he needs to see it for himself, before—

Before he can believe it. Believe that Peter is truly gone, that his smile will never again light up Tony’s life, that his world as he knows it has ended.

“Mr. Stark, I…” Ned flounders. He looks… so, so inexorably lost. Unable to escape this new reality that threatens to suffocate them with its terrors. Ned sniffles, convulsing. “Oh, god, Mr. Stark, I can’t—”

Ned doesn’t finish his sentence, abruptly breaking off as gasping sobs overwhelm his voice. Tony doesn’t need him to finish his sentence; Ned’s tears convey his despair better than any words could have. So Tony might not know what exactly Ned was going to say, what Ned can’t do, but Tony already knows he can’t, either.

Not when Peter’s body is just lying there. Completely, utterly motionless. 

Tony gulps down a burst of fear, approaching the pair of best friends on trembling legs, as if he’s a newborn foal struggling to stand on his own instead of Tony Stark, the man behind the most successful technology corporation to date. Eventually, he manages to find his way, coming to a stumbling halt before Peter, unblinking eyes fixated on his kid and desperately searching for answers, for any sign of life.

(Searching and praying for any sign that Peter has managed to defy all odds yet again—that he has managed to elude even the bone-chilling label of DOA.)

He finds none.

A ragged, dissonant exhale tumbles out of his lips, the puff of air floating downwards, unseen as it crashes into smooth asphalt. His gaze follows, pulled towards the ground—pulled towards Peter—by some palpable force. Peter is mere feet away from him now—close enough that Tony would be able to touch him if he were to reach out—and yet he feels miles away, as if there is a cavernous distance between them impossible to bridge. 

(If it were possible, Tony would follow Peter anywhere.)

Tony shudders. “Wake up,” he whispers into the unbearable space between them like a prayer. A wish, one that sings true, born from the deepest desires of his heart. “Please wake up. Don’t… don’t make me say goodbye to you. Please, just – just open your eyes, kid. If you're ever going to listen to anything I say, let it be this.” 

I can’t lose you, he doesn’t say, but feels with every bone in his body. It’s true, he realizes: he can’t. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s truly lost Peter, only that it’ll be ugly. Please wake up.

Tony Stark does not beg for anything or anyone. 

Today, he does. Today, he sinks to his knees and presses his forehead to Peter’s and begs.

“Peter, please.”

The unexpected appearance of the famed Anthony Edward Stark at a high school in Queens is cause enough for shock. The sight of that same Stark, head bowed and on his knees before one of their own? Well, that easily sends a thousand more exclamations and rumors rippling through the crowd.   

(Somewhere amidst all of these exclamations, somewhere in the thick of the crowd, Flash Thompson watches, dumbstruck, as Iron Man falls to his knees and whispers a mantra of broken pleas. Every single accusation Flash has ever made about Peter lying about his Stark Industries internship, about knowing Tony Stark, returns to the forefront of his mind. 

Parker doesn’t just know Tony Stark, he realizes, feeling queasy all of a sudden. This is… this is—

Well. Flash doesn’t think he’s ever even seen his own parents look at him like that: with such profound and unconditional love.

So, Flash thinks as the bile rises up his throat, Peter Parker has even more than I thought he did. 

And as his classmates whisper excitedly all around him, hushed murmurs of oh my god Tony Stark knows Peter Parker making the air buzz with anticipation, Flash—for the first time in a long, long time—is completely silent in the face of new rumors about Peter Parker. Now, he knows the truth. They all do. And deep down in the inner workings of his mind, he finds himself unable to look away as his world comes crashing down around him.

After all, the truth hurts.)

It is these whispers that eventually attract Tony’s attention, and he reluctantly draws away from Peter to scan the area once more. It doesn’t take long before he spots the senior standing by the hood of a police car, hands twisted and cuffed behind his back. The student stumbles backwards and blanches visibly when Tony slowly—menacingly—rises to his feet and locks eyes with him.

Tony wonders what it is the student sees in his eyes. Wonders if the student can see the fear horror guilt grief anger –

For now, Tony settles on anger. Pushes down the all-consuming anguish so that anger is all he can feel, all he allows himself to feel. His jaw shifts tensely as the rage twitches and spasms inside him, burning bright with the force of a supernova. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry (read: hurt) before. 

Tony thought he knew anger. 

He was wrong.

This – this is anger the likes of which he’s never encountered before. This anger goes far beyond the rush of explosive fury at Yinsen’s murder; the ice-cold rage he felt at Stane’s betrayal; the mix of panic, wild urgency and volatile anger that consumed him as he faced the threat Loki posed to his home; the vulnerable, vengeful and defensive outrage that exploded inside him as he watched Bucky Barnes’ fingers curl around his mother’s throat; the hurt that devoured him and turned him blind with the need to attack attack attack (read: protect himself) as Steve Rogers turned against him.

This is anger that overwhelms—the type that threatens to crush him under its weight or boil him alive. It’s an anger that froths with every inch of affection he felt for Peter, every ounce of devotion and care and love.

It’s an anger that devastates.

(His kid is gone. All he has left to hold on to now, as he struggles to keep himself above water, is this.

Giving into grief will drown him. Giving into rage? It’ll destroy him, but at least it’ll be quick.)

He’s livid, and he takes that wrath and turns it into vitriol, stalking forward like a predator with prey in its sight. 

“Y-You’re Iron Man—” the student chokes, either a last-ditch attempt to distract Tony or an unspoken plea for mercy, Tony can’t tell, but he doesn’t care. 

He growls, a heartbroken howl disguised by the red-hot flame of fury, and lunges forward, grabbing the senior by the collar of his shirt. He yanks, vicious, and drags the senior up until he can barely touch the ground with his toes.

“Was it you?” he thunders, deaf to the alarmed protests of the police officers surrounding them. The student is quiet, the air frigid and taut between them, and Tony snarls, repeating himself, “I asked you a goddamn question, asshole. Was it you who killed Peter!?”

(Do you have any idea? he wants to say. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? To Peter? To May, to Ned, to that MJ girl? To Happy, to Rhodey, to Pep?

To me?

Congratulations, asshole. You managed to bring Tony Stark to his knees. And I have no idea… I have no idea—

He has no idea how to fix himself, how to pick up the pieces and glue himself back together in the face of the wreckage of a car crash and Peter Peter Peter and blood—Peter’s. 

It feels like the world has stopped, but Tony knows reality is crueler. He knows there is no end in sight, knows the world will keep on spinning and time will keep on marching and people will keep on living.

What he doesn’t know is how. 

How? How can he possibly live on? How can he live in a world without Peter, without his kid?)

The color drains out of the student’s face. Tony doesn’t give him a chance to answer before he’s growling and drawing back a fist, white-knuckled with tension. The officers’ protests grow louder, more desperate, but Tony pays them no heed. He can’t pay attention to anything at all beyond the buzz of Peter Peter Peter beating in time with his racing pulse. 

I’ll make you pay. My kid deserved better, he thinks, knows—

His kid.

He stills.

In life, Peter had been the kindest, most gentle person he knew. Peter had been generous and considerate and immeasurably selfless. 

Peter had believed in second chances.

Tony closes his eyes in defeat, the breath leaving him in a frustrated hiss. Tony would gladly raze the world to ashes for Peter, but Peter had never been one to condone violence. Don’t fight fire with fire, the kid would say, shaking his head in something between exasperation and fondness. It’ll only burn you, too. 

(Tony would gladly burn alive if it meant Peter was safe. He’d willingly let the inferno take him if only—

If only.)

Tony lets go of the student’s shirt and pushes him away with enough force to send him staggering backwards. “Don’t think that you’ve been forgiven,” he seethes, dark and lethal. “You should be fucking grateful that my kid was ten times the person you are.”

(Peter is—was, Tony reminds himself with an ache in his chest—ten times the person Tony is. Peter has always been better than the rest of them, with his heart of gold, his tendency to care about everyone he meets, his unfailing optimism, his compassion, his peerless sense of duty and morality, his earnestness and genuineness—

He was so much better, Tony thinks. He was the very best of us, and—

And somehow, Peter had believed in him. Peter was always the first person to have faith in him, to trust him and support him. Peter had been his greatest and most ardent supporter—the kid's confidence in him had never wavered, even when Tony’s own self-confidence did.

Despite all of his failures, despite the blood that stains his hands to this day, Peter has always seen good in him. For some unfathomable reason, Peter—who possessed more goodness in his bleeding heart than anyone else Tony knows—looked up to him.

He didn’t deserve it. He failed Peter. 

I couldn’t save him—)

The senior student falls back against the police car, violent tremors running through his body. “I don’t – I don’t understand,” Douglas Fitzpatrick whimpers pitifully. Principal Morita hadn’t told him anything about a surprise guest appearance—much less about Tony Stark being that guest. He tries to gather his thoughts, tries to process the situation as he wonders if this is all simply part of the demonstration—maybe the event organizers wanted to use the hysterical reaction of a bystander to further drive the point home and remind the students that their actions have consequences. But why Tony Stark? 

Or, better yet: how? How, when Tony Stark is unarguably the single most influential man in the entire world, thanks to both his limitless fortune as the owner of Stark Industries and his prodigious fame as Iron Man? When Tony Stark is the same tech tycoon who regularly spends his time among the fellow elite—CEOs, military generals, and world leaders alike? When Tony Stark is an Avenger—the Avenger—who reforged himself into a superhero in a dark cave in Afghanistan, right under his kidnappers’ noses?

Finally, Douglas shakes his head and backs away from the famous Avenger, closing his eyes to the sight of Actual Tony Goddamn Stark staring at him with pure hate in his eyes. This doesn’t feel like a performance. 

“What… what are you talking about? I didn’t do anything,” he insists, breaking character in an effort to escape Mr. Stark’s judgmental, recriminating gaze. Who wouldn’t break under Iron Man’s stare? “I didn’t do anything!”

His desperate protests only seem to dig him an even deeper grave. Tony’s glare darkens inexplicably. “You ‘didn’t do anything’?” he echoes, a laugh that is both hollow and hysterical forcing its way out of his throat. “You didn’t— no. No. I’m not letting you escape this, escape what you did.” I haven’t been able to escape it. Not since I found out. Not even for a second. “I was interrupted in the middle of one of the most boring board meetings I’ve ever sat through by an alert and a fucking post on social media. I had to find out through a goddamn Twitter post.” The words come out hissed, simmering with something deadly, his voice fluctuating at random points. Unstable. He certainly feels unstable, reminiscent of a ticking time bomb, as if one misstep from the handcuffed student might set him off.

Tony pauses, a niggling feeling at the back of his head reminding him of something. Something crucial. 

Tick. Tick.

Tick.

The Tweet—Tony remembers with sudden, sickening clarity, the heartless caption that had accompanied the posted obituary. 

[as if anyone would even miss parker, lol]

Renewed rage blazes in the pit of his stomach, sparking a growing fire. He’s hit with the sudden and powerful urge to revisit the Tweet that started all of this and hunt down the poster who dismissed Peter’s life with careless ease, completely unaware of how much brighter Peter made Tony’s own life. Unaware of how lucky they were, to have shared a school with the most brilliant kid Tony has ever met.

‘As if anyone would miss him’? That’s… oh, god. I would, he thinks, nauseous. I would miss him. Pete knows that, right? That I’d miss him. That I already do miss him.

Peter has to know that, or…

Tony shakes off the line of thought before the possibility of Peter not knowing, of Peter doubting how much he means to Tony, can send him into a tailspin. Instead, he focuses on the present, on the asshole currently shrinking away from him. 

Tony corrals his new, different anger into a vault for the moment. He can figure out who was cruel enough to post those words later. For now, he lets his original festering rage at the student driver solidify into lead, into poison. 

“You’re not escaping this,” Tony reiterates, unrelenting. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.” If not in blood, then I’m at least going to make you pay in prison. I won’t stop until I do. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Douglas continues to plead his case, face scrunched up in desperation. “I – I swear. Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it. I didn’t! I don’t know what I could’ve possibly done! We’ve never even met before, Mr. Stark.”

The name ‘Mr. Stark’ sounds wrong on this student’s tongue, twisted and tarnished. It sounds nothing like how Peter says the name, like a familiar nickname instead of a distant moniker. It feels like a glaring blemish on his memory of Peter; it feels like a betrayal. 

“Don’t,” Tony bites out. “Don’t you dare”—ruin my memory of Peter, the only thing I have left of him thanks to you—“say my name as if you have any right. I suggest you tread very carefully from now on, because as it is, I’m already looking forward to seeing you sentenced to prison forever. Piss me off again, and you won’t like what happens next.”

“Mr. Stark!” an unfamiliar voice interjects, sounding flustered and more than a little beleaguered. Tony whips around to find a middle-aged man in an off-the-rack suit and a horrendous mustard yellow tie jogging up to him, looking harried. Tony vaguely recognizes him as Peter’s principal—Morrison or Morita or something like that. “Mr. Stark, please. You’re making a scene.”

Tony’s jaw drops. ‘Making a scene’? He’s making a scene? Not for the first time today, an overwhelming torrent of emotions explodes in his chest. A staggering indignation at the realization that, at a time like this, the principal’s primary concern seems to be maintaining appearances for public perception, as though Peter is but an afterthought. A monumental, bone-shattering agony—a sort of pain bigger than bruised ribs and broken bones, sharper than shrapnel in his chest, stronger than palladium poisoning—at the thought of how hurt Peter—Peter, who holds nothing but the utmost respect for his principal and his teachers—would be to realize how little he factored into his own principal’s priorities. A reinvigorated, unquenchable thirst to ravage everyone who’s ever wronged his kid and everyone who’s ever looked the other way.

Tony snaps his jaw shut. His expression shutters, shock at the interruption turning into frost. The indignation burns low in his gut, ignorable only because Tony already has his sights set on another target. “I suggest you get the hell out of my way. This is the only warning you’ll get, so I’d advise you to make the smart move and take it,” he utters quietly, but the low volume of his voice does nothing to undermine the deterrent in it. If anything, it only makes Tony sound more dangerous, his words less of an impulsive threat and more of a solemn vow. His voice is one that guarantees retribution.

The principal—it’s definitely Morita, Tony recalls—balks noticeably. “Mr. Stark,” he starts apprehensively, his own voice hesitant as if he believes he’s approaching a wild animal that might decide to attack him at any moment. 

Tony immediately looks askance at Morita, silently exhorting the man to choose your next words with caution, and Morita gulps audibly—but decidedly continues to stand firm in front of Tony. Tony would be impressed by the principal’s courage in the face of the Avenger who singlehandedly flew a nuclear missile into a wormhole if it weren’t for the fact that his kid is still lying dead behind him and Morita doesn’t even seem to care, defending a student who doesn’t deserve it. 

Morita clears his throat anxiously. “Please refrain from threatening my students, Mr. Stark. I'm not sure what Mr. Fitzpatrick has done to earn your ire, but regardless, he is still a minor.”

A minor, Tony echoes in his mind, brimming with contempt. A minor. Tony has to fight to bite back the instinctive response that leaps to his mind: And what about Peter, huh? Another minor—one who was in your care, who was under your protection while at this school? What about him, Morita? Or does he not matter? His well-being, his life, his future?

“I don’t give a shit what ‘Mr. Fitzpatrick’ is,” he grits out, struggling to rein in the anger enough to sound measured when all he wants is to tear into Fitzpatrick. “Prison would be a mercy after what he’s done.”

Tony glances to the side to find that the student in question looks visibly nauseous, face ashen and horrified. “P-Prison?” Fitzpatrick stutters. “I don’t... I’ve never even committed a crime!” he protests, voice insistent and pleading. “I haven’t, Mr. Stark. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The words the only misunderstanding here is why the hell you’re still seeing the light of day are on the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed. At the last second, however, Tony pauses, his eyes narrowing. There’s something off about this entire situation. 

It’s only when Douglas squirms uneasily, looking for a way out—looking for absolution—that it hits Tony. The student in front of him is sober, he realizes. Or at the very least, he doesn’t sound drunk; he isn’t slurring his words in the slightest. He may be stammering, but Tony can tell that’s from sheer nervousness, not inebriation. The student doesn’t even look drunk—there’s no visible flush to his neck and chest, no wild-eyed look on his face. 

Even more tellingly, Tony can’t smell the familiar, pungent stench of booze on the student’s breath. 

There is nothing to indicate that the student was recently wasted enough to accidentally crash into an innocent bystander. (Into Peter.)

(Honestly, Tony’s a little ashamed that it took him this long to notice the student’s glaring lack of insobriety, but then again, he has been a little preoccupied with the thought that he’s lost his kid, so he figures he gets a pass on not being at the top of his game just this once.)

Tony’s narrow-eyed stare sharpens. An accusatory demand—what the ever-loving fuck is going on here—is already on its way up his throat when he’s cut off before he can even open his mouth.

A familiar voice groans behind them, drowsy and fatigued. Tony freezes, his heart thudding loudly in his chest, and for a moment, everything else sounds muted to his ears as his focus zeroes in on that single brief groan.

Peter.