Chapter Text
"What can I get you?"
Stopping at his table, small notepad held loosely in one hand, the kid can't be more than fifteen at the absolute most; everything from his slightly too-long jeans to his skinny wrists practically screaming I get beat up, often. The diner (JJ's - just off one of New York City's busiest roads, yet somehow managing to feel tucked away in the middle of nowhere) is in the midst of Saturday's lunch rush, which means a grand total of five of its' eleven tables are taken.
Tony likes the place; likes the way the small bell above the door chimes when he enters, and doesn't sound ironic. He likes that he can hear the chef swearing in the kitchen (and occasionally singing along - badly - to what could be Russian radio, if it weren't being butchered quite so horrendously) from his table. He likes the scuffed vinyl flooring and the cheap, Formica tabletops, and that the ketchup bottles appear to be in a permanent state of almost empty.
Most of all, Tony likes that ever since he'd first stumbled upon the place, whilst inside he has not once been asked for an autograph. Not once has he heard the hushed, rapid voices that signal somebody working up the nerve to say hello, to say thank you, or to say he's an abomination. There has been no giggling teenage girls blushing when he orders a meal; no curious stares from other customers, wondering what he's doing there; no bright-eyed, pink-cheeked children gushing that Iron Man is their absolute, number one hero, ever.
Whether the staff and patrons of JJ's Diner are incredibly self-absorbed, incredibly unflappable or incredibly ignorant, he isn't sure. He keeps coming back, though.
"Um."
The awkward, hesitant voice brings him back to the present, and he starts, blinking up at the teenager.
"Sir? Would, ah - would you like to order, or d-d'you need more time?"
The kid - Peter, if the name tag pinned to his cargo jacket is anything to go by - shifts heavily, darting a look backwards, towards the kitchen. It must be his first or second shift, because Tony has never seen him before, and he eats here more often than he'd care to admit.
"No, I'm good," Tony says, flashing white, straight teeth at the boy and laying down his menu. "I'll have the giant burger - the double? - with extra fries, and a large chocolate shake. Please."
Because what the hell, it's Saturday.
'Peter' looks up once the order is written down, shoots him a small smile out of the corner of his mouth, and tells him it'll be five minutes, tops.
He doesn't say,
"Aren't you...?" then turn beet red. Or,
"Thanks, Mister Stark - I mean, Mister Iron - I mean..." Or even,
"Is that all, sir?" with the too-casual tone of somebody hoping for a big tip, because they know he will leave a big tip.
The kid walks back behind the counter, paying Tony Stark no more interest than any other customer. Tony leans back in his chair, breathes in deep, and savours the feeling of being just like everybody else for another meal.
ooo
Peter, as it turns out, becomes a regular fixture in Tony's dining routine. The kid is there so often, with his perpetually mussed hair and grubby sneakers, that some days he doesn't even bother to take Tony's order - simply brings a plate of greasy fries and over-sized burger to his regular table, wearing the kind of patronizing expression that a teenager should not be able to pull off so well.
Tony likes to think he's spoiling himself when he comes to JJ's Diner, but when he's eating there three - four days a week, he might have to concede that 'spoiling himself' has spiralled into straight-up gluttony.
"Do you even go to school?" Tony asks bluntly one afternoon, when the kid comes to clear his scraps away.
Peter raises an eyebrow, giving him the kind of look one might associate with concern.
"Um," he says eloquently, wiping the table with one hand while balancing Tony's plate on the other. "It's five o'clock, Mister Stark. Five o'clock, um... P.M.?"
Tony blinks, looks down at his watch.
"Oh. Of course it is. Well - never mind, then. Thanks, kid."
Peter nods, and has turned to walk away before Tony's mind catches up with the conversation, and he can't help himself.
"Hey, wait a minute!"
Peter jumps, turning back around to look at him curiously, brow furrowed.
"How do you know my name?"
The kid has the good grace to look slightly abashed. Only for a moment, though - then he jerks a finger towards the counter, where an old television set plays the local news.
"Sorry, Mister Stark, but, ah - you're on T.V. ... A lot."
He smiles, the awkward, self-aware smile of an adolescent with no clue how to deal with an adult's emotional range. Continuing on his way, Peter trips gracelessly over his untied shoelaces, as he does at least once a day, nearly face-planting before he gets behind the kitchen door.
Tony sighs, letting his forehead rest on his folded arms atop the table. He had so liked JJ's - he'd liked the food, and the peace, and the mysterious manager that seems to be 'out' every time somebody has a complaint about the meals or the service or... well, anything, really. He'd liked that nobody from S.H.I.E.L.D knew where to find him when he stealthily made his way here, and he'd liked -
"Um. Mister Stark - er, sir?"
Lifting his head, Tony breathes out heavily, making eye contact with Peter, who looks decidedly uncomfortable, holding out the torn piece of notebook paper which serves as his bill.
He takes it from the teen, and when Peter is still standing there a minute later - hands in his pockets, brow furrowed, biting his lower lip in what must be Very Deep Thought - Tony raises an eyebrow expectantly.
Peter sighs, blowing out a gust of air that seems bigger than his lungs have any right to be.
"I don't care, you know," he says quietly, scuffing a hand through the back of his hair and pointedly looking anywhere else but at Tony. "That you're, um... that you're, you. I mean, we - everybody here knows who you are, but we figure you come here to - to eat, not to get asked a bunch of questions. So you can, y'know - you can keep coming here. If you want to. To eat. Um... So, yeah."
He flushes pink from his cheeks to his ears, nods decisively, and walks out the front exit. Tony hopes he's on his dinner break, otherwise the kid's going to be horribly embarrassed when he has to walk back in.
ooo
Tony continues to eat at JJ's, after spending a whole two days pondering whether or not it was, in fact, worth going back. In the end he'd decided that if during the entire time he'd been frequenting the eatery, its collective staff had been merely pretending not to know who he was, then nothing had changed, now. Not really. Except that he knew about the deception.
In part, his decision came with help from Steve, (or, more importantly, Steve's reaction to the problem) who had doggedly questioned why he was 'acting like a broody teenager,' until Tony felt obliged to tell him, if only to end the poor man's need to know.
Steve had looked at him as though he'd just confessed a burning desire to become a naturist.
"You... that's what you've been so distraught about? A diner?"
Tony had nodded, sliding his sunglasses off and regarding his husband critically. Bless him, but sometimes Steve just didn't get it. He figured it was that whole... timelapse fiasco, and didn't mind occasionally taking the time to explain these things at length.
"Of course a diner - JJ's just might be my favourite place in all of New York City, Steve! It's my sanctuary, my slice of normality, my respite from the harsh, day-to-day grind of being an internationally recognized celebrity! It's my - "
At that point Steve had held up his hands, mumbling something about a headache and calling Tony a moron under his breath before retreating to the nearest balcony to watch the city lights flicker, because he did things like that sometimes.
Tony thought he might like to memorize the city himself, if he too had been suddenly blind-sighted by its enormity.
That had put the whole JJ's debacle into perspective, and he decided that he had been acting ridiculously. Really, if there was one place, in the entire city, wherein Tony Stark could take off his jacket and eat a meal in peace, then he would damn well continue to enjoy it.
ooo
So it is that on yet another Saturday afternoon, Tony finds himself seated at his favourite table (perfect street view, a good distance away from the kitchen so he can eavesdrop on the obscurely-cultured chef and yet not so close that he is deafened by said chef), humming contentedly a rhythm that could be the Cheers theme tune, if anybody cared to listen.
However, when the waitress walks casually up to take his order, he is unable to stop himself from staring, and states rather boorishly;
"You're not Peter."
The girl blinks, chewing a wad of gum in the most clichéd fashion, blue eyes wide.
"No," she answers, drawing out the 'o' sound with all the elegance of a dead pigeon. "I'm Margaret. Or Margo - which, like, everybody calls me anyway."
Tony stares at her asymmetrical bangs and wonders if that's in fashion, and if he is really getting old, as Steve gleefully keeps suggesting.
"Peter usually works Saturdays," is all he can come up with in reply, and if Margaret has noticed his complete lack of etiquette she doesn't show it, impossibly young features softening as she drops a hand to her waist, posture more relaxed.
"Oh," she murmurs, furrowing her brow. "Oh, yeah, it's so sad - I mean, he's such a sweet guy, I feel bad, y'know..."
She trails off, staring vacantly somewhere in the vicinity of Tony's left ear, until he coughs loudly.
"Are you guys, like, friends?" Margaret asks, and while he bristles instinctively at the intrusiveness of the question, he doesn't detect a note of derision - simply naive curiosity.
He hesitates for a few seconds, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"Yes. Yes, we're... friends. Peter and I, that is. Friends."
Or, something. He sees the kid at least three days a week, he figures that makes them something, if only a step above conventional waiter-customer courtesies.
"Oh, okay, well - I mean, it's just the worst thing," Margaret begins. She pauses, and Tony waits patiently, gazing kindly up at the girl. There are no other tables requiring immediate attention, and in his experience, with enough patience, one can always rely on a teenage girl to talk.
"Obviously, you know Peter's an orphan, right?" he hadn't known that, but she doesn't wait for an answer, tucking a strand of hair behind one dainty ear and taking a deep breath, as though preparing herself for the bad news she is about to deliver.
"Well, Pete's uncle died earlier this week, and if that wasn't bad enough, he was shot, and as if that wasn't bad enough, they still haven't caught the scumbag that did it! I mean, poor Peter - it's been him and his aunt and his uncle since, like, forever - now him and his aunt have to bury poor Ben today, and it's just the two of them..."
By the time she finishes speaking, the last word fading into the air like a pungent smoke, Margaret's eyes are damp, cheeks flushed, and she excuses herself quickly to 'go freshen up'. Tony assumes that to mean she is going to cry, and allows her to leave in silence. Women can be so emotional.
In her absence, Tony lets his gaze wander around the diner, watching an idle gust of wind disturb the street outside the windows. He steadfastly ignores the cold, hard feeling settling deep within his stomach, and decides that, really, it's such a lovely day, he should take Steve out to lunch.
That decided, he leaves JJ's without ordering a thing, wincing slightly at the cheerful tinkle of the door's chime at his exit.