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A teakettle works up from a whistle to a shriek somewhere in the distance, but Peter is too tired to wince. His head throbs in time with the sleet pelting against the windows, his nose stings raw from the many, many tissues it’s gone through, and his throat scrapes with each of the little coughs that come whenever he breathes wrong.
The floorboard Tony’s been muttering about fixing creaks, and then there’s a hand on Peter’s head, a cool palm against his forehead as gentle fingers settle over his curls. Peter cracks an eye open to watch Tony settle onto the edge of the coffee table opposite his sprawl on the couch. He musters enough energy for half a smile as Tony gives his hair a ruffle and the rest of him an appraising glance.
“How you holding up, bud?”
“Nnnnghh.” Vocabulary is too hard; Peter goes for honesty. It’s not like he’s never had the flu before—it’s not even like he actually lived the five-year gap between now and the last time he was sick—but for some reason, this bout still seems harder to kick. He wonders idly if being temporarily dead resets the body’s immune system, but thinks better of voicing it. The whole “death” thing is still a touchy subject. Tony just gives a sympathetic hum, absently stroking soothing little patterns against Peter’s scalp until Peter quirks a brow at him. “R’you playing with my hair?”
“No, ‘course not,” Tony says, matter-of-fact as he sets the mug of tea clearly intended for Peter—even his clogged sinuses can pick up the copius amounts of honey and lemon wafting off of it—aside. “I’m checking your temperature. Clearly.”
Peter’s chest rattles with an incredulous snicker because that’s an out-and-out lie, and the soft smirk tugging at one corner of Tony’s mouth says he knows it, but Peter’s not going to call him on it. He’s been softer all the way around since Peter came back, it seems. Peter spots little reminders of it all the time—in the way he scoops Morgan expertly off her feet to prop her on his hip when he hustles her off to bed at the end of the night, in the way he threads his fingers through Pepper’s at the dinner table just because he can, in the way he reels Peter in to hug him goodbye every time they part for more than a day, in a million thoughtless little gestures that separate the Tony of five years ago from the Tony of today. It’s…nice. Even if it’s going to take some getting used to.
Tony begins to shift away with a quick, almost imperceptible shake of the head. As if reminding himself that Peter is not Morgan. That he hasn’t had the time to have grown accustomed to the steady stream of open fussing Tony has apparently learned to associate with his children. Sure, he’d been just as much of a helicopter parent before the Snap—Peter had seen it even then—but it had come out in different ways: stiff arms thrown around shoulders, a weather eye kept on any and all problems that could ever conceivably arise, as much brusque praise and sharp encouragement as he could manage. As glaring as the difference may be to Peter…he suspects the remembrance may be more of a struggle for Tony than it is for him.
“S’fine.” Peter says quickly, nudging closer to the hand that still hovers close. He doesn’t have the energy for more complicated reassurances just now. Nor does he particularly want to have that conversation out loud. Changed man or not, feelings-talk with Tony—or anyone, really, now that Peter thinks of it—is always awkward. He aims for action rather than words as the top of his head bumps against Tony’s fingertips again. “I’m gonna fall asleep, though.”
“Good,” Tony says, the smirk turning a hair gentler as Peter reaches for a clumsy sip of tea before leaning back into the touch. “You do that; I’m not going anywhere.”