Spider-Son & Iron Dad one shots

Sharp Edges

A/N: do people still read this book? many people have left this fandom because things are so different now. so, I wanted to write a little oneshot about tony stark, and how he has shaped his life. this oneshot ends after the events of homecoming, because I wanted something nostalgic. something peaceful. something healing. stay safe, drink water, and enjoy:^)

vv  the inspiration!

Tony Stark grew up with sharp edges.

Broken puzzle pieces, forced to fit by scotch tape and a welding torch. A family; held in a set of two very different hands, which didn't fit quite so well together either.

He grew up with shiny smiles—never the genuine kind. The sort of smile to use when a camera is pointed at your face, and you haven't gotten sleep but you know you must smile for the picture. Smile for the picture. Smile for the picture. The kind of smile that is uneasily comfortable and uncomfortably easy.

He grew up with bulletproof lunchboxes, made of the same metal his father used to destroy lives of people he would never know. He grew up not to take things from strangers, because he's been handed one too many explosives in public since the time he turned four.

He grew up hidden behind large scary men who dressed in black suits, who didn't smile or flinch at a thing. He grew up to always look, always observe, and never turn your back on anything, always use your instincts, alert, observe, aware, alert, observe, aware.

With all of these things combined, a weight was ever present on his shoulders to be the best, or the most impressive, or both. His father wouldn't let him forget it. His father's company wouldn't, either.

Of course, he had supports. His mother; who was more graceful than the gentlest of winds in the spring. Who was nurturing and loving and full of a practiced wisdom that Tony has never been able to replicate, seen replicated, or even understand. She was intelligent, too—played piano prettier than the most expensive of concerts. And all though he wished his mother had left Howard, he knew deep down it wouldn't ever happen. But he loved his mom. He always will.

He had Jarvis—made of tissues, organs, and bones at this point—who was a man that was the most fathering he's ever known. When Tony was eleven, shivering in the dark of his room from another nightmare about his dad; Edwin Jarvis (who stayed late on his shift for the night) opened the door and sat on his bed.

He told Tony stories about Howard; the funny kind that would be perfect in arguments. While Tony knows he could never actually use them against Howard, it was nice to know that the man had the slightest shred of humility—or at least he did at one point.

Howard Stark was, by Tony's own definition, cold and calculating. Not one ounce of love was gestured to his family. Shows of affection were scarce, other than the firm hand that was placed on Maria's shoulder in an iron tight grip. Everything was pointed with Mr. Howard Stark, and yet, never the right things. He said things surely, but the most important things were left only to be speculated by imaginative minds.