Work Text:
The school parking lot was a chaos of colorful cars, backpacks larger than the children themselves, and hurried parents trying to look organized. Tony Stark, dressed better than any other father there—dark suit, mirrored sunglasses, coffee in hand—was clearly out of his element.
"Come on, kid." He held out his hand to Peter, who was clutching a crumpled snack inside Spider-Man's blue lunchbox.
“I’m scared,” Peter murmured, his voice low.
"Scared?" Tony arched an eyebrow, crouching down to his level. "You built a robot that nearly fried my microwave last week. You'll survive elementary school."
Peter chuckled, which was enough to make Tony breathe a sigh of relief. He adjusted the badge on the boy's uniform and started walking toward the main gate. That's when he saw him.
The man standing in the doorway of Room 1B looked like something out of a catalog of British teachers who didn't know how handsome they were. His navy suit matched his serious gaze, and his calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle around him.
Stephen Strange held a clipboard and greeted each student by name—or tried to, because some parents were more nervous than their children.
“Good morning, Mr. Stark?” Stephen’s voice was firm, polite, and took Tony by surprise.
— Do you know my name yet? Wow, I haven't even had to sign a check yet.
Stephen looked at Peter and then back at Tony, a half-smile on his lips. "He looks excited, despite his nervousness."
Tony scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond. He wasn't used to being evaluated by teachers—and even less so by one who seemed to see right through him.
"Yeah, well... he's smart. And stubborn. He got it from someone, I guess."
Stephen chuckled softly. “I’m sure you do.”
When the bell rang, Peter ran into the room, turning only once to wave at Tony. For a moment, the engineer felt his chest tighten—pride mixed with panic.
"He'll be fine, Mr. Stark," Stephen said calmly. "I promise to take good care of him."
Tony let out a sigh. "I hope so, Professor..."
"Strange. Stephen Strange." He held out his hand.
Tony shook it, feeling the firmness and the slight tremor of the unexpected connection.
"Tony, then. No 'sir,' leave it to the bank." And he walked toward his car, feeling that the professor had made more than just a good first impression.
>>>>
The sun was already low when Tony parked the car in front of the school. The dashboard clock flashed 5:42 PM—twelve minutes late.
Damn.
He hurried out, his tie askew, and the tired expression of someone who'd spent the day discussing contracts and trying to appear interested. Guilt tightened his chest. He'd promised Peter he'd be the first to arrive.
When he walked through the gate, the courtyard was almost empty. Only a few children were waiting for their parents, and there in the corner, sitting on a bench under the shade of a tree, was little Peter—and beside him, the teacher.
Stephen stood with his sleeves rolled up, reading something in a notebook while Peter chattered animatedly. Tony slowed, watching for a moment.
It was curious: the boy seemed completely at ease, gesturing and laughing, as if with an old friend.
— Mr. Stark. — Stephen's voice brought him back.
Tony blinked awkwardly. “Yeah... Tony. I... I was late.”
“I noticed,” Stephen said, without irony. “But he was fine. I kept him company.”
Peter jumped off the bench and ran to Tony. "Dad! Mr. Stephen showed me how to draw a perfect star!"
"You showed it, did you?" Tony looked at Stephen, a half-smile appearing. "Are you hiring for private lessons?"
Stephen arched an eyebrow in amusement. “Only if the student promises not to fall asleep for the first half hour.”
Tony let out a short, tired laugh. "Hard to promise that."
For a second, the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable.
Stephen stood, handing Peter his lunchbox. "He was very well behaved today. Curious, intelligent... a little absent-minded, but that's normal."
Tony picked up the lunchbox, his fingers brushing briefly against Stephen's. "Distracted... must be genetic."
Stephen smiled slightly. “I figured.”
Peter, oblivious to the atmosphere, was already running toward the car. Tony looked back at the professor, hesitant.
"Look, I know I was late, and... well, thanks for sticking with him."
“Of course,” Stephen replied, simply, sincerely. “He seems to really like you, you know? Even when you don’t show up on time.”
The phrase echoed in Tony's mind as he walked away.
________
Months had passed since the first day of school.
The previously chaotic routine was beginning to fall into place—a little wonky, but it worked. Tony was still swamped with company meetings and projects, but now he made a point of being home on Peter's mornings.
That Friday, the smell of fresh coffee and toast filled the kitchen. Peter swung his legs in his chair, his uniform impeccable, his hair standing on end—the work of a hasty comb.
Tony was reading his tablet, pretending to review a report, but really trying not to think about the voicemail Stephen had left the night before:
“Peter forgot his science notebook.”
Stephen’s voice—quiet, almost husky—had been echoing in Tony’s head ever since.
— You like him. —
The statement came suddenly, like a sweet punch in the air.
Tony looked up from his tablet. "What?"
Peter chewed absently, as if he'd been commenting on the weather. "Mr. Stephen. You like him."
Tony froze. Literally. The tablet slipped from his hands and nearly fell to the table.
"What—? No, I... Peter, that's... your imagination."
The boy arched his eyebrow, his expression remarkably similar to Stephen's. "No, you don't. You blush when he talks to you."
“I—red?” Tony laughed nervously. “That’s... circulation problem, I don’t know.”
Peter shrugged, finishing his juice. “Okay, but he likes you too.”
"What?!" Tony nearly choked. "Peter Benjamin Parker Stark, you... where did you get that from?"
— He looks at you the same way you look at him.
Tony didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at his son—a seven-year-old who seemed to understand more about feelings than he did, a grown man, a CEO, and supposed "genius."
In the end, he sighed, surrendered. "You're going to ruin my reputation, you know?"
"What reputation?" Peter smiled. "Pretending not to like Mr. Stephen?"
Tony laughed, unable to hide his blush.
_______
When they arrived at the school, the gate was already open. Stephen was there, as always—a light shirt, sleeves rolled up, a calm smile as he saw the two approaching.
— Good morning, Stark. Good morning, Peter.
"Good morning, Mr. Stephen!" Peter replied cheerfully, and before his father could say anything, he added with cruel innocence, "Daddy was talking about you today!"
Tony nearly tripped over his own foot. "Peter!"
Stephen laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Really? I hope it was something good.”
Tony cleared his throat, completely embarrassed. "I... was just... commenting on the notebook. The science one."
“Of course,” Stephen said, with a look that made it clear he didn’t believe it for a second. “Then I hope you’ll keep commenting.”
Tony opened his mouth, but no dignified response came out.
Peter was already running inside, leaving his father there, exposed, blushing, and trying to understand at what point that calm-looking teacher had become the most chaotic point in his life.
_______
The invitation went out faster than Tony planned.
It was a Tuesday, after school. The parking lot was nearly empty, and Peter was already inside, distracted by a game on his tablet. Tony leaned against the side of the car, trying to look casual—which, considering his perfectly tailored suit and obvious nervousness, wasn't working.
“So, Stephen…” he began, his fingers drumming on the bodywork.
— “Professor Strange,” — Stephen corrected with a discreet smile.
— Okay. Professor Strange... — Tony rolled his eyes. — Look, I know this might sound a little random, but... are you free sometime?
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Free?"
— Dinner. Nothing formal, just... food. Conversation. No report cards.
For a moment, the professor just stared at him—as if trying to read between the lines the real reason. Then he smiled. “Dinner. With you?”
"With me." Tony crossed his arms, trying to look confident. "I promise this isn't a disguised parent-teacher meeting."
Stephen gave a light laugh. “Okay. But only if you promise not to show up in a suit.”
—No suit, noted. — Tony smiled, genuinely. — Friday?
“Friday,” Stephen confirmed, before saying goodbye to Peter and heading back into the school.
Tony stood there for a moment, watching the door close behind him.
His heart was beating faster than it had at any shareholders' meeting.
_______
Friday night
Tony's apartment was surprisingly tidy—which actually meant he'd paid someone to tidy it up before dinner. Peter was spending the night with a friend from school, which made the place incredibly quiet.
When Stephen arrived, Tony almost forgot how words worked. The professor wore a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and that same calm smile as always—only now, it was directed at him.
“Wow…” Tony cleared his throat. “You… are punctual.”
“Professor, remember?” Stephen replied, coming in. “And you’re the kind of guy who dresses up as the boss even at home?”
"That's corporate charm." Tony smiled. "Wine?"
— Only if it's not one of those that cost more than my salary.
The evening was light. They talked about Peter, books, and school. Stephen said he almost became a musician before becoming a teacher; Tony spoke, half-intentionally, about his constant fear of failing as a father.
At some point, the laughter turned to silence. One of those comfortable ones.
Stephen watched him for a moment, his eyes fixed. “You’re different from what I imagined.”
“Different how?” Tony asked softly.
— More human. —
Tony laughed, a nervous, sincere sound. "It's not exactly what the magazines say."
— Magazines don't dine with you.
For a few seconds, they just stared at each other. The clock on the wall read nine-thirty, the bottle of wine was already half empty, and the distance between them seemed to be shrinking.
Tony swallowed. "I should... wash the dishes before Peter comes back and thinks I've become a responsible adult."
Stephen smiled, standing up. “I can help.”
— No need—
— I insist. —
And when their hands accidentally touched over the sink, Tony didn't flinch.
Neither did Stephen.