Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Boss, Peter has arrived and appears to be wandering around the first-floor lobby.”

Tony’s voice is muffled around the screwdriver between his teeth. “Well, what is he waiting for? He knows where to find me. FRIDAY, send him up before he finds the garage and starts ogling.”

“Of course, sir,” FRIDAY chirps back, and adds with not just a little drop of amusement in her voice: “I am aware that Boss does enough ogling in the garage for all the residents of the compound.”

“Hey,” Tony shoots back with no bite in his voice. “I’m stripping your code and promoting DUM-E to head robot of security.”

Thirty seconds later, an unmistakable pubescent voice sounds out from the doorway behind him: “Eyy, Mr. Stark.”

“Eyy yourself. What took you so long, kiddo?”

“I was, I was, uh…”

Tony turns to point in the boy’s direction with his StarkPad pen. He won’t lie, Peter’s stuttering can be adorable, but right now he needs the kid’s attention on something he just can’t seem to get the right perspective on. “I get it, you were ogling, it’s fine. Happens to the best of us. Get over here and lemme know what you think of this.”

The kid complies, shimmying off his backpack by the door and tripping a little over to where Tony is poking and prodding at a three-dimensional hologram of his next Iron Man suit prototype.

Peter mumbles something that seems to do with the size ratio of the new and improved boot repulsors to the hand repulsors, but Tony can’t be too sure because the kid has got the end of his sleeve over his mouth. It’s that ridiculously faded olive anorak jacket that he always pairs with his gray or yellow hoodie--each, predictably, sporting a science-y wisecrack.

“What’s that?”

Peter repeats himself, a little more intelligibly this time, but he still doesn’t move his fist from over his mouth.

Tony heaves a sigh. “Kiddo. I can’t hear you if you’re talking into your jacket.”

Something resembling teenage angst and abject terror flashes across Peter’s face. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers his hand from his face. “I was just suggesting, Mr. Stark, th-that maybe, maybe--”

“Hold up now. What’s that in your--do you have braces?”

Whatever hope Peter appears to have been clinging to that he could stammer along a mile a minute and let his new orthodontic situation slip his mentor’s notice, now collapses into an expression of pure misery. “...Yeah.”

Tony snorts. He swears he doesn’t know where it came from, but before he can control it, there’s the beginnings of a shit-eating grin on his face. The irony is not lost on him that now he is the one who needs to cover the lower half of his mouth with a hand.

“Mr. Stark, are you laughing?”

“Nope. No. Not at all.” Tony clears his throat, disguises another chuckle as a cough. “Why would I, uh, why would I do that?”

Peter simply squints at him.

“Hey, c’mon. I’m entitled to be a little surprised. You didn’t tell me you were getting braces.”

“Riiight,” says Peter. “Because I come here to help you balance equations and build suits and all that neat world-saving stuff, not...update you on when I go to the dentist.”

Tony tosses him a wrench, which the kid easily catches in his left hand. “Watch it, Spiderling. Remember what I said about there being room for only one sass king?”

Peter hops off his stool to trail after Tony, who starts picking out random scraps from his assorted piles of metal samples that are categorized in that uniquely Tony Stark way. Which is to say, not at all. The kid scoops up one of the scraps that Tony tosses back over his shoulder, and he taps the wrench against the edge. “What about prince? The sass prince. That’s a--that’s a thing, right?”

Tony finally finds what he’s looking for and adds it to the small pile in the crook of his arm. He swivels on his heel to head back in Peter’s direction. “Nope. You’re a brat. Definitely a sass brat.”

“Still got you to admit I have sass.”

“Not the point of this conversation at all.” Tony dumps the scraps on the largest table, where Peter has already taken the initiative of undoing the inner side plate of the prototype boot with the wrench. “When did you get braces, kid?”

“Two days ago. My Aunt May has a friend, Ruth, from the pediatrics unit, who has a cousin who’s an orthodontist. Or works as an assistant in an orthodontist’s office? I dunno. The details got a little fuzzy after he novocaine’d me and started getting chatty.”

“Novocaine actually works on you?”

Peter grimaces. “For, like, ten minutes.”

Tony has the grace to wince in sympathy.

“Anyway,” Peter goes on, “He said people usually get braces when they’re younger, but. You know. Didn’t exactly have the money for that when I was twelve. Since he’s Ruth’s cousin and Ruth knows Aunt May, he offered to do it at a discount. Like, a steep discount.”

“Huh.” Tony reaches over to turn over the new webshooter cartridge that Peter has been working on absentmindedly while babbling on about the orthodontist. “Careful, if you have such a narrow attachment point, the fluid could bottleneck in colder temperatures. So, does this...orthodontist”--he doesn’t bother to conceal the air quotes he makes with his hands--“talk on a regular basis with your unusually attractive aunt?”

Peter’s hands still at that. His eyes narrow. “Oh, crap. He larbs her.”

Tony snorts. “He what?”

“Just--eh. Inside joke. F-forget it, Mr. Stark.” Peter waves a hand in his mentor’s direction.

“Uh-huh. And do you ‘larb’ your Aunt May?”

“Mr. Stark. This is so not where this conversation was going.” The kid scoops up the cartridge and shakes it in Tony’s face. “This. This is what we’re supposed to be talking about. I made a narrow attachment point so I wouldn’t have to redesign the cartridge holder in the actual webshooters, too. But I hadn’t thought of the frigid temperatures.”

“That,” says Tony, bopping Peter on the nose and being rewarded with a vaguely offended expression from the kid, “is because I’m a genius. And you’re a baby genius. But interchangeably. Sometimes you help me with stuff, too, so don’t beat yourself up too much about it.”

“...Like the air conditioning system in Mark 17?”

“Oi. I said don’t beat yourself up, not get cocky.”

Peter drops the wrench on his work table to clutch a hand dramatically to his chest. “But--but--I’m a baby genius. Learning from the head genius. I learn from the best.”

“Sass brat,” Tony shoots back. “You’re a sass brat. Have you eaten yet? Doesn’t matter, you probably need to eat again. There’s pizza in the fridge.”

Peter hesitates. He seems to be running his tongue over the braces. “Uh...no, thanks, Mr. Stark. I’m good.”

“You’re...good? What do you mean, you’re good?”

“I’m good, I just ate.”

“No, you didn’t.” Tony cocks a brow pointedly at the rumble of Peter’s stomach. This kid is a walking cliché. “Even if you did, Spidey metabolism means you need to eat again.”

“Mr. Stark, really, I’m fine. Maybe a little later.”

“I don’t know who you are and what you’ve done with--hold up. Raise your head again for me.”

“Uh…?”

Tony makes an impatient little gesture. Peter finally catches on and tilts his face better toward the light. “Is your face usually that rounded?”

The boy attempts a withering glare, which is about as effective as the look of an indignant little cocker spaniel. “Har, har, Mr. Stark. Breaking news, I’ve still got baby fats.”

“No, no, I wasn’t making fun of you this time. Your face, especially your right cheek. It looks swollen.”

Peter’s eyes widen. He snatches his phone from the table and peers at his dim reflection in the screen. “Aw, snap. That would explain the--the jaw thing.”

“The jaw thing?”

“It hurts when I chew.”

Tony muses back to his own glorious years of prepubescent teenhood, when he, too, had to suffer through the braces before the invention of things like Invisalign. “So is that why you don’t wanna eat? You should’ve said something, kid. I can get you a smoothie. Or mac ’n’ cheese. Does mac ’n’ cheese sound good?”

“It sounds great,” Peter replies with an emotion equivalent to that of a dying man spotting an oasis in the sand. Without further prompting, he turns to follow Tony out of the lab.

“Ah-ah-ah, no metal scraps in the kitchen. I do not want to be rushing you to the hospital when you swallow tiny bits of shrapnel in your pasta.”

--

“This is really good, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t feed my ego too much. Pepper’ll kick your ass.”

“I mean it. It’s, like, really good.”

“This is literally just white cheddar and elbow pasta. I thought Italian Aunt Hottie feeds you pasta all the time.”

Peter gives him a look over the top of his hand as he struggles to pick bits of mac ’n’ cheese from between the arch wires over his two front teeth. “Did you not taste her tuna salad when you came over to the apartment the first time?”

“I tasted it,” Tony admits. “I might have spit it out in the bathroom before we talked in your room.”

“You are terrible at taking compliments, Mr. Stark.”

“I am not. I take offense at that.”

“You...take offense.”

“You’re criticizing the way I take compliments. I feel insulted. In fact, you know what, Underoos? That right there is proof I have a healthy self-esteem, thank you very much.”

Peter lets out a horrific noise somewhere between a sneeze and a guffaw into his Capri Sun. “I can see why you went into STEM and not, like, philosophy or something. Your logic is, is amazing.”

“You’re laughing at me. Stop laughing.”

Peter chokes but still continues to snigger.

“I’m going back and I’m getting Butterfingers to put shrapnel in the rest of your mac ’n’ cheese. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

Peter suddenly schools his face into the straightest expression Tony has seen on him yet, and the man feels a flare of parental panic in his chest. “I’ll still be laughing, Mr. Stark, ’cause you’ll be paying the bill.”

Tony tosses the spatula into the sink at that point and throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m going to the lab now. Alone. And I’m changing the access code. You can come back to me and beg me to let you in when you’ve decided to be mature.”

“You can’t buy my silence with food, Mr. Stark!” Peter hollers after his mentor’s retreating figure.

“Not unless I’ve already put shrapnel in it!” is the man’s muffled retort.

Tony doesn’t mean anything, really, by his dramatic exits like this, but he hopes Peter knows that, too. Less than five minutes later, he pokes his head back around the corner to check on the kid. He’s still there where he left him on a bar stool at the counter, but it’s as if the entire atmosphere has shifted. The boy has pushed away the remainder of his bowl of pasta and is cradling his head in the crook of his arm on the granite.

“Spiderling?”

The kid doesn’t shoot upright at the sound of his voice, but rather grinds out a noncommittal moan.

Now the stab of anxiety in Tony’s ribs feels twice as sharp, twice as real as the first one. “Kid? What’s going on? What’s wrong? I swear I didn’t actually put anything in the pasta.”

“I don’t know,” Peter mumbles. “Dizzy. Feel like...puking.”

“Please don’t do that,” Tony mutters back, at the same time that he snatches up the nearest trash can and thrusts it against the kid’s torso. Peter flaps around a hand to gain purchase on the trash can and curls an arm around it.

“Nah...nah,” he gasps out a minute later. “I think I’m good.”

Tony hovers about a foot away from the boy, unsure what to do with his hands. The instant Peter raises his head, Tony folds his arms back together with a sniff. He lifts a brow. “You sure?”

Peter stops to consider for a moment, then offers a shaky nod. “Yup. Yup, I’m good.”

“You’re not looking so hot.”

“That’s because it’s December and spiders can’t thermoregulate.”

“A man tries to be concerned and you betray him with puns.” When Peter takes a minute to answer and the sallow tint to his face doesn’t seem to have any intentions of fading any time soon, Tony finally decides to ditch the boundaries and presses the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead. “I take that back, you’re burning.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m definitely cold. Been chilly since I came over.”

“That,” says Tony with a pointed glance at the kid’s outfit, “is because you’re wearing a cotton jacket. C’mon, get off the stool. Settle yourself in over there in the living room. I’ll be back.”

“Mr. Stark! What--”

“Underoos. Couch. Now.”

The kid’s mouth snaps shut, and he makes his way slowly over to the sofa. When Tony returns two minutes later, he finds Peter sprawled at an angle across the loveseat. If he didn’t know any better, he would have remarked that the kid is pulling an amateur diva pose.

“I come bearing gifts,” Tony announces, and it’s a testament to just how bad the kid must be feeling when he doesn’t respond. Tony holds up the plush blanket in one hand and the traditional thermometer in the other.

Peter crosses his arms over his chest with a squint at the thermometer. “You could’ve just asked FRIDAY.”

“Uh, no,” says Tony with a duh expression as he sinks down onto the cushion near Peter’s knee. “Have you heard her? She’s loud. Slightly Irish. Tells everyone about everyone else’s business. This way, I can stick this in your mouth, read the temperature to myself, and pretend it isn’t that bad so you don’t freak out and I don’t freak out.”

FRIDAY’s cool and perfectly timed voice cuts in at that moment. “Mr. Parker’s temperature is currently at 103, Boss.”

“Last straw, FRIDAY. DUM-E’s in line for a sweet promotion.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Peter’s waving a hand dismissively. “I usually run at 100 on a normal day. Which, I know, considering I don’t thermoregulate very well, is weird.”

“That still means you’re three degrees over. That’s way too many degrees.”

“Ha, not as many as Dr. Banner.”

Tony fixes him with a look. “Shut up, kid. I swear it’s your motormouth that’s getting you overheated.”

Peter looks as if he’s about to draw a breath for another retort, but he gets distracted by the blanket that Tony’s set down on the coffee table. He sits up a little and makes a motion to grab it. Tony stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Nope. Not happening. Lie back down again.”

“May I have the blanket?”

“Not yet. Sorry, kiddo. I know you’re cold, but we gotta know first what’s going on with you before I do something potentially damaging. FRIDAY? Since you’re being a nosy pain in the ass anyway, could you run a diagnosis?”

Several seconds later, FRIDAY replies: “Mr. Parker’s immune system appears to be combating a bacterial infection.”

“I could’ve figured that out, and I’m not a doctor or a robot,” Tony complains. “Where’s the infection coming from?”

“It appears to be originating from lesions on the right side of his gums and inner cheek.”

True to form, Peter thumps his head back against the armrest with a loud groan. “Why were braces even invented.”

Tony is momentarily too preoccupied to address the boy’s teenage angst. “Hold up, you said you got them done two days ago? FRIDAY, why hasn’t his superhealing kicked in yet?”

“The lesions appear to be fresh,” FRIDAY muses. “A brief search through my database on common side effects of braces and similar orthodontic procedures show that these kinds of minor infections can result from constant teeth grinding, which tends to put more pressure than normal on the regions inside the mouth that are directly exposed to the sharp metal.”

A look of guilt washes over Peter’s face. “I, uh...um. Yeah. I’m a grinder. I mean, a teeth grinder! I--I grind my teeth. At night. Because…” He makes an ineffective gesture with his hands. “Because that’s when people normally grind their teeth.”

Tony casts him a withering look, gets up, and returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. “This should help with the swelling.”

“Oh, goodie.” Peter accepts the ice pack with an eye roll. “I love using these things every day. Love ’em more than Ned.”

“Are you usually this much of an asshole when you’re sick, or is this just special treatment for me?”

“You said I’m not supposed to feed your ego, Mr. Stark.”

“Fine. You can make your cold compress yourself,” Tony shoots back, as he blatantly bustles around the kitchen filling a bowl with water and ice cubes for the cold compress himself.

Peter attempts to sit up and reach for the paper towel when Tony returns with the cold compress, but Tony bats his hand away with a cluck of his tongue. He settles on the edge of the coffee table and sets the bowl on the carpet beside the couch. “What did I say about lying still?”

“Mr. Stark, I’ve got a sore jaw, not a bullet wound.”

“Not like you would have any idea what that remotely feels like, would you?” Tony retorts sarcastically. He wrings out the paper towel and lays it across Peter’s brow, eliciting a sigh of relief from the kid.

Peter shuts his eyes and sinks back down despite himself. “I was fine. Mr. Rhodey dug the bullet out.”

“Words that should not be leaving the mouth of a sixteen-year-old.”

The boy stills at the statement. Slowly, he cracks open an eye. There’s a poorly disguised incredulity there. “You--you remembered?”

Tony scoffs. “What kind of hacker would I be if I couldn’t remember your birthday? Gotta say, though, sucks to be you, getting all holed up and feverish on your sweet sixteen.”

“...S-sorry.”

The man fixes him with a look. “What the hell, Parker. Only you would apologize for your immune system ruining your own birthday.”

“Still. We were supposed to be hanging out and building stuff. Not--not you taking care of me and my super embarrassing infection because I’m a teeth-grinder.”

“Officially deleting the word ‘grinder’ from your vocabulary, kid.” Tony makes a zipping motion with one hand. “It’s gone now. Redacted. Chucked into a black hole forever.”

Peter somehow draws energy from within himself to give Tony a full eye-roll.

Tony dips the paper towel back into the iced water and replaces it on Peter’s forehead. Before he can stop himself, he’s leaning forward to swipe away a few droplets that trickle down the kid’s temple. “Believe me, taking care of you is extremely entertaining. At the very least, I have complete assurance that you’re not out there somewhere web-slinging it across the city and dodging alien bullets and exacerbating my heart condition. So please, by all means, carry on.”

“You’re the worst nurse ever.”

“What did we say about calming down the motormouth, huh? I swear I’ve got duct tape around here somewhere…”

“Mr. Staaark. You can’t do that.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because I’m sick.”

Tony slaps him a bit harder than necessary across the forehead with a fresh cold compress. “Oops,” he says innocently. He pokes at the area between Peter’s brows. “Looks like it’s time for Spidey’s nap time.”

Tony moves to physically shut Peter’s eyes, and the kid bats ineffectively at his hands. When the man moves the cold compress to cover his eyelids, the boy wilts. He lifts one corner of the paper towel to stare Tony dead in the eye. “I’m going to sleep now, just because I’m actually tired. But you should know I’ll be remembering this at your funeral. Title of my eulogy: Tony Stark, Iron Man, manhandles poor kid with a fever on his birthday,” Peter deadpans.

“Wow, kid, I’m quivering.”

--

Peter wakes groggily to the aroma of chicken soup. He doesn’t quite know how he recognized the scent--he’s always had the ready-to-boil kind by Lipton in boxed packets--but one thing for sure is that the freshness of the smell is easy on his senses.

He finds it takes a great effort to roll onto his side on the couch. Out of habit he flaps his hand around on the coffee table in search of his phone for the time, but comes up empty. He shifts his head to squint out the nearest glass wall of the compound. It’s already pitch black outside.

He must have been asleep for at least six hours or more.

“Boss has requested that I remind you to eat your chicken broth as soon as you woke up,” FRIDAY speaks up from the ceiling, jolting Peter alert.

Peter sits up fully at that. It turns out the aroma was wafting up from the bowl of hot soup waiting for him on the edge of the coffee table. He glances around, half-expecting Tony to be lurking somewhere with another pointy thermometer and a bag of insults, but the man is nowhere to be found.

As Peter digs into the soup, he realizes with relief that the soreness of his jaw seems to have to decreased considerably. He gives a tentative prod to the inner right side of his cheek: still flaring with pain in a few spots, yet overall, almost healed. He pats his own face and decides the swelling has definitely gone down along with his temperature.

Now that Peter can finally focus on the chicken broth, he takes the time to fully appreciate the homemade flavor. He never would have thought Tony Stark could cook with such a delicate balance--twice in one day, no less. A spurt of guilt flashes through him at the memory of the half-finished mac ’n’ cheese he left on the counter earlier.

After Peter’s downed the whole bowl, he stretches and takes stock of his surroundings. Something’s different, nothing exactly visible, but--

He starts.

A Christmas tree.

Smack dab in the corner of the living room in his direct line of vision.

“Today’s December 14,” he muses aloud, nonplussed.

At that precise moment, what can only be described as a scratchy cloud of tinsel descends over his face and envelopes him completely. “Bingo, the genius is awake,” comes the all-too-familiar snarky voice above his head.

Peter claws at the prison of tinsel over his head, not exactly panicked. Really, he’s more annoyed than anything else. “I haven’t even been awake for five minutes.”

“I know,” says Tony. He slaps away Peter’s hands and winds the string of tinsel around his neck again like a scarf. “Personally, five minutes to wait was too long, but I do have a conscience and you seemed to really be enjoying the soup.”

“I was gonna compliment your cooking, but the tinsel attack kind of cancels it all out.”

Tony comes around the end of the couch so the kid can have full view of his arched brow. “Ouch. That hurt.” He raises his right hand and holds out an envelope to the boy. “Consider it a miracle I’m still forgiving enough to give these to you.”

Peter takes the envelope warily, almost as if it might be full of glitter. Inside are four tickets to San Diego, California. He stares at them, uncomprehending.

Tony clears his throat. His hands are back in his pockets. “Not gonna lie, I had a full afternoon planned for you after school today. The--the lab work was kind of a lure.”

Peter looks up at him with the utter betrayal of a kicked puppy.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t give me that look. I know you’re a nerd supreme and all, but that’s not exactly a special way to celebrate your sixteenth birthday. And, well, since your immune system decided to fudge up today, I’m making it up to you.”

“San Diego.”

“Well, that’s for a future gift. I still have something for you today. Oh, and you’re off school tomorrow. Don’t even bother arguing, I already called May and she left a message with the office. They think you’re still sick. But we are gonna do this whole painting-the-town-red thing properly tomorrow.”

“San Diego,” Peter echoes yet again, unable to unstick his brain.

“Yeah, kid. Have you ever heard of Legoland?”

“H-holy shit.”

“Hey, no more nice things if you keep swearing.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please don’t hyperventilate. I don’t think I have the energy anymore to--”

“Th-this is, this is amazing, oh my God, Mr. Stark, thank you thank you thank you.”

“Don’t you dare come near me with that tinsel monstrosity.”

“Aw, Mr. Stark, don’t you want a taste of your own medicine?” Peter springs up bodily off the couch and pursues Tony around the living room with far too much energy for somebody still running a fever. Tony dodges the kid’s hand and dives for a tiny box on the floor, which he tosses to the boy. Peter catches it with confusion.

“Ornaments, kid. Ever seen one before?”

“I--uh--never had a Christmas tree before...” Peter opens the box to draw out a snow globe ornament with a tiny red and blue figurine inside. “Oh my GOD, is this a Spider-Man ornament?! Holy--”

“Ah-ah-ah!”

Peter bounds up to the tree. Only the tinsel has been put up; there are still vines of lights in a pile on the floor, together with an assortment of similar tiny boxes which must be hiding all sorts of other ornaments. “Mr. Stark, can I…?”

The man grins. “Of course. Go to town with it.”

Peter smiles so widely it seems his face might break. “ThisisthebestsixteenthbirthdayI’veeverhad.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s the only sixteenth birthday you’ve ever had.”

“I’m serious! I get to decorate this whole thing?!”

“I’ll help, if you want.”

“Yeah, and let you give me another tinsel scarf? No way.”

“You deserved that. Oh, and one small rule. No climbing on the ceiling.”

Peter pouts as if Tony just read his mind. “What about the walls?”

“No climbing on the walls.”

“The mantel, at least?”

“No climbing, period.”

“What even is the point of a sweet sixteen?”

“Wow, you really have your priorities straight, don’t you, buddy?”

“Mr. Stark, I’m sick.”

“That card worked on me once. Never again. Speaking of which, I’m getting you Invisaligns. No more of this metal mouth nonsense that causes infections.”

Peter gapes at him. “That--but that costs money--”

“Of which I have buckets.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get sappy. Toss me the green box.”

“Oh! Is that the Hulk?”

“...Maybe.”

“So where are we going tomorrow?”

“I’ve got some ideas, but it’s your first preference. And no, I am keeping those places a secret.”

“Oh look, I found the Iron Man ornament. Bet this would go perfectly all the way...down...here.” Peter hangs the Christmas-hued Iron Man figurine on a corner of the tree nearest to the skirt and pats it with a smirk.

“Ha, I know where the Spider-Man one goes. Back in the box.”

“And I know where the Iron Patriot is going,” Peter chirps, in a tone Tony most definitely mistrusts. “Up there at the very top of the tree.”

“Peasant,” Tony says, pointing a finger in Peter’s face. “That’s what I’ve decided. You’re a sass peasant. I’m the sass king. And the sass king belongs at the top of the tree.”

“Ohh.” Peter pulls a sympathetic face. Before Tony can even yelp in alarm, the kid has performed a heart-wrenching back flip and attached himself to the ceiling. “Sorry, Mr. Stark, you forgot one thing. I'm the one who can get to the top of the tree.”

Chapter Text

If Tony’s brain has been fizzling like static from a battle overnight with what he vehemently denies was an onslaught of coughing and mucus, it’s definitely short-circuited the moment he sets foot in the kitchen.

“Why the hell is there a gallon-sized jar of pickles on my breakfast bar?”

Peter pokes his head around the corner of the adjacent wall of the hallway, like a goddamn cartoon character.

“Not just any pickles,” he protests, sounding far too energetic and far too offended for half past ass o’clock in the morning. “They’re Vlasic pickles. Hence, a gallon of them.”

Tony rounds on him, mug of sloshing coffee gripped in his right hand. “You seriously need to work on your stealth mode, kid.”

“I have a perfectly good stealth mode.”

“Literally no one sneaks around bow-legged and wide-eyed the way you do. Oh, wait, I’m sorry, I meant no one that lives.”

“Ah, me, good Lord, you’re right, Mr. Stark. I have no idea how I survived before you came along.”

The coffee mug stops right before Tony’s lips and he just serves the kid a flat look over the rim of ceramic. “By the skin of your teeth, apparently. In a fuzzy Sharpie’d-up onesie.”

“Mark I of the Spider-Man suit is gonna be a national treasure one of these days, Mr. Stark. Did you know they did this costume contest for the el-ed kids over at the library last month? One of the girls showed up in a replica of the original design.” Peter joins him behind the counter and starts ripping two blueberry and cinnamon bagels in half so he can slap the mismatched flavors together. Tony watches in morbid fascination but decides not to interfere--that is, until the kid pulls out the strawberry cream cheese from the fridge and digs in a knife to spread it.

“Okay, kid. Yeah, nope. Underoos. I can’t just stand by in good conscience while you put together another Parker abomination. It’s too early for this kind of sh--” Tony interrupts himself with a coughing fit. He’s unsure whether to be grateful or concerned that the bout of wheezing so conveniently cut off the colorful word he was about to spout.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter leans over immediately to thump the man on the back (perhaps a bit harder than necessary, but who can blame the kid for his accidental super strength when he’s worried about his mentor?). “Are you okay? Did you choke? Wait, I shouldn’t be asking that if you’ve got something lodged in--shoot, I don’t remember the Heimlich--uh, FRIDAY?”

“Boss is not choking, Peter,” FRIDAY replies quickly. “It will not be necessary to perform any kind of maneuver on him. However, his temperature has risen overnight to about 100 degrees, and it appears he is suffering from a common cold.”

Neither Tony nor Peter is self-aware enough to appreciate the irony of Peter absently wiping the runniness from his nose with his sleeve, at the precise moment that FRIDAY finishes reporting her diagnosis.

Tony glares at the nearest camera. “Thanks, FRI. Glad to know I don’t need to recalibrate you for the ‘loyalty’ and ‘discretion’ features.”

“Always a pleasure, Boss.”

“Yeah, thanks, FRIDAY,” Peter chimes in. “Could you, uh...could you quickly text Mr. Rhodey to hold off on the deliveries if he can?”

Tony squints at him from where he’s leaning on one arm against the counter, playing off his dizziness as a casual stance. “Deliveries? What deliveries?”

“Uh...pizza deliveries?”

The buzzer sound Tony imitates just then would have been perfect if not for the second round of coughing that truncates it. Tony casts a glare at nothing in particular, wishing he could anthropomorphize his goddamn cold right then and there in the kitchen and strangle it with his bare hands.

“Pizza?” Tony says, when his voice has returned to him. “It’s 8:30 in the morning. Try again.”

“...Secret deliveries?”

Tony straightens with a sniff and drains his coffee. “See, this is what I was telling you about the whole”--he gestures vaguely at Peter from head to toe--“stealth mode issue. If it’s a secret, you don’t say it’s a secret. In fact, you don’t mention it in front of me at all. Especially if Rhodey is involved...Lordy.”

“I just sent Colonel Rhodes the text you requested, Peter,” FRIDAY interrupts coolly from above. “The colonel has replied with the following message: Call me. Why the change of pl--”

“FRIDAY! Uh, that’ll be all, thanks so much,” Peter cuts her off. Tony doesn’t miss the way Peter’s right hand circles around his left wrist in that familiar nervous tic of his.

Tony holds up a finger. “Uh, a few things. Number one, don’t ask my personal AI to take care of your texts and phone calls if it’s a highly sensitive subject around me.”

“Boss,” says FRIDAY.

“Zip it, FRIDAY. Number two, when the hell did you start collaborating with Rhodey behind my back? And number three--”

“--Number three, you look dead on your feet,” Rhodey finishes for him from the doorway. “You should go back to bed.” He pauses, gives Tony another once-over. “Or maybe I should say, go to bed. You’ve been up all night?”

“You’ve been here this whole time?” Tony shoots back.

FRIDAY pipes up again: “Boss, I tried to alert you to Colonel Rhodes’ arrival.”

Tony draws both hands over his face. “I’ve seen aliens in armor riding flying metal leviathans around New York, so believe me, it’s saying something when I tell you that this has got to be the weirdest morning I’ve ever woken up to.”

Rhodey’s mouth twitches. “What about that morning after the spring dance in sophomore year?”

Tony points at him. “You’re distracting me. Stop distracting me. I know something is up with you two. And honestly? I’m a little surprised. Usually you’re way sketchier around me when you’ve got a new secret, Spiderling. I mean, I usually sniff you out within forty-five minutes, max--”

“--Hey!” the kid protests around a mouthful of sugar-overloaded carbohydrates. “My longest record was an hour and thirteen minutes.”

“--And this time there’s some ‘secret deliveries’ involved, so that tells me this had to have been cooking at least twelve hours ago.” Tony shifts a squinty look between his best friend and the boy. “Considering it’s early morning, I’d even venture to say twenty-four hours.”

“Look who’s the one distracting who now,” Rhodey says drily. He saunters over to the breakfast bar to pick out a banana and toss it in one palm before peeling it. “Why are these bananas all speckled?”

“’Cause I only keep ’em there for you,” Tony replies with a sniff. “Can you imagine me eating any of that disgusting healthy stuff? God.” He turns back to the coffee machine with a shudder to refill his mug.

“With that attitude, it’s no wonder you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick. Just a little under the weather. I’ll be fine after this second cup. What do the cool kids say these days? Oh, right, ’tis but a tickle.”

“That’s definitely not what the cool kids say these days.” Peter frowns, looking almost offended.

“Ah, I forgot, I have a walking, talking, sneezing spokesperson of Gen Z right here,” says Tony. He claps the kid on the shoulder. “Got your finger on the pulse of your generation, kid? What else do the cool kids not say these days, huh? Mr. Stark, I’m bleeding out in an alley with a bullet in my thigh and I thought it was best NOT to call you because--”

“That was one time.”

Tony considers extending the banter, but the flush in the kid’s cheeks is enough of a victory for him. His easy chuckle morphs into something between a rattle and wheeze.

“Tones,” Rhodey says from across the bar, a clear warning lacing his tone. “Don’t drink anymore coffee.”

Tony waves him off without even looking up.

“Tony. No more coffee. You need to rest.”

“Ohh, would you look at that, already filled. Nice and hot. Knew I kept you around for a reason, FRIDAY.”

“Peter,” says Rhodey. “Stop him.”

Obediently, Peter moves toward his mentor to make a grab for the mug. Tony whips up a hand and cocks a brow at him in warning. “Not a step closer, kid. These coffee grounds cost more than your church shoes.”

“But Mr. Stark, you heard Mr. Rhodey--”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Tony jerks the mug up high out of the boy’s reach.

“It’s fine, Peter, I’ll drink it,” says Rhodey.

Tony points a thumb in Rhodey’s direction. “Really, Pete? You trust this man?”

“More than I trust you right now,” Peter retorts. “Mr. Stark, remember what we said about more than one cup every three hours?”

Tony’s eyes widen in faux alarm. “I’m but a sick old man, and you would deny me my only hope and joy in life?”

Rhodey snickers around his banana. “Don’t let Pepper hear you say that.”

Peter folds his arms with another sniffle and a (debatably effective) scowl. “Just a minute ago you were denying you were sick. I’d say you’re pretty untrustworthy at the moment.”

“No, no. Noo. Stop making this about me. You two still haven’t told me what you’re up to. Since when were you thick as thieves? What’s this ‘delivery’ FRIDAY’s been talking about?”

“Oh, geez,” Rhodey groans. “Too much talking. Not enough resting. Back to bed with you, Tones.”

Peter takes full advantage of Tony’s distraction to snatch the mug from him and shove it in the fridge at a...somewhat alarming speed.

“He’s just gonna take it back out when we’re not looking, kiddo.”

Locking his eyes on Peter’s, Tony wordlessly opens the fridge and takes the mug back out.

Peter splutters. “B-but Mr. Stark said not to waste it!”

“Said it yourself,” Tony points out. “I’m untrustworthy.” He brings the mug to his lips and is about to take a deep, triumphant gulp when the coffee is snatched from his hands once again. Rhodey dumps it down the sink with one hand on his hip and a supremely unimpressed look on his face.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Rhodey.”

Peter gasps. “Mr. Rhodey!”

“It had to be done, Peter.”

Peter pouts at Tony. “See, Mr. Stark? This is what happens when you don’t follow the Daily Decaf Plan.”

Rhodey snorts. “I’m sorry, the daily what now?”

Tony rolls his eyes yet again. “Kid made up a course for me to follow to take the coffee intake down a notch. ‘Daily Decaf Plan’.”

“In my defense, sir, alliteration is a perfectly legitimate literary device we learned about in Shakespeare, and it’s especially helpful in memory exercises like mnemonics.”

“I got you.” Rhodey nods with a grin. “So. Tones. Looks like this sixteen-year-old here is more mature than you. Why don’t you follow his advice and get your butt back upstairs to bed, huh?”

“What, so you two can go back to plotting? No, thanks. I’ll just move here to the couch so I can keep an eye on your shenanigans.”

Without preamble, Peter sweeps the gallon-sized jar of pickles from the counter, twists open the lid and digs for a dill with the point of his cream cheese knife.

Tony’s mouth drops open from where he’s reclined on the couch. “...Kid.”

“What? I’m stress-eating. I’m stressed.”

Even Rhodey is side-eyeing the boy from his own position at the sink. “Damn, Tones. Couldn’t you have at least found a more normal adoptee?”

Peter crunches loudly on a second pickle. “I get food cravings when I’m sick. They’re, like, super specific cravings. May discovered by accident it was pickles for me.”

Tony, who has had his arms crossed over his chest this whole time, takes a second to raise a finger in a loose iteration of back the frick up for a minute here. But after a minute of glancing back and forth between the two buffoons in the kitchen before him, he decides it’s not worth the extra migraine. “You know what? There’s just way too much to unpack here right now. Wake me up when you two decide to drop the Twilight Zone act. Peace out.”

--

So maybe Tony was lying and he didn’t just retreat to the couch to keep an eye on Peter and Rhodey while catnapping. The truth is, his brain started spinning right around the time Rhodey started chomping on a banana, and Tony doubted he would make it halfway back up to his room without faceplanting and leaving FRIDAY yet another memorable file for the blackmail folders.

Still, Tony wasn’t expecting to be so completely out of it that the next time he forces open his eyes, the entire pattern of shadows around the living room has shifted. The ceiling is bathed in an odd wash of fuchsia and vermilion that he’s only witnessed once or twice before from this position on the couch.

Tony readily assumes it is the rare clarity of a New York sunset that woke him up, until the unmistakable aroma of chicken soup hits him. He rolls his head to the side to find the bowl placed on the coffee table next to his face.

“Not sick, my ass,” Rhodey grumbles from the recliner adjacent to Tony’s head. Despite the chiding in his tone, he keeps his voice low in consideration for the man’s presumably splitting headache.

“You make this?” Oh, damn. Tony’s throat feels like somebody dragged hot coals across it.

“Course. I’m offended you think I’m incapable of putting together a common chicken soup.”

Tony considers that for a moment. He has to limit his words now to minimize the pain, and the pressure of having to get his meaning across in shorter sentences is already beginning to annoy him. “Never tasted your cooking since senior year.”

“Uh, not true. There was the Christmas party of ’08.”

Tony remembers that. “Not brownies. Those were bricks.”

Rhodey huffs out a long-suffering sigh and leans forward, leg braces whirring, to push a pillow under Tony’s neck. “C’mon, just sit up a little and eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Tony obeys without further complaint. As he spoons the admittedly delicious soup into his mouth, the rest of his brain begins to yawn awake. Only then does he register his left fist bunched around a soft-knit fabric.

“Is this--is this the kid’s blanket?”

Rhodey chuckles. “He insisted.”

Not that Tony really minds. He hikes the pastel rainbow blanket up over his shoulder in a subtle effort to smell it more closely. Great, now he’s turning into a sentimental soccer mom.

“Where is he, anyway?”

“Out.” At Tony’s brow-lift, Rhodey tacks on: “Doing stuff.”

Tony slurps up the rest of the soup and sinks back down again. “Mm. That’s not mysterious or suspicious at all.”

There’s a warning again in his best friend’s tone. “Tony.”

“Rhodey.”

“Tones.”

“Rhodes.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Rhodey quips. He’s sporting a rare full-on smirk when Tony peeks open an eye to check his expression. “Tones, you gotta stop running yourself to the ground like this. At least if not for your own sake, then for the kid’s.”

“Oh, come on.” Tony brings a fist to his mouth to cover the hacking cough. “In my defense, I’ve actually been sleeping.”

Rhodey makes a noncommittal sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. The leather of the recliner creaks as he leans forward. “How long has Peter been staying here at the compound?”

“Past three days.” Another cough. “Why?”

“Hm,” Rhodey says again. “He been sick this whole time?”

“Two days ago.” God, talking really hurts. “Just the sniffles now.”

“Must’ve caught it from him.”

Tony groans and covers his eyes. He’s always known that one sticky boy would be the death of him.

“Well, it’s good he’s out,” Rhodey goes on. “I’ll text him to give you a wide berth when he comes back.”

“Now wait just a minute.” Suddenly Tony is very alert and very much alive. Sore throat be damned. “Are you saying I’m supposed to stay away from the kid?”

Something like a flicker of a grin flashes across Rhodey’s face. “Yeah, Tones, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“No, no. That’s not how this works. I’m already infected. He already got me sick. I am sick. He can’t make me any sicker, right? Right? Rhodey? FRIDAY, tell him I’m right.”

The AI remains traitorously silent.

“Honeybear?” Tony tries again.

Rhodey rolls his eyes and says, not unkindly, “He’s certainly not helping you get better faster. C’mon, Tony. You know he’d want you to just rest and do what’s best for your health.”

Tony will never admit it, but his heart is beginning to thud a little faster against his ribs at the mere notion of knowing Peter is in the building but not being able to see him.

Geez, he needs to get a grip.

“Sleep, Tony,” Rhodey says firmly. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I can get you anything you need.”

Yeah, preferably my kid, thanks.

--

When Tony wakes again, it’s to the unmistakable wet crunch of an absolutely disgusting--

“Kid?”

Peter pulls his gaze away from the TV so fast that it’s comical. “Oh, heyy, Mr. Stark! You’re up!” He gives a ridiculous wave with his right hand, which is completely buried under his sweater paw and only discernible because of the fork sticking out.

Tony shifts his head to take in the jar of pickles cradled in Peter’s lap.

“Pickles? Again?”

“I told you already, it’s stress-eating. I’m stressed.”

Tony unfolds his arms to cover a yawn. He stretches and nudges Peter’s thigh with his toe from underneath the blanket. Not to get him off the couch, but simply to return the greeting. The kid seems to understand.

“Thought the big bad colonel gave you the order to stay away from me.”

Peter rolls him a look. “Not like he knows how to lock me out of the living room, Mr. Stark.”

“Ohh. Chaotic. Careful, kid, you’re becoming like me.” Tony’s joints pop as he stretches again and cracks his knuckles.

“I was always chaotic,” Peter says, a bit too smugly. He holds up the now half-empty jar from his lap as if for evidence.

Tony scrunches up his nose. “Ugh. Didn’t need a reminder of that.”

“You should try it sometime,” Peter rejoins conversationally. “I mean, if you get a really good jar, the balance of sweet and sour is just perfection. By the way, have you seen The Pianist? Y’know, the one with Adrien Brody in it? World War II film? So awesome, by the way. It would make even you cry. I mean, I only watched it with May and she cries at everything--’cause, like, she’s Italian, and me being part Latino probably doesn’t help--but I bet you’d cry if you saw that one scene where they tried to...uh, where was I going with this? Oh! Right! Pickles!”

Tony simply stares at him, slack-jawed. So many words, and still nothing has been clarified to him.

“The pickles scene. Where he plays the Moonlight Sonata. It’s, it’s...it’s awesome, Mr. Stark.”

“Yep. Nope.” Tony blinks and shakes his head. “Definitely still in the Twilight Zone.”

“Sorry,” the boy offers, and he at least has the decency to look abashed.

Tony glances around for a clock. “Time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

“At night?!”

“I mean, it’s dark, Mr. Stark,” the kid says drily.

“No need to break your brain making up couplets at my expense, kid. Real question is, why did nobody wake me up? It’s a Monday. I’ve got shit to do. Actually woke up early for once because Pepper’s probably expecting me to send off those e-mails she’s been reminding me about, and those new blueprints we came up with on Saturday aren’t gonna just build themselves--”

“Mr. Stark.” A small hand presses against Tony’s elbow. The man glances down at it, almost incapable of comprehending the touch.

He would say it’s too early for this touchy-feely shit that’s making him downright sentimental, but now his circadian rhythm is all messed up, thank you very much.

Peter sets his jar gingerly on the other end of the coffee table and twists a little to face his mentor better. “Don’t you remember what today is?”

“...Monday?” Tony tries again.

Peter has the audacity just then to look offended. Again. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Tony briefly considers if Rhodey was right--unconsciously so, and in a different sense--in that he’s been hanging around the boy too much. (Or the other way around.)

“Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”

Crap.

Actually, scratch that. Fuck.

An unbidden memory--ephemeral and uncertain, a vision, really--of a multilayered birthday cake towering amid a sea of unfamiliar faces flashes across Tony’s mind. He didn’t mean to: it’s a knee-jerk reaction, just as instinctual as the lid he slams down over the remembrance half a second later.

He should be saying thank you. Smiling up at the kid. Returning his touch, maybe.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth sounds something like: “Parker, I blame you entirely.”

The boy splutters. “Ex-exsqueeze me?”

“Well, who else was sick on his last birthday, huh?”

“That was five months ago and it was an oral infection--”

“Nah-ah-ah! Yet another phrase I do not want to have to hear from you ever again. Look, you got sick on your birthday, now you got me sick on my birthday. Those are the facts. You’re like my personal walking, talking virus.” Tony pats the air between two palms. “Pint-sized virus.”

Peter huffs. “My public speaking teacher says hand gestures are unnecessary.”

“Has your public speaking teacher even met me?”

“She uses you all the time in her examples of bad habits.”

Tony lays a hand dramatically over his chest. “She knows me so well.”

A muffled voice from two hallways down interrupts them just then. Tony can’t seem to make out who it is, but the kid, predictably, picks it up right away with his superhearing. He bolts up from the couch--or rather, attempts to, when Tony hooks a finger around the boy’s belt loop to yank him back.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“May’s calling me!”

“Your Aunt May’s here?”

“Y-yeah. For...stuff. I need to go help her now.”

“With what?”

“...Stuff.”

Tony heaves a long-suffering, rattling sigh. He doesn’t make a move to release his grip on Peter’s belt loop; neither does Peter seem to want to budge from the couch.

“Has anyone ever told you you should be a professor? You’re amazing at explaining...stuff.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whines.

“Seriously, you’re breaking my heart, kid. Leaving me all alone here in the dark.”

Peter gets up again, this time braced for Tony’s weight as the man continues to clutch at his belt loop. Tony begins to slither off the couch in a tangle of limbs and pastel blanket.

“Hey. Manhandling your elders, over here.”

“You would know all about being elderly, wouldn’t you, Mr. Stark?”

Peter grabs Tony around the torso to hoist him to his feet. Sure, maybe the arm Tony loops around the kid’s shoulder in return is unnecessary, but he’s just living up to that teacher’s accusation, after all.

“Pickle,” Tony coughs out. “You’re a pickle.”

Peter beams beatifically up at him. “Better than a peasant.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Ever read To Kill a Mockingbird?”

Tony waves a hand of airy dismissal. They’re making their way slowly down the second hallway now in the direction of the common room. “Aside from the groundbreaking social commentary and that one scene where the kid was rolling down the street in a tire, I don’t remember anything. Carry on.”

“Well, there’s this one character named Dill--”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Peter deadpans: “No, his name was definitely Dill.”

They’re at the black glass panel now that doubles as the door to the common room. It’s the only thing left standing between them and the low buzz of voices within. It’s a small mercy that there is no thumping music. It must be Peter’s or Rhodey’s doing--or both--to be so mindful of his headache.

Deliveries, Tony thinks. Party decoration deliveries.

This kid.

Peter’s steps slow to a halt. They stand like that for several more seconds, and neither one seems to have plans of letting go of the other.

From the other side of the door, Tony just barely discerns a rare whoop from Pepper cheering on some kind of game. Huh, so she’s back early from Taiwan. And is that Happy’s voice he hears?

Laughter, forks tinkling, the rhythmic bop of somebody hard at it at the ping pong table.

Tony’s eyes sting with wetness. His throat is closing up.

“He’s a character,” Peter goes on, dragging Tony back to the present of the moment. “Definitely--definitely a character. Annoying at first, but then he grows on you. And eventually you realize he adds spice to their life.”

Before he realizes it, Tony’s bringing up his hand from Peter’s shoulder to the base of his neck so he can crush the kid’s face against his side.

“And that’s why he’s called Dill?”

The outline of Peter’s smile against the man’s torso is enough of an answer. Still, Tony grins back at the sound of the kid’s unmistakable mumble.

“That’s why he’s called Dill.”