Dear Heart

Peter lingered in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand, still damp from a shower, clasped around his StarkPhone. He'd texted Ned and MJ about the Rogers-Barnes baby and there was currently a contest of the most likely/stupidest baby names in their group chat. He'd called Aunt May, told her he was staying late at his internship, that Stark Tower had more bedrooms than most buildings had doors, that he would be home in the morning, that of course he'd call.

But now his phone is silent and Bucky and Steve are long gone and Dr. Banner has disappeared to a different floor on the tower, or perhaps to a different building entirely - Peter doesn't actually know how many people live here - and it's full dark and Peter's changed into his spare set of clothes after a shower in the most luxurious bathroom he'd ever stepped foot in and he no longer knows what to do with himself.

Mr. Stark is in his lab, and Peter knows that he should join him, that they can pass the hours that Peter's supposed to be under observation for this new suppressant side by side, electronics between them, Mr. Stark's music a steady hum in the background, building stuff that might leave the world better than they'd found it. Peter knows he should go down and try to help, but he'd gotten out of the shower and remembered, suddenly, how hungry he really was.

And this kitchen - professional chefs probably had wet dreams about such stove tops. Several small bots hummed across the shiny surfaces and there was evidence over other robotics throughout the kitchen. Peter was sure, weeks ago, that he had officially gotten over the sheer amount of wealth. But he's struck, again, by how much he doesn't belong here. A poor omega from Brooklyn doesn't get nice things.

"If you require assistance," JARVIS begins...

"No! I mean - I got this. I just." Peter laughs, helplessly. He's hungry but has no idea where to start. Doesn't know if he wants eggs and toast or a chicken pot pie or yogurt or a roast beef sandwich or an apple, has no clue except that he's hungry and knows that every single appliance in this kitchen is worth more than his life, and he wonders again why in the world Tony Stark, eccentric billionaire, spent fifteen years making bigger and badder weapons and then pivoted to curing blindness, helping omegas, helping him, Peter.

Aunt May has told him over and over this summer to never sniff a gift fish, that even if it seems too good to be true he needs to take this time and this opportunity to get, at the very least, a kick-ass recommendation letter.

Peter doesn't have the heart to tell her that, even two months in, even in the sweat-soaked end of July, school already looming on the horizon, he's still not quite sure what he's doing here. Ned can describe the algorithms and codes he's using at OsCorp, and MJ seems on her way to taking over the handful of blogs she's contributing to, but Peter just shows up on Tony Stark's doorstep, asks a few questions, and leaves.

Never sniff a gift fish, he reminds himself, and tentatively opens the refrigerator, blinking at the dazzling array of foods while his bare toes wiggle on the tile floor.

.

Bruce keeps telling him that if he's going to meddle this far into Stark Medical he should really think about actually going to medical school, but Tony's still pretty sure he can glean most of the relevant information from books and the free lectures online, so he listens to a Johns Hopkins doc talk about the main components of the human eye as he tries again to cure blindness.

This whole summer, since he bought that closed-down omega clinic in Brooklyn and started the arduous process of privatizing omega health care, he's been weirdly into the human body. For most of his life it's been the fast cars, the most destructive bombs, the tallest skyscrapers, but recently he's been more interested in flesh and blood, like a change of heart.

There's a point in the night where he goes to reach for another tool and it just...doesn't come. "Butterfingers?"

"I've taken the liberty of switching off all non-essential systems for the evening."

Tony gazes at the ceiling, even though he's usually the first to lecture that JARVIS doesn't exist in the ceiling. That he's everywhere, and nowhere. "This right here is the reason people don't like the idea of artificial intelligence."

"Have a good night, sir."

Which is how Tony was essentially pushed out of his workshop. It was nearing midnight, the windows of the tower lit by the thousands of lights of New York City. For a moment he just stopped and stared, feeling the familiar pull for the hustle and the crowds. He had loved the city at night, most of his life spent slipping down sidewalks, neon overhead, running down crowded streets and crowing at the docks, slipping off into dingy corners of clubs and sitting like a king in the VIP sections, alphas and omegas alike vying for his attention. He lived off of the energy, the sex and unpredictability, the drugs and lust and booze, the pounding of his own heart and the sweat on someone else's skin.

And he still feels that pull. He's older but not dead yet. There just seems to be too much effort to the whole charade. He used to love the nighttime for its momentary quality, fun and light as a flickering candle. But his body wants him to be settled. He's getting too old for one night stands. He wants to wake up with someone in his bed, someone who will stay for breakfast.

He's afraid he's waited too long. That he'll never be able to tell, now, whether someone was there for him or his damnable money.

Most nights it doesn't bother him. He'll sit down with Bruce and talk about saving the world. He'll sit down with Pepper and flirt and volley, wine and dine, feeling sated and happy even without sex at the end. Most nights he's completely fine, thank you very much.

But some nights, on those nights when he had a happy couple in his apartment, staring in awe at the mass of cells projected large in the living room. He hadn't even known he'd wanted that until he saw the soft looks on the men's faces, the people made, magically, into parents. A life that had previously revolved only around each other suddenly shifting orbit.

He pulls himself away from the window and towards the kitchen, where a light is on, where a boy sits at the long, polished table, a bowl of cereal and a gallon of milk sweating huge drops onto the polished wood.

Tony rolls his eyes up. Imagines JARVIS sitting smug. The AI is about as subtle as the butler he was based off of was. "Hey, kid."

To his credit, Peter only jumps a little bit, knuckle knowing into the edge of the bowl, but he catches it before it can go flying. Still, a few drops make their way onto the table, and Tony catches the kid's wince. Peter. Not kid. He'd sworn weeks ago that if he was going to be working next to this kid (damnit) then he was going to be professional. Using names. Wearing clothes. Starting with the bare minimum but apparently he was even incapable of that.

"Sorry," Peter mutters, mopping up the small mess with the side of a sleeve.

"I feel like kitchen tables are there to be spilled on. And to be honest I haven't spilled much. It's been on my to-do list, you're doing me a favor."

Peter glances at him. Tony knows he talks fast, rapid-fire jokes. A highly paid therapist ten years ago told him it was an avoidance tactic and then asked about his relationship with his father, so Tony had never gone back there, but avoidance it might well be, or nervous tic. Same thing, Bruce would say, and then suggest he lay off the coffee and start meditating.

"I didn't know if I was supposed to - I just got hungry."

"Of course you did. You're a weed. Teenagers are weeds. You grow and you eat stuff and not many people like you but sometimes weeds are actually beneficial. Or beautiful." He tilts his head at the kid, who definitely looks amused now. "Where was I going with this?"

"I really don't know, Mr. Stark."

"Tony."

Peter blushes and it's damn pretty but Tony's not a horny alpha all the time. He can control himself. He's in a position of power over this kid. He already got an earful from the aunt about having the kid stay at his apartment, and only swearing that Pepper not to mention JARVIS would be in the building the whole time made Aunt May (feisty beta, not his type but...) stand down. "My uncle sort of drilled the whole respectfulness thing into me."

"Solder?"

"No." Peter splays open his hands. "He was just a good man." A long pause. The was heavy in the space. Tony knew too many good men who could be spoken of only in past tense. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, when good men kept dying and he kept living here, on top of the world. "A really good man."

Tony heads over to the coffee pot. It's one of his and Peter's projects, one of the only things that makes the lab feel not tense at all. The roasting beans. The steam. Makes it feel like home. He still hasn't gotten it down to one button but they're damn close. He programs in a latte for the hell of it. "So...uncle?"

Peter raises his glass of milk half-heartedly. "Just a couple of orphans here."

He has a milk mustache. Tony feels a pang. He remembers being newly orphaned. Remembers the dire predictions that SI wouldn't last the year with him at the helm, an unruly teenager. And when it did last a year and make money besides, when it lasted five years and started branching elsewhere - well, that was all put down to Obadiah, as if Tony wouldn't want to honor his parents' legacy by doing some good in the world. As if everyone just expected him to be a selfish prick forever.

Tony takes a sip of coffee. Way too hot. Maybe they could program for that, too?

"It was really cool," Peter says, seemingly out of nowhere. "What you did for Steve and Bucky."

The cluster of cells, beating too fast, a baby's heartbeat. "Everyone deserves to pick up their kid with two hands."

"I meant - the tracker."

"Oh. That's way easier. Those two are insanely co-dependent. Maybe a baby will help? Who knows? What do I know?"

He was talking too fast again. He could hear Bruce screaming, his internal monologue always sounding vaguely like Bruce: No caffeine!

"Do you have a picture?"

"Huh?"

Peter clears his throat. It's late. The kid should probably be in bed. Kids have bedtimes, right? Instead he sits and watches Tony pour himself a bowl of Cheerios, and then pours more in his own bowl. "The baby. Do you have a picture?"

"JARVIS!"

The hologram appears over the kitchen table, and Peter makes a sound, an animalistic sound. Like the cry of a dove. A sighing, mournful, dawn sound. He's learned about the lab, watching Tony work, working himself. He taps the air and the gently revolving picture stops. Spreads his fingers to enlarge. The heartbeat. The shaking blob.

"It looks like a Teddy Graham."

"I've been told they look slightly more human when they're done baking."

Peter scrubs his face on his sleeve. "Jeeze. Sorry, I must look like such an omega right now."

There's so many sad things in that sentence, Tony could unpack it for days. Instead he just says: "it's only you and me here, kid."

Peter stares at the picture for a little while, and Tony stares at Peter.

"It's not like I want a baby," Peter says, shoveling another spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth. "At least not right now. Not like I have an alpha or anything. And I want to do other things. Have a life for myself, like you've been saying. Even though I'm an omega. Go to MIT. Maybe help an important alpha one day. Be like Pepper - she's our new idol, by the way. MJ is dying for an interview."

"I'm sure she can spare a few minutes for the fans."

Peter smiles tentatively. Waves a spoon at the hologram. "But then I see something like this, and it's like that whole life? College and a good job and a career and doing good things and fighting for omega rights and proving that I can be just as good as an alpha? All of it. Out the window." He shrugs. "Maybe they're right. Maybe omegas are just supposed to be breeders."

He doesn't sound sad. Just contemplative, like when Tony lobs questions at him, makes him rethink a problem.

Peter needs an hour with Pepper. A week. A year. Needs to see an omega run things with fierce tenderness, with skill, with passion. "What about Steve?" Tony asks. Throwing another question into the blender. This is how they spend their days, questioning each other until they come up with a solution that works. Peter gets this process. Likes it. Thrives in it. OsCorp's loss, Tony's gain.

Peter smiles at the bouncing cells of a baby. "What about him?"

"Is he just supposed to be bred? Home for his alpha, cooking and cleaning? Nesting? No job and a smile on his face?"

Peter tilts his head. His processing face. Then he laughs, a full-bellied sound. "What? No! Just - no. Bucky would go mental. Steve would go mental." He runs a hand through his hair. Points his spoon at Tony. "I see what you're doing, Mr. Stark. False analogy. I thought you went to fancy private schools."

"Never had time for debate."

"Me neither. I've only got time for Academic Decathlon and the coffee shop. But being friends with MJ is like being in debate." He glances at the hologram again. Then at Tony. "You know, it would be easier to convince me I was useful if I knew what I was doing here."

"You're my intern. I dazzle, you get dazzled."

Tony squints at Peter. Takes him in. Really takes him in. "I told you at the beginning, Pete. I'm going to make this summer work for you. If it's not working, we try something else. If you need to meet the top ten most successful omegas in the world to get some sense of perspective, we do that. If you want to keep helping me branch into kitchen appliances..."

"I thought Pepper didn't approve of StarkHome?"

"Bruce thinks your adhesive has medical implications. He wants to help you write a paper about it. Present it at a conference. You're a scientist, kid, but until you start thinking of yourself as a scientist first and an omega second or third or tenth? You're not going to be able to compete with those alphas. You just aren't. I guarantee that alphas do not think of their privilege as often as you are aware of your disadvantage. It's one of those sad facts of life."

Peter tilts his head. Thinking face. Tony sort of hates himself for noticing so much about his teenage intern, but there you are. "I know that the injection you gave me was a suppressant prototype."

"Yeah, I thought you might figure that out. How'd you do it?"

"Had a hunch. Drew some blood. Dr. Banner's been showing me a lot of cool things in StarkMed."

"He's trying to steal you into medical school."

"Job security. Omegas make good nurses."

Tony sighs. "It's like you're not even listening to me."

Peter sighs right back. "I don't know what you want from me, Mr. Stark."

Tony thinks about it. He'd like a lot of things from this kid genius in the too-big Batman shirt, the one that was a little too much like looking a mirror, backwards, if Tony had ever been polite or humble or gracious or all the good things this kid was. But even more than what he wants from Peter are the things he wants for him. Simply: any future he wants.

"I want you to trust me, kiddo. And until you can do that, I want you to fake it til you make it."