Chapter Text
It’s been an hour and thirty-seven minutes since he and Tony last spoke, and God, is it killing Peter.
Which...to be fair, if one were to hear that fact out of context, one would think that Peter is a clingy little shit. He’s not. Not usually.
But tonight it’s just him and Tony alone somewhere in the middle of Sara-freaking-Toga in the woodsy upstate New York, and if only he hadn’t lipped back to Tony after being confronted about the whole dashing-into-a-burning-building-at-two-in-the-morning incident, then it wouldn’t be so awkward between them right now. Honestly. Even the chorus of chirping crickets is beginning to sound judgy, and it’s getting on his nerves.
Peter clicks his phone on and off for the umpteenth time that night, sees that barely a minute has passed, and rolls over into a tighter cocoon in his flimsy sleeping blanket. Half past eight is way too early for any Gen Z kid in their right mind to be in bed, but it seems like the only viable option when your sole traveling companion is about five feet away in the same cramped tent, sniffing and rubbing his goatee every few minutes while pretending to scroll through emails projected from his hologram watch.
“But people don’t stop needing Spider-Man when the clock strikes twelve, Mr. Stark! This isn’t--this isn’t--I dunno, superhero Cinderella!”
“Superhero Cinderella or not, Spider-Man is still a sixteen-year-old kid that needs to be home and safe and get his rest! What about school? What about Aunt May? What about everything else ahead of you?”
“I don’t think my ten-point trig quiz really matters when you’re staring at an entire building of people about to roast to death, Mr. Stark.”
“And what matters to me is I don’t wake up to hear the news about the friendly neighborhood roasted spider!”
“I was fine!”
“Hiding a second-degree burn from me and claiming hickeys instead? Yeah. Sure. Totally fine. Super duper fine.”
“I have super-healing! That’s why I can do these things.”
“You know what I have, huh? You wanna know? Super anxiety. Because of you.”
“And regardless, those people would have been super dead if I hadn’t gotten there in time!”
“Then that’s when you act like a normal person and call me, Peter!”
Okay, so maybe Mr. Stark does have a point. Kinda. Sorta. But does he really have to highlight Peter’s age all the time? Peter’s been doing the neighborhood hero gig all on his own in his thrift-store sweats since even before Tony found him, thank you very much. Heck, Tony sought him out because of his super-pajama career being broadcasted on YouTube.
Peter huffs through his nose, long and heavy and a little painful. The air’s been getting steadily frostier, and the sleeping bag and extra blanket aren’t doing much to insulate his thermoregulation-less body. He could ask Tony if they packed a third blanket, but then that would involve words.
“Here,” comes Tony’s gruff voice at his side, so suddenly that Peter gives a bodily jerk. “Take my blanket.”
Peter is so stunned for a moment that he forgets he’s supposed to be radiating grudgy and moody and teenage superhero angst. “N-no, it’s--it’s fine, Mr. Stark. I got one already. Two, actually. It’s really not that c-cold.”
Tony breathes out a long-suffering sigh, takes a moment to slowly pinch the bridge of his nose in the classic dad gesture, and shoves the entire mass of fluffy red polyester in Peter’s direction, still without looking at the boy. “I can literally hear your teeth chattering, kid. We didn’t just get you out safe and sound from a burning building for you to just perish from pneumonia.”
Grudgingly, Peter pokes his head out of his (rather useless) blanket burrito, reaches out a hand and snatches the extra fleece blanket. He will later deny at all costs that he nearly purrs at the warmth when he bundles the third blanket around himself.
“It would be kinda uncool,” he concedes with a sniff.
Tony answers with another sniff. “Yeah, well. At least you’re letting me prevent your imminent death this time. I’ll take what I can get.”
Peter swallows and sighs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”
Something in the way Tony’s shoulders have been strung together with tension, as if he were a marionette on a coat hanger, abruptly loosens. The relaxation practically flows through his arms, casts a soft curve to the muscles of his silhouette in the dim glow of FRIDAY’s blue display.
“I’m sorry, too. I was just--”
“Worried. Yeah, I know. I get that. You’ve been trying to tell me that a lot lately. Guess I haven’t really been getting the message.”
Tony finally lolls his head to the side for the sake of cocking a brow in Pete’s direction. “Understatement of the century. But, listen, for what it’s worth--I don’t know. Frick. I’m terrible at this. What I’m trying to say is, it’s hard because--because I know you personally.”
Peter frowns. “You know the Avengers personally, too.”
“Not the same way I know you.” Tony’s mouth snaps shut with a click. He hauls in a deep breath, as if he wants to take back the statement as rapidly as he blurted it out, but there’s no going back. “Look. I talk about your school and your curfew and your aunt and, and, and your age, yeah, I do, because I look at you and I see how much potential you have. Frick. You’re sixteen. Sixteen. Do you even get what that means? You’re not even done with high school yet and--hold on, lemme finish--you still have the chance to go to college, go to your first real party, have a stupid night out with your friends, pull all-nighters, get addicted to coffee, fall in love again and again and...you can build new things for Spider-Man and for the community with that genius brain of yours and--” Tony seems to choke on his own words and the torrent of emotions ebbs as he folds his arms and quickly glances away.
Something uncomfortably warm twinges in Peter’s chest. Something so sweet it’s painful, that realization of oh my God, this is what he’s meant all along. He--he cares about--
“Sorry.” Tony waves a shaky hand in the air. “Water under the bridge. You’re right. You got home, you were safe, your wounds healed. You knew the risks you were taking on when you became Spider-Man. This isn’t--this isn’t something I should be taking away from you. In more ways than one you’re a, you’re an adult, I mean, well, you can make your own decisions and I should stop, I dunno, helicopter parenting you so much like Rhodey says--”
“No.”
“Excuse me, what now?”
Peter rolls over to the left to face Tony completely. It’s a bit awkward and hilarious in hindsight, considering he’s still bundled up in his burrito, but it’ll do. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”
Tony blinks. Once, twice. Blows out a breath between his teeth like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“People caring about each other isn’t, uh, isn’t always about being soft and supportive,” Peter goes on, mentally adding the “TM" meme to both those words. “Sometimes it’s about knocking sense into their heads ’cause you’re crazy worried about them and their safety. Uncle Ben...we fought quite a bit before he, you know. Because he cared about me. I know that. And I know you get mad at me for the same reasons. And honestly, it’s...kinda nice to have somebody there yelling in your ear when you’ve gone too far.”
Tony purses his lips.
“N-not because the yelling part is nice!” Peter hastens to add, yanking a chuckle out of Tony. “I mean. Like. ’Cause you know you actually have someone in your corner who cares enough about you to do the yelling.”
A smile tugs at Tony’s mouth. Before he knows it, he’s full-on grinning, a wobbly, toothy kind of smile paired with a crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and he’s pushing an offending curl from Peter’s brow. “One thing I can promise you, Underoos--I’ll always be in your corner eager to do the yelling.”