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“Okay, they’re gone…”
Peter looks up from his spot on the floor, where he’s dutifully cutting out snowflakes to add to Morgan’s collection. Mr. Stark is in his chair at the window, where he’s been since Happy ushered May and Pepper out the door ten minutes ago.
“...now’s our chance to be bad.”
Immediately, Morgan springs to her feet, tossing the tiny slivers of cut paper she’d stacked so neatly into the air. “Finally!”
Peter almost has a heart attack when Mr. Stark pushes himself out of the motorized chair, a glowing, beeping cane materializing out of thin air into his nanotech hand. “Mr. Stark!” He jumps to his feet and practically leaps across the room, ready in case he stumbles. He’s not supposed to be walking on his own.
“Daddy, I want to drive your chair!” Morgan is hot on Peter’s heels, but he reaches to grab her before she can scoot past and knock Mr. Stark over.
“All yours, Miss Bug,” Mr. Stark laughs and hobbles out of the way. Peter reluctantly lets her go, and she scoots up into the chair and spins it around as if she does it every day. Mr. Stark shuffles away from the window, leaning heavily on the cane but moving faster than Peter has seen since, well, before.
“Um, Mr. Stark, should you--”
“Relax, Pete,” he waves him away, calling over his shoulder as he and his cane clunk into the kitchen. “You want peanut butter or oreo, honey?”
“Oreo!” Morgan calls and drives the chair over to Peter. “Petey, can I chase you? Daddy says I can’t chase him with the chair yet. We can play Spider-Man and the bad guy!”
“Mo, I thought your dad wasn’t supposed to walk unless the doctor was here?” Peter knows an orthopedist and physical therapist come to the cabin every other day, and Dr. Strange comes a few times a week to work with Mr. Stark himself. His team of doctors (and sorcerers) have strict rules: his diet, his sleep schedule, and how he moves, especially by himself. He’d even joked that they have a bathroom schedule for him, whether he feels like it or not. In fact, the only things Peter thinks they haven’t limited are his mind and left hand, hence the chairs and cane and nanotech right arm.
Morgan just shrugs and puts the chair in reverse. “He always does when Mommy and Happy aren’t home. One time he fell but he was fine and we told her the chair got caught on the rug.”
“Um…”
“Peter, what do you want?” Mr. Stark calls, his voice rough but just as powerful as Peter has ever heard it. Huh.
“Ummm--” Peter looks desperately between the kitchen, where he can’t see Mr. Stark behind the divider wall, and Morgan, who’s eyeing her tea table in the corner like it’s a target.
“Kid!” Mr. Stark yells. “I can’t hold this and balance for long. Peanut butter or oreo?!”
“Um,” he makes his choice, deciding Mr. Stark’s bones are more important than Morgan’s table, and darts into the kitchen. “Peanut butter?”
“Well, you don’t sound too sure,” Mr. Stark rolls his eyes and tosses the half-eaten peanut butter pie on the marble counter. “Get some plates. Three. Still not great with the china, bud.”
“Mr. Stark,” Peter goes over to the floor-to-ceiling cabinet that holds Pepper’s vast array of dinnerware. “I thought you were supposed to absolutely stick to that diet the doctors gave you--”
“I’m not supposed to drink, either, but I’ve been topping off the Goose in the cart with water. Rhodey is bringing a new bottle next week.”
“Mr. Rhodes knows?” Peter almost runs straight into the open refrigerator door on his way to the china cabinet. He wonders what everyone else knows, especially since nobody had known Mr. Stark was even alive until about five months after. Only Pepper had known--not Rhodey, not Happy, not even Morgan. Only Pepper and Dr. Strange and Dr. Cho, and then the entire group of them had spent nearly the entire week after Mr. Stark woke up (semi-intact) trying to convince Peter that this wasn’t another one of Beck’s illusions while SI lawyers descended on the Daily Bugle.
It’d been an interesting week.
“It was Rhodey’s idea,” Mr. Stark chuckles and shrugs. “After pie we’ll make some grown-up eggnog and hide it from Her Highness.”
“Okay, I’m like one-thousand-percent sure eggnog isn’t on that diet Dr. Strange and Dr. Cho gave you...Mr. Stark--”
“Peter,” Mr. Stark sighs in that new way he does: exasperated but gentle, like he’s in the same boat as Peter, and still can’t believe any of this is real. “Don’t worry about this, kid, every time Pepper’s gone for the night--”
“Of course I worry about you, Mr. Stark!”
“--Morgan and I loosen the restraints a bit,” he clunks over and squeezes Peter’s shoulder with his left hand, the one he still has. “Which you’d know about, if you and your Aunt hadn’t insisted on fucking back to the city to live in that hovel.”
“It’s not a hovel, Mr. Stark, it’s in Forest Hills thank you very much, and you were dead!” Peter glares at him. “And it was Pepper who chose it!”
“Only partly dead,” he squeezes his shoulder again and shuffles back over to the pies. “Now, would you rather be out with Pep and your aunt?”
“No.”
Pepper and May are out furniture shopping in the city, for some insane reason the weekend before Christmas. May had said something about liking the craziness and Pepper was insisting on replacing the couch and loveseat that sustained water damage where it sat for five years in a storage unit. She’d insisted on a lot of things, first that they stay at the cabin indefinitely, then that they accept the flat she’d found for them only days after Mr. Starks “funeral.” It was only when Happy led him into the SHIELD medical facility that Peter realized why Pepper had been so oddly insistent on so many things, but especially that they stay. But Peter still thinks they’re crazy for going out five days before Christmas.
“Exactly. You only got two week to let loose, kiddo--”
“Daddy! I want pie!”
“It’s coming, darling heart! Pete, you’re finally here for two weeks and I’m going to be stuck in that damn chair eating rice and saltless chicken the entire time the moment Pepper gets back. I want to have fun with my kids while I can,” Mr. Stark leans against the counter and rotates his nanotech arm with a grunt. “Which means walking around and pie and underage drinking. And maybe one of Pep’s Lights she doesn’t know I know about. So zip your lips and let yourself have some fun.”
“But Mr. Stark, what if something happens?”
“Kid,” Mr. Stark looks at him in that new way he does, a way that Peter still can’t quite place. “Nothing is going to happen. And if it does, we’ll blame Morgan. She’s five, perfect age to take the fall and not know any better. Shit, she’ll probably offer to break something on purpose to really stick the alibi.”
“Mr. Stark! I’m gonna tell her you said that!”
“Daddy said you would!” Morgan suddenly races into the kitchen, sliding across the floor and hopping on a stool at the counter before Peter can so much as blink. “Daddy said you would narc on him!”
“What? I’m not gonna--” Peter looks over at Morgan then to Mr. Stark. “What did you say?”
Mr. Stark just shrugs. “Kid, we all love you but you are a goddamn narc and everyone knows it. When they get back, ask about the vapes your aunt brings that she doesn’t tell you about, and then ask why she doesn’t tell you.”
“Goddamn!” Morgan squeals and rocks on her stool. “I’m telling Mommy you said one of her words again.”
“And then I’m going to tell Mommy you also said it, Miss Bug,” Mr. Stark crosses his arms. “And if you fall and crack your head open you won’t get any pie. Also Peter will definitely narc on us.”
“I think the EMTs would narc on you first,” Peter frowns and steps on a rail on the stool, pushing the legs to the floor and stopping Morgan’s rocking.
“Boooo,” Morgan mumbles, then reaches across the counter for the crystal bowl of red and green M&Ms that are strategically placed throughout the cabin. May’s doing, no doubt; it’s been the same at their apartments for as long as Peter can remember. “No fun.”
“He’s right, Mo Mo,” Mr. Stark hobbles over to the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk. “And then Mommy won’t ever leave us alone again, and it would be boring forever.”
“Not forever, just until you’re all better.”
“Okay, so boring for a very long time.”
“Fine,” Morgan rolls her eyes--Peter still can’t get over how much she looks like Mr. Stark--and settles back on the stool. She tosses the M&Ms in her mouth and holds out one arm. “Petey. Stick.”
Peter smiles and presses his palm against Morgan’s forearm. His sticky fingers are one of Morgan’s favorite things; he’d inadvertently stuck the first time he’d hugged her, after Pepper had sent everyone else away from the cabin, and it’s remained one of her favorite things, along with finding things to stick to the bottom of his feet.
“Hee,” she giggles, waving her arm around and watching with delight as Peter’s arm waves with it. “Daddy, can we find a spider like the one that bit Petey? I want to stick too.”
“Don’t think I can, gummy bear,” Mr. Stark blinks a few times, then pulls his glasses out of the pocket of his robe. He looks up at Peter and winks, which looks odd against the scars and lines on the right side of his face. “Unless Peter kept the spider?”
“Did you keep the spider?” Morgan asks very seriously. “Was it in that big garage? What do you feed it?”
“I didn’t keep the spider, Mo,” Peter laughs, swinging Morgan’s arm up and down.
“Well, I hope you didn’t squish it,” she reaches for more M&Ms. “We’re not supposed to squish spiders. They’re good luck.”
“Oh, yeah? Says who?”
“Daddy. Right Daddy? Spiders are good luck?”
“You are correct, Morguna,” Mr. Stark looks back at Peter and smiles gently. “The best luck. So we put them outside and only hit them with magazines when they leave footprints on the ceiling.”
“See?” Morgan crams the M&Ms in her mouth and chews loudly.
“Well, I didn’t kill it, Mo. I’m assuming she’s living a good life in the city.”
“Good!” Morgan nods. “Maybe she was one of Charlotte’s babies. You can unstick now, I’m going to go drive the chair more.”
Peter releases, Morgan giggling again as her arm drops. “Don’t crash into anything.”
“Except that black side table in the hall, Mo,” Mr. Stark points his cane out towards the living room.
“You got it, Daddy!” She hops off her stool and scampers out of the living room. Peter looks up at Mr. Stark.
“What? I hate it,” he shrugs. “I always catch it when I’m going to my office.” He nods over to the cabinet. “Plates.”
“Oh, right,” Peter steps back over to the cabinet and pulls three small plates--he thinks they’re dessert plates?--off a middle shelf. Before he closes the heavy door, he notices two heavy mahogany boxes on the very top shelves.
“What’s in the boxes?” Peter brings the plates over to the island.
“Hmmmm?”
“The big wooden boxes, in the cabinet.”
“Oh. The wedding china. I think it’s been up there since we moved out here.”
“They kept making wedding china?” Peter huffs an incredulous laugh and grabs some M&Ms from the bowl. “I thought everyone said everything was a mess for like a year?”
“We’d ordered them, before,” Mr. Stark sniffs, pulling a knife out of a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. “Don’t really want them, can’t send them back.”
“You’ve never used them?” Peter doesn’t know why, but it makes him sad to know that they’ve never used their wedding china. May never let them use her china--he thinks he remembers it coming out, once--but surely the Starks would have had more reason to use fancy china than the Parkers.
“Nah,” Mr. Stark clunks over to the sink and drops his knife in with a clatter and a shrug. “I actually think Pep is gonna box them up. Give them to Mo. Or,” he turns around and leans against the counter with a casual ease Peter wishes he saw more of. “You, when you move out on your own.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever have a place where I can put fancy china, Mr. Stark.”
“Well, if we don’t find a place, Miss Morgan can use them for target practice.” A crash that sounds suspiciously like a premium Stark-brand wheelchair hitting a tea table echoes from the living room.
“Oops!” Morgan laughs, and there’s another rattling crash.
“Was that the black table?” Mr. Stark calls.
“Nope!”
“Well then you’re gonna think up the excuse for Mommy, Morgan!”
“I’ll tell her Petey did it!”
“Hey!”
“Just hit the black one next, Mo Mo!” Mr. Stark leans his cane against the counter and pulls the pie towards himself. “You wanted peanut butter, right?”
“Or whichever,” Peter shrugs as Mr. Stark cuts a massive piece of pie. “Um, I don’t need that big a piece--”
“Yes, you do, because I need an excuse to just go ahead and eat the rest of it,” he pulls the second tin over and cuts a considerably smaller piece of oreo pie for Morgan. “You sure you don’t want a piece of this too?”
“Why, so you can have an excuse to eat the rest of that one, too?”
“You got it, kiddo.”
Peter sighs. “You’re going to regret it, Mr. Stark.”
“I’m done regretting things, Peter Parker.”
*******
“Oh, I regret that.”
“I told you you would,” Peter drops Mr. Stark on the sofa as gently as he can, then hands him one of the crystal candy bowls he filled with Tums.
“Thanks, bud,” Mr. Stark grimaces and shifts so his nanotech arm is propped on a throw pillow. Peter watches with apprehension as he pops at least four Tums in his mouth and chews slowly, then swallows with effort. “Ugh.”
“Daddy, are you going to die?” Morgan hops onto the couch next to her father and wraps her hands around his red and gold forearm.
“No, Mo Mo!”
“Yes,” Mr. Stark chews another Tums. “Why’d you two let me eat all that pie?”
“I told you not to eat the rest of Morgan’s piece, Mr. Stark!”
“Well, someone had to,” he shifts on the couch and tugs Morgan closer to his side. “Go get the eggnog.”
“Oh my god! No! I’m not enabling you!”
“Can I have eggnog, too, Daddy?” Morgan looks up at her father, then over at Peter.
“No, honey, you won’t sleep. You can have some tomorrow after lunch. Pete,” Mr. Stark says very sternly and points with his cane. “Nog.”
“Mr. Stark, I really don’t think--” Peter gestures around him. “You’re not feeling well. They put you on that diet for a reason!”
“Pete, I’m fine. I ate too much pie,” Mr. Stark laughs. “But not enough to not have eggnog.”
“You could barely stand!”
“I can barely stand anyways!” he lifts his cane to demonstrate, then hands it over to Morgan when she makes grabby hands for it. “At my age I’d probably feel like this even without--” he gestures to the streaks that run up the right side of his neck and face. “--so, Tums.”
“Can I have a Tums, Daddy?”
“Sure,” Mr. Stark holds out the bowl, then looks up to Peter like, can you believe this kid. Peter isn’t quite sure how to react. “But it’s gonna be icky. Pete, eggnog. Chop chop.”
“Parenting sucks,” Peter scoffs, turning on his heel and stomping into the kitchen. On the counter are two tumblers of eggnog, one of which has a green and red holly stirrer in it. Mr. Stark insisted when he mixed them that that one was his and that under no circumstances was Peter to drink it, or to let Morgan have a sip of either of them. He takes a drink from his glass as he walks back into the living room. “Oh, wow, Mr. Stark. How much did you put in these?”
“Enough,” he lifts his real hand and takes the tumbler from Peter. “Cheers, kiddo!” He lifts his drink in mock toast as Peter sits.
“Petey,” Morgan turns to him, eyes wide and hands already reaching. “Can I try a sip?”
“No.”
“No,” Mr. Stark pulls her hands away and tucks them into his side. “Don’t try to befuddle your brother the way you do Uncle Happy; he hasn’t built up an immunity to you yet. Start your movie.”
Peter doesn’t respond, but glances over at Mr. Stark and then down to Morgan as she settles back between them, wrapping her tiny hand around his forearm. Mr. Stark grimaces a bit when he takes a sip of his eggnog, then seems to steel himself and powers through another.
Thirty-seven minutes later, Peter is remembering why he hated Frozen so much. Mr. Stark keeps sneaking glances down at Morgan then over to Peter, clearly silently imploring his daughter to fall asleep.
It must work, because in ten more minutes, Morgan is scrunched in a ball, forehead pressed against Peter’s arm. He makes to reach for the remote but Mr. Stark shoos him and shakes his head, and the message in his eyes is clear: not yet. She’ll wake up and then you’re gonna deal with it.
“You know,” Mr. Stark sighs next to him twenty more minutes later (after Anna and Kristoff met those weird rock things that remind Peter of Mr. Korg, but shorter), head back and eyes closed. “I still have that fuck-ugly sweater you got me.”
“Yeah?” Peter pointedly doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark reaches across Morgan to squeeze Peter’s knee. The nano-fingers feel odd through his sweats. “Could never bring myself to wear it--”
“Well it is pretty ugly…” It was the ugliest sweater Peter and May could find: bright green, with applique jingle-bells and an embroidered Santa, pants down and sitting on the toilet. He’d scoffed and thrown it across the room, but then appeared in it at their Christmas Eve Chinese lab dinner later.
“--but it’s in the closet. Right in front of the sweaters.”
“Your dad-cardigans?” Peter blinks hard.
“Hey, they’re pretty comfortable. Wish I’d had urges to buy them before sevenish years ago,” he squeezes Peter’s knee again.
“Sevenish?”
Mr. Stark shrugs and opens his eyes, glancing over at Peter. “Give or take. Maybe I’ll pull it out this year. Mo’ll love it.”
Peter smiles and looks at his hands. “Well, she kind of has your sense of humor, Mr. Stark.”
“Yours too,” he squeezes his knee one last time then lets go. “Thanks for spending your two weeks of freedom up here.”
Peter swallows. “Thanks for having us, Mr. Stark.”
“I’m not having anything, kiddo,” Mr. Stark looks over at the TV. “This is your home, too, you know. Whenever you want it. You know,” he reaches across Morgan again and pokes Peter in the side. “In case you didn’t know.”
“I know.” Peter thinks he did know, somewhere. He knows he’s welcome, that there’d always be a room here, even before Mr. Stark somehow, miraculously, turned out to be alive. But there was always a tiny voice in his head, whispering that this wasn’t really his, that he had to watch where and how he stepped, because everything is so different now. Hearing it erases that thin line in his head, the one separating him from them. They one that kept him from diving in headfirst, even though he desperately wanted to. “But thanks, anyway. I’m glad we can all be here.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark grabs his hand and squeezes, the metal cold against Peter’s fingers. “It’ll be nice to be able to really, you know…on Christmas.”
“Yeah.” Peter doesn’t know how much the nanotech can really feel, but he squeezes back, harder than he would if it were Mr. Stark’s real hand.
“And,” he clears his throat. “It’ll be nice to clear out that shelf in the garage. Five years of presents.”
“Oh my god, Mr. Stark,” Peter laughs, if only because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”
“Nope,” Mr. Stark releases his hand and flicks the side of his head. “And you’re going to get embarrassed and hate every one of them. Your birthday is going to be even better.” They’d gone on a picnic with Happy, Morgan, and Pepper his last birthday, but Mr. Stark had still been “dead” then.
“Can’t wait.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Mr. Stark sighs, throwing his arm around Peter’s shoulders and tugging him closer, so that Morgan is downright squished between them. She mumbles and stretches but doesn’t wake up. “Pick something better to watch now that she’s out.”
“Yeah, I fucking hate Frozen.” Peter grabs the remote.
“You should actually be glad you missed so much. They’re up to four, now.” Mr. Stark takes a sip of his eggnog and his head lolls on the back of the couch to look at Peter as he flips through channels. “How’s Michelle?”
“She’s good,” Peter smiles to himself and grabs his glass of eggnog off the coffee table “They’re in Costa Rica for Christmas, we’re going to FaceTime tomorrow.”
“Have you told her yet?”
“No,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Everyone told me not to, remember?”
“Eh, you might as well,” Mr. Stark pops another Tums in his mouth. “She probably won’t even care.”
“Yeah, she really won’t,” Peter smiles again, relaxing back into the couch with his tumbler of eggnog after selecting The Thing. MJ is smart and weird and treats the whole superhero thing with a refreshing nonchalance that Peter will be eternally grateful for, especially since the Beck affair. And she’s the prettiest person he’s ever seen and she looks at him with such focus and--
“Okay, I see you drifting,” Mr. Stark chuckles next to him and squeezes his shoulder. “There’s a five-year-old squished next to you, mind on the TV.”
Peter nearly spills his eggnog. “Mr. Stark!” He takes a gulp as his face heats up. “Seriously?”
“You guys are being safe, right?”
“Oh my god!”
“Shhhh! You wake her up and I’m taking EDITH back.”
“Mr. Stark!” Peter hisses, swallowing the rest of his eggnog. This can’t be happening. For some reason this is worse than when May asked and the next afternoon there was a box of condoms sitting on top of the charging station. It’s different now, that Mr. Stark has a kid. A kid who was made--no, Peter isn’t going to think about it.
“I’m serious, Peter,” Mr. Stark puts on his very-serious-discussion-face. Through his embarrassment Peter realizes this is the first time he’s seen that face since before, and he’s strangely grateful. Even though he wishes he could disappear between the couch cushions.
“I am not talking to you about my...life.”
“Ah, I knew it,” Mr. Stark’s face morphs into a mischievous smirk. “I’m just saying, I’m too young to be a grandpa.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Peter leans over Morgan to grab Mr. Stark’s half-empty tumbler of eggnog from his hand. Between them, Morgan shifts in her sleep and tightens her grip on his arm. “Nobody is gonna be an anything.”
“Because in all seriousness, I can’t chase a baby off the ceiling right now. Which with your luck is definitely going to be a thing. Give it a few years,” he pokes a metal finger into the back of Peter’s neck. “But if one does get past the goalie, you know we’re here to--”
“Oh my god, Mr. Stark, please stop!” Peter pointedly swallows the rest of Mr. Stark’s eggnog and immediately regrets it; there was a lot more vodka in his glass than in Peter’s. “Oh my god,” he exhales hard, trying not to gag. “Wow.”
“Heh heh!” Mr. Stark laughs in earnest. “That’s why I told you not to drink that one, kiddo.”
“You know, it’d be easier if they just made eggnog-flavored vodka. Hoooo boy!”
“Oh, they do now, but that’s harder to sneak in and top off.”
“You’re the worst,” Peter groans, and sets the empty tumbler on the table. Morgan squeaks when he moves, then practically crawls into his lap before settling again.
“You know,” Mr. Stark says softly, looking down at his daughter. “When they first let her in after I woke up, every goddamn word out of her mouth was about you. It was the Peter-show, 24-7. All Peter, all the time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark pulls his arm from around Peter’s shoulder and rests his red and gold hand on Morgan’s head. He looks up at Peter, and then back down at his daughter. “Don’t let me forget to get some pictures of you two. In fact,” he looks up at the ceiling. “FRI?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Snap as many pictures of the babies together as you can over the next two weeks.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“Not a baby, Mr. Stark.”
*********
Peter opens his eyes; next to him Mr. Stark is snoring, bowl of Tums still perched on his knee, and Morgan is wide awake between them. The remote is clutched in her hand and her attention is completely on the screen.
“Mrmph,” Peter yawns and cracks his jaw, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. “Sorry, Mo, I guess--”
“Shhh!” She shushes him, not looking away from the TV. “Daddy’s sleeping. We’re supposed to let him sleep.”
“Sorry,” Peter mock-whispers loudly as he sits up straight and rubs his eyes. “What are you watching?”
“I dunno,” Morgan shrugs. “Something weird.”
Peter turns to the screen right as Sharon Stone uncrosses and crosses her legs. “Oh fuck!” Mr. Stark jerks awake as he grabs the remote from Morgan and changes the channel.
“Wha? Jesus Christ, Peter, don’t swear in front of my kid!” His bowl of Tums tips onto the floor when he moves, the small tablets skittering across the hardwood.
“She was watching Basic Instinct!”
“Oh, fuck,” he groans and Peter rolls his eyes. “Morgan.”
“You’re both saying Mommy’s words,” she crosses her arms and glares at both of them. “And you both fell asleep!”
“Not before you did, Miss Bug,” Mr. Stark groans and rolls his neck. “What time is it?”
“3:30,” Peter looks at his phone. There’s a text from MJ, a message that she’ll call at 10:30 his time and a kissy-face emoji.
“Then I think it’s time for the children to go to bed.”
“But I’m not tired, Daddy!”
“But the sooner you go to bed the sooner you can wake up.”
“And then we can make waffles, right?”
“Sure,” Mr. Stark grabs a Tum from off the couch cushion and pointedly tosses it in his mouth, then grabs his cane and reaches out to Peter. “Help me up, bud.”
It takes a few moments--Peter knows he still has to be careful, lest he completely tear off Mr. Stark’s remaining arm--but he manages to get Mr. Stark off the couch and over to the stairs, with Morgan’s arms wrapped around his waist the entire way.
“Maybe should have taken the chair,” Mr. Stark grunts as Peter drops him on the significantly enhanced Stairlift they’d installed to take him up to what Morgan calls the Upstairs Chair. He has a surprisingly good sense of humor about it, even enlisting Morgan and Mr. Rhodes to make a silly fake infomercial to send to him after a particularly harrowing week of media coverage.
“Yeah, I told you, Mr. Stark. You want me to buckle you in?”
“Oh, shut up,” Mr. Stark sneers, and his cane collapses in on itself until it’s nothing but a disk that fits neatly into the palm of his nanotech hand, right where the repulsor used to be. “The seatbelt was a joke for that dumb video.”
“I wanna ride with you, Daddy!” Morgan lets go of Peter’s waist and jumps with an ungodly amount of energy for 3:30 in the morning.
“Alright, up you get,” Mr. Stark hoists Morgan onto his lap with a grunt. “You want to ride, too?”
“I’m good, Mr. Stark,” Peter laughs. “Don’t want to break it.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs and looks down at Morgan. “Hit it, Morguna.”
Morgan slams the button on the arm of the chair, and slowly, so so slowly, the chair starts to ascend.
“Wow, you’re really flying there, Mr. Stark,” Peter steps up one stair, then another.
“I know, really helps me through not being able to get in a suit,” Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. Morgan on the other hand, looks thrilled. He reaches out and squeezes Peter’s bicep. “Go on up and get the chair, please and thank you.”
“You’re not gonna try and walk?”
“Nah,” Mr. Stark’s eyes twinkle. “Need to hold onto some reserves for tomorrow. Our Moms and Happy won’t be home until at least dinner.”
“And Aunt May promised pizza!” Morgan exclaims, and Mr. Stark jumps to keep a grip on her.
“Nobody is eating pizza if you fall off and knock out all your teeth, Your Highness.”
“Next time I’m just going to carry you both,” Peter sighs, and steps around them to reach the top. He grabs the Upstairs Chair and lifts it straight out of its nook in the hall, placing it out the top of the staircase.
“Please,” the lift whines to a stop. “That’d be weirder than,” Mr. Stark gestures with his free hand. “This.”
“But faster.”
“Fair,” he slides Morgan off his lap and slowly transfers himself to the chair with a grunt. “Say ‘night to Peter, Morgan. Bedtime.”
“‘Night ‘night!” Morgan sing-songs--still with far too much energy--winding her arms around his waist. “I’ll come wake you up, okay?”
“Thanks, Mo,” Peter lets his fingers stick to the top of her shoulders; she squeals with laughter when she goes to pull away and climbs back into her father’s lap.
Mr. Stark nods towards the door to Peter’s room; it’s really one of the guest rooms, but Mr. Stark had someone put up a Star Wars poster over the bed and some extra clothes stay in the closet. Not exactly like the Tower was, but work in progress, he’d laughed when Peter first saw it. “Go on, I’m gonna get her down.”
It does still have a connected bathroom, so Peter can’t really complain. He can hear Mr. Stark and Morgan whispering conspiratorially about something while he changes and brushes his teeth, then silence and the sound of an electric chair rolling over plush carpet.
Peter’s door bangs open just as he’s climbing into the queen-sized bed. “Your turn,” Mr. Stark’s Upstairs Chair whirs into the bedroom. “You brush your teeth and go to the bathroom?”
“You do know I am seventeen? What if I didn’t have my pants on?”
“You know, I can embarrass you a lot more easily than you can embarrass me, kiddo, so just try it,” he glides over to the side of the bed and raises an eyebrow. “You want a glass of water?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Peter punches his pillow into place. It’s one he’d had in his designated bedroom at the Tower, with a Darth Vader pillowcase. He’d cried into it when Pepper told him Mr. Stark refused to put it in storage with the rest of their belongings, and insisted it come with them to the cabin. He looks at it a moment, then over at Mr. Stark, who’s watching him patiently. “Do you need help?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Getting into bed is one of the things I’m actually allowed to do on my own. Just here to tuck you in.”
“You don’t have to tuck me in, Mr. Stark.”
“Sure I do,” Mr. Stark smiles gently. “You stay here, you get tucked in. Them’s the rules for the babies.”
“Still not a baby.”
“Lie down, Pete,” he rolls the chair closer and grabs the edge of Peter’s duvet, pulling it up over his shoulders and Peter slides down and settles on his Darth Vader pillow. Mr. Stark looks at him a moment, hand squeezing his shoulder.
“You okay, Mr. Stark?”
“Yeah, sorry, bud,” he sniffs hard and blinks, then pulls the duvet up to Peter’s chin. “Just glad everyone’s here. It’s gonna be a great Christmas.”
“You hate Christmas, Mr. Stark,” Peter isn’t quite sure what else to say as Mr. Stark watches him, like he can’t bear to look away. Like how he looks at Morgan. That’s the new way he looks at him, Peter realizes. It makes him feel warm, and safe, but somehow sad.
“Nah, I’ve started liking it,” he sniffs again and reaches up to squeeze the back of Peter’s neck. “And I think I’m gonna like this one best.”
“Wait until you see your present before saying that.”
“Got everything I need,” he squeezes Peter’s neck again and glances at the wall separating this room from Morgan’s bedroom. “So long as there’s not another sweater of Santa on the shitter.”
Peter huffs a laugh. “Would you wear it?”
“Yeah, I would,” he smiles, soft and serious. “And then I’d have Morgan spill hot chocolate on it.”
“Maybe Mo and I went in on it together.”
“She would never betray me the way you do,” Mr. Stark tucks the duvet under his chin. “Go to sleep, Peter. Your girlfriend’s calling in the morning and we have to pretend like we behaved when everyone gets home.”
“You’ll have FRIDAY call if you need anything?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Stark ruffles Peter’s hair and reverses his chair. “And be prepared for Mo to run in here at 6am. Trademark Morgan Stark Wake Up Call”
“Just like last time,” Peter laughs. He doesn’t mind, really, although hopefully her aim will be better when she jumps on him. “Good night, Mr. Stark.”
“Sleep tight, Peter.” The light flicks off and Mr. Stark shuts his door with a soft click. Peter listens to the chair whir down the hall, then to the various thumps and shuffles when Mr. Stark gets to the master bedroom. He doesn’t let himself fall asleep until he’s sure he’s heard him settle in his bed.
They were both wrong. Peter’s not gonna narc on anybody.