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Tony used to deny he was Peter's dad all the time, and, back then, Peter agreed with him. He would laugh along with Tony at the incredulity of Rhodey's father-son jokes and Clint's (mostly) playful insistence they must be related somehow. He'd shrug off Pepper's fond looks and adamantly deny May's claim he saw Tony as a father figure. Even now, looking back, he still thinks he genuinely believed it.
Tony was always good to him. After the Vulture incident, the internship became real. Peter ended up in Tony's workshop every other weekday, tinkering about with the spider suit or a robotics project well into the evening. Sometimes he was even allowed in on Tony's current brilliant idea. He was invited to Avengers' movie nights and dinners and – one time – an escape room party that ended up with them all falling out as Peter watched awkwardly in the corner.
But he was never father-like. Not really, anyway. Certainly– certainly not to the extent that Peter couldn't just… explain away. Tony pats everyone on the back like that, and he's 90% sure he's seen him ruffle Bruce's hair before, and everyone on the team has a Stark-Special nickname. Besides, Tony's only interested in him because he's clever and Spider-Man. Not because he likes Peter.
Except… now, Peter's beginning to doubt himself. He's caught himself multiple times this week thinking of Tony in a fatherly manner: wanting him when he's sad, aching to tell him about his new project, desperate to tell him about the new boy at school Peter thinks is cute – and this afternoon, he referred to Tony in his head as Dad.
He's confident that the incident a couple of weeks ago that led him to swing through an open window in the tower bleeding profusely from his side is to blame. Tony had rushed to his side after Friday had informed him of his arrival, eased him gently down to the Medbay while murmuring soothing condolences and encouragement in his ear, and held him against his chest as Bruce examined and dressed the wound. He'd helped him into Peter's unofficial room, tucked him into bed, and held his hand until he fell asleep.
Everything had more or less gone back to normal the following day, but Peter couldn't get that version of Tony out of his head. Couldn't stop himself from longing to be back in his safe, sheltering arms, warm and protected from any and all danger that seems to come his way.
So now, that certainty that his relationship with Tony was strictly a mentor-mentee one has well and truly dissipated.
★
Peter tries not to think about this worrying revelation too hard, but he's rather unsuccessful. He spends most of the night tormented by his brain reminding him of every time Tony's denied he's Peter's dad – or even something of a father figure. It makes Peter's stomach turn in on itself every time he hears those words echoing through his head.
How is he supposed to continue having a relationship with a man he now sees as good as his dad but who sees him as nothing more than a kid to mentor, a troublesome young vigilante he's burdened with supervising?
The anxiety twists its way through Peter's mind and body all night, and by the time his alarm goes off, he's not sure he even slept at all. Like clockwork, May pops her head around the door five minutes later to make sure he hasn't gone back to sleep, and he hauls himself out of bed as she continues getting ready.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” May asks, looking concerned as she wraps her hair into a neat bun at the base of her neck.
Peter knows he must look exhausted as he heaves himself down at the kitchen table and pours a bowl of cereal May set out for him. “Didn't sleep well.”
Concern morphs into sympathy on his aunt's face as she lets go of her hair and leans down to press a kiss to the top of Peter's head.
“I'm sorry, Pete. You gonna be okay to go to Mr Stark's after school today?”
Peter stiffens at the reminder that today is a lab day and hopes May doesn't notice. “I don't know,” he hedges, seeing a way, if not out of his problem, then at least a way to avoid it a little longer. “Maybe I should just rest tonight.”
May's face only twists into deeper worry at that, raising the back of her hand to his forehead. “Not even a mention of patrolling? Are you sure you're okay, sweetie?”
Peter feels a twinge of guilt at making his aunt worry over him and decides that as much as he would like to delay facing the huge problem that's somehow materialised almost overnight, it's not worth putting more on May's plate.
“No, no, I'll be fine, I'm being dramatic,” Peter chuckles, backtracking. “I just haven't had time to wake up properly yet.”
May looks doubtful, but she checks her watch, and Peter knows she needs to be leaving shortly.
“Seriously, May, I'm fine, I promise!” he tries to reassure her, putting on his most cheerful voice and smiling as convincingly as possible. “I'll text you if I'm not, I swear.”
“You promise?” May asks warningly, grabbing a slice of toast that's sure to be cold from how long it's been sitting in the toaster by now and shrugging her jacket on.
“I just did,” Peter laughs, and for a moment, he almost forgets about the exhaustion tugging at the corners of his mind or the anxiety twisting in his gut, lost in the warmth his aunt brings with her everywhere.
“Alright, I'll see you later, Pete,” she concedes, running out the door. “Larb you!”
Peter chuckles, watching as she grabs her keys and purse from the side table and heads into the corridor. “Larb you more.”
The door shuts, and all Peter is left with is tiredness, nerves, and a bowl of soggy off-brand cornflakes.
★
“Hi, Happy,” Peter says quietly as he climbs into the sleek black car, waiting where it always does.
Happy grunts; Peter has figured out after all these months that it's his way of saying hello, but doesn't raise the partition. Usually, that's his cue that Happy doesn't mind listening to him ramble about his day – that Tony hasn't given him so much of a hard time as to need peace and quiet – but Peter doesn't really have the energy today.
Instead of launching into a tirade about what Ned said at lunchtime and how MJ schooled his AP World History classmates on why the dropping of the nuclear bombs was actually a war crime and the new science project he was assigned, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the window, exhausted after a day of convincing his friends he's fine (really, he's fine), and dreading the afternoon ahead of him.
“You alright, kid?” Happy asks halfway through the journey when Peter hasn't uttered a single word.
Peter forces his eyes open and meets Happy's eyes in the rearview mirror, surprised to see on his face a similar concern he had to explain away from May's expression only eight hours earlier.
He doesn't really have the energy to be as convincing as he might have been this morning, but he still tries his best.
“Yeah, of course,” he says as brightly as he can, hoping his eyes don't look too dim and his face doesn't look washed out. He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Just a little tired, I guess. Didn't sleep too well last night.”
Happy hums doubtfully but turns his eyes back to the road. Peter takes that as permission to close his eyes once more and continue mentally preparing himself for what lies ahead.
Apparently, what lies ahead isn't a quiet afternoon with Mr Stark in the lab at all but a rowdy Avengers' game night that he can hear before the elevator even arrives at the penthouse floor. He winces when the competitive shouts of his friends pierce his skull and overload his sensitive hearing as the elevator door opens. Thankfully, Bucky spots him first, and he's always one step ahead, immediately quietening the group.
“Peter's here!” he announces over the racket, and the shouting stops immediately as everyone rushes to greet the newest arrival.
“Pete!” Tony cheers happily, getting up to throw an arm around his shoulders and lead him to the chair next to him.
Clint walks through a moment later and raises an eyebrow. “I've lost my seat, have I?”
“Oh, sorry,” Peter says, flustered as he moves to get up and out of what is clearly not a vacant seat open for the taking, “I didn't realise anyone was sitting here, I'm–”
“I'm only teasing, Pete,” Clint laughs, moving to sit next to Natasha instead. “Besides, Tony would have my head if I moved you out from next to him.”
Tony snorts at that, and Peter immediately feels uncomfortable. This is the exact situation he'd been anxious to avoid: that hint towards their relationship being more than Tony clearly wants it to be, being able to feel the tension and discomfort coming off Tony in waves, all the while wishing desperately there was any truth to their teasing.
Thankfully, Rhodey interrupts before the situation can get any worse for Peter. “How about we start a new game now Peter's here? Uno was getting a little too competitive.”
“Fine,” Natasha concedes. “As long as we agree that I won that last round.”
“You cheated!” Bucky cries. “I won fair and square – you're just a hopelessly sore loser with terrible Uno skills.”
“You take that back, Barnes, or I'll kill you in your sleep.”
Bucky snorts. “Please, you couldn't kill me if you wanted to.”
Peter laughs along with the rest of them as Tony starts setting up Debatable – both his and Peter's favourite – and he lets himself relax into the easy camaraderie in the room, some of the tired tension easing out of his taut muscles.
Things go well for a while. It's easy and fun, and Peter finds himself in stitches when Clint and Bruce fight adamantly about whether a werewolf or vampire would win a fight.
It's smooth sailing, it really is, and Peter almost begins to believe he was perhaps a little dramatic in thinking visiting the tower would be challenging. At least, it is until the pizza arrives. Tony helps Peter plate up first, even though Peter is sixteen years old and perfectly capable of feeding himself, and grabs a seat next to him on the sofa, ruffling his hair and tucking him under his arm as the Avengers all sit and chat, sickeningly domestic.
Peter relaxes into the touch, relishing in the same warmth and safety he's been craving for weeks now. It's precisely what he needs after such a long twenty-four hours, and he finds himself irrationally annoyed once the call of his bladder becomes too insistent to ignore. Reluctantly, he pulls himself out of Tony's arms and heads out of the room.
“Just going to the toilet,” he calls over the din of the loud conversations the rest of them are having. Although he's irritated he had to leave his spot next to Tony even for a little, he's surprised by how relaxed he finds himself even when out of the room. It's like all he's needed ever since the little pit of anxiety began to grow in his stomach was a hug from Tony and the warmth of all his friends around him.
Once he's washed his hands and checked his face for any lingering traces of pizza, he heads back towards the lounge but catches murmurs of a conversation he can't help but stop and listen to.
“So, you're still insisting you're not Peter's dad?” Bucky asks, and Peter can picture the raised eyebrow on his face.
Tony scoffs. “Not this again.”
“Oh, come on, Stark,” Natasha cuts in. “After that display? You're still gonna try and deny it?”
Peter has a horrible feeling about what he's about to hear. The worst part is that all he needs to do to save himself the pain of hearing the words he's anticipating is to walk back in, pretend he hasn't heard anything, and carry on as though nothing happened. He can't do that, though. He's glued to the spot because as painful as he knows this will be for him, he has to hear Tony say it. He has to hear him say it when Peter knows he disagrees for once. He has to hear it to put these stupid feelings to bed for good.
“You have to admit, Tony,” Rhodey says gently, “you do act like a father to him.”
“Oh, for God's sake,” Tony retorts with a vehemence even Peter hadn't been expecting, slamming down what is probably the non-alcoholic beer he was drinking, “I'm not Peter's fucking father. I'm not, I never have been, and I never fucking want to be, okay? I like the kid, sure, we all do, but at the end of the day, he's just a smart little superhero I happen to mentor, alright? Now can that be the last I hear of that, please?”
The lounge is silent, but all Peter can hear is the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he feels his world collapse around him. Maybe he'd been stupid not to realise sooner just how much the fabric of the life he's constructed hinges on his relationship to one man – one stupid man his brain decided is his non-biological father figure – but he realises now, alright. Every brick, every stone, every fleck of mortar, every piece of his life of the last year crumbles into a messy heap at his feet, and all Peter can feel is his breath catching in his chest and the most profound sense of grief he's felt since he watched his uncle die in front of him sinking down into his gut.
Peter stays frozen for a good minute, but the slow sound of conversation (about what he has no idea, he still can't hear much for the white noise screaming in his head) starting back up again jolts him into action. Instead of leaving the tower or heading back into the lounge and storing this away to cry about later, he finds himself heading numbly for his unofficial room in the tower.
The bedspread is a soft baby blue, chosen by him and Tony poring over the same StarkPad as they selected some furnishings to decorate the room with, and there are a couple of posters up on the wall. The deodorant he'd left here the last time he came to stay is still on the dresser where he left it, and the hoodie he always steals from Tony is slung over the back of the chair at the desk.
It's his room. Everyone knows it. But Tony has never called it that. Instead, it's almost like he goes out of his way to avoid saying anything of the sort. It's usually 'the guest room', or sometimes it's vaguer, and Tony says 'upstairs' when he's really referring to the room Peter needs to head up to or has left something he needs in.
Now, sitting on the bed staring at the white walls numbly, he thinks that was probably for a reason. Tony doesn't want that attachment to him, doesn't want the implications of Peter having his own room at the tower. He probably didn't want to give him the wrong idea – the idea that, ironically, ended up making a nice, cosy home in his mind despite Tony's blatant efforts.
He wishes so desperately he wasn't this hurt. That even if hearing Tony say that stung a bit, he could just brush it off, accept his views on the matter, and join the rest of the group, even if keeping a little distance from the man himself would be advisable.
Instead, he feels deeply, deeply wounded. He didn't think he'd cry – he thought perhaps he was too numb for that – but as he stares at the wall; as the minutes tick by and the pain marinates in his chest, he feels tears begin to slip down his cheeks, and just like that, the dam is opened. Sobs begin to wrack his shoulders. He falls sideways onto the bed, curling into a protective ball as he cries into his cold hands and does everything he can to stifle his tears.
He stays like that for over an hour, and when he checks his phone, he's surprised and even more hurt that Tony didn't at least send anyone to check on him. But it's 9.45 now, and all Peter wants is a mug of hot chocolate, a hug from his Aunt May, and one of their comfort romcoms. He's thinking How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, but May always votes for Two Weeks' Notice.
So he pulls himself to his feet, a little concerned that he can't hear the Avengers on the other side of the tower, even when he strains his ears. It sounds like they've all dispersed, like Tony's outburst was a bit much for all of them, and it makes Peter even more insecure that Tony didn't come to check on him when he had nothing keeping him in the living room.
He heads for the side elevator, the one that'll deposit him nicely out of a concealed entrance in an alley behind the tower, listening carefully for any sign he'll run into anyone he knows – especially anyone who heard what Tony said.
Somehow, though, despite the building and especially this floor crawling with Avengers, he makes it to the elevator unimpeded and goes to press the button to take him down and safely away from this place of injury. Before he can hit the shiny little arrow, however, the doors open and bring him face to face with Tony Stark himself.
He's looking more than a little worse for wear, though Peter doubts he's looking his best either. He doesn't know what to do – stupidly, he hadn't prepared himself for this eventuality – so he freezes and stares dumbly at him, watching him struggle for something to say. If Peter had to guess, he'd estimate that a solid chunk of Tony's discomfort right now is because he doesn't know what to say when faced with an obviously upset teenage boy.
“Pete,” Tony starts, and it's then that Peter notices the oil rag in his hands. Tony glances down at it. “I was just in the shop,” he explains, like any clarification was needed. “Are you… y'know. Okay?”
It's then that the last iota of fight he had left in him rushes out, and he's suddenly very, very tired. “Yeah,” he sighs, closing his eyes and trying not to let out the tears that have inexplicably gathered behind his lids in only the last few seconds – the tired sort that stream without you really crying; the kind that only aids in exhaustion. “Yeah, I'm good.”
It's a lie, and they both know it. Still, Peter is very much counting on Tony's awkwardness and the very recent assertion that he isn't his dad as he tries to brush past him into the elevator.
“Whoa,” Tony says, catching him gently by the arm. “You're obviously not, kiddo. What's going on? And why are you sneaking out the back without anyone seeing you?” Concern is written in every line on his face, and it's exactly what Peter does not need to see right now.
“Seriously, Mr Stark, I'm fine,” Peter lies, not meeting his eye as a tear falls squarely off his down-turned face, landing noiselessly on the toe of his sneakers, decidedly not helping his case. “I just gotta get off now, May's expecting me.”
Tony sighs, sounding a little exasperated. “Come on, Pete, I wasn't born yesterday. You're clearly upset, and you can tell me what's wrong, bud, I promise. You wanna go down to the shop and talk it out?”
Anger fills Peter's gut upon hearing that. The emotions that have been raging through him over the last few hours all bubble up into his chest at once, drowning him in their intensity. “I don't want to do that, Mr Stark!” he shouts suddenly, wrenching his arm out of Tony's gentle hold and staggering away from him until his back's against the corridor wall. “I don't wanna do that because you've made it abundantly clear you don't wanna be my dad, okay? So stop doing things to make me think of you that way! It's not fair! How am I supposed to move on and get over these stupid fucking thoughts if you won't let me?”
Peter finishes, his chest heaving with emotion as the words hang between them. Something like dread begins to sink in as the words marinate further, and he realises exactly what he just said, exactly what he just admitted.
RUN. His brain screams the word at him over and over, and he has to agree. What else can he do?
“Now will you let me go?” he asks, small and defeated as the anger leaves and the sadness returns.
He brushes past a stunned Tony, walks into the elevator, presses the button for the ground floor, and freefalls all the way down.
★
He should've known better, however, than to expect Tony to really let him go that easily. He gets maybe eighty feet from the tower's back entrance before a sleek black car pulls up beside him.
“Get in, kid,” Happy grumbles from the front seat and Peter's too exhausted to fight it, so he reluctantly obeys.
Minutes later, he's steered towards the elevator with a hand on his shoulder and delivered to the Penthouse where the Avengers have cleared out, and Tony waits, anxiously biting at the nails on his left hand. He's trying to quit. They've had an agreement for a while now that if Peter catches him doing it, he's supposed to bat his hand away or call across the room if he's not close enough.
Tony's hand falls from his mouth once he sees him, but he thinks he'd have let him carry on if it hadn't. He's not feeling particularly charitable in regards to their jovial pacts right now.
“Pete,” Tony says quietly, walking over to him and taking him from Happy, leading him to the sofa and sitting closer than Peter wants him. He feels hot and ashamed and embarrassed. Quite frankly, he'd rather melt into the couch cushions and disappear than have this conversation.
“Kid, I–” he trails off before continuing helplessly. “I don't know where to start.” He keeps a tentative hand on his shoulder the way he'd done the first time he showed up at the Parkers' apartment, and the touch scalds in a way it never has.
“Then don't,” Peter says miserably, ducking the touch and scooting away down the sofa. “Just let me go home.”
Tony sighs. “I'm not gonna do that, kid. Not when you're sad and hurting and I'm the one who put you there.”
Peter looks up to meet his eyes sadly and relents slightly at the evident discomfort and unease he can see on his mentor's face. “Mr Stark, honestly, it's fine. I– I get it, you know? You don't see me that way, and that's– that's fine! You don't have to, and I'm trying, I really am; I'm trying to not see you that way, too, because I would hate–”
Tony cuts him off before he can get any further. “Pete,” he says earnestly, insistently, as he gently grabs his chin and turns him until he looks him in the eye. “The truth is… I do see you like that.”
Peter stares at him, confused and still wounded.
Tony sighs again, shifting and moving his hands to grip Peter's. “I didn't grow up like you, alright? I mean, I had a shit ton of privilege, and I won't deny any of that, but I didn't grow up knowing what it was to be loved. I didn't grow up knowing what a healthy father-son relationship looks like. And at the time, I pretended I didn't care, but that kind of treatment, it… scars you.”
He reaches up again to gently cup Peter's face, running a thumb along his cheekbone as he looks at him earnestly. “That's served me poorly with you, Pete. I– I run away from these meaningful connections and the labels that – let's be honest – do accurately fit the bill, because I'm scared. My biggest fear my whole life has been turning into my father, but the area of my life I fear it most is in my relationship with you. I'm so scared I'm gonna fuck it up that it's become the thing actually making me fuck up.”
He pulls back and looks at Peter for a moment, seemingly deliberating briefly, before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. “Oh Pete,” he whispers into Peter's hair, and Peter feels himself melt against his mentor's chest, breathing in the comforting smell of Tony, of safety as he revels in the feeling of being held and loved and treasured. “You are my kid. You're my son in every sense of the word. I want to be your dad more than anything I've ever wanted in my entire life.”
Peter doesn't realise he's crying until a sob chokes its way out of his mouth. Tony pulls back slightly, hushing him gently and readjusting them on the sofa until they're horizontal and Peter's nestled right up against him. Tony runs his fingers through his hair, whispering quieting words softly until Peter stops crying, able to finally just enjoy the affection he's been craving from Mr Stark from his dad for weeks now.
“I'm so sorry, Pete,” Tony says again, his hand not stilling in Peter's curls. “You deserve so much and I'm so scared I'll never be able to measure up.”
“You don't have to worry about that, Mr Stark,” Peter murmurs, voice thick from emotion and exhaustion. “Everybody messes up sometimes, right? And I don't think you'd ever do something to intentionally hurt me. I just want you to be you. I love you just like that.”
“I love you too, kid,” Tony says almost desperately, gathering him close again. “More than you could ever know.”
An hour or so later finds them back in Peter's room. Peter has never felt more at peace than with Tony perched next to him on the bed as he lays there with his eyes closed, listening to Tony's Italian lullabies and relaxing into the soothing caresses in his hair. His mentor smells like safety and home just as much as he smells of the oil and danger of his workshop, and it's an intoxicating soporific that has him drifting off to sleep in moments.
“Night, dad,” he mumbles sleepily, burying deeper into the duvet.
“Sweet dreams, Tesoro,” is the last thing he hears, and the last thing he feels is a gentle kiss on his forehead.