Chapter Text
All in all, it’s been a great night for patrolling. It was a little past midnight, and the cool New York September air was drained of its humidity, a refreshing chill in the wind as Peter swung high amid the rooftops.
He was even able to do some actual Spider-Manning! He stopped someone trying to steal a bike, saved a cat from a kitchen fire, took down a small bank robbery, stopped an alley mugging, found a little boy’s parents for him, and dropped off some aggressive drunks to the local precinct. He only got punched in the face once by one of the drunks, but it was mainly his fault since he didn’t anticipate them being coordinated enough to even land a punch in the first place.
He’d get a small black eye, maybe, but Peter can already feel it healing as he does one last cursory sweep over Queens. He’s swinging somewhere over Astoria when he hears faint yelping and yipping. Peter frowns, peering down at the city below but coming up empty.
“Hey, Karen, d’ya hear something?” Peter asks the AI.
“Hmm, I don’t think so, but remember, your hearing is much keener than mine, Peter,” she reminds him, though not unkindly.
“Alright, fair. Well, do we see a heat signature that might have made a noise that tiny?” He asks instead, looking down at the rows of apartments and alleys and restaurants and bars below him as Stark tech overlays itself onto Peter’s field of vision through his eye plates.
He sees the orange and red bodies of people indoors, talking and standing outside, bright yellow smoke blown out of cigarettes. There’s nothing out of the ordinary until he turns his head toward some alleys. Amid the blues and greens of dumpsters and trash bags, there’s a small red heat signature in what appears to be a cardboard box.
Peter almost flails on his web, taking a sharp, excited intake of breath as he hisses, “Oh, a puppy!” He shoots another web, arching his back to speed up before propelling himself down toward the alley. He shoots another web to ease himself down lower, jumping a few feet to land on the unpaved, piss-and-garbage-covered ground of the narrow alleyway. Peter steps into the neck of the alley tentatively, eyeing the scene before him cautiously until he spots it.
There, dwarfed against the metal dumpsters and heaping trashbags, is a decently-sized box against the wall. Peter walks over to it, crouching down and pulling open the loosely closed flaps.
His eyes widen in excitement and his heart clenches when two big brown eyes look up at him, half-sitting and half-laying in the crumpled box. “Hi, little buddy,” Peter coos, voice cracking with how softly he speaks. He reaches a hand in carefully, offering a hand to sniff. When the puppy offers a sleepy lick in return, Peter whines in sympathy, rubbing a hand gently over the dog’s big head.
“Oh, my gosh, I’m gonna die. You’re so dang cute,” Peter whispers, scratching the dog behind both ears and running a hand down his back. Peter carefully lifts him out of the box, holding him out to inspect for anything obviously wrong. He has no collar, and he’s more than a little dirty, but Peter miraculously doesn’t see any fleas or injuries.
Peter’s best guess is that it’s a Saint Bernard. The dog is clearly a puppy, fur still soft and fluffy and downy. He can’t be more than two or three months old, but he’s already at least twenty pounds, Peter assumes as he hefts him up a few times. “Look at you! You’re such a big baby!” Peter preens, and the dog offers a tired little wag of his tail.
He looks around the abandoned box and sees nothing but some stale toast and mysterious sandwich meat. Peter looks back to the dog with a beaming smile. “I’m gonna name you Toast.” Toast, for his part, lets his tongue hang out of his mouth happily, and Peter’s heart does a backflip.
Peter brings Toast against his chest, one hand under his bottom and the other wrapped over the dog’s side to pet his head. The dog immediately presses itself into Peter’s suit, nuzzling his head into the warmth of Peter’s chest. “Who left you out here all alone, bubby? Who could do that, huh?”
The dog gets hold of one of Peter’s fingers and starts mouthing absentmindedly, and Peter’s mind is officially made. Well, really, his mind was already made when he was still swinging over. “Not me, that’s for sure! C’mon, big boy, you’re coming with me,” Peter preens, standing.
He steps back out into the neck of the alley to get his bearings before realizing he’s only two blocks away from another alley, where he keeps one of his go-bags. He starts the short walk over, humming absentmindedly to the puppy, when he passes a small 24/7 Veterinary Hospital. He pauses, looking undecidedly inside. He knows he should get the dog checked out, just to be safe, but he doesn’t carry anything with him in the suit, and even if he did, it’s not like he can afford a vet. Hell, he doesn’t even know what Mister Stark would think.
Just then, one of the staff members inside catches his gaze from behind the desk and her eyes widen.
Peter’s about to apologize for creeping her out, but she hurries her way over to the door and opens it for him.
“Hi, um, uh,” the women’s nametag reads Sara, “Hi, Sara, I’m sorry for spooking you, I was just walking by and I’m not really sure what to do… his, uh, his name’s Toast… ” he trails off hesitantly, tucking the dog closer against his chest.
She laughs a little breathlessly, shaking her head. “Spider-Man! No, no need to apologize, oh my gosh. A few days ago, you returned two of our little dog escapees when we were having trouble with our door!” She looks down at the dog in Peter’s arms, now half asleep, and then back up at him with a wide smile.
“Come in, we’ll get this little one checked out for you,” she says, ushering him inside. Peter follows her in, but he’s about to protest when she adds on, “Free of charge, don’t worry, seriously.”
It’s almost two in the morning when the vet tech brings Toast back into the waiting room, Peter perking up as he gets a handful of dog unloaded into his arms, and a sizable plastic bag. He’s all clean and smells much better. Peter notices a plain black collar and some tags dangling off it.
“He didn’t have any fleas on him, but I gave him a flea bath just to be sure. I and the vet gave him a check-up and he’s just fine; he’s about three months old and he’s met all the big size milestones so far. Almost twenty-five pounds! But he’s a Saint Bernard, so, you know, there’s lots more to expect from him as he gets older. And puppies are either super sleepy or super energetic, so don’t be too worried if he’s only one or the other until he adjusts to living with you,” Sara says happily.
Peter scratches Toast behind the ears in relief. He never expects good news when he comes across a dog in an alley on patrols; he’s come back to the Tower crying to Mister Stark on more than one occasion.
“We gave him all the shots he can have right now, so he’s up to date, so you’ll see that rabies tag on his collar is good for one year. The other tag on there is his dog license. I, uh, I talked to the vet, and he agreed that the office will cover the cost and processing fees this year, but it needs to be renewed each year. We’re also giving you some puppy kibble, wet food, and wee-wee pads that we have on stock, just ‘till you can do some shopping. It’s the least we could do for keeping our city safe. And for bringing back our two patients a while ago,” Sara smiles at him reassuringly.
Peter stands and looks at her in awe, hand coming to feel the two metal tags on Toast’s collar. “I… thank you so much, Sara, oh, wow. I seriously cannot explain how much I appreciate it,” Peter stammers and tries to keep the childish waiver out of his voice. He has a secret identity to keep, damn it.
Sara smiles, a hand coming up to rub Peter’s suit-covered shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t mention it, Spider-Man. It was our pleasure.”
Peter smiles wide, pressing a kiss to Toast’s head before Sara perks up again. “Oh,” she says, pulling out another tag from her scrub pocket, “I almost forgot. Here’s a temporary ID tag. I wrote his name in already, but all the contact information is still blank. I didn’t want to overstep.”
Peter slips the third tag into one of the concealed pockets of his suit, thanking her again, and then he and Toast are finally free, and thankfully healthy.
“You did so good, mister! You’re all healthy and bug-free, wow! Good job, Toast!” Peter says excitedly as he walks the rest of the way to the alley, holding Toast to his chest with one hand while he pulls out some of the bricks in the wall to reveal a spare backpack and clothes. Peter carefully slips Toast into the backpack, zipping it up until only Toast’s big head is sticking out, and then puts the backpack on reversed, so it’s over his chest instead.
It was a Friday, so Peter would be spending the weekend at Mister Stark’s. Which means Tony would be waiting up for him to be done with patrols. Which means he’d somehow have to get Toast into Stark Tower. Which also means he’d have to at some point talk to Mister Stark about Toast. Which Peter has not planned for at all.
“Alright,” Peter says hesitantly, one hand still coming to rest over the Toast-sized lump in his bag, “you ready, mister man? It won’t be too long of a trip to the Tower, don’t worry.”
Peter was worried at first as he started swinging over to the Tower, but the feeling faded quickly as Toast promptly fell asleep for the entire trip. Peter landed delicately on the Iron Man landing strip in the penthouse, FRIDAY wordlessly granting him access. By some minor miracle, Tony wasn’t in the penthouse, so Peter’s stealthy footsteps turn into his normal silent ones.
“Hey, FRIDAY, where’s Mister Stark?” Peter asks, pulling Toast out of his backpack carefully and cradling him against his chest.
“Tony is currently in the lab, and has been for a few hours. Would you like me to tell him that you’re looking for him?” The AI asks.
Peter looks down at Toast, who has made a considerable drool spot on his suit. “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m just back from patrol, is all.”
“Alright,” FRIDAY intones, but Peter wouldn’t be surprised if FRIDAY already told him as soon as Peter stepped onto the landing strip.
With that in mind, Peter grabs one empty bowl and fills another bowl up with water before scurrying to his bedroom at the Tower, dropping his backpack and the water dish by his bed and filling the empty bowl with some puppy food. He sets Toast down for a few seconds to strip out of his suit haphazardly before scooping Toast back up, shuffling to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, and taking the fastest shower of his life.
For Toast’s part, he sits mostly-patiently waiting on the bathroom mat, until about halfway through Peter’s shower, when he unceremoniously jumps in. “Woah!” Peter reels back, covering himself before remembering he’s just a dog. “You already had your bath! You checking up on me, bub?” Peter laughs as Toast laps up some water.
Peter shuts the water off a few moments later, drying off himself and Toast before putting on some pajamas. Thankfully, the black eye isn’t too bad, and his cheek and nose aren’t cut, so it should heal up in a day or two.
Toast follows him out of the bathroom with that awkward, uncoordinated puppy run, and Peter laughs, turning and coaxing him over until he runs face first into Peter’s arms. “Oh, so fast!” Peter croons excitedly before getting onto the ground, crawling over to Toast’s food and water and laying out a wee-wee pad a few feet away.
“Alright, big boy, see those? See?” Peter asks, splashing a finger in the water bowl to get Toast’s attention. Toast takes a few laps of water and sniffs at the food. “Yeah! Those are for you!” Peter’s belly does excited flips and turns as he looks at the big ball of fluff beside him. He figures he’ll have to introduce the wee-wee pads to Toast when he’s actually about to pee, otherwise Toast would have no idea what he’s trying to tell him.
Within a few minutes, Peter has helped Toast get his big body onto the bed, and they’ve settled into a comfortable silence. Peter is leaning against the headboard with his laptop on his chest working on a school project due in a few weeks, and Toast is curled up high between Peter’s bent legs, snoring softly.
The looming threat of having a conversation with Tony about Toast was just creeping back into his stomach again, when a tingle shoots through Peter’s spine and down the base of his neck. Peter moves his laptop and pulls the covers loosely over Toast seconds before there’s a soft knock on his bedroom door.
“Uh, uh, come in,” Peter stammers, eyes wide.
Tony comes in, looking disheveled from work with a mug of coffee in his hand, takes one look at the scene in front of him, before closing the door. A few seconds later, he opens it and steps in again, blinking. Oh jeez.
“Hey, Pete?”
“Uh,” Peter clears his throat, “yeah, Mister Stark?”
“What’s that?” he asks, gesturing to the big lump under the covers somewhere between Peter’s knees.
A beat. The shape under the blankets moves around a bit. Peter winces and explores his options. Tony is watching him curiously with raised brows, arms crossed over his chest.
And, oh, man, Peter would rather say anything else but his resolve is strong like only a teenager’s can be when he finally says, “A girl.”
Tony huffs, cocking his head and making a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “A girl.”
Peter bristles, scrunching up his nose. “A boy?”
Tony pauses, taking a moment before sighing and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “That’s… not what I meant by repeating what you said, but, it’s fine, you know, if it was a boy, just so you know, and - wait, not the point,” Tony cuts himself off, which is great, because Peter has been inching lower and lower into the bed with his face beet red.
“I meant, what is the distinctly not-human thing under your covers right now?” Tony clarifies.
Peter sighs. “Toast,” he mumbles.
Tony steps into his room more, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “Toast?”
Tony watches as Peter unfurls the sheets, revealing an excited-looking Toast, who is now staring at Tony with curious eyes and a happy tail, smacking Peter’s thighs with each wag.
God damn it. God damn. Toast. Only Peter could name a dog Toast and only Peter could make Tony so damn endeared by it. Peter pouts, nodding as he runs his fingers through Toast’s soft, thick fur. “Yeah. Toast. I named him Toast. His name’s Toast and I found him in an alley and I love him.”
Tony opens his mouth but shuts it as he watches Peter scoop Toast up and hug him to his chest. Toast’s belly is exposed, tail wagging between his legs. “I was wrapping up patrol but I was hearing little puppy noises so I had Karen help me find heat signatures and I found a puppy! Someone just abandoned him in a dirty alley! Who does that!” Peter’s lip trembles, burrowing his face atop Toast’s head. Toast tips his head up and lands a slobbery kiss to Peter’s eye.
“But - but I found him and I wasn’t thinking! I just picked him up and an emergency animal hospital was thankfully open and the vet tech was super sweet and she told me I helped them find some dogs of theirs a few days ago and she did his puppy check-up for free! And she gave him a flea bath and she said he was all healthy, and she even gave him his shots and they did his dog license on the house before they even told me,” he gestures to the tags on Toast’s collar, “and she gave me puppy food and wee-wee pads and an ID tag, too!” Peter says in a rush, face still half-buried in Toast’s fur.
“Nobody else was gonna find him, he was hiding all alone! I was the only one who could’ve found him with my weird special spider powers and look how sweet he is! He just needed someone to love him! And I love him already.” Peter’s voice breaks, a second away from full-on sobbing, and Tony’s eyes widen. Because oh no, he cannot be that person who separates a kid from his dog. He refuses.
“Look how sweet he is,” Peter whimpers, letting Toast go.
Toast scrambles upright before setting his sights on Tony. Tony sets his mug down to crouch beside the foot of the bed, arms out as Toast bounds toward him, all floppy and uncoordinated, before colliding with Tony’s chest.
Peter laughs weakly, wiping his nose unceremoniously on his sleeve and blotting at the tears threatening to fall from the corners of his eyes. Peter is, of course, absolutely right. Toast is a massive ball of puppy breath, soft fur, and big awkward paws, still getting used to his strength. He’s perfect, and he’s perfect for Peter.
He glances off to one side of Peter’s room, sees the water dish and dog food spread out, the wee-wee pad in the corner.
“I wasn’t thinking when I brought him here. It just kind of happened and I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do but I couldn’t just let the vet keep him! But… but he’s a little over three months old and he’s a Saint Bernard and I love him a lot-a lot,” Peter says, voice wobbling.
Oh, god, a lot-a lot. Tony’s chest clenches in a way distinctly full of love.
Toast’s head whips to Peter, tripping over his chunky legs to get to Peter before jumping onto his lap. Peter wraps his arms around him with an oof, cradling Toast to his chest so he’s not stomping on his lap.
“That dog could crush you when he’s grown,” Tony observes with a grimace, mostly joking.
“No,” Peter counters, if not a bit childishly, pressing a kiss to Toast’s head before glancing up at Tony, big doe eyes dark and glossy. “He’s just strong like I am. ‘S okay. He’ll learn.”
Not for the first time since becoming closer with Peter, and certainly not for the last time, Tony’s heart grows about ten-million sizes, because fine, that’s it, he’s convinced, case closed.
“I’ll have to ask Pep, but… I’m sure there’s room for a mutt in the Tower,” Tony mumbles.
Peter snaps his head up to meet Tony’s gaze. “What?” Peter whispers.
“Don’t make me say it again, little bug.”
“Really?” Peter asks, voice hoarse.
“You think I could separate a boy from his dog? Especially when you whip out the eyes?” Tony shakes his head. “I’m no match for you, kid.”
Now it’s Peter’s turn to bound up and lunge at Tony, embracing him in a hug. Tony wraps his arms around him, one hand cupping the back of his head. “Oh gosh, thank you, Mister Stark, thank you, thank you, thank you, thankyou! I'm so excited I'm, like, gonna puke.”
He can feel tears seep into his thermal Henley but doesn’t dare separate from the hug. “We’ll get him a bed and some more food and treats and toys and a better collar tomorrow. But you’re potty training him. He’s your dog,” Tony warns, and Peter laughs, sniffling.
A few hours later, well past four in the morning, he gets an alert from FRIDAY just as he’s getting ready for bed that Peter seems to be sleeping but in distress. A few seconds of audio let Tony hear the quickened breathing, the shifting sheets, the breathless, wordless frightened mumbles. Tony sighs, not out of frustration but out of sympathy; nightmares weren’t new for Peter. Hell, they weren’t new for any of the Avengers, certainly not himself. And Peter’s been through more than most heroes his age. He just wished he didn’t have to experience the come down from all the good he does - the nightmares, the random things that spook him now, the startle reflexes.
Tony pads over across the hall, prepared to soothe him, thankful he decided on making his and Peter’s rooms so close together. He opens the door gently, letting the pathway light cast a slanted glow on Peter’s bed.
His face softens at the sight before him. Peter, laying on his back, with Toast’s big body on top of him, head right under Peter’s chin on his chest, tail laying somewhere between Peter’s legs. Toast’s head moves with each paced rise and fall of Peter’s chest. Tony smiles warmly.
“Good boy, Toast.”