Chapter Text
Friday, November 10, 2000
Upper East Side, New York City
11:41 PM
By the time Tony arrived, the party was already burning at full wattage—exactly how he liked it. Fashionably late, never rudely so. Just long enough to remind them he was worth waiting for.
The penthouse was a glittering terrarium of New York’s elite: gowns cut on the bias, suits sharper than knives, champagne flowing at a price point that could cover most people’s rent twice over. Wealth here wasn’t background—it was costume, armour, currency. Tony slipped into it like a shark into water. If he’d wanted the deed to the place, odds were someone would’ve handed it over by midnight.
People shifted as he moved. Tony Stark was a gravitational force: you orbited, you burned, or you backed away. Half the crowd tried to lean in, hoping a smile might rub off like stardust. The other half knew better.
He played the part anyway. Smiles doled out like party favours, a glass of champagne claimed on autopilot, hollow words exchanged and discarded. He didn’t bother with the canapés. Same chatter, same promises whispered in his ear—thin as tissue paper, already fraying. The glitter blurred fast when you’d seen it all a hundred times.
The staircase offered escape, or at least altitude. As he climbed, ducking a too-eager handshake, he scowled at himself. Why keep showing up to these things when he already knew the ending? Another carousel ride: champagne, chatter, desperation dressed in couture.
And still—he stayed. Maybe for the game, maybe for the attention. Maybe because, against his better judgement, he still believed in the off chance that a night like this might turn out different.
Maybe tonight, there was someone worth staying for.
He reached the second floor with no bar in sight. Maybe if he looked brooding enough someone would hand him a refill, but he couldn’t be bothered to fake brooding these days. Too much effort for too little return.
He lifted his half-empty glass, a lazy semaphore that carved space through the crowd of tuxedos. They all looked rented, maybe a bulk order. Navy, black—hard to tell in the low light.
Why was he even clocking ties? Clearly the champagne was already working.
The room opened into a glass-walled lounge, Manhattan spilling out in a sprawl of lights. The skyline blurred like the faces around him—bright, interchangeable, indistinct. He leant against the railing, staring down at the pool.
Would diving in be worth the scandal? Probably. Worth the effort? Probably not. No one would be shocked, anyway. Disappointed, sure. Not shocked.
He turned back to the crowd with a sigh. Same suits, same smiles, same airless performance. He tipped the champagne down in one swallow and lobbed the glass over the balcony. The satisfying crack near the pool was the evening’s high point.
Pour encourager les autres.
Ten more minutes of chatter with people whose names evaporated as quickly as their handshakes. Then came the ritual exit: phone check, watch tap, pocket pat. The theatre of busyness, enough to prove he’d shown his face before slipping out. Social dues paid.
Halfway down the staircase, he stopped.
She was there—lounging against the grand piano, back to him. A slash of colour against the monotone crowd.
The woman in red.
Tony paused at the foot of the stairs, nearly missing a step on the marble. Dark hair over bare shoulders, scarlet silk cut low, dangerous in its precision. A noir silhouette brought to life.
Intrigue more than attraction pulled him across the room. She didn’t angle herself for notice—she already knew she had it. When she turned, the smile she gave wasn’t coy or accommodating. It was sharp, like she’d taken his measure the moment he walked in.
For a moment Tony let the rest of the party dissolve into static. Then he closed the distance, dress shimmering in the low light, her posture easy but unshakably straight.
“Tony Stark,” he said—the joke, the setup, and the punchline all at once. “No autographs, but I do accept drink refills.”
Her brow lifted. “I know.”
No awe. Just a calm acknowledgement that left him blinking before he covered with a chuckle.
He gestured loosely at the room, where heads were already turning, whispers flaring. “Then I’m at a disadvantage.”
She leaned in, perfume warm with smoke and spice. “I doubt you ever are.” Her lipstick traced the rim of a martini glass. When she finally offered her hand, her grip was firm, eyes steady—assessing him as openly as he assessed her.
“Mary Parker.”
The name flickered—familiar, though distant. Fashion, maybe. Not that it mattered.
“Mary Parker,” he echoed, eyebrow arched. “Here for the spectacle, or just bored enough to endure it?”
Her laugh was rich, startlingly honest against the din. “Both. But you’re one to talk. I thought you’d retired from these things.”
“Call it a rare exception. Someone’s got to keep the bar staff on their toes.”
“Of course.” She swirled her drink, eyes amused. “Wouldn’t want to deprive us of your charm.”
Snappy, but not sycophantic. Tony liked that.
“So—fashion your game?” he guessed, tilting his glass. “I can’t tell a Windsor knot from a shoelace, but I do appreciate the art form. Especially when it walks in wearing it.”
“One of them,” she said smoothly. “But you’re not here to talk business. Unless this is networking night?”
Tony feigned thought, leaning back. “Depends. You pitch me a handbag, I’ll throw in a missile or two. Favour for a friend.”
Her smile didn’t flicker. “Relax. I’m not here to sell you anything. Not business, anyway.”
That landed clean. No games. Her gaze held his, sharp and direct.
“No,” he conceded, lips quirking. “You’re not. So what’s the angle? Everyone’s got one.”
She tilted her head, unhurried. “No angle. Curiosity. But I imagine you’re used to people with motives.”
“Comes with the territory. And I’m usually right.”
“Maybe.” She stepped closer, voice lowered, intimate by design. “But maybe sometimes people just want to see what makes you tick.”
No easy comeback for that. Not one he’d give, anyway. He lifted his glass instead. “To curiosity.”
Her smirk sharpened as their glasses touched. “To curiosity.”
As the night wore on, Tony kept circling back to her. Not in the usual way—no conquest checklist, no scripted flirtation. Mary Parker didn’t orbit him, didn’t even seem impressed, and that in itself was disarming. She wasn’t playing the same tired game everyone else here was, which made her the only person in the room worth his time.
Still, he knew better. Women at parties like this never meant anything good. They were detours, complications, the sort of decisions that looked fun on paper and came back later with invoices you couldn’t expense.
He caught himself smiling anyway. If he was smart, he’d walk away. Genius only helped if you cared to use it wisely.
Tony rarely did.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Stark Tower, Midtown Manhattan, New York City
11:23 AM
Tony couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned anything himself. Probably never. That’s what the staff was for—though they generally steered clear of his private floors. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t messy. His apartment always hovered somewhere between minimalist and museum exhibit, the kind of place realtors would call “move-in ready.” The only part of the Tower that ever looked lived-in was the workshop, and there practicality had always trumped polish.
Now he was circling the living room like a man possessed, polishing surfaces that already gleamed, rearranging things no one would notice. It was lunacy. No teenager gave a damn about whether the vases aligned or if there was a rogue fingerprint on the glass.
But Peter wasn’t most teenagers. Sharp kid. Noticer of details. At least he used to be. Tony wouldn’t know—he’d never stuck around long enough to find out what the kid noticed. Which explained why he was halfway to hyperventilating.
“Friday, ETA?” he asked, crouched by the coffee table, sweat dripping down his temple.
“Twenty-two minutes, boss,” came the AI’s voice, maddeningly even.
Tony groaned, knees protesting as he stood. Twenty-two minutes. Manageable. He could handle it. Except maybe he couldn’t.
What if the place screamed money in all the wrong ways? What if every polished surface was just another reminder that Tony Stark had no idea how to be a father, only how to throw resources at problems until they glittered?
His eyes caught the picture frames—off by a hair. The scuff near the bookcase. The stack of papers on the coffee table. Should they be there? Peter wouldn’t use the table. Or maybe he would, and then what? He’d need space to set a drink, which would inevitably spill, probably because Tony himself would knock it over, ruining everything—
Tony snatched up the papers, shoved them elsewhere with too much force. He froze, chest tight, heart racing like he’d missed something. One crooked frame, one dust mote, one stupid, irrelevant flaw that would confirm exactly what he feared: that Peter had every reason to hate him.
No, nothing was off. Not the frames, not the cushions. Just him.
“Friday?”
“Thirty minutes, boss. Traffic on the FDR.”
Great. More time to obsess. Tony leaned against the back of the couch, bouncing on his heels as he scanned the room.
Too perfect now. A space that looked staged, not lived in. Would Peter notice? Would he think Tony didn’t care, that he hadn’t been expecting this?
The truth was, he hadn’t. The call from Mary had hit like shrapnel—unexpected, lodged deep, impossible to ignore. He’d had years to prepare. Instead he was standing here, dripping sweat, working himself into a coronary over throw pillows.
He’d changed, sure. Cleaned up, stepped up, put the Stark Industries caricature to bed. But Peter? Peter had been a kid back when Tony was still hell-bent on burning his life down one bender at a time. A couple visits a month, the occasional phone call—that was the sum of their history. And the older Peter got, the sharper that distance became. He’d inherited Mary’s edge, the one that said you don’t get in easily.
Now the place felt sterile. Cold. Clinical.
“Friday, is it cold in here?”
“Temperature is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. Within the human comfort range.”
“Well, yeah, but what about kids? They run warmer, right? Or colder?”
“My understanding is that children often have higher baselines than adults. Though that depends on the individual and a number of variables.”
“Fantastic. Variables.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Why didn’t I think of variables sooner?”
The spiral was gaining momentum—temperature, décor, the whole place pressing in like it knew how much he was screwing this up—when the elevator chimed.
The doors slid open and Pepper all but sprinted out, heels clicking. Still in the navy pantsuit from her meeting, flushed and breathless.
“I got your message,” she said, coming to a halt in front of him. “What’s the emergency?”
Tony opened his mouth and came up empty. He was suddenly aware of the sweat on his forehead, the ridiculous precision of the flowers, the fact that he looked—objectively—unhinged.
Pepper took one look around: the spotless coffee table, the cushions that had clearly been assaulted within an inch of their lives, the room gleaming like it was waiting for a magazine shoot. She sighed.
“Tony, when you text me ‘911, emergency,’ I assume—”
“I know, I know.” He waved her off, restless. “But it is a 911. Look at this.” He gestured at the room with a helpless sweep. “Too clean, too stiff, he’s gonna walk in and know. He’ll know I screwed this up years ago, and now I’m still screwing it up.”
Her expression softened. She stepped around the couch and set a hand on his shoulder. “You’re spiralling,” she said simply.
“They’re real problems,” he muttered. “It’s not a spiral if the math checks out.”
Pepper crouched slightly so he had to meet her eyes. Calm, steady. “He’s not coming here to grade the décor. He’s coming to see you.”
Tony barked a laugh, humourless. “Yeah, sweaty, neurotic me. Perfect reunion.” He dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been years, Pep. How do I even—how did I let it get to this?”
“Because life happened,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She brushed his damp hair off his forehead, smoothing it like she had a hundred times before. “You didn’t disappear. You stayed connected as best you could. And now you’re here. Really here. That matters more than spotless furniture.”
Tony leaned into her touch, mind running laps.
She wasn’t wrong—he hadn’t vanished completely. Birthday gifts sent, even when he wasn’t sure they landed. The spare room Peter had once stayed in, kept untouched like a time capsule, dusted when he remembered. A handful of texts, fired off without expecting replies.
But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough. The distance between them was an open wound, and Tony had no idea how to close it.
“He doesn’t like me,” he said, the words bitter as they left his mouth.
“Maybe not,” Pepper replied evenly. “But that’s not what matters. He needs a parent. Someone steady. A lot of people haven’t given him that.” She gave him that look—the one that landed like a slap and a lifeline all at once.
Tony swallowed, excuses lining up in his head, flimsy as wet paper. Too busy. Not built for parenting. Maybe the kid was better off without him. Lies, all of them. The truth was simpler: he was terrified. Terrified of being his father all over again. And Mary had never trusted him not to be.
Pepper’s expression softened. “You’ll be fine. Now go shower. Change. No ratty sweatpants.”
He let out a laugh, kissed her cheek in thanks, and watched her head back toward the elevator, already reaching for her phone, already juggling another dozen fires.
Alone again, Tony tried to do the same. Shower, shirt, the whole pretending-to-be-a-functional-adult routine. Friday chimed in with traffic updates as though narrating a horse race, which Tony assumed was her way of pep talk. Every update made the minutes stretch longer. He nearly texted Happy to stall before realising how pathetic that would read.
Busy picking between black T-shirt and other black T-shirt. Might be dying. Call medic?
Eighteen minutes later, give or take, he was back on the couch. Posture bolt-straight, hands tapping a staccato on the coffee table, every muscle tense like he was waiting for a jury verdict.
“Boss,” Friday said, cool as ever, “Peter Parker and Happy Hogan have arrived. Direct them up?”
Tony shot to his feet, realised he’d somehow twisted his T-shirt into a knot at the hem, and fumbled it flat. “Yeah. Send them up.”
A last frantic scan of the room. Teeth brushed? Hair? Should’ve done hair.
“Boss,” Friday added, “you may want to close your mouth. Gnats.”
He snapped it shut, glaring at the nearest camera. His palms were slick, his chest tight, his pulse hammering.
And then the elevator chimed, doors gliding open with a soft whoosh.
Oh.
Peter was taller. Too tall. All elbows and knees, stretched thin like his body hadn’t caught up yet. The sight landed like a sucker punch. Nine one minute, eye level the next. His face had sharpened, but a trace of softness clung to his cheeks, just enough to remind Tony of the boy he’d missed.
His hair was longer now, a messy fall of brown that shadowed the dark circles under his glasses. The rest was rough edges: hoodie frayed at the cuffs, scuffed sneakers, duffel bag hugged close, earbud wire knotted around the strap. It might have read as deliberate if he didn’t look so worn down, more like he’d been dragged through the city than chauffeured to it. Stark and Parker money together could buy half the block, and yet here was the heir, dressed like he’d lost a fight with a thrift bin. Maybe on purpose.
Music bled faintly from the earbuds. Tony almost said something—you’ll wreck your hearing before you’re legal to drink—but caught himself. Not the opening move.
The silence held until the doors parted again and Happy trudged out, dragging a suitcase that could’ve housed a family of five. He dropped it with a thud that rattled the floor and shot the kid a look that could strip paint.
“Yeah, appreciate the help, Parker. I’ll just throw my back out while you enjoy the tunes.”
Peter kept his eyes on the skyline. Didn’t flinch, didn’t answer.
“Next time, I leave it on the curb,” Happy muttered, straightening his jacket. He gave Tony a look that translated to good luck, pal, then stepped back into the elevator.
Gone.
Tony was left with the lanky silhouette of his son and the sound of blood pounding in his ears.
Not exactly the endorsement he’d been hoping for.
There was a beat—too long—where Tony steeled himself for something. A tearful embrace, maybe a hug that turned into an iron grip around the throat. Instead, Peter dropped his duffel on the couch he had just spent an hour perfecting. A small death inside.
“Right,” Tony muttered, clearing his throat. “So—”
“When am I going home?”
Sharp. No warm-up. Kid even left the earbuds in, music leaking loud enough to prove the point: not listening. Then he flopped onto the cushions with an undue hardness.
Tony swallowed the wince. “Wow. Okay. Straight to the big existential. You only just got here.”
Peter shrugged, gaze fixed somewhere past him. “Yeah. I know.”
Tony perched on the edge of the coffee table, ignoring how ridiculous that felt in his own living room. “Tell you what—let’s shelve the homeward-bound discussion until after you’ve at least sampled the tower minibar. Kidding. Mostly. Point is, we’ll talk later. Once you settle in.”
“Why do I have to settle in?”
His instinctive answer—because your mom’s nose-deep in coke and excuses—died in his throat. He forced a smile instead, cover story engaged.
“Because your mom thought it might be good for you. Her words, not mine. I’m just the…unwilling host-slash-room service.”
Peter laughed bitterly and yanked the earbuds out, untangling the cord. “She didn’t think that. She doesn’t think, period. She pays people to do that for her.”
Tony let the jab hang in the air. Not inaccurate. Not something he wanted to unpack, either.
“She just needs time,” he tried, words tripping over themselves. “Temporary. Like…a bad haircut. You ride it out.”
“She’s faking,” Peter said flatly, eyes locked on the mess of wires. “Drama. She lives for it.”
Best to steer clear of that particular minefield. Besides, Tony’s main priority was diverting any conversations regarding the boy's mother—or the screaming, spitting, near delirious phone call he'd received from her the night before.
“She’ll be fine,” he said, though even to his own ears it sounded thin. He clapped his hands once, too loud in the quiet room. “Anyway. Pivot. You. Kid edition. What’s the play? You into sports, building killer robots, stamp collecting…? Please don’t say stamp collecting.”
A rookie question. Proof positive he was out of his depth. The man who’d built the Mark I out of spare parts in a cave couldn’t improvise his way through a conversation with his own kid.
“Nothing.”
Tony snorted before he could stop himself. “Nobody likes nothing, bud. What do you do in your free time?”
Peter didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know. Drugs. Crime. Whatever. And don’t call me bud.”
Tony studied him. Shoulders hunched, jaw tight, fingers working the wire like he’d strangle it. Underneath the sulk, he caught a flicker of the boy he remembered, bent over his workbench years ago, all curiosity and stubborn concentration.
“You build things,” he said suddenly. It slipped out, certain. “You’re a tinkerer.”
Peter’s fingers stilled on the cord. For half a second, his eyes flicked up. The disdain cracked—interest flashing through before he buried it.
Tony pounced. “Knew it. I’ve got a workshop downstairs—tools, bots, the works. Rules apply, goggles required, no suing if you lose a finger. But you’d pick it up fast. Smart kid. Runs in the family.”
Family. Strange concept. Heavy.
“Sure. Whatever.”
Not enthusiasm, but not a no either. That counted as a win.
But then the fidgeting started again—cord twisting, jaw clenched, shoulders twitching like he couldn’t sit still inside his own skin. Tony had no read on it. He wasn’t built for this. He could barely read himself.
“You hungry?” he tried. Cheeseburgers had saved him once. Maybe lightning struck twice.
“No.”
Right. So much for that.
Peter stood abruptly, winding his earbuds into a knot and shoving them into his pocket. His knee was bouncing.
“Can I just go to my room?” The words were aimed at the floor, steely and small at once.
“Sure,” Tony said quickly, ignoring the drop in his gut. “Down the hall, third—”
“I remember.”
Peter hefted the duffel and yanked at the oversized suitcase. It dragged across the polished floor with a squeal. Tony hovered in the no-man’s-land between helping and not, then chose neither. The look Peter shot him for his trouble could’ve soured milk.
“If you change your mind about food—or anything—just talk to the ceiling,” Tony called after him. “Friday’ll sort you out. She’s more polite than I am.”
The AI chimed obligingly, smooth as glass. “Hello, Peter.”
Peter flinched, glanced upward, then muttered something that might’ve been hi.
“And if you can’t find me,” Tony added, leaning an elbow on the couch like he wasn’t braced inside, “I’m one button away. Phone, my number, Stark Tower concierge. Yell loud enough and I’ll even pretend it’s an emergency.”
That did it. Not a full stop, but a hitch in Peter’s shoulders, a pause that snagged the air.
Tony narrowed his eyes. “You do have my number, right? Please tell me I rate higher than Domino’s in your contacts.”
Peter shifted the duffel higher, eyes still on the floor. “Yeah. I think. Maybe.” A beat. Then, quieter: “Might’ve blocked it.”
Tony blinked. Dry mouth, hollow chest. Blocked. Birthday calls that rang out. Messages fired into the void, jokes, check-ins, all of it—vanished into spam. He let out a laugh that wasn’t one. “Blocked it? What, I rate below robocalls now? At least they offer you cash prizes.”
Peter’s shrug was quick, defensive. “It was a while ago. I don’t remember.”
“Well, that explains a few things.” Tony’s hand cut the air in a loose gesture. “Want to…rectify that? I’d hate to be competing with extended car warranties.”
For the first time since stepping through the door, Peter looked at him. Brief, reluctant—but looked. Then, without a word, he unlocked his phone and handed it over.
Blocked contacts glared up at Tony like a rap sheet. The list was long. Half the school, by the look of it. Ned. MJ. A few unlucky souls reduced to placeholders—Loser 1, Loser 2, Emo Narc. Brutal little taxonomy.
He braced himself, scrolling, waiting to see what he’d been christened. Asshole Supreme. Iron Douche. World’s Worst Dad, LLC. He could’ve lived with any of those. At least they came with personality.
Instead, there he was. Stark.
Just that. Stark.
Everyone else got a label; Tony got a filing cabinet. The lack of spite hurt more than any insult would have.
He swallowed it down, thumbed the entry, and hit Unblock. Handed the phone back like it didn’t weigh a ton.
Before Peter could pocket it, the screen lit and buzzed.
Skip W.
Tony didn’t miss the way the boy froze—shoulders knotted, jaw clamped, breath catching sharp. With a violent swipe, the call vanished. Phone shoved deep in his pocket, hand fisted around the fabric.
“You could’ve answered,” Tony said lightly, watching the tension ripple through him. “Unless that’s the IRS, in which case, good instincts.”
Peter’s throat worked. “Didn’t feel like it.” Flat. He bent, grabbed the suitcase, and dragged it down the hall, bag thudding a steady retreat.
Tony stood in the gleaming silence, arms falling heavy at his sides. A flicker of resentment burned toward the faceless Skip W—whoever the hell he was, he made the cut. He got through.
Tony hadn’t.
His gaze drifted over the room: glass already spotless, cushions now dented, every surface gleaming. He’d scrubbed the place within an inch of its life and still couldn’t polish himself into someone his kid wanted to let through the line.
He needs a parent. Someone steady, Pepper had said.
Tony let out a breath, glanced at the crooked cushion Peter had left in his wake, and straightened it with careful precision.
Maybe steady started there.