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You Are My Sunshine

Summary:

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the one thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy’s law, Finagle’s law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: “Shit happens.”

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

(In which Peter Parker is Tony's biological son)

Chapters 1-12: Pre-Iron Man
Chapters 13-???: Iron Man

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Tony Stark had always been a man of science and he always would be. It was his personal and fundamental belief that everything had an explanation. His eventual encounters with Norse gods, alien life, and sorcerers did kind of quake this a little bit, but still.

One thing that had always confounded him as the one thing that had no scientific explanation was fate. Murphy’s law, Finagle’s law, the butterfly effect, the domino effect, the snowball effect, and the wisest of all: “Shit happens.”

For example, at age nine, Tony was playing with (that is, disassembling) toy robots and cars when he was told to get ready for the day. Almost brushing his teeth reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Watching bacon sizzle in the pan reminded him that he’d left his jacket on a computer exhaust. Tossing his jacket into his room, atop all the disassembled pieces, reminded him to go check if his favorite T-shirt had been washed yet. Checking on his T-shirt, he passed by a window and saw snowfall. Seeing snowfall, he went back to his room to grab his jacket. Having forgotten about the disassembled toy pieces, he blindly grabbed his jacket and pierced his palm on a screw. Lo and behold, now he has a tiny scar on his palm.

The chain of events were not illogical, but there was no chemistry, no formula. The butterfly beat its wings, the domino tipped over, the snowball began to roll. Shit happened.

So how peculiar was it that one of the greatest things to ever happen to him began with a tray of champagne?

Tony was thirty years old and was at one of such a long, long list of charity balls that he had to remind himself just what charity it was for several times throughout the night. There were men in three-piece suits and women in long, flowing dresses. Alcohol was pouring from every bottle and he swore there was a band blasting music at every other corner.

Tony was doing what he typically did at these balls and galas: spacing out. Rhodey was going to be flying in soon and he wanted to treat him to an unnecessarily expensive dinner, but couldn’t decide which restaurant would be best. He was sipping on a glass of red wine and wondering if he had or hadn’t tasted its kind before. A woman in a deep-cut crimson dress was eyeballing him across the way and he couldn’t tell if there was a wedding ring on her finger or not. And, of course, plans. Plans for machines, plans for Stark Industries, plans of public speeches and award ceremonies, plans for this and that and whatever else.

Enter the tray of champagne, sudden and jarring, knocking over his shoulder and drenching his…geez, which one was this again? Armani? Dolce & Gabbana? Didn’t really matter, he guessed.

It had happened before and it would happen again. As per the norm, there are gasps and groans of sympathy, the clinking of glass hitting the floor, and a profuse stream of “Oh my god, Mr. Stark, I am so sorry! I am so, so sorry!”

Tony, meanwhile, just shook off the droplets that had trickled down his fingertips. “You’re fine. It’s fine. Just two thousand dollars, no worries.”

“I’m so sorry!” The waiter looked on the verge of tears, like he was staring a gun down the barrel. “I wasn’t looking, I wasn’t—I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Hey, you got a manager I can talk to?” The sudden blueness of the poor guy’s face was worth it, and Tony laughed and clapped his shoulder with his champagne-sticky hand. “That was a joke. Point me to a bathroom, then find a place to put your head between your knees.”

He was directed to the bathroom while the guy was still struggling to breathe. He walked in and was struck with the realization that hey, he’d been in this place before and somehow not known it. He recognized the porcelain faucets and gold lining of the floor tiles. Not that he was marveling in the scenery. Nodding to the woman standing in the corner, he moved towards…the…

Tony looked back. Yeah. Woman. Definitely a woman. Short, slender. Smooth brown hair that fell to her shoulders, round green eyes. Perma-dimples and a little beauty mark on her chin. Like most of the female waiting staff, she was dressed in a black pencil skirt and white blouse. A little black ribbon was tied in her shirt collar.

While he was staring, she just nodded at him with her hands behind her back.

Tony clicked his tongue. “Hello.”

She did the same nod with a bit more sarcasm.

Tony pursed his lips and looked around the bathroom. There was no one in there but them. Urinals lined the wall. He was not lost.

He looked back at her with a grin that was only half-forced. “Are you my tour guide?”

“Your assistant.” She reached to the little gilded cart pressed against the wall, picked up a little bowl filled with pinkish little candies. “Mint?”

Lips still pursed in a half-forced smile, Tony pointedly plucked one from the bowl and tucked it away. Another rehearsed nod.

Tony pointed past her head. “I’m not to assume there’s a forty-odd man in the ladies’ room, am I?”

She shook her head. Her brown hair swayed around her shoulders. “There’s a lady in the ladies’ room.”

“That makes perfect sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” She mimicked his smile, but when he kept staring her down, she dropped it into a more halfhearted one. “Mens’ room attendees get better tips.”

Tony raised a brow. “Is that what you wrote under ‘why do you wish to work at this establishment’?”

“That’s what I told Craig when I told him why I wanted to take his shift tonight.”

“So what does Craig get?”

“A whole cheesecake from the kitchen.”

“That’s it?”

“You must not have tried it.”

Tony tipped his head in a Fair enough nod and turned for the sink. Quickly but smoothly, the woman reached over and turned on the faucet for him. Then, as Tony cut it off, waved his finger no-no, and turned on the other, she frowned.

“Cold water for champagne, hot water for red wine,” he told her. “Mark that down for future reference.”

She nodded with fake grace. “Is this coming out of my tip?”

“I figured I’d bend the curve and not give you one.” Tony let the warm water set its way in—took the cloth from her when she offered—even though it wasn’t going to do any good. This was just going to make it .01% less sticky for the rest of the evening. “How’s that working out for you, by the way? I’d think they’d be stiffing you, am I wrong?”

“Yes, actually. I’m doing pretty good. I think me just standing there actually ‘stiffs’ them.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“It’s a living.”

Tony snorted and she huffed a laugh. Having done all that he could, he shook the last bit of water off his sleeve and took the towel she handed outward to him. He “scrutinized” her work of folding it up after…and tossing it into the washbin without looking.

“Serving hors d’oeuvres must get an abysmal pay rate,” he told her. “If standing here and watching guys answer Mother Nature’s call is the better alternative, I mean.”

The woman raised her hands up in a “don’t ask me” way. Her dimples only deepened on her face. “I did my research. Turning on faucets and handing out mints gets about thirty cents more than handing out smoked salmon on crackers.”

“Ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Ludicrous.”

“Right?”

“Unacceptable, so: I’ll tell you what.” Tony reaches into his breast pocket and picks out a twenty. He always liked to tip waiting staff at things like these; more than half of them were trying to make ends met. Lord knew this woman was pulling extra weight. “I’m going to give you Andrew Jackson for your trauma, and if you can manage to get your way into the kitchen and snag me some of that red wine, I’ll swap it for Ulysses S. Grant.”

She took it with her brows knit together in a contemplative look. “What about Ben Franklin?”

He tipped his head. “Throw in that cheesecake and have it be as good as you say, and I’ll see if I can set up a meeting between you two.”


 

Her name was Mary Fitzpatrick, she was twenty-six, and fit in with much of the other waiting staff: struggling to make ends meet in Queens.

Things had never really been great for her, though she more stated this than lamented about it. She’d been in foster care for practically her entire life, with a few good loving families, one or two money-seekers who dropped her just as soon as they’d picked her up, and most strangers who treated her well enough but weren’t willing to take her in for good. Her last family had even paid her way through community college, but after that, she was on her own.

At the very least, she had a good circle of friends who’d helped her to her feet more than once. Richard, in particular, she’d known for years now and knew she could rely on in a heartbeat. She’d thought for a long time that they might end up as more than friends, but now that Richard had taken a job on the other side of the continent, that had apparently gone out the window.

Again, she did not cry and wail this to him—and thank God for that, because Tony has had more than one woman break down and weep the cruelty of life to him. Tony usually tried to call up one of their friends, maybe suggest therapy, and let them be. Mary, however, had been toughened, not broken, by her troubles. She wasn’t cold and unfeeling, just accepting in a somber sort of way.

Tony listened without prying. He changed the subject subtly, more to make her feel better than for his own disinterest. Mary Fitzpatrick was not disinteresting, not in the slightest. Tony was not going to complain about his many encounters he’s had with women over the years, of course not. He was the instigator more often than not. But more often than not, those encounters were fleeting and almost business-like. Sure, they’d flirt and laugh and joke with him, but all with the underlying message that it was just for the aesthetic. Soon enough they’d be in bed, the next morning would come, and they would depart like strangers, so there was no point in the extra effort.

Mary, though, she was fun. Tony was having fun outside of drinking or craps or roulette or whatever else. This was the kind of fun he had with Rhodey and Obadiah. Light and happy, no worries, just laughs. Mary stole the wine and the cheesecake from the back and rendezvoused with him near the bar. They both ate a slice with their bare fingers, facing away from one another so as not to attract the “Why is Tony Stark talking to a waiting girl?” stares.

The two of them listened to the band and realized they were playing the same two songs back to back. Mary bet he couldn’t get them to play “Everybody” by the Backstreet Boys as if he wasn’t Tony Stark. It took until the trumpets blasted along to “Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT!” for her to realize it had worked and she just about snorted wine out of her nose.

Happy found him, extremely unamused that Tony had shaken him off once again, and was more than a little confused when Tony slid half a cheesecake over to him and told him to go nuts. He did leave them be, though, probably thanks to the genuine smile on Tony’s face. After the wine is gone, Tony promised that he could name every alcohol and every mix behind the bar by taste and Mary made him prove it.

It was entirely possible that at least a little of the happiness came from the alcohol buzzing through his system, but Tony was positive that the rest was genuine. No, he didn’t love or fall in love with Mary. That wasn’t something that happened in the span of a few hours. He for sure grew a fondness for her, though. He would not at all minded seeing her again.

They laughed and joked and poked fun at each other while Tony’s naming every glass that’s slid their way—White Russian, Vodka Sunrise, Lime Rickey, Angel Face, rum and Coke with way too much Coke and not enough rum, please follow the guidelines Bill, you’re charging people for more than they’re getting.

What happened next was unsurprising, even though Tony wouldn’t be able to recall many details later. They got away from the crowd and the music, they were in the back of his car, they were stumbling into an elevator, Mary’s lips were smiling and laughing and then they were against his and so on, so forth.

Tony really would have liked to see her again, truly. He thought about that in the few moments before he fell asleep, with Mary’s hair ruffled up into a cloud and the city lights shining through the window. It would have been awkward, definitely. Certainly. Horribly. But they could move past that. He could have even hooked her up with a job if she wanted one. Maybe even introduce her to Rhodey. And hey, if at some point down the road they decided maybe a coffee date was in order, so be. If not, so be it. Mary was an awfully friendly woman and being her friend could be awful nice.

That was not how things went. Here was the beat of the butterfly’s wings, the tip of the domino, the roll of the snowball:

Tony prepared for this charity event in his Armani-or-whatever suit, hopped into his car, and made it fifteen minutes before getting a security alert from J.A.R.V.I.S. He turned around, expecting to find paparazzi in the front yard or a drone snapping pictures above the mansion roof, and it turned out to just be DUM-E sliding off-track and knocking over a tool cart. He shut DUM-E down for the night, decided that his suit was actually dark blue instead of black so he would need to change his tie, and did so. Around this time, Mary Fitzpatrick convinced Craig to let her take his spot as the men’s restroom’s attendee in exchange for a strawberry cheesecake. Craig took her spot as a waiter, but with every passing moment grew more and more nervous that someone would find out about the switch, and they’d both be fired. So nervous was he that he turned too fast with a tray of champagne and spilled it over the suit of Tony Stark.

This was one of those cases that Tony would return to when he thought of the unscientific nature of fate. He would also think about what might have happened if the following morning went a little more like they usually did. If they had awkward small talk and an awkward goodbye. If he’d had coffee and breakfast ready in the kitchen. If Mary had stayed around five minutes, one minute, three seconds longer. Or even if things went differently and he did offer that job to her, or that introduction to Rhodey, or that coffee date.

Instead, Mary woke up before him at seven o’clock in the morning with a bruising headache and Tony’s arm splayed over her back. Confused and disoriented, she sprung from the bad, rattling Tony awake with a groan. She looked at him and her and the bedroom, and through sleep-crusted eyes and a hell of a hangover of his own, Tony saw her put two and two together in her head.

Then she muttered “shit”, threw on all her clothes, and left before he’d even sat up in bed. He never saw her again.

This was the start of one of the greatest things to ever happen to Tony Stark.