Bruised But Not Broken - Irondad/spiderson

So it begins

"Mr Parker," the billionaire drawls from the edge of my bed, voice smooth like a knife. "How nice of you to return my calls."

My brain stutters.

My lungs forget what they're doing.

"Uh— uhm," I cough, because apparently that's the best my body can offer right now. "Y-you're in my room?"

Tony lifts his eyes from my comic like I'm the comic. Like I'm the problem. "No, duh."

My gaze flicks to his wrist.

My web is still pinning his hand to the wall.

That's... that's not good. That's the kind of not good that makes you want to crawl into the floorboards and live there permanently.

He doesn't even flinch. He just reaches over my nightstand, grabs the web dissolver like he's been here before—because he has—and pours it over his wrist. The web melts away in seconds, sliding down like dead skin.

He stands.

Straightens his dark suit.

Then, like the universe is mocking me, he checks himself in the full-length mirror on my wall, adjusting his tie with the calm precision of a man about to destroy someone with words.

"Alright," he says, turning back to me. "Let me get this straight."

My heart is hammering so hard it hurts my throat.

"You go out as this little vigilante while I'm supposed to be looking after you for the weekend," Tony says, stepping closer, voice tightening. "You get shot. Then you don't tell me."

I swallow, throat burning.

"And then," he continues, and now the controlled calm is cracking at the edges, "after I take care of you—surgically—saving your life... you disappear. You don't return my calls. You skip your internship for a week. You make Happy play Where's Waldo with your scrawny little self every afternoon."

His shadow falls over me as I back up, one shaky step at a time. Tears sting my eyes, but I clamp them down like it's a competition I need to win. I don't deserve to cry. Crying means I want comfort. Comfort means I think I deserve something.

I hit a shoe on the floor and trip, catching myself on the wall with my palm, chest heaving.

"M-Mr Stark, sir," I choke out. "I'm sorry. I know I messed up, I—"

"Messed up?" His voice snaps. "Kid, you almost died. That is not a 'messed up.' That's a headline. That's a lawsuit. That's me having to tell your aunt her kid bled out because I couldn't keep him contained for two days."

He exhales hard through his nose, then turns on his heel and walks out like he's done being angry in here.

I stand frozen in my doorway, half in my suit, half in my room, half in my own shame.

From down the hallway, his voice calls back, rough and too casual for the tension in my chest.

"Have you eaten dinner yet? It's late."

I don't answer at first. My mouth doesn't want to work.

Then I shake my head like he can see it, and when I realise he can't, I whisper, "No."

Tony pauses in the kitchen.

The silence stretches.

Then I hear cupboard doors open. A pot clanks on a stove. Water running.

I step into the hall, arms tight around myself, because my jumper is still half off, and my shoulder stitches are visible, swollen and angry red. And worse—