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Tony considers it an omen that he happens to be prepping ingredients for one of his mom’s old soup recipes, one of the only things he’s capable of cooking, when FRIDAY patches through a call from a rather snotty sounding Peter.
"Hey, Tony."
"Jesus, kid," Tony says as he throws diced onion into a warm pot, "you sound like shit."
"Thanks," Peter grumbles, words thick and congested. "I miss you too."
"Guess even that hardy immune system of yours is no match for a college dorm, huh?"
"S’all Johnny’s fault. He had it first. And I’m pretty sure he hasn’t washed his comforter once since we got here."
"Right. And unlike your festering roommate, you’re practising top notch hygiene, are you?"
The room goes momentarily silent save for the simmering of the onion and Peter’s heavy breathing.
"...I don’t miss you anymore."
"Aw, sure you do!" Tony teases. "Isn’t that why you called?"
"No," Peter huffs moodily.
Tony starts in on the celery, chopping it as finely as possible after throwing a cursory glance over his shoulder to check that Morgan isn’t around, waiting to pounce on him in outrage for the use of her most hated vegetable. Parent superpower number one hundred and ten: resisting the temptation to tell your child that the food they hate is actually something they eat a lot of without realising.
"So you just called to chat to dear old me? Aren’t I lucky."
Peter’s response is a long string of wet, gasping coughs that make Tony pause and look up in concern.
"You really sound terrible, Pete. You taking something for that?"
Something that sounds like tissues rustling fills the air, and then Peter’s rasping voice eventually coughs, " Uh...Not really?"
Tony narrows his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"So, I sorta ran outta pain meds a few weeks ago, y’know, after that thing with the boat and the broken flag pole?"
"If you’re referring to the incident in which you managed to nearly turn yourself into a shish kabob in the Charles River," Tony says, his tone none too happy, "then yeah, I know." He sighs and throws the celery into the pot. "So you got nothing?"
"I mean, Johnny said he’d grab me some Gatorade on his way home - "
"Oh, come on," Tony groans around a weak laugh. "How’s that gonna help?"
"The blue flavour is nice!"
"I always said you had no taste. The whole pineapple on pizza thing is bad enough."
"You eat caviar. That’s way worse."
"Once! I’ve eaten it in front of you once ," Tony says, feeling his chest ache with suppressed laughter and blooming affection, as is typical whenever he speaks to Peter, "and that was at a function. A function to commend the efforts of Spider-Man in keeping Queens safe, in case your snot-drenched brain forgot that little detail."
"Boo," Peter grumbles through a yawn. "Always mean to me. Terrible superhero. Terrible dad-like man."
"I’m retired, brat. And I’ll retire from being your dad-like man, " Tony does the air quotes to go along with his sarcastic tone even though Peter can’t see, "if you’re not careful."
"Booooo."
"You are a five year old trapped in a teenager’s body," Tony says, grabbing a carrot, eyeing it critically then tossing it aside in favour of a different one. "So seeing as you’re fresh out of anything useful, I guess Tony Stark’s Delivery Service is in business. Anything else you’d like to add to your order besides super strength pain pills?"
"My order of...huh?"
There’s a sleepy slur to Peter’s voice now, despite the fact that it’s mid-afternoon. Tony shakes his head fondly, picturing him sprawled on his bed in a messy nest of blankets and used tissues.
"I’ll see you soon, bud."
"Mmhmm."
Tony rolls his eyes as the call ends, then gets back to making the soup. In goes the carrot, along with plenty of garlic, a generous amount of cannellini beans and canned tomatoes. He retrieves the tub of defrosted chicken broth from the fridge, surplus from Happy’s own homemade supply, and pours that in, stirring everything together. He sets aside a bag of small pasta shapes and a few sprigs of various herbs, plucked from the pot on the windowsill, to go in later and then trots up the stairs.
"Morgunaaa," he calls as he approaches the room at the end of the hallway, knocking loudly on the door. "Yoohoo, anybody home?"
A bossy, "Password!" comes through the door.
"Hmmm...Daddy is amazing?"
"Nope!"
"Daddy is the best?"
"Nooo!"
"Ugh, fine," Tony groans dramatically. "Mummy is queen of all the land."
"Enter!"
Tony grins as he pushes the door open, walking into the middle of what is clearly a very important tea party. It’s becoming a less frequent sight these days to see Morgan playing make believe with her toys, so Tony gives himself a moment to lean in the doorway and appreciate the moment.
It’s not the most conventional of tea parties. Nearly every single one of Morgan’s stuffed animals appears to be in attendance, all crammed around Morgan’s little craft table with a cup and saucer each. There’s also a replica Iron Man helmet, a fishbowl full of goldfish crackers and the ficus from down the hall. A large plastic plate covered in play food and a leftover baloney sandwich rests in the middle of the table upon some sort of lacey netting. The big purple crocodile that Happy had given Morgan a few months ago for Christmas sits on the biggest of the chairs, sporting a crown on his head, while Morgan herself sits beside him, dressed in a cape and top hat.
She gives Tony a big smile and holds up a plastic cup. "Tea?"
"Please," Tony says. He inclines his head towards the crocodile. "What’s the occasion?"
"It’s Mister Winslow’s birthday."
"Does that make him King Mister Winslow today then?" Tony asks as he settles on the floor by Morgan, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
"Uh huh."
Tony accepts the cup she’s offering him. "And how old is His Royal Toothiness?"
He’s super old," Morgan says, eyes going wide for emphasis. "So, so old."
"How old?"
"Like, thirty!"
Tony chokes on his chuckle. He wonders just how ancient his daughter would consider him to be if she had a true concept of age, but he decides not to burst her adorable bubble and simply kisses her nose this time instead.
"Think King Mister Winslow would mind an outing for his birthday instead of a tea party?"
Morgan gives him a thoughtful look, sending the usual rush of joy through Tony that he feels whenever she does something to remind him of Pepper.
"Where?"
"To hang out with Uncle Happy until Mommy gets back."
Morgan suddenly sniffs the air and hums happily. "You’re making your magic soup!"
"Yeah. Guess I had a hunch ‘cause Peter called and he’s sick, so I’m gonna take him some soup and medicine."
"Can I come?" Morgan asks, hat falling from her head as she scrambles into Tony’s lap excitedly. "Please? I’m super good at looking after sick people."
"You sure are," Tony agrees, wincing at the memory of the last time he’d fallen ill and been subjected to Morgan’s overenthusiastic nursing skills. "But I don’t want you catching it, baby, so it’s best you stay behind this time."
Morgan pouts and Tony braces himself for an unhappy outburst at the unfairness of not being able to see Peter. But then she sighs, reminiscent of Pepper once more, and reaches over to pluck Mister Winslow from his chair.
"Here," she says, shoving him forward so his snout pokes Tony in the face. "He can cheer Petey up."
Tony tucks Mister Winslow under his arm, taking care to keep the crown straight. "C’mon, bambino. Let’s pack some stuff and then you can help me finish the soup."
One overnight bag containing clothes and an assortment of meds, a bulging Iron Man backpack full of toys and a large thermos of soup later, the two of them and Mister Winslow are heading out the front door when a familiar car rolls up along the dirt track.
"What are you doing here?" Tony calls.
"Oh, that’s nice," Rhodey laughs as he steps out, bending down to scoop a cheering Morgan up for a quick hug. "Can’t a man visit some of his favourite people just because he wants to?"
Tony grins widely at him. "Have I ever told you that you’re the most wonderful honeybear in all the world?"
"Oh, man," Rhodey groans, setting Morgan down and watching her run off towards her rope swing. "Should I just leave now?"
"I mean there’s nobody comparable to you."
"Tony - "
"Brave, strong, so handsome - "
"Tony - "
"I’m being serious, sourpatch, you are quite the snack - "
"Seriously!" Rhodey shakes his head with a laugh. "Whatever it is, I’ll do it if it’ll get you to stop."
"Peter’s sick so I gotta go take care of him."
"What?" Rhodey immediately sobers. "Why? What’s wrong?"
"Flu would be my guess."
Rhodey raises an eyebrow. "Actual flu? Or is this you having a case of missing my kid-itis?"
Tony glares at him and Rhodey sighs. "So you’re driving up to MIT? Right now?"
"Kid’s sick, Rhodey," Tony says with a helpless shrug.
Rhodey’s expression turns soft. "And let me guess, you want me to stay here and watch Morgan?"
"If you wouldn’t mind. I was gonna take her to Happy but you’re clearly here to save the day."
"Aren’t I always?" Rhodey jerks his head. "Go on, I’ve got her."
Tony deposits the bag and soup into the car, shares a quick hug with Rhodey, bestows plenty of kisses to Morgan’s cheeks and makes a show of strapping Mister Winslow securely in the front passenger seat before setting off, waving out the window until he can no longer see the cabin in his rearview mirror.
He makes a reservation at a hotel close to campus, rattles off a text for FRIDAY to send to May, then puts a call through to Pepper, feeling stupid amounts of sappy happiness at the sound of her voice as she tells him to drive safe and keep her updated.
It’s a long drive. In the suit, it would take hardly any time at all, a thought which Tony tries not to dwell on too much as he taps his metal fingers against the steering wheel in time with the music playing on the radio. He tries to appreciate the scenery, making the odd quip to Mister Winslow every so often, but despite his charmingly adorable appearance, the stuffed croc isn’t great company compared to Tony’s preferred travel buddies.
After about two hours, when his legs start to really ache, Tony pulls over at the cheerful diner he and Peter had stopped at on the return drive just after Christmas. The waitress behind the counter recognises him from his previous visit and offers a wide smile and a cheery, "Hiya, stranger!" as he steps inside, Mister Winslow under his arm once again. Call it paranoia, but Tony knows Morgan will be able to sense if he leaves the thing unattended for more than a minute.
He doesn’t linger, just long enough to use the restroom, grab a quick tuna sandwich and then a coffee to go before he’s heading for the car again. He spares a minute to fumble for his phone and snap a picture of himself and the stuffed croc standing next to the giant ice cream cone by the front door to send to Morgan later, and then hits the road once more.
By the time Tony arrives on campus, it’s coming up for eight o’clock. It’s Saturday night, so the place is hardly quiet as groups of friends head out to parties and events, but he manages to remain mostly unnoticed despite the purple crocodile under his arm.
And the fact that he's, you know, quite clearly Tony Stark.
The very stoned students he encounters on the stairs in Peter’s building recognise him too, though they’re far more interested in Mister Winslow. He allows them a moment or two of dopey fawning over the toy, waving off their gushing farewells when they eventually stumble off.
He makes it to the correct floor, only to pause as he sees a familiar figure step out of Peter’s room and start to close the door.
"What’cha upto, Johnny?"
A rather high pitched shriek bounces off the walls as Johnny Storm leaps about a foot in the air and whirls around, hair smoking at the roots. He throws a hand up to his chest and groans as he spots Tony.
"Holy fuck, man! Jeez - you know I could have this place up in flames in like two seconds, right?"
"Bet you’re a real hit at parties," Tony rolls his eyes. "Peter in there?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. He’s all gross and sick but I've been making sure he’s getting enough fluids, you know. Gotta take care of my best buddy," Johnny says proudly.
"Uh huh. And we all know how healthy energy drinks are, don’t we."
Johnny shrugs. "Works for me." His gaze falls onto Mister Winslow and he grins. "Nice gator."
"It’s a crocodile, smokey," Tony says, jerking his head. "Now go on, get outta here before I call Reed and let him how many fire alarms you’ve really set off since you’ve been here."
"Oh my god, man, it was one time - "
"Was it though?"
Johnny’s mouth snaps shut. He blinks, then pouts petulantly, resembling a grumpy puppy. "The hell are you supposed to be anyway, the fun police?"
"Yep," Tony says, grinning when Johnny’s pout turns into a scowl.
Despite his tendency to spontaneously combust on occasion and his apparent lack of comforter washing, Tony knows that Johnny is a good kid. It's hard not to have a fairly high opinion of the guy considering how he’d barely batted an eyelid after finding Peter bleeding from a knife wound on their shared bathroom floor, still clad in the Spider-Man suit and barely conscious.
Tony had been ready to rain down hellfire, more than willing to string all the X-Men, with whom he only had a faint acquaintance with via the occasional gala handshake with Reed Richards, up by something far more painful than their ears if it meant keeping Johnny quiet.
Luckily, Tony’s protective fury had been unneeded because Johnny had turned out to be pretty damn trustworthy, as well as quite handy in a crisis. The whole ability to cauterise on command is something Tony won’t sneer at anytime soon, not with the amount of injuries Peter’s been known to tally up every month.
So despite the odd recurring nightmare of the inevitable day that an overgrown spider and a human torch decide to team up and cause untold mayhem that will likely kill him via a heart attack, Tony likes Johnny.
Not that he’d ever tell Johnny that.
Tony makes a sweeping gesture at a still scowling Johnny’s outfit. "You gonna be gone all night?"
Johnny shrugs. "Maybe? I’m going to a party at - "
"Great," Tony waves him away from the door. "Have fun. Mind your manners. Don’t forget to wrap - "
"Ew, no, no no!" Johnny suddenly shouts, fingers turning white with heat as he plants them over his ears and jogs down the hall. "You’re old, that’s gross, don’t wanna hear it. Man, Peter’s right, you’re worse than Reed!"
"I resent that!" Tony calls after him.
The door to Peter’s room is still slightly ajar so Tony nudges it wider with his foot, peering into the gloomy darkness, the light from the hallway projecting his shadow all the way to the far wall.
It’s a little stuffy inside but the space is relatively clean considering that it houses two teenage boys, with only the odd empty canister of energy drink and crumpled takeout box here and there.
The right side of the room is haphazardly neat, a few outfits discarded on the rumpled bed and, hilariously, a vintage poster of Captain America tacked up by the window. A scruffy teddy bear peaks out from behind the open laptop on the desk. The left side is much more recognisable with the Star Wars posters adorning the wall, a desk stacked high with textbooks and an overflowing wicker basket of laundry containing a familiar sweatshirt emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo, slightly faded from many rounds in the wash.
All in all, it doesn’t look too different from what Tony knows of it through the pictures Peter had sent after they left him on moving in day, except one of the beds is covered in a much more impressive selection of blankets and used tissues than Tony remembers. They shift sluggishly in time with the laboured breathing coming from the lump buried beneath them, and a half empty Gatorade bottle falls to the floor with a soft clatter.
Tony shucks his jacket and sets down his bag and the thermos but keeps the croc close as he makes his way over. He cracks open the window about halfway to let some air in, then reaches for his phone as it starts to vibrate in his pocket, glancing quickly at the screen before answering.
"If it isn’t my favourite aunt in the whole world."
Peter’s breathing stutters at the sound of his voice, tapering off into a funny little wheeze.
"You sound like such a creep when you say things like that," May replies.
"Ah, there’s that famous Parker charm I’ve come to love so much. Between you and the kid, I’ve never felt more adored."
"Is he alright?"
Another raspy whistle of breath flows around the room.
"Well, he’s breathing," Tony snorts.
"Tony, that in no way answers my question and you damn well know it."
"Cool your jets, mama bear. I bumped into his pyromaniac roommate a minute ago and he didn’t give me any cause for concern. About Peter, at least. Himself on the other hand…"
May makes a displeased sound, the one that Tony knows always makes Peter stand up a little straighter whenever he hears it. "Don't get me wrong, I like the guy, but the fact he’s a pyromaniac doesn’t give me any confidence in his ability to judge what’s concerning and what’s not."
"Point taken." Tony freezes as the lump in the bed moves again with a bit more vigour this time. "I’ll call you back in a sec."
"You better."
"Promise."
Tony tucks his phone away and steps closer to the bed. Peter finishes wriggling around, tucked up on his side with the blankets under his chin and one arm up by his head, mouth wide open and nose as red as a tomato.
With practised gentleness, Tony presses a hand against Peter’s forehead. Finding only a mild temperature, he sighs with relief just as Peter stirs under his touch, one eye peeking open.
"Huh?"
"Nothing, kiddo," Tony says softly. "Just checking you’re not melting."
"Oh," Peter grumbles as he reaches a hand out to snag the hem of Tony’s jacket. "H’lo."
"Hi, bud."
"S’that f’me?" Peter asks as he moves his hand to pat lazily at Mister Winslow’s face.
"Oh, yeah. Just a loaner though. Sent with lots of love and kisses from your sister."
"Aw," Peter hums, accepting the stuffed croc and promptly burying his face into it. "Smells good."
"Like Morgan?"
"Like the cab’n. S’nice."
"Can you even smell anything?"
Peter’s grumbling reply tells Tony nothing, but the loud, congested snore that immediately follows does.
"Nu uh," Tony pokes Peter’s shoulder, "you gotta stay awake for a bit longer, kid. Need to get some meds in you."
The groan Peter gives is pitiful, quickly twisting into a bout of lung-deep coughing that has him lurching upright, a hand seizing Tony’s arm and holding tight. Mister Winslow topples to the floor as Tony drops onto the edge of the bed, bracing an arm around Peter’s back and catching some of his weight as he buckles under the force of the coughs.
"Steady, Underoos," Tony murmurs close to Peter’s ear, clapping his hand against Peter’s chest and rubbing gently. "Try and breathe, bud."
Peter manages to wheeze wetly, a few more weak hacking sounds escaping him before he lets himself slump backwards, knocking Tony back into the pillows a little.
"Well," Peter croaks, "that sucked."
"Surprised you didn’t actually expel a lung there."
"Mm," Peter sniffs, moving a hand to rub at his face. "Where’s Johnny?"
"At a party," Tony says, shifting Peter just enough to reach down and grab the Gatorade bottle. "Can’t believe I’m about to say this but bottoms up, kid."
Peter takes the bottle in a shaky grip and downs almost all of the remaining contents, the staticky tremors running through him finally tapering off. Tony fidgets as a twinge of discomfort starts to bloom in the small of his back, the cheap pillows sitting just a little too high behind him to offer much support. He stays put anyway and lifts a hand to settle in Peter’s hair, toying softly with the curls with well versed twirls of his fingers. Peter casts the bottle aside and slouches into the mattress, taking up most of the room even as he smooshes his face into the pillow and moulds himself into a ball.
"Have you grown?" Tony asks affectionately even as his bones twinge with an odd kind of melancholy at the realisation. "Been eating your greens like I told you? You don’t seem as small as the last time I saw you."
"Rude."
"Not rude, just truthful. Believe it or not, you are no longer a scrawny spindly spider."
"What kind am I then?"
"You’re asking me?" Tony snorts. "Thought you’d be the expert by now."
"Johnny thinks I’m gonna grow fangs one day."
"If you do, please bite him first."
"Why would I bite anyone?" Peter laughs, turning his head to the side so one eye is visibly looking up at Tony’s face. "I’m a friendly - "
"Don’t give me all that," Tony rolls his eyes, a smile twitching on his lips. "You’d chomp someone out of curiosity and you know it."
The buzz of Tony’s phone ringing catches both their attention. Leaning to the side to retrieve it from his pocket, Tony hangs awkwardly over the edge of the bed and tries to grab Mister Winslow at the same time. There’s a horrible second where he can’t quite right himself and he flails for purchase, somehow answering the phone just as Peter curls a fist into his shirt and pulls him back with a little too much force.
Tony squawks loudly and there’s a pause before an inpatient May asks, "What the hell are you doing?"
"Questioning my life choices," he replies, handing Mister Winslow over to Peter and slapping a hand over his heart. "Nearly suffering a heart attack due to our favourite teenager, the usual. What are you doing?"
"S’that May?" Peter rasps, tucking the croc into his arms and pressing his face into Tony’s side as he shuffles closer, forcing Tony onto the edge of the bed again. "Hi, May."
Tony puts the call onto speaker just as May says, "Hi, baby. How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Peter says automatically, then sneezes into Tony’s shirt. "Oh, that’s gross."
"You’re telling me," Tony grumbles as a cold wetness seeps through to his skin. "Though this definitely isn’t the grossest thing that’s happened to me."
"None of your inappropriate stories, Stark."
"I was actually referring to the time Morgan caught that evil, definitely sent from hell stomach bug two winters ago," Tony says, "but now that you mention it - "
"Peter," May says loudly while Tony cackles, "you’re clearly not fine so why don’t you just save us all the time and tell me, okay?"
Her tone commands no nonsense and Peter is quick to give in. "Feel crap," he admits.
May makes sympathetic noises while Tony’s hand naturally finds its way into Peter’s hair again, rubbing his fingers against Peter’s scalp in gentle patterns, the kind that always helps loosen whatever tension and discomfort Peter might be carrying.
True to form, Peter melts at the contact, barely managing to offer a coherent response to May’s questions about his sleeping habits and food intake as he slumps heavily into the mattress.
"Did you pet him to sleep again?" May asks knowingly, fondly.
Peter hums something unintelligible, likely trying to deny the truth.
May laughs. "Take that as a yes."
Tony smiles, resting his palm against Peter’s forehead again. There’s a bit more heat there this time but not enough to cause alarm.
"You’ve got this, right?"
"Who do you think you’re talking to?" Tony scoffs.
"Tony."
The concern in May’s voice is enough to jar Tony, tapping into his own worries, all the things that he never thought he’d fret about once upon a time. Now it’s just pure instinct to want to do whatever it takes if it means Peter’s okay. He’s hardly a child anymore, so much closer to adulthood than ever before, but he’s still just a kid: May’s kid, her baby, the boy she’s centered almost all of her own little universe around since Peter was six years old.
But he’s also amazingly wonderfully thankfully Tony’s kid too, so Tony gets it on so many levels.
It’s not like with Morgan where these sorts of things can be made a million miles better with kisses, children’s Tylenol and, in some cases, shameful bribery. This is Peter who doesn’t get sick usually, if at all; Peter who tries to shoulder on and hide injuries and pain even though he should know better by now; Peter who hasn’t been sick since he spread his metaphorical wings and flew the nest, so it’s no surprise that it’s troubling May more than it probably would if she were actually here.
"I’ve got this," Tony reassures. "No cold or sickness has bested me yet."
"I think the hell-sent stomach flu would say otherwise."
"Hasn’t been back since, has it?" Tony points out, earning a laugh. "I rest my case. Give me twenty-four hours - hell, give me twelve - and I bet you I’ll have kicked this cold’s ass straight out of Peter’s tiny window."
"If you’re wrong - "
"If I’m wrong, I’ll cover dinner for our next three co-parenting powwows. Wherever you like. We can hit up somewhere super swanky and order absolutely everything on the menu just so you can call me obnoxious, ‘cause I know you like doing that. We’ll go somewhere that does lobster."
May’s laughing again and Tony can hear the trust in it, the hint of faith in him that he’s never truly sure he deserves but wants to be worthy of in any way that he can.
'' Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal."
"I’ll take care of him, May."
"I know."
Tony manages to rouse Peter enough for him to say a garbled goodbye to May, and then sets about digging out the pain meds.
"S’all that f’me?" Peter asks, blinking sluggishly at the mess of bottles and packets spread out across his comforter.
"I like having options," Tony says, picking up a clear bottle of large orange pills and shaking it thoughtfully. "Remind me, were these the ones that made your puke bright red or the ones that made you blind for an hour?"
"Uh…" Peter squints and then rubs his eyes. "Both. Why d’you still have ‘em?"
"Hey, these little beauties have stomped out fevers bad enough to literally melt your brain, a little temporary blindness and exorcist-style hurling is worth it, let me tell you," Tony says, throwing the bottle aside in favour of a large vial of yellow liquid.
Peter’s face turns a horrendous shade of green. "No."
Tony wiggles the vial. "Was this the one that - "
"Yes."
"Okay, definite no to that," Tony agrees, tossing it back onto the bed. He makes a triumphant noise as he spots a small tub with a smiley face on it. "Ah, here we go," he says, grabbing the tub and popping it open to peek in at the small collection of white pills inside. "These will probably knock you sparko for a few hours, but they should do the trick. Always worked for Steve."
"Yay," Peter grumbles and holds out his hand so Tony can tip two pills onto his palm. They disappear quickly along with one final gulp of Gatorade, The effect is damn near instantaneous, turning Peter’s whole body lax until he’s a mess of sleep-heavy limbs and unruly hair beneath the comforter.
Tony quickly brushes a thumb across the apple of Peter’s right cheek. "See ya in a bit, kiddo."
Peter’s slurred reply quickly trickles into a snore that makes him cough.
"Jesus," Tony mutters, prodding Peter into the shoulder until he rolls onto his side, mouth wide open and already drooling.
He gives the kid’s hair a gentle ruffle and adjusts the covers, then busies himself with tidying up. He throws all the used tissues, empty drink cans and takeout containers into a black sack, grabs a few wayward socks and tosses them into the laundry basket and hangs up the damp towel that he finds lying on the bathroom floor. The medicine cabinet door is half open and Tony catches a glimpse of a large hoard of condoms and lube bottles before he quickly shuts it, taking a deep breath as he fights the urge to laugh or cry hysterically, he can’t quite decide which.
Well, at least he knows safety is being taken seriously in at least one aspect of Peter’s life.
Assuming the stuff is in fact Peter’s, of course. It could be Johnny’s, or it could be a communal stash between the two of them, there to be dipped into whenever needed.
Tony palms his face with a groan, furiously glad that nobody, especially Rhodey, is here to witness him having a miniature crisis over his pseudo-son having some kind of sex life.
Peter was fifteen and small five minutes ago, what the hell happened?
Tony stumbles out of the bathroom, catches sight of the horror that is the overflowing laundry basket, and decides that the only remedy for his trauma is to do something mundane but useful; something that provides him with the comforting knowledge that Peter still needs a bit of looking after sometimes, despite his growth spurt and the contents of his medicine cabinet.
After scribbling a note about his whereabouts for Peter and throwing the black sack down the trash chute at the end of the hall, Tony carts the basket down to the laundry room. It’s thankfully empty with only one machine at the far end running, filling the room with an almost hypnotic thrumming.
Tony sets the basket down on the bench in the middle of the room and eyes the washers thoughtfully, pausing when he notices the pale lemon one standing out amongst the row of otherwise white machines.
It looks ancient, all scuffed and rickety with deep dents and grooves in the metal casing.
It also looks familiar.
Tony steps closer and peers at it, snorting in disbelief when he spots the two sets of initials carved right beside the coin slot.
T.S
&
J.R
"Unbelievable," Tony murmurs, pulling out his phone to call Rhodey. "You remember Betsy?" he asks as soon as the man answers.
"Betsy?"
"Yeah, Betsy. From college. College Betsy."
Rhodey sighs wearily. "I don’t know, man, you slept with a lot of people in college - "
"What?" Tony says impatiently. "No, no, Betsy the washing machine. Big yellow thing. You smacked your head on her that night we got wasted on tequila." Tony runs his fingers over one of the dents. "Or was that me?"
"That was you. I remember cleaning up the blood the next morning while you threw your guts up in our bathtub and I tried not to pass out from that god awful hangover. I still can’t stand the smell of lime, you know."
"Ah, memories," Tony hums merrily.
"Are you sure it’s Betsy? She was getting on even when we were there."
"Definitely her," Tony says, rubbing his thumb over young Tony’s handiwork, letting it catch against his skin.
"We didn’t even live in the building that Peter’s in."
"So they moved her. God, doesn’t that just say it all about the state of education these days."
"Do you have any idea how middle aged you sound right now? What the hell does an old washing machine have to do with school?"
"Seeing as I donate a shit ton of money to this place every year, I’m deeply disturbed. If they’re scrimping on the utilities, what other madness might be occurring?"
Rhodey goes silent and Tony muffles a laugh into his sleeve.
"Can I go now or do you need to be a pain in my ass for a little longer?"
"How’s my baby?"
"Fast asleep on the couch."
Tony checks his watch and whistles. "Wow. A whole two hours before she normally gives up. Tell me your secrets, platypus."
"A magician never reveals his secrets, Tones. Used to be able to get you to sleep too despite your claims of never needing it, don’t forget. Guess it’s a Stark thing."
The fond warmth in Rhodey’s voice somehow seems to transcend the distance, reminding Tony of long gone nights where he’d drift off listening to Rhodey’s deliberately soft voice read aloud from a magazine or a book.
"Don’t know what you’re talking about," Tony grumbles playfully.
"Uh huh," Rhodey chuckles. "Why are you even in the laundry room anyway?"
"Just helping out."
"Helping out…"
"Yeah. Helping out, that’s what I said."
Rhodey is quiet for a few seconds. Then he laughs, a burst of cackling that he quickly stifles into a quiet rumble, the one that Tony can picture so clearly in his head because he’s heard it so many times before. "Oh, man. I thought you hit peak dad mode when you wore that little papoose thing for Morgan, but I was wrong. THIS is it right here. You’re doing your kid’s laundry for him!"
Tony tilts the phone away from his ear, leaning his head back to snort at the ceiling as Rhodey continues to laugh.
"This is one of the best things to ever happen to me, I hope you know that, Tones. This is a gift of a moment."
"Are you done?" Tony asks grumpily as Rhodey cackles again.
Rhodey inhales shakily, a shrill wheeze proceeding a very strained sounding, "Yes."
Tony hums approvingly, then squints along the row of machines again before cursing.
"What?"
"All of these need a student ID card to work." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "Suppose I could pry one of them open and - "
"Or you could just use Betsy."
"Didn’t she shrink all of your underwear once?" Tony asks.
"Pretty sure that was your fault."
"How dare you."
"Can I go now? As fun as this has been, Pepper is due home any minute and I think I hear a bottle of wine calling."
"Making time with my wife, huh, honeybear?"
"Only on the weekends. Good luck, Tones."
Having left his wallet upstairs in his jacket, Tony spends the next ten minutes trying to pull the casing off a few of the machines with no luck, and then pokes his head out the door to ask a passing student for spare change. They show no signs of recognising him as they root around in their pocket, so he feels confident that there won’t be reports of Tony Stark begging people for money come morning.
As his brief lessons in laundry etiquette during captivity had taught him to do, Tony digs out all the dark clothes first and throws them into Betsy’s drum, rolling his eyes when he empties the pockets of a pair of jeans and finds a squashed packet of jelly beans and a very crumpled five dollar bill.
Next, he grabs the small box of powder and bottle of fabric softener from the bottom of the basket and pours them into the dispenser tray. The setting dials are stiff as hell and his fingertips turn red as he twists them round to what he hopes are the correct positions; the faded letters and numbers making it seem like a game of Russian roulette with the potential for shrinkage at an alarming high.
Then, with bated breath, he pushes a few coins into the slot and hits the power button.
Nothing.
Tony murmurs a soft, "Sorry, Betsy," and delivers a sharp kick.
There’s an ominous groan, a long gurgle, and then water starts to fill the drum.
Resisting the urge to do a victory dance, Tony sighs loudly with relief and flops onto his back on the bench. He sends a text to Pepper, playfully grumbling about her ‘stealing his Rhodey time’, then lazily plays a few games of Candy Crush while he waits.
When Peter suddenly appears in the doorway a while later, breathing like a clogged engine and wearing a blanket like a cape, Tony’s been stuck on the same level for nearly twenty minutes and managed to nearly finish all of the laundry without anything shrinking or falling apart.
Tony sets his phone down and eyes Peter curiously as the kid sways drowsily where he stands. He’s definitely had a growth spurt, albeit only a slight one, as evidenced by the broader width of his shoulders and the large gap between his ankles and the cuffs of his ridiculously purple pajama pants.
"Guess you burnt through that dose pretty quick, huh, kid," Tony says as Peter peers somewhat grouchily over at him. "Sorry about that."
Peter starts to shuffle over, then pauses as he spots the half-full basket of clean clothes sitting by the dryer.
"Stole m’clothes."
"Excuse you, snotty," Tony scoffs. "I didn’t steal anything."
Peter moves closer, squints at him though glassy, red eyes, then pokes him in the leg with a bare foot. "You real?"
Tony’s insides turn gooier than melted marshmallows.
"Yeah, bud, I’m real."
"Oh," Peter sniffs, smiling dopily as he huddles into his blanket-cape. "Hi."
"Hi," Tony echoes, setting his hand against the back of Peter’s neck, finding clammy skin. "Did you think you dreamt me up?"
"Mm," Peter hums roughly. "Feel weird."
"Yeah, the meds will do that do you."
Peter’s eyes close and he tilts on the spot, leaning his weight against Tony’s side.
Yep, definitely taller, Tony thinks as he wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and stands silently for a moment, letting his chin rest atop Peter’s hair. In his more melancholy moments, Tony will admit to himself that he misses things like this: the feeling of being needed in this way, of being able to offer comfort and solutions via a simple hug. Between the distance and Peter growing up, it’s all been steadily changing, as it’s meant to.
Still, he can’t resist giving Peter a quick squeeze and pressing a kiss against a very sweaty hairline.
"C’mon, you need more sleep."
"Okay," Peter murmurs agreeably. He pulls away and begins to meander towards the door, only to stop by the quietly rattling dryer. Without warning, he topples forward onto the basket of dry clothes in a dead weight.
Tony curses and hurries to help him, only to pause as Peter gives a pleased sort of purr, tucking himself beneath his blanket as much as he can,
"Kid?" Tony says cautiously.
"Gonna sleep here," Peter sighs, nuzzling his face into a folded sweater. "S’warm."
"Pete, you can’t sleep in the damn laundry - "
A chainsaw burst of a snore cuts him off.
"Well, alright then."
It’s hardly the first time this has happened. It had taken two instances of finding Peter asleep by the heated pool in the tower and up on the ceiling by one of the large light fixtures to realise that the kid had issues with regulating his body temperature. Suit adjustments and investing in plenty of thick sweaters and thermal underwear for the winter months had helped a great deal to manage it, but those things didn’t do much good during times of extreme tiredness or, in this case, being sick.
Feeling relieved that at least Peter’s getting some more sleep, Tony simply decides to keep an eye on him whilst putting the last load of washing into the dryer and folding up the rest of the dry clothes. He piles them up in a little and rather impressively neat stack and uses them as a pillow as he sprawls back out on the bench, determined to clear the damn level he’d been stuck on earlier.
He’s still stuck on it when a figure strolls into the room. Tony lowers his phone and starts to sit up as Johnny, now wearing a pink feather boa and looking rather punch-drunk, says, "Ooo, there he is," and makes a beeline for Peter. "Hey, you, my buddy, my pal," he croons, sprawling on Peter’s back like a starfish and sighing loudly. Peter merely grumbles something and sticks an arm out from beneath the blanket to reach backwards and pat whatever part of Johnny he can reach, which happens to be the side of his thigh.
Tony stares at them, finding himself quite unable to look away. There’s... something about them; something in the way Johnny buries his face in Peter’s hair like he has no intention of ever breathing again; something in the way Peter accepts the complete invasion of his space despite how terrible he’s feeling.
It dawns on Tony then; smacks him right over the head like a plank of wood.
His phone is up by his ear and ringing in the next second.
Rhodey answers almost immediately with a chuckled, "Did you blow up Betsy?"
"Listen to me, this is a crisis - "
"Oh, I’m sure. Wait, let me put you on speaker so Pepper can - "
"Rhodes, you don’t understand, this is a crisis ," Tony hisses. "I think Peter and the Merry Matchstick are dating."
"Merry Matchstick? Who the hell is - are you talking about Johnny Storm?"
"Yes," Tony groans, turning away to drape himself miserably over the top of the dryer. "Rhodey, I swear, if I end up having familial connections to Reed Richards, I don’t think I’ll be able to go on."
"That’s what you’re worried about?" Pepper chimes in. "Honey, don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself?"
"Of all the boys or girls he could have dated," Tony complains, "why did it have to be this one."
"Johnny’s a good kid, Tony."
Yeah he is, Tony thinks, and Peter is the best kid. He might as well have been sculpted out of solid sunshine for how good and kind he is right down to his very core. It’s almost overwhelming at times for Tony to think about.
There’s a quiet fierceness about Peter too. Almost everything he does, he does with his whole heart. Loving someone, in any sense of the word, is and never will be any exception to that.
On some small, barely there level, Tony knows that he’s being ridiculous. As far as a crisis goes, this is pretty low on the scale of how bad it can get. He’s seen Peter bleeding from gunshot wounds, trying to hold his emotions steady on the days when it’s just been too much and damn near killing himself in his eagerness to cross the road and help an old lady with her grocery bags.
Tony has also held Peter as he turned to dust in his arms, shaken him free from terrifyingly lucid nightmares and pushed through the devastating doubts that lingered after the Europe incident.
So Tony knows that his reaction is unreasonable, unfair and totally ridiculous for the most part, but the plunging sensation in his stomach and the corkscrew twisting of his heart is impossible to ignore.
"I just don’t want him to get hurt," Tony admits gruffly. "Runny noses and broken bones I can work with, but - "
"You can’t fix it if he gets his heart broken," Pepper surmises gently.
"Yeah. That and I really don’t want to be related to Reed Richards."
Both Pepper and Rhodey laugh, the sounds twinkling together and brushing the sharper edges of Tony’s discomfort, soothing some of the rawness away.
"You can’t fight all his battles for him, Tones. He’s not a kid anymore."
Tony knows this, of course he does, but so much of him desperately wishes that it isn’t true; wishes that he had more time to fight more than he has; more time to hold Peter as close as possible before the natural flow of the world pulls him a little further away.
He turns to look at Peter and Johnny again. They’ve barely moved, still curled closely together. He wonders if May knows, and then figures that of course May knows, and has probably been gleefully waiting for him to find out.
"Are you gonna be okay?" Pepper asks.
Peter chooses that moment to open his eyes. His gaze falls on Tony and an oversized, sleepy smile appears on his face.
"Yeah," Tony replies, feeling every bit of him melt into that gooey marshmallow state once again. "I’ll be fine."
Tony waits until they’re midway through breakfast at a local diner the following morning before bringing it up.
"So, when were you gonna tell me that you and the twisted firestarter are dating?"
Peter, sitting next to Mister Winslow and looking a hundred times better than he had last night thanks to the soup and more meds, splutters and inhales an alarmingly large hunk of blueberry pancake. Tony pointedly pushes Peter’s glass of orange juice closer as the kid coughs and thumps himself on the chest.
"W-what?" he gasps, face bright red. "What do you - we’re not dating!"
"Sure you’re not, kid."
"We’re not!" Peter insists. "I mean...not like, exclusively."
"I see." Tony takes a long sip of his cranberry juice, trying not to laugh as Peter watches him with wide eyes. "And I assume from the contents of your medicine cabinet that you’re being safe?"
"Oh my god," Peter moans, burying his face into his hands. His hair bounces and falls forward like a curly wave, making him appear comically young as he peers over his fingers. "Why did you look in there?!"
"I was tidying up!" Tony laughs, holding up his hands. "And it was wide open so I didn’t have much choice. It’s not a sight I’ll forget in a hurry, though it’s good to know you’re taking care of matters properly."
Peter coughs awkwardly and starts to fiddle with his napkin. "So, uh, you don’t mind? About Johnny?"
Despite the clear apprehension, Tony can see that fierceness again, just a soft glimmer of it in Peter’s eyes. It’s the same glimmer that had appeared when Peter, after a hilariously catastrophic date with MJ, told Tony that he liked guys as well as girls, a confession Tony had met with a firm hug, an offer of hot chocolate and a few disastrous date stories of his own.
So Tony knows that this isn’t a question of his acceptance of that, but more a search for reassurance; a need for Tony to reaffirm that no matter what, he’s right here.
"Tony?"
With a smile, Tony reaches out to cup Peter’s cheek in his hand, giving it a fond pat as Peter automatically leans a little into the contact.
"No worries, Pete."
He pulls his hand away and Peter lets out a quick breath, shoulders relaxing as the tension quickly disappears.
"Unless you end up marrying the guy in which case I’ll have to disown you. Not out of disapproval you understand, though I could do without the lingering presence of a constant fire hazard, but because I just can’t be related to Reed Richards via my son-like kid." Tony points a finger and gives a playfully stern look to try and disguise his twitching lips. "Capiche?"
Peter blinks twice then bursts out laughing; a bright sound that Tony wants to reach out and grab so he can tuck it against his chest and keep it safe.
"You’re the worst dad-like man ever, I hope you know that."
"Thanks, kid," Tony chuckles, returning Peter’s exasperated and very warm grin with a beaming one of his own. "That means a lot."