Chapter Text
Mrs. Fuller’s tenth-grade AP Psychology class is the kind of slow, soul-crushing torment that could probably make the Hulk lose his temper. Her voice drones on like an ancient fax machine that refuses to die, static and grating, filling the room with a monotony so thick it clings to Peter’s brain like cobwebs. But even her voice isn’t the worst part. No, that honor goes to her breath—a sharp, acrid assault that could probably double as a Stark Industries weapon prototype. If bad breath were an Avenger, she’d be the team member no one ever asked for but somehow always showed up.
Her assignments aren’t much better. They’re relics from another era, packed with outdated expectations and seemingly designed to drain what little life a teenager has left. And for Peter—a kid balancing crime-fighting, school, and an internship at Stark Industries—they’re a whole new level of brutal.
And Tony never lets him forget the distinction between a regular internship and what it is that Peter has.
“You’re not some random SI lackey,” Tony says, leaning back in his chair with a grin that practically oozed smugness. “You’re my guy. Totally different league, Underoos.”
And yeah, it’s true. Peter gets to spend his time tinkering in Tony’s private lab, surrounded by tech so cutting-edge it feels like stepping into the future. He gets to help tweak the Iron Man suits, brainstorm upgrades for his own spider suit, and occasionally toss out ideas that sound like something from a sci-fi movie. No Stark Industries intern can claim that.
But no Stark Industries intern has to sit in a wobbly, decades-old desk, either.
Peter runs his fingers over the desk’s surface, tracing the misspelled etchings carved into the wood— Jhn + Rebcca 4evr. It’s like the ghosts of bored students past left their mark, a fossilized declaration of love doomed to fade under layers of scratched graffiti and dried gum. The gum, stuck like some sort of gross time capsule to the underside of the desk, just adds to the prison-like atmosphere of the classroom.
He risks a glance at Ned, wishing they could pass notes to survive this hour of purgatory. But Mrs. Fuller is exactly the kind of teacher who lives to intercept notes and gleefully read them aloud, complete with dramatic flair and exaggerated mockery. And Peter? Peter doesn’t need his private thoughts aired out for the entire class—or worse, for Flash Thompson.
Flash doesn’t need much to start with; he already lives to poke holes in Peter’s “fancy Stark internship.” Every snide comment, every smug smirk, every mocking “Yeah, okay, Parker. Sure you work for Stark.” It grates on Peter’s nerves, not because Flash’s opinion matters (it doesn’t), but because it’s tiring.
So instead of risking more ammo for Flash, Peter zones out. He stares blankly at the front of the room, where Mrs. Fuller is droning on again, words blending together into meaningless noise.
And then she says something that snaps him out of his stupor.
“Since we’re closing out our unit on the male brain, I want you all to interview a father or brother figure in your life,” she announces, her tone suggesting she thinks this is the most brilliant idea anyone has ever come up with. “This could be your father, a teacher, a close family friend? Just no one from this class!!”
Peter blinks. A father figure? A male role model?
Great.
His stomach sinks as he braces for the inevitable. Sure enough, out of the corner of his eye, MJ’s hand shoots up like a rocket, her expression as sharp and cutting as her wit. Peter doesn’t even need to hear the question to know where she’s going. It’s probably something like: Why are we reinforcing outdated patriarchal stereotypes with this assignment?
But Mrs. Fuller doesn’t even glance in her direction. Instead, she plows forward, outlining the project in painful detail—rubrics, deadlines, a laundry list of sample questions. The words swirl in the stale classroom air, heavy and suffocating, sinking into Peter like stones.
He slumps further into his chair, letting his head drop against his hand. Of course. Because this class wasn’t torturous enough already, now he has to figure out who in his life qualifies as a father figure—or at least someone who can pretend to be one long enough for him to scrape by on this assignment.
And, okay, maybe he does know who he’s going to ask. The answer feels obvious, sitting in the back of his mind like a persistent knock he’s been trying to ignore. But knowing and doing ? That’s a whole different story.
When the bell rings, the tension in Peter’s shoulders drains away, slow and hissing like air escaping a balloon. Freedom—sweet, fleeting freedom. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, already mapping out the fastest route to the door, when he spots MJ storming toward Mrs. Fuller’s desk. Her stride is purposeful, her expression sharp and focused, like a blade honed to perfection.
Mrs. Fuller doesn’t stand a chance.
MJ is already firing off her first question, her voice a symphony of righteous indignation. Peter doesn’t stick around to hear the entire debate—he has enough problems without getting caught in the crossfire of MJ versus the patriarchy.
The weekend stretches ahead of him like a blank page, waiting to be filled. Whatever Tiny had planted out will be better than this assignment. Sure, the assignment is awkward and outdated, but at least he’s not completely lost. He knows who he should ask. That doesn’t make the prospect any easier.
Because having someone in his life who fits that role—someone he can call a father figure—feels strange. It’s not something he’s used to.
Peter’s track record with male figures is… well, not great. They tend to slip through his life the way backpacks slip through his grasp—here one minute, gone the next. Uncle Ben had been the exception, but even that exception had been torn away too soon.
But now there’s Tony.
Tony, who somehow occupies this undefined space in Peter’s life—a space that feels like it was always waiting for someone to step into it. They’ve never explicitly said what they are to each other, but Peter knows Tony is more than just a mentor. He doesn’t need Tony to be a father figure, not exactly—though want and need are two different concepts entirely. He really just needs Tony to be there. And time and time again, Tony has proven he will be.
But Parker Luck has other plans, as always.
From the top of the school’s front steps, Peter scans the car line, his eyes searching for Happy’s familiar black Audi tucked somewhere near the back like it always is. Instead, his stomach drops.
Parked front and center, gleaming like a silver bullet under the afternoon sun, is a Corvette. Its windows are tinted so dark they might as well be mirrors, but Peter doesn’t need to see inside to know who’s waiting for him. The unmistakable blare of AC/DC cuts through the chatter of students and idling engines like a war cry.
Tony.
Of course, the one day Peter wants the drive to drag out forever, to delay the inevitable conversation waiting for him at the Tower, Tony decides to skip the middleman and pick him up himself.
Peter groans, his face twisting into a look of pure dread.
Beside him, Ned’s jaw drops, his eyes practically popping out of his head. “Dude, that is so cool!”
Peter sighs, nodding reluctantly. Objectively, yeah, the car is cool. It looks like something out of a spy movie, sleek and polished, radiating the kind of energy that screams “ I belong to Tony Stark .” And judging by the way heads are turning—students, parents, even a few teachers—it’s definitely drawing attention.
Peter’s just grateful Tony didn’t bring something even flashier. Low bar, sure, but still.
“Call me when you go on patrol?” Ned asks, his mom’s voice shouting from an open SUV window, telling him to stop dawdling.
“Yeah, sure,” Peter replies, his lips quirking into a small smile. He’s already looking forward to swinging through the city later. There’s something calming about New York at night, the skyline glowing under neon lights, the hum of life buzzing below.
They launch into their unnecessarily long handshake, a ritual filled with way too many steps but somehow never losing its charm. When they finally finish, Ned jogs off toward his mom’s car, and Peter is left staring at the Corvette.
He trudges down the steps, every step feeling heavier than the last, and climbs into the passenger seat with a sigh that carries the weight of the world. The door barely clicks shut before the blaring AC/DC fades into a low hum—still loud enough for Peter to feel the faint vibration tingling in his fingertips, but no longer deafening.
Tony is grinning at him like a kid who just pulled off the best prank in history. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at Peter with that self-satisfied look that always seems to say I’m amazing, aren’t I? Normally, Peter might crack a smile, maybe even laugh at the sheer absurdity of Tony Stark picking him up from school in a car that could probably outrun a jet.
But not today.
Today, all Peter can think about is the stupid father-figure project hanging over his head like a storm cloud. Instead of being thrilled, he sinks into the seat and lets out another sigh, heavier this time.
Tony’s grin falters. His head tilts slightly, his eyes scanning Peter like he’s trying to solve a riddle. Peter’s never been good at hiding his emotions—especially not from Tony, who reads him as easily as most people read stop signs.
“Wow,” Tony says, shaking his head in mock offense. “Teenagers. They say you’re moody, but damn, I didn’t realize it was this bad. I take an hour out of my insanely busy schedule to come pick you up personally—personally—and this is the thanks I get? Not even a ‘Hey, Mr. Stark, cool car’? Nothing?”
The Corvette jerks forward as Tony pulls out of the parking lot, cutting off at least five cars in the process. A symphony of angry honks erupts behind them, but Tony doesn’t so much as flinch. He’s already launched into one of his trademark rants, complete with dramatic hand gestures and a theatrical edge that somehow makes every word sound more ridiculous.
Peter slouches lower in his seat, letting Tony’s words wash over him in a blur—something about ungrateful kids and how they “don’t know how good they’ve got it.” It’s exaggerated, as always, more for show than anything else. There’s no real bite behind his words, no heat to the performance.
And honestly? Peter doesn’t mind. As long as Tony’s on a roll, the spotlight isn’t on him.
But after ten minutes of increasingly absurd commentary, Tony finally pauses. The Corvette rolls to a stop at a red light, and Tony turns slightly in his seat, fixing Peter with a look that’s equal parts curiosity and concern.
“No, seriously, kid,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that signature Stark snark. “What gives? You look like someone shit in your cereal this morning.”
Peter’s shoulders stiffen. He’s got two options: Option One—tell Tony the truth and bring up the stupid project now. Or Option Two—deflect with some vague excuse about having a bad day.
Neither option is appealing.
Tony’s like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to sniffing out half-truths, and Peter knows either response will probably launch him into full interrogation mode. The thought alone makes him wince.
Peter’s already walked this minefield once, and it wasn’t pretty. The last time Tony caught wind of his school drama, it had taken Pepper —Pepper Potts, the queen of damage control—to talk him down. Tony had been ready to install Stark drones in every hallway at Midtown High just to make sure no one so much as looked at Peter the wrong way.
And honestly? Peter gets it. Flash doesn’t pull his punches.
His greatest hits include gems like, “You’re a liar,” “What kind of loser makes up a fake internship?” and, of course, his personal favorite: “Do you pretend to know Tony Stark to replace the hole your dead parents left?”
Yeah. Flash had really said that once. A couple of times, actually. Peter still feels the sting of it sometimes, sharp and bitter, but he figures there’s no point dwelling. What matters is that Tony hadn’t overheard that particular retelling. Because if he had, Peter’s pretty sure he and Pepper would still be trying to talk him off the metaphorical ledge.
The car jerks forward, snapping Peter out of his thoughts. He glances at Tony, who’s now leaning back, his hands completely off the wheel.
“FRIDAY,” Tony says, casual as ever. “Take over, will you?”
Peter blinks as the AI’s voice chimes in from the speakers. “Of course, Boss.”
Because, of course, even the car drives itself.
Peter swallows hard, his brain scrambling for a third option. One that doesn’t involve confession or a potential explosion of Tony’s overprotective streak. And then, like a light bulb flickering on in his head, it comes to him:
“Just a long day, Mr. Stark,” Peter says quickly, forcing a casual shrug. “Plus, my Psychology teacher gave us this assignment to interview a role model in our life.”
He conveniently leaves out the part where the assignment is explicitly about father figures .
Peter doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this before. He can just… edit the assignment on the backend. Tony doesn’t need to know the exact prompt. All Peter has to do is ask the man a few questions. He even glanced at the rubric when it was handed out—it’s good enough to work. The suggested questions are all essentially about leadership and being someone to look up to, not screaming “father figure” in bright neon letters.
Tony gives him a skeptical side-eye as the car glides through traffic. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, which is fair. Peter figures his unusually glum mood over something as small as a school assignment isn’t exactly selling the story. But for as much as Tony knows him—probably better than most people—Peter also knows Tony. Sometimes, Peter can still surprise him.
It’s one of the few perks of Tony Stark not quite knowing how to handle teenagers. He’s trying, though, and Peter thinks he’s doing a pretty decent job of it.
“Oooookay?” Tony drawls, stretching out the word as if waiting for Peter to drop the real bomb—the thing that’s actually bothering him. But Peter doesn’t. Instead, he shifts in his seat, trying to smooth the worry off his face now that he’s figured out a solution to his problem.
Tony’s brows knit together, the pause hanging between them just long enough to make Peter squirm. Finally, Tony lets out a small sigh, leaning into his usual brand of dramatics.
“So… you’re struggling to find a role model?” he says, the hurt exaggerated but the undertone suspiciously genuine. “Because, kid, I’ve got to admit—I’m pretty offended. You’ve got prime real estate sitting right here.”
He gestures to himself, throwing in a dramatic flourish for good measure. “Do you know how many people are lining up, just begging for an interview with the Tony Stark? A lot. And they’re all waitlisted, by the way, because I don’t do interviews anymore.”
Peter glances at him, fighting back a grin. He can already see the spark in Tony’s eye—the itch to climb onto his soapbox and launch into a tirade about how modern interviewers lack imagination. It’s one of Tony’s favorite topics, right up there with “how coffee in America is an abomination” and “the absolute travesty of poorly designed tech.”
Peter almost wants to egg him on, but surprisingly, Tony reins himself in.
“I mean, I’m not saying you have to interview me,” Tony adds quickly, clearing his throat like he’s backpedaling. “It’s cool. You know, if you don’t… uh… see me as a role model or whatever.”
Peter looks over, biting his lip to stifle a laugh. It’s so obvious that it’s not cool. Tony’s trying for casual indifference, but Peter can see through the cracks. The idea that Peter doesn’t see him as a role model stings, even if Tony would rather cut off one of his own arms than admit it outright.
And Peter thinks that’s hilarious.
Because how could Tony even imagine that Peter doesn’t think he’s the coolest person on the planet?
He’s Iron Man, for crying out loud. But even more than that—he’s Tony Stark. And being Tony Stark is light-years cooler than anything Peter has ever come across in his entire 15 years of existence.
Of course, May is amazing. She’s strong, kind, and everything Peter could ever ask for in family. She’s probably the strongest person Peter knows. Not in the literal sense—he’s met Captain America and Thor, after all—but in a way that matters more. Her strength is quiet, steady, unshakable.
But even May, for all her greatness, couldn’t fill the void Uncle Ben left behind. That hollow ache Peter had convinced himself was permanent.
And somehow, Tony is filling that space now.
Not by replacing Uncle Ben—because no one ever could—but by carving out a space of his own. Like it was always meant for him.
“Mr. Stark,” Peter begins hesitantly, fiddling with the strap of his backpack where it rests on his lap. “I was planning on asking you... I was just sort of nervous about it.”
It’s not a full confession, not even close, but it’s enough to piece together the source of his uncharacteristic mood. Enough to keep Tony from circling back later with more questions. It’s the closest Peter is willing to get to the truth, the part he’s comfortable sharing.
Because “role model” is safe. It’s perfect for mentors and mentees—it doesn’t tread into the dangerous, unspoken territory of the F-word. Father. It keeps them in this vague, happy space they’ve built, where they both clearly care about each other in ways that go far beyond boss and employee. mentor and mentee. But neither of them ever says it.
For a moment, Tony doesn’t respond. He just glances at Peter, his expression softening in a way that’s rare for him. Vulnerability is like a foreign language between them—spoken only in fragments, understood in glimpses. They live by this unspoken rule: emotions exist, sure, but naming them? That’s a no-go.
Not that it’s a perfect rule. Every now and then, the cracks show, and things slip through.
Like that time Peter got hurt on patrol. It wasn’t anything catastrophic—a concussion, a couple of broken ribs—but Tony had looked… wrecked. Not just regular you’ve-disappointed-me Tony, but something else entirely. He’d sat by Peter’s bedside in the med bay, his knee bouncing like it was trying to vibrate its way off his leg, his gaze flicking to the monitors every ten seconds. Tony didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. It was written all over his face, this quiet, terrifying protectiveness Peter hadn’t been expecting.
And then there was the time Tony had a really bad day. Not a spilled-coffee-and-lost-your-phone kind of bad, but a world-is-falling-apart kind of bad. Peter didn’t know the details, only that Tony had been stuck in back-to-back Accords meetings and had come back to the lab looking like he was ready to bite someone’s head off. Unfortunately, Peter had been that “someone.”
Tony had snapped at him—hard. And Peter, stunned and unsure of what to say, had just… gone quiet. He’d spent the rest of the session poking at his project like it owed him an apology.
But later, Tony had pulled him aside. He’d apologized—like, actually apologized —and even sat down with Peter to talk things through. Sure, it had been awkward and kind of messy, but it was real. Honest.
So, no, emotions aren’t completely off-limits between them. They’re just this weird, uncharted thing neither of them knows how to navigate. A minefield they tiptoe around unless something explodes.
Tony sighs now, breaking the quiet, and Peter braces for whatever speech Tony’s planning. Instead, Tony scratches the back of his neck in that awkward, I’m-about-to-say-something-important-but-don’t-make-a-big-deal-out-of-it way.
“Kid,” Tony says, his voice softer now, quieter but somehow heavier. “You can ask me anything. I hope you know that. I want you to know that.”
The way he stresses it makes something twist in Peter’s chest. Not in a bad way, but in the way that makes his face flush and his throat tighten and his hands fidget all at once.
“Yeah,” Peter says, nodding. His voice is small, but he means it. “I know.”
And he does. He really does.
He’s glad he framed the project the way he did, keeping it safely in the “role model” zone. It’s all working out perfectly. But there’s still this tiny part of him—this persistent, aching part—that wishes he could just say it. Say the thing.
Tell Tony how he really looks at him.
Because it’s not just about the project. It’s not even about needing a father figure. It’s about everything Tony has done and continues to do—the quiet care, the awkward attempts at understanding, the way he’s there.
Peter wants to say it, to let Tony know just how much he means to him.
Maybe one day.
But he won’t do it—not yet. Not until Tony says they’re “there” first.
The interview is all but forgotten for the rest of the night. Between finishing a decent portion of his weekend homework, sitting down to dinner with Tony and Pepper, and heading out on patrol, it doesn’t stand a chance.
Dinner is nice, though. It’s nights like these that make Peter love coming to the Tower. Home in Queens is great, sure, but when May’s at work, the apartment can feel too quiet, too empty. Here, when it’s just him, Tony, and Pepper sitting around the dining table eating whatever takeout they ordered, it’s almost what Peter imagines having parents might feel like.
Not that he’d ever say that out loud.
His relationship with Pepper is... polite, friendly even. They talk when they cross paths, exchange pleasantries when they’re both at the Tower, but they’re not exactly close. It’s not because she’s unfriendly—Pepper is always kind to him, even warm, in her no-nonsense sort of way—but being the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company doesn’t leave much time for bonding. Still, whenever she’s around, she makes an effort to join him and Tony if they’re not holed up in the lab, and Peter appreciates it more than he’d ever admit.
After dinner is done and the table cleared, Peter heads out for his favorite part of the day: patrol.
The city stretches out beneath him like a glowing map, streets humming with life as he swings between the skyscrapers. The air is cold, sharp but the suit protects him from the elements. There’s comfort in the rhythm of it—the rush of wind, the stretch of his muscles, the familiar pressure of his suit against his skin, reinforced with Tony’s upgrades. Karen’s voice hums softly in his ear, delivering updates and occasional alerts, and Peter even takes a break at the top of the Empire State Building to eat a churro while chatting with her.
At some point, he checks in with Ned.
Ned had been elated when Peter told him he was going to interview Tony for their assignment. “Dude, that’s amazing! ” Ned had practically shouted, excitement crackling through the comms.
Peter had stressed—probably a little too hard—that the assignment was strictly about mentorship and role models. Nothing else. Nothing personal. Ned had caught on quickly, though, his voice steady with understanding when he replied, “Got it.”
Peter had felt the weight lift a little after that. Still, there’s a nagging part of him that knows Tony checks the live feed occasionally of his patrols—just to keep tabs on him. If he does tonight, Peter knows he has to be careful. The whole purpose of framing the assignment differently would be ruined if Tony overheard Peter and Ned discussing what the project was really about.
“Who’re you going to interview for yours?” Peter asks, genuinely curious. “Your dad?”
Ned pauses for a moment before replying, “Nah. I’m gonna do Mr. Satterly.”
That makes sense. Peter doesn’t live in Ned’s building, but Mr. Satterly is the kind of neighbor everyone wishes they had. He brings cookies from his bakery down the street and checks in on Ned and his Lola—and Peter, when he’s there—whenever Ned’s parents are working late.
“I figured my dad could probably use the break,” Ned adds.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees softly knowing Ned’s dad had been having a rough go of it recently.
The conversation fades after that, the night picking up its usual chaotic rhythm. Peter stops two carjackings, breaks up three muggings, rescues a runaway dog, and helps save two little girls from an apartment fire on Fifth Street. By the time he finally makes it back to the Tower, exhaustion has settled into his bones like an anchor dragging him down.
Tony’s waiting for him in the living room, stretched out on the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world. There’s a water bottle in his hand, condensation dripping down the sides, and a snack sits on the coffee table. The TV is paused, nothing playing yet, but their latest show is queued up and ready to go.
They’ve been watching Star Trek —an old one. Tony swears it’s “light-years better than Star Wars, ” a claim Peter doesn’t believe for a second. But if humoring Tony means spending more time like this, Peter will gladly sit through as many hours of Klingon politics as it takes.
“Rough night?” Tony asks, his voice casual, but Peter can feel the concern tucked underneath it, quiet but steady.
Peter shrugs off his backpack and drops onto the couch with a grin that’s more tired than anything.
“You could say that,” he replies, tugging his mask off and running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
Tony grimaces, and Peter can’t really blame him. He’s ripe. A full evening of swinging through the city, fighting crime, and dodging apartment fires doesn’t exactly leave him smelling like roses. He’s a teenage boy, after all. It comes with the territory.
“Time for the three S’s, kid,” Tony says, leaning back and gesturing toward the plate on the coffee table.
“The what?” Peter asks, his fried brain struggling to keep up.
“Snack, shower, and then Star Trek ,” Tony explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Peter blinks at him. Okay, so maybe it is obvious, and maybe he should have pieced that together himself if his brain wasn’t running on fumes. Eight hours of school, a pile of homework, and a patrol full of chaos haven’t left him much room for critical thinking. He’s pretty sure his brain cells are on strike, demanding food and a solid night’s sleep before they’ll consider functioning again.
“Snack.” Tony says again, more forcefully this time, sliding the plate toward Peter.
Peter looks down at it and can’t help but grin. It’s not a snack; it’s a feast. Enhanced metabolism calls for enhanced portions. Another perk of being at the Tower: Peter never has to wonder if he’s going to bed hungry. Tony sees to that personally, making sure Peter’s plate is piled high enough to feed an army.
May tries her best, of course, but groceries are expensive, and Peter’s been... less than honest about how much he’s still hungry after dinner at home. The guilt knots in his stomach sometimes, but he brushes it off. May’s doing everything she can, and here, at least, he doesn’t have to feel bad about clearing his plate. Tony practically shoves food at him, and Peter’s never felt more seen—or more full.
He grabs a bite from the plate, savoring the familiar comfort of warm food, and glances at Tony, who’s already picking up the remote to queue up their show. For now, the three S’s don’t sound half bad.
The rest of the night unfolds predictably, the way most Friday nights at the Tower do. The only real difference is that Pepper’s home, which changes the rhythm in small but significant ways.
When Pepper’s halfway across the country—or the world—Friday usually shuts the lab down at some arbitrary hour that Peter suspects is somewhere around two in the morning. Not that he’s ever checked; by that time, he’s usually too tired to care.
But when Pepper’s here , the rules change. By midnight, the familiar sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoes down to the lab. She appears in the doorway, hands on her hips, and declares that it’s time to pack it up and get some sleep.
Neither Peter nor Tony argues.
Peter doesn’t argue because, well, it would be rude, and Aunt May didn’t raise him to disrespect someone who’s just looking out for him. But also, he doesn’t argue because Tony doesn’t argue. Not really. Oh, he puts on a show of resistance—a quip here, a sarcastic comment there—but at the end of the day, Tony does exactly what Pepper tells him.
Peter finds it fascinating. The way Tony pretends not to care, only to care so deeply it’s written all over his actions. Watching them together, Peter realizes that Pepper holds the kind of power that can’t be faked. When she says “jump,” Tony doesn’t just ask “how high?”—he starts jumping before she’s even finished the sentence.
And Peter likes it.
It’s not something he gets to see much of anymore—not since Ben passed. The way Tony and Pepper interact isn’t the same as what he grew up watching between May and Ben, but it’s still love, just... different.
Ben and May’s love was soft, gentle, and unafraid of being tender. Their affection lived in the open, expressed freely in hugs and laughter and the occasional kiss on the cheek when they thought Peter wasn’t looking. It was the kind of love that you felt as much as you saw, warm and encompassing, like a heavy quilt on a cold night.
Pepper and Tony’s love, though, is sharper, quieter. It’s in the gestures, the small sacrifices, the way Tony’s usual chaos seems to settle when Pepper’s around. Tony shows he cares by doing —by giving his time, his effort, his energy to the people who matter to him.
=
Saturday arrives with a fresh wave of chaos—the kind that clings to Tony Stark like a second skin. Tonight, Stark Industries is hosting one of its signature benefits, the kind that screams glitz and glamour and has half the city tripping over themselves for an invite. Tony’s presence is non-negotiable, which, by default, means Peter’s presence is non-negotiable too.
The day kicks off with a whirlwind of last-minute preparations. Tasks pile up faster than they can be tackled, the kind of logistical nightmare that Pepper handles with the ease of someone who’s used to juggling fire. Clipboard in hand, heels clicking against the marble like punctuation marks, she strides into the chaos, already issuing orders.
“I can’t do it all myself,” she says, fixing Tony with a sharp, no-nonsense look. “And it’s your name on the company, remember?”
Tony raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning like she’s caught him red-handed.
Then Pepper turns to Peter, her expression softening by a fraction. “And because you’re his intern, it’s your responsibility to make sure he actually gets it done.”
Peter nods, maybe a little too eagerly. He takes the assignment seriously. Maybe too seriously.
Because wrangling Tony Stark? It’s like trying to herd cats. Rocket-powered, billionaire cats with a penchant for veering wildly off-course.
Tony marches to the beat of his own drum, abandoning tasks halfway through the second some shiny new idea catches his attention. It’s not malicious, not even intentional. It’s just who he is—a man whose brain is perpetually sprinting three steps ahead of the rest of the world.
Peter spends most of the morning scrambling after him, redirecting his focus, and silently praying that Pepper won’t notice how many times he’s had to repeat the same request.
It’s tricky work, no doubt. But Peter remembers the words Pepper said to him earlier that morning, her voice low but firm as she pulled him aside.
“If anyone can keep him on track, it’s you.”
The words stick with him, buzzing faintly in the back of his mind as the chaos spirals on. He’s not entirely sure what she meant by that—Tony listens to Pepper better than anyone, doesn’t he?—but the conviction in her tone had left no room for doubt.
So, Peter tries.
By the time lunch rolls around, the morning feels like a blur of half-finished tasks, frantic corrections, and redirected focus. Somehow, though, they’ve made progress. It’s a small victory, but Peter clings to it.
They finally sit down at the kitchen table, big bowls of spaghetti between them. The warm, comforting scent of tomato and garlic fills the air, and for a brief, shining moment, the chaos seems to pause.
Tony, grinning like a kid about to dig into his favorite meal, claps his hands together. “All right, kid. It’s interview time. Hit me with your best shot.”
Peter freezes mid-bite, blinking at him.
Interview time? Now?
His brain stumbles over itself, scrambling for footing. He wasn’t ready—not really. Sure, the questions have been sitting in the back of his mind since yesterday, but having them is one thing. Asking them is something else entirely.
Tony raises an eyebrow, his fork hovering over his bowl like it’s waiting for better answers than Peter can come up with.
Peter shakes his head, more at himself than Tony. He knows the questions—he knows them by heart. There’s no excuse to stall, and if the rest of the day is anything like the morning, this might be his only shot to sit Tony down long enough to do it.
“Okay,” Peter says, setting his fork down. His voice comes out steadier than he feels, but he’s already pulling his phone out of his pocket, ready to record. “Okay, Mr. Stark, let’s, uh… do this,” he says, trying to sound confident. His voice cracks slightly, and Tony smirks, clearly amused.
“Relax, kid. I don’t bite,” Tony says, though the teasing edge in his tone makes Peter roll his eyes. Tony gestures at the phone. “Fire away.”
Peter hesitates for a moment before diving in. “What’s one thing you’ve learned about being a leader that you wish you’d known earlier?”
Tony leans back in his chair, spinning his fork idly between his fingers. The gesture is casual, but Peter can tell the question lands harder than he expected.
“Huh,” Tony muses, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “Coming out swinging, are we? Alright, let’s see…”
There’s a beat of silence as Tony’s fork slows, the spin coming to a stop as his expression shifts into something thoughtful.
“I’d say… that being a leader isn’t about being the loudest voice in the room,” Tony finally says, his tone steady but deliberate. “It’s about listening. Letting other people’s voices matter, too.”
Peter stares at him, momentarily frozen. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting—not at all. Maybe some sarcastic crack about being the smartest guy in the room, or a half-joke about bossing people around, but not this.
Tony catches Peter’s look and raises an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” he asks, gesturing toward himself. “You thought I’d say it’s about being charming and good-looking? That’s just a bonus.”
Peter huffs out a laugh, the tension in his chest loosening a fraction. “No, I just… didn’t know you thought about stuff like that.”
Tony’s smirk softens into something closer to a smile, though it’s laced with an edge of self-awareness. “Of course I do,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “I’ve been leading a long time, kid. You pick up a thing or two.”
There’s something in his tone, though—something that feels heavy, like it’s dragging a little extra weight behind it. Peter doesn’t press, but he notices. He always notices.
Clearing his throat, Peter moves on, the words tumbling out before he can think too hard about the shift in Tony’s expression. “What’s something you’ve learned about yourself through mentoring someone?”
Tony pauses, his fork coming to rest on the edge of his plate. He leans back in his chair, his gaze dropping to the table.
“That I’ve got more patience than I thought,” Tony says after a moment, his voice curling with a smirk.
Peter grins, but before he can quip back, Tony’s smirk fades, replaced by something softer.
“And,” Tony continues, his tone quieter now, more deliberate, “that I’m capable of caring about someone more than I thought I could. Enough to put them first.”
The words settle in the space between them like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out slowly.
Peter blinks, his brain scrambling to process what he just heard. He doesn’t think Tony’s talking about him. He can’t be. Maybe Pepper, or Rhodey, or even Happy—but definitely not Peter.
But then Tony glances at him—just a flicker, so quick Peter almost misses it—and something shifts. It’s subtle, barely more than a moment, but Peter feels the knot in his chest tighten.
He fidgets with the pen in his hand, his fingers working at the cap like it’s a lifeline. “That’s… good to know,” he mumbles, his voice quieter now, unsteady in a way he hopes Tony doesn’t notice.
Tony doesn’t push, doesn’t press him to linger. He just picks up his fork again and gestures vaguely at Peter.
“Next question, Underoos,” Tony says, his tone lighter, though Peter can still feel the weight of what was just said lingering in the air.
And so, Peter moves on.
“What’s something you admire about the people you mentor?” Peter asks, his voice steadier now, though his pen still fidgets between his fingers.
Tony doesn’t even hesitate. “The guts,” he says, pointing his fork at Peter like he’s making an official declaration. “The willingness to throw yourself into the unknown. I see that in you, y’know. You don’t even realize you’re doing it half the time, but it’s there.”
Peter freezes. The pen stills in his hand, his mind scrambling to catch up. “Me?” he asks, his voice tilting upward in disbelief.
“Yeah, you. Who else do I spend my weekends babysitting in the lab?” Tony grins, but there’s something sincere under the teasing edge. “But seriously, it’s humbling. Watching you put yourself out there, fail, and then get back up like it’s nothing. It’s… impressive.”
Peter feels heat rush to his cheeks, his face flushing in that unmistakable oh-God-someone’s-praising-me kind of way. He doesn’t know what to say. Compliments from Tony are like rare meteor showers—they happen so infrequently that when they do, Peter’s never quite sure how to handle them.
So he just nods, a jerky little movement, and rushes into the next question to fill the heavy, buzzing silence.
“What’s one thing you think makes someone a good role model?”
Tony leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he considers the question. The motion feels uncharacteristically deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks it over.
“Self-awareness,” Tony says at last, his voice slow and measured. “A good role model doesn’t pretend to be perfect. They own their mistakes, and they show people that failure isn’t the end of the world—it’s just part of the process.”
The words hit Peter harder than he expects, settling in his chest like a weighted blanket. He thinks about his own mistakes—the ferry, the Vulture, every tiny misstep that’s felt like the end of the world in the moment. He wonders if Tony’s saying this for him, if the man’s trying to carve the lesson directly into Peter’s skull without actually saying his name.
Peter swallows hard and moves to the next question, his voice quieter now. “Who’s someone you looked up to when you were younger?”
The shift in Tony’s expression is subtle, but Peter catches it—the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers downward for just a second before he answers.
“My dad,” Tony says, his tone carrying a weight that feels older than anything Peter’s ever known. “Not because he was a good father, though. He wasn’t. But because he was brilliant. I wanted to be like that—smart enough to change the world.”
Peter doesn’t know what to say. The raw honesty in Tony’s voice catches him off guard, leaving him grasping for words that don’t come. So he just nods, letting the silence stretch between them.
It feels heavy but not uncomfortable.
Peter fidgets with his pen again, the next question tumbling out almost without thought. “What’s a piece of advice you’d give your younger self?”
Tony’s gaze sharpens, narrowing slightly as if the question has hit a nerve he hadn’t expected. When he answers, his voice drops, quieter but carrying the weight of something unshakable.
“Don’t push people away,” Tony says. “Don’t wait until the world knocks you down to realize you need them.”
Peter feels the words land in his chest like a punch, sharp and unyielding. They echo somewhere deep, cutting into the places he doesn’t like to think about too often—his own tendency to shoulder everything on his own, to put the weight of the world on his back and convince himself he can handle it.
It’s something he knows, something he wrestles with in the quiet moments, but hearing Tony say it—hearing the regret in his voice—makes it hit differently.
Peter stares down at his notebook, not really seeing the lines of ink scrawled across the page. He doesn’t trust his voice enough to respond, so he just nods, letting the silence linger again.
“What’s something you’ve learned from someone you mentor?” he asks eventually, his voice soft but steady enough to keep the conversation going.
Tony grins, the heaviness lifting slightly as he sits back in his chair. “That kids these days have terrible taste in music. And movies. And basically everything pop culture-related.”
Peter snorts, the tension breaking like a glass shattering on tile. “Hey, I resent that!”
“You should.” Tony smirks, tapping his fork against his plate like he’s scoring a point. “But really? You’ve taught me patience. And… how to look at things differently. You see the world with this kind of optimism that’s, honestly, rare. It reminds me that there’s still good out there.”
The grin slips off Peter’s face as the words land. He blinks, staring at Tony like he’s suddenly speaking in a foreign language. Optimism? Him? It feels almost alien, like Tony’s describing someone else entirely.
He wants to ask—wants to know —if that’s really how Tony sees him. But the knot in his throat won’t let the words through. Instead, he just watches Tony, his chest tightening with something he can’t quite name.
Tony claps his hands together suddenly, the sound sharp and grounding. “Alright, last question, kid. Make it a good one.”
Peter glances down at his list, his eyes scanning over the remaining options. His pulse quickens as he hesitates, then finally picks the one that feels the heaviest. “What’s one thing you’re proud of?”
Tony doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. His eyes meet Peter’s, steady and unflinching, and Peter feels pinned under their weight.
“You,” Tony says, the word soft but firm, like it’s a truth he’s been waiting to say.
Peter freezes. “What?”
“You heard me.” Tony picks up his fork again, casually twirling spaghetti onto it like he hasn’t just set Peter’s entire world spinning.
Peter blinks, his brain scrambling to process the syllables that seem to echo endlessly in his head. Proud of you. They replay on a loop, warm and grounding, like the feeling of sunlight soaking into his skin on a cold day.
He doesn’t know what to say—couldn’t, even if he tried. His throat feels thick, his chest tight, and all he can do is sit there, staring at Tony as if looking long enough might make the moment feel real.
Before he can even attempt to respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the soft hum of the kitchen.
“Boss, there’s an issue with the caterers that requires your immediate attention.”
Tony sighs, setting his fork down with a clink against the plate. He shoots Peter an apologetic look, his hand ruffling his own hair absentmindedly. “Duty calls. You good here, kid?”
“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, though the words come out quieter than he means them to. “I’m good.”
And he is—sort of. Or at least, he will be.
It’s probably better this way, leaving things where they are for now. It’s not like Peter has the capacity to process it all right now anyway. He can revisit the recording later, let the words wash over him again when his brain stops feeling like it’s swimming in molasses.
Right now, it’s too much, too big—like trying to hold sunlight in his hands and wondering why it keeps slipping through his fingers.
Tony pats him on the shoulder as he stands, already halfway out the door as he calls over his shoulder, “Don’t let that spaghetti go to waste. I’ll be back.”
Peter barely notices him leave. He sits there for another few minutes, picking at the food on his plate and letting the interview play on repeat in his mind.
Later that night, Peter lies sprawled across his bed, the soft glow of his phone illuminating the room in rhythmic flickers as he scrolls aimlessly. His brain hums with the remnants of the day, a chaotic blur of Tony’s words and the weight they’ve left behind.
He makes a mental note to tackle the interview in the morning. Tony has an Accords meeting first thing—something Peter’s learned to recognize as Stark code for a lot of talking, a lot of politics, and a lot of grumbling. But Tony’s promised to be back by ten. That gives Peter just enough time to knock out the assignment before Tony has the chance to hover.
Because Peter knows exactly how that would go. Tony would stroll into the room, all curiosity and charm, asking to see the questions and probably insisting on reading the final draft. Peter can already feel the mortification creeping up his spine at the thought.
The idea of Tony stumbling onto the real premise of the assignment—the bit about fathers and father figures—makes Peter’s stomach twist into knots.
Absolutely not.
Better to get it done early, finish the essay while the Tower is quiet, and stash it away before Tony’s teasing, hovering, Tony-ness can derail the whole thing.
The next morning, Peter wakes earlier than he expected. The sun filters softly through the Tower’s floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in golden stripes. For a moment, he just lies there, staring at the play of light across the ceiling, feeling the quiet stillness settle over him like a blanket.
But then the nagging tug of responsibility pulls him upright, and he drags out his notes, setting them on the coffee table as he queues up the recording of Tony’s interview.
Tony’s voice fills the room, rich and sharp, each word carrying that effortless confidence Peter has come to associate with the man. But now, listening back, Peter catches something else beneath it—something softer, quieter, like an echo tucked between the spaces of the words.
He hadn’t noticed it yesterday, too wrapped up in the moment to catch the subtle inflection, the weight behind the answers. But now it feels obvious, like Tony’s voice is a map Peter is finally learning how to read.
He writes steadily, Tony’s words taking shape on the page as he weaves them into answers that feel honest and full. By the time the clock ticks to ten, the essay is finished, a polished reflection of everything Tony had said and everything Peter hadn’t.
Relief washes over him first, light and airy. The assignment is done. The truth remains safely tucked away, just as planned. But beneath that relief is something else—a quiet swell of pride.
Pride that he got to write about someone who means so much to him, even if Tony will never fully know it.
And then, like clockwork, Tony strolls through the door, right on time.
“Kid!” he calls, spotting Peter sprawled out on the couch like he’s been waiting all morning. “You ready for the lab?”
Peter sits up, grinning as the essay fades to the back of his mind. For now, at least, it’s out of sight, out of mind.
“Always,” he says, grabbing his notes and stuffing them haphazardly into his bag.
Tony gestures toward the elevator, his face lit up with the kind of enthusiasm only the lab can summon, and just like that, the interview is forgotten.
For now.