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Tony hears the thud of hurried footsteps just before the front door swings open and Morgan rushes inside, narrowly avoiding crashing into his legs as she races towards the kitchen where a promised mug of hot chocolate waits for her on the table.
''Hat and gloves off first,'' Tony calls to her as he watches Peter step through the door, tapping his boots on the mat just outside to knock off the snow clinging to them. ''How’s the snowman looking?''
''Great,'' Peter replies, voice coming out a little scratchy. ''The feather boa and pineapple sunglasses really makes it, you know?'' he adds wryly while removing his hat, revealing a tangled mess of sweaty curls.
''Morgan really had you working hard out there, huh?''
''Yeah,'' Peter smiles tiredly, teeth chattering a little as he shakes off his coat. ''Cold in here.''
Tony, feeling pleasantly toasty in just a thin shirt and jeans, frowns at the comment. Noticing the sheen of dampness glistening on Peter’s face, he steps forward and gently rests a hand on Peter’s forehead.
''You’re running a bit hot there, kid,'' he says as the heat of Peter’s skin meets his.
Peter hums and shivers as he leans into Tony’s palm, clearly wanting the comfort despite the apparent coolness of Tony’s fingers.
''There's hot chocolate waiting for you,'' Tony reminds him, thumb brushing the space between Peter’s eyebrows, ''but I’ll be honest, Pete, you look about ten seconds from falling over.''
''Yeah, I guess I’m just feeling a bit tired,'' Peter mumbles, knuckling his left eye wearily. ''Think I’ll go lie down for a little while.''
''Okay, bud,'' Tony rubs him gently on the back before he heads up the stairs, the pulse of worry in his gut growing stronger at the sluggish way Peter lifts his feet.
He waits until Peter disappears from sight and then heads into the kitchen. Morgan looks up at him, a frothy moustache of whipped cream framing her smile. Tony kisses her on the head and picks up Peter’s mug - the white one decorated with little slices of pizza - and takes a small sip of the hot chocolate, much to Morgan’s outrage.
''Daddy! That’s for Peter!''
''Peter’s gone for a nap,'' Tony says, taking an obscenely loud slurp that makes Morgan giggle helplessly. ''So it’s for me now.''
The rest of the day passes in a cosy haze of warm, sleepy cuddles on the couch with Morgan snoring in Tony’s ear, a short walk out in the snow to check on Popsicle the snowman and filling the kitchen with the delicious scent of baking cookies that Tony hoped would eventually entice Peter back downstairs.
By the time Pepper arrives home that evening, Peter has been sleeping for seven hours.
''These look good,'' Pepper smiles as she looks at the tray of chaotically decorated treats. ''And you even managed to clean up after yourselves,'' she adds, leaning down to kiss Morgan who looks up briefly from her colouring to give Pepper a smile.
Tony pecks Pepper on the mouth when she comes closer. ''You speak as though you are not in the presence of the world’s greatest house husband.''
Pepper picks up a cookie splattered with green icing and pink sprinkles and takes a bite. ''I still don’t understand how you can bake such delicious cookies but can’t make an omelette.''
''I can make an omelette.''
''No you can’t,'' Pepper says, leaning in to kiss him again to soothe the burn of the truth. She tastes like sugar and Tony chases her lips as she pulls away, narrowing his eyes at her when she smirks and takes another bite of her cookie. ''Where’s Peter?''
''Sleeping. Kid’s not feeling so hot.''
''Oh no,'' Pepper sighs. ''I wonder if he caught that flu that May mentioned was doing the rounds at his school lately.''
As if on cue, there’s a bang of a door flying open upstairs and rapid footsteps along the landing. Morgan looks up in alarm from her drawing and Tony leaves Pepper to reassure her as he hurries out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
''Pete?'' he calls. ''You okay?''
A furious chorus of wet retching from the bathroom is his only response.
Tony approaches the door and peeks inside. It’s dark, no doubt as a result of Peter not having time to switch on the light, but Tony can make out the shape of a hunched figure in the corner.
''Hey, kid. Only me,'' Tony says softly, pushing the door fully open with one hand and switching on the light with the other.
Peter groans from where he kneels on the floor, back shuddering as he heaves loudly into the toilet. Tony winces at the sounds bouncing off the tiles as he grabs a washcloth and sticks it under the tap in the sink.
''Easy, kiddo,'' he murmurs as he crouches down beside Peter and smooths a hand over his quaking shoulders. The heat coming through Peter’s sweat-soaked shirt is intense and Tony immediately settles the washcloth against the back of Peter’s damp neck, earning another groan from the trembling teenager.
It goes on for a while, any reprieve only lasting for a minute or two before Peter’s blotchy face disappears back into the toilet again. It reaches the point where a few exhausted sobs work their way in amongst the retching, and Tony’s heart aches with the infuriating inability to do anything but sit beside the kid and offer words and touches of sympathy.
He hates seeing the kids cry. With Morgan it’s always unashamed and obvious, trails of tears heavy on flushed cheeks and sorrow loud in her voice,
It’s different with Peter. Being sixteen and stubborn, he still skirts the edge of shy and uncertain when it comes to these sorts of things, choosing to hide his tears and vulnerability until Tony makes the first move of comfort and banishes the misconceptions that Peter still can’t let go of even after all this time.
Tony can see the thoughts creeping up on Peter now like a dark cloud, the ones that will no doubt lead to a voice in the back of the kid’s head telling him that he’s a burden, that Tony shouldn’t be sitting here trying to take care of him.
So when tearful eyes peek at him as Peter leans back, Tony is quick to smile and readjust his hands so one is settled on the kid’s shoulder.
''Hey there.''
''Hi,'' Peter rasps, voice hoarse and congested. He removes the now warm cloth from the back of his neck and wipes it over his face with shaky hands. ''I’m sor - ''
''Ah ah,'' Tony interrupts, waving his hand. ''No apologies, kid, otherwise I’ll throw up. I’m allergic, you see.''
That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. Tony stands up with a groan, leans over to hit the flusher and quickly retrieves a fresh washcloth. As he does so, Peter slowly stands up, using the nearby wall for balance as his knees knock together.
''You think you’re done?'' Tony asks, handing him the damp washcloth and throwing the old one in the hamper by the door.
Peter takes a few shallow breaths, the air wheezing loudly in his chest, and nods. ''Think so.''
''Let’s get you back to bed then,'' Tony says, extending an arm invitingly towards Peter. ''Hopefully you can sleep some of it off before tomorrow.''
''Yeah,'' Peter whispers shakily, ''right, tomorrow. Christmas Eve.''
''Sure is,'' Tony wiggles his fingers. ''C’mon, kid.''
What happens next lasts for only a matter of seconds, but it plays out in slow motion to Tony. Peter steps forward on unsteady legs, a hand reaching out to grasp Tony’s arm, and a sneeze rips through him so suddenly and so viciously, it sends him stumbling to the side. There’s no way to stop Peter as he trips, and Tony can only flinch as he watches Peter’s forehead meet the edge of the sink with a loud clunk.
Peter falls bonelessly, leaving a thick, vivid smear of red against the white porcelain, and Tony immediately bends to catch him, sinking to the floor as he tucks Peter against his chest.
''Fuck - kid! Peter, you okay?'' Tony calls, shifting around so Peter’s head is nestled in the crook of his elbow. ''Peter!''
Peter’s eyes are closed, a crimson trail running down from a gash just above his right eyebrow, mixing in with the sweat still clinging to his skin. His lips are pale and parted, raspy breaths rattling sporadically in the back of his throat.
''Damn it,'' Tony mutters, fumbling around for the washcloth that had slipped from Peter’s grasp as he fell. He presses it to the cut just as Pepper appears in the doorway.
''Oh my god,'' she cries as her gaze falls upon them, ''what the hell happened?''
''Kid managed to brain himself on the sink,'' Tony grunts, jerking his head at where the garish mark of blood seems to shimmer tauntingly in the light. ''Pete? Wake up, come on.''
Pepper kneels down, moving Tony’s hand away from the now blood soaked cloth and covers it with her own. ''Do we need to call Helen?''
Tony doesn’t get a chance to respond as Peter suddenly shifts in his arms, turning his head towards Tony’s chest and moaning softly.
''Steady there, Underoos,'' Tony says, relief surging through him with as much force as an electrical current.
''Wha’?'' Peter groans, cracking open the eye that isn’t obscured by the washcloth. It’s still bright with fever and stares up at Tony in wide confusion. ''Mister Stark - '' his voice wobbles into an incoherent whine of pain.
''Just relax, kid,'' Tony instructs, sounding way more in control than he feels. ''Everything’s fine.''
With Pepper’s help, Tony manages to move without fully letting go of Peter, shuffling onto his knees and easing the kid down towards the floor, angling Peter’s head to rest on a fluffy white towel that Pepper grabs from one of the shelves. Peter makes the odd noise of distress as they rearrange their positions but doesn’t say anything apart from a quiet ''ow'' when he replaces Pepper’s hand on his head, keeping pressure on the wound that Tony suspects he doesn’t remember getting.
Tony’s just about to try and get another peek at the damage when Morgan’s voice fills the room.
''Mommy? Is Peter okay?''
Peter lurches upwards on instinct, a ghost of what is meant to be a reassuring smile appearing on his pale lips, and Tony immediately pushes him back down gently, giving Pepper a pleading look after glancing over to see a tearful Morgan standing in the doorway.
''It’s okay,'' Pepper soothes, scooping Morgan up into a hug. ''Peter bumped his head, that’s all. Daddy’s going to fix him right up.''
''And then he’ll come and play?''
Peter flinches, like Morgan’s words physically hurt him. He struggles in Tony’s arms until Tony levels him with a fierce glare, a silent command to stay put.
''Peter needs to rest, honey. He might not be able to play for a while until he’s better,'' Pepper explains gently.
''But - but tomorrow is Christmas Eve!'' Morgan gasps, scrubbing a fist across her eyes as she continues to cry. ''Peter can’t miss Christmas! You have to make him feel better!''
There’s blood seeping sluggishly down Peter’s cheek again and his voice is nothing but a scratchy rasp as he turns his head and does his best to smile at Morgan. ''Don’t worry, I’ll be much better - ''
The explosion of sharp, breath-stealing coughs makes them all jump. Pepper quickly leaves the room with a weeping Morgan while Tony pulls Peter back up, letting the kid lean against his chest as he wheezes, trembling furiously in Tony’s hold. The washcloth falls to the floor, allowing Tony a clear view of the sticky swirls of blood clinging to Peter’s forehead and matting a few of his curls.
''S’it bad?'' Peter asks weakly.
''Hard to say,'' Tony admits, hooking a thumb beneath the gunky locks of hair and gently lifting them away. ''You know what head wounds are like. They’re the drama queens of injuries.''
Peter moans and burrows himself into Tony’s chest. ''Did I fall over?''
''Something like that, kid,'' Tony sighs, letting his forehead drop into Peter’s damp hair, allowing his nerves a moment to settle. ''C’mon, let’s get you fixed up.''
''This sucks,'' Peter laments as Tony lays him back down. ''Feel like someone stuffed me through a meat grinder.''
Rooting through the cabinet beneath the sink, Tony snorts. ''And you’d know how that feels, would you?''
''Seen it on a cooking show. Looks gross.''
''Quite an accurate description for your face right now.''
''Mean,'' Peter splutters as Tony retrieves the first aid kit and holds it up triumphantly. ''Wassat for?''
''For fixing that hole in your head.''
Peter’s already pale face turns as white as chalk, the smears of blood standing out gruesomely. Tony briefly worries that the kid is going to throw up again, but instead he closes his eyes with a wet sniffle, a silent invitation for Tony to get on with it.
''Only you could catch the flu and knock a chunk out of yourself on the same day,'' Tony says as he cleans away the blood as gently as possible, shushing Peter softly when he whimpers. ''Parker Luck strikes again, huh?''
''I blame Ned. He caught it first.''
''Mmhmm,'' Tony mutters absently as he dabs away the last few specks of red. The wound itself is small and not as deep as he was expecting. There’s traces of purple beginning to bloom around it, though Tony imagines they’ll be almost gone by morning. ''I’m sure Santa will put a lump of coal in his stocking for his misdeeds.''
''Are you Santa in this scenario?''
''Please. I’m way cooler than Santa.''
Peter laughs at that, the sound doing wonders to soothe the lingering worry sitting in Tony’s chest. He traces his fingers carefully across Peter’s forehead, tilting his chin up to get a better view.
''Good news, kiddo. You’re gonna live to fight another day.''
''Really?''
Tony waves an unopened package containing a needle and thread at him. ''A couple of these little beauties ought to keep you in working order until that super healing of yours decides to kick in.''
Peter’s unhappy pout twists into a grimace as he sneezes, a hand coming up to clutch his forehead. ''Get me the sink. I wanna hit it harder, do the job properly.''
''If you can stand up by yourself, I won’t stop you.''
There’s a long pause, punctuated only by Peter’s shivery breathing, and Tony nods pointedly. ''That’s what I thought.''
Tony sets the kit on the floor and runs his hands under the sink, liberally spreading coconut scented soap all over his fingers. He grabs a towel when he’s done, feeling Peter watching him as he dries his hands.
''I can hear you thinking, Pete, and I’ve been reliably informed that it’s good parenting to encourage children to share things.''
''Is Morgan gonna be okay?''
''Is she still crying?'' Tony asks as he gets into a suitable position by Peter’s head.
''Don’t know. Hearing’s all muffled.''
''She’ll be fine, kid. Tomorrow, we’ll get you camped out on the comfy chair and you can cough your lungs up while the two of you watch cheesy holiday movies all day, and then May will arrive and fuss endlessly over the both of you. Sound good?''
''Yeah,'' Peter croaks. He hooks a hand into the hem of Tony’s shirt. ''Long as you’re there too.''
''As if I’d miss out on all the yuletide grossness,'' Tony snorts, lifting the needle up to Peter’s forehead. ''Ready? No super strength numbing stuff this time, I’m afraid.''
''Unfair.''
''Yup. I’ll be sure to stock up for next time.''
Peter’s lips turn thin with anticipation and he nods, closing his eyes. Tony moves slowly, pulling the thread through with gentle strokes, tying and trimming it with careful precision after each stitch, pausing for every cough and sneeze and murmuring soft words of praise whenever Peter’s eyes blink open wetly or his jaw clenches in discomfort.
''Do you know Rhodey was the one who taught me how to do this,'' Tony says, tongue poking out from behind his teeth as he focuses. ''Said it would come in handy someday.''
Peter makes a noise of interest and the fingers clutching Tony’s shirt shake a little, but otherwise he doesn’t respond. Tony loops the needle round one more time and pushes it steadily through the edge of the gash.
''And...we’re...done,'' Tony says as he ties off the thread. ''With any luck, we’ll be able to take those out sometime tomorrow.''
''Awesome.''
''Don’t think you’ll have a badass scar to show off to your scary girlfriend though.''
Peter’s eyes open in a tired glare. ''Not my girlfriend.''
''Sure she is,'' Tony says cheerfully as he tidies everything away and washes his hands again. ''You’re adorably awkward, she’s hilariously terrifying, it’s a match made in heaven.''
Peter’s no doubt sassy reply is interrupted by a soft knocking against the door frame.
''How’s it going?'' Pepper asks, smiling gently as Peter waves halfheartedly at her. ''Well, that’s a bit better,’’ she says as she eyes the stitches.
Morgan peers round from behind Pepper's legs, slightly red eyes wide above the faithful and very worn Spider-Man plushie that she’s holding to her chest. Tony beckons her over as he eases Peter up, bracing an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady.
''Are you okay?'' Morgan asks, reaching out to stroke near Peter’s stitches with a curious but gentle finger.
‘’Yeah,’’ Peter says softly. ''Just a little bit tired.''
''And sick,'' Morgan reminds him when he sneezes loudly into the crook of his elbow.
''And sick,'' Peter agrees with a gravelly laugh. ''Will you watch movies with me tomorrow to help me feel better?''
Morgan’s face lights up and she grins, nodding so enthusiastically that she nearly drops her toy. ''Can we watch Die Hard?''
Peter chokes on a cough in surprise while Tony frowns. ''How do you know about Die Hard?''
''I asked Uncle Happy what his favourite Christmas movie was, and he said it was that one.''
Pepper shakes her head with a quiet laugh while Tony rolls his eyes. ''Somebody else to add to the coal list.''
''We can choose the movies tomorrow,'' Peter suggests, leaning into Tony gratefully as he helps him stand and directs him to the sink to wash his mouth out. ''But you’re gonna have to wait a bit to watch Die Hard,'' he says after he’s done.
''Aw,'' Morgan pouts as she follows them to the door.
''And you can rule out Home Alone, little miss,'' Tony adds as he steers Peter towards his room. ''The last thing we need is you getting ideas.''
''You’re just worried she’d outdo you in terms of creativity,'' Pepper teases, ushering Morgan towards the stairs. ''Don’t try and deny that you planned for something like that happening,'' she says when Tony opens his mouth to argue, ''I found your blueprints.''
''...Half of those ideas were hers,'' he admits with a sheepish grin, aiming a wink at Morgan who giggles. ''Thus, my point still stands. Nothing featuring Bruce Willis or interesting ways to maim a guy.''
Peter chooses that moment to sag a little more into Tony’s side and he quickly guides him along to his bed, managing to keep the kid standing while he pulls the covers back. He rummages around in a drawer for a clean t-shirt and helps Peter change as he perches on the edge of the bed.
''You don’t need to do all of this,'' Peter grunts as his head pokes through the top of the shirt. ''M'fine.''
Tony merely raises his eyebrows at the six sneezes that follow Peter’s words. With a soft prod of his finger, Tony pushes Peter backwards, smirking as he sinks heavily into the mattress with a sigh. He weakly complains just once more as Tony tugs the blankets up to tuck him in.
''Now, listen up, Underoos,'' Tony orders, smoothing the edges of the blankets. ''You’re gonna stay in this bed, I’m gonna sit in your cute little desk chair so I can keep an eye on you and those lovely stitches and make sure you don’t pop them during one of your delightful coughing fits, capiche?''
''Capiche,'' Peter yawns. ''No sympathy for you when your back hurts tomorrow.''
''After I just stitched you back together? Had your blood literally on my hands?'' Tony exclaims, throwing a hand up to his chest as he places the chair by the side of the bed. ''You hurt me, kid.''
''Shhhh,'' Peter slurs tiredly, rolling gingerly onto his side so he’s facing Tony. ''Sneeze on you.''
''Wow, losing the ability to talk in full sentences, are we? That’s a bad sign,'' Tony places a hand in Peter’s curls and begins to thread his fingers through the tangled mess, gently easing out the knots. ''Maybe I should get Morgan up here with her little doctor set.''
Peter flaps a hand lazily at him. ''You really gonna stay?''
It comes out sounding like an exasperated complaint, something a kid would groan as their parent embarrasses them for the hundredth time. Tony hears the deeper meaning though; hears the search for reassurance that only he can provide.
''Trust me, buddy,'' Tony promises, brushing a quick reassuring hand over Peter’s cheek. ''I wouldn’t be anywhere else.''