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Tony stands in the doorway of the bedroom, fingers clicking together as he surveys the space through narrow eyes.
It’s a good room. A nice size with a great view of the garden from the large window on the right wall. There’s a little bench beneath it, covered in many pillows and a throw. An Iron Man plushie sits propped up against one end, garishly red amongst the soft blues and gentle greys that serve as the colour scheme of the room.
The choice of colours had been deliberate, selected with calmness and relaxation in mind. Tony was new to the whole decorating for mood thing, but Pepper seemed to know what she was doing. The entire cabin was a structure of tranquillity; woody hues, warm tones and furniture placed in such a way that the space was always open but somehow close, comforting, full of safety.
His and Pepper’s room is all beach wood and low lighting, plush pillows and fresh air fluttering the sheer curtains in the morning. It’s simple and minimalist in its way, but also full of warmth and a deliberate sense of peace that might almost seem forced if one was to read too much into it.
The baby’s room is the brightest in the whole house. Sunshine yellow with delicate patterns along the walls, white blankets and sweet-faced teddy bears that would always bring a smile. The wooden floor is adorned with a fluffy rug, soft and inviting, and the mobile that hangs above the yet to be used crib is a Tony Stark original, comprised of miniature wrenches and tiny cars and the odd rainbow or two. It’s a rather odd contrast to the rest of the room but somehow it fits.
The last bedroom, the one that sits at the far end of the upstairs hallway, is also unique to the rest of the house. It was the one that Tony had decorated on his own, only accepting an opinion on the paintwork from Pepper before insisting that he be left to handle the rest. He loves her for a multitude of reasons that no doubt reach the edge of the world and back, and one of those reasons now includes her understanding his actions enough to not question why he’s doing this, or who for.
It was a lengthy process, one that he had approached with almost blind determination, refusing to switch the auto-pilot control off until it was finished, lest the reality of the whole thing break him once again.
And now, it’s finally finished.
A desk rests behind the door upon which a stack of textbooks, papers and pencils sits neatly. A box of tech, pilfered from the cast offs in the compound lab, stands next to them, overflowing and waiting to be fiddled with.
Directly opposite the door is bed covered in Star Wars sheets. A blue jersey, faded and printed with the Midtown school logo, is draped across the bottom, as though waiting expectantly to be yanked over a curly head of hair.
Posters adorn the wall, exact replicas of the ones that Tony had caught brief glimpses of in Peter’s room back in Queens. They look shiny, glossy and way too new.
There’s a wardrobe and a chest of drawers full of clothes, still folded without a smear or a crease to be seen. There’s copies of some of the shirts Tony had seen Peter wear; those ridiculous science puns that always made Tony roll his eyes at the sight of them, even though he secretly found them funny too.
Tony nudges the door with his foot. There’s a creak in the hinges. A deliberate one, placed there by a few clever tweaks at Tony’s hand to give the semblance of overuse.
It’s a good room.
From Tony’s experience of Peter though, of being in close quarters with him and witnessing the inevitably messy madness that comes with a teenage boy, none of this is right.
It’s too clean, too ordered, too new.
Too unlived in.
Something rushes up inside Tony, sickening and weighted with all that he’s been trying to hard to bury for the past few months. With a mournful gasp, he steps into the room in a whirl, body undecided about which way to go first.
He goes for the covers on the bed first, grabbing the edges and giving them a shake before shoving the pillows around so they no longer rest neatly upon each other.
He stares for a moment before yanking one onto the floor, resting it just so against the bedside table.
Moving faster now, Tony grabs a few pencils and scatters them across the desk, then grabs one to scribble nonsense equations across a couple of pages in a textbook before tearing them out and throwing them down onto the desk too.
Drawers are yanked open, shirts unfolded and messily stuffed back in so that when the drawers are slammed haphazardly shut again, the sleeves poke out.
The wardrobe doors are flung wide open with such force that the entire thing shakes.
Three pairs of socks are unravelled and discarded on the floor. Tony knocks the shade of the bedside lamp askew and opens up one of the brand new books sitting beside it, a science joke book, and nearly bends the pages irreparably in half by shoving it face down onto the bed, giving the illusion that it was being used only a short while ago.
It’s not enough, never enough, because nothing, none of this will ever, ever be enough. The void in him is so cataclysmic, so angry in its anguish that Tony isn’t sure how he’s even managed to stay breathing this long.
Eventually, he sinks down onto the edge of the bed, face buried in Peter’s school jersey. It’s the one May had given to Tony before she left Queens, vowing to never return to a place that held nothing but ghosts for her. It’s the only thing in the room that actually belongs to Peter; the real Peter, not the fantasy of one that Tony tries to conjure up within the walls of a bedroom that will never be slept in.
Tony rubs the jersey across his face, teeth clenching as he realises that the scent of sharpened pencils, musky deodorant and city air is no longer present within the soft fibres anymore.
It’s gone, just like Peter.
He stands up, quick and sharp. With trembling hands, he stretches the jersey out across the foot of the bed again, smoothing it out and letting his fingers linger on the collar, just where it would have once touched Peter’s skin.
Lips pressing together to keep the tears at bay, Tony storms out of the room, wincing at the creak in the hinges that seems to follow him long after he closes the door.
Tony holds his breath as he opens the door, reminding himself for the hundredth time to fix the creak in the hinges. He hears no reaction to the sound from the other side of the door, so continues to push it forward until he has a full view of the bedroom. Everything is illuminated by the silvery moonlight shining in through the window, highlighting the figure that is sprawled on the bed beneath a mound of blankets.
Tony feels the rush, just like he expected, of pure, unflinching emotion at the sight of Peter tucked up, safe and warm, snoring softly on every other breath. He feels it so much that he has to palm his jaw to keep in whatever sound suddenly wants to escape out of him.
Really, Tony knows that he shouldn’t be standing there; there’s no reason for him to be standing there. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is okay, how it should be, how he wants it to be.
It’s been like that ever since Peter stumbled back into his arms on the battlefield, right as the universe was brought back to life by the determined snap of Carol’s fingers. They held each other tight as all evil was vanquished with ruthless certainty and the smallest flicker of a triumphant smile.
Tony hasn’t been able to stop thanking Carol since; she’s leaving again soon and has taken a great liking to fondly telling Tony to shut up already, it’s fine, she knows he’s grateful.
Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe what Tony feels.
After the madness of the battle and the immediate aftermath of disbelieving shouts of victory and near-hysterical celebration which saw Thor and Quill embracing like old friends and Scott practically weeping with joy, Strange had opened the portals that would send them where they all needed to go. Pepper had kissed Tony within an inch of his life, leaving him breathless and near tears with relief, knowing that she was there and Morgan would be in his arms soon enough.
As the portal revealed the weak sunlight streaking across the garden of the cabin, Tony turned to Peter. The kid looked up at him, blood-streaked and battle weary and so beautifully alive that Tony didn’t even hesitate to pull him along. Likewise, Peter didn’t hesitate to follow him, holding on tight as they, and the majority of the team it seemed, were swept through to the other side.
A hysterical scream had been the only warning before Peter was engulfed in May’s arms. The kid rapidly alternated between crying and frantically asking questions as May sobbed into his shoulder and pressed kisses all over his face. Morgan had leapt into Tony’s arms then and Pepper had wrapped herself around them both, and soon it became just a long while of hugging, embracing and loving freely because there was now nothing else to do for the moment but just that.
Happy, who had had the foresight to find May the second Pepper had taken off to help in the fight, had looked two seconds away from either crying or punching Tony in the face before Peter had nearly bowled him over in a fierce hug, claiming he never thought he’d be so happy to see the man in his life.
To say Peter had been surprised when Tony showed him his room was putting it lightly. The door had barely opened before he made an odd sort of choking noise, hands coming up to his face as tears filled his eyes. He didn’t seem to care about the deliberate mess that Tony had been regularly orchestrating in his absence, or feel the need to question why the room had been created when he had been gone. Tony held it together long enough to open a drawer with shaky hands and hold out a pair of sweatpants, crisp and new and never expected to be worn.
Then he’d reached for the school jersey, thumbs brushing the collar reverently in a well-known path before he offered it to Peter.
Peter took both items slowly, eyes wet and wide with disbelief, before tucking them under one arm and grabbing Tony round the middle with the other. Tony had seized him back with equal ferocity and pressed his own tears into Peter’s grimy hair, unable to comprehend that the ghost that had haunted the room was now there in his arms, alive and whole and real.
While Peter had showered, Tony had cleared up the artificial mess, assisted by a very tearful but beaming May who had laughed brightly as she promised Tony that he’d be cursing the mess before long.
Not that he’d ever tell her so because he had no wish to die anytime soon, but Tony disagreed with May. That night, when Tony had peeked his head round the door to see a couple of books knocked onto the floor beside a still damp towel, two glasses of water on the bedside table, lamp shade still askew and the blankets hanging towards the floor, the happiness that overcame him was beyond all measure.
It’s been nearly three months since the world was reborn and Peter’s spent all but one weekend at the cabin. May usually accompanies him whenever she’s not working, claiming that the fold-out couch downstairs is so much more luxurious than her own bed. Pepper is grateful for the company, just as May is thankful to have a friend who understands the world they live in, the world that her nephew will forever be a part of.
Nightmares and memories are commonplace but can be vanquished with soft words and gentle hugs and the odd hot chocolate or two, and it’s this knowledge that has Tony paying a nightly visit to Peter’s room whenever the kid is in residence. He can’t do a thing to stop the nightmares, just like he couldn’t do a thing to stop what causes them in the first place, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t the one to see them off into the night whenever they rear their ugly heads.
He always checks on Morgan first, adjusting her blankets and making sure her stuffed bear is tucked securely under her arm, always taking the time to kiss her softly on the forehead before leaving her to her dreams; the ones that he knows for sure don’t contain dust and darkness and despair.
Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever truly stop experiencing the burst of giddiness that comes from going into Peter’s room – into his kid’s room – and he feels himself smile at the tingling sensation rushing down his back as his bare feet step over the threshold.
He moves quietly with practised ease, coming to perch delicately on the edge of Peter’s bed, right beside where the kid’s left arm is stretched out across the mattress. His hair is an absolute chaotic mess, fanned out across the pillow like a wild halo, and there’s a funny little quirk to his mouth that almost looks like a smile. Tony indulges himself and reaches out to rest a hand gently on Peter’s back, sighing as he watches it lift and fall with every breath.
He looks so impossibly young like this, so far away from the teenager who should technically be an adult by now.
Peter makes a slurping noise and lifts his head to plant his face into the pillow.
''You bein' weird 'gain.''
Momentarily surprised by the sound of Peter’s voice, Tony snorts and gives his back a pat, rubbing the worn material of Peter’s school jersey between his fingers.
''How dare you call me weird. I’ve told you, kid, I’m eccentric. We really gotta get that vocab of yours up to speed, you know.''
'''Centric is the fancy word f'r weird,'' Peter grumbles, turning his head to peer at Tony with one sleepy eye. ''You okay?''
''Yeah,'' Tony whispers, giving him a smile. ''Just doing my nightly rounds.''
Peter scrubs a hand over his visible eye and opens it properly. ''Sure that’s it?''
Damn this kid and his ability to see straight through him. Tony huffs out a sigh and begins to rub his hand up and over Peter’s shoulders, savouring the solid feel of him. Peter wriggles into the touch but keeps his focus on Tony. ''You have a bad dream again?''
''No,'' Tony replies with a shake of his head, ''no bad dream. Just…thinking.''
The silence that falls between them is full of understanding. They do that a lot now: communicating without words.
''You do that too much, y’know.''
A grin spreads across Tony’s face and Peter automatically mirrors it, chuckling tiredly into the pillow.
''Yeah, you’re right. Thinking’s overrated.''
''Mmhmm,'' Peter grumbles, flailing the hand nearest Tony in the air. Tony teases him for a minute, letting their fingers bounce off one another before folding the entirety of his hand over Peter’s. ''You still wanna take the boat out with Morgan tomorrow?''
''That depends,'' Tony says, rubbing his thumb over Peter’s knuckles, ''you finish your homework?''
Peter whines, curls flopping and mattress bouncing as he shoves his head back into the pillow. ''When did you get so boring?''
Tony laughs quietly. ''Can’t help it, kid. I’ve been domesticated.''
''That’s no 'scuse for being boring.'' Peter’s eyes shine fondly at him in the moonlight. ''You used to be cool.''
''Hey, now,'' Tony gives Peter’s hand a tug, ''I’m still cool.''
''Nope,'' Peter roll away with a pout, ''cool dads don’t put homework before fun.''
Cool dads
Dads
Dad
Tony’s pretty sure his brain is short-circuiting, stuck in that fuzzy little space between reality and fantasy, somewhere he hasn’t needed to visit since Peter came back.
As though sensing his dilemma, Peter rolls back towards him. They lock eyes for the briefest of moments before Peter reaches up, pulling Tony down into a hug. It’s an awkward position that leaves Tony with one hand pressing into the mattress for support and makes his muscles screech in protest, but he weaves his other arm through the gap between Peter’s back and the mattress and holds on tight, head leaning into Peter’s as it tucks into the crook of his neck.
''Stop being weird,'' Peter mumbles, giving him a squeeze.
''I’m not,'' Tony mutters, smiling even against the sting of tears in his eyes.
Happy tears.
''Okay,'' he relents with a sigh, ''I’ll turn a blind eye to the homework,'' his smile grows as he feels Peter grin, ''but this means you’re on make-believe lake monster duty.''
''Deal.''
Tony tucks his head down into Peter’s shoulder and breathes deep, inhaling the scent of sharpened pencils, musky deodorant and city air, though there’s the faintest hint of sunshine and summer air in there too.
They eventually break apart though Tony doesn’t go far, still leaning against the bed as Peter smiles sleepily up at him. The silence is warm and comfortable, easy and full of all that was greatly owed to them.
''Love you,'' Peter says, not a hint of bashfulness or shyness in his tired voice.
Those words are said daily, have been since that first day back when Tony gave Peter a goodnight kiss on the forehead and watched him head up to bed, softly declaring the words which had Peter crashing back down the stairs and right into his arms to say the same thing.
Like with Pepper and Morgan, it’s the easiest thing for Tony to say, but he knows he’ll never fully get over having it said back to him.
''Love you too, Underoos,’’ Tony whispers, pushing up to kiss Peter’s brow before standing up, groaning as his back clicks loudly. He glares playfully at Peter as the kid laughs dozily before flopping back onto his stomach, arms going under the pillow with a contented sigh.
Tony grabs the edges of the blankets and pulls them up a little, just enough to sit below Peter’s shoulders. He lets his hand linger there again, watches it rise and fall twice with Peter’s breaths, before whispering a soft goodnight and heading out of the room.
He smiles when the door creaks as he pulls it shut. He tells himself that he’ll fix it tomorrow.
But he knows he won’t.