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1.
After defeating Thanos, it takes over a day to get back to Titan, and every second makes Tony want gnaw his arm off. The logical part of his brain is aware that Strange is with Peter. He’ll explain everything. Peter will understand he isn’t abandoned on an alien planet. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s failed by not being there to catch him when he stumbles back into existence.
When they land, the survivors are huddled around a fire. They leap up instantly. Tony doesn’t register how the Guardians react to Rocket, because as soon as he sees Peter, his brain can’t make room for anything else. A weight he hadn’t realized was still pressing down on him disappears. The rest of the world came back, he saw Thanos’s madness undone, but none of it was real until this moment, watching Peter scramble across the rocks.
When Peter throws himself into his arms, he never wants to let go.
***
They’re all so tired they barely talk on the flight home, just sit in silence, the Guardians in quiet mourning for their fallen companion, the one whose death made Quill fuck everything up in the first place, Strange meditating, cryptic smile on his face. Peter is hunched, staring at his hands; when asked if he’s okay, all he does is shrug. Tony places a hand on his back, a pathetically inadequate gesture in light of everything, but he gives him a grateful smile, so he leaves it there.
Eventually he shifts, yawning, and rests his head on Tony’s shoulder, sagging heavy against his side. He keeps sliding down and jerking awake, until Tony finally tells him to just go ahead and use his thigh as a pillow. It’s a little awkward, but in the grand scheme of undone deaths and millions of miles between here and home, what’s a little awkwardness?
As Peter nods off, Tony ruffles through his curls, soft and tangled and here, in the world again. He allows himself to feel, finally, for the first time since he set foot on that godforsaken planet, that maybe everything really is okay.
But fuck space. He is one hundred percent done with it.
2.
The problem is, once you’ve barely survived a death-defying journey in the middle of the apocalypse with someone, you develop a bond, even if that someone is a short-tempered cyborg. The kind of bond where you show up when they need help. And if they’re a short-tempered alien cyborg, chances are that when they need help, it’s going to be in another galaxy.
The other problem is Nebula calls while Peter’s working in the lab, which means he overhears her SOS, even though Tony tries to take it out of earshot.
When he returns to the workspace, Peter immediately says, “Remember when you promised I could have whatever I want for my graduation gift? I want to come with you.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Tony tells him, shoving every weapon he can find into a large duffel. He should probably invest in a space go-bag if this is going to become a thing he does.
Peter just shrugs and, with a disarmingly mischievous grin, says, “If you don’t take me, I’ll call Ms. Potts and tell her where you’ve gone.”
“That’s not playing fair.” But there isn’t enough time to argue and besides, a completely irresponsible part of Tony loves the way Peter’s eyes light up when he sighs and gives in with a nod. “Fine. But if you catch some alien parasite, don’t come crying to me.”
That completely irresponsible part of him thinks: if he shows Peter the universe, maybe his eyes will light up like that all the time.
***
The rescue mission, breaking Nebula out of a prison set deep in the caves of a dark, windy planet, goes well—right up until the moment the giant, tentacled creature guarding the exit wraps one of its slime-covered legs around Peter and starts to whip him against the walls like a rag-doll.
Tony’s entire field of vision goes white as he throws himself at the thing, shooting haphazardly; blasts ricochet off its hide, bouncing around the cavernous enclosure. He knows the creature’s skin is impenetrable: Nebula warned them, and the evidence is right there. But that doesn’t stop him from keeping up his assault, mind overwhelmed by the image of Peter tossed around like it’s nothing, arms flailing.
It’s Nebula who manages to stab the monster in the eye, Peter who scrambles to his feet and, despite limping, takes out the last few human-sized alien guards, the ones Tony was supposed to be dealing with. By the time the red-hot rage thudding through his temples subsides to a slow burn, it’s all over.
“Did you see that?” Peter shouts as Tony flies down to meet him. “It grabbed me, and then it was like—pow—pow!” He waves his arms in an excited imitation of the alien’s thrashing. “And then she was all—” he makes a stabbing motion, “right in the eye! And now I’m covered in alien goo! Ned is not going to believe this. I need to take a picture before I wash it off!”
He sprints toward their waiting ship, still babbling happily to himself; the limp is already gone, as if he hadn’t just been thrown around by a Lovecraftian nightmare.
“He’s strong.”
Tony starts. Nebula has appeared next to him, out of nowhere.
“Yeah, I guess he is,” he agrees, absently, not taking his eyes off Peter, who has retrieved his phone and is taking a series of selfies with the alien terrain in the background. At least he’s happy, even if Tony wants to vomit thinking about that muscled limb squeezing around his waist.
“A good fighter. Valuable,” she adds, in that detached way of hers. “But a problem for you.”
Tony finally looks at her, confused, and is met with an accusing glare. “I’m going to need you to expand on that thought, Blue.”
“You acted irrationally because he was in danger.” She gives him a small smile, an expression so rare it makes her face almost unrecognizable. “You care about him,” she adds more softly. “That’s good. But you can’t let it distract you in battle. It will not end well for anyone.”
“I—uh.”
She stalks off to the ship before he can come up with a response. He watches, amazed, as Peter stops her, animatedly asking something. To take a selfie, he realizes in astonishment a few seconds later, when Nebula nods and then stands stiffly, looking uncomfortable and emotionless next to Peter’s huge grin as he raises his phone. A bruise is blooming across his face, dark and splotchy, and, okay, yeah, she might have a point, because that makes Tony want to go back, revive the monster, and kill it all over again.
But it’s fine. It’s not like he’s letting the kid anywhere near space again.
3.
Of course, as much as he sometimes wishes he could, he can’t actually keep track of Peter 24/7. Because, as everyone he’s ever loved has told him at one point or another, that’s not how you protect people. Heck, it’s one of the things Pepper reminded him of in the long, heartfelt letter she sent a month ago, a few days after she stormed out the door for the last time. (“For real this time, Tony. I can’t believe you went to space without telling me.”)
Not only can he not keep track of Peter 24/7, but apparently Thor has absolutely no sense of how you’re supposed to treat an eighteen-year-old, because Peter is currently pounding at his apartment door at three in the morning, shouting an Asgardian drinking song.
“Thor found out he missed my birthday,” he explains, words slurring, when Tony opens the door. He collapses forward, forcing Tony to catch him before he stumbles to the floor. “Took me to New Asgard! It’s pretty.”
Well, that answers the question of if it’s possible for Peter to get drunk. Six months ago he’d confessed to trying a few shots of vodka at some high school party with no effect, but apparently Asgardian mead is a different story.
“He took you off the planet?” Tony asks, trying and failing to get Peter to stand on his own. He just clings more tightly; even drunk, his grip’s unbreakable when he wants it to be.
“Mmhmm,” he agrees, sighing into Tony’s shoulder. “Proper celebration. ‘Being a man.’ Tradition.”
“Great,” Tony mumbles. He gives up on the getting-Peter-to-stand plan and wraps his arm around his back instead, half nudging, half dragging him to the couch. “I don’t suppose you mentioned the drinking age here on planet America is still twenty-one?”
Peter flops, sprawling, onto the couch, and gives him a sheepish grin. “Slipped my mind.”
“Uh-huh.” Tony quickly swings by the kitchen to grab a glass of water, which he places in Peter’s hand, guiding his fingers to wrap around it. “So, why’re you here and not at home?”
“May’d kill me.” Peter stares at the water glass like he has no idea what to do with it. “I’d be grounded through like—college.”
“College is in two weeks,” Tony points out. He doesn’t add that he knows that because the days until Peter’s no longer in New York have been ticking down in the back of his head for months. Not that he hasn’t already concocted about ten different excuses to go up to MIT next year. To keep an eye on the kid, since he clearly doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble. No other reason.
“No. Through college. All of it.” Peter is still staring at the glass forlornly, so Tony gently pushes it toward his face, until he gets the idea. He takes a sip, which turns into a grateful gulp; the water is gone in seconds. He places it on the coffee table in front of them and turns to Tony, face open, glowing with affection. “‘Sides. I wanted to see you.”
Suddenly, he lurches at Tony, pulling him into a sloppy, tight hug. “I’m going to miss you, Mr. Stark,” he whispers against his face. The sting of alcohol is enough to make Tony’s stomach churn, but he holds his breath and returns the hug, letting himself, for a brief moment, enjoy the feel of that warm body in his arms. It’s been more than a year, but part of him still marvels every time they touch and Peter is really there, safe and solid.
“I’ll miss you too, kid,” he admits.
***
He ends up tucking Peter into the guest bed, leaving five glasses of water, a pile of crackers, and a gallon of Gatorade—which he had to pay the doorman $200 to grab from the nearest bodega, because hosting a drunk superteen is not one of the things he keeps his apartment supplied for—on the bedside table.
Peter smiles up at him happily, eyes glazed with exhaustion and alcohol. “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs.
“Any time.” Tony lays his hand on his forehead, then smooths his messy hair, feeling a tug of affection as his eyes drift closed, lips curving into a smile. For a moment, he feels like he can’t catch his breath. He tries to snatch his hand back, but Peter catches his wrist, eyes shooting open, clearer than they were seconds ago.
“Thor’s right,” he says, voice suddenly firm. Part of Tony’s mind tries to calculate what this rapid change might mean about his body’s ability to filter out alcohol; the rest of it is busy being very worried about where this conversation is going. He tries to pull his wrist away, but Peter’s hold is too tight. “I am. An adult, I mean.”
Tony’s throat goes tight. Yeah. A comment like that is exactly what he’d been worried about. He’s not sure if Peter means it in an I-want-to-revisit-being-an-Avenger way or…the other way he could mean it. He’s been hinting at the Avenger version pretty explicitly recently, and the other one—well, that might just be in Tony’s head, but maybe not, and he’s not sure which possibility makes him more anxious.
Either way, it’s not a conversation he’s ready to think about. “You call me ‘Mr. Stark’ and are worried about being grounded,” he says, more flippantly than he feels. “That undermines your point a bit, bud.”
Peter drops his hand, snuggling down into his blankets. “Okay, true,” he agrees, and Tony relaxes a little.
But only for a moment, because as he turns to walk out the door with a “Night, kid,” Peter replies, “‘Gnight, Tony.”
4.
It’s two more years until Tony has to deal with space again. Two years in which he forces himself not to go to MIT every weekend. He’s managed to avoid having the second version of the Peter-is-an-adult-now conversation; has, in fact, become pretty convinced it was never actually on the table. He’d imagined it, creating moments of tension out of casual teen familiarity. And that’s good. For the best. Really.
But the first version, the version where Peter wanted to join the Avengers—that he hadn’t been able to avoid, and since Peter really is an adult, he didn’t feel like he had much say over it. He’s been part of the team for over a year, and a damned good addition, in Tony’s totally unbiased opinion. But that means when the Guardians show up asking for help, he can’t think of a single good reason Peter shouldn’t tag along, other than that the very idea makes his breath come shorter. Memories of alien tentacles and the orange planet whose empty surface still haunts his dreams play around the edge of his mind as they get ready to head off Earth again.
“Sir, are you okay?” Peter asks as they strap into the spaceship, placing a firm hand on Tony’s arm, comforting. Despite transitioning to calling him by his first name after his ill-fated trip to New Asgard, Peter’s never dropped the ‘sir,’ and Tony hasn’t asked him to. Because keeping some reminder that this is supposed to be a mentor-mentee relationship is probably good, that’s why. Not because by this point it feels like a nickname, warm and affectionate, squeezing at Tony’s gut every time he hears it. Nope.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he lies.
Peter cocks his eyebrows into an expression that conveys how much he doesn’t believe that. He grabs Tony’s hand as they take off, and doesn’t let go until they’re galaxies away from Earth.
***
Their target is personal: the Guardians have finally tracked down the maniacs who turned Rocket into what he is. They asked for backup because to get close enough to take out the head honcho, they need to pull off a complex heist. A heist that involves more bodies and, frankly, more subtlety than they have on their own.
It also involves a space casino, and the nausea that’s been clawing at Tony’s stomach since they took off eases a little when he sees Peter’s face light up as they walk into the sweeping building, overflowing with garish chrome decorations and tables full of unrecognizable games. A massive hall teams with aliens, some humanoid, give or take a skin tone or extra arm, others so foreign Tony wouldn’t have taken them for sentient, or sometimes even alive at all, if it weren’t for the way they stand around tables, cheering and babbling. It all feels strangely familiar. Gambling, it turns out, is a universal language.
“This is just like Star Wars,” Peter tells him, excited. “Look at that guy!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tony agrees, grabbing a cup of something dangerously bubbly off a passing tray. “Try to be less obvious.”
He places his free hand between Peter’s shoulder blades, gently steering him toward a table where Rocket is already absorbed in a complicated dice game. Their part in this scheme is simple: wait until the raccoon’s signal, then create a distraction so he can steal a certain special chip from someone, which will—blah blah blah, something, something, backroom game, find the guy, take him out. It’s not that Tony didn’t listen, it’s that after causing the distraction he and Peter are supposed to go help Groot guard the ship, so…okay, yeah, he kind of stopped listening. Whatever. He knows his part. And to be fair to himself, Quill is really hard to listen to for more than about three seconds at a time.
The Guardians had originally wanted Peter and his ability to crawl along the walls to play a more central role in the whole thing, but Tony had managed to convince them that what they really needed was someone with stealth skills. Nat had caught on right away. She’s developed a begrudging fondness for Peter, and immediately volunteered to take over his part.
Tony moves his hand to Peter’s neck as they get closer to the table, to remind himself that he’s here, next to him, not crawling through alien vents, vulnerable and alone. Peter smiles at him.
“I’m good,” he says, responding to a question Tony hadn’t realized he was asking. “Should you be drinking that?”
Tony leans in to whisper, “Gotta make the drunk asshole act look real.” Peter shivers when his breath hits his ear, the skin along his neck flushing warm.
Huh.
They watch the game, pretending to debate joining, until a man—not human, but not far off, towering at least seven feet tall, with pale grey skin and a gash of a scar ripping across his face—lumbers alongside them, leering at Peter, who inches away, pressing against Tony.
“Hello, pretty thing,” the stranger says, voice surprisingly silky, lilting pleasantly as he continues, flicking his eyes to Tony, “How much?”
“Excuse you?” Tony asks, hand tightening at Peter’s neck.
The man gestures at Peter as if that makes it obvious. “For the boy, how much?”
As Tony’s brain stutters and fails to come up with anything other than blind, incoherent rage that anyone—even an alien—would dare, would even dare, Peter cuts in with, “Uh, I’m not for sale.”
The stranger bends closer, dragging a hand across Peter’s face. His three fingers end in claws and one cuts across his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood.
Before he can think about it, Tony is throwing a punch at the guy, nanobots forming around his hand as he swings, fist landing with a satisfying thud against his jaw.
“What? I didn’t—” he hears Rocket growl. He doesn’t have time to absorb the rest before the guy swings back, claws open and aiming at his face; his mask pulls up just in time to block the blow.
Peter yells at him to calm down, but he doesn’t. He fires up the rest of the suit, blasting at the alien with unrestrained power, knocking him to the ground, landing hit after hit against that awful lecherous face, quickly stained with purple blood. The room fills with incoherent cursing and shouts; from the alien, from the onlookers, from himself.
It’s Peter who manages to stop him, webbing one of his hands to his side and pulling him off the groaning, writhing figure beneath him.
“We need to get out of here,” he screams, dragging Tony away as a set of very angry walking rhinoceros in guard uniforms sprint toward them.
Tony, noting that the rhinos are pulling out batons that look like they do more than stun, agrees. He grabs Peter and blasts them through the long halls of the building and out the front door.
Okay, so he didn’t wait for Rocket’s signal, but you can’t say that wasn’t a distraction.
5.
They don’t talk about what happened, not even after they finish the mission—a success, thank you very much, so you’d think everyone could give him a little less shit for being slightly ahead of schedule—and return to Earth. Occasionally, in the weeks after, he catches Peter looking at him with a thoughtful expression. Each time, he comes up with something inane and distracting to break the moment, just in case Peter’s thinking of asking, “So, what the hell was that, at the casino?”
Because if he asked, Tony wouldn’t have a good answer. At least, not one that didn’t say a lot more than he means to say.
After those first few weeks, he stops catching those looks, and eventually, things go back to normal.
Which, again: is good. Definitely for the best. He definitely does not think about the way Peter’s skin flushed as his breath hit his ear. And definitely, definitely doesn’t think about it at night, as he’s falling asleep, practically inviting dreams that are almost mocking, giving him something he’s already decided he can’t have. Definitely not.
So, yeah. All back to normal. Until six months later, when, in the middle of a Wednesday night, F.R.I.D.A.Y. wakes him with an urgent message from Peter Parker. Who is two galaxies away.
Thankfully, he’d equipped the latest model of the Spider-suit with intergalactic transmitter technology, courtesy of Nebula. He’s never been more grateful for his own paranoid tinkering.
“Kid, what the fuck?” he asks as he scrambles out of bed, fully awake, already pulling on whatever clothes are closest.
“Don’t blame me, I was kidnapped.” Peter’s voice sounds thin and tired, the connection crackling and static. “I think that guy you beat up was still mad.”
“What.” No. No, no, nope. Tony has to grab his nightstand to steady himself as visions of Peter in an alien prison, stripped and tied down and worse, fill his mind.
“Don’t freak out! I escaped. I’m fine! I just need a ride home.”
Tony has already instructed F.R.I.D.A.Y. to set a course before Peter finishes the sentence.
***
He finds him on a small, far-flung planet, in a cave several miles outside the nearest city, a soaring collection of gleaming, crooked buildings bursting out of a cold, grey landscape. He’s covered in bruises, dried blood, and half-healed scars, only semiconscious, trembling against the chill in jeans and a thin sweater. He grabs at Tony weakly, sighing contently when he scoops him into his arms. His hands manage to make their way around his neck, head resting on his shoulder.
“Knew you’d find me.” His voice is cracked and barely audible. Tony shushes him and blasts off toward his ship. As he goes, he radios the team he brought with him—Nat, Rhodey, and Carol, for some real firepower—who are currently infiltrating the city, looking for the culprits. He tells them to do whatever it takes to make sure these guys won’t come after Peter again.
“They really hurt him,” he reports, and the barely-there tremble in Nat’s voice as she replies, “copy,” makes it clear she gets what that means. There won’t be anyone left by the time they’re done.
As soon as they’re back at the ship Tony gets Peter to drink water, pouring it directly from the cup into his slack mouth, dabbing at his chin with the cuff of his shirt when it dribbles over. That revives him enough to stand, though he still clutches at Tony, eyes blurry and unfocused. Tony leads him to the bathroom, where there’s a small shower. It’s maybe not exactly what he needs right now, but alien mud is smudging dark across his face, and that reminds him of dust on another planet and—fuck, he just wants him to not be covered in dirt and blood, shaking from cold. That’s reasonable, right?
Once they’re in the bathroom he tells Peter to strip. He does without question, keeping one hand on Tony’s shoulder as he pulls off his jeans, accepting his help getting his sweater and t-shirt over his head, until he’s standing there in nothing but his boxers, leaning against the sink to stay up. Tony can’t stop himself from sucking in air at what he sees: a splotchy tapestry of bruises, violently purple and red, laced through with deep cuts at various stages of healing, some too precise and clean to have been incidental to fighting.
“Wow.” He whistles, bringing a shaking hand to one particularly long gash running across Peter’s chest. “Pete, what happened?”
Peter shrugs, knees buckling a bit. Maybe this is a bad idea, even if he does smell like stale sweat and rotting leaves, the leftover grime of another planet. But he’s already reaching for the shower, as if he wants to get there, so Tony helps him into the small cubical. He leans him against the wall opposite the showerhead, making sure he’s steady before stepping out.
He turns on the water, as hot as it can go, which, to preserve energy, is still not very hot. It sputters to life, stream hitting Tony across the chest before he can get out of the way. He barely notices, entire attention focused on Peter, who smiles into the spray, eyes closed, letting it wash over him.
After a minute of leaning against the wall, taking the water in, Peter opens his eyes and reaches for the packets of powdery soap-slash-shampoo stocked on the wall opposite from him. The movement’s too much, he stumbles. Without hesitation, Tony jumps in to catch him. The water soaks through his shirt and pants, even his shoes, but it’s worth it for the way Peter clings to him, nuzzling against his neck, murmuring, “Thanks. Bit woozy.”
Tony pushes him gently back against the wall, not complaining when he clasps his shoulder to stay steady. He grabs a packet of cleaner and breaks it open in his hands, not giving himself time to second-guess his choice before rubbing it into Peter’s hair. The powder instantly comes alive, turning into suds as he works it methodically through his curls, fingers massaging at his scalp.
Peter’s face transforms, softening, eyes closing again. “Feels good,” he sighs, grip relaxing, hand drifting to rest on Tony’s chest, fisting into his shirt, tugging him closer. The water splashes around them, warm and encompassing, making the whole thing feel a little surreal. For a moment, Tony wants nothing more than to kiss the person in front of him, the one who only looks like this because he’d managed to piss off an alien with the resources to track him down. Because he couldn’t keep his emotions in check for two seconds. Because he didn’t think things through. Again.
Instead, he says, “I’m sorry, Pete.” He moves one hand to his face, scraping away dried blood stubbornly sticking there. “This is my fault.”
“Mmm,” Peter agrees, leaning into the touch, eyes still closed. He opens his hand and paws at Tony’s chest, in what might be an attempt at a comforting gesture. “But you saved me. You always save me.”
The words nearly knock Tony over, said with a fondness that isn’t deserved. Not right now. “Only because it’s always my fault you’re in trouble.”
This makes Peter frown. He shakes his head, opens his still only half-focused eyes and, with clear effort, straightens. Tony’s hands fall away, but Peter catches one. “No. I get in lots of trouble on my own.”
That’s true. It’s always been true. But it’s hard to remember in this moment, when Peter’s a mess of pain, barely able to stand because of a mistake Tony made. It’s hard to remember out here, in the close quarters of a spaceship, the echo of the worst memories still lingering. “It is out here.”
It’s not a very clear response, but the shadow of horror that passes over Peter’s face makes it obvious he knows exactly what Tony’s talking about. He swallows, and then leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s worth it to be rescued by you,” he whispers, before slumping into his arms.
Okay, so maybe a shower wasn’t a great idea. He hauls Peter to the nearest bunk to sleep.
He doesn’t leave his side the entire ride home.
6.
“I’m not putting on a blindfold, Peter.”
“You have to! It’s part of the present.”
Tony looks at the strip of black cloth in his hand, trying to find a way to argue with the bright, eager eyes staring back at him. This is completely ridiculous, but Peter looks so anxiously excited that the idea of denying him whatever crazy scheme he has in mind feels impossible.
“You shouldn’t even have gotten me a birthday present,” he says weakly, bringing the blindfold to his eyes. It’s surprisingly effective, blocking out all sense of light. “It’s wrong.”
“I didn’t pay for anything, if that makes you feel better,” Peter says with a laugh. He takes Tony’s hand, tugging, encouraging him to follow. The warmth of that hand in his sends goosebumps up his arm, and suddenly he doesn’t mind this whole absurd situation quite so much.
As Peter pulls him down halls and elevators, chatting about his latest research project with airy ease, as if he hadn’t been kidnapped and beaten half to death by murderous aliens less than two months ago, Tony starts to enjoy the whole thing: the mystery, the excuse to have Peter’s hand in his and, most of all, the sound of Peter’s voice. The joy of it, the intelligence. The confidence.
In fact, he’s smiling so hard it hurts, right until he’s strapped into a seat.
“Are we flying somewhere?” he asks, bemused.
“Yeah, something like that,” Peter replies. “Don’t worry about it. Just sit back, relax, and let me do the navigating.”
Tony does not love that answer.
***
When Peter finally unties the blindfold, the first thing Tony sees is Earth, floating below them, surrounded by a sea of stars.
“What the fuck?” He clutches the edge of his seat, looking around in panic. They’re in a small spaceship, which he registers as vaguely familiar, but he’s too confused to figure out where from. “How? What? Why?”
Apparently unsurprised by Tony’s reaction, Peter simply extends his hand, and Tony takes it, because of course he does. He allows himself to be hauled to his feet and guided to the ship’s window. Peter rests his hand on his back, rubbing small circles. The touch grounds him.
“I called in a favor with Nebula,” Peter explains. “She’s in the back, but she said she’d leave us alone until we’re ready to go home.”
“She said all that?” Tony asks, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He really has no idea what this is supposed to be, or why, and staring out into the stars is making his heart pound too fast.
“Well, I said it, and she nodded.” Peter takes a deep breath and then turns to Tony, though he pointedly keeps his hand where it is. “So, space hasn’t been very good to you.”
“And you decided immersion therapy was a good birthday present?” It comes out less sarcastic than he meant it to, because Peter’s pressing his hand into his back, pulling them together. Suddenly, the stars are forgotten in favor of the deep brown of the eyes looking up at him.
“No,” Peter replies. He sounds nervous, but he steals himself with a determined expression and continues, “I wanted to give you a better trip to space.”
And then he kisses Tony, gentle and tentative, as if he’s not actually sure how he’s going to respond. Which is crazy, and Tony kisses him back with enough passion to prove it.
***
By the time they tell Nebula they’re ready to head back to Earth—after kissing, and staring at the stars, and more kissing, and almost other things, until Peter points out he’s not sure the cabin is soundproof and really, there’s such a thing as taking a favor too far—Tony has decided space isn’t so bad after all.