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Tony fully intends to chew Peter out the minute they cross the threshold of the Compound, but he finds his plans change somewhat once they arrive.
He's surprised it took him so long to notice the gap in Peter's suit input. After the Toomes debacle, Tony had afforded him a little more space to breathe, allowing himself to trust just a little in the kid's ability to look after himself. It was only when he asked FRIDAY to sift through footage from the Baby Monitor and she drew a blank that the kid's silence started to resolve into something Tony couldn't ignore. The tracker was down yet again. Not acceptable.
They're sat in the Compound's common room, dim light emanating not from the star-studded sky present through the wide window to the side but the lamp just behind the kid, who sits stiffly on the couch, his back just a few inches from the fabric like it might burn him if he relaxed. No matter how determinedly Tony glares at him, Peter won't meet his eye, instead staring down at his lap where he plays incessantly with his suit mask.
To be truthful, Tony hasn't a clue how to actually discipline this kid. He's not exactly eager to emulate Howard's methods, and it's not like he's well-practiced at dealing with anyone under 21. So he goes for, "You're gonna have to explain yourself," attempting a stern tone.
He's mad at the kid. He is. But something in the tension of Peter's posture sends a whole other emotion thrumming through him which he refuses to admit might just be worry.
Peter doesn't say a word, almost as if he hasn't heard Tony. He's never seen the kid so quiet.
"Pete. Answer me. What the hell were you doing?"
Silence. Tony's starting to get riled up.
Just as he's about to raise his voice again, Peter flinches just slightly as if he senses the outburst coming, finally lifting his head to reveal an oddly flushed face and stammering, "I - I just - sorry, I can't... sorry."
And then, to Tony's utter horror, Peter starts to cry.
Tony's train of thought derails instantly and is replaced by static as he watches Peter's quiet sobs with his mouth agape. The kid's jaw is trembling, shoulders tightly hunched; he continues to mumble "sorry," like a broken record.
Well, shit.
Tony wants to stay angry, but he finds himself scrabbling at the resolve of mere seconds ago as it melts away like snow in spring. Then ensues at least ten seconds of silence as they both sit rigidly, Tony casting about for something to do to fix the problem - does FRIDAY have a protocol for this? - and coming up short.
He's always hated the sound of babies crying. But this? This is much, much worse. It makes his heart sink right down into his gut.
Finally, he rises from the couch, simply to seem like he's making a move. Get a... get him some water? Is that what crying kids need?
He stops in his tracks, however, as he hears Peter's sobs increase just a little in their intensity.
Tony is mystified. Was his mere, unbearably awkward presence near Peter enough to calm him a little? The notion makes no sense in his mind.
C'mon, think. Problem - solution. Crying Peter - uh...
Maybe ask him about how he's - feeling? Yuck, no. Not ready for that.
Tony finds his palms are beginning to sweat. Christ, this is ridiculous. The soft noises of distress from Peter are drilling at his sensibility, and he can't tear his eyes away from the way the kid's slender shoulders are shaking--
Just behind where he's sat on the couch is a folded throw blanket. Solution?
He inches towards Peter as if he's approaching an armed bomb, praying the poor kid won't flinch again, then shakes out the blanket hesitantly and lays it over spandex-clad shoulders.
Surely there's nothing wrong with putting a blanket on him? he reasons.
Peter glances at the soft fabric around him, reaches out a hand to grip the corner, then bursts into a fresh round of tears.
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, retreat--
Finally, Tony manages to say something. "Oh, I didn't - should I take it back? I didn't think that would... make it worse."
It's only then that he notices the way Peter melts into the blanket. Now he's come to think of it, Tony detects a note of relief in the onslaught of suppressed sobs that overcome the shaky kid. "'s okay," Peter croaks, smearing a hand across his face in a weak attempt to clear his tear tracks. Tony is struck by a sudden urge to wipe them away himself. Um, what the fuck?
"Really - I'm, I'm really sorry," continues Peter, clumsily attempting to articulate something. For a moment, a golden moment, his crying abates, and Tony hopes with all his heart that it's over. "I know I messed up, I'm just - th-there's too much... everything, can't focus - it's - it's too much."
The tears begin again in earnest despite the hand Peter plasters over his face to stifle them, and now Tony's really worried. The almost imperceptible way Peter rocks back and forth on the couch, as well as the reason for his stiffness and silence, becomes evident at last to Tony, who, predictably, still hasn't a fucking clue what to do about it.
Problem: overwhelmed kid with super senses.
Solution...
I must have headphones somewhere, right?
"Hold on, kid. Back in a second."
Peter nods loosely, letting out a sigh that belies more than a little mortification. Yup, this is embarrassing for both of us.
When he returns from his reconnaissance mission, sunglasses and headphones in hand, Peter has curled violently into himself in a way that must be incredibly uncomfortable. Still crying, although a little more softly. That definitely hasn't escaped Tony's notice.
"Pete?" he ventures quietly.
"Sorry," the kid blurts again, pushing himself upwards with a wince as his face is thrown into the light.
Tony finds himself reassuring the mess of a teenager on his couch: "No, it's - fine."
He hands Peter the tints, biting the inside of his cheek in his apprehension. Peter puts them on with all the grace of a drunk toddler.
"Hey, let me," he murmurs as Peter reaches with subtly trembling hands for the bulky headphones, surprising them both. As he lifts his hands over the teenager's head, he steels himself for yet another outburst of tears, but if anything, Peter relaxes as he lowers the pads onto his ears, eyes sliding closed behind the shades.
Sitting back, Tony takes a look at the kid. He looks pretty fucking ridiculous, that's for sure, but regarding how he's finally slumped against the couch cushion, rhythmically passing a thumb back and forth over the fluffy texture of the blanket which he's drawn about himself, Tony can't help but experience a small burst of pride.
Problem: solved. For now.
"Thank you, Mister Stark," Peter whispers unsteadily. He appears impossibly small beneath the blanket, clumps of sweat-matted hair tufting skywards around the headphone band, and still fights back sniffs. Despite his better logic, Tony feels the urge to calm the kid further.
It takes a momentous surge of courage to lift his hand from his side. Once it's there, his mind fixates on how dumb he appears sitting beside the kid with a hand suspended in midair like he's about to perform a goddamn magic trick. What are you doing? Put it back before he notices, oh my God.
Mercifully, Peter appears too wrapped up in his attempts to calm himself to notice.
Fuck it, Tony decides, trying once more. His arm hovers for one second, two--
He drops his hand a little too heavily onto Peter's shoulder, and his eyes widen for a second as Peter jumps.
The kid comes to understand his intentions. Tony watches with a wild mixture of apprehension and delight as he breaks into a wobbly smile.
Nice. This seems successful. Boundaries still intact--
The kid tips forward until his forehead rests on Tony's shoulder, and this time it's Tony's turn to jump.
Peter lets out an exhale that sounds like it purges a good deal of the tension from his body. Tony's half-sure that tension flows directly into him. Should I lean back or stay upright? I don't know how long I can hold this. Jesus, we probably look insane. What is this kid playing at?
"I'm still mad at you, you know," he says before any thoughts of maybe that's not the most reassuring thing to say to a kid who's freaking out can pervade his consciousness.
"Yeah, I know," Peter replies, muffled by Tony's shirt where he can feel the kid's breath hot on the cotton. The sensation is utterly foreign and yet unsettlingly comforting. He's glad to hear a new solidity to the tone of Peter's tone, however. "If it helps any, I'm really sorry."
"I had no idea," Tony deadpans instantly. He finds conversation coming more easily to him; he's almost comfortable with Peter's head tucked under his, although he can't figure out a way to make his posture appear less awkward.
The laugh that escapes Peter is surprising, and yet it emanates a hesitant warmth that tugs at the corners of Tony's own mouth.
Sobering, the kid continues: "I can explain. There's just... a lot going on."
"Don't worry about it just now," Tony finds himself saying gently. Well, what the hell was that? His voice has taken on this soothing quality he's never found a use for before in his life.
He supposes it - works? - as he feels Peter nodding minutely, curls rasping against his shirt.
With jerking and uncertain movements, Tony relocates the hand that had been resting heavily on the kid's shoulder to the top of his head, nervously patting the crown a few times before letting it settle there amid damp waves.
The kid lets out another breath, and Tony swears he actually feels his muscles relaxing. He must be an imbecile, because only now does his mind connect the dots and reveal to him that he gets that sort of positive reaction out of Peter every time he allows the kid a physical comfort.
But he's not quite ready to acknowledge that yet.
So he rests stiffly on the couch, letting Peter, ensconced in a blanket and clad haphazardly in sunglasses and headphones, lean against him, taking the kid's weight for a while.
He simply holds up Peter's world until the kid is ready to take it on again.