Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Stephen Wescott knew that he would have had a good future, and that was the kicker. He had been top of his class in university, killed all of his temp jobs, and had just started out at a local firm when Spiderman had brought that all down because of something that had happened with a kid named Peter fucking Parker years ago. Two years in jail (he’d gotten out quick after they’d re-looked over his case and found a lack of sufficient evidence), and no job prospects once he’d gotten out...well, he’d spent the past two years thinking about revenge.

No opportunity had arisen, though.

At least, not until he found himself sitting in a bar next to a slightly drunk Tony Stark.

The occurrence had been weird enough that, if the chance hadn’t practically jumped in his lap, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it. Be that as it may, when Spiderman came kicking and swinging onto the TV above the bar, he couldn’t help but growl.

Stark turned to him. “Have qualms with our friendly, neighborhood Spiderman?” he asked wryly.

“Qualms. Yeah. Guess you could put it that way,” Stephen grunted, and then realized exactly what he had the opportunity to do here. If he played his cards right…

He could ruin Spiderman just like Spiderman had ruined him.

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Gotta admit, he gets bad press, but I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who didn’t like him.”

Stephen took a sip of his drink. Cast his eyes down in a way he hoped looked meeker than what he’d been projecting earlier. “Uh…yeah,” he said. “I guess I just know a different side of him.”

Stark chuckled. “I only know that one,” he said, and gestured to the TV.

“I only know one too. Definitely not that…hero one, though,” Stephen improvised, trying to avoid Stark’s gaze and seem like a traumatized young adult.

Stark was clearly hooked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, confused.

Stephen grimaced. “I shouldn’t tell you, I…you’re on his side.”

Stark turned fully towards him now. “I’ve fought next to him. That doesn’t mean I’m on his side. What, do you got dirt on the guy? Do you know him or something?”

“He…he raped me,” Stephen croaked, and then ducked his head in what he hoped was a convincing way. “When I was a kid. He…”

Stark let out a sound that was probably appropriate to being so blindsided. Stephen bit his lip to keep from smiling.

“Seriously?” he asked. “He didn’t seem like the rapist type to me…” Stark said.

Stephen frowned. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Most people don’t, because he’s…you know, Spiderman. But now that he has all these powers, I’m so scared that he’ll…that he’ll…never mind, there’s nothing you can do, even if you did believe me. He’ll just…I couldn’t stop him then, I definitely wouldn’t be able to now.” He faked a shudder.

Stark growled. “Oh, he definitely won’t be doing anything to you now,” he said.

Stephen's heart skipped a beat. Was this guy really that easy to trick?

“Are you—are you angry with me?” he asked, trying to hesitate, to seem scared. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll…are you going to make me touch—“

“No,” Stark cut off quickly. “No. Not at you. I’m gonna make sure that asshole gets what he deserves, okay?”

Bingo.

“Th-thank you,” Stephen said.

“What’s your name?” Stark asked kindly.

“Skip,” Stephen replied, thinking quickly, because he knew if Stark looked his real name up in any databases, he’d connect the dots pretty quick.

“Alright, Skip,” Stark said. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Spiderman is done for, mark my words.”

Stephen had to keep from grinning as the superhero stormed out of the bar.

Tony Stark had fought by Spiderman’s side more than a few times—for god’s sake, he’d recruited the guy—which was one of the reasons he had always hated that he’d never seen his face. Back when the spider had entered onto the crime-fighting scene—before Tony had taken the guy to Germany, before all of that—Tony had looked the guy up, tried to figure out his identity, but there was nothing.

Before the spider had agreed to fight on his side, though—and the guy really hadn’t taken that much convincing, apparently was too star-struck by seeing Tony, which had been endearing at the time—he’d made Tony promise him one thing. The mask stays on. And the guy seemed harmless enough (there were videos of him saving freaking kittens from freaking trees, after all), so Tony had complied. Even when he itched to ask FRIDAY to look for the guy, even when he thought who would it hurt, really?, he resisted.

Christ, did he regret that now.

He’d known there was something off about Spiderman, something that screamed wrong in the back of his head. He’d just never looked into it, and then there he was, hearing that god awful story in the bar. He couldn’t imagine knowing that someone who had…done that to you as a child was now super-powered.

And had an even more powerful suit. He’d given a rapist a suit. This was on Tony, too, and he had to correct his mistake. Fast. He’d already wasted fifteen minutes pacing his kitchen, and the anger was only building in the pit of his stomach. It had been twilight when he’d gotten to the bar, and now it was full-on dark outside, which meant it was likely Spiderman was on patrol, as he seemed to prefer nighttime—probably because he was a grade A creep, now that Tony came to think of it.

“FRIDAY?” he said. “Give me Spiderman’s location. I’m suiting up. And figure out who the fuck he is while you’re at it, yeah?”

“Will do, boss,” FRIDAY replied.

Tony jogged to the window, felt his suit build up around him. His mask was the last part to click onto his face before he flew out into the open air. “FRIDAY?” he asked, once he was hovering above the city. “Any updates on that location?”

FRIDAY informed him of which rooftop Spiderman was currently hanging around being a massive pedophilic asshole on now, and Tony took off in that direction.

“Anything on his identity?” he asked.

“Still working on that, boss,” FRIDAY replied, which Tony supposed was fair but he still let out a huff of frustration. He was getting closer and realized he didn’t have much of a plan other than to yell at the guy and maybe rough him up a bit—on the whole, Tony wasn’t a proponent of unnecessary violence, but Spiderman could hold his own in a fight, and if he lifted so much as a finger to try to get out of this one, Tony wouldn’t hesitate. At all.

As he got closer, he recognized a dot of blue and red. Spiderman, in the suit that Tony had made him, because he had fucking enabled this prick for a year—

Now wasn’t the time for guilt, he reminded himself. Now was the time to beat the shit out of this bastard.

He landed on the rooftop. Spiderman jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Stark!” the guy said, clearly surprised to see him. “It’s an honor—I mean, do you need help? Are there more bad guys that need fighting?”

And god, a month or even two hours ago this guy’s eagerness would have been endearing, and didn’t that just make him sick to his fucking stomach now.

He didn’t realize he’d been silent until Spiderman spoke again.

“Is everything okay? My Spidey-sense is sort of going off the rails right now, are you in danger?” Spiderman sounded uncertain. Scared.

Good.

“You know, I heard about Skip,” Tony said, trying to sound casual even as cold anger was building in his chest.

Spiderman stiffened. “I—what? How? I—“

“He told me all about it,” Stark growled. Spiderman took a step back. “The rape. What, were you planning on not telling me? Did you not think I would care?” he said. “Or did you know exactly what I would do to you once I found out?” He moved towards Spiderman threateningly. 

Spiderman stumbled backwards. He was shaking. He knew he was in for it, then. Inside the mask, Tony could have grinned if he weren’t so fucking pissed.  “I—Mr. Stark, please—“

“Don’t beg, it’s pathetic. What are you going to tell me? It was his fault? We both know it was yours, just as much as this will be,” he growled at the spider.

“Don’t beg, it’s pathetic. What are you going to tell me? It was his fault? We both know it was yours, just as much as this will be,” Mr. Stark growled at him.

Peter hadn’t thought—he hadn’t thought that Mr. Stark would do that, he’d trusted him. Even been stupid enough, a split second ago, when he’d said he’d found out about Skip, to think that his anger was directed at Skip, not him.

But of course it was directed at him. He just found out that someone he’d thought was a superhero was really a weak kid. And now…

Come on, Einstein, you know you want this.

His head spun at the words of his abuser and the image in front of him of Mr. Stark in his suit, drawing closer to him by the minute, he stumbled backward and fell to the ground, which only made the man look more terrifying, looming above him, but he was shaking too hard to get up and all of a sudden he knew if Mr. Stark did that, he’d die, he wouldn’t be able to handle it, even if it was his fault. He summoned the strength in himself he could find, even with Skip’s words echoing in his ears, and said, “I think that’s my cue to leave,” before shooting a web at the nearest building and flying away.

Tony cursed. Just like a fucking pedophile coward to run from a fight. “FRIDAY?” he said quickly. “Help me follow him.”

“You got it, boss,” FRIDAY replied, and he took off along the path set for him in his field of vision.

“Any info on the guy’s identity?” he said through gritted teeth as he caught sight of a blur of red and blue for a moment before it disappeared.

“We’re getting closer, boss, but we don’t have anything yet. We’ll let you know when we do.” God, how hard was this guy to find?

“Try keyword rapist,” Tony said.

Another blur moved in the corner of his eye.

Tony followed it into an alleyway. Sure enough, Spiderman was there, hands on his knees, leaning against the wall, retching. Tony landed in front of him, effectively cornering him between the wall and the dumpster.

“Has how disgusting you are finally caught up with you?” Tony hissed. “I can’t believe I trusted you, I fought with you, you coward—“ his anger overcame him and he sent a fist towards Spiderman’s face.

The bastard ducked. “Mr. Stark,” he pleaded, “You don’t ever have to see me again, I’ll give you back the suit—please—“ he said as he ducked another punch. Tony really couldn’t handle this guy.

“Oh, I’ll be taking your suit,” Tony gritted out. “But honestly, I’d rather beat the shit out of you and take it off your unconscious body than have you give it to me willingly.”

The spider was shaking, and Tony felt a glimmer of ruthless joy at his fear. He moved towards the guy, who pressed up against the wall, kept moving closer till his arm was on the guy’s throat.

“There. Now you’ll stay still, won’t you? Then this can be quick and painless.”

Stay still and it’ll all be over soon, Skip’s voice echoed through his head. If you stop trying to get away, it’ll hurt less, stay still goddamn it! But now Skip’s voice was Mr. Stark, too, calling him disgusting, and oh, he’d be taking Peter’s suit—taking it right now, off of him, especially if Peter stayed still, it was so dark out and Mr. Stark was so close to him and he couldn’t breathe, and he tried squirming, anything to get away, but Mr. Stark only pressed harder against his windpipe.

“C-can’t breathe,” he strained. “I-I’m sorry,” he tried again, because maybe that would appease Mr. Stark, maybe Mr. Stark wouldn’t hate him so much, or maybe he’d hate him more, anything to get him off get him off but of course that didn’t work either. He wondered if he could shout for help, if anyone would help him, but if his childhood hero wouldn’t help him—if his childhood hero would rape him—then who would help him?

“You’re sorry, huh?” Mr. Stark growled. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, Spiderman. Although I am the one that is going to ruin you.”

Peter felt himself shake harder at that—he knew exactly what ruining him meant, his body remembered and so did Skip in his mind’s eye, smirking at him, calling him Einstein.

“Speaking of that, can’t very well do that when I don’t know who you are, can I?” Mr. Stark mused, and Peter felt the metal hands grip his mask. Oh, god, he was taking off his suit, it going to start now, and he needed to throw up again but Mr. Stark was holding him against the wall and he couldn’t move.

“Please,” he begged, “Please, Mr. Stark…”

Cool air hit his face.

Chapter Text

Dread pooled in Tony’s stomach as soon as he pulled off the mask.

Spiderman was a kid.

A sobbing, shaking, pleading mess of a kid, couldn’t be older than sixteen, and somewhere along the way, Tony had gotten everything very, very wrong.

He stumbled backwards but the kid stayed pressed against the wall, pleading.

“Boss?” FRIDAY said. “I got an ID on Spiderman. Peter Parker, from Queens. Lives with his aunt May, goes to Midtown. Boss, he’s fifteen years old.”

Fifteen.

“Kid?” Tony said, and took his mask off. “You need to breathe.”

He reached a hand out to Spiderman, who only shrank and slid to the ground, cowering—Christ, Tony had built his fucking spider suit, how had he not noticed how tiny this kid was—and shook his head, still pleading nonsense. Because of course he was scared. He probably thought Tony was going to kill him.

Something still wasn’t lining up, though. Because—he’d acted like he’d known what Tony was talking about. Had Tony just made that up in his head to fit with the story? Christ.

“Kid, it’s—I’m not going to hurt you, okay? I know it seems like it, but I was operating on some very false information. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. But I need you to breathe.” He forced himself to lean backwards, to move away from the kid, even though all he wanted to do was wrap him in his arms and apologize over and over again.

He stepped out of his suit. “There, see?” he said, holding up his hands in a way that he thought was non-threatening. “You could take me down in an instant, now. I don’t have any armor on or anything. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Spiderman—Peter, his brain supplied—didn’t move from the spot where he’d wedged himself, against the wall and the dumpster. He was so small, and shaking so hard, and sickness and guilt swam in Tony’s stomach. Fifteen. This fifteen-year-old thought Iron Man was going to kill him, or at the very least beat him up really, really badly, for apparently no reason.

“Sir, please, you never have to see me again ever, I promise, I’ll stop being Spiderman, I will, but please don’t do that, I can’t handle it, please,” Peter said quickly.

The kid was barely breathing and clearly having a panic attack. Tony was at a loss. How was he supposed to coach him through it if he was the one who had caused it?

“Peter,” he said, as softly as he could, “I need you to breathe with me. We’re going to breathe in first, okay?” he said, and demonstrated.

Peter, still trembling, breathed in with him, in a way that sounded painful—but it was breathing, so Tony counted it as a win.

“Now out,” Tony said, and breathed out. Peter did the same, and relief thrummed in Tony’s chest as he heard the slow, shaky breath. They continue to breathe together for a few minutes until Tony was satisfied that Peter’s breathing had evened out, at least somewhat, and his gaze had become a little less wild. And a little more guarded.

At which point, the kid looked up at him, fear still clearly all over his face.

“Please—please don’t,” he whispered, and wiped his running nose with the back of his hand. His voice was rough, probably because Tony had strangled him, he strangled a fifteen-year old.  His chest ached with guilt.

“I meant what I said,” he said slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you. There was a misunderstanding. I shouldn’t have acted on faulty information regardless,” he said, and shook his head, because he’d deal with whoever the hell that guy was who had lied to him in the bar later, “But what you need to know right now is that I’m not going to hurt you.”

Peter’s face scrunched up. His breathing was still labored and his eyes flicking around as if he was assessing the threat level of the situation. Which he probably was, Tony reminded himself. “I-“ the kid said, and then shook his head. Frowned. “You said you were going to—“

“I said a lot of things. Why don’t we just assume that none of them were true, okay? Some guy named Skip lied to me, and I shouldn’t have listened, but I let my anger get the best of me. Now here we two are, a fifteen-year-old superhero and a shithead adult who needs to apologize better than I ever have in my life.”

Peter paled. Because somehow that was still possible. What had he said?

“He—he didn’t lie, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, then pressed himself further against the dumpster.

“What?” Tony asked. Because that, really and truly, didn’t make sense.

The kid looked at him warily. Tony could tell he was tense. Ready to run.

“He was telling the truth. I’m everything you said, Mr. Stark,” he said, and cast his eyes down. His shaking had picked back up.

Yeah, because a fifteen-year-old could have somehow molested a thirty-year old during his childhood. Even Tony hadn’t invented time travel yet, and if Tony hadn’t, then certainly no one else had. “I’m pretty sure you’re not a child rapist, Peter,” Tony said cautiously, because there was definitely something going on here, something he couldn’t figure out yet.

Peter looked at him sharply. “What?” he said, and then something clearly passed over his face, some slow realization that Tony didn’t follow. That Tony would pay money to follow, because the kid physically relaxed. Not entirely—he was still shaking and against the dumpster—but he wasn’t cowering any longer. Just looked warily at Tony. “Oh. I see.”

“What do you see? I’m kind of lost here myself,” Tony said, and tried for a chuckle, but he really didn’t have it in him, because the dread in the pit of his stomach was coming on in full force now even though he really didn’t know what had happened.

“Sk—the guy, he told you that I…that when he was a kid. I did things to him. Or, or Spiderman did. That’s what he told you?” Peter said haltingly.

Tony grimaced. “Again, I shouldn’t have believed him. But what did you think I meant, because you didn’t seem that shocked and now you’re, well.” He didn’t really have any words for what Peter was now, because he couldn’t really make heads or tails of any of it, and he was supposed to be a genius. Of course, he was mainly a math genius, and the most math that had been involved here was figuring that the fifteen-year age-gap wasn’t particularly conducive to child molestation—oh.

Oh, fuck.

A fifteen-year-old gap was conducive to child molestation, actually, if it was the other way around.

Peter wouldn’t look at him, and Tony’s stomach twisted sickeningly because he was pretty sure he knew the reason why. 

He’d had the realization only a little later than Peter did, but it didn’t make him feel relaxed. Not at all. Because if he was right—and he was almost always right, except for the past hour, in which he’d been so horrifically wrong—that meant that he hadn’t just been wrong. He’d been fucking awful.

“I…he switched it around. The story…it’s not wrong, it’s just, switched,” Peter said quietly. “I thought—I thought you knew, and.”

“You thought I knew,” Tony said quietly, going over the scene in his head. A fifteen-year-old kid who’d been raped by that piece of shit had been confronted by Iron Man, and his childhood hero had called him disgusting, and coward, and pathetic. And had said it was his fault. Tony had told the kid it was his own fault that he’d been raped. “And that I blamed you. And that I threatened to hurt you for it.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I—“ Peter began miserably, but Tony cut him off.

“Kid,” he said heavily. “You do not need to apologize.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something but closed it again.

The kid called him Mr. Stark, for Christ’s sake. The first time they’d met, he’d fanboyed all over him. And the second time. And the third. And he’d broken all the faith this kid had in him. Worse than that. He’d said all of those things, and Peter had said he was everything Tony had said. Peter had believed him.

Tony knew he should be taking him somewhere, a hospital or Avengers Tower or something, but the last twenty minutes were replaying over and over in his guilty mind.

He forced himself back into the moment. “Okay, kid. We’re gonna go to the tower, okay? Get that throat healed up. Get you some rest.” And you’re going to tell me Skip’s full name so I can hunt him down and kill him, he didn’t say, because that would come, too, but not until later.

Peter stood, still as far away from Tony as he could manage.

“You have a cell phone on you?” Tony asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said sarcastically. “I guess it just didn’t occur to me to pull my phone from my pocket and call for help when I thought I was about to be beaten up and raped in an alley by literal Iron Man.” Then he paled. “That was—I don’t know why I said that, Mr. Stark, it was uncalled for, I’m sorry, I don’t have my cell phone.”

“Peter, I said before that you really don’t need to apologi…” The word left his brain as he processed what the kid had said.

Then, he threw up all over the ground.

Please don’t do that, the kid had said. That. He hadn’t been terrified of being beaten up. He’d thought that Tony was going to…Tony had made him believe that…oh, god.

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?” Peter said hesitantly, and Tony wiped the spit from the side of his mouth. Peter was asking if he was okay.

“Yep. Right. Listen, kid, I don’t think you’d love it if I flew you back in my suit right now, considering what just went down with that, and I also don’t think you should swing the tower in your state, and of course I forgot my cell phone because I’m a goddamn idiot, so I’m going to get into my suit, but just to tell FRIDAY to call us a car, okay?”

The kid nodded. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Stark,” he said, because of course the kid who he’d made believe he was about to rape was the politest, most generous, most giving fifteen-year-old on this planet and whatever other planets there were, too.

“Great,” he said, and stepped back into his suit.

“FRIDAY?” he said. “I need you to send a self-driving car to my location as fast as you can manage.”

FRIDAY affirmed the order, and then asked, “You okay, boss?”  

“Peachy,” Tony replied, and said, “I’m getting out of the suit now, and I’m not getting back in. It’s gonna need to find a way back that’s not with us.”

“Got it,” FRIDAY replied, and Tony got out.

Peter wasn’t crying, and was breathing, so Tony counted it as a win.

“I got us a car,” he said stupidly. Peter nodded.

If Tony could have murdered himself on the spot without traumatizing the kid any further, he would have. Peter was standing there, picking at his nails under the suit (the part of the suit you didn’t rip off of his body when he already thought he was about to be raped, Tony’s brain helpfully reminded him) and not looking at him.

After probably twelve hundred hours, (or maybe seven minutes, but Tony’s sense of time was going haywire as he went over and over just how badly he’d fucked this one up), the car pulled up. “Hop in,” he said, and gestured to the car. Peter didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed into the back seat.

Tony climbed in after him, although he tried to keep his distance as best he could. Peter still wouldn’t look at him, just stared at the traffic as they drove to the tower. Tony knew he should say something, but he didn’t know whether he should try to lessen the tension, or talk about one of the things they obviously needed to talk about like how Tony was going to rip Skip limb from limb, or Peter’s age and how was he Spiderman, or how Peter had said I’m everything you said, Mr. Stark, when what Tony had said was that he was disgusting and a coward and pathetic and at fault for his own fucking rape—

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s timid voice brought him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, Pete?” he replied, trying to sound casual. He looked at the kid, who was looking at him, finally, but still fiddling with his suit.

“Are you going to take my suit away?” Peter said quietly.

Tony couldn’t help the choked noise that he made at that.

“I just—“ Peter pressed on. “I know you probably think that I’m not strong enough, because I let him do that, and was going to, to let you do that, but I promise, I didn’t have my powers when he did it, or I would’ve protected myself better, and I know that I still shouldn’t have let—but I’m stronger now, I swear, and I can still be useful, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and his eyes were shining and why wasn’t Tony saying anything, Christ. “But I get if you want to take it away, because I know that I’m, that you probably didn’t think that Spiderman was weak or whatever and it’s, a superhero shouldn’t be that stuff.”

Then the kid took his first breath since beginning talking, and Tony rallied.

“I don’t think you’re weak, kid. Or that you’re not strong enough,” he said. And he probably shouldn’t promise this, because the kid was fifteen years old, and really shouldn’t be fighting crime, really should have a bedtime, but he can’t help it. “And I’m not going to take your suit away.”

Peter brightened, a little, at that. “Oh. Thank you.” 

Tony ran a hand over his face. “You know, I really fucked up this time,” he said, more to himself than anyone.

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter replied quickly. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Tony laughed mirthlessly. “A misunderstanding? Yeah. I should have trusted you, is what I should have done, if I wasn’t such a—“ he broke off and sighed. Thumped his head against the car seat headrest. “You are probably aware, Peter, that I have some unresolved shit with some other superheroes I…trusted. That’s not an excuse. But I’m quicker to fall out of trust, these days. And I guess I was looking for a reason not to trust you, and that guy gave me one.”

Peter smiled. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Stark, you’re lucky you took off my mask when you did. ‘Tony Stark: genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, child murderer’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Tony snorted. “I hope they’d put the child murderer thing first,” he replied.

“I don’t know, Mr. Stark. The media is pretty unpredictable.”

Tony sighed. “Aren’t you right about that.”

They lulled into an uncomfortable silence again. The traffic wasn’t letting up, even though it was late.

‘So, Midtown, huh? Isn’t that, like, a smart kid school or something?”

“It’s a science school,” Peter said with a shrug.

“You top of your class?” Tony asked, because he hadn’t had many conversations with this kid, but he was willing to bet that he was pretty clever.

True to form, Peter blushed. “I guess,” he said.

Tony nodded. “You seem like it,” he said. “You never did tell me how you got your powers,” he added after a minute.

“Yes, I did,” Peter said, confused. “Radioactive spider bite.”

Tony snorted. “Alright, kid. Keep your secrets.”

Peter sighed.

Their conversation started and stopped several more times after that during the car ride, mostly because it would be going great and then Tony would look at Peter and remember that he’d been sobbing and apologizing and shaking while Tony had been choking him and holding him against a wall, and then he would forget how to use words or his brain. Which didn’t happen to him often.

So, yeah, Peter mostly carried the conversation. Put it on the mile-long list of shit he had to atone for with this kid.

When the car pulled up to the tower, Tony held himself back from leaning over to open Peter’s door, instead opening his own and gesturing for Peter to get out as well. Peter followed him out of the car and into the tower.

“How’s the neck?” Tony asked awkwardly.

“Uh, it’s okay, actually. I don’t—I don’t really need any medical attention, really, Mr. Stark. I heal fast,” he offered.

Tony sighed. “Be that as it may,” he replied. “You’ve gone through more than a little bit of an ordeal. You can’t just walk it off.”

“Then I’ll sit down or something,” Peter replied, and Tony laughed.

“That’s not really what I meant, kid,” he said, shaking his head. “Okay. You seem hesitant about this whole medical ward situation, which I can’t blame you for. So why don’t we go sit in my living room, and maybe you’ll let me call a doctor friend of mine?”

Peter looked at him. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause any more trouble than I—“

“You haven’t caused any trouble,” Tony replied before Peter could finish that horrifying sentence. “And yes, I’m sure.”

Peter looked like he was about to argue, but at Tony’s look, fell silent. He walked into the elevator and Peter followed him, fidgeting the whole way. Half because it needed to happen, and half because he really couldn’t handle that look in Peter’s eyes, Tony said, “FRIDAY, call Dr. Faust.”

“Doing that right now, boss,” FRIDAY replied immediately, and soon Dr. Faust’s voice echoed through the elevator.

“Tony?” she said wearily.

“Yeah, are you busy?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Dr. Faust replied, half-laughing.

“I need you to not be,” Tony said. “Please,” he added, because he really did like Dr. Faust, and she wasn’t his employee and therefore wasn’t legally obligated to put up with his bullshit.

Peter made a noise of objection.

“Pete, trust me on this one. Whatever Dr. Faust is up to is not as important as you are right now. Right, Doctor?” he said, hoping to god she wouldn’t make a quip about open heart surgery or something because that was really not what this kid needed right now.

“That’s absolutely right, Tony,” Dr. Faust said, albeit hesitantly. Tony felt a surge of gratitude that nearly toppled him.

“Great. I’ll send a car. We’ll see you in twenty,” he said quickly, because the elevator doors had opened and they would be on Tony’s floor next.

“See you then, Tony,” Dr. Faust replied, and the call ended. He exited the elevator with Peter behind him.

Peter looked pained. “Mr. Stark, you really don’t have to do that,” he said. “I’m—I’m sure she’s doing something important.”

“I meant what I said, kid. Whatever she’s doing can wait.”

“So can I,” Peter objected.

“Maybe,” Tony said. “But I can’t.”

That quieted the kid for a minute. Tony watched him look around, and silently cringed at everything he’d left on the floor—including, unfortunately, a half-empty bottle of whiskey. That certainly wasn’t good for a fifteen-year-old to see.

“Uh, why don’t you take a seat,” Tony said, and gestured to one of the couches.

Peter complied, still looking over everything. 

“You want some coffee? Nope. Nighttime. Fifteen. Hot chocolate?” he guessed.

Peter grinned. “That sounds good, actually.”

“Right,” Tony said, hoping to god he had hot chocolate because the kid had smiled and he’d already let him down so much (ah, yes, his subconscious said, because making the kid hot chocolate will totally make up for you terrifying him out of his fucking mind). He searched his kitchen, looking up every once and a while to make sure the kid hadn’t run or anything.

“FRIDAY?” he asked helplessly.

“Top drawer on the right, boss,” FRIDAY replied instantly.

“Great,” he said quietly, and opened the drawer to find two packets of hot chocolate mix. He turned the kettle on and got out a mug, before emptying both packets into the mug, figuring two was better than one. “Whipped cream,” he muttered to himself, and opened the fridge up. Surprisingly, he actually had some of that, too, and once he’d poured the hot chocolate, put a liberal amount of whipped-cream-from-the-can on the drink.

Peter was right where he’d left him when he brought the hot chocolate out to him. He raised his eyebrows.

“You really went all out, Mr. Stark,” he observed.

“Yeah, well, I guess I missed my calling as a barista,” Tony said, and settled down on the couch. A separate couch than Peter was on.

Peter took a sip. “Two packets. Nice,” he said.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You know your hot chocolate.”

“Guess you’re not the only barista-in-the-making here,” Peter replied.

“Guess not,” Tony replied. After a minute of tapping his fingers on his knees, he made himself talk again. “So, Dr. Faust is going to check you over. And ask you some questions, probably. And I can leave for that.” He didn’t look at Peter, because his head was too busy screaming guilty guilty guilty and the screaming only got louder when he looked over at Peter, fifteen, drinking hot chocolate, with a little bit of whipped cream on his nose.

“Uh, can you…can you stay?” Peter asked hesitantly, and Tony did look at him at that.

“You sure, kid? You’re sort of in this mess because of me,” he said, uncertain. “I can leave. I won’t be insulted.”

“But—is it okay if you don’t? I mean, you can leave if you want to, but I don’t…I’d prefer it if you stayed,” Peter said, meeting his eyes.

And who was Tony to deny him? “Yeah, sure, kid,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

He would be. Because the least he could do, the very least he could do, was to do his damn best in making sure this kid never got hurt again.

“Boss, Dr. Faust is here. Can I send her up?” FRIDAY said.

“Go ahead,” Tony said, trying to ignore how Peter stiffened, and soon enough the doctor was on his floor as well.

She entered, still in scrubs, her brown hair pulled severely back from her face. She looked at Tony, and Peter next to him, clearly trying to assess the situation.

“Tony,” she nodded. “Spiderman.” The second was directed towards Peter, who, Tony realized belatedly, was still in full uniform besides his mask.

Fuck. “Uh, actually, he’s just a…really dedicated fan. Yep,” Tony said lamely, and Peter nearly laughed. Nearly.

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark. You can call me Peter, uh, Dr. Faust?” he said. “Did I get that right?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Dr. Faust replied. Tony could still see her brain scanning, making sense of the scene. Her eyes traced the bruises on Peter’s neck. “Tony said it was important. Do you mind telling me what happened, Peter?”

Peter looked down. “Yeah. No problem.”

Hearing the story from Peter’s perspective was almost worse than experiencing it firsthand. His mind raced for most of it, piecing their two stories together, attaching every movement that Peter had had with everything Peter said. And Tony knew that Peter was toning it down for his sake, too, because he said I was, uh, pretty scared when he should have said I was fucking terrified and he said Mr. Stark was confused when he should have said Mr. Stark is a massive dickhead. His shaky, hesitant responses cut into Tony deeper than honest ones would have. Because why was he trying to protect Tony? By all rights, he should hate him.

The explanation behind who exactly Skip (Scott Wescott, reminded himself, because that was a name he was committing to memory) was to Peter, the story about him being so young and Skip being his babysitter, was worse. Which Tony wouldn’t have thought was possible.

When Peter had finished, Dr. Faust nodded. “Thank you for sharing, Peter. I can’t imagine it was easy. You didn’t mention going to a standard medical check. Do you mind if I check you over?”

Peter frowned. “It’s—it’s really just my neck, and you can see that the bruises are already healing, so…” he looked to Tony pleadingly.

Tony cleared his throat. “I didn’t—he didn’t get hurt anywhere other than there, he’s telling the truth.” Back off, he said to Dr. Faust with his eyes, and she seemed to get the message, however unhappily.

If this kid didn’t want to be touched, he wasn’t going to be touched.

The rest of the appointment was uneventful—Faust’s recommendations boiled down to “eat something”, which was one of the one things Tony could help Peter with, so he was happy.

“What do you want? We could order pizza, or Chinese, or literally anything else in the whole city, so…”

Peter bit his lip. “Pizza sounds good. Pepperoni?”

“Pepperoni pizza. Great. FRIDAY?”

“On it, boss,” FRIDAY replied, and Tony smiled half-heartedly. 

Peter was still sitting on the edge of the couch. The kid hadn’t even relaxed.

Which was understandable.

“I’m glad to hear you’re not one of those pineapple weirdos,” Tony said.

Peter nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Yeah, Tony deserved that. He stood up and went to the freezer. He pulled out an icepack walked back to where Peter was seated, and handed it to him. “Here. For the bruises.” He coughed awkwardly. “Y’know, you really pulled your punches with Dr. Faust there.”

Peter shrugged.

Tony wanted to complain about the silent treatment, but he really wasn’t in the spot to, was he? Not when an hour and a half ago he’d felt a twist of joy when the kid had stumbled away from him in fear. No, he didn’t really get to complain about anything right about now. 

Peter didn’t speak again until the pizza came.

“This is good pizza,” he said, after stuffing down a second slice. Maybe he hadn’t been giving Tony the silent treatment? He really had to get out of his own head.

 “Glad you like it,” he said.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and got into his third slice with gusto.

Tony didn’t really want to accept the kid’s thanks, not when he didn’t deserve it, but he also didn’t want to freak the kid out. “Anytime,” he settled on. “Need anything else? I don’t have more hot chocolate but I could get FRIDAY to order some. Does Starbucks deliver? They will,” he finished to himself.

“It’s okay, one was enough,” Peter said quickly.

“If you’re sure. But if you change your mind, I will call Starbucks. Or wherever else you kids get your hot chocolates these days.”

Peter nodded absent-mindedly. The fun sense of crushing guilt Tony had been feeling all evening returned with a vengeance.

“You okay to talk for a minute, Peter?” he asked, even though he knew it was bad timing, he knew the kid deserved a break, but he also didn’t want to let this shit fester for another minute.

“You okay to talk for a minute, Peter?” Mr. Stark asked.

That couldn’t be good. Peter was already dying with dread about the inevitable talk about Skip, or about him being too young to be a superhero, or Mr. Stark second-guessing the whole suit thing. But he wasn’t about to say no.

Peter looked at him. Mr. Stark looked rough. “Yes?” he said.

“I said some pretty bad shit back there, kid. And I’m really sorry. Really, really sorry.”

Peter hesitated. Frowned. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark. You didn’t know,” he said, and took another bite of pizza. Because Mr. Stark had already apologized, even though it had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, and as shaky he felt, as much as his stomach flip-flopped when Mr. Stark moved too fast, it really wasn’t his fault.

“It’s not, really, because I should have trusted you. You can be mad at me,” Mr. Stark said.

Peter thought about that. Because he couldn’t really be, could he? “I wish you’d trusted me, I guess,” Peter reasoned. “But you’d never seen me without my mask. I didn’t give you much reason to trust me besides fighting on your side, which is a lot less than other people have done. And you didn’t mean to, Mr. Stark. You didn’t know.”

Mr. Stark sighed. “Alright, kid, thanks. For, uh, accepting my apology. Christ, I’m bad at this. I…I did say some pretty nasty shit back there, though, and before you knew that I didn’t know the real story, you said that it was true. You said you were everything I said. Peter, I…that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

Peter could feel his ears turn red. It wasn’t like he really thought that it was entirely his fault—he knew that Skip was a bad guy, that’s why he’d put him in prison, (though clearly, not well enough for it to have stuck), but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that his childhood hero’s words had had a ring of truth to them, even if that wasn’t how he had meant them. After all, it wasn’t exactly the mark of a great hero to go down shaking and crying when attacked, and barely put up a fight. 

“You said it again in the car, and really, kid, if you think this makes you weak, or even…less strong than you are normally, that’s not true. It’s just not.”

Peter frowned. “You say that, Mr. Stark, but if you look at the facts, even just from today, I clearly have—I’m not as strong. As other people. Or I would have…I would have fought back. Done something.”

Tony grimaced. “I get panic attacks. And sometimes, nightmares so bad I can’t sleep for days. It’s often not anything specific, just…something that’s the wrong color, or a loud noise, and it sends me into a space where I can’t even think, much less breathe. I’ve been told it’s PTSD. Peter,” Tony said, and leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Peter tried to hold himself steady instead of moving backwards. “Does that make me less of a hero? Does that make me weak?”

“No!” Peter said quickly, because that was ridiculous, and then got Tony’s point. “It’s different. That’s from, like, torture, probably. And battle stuff.”

“I don’t think it’s different. I think it’s a traumatic experience that’s manifesting in the present,” Tony said, and Peter looked at him doubtfully because really, fighting a bunch of aliens and having one guy do stuff to you that you didn’t like—albeit really, really didn’t like—were different things. “Also, I would like to point out that this whole situation arose because I responded poorly to my own issues with trust. So. Another point against Tony Stark,” Mr. Stark said, and then cringed. “Did not mean to turn this into my own little pity party.”

Peter shifted in his seat. He knew it wasn’t his fault, he knew that. And he couldn’t help but admit that what Mr. Stark was saying did make sense. But that didn’t fix the sense of shame he felt when he knew that Mr. Stark had seen him like that.

“I just, I,” he began, and what was worse was he could fear tears welling up in his eyes that he had not meant to allow there. “’m really embarrassed, Mr. Stark,” he admitted.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark said, “I scared you. I hurt you. I betrayed your trust. That’s all on me, not on you, okay, kid?”

Peter looked away.

“Not your fault,” Mr. Stark said. “Then or now.”

“Okay,” Peter said quietly, because. Well. This was Mr. Stark telling him. The smartest guy in the known universe. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Mr. Stark replied.

They sat in silence for a minute, and then something occurred to Peter.

“Mr. Stark?” he said. The man in question turned to him immediately. “Do you think I could borrow a phone or something? I should probably call my aunt.”

Mr. Stark’s face dawned with realization. Because of course the guy had google searched him or something. “Yep. Got it. Uh…” he stood up and walked around for a minute, then tossed Peter a StarkPhone, which he caught.

“Thanks,” he said, and dialed Aunt May’s number.

Their conversation was short, and mostly one big fucking lie, because he’d started by saying he was doing a project and lost track of time, and ended with saying he was staying at Ned’s house for the night, and finally he’d hurriedly hung up with barely a goodbye.

Mr. Stark looked half-impressed, half-disappointed when he looked back at him after putting the phone down. “You’re a terrible liar,” he observed.

“Yeah, well,” Peter said, and tossed the phone back. “I feel like that’s probably a good thing. Sorry. I just…I didn’t really want to tell her. About today. She’d get…”

Mr. Stark grimaced. “She’d kill me, wouldn’t she?”

That was an accurate assessment.

“Pretty much,” Peter admitted.

“Good,” Mr. Stark replied. “Glad to hear she’s a good one.”

Peter smiled. “She is.”

“So, staying over at Ned’s, huh?” Mr. Stark said, raising one eyebrow.

Shit. Peter hadn’t even realized what he’d been saying. “Yeah, uh, I can leave whenever and go there, he won’t mind—“

“You can stay here,” Mr. Stark said, and then doubled back. “If you want to. If that’s what you were saying. There’s…I have free rooms. Actually, I have free floors. You could stay on a different floor. And FRIDAY would stop anyone from coming onto said floor. Including me. Or you can go to Ned’s. Actually, I don’t know who this Ned is. Not that I should have to know! Oh, god,” he groaned. “That was embarrassing.”

“You good, Mr. Stark?” Peter joked, trying to ignore the fact that TONY STARK HAD JUST OFFERED TO LET HIM SLEEP IN THE FUCKING TOWER. (And the quieter voice, saying his AI controls who goes on what floor, don’t think he couldn’t come in whenever he wanted to, because he knew that voice was lying, he knew it.) “Um. That’d be great. And Ned’s my best friend. He’s good too. But he probably wouldn’t kill you. He’s kind of obsessed with you. So.”

Mr. Stark grinned. “Maybe he’d like to come over here sometime?”

Like it? Ned would go actually, clinically insane from excitement. “Yeah. Um, not today though, right?” Peter asked, and Mr. Stark shook his head.

“No. Not today.”

Tony was absolutely determined to do as much as he could to make this kid happy. And that started with breakfast.

“FRIDAY?” he called. “Can you help me make pancakes?”

“You’re cooking?” FRIDAY asked.

“I didn’t program you to second guess my abilities, FRIDAY, so don’t, or I’ll start second-guessing your coding,” he said. “Yes. Pancakes.”

FRIDAY pulled up a recipe for pancakes and Tony got started. He had a little mishap with the first batch (too many eggs), and the second (dropped on the ground), and the third (no one, ever, would find out what had happened to that third batch, he’d even had FRIDAY wipe the security footage). The fourth, however, was passable.

And it was coming around 10am. So Peter should probably wake up soon. “FRIDAY, will you wake Peter up if he’s not up yet?”

FRIDAY confirmed, and soon enough Peter, in the spider-man-themed pajamas Tony had given him, came stumbling out of the elevator.

Tony had given him his own floor. With a pool. And a trampoline. And a soft-serve machine that he’d furiously texted Happy to get when he thought about what would happen if Peter got hungry in the middle of the night.

“Sleep okay?” he asked, flipping a pancake perfectly, as if he’d been doing it for an hour non-stop (because he had been practicing for the past hour non-stop, okay, sue him).

Peter yawned and ran a hand through his bedhead. “I slept okay,” he nodded, and Tony could tell that he didn’t, really, but he didn’t want to push it.

“I made pancakes. If you want,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

It was worth it when Peter’s face lit up. “Pancakes!” He grinned. “I love pancakes. Ned thinks waffles are better, but Ned also thinks that the fourth Star Wars movie is better than the fifth, which is honestly just embarrassing for him, so…” he blushed. “Sorry.”

Tony waved a hand. “Kid. I’ve been fangirling about Star Wars since before you were born. And,” he said in a more conspiratorial tone, flipping a pancake onto Peter’s plate (like a fucking expert, fuck you, FRIDAY), “The fifth is the best one. So you go tell Ned I said that.”

Peter grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, sir, I will.”

Tony hummed with appreciation and bit into his own pancake. Only once he was halfway through did he notice Peter staring at the stack worriedly.

“Peter? Everything okay up there?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said, seemingly unsure. Sure enough, he soon added, “Except, Mr. Stark, if these are, like, apology pancakes or pity pancakes or something, it’s okay. You don’t need to do that.”

God, this kid was going to be the death of him. “Kid. I like you. You’ve got good Star Wars opinions and good pizza opinions to boot. So I made you pancakes. No hidden messages, okay?” Which he felt sort of guilty saying, because they were sort of I-feel-like-a-terrible-person-and-I’m-sorry pancakes, but they hadn’t been forgive-me pancakes, just I-want-to-be-nice-to-you pancakes, and why was he debating the secret meaning of pancakes inside his head right now?

What Tony had said, however, seemed to be good enough for Peter, who dug in.

Mental note, he told himself, give this kid all the appreciation in the entire world.

“Mr. Stark, sir?” Peter asked, and Tony drew himself back to the present moment.

“What’s up, Pete?” he replied.

“I was wondering…” Then the kid faltered. “Uh, never-mind.”

“You can ask me for anything,” Tony said softly. “Billionaire, remember? No request too big.”

“IwaswonderingifyoucoulddosomethingaboutSkip,” Peter said all in one breath, and then gulped. “Uh. If that’s okay. I would be fine, or I would do it, I can do it, except it seems like he’s still after me and I don’t want to—“

Tony held up a hand. Because that request? That had already been fulfilled, in the wee hours of the morning, by an apartment visit, a few well-placed punches, and a one-way ticket to Siberia. “Say no more,” he said. “That guy’s never gonna bother you again, okay?”

Peter ducked his head. “Thanks,” he said.

“Anytime, Peter,” Tony said easily. “Anytime.”