Chapter Text
Grace is a scientist by nature. There's nothing that can't be explained away with math, equations, and logic. The flow of traffic, strands of DNA, the composition of stars, the entire story that led Grace to where he is right now: all of it is made of variables, all of it has a statistical probability, all of it had factors that will lead to a determinable outcome.
Grace believes in math.
Math says this is fine.
(It was a logical decision to join the Model UN team at UC Berkeley. Ryland needed extracurriculars to beef up his resume before he applied for grad programs, and the ultimate frisbee team wasn't exactly his calling.
It was a logical decision of the Model UN team to put their club fair booth right by the entrance, just so they could catch all the wide-eyed freshmen shuffling in. Hook, line, sinker.
It was logical, then, that it was the first club he signed up for. And not just because they advertised themselves as the perfect place for those who loved to argue.
Ryland excelled almost immediately, like he did with every other subject. It was no surprise, but a simple probability value that their team made nationals in his freshman year.)
If anything can get Grace through today, it will be math.
Peter’s leading him through the front doors, and he follows the kid in like a lost puppy, head bowing subconsciously like he is trying to make himself seem smaller by comparison. He didn’t get enough time to psych himself up properly before Peter showed up- his hands still feel clammy. He clenches and unclenches them in time.
(“You’ll be fine, Ryland. Remember the rules of procedure. We definitely have a chance to get a best delegate award and maybe even- oh fuck.”
“What? What’s wrong?” Ryland looked over, nerves overtaking him for the third time this week, tie uncomfortably tight around his neck. “Yazhini? Hello?”
She didn’t look back at him; her eyes were fixed on the other end of the hall, toward the team from MIT.
“Goddamnit,” Yazhini cursed under her breath. Ryland didn’t understand what she was looking at- he knew the MIT team was supposed to be the cream of the crop, but it’s not like they didn’t know they would be here and- “That’s Tony Stark.”
Just as the name left her lips, Ryland spotted him.
The guy was short, that was the first thing he noticed. Brown, quaffed hair, probably combed through with product that cost more than Ryland’s tuition. Dressed in a suit but tie undone and hung loose around his neck with an unbuttoned collar. Sunglasses inside like the dress code was more of a suggestion. Clean shaven, with what looked to be an unlit cigarette between his lips.
They’re not supposed to smoke in here, Ryland thought blankly.
It’s not like Ryland hadn’t seen him before, in newspaper clippings and cited in scientific papers- they're both circling the same fields of study after all and Stark's already a junior- but this man is nothing like Ryland pictured. Nothing like he looked in the papers. Nothing like-
“Howard Stark’s kid. Jesus,” that was Sebastián’s voice from his other side, “That should be considered cheating. When did he even join?”
“I heard a rumor about it from the Duke team, but I didn’t think he would actually grace us lowlifes with his glorious presence,” Yazhini said, sarcasm dripping from her words. But Ryland wasn’t really listening. He was still looking at Stark.
It wasn't a cigarette between Stark's lips. It was a lollipop. It was a goddamn lollipop that the kid was twirling on his tongue as he chatted up another member of his team, completely oblivious to, or maybe relishing in, the attention he was receiving from the rest of the room.
From Ryland.
As if he could read minds, Stark turned his head, then, a subtle thing, and made direct eye contact. He looked Ryland up and down slowly.
Stark twirled the lollipop once, twice, smiled around it, and winked at him.)
Grace has a plan. He rehearsed this five times in the mirror this morning before realizing he was running late to school and rushing out the door. Systematize it, write it down. He spent the better half of last night scratching wildly in a notepad that he keeps around to write down literally anything he deems important enough. So what, he spent a few hours on this? This is beyond important.
It was quite simple.
- Tony Stark does not remember you.
- Even if he does, it was decades ago. It means nothing.
- You are a high school teacher here to do his job and nothing else. Don’t let anything else get in the way.
- You are shaking hands with Iron Man today, not a man whose had his tongue down your throat multiple times.
- Do not think about the roof.
- Do not think about the kiss(es).
- Do not think about that week.
- Shake his hand, and make sure it’s firm but not too aggressive. Two pumps: up down, up down, done.
- Stay professional, stay neutral, give him no reason to think you’re acting weird because to him, he has never met you before.
Peter’s giving him tour guide commentary as they head toward the elevators. Grace doesn’t register how Peter easily bypasses the main set of doors, walking instead toward a more hidden, private set labeled “NOT FOR PUBLIC USE.”
Instead, his mind is running a constant string of thoughts and formatting them into questions he would give to a student on a quiz. For example: what’s the probability that the next hour or two of his life is going to be horrendously awkward? P(A) = the number of favorable outcomes over the total number of possible outcomes.
Well, there’s endless possible outcomes, but let’s go with a hundred. Honestly speaking, if he sticks to his script and does everything correctly, he thinks he has a pretty good chance of this working out.
The elevator doors close, and Peter is still talking. Grace is half listening. Something about the work he does while an intern here, something about the first time he met Tony Stark, something about his biology exam from last week, something about a deli down the road from Midtown. It’s like background noise, the constant speaking a nice balm to his racing mind.
If he sticks to his script, it’s probably a 4/5 chance that he makes it through. Maybe 50/50 if there’s a curveball thrown in- like maybe Peter really is the secret child of Stark’s and they let it slip while Grace is there.
“What floor would you like to go to, Mr. Parker?” A feminine robotic voice says from the speakers, Grace registers dully.
“Labs, please. Thanks, Fri.”
“Of course.”
Carry the one, dot your I's, and cross your T's. Sign your name so you don't get points off.
The elevator doors open and Grace runs the checklist through his head one more time. Before he can do anything else, he places his bike helmet on a very expensive looking table. He picks at the hem of his raincoat- why is he still wearing this? There's not a coat check as far as he can tell, but maybe-
Footsteps approach, expensive shoes on tile floor. Click Clack Click Clack.
You know that feeling, when you look at someone and your brain goes oh before you’ve even processed anything? When your heart feels like it dropped through to your stomach and is slowly leaking out all over the floor? Maybe your legs get that pins and needles feeling radiating up and down, or your fingers lose all sense of touch? You feel kind of like your body is in one spot, and your brain is in another?
Grace is experiencing all of that, all at once.
Tony Stark is standing in front of him. He’s dressed to the nines in a sharp suit, hands in his pockets. He's wearing tinted sunglasses, the arms brushing over perfectly quaffed hair doppled with gray strands. He looks nothing and everything like the interviews and press photos Grace combed over last night. He looks beautiful.
Professional. Remain professional, Grace. First point on the list: Tony Stark does not remember you.
“Hi Mr. Stark!” Peter says brightly, waving.
Grace reaches his hand out to shake Stark’s, before realizing he had somehow picked his bike helmet back up again in his anxious stupor. He places it back down to free up his hands (again.)
Remember: firm, but not too aggressive. Two pumps: up down, up down, and done. He takes a deep breath, wills his brain to coordinate with his mouth. “Nice to meet you- I’m Mr. Grace, Peter’s science teacher.”
(“I’m Grace, uh, Ryland.”)
Stark doesn’t reach a hand back out to him, and his brain stutters, just a bit.
Instead, the man tilts his head down, looking up at Grace over red tinted sunglasses, and smirks.
“Don’t remember me, Ryland? I feel like I should be offended.”
He did not account for this.
He’s faintly aware of Peter staring at them with eyes the size of saucers. He's whipping his head back and forth like Grace and Tony are two animals in a nature documentary, but Grace can’t bring himself to turn his head over the sound of all the blood vessels in his brain exploding at once.
Tony’s smiling.
God, Tony’s smiling, and it’s the same smile.
It’s so unfair, he thinks distantly. Twenty years and it’s the same smile.
(A crinkle of eyes, long lashes fanned over tanned skin stretched around white teeth. Sharp canines curled around a grin.)
He’s still looking at Grace over his glasses. Just like-
(“Well, Grace comma uh Ryland, lovely to meet you. I’m sure you know who I am.”)
“Tony.” He breathes, neurons working overtime to even get the word out.
“There you are.” Tony says, eyes bright.
Insufferable. God, he’s so insufferable.
(“I swear- that guy- I can’t stand him! We prepared so much-“ Ryland broke off into a loud sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before realizing all that did was smudge ink all over himself, which only proved to make him more upset.
“Probabilities aren’t everything,” Yazhini conceded, twirling a pencil between her fingers. “We got our asses beat. How were we supposed to predict they would pull the bloc strategy?”
“Speak of the devil,” Sebastián muttered. Ryland turned his head and was faced with the man of the hour, hands in his pockets, grinning down at the Berkeley team in their various positions of squalor.
“There you are,” Stark said. Insufferable, God he’s so insufferable. Ryland was losing his mind.
Ryland wanted to-)
Grace wants to kiss him. Or jump out the window.
“You two know each other?” Peter says, eyes still wide, so quiet it almost feels like he's in a different room than the two adults. He’s glancing between the two like he’s afraid one of them will throw a punch.
“Uh-“
“I know everyone, kid,” Tony says nonchalantly, shrugging, as if Grace isn’t still having trouble reeling his brain back in from outer space, “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”
Peter slides now-narrowed eyes at Grace, and he feels himself sweat at the surprising pressure. “He didn’t…”
“So, shall we begin the tour?" Tony claps his hands together. "Welcome to my humble abode. Mi casa es su casa and all that."
Grace ducks his head, and follows.
Tony leads them toward a standard materials lab. It's impressive and nothing like Grace has seen in years, not since his PhD days at least. The room is wide and filled with glass and chrome- almost reminiscent of a spaceship. There's people inside, a few of which react to Tony lightly knocking on the window and waving at them.
"My minions, and some of the brightest people you'll ever meet."
Grace waves too, the movement slightly aborted when he realizes no one is really looking at him.
Gliding smoothly over to the other side of the hall, Tony pulls back a partition and leads them down a level to a different kind of space.
It's quiet in here, and empty, Grace notices immediately. He also notices that the equipment here is much more precise, a level above the materials lab. He hasn't seen machines like this in years, and some of them he's only ever seen mentioned in news articles.
"This is the biomimicry lab, where Peter does his very important work," Tony says, "the very same work he was exploding in your lab."
"The glue," Peter supplies quickly, coughing, "It's a synthetic polymer, super strong and elastic." A glue startup. Interesting.
"A proprietary formula with various applications," Tony notes, smirking at Peter.
Peter looks at the ceiling- and Grace swears he hears the kid pray for a second. Maybe Thor's upstairs, or something.
Tony slides a sample container over towards them. The fluid inside has a viscosity similar to the one Peter was attempting to make in the school lab- obviously, this one is more stable. He hopes, at least.
"What's the base protein structure?" Grace asks, head tilted.
Tony pauses, taking a moment to actually consider the question. Grace feels a beat of satisfaction; he's still got the ability to make the man think.
"Modified spidroin." Spider silk? "Mr. Parker here engineered stability at room temperature without losing any of the tensile strength."
Spider silk is known to have proteins that fold into tight structures, but getting them to do that outside a spider? At room temperature without degrading? That's stumped researchers for years.
Peter rubs a hand on the back of his neck, smile wobbly. Grace knew it was a good idea to put his picture up on the wall. This kid is a genius.
"You solved the beta-sheet crystallization problem?"
Tony throws an arm around Peter's shoulder and smiles like a proud dad. "There's a reason I wanted him at SI."
It should have been cocky, but Grace could find nothing but fondness in his tone.
His gaze wanders toward a report on the table near the sample container, eyes brushing over the words. Tony's distracted, noodling Peter in the side about something or another.
"Have you looked at venom gland cell cultures for extraction?" He mentions, after a beat. "If you're already trying to modify the spidroin gene, then the secretory cells might give you better a yield than bacterial expression."
Grace feels his chest puff up and his back straighten as he speaks, the confidence previously buried under years of teaching middle and high schoolers peeking out through the cracks in his spine. Tony is an engineer, and Peter's smart, but he's not a doctored molecular biologist, so maybe Grace can help in some way.
Tony goes quiet. It's a specific kind of quiet that Grace recognizes as an idea landing. He's staring at Grace, and his eyes are dark with something.
("Your resolution's sloppy," Stark said, not unkindly, which somehow felt worse. A floor full of delegates, and the guy was dismantling his entire argument with the precision of someone who'd been doing this since he could talk. "The policy recommendation's worthwhile, but the implementation is a mess."
Ryland was so furious. He also couldn't look away.)
"Friday, log that for later." Tony doesn't look away as he speaks. Neither does Grace.
The tour passes without incident, for the most part. Granted, Grace spends most of it looking at Tony and not, well, the lab, but he survived.
Tony and Peter walk him back to the elevators, the latter deciding to stay for a few more hours to get some work done in the lab.
Grace picks his bike helmet up from the table and throws it over his head haphazardly, the buckle sticking out away from his head like an antenna. He doesn't even get to fix it before Tony speaks up.
"Cute helmet," He says, gesturing to the lump on top of Grace's messy strands.
"Oh- uh, thanks. I bike to work," Grace responds, pointing at the helmet like a genuine idiot. Did he just call me cute?
"I like it. Eco-conscious." Tony says, before winking at him. Oh god.
"Right, eco-conscious." Grace splutters, in lieu of actually, I'm on a teacher's salary and having a car in this city is like throwing your rent into the gutter every month. He's so caught up in himself that he doesn't realize he takes the helmet back off, setting it on the same expensive-looking table.
Tony fits his sunglasses back up on his nose, whipping out a piece of what looks to be scratch paper with numbers on it. He holds it out between two fingers.
"My personal line, in case you need to reach out." He says, eyes lidded. "Or in case you want to discuss your ideas for the spidroin further."
(Stark slid a folded piece of paper across the table, a subtle gesture with two fingers. He didn't even bother breaking eye contact with the delegate he was currently cross-examining with.
Ryland opened it up under the table.
A time, a room number. Nothing else.
He had shown up anyways.)
Grace takes it.
He makes it approximately one block before he has to stop his bike and just stand there for a second, staring at the sidewalk. The moon is bright in the sky now, and the shadow of Avengers tower is eclipsing his view.
(Their legs tangled, and Ryland looked up at Tony, framed by the moon and stars.
"What?" Tony breathed out, breathless and lips swollen.
Ryland didn't answer, pulling him back down instead. His fingers brushed against cropped hair at the nape of Tony's neck and he could still taste that disgusting alcohol on both of their tongues.)
Grace gets back on his bike, and rides home faster than he got here.