Chapter Text
It wasn’t like Peter set out to be difficult or aggravating. His brain just had a way of running ahead of him. His thoughts sparked like live wires, and his body scrambled to keep pace. He’d leap from one idea to the next, hands moving before his mind had the chance to even finish deciding what it wanted.
Slowing down only made it worse. His brain itched, and his limbs jittered, until he gave in and did something. Moving, tinkering, building, sketching… it didn’t matter. He functioned best in motion, like standing still might make him vibrate into a million pieces.
He couldn’t help it. His dad was wired the exact same way. The restless energy, the constant thoughts… it wasn’t a habit he’d picked up. It was in his genes.
And at the moment, that restless energy had nowhere to go.
Peter sat on the front steps of his private Manhattan prep school. He tugged his blazer off, draped it over his shoulder, and leaned back on cool natural stone. The final bell had rung twenty minutes ago. The shouts and laughter of his classmates had already faded as they each found their way home. His ride, however, was nowhere to be seen.
He pulled out his phone to text his dad. His response came in the form of a Star Wars gif. Patience, padawan. It was followed by the words: Happy’s running late.
Peter scowled at the screen. His knee bounced, and his head tipped back to look at the perfectly manicured trees. A strong breeze cut through the yellow and orange leaves, creating a quiet rustling that did nothing for his impatience.
He slowed his breathing, waiting a full three minutes, before sending a message to Happy, in hopes of finding out how late “late” actually meant.
There was no answer. His knees bounced a little faster, the heels of his loafers tapping against the step.
Eventually. There was a buzz in his pocket. He pulled his phone out and found three back-to-back texts from Happy:
Got stuck in a meeting.
I’ll be there in twenty.
Do not wander off!
Peter huffed, shoving the phone back into his pocket without replying. His fingers twisted around the hem of his navy blue sweater vest, wringing the fabric until it stretched over his knuckles.
He could work on his homework. There were at least two different chapters he needed to catch up on. However, he found something across the street far more interesting.
Beyond the school gates, across three lanes of traffic, a new storefront gleamed from the middle of the shopping strip. He blinked at it, tilting his head. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. It was like it had appeared overnight, conjured out of thin air.
He stood up, stretching his stiff legs and craning his neck for a better view. Across the street, sunlight ricocheted off the glass window, catching on the neat, shiny gold script painted across it: Virginia’s Stationery Boutique.
Peter squinted. That was weird. A store that sold… paper? Who even bought stationery anymore? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen someone handwrite anything other than a quick grocery list. There were texts, apps, emails, and entire cloud systems to keep track of those kinds of things. Stationery felt like something from a completely different century.
The shop looked somewhat out of place, wedged between a luxury cigar lounge and a haberdashery. It carried the same upscale sophistication as its neighbors, but it was softer around the edges. More elegant.
His curiosity piqued, overpowering every intention to remain compliant. Before he had time to think it through, his legs were already carrying him forward, taking two steps at a time. He shoved through the squeaky, wrought-iron pedestrian gate and planted himself at the corner crosswalk, the red hand glaring down from the signal post, forcing him to wait.
He sighed and shifted his backpack, allowing him the room to thread his arms through his blazer sleeves. He shrugged it into place and smoothed the lapels, eyes still glued to the storefront across the way.
When he finally reached the shop, he slipped inside, a small brass bell jingling cheerfully as he passed through.
The space was quiet. There were no other patrons and no soft music playing through speakers. Every step felt a little too loud, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the polished floor.
He paused to look around. No one stood behind the counter, so he let his curiosity pull him toward a nearby display. A neat wooden sign read: Handmade Botanical Paper.
Peter lifted one sheet from the stack. It was heavier than he expected, textured where the pulp had dried unevenly. The edges were a little rough, and the surface was scattered with small flecks of pink and red. A small label at the corner read: Rose.
He brought it to his nose, giving it a tentative sniff. There was no floral perfume or soft rose scent. Perhaps a little earthy, but mostly it just smelled like… paper.
Behind him, a warm laugh broke the silence.
He nearly dropped the sheet as he whipped around. At some point, a woman had appeared behind the register. She looked to be around the same age as his dad and was dressed in a simple slate-gray pantsuit, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a twist.
“Unfortunately,” she said, her smile warm and amused, “it doesn’t smell like flowers. It’s pretty tough.”
Peter swallowed back the sudden urge to bolt right out of the store. His cheeks warmed as he carefully set the sheet of paper back on the display.
“Right. Sorry,” he mumbled, one hand curling around to the back of his neck. “It’s just– I didn’t really notice this place until today and I wanted to see, ya know… what was in it.”
The woman’s smile spread until small crinkles formed beside her eyes. “You don’t need to apologize. Curiosity’s a good thing. Besides, I wouldn’t have expected you to have noticed this place much sooner.” She leaned an elbow casually on the counter, her chin resting on her palm. “I just opened this shop a few days ago.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay. .” He shifted awkwardly, eyes darting around at the neatly arranged shelves. “So… Do a lot of people come in here?”
“Not yet,” the woman admitted. She laughed gently and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't sound discouraged. Just patient, like she was waiting for the right people to find her.
Peter nodded quickly, his next words tumbling out of his mouth before he could weigh them. “Well, I mean… people don’t really write letters anymore.”
He full-body winced as the statement fully registered. Although the woman didn’t seem at all upset.
“That’s probably true.” She stepped out from behind the counter, one hand on her hip as she slowly spun around. “But I do sell more than just paper and envelopes.” She gestured toward a long wooden shelf, lined with neat rows of boxes and leather-bound journals. “I have scrapbook supplies, artisanal notebooks, hand-crafted journals, and all sorts of pens: fountain, calligraphy, and a few vintage ones you can’t easily find anymore.”
Peter gave the shop a more thorough look, his face heating even more. Of course, she sold more than just paper and envelopes. Why would he say that? He bobbed his head quickly, desperately wishing he could turn back time. “Right, of course. Sorry. Again.”
“You really don’t have to keep apologizing,” she said, her voice warm enough to take some of the sting out of his embarrassment.
There was a short pause. Not a completely uncomfortable one, but still, it made Peter’s shoulders tense and his weight shift. The woman tilted her head ever so slightly, then gestured loosely toward him.
“Do you go to that preparatory school across the street?”
Peter straightened up like he’d been caught slouching, fingers tugging at the lapels of his blazer until the embroidered school crest became more visible. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I go… there.”
She hummed, brushing her hand over a shelf and straightening a few stacks. “What grade are you in? They go K through twelve there, right?”
Peter nodded, grateful for the shift in topic. He could handle talking about school. A lot less room for error. “They do. I’m in ninth.”
“Ah. So, you’re fourteen? Fifteen?” the woman asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Thirteen, actually,” Peter replied, a little too quickly. But once he started talking, he couldn't seem to stop. “I tested out of first grade… then second… and third. But my dad didn’t want me to skip that many grades; something about having meaningful relationships with peers my own age. Not that it matters. It’s not like I make a lot of friends anyway. I’m–”
He caught himself mid-ramble, his jaw snapping shut as his brain finally slammed on the brakes. His gaze dropped to his toes. He really wished he could roll back time. “Sorry,” he helplessly finished, shoulders slumping slightly.
The woman’s smile deepened. “You’re a smart kid, huh?”
Peter felt more heat crawl up his neck. At that point, he was certain his face had been red for so long it might never return to its usual color.
There was no time to stammer a reply. She came closer, her steps unhurried, and held out her hand. “I’m Virginia Potts, by the way. But you can call me Pepper.”
Peter shifted his weight and quickly wiped his palm on his blazer before taking her hand. “Peter,” he said, knowing better than to readily offer his last name. The moment people heard Stark, their eyes went wide, and they started asking a thousand questions. Mostly about his dad– about Iron Man– and that got old fast.
“Nice to meet you, Peter.”
Peter managed a small, crooked smile in return. “Yeah, you too.”
A split second of silence followed. It was broken by the sound of his pocket beginning to buzz, long steady vibrations, indicating a call rather than a text.
Realization sunk in, and Peter’s stomach dropped. He was supposed to be waiting for Happy in front of his school.
“Shoot,” he hissed, just loudly enough for the single word to slice through the quiet shop. His stomach gave a hard twist as he fished his phone out of his pocket.
Happy’s name flashed across the screen in bold letters.
He looked up at Ms. Pepper, his eyes going a little wide. Panic prickled beneath his skin. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Pepper, but I’ve gotta go! My ride is…”
Before he could finish, the buzzing stopped. Peter stared at the screen as the call flipped to voicemail.
“Shoot,” he repeated with a little more passion as the phone lit up and started vibrating all over again.
He sent Ms. Pepper an apologetic look. She only waved him off, her smile as calm and unbothered as he gathered a steadying breath, bracing himself for the onslaught of reprimands that would come once he tapped accept.
“I’m so sorry, Happy! I didn’t mean to–”
“Peter Parker Stark!” Happy’s voice barked so loudly that Peter had to hold the phone a few inches from his ear. “I swear to God, I gave you one instruction.”
Peter winced. There was no defense, not really, and he knew it. Still, an excuse developed quickly, although it never made it past the tip of his tongue. “I was–”
“Where are you?” Happy interrupted. “Not in the midst of being kidnapped, I hope. Because it would be a real treat, explaining that to your dad.”
There was an edge to Happy’s voice that made Peter flinch. Guilt flooded in, pressing like a weight on his chest. “I’m just across the street. There was a new shop and… I’m coming back now.”
“No.” Happy sighed, sounding frustrated and resigned. “You’re staying where you are. I’ll come to you. Got it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”
“Swear to me that you won’t move.”
“I swear!” Peter sighed, frustration building. “I’ll go out to the sidewalk and I won’t move until you get here.”
After that, the line went quiet. Peter released a slow breath, glancing at Ms. Pepper. She’d made her way back to the counter and was watching him with a sympathetic smile.
Peter forced himself to smile back, lifted his hand in an awkward half-wave, then turned to the door.
The bell jingled again, announcing his exit as he pushed it open. The cool, outside air hit his face. Across the street, he spotted the familiar black car pulling out of the school’s horseshoe driveway, heading toward him.
Peter sighed, shoulders drooping a little as he stepped toward the edge of the sidewalk.
Peter got home, his ears still ringing from Happy’s lecture in the car. The sliding doors of the private elevator closed behind him, and he headed straight down the familiar hallway toward the lab. The sound of his dad’s playlist could be heard vibrating through the air before he reached the numeric entry keypad.
He typed in his eight-digit code and stepped inside. Soft white light from the overhead fixtures mingled with the blue glow of technical holograms. He loosened his tie and dropped his backpack onto the battered couch in the corner. His blazer came off next, then the dress shirt, leaving him in khaki pants and a white, short-sleeved undershirt. He grabbed a hoodie off the back of a chair and pulled it over his head while announcing, “I’m home.”
His dad looked up from where he’d been leaning over a circuit board, elbows braced on the table, a small screwdriver pinched between two fingers. The creases on his forehead eased when he saw Peter. “Hey, kid,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Heard you gave Happy another heart attack this afternoon.”
Peter shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, his shoulders hiking up to his ears. “I didn’t mean to! I saw a new shop, and I needed to go look at it. It’s not even like I went that far!”
His dad straightened, swiveling his chair so they were face to face. His expression was stern, but his eyes were shining with mirth. “Remember when you were little, and I bought you one of those backpack-leash combos? The media roasted me alive, calling me a terrible parent. So I gave it up… only for you to disappear three seconds into our next public outing. You slipped right past me, past Happy, and past an entire security team, to dart inside an ice-cream parlor.”
Peter let out a low groan. He’d already heard every version of that story. And from what he could gather, it hadn’t been remotely funny at the time. “Yes. I know. You’ve been telling me this story for as long as I can remember.”
“Yep. And I’m gonna tell it again.” His dad’s grin softened, the memory clearly fonder in hindsight. “You were four, with escape artist skills to rival Houdini. I was losing my mind thinking someone had kiddie-snatched you. Meanwhile, you’re sitting in a booth, eating an ice cream sundae like it was the treat of the century.”
Peter ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. That was the only part of the entire incident that he really remembered. The older woman behind the counter gave him ice cream, and sat with him until Happy burst through the door a few minutes later.
When he looked up, his dad leaned forward on his knees, his voice lowering. “Look, bud. I know you get restless. You come by it honestly. But I’ve seen Happy’s cardiogram. Let’s not freak him out. Please?”
A spark of indignance flared in Peter’s chest. “I was just across the street!” he protested. “I’m thirteen. I should be allowed to do things by myself. I know how to cross a street.”
“Yeah, see, it’s not the ‘crossing the street’ or even the ‘being by yourself’ that’s the problem.” His dad sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the part where nobody knows where you are that riles everyone up.”
He let his hand drop back to his knee and tilted his head back. “You know, maybe I should just put a tracker on you. That would probably make Happy’s day.”
“I don’t need a tracker,” Peter grumbled, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. A tracker would be overkill. Especially when he knew his dad could locate his phone at any point.
“Right. Well, next time you get it in your head that you desperately need to investigate some shiny new thing,” his dad said, arching one brow, “tell someone first. Save me from having to perform CPR on Happy.”
“You don’t even know CPR,” Peter shot back, before he could think better of it. It was okay, though. His dad lifted a finger, pointing at him in mock-aggervation.
“So, the thing is, I don’t have to know CPR. I have armor with built-in medical protocols and an AI to talk me through it. But let’s not put it to the test, yeah?”
Peter cracked a smile, recognizing the unspoken allowance behind the lecture. He could have a little freedom. He just had to let them know where he was going. That seemed fair. All he had to do was remember to actually say something. That would be the tricky part.
A beat of silence stretched between them. The mechanical whir of machinery and eighties music filled the space. Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to decide if he should break out his books or tinker at his own workbench. He hadn’t decided which yet. He hooked his thumbs into his hoodie pocket, eyes wandering over the familiar scatter of blueprints and coffee mugs, trying to read the mood.
Before he could make up his mind, hid dad cleared his throat and lifted his eyes over the rim of his reading glasses. “So.” He tapped the handle of the screwdriver against the table for emphasis. “What was so special about this new store, hmm? Was it worth shaving about five years off of Happy’s life?”
Peter chuckled despite the accusation. He hadn’t meant to scare Happy. He considered reiterating as much, but his dad looked genuinely curious. He swallowed, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to figure out the best way to describe the small place. “It’s just a store. They sell paper. And journals. And… stuff.”
His dad blinked at him, one eyebrow lifting halfway up his forehead. “Paper? People still buy paper?”
A surprised laugh slipped out of Peter’s mouth. “That’s what I thought too!” he grinned. “But it’s not like copypaper. It’s this weirdly cool handmade stuff with flowers. There’s some of the journals and things like that. I didn’t actually get to see everything. Once Happy got to the school...” He ducked his head a little, recalling Happy’s rant. “But the lady who runs the place is really nice. I kinda wanna go back and look at all the things I missed.”
His dad leaned back in his chair, lips quirking in bemused disbelief. “Kid, you live in a world of holograms, ultra-advanced AIs, and cutting-edge technology… and you’re fascinated by fancy paper?”
Peter sighed, his hands sliding into his back pockets. “I can’t explain it… It’s just… different, the kind of stuff you don't really see anymore.”
For a moment, his dad studied him. Then he spun his chair back toward his project, shaking his head. “Alright. If you want to go back and drool over stationery, knock yourself out. But next time, you tell somebody first. No vanishing acts. Got it?”
“Yeah. I know. I got it.”
His dad didn’t look convinced, which, honestly, was fair.
“I’m serious, Pete. A lot of people know who you are and will use you to get to me. I need–”
“Dad!” Peter flailed his arms by his sides. “I know. I get it. I said I’d tell someone next time. Promise.”
His dad nodded, and Peter went back to thinking. He did want to go back– there’d been shelves he hadn’t even gotten close to, and something about the shop’s quiet warmth had stuck with him. But… maybe it was smarter to wait a little while, give Happy time to recover. Besides, he didn’t want to seem too eager. He was content to wait for the right moment to present itself.
“Homework?” He heard his dad ask.
Peter frowned, glaring at his backpack. Then he sighed in resignation. “Just a little,” he mumbled. “But when I’m done, can you show me what you’re working on?”
His dad’s whole face brightened. “Of course, bud. Always.”