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Peter rises to consciousness in stages. First, his hearing tunes in like a radio finding a channel, and he’s momentarily panicked by the silence he hears (actually, he hears a low, powerful hum of energy, but compared to the apartment in Queens, it’s very close to silence), until he remembers where he is. Then it’s touch, the feeling of soft, smooth cotton sheets against his bare arms (Tony had wanted to give Peter silk sheets because he knew Peter’s enhanced senses were sensitive, but Peter had pleaded earnestly against Tony’s idea until the billionaire relented), and Peter relaxes, knowing he’s in his room in the tower. He breathes in deeply, contentedly, and the odourless, clean air fills his lungs (Peter remembers asking Tony about being worried that intruders might sneak around in the vents, and Tony had replied that the vents were very strictly monitored, since they circulated all the air in the building). Yawning widely, Peter silently muses that he should brush his teeth soon, mouth dry and tasting less than great after a night of sleep (he wonders if Tony had slept at all, with a sneaking suspicion that he’d find Tony in his lab). Last comes sight, and even though it’s Peter’s most favourite sense, he is more than content to leave his eyes closed, happily basking in the feeling of being comfortable and protected (usually, Peter would focus on sight first and foremost, but he always feels so warm and safe in the tower that he just constantly wants to curl up and sleep).
“Wha’ time ‘s it,” Peter hums sleepily to himself, rolling onto his stomach. “Morn’ FRI,” he mumbles louder, words muffled by the pillow his face is buried in.
“Good morning, Peter,” FRIDAY’s voice replies from the ceiling, sterile tone somehow holding a trace of affection, “It is 9:47AM.”
Peter doesn’t need to look to know that the onyx blackout tint in the windows is bleeding away and leaving the thick glass transparent once more. He feels the morning sunshine seeping into his once dark room, the temperature of the room rising just the slightest with the addition of warm sunlight.
Groaning softly, Peter forces himself to turn onto his back, squeezing his eyes firmly shut at the light. For a few more moments, he lays still, basking in the warm sunlight until he’s almost uncomfortably warm, before sitting up. He stumbles towards the connected bathroom, eyes closed and hands raised to minimize his chances of walking headfirst into a wall.
“A little more to your right,” FRIDAY says, sounding amused.
Obediently, Peter changes direction, hands bumping into the door and patting around until he grasps the doorknob. “Thanks, FRI.”
“Always here to help.”
Still half asleep, Peter squints one eye open just long enough to make sure he uses only toothpaste on his toothbrush, brushing his teeth with more energy than expected from an asleep-on-his-feet teenager. After washing his face and changing his clothes, Peter is significantly more awake, round brown eyes finally open and alert.
His stomach growls and Peter’s face scrunches into a crooked half smile. Running a hand over his hair in a frankly quite useless attempt to flatten it (he always thought his wayward curls made him look like a child), Peter trots cheerfully towards the elevator.
FRIDAY, ever smart and perceptive, automatically begins taking Peter to the main floor without a word. With his usual childlike energy and enthusiasm, Peter hums softly, tapping his foot and fidgeting idly as he waits for the elevator to arrive at the floor he wants.
When the elevator doors slide silently open, Peter shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, thoughts focusing on what he should have for breakfast. Stepping out of the elevator, he blinks, raising his chin and sniffing the air, brows pulling together in confusion.
It smelled like coffee.
Which was not — by any means — strange, since Tony lived on it, but the smell of bitter black coffee usually only followed Tony around. That was the strange part, because Tony had a coffee machine down in his lab and would never be outside his lab at this time.
Maybe the coffee machine down in the lab is broken?
Mr. Stark would probably take the one up here and bring it down, though.
So Peter continues towards the kitchen much more cautiously, steps light and hunger forgotten, a questioning Mr. Stark? lingering on his tongue. With each step, his apprehension increases, eyes darting around in fear of an ambush.
The scent of coffee is getting stronger, but it’s… stale. As if it was brewed a few hours ago.
Peter all but creeps into the large, open area of the floor, gaze sweeping through the empty kitchen, squinting at the bright sunshine glinting off the stainless steel fridge. He spots the sleek coffee machine up on the counter, plugged in as usual, but there is a small puddle of dark liquid left in the pot.
Sensing a presence in the room, Peter slowly turns to the area closer to the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, where multiple sofas are arranged in a loose rectangle around a large glass coffee table.
This time, Peter voices the quiet question. “Mr. Stark?”
From where Peter stands, he sees Tony’s side profile, the billionaire seated comfortably on one side of a three seater sofa. Peter stumbles over, confusion slowly replaced by fear when Tony doesn’t respond. Or move.
Peter’s brain churns terrible thoughts as he kneels beside Tony and his eyes anxiously scan the billionaire: closed eyes, pale face, not responsive— Stop right there, Peter snaps at himself, aggressively pushing all his focus towards his hearing, too afraid to reach out.
Tony’s breathing is deep and even, heartbeats slow but steady and rhythmical, and Peter’s panicked mind is slow to process the conclusion that the signs point to. “You’re…?” The teenager leans back on his heels. “Sleeping,” he exhales in disbelief.
Relieved, Peter silently falls back to sit on the floor, waiting for his heart to slow to a more relaxed pace. He can’t help himself; Peter peers up at Tony.
Only now does Peter notice that Tony’s head is bobbing forward, just the tiniest bit, and he marvels at the way the billionaire manages to look like he isn’t asleep, until you get close enough to see that his eyes are closed.
I guess this is what he does during his super boring meetings… Is that why he brings sunglasses?
The warm sunlight illuminates one side of Tony’s face, and Peter finds himself wincing at the deep, dark bags he sees under Tony’s eyes. Even asleep, the billionaire’s eyebrows are furrowed, as if his mind was fighting the rest his body so clearly needed, as if he was thinking I don’t have time for sleep. Peter wants, so desperately, for Tony to rest and be relieved of the weight he always carries on his shoulders, even just for a short while.
He feels tears welling up in his eyes and blinks rapidly, jumping to his feet and walking back to the elevator. Peter’s steps are calm despite the sorrow burning inside him like a raging forest fire, growing larger and brighter and stronger the more he thinks about how tired Tony looked.
The elevator doors slide closed, shutting Peter in just as the first glittering tear escapes, sliding down his cheek. “My room, please,” he chokes out, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth as his shoulders shake with a silent sob.
By the time the elevator arrives at the floor requested, Peter’s gaze is determined. He swipes at the wetness on his cheeks, sniffling softly, before exiting the elevator with purpose lengthening his strides. “Leave the elevator FRI, I’m just grabbing something.”
“As you wish, Peter.”
Peter runs down the hall to his room, shoving the door open and grabbing the extra blanket sitting on top of his comforter on the bed. Bundling the soft material into his arms, Peter rushes back to the elevator.
He realizes something on the way back to the main floor.
“FRIDAY?”
“Yes?”
“How long was Mr. Stark there?”
“Do you mean on that floor, or asleep on the sofa?”
Peter tilts his head to one side, voice lilting upward in confusion. “Both?”
“Sir has been on that floor since 4:28AM, and has currently been asleep for four hours and 37 minutes,” FRIDAY answers.
“...Do you know why he was there so early?”
“I believe he was intending to make breakfast.”
“You mean coffee? He did that already.”
“I did not mean for himself.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him have breakfast besides coff—” Peter stops with a gasp. “...Me?”
The elevator doors slide open in place of FRIDAY’s response.
“Thanks, FRIDAY.”
“You’re always welcome, Peter.”
Peter makes his way back to Tony, setting the blanket on an empty sofa and hesitating.
What if he wakes up?
Inhaling, Peter steels himself. I have to do it. Mr. Stark is not comfortable right now. I can change that.
Holding his breath, Peter carefully slides an arm underneath Tony’s knees, his other hand gently nudging Tony forward until Peter can curl that arm around Tony’s back. Peter freezes, inhaling a shaky breath, but Tony doesn’t move or react in any way, head lolling. Thankful that Tony seemed to be deeply asleep, enough to not notice being moved, Peter cuddles Tony to his chest, slowly standing up and settling him back onto the sofa, this time laying down instead of sitting up. Peter makes quick work of sliding a sofa cushion under Tony’s head and spreading the blanket over the billionaire, satisfied that Tony was as comfortable as he could be sleeping on a sofa.
Hesitantly, Peter rests his fingertips against Tony’s frown, slowly sliding his fingers up into the styled hair in what he hoped was a comforting action. Tony sighs, a soft sleepy sound that is barely audible, and relaxes.
Peter smiles.
Flopping down onto one of the empty sofas, Peter spends a few minutes just listening to Tony breathe.
In and out and in and out and in and out
It takes only a few more minutes before his stomach grumbles lowly at him, almost like a reminder; Peter stands and goes to the kitchen. He drinks a glass of orange juice, sitting on the counter and swinging his legs, eyes wandering about in a disinterested, half-hearted attempt at searching for entertainment.
Suddenly, an idea flutters into existence in his mind like a little bird, landing and taking up residence, claiming his attention.
It wouldn’t hurt, right?
Almost protectively, Peter fixates half his attention and senses on Tony while he rummages as quietly as possible through the kitchen cupboards. Tony doesn’t stir, sleeping soundly as Peter measures ingredients and mixes them all up in a giant metal bowl. Peter works slowly, trying to keep all noise to a minimum, diligently double checking everything he does and making sure absolutely no mistakes are made.
Just as Peter is halfway finished with mixing everything together, arm mildly protesting at the effort required, he hears a small sound coming from Tony’s direction. The sound was so quiet that even with his enhanced hearing, Peter wondered if he had heard correctly. Instantly, he pauses what he’s working on, tiptoeing over to the sofas with curiosity and faint concern.
Five minutes later, Peter is back behind the kitchen counter, and Tony is practically buried under two additional blankets.
Humming quietly under his breath, Peter pours circles of the mix he made onto a frying pan, the stack of cooked fluffy pancakes growing on the large plate he had set beside the stove. He leans over to check to coffee machine — a quite unnecessary action, really — and is silently pleased to see it steadily brewing the coffee Tony loved so much. Peter works serenely until there are two tall stacks of steaming pancakes and no more batter left, sliding the pan to the cold side of the stove to avoid burning it with the residual heat. Just as he is pouring a mug of fresh coffee from the pot, Tony stirs with a sharp inhale.
Setting down the coffee, Peter eagerly hurries over as Tony sluggishly shifts and frowns.
“So hot,” Tony mutters with his eyes squeezed shut, a hint of a whine in his low voice.
“...Mr. Stark?”
“Hm?”
Not knowing what to say, Peter hovers nervously. Tony blinks his eyes open, and Peter watches as black dilated pupils shrink in the light, revealing more of Tony’s dark irises. Peter knows that Tony’s eyes are deep, inky brown, but with the bright sunlight slanting through them, they look much lighter than they really are. Like burnt caramel: a warm, rich, soft brown. Squinting and tipping his head forward just the slightest bit, Peter wonders at the colour of Tony’s eyes — was that a bit of green swirling around? — before Tony blinks.
“Kid?” Tony mumbles, slowly sitting up and pushing clumsily at the mountain of blankets.
“Mr. Stark it’s so great that you’re awake I was actually thinking of waking you up but I didn’t really want to do that because you were sleeping so well and—”
“Coffee,” Tony grunts, effectively cutting off Peter’s senseless rambling.
“Breakfast first?” Peter suggests, soft and timid.
Tony scowls.
“I made pancakes…” Peter stares down at his shoes, dejected.
“Time to eat.”
Peter ends up eating most of the pancakes, but he can’t bring himself to mind. Tony doesn’t drink a single sip of coffee until he’s eaten a fair amount, and Peter practically glows with delight.