Peter: (sitting on the lake dock, legs swaying by the water)
Tony: There you are. Thought I saw a Spiderling moping here.
Peter: (pouts)
Peter: I'm not a ling. I'm a Man. Spider-Man.
Tony: (snorts and sits beside him)
Peter: (hears Tony's bones cracking at the sudden movement and looks worriedly at his mentor)
Tony: Gosh. I see my age is catching up with the grey hairs you gave me. Come on, kid, lend your old man a hand.
Peter: (hurries to help Tony settle in a comfortable position)
Tony: (sighs in relief, finally sitting relaxed)
Peter: (avoids his mentor's gaze)
Tony: So, care to tell me what's that about? I've never seen you ran so fast and that's considering the time you were about to meet Brucie Bear.
Peter: (mumbles incoherently)
Tony: (leans closer, a hand on his ear in teasing)
Tony: What was that?
Peter: (sighs bitterly)
Tony:
Peter: I'm not your blood.
Tony: (with widening eyes)
Tony: So?
Peter: I don't get it. I'm just... I'm nobody to you. Why would you give me SI?
Tony: Ahh. So this is about that. I should have known.
Peter: (sounding more determined)
Peter: I'm not your blood.
Tony: (silences him with a meaningful stare that ended up in a proud smirk)
Peter:
Tony: (pinched his kid's cheek, earning an indignant cry)
Tony: What does blood have to do with anything? You're my kid, Pete. I don't need biology to tell me what I feel...
Tony: (points at his chest)
Tony: ...right here.
Peter:
Tony:
Tony: You understand?
Peter: (bows his head in shame)
Tony: Peter. Underoos. I said, do you understand?
Peter: (realizing his father figure would never let this go)
Peter: Ye-yes. I understand.
Tony: (smirks and wraps an arm around his heir's shoulder to pull him closer)
Tony: Good. Now, that that's over and dealt with, what's this I hear about you asking Pepper what flowers to buy for Valentines? Should I get ready to be a grandpa? I swear kid, I haven't even reached the golden age, I-
Peter: (tries to pull away but didn't escape from getting his hair ruffled)
Peter: DAD!!!
Rhodey and Happy: (give each other a high five as they film them from behind the trees)
Peter: (shakes his head at his uncles' antics while pretending he couldn't hear them laughing)
Tony: What was that? I thought I heard something.
Peter: (saw Gerald the alpaca approaching behind his uncles)
Would you ever write a fic where Peter is adopted by Happy but still gets to interact with Tony and sees Tony as his uncle?
YESSSSS!!! Absolutely!! I adore Happy and especially his dynamic with Peter, so it would be heaps of fun exploring how their relationship would grow if Happy was the one to adopt him! Also Tony being the eccentric, rich Uncle that Peter just adores would be soooo much fun!
OH GOSH! Can you imagine if Happy adopted Peter and he's trying his best to be a good dad to this awkward teenage boy, only to get super self conscious when Tony waltz in and immediately has a good connection with Peter?? Like BRUH, give me soft Dad Happy trying to prove he's a good dad and feeling like Peter would've preferred Tony adopted him instead, only for Peter to turn to Happy during some tragedy or event and Happy realises that Peter loves and trusts him with all his heart???? FUCK! I love it!!!!
Well, thanks for yet another WIP to add to my list, and I hope you have a great day! XD
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Obadiah Stane & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Ho Yinsen, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe)
Characters: Tony Stark, Obadiah Stane, Ho Yinsen, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Happy Hogan
Additional Tags: Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Kid Tony Stark, Scared Tony Stark, Stane is a jerk, Nightmares, Precious Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Uncle Happy Hogan, Tony Stark Lives, Mirrors
Summary:
Funhouse mirrors are only fun when you don't see monsters staring back at you.
A birthday fic for my friend @seek-rest - I hope you have the best day! Lots of love <3
Five times someone took care of Peter, and one time he took care of himself.
Warning for mild descriptions of sickness and injury. Also here on ao3!
*********
''Oh this sucks this sucks this sucks - OW!''
Happy pauses, tongue clenched between his teeth in concentration, eyes flicking up to meet Peter’s as he turns to look over his shoulder. ''You need a minute?''
''N-no I’m good,'' Peter sighs shakily, a tremor running up his back. ''Just…'' he shakes his head and sighs, lifting his uninjured shoulder as a sign for Happy to continue, ''just go slow.’’
''I am,'' Happy grunts, pulling the thread through delicately with steady hands. He waits before pushing the needle back in, pausing again as Peter hisses through his teeth.
''W-who taught you how to do stitches?'' Peter asks, voice hitching sharply on the last word.
''Taught myself.''
''Oh. That's - ah - that's cool.''
''Using Tony as the guinea pig.''
''What?''
''Don’t sound so surprised,'' Happy says with a short laugh. ''Even before he became Iron Man, he was a walking nightmare. One time I had to stitch his head up in the back of his limo after a woman clouted him with her stiletto.''
Peter’s curious hum leaps into a yelp as the needle slides through again. Happy mumbles an apology and gives Peter a firm pat on the arm, earning an exhausted laugh in return. They stay quiet for a few moments, Happy’s concentrated breathing and Peter’s tense inhales and exhales the only sound in the room, until -
''Do you have any more stories about Mister Stark?''
There’s a knowing tone to Happy’s voice as he replies, ''Not sure I’ve got anything that will top the stiletto one.''
''I’ll take anything,'' Peter growls, digging his fingers into his thighs and bunching the filthy material of his suit at another poke of the needle, ''even a cautionary tale. Or one about security badges, I know you like those - OW!''
*********
Peter doesn’t realise he’s awake until he hears a door open. He hums lazily and turns towards the sound, eyes staying closed under the force of lingering sleepiness. There’s a soft clunk of something being placed onto a table, then a cool hand rests gently against his cheek. He groans appreciatively, nuzzling greedily into the familiar touch.
''May.''
''Hi, baby. How are you feeling?''
''Uh…'' Peter eases his eyes open, giving his fingers an experimental twitch. ''Okay?''
May’s face swims into focus, her smile one of fond amusement. ''You don’t sound so sure, tough guy.''
He’s aware of a strange weight throughout his body, a soft fuzziness that only comes from the use of painkillers.
''...Did I get hurt?''
''Oh, boy, did you.''
Peter tries to think, thoughts washing together sluggishly, focusing on the discomfort in his throat and the clogged feeling in his nose before grasping at a glimmer of a memory. ‘’There was a robbery?’’
‘’Uh huh…’’
‘’...They hit me?’’
To his muzzy confusion, May laughs.
‘’Try knocking yourself out on a parked car before you even reached the scene.’’
Peter’s squawk of surprise morphs into a series of explosive sneezes that leave him shuddering on the bed. There’s a rubbery feeling in his limbs and a scratchy texture to his tongue and when he rubs his nose, mucus streaks unpleasantly across the back of his hand.
May gives him a look and all becomes clear.
''I’m sick, aren’t I?'' he rasps weakly.
''I think you already knew that when you decided to leap out of your bedroom window with a raging fever to go stop a couple of bank robbers.''
Peter glances around, taking in the IV drip attached to his hand, the monitors by the bedside and when he shifts on the mattress, he feels the brush of bandages against the sheet.
''Tony got an alert from your...'' May wrinkles her nose thoughtfully, ''suit robot lady...thing. He found you in a puddle of blood with a gigantic gash on your forehead, a busted knee and skin hot enough to fry eggs on.''
''Oh,'' Peter mutters as he slouches down into his pillows, ''that’s nice.''
''Yeah, I wouldn’t say it was one of your best moments.''
Peter lifts a hand to his forehead to feel for the wound, fingers barely brushing what feels like stitches. He prods at it gently until May takes hold of his wrist and lowers his arm back down.
''How much trouble am I in?'' he asks.
''Oh, plenty,'' May says brightly, giving his hand a squeeze. ''But that’ll keep.''
''Great,'' Peter sighs and closes his eyes, far too tired and sore to worry about that now.
''Want something to make you feel better?''
Peter opens his eyes again to see a tall glass of something pink being held inches in front of his nose, complete with a swirly straw poking out from the top.
''S’that pink lemonade?''
May merely smiles knowingly as she hands him the glass.
''Thank you so much,'' Peter groans and sticks the straw into his mouth to take a long slurp. It's chilly and completely flat, just how he likes it, and coats his tongue with sweetness and washes soothingly against his throat, doing wonders against the itchy soreness.
''I know my boy,'' May says fondly, running a hand carefully through his hair and pressing a kiss to his warm forehead, not too close to the stitches, and Peter suddenly doesn’t feel quite so terrible.
*********
''Dude, I really think you should let me take you to the - ''
''No nurse!'' Peter gasps, his voice rebounding loudly from within the porcelain of the toilet he’s hunched over.
''Peter, I’m pretty sure you’re gonna bring up one of your organs any second now. You’ve been in there for, like, at least twenty minutes. Probably more, actually.''
''M’fine. Just, ah, something I ate - oh man - '' Peter’s words jolt into a hiccup as another rush of hot nausea sweeps over him, making his shoulders hitch under the force of it.
''Oh, sure,'' Ned continues to say loudly as Peter throws up again, ''I bet the mac and cheese we both ate for lunch today is responsible, not that stomach flu that’s been going round the school. You know, Martha Cleary threw up alllll over her desk in - oh right,'' he chuckles sheepishly when Peter violently retches, ''sorry, dude.''
Peter can barely make a coherent noise of acceptance, not that he’s sure Ned’s terrible apology deserves it, as he’s overcome again and again, eventually slumping down with his cheek pressed against the cold, grubby tiles that make up the floor, too exhausted and sick to care about how gross it is.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t recently promised both May and Tony that he felt fine, that the warmth to his skin wasn’t an oncoming fever, that he hadn’t been pushing himself too hard recently with school and patrols and so was more likely to find himself at the mercy of all the winter viruses flying around.
''You can still get sick, kid,'' Tony had warned yesterday afternoon as he watched Peter slouch tiredly in his chair. ''Just because you’re enhanced doesn’t mean you’re immune. Cap learnt that the hard way. Did I ever tell you about The Great Chicken Enchilada Disaster as it’s now known? No? Probably just as well. I’m not sure I’ve even recovered yet and I was only a witness.''
''You’re not indestructible, you know,'' May reminded him as they slurped up a watery soup she had made to try and combat the germs she suspected were thriving within Peter. ''Your body knows what you need better than your head thinks it does. If you feel worse tomorrow, I think you should stay home.''
Despite their concerns, Peter had deemed his headache mild enough and his churning stomach hardly troublesome and made his way to school in the morning, ignoring the way Ned’s face had screwed up in disgusted wariness at his appearance and doing his best to make it through the day.
Then he’d made the mistake of eating lunch and, well, he and the boy’s bathroom have been rather intimate acquaintances in the time that’s followed since his hasty retreat out of the canteen and behind the flimsy security of the cubicle door - a cubicle door which Ned has been loyally propped on the other side of for far too long.
Peter realises then that Ned is still talking, muffled gibberish that doesn’t make it past the pulsing ache that is winding its way through Peter’s body at a steady pace, making his ears throb and his throat burn. He considers falling asleep right here on the floor, content to let whatever will be be if it means he can stop hurling up what feels like the dinners he ate over a week ago, but a hand tugging insistently at his foot from underneath the door pulls him from his defeated reverie.
''Peter? You awake?''
''Mmphgg.''
''...Okaaay, well, I called May but she didn’t pick up, so, uh, I called Happy - ''
Peter’s desire to moan ''Nooo,'' is briskly overwhelmed by the need to throw up once again. He manages to kick his foot a little to show his displeasure at Ned’s decision as he vaults himself back into position.
''Hey! Chill, man, it’s fine, he didn’t answer either.''
Sweet relief comes then and Peter sighs as he leans his forehead against the rim of the toilet. The last thing he needs right now is an overly fussy Happy trying to play nurse. The only thing that would be worse than that is -
''So I called Mister Stark and he said he’d be here in fifteen minutes.''
''Oh, god,'' Peter cries weakly.
''He also said to tell you that he’d pick up some enchiladas on the way, which I don’t really get but - ''
Ned’s words become gibberish once again as Peter’s head disappears back into the toilet with record speed.
*********
The nearby clanging of metal on the ground pulls Peter out of his dozy daze, bringing him back into the real world of grey skies and frigid air. A swift breeze whips around him, sharp and bitter, stinging his rapidly numbing features.
Approaching footsteps startle him and he begins to shuffle back, but a fierce spike of agony from somewhere in his left leg stills him. Tilting his head back with a hitching groan, Peter blinks at the red and gold figure suddenly looming above him, framed prettily by falling swirls of white.
''Hey,'' Peter manages as his vision swims, a darkness seeping in through the edges.
''Nope.'' A strong arm wraps around him as he starts to slump fully backwards. ''No, no passing out, you hear me? Stay awake, kid.''
''Not gonna pass out,'' Peter grunts, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically as pain bounces up his leg once again. He feels metal fingers pull at the cuff of his jeans and hisses as they brush his ankle. ''Hurts.''
''I’ll bet it does,'' Tony’s voice comes out sounding slightly robotic from within the Iron Man suit. ''Have you seen your ankle? Looks like someone decided to use it for a piñata and then take it downtown for a dance or two.''
''Uh…''
''It’s black and blue, Pete,'' Tony elaborates, adjusting Peter’s weight to cradle him in both arms. ''If it’s not broken, I’ll be incredibly surprised.''
''Oh,'' Peter hums, unable to give much thought to that revelation as he shivers violently. ''Did, uh, did I at least catch the bad guys?''
Tony’s face appears as the mask of the suit retracts back and he looks down at Peter, an unimpressed light shining clearly in his eyes.
''There were no bad guys, kid.''
That can’t be right. Peter frowns blearily up at Tony, teeth chattering together as the frosty wind blows around them again. ''What?''
''I’m guessing your little friend over there has something to do with your current predicament.''
Tony nods at something to their right and Peter’s head falls to the side obediently, gaze landing on a rather frazzled, pissed off looking cat glaring at them from beside an overturned dumpster.
It all comes flooding back to Peter then. The sounds of forlorn meowing coming from an alley he was passing by; jumping up onto the icy lid of the dumpster to peek inside; losing his footing on the icy dumpster lid and smacking his ankle on the edge as he toppled off, bringing the dumpster (and the cat trapped within) crashing down along with him.
''Good thing I built KAREN into your watch, huh? Otherwise I’d have the unfortunate honour of being acquainted with two living popsicles.''
Peter’s jaw is trembling far too much for him to do anything else but murmur his agreement. The cat’s glare seems to intensify as it gives a swish of it’s long, black tail, and then scampers away, leaving haphazard footprints in the layer of snow covering the ground.
''C’mon, kid. Let’s get you back to the tower so Bruce can take a look at your ankle.''
Tony tugs the hood of Peter’s jacket over his head before standing, easily lifting Peter up with him. The surface of the suit is almost as cold as the ground but Peter burrows into it anyway, hunching himself up as small as possible without moving his leg.
''Remind me to design you some thermal underwear,’’ Tony says as he takes to the sky, tucking Peter as best as he can against his chest to shield him against the flurry of snow now rushing past them. ''I don’t recommend wearing them on a hot date with your scary girlfriend, but it’ll keep you from freezing should you find yourself in such a predicament again. Which you will I’m sure,'' he adds wryly, ''but at least I'll stand a better chance of sleeping at night where your safety is concerned.''
''Stop,'' Peter moans, though he can’t deny that he’s grateful for the heat that comes from his blushing cheeks.
''Oh, I’m sorry,'' Tony sasses, ''am I bothering you by talking about your actual underoos, Underoos?''
''Stop saying underoos,'' Peter grumbles, trying not to grin for fear that his chill-bitten lips might crack.
''If you’re really good, I’ll even make them match the design of your suit.''
''Come now, didn’t Aunt Hottie tell you it’s wrong to tell lies?''
The warmth in Tony’s voice is loud and clear even above the whistle of the wind and Peter closes his eyes to savour the way it seems to cover him like a blanket, warding off a little bit of the cold.
''Thanks, Mister Stark.''
''Anytime, buddy.''
*********
The phone rings for what feels like an endless amount of time before MJ picks up with a casual ''Hey, loser.''
Peter feels the air leave his lungs far too quickly at the sound of her voice. He falls against the nearby wall, the rain-damp brickwork snagging at his back as he sinks down into a crouch, forehead pressing into his knees.
''Peter?''
''I’m here,'' he whispers, clutching the phone tighter, pushing it as hard as he can against his ear, like doing so will somehow bring the two of them closer together. ''Sorry.''
‘’Where are you? Are you okay?''
There’s a dry stain of blood on the side of Peter’s right leg, visible through the gap between his thighs. He rolls his head back and forth, forehead rocking against his knees as he stares at it, focuses on the almost perfect symmetry of it, the way it stands out even against the red of his suit -
''Peter!''
''I, uh, I don’t - '' Peter falters, humming as tears prick at his eyes. ''There was - a guy, he - I tried to - ''
''Come over.''
''Wh - huh?''
‘’Come over to mine.’’
‘’Now?’’
MJ snorts and it’s like music to Peter’s ears. ''See you soon.''
Peter doesn’t remember the journey across the city, doesn’t quite know how long it takes him to move from A to B through the chilly drizzle, but suddenly he’s approaching MJ’s apartment, her silhouette in the window calling out to him like a lighthouse calls to a ship lost at sea.
MJ slides the window up just as he lands on the small ledge outside, moving away quickly to give him room to climb through. It’s far from his first time being in her room and he quickly settles himself on the edge of her bed, waiting silently as she closes the window and sits beside him.
His breath catches in his chest as she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze.
''Do you want to talk about it?''
He does, he really does, but there’s something about the warmth of the room, the cosiness emanating from the soft lamplight, the stack of pillows lining the head of the bed and the artful placement of every knickknack and trinket that makes him pause in telling her every single detail of this horrible night.
Peter looks up into MJ’s face, feeling the rigid tension seep out of his shoulders as her brown eyes gaze back at him, bright and understanding even without knowing the full story. There’s a heaviness sitting inside his chest, a sharp ache of turmoil that needs to be released, but right now all he wants to do is close his eyes, curl up under the covers and wait for the blood in his veins and the spiral of thoughts in his mind to settle down.
''Can we just…'' he says, waving a hand vaguely at the bed, ''maybe just for a little while…''
''Sure,'' MJ replies, giving him a smile, the kind that softens every edge of her.
MJ stands and starts to tug back the bed covers, while Peter hastily removes his suit. He lets it crumple into a pile at his feet and kicks it off, desperate to have it as far away from himself as possible for the time being.
''Nice underwear.''
Peter remembers then that he’s wearing the thermal underwear that Tony created for him a few weeks back, and in true Tony Stark fashion, he made good on his offer of matching the design to the pattern of the Spider-Man suit.
Peter laughs, quiet but genuine. ''Uh...you like them?''
''No,'' she scoffs, opening a drawer and yanking out a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. She throws them at him and Peter smiles, noticing the faint blush prettily staining her cheeks. He quickly tugs on the clothes and they crawl into the bed, months of being together allowing them to assume their positions with ease: on their sides facing one another with Peter’s face tucked into the delicate curve of MJ’s neck, his arms looped loosely around her waist.
A few stray curls tickle Peter’s nose but he makes no move to brush them away. He breathes deep, savouring the scent of MJ’s coconut shampoo and her skin, warm and alive against his own.
''You did everything you could.''
''How do you know that?'' he whispers, tightening his hold on her as her fingers slip soothingly into his hair.
''Because it’s you, dork. That's how I know,'' she reassures and kisses him on the forehead.
It doesn’t fully banish the hurt, doesn’t wage a war and win against the feeling of conflicted guilt in his heart, but for now it’s more than enough for Peter to close his eyes, safe in the knowledge that right now, he’s exactly where he needs to be.
*********
The yawn is wide, jaw cracking and long, leaving a wetness in Peter’s eyes that he has to brush away with the sleeve of his hoodie.
''Hey,'' Tony barks from the opposite end of the couch they’re sprawled on, ''that’s a violation of the hoodie rule.''
Correction - with the sleeve of Tony’s hoodie.
''You’ve spilt motor oil, marinara sauce AND paint on this before,'' Peter grumbles, pointing to the faded blob of cornflower blue on the right sleeve, ''and you’re moaning at me for rubbing my eyes on it?''
''You know,'' Tony gives him a lazy but wicked grin, ''it has been a while since I washed that thing…''
''Smells like orange blossom,'' Peter counters as he takes a deep sniff from the collar, the traces of metal and grease tickling his nose, ''so not that long.''
Tony jabs him with the toes of his left foot and they engage in a sluggish kicking war for a few minutes, barely sparing each other a glance in favour of watching the sea life documentary playing quietly on the television. It’s oddly soothing and Peter suspects that Tony chose it as part of the whole 'Help Peter Relax' scheme that almost everybody seems to be a part of lately. Even Ned appears to be on it, his over exaggerated claims about feeling 'as fresh as a daisy' after going to bed earlier doing nothing to ease Peter’s suspicions.
It’s not that Peter doesn’t want to relax or spend hours flopped on the couch or sleeping the chilly winter afternoons away. There’s just been so much happening lately. Homework, studying for tests, more homework, patrols, more studying and what feels like an endless slew of crime, not to mention all the gifts he needs to buy and wrap in time for Christmas.
He knows everybody worries, none more so than May and Tony, but sometimes it can almost feel suffocating, a backwards kind of pressure that just pushes him to try harder, to do more than he already is.
Lately though, Peter can’t deny that their suggestions and totally unsubtle hints do sound rather tempting. May with her sudden addiction to lavender scented candles, Tony with his hypnotic TV shows and reduced lab hours (Peter suspects Pepper’s hand in this somewhere) and MJ with her random facts about the benefits of meditation and gruesome stories about what happens to those who don’t sleep enough - it all reeks of a secret unity with one common goal in mind, and right now, Peter is well past the point of trying to fight against them.
He watches an octopus spin across the screen, a whirl of colour amongst the deep blue, and then gets up, standing on his toes and arching his back into a deep stretch.
''Think I’m gonna go to bed.''
Peter feels Tony’s look of surprise before he turns and sees it for himself, giving the man a tired smile as he drops back down onto his feet. There’s relief in Tony’s face, though he does well to try and hide it. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiles back, oozing all the warmth and care that Peter knows him for.
''Want me to tuck you in?''
''I’m sure I can manage,'' Peter laughs, shaking his head. ''Don’t stay up too late.''
Tony gives the mug of tea on the table, one that had been handed to him by a sweetly smiling Pepper, a distasteful glare. ''No chance of that, kid, believe me.''
Peter thinks nothing of bending down to give Tony a hug, just as Tony apparently thinks nothing of returning the gesture, wrapping his arms tightly around Peter with one hand predictably settling into his hair and brushing through it gently. It’s not a particularly comfortable position but Peter doesn’t rush to break it, takes his time in burying his nose against Tony’s shoulder and closing his eyes to savour the feel of it all before eventually pulling away, smiling when Tony gives one of his cheeks a fond pat as he goes.
''Sleep tight, kiddo.''
The words follow Peter along to his room, stay with him as he wriggles into bed, and all the down as he slides into a welcome, restful slumber, the best he’s had in a long time.
