Con Artist Tony x Art Forger Peter
Summary: Tony’s only got one more heist. He does this, he can be retired on an island in the Mediterranean in a month. All he needs is a world-class art forger. (White Collar inspired)
Word count: 10k, complete.
Read here, or on ao3.
The final heist.
That’s what it’s called.
That mystical thing, that last risk, the only thing left to do before you retire. It hangs, almost out of reach, just beyond the cusp of the horizon. It waves your happy ending in front of your face, luring you across stormy seas on a water-logged boat, beckoning you towards bliss while leading you to destruction.
Lesser men have failed, but Tony Stark is not a lesser man.
He’s going to pull off that final heist. He’s going to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-four. He’s going to buy an island, maybe two, and spend the rest of his days basking under the sun, reading Descartes and enjoying fine wine. Mostly Chateau Latour, but he’s partial to Grand cru from time to time.
This’ll be it. He’ll disappear. The FBI will give up after realising he’s not committing any more crimes, like they always do when a case goes stale. There’s no joy in capturing old bread, after all. A plucky young junior in a few years time may look into him, but they won’t be able to find him.
Besides, he doesn’t mind stepping out of the spotlight. He’s been basking in it for a decade now, after all. When he was fifteen years old and on their radar, he considers it quite the conversation starter.
With the right audience, of course.
(That’s key, you know. Knowing your audience. The only way to con someone is to read them first).
From three card monty on the LA boardwalks to diamond heists, Tony Stark has done it all.
Allegedly, of course.
Never been caught. Well, once, partially, if you count Rogers rolling over on him to the police, which Tony does not count.
He was twenty-one years old, and they’d had to try him with attempted burglarly, since they had no proof he actually had the Wittelsbach Diamond, nor any proof that he’d actually even been in the country at the time of the theft.
He’d been found innocent, acting as his own lawyer.
What can he say? He’s charming.
It comes with the territory. Conman is a word too small for everything he is. Fluent in fifteen languages, a connoisseur of wine, an expert appraiser, a diamond forger, an investment banker for a while (numbers are easy, which is why he’s banned from a lot of casinos) an art thief, a fixer, a trickster and, if he does say so himself: incredibly handsome.
It’s the lean muscle and the dark hair and the dark eyes.
Makes him irresistible to some, charming to others, and respectable to the ones left.
There’s something honest in his smile, his mother always use to say.
A conman smiles for a living so, Tony supposes, it all worked out.
A smile and a wink, a little sophistication, a little flirting, a little money in all the right hands, and he’d walked out the door of the courtroom, grinned at the FBI agent and basked in the sunshine.
Sure, it had felt like a win. But for $22 million dollars worth of diamond, he only got to keep around half. That’s what happens when someone you trust betrays you. Rogers telling the feds that the diamond he’d put in its place was a forgery had tipped them off to the crime, and now the damn thing is too hot to move.
It’s safe, somewhere. He has a lot of secret locations. He has a lot of different names.
He’ll sell it one day, farther down the line. Just for fun, maybe.
But for now, the final heist.
* “You know, it’s not as stupid as I thought it would be.” Natasha says thoughtfully, perusing over his plans with an impressed look on her face. Tony grins at her across the table, but as she’s always been, she’s impervious to charm of his smile. “But I can’t help you with this.”
He pours her some more wine. (Everyone’s more amiable with wine). Nat’s an old friend, they’ve known each other since they were eighteen and new to New York. She was in illegal acquisitions then, but she’s found her speciality. She’s the best damn fence Tony’s ever met. “I’ll give you fifteen percent.” He offers, placing hand over his heart. “Very generous, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
She half-smiles at that, and sips the wine. Her hair’s red now. He likes it this way. She’s been white-blonde for a long time. He knows Interpol’s on her back, but he doesn’t offer his help. Nat can handle herself. Now, if the Russian’s were after her, it would be a different story… “Tony,” she says softly, setting down his papers. The candle-light flickers warmly over her face, casting shadows across her cheekbones. “Even if I want to be your fence on this-“ (that means she does. She doesn’t just think the plan is not stupid, she thinks it’s good. Good enough to work) “-you’d need a world-class art forger.”
He nods, half-shrugging. “I assumed you’d have the contacts.”
She frowns thoughtfully, and takes another sip of wine. Dinner is steak and braised potatoes in an private little restaurant uptown. The nightlife of New York bustles and honks in the streets below, and Tony had preened on the way up. He likes exclusive, and he loves showing off, so his Tom Ford suit has been accessorised with only the finest cufflinks and satin tie.
He’s wearing more than what the people who work here earn in a year.
Nat doesn’t have his penchant for the spotlight. Her dress is beautiful, but cheap. Only cheap, however, to the trained eye (and to be a conman, you must have a trained eye) but she classes it up. A beautiful body always will.
“Maybe we should keep the plan the same,” she muses, “but swap the painting for a diamond. That way you could do the forgery yourself.”
He carefully doesn’t wince. “Diamonds are a little hot for me right now,” he confesses, “had a little…mix-up. Got a little close for comfort. The Feds are watching me and diamonds, so the painting is the way to go.”
She meets his eyes and looks a little smug. “A little close for comfort?” She repeats, “you’re not telling me the great Tony Stark almost got-“
“A jury of my peers found me innocent.” He corrects, taking a large bite of steak.
She laughs at that. “What I would have paid to be in that courtroom.”
He taps the paper to refocus her. “An art forger, you know anyone? I won’t go higher than twenty percent.”
Natasha tips her head consideringly. “There is…someone.” She says carefully. “He’s the best.”
Say it. Tony thinks. There’s one name she has to say. It’s the reason she’s here after all. Wanda is a good fence too, but she isn’t rumoured to have known-
“The Spider.”
Yes. Tony tries not to smile too hard, he hides it into his wine glass. “You know him?” He acts surprised, “I thought no one knew him.”
“Know is a grandiose term for a muffled voice on a phone.” She corrects, but Tony isn’t disappointed. It’s a lead.
“He’s the best.” Tony breathes; excited. He’s familiar with The Spider’s work- and the police are not. And that’s how you know someone’s the best.
Excluding Tony of course, the police know about his stuff- because Tony lets them. He likes to sign his own forged bonds, or leave a Queen of Hearts at crime scenes, but that’s because he’s a performer.
The Spider is the best damn art forger in the world. His forgeries are almost impossible to detect- they’ve been circling around the black market for about two years. He’s new to the game, but not lacking in talent. The only people who even know the paintings he makes are forgeries are a handful of sellers and Tony.
And that’s only because Strange- Tony’s NY Mafia connection- had confided in him that he suspected perhaps, that his Van Gogh wasn’t real. Stephen’s suspicions are enough to warrant truth, so Tony had looked himself.
He’d been impressed.
And a little aroused.
Of course, the owners- if they ever do suspect- or the seller, if they ever do guess- won’t report it. Why would they? It ruins their own credibility, their own intelligence, knowing they were duped.
Art can be a pretentious field, and no one likes looking a fool.
“Can you put me into contact with him?” Tony asks eagerly, and Natasha nods slowly.
“It’ll be hard. I’ll try, though, Tony. For you. For our final heist. This is it. Then we’re out of the game.”
“Exactly.” Tony agrees, “you take your money, I’ll take mine. Any ideas on where you’ll go?”
“Australia, maybe,” Natasha muses, “or a cabin in New Zealand by a lake.”
“To your new life,” Tony grins, holding up his wine glass.
As all people do when they’re tipsy, she falls victim to his smile.
* If Natasha were a smarter person, she’d have used Tony’s plan herself. Got into contact with the Spider, commissioned the forgery, swapped the painting, collected a huge percentage all for herself and cut Tony out completely.
The problem with Natasha is sentiment. It’s a common problem. Just because they’ve known each other for so long, she has a soft spot for Tony.
It’s a soft spot Wanda doesn’t have for him, which is another reason Tony isn’t using her.
Nat needs about two weeks to shake through the web of her contacts, but Tony isn’t in a rush.
The Final heist should never be rushed.
Besides, he has a few things to do. He goes to the New York Museum of Art, and donates $15 dollars to their support programme.
It’s nice to give back, every now and then.
The Degas is exactly where the floor plans said it would be, hanging neatly in the seventh room. The overhead light makes the Dancers in Blue even more beautiful than Tony remembers. 1895, 500 million dollars.
That’ll do, he thinks, looking up at the painting with a grin, that’ll do nicely.
He thinks sometimes, about retiring with someone.
He’s met a lot of people in his life. People he could read and see through. Beautiful, talented people.
Clint was good, an assassin, which Tony finds a little unsavoury, but the two of them had gotten on pretty well.
Harley the pickpocket, Pepper the weapons dealer, Maria the scam artist.
But in the end, all the flames had fizzled out. Friendships faded, relationships drifting away.
He’ll retire alone on an island, but he’ll be okay. He’s Tony Stark, (or at least, he’s Tony Stark today. Sometimes he’s Howard Potts, other times he’s Don Jarvis, or a thousand and one other aliases that he can keep perfect track of). He’ll have an island, and he’ll find a friend there. A native, beautiful and-
Someone who will most likely never know the real him.
But that’s fine.
He’s fine.
He spends the two weeks planning how he’ll get in, how he’ll disable the alarms, how he’ll transport the painting without it being recognised or damaged. He comes up with fifteen different escape routes and failsafes for just in case scenarios, and he practises hot wiring a few cars for a speedy getaway just in case the alarms are set off.
Knowledge of electrics and engineering go a very long way in the world of conning.
He thinks about what Natasha said, about how much easier this might all be if he could replicate his chosen object himself.
But he can forge bank notes, currency, one time a search warrant, diamonds and a hundred other things, but a painting.
It’s just always escaped him. Making fake bottles of wine- sculpting with glass, he can do that. Using heavy machinery to make fine diamonds and crystal, or laser printers for the holographic seals on money- he can do that.
But painting? That art escapes him.
He’s overheard police detectives calling him the Master of All Trades, and he supposes in some respects it’s true. It’s unheard of to be able to con as well as him, but also appraise diamonds, read lips, swan dive off of forty-story high buildings-
But painting is a different sort of art.
Softer and more beautiful, and so delicate a process that Tony’s never quite been able to get the hang of it.
Don’t get him wrong, he can paint. Enough to get by- enough to do a lazy enough imitation if he had to- he’d get a degree in it (according to his resumé, he actually has four degrees, two phDs and a couple of Masters courses he threw on there) but not enough raw talent to eyeball a forgery anywhere near getting past detection.
Besides, he’s curious about The Spider.
He’s always been curious; thirsting for knowledge, knowing things he shouldn’t know (boy the things he knows) and he’s not gonna pass up the chance.
So, when Nat gets back to him in two weeks with a place and a date, Tony salutes her and memorises it, before tearing it up and tossing it into a bin.
“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, not making eye contact as she sits across the busy mall from him on an opposing bench. She’s holding the burner phone to her cheek, and he has his own in his hand, listening intently. “You’re meeting his hacker.”
“Hacker?” Tony repeats with surprise, “I thought he was a painter-“
“The Spider’s security is air-tight, Tony. You’ll meet with his hacker, and they’ll look into you completely. They’ll know everything. And then The Spider decides if he wants to meet you.”
Tony half scoffs, “no one could know everything-“
“They’ll know enough.” She promises. “If this is part of a bigger con, Tony, I’d watch your back. Deal honestly with him.”
“I’m planning on it,” he mutters, a little offended by the notion that he takes everyone for a ride. “I am capable of being honest.”
“Then you should be fine.”
“How should I dress? What’s the hacker like?”
“How should I know?”
“I need something, Nat, come on! Are they geek-chic, or more ‘I live in my parent’s basement’ and-“
She hangs up, and amidst a crowd of people, she disappears.
Tony goes for geek-chic, just because he doesn’t want to pass up the chance to wear his new navy blue blazer.
* The girl standing in Central Park on Tuesday the 17th reminds him of the Statue of Liberty. She holds herself beautifully, slightly intimidating, and despite the fact he’s taller than her, she towers over him with a dignity he wasn’t expecting.
He was right about Geek Chic though, sort of.
The girl has dark skin and bright eyes, and she’s wearing Nikes and denim shorts and a long-sleeved crop-top that says Lakers on it.
She looks like a millennial, and the clearly jail-broken iphone in her hand and the silver memory-stick necklace hanging down her front, is a clear sign that says hacker.
He’s a little grateful for it. On first glance, he might have thought she was a regular teenager.
Might. He can read people. And her smile is more of a smirk, and it’s very knowledgable. He saunters up anyway, and flashes her his best smile.
She has perfectly shaped eyebrows, and she takes his hand firmly. “I’m Shuri,” she greets, and she waits a beat. He doesn’t speak, waiting for more, and she laughs. “And that’s your cue to give me whichever name you’d like to use. You have many. Or should I just pick my favourite? Mr Potts?”
“Tony is fine.” He bites out, reluctantly impressed, she must have an FBI-level hacking system. She turns on her trainer-clad heel and heads towards an ice-cream truck parked just beside the park.
He has no choice but to follow and wait in the sunshine as she pays for a 99c with two flakes, and munches on them happily. She’s in no rush, and she’s remarkably unstressed, and Tony tries to learn everything he can about her.
She’s not too spoilt for cash, that much is evident. She’s got good tech on her hands, and she’s been eating well- her skin and her hair have a healthy sort of glow- and her breath had smelt of the expensive coffee you can only get from the cafe down on fifth.
Plus, the shoes and shirt are brand names and very new.
And if she’s this age, then The Spider must be young too. (People don’t like contacts too much younger than they are). That just makes Tony even more curious.
“How old are you?” He asks, when she reaches the cone and still hasn’t spoken.
She grins at him, enjoying her power. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I’m being interviewed by a child.”
She flips the bird at him and it’s so out of the blue that he can’t help but laugh. “A child? You’re only twenty-five. I’m twenty. Five years makes you better than me?”
Fair point. “Well, how does this work? You know about me, now what?”
“I just wanted to see you,” she says mysteriously, devouring the cone in three bites. She smacks her lips together happily. “Get the vibe, you know? Put a remote tracker into your bloodstream.”
Tony jerks his hand to his face and examines his wrist.
Her firm hand shape has left a little syringe-mark.
“It’s only nanotech.” She remarks, unperturbed, as Tony tries his best not to pout and rub his arm. “It’ll stay in your blood for about a week. I’ll be monitoring where you go.”
“This is a lot of security.” Tony murmurs, feeling excited again. It’s not often he’s allowed to operate on this high a level with people so clearly able. “The Spider must not want anything to happen. Why’s he so paranoid?”
“You can ask him yourself.” Shuri nods, and Tony grins widely. “I’m gonna text you a link to an app. Download it onto your phone. When you’ve got the piece, write P on the app. I’ll respond with an address. You’ll have five seconds to memorise it before it deletes. Go there, meet the Spider, give him the painting, and in three days, send a friend with a clean record to come back and collect.”
The words roll off her tongue quickly, fluently, but not rehearsed, More like she’s said this before, quite a few times to other conmen.
Tony tries to wrap his head around all the information. One, she already has his number, which is…well, fine. Two, that apparently the Spider can reproduce a Degas in three days, Three, Tony has to leave the painting alone with him for three days, and four, the issue of payment.
“I want security on the piece.” He says, and Shuri half-shrugs.
“He’s not going to steal it.”
“I’m sure you can understand why I don’t take your word for it.”
She casts her steely gaze over him. “We have 100% customer satisfaction.”
“Security.”
“Trust me, after you meet him, you won’t worry about security. But, if you must, you can put a tracker on the piece, or you can have a person of your choice standing by the piece for the whole three days. If this person interferers in the Spider’s process in anyway, we reserve the right to seek compensation. And when I say seek, we mean take.”
He wants to ask if she’s ever studied law, because she could make a brilliant lawyer. And they need a few more lawyers on their side. Instead, he nods. He has a few favours he could call in, but he doesn’t want to trust anyone. He’ll stand by the painting himself. “And payment?”
“We trust that you’ll pay.” She hums lightly, wiping her hands on her thighs. “I know everything about you, Tony, it won’t be hard to make your life difficult if you decide to con us.”
He’s escaped the mafia, the FBI, MI5, Interpol and some of the most dangerous criminals and highest ranking investigators in the world, but this twenty year old in Nike trainers makes him feel like he probably couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes.
If this is the new face of crime, Tony’s a little glad he’s about to retire.
*
Tony tries not to expect or predict things from people he doesn’t know.
He makes educated guesses, informed and calculated risks sometimes, when he has to, but of all the things and of all the places he would have guessed the Spider lived, this is not where.
He stands at the foot of The Ansonia building on the Upper West Side of New York, and hovers there slightly in awe. 74th street is embedded with quaint shops and luxury department stores, antique cars and designer bred-dogs and even the trash cans look like they’re made of crystal.
The Spider lives here- in this building, in this luxury building, on the top floor- the 18th floor, and Tony just shakes his head and doesn’t know what to expect.
The doorman is wearing a green coat with gold buttons and nods at him with an old face that does not look surprised. “Good evening, Sir,” he says politely into the night air, as he opens the door for Tony to get in.
Tony smiles as charmingly as he can. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
“Very mild, Sir.”
“Exactly.” Tony nods, pressing the button on the elevator and slipping right in.
Everything in this building is finished with gold trim and bronze accents. He admires his own reflection on the ride up- the tuxedo makes him look very dapper indeed, complete with bow tie, he looks well-groomed and exceptionally attractive.
He’s robbed a state of the art museum tonight, and no one would ever know.
You never suspect the guy in a tuxedo, the one who’s having slightly too good a time, a little tipsy as he staggers over to his car.
Of course, Tony wasn’t drunk. And it wasn’t his car. But it was a very nice car, and it had done the job, and now here he is, with the painting, on the way up to meet The Spider.
He hasn’t been this excited in a while.
The robbery had gone off without a hitch, and now he has a week before the museum re-opens. But The Spider only needs three days, so Tony should be able to get back in, put the forgery in place, and leave the country with his happy ending.
Bliss is in sight, and the seas look calm.
He holds the canvas bag tightly, even as he fixes his collar. It’s a fairly big canvas, and it can be difficult to distract from it, but the porter had barely looked at him, and he’d made sure to smile and wink at people on the street.
A little bit of flattery and a handsome jawline can make people a little fuzzy on the details.
He steps off the elevator onto marble tiles, and he has to resist the urge to wolf-whistle.
He’d wolf-whistled a lot, back when he was eighteen and fresh to the city. He’d been trained out of it quickly, but there’s some of that boy still left inside him. Mischievous and looking for a good time.
He reaches the heavy oak door with gold lettering 2001 above it and knocks, taking a deep breath, and preparing himself for absolutely anything.
He gets the wind punched right out of him when the door swings open.
Framed by the doorway, and the soft gold light from inside the apartment spilling out all around him, is quite easily the most beautiful boy Tony has ever seen in his entire life.
And he lives in New York. He’s been here during fashion week- Tony has seen his fair share of gorgeous people-
“It’s been a while,” the boy beams- Jesus- his eyes are like honey- like the sunlight as it spills onto warm brown roots in the middle of an enchanted forest- “I’ve missed you,”
Tony has to be lurched into gear, when he notices another resident entering their apartment across the hall. He nods, finding his throat clogged, and lets out a strangled: “I’ve missed you too.”
The boy smiles, and gestures him in.
Tony can’t look away. He can’t pull his eyes away enough to scan the apartment like he knows he should. He can’t look anywhere but the boy. He’s got fluffy chestnut curls toppling into his forehead, each lock absolutely perfect, and he’s wearing silk black sleep shorts that hug his thighs just- just brilliantly, and an over-sized lavender sweater that hangs over one shoulder.
He’s got freckles and dimples and a twinkle in his eye and-
“Can I offer you anything?” The boy asks, and Tony shakes his head and tries to get himself together. “Tea? Shuri told me you enjoyed wine, I think I have a few bottles, but you should probably browse them yourself,” he giggles, and it’s a beautiful sound Tony wants to wrap himself up in. “They’re mostly gifts, but I’m sure there are a few good bottles.” He stage whispers: “I don’t know anything about wine.”
Tony’s in love.
That snaps him out of it. The thought wrenches him right out of his daydream and sends him careening back into reality. “Tea would be much appreciated,” he manages, (wine does not clear your head) and follows the boy into the kitchen.
This is the Spider. He’s- he’s- well, he looks about Shuri’s age, like Tony thought, but…nothing else.
He’s absolutely sublime. And the apartment- it’s huge, a huge penthouse surely over 5000 square feet. It has a balcony that looks out over New York, it’s decorated with accents of rose gold and pastels, and it’s luxury if Tony’s ever seen it. There are designer throw cushions and rare fur rugs and from what he spies of the living room- a bookcase absolutely teeming with first editions.
In the kitchen, the wine rack is nothing to sniff at. A good, niche collection. Though there aren’t many bottles, each one is worth at least $10,000. And they were gifts. Tony wonders who the hell this boy has as friends. He must be forging paintings at a hell of a rate, to be twenty years old and already here.
“I’m Peter, by the way, Tony.” the boy says warmly, and Tony takes a seat at the kitchen counter, watching as Peter moves a teapot onto the stove. Warm is a good word for him. He seems very warm. He looks comforting and homey and his eyes are inviting and his hair looks impossibly soft to the touch. “I didn’t realise you’d get the painting tonight, so my apologies for…” he gestures to the way he’s dressed, and smiles bashfully. “I was taking a nap.”
“Please don’t apologise,” Tony whispers, eyes dragging without his consent over Peter’s delicate frame. “You look beautiful.” So beautiful and he’s only just woken up. Tony thinks he might faint if he saw the boy when he was making an effort.
Peter’s skin, cream as a canvas, starts to blossom pink.
“That’s very- thank you,” he blushes, busying himself with two mugs. “You look- very handsome too, I like the tux-“ he breaks out into more blushing when Tony winks and hurriedly looks away.
Tony looks around again (though he does take a moment to appreciate that gorgeous, gorgeous ass fuck, two perfect handfuls) to glean as much as he can. He still has the painting in it’s canvas bag sitting by his feet, but he sees a shopping list on the fridge with cosy looking fridge magnets, and-
His eye is drawn back to Peter, at the bare skin of his shoulder, where he can see stained pink; a tattoo, of a rose, he thinks.
Goddamn, this is unreal.
“I didn’t expect you to have…” he shakes his head, smiling when Peter sets the tea down in front fo him and joins him. “This apartment is just very…”
Peter ducks his head bashfully. “Art restoration does pay almost obscenely well when you work privately. Plus, I come from old money, so don’t be impressed,” he insists softly, and Tony can’t look away from those eyes.
He can’t help but laugh, though. “Art restoration?” He lets out, “that’s what you call your line of work?”
Peter looks confused. “I’m an art restorer,” he says, and Tony can tell that every inch of the boy is telling the truth.
“You’re an art restorer- and you can afford this place,” Tony gapes, “then why are you even-“
“Oh,” Peter laughs, taking a sip of his tea. It smells of honey and lemon. “I just do that for fun, really. I think art should be shared, so I don’t mind making copies. It’s fun, it’s really good training.”
“And the money…”
“I give that all the charity.” Peter cocks his head a little, “Shuri was supposed to tell you all of this. Didn’t she explain?”
Tony shakes his head in amazement. “I think she’s a lot more protective of you than you think, Peter. So, you’re telling me you copy the paintings for fun?”
Peter stands from the table and rolls his eyes. “Not just fun. Also training. More importantly though, art should be worshipped. I want everyone to have a Van Gogh to hang in their dining room, to see every day! I want people to talk about paintings again, it shouldn’t have to be something you go and see once on a school trip, it should be a part of your everyday life,” he beckons for Tony to follow. “I’ll show you my gallery, bring your painting, you’ll see.”
Tony does, gulping his tea down in one go. It burns his throat on the way down, and it just reminds him that no, he’s not dreaming.
Peter’s apartment is huge and beautiful, and when they walk through to his workshop, Tony’s breath is taken away.
There are easels everywhere, all with paintings at different forms of life. Finished ones are on the wall, and there are pots of paintbrushes everywhere, chalk and charcoal and an entire wall with an intricate shelf system of paints. There have to be over a thousand bottles.
Peter motions to a fresh easel, and Tony hurries over, unzipping the bag and setting the Degas on the stand.
Peter makes a sound that’s pure sex. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out a finger like he wants to touch before quickly pulling back. “Blue Dancers. You see these pastels? It looks like a traditional sketch, like a character study as she moves- every figure is her, you know? At different stages, just…” he shakes his head helplessly, “it’s beautiful.”
Tony can only see Peter. The painting pales in comparison. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely, “it really is.”
He can’t believe this is happening. Of all the things, of all the ways he’s expected his night to go, this isn’t how he talks to people. Not people in his line of work. They speak in code, they vaguely threaten and intimidate, but they don’t share their passion of art, or donate all the money to charity, or have a heart so pure that all they want to do is to make sure everyone has art in their life.
“You know what I do, right?” He croaks, and Peter pulls his eyes away from the painting reluctantly, to nod.
“Shuri told me, Tony, don’t worry. I have no interest in turning you in. I thought what you did with the diamond was really very clever. Shuri tells me that it’s almost impossible to make a synthetic pink of that size.”
“I had to use a radiation machine,” he murmurs, puffing out his chest a little, and Peter grins.
“See? That’s a kind of art there. Same with the forged bank notes, it’s all just art and finesse.”
Tony looks at the other paintings. He can see a few other forgeries in the making- can see one or two that are probably being restored for legitimate, private owners.
“I have to admit,” Tony whispers, wandering around the studio, “this is a perfect set up. A legitimate job, a legitimate salary- having Shuri check everyone out- not using the money for yourself- you’ve got it figured out.”
“I’m quite the criminal,” Peter teases, rolling his eyes.
“I’m serious,” Tony insists, “the crimes that are the hardest to solve are the ones that don’t have a motive. No FBI agent would ever think your motive was sharing art.” He’s a little jealous, if he’s honest. But then again, he’s never had a legitimate job. Or at least one he acquired legitimately.
“Why do you commit your crimes?” The bambi-eyed boy asks, as he studies the painting. He pulls a mobile light from overhead and shines it at the canvas at different angles.
Tony sits on one of the stools, watching him, and lets out a breath. “I don’t know.” He begins, raking his fingers through his hair, “To prove I can. Money. This is my final heist.”
“The perfect score,” Peter nods, “I get it. I hope I don’t let you down.”
Tony looks at the calibre of the other paintings that surrounds him and shakes his head. “I doubt that’s possible.”
Peter blushes again, the light making his lashes look even longer as they cast shadows against his cheek. “The problem with Degas is that he was losing his eye-sight towards this period, so he only painted during certain hours- that’ll affect the way the paint sits. And of course, prussian blue didn’t exist as a shade, so I’ll have to make my own. I have an oven at the studio at work I can use to crack the paint- make it consistent with the period,” he stops to explain, and even though Tony already knows, he doesn’t want Peter to stop talking. “Paint starts to crack as it ages, and this is over a century old, we’ll need to induce it. If I use pure pigment and follow the light schedule, I…” he shakes his head, looking awed, “it’s amazing to copy from the original like this. I don’t always have the chance, a lot of the time, I have to work from a photo, but that loses texture so…” he gives Tony a grateful look and Tony thinks he’d do anything to keep that gaze on him just like that. “I should be able to get you one that fooled even Degas himself.”
“You are a saint,” Tony whispers, and he knows now, what Shuri meant. He doesn’t think the painting could be safer with anyone else.
And unless Peter’s the best liar he’s ever seen before, he trusts him. There’s an earnest transparency, a warmth, that Tony’s never seen. Not on someone so talented. So wealthy.
After another cup of tea, and watching Peter outline a few drafts, Tony finds himself talking. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. (Tip for conmen, get them to talk about themselves. Deflect. Always deflect) But Peter’s sweet and non-judgemental and Tony feels something inside him unfurl as he confesses over darjeeling that he’s worried about being lonely on an island in the Mediterranean.
Peter’s fingers get stained with pencil, and he rubs his chin and accidentally leaves marks all over his face that Tony wants to kiss. Peter never looks shocked or frowns at any of Tony’s stories- at how the friends he’s made have drifted, at the crimes he’s committed- Peter just nods and sketches and then, after a long while, when it’s nearing three am, and Tony’s eyelids are starting to droop, Peter gets up and puts his pencils away.
“You know why you’re lonely, don’t you, Tony?” Peter asks, washing his hands.
“Why’s that, sweetheart?” Tony drawls, fingers curled around the mug. It says follow your dreams in swirly pink script on a cloud on the side.
“Because you’ve been putting on a front for so long, you’re all front. You can’t just be charm and charisma, you need some substance. A little bit of human. Messy and wrong, sometimes, but human.” Peter looks thoughtful, and he comes to stand before Tony, and takes the mug from his hands gently. This close, Tony can smell the floral scent of Peter’s laundry detergent. Peter looks up at him through his lovely eyelashes and says barely above a whisper: “I think I’d find your human side kinda lovely.”
Tony wants to lean down and kiss, and he does move, just a little, before Peter’s lets out a little surprised hitch and Tony thinks no.
Because he can read people, and he can read situations. And he knows a kiss now will just ruin things for the long run.
And Tony wants a long run.
So he clears his throat, and Peter pulls away with dazed-eyes, “I’ll um- leave you to it.” Tony murmurs, and Peter nods- curls bouncing.
New York is never silent, not even in the dead of night, but as Tony hot wires a different car and thinks of Peter, he doesn’t hear a thing.
He does smile though, a lot. Not to win anyone over, but just because he’s happy.
*
He goes back the next day with flowers.
It’s the most expensive bouquet he could find, but that’s not why he picked it. It’s because it’s filled with pink roses, like the one on Peter’s shoulder, and wildflowers and lavender just like his sweater. Because there are dandelions and foxgloves spilling over the white paper and even when Tony sniffs it, it doesn’t smell as good as Peter.
The doorman nods at him when he opens the door. “Good choice, Sir.” He says quietly, and Tony grins and pats him on the back.
When Peter opens the door, he looks surprised- then delighted- and Tony holds out the bouquet for him.
“As a thank you,” he explains, and watches as Peter buries his face in the flowers and inhales.
“It’s lovely,” Peter beams, gesturing him in.
It’s clear Peter’s been painting. He’s a vision of beauty again, in floral shorts that cut off tantalisingly high on his thigh, and an over-sized dress shirt. It’s undone at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves and completely covered in paint. Everything he owns is such quality- 100% cotton and silk and no doubt expensive. There are hues of blue all across his forearms.
“I was working on your piece, go through and have a look! I’ll just go put these in a vase.”
Tony nods, even though there’s a little smudge of yellow paint on Peter’s cheek and all he wants to do is brush his thumb across it.
He goes through to the studio, and there on the easel, is his canvas.
Or rather, Peter’s copy. The canvas is 3/4s of the way filled, and he shakes his head in amazement as he comes closer and looks between Peter’s and the original. The boy’s a genius. The three ballerinas are exactly the same- and Peter’s palette is laid on the table- a dozen shades of periwinkle, and paintbrushes galore all handpicked and to the ready.
Sunlight is streaming in through the window and Tony inhales the sharp smell of paint and knows he’ll always associate the two things with Peter.
“It’s rare to find dandelions in a bouquet,” Peter beams, coming in with a gorgeous vase and the flowers bursting within it. He sets it on a table in the sunshine, and turns his warm gaze on Tony. “You really didn’t have to buy me anything, but it’s so sweet you did.”
“Let me take you out to dinner,” Tony blurts, because he’s all torn up inside. He wants to reform for Peter, but he also wants to rob the highest security bank in the world to impress him. He wants to spend time picking him dandelions, but also wants to put a necklace worth more than this apartment around his dainty neck.
Peter blushes and his eyes slide away. “Tony,” he begins apologetically, and Tony’s heart sinks, “you seem…too good to be true, and Shuri told me that’s how you always seem. You lie for a living, and- I’m not sure what you want from me. If I’m part of a con. I don’t know you, Tony. I’m not sure anyone does.”
“You can trust me,” Tony insists, a touch desperately, “i would never hurt you.”
Peter gives him sad half-smile, “Tony, it’s your job to be convincing.”
Peter’s right, of course. Lying is second nature, but Tony hasn’t lied with him. Not once. He’s been more open than he’s been with anyone, but Peter doesn’t know that. They feel like opposites here, in this moment, Peter in his white, paint-stained cotton shirt, honesty in every earnest word and gentle touch, and Tony in his black t-shirt and dark tailored pants, his front bolted into place, his mask on his face even as he tries to remove it.
“Please don’t look so sad,” Peter whimpers, coming over and kissing Tony’s cheek. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying not now.”
If not now, when? Tony thinks, but he nods. “Tell me about yourself, Peter.” He says, as Peter settles back in front of the canvas. “I did all the talking last night.”
“Yes, but you have a very nice voice.” Peter teases, “you could do audiobooks.”
“An honest profession indeed,” Tony chuckles.
Peter was raised in France, in Toulouse, and is self-trained in art. His parents died when he was young, but he loves his Aunt more than anything. He’s bought her a villa in Paris where she makes her own wine (that explains the eclectic mix in Peter’s wine rack). He’d moved to New York four years ago, when he was sixteen, and life has treated him kindly. “I think it’s more luck than anything else,” Peter confesses, using his fan brush to shape the tutus in a burgundy-blue. “Things just fell into place.”
“Yeah they do that,” Tony grins, “especially around people who are hard-working, talented and kind.”
Peter laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not all great. This building doesn’t allow cats, so…”
“A complete travesty.”
“Exactly. I knew you’d understand.”
They have brunch out on the deck. Peter, as it turns out, can’t cook to save his life, but Tony’s been a chef in a few Michelin star restaurants over his life, so he whips them up a Spanish omelette and they drink it with coffee while looking out over New York.
“How’d you even get into this business?” He asks, staring at the enigma that is Peter Parker.
“Accidentally, really.” He admits. “I was so silly. I was painting a Hoefnagels for class, it’s a lovely 1598 piece- and I was doing some finishing touches in the park before it was due, and a guy offered me money for it.” Peter shakes his head in amazement, like he still can’t believe someone was willing to pay for his work.
Tony wants to wrap him up and shower him with praise.
“And I was so flattered, that i jut gave it to him. Little did I know, of course, that he was planning on selling it on as the original. It was a spider painting, and then I was just known as The Spider. It got so out of hand, people started approaching me out of the blue with a terrible amount of money, and I couldn’t refuse it, because Shuri runs this amazing charity to help fund educational services in countries without the proper school-structure, so I started giving it to her. Of course, she asked where I was getting it and then she insisted I be more protected, and she’s always been good with computers so-“
“Amazing,” Tony breathes, staring at Peter as the New York skyline frames him. “Wherever you go, Peter Parker, amazement follows.”
“Well,” Peter teases, “I’m certainly not as suave as you. Put me in a three piece suit, and I become a stammering mess, that’s for sure. I like it much better here, with my books and my paints and Netflix. Have you ever seen the Good Witch?”
Tony shakes his head, and listens to Peter talk about it. It sounds ludicrously wholesome, just like him.
It’s weird, a creeping sort of feeling, knowing that here over omelettes and black coffee, on an old New York terrace on a bright and sunny morning, with this boy here, feels like more of a happy ending than any island in the Mediterranean could ever feel.
The final heist, the last con, the only crime left- it pales in comparison to Peter’s warm eyes and the way he talks with his hands and looks at Tony like there’s something there.
Something to be loved.
* Tony’s admiring himself in a mirror of a department store when Agent Peggy Carter taps him on the shoulder. He turns, winks at her, and shows off the shirt. “What do you think?” He asks smoothly, “too garish? I’m trying to impress a sweet young thing.”
She doesn’t smile, but her lips do twitch a little. “Stark.” She warns, before pulling a notepad out of her grey blazer. She pulls off the pantsuit very well. “Where were you last night?”
“Why?” He winks, “did you miss me? You know you can always call.” He gestures to one of the attendants and pats his shirt affectionately. “I’ll take it. I want to wear it out of the store.”
“Not a problem!” The attendant chirps, flitting away, and Tony turns to Peggy with a smile.
“I was at a restaurant. Dining alone, I’m afraid. But I’m sure the restaurant staff will vouch for me,” he shrugs, flashing her a winning smile, “I’m pretty hard to forget. It’s this gorgeous face. A curse and a blessing.”
Peggy rolls her eyes. “You were there the whole night? What restaurant?”
“Oh, I can’t remember. One down near that lovely bakery on fourth.” (When you’re telling the truth, make it sounds like a lie.) He was at a restaurant last night- he was alone, and there are people who will vouch for him. The Restaurant was the Dorsia, and he’d gone for some time to think- and show off his newest suit- but she doesn’t need to know that it definitely wasn’t him. Feds like investigating and moving on by their own accord. Besides, Tony doesn’t know what the crime was yet. If it was something tasty, it might do well for a few other street criminals to think he’s the one that’s done it.
It’s very good for business.
Or- it was. It doesn’t need to be anymore. Since there’s only one more heist. One more crime.
“I’ll check it out.” She promises, though it sounds like a threat, flipping her notebook closed and tucking it away. “And while I do that- I don’t suppose you’ve come across the Wittelsbach Diamond in your travels?”
He gives her a blank look.
She snorts. “C’mon, Stark, cut the crap. It’s a diamond about yea-big,” she holds open her hand, “-vibrant pink. You were accused of stealing it just a few-“
“I think you’ll find that I was innocent, Peggy darling,”
She shakes her head. “I know you took it. Just like the Handberg Manuscripts.”
“Hm,” Tony nods, “that’s fine. I have a hard time admitting when I’m wrong too. We have that in common.”
She sighs. “Stay on the straight and narrow, Stark. At least for a while.”
He gives her a two-fingered salute and a wave. “Will do, Peggy-sue.”
Her laugh feels like success.
(Is it because he pulled one over on her? Or because he likes making people happy? Does he care too much? More than he thought?)
* Peter’s forgery is the best Tony’s ever seen. Which, of course, is exactly why he wanted him.
It passes the microscopic analysis, the craquelure is perfection. The frame and the wood light show up brilliantly, the infra-red shows the underlying grid and the IR spectroscopic analysis shows the pigments as pure, and coming from the right time. The cracks are consistent with the time period- the fading towards the bottom consistent with Degas’ decreasing eyesight, and Tony can only pull away, setting down his microscopic lens, and whistle in amazement.
“Jesus, Peter,” he breathes, “this is…” he doesn’t have the words. “It’s the best damn forgery I’ve ever seen. An imitation from the gods.”
Peter’s eyes are smiling, but he bristles a little. “Not an imitation, Tony, a pastiche. To copy is to flatter. That’s all I want to do to these paintings.”
He nods, feeling giddy with triumph. “You are a treasure, Peter Parker. The seedy underworld does not deserve you.”
The boy laughs at that. He’s come from work today, and it’s the first time Tony’s seen him in non-casual. The button up shirt is dark purple- silk- and is tucked neatly into tight black jeans. Designer. Tony wants to ravish him.
But it’s over. Their business is complete.
He reaches for his canvas bag and Peter’s painting, before a lily-white hand clutches his wrist.
“Tony,” Peter says, eyes wide, “if mine and the original are so indistinguishable- even to experts and scientists- then why not just sell the forgery? Return the original, and sell mine. That way- if by some miracle critics manage to catch the forgery- it’s less of a crime than stealing a Degas.”
The two paintings are identical. Practically identical.
But science is always improving, Peter’s right. New equipment is always being made and methods always being tested.
But with replacing the painting- it’ll avoid a genuine test for years. And Tony will have successfully stolen and sold a genuine Degas. And who knows how long it would be before anyone even caught Peter’s forgery?
He shakes his head. “I’m sticking with my plan.”
Peter releases him, and nods. “I was only suggesting. Either way, art is being appreciated so…” he smiles with his dimples, “whatever makes you happy.”
Happy is the bliss beyond the horizon, after he makes the switch and Nat sells the painting.
Happy is-
“Come with me,” he pleads, swallowing hard, “to wherever I go. I know- you met me three days ago- but- I’ll buy us an island, Peter, you could paint and read and we could…”
“Retire at twenty,” Peter muses around a teary laugh, “oh Tony. That’s not what I want. I want a wedding, and friends, and to skirt the line of the law, but mostly be on it’s good side. Not running from something forever. I like my job, I like New York, I don’t have anything to run away from.”
“No, no,” Tony frowns, shaking his head insistently, “I’m not running away from anything, this is just my final heist.”
“You’re running away from something, Tony,” Peter murmurs, going onto his tiptoes to kiss the corner fo Tony’s mouth. He smells of dandelions. “One day maybe you’ll stop. If you do, I’ll be here. Probably still trying to convince the building to let me have a cat.”
Tony leaves the Ansonia, but leaves an important part of himself behind.
* He’s sitting in his storage unit at the edge of the city, drinking a stolen bottle of wine, surrounded by all his treasure.
He feels like a very lonely dragon. Eons old.
He’s surrounded by paintings, and goblets and treasures from museums. Diamonds and bonds and counterfeit money and deeds. Stolen u-boat treasure and Nazi-claimed portraits, and historical artefacts that he had to do some pretty shady things to get.
There’s a clatter on the roof, but Tony doesn’t flinch, he just sips at the wine and watches as Natasha makes her way in.
She gasps at all the treasure. She looks around, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement as much as she tries to hide it. “You have the Handburg manuscripts?” She whispers, reaching out to touch a scroll, “I thought that was a rumour…”
He shrugs, hoping the tears on his cheeks have dried. “Yeah, i got them a few years back.”
“How..?”
“Carrier pigeons.”
“Jesus, Tony, you’re…you’re the best. There’s gotta be millions of dollars worth of stuff here.” She stops when her eyes land on the two Degas. “Wow. The Spider is…wow.” She looks at both of them, squinting hard, “which one is…?”
“The one on the left is real,” he lies, just to see if she can catch it.
“Wow.” She murmurs, “it’s-“ she turns to him sharply, as if she’s taking in him and not the treasure for the first time since she got here. “Oh god.” She whispers, and he lifts the glass to her in a mock toast. “You’re going to turn yourself in.”
He knows, but hearing her say it is pretty awful.
“Tony, why?”
“There are two endings for someone who’s running, Nat, do you know what they are?”
She says nothing.
“Either they get caught, or they keep running. Running forever.” He downs the rest of the wine. It’s disgusting. “But I can give myself a third option. Turn myself in.”
“They won’t catch you,” she pleads, “they’d never be able to catch you, Tony.”
“You’ve been a good friend to me, Nat,” he murmurs, mind made up. He gestures to the two paintings. “Pick whichever one you want. it’s yours. Free of charge.”
Her jaw drops, but she’s smarter than to try and change his mind when it’s so in her favour.
Like he thought, she picks the “real” one. She tucks Peter’s copy into her bag and heads for the door- pausing only once to look at him.
“You were the best.” She says; pityingly. “But I’ll have your back, Tony.”
In the morning, he takes the Degas into the FBI headquarters, and confesses to stealing it.
* Tony Stark, the FBI’s newest criminal consultant. Exchanging prison time for expert help on White Collar crimes.
Peggy’s the one who makes it all happen. She’s also his handler. She’s the one who puts the un-tamperable tracking anklet on his leg, and looks at him like she’s proud. “Working for the FBI is gonna change you,” she says; pleased, and Tony laughs and fixes his suit. “Remember, this thing’ll go off if you step outside your two mile radius.”
“Fine by me,” Tony assures, because there’s only one place he cares about going.
* It’s weird to think about the fact that retirement is a 9 to 5 job working for the FBI.
But it’s bliss if Tony ever dreamed of it.
Breakfast and lazy morning sex with Peter on the balcony, giving their neighbours a bit of a show, then into work with Peggy to catch jewel thieves and forgers (his criminal alliases come in very, very handy). He comes home to see Peter painting, and he sweeps him off his feet and makes him dinner.
He and Peter work on some of the cases after hours, and if Tony ever comes across a forged painting and Peter blushes-
He always assures Peggy that it’s an original.
And he still gets to dress up. Whenever he goes undercover, or whenever an art gallery opens. He feels much more dapper, with Peter at his side. Everyone comments on what a beautiful couple they are, and Peter goes all pink, but Tony just smirks and slides an arm around his waist and agrees.
He buys Peter a bouquet every week, and Peter reacts just the same every time.
Shuri helps Tony whenever a case needs a tech-whiz, and whenever Peggy asks how he managed to get it done, Tony just wiggles his fingers and says: “I’m a man with many talents.”
He still has his storage unit of treasure, moved of course, because Natasha can’t be fully trusted-
And sometimes Peggy looks at him, like she’s still not totally convinced he won’t disappear off the face of the earth, but then other times- more often lately, she looks at him like he’s her friend.
He likes that look more.
Over cheap take out on a stake out, she asks him point blank: “Do you have the Handberg manuscripts? I could never figure than one out.”
“Hypothetically,” he grins, because he’s still the kid from LA with a pack of cards, “if I did have it, I might have used carrier pigeons.”
She exhales and smiles wryly. “I’ll never be able prove you have them, will I? Or the Wittelsbach Diamond, or the dozens of other things I’m sure you’ve stolen.”
“The only thing I’ve ever stolen,” he recites, “is a Degas, which I promptly returned after being consumed with guilt. A judge can only be forgiving in a situation like that.”
“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes and steals a spring roll, “we still caught you.”
“Actually, I turned myself in.” He says, the beginning line of a familiar argument.
* On a sunny afternoon in June, at an art museum that he and Peter have broken into in the dead of night (though New York is never really dead) Tony gets down on one knee.
Peter starts crying, and Tony just kisses his fingers and slides the ring onto it.
And that’s when Peter sees the diamond.
It’s pink and-
“Tony no,” Peter gasps, staring at it, “you haven’t. You haven’t cut off a piece of the Wittelsba-“
“I finally found something to do with it,” he grins, kissing his fiancé on the nose.
Peter shakes his head, still crying tears of joy, but looking aghast all the same. “But that- damaging it lowers the price, Tony! That was worth millions and-“
“And now,” he rubs his thumb over the ring on Peter’s finger, “it’s absolutely priceless.”
Peter has sex with him right then and there, rides him under a Van Gogh and an Afremov.
Shuri has to go in and delete the footage, and Tony treats her to dinner to say thank you.
* The storage unit of treasure- treasure too hot to sell, that Tony stole to prove he could steal, hoarding in the promise that one day he’d use it all for his happy ending-
He has his happy ending, and the treasure has a purpose now.
He gives it away.
He gives Peter’s Aunt May a bottle of wine for Christmas. She’ll never know how much it’s really worth, but she’ll enjoy it, and that’s what matters. He and Peter donate a few pieces to museums and charity shops.
He sends Clint a diamond necklace, Harley a chest full of antique gold coins, Pepper an original set of Mongolian daggers and Maria some newly minted holographic strips for the Canadian hundred dollar bill.
He also leaves the Handberg Manuscripts on Peggy’s desk one morning, and she stares at them, and starts to cry.
“That’s weird,” Tony comments, offering her some tissue, “maybe whoever took them decided that you should finally get to close the case.”
“You’re an idiot, Tony,” she hiccups, hugging him tight.
He doesn’t miss any of it.
The treasure that matters most, after all, is the one he comes home to every night. Speckled with paint and cat hair (Tony is an excellent persuasive speaker) and always ready with a kiss.
“Want to know the best thing I ever stole?” Tony asks, over waffles in bed as they watch The Good Witch on Netflix.
“Ooh, what’s that?” Peter says excitedly, chocolate all around his mouth.
“Your heart,” Tony grins, reaching over to kiss his husband on the lips.