I thought you were human?

by SaRfIna17

Summary:

“What did you say?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your mother’s name,”

 

“Mary, Mary Fitzpatrick,”

Notes:

Hi, I am finally uploading this story that had been in drafts for a long time. Right now, I don’t have time, but in the future, I will definitely work on it. Sorry for always leaving the story halfway.

Chapter 1: Trust blindfolded

Notes:

Due to some technical issues with the story, I am re-editing the first chapter and uploading it as separate chapters. Those who have already read this chapter can skip it if they want, but if they prefer, they can still read it as some changes have been made. Otherwise, the storyline remains the same. Thank you.😇

Peter stood at the edge of the dock, staring up in awe at the immense cruise ship that loomed above him like a floating city. 

Its sleek, modern lines glistened under the evening lights, and the soft hum of the engines vibrated through the air. 

This was no ordinary cruise ship; it was a vessel of unimaginable luxury, reserved for the wealthiest and most powerful individuals in the world. 

And tonight, it hosted the biggest event of the year—the exclusive Stark Industries gala, a night where only the most elite were invited to rub elbows with celebrities, politicians, and powerful business magnates.

At the center of it all was the man Peter had come to see.

Tony Stark.

The name alone sent a wave of unease through Peter’s chest. He had never met Stark in person, but he had seen him a million times on TV, in newspapers, and on magazine covers. 

Stark was everywhere—his face plastered across billboards, his voice in countless interviews.

It felt like Stark was woven into the fabric of the world itself. Peter used to joke with his friends that he was sick of seeing Stark’s face. 

But it wasn’t entirely true. In fact, he admired Tony Stark. 

He admired the work he did, the technology he created, the brilliance of his mind. Stark was a larger-than-life figure, almost like a hero in the eyes of millions.

But now, things were different. 

Now, Peter wasn’t here as just a fan or an admirer.

He was here for something much more personal.

Peter took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he recalled the conversation he’d had just the day before with his Aunt May.

She had told him the truth—something that had rocked Peter to his core and changed everything he thought he knew about his life.

Tony Stark was his biological father.

It still sounded unreal in his head.

But Aunt May had been sure. 

She had kept it from him for years, wanting to protect him from the truth, wanting to give him a normal life without the shadow of Stark’s fame hanging over him.

But now, things were different. Aunt May was sick—really sick. 

The kind of sick that required a surgery they couldn’t possibly afford, a surgery that would cost them millions. 

And Peter would do anything, anything , to save her. 

May had confessed everything to him in that hospital room. Her voice had been weak, her hand cold as it held his, but her words had been clear.

His mother, Mary, had left a letter for him, to be given when he was old enough to understand.

A letter that told the story of his real father.

Mary had met Tony Stark long ago, before Peter was born, and they had been lovers.But Tony had never known about Peter. 

Mary had kept it from him, possibly because Tony had been a playboy back then, not the kind of man who would settle down and be a father. 

Instead, Mary had married Richard Parker, a good man who couldn’t have children of his own but loved Peter as if he were his own son. 

Richard had raised Peter, and Peter had loved him as a father. But now, everything had changed.

Peter’s head spun as he thought about it all. 

He hadn’t believed it at first, but the letter had been too real, too raw for him to deny. 

And now, Aunt May, his only living relative, was dying.

She didn’t have long left, and the surgery was her only chance. But the cost… it was impossible. 

Peter was feeling terrible after hearing about May's illness. The news shattered his hopes like tiny pieces of glass, leaving him feeling lost and hopeless.

But suddenly, a small spark of hope appeared in his eyes.

The value of Aunt May’s life couldn’t just be measured by fate. It also depended on the hope he held inside. 

According to a letter from his mother, there was a biological father who might explain why Peter existed.

Perhaps life was giving him a chance to piece together the broken parts of his life, like a child trying to put together a favorite toy that had fallen apart. 

Who knows what opportunities lay ahead?

Peter was willing to go to any lengths for Aunt May. 

It didn’t matter to him what her life was worth; he was ready to pay any price.Even if it meant risking his own life or giving up his own happiness, he would do it without thinking twice.

His determination came not from the cruelty of a heartless world or the fear of losing everything they had. 

It was simply a reflection of his love for Aunt May. 

Without her, he felt he would be nothing. 

He had already lost so much; he had been an orphan long before this. 

If May passed away, he would officially be homeless and alone. But the true loss would be the absence of the most important person in his life. 

The thought of losing her filled him with deep sadness, something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

It would plunge him into a dark ocean of regret, forcing him to drown in memories of what might have been.Regret is like a deep ocean, where the truth is hidden beneath layers of sadness. In the shadows of despair, there is nothing but emptiness and a lack of hope.

The reality was clear: if a mankind were to drown in this sadness, there would be no one to help pull him back to safety. This thought weighed heavily on Peter, reminding him of his loneliness in a world that felt both vast and suffocating. 

The coldness of loneliness  would feel more chilling than the coldest water, wrapping around like a heavy blanket.

This frightening thought was enough to rob Peter of sleep, leaving him restless and tormented. 

His Aunt May was standing on the edge of life and death, a fragile thread of life that could break at any moment. 

Every second felt like a countdown, reminding him that their time together was running out. 

The risk of losing her was a burden Peter could hardly carry. The idea that her life could end at any moment filled him with fear and anxiety, making it impossible for him to rest.

But, even in this difficult time, a small spark of hope emerged within him because of Tony Stark’s name. 

The thought of Tony gave him a mix of hope and uncertainty. 

Could it be that Tony, with all his resources and power, might be the hero he desperately needed? What if, in his moment of need, Peter could ask Tony Stark for help? 

Maybe, if Tony understood how serious the situation was, he would reach out and offer help to Peter and Aunt May.

After all peter was his biological son right?.

So here Peter was, standing in front of this massive cruise ship, about to walk into a world he didn’t belong to, hoping— praying —that Tony Stark would help him. That his father would help him.

Even though his Aunt had warned him a thousand times not to do this, telling him that she only had a few days left to live, she never wanted Peter to waste a golden opportunity because of her. In other words, she didn’t want her nephew to beg his biological father on her behalf, especially a father who, despite being a billionaire, was also a cruel and heartless man. 

May didn’t want Peter to miss out on such a good chance. Peter was only 14 years old—a kind, innocent boy with strong morals, and he would soon need the support of a good guardian. And Peter deserved someone like Tony Stark to be his guardian.

Peter had a great chance for his future to be secured.

If Peter and Tony met under better circumstances, May was one hundred percent certain that Tony would like Peter a lot. 

He would genuinely take care of him and fulfill every need Peter had. 

And Tony would love Peter with the kind of love a real father gives, something Peter had never received before. Never.

But if, for the sake of his Aunt, Peter begged his father during their very first meeting, Tony might break in the same way he had once shattered when the truth about his godfather, Obadiah Stane, had come to light. It was a wound that was still fresh in Tony's memory—a betrayal that had rocked his world six years ago, when every newspaper and every news channel had carried the scandal on their front pages, “ The fate of Stark’s partner had ended in utter devastation. ”making headlines for weeks. 

Back then, Tony had been forced to face the painful reality that someone he had trusted like a father could betray him so deeply. 

The damage Obadiah had caused to Tony's trust in people was immeasurable, and it left scars that even time hadn't fully healed. 

If Peter went to Tony now, begging for help, there was a real possibility that Tony might shut down completely, seeing Peter as just another reminder of scheme.  A liar.In May's heart, if anyone had asked her, she would have said with certainty that a man like Tony Stark did not deserve to step into the life of her innocent nephew. 

Tony was not fit to care for someone as pure and kind as Peter. And if May had even the slightest chance—just a one percent chance—of recovering, she would have poured all her strength into healing herself.

She would have fought with everything she had to get better, just so she could take Peter’s hand and pull him far, far away from Tony Stark and the cruel, heartless world he represented. She would have done exactly what she did fourteen years ago when she had protected Peter from a world that could break him.

But, sadly, May’s fate hadn’t been so merciful this time. 

There was no chance for her—not even a glimmer of hope. 

She could feel it deep in her bones, a truth that weighed heavily on her soul, even if she refused to say it out loud. 

May was dying, and she knew it. She could feel her body failing, slipping further away with every passing day. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to tell Peter. 

She couldn’t bear to crush the hope that still lit up his young, innocent eyes—the hope that, somehow, she would pull through. 

That hope was what kept Peter going, and May couldn’t bring herself to take it from him. She didn’t want to be the one to extinguish the last bit of light in her nephew’s heart.

But no one could stop Peter. 

Despite everything, Peter was a person with strong principles. Ever since childhood, he had never begged or asked anyone for anything.

Peter had a rule he lived by: no matter how hungry or how much pain he endured, he would never stretch out his hand in front of anyone. 

Never.

Yet, fate has a strange way of changing everything, doesn’t it? The same Peter, who valued his pride and self-respect above all else, now found himself like a stranger in a grand party, standing outside like a beggar.

Peter was never the kind of boy who sought help easily.

His pride was his shield, something he held onto with all his might, even when times were tough.

In school, when other kids complained about their lunches or the clothes they wore, Peter remained silent. 

No one ever knew how hard it was for him, how many meals he skipped just to avoid showing his needs to anyone. 

He was stubborn that way — he believed in earning everything on his own, even if it meant suffering in silence.

But today was different. His strong resolve, which had carried him through every hardship, was being tested like never before. 

He never thought he would find himself in this position — waiting on the outskirts of someone else’s lavish life, staring into a world that wasn’t his. 

The people inside the luxurious ship, laughing and enjoying the grand celebration, had no idea that just beyond their glass doors, Peter was standing like an outsider, feeling like he didn't belong.

It wasn’t the hunger or the fatigue that weighed on him the most. It was the crushing realization that he might have to go against everything he believed in — everything his pride and self-worth stood for — just to save the person he loved most in the world. 

It wasn’t for himself, but for Aunt May, the woman who had been everything to him. 

And for her, Peter knew he would break his own rules, even if it tore him apart inside.

He stood there, hands clenched into fists, fighting back the storm of emotions swirling inside him. 

The laughter from inside the party felt distant, like it was happening in another world — a world Peter was no longer part of. 

The grand ship, with its shining lights and elegant decor, mocked him silently. How far he had fallen.

How much he was willing to lose, just to see his Aunt May smile again, to hear her voice.

Peter’s thoughts spiraled as he realized how far he had come from the boy who would rather starve than ask for help.

Here he was, about to beg — for the first time in his life. 

Not for himself, but for May. 

The thought twisted in his gut like a knife, and he could feel the weight of it settling deep in his chest. 

His pride was all he had, and now he was about to lay it down at the feet of a man he barely knew — Tony Stark.

The irony was bitter. 

Peter, who once believed he could survive anything, now felt more helpless than ever. 

The boy who had always held his head high was now facing the cold truth that sometimes, survival meant swallowing your pride. 

Sometimes, you had to ask for help. 

Even from the very people you never imagined you would. And Peter, for the sake of Aunt May, was ready to do just that.

But deep down, it hurt him in ways he couldn’t even describe. 

Because once you crossed that line, once you broke the promise you made to yourself, you could never go back.

The thought haunted him, but he pushed it aside.

May needed him, and for her, Peter was willing to do anything.

Even if it meant becoming someone he never thought he’d be.

Peter adjusted the straps of his backpack and stepped forward, his sneakers scuffing against the pavement. 

The main gate was guarded by a group of men in black suits, each of them built like a wall of muscle.

Their expressions were unreadable, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Peter swallowed hard, trying to steel his nerves as he approached.

One of the guards stepped forward, holding up a hand to stop him. 

“Hey, kid. Where do you think you’re going?”

Peter hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I, uh, I need to talk to someone inside,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He tried to sound confident, but the nerves were getting to him.

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And who exactly are you here to see?"

Peter’s mouth went dry. This was it. The moment he had been dreading. "M–Mr. Stark. I need to see Tony Stark. It’s… important."

The guard gave him a long, hard look, then smirked. 

"Mr. Stark, huh? You and every other kid in this city." He glanced at Peter’s worn-out clothes, the old sneakers, the slightly-too-big jacket. "You don’t look like you belong at this party, kid."

Peter felt a wave of embarrassment flush over him.

He knew he didn’t look the part.

He was just a regular kid from Queens, standing outside a party filled with politicians, tech moguls, and billionaires. 

But he had to try. "I know I don’t have an invitation, but I really need to talk to him. Please, it’s a personal matter."

The guard crossed his arms, his smirk widening. "A personal matter? What, you need him to sign something for you? Maybe a picture? Sorry, kid, that’s not how it works. This is the biggest party of the year. No invite, no entry. And I doubt Mr. Stark is interested in whatever autograph you want."

Peter’s frustration bubbled up. 

He had expected this, but it still stung. "No, it’s not like that. Listen,I just need five minutes with him, that’s all. It’s really important. My aunt—she’s sick, and I—"

"That’s enough, kid," the guard cut him off, his tone hardening. "You’re not getting in without an invitation. Now get lost."

Peter’s heart sank, but he wasn’t about to give up. Not yet. 

"Please, I’m telling the truth. Just let me talk to him. It’s about my family. I just need five minutes."He stepped closer, his voice more desperate now. 

"Kid, I’ve seen a lot of desperate people try to get in here. Trust me, I’ve heard every story in the book. You’re not getting in. Now, I’m gonna tell you one last time—go home."

"I have to see him!" he pleaded, his voice breaking. "He is my dad. I need his help please!"

The guards exchanged looks, their expressions unreadable. For a brief moment, Peter thought they might take him seriously. 

But then, they burst out laughing.

"Tony Stark? Your dad ?" the first guard said between fits of laughter. "Yeah, right. And I’m the King of England."

"I’m serious! My mom… she knew him. She—"

"Okay, kid, that’s enough," the guard said, his laughter fading as his expression turned cold. "You’ve had your fun. Now get out of here before we call the cops."

Peter clenched his fists, trying to keep his composure. 

He couldn’t let this be the end.

 Not after everything. 

He took a deep breath and tried to push past the guards, but they were too quick.

One of them grabbed his arm, the other his backpack, and before Peter knew it, they were dragging him back toward the street.

"Hey! Let go! I need to see him!" Peter shouted, struggling against their grip.

The guards didn’t listen. 

They hauled him to the edge of the dock and unceremoniously dumped him onto the sidewalk. 

Peter fell hard, scraping his hands on the rough pavement.

"Stay out of here, kid," one of them said coldly. "You’re not getting in. And if you try again, we’ll call the cops."

Peter sat there for a moment, the sting of rejection and humiliation burning in his chest.

He looked up at the cruise ship, the glittering lights and the sound of music filtering through the air. 

Inside, the party of the year was in full swing, filled with people who would never understand what it was like to be in his shoes.

For a moment, he considered giving up. 

Maybe it was hopeless. 

Maybe Tony Stark really didn’t care, even if he was Peter’s father. And even if he did, would he want anything to do with a kid like him?

But then he thought of Aunt May, lying in that hospital bed, her face pale and tired, her voice soft as she told him the truth. She was all he had left.

He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t give up.

Peter wiped the dirt from his hands and stood up, determination hardening in his chest. If the front gate wouldn’t work, he’d find another way. 

He wasn’t leaving until he saw Tony Stark.

One way or another, he was going to get in.

Peter stood at the edge of the bustling pier, his eyes fixed on the colossal ship anchored just a few meters away. 

It was unlike anything he'd ever seen.

The soft glow of the party lights reflected on the dark water below, casting a shimmering veil around the ship, making it look almost magical—if not for the daunting realization of what lay ahead.

Up there, high on the upper deck, amidst the laughter, clinking of glasses, and mingling of some of the world’s most powerful people, was the man he had to meet. 

The man Peter had only ever seen on TV, the man who could possibly save his Aunt May's life—his biological father, Tony Stark.

Peter swallowed hard, clutching the fraying strap of his worn-out backpack. 

His stomach twisted, not just from the nerves of trying to break into one of the most heavily guarded events in the city, but from the weight of the impossible truth he was still coming to terms with. Stark. 

The billionaire.

The genius. 

The man who built an empire on innovation and technology. That man was somehow his father. 

It was surreal, almost like something out of a bad dream. 

But Peter couldn’t afford to dwell on the how or the why right now. 

He didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing or overthinking.

Time was running out.

May was getting worse. 

The hospital bills were piling up, and they were no closer to finding the treatment she needed. 

If anyone could help, it was Stark.If he could just get close enough to talk to him. 

To explain. Peter would beg if he had to. He couldn’t let his aunt die like this.

But first, he had to figure out how to get past the army of security guards standing between him and the lavish party above.

Two guards( who had thrown him out )flanked the entrance like stone pillars, their eyes cold and vigilant, scanning each guest who approached.

Peter had tried earlier, casually walking up as if he belonged, only to be brushed off with a laugh before he could even get a word out. 

They had throw him out. 

He had got hurt 

But he wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

He kept to the shadows, circling the pier, his eyes searching for any opening, any weak spot in the fortress of security. 

His gaze fell on a delivery truck parked a few feet away, the logo of a catering company splashed across its side. 

Workers bustled around it, unloading crates of food and drinks, their voices rising in idle chatter. 

They were talking about how much the rich guests ordered, how wasteful it all seemed.

Peter felt a spark of hope. 

The workers were moving freely between the truck and the ship. This could be his way in.But he couldn’t be reckless.

His heart raced as he crouched near the side of the dock, waiting for the right moment. 

He couldn’t risk climbing into the truck and getting caught before he even got close. 

He stayed hidden behind a stack of crates, his eyes darting back and forth, following the movements of the workers as they hauled the last few boxes up the narrow gangplank that led inside the ship.

One by one, they moved like a well-oiled machine, loading the final items for the evening’s event. 

Peter’s pulse pounded in his ears.

He couldn’t rush it.

He had to wait.

Breathe. 

He scanned the area again, noticing that the workers seemed to be winding down their work. 

A few of them exchanged jokes, clearly eager to finish up for the night.

Peter ducked lower, peeking out just in time to see one of the workers—probably the last of them—hefting a large crate from the truck. He was a burly guy, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he hoisted the box with a grunt.

Peter held his breath as the man made his way up the ramp, vanishing into the ship’s entrance.For a few tense seconds, the pier was still. Quiet.

His heart raced as he finally stood from his hiding spot, his movements swift but careful.

He edged closer to the now-abandoned truck, eyes darting around to make sure no one was watching. 

The delivery area seemed all but forgotten, with the party's focus entirely on the glamorous guests arriving in their sleek, black limousines.

Peter’s hands trembled as he spotted an apron hanging loosely from a nearby rack.

Without a second thought, he snatched it and slipped it over his worn hoodie. 

It was wrinkled and smelled faintly of stale food, but it would have to do. 

He tugged it down, trying to make it fit as best as possible, then grabbed a pair of leftover boxes that had been set aside, likely forgotten in the rush to get everything on board.

His heart thudded in his chest as he balanced the boxes in his arms, making his way toward the ship. 

He didn’t rush—couldn’t rush—no matter how much his legs begged him to. He had to look calm, like he belonged. 

He had to act like he was just another worker finishing up for the night.

The gangplank stretched out before him, leading up into the ship’s interior. 

It felt like the longest walk of his life, every step heavy with the fear of being caught. 

He kept his head down, trying to avoid eye contact with the guards stationed near the entrance.

They barely spared him a glance, too preoccupied with the steady stream of guests in their expensive outfits and flashy jewelry.

Peter let out a slow, measured breath, relief flooding his system as he crossed the threshold. 

He was in.

Inside, the ship was even grander than it looked from the outside. 

The lower deck bustled with staff moving in every direction—chefs, waiters, and kitchen hands, all hurrying to prepare for the night’s event. 

The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, herbs, and sauces simmering on stoves. 

Pots clanged, and knives chopped, while orders were barked across the room in a mixture of languages.

Peter's gaze flickered around the space, trying to take it all in while also planning his next move.

His heart still pounded, but now it wasn’t just from nerves—it was from the sheer awe of where he was.Stark was here. Somewhere on this ship, laughing with his guests, unaware that his son was now wandering the very halls of his luxury cruise liner.

But Peter couldn’t get distracted. 

He needed to focus.

He shifted the boxes in his arms and made his way down a narrow hallway, trying to look like he knew where he was going. He passed a group of kitchen staff moving in the opposite direction, their arms loaded with trays of hors d'oeuvres, and felt a pang of anxiety twist in his gut.

He didn’t know how long he could keep this up.

The he kitchen was a maze of clattering pans, bustling chefs, and the constant roar of orders being shouted from one end to the other. 

Peter slipped inside with the catering staff, his heart racing as he darted past the crowd of workers. 

The lower deck was where all the behind-the-scenes work happened—the kitchens, the storage rooms, the prep areas for the extravagant meals being served upstairs.

This was where the real action took place, far from the glamour of the party on the upper decks.

Peter kept his head low, trying not to attract any attention as he followed a small group of workers hauling boxes of ingredients toward the kitchen.

The strong smell of freshly cooked dishes hit him like a wave. His stomach grumbled, but now was not the time for hunger. 

He had to focus. If he could just find a way to blend in with the staff here, he might have a chance to slip upstairs where the party was in full swing, and where Tony Stark was waiting—unaware that his son was only a few decks away.

As they reached the storage room, Peter slipped off from the group and ducked behind a stack of boxes. 

The he storage area was dark, a cluttered space filled with crates of food, drinks, and kitchen supplies. He crouched down, taking a deep breath. 

Okay, I’m in. Now I just have to figure out how to get upstairs.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Peter froze. A group of workers passed by, chatting loudly as they returned to the kitchen. 

Peter stayed hidden until their voices faded. He couldn’t afford to get caught now. 

His eyes scanned the room, looking for something—anything—that could help him blend in.

That’s when he spotted it: a stack of uniforms hanging on a rack by the door.

Perfect .

Peter grabbed one of the white waiter uniforms and quickly changed into it, pulling the apron over his head and straightening the bowtie.

The jacket was a little too big, but it would have to do. 

He tugged at the sleeves nervously, hoping the disguise would be enough to fool the staff upstairs.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the storage room, trying to avoid the eyes of the kitchen staff. 

But before he could make his way to the exit, His heart nearly stopped when he heard someone call out behind him.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

 

 

Chapter 2: Are you my father?

Notes:

Thank you so much to everyone for all the lovely comments and kudos! They really mean a lot!

Peter froze. He turned slowly, his stomach flipping as he spotted an older man approaching. 

He was in his fifties, with a round face, a thick mustache, and a belly that strained against his chef's coat.

 But it wasn’t his appearance that caught Peter’s attention—it was the massive hat perched on the chef’s head, easily the biggest Peter had ever seen.

It wobbled slightly as the man stormed toward him, looking every bit as angry as his tone had suggested.

The chef, whose name tag read Pablo , pointed a thick finger at Peter, his face flushed with irritation.

 His accent was heavy, unmistakably Italian.

 “Where do you think you’re going huh.?” 

“I—I—” Peter stammered, but before he could get a word out, Pablo cut him off.

 “I don’t want to hear your excuses!” Pablo growled, his frustration growing with each second.

“I’ve had enough of you useless staff around here. I swear, y’all are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine!”

“You’re all supposed to be working, not-a wandering around like you own-a the place! Do you think this food will-a cook itself?Look at you, standing there like-a a lost puppy! I swear, if laziness was-a an Olympic sport, half of you would be gold medalists by now. You think the big shots upstairs care how hard we work? Nope! They just-a want their fancy lobster and caviar, pronto! And me? I’m stuck here running the circus with-a a bunch of clowns who can’t even carry-a a plate without tripping over their own feet!”

“You’re here to work! Not to stand around! If you don’t get moving, I’ll report you to the in-charge myself!”

“Listen-a up, everyone. If-a anyone has made-a mistake, or I got-a the complain about a single thing, I swear I will-a personally cut them up and feed them to-a the dogs,” Pablo said with-a anger to the entire staff. 

And just as he said this, his expression revealed that he was indeed serious about what he could do here. “Did-a you understand “ 

"Did-a you understand?"he asked peter .

“ Y--yes “ 

Peter swallowed, biting his tongue as the chef continued his tirade. 

He tried to look apologetic, hoping it would be enough to defuse the situation, but the chef wasn’t having it. 

He was fuming, muttering angrily to himself as he checked on the dishes his staff were preparing.

Peter stayed perfectly still, unsure of what to do. 

He couldn't risk blowing his cover now.

Pablo barked orders at the other chefs, his irritation spilling over onto everyone in his path. As the chef moved on to scold one of his subordinates, Peter caught snippets of their argument. 

It seemed the chef was furious because his partner, who was supposed to help with the event, hadn’t shown up, leaving Pablo to handle the preparation for seven hundred guests by himself.

Peter could almost sympathize. If he had to cook for that many people, he might be fuming too.

“Jimmy! Take these dishes upstairs!” Pablo barked suddenly.

Peter blinked, confused. Jimmy? Who was Jimmy?

“Jimmy are deaf”

“Huh?”

“Aren't you're name Jimmy? “

Then it hit him. He was wearing the apron of some guy named Jimmy Scotland , the name stitched onto the front of the uniform he’d grabbed. 

Before he could react, Pablo’s voice rose again, this time with more frustration.

 “Jimmy! Move!”

Peter stood frozen for a second too long, which only served to anger Pablo even more.

The chef’s face turned a darker shade of red as he marched toward Peter, growling through clenched teeth.

 “Take. The. Dishes. Upstairs,” he snarled, gesturing to a nearby trolley loaded with steaming platters.

Peter didn’t need to be told again.

He grabbed the trolley’s handle and pushed it toward the stairs, his pulse racing as he escaped Pablo’s fury.

He could still hear the chef muttering angrily behind him, but Peter didn’t dare look back. 

His heart was hammering against his chest as he navigated the trolley through the narrow corridors of the ship’s lower deck, trying his best to look like he knew what he was doing. 

In truth, every step felt like he was tiptoeing closer to a landmine.

But he was in, and that was the most important thing.

The ship’s interior was a maze of passageways, but Peter knew where he needed to go: the upper deck. 

That’s where Stark would be, likely mingling with all the other high-profile guests, utterly oblivious to the chaos Peter’s life had become.

He took a sharp breath, pushing through the nerves gnawing at his insides. 

One step at a time. 

Just get to the deck. 

The clattering of the trolley wheels against the tiled floor echoed in the hallway as Peter reached a set of narrow stairs. 

His arms burned from the weight of the boxes he’d taken earlier, but he forced himself to keep moving. 

He couldn’t stop now.

Balancing the boxes on top of the trolley, Peter hoisted the front end of the cart and began hauling it up the staircase, muscles straining with each step. 

The trolley wobbled precariously, but he gritted his teeth and kept climbing. 

Finally, he reached the top, and the instant he pushed through the door to the upper deck, the atmosphere shifted.The kitchen’s frenetic energy fell away, replaced by the soft, muted hum of opulence. 

Peter paused for a moment, letting the scene wash over him. 

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of saltwater, and the distant sound of waves lapping against the hull provided a rhythmic backdrop to the glamorous party.

The deck was expansive, with polished marble floors and delicate strings of lights hanging above, casting a warm, golden glow over the guests. 

People mingled around elegantly draped tables, sipping from delicate champagne flutes. 

Waiters in crisp uniforms floated between groups, offering trays of hors d'oeuvres to the impeccably dressed crowd. 

Women in glittering gowns sparkled beneath the lights, and men in tailored tuxedos stood in small clusters, laughing and conversing in low voices.

Peter felt like a fish out of water. 

His uniform and the hastily grabbed apron made him stick out like a sore thumb in this world of wealth and refinement.

He adjusted the boxes in his arms, trying to look busy, trying to blend in.

But his mind was spinning. Somewhere in this sea of elegance was Tony Stark. 

His father.

He pushed the trolley forward, pretending to focus on his task while scanning the crowd for any sign of Stark. 

His eyes darted from face to face, but they all blurred together—strangers with no idea of the desperate mission Peter was on.

As he wheeled the trolley past clusters of laughing guests, Peter’s breath caught when he spotted a tall figure standing near the edge of the deck, his back to the party.

His heart leaped into his throat. 

Tony Stark.

He recognized the posture, the casual confidence, the way Stark held himself like he was the center of gravity in any room. 

Even from this distance, there was no mistaking him.

Peter froze for a moment, gripping the trolley so hard his knuckles turned white. 

This was it. 

His chance. 

All he had to do was walk up to him, introduce himself, and explain—explain everything. 

But the words he had rehearsed a thousand times in his head now felt clumsy, too big to say out loud.

His chest tightened. What if Stark didn’t believe him? What if he brushed Peter off like another stranger looking for a favor?  

I have to do this. For Aunt May, Peter reminded himself, pushing down the swell of fear. 

He couldn’t afford to back out now. Not when they were so close to losing everything. 

He took a deep breath, abandoning the trolley as he set the boxes down near a nearby table. 

It was time.

No more hiding.

Peter weaved through the guests, his eyes locked on Stark. Each step felt heavier, but he didn’t stop.

As he got closer, he could hear Stark speaking, his voice smooth and confident, discussing some business venture with a couple in expensive suits.

Peter’s stomach twisted.

Now or never.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice came out quieter than he’d intended, barely more than a whisper.

Stark didn’t even turn around.

Peter’s heart raced as he stood there, his eyes locked on the back of Mr. Stark’s head. 

The man was talking animatedly with a group of high-profile guests, his presence commanding the space effortlessly. 

Peter had already called out once, but Mr. Stark hadn’t turned around. 

He was too far away, and with the booming music reverberating around the massive ship, it was impossible for anyone to hear anything less than a shout.

Peter swallowed hard, his throat dry. 

He couldn’t miss this chance. 

He had to speak to Mr. Stark, for May’s sake.

Taking a deep breath, he began to move through the crowd, careful not to draw too much attention to himself. 

But just as he was about to approach Stark, the billionaire smiled charmingly, excusing himself from his conversation, and began heading towards a private area—away from the noisy main deck and deeper into the ship.

Peter cursed under his breath.

He started to follow him, but then a voice called out behind him. 

"Hey! Waiter!" A couple seated at one of the lavish tables was waving him over. 

Peter froze. 

If he ignored them, they might realize he wasn’t a real waiter, and the last thing he needed was to blow his cover now. 

Forcing a smile, he turned and hurried over to their table, his hands shaking slightly as he refilled their glasses and nodded politely to their small talk. 

His eyes kept darting towards the hallway where Mr. Stark had disappeared.

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to extricate himself from the couple's demands and quietly slipped away.

With the clinking of ice in his cart and the soft hum of champagne bottles rattling together, Peter made his way through the ship’s corridors, keeping an eye out for any staff that might recognize he wasn’t supposed to be there.

His nerves were on edge as he entered the quieter, more private part of the dock. 

The grand halls here felt almost oppressive in their silence, a stark contrast to the lively party on the upper deck. 

The space was vast, the high ceilings adorned with elegant chandeliers, and the walls covered in intricate paintings that probably cost more than Peter could ever dream of making in a lifetime.

Peter pushed his trolley down the hallway, trying doors as he passed. Most of them were locked, and the few that weren’t revealed empty rooms or storage spaces. 

His frustration was building—he had to find Mr. Stark before it was too late.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Peter turned a corner and found himself in a beautifully decorated hallway.

The marble floors gleamed under the soft light, and the walls were lined with artwork—portraits, landscapes, abstract pieces—all adding to the room’s grandeur.

But something about the quiet here felt eerie, almost unsettling. 

There was no one around, and the sound of his own footsteps echoed faintly off the walls.

 

His thoughts raced, his nerves fraying with each passing second. 

 

He had come all this way, risked everything, and for what? To play hide-and-seek on a ship full of strangers. Then, just as he turned a corner, he heard something—a faint, muffled sound coming from one of the doors.

Peter hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob, unsure of what he was about to find. After a moment, he steeled himself and pushed the door open.

Inside, Tony Stark was slumped over the sink in the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a pale glow over his disheveled figure. 

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Stark was throwing up, his body wracked with heaves, and Peter could see immediately that the man was drunk—very drunk.

Peter froze, unsure of what to do. 

This was Tony Stark—his father—but Stark didn’t know that. 

To Stark, Peter was just another waiter, a nameless face in the sea of staff working the party.

 

 "Mr. Stark?" Peter called out hesitantly, taking a cautious step forward. "Are you... okay?"

Tony groaned in response, barely lifting his head from the sink. 

His suit was in complete disarray—shirt untucked, tie hanging loose around his neck, his usually perfect appearance crumbling. 

He didn’t even glance in Peter’s direction, too consumed by his current state.

Peter glanced around the room, his heart racing.

This wasn’t how he imagined their meeting would go. 

He’d always envisioned something more... significant. 

But here he was, staring at a man who had no idea who he was—no idea that the kid helping him was his son.

Peter moved forward, shaking off the awkwardness. "Here, let me help," he muttered, grabbing a towel and running it under cold water before gently pressing it to Stark’s flushed face.

 

Tony blinked, eyes glassy and unfocused, managing a lopsided smile. "You’re... a good kid," he slurred, the words dragging out. "But don’t get too comfortable. Babysitting me? Not in the job description."

Peter chuckled nervously, trying to keep things light. "No problem, Mr. Stark."

Tony groaned, leaning heavily against the sink, the weight of the night clearly hitting him hard. "I’ve dealt with killer, brokered deals with some real bottom-of-the-barrel types," he muttered, waving a hand in the air.

"And now I’m getting knocked out by a couple of cocktails. Real genius move, huh?"

Peter shook his head, wringing out the towel again and offering it. "You’ve done more than most, Mr. Stark. Even heroes have their off days."

Tony squinted up at Peter, his voice slurring as he said, "You kinda sound like my old man." He paused, making a weird face as if the thought didn’t sit right with him.

"And trust me, I don’t like his sound at all."

Peter chuckled. 

Tony squinted at him, eyes narrowing in an attempt to focus on the name tag. "Jimmy... Scotland?" He raised an eyebrow, snorting. "What, were they running out of names when you were born? Whatever, not my problem."

He tried to stand a little straighter, but the effort was more a wobble than anything. "Thanks for the assist, kid. I’d offer you a generous tip, but... my wallet’s upstairs." He gave a lazy smirk. "You know how it is with us drunks—always leaving important stuff in inconvenient places. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get it... if I make it back upstairs without face-planting."

The last part, of course, he kept to himself.

Peter tried to suppress a laugh as Tony, in all his unsteady glory, attempted to prove he could walk. It was like watching a baby deer try its first steps—except this deer was a billionaire mob boss with a half-untucked shirt, a loosened tie, and zero sense of balance.

Just as Tony managed a whopping two steps, his legs betrayed him, and down he went.

 

Peter lunged forward, grabbing him before he could face-plant. "Whoa! Easy there, Mr. Stark," Peter muttered, struggling to keep him upright. Tony wasn’t exactly light, and the fact that he was swaying like a flag in a hurricane wasn’t helping.

Tony blinked in surprise, looking down at his legs like they’d just failed a job interview. "What the hell—legs, you had one job. I dodge bullets, avoid cops, run this whole damn operation, and now my legs decide to tap out?"

 

Peter bit his lip, trying not to laugh as he half-carried, half-dragged Tony to the nearest wall.

"Yeah, I don’t think tumbling down the stairs would be a great look for you, Mr. Stark. Broken ribs aren’t exactly your style."

Tony nodded seriously, though his head bobbed a little too much.

"Exactly! Can you imagine? Tony Stark, the most feared man around, with a limp?" He snorted, shaking his head. "They'd roast me for years. 'Hey, Tony, how’s the leg? Stairs got the best of you, huh? Real boss material.' Yeah, not happening."

Peter, trying to hide his grin, adjusted his grip. "Don’t worry, I’ve got you. No broken bones on my watch. Just maybe a bruised ego... if you’re lucky."

 

Tony squinted at him. "Oh, so you think you’re funny now, huh?"

Peter’s smile faltered. Instantly regretting his joke, he stammered, "I—I didn’t mean to offend you, sir."

Tony raised an eyebrow, mock serious. "But you did offend me. Deeply."

Peter’s eyes widened, panic setting in. "I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" What was he thinking, cracking jokes at Tony Stark? Why on earth had he just said that? Had his brain completely short-circuited?

And then Tony broke into a smirk, chuckling. "Relax, kid, I’m just messing with you."

"Should I carry you upstairs, sir?"

Peter was halfway to offering to have a real conversation with Stark, but quickly reconsidered. Tony was drunk—very drunk—and had just thrown up a good chunk of his evening. Maybe not the best time for a heart-to-heart. Better to let him sober up a bit.

“Nope,” Tony said, popping the word like he was handing out prizes at a carnival. “Give me a sec... got some high-level thinking to do.”

Tony tried to snort, but it turned into a groan as he attempted to stand up straight, nearly falling over in the process. “Alright... fresh air,” he muttered, wobbling on his feet. “Need some... air.”

Peter moved quickly, catching him before he could hit the floor again. "Whoa, careful!" he said, his voice tight with concern as he awkwardly slipped an arm around Stark's waist to keep him upright.

Tony blinked down at him, a smirk creeping onto his face. "You’re a scrawny kid, huh? Think you can handle all this?" He gestured loosely to himself, the alcohol slurring his words just enough to make them sound both ridiculous and sincere.

Peter flushed, almost tripping over his own feet as he guided Tony toward the balcony. "I think I can manage, Mr. Stark."

Tony chuckled softly, leaning heavily on Peter. "You remind me of someone..."

His voice trailed off, his gaze distant for a moment before he shook his head, the smirk returning.

"Must’ve been a real pain in the ass."

Peter rolled his eyes but kept steadying him. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Peter's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his mouth shut, focusing instead on not stumbling as he guided Stark to the balcony. Here he was, holding up the man who was his biological father—though Stark didn’t have a clue.

To him, Peter was just some kid. A kid who had the unlucky fortune of being in the wrong place at the right time.

They stepped outside, the cool night air hitting them as the sound of the waves crashing below filled the silence. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet was oddly comforting.

“You’re… a good kid," Stark muttered, his voice softer now, almost sincere. "And a decent waiter too... thanks for the assist.”

Peter smiled faintly, handing him a bottle of water. “No problem, Mr. Stark. Anytime.”

Stark took the bottle, glancing at Peter with a half-smile before cracking it open. “Yeah, well… don't make a habit of it. I’m not usually in the market for hero waiters.”

Mr. Stark was standing at the far end of the balcony, his figure silhouetted against the dark ocean and night sky.

Peter hesitated, feeling an unexpected wave of nerves. He had come all this way, sneaked onto this ship, and now stood just a few feet away from the man he had been trying to meet.

Yet, in this moment, he suddenly felt so small, like he didn’t belong.

Before Peter could take another step, Stark’s voice sliced through the silence, cool and casual.

“You got drinks in that trolley of yours?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, y-yes, sir,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Good. Then you can stay,” Stark said, still not turning around. “If not, I was about to send you back for champagne. So either way, you’ve got a job to do.”

Peter fumbled for a moment before managing, “I-I’ve got it, sir.”

Stark chuckled softly, the sound almost lost in the wind, and gestured toward the trolley without looking at Peter. “Well then, bring it here, kid. Don’t keep a guy waiting.”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed the trolley closer, his hands trembling slightly as he uncorked one of the champagne bottles and began pouring. 

Mr. Stark didn’t even look at him, his gaze fixed on the stars above as if lost in thought.

"Is this cool?" Stark suddenly asked, his voice distant as he kept his gaze on the sky.

Peter blinked, caught off guard. "Uh... sorry?" he mumbled, not entirely sure what Stark was asking.

"The party," Stark clarified, finally glancing at the glass in his hand. "What do you think? Is it cool?"

Peter fumbled for words, his brain scrambling to catch up. He hadn’t been paying much attention to the party—his mind was too tangled up with worries about May and everything else. Still, he nodded, trying to sound convincing. "Uh, yeah... it's, uh, it's really something."

Stark smirked, taking a sip of the champagne without another word. 

The moment felt surreal.

Peter was standing here, serving Tony Stark, his supposed biological father, and the man had no idea.it felt funny.  

Tony took another sip, staring up at the sky again.

"Yeah, an annual party. It’s like a rite of passage for whoever's in charge of Stark Industries. Started with my grandfather, and now it’s on me. Used to love these things—count down the days till the next one. But now? Now it’s just another headache, another box to tick for appearances. Keep up the show, keep the world thinking everything's perfect."

His tone shifted, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.

"All this flash, all this glamour—it's just a distraction. The truth is, it's business as usual behind the scenes, no matter how shiny we make it look. Just another ritual that I can’t escape, whether I care for it or not."

“So, you’ve got problems too, huh? Never thought rich people had issues like us poor folks. Always figured the problems of the wealthy were, I dunno, fancier or something. You know, not the same stuff we deal with,” Peter said, handing Tony another glass. “But I guess it’s all the same. The rich get sick of being rich, and the poor get sick of being poor. So, does that mean no one's ever really happy, no matter where they are or what they have?”

Tony gave the waiter a second glance, his expression shifting to one of surprise.

It hit him like a bolt of lightning.

This wasn’t just any waiter. The kid looked... like a kid. Barely twelve, maybe thirteen.

But Tony stopped himself, wondering if maybe he was just seeing things. He had indulged a little too much earlier, and now this waiter seemed way too young to be serving drinks at a high-profile event like this.

Yet, there was something off.

The kid’s awkwardness was practically spilling over, and Tony couldn’t help but notice that no one seemed to care.

Did no one else notice this kid wandering around? Were they all so absorbed in their meaningless conversations and overpriced drinks that they hadn’t noticed him standing right there?

The bigger question: Where the hell had this kid come from? How did he end up on this ship? And what was he talking about?

“What do you mean?” Tony asked, genuinely intrigued, leaning in a bit closer.

Peter just stared at him, like he was waiting for Tony to get it.

“What I mean is… the world’s like a testing ground. Everyone comes here, faces their challenges, and then moves on. So, the rich and the poor, they all go through their own crap, right? Some people have more, others have less. But why can’t anyone just be happy with what they’ve got? Why does everyone want more?”

Tony chuckled, tipping his glass in mock salute. “Ah, kid, because humans are basically walking, talking greed machines. It’s that sweet little thing called greed that keeps them chasing more.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “But knowing it’s not forever? That’s just… a waste, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Tony said with a smirk. “That’s the fun part. People are like… I dunno, hamsters in a wheel, running in circles. They chase after stuff like it's their birthright, and forget that nothing lasts forever. It's like trying to hold water in your hands—the harder you try, the quicker it slips through your fingers.”

“So... does that mean people should just become selfish and hurt others to get what they want?” Peter asked, genuinely confused.

Tony raised an eyebrow, leaning back, eyes gleaming with that usual sarcastic charm. “Well, no. Not everyone’s that messed up. Some people, believe it or not, aren’t all about taking the world down with them.”

Peter crossed his arms, frustration showing. “But a lot of them are. A lot of people are just plain cruel.”

Tony shrugged, as if discussing the weather. “Yeah, the world’s full of jerks. People assign meaning to the things they care about—money, love, whatever. If someone needs something, they’ll go to any length to get it. It’s human nature. When they don’t get it, they flip out—become desperate, controlling. Whatever it takes. It’s this endless cycle of wanting more, and the kicker is, even when they get it, they’re still hungry. Can’t satisfy that appetite.”

Peter frowned. “So, their selfishness blinds them. And then... they just wander off the path.”

Tony gave him a long look. “Exactly, kid. It’s like driving blindfolded. It never ends well.”

They locked eyes for a moment, both of them feeling the weight of it.

Suddenly Fireworks lit up the night sky, creating a stunning display of colors that danced and sparkled like joyful spirits.Red, blue, green, and golden lights exploded in bursts, filling the air with excitement. 

Each firework was a tiny celebration, popping and crackling, lighting up the faces of the crowd below. People cheered and laughed, their voices mixing with the sounds of the fireworks, creating a festive atmosphere.

Peter stood beside Tony, captivated by the beautiful show above. 

Although he had seen fireworks before during New Year celebrations, this felt different. 

The sheer number and brightness of the colors made it seem like the sky was alive with magic.For a moment, Peter forgot about everything—the worries about his parents, Aunt May, and the pressures he often felt.

Peter felt like a kid again, losing himself in the joy of the display. 

Each firework burst seemed to have its own personality: the reds crackled like sizzling bacon, the blues whooshed softly, and the greens twinkled like laughter. 

The golden ones fell like stars, making Peter feel light and happy.

Tony glanced at the sky, watching the fireworks dance and shimmer above him. 

Yet, something kept pulling his attention back to Peter. 

There was something in the boy's demeanor that compelled him to look again and again.

Tony couldn’t quite put his finger on it; it felt strange yet familiar, like a whisper from a distant memory.

He was completely certain he had never met this child before—there was no way. However, despite this certainty, he felt an inexplicable sense of connection to Peter. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced with anyone else, not even with Pepper.

Tony found himself captivated by the innocence and joy radiating from this stranger. 

The fireworks painted the sky in brilliant colors, but it was Peter’s wide-eyed amazement that truly lit up the night.

Each burst of light reflected in his eyes, creating a mosaic of wonder that seemed to encapsulate the pure essence of childhood. 

Tony observed how the boy’s face transformed with each explosion: awe giving way to laughter, and then to an expression of sheer delight as he pointed at the sky, trying to catch the fleeting lights with his small hands.

Tony's mind raced as he tried to understand this sudden attachment he felt toward Peter. 

Why did the boy seem so familiar? 

What was it about him that resonated so deeply within Tony?

It was as if a part of him was awakening, a long-buried feeling of protection and warmth that he had almost forgotten existed.

The fireworks continued to erupt above them, he couldn’t help but wonder if this connection was just a figment of his imagination, fueled by the magic of the moment.

 

 

Chapter 3: Stranger, why do you feel so familiar?

“Wait a second—if I squint, you look like you still get carded at the movies. What are you, twelve?”

 

Peter’s eyes widened, scrambling for a defense. “No! My... my facial features just haven’t fully—developed yet!”

 

Tony raised an eyebrow, amused but not buying it.

 

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve seen toddlers with more stubble. You look like you should be at home doing algebra homework.”

Peter fumbled, clearly flustered. “I-it’s not like that! You’re just... you’re just drunk, that’s why you think that!”

 

Tony’s expression sharpened, his smirk fading into something more serious. 

 

“Drunk huh? Kid, how old are you?”

 

Peter gulped. “Eighteen.”

Tony pulled out his phone, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he began to type furiously. Peter sat in silence, his heart pounding in his chest, feeling the weight of Tony’s scrutiny upon him. 

He could sense that something was brewing in the back of Tony’s mind, something he might not be prepared for.

After a few moments, Tony turned his attention back to Peter, a sly grin spreading across his face. 

He pivoted his phone toward Peter, tapping a button that projected a video onto the wall as if it were a movie screen. 

The images flickered to life, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit room.

Peter's stomach dropped as he recognized the scene unfolding before him.

It was a video of him, clearly recorded from a hidden camera in the kitchen storage room.

He watched himself change into a waiter's uniform, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination as he prepared for a night of serving.

The video continued, revealing snapshots of him lifting a heavy box through the door, his movements awkward yet earnest.

And then, a still frame appeared on the screen—Peter 

A picture of a man’s ID card, which he doesn’t recognize. 

After looking at it closely, he realized that this is the person whose uniform he stole. 

This means Tony is now suspicious of him. What will happen now?

Tony leaned back, sipping his drink casually, though his eyes were now locked on Peter with newfound interest. 

"You’re pretty sharp for a kid. So, what’s your name, how old are you, and most importantly, what are you doing on my ship? And don’t even think about lying—your face is basically holding up a sign that says, ‘I don’t belong here.’"

Peter pouted, crossing his arms. “I’m not a kid.”

Tony smirked, his gaze sweeping over Peter. “Oh, no, you definitely are. Trust me, I’m not drunk enough to miss that. Now, unless you’re moonlighting as a cabin boy, how exactly did you land on my ship? Spill it.”

"Did you run away from home and somehow end up here on my cruise?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow as he eyed Peter suspiciously.

Peter’s face scrunched in mild frustration as he tried to play it cool. “I didn’t run away or anything.”

Tony tilted his head, eyebrow still raised. “Right, so you didn’t sneak out of your house and somehow wind up on my cruise. You’re just here...what? By accident? Took a wrong turn at the airport?”

He gave Peter a once-over, clearly not buying it but enjoying the banter.

Tony leaned back, smirking as he studied Peter.

“Your appearance is giving you away, kid. How old are you? Where are your parents? You live in New York or what?”

Peter stayed silent, unable to figure out why he couldn’t bring himself to speak. All he knew was that he wanted to keep looking at Mr. Stark, the man who was supposed to be his father, the man the media had painted in such a negative light. But standing here now, watching him, Peter couldn’t see any of that. Tony Stark didn’t seem like the arrogant, careless person people made him out to be. In fact, he seemed quite the opposite—he seemed like a decent guy, maybe even a little sweet.

Peter’s mind wandered as he wondered how different his life could have been if Mr. Stark had been a part of it from the beginning.

He didn’t understand why his mom had lied to him and Tony for all these years. He had a right to know the truth, and so did Mr. Stark. The thought filled him with anger and confusion. What his mom had done wasn’t fair to either of them. Keeping them apart? Hiding such a huge part of their lives? How could she justify that?

Peter just stared at Tony, his mind spinning. He wasn’t sure what to do.

How could he tell this man the truth when he wasn’t even sure if Tony would believe him? He felt a deep conflict inside, a battle between the part of him that wanted to tell Tony everything—about how he was Peter’s real father—and the part that feared ruining Tony’s life.

Tony seemed like a good man, someone whose life was moving forward just fine without Peter’s problems.

What right did Peter have to come into his life and mess everything up? Tony didn’t need someone like Peter—someone who brought nothing but trouble.

After all, wasn’t that all Peter ever was? Trouble?

A wave of guilt washed over him. How could he even think of burdening Tony with his problems? His life was already complicated enough without a kid barging in and demanding answers. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t mention anything about being his biological son.

Maybe he could just ask for help with his current situation. But then again, would Tony even help him? He was just some random kid who had illegally snuck onto a cruise ship.

What if Tony saw him as a criminal? What if the only help Tony offered was sending him to jail?

Peter’s silence stretched for a moment too long, and Tony’s voice cut in again, this time sharper.

“Come on, kid, say something. Look, I’m not looking to make this a big deal. You tell me a little bit about yourself, and I won’t call the cops. Just between us, alright? So what’s your name? Where’re you from?”

“Hello? Earth to kid? You gonna answer, or are we playing the silent treatment game here?”

Tony waved his hand in front of Peter’s face, trying to snap him out of his silence.

Was this kid even listening to him? Or had the kid fallen asleep standing up out of sheer boredom?

Peter blinked, finally pulling himself out of his thoughts.

But he still didn’t know what to say. How could he explain everything swirling around inside him? The guilt, the fear, the confusion? He wanted to tell Tony the truth, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear the thought of disrupting Tony’s life.

Tony sighed, stepping back with a growing sense of concern.

This kid was odd—hadn’t said a word, just zoned out like he was in a different universe. Something about him, though, kept pulling at Tony’s gut, like an itch that wouldn’t go away.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered under his breath, raising an eyebrow, a mix of disbelief and curiosity crossing his face.

“Hey, kid, you do realize you’re trespassing, right? Private property and all that? Not exactly a slap-on-the-wrist situation,” he said, his tone firm but with a casual, almost fatherly edge.

He leaned back, waiting for some kind of reaction, eyes locked on the boy's face, looking for anything—a flicker of guilt, maybe a hint of recognition. But Peter stayed quiet, not even meeting his gaze, like he was stuck in some silent argument with himself.

“Alright, look, if you’re not gonna spill, the cops will get to hear your life story instead. And trust me, juvie? Not exactly five-star. Bad food, creepy crawlies under the bed. I’m talking roaches with gym memberships. So, maybe take a second and reconsider."

With a dramatic sigh, Tony whipped out his phone, holding it up like he was ready to dial.

“Alright, fine. Cops it is,” he said, his tone just serious enough to push for an answer,  leaving the door open for the kid to say something—anything.

As he dialed, Peter's heart sank.

The realization hit him hard: if Tony decided to involve the authorities, there might be no turning back.

Things could escalate quickly, and he had no idea what would happen next.

Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to stay calm, knowing that silence wouldn’t save him.

Peter took a deep breath and called out, “Mr. Stark!” His voice was barely above a whisper, and for a moment, it felt lost in the overwhelming noise of the party around them. The bright fireworks erupted in the night sky, casting colorful sparks against the darkness, while laughter and cheers from the crowd filled the air.

It was a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within him.

Peter swallowed hard, stepping closer, his pulse roaring in his ears. “Mr. Stark ” he tried again, louder this time.

Stark finally turned, his brow furrowed as he glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking toward Peter with mild curiosity. It was the first time Peter had seen him up close, and it was almost surreal. He looked exactly like the man from the TV—sharp jawline, goatee perfectly trimmed, the casual arrogance etched into every line of his face. 

For a split second, Peter was frozen, lost in the reality of standing face to face with the man who unknowingly held the power to save his aunt's life.

Tony's voice was smooth, but there was a sharpness underneath, like he was already calculating how much of his time this was worth. "Did you finally decide to tell me?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Peter’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but the words seemed to catch, knotted up in the storm of emotions building inside him. This was way harder than he thought it’d be.

After all those nights imagining this moment, here it was, and he couldn’t get his brain—or his mouth—to cooperate.

“I—uh—” Peter stammered, barely audible over the low hum of the party buzzing around them.

Tony’s brow furrowed, and he fully turned toward Peter, arms crossed, his patience wearing thin. 

“Kid, if you’ve got something to say, spit it out. I don’t have all night.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it had an unmistakable bite—he wasn’t one for drawn-out awkward silences.

He forced himself to speak, his voice shaking slightly as he pushed the words out.

“I need your help. My aunt—she’s sick. And—I think you’re the only one who can help her.”

Stark’s expression shifted just enough to show that he was paying attention, his gaze sharpening as he took in Peter’s words. Peter could feel the tension building between them, every second stretching out like a tightrope he was walking on, unsure of whether he’d fall or somehow make it to the other side.

Stark raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly, his voice cool but with a bite of impatience.

“Your aunt’s sick, and you think I’m the cure for that? Look, kid, I’ve got enough people asking me for free medical advice and handouts to start a charity. I’m not exactly running a non-profit here.”

Peter’s stomach dropped at the dismissal, but he pushed forward, not ready to let go of his chance. “It’s... it’s not just that. I—” He paused, the weight of what he was about to say almost too much to bear. “I think you’re my father.”

Stark blinked, his arms uncrossing as he stared at Peter, the flicker of disbelief flashing across his face. The party noise seemed to fade into a distant hum, leaving an odd quiet in its wake.

Peter held his breath, his stomach a tight knot as he waited for Stark to say something—anything.

For a long moment, Stark didn’t move, his gaze piercing and unreadable. The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity.

Then, with that signature half-smirk of his, Stark leaned forward, his voice dripping with skepticism. “You think what?”

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. This was it. There was no backing down now. He had to say it.

“That you’re my father,” Peter stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Biological father.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy curtain, the weight of Peter's words settling in the air. The distant explosions of fireworks lit up the night sky, their bright colors a stark contrast to the sudden stillness around them.

The laughter, the music, the whole party—it all felt miles away now, like a world Peter wasn’t part of. He felt like he was inside a bubble, the outside world pushing in but not quite reaching him.

Stark remained frozen, his eyes never leaving Peter's face.

“Puffff,” 

Tony started laughing like a madman. He was laughing so hard that his face turned red, and tears began to flow from his eyes. 

But even then, he didn’t stop; instead, he continued to laugh like a lunatic.

Peter couldn’t understand what was so funny. Did he crack a joke? Still, why was Mr. Stark laughing like a madman?To get an answer, Peter realized he had to wait for Tony to calm down, but it seemed like Tony had no intention of stopping. 

After a while, Tony straightened up, wiping away tears from one eye. He was still chuckling softly.

“What’s so funny?” Peter asked, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Tony chuckled, shaking his head. “Did you seriously think I’m your father?”

Peter, feeling a lump in his throat, nodded.

“And what, exactly, gave you that genius idea?”

Peter gulped, trying to get it all out at once. “Well, I just found out yesterday. My aunt told me you’re my biological father, and there’s a letter from my mom that says you’re my dad, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, Speedy Gonzales. Take a breath before you pass out,” Tony cut him off, raising a hand.

Peter took a deep breath, and Tony leaned in, raising an eyebrow.

“So, let me get this straight. Your mom left a letter saying I might be your dad, and that’s why you’re here? That’s the big reveal?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied.

Tony blinked, then laughed in disbelief. 

“Oh, for the love of—! So you decided to sneak all the way here, bypass my very expensive and very tight security, because your mom wrote down in a letter that I’m your father?”

Peter nodded, and Tony threw his hands up. “Kid, have you completely lost it? Are you nuts?”

“You managed to get past my guards—who, by the way, are trained to deal with much scarier stuff than a teenager—and you also slipped through F.R.I.D.A.Y.? My multi-million dollar A.I. system?”

Peter nodded again, sheepishly.

Tony groaned, rubbing his temples. “And you do realize trespassing on private property can get you thrown in jail, right? Like, that’s a thing.”

Peter just shrugged, looking down.

“Unbelievable. I swear, kids today… What are they teaching you guys? You all think you’re invincible or something.” Tony reached for his phone. “Alright, give me your aunt’s number. I’m calling your legal guardian. No, wait—I’ll just call Happy. He’ll straighten this out.”

“Wait! Mr. Stark, you can’t call anyone!” Peter said quickly. “My aunt’s in the hospital, she can’t come here!”

Tony paused, phone in hand, giving Peter a long, exasperated look. 

“Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be? Because this situation wasn’t ridiculous enough already.”

“Look, Mr. Stark, I’m in a really tough spot here,” Peter started, his voice soft but earnest. “My aunt’s really sick, and we can’t afford her treatment. I’m asking for help... from you.”

He stopped, watching Tony nervously, hoping for any sign of a reaction.

But Tony just stood there, staring at Peter with that unreadable look, his face completely blank.

Inside, Peter was practically begging, Come on, Mr. Stark. Say something. Anything.

Finally, Tony blinked and crossed his arms, his irritation evident. 

“Right. Sure, because this totally sounds legit. Kid, come on. I wasn’t born yesterday. Cut the sob story and tell me why you’re really here.”

“I am telling you the truth,” Peter said, trying to stay calm.

Tony sighed, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, sure. I’ve heard better pitches from telemarketers. You know what? I’m calling Happy. He’ll get your mom and dad on the line, and we’ll straighten this out. Sound good?”

Before Tony could finish dialing, Peter jumped in front of him, grabbing his arm.

“Mr. Stark, please! I’m telling the truth! Just listen to me for a second, okay?” 

Tony didn’t even look at him, already halfway to making the call. But Peter wasn’t giving up. This was it—his last shot.

“Please, Mr. Stark. I swear I’m not making this up. My aunt’s in the hospital, she can’t move. We’re drowning in bills... I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need help,” Peter said, his voice almost breaking.

Tony finally stopped, turning his gaze toward Peter, eyes narrowing as he studied the kid. 

Happy wasn’t answering the call, and this kid just wouldn’t stop talking, like he was tearing apart Tony's already frayed patience. 

As Tony looked at the boy, something about him suddenly struck Tony. 

"Pretty ,please" Peter said again, with a strange sparkle in his eyes that Tony couldn’t quite understand. 

That sparkle—it felt familiar, as if reminding him of someone he used to know. There was a brief pause, the kind that usually comes right before Tony says something snarky. But when he finally spoke, his voice had lost a bit of its usual mockery.

It was still sharp, though—typical Stark.

“Okay, let’s say you’re telling the truth, kid. What makes you think I’m the guy to bail you out? You know I’m not exactly the ‘help out of the kindness of my heart’ type, right?”

Peter hesitated. “Because… you’re my dad? Or, uh, you could be?” He wasn’t totally sure himself, but hey, he could hope, right?

Tony groaned. "Oh no, please don't start with that 'Dad' thing again."

 

"But you are my father," Peter insisted, eyes wide, trying his best to pull off that innocent, I’m-totally-adorable look.

 

"No, I’m not."

 

"Yes, you are," Peter shot back, not missing a beat.

 

"I said no."

 

"No, you said yes."

 

Tony blinked, confused for a split second. “Wait—no, I didn’t.”

 

“Yes, you did,” Peter chuckled, unable to hide the grin forming on his face.

 

"Ahh, that’s enough," Tony huffed, throwing his hands up in defeat. First, this kid had somehow sweet-talked him into having this absurd conversation, and now those puppy eyes—the ones no one in their right mind could resist—were working their magic. Stark Industries didn’t prepare him for this.

Tony sighed dramatically, rubbing his temple. "Alright, fine, kid. I’ll bite. Let’s hear it—what’s your mom’s name? Because I’m definitely going to need a DNA test to settle this, one way or another." He pulled out his phone, already typing, his fingers flying across the screen like he was closing a business deal. "God, this is why I don’t do kids. They’re so clingy. And persistent."

Peter’s heart skipped a beat as Tony asked the question.

"Alright, so… what’s your mom’s name?" Tony asked, still distracted by his phone.

Peter shuffled a little, bracing himself. Here goes nothing.

He barely glanced at Peter, too focused on sending a message to Happy. [Get over here. I need you,]he typed, unaware of the weight of the conversation unfolding in front of him.

 

“Mary, Mary Fitzpatrick,” Peter replied, a spark of hope lighting up his voice.

 

But the moment those words left Peter's lips, Tony's hand froze mid-motion. A shiver ran through him, causing him to pause, and his mind began to race. 

“What did you say?” Tony asked sharply, his tone carrying an edge that sent a chill down Peter's spine.

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of the question. 

 “Huh?” he managed, confusion clouding his thoughts as he searched for the right words.

It was as if he had inadvertently stepped into a minefield, unsure of what might explode next.

“Your mother’s name,” Tony reiterated, his voice low and heavy. 

“Mary, Mary Fitzpatrick,” Peter stammered, the name tumbling from his lips as if it were a fragile secret. 

As the name left his mouth, he could see the transformation in Tony's expression. 

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Deceit, Dread, and Disdain.

Notes:

Okay, so there is an additional scene in this chapter.

The music in the bar hummed in Tony's ears, his glass half-empty as he leaned casually against the bar counter.

He wasn’t drunk, but he was feeling that perfect level of buzz—just enough to flirt, joke, and pretend that life wasn’t a constant juggling act of family business and his father’s constant nagging. This? This was his escape. His kind of scene. Maybe.

Some peace, a few drinks, and if he played his cards right, some company for the evening. Nothing deep, just a distraction from the chaos.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the swarm of people—an eclectic mix of humanity. On one side of the bar, there was a group dancing on the dance floor like they had absolutely no concept of rhythm or self-awareness. 

The DJ was up there, totally in his own world, blasting music like he was performing for a sold-out stadium.

People moved like they were one step away from cracking the floor beneath them, jumping and flailing like monkeys that had just discovered how to use their limbs. Tony smirked as he watched the madness.

If someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t guess these were actual humans.  No, they’d probably think it was some lost breed of monkeys that somehow got off their branches and decided to shake things up—literally.

He liked places like this. 

Places where no one cared who you were or why you were there, as long as you were paying for your drinks and minding your business.

Not that he ever really could be anonymous, but a guy could dream.

It’s not that Tony wasn’t a fan of dancing. Oh, he could dance—he was actually great at it. But the way people here were going at it? That wasn’t dancing. That was… he didn’t even know what to call it, but it was definitely not an art form.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Here, people escaped their dull, nine-to-five lives for a night. They forgot about responsibilities, relationships, and whatever mess they left behind to get plastered and party like there was no tomorrow. 

They’d drink themselves into oblivion and drag whoever was nearby along for the ride. Then, they’d hit the dance floor and flail about until their heads spun, or, worse, until someone got sick all over the floor. 

That was the nightlife for your average Joe.

“Do you feel like dancing, sir?”

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

Tony glanced sideways, briefly taking in the bartender who stood there, looking at him with a raised brow. This guy again.

For the second time tonight, the guy had asked him the same question. Tony ignored him and turned back to his drink, not in the mood for amateur-hour banter.

“Dancing? Yeah, not really my thing,” Tony muttered, swirling his drink. “I’m not exactly into impersonating a caffeinated chimpanzee.”

The bartender chuckled. “A chimpanzee, huh?”

Tony motioned for a refill, that smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Careful, someone hears you talking like that, they might just toss you out.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Right. Because I’m definitely the problem in a room full of people who think flailing counts as rhythm.”

The bartender laughed, refilling Tony’s glass. “That’s one way to see it.”

“So, you’re flying solo tonight?” the bartender asked, eyebrow raised, his tone just shy of snark. 

“That’s new. Tony Stark, alone on a night like this? Doesn’t add up.”

Tony barely looked up, taking a sip.

“What, is it written somewhere I’m required to have arm candy 24/7? Maybe I’m here because I actually enjoy my own company.”

The bartender smirked. “Fair point. Still, rare sight. You, alone, it’s like seeing a unicorn.”

Tony leaned in a little, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just here to hang out with the one person I know is always the most interesting in the room: me.”

The bartender snorted, shaking his head. “Touché.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, leaning back with that signature Stark grin. “Don’t get me wrong—being surrounded by people fawning over me is fun, but sometimes you gotta take a night off. Recharge the charm batteries, you know?” 

He wiggled his fingers like he was casting a spell.

“Can’t be at full charisma all the time. Even I need to dial it down. Occasionally.”

The bartender chuckled, clearly amused. “Fair enough, Mr. Stark.”

Tony flashed a grin. “Alright, since you’re in the mood, how about another vodka?”

The bartender shook his head, smiling apologetically. “On the clock, man. But I can make sure you’re well taken care of.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, mock disappointment crossing his face. “Wait, wait, wait. You work here, surrounded by booze, and you don’t get to drink any? That’s like... bartender abuse.”

He shook his head in dramatic fashion. “Seriously. What’s the point of serving drinks if you can’t sample the goods? How do I trust a bartender who doesn’t drink? That’s like hiring a DJ with no taste in music. Utter chaos.”

The bartender laughed. “I get it, but some of us gotta stay sober, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony smirked, leaning back. “But if I had to serve drinks and not drink ‘em? I’d be out. Day one. Gotta live by a code—never trust someone who doesn’t indulge in their own product.” He winked, raising his glass for another sip.

 

The bartender didn’t reply, just gave Tony a knowing smile as he started preparing another vodka for him.

It was a quiet acknowledgment, the kind bartenders are good at—letting the conversation end without a word, but with a smirk that says, Alright, you win this round.

A few moments later, Tony's drink was ready, slid across the counter with the same precision and flair bartenders save for their most familiar customers. Tony gave a small nod, raising his glass in a casual salute before the bartender turned to tend to another client.

Tony took a sip, letting the cool burn of the vodka slide down his throat, a familiar warmth spreading through him. 

Leaning back, he looked around the bar, watching the scene unfold like it always did—people buzzing, lights flashing, drinks flowing.

Just another night.

And he liked it that way.

As he raised his glass to take another sip, a voice next to him cut through the noise.

"Hey, handsome! Buy a girl a drink?"

Tony turned his head, glancing at the red-haired woman perched gracefully on the barstool beside him. 

She was in a short, golden, sleeveless dress, her blue eyes sparkling as she smiled at him with the kind of confidence that usually screamed trouble.

She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but there was something about her that felt a little too perfect. Her approach was smooth, almost rehearsed, like she'd done this before. 

Tony wasn't one to shy away from attention, but after a few drinks, his radar for fakery was always on high alert. Something about this just didn’t feel right.

He smirked, Sure, she was stunning, but he wasn’t in the mood for games tonight. He was here to unwind, not get caught up in someone else’s agenda. Still, he wasn’t a total jerk, and she was easy on the eyes.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already had enough for the both of us,” he quipped, flashing her a trademark Stark smirk before turning back to his drink.

He noticed her smile falter slightly, but she recovered quickly. Clearly, she wasn’t used to being turned down. But before he could savor the moment, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a more seductive tone.

"Well, if not a drink, how about we step outside for some fresh air? A little fun under the stars?" She laid a hand on his thigh, her fingers trailing lightly.

Oh, great, Tony thought, now fully convinced she wasn’t just some random girl. The way she bit her lip and stared at him like she knew exactly how to get what she wanted? Yeah, definitely not her first time trying this act.

Tony wasn’t a fan of being seduced by someone trying too hard. He liked being the one doing the seducing. 

And girls like her? They just didn’t do it for him. Sure, they were pretty, but it was the chase he enjoyed, not having it served up on a silver platter.

Still, he had to admit, she was kind of cute in her over-the-top attempts. Cute enough to make him chuckle to himself. 

Trying not to laugh outright, Tony took her hand off his thigh, gently but firmly, bringing it up in front of them like he was inspecting it for a handshake.

"Sweetheart," he started, still holding her hand, "I admire the confidence. Seriously, points for that. But tonight? Not really feeling it."

Her expression flickered—she wasn’t used to hearing no. "Why not?"

Tony stood up, wearing that trademark smirk, giving her a once-over as if sizing her up.

"Two reasons," he said, holding up two fingers. "One: I don’t usually go for women who come to me first. Kinda kills the whole cat-and-mouse thing, y'know? No fun." He shrugged as if it was just the way of the world. "Two..." He paused, locking eyes with her, his grin sharpening. "You’re cute—don’t get me wrong. But I go for sexy. You’re more… well, let’s call it ‘starter pack’ material."

The shift in her expression was immediate. Her face reddened, not from embarrassment, but from pure anger.

The audacity of him! It was clear no one had spoken to her like that before, and she definitely wasn’t taking it well.

She gave him a tight, forced smile, shrugged it off, and excused herself, walking away with the grace of someone who refused to acknowledge defeat.

Tony watched her go, sipping his drink with a faint grin. Not bad.

There was always someone trying to get close to him for one reason or another—he was used to it by now. But still, he wondered who she really was.

 

Not that it mattered.

 

Besides, he had more important things on his mind tonight. He wasn’t here for random girls. Tonight, he was meeting someone—someone important. And not for a casual drink.

He smirked to himself, straightening his jacket before heading toward the sitting area, where his real reason for being here was waiting. 

Tonight wasn’t about fun. It was about payback.

Tony stopped at a table where a blonde woman sat with her new boyfriend, a guy who looked like he spent more time in the gym than in actual conversations. 

His muscles practically had muscles, and his shirt looked two sizes too small for his biceps.  

The girl She was laughing, doing that sweet, innocent thing she did, probably batting her eyelashes for good measure. 

Tony could see right through it. 

Classic Jasmine, playing her part in front of her new unsuspecting victim.

Oh yeah: This was the Jasmine. The one who broke poor Rhodey’s heart. A classic gold digger with a cute face, a dangerous combo. 

First, she lured Rhodey in, took him for a ride, squeezed him for his cash, and then dumped him like yesterday’s trash, saying something ridiculous like, “We just don’t connect anymore.” As if Rhodey, of all people, wasn’t the nicest guy on the planet.

Rhodey had fallen for her like a clueless puppy. 

Tony always knew she was bad news, right from day one, when Rhodey introduced her. 

Tony’s spidey senses (well, his BS radar) were tingling the moment she flashed that fake smile at him. But Rhodey? Rhodey would trust a snake if it smiled at him nicely enough. 

That’s just how he was.

At first, Jasmine played the sweet, polite girlfriend role to perfection. But slowly, her true colors started to show.

It really hit the fan when they all went on a group trip, and she, thinking she had a shot, tried to seduce Tony. Yeah, as if that was ever going to happen.

Tony was many things, but dumb wasn’t one of them. He dodged that bullet with ease.

And when he called her out and threatened to tell Rhodey? Oh, she went full soap-opera mode, crocodile tears and all.

“Oh, Tony, it was just a misunderstanding, I was drunk, I'm so sorry ” She had wailed, and he let her slither away, but not without a warning.

Tony had warned Rhodey too, but his best friend brushed it off like a speck of dust. “Nah, man, Jasmine’s not like that.” Sure, Rhodey, and pigs fly.

Of course, it all went downhill after that. 

She dumped Rhodey just like Tony predicted. Rhodey, bless his poor, heartbroken soul, locked himself in his room for days, devastated.

Tony had to sit there and watch his best friend go through it, knowing he was right all along.

And now? Now, here she was, at this bar, with a new boyfriend. A fresh victim. And Tony, being the responsible, mature adult he was (totally not), thought: Why not have some fun?

So here he was. Ready to make her regret ever crossing paths with him and Rhodey.

Only this guy didn’t look like the clueless, puppy-dog Rhodey type. Nope. This one looked like he’d enjoy snapping necks for fun on weekends. But hey, muscles didn’t scare Tony. Not when he had a brain like his.

 And a mouth to match.

With that trademark Tony Stark smirk plastered on his face, he strolled over to their table. As soon as Jasmine saw him, she froze.

The smile? Gone. Her eyes widened for a split second before she quickly recovered, but Tony caught it. Oh, she remembered him all right.

“Well, well, well,” he began, voice dripping with sarcasm, “if it isn’t Jasmine. And look at that—new accessory.” He gave a nod to the boyfriend. “What’s your name, big guy? Let me guess, you bench press cars for fun?”

The boyfriend glared at him, clearly not impressed. “Who the hell are you?”

His voice was about as smooth as gravel. Perfect match for his personality, Tony assumed.

Tony flashed his signature grin, unfazed. “Me? Oh, I’m just the friendly neighborhood guy making sure history doesn’t repeat itself.”

 He tilted his head towards Jasmine. “Has she mentioned how allergic she is to commitment yet? Or, wait—did she skip the part where she squeezed my best buddy dry and then bailed? No? She’s slacking.”

The boyfriend’s expression shifted as he turned to Jasmine. “Babe, what’s this guy talking about?”

Jasmine, right on cue, launched into damage control. “Baby, I don’t know this guy! He’s just trying to mess with us. I swear, I have no idea what he’s talking about!”

Tony just watched, eyebrows raised, clearly amused. “Wow, look at that—crocodile tears on cue. You should be teaching acting classes, seriously. Do you charge by the hour, or is it a subscription model?”

“Shut up asshole “ Jasmine replied.   Tony raised an eyebrow, watching Jasmine’s Oscar-level act with pure amusement. 

“Oh, come on, Jasmine. ‘Shut up, asshole’? That’s the best you’ve got?” He chuckled, clearly entertained.

Meanwhile, the boyfriend glanced at Jasmine, who was already shifting into full victim mode, resting a hand on his arm, her voice dripping with innocence. 

“Babe, I swear, I don’t know this guy. He’s confused or something. I love you, I don’t even know who this is!”

Tony almost burst out laughing. 

The level of denial here was impressive. “Seriously? You’re going with the ‘I don’t know him’ card? You could at least try for a plot twist.” 

He turned to the boyfriend, giving him an exaggerated, knowing look.

“Just a heads-up, pal: keep an eye on your credit cards. Trust me, experience talking.”

Jasmine, now fully committed to her Emmy-winning performance, cranked up the waterworks, her voice trembling like a bad soap opera. 

“Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you? Why You’re ruining everything?”

“Me ruining everything?” Tony shook his head, enjoying the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, that’s rich. I’m just the guy holding the mirror up, sweetheart.”

The boyfriend wasn’t buying Tony’s sarcasm, though. He turned to Jasmine, her “I love you, baby, I swear I don’t know him!” routine in full swing.

But then he snapped back to Tony, anger flaring in his eyes.

“You messing with my girl?” The guy growled, stepping up and giving Tony a hard shove.

Tony barely budged, flashing that famous smirk. 

“Messing with her? Nah, buddy, I’m just giving you a free preview of the sequel.”

Now the boyfriend was getting red in the face. Clearly, he wasn’t buying Tony’s sarcasm, and his patience was wearing thin.The guy was practically flexing every muscle he had, towering over Tony like he was about to enter a bodybuilding competition. Instead of backing down, Tony just smirked wider.

 

“Who the hell do you think you are, man?” the guy growled, puffing his chest out like he was auditioning for a caveman commercial.

Tony stumbled back, more out of surprise than anything else. 

“Whoa, easy there, Hulk Jr. Just trying to offer some friendly advice about your girl’s extracurriculars. You know, save you some heartache—and cash.”

The boyfriend wasn’t having it.

He shoved Tony harder this time. “You got something to say to me? Say it!”

Tony held his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, no need to go full WWE on me, alright? I’m just here to chat. Maybe prevent a future GoFundMe to recover your losses when she drains your bank account.”

The guy took another menacing step forward, clearly not amused by Tony’s jokes.

“You’re gonna leave us alone. Now.”

Tony stumbled back a little but kept his cool.

“Okay, okay, message received, big guy. Just thought I’d help you out. But hey, if ‘charity case’ is your type, by all means, enjoy the ride.” He brushed off his jacket, looking more entertained than intimidated.

Just then, Tony’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Perfect timing. He glanced at the screen and casually raised a hand to the fuming boyfriend.

 

 “Hold that thought.”

 

The guy looked like he was ready to explode, but Tony was already answering the call, still smirking. “Yeah, Jarvis, what’s up?”

The boyfriend shoved him again. “You don’t just come up here and talk trash to me, bro. Who the hell do you think you are?”

On the other end, Jarvis could hear the commotion and immediately asked, “Sir, everything alright? There seems to be... a situation.”

Tony sidestepped the boyfriend’s jab, more focused on the call than the muscle-bound rage fest in front of him. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s just peachy. Just having a casual chat with the ex of the year’s latest boy toy.”

The guy’s patience officially snapped.

“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” he barked, practically breathing down Tony’s neck.

Tony held up a finger, still on the phone.

“Can you hold on for, like, two seconds? I’m on a very important call here.”

Jarvis, clearly concerned, chimed in again. “Sir, your father has requested your immediate presence. He emphasized that the consequences of not complying would be… severe.”

Tony let out a long-suffering sigh, still half-distracted by the guy trying to puff up in front of him. 

“Consequences. Yeah, yeah. Got it, Jarvis.”

Tony wasn’t even paying attention anymore—too busy watching Hulk Lite here spout off something about respect. The guy, clearly powered by protein shakes and bad decisions, decided to kick things up a notch and swung a fist, landing it right on Tony’s jaw.

Tony staggered back, managing to stay upright, though his phone slipped from his hand. 

From the speaker, Jarvis’s voice crackled through, sounding faintly alarmed. “Master Tony? Are you alright? Master Tony?”

Rubbing his jaw, Tony glanced at the smirking musclehead, who looked like he’d just scored the game-winning touchdown at Moron Bowl.

Tony picked up his phone, cut off Jarvis mid-sentence, and muttered darkly, “Jarvis, tell my father I’ll be home when I damn well feel like it.” Then he casually turned back to the oversized knucklehead.

Tony stood tall, locking eyes with the guy, his tone ice-cold but still very much Tony Stark. 

 

“Alright, protein shake, now you’ve done it.”

 

Before the guy could process what was happening, Tony leaned in, and with one quick, precise motion, headbutted him right in the nose. Hard. The satisfying crunch was followed by the guy stumbling backward into a table, sending food and drinks flying everywhere like some kind of sad fireworks show.

Jasmine gasped, covering her mouth in shock while her boyfriend groaned on the floor, clutching his now-bleeding nose.

 

Tony, nonchalant as ever, dusted off his jacket and slid his phone back into his pocket.

 

“You might want to get that checked out,” he said, motioning to the guy’s face, which was now a leaky faucet of blood.

 

Jasmine stood frozen, torn between comforting her boyfriend or continuing her award-winning performance as the innocent damsel.

 

The boyfriend, slowly getting his bearings, wiped a hand across his face and looked down at the blood. His eyes flared. “You’re gonna F***** pay for that!” he shouted.

Tony just smirked, watching as the guy fumbled to wipe the blood off, looking like an angry cartoon character about to burst.

“Oh, I already paid—for dinner and a show. Thanks for the entertainment, though.”

Tony was barely out of the scuffle when a few more thugs-friends of the guys he'd already punched appeared out of nowhere. These were the types who looked like they wanted to eat him alive, as if they'd been waiting for this moment all night.

Great. Just what he needed-a gang of goons to complete the evening. Perfect.

He could feel the situation slipping away when he spotted the guy whose nose he'd smashed earlier. Now that guy was back on his feet, looking smug because, of course, he had his buddies with him now. The guy cracked his neck, motioning toward Tony with a twisted grin he was, giving Tony that "you're dead meat" look. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Tony glanced around, sensing trouble, but hey, what's life without a little danger?

Before Tony could process what was happening, one of them rushed him. Fast. The first punch came in hot, but Tony dodged it, landing a quick jab to the guy's ribs, followed by a swift kick to his chest. The guy stumbled back, but didn't fall. Oh, so this was going to be a real fight, then? Fine.

Tony was in, but the alcohol in his system was not doing him any favors. Sure, he could still throw a punch, but he wasn't at his sharpest. If he hadn't been drunk, these guys would already be on their way to the ER.

But here he was, tipsy and outnumbered. And the hits were coming in faster.

Some guy swung at him from the left, and Tony barely ducked in time, retaliating with a punch that sent the guy staggering.

A second one tried to grab him from behind, but Tony elbowed him in the face and spun around with a swift kick to the knee.

Yet, just as he started to feel confident, one of the guys sucker-punched him right in the face.

"Ah, there it is," Tony grunted, wiping his mouth. "The teamwork I didn't ask for."

The brawl escalated quickly. Fists were flying, and Tony was doing his best to dodge, block, and counter. At first, it was almost fun-like some poorly choreographed action movie. But the hits kept coming, and Tony wasn't bouncing back as quickly as usual. Every punch, every kick, felt heavier, slower. He couldn't get his focus straight, and now he was dealing with a group of angry idiots who had started to overwhelm him.

Someone landed a solid kick to Tony's gut, and he doubled over, gasping for air. Another guy grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him into another punch.

 He retaliated with a weak jab that barely connected. They were all over him now.

A punch to the jaw sent Tony stumbling backward, and before he could regain his balance, they had him pinned.

His hand was slammed down onto a table, hard, while one of the guys-nose still crooked from Tony's earlier punch-stood over him, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

"Well, well, well... Mr. Big Shot," the guy sneered, pulling out a knife and twirling it in the air. "Let's see if you're still so cocky without a finger."

Tony pulled at his hand, but another guy held it down firmly. His brain was still buzzing from the alcohol, but he wasn't dumb enough to miss how bad this could go. Great. He was about to lose a finger, all because some lowlife couldn't take a punch. 

Not exactly the legacy he was aiming for.

Just as Tony braced himself, there was a loud crash. The sound of glass shattering made everyone stop. The guy with the knife froze, looking over his shoulder in confusion. 

Tony blinked, and there she was-the woman from earlier, the one he'd turned down, holding the shattered remains of a bottle.

The rest of the group hesitated, clearly not expecting this twist. One guy, maybe the dumbest of the lot, decided to charge at her. She smirked, waiting until the last possible second before ducking low and sweeping his legs out from under him. The guy didn’t even have time to react before he was flat on his back, groaning in pain.

Tony, seeing his opportunity got himself free, rolled his eyes. "You know, if I had a nickel for every time a bottle saved me..."

He wiped the cut on his hand—just a scratch—and sized up the rest of the thugs. "Okay, gents. Let’s make this interesting."

One thug came at him fast, but Tony sidestepped, grabbed the guy’s arm mid-swing, and twisted it, sending the thug into a spin. As the guy whirled, Tony flicked his knee up into the guy’s midsection, and before the thug could recover, Tony gave him a solid palm strike to the chest. The guy flew back into a nearby table, smashing it to pieces.

 

Tony couldn’t resist: "Table for one? Yeah, I’ll pass."

Meanwhile, another thug thought he could take the woman by surprise. Big mistake. She spun just as he reached for her, delivering a lightning-fast elbow strike to his jaw.

Then, with almost no effort, she leapt up, wrapped her legs around his shoulders in a scissor-like motion, and twisted her entire body. The guy flipped over, crashing into the ground hard, while she landed gracefully on her feet, barely out of breath.

 

Tony glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, points for style."

 

Before Tony could gloat further, another guy, this one bigger and meaner, barreled toward him like a freight train.

Tony dodged, but the guy kept coming, relentless. Grinning, Tony switched tactics.

He grabbed the guy’s shirt collar, using his own momentum against him, and pulled him forward into a perfectly-timed knee strike. The thug’s head snapped back, dazed, but he wasn’t down yet.

Tony, with his usual cocky flair, clapped the guy on the shoulder. "You’re persistent. I like that. But—" Tony ducked a wild swing, then brought his elbow down onto the thug’s arm with a loud crack, followed by a swift jab to his ribs. "—I’m also kind of busy."

 

The thug dropped, clutching his ribs and wheezing for air.

Just then, one more guy attcked the woman.

 

She didn’t even give him a chance to get close. She ran at him, and in a move too quick to process, jumped up, grabbed the guy by the shoulders, and vaulted over him, twisting in mid-air. 

As she flipped over, she grabbed his arm and yanked it back, dislocating his shoulder with a satisfying pop. 

The thug screamed in pain as he collapsed to his knees.

Tony watched the guy go down with an impressed whistle. "Okay, now you’re just showing off."

"I thought you liked flashy," she shot back with a smirk, already scanning the room for the next threat.

It wasn't just the bruises on their bodies, but something strange was brewing in their minds too-those fools who, despite getting beaten down, kept getting up, determined to charge at Tony again like they hadn't just been flattened moments ago.

And then there was this one particular idiot. Tony had already given her a solid beating before, sent him packing, and yet here he was again.

Like clockwork, he decided it was a brilliant idea to take another shot at him-this time aiming low, as if that would help.

But Tony, already warmed up, was quicker. He stepped forward, faking a punch with his right hand, then immediately spun around, delivering a brutal roundhouse kick with his left leg straight to the guy’s head. The thug staggered, dazed, and Tony finished him off with a quick uppercut that sent him sprawling onto the floor.

"Maybe I am flashy," Tony admitted, shaking out his hand with a wince. "I mean, if you're gonna do it, might as well look good doing it."

The last thug—a massive guy who looked like he could bench-press a truck—thought he could take Tony by brute force. 

He rushed at Tony like a charging bull. Tony, ever the improviser, grabbed a nearby chair and swung it in a wide arc, smashing it over the guy’s head.

The thug barely stumbled.

 

 Tony frowned.

 

"Okay, plan B."

 

Before the guy could react, Tony ducked under his next punch, grabbed his arm, and yanked him forward. 

 

He spun behind the thug, wrapping his arm around the guy’s throat in a sleeper hold. 

 

The big guy thrashed, trying to shake Tony off, but Tony held tight, slowly tightening his grip until the thug’s movements became sluggish. Finally, the guy’s legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Tony stood up, dusting off his hands. "You know, I really hate when they don’t just stay down the first time."

Meanwhile, the woman finished off the last of the thugs with a stylish move of her own—she ran at the final guy, leapt up, planted her feet on his chest, and pushed off, sending herself into a backflip while the thug went crashing backward into a pile of broken chairs.

She landed on her feet, barely out of breath. "That all you got?" she teased, tossing her hair back like this was just another day.

 

Tony, now standing among the wreckage, caught his breath. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

 

There they were, poor things, just standing there, gasping for air, thwy breath practically knocked out of them . 

I mean, after such an intense fight, you’d think they would at least be allowed a moment to collect themselves, right? But no, not a chance. And who knows which heartless soul decided to go and invite security over at that exact moment.

Oh, and while we’re at it, someone really needs to investigate the efficiency of those security guards. I mean, when those poor folks were busy giving Tony the thrashing of a lifetime, where were they? Absolutely nowhere to be found, of course! Disappeared as if they had a magician on their payroll.

But now—now, once all the hard work has been done and Tony’s been thoroughly beaten into the ground, then they decide to make their grand entrance. 

And naturally, they walk in like heroes, sirens blazing, only to start throwing cuffs on the very people who did all the heavy lifting.

Honestly, what kind of justice is that? Talk about being fashionably late. Is this how things work around here—wait until all the excitement’s over, then swoop in to steal the show and act like you saved the day? What a joke.

Before the security guards could even think of asking questions, The girl grabbed Tony by the arm and tugged him toward the back of the bar.

"Come on," she said with a grin, "I know a way out before these guys figure out who broke all their furniture."

Tony didn't argue. He let her lead him through a maze of hallways, out a side door, into a alley and into the cool night air. They stopped just outside, both of them catching their breath.

It was a miracle, really, that the poor guy managed to make it out of there so quickly. If he'd wasted any more time or lingered around, we all knew that Tony’s escape plan would have turned into a hospital visit for him—no doubt about it. If he’d been any slower, I swear the only thing he’d be seeing would’ve been the sterile white walls of a hospital room instead of the open sky.

Tony leaned back against the wall, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. 

He looked at her, his usual cocky smile creeping back.

 

"Well, that was... unexpected," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "You always rescue drunk guys from bar fights, or is it just my lucky night?"

 

Ahe shrugged, trying to play it cool.

"You looked like you could use the help."

Tony chuckled. "Maybe. But you didn't have to break a bottle over his head. I had it under control."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

"Right. Under control. Looked more like you were about to lose a finger."

"Details," Tony waved her off, still grinning. 

"Allow me the honor of introducing myself, ma’am. I’m Tony Stark," Tony said, bowing slightly with an exaggerated air of politeness, as if he were at some royal gathering instead of casually flirting with a woman.

The girl couldn’t help but smile at his theatrics, a small laugh escaping her lips as she shook her head.

With a playful glint in her eyes, she leaned in slightly, her hair swaying in the evening breeze as she replied, "Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. Stark. Tony Stark—the rebellious son of the great Howard Stark. The city’s favorite playboy, caught once again by the paparazzi trying to sneak off with another beautiful woman." She paused, tilting her head with a smirk, clearly enjoying herself.

 "I’ve already imagined tomorrow’s headlines: ‘Tony Stark Spotted Escaping Another Scandal.’ I read about you in the news all the time," she said, her tone dripping with amusement, as if reminding him just how notorious his reputation was.

But Tony Stark, being Tony Stark, wasn’t the least bit fazed. Instead, he flashed that shameless grin of his, the one that was both charming and infuriating, and laughed, "So, what do you say, Miss...?" He trailed off, realizing he hadn’t even asked for her name yet. "Would you like to accompany this ‘notorious playboy’ on a romantic dinner, or are you going to leave me hanging?"

 

His eyes gleamed with a mischievous charm, and despite knowing exactly who he was, she couldn’t help but feel intrigued. 

Typical Tony—always turning every situation into an opportunity to flirt.

 

The lady smirked. “Fitzpatrick. Mary Fitzpatrick. And I thought I heard that I wasn’t your type.”

 

“What? Did I say that? When? I don’t remember saying that at all,” he said, feigning surprise.

 

Mary laughed, stepping closer and grabbing Tony by the collar of his jacket, pulling him toward her. With a playful glint in her eyes, she smiled .

 

“I can be expensive for you, Mr. Stark.”

 

Tony, eyes locked on hers, smirked. “I can afford it.”

 

Mary’s smile faded, her eyes softened, and without another word, they both leaned in. The space between them vanished as their lips met in a slow, heated kiss. It was as if time stopped for a moment, their surroundings disappearing, leaving just the two of them lost in each other.

____________________________________________________

The name resonated deep within him, echoing memories he had long buried.He felt as though the world around him had come to a halt.Time seemed to stretch, the air thickening with tension. Tony's heart began to pound in his chest, a mix of surprise and disbelief washing over him. 

 

Mary Fitzpatrick: That name stirred something within him—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

 

Peter noticed the shift in Tony’s demeanor, the way his expression turned serious, the light in his eyes dimming momentarily. Tony, usually so composed and brimming with confidence, seemed suddenly lost in thought .

 

Tony didn’t respond right away. 

 

He remained still, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. 

 

Images flashed in his mind—faces, places, and a past that felt both distant and achingly close. He had no idea why this name affected him so deeply, but it was as if a door had been opened to memories he thought he’d sealed shut long ago.

Now Peter was starting to feel a knot of fear tighten in his stomach. He sensed that something significant was happening, something beyond just a simple conversation about names.

The way Mr. Stark’s expression shifted, the sudden intensity in his gaze—it was almost palpable, and Peter could feel it like a heavy weight in the air. 

“What did you say?” Tony asked sharply, his tone carrying an edge that sent a chill down Peter's spine.

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of the question. 

“Huh?” he managed, confusion clouding his thoughts as he searched for the right words.

It was as if he had inadvertently stepped into a minefield, unsure of what might explode next.

“Your mother’s name,” Tony reiterated, his voice low and heavy. 

There was something strange in his tone, a mixture of surprise and perhaps something deeper—was it anger? Peter couldn't quite place it, but it left him feeling vulnerable.

“Mary, Mary Fitzpatrick,” Peter stammered, the name tumbling from his lips as if it were a fragile secret. 

His heart raced; the truth felt both exhilarating and terrifying. 

Mr. Stark seemed to be teetering on the edge of something—an understanding, a memory—while Peter stood in the eye of a storm he had inadvertently unleashed.

As the name left his mouth, he could see the transformation in Tony's expression. 

The man’s eyes, which had glinted with curiosity, darkened suddenly, shifting into something more profound, almost shadowed by a cloud of emotion.

Peter sensed a storm brewing beneath the surface, a clash of memories and feelings that could either bring them closer or push them apart. 

“Mary...,” 

Tony echoed, his voice almost a whisper, as if tasting the name. 

It hung in the air between them, charged and electrifying. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that he had opened a door to a part of Tony’s life that was better left closed.

Peter took a breath, feeling the tension suffocating him.

“Um, is that... bad?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly. 

Tony's reaction had shifted from curiosity to something darker, and Peter's instincts screamed that he needed to tread carefully.

Tony’s gaze narrowed, the wheels clearly turning in his mind as he processed the name. It was as if Peter could almost see the cogs turning, the memories flickering through Tony’s eyes.

What did that name mean to him?

Suddenly Tony lunged at Peter, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall with a force that made the younger boy’s breath hitch in his throat. 

Tony place both his hands on his throat. And started to squeezed. Peter started to choke. 

 

“Who sent you here?” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “who are you working for? “

Peter felt panic rise within him, his heart racing as he struggled to catch his breath.

The pressure from Tony’s grip was fierce enough to make him feel like he was suffocating, but it wasn’t just the physical restraint that terrified him—it was the look of fury in Tony’s eyes, the raw intensity that radiated from the man like heat from a furnace. 

How could he explain that he was just a kid caught up in circumstances he didn't fully understand?

The words caught in Peter’s throat, and he fought to find a way to respond. 

He could feel Tony’s anger pressing down on him, but the only sound that escaped was a choked gasp.  

What could he possibly say? The fear coursing through him was a palpable force, tightening around him like a vise.

Tony didn’t apply enough pressure to seriously harm him; it was more of a display meant to intimidate than to injure. 

Still, the threat was unmistakable, and Peter could feel his resolve waver. In that moment, he realized how deeply he had underestimated the situation he had walked into.

 

“W—what did you mean—?” Peter stammered, desperation creeping into his voice. “I don’t understand!” 

“I asked who is your boss” Tony’s voice thundered, each word dripped with frustration.

He leaned in closer, his expression fierce, and Peter could see the intensity in his gaze—a mix of anger and something that felt dangerously close to fear.

Peter’s mind was racing, desperately trying to piece together what was happening. 

The walls felt like they were closing in, and he was fighting not just for air, but for clarity amidst the chaos. 

What had he gotten himself into?

He finally managed to choke out, “I’m not–here for an–yone! I just came to–talk! I swear!” The plea felt weak, but it was the truth. 

Peter’s hands fidgeted nervously as he searched Tony’s face for some sign that he could understand, that he could help him navigate this unexpected confrontation.

Tony paused for a fraction of a second, confusion flickering across his features as he assessed the boy before him.

“Stop lying to me. Do you really think I’m buying this sob story?” Tony’s voice dropped, sharp and unforgiving. “Who the hell are you loyal to? Spit it out. Are you with Hydra?”

“I swear—I’m not—I came here just—to—talk,” Peter gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“Talk about what?”

“I wanted to know if you’re my—dad. My aunt said you—might be. I’m not—here to hurt you—or—cause trouble. I just—need to know.”

For a moment, Tony’s posture eased, just a fraction, but enough for Peter to feel a glimmer of hope. 

Maybe, just maybe, he could bridge this seemingly insurmountable gap between them. 

But the fear remained, a gnawing sensation that kept him on edge, wondering what Tony would say next.

"I asked who the fuck you work for," Tony snapped, his patience running out. "Who sent you? Answer me."

Peter coughed, his voice shaky, "I told ya—no—one."

Tony leaned in, his face inches from Peter's, eyes narrowing. "Yeah? Well, that’s a hell of a story. You just happen to sneak onto my private cruise, no one sent you? Not buying it, kid." His tone was sharp, as though he could cut through the lies just by staring.

Peter gasped for air, "I swear—I’m innocent."

Tony smirked, "You said that, and I believed you."

Tony's eyes narrowed, his patience thinning. "Look, kid, do not test my patience. I’ve got a very short fuse."

"I promise—I didn’t come—with ill intentions. Please—let me go. Mr. Stark please"

Tony tightened his grip even more, and Peter gasped, struggling to breathe as panic coursed through him. Every inhale felt like it could be his last, the fear of suffocation clawing at his chest.

The walls felt like they were closing in, and he was certain that if he didn’t get air soon, he might just pass out. 

The realization hit him hard—he needed oxygen, and fast. 

But Tony wasn’t letting go. 

He seemed oblivious to the boy’s distress, consumed by his own whirlwind of emotions. 

Peter searched Tony's eyes, hoping for a flicker of understanding, a glimpse of compassion that might save him from this predicament.

What he saw instead was a tempest of rage, a deep-seated fury that had probably been building for years, overshadowed by something else that he couldn't quite place—pain? Regret? 

“Please-----,” Peter wheezed, the desperation clear in his voice. Peter want to go home.

He need to see his aunt May. 

Tears began to sting at the corners of his eyes. He fought them back, trying to maintain some semblance of strength, but it was hard when the reality of his situation felt so dire. 

Peter longed to escape, to run into the arms of the only person who had ever truly cared for him, but the stark reality of the situation made him feel hopeless.

He was trapped here with this man who didn’t know him, who didn’t understand that all Peter wanted was a connection, a sense of belonging.

Tony’s gaze hardened, his voice cutting through the air with an edge sharper than steel. “I hate liars, kid. And I really hate deceitful people. You’re pushing my limits here.”

Peter’s breath hitched, his voice cracking with desperation. “I-I’m not lying! I’m not a liar, Mr. Stark, I—I promise! I just... I just need you to—listen—” His words tumbled out in a frantic rush, gasping for air, every breath a struggle as panic set in.

Tony’s eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze making Peter’s throat constrict. It felt as though the air had become thicker, almost suffocating. 

Why won’t he believe me?   Peter thought desperately. 

Tony’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he demanded, “Then what the hell were you doing here?”

The pressure on his chest increased, and he felt lightheaded. 

The sense of urgency was palpable. 

Peter’s breath came out in ragged gasps, his words tumbling over each other. “I—I came because my aunt is—sick—and she’s in the hospital! I—I just need—money!” The words spilled out, trembling with fear and desperation, each one a cry for help, but Tony wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily.

Tony’s grip finally loosened just a fraction, enough for Peter to draw a shaky breath, feeling the relief wash over him like cool water. 

He was still on edge, but the change in Tony’s demeanor—a slight shift, an almost imperceptible softening—gave him hope. Maybe there was a chance to break through the wall of anger that surrounded Tony Stark.

Tony’s eyes burned with cold fury, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped closer to Peter. "So, let me get this straight," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You snuck aboard my cruise, into a place with the highest security and tech money can buy. Cameras, sensors, the whole damn place’s a fortress. And you somehow outsmarted my AI that sees everything, every movement, every breath. And now you’re standing here, telling me you’re innocent?”

Tony laughed, a dark, mocking sound. “Kid, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But you’ve also got a death wish.” He leaned in, his eyes locked onto Peter’s, his words dripping with venom. "Do you even know who you're talking to? You think you can just walk away from this? If I decided to end this right here, right now, no one would ever know. You’d be chum in the water before anyone could blink."

Peter’s breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he struggled to keep up with the man’s intensity. 

His eyes were bloodshot, his lips parted, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

Every word seemed stuck in his throat, drowned by fear and desperation. Tony wasn’t buying any of it. The kid’s silence only fueled his anger further. 

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

He couldn’t afford to trust so easily.

Hell, he didn’t even trust himself sometimes, let alone a stranger who had somehow managed to slip past every safeguard he had in place.

This was no ordinary kid, and Tony had no interest in letting this situation slide.

No, if Peter was innocent, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t take that chance.

Tony’s voice dropped, now thunderous with real threat. “If you don’t want to end up as fish food, you’d better start talking, now.”

He let the silence hang in the air, his gaze cutting straight through Peter. “Who sent you? Who are you working for?”

Peter’s legs felt weak under the weight of Tony’s fury. 

He wanted to run, to disappear, to do anything but face the man standing in front of him. But Tony wasn’t letting him go. Not now. 

And definitely not after he’d mentioned the name Mary Fitzpatrick.

That name had triggered something deep inside Tony, something Peter didn’t understand, but he could feel it—whatever it was, it was dangerous.

The silence between them stretched unbearably long. 

Peter, with his back against the wall—both figuratively and literally—could barely think straight. 

All he wanted was to get out of here, to run back to Aunt May and pretend like none of this had ever happened.

But it was too late for that.

Every step he had taken had led him here, to this moment, with Tony Stark glaring at him like he was about to tear him apart.

Peter’s mind raced, but no words came.

How could he explain this mess? How could he tell Tony the truth when it seemed like nothing would ever be enough?

Tony’s patience snapped. “Come on, kid, I don’t have all night,” he growled, his voice dripping with venom, eyes narrowing. Every second Peter stayed quiet just made Tony’s suspicion rise. He wasn’t buying this story.

Peter’s throat tightened, but he forced the words out, voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

“I… I didn’t… I’m not lying. I swear.” He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. “My mom… she’s dead, okay? Aunt May raised me.” His words broke off, his fear raw and heavy in his chest. “I came—here to ask you for—help, because I need—money—for her—treatment. I had no other motive.”

His breath hitched, struggling to find the right words, the weight of the situation making it harder to get them out. Every word felt like it might be his last chance to make Tony understand.

But Tony wasn’t moved. If anything, his eyes narrowed further, dark and unyielding. He wasn’t the type to be swayed by sob stories. 

Peter could see that now, clear as day. And whatever small hope he had of getting through to Tony was slipping through his fingers fast. 

The truth, the half-truth, whatever Peter said, it wasn’t going to change anything. 

Tony Stark didn’t trust him. 

And worse than that, Tony hated liars. 

That much was obvious from the way he growled, the way he clenched his fists as if holding back from doing something far worse than just pinning Peter against the wall. 

Maybe he should just choke him to death .Peter’s thoughts spiraled as he realized, deep down, he might never be able to get Tony to believe him. 

The regret hit him hard. Every decision that had brought him here—coming to this cruise, trying to get answers—felt like a colossal mistake now.

If he had just stayed home, if he had never tried to unravel the mystery of who his father was, he wouldn’t be here, on the brink of… whatever this was.

 A confrontation he couldn’t win.

Tony’s expression darkened, his patience thinning fast. “You better start talking, kid. I don’t have time for games. You think I’m bluffing? Trust me, I’ve done worse for less.”

Peter could barely breathe, his chest tight with fear.

He wasn’t just scared for his life—he was terrified of what would come next. Because one thing was clear: even if he walked away from this, nothing would ever be the same.

Tony wouldn’t forgive him. And Peter… Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive Tony either.

“I-I told you… that’s all—there is… I don’t—have anything else—left. You can—check—if you want…”And it was the truth. He had nothing more to offer, nothing else to explain.

After everything that had happened, one thing had become crystal clear to him: Tony Stark could not be his father—not logically, not biologically.

Any respect Peter once held for the man was now utterly shattered. He used to be a fan, someone who admired Tony Stark greatly. He had believed that Mr. Stark was a genuinely good person, a hero with a heart of gold. 

He never imagined that Tony could be so cruel, so heartless—a psychopath even. Perhaps wealthy people like him appeared compassionate and charitable on the news, but in reality, that wasn't the case. 

Not at all. Peter now questioned why he had ever come here. Tony Stark was not just a stone-hearted man; he wasn't even human in Peter's eyes anymore—he was a devil. 

Peter felt nothing but hatred for this demon now.Breathing had become nearly impossible. 

The strength to fight back was slipping away from his body. The hands he had been using to try to free himself from Tony's grip were slowly losing their energy. 

His eyelids grew heavy, and he felt an overwhelming sense of dizziness. Everything around him was spinning.

As his vision blurred, Peter's thoughts raced back to his Aunt May.He wished he could be with her now, to hold her and maybe even cry in her arms. 

But looking into Tony's cold eyes, he realized that tonight might very well be his last.

Peter's lungs burned as he struggled for air, each breath more labored than the last.

Panic surged through him, but his body refused to respond. 

The room seemed to darken around the edges, shadows creeping into his field of vision. His attempts to push Tony away had become feeble, his hands now merely resting against the man's unyielding arms.

He had never felt so powerless.

Tony’s eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl. "I hate liars. And when I say 'hate,' I mean it’s a full-blown, no-turning-back kind of thing. So if you're standing there thinking you can pull a fast one on me, think again. You’re running out of time, kid. And believe me, it won’t end well for you if you keep lying."

He took a step closer, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. "This is your last shot. If you’re still playing games, well, let’s just say you won’t live to see the morning. Got it?"

Peter gasped for breath, his voice a strained whisper. “I’m not... lying... sir.”

But Tony's grip remained firm, his expression unmoved by Peter's plea. 

The realization hit Peter hard: Tony Stark didn't care whether he was innocent or not.

How had it come to this? All he wanted was to find his father, to seek help for his ailing aunt. Instead, he was facing the wrath of a man he had once idolized.His thoughts drifted back to the times he had spent poring over articles about Tony Stark, watching his interviews, marveling at his inventions. 

The charismatic billionaire who used his resources for the betterment of mankind—that was the Tony Stark he knew. 

But the man standing before him now was a far cry from that image.Perhaps he had been naive to believe the façade presented by the media.Reality was often harsher than fiction.

Wealth and fame didn't necessarily equate to kindness and generosity. He now understood that firsthand.Peter's body grew weaker with each passing second.

The room spun wildly, and dark spots danced before his eyes. He could feel himself on the brink of unconsciousness

His knees threatened to give way, but Tony's grip kept him pinned against the wall.

A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek. 

He wasn't sure if it was from the physical pain or the emotional turmoil—or perhaps both.

“I have... nothing else…” he whispered again, his voice barely more than a breath. “Please let–me go–Please”

Peter wanted to scream, to make Tony understand that he was telling the truth, but the words wouldn't come. 

His vision narrowed further, the periphery fading into darkness.

He thought of Aunt May, of her warm smile and gentle hugs. 

He thought of the promise he had made to himself to protect her, to find a way to help her get better.

And now, he feared he would never see her again.The last of his strength ebbed away. 

His hands slipped from ony's arms, falling limply to his sides. A profound fatigue enveloped him, and he felt himself begin to drift.

“Please…” he tried one final time, his voice so faint it was almost inaudible.

Peter felt his entire life flash before his eyes. 

It was as if the world he had known, the people he had loved, and the memories he had clung to were circling him, pulling him deeper into a whirlwind of regret and helplessness.

He could see them all — his mom, his dad, Uncle Ben, and Aunt May. Ned and MJ, the friends who had been with him through everything.

Every person who had shaped his small, fragile life was now appearing before him, their faces swimming in and out of focus. And with them came the moments — every cherished memory, every fleeting second he had spent with them. 

They whirled around him like a storm, making his head spin, his chest tighten, and his breath catch in his throat.

Peter's mind was already suffocating under the weight of it all. 

But now, the world itself seemed to be spinning too. 

The ground beneath his feet felt unstable, as if it were shifting with the intensity of his thoughts.

His body swayed slightly as if he might fall at any moment. 

And  all the dizziness, one overwhelming emotion took hold of him: regret. It consumed him, filled him until he could think of nothing else.

Why was he here? What had he done?

Regret gnawed at his insides, making him feel small, powerless. 

He wished with everything in him that he could turn back time, erase the decisions that had led him here, to this cold and unforgiving place. 

Why did he ever come here? He could feel the bitterness of his choices like a knife in his heart. 

He wished he had never met Tony Stark — that heartless, ruthless man who now held the power over his future. 

Peter wished he had never sought his help, never let desperation push him into this corner. 

If only he had never thought, even for a second, of asking for help from someone like Stark.

 

If only…

 

Chapter 5: You will regret your actions, Daddy.

Peter felt his body hit the cold, hard ground beneath him. 

 

The sound of his collapse echoed around him, loud and jarring in the stillness of the night.

 

It was the sound of his knees crashing against the floor that made him fully realize what had happened.

 

He was on the ground, gasping for breath, struggling to draw air into his lungs, air that had been mercilessly taken away by that ruthless man, Tony Stark. 

 

For a moment, it felt like life itself was slipping out of him, but with one desperate, long inhale, Peter forced the breath back into his chest, coughing violently as his lungs filled with air once again. 

 

He coughed so hard that tears began to well up in his eyes, streaming down his face uncontrollably.

 

 Everything around him still spun, but less so than before. 

 

His vision was blurry, his mind a haze of pain and confusion. And then, through the fog of his disorientation, he heard a voice. A low, cold voice, sharp as ice and just as cruel.

 

 "Get up and get the hell out of here," the voice commanded.

 

 It took Peter a moment to process whose voice it was, but then he knew. It was Stark. 

 

The man who had just nearly taken his life without a second thought. The arrogant, heartless bastard.

 

 Peter pushed himself up from the floor, unsteady but determined, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

 

 His eyes darted toward the source of the voice, and there he was — Tony Stark, standing on the edge of the balcony, his back turned toward Peter.

 

 Stark's hands were gripping the railing tightly, his head bowed slightly as if he were peering into the dark waters below, searching for something.

 

 Or maybe, Peter thought, Stark was searching for an excuse, a justification for what he had just done. Some way to make his actions seem right, even when they were so clearly wrong.

 

Peter staggered to his feet, his body still aching from the fall. For a brief moment, he wanted to say nothing, to walk away quietly and leave this nightmare behind him. 

 

But then, that voice came again, colder and harsher than before.

 

"You're just like your mother — a liar," Stark spat out, the words dripping with venom.

 

Those words were all it took to ignite the fury within Peter. Rage flooded his veins, burning away the pain and fear.

 

 He spun around to face Stark, his eyes blazing with anger.

 

 

"I'm not a liar," Peter growled, his voice low and trembling with emotion.

 

 "And neither is my mother. The only liar here is you, Stark. You’re so buried under your own lies, you can’t even see the truth anymore. You lie to yourself, telling yourself that everything you do is justified, that you don’t owe anyone an explanation. But you know what the real truth is?"

 

 Peter stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Stark’s figure. 

 

"The truth is, you’re weak. You’re just a pathetic, arrogant man who’s so blinded by his own ego that he can’t see anything beyond himself. You might have eyes, but you're blind. You have ears, but you're deaf. You have a mouth, but you’re mute when it comes to speaking the truth."Peter’s words were sharp, cutting through the cold air between them like a blade. Each sentence felt like an assault, aimed directly at Stark’s pride. 

 

 

"You’re one of the worst kinds of people in this world," Peter continued, his voice rising. "You’re nothing but a coward who hides behind power and wealth. And you know what? For a long time, I looked up to you. I thought you were a hero — someone I could aspire to be like. That’s why I came to you for help. I thought, maybe, just maybe, you’d show some humanity. But I was wrong. So, so wrong. And now? That’s my biggest regret. Ever believing in you."

 

 

Peter's final words hung in the air like a challenge. 

 

He stood there, his chest heaving with emotion, waiting to see how Stark would respond.

 

 He could have walked away — he probably should have. But something in him kept him rooted to the spot. 

 

He wanted to see it, wanted to see how Stark would react, to see if this man who had tried to crush him would dare to face the truth of who he really was.

 

Would Stark lash out again? Would he try to break Peter once more? 

 

Peter didn’t care. 

 

He wasn’t afraid of death anymore.

 

Not after having stared it in the face just moments ago. No, fear was behind him now.

 

 All that mattered was seeing Tony Stark’s reaction, seeing if the truth could reach him — even if only for a moment.

 

 On the other side of the balcony, Tony stood still, his face a mask of controlled anger. For the first time in his life, Tony Stark felt a flicker of something he couldn’t place. 

 

Fear? Maybe. It wasn’t the fear of Peter, but the fear of something deeper, something that clawed at the edges of his mind.

 

 How could this kid still stand here, still challenge him, after seeing the worst of him?

 

 Tony’s hands tightened on the railing as he tried to summon his usual cold, commanding demeanor. 

 

He turned his head slightly, the anger in his eyes returning as he glared down at Peter.

 

 "Get out," Tony growled, his voice dangerously low. "Get out before I throw you off this balcony myself and let the sharks have you."

 

There was no doubt that Tony meant every word.

 

 But for the first time, those words didn’t have the same effect they once did. Peter didn’t flinch. 

 

He didn’t move. He simply stared back, as if daring Stark to make good on his threat. 

 

Tony turned back to the balcony, trying to escape the moment.

 

Peter cast a glance at Tony, his heart heavy with unspoken words. 

 

The world around him swirled like a chaotic storm, but all he could focus on was the man standing before him.

 

 Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he was determined not to let them fall. 

 

Not here, not now. 

 

He refused to show weakness in front of Tony Stark, the man who had become both his idol and his adversary. 

 

Peter wanted to maintain a facade of strength, to convince himself that he wasn’t vulnerable, that he didn’t feel small standing in front of the man who had disappointed him so profoundly.

 

 He allowed himself a moment to look down at the ground, as if the earth could provide him some sort of comfort. 

 

After a few seconds, he forced himself to raise his gaze back to Tony’s face. It was as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, about to fall into a chasm of despair.

 

 The weight of unexpressed emotions threatened to engulf him, and for a fleeting moment, Peter felt like he might just drown in his feelings.

 

 "You know what you did today…" Peter began, his voice trembling slightly as he bit down on his lower lip, a gesture he often resorted to when he was trying to hold back his emotions.

 

 It was his way of suppressing the urge to cry, a means to keep the tears at bay. “You’re going to regret it… a lot.”

 

 

 

He stood there, trembling slightly, knowing he had struck a nerve. 

 

Peter didn’t wait for a response; he couldn’t bear to linger in that spot for another moment. 

 

He took a step back, his eyes darting sideways as he glimpsed Tony once more before turning away completely, wanting to escape the suffocating atmosphere that surrounded them.

 

 As he moved away, he didn’t pay attention to where he was going.

 

 The chaos of the crowd around him blurred into a background hum.

 

 He pushed through people, the chatter and laughter of others fading into an unrecognizable noise. 

 

All he could think about was the confrontation with Tony, the way the words had cut through the tension like a knife. 

 

The dock loomed ahead, and he could hear Chef Pablo calling out from the kitchen, his voice blending with the sounds of clattering dishes and sizzling pans.

 

 But Peter paid no mind.

 

 Determined to distance himself from the confrontation, he continued walking until he found himself in a storage room, far from the prying eyes and judgment of the crowd. 

 

Once the door clicked shut behind him, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief wash over him, yet it quickly morphed into an avalanche of emotions he could no longer contain.

 

 

 

Peter leaned against the cool wall, closing his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

 

 It was as if the dam had broken, and the tears that had been so carefully held at bay finally cascaded down his cheeks. 

 

The sobs wracked his body, echoing in the stillness of the room. In that dark space, he let go of everything—the hurt, the anger, the disappointment.

 

How could someone so brilliant be so blind? Peter thought about the moments he had idolized Tony, the hero he had looked up to.

 

 The man who could do no wrong. But now, that image was shattered, and all that remained was the painful reality of betrayal.

 

Peter’s cries mingled with the shadows around him, creating an intimate space where his anguish could be felt and understood, even if only by himself. 

 

He longed for the comfort of someone who understood, someone who could share in his pain.

 

But here, in this storage room, he was alone, left to navigate the tumult of his thoughts. 

 

The echoes of his sobs faded into silence, leaving him with the heaviness of his heart and the bittersweet realization that sometimes, heroes can let you down.

 

Notes:

Sorry this one was short .

Chapter 6: My fear that is frightening me.

People were constantly moving back and forth, and he couldn’t block it out. Few nurses walked between rooms, their footsteps on the tiled floor making an annoying sound that made Peter feel even more tense.

 

He also heard a doctor in the distance, telling off a patient, saying something like, “Why do you come to the hospital if you won’t follow the treatment?”

 

He barely noticed the occasional cough from behind a nearby curtain.

 

 His mind was focused on one thing: getting to May’s room. But even though he wanted to move fast, everything around him seemed to slow down, and every step felt like it was taking forever.

 

 Still, step by step, he pressed forward.

 

 Walking through the hospital corridors had become a routine for Peter over the past four months. When Aunt May had first been admitted, the sterile environment had made him feel uncomfortable—like he didn’t belong here.

 

 Every time he walked these halls, he would hear snippets of lives that weren’t his own: a woman sobbing uncontrollably, someone else mourning the loss of a loved one, or the frantic cries of another patient. On occasion, he’d overhear a nurse or doctor sharing the rare news that someone had pulled through, that they’d beaten the odds and survived.

 

But those moments were few and far between.

 

In these past months, Peter had been a silent witness to so many stories. 

 

Every day, he would see families either holding on to hope or mourning in despair. 

 

And despite all that he had seen, he still didn’t know where he stood.

 

Was he one of those whose loved one would recover, or was he about to lose the last person he had left in the world?

 

He had no idea which category he belonged to.

 

 Would he be the one who left the hospital filled with joy because May had survived? Or would he be the one walking out of here, broken, knowing he was completely alone?

 

 Peter didn’t know if he was preparing to celebrate May’s recovery or to grieve her loss. The uncertainty gnawed at him, tearing him apart from the inside. All he wanted, all he prayed for, was for Aunt May to get better. 

 

 He couldn’t imagine a life without her—he didn’t want to.

When the ship had finally arrived at the harbor and dropped anchor, the first person to step off was Peter. 

 

 As soon as the anchor touched the water, he hurriedly disembarked, not wasting a second more than necessary. In fact, he could have left even earlier; there was no reason for him to have waited that extra half an hour, hiding away in the basement of the ship. 

 

His pride and dignity had already been crushed the moment he lowered his head and swallowed his ego to ask that cold, merciless man for help.

 

It was in that humiliating instant that Peter made the biggest mistake of his life. 

 

If it had been up to him, he would have walked away right then and there, especially after Stark had almost choked him to death. 

 

But the ship was still in the middle of the vast ocean, drifting aimlessly, and there was no choice but to stay onboard.Obviously, Peter couldn’t simply dive into the freezing waters and swim the 1100 miles to shore. He was human, after all. 

 

 But to some people, it seemed he was less than that—perhaps even worse than a human being. 

 

Could anyone truly understand the thoughts running through his mind right now?

 

He couldn’t bring himself to utter the name Tony Stark, not after everything that had happened.  

 

 The mere thought of that man made him feel a anger,pain,and disappointment.

 

 Pain and sorrow were nothing new to Peter—they had become part of his daily routine. But today, he had learned the most brutal lesson of his life. The heroes people admired on TV, the ones society worshipped, weren’t always heroes in real life. 

 

 There was a vast difference between the glamorous reel life shown on screens and the harsh realities of real life.What had happened today had shocked Peter to his core, like a jolt of electricity surging through his mind, paralyzing his heart. It felt as if an 80-volt shock had hit him, leaving him numb and frozen.

 

If he could have put into words the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him, he would have.

 

 But whom would he even tell? Who was there to listen? Aunt May was sick. Ned was off on a family trip, and Peter didn’t want to ruin his friend’s vacation by dumping all of his troubles on him. 

 

And MJ—well, she had her own life, her own problems to deal with. In truth, no one was there to listen to Peter’s story. No one would ever know what had happened to him today. It was a secret he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

 

Some people have a habit of finding a silver lining in every terrible situation they face. They search for some hidden meaning, some wisdom behind their suffering. 

 

They comfort themselves with the thought that perhaps there is a grander purpose, that something good must surely come from their pain. It’s a coping mechanism, a way to find peace in the face of adversity. 

 

They convince themselves that everything will be fine, that there’s a reason for everything. And while that’s a noble way to think, it doesn’t always apply.

 

If this had been any other situation, Peter might have believed the comforting lies people tell themselves. He might have fooled himself into thinking there was some hidden good in all the shame and humiliation he had faced today. 

 

But there wasn’t. There was nothing redeeming about what had happened—no hidden lesson, no secret wisdom.

What had Peter done to deserve such harsh punishment? 

 

Was it really about the money?

Had Mr. Stark treated him this way because of money? 

 

Absolutely not. Tony Stark wouldn’t have crushed him like this over a few dollars. To Tony, money was nothing. He was a man of unimaginable wealth, someone for whom money was merely a tool, not a treasure. 

 

The amount Peter had asked for wouldn’t have even made a dent in Stark’s fortune. So, what was it all for?

 

Peter didn’t want to accept the truth, but he had no choice. The bitter reality was clear now, like a sharp, cold blade cutting through his soul. 

 

Tony hadn’t rejected him because he wanted to avoid responsibility.

 

No, the truth was far worse.

 

Stark couldn’t accept Peter as his son because that would mean giving Peter everything—his name, his fortune, his legacy. And Tony Stark, a man born into immense wealth and privilege, had never known struggle, hardship, or suffering. 

 

He had never faced the challenges that shaped ordinary people, and so he lacked a fundamental understanding of what it meant to be human. From the moment of his birth, Tony had been handed everything on a silver platter, with a spoon of gold in his mouth. 

 

How could someone like that ever comprehend the plight of a poor, desperate boy claiming to be his son?To Stark, Peter must have seemed like a liar, a fraud, or worse—a scammer trying to steal his wealth. 

 

And Peter had done exactly what Stark expected. 

 

He had asked for money outright, and that had only confirmed Tony’s suspicions.

 

In Tony’s eyes, Peter was nothing more than a low-class con artist, a manipulator, someone trying to take advantage of him.

 

Peter was now one hundred percent certain that Tony saw him as a liar, a cheat, a deceiver. 

 

And maybe Peter deserved that judgment. 

 

After all, what right did he have to beg for help from someone like Tony Stark? 

 

 

Where had his self-respect gone?

 

 

What had happened to his pride when he had stooped so low as to ask Stark for money?

 

This was his reality now. 

 

This was the bitter pill he had to swallow. 

 

Stark hadn’t turned him away out of irresponsibility—no, it was because accepting Peter as his son would mean a great shame for Tony Stark. 

 

Tony, a man who had never known hardship, couldn’t bear the thought of giving everything he had to a boy he viewed as nothing more than a beggar. And sad thing is that peter can't even judge him about it because he is right. Who would accept a boy like peter as a son . It’s would be a great shame. 

Even if the situation justified Tony’s behavior a thousand times over, the way he treated Peter today was something Peter would never forgive. 

 

Not in this lifetime, not in the next. 

 

Peter wasn't entirely certain if Tony was his father, but from now on, he prayed fervently that he wasn't. 

 

He couldn't bear the idea of having to reconcile with the fact that this man—the same man who had come close to sending him to his death today—was his father. Peter's deepest wish was to never see Tony's face again, to never hear his name again.

 

 If it weren't for Aunt May's condition, Peter would have left this city—no, this country—immediately. 

 

 He would have disappeared, never to return. But Aunt May wasn't in any shape to travel, and Peter couldn’t burden her with any more bad news. 

 

 She was fragile, and the truth of what had happened today would surely break her.

 

When he was alone sitting in the cold, dark basement of the ship, he let the tears flow. He had held them back for so long, but the dam had finally broken. 

 

His eyes were swollen from crying, his nose bright red—just like it always got when he cried. It was something his Aunt May used to joke about when he was little. 

Whenever Peter cried, his nose would turn red and start running, just like his mother's used to when she cried. 

 

 “You take after your mother,”Aunt May would say with a soft smile. “She was the same way when she was upset.”

 

 

 

But now, there was no comfort in those words. There was no warmth in remembering his mother, or even in thinking about Aunt May.

 

All Peter felt was the weight of betrayal and abandonment. The world had always been harsh to him, but today, it felt like it had delivered its final, cruel blow.

Peter couldn’t stop replaying Tony’s words in his head—the coldness, the disdain, the absolute certainty that Peter was nothing more than a burden, a liar, a fraud. 

 

 He had always hoped that beneath the layers of wealth and arrogance, Tony Stark had a heart. But today, all Peter saw was a man too proud to acknowledge anything outside his own world, a man who saw Peter as an inconvenience rather than a son.

 

 Why did I ask him for help,What was I thinking?

 

 There was nothing left for Peter to do except blame himself. 

 

Over and over again, he cursed his own decisions, berating himself for every mistake, for every wrong step. 

 

 What else was there? His mind offered no escape, no solace. All he could do was replay the events in his head, punishing himself with guilt.He made his way to his aunt's room, feeling his anxiety grow with each step. 

 

 His legs were heavy with exhaustion, and it felt like an invisible weight was pulling him down. Every movement was slower than the last, as though something was holding him back, but he kept going, unable to shake the nervousness building inside him.

 

 He moved mechanically, like a man dragging a load too heavy for him to bear.

 

All Peter wanted now was to hold May close. 

 

He longed for her embrace, for the comfort that only she could give. 

 

He wanted to bury his face in her arms and cry, to release the flood of emotions that had built up inside him. 

 

He was tired—so very tired—and there was nothing left in him. 

 

The strength he had once relied on was gone, drained by the endless turmoil swirling in his heart and mind. He couldn't endure this pain any longer. The regret gnawed at him, consuming him from the inside out.

 

 And yet, Peter knew that May would see right through him. As much as he might try to hide his suffering, she would ask him what had happened. 

 

 She always did. It didn’t matter how many times Peter tried to mask his pain, to put on a brave face. May had a way of seeing through it all. 

 

 Though she wasn’t his biological mother, she was in every way his true mother. She knew him better than anyone, sometimes even better than he knew himself.

 

He couldn’t understand how she did it, but May always seemed to know exactly what he was feeling. It was as if she could read the unspoken words in his heart.

 

 

He had often wondered if May had some kind of magic, some ability to peer into people’s minds and souls, to uncover the secrets they tried to keep hidden. 

 

 Or maybe it wasn’t magic at all—maybe she just had a remarkable gift for understanding people, for sensing the storms that raged within them.

 

Peter had no idea how she did it, but he knew that no matter what, he wouldn't be able to keep this from her. 

 

 When she saw him, she would know something was wrong. She always did. And in that moment, he would be powerless to stop the flood of emotions from breaking through.

 

As much as he didn’t want to worry her, as much as he wanted to keep his pain to himself, Peter knew that May would figure it out. 

 

She always did.

 

His mind was singularly focused on seeing Aunt May, the one person in his life who had always been there for him.

 

Reaching her room, Peter pushed the door open, his breath caught in his throat. But the room was empty. The neatly made bed, the machines turned off—nothing but the hollow silence of a room no longer occupied. Panic gripped him. 

 

He stepped inside, calling out, “May?”

 

He scanned the room wildly, looking for any sign of her presence. There was none.

“Aunt May!” he called again, louder this time, hoping, praying that she’d somehow appear from the bathroom or a nurse would walk in with an explanation. But no one answered. He quickly moved toward the small attached bathroom, opening the door with a shaky hand. Empty.

 

Fear began to bubble up inside him, sharp and suffocating. 

His chest tightened as his mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. 

 

Had something gone wrong? 

Had she been moved because of a complication?

 

He didn't want to think about it.

 

 Peter bolted out of the room, his heart in his throat as he made his way to the nurse’s station. 

 

 The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, looked up from her computer as Peter skidded to a stop in front of her. 

 

 “Uh, excuse me, do you know where my aunt is? She’s, um, not in her room. May Parker—she’s supposed to be in Room 217.”

 

The receptionist frowned and tapped at her keyboard for a moment. Peter’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he waited, each second feeling like an eternity. 

 

Finally, she looked up, her expression softening with concern.

 

“Your aunt has been moved to the operating room,” she said gently. “Her condition worsened, and they had to take her in for immediate surgery.”

 

 Peter’s blood ran cold. “W-Which floor?”

 

“Third floor,” she replied, pointing toward the elevator. “The emergency wing is up there.”

 

He didn’t wait to hear anything else. Peter spun around, sprinting toward the elevator, his legs already aching with fear-driven adrenaline. He jabbed the button repeatedly, glancing up at the indicator as it slowly crawled downward, as if mocking his desperation. 

 

 Seconds stretched into what felt like hours, and the small ding of the elevator was nowhere in sight.He can’t wait for elevator. Without hesitation, he turned toward the stairwell, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum as he bolted through the heavy door.

 

The stairs loomed before him like a mountain, but Peter didn't care.

 

 He raced upward, two steps at a time, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

 

His muscles burned, and his chest heaved with the effort, but the only thing that mattered was getting to Aunt May. Each floor he passed blurred into the next, his mind consumed with worry, guilt, and a growing sense of helplessness. 

 

Why hadn't he been there sooner? What if something happened to her, and he wasn’t by her side?

 

 Finally, he reached the third floor. 

 

 His legs felt like lead, and his lungs screamed for air, but he pushed on, his feet pounding the floor as he made his way toward the operating room. 

 

 His vision tunneled as he focused on the red glowing sign above the doors: Operating Room.

 

 He skidded to a stop just outside, his breath ragged, his body trembling from both the physical exertion and the emotional weight crushing down on him.

 

He looked around, taking in the sterile waiting area, the quiet hum of activity just beyond the swinging doors. There were people seated, but Peter felt utterly alone .The light above the operating room door remained a steady red, a sign that surgery was still ongoing.

 

He took a step forward, then another, his legs shaky beneath him. 

 

He wanted to rush through those doors, to see Aunt May and make sure she was okay. 

 

But he couldn’t.

 

The red light was a barrier he couldn’t cross, a reminder that whatever was happening inside was out of his control. His stomach twisted with helplessness.

 

As he stood there, his gaze flickered toward a figure approaching from the far end of the hall. 

 

A doctor, dressed in scrubs, walking briskly toward the emergency room. 

 

Peter felt a surge of hope. 

Maybe this doctor would have answers. Maybe she could tell him something, anything, about Aunt May’s condition.Maybe she would know something. Maybe she had seen Aunt May.

 

Without thinking, Peter rushed forward, closing the distance between them. 

 

His voice was small but desperate as he called out, "Doctor, excuse me... please."

 

The doctor paused mid-step, turning to face him. 

 

She glanced down at her clipboard before lifting her eyes to meet Peter’s. 

 

Her gaze was sharp, but there was a softness there too, a kind of practiced sympathy that only came with years of experience.

 

"Uh, Doctor, my aunt was rushed in for an operation. Do you know how she’s doing?"

She sighed softly, as if weighing her words carefully before speaking. 

 

 "We’re doing everything we can for her," she said,calmly. 

 

 “Right now, she's in surgery, and we're trying to stabilize her. It's touch and go, but... we’re doing our best. I can’t give you any guarantees yet.”

 

 Peter’s throat tightened. “But she’s going to be okay, right?”Please, tell me she’s going to be alright.

 

The doctor offered him a soft, sympathetic smile. 

 

 “I wish I could say for sure,”she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. 

 

 “But I believe she’s in good hands. We’ll know more soon, but for now, try not to worry too much. She’s strong, and we’re giving her the best care possible.”

 

 Peter nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was something—some small reassurance that they were still fighting for Aunt May, that there was still hope. 

 

 His body sagged slightly as the doctor gave him a final nod before turning and walking into the emergency room, disappearing behind the heavy double doors.

 

 They swung shut, Peter stared at them for a long moment, his mind swirling with thoughts of May, the fear, and the uncertainty. 

 

 He took a few shaky steps backward, collapsing once more into one of the waiting chairs. His legs barely able to hold him up any longer. 

 

 He sank down onto one, his body folding in on itself as the weight of it all hit him like a tidal wave.He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them, as if trying to make himself small enough to disappear. 

 

 His head dropped between his knees, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay strong.

 

 But the fear, the helplessness, it was too much.

 

 A single tear escaped his eye, and then another, until silent sobs wracked his body.

 

 He pressed his forehead against his knees, his breath shaky and uneven.

 

Time passed in a blur.

 

He didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours, and he didn’t care. 

 

The world around him faded into the background, leaving only the sound of his own breathing, the occasional footstep of a nurse or doctor passing by, and the steady hum of the building.

 

 His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, but the knot in his stomach wouldn’t loosen.

 

Now all he could do was wait.

 

Wait and hope that when those doors opened again, it would be with good news. That Aunt May would pull through. 

 

He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, the sounds of the hospital fading into a dull hum.

 

 At some point, exhaustion took over. 

 

Curled up in that chair, Peter fell into a fitful sleep, his body unable to keep going any longer. 

 

Even in sleep, his face was streaked with tears, his mind haunted by the image of May’s empty bed, the fear of losing the only family he had left.

 

 

Notes:

I clearly remember someone asking me, "How often do you upload?" And I was like, "Oh, you know, maybe once every two weeks." And now look at this! Two weeks are almost up, and I'm uploading right on time. Who said I’m not punctual, huh?😉

Anyway, let me know in the comments—what do you think? Is May gonna make it, or is she about to break our hearts?And hey, don't be shy, drop some comments and kudos! They're like the fuel to my creative engine (and my ego).❤😁

Chapter 7: Is it beyond thee to halt?

Notes:

Before we dive into this chapter, just a heads-up: I’ve added an extra scene to Chapter 4, so if you’ve already read it, you might want to go back and catch the update. Trust me, it’ll be worth it!

Oh, and one more thing—I've got this terrible habit of not double-checking my work after I write it. It’s like I can’t stand to look at it again, or I’ll just... well, die. So if you spot any mistakes, they’re all mine, and feel free to point them out. Thanks in advance!

All so thank you for kudos and comments.

The boy was sleeping, lost in his dreamland, unaware of what awaited him. 

 

He had no idea that a new chapter of his life was waiting for him to wake up. 

 

 

The sterile smell of the hospital surrounded him . As he drifted in and out of a fog, the distant sounds around him were muffled and unclear.

 

 

 Suddenly, the operating room's doors swung open with a loud bang, jolting him awake.His heart raced.

 

 

He woke up with a start, the pain in his shoulders and neck hitting him like a wave. 

 

 

He didn’t know how many hours he had spent in that daze, but now his entire body ached. 

 

 

Peter was grateful he hadn’t fallen flat on the floor during that time; otherwise, he would have made a fool of himself again.

 

 

Taking a moment to collect himself, he began to look around .The hospital's dull, lifeless walls, whose color Peter never quite understood, collided with his eyes.

 

 

He let out a yawn. He had woken up, but his sleep was still far from complete.

 

 

 He desperately needed more rest, but the sharp pain beginning to develop in his neck kept him from drifting back to sleep, holding him awake for the time being.

 

 

 

As his eyes adjusted to the bright lights, he felt confusion and fear wash over him. 

 

 

What had happened? Why was he here?

 

 

Oh, he's in the hospital,he remembered as he looked around at the dull walls of the hospital.

 

 

Peter shifted slightly, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through him. It was as if every nerve in his body was alive with discomfort. 

 

 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Each inhale reminded him of the cold, clinical environment he was in, far removed from the warmth of his dreams.

 

 

 

Peter glanced at his wrist, checking the time on an old watch—an outdated model, worn but cherished.

 

 

It had been a gift from his Uncle Ben on his 10th birthday. Even after all these years, Peter had managed to keep it safe, as if protecting more than just a timepiece. It was the last gift Ben had ever given him, the last tangible reminder of the man who had meant so much.

 

 

After his uncle passed, Peter had never celebrated his birthday again. 

 

 

No matter how much May tried to convince him, how many times she gently encouraged him to mark the day, he always refused. “Without him, there’s no happiness,” he would say, closing the conversation with a quiet finality.

 

 

 Eventually, May stopped insisting. Time moved forward, and they both moved with it, adapting to the rhythm of their shared grief.

 

 

Exactly one year after Ben's passing, when Aunt May was diagnosed with her illness, Peter often found himself lost in thought. 

 

 

He would wonder if her time was coming too—just like Uncle Ben. One day, it would be her turn. One day, Aunt May would leave too. 

 

 

That was inevitable. 

 

 

Her illness had progressed so far, it was only a matter of time. But what would happen after that? When May was gone, just like Ben?

 

 

Peter would be left all alone. 

 

 

And then what? What would he do?what would happen then? 

 

 

What would become of Peter? 

 

 

What would he do?Would he just wait around for his own death, counting the days until his time came? 

 

 

When would that moment arrive?

 

 

Would he be granted the same quick death? 

 

 

Would his end come as swiftly?

 

 

These questions would swirl endlessly in his mind. Peter often lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trapped in the hollow emptiness of his own thoughts.

 

 

Every now and then, a part of him wanted to share all of this with someone, to say it out loud, to unburden himself. 

 

But just as quickly, he'd push the idea away. 

 

 

What good would it do to drag someone else into his mess? He was already struggling enough—why should he become a source of worry for others too? Why add to their burdens when they had their own lives to deal with?

 

 

 

As thoughts of time filled his head, Peter checked his watch again. It was just past 6 AM. He realized, with some surprise, that when he had arrived here, it had been 3:11 AM. Had he really been asleep for three whole hours?

 

 

You idiot! How could you sleep like a dead body when May might need you?

 

 

 

The thought jolted him out of his mind, and in an instant, he sat up straight He let his gaze wander around the room, searching for any familiar faces.

 

 

 He saw them—surgeons emerging from the operating room, their faces lined with fatigue and concern.

 

 

Instinctively, he shot up from his seat, ignoring the numbing stiffness in his limbs from the uncomfortable position he had been in. 

 

 

Adrenaline coursed through him, propelling him forward even as the lingering fatigue tried to hold him back.

 

 

“Doctor!” he called, his voice cracking with desperation as he approached the small group.

 

 

 The older doctor in the front turned toward him, his expression grave. 

 

 

The world seemed to slow as Peter reached him, anxiety bubbling up again in his throat. “How is my aunt? Is she okay?”

 

 

The doctor’s silence was heavy. 

 

 

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he placed his hands gently on Peter’s shoulders. There was a compassion in his eyes that Peter desperately wanted to ignore, but it was there, undeniable.

 

 

“We’re sorry, son,” the doctor said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We tried our best. But there were some complications, and she is... she is no longer with us. I’m so sorry.”

 

 

The words pierced through Peter like shards of glass, each syllable slicing away at the fragile hope he had clung to. His heart plummeted, the reality crashing over him like a cold wave. No. It couldn’t be true. 

 

 

Not Aunt May. 

 

 

She was his rock, his confidant, the person who had always been there for him. 

 

 

She can't be dead .

 

 

No, she couldn’t leave him like that. 

 

 

She had promised to always be there for Peter. 

 

 

She couldn't go, no, no.

 

 

 

 

Right now, Peter’s mind was spinning, crowded with endless thoughts that came all at once, blurring together in a way that made it hard for him to focus. 

 

 

The fear had settled deep in his chest, tightening until it felt like he could hardly breathe. 

 

 

He’d always known that someday, eventually, he might face this moment. 

 

 

But he had never imagined it would come this soon, and it caught him completely off guard.

 

 

He desperately wished the doctor would say something, anything, to reassure him—that his aunt was okay, that nothing serious had happened, that there had been some mistake.

 

 

Part of him wanted to grab the doctor, to demand that they take back their words. To tell him that his aunt was fine, that she was just waiting for him inside, just as she had always been.

 

 

 But none of those words came out; he couldn’t find the strength to say any of it.

 

 

 

Before he could think, before he could process what the doctor had just said, Peter felt an intense rush of grief take hold. 

 

 

He turned and sprinted past the doctor, racing toward the operating room's door. He didn’t care if it was inappropriate; he didn’t care about anything but seeing her one last time.

 

 

“Wait!”

 

He heard a nurse shout behind him, but he was already through the doors. The bright lights from the operating room filled the hallway as he walked in, and he felt a little dizzy. The white light above the operating table stung his eyes, blinding him for a few seconds.

 

 

But still, he forced himself to move forward, stepping into the room. 

 

 

In the middle of it, he stood frozen, staring at the figure lying on the table. 

 

 

A body—possibly his Aunt’s—lay motionless, covered with a white sheet. That lifeless form, which the doctors had been working on moments before in a desperate attempt to save her life, now lay there completely still, hidden beneath the cold, sterile fabric. Completely alone.

 

 

Time seemed to stop.

 

 

The moment Peter caught sight of the still body, his heart began to race so violently that he felt like it might tear out of his chest. 

 

 

Fear gripped him, a strong, suffocating terror. 

 

 

His only hope, his last desperate prayer, was that this wasn’t his Aunt. Deep down, he begged for it not to be her. 

 

 

His instinct was to run—run far away and never look back.

 

 

But somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter knew the truth. He knew he couldn’t escape it. He had to face it.

 

 

With trembling steps, he reached the side of the table, terrified, more scared than he had ever been. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. 

 

 

He couldn’t find the courage to lift the sheet. But he knew he had to, didn’t he? Slowly, he bent down and pulled the sheet back, revealing May’s face. 

 

 

Her skin pale, and the lifelessness in her features made his heart ache more than he could bear.Her eyes were completely shut, and that alone terrified Peter. 

 

 

Every time he had seen someone close their eyes like this, it was always forever—his mom, his dad, Uncle Ben.

 

 

And now Aunt May had joined them.

 

 

“May?” He whispered, and his words vanished.

 

 

He dropped to his knees beside her. “May?” He tried again.

 

 

But he got no response. 

 

 

The awful truth settled in when he saw her lying there, motionless under the white sheet. 

 

 

He went to her, wrapping his arms around her with a fragile hope that it was all just a cruel joke. Perhaps if he held her close, she’d open her eyes, smile, and pat his hair like she always did. But nothing happened. 

 

 

Her silence was cold, unyielding. Every ounce of hope he had was shattered in that moment, as he held her cold, lifeless hands in his own, feeling her absence cut deeper than any words could.

 

 

“No... no, no,” He hugged her tightly, the grief spilling over like a dam bursting, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. 

 

 

Peter barely registered the voices calling his name in the distance. He heard them, faint and far away, but they didn’t matter to him. He didn’t turn towards the sounds, nor did he give them a second thought. They felt insignificant, like distant whispers that couldn’t reach him. His entire focus was on the lifeless form of his Aunt May in front of him. 

 

 

Her body, cold and unmoving, was like a heavy stone resting against him, almost impossible to believe. His mind refused to fully accept what he was seeing, but his heart knew. She was gone.

 

 

Silently, Peter begged the universe for mercy, for some miracle, some twist of fate that would change this unbearable reality. 

 

 

He pleaded with all his might for the impossible—to not lose the last family member he had.

 

 

But deep down, he knew it was futile. 

 

 

No prayer or wish could undo what had been done.

 

 

No force in the world could bring her back. 

 

 

He was powerless to stop it, powerless to change any of it.

 

 

His chest tightened as his grief began to spill over. He looked at her face, still and peaceful, and his own face contorted with sorrow.

 

 

“ May…” he whispered, his voice shaking as he leaned down closer, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, his body trembling. “I’m so sorry. I should have been here. I should have done something.”

 

 

 

Tears began to spill from his eyes, and he couldn’t hold them back, no matter how much he wanted to. His throat felt tight, and He was so shaken that... he couldn’t make a sound. All he could do was sit there in silence, letting his tears fall.

 

 

 It hurt so much that words couldn’t capture it. 

 

 

The pain was beyond anything he’d ever felt. 

 

 

words fell from his lips without him even thinking, a confession to the one person who could no longer hear them. His apology felt hollow, late, too late to matter. But he couldn’t stop himself from speaking, from telling her how much he wished he could’ve done more, how much he wished he had been there for her when she needed him most.

 

 

He felt her absence like a gaping hole in his chest, and it tore at him with every second that passed.

 

 

His hands clutched at her sleeve, holding on, as if somehow his touch could keep her from slipping further away. 

 

 

He had never felt so helpless, so lost. He wanted to rewind time, to fix the things he couldn’t, to save her from the fate that had stolen her away from him.

 

 

It's all my fault.

 

 

Those were the only words running through Peter's mind.

 

 

It was his fault. Only his, and no one else's.

 

 

 

Peter held her hand tightly, tears streaming down his face, knowing now that she was truly gone.

 

 

No comfort, no reassurance—just a raw, aching loss that settled heavily into his heart. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he knew that this was his reality now—A sobering fact that would linger, a wound that would never fully heal. 

 

 

 

He wrapped his arms around her still form, clinging to her in one last embrace, unable to let go.

 

 

The sorrow ran so deep that he felt completely isolated, and for the first time, he faced a world that felt completely empty.

 

 

 

He cried into her stillness, feeling the warmth of her body begin to fade from his memory. 

 

 

 

The male nurse who had followed Peter into the room took a step forward. 

 

 

Whether he had something against Peter personally, or if he simply didn’t approve of the way Peter was acting, Peter couldn’t tell. His movements were stiff, mechanical, and his face wore a hardened expression, void of compassion.

 

 

“You need to step away from the body,” the nurse said, preparing to intervene. “We need to take care of her.”

 

 

Something inside Peter snapped at the man’s words. He felt an anger rise in him, hot and uncontrollable, aimed directly at the person standing between him and the last few moments he could have with his Aunt.

 

 

 This nurse, this stranger, was trying to take that from him. 

 

 

Peter could feel his patience slipping, his emotions fraying at the edges.

 

 

His grief was too fresh, too  consuming, and this person just couldn’t understand.. He couldn’t. Peter just needed time, just a little more time. 

 

 

How could anyone expect him to walk away?

 

 

But before Peter could react, the doctor— the same one who had delivered the devastating news just moments before, the news that had shattered Peter’s world—stepped forward. The doctor moved swiftly, intercepting the situation before it could escalate.

 

 

 Gently, he placed a hand on the nurse’s arm, stopping him in his tracks.

 

 

“Let him stay for a moment,” the doctor said softly,. “He needs this.”

 

 

It was hard to tell if the doctor’s actions were born out of sympathy for Peter, or if he just instinctively understood the importance of giving Peter this time. Either way, it worked.

 

 

The nurse hesitated for a moment, his body rigid with resistance. It was clear he didn’t agree with the decision. 

 

 

His disapproving gaze lingered on Peter, as if Peter’s grief was somehow inconvenient to the process. But in the end, the nurse obeyed. 

 

 

Reluctantly, he took a step back, his movements slow and begrudging, allowing Peter a few more precious moments alone with his Aunt.

 

 

Peter felt a wave of relief wash over him, though he didn’t show it.

 

 

He had no words of gratitude for the doctor, but somewhere deep down, he was thankful. 

 

 

Thankful that someone had understood, even if just a little, how much this time meant to him. How desperately he needed it.

 

 

The rude nurse stepped aside, the doctor also quietly gestured to the other staff members in the room, signaling for them to leave as well. One by one, they shuffled out of the room, leaving behind only Peter, a single female nurse, and Aunt May’s lifeless body.

 

 

The doctor gave Peter a final, sympathetic glance before he, too, left, closing the door softly behind him. 

 

 

Peter stood there in the heavy silence that followed, his chest tight, his breath shaky.

 

 

Now, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the room and the sound of Peter’s muffled sobs. 

 

 

He didn’t want to leave her.

 

 

He couldn’t. 

 

 

The thought of walking out of that room, leaving her behind, felt like an impossibility. How could he say goodbye? How could he let go when all he wanted was to hold onto her for just a little longer?

 

 

But deep down, Peter knew he couldn’t stay here forever. Time was slipping away, no matter how much he wanted it to stop. 

 

 

The one nurse stood quietly off to the side, watching him with soft eyes, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

 

 

 He wasn’t ready for anyone else’s pity. 

 

 

All he wanted was to be alone with his Aunt, to grieve without the world closing in on him.

 

 

And so, in the stillness of that hospital room, Peter held onto the last pieces of the woman who had raised him, his tears falling silently onto her cold hand.

 

 

He couldn’t bring himself to let go of her, to accept that she was truly gone. 

 

 

The warmth of her body was replaced by an unbearable chill that seeped into his bones. 

 

 

He buried his face against her shoulder, tears soaking the fabric as he cried for all the moments they would never share again, for all the things left unsaid. 

 

 

You were in such a rush to leave me... you didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye,

 

 

Couldn’t you have waited, just for a bit? I wish you’d waited for me, even just a little while longer.

 

 

May, I was coming for you.

 

 

 I went to him with only one hope in my heart—that maybe, just maybe, I could save you.

 

 

 But it wasn’t in my fate. I was too late.

 

 

And now you're gone, May, and I'm left here... all alone.

 

 

It’s almost ironic, I can’t even blame Parker luck for this, like Uncle Ben used to joke. 

 

 

To be cursed with Parker luck, you’d have to actually be a Parker. 

 

 

But I’m not. I’m not even that. I’m worse than bad luck. I’m just... a curse.

 

 

I was nothing but bad luck for you, May,I brought nothing but pain to this family... to you.

 

 

 First my parents, then Uncle Ben... and now you.

 

 

I never deserved you, never deserved this family.

 

 

 I was never good enough.

 

 

I wish... I wish I had never left you.

 

 

 I should have stayed. I should have been here, with you, when you needed me the most.

 

 

Please forgive me, May. I lied to you... I left you alone. 

 

 

I abandoned you when you needed me the most. I’m sorry I let you down.

 

 

 I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.

 

 

I’m so sorry, May. This is all my fault. Please... please forgive me.

 

 

Peter wanted to say more. His mind was filled with a thousand apologies, a thousand confessions, things he wished he had said when she was still here to hear them. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, how sorry he was for all the times he hadn’t been there when it mattered.

 

 

But the words stuck in his throat, tangled in his grief, and all that came out was a soft, broken, I’m sorry.

 

 

In his heart, he screamed for forgiveness. But his voice had nothing left. All he could do was cry quietly, his face buried in his hands, while the silence of the room enveloped him, offering no comfort in return.

 

 

 

“ I’m so sorry, May. I’m so, so sorry.” And with that, he broke down, tears flowing as he cried his heart out.

 

 

 

I love you, May. And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. 

 

 

 

I promise I’ll always remember you—everything you did for me, every single thing.

 

 

 

 I’ll never forget. I swear. 

 

 

 

You’re my family… you were everything.

 

 

He was just crying, and his throat was starting to go dry.

 

 

The nurse stood by, like a silent guardian , watching as Peter mourned the woman who had been so much more than just an aunt. 

 

 

She was his guiding light, the one person who had believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself. And now, that light had been extinguished, leaving him in darkness.

 

 

 

At that moment, Peter couldn’t even tell why he was crying. 

 

 

Was it because of his aunt’s death?

 

 

Or was it because of his own misfortune, 

 

 

having to watch yet another loved one slip away? 

 

 

Or maybe it was the heavy truth sinking in that, in this world, he had no one left—no family, no one to call his own. 

 

 

He had been an orphan before, but now he was truly alone, without a place or person to turn to.

 

 

He didn’t know exactly what was causing the tears; all he knew was that he couldn’t stop them. 

 

 

He cried and cried, sitting beside his aunt’s still form, his arms wrapped around her as if he could somehow bring her back just by holding on tightly enough. 

 

 

He let the sadness wash over him, unable to hold back the flood of grief.

 

 

And the most painful part of all? There was no one to offer him comfort. 

 

 

No one was left to reassure him, to tell him it would somehow be okay, or even just to sit quietly by his side. 

 

 

The person who had once been there for him through everything was gone, and now he had to face the silence alone.

 

 

He clung to her, the woman who had been his anchor, his family, his everything. 

 

 

In his grip, he hoped—somehow, some way—that she could still feel his love, as if by holding on just a little longer, he could bridge the gap between life and death and show her how much she meant to him.

 

 

The hospital room around them seemed to blur and fade away, as if nothing else existed beyond the two of them.

 

 

There were no distant sounds of nurses bustling down the hall, no hum of machines, no cold, sterile lights. Just him, alone with the only person who had ever made him feel safe and cared for. 

 

 

He cried not just for what was lost, but for everything they had shared: the moments of laughter, the times she had comforted him, and the steady presence she had always been in his life.

 

 

Peter knew that from now on, he’d have to move forward without her.

 

 

 The thought left him hollow, a future suddenly stretched out and empty, with none of the warmth she’d always brought to it. Yet he stayed there, holding her, wishing for just one more moment, one more chance to say everything he hadn’t, to make her understand just how deeply he loved her.

 

He wept for the past they had, and for the future he now faced without her—a future that felt unbearably lonely.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Before you guys start giving me a hard time in the comments because of May’s potential fate, let me explain. I didn’t initially plan to send her off to the big bad guys, but then it hit me—if I want to drag this story out a bit longer, poor sweet May might just have to make a sacrifice. So, cut me some slack, alright? Let’s just roll with the story, okay? And hey, you can blame the storyline, not me. Alright?😉 and I promise next chapter will be long

Be honest, did seeing a lot of chapter numbers below make you think I uploaded a ton of chapters all at once? Tell me the truth. 😅

But honestly, I have this gut feeling that while I was re-editing, I must’ve made some mistake somewhere. 🙈
.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Without power AU