Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter was out of his element.

Glasses clinked. Champagne sizzled. Blinding bleach-white teeth grinned. Attendees chattered.

Somewhere, a piano played. Did Tony Stark have a piano at his events? Probably. The man was known for his flair and dramatics. It was one of the many things Peter’s boss, Norman Osborn, hated about Stark. A few of the other things he hated about the billionaire were his attitude, his unprofessionalism, his ego, his goatee, his wealth, his fame, how he dresses, how he talks…So, everything, really. Peter wasn’t sure there was a single thing about the man that Norman didn’t loathe.

Peter raised his glass of water to his mouth and took a sip, trying to hide his nerves. He was eight months away from the legal drinking age and looked young for his age, so no champagne, even if the buzz would’ve helped. His eyes darted around the large room. Could everyone tell he got his suit from a second-hand store? He tugged at the end of the sleeve, which went just past his wrist. Was it obvious it was too large? In the mirror tacked to the door of his dorm, it seemed to swallow him whole. His roommate, Ned, assured him that he looked “snazzy” and ushered him out the door so he would arrive on time. Now, standing alone in a ballroom full of business people Dr. Osborn instructed him to network with, shifting his weight between his feet and sipping on his water, Peter felt ridiculous.

Dr. Osborn was around here somewhere, Peter just hadn’t run into him yet. He craned his neck to look over the crowd, searching for the tall man, but to no avail. Where was he?

“Young man,” someone to his left said. A man, probably mid-forties to early fifties, extended a hand in Peter’s direction. He took it, shook it, and wondered if he knew the balding guy. “What’s a kid like you doing here? Must have some friends in high places, eh?”

Peter offered a polite smile and pocketed his hand after the handshake. “I guess you could say that. I’m here with Dr. Osborn, I’m his intern-slash-undergraduate assistant.”

The man’s eyes sparkled with surprise. “No kidding. What’s he got you doing, fetching coffee and taking out the trash?” He laughed.

Peter’s smile, once semi-confident, became strained. Trying to match the man’s energy, he joked, “Between you and me, Dr. Osborn prefers chai over coffee.” He didn’t.

“Does he now?” The man clapped a heavy hand down on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed, laughing. “It was nice to meet you, kid. What’d you say your name was?”

The condensation on his glass cup made his grip slippery. He switched hands and wiped the wet one on his pants, hiding the action by tucking the hand into his front pocket. “Peter Parker, sir. And you are?”

“Jeffrey Burns.” The man—Jeffrey—finally retracted his clammy palm from Peter’s shoulder. “Good luck with your future endeavors, young man. Let’s just hope Norman doesn’t snuff out that spark by the time he’s done with you.”

With those oh-so-kind parting words, the man continued on, cheerfully greeting more guests. With a stifled wince, Peter rolled his shoulder and took another sip of his water. Where the hell was Dr. Osborn? The man never specifically said that they’d be going together, but when you invite your intern to one of the biggest and most exclusive events of the year, you’d want to be by their side. Especially after just scoring a patent on revolutionary tech that same intern designed.

Right?

Peter felt like a guppy amidst sharks. Literally sharks, in two senses of the word: Mark Cuban was in attendance, and there was an exotic aquarium with hammerheads in the lobby. As Peter first entered the tower and passed by the large, spotless tank with circling sharks, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Vector’s pet shark in Despicable Me.

He was drowning, sharks or no sharks. He tugged at his collar. Everything felt wrong. Even his shoes weren’t his, they were Ned’s. His roommate wore two sizes larger than Peter, so he wore an extra pair of socks to try to take up more room so the shoes didn’t turn into flipflops when he walked. But it was fine.

Totally fine.

Peter tipped the glass back, but nothing came out. He frowned at the empty glass. Damn. His eyes latched onto a set of double doors and, before his mind totally caught up with his movements, he was setting his empty glass on a table and making his way to the doors, opening them and stepping out into the cool March air. The doors slowly closed shut behind him, shutting out the chatter from the party and encasing him in the silence of the terrace eighty-or-so floors above the street.

Air filled his lungs easily. Running a hand down his face, Peter leaned his elbows against the railing and gazed out at the city lights. They were like fake stars, illuminating the skyline below the pitch-black abyss hanging over him. There was a time when he would’ve been able to look up and point out constellations, but now he didn’t remember half of them. And, besides, he lived in New York City now. The only stars were the ones that appeared on late night talk shows.

He hung his head and searched the dark streets below. From that high, he could hardly make out the little ants—people—walking.

“It truly is the city that never sleeps.”

Peter straightened and turned, heart in his throat. He hadn’t even realized the door had opened. But that wasn’t the most surprising part, because Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, Dr. Osborn’s sworn enemy, host of the very gala Peter was at, stood in the doorway. He let the door close and offered a smile.

Fuck. Peter hadn’t prepared for this. Was his suit wrinkled? Did his hair look goofy? Ned said he looked like a disheveled Prince Charming, which was apparently a compliment. Now, facing the man that had some of the most scientifically advanced research in multiple fields—engineering, biochemistry, thermodynamics, clean energy—Peter was aware of every little inch of his skin.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter uttered, quickly, because he realized Stark said something. To him.

Fuck.

Oblivious to—or maybe simply just unbothered by—Peter’s panic, Stark took his place beside him and rested his arms against the railing just as Peter had moments ago. He studied Peter’s face. “You from New York?”

“No,” he said. “Well. Yes.”

Tony quirked a brow.

Peter returned to his original position, his arms back on the railing and leaning his weight against them. He weaved his fingers together. “I mean, I didn’t move to New York City until I was eleven. I grew up upstate.”

“Ah. Small town boy.”

Peter’s brow furrowed.

Stark immediately backtracked. “Small town man. Sorry. I’m not around the youth very often. My handlers think I’m a bad influence.” He winked. “Peter Parker, right?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“What, what?” Stark squinted. “Did I ambush the wrong awkward college student?”

“No, I’m Peter Parker. I just—” He turned to Stark fully. “How do you know who I am?”

“I do my homework on everyone who steps through my doors,” Stark said. He messed with the chunky gold watch on his wrist. “Sophomore. Double major in Computer Science and Biochemistry with a minor in Engineering. 4.0 GPA.”

Peter took a subconscious step back.

“Most importantly,” Stark continued, clasping his hands together and resuming eye-contact with Peter. The moonlight illuminated something mischievous in his eyes. “You’re one of Norman Osborn’s little minions.”

Ah. So that’s Stark’s angle—He wanted something. Stark Industries and Oscorp were notoriously out for each other’s throats, constantly one-upping each other. SI began as a weapons manufacturer but, after some controversy in the 90s, more recently became a research house and a manufacturer of clean energy solutions. Although Oscorp was always more of a scientific corporation, their efforts oftentimes overlapped, making them compete for clients and partners. There also seemed to be some weird history between Dr. Osborn and Stark that Peter wasn’t all that informed about but was nevertheless present. The way Dr. Osborn spoke of Stark in the lab made it sound like the man had murdered his whole family.

Dr. Osborn always said Stark was greedy, manipulative, and corrupt. Still, it surprised Peter that the man would actually approach him while he was alone to get some sort of information from him.

Instead of following his gut and getting the hell out of there before Dr. Osborn caught him alone with his rival, Peter remarked, “We prefer to be called interns.”

“Potato, patato.” Stark waved it off. “Say, that research on that reclaimed carbon fiber project sure is interesting.”

And there it was. It took everything in Peter to not roll his eyes.

“I know Norman’s name is written all over O-Fiber, patent pending,” Stark said, voice teetering between business-talk and small-talk, “but there’s no way a dinosaur like him with a carbon footprint worse than the entire country of China came up with the idea for an eco-friendlier version of carbon fiber that’s just as, if not more, durable.”

Peter shifted. “What are you asking?”

Stark feigned innocence and shrugged. “I’m not asking anything. Just curious where the concept and design came from, is all. You wouldn’t happen to have sat in on any conversations about it to do meeting minutes? Or even walk in to distribute coffee and overhear some stuff about who did what?”

Why did everyone assume all he did for Dr. Osborn was fetch him coffee? Yes, he did do that—though coffee runs were mostly for the other scientists, whereas Dr. Osborn preferred whiskey—but he was the one who came up with the whole freakin’ design for the carbon fiber that was projected to make Oscorp millions. Not to mention the amount of energy it’d be conserving.

“I don’t think I’ve heard anything about a carbon fiber…thing.”

“Really? Nothing about corrosion resistance, its energy diffusion capabilities, if some other big name got involved?”

Peter bit his cheek, physically keeping himself from saying anything related to the project. Even if it was Peter’s design and research, he could be fired. Osborn owned it. Osborn owned him.

Despite the chill, perspiration prickled under his armpits.

“Even if I did hear something about it,” Peter said, “why would I tell you anything?”

Stark tilted his head. Eyes squinted and lips pursed, he just studied Peter. Like he was seeing him for the first time, properly.

Peter threw a glance over his shoulder. Osborn was still nowhere in sight.

Stark straightened, no longer leaning on the railing, and tucked his hands in the front pockets of his tailored suit. For the first time, he and Peter were facing each other head-on.

Peter’s stomach flipped.

“You worked on it.” It wasn’t a question.

He couldn’t handle the eye-contact. He turned back to the skyline and shook his head. “I’m just a college intern.” Was he that readable? Or was Stark just that perceptive? There was no way he could have known Peter, specifically, was involved in any way. The rest of the lab didn’t even know, not really.

Stark stepped closer. “What’s he paying you? I can pay you more.”

“I’m not selling you Oscorp secrets.” Peter’s eyes darted to Tony’s. “Which I don’t have.”

“Uh-huh.” Extending a business card between two fingers, Stark leveled Peter with a steady gaze. When he hesitantly took it with a quirked brow, Stark said, “Just in case you change your mind.”

His eyes flickered to the card. On the front, a nondescript email in Comic Sans. The back, nothing. “You should really fire your graphic designer.”

“Oh, I’ve got great graphic designers. This is just a special card I made myself, so thanks for the insult.” Stark grinned. “It’s the secret email I use for free trials and to subscribe to bird watching newsletters. Don’t lose it.”

“Right.” Peter tucked it into his pocket. “Uh. Thanks, I guess.”

Stark nodded once. “Great talk. See you around, Mr. Parker. Don’t stay out here too long, the party’s just getting started.”

With that, the man made his exit, opening both double doors and sliding through, immediately garnering the attention of the formally dressed men and women nearby. Stark greeted them with his paparazzi smile that gets plastered all over the New York Post every other day. As the doors fell closed, the murmuring of rich scientists and their spouses was muted. Peter watched as Stark was swept away in the crowd.

Alone—again—Peter slipped the card out of his pocket and studied it. If Dr. Osborn knew about the conversation he and Stark just had, he’d flip. He probably would’ve preferred it if Peter threw himself off the terrace and let the impact explode his organs all over the sidewalk than accept the business card.

He considered getting rid of the evidence—ripping it in half and tossing it over the railing—but hesitated. It wasn’t like the email even remotely seemed to connect to Tony Stark. What was the harm? Dr. Osborn would never know.

Slipping the card back into his pocket, Peter took a deep breath, steeled himself, plastered a smile on his face, and walked back inside.

Almost as soon as the door closed behind him, someone with a microphone out of Peter’s line of sight starts thanking people for their financial support of some charity that helped fund…something. Probably research. The murmurs quieted as everyone turned to face the stage. Trying to fit in, Peter shuffled that way as well. He couldn’t see the stage without rising to the tips of his toes. It was slightly embarrassing—he wasn’t exactly “tall,” which didn’t help him look any older since he also happened to have a baby face—but, looking over and around people’s heads, he was able to locate the speaker: Virginia Potts, Tony Stark’s executive assistant. The tall, slender woman was donning a tight black dress that cut off at her knees, and her ginger hair was sleeked back in a tight bun.

Just as Peter started tuning in to the speech, a hand landed on his shoulder. Startling, he turned. “Dr. Osborn.”

His boss was wearing a black suit with a dark green tie. His thinning hair—which was normally a mess—was styled back and away from his face.

“Peter, I was just looking for you.”

Peter’s hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the card, making sure it hadn’t slipped out. It burned a hole in his palm. “You were?”

They were speaking quietly, but above a whisper; they were towards the back of the room where others were also leaning over to talk into one another’s ears as Ms. Potts spoke.

Dr. Osborn’s face was red, and it sounded and looked like his words were too heavy for his tongue. “Michael just called me,” he said, pausing to burp silently into a fist. “He forgot to shift the shaker to the 4-degree room for overnight incubation of the primary antibody. He won’t be back in until tomorrow morning. Could you run to the lab and take care of it?”

The lab was six miles away. Without a car or money to waste on an Uber, it was a two-hour walk in the brisk NYC night. The charity event ended in two hours. At least Peter wouldn’t have to awkwardly sip at his room temperature water for another couple hours and pretend to network.

“Of course,” Peter found himself saying. Even if he didn’t want to leave the party early, Dr. Osborn wasn’t exactly the kind of man you told no. Michael worked in molecular biology and immunogenetics lab, so Peter wasn’t technically trained to be in there, but he was constantly tasked with “taking care of” their shit anyways.

He turned, but Dr. Osborn caught his arm before he could take a step. “Oh, and Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Bring me a refill before you go?” Dr. Osborn held out his empty glass.

Peter forced a smile. He took the glass. “Yeah, sure.”

_

Outside, his too-big-shoes nearly made him trip as he descended from the stairs in front of Stark Tower. His fingers grasped at his collar and yanked at the tie until it loosened. Finally, he could breathe. The cold air entered his lungs like ice water.

He caught his reflection in the one-way window and paused. Did his hair look that stupid all night? How could Ned possibly think it looked good? He ran his hands through the delicately styled hair until it returned to its natural messy, tousled state.

He lingered at the window. The whole get-up—the suit, tie, shoes—it all felt so artificial. So fake. It made him wonder how many people up in Stark Tower felt the same way, and how many felt at home in their fancy suits and slicked back hair.

Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. Why did Dr. Osborn even invite him? Networking was a lazy excuse. Part of Peter wondered if Dr. Osborn invited him solely for the purpose of making him feel uncomfortable, small, and out of place. Maybe he wanted him to get a glimpse of a life he wasn’t cut out for.

He’s reminded of a scene, two weeks ago, in the lab. It was unusually sunny, but you wouldn’t have ever known because of the lack of natural light in the labs. One of the other interns, a PhD student named Ellie, was out sick with mono. She had missed four lab days; Dr. Osborn was already delegating her tasks to the other interns and instructed the supervisor of internships to suspend her graduate assistantship that was helping her pay for her tuition. She worked in the same immunogenetics lab as Michael, though her focus was on how inflammation affects neuronal growth responses. Peter was given the task of harvesting total RNA from the mice’s spinal cord tissue. This task involved killing the mice.

After the first harvest, Peter had to leave the room. The mice were bred for science; they never felt any pain. And, yet, his eyes filled with tears and his throat felt clogged.

Dr. Osborn called him into his office an hour later. He wasn’t sure how he found out—cameras, or a supervisor tipping him off—but there Peter stood, hands wringing together, eyes burning, head bowed in embarrassment.

The older man’s elbows rested on his desk, his fingers making a tent. He didn’t speak once, just stared. Peter shifted every few seconds. Finally, squinting at Peter, Dr. Osborn said, “You just don’t have what it takes, do you?”

Those words reverberated in his head like a catchy pop song. It’s overplayed. It’s nauseating. But he subconsciously keeps replaying it, over and over until it’s just background noise.

But when Dr. Osborn told him to free his schedule for tonight to attend Stark’s charity gala, Peter thought he changed his mind. He thought he’d introduce him to all his colleagues and acquaintances who had Nobel prizes and revolutionary research publications. The most deluded part of him believed, even if for only a moment, that maybe Dr. Osborn would introduce him as the mind behind O-Fiber.

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked against the wind. The business card’s edges were softened by his fingers messing with it. As much as Peter wished things were different at Oscorp, he was gaining great experience and was doing important work. He was doing something with his life, something his deceased parents would be proud of. And that’s all that mattered. Right?

_

It is with great enthusiasm that we wish to offer you full tuition remission with a $20,000 stipend for the position of Undergraduate Research Assistant at Stark Industries. Attached you will find the contract with an electronic signature—

Peter deleted the email before he could finish reading. His heart was in his throat. No. His heart was everywhere. His whole body vibrated, not with excitement, but with fear.

His eyes darted around the room. Dr. Osborn was in a meeting, but what if someone else, like Trey Kennedy, the snitch who got that one senior fired, saw even a glimpse of Stark’s name on the screen?

Peter never did anything with the business card. He thought if he ignored it enough that he’d forget about the flicker of hope and excitement that flared through him at the idea of working at SI. He didn’t throw it away—Ned would’ve doused him in kerosene and set him on fire if he had—but he didn’t touch it. Didn’t use the email.

A month passed. Peter thought the opportunity passed. Maybe Stark found another low-level intern to infiltrate Oscorp and he moved on.

But then this email showed up in Peter’s inbox. This email—sent by Stark Industries’ Representative of Educational Outreach and Opportunities—proved that Stark hadn’t let him go at all.

“Parker.”

Peter jumped at his desk, eyes wide, but it was just Connor.

“Could you take a look at this?” the graduate student asked, focused on the beaker and formula sheet in front of him. “It’s not yielding the right response and I’ve tried, like, everything.”

Peter exhaled and closed his laptop. “Yeah, sure.”

_

Apparently, Stark had been trying to get other interns to leak information about O-Fiber. Peter only found this out because he overheard Dr. Osborn shouting in his office. He was working on another intern’s research project—Fabio was across the country with his mother who was dying of leukemia, but Dr. Osborn didn’t budge and made it crystal clear that it wasn’t his problem and that Fabio still needed to get his imaging done before the end of the semester—when the raised voice caught his attention. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of the man angrily pacing in the thin rectangle window in the door. Seated at his workbench, Connor looked up, too.

Michael was in there. Peter had seen him nervously wringing his hands together before knocking a few minutes ago.

“What’s that about?” Connor whispered.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.” Whatever it was, it had to have been bad. Real bad. Michael was one of Dr. Osborn’s favorites; he’d been working for him for years. Most don’t last for one.

A crash jolted Peter from his work. Dr. Osborn stormed out of his office seconds later. His hands went to his hips. Deep, angry lines all over his forehead and around his mouth aged him. “Has anyone else been approached by Stark Industries?”

Behind him, Michael stood, paled.

Connor and Peter exchanged a look. Slowly, Connor raised a hand, followed by Yasmine in the back by the microscopes. Peter was paralyzed in fear.

Dr. Osborn’s piercing, icy blue eyes found Peter. Michael had to have told him that Stark was poking around for information on O-Fiber. None of the interns except Peter had any real insight into the project. Peter was at the gala at Stark Tower. Dr. Osborn must’ve connected the dots. The safest thing was to raise his hand. But, wouldn’t he get even angrier, knowing that Peter was approached by Stark almost a whole month ago and didn’t say a single word about it?

He should’ve shown Dr. Osborn the business card. Should’ve told him that he tried to pry but got absolutely nothing. Should’ve proven his loyalty. Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.

Peter didn’t move. He held Dr. Osborn’s gaze, trying to make it seem like Peter somehow wasn’t targeted despite how convenient it would’ve been for Stark to talk to him.

Somehow, it worked. Dr. Osborn’s eyes flickered away, focusing on the interns who did raise their hands.

“Then why am I just now hearing about this?”

Connor and Yasmine immediately went red and stammered incoherently.

“I thought it was a scam email,” Yasmine eventually got out. Connor latched onto her excuse and agreed vehemently.

Dr. Osborn looked seconds away from detonating a bomb. “If the name Stark is attached to anything, you tell me immediately, even if it appears to be unimportant or unreliable. Understood?”

Everyone, Peter included, nodded.

Dr. Osborn nodded back. It was a single, firm, jerky movement. “Good.”

_

The steps leading down from the library were covered in a thin sheet of ice despite being the first week of May. They were also used more frequently around this time of year—finals being the following week—so Peter was sure more than a handful of students walking out of the library after studying until their eyelids drooped and their brains oozed from their ears sported bruises on their asses from falling.

Ned caught himself on the railing after nearly slipping. “Holy shit.”

“You good?” Peter asked. His hand was on his arm. Not like he would’ve been strong enough to catch his friend if he fell, but still. Emotional support.

“Yup.” Ned shook it off and, more carefully this time, watching his every step, continued down the stairs to the sidewalk. “They should probably get salt on these steps before they catch a lawsuit.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t gotten one yet from the ice in front of aerospace lab. I hear someone broke their arm.” Peter pulled his jacket tighter to his body. A student wearing a parka passed. Peter’s envious eyes followed them.

“It’ll melt soon, anyways. I heard it’s supposed to get up to the sixties this weekend,” Ned said.

“No shit?” Peter shivered in his light jacket he’s had since he was a junior in high school. “Can’t wait for it to finally start feeling like spring.”

The roommates stopped on the sidewalk facing each other. Ned checked his phone. “I told Betty I’d be at the south dining hall at one, so I’ve gotta go.” He started walking backwards.

Peter sniffed. “Tell Betty I said hi.”

Ned was still backtracking. “MJ will be there too, probably.” His tone was suggestive.

Peter rose a brow. “Okay. Tell her I said hi, too.”

Ned laughed, shook his head, and turned around in time to avoid backing into a guy on a bike. Peter stood there, watching his friend leave, before turning to make his way back to their dorm. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was far enough that he was able to lose himself in his head. That seemed to happen whenever Peter was alone: his thoughts would swarm. Thoughts of the future, of all the information he had just crammed in his study session, of what he could have possibly forgotten to do in Dr. Osborn’s lab, of what might be on the Eukaryotic Molecular Biology exam, of when he’s going home to visit May next, of You just don’t have what it takes, of what he’s going to eat for lunch, of—

“Mr. Parker.”

Peter froze mid-step and looked to his right. A burly man in a crisp black suit, wiry earpiece tucked in his ear, stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Like he was waiting for him.

Peter surveyed the area. Students passed without a glance. His eyes landed back on the burly man, wondering how he knew him. He seemed like the celebrity bodyguard type.

“Yes?”

“Come with me.”

“…No?” Peter took a step back. Squinted. “Do I know you?”

The man rolled his eyes, as if that was a stupid question and Peter was making his life hard by just existing. “No, but you know the man I work for.”

He waited for the guy to explain, but when he didn’t, Peter prompted, “Um. Who would that be?” And then it dawned on him. “Oh.” He didn’t dare say the name out loud, not when there were so many people around, people who could report back to Osborn, who could—

Well. Peter wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do. But he wasn’t about to take his chances.

“Right.” The man checked his watch. “Follow me.”

Peter took one last glance around, tightened his hold on his backpack slung over his shoulder, and followed the man to a sleek black car parked in the emergency vehicle lane.

He opened the door to the back. Peter just looked at him, wary, then peered inside. Tony Stark lounged on the dark leather seats, sunglasses on and dressed to the nines.

It must be exhausting to constantly dress like that.

“Get in, kid.” Stark waved him in. “Burning precious daylight.”

It was grey outside. It had been grey for days. Peter wouldn’t exactly call the daylight precious at the moment, but he got in anyways.

“Not to point out the obvious,” Peter commented, sliding in and setting his backpack on the ground. The big man shut his door behind him and got into the driver’s seat. “But this is, like, really sketchy.”

Stark shrugged. “Drastic times call for drastic measures.”

“Drastic times being the fact that none of Dr. Osborn’s interns are willing to be spies for you?”

“Exactly.”

Peter frowned. He looked out the tinted window. “Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere,” Stark replied, and Peter turned back to him. “We’re simply having a chat.”

“In the emergency vehicle lane? What if there’s a fire?”

“A car has wheels. We’ll move if the need arises.” Stark slid the glasses off his face and tucked them into his breast pocket. Finally meeting Peter’s eyes without anything between them, he remarked, “You’re making me look desperate here, and I don’t like it. Usually, people are hounding me to reply to messages and sign things, not the other way around.”

“Sorry,” Peter said, slowly, even though he wasn’t.

“Taste of my own medicine, it’s fine. Healthy, probably. It’s been a while since I’ve had to face rejection.”

“Okay.”

“Tony,” the man up front spoke, nearly scaring Peter as he had momentarily forgotten he was also in the car. “Get to the point, please. You said this would only take a minute.”

Stark patted the man’s shoulder. “Sorry, Hap.” He turned to Peter. “He’s got a hot date tonight, the first one in a looooong time. Doesn’t want to be late.”

“Tony.”

“Eh.” He brushed the man—Hap?—off. “But, yes. I suppose I should cut to the chase. Once you didn’t respond to the email with our very generous offer, I was forced to look to Osborn’s other minions. Come to find out, not only are they not willing to take my—again, very generous—offers, but they don’t seem to have much or any knowledge on O-Fiber.”

Peter blinked. “I told you, we’re just college students—We’re research assistants, not developers or designers.”

“Then why did that mousey kid…” Stark snapped. “What’s his name? Collin?”

“Connor?”

“Connor told me that I was barking up the wrong tree, that Peter Parker was the one to talk to.” Stark gave Peter an expectant look with narrowed eyes.

And, Peter…Well. Peter was going to kill Connor.

“Why would he tell you that?”

“You tell me.”

His eyes were still narrowed. Like Peter was going to crack, and he was looking for the fault lines.

“I can’t.” It was a half-truth. Connor didn’t know how involved Peter was with O-Fiber, just that he was involved in a special project with Dr. Osborn that made him work longer hours in the lab and gave him some sort of spotlight. Some of the research assistants envied him for capturing Norman Osborn’s attention, but they didn’t know just how taxing it was to have the man’s interest. Peter was constantly on the edge of his seat. He was on the receiving end of rants, of scoldings, of lectures, of insults. He was ridiculed and nit-picked. Yet, he was still in the lab. And his personal project was funded.

Connor didn’t know that O-Fiber was Peter’s project, but he must’ve figured that since Peter was constantly at Dr. Osborn’s side that he would’ve heard something about it.

“Interesting.” Stark pursed his lips. Just as Peter was beginning to have hope that the billionaire was about to give it up, the man said, “I’ll raise the stipend to fifty grand, plus free room and board.”

“No, Mr. Stark—”

“Kid, you’re killing me, you really are.” For what it was worth, Stark did genuinely look like he was at his wit’s end. It almost made Peter feel bad. “What I’m offering is so much better than what you’re getting from Osborn. Even if you didn’t have the secrets, why wouldn’t you take it?”

Honestly, if Peter wasn’t involved in O-Fiber, maybe he would’ve. God knows he could use the money. Maybe he could help pay off May’s debts, make it so that she didn’t work herself into the ground every single day. Maybe he could buy a proper coat.

But, as it was, Peter did make O-Fiber (gosh, did he hate the name) and he had a strong ally in the industry he wanted a career in. After O-Fiber, maybe Dr. Osborn could help him work on another personal project. Maybe Peter would get credited this time.

Leaving Dr. Osborn and going with Stark now would mean that strong ally would turn into a powerful enemy. His future career would be nonexistent, he was sure. Burned bridges and all that.

But there was something else bothering Peter. “Why are you so adamant that you get Oscorp’s secrets, anyways? Stark Industries is more profitable and has more global reach than Oscorp ever has. I mean, you’ve completely revolutionized the industry already.”

Stark made a face that might’ve been a wince. “Our well of ideas has seemed to run dry, R&D’s mostly just been working out the kinks in our old designs and improving them. Anyone can improve old blueprints.” He leaned forward. “What we’re missing is someone who can come up with totally new ones. I’m old and I, frankly, don’t have a lot of time to just sit around coming up with new ideas anymore.”

“What makes you think that I can do that?” Peter asked, skeptical.

Stark shrugged. “Call it a hunch. Plus, I’ve seen your record. You’re one of the brightest in Osborn’s labs, and you’ve been involved in the development of O-Fiber. If you accept my offer, I’m gaining new blood with new ideas and fresh perspectives, and I’m gaining some insider knowledge on my rival to get a leg up on the competition. Not to mention the fact that it’ll piss the guy off.”

That was for sure. “I really don’t want to piss Dr. Osborn off.”

“He’d be pissed at me, not you, don’t worry.”

Peter was doubtful. The doctor contained enough anger to be split between them both.

Tony clapped once. Peter startled.

“How about this,” the billionaire leveled. “Come by the tower and tour the labs, get a feel of the environment and happenings, then I’ll leave you alone to waste away in that goblin’s secret lair. Deal?”

Stark stuck out a hand. Peter looked between it and his face, mouth set in a firm line. He’d have to be incredibly careful not to get spotted ten feet from Stark Tower, but if this little thing—taking a quick look at some fancy labs—made Stark stop trying to steal him, then it would be worth it.

“Okay, deal.” Reluctantly, Peter shook Stark’s hand. “But only if I get to bring a friend.”

“The more, the merrier.”

_

Ned thoroughly enjoyed the tour. Peter was filled with dread the whole time.

After showing the pair around the labs and entertaining Ned’s never-ending questions, Nathan, their tour guide, dropped them off at the food court. Yeah, Stark Tower has a freakin’ food court.

While his friend ooh-ed and aah-ed over all the fancy features and embellishments, Peter had a hard time hiding his anxiety. Ever since his sneaker crossed the threshold, it was like all the air in his body was sucked right out of him.

It was a far different environment than the night of the gala where Peter had his first run-in with Stark. People dressed business to business casual were everywhere he looked. They held files, clipboards, papers, and briefcases. A forty-something year-old man with an earpiece breezed past, talking to the empty space in front of him about a portfolio of some sort. Although everyone looked busy, there was a sense of harmony among them all.

The R&D floor where the interns worked was far different from what Peter was expecting. Each intern had their own lab bench. The equipment and supplies looked brand new, state of the art. The office doors and walls were all glass, so no one could throw a tantrum and get wasted during the workday without any witnesses. Dr. Osborn would hate it.

The main difference, though, was in the interns themselves. Nathan introduced Peter and Ned to two interns who were graduating with their PhD’s the following week. Tracey and Markell. Tracey gave them a run-down on the day-to-day activities, and then Markell showcased the research he’d been working on for the past two years. It was a study on sustainable urban agriculture. Apparently there was a whole garden on the roof that he created and used for his research.

Peter would be lying if he said it didn’t stab him in the heart when Markell shared that his research would be published under his name. From how malicious, selfish, and prideful Dr. Osborn painted Stark, it was a shock that he didn’t slap his own name on it.

And another thing: the interns all looked happy. They chatted amongst themselves, they joked around, and they didn’t sport the same look of dread and hopelessness the interns of Dr. Osborn’s lab were known for.

It was nice. Which sucked.

“Peter, you have to work here,” Ned said, mouth half-full of taco from the make-your-own taco bar.

Peter put his face in his hands. “I can’t, Ned.” Heaving out a heavy sigh, he dropped his hands to the table. “I want to. I really want to. But I can’t.”

“Says who?”

Peter gave Ned a flat look. “You know how it is.”

“That your boss is a total jerk and will likely try to sabotage your entire career if you leave his lab for Tony Stark’s?”

“Yes.”

Ned shrugged as if it was nothing. Licking sour cream off his thumb, he said, “You can’t let some alcoholic, middle-aged white man with temper tantrums dictate your life. You gotta do you.”

Ned’s advice was more or less echoed by May that evening. Visiting his aunt for the weekend became a bi-weekly occurrence, a step in his routine that he needed for the sake of his sanity amidst school and lab.

Visiting home also meant home-cooked meals, one of the things Peter missed more than anything else after moving out. Tonight was pot pie night, though it was normally an Italian dish as May’s parents immigrated to New York from Italy when she was a toddler. Pot pies were her late husband Ben’s favorite, so she made sure to make one on his birthday every year.

This year, it came out burnt. But neither of them acknowledged that; Peter ignored the extra crisp and made sure to smile more than he normally did during his visits. As the topic of Peter’s tour came up, though, it came naturally.

May made circles in the air with her fork at Peter. “What are you thinking? You like this Stark guy?”

“I guess.” Peter swallowed a bite of charred pie crust and stabbed a piece of chicken a couple times. “I mean, he’s a bit…eccentric. And loud. I don’t even think he’s all that involved with the interns. He said that he’s too busy to even come up with new ideas.”

May frowned. “Isn’t that his whole shtick? Inventing, researching?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. It seems like there’s something else going on behind the scenes.” He finally got the piece of chicken impaled on his fork, then shoved it in his mouth to chew up. It was dry. “I feel like a pawn in their game. Stark said he wants to piss Dr. Osborn off.”

May pursed her lips. “Doesn’t sound like the worst thing. If I had a shot at pissing Norman Osborn off, I would take it.”

“You don’t even know Dr. Osborn.”

May placed her soft, warm hand over Peter’s. His eyes lifted to meet hers.

“Honey,” she said, voice dripping with sincerity, “I may not have met him, but I think I know all that I need to just from how he treats you.”

Peter swallowed the chicken. He searched for a response but came up dry. (Like the chicken.)

“College is supposed to be fun!” May gripped Peter’s hand and shook it a little. “Parties, drinking, vandalism, sex—”

Peter pulled his hand back and laughed-slash-coughed. “May!”

“I’m just saying,” she persisted. “My college years were a whirlwind of bad decisions, recklessness, and fun. I feel like I’m having dinner with a boring forty-year-old man with no social life. All he does is work, work, work.”

“I have fun,” Peter argued, affronted. “And, ouch. What the hell? I thought you were supposed to be supportive.”

“I can’t be supportive of my twenty-year-old nephew working himself into the ground for a man who couldn’t give two shits about him.”

Peter sat back and crossed his arms. His mouth opened, ready to counter, but whatever argument he had died in his throat. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. “You’re right.”

May hummed. “I always am. Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

_

He knocked three times and took a half-step back, wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. Peter hadn’t accepted Stark’s offer, but he was leaning towards it. The inevitable conversation with Dr. Osborn was already playing over and over in his mind, each re-run a slightly different version that got worse and worse. However, that wasn’t why he was knocking on Dr. Osborn’s office that afternoon. While in his programming class, his phone buzzed with a text from Ned, who sent a link to an article announcing the news that O-Fiber is officially patented. Heart in his throat, Peter clicked out of his notes on his laptop and Googled it. The top result was a peer-reviewed article published by MIT’s research journal. But it wasn’t just any article, it was Peter’s, word-for-word. He had the same copy in Microsoft Word on his laptop. And nowhere did it even mention Peter Parker.

Peter knew about Dr. Osborn naming Peter’s design O-Fiber, and he was semi-fine with being uncredited because, without the funding and resources Osborn provided, it wouldn’t have been done. Plus, the man did actually help work out some kinks. He might’ve been a jerk, but he was still brilliant. Osborn had him gather all the research Peter had been doing and write a 40-page article. Peter assumed it was just for organizational reasons, or so they could have it on file to refer back to. He didn’t think Osborn was going to stamp his name on it and publish it.

Peter knocked on the door again. Seconds later, the door clicked—unlocking—and Dr. Osborn appeared. His eyes were only slightly cloudy, and his face wasn’t in a deep scowl. He seemed…not happy, per se, but not miserably angry as he was by default. It must’ve had something to do with the published piece.

“Mr. Parker,” Osborn greeted in his deep, scratchy voice. “What brings you to my office?”

Peter cleared his throat. “I, uh, saw that MIT published the paper on O-Fiber.”

A ghost of a smile graced Dr. Osborn’s lips. “Yes, isn’t that great news? I’ve already received great feedback from—”

“I couldn’t find my name anywhere on it.”

Dr. Osborn stilled. Although the labs were empty, he glanced behind Peter and scanned the room. Once his eyes returned to the young man, he opened the door wider. Peter stepped in. The door clicked shut behind him.

Dr. Osborn made his way to his desk and sat, releasing a subtle groan as he did. His joints were constantly in pain, it seemed. Peter supposed it happened when you were made up of nothing but bitterness and spite.

Steepling his fingers with his elbows on the mahogany desk, Dr. Osborn watched Peter take the seat opposite of him. Peter’s knee bounced. There was a heavy silence that always hung around the office like thick smoke. It could only be punctured by Dr. Osborn’s voice.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” the man spoke, thinly, “I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”

They had. “But I wrote the whole paper.”

“You’re my intern, aren’t you?”

Peter sputtered. “Y-You took my words and you claimed that they’re yours. You also took my research and put your name on it. You named my work after yourself. I—”

“It’s not your research,” Dr. Osborn interrupted. Peter’s mouth clamped shut. “It’s mine,” the man continued. He pointed a bony finger at the closed door. “Whose name is on that door?”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

“Whose resources did you use?”

Every muscle in his body felt tense. His knee wouldn’t stop bouncing.

“I asked you a QUESTION!” Dr. Osborn shot out of his chair, spit flying. Peter startled at the quick switch. “WHOSE FUCKING NAME IS ON THAT DOOR?”

Peter glared a hole through Dr. Osborn’s lined forehead. “Fuck you,” he wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, he looked away, fighting back angry tears that glistened in his eyes.

Dr. Osborn slapped a palm on the desk and loomed over him. “LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT!” His voice cracked like lightning.

Peter’s eyes darted to the man. His face was red. Peter guessed his was, too. “Yours,” he muttered.

“That’s right.” Dr. Osborn sat with a huff as he smoothed his tie against his chest. He flicked his wrist. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

_

It was dark outside when Peter returned to the research lab. His key gained him entry, but instead of tucking it back into his pocket, Peter left it on the lab table without intending to ever pick it up again.

All his things fit in his backpack: lab coat, goggles, folders, notebooks. It zipped without struggle.

Walking out of the building, heavy backpack over one shoulder and the night warm for the first time that season, Peter forced himself not to spiral into a panic attack. He needed to email Dr. Osborn. He needed to tell his academic advisor he wouldn’t have the internship credits over the summer. He needed to figure out if Stark’s internship would be worth credit. He needed to call May. He needed to check if the final grades were posted yet.

His eyes squeezed shut imagining Dr. Osborn reading the email he was drafting in his head. It would only get worse when he realized whose lab Peter left him for.

His head hurt. Peter peeled his eyes open and ran a hand through his hair as he forced his feet to carry him to his dorm. He didn’t need to worry about all of that right now. He returned his key and gathered his things. It wasn’t like Dr. Osborn was going to check his email at eleven at night, so he’d send it first thing in the morning to let him know that he quit. Something easier, more manageable, was returning the SI representative’s email to accept the offer. He’d do that before going to sleep. But first, he needed to slip into his dorm without waking Ned.

The further from the research labs he got, the lighter the backpack on his back felt, but the heavier the stone in his gut grew. He prayed he made the right decision. Otherwise, he just committed career suicide.

Chapter Text

Peter was in his element.

As he weaved through the lab desks hosting a multitude of different projects and interns from different fields of study, he picked up pieces of friendly conversation, mechanical noises, Bunsen burners crackles, and chemical fizzes. A small—but very present—smile played on his lips and stayed there all the way to his own lab desk where he had his own cabinet with his own tools and his own equipment.  

The contents of the box in his hands rattled and clinked as he set it on the desk. New glassware, courtesy of SI. Peter hadn’t even submitted a request to replace the old ones that were left by the last intern who inhabited his desk; Carrie, his supervisor, noticed his had faded labels and that some were chipped. That morning, Peter woke up to an email informing him that the new set of beakers, flasks, and graduated cylinders were ready for him to pick up in the mail room.

“Espresso with cream.”

Peter paused unpacking the box and looked up, brown eyes meeting green. He smiled and took the offered coffee cup. “Thanks, Gwen.” 

Gwen Stacy: incoming senior at Empire State University with a major in biochemistry and a minor in botany, blonde, sometimes wears glasses, always on time, always brings coffee for the other summer interns. Although there wasn’t such thing as a “lead intern,” it seemed as though that was her unspoken rank. If Peter had to guess, it was probably because of a few things: 1. She was one of the few seniors, 2. She’s wicked smart, and 3. She made an effort to talk to everyone about their progress and offered assistance or a second look when needed.

Dr. Osborn’s lab didn’t have anyone like that. Peter was probably the closest thing since he was constantly helping everyone else, but his heart wasn’t in it the same way Gwen’s was. She seemed genuinely enthusiastic to help. Peter was more or less commanded to lend a hand.

Although it had only been a month into the summer internship at SI, Peter felt like his whole life was given new breath. He ate three square meals a day plus snacks (thanks to the complementary food court that was open even on the days he didn’t work in the lab), went to bed at somewhat reasonable hours, and wasn’t having panic attacks over his work. Plus, he was surrounded by so many cool ideas and smart people who weren’t killing themselves with work. They worked hard, of course, but there were rules in place to make sure they weren’t getting burnt out. And he was getting paid more, which meant that he could afford to live in the dorm over summer, though Ned is living back home until the fall.

For the first time since starting college, Peter’s life felt nice. Manageable. Balanced. Good.

There was still the creeping paranoia—Peter’s shoulders would be stuck up by his ears and his knee would bounce just thinking about running into Dr. Osborn—but he was dealing with it.

O-Fiber was already a huge hit. It was making waves in the new energy landscape. Dr. Osborn’s name and face were plastered on every TV and every magazine, newspapers hailing him as “the man who will single-handedly save the earth from the global crisis.” Peter was dealing with that, too.

But it was all worth it. Who cares if Peter didn’t get a scrap of the money that came from O-Fiber? Or that he didn’t get an ounce of recognition? His research was helping a good cause. It didn’t matter, not really. Besides, he was getting paid well now, wasn’t he?

It was worth it.

Peter had to remind himself that often. It was getting easier to accept.

What he needed to focus on was his new project and the research he’s doing at SI. Although being part of the SI internship means that he had to contribute to the research his cohort was assigned, SI also encouraged all the interns to use half of their hours to work on their own personal projects. It took a week or two to flip through his notebook of ideas before settling on one to focus on, which was a medical adhesive spray. It was a little less intensive than his last personal project, but it was a nice change of pace. Fun, even. Mixing chemicals and learning from trial and error were Peter’s bread and butter.

After the initial message Peter sent to the email address scrawled on the back of the folded business card from the night of the gala, Tony Stark hadn’t communicated with him. He replied to Peter’s email with a simple “Great news!” and forwarded Peter a new email to contact about the next steps, which belonged to Carrie the supervisor. Contracts were signed. A hand was shook. Peter hadn’t heard or seen Tony Stark since.

Which made sense, Peter supposed. The man got what he wanted. Maybe he finally started to believe that Peter didn’t have any inside information on Oscorp, too, otherwise he’d probably be poking around him still. As it was, the man might as well have disappeared from his life.

_

Until August.

The fall semester was right around the corner—just next week—and Peter was beginning to become anxious because he hadn’t received the contract for that semester’s internship. Without the contract, his tuition wasn’t waived and he didn’t know the terms of the internship—how many hours a week, how much the stipend was, etc. Everyone else received and accepted their offers for the fall. Peter’s inbox was empty.

He was beginning to think that, without spilling Oscorp’s secrets, Tony Stark wasn’t interested anymore.

“I think you’re spiraling,” Ned told Peter as he made his bed. It was his first day back from summer break. The dorm had been too quiet without him. “I’m sure there’s been a mix-up. Just email that Carrie lady and she’ll sort it out.”

Peter emailed her. Within minutes, she responded with an apology for the wait—apparently there were some changes being made to his offer—and then said that Peter needed to come into the tower and meet to discuss the terms. He was unaware the terms would change.

The next morning, a bright, hot Tuesday, Peter walked into Stark Tower with his head held high but his hands wringing together nervously. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to wear to this meeting with Carrie, so Ned helped him pick out a casual yet respectable outfit of his nicest jeans and an only slightly wrinkled t-shirt with the school’s emblem on the chest.

Respectable.

Casual.

Cool.

Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stepped into the elevator. “Cool, cool, cool,” he whispered to himself. He shook out his shoulders. “Be cool.”

The elevator doors opened. Stepping out, Peter made his way to Carrie’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, glasses perched at the tip of her nose, typing away at the computer when Peter knocked.

Her head popped up, and confusion filled her features as she stood and made her way to the door. “Peter?”

Peter’s heart raced. Did he get the time wrong? “Hi, Carrie. Am I early for our meeting?” He checked his watch. He didn’t have a watch. Damn. His cheeks flushed and he cleared his throat, offering a smile to pretend like he didn’t just check an invisible watch in front of his supervisor.

Carrie slid the glasses off her face and rubbed her eyebrows together with pinched fingers. “I must’ve forgotten to tell you. I’m sorry, Peter, things have been crazy lately, I’m not normally this scatter-brained.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “It’s okay, I get it. What’d you forget?”

“Your meeting isn’t with me, it’s with Mr. Stark.”

Peter’s stomach did a weird somersault. “Oh.” He wasn’t scared of the man, but he wasn’t exactly mentally prepared to talk to the CEO. He was jittery just thinking about talking to his supervisor, and now he had to talk to Tony freaking Stark. And about what, exactly? “Did I do something wrong?”

He thought he was acing this internship thing. His personal project was progressing smoothly, and he thought he contributed substantially to the group research project.

Carrie pushed the glasses back on her face and shook her head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not about that.”

Then why did his contract not get renewed like everyone else’s? Why was his being changed?

“Mr. Stark is up in his main office, in 90B. It’s on the top floor.”

Dizzyingly, the tower had ninety floors. Peter swallowed dryly. “Okay, thanks, I’ll head up there.”

He was back in the elevator. His thumb pressed the top button, and it glowed.

Cool, cool, cool.

“Fuck.” Peter clapped his hands to his face, covering his eyes. “Fuck.” He lost the internship. Tony was firing him in person. He wanted to see the spark flicker out of Peter’s eyes. To see him crumble. To tell him himself that he wasn’t up to par.

That Peter didn’t have what it takes.

“Spiraling,” Ned would say, right now, as Peter was mentally combusting in the elevator.

Ding. Top floor. Peter wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and took a deep breath in.

The doors opened.

And out.

The elevator opened to a small, square entry way. It was empty, save for the two doors, one labeled 90A and the other 90B.

The doors slid shut behind him with a soft whoosh, startling him.

He needed to calm down. 90B was what Carrie said, right? Right. He should knock on that door.

Three raps against the wood. Peter held his breath.

The door swung open, revealing a rather casually dressed Tony Stark. Dark jeans, untucked shirt. Peter glanced behind him, into his messy office, and saw an empty whiskey glass on his desk. His mind flashed to Dr. Osborn, but as his eyes flickered back to meet Tony’s, it was gone.

“Peter Parker,” Tony greeted with a close-lipped smile. He opened the door wider, stepping aside for Peter to enter. “I’ve always liked alliteration. Feels good in your mouth to say it. Peter Parker. Peter Parker. What’s your middle name?”

Peter, now standing inside Tony’s office, wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Or face. Or…anything, really. He blinked at Tony.

“Starts with a P, I hope.” Another grin.

Peter blinked again, then looked away to gather his brain cells. “Actually, it’s Benjamin.”

Tony pursed his lips. “Hm. Disappointing.”

Peter frowned.

“Anyways,” Tony said, ceremoniously slamming the door shut. It was probably just for dramatics, but it still made Peter’s shoulders jump to his ears. “Oops, sorry. Sensitive ears?”

“No, I—” Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but what am I doing here? Did I do something to lose the internship?”

It was Tony’s turn to look startled. “You didn’t lose the internship. Who told you that?”

“No one, but when I found out that I was the only summer intern who didn’t get an offer for the fall, I just assumed.”

“Oh. Well. You didn’t lose it.” Tony walked towards his desk, but instead of sitting in the chair behind it, he perched himself against the edge and crossed his ankles. One of his hands slid into his pocket. “It was a little last-minute. Carrie probably took the blame, but it was all me, not her.” He tapped a thin stack of papers beside him. “I had your file for a couple weeks but didn’t have the time—er, I guess, I didn’t make the time—to open it and read Carrie’s notes. Wonderful handwriting, that woman has, let me tell you. She could be making bug bucks writing on cards or something.”

Peter eyed the chair that sat opposite of the desk. It would be inappropriate to sit, since Tony wasn’t sitting in his chair, and it would also set Peter at a weird angle. But standing felt too stiff and awkward. His knee wanted to bounce, but couldn’t. He shuffled his feet and tried to focus on what Tony Stark was telling him—something about Carrie having good handwriting.

“When I finally did read your file and her notes,” Tony said, plucking the papers from the desk and flipping through them, mock-reading them, “I thought to myself, wow, I’m glad I stole this Parker kid right from under Osborn’s nose. Even though you, allegedly, don’t know all Oscorp’s hopes and dreams, I still won big time by snatching you up when I did.” He set the papers back down, except there was a new one on top. There was nice cursive handwriting. Carrie’s notes, then. Tony tapped a finger against the notes. “This personal project of yours seems to have impressed your supervisor.”

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. “Oh.”

“She referred you to be interviewed for a different position.”

“Oh.” Wait, was the interview now? Had it already begun? Peter should’ve gone with a nicer shirt. “What position?”

“Personal intern,” Tony replied. He pushed off from the desk and headed towards the door, Peter watching with wide eyes. “Walk with me.”

Wiping his palms off on his thighs again, Peter obediently followed Tony from the office, out into the entry, and then through door 90A.

“This is my lab,” Tony announced, sweeping a hand through the air.

It was a large space, taking up almost the entire top floor. The far walls were windows that overlooked the bustling city and wrapped around the corner, though this high up, most of the view was blue sky. A pigeon flew past.

“Wow.”

Tony turned and saw the awe in Peter’s face and smiled. He looked back out at his lab. “It doesn’t get used much these days. I haven’t exactly invented or built anything recently.” He stepped further in, finger gliding against a toolbox. It came back dusty. “There was a period of time, in my thirties and some of my early forties, when I’d lock myself in the lab and not come back out for weeks. Tinkering, building, inventing, researching. It was my entire life.” There was nostalgia and pride in his voice, but it conflicted with something sad that glistened in his eyes.

It was gone when he blinked. “I find the center point of my life elsewhere, these days, so it seems kind of ridiculous to have such an extravagant lab just lying around.”

Peter soaked in the atmosphere. This was where Tony invented the Arc reactor, arguably much more revolutionary than O-Fiber. Thee Tony Stark spent countless hours in this very room. Building.

A drop of curiosity—What was Tony’s center point now? It must have been big enough to steer him away from the industry that gave him his fame and fortune.

Tony dropped into a chair. Peter followed, sitting in the one across the desk from him. Although he was still wary, the nerves had started to dissipate after learning he was in fact not losing his only source of income.

Tony met Peter’s eyes. “Tell me about your project.” There was something strong in his gaze that made it hard for Peter to look away.

“Well,” Peter started, clearing his throat and sitting up straight. Interview mode. “It’s a medical adhesive spray that cools, numbs, disinfects, and closes wounds. I envisioned it being in your everyday first aid kit, so the individual would use it as a way to stop the bleeding or provide pain relief before help arrives. It dissolves—harmlessly—after around two hours, but it can be reapplied many times with no side effects or risks. Or, with a water base solution, it can be dissolved in seconds, which would come in handy for when help does arrive and they are ready to professionally treat the wound. It can be used for burns, bullet wounds, anything.”

Tony nodded throughout Peter’s explanation. “We talking design stages, development, or what?”

“I’m still developing the adhesive,” Peter replied. “I have a few trials, and they work, but not on the level I am looking for. They aren’t lasting as long as they should, so I think I made some miscalculations when I was balancing the formulas.”

Tony hummed, deep in thought. After a moment, he asked, “What was your inspiration?”

“My aunt and uncle. My aunt, she’s a nurse, she helps people. And my uncle always told me, with great power, comes great responsibility. I don’t know if I’d consider myself powerful, but my aunt always said that knowledge is power, and I have some of that, so I try to use it for good.”

“What does your uncle do?”

“He was a beat cop.” Talking about Ben always made him smile—"He was shot on the job a couple years ago, backup didn’t make it in time and he bled out”—Except for when he talked about his death. It was a tragedy, a fluke, a mistake. That’s what everyone said. If only there had been some way for his uncle to hold on for just a little longer, he wouldn’t have died alone in a dark alley with his face in the dirt and his clothes soaked in blood. Peter was hoping that this medical adhesive could help someone else’s uncle, father, sister, niece, friend, or whoever from suffering the same fate.

Something was clicking in Tony’s face. Peter watched as it happened.

Leaning back, Tony said, “So, what I’m hearing, is that you’d like to make the world a better place.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I could think of a couple people,” Tony commented, tone airy. “Or just one person, a mutual friend of ours.”

Friend was a loose term. Extremely loose.

“Did your work at Oscorp serve your M.O.?”

Peter nodded. “My work was focused on climate efforts and sustainability more than practical medical aids, but yeah, I’d like to think my work contributed to bettering the world. What good is research if it doesn’t offer something to society?” A small smile grew on the man’s face that made Peter pause. “What?”

“Nothing.” Tony cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the desk. “I suppose I should give you a more in-depth tour of the lab. Uh…” From his seat, he turned and started pointing at various things ranging from a Bactron Anaerobic Chamber to a broken Keurig. “If you don’t like anything, feel free to change it up. Paint the walls, move stuff around, replace the chairs with ones with wheels, I don’t care. Oh, also, there’s an empty mini fridge over there, but don’t worry, I’ll have Pepper fill it with healthy snacks before you start working.”

Peter was about to ask who Pepper was, but then his brain caught up with Tony’s words and he sputtered, “Wait, does this mean I got the job?”

“Yes. Was that not already clear?”

“Holy shit,” slipped from Peter’s lips. “Sorry. I just. Thank you for this opportunity, sir.” May was going to freak. Ned was going to freak. Peter was freaking. Ho-ly shit.

Tony’s face scrunched up. “Ew. Don’t call me sir, please. Tony will do just fine.” He waved a hand. “I’ll have a new contract written up and sent to your inbox by the end of the day. Also sign and return by the end of the day, because time isn’t real but it also is and I have been procrastinating literally everything. This is why I need a personal intern. I haven’t written your job description yet, but in it will probably be something along the lines of poke Tony every once in a while to make sure he actually does his job.”

Peter nodded. Did he need to write that down? He didn’t have a pencil, or paper. He made it a mental note and mentally tacked it to a mental board.

Tony checked his watch. “Shoot, it’s nearly two.” He flashed Peter an apologetic smile. “I’ll need to cut our talking time short; I’ve got an errand to run. You’ve got from here to the elevator to ask any questions.”

Peter stood, too, and followed Tony as they headed for the door. There were probably a million and one questions buzzing around Peter’s head, but they were hard to catch. Finally grasping one, he asked, “Will I still be able to work on a research project with the other interns?”

“I don’t see why not.”

They stood at the elevator. Tony pressed the down button.

As they waited, Peter tried to come up with another question, but they were slippery and fleeting. And his hands—both his mental ones and physical ones—were too shaky to hold tight to anything. He breathed out and said, “I seriously can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. Working in your labs this summer was amazing. I…yeah. Thank you.”

Tony smiled. “I’ll see you around, kid. Watch out for that email.”

As promised, the email came that evening at exactly five o’clock. Peter scanned the contract and job description—ensuring that by signing he wouldn’t be waiving his right to being credited—and nearly choked when his eyes skimmed the stipend. It all seemed too good to be true, but that’s what he thought about the summer internship, and it turned out to be true. After digitally signing the contract and sending it back, Peter lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, hands locked behind his head. His best friend would be moving back into the dorm in a couple of days. Gwen was sending him funny videos on Instagram in a way that felt almost like flirting. His body wasn’t weighed down by exhaustion. May didn’t have to worry about helping him pay for college. Things were good. Too good.

Peter turned over in bed and frowned at the wall. If everything was going great, why did he still feel a ball of anxiety in his gut, waiting for the right moment to unfurl?

_

“You want me to clean?”

Tony rubbed the back of his neck, jacket and car keys in hand. It was the first week of classes, which meant that it was also the first week of the new internship. Peter wasn’t sure exactly what to expect for the first day, but it wasn’t to be told to organize Tony’s office and lab while the man in question left for undisclosed reasons.

“It shouldn’t take you too long. I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Tony pulled back the cuff of his dress shirt to check his watch. “Around five, probably.”

Peter nodded, scanning the lab. It was as messy as it was when he came over for the meeting-slash-interview. The only noticeable difference was the presence of a fruit and snack basket in the corner with the mini-fridge.

“I know this kinda sucks for the first day on the job,” Tony said, drawing Peter’s attention back to where he stood beside him. “But it’s been on my to-do list for a while, and once it’s done, I’ll have you doing more intern-y stuff. Sound good?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Tony clapped Peter on the shoulder before backing out the door. “Awesomesauce. That’s what the kids are saying these days. I’ll be back by five. Maybe.” With vague intrigue, Peter watched the man shoot him finger guns, then spin on his heel and head towards the elevators. He was hiding something, obviously. Peter didn’t care too much to figure it out.

He turned back to the disorganized mess in front of him and sighed. It beat being an underpaid glorified servant to Dr. Osborn, though, so he got to work.

After clearing the desks, taking out the trash, and moving some things around, Peter exited the lab and meandered around the tower in search of some cleaning supplies. His search led him to the maintenance closet on the R&D floor where the other interns were buzzing around. After a quick detour to catch up with Gwen and a few others, Peter broke into the closet. Literally broke into it. The handle didn’t budge, so he went back to Gwen, borrowed a bobby pin (“It’s for science, I’ll give it back in a minute.”), and jimmied it into the lock until there was a click.

“Thanks,” Peter said, depositing the bobby pin onto Gwen’s work desk with an arm full of cleaning supplies. She eyed the broom, spray, and paper towel with an entertained glint in her eye but didn’t comment.

Clipping the pin back in her platinum hair, she said, “Anything for science.” Peter held up a fist in alliance and walked backwards out of the room, then made his way back up to Tony’s floor.

In an unsurprising turn of events, Tony didn’t show up until a couple minutes after six o’clock. He was wearing different clothes from earlier that afternoon: jeans and a t-shirt instead of the professional attire Peter was used to seeing him in. It was jarring.

“Wow,” Tony said, genuine surprise widening his eyes as he took in the newly organized and pristine lab. He ran a finger over a table and inspected the dust-free pad. “Thanks, kid. You did good. Pepper’s been on my back about this all year. Did you see the snacks and stuff she put in here for you?”

Peter did. About an hour ago his stomach started grumbling, so he checked out the fruit basket and mini-fridge, which was stocked full of carrot sticks, fruit cups, and prebiotic sodas. Healthy snacks. It was a little disappointing that there weren’t any chips or real soda, but Peter supposed he could do with a better diet.

But there was still something bothering him. “Who’s Pepper?”

Tony blinked. “Oh,” he said, like he either wasn’t expecting the question or like he thought the answer was obvious. “Virginia Potts.”

“Your executive assistant?” Were the dating rumors true? Peter didn’t care too much about celebrity gossip, but it was rare when the rumors turned out to have merit. Not that this one was confirmed, but it was definitely fishy. A gold ring around Tony’s left ring finger caught his eye. Interesting.

When Tony affirmed that, yes, he’d been calling Virigina Potts Pepper this whole time and that she was the one who stocked the lab with healthy snacks, Peter asked, “Why Pepper?”

Tony smiled fondly and tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “She threatened to pepper spray my security if they got in her way. Pep was trying to show me an error she found while working in admin in the finance department a few years back, but no one would listen to her. She doesn’t take that lightly, hence the pepper spray threat, hence the nickname Pepper. Plus it just sounds nice: Pepper Potts. It’s like Peter Parker; just rolls off the tongue.”

“Sure.”

Tony eyed the cleaning supplies. He took the broom that was leaning against the wall and tilted his head. “Where’d you find this stuff?”

“Maintenance closet on the R&D floor.”

“It was unlocked?”

“No.”

Tony stared at him expectantly, waiting for Peter to elaborate, but he didn’t. Tony sniffed and placed the broom back against the wall and didn’t prompt him.

“Resourceful,” Tony commented. “Thanks again for sucking it up and cleaning all afternoon. Gold star.”

Peter let out a breathy laugh, but when Tony stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out a little white paper with metallic gold stars, he uttered, “Oh.”

Tony peeled one off and stuck it to Peter’s shirt. Peter frowned at it—not because he didn’t like it, but because it was odd. It almost made him laugh again, thinking about the stark difference between his old boss and his new boss. His old one gave him emotional trauma and insomnia. His new one gave him gold stars when he wiped down some tables with stolen supplies.

“It was no problem, really,” Peter assured the man, clearing his throat. “It was honestly a little therapeutic. And it definitely beat saccing mice.”

Tony’s brow quirked. “Saccing mice?”

“Sacrificing.” Dr. Osborn always used the full word, but the shortform “sac” made the interns in the molecular biology and immunogenetics lab feel less like assholes to animals. Peter’s first and only time saccing a mouse and then harvesting its RNA still made his stomach churn.

“Yeesh. I’m glad I got you out of that dungeon of a lab.” Tony clapped Peter’s shoulder and gave it a few pats. “It’s getting late.” It was only a few minutes after six—not late at all. “You did great today, we’ll do the same time tomorrow but you’ll get to do some real work. Go back to your dorm and do homework or go to a party and snort coke or something.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. Tony showed his palms. “Joking.” He pointed a stern finger at his face. “Don’t do drugs and post about it on social media, I’ll have to fire you.”

“Noted.”

That night, Peter did not do drugs, but he did do his homework under the light of his desk lamp while Ned snored in his lofted bed. The rush of doing complicated math equations filled him with more dopamine than cocaine probably could, anyways.

-

As promised, the second day of being Tony Stark’s personal intern was more intern-y, for the lack of a better term. Tony slid over some schematics to look at that were developed by the R&D team and needed to be reviewed and approved. This was normally completed by Tony, but now that he had a personal intern whom he could pass on whatever he didn’t want to do, it was Peter’s job. Peter was thrilled.

While Peter worked on thoroughly reviewing the schematics in the lab—which also involved doing some calculations to ensure the ones sketched into the margins were correct—Tony worked in his office. An hour into working, so around two o’clock, Tony poked his head into the lab and announced he was leaving again. “I’ll be right back, I’ve just got a quick errand to run.”

“Take your time,” Peter said, twirling the wooden pencil between his fingers. “I’ll just be here running calculations.”

Tony gave him a pointed look and said, “No fires.”

“Sure,” Peter agreed, though he wasn’t sure if he ever gave the impression that he’d set a fire in a lab containing hazardous materials. He leaned over the paper in front of him and scribbled a correction. “Have fun with your mysterious errand.”

The next two weeks followed the same routine: Peter showed up after classes ended for the day, Tony gave him some data, equations, blueprints, or proposals to look at, Peter did was he was told, Tony disappeared, Tony came back, Tony told Peter he did good, and Peter went back to the dorm before dark. On Wednesdays, Peter spent his hours with the other interns to continue their research project.

Again, Peter was starting to feel the anxiety creep in. The other shoe had to drop sometime, right?

“You’re too paranoid,” May told him during his second week, Peter’s phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder as he gathered his books after a study session in the library. He heard some faint background noise on the other end and pictured his aunt sitting at the velvety couch with a knee pulled to her chest and her glasses perched at the bottom of her nose as she flipped through channels on TV. There were probably a half-empty sleeve of saltine crackers and a wine glass on the coffee table. “You’ve got a good thing going, and you deserve to enjoy it. Stop worrying so much.”

Peter tried. It was easier on days that weren’t going his way and the bad evened out the good. On Thursday, Peter showed up to the lab with only one shoe because the other was stolen right off his foot in the subway and he didn’t have another pair of shoes, not even in his dorm, and he couldn’t go all the way back to Queens where his aunt lived to grab a pair that he outgrew from high school but May still kept by the doorway because he couldn’t be late to the internship. Tony didn’t even notice until Peter was getting ready to leave for the day and handed over a reviewed proposal with his barely legible notes.

“What’s up with the shoe?” Tony asked as he took the papers, nodding down at Peter’s feet.

He wiggled the toes of his shoe-less sock and shrugged. “Just not my day today, I guess.”

Tony pursed his lips. “Lab safety says you need close-toed shoes. I think wearing only one goes against that policy.”

“I’ll wear two shoes tomorrow.”

Peter showed up with two shoes the next day—the too-small converses from high school with faded sharpie doodles—and tried not to pay the cramped fit much mind, but as soon as Tony announced that Peter would be working on his medical adhesive project, his discomfort was forgotten.

Peter got to work gathering supplies—salicylic acid, toulene, methanol, carbon tetrachloride, potassium carbonate, ethyl acetate, flasks, goggles—but froze with an armful when he turned and spotted Tony lounging at his work desk.

Tony raised a brow. “What?”

Peter carefully placed everything down on the desk. “Nothing. Did you want to watch me make it?”

“I was hoping you could also explain everything so I can understand and offer my input.”

Peter nodded. The shoes felt too tight again, as did his lungs. Tony wanted to watch him work. Okay, totally fine. No pressure at all.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” It was Tony’s lab, he could do whatever he wanted. He didn’t need to ask for permission for anything. Peter slid over his notebook and flipped it open to a full page. Tony leaned over to skim it.

As Peter worked, he explained, “That’s the formula I’m working with. It’s got everything I’ve been looking for—flexible, anti-inflammatory, sterilizing. Well, almost everything; I still can’t figure out how to make it more long-lasting. It dissolves way too fast, which means it needs to be reapplied more often, which makes it less efficient.”

Tony hummed but didn’t reply, forehead creased as he read over the notes and flipped through them. Peter let him go through them as he silently worked, occasionally glancing up to read his face. Dr. Osborn oftentimes looked disappointed as he reviewed Peter’s work. Stark looked intrigued.

Once Peter had a sample, Tony took a look at it. Peter watched him. The look of disappointment never came.

“Fascinating.” Tony sprayed a little over the back of his hand and held it close to his face. “How long does it last?”

“Only about ten minutes,” Peter replied. “I’m trying to get it to two hours, but nothing I’ve done has worked.”

Still observing the sample, Tony said, “Have you tried rising the temperature of the base before adding the ethyl acetate?”

He hadn’t. Tony watched as Peter started over, this time waiting for the flame of the Bunsen Burner to warm the bottom of the flask longer. He waited until it reached three hundred degrees Celsius, added the ethyl acetate, observed, and made some notes.

Tony held out his arm when Peter was done. He sprayed it on his forearm and started a timer.

Peter went back to his notes as they waited. Eyes darting from his arm to Peter, Tony said, “How’s school going?”

Peter glanced at Tony, then back at his notes. “Fine.” He swished the flask of the sample and observed the viscosity. It was thicker. “Is there any tingling?”

“Nope.” Tony poked it. “It feels cold. Not painfully cold, just cooler than room temperature.”

“Good.” Peter noted that, too. He tried not to squirm as he felt Tony’s eyes on his side profile.

“You know what I can’t figure out?” the man eventually said, still studying Peter’s face.

Peter waited, figuring that Tony would continue, but when he didn’t, he prompted, “What?”

“You.”

Peter looked up from his notes and met Tony’s eyes. There wasn’t much to figure out; he was a college student who had dead parents and a dead uncle. Tony knew all of that. He didn’t have any ulterior motives with anything he did. He didn’t have any real hobbies, either. He kind of just existed as an academic powerhouse. As a orphan who grew up in poverty, it was a necessity if he wanted to make ends meet and live comfortably in New York on his own one day.

“I can’t figure you out, either, so we’re even,” Peter said, glancing at the timer and then at the sample on Tony’s arm. Four minutes. When Tony made a thoughtful hum at the back of his throat, Peter asked, “What can’t you figure out about me?”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Nah, I’ll figure it out on my own. Asking you directly would feel like cheating.”

Fair enough. Peter kind of felt the same way about Tony. Like, where did he go every day around two? Was the gold ring on his left ring finger a wedding ring? What was his personal beef with Dr. Osborn? What was the new “center” of his life that he prioritized over his work? How did he run such a successful company while simultaneously being a chill boss? Why did he have multiple printed-out pictures of birds taped to the windows in his office? Why didn’t he admonish Peter and make him feel stupid when he had been working on the medical adhesive all summer and still couldn’t perfect the formula? Tony offered help without a string of belittling insults strung behind it. Why was he so nice?

What was the catch?

Ten minutes passed. Tony leaned back in his chair and released a heavy breath. “Better get comfy, we might be here for a while.”

“You know,” Peter said, “I could’ve just sprayed my own skin and waited by myself. You didn’t need to offer your arm.”

Tony tapped a quick rhythm into the table and tilted his head to a shoulder. “I figured it’d be a good opportunity to get to know my personal intern better. We’re bonding.”

“Okay.”

Tony sighed. “Aaand I suppose it gives me an excuse to not attend a meeting with people I don’t like.”

That made sense. “You’re, like, the boss. Do you have to do anything you don’t want to?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Tony said with a snap. “Unfortunately, Pepper doesn’t feel the same. And what she says tends to go, so.”

There was another lull in the conversation. Fifteen minutes.

Tony checked his watch. Instead of announcing that he needed to disappear again, like Peter was expecting, he let his hand fall to the table and asked, “Want to watch a movie to pass the time? Any movie, I don’t care.” As an afterthought, he pointed at Peter and added, “As long as it isn’t Moana.”

“Weirdly specific request, but okay.”

Tony led Peter to his office where he had a secret projector and screen that folded down from the ceiling at the press of a button. “Fancy,” Peter commented quietly.

In the end, they decide to watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off because Tony looked ready to either fire him or kill himself when Peter said he’d never even heard of it. (He had, but he knew from the way Tony asked if he’d seen it before that he’d be offended.)

As the movie started, Peter couldn’t shake how weird it was. He was watching a classic movie with his boss. Who does that? It was weirder than the strictest teacher in high school putting on a fun movie for the class period with no note sheets. This was that, but ten notches higher.

The weirdest part? Peter enjoyed it. He wasn’t anxious sitting in the chair beside Tony’s as the light reflecting off the projector illuminated their faces. His shoulders weren’t tense. His chest wasn’t tight. He even laughed at the appropriate times.

It was nice.

And, maybe, Peter was beginning to accept that sometimes things are okay and don’t need to be balanced out by bad things. Sometimes things are good, and that’s it.

Towards the end of the movie, Tony lightly smacked Peter’s arm. He jumped. Tony didn’t notice.

“It’s starting to dissolve,” Tony whispered, as though he were in a movie theater and not his private office.

Oh yeah. Science. Internship. Work. Peter grabbed his notepad and wrote the time down: two hours and seven minutes.

It worked.

“Gold star,” Tony said, whipping out the sheet from his pocket and planting a sticker onto Peter’s shoulder with a few pats.

Dr. Osborn’s voice floated through his mind: You just don’t have what it takes.

Maybe he did.

Chapter Text

The D scrawled in red ink over the first page of Peter’s post-lab report mocked him. It was large enough for the students sitting around him to see, so he sunk low in his chair and flipped it over, internally agonizing over the low grade as Dr. Hastings continued passing out the papers. He was an old school professor, much like Dr. Osborn. If the two weren’t such assholes, they’d probably be friends. As it was, they were colleagues who practically ran the Chemistry Department and existed in their own echo chamber of inflated egos, eczema, and peppered neckbeards.

It wasn’t like Peter was perfect—he made mistakes all the time. He accidentally bought the wrong size pants once, he forgot Ned’s birthday before, he caused a fender bender when he was seventeen, he messed up his words when talking to cute girls. But Peter didn’t make mistakes in chemistry; it was a fact. Another fact: Dr. Hastings had been low-balling Peter’s grades since the start of the semester a couple weeks ago. Where he’d normally get straight A’s, Peter was getting C’s, D’s, and even an F on his assignments and quizzes. But it didn’t make any sense, because Peter would frown and go through his work and see that he didn’t mess up the equations, math, or anything. Dr. Hastings latched onto the littlest things or even made shit up when Peter confronted him after class—“You didn’t indicate the solution clear enough,” “Your formatting was inconsistent with APA guidelines,” “You didn’t thoroughly explain the process enough”—and then would shoo him away, commenting that Peter was wasting his time.

Although Dr. Hastings claimed that his work was simply inadequate at the collegiate level, Peter knew that it all went back to Dr. Osborn. When Peter signed up for classes that fall, he figured he’d be safe as long as he didn’t have his old boss as a professor. As it turned out, he wasn’t as safe as he thought. Even without being in Dr. Osborn’s immediate presence the man was tarnishing his academic career.

“Persevere,” May told him over the phone. Peter imagined her balancing the device between her shoulder and cheek as she painted her toenails the bright purple shade she liked so much that she painted her bedroom walls with it. “Keep trying your best, keep studying, and keep kickin’ ass at the Stark Internship.”

He tried. He double-checked, then triple-checked his work before turning it in, only to receive another failing grade. He checked his work against a peer’s and couldn’t find what he was doing wrong. (Of course he didn’t, because the only thing he did wrong was leave Dr. Osborn’s lab. There was no redemption for that.)

His other classes were just fine—straight A’s. Just as they should be. Just as this stupid class should be, too.

-

On Wednesday, while Peter was working with the other interns on their group project, Gwen complained about the weather already getting chilly despite it being the beginning of September.

“I don’t know,” Peter said, “I like fall. Summer’s fine, but it gets too hot and sweaty.”

“Cold temperatures freeze the piss smell,” Corbin, another intern, added. “Nothing worse than stepping outside on a summer day and inhaling the rank scent of hot piss on the sunny concrete.”

Peter raised his brow and turned to Gwen, whose nose was all scrunched up. “See? No piss smell.”

“Well, summers in New York are different from the summers I grew up with,” Gwen said. “You should experience a Maine summer, it’s beautiful and doesn’t smell like hot piss.”

Carrie, who had been passing by with a clipboard in hand, paused by their tables. Gwen blushed and looked away as Carrie said, “Hey guys, I just wanted to check in and see how your progress is going?”

Gwen cleared her throat and gave their supervisor the run-down. Once she was gone, Gwen sighed and hid her face in her hands. “Why did Carrie have to come by when I was talking about hot piss?” Corbin and Peter snickered, and she kicked both of their shins under the table.

“So,” Gwen said, pushing her glasses up her nose, “how’s your internship going, Parker?”

Corbin nodded along. “I bet you’ve got a nicer view up there, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” Peter replied, eyes darting to his work. He always got weird when talking about his new internship, especially with interns who have worked with SI longer than he had. It all felt a little unfair, somehow. Tony could’ve picked anyone else—Gwen would’ve been a great personal intern, he was sure—but he chose Peter. Was he still holding onto the hope that Peter would give him classified information on Oscorp? “Being able to work with Mr. Stark is weird, but in a good way; I’ve idolized him and his work for a while.”

“Does he have any strange habits?” Gwen asked. “I’ve heard he’s quite the character.”

“Strange Habits? Not really. But he is kinda weird.”

“Weird how?”

Peter shrugged. “I dunno. He’s elusive and disappears sometimes, but he’s also simultaneously really open.”

A twinkle of curiosity glinted in Gwen’s eyes. “You think he’s hiding something?”

Corbin leaned forward on his elbows. “What? Stark’s hiding something?”

“I mean, everyone’s got something to hide, right?” Peter said, trying to just brush it off. “It’s probably nothing.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?” Gwen asked.

Since when did she crave gossip about their boss? Peter started to say that he had no idea, but Gwen was looking at him all excited, like she really wanted to know, and Peter was pretty sure he had never seen such pretty green eyes before. “I think Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts might be a thing.”

Gwen considered this. “Really?”

Peter shrugged. “I mean. Maybe?”

“Interesting.”

-

I have a special assignment for you on Monday. Meet at the address below instead of the tower. – T.S.

Peter frowned at Google Maps on his phone, then looked up at the historic, brick luxury apartment building towering over him. He’d been confused all weekend since receiving the cryptic email Saturday night. He didn’t have much time to think about the email since he’d been spending every waking second studying for Dr. Hastings’ first chem exam. Supposedly half the class fails it every year, and with Peter already on the professor’s bad side, he didn’t like his odds.

Anyway. There Peter was, head filled with equations and molecular structures, half asleep, standing in front of a random apartment building he’d never be able to afford to live in.

A stranger’s shoulder knocked him a few steps back. “Move, kid.”

Watching him stalk off, Peter adjusted his backpack and sighed.

Time to see what Tony’s mysterious assignment was.

The lobby was just as fancy as the outside. It was impressive enough that it had a lobby in the first place; to get to May’s apartment, you had to use the door with a crooked doorknob beside the bistro that cleans money for a gang. That door led you up a creaky, narrow staircase that led to a small landing with moldy carpet with three doors. One of those doors—after you jammed your shoulder against it with the key inserted at a certain angle—opened to May’s apartment.

It was a far cry from the lobby with glossy checkered floors and gilded trim.

Peter’s sneakers squeaked as he crossed the lobby to the elevators. Before he could reach out and press the button, the doors slid open and a lady with fluffy blonde hair and dark cat-eye sunglasses stepped out, the dog version of herself at her knees.

Peter stepped forward. A gloved hand stopped him.

“Hi there.”

Peter looked up. A young man—older than him, but too young to go gray or to have permanent smile lines—smiled down at him. A doorman, it seemed. It also seemed he wasn’t too good at his job, considering Peter opened his own door.

“Hey,” Peter said.

“I haven’t seen you around before, are you visiting someone?” the doorman asked.

Peter glanced down at the address on his phone. 324 Park Ave, PH 1. Addresses usually said APT and then the number, and he was too tired to look up what the PH stood for. “I think so.”

“What’s the unit number? So I can point you to the right floor.”

Peter showed him the phone screen. “PH 1?”

Surprise flickered in the doorman’s face. He squinted at the phone screen, but the surprise didn’t fade. If anything, it grew.

His eyes darted between the address and Peter’s face. Peter frowned when the guy’s eyes proceeded to give him a once-over, smile souring at the sight of his too-small duct-taped shoes.

“Alright. Well, I’ll have to get permission to let you up.”

Peter squinted. Weird, but okay. Fancy apartment shit.

The doorman walked behind the front desk and picked up a phone. After dialing a few numbers, he said, “Hi, Sir, sorry to bother you, but there is a boy in the lobby that is requesting to visit the penthouse.”

Penthouse. PH. Ah, that made sense. If it weren’t for the three hours of sleep he got, Peter would’ve connected the dots earlier.

“Are you sure?” the doorman asked into the phone, glancing up at Peter loitering by the elevator. “Of course, Sir. I’ll send him up.” After hanging up, the doorman returned to Peter’s side, silver key in his gloved hand and a smile still upturning his thin lips. “Right this way.”

Peter followed his hand gesture and stepped into the elevator. The doorman didn’t enter after him, though he did lean in, enter the key into the slot by the PH 1 button, and press the button once it lit up. He took the key back out and sent one last smile Peter’s way.

“Have a good day, Sir.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

The elevator doors slid closed. The metal was so clean it reflected Peter’s face better than the mirrors in the basement bathrooms in the university library.

Peter checked his phone. Two minutes late.

Once finally at the top level, the doors slid open, revealing another lobby. This one was smaller, less showy, and much homier with hardwood floors and warm brick walls. On the wall parallel to the elevator doors was a large painting of white flowers.

In the mouth of the hallway stood Tony Stark in his on-duty clothes. Tony oftentimes only wore the fancy suits when he had important things to attend, otherwise, he was in his off-duty attire: jeans and an old graphic t-shirt. The blazer made Peter question the mysterious assignment even more.

“Peter Parker,” Tony greeted, stepping up to him and punching his shoulder. Peter looked at his shoulder. “Doorman didn’t give you too much trouble, did he? I always tell him he needs to loosen up. His name is Augustus, though, so I guess having a stick up your butt kinda comes with the name.”

“He was fine,” Peter said. “What’s the special assignment?”

“Daddy?”

Peter leaned to the right to look behind Tony. A little girl—four, maybe—stood in the hallway, holding a Moana doll by the hair so it dragged against the ground. The girl’s dark brown hair was pulled back into two braids, and her cheeks were lightly dusted with freckles. Her big brown eyes blinked up at Peter. Peter’s big brown eyes blinked back.

“Peter,” Tony said, turning and gesturing to the little girl, “this is Morgan. You’ll be babysitting her today.”

Peter tore his eyes from the child and noticed the picture frames on the walls. Baby Morgan with a large bucket hat. Toddler Morgan with a goofy smile. Tony Stark and Virginia Potts with infant Morgan. Tony Stark holding hands with Virginia Potts wearing a white dress on an empty beach.

Suddenly, the mysterious outings didn’t seem so mysterious anymore.

His eyes returned to Morgan, then to Tony. “You and Virginia Potts are married?”

Tony flashed the gold ring on his ring finger.

Peter pointed to Morgan. “And she’s your child?”

“I expect you to keep this under wraps,” Tony said, pointedly. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you, considering how close-to-the-chest you are about everything, and how you’re still persistent that you had no involvement with O-Fiber.”

Peter’s head spun. He swallowed. “I didn’t.”

“My point exactly. Now,” Tony said, scooping up the girl—his daughter—from under the armpits and setting her on his hip, “I’ve got a meeting to get to, so you’ll be watching her until five.” Tony turned to the girl and rubbed his nose against hers. “Be good for Pete ‘til I get back?”

Morgan wiped the hair from her face and said, “Fiiine.”

“That’s my girl.” Tony planted a kiss on her cheek and lowered her back to the floor. Once straightened, he raised his brows at Peter. “Good luck, she’s got her mother’s attitude.”

Tony stepped towards the elevator. Morgan, who was still dragging the poor Moana doll against the floor, took Peter’s hand and started swinging it wildly. Peter stared at her.

The elevator dinged, bringing Peter out of his shock-induced stupor.

“Wait,” Peter blurted, making Tony turn. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, patient. He seemed unbothered by—or, at the very least, amused—by his daughter using Peter’s arm like one of those crossfit ropes. “I’ve never babysat before.”

“I’ll only be gone for two hours, you’ll be fine,” Tony assured. He backed into the elevator. “My number’s on the fridge if there’s an emergency. Happy’s number is there, too, if you have any questions.”

Tony moved to press a button. Peter’s head was still spinning. His arm was still actively getting ripped out of its socket.

“What do I do?”

“Just ask Morgan, she’ll know,” is the last thing Tony said before the doors closed.

And then he was gone. Peter looked down at Morgan. She paused her movements and tilted her head, gazing right back up at Peter. Her eyes narrowed, staring deep into the depths and crevices of his soul in the way only a child could. “Do you know how to play mermaids?”

“Sure.”

Morgan flung her Moana doll against the wall and strode out of the room, her bare feet padding against the wooden floors. “C’mon.”

Peter looked at the discarded doll for a few beats. Tearing his eyes away, he followed Morgan Stark into the rest of the penthouse.

Peter learned many things about Morgan Stark that afternoon. Firstly, she loved birds. Any bird. All of them. Flight-less, flight-full, flight-adjacent. She had bird books stacked up high in her bedroom and National Geographic posters of birds plastered all over her walls. Morgan’s favorite word was awesomesauce. She had more gold stars than Peter did. When she played mermaids, they were monsters with claws and fangs and, apparently, chased their babysitters around their million-dollar mansion with demented giggles. They also needed juice box breaks.

After thirty minutes of the most intense game of mermaids Peter had ever played, he deposited Morgan via piggyback onto the couch and sat on the other end. He turned the TV on to play her favorite movie: Moana . She sang along with incorrect lyrics but sang louder than the track, so it wasn’t like she noticed, anyways.

During the song about Moana wanting to go far into the ocean, Morgan jumped onto Peter’s lap. Peter let out a “Hmph!” as her knobby knees dug into his abdomen.

She clapped her hands on each of his cheeks and pressed her forehead against his, brown eyes boring into brown. In a deep Batman voice, she commanded, “Sing.”

“You are just as weird as your dad.”

Morgan squished Peter’s face in her hands, making him make the duck face with his lips. He imagined he was made of clay. “Siiiiiing,” she dragged out, still in the deep, gravelly voice that didn’t match her pigtail braids.

“Do you need an exorcism?”

She squinted her eyes and tilted her head. “You talk funny.” Her voice was normal and sweet again.

“It’s ‘cuz you’re squishing my face.”

Morgan let her hands fall. “Talk.”

“Talk talk talk.”

“Hm,” she hummed. Peter couldn’t tell if she was satisfied or not. She jumped off his lap and landed heavy onto the floor. Hands planted onto her hips, she said, “Carry me.”

“Sure.”

Many piggybacks and juice boxes later, Tony Stark and Virginia Potts walked side-by-side into the living room of their penthouse to find their four-year-old daughter coloring a picture of a blue heron and their babysitter-slash-intern coloring a picture of an ostrich with his face and arms covered in rainbow stickers.

“Having fun, kids?”

“Mommy, Daddy!” Morgan squealed, jumping up and latching onto Peter’s back. He didn’t miss a beat; he dropped his purple crayon, hooked her legs under his arms, and stood. Her fingers gripped his hair as he steered her over to her parents.

Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out ran through Peter’s mind as he smiled at Virginia. She smiled back warmly.

“You can tell her no, you know?” Tony said as Pepper accepted Morgan’s outstretched arms and perched her on her hip. Tony peeled a sticker off Peter. It only slightly tugged at his arm hair.

Peter shrugged. “It’s okay. Piggybacks are a good workout.” Morgan was pretty light, anyways.

“Peter says I need to ex-er-cise,” Morgan told them with her eyebrows set in a serious line.

The couple turned to Peter.

“Ex-or-cise,” Peter corrected. “I said she needed an exorcism.”

“Ah.” Tony nodded. “Was it the demon voice?”

“I like Peter,” Morgan whispered loudly into her mother’s ear. Virginia smiled, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and rubbing her back.

With a peck on Tony’s cheek, Virginia said, “I’ll go get dinner ready.” And she left the living room with Morgan in her arms.

Tony punched Peter in the shoulder again. Like last time, it wasn’t a hard punch, but Peter still rubbed his arm.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Tony said.

No, it wasn’t bad—it was pretty nice, actually. Watching Morgan was fun. But. “I’m confused.”

“About what?” Tony asked, peeling his blazer off and hanging it up on a mounted hook in the wall.

A better question would be what wasn’t Peter confused about at this point. Although he was finally starting to come to terms with maybe not being a total fuck-up who had no future, he was sure meeting Tony Stark’s secret family was beyond his realm. What did he ever do to make Tony trust him enough to meet his daughter? To watch her alone for two hours? Why was that even a task he’d give Peter, his SI intern? Didn’t the man want him to work on his research?

Peter pressed his lips together in a straight line. “I don’t know.”

Tony, thankfully, didn’t seem to think Peter’s puzzlement showed a lack of intelligence, unlike Dr. Osborn. Being confused or unsure were both signs that you weren’t being observant enough, that you weren’t smart enough to understand. This wasn’t a complex equation or a lab experiment, which made Peter’s confusion feel even more invalid.

Tony smiled. “While you figure that out, why don’t you join us for dinner?”

Peter’s eyes darted to Tony’s. “Oh. That’s okay, I can just go, I’ve got an exam to study for tomorrow. Unless you wanted me to work on intern stuff.”

“You already did intern stuff,” Tony replied. “Made sure my daughter didn’t fall out a window or spontaneously combust, check and check.”

“…You sure?”

“Yep. It’s pizza night. Pep and I homemade the dough and everything.”

Free food was always a score. But Peter didn’t want to intrude on a family dinner. (Family dinner—because Tony was married and had a kid .)

“You aren’t just inviting me because Ms. Potts mentioned dinner in front of me and you wanted to be polite?” Peter paused. “Wait, is it Mrs. Stark now?”

“It’s Pepper,” Tony said, which didn’t totally answer his question. “And, no, I’m not just asking to be polite. You’re my personal intern; you get invited to dinner. Also, I know the university dining halls kinda suck.”

True. Peter chewed his bottom lip and glanced towards the kitchen where Virginia— Pepper —and Morgan’s voices murmured above the soft beeping of oven buttons.

“Is Peter staying? Should I put in two pizzas?” Pepper called out.

Tony turned to Peter with raised eyebrows.

Peter figured, what the heck. It was just dinner. His anxieties and imposter syndrome could take the backseat for the evening. “Sure.”

“Two pizzas!” Tony called back. “Do you like spinach and feta? It’s Morgan’s favorite right now. Weird kid, I know.”

Before he could respond, Morgan ran out of the kitchen and grabbed Peter’s hand. She tugged him towards the hallway. “Herbit crabssss.”

Tony watched his daughter kidnap Peter with a smile. “You can say no to her.”

“I’m good.”

Morgan yanked Peter into a small playroom with large bookcases and a glass tank by the window. She pressed her face against the glass of the tank, fogging it up. “Herbit crabs.”

Peter peered over the top. Three hermit crabs, each with colorful, glittery shells, slowly crawling around their tank. He’d have to send Tony some research about how harmful decorative shells are.

“It’s hermit.”

Morgan craned her neck to meet Peter’s eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

-

Stomach full and head lighter than usual, Peter found himself stepping off the subway in Queens instead of on campus. It was early September, so at 8:00 the sun was leisurely making its way to meet the horizon. Leaves on trees had begun to yellow at the edges. Everything was on the verge of change.

Peter gave a polite nod to a bistro worker taking a smoke break before opening the street door and heading up the narrow stairs. A hand dipped into his pocket, only to pause when he remembered he didn’t have the key on him—he wasn’t planning on visiting today. Even after dinner—a blissful two hours of familial bickering with fond looks and a small revelation—Peter didn’t intend to come to Queens. His feet carried him without instruction.

Peter had been wondering what Tony Stark’s center of his universe was. It used to be partying, then SI, inventing, investing, solving the world’s problems. But then it shifted. After watching a whole dinner of Tony holding Pepper’s hand on the table while he watched Morgan with a softness he’d never witnessed a man possess, Peter knew what his center was.

It made him realize that Peter’s center had shifted, too, unbeknownst to him. All he ever did was study or work. That’s all he thought about. That was his identity.

It needed to change.

When had he stopped carrying the apartment keys on him?

Peter knocked on the door. A noise, then: “Coming!”

A pause. He imagined May standing on her tippy-toes to peer out of the peephole. Then, after a click, the door swept open.

May engulfed him in her arms. “Peter! I wasn’t expecting you!”

He smiled into her shoulder as he hugged her back. “Sorry if it’s bad timing.”

“Never.” Once they separated, May held onto Peter’s arms and studied his face. “What’s this about? Are you okay?”

Peter smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Do I need to go beat up a billionaire? I’ll do it. I’ll do it with my bare hands.” She held up a thumb and, referencing Ratatouille , said, “With this thumb.”

Peter laughed. May squeezed his arms, not tight, just firmly. Like she wanted him to know she was there.

“Seriously. I’ll do it, Peter.”

“Aunt May, really, it’s okay,” Peter assured. “I just…I really appreciate you. And I don’t visit enough.”

Wary, May gave Peter’s arms another squeeze before letting go. “Well, I won’t complain—I’ll take as much Peter time as I’ll get.” She ushered her nephew inside and closed the door behind them. “I just put the cookies in the oven, they’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

-

On Tuesday, after receiving a whopping 69% on Dr. Hastings’s exam, Peter went back to the tower and tried not to let the grade affect him. He said a quick hey to Gwen and Corbin on the intern floor, went up to Tony’s personal lab, grabbed a homemade banana nut muffin off the snack counter, and sat at his work desk to work on his project. He would’ve popped his head into Tony’s office to let him know he was there, but he could hear the man talking on the phone through the door and figured he’d just get started by himself.

Halfway through his muffin, the doors opened and Tony stepped in with a light stack of papers. Off-duty clothes today. “My favorite intern.”

“Hey.”

Tony sat opposite of him and slapped the papers down. His eyes scanned Peter’s scribbles in his notebook. “So. How’s your day going?”

Peter shrugged and wiped his crumby hand on the thigh of his jeans. “How’s yours?”

 “Woah woah woah,” Tony said, making a waving gesture with his hands. “A shrug is not an answer.”

“It was fine, I guess,” Peter said, shrugging again.

Tony groaned and rolled his eyes. “You’re so boring.”

“Thanks.”

There was a lull. Tony pianoed his fingers against the table. “Sorry for throwing the babysitting thing on you without warning yesterday.”

“It’s fine.”

“We’re in between babysitters right now. Happy—head of security, I think you’ve met—believed the last one was a security risk, so we let her go a couple days ago. We needed someone to cover yesterday—someone we trusted to not kidnap my daughter and hold her for a billion-dollar ransom—and you were the first person I thought of. Was it okay? Morgan seemed to like you, but, no offense, she likes anyone she can boss around.”

“Yeah, no, it was fun,” Peter assured him. “Morgan’s great.”

Tony nodded. “Cool. Babysitting isn't going to be a regular part of your internship, don’t worry. It was just a last-minute thing.”

Honestly, Peter wouldn’t have minded it. Getting paid to watch movies and play with stickers wasn’t the worst thing he had ever done for money. (That sounded suspicious. The worst thing he’d done for a quick buck was write essays for the grad students in Dr. Osborn’s lab—nothing against the law, just against academic code of conduct.)

“Anyway.” Tony slid the papers across the desk. “Here’s a project proposal to look over when you’re done doing whatever you’re doing. I skimmed it—seems kinda lame, so feel free to add some of your Parker pizzazz to it.”

“Okay.”

Tony stared at Peter for a beat, then patted the desk twice and stood. “Good talk. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Peter’s gaze stayed trained on his work, but once the door clicked shut behind Tony, his pencil paused and he looked up.

Maybe he needed to open up a little. After all, Tony did trust him enough to reveal his secret family to him. The least Peter could do was tell him about his day.

So, after he finished with Tony’s assignment, instead of just dropping the papers off on his desk and leaving, Peter lingered.

“How’s it going?”

Tony looked around his computer to Peter. Surprised, almost, to see him still standing there.

“Goin’ good,” he replied, making a few clicks on his mouse. “Productivity is up. SI’s back on track for the fall.” Peter nodded. Tony’s eyes flickered back to Peter. “How’s it going with you?”

“Good.” He couldn’t respond with just one word, though; Tony had responded with three whole sentences. Peter cleared his throat and continued. “Well, mostly good. Totally bombing my chem class.”

Tony raised a brow. He turned away from his computer, fully facing Peter now. “You? Bombing chemistry?”

“Right? The professor’s got it out for me.”

“Why’s that?”

Peter shrugged. “He’s Dr. Osborn’s friend.” Friend was a stretch, but it was close enough.

Tony frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I left Dr. Osborn’s lab and joined yours,” Peter explained, not sure why Tony hadn’t connected the dots himself. “Academic and career suicide.”

“That’s immature.”

“It’s just…how it is. I knew what I was getting into when I left.”

Tony just stared at him, his face doing something weird. Eyebrows drawn, lips pursed, eyes shining with—

Ah shit, he’s concerned.

“Anyways,” Peter said, backing away from the desk. “I’ve gotta…” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Gotta go.”

Tony sighed. “Peter.”

He paused by the door, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Yeah?”

Tony’s face was still doing the thing, but his lips were less pouty and were instead set in a straight, firm line. “Never mind. Just—don’t let that grouch stress you out so much. You’ve still got a future.” He sat back in his chair and set his hands on the desk. “Here—a future here , if you’d like.”

 Peter blinked at him. He should’ve said something nice, something that expressed his gratitude, his excitement, or even his anxieties with the idea. Instead, his jaw snapped shut and he just stared at the man.

Tony, bless his heart, just shrugged in response to Peter’s non-response. “Or not, whatever. I’d be happy to write a glowing letter of recommendation to whichever hot-shot company you decide is better than mine.” He turned to the papers and shuffled through them. “Have a good weekend, kid. Don’t do anything illegal with witnesses.” A wink.

-

“Dude,” Ned said Thursday night while they were studying with a LoFi study playlist in the background. Peter leaned back from his desk, his chair brushing against Ned’s, and looked at the phone his roommate extended. It was open to Twitter.

“What am I looking at?” Peter asked.

“The university’s gossip twitter. Apparently Tony Stark is having a secret affair with Virginia Potts.” Ned took the phone back. “Is that true?”

Peter turned back to his laptop. On the inside, he was shuffling through every mental filing cabinet of recent memories to triple check he hadn’t slipped and told someone after Tony explicitly asked him to keep it secret. On the outside, cool as a cucumber. “How would I know?”

“Uh, because you’re Tony Stark’s personal intern! You probably know so much confidential shit.”

When Peter didn’t respond, Ned pushed his chair back far enough to be in his peripheral. Peter felt the gaze on his face.

Finally, Ned said, “You’re good at keeping secrets. Respect.” 

-

It was Wednesday; Peter was with the other interns. He’d meant to be working on the group project, but Gwen’s bubbly voice drew him to her table where she and Corbin were on their laptops. 

His sneaker squeaked against the tiled floor as he approached, and Gwen peered over the laptop. Her face brightened and she smiled. 

“Look who’s come down from their ivory tower to bless the common folk with his presence,” she remarked. She was wearing a purple turtleneck. Peter wanted to compliment it, but that might’ve made things weird, so he just kept it to himself as he slid into the seat beside Corbin.

“I must give the common folk what they want.”

Corbin snorted and rolled his eyes. His fingers dancing around the keyboard didn’t slow.

Gwen nudged his foot with hers under the desk. She lowered her laptop lid and set her chin on her fist. “How’s your project going?”

“It’s going.” He nodded. “I’ve got most of the kinks worked out—Tony’s been a big help with that.” 

Gwen’s eyebrows shot up. “First name basis, huh?”

After babysitting his kid, Peter figured they were there. He shrugged. “We work together a lot.”

She flicked her wrist.  “No, I know. It’s just a little funny to me, is all. So the adhesive’s done?”

“Not entirely. It lasts a while in a controlled environment, but it dissolves too quickly when it’s exposed to moisture.”

Gwen plucked the pencil from behind her ear that Peter hadn’t even noticed and tapped the eraser against her chin. “Moisture is tricky. Have you thought about adding a polymer that could provide a barrier? Something that can withstand humidity?”

Peter opened his mouth, then shut it with a click. “No, I have not.”

She grinned. “Let me know how that works out.”

“I will. I’ll also make sure Tony knows it was your idea; I wouldn’t want to take credit for your work.” 

“Thanks.” She tucked the pencil back behind her ear. It blended in behind the wall of blonde hair. “Hey, did you see that Oscorp’s searching for more interns?” Peter’s brow furrowed. “Apparently a couple students dropped after you left. Coincidence?” Her eyes glinted with curiosity.

Peter shook his head. “I didn’t hear about that.” Who left? Connor? Yasmine? Did they actually leave, or were they exiled? 

“Whatever the reason,” Gwen said, opening her laptop, “they’ve been pretty desperate for replacements. Seems like they’re trying to pull a Tony Stark and swipe some bright pupils from the competition.” After a few clicks, she turned the laptop around. Peter squinted at the screen.

As soon as he read the email, his eyes darted up to meet Gwen’s. “Tell me you turned them down.”

She scoffed. “Of course I did.” She turned the laptop back around.

“Good,” Peter said. He was frowning. When did he start frowning? “Working for Dr. Osborn was awful.”

“Why?”

Peter briefly dipped into the atrocities, giving short anecdotes about making interns cry, stealing uncredited work, and throwing the occasional tantrum. “One time,” he said, “I lost some data in a faulty transfer and he threw a beaker at the wall behind me, and the broken glass cut my ear.” He pinched his ear where a thin pink scar was. “Then he got mad at me because the blood that dripped down my neck was a ‘biohazard.’ “

Gwen’s jaw dropped. “What a fucking jerk.”

Corbin’s head popped up from behind his laptop. “What? I wasn’t paying attention. Who’s a jerk and why?”

She answered before Peter could. “Norman Osborn threw a beaker at Peter’s head when he was his intern.”

“Okay, well, technically—”

“Wait, really?” Carrie, who never failed to walk past their table at the worst times, paused and lowered her clipboard. Her concerned eyes found Peter’s. “Did you report him?”

“He didn’t throw it at me ,” Peter corrected, sending Gwen a look, “he threw it at the wall beside me.”

Gwen returned the sharp look, but it was dulled at the edges with the same worry that shone in their supervisor’s gaze. Corbin seemed curious at best. 

“The glass cut your ear,” Gwen pointed out. 

“ After it shattered.”

“By your head!”

Carrie lifted a finger and opened her mouth, but before she could add anything, Peter pushed his stool back and stood. “I’ve got to go work on my project, see you guys later.”

-

Winter was in full swing—blinding snow flurries, crappy radiators that wheezed out semi-warm air, Christmas music playing everywhere you went. Santa better get Mariah Carey a freakin’ man already, because Peter was tired of hearing her whistle notes and flawless voice serenade him whenever he stepped into the dining halls. 

Peter was ears-deep in projects and studying for the last exams before finals in just a few weeks. Between his classes, Dr. Hastings’s vendetta, and intern work, he was stretched thinner than the sheet of ice covering the stairs outside the library. He’d know, since he knew that ice so intimately (a result of slipping and falling an embarrassing number of times).

After spending all day freezing his ass off, Peter was content sitting in his dorm bed, fuzzy red and black checkered blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he typed away at his laptop.

The door swung open, Ned’s gloved hand slapped against the wood. “It’s cold as balls outside, dude.”

Peter made a noise at the back of his throat. Tossing a handful of freshly popped popcorn into his mouth, he said, “Let’s move to Florida.”

“Too many gators.” Ned shook off his Old Navy winter coat and swiped a hand over the snowflakes caught in his dark hair. 

“Don’t you have family in Hawaii? Let’s go there.”

“The whole island thing is kinda freaky to me,” he admitted. He fell into bed and pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling. Twitter or TikTok, probably. “It feels too removed from the world.”

“Perfect place to be for a zombie apocalypse.” 

“Or the worst place, depending on where it starts.” 

Peter inclined a shoulder. Fair . He threw another handful of warm popcorn down the hatch and picked a loose piece from his lap. Maybe they could do that for spring break—go to Hawaii. They were both juniors now, and they’d both spent the last two spring breaks working; they deserved a vacation. Especially if they could skip the hotel prices and stay with a family member of Ned’s. 

His laptop made a soft ding, signaling an email in his inbox. Peter toggled out of what he was doing and opened up his email.

His blood went cold.

Parker–

It has come to my attention that you’ve been spreading misinformation about my tenure as your supervisor. I must emphasize that the nature of these statements is not only misleading but also damaging to my esteemed professional reputation.

I encourage you to consider the potential consequences of continuing to share such narratives. I trust that you will take this message seriously and will cease the dissemination of these statements immediately. If this behavior persists, I may have no choice but to explore further actions to protect my interests.

Sincerely,

Dr. Osborn

“ What .”

Ned sat up. “What?”

Peter slammed his laptop shut. It felt like he had just swallowed an ice cube. His mind buzzed. 

“What’s wrong?” Ned’s eyes went wide. “Is May okay?”

“May’s fine, it’s just…” Peter shook his head and opened the laptop again to analyze the email word-by-word. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“Who?”

Peter read the email aloud. Watched Ned’s face screw up in confusion, then as it dawned on him. “Bro, did you ever, like, get hit by a beaker when you were an intern at Oscorp?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “What?” How did he know that?

“The university’s gossip twitter tweeted about it this morning. Here, let me pull it up.” Ned scrolled, then threw the phone. It landed on Peter’s mattress with a soft thump. He picked it up and read the screen.

national hate norman osborn day in honor of the intern whose head he threw a beaker at!!! #truestory #abuseofpower #bonk 

“What the hell? How did they…?” He lowered the phone. There were a couple witnesses to Dr. Osborn’s tantrum that day, but none would dare publicize it. Someone must’ve overheard his conversation with Gwen the other day in the lab. Peter threw the phone back and clicked reply on the email.

Ned pushed off the bed and leaned over Peter’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Playing defense. He has to know I wasn’t behind this.”

“Dude, don’t respond, that’s like putting fuel on the fire.”

Peter turned to Ned. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Ghost him.”

Peter rubbed his temples. “He’s not some lame date; you can’t just ghost Norman Obsorn.”

He started typing again, but Ned shut his laptop. “Dude, seriously. It’ll blow over.”

Peter glared at his friend. The anger wasn’t towards him; and it wasn’t even anger, really. It was something closer to fear. 

Ned took the laptop and tucked it under his arm. “How about we call it a day and watch Adventure Time and warm up some more popcorn?”

“I need to do my homework, Ned.” His voice was a chilled monotone—a result of overcompensating for the fear that made him want to curl up into a ball and disintegrate.

“But—”

“ Ned .”

They stared at each other. Then, he handed the laptop back. “At least wait until tomorrow to respond.”

-

Dr. Osborn,

I want to make it clear that I haven’t been spreading anything about you or your time as my supervisor. I didn’t have anything to do with that tweet. I have no idea where those rumors came from, and I definitely don’t want to contribute to anything that could hurt your reputation. Sorry if it has negatively impacted you. Let me know if there’s something I can do to fix this.

Thanks,

Peter

-

Peter was on edge. Dr. Osborn hadn’t responded to his email. His head was on a swivel when he was on campus, though he already knew which routes to take and when to avoid bumping into him on his way to and from the lectures he taught.

Tony picked up on the edginess right away. As soon as Peter walked into the lab, sat down at his station, and started bouncing his knee, Tony’s eyes zeroed-in from across the room. It looked like he’d been looking at the blueprints Peter set on his desk the day before.

“What’s new, Jumpy?” he asked, setting the blueprints aside. 

Peter’s knee stilled. “Nothing. What’s new with you?”

Tony walked over and propped himself against the counter. His hands slipped into the front pockets of his slacks. “Not much. Morgan’s been bugging me to set you two up on a playdate, though. It’s hard to explain to a four-year-old that twenty-whatever-year-olds don’t go on playdates.”

Peter smiled. Some of the nerves slipped away. “That’s sweet of her. I’m surprised she didn’t find me boring.”

“Nah, she thinks you’re awesomesauce times ten.” Tony took one of the glass cylinders from their rack and spun it on the table. “Random question. That tweet about Osborn punting a beaker at an intern. That would be you, correct?”

Peter opened his mouth, ready to correct him—nobody punted anything at his head—but he cut himself off. “You saw that?”

Tony stopped the spinning cylinder and crossed his arms. “Of course, I’m up to date with all the hot goss. Plus, it’s run by one of my interns. Supportive bosses follow their intern’s social media all the time.”

“Wait, you know who runs it?”

Tony waved a hand. “It’s that Gwen girl, the one who keeps stealing all the disposable pipettes.” 

He wasn’t sure what to make of either of those points. Firstly, Gwen? A flicker of betrayal sparked in his chest. It was stomped out by the curiosity of the second half of Tony’s sentence. She’s been stealing pipettes?

Flabbergasted was an understatement for how Peter was feeling. 

Meeting Peter’s eyes, Tony asked, “So, was it true?” When Peter just looked at him, he made the motion of getting hit in the head. 

Peter looked down at his work that he had yet to start. He picked up his pencil. “Allegedly.”

He felt the man watching him closely. Studying him. 

Tony sighed and pushed away from the counter. “You keep things close to the chest,” he said. Peter didn’t look up, but his pencil paused. “It’s something I’ve admired about you since I met you. But not everything should be hush-hush.” 

Peter’s eyes shifted up to Tony’s. The man’s gaze was steady. Firm, yet soft. Inviting, yet concerned. 

He saw Tony’s eyes flicker to his ear, then back. “Would that be a scar from said beaker?”

“Why?” He had to have spoken to Gwen directly. Tony never noticed the scar before; no one did unless he pointed it out to them. 

“Because I want to know.”

“Why?”

Tony’s brow raised. “You’re starting to sound like my four-year-old.” Peter’s stare didn’t waver. Neither did Tony’s; not for a while, at least. When he finally looked away, he said, “Look, I’m just…If Osborn is a problem, I’d like to know.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Yet, I’m assuming he’s the reason why you’re all jumpy,” Tony pointed out. “And you’re bombing a class you would’ve normally excelled in because he’s got friends in high places.”

Peter eyed him warily. Tony scratched at his stubble. “Pete, all I’m trying to do is sus out the situation.”

“What situation?”

“The Osborn situation.”

“There is no situation; I don’t work for him anymore.”

Tony sighed, defeated. “Okay, fine. Sure. Forget I said anything.” He strode back to where he left the blueprints. “If you need me, I’ll be over here. Just holler.”

-

Finals blew over in a whirlwind of snow and late-night study sessions. Students were vacating campus to go home for Christmas. Peter was more than happy to get a reprieve from the stuffy glorified closet he and Ned’s beds were jammed into. 

May went all out with the Christmas decorations: cut-out coffee filter snowflakes draped across the ceiling, the Christmas tree lit up in colorful lights instead of the white ones because Ben always liked the colorful ones more, three stockings hung up above the window (as well as a sock Peter hung up with sticky tack for the raccoon that had been frequenting their fire escape), festive pillows, a bowl of Christmas candy, ugly sweaters—the place looked like Buddy the Elf had visited. 

There was a constant melody of Christmas songs playing throughout the apartment as Peter helped May cook a feast for two. 

“This is a lot of food, May,” Peter commented as she fished out a glass casserole dish. They’d already made mashed potatoes, had rolls setting out to rise, and a ham in the oven, and it looked like she was about to make green bean casserole. “I don’t think the two of us can eat all this.”

“Leftovers are a thing.” May smiled. If it weren’t for the hint of sheepishness in it, Peter would’ve let it go.

Yet, there it was. Something suspicious.

“Did you invite someone else?” Did she meet someone? He wouldn’t consider Christmas dinner to be the best time to drop that on him. 

She stirred the cream of mushroom soup with the green beans. She was still smiling. “Maybe.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” May shrugged coyly. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” 

Surprises weren’t Peter’s thing. He appreciated twists in movies and books that were foreshadowed by clever hints, but jumpscares and randomness were far less favorable. He liked to be prepared. So, as he helped May, he thought through every possible scenario in which a man who’d piqued his aunt’s interest walked through their front door—or woman; May had vaguely mentioned “experimenting” in college before she met Ben. Honestly, Peter might’ve preferred if she invited a woman over. The last guy May tried to start a thing with revealed himself to be a dickass with temper issues and a knack for cat-calling. 

Peter set the table, eyeing May with each plate he set down. It felt wrong laying that third one down. 

May checked the ham and hummed in satisfaction. When she turned and saw the three plates, she said, “Could you set three more plates?”

Peter raised a brow. Did this man or woman have children? 

As he was lining up the forks with the additional three—totaling to a crowded table of six—there was a knock on the door. May was cutting the ham. Pushing her glasses up with her arm, she pointed the knife at the door and said, “Get that, please?” 

Peter moved to the door and peered out of the peephole with one eye. As soon as he saw who was at the door, he whipped the door open. 

Morgan attached herself to his legs like a monkey. Her wispy long brown locks were wind-blown and partially tucked into the hood of her purple winter coat. She stared up at him with gleeful eyes. “Peteeeer.” Her voice was low and demonic. 

Peter looked up at Tony and Pepper, back at May, then back at the couple. “I’m lost.”

“New York is a big city,” Tony quipped with a smirk, “it’s easy to get lost.”

Peter blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon his lack of manners,” May called from the kitchen. “You guys can come in.”

Peter stepped aside, Morgan still clung to his legs, and held the door as Tony and Pepper walked into their humble home. Very humble. Oddly enough, though, the family didn’t look out of place standing in his apartment. Tony was wearing jeans and a dark maroon sweater, hair fluffy and not smoothed back like he did on days he had meetings; Pepper was wearing a long black skirt and a forest green turtleneck, no makeup or fancy jewelry she donned when he had seen her at the gala last January. They didn’t look like billionaires, or CEOs. They looked like normal people.

May and Pepper hugged as the ginger said, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

“Not at all.”

Tony whistled and snapped his finger. “Morg, get off ‘em.”

Pepper rolled her eyes as she and May separated. “She’s not a dog, don’t whistle at her.”

Morgan looked up at Peter and stuck her tongue out, panting like a puppy. “Woof woof!”

“Great, now our daughter is a furry.”

Pepper turned to May. “I apologize in advance for my husband’s immaturity.”

May laughed. “I was married to a man for twelve years, I can handle immaturity. Peter, honey, shut the door—you’re letting the cold in.”

“Sorry,” Peter murmured, shutting the door and scooping Morgan up. She crawled over his shoulder onto his back and latched on like a backpack. “What’s going on? How do you guys know each other?”

Tony took a hershey kiss from the candy bowl and plopped it into his mouth. “Through you, duh.” 

Morgan thumped Peter on the head. “DUH!”

It wasn’t a hard thump by any means, but both parents shot her a warning glare and hissed, “ Morgan .” 

The four-year-old let out a huff and gently stroked Peter’s hair like a cat. 

“But…” Peter turned to May. “How do you even know Tony and Pepper are married? Or that Morgan exists?”

“Tony told me, over the phone,” May replied. She leaned against the counter and seemed pleased with keeping their communication a secret. “I initially called him—when was this, September?—because I was worried when you visited me out of the blue.” Peter remembered that. It was right after babysitting Morgan, and having dinner with the Starks. “Maybe I was being overprotective. Turned out everything was fine, obviously. But after that, sometimes I’d call to just…check in.”

“May,” Peter groaned, “I’m twenty-one. I don’t need you calling my boss to make sure I’m okay.”

Tony was grinning. Amused by his humiliation, no doubt. They’d been in contact behind his back for three months?

They explained how, after May invited Tony over for Christmas dinner, he’d told her about the secret marriage and secret daughter. “The more the merrier,” she’d said. 

And now there they were: Billionaire boss, demonic four-year-old, intimidatingly intelligent executive assistant, overprotective aunt, and college intern. What a group. 

Morgan slid off Peter’s back and grabbed his hand to tug him towards the rest of the apartment. “Show me your toys!”

“Morgan.” Tony knelt to his daughter’s level. “We talked about this—we don’t order Peter around.”

Morgan frowned harshly. Peter knelt, too, and took both her hands. “How about we play after dinner? Does that sound okay?”

She nodded, chin going all the way up to the ceiling and then all the way back to her chest. She looked over her father’s shoulder and up at her mother and said, “Mommy, can we eat now?”

“Someone’s excited to play,” May said with a smile. To Peter: “It’s a good thing I kept all your old toys.”

“She’s not even kidding when she says all,” Peter said as he and Tony stood. “Some might say she has a hoarding issue.”

“Hey!”

“I said some, not me.” He definitely considered May to be a hoarder. It might’ve been a good thing she didn’t have an expendable income, otherwise their apartment would’ve likely been filled with random knick-knacks and useless appliances from garage sales and infomercials. Instead, she only hoarded Peter’s childhood memorabilia. He wouldn’t be surprised if she kept a little plastic baggie of his baby teeth. 

Once sat down for dinner, the conversation rolled easily. May went into graphic detail about some recent visitors to the clinic while Morgan listened with great interest. Tony told jokes. Pepper told even funnier ones. Peter participated in the dinner conversation, but he was also content with just listening. After the initial surprise and embarrassment (May had been talking to Tony behind his back ), he realized how much he actually liked having them there. Dinner at the Stark’s was warm and inviting, and throwing May into the mix only made it feel even better. He found himself wishing Ben was there, too, which wasn’t something he’d explicitly thought in a while. It wasn’t a grieved wishing, rather that Peter knew Ben would’ve completed their group. He would’ve made Tony laugh. Would’ve amazed Morgan with elementary magic tricks.

As Pepper set her glass of champagne down, she said, “You’ve done a marvelous job here with Peter.”

May had just been gushing over Morgan’s sharp intelligence and wit. To have the compliment thrown back made her grin and reach out to squeeze Peter’s hand. “I can’t take credit for anything—He’s got my late husband’s heart and his father’s brain.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Peter argued. “I’ve got your taste in movies and shows.”

“Okay, that’s true,” she agreed, head tilting. 

Tony—after forking down a glob of mashed potatoes—asked, “What’d your dad do?”

“He taught at MIT?” He turned to May for confirmation. His phone in his pocket buzzed, but he ignored it. “Biochem, right?” 

“Yep. Apple doesn’t fall far, huh?” May finished her champagne. “He would’ve been proud of O-Fiber. Probably would’ve also taken the stick out of Norman’s ass to beat him with it after he stole all the credit.”

Tony’s eyes flashed to Peter, who instantly looked down at his plate. May must’ve misunderstood the look on Tony’s face because she said, “Oops, sorry. Little ears.”

“Rewind,” Tony said, finger twirling. “Peter worked on O-Fiber?”

“No,” May said. Peter let out a breath, grateful for her cover, but then she said, “He didn’t work on it, he made it.”

Tony was staring at Peter. He could feel his eyes on his head, which was still ducked as he pushed his food around on his plate because he couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Or,” May continued, because why was she still talking . “whatever the correct term is for coming up with everything. He’s the founder?” She turned to Peter. “What’s the right word?”

“Oh my god,,” he groaned, sitting back in his chair. “I basically signed an NDA, May, I don’t want to talk about this.”

May noticed Tony and Pepper’s surprise. “Wait. You guys didn’t know?”

“I knew Peter had some intel on O-Fiber, but I didn’t realize he was the sole creator.” Tony dropped his fork on his plate with a clank. “What the fuck, Peter.”

Pepper lightly smacked Tony’s arm. Beside him, Morgan parroted in her demon voice, “Whatthefuckpeter.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Peter sheepishly said.

Tony’s jaw went slack. “Not a big deal? It’s already made Oscorp millions of dollars! Please tell me you’re getting some kind of cut.”

Peter’s mouth clamped shut. His silence gave away the answer. 

Tony sat back in his chair in disbelief. “That’s theft. And plagiarism. Did you give Osborn permission to use your stuff without credit?”

Dr. Osborn’s voice rang in his mind: It’s not your research. Whose name is on that door? Whose resources did you use?

“Well, no. But I was just an intern, and I was using some leftover money from a grant he got for a different research project, and…” He stopped himself. Was he seriously defending Dr. Osborn? The man who made his Sophomore year a living hell? Who tanked his GPA? 

You just don’t have what it takes, do you?

He remembered his hands shaking, his lungs refusing to fill with air. He remembered the sting of the man’s words.

WHOSE FUCKING NAME IS ON THAT DOOR?

Peter released a breath and met Tony’s eyes. “Yeah. He stole it.”

Tony poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “That son of a bitch.”

“I think that’s enough swearing in front of our child today,” Pepper said, hands delicately laid on the table. 

May’s finger slid around the rim of her glass. “Sorry. I started it.”

“You’re fine, you’re not used to little ears like this one should be.” Her thumb jerked towards Tony, who wasn’t really hearing their conversation because he still seemed locked onto the fact that Peter had a much larger hand in O-Fiber and was completely cut off from its profits and notoriety. Tony opened his mouth, but Pepper cut him off. “If you’re going to continue talking about this, could you two take it away from the table?”

Peter was ready to just drop it, but then Tony stood and gestured towards the hall with his head. Peter sighed but followed. As he passed his aunt, she guiltily mouthed, sorry .

Tony leaned against the doorframe of Peter’s room. Peter stood there, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He didn’t want to be talking about O-Fiber and Osborn on Christmas, but there he was. Talking about it. And there didn’t seem to be a way out of it.

Tony rubbed the stubble on his neck. “Peter, I know you don’t want to talk about this—”

“Obviously not, it’s Christmas —”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it off. “Listen. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said O-Fiber has made Oscorp millions. You haven’t seen a penny of it, have you?”

Peter shook his head. 

“Right.” He slid his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrowed a little. “So how much ownership are we talking? Was it like 80% you, 20% Osborn?”

Peter sighed and leaned against the wall, eyes going to the ceiling, then shutting. “99% me.” It was true that, without an internship at Oscorp, he never would’ve been able to do his research or begin to develop O-Fiber. But it was also true—more true, even—that Oscorp wouldn’t have had O-Fiber without Peter . He opened his eyes and turned to Tony. “The idea was mine. The research that was published was word-for-word mine, but Osborn slapped his name on it. I didn’t even realize he’d sent it to any journals. Or that he’d name it after himself.”

Tony’s frown deepened. “Here’s what I’m thinking: I’ll set up a meeting with you and my corporate attorney to go over all evidence and details, and then—”

Peter pushed off the wall. “Woah, what? Attorney?” 

“He’ll sue for accreditation and—”

“Sue?”

“Peter,” Tony said, “he can’t just steal your hard work and profit off it without giving you anything. Not to mention the fact that he caused physical harm to you.”

“Oh my god—it was a scratch .”

“It could’ve been more than a scratch,” Tony argued. His voice dropped to a serious note. “You can’t throw glassware at someone or steal their shit and get away with it just because they’re a college intern. He should’ve been kissing your ass for how much money your research brought in.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket again. Grateful for an excuse, he fished it out. His stomach swooped. From Ned: dude you need to check twitter

“It’s rude to be on your phone when you’re in the middle of a conversation.”

Peter ignored the comment and hurriedly opened twitter and found Gwen’s gossip page. “Shit.”

Tony’s interest—along with a pinch of concern—piqued. “What?”

“It’s nothing.” Actually. “Okay, it’s not nothing. Look.”

He passed the phone. Tony—the old man that he is—squinted and held the screen away from his eyes as he read aloud the most recent tweet.

university investigates complaints brushed under the rug from former and current interns of Norman Osborn as well as statements from witnesses to the #beakerbonk 

“Well,” Tony said, handing it back. “Better late than never.”

“I’d prefer the latter.” 

Tony’s head cocked to the side. “Why? He’s obviously a dickass, why shouldn’t he get what he deserves?”

“Because—” Peter threw his hands up, then let them slap against his thighs. “I’m done for. Career suicide before I even start my career. I’m in hot enough water as it is since leaving his lab for yours.”

Tony frowned. “I told you, you have a spot at SI with your name on it.”

Peter paused. “You were being serious about that?”

“Yes. Obviously.” A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “It’d be kind of cruel to offer that as a joke, no?”

“I guess so.” 

Tony smiled, then slid a hand from his pocket to take Peter’s shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about those vultures. Even if you don’t want to work at SI after college, I give stellar recommendation letters to companies that aren’t wrapped around Osborn’s finger.” He squeezed, then let go of the shoulder. “Let’s shelf the lawsuit for now and see what the outcome of this investigation entails. Sound good?”

Peter gave a small smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

When they returned to the dinner table Morgan’s plate was empty, as was her chair. “Where’s—?”

“Time to play!” Morgan leapt onto his back. 

He grinned. His plate still had some food on it, but there’d be plenty of leftovers. “Do you like legos?”

-

It’s March. New York was still frozen, though the sun—when it decided to grace the city with its rays—melted the ice and snow away before it could stick for too long. 

The investigation was dragging its feet, so the university let Osborn continue teaching until there was substantial evidence that proved misconduct. There was no end in sight, though Gwen regularly reminded the world on twitter that the university was allowing a douchebag to maintain their tenure. Gwen didn’t know that Peter knew she ran it, and he wanted to keep it that way. Secret identities were to be respected. Besides, he enjoyed watching her casually dig for gossip or when she’d smile to herself when she heard someone talking about the account. It was cute. She was cute. 

The threatening emails from Osborn didn’t cease, though they were coming from his personal email instead of his university email to avoid suspicion. Peter could’ve turned those emails over to those investigating, but something held him back. Fear, most likely. 

The Starks had had Peter over for dinner twice since Christmas. It was always a bribe—”If you come over for dinner I’ll let you take a look at my first arc reactor blueprints”—though Peter didn’t need much convincing. 

Since the investigation was taking forever, Tony kept pestering Peter about suing. “You deserve something ,” he told him. “And people need to know your name.”

He didn’t care too much about either of those, though he’d be lying if he said some extra cash and something as big as O-Fiber on his resume wouldn’t be nice. Really nice. 

Tony was adamant that Peter attend his yearly spring gala again, this time as a SI representative and not an Oscorp rep. Peter was instantly wary—what if he ran into Osborn?—and part of him was anxious. He’d been to the last one and got a taste of how crowded and chatty the tower could get. It just wasn’t his scene, and yet Tony wanted him to attend. 

“You’re my shining pupil,” Tony said. “I can’t not bring you. I have so many business partners and connections you have to meet. They’re all going to try to steal you away just how I swooped in and nabbed you, so stay vigilant.” 

“I don’t even have a suit,” Peter argued. He was idling by the door after his internship hours were over. Tony had sprung the gala thing on him again; it was that weekend.

Tony made a face. “What’s wrong with the one you wore last year?’

“Not mine.”

“Hm.” Tony put both hands on either of Peter’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.” He winked, patted his shoulders, and walked out the door. 

Don’t worry about it apparently meant that Tony was going to buy a suit and have a bald guy named Stingray (literally, that’s his legal name that his parents wrote down on his birth certificate) tailor it with pins and thread and whatever tailors use only hours before the gala. Tony had invited Peter over to the penthouse—”I still don’t have a suit, Tony.” “Didn’t I tell you not to worry about that?”—and, now, Peter was standing in the master bedroom’s walk-in closet (which wasn’t even a closet, it was as big as his kitchen and living room combined) in front of a floor-length mirror. 

Stingray just left. Peter was wearing a sleek black suit with a crisp white undershirt. Behind him, Tony wore a similar suit with slightly more eccentricity. 

Peter shook his arms out, feeling the cuffs of the sleeves against his wrists. “This feels weird.”

“How so?” Tony was tying his own tie in the mirror.

Peter turned. Checked his ass out. “I don’t know. It feels…” He raised his arms up, then down. “Stiff.” He did a lunge.

Tony turned. “I’m not buying you another pair of pants, so don’t rip those.”

“Noted.” He did a jumping jack. Just one, but for some reason Tony laughed. “What?”

Tony turned and stood in front of Peter, straightening out the blazer at the shoulders. “It’s just a boring event at the tower, no need to be so nervous.”

Peter frowned. “There’s going to be a ton of people there. A ton of rich old people. It’s not exactly my crowd.”

“You hang out with me, don’t you?” Tony asked, smirking as he adjusted the tie Peter moved out of place during the jumping jack.

“That’s different. You’re cool.”

Tony smiled. When he was done adjusting the tie, he stepped back. “You know what? You’ve got a point. Just stay by my side and you’ll be fine.”

“Knock knock.” Pepper poked her head in. Her face broke out into a smile when she saw the two. “Peter, look how handsome you are!” 

Tony scoffed. “As your husband, I feel like it’s rude not to compliment me first.”

Pepper ignored the comment and met Peter with a hug. She was wearing a stunning red wine dress that swiped against her ankles as she moved. Pearl earrings dangled from her earlobes. When they separated, her hands slid down his sleeves, admiring the suit. “Stingray did a great job, it fits perfectly.”

“Is it supposed to be so stiff?” Peter lifted his arms in a t-pose-like stance and twisted his torso. 

Tony made a noise of protest. “Hey, I just got you all sorted out, don’t mess up the suit again.”

Peter lowered his arms. Pepper let out a soft laugh. “You’ll get used to it. It’s only for a few hours.”

Ugh. “Right.”

“Well come on, before we’re late.” She ushered the two out of the closet and fussed over the list of rules they left for the new-ish nanny. As they waited for the elevator, Peter noticed Pepper gazing at the floral painting in the foyer. Tony caught Peter looking and said, “She’s a total art nerd, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Do you like art, Peter?”

“I like looking at it. It’s pretty.”

Pepper smiled, though Peter knew his answer was kinda stupid. She turned back to the large painting. “Jimson Weed, 1936. It’s a Georgia O’Keeffe.”

Peter turned to look at the painting full-on, too. It seemed pretty enough, though it appeared as though Pepper were seeing something else, something dynamic, like a beautiful kaleidoscope or something. Her eyes danced across the dry paint. Peter tried to look with the same passion but failed. 

“The real thing’s in the Indianapolis Museum of Art,” Pepper explained. “It was auctioned for forty-four million dollars. This replica was painted to be exactly like the original, every paint stroke.” She reached out and delicately ran two feather fingers over the surface. Behind them, the elevator dinged. Tony stepped in but put his foot in the door so it wouldn’t close while his wife stared in wonder at the painting that had been there for years. “Oil on linen, 180 by 212 centimeters.”

“Cool.” Did Pepper paint, too? Or was she just into looking at art? Peter felt compelled to ask, but Tony cut in then to say, “Clock’s a-tickin, baby. I’m all for showing up fashionably late to my own party, but I have a feeling we might have some unhappy guests.”

Pepper stepped away from the painting and smiled at her husband. Her eyes lit up just as they had when she was admiring the art.

The tower was just as dressed up as it was for last year’s event. They passed by the shark in the lobby, which Peter now knew wasn’t a pet shark and was only there for show—”Who doesn’t want a shark at their party?”—and entered the ballroom where only a handful of people were milling around. If the glimpse of the people pouring in from the front entrance was anything to go by, it would be full in minutes. Peter located the grand piano near the windows. A grayed gentleman dressed to the nines delicately plinked his fingers across the ivory keys, filling the large space with a calming melody. 

Pepper was immediately approached by a thirty-something-year-old couple, one in a velvety purple suit and the other in a classic navy. Her pearly teeth practically glowed in the lowlights as she grinned and laughed at something they said. 

Tony adjusted his watch beside Peter. “Stick close to me, yeah? I’ve got people I want to introduce you to. Plus, if Osborn decided to show, he’d likely steer clear of me.” He smiled. Peter smiled, too, though his heart fluttered nervously. 

“Sounds good.”

“And no bar.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Oh.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind, then. Go nuts.”

He didn’t “go nuts,” though he did order a glass of sparkling champagne. He wasn’t a heavy drinker by any means, so the one drink would last for most, if not all, the night. 

True to his words, once the ballroom was full of leading entrepreneurs, businessmen, and other professionals, Tony took Peter around to meet some people whose interests weren’t tainted by Oscorp. Hands were shaken, smiles were shared, business cards were passed, and Peter heard too many names to remember. After about an hour and a half of this, Tony excused himself to find Pepper for an update on Morgan. They were both receiving updates via text, but Tony’s phone was dead. 

Alone, Peter made his way to the piano to watch the man’s adroit fingers dance across the black and white keys. It was lovely to listen to, but he knew from the way that the pianist’s body hunched and straightened and his head bobbed along that he was experiencing something deeper than Peter was. Like Pepper and the painting. He could appreciate the art, but he couldn’t comprehend it at the level necessary to feel absolutely changed by it.

Everyone had their things. His was science. The pianist’s was music. Pepper’s was art. Looking out at the chatty crowd, Peter briefly wondered if any of the guests in too-stiff, too-expensive clothes ever felt changed by what they were doing. He then turned that thought inwards—had he ever felt changed by his work? Surely he’d caused change with his research and development of O-Fiber, but was that the same?

Peter sipped at his champagne. He swirled the last few sips around in his glass, face drawn as he contemplated things. 

An eruption of boisterous laughter stole his attention. He scanned the crowd, looking for the loud laughers, but he couldn’t pinpoint them. 

Peter meandered from the piano to the bathrooms, depositing his drink at a small, tall circle table on his way. As he turned from the table, his shoulder collided into another. 

“Sorry, I—” His eyes met the man’s. It took a moment for recognition to hit him: Jeffrey Burns. He’d run into the same man last year. He wasn’t on the list of professionals Tony wanted to introduce him to, which was no surprise since the man had ties with Osborn. “Sorry.” Peter’s lips straightened into a tight smile.

The man laughed. “Don’t worry about it, kid.” His eyes twinkled as they darted between Peter’s. “Say, you look familiar.”

“I met you briefly at the last gala,” Peter supplied. His eyes darted to the hall where the bathrooms were. “I can’t stay to chat, but it was nice bumping into you again.” He stepped past the man before he could respond.

After washing his hands in the most luxurious restroom he’d ever been in, Peter stepped back out to the event space feeling slightly refreshed. The few minutes he was in the bathroom were a nice reprieve from the constant buzz of conversation.

He returned to the table where he left his drink to find it empty, which was disappointing but not surprising; Tony had vigilant event workers who would rather use bleach eyedrops than let a mostly-finished drink stay deserted on a table for five minutes. 

Peter planned to head to the bar for another drink before locating Tony again, but before he could reach the bar, the phone in his pocket rang. He fished it out. Ned.

Peter ducked into the hallway and took the call. Tony would grill him for being on his phone in the middle of the gala, but Peter invited the distraction. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Ned asked.

Peter shrugged. “I’m at the event at the tower.”

“Oh shit, I forgot that was tonight. I can hang up.”

“Nah, it’s okay. It’s kind of boring.” Peter leisurely walked the length of the hall with a hand in his pocket. “You should see my get-up. I’d have to rob a bank to afford this suit.”

“Send me a picture.”

“I can later. So what’s going on?”

There was a slight rustle. “There’s another update on the investigation. Apparently they’re dropping it entirely.”

“You’re kidding? Why ?”

“Insufficient evidence and contradicting statements,” he replied, “though I doubt that’s the real reason. You should see what everyone’s saying online, their theories are…interesting.”

Peter sighed. “I think I’ll steer clear of all the noise.” Just thinking about it threatened a headache against his temples. Who knew what Gwen was saying. “Thanks for the update, though.” 

“No prob. I’ll let you get back to rubbing elbows with the bourgeoisie.”

They hung up. Peter clicked through his phone, smiling at a text May sent after he’d shared a mirror picture of him in the suit. He didn’t notice anyone else in the hallway until they spoke.

“Mr. Parker, I thought that was you.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he froze, thumbs pausing over the phone screen. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

He slipped the phone into his pocket and met the pale blue eyes of his former boss. The man was smiling, hands clasped in front of him. His suit was clean-cut and sharp; his thinning hair gelled back.

Peter’s throat went dry. “What are you doing here?” Stupid question—he knew why he was there. He’d known he’d be there.

Norman's smile widened, just a little, as if the question amused him. Instead of answering, he stepped forward and said, “A friend of mine alerted me of your presence. I wasn’t expecting you to be in attendance again.” He stopped three feet in front of where Peter stood and slid his hands in his pockets. “Although, I suppose I should’ve, since you’re Stark’s new plaything.”

Peter didn’t answer immediately, his mind scrambling for a response that wouldn’t sound like he was just being defensive. His mouth went dry. He hated how Norman could do that—make him feel small, like a kid pretending to be a grown-up. He’d learned over the years that sometimes the best way to handle Osborn was to just…not engage. But the longer he stayed silent, the more it felt like Norman was just waiting, letting the silence stretch between them like an elastic band ready to snap.

Peter cleared his throat. “I heard you’re losing interns.”

His brows shot up, surprised at the shift. Still, he didn’t lose his edge. “We’re letting go of some unloyal students, is all.”

Peter nodded. Sure . When Osborn just stood there, eyes piercing through his, Peter decided he should go find Tony. As soon as he took a step, something snapped. Osborn’s hand snatched Peter’s shoulder, slamming him against the wall.

After the initial shock, Peter shoved him. “What the hell?”

Osborn was back on him, pressing him against the wall, his arm against his collarbone. He was surprisingly strong for an old man. It also didn’t help that his entire body was caught in the space between flight or fight: freeze. 

“You know what you’ve cost me? What you did to my reputation?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“It’s over,” he was saying, eyes blazing, pupils blown. Peter could smell the whiskey on his breath. “I know people. I’ve donated so much money to that school—millions—they’d never burn that bridge.”

“What do you want ?”

His eyes glinted with fury. Power. “For you to understand that you can never beat me. That you’ll always be nothing.”

“You’re fucking crazy, get off—” Peter tried to shove him away, but Osborn’s fists tightened in his shirt and he slammed him up against the wall again. His head bounced, and he inhaled sharply.

“Hey!”

Both their heads snapped to the voice. Osborn dropped his shirt and stepped back. Peter didn’t move from where he stood flat against the wall as he watched Tony stride towards them. There was power in his voice, but it was unlike Osborn’s. Where Norman had felt predatory, Tony felt in control. 

Tony’s eyes darted between the two, trying to piece the scene together as he neared.

“Stark,” Osborn greeted, tone light and friendly. “Yet another successful charity gala in the books, well done.”

Tony moved to stand between Peter and Osborn. “What the hell’s going on?” Peter had never heard him sound so angry before. 

“We were just having a discussion.”

“Yeah? It looked like you had your hands on my intern.”

Peter moved from behind Tony to stand beside him. Osborn smiled as if he wasn’t just caught. “Nothing of the sort happened. He was just telling me all about his role in your labs. Weren’t you, Peter?”

Peter hid his shaking hands behind him. He struggled to reply, to tell him no, fuck you , but Tony cut in. “Like hell he was. I know what I saw.” 

Osborn chuckled. Tony glowered. “Get out of my tower, or I’ll call security on your ass.”

“Calm down, Anthony. I’m more than capable of seeing myself out.” As he passed, his eyes met Peter’s for three beats. In those three seconds, Peter saw the threat behind the look. He turned away.

Once alone in the hall, Peter let out a shaky breath and straightened his collar and jacket. Tony turned to him with his eyebrows drawn.

“Sorry about that,” Peter told the floor, unable to bring himself to meet the man’s eyes after the incident.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Tony stared at the end of the hall where Osborn disappeared. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “What’d he want?”

Peter shrugged. His shoulders were heavy. “He was pissed that I ruined his reputation. I think he was just drunk and wanted to…scare me.” 

Tony craned his neck, eyes zero-ing in on the corner where the wall and ceiling meet. Peter followed his gaze to a small camera. The gears in his head turned.

Tony turned back to Peter. “I should’ve had you come with me to check in with Pep, that’s on me.”

“I’m an adult, I can handle myself. It’s fine.”

Tony looked incredulous. He fished his phone—which he had apparently had time to charge—and started tapping away. “What part of that interaction was ‘fine’?”

“No, I mean—” He sighed. “You’re right, it’s not fine. I’m just saying that you couldn’t have predicted he’d corner me.” Peter glanced back up at the camera in the corner. “Is that recording? Can we use that in my case against him?”

“Two steps ahead of you. Downloading the last ten minutes of recording as we speak.” Tony’s gaze flicked to Peter. “So you’re on board with the lawsuit?”

He didn’t feel like he had a choice anymore. If the university wasn’t going to do anything, someone had to. Besides, there was no doubt in his mind that Tony had the best of the best lawyers. There was no way Osborn would escape this unscathed. Peter looked down the hall where Osborn left. The wall dulled the sounds of chatter and classical piano.

“I don’t know how lawsuits work,” Peter admitted. 

Tony smiled. “Leave it to me.”

-

Apparently Norman Osborn is getting sued?? By TS’s lawyers??

oops my b, TS as in Tony Stark not Taylor Swift. 

-

Breaking: Norman Osborn of Oscorp owes former intern Peter Parker $5.6 million for stealing O-Fiber!! #paybackbitch

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Former intern who won $5.6 million from lawsuit against Norman Osborn has donated $5 mil in grants and scholarships to local high school and college students!!

-

The elevator doors separated, revealing the large white flowers that greeted him whenever he visited the penthouse. Peter normally tried to dedicate a couple seconds to trying to see what Pepper saw every time the doors opened, but today his eyes were distracted by colorful streamers and balloons hanging over the hallway.

As Peter and May stepped into the home, he picked up the sound of light footsteps coming from around the corner. Morgan appeared: mermaid makeup smeared over her eyelids and lips, a golden crown on top of her head. 

“There’s the birthday girl!” May gave the freshly five-year-old a hug with her free hand as she balanced a plate of brownies in the other. When she turned to Peter, Morgan immediately latched onto his leg. 

Undeterred, Peter walked-slash-limped forward. “How old are you now? Eighty…three?”

“Yup.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed-in on the bag in his hand. “Is that for me?”

As she reached for it, Peter swung it away and held it up high. “Nope, it’s for the other birthday girl.”

She punched him in the stomach, earning a “hmph!” and a lowered arm, which granted her access to grab the bag and run off with it.

May let out a surprised laugh at her own nephew’s pain. “Woah!”

“Should’ve seen that coming.” He straightened and winced at the pain in his stomach. It’d fade in a few minutes, but damn could that little girl punch. 

Peter and May joined Tony, Pepper, and Morgan in the kitchen where Tony was taking a tray of baked sweet potato fries out of the oven—Morgan’s current obsession. Everything they were eating that afternoon were Morgan’s favorite foods: sweet potato fries, macaroni and cheese (but with the farfalle and not macaroni elbows), sweet and spicy pickle spears, and chicken quesadillas with goat cheese. Although it was Morgan’s birthday, they were also celebrating Peter, much to his dismay. Why they wouldn’t separate the two celebrations—or even just not celebrate him—he wasn’t sure. As it was, they were gathering for Morgan’s birthday lunch the day before her birthday party with all her little friends at the trampoline park, and they were also celebrating Peter gaining official credit for O-Fiber and for his research on medical adhesives being published and the design patented. It was a lot to wrap up into one celebration.

“My favorite Parkers have arrived,” Tony announced, shooting Peter a quick wink. 

Pepper grinned and greeted each with a quick, but warm, hug. “Perfect timing—the fries just got done, and there’s just a minute left on the mac and cheese.” After hugging Peter, she held him at arms length and said, “Congratulations, Peter. You earned every bit of credit and recognition for all your hard work.”

His cheeks burned, but he smiled. “Thank you.”

She squeezed his arms, then let go. Before he had time to process it, he was getting hugged again—this time, by Tony. Peter’s arms lifted to reciprocate the embrace after a beat. 

It lasted a second longer than Pepper’s. When they pulled back, Tony ruffled his hair. “Just think, a year ago you were still ghosting me.”

“A year ago you were stalking me.”

Tony winced. “ Stalking ’s a strong word.”

“Your bodyguard tracked me down on campus to get me to get in a car with you.”

Pepper’s brow rose. “Sounds sketchy to me.”

“That’s what I said,” May added. Both women gave the man a narrowed look.

Tony innocently showed his palms. “Hey, look where we’re at now!” He hooked an arm around Peter’s neck. “Published, appropriately accredited, employed by the world’s most successful and esteemed company—I stand by my actions.”

The physical touch—that was something Peter had been noticing lately: Tony slugging him on the shoulder like he had done for a while, but now also the pats on the shoulder, hugging, and playful ruffling of his hair. Tony didn’t do it much—that was the first real hug he’d given him—but when he did, Peter mentally took note. Because it was nice. Sue him for becoming friends with an eccentric, loud, kind, genius billionaire who also happened to be his boss. (Actually, don’t sue him; he gave most of his money from the lawsuit away to charity, so he wasn’t working with much.)

Morgan ran into the kitchen from the hallway holding the creepy fish-tailed siren doll May bought her. It had ghostly pale green skin, deep gills in her neck, sharp teeth, bright eyes, and long fingers. May was hesitant to purchase the doll. “How will she play with this without getting nightmares? I’m getting an Ariel doll.”

But Peter was adamant that the girl loved creepy monster mermaids. “She’ll think Ariel’s so lame; get the siren. She’s into weird stuff like that.”

Said weird doll was being brandished in the air above Morgan as she screamed, “AHHH! Watch out, mermaaaaaid!” 

Tony’s nose crinkled at the sight of the doll. “Where’d that come from?”

May leaned her palms against the counter and nodded towards her nephew. “Blame him. I wanted to get Ariel.”

Morgan’s screams lessened in volume as she ran back out of the room. Peter shrugged and turned from where Morgan disappeared to the adults. “She likes it, doesn’t she?”

Tony heaved out a heavy breath, but Peter knew from the look in his eyes that he was fond of his weird daughter. After all, she’d gotten it from him. 

Once the rest of the food was done, they sat around the table and enjoyed the variety of Morgan’s favorite foods. She happily chomped down, new mermaid doll sitting on the table beside her, cheese sauce from the pasta in the doll’s hair already. After dinner, they lit five candles on top of a chocolate cake, sang “Happy Birthday” to a beaming girl with pure joy in her big doe eyes, and then enjoyed the cake with plastic purple forks on plates in the shape of different birds. Peter got a pheasant. Morgan claimed the barn owl.

After cake, Pepper led May to the painting, both with glasses of red wine in hand, and they talked art as if it were a whole new language. And Peter hadn’t realized May knew that language. Morgan crashed on the couch belly-down, hair strewn all over the place. Tony placed a throw blanket on her and nodded Peter to the balcony. 

It was dark already—not too cold, but not warm, either. Peter leaned his elbows against the railing and looked down at the city. Cars honked. Sirens wailed. Lights flashed. People walked around in zig zags and lines like little ants in coats and hats.

Tony was leaning against the railing and looking out at the city, too. As Peter glanced at him, he got a vivid scene of the first time they met. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Truly is the city that never sleeps.”

Tony’s eyes flickered to Peter’s. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he looked down to the street below with a smile. “What were you doing there last year, anyways?” He returned his gaze to the twenty-one-year-old. 

Peter lifted a shoulder. “Osborn invited me. Don’t ask why, I’m still figuring that one out.” The wind gently blew against the hair hanging over his ear, tickling him. “I wasn’t there for much longer after I ran into you. I fetched Osborn a refill of his drink, then he sent me to go back to the labs to do something one of his grad students forgot to do before they left.”

Tony nodded, a tight look on his face. “Third time’s the charm—next year, Osborn won’t even be on the guest list, so there’s no chance he could ruin your experience at a Stark gala again.”

Peter smiled. “Thank you, Tony. For everything.” Peter wrung his hands together for warmth. “The second patent, the credit. I couldn’t have done any of it without your help.”

“Sure you could’ve. You’re built for this kind of stuff.” Tony shrugged and looked out to the skyline where skyscrapers sliced through clouds. “You would’ve paved your own way with or without me.”

Peter’s throat felt tight. “You think I have what it takes?”

“Absolutely.”