Chapter Text
The wind rushed past Peter's face—or rather, the mask—as the city skyline spun in his vision. He was falling face-first toward the streets of Queens, arms spread wide, letting the air flow through the fabric of his suit. It was almost peaceful if he ignored the screaming in the back of his head about terminal velocity.
"Dude, are you even listening to me?" Ned's voice crackled through the comms, excited and completely oblivious. "The Lego set just got here! The Millennium Falcon! The Ultimate Collector Series one!"
Peter watched a car get bigger in his vision. "Yeah, man, I heard you. I'm definitely coming tonight."
"Because you said you'd help me sort the pieces, and there's like seven thousand of them—"
"I'll be there, Ned. I promise."
"You better not flake, Peter. This is serious business. We're talking—wait, are you falling right now?"
A beat of silence.
"Peter?"
The ground was getting very close. Very, very close.
Peter's hand shot out, web-line spurting from his wrist, and he swung upward at the last possible second, his stomach dropping as gravity fought back. He arced through the air, legs tucking, body twisting, and landed on the side of a building with a solid thwip.
"Sixty feet," Ned said, impressed. "You're getting really good at those late catches."
Peter pushed off the wall, swinging into a lazy arc between buildings. "Thanks. Been practicing."
"Still freaks me out a little when you cut it that close, but I can't deny the control." There was a pause, then Ned's voice shifted. "So... you coming from patrol? We're still on for tonight, right?"
"Yeah, I've just got a little business to deal with first." Peter swung around a corner, and the skyline shifted. A familiar silhouette emerged in the distance—the sleek, modern architecture of Avengers Tower, its giant "A" gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Ned made a strangled noise. "You're going to the Tower. Right now. While we're supposed to be building Lego."
"Just for a bit. Mr. Stark needs me for something."
"I still can't believe you have a Stark Industries internship. Like, an actual internship. With Tony Stark. As his personal intern and protégé." Ned's voice pitched upward with each word. "You're literally living my dream life. You know that, right?"
Peter's grin stretched under the mask. "You're still amazed by that? It's been months."
"I will always be amazed by that. It's Tony Stark, Peter! Iron Man! The guy who built a suit in a cave with a box of scraps!"
"With a box of scraps," Peter agreed, swinging lower now, approaching the Tower's vicinity. "Hey, by the way... check your email."
"What? Why?"
"Just check it."
There was shuffling on the other end, then the click of a keyboard. A moment of silence. Then—
"WHAT."
Peter snickered.
"Peter. PETER. Is this—this is an OFFICIAL LETTER from Stark Industries! It says—it says I've been accepted into the intern program! Under the—the engineering track—with a STIPEND—"
"Sounds legit."
"DID YOU DO THIS?!"
"Who, me? I'm just a humble high school student. I have no influence whatsoever."
"You're such a bad liar. You DID this. You—you got me an internship! At Stark Industries! With you!"
Peter landed on a rooftop near the Tower, crouching on the edge. "You'll have your own office. Nothing fancy, but it's got a great view. And FRIDAY can route projects to you—some SI stuff, and some... other stuff. If you know what I mean."
"Other stuff. You mean—Spider-Man stuff?"
"Plausible deniability, Ned. Plausible deniability."
Ned was practically vibrating through the phone. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you—this is the best thing anyone has ever done for me—my mom is going to FREAK—"
"Hey, I've gotta go. I'll text you when I'm done here, okay? Don't start without me."
"I'm starting the box opening RIGHT NOW. Good luck! Thank you again!"
The line clicked off.
Peter stood on the rooftop, the wind tugging at his suit, and let himself feel it for just a moment—the warmth, the satisfaction. Ned deserved this. After everything—after keeping the secret, after being there for every close call and every disaster—Ned deserved something good.
Then he moved.
He swung to a building adjacent to the Tower, slipping through an access window he'd used before. The room was empty—a storage space that nobody ever seemed to check. He shucked off the suit quickly, stuffing it into his backpack, and pulled out the folded clothes he'd stashed earlier: jeans, a faded NASA t-shirt, a hoodie that had seen better days.
He looked at his reflection in the darkened window. Just a kid. Just Peter Parker, from Queens, with a backpack and a hole in his sneaker.
He took the stairs down to street level—eighteen flights, because the elevator would log his entry—and stepped out into the flow of pedestrians.
The Avengers Building lobby was exactly as intimidating as it always was: marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, security checkpoints every twenty feet, and a sense of quiet, expensive efficiency. Peter moved through the public areas without trouble, keeping his head down, blending in.
He was almost to the private elevator bank when a uniformed guard stepped into his path.
"Hold up, kid." The guard's voice was flat, professional, unimpressed. "Where do you think you're going?"
Peter's mouth opened, but the words didn't come. His throat went dry. He could feel the sweat prickling at the back of his neck, the familiar heat rising to his face.
"I... um... I was..."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "This area is restricted. You need to be escorted."
"Right, I—that is, Mr. Stark—he asked me to—"
The guard moved fast.
Before Peter could react, a hand fisted in the front of his hoodie, bunching the fabric, yanking him forward. His backpack slammed against his spine as he was dragged off-balance, the guard's face inches from his own.
"You think a name drop gets you past security?" The guard's voice was low now, sharp with something that wasn't quite anger. Frustration, maybe. The kind that built up over long shifts and thankless days. "I've seen a hundred kids like you. Wanders in off the street, thinks he's special, thinks the rules don't apply. You're not the first. You won't be the last."
Peter's heart slammed against his ribs. The guard's grip was tight, fingers twisted in the cotton, holding him like he weighed nothing. Like a rag doll.
"I—I have a meeting—"
"Yeah? Got paperwork? ID? Badge?" The guard shook him slightly, a sharp jerk that made Peter's teeth click together. "Didn't think so. Entrance is back that way. Don't let me catch you here again."
People were watching now. Sideways glances, whispers at the edges of Peter's vision. His face burned.
"Please, I just—"
"Peter P. Parker is a Protégé Engineer under the direct mentorship of Tony Stark." FRIDAY's voice filled the lobby, calm and unmistakable, cutting through the tension like a blade. "He is personally requested on the upper levels. Mr. Parker, you are currently six minutes late."
The guard froze.
His hand was still twisted in Peter's hoodie, knuckles white. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. For a moment, Peter thought he might shake him again—or worse.
Then the grip released.
Peter stumbled back half a step, catching his balance, heart pounding.
The guard stared at him, jaw tight. Then he looked up at the ceiling, as if FRIDAY might suddenly retract the statement. She didn't.
"...Move along," the guard muttered, stepping aside. His eyes tracked Peter as he passed, and there was something in them now—not just suspicion. Something colder. More personal.
Peter walked faster, his heart thudding against his ribs.
Around him, the lobby returned to its business—people in suits moving past, eyes on phones, conversations continuing. Nobody cared about the teenager heading for the private elevator. He was just another face now.
He stepped into the elevator car, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss.
"Thanks, FRIDAY," he said quietly, his voice still unsteady. "I, uh... I didn't know you could do that. You made up a whole job title for me."
"That is incorrect, Peter," FRIDAY replied, her tone as measured as ever. "I did not fabricate the designation. You have been an official intern of Stark Industries since October 12th of last year. 'Protégé Engineer' is the role Mr. Stark assigned to your file at that time."
Peter's brain stuttered. "Wait, what? I—October? I didn't even know I worked here then."
"Your employment was processed alongside your initial lab access permissions. Mr. Stark indicated you would be informed 'eventually.' I have simply accelerated that timeline due to the current security situation."
Peter leaned against the elevator wall, processing. An actual job. An actual title. Since October? Tony had just... hired him and never mentioned it?
"FRIDAY... does this mean I get paid?"
"Your internship includes a stipend, which has been accruing in a company-held account. The current balance is—"
"Don't." Peter's voice came out sharper than he intended. He swallowed. "I mean—I don't need to know. The amount. I don't... I didn't ask for any of this. He didn't have to—"
He stopped himself, shaking his head.
"Never mind. Can we just... not talk about it? Please?"
"Of course, Peter." FRIDAY's voice was neutral, nonjudgmental. "Floor 87."
The elevator hummed, rising.
Peter stared at the closed doors, his reflection barely visible in the polished metal. He didn't want to think about Tony paying him. Setting up accounts. Accruing money that Peter never asked for, never earned, never deserved.
It felt like charity. It felt like pity.
He pushed the thought away and stepped out onto the upper levels.
The upper levels of the Tower were a different world. Clean lines, glass walls, the quiet hum of technology that cost more than Peter's apartment building. He stepped out onto the main floor, and his eyes caught movement—Pepper Potts, phone pressed to her ear, tablet in hand, walking with the purposeful stride of someone who ran an empire.
She saw him. Her expression softened. She smiled, raised a hand in a small wave.
Peter waved back, feeling the familiar flush of embarrassment. Pepper Potts knew who he was. What he did. And she still smiled at him like he wasn't a disaster in a hoodie.
He kept moving, pushing through a set of reinforced doors into Tony's personal lab.
The lab smelled like ozone and coffee. Workbenches cluttered with half-assembled tech, holographic displays floating in the air, and in the center of it all—Tony Stark, hunched over something small, tools scattered around his hands.
He looked up as Peter entered.
The frustration in his expression cleared.
"Hey, kid. You made it." Tony's voice was warm, if distracted. He stood, rolling his shoulders, and reached for something on the bench. "Heads up."
He tossed it without warning.
Peter's hand snapped up, catching it on instinct. He looked down.
A watch.
Sleek, elegant, the band a deep gunmetal gray, the face etched with subtle patterns that caught the light. The rim was red and gold.
He turned it over in his hands. "What... what is this?"
"Hold on, hold on—" Tony gestured impatiently, circling around the workbench. "Don't just stare at it like it's a museum piece. Tell me what you think. First impressions. Go."
Peter studied it. The craftsmanship was incredible. The metal was seamless, the weight perfect. On the underside of the band, tiny letters were engraved:
SPDR-01
"Mr. Stark, this is..." He trailed off.
"Yeah?" Tony leaned in, grinning. "Go on. Use your words. I know you have them. You talk enough for three people."
"It's... it's really..."
"Really what? Beautiful? Groundbreaking? The most stunning piece of wearable technology you've ever had the privilege of holding?" Tony spread his arms wide. "I accept all of those. And more. I'm humble like that."
Peter laughed despite himself. "It's amazing. But why—"
"Happy birthday, kid."
Peter's brain stuttered. "What?"
"Happy birthday." Tony's mouth quirked. "You know, that thing that happens once a year? Cake, candles, people singing off-key? Ringing any bells?"
"My birthday's tomorrow."
"Yes, it's tomorrow. August 10th. FRIDAY told me. I wrote it down. I set a reminder. I'm very organized about these things." Tony paused. "Okay, that's a lie. I completely forgot until FRIDAY mentioned it yesterday. But the point is—I remembered eventually. And now you're getting a present. That's how this works."
Peter stared at the watch. Then at Tony. Then back at the watch.
His birthday.
Someone had remembered.
"Thank you, Mr. Stark," he said, voice thick. "This is—I don't even know what to—"
Tony's expression flickered. Something passed across his face—brief, almost imperceptible. A tightening around the eyes. A slight downturn at the corner of his mouth.
"Mr. Stark," he repeated. Flat.
Peter caught it. The shift. The subtle withdrawal.
He'd just handed him something personal. Something he'd made. Something one-of-a-kind. And Peter had responded with the same formal distance he'd use for a teacher, or a boss, or a stranger.
"Tony." Tony rolled his eyes dramatically, gesturing with both hands. "How many times do I have to say it? It's Tony. Not 'Mr. Stark.' We're past that. We've been past that. You've literally saved my life. I've literally saved yours. We've been shot at together. We've been nearly vaporized together. We've had entire conversations while actively not dying. At this point, 'Mr. Stark' just makes me feel like I should be grading your homework."
"Sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize. Just... Tony. Please." He held up a finger. "And don't make it weird. I'm not asking you to call me Dad or Uncle Tony or anything creepy like that. Just... first name. Like friends do. Because we are. Friends. I checked."
Peter swallowed. "Right. Thank you... Tony."
"There it is." Tony clapped his hands together. "That wasn't so hard, was it? See? Progress. Growth. Character development. We're doing great."
Tony's expression softened further. "You're welcome, kid. Now put it on. I didn't spend three weeks arguing with FRIDAY about bandwidth allocation so you could just hold it like a paperweight."
Peter fumbled with the clasp, sliding the watch onto his wrist. It fit perfectly, settling against his skin like it belonged there.
The red and gold rim caught the light.
"Very you," Tony said dryly.
"It's very you," Peter countered.
"That's the point. I made it. For you. Of course it's got my aesthetic all over it. You think I was gonna give you something subtle?" Tony scoffed. "Subtle is for people who don't know how to make an entrance. I'm not one of those people."
He stepped closer, tapping the face of the watch. "This is the SPDR watch. One of a kind. Totally a collector's item, if I do say so myself. And I do, because I made it. You're not gonna find another one. Trust me—I looked. eBay is a nightmare. People selling 'authentic Stark tech' that's clearly just repainted toasters. It's insulting."
Peter ran his thumb over the etched patterns. "What does it do?"
"Glad you asked." Tony's eyes gleamed. "First off—it changes forms when you suit up. So you don't have to take it off and on. It'll interface with the nanites, adapt, all that fun stuff. Keeps it from getting damaged mid-fight. Because I know you. You'd break it in the first week otherwise."
Peter's head snapped up. "Wait, seriously?"
"Seriously. Also—" Tony held up a finger. "Hologram projector. Right here." He tapped a spot on the band. "Emergency SOS button. Hidden, but accessible. And..."
He paused, grin widening.
"Karen."
Peter's voice pitched up. "Karen?!"
"Go ahead. Ask her something."
Peter raised his wrist, almost afraid to speak. "...Karen?"
The watch face shimmered. Karen's voice, warm and familiar, filled the space.
"Hello, Peter. It's good to speak with you again."
Peter's throat closed.
He'd gotten used to Karen in the suit. Her voice in his ear, her guidance, her calm presence in the chaos. But this—this meant he could have her always. Not just when he was Spider-Man.
"Karen," he managed. "Hi. I—thank you."
"You're welcome, Peter. I'm glad to be here."
Peter looked at Tony. His eyes burned.
"I don't even know what to say. This is—you didn't have to—I mean, the watch alone would've been—"
"Kid." Tony's voice was gentle, but his expression shifted—softer now, the bravado falling away. "You've earned it. You've more than earned it. Just... try not to break it, okay? I spent a lot of time on that."
"I won't. I promise."
"Good." Tony cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. "So. Birthday celebration. We're doing it early—today, actually. I've got a thing tomorrow night, meeting that I can't move. Very important. Very boring. Lots of people in suits talking about quarterly projections. You're not missing anything. But today works. FRIDAY's already got it on the calendar."
Peter's stomach dropped. "Tony, you really don't have to—"
"Already done. It's on the agenda. Non-negotiable. Sorry, kid." Tony didn't look sorry at all. He gestured, and a holographic calendar appeared in the air, Peter's birthday circled in bright red, the rest of the month fading to gray by comparison. "Pepper's handling the details. You just show up. Wear something comfortable. Or don't. I don't care. Just show up."
"I... okay." Peter's voice was small. "Thank you. Really."
"You said that already."
"I mean it."
Tony's smile was genuine. "I know you do." He turned back to his workbench, picking up a tool. "By the way—how'd Ned like the internship invite?"
Peter laughed, the tension breaking. "He freaked out. Like, completely lost it. His mom's gonna flip."
"Good. Kid's got talent. Deserves a shot." Tony paused. "And if he breaks anything in my lab, I'm holding you responsible. Just so we're clear."
"He was so excited. He's already planning his first day outfit."
Tony snorted. "Tell him not to overdress. It's an engineering lab, not a gala. Although—" He tilted his head. "Actually, let him wear whatever he wants. It'll be funny. FRIDAY, make a note to save the security footage."
"Noted, Boss."
Peter stood there for a moment, the weight of the watch on his wrist, the warmth in his chest. It felt like too much. It felt like exactly enough.
Tony glanced at him, then back at his project. "So. I've got a thing I need you to do, if you're up for it. Floor 72. Bunch of interns who think they're stuck on a power distribution problem. They've been spinning their wheels for three days. I'd go down there myself, but—" He gestured vaguely at the mess on his bench. "I'm in the middle of something very important and not at all procrastinating."
"Right. Very important."
"Don't give me that look. It's important to me." Tony waved him off. "Go. Be brilliant. Show them how it's done. And kid—"
Peter paused at the door.
"The watch." Tony tapped his own wrist. "Built-in access to the Tower's secure systems. FRIDAY uploaded your credentials. Elevators, restricted floors, labs—all of it. Just hold it to the reader. No more... incidents. In the lobby. With people who should know better."
Peter blinked, looking down at the watch. "Wait, seriously? It can do that too?"
"It can do a lot of things. You'll figure them out as you go." Tony's attention was already drifting back to his work. "Let me know if those interns give you trouble. And if they ask who you are—"
"I'll tell them I work with you."
"Tell them whatever you want." Tony's grin returned. "Just don't tell them I said you were smarter than all of them combined. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Your reputation is that you're arrogant."
"Arrogant and correct. It's a powerful combination." Tony shooed him toward the door. "Go. Be amazing. Happy birthday."
Peter smiled. "Thanks, Tony."
He stepped out into the hallway, the lab doors hissing shut behind him. He raised his wrist, studying the watch face.
"FRIDAY?"
"Yes, Peter?"
"Floor 72, please."
"Of course."
The elevator doors opened as he approached, the reader flashing green as he stepped inside. No keycard. No code. Just the watch, warm against his skin, a silent permission slip to every corner of Tony Stark's world.
He leaned against the elevator wall, letting out a breath.
One of a kind.
Happy birthday, kid.
The elevator doors opened on floor 72, and Peter stepped into controlled chaos.
The intern lab was massive—an open floor plan divided into workstations, each one cluttered with equipment, half-finished projects, and the desperate energy of people trying to prove themselves. Whiteboards lined the walls, covered in equations and diagrams. The air smelled like solder and coffee and ambition.
Peter adjusted his backpack strap and scanned the room.
A cluster of interns huddled around a centrifuge in one corner, passing vials of blood samples between them with the careful precision of people handling something fragile. Another group was elbow-deep in mechanical components—what looked like a prosthetic limb prototype, its casing open to reveal a tangle of wiring. A few sat alone at terminals, typing furiously, screens casting blue light across their tired faces.
And in the center of it all, two interns stood over a workbench, staring at a drone like it had personally offended them.
Peter made his way over.
"—told you the calibration was off," one of them was saying. A young woman, early twenties, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She had a wrench in one hand and frustration in her voice. "The flight stabilizers aren't compensating for the weight distribution."
"The weight distribution is fine," the other intern shot back. He was taller, wearing a Stark Industries polo that looked a size too big, with the kind of stubborn expression Peter recognized from his own mirror. "It's the guidance system. The algorithm's not reading the obstacle inputs fast enough."
"It's not the algorithm—"
"Hey," Peter said, stepping up to the bench. "Need a hand?"
Both interns turned. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, taking him in—the hoodie, the backpack, the fact that he looked about sixteen. The guy just looked exhausted.
"Who're you?" the woman asked.
"Peter. I'm, uh—" He hesitated. "I work with Mr. Stark."
The exchange between them was subtle but telling. The guy straightened slightly. The woman's grip on the wrench loosened.
"Another intern?" the guy asked.
"Something like that." Peter gestured at the drone. "What's the problem?"
The woman exhaled, setting the wrench down. "It's supposed to be a rapid-response reconnaissance unit. Autonomous navigation, obstacle avoidance, real-time data relay. But every time we run a flight test, it veers left and crashes."
"We've recalibrated the gyros three times," the guy added. "Checked the wiring. Rewrote the navigation algorithm. Nothing works."
Peter studied the drone. It was sleek, compact, with four rotors and a sensor array mounted on the underside. He circled the workbench, looking at it from different angles.
"Can I?" He reached for it without waiting for an answer, turning it over in his hands. The weight felt wrong—not heavy, but uneven. He ran his thumb along the undercarriage, feeling for imperfections.
There.
A hairline crack in one of the mounting brackets, barely visible. And beneath it, a slight warping in the housing.
"Here." He pointed. "See that crack?"
The woman leaned in. "That's... that's nothing. That's cosmetic."
"It's not." Peter grabbed a small flashlight from the bench, angling it to catch the shadow. "Look at how the housing is warped around the sensor mount. It's throwing off the weight distribution—just enough to make the stabilizers overcompensate. That's why it veers left."
The guy squinted. "That's... a millimeter. Maybe less."
"Drone's sensitive. Millimeters matter." Peter set it down, already reaching for tools. "If we reinforce the bracket and shave down the housing to even out the weight, it should fly straight."
The interns exchanged a look.
"That's..." The woman trailed off. "Actually plausible."
"Want me to show you?"
Ten minutes later, the drone was reassembled and hovering perfectly stable three feet above the workbench. The woman—her name was Priya, Peter had learned—stared at it like it was a miracle.
"I've been staring at that thing for two days," she said. "Two days. And you just walked in and—"
"Lucky guess," Peter said, already backing toward the other workstations. "Good luck with the rest of it."
"Wait—" Raj, the other intern, started to say something, but Peter was already moving.
Priya watched him go, then turned to Raj. "Who is that kid?"
Raj shook his head slowly. "I have no idea. But he just solved in ten minutes what we've been stuck on for two days."
He drifted toward the blood sample group next. They were comparing readouts, frowning at a screen that displayed a complex protein analysis.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
One of them—a guy named Marcus—looked up. "We're trying to isolate a specific antibody for a new antivenom prototype. But the separation process keeps contaminating the sample."
Peter leaned over the screen. "What centrifuge speed are you using?"
"Twelve thousand RPM."
"Try fourteen. And adjust the buffer solution—the pH balance might be interfering with the isolation."
Marcus blinked. "You think that'll work?"
"Worth a shot."
Peter moved on before they could question him further.
Marcus turned to his colleague, both of them staring at the screen. "Who is this kid?"
"No idea," she replied. "But if his suggestion works, I don't care if he's twelve. I'm buying him coffee."
Peter moved to the mechanics team next. Three interns were huddled around a prosthetic limb, its casing open, wires spilling out like intestines.
"What's the issue?" he asked, stepping up.
One of them—a guy with grease-stained fingers—looked up. "Servo motor's misfiring. We've realigned it twice, but the response time is still off."
Peter knelt beside the limb, examining the joint. He flexed it manually, feeling the resistance. Then he reached for a small screwdriver and adjusted a tension screw near the elbow joint.
"Try it now."
The intern powered it on. The limb moved smoothly, fingers flexing with precision.
"Whoa." The intern looked at Peter with wide eyes. "How did you—"
"Pressure calibration." Peter shrugged. "The tension was too tight. Loosened it up, gave the servo room to breathe."
"Who are you?" another intern asked, staring at him.
"Peter." He was already backing away. "Good luck with the rest."
He moved to a terminal where a young woman was staring at lines of code, her face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen.
"Stuck?" he asked.
She jumped slightly. "This simulation keeps crashing. I've debugged it six times."
Peter leaned over her shoulder, scanning the code. "Line forty-seven. You've got a loop that's not closing properly. Move the bracket to line fifty-two."
She stared at him. "That's... that's it?"
"Should be."
She made the change and ran the simulation. It completed without error.
"Oh my God." She turned to look at him, eyes wide. "Who is this kid?"
But Peter was already walking away.
Finally, he approached a young man struggling with a 3D printer, its nozzle clogged with polymer residue.
"Here." Peter grabbed a cleaning tool from the nearby rack. "You have to clear the extruder between prints or it builds up."
He showed the man the technique—quick, efficient movements that cleared the blockage in seconds.
"There. Try now."
The printer hummed back to life, laying down clean, precise layers.
The intern watched it work, then looked at Peter with confusion and gratitude. "Seriously, who is this kid? You just walk in and fix everything like it's nothing."
"Just lucky timing." Peter offered a small smile. "You've got good instincts. Keep at it."
By the time Peter was done, the lab had shifted from chaotic desperation to productive energy. Projects that had been stalled were moving forward. Interns who had been frustrated were now engaged, excited, working with renewed purpose.
And in every corner of the room, the same question rippled through the air:
Who is this kid?
"You're a lifesaver," Priya said, catching him as he headed for the door. "Seriously. Raj and I were about to lose our minds."
"Happy to help." Peter smiled. "You guys are doing good work. The drone's going to be great once you finish the testing."
"Where'd you come from, anyway? I haven't seen you in the intern program."
"I'm, uh... kind of a special case."
"That's what they all say." She grinned. "See you around, Peter."
"Yeah. See you."
He stepped into the hallway and made his way back to the elevator, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time. A text from Ned glowed on the screen:
BOX IS OPENED. PIECES ARE SORTED. WHERE ARE YOU???
Peter typed back quickly: On my way soon. Stark business.
STARK BUSINESS. YOU'RE THE COOLEST PERSON I KNOW AND I HATE YOU A LITTLE BIT.
Peter snorted, pocketing the phone as the elevator doors opened.
In the lab, Tony Stark stood alone.
The workbench stretched before him, cluttered with the detritus of a project he'd been ignoring for the better part of an hour. Tools scattered. Holographic displays flickering. The faint hum of machinery filling the silence.
He wasn't working.
His hands were still, resting on the edge of the bench. His eyes were focused on nothing in particular—a spot on the far wall, maybe, or the space between thoughts.
The kid was late.
Six minutes.
That wasn't like Peter. The kid was compulsively early. If anything, he showed up too soon, hovering in doorways, bouncing on his heels, practically vibrating with the need to be useful. Six minutes late wasn't a crisis—it wasn't even really late by most standards—but it was enough. Enough to notice.
Tony's mind worked through the possibilities.
Traffic. Subway delays. School running long. Patrolling running long. Any of a dozen mundane reasons that would explain six minutes.
But his brain didn't do mundane.
It did patterns. Anomalies. Threats.
What if something happened? What if he got hurt? What if someone saw him change? What if—
He caught himself. Shook his head.
The kid was fine. He was probably just distracted. Or helping someone. Or doing any of the hundred things Peter Parker did in a day that made Tony's hair turn gray faster than genetics intended.
Still.
Six minutes.
He stared at the holographic display in front of him, not really seeing it. The numbers blurred. His reflection stared back from the darkened screen—tired eyes, lines around his mouth that hadn't been there a few years ago.
Why does it matter?
The question surfaced unbidden.
Why did it matter that the kid was six minutes late? Why did it matter that he remembered Peter's birthday when the kid clearly hadn't expected anyone to? Why did it matter that he'd spent weeks designing a watch that could do things the kid didn't even know he needed yet?
Tony's jaw tightened.
He knew why.
He just didn't want to examine it too closely.
"You're staring at nothing, Boss." FRIDAY's voice cut through the silence, calm and measured as always. "Is the project giving you trouble?"
Tony blinked, the moment passing. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, forcing his hands to move across the workbench.
"The project's fine. Just thinking."
He reached for a tool, turning back to his work—
The lab doors slid open.
Tony looked up, expecting Peter. Maybe the kid had forgotten something. Maybe he had a question about the interns.
It wasn't Peter.
Pepper stood in the doorway, tablet clutched against her chest. Her expression was tight, controlled—the face she wore when something was wrong and she was trying very hard not to show it.
"Hey." Tony set down the tool. "Everything okay? Birthday prep not going according to plan?"
Pepper didn't answer. She stepped into the lab, letting the doors close behind her, and stood there in silence for a moment.
"Pepper?" Tony's brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
"I saw it first." Her voice was quiet. Controlled. "FRIDAY flagged the incident as it happened. I was the one who told her to intervene."
Tony's expression shifted. "What incident?"
"The security guard. In the lobby." Pepper's jaw tightened. "Peter was stopped. On his way up."
Tony's hands stilled on the workbench. "Stopped how?"
"Physically." Pepper's voice remained level, but there was an edge beneath it now. "The guard grabbed him. Shook him. Made a scene in front of half the lobby."
Something cold settled in Tony's chest.
"Show me."
"FRIDAY," Pepper said. "Pull up the footage."
A holographic display flickered to life in front of Tony.
The lobby. From three angles. Peter walking toward the private elevators. The guard stepping into his path. The conversation—brief, one-sided. And then the hand, fisting in Peter's hoodie, yanking him forward.
Tony watched it twice.
His expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes did.
He watched the guard shake Peter like he weighed nothing. Watched Peter stumble when he was released. Watched him hurry toward the elevator, head down, trying to disappear.
Like he was used to it.
That was the part that sat wrong. The way Peter didn't fight back. Didn't argue. Just... took it. Like he expected nothing less.
The footage ended. The hologram flickered, then vanished.
"His name is Marcus Webb," Pepper said, her voice still controlled. "Four years with Stark Industries security. No incidents on his official record, but—" She hesitated. "There have been complaints. Informal ones. Other interns. Junior staff. People who didn't feel comfortable filing official reports but mentioned it to HR in passing. He's got a reputation for being... heavy-handed. With the wrong people."
"What kind of complaints?"
"Intimidation. Aggressive questioning. Making people feel small." Pepper's expression hardened. "Nothing that ever rose to the level of termination. But enough of a pattern that someone should have—"
"Should have what?" Tony's voice was low. "Noticed? Done something?" He turned to face her fully. "How many complaints?"
"Six that I could find. Stretched over the four years. Each one dismissed individually. No one connected them until—"
"Until he put his hands on a kid who should've been able to walk through this building like he owned it."
Tony turned back to the empty space where the hologram had been.
"The kid didn't say anything," he said. "He walked in here, took the watch, smiled, thanked me. Didn't say a damn word about some security guard putting hands on him in my lobby."
"He probably didn't want to worry you."
"Worry me." Tony let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I'm not worried, Pepper. I'm—"
He stopped.
His hands had curled into fists at his sides. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the sharp edge of something that wasn't quite anger. It was colder than that. More precise.
"FRIDAY," he said quietly. "Get Happy."
"Right away, Boss."
The lab fell into silence. Pepper stood by the door, arms crossed, watching Tony. Tony stood by the workbench, staring at nothing.
Minutes passed.
Then the lab doors slid open again.
Happy Hogan walked in, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern as he registered the tension in the room. He looked from Tony to Pepper and back again.
"Boss? You called?" Happy's eyes narrowed slightly. "What's going on?"
Tony didn't answer. He just nodded toward the empty space in front of him.
"FRIDAY. Run it again."
The hologram flickered to life.
Happy watched. His face went still as the footage played—the guard stepping in front of Peter. The confrontation. The hand fisting in Peter's hoodie. The shake. The stumble.
The hologram ended.
Happy's face had gone pale.
"Boss, I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't know about this. I swear, if I'd had any idea—"
"You didn't know." Tony's voice was flat. "That's not the problem."
"Then what—" Happy started.
"I want him handled."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Direct.
Happy's jaw tightened. He looked at the empty space where the hologram had been, then back at Tony. He didn't ask questions. Didn't need to.
"Consider it done." Happy's voice was low, tight. "I'll take care of it personally."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"FRIDAY," Happy said. "Send a copy of that footage to my email. All angles."
"Of course, Mr. Hogan."
Happy nodded once, then walked out without another word. The lab doors hissed shut behind him.
Pepper stood in the silence, watching Tony. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Just like that. The situation was dealt with.
"I'll go check on the birthday preparations," she said quietly. "Make sure everything's ready for this afternoon."
Tony didn't respond. He was still staring at the empty space where the hologram had been.
Pepper hesitated, then walked to the door. She paused at the threshold, looking back.
"Tony."
He glanced at her.
"He's okay," she said. "Peter's okay. That's what matters."
Tony's expression didn't change. But something in his eyes flickered.
"Yeah," he said. "He's okay."
Pepper held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and left.
The lab doors closed behind her.
Tony stood alone in the silence.
"FRIDAY," he said. "Run it again."
The hologram flickered to life.
He watched the guard grab Peter. Watched the shake. Watched Peter stumble.
"Again."
He watched it a second time. A third.
Each time, he noticed something new. The way Peter's hands came up—not to fight, but to surrender. The way his shoulders hunched, making himself smaller. The way he didn't meet the guard's eyes.
Like it was normal.
Like he'd been through this before. Like he expected it.
Tony's jaw tightened.
He'd seen that look before. On a kid who'd lost his parents. On a teenager who'd learned that the world wasn't always kind, and that sometimes the people who were supposed to protect you were the ones who hurt you instead.
He didn't like it.
He didn't like it at all.
After the fourth viewing, he waved the hologram away and turned back to his workbench. He picked up the tool he'd abandoned, forcing his hands to move, forcing his mind to focus on the project in front of him.
But the frown didn't leave his face.
And the image of Peter—flinching, stumbling, trying to disappear—stayed with him long after the hologram had faded.