Chapter Text
"Are you fucking kidding me, Pete? Are you fucking serious ?"
Steve looked up from the pot of tea he was preparing. 11pm on a Thursday was a tea time, not a coffee time, like he'd had to explain to Tony when, after pacing about 3000 holes in the floor, he'd made a go for the kitchen.
Steve turned the heat off from under his pot, and walked out of the open kitchen to turn back into the sitting-room, where he almost dropped the dish towel he was wiping his hands with.
Tony was positively seething with rage, his hands shaking at his sides as he continued to yell at Peter who in turn was… having trouble staying upright apparently.
Two and two added up inside Steve's brain with the next stumble of his 15-year-old son. Well, fuck.
"Tony," Steve finally walked to their level, "Sweetheart, go sit down, I'll take care of it," Tony's head whipped to look at him, his jaw squared but his eyes pleading - breaking Steve's heart since 1999 - "please?"
Tony looked between Peter's flushed face and Steve's own, quiet blue eyes, and then nodded.
"Fine. He's grounded. Until forever." Tony bit the air.
His steps were heavy and quick as he made his way back to the couch, only sitting on the edge of it with his fingers stapled underneath his chin. His eyes never left Peter.
"Peter," Steve turned to his son, only then fully taking in the state he was in - properly plastered. "Peter let's go, up to the bathroom, right now."
The boy didn't even try to protest, only squeaked when he stumbled on the third step and Steve caught him before he fell. It could probably have been funny, Peter wasn't an irresponsible kid, never had been, so this had to be the first time he really tried to drink with his friends, and he'd pay hell the next day, but it wasn't funny in this family, not at all.
Steve walked his son up to the bathroom, made him sit on the toilet lid and put a toothbrush in his hand as well as a glass of water.
"Brush. I'll be back in two minutes."
Steve went into Peter's room, pulled a drawer open in his dresser and took out random clean PJs. He came back to the bathroom to find Peter clumsily closing the tap, water sloshed around the sink but the rest of the room otherwise clean.
"You look like shit, Pete, not a good look." Steve said as Peter looked up at him with puppy eyes rendered ineffective by the sickly shine in them. He was pissed, too, just not for all the same reasons as Tony. "Put these on, wash your face, go to bed."
Steve crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned on the door frame.
"You're staying here?" Peter had the gall to look appalled - or as much as he could when he seemed on the verge of giving back everything he'd drunk that night.
"Yes, yes I am, and you're doing what I'm telling you, young man. And then I'll tuck you in, too." Steve nodded, keeping his voice firm even as he saw the little scowl on his son's face - don't smile, Steven.
Kids shouldn't be allowed to grow up this fast.
It took Peter another five minutes to wrestle his feet into his pajama pants and then some two minutes more to take out a circle of cotton to apply his skin cream over his face and the inside of his elbows like the dermatologist told them to do.
"You forgot your fingers." Steve reminded him, more gently this time, he knew how much the boy hated this routine - he also knew the cortisol was the only thing that stopped him from scratching himself irreparably.
Peter trudged out of the bathroom, Steve in tow. They walked slowly to Peter's bedroom, and Steve only left after he'd placed a bucket near his head and made sure Peter was sleeping on his side, his comforter pulled up all the way to his shoulder.
"We'll talk about it in the morning. Sleep now."
Steve hovered a minute longer, washing his son close his eyes and cursing silently.
He went back down, found Tony sitting in the same position on the couch and only stopped to brush his husband's shoulder before going back into the kitchen.
"Be right back."
He finished his pot of tea, took out two mugs and three sugar cubes - or Tony would have an even bigger fit, no doubt - and put it all on a tray.
Once he was sitting on the couch again, Steve turned sideways to look at Tony.
"He's home now." He tried, his voice soft and searching.
"In what fucking state." Tony hissed.
"Baby," Steve reached out to unclasp Tony's hands, taking one of them in his, squeezing. "He'll be fine, and this doesn't mean anything, and--" Steve raised his voice a bit when he saw Tony ready to growl back, "we'll talk to him in the morning."
Tony's eyes were filled with tears he wouldn't shed when he turned to look at Steve for the first time since he'd come back into the room.
"Or I can, if you want?" Steve tried again.
"I don't…" Tony sighed, "I don't know how to tell him."
He sounded so heartbroken, and Steve could hear, even if Tony didn't say the words, he could hear how he still considered this part of his life, this part of who he was really, a failure. And it killed him.
"Then I will. I'll tell him how strong his Dad is, every fucking day that passes. I'll tell him how he can't do what he did tonight, and why, and how we know this isn't the path he wants nor deserves. I'll tell him, Tony, how you've survived this, how you're winning your fight every day, and he shouldn't start one." Steve caught his breath when Tony snorted wetly.
"Fucking TED-Talk Rogers," Tony smiled, tears finally running down his cheeks.
Steve squeezed Tony's hand again, and then said fuck this , and pulled Tony to him, until he had his husband sitting on top of him and could wrap his arms around him, Tony's head in his neck.
"I'm too fucking proud of you to let you look down on yourself," Steve whispered, fierce, almost angry, love shining through every word. He squeezed his arms around Tony for emphasis, then kissed the crown of his head, letting his eyes slide closed as he rocked them both. "Too fucking proud of my superhero husband."
"I'm not--"
"Shush, Stark."
"It's Rogers." Tony murmured, some cheek filtering back into the words.
"That's right." Steve nodded, smiling into Tony's hair.
Tomorrow would be another day. It would be Peter's first hangover, and the one day Steve and Tony would tell him how it coincided with Tony's 180th month of sobriety, his 5479th day without a drop of alcohol sipped or gulped down or running in his blood. 15 years of winning the good fight that had given Steve his husband back, and had seen a baby delivered to their doorstep.
15 years of Tony owning up to being a Dad, and finding himself as a man and husband again as well.
Peter was a smart kid, he'd understand, he'd see, and he'd learn one more reason to admire his father, Steve knew it like he knew his name, and could count each of these days that marked a new virtual chip - and then some real ones - going to fit in Tony's achievement box in the third drawer of his desk, in his office, right down the hallway after their bedroom upstairs.
Peter would be proud, just like Steve was, and they could all put this incident behind them.
Rogers’ don't quit. Rogers’ support each other. Rogers’ love, and hug it out. Rogers’ walk hand in hand, and fight the right fights, together.