Chapter Text
Peter was led from the car into another clean, fancy building clearly disguised as a home; he tried his best to keep his chin high and back straight, not wanting to cry in front of the cutthroat people around him. He didn’t want to let on how absolutely terrified he was. He was taken to a small bedroom — a guest room, perhaps — with red curtains and a red duvet and a red desk and a red carpet.
Faintly, he hoped the color scheme wasn’t meant to symbolize anything. Then the door shut and locked behind him.
Peter gasped on a ragged breath and held a fist up to his mouth to try and calm himself. What now? He was just supposed to wait here?
Oh god. Tony Stark was gonna have someone appraise his art, and they were going to confirm that Peter had sold forgeries, and then Tony was gonna have his intestines pulled out — or worse — and they’d roll his body up in the damn carpet just like the movies and —
Peter sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, struggling not to hyperventilate. It was possible that if he killed himself now, he’d get things over with a lot faster, and —
Peter sniffed and reached up to wipe his nose, glancing at an open door in the corner leading to a half-bath.
This was stupid. He couldn’t kill himself — mostly because there was no good way to do it in here. And hadn’t he just been in this very same situation with Fisk? Peter just needed to bide his time, just needed to find a way to make the right deal with Tony, or —
The door opened and Peter jumped violently, making the guard who entered snort. He had his arms full of art supplies and he raised an eyebrow when he stepped into the room.
“Where do you want ‘em, kid?”
Peter blinked at him until the man shook his head and crossed to the bed, dumping the contents right next to Peter.
“Have fun,” he grunted, and then he left. The door locked again.
Peter looked at what he’d been given.
A rectangular canvas. Acrylic paint. Paint brushes — like, tons of paint brushes, like, more and better paintbrushes than Peter had ever handled in his life, including with Eddie — and a paint palette. Pencils. A ruler. An empty cup.
Peter looked back at the door, but the guy was gone.
Was this a test?
What was he supposed to do, write his last goodbyes on the paint canvas? Some kind of poetic irony?
Peter sniffed and stood up, his legs still shaking. He picked up the cup that had been brought and took it into the bathroom. He filled it with water and then returned to the bedroom. He sat down on the floor instead of in the chair and leaned the canvas against the desk, unsealing the paints and wetting the palette.
If they were going to give him the supplies, then he was going to paint what was on his mind. And almost as soon as Peter started working, the tension streamed out of his muscles and his heartbeat settled. If he was going to die, at least Tony had let his last actions be something that he loved.
Maybe that’s what this was. A mercy of sorts.
He started with a pale blue background and the flash of headlights on the left side of the canvas. In the foreground, he carefully outlined a white tablecloth with blue lace trim the same colour as the sky. In the background of the painting, he used the pencils to outline the second table and the woman and the henna on her arms, not thinking he’d have much more time.
But no one came to the door. So Peter kept working.
He filled in her hair, black in contrast to the gold on her arms, and obscured her face in blurry streaks, so all the viewer could really tell was that she was facing the street. He added a light green dress and more definition and shadows to her face; he thought about Randy Honerlah’s use of colour and texture and so added dots to the sky of the background and sharpened the henna and brightened the woman’s dress. He added the teacup at her table and the wrought-iron metal of the back of her chair, and then stared at the empty space in the foreground.
His table. The viewer’s table.
How much time had passed now? At least half an hour. Maybe the appraisal was delayed. Maybe Tony was trying to come up with a really creative, violent way to kill him.
Peter channeled his fear to his fingers and slowly started to work on the table. The paint was still wet, so he dabbed at it with his hands, staining his fingers white and grey and black as he mixed paints and carefully applied the graphite pencil.
Bit by bit, minute by minute, the gun took shape. Flat on the table, the barrel faced the woman across the café who was so hopefully waiting for her soulmate. He kept her looking away from the danger and out toward the street, ever hopeful that the person she was meant to love would come to lift up her hands and smile into her eyes and take her away from the threat lurking so close by.
Peter blinked at the painting when he sat back. An hour must have passed by now. If not two. He realized suddenly that his stomach was cramping from hunger and he needed to pee, so Peter scrambled to his feet and lurched into the bathroom, looking down at the paint splattering his hands and wrists.
Hopefully, despite all the ugliness in their life, his soulmate would keep themselves safe. Wouldn’t miss him too much.
And Peter was an artist. Paint would be a good last gift for his soulmate.
It all took longer than Tony intended it to.
Upon returning to his suite, he’d taken a few minutes to shower and change before settling into his office to work. He didn’t realize how long he’d been working until one of his men came in to tell him the expert was requesting another hour, and then he realized that it had already been a full hour since returning. The appraisals were taking forever. Hell, his hair was already dry.
Another half hour after that, the appraiser came to his office to deliver the verdict.
Three fakes, all made by the same person. The technique matched that of the painting they’d taken from Fisk. The rest of Tony’s collection was authentic.
He wasn’t as surprised as he should have been.
“I have one more for you,” Tony told him. “I want you to look at it and see if the style is a match for the forgeries.” He looked at the men he had flanking the door, nodding to one of them. “Take him to the room, and bring me Parker.” Then he looked at the other. “Bring dinner and a change of clothes.”
He’d talk to Peter while the expert did his job, ply the boy with dinner and maybe even a shower. If the fakes came back as his technique, then this was a potentially profitable business. If they were made by someone else, well... Tony still had another plan brewing to discuss with him.
He ordered everyone out of the room, then crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair to wait.
Peter heard the bedroom door open when he was halfway through washing his hands and he quickly turned the water off. The acrylic was still under his nails and stubbornly laid in the cracks in his knuckles. He hurriedly scrubbed his hands dry and stepped out to face the three men who had entered.
“Come on Parker,” one of them jerked their chin at him and turned around.
Peter stayed where he was. His gaze flickered to the painting — still leaning against the desk on the floor.
“Oh my, that is something isn’t it?” One of the men — a guy who looked decidedly not like a mafia bodyguard, rail-thin with round glasses — stepped into the room and put a hand on his chin as he observed the painting.
“Parker!” The guard snapped and Peter tore his eyes away from his art, crossing the room and letting the guard take him by the arm.
He was marched quickly down the hall and up a flight of stairs and then more-or-less shoved into a big office.
An office where Tony Stark was seated and staring at him.
And right there on the desk was the Vellani charcoal drawing — the forgery Peter had sold him less than a week ago. Peter remembered the fun of working with the charcoal and the satisfaction of getting it right and — and —
What had Stark told Fisk? I don’t take too kindly to being scammed, either.
Peter balled his hands into fists, looking at the white and grey paint tracing his knuckles like veins.
Much as he wanted to beg for his life right now, Peter was pretty sure his life was already forfeit. So instead he spoke up, voice trembling, “I know I don’t have a lot of bargaining power right now, Mr. Stark, but can you leave my family out of this? My aunt and my neighbors and my boss and everyone at Morningside? I’m the only one who deserves to get hurt for all this.”
Ostensibly not true. Eddie and two coworkers at the gallery were in on everything; but Peter had to use his last moments doing something useful.
Tony had made it a point to be looking at the most recent piece of art when Peter came in. He was no expert — there was no difference to his eye that he could detect. The forgery was amazing, really.
What was also amazing was how quickly Peter caved. All it took was the sight of the forged piece of art between them and the knowledge that Tony had said he was going to have it appraised, and he was already spilling his guts. And the bargaining — though not for his life, only the lives of others. Like he thought his own fate was already a given.
I’m the only one who deserves to get hurt for all this. He really thought Tony was going to kill him.
For God’s sake — Tony knew he had a cruel reputation, but really. Peter very obviously wasn’t the mastermind of the operation, so there was no reason to torture him, even if Tony really thought that would do anything — which he doubted. Killing anyone in this situation wouldn’t really do anything aside from leave him in need of another shower. Hell, he wouldn't even really be blowing off steam.
Granted, Tony was pissed, but not the murderous kind of pissed. His art collection was a hobby, not something related to business. He couldn’t think of a logical reason to hurt Peter unless the boy’s behavior left him without another choice -- and Tony Stark was nothing if not logical.
Tony let the corners of his mouth turn up in an amused smile.
“No one needs to get hurt, Mr. Parker. Why don’t you take a seat.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Let’s talk for a minute. And this time, you’re going to tell me the truth, aren’t you?”
His phone buzzed in his lap. He didn’t take his eyes off of Peter, but he could see the message in his peripheral vision. They match.
He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. “So. You forged at least three of my paintings, the one Fisk had, and probably countless more. Did this Eddie put you up to it?”
Peter hesitantly sat in the chair across from Tony, wondering how much hope to put into the vague statement no one needs to get hurt.
Tony wanted the truth?
“If I tell you — tell you honestly — then you need to promise not to hurt anyone outside of this room. Not to go after them. Not to use what I say against anyone else.”
Peter hesitated before adding, “You’re a man of your word, aren’t you?”
Aren’t you?
Tony couldn’t help but find it funny that Peter didn’t even sound sure. Yet he was still trying to negotiate. It just meant his family and friends were important to him. Cute, but weak.
Still, Tony pretended to consider it. Fisk, obviously, was exempt from this. The rest… well, he saw no reason to resort to violence, at least from what he knew right now. Tony just wouldn’t be buying artwork from that gallery again, and with Peter close at hand, he would be able to keep an eye on their activities, so…
“I’m a man of my word,” Tony agreed. “Unless one of them hurt or threatened you, or they come back to cross me in some other way, then yes, I give you my word. I won’t hurt anyone else.”
Peter looked down at his thumb and scraped at a flake of paint under his nail.
“When I applied to work at Morningside, the application was just, like, a desk job. Artists preferred. In the interview, Eddie asked a lot of specific art questions and I had to show him my portfolio. I guess in retrospect he knew what he was looking for. I worked the desk for a few weeks then he prompted me to practice imitating my favourite artists. Showed me a few tricks to make the forgeries really accurate and said he’d cut me in on what he sold…”
Peter stared into his lap, trying not to mumble — he had a bad habit of mumbling when he was scared or anxious. “Eddie never forced me to do anything, he just… made a lot of sense when he laid everything out. A couple of my coworkers paint fakes too, a couple others don’t….” Peter nervously tore at his thumbnail and watched blood bead on his broken cuticle.
“The money’s good when we sell fakes,” he added. The excuse felt lame even as he said it. “It’s the sort of thing that means art school is two years away instead of ten. Or I can pay my utility bills… stop for a beer on a Saturday afternoon…” he smirked at this but it felt sour and his heart was beating somewhat erratically with all the nerves.
Tony pursed his lips. Of course the money was good. He had just paid $100,000 for the drawing in front of him. A couple of those a month, and the whole gallery would be sitting pretty.
He wasn’t surprised to hear that this Eddie was the true mastermind of the operation. He wasn’t even sure whether to believe Eddie came up with it all on his own, maybe he’d inherited everything from someone else; but that wasn’t the most relevant thing right now. Something to investigate later.
Tony’s eyes flicked to Peter’s fidgeting hands, but he didn’t comment, even as he watched a trickle of blood run down the younger man’s finger. “I understand why you did it, Peter. That doesn’t make it acceptable, but I do understand. Still…”
He stood up and moved over to the door, opening it to let in the man he knew was waiting outside. He hesitated with his hand around the doorknob, a splash of what looked like grey liquid catching his eye, reflecting on the metal. He pulled his hand back, frowning just a little as he watched another soulmark spread down his finger — a trickle of blood, inching from his cuticle down and around his hand.
Tony glanced back at Peter, eyes narrowing a little bit as he thought. Could it be…?
Maybe. Tony wasn’t one to question himself often, and he thought he knew what he saw, but…
But he had to be sure.
This wasn’t the kind of thing he could risk being wrong about, especially not in this situation.
He’d thought more often than he’d care to admit about what might happen if he met his soulmate through work, but somehow, he’d still never imagined it would be like this.
So how could he be sure?
Tony forced himself to think back on the day, on every encounter with Peter he could remember with clarity. From the moment he stepped into Fisk’s office to when they’d parted ways to take a shower —
An idea hit him like a bullet.
Tony shoved his hands into his pockets, turning back to Peter. “I think that maybe we can come to a better agreement,” he said finally, moving back over to the desk where Peter waited.
He stopped between where Peter sat and the desk, leaning against the edge and holding out his hand to take the one Peter had been picking at. Before he went any further, he had to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.
Peter gave it to him. His palms were sweaty, but Tony paid it no mind as he studied his hand for a moment. It was definitely the same finger with the cut, though it had stopped bleeding.
He hummed, then pulled Peter to his feet with a light tug.
“You’re dismissed,” Tony told the guard, who stopped in the middle of dishing out their food from the trays and promptly left the room.
Peter was looking at him with a mix of apprehension and confusion. Tony kept a hold of his hand as he met the younger man’s questioning eyes.
“I didn’t bring you here to hurt you, Peter. Or to lecture you, even. I’m angry, granted, but I’m not that angry. And we both know that you don’t need me to tell you that what you were doing was wrong — nor am I the best person to be giving a lesson in morals.” He paused, offering a dry smile before continuing. “Besides, I think you’ve been on the receiving end of enough anger for the day. You said Fisk hit you. Where?”
Peter hesitated. For a second, he wondered if this was a trick. What if Tony was just trying to figure out where he was already hurt so he could take advantage of it?
But it wasn’t as if Tony Stark needed help hurting him, if he wanted to. And the mob boss was looking at him, waiting so expectantly for an answer that he felt compelled to speak.
“The stomach,” Peter admitted, after a moment of silence. “He — his guard punched me, and he kicked me. Both in the stomach.” And it hurt like a bitch, too; thinking about it now just reminded him of the dull pain in his gut that he’d been doing his best to ignore all day.
In the stomach.
Tony forced himself to inhale slowly, though his heart began to beat faster against his ribcage.
The shower when he’d gotten home. He’d seen a soulmark on his stomach — a reflection of a giant, ugly bruise, based on the shadowing of the mark.
He’d only given it a passing glance at the time, but now...
Tony didn’t break eye contact with Peter, guiding the bloody hand to press against his chest, right over the seam of his shirt. “Unbutton my shirt, Peter.”
He was certain now that he was right. And if he was, then this would prove it. Not only to him, but to Peter as well.
Peter felt his heart drop down to the soles of his feet and his stomach squirmed.
Tony had said they could come to a better agreement. Those words made sense now. And asking about Peter’s injuries… well, he didn’t really expect someone like Tony Stark to be a gentle lover, and though he wasn’t sure if it would mean anything in the long run, at least he had cared enough to ask how badly he was hurt before propositioning him.
And Peter would do it; he’d already thought about offering as much anyway. Tony was just initiating.
That worked better for Peter, as Harry Osborn knew.
Peter hesitated just long enough to pull his hand back and wipe the blood on the hem of his shirt. He flushed when he realised there was a little blood on Tony’s shirt but, well... maybe he got off on it.
Peter reached up and unbuttoned Tony’s shirt from the top down, trying not to hyperventilate right in front of the man. He kept his eyes on Tony’s chest and then his stomach, on muscles taut not from time in a gym but from years of use and stress. He didn’t look up into Tony’s face — thinking maybe he could fool himself into approaching this as just another hookup.
Then Tony’s shirt was open and Peter said, “Oh you —” But stopped before he could say you have a soulmark. That wasn’t an appropriate thing to point out, much less since it was a rather disturbing bruise — new, by the looks of it, and it would still darken and get worse.
Peter remembered then the pulse of pain as he breathed in and out, in the same spot that Fisk’s bodyguard had hit him only a few hours ago — the same spot that was mirrored, nearly black, on Tony’s stomach.
He blinked rapidly and looked up at Tony again, making eye contact with him. Was he surprised? Scared? Curious? It was hard to tell, his expression stayed so neutral.
Peter swallowed hard and reached up to nudge one of Tony’s sleeves aside, taking in an old grey scar on his shoulder, just above his armpit.
Peter had traced the line of that scar a thousand times— had touched it today at Fisk’s house, in fact. And now here it was, not just reflected on skin but actually twisted in it.
He looked at Tony again, and lifted his trembling hand to shrug his t-shirt to the side, to show the soulmark on his own pale skin.
Peter opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was shaking from head to toe now.
Tony was still just staring at him intently and Peter managed to force out, “Are you…?”
Peter’s expression flitted between a variety of emotions so quickly Tony couldn’t tell what he was actually feeling.
This should be a momentous occasion. Tony felt the urge to do a thousand and one things, but all he could do was stare. Maybe if he stayed still and slow, Peter wouldn’t register him as a threat for once. Just long enough for it all to sink in. And it was obvious Peter still saw him as a threat — hell, he was still shaking. He seemed to understand what was going on, but it hadn’t changed anything for him.
Tony pulled his other hand out of his pocket and held it up, showing Peter where the grey ran and smudged down his finger, mirroring Peter’s bloody hand. “It seems we are,” he answered, quietly, his tone nearing something like gentleness for the first time.
Peter stayed still, looking at the paint that he had used to fashion a gun. And then the trickle of blood from his own anxiety. His gaze flickered to the bruise again.
He thought back to the years of his soul marks — thought about the whispers of adults when he was on the playground or his mother’s concern at the dinner table. Thought about motor oil between his fingers and bruises over his eyes and —
He looked up at Tony and choked out, “I thought you were —” He stopped, and realized there were tears hovering on his eyelashes, “I kept thinking you were dying, or that- or that you were crazy. I thought you were a serial killer or overseas in a war or— I thought we’d never—”
Never meet. Never see eye to eye. Never be in their right minds together. But Tony Stark was in alarming control of his body and mind, perhaps even in the worst kind of way.
Peter was still sort-of embarrassed and sort-of scared and sort-of overwhelmed; he didn’t know exactly what he was feeling. He lifted his hand to press his palm to Tony’s, watching the cut and paint meet their soulmarks. And then he closed his fingers over Tony’s hand.
“It’s you...” Peter said softly. He thought about what Fisk had said; that this feeling was supposed to be better than anything else in the world. The moment you realised your soulmate was right in front of you.
He was overwhelmed, but not with what he could identify as happiness or joy; it couldn’t be, not like this. There was a weird feeling building in his chest and prickling along his throat; something strange and undeniable, accompanied by a sense of relief.
Tony let out a quiet breath as he listened to Peter speak, watching him. Some part of him couldn’t quite believe it.
This was his soulmate.
The tension and the fear in the room changed. He could feel what Peter felt — the warmth and the strange feeling in his throat. It was relief and fear all at once, an indescribable sensation that seemed to be filling all the holes that he had claimed (and often thought) would never be filled, not in him; but the connection, the joy that he wouldn’t admit that he longed for, just wasn’t there.
Nothing had changed. Peter was still scared of him.
“It’s me,” Tony agreed, giving Peter’s hand a gentle squeeze in return and bringing his other hand up to touch him — gently, and slowly, still so afraid that he might yet flinch away — brushing his fingers along Peter’s cheek. “And you’re… you.”
Peter let Tony's hand touch his face, leaning slightly into the touch. He thought back to the months they'd already known each other, to ins-and-outs at the gallery and late nights working on his art and noticing those occasional blemishes and stains and marks on his skin. All the while Tony came in every few weeks, and they shared stilted banter together, never knowing just how important the other person was.
"Now what happens?" Peter whispered. He stared up into Tony's eyes, They were dark, burnished brown like wood; something steady and solid and deep when the entire rest of his life had been so weightless.
Tony just watched him for a moment, calculating how to respond. He felt a spark of satisfaction when Peter leaned into his touch. His thumb stroked over Peter’s cheek idly.
The universe was supposed to know what it was doing, right? And yet here they were, and Tony’s soulmate clearly didn’t trust him. Perhaps didn’t even like him.
And Peter was going to be in danger now. The world would inevitably find out; and they would want to use Peter to get to Tony. They were going to have problems almost immediately, especially if Peter wanted to keep working or going to school or —
There were a lot of complications Tony didn’t want to deal with right now. Not yet. He was meeting his soulmate; there was something else he was supposed to be doing right now.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Peter.” Tony murmured, watching the twinge of relaxation that almost hit the boy. He thought of Fisk and added, “And I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you either.”
Something flickered in Peter’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything, leaving Tony guessing as much as before. Seeking to keep the boy calm, Tony added, “As for what happens now, we’ve got all the time in the world to figure that out.”
He was happy, seemingly much happier than Peter. And right now he didn’t want to deal with doubts or fear or what’s next. For now, he wanted it to just be them: no worries, no future, no enemies, not even his own men outside the door.
That could never last, but…
Tony brushed his thumb from the boy’s cheek along his bottom lip, watching him like a man entranced.
“Peter, may I kiss you?”
The cutest shade of pink filled Peter’s cheeks, and he nodded cautiously. So Tony leaned down, pulling Peter’s body against him as they sealed their lips together.
God, Peter’s lips were sweet. And he made a warm, soft little noise in his throat and Tony knew he was going to do whatever it took to earn his soulmate’s trust.
They had plenty of time to sort out everything else.
For now, this was enough.