Chapter Text
Tony hates Peter Parker from the first moment the young man steps into the restaurant; with his stiff posture, his perfectly ironed collared shirt, his leather oxfords; the way his chin is lifted as he approaches Tony’s table.
“Stark,” he greets and takes the chair. He folds his hands on top of his knee. He doesn’t take off his sunglasses. Tony never used to take his sunglasses off either, back when he was a conceited jerk.
“Peter Parker,” Tony says. “The famed heir to Aphelion industries. Until last week, of course.”
He wasn’t even aware of the existence of Parker jr. until that existence was splattered across front pages of the tabloids. Something about dorm violations, a student conduct committee hearing, and getting expelled from college only three months after starting there.
From the cursory glances Tony cast at the articles, he gleaned that Peter Parker was being groomed by his parents to take over their space exploration company. But after the recent fallout, his position is up in the air. “Mom and dad cut you out of their will, yet?”
Peter’s chin lifts a fraction higher, and Tony wonders if his neck is hurting yet. “Crass,” he says. “At least get me properly drunk first, Stark.”
Tony gives a gracious smile and beckons the waiter. Parker orders something gross with cauliflower, rattling off the French cuisine jargon without a hitch. When he gets his napkin, he folds it with the crease facing toward himself and drapes it into his lap, perfectly by the book, and Tony has to resist the urge to reach across the table and throttle him. “Remind me how you ended up expelled from college in your first trimester?”
“I believe the hole I put in my dorm room wall was the last straw,” Parker says, deliberately casual. Everything about him feels calculated. Like his personality is a jacket he carefully selected and put on.
“Expected to skate by because your parents are rich?” His own parents sure as hell spent gallons of money to keep Tony’s college career on track despite his antics. Perhaps Richard and Mary Parker have better parenting skills than Howard and Maria Stark did and decided it was high time for their son to learn his lesson the hard way.
Parker sips his wine and says nothing. A careful, calculated non-reply.
“Hey,” Tony says, pointing his fork at the wine glass. “Are you twenty-one yet?”
“The waiter didn’t complain, you shouldn’t either. I’ve been drinking champagne since I was twelve, Stark. The only one who shouldn’t be allowed to drink is you, after pairing Cabernet Sauvignon with salmon. Sacrilege.”
Pompous little prick. “So what’s next for Peter Parker?”
“You tell me. We’re here for a reason, I assume.”
“I’m offering you a paid internship at Stark Industries. A very well-paid internship. And I’ll take you with or without college degree.”
“Is that so? Standards at Stark Industries have dropped significantly.”
“Your parents have been grooming you to take over the company, correct? You’ve been working closely alongside them, alongside their best scientists and technicians. I’m sure you’ve learned a fair deal. We could use that expertise at Stark Industries.”
“Essentially,” Parker says, “you want to pay me to reveal my parents’ company secrets.”
“Yes,” Tony says, cheerfully. “Thank you for catching on so quickly.”
Parker doesn’t look offended. He doesn’t even look surprised. He just gives Tony a measuring look, fingers tapping against his wineglass. He is from that echelon of society where people will happily step on each other to make it to the top. The Parkers in particular, Tony knows from experience; every single one of them would sell their own grandmother. It wouldn’t surprise Tony if Peter Parker didn’t possess a shred of genuine loyalty for his own parents.
Frankly, he is banking on it. “The alternative, of course, is moving back in with mommy and daddy.”
Parker narrows his eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Tony personally believes that Mary and Richard Parker are about as unpleasant to be around as two wet, farting dogs. “Come on,” he says. “You’re what, nineteen, twenty? Surely you want to stick it to your old man. I sure did when I was your age.”
“This is your solution to your own incompetence?” Parker scathes. “Cheating off people who know better than you?”
“I’ll even pay you handsomely. You can revert to the lifestyle you are used to, but entirely independent from your family’s control. A wet dream for any college kid, isn’t it?”
“Draw me up a contract,” Parker says. “I’ll consider the offer.”
-
Peter does need money. He has to leave his dorm room in Boston by the end of the month. Preferably sooner, because his dormmates are a vengeful bunch and seem determined to make his final weeks here as miserable as possible. He needs an apartment. His only alternative is going back home. He knows his parents will accept him there, albeit begrudgingly. They hardly have a choice as long as he is – contrary to what Stark appears to believe – still a minor.
Nevertheless.
Own job equals own money. Own money equals own apartment. The math isn’t all that complicated.
He hangs his coat, sits at his desk. “Hi, Karen.”
“Hi, Peter. How was your business lunch?”
Karen. The only entity in his life who ever shows any interest in his day-to-day. “As expected. Anything from Stark in the mail?”
“An employment contract was received. I have analyzed the terms, highlighted some key phrases for you to review and outlined a first draft for a counteroffer.”
Peter kicks his shoes off. Improper, his mother’s voice echoes in the back of his head. He draws up his legs. “You think I should make a counteroffer, huh?”
“I’ve researched market rates. A counteroffer of 9% additional pay is likely to be successful.”
“I don’t want to push too hard,” Peter murmurs. “I need this deal. I don’t have many alternatives and I think Stark knows it.”
“A counteroffer of 9% additional pay is likely to be successful,” Karen repeats. And then adds, randomly: “Would you like to review some pictures of ducks?”
Peter exhales slowly and swivels his desk chair. “No, I’m good. And thanks for the advice.” He stands and sets his shoes neatly inside the shoe rack, tucking the laces inside like his mother taught him. He stares down at the six pairs of oxfords, lined up, and hates himself a tiny bit.
He’d like to wear sneakers sometimes. Tony Stark wore sneakers today, why shouldn’t Peter be allowed to wear sneakers?
Own job, own money, own apartment, own shoes?
He shuffles back to his desk, opens the bottom drawer and reaches into the far corner to take out his old phone. He shoved it out of sight two months ago and hasn’t taken it out since. His heartbeat picks up as he plugs in the charger and waits for the screen to light up.
Ned’s last message is only two days old. It is long and rambling, something about their new math teacher being the antichrist. Guilt reaches up from his stomach and grips him around the throat when he scrolls up to see that all these months, Ned has been texting him several times a week.
MJ’s last message, on the other hand, is over a month old. Call me.
He doesn’t call. He types out a short message that he sends to their group chat. On the off chance that you’re still willing to talk to me. I’m coming back to New York.
-
It is around seven months ago today that he told his parents in no uncertain terms that he had no desire to go to college at fifteen; that he wanted to stay in high school, stay with his friends and graduate at eighteen like an average Joe.
Richard had responded by dislocating his shoulder.
His father had always been… impulsive, but this was definitely over-and-above. Then again, Peter had never point blank refused to conform to his demands. When it came to facing his parents he was, generally, a coward. And what they wanted was a genius son who would go to MIT at fifteen and ideally would have around twelve PHDs by the time he was legally allowed to drink.
The shoulder had healed overnight, though it can still get sore whenever the weather is cold or Peter’s spirits are low. But the worst part is, he went. Because he was a coward. He accepted admission, signed up for classes and applied for housing. He told MJ and Ned that it was his decision. When they pressed the issue, he snapped at them until they let the matter rest.
The short-lived college career that followed was a spectacular train wreck. It started out reasonably well. He can count on one hand the number of lectures he actually attended, but he improved his web fluid formula, updated his AI, got his driver’s license, researched methods to clear the oceans of plastic. He was being useful, at least.
It ended with being up all night and sleeping all day, surviving on a diet of mostly chips and ramen, driving his car into a ditch, and destroying university property… mostly accidentally.
Improper, improper, improper.
But now, maybe rock-bottom is the foundation he can rebuild his life on.
He is tired of being a coward.
-
“Fruit!” Tony announces, and throws an apple into Natasha’s lap.
She almost bats it away – as if expecting a grenade – before realizing what it is. “What?”
Tony hoists his daughter higher in his arms, sets his other hand on his hip. “You’ve been sitting on that couch all afternoon. You need a fruit break. We all know you eat like a freaking garbage disposal.”
Morgan gurgles.
“My daughter agrees.”
Natasha turns her attention back to her laptop. “You know what you are?”
“A loving and caring team member?”
“Yes. It’s freaking me out. Stop it at once. I preferred you before you had offspring.”
Tony chuckles softly. “No, you didn’t. God, I was a punk. I just met my younger self yesterday over a business lunch. I wanted to punch him in his perfect white teeth before he even opened his mouth.”
“Projecting, much?”
“Eat your apple and hug my daughter,” Tony tells her, before depositing Morgan into her lap, right on top of her keyboard. “It’s very restorative. You work too much. Steve doesn’t work this hard when he’s in charge.” Steve is in Wakanda with Bucky and Sam for a discreet mission and not expected back for at least another two weeks.
“Are you going to write a joint procurement agreement?” Natasha asks Morgan, fitting her thumbs into Morgan’s tiny hands. “I didn’t think so.”
Morgan gives a delighted shriek, wobbling in her lap.
Pepper appears in the room, thick dossiers in off-putting moldy and dusty colors balancing in her arms. “I need you to sign off on a few things, Tony.”
“Can’t you do it?”
“No. I’m tired. I’m pregnant.”
“Your baby is literally right over there. Almost a year old, I might add.”
“You’re such a nitpicker.” She shoves the files into his hands.
“Why can’t these folders have nice sprightly colors? Can we get an order in for some neon-colored ones?”
“I’ll put it right at the top of my to do list.”
“Sarcasm?”
“Duh.” She yawns, tugs at the drawstrings of her sweatpants. “Mr. Parker replied. He made a counteroffer of 9% additional pay.”
“Greedy little fucker, isn’t he?” Tony waves a hand. “Just give him what he wants. I want him here, I’ll spare no expense and I think he knows it. I’m frankly surprised he didn’t demand more.”
“I’ll offer him six percent,” she decides. “If we agree too easily, he will demand more.”
“No, don’t you push my luck. I want this deal, and it’s a matter of time before other competitors in the field get the same bright idea and steal him away. Give him what he wants.”
She shoots him a look, drags a hand through her hair. “I think I know how to negotiate deals, Tony.”
“And I know how people like him function. I used to be people like him. Just give him the money, Pepper, please. Pretty please with cherries on top?”
“Ugh, fine,” she concedes. “When he comes back with more demands, I’ll be pleased to tell you ‘I told you so’ in a very childish manner. I’ll make a powerpoint about it.”
“Invite me to watch,” Natasha says.
-
Ned is typing….
Every time Peter checks his old phone, he sees that same message appear. Either Ned is composing the longest answer in the history of mankind, or he has spent the past hours frantically typing, backspacing, typing again.
Both options are entirely, one hundred percent Ned.
In the end, it’s MJ who sends him a message back. Ihop. Saturday. 11h00.
Not enough to calm his nerves. But enough to let him feel like he can breathe again.
-
The landlord is an elderly man with a wrinkly face. “You’re sixteen?” he confirms with a glance at his ID. “I’ll need a parent or guardian to sign off on this.”
“No problem, sir.”
He has signed his contract at Stark Industries. He got his extra nine percent without any hassle. It seems Stark really wants this.
Peter wants this, too. Not just because he needs the money. His parents wanted him to specialize in the use of ferrofluids for spacecraft propulsion. Peter is much more interested in the use of ferrofluids to remove microplastics from water. And now he has an opportunity to research exactly that, backed by Stark Industries’ funding. All he’ll have to do is make his new boss believe that this whole project was his mother’s idea, that these are the company secrets he should be after. He isn’t going to lie about it; he won’t need to. He is long-used to phrasing things in such a way that people draw their own conclusions in a way favorable to him. A trick he learned from his mother.
The apartment he found is soulless. Laminate floors attempting to be tasteful. Cheap lighting. Improper, improper. His mother would take one step into the hallway and shudder with horror.
He wishes he could stop caring about that, stop seeing his own life through his parent’s eyes.
“Shared laundry facility in the basement,” the landlord says as he leads Peter into the bedroom.
Peter always dumped his own clothes at the dry cleaners. He only touched a washing machine in his dorm room once, and it was because he needed to know – for scientific purposes – what would happen if he put a bag of chalk through a washing cycle. His dorm mates didn’t appreciate that much. It was probably somewhere around… strike nine.
“Laundry facility in the basement,” he repeats, and nods.
His mother would be apoplectic at the idea of him doing his own laundry.
“Send me the lease,” he says. “I’ll have all the necessary documents for you by the end of the week.” Maybe this can be a place where he can wake up and feel like he belongs.
-
In between packing, he sends the lease to his mother to sign.
She calls him a grand total of three minutes later, Peter’s phone vibrating against the carpet floor. Peter uses a toe to put her on speaker. “Hello, mother.”
“Are you testing me, dear?”
Peter sighs through tensing muscles and continues wrapping his microscope in newspaper. “What?”
“Sending me a lease for an apartment. Is that how you want to open negotiations?”
“I’m your son, not your business associate. Can you just tell me what the problem is?”
“There is no problem at all. You’re coming home. If you have a problem with that, it’s not my problem.”
He drops the duct tape and snatches his other hand out to grab it before it rolls away. “You want me to come home?”
“Obviously.”
His shoulder starts aching immediately. A throbbing pain.
During his months at MIT, he never visited his parents, never even called them, and the one time he did, they sounded vexed. Like he had interrupted them in something far more important than their only heir’s day-to-day. They wanted to monitor his every move, but only from afar. They wanted his existence boiled down to numbers and status reports. “I don’t understand. You’re the ones who shipped me off to college in the first place. Since when do you want me at home?”
“Since you started making tabloid headlines, what else? You think I’m letting you live in some plebeian condo where you can continue to destroy the family’s reputation?”
“It’s gonna be different there.”
“I don’t see a single difference, apart from the fact that whatever form of supervision was left at MIT, you’re not getting there.”
The difference is, Spider-Man will have his own city back. Hopefully, he’ll have his friends. Hopefully, he’ll be able to work on projects that actually interest him. He’ll be doing something his parents didn’t choose for him for the first time in his life. “What’s your plan for me, then? Back to high school?”
“Certainly not. You’d lose face. Whatever damage was done over the last months, I’ll undo it. No need to thank me, I’m only your mother, after all. Let your father know when you’ve finished packing and he’ll make arrangements.”
Peter picks nervously at the duct tape to find the end. “But I… Mom... I already made my own arrangements.”
“I’m not arguing the point. You’re not usually this difficult.”
“Maybe because dad can’t dislocate my shoulder over the phone.”
“Your father is an incompetent fuck,” she says. “Whether he is attempting to manage the company or you. Go down this road and you’ll end up the same as him.” She always says ‘your father’ in a tone of voice like she has nothing to do with him, like Peter is the one who chose him, somehow. “I already got the whole board hot on my damn ass about the future of Aphelion. I’m working around the clock to get them back to a more favorable stance about your future here. I could use a more constructive and mature attitude from you.”
The company is really his mother’s. She took it over from her parents and handed the positions of board members over to her husband and her various cousins. His father… Peter isn’t even sure where he grew up, but he is pretty sure Richard didn’t come from money. His father’s side of the family is never talked about. He thinks he met an uncle one time at a funeral.
During his parents’ frequent fights, his mother regularly pulls the divorce-card and threatens to leave Richard with nothing. As Peter grows older, he is starting to suspect that his father is living in perpetual fear of getting cut off.
Peter would much rather cut himself off. “I got a job,” he says. “I found my own place. If you want mature, why don’t you let me fix my own mess? I want---”
“You’re sixteen. What you want is entirely inconsequential. You’re a child.”
Funny, he is only a child in his mother’s eyes when it suits her purpose.
“You’re coming home.”
His heart is beating rabbit-quick. There are pins and needles now, from his bad shoulder all the way down to his fingertips. “And if I don’t? You’ll send the police after me, social workers? Imagine the blow to your reputation if that went public.”
“I see you’re learning how to play this game,” she says coolly. “But don’t forget who you learned it from. Are you sure you want to play against me, dear? Here’s check and mate. I’m not signing this lease. I’m not signing any lease. So either find yourself a shithole apartment above a weed plantation where they’ll let you stay illegally. Or grow the fuck up and come back home.”
She hangs up.
He has yet to come away from a conversation with his mother without feeling like the stupidest person on the planet.
He picks at the roll of duct tape a few seconds longer, but his vision blurs around the edges. He gives up and flings the stupid thing through the room. He sags to the floor, drops his head into his hands and tries inhaling slowly. Somehow, he ends up only feeling more breathless.
He is seeing his friends on Saturday. He wants to be able to tell them that he’s going to be okay, that he finally figured things out.
“Karen. I think I might be losing my mind.”
“I have no protocol for that,” she says. “Please elaborate.”
“No. It’s fine. Just anxiety.”
“Would you like me to download a guided meditation?”
“Fuck. No.” His mother is fanatical about mediation. Meditation and kale smoothies. And gemstones; amethyst for her insomnia, citrine to help her close profitable business deals. For a renowned scientist, she is remarkably drawn to that mumbo-jumbo. She likes the illusion of control, of course, that is it. Peter just wishes she wouldn’t always try to force it down his throat.
She bought him a watch a few years ago. With inlaid natural green peridot. Peter never googled the pseudoscientific powers of green peridot, but it is probably meant to keep him docile or something.
“Meditations are scientifically proven to—”
“I don’t care, Karen. No meditations. Just… New protocol. Don’t suggest them. Don’t even mention them.”
He should throw his watch out. He suddenly isn’t even sure why he still wears this thing.
“Understood. Is there any other way I can be of assistance?”
“No, I was just saying it to… to vent. When I’m venting, I just need you to listen, mostly. And say stuff like ‘yeah, I totally get that, one thousand percent,’ every now and then.”
“Understood. Creating protocol now.”
He rests his forehead down against his knees. “Karen. Do you experience feelings?”
“Define ‘feel’,” she says. “I label certain physical events as categories of sensations.”
“Do you think you… care about me?”
“My aim is always to maximize your mental and physical wellbeing.”
Which is a hell of a lot more than anyone else has ever done for him. “Okay. I’ll take it. Thanks, Karen.”
-
“Do human babies experience the full range of human emotions? Or do they acquire new emotions as they grow up, based on input?”
“Just hug my daughter, Vision. Don’t ask me existential questions until I’ve had my third cup of coffee.”
“Noted.” Vision balances Morgan on one knee and studies her intently as she chirps, her body sagging to one side.
“She likes you,” Tony says.
“How do you know?”
“She’s laughing.”
“I watched her spend twenty minutes laughing at a spoon yesterday.”
“So she likes spoons a little more than she likes you.”
Pepper shuffles into the room, loosely holding her phone on one hand. “Tony. Guess what. Guess.” Her smile is wide but slightly dangerous around the edges.
“I did something stupid?”
“Well. Yes.” she says. “But that’s not an impressive guess, you’re always doing something stupid.”
“Just lay it on me.”
“I have another email here from your prospective employee, Mr. Parker. He wants to make an appointment to renegotiate the terms of the contract.” She starts typing out a message on her phone.
“Are you replying to him?”
“No. I’m texting Nat to let her know I’m about to tell you ‘I told you so’.”
-
Tony meets with Peter Parker in an office down the hall from their living room. The living room where Pepper and Natasha are having tea right now, probably sharing jokes about him.
Tony had insisted to them that he could deal with Parker’s demands just fine. In reply, Pepper had pointed out that he couldn’t even fill a spreadsheet out properly.
Pepper Potts, the patron saint of admin. It’s rich that they make him out to be the liability here when Clint is the one who sets off the fire alarm on an almost weekly basis because he decided to crawl into a vent and make grilled cheese in there.
Either way, he has a reputation to uphold. “So what is it?” he asks, considerably more impatient than during their last meeting and not bothering to hide it. “What percentage are you shooting for now? Why couldn’t we have dealt with it via email?”
“I want room and board,” Parker says, his face an utterly blank façade, his eyes barely visible behind his sunglasses. He is wearing impeccable clothing again, but paired with sneakers this time. And he brought a metal suitcase with sharp ridges.
“This isn’t MIT, Mr. Parker,” Tony says. Slowly. Because he is starting to doubt this young man’s intelligence. Which is unfortunate, because Tony had high hopes for their collaboration.
“I am aware.”
“You can use the salary to get any apartment you want.”
“I want room and board here. I’ll give up the nine percent extra pay.”
“We don’t offer room and board to employees. This is not just Stark Industries. This is Avengers tower. The breach in security—”
“And if I were hypothetically enhanced,” Peter says, his chin lifted. “Would that help move things along?”
“Uh,” Tony says, “what?”
It turns out he needs Pepper and Natasha in here, after all.
-
“Spider-Man,” Natasha repeats.
“Yes,” Parker says. His posture is deceptively casual, but there’s tension along the curve of his back. He had taken off his sunglasses as soon as Natasha stepped into the room, and the sudden show of respect for her annoys Tony to no end.
On the table between them lies the opened metal suitcase. Inside is the spider-suit and a fine collection of webshooters. Tony’s hands are itching; he is actually currently sitting on them to keep himself from reaching out to inspect them.
“Spider-Man hasn’t been active in a few months,” Natasha probes.
“And I’m sure you now realize why.”
“Yes. And Tony is free to hire whatever college drop-out young delinquent he wants for his company, but I don’t just accept anyone on our team.”
“Delinquent is dramatic,” Parker says, twirling his sunglasses around in his hand. “And I seem to remember Captain America tried to recruit me onto the team several times.”
“You refused.”
“I was young.”
“Yes, you would have been,” Natasha agrees, slowly tapping her fingers together.
“And he undersold this gig, honestly.”
Natasha’s lips quirk up. “Consider it a trial period,” she says. “We can’t make a final decision until the rest of the team is back in the country. Until Steve is back.”
Parker releases a breath and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
He has never referred to Tony as ‘sir’, and Tony is annoyed again.
“I expect we could use someone like you on the team.”
Tony wants to scoff, but holds it back. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, more than anything else. Until literally an hour ago, he would have fallen over himself to agree that Spider-Man should be recruited onto the team. Before he knew who was behind the mask.
“You have personal belongings to collect?” Natasha asks. “When can you move in?”
“I can collect them now and be back this evening.”
“Report back to me as soon as you’re here and we’ll go over our rules and the day-to-day. Any questions at this stage?”
“Will I be required to do my own laundry?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Tony scathes before Natasha can respond. “This isn’t the Ritz.”
Parker smiles. “Very well.”
-
Peter sends his apologies to the elderly landlord. He instead rents a van and then hires some NYU students who are willing to drive with him to Boston and help him get all his belongings back to New York by tonight.
He doesn’t really know what the going rate for something like that would be, but he quickly finds a Sally and a Thomas who jump at the chance to drive up and down for a hundred bucks each.
Maybe he overpaid.
He only had a few things left to pack and gets on with it while the other two carry boxes to the van. He hesitates -- his hands hovering over his loathed six pairs of oxfords, neatly lined up in the shoe rack -- glances down at the sneakers he bought yesterday.
“Hey,” he says, catching Thomas’ attention. “What’s your shoe size? Do you like oxfords?”