Work Text:
Despite the chaos of scattered blueprints, tangled wiring, and half-finished gadgets sprawled over every available surface, the lab remained Tony’s sanctuary. A meticulously tabulated kingdom of intellectual energy and intention. Even the clutter had a system, even if Tony himself was the only one who understood it. Every object, every half-soldered circuit board, and prototype had a place in the lab’s intricate ecosystem.
A modular workbench stretched along one wall, illuminated by the sharp glow of task lighting that cast sharp shadows on the scuffed floor. Behind him, the suit bays loomed like silent sentinels, their polished exteriors catching the ambient light in glints and flickers. The suits were dormant, glowing faintly in standby mode, waiting for action. All of them calibrated, honed, and perfectly responsive.
From above, music thumped through discreet speakers embedded in the ceiling. A low, rhythmic bassline underscored a sharp electric guitar. The beat settled in his sternum and vibrated through his ribcage, threading itself into his pulse, exactly the way he liked it. A tempo for thinking. It made him feel more alive, more invigorated, ready to really dig his brain into whatever project was in front of him. He was in his element– both figuratively and literally.
For a rare moment, everything felt still. Not peaceful, exactly. He didn’t really do ‘peaceful'. Aligned, maybe. Focused . His hands moved automatically, adjusting the micro-servo casing until the circuit clicked into place.
Then his cadence was interrupted by the mechanical hiss of the sliding glass doors.
Immediately, the music dipped. That alone announced Peter Parker’s pending arrival. It was protocol, one that had been customized specifically for Peter’s enhanced hearing. The kid had once described the lab’s music as ‘glass being struck by a tuning fork inside his skull.’ Tony had spent three hours denying how offended he was while quietly reprogramming the system.
He hadn’t been asked to do it. There was no actual complaint. There never was. The kid was entirely too polite for his own well-being. It was endearing, really.
Tony didn’t glance up right away, expecting the usual cheery, slightly breathless greeting. Something like ‘Hey, Mr. Stark!’ or ‘Good afternoon, sir!’ The carefully measured respect that Peter always brought with him. Impeccable manners. Soft-spoken, careful, and polite. The complete opposite of everyone else in his orbit.
But what actually arrived was an unholy tempest of teenage frustration. The kid stomped inside, a fiery rant spilling out of his mouth in a torrent of almost-curses and erratic gestures that bordered on feral.
“Then Mr. Morrison had the audacity, the flippin’ audacity , to tell me it wasn’t a big deal!” Peter’s voice cracked through the air like a firecracker, sharp and full of incredulous rage. “Like my project didn’t just get stomped to dog poop by Flash and his gosh dang, stupid skateboard! He shrugged ! Shrugged! As if watching your week’s worth of work get pancaked isn’t worth more than a freaking ‘oopsie whoopsie, oh well’!”
Tony’s head jerked up, the small screwdriver in his hand slipping from his fingers and clattering across the steel surface of the bench. He blinked once, processing, before his mouth curled into a grin, both alarmed and amused. It was like watching an elegantly sailing kite abruptly burst into flames midair.
The kid’s hoodie sleeves were flapping, a little too long over his hands. His backpack hung off one shoulder like it had barely survived the trip, and under one arm he carried what could only be described as a mangled cardboard trifold display board. His curls were wind-mussed, his cheeks flushed with either exertion or fury. Perhaps both. Either way, his expression was one of pure, unfiltered vexation.
“I swear to fudge , if one more person tells me to ‘just deal with it and start over,’ I’m gonna absolutely lose my shiitake! ”
Tony leaned back slowly in his chair, letting the leather cushion press into his spine, chin settling onto his knuckles, entirely captivated. Up until that moment, he’d only known Peter Parker as polite to the point of absurdity. The kind of kid who thanked the lab equipment and apologized to furniture if he bumped into it.
But this– this was new.
And completely hilarious.
“Even worse,” Peter continued, gesturing with a near-violent flourish that nearly sent his backpack off his arm and skidding across the floor. “He had the nerve to offer me a C+ extension! Like– holy shipwreck! That’s the best he could offer? What the actual frick? ”
At that point, Tony couldn’t hold it back in anymore. He laughed, his brows raising so high they disappeared into his hairline. “Well, hello to you too, sailor,” he quipped, tone amused, lips twitching high at the corners.
Peter froze, a full-body stop. His shoes squeaked slightly on the polished floor. His entire form locked up and his eyes snapped wide like metaphorical deer caught in the headlights of his own outburst.
“I– oh, no. Oh my gosh.” The kid winced, all fury draining from his face, leaving him pale and squirmy. “Did I– did I say all of that out loud?”
“Yep. Full broadcast, buddy,” Tony confirmed, fighting a smirk and utterly failing. “Everything from the ‘flippin’ audacity ’ to the ‘holy shipwreck.’” He picked up his coffee mug, grinning over the rim. “I'm not even mad. That was some solid material. You eat a thesaurus with your Froot Loops this morning?”
Peter let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. He dragged his hands down his face, his cheeks taking on a vivid, mortified, pink hue. “I didn’t– I–” he stuttered, his words going nowhere.
“You kiss your aunt with that mouth?” Tony teased, taking a leisurely sip of coffee, his amusement only deepening.
Peter squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes, an attempt at defiance, though his ears betrayed him by remaining scarlet. “You swear all the time,” he fumbled, indignant, but still clearly flustered. “Like, you actually swear. Way worse than any of the words that I just said.”
Tony barked an unapologetically delighted laugh. “Sure thing, Pete. The difference is, I’m an adult. A genius billionaire with an entire tower in my name. I’ve earned the right to use all the big boy words. Actually, I probably invented half of them.”
A small defeated noise broke free from Peter’s throat. He tossed his hands by his sides, shoulders slumping. “That’s not how language works.”
“Mhmm. Mhmm.” Tony bobbed his head, fingers tapping against his chin. “Hey! Maybe I should get you a swear jar!”
“Is it really a swear jar if I didn’t actually swear? I mean, I never said anything, like, profane.” Peter’s hands waved his hands helplessly, logic faltering under the weight of absurdity.
“Eh. It’s more about context than vocabulary. I think it still counts.” Tony leaned in fully, delight fizzing under his skin. This wasn’t how he thought his afternoon would go, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. “Besides, I’m flippin’ rich. I can invent a whole gosh darn pre-swear jar if I want to.”
“Mr. Stark…” Peter whined dramatically, burying his face in the crook of his arm. When he looked up, his face was neutral, aside from the slightly pouty bottom lip. “That’s fine. Don't mind me. I’m just going to go climb into a trash can now.”
Tony let out a short bark of laughter, shaking his head as he leaned his elbow on the table. “I think you already did. Verbally. With your lively performance on the way in.”
“Aw, come on!” Peter smiled. Just a little, but Tony didn’t miss it.”That’s not fair!”
Tony leaned forward, shoulders bouncing as his laughter overtook him. The kind laugh he didn’t realize he needed until it rattled out of him, shaking off the tension he didn’t know he’d been carrying. His eyes watered slightly. He gathered a breath through his nose, let it settle, then wiped his thumb and forefinger beneath his eyes.
“What do you mean, it’s not fair? I already told you I’m not mad.” Another short cackle broke free, he had to cover his mouth to stifle it. “Watching you try to swear with the finesse of a PBS cartoon character has been the highlight of my day. My week. Maybe my whole month.”
Peter’s head tilted back, fingers dragging through his hair. “Can we please never talk about this again?”
Tony smirked, taking the unintended bait. “You bet, buddy. Right after you say, ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, Iron Man sir,’ like a respectable junior intern.”
Peter shot him a glare with all the threatening intensity of a pink frosted sugar cookie. It didn’t last. He quickly relented with a sigh dramatic enough to have come straight out of a high school musical, followed by a nearly deadpan, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. Sir.”
“Close enough!” Tony fell into another fit of laughter. He reached out to ruffle Peter’s hair without a second thought, fingers carding through the mess of curls. “There’s my polite little cinnamon roll.”
Tony let the moment hang. The air felt lighter, and the lab, for all its wires and glowing interfaces, somehow felt more like a living room than a workshop. The soft and squishy kind of human nonsense Tony had long told himself he didn’t need.
Then, with a soft exhale, he turned back to the console and tapped a few keys, bringing the music back up, just a notch. Enough to let Queen slide back into the atmosphere.
Without ceremony, he tossed Peter a pair of safety goggles. “Alright. C’mon, sailor. Let’s make this into something that’ll make Flash eat his own wheels.”
The tri-fold was spread out carefully across the workbench. The light reflected off the glossy cardboard, emphasizing the numerous dents and crumples. It didn’t exactly scream ‘presentation ready’.
Without prompting, he tossed the kid a fresh roll of tape.
Peter caught it with ease and hunched over the project, carefully reinforcing the torn edges. His breath was calm and his brow was furrowed in concentration, but every now and then a low, nearly inaudible string of not-quite-curses slipped out. His lips barely moved as he grumbled ‘son of a freaking biscuit eater’ and ‘Jiminy cricket on a pogo stick’ under his breath.
Tony smiled wider, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. ‘ Polite, charming little cinnamon roll, my butt,’ he thought fondly. ‘ Kid’s got fire.’
Each little outburst was like a new unlock in the kid’s personality database. Or maybe it was more of a secret debug mode for when his patience bar hit absolute zero. Whatever it was, it was oddly charming.
Still. Maybe that pre-swear jar wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He chuckled as he pulled open a drawer to attain a second roll of tape and a handful of Sharpies.
“Here,” Tony said, tapping the table to get Peter’s attention. “Try folding the corner like this.” He reached over, picking up the cardboard and changing the angle. “There’s less chance of another ‘oopsie whoopsie, dog poop’ disaster that way.”
Peter gave a small, determined nod, another mutter bubbled from his lips– Something half-scorched and vaguely unholy, but this time, Tony caught the subtle twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He leaned back, letting the quiet satisfaction wash over him. Not just from fixing a trifold but from witnessing Peter’s spark. The same kid who’d walked in storming like a tempest, hunched over cardboard and Scotch tape, piecing his world back together one margin line at a time.
“You’re doing great, bud,” said softly, peering over the kid’s shoulder, taking it all in. The reconstruction efforts were going well. The information was solid, and the images on point. It would probably have c+ extension potential by the end of the hour. A B- if the kid let him get his hands on it, which honestly, did he really need permission? It was his lab…
“Thanks,” Peter distractedly said.“But holy macaroni, rocket trash. I hope Flash steps on a Lego.”
Tony couldn’t help the quiet snort that escaped him. He didn’t say anything, but the mental notes were stacking up: A pre-swear jar was definitely in the making. Maybe a voice-activated one. FRIDAY could keep tabs.
He flopped back down in his chair, arms folded, as he watched Peter work.
The rumpled project was starting to evolve and take shape.
And, bit by bit, so was the kid behind it.