Peter taps his fingers against his thigh in a soft rhythm. It's discreet, silent. Nothing more than a light press of the pads of his fingers against the smooth fabric of his new, absurdly-priced suit. Certainly not an action someone would notice unless they were looking specifically for it.

Which is precisely the point here.

It's a signal.

A coded message with a specific target.

Peter tried not to begin. He really did. It's Tony's birthday, and they are celebrating, and the drinks are being poured, and everyone else seems to be having a great time, and the last thing Peter wants is to ruin Tony's day. So, really, he tries.

Peter inhales, counts to five, exhales. Repeats the process about eleven times before the noise slowly begins to creep back into his personal bubble, and his concentration fails, making him lose count.

It was a losing battle from the start, though, and Peter knew it. It doesn't matter that it's Tony's birthday party or whatever other lists of reasons Peter has been trying to remember since they stepped foot into that penthouse. There are dozens of people piling up on top of each other everywhere Peter looks, and that's all that matters to his brain.

So Peter carries on tapping, knowing that it will not take long now. It doesn't matter that they are in a room filled with people, the lights dimmed and a pleasant song coming from the speakers all around the space. It doesn't matter that Peter is seating at a table in the corner, sipping from a half-filled glass of something alcoholic that he found sitting there, alone and out of view. It doesn't matter that people are mingling around, speaking loud, louder, laughing, nearly screaming at each other in their excitement.

It doesn't matter that his message is for the most important person in the room — the one who is most definitely surrounded by a large group of people somewhere in the penthouse, charming everyone around him with practised ease.

It doesn't matter that it's Tony's birthday.

Peter takes another sip, then coughs, grimacing at the strong, bitter flavor of the liquor, wondering why people insist on tormenting themselves with shitty drinks when Piña Coladas exist. It seems pointless to torture yourself with that crap when there are so many good options available.

He sighs. It feels as though it's been forever since he sat down and gave up on pretending to enjoy this party, even though he knows it cannot have been more than a couple of minutes. He just needs to be patient for a bit longer.

Tony won't take too long to come now. He never does.

Peter still hasn't figured out how he does it, but he always, always knows when Peter gives the signal and he always shows up a few minutes later, unfailingly.

Maybe it's the heavy, platinum watch on his wrist. The no-big-deal present Tony had simply slid his way one morning without any explanation whatsoever. Peter has never bothered to learn all the functions hidden behind the apparent harmless gift, but everyone who knows something about Tony could extrapolate from the selling line. It's a watch, made by Tony Stark. Nothing more needs to be said.

Anyway, maybe that's it. Or maybe it's Friday — who has probably already gained access to every single camera in the room. Or perhaps Tony just knows. Like, has a supernatural sense that lets him know when Peter has had his fill of social interaction. Either way, it works.

The system, that is. Their system. Their code. It works — every freaking time.

A shiver runs through his spine, raising every single hair in Peter's arms, much like his spidey-senses, only instead of danger, it announces the imminent presence of the man Peter had been waiting for.

He knows it.

His body only reacts like this for a single person, and no one else.

Not Ned. Not MJ. Not Aunt May. No one else.

Sure enough, seconds later a hand lands high on the back of Peter's neck, heavy and steady, fingers dipping into his curls. It's impossible to hide the way his body perks up under the touch.

Like a puppy. So very trained and obedient.

Pathetically, honestly.

If only Peter had the dignity to care, to be mad. Angry about it.

But he didn't. He doesn't. Instead, Peter tilts his head to look up at the man behind him, needing to look. To see.

And there he is. Shiny as ever.

"Quitting so soon?" Tony asks, one eyebrow quirked in a teasing angle and his mouth settled in a small, private smile. It's unjust, really, the way he looks — perfect and polished, not one single strand of hair out of place, despite the crowd he had been navigating through.

Peter bites his bottom lip. "I." He starts, but the words die out in his dry mouth and he wonders what is it that he's trying to say, in the first place. All he can remember is wanting Tony, needing him at his side, and hating the dozens upon dozens of people standing between them.

Needing to get out.

Out. Out.

Out of this place, and this party, and this penthouse, and this crowd, and this large space that only serves to separate him and Tony.

Peter wants to go home.

Now.

And Tony knows it, of course. "Oh, thank God," he jokes, tugging Peter's hair lightly to bring him back. "If I see one more person using a last-season Burberry suit I might be forced to take extreme measures."

It's perfect. The perfect delivery of a perfect excuse. It hits all the notes — really. It's funny, and light, and takes the pressure entirely off of Peter's shoulders, which is exactly what Tony had been aiming for, no doubts.

Only Peter is tired. He's exhausted and frankly disappointed in himself that he couldn't last more than a couple hours at the stupid party. He's done. Peter just wants to go home — to their penthouse, where nothing hurts and it all makes sense.

Peter heaves a sigh. "Let's just go," he says, getting up from his chair and facing Tony. "Please."

Tony nods. "Yeah, kid. Let's ditch this shit." And with that, he put his hand on Peter's back and starts to make their way back into the crowd, so they can get to the elevator. He doesn't say anything else, he doesn't ask for a reason, and he certainly never suggests that perhaps they could step out for a moment and then come back.

Tony moves, and the sea parts for him. People step out of their way, scrambling back in their hurry to make way for the world hero. And yet they look. They stare. People make way for Anthony Stark and yet they cannot help but stare, mesmerized by the presence of one man.

It never fails to be impressive, or weird. Impressive and weird. The starstruck, empty gaze the masses bestow at the man who is now pushing Peter into an empty elevator, blatantly ignoring their devotion.

It's weird because in a certain way Peter can sort of see it. The man everyone else sees when they stare at Tony. The dangerous, playboy, unapproachable hero. The genius, billionaire, scientist. The slight tilt of the head, and the way-too-wide, sharp smile, and the quick eyes.

Yeah, Peter can see it — if he looks from just the right angle, at a very precise moment, without thinking too hard about it. He can. Only his body must be wired completely different from others — in a sick, horrible way — for he does not react as the others do. How he should.

Peter usually just blinks and the whole image fades away, as though it had never been there in the first place. And instead, Tony looks like he always does around Peter — like a man, like a person, like a mentor, like Peter's favorite person in the whole wide world, like—

Like everything.

Peter blinks and the strange veneer shatters right where it stands and the world slides back into place and it's Tony. Just… Tony.

Tony, who cooks Peter pancakes in the mornings when they had a tough night. Tony, who opens a drawer and lets Peter choose any key to drive whichever car he wants. Tony, who spends hours and days and weeks at the workshop going over stuff he already knows just so Peter can catch up to him. Tony, who designed an entire room for Peter in his private penthouse and gave him unlimited access.

Tony, who knows about his social anxiety. Who knows about all his fears, really, and still chooses every day to stick around and help, even when it would be much easier to run for the hills and claim ignorance about the never-ending well of emotional problems that made Peter Parker into who he is.

It's him, and Peter does not know how to look at Anthony Stark without seeing Tony. Not anymore. And it feels like a privilege, like a miracle, a gift from the gods, perhaps, because no one else seems to see Tony — not without the shadow of his name obscuring his image, at least — and Tony?

Well, Peter would pick him over Anthony Stark every time.

Their helicopter trip is fast. Twenty minutes — if that. Barely enough time for Peter to begin to uncoil the tension clinging to the muscles of his back like a goddamn parasite. Too fast, honestly. Peter gets lost trying to control his breathing and they arrive at the Tower.

Like he said — too fast.

And Tony's not stopping. He jumps out of the helicopter and comes to the other side to unbuckle Peter from the harness and nearly drags him out and down into the penthouse, all business. He doesn't stop; he doesn't fumble.

Peter blinks and they are back. Going straight to the living room, to the bar on the corner, while Tony's shrugs out of his suit jacket and nearly rips his tie off, and Peter can only follow, dazed.

He wants to say something — an apology, preferably — yet no one single word crosses his lips. Instead, he simply follows along, watching as Tony gets comfortable, pours himself a stiff drink, throws it back, pours another, all while looking so damn relaxed and calm and… normal?

There's not a pinch, or a frown, or a downwards curve to his lips. Nothing. Absolutely nothing that could indicate that he is hiding a bucket full of negative emotions towards the guy who has just ripped him away from his own birthday party.

For an instant, Peter considers that Tony might be faking it but quickly dismisses the idea. By now, he knows Tony's faces. All of them.

Peter smiles blandly. Empty. Trying. "So, what do you think it will be tomorrow?" The headlines. The articles. The news.

They try to guess sometimes. It's a fun game — sometimes. By now, they've been almost everything that there is to be. Father and son, friends, mentor and mentee, secret lovers, undercover agents.

Yeah, you guess it, they've been accused of being by some random magazine or blog.

"Hopefully not the kid thing again, 'cause May still hasn't quite forgiven me for it." Peter frowns in response to his mentor's words. When was the last time he had spent the night in Queens with May? Christ, when had he even seen May? "And not the other thing, either. Fucking creeps."

"Well, I hope we get secret, undercover agents again," Peter says, going for a light tone. "That was a good hypothesis."

Tony raises one eyebrow. "Hypothesis? Really, Parker? Have I taught you nothing?"

The affectation dripping from the words drag a smile to Peter's face before he can contain it. "That seriously depends on who you're asking."

"You are an ungrateful little spider, you know that?" Tony teases, so light that it kills Peter.

Christ, it's supposed to be funny. It's his cue to protest and act shocked and keep their banter going, but the moment passes, he misses his cue, and in its place hangs an awkward silence — which has far too much tension behind it to pass unnoticed.

Peter breath hitches and he wonders when breathing became a problem for him. When had his life derailed from the tracks, leaving him a complete mess. When he had lost control over himself — his body, his mind, his spirit.

It's Tony's birthday, and Peter is ruining it.

He never should've tapped out. He never should've forced them to leave. He never should've agreed to this code in the first place — not when it was bound to become a crutch, a security blanket, a horrible mechanism he couldn't help but lean on like a stupid child.

Peter is so caught up in his self-recrimination that he never notices Tony setting his glass down, closing the distance between them, raising his hand. Peter misses the whole moment, and he only comes back to the present when Tony places a heavy hand on his shoulder and gives him a quick shake.

"Hey," he calls softly but firmly. "Snap out of it, kid."

It's ridiculous because it works. Peter's attention is suddenly all on Tony — his strong hand on Peter's shoulder, his familiar voice, his spicy cologne, his dark eyes searching for answers on Peter's face.

It all works like a charm to bring him back from his thoughts and for a second there, Peter hates it. The easy way with which Tony has him trained like a well-behaved, dependent dog. The depressing way in which his issues are progressively becoming more of a problem, instead of the other way around.

He steps back — out of Tony's reach. He watches as his mentor's hand falls from his shoulder into the space he has just created.

"This isn't right," Peter mumbles. Then, in a stronger voice: "We shouldn't be doing this."

"What? What shouldn't we be doing, Pete?"

"All of this! Any of it!" Peter mentions to the both of them. "God, Tony, us. This!"

Only his words don't seem to register the way they should, 'cause Tony takes a step forward and Peter needs to take another two backwards to get his space back.

There's a deep line forming in Tony's forehead. A worry line. "Us?" He asks, each letter carefully wrapped around his lips. Tentative — it's what it is.

Peter hates it. Hates the kid gloves, the way the man he idolizes and looks up to and loves is watching him like he's a wild animal about to bolt at any sudden movement.

"Yes!" Peter confirms, hearing his voice coming louder and louder. Out of control. "Do you even need to ask?"

"I think I do, buddy. Give me something here. What's upsetting you?"

And it's the gentle question, the lack of involvement in Peter's anger that finally does it.

"This! God, this whole night, Tony! I'm needy!" Peter snaps, furious. "How fucked up is that?"

"I don't know," Tony responds, still so goddamn calm. But he doesn't try to close the distance between them again. "You tell me. You are a traumatized teenager who needs an adult to keep you grounded. How fucked up is that?

"That's not—"

"I," Tony talks over him, easily drowning his protests, "on the other hand, am a full ass grown man who wakes up daily on the verge of a full-blown breakdown. A man who's kept together by the said traumatized kid. Now, how's that for fucked up, hun?"

It's not. It's not fucked up because it's not true. Tony's never needed Peter — not the way he needs Tony. Not like that. "Tony…"

"I mean it, Peter. I do, for Christ's sake. Some days I truly do think that the only thing keeping me together is tape, glue, and, well, you. Mostly you, though."

"How can you say that?" Peter asks, deflated. His shoulders sag, and maybe the adrenaline begins to dissipate because he feels more tired than he remembers feeling in months. "You're Tony Stark, you're Iron Man, you're, you're— how can you say that?"

"So? There are other heroes, other geniuses, other CEO's. Other billionaires, even."

"I repeat, how can you say that? Are you kidding me? Nobody does what you do. Nobody is you. You're, like, completely unreplaceable, what the heck."

Tony smiles. An awesome smile that has white teeth, and stretched lips, and, Christ, even a dimple. An honest to God dimple. "Well, that was almost a full curse there, kid," he says, and Peter can't help but soften a little. "Does that means you meant business?"

"You bet your ass, old man," he teases, but it's soft, low. Not much more than a mumble, really.

Tony doesn't seem bothered by it, though. "Hey, watch it! I can still knock you flat, Underoos."

"No, you can't." Peter shakes his head, trying to remember what he had been saying before, what the argument had been about, where he had lost the control of the conversation. "I'm faster, more flexible, stronger, and I have better reflexes. I'm literally enhanced, Tony."

"I'm Iron Man," It's all Tony says. With words, anyway. His eyes, well, they've always spoken a ton all on their own.

"Ugh, whatever, man," Peter waves the words away, still blinking in confusion. His mouth is moving, and he's speaking, but he's so confused. "One of these days you'll have to stop pulling the I'm Iron Man card."

"No, I won't. The card exists exactly for this reason."

"I don't think that's how this superhero gig is supposed to work."

"Perhaps you skipped the fine print at the bottom of the contract, Parker. Smarten up, kid. You always read the fine print. Always."

"You know, for someone who claims I'm the person keeping them together, you sure have a lot to say about me."

"Wait, stop. No, no," Tony protests sharply, moving his hands in a gesture to cut it out. He also takes one small step closer, but Peter is too busy paying attention to the words to notice. "We don't use mushy, sentimental information acquired during serious conversation to get a leg up during banter. What the hell, Parker? That's just not right. No, no."

"A man's got to use all the cards at his disposal," Peter says, rubbing his forehead with the pads of his fingers in order to try to alleviate the weird feeling of confusion that's settled like a boulder on top of his brain. Clouding his thoughts, his coherence.

"You're not a man; you're a kid."

"I'm Spider-Man."

"Spider-Kid, maybe," Tony continues to joke, unrepentant. "Spider-Boy. Little-Spider."

"Now you're just being rude for no reason," he mumbles, barely able to get the words out. He's so tired, so done.

If only Tony could respect it and back off. Go away. Shut up. Leave Peter alone — how he's supposed to be.

But he doesn't. Tony snaps his fingers in front of Peter's face, demanding his attention and his focus and all of his concentration.

"Don't go drifting away on me, buddy," Tony says, somehow back on Peter's personal space, grabbing his wrist and holding it firmly. Both of them are breathing the same air, and for some strange reason, it serves to make the words mingle with the particles of oxygen and penetrate Peter's body, going right into his blood system.

"I'm not. I just—"

Tony stops him. "Peter, do we have a code?"

"Yes," Peter answers dutifully. Mechanically and right away.

"And who created that code?"

"You did."

Tony nods slowly, giving him a significant look. "And what does that tell you?"

"That you... don't mind if I use it?" Peter guesses but realizes his mistake straight away because Tony shakes his head, quite visibly displeased.

"No, Pete," he says, as though it should be obvious. "It tells you that I expect you to use it. I would be pointless — and a huge waste of my time — to come up with a code and teach it to you if I didn't expect you to take full advantage of it." He pauses. Lets the words sink in. "I want you to give me a signal when you want to leave, kid."

Hun.

Wait. What?

"So you don't think it's pathetic to leave the party so early?" Peter still asks — because he needs to know. To hear the words coming from Tony's own mouth.

"Pathetic?" Tony repeats. His voice has a disbelieving edge to it. "Kid, I'd have paid money to ditch that shit excuse of a party. You know, you're not the only one who hates this stuff. Crowds aren't really my thing anymore, either."

Peter frowns. It doesn't make sense. He moves, grabs a fistful of the back of Tony's shirt. Holds it. "I don't— Then why do I… It's your birthday."

"I know, Peter. And it's a great motive to host parties and fundraisers and gather people who want to throw their money at S.I. People always seem eager to throw their dollars our way on the day I was born, for some reason," he explains, making no move to untangle himself. "Which is why I do this every year. Doesn't mean I like it, though."

"You… don't?"

"Nope. Hate it, actually," Tony confirms, nodding. "Wouldn't even go if Pepper didn't threaten to make me go to board meetings instead."

It can't be that easy. Peter feels horrible — tired and wrung out. No way that's all for nothing; no way he read everything so wrong.

"But I'm needy. I'm horrible. I took you away from your own party and made you rescue me. You want to be there — to drink with people and celebrate," he insists, not ready to give up despite the way his bones seem to get heavier by the second.

And yet…

Tony is too close to lie. He's far too close and his eyes tell Peter a whole other story.

"You're perfect. If anyone is horrible here, that's me. I wanted to leave that party the second I stepped there. I couldn't have been more relieved when you tapped out, even if it makes me a horrible person to be happy you felt bad there," Tony corrects, and Peter's pulls on Tony's shirt — whether that's to pull Tony closer or to ground himself, Peter is not sure.

"But I—"

"Used the coded. Like we agreed; like I asked you to. That's all."

Peter blinks. Blinks too many times and his vision gets blurred. "That's all?" He repeats, as though he's a broken machine.

"Yeah, buddy. That's all," Tony assures, the corner of his mouth going up in the softest possible smile. A reassuring, crooked tiny smile that should be — must be — illegal. Impossible. "We're fine."

These are the words that do it. The smile, the words, the emotions shining on Tony's eyes — loud and clear. It snaps something within' Peter and in a flash he's jumping into Tony's arms, wrapping his arms around Tony middle, burying his face into the soft fabric of Tony's expensive shirt and breathing in the comforting scent of home.

Tony smells like home. Like safety and protection and all that's right with the world.

"Tell me it's all gonna be okay," Peter rasps. Begs, even.

He's not above such things anymore.

Tony's arms close around him, tight as a titanium band, and Peter thinks that if he wasn't some freaky mutant, he'd be in some level of pain right now. As is, he can do little but hope that Tony will squeeze him tighter and tighter still, until he feels put together and whole.

"It's all gonna be amazing," Tony answers. Promises, even. "It's gonna be amazing, Peter. You just wait and see."

And, yeah, it sounds good.

Peter might do just that.

Wait and see.

Wait in Tony's arms to see what the next chapter of his life would look like. Wait for time to smoothe over some edges of his pain and see what kind of man that would make him. Wait until the overwhelming need to run subsides and the ability to see clearly return.

Wait and see.

Just… wait and see.

Author's Note: Gosh, it has been a while for me, hun? I've had a bit of an accident and my inspiration to write all but left out of the window the minute I hit the bed. Just life, I guess.

In a way, this story is me trying to get back on the horse. To prove to myself that I can still get a hold of my own thoughts and put stuff down on paper and get stories uploaded.

So, yeah, anyway, do please let me know what you thought about this, okay? All comments and kudos are more than appreciated.

Xoxo.