Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

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Spooktober 28: Guilt

Something's wrong with Peter.

Tony had been watching him for the last thirty minutes since he showed up, and he could feel it in his gut. Watching everything add up, he just knew something was very, very wrong.

The first sign was his short replies. Usually, Peter was rattling off any thing on his mind, getting distracted after Tony asks him a question and then talking for thirty minute increments without pause while they worked on whatever. It was one of the first things he had to get used to when he started inviting the kid over more frequently to check in on him, because Tony was so familiar with the noise of his own voice and music through the speakers whenever he was in his lab.

So the short replies, leaving Tony to fill the space? That's a huge red flag.

Even Peter's body language is off. It was no secret that Spider-Man was enthusiastic, he made his movements loud and his voice louder, full of character in his own right. By extension, Peter Parker was quieter, made himself small—Skittish and scrawny, even. But his movements were never this stiff and lethargic.

Tony knew his intern. He knew his kid, and his kid looks exhausted. Stressed out. From the way his eyebrows were drawn tight, to his silence, to his inflexible shortened movements—He's overthinking something. Everything, maybe.

Tony can tell that this kid had a trillion thoughts racing around in that big brain of his, and he intends to find out what they are.

Nearly thirty-five minutes in, he realizes Peter isn't going to speak up about whatever was eating at him. He can't just let the kid work himself to death, though. He lets out a slow breath. He knows what he has to do, he just doesn't know how to do it.

"Alright." Tony pushes himself away from his desk. "Spill."

Peter looks up from the wires he was messing with. The kid almost looks mad, either frustrated from whatever he was thinking about or from being interrupted. Either way, the glare he gave him has a hard time leaving his face, and Tony isn't even sure if Peter knew he was glaring at all.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "What, you mad at me?"

Peter's features force into a relaxed position, but it looks so unnatural and only causes Tony's concern to grow further. He tilts his head. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. I was focused. Spill what?"

'Focused' is absolutely not the look Peter had given him. If there's one expression of Peter's that Tony knows better than any other, it was his don't-look-at-me-I'm-focused look. It had so hint of frustration anywhere in it, just curiosity, maybe screwed-up eyebrows and Peter unconsciously chewing on his bottom lip, but never angry, and definitely never a glare.

No, the look Peter gave him was something he's only seen once, all teenage angst and maybe some trauma in it too, wrapped up in a package of exasperation and most importantly—the desperate need for something, usually help.

Last time Tony saw it? The Great Ferry Disaster of Staten Island. He hadn't helped the right way that time, making it even more crucial that he helps the kid now. He needs to fix it; that's what he does.

"Right." Tony narrows his eyes. "Well, pretending like you were just telling the truth, there—Let's say, hypothetically, you were upset. What would it be about?"

Peter gives him a helpless smile-turned-grimace, as if he were attempting to reassure him. "I'm not upset, Mr. Stark. Really, I'm—I'm fine."

Geez. This kid is just as stubborn as he is. He isn't letting it go, though.