Chapter Text
Happy was late. It was weird, and uncomfortable, because Happy was never late. He had some kind of sixth sense for the shifting traffic that blanketed the roads, and if anything, he was usually early, so that Peter could beat his classmates outside and duck into the car before anyone started asking totally reasonable questions such as ‘who’s the random guy picking you up?’ or ‘why is his car so nice?’ that Peter had no good way to answer. Normally they’d be halfway back to the tower already, Peter having exhausted his recap of the day’s events as Happy nodded along, acting like he wasn’t listening even though he totally was, a pleasant silence filling the car. It was a nice break between the chaotic twice-weekly AcaDec meetings and the afternoons at the tower that always followed, and as silly as it sounded, it was one of Peter’s favorite parts of the day.
Now, though, it had been nearly twenty minutes since practice let out, and Peter was the only kid left standing in front of the school, fidgeting nervously with a keychain he’d pried off his backpack just for something to mess around with. He had his silence, for now at least, but it certainly wasn’t going to last long if the worried eyes he could feel resting on him were any indication. He glanced back toward the pick-up lane, studiously ignoring the scuffing of sneakers beside his own, before Mr. Grace’s strained sigh heralded the end of his uneasy peace.
“Who did you say was picking you up again, Peter?”
Peter grimaced, running a thumb across the smooth plastic edges where the stormtrooper’s helmet met the flimsy chain normally keeping it attached to his bag. He really didn’t want to lie to Mr. Grace, even if there wasn’t much of a choice. The guy had only started teaching at Midtown this year, but his interesting practical lessons and laidback attitude had already endeared him to most of the students, and Peter was no exception. Their most recent lab in his class, where he’d narrowly prevented Flash from losing an eyebrow to his improperly-mixed chemicals, had been engaging enough that he’d even brought it up to Mr. Stark, who’d seemed marginally impressed by the experiment itself, but was entirely too disappointed that Mr. Grace hadn’t just let Flash suffer the consequences of his actions.
Point was, Peter didn’t want to lie to Mr. Grace about Happy, but he couldn’t exactly tell the truth either. He was lucky enough that no one had brought up his supposed internship around the teacher already, though most had lost interest in attempting to disprove it after he claimed to have lost it during the Vulture incident last year. But if he tried to tell Mr. Grace now, and he thought Peter was lying? The embarrassment would probably kill him where he stood.
Peter snapped back to awareness at his teacher’s raised brow, and he could feel himself turning red. Of all the days for their usual Decathlon supervisor to be out, why did it have to be this one? And of all the substitutes they could’ve ended up with, why did it have to be Mr. Grace? None of the other teachers would have bothered to stand outside and wait until someone showed up to pick him up. If it’d been anyone else, Peter could have vanished into an alleyway to change and swung to the tower instead. Instead, here he was.
“Just a family friend, Mr. Grace,” he responded weakly, still unable to look his teacher in the eye. He was always so patient with Peter that it just made the whole situation even more awkward, accepting the incredibly suspicious response as easily as Peter’s constant explanations of why he was late, or where his assignments were, or why he was favoring one leg when he walked. Peter knew he wasn’t that good at lying, and Mr. Grace wasn’t exactly great at hiding his increasing concern as the semester had gone on, and Peter was about eighty-percent sure he was building some kind of case behind the scenes—which was fair, honestly, if he’d been literally anyone else with falling grades and suspicious injuries, but Peter just had other things going on, not that he could tell his teacher that. Either way, this was definitely not helping Mr. Grace’s opinion of Peter’s home life, which was… not great. Both because he thought Aunt May would actually think Mr. Grace was pretty cool too, and because a CPS investigation would make it really hard to sneak out as Spider-Man.
Maybe he could say something? Sure, it could totally backfire and have the opposite effect, but Mr. Grace was nice enough to hear him out, at the very least. Mind made up, Peter turned towards his teacher, ready to plead his case, only for the low rumble of an approaching engine to distract him. He glanced toward Mr. Grace anyway, only to see him staring towards the approaching car, eyes narrow and mouth tight. That wasn’t a very good sign, but hey, maybe it was salvageable! Happy was a little gruff, sure, but Peter could say it was just traffic, and—
That wasn’t Happy’s car. That wasn’t even remotely like Happy’s car. Happy’s car was noticeable, sure, sleek and dark and shiny in a way that suggested money, but it was still low-key. This car? The hot-rod-red vintage whose engine he’d helped gut and reassemble a few weeks before, whose wheels slid across the rough roads so smoothly and silently even his enhanced hearing could barely sense it a few streets away? This car was the opposite of low-key. Just like its owner, it was utterly incapable of subtlety.
Peter was screwed. Peter was so, so screwed. Happy, he could’ve explained away. Not many people aside from hardcore Avengers fans would recognize his face, and Mr. Grace certainly wasn’t invested in heroes—he’d complained more than once about how two of the world’s foremost minds were too wrapped up in punching aliens and hadn’t released proper research papers in years—so Peter could’ve offered up a lacklustre explanation and ducked into the backseat before Mr. Grace could question him too thoroughly. Tony Stark, though? It’d be hard to find someone who didn’t know him on sight, and even harder to explain why he was here to pick Peter up.
…Why was he here to pick Peter up? It certainly explained the lateness, but Mr. Stark practically never bothered braving the traffic when Happy was far more efficient than he could ever be. Plus, the few times he had picked Peter up himself, mostly in the weeks after last year’s miserable prom, he’d spent hours afterward complaining about every bit of grime that had accumulated on his custom-built cars after the drive. When Peter had hesitantly suggested that he use a less souped-up vehicle, though, he’d simply scoffed and muttered that the younger generation didn’t appreciate proper showmanship anymore.
Come to think of it, that’d been the last time he picked Peter up, too. Man, whatever reason he had, it must have been good. Peter was out of time to wonder, though, as the car reached the curb right in front of the school building and the engine cut out. Peter made for the passenger’s side immediately, hoping to be done with this entire embarrassment as soon as possible, but paused when the driver’s side door swung open. Was Mr. Stark getting out? Why was Mr. Stark getting out? From Peter’s usual commentary about his day, he’d decided most of his teachers were incompetent hacks— all but one.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Stopping in his tracks, Peter turned around, already far too late to stop the trainwreck from playing out. Mr. Grace’s cold look fell abruptly off his face as Mr. Stark stepped out, tilting his sunglasses deliberately downwards to fix his gaze on Mr. Grace’s wide-eyed stare. From his angle, Peter could only barely make out the pure, smug glee on Mr. Stark’s face as he spoke, but that didn’t make his words any less clear.
“Hello again, Ryland.”
Luckily, or maybe unluckily, he had a perfect view to watch his favorite teacher cycle quickly through all five stages of grief, before his expression finally seemed to settle on some pained-looking mixture of embarrassment and awe that tinted his cheeks slightly red. His eyes darted immediately away from Mr. Stark’s—which was so fair, because Mr. Stark’s eye contact was scary intense and Peter had taken ages to be able to return it in kind—as he coughed into his hand, clearing his throat before finally speaking.
“Dr. Stark, I— wasn’t expecting this.”
Peter really hoped this was some kind of weird fever dream. Not only did Mr. Stark clearly somehow know his teacher, but at Mr. Grace’s words, his face had fallen into something Peter was pretty sure was a pout, which absolutely should not have fit so easily onto his face.
“Bonus points for remembering the doctorates, I suppose,” he began, “but ouch. I couldn’t have been that unmemorable, could I? I’ve been told I’m a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you know.”
“I—” Mr. Grace went red, suddenly, burying his face in his hands for a moment before looking up again and shooting a horrified look at Peter. “I was trying to keep this professional, Dr. Stark—”
Somehow, that was what it took to click. Suddenly, Peter realized exactly how his two mentors must have known each other, and as his face burned with mortification, all he could think about was the suit balled up in his backpack. If he’d just climbed out the bathroom window and swung to the tower, he definitely would’ve made Mr. Grace even more concerned, but to avoid this? It absolutely would have been worth it.