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I
Tony’s father is not answering the phone. The clicking of the secretaries overly long fingernails grows ever more impatient as the humiliating beeping sounds on the other end of the line continue. Tony sits, the hard plastic of the uncomfortable police station chairs creaking under him, and stares at the clock ticking on the wall opposite him.
He knows his father won’t answer the phone. He never does. He has spent enough nights, drunk and high off his ass on chairs just like this, to prove it. The great Howard Stark has no time to spare for his good-for-nothing son’s petty problems. No matter how hard Tony tries to make him. At this point he could probably burn down the White House, and his father would only answer if it was the president himself calling. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Ultimately, it will end like it always does: a few discreetly transferred sums to keep the right people silent, and the others satisfied. Not once have there been any consequences. Tony stopped being relieved by that fact about three years ago. Sure, it might be fucked up to be nostalgic for the days where his father still bothered to ground him, but that ship has long sailed anyway. And he would choose the cold hard disappointment in his father’s eyes over the pitiful looks of the police officers any day.
On some level, he knows that he is doing all of this to himself. He’s in college. He might not have the stubble to prove it yet but he’s technically a grownup. He shouldn’t care about what his old man thinks. The jealous glares of his classmates and the wanting looks, the girls with the big pretty eyes send him, should make him feel wanted, special, anything. He should just take the things he can get instead of chasing some fantasy he’s not even sure he wants anymore.
But wanting has gotten so familiar that some days he wonders what he would be without it.
And, yeah, maybe some part of him keeps insisting that this is just his way of ‘getting back at his father’ - ruin his reputation and make him loose a few thousand dollars in the process. But what does Howard care about a bit of loose change when he doesn’t even care about his only son?
“I’m sure he’ll pick up,” the secretary says, sending Tony a smile way to apologetic for someone talking to a teenager who’s just been arrested for trashing up a whole College dorm.
Tony doesn’t say anything. After a while the beeping starts to turn hollow in his ears. And the only proof his father is there at all, is the answering machine that cuts in every other minute.
Tony is not answering his phone. Well, technically, the problem isn’t just that he isn’t answering his phone, it’s that he hasn’t been answering his phone - for a really long time if the diminishing storage space on his voicemail is anything to go by.
“Sir, Peter is calling,” FRIDAY informs him over the screeching of the machinery in front of him.
“Reroute to Happy’s phone,” Tony huffs almost automatically at this point. The screw, he is trying to loosen, has been refusing to turn for five minutes.
“Sir, Mr. Hogan is currently unavailable,” FRIDAY says.
Tony supressed the urge to roll his eyes at his own AI. “Send him to voicemail,” he grunts. He is sweating like a pig, he hasn’t slept in two days, and he needs to get this project ready by tomorrow if he wants this deal to work out. It’s always the same these days. You’d think someone of his net worth would have more control about when and what he needs to work. But somehow such feebly things as ‘saving the world’ keep getting in the way.
The things is – he’s been getting better. He got the deathly shrapnel removed, he stopped pushing people away – he says people, but really, he means Happy and Pepper- he has a grip on his emotions – or well, kind of, anyway. Been there done that. He even went to a few sessions with that boring therapist Pepper keeps nagging him about. At least until their last session ended in a shouting match. He’s going to go back eventually. Probably. The brooding is all part of the process.
Point being – he’s a different man. Or well maybe not entirely different, because what would be the point of that? But different enough for Pepper to finally like him and for Rogers to handle being in the same room as for… some hours at least. He’s the best version of himself. Or let’s say the better version. The upgrade. Tony Stark 2.0.
Still, that doesn’t mean his opinion on some things have changed much.
The speakers above him crack as the call gets rerouted to his voicemail. “Hey, Mister Stark,” the instantly recognisable voice of one Peter Parker grates.
Tony lets out a deep breath. “FRIDAY, turn down the volume.” Peter’s shouts could probably wake everyone in the near neighbourhood, that is if there was anyone here but him. Tony knows that’s kind of the whole teenager thing and all that but, by God, the kid is a lot to handle on a good day. Throw in the headache that’s throbbing somewhere past his prefrontal cortex, and you’ve got yourself the prefect recipe for disaster.
Peter’s voice continues a little quieter. “I just wanted to- Wait hold on- I- Oh man, this is amazing-” The wind rushes and is turned into a wild cacophony of sounds by the poor microphone quality.
The screw finally loosens. Tony rubs his eyes. His brain suffers with every screech of the speakers. He throws the wrench down next to him and huffs in irritation. “No, I changed my mind, turn it off completely.”
“As you like, boss.” FRIDAY sounds only mildly disappointed in his terrible life choices. He wonders once again, when his own inventions started judging him. Traitors, the lot of them. Still, she does as she is told and finally, all that is left is blessed silence intercut by the steady humming of machinery.
Tony sighs, picks the wrench back up and tries to get a better look at the uncooperative part of the mechanism. There is a cable stuck down there somewhere, he knows. He just needs about five more hours of sleep to find it. Or two more pots of coffee.
Peter is a nice kid, really. He’s smart, at least going by what little Tony has seen of him, and he cares a lot about his friends and the people of his oh so holy turf. Maybe too much sometimes. That still doesn’t mean Tony likes him. He also doesn’t hate him, mind you. He’s just… a lot sometimes, as most kids are. He talks too fast; he talks to loud and one time he spilled juice all over the backseat of Tony’s favourite Audi. And yes, maybe it’s Tony’s fault for getting in contact in the first place but to be fair to him, he didn’t think that the kid would want to stick around.
Nobody wants to stick around Tony Stark. Ever. He doesn’t make the rules.
But against all odds, the kid kept calling. And every time they meet, he looks at Tony with these huge, earnest eyes - like he’s some kind of baby deer - and Tony gets this sinking feeling in his gut, like whatever he does, it’s going to be the wrong thing anyway. Because, fuck, there’s just so much trust in those eyes. So much quiet adoration. And honestly, Tony can’t really handle that right now. Never has he been the role model for anyone or anything – except maybe of what not to do with your life.
He-he just wants an out, okay? Can’t the kid be happy with the expensive suit Tony gave him and go back to…whatever it is he did before?
And, yes, he knows that the whole thing feels suspiciously like the ‘rich dad buys his son a fast car and sends him off to boarding school, so he doesn’t have to deal with him’-stick. And, yes, that’s exactly how Howard would have handled this kind of situation. And, yes, abuse is a vicious cycle– hurt people hurt people – and all that but…it’s really not like that at all.
He’s not the kid’s father. Peter doesn’t care enough about Tony’s opinion for this to mess up his head. He just needs a little more adjustment time and then he’ll forget all about Tony and go right back to…building nerdy robots or whatever. Everything will be fine.
So, Tony doesn’t answer the calls. The kid is just looking for attention anyway. And Tony – Tony doesn’t have time. He doesn’t know how to talk to teenagers. He doesn’t know how to handle the weird mishmash of annoyance, fear and confusion that settles deep in his gut every time Peter looks at him and only sees the good – good that even Tony had long forgotten about.
He tells himself there are more days to come. One day he might answer.
II
“You shouldn’t get too attached. These things don’t tend to live very long anyway,” his father says when Tony shows him the plastic container with his newly proclaimed pet frog Robert in it. Tony just turned five, old enough to go out in the garden by himself, to roll around in the immaculately cut grass and look at the animals around the pond. He’s mostly on his own - his mother off doing whatever it is she does, and his father absent as usual. Still, he doesn’t really mind it if he gets to look at the fish and the little bird that hatched in their hedge not two weeks ago.
He’s been trying to get a pet for ages, but his dad said it was a waste of time. So, Tony did what he always does when he encounters a problem that the adults refuse to talk about – he tried to solve it himself. He equipped an old plastic box with leaves from the garden and cowered in the moist gras for hours, waiting for his moment to strike. His legs grew tired at some point, and he got stains all over his favourite shirt. For a moment, he thought the trouble he would get in would be worth it.
Tony looks down at Robert, sitting motionlessly and being, admittedly, rather boring and pouts. The excitement he felt mere minutes ago is suddenly evaporated.
Robert stays with him for two days. The terrarium sits beside Tony’s bed so that Tony can watch the swelling of Robert’s cheeks as he falls asleep. During the day he takes him out and watches him crawl all over the walls of his room. He tries to get him to jump over a pencil but that never works out.
When he wakes up on day three, Robert is dead. The frog lies on his back; legs angled awkwardly in every direction. He doesn’t move.
Howard gives him one of his signature looks, when Tony tells him, tears streaming down his face.
He makes Tony bury Robert in the backyard, alone with just the help of a kitchen spoon. The shame still crawls all over Tony’s back. After all, his father told him not to get attached.
Robert buys him a rabbit for his seventh birthday. Tony takes one look at it and decides that he doesn’t want it. They never talk about it again.
Tony is not getting attached. He really isn’t. There is a kid in his lab, using his space and his tools, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just to protect their cover story. It’s strictly business. All business. He’s business kind of guy, even with a kid sitting in his lab.
The planet keeps spinning, the sun keeps rising and there is a kid in his lab, stary-eyed and excited. Tony hasn’t seen anyone this excited before. The phrase “Wow, Mr. Stark, have you seen this?!” has been uttered no less than twenty-one times in the last ten minutes. He’s pretty sure one of them was about his soldering iron. Who knew anyone could get excited about a soldering iron?
The thing is that, for some reason, Tony’s brain is failing to be annoyed. He is trying very hard to be, swatting at Peter’s hands whenever they stray too close to one of his projects, and uttering snarky remarks here and there. But it’s lacking. It’s lacking and he’s afraid it’s going to show.
The strategy has gotten comfortably familiar over the years. It’s the same ruse he uses whenever Pepper strays uncomfortably close to saying something true about him. He just talks and talks until the words lose any meaning so no one can catch the glimpse of truth in between. There is no situation that Tony wouldn’t be able to charm his way out of. He likes being in control. And he doesn't like being told what to do.
So having a kid around is basically his worst nightmare. He can’t foresee anything that will happen. The kid might knock over one of his Bunsen burners with his awkwardly long spider limbs and then the whole building will go up in flames. Or he might pour acid all over Tony’s servers and then all the data and company info will- you might get the point. Unforeseeable danger and all that.
And on top of that he can’t say or do whatever he wants to because, apparently, you’re not supposed to do that around children. Well, technically there is nobody around to stop him. Except maybe his fear of Pepper’s ever looming rage.
So, nightmare – yes. Annoyance – unfortunately lacking.
Tony is not exactly sure what it is he’s feeling. Amusement maybe? That warm prickling that lights up whenever Peter’s eyes go all wide when he spots another thing; When his mouth opens to spill out words at one hundred miles an hour; When he gets so excited that he nearly trips over his own feet. Really, did he mention that the kid is disaster waiting to happen?
It’s weird. Tony got so used to all of this - the grime, the equipment - that he doesn’t really take it all in anymore. He has a fusion reactor lying around here somewhere but he used that as a paper weight the other day. But now seeing it all through Peter’s eyes, seeing his continuous excitement, it’s like taking a step back and realising that huh, yeah, actually there’s some pretty impressive work in there somewhere. Work that might be worth something if he’d just give it another go or handed it over to the SI research team.
Or he might give it to Peter to work on.
Because that’s another thing he’s been learning this afternoon - the kid is wicked smart. It’s one thing to read about it in the files, with the grades and all that bureaucratic bullshit. But up close? That’s different. So far, the kid managed to fool him with his nonstop chatter- the rapid-fire stream of rambles and pop culture references, like there is a direct connection running between his brain and mouth. But now? Now that the kid is actually putting that brain of his to use, now that his rambles have shifted to science talk filled with words Tony’s pretty sure a kid his age shouldn’t even know, let alone throw around so casually. Now- now Tony thinks… yeah, he kind of gets it.
And honestly, part of Tony is just stunned – stunned because he somehow never considered the possibility that talking to a kid could be like this; like he’s actually a human and not just a…teenager. And now he feels like a bit of an asshole for ignoring Peter for so long, and twice as much because he’s only considering this after he found out the kid is a science geek like him.
And then Tony just wants to be annoyed again but instead his chest gets weirdly warm whenever he looks over to where Peter is currently soldering a circuit for his suit. The kid is all concentrated with his brow furrowed and the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth and- Tony might be having a heart attack.
And ok, maybe rationally he knows what it means – his therapist has been saying he’s been getting better at ‘staying in touch with his emotions’ – but on another level he really can’t deal with…that right now. He still has no idea how to handle a kid. Just serves him right to get attached to the first one the universe shoves in his face. His dad is laughing at him somewhere up there right now. Probably.
So, Tony does what he does best and shoves the feeling deep, deep down, where he doesn’t have to think about it. And instead, he makes stupid jokes, rolls his eyes at Peter’s enthusiasm and huffs at every cheerful “Mr. Stark!”. Because it’s easier than trying to navigate whatever treacherous ocean lies on the other side of admitting to feelings he definitely doesn’t have. Yes, this here, right now, might just be a small stream, but at least the waters are familiar.
III
His father has never been a hugging person. Tony is not sure he can even recall one instance where they have. They must have, when Tony was younger, but by now all that remain is the lingering feeling of something that he knows should be there but never was.
Tony is barely sixteen - old enough to understand how fucked up their relationship is. Old enough to be angry about it too. Most days he is. Other days he isn’t. That’s the schizophrenic thing about it, he’s learned over the year: he can know that nothing good will ever come from arguing with his father; he can choose his own friends, his own family, people like Rhody, and decide he’s never going to bother again, but, in the end, it won’t matter. In the end, his mind will still long for these stupid fantasies like he’s a seven-year-old kid again.
In the end, he’ll be lying on the sofa and listen to the sounds of the empty mansion and wish for nothing more than his father to embrace him. He hates his father and hates himself even more for it. Semester break has just started. It’s his first time visiting his parents after he left. Somehow, he thought it might be different now that he’s armoured with the confidence of his first independent successes. But all of that fell away when he took his first steps into the house. His father’s looming presence is everywhere, and Tony is back to being a useless teenager with nothing to show for himself except an impressive criminal record.
Tony is hung over, as he usually is, and feels the kind of sick not even ten cups of coffee can make better. Emptiness is clawing at his insides. After spending month in the busy bustling of his dorm, the silence here is sickening. The halls feel unfamiliar and sterile.
He sluggishly raises his head when he hears the door opening. His throat feels dry.
Howard is stood there, jacket slung over his arm. He musters Tony and his features are as hard as stone. In a different world he might have said he’s glad to see Tony or asked if everything is alright. Here, he doesn’t. “You look horrible. You should clean up.” It seems even after month apart they don’t have anything to say to each other.
Tony blinks and stares at his father’s retreating back. He knows it’s not worth it, but inside, his heart aches. He hopes that one day it will stop.
Tony has never been a hugging person. He doesn’t really know why. It makes him feel kind of uncomfortable. Maybe because then he would have to admit he actually likes it. Maybe because some part of him wants it and some other part is deeply afraid of wanting. Maybe it’s because his childhood was deeply messed up and there are so many things wrong with him. See? He is paying attention in therapy – thank you very much.
If he hugs, it’s in the strong-willed grip way – a protective hand on Pepper’s back when somebody is getting a bit too comfortable for his liking. An arm over the shoulder of someone he wants to steer where he wants them to go. His therapist calls it dominant hugging and says it doesn’t count as real hugging because he’s not ‘emotionally invested’. He told her he doesn’t believe in all that soft-sweater-huggable-emotional-type thing anyway.
It's the thing with the love languages, he tried to explain her - he’s just not the touchy-feely type of guy. He’s the gift-giving type of guy. That’s why he buys Pepper oversized plushies and fancy art and expensive rings. It’s because these things can say what he never can. His therapist gave him an eyebrow at that. Then she sighed and explained that ‘money isn’t a love langue’ and that that’s a negative habit he might have picked up from his dad.
Tony had only scoffed. He is pretty sure his father wouldn’t have known a love language if it hit him in the face.
Peter is a big hugger – a big toucher in general. When he’s overcome with the right cocktail of emotions, he will fling himself at just about everybody. He tried with Happy a few times, caught up in the moment, before stopping himself at the last second and just smiling sheepishly. Tony had gotten plenty of amusement out of that one.
There have been no attempts with Tony. Just careful distance and enough nervous energy to power an entire fucking city. It’s fine. It’s not like Tony wants Peter to hug him anyway.
See there is nothing wrong with it, okay? He is keeping a professional distance. This is his intern they’re talking about. Strictly speaking it’s probably better that they do not engage in any emotional stuff at all. Isn’t it enough that he lets the kid come over every week? That he is trying to be nice?
It’s honestly no big deal. It shouldn’t be. One moment their talking about Peter’s new suit and Tony assures that yes, he’ll get to try it out later, and then there is an excited squeal of what sounds like “Thank you Mr. Stark” and suddenly he has a teenager clinging to him like a koala.
Tony flinches without really meaning to. His arms hover awkwardly for a second as he tries to calm his racing heart. The sensation is foreign. Not just because he doesn’t go around hugging random teenagers a lot but also because it’s been ages since he’s properly hugged anyone except Pepper. And that’s different because they do…other stuff as well.
After a few seconds of stunned silence his muscles kick back into action. “Jep, jep okay. Still not there yet,” he hears himself saying as he peels Peter from his side.
The kid instantly looks apologetic. “Oh god, I’m so sorry Mr. Stark. I didn’t mean to-”
Tony just rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, kid,” he says and actually manages to sound a little annoyed. If you look past the tremor in his voice that is. He tries and fails to shake the weird feeling in his muscles. “I- let’s just stop putting your snot all over me and get back to work, right?”
The kid nods. For just a second hurt flashes in his eyes. Then it’s gone just as quickly as it came. It seems Tony is not the only who’s an expert at pushing feelings away. Tony feels his heart squeeze at the idea. Part of him wants to reassure the kid that it’s not his fault. He’s not responsible for the shadow of Howard that looms over everything Tony does. And he knows Peter is showing great trust by becoming so comfortable around him. Wouldn’t it be only fair to extend the kid some trust in return?
Another part keeps reminding him that it’s never going to be worth it. Not because of Peter but because he isn’t.
IV
Tony’s bare feet pad over the cold tiles of the hallway. It’s late, way passed his bedtime, but every time he tries to close his eyes the shadows on the walls creep up on him. He couldn’t stand staying in the darkness and silence of his bedroom any longer. The hallway is dark too but there is a light shining from under the door of his dad’s study, drawing weird patterns on the ground beneath his feet.
Tony carefully pushes the door open, his head poking around the corner. His dad is sitting at his desk, staring off to somewhere only he can see. He is nursing a glass of bourbon. The darkness of the night makes him look different. He seems tired, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced and the creases on his forehead, that he puts so much effort in to hiding, on full show.
“Dad?” Tony asks, his voice sounding small compared to the grandeur of the study.
Howard’s eyes refocus. His head snaps up. A small smile plays around his lips. Tony can’t remember the last time he smiled. He’s not sure he likes it. It looks all wrong, like his father’s features weren’t meant to twist that way. “Tony, what’s up? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Tony pads closer, worrying his small hands. “I can’t sleep,” he admits.
Howard puts his glass aside, opening his arms. “Come here,” he says and lifts Tony up to sit on his lap. Tony’s hands automatically reach to cling onto his shirt. The fabric is rough and smells like smoke. Beneath it, Tony can feel his father’s heart beating.
“I love you, dad,” he whispers into the crook of his father’s neck. He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s still too young to understand that his father will never say it back. Not in the ways that matter anyway. Maybe it’s because he’s still hoping that his father will come to understand what he’s missing out on. Or maybe it’s just the sick tactic of a desperate child to get his father to say the L-word once. After all, there is no way, you can’t say it back when someone says it to you first. Maybe it’s because Tony doesn’t understand yet that you don’t have to do anything if you’re Howard Stark.
His father says nothing. The silence hangs between them like a final ruling, only his heartbeat showing that he’s still alive. After a moment he awkwardly pats Tony’s back. “Let’s get you to bed, hm?”
And even though Tony will later remember this as one of the only times his father actually bothered to show him some sympathy, he still can’t help but feel like he also lost a part of his soul that day.
Tony can’t move his mouth. His lips twitch pathetically, like he’s a fish out of water, but his muscles might as well be filled with lead. Perhaps ignoring all the doctors’ orders is finally catching up with him and this is the heart attack they’ve all been nagging him about. He might never be able to speak again.
Rationally he knows, of course, that it’s not that. The spiky, red hot ball of emotions that rolls around his stomach might give a hint on that. With every turn it grows bigger until he’s barely able to breathe. It’s suffocating in a way it really shouldn’t be, considering it’s filled mostly with positive emotions. Pride is one of them. Warm, fuzzy, disgustingly so - like that syrup brew Pepper drinks and dares to call coffee. There is also something softer. Fondness. He might just choke on its sweet taste.
Peter is still staring at him expectantly after having shown off his work on the nanowires. His feet shuffle. He blinks his eyes a couple of times. God, his eyes are so big. Tony never even noticed before. How is he supposed to think when the kid keeps looking at him like that?
And maybe that’s the problem. Because it would be so easy. It would be so easy to smile and say, “Good job, Peter, you did great.” The kid would give him a smile in return and then Tony would reach out and run his hand through the soft curls on Peter’s head. He practically aches to tangle his fingers in them. But he can’t because his damn lips just won’t move, and slowly but surely the warmth inside of him is being swallowed by a deep dark pit that would put the wormhole above New York to shame. Peter’s smile is fading with every second and Tony knows that he’s messing it all up again and-
His therapist says he has a problem with praise. He scoffed at her the first time she brought it up. He vaguely remembers making some joke about dogs and treats and maybe there were also some insults involved but, in the end…he has to admit that she might be right. He’s stuck in this weird in between where on the one hand he can’t get enough of it – no applause, no price, no admiration ever good enough – but on the other hand gets deeply uncomfortable whenever somebody actually, honestly tells him he did something good. His hands will get all sweaty and tingly and he’ll try to deflect or turn it into another of his stupid jokes, just so the people will stop looking at him like…that. The way his father never did but Tony had always wished he had.
And he knows that it would mean everything to Peter. He knows that. It would have meant everything to him as well. But when it also means, revealing parts of himself, giving the kid a glimpse at the chaos inside of him, at all the conflicting emotions even he can’t make heads or tails of - he’s not sure he can really handle that. Then he not sure he-
It’s just…hard - admitting that he actually likes someone. In fact, it had taken his therapist about three months to get him to start admitting it to Pepper. And even then, it comes wrapped in a three-layer package of sarcasm and cop outs - never full out honesty.
He’s not even sure what is supposed to happen if Peter knew. It’s not like some fifteen-year-old is going to bully him or something. The rational part of his brain knows that. But that part somehow can’t seem to convince his mouth of the truth.
He is smart. He can figure out when there is a problem and what the problem is. Unfortunately, he’s also so god damn proud and that means actually admitting to it is much harder.
So, Tony just stares as time ticks by slowly. The ballon inside of him grows steadily.
Then it pops.
“A bit small, don’t you think? We could add a little more juice to that?” He suggests, carefully taking the work from Peters hands. On the inside, he feels like he’s falling. His heart is beating way too fast. He leads them back to work bench, never once daring to look at Peter’s face. He can’t stand to see his own disappointment reflected in the kid’s eyes. The same pathetic mask he used to wear.
It’s the easy way out, he knows. But it’s better than nothing, he reasons. And it might do the kid some good if he learns there is always room to improve. He doesn't let himself think about how that’s something Howard always used to tell him.
V
He can tell that his father is angry with him. It’s the way his brows furrow and his eyes harden.
His father is often angry. At the world. At his work. Never at Tony. He’s not even worth his anger. Only his disappointment. He never screams. Sometimes Tony thinks that he might prefer if he did.
Tony is doing enough screaming for the both of them. Maybe he’s hoping his father will finally show any reaction at all. Maybe it’s because the hate inside of him has been festering for so long now that he fears it will eat him alive if he doesn’t let it out.
Howard never raises his voice in return. He doesn’t need to. His presence still towers above everything. His words are sharp and cutting. The disappointment looms in his eyes. Tony hates all of it. He feels like he’s young again and his father is still the most important person in the world. Most kids grow up to learn their parents are not the centre of the world but that they will always be the centre of the world to them. Tony grew up and learned it’s actually the other way around. And no matter how hard he tries he can never stop spinning around the centre of gravity that Howard has created.
Most of the time he doesn’t even remember what it is they’re arguing about. Usually, it’s about Tony being reckless. How he doesn’t listen. It’s always about something Tony has done. It’s never about what his father did to him first. How not listening has become less about being an act of teenage rebellion and more about not having to hear how emotionless his father sounds whenever he talks to him.
And maybe part of it is Tony getting some sense of sick satisfaction out of this. Because even though he’s just a pesty little fly in the great Howard’s run for triumph, he still manages to put a flyspeck on his father’s trophy. A small reminder that he’s there at all. Because at least his father still bothers enough to care about anything in his life. Even if it’s just to tell him how much of a fuck up he is.
The fight ends, as it usually does, with Tony smashing a vase that might be worth three months of rent for a normal family. It’s not like his father will care. They’ll replace it with three new ones, just as soulless as the old. Sometimes he wonders why his father hasn’t replaced him yet.
His mother and father leave for the Pentagon the day after. They never make it back. All that is left are the smashed remains of a vase and the empty space where nothing will ever be repaired.
Tony is shouting at the kid. Some part of him might still remember that he shouldn’t be. It was all there in the pamphlet with horrific graphic design and smiling people that Pepper handed him a few weeks ago - something about calm and rational exchange. Something entirely misplaced in the hands of Tony, who runs on caffeine and sheer willpower and has never once been calm in his life.
Right now, his mind is filled with pictures of a ferry splitting in two as the smell of smoke clings to his nostrils. It dulls his senses and envelopes his brain until he can’t think anymore. There is just red, red, red and the unsettling truth that if things had gone differently, he would have arrived to find the kid in a smoking pile of ashes.
And he’s so damn angry. Angry at the kid for not talking with him. Angry at those criminals for dragging them all into all their misery business. And most of all angry at himself. Because he knows it’s all his fault. If he could just talk, express himself properly, then maybe all of this wouldn’t have happened in the first place. Maybe Peter would have trusted him enough to talk things through with him. But he was so damn busy pushing people away and trying to keep himself safe that he didn’t stop and think about whether it would keep the others safe as well.
He's angry that he’s angry and he’s angry that even now he keeps making the same mistakes. If he could just stop and take a breath, then maybe they could actually talk it through this time. And yes, Peter screwed up some serious shit, but, let’s be real, Tony should be the adult here. Of course, that’s not working, as it always is. And he just doesn’t know what to do. He’s maybe freaking out a bit. The kid nearly died and all he can see is red, red, red –
-and so…he shouts. He shouts and watches the kid’s shoulders slump with each of his cruel blows. He says hurtful things which seem to be the only thing his god forsaken mouth is able to form. And then he takes away the kid’s suit and leaves. It might be better that way. If they never talk to each other again then Tony can’t mess up this kid like his dad messed up him. And maybe Peter will stop putting himself in danger just to impress him like Tony crashed expensive cars to get to Howard. Maybe they were a pair that was meant to fail from the start.
And if Tony tries really hard, he might just be able to convince himself of that.
A few days later the kid crashes a plane on the beach. Tony sees a future where he never makes it home.
+1
Tony doesn’t cry at the funeral. He knows he probably should, publicity wise and all that. But to be honest he can’t really be bothered. He knows that somewhere deep, deep down there must be a part of him that’s grieving. Grieving for his family, but above all, grieving for something that could have been. Greving for a future where maybe him and his dad managed to work things out. Where while they might not be close, they at least managed to be in a room together without being at each other’s throats. Grieving for the idea of his father that he always hoped the man could live up to one day.
He can feel his father’s presence all around him. In the media who’s already twisting the story the way they like it. In his colleagues who think he is a fresh piece of meat that can be fucked over the way they want, and stare at him with hungry eyes. In the way he still can’t sleep at night and takes to alcohol more than is probably advisable. He wonders if it will ever end. If he can ever just be his own person or if he’ll always be Howard Stark’s son. Never shining as bright as his father but so, so much better at burning.
He’s still angry. Angry at the man who ruined his life. Angry at himself for not trying to be the better person. Angry at his father for being the older but never the responsible one. Angry that his father never thought to apologise. Angry that he’ll never get the closure he probably needs.
Tony watches as the attendees start throwing fistfuls of earth on his father’s coffin. As the wood slowly disappears under a layer of dirt, part of him feels like his future is being buried beside it.
Tony has never been good at this – the emotional part. Usually that’s Pepper’s thing. But, as she so thoughtfully pointed out, this is his mess to clean up. She rolled her eyes at him when he told her what had happened before the press conference. “You need to apologize, Tony,” she said in that annoyingly smart way of hers.
“I did.”
She shook her head like he was being particularly thick again. “A real apology. One that isn’t just a formality.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or is he just a formality to you?”
And God, he hates that she’s always right.
So now here he is, knuckles turning white around the paper bag he is holding onto like a lifeline. He tries to breathe; tries to remember any of the words he’s prepared, but his mind is blank. All his life he’s bought himself out of trouble. He wishes he could do the same now. But he realised this is something too valuable to buy. His fingers make contact with the door, before he can think better of it. A moment later, there are sounds from inside and then he is staring into a pair of familiar brown eyes.
His heart is beating so loud he’s surprised the walls aren’t shaking with it. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, hi.”
“Mr. Stark?” the kid asks and sounds so heartbreakingly surprised that Tony would like to go back in time and hand his own ass to himself. “What are you doing here?”
Tony clears his throat, trying to speak. He halts. “Perhaps we should move this inside,” he suggests, because he’s not ready yet to say any of the words he needs to say. Also, it might not be the best idea to have his breakdown in front of all the neighbours. He pushes past a still very confused looking Peter.
“Is your aunt here?” he asks, looking at the chaos that has the flat in its strong hold “I mean not that I’m here just to see her or anything just-” He shuts his mouth before he can say any more stupid or inappropriate things. It’s harder than it should be. He feels vulnerable without his amour of charm.
Peter’s brow furrows. “No, she’s at work. But Mr. Stark, what’s going on? Is something wrong? I mean-”
Tony sighs. “Nothing is wrong, kid.” He runs a hand through his hair. God why is this so hard? He just needs to get it out. “I- I-“ he swallows. “I came to apologize.”
Peter stares at him. “What?”
Tony sighs again. “I should have listened to you when you were trying to get my attention. And I shouldn’t have shut you out after dragging you into the whole thing in Germany and-”
Peter shakes his head. “No, no Mr. Stark. I’m really grateful that-”
Tony silences him with a look. “Not the point, kid.” He lets himself fall onto one of the kitchen chairs. He feels years older. He might be getting grey hair just from having to sit through this conversation. Is this what actual parents feel like? “I gave you the suit and brought you to meet the Avengers and then I just fucked off without giving you any actual help. That’s- that’s just not cool, okay?”
Peter looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods. His arms are crossed over his chest, hands shoved in his armpits like he usually does when he is nervous. It’s weird that Tony knows him well enough to recognise this by now.
Sometimes he forgets how young the kid really is. It’s something he’s going to have to work on. He still feels horrible for dragging Peter – an actual child – into a conflict of international scale that he had no place in to begin with. But at the same time, he needs to accept that the kid is also his own person, smart and strong enough to make his own decisions. It’s a fine line to toe, he knows. Maybe he should ask Pepper for more of these parenting brochures.
“And yes, you acted recklessly,” Tony continuous, sending a stern look in the kid’s direction “but I should have offered you more help and explanation instead of just trying to keep you away.” He shakes his head. “You- you’re a good kid, Peter.” The words are clunky on his tongue. Still, he feels lighter, now that he’s said it. He never realised how good it could feel to just talk things out. Maybe this therapy thing isn’t a hoax after all.
Peter is silent for a moment. “I-I’m sorry too, sir. For a lot of things,” he says, looking at the ground. “I was so busy trying to impress you that I- I guess I forgot what I was doing this for in the first place.” He offers a smile – an offer at understanding. There is something in his eyes that makes Tony think he might have been on a journey similar to Tony’s. Perhaps they’re not so different after all.
Tony finds himself smiling back. For a moment it’s just them and the sounds of busy New York streets outside.
“Right then,” Tony says and claps his hands, just as the silence is beginning to grow uncomfortable. “I think this belongs to you,” he says and throws the paper bag in the kid’s direction.
Peter catches it with ease. When he looks inside his eyes widen. “Mr. Stark- I- I don’t know what to say.” His arms twitches like that one time in the lab – the time where they hugged. Tony’s heart speeds up involuntarily. He’s still bad at this. This feels like a moment where they should hug, right?
Instead, Tony retrieves his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them over his eyes. “No need to say anything, underoos.” It’s still a lot to handle. The kid’s big eyes and thankful smile. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. But he is also trying to be more patient, so he tries for a smile. “If we’re done playing the blame game now, I think I’ll be on my way.” His knees click as he gets back to his feet and makes his way over to the door.
“I-yeah- yes- of course,” Peter stammers, hovering behind him. He is doing the nodding thing again. He wrings his hands. Tony can practically feel the unanswered questions that are burning in the air. It’s the same that have been plaguing Tony for days. How are they going to continue from here on? After Tony very nearly messed everything up. After the kid very nearly didn’t make it home.
He knows Peter doesn’t want to ask, because last time he did Tony drove him out like a raging lunatic. He knows that Peter is waiting for him to make the first move. Tony is still not sure he can. What a useless pair they make.
Part of him still wants to say goodbye forever. Part of him is still convinced that the kid will be better off just never having to deal with his bullshit again. But Tony’s also learned that leaving can cause just as much harm as staying. And not giving a damn is such a Howard Stark move anyway.
Tony halts a last time, before he leaves, doorknob already in hand. “I- I’ll see you in the lab on Friday?” he asks and it’s more a question about whether this whole thing between them has been damaged beyond repair than anything. It’s also a promise. A promise that he’ll keep trying, that he’ll keep doing better if only Peter lets him. His heart pumps even louder.
Peter’s shoulders sack. When he grins Tony can see the same relief he feels in the kid’s eyes. “Yeah- yeah cool, um, see you on Friday.”
And when Tony leaves, he feels like he also leaves that angry part of himself that never lets anyone too close behind.