Work Text:
He's not surprised when he finds Peter sitting on the roof of Stark Tower at 2:42 AM.
Maybe he should be. It's not exactly normal to find your adopted kid on top of a 100-story building in the middle of the night, but Peter's never really been one for normal. It's been a while since he's done anything this odd, though - the first few weeks were full of strange occurrences, all varying degrees of disturbing, but things have leveled out since.
Tonight, apparently, they're backsliding.
Granted, this is not even close to the weirdest thing Peter's done since moving to the tower, nor the most concerning. It only takes a glance for Tony to know that Peter's not up here to do anything dangerous. Just, it seems, to stargaze.
Tony hopes this one doesn't end in a fight. There's been a lot of yelling lately, and he'd really like to get through a conversation without Peter getting upset with him. He knows it's the grief talking, but it still hurts.
Pulling the sleeves of his MIT sweatshirt over his hands, Tony walks across the roof, sits down next to Peter. The kid's not wearing a jacket, clad in Star Wars pajama pants and an old t-shirt that Tony's fairly sure is his own. Or maybe it's Rhodey's - their wardrobe's have gotten a little mixed up over the years and after constant reminders that the whole what's mine is yours bit applies here, the kid started wearing whatever was lying around with absolutely no regard for who owned it. Peter still doesn't quite get that no one will bite his hand off if he gets seconds at a meal or grabs a midnight snack, but at least it's something.
Peter doesn't look over. Doesn't acknowledge Tony's presence save for a minuscule shift in his posture.
"What are you doing up so late?" Tony asks, almost in a whisper. Anything louder might shatter the serenity. He wonders, vaguely, if Peter's still angry with him about their latest fight. Tony doesn't even remember what it was about.
But no, Peter never holds a grudge over their arguments. They never talk about them, after, because Peter never brings them up, just goes back to acting like everything's fine between them after he cools down, and Tony's too much of a coward to say anything.
True to form, Peter shrugs noncommittally and says, "Can't sleep. Kept...thinking."
Tony's learned enough since taking Peter in to know that asking him what he was thinking about flat-out will only cause Peter to clam up and shut down. Instead, he rests his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand and says in the gentlest tone he can muster, "You can tell me about it if you want. Or we can just sit. S'up to you, buddy."
Peter's mouth presses into a thin line and his hands fidget in his lap. He contemplates, eyes fixed on the night sky for a long moment, before ducking his head and letting his bangs hang in front of his face. His hair is just long enough for Peter to hide behind it, since every time Tony suggests a haircut he's met with a shake of the head and a change of the subject.
"I can't stop thinking about - about what Aunt May said to me before..." Peter stops, takes a breath. Tony prays to a god he doesn't believe in that this is not another with great power comes great responsibility situation. "She told me...a few hours before it happened, she told me she'd always be there for me. I was sad about something, I don't remember what, and she - she said she'd be here for me no matter what and then she -"
For a second, Tony almost thinks he's going to say it. It's been eight weeks and Peter still hasn't said the word died.
He doesn't. He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence, like he always does, like he did even when he gave his speech at May's funeral. Tony has yet to determine if this is a thing he should be concerned about, but figures there are bigger issues here anyway.
Tony opens his mouth, but before he can actually speak, Peter looks up at him and says, "What were your parents like?"
It takes a minute for Tony to even be sure he heard the question right. Peter's never asked about his parents, and Tony's never said much of anything about them, both of them knowing how touchy of a subject it is.
He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what Peter is looking for him to say.
His instinct is to brush it off, because talking about his parents at almost 3 in the morning is not exactly what Tony signed up for when he got out of bed.
But Peter's staring at him with those big doe eyes, and maybe opening up to the kid is how he'll get the kid to open up to him.
"My mom was wonderful," Tony starts, the piercing feeling in his chest already surfacing. He cards his fingers through his hair, the sleeve of his sweatshirt sliding down his arm. "She was kind and soft and - and bright. She used to sing, all around the house, when my father wasn't home, and she always told me that I...that I was her favorite person. The best thing that ever happened to her, she said."
A hand slips into his when he pauses. He shoots Peter a grateful smile before continuing. "My dad, on the other hand, was...he was a dick. Full-stop. He was cold and emotionless and I always wondered how my mother could've ended up with someone that terrible. My father - he treated me like I was his invention. Not his son, not the child he was supposed to care for. Just something he created for his own personal gain."
He wants to leave it at that, but there's something he needs Peter to know. "My father is everything I never wanted to be. I - I've spent my whole life trying to be a better man than him. I'm trying, now, to be a better parent that he was."
It's a testament to how much he'd do for this kid that he even says this much. There's more to say, more to unpack, but that's Tony's problem, not Peter's.
Peter's quiet for a moment. Processing. Tony watches the emotions play out on his face, but doesn't really bother trying to keep up with them.
"You are," Peter says softly. He's looking at Tony's shoulder. "You're a great - parent. I know I haven't...I know I've been difficult and mean and ungrateful and -"
"Wait, wait, stop." Tony shifts so he can fully face Peter, who looks at him with way too much confusion in his eyes. "You're not difficult, Pete. Or mean or ungrateful or anything else you were gonna say. You're grieving. You're allowed to grieve. You're going through basically the worst thing you could possibly go through and you're allowed to be angry about it."
Peter looks unconvinced - God, it's like pulling teeth with this kid - but he doesn't push the issue. His fingers tighten around Tony's, and it's only then that Tony registers how cold Peter is.
"Jesus Christ, kid, you're freezing." Tony's pulled off his sweatshirt before Peter can even reply, handing it over to Peter. The wind bites at his bare arms as soon as he does, but Peter's the one who can't thermoregulate. "Don't argue, just put it on."
Peter sticks out his tongue at him, but pulls the sweatshirt over his head. He's still an inch of two shorter than Tony, so it's a bit baggy on him. Peter does the same thing Tony had, letting the sleeves dangle past his hands, and says, "Thanks."
"'Course."
They sit in silence, Peter leaning into Tony's side to replace the handholding. Tony knows Peter has something else to say, but he also knows that Peter needs to say it on his own time. So he sits and he waits.
Eventually, muffled in Tony's shirt, Peter says, "I can't sleep. Like, not just tonight. I've barely slept in the past...week or so, I guess."
Tony wraps an arm around Peter's back, rests his cheek on the top of his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted to handle it myself." Peter's voice hitches. "Because I wanted to prove to - to myself or to you or to the universe, that there was something I could do by myself. That I'm not just this weak little kid who can't take care of himself."
And Tony gets that.
He hates that Peter thinks he has to do this, any of this, alone, but he gets it.
Peter keeps talking. "But I just - every time I try to go to sleep, I end up thinking about her and about how my life is gonna be without her. About the fact that she won't - she won't be there when I graduate. Or when I find out what colleges I got into. Or when I get my degree, or when I get married, or when I have kids.
"She always told me she was going to be the best grand-aunt. She never said grandmother - I think she thought she'd be disrespecting my mom, her sister, even though I don't think she would've - but she always loved the idea of meeting my kids one day, and now she - she can't -"
Peter doesn't break down, as much as Tony expects him to. Which is...progress, he thinks.
Instead, he just lets out a shaky exhale that Tony feels on his neck and murmurs, "I miss her."
The past eight weeks have been a constant reminder that Peter is just a kid. But in this moment, Peter seems smaller than he ever has before.
He doesn't know what to say.
The truth is, it'll never stop hurting. At least, it hasn't for Tony. Peter will never stop missing his aunt, just as Tony has never stopped missing his mother, and that pain will always be there. It will lessen, but it will remain.
Tony doesn't think Peter needs to hear that right now.
So he says, "Come on, Underoos," and takes hold of Peter's sleeve. Stands, waits for Peter to do the same, then leads the kid down into the Tower.
He takes him to his room and tucks him into bed. Kisses Peter's forehead like his mother used to do for him and then climbs wordlessly onto the other side of the bed. Peter doesn't say anything either, just curls into Tony's side and closes his eyes.
It's a solid forty-five minutes before Peter's breathing evens out. Tony lies awake for another twenty minutes after that, to be sure, and then falls asleep with his arms wrapped around his kid and sleeps better than he has in months.