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Peter doesn’t have the spoons to deal with Tony Stark walking up to his blackjack table.
But then — Peter hasn’t had any spoons since his roommate skipped out with his share of the rent and all their cutlery. He’s been eating cereal with takeout chopsticks for three weeks. Getting pretty good at it, honestly. Sure, drinking the milk straight from the bowl is starting to give him a complex, but it’s not as if—
Stop spiraling, Parker. Focus.
Peter pastes on his most professional smile and forces himself to deal with reality.
Tony slides into the seat directly in front of Peter, the platinum blonde on his arm folding in beside him. (So, the divorce rumors are true.) He makes a flicking gesture at Peter’s regular and the man scrambles, snatching up his chips and leaving without a word.
Great.
The pit in Peter’s stomach sinks deeper and his heart tries to twist out of his chest. He'd thought seeing Tony again would hurt. That it would be wonderful and reassuring, but painful.
And it is. It is.
But it's also nothing so simple.
Tony looks good — really good — but there’s also something off about him. Resurrection had rolled back the clock, smoothing out laugh lines and healing scarred arms — but it couldn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes. He seems less like the mentor who died beside Peter, and more like the haunted man who once sat on May’s sofa, talking about a fake grant, and Peter—
Peter doesn’t know how to feel about that.
“Good evening, sir. Ma’am,” Peter says, voice somehow steady. “The table minimum is $50,000.”
Tony tosses chips into the circle (well over the minimum), takes a long swallow of bourbon, and turns his attention to his phone. The woman sips her cocktail, eyes roving the room. Neither says a word.
Which, like. Right.
Peter’s the staff, after all. He has no right to a reply. No justification for staring at the top of Tony’s head, willing him to look up, to say something, to say anything.
It’s me, Mr. Stark. It’s me. Itsmeitsme.
Peter wrenches his attention to the blonde, giving her a bland smile. “Will you be playing tonight?”
“Oh.” She blinks rapidly, as if only just realizing Peter has been talking to them. “No, no, sweetie. I’m just here to blow his dice.”
She winks and leans in closer to Tony. Both her hands are under the table now, but whatever she’s up to, it’s having no effect. Tony’s still frowning at his phone. Ignoring them both.
Peter’s hurt takes a sharp left turn into annoyance.
He cracks open a fresh deck as teenage pathways reassert themselves — the ones that always wanted to impress Tony Stark and always succeeded. He springs the cards in a wide, shimmering arc, snapping them together with a crack before letting them cascade down in his own version of the anaconda flourish. He fans the deck one-handed, then finishes with a crisp double table riffle.
Tony, at last, puts down his phone.
“That’s not bad,” he says, voice dry but warm. “Color me impressed.”
Peter’s pulse quickens, heart and head filling with stupid, stupid pride.
“It’s just Newtonian physics.” He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and missing it by a mile. He flips up a card, balancing it on a fingertip as it twirls. “I’ve gotten pretty fluent in it.”
“Fluent, huh?” Tony leans back, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. His eyes track the card. “I’m more of a Leibniz man, myself.”
Peter grins so wide his teeth hurt. “Really? How derivative.”
Tony lets out a shocked burst of laughter, eyes alight. Peter has his full attention now — and it’s glorious. He’d forgotten what it was like to be seen. Truly seen. He'd forgotten the certainty and strength Mr. Stark could impart with a single look.
Peter tosses the card up, curves the deck into a bridge, and seamlessly brings it into the fold on descent. “I’ll admit Newton called dibs on all the easy stuff. But it’s only once you’ve nailed the first three laws, that the fourth—”
“—can finally come knocking.” Tony finishes the line. He runs a finger across his lip, giving Peter a considering look.
Peter’s flush takes him by surprise. He busies himself dealing their hands. Tony has a ten and a four; the house an ace, face-up.
“Your total is fourteen. The house shows an ace. Do you want insurance?”
Tony ignores the cards and the question. He taps his chips restlessly against the felt, his gaze fixed on Peter with an intensity he once reserved for the lab.
“Where have we met?” he asks, knocking the air from Peter’s lungs.
For one dizzying, mortifing second, hope floods his system. He studies Tony’s face, hoping for a flicker, a sign, anything, but— but no.
Of course not.
Tony’s expression isn’t one of recognition. It’s something much worse.
It’s curiosity.
It's the look of someone ready to strip Peter down to parts, with no promise of putting him back together. It’s Tony Stark, doing what he does best.
You idiot, Parker. You absolute fucking idiot. You’re playing with fire.
“I–I dunno, maybe we have the same suit guy?” He laughs, smile overly bright. “Mine works at the 85th Street Goodwill. Did you know they give out free coffee on Fridays?”
Tony’s jaw tightens. The woman giggles.
“Aww, you’re slipping, Tones,” she teases, running a finger along Tony’s temple. “The old you never forgot a pretty face.”
Tony tips his head just enough to dislodge her touch — polite, but a clear dismissal. She sighs and signals the wait staff to refresh her drink.
Despite his mild annoyance, his attention never leaves Peter. He’s absently running chips across the knuckles of his right hand. Flipping. Catching. Repeating. The motion drawing Peter’s eyes and mind. The last time Peter held that hand it was— it was—
He shoves the memory down and forces his gaze up. Tony’s smile has sharpened into a smirk.
Peter clears his throat. “No insurance. Your action.”
Tony flicks three 25k chips into the circle without breaking eye contact. “Double.”
It’s a reckless move, but it’s not like Tony can’t afford it. Peter slides Tony’s next card across the felt: a seven.
Of course.
“Twenty-one,” Peter announces.
Tony still doesn't look at his cards.
“So what’s your story, Sir Isaac?” he says, head tipping back. “Hellfire only hires foreign dealers — it’s part of the brand — but your accent is pure New York. Queens, am I right? Don't answer that, of course I'm right. What makes you the outlier? You someone's nephew? Don’t tell me Sebastian hired you for the math puns.”
“I’m good with the deck.” Peter’s tone stays surprisingly neutral as he straightens the perfectly stacked house chips. “The high-rollers like a show.”
“I’m sure they do — you’re a pro. But c’mon, I want to know,” His gaze drops to Peter’s lips, lingering for a pointed moment, then traveling upward to catch his eye. His smile softens. “What’s special about you, besides your talent at brushing off come-ons from rich bastards?”
Wait, is he—?
Peter’s body locks in place, caught between teenage fantasies and the jagged edge of reality. Or maybe — what used to be reality? Because he’s seen that expression on Mr. Stark before, directed at Ms. Potts, and Ms. Romanoff, and now, somehow, impossibly, at him.
Heat creeps up his neck and his stomach swoops, desire coiling low, tight, insistent. His want is as sharp and sudden as it is unexpected. Could he— Should he—?
But as Peter’s silence stretches, it takes on new meaning. Tony’s smile falters, then disappears.
“… I see,” he says slowly, eyes darkening with something unreadable. “You’re that kind of professional. Fine with a come on, but the face costs extra.”
Oh.
“Tony!” the woman says, feigning shock. She laughs as she leans in. “Leave the poor boy alone. At least until his shift is over.”
Peter searches for a response and draws a blank. His throat closing as his ears fill with the dull hum of memory.
Because Tony is right. As usual.
He had been that kind of professional. For a while, at least. At the start. He doesn’t regret what he did to survive, but he worked hard to leave that part of his life behind.
Something bitter rises in his mouth. Humiliation running deeper than it has in years. Maybe ever.
Because Mr. Stark would never have spoken to him like that. Even if he knew the truth, even if he hated it — and he would have — he’d have punched out anyone who tried to shame Peter for it. He’d have ruined their lives.
But this isn’t his Mr. Stark. Peter is no one to this man. Worse — he’s someone Tony Stark would mock. He doesn’t have to wonder anymore; it’s happening right now.
The ringing in his ears clears, replaced by the too-loud shuffle of chips and bursts of laughter from nearby tables. Reminders of where they are, and of who else might be listening.
It doesn’t actually matter what Tony Stark thinks — it matters what Peter’s boss will think. The Hellfire Club encourages its dealers to flirt, but there are strict rules about taking it further. If it got around that he’s hustling, true or not, Peter will be out on the streets. And he’s not doing that. Not again.
No way is he letting feelings cost him rent.
Do what you’re paid for, Parker.
Peter screws on a smile and flips the hole card.
The king of spades joins the ace. Natural blackjack.
“House wins,” Peter says, satisfaction bleeding through — but screw it. He sweeps in Tony’s chips with practiced precision (because he is a professional dealer, dammit) and signals for a new deck. When it comes, he gives the floater a pointed, pleading look.
She frowns, but nods.
“Listen, kid, I’m—”
“Felicity will be looking after you for the rest of the evening,” Peter interrupts, still keeping his voice light and pleasant. “Best of luck.”
“Hold up—”
Peter doesn’t wait for the end of that sentence. He strides off the gaming floor, only barely keeping his speed in check as he darts between alcoves filled with high-rollers.
There are no velvet ropes to cross; the Hellfire Club is the velvet rope. It’s no Monte Carlo casino, but it’s as close as you can get stateside. Despite its many issues, Peter is proud of his work here.
Mr. Shaw had taken a chance on him when he turned a blind eye to Peter’s lack of paperwork. And, sure, that was partly so he could pay him half as much for twice the work — but still. Hellfire had taught him a trade, and it’s one he’s good at it. One he even likes. He can spot a card counter on sight. He can double as a bouncer in a pinch. And he is amazing with the cards; he wasn’t lying about that.
But Hellfire isn’t a charity. As long as Peter follows the rules and is useful to Mr. Shaw, he’s welcome. The moment he’s not…
Well. It doesn’t matter.
Peter is going to stay useful.
He slips behind a curtain, swiping his access card for the staff area. It’s mercifully empty. The harsh fluorescent lights a contrast to the faux intimacy of the dark club. Reassuring in their normality.
Peter slides into a shitty plastic chair, forehead thunking against the table, and tries to think.
No one heard Tony, right? It was just him and that lady at the table. Maybe that’s as far as it will go. Tony was only pushing his buttons; he’s like that. He probably won’t say anything to Mr. Shaw, right? There’s no reason to single Peter out. Tony doesn’t even know Peter, no matter what Peter thought he saw in that brief flicker of… whatever.
Ugh. What was he thinking? Showing off and telling jokes when he should’ve been making himself as forgettable as possible.
As if I need more evidence of what a fuckup I am.
Maybe the Universe is listening, because as soon as he has the thought, the hair on Peter’s arms stands on end.
Then he hears it — the familiar hum of an arc reactor drawing near.
Coming for him.
Peter’s skin tightens with fresh humiliation. There’s only one reason Tony Stark would follow an employee into a backroom. Peter didn’t think he’d do it — his Mr. Stark never would have done it — but it’s happening. It’s happening.
A disgusting mix of hope, and dread, and lust tangles in his chest. And despite himself — or maybe to spite himself — Peter imagines what it would be like to give in. Just this once.
Just for a night.
Maybe he misread that tiny flicker of emotion. Maybe the whole “Where have we met?” thing was a line. Maybe Tony’s curiosity will die off once Peter’s on his knees. Maybe the spell will keep holding — it’s not like Peter was ever that memorable. Maybe Mr. Shaw wouldn’t find out, and he’ll keep his job. Maybe Peter could have a few hours with Tony. It would be gross and transactional, but it would be time. Time Peter never got to have.
Time Peter doesn’t deserve.
Mr. Stark died to save the Universe, but here’s Peter, willing to risk the entire multiverse just so he won’t spend another night alone. God. Fuck.
The fantasy falls away, guilt sweeping in in its place. Peter wants, he wants, he wants — but, more than anything, he wants to stop wanting.
There was only ever one option.
He stands, squares his shoulders, and waits for the chips to fall.
The door flies open, slamming against the wall, and Tony stumbles inside. Not with the drunk, expectant swagger Peter dreaded — but something else entirely. His earlier cockiness is gone, replaced by raw panic Peter wants to pick apart, to crawl inside of, instead—
“Are you trying to get me fired?” Peter snaps.
Tony recoils. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me, asshole. You know the rules. Everyone knows Hellfire’s rules. If my boss sees you with me, I’m done.”
“They wouldn’t—”
“Like hell. You’re fucking me over just by being here, and I’m not even getting paid for it. Speaking of which — it was not okay the way you spoke to me out there. It was gross and disrespectful, and I didn’t deserve it. I know this is all fun and games for you, but it’s my life. My workplace.”
Tony steps back. “I–I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you meant it,” Peter scoffs, anger driving away the sting in his eyes. “You knew exactly what you were doing, playing the rich creep who thinks the staff are included with the door fee. I call bullshit. You know better, Mr. Stark. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Tony’s face shifts, panic hardening into something sharper. His eyes regaining that unnerving focus. Peter’s nerves spike.
“You’re… right,” he admits. “I do know better. I’m sorry.”
Now it’s Peter’s turn to fumble. This isn’t part of the plan. He needs Tony to storm off angry, not apologize.
“Well, um,” he falters. “Sorrys are cheap. So why don’t you—”
“I have no excuse,” Tony says in a rush. “I don’t understand it myself, but I was… furious. Not at you, but at the idea that you had to— It was…” His words falter, revelation dawning mid-sentence. “It was like I failed you. And somehow, I… I think I did.”
“That—” Peter swallows down the sudden lump in his throat; he’d failed himself. “—that really sounds like a you problem. Y-you need to go.”
But Tony doesn’t go. He steps closer. Close enough for Peter to taste the bourbon on his breath. His feet turn to lead.
“I will. And I’ll make sure you don’t lose your job, I promise, but if– if you could just—” Tony’s breath hitches. He shakes his head in silent self-argument. “I need you to listen to me for a second—”
“I don’t need to do anything for you. I—”
“There used to be a hole in my heart,” Tony blurts, voice fraying. The words bleed out between them, leaving a stain of silence that Peter can’t touch. Slowly, Tony reaches for Peter’s hand and presses it to his chest. Skin furnace-hot through the silk. “It was right here.”
Peter should move away, but Peter could never move away — because this is nothing like the last time he touched Mr. Stark.
He was the one who carried Mr. Stark’s body off Titan. Who peeled off his ruined armor, Pepper unable to look at the charred shell of her husband. Who wrapped his body in a blanket, trying to be careful, even though there was no need.
It was Peter who held his cold, dead hand — this hand — for the whole flight home. Unwilling, unable, to leave him alone.
“When we get back, we’ll think of something,” Peter had whispered, lying to a corpse and fooling only himself. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. I’ll fix it, Tony, Mr. Stark. I promise. I’ll fix it.”
Tony’s hand is warm now. His heartbeat thrums beneath Peter’s palm, too real to be a dream. Peter failed him, but he’d come back anyway. He’s here. He’s alive, alive, alive.
Peter’s fingers curl into Tony’s shirt, grasping for a lifeline he doesn’t deserve.
He can’t speak. Can’t think.
Tony can.
“After they woke me up, the doctors said I was fine. As if being pumped full of Extremis every day is fine. As if discovering your daughter thinks she’s old enough to have a twenty-year-old ‘boy’friend is fine— but, shit, that’s not the point.” Tony shakes his head, dismissing what’s clearly a long-running argument. “My point is, the docs are wrong. I know what it’s like to live with a part of myself missing and this is exactly the same. The only difference is now—” He raises Peter’s hand to his temple. “—the hole is in my mind.”
Peter’s chest tightens, terror and longing twisting together dangerously. It can’t be. It can’t.
“They all think I’m crazy. The docs say it’s the trauma from the resurrection. My friends blame the divorce, though most are too worried I’ll eat a bullet if they press me on it. But you.” Tony’s gaze is wild and searching. “The moment I saw you, I knew I was right because something started trickling into the void. It’s there right now, and I–I think you know what it is. You weren’t guessing when you called me out. You knew it because you know me. So, please—” he steps in closer, “—tell me who you are.”
Peter swallows around a suddenly dry mouth. “I-I’m no one. I’m—”
“No.” Tony cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” Peter’s vision blurs.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” Tony’s grip tightens. “You could never be no one.”
“I can!” Peter’s voice cracks. His heart cracks with it and he’s all out of spare parts. “I’m no one you want to know, no one you can know. And– and even if you did, you’d regret it.”
“That’s not tr—”
“You would. I’ll just disappoint you, Mr. Stark. I disappoint everyone.”
Tony laces their fingers together.
“I might not know your name, kid,” he says, every word a vow. “But I know you could never disappoint me. I know it in my bones.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head. Denying what, he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t deserve this — Tony back from the dead, holding his hand, saying exactly what Peter needed to hear a decade ago. It’s pathetic, how badly he wants to believe it.
Peter’s not a child anymore. It should be too little, too late. It shouldn’t comfort him.
But it does.
“I don’t think I can fix you,” Peter admits. Tears streaming unchecked now; there’s no stopping them. “I can’t fix anything. Every time I try, I make it worse. You don’t want me to help you, trust me. I can’t. I can’t—”
Tony pulls him into a hug — tight, warm, and achingly familiar. His scent enveloping Peter. Calloused fingers cradle his head, a rough kiss presses against his neck, and Peter feels like a teenager again.
Barely holding himself together.
“Then let me help you, kid,” Tony says, terrified and certain all at once. “Please. Whatever it is, we can do it together.”
And just like that, a decade of resolve turns to dust. It slips through Tony’s arms — unraveling, untethering — and Peter lets it go. Lets himself remember what it’s like to live with want.
He can never fix it. Can never go back. May and MJ and Ned and Mr. Stark — they’re still gone.
But Tony is here.
Tony, who’s as broken as Peter is himself, who needs help Peter already knows he can’t give, and yet—
Peter wants to try.
“My name is Peter Parker,” he whispers, hope swelling past fear, “but you always did call me ‘kid’.”