Chapter Text
The only sounds filling the lab are the subtle clinks of metal hitting against metal, the whirring of an electric drill, and the uncomfortable shrieking of the circular saw as it cuts through the steel sheet, sparks flying with the friction. All of these sounds are familiar to you—so familiar, and so warm. Like home away from home, except, well... it's in your home, so it's not exactly away from home. Oh well. The lab is still just as much home as anything else in the building.
The room is eerily silent beyond the noises of your work, beyond the scratches of sandpaper against your callused fingertips as you sand down sharpened metal edges before they nick your skin, beyond the groan and creak of your chair as you lean to back to check over your work. It isn't often you find yourself in here alone, without your father playing music to full volume as he carries on with his endless stream of work and overworking, but you treasure these quiet moments, appreciating them for everything that they are and draining them of everything until the very last second.
On the edge of the worktop, balanced precariously, your phone begins to buzz as a call comes in, but you opt to ignore it. It's likely one of your friends, and, if you're being honest, you don't exactly want to speak to anybody right now, so you let it ring out into silence once again. You'd rather die than deal with another conversation with somebody you know only sees you as a wallet and not a person this week, and it's only Monday morning. Some say you build tolerance with exposure. Some lie. You see a correlation between those two statements.
When it begins to ring again not ten seconds later, vibrations more grating on your ears than any sort of noise a tool could make, you do your best not to give in to the urge to grab the phone and crush it within your grip (not that you could really manage such a thing in the first place), but it's often hard to ignore a noise when it rips into your brain like the hungering jaws of a shark, selfish and unstoppable. With a harsh striking noise, you toss the piece of steel you've been carving down and grab your phone, staring at the contact name in bitter annoyance.
Like most times, the disturbance of your peace was caused by none other than your father, Tony Stark. You love him, you really do—that much is undeniable—but sometimes you wish that you could just move out and have a space where he isn't constantly helicoptering around you, even when he doesn't mean to. Reluctantly, you answer the phone, though you definitely tap the screen with a lot more force than strictly necessary.
"Hi, dad..." you grumble, fitting the phone between your shoulder and ear as you move back to your work. If you're more noisy than necessary with it, well, nobody ever got sent to hell for being petty.
"Kiddo! Listen, can you—" Screech! "Can you—" Bang! "Come on, can you just—" Clang!
"Sorry, what was that?" you ask him, completely failing to hide the victorious grin in your voice as it spreads across your face, infectious and smug. You enjoy antagonizing your father a fair bit. It's enough to brighten any of your dull days.
Tony takes a deep breath on the other end of the line, used to dealing with these antics frequently. "Sometimes I think you hate me."
"What? Why would I ever do that?" you drawl, pushing your chair away from the workbench with a kick, letting it roll across the free space of the lab floor.
"No idea," Tony responds, only sounding halfway amused. The rest of him just sounds irritated and sleepy, which doesn't particularly surprise you. "Just stop being difficult and come upstairs already, you need to—"
"Fine, fine..." you sigh, cutting him off. All you allow him is an annoyed splutter as he tries to finish his sentence before you hang up, not quite wanting to hear the end of the sentence. You don't particularly care why you're meant to be going upstairs since you're going to have to either way, and it'll annoy him even more, so why not?
With a sigh of reluctance, you rise from your chair and carelessly kick it back into somewhere near to the realm of where it's supposed to be, and you pocket your phone, readjusting your shirt and swiping off the burrs of metal from the fabric. When you feel sufficiently dusted off, you head for the door, going upstairs despite not being particularly interested in pleasing Tony right now. At the very least, it might entertain you for a while, distracting from the boredom of your day-to-day existence.
You climb the stairs step by step, not in any sort of rush, but your feet seem to grow heavier with each step, a sense of tense exhaustion settling deep in your ribs, and yet you carry on forward because all of it is just a physical manifestation of how much you really don't want to be doing this, and taking a quick nap on the stairs isn't exactly an option if you want to look like you still hold some semblance, some mere shred of your dignity—you lost that a while ago, somewhere between growing boobs and realising that hating them was probably a very early sign of your identity, of course, but keeping up appearances is always nice.
When you emerge from the staircase, stepping into the main room, you're immediately met with the sight of not one person, but two, and isn't that odd? You were under the impression that you and your dad were the only people living here since The Fight™ (because, yes, it does need the trademark), so, really, it shouldn't be two people you're seeing, unless you've got double vision or you're having an out-of-body experience. Or maybe there's just a visitor, which seems like the much more likely option.
Oh. Ew. A visitor.
You look at the person standing opposite you—brunette, willowy, and relatively tall—and realize you don't recognize him in the slightest. This boy, staring at you in visible confusion, is somebody entirely new. He's no Black Widow or Hawkeye, he's no Thor or Hulk, he's no Captain America, pride of the country and the golden boy of the western world. This boy isn't an old friend, a familiar face. This boy isn't a ghost stalking the halls that used to be populated by the very ones Tony fought against, the ones who used to sit in the kitchen and give you a gentle nod of approval when you walked into the kitchen for breakfast each morning.
You don't recognise this boy, and yet you can't deny that he pulls you in like he's magnetic. Naturally, you take this as a sign that you need to mentally back away and keep distance at all costs.
"Kid, this is Peter," Tony says to you, gesturing vaguely in Peter's direction. "Peter, this is my daughter."
The word sends a sharp strike down your spine, rocking your core like an angry sea and making the blood run away from your face. Everything in your body ceases its movement for that second and any sarcastic comment you might've thought up falls short of making it out of your mouth as it starts to feel like it's full of sand, like you've bitten into dry concrete powder and it's already setting into place. You don't breathe, you don't blink, and your heart doesn't even dare to beat. Everything, for a moment, stills. The world has stopped spinning and it's thrown you off of it.
You know he doesn't mean it. You know he doesn't know. You know that nobody knows, that you have nobody to know. Nobody to bare your every secret to, nobody to fall back on when there's nothing else to do but die. Quite frankly, it would've been worse if he'd called you his son. It would've been right, and it would've fulfilled something in you that had not once felt the light of day, the glow of joy and acceptance. But it would've meant he knew. And that thought was scarier than anything else you'd experienced. The thought of him knowing. The thought of him knowing the truth. Knowing that you weren't his daughter anymore, and never would be.
"I'm—" Your mouth moves without you telling it to, without you wanting it to. The word comes out dry, gravelly, and forced, like your mouth is full of a thick, viscous substance, like toffee gluing your mouth closed. You're almost thankful of the way the boy prevents you from saying another word.
"I know your name; Mr. Stark talks about you all the time," Peter explains, mouth appearing to move faster than his mind could accommodate. Or maybe that was just part of the charm. "You look... different than I imagined you— Not that that's a bad thing!"
You merely hum in response, a short and sharp grunt-like noise in response to a statement that you've heard so many times before. Almost every time you meet someone new, it's always a different play on the same, backhanded sentiment, and you've never exactly enjoyed putting up with it, even when the backhandedness really isn't meant to come off that way. It's become as common to hear as "hello," or "how are you?" but it's only ended up far more aggravating than the rest. Brevity is a talent, of course, and a lot of the time the statement lacks it. It's also really just not as catchy.
"I know it's going to be a change," Tony starts, and that is historically never a good way to start a sentence, "but Peter is going to be staying here for a while."
Immediately, you're snapped out of your trance and your consciousness is brought back to the forefront of your mind as you turn to stare at your dad in shock. Cogs begin to turn, slowly but surely, and thoughts begin to return to you one by one. "Sorry... what?" you ask him, but he doesn't even try to repeat himself. He knows that that isn't what you want to hear right now. The silence rings for a second, so incredibly loud as the tension between you grows more and more palpable with every passing moment. "Uhm, no. Just no. For starters."
"This isn't a debate," he tells you, his tone about as tough as he's willing to make it before noon on a Saturday morning. "Peter's staying. I know you don't like it, but he is."
"Can't we just give him to the pound?" you quip in return, and you know a quick glance back at the boy will tell you he's standing there looking like a kicked puppy, fit for the job.
"I should've given you to the pound," Tony grumbled in reply, but you're struggling to find any amusement in the situation right now.
Slowly, you take a deep breath, mulling things over in your mind. Having another something-teen year old boy in a tower as large as this doesn't necessarily mean seeing him all day, every day, so it might not be the worst thing to happen to you yet. And then a sense of curiosity hits you, and you wonder aloud, "Why do you even know a teenage boy, dad? Like, well enough to be insistent on having him live here?"
"Iron Man stuff," Tony replies, obviously expecting no further explanation to be needed. For a moment, you splutter, staring at him like he's grown a third eye, but slowly you come to realise that it's no use. You'll likely never know how exactly these two met, you're sure.
"Whatever. I'm not thinking about this right now. Bye, assholes," you announce, walking away and heading straight for your room, knowing your work mood has been utterly killed and attempting to go back to it will only make the mood-kill worse.
You should probably take a nap, really, but whether you actually will or not is an entirely different question that you really aren't willing to consult.
***
The lock of your bedroom door clicks into place far louder than it should, or maybe that's just in your head, but the consistency suggests otherwise. Every time something like this happens, when somebody says something that just can't help but make you feel sick to your stomach with a feeling that this body doesn't belong to you, you shut yourself into your room like it's the only place that can make you feel safe because, in a way, it is. The lock always sounds too loud, uncomfortably so, but the silence that follows is worse.
The drawn curtains are blocking out any hopes of visible light in the room, but it doesn't really matter when you've already memorised your way around the place; you know it like the back of your hand and then some, given how much of your time you spend here, escaping from the world. It's pretty sad, honestly, when everything you do feels like it's to escape from the world and not live in it. Some issues would always transcend boundaries like riches and status.
Your body went utterly limp the second you reached your bed, collapsing onto the soft mattress without another thought in your mind. Or maybe there were too many thoughts, so many you couldn't tell what was a thought and wasn't. Your mind was so full the thoughts themselves became the empty space. Every second of this day felt like déjà vu. You wake up, and it's a good day. You're doing something, and you're happy. You, by some will or way, hear something that ruins everything good, and now all you want to do is curl up and hide from society. You hide in your room, and now you're nothing again until you make yourself pick up the pieces and step out into torture again.
You yearn for life to go differently for once. You long to be permitted a good day. You just need to be happy for once on this godforsaken life. But, then again, a lot of people want things that never come true, and it seems that you're one of those people. One of the unlucky ones. So you let the silence sicken you a little more, and you let your thoughts swamp you until you're inches from drowning because what else are you meant to do?
The only thing saving you from that mental death is a knock at you door, almost hesitant. Somebody calls out a name, one that used to be yours but doesn't belong to you anymore, and you immediately know that it's Peter. For a second, you open your mouth to correct him, to tell him what you've needed to be called for so long but never have, and you don't know why. You don't tell these things to people. If you were a normal person, maybe, in a perfect world, you could. But you aren't a normal person. Status makes things more complex. The words catch in your throat right where you need them to, before you can say something you regret, and you're pretty glad you've trained yourself to do that.
"What?" you call out instead, rolling onto your side away from the door and muffling your face in the pillow, knowing that your door is about to be opened. Your tone isn't necessarily rude, but it certainly conveys a fair bit of disgruntlement at Peter's presence.
The handle clicks as Peter turns it, and even facing away from the door, with the gentle shift of light levels you can see, it's pretty clear that Peter really only opened the door a slither before he could slip in, an unnaturally small gap for somebody to fit through, no matter how lanky they really are.
Once the door shuts, you oblige to turn back over, now fully facing the boy. Struggling to make out his form in the pitch black, you have to squint, but, thankfully, your eyes have had more than ample time to adjust from how long you'd spent in the dark already. For a moment, he just stands there, almost like a statue, and you repeat yourself, a little more harshly this time. "What?"
For another few seconds, Peter doesn't move, staring directly at you and, even though you can't tell, probably not even blinking, though it only takes him so long before he catches himself, flinching into action. He straightens himself up and asks, "Uh... mind if I sit?"
At his tentative words, you really don't want him to sit. You're honestly still annoyed about the fact that you weren't warned about this, but you've also got no reason to dislike him just yet. Can't a man just want to avoid people sometimes? Still, silently, you scoot over, creating space on the bed beside you for him to take, and despite the lack of noise or light, he seems to notice, navigating around any obstacles to the bed with ease.
Gingerly, he kicks off his shoes before he joins you on the bed, his scuffed Converse hitting the ground with a thud. Then he sits up at your headboard, legs stretches out in front of him and looking down at where you lie. You look up at him too, if only to show off the passive aggressive energy a little more. Either you fail or he doesn't care. You assume the latter.
"What's your name?" Peter questions. It's a simple question, and it's a stupid one, but he's looking at you like it means something.
Pursing your lips for just a second, you don't let it mean any more than it has to. "You said you know my name."
"Legally, yeah," he agrees with a shrug, making a "so-so" sort of motion with his hand that you can only just about make out, "but that's not your name. Right?"
"No, Peter, my name is not my name," you reply sarcastically, but there's a bite in your tone that you don't mean to let out. It's bitter and doubting in your mouth. Since the bad taste is already there, you repeat your name, just for his benefit. You didn't think the taste could get worse, but evidently you were wrong.
For a very long moment, one that can't be longer than a few seconds but seems to last hours, Peter falls silent. You're looking at him, and he's looking at you. You only know that much, though. You can't see his face, but you can feel his gaze boring into you, and it endlessly troubles you that you can't see behind those eyes to find his thoughts. Then, slowly, he replies, "Okay." After that, it all goes silent.
It isn't the end of it, that much is obvious. But at least it's quiet.
For a while, the pair of you sit in silence in the dark. You're pondering about Peter. He thinks he knows something. He does know something. Something you've never told a soul, and he knows it just from looking at you. Not speculation, as the media never fails to do, but real, true knowing. You don't like it. You can't help but wonder whether he's thinking about you too, but there isn't exactly a whole lot to wonder about when it comes to you, especially if I he can just read your deepest secrets so clearly. For all you know, he has you all figured out already.
You didn't know why you speak up, but you do. Maybe you want an answer. Maybe you just want to make sure he'll stay just for a few seconds longer. Then again, you don't know why you'd want that. "How do you know my dad?"
Peter, as he evidently seems to quite like doing, shrugs. It isn't quite a careless movement, but something carefully crafted and calculated to look exactly the way that it does. He thinks about everything and tries to make it seem like he thinks about nothing. "Iron Man stuff," he tells you, repeating what Tony had said earlier, word for word. It's infuriating.
"Yeah, okay, great. I didn't ask whether you knew his alter ego. How do you know him?" you repeat, your words getting snappy. Not mean, but sharp. Maybe this is why you aren't great at getting people to stick around.
"Iron Man stuff," Peter repeats again, this time with a grin evident in his tone. He's enjoying this.
Suddenly, you punch him in the side, doing your best to look as if you meant to hurt him but really wanting not to at all. This is definitely why you struggle keeping people around for long. You need to fully finish up the rage act. You have to. It isn't a choice but a necessity. You feel an immense urge to roll over so your back is facing him like you're a married couple in the middle of a brutal argument. But you really don't quite have it in you to put in the full effort, despite the discomfort ignoring the idea is taking.
Instead, you stay exactly where you lay, simply shutting your eyes like a petulant toddler after losing a game of hide and seek. Maybe that would've been fine, but as Peter slides down to lie next to you, simply staring at the ceiling, you know that the second you opened your eyes, he'll be able to tell. You aren't even directly facing him, and he isn't even looking at you, but you know he'll know. Somehow, inexplicably, you know he will. There's still a friendly distance between the two of you, at least.
Despite your determination to be stubborn and upset with him, you do feel a deep temptation to crack your eyes open and glance over to the left just to get a better look at him, maybe even get a few proper glares in. Thankfully, though, for the sake of your need to follow utterly everything through, you resist, and you stay exactly where you are. No eyes are opened, and Peter knows nothing.
It's silent for a very long time after that. It's an odd kind of silence, one that you've never experienced before. It's stuck in a foreign limbo between undeniably safe and achingly uncomfortable. Words try to claw their way up in your throat, writhing their way out of your lips, but you don't let them. You don't know how to let them. Right now, something needs to be said, even if just to describe the unfamiliar feeling in the air, but, against all odds, you stay silent.
And you keep on staying silent for as long as you can. There isn't a clock in the room, but you can imagine the steady ticking of one filling your mind anyway. At first, it becomes something to focus on, but it quickly serves as nothing but a reminder to how close you are to blurting something out, and that feels wrong. You can't explain why it's wrong, but it is. The tick-tock of the clock inside your head seems to tick faster and faster as your will thins to snapping. It almost sounds like a bomb at the very end of its countdown, ready to explode and destroy everything around it.
But, with a shifting of the bedsheets, only the sound of fabric against fabric filling the room, Peter stands and shuffles out of the room without another word, leaving his shoes in a pile on your floor, exactly where they've been since he sat down with you. The lock clicks shut behind him, far too loud. Louder than usual. Your teeth clench, and, for some inexplicable reason, you feel the irresistible urge to scream at the top of your lungs. So you do. Burying your face into your pillow, muffling the sound as much as possible, you scream until your lungs gave out. Then, exhausted, you simply begin to cry.
You don't understand what this is. You can't ask why you're feeling whatever this is until you understand what you're even feeling to begin with, and that's a gargantuan question too. One that you're clueless on, and one that nobody else can answer for you.
You're tired. It's late. Maybe it'll make sense in the morning.
You go to sleep with tear tracks staining your cheeks.