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Contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark does not, in fact, hate Christmas.
Yes, he lost both his parents on one cold, dark, absolutely senseless night in December of 1991, and he lost himself shortly after that to nights of broken bottles and crushed white pills that he barely remembers, but he never held anything against Christmas. If anything, Rhodey’s sad-eyed insistence that they sit themselves down in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve and just talk in the stillness of the mansion, knee to knee, breathing in and out in sync between their sentences, is one of the clearest and most bittersweet of Tony’s memories of 1991. Rhodey had hidden all the vodka and somehow sweeped the medicine cabinet clean, and anchored his best friend to the couch with the power of his own fatigue from running, running, running. It had been time to stop forgetting, and both of them knew it.
Though the years that followed may have belied the spiritual and emotional progress young Tony made that Christmas Eve, they did nothing to taint the sanctity of that memory.
If there is a month that Tony truly hates, it would be October. October 2016, when his star-spangled friend--his father’s hero--stood beside him in front of the security camera footage and uttered nothing as the Winter Soldier onscreen bashed his metal fist into Howard Stark’s skull.
And so Tony goes on through life with a permanent chill in his spine and a pain to his step every October. As soon as December rolls around, he falls into the comfort of an invisible kind of tether to the idealized memory of his parents: their faces clear, dry of their blackened blood, almost smiling at him before they left.
Trauma is sometimes funny that way.
“I know you hate Christmas,” May begins over the phone, but before she can even draw a breath for her rushed apology Tony interrupts her.
“On the contrary, Ms. Parker, I live for all the tinsel and elf shit. Not that that’s not top government secret material, of course. Wouldn’t want my reputation getting knocked about by The Daily Sun. Pepper’s sued them three times already and fourth time is not the charm. But what can I do for you?”
“Well, see, with the holidays coming up a lot of people have been dropping their shifts into my lap and Peter’s not--you know…”
“Babysitting Queens’ little vigilante it is, then.”
“He’s fairly self-sufficient,” May protests weakly. “It’s just really long hours and--I wouldn’t exactly call it babysitting--”
“Eh, call a duck a duck, call a Spider-Baby a Spider-Baby. I don’t blame you, May. I’d rather not have your nephew swinging around the city to keep himself entertained while you’re stuck down at the hospital.”
May breathes out a deep sigh. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope.” Tony pops his p. “Kid’s already got a blanket fort for himself in the lab. He’s welcome.”
“Thank you so much, Tony.”
“Hey. Thank me when I deliver him back to you in one piece.”
“Very funny, Stark.”
“Is this why he never laughs at my jokes? You’ve corrupted his sense of humor.”
“You joke like a dad,” May says with fond exasperation. “Nobody’s supposed to laugh.”
“Just for that comment, I’m putting the Spider-Toddler on security detail with Happy. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”
“Oh, you know I would trust that man with my life.”
Tony makes a show of sucking in the breath through his teeth. “Scandalous, Ms. Parker. So, what time shall I have him picked up?”
“It’s this Saturday, so no school. I’m not sure if he was intending on having Ned over to help decorate in the morning or at night--”
“Decorate? For Christmas?”
May makes a noise to the affirmative, and then follows that up with a hum of inquisitiveness when Tony’s been silent a stretch too long. Tony rubs his goatee and says slowly, “Why have him make a trip upstate if I could just come down and babysit him from the comfort of your apartment? If Fred wants to come over, and they want to tinsel up the place, well, hey, that’s hitting two birds with one stone.”
May hedges, citing the cramped space of the Parker residence and the lack of a reliable wifi network.
“May, please. I’m Tony Stark. I bring the network with me. Besides, Pepper’s always on my case about making the lab my new fiancé. I guess this weekend’s as good a time as any to start going out more and pleasing the future missus.”
May chuckles into the receiver. “I love Pepper Potts, but if there’s one thing she’s wrong about, it’s that. You’ve been married to Rhodey for decades now. The lab could never compete.”
Though he knows the woman can’t see it, Tony gives the ceiling a full eye-roll anyway. “I’ll be at the apartment around eleven. That give enough time for the teenage terror to be up? Oh, and anything else I should know? How many times should I burp him and bathe him?”
“As many as you’d like,” May says devilishly. “Ah, but could you surprise him, then? It would...it would cheer him up, I think.”
Tony opens his mouth to ask why on earth New York’s personification of an Energizer bunny would need cheering up, but then he thinks better of it and bites back the comment on his tongue. Peter Parker is no stranger to loss and loneliness. Of course luck would have it that the universe screwed over his holidays, too.
“I’ll even bring mint brownies,” he promises.
“Don’t poison him.”
“Should’ve thought of that possibility before asking me to babysit an actual child, May Parker.”
“Still not a fan of you, Tony Stark.”
“Would be kind of awkward if you were.”
--
Tony can already hear the steady beat of a Christmas playlist going through the thin walls of the Parkers’ apartment by the time he steps out of the (blessedly functional) elevator. He tries the doorknob and almost stumbles across the threshold when it gives easily, apparently left unlocked.
“Hey, kid,” he hollers as he straightens himself with a sniff and pockets his spare key. “Looking to invite crime now, are we? That a new Spidey tactic?”
A mop of curly brown hair pops into view over the edge of the window between the kitchenette and the living room. “M-mister Stark! What the--what are you doing here?”
Tony flexes his hands at his sides, ruthlessly crushing the urge to push back the messy locks from Peter’s brow. “Hello, hi, good morning, guten Morgen, buenos días. It is I, Tony Stark, genius billionaire babysitter. There, introductions over. What is this hideous playlist?” He jerks his chin toward Mariah Carey crooning over a speaker from the direction of the living room.
“Ned’s idea,” Peter says in a daze. “Mr. Stark. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the cute little elf ornaments and lights and not finding any. Gotta say, this is the first time I’m not impressed, Mr. Parker. C’mon, chop, chop. Your aunt tells me we’ve got quite the Christmas-ifying to do.” Tony lays a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder to steer the kid back onto the carpeted area, where he almost starts to see a very wide-eyed and open-mouthed Ned Leeds staring up at them from where he sits cross-legged on the floor. Beside him is a wiry girl with an impressive head of unkempt curls.
“Mr. Tony Stark Iron Man sir,” Ned breathes. Barely.
“I thought you were upstate!” Peter says in what is quite arguably a prepubescent squeak. “How’d you--how’d you get here?”
Tony’s mouth twitches. He pockets his shades and unzips his wool pea coat with a flamboyant gesture. “Well, you see, Mr. Parker, when you’re a billionaire, you have these things called chauffeurs--”
“Well, I know that.” Peter has the audacity to frown in impatience. “Happy’s outside? He can totally come inside. I mean, if you’re staying, that is--I didn’t mean--uh.”
“Of course I’m staying. Your Aunt Panini bullied me into this,” says Tony with a wave of his hand. When Peter moves toward the door, he adds, “Happy’s not here. I flew over.”
Peter does a comical yo-yo motion, darting his head back and forth between Tony and the door. “Is it--is the suit here?” he whisper-yells with a pointed finger and more reverence than he ever showed Tony Stark himself collectively.
The man rolls him a dry look. “No, Parker. Just the gray Audi. Jeez, May wasn’t exaggerating when she told me how satisfyingly gullible you are.”
Peter’s expression of hero worship rapidly morphs into the squinty-eyed look of a supremely unimpressed teenager. “I can’t believe they call you Earth’s Mightiest Defender.”
“To be fair, I call myself that, and you can’t negate Tony Stark. Hey, Ted. Hi, Scary MJ.”
It’s the girl’s turn to squint up at him. “Is that what Peter told you my name was?”
“That would be affirmative.”
MJ flashes him a peace sign. “Tight.”
Peter moves over to Ned’s side and pokes the top of his head with a slightly frantic energy. “Babe,” he mutters. “Close the mouth, please.”
“Nah, leave it. The variety makes for a good Renaissance painting.” Tony claps his hands then and rubs them together with a grin. “So! What are we doing first? The tree? Garlands? Lights? I’ve got--what the hell are you doing with a razor.”
The last sentence is clearly directed at Peter and delivered in a deadpan that screams Tony Stark says it is way too early for your bullshit, Parker, I don’t even care what it is.
“Shaving sweaters.”
“Come again?”
It’s Ned who pipes up this time. “Shaving the old sweaters. The ones that pilled.”
Right, like that clears anything up for Tony.
“It’s a trick May’s known since before YouTube,” Peter explains, gesturing with the pink disposable razor--obviously May’s property--still in one hand.
MJ holds up the sleeve of the deep maroon v-neck pullover in her lap to illustrate. “If you scrape the fuzz off carefully enough, it looks almost new.”
Tony crouches down in front of the trio of teenagers, for once at a loss for words. Something tells him that a quip about just buying a new sweater would be highly inappropriate for the situation.
“Look.” Peter taps Tony’s arm absently to direct his attention to the olive turtleneck he’s apparently been working on. “See this strip? I’ve gone over that twice with the razor and it’s like a miracle. All the balled-up bits are gone and it’s soft and smooth again. Also, if you don’t know the satisfaction of watching the fuzz gather at the hem of a sweater and picking it up and rolling it into a ball, you have not lived.”
“Oh, please, hand me a razor, then. I’ve gotta jump onboard with this truly life-changing experience,” Tony replies in a tone that says anything but.
The kid happily obliges, while Ned issues a deferential warning not to press down too hard or else the material will rip under the blade. And so Tony finds himself settling into a cross-legged position that mirrors the teeangers’, running a razor with his calloused and gnarly hands over the neckline of a heather pink pullover in the middle of a tiny living room while Mariah Carey switches to Josh Groban in the corner.
And though Tony will later deny it at all costs, the motion does indeed have an incredibly soothing and satisfying effect on him.
A few minutes later, MJ stands with a crick in her joints and pats Ned’s shoulder, proclaiming that she needs help making hot chocolate in the kitchen.
“It’s, like, barely lunchtime,” Peter protests.
“Like that’s ever stopped you,” Ned retorts with a twinkle in his eye.
“Dude.” Peter gestures at Tony beside him, who’s simply watching with a smirk of amusement. “Stop revealing my junk food habits. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“I almost forgot, I brought mint brownies. They’re in the car,” says Tony.
Peter groans and thumps his forehead against Tony’s shoulder. “Oh frick.”
“I’ll put a candy cane in your mug,” says Ned.
“Why must thou tempt me so,” Peter whines into the material of Tony’s sleeve with a shake of his head.
“I’m having hot chocolate whether or not you’re having any, so you might as well drink some too so we can save on electricity,” MJ points out.
Tony winks up at the two teens peering through the window of the kitchenette. “He’s just pretending this is such a difficult decision because of that Mint Incident. I guarantee you, his nonsense will end in about three, two--”
“Okay, fiiiine,” Peter interrupts him. He holds up two fingers in the direction of the kitchen, his face still buried against his mentor’s sleeve. “Make it two candy canes. But I’m only doing this in the name of being economical.”
“Of course, honey,” Ned singsongs back in falsetto. “Why ever would I doubt you, honey?”
“I liked you better when you were starstruck.”
“Oh, I’m still starstruck by Mr. Tony Stark Iron Man Sir. You, on the other hand…”
“They’re not usually this uncivilized,” Peter mutters at Tony, straightening from his dramatic pose. Tony suppresses the thought that his shoulder feels colder without Peter’s face against it. Empty.
“Oh? They putting on a show for your favorite mentor, then?”
Tipping over sideways onto the the small pile of finished sweaters on the carpet, the boy mumbles under his breath something preposterous about Bruce being his favorite mentor.
Tony finishes off the last sleeve of the pink pullover and drapes the whole sweater with a surprising gentleness over the kid’s torso. Peter opens his eyes briefly to peer up at the man through his bangs. Tony clears his throat, unconscious of how his voice takes on a softer tone. “So, Underoos. Why don’t you tell me something. How come you’re spending your pre-Christmas weekend with your friends razoring old sweaters?”
Peter gnaws at his lip for a few moments before answering. The clatter of teaspoons and ceramic mugs sounds from the kitchen behind them.
“Tradition,” he says at last. The volume of his voice is matched to his mentor’s. “May’s always the one who does it with me, but Ned and MJ said they don’t mind being the ones to help this year ’cause, y’know, with May’s work situation and all...yeah.”
“Is it--are they all yours?”
Peter shakes his head, hair rasping against the carpet. “Some are. Like this pink one is May’s, obviously. That olive one.” He waves a hand behind his head in the vague direction of said sweater. “That was Ben’s. The rest we pick up at the thrift shop, especially the ones that they said won’t sell anymore. May likes to be in charge of picking, ’cause according to her if it were all up to me I’d pick all the ugly ones.”
“Wow, your aunt and I actually agreeing on something? Remarkable.”
“I pick the ones with charm,” Peter sasses back. “Anyway, we wash and dry them and May usually cuts all the loose threads or replaces the lost buttons if there are any. Then we shave the ones that are too fuzzy to kind of restore them, then we bag them up according to size and go over to the tent cities to hand them out to anybody who wants them.”
Oh. Oh.
Well, now there’s a ridiculous lump in Tony’s throat that won’t go away.
The man rubs his hands over his face once. Twice. “You wouldn’t mind if an old man joined you handing those out?”
Peter peeks up at him from under the arm he’s thrown over his face. There’s the tiniest trace of a smirk there. “Sure your back can take it?”
Tony points at him. “Watch it, Spider-Diapers. I’m barely a married man yet. I’m the bachelor in the prime of his health. You’re the fetus.”
In answer, Peter moves his arm from his face so he can scratch his brow with a middle finger.
“Ohh, ouch, you wound me. I’m obliterated. My sensitive titanium alloy armor can’t take it.”
“What are you, five?”
Tony lobs another sweater at the kid’s face. Peter claws his way out of the polyester mass with a roll of his eyes. The man almost goes to laugh, when he suddenly notices how the mirth has faded from the boy’s face, as if the last tenuous vestiges of energy in him have given in and given up the pretense. The moment the two lock eyes, Peter’s gaze swerves away. He knows he’s been found out; and he knows Tony is too intelligent not to have understood the look. Peter flips over to stare at the ceiling, praying for his mentor to drop it.
But if Tony Stark is known for many things, ‘dropping it’ is not one of them.
“Peter,” he whispers. His voice feels rough.
Over the speaker, the cacophony of “Carol of the Bells” switches to the moody a cappella exposition of Pentatonix’s “Hallelujah.” The first verse is almost over when Peter finally manages to speak in a croak.
“I guess you remember when I told you about me and May living in the car two years ago.”
Of course Tony remembers. How could he forget that candid confession, spoken in night whispers in the rattling quiet of their hotel room? He’d never before considered what it was like to be evicted. Not until the kid talked about Ben’s death and the loss of income pushing him and his aunt out of their first apartment.
Well it goes like this: The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift.
“It was a good thing it was summer. I can’t--I don’t--winter is just. Tough for everybody, Mr. Stark.”
The baffled king composing Hallelujah.
“The year before he--well. Yeah. Ben talked a lot about doing this, handing out food and clothes to anybody who needs it. We were hoping to do it together for the first time, the three of us, over Christmas. And, yeah.”
Hallelujah, hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Tony studies the profile of the kid before him, who stolidly refuses to look at him and continues to gaze up at the ceiling instead. He must have memorized the patterns of alternating cracks and soot by now. There’s a crease in his brow, and God, he looks old. He’s seventeen and he looks old, like he’s walked the footsteps of Atlas and back.
Ben never did live until Christmas. Tony doesn’t need to ask to know.
Suddenly, viciously, he feels stupid for waltzing in here expecting to hang up garlands around a Christmas tree.
“This is the best thing you could’ve done in his memory, buddy.” Tony wants to reach out and pat him so badly. But something about it seems wrong--selfish--as if it would shatter the quiet dignity that Peter has always taken on at moments like this.
Peter whispers, “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
There’s silence. Even against the hum of the chorus and the clink of plates in the distance, there’s silence, and it weighs warm and uncertain behind Tony’s ribs.
You know, I used to live alone until I knew ya. And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch.
Peter speaks up again. “I always look for this guy Marvin every year. He’s a Vietnam vet. He had two sons, both in the Army, but they never came home from Iraq. I don’t know what happened to his wife because he never answers when May asks. But--yeah. I like to make sure we always have a bag left for him if we don’t find him right away.”
And love is not a victory march.
Tony nudges Pete’s side with his socked foot. “Spider-Man, right? Always looking out for the little guy.”
Peter finally rolls his head to the side to make eye contact with his mentor. He blinks. “Peter Parker’s a little guy too. Sometimes that’s the best kind of person to look out for all the other little guys.”
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.
Something clicks inside Tony then. He’s alive, and he feels alive, and it’s joyful and excruciating at the same time; and something in him shrinks at the thought of his youngness, how little he knows to do and feel in the presence of this seventeen-year-old lying in a pile of sweaters somewhere in the beaten down neighborhoods of Queens.
“Hey, bud?”
“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”
“You know he’s proud of you, right?”
A noncommittal hum.
“I’m serious. Don’t blow me off. He’s proud of you, and I know it, and you wanna know how I know it?”
Peter abruptly shifts so the pink sweater obscures more than half of his face--perhaps to hide any potential moisture behind his eyelids.
“Please don’t--please don’t do that.” Gently, Tony reaches out to pull the top away from Peter’s head. “Look at me. And don’t forget this, ’kay? I barely know you, not as much as Ben ever did, and I’m proud of you. He knew you since before you were Spider-Man. And having the privilege of having known you for almost a decade? There’s no way in hell he isn’t proud of you today, kid.”
And it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who’s seen the light.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”
“What? Why?”
“I just--” Peter huffs out a hot breath. He’s blinking too rapidly. “I want to believe you. It’s...it’s hard. But I’ll get there someday. Soon. I won’t forget what you’ve said.”
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.
“That’s all I could ever ask of you, Pete.” At last, Tony allows himself to give in to the desire to lay a soft hand on the top of the kid’s head. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“You’re too young to be a Scrooge. I promised your aunt we’d get this place spruced up by the time she gets back.”
There flashes some semblance of a small, toothy grin. “Spider-Man’s sticky hands could help with that.”
Hallelujah, hallelujah. Hallelujah.