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Tony Stark was not unfamiliar with late-night interruptions. They usually involved Peter Parker limping into his lab at ungodly hours, muttering apologies while sporting bruises, cuts, or some other kind of injury that made Tony’s stomach churn. It had become a routine—patch the kid up, give him a quick lecture about not getting himself killed, and shove a plate of leftover shawarma his way before sending him off to bed and calling his aunt.
But this? This was new.
It wasn’t the middle of the night. It wasn’t after patrol. It was broad daylight, sunlight streaming in through the lab’s floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the glass cases and polished steel surfaces. Dum-E whirred cheerfully in the corner, obliviously reorganizing spare arc reactor parts. FRIDAY was running diagnostics on the Iron Man suit prototypes, her calm voice humming softly through the speakers. The lab was peaceful. Quiet.
Until Peter Parker walked in.
Tony froze mid-turn, a wrench still clutched in his hand. For a split second, he thought he was imagining it—because surely the kid wasn’t standing there with a face full of bruises like he’d just gone twelve rounds with an MMA fighter.
But he was.
Peter strolled in like it was any other day, his Midtown hoodie slightly too big on his wiry frame, his backpack slung over one shoulder. A dark purple bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone, a gash split his bottom lip, and there was dried blood crusted around his nose. And yet, the kid had the audacity to greet him like nothing was wrong.
“Hi, Mr. Stark!” Peter said cheerfully, like he wasn’t sporting what looked suspiciously like a broken nose. “Did you get the upgrades on the web-shooters done? I’ve got this idea for—”
“What the hell happened to your face?” Tony blurted. His voice came out sharper than he intended, and Peter winced.
“It’s nothing,” Peter said quickly, holding up his hands in a way that screamed please don’t freak out . “I’m fine, really.”
“Nothing? Nothing? ” Tony set the wrench down with a little more force than necessary and stalked toward Peter, his eyes narrowing as he took in the full extent of the damage. “Kid, you look like you went ten rounds with a bulldozer. Sit. Now.”
Peter hesitated, his eyes darting around the lab as though considering making a run for it. But he must’ve realized that Tony wasn’t going to let this go, because he sighed and perched on the nearest stool. He swung his legs idly, looking like a toddler caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
Tony grabbed the first aid kit, his mind racing as he crossed the room. This wasn’t a Spider-Man injury—no webs, no suit, no crazy alien tech burns or scratches from weird six-legged creatures. No, this was something else. Something… normal. And that made it infinitely worse.
Because Peter Parker didn’t have the Spider-Man safety net in his regular life. Whatever had happened, Tony doubted the kid had superhuman reflexes to fall back on. That thought made his chest tighten.
“Alright, spill,” Tony said, his voice tighter than he meant it to be as he gently tipped Peter’s chin up to get a better look. The gash on his lip wasn’t deep, but the bruise on his cheekbone was already darkening into an angry shade of purple. “What happened?”
Peter shrugged, his gaze sliding toward the floor. “It’s not a big deal—”
“Don’t give me that,” Tony cut him off, swabbing at the dried blood on Peter’s nose. “What. Happened.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably, his fingers fiddling with the straps of his backpack. “It was just…a thing. At school.”
Tony’s hand froze midair. “A thing ? This is not a ‘thing.’ This is your face rearranged. Who did this?”
“Mr. Stark, it’s fine—”
“Don’t tell me it’s fine, kid,” Tony snapped, his frustration mounting. “You look like you’ve been mugged. Was it some jerk at school? A gang? A teacher? God, tell me it wasn’t a teacher—because I swear to you, I’ll—”
“It was Flash,” Peter said quietly, cutting off Tony’s spiraling rant.
Tony blinked. “Flash?” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, mind whirling to put a face to the name. What kind of name was Flash anyway? “As in scrawny, rich-kid bully Flash? The one who calls you ‘Penis Parker’? That Flash?”
Peter nodded, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Yeah, but it’s not—”
“Oh, I’ll tell you what it is,” Tony interrupted, his voice rising with indignation. “It’s assault. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen! How many hits did he get in? You tell me right now, and I’ll call Happy to—”
“It’s not like that!” Peter protested, his voice cracking slightly. “He was…he was just being Flash. He shoved me, I ignored him, and then it kind of… escalated.”
“Escalated?” Tony stared at him. “You’re Spider-Man, for crying out loud. You could’ve wiped the floor with him in two seconds.”
“And that’s why I didn’t fight back!” Peter’s voice wavered, a mix of frustration and something deeper—something raw. “I couldn’t just… use my powers. Not on him. Peter Parker doesn’t know how to fight. He’s not supposed to.”
Tony’s heart sank. He opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Peter’s face stopped him. The kid looked… exhausted. Not the kind of tired that came from a late patrol or an unfinished assignment, but the kind that settled into your bones when you were carrying too much on your shoulders.
Tony sighed, setting the bloodied cotton ball aside and crouching so he was eye level with Peter. He looked at the kid—not Spider-Man, not the genius who could invent new alloys in his sleep, but Peter Parker, a 16-year-old kid with too much heart and too much responsibility for someone so young.
“You’re not a punching bag, Pete,” Tony said softly, his voice losing its earlier edge. “I don’t care if it’s Flash or the Vulture or Thanos himself—you deserve better than this.”
Peter swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching. “It’s just easier this way,” he muttered. “If I fought back, he’d know. Everyone would know. And then what? My secret’s out, and everything gets ten times worse.”
Tony didn’t respond right away. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Peter’s face, and his stomach twisted at the sight of the bruise blooming across his cheek. For all his strength, for all his powers, Peter was still a kid—a kid who felt the need to let himself get hurt to protect the people around him.
Tony sighed, his anger draining away. “Okay, fine. I get it. Secret identity and all that. But, Pete, you can’t just… let people hurt you. Not like this.”
Peter shrugged, his gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s not a big deal. I heal fast, remember?”
“That’s not the point. It’s not right.”
Peter’s lips twitched into a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. But, really, I’m fine.”
Tony sighed heavily. He knew it was a lost cause from the beginning. “Flash is an idiot, and I don’t like idiots hurting my kid,” Tony said finally, his tone light but firm.
Peter blinked, a deer-in-the-headlights. “Your kid?”
“Yeah, you heard me,” Tony said, standing up and tousling Peter’s hair. “Now, hold still while I fix up that lip. You’re getting blood on my floor.”
Peter laughed softly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Tony replied, smirking. “Next time, I’m sending Happy to drive you to school, and you better believe he’ll scare Flash so bad, the kid’ll never look at you sideways again.”
Peter’s laughter filled the lab, warm and bright. For the first time all day, Tony felt his chest loosen, the tension easing. The kid was okay. For now, that was enough.
~+~
Later that evening, after Peter had been patched up and thoroughly mother-henned, Tony decided the kid needed more than a quick fix and a pep talk. Sure, Peter tried to laugh off the whole situation like he always did, but Tony had caught that flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. The kid needed a distraction—something that wasn’t swinging off rooftops or fighting bullies in the school hallways.
So, Tony called in reinforcements.
“Alright, Underoos, dinner’s at seven,” Tony announced casually as Peter zipped up his hoodie.
Peter blinked at him, confused. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, dinner. You know, the meal that comes after lunch? Food. Eating. Ring any bells?” Tony quipped, already typing something on his phone.
Peter shifted awkwardly. “Oh, uh… thanks, Mr. Stark, but I should probably head home. May’s making lasagna tonight, and—”
“Lasagna can wait,” Tony interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Text your aunt and tell her you’re staying over. You look like you could use a decent meal—and, no offense to May, but Pepper makes a mean roast chicken.”
Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Tony raised an eyebrow, effectively silencing him. With a resigned sigh, Peter pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to May. Within seconds, his phone buzzed with a reply, and he scoffed.
“What’d she say?” Tony asked, smirking.
“She said, ‘Tell Mr. Stark to keep you for dessert, too. You need more meat on your bones.’” Peter huffed, shoving his phone into his pocket.
Tony chuckled. “Smart woman, your aunt.”
~+~
By the time seven o’clock rolled around, Peter was sitting at the dining table in the Stark penthouse, feeling more out of place than ever. The table was set with real plates and silverware, not the mismatched ones he and May had at home.
The table was an elegant dark wood, polished so perfectly that Peter could see his reflection in its surface. A warm, golden light from a modern chandelier above bathed the room, reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a sprawling view of Manhattan. The city lights twinkled like stars, a backdrop that made Peter feel simultaneously awestruck and out of place.
The smells wafting from the kitchen were almost overwhelming—rosemary, garlic, lemon, and something rich and buttery. It wasn’t just food; it was art, prepared in a way that Peter couldn’t even begin to comprehend. At home, May usually made simple meals: spaghetti, sandwiches, maybe a roast or meatloaf on a special occasion. Peter loved her cooking, but this? This smelled like it belonged in a fancy restaurant where a single meal cost more than his monthly rent.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, fidgeting with the edge of his hoodie sleeve. The bruises on his face were mostly hidden now, thanks to his super-human healing, but he still felt exposed. Vulnerable. Sitting here in the Stark penthouse, surrounded by luxury, he felt like a fraud. Like a kid pretending to be something he wasn’t.
Peter turned as Pepper appeared, carrying a platter of perfectly roasted chicken and vegetables. She wasn’t wearing one of her usual tailored business suits—instead, she had on a soft blue sweater and jeans, her apron still tied around her waist. The apron made Peter smile. It said Boss of the Sauce in bold letters, a detail that somehow made this whole surreal situation feel a little more grounded.
He was 99% sure that Tony had gotten her that apron.
“There he is,” Pepper said warmly, setting the platter down in front of him. “How are you feeling, Peter?”
Peter blinked, caught off guard by the question—and by the genuine concern in her voice. “Oh, uh…better. Thanks, Ms. Potts.”
“Pepper,” she corrected gently, with a smile that made Peter’s cheeks heat up. “No formalities at the table, okay? And you’re welcome here anytime.”
Peter ducked his head, mumbling, “Thanks, Pepper.” He felt like a kid being fussed over by a relative he didn’t see often—someone who knew you well enough to care but didn’t know you well enough to see all the cracks underneath.
Tony sauntered in a moment later, carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Alright, let’s eat before FRIDAY starts nagging me about nutritional balance. She’s already threatened to reduce my espresso output if I skip another meal.”
“She’s not wrong,” Pepper said pointedly, pouring Peter a glass of lemonade before sitting down. “You could learn a thing or two from Peter—he actually eats three meals a day.”
Peter ducked his head, smiling shyly. He… occasionally forgot a meal here and there, but his enhanced metabolism would quickly let him know how stupid he was.
Tony scoffed. “Yeah, well, the kid probably burns ten thousand calories a day swinging around the city. Don’t give me that ‘perfect diet’ nonsense.”
Pepper rolled her eyes fondly, and Peter bit back a laugh. The back-and-forth between them felt… normal. Comfortable. Like watching an old married couple on a sitcom, only less scripted. There was something so natural about the way Tony and Pepper interacted, like they’d been doing this for years. It reminded him of sitting at the table with May and Ben when he was younger, listening to their playful banter as they cooked together. The memory was bittersweet, but tonight, it didn’t feel as heavy as it usually did.
As they passed around the food, Peter couldn’t help but relax. Sure, the table was ridiculously fancy, and the food looked like it belonged on a magazine cover, but the atmosphere was warm and relaxed. Pepper kept asking him questions about school—how his classes were going, whether he was still enjoying chemistry. She listened to his answers like they actually mattered, nodding along with genuine interest. Tony, meanwhile, alternated between cracking jokes about his teachers and sneaking extra food onto Peter’s plate when he thought no one was looking.
At first, Peter tried to protest. “Really, I’m fine, I don’t need—”
“Kid,” Tony interrupted, pointing a fork at him. “You need to put some meat on your bones before you float away the next time you swing over the Hudson. Protein’s important, kid.”
“Tony,” Pepper chided, rolling her eyes fondly as she poured Peter another glass of lemonade. “Stop nagging him and let him eat.”
“Who’s nagging? I’m offering valuable life advice,” Tony replied, winking at Peter, scraping another couple of pieces of chicken onto his plate. “And you’re welcome.”
Peter ducked his head, hiding a grin as he stuffed another bite of chicken into his mouth. For the first time in a long while, he felt… safe. Like he didn’t have to keep up the act, didn’t have to be the perfect student or the unshakable superhero. Peter felt like he didn’t have to hold anything back. He didn’t have to pretend he was fine, didn’t have to hide his bruises or downplay his struggles. Here, in this warm, cozy penthouse, with Tony and Pepper treating him like family… he could just be .
~+~
After dinner, they moved to the living room, where Tony plopped down on the couch and immediately started flipping through movie options. The room was cozy despite its size, with plush couches and a coffee table scattered with magazines and random gadgets Tony had been tinkering with. Peter curled up on the opposite end of the couch, pulling a blanket over his lap that Pepper had handed him.
“Alright, we’re going classic tonight,” Tony declared, selecting an old action movie with over-the-top stunts and cheesy one-liners. “And by ‘classic,’ I mean the physics are so bad, it’s going to make your head explode.”
Peter laughed softly, settling back against the cushions. As the movie started, he found himself sneaking glances at Tony and Pepper. Tony was critiquing every scene with mock outrage, while Pepper kept shushing him with a smile. They were so… normal . So effortlessly in sync. It made Peter’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
By the time the credits rolled, Peter was half-asleep, his head resting against the arm of the couch. He barely noticed when Tony leaned over and draped the blanket more securely over him.
“You know,” Tony said quietly, his voice breaking through the haze of sleep, “you’re allowed to ask for help, kid. Anytime.”
Peter blinked up at him, his eyes heavy but his heart light. “I know,” he murmured. “Thanks… Tony.”
Tony ruffled his hair gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Get some rest, ‘roos. You’re safe here.”
Peter’s eyes drifted shut, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he believed it.
~+~
The penthouse grew quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of the city outside and Peter’s steady breathing. Tony leaned back against the couch, watching the kid sleep. He looked so small like this, bundled up in the blanket with his face relaxed and peaceful.
He looked like a kid.
Pepper walked in, carrying two mugs of tea. She handed one to Tony, sitting beside him. “He’s a good kid,” she said softly, her gaze resting on Peter.
Tony nodded, his throat tightening. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s my kid.”
Pepper smiled, leaning her head on Tony’s shoulder.
For a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, he’d never imagined himself playing dad. But looking at the kid passed out on his couch, safe and content for once, he realized he didn’t mind it one bit.
“Sleep tight, kid,” he murmured, leaning back against the couch. “We’ve got your back.”