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The tower was lonely. The darkness was consuming and the drinks before him taunted him, waving in front of his face like the light he so needed. His hands shook and mouth watered at the sight. It was remorse and sadness and- God , he sounded like that old Beatles song on the tip of his tongue but lost in his head.
His legs didn’t move, weak.
Tony could feel his father’s sharp tongue taunting him, whipping him with his words. It was traumatizing, his chest panged with hurt.
God, he needed a drink.
Tony was made of iron, undeniably cold to the touch. It made him sick to his stomach. The nano-storage plate on his chest glowed blue like his arc-reactor once had. He tapped the scar and winced. It was nowhere near sore, but the memories hurt more than the physical pain ever would.
He could still feel the hands prodding in his chest. He told himself he was made or iron then, too. In that cave in Afghanistan, iron.
Made of iron, glued and shattered pieces of gold in the mix with spray-painted tinfoil of red.
Tony had worked into most of the night, forcing his trembling hands to make something useful. Earlier he’d dropped Peter off at his friend’s house was bored ever since. He wouldn’t admit it, but he wanted the kid home, wanted him here. They could be across the room and not talking but it would be better than Tony being alone.
“Boss, Peter is requesting entry into the workshop.”
F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. “Let him in.”
The doors unlocked and the kid walked through the door somewhat sluggishly. The bags were deep under his eyes and his curls were standing up everywhere. Tony liked them like this, Peter preferred them gelled to his head like a helmet. ( “Mr. Stark, they make me look like a baby!” “You are a baby, Pete.” ) His cheeks were sullen and he barely resembled himself. A zombie is the word he'd use to describe his stumbling mentee as he makes his way toward the couch Tony is on.
Tony smirked at his mentee. “Rough night, kid?”
Peter just sighed before settling himself next to Tony, his head rolling onto the man’s shoulder. The teenager was boneless on nights like these. His guard and barriers shut down completely and he let himself be taken care of. They were Tony’s favorite nights, getting to be with his pseudo-son and just let go.
“You should sleep in a bed once in awhile ya know.” Tony said softly, yet making no movements. His side was warming up with the teenager curling up under it. “You’re so short because you don’t sleep.”
“Hey! I’m average , Mr. Stark!”
Tony shook his head with a smirk, patting the teen’s thigh as a soft of comfort tactic. “We really sleeping on the couch?” He didn’t have a problem with becoming a human pillow; he’d accepted it knowing Peter Parker, the kid was a human-octopus. It's his social anxiety and Tony was more than happy to comply with soothing it when bad times happen. It got worse when nearing the anniversary of Ben's death date or his own death date. He held back a flinch and gripped harder.
Peter shrugged. “You don’t have to.”
Contradictory to his words, he pushed himself closer into Tony’s arms, letting his nose scrunch into the man’s sternum. He unconsciously scans the room for a sign of threat before rubbing soothing circles into the teenagers back. Peter just latches on and hums when Tony gets a particularly bad knot out of his back. He seems content, at ease for once. The kid was usually bouncing off the walls- more like sticking to them and jumping off ("I won't fall because my hands are glue" is what Peter had said, moments before falling onto the tiled kitchen floors).
“You have to talk to me eventually.” Tony said into the crown of his head, tucking Peter's head farther under his chin. It was comfortable, fulfilling. He finally got to take care of someone that wanted even if he'd never admit it. Tony didn't mind.
Peter made an offended noise but didn’t move a muscle under his mentor’s arm. “What’cha wanna talk ‘bout?”
Tony rubbed fingers along Petere’s scalp. “Why you always come here exhausted and in the middle of the night, it’s like I’m a booty call to care for you, kid.”
Much to his disliking, the kid sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “‘M sorry- I didn’t- didn’t mean to intrude or-”
“No, you’re not bothering me.” Tony interrupted quickly, placing a cold hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m-” worried, concerned, scared “perturbed. When’s the last time you slept? Ate a full meal?”
“I have!” He squeaked. “I’ve just been busy with homework and had this really big test the other day that I needed to study for and…”
The sentence died off. The silence didn’t kill anymore, but the space between them felt like a flurry. His throat cried out for the alcohol across the room but his hands crawled over to the kid next to him. Tony knows the answer was 'no, Mister Stark, I haven't been taking care of myself' but he doesn't nag. He might be a few things, a hypocrite isn't quite one of them.
“‘M sorry, sir.” Peter whispered. He sounded so small and sadder than he ever should be. Tony could basically feel the stress of Peter’s week on his own shoulders. He took pity and tugged him closer into an embrace, his other hand curling over the back of the kid’s neck.
“I’m not mad.” Tony said back, softly, in the voice reserved for only his mentee. He held Peter just a little tighter.
Tony decided to lug the teenager upstairs into the lounge room where a movie could play softly and Peter could pretend he wasn’t seconds away from dozing. The blanket around both of them wasn’t nearly as warm as the kid himself.
His sore back and the crick in his neck the next day was worth holding Peter closer, his hands warmed up, his eyes crinkled as the boy in his sleep, pulled Tony closer. It was home, it was warm.
Tony was made of iron, but even the strongest metals can melt.