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Tony yawns so wide his jaw cracks as he lets Friday catapult him from his lab to the Penthouse, exhausted after working himself to the bone for the last few days to finish a prototype he needs to present to the board on Monday.
Right, check on Peter, then collapse into bed. In order of priority. A year or two ago he would’ve convinced himself he was only checking on the kid so May didn’t kill him if something happened to her nephew, but he can admit now that it’s because he loves Peter every bit as much as May does.
After all these years, it’s almost like a little bit of Peter has embedded itself in Tony: he feels when he’s happy, when he’s sad, when he’s scared so much more viscerally than he’s ever done with anybody before. It must be the reason that even before he opens the door to Peter’s room, he knows something isn’t right.
When he cracks the door open, the bed is empty, the duvets crumpled on the mattress as though Peter had been tossing and turning for hours. “Friday?” he asks, panic seeping into his voice.
“Mini Boss is on the sofa in the Common Room, sir.”
He wastes no time in rushing down a couple floors to the lounge room of the Avengers’ living quarters, the urgency of the situation hitting him with full force. There’s no-one staying at the tower but him and Pepper right now, and Peter had clearly gone down there to be alone. In the middle of the night, that’s a bad sign. When the elevator spits him out on the right floor, he wastes no time in rushing towards the small figure curled up into a tiny ball, shrouded in what looks to be every blanket from every room on the entire floor.
He hears the quiet sniffling before he sees the tears, but his fear for his son’s mental state skyrockets immediately.
“Pete?” he asks, concern obvious in his voice as he rushes over to the sofa and crouches down in front of it, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
Peter’s eyes stay screwed shut, and he curls himself into a tighter ball, even if he can’t stop himself sniffling as tears leak down his cheeks.
“You don’t want to talk about it?” Tony asks, understanding his reaction. Peter frequently goes non-verbal when he’s sad or overwhelmed with any emotion, really. It had frightened him the first night Peter had stayed at the tower and got sad when he missed his aunt, but after years of finding his son in these sorts of situations he’s learned the best ways to deal with them.
Peter shakes his head, curling even further in on himself.
“Okay, bambino, you don’t have to, you know that,” he says soothingly, caressing his cheek gently as he catches a wandering tear with his thumb. “Do you want a cuddle? Or maybe a hot chocolate, a snack, a glass of water?”
Peter opens his eyes for the first time at that, blinking up at him with big, glossy brown eyes that make him melt every time he looks into them. He uncurls himself slightly and makes room on the sofa for Tony.
“You fancy a cuddle, huh?” he asks warmly. “I can’t blame you, Pete, I am an excellent cuddler.”
His levity teases a small smile from Peter as he follows orders and gets situated on the couch so that Peter is wedged in between him and the back of the sofa, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder as he allows an arm to snake around his waist and hold him closely. “Everything’s gonna be okay, baby. I’m right here.”
They lie like that for a while, Peter still crying softly, this time into his dad’s shoulder while Tony just cuddles him as close as possible, drawing patterns lightly with his finger over his face and arms and hands in a way that he knows calms Peter down. He knows better than to try and force him to talk, he knows that he’ll calm down in time, especially with close physical contact as reassurance, and he’ll speak to Tony when he’s ready.
It’s one of those moments that Tony could not have imagined happening six or seven years ago. His twenties and early thirties had been defined by one-night stands, short flings, and commitment issues. It had taken until Peter had almost died at the hands of the Vulture for him to realise he needed to get his act together sharp-ish , and the relationship he’d cultivated with both Peter and May had improved his life in ways he couldn’t even name.
Domesticity looks good on him, everyone always says, cooing and teasing (after they’d tested the waters so as not to embarrass Peter – everyone fucking loved the kid) when he kisses Peter on the forehead before he leaves for school the morning after staying the night at the tower, or declines an invitation out with them after a mission in favour of watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time, eating takeout and having a cuddle on the sofa. And he’d have to agree. Settling down comfortably into fatherhood was one of the most emotionally thrilling experiences he’s ever had. He didn’t know he could ever love someone so much.
Eventually, Peter’s soft cries subdue slightly, and he stirs a little in Tony’s hold, nestling his face further into his shoulder.
“You alright there, bambino?” he smiles, running a hand through his curls.
“You smell nice,” he admits, slinging his arm around Tony’s middle, cuddling him back properly.
“That’s very kind of you, kid,” he chuckles. “It’s also a lie. I’ve been down in the workshop for hours, I smell like motor oil and grease.”
“That’s a nice smell,” Peter insists. “Safe.”
Tony beams at that. This kid will be the death of him, he really will. “How are you doing?”
“Better,” Peter says, voice a little muffled by Tony’s t-shirt, the one currently covered in said motor oil and grease. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have nothing to thank me for,” he scoffs, twirling a curl around his finger and tugging at it affectionately.
Peter just hums, clearly sleepy from the tears and the late night.
“Do you want to talk about it, Pete?” Tony murmurs, not wanting to pressure him.
Peter sighs heavily, extracting his head from his dad’s shoulder. “I woke up feeling really sad,” he whispers, making Tony smile slightly in spite of the situation. Peter always finds it easier to talk about emotions or heavier topics if he whispers and it’s one of Tony’s favourite quirks of his, “and I couldn’t shake it. I don’t know why. Sometimes all the bad thoughts build up and then they unleash themselves all at once. Like I never think about my parents or my childhood really, but then on a night like this I can’t stop thinking about it and I don’t know why.”
Tony knows this, of course. Peter’s had many of these nights over the years, but he always likes to explain it, to put his emotions into words, into a medium he can process them in, so he listens diligently as his son works it over in his mind.
He ignores the fact that he knows what ‘Childhood’ is code for. Or rather, who. He pushes down the flash of anger that ignites in his gut and holds his kid as close as he can.
“I’m sorry, bambino,” he says, running his hand comfortingly up and down Peter’s side. “You should have come and got me from the workshop, I would’ve come and sat with you from the start.”
“You were busy,” Peter says in a small voice. “The new prototype.”
“Are you seriously suggesting I care more about a damned board deadline than I do about my son, Peter Parker?” His voice is teasing but he means every single word. “I’m just saying that in the future, you can always come and get me straight away, because sometimes Friday drops the ball and doesn’t notify me when she should.” He aims the last part pointedly at the ceiling, making Peter giggle.
“Sorry, boss,” Friday replies dutifully.
“I need to be here for my favourite young adult if he’s sad, don’t I?” Tony continues, needing to hammer it into Peter’s head.
Peter blushes a little at that, still awed and overwhelmed by the intensity of Tony’s fatherly love even if it’s been lavished on him for over three years now. “Thank you, dad,” he whispers, squeezing his waist tightly. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Tony smiles gently. Hearing Peter call him dad never fails to have him on the edge of tears. “Now, how about we get you a hot chocolate and a slice of toast, maybe some paracetamol for the inevitable post-cry headache and get you back to bed. We can leave a light on, and we’ll put a TV show on in the background for some mindless noise, okay?”
Years of experience had cultivated a very strict aftercare routine for nights like these. Peter’s far too overwhelmed with emotion and thoughts to go to sleep immediately after an experience like this no matter how sleepy he is, so familiarity and distraction are the best routes to getting him back to dreamland.
They drink their hot chocolates on the sofa together while Tony distracts him with pointless stories from his college days that Peter could probably tell with better accuracy than him, but tonight he appreciates the slightly monotonous conversation, the rhythm of it soothing him, bringing him down from the emotional rollercoaster he’s just been on.
He doesn’t even complain when Tony butters a slice of toast for him, knowing that it will be futile, but he ends up enjoying it anyway, the warmth of the hot chocolate and toast sitting nicely in his belly, soothing him from the inside.
Tony ushers him around to get them ready for bed again, forcing him to brush his teeth and have a quick shower. “You’ll feel better once you do,” he insists, and Peter rolls his eyes at him as he heads into the bathroom to obey.
Tony’s just glad he’s got a bit of his spark back.
“Come on, you,” Tony says when Peter emerges with minty fresh breath and water-tousled hair, before leading him back to Peter’s bedroom.
“Wait, Tony,” Peter protests as Tony tries to get him back in bed, looking suddenly shy again. “Can I wear one of your shirts to bed?”
“Of course you can, kid,” Tony says gently, recognising an earnest request when he sees one. “You can have anything you need from me.”
“I just… I like the smell, it’s comforting, and I want extra dad tonight,” he says, a little bashfully, despite feeling reassured by his dad’s reaction.
Tony’s heart melts at that as he rustles through his drawer to find the most comfortable t-shirt – only the best for his kid – and like he’s done so many times over the last few years, he wonders what on earth he did to get the karma that landed such a wonderful kid in his life, a kid who calls him dad no less.
“I understand, Peter, it’s all good,” he says softly as he hands it over, reorganising the duvets on the bed while Peter changes in his ensuite.
When he comes out, he barrels into Tony, hugging him tightly, burying his face into the fabric of Tony’s t-shirt once again. “Love you so much, dad” he murmurs.
“Oh, Peter,” he says. “I love you even more.”
Tony sets up an episode of Parks & Rec on the TV as Peter gets comfortable in bed, and then slides in next to him, letting Peter’s head rest in his lap as he lies down, poised for sleep.
Tony calls for the Nightmare Protocol, and Friday dims the main light and turns on the bedside lamp before turning down the TV’s volume so Peter won’t be tempted to comment on it. “You try and relax now, bambino. Sleep will come, and I’ll be right here.”
“Love you,” Peter mumbles for the third time that night.
“I love you too, kid,” Tony murmurs back, his hand tangled in Peter’s curls, but he’s not sure Peter’s awake long enough to hear him.