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1
Betty only needs one visit of Tony Stark to their high school to confirm what she had long suspected. One: Peter Parker has terrible luck. Two: Flash is an ass. Three: So is Tony Stark.
The red carpet is rolled out for the man. Metaphorically, that is, because the security around Tony Stark is so airtight that no one sees him coming. The students are ushered into the school auditorium and the man is just there, in the middle of the room, holding a microphone. He was probably smuggled in through the sewers or something.
“Yes, hellooo,” he says, and bounces the microphone against his chin a few times. “I’ll be your host tonight. Shuffle along, ladies and gentlemen. Kindly stay away from the front row, I need my space. No, just taking the mickey. I spend fifty percent of my time inside a metal can, who needs space? Matter of fact. Don’t get me started about space.”
Betty wonders what PR crime Tony Stark must have committed for him to get sent to a local high school for an ‘inspirational talk’ as a punishment. Principal Morita had been practically wetting his pants when he shared the news with the students last week.
“Oh, I know this one,” Mr. Stark says, zeroing in on one student in particular.
Betty turns just in time to see Peter freeze in his steps. Ned bumps into him from behind.
“Yes, you there,” Tony Stark says, and snaps his fingers. “Where have I seen your face? Remind me.”
All focus is now on Peter, who very clearly is wishing for a large asteroid to smash through the roof and hit him. He looks flustered, intimidated, almost scared. “I… I intern at your company, Mr. Stark.”
“Yes. Mr. Pecker, was it? Good—
“It’s Parker, sir.”
“—I was in dire need of some assistance. Get me a coffee.”
“But sir. I’m in school. My internship isn’t—”
“Yada yada, not interested. Move it.”
“What do—”
“Move. It.”
Peter turns, shoulders hiked up to his ears, and rushes from the auditorium.
Betty takes a seat next to Ned. Behind them, Flash murmurs: “I can’t believe people were speculating they’re close.”
-
The whole thing is Betty’s fault, really.
It is exactly three weeks ago today that she had cornered Peter by his locker and said: “So. A little birdie told me your internship at Stark Industries is actually a rather big deal.”
The little birdie, in this particular case, was Peter himself. It’s not because she was eavesdropping. It was just because, well, Peter and Ned talked. A lot. And not nearly as inconspicuously as they seemed to think.
“I’ve heard you actually interact with him on a regular basis. And I’d really love to do an interview with you for the school paper. A tell-all.”
“Oh,” Peter said, looking around for the nearest escape route. “Wow. That’s. No thank you.”
“Come on, Parker. Everyone thinks you just get him coffee. The people of Midtown have a right to know the truth.”
“Look, I don’t know what you heard.”
“I heard he bought you a hamster for your birthday.”
“It was a gerbil,” Peter said, and then abruptly stilled, and then shut his eyes with a low groan.
“Tony Stark bought you a gerbil?” That was Cindy. Betty hadn’t even noticed her coming up from behind.
Peter slammed his head against the door of his own locker; none too gently either.
“So,” Betty said. “Interview?”
-
She never got him to agree to her interview. But by the time last period ended, it seemed the whole school knew that Peter was close enough with Tony Stark to get eccentric birthday presents from the man.
“It wasn’t a birthday gift,” Peter kept trying. “He was just trying to get rid of it.”
It didn’t help.
“It’s not… It’s an internship,” Peter kept saying, ducking his head. “I just get him coffee and stuff. He barely knows who I am, honest.”
It didn’t help.
Students and teachers alike have been accosting Peter in the hallways ever since, and Betty feels like an ass for causing it all.
-
Peter returns to the auditorium with a large styrofoam cup just as Tony Stark is responding to a question about the Sokovia accords. Betty isn’t sure which idiot decided to ask about that, rather than any of the more obvious topics available to them: sentient robots, alien armies or even the alleged affair with Nick Fury. It’s like inviting Chopin to the school and then asking him to play the Flea March.
“There is no prognosis on exactly when the updated version of the accords will be formally approved,” Stark says. “But yes, Steve Rogers and his band of merry men returned to New York for a reason.”
Most eyes in the room are no longer on him, but on Peter Parker who hesitantly hovers a few feet away from the man. Tony Stark throws a cursory glance down at the cup in Peter’s hands, doesn’t take it. “That isn’t what I wanted. Get me a proper cup.”
Peter stills, eyes wide. “What did you—“
“Proper coffee. Chop chop, Mr. Pecker.”
Peter wobbles on his legs, unsure. Then he turns, his movements stilted, and once again retreats towards the double doors.
“Make sure you get it right this time, Pecker,” Flash cajoles under his breath as Peter moves past them.
“Shut up, Flash,” Peter mutters, cheeks flushing red.
“Yeah, shut up Flash,” Betty agrees, half-turning in her seat. “Does Tony Stark almost know your name? Didn’t think so.”
A student in the back row gets a question in. “How will the new accords affect the jurisdiction of smaller vigilantes like Spider-Man?”
“Oh my god, I’m so bored,” Mr. Stark says. “Anyone gonna ask me about wizards or aliens, or what’s happening here?”
Betty raises her hand. “So, Captain America is living in the tower again. How is that interfering with your alleged affair with Nick Fury?”
“I’ve had to cancel our weekly date nights,” Mr. Stark says chipperly. “Other than that, we’re doing an excellent job at keeping the whole thing hidden from the missus.”
Ned is the next one who speaks up. “Mister Iron Man, have you ever fought a ghost?”
“A sensible question at last,” Tony Stark says, and launches into a tale.
Somewhere halfway through the anecdote, Peter walks in again, carrying a styrofoam cup that looks entirely identical to the first one. His tread is hesitant and he holds the cup out towards his boss as if he is afraid the man will straight up smack it out of his hands.
But Tony Stark just says “finally,” and takes it.
Peter sags in relief; he loses almost a full inch in height. He hastily retreats, taking the empty chair on Ned’s other side and keeping his head ducked down as low as possible.
“Dude,” Abe mutters from behind them. “He’s gotta be the worst boss.”
Peter turns a little, hides his mouth behind his hand as he mutters back: “He’s difficult, but being an intern there gives great opportunities and I need it.”
Betty knows he has a point, but she really would have wished something better for Peter than a real life ‘devil wears Prada’.
There are more questions. More of Tony Stark blowing his own trumpet. When Betty glances over to Peter at one point, she finds her classmate leaning his chin in his hand, staring off into the distance, his blinks getting longer and longer. He very obviously has absolutely no interest in anything Tony Stark has to say. Which is staggering, because he even sits through their soul-crushingly boring literature classes with unwavering laser focus.
As they approach the one-hour mark, principal Morita takes the floor. “I hope you all got inspired,” he says before thanking Mr. Stark for coming. He goes for a handshake. Tony Stark pretends not to see it and turns away to smile and wave.
Betty’s main takeaway from the whole thing is just disappointment in this guy she always considered a hero. “He’s a bit of an ass, isn’t he?” she breathes at Cindy.
“Totally,” Cindy agrees. “Do you think he’ll take a selfie with me?”
Betty rolls her eyes and resolutely slings her bag over one shoulder. Security guards fan out to drive the students out like livestock. Some are even clapping or wafting their hands at the students to get them moving. To be fair, the students are acting like livestock, too; gazing back at the guards with wide cow-eyes and cluttering together as they clump towards the exit. Ned kicks Peter, who jolts awake and stands. Principal Morita is still hovering, attempting to draw Mr. Stark into conversation.
Stark chucks the styrofoam cup at the nearest trash can. It bounces against the edge and away. Stark pretends not to see. “Mr. Pecker can help clean up,” he says, his voice carrying.
Peter stops in his tracks again, hunches defensively. “I have to get to history class.”
Tony Stark sends him a withering glare.
Peter presses his lips together and looks to principal Morita for help. None is forthcoming. “Of course he can help, Mr. Stark,” Morita says, waving for Peter to come closer. “Of course. He’s happy to. I’ll just go warn his history teacher that he’ll be a bit late.”
“Am I happy?” Peter mutters. “I hadn’t noticed.” But he leaves his bag by his seat and lumbers forward.
“Go on, go on,” a security guard says, and claps his hands at Betty like he’s chasing off a pigeon.
Betty allows herself to be clapped out of the room.
-
She separates from the herd, waits behind the cabinet that displays their acadec awards until voices and footsteps have faded away. She digs through her bag for her notepad and a pencil and jots down a few quick notes while her memory is still fresh.
If she could just catch Mr. Stark alone for a moment… Surely as the man is just cleaning up — or sitting around and letting Peter clean up — it wouldn’t inconvenience him too terribly to give her a quote for the school paper? Something a little better than ‘This just in: Tony Stark says all ghosts are assholes’.
She peers around the cabinet. As suspected, a security guard is standing squarely in front of the double doors. Betty calculates her chances that the man will move out of the way if she asks nicely at roughly minus one thousand percent. She’d have more luck asking a lamppost.
But there are more roads leading to Rome. And Betty has done her research.
She makes tactful retreat, rounds a corner, pushes her way through the janitors office, and steps into the pantry that also connects – via a different door – to the dimly lit backstage area of the auditorium.
Unexpectedly, Tony Stark is already there. Waiting backstage to be ushered out by his security, no doubt. Betty halts where she is, in the doorway, one foot still in the pantry.
Tony Stark is not alone.
Peter is sitting on the frayed and faded yellow couch, holding his backpack in his lap and leaning his chin down on it.
Stark is standing in front of him. His phone is in his hand, but his attention on Peter. “…about a gajillion dollars to this school,” he is saying. “So why do you still have this couch back here that looks like something is living in it?”
“You mean like a ghost?” Peter asks. He shifts in his seat, siding a little lower so he can lay his head back. As if to prove a point.
“Did they schlep this thing in straight from the nearest landfill?”
“Did you actually fight a ghost? Because I hadn’t heard that anecdote before. And rude if you didn’t invite me.”
“I’m gonna tell Happy to spray you down with disinfectant before you get in the car this afternoon. I don’t need couch cooties all over my house.”
Peter scuffs his feet against the floor. “Except you cancelled this afternoon.”
“Saturday, then. Don’t want you bringing a rat infestation to the tower. The second one in as many weeks, in fact.”
“The first one was your own fault. Because you use your brain for everything except common sense.”
“My fault? How could I have known May’s allergic?”
“How, indeed,” Peter drawls. “Certainly not by, I don’t know, giving her a quick phone call before you decided to get me a living breathing creature as a gift?”
“I’m suspecting she made it up. Your aunt loves to make life difficult for me.”
“You made your bed,” Peter says. “And now you must… must clean its cage and feed it carrots.”
“Carrots in moderation, actually. The internet says they’re too sweet for gerbils.”
Peter smiles up at him. “Look how you care so much. And yet you’re disturbingly good at playing an asshole.”
“Threw your classmates off the scent though, didn’t we?”
“I hope so. Thanks for coming in clutch. I know you’re busy right now.”
“I wasn’t gonna hang you out to dry. And I’m not busy perse. Rogers is just… stressing me out.”
“I know he is.” Peter’s voice is flat, with a hint of frustration. “You gotta, like, communicate with him. Bite the bullet.”
“I wish I could bite the bullet, but it’s such a particularly annoying bullet. Such a straight-laced and sanctimonious— You know what? I wish I could bite this bullet. Bite his nose right off.”
Peter says nothing.
Mr. Stark pats him on the head. “Hey. Have you ever been to the Met?”
“That’s, like, paintings and stuff, right? Gross. No.”
“Come on, kid. Top tier museum. You don’t want to, to lie in your death bed and look at me and go ‘I should have gone when I had the chance’.”
“I’m dying before you in this scenario?”
“There’s an exhibition. It’s about the mathematics behind Escher’s work, so it’s more up your alley than you might think. They gave me two tickets. Interested?”
Peter straightens, eyes suddenly sparkling. “Yeah! Tony, I take everything back. That sounds so cool!”
Mr. Stark digs through his inside pocket. “Great. There you go. Invite your friend Ned. Or, what’s her name. Scary Spice.”
“Oh,” Peter says.
“Hey,” a security guard says from very nearby, and Betty jumps out of her skin, letting out a tiny yelp.
The security guard crosses her arms and lifts an eyebrow.
“Yes, excuse me,” Betty says, opting for a polite and professional tone. “But I work for the school paper, you see.” She glances back towards Tony Stark to see that he has already leapt away from Peter and is now busying scrolling through his phone, his face unreadable. “Our mission statement is to serve readers and society through—"
The security guard just looks bored. “Scram, kid.”
“No, send her over,” Tony Stark calls out. “C’mon. I love talking to the press.”
Betty sends the security guard a wide smile and darts around her. She pauses in front of Tony Stark, leafs through her tiny notebook to find an empty page.
Peter has turned his head away from them. His shoulders are stiff. Tony slides his phone into his pocket and shifts his stance so he is between Betty and Peter, obscuring him from her view. He does it smoothly enough that it almost doesn’t seem deliberate.
Betty knows she could fill six entire pages based on only the fragments of conversation she overheard just now. Because, frankly, what the fuck? She’ll need a few hours to mentally deconstruct everything she just witnessed.
But she has caused enough damage and has no intention of making life harder for Peter yet again.
“I write for the school paper,” she repeats. “Our mission is to seek the truth through on-the-ground, expert journalism. I was hoping to pick your brain on a few topics that you touched upon today.”
“If it’s about ghosts: I don’t like to stereotype anyone, but I stand by what I said about them.”
“I report facts, Mr. Stark,” she says coolly. “Not assertions or opinions.”
He gives a little bow. “Of course you do. Ask away.”
“Are you aware of all the fanart out there of you and Nick Fury together?”
“Actually, you know what?” Tony Stark clasps his hands together. “How’s about a meet and greet with Captain America? You like the sound of that?”
It’s the least subtle attempt at deflecting a question that Betty has ever witnessed. But also, it’s the most unique opportunity that has ever been offered to her.
“You mean, just me and him?” she clarifies.
Tony Stark’s smile widens.
-
Betty takes a seat in the front row, excitement thrumming through her. She takes out her history book and turns her focus to the teacher. Her appointment at freaking Avengers Tower (what the actual hell) is neatly noted in her calendar.
Peter joins the class only a few minutes later. His face is clouded over and he shrugs stiffly in response to something Ned whisper-asks him.
Betty sneaks out her phone and sends him a message. If you’re worried about what I’m gonna write, it won’t be anything to do with your internship at all.
Peter slips the phone out of his pocket when he feels the buzz. He reads it. He turns and gives her a terse nod, but doesn’t look any happier.
2
Steve snaps off a piece of carrot and feeds it through the mesh that covers the gerbil cage. He used to have rabbits as a kid. Having pets around means something to him. It means they are…
He turns to look at the other people in the room. His team. His family. Home.
Bucky is going around with a feather duster. He has been doing that a lot, ever since they arrived here. Like he wants to earn his keep. The rest of the team don’t seem to feel that same pressure. Sam is on his phone. Natasha is reading. Clint is packing equipment into a duffel bag, coiling a cable around his arm. He’s ready to go back to his family.
Steve has a slight bombshell to drop and preferably wants to do it while Clint is still within the blast radius.
Before he has a chance to drop it, Tony appears in the wide, arching doorway leading from the kitchen: a bowl in one hand, a spoon dangling from his mouth. He snatches it out and points it at Steve as soon as he spots him. “What did I tell you, Rogers? Carrots in moderation! God, how do you keep finding ways to stress me out?”
Steve puts the carrot down. “It was just a small piece, Tony.”
“Yes,” Bucky says, staunchly, without turning away from dusting the bookshelves. “It was just a small piece.”
Tony’s eyes flick to him. “This must be what it’s like to have an out of control Roomba,” he says. “Barnes. You got an off switch or something? You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Shut up,” Bucky snaps, and crouches down to get the dust from underneath the couch.
Tony… doesn’t smile, exactly, but he looks at Bucky a bit similar to how he often looks at Natasha. With a kind of soft understanding. Bucky somehow has a personality that Tony Stark can deal with. Steve isn’t sure how to do that. How to be the person he needs to be in order to get Tony to look at him with anything other than scorn. Despite the many many meetings they’ve had over the last few weeks with Thaddeus Ross, where he and Tony more often than not end up arguing the same side.
“Don’t kill my gerbils, Rogers,” Tony says. “Can I trust you not to kill my gerbils over the next few hours? I gotta go put my intern to work.”
“We have a meeting later.”
“About…?”
“Just. Don’t be late.”
Tony sticks the spoon back in his mouth and walks away.
“Stop micromanaging him,” Bucky says. “He doesn’t like it.”
And now Steve is getting advice from Bucky of all people on how to deal with Tony. He shakes his head. “Hey. Any of you come across that intern Tony keeps around nowadays?”
Bucky and Clint both give a confirming grunt. Natasha says nothing, but Steve is not going to insult her by asking again.
Only Sam seems to draw a blank. “Huh?’”
“Come on,” Steve says. “They’re practically joined at the hip when he’s here.”
“What. The pipsqueak?”
“Aye,” Bucky says.
“He hasn’t been that often,” Clint says. “Saturdays, I think?”
“Doesn’t his voice remind you of Spider-Man, though?” Steve pushes.
A silence descends. Natasha flips a page.
“The Spider-Man who stuck my ass to the floor in Berlin?” Sam asks.
Clint turns his attention entirely away from the duffel bag and sets one hand on his hip. “I believe I missed that anecdote?”
“Yeah, me too,” Bucky says. “Because I definitely wasn’t there.”
“That dude was not a teenager,” Sam says. “I mean, he was… And he was… Fuck, maybe he was a teenager.”
“It isn’t him,” Natasha says. “Please. Spider-Man has flatter feet, his elbows are sharper.
“I got ten bucks that says it is him,” Sam says.
“You want to bet against me. Me.”
“Tony has a soft spot for Spider-Man,” Steve establishes.
There are nods all around, and confirmations: “A very soft spot.” “A squishy marshmallow spot.”
Steve nods back. “And now he keeps this intern around, when I’m pretty sure he hasn’t ever exchanged a single word with any of his other employees. And I just… His voice.”
“Is he nice to this intern, though?”
“I’m… not sure. Haven’t seen them actually interact much.”
“It’s not him,” Natasha says.
“Anyone know that kid’s name?”
“I believe it’s, uh…”
“Mr. Pecker! Would you kindly keep up?” Tony’s voice carries down the hallway before the man himself appears, striding through the room to reach the stairs towards his workshop.
A teenager follows him, jogging to keep up. He is carrying a large box. His hand slips and he uses his knee to push it the box higher and change his grip. “It’s… Sir, it’s Parker.”
Tony stops abruptly and shoots him a poisonous glare. “Do your job properly for once in your life and I might be bothered to remember your name.”
The boy’s eyes flick up at him, then stick to the floor again.
“You got a problem with that, Mr. Pecker?”
“No sir,” the teenager murmurs.
“Good. Because, friendly reminder, I could replace you in a heartbeat.” Tony turns, and the two of them disappear down the stairs.
“Huh,” Clint says, and zips up his bag.
“Fine,” Sam grunts with a sour look at Natasha. “I owe you ten dollars.”
“Can I have it now?” she asks. “Because I know what you’re like…”
-
Entirely against the hypothetical advice that Bucky would give him if he were to ask, Steve descends the stairs towards the workshop. The meeting should have started five minutes ago.
The door of the workshop is being held open by a box. The same box that the intern was carrying around earlier. It is filled to the brim with colorful plastic tubes, some straight, some curved. Steve can’t imagine their purpose; they don’t look particularly high-tech. Despite the floor-to-ceiling glass partition, Tony and the intern haven’t spotted him yet. They are huddled around a desk, the boy kneeling on top of a desk chair and chewing on a pencil.
Voices filter out.
“But you… Tony, what do you mean gerbilsssss, plural? You only bought one.”
“Oh. There’s three, now.”
“How did that happen?”
“See, Peter, when two gerbils love each other very much—”
“Tony.”
Tony holds up his hands. “Marbles was lonely. It was Pepper’s idea in the first place. And the internet says they’re social animals.”
The pencil drops from Peter’s mouth. “You named him Marbles? I’m sorry. I’m envisioning the ‘lost’ posters.”
“I am not losing them. Though Rogers might end up killing them with his kindness. Literally. Threw our colleagues off the scent though, didn’t we? Good job you got super-hearing.” Tony’s hand lands on the back of Peter’s neck. He squeezes.
“If I didn’t have superpowers we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”
“Never would have bet on Rogers to be the first one to make the connection. And he didn’t get it from me, hand on heart. I took that secret to my grave.”
“You’re still alive,” Peter points out.
Tony waves a hand. “Through a paperwork error.”
“Mr. America just noticed because he’s nice. Like, he notices people.”
Tony doesn’t agree but doesn’t protest. As per his specialty, he just changes the subject instead. “How was the Metropolitan?”
“Oh,” Peter says, “well, Tony, I—” he abruptly stops, and snaps his head up. Tony whirls around to follow his gaze, looking straight at Steve.
Steve, who had his hand raised, about to knock. He lowers it. “Tony. Meeting?”
The kid turns away from both of them, his head bent over the notebook under his hands. Tony curses softly, and Steve has a feeling it’s not because the man is so upset over being late. “Are you trying to kill me again?” Tony snaps. “Give a guy a warning, Rogers.”
A chill runs down Steve’s spine. “Tony…”
“Don’t. I’m coming.”
Peter warily glances up. “How… How long is the meeting?”
“Just clean up before you leave here, Mr. Pecker,” Tony says shortly. “And turn off the lights. Come on, Rogers, move it. You’re keeping everyone waiting.”
-
Natasha invites him out for coffee at a small café overlooking the river. “I have exactly ten dollars to spend, courtesy of Wilson.” She orders him something with pumpkin and whipped cream.
“Nat,” Steve says as they sit and watch a kayaker drift by. “Tony’s intern….” He looks up and meets her gaze. Her quietly challenging gaze.
She stirs her iced cappuccino with a paper straw. “He’s just some kid, Steve,” she says evenly. “It’s not him.”
Steve nods. “You’re right,” he says. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”
3
All right. Here’s the thing. The thing is. A professional journalist would never appear on the front page of her own paper, which means Betty can’t use that as an excuse to ask for a selfie right now.
Security was rigorous, but she’s here. On one of the higher floors of Avenger’s tower. In a kitchen that is, all things considered, surprisingly modest. Betty had expected something much more high tech. Steve Rogers is surprisingly modest, too: dressed in bland colors, with a shapeless sweater that hides his no doubt incredible physique.
She is already feeling off her game, overwhelmed by her surroundings. She is supposed to be persistent, investigative, something, something. There is an acronym that she had come up with to remember it, but she has forgotten. “My grandma has those tea towels,” she says, pointing, because that’s truly mind-blowing. The Avengers shop at Macy’s.
“They’re nice tea towels,” Steve Rogers says. “And how is your grandmother?”
Steve Rogers is very clearly extremely polite. He had already pulled out a chair for her at the table, and he stands, waiting for her to take it.
She finally does, and Steve Rogers sits, too.
She finds an empty page on her notepad. “So,” she says. “Let’s start with the obvious questions. Where have you been, what have you been doing?”
“Oh. Out for coffee, by the river.”
“Coffee,” Betty repeats. “I’m sorry. What do you— You were a fugitive for months and you’re telling me you were out for coffee?”
“I’m sorry. I meant this morning. But you meant, uh.”
“The Berlin stint. The destroyed airport. The international manhunt. Yes.”
“I see,” Steve Rogers says. “You… write for the school paper, correct?”
“Delivering fearless investigative journalism. Yes.”
“And your angle on this particular article will be?”
“I don’t pursue an agenda, other than an unwavering commitment to the truth.”
Mr. Rogers gives a nod. “You and I have similar mission statements, it seems. As for my whereabouts, I fear they are highly confidential.”
“To be expected, I suppose.” Betty changes her angle. “Have you seen any of the fanart about Tony Stark and Nicky Fury?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Betty is ready to whip out her phone to share her latest favorite with Captain America, when there’s stomping feet down the hallway.
Some teenage boy barges in. Some teenage boy. It is so unexpected to see Peter Parker in these surroundings that Betty needs a moment to realize it really is him. “Oh. Fantastic,” Peter scathes when he sees the other occupants of the kitchen.
And then Tony Stark himself appears in the doorway, wearing jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Peter. Don’t just walk away when we’re talking.”
“You’re busy, aren’t you?” Peter snaps. “You made that clear. So don’t let me keep you.”
The same song and dance. Apparently, the two of them think they need to put on this act all over again.
Peter glares viciously at Mr. Stark. “I’ll just be here eating all your chocolate while you’re off doing more important stuff. I’m not leaving you a single, a single M&M.”
“We have an audience,” Tony Stark says, stiffly. Not nearly as suave as the usual posturing Betty has seen from him. And something else is different, Betty starts to realize. Last time, Tony Stark was acting pretentious and Peter was pretending to be cowed. And Tony Stark sure as hell wasn’t using Peter’s actual name.
“Not even, like, a teeny tiny M&M.”
“Peter.”
“You’re stupid and science is stupid.”
“Hey,” Tony Stark snaps, lifting a finger in warning. “You apologize to science, right now.”
Peter yanks open a cupboard, moves a large colander to the side and hauls out an entire arm full of chocolate candy bars. Snickers and KitKats rain down on the kitchen counter. Peter’s eyes are blazing, challenging Tony Stark at some primal level. “Do you want your chocolate or do you want your accords?”
“For the love of…” Tony Stark throws up his hands. “I got some gerbils to feed before the next meeting. Do what you want.”
“Sure,” Peter snaps at his retreating back. “I’ll be in the workshop. And I’ll be leaving all the lights ON when I leave!”
“Great!”
“GREAT!”
They storm off in opposite directions; Peter dropping chocolate like breadcrumbs as he goes.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Rogers says in soft tones, and slides out of his chair to pick up some of the candy bars and place them in a neat line next to the stove.
“Do you think that fight was real?” Betty asks, thoughtfully twirling her pen around.
He turns to face her. “Sorry?”
“Since they pretend sometimes.”
He cocks his head. He looks intrigued. “What makes you say that?”
“Come on, Captain,” Betty says. “We both know I’m only allowed up here because Mr. Stark is hoping to distract me from my previous obsession.”
“Which was?”
“It seems my classmate Peter is a little more than a simple intern.”
“Huh,” Mr. Rogers says. He closes the cupboard that Peter had left open. “Let me go talk to the kid,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” Betty falters. “Well. Okay. I guess I’ll take the billionaire.”
Mr. Rogers pauses, then nods. “Try down that hallway, first door to the right. As for me, I’ll… follow the chocolate. An unusual but helpful tool.”
-
She finds Tony Stark in the corner of a tastefully decorated living room. He is leaning against the armrest of a giant corner sofa as he studies the cage on the table in front of him. The lines around his mouth are tense. He jerks a little when he spots her, but his expression smoothens back out. “Betty, right?” he asks, then waves a hand at her startled expression. “Peter mentioned your name.”
“Peter mentioned my name. The same Peter whom you kept referring to as ‘Mr. Pecker’ after months of interning?”
“Yeah, well, the cat’s out of the bag anyway, isn’t it?” Tony Stark sags backwards onto the couch and blows out a breath. He rubs his face, his glasses tumbling into his lap and then to the floor. He ignores them. He looks up at her, his eyes tired. “Are you going to make trouble for my kid? Look. I believe there’s such a thing as journalistic integrity…”
Betty appreciates the professional angle. “There is. I work in accordance with our Editors’ Code of Practice,” she says. “Which I’ve also written,” she adds. “Would you like to read it?”
“No. But show it to Rogers, later. He lives for that sort of shit.”
“Yes, it was one of his PSAs that inspired me to write it.”
“That’s Captain for you. He keeps people in check. Keeps me in check. Which the accords are also meant to do but, conversely, he hates the accords. God, he stresses me out so much. Hey. Do you know anything about gerbils? My search history is about seventy percent gerbils by now.”
She steps closer to inspect the cage. There is something about the weary tone, the expression on Mr. Stark’s face, that makes her think he isn’t thinking entirely clearly about who he is talking to and what he is talking about.
“I ordered this big, big box of tubes,” the man continues, holding his hands a few feet apart. “You know. Plastic ones that you can connect together and you can build a whole tunnel maze thingy. The internet says gerbils like that. I asked Peter to put something together, but then that somehow led to him being pissed off at me. I don’t know. I thought he’d be into it.”
Betty had counted on today to be high-key insane. But not giving-pep-talk-advice-to-gloomy-Tony-Stark levels of insane. She realizes she is still holding her notepad and tucks it away into her bag. “Do you know what first got me interested in Peter’s internship?”
Tony Stark leans his chin on his hand, dejectedly. “What.”
“Because he talks about you. All the time. When he thinks no one is listening.”
Tony Stark gives her a strained smile. “Thank you. You don’t need to… talk him up, defend him, make me feel better. Whatever this is. Me and the kid have had our fair share of arguments.”
“Hm,” Betty says. She has never seen Peter be anything other than annoyingly compliant. For him to feel comfortable enough around Tony Stark to push his buttons…
“I’m still learning. I’m not too good at keeping a cool head. So I take a few minutes to calm down and then I go talk to him. He knows that. It’s how we roll.”
-
The sliding doors to the workshop are sealed shut this time. Steve tries waving his hands at the ceiling a few times, like he would in a department store. When that does nothing, he raps his knuckles against the glass.
Peter’s head pops up from behind a desk. He stares, blinks. He looks a little owlish. His lips move. Steve can’t make out the words, but the doors slide open.
He enters. When he rounds the desk, he finds Peter sitting on the floor, surrounded by empty wrappers. There is a bag of M&Ms in his lap. The boy is chewing furiously. The box with the colorful plastic tubes stands a few feet away from him. “You all right, kid?”
“Fine. Spectacular. You want chocolate? It’s Tony’s personal stash, so take as much as you want.”
Steve slides the box a little further away with one foot so he can sit down on the floor. “It’s Peter, right?”
“Yeah.” Peter looks up at him. His eyes soften. “It’s… It’s nice to meet you, sir. Sorry if we, uh… Well. You saw us the other day, so you already know we fight.”
“This is a different sort of fight, though, isn’t it? Because you aren’t putting on an act?”
Peter’s chewing slows down. His shoulders sag. “I guess you did hear us talk after all that,” he murmurs. “You know, I don’t mind if you all know about uh, Spi- Spider-Man.” He ducks his head and picks through the bag of M&Ms. “But Tony minds. He doesn’t trust you. He should.”
“He’s—” Steve is not in any position to say who Tony should or should not be trusting.
“Remember when I stole your shield? That was awesome. And Tony took me to the Illuseum in Berlin that morning. That was awesome, too. Like, that was a nice day. I have a picture of us in a room where he looks really tiny and I look really big. It’s… It’s an optical thing.”
The devastating fracturing apart of a team of superheroes. And a visit to a goofy museum. It’s all at the same level in a teenager’s brain. Somehow, that puts all the bureaucracy and red tape Steve and Tony have been wading through in perspective. “That does sound like a nice day,” he agrees.
“And Tony plugged his phone into the car on the way back and played AC/DC, and then he had me look up my ‘jam’. And I totally rickrolled him, but he didn’t know what that was so he didn’t get it. He just thinks I like that song, now.”
“I see,” Steve says. He really doesn’t, but he’ll ask Natasha about it later.
“I just…” Peter murmurs. “I just...”
The doors slide open again. Tony saunters forward. Through the glass partition, Steve can see Betty lingering just outside.
Tony comes to a stop next to the desk. “Mr. Pecker,” he greets jovially.
“Not funny anymore,” Peter mutters. He holds up the bag of M&Ms and tilts his head back to let the last few slide into his mouth.
“Kiddo, slow down, come on. Or even you might lose your appetite.”
“What do you care if I have an appetite,” Peter snaps, “since you won’t even be here for dinner.” He vindictively tears open another wrapper.
“I might join for dessert.”
Peter blows a raspberry at him.
“Seriously?” Tony says, flatly.
Peter looks away.
Tony adjusts his jeans and moves into a squat, leaning on Steve’s shoulder to support himself on the way down. It’s stupid, but it’s something. Compared to the day Steve moved back in, when Tony wouldn’t even shake his hand. “What’s this really about, Pete?” Tony asks.
“You said we were going to build a tube maze for the gerbils.”
“Yes. I got the tubes, and the—”
“You said we. WE. Double u – eee.” Peter spells the letters out in mid-air. “And now you want Emmm – eee doing all the work alone while you go to another meeting. And we haven’t had a single movie night since—” his eyes flick to Steve and then back to Tony.
“Kiddo, I’m sorry. You know I have… guests now. It’s just a busy time. It’ll pass.”
“I know that. I know that. It happens. And it’s fine. Or it would be fine.”
“But?”
Peter averts his eyes and keeps his voice level. “In the meantime. I just miss you, and you don’t miss me, and that sucks. Like, that doesn’t feel nice.”
Tony rocks back on his heel. His expression does… a thing. “Oh,” he says softly. “Oh, kid.”
“And I wanted to go to the Metropolitan with you. Like. I thought you were inviting me.”
Tony exhales, ragged. He wipes some candy bars out of the way so he can sit down next to Peter, and pulls the boy closer. Peter’s shoulders are stiff but he still goes readily, cheek landing against Tony’s shoulder. Tony’s expression is so incredibly soft it makes Steve’s throat catch.
He smoothly gets to his feet and makes a tactful retreat.
“I know my mind is elsewhere,” Tony is saying. “A lot. And I’m damn miserable for it. Pete. Spending time with you is always the highlight of my day. Don’t tell Pepper I said that.” And, the last thing Steve hears him add before the doors shut behind him: “Or Nicky Fury, apparently.”
Steve takes a breath in and turns to the young lady waiting for him. “Let’s… I have a meeting with secretary Ross in fifteen minutes, but I have a feeling we’ll be starting late. So where were we?”
They return to the kitchen. “What exactly is this whole Nick Fury thing about?” Steve asks as they sit back down at the table.
Betty smiles. “I am so very glad you asked.”
-
Steve is properly traumatized by the time Tony returns to the kitchen. “Ah,” Tony says, glancing over Steve’s shoulder. “I’ve been using that particular drawing as my desktop background.” He looks like himself again. Unfazed, with a twitch at his mouth like he is perpetually mildly amused. He turns on the espresso machine, opens the refrigerator and closes it again. “So. Can I trust you two to keep quiet?”
“About your terrible mistreatment of your intern? I don’t think so. I think everyone on our team is going to get the lowdown.”
Tony relaxes, nods at him. “Thank you.”
Peter appears in the doorway. “And I’m sorry about the chocolate, by the way,” he says, continuing whatever conversation had been going on behind closed doors.
“Yes, it’s terrible,” Tony says. “That was definitely my only secret stash.”
“Huh.” Peter smiles. “Challenge accepted.” His eyes drift towards his classmate. “Maybe, maybe I’ll just go with Betty,” he says. “Like, Happy can give us both a ride to Queens, right?”
Tony looks pained, drums his fingers against the kitchen countertop, clearly reluctant to agree but not seeing a good alternative.
There was a time, once, when Steve doubted Tony’s capacity for love. “We can cancel today’s meeting,” he says.
Tony slowly shakes his head. “We need to get this over with. The sooner we power through, the sooner things can go back to… the way I want them to be.”
“Why don’t you just let me take this one,” Steve suggests. “I can deal with Ross.”
“I don’t doubt that you can,” Tony says. “But I. Well.” He looks up at the ceiling, then at Steve. “You know what, fine. You deal with Ross. I’ll be building a tube maze with my kid.”
It might not be that Tony entirely trusts him. It’s clear his priorities have simply shifted. But he trusts Steve enough.
“Yesss!” Peter bounces up and down, face split into a wide grin. “I’ll go get the box.” And he zwooshes out of the room like a cartoon character.
Tony watches him leave.
“Well,” Betty says into the ensuing silence. “This has been… enlightening. Sort of on par with that time I went undercover in our school’s drama club. They take their name very seriously.”
Tony straightens, turns to face her, carefully curbing any display of emotion on his face. “I’ll be looking for your next piece,” he says briskly. “I hope you got something out of today.” And, rather intently: “I’m counting on your journalistic integrity.”
“You can,” she replies, equally resolute. “And I did. Your gerbils are lovely. Your intern is lovely too, though I seem to have forgotten his name. And your kitchen is not as high tech as I had expected.”
“I like opening refrigerators. I find it soothing.”
Betty clicks her pen. “I think that might be in a press release tomorrow.”