Chapter Text
Peter had always been cuddly when he was sick, so Tony wasn’t really surprised when, fifteen minutes after he retired to bed, he heard his door open and stockinged feet shuffle in. He felt his blankets lift and the mattress dip as Peter laid down next to him, groaning lightly at his aching muscles.
“You really are an octopus, aren’t you?” Tony grumbled, rolling onto his side to face Peter, allowing him to scoot even closer. “A typhoid octopus—” he reached out and felt Peter’s forehead “—with a fever.”
Peter stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, half his face smushed into a pillow. “I can’t sleep,” he whined quietly. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” Tony let his hand drop from Peter’s forehead to the back of his neck, massaging gently. Peter seemed inclined to agree, sighing as he relaxed into the soft bed. He turned onto his stomach, giving Tony access to his back and shoulders, too, which made Tony snort in laughter.
“Can’t sleep, huh?” Tony asked, concern and sympathy in his voice. He hated it when Peter couldn’t sleep because it was never just for one night at a time, but weeks, until Peter was to his breaking point and Tony had to stage an intervention, pulling out all the stops to knock Peter out. Being sick didn’t make sleep easier, but it did make Peter’s patience and stamina wear out faster.
Peter opened his eyes, sensing the change in Tony’s voice. “Yeah. Everything hurts.”
“Ok, buddy. Have you taken your medicine?”
Peter nodded and Tony sighed. “Well, that’s ok,” he lied. “Didn’t you read the instructions? They say take with a full glass of water and plenty of snuggles. Come here.”
Peter huffed a weak laugh. “Never thought I’d hear you say ‘snuggles,’” he said, but he slid closer to the center of the bed, meeting Tony halfway.
Tony wasn’t sure when the feel of Peter—bony and gangly and a little too warm—pressed into his side became so familiar, but it felt like the first notes of his favorite song, the cherished scent of Pepper’s shampoo. The second they settled against each other, Tony let himself relax into this little piece of home.
“Speak to your audience,” he murmured into Peter’s hair. “You love ‘snuggles.’ It makes you think of snakes hugging, which for some reason is incredibly amusing to you.”
Peter laughed again, sounding a little delirious. His fingers sought out Tony’s sleeve and held tight. “They don’t have arms, Mr. Stark.”
Tony rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. He rubbed a palm up and down Peter’s spine.
“Tell me about your trip. With MJ and Ned. Where did you guys decide to go?”
He counted Peter’s heartbeats. A little faster than Tony would like, but not concerning. He should be able to get Peter to sleep within ten minutes. He started the timer in his head.
“We were thinking Europe, but MJ mentioned doing a humanitarian trip, so now we’re leaning toward Nigeria. There’s a nice program that lets us build schools and hospitals there.”
Tony opened his eyes and looked down at Peter, fever color high on his cheeks and his hair a rat’s nest from tossing and turning and refusing to sleep in his own bed because he was sick. Peter, who was going to go to Africa and do service for his senior trip.
He was too perfect. Tony could live a hundred lifetimes being Iron Man, give every cent he’s ever made to charity, and he would still never deserve Peter Parker. Because he was doing it for redemption. And Peter did it because he could and therefore must.
“You’re too good for this world, il mio cuore,” Tony whispered.
Peter’s blush intensified and Tony could practically feel the heat radiating from his face.
“Did you just call me—”
“Where would you pick?” Tony interrupted before this conversation could get too sentimental. He was already painfully aware of his heart right now; how it stilled in his chest when he looked at Peter, how it raced, completely out of his control, at any sign of pain or sadness in Peter’s face, how it swelled with pride at everything Peter did. If he had to talk about it, he feared that it might just jump straight out of his mouth and offer itself to Peter so Tony would stop beating around the bush.
Peter hummed in confusion, a little taken aback.
“Anywhere in the world, kid, where would you pick to go? And I know you’ve never done this before in your life, but don’t worry about anyone else. Where would you go?”
“Oh,” Peter said. He settled into the pillows again, his face screwed up as he thought. Tony couldn’t stop himself from brushing a lock of hair out of Peter’s eyes. “Italy, I think. May’s Italian, so I’m kind of... Italian by proximity.”
Tony grinned. “You’ll love Italy, kiddo. We can go to Nonna’s hometown—”
“We?” Peter interrupted, eyes open again.
Idiot, Tony cursed himself.
“Or you and May,” he quickly corrected, not looking at Peter. “I’d be happy to provide a jet for you two and hote—”
“No, no, no. Mr. Stark.” He pressed himself more firmly into Tony’s chest, but Tony still didn’t look at him. “I would love to go with you. That sounds... unbelievable. I just kind of thought this was hypothetical.”
Tony blinked, finally met Peter’s eyes again. “When have I ever been hypothetical, Parker?”
Peter grinned, muscles loosening and eyes bright with feverish affection now that he knew he didn’t upset Tony. “Never.” His eyes closed as Tony tucked strands of hair, curling with sweat, behind his ear. “Where was your grandmother from?”
For a second, Tony didn’t know what Peter was talking about. And then—
Oh my gosh. Pull yourself together, Stark. It’s like you’re trying to be humiliated.
He’d referred to Maria as Peter’s nonna. His grandmother. Luckily, Peter had no way of knowing that, so Tony scrambled to act natural.
“Tuscany,” he said, calming his breathing. “Near Chianti.”
He ran his hand along Peter’s back again, bent his head low so he was murmuring in Peter’s ear. Peter instantly melted into him, his head pressed warm and heavy over Tony’s heart.
“My mother and I used to go for a month every summer. Just me and her. We would spend a week at her parents’ vineyard. The nearest town was on a hilltop, with medieval walls all around it. We’d go to church in the square, and then go to the gelateria next door. There was a well in the center of the piazza and my mom always gave me a penny to throw in. I’d steal roses to give to her from one of the climbing trellises and when the gardener yelled at me I’d pretend to not speak Italian.”
Peter gave a breathy laugh. Tony paused in his story and counted Peter’s heartbeats again. Slower, calmer. They were getting there.
Tony didn’t usually talk about his childhood. He usually avoided thinking about it and how messed up it was, but those months in Italy were some of the happiest of his life because Howard hadn’t been there. After his mom had died, he hadn’t wanted to talk about the good things either. It hurt too much.
Telling Peter didn’t hurt though. Telling Peter felt natural and cathartic and tender.
“I’ll take you there,” Tony promised, and felt Peter’s smile curve against his chest. “We can go in June, when it’s not too humid. We’ll get a car and drive. The lemons will be in season, and if you roll the windows down you can smell them in the air. We can go to Siena, and bribe them to let us climb to the top of the duomo. You can see the whole city from up there, all the red tile roofs.”
Peter’s breathing was getting deeper. Tony lowered his voice.
“We’ll go to Florence and you can eat your weight in gelato.”
“Venice,” Peter mumbled. Tony swallowed, his heart skipping. He loved him. He loved him. He wanted to share his favorite place and his favorite memories with him, desperately wanted to make new favorite memories with Peter at his side.
“Venice,” Tony agreed after a moment. “We can be cheesy tourists and take a gondola ride. Feed the pigeons in San Marco’s.”
Peter hummed in contentment, too far gone to form words.
“I know the best bakery in Naples. All the secret places in Rome. The Amalfi Coast.”
He paused again. Peter’s heartbeat was slow and even, his breaths heavy with sleep.
“Anything you want, Peter,” Tony whispered. “Absolutely anything.”