Chapter Text
When the UN begins toying with the idea of pardoning Steve and the other war criminals, Tony is for all for the amnesty treaty. He loves advocating for the people who turned against him and hung him out to dry. Sure, he’s spent plenty of time imagining the bowl of popcorn he’d fix for himself if Steve is ever guillotined on live television, but Tony is mature enough to put their petty personal differences aside. Loathe as Tony is to admit it, Steve was right about the accords. Even if Steve did hide the fact that his best friend killed Tony’s mom, and then they beat the shit out of Tony for being mad about it.
“You know what they say,” Tony says, smirking at Rhodey. “The road to friendship is paved with betrayal and physical violence.”
“That’s not an expression,” Rhodey says, his forehead creasing with worry. They’re sparring in Tony’s home gym, suitless and sweaty, testing out Rhodey's new metal leg-assistors.
“You know that no one has ever said that, right?” Rhodey continues, when Tony stays silent. “Tell me you know you’re being crazy.”
Tony pulls off his boxing gloves and takes a sip of chlorophyll from his water bottle. It tastes like motor oil, and it fills his nostrils with the stench of cut grass. The drink reminds him how much he despises being healthy. Tony resolves to drink a few shots of expresso and then stay up for thirty consecutive hours. He's earned some slack; they've been doing moderately intense exercise for almost thirty minutes. It's time for a cheeseburger.
“I’m too smart to be crazy,” Tony says, tapping the side of his head with his wrapped knuckles. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. The whole everyone-is-abandoning-me thing was a blessing in disguise. It taught me a valuable lesson.”
“Don’t sign your soul away to the government without reading the fine print?”
“No,” Tony says. “People suck, and you should never trust them.”
“You should post inspirational quotes on Twitter,” Rhodey says. “You could really bring some light into people’s lives, talking like that.”
Rhodey slides down into a seating position on the wrestling mats, crossing his legs in front of him. Sweat drips down his dark skin. He’s wearing a familiar expression, which Tony has dubbed Rhodey’s Judgmental Look of Terror. He’s worn this expression on a regular basis since they were freshman at MIT. More specifically, the night Rhodey came home to their dorm and found Tony asleep in his own vomit, clutching an unopened bag of tube socks in one hand and firecrackers in the other. To this day, Tony can’t remember why—or where—he got those socks. They were good socks. They lasted almost twenty years before he had to throw them out.
In any case, he’ll always remember the expression Rhodey wore that night, the same expression he’s worn thousands of times since. It’s a mixture of dismay, disgust, and disappointment. It never fails to give Tony the willies.
“Don’t get whiplash," Tony says, "I’m about to change the topic.” Anything to get that glower off of Rhodey’s face. Tony pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you think I should call the kid?”
This succeeds in distracting him. Rhodey frowns, brushing the sweat from his face with the bottom of his tee-shirt. His metallic legs creak as he shifts backward, leaning his weight against his palms.
“What kid?”
“The kid that fought with us in Germany. Spiderman, Underoos, whatever you want to call him.” Tony is so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even gag when he takes another sip of the chlorophyll. “Peter,” he says, when Rhodey still looks confused. “Peter Parker.”
“The fifteen-year-old.”
“Yeah.”
Rhodey’s Judgmental Look of Terror becomes more focused. His eyes narrow and his lips purse, and Tony knows he’s about to get his ass handed to him on a silver platter.
“You aren’t cut out to be a mentor,” Rhodey warns, ticking reasons off with his fingers. “You aren’t that child’s parent. You lied to his aunt and took him to Germany. You gave him an ultra-powerful suit—”
“What, you mean the sentient spandex that calls 911 if he passes out?” Tony says, a bit indignantly. “I’m not endangering him, Rhodes. He can’t even access Instant Kill Mode until he turns eighteen.”
“Instant…instant what?” Rhodey’s eyebrows are getting dangerously high on his forehead. “I’m going to need you to repeat that.”
Upon further reflection, Tony has to admit that the program sounds dangerous out of context. “His eyes will shoot lasers,” Tony says. His voice loses volume as he realizes just how bad it all sounds. “A pair of spider-legs show up to function as…as offensive weapons—"
“I’m calling child protective services.”
“You’re being dramatic, Platypus,” Tony says, although he has to admit Rhodey’s reaction is fair. “It’s not like he’ll ever use it.” Tony waves a hand through the air. “I’m overthinking this,” he says. “Happy’s been keeping an eye on the kid, and I called the FBI when an arms dealer tried to drown him in a lake—"
“Your tone is calm, but you’re saying a lot of scary things.” Rhodey’s voice rises. His dark eyes are dangerously narrow. “Do you actually listen to yourself talk? You really should.”
“—He’ll be fine,” Tony says, trying to reassure himself as much as Rhodey. “He’s fifteen. What’s he going to do?”
###
Answer: Peter almost sinks a ferry, loses his suit privileges, and then proceeds to fight a street criminal on a Stark Industries Airplane while Tony sits ignorantly at home, watching Saturday Night Live and their newest obnoxious spoof on the Sokovian Scandal. Peter crashes the plane into Staten Island, and is gone by the time Happy gets there. He nearly dies.
If that weren’t bad enough, Peter has the gall to make a mature decision (the nerve!) when Tony tries to appoint Spiderman as his new right-hand man.
Whatever. Tony plays it cool. Steve can choke on a piece of scrap metal, because Tony’s actually got his life together for once. Rhodey’s adjusting well to his metalloid leg braces, even if they shock him with the strength of a widow bite every now and then. Tony’s drinking is under control, and his nightmares have become bi-monthly, out-of-the-ordinary occurrences. Best of all, he’s got Pepper back, even if they’re in disagreement on a few minor issues.
“We’re. Not. Getting. Married,” she hisses, when Tony sinks to his knees in front of the reporters at the Spiderman Reveal / Proposal / wing-it-and-stall press conference. She tugs him to his feet and flashes a smile at the reporters. “He’s all right, he just tripped,” she says, and smiles until the reporters have taken their seats.
She really is a marvelous woman. She looks radiant, clad in a tight black dress with her hair flowing down around her shoulders. Her presence is enough to drown out the flashing lights and clattering chairs. Her perfume—Rosemary Sunshine, Tony bought it on her thirtieth birthday—is light and flowery. With no effort, she draws a smile to Tony’s lips. Not even the kid’s maturity can bring Tony down today.
“Tony has something to say—” Pepper tells the reporters.
“I love you,” he mutters. He resists the urge to bite her shoulder pad. It’s black and very pointy.
“—About the undocumented Avengers,” she continues, more professional then Tony’s ever been in his life. Her smile is practiced: thin, but proper. Her eyes glitter in a way that’s almost playful. Tony desperately wants to make her smile.
“We should just elope,” he whispers. “I can’t stand being the center of attention.”
Pepper elbows him, cutting off Tony’s muttering. Her eyes are amused but dangerous, and Tony knows he can’t mess up this press conference. For Pep—not for Steve—he puts aside his misdirected anger and focuses on the other Avengers. He talks to the cameras, waving his hands and gesticulating, passionate in his apathy. He plays up the fact that Wanda is a kid, and Scott and Clint have children of their own. He talks about how Natasha shouldn’t be punished for helping her friends, and how the Sokovian Accords violated almost every constitutional right.
"This whole debate is bullshit," he says bluntly, and Pepper elbows him again. "What, am I not allowed to say bullshit on life television? Not even when I'm talking about basic human rights? That's bullsh...sorry, that's horse apples. That's worm testicles. That's—"
"That's quite enough of that," says Pepper, her voice smooth. "Are there any questions?"
Tony dodges “what ifs” and Sokovian-shaped traps. He’s doing fine until Christine Everhart—damn her—knocks him off his feet.
“What about the Winter Soldier?” she asks, her eyes as gray as the microphone clutched in her hand. For once, the other reporters shut up. They sit still, staring at Tony with curious eyes and bated breath.
Tony wants to say that Bucky Barns should be locked in prison for the rest of his life. He wants to say that Steve should be in there, too. He wants to condemn them both, rage against their treachery, scream until his voice is raw. He doesn’t care that everything he says will be used against him—it’s been that way since he was old enough to talk. And anyway, if he can’t shit-talk the bastard who killed his mom, what’s the point of having a deliciously sharp tongue?
“That will be all for now,” Pepper says with prompt grace, and she guides him of the stage. The reporters explode behind him, launching questions in the direction of his retreating back. Tony turns his mind away from them, and begins to sketch out mental plans for modifications he wants to make to the iron-spider suit.
Peter may not be an Avenger, but no one else is, either. Not anymore. Maybe by the time Spiderman is ready to join up, the team will be ready for him.
Maybe, Tony thinks, his mind whirling from the press conference and Pepper’s perfume. Maybe, just maybe, Spiderman will be the one who brings us all back together.
###
Tony is settling down for a nice, relaxing evening when he gets the call from Peter.
It’s out of the ordinary. Tony has taken over Happy’s babysitting duties, so he’s used to getting calls about Peter rescuing cats from trees and getting churros from old ladies. Loathe as Tony is to admit it, listening to Spiderman’s tales of conquest has been the highlight of his day ever since Germany. Peter calls often, but never at this hour.
See, ever since May found out her nephew was fighting criminals in spandex pajamas—lordie, Tony still has nightmares about that phone call—Peter’s curfew is 11 PM sharp. The clock is pushing midnight. Pepper is sitting on the leather settee, doing a crossword puzzle as she nurses a glass of red wine. The TV is on, recapping the latest political scandal—some famous congressmen got caught having affairs with half a dozen different women. Tony is half asleep, his head resting on Pep’s shoulder as he sketches designs for a new reactor core. The room is the perfect temperature, Tony has a cup of bitter decaf, and he’s not the source of the news scandal. As far as he’s concerned, the world is pretty good.
Then the phone rings, and Tony knows he’s in for a tough night.
Peter’s ringtone—I Didn’t Do It by the Antichrists—blares out at full volume. Tony jerks awake, spilling coffee all over himself and the couch. It burns his thighs, but he barely notices the sensation.
Pepper pushes him towards the cell phone vibrating on the wooden table. “I’ll take care of the spill,” she says, no-nonsense and fully supportive. Her eyes are gentle and leave no room for argument.
Tony answers the call. It’s probably not an emergency, but you can never be too careful when mentoring a self-sacrificial, hyper-intelligent teenager.
Last Thursday, Peter called to make sure Tony had seen some viral video of a kitten grooming a pineapple.
The week before that, Peter called to inform Tony that he’d been stabbed and had a switchblade embedded in his foot. “Should I sew it shut with dental floss and May’s sewing needle?” he asked, giving Tony a heart attack and half a dozen gray hairs. “I saw a 5-minute craft video where they used a red candle to cauterize a wound. Problem is, May’s pretty protective of her candles. Also, I only have peppermint floss and that seems unsanitary. So you see the dilemma.”
It takes every ounce of Tony’s strength to force that traumatic memory to the back of his mind. He answers the phone and breaths deeply.
“What’s up?” Tony asks, trying to keep his voice casual. On the off-chance that Peter isn’t bleeding out in a drainage ditch, he wants to play down the whole I-care-about-your-wellbeing nonsense. Because, unfortunately, he does care about the kid’s wellbeing. He needs to keep an eye on that, lest it become a problem. He doesn’t want to make a habit of saving the kid’s life.
“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter says, his voice high and excited. “Sorry to bother you. I’ve got a quick question.”
Tony flashes a thumbs up in Pepper’s direction. Relieved, she exits the room to get a towel to mop up the spilled decaf. Tony moves into the kitchen to pour himself another cup, rubbing absently at the wet fabric chafing his legs.
“Is this a question that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” Tony asks. “Your curfew is 11, kiddo. Tell me you’re not still out. I have no urge to face the wrath of Aunt Hottie.”
“I’m back home,” Peter says, and the pressure in Tony's chest lessens a bit. He pulls out a stool and stirs cream into a mug of decaf, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Okay,” Tony says, wracking his brain for everything he knows about teenage boys. “This better not be a question about a girl. I’m a mechanic, and this isn’t a hotline for dating advice.”
Peter has the gall to laugh. God, Tony hates teenagers. He didn't even like them when he was one himself.
“My ex-girlfriend's dad dropped a parking garage on my head,” Peter says, as casually as if he's talking about the weather. “I don’t think I need any dating advice. I’m all set for awhile.”
Great. Now Tony knows how Rhodey feels all the time. He’s pretty sure he’s doing Rhodey’s Judgmental Look of Terror right now, and he deeply resents that.
“Let's forget I said...you know what, I can't brush by that. Tell me that’s an exaggeration.” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "Tell me your girlfriend's dad didn't drop a parking garage on you."
“I'm exaggerating,” Peter says, and Tony breathes a sigh of relief. “To be honest, she wasn't technically my girlfriend."
And now the stress is back in tenfold. "Damn it, Peter."
Peter completely misunderstands the direction of Tony's anger. "My generation is bad at defining relationships," he says apologetically, like he thinks Tony cares about Peter's love life, rather than the fact that, apparently, someone tried to crush him with a building.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"It's not like he tortured me Saw-style." Peter sounds very nonchalant, like dealing with horror movie villains is an everyday occurrence. "Although he did try to throw me off an airplane. That sucked a little bit."
That has to be an exaggeration. Right? Tony has the sudden realization that he needs to get his blood pressure tested. If he's not careful, he's going to have a stroke.
“What the hell did you do to his daughter?” Tony asks, even though he doesn’t want to know.
"It wasn't really about her."
"Then why was Psycho Daddy out to get you?"
“He was trying to steal your stuff,” Peter says, as though this is the most obvious explanation in the world. “I was kind-of-not-really dating The Vulture's daughter. Duh."
Well. Rhodey was right. Tony is the world's worst mentor. He resolves to never, ever ask Peter a question again.
He breaks the vow almost immediately. “What’s your question, kid?” he asks, trying to take deep breaths. I will not have a conniption, he tells himself. I will not have a conniption. I will not…
“How do I deactivate Instant Kill Mode?” asks Peter. "Also. How illegal is cocaine? Unrelated, I promise. Well, semi-unrelated."
Tony chokes on his coffee and has a miniature heart attack, which is closer than he wants to get to conniption-land. Burying his face in his elbow, he takes a minute to compose himself. I should have let it go to voicemail, he thinks, deeply regretting his decision to mentor a teenager. This is karma, he decides. Howard Stark is up there in the afterlife, looking down at Tony and cackling with vindictive amusement.
“One thing at a time,” Tony says, his voice cracking. Peter is polite enough not to mention it. “Is anyone dead?"
"Just my will to live."
"...What?"
"It was a joke. Never mind."
Tony decides to let that one slide. "Cocaine is very, very illegal," he says, trying to be patient. "Do I need to have Rogers give you the drug talk?” He’ll do it, too. He’ll drag Steve out of hiding and force him to write an impassioned speech about the dangers of peer pressure. Hell, he’d break bread with the fucking Winter Soldier if it was in Peter's best interest.
“I'm good,” Peter says. “I just figured I should let you know I have about thirty bricks of cocaine in my bedroom. Also, Karen won't let me turn off Instant Kill Mode. Also, Walmart discontinued my special razzleberry pink squeezy lemonade. Which isn't related to tonight's patrol. I'm just bummed about it.”
Tony decides to believe, no, pray, that Peter is joking about the cocaine. “Let me call up a few of my college frat buddies," he says, trying to make light of a pitch-black situation. "We can get rid of the drugs for you in no time.”
“Do your college friends work for the police now?” asks Peter, sounding confused. Tony leans his head against the cool tiles on the kitchen counter and slowly counts to five. I will not have a heart attack, he tells himself. No matter what comes out of Peter’s mouth next, I will take it in stride.
“Peter,” Tony says, his tone quite pleasant given the circumstances. “Why do you have thirty bricks of cocaine in your bedroom?”
“Mr. Barton gave them to me, to thank me for saving his life,” Peter says. Then—“Hang on, I think I hear May in the kitchen. I’m going to have to call you back.”
“If you hang up that phone, the rizzlepizzle lemonade drama will be the least of your worries—”
Peter hangs up the phone. Tony swears, slamming his hand against the counter. I don’t deserve this, he thinks, a bit miserably. Even after all the shit he put his mom thorough, he never once did anything that would land him ten consecutive life sentences in a federal prison. Clint is going to die tonight. Tony’s going to strangle “Mr. Barton” with his bare hands.
Pepper appears in the doorway, holding a stained towel. Her red hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and a pair of reading glasses are perched on the edge of her nose. There’s a slip of skin between her pajama pants and bottoms, and Tony has the sudden urge to kiss her. To put his phone on Do Not Disturb and forget all about cryptic phone calls from well-meaning teenagers. Maybe Clint will clean this up himself, for once in his life.
Ha.
“You’re going out, aren’t you?” asks Pepper.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says. “One of these days, we’ll have a quiet evening in. I promise.”
Pepper touches the tip of his nose with her index finger. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she says lightly. Her forehead creases into a frown. “Is he okay?”
“He will be, if he doesn’t get arrested for possession with intent to distribute.” Tony frowns. “Clint, on the other hand, is a dead man walking.”
“What?”
Tony sighs. He presses a kiss to her forehead and inhales the scent of minty toothpaste that lingers around her face.
“Don’t wait up,” he says.
###
Ten minutes later, Tony lands on the fire escape outside of Peter’s window. The metal creaks ominously beneath his feet, and Tony steadies himself against the side of the building. He knocks twice on the tinted glass. After a moment, the window screeches open.
Peter’s brown eyes are huge. “Mr. Stark!” he says. “What are you doing—”
“Save it,” Tony says. “Where are the drugs?”
“I…ah…” Peter glances behind him, then grabs a sweatshirt from the floor beneath his feet. Wrapping it around himself, he shimmies through the window and out onto the fire escape. It sways, and for a second Tony’s genuinely concerned it won’t support their weight. One crap from a pigeon, and the whole apartment complex could dissolve into dust. Tony makes a mental note to hire a building-assessor. Peter's almost been crushed by a building once, and that's one time too many.
Peter closes the window with great care. When he turns to face Tony, his cheeks are flushed.
“You can’t get mad,” he says.
“Do I look mad?” Tony demands.
“You always look a little mad.”
“Gee, I wonder why.” Tony can’t remember the last time he’s felt this stressed. Tight pain courses through his chest, and he takes a step towards Peter.
"I think it's the goatee," Peter says. "It gives you these weird scowl lines. Have you ever thought about shaving?"
“I'm...I'm not going to shave my goatee," Tony says, trying not to throttle the kid. "Start talking." He taps his foot against the creaking fire escape. “Now.”
“I guess it started when I found this backpack—” Peter says.
“A war criminal gave you a backpack full of cocaine and your solution was to take it back to your aunt’s apartment?” Tony says. "Aren't you supposed to be smart? Don't you go to a prep school for baby geniuses?"
“The backpack didn't have cocaine,” Peter says, his voice painstakingly patient. It's like he think's Tony is a little slow. “The backpack was full of guns. The cocaine was in the duffle bag.”
A muscle ticks in Tony’s jaw. He’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or burst into tears.
“Why didn’t you have Karen call the police?” Tony asks, his voice dangerously low.
“Because,” Peter says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I thought I should scope things out. Look around a little. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I stumble across guns and cocaine all the time,” Tony says, grinding his teeth together. "It's an everyday occurrence in New York City."
Death is too nice a gift for Clint. Tony’s going to make sure his life is a living hell. He'd give anything for Peter to hurry up and finish telling the story. He'd rip out his own kidney and eat it if it meant finding out if Peter was in trouble. "What happened next, Peter?"
"I got jumped trying to leave the ally and my mask came off—”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, he didn’t see anything,” said Peter. “The ally was dark, and there was a lot of blood on his face.”
“Why was Clint bleeding?”
“It wasn't Mr. Barton!” Peter’s voice is impatient, as though it’s Tony’s fault he can’t keep up with the batshit-crazy, never ending story from hell. “Mr. Barton said he'd never hurt me. I got attacked by the person who left the bags there. Clint showed up later.”
“Hold on.” Tony holds up a hand and tries to remember how to breath. It feels like the world is moving beneath his feet, and it has nothing to do with the swaying fire escape. The night air is chilly against his skin, but the coldness is refreshing as it enters his lungs. Tony takes three deep breaths before he trusts himself enough to speak.
“Every detail you add to this story makes it worse,” he says. “Let’s keep things simple. Where was the blood coming from?”
“His ear, I think,” Peter says. “I bit him.”
“You bit his ear.”
“Maybe.” Peter shrugs. “There was something fleshy in my mouth.”
"There was something fleshy in your mouth, probably his ear, but you can't be sure. Am I getting this right?"
"I was focused on other things!" Peter says. "Whatever was in my mouth was keeping me from making an awesome quip. I wanted to start singing the clean-up song, you know, because he left his guns out in the open. But I couldn't, because I was biting him. You feel me?"
“I…” Tony’s at a loss for words. “No. I don't 'feel you,' Peter. Skip to the part where Clint showed up. Keep it simple, like you’re talking to a three-year-old.”
Peter ponders that for a couple of seconds before he speaks. When he does, he keeps his sentences short and ticks them off on his fingers. “Mr. Barton showed up. He got shot. I sewed him up with dental floss. It was awesome.”
Again with the damn dental floss. Tony’s going to petition the state of New York to make it illegal to buy toothcare products as a minor. “Where is Clint now?”
“He got away. So did the bag-man.” Peter shrugs, giving Tony a half smile. “You win some, you lose some. Man, if that isn’t life. I got a B- on my Spanish test today. May’s gonna ground me if I’m not careful—"
Tony resists the urge to swear. His hands clench into fists, and he ignores Peter’s ramblings. “You let them get away?” He says, his voice rising. He takes a step forward, and the fire-escape sways beneath them.
Peter narrows his eyes, as though Tony’s acting very stupid. “I didn’t want to leave the guns,” he says. "Mr. Barton told me to stay. He said he was, and I quote, 'on it, or my name isn’t Hawkeye.' And that's when Instant Kill Mode turned on."
“You know what, I can’t deal with this tonight,” Tony says. “Give me the cocaine, and we can figure this all out when I’m not angry enough to take away your suit.”
“Why would you take away my suit?” Peter’s round eyes widen. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Peter continues, and—damn it—his voice has started to get angry in that annoying, pubescent way of his. “I saved Mr. Barton’s life! God, this is the ferry incident all over again."
“'Mr. Barton gave you cocaine," Tony says. "Don't you see why that rubs me the wrong way?"
Peter sniffs. “He trusted me to know what to do,” he says. "So I called you."
When Tony doesn’t respond, Peter trudges inside. He returns with a duffle bag. Tony doesn’t even bother opening it up to check if everything’s still there. However much it seems like Peter Parker is on crack, that’s just his every-day persona. He’s high on life.
Tony throws the bag over his shoulder. He pulls out the gauntlet and disables Instant Kill Mode with a few commands to Friday, and the suit draped over the windowsill fades to black. The red eyes disappear, the tinny 'warning' sounds fade, and the night is safe from Peter Parker's malfunctioning suit. Tony almost suspends the program permanently - really, what does Peter need with Instant Kill Mode? - but he decides against it at the last second. Just in case, he tells himself. Just in case.
Tony’s about to fly off when he sees Peter staring at him. His arms are folded across his chest. He’s wearing the stupid outfit Tony bought him when he took away the suit—is he trying to make Tony feel like a jackass? The pajama pants and XXL tee-shirt clash horribly. They hide his muscle definition, and make him look smaller than he actually is. He looks like a baby animal, all wide-eyed and innocent.
Tony wants to throw himself off the fire escape.
“I..ugh,” Tony says. “Thanks for saving Barton, not that he deserved it. You did good, kid.”
Peter grins at Tony. It’s a genuine smile, and it puts every single one of his teeth on display. “It was my pleasure,” he says, and Tony doesn’t doubt that.
“Let’s not make this a habit,” Tony warns. “You’re the friendly neighborhood Spiderman, not the Avengers Savior. You're definitely not Instant Kill Parker. Capiche?”
Peter salutes—honest to God salutes—with his back straight and everything. “You got it, Mr. Stark,” he says. “I’ll stick to saving the little guy. No more Avengers rescue missions. No more accidentally triggering Instant Kill Mode. I promise.”
Tony actually believes the kid. He's naïve like that.