Chapter Text
Tony Stark was a very busy man.
Between running his company (which he had mostly put on Pepper at this point), fighting super villains, inventing new technology to help the world, and attending at least a third of the meetings he was supposed to, he barely had enough time to ask FRIDAY to send out for dinner, much less attempt more than five hours of sleep a night.
And he certainly had no time for whatever PR stunt Pepper and the rest of his team had cooked up, especially one involving a few teenage brats who “wanted to work in STEM”.
Pepper had broken the news to him gently, spouting a bunch of nonsense about helping the younger generation, imparting his knowledge on others and making lasting connections. However, they both knew the bottom line was that Tony needed something to boost the public’s opinion of him. There were still a lot of people out there who hated him from his days of manufacturing weapons, and even more who resented the damage he and his fellow Avengers had caused in their attempts to save the world. Something had to give, and, according to his PR team, mentoring a child in need might be exactly the thing to do it.
And so, despite his protests, Tony found himself waking up extra early (before 2pm) on a Saturday with the sole purpose of reviewing applications for a new intern.
Intern, ha, as if he would actually be letting them touch anything with their grubby little hands.
By the end of a few strenuous hours spent pouring over applications he had one clear winner: Peter Parker.
The boy had a sad story, Tony had to admit, both parents dead before he even started primary school, uncle shot in a bank robbery, aunt died recently in a car crash, forced into the foster care system, the list went on and on. But, despite all the hardship he had faced, the picture accompanying the application showed a bright, enthusiastic young man, with an extremely impressive scientific resume. And for Tony, that was about all he could hope for.
Peter certainty outranked all the other applicants exponentially, even Tony had to give him that.
This was how, exactly one week later, Peter Parker came home from school and found himself staring face to face with none other than his personal hero, Tony Stark.
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Peter Parker was having a pretty average week.
Mrs. Westcott’s sister, Karen, was in town, so the guest room was made up just for her. Peter swore he’d had to remake the bed about half a dozen times before she arrived, because it didn’t “look neat enough”. Once Karen had arrived, the incessant chores had only picked up, and Peter had basically been reduced to her own personal slave, forced to be constantly at her beck and call.
Two nights before he’d been roughly pulled out of sleep to make her a midnight snack, only to then be told he couldn’t “cook for shit” and made to watch as she explained to the Westcott’s at breakfast the next morning why Peter shouldn’t be allowed food for the remainder of the weekend. They’d heartily agreed.
The hunger pains didn’t come anymore, nausea only setting in after five of six consecutive skipped meals. The real pain came when he looked at himself in the mirror, sunken cheeks and protruding ribs taunting him. If May was still alive she never would have allowed this to happen.
Skip had taken to coming to Peter’s room in the middle of the night.
It never got any less terrifying than the first time. But, despite how much he loathed to admit it, Peter found himself getting used to the ever increasing biweekly assaults. It didn’t happen every night, thank God, but it happened just often enough that Peter would lay awake every night into the small hours of the morning, hoping and praying to anyone that might listen that Skip would leave him be.
His life had formed a bleak routine that he followed, week after week.
It was nearing Christmas before any sort of change occurred to break him out of it.
It was a Monday, two weeks before beak (although it sounded like anything but a break to him) that Peter, as he was walking home with Harley, noticed something strange outside the Westcott’s house, a very expensive looking car. The kind Peter had only seen before in spy movies, sleek and low and black that just screamed of being out of place in the middle of an upstate New York suburb.
“Dude,” Harley exclaimed, gushing over the car. “Who are your foster parents friends with?”
Peter just shrugged. “Who the hell knows,” he muttered under his breath, before giving Harley a quick hug and steeling himself to go through the front door.
If only he knew what he was about to see would change his life forever.
“Hello, Peter,” Mrs. Westcott’s sickly sweet voice called from the living room. The obnoxiously high overly patronizing voice she only used when company was over, presumably so they wouldn’t discover the truth about how her and her husband were treating their foster son. “How was school, dear? Come sit down.”
And that was a threat if Peter had ever heard one.
Oh, it might not sound like one, and he was sure that was exactly what his foster mother was going for. But Peter knew how to read between the lines, and he was better at it that most, if he was guessing. After the incident on the first day with Sarah, he’d learned exactly how to behave in front of company. The key was to never give them even an inkling of a reason to doubt the Westcott’s kind intentions behind taking him in.
Mrs. Westcott was saying behave, don’t say anything stupid, and, most importantly, you’ll regret it if you do.
“Of course Mrs. Westcott,” Peter called, hanging up his backpack, before mentally slapping himself for forgetting to call her Diane, something she liked when other people were around. “I’ll be there in a second”
“No rush dear.” Again, Peter heard the thinly vailed threat. Hurry the fuck up.
Peter quickly untied his shoes and took off his coat, before stepping out into the living room.
“Did you see the crazy car parked outside?” he asked, trying to make the interaction more normal. He knew the Westcott’s were always desperately trying to give off the impression of normak, loveable parents who took him in out of the goodness of their hearts. And he was more than happy to play along if it saved him from a special “punishment session” with Skip.
No one responded. He wasn’t really expecting them to.
Looking up as he walked into the living room, he got the shock of his life.
Sitting on his couch was none of other than the Tony Stark.
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“Hello, Mister Parker,” Tony said, taking a bite of the cookie the snobby looking woman next to him had offered when he’d first sat down.
Diane Westcott. Tony had to say, he wasn’t a fan of the woman.
He met a lot of people who he didn’t like, and he could almost always separate them out into one of two groups. The first group, probably his least favorite, were the people who fawned over him obsessively, trying to harness his fame by getting him on their good side. The second group, who he hated with a different kind of passion, were the people who hated him for no apparent reason other than who he was, and made sure to let him know and any possible opportunity.
Diane, however, seemed to be a rare mixture of both. She buttered him up with cookies and smiled at the sight of his expensive car parked in her driveway. She seemed eager to impress him, but also eager to get him the hell out of her house. She seemed hesitant to let him in, and even more so to let him stay the half an hour or so until Peter returned from school.
Peter Parker was another thing entirely.
He was smaller than what Tony imagined the average fifteen year old looked like. Although he certainly didn’t spend much time around teenagers, he knew that he himself had been at least nearly full grown at that age. The kid’s face had thinned out since the photo he’d submitted with his application, no more lingering baby fat around his cheeks and mouth. His clothes didn’t seem to fit quite right, jeans held up awkwardly with a belt that an extra notch or two had clearly been cut into. But he appreciated the bad science pun on the shirt the kid was wearing.
Tony wondered, looking around at the nice enough house he was sitting in, why the woman beside him, who clearly cared so much about her damn image, wouldn’t just by the kid a new belt?
He quickly disregarded that though, turning back to the matter at hand.
“W-what?” the boy stuttered out, clearly starstruck. “W-what are you doing?”
Tony tried hard not to laugh at the teens flummoxed expression and stumbled speech.
“Hey,” the boy tried again, sticking out his hand, “I’m, um, I um, I’m Peter,” he finally managed, blushing beat red.
“Tony,” the man replied, smirking, shaking his hand over the back of couch. Why was the kid introducing himself to him? He was the only reason he was here in this suburban hell.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Diane mouthing something to Peter, but he chose to ignore it.
“Peter,” Diane began in her annoyingly squeaky voice, patting the chair next to her as if beckoning a dog to follow its command. The kid, despite never taking his eyes of Tony and blinking a few times as if questioning whether or not the man was truly in his living room, followed her direction immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me about the grant?”
Peter just stared blankly. God, maybe he’d made a mistake coming here.
No, he reminded himself. He had to find an intern one way or another, Pepper and the rest of his team has made that abundantly clear. So it might as well be one as smart and well deserving as Peter Parker.
“The September Foundation” Tony supplied looking for some recognition in the kids face. There was none.
But, Tony remembered, it had been a while since the application form has been sent out. Six months at least. And, if the information FRIDAY has found for him about the kid was accurate (which duh of course it was), lots had happened. He supposed he should give the kid a break.
“Remember when you applied?” The kid nodded, temporary amnesia seemingly fading away. “I approved. So now were in business.”
The kids mouth fell open in shock. Tony wished he had a camera.
Peter felt like he was living in a dream.
Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Iron Man. Best inventor of, well, ever, had just sat across from him and offered him the position of personal intern. It was the offer of a lifetime It took all Peter had in him not to lose his mind.
Despite his embarrassing laps in memory, Peter did remember applying for the grant. Application forms had been sent out to all the high schools in the city the previous spring, and his advanced Physics teacher had personally encouraged him to apply, even going so far as convincing the school to cover the 20 dollar application fee.
Mister Stark explained it all to him again, mostly for the sake of Mrs. Westcott, who shot him glances alternating between disbelief and anger over the head of the oblivious billionaire.
By the end of what might have been simultaneously the best and most stressful hour of Peter’s life, it was decided that twice a week after school, Happy, Tony’s personal driver, would make the hour long commute to pick up Peter and take him to Stark Tower, where he would help Mister Stark in his lab. On those days, Mrs. Westcott agreed, his curfew could be extended to nine.
With a contracted signed by his guardians, firm handshake, and a smirk for Tony, he was on his way.
And if Peter found himself bent over the arm of the sofa that night as the buckle end of Skip’s belt welted the tender skin of his upper thighs, he figured it was probably worth it if it meant the next day he got to live out his dream of spending time with his lifelong hero. And he was probably right.