Dear readers,

I have such VIVID intense dreams. Sometimes I dream about my fandoms it usually turns into a fan-fiction worthy experience. This is almost part of a series of other dreams I've had in the past (Pirates of the Caribbean, Vampire Diaries, Doctor Who, Scream...) and now I've FINALLY started having Marvel dreams! Whoohoo!

This dream went in some unexpected directions but oh man, it had so many feels, particularly when it comes to the faux father-son relationship between Tony Stark and Peter Parker that we got hints of in Spiderman: Homecoming. My dream-versions of the characters felt so IN character and I could see it like it was totally real. There's moment where I'm suddenly self-aware that I am dreaming and, almost like an invasion of the body snatchers, I realize that I have to keep up appearances for the sake of whatever character's perspective I'm seeing from - in this case, Tom Holland as Peter Parker.

...

...

To set the stage, I'm sitting in the backseat of a fancy town car. We're driving on a freeway around a very wide bend that sits right on the edge of a crescent-shaped bay, and the sun sets over the water and lights up the sky in the colors of mango sherbert. The lights of the city are beginning to glitter in the preliminary shadows of an evening out. The freeway's overhead streetlights are only just beginning to buzz, some of them haven't flickered on yet.

I vaguely notice that Aunt May from Spiderman: Homecoming is sitting next to me, dressed very nicely and holding a covered dish in her hands like it's the last good thing she'll ever hold on this earth.

She's asking me panicked questions, like, what will be there? WHO will be there? How can I NOT embarrass you with all your fancy friends? Do I look okay? How fancy do you think they'll be dressing?

I try to explain - they're not my friends - they're Mr. Stark's friends. And not to worry… you look fine, of course. Beautiful. People will be jealous of you. Trust me. Stop worrying.

I can tell in my head this conversation is happening but I can't really hear voices at all.

The sky is beginning to deepen from the oranges to the light lavenders as the car takes an exit off the freeway, goes up a winding road into the hill that provides a sort of natural headboard to the city that makes up it's bed. The hill is where the really fancy neighborhoods are - the mansions and antique homes among curling driveways, gated roads, hidden places behind hedges and fences rising on incredibly steep streets. (think the West Hills in Portland, OR).

We pull up a sharp rise behind a hedge till the driveway levels out to a circle around an exceptionally tall and modern-art sort of fountain, a tall stonehedge type of block with a hole right through it, one stacked on top of one another and the water cascading through.

Our driver opens the doors for us, and then rushes to the front door of the house to open it for us.

From the outside, the house isn't almost quite as fancy as the others, but only because it looks like a single story from this side. The front door is on the ground level, the second story is actually technically the basement. It's built into the side of a cliff and the basement door comes out into a backyard that wouldn't do well for anyone with vertigo or dogs that like jumping fences. The rooftop of the house looks like it's inverted, two slanting eyebrows coming down to an apex over the front door. There are white, slender columns supporting it - completely retro, the type of space-age architecture they started trying out in the fifties and then really enhanced in the seventies.

It's the new West-Coast location for Tony Stark when he's not in New York, to replace the house that got bombarded by the Mandarin.

For some reason, I am DREADING this party, and the bravado I put on for Aunt May is just for Aunt May's confidence, not my own.

We go in and find it exceptionally crowded by various states of people in formal attire, holding champagne glasses and talking in that I'm-So-Rich party hum. Aunt May looks down at her nice, plain floral-patterned dress in dismay. It's a perfectly fine dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves and the same shape as a pencil skirt, it doesn't floof out like a tutu or anything.

Everyone else looks to be in black, white, or red, maybe there's a navy floating around somewhere.

"I look so underdressed," she whispers.

A server comes up to us and offers to take the dish in Aunt May's hands with a very polite, albeit pitying, sort of expression.

"I'll follow you," Aunt May says, rather protective of whatever she cooked. "Show me your kitchen."

The server confusedly beckons and tries to chat lightly, ushering us past the main, largely open room of party goers (still the seventies chic of dark wood floors in a sunken room, but with the inclusion of white fur draped over the furniture and a white chandelier).

The server turns a corner and leads us into a very open, stainless steel kitchen. It looks like the galley of a very fancy cruise ship - and it's HUGE.

"You can leave that right here," says the server kindly.

Aunt May looks down at the covered casserole dish in her hands, then slides it onto the counter. There's nothing else on the counter that wasn't pre-catered. We're the only home-style anything.

"I thought YOU said this was POTLUCK," she hisses at me, looking betrayed.

"He said we could bring something if we wanted," I whispered back, hearing my speaking voice for the first time. It was definitely a boy's voice, a little panicky, and cracked at the wrong times.

Oh shit, I thought again, just like the first time I had a Spider-Man dream (fic yet to be posted, sorry folks).

I think I'm Tom Holland! Shit! Be cool. It's cool. I got this. I'm… Peter Parker. Okay. I got this.

"That's NOT what you said," Aunt May replies. "If you had PHRASED it like that, I would have just brought a bottle of semi-expensive wine and called it good. THIS is embarrassing."

"No one noticed you brought a roast," I reply quietly. "No one looked at us at all."

Aunt May scoffs angrily and walks out of the kitchen.

It's true though - we are underdressed, certainly. I look down and find that I'm wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt underneath a nice collared shirt - but it's plaid. Not the acceptable black or navy for this type of shirt in this type of party.

I quickly button it up, tug on the sleeves, and try to make it look more presentable before following Aunt May out of the kitchen.

"There he is! There's the young prodigy." Tony Stark bursts into the immediate bubble that I've occupied with three or four other people, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand.

He introduces myself, Peter Parker, and 'the ever beautiful and talented May Parker' (to which she rolled her eyes and stuck out her hand to shake the other hands inclined to her). I shake hands as well. The men, older, are in suits, the women in dresses that look like red carpet ensembles.

"He is one of our brightest interns," Tony Stark is rattling on -

and on -

and on.

About me.

For an uncomfortably long time. He's praising my math and science skills and technological innovativeness. What I study, what I do in school, what I do as an intern for them. Of course at this point he's making things up on the spot - such as testing some of their equipment and showing real promise in their engineering department…

I start to blank out ever so slightly. I try to interrupt. I get bashful and say "Oh, no, no, Mr. Stark, I've never actually studied the… uh…"

And then he goes on and on and on -

"Y'know I never actually considered that college," I try again.

Nope. He's still tuning me out and talking entirely to the four people he introduced to us, but only pausing for a breath when they have questions about me. I'm standing uncomfortably close but not far enough away for it to be less awkward.

I don't understand what's happening until one of the elderly men replies, "Well, Mr. Parker. I see we will definitely have some competition gaining your fine abilities for our graduate programs. I certainly look forward to your applications when the time comes."

"Uh - yeah, uh… looking… forward… yeah," I bluster through a sort-of-thank-you.

They politely take their leave to move on to another conversation, and Mr. Stark turns to me. "See what I did there?" he rattles off quickly. "I only just had the opportunity to talk you up to the four greatest minds in your field. One - admissions, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. My alma mater. You're welcome. Second, the current CEO of Apple. Yup - that was him. Third, the woman who single-handedly birthed the nanotech movement…"

It takes me a minute to realize that Tony Stark is actually intoxicated. I've never seen him drink before, I realize. It's always been in a professional (cough, secret profession, Avengers related stuff) situation - meeting him for the first time at my apartment, the airport confrontation, the taxi ride home, the ferry incident, and then when he offered me the new decked-out Iron Spider suit. I mean, he seems like the kind of guy that could knock back a few… if not half a dozen, before sounding anything unlike the exact same wise-cracking-fast-talking-billionaire-playboy

-philanthropist-Avenging-Iron-Clad-Man.

So if I can tell he's intoxicated - then he must have had a LOT to drink.

I wonder what stressed him out so badly before THIS party that it's not evening late at night and he's already feeling the effects?

"Hey, hey, earth to Parker," Mr. Stark snaps his fingers in my face a few times. "I'm doing you a big solid, here. Putting some feelers out there for your future. Don't make me regret it. Capiche?"

Yup, definitely drunk.

"What about the uh - the other thing?" I whisper, leaning closer to him. "Like… a certain full time position after I graduate… you know… upstate?"

He slams his hand on my shoulder and pushes at it back and forth, like he's REALLY trying to make me understand a valid point. "Just keeping your options OPEN - k, buddy? Big sea. Things to consider." He released my shoulder and takes another slosh. "After all, you said no - how am I to know if you're taking these things seriously? I'm just looking out for you. Like you do. That's what you like to do, right? Looking out for the little guy. Well, you're the guy." He seems to realize he isn't making too much sense. "Let's talk about this later," he suddenly adds, in a stern voice. Like I'm in trouble and he wasn't the one that wouldn't shut up about it.

"Is everything okay?" I ask timidly. "I just…"

"What?" he barks sort of unnecessarily. "What's so important that we must discuss it right now at a party?"

"I don't know…"

"Then it can wait!" He flashes that million-dollar grin and claps my shoulder. "All in good time, Mr. Parker. Catch you in a bit."

But he doesn't - there's no catching, and no bit. The further the party goes on, Aunt May actually looks like she might be okay with it. She's found something to drink, sat in a cluster of deep scarlet armchairs surrounding exotic looking plants against a white, glittering wall. When I try to catch her attention, she smiles and laughs at whomever she's talking to, and doesn't notice me at all. Huh. Okay. Adaptable. As I should be…

But I can't. I feel so out of place, and Mr. Stark's brusqueness felt so off to me - hurtful, even, but I cannot express how annoyed I am with myself for thinking of the phrase… he hurt my feelings. It seems so childish, so beyond sensitive. I can't even pinpoint why my feelings feel hurt, exactly. Was it the way he was talking to me like he was a grumpy old dad? Or was it because he didn't sound enough like a dad?

I try to join a conversation that he is in before I go to Aunt May and beg for her to call the towncar again to take us home. One more try, I think, to have a conversation with my mentor - just a short one - granting me some relief that he's not too drunk or too distracted that I am still his mentee. Or favorite, if I can be honest. I need some sort of confirmation that he is not so bored with Peter Parker that he's trying to sell him off to MIT or Apple or something so that he can get someone else to fill in the Iron Spider suit.

I step into the circle and try to tune into the conversation that's happening. Everyone ignores me and keeps talking about something. I don't even know what, but it has to do with current political state of the world and how the Sokovia accords changed everything, including the freedoms of the people "born enhanced" that were only just beginning to emerge from the shadows after years and years of secretly influencing historic and current events.

I make eye contact with Mr. Stark. "Hey," I start, shakily. "Uh. Hey."

His gaze bores into mine, his eyebrows knotted, like he's trying to send me a mental message. I don't hear it, whatever it is. Then he turns and his expression immediately changes to less-furrowed, asking the woman standing there if she's "considered applying for the science division of Stark Industries because Pepper's looking for a new director in the department".

It's such a clear brush off.

I blink awkwardly for a moment, then turn abruptly and walked back into the open living area with the sunken living room, along the left side till I reach an opening in the dark, wood-paneled section of wall designated to blend in until someone wanted to turn the corner into the hall that led to bathrooms and some sort of indoor gym.

I find the bathroom and walk in. It's too big to be a bathroom for any normal human's house. Not to mention there's more than one stall, like a bathroom in a really fancy hotel or restaurant. This is a house equipped for crowds. I go up to the counter lined with multiple sinks, shiny and clean, and look at the mirror above it, darkly gilded in a heavy gold frame. The bathroom has soft yellow lighting from hanging lamps in copper glass and exposed bulbs along the top, again hearkening back to the hollywood mansions of the fifties. I think I've seen this set in a Hitchcock movie or something.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, zeroing in on my face and touching a hand to my cheek. Yup, I'm definitely Peter Parker. WEIIIIIIRD. Okay. I shake off the funny voice in my head and try to focus on the issue at hand. I'm Peter Parker and I can't eff this up. Why is Peter Parker's - er, my - feelings hurt about this? What's happening? Did he forget a promise or something? Do I feel ignored? Am I the equivalent of the preacher's kid that steals dad's car and gets a DUI because he feels like his pastor-dad pays more attention to the "flock" of his church than guiding his own son? Whoa, that metaphor is a story all on its own.

I tug on my shirt sleeves, then press a hand to my chest. Oh my gosh. I am definitely wearing the spider-man suit under my clothes.

Was there a mission tonight that Mr. Stark forgot about? Why am I wearing the suit? Was I prepared for something terrible to go down tonight at the party where Mr. Stark… and all of his guests… and - shit - Aunt May too - are now vulnerable to something about to happen?

The door opens while I'm still standing at the counter.

"Come in here to pout?" asks Mr. Stark, the door swinging shut behind him. He leans on the dark wood wall and crosses his arms.

"I'm not pouting," I reply. My voice sounds… pouty.

"All right, then," Mr. Stark replies, "Looking for attention?"

"No," I protest.

"Teenagers don't run and hide in the bathroom to pout unless they want someone to come after them. I know that much."

"I hide in the bathroom when I want to be alone," I find myself saying brusquely. Oh my god get a grip what are you doing? THIS IS TONY STARK WHOM YOU'VE MET LIKE 5 TIMES. YOU ARE JUST AN INTERN. AND SPIDER MAN. BUT RIGHT NOW YOU'RE JUST AN INTERN.

"Clearly, it's going well for you," Mr. Stark quips. He pulls his glasses from his face and rubs at the lenses with his shirt sleeve, taking a deep breath. "Well - you got me. I'm here. What gives? Something you want to get off your chest?"

"N-no," I say shakily. "There's nothing. It was just… nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing," he replaces his glasses. "Now - are we going to keep playing this game or should I get back to my party?"

I bite my lip.

"Spit it out," Mr. Stark says. "You have something to say, don't you? Say it. I'm not here to babysit you. You have five seconds. Go."

"IjustfeellikeyoursobusysellingofftheStarkinternthatyouforgetPeterParkerjustwantstobelikeyouandyoumademefeellikeacommoditysortofapieceofshitanditsortahurtmyfeelingsokaybutitsfine," I make the wise and totally coherent and calm choice to blurt it all out in less than five seconds, eyes filling unexpectedly while I do it. Jesus! Is it my hormones ridiculous goal to cry about forty percent of the time I hang out with this guy?

Mr. Stark knows full well what I said, but he cups a hand to his ear anyways. "Come again?"

"Why - does it - feel," I try again, my voice haltingly stumbling in a tearful cracked-up tone. "Like - shit - when I'm Peter Parker at Tony Stark's house - but feels okay when I'm Spiderman - helping Iron Man do something cool?"

"That's a much different question than the sludge you just threw at me a second ago."

"I don't know what I'm trying to say," I wave my hand to try and shoo him away. "I'm just - a moody teenager, right? I'm in a mood. That's all."

"It's a useless mood when there's no reason. If there's a reason and you can't put a finger on it it's even worse. Try me again."

"I don't know," I sniff. "It's like - when I'm the intern - I'm just Peter Parker. A loser."

"Technically you're not an intern at all. That's your cover."

"You don't want me to give the suit back and go apply for colleges instead?"

"Are you shitting me? Of course not. I just want you to be aware of what Stark industries could do for you - what I could do to help. If you ever wanted other opportunities."

I glance at him swiftly. "I don't - I won't. I want you to believe that I'm serious - I want to join the Avengers. Eventually. Maybe after high school. I mean, I appreciate everything you're trying to do, but I don't want to be the intern pawned off to everyone else."

"Does the title INTERN bother you?" Mr. Stark asks sarcastically. "Do you need to change your cover? To - what - a driver? A forklift engineer in the Avengers hangar? A med student? Black Widow's hair stylist? The cover isn't the issue."

"It's how you treat it," I respond, then stop. The difference between when he calls me The Intern and when he calls me The Kid. Then it's kind of like I'm his kid. I remember the awkward moment in Happy's car with a mental facepalm of when I thought he was going for a hug and he said this is not a hug, I'm just getting the door for you, we're not there yet.

Well, I was there, Oh-Potential-Father-Figure-of-Mine. I have a whole slew of daddy issues, apparently. Not limited to the fact that my dad died when I was really, really young. Aunt May and Uncle Ben took me in and raised me as their kid - and that was the family I knew. And then we lost Uncle Ben. Months later Tony Stark shows up and hands me a platter with a future on it - I took the opportunity, and I guess, an imagined sentiment that it came with.

"Then oh - pray tell - how am I treating your cover incorrectly?" Mr. Stark asks with frustration. "Look - I'm not one to bitch at someone - but I'm sloshed, so I might. I invited you and your aunt to come and have a nice time and meet some people. I'm not going to hold your hand through the process. I'm surprised we're having this conversation. I know I have no right to go into verbal disciplinary mode here… I'm not your dad, but…"

"Yeah, I know," I snap back shortly. "I wish."

Mr. Stark was just about to wag his finger at me and continue with his scolding, but he stops, shuts his mouth, and straightens up ever so slightly.

"I mean… I'm not so lucky… uhhhh..." I backpeddle… "I don't… you're not… so… I am SUPER AWKWARD… and it means I just, uh, suck at social interactions, uh…. Sorry? I'll be better."

I can see Mr. Stark's mind clicking things into place. Tune in next week for an episode of So You Wish I Was Your Dad!

"Listen, ah," he pulls his glasses off, again, and polishes each lens a little too slowly. He must have hoped that I forgot he already did it and that he's not just stalling for time to think of a response. "You're - you're a good kid, all right? No need to apologize if you're just a big screw up once in awhile. I mean - look at me! Don't think I didn't screw up too." he returns his glasses to his face, blinking - a lot. Blink, blink. Blinking almost like - crying? No way. There's no way he's tearing up right now. His chin does not tremble ever so slightly. I'm imagining a partial smile, as well. There's - no - way.

"Okay, kiddo," he puts his hand on the door. "You just… do whatever… pout, clean up. I don't care. If I were better at this I'd probably give you a hug. But we've already settled that disciplinary Dad mode is preferred so I'll play a little hardball instead. Figure it out, blow your nose. And when you're ready, you come back out to my party and try to enjoy yourself. I'll take it easy on you right now."

I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting, but this seems… okay. "Yeah, sure," I sniff.

"Good," he responds shortly. "Now just a friendly little FYI - I'm not going to be buying you a baseball and then playing catch and then taking you to games anytime soon, got it? I don't really roll that way. But…" he opens the door, and lets the sounds of the party inside, milling through the dark hall. "I can do better," he says quietly. "Maybe not anytime soon, so don't hold your breath. But I hear you, okay? I can do better," he repeats himself, and does not look at me as he practically flees the bathroom and the door swings shut - I turn to look at my surprised (and crying-blotchy hello Sad!TomHolland "hey everyone I didn't sleep last night so I'll take 100 selfies for instagram") face in the mirror

… and the image swirls like a really bad special effect in a Disney channel show and then I'm waking up…

dream over!

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THE END

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Author's Note: My dreams are SO FREAKING VIVID and this one was no different. The dialogue at the end though was so hard to piece together. For example, it was almost like I had only retained memory of the conversation as it pertained to the feelings and mannerisms that accompanied each line, so I felt like I was making up much of the dialogue just from my own imagination. Did I remember Tony asking about his pouting? Yes. Do I remember Peter's backpeddling responses? Nope, not really, I just know he stumbled and stuttered his way through. I remember Tony's frustration, I remember him saying the word 'dad' and Peter saying 'i wish'.

So here's how it works for me. It's almost like when waking up, I am remembering a conversation like:

Mom said a thing about cats.

I asked about the cat.

Mom cried when she talked about the cat.

Then I said, "I am so sorry to hear that."

So just based on that alone I can piece together that Mom said something happened to her cat, I ask what happened, she tells me the cat passed away, and I say I'm sorry. That's kind of how my memory-retention works while I'm dreaming. Although sometimes it's line by line dialogue that I remember completely clearly… like Aunt May saying "I THOUGHT YOU SAID THIS WAS A POTLUCK!"

XD