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Tony Stark prides himself on knowing a lot about Peter Parker.
He knows the small, seemingly insignificant things, like the kids favourite colour or the side of the bed he sleeps on. He also knows the deeper things, like how to calm him down after a particularly distressing nightmare, or the statement he gave police an hour after his uncle was shot.
The thing is, Peter is an open book. Tony can read all his expressions, can automatically tell when he’s lying, knows almost exactly what he’s thinking in any given moment.
He likes to think he knows pretty much everything there is to know about Peter Parker. Peter’s let him in, showed him the good and the bad and all the little things about himself that Tony doesn’t really deserve to know.
That’s why it’s so unnerving to see the kid like this.
Crawling into the lab at one in the morning is nothing new, but when Tony turned around to greet the kid with some tasteless joke about curfew, he was floored when he actually caught sight of Peter. He was standing right by the window, arms wrapped so tightly around his middle Tony vaguely wonders if the kid would be able to crush himself.
But it wasn’t the position that frightened Tony, but the kids face. He was unseeing, eyes completely unfocused and wide. A million miles away. He was shaking from head-to-toe, so bad it was easily noticeable from Tony’s spot all the way on the other side of the lab.
The sight sends a chill up Tony’s spine, one that encompasses an all-consuming dread. Somethings horribly, horribly wrong here. Tony’s thoughts are quickly overtaken with worst-case-scenarios, the what-if’s and pushed away thoughts that nobody should dwell on.
Despite the sea of concerns crashing over him, knocking him down like waves on a stormy night, there’s only one word that travels from his brain and to his mouth. “Kid?”
Peter doesn’t respond; doesn’t even really react. He just keeps staring ahead at nothing, shaking now mingling with a back-and-forth rocking motion, like the one you see in movies when people start going crazy, or some shit. His arms are still wrapped securely around himself, almost like he’s holding his own insides in.
Slowly, like he’s trying to approach a wounded animal, he gets up from his chair. He’s not really sure what the game plan right now, weather he’ll approach Peter or just let the boy come to him, but his legs are already moving so he supposes his body’s decided it’s the former.
“Peter? Kid?” He tries again, hoping beyond hope that Peter is just drugged, or something. It’s an absolutely horrible thought to have, to wish your kid to be drugged, but if it’s a health issue Tony can help without a second thought. He can drag him to Cho and run every test on the planet and keep going until he’s better, smiling and happy and Peter Parker again.
But this, whatever this is, this isn’t just something he can fix with a couple phone-calls and top-of-the-line medical care. This is so much more. Something Tony definitely isn’t qualified for.
In a moment, a moment Tony definitely didn’t think through in any way, shape or form, he tries to put what was supposed to be a steadying hand on Peter’s shoulder. Just as his finger make contact, the kid flinches hard, like an abused dog, gaze snapping up with fear.
His pupils are blown wide, black craters that hide the honey brown Tony’s become so used to looking into. He’s gone from shaking so hard he looks like a tree on a windy day to deathly still. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
Tony just stares back, almost horrified at the reaction. Jesus Christ. What happened to this kid? This kid who, on almost every other night like this, crawls through the window with a sheepish smile and presents to Tony whatever injury he managed to get on patrol. Now, he looks like a corpse on the side of the road, still haunted by whatever brought them there.
“It’s just me.” Is all he can say, trying to make his voice soothing but instead sounding strained and cracked, barely pushed out through clenched teeth. Peter’s expression calms ever so slightly, still looking awful but maybe a little less terrified.
There’s a long moment of silence, one that has Tony on the verge of a panic attack. He longs to reach out to Peter, to wrap him in one of those hugs that never fail to soothe the kid; but after his reaction just a few seconds ago, he’s not willing to push it.
The silence only ends when Peter’s gaze shifts from Tony’s face to the floor, a familiar nervousness taking over the kids once petrified expression. “Can I take a shower?” He asks, voice frighteningly even but still so, so quiet, a barely heard whisper.
Tony blinks in surprise at the admittedly strange question, swallowing hard. Out of all the things he was expecting (fearing) to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t it. At least it’s something. He almost wants to make a joke about the borderline-absurdity of the question, but he bites his tongue. “Uh, yeah, sure. You don’t have to ask.”
Peter doesn’t waste a moment slipping away from his spot and over to the door of the lab, movements quick and careful, almost precise. He doesn’t spare a glance in Tony’s direction, he just keeps moving until he disappears out of the lab and down the hallway.
It takes Tony a minute to get his thoughts in order. At least, in order enough to speak. “FRIDAY.. is he- is he hurt?” He stumbles over his words slightly, pausing to take a deep breath. The ever-present notion that something is definitely wrong with his kid is throwing his brain into overdrive, the incoming before a panic attack that he doesn’t need right now.
“Mr. Parker appears to be physically unharmed. Would you like me to contact Dr. Cho for a full work-up?” FRIDAY’s emotionless voice wrings out, and Tony finds himself thankful that she’s probably the one thing that’s incapable of stressing him out even more.
“That’s alright, FRI, just let me know when he’s out.” Tony walks the few steps back towards his chair and practically collapses onto it, weighed down by the growing anxiety in his chest. He feels so useless right now, just sitting and waiting, but there’s nothing else he can do.
While he waits, he finds himself chewing on his fingernails like an anxious high-schooler on exam week. Sometimes, when Peter’s been stressed about something, he’ll come to the lab with bloody fingernails. Maybe it’s a habit starting to rub-off.
—————
About twenty minutes after Peter’s sudden retreat, FRIDAY speaks again. “Sir, it appears Mr. Parker is ill.”
Tony physically drops the screwdriver he started idly messing with to quell his rapid stream of thoughts, anxiety picking up in overtime. “Is he out of the shower?” He’s already pushing himself off the chair and towards the door.
“Yes, boss.” The AI’s reply makes Tony pick up the pace, practically throwing himself into the elevator to his personal floor. To keep himself from literally blacking out before he gets to Peter, he tries to list his symptoms. Shaking, sickness, lethargy. He knows, deep down, that it’s just his brains way of trying to chalk this all up to a physical problem, something he can fix.
Just as he gets to the closed bathroom door, he hesitates. Okay, so he didn’t really think through exactly what he was going to do when he actually got up here. Tony knocks tentatively, and before he can ask if Peter’s okay, he hears gagging on the other side. His mind starts spinning with worst-case-scenarios, and before he knows it he’s turning the knob and bursting in.
Peter curled over the toilet, only wearing a towel loosely wrapped around his waist, face halfway in the toilet. He doesn’t look mad that Tony barged in, but he does look fucking ill, so Tony quickly sits next to him, bracing a soothing hand on his back. This time, Peter doesn’t flinch away.
“Sorry, Mr. Stark.” He mumbles, blinking slowly at the man. The poor kids eyes are brimming with unshed tears, and Tony doesn’t know weather they’re from the rounds of vomit or whatever heavy thoughts are hanging over his head.
“It’s alright.” He soothes, not knowing what else to say. Sometimes, Tony still has trouble adjusting to being such an important part in Peter’s life. There are moments, like this one, where he wishes Pepper or Rhodey was around. Tony’s never been good with kids, especially scared and upset and sick kids. But Peter is all of those things right now, so he wills himself to take a deep breath and figure this out.
“Do you wanna stand up?” Tony asks, voice softer than he’s ever had it before. If there’s one thing he knows about how to comfort Peter, it’s that he won’t respond to interrogating. He needs to feel safe to open up.
After a long moments worth of hesitation, Peter nods slowly, gripping Tony’s shoulder tight for support as he’s lead up from his spot on the cold floor. As soon as he’s up, his arms are back around his middle, only this time, it’s like he’s hiding his torso.
It occurs to Tony that the kids probably embarrassed at the fact that’s he’s literally half-naked in front of his mentor. Although, the embarrassment is a little strange, considering Tony’s seen him in various degrees of exposed while patching him up after patrol-injuries.
Before Tony can open his mouth, Peter’s speaking. “Can I go lay down?” He’s still mumbling, looking away. The tone of voice suggests his genuinely asking for permission. Tony’s not used to him being like this. It took awhile for Peter to stop being so sheepish at the tower, but now it feels like they’re three steps back in their progress.
Tony should probably make Peter talk about it, or at least ask what’s wrong, but the pitiful look and the misery in the kids voice has Tony sighing. “Yeah, sure, just let me know if you get sick again.”
Peter nods solemnly, slowly shuffling out of the bathroom and towards his own bedroom, expression unchanging. Tony’s stomach does flips with concern.
Tony wants to hide in the lab and destroy everything he sees until he finds out what’s wrong with his kid (he’s not really sure when the kid became his), but, logically, he knows that won’t help anything. It’s times like these where the self-destructive nature he’s only recently been trying to get rid of (mainly for Peter’s sake) wants to come back full-force.
With a heavy sigh, he slowly makes his way to his own room.
—————
Tony expected the kid to come in within ten minutes.
It was nearly five in the morning when he finally heard the floor outside his bedroom door gently creek.
He hasn’t slept at all in the last couple hours. In preparation for Peter’s inevitable arrival, he’s just been staring at the ceiling, bones almost as heavy as his thoughts. Since it took much longer than expected for the kid to finally come, by the time the door was being quietly pushed open, Tony could barely keep his tired eyes open.
He makes out the figure of the kid first, standing in the doorway, looking small. He’s in his pyjamas now, sweats and an old t-shirt he stole from Tony last February. The sight would warm is heart, if it weren’t for the miserable sniffling coming from the kid, indicating he was just crying.
“Pete?” Tony slowly sits up, trying his best not to startle the kid like he did earlier. Peter is only illuminated by the soft lamp light that Tony didn’t turn off when he went to bed for this very reason. He’s still not looking at Tony, head bowed and eyes on the ground, burning holes into where his feet are.
There’s another long silence, one that Tony doesn’t dare break. Eventually, Peter begins to slowly shuffle towards the bed, each step feeling like it takes a lifetime a decision. He still doesn’t look at Tony, but his posture un-crunches ever so slightly.
Tony, already predicting the conversation they’re about to have, shifts from under the covers and so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the cold floor below. Peter takes the hint and follows the movement, sitting next to the man so that there’s only a inch space between them. Peter’s always been tactile, so it doesn’t evade Tony that he’s very clearly avoiding the touch that usually brings him comfort.
“May’s working night shift.” He suddenly whispers, voice weighed down by emotion. It’s less wobbly than it was earlier, but still lacking any confidence whatsoever.
“I figured.” Tony whispers his reply back, not wanting to break the strange peace it brings the room. Maybe this is how Peter needs to talk. Maybe he can only get it out than he can barely hear himself.
“I just… I didn’t want you to get mad about curfew, or anything.” The mumblings back, and the kid still won’t look him in the eyes. Tony wants to pull his own hair out with how frustrating it is trying to understand exactly what’s bothering him.
“But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?” Tony tries, so careful yet so impatient. He wills himself to stay calm, to be patient. Tony’s uncontrollable need to fix is taking over him, making his hands shake and his chest ache. He needs to fix this.
Peter shakes his head, taping his fingers against the back of his hand. It’s a nervous habit that Tony noticed last year, on their flight home from Berlin. He decided, since the kid did such good work, the least he could do was sit with him on the plane. The whole time, his fingers were drumming an unsteady beat on his hand, staring intensely out the window. Tony never brought it up.
“No, no. I was- it was getting late but May wasn’t home so I figured that no one would know if I just stayed out a little be longer.” He’s still intent on looking at absolutely anything except for Tony. “But, uh, just as I was leaving to go home I heard it.”
He lets the ominous words hang in the air for a minute. Tony’s hanging on to every word, letting them roll around in his mind. Even with so much said, Tony still knows nothing. It’s not making sense. It’s one of those abstract looking art pieces with three splatters of paint that frustrate him to no end. “Heard what, kid?”
“Crying, I think. I, uh, obviously went to check it out. So I crawled around the building, to, you know, see what was going on. And- it was- there was this girl. And this guy was bothering her, y’know.” The implication is clear, heavy words that make Tony’s stomach drop. “She was young, too. In college, I think.”
As much as it pains Tony to think about, this shouldn’t be new to Peter. He’s seen it in the Baby-Monitor footage. Peter stops attacks like this, drunk men with a sickening aura about them, all the time. He’ll peel them off whatever poor girl they managed to find, always angry.
There’s something more here.
“Was she okay?” He pries gently, hoping beyond hope that God will give him a break and Peter will just talk. Will let it all spill out like a broken pipe and finally trust Tony enough to tell him what’s wrong.
“It wasn’t- I’m not upset about her. Well, yeah, I am, but it’s not- it’s because…” Peter cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, burying his head in his hands. Before Tony can reassure him, he’s speaking again. “I knew him.”
Now they’re getting somewheres.
Still, it barely helps the confusion. That could mean a million different things, and Peter looks like he’s getting more distressed with every passing second. Was he upset that someone he knew turned out to be scum-of-the-earth?
“Knew him?”
“Yeah. I knew him. From, uh, a really long time ago.”
A really long time ago? Peter’s nearly sixteen, a ‘really long time ago’ can mean anything from twelve years to six months. The conversation eerily reminds him of one of their other late-night talks, one after a particularly difficult mission. Peter confessed, with trembling hands and tears in his eyes, that two months after his uncle died, he tracked down the man who shot him and nearly killed him. Through tears, he described how he webbed him down to the floor of a motel, throwing punch after punch while he screamed.
When Tony asked him why he stopped, why he let the man live, Peter just shrugged. “That’s not a hero.”
He wonders if Peter’s thinking the same thing right now. If he wanted to kill the man who’s haunting him so badly. If he decided not to because his morals are far beyond what they should be at his young age.
In the long silence, Tony just listens to the kids slightly-off breathing; It’ll sound normal, then every couple second there’s a slight hitch, the only indicator that he’s really and truly upset about something. Then, after a whole minute, he looks like he’s made up his mind on something.
“I was nine.”
This is how it starts. This is how the pure, agonizing hatred towards someone Tony’s never known, will never know, begins. This is how the rug is pulled from his feet. With three, seemingly insignificant words.
He lets Peter continue.
“It was the summer I was turning ten. I had just finished fourth grade, so, obviously, I wasn’t allowed to stay home alone yet. We, uh, May and Ben were able to send me to this weird, science day-camp thing a couple days a week, but I still needed someone to watch me Thursdays and Fridays.” His voice isn’t a sheepish as it was before, in fact, it’s borderline emotionless. He sounds like he’s narrating a slideshow for school.
“So, uh, they got me a babysitter. His name was Skip.” Something foreign, like an almost nostalgic anger flickers across the kids expression. His jaw clenches for a second, like he’s trying to decide weather or not he should keep going.
Tony, who’s made a reputation for being a genius (among other things), feels like anything but. His brain usually makes connections in a second, but right now, it’s moving syrup-slow. He feels completely in the dark.
When Peter plunges back in to his story, the brief, emotionless reprieve that had has vanished, and the trembling whisper is back. “He was seventeen, I think. And at first… he was nice. Just, really really nice.”
“And then?” Tony prompts, fearing the worst. He’s already decided he doesn’t like this guy, if the pit in his stomach was any indicator.
“He wasn’t so nice.” For the first time since Tony picked him up off the bathroom floor, he makes eye contact. Tony expects tears, but for now, there are none. “The first couple time were fine, and then… then the fourth time he babysat me he was different.”
It all feels like a really eerie horror movie, one of those dimly lit scenes that he used to watch on the old tv in the upstairs living room. Tony was, admittedly, an absolute pussy when it same to that stuff growing up. Peter seems to be the same way. Tony wonders if it’s because he’s already experienced the horrors in real life, up close and personal.
“He showed me these- these magazines. Awful, awful magazines.” Peter’s twisting his index finger around in his other palm, breaths coming out pained and shallow. Tony thinks maybe he should make the kid pause and take a deep breath, but he needs to know.
“Magazines?”
“You know. You know the kind, the- the ones you have to hide from your parents.” Peter’s staring at him desperately now, begging for some sort of understanding. It only takes a few seconds for it to click.
“Porn?”
Peter nods furiously, shaking from head-to-toe again. Tony’s stomach rolls with anger and nausea. This piece of shit, someone who was supposed to look after Peter, showed a nine year old kid porn. After the fury, comes a new-found understanding.
Dread.
“He said it was a- a game, at first. He said we were gonna do what the- what the people in the picture were doing.” Tears finally spring in the poor kids eyes, along with a trembling lip. Tony starts breathing heavy, teetering on the edge of a fucking anxiety attack.
“Kid…” He starts, feeling like he’s literally about to throw up if the kid keeps talking.
Peter ignores him. “And then it was stuff he found of the internet, which was, like, ten times worse. And then- after a while it was- whatever he wanted to do we were doing. I didn’t- I never had a choice.” His voice cracks at the end, suddenly panicked. “You gotta believe me, Mr. Stark, I never- I never wanted it.”
“I know you didn’t, Pete.” He soothes, thanking God his own voice doesn’t crack with emotion, mainly the disgust, rolling around in his gut. “You were nine.”
“I was nine.” He repeats, in a whisper. Tony nods along encouragingly, reaching to put a hand on the kids back but aborting the gesture at the last second. He’s almost positive the kid will have the same reaction he did earlier.
“How did it end?” He asks, praying beyond all belief that Peter will say that someone beat the shit out of Skip, or something. However, the stone of doubt in his chest has him already knowing that this story will not have a happy ending.
“Skip’s mom started dating this guy down in Pittsburg. They moved down there right after Halloween.”
Tony wants to throw up. This guy, this monster, is still out there. He never got punished. He got to keep living, while Peter was left behind with the aftermath of what was done to him. Peter’s earlier words finally click in. He saw Skip again tonight, trying to hurt someone else.
He shouldn’t ask, but he has to know. “How many… how many times?”
Peter gives a humourless laugh. It sounds wrong coming from the kid. “I don’t know. I stopped counting after the tenth time.”
Jesus Christ.
He tries not to think about a younger version of Peter (the one he’s seen in various pictures in the Parkers apartment) being scared and hurt and confused. He tries not to think about the fact that Peter kept it a secret from his aunt and uncle, terrified of being punished for something that would never be his fault.
Peter’s suddenly speaking again. “When I saw him again tonight, I just- I webbed him up, got KAREN to alert the cops, then left.” The kid looks physically ill as he speaks, to the point where Tony starts eyeing the small trash bin on the other side of the room, just in case he needs it.
Tony can only imagine what it would be like for Peter to see Skip again, after all these years. Judging by the way the kid is still trembling, the fear must be still prominent, just as crushing as it was when he was nine. That kind of thing doesn’t go away, even after six years and becoming a superhero.
He should say something, but what is there to say? There’s no words that can make this better, nothing to sum up the disgust and anger and sympathy burning beneath Tony’s chest, pushing on his lungs every time he tries to take a breath. But Peter’s still looking at him expectantly, begging for something, anything.
“I’m sorry.” Is all he manages, like some idiot. Peter just poured his heart and soul out to him, told him something that Tony’s willing to put money on he’s never told anyone else, and that’s all Tony has to say?
Peter looks at him, really looks at him, staring at his face so intensely Tony wants to blush and squirm under his gaze. The kid is usually so readable, so animated in his demeanour that it’s easy to tell what he’s thinking, but now, Tony has no idea.
Then, in one, soul-shocking instant, Peter’s hand finds his own, tentatively lacing their fingers together.
Tony wonders if this is the only human contact the kid can bear right now, if the memories are too much to even think about hugging the man. He wonders how much human touch has been ruined for Peter, all because of this sorry excuse for a person.
They just sit like that, hand-in-hand, not saying a word. For once, their just content to be in each other’s company in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic breathing coming from both of them, just slightly off-beat with each other.
After a few minutes of that, the warmth and weight of Peter’s head rests on his shoulder. Tony can’t really see anything more than the mop of brown curls on the kids head from this angle, but by the way his breaths have evened out and his chest has stopped heaving with repressed cries, he’s asleep.
On any of the other various occasions that Peter would fall asleep on his shoulder, usually on the couch after a long patrol, Tony would always find a fond smile spreading across his face as he adjusted the kid enough to carry him to bed. Now, he can only find it in himself to rest his cheek on the side of Peter’s head, holding back his own tears.
Eventually, he sets Peter down in bed, wincing when he notices the beginnings of morning light coming through the window. Peter grumbles and shifts in his sleep, but doesn’t wake, so Tony curls up next to him.
This isn’t anywhere’s near the end of this conversation, and Tony will probably have questions about it ‘till the end of time, but tonight (technically this morning, now), he just lets Peter sleep.
—————
The kid being deathly quiet the next morning is uncharacteristic but expected.
He hasn’t made a single sound since shuffling out of this room at nearly noon, still dressed in his over-sized pyjamas from the night before.
In literally any other circumstance, Tony would compare Peter’s scowl to that of a grumpy toddler, but now definitely isn’t the right time. The kid hasn’t even looked him in the eyes yet this morning, much less smiled.
Instead of worrying himself to death, Tony tries to focus all his energy on the eggs he’s making the kid for breakfast. His cooking is subpar at best, but Peter never says anything about the less-than-spectacular meals he’s used to getting on quiet mornings like these.
It’s only when Tony places the plate of (as he’s thrilled to note, not-burnt) eggs in front of him does Peter actually say something, tentatively clearing his throat. Tony internally braces himself for the inevitable hurricane of words that will tumble from the kids mouth.
“It was my fault, wasn’t it?” Says the quiet voice, not even sounding upset, more like a guilty child. The magnitude of the words hit Tony’s chest like a battering ram. He rushes so quickly to reassure him, shaking his head like a cartoon character.
“No, Pete, it’s not- you were a kid. You were-” He’s cut off by the kid making a strangled noise from the back of his throat, quickly speaking over him.
“I don’t mean that. I mean…” Peter takes a deep, steadying breath, visibly swallowing. “If I had told someone when I was a kid, he probably wouldn’t have hurt that girl last night. And- and who knows how many others there were. If there were more kids, and he… hurt them, it’s my fault.”
The confession, said so matter-of-factly, leaves Tony reeling. For the nth time since last night, Tony wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. He could lie to Peter, tell him that there was absolutely nothing he could’ve done different. Because, realistically, there’s a universe out there where Peter told his Aunt and Uncle and no one else got hurt. That’s a universe where Peter doesn’t have to live with his new-found crushing guilt.
But that’s not the universe they’re living in. Right here, right now, this is what they’re up against. And Tony would move mountains to take any shred of guilt he has left away, so that’s exactly what he does. “You couldn’t have known-”
“Don’t lie to me.” He’s cut off again, and this time, Peter’s voice has risen slightly in anger. “Just- just tell me the truth. Could I have prevented what he was trying to do to that girl if I told on him when I was a kid?”
Tony wants to lie so bad. He wants to wrap Peter in his arms and hide him away for the rest of time, as strange as it sounds. If he could, he would put him in a bubble, away from the prying world around him.
But lying to Peter has never been one of his strong suits. Tony sighs heavily, resigned to his fate. “Maybe.” He says. “Maybe you could’ve stopped it.”
The look of pure pain that crosses Peter’s expression, just for a second, lights up a fire in Tony. Something bright and urgent within demands him to backtrack, so that’s exactly what he does. “But,” He raises his voice slightly, hoping to get Peter’s attention. “That doesn’t make it your fault in any way.”
Peter scoffs, a cruel, hurt smile twisting on his face. “Sure.”
“No, it’s true.” Tony moves so that he’s kneeling in front of the kid, trying to catch his attention. Peter’s gaze stays on the floor, glaring at it like it’s personally offended him. “If there were other kids before you, do you blame them for what happened to you?”
“No.” It comes out more a mumble than anything else, but the tone of realization is still there. Tony can’t help but smile.
“Exactly, kiddo.” After a second to revel in it, the smile fades and Tony grows serious again, leaning in close and trying to make eye contact with him. “It’s no ones fault except for that- except for Skip.”
Peter flinches lightly at the name, so small. In fact, Tony hasn’t noticed until this very moment how small Peter looks. It’s always been the kids natural reaction when he’s distressed about something to curl up, like he’s trying to disappear.
In the silence that follows, Peter looks like he’s torn between running away and letting himself hug Tony. Despite Tony’s reputation for absolutely lacking any form of patience whatsoever, he waits. He would wait an eternity for Peter. Tony can’t even bring himself to be horrified by that thought anymore, either. At this point, he’s pretty much excepted his role in Peter’s life, no matter how hard he tried to deny it for so long.
It seems like Peter’s finally made up his mind when he suddenly slumps forward, like his strings have been cut, melting into Tony’s arms. Tony only freezes for a second before getting the message and returning the embrace, cringing at how Peter grip tightens; he still doesn’t falter though, letting the kid lock his arms around his neck.
Miraculously, Peter doesn’t cry like Tony expects him to. He had figured that this would be the exact moment the dam breaks, had so vividly pictured Peter finally letting go, crying away the memories like a river would carry something away.
Instead, Peter stays silent, keeping his arms wrapped around Tony a little too tight for comfort. Tony doesn’t mind though, and without even realizing, begins to subtly rock them in an attempt to soothe.
After a few minutes of the silent embrace, Peter pulls back to face Tony, so close they’re almost nose-to-nose. Then, in the most emotional whip-lashing instant Tony’s ever experienced, Peter smiles.
“You learn something new everyday, huh?” He laughs a little towards the end, pained and breathy. It’s the exact kind of thing Tony would’ve said if he was in Peter’s position, if he was Peter’s age.
Still, Tony forces a smile, pretending to be amused. “Was that a joke I hear?” He asks. “Did Peter Parker just make a joke at his own expense?”
“Maybe.” Peter shrugs. “Wonder where I get it from.” The absolute hurt is still clear in Peter’s eyes, childlike innocence long since stolen. Tony’s always thought of Peter as someone untouched by the horrors of life. He’s remembered the men at Howard’s Gala’s, drunk and handsy, and how Peter will never experience that.
Tony never thought about the possibility that he already did.
Peter eventually grows tired (or uncomfortable) of his position on the floor, halfway in Tony’s lap, so he slowly straightens and crawls back to the bench. Tony follows, somewhat awkwardly standing up from his own kneeling position and tries to casually lean against the counter, but it ends up looking rigid.
He’s waiting for more deep questions and confessions, things that Tony never thought he’d have to talk about with a fifteen year old. Tony’s waiting for the details that Peter left out last night, stuff that make his stomach turn.
Instead, Peter just digs in to his plate of eggs, almost casual about it. In a weird way, the lack of emotion is almost disturbing. Peter should be screaming and punching a wall right now, just like Tony wants to.
It just proves how much better the kid is than Tony. Mainly because if he was in Peter’s position he would probably snap Skip’s neck (Hell, he might do it anyway), but also because of the lack of fury. Peter’s not angry. Life keeps dealing him the worlds shittiest hand, but he keeps shining as bright as a fucking star, as corny as it sounds. It kind of freaks Tony out, to be honest.
That’s the thing about knowing someone, and really knowing someone. Before all this, yesterday, even, Tony thought he knew Peter Parker. He thought he knew the good and the bad and the little things.
Right now, watching his kid wolf down a plate of eggs, he really knows Peter Parker. He truly and entirely knows the good and the bad and the little things.