Archive of Our Own

Peter glances at the sky, watching as the sun dips lower towards the horizon. The colors begin to shift, casting a warm, golden hue over everything it touches. New York's "magic hour" isn't actually an hour – it stretches longer, depending on the day or the season, but Peter fidgets on his feet and checks his phone for the dozenth time. Longer or not, he is nearly out of time. He can already feel the light beginning to wane, the sun slipping below the Manhattan skyline, and taking the soft, diffused quality with it.

It's a waste, so he snaps a few shots from the balcony of Stark Tower, capturing the dramatic shadows that give the tall grey buildings some depth and contrast. The colors are richer, more vibrant right now, painting the world in shades of amber and rose. The film inside his camera is black and white - it's all he can afford - but there is a reason they call this time of day "magic." It highlights everything just right before the city fades into twilight, and color or not, he knows these photographs will come out well.

"I know, I know, I am late," Peter hears Mr. Stark step out of the elevator into the penthouse while he changes the roll in his 35mm Nikon FM. "Apologies for my tardiness, but as a wise man once said, 'a wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.' And while I'm not a wizard, I'm certainly magic enough to justify my fashionable lateness."

Peter grins, turning around, and pops the back of the camera closed with a quiet click.

"You know, Mr. Stark, maybe we should get you a wizard's hat to go with that Iron Man suit," he laughs, stuffing the used-up roll of film into the back pocket of his jeans. "Then you'd really be making an entrance. But, uh, don't worry about being late. Even wizards have to deal with traffic, I guess."

Mr. Stark is wearing a bespoke, three-piece suit. It hugs the contours of his body, showcasing his strong shoulders and lean waist. The single-breasted jacket features a peaked lapel that would look ridiculous on anyone but him, and the matching waistcoat with a low-cut, U-shaped neckline accentuates his broad chest.

Peter makes an impatient gesture with the camera in his hand, keenly aware of the few minutes they have left before it gets too dark, while Mr. Stark unbuttons his jacket and tosses his phone on the couch.

"Where do you want me?" Mr. Stark asks Peter, but even as he does so, he taps on his smartwatch to check an incoming message. "Jacket on or off?"

"Off?" Peter backs away towards the bar, the huge window in front of him now. His palms are sweating all over the copper-aluminum alloy of the camera, and he rubs the front of the lens with the side of his t-shirt. "By the window?"

The jacket comes off and, after a pause during which Mr. Stark seems to be considering something, so does the waistcoat. He loosens the tie around his neck and unbuttons the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt.

Peter peers through the viewfinder, carefully framing the shot. Mr. Stark exudes an aura of confidence and success, his eyes gleaming with a knowing smile even as he gazes into the camera. Peter takes a few photos, his fingers shaky, as he adjusts the shutter speed and aperture, eyeballing it. The camera used to have a working light meter in it, but that was decades before Peter fished it out from the thrift store's discount pile, feeling like he'd just uncovered a treasure. And for forty-two bucks, it was.

He goes through the full roll of thirty-six shots using the wide-angle and then swaps to the fifty-millimeter 1.8 lens. After an incident last week during patrol, duct tape is the only thing holding it somewhat together, but he isn't flush enough to pay for accidental damage warranty. Besides, he could hardly call webbing his Nikon into a robber an accident, so there you have it. He takes a moment to swap the roll of film too, digging in his backpack for the last one he has to his name.

"Jeez, kid," Mr. Stark tilts his head in what could be an insightful move, as Peter rushes to catch the last bit of good light. "This thing is so ancient, I wouldn't be surprised if it asked me for directions to the nearest telegraph office."

"It's fine," Peter blushes, hurrying along. The cap of the film roll nearly slips through his fingers, but he manages to grab it and close the canister with one hand. "I'm kind of into it now. Photoshop is good and all, but you'll never get the same grain using digital no matter what kind of filter you slap on it."

The filters are expensive too, not that Peter is insane enough to mention it out loud. He has pirated a good few bits of software that work as add-ons, and some of them are decent, but nothing matches the real thing.

"If you're into that whole 'retro struggle' vibe, then I see the appeal," Mr. Stark watches as Peter approaches him, the backpack left by the bar on the floor. "I mean, this antique is so vintage, it probably remembers when vinyl records were the new hot thing. But, you know what they say: old is gold."

He smiles then—a bright, wide smile that sometimes feels like it's reserved just for Peter.

Peter smiles back, unsure. By now, he knows how these conversations normally end. And it's a whole thing. The thing. The one he tries to keep out of his head when Mr. Stark is around. Mainly because it utterly spoils being around him and, when this unspoken thing does crawl out into the foreground, things get awkward.

When he gets close enough to see every bristle of facial hair on Mr. Stark, Peter says: "But I guess patience is a virtue, especially when you're working with a fossil."

Mr. Stark laughs, his eyebrows lifting at the insinuation. And the tension that began to simmer inside Peter breaks. He takes more photos.

He moves around Mr. Stark, trying to capture the subtle play of light and shadow on his chiseled features. The click of the shutter punctuates the air every now and then as Peter mentally counts the shots down. They don't exchange any more words to get the next pose or angle, but everything is easy and relaxed. Mr. Stark is just... well, he is Mr. Stark. He knows what to do and he gives Peter what he needs without requiring any direction. Indulging him, Peter supposes. Unless posing for a side project for a photography club at Columbia falls somewhere on his bucket list.

Mr. Stark is patient throughout, and his dark eyes are locked right into the lens most of the time. They are very expressive, these eyes, and Peter moves closer and closer to get the intensity just right. He's got the money shot a few clicks in, but he spends the whole roll because, with Mr. Stark, every shot tells its own story.

A satisfied grin spreads across Peter's face after the final click of the shutter. He lowers his camera, playing with it in his hands.

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," he says, taking a few steps back. "I owe you one."

That's the thing, by the way. The thing. He owes him a lot. It creeps in on him, and Peter does his best to push it back by smiling so wide he is probably showing all of his teeth.

"Sure thing, kid," Mr. Stark nods and walks him back to the bar with his arm around Peter's shoulders. Long fingers quickly squeeze Peter's bicep – all quite innocent, all things considered, but just as Peter is about to bend over to collect his things, those fingers grab his chin. Shit.

"Underoos? Care to explain what I am looking at?" Mr. Stark asks, serious, and Peter's heart drops as he nudges away from the touch and pathetically fails at hiding a blooming bruise on his neck.

"Sorry," he apologizes, avoiding Mr. Stark's disappointed stare. "Every time I try to be more careful, it backfires. Maybe next time I'll do the exact opposite and come out of it without a single scratch, yeah?"

Peter laughs nervously, crouching down. He throws the camera into his backpack and zips it in with one swift move, ripping the end of the zipper. Well, fuck. He examines the slider in his hand.

"Next time, try not to leave a mark on the masterpiece," Mr. Stark is still quite serious, but there is a hint of humor in his eyes when he sees Peter fuss over the zipper. "You've got everything you need today? It's barely been twenty minutes. I've got time."

"All good, Mr. Stark," Peter gets up, throwing the bag over his shoulder. His hoodie hangs from one of the straps below. He folds one of the sleeves that is dragging on the ground and secures it in place. "I only had a few rolls on me anyway. Thanks. Again."

Just as he is about to leave, so fast on his heels he could break the speed barrier, Mr. Stark does the thing.

"Are you strapped for cash, kid?" He asks, and Peter turns around, his worn sneakers making a squeaky sound against the polished floor. Mr. Stark stands with his hands in his pockets, a fitting image of a concerned adult. "Just say the word."

"I'm alright, Mr. Stark," Peter shakes his head, the familiar weight pressing down on him like a lead blanket. "Honestly. The film is expensive, and I didn't budget right this week. But it's OK, I swear."

The word 'expensive' leaves a nasty aftertaste in his mouth.

By the time Peter actually leaves, trying to project confidence in his financial stability, he is sure he will find at least an extra grand in his bank account.

When he checks his mobile banking app after exiting the building, he finds five times that amount on top of the fourteen dollars he had left. Slumping, he drags his feet in the first direction he sees. Only a few minutes in, standing at the red light, he realizes it is the wrong direction to hop on the subway, so he resigns himself to strolling half a block until he gets to the next entrance.

It's just his luck that the subway train grinds to a halt half way, the unexpected stop jolting the people around him. A garbled announcement crackles through the speakers, informing passengers that there's a maintenance issue and the subway car will be delayed until further notice.

Peter stretches his feet, checks nobody needs his seat, and puts the headphone buds into his ears, pulling a hood over his head. He hates the subway. More than that, he hates the subway when the train is unmoving, fluorescent lights flickering above him, casting a cold glow over everyone. Being trapped in this metal cocoon beneath the city mirrors the way he feels in his own life. It's the last thing he needs after, again, walking away with money from Mr. Stark. Because of, you know, the thing.

He sighs, resting his head against the cool window, and watches as his breath fogs up the glass. As he tries to clear his mind, he can feel it there, like a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. A crushing debt. This debt that follows him around. This "I owe you" that is ever-present. One day he will repay it all, he is sure, and he keeps track, despite what everyone might think, but sometimes it seems like there's no end in sight. And it's suffocating him.

This debt, this thing, is not just about money. Although the money, the ‘Are you strapped for cash, kid? Just say the word.’ is the most humiliating part of it. Peter never strays far from the numbers that seem to define his existence. He obsesses over them, trying to find a way to make the impossible possible. He says he's doing fine, but the truth is that he feels like he's drowning. He has an app on his phone that he uses to keep an eye on the total of what he owes Mr. Stark, and by now it's already exceeding what he will realistically make in his first five to ten years after graduation.

The other side of this debt is contributing in any way he can to the cause. You know, the cause. Not the Avengers, of course, because they still treat him like a kid, despite the fact that he can legally drink. Just Spider-Man stuff. He is still working out the right number of hours he should spend on patrol to make up for the amount of tech and time Mr. Stark has poured into him. And this number keeps increasing.

Between majoring in Biochemistry and Molecular Biophysics and minoring in Applied Physics and Mathematics, with the added bonus of patrolling every night, he is barely keeping his head above water.

Oh, and Leah. He spends his time with her too.

Damn. Leah.

Peter pulls out his phone to text her he is running late. No signal. Of course.

He sighs again, closing his eyes, trying not to think about another disappointed look he is sure to receive. They've been kind of, almost going out for nearly a month now. Maybe it was a bad idea to start it to begin with, given that he barely has time to sleep, and the fact that she is a good friend, but that's what you do in college, right? It certainly has nothing to do with the rumors floating about him behind his back. Rumors he is not oblivious to; he is not deaf or blind.

When Peter gets to his apartment, located within walking distance of campus, he doesn't expect to find Leah still waiting. He's nearly an hour and a half late, but he runs just in case, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees her sitting on the carpeted beige hallway floor by his door. She's flipping through a magazine and seems pissed even before she sees him stumble out of the fire escape.

"Shit, Leah," he mumbles, digging for his keys in his hoodie pocket as she gets up, her lips pressed so tight they are nearly white. "I got stuck in the subway. For like forever. And I couldn't text."

He makes excuses while sheepishly nudging her into the apartment. She's wearing a short skirt with badass boots that reach her knees, and her long brown hair falls nicely to the small of her back.

"You look pretty," he says, tossing the keys on the table in the large room as he walks to the kitchen, turning on a few lights along the way. He puts the kettle on for some tea—Leah loves tea—and then returns to the living room.

She's standing by the open door, a paper bag with groceries at her feet. There's some celery sticking out of it—she was planning to make dinner—and he can see some melted ice cream leaking through the paper, so he picks up the bag and places it on the small coffee table. He feels so guilty that he wants the Earth to swallow him whole. She looks like she's about to dump him.

"Let me guess," Leah begins, tapping her foot. Peter walks around her to close the door. "Stark internship?"

"No," he says, facing her and uncomfortably fidgeting. He unzips the hoodie and chucks it on the leather couch. "Like I said, I got stuck in the subway. I'm sorry."

"You do know how this looks like, right?" It's not the first time she's said it. Hell, Leah wasn't even the first to bring it up. "And is that a fucking hickey?"

"It's not a hickey, it’s a bruise," he sticks his hands inside his jeans pockets. The jeans are old and hang on him, so there's plenty of room to do this without having to squeeze. "Don't be daft."

The moment it comes out, even if she wasn't planning on it, Leah is definitely set on dumping him.

They argue. She spits out a few things at him that make him feel like crap, and he holds some in, because he isn't an asshole. Not that she doesn't have a point. Because she does. At least about the thing.

"Get a grip, Parker," she seems so disgusted with him he nearly feels that way about himself by proximity. "There aren't enough excuses in the world to explain away what you're doing. At least be a man and admit it."

"Jesus Christ," he rubs the bridge of his nose and frowns. "Not you too."

"Nice apartment," she makes a point of looking around, as if she hadn't been here at least a dozen times before—before they even started dating. The huge space, the expensive furniture, the enormous TV, his computer rig in the corner of the room with a massive custom-made screen with an SI logo on it. Peter can see it too. Only he actually knows that all the rumors are bullshit. If only he were a convincing enough liar to—how did she put it—explain it away.

"I take it we're done?" Peter asks, slightly, but nowhere near enough gutted to keep entertaining this.

"Oh, we are so done," Leah throws the magazine she is holding at him, and he catches it, the fold conveniently opening to another money shot. Mr. Stark in the company of a guy about Peter's age.

"It's his intern," Peter drops the magazine on the coffee table next to the bag of food and melting ice cream that is now dripping on the floor. "Zach. He's alright."

"Right," Leah does sarcasm nearly as well as Mr. Stark. "How many interns does he need, exactly?"

He crosses his arms, grinding his teeth, and Leah heads for the door, her pretty hair flipping when she turns, her badass boots stomping on his polished mahogany or whatever the hell it is.

"If you decide to get yourself another beard, make sure not to ask for a helicopter next time," Leah suggests, yanking the door handle.

Peter takes a deep, calming breath.

"Or you won't be able to use the subway as an excuse again when coming back from your..." and here comes the thing. "...sugar daddy."

The two words Leah throws at Peter are absurd. They tarnish and belittle his relationship with Mr. Stark - a relationship that only a few people are aware of in the sense that they know nothing untoward is happening. Ned knows. MJ knows. Of course, Aunt May knows. But they are far away, doing their own thing, having moved away from New York to follow their dreams. And Peter can't exactly go around telling people - his college friends - who he really is. That Mr. Stark has been watching over Peter ever since he found out about Spider-Man. That he has a heart of pure gold, and that Peter doesn't actually ever have to ask. Because Mr. Stark just knows.

Just like he knew when Peter didn't qualify for the scholarship because the year before college was a touch heavy on the bad guys. When he knew Peter had counted on said scholarship, and even if Aunt May and he pulled everything they had, including selling some spare kidneys on the side, they wouldn't be able to cover even a fraction of the tuition. Mr. Stark also somehow knew that Peter was going to be homeless. Not that Aunt May would have followed through on her big move if that were the case, but "crash at my place" somehow turned into a shiny, fresh set of keys to the apartment Peter is scared of shitless, because he, Parker from Queens, might actually own it now. It's either that or it comes rent-free.

So, yeah, Mr. Stark knows. When Peter has that trapped expression on his face after losing another part-time job because he is constantly late. And Peter never has to ask. Even if he does without saying a word, because there is nobody in this world, including Aunt May, who can read him as well.

There you have it – bullshit.

But as Peter sits on the couch eating the melted ice cream in an apartment paid for by Tony Stark, and then goes to sleep in a bed that has been picked out for him by Tony Stark, and then spends the money from the bank account that only stays in the positive because of Tony Stark to get a coffee on the way to class, you guessed it, also covered by Tony Stark, this bullshit isn't just nonsense. It's the thing. And sometimes, just sometimes, in the rare moments when Peter's self-esteem drops below the Earth's crust, he thinks that, maybe, just maybe, there is something to it.

Because ever since Mr. Stark and Miss Potts split up, the tabloids have been plastered with images that leave little room for speculation. The faces beside Mr. Stark change daily, and they are young. So young that, on occasion, the papers feel the need to run an age check and publish it along with the article. Not to see if there is a scandal, mind you, because the world adores Iron Man. Not to judge, because most people don't see anything wrong with a man in his late thirties dating someone half their age – male or female. But to be sure.

And Peter can't really blame his Columbia circle for assuming. Mostly light-heartedly, because he'd like to think that he doesn't surround himself with absolute dickheads. It's easy to assume, though, and it's easy to make a few jokes at his expense.

Like the day after Leah dumps Peter for getting stuck on the subway, when a Stark Industries delivery guy makes his way across the yard at Columbia towards Peter, who is trying to catch a few rays of sunshine with his mates on the benches. The Stark Industries logo is on the guy's t-shirt, baseball hat, and the box he is carrying.

Peter gets a few knowing looks from his friends, as if they're in on his big secret. There might even be a whistle or two as Peter begrudgingly, but with a polite smile, signs for the package and leaves it next to him while remaining seated on top of the outdoor table, his feet in his cheap sneakers on the bench.

"Leah ditched me last night," he tells Kevin, Kev for short, and scrunches his nose before scratching it absentmindedly.

Kev, who is a great guy, just makes a face - the face - but then he punches Peter on his shoulder in what could be interpreted as a supportive gesture, muttering something about haters. Kev, who can also be an annoying twat despite his presumed greatness, is the one who eventually pushes Peter into opening the box.

And of course, there's a small fortune in photography equipment in there. There's a Leica M7 Titanium, Nikon F3 Limited, Rolleiflex 2.8GX, Contax RTS III, Mamiya 7 II, and, like a cherry on top, surrounded by enough film to open a small store and at least ten lenses with a custom adaptor to fit them all that shouldn't exist but does, there's a Hasselblad 500EL/M in perfect condition.

"Dude, they took this shit to the moon!" Kev, who is in his photography club, loses it just a little. "I can borrow it, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Peter shrugs, and adds, to make it clear: "I'm positive it isn't the one from the moon, if this matters to you. They left the cameras there and only took back the magazines with film."

However, you never actually know with Mr. Stark. And it makes Peter feel all sorts of ways that are confusing, embarrassing—mortifyingly so, and just about as big as a pebble in his shoe that he stops to shake out on the way back to class.

Ultimately, it is Leah, who sits behind him in Biochem, who plants the nagging thought that sets the whole thing in motion. When she leans over, tapping him on the head with the pen, and whispers, still obviously hurt:

"Just you wait, Parker," she says hushed during the class. "Even if nothing is happening yet, the second shoe will drop. I guarantee it."

Or maybe it's Ned, with whom Peter chats daily over Hangouts while they both cram for exams at their respective universities. When Ned pauses slightly after Peter finishes his rant - and shrugs, as if it's okay if it was a thing.

Or MJ, who bites her lips a bit, chews on her bottom one, and then deflates back in the chair, while drawing out, her eyes avoiding the webcam:

"I mean..."

But not Aunt May, who Peter tells one day, because he feels alone in this and actually gutted.

"Listen to me, Peter," she says, pointing her finger at him through the screen. "Tony Stark, and I will be the first to admit I was wrong about him, would never prey on you like that."

The voices that insinuate are louder though, and there are more of them. So yeah, this is where it starts.

Or, and it is debatable, it doesn't actually start until precisely eleven forty-eight in the evening on a Sunday night. When Peter nurses a cold beer, since it feels like something he should do after nearly getting his rear handed to him. He is on his balcony, sitting on a small copper bench, his feet reaching the railing and stretching his calves nicely. He rubs the cut on his cheekbone with the sleeve of his thrown-on sweatshirt when Iron Man lands next to him without warning.

"There you are," says Mr. Stark, stepping out of the hovering suit and dropping onto the seat next to Peter with an exhausted, tired sigh. He is wearing a suit underneath, not designed for world-saving, but it lacks a jacket, and his expensive tie is loosely hanging from his neck. "One human in this entire universe I don't feel like punching right now."

Before Peter can say something, but after he smiles, glad to see him, Mr. Stark slides the closed balcony door open without getting up and sends his suit – the one designed for actual world-saving – in.

"Go wash dishes or something," he orders it, and Peter, not concerned about the broken dishes he will find in his sink in the morning – there have been precedents – laughs, everything inside him warm and cozy, despite the raging pain in his elbow. Planting at least a hundred feet down into the pavement would do that to a body part, by the way.

"How was the fundraiser?" He asks after Mr. Stark mimics his position and stretches his own legs, using the balcony railing for support. Mr. Stark's neck dips back, and his head presses against the glass wall as he rummages in the pocket of his black pants.

"Hell on Earth," Peter hears in reply, and Mr. Stark fishes out a thin golden tube that looks like a miniature cigar case, but has nothing as mundane in it. "Want some?"

"Aunt May would murder you. And me," Peter shrugs but takes the joint when offered and inhales, holding his breath for about half a minute and then releasing it in a single, drawn-out puff.

Peter smokes for a bit, with each breath sinking deeper into the bench, allowing the gentle embrace of relaxation to wash over him. The smoke swirls around him, enveloping him in a cocoon of near tranquility, momentarily shielding him from both the pain and everything else that is wrong with his life.

It's not the first time they do it; they do hang out a lot, and Mr. Stark is... well, Mr. Stark. He is the first one to say that all the bad rumors about him have been grossly under-exaggerated. But he is chilled, and cool, and while he keeps calling Peter a kid, he doesn’t treat him as such anymore, not like the other Avengers. Not all the time, anyway. Not on nights like this.

And it’s a good night. Near darn perfect. The cold evening breeze runs across Peter’s skin, carrying with it the soothing sounds of crickets and the distant hum of the city. The sky overhead is a deep, velvety blue, dotted with countless stars, and Mr. Stark’s presence beside him brings Peter an innate sense of security. They chat for a bit and Mr. Stark’s quiet laughter intertwines with Peter’s, filling the air and lingering around them like a familiar melody. And it’s effortless – the conversation. Ebbing and flowing between moments of both shared, somewhat exhausted chatter and comfortable silence.

With his legs stretched out and his back against the soft cushions of the bench, Peter is utterly at peace. It's easy for assumptions, the rumors, the thing to fade away when it's like this. And it is almost always like this with Mr. Stark. Time seems to briefly slow on this tiny balcony, as if in a small pocket of serenity, and everything is alright. Of course, it is.

Until the second proverbial shoe drops, that is. Or maybe it's Peter who launches it down from the moon, while watching as it burns in the atmosphere.

It's Peter's idea to show Mr. Stark his darkroom, which he had converted from the en suite bathroom of his bedroom – it's not like he needed two.

Peter flicks the switch, the red safety light bathing the darkroom in a soft, eerie glow, as he ushers a rather high Mr. Stark in and closes the door behind him. Peter is high too, despite his metabolism. Just because it takes less time to wear off doesn't mean he doesn't feel the effects. If anything, he might feel them more.

This would explain why Peter's hands shake when he picks up a random roll of film from the unprocessed batch in the box. And why they keep shaking as he unrolls the exposed film from its canister and threads it onto the reel, taking care not to touch the surface. It could also be because Mr. Stark watches intently, their shoulders brushing, but then Peter measures out the chemicals into separate cups, and Mr. Stark helps to pour the developer into the tank, agitating the film in a slow, rhythmic motion, and it doesn’t actually matter why Peter feels the way he does.

They smoke for a while, and the light from the tip of the new joint they spark up will probably add exposed lines to the film if it catches it out of the tub, but Mr. Stark might not know it's a thing, and Peter doesn't care enough to say something. Then they pour out the developer and replace it with the stop bath – around 'oh shit, we forgot’ o’clock. And repeat the process with the fixer, ensuring the film is properly stabilized, but Peter is even more high by then, so he eyeballs the time and doesn't use the timer, relying on his experience. Even so, the negatives come out fine, and Mr. Stark helps Peter clip one end of the film strip to a wire, allowing it to hang and dry.

They smoke more. And chat – about virtually nothing, the easy banter filling the room lit up in a soft red light. Gentle heat radiates from the shelf above them, blowing the negatives dry, and Peter's palms sweat again, like they often do when Mr. Stark is around.

He lets Mr. Stark select the photos, since they are printing them for him – and yes, Mr. Stark does make a joke about it being an investment for when Peter is a world-famous photographer, slash scientist, slash running Stark Industries.

Peter walks Mr. Stark through exposing the two photos he picked out using the enlarger. That said, when they transfer the exposed paper into the tray containing the developer solution, and when the images start to form on the paper, Peter can't see anything except for the way Mr. Stark's arms, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, look under the safe light of the darkroom. So his instructions might have been more confusing than helpful, but Mr. Stark manages. And it’s nothing new. Peter just gets distracted sometimes when he is around.

Mr. Stark’s tie hangs so low over the tray that it dips into a chemical a few times. And Peter is mesmerized by the way it rocks back and forth when Mr. Stark moves, as Peter rocks the tray back and forth, the images coming to life right by him, but also entirely too far away, because he feels like he is floating above the room.

He keeps floating, dazed and unsure even after they go through the motions and, finally, rinse the prints in a tray of water to remove any residual chemicals.

And when Mr. Stark shuffles back, leaning on the bathroom wall and stares at the photos they have printed hanging from the wire, Peter simply can't stand the way the corner of his mouth dips lower. Can't bear the sheer sadness in his voice when Mr. Stark asks, his voice low:

"You ever feel so alone, like you're a puzzle piece in the wrong box, surrounded by pieces that will never fit?"

It must be the high. The high of strong weed that nearly breaks Peter's heart, because Mr. Stark seems like he is searching for that missing connection to make him whole in the photos. Or it could be some other excuse that Peter isn’t good at as a general concept.

Either way, Peter doesn’t dwell on it – by then he actually notices what they are. The photographs.

In the first one, Mr. Stark is in the lab, peering through a magnifying glass, examining a minuscule component. The black and white emphasizes the lines on his face, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, and the glint of determination in his eyes. In the second one, he is leaning back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if contemplating a problem, but even as he does it, he seems to be looking directly into the camera – at Peter – and his eyes with dark shadows under them are filled with warmth.

Both of these, swinging side-by-side, speak volumes.

They, and they alone, make it entirely too easy for Peter to shift half a step closer to Mr. Stark, grab the tie with his shaking hand, squeezing it in his grip, and pull on it, bringing their lips together in a sudden one-sided kiss that happens entirely too fast, but seems to drag on in slow motion.

And maybe in that exact moment, it is about Peter paying back Mr. Stark for all the "I owe you's." Or, possibly, it is something else – something he can't place his finger on, as he moves his lips against Mr. Stark who stands so still he could actually be a photo himself – completely frozen.

Peter has enough sense to panic momentarily. But it’s a good night and Mr. Stark shouldn’t be sad – shouldn’t look like the world is ending because of a couple of snaps, so Peter whispers into his warm, soft lips, his own touching against them:

"Mr. Stark, please..."

Please let me make you feel better. Please let me pay you back for everything you have done for me.

The last 'please' doesn't actually form, because by the time Peter gets to it, Mr. Stark's hands move, pulling him closer, engulfing him in an insanely tight, overbearingly strong hug of his arms, as he kisses Peter back, pressing Peter's body against the closed bathroom door that groans in objection. Although it could be Peter who moans – a surprised, barely audible moan, as Mr. Stark's lips nuzzle against his own, and the heat, the strength, the smell, the very presence of Tony Stark, blurs Peter's thoughts into nothing, smudging them completely.

When Mr. Stark pushes on Peter's lips with his tongue, Peter invites him in without objection. And, while Peter has definitely kissed before, he isn't sure he was ever kissed like this. Like someone's life actually depended on him answering back. This kiss is thirsty, hungry, and Mr. Stark's callused fingers end up on the sides of Peter's face, his thumbs grazing Peter's cheeks. He kisses him again and again, their bodies pressed together so tightly there is no chance even a single molecule of air could still be trapped between them.

There is a moment though, somewhere between the kisses that leave Peter breathless, his heart exploding against his chest, when Mr. Stark edges his face away.

"This might not be a good idea, kid," his voice is so raspy. "Are you sure?"

Peter can't think about anything else, apart from maybe a panicked thought that scrolls through his brain like on a teleprompter 'It's Mr. Stark, it's Mr. Stark, it's Mr. Stark...', so he replies with the first thing that pops up in the foreground:

"Could you touch me, please?" There is a distinct pleading, and maybe this is where they would stop if Peter was given time to realize what this means. But then Mr. Stark kisses him again, his mouth wet and burning against Peter's, and it doesn't just snowball from there – too fast – it avalanches.

Because Mr. Stark's lips end up on Peter's throat and touch Peter's skin a hundred times it feels like, while the hands with long, brilliant fingers that Peter can watch for hours doing just about anything, end up on the belt of his jeans. Then on the zipper and, finally, one of them presses against Peter's already hard cock through the fabric of his boxers.

Peter pushes himself into this hand, rubs himself against it, while Mr. Stark's breath is loud and uneven close to Peter's ear. He buries his face in Mr. Stark's shoulder when Mr. Stark drags his boxers down. His palm circles around Peter, his thumb sliding across the top of his cock. Peter makes a hitched noise right into that shoulder, sounding vaguely like a wounded animal.

"Fuck..." he grunts through his teeth, his eyes closed, his lips swollen and wet, his face still tingling from Mr. Stark's goatee that scratched it during the kiss making it so much better than any other kiss Peter had before. "Mr. Stark..."

Mr. Stark laughs quietly, but it is a strained, disbelieving kind of laugh that licks Peter's skin. And he doesn't stop, his free hand roaming under Peter's sweatshirt, sliding past the sensitive nipples, past Peter's tense, trembling stomach. All the while the other hand, the one stroking Peter's cock just right, slowly peels away everything he thought he knew about what he liked. Leaving only this hand and the remainder of Mr. Stark’s taste in his mouth – with mild hints of mint, some booze, and the sweetness of the weed.

There is something savoring about the way Mr. Stark lets it drag on for ages – longer than Peter thought he would be capable of holding on. Mr. Stark keeps whispering "Peter, Peter, Peter", but there is no sense in this word at all – it's just a combination of random letters at this point to Peter, who is so crazy high, so close to falling apart that he doesn't recognize these letters making up his name.

Mr. Stark’s thigh brushes against Peter’s leg, and he is so hard under the pants of his suit, that Peter’s hand unknowingly moves to cup this large hardness, his own fingers searching, stirring a strange and unexpected desire to touch it without the barrier of clothes. Maybe even to feel it in his mouth – warm, pulsating, like it does now – jerking slightly in Peter’s fingers from just barely a graze.

Mr. Stark makes a muted, shallow sigh from deep within his chest. The movements of his wrist, his hand on Peter, become faster, more impatient. But it doesn’t even matter, because by then, after this half-sigh, half-muffled moan, Peter is coming, his hips surging forward, his whole body shaking. And Mr. Stark holds him in his embrace – one hand still on his cock, gently teasing him dry, while another hand pushes Peter’s whole body by the waist to his chest, Mr. Stark’s lips on Peter’s temple.

Peter rides this felling, this good night for miles in the darkroom's tight darkness. Hell, he might even be sobbing, his lips dry by the time he is done, the air escaping his lungs parching them.

But the spell ends, and things are most definitely not alright the moment Peter pulls on the door handle and they stumble into the bedroom. They are kissing - again, he guesses - and Mr. Stark mutters under his breath and into Peter’s mouth:

"I need to see you, Peter. God, can I see you?"

The threshold of the darkroom - of the safe space, Peter's space - feels like a cold shower as they leave the red light of the converted bathroom and are immediately surrounded by the entirely too bright light of the bedroom.

There's barely a second between him clinging to Mr. Stark's shoulders, eagerly reciprocating his kisses, letting Mr. Stark lick into his mouth, and Peter abruptly pausing, his socks swallowed by the thick plush of the carpet.

Peter stops and pulls away, his eyes widening in shock. He needs a minute. He might need a lifetime to understand this. He puts his palm over his lips, examining the facts, his thoughts racing.

Fact number one: He is no longer high.

Fact number two: Mr. Stark is still Mr. Stark.

But now, Peter knows how his kisses feel, how his mouth tastes, how his warm brown eyes look when he jerks Peter off. He also knows what his voice sounds like when he repeats "Peter, Peter, Peter" - equally disbelieving and teetering on the edge of what Peter can't even...

Fact number three: Peter freaks out as suddenly and without warning as he pulled on Mr. Stark's tie.

His stomach flips, and he creates more distance between them, hugging himself across it.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Stark reaches for Peter's cheek, and Peter shakes his head, the fingers sliding from it. "We don't need to do anything you're not ready for."

It's not the "ready for" that pushes Peter over the edge, making him turn 180 degrees and bolt into the living room, running away. It's the "we" of it all.

Peter paces across his living room, hands on the back of his head, jeans barely clinging to his hips, the zipper still open. Adding to the bizarreness, Mr. Stark's Iron Man suit sits on Peter's leather couch, silently watching Discovery Channel.

"Pete?" calls Mr. Stark.

Peter makes a sharp U-turn, putting himself in direct view of Mr. Stark leaning on the doorway, his tie twisted. Mr. Stark seems... confused.

"I'm sorry," says Peter, his arms dropping to his sides. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark. I can't do this. I'm sorry."

Before Peter finishes, somewhere around "I can't," the face that Peter trusts, the one that makes wild grins appear on Peter's lips even when he feels like crap, drops. And it is positively no longer a good night.

"You don't need to do this," Peter continues, immediately resuming his pacing. He bumps into the coffee table, pushes it aside, and nearly trips over the Iron Man armor that holds him up and prevents him from falling. "You really don't need to do this. I know it's a lot, and I'll pay you back, I swear—I've been keeping track, you know. But you don't need to buy it. You shouldn't have to. Because you're Mr. Stark, you know, because..."

He doesn't get to finish.

"Pete?" Mr. Stark's voice is no longer confused; it's angry. "What the actual fuck?"

A week flies by.

On Monday, Peter's hands tremble as he reaches for his backpack, haunted by recent events. His legs feel weak, buckling under the weight of guilt. In the lecture hall, the professor's words fade into a dull drone.

The old-fashioned clock in Peter's kitchen ticks away in silence. After a few minutes, he calms down just a bit and finally looks up.

On Tuesday, sleep-deprived Peter walks Columbia’s halls in a daze, tormented by relentless memories. In class, he pretends to pay attention, but the whiteboard's formulas blur together, his thoughts shrouded.

Mr. Stark stands in the middle of the living room, exactly where Peter left him. And he doesn’t seem angry after all. Instead, he seems completely and thoroughly... devastated. There is so much regret in the air that the room feels heavy, laden with it.

Wednesday arrives, and the shock lingers. Peter's friends try to engage him, but their voices are distant. He nods and smiles too much, going through the motions but feeling like an imposter. He eats lunch on autopilot, barely tasting the food.

"Mr. Stark," Peter nearly chokes on it.

"This," Mr. Stark makes an undetermined wave, turning away from Peter. "It's nothing. Keep it. Keep... whatever. Keep everything. And I am... I think I am going to go, kid."

By Thursday, the surreal feeling clings to Peter like a second skin. He's walking on a tightrope of numbness, balancing precariously between borders of reality. He attends a group study session, but the words in the textbook elude him. Kev grows concerned, and Peter ignores calls from Ned, MJ, and even Aunt May.

The breaking point comes when Mr. Stark, already by the door, says quietly as he leaves “It’s just... pocket change.”

Friday arrives, and the shock remains. Peter feels detached, his heart racing during the final lecture of the week. The memory of what he did weighs on his chest, refusing to budge.

The Iron Man suit takes off abruptly, shattering the balcony doors on the way out. Peter barely registers its departure.

By lunch, the campus buzzes with excitement: Stark Industries had made a massive donation. Students cluster together, the atmosphere electric. Kev's arm is around Peter's shoulders, guiding him outside. Kev is sceptical that the powers that be in charge will come through, but relief is evident even on his face; he has student loans and is barely affording a room share.

"All we have to do is apply," Kev repeats as they settle on the benches, others joining them.

Peter’s eyes follow the sunlit leaves of the trees as they flutter in the breeze, their dance a distant spectacle, like a silent movie played on a far-off screen. The world spins around him, but he remains untouched, lost and disconnected from the joyful energy that envelops the sun-soaked college yard.

The donation is generous, telling and crushing.

The weekend is brutal as Peter emerges from the depths, unable to wallow anymore. He resumes patrolling, buries himself in books, and does his best to fill the void. Mr. Stark's absence still slams into him like a freight train, even though Peter is almost back to normal, or as normal as he can be.

He's acutely aware of the empty hours unfolding before him—hours he never realized were spent with Mr. Stark. Texting, chatting on the phone, or hanging out never felt like scheduled events. They were just there, and now they're gone, leaving an ever-growing ache in Peter's chest.

He wonders how he failed to anticipate the pain, how he took Mr. Stark's presence for granted. But as he sits alone, the truth is inescapable: Mr. Stark was his anchor, his constant. Without him, Peter is adrift and isolated. And Mr. Stark doesn't return his calls anymore.

As days turn into weeks, Peter tries to adapt to this new reality – he used to be good at that. He throws himself into schoolwork and patrols, hoping to dull the ache, but the empty spaces in his life refuse to be filled. Every quiet moment, every lull in activity, reminds him of the times he and Mr. Stark would chat, argue, or simply be together in comfortable silence.

The loss feels like a physical weight, pressing down on him at unexpected moments, threatening to crush him under its burden.

Peter's college friends, Ned and MJ, especially Aunt May notice the change - the way he's pulled back into himself. But even their attempts to bridge the gap can't quite reach Peter, who is stranded on an island.

In quiet moments, Peter wonders if the pain will ever subside.

By the month’s end, it does and it doesn’t.

Ironically, it's Leah who provides some much-needed clarity, snapping Peter out of his funk.

She finds him sitting on the wide roof of the frat house, the stars scattered across the clear sky above him. The cool night air contrasts with the stifling atmosphere inside. Below, the party rages on, with laughter, music, and excited chatter seeping through the walls. Up here, however, it feels like a world away. The crescent moon casts a soft glow over the roof as Leah awkwardly climbs through an open window on the top floor, nearly slipping on wet leaves stuck to the slanted, slippery surface.

"Parker," she acknowledges him without any warmth, searching for a good spot.

Peter moves the hoodie from his lap and tosses it next to him for her to sit on.

"Ever the gentleman," she comments sarcastically but takes the offer nonetheless. They listen to the muffled beats of the party's music thumping below. Occasional bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses remind of the revelry downstairs, but even Leah seems content to leave it behind for whatever reason.

"So, what's up with you?" Leah asks after some time. "We've been wondering... Spill."

The other "we"—not the one that nearly chokes Peter to tears. The "we" Leah is still technically a part of: his circle at Columbia that constantly tries to help without knowing what happened, offering support, distractions, and kind words that do very little.

It's the way the night unfolds around them—a juxtaposition of quietude and chaos, the peaceful sky contrasting with the madness going on below. The uneasy feeling of missing something that has been gnawing at him for so long finally finds an outlet, creating an opening. Both compel him to share. So he does, in a hushed voice, taking long pauses while speaking, and she doesn't interrupt, her hands folded over her knees. He tells her everything. Well, almost everything.

The first, but not the last thing Leah says when he's done, with a bemused frown on her face that he can see even though her profile is directed at the street, is:

"Jesus Christ, Parker. No wonder I dumped your ass. You're a fucking idiot."

Peter hasn't stepped into the darkroom since the thing with Mr. Stark.

The pattern that Leah was kind enough to point out before telling him to get his shit together and leaving him on the roof, emerges quickly, as Peter processes the rolls that have been collecting dust for ages. He doesn't even need to look for it, because said pattern makes up not just a significant chunk, but the vast majority of shots.

At first, Peter handles each negative carefully, taking the time to meticulously print each image. However, as the sheer volume of pictures becomes apparent, he hurries, his movements growing more erratic, and the quality of the prints begins to suffer.

He prints one photo after another, the urgency mounting with each passing moment. The paper supply dwindles rapidly, but he cannot stop, driven by an insatiable need to see every single image.

Eventually, he exhausts his stock of paper, hundreds of photographs now scattered haphazardly across the darkroom. Surrounded by chaos of his own making, he takes a step back, surveying the sea of faces that all feature the same man. And the magnitude of the pain he is unable to shake and where it is coming from – why it is there to begin with - finally sinks in.

Rain pours down as Peter, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie with the hood pulled up, climbs Stark Tower. Without his suit but equipped with web shooters, he navigates the wet, slippery surface. A backpack dangles from his shoulder, swaying with each gust of wind. Its half-open zipper, something Peter never got around to fixing, lets rainwater seep in, soaking the contents.

Peter had tried entering from below, but the elevator to the penthouse that wouldn’t open for him forced him to climb. With no suit, he relies on his hood for disguise. As he ascends, the wind intensifies, tugging at his clothes. His soaked hoodie clings to him, cold and heavy, and his sneakers struggle for a grip. Despite the hood, rain pelts his face relentlessly.

Undeterred, Peter presses on. The cityscape below fades into a swirling gray world. The tower looms above, and the backpack's contents drive him upward, hoping Mr. Stark is home and willing to hear him out.

As Peter climbs, rain and wind continue their assault. He shivers, but his determination warms him. Numb fingers grip the building, pulling him up inch by inch. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles, but his senses keep him alert.

Finally, near the top, the wind intensifies further. Adrenaline surges as he hauls himself onto the balcony, trembling from the cold. Rain still battering him, he catches his breath, wiping his face with his soaked sleeve.

That’s when he sees him for the first time in over a month. Mr. Stark, dressed in a t-shirt and slacks, a drink of something in his hand stopped mid-motion, staring at him through the glass.

Even though he is grateful for the respite, Peter doesn't thank Mr. Stark, accepting the towel and shivering uncontrollably from the cold. He thought he could come up with something to say on the way up, but as he vigorously dries his face and hair, water drips from his soaked clothes onto the floor, pooling around his feet, and he can't think of anything. Not when Mr. Stark, who did let him in, retreats behind the bar, refilling his drink and downing it in one swift motion.

The waterlogged fabric of his hoodie and jeans clings to Peter's body, making him even more conscious of the chill he feels deep in his bones. With each step he takes towards Mr. Stark, water splashes in his sneakers, the squelching sound echoing in the large, but quiet room.

Peter rummages through his rain-soaked backpack, carefully going through its wet contents in search of the stack of photos he brought with him. Despite the moisture that has seeped into the bag, he hopes the images are still salvageable. He retrieves the first stack, cringing at the dampness that has already begun to warp the edges of the paper, and places it on the bar with utmost care.

Mr. Stark doesn't even glance at the photos in front of him. The tension is palpable, and Peter finds it increasingly difficult to breathe. In this awkward silence, Peter struggles to find the right words to initiate the conversation and explain. He racks his brain, searching for a way to break the ice. His heart pounds in his chest, and he can't help but feel a crushing sense of disappointment and anxiety as the seconds tick by.

Eventually, it is Mr. Stark who speaks first, and his words are as telling and crushing as his generous donation to Columbia, which gave every student an opportunity to apply for a grant that would cover not only their tuition but also living expenses for the duration of their studies.

"It was a lot of money for you, Peter," Mr. Stark says, strained, his head down as he busies himself with something behind the bar counter. "Everything, including the suit, was to make sure you were alright. Not to buy your time or your... affection. I would have never taken advantage of you. And the fact that you think I did – showering you with unwanted gifts, making you spend your time with me, drugging you. It's unforgivable. Of me."

"Mr. Stark..." Peter finally seizes the opportunity to chime in, pushing the photos forward.

"Don't do this," Mr. Stark shakes his head and avoids meeting Peter's eyes. "Don't apologize for something you thought was expected of you and being good enough to not follow through."

"Mr. Stark..." Peter nudges the stack further.

"Pete..." Mr. Stark sighs, pouring himself another drink. He doesn't take a sip, though, because by then, Peter forcefully slides the stack towards him, and it skids along the shiny surface of the bar, dropping to the floor on the other side with the sound of paper spilling all over.

Mr. Stark hesitates, but bends over to collect the photos, crouching. Peter can hear him, rooted to where he is, unable to move, as Mr. Stark seems to pick up the prints one at a time. When he straightens up, the expression on his face is unreadable. And he can no longer avoid Peter, who is as close to the bar as he can be on the other side without actually climbing over it.

Peter knows what's in these images. In all snaps, Mr. Stark looks straight at Peter. In some, his eyes are filled with determination and focus. In others, he appears contemplative, a far-off expression betraying the depth of his thoughts. But most capture him with a wide grin or at least a gentle smile, eyes sparkling with amusement. And those that show him with furrowed brows, signs of frustration, reveal more about the way he feels about Peter than Peter understood before he printed them all, not leaving the darkroom for days.

"It's not like you needed proof," Mr. Stark sets the paper aside, leaning on the counter. He looks tired and resigned. "Not after..."

"Is it true?" Peter asks, biting his lip, his eyelashes still wet from the rain.

"Again, kid," yet another sigh. Mr. Stark dips his head to his shoulder, the corner of his mouth moving slightly upwards while nodding. When he continues, the same corner dips down. "It's not like you needed proof. But there, you have it. What else do you want me to say? I'm sorry? I am."

"I panicked, Mr. Stark," Peter fidgets on his feet, unsure of what to do now. "I wasn't ready. And then you had to go ahead and say 'we,' and it freaked me out even more. I didn't... I didn't..."

“Pete,” this time Mr. Stark actually manages a weak smile, that is almost reassuring. “Don’t worry. Whatever you think I need from you – I don’t. Whatever you think you owe me – you don’t. I will get over this. But you need to go. Please.”

And maybe because he is still new to the idea of what is actually happening – happening between them, or the please that he doesn’t remember hearing from Mr. Stark before, Peter does turn to leave, his shoulders slumping.

“Not that way,” Mr. Stark calls after him, as Peter’s feet head straight back towards the balcony, the backpack with some weight to it dragging behind him.

“Oh,” Peter nods to himself, his heart busy plummeting. “Yeah.”

He passes Mr. Stark, who is still leaning on the bar, and he is actually intent on going through with leaving, but then Mr. Stark, and of course it has to be him, changes Peter’s mind by lying.

“See you around, kid.”

With a sudden burst of angry energy Peter reaches into his backpack, pulling out another stack of photos of Mr. Stark he printed in the darkroom.

He holds it in his hands, Mr. Stark's gaze directed at his glass, and backtracks awkwardly back to the bar.

“That,” Peter nods at the photos Mr. Stark has already seen. “Is your proof.”

“This,” he slams the stack in his hands down on the bar, the force making the glasses rattle. “This one is mine.”

And because he doesn’t feel like sticking around anymore waiting for the elevator and is too scared to wait for a reaction, Peter storms back out into the rain, letting the cold droplets pelt his face again. He steps over the edge of the balcony, trusting in his abilities, and plummets towards the ground below. He plans to shoot a web before he hits the pavement, catching himself mid-fall, and to swing as far away as he can. However, before he can even release the web, Iron Man intercepts him in mid-air, yanking him up.

Mr. Stark holds Peter in his strong metallic arms, the thrusters on his suit roaring against the rain as he quickly changes course, bringing them both back up. Peter's heart races from the surprise and the adrenaline – it happens so fast. They land back on the balcony, Iron Man gently setting Peter down, the suit hissing and whirring as it retracts, revealing Mr. Stark's face.

He looks at Peter, his expression a mixture of concern, frustration, and something else that Peter couldn’t place for years but can now.

The rain continues to pour down on them like a fitting backdrop.

On the glossy bar next to dozens of images of Tony Stark looking at Peter, there is a much thicker stack of hundreds of photographs. That one is filled with candids that Peter took looking at unsuspecting Tony through the glass of his camera's lens instead.