Chapter Text
Most days, Peter ate his meals alone at the long, polished dining table that could seat twenty. A nanny placed his plate in front of him, the nannies never stayed long though, different every day, steam curling from something fancy he didn’t always recognize. He missed mac and cheese from the box. He missed peanut butter sandwiches. He missed people sitting across from him, chewing and talking and asking about his day.
He missed being seen.
And over time, he stopped expecting anything different.
He stopped calling out for Tony when he had a bad dream, even when the nightmares made his chest hurt and his sheets feel like they were suffocating him. Even when he woke up gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, someone who wouldn’t have come even if he had shouted.
He stopped asking to go outside—to see the ocean he could hear from the windows but never touch, or to walk in the garden where actual living humans trimmed hedges no one ever sat beside. The first few times, Tony had mumbled “Maybe later, buddy,” without looking up from his tablet. After a while, Peter stopped trying. He watched the waves from behind glass, cheek pressed against the window, letting the fog of his breath make the world outside a little softer.
He stopped turning on the fish tank ceiling, even though the jellyfish were his favorite. It made the room look too big, too blue, too fake. The fish were always moving, but they didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes he felt like that too—drifting in slow circles, glowing faintly, waiting for something to change.
He learned to be quiet.
Not in the scared way, like at the foster center where loudness meant someone got mad. This was a different kind of quiet—one he built around himself like a bubble. He read the room like it was a puzzle, figured out when Tony was in a bad mood or when he was too tired to pretend. He kept his voice soft. His footsteps lighter. His needs smaller.
He taught himself how to be careful. How to move through the mansion like a whisper. How to eat dinner without asking questions. How to entertain himself for hours without touching anything he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He’d learned the hard way once, picking up a strange glowing thing from Tony’s workshop and getting snapped at before the man even looked to see who it was.
After that, Peter only touched the things he was sure didn’t matter.
He learned how to be invisible.
In a house full of blinking lights and talking computers, it turned out it was very easy for one little boy to go unnoticed. He became a shadow in the hallways. A presence in the corner of the room. A faint sound of footsteps retreating down the corridor when Tony came in too loud or smelling like something bitter and burnt.
He didn’t cry much anymore.
Not because it didn’t hurt, but because there was no one to wipe the tears away. No one to hold him and say it was okay. No lap to climb into. No hand to rub circles on his back. Crying started to feel pointless, like dropping coins down a well that never echoed back.
So he just… didn’t.
Instead, he watched.
He watched Tony from across the room, cataloging every smile, every sigh, every brief flicker of attention like it might be the last. He memorized the rhythms of the house—the way the coffee machine hummed in the morning, the way the front door clicked at night when Tony stumbled in late. He listened to the way Jarvis’ voice shifted depending on who he was talking to. He noticed everything. Because noticing made the silence feel less empty.
He waited.
For something. Anything. For Tony to look up one day and really see him—not as a responsibility or a name on a custody paper, but as a person. As his kid. As someone worth listening to. Worth talking to. Worth staying home for.
He hoped, quietly, every day, that someone might finally look past the surface.
Not just see him.
But know him.
All the cracks. All the quiet. All the small, careful parts he was too scared to show anyone else.
Because Peter could live without toys, or hugs, or nightlights.
But he didn’t know how long he could live without being seen.
It was Jarvis who made sure Peter brushed his teeth. Jarvis who reminded him to do his homework. Jarvis who turned off the lights and dimmed the room when Peter got too tired to move. Jarvis, always there in the background, quietly stepping in to fill the gaps that Tony left behind. The AI’s voice was comforting, always calm and patient, guiding him through the mundane, but with a kindness that felt... safe. It wasn’t the same as having someone there, but it was a presence—one that didn’t leave after a few hours, or disappear into the night. And that was more than Peter could say for the rest of the world, one that had always abandoned him.
Peter was learning to grow up quickly. In a house that was as big and cold as Tony’s mansion, he had little choice. Tony was a ghost. Even when he was physically there, he was often wrapped up in something else—work, his own problems, his endless parties. Peter learned to move around quietly, to blend into the walls, to make as little noise as possible. He had learned to be small, even invisible, just hoping for a fraction of attention, even though he knew better than to expect it.
He was alone, but he was learning how to be alone. And sometimes, that was enough. Sometimes, he didn’t even want to bother Tony. He’d learned early on that nothing ever really changed. Asking Tony for something—a bedtime story, to play a game, to watch a movie together—felt like a distant memory now. It was so much easier to just do things on his own. If he needed something, Jarvis could get it. If he needed to be entertained, there were books, or the holo-games that Tony had installed for him. They weren’t the same as real companionship, but they kept the silence from feeling too heavy.
Sometimes, when Tony was home, Peter would still try. He’d sit at the kitchen table, a homework assignment in front of him, the homework always something simple, after all he was still only in grade 1 even if mentally he felt like a adult, but his mind would wander, watching as Tony paced around, phone in hand, swiping through screens without even looking up. The silence between them would stretch long, suffocating in its own way. Peter’s voice was barely a whisper when he asked, “Dad, can we play something?”
Tony didn’t even look at him, too caught up in whatever conversation was happening on the other end of his phone. “Later, kid. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Okay,” he would say, his voice small, and go back to his homework.
And that was when he realized—he was better off doing it on his own. No one was ever going to show up and sweep him away from all the loneliness. No one was going to tell him that everything would be okay, that he didn’t have to figure out how to be a kid on his own. So, he stopped trying. He stopped waiting for Tony to walk in and make everything right. He stopped asking for attention, stopped longing for a moment where someone would just notice him and tell him he mattered. Because it never came.
Instead, Peter grew quieter. He didn’t make noise unless he had to. He stopped being scared of seeing fire in his nightmares, stopped asking for help when he needed it. It was easier that way. No more disappointment. No more false hope. He learned to occupy himself, to fill the endless space with whatever he could—building towers out of blocks, creating stories in his mind, drawing in his sketchbook. It wasn’t much, but it was something to do.
The days blurred together, one indistinguishable from the next. Sometimes, when Peter was still awake at night, Jarvis’s voice would come to him, soft and steady, saying, “Goodnight, Mr. Parker.” But the words didn’t feel as warm as they used to. They were just... words. Empty words that didn’t fill the spaces inside Peter, the places that had once been waiting for Tony. Waiting for someone.
Still, sometimes, when the quiet got too loud, and the shadows in the mansion seemed to creep closer, Peter would curl up in his bed and stare at the fish tank ceiling. He would watch the glowing blue lights shift and move, his thoughts drifting to something, someone, who might actually look at him.
Not just see him. But know him.