Claudia

Mr. Stark closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, but his voice wasn't muffled at all when he said, "The day after. When you found me in the hallway after I ran out at breakfast, I was going to touch your shoulder and you flinched."

Peter's mind picked out the memory and played it back-- standing in front of Mr. Stark with Westcott's voice in his head and seeing Mr. Stark reach for him, and wanting that touch so badly that he gasped--

All of his anger drained away in a dizzying swoop of mortification instead, and Peter retreated a step, cheeks burning.

"That-- that wasn't. A flinch," he said, because he had to, because he couldn't keep letting Mr. Stark beat himself up over scaring him or whatever he was thinking, but he kind of wanted to sink through the floor as he said it.

Mr. Stark stopped short of rolling his eyes, but he raised his eyebrows sardonically with a disbelieving frown in that way that screamed stop bullshitting me without him ever saying a word.

Peter raised his chin automatically with a reflexive stubbornness, and somehow forced himself to say, "It wasn't! It was, like."

He paused, and swallowed hard, the tingling burn in his cheeks creeping all the way up to his ears. It felt so fucking embarrassing to admit, but, like-- Mr. Stark had to know, right? He'd heard Peter invite him to bed. He'd seen-- he'd felt-- the way Peter had reacted to him, in the cell. He had to already know. He just wasn't connecting the dots for this particular situation, but he had to know.

"Anticipation," Peter finally admitted, mumbling it towards the ground.

Tony was quiet for long enough that Peter risked a glance, crossing his arms for the limited strength that could give him, but Tony looked so sincerely lost even with that explanation that Peter realized with a jolt-- maybe he hadn't known.

"It just," Peter started to explain, unfolding his arms. "It just, it was. It was, like, a-- a good sound. I thought-- you wouldn't--"

Once he got started, the rest of the words came bursting out of him, and Peter wrung his hands and retreated another two strides until he was pressed back against the table again as he blurted, "I thought you wouldn't even want to look at me, forget anything else, after I'd been-- such a weird clingy freak-- I thought you'd be embarrassed of me, so when you--"

"No," Tony said, strained, "no, no, Peter," and he crossed the space between them before Peter could process it and reached to gather up one of Peter's hands in both of his.

Peter felt his tension drop away at the warm press of Mr. Stark's hands enveloping his, even as his eyes prickled with tears at that shameful confession, and he took a shaky breath as he looked up into Mr. Stark's pain-creased face.

"No, Peter, never, why would I-- you're perfect," and Peter saw it hit Mr. Stark at the same time it went through him like lightning, the memory of the last time Mr. Stark had said those words to him. Mr. Stark took his own unsteady breath though, and rallied, pressing on, "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm not-- at you-- I'm who you should be--"

"Oh my god," Peter growled, abruptly furious, and he clutched Mr. Stark's hands to his chest as he surged to his feet, so they were only inches apart. "Why are you so hard on yourself-- you're not listening to me, you're so caught up in your weird guilt thing that you're not even-- I don't care if you touch me."

Mr. Stark's expression was a picture of perfect shock.

"I want you to touch me," Peter said, something heavy and relentless in his chest desperate to come out.

Mr. Stark's heartbeat was fast, fast, fast.

"I'd let you do way more than touch my shoulder or ruffle my hair," Peter said, quieter.

He should stop. He knew he should stop. But--

There wasn't any anger left in him when Peter admitted, whisper-soft, "I wish you would."