Dear Heart

The next morning, Peter gets to SI the usual way, by subway instead of cop car. He has on his own clothes and slept in his own bed and ate Thai food with Aunt May last night and except for the fact that she kept putting a hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb in slow, soothing circles, he would say that things are getting back to normal.

If being Tony Stark's personal assistant could ever constitute as normal.

On the subway, Peter keeps going over what he learned yesterday, balancing the two takeaway coffee cups as he tries to remember every detail. How Bucky had kind of smiled as Stark shouted about the shoddy craftsmanship of his arm ("we were in a war zone," Dr. Banner said calmly, "I had to improvise.") How Stark had set the arm to scan while grilling Peter about his work habits and favorite school subjects and how he felt about SI branching into kitchen appliances. How Peter had struggled to get words out but managed to answer every question, and thought that maybe Stark even looked impressed when he handed Bucky his arm back, promising an upgrade ready in a week.

"You don't have to, Mr. Stark," Bucky said. He was in uniform and met Stark's gaze flatly, head-on. "Dr Banner's lasted me this long. Besides, that was a gift."

"So's this one," Stark said, firmly. "I never served, Sergeant, but I did see a war. How much money are we giving to veterans services, Bruce?"

"You've done a lot, Tony."

"Not enough." Stark declared. "You're one of New York's finest and you're working with one and half arms."

"I'm doing just fine," Bucky said in that alpha tone that usually allowed no argument.

Except Tony's an alpha, too, and met Bucky head-on. "Imagine what you could do with two."

Bucky got his arm back and left, though not before reminding the room, as if it was a general talking point, that the age of consent in New York state is seventeen and that wasn't relaxed for billionaire playboy philanthropists that owned half the government and most of the city.

Peter blushed but Tony just laughed, waving Bucky back out onto the street. "I like him," Tony announced.

"You would," Bruce said, looking at the hologram of Bucky's arm that was currently floating in the middle of the workroom. "He's nearly as cocky as you are."

"Why was he dishonorably discharged?" Tony addressed this question to Peter, who could only shrug. He'd never asked, and if he had he didn't think he would tell Tony Stark ten minutes after meeting him

Tony glanced at Bruce, who raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It seemed like the best compromise at the time."

"So there is a story."

"Of course there's a story, there's always a story. Look, Tony, I actually have other patients. Shocking, I know. You've already been without caffeine for twelve hours so just lay off for another day or so and the withdrawal symptoms should subside." Dr. Banner had pointed at Peter. "Don't get him coffee, that's not your job."

"That's basically exactly what a PA's job is. Coffee, dry cleaning, intercepting annoying phone calls."

Peter looked between the alpha and beta. "I - um, I'll do my best."

Dr. Banner smiled and it was shy but kind. "Of course you will, kiddo."

Now, Peter glances out the subway window and bolts out of his seat, shouldering past the suited, tied, heeled regulars, most of whom are clutching StarkPhones. He apologizes as he goes, keeping his hands aloft in the vein hope of not spilling a drop of coffee. He takes the steps two at a time, turning in a circle like some newbie because he has never had a reason to get off a subway downtown before, and he's lost all his bearings.

Luckily, Stark Tower isn't exactly something you can miss. He joins the long line of dark-suited people going through the revolving doors and then realizes he doesn't really know where to go. He backs himself into a corner so he can take out his phone, balancing one coffee in the crook of his elbow, hoping there was some kind of message.

"Excuse me, Mr. Parker."

Peter jumps, and he didn't spill the coffee the whole way here and right now at the finish line some of the boiling drink gets on the front of his shirt. Whatever, it's not like he's dressed well enough to blend in with the other suits, anyway, but this is one of his better shirts, green button-up that MJ had said once, grudgingly, looked "pretty good on him or whatever" and he didn't know if was a Peter thing or an omega thing but he filed that praise away for bad days.

He looks behind him, but there's no one there. And that voice is so familiar.

"You'll want to go to Elevator C. Mr. Stark will be with you shortly."

The voice is modulated just for him, so Peter keeps his voice down, too. "JARVIS?"

"Elevator C is to your left."

Peter looked over his other shoulder. He had heard JARVIS in Mr. Stark's lab, of course. Stark had introduced him to the AI the way he introduced him to Bruce. But Peter had assumed the intelligence to be confined to Stark's personal spaces in the tower - his quarters, his lab. Not here in the atrium with seemingly half the population of Manhattan streaming in and out of the doors.

"This is so cool," Peter said out loud. He kept his phone in his head, intending to text Ned, because Ned was the perfect person when you wanted a freak-out-with-me-about-tech buddy, but - well. Peter knew it was irrational to be mad, to feel just a little abandoned by the alpha, that he should be happy for Ned and his first real girlfriend. But he also thinks - again, irrational, but whatever - that Ned should maybe apologize. Or at least reach out first. He'd texted Peter during his heat, asking if he was okay, saying he stopped by the apartment to make sure the old guys were actually keeping their hands off, but that sort of protectiveness isn't the same as an apology.

So he gets into the elevator alone, and he slips his phone back in his pocket.

There's no mirrors in this elevator, and Peter is momentarily distracted by the sight of New York falling away at his feet. They're rising rapidly. He wonders if the tower is ever swathed in clouds. Still, he tries to fix his hair and straighten his (now stained) shirt before the doors slide open.

He's back in the lab. There's no one there.

"Mr. Stark is currently in a meeting, but has left instruction that you are to write out your formula for your proposed adhesive."

Peter looks at the veiling, even though he knows that JARVIS isn't technically above him. That he isn't, technically, anywhere. "Thanks, JARVIS. Um. Good morning."

Can an AI be amused? "Good morning, Mr. Parker."

"I, well, I tried to bring Mr. Stark a coffee. Does he like to be called Mr. Stark?"

"I'm sure that will be fine, for now."

Peter leans against the now-closed elevator doors. "Can you help me out with this stuff for a couple of days? Until I get the hang of it? I just - I really don't want to mess this up. I really want to be here. I kind of think it's where I was meant to be."

The apartment is cool and his clothes are a little damp - it's a hot summer and he ran to get here. He lets his neck rest against the cool elevator. The mark on his collarbone itches like crazy.

"Are you hurt?" JARVIS asks and Peter realizes he's been standing there for a while, rubbing at the failed bite mark and staring at the lab, wide-open, like every dream he's had all at once.

"Nah." Peter pulls his hand away. "Can I ask a kind of personal question, JARVIS?"

"You may ask anything you want. I cannot guarantee I will always answer."

"Do you have a secondary gender?"

He's afraid he offended the AI, it's quiet for so long, just the steady hum of the air conditioner, a whisper compared to the clunky window unit that still doesn't do the job in Peter's bedroom. "You don't have to answer," Peter adds, after it's been quiet for too long.

"I have no gender." The voice is different now, a woman's voice, and Peter feels like he's being put in his place. And then it switches back to JARVIS's male, faintly British accent. "But the human JARVIS on whom I was based was an omega."

Peter knows that, like he knows everything about Tony Stark's early life. He's read every magazine article, every unauthorized biography. He's even edited Stark's Wikipedia page whenever vandals think it's an easy target for trolling. He's always wondered if maybe Tony Stark being raised primarily not by his alpha parents or even his alpha guardian Obadiah but by the impeccably upright omega butler didn't influence his later career decisions, like SI's true equal opportunity hiring practices, or its unusual choice of a CFO.

"Okay," Peter says. He can't put this off forever. He drinks from the cup that spilled and puts the other cup down on a coffee table that looks more elegant than anything in Peter's apartment. The lab has several sections, one area seemingly devoted to holograms and 3-D tech, another with a large examination table and what looks like an MRI, the medical room that still displays Bucky's prosthetic arm, then there's a water room, and something with electricity - and it keeps going. A kitchen, couches, a TV tuned to a news station.

Peter feels a little weird being here alone - not even alone. He trusts JARVIS, and feels like maybe the AI might even like him, but he also knows that JARVIS is probably watching if not recording his every move. Peter feels like even his breathing is intrusive.

He opens a couple of drawers until he finds a notebook. It takes even more rummaging to find a pencil. There's a couple of StarkPads and Peter guesses that Tony probably does most of his designing digitally, but Peter thinks better on paper (probably, he's never had a StarkPad of his own to try designing on so he doesn't know for sure.) Then he flips open his phone's calculator function, takes another sip of coffee, and gets to work.

.

He doesn't know how long he's in the lab, he just knows he has two pages of equations and he's thinking about whether or not the adhesive should be built with a solvent to dissolve in when the elevator doors open and Tony Stark walks in. Peter ducks his head in instant submission at the waves of anger and frustration pouring off the alpha.

Stark stops short, blinking at him. "JARVIS, did I order from that service again?"

"You didn't, sir."

"Did you order an omega on my behalf?"

Peter clears his throat, because there's absolutely not recognition on Stark's face even though they talked for hours yesterday. "I'm Peter? Peter Parker?" He hates how his voice goes up at the end, like a question. He clears his throat again. "Your new personal assistant?" Damnit! Another question.

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" And, yeah, Stark's eyes are drinking in every inch of Peter, who feels like he's on display, a piece of meat, a particular chocolate. Not all the way human.

"You hired me yesterday?"

"I think I would have remembered you." Stark spies the coffee and actually literally moans. "Oh thank god. Is that coffee?" He's picking it up before Peter can answer, making a face. "Cold coffee."

"It was warm when I came in. To be your intern. This morning."

Stark shakes his head and Peter's heart is in his throat. Was this really all just a wonderful dream? "Meetings this morning and rut scheduled for the next three days which is why the service sent you even though I definitely said I don't need to pay for omega services."

"You don't," Peter assures Stark. Hastening to add: "I mean, I'm sure you don't. Sir. Mr. Stark. But I'm not from omega services."

Tony Stark scrubs a hand over his face, brow furrowed like he's trying to work out a math problem. "Okay. You going to show me what you got?"

He collapses into the chair on the other side of the coffee table, face lowering and Peter follows his gaze. The papers! Of course, his adhesive. Peter's heart, which had started racing at the idea that maybe Stark didn't know who he was, slowed back down. He grabs the papers off the table, squaring away the edges. He thinks this plan is even better than the one he sent in with his internship application, it allows for both a permanent and temporary solution for the adhesive, complete with a proposed dissolving agent. He notices an error in one of his formulas and takes the pencil out from behind his ear. By the time he turns back around, a robot is teetering over to Stark, handing him a drink.

"Um," Peter begins, eloquent as ever, "it's not quite finished, but..."

Stark doesn't reach for the proffered papers. "This is a really strange strip tease."

Peter tenses. There it is again, now that he's within touching distance of Stark. The scent of an alpha in the early stages of rut. "I...don't think..."

"Look, kid, you're tempting as hell, and I'm usually into the whole innocent virgin act. Believe me, any other day I'd go through the whole dance. Dinner and a show, you know. But I've been dealing with some monumental stupidity and I'm just looking for a good fuck."

Peter doesn't know when he crosses his arms over his chest, backing away a little. "I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding."

"I know, like I said, I'm not usually like this." Stark pours another finger of whiskey. Tips it back, then reaches for the collar of his shirt. "We won't be disturbed for a day or so, unless the city catches fire or there's another alien invasion. Even then I've told Pepper to try to stall." He pulls his shirt off in a swift motion and Peter just sees biceps, sweat, tan skin, the rippling ripped body of an alpha, and Peter's a teenager, and even half-scared he gets half-hard automatically at the sight of his childhood hero just standing there. Waiting. For him.

But this is getting so, so weird. "Mr. Stark, um, sir, really, I don't think -"

Stark let's out a long breath, rolling his eyes. "Drop it, kid. I can smell you from here, you know. I know exactly how much you want me."

Nothing makes Peter angrier faster than other people, usually alphas, claiming they knew anything about him, or what he wanted. And the anger snaps him from his indecision. He backs up further, looking around the room. He wishes JARVIS had a body. He wishes Bruce or Pepper or anyone would come in, explain, better than Peter was doing, exactly what Peter was here for, and where, exactly, the perimeters of his job description extended.

Stark grabs his wrist. It's an unthinking touch, hot and needy but not violent. Peter can't help himself. He wrenches his hand away, flinching, scrambling away until the coffee table is between him and Mr. Stark.

"Hey. Hey! What's your deal, kid?"

"Mr. Parker," JARVIS murmurs, "perhaps it would be best for you to leave."

Except Tony is saying stay.

He wavers at the heady smell of pheromones. At the sight of Tony Stark spreading his legs wide in the chair, his eyes the dark, wide irises of an alpha with his eyes on the prize. It would be easier, far easier, to follow his instincts, to submit, to do what hundreds of omegas would kill to do. Stark was a well-known playboy but those same gossip columns that derided him for being easy praised him with insider information. Generous, said people who knew. Well-endowed. Knows how to use his tongue and his hands, knows how to use everything. And Peter's only human, only sixteen.

"Stay," Stark purrs.

"Mr. Parker," JARVIS warns.

Peter swallows. Remembers that girl from yesterday, that girl he's seen around Midtown, frowning in the hallways. How she'd implied that Peter only gotten the job because he was an omega. And Peter was pretty sure, after yesterday, that that wasn't true. That he'd impressed Stark somehow. And maybe he had, and he'd gotten the signals monumentally wrong.

The thought that he'd been hired for sex makes Peter's skin crawl enough to straighten up, even under the heavy press of pheromones.

Stark seems to take his squared shoulders as a sign of escalation because he smiles. "That's the ticket, kid. Show me what you've got."

Peter's body sings with the pull of an alpha. He feels like a puppet, and Stark is pulling the strings. Worse, he feels like a fly, happily caught in a web. Sex wouldn't be so bad. He could put SI on his resume. It would open so many doors. He'd just gotten through and doesn't know if it's residual, this itch under his skin that Tony Stark promises to scratch.

"Good boy," Stark praises.

He might have gone through with it but for those words.

Peter takes three deliberate steps back. JARVIS already has the elevator doors open for him. "I hope you feel better."

"What kind of service is this?"

Peter pauses halfway through the elevator doors. Tony Stark, billionaire extraordinaire, looks extraordinarily human with his red-rimmed eyes and pale skin. "The Parker service, sir."

He presses the close door button on Tony's next words. He's afraid, eager, yearning, terrified, at the prospect of it being another command to stay. He couldn't refuse it twice. He's not sure he would want to.