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ars-simia-animus · 4 years

Text

What I Can Afford is Yours

Chapter 3: “To Find Each Other and Bond”

Summary: Is it foolish to try to give much when you own so little?

Peter is discouraged and exhausted in his attempts to create something to give Mr. Stark for Christmas. Meanwhile, Tony remembers everything that drew him to Peter in the first place.

Trigger warning for this chapter: mild domestic violence (common for the time period); bigoted language against Jewish people

Read the chapter after the break.......

Rounding on three o’clock that morning, Peter’s makeshift kiln blew the iron pot five feet in the air and launched it into the brick of the adjoining building with a terrible peal that woke the neighbors and the Jamesons.

Peter had fanned the little fire, huddled in the sharply cold air, ever since he’d lit it, to drive the updraft of heat into the kiln. Now and then he startled awake after dozing, stung by frigid mist or the responsibility of his task; but, the kiln was reaching its intended temperature by the hour, as best he could judge. He saw the shaky plume of smoke leaving the flue and assumed the construction was a success.

However, as the heat built up so did an excess of fumes and the pressure was too much. The iron-pot-turned-missile blazed a moment when it hit the alley stones, the residual cooking oil alight in its bowl. “What the devil ?” Peter heard his master roar from above his head. Jameson leaned from the bedroom window, having been roused by the clangor of iron on brick.

“Jesus Christ, Parker! If I had known you were going to burn down the goddamn neighborhood …” Mr. Jameson didn’t finish the sentiment but brought down his birch switch across Peter’s shoulders.

Peter sat humbly on his stool before the pottery wheel, hands curled on his knees, docilely accepting the chastisement. He was too forlorn to be curious what his master meant or if he meant anything, which was very unlikely. He swallowed the sensations of pain and sorrow lumping in his throat. His clay figurine — his only present for Mr. and Mrs. Stark, which he’d endured so much to create — was still outside in the wrecked kiln he’d made. It may have also been destroyed when Mr. Jameson had trampled his construction.

“And at this ungodly hour! How am I supposed to get back to sleep?” Mr. Jameson paced behind him. Peter glanced at the clock over the workshop fireplace. In four hours he was due to start work. “You’re distracted all day by that… by that smug ass, Stark, and you waste my time and resources making foolish things— hummingbird whatsit my eye!”

Peter muttered as politely as he could: “Mr. Stark bought my hummingbird feeder— for a pretty price, I’m sure. And you did say if I earned you money, I could ‘follow my fancy.’”

Jameson bellowed, deafly: “Now you’re up all night menacing the neighborhood! Humiliating me… Even committing arson outside my home!”

“It was not my intention—“

“Don’t talk back to me, boy!” Mr. Jameson stopped pacing and planted his feet. Peter’s heart shuddered a little at the tone. Mr. Jameson often yelled— Peter knew he was mostly a lot wind and less destruction — but at the moment, Peter was exhausted, and still shivering from the chill, and much too sad to defend himself. “You’re not half so special as you think... Just because you’re the pet of some popinjay snob.”

Peter felt a rush in his ears as his temper stirred. Although he kept his head bowed, his jaw tightened, and his voice was low like a crouching beast. “Mr. Stark has been very kind to me and you should not badmouth him.”

However, Mr. Jameson had enjoyed the taste of the insult. He seemed fully awake now and invigorated. “That pompous milksop — he acts as though this shop is his.”

“He has nearly singly funded your business the past two years.” Peter’s voice grew taut. “And he’s been a faithful customer; what right do you have—?”

“I’ll not have some Jewboy brat question my rights.” Mr. Jameson snarled. “You’re here by my generosity, mind—“

“Mr. Stark’s generosity buys your bread and you spit on his name only because you envy his status—“

This earned him another harsh strike and he closed his eyes. Then he composed himself.

“I’m warning you, Pete!” Came Mr. Jameson’s voice.

Peter did stop then. Mr. Jameson held his means of living in his hand. It was not only the birch rod that threatened him. Without this apprenticeship, how could he provide his share to their household? How could May be proud of him as a man? Also, how could he practice the art that he loved, the one of which Tony claimed he would become a master? How else could he work with the expensive clays and glazes every day? Peter was testing Mr. Jameson too much. He gritted his teeth and willed his angry tears to hide.

Mr. Jameson was scarlet from his collarbone to his ears. He used the rod to emphasize his words, as if conducting an orchestra. “You’d better watch your mouth. Implying that I’m beholden to Stark…” His fingers gripped his jaw to stifle the rage. Peter glared at the ground. He wished Mr. Jameson would hurry up and go. “What am I envying, hmm? What? Unearned wealth and that strange, invisible wife—“

Peter stood from the stool and faced down his master. “Mrs. Stark is not strange!” He cried firmly. “She is gentle and brilliant and is always so busy yet finds time to contribute to the wellbeing of others. If she does not come to town it’s likely because she can’t stand the company of ignorant people.”

“What does a worthless sneak like you know? You mean to tell me you’ve met Mrs. Stark?” Jameson challenged.

A minute smirk leapt across Peter’s lips before he jibed: “Oh, you mean Pepper?”

The rod flew across Peter’s jaw. He reeled and was aware of a split in his bottom lip. Curling up on his stool again, he smoldered darkly in himself, but remained decidedly subdued.

“Goddamn it, Parker,” Mr. Jameson said with a quick look as though he might feel badly for striking the boy across the face. “Do you think I enjoy beating you? I try to teach you and you just don’t learn!” He strode across the floor, ready to exit the workshop. “Consider your wages for today mine as payment for your foolishness.”

The door slammed. Peter sighed from his place on the stool. He licked his lip before gingerly wiping the blood across the back of his fist. “What have you taught me?” He scoffed and rushed outside.

The kiln he’d made was wrecked, stomped under Mr. Jameson’s boots in the commotion that followed the explosion. The neighbors had demanded explanations from Mr. Jameson, who was standing in the alleyway with his coat over his old-fashioned nightgown. Babies were screaming within the next house and soon the perturbation had travelled down the block. Peter had been ordered inside before he could explain himself let alone beg to be allowed to finish the firing.

Peter crept to the remains and dug with his furnace tongs. Unearthing his little figurine, he returned to the workshop to inspect the damage. He knew before he saw it in the light that there was no hope to save it. Even if it had sintered, it was useless to think that the ceramic body had not fractured in the botched cooling process. Peter confirmed this when he set the little lovebird on the hearth of the workshop fireplace. Miserably, he huddled on the floor next to it and wept until he succumbed to sleep.

Tony met the genius apprentice two years ago, sitting out in the sunshine to do his work, which he was not permitted to do. J. Jonah Jameson’s Ceramics had a distinct disparity between the quality of its pieces. Most were uninspired even though they bore no technical flaws. Others, however, were passionately conceived, albeit not without weaknesses.

Tony had bought simple household items from Jameson before, choosing to have his ornamental china imported, and he doubted that the man had suddenly taken an artistic inclination. He would certainly never have hidden any ability of his that might be profitable. Tony’s passing curiosity was redoubled when he spotted a very small youth, sopping wet with clay slip, sitting out behind the shop on a crate, carving a design on a little amphora vase.

Tony stepped up to him and when the boy’s eyes tilted to meet him, he raised a gorgeously fired porcelain door knob handle, and asked: “ You made this, didn’t you?”

The eyes, like little round mirrors, went wide. “I— well— is it satisfactory to you, sir?”

“I bought it didn’t I?” Tony replied but smiled and the boy ducked into his shoulders. “It has fine crystallization.”

As if a switch were thrown, the kid began to ramble. “I experimented much when I mixed my glaze components, sir. I used plenty of frit and zinc oxide and not much aluminum. I had wanted to make a peach bloom glaze which I read about in a book, but the book didn’t have any instructions, just a description, and Mr. Jameson couldn’t tell me, either. But, when I saw the crystal growth on my test glaze, I thought it looked just like lace!” He paused, breathless, with a look of ecstasy.

Then he added: “I don’t mean to boast, sir; I was just pleased.”

“Looks as though your experiments paid off. The crystals are fully rounded, so you must have held them at the right temperature for a long while.” Tony mused.

“Yes, sir. I gave it a long soaking time. I also was slow to cool down. I was so very careful with my firing schedule, sir. I made that door knob set there and my master put it up for sale. I’m happy you’re satisfied with it!”

Tony hummed, looking at the boy. He hadn’t expected such a thorough answer. He clicked his tongue and asked, “What’s your name, kid?”

For a moment he didn’t think the boy would answer, then: “I’m Mr. Jameson’s apprentice.”

“But you had a name before that, I assume. They still give those to children, right?” Tony ribbed. “Or are we going straight to occupational titles?”

“Peter.” He answered shyly. “Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker. I’d like fourteen sets more of these, just like this one.” Tony again held up the doorknob handle. “Would you be able to manage that?”

Peter stared at the doorknob handle and up at Tony and back. He did this several times while his eyes grew wet. Tony began to panic, but Peter said, “Exactly like it, sir?”

“Well, not,” Tony said, “precisely, impossibly so. Just enough to match.”

To his horror the kid continued to well up in distress. “I — I‘m sorry, sir, I was experimenting greatly with the glaze composition and I think it was quite an accident that it turned out— ”

Peter looked as if he expected to be arrested for the confession. Tony hid his amusement and deflected. “It may have been an accident for you, but zinc oxide and silicon oxide molecules always bond at the right temperature. If the molecules can move around enough to find each other, they’ll arrange in strings around a zinc nucleus. Your very careful firing schedule is proof that you have a good understanding from which to work.”

“But, you see,” Peter said in a mousy voice, “I didn’t write down my measurements or all the components I used…”

“Well, that was silly.” Tony said. He was shocked when the boy flinched and began to redden across his eyes. Quickly, Tony dismissed the tears. “Good grief! It’s nothing to cry about.” He awkwardly put a hand on the kid’s head, if for no other reason, to hide from his crying face. When the boy’s emotions subsided, he sighed. “Tender-hearted, aren’t you? I just mean, always keep notes on your experiments. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “I will. Earlier you said zinc and silicon oxide make macro-crystals. I know I used lots of silica. Tell me more about molecules bonding and maybe I can figure out what I did, sir. Working backwards.”

Tony laughed a little at that. He pulled up another crate to sit on. Peter jumped up and laid a handkerchief across it for him. Tony began to explain about heat work and chemical compounds as they seemed to relate to Peter’s crystalline glaze.

Peter listened intently; it was evident on every feature. When Tony finished, Peter asked, “Do you know ceramics, sir?” There was a tint of worship to his words.

“No,” said Tony with a little laugh. “But I know a deal about material sciences. I'm a sort of mechanic.”

Peter laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Peter said quickly. Then, he shrugged. “It’s only that I know who you are and I think ‘mechanic’ is a funny way to describe yourself.”

“Oh, do you know me?” Tony’s mouth quirked in amusement and his brows opened.

Hearing people declare who he was was an almost daily experience for Tony. If they were of an older generation, they called him “Howard Stark’s son.” If they were in his own age group, they talked about his wealth as heir of Stark Industries. And, if they were younger, they may mention his inventions in addition to his inheritance. He had no idea what a child would say, but instead of anything he might have predicted, Peter said: “You’re Tony Stark. After you visited the Blessed Virgin Orphanage, they started giving us milk every day and meat for dinner. Everyone got a new blanket, too.”

A cloud of energy seemed caught in Tony’s face. He looked at Peter and muttered something like “is that right?” He readjusted his shoulders as though physically shaking off the sensation.

Peter gasped a little, excitedly, and said, “Yes, though, I was only there a couple of weeks while my uncle and aunt were located. They still lived in Philadelphia, you see. But, my experience after you came was much better and I’m sure it made a great difference for the boys who were there longer.”

Tony smiled a little. He sniffed and changed the subject. “You’re articulate for your age.”

This caused another blush which entertained Tony. Peter said, “I come from an educated family, though it may not look it. My parents were both scientists before coming to America. My father was a botanical chemist and my mother was an entomologist.”

“An entomologist, now? And a botanical chemist... My wife has quite an interest in both those fields of study. Well, more so birds than bugs, I guess.” Tony said thoughtfully.

“That would be ornithology.”

“Now you’re showing off.” Tony said and Peter giggled. The sound was a great relief to Tony. He decided to avoid any further conversation about the boy’s parents, not confident how prepared he would be for the potential topics or emotions.

“I still have a few drawings of my parents’. I copy them on my pottery.” Peter humbly indicated the beetle design carved on the vase and Tony had to crane to see it, the boy was too shy to show it properly. But he noticed the accuracy of the form. It was evident that he'd copied from a scientific drawing. Even though Peter’s hand was inexperienced, Tony recognized his talent. “Mr. Jameson said if I make him money, I can keep making pieces of my own design.“

“Hmm.” Tony said. “And what are your plans for this one?“

Peter’s eyes rivaled the sunlight. He gushed about all the designs he would carve in the leather hard body from Maltese everlasting to moon orchids to bee-flies, and then he listed the colorants he would add to the glazes to make every carved figure its own color. Over that he would attempt another transparent macro-crystalline glaze “using the knowledge you just taught me, sir!”

When Tony left, he shook Peter’s hand and said he would be back for his fourteen additional sets. Pepper asked him about his day that evening and he just furrowed his brows for a long time. “I had a conversation on chemistry in a Brooklyn back alley with a boy whose voice had not dropped yet.”

Pepper didn’t skip a beat. She replied, “I’m relieved to hear you were productive.”

Tony returned the next month to see Peter. He had no interest in going into the shop, so simply entered through the workshop door. Peter saw him and instantly began chatting about molecular bonding. He ran and got three more sets of doorknob handles like the one Tony bought that he had successfully created. “Nice work, kid.” Tony praised. Peter beamed and promised to keep trying until he’d made eleven more to match.

The second time Tony returned after meeting Peter, he found the boy standing on tiptoe on the stool and pushing his entire arm into a vase he was throwing. Tony rushed over as Peter teetered on the stool. He caught him firmly around his middle, exclaiming, “What are you thinking?”

Peter thanked Tony for catching him, his voice thick with concentration. His little hands were still manipulating the clay. “Could you keep holding me up, please, Mr. Stark?”

Tony held him, scowling, but briefly. “That’s as tall as you are.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Peter admitted: “I wanted to see how tall a vase I could throw.”

As soon as he was on the ground, Peter ran and retrieved six more doorknob handle sets. He apologized for not having the other five ready to sell yet. Tony nodded but was glad to have a reason to return again. He was captivated now.

#What I Can Afford is Yours #Amphora

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