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Tony knew there would be crying. He knew there would be bouts of crying that would be nearly impossible to deal with—in front of people, alone, big and loud enough to interrupt anything he has going on that’s less important. Because Peter has completely and utterly usurped anything else in Tony’s life, becoming number one priority, top of the totem pole, end all be all. Tony’s glad about that, and he sits in his gladness in shock because the shock hasn’t worn off. This is happening. This is here. This is him.
But he knew the crying would happen whether he wanted it to or not. He’s dealt with plenty of it, and he’s getting better, even though every single one of Peter’s tears makes Tony want to cry himself.
But this is not that. This is something entirely else, and scary, and once Tony is in the thick of This, he cancels his meetings with Commander Joseph and the Calico Committee, reschedules the new product launch and hands over his afternoon conference call to Pepper.
Peter is an active baby. Even when he’s in the papoose he’s kicking and knocking all over the place, and when he’s not in it he’s pulling himself along, crawling better and better each day. He’s constantly messing around with his toys, tossing them around like Tony is a dog to play fetch with instead of his father, and he rarely takes naps in the middle of the day, which is half the reason why he usually sleeps through the night. May calls Tony blessed because of this, but Tony knows he’s just gonna be awake anyway, watching him and making sure he’s still breathing.
But this is unlike his Peter. Lethargic, quiet, still. No babbling, no little responses to the conversation Tony tries to make. He seems downcast, he seems sad. And not in the screaming, sobbing way. In the silent, terrifying way. Uninterested in playing. Barely moving. A lot of sighing. He eats his food without complaint, and that’s usually the time when he complains the most. He doesn’t even make a mess. He’s just—not right. Not what Tony has gotten used to.
Withdrawn. His little personality shrinking back.
When Tony realizes it’s not gonna stop any time soon, he immediately gets the doctor to his penthouse to see what’s going on. He flutters around when she arrives and chews the inside of his cheek until it bleeds.
Peter’s seen the doctor a few times, and he’s usually not happy when she comes around. But he barely reacts to her, just continues on with how he’s acting, and Tony’s heart is in his throat while she checks Peter over. But worse fucking yet, she says there’s nothing physically wrong with him. Not that Tony wants there to be anything wrong, that’s the last fucking thing he wants, but he needs an explanation and he’s got no idea what the hell to do.
“The tooth coming in might be bothering him a little bit,” she says, putting her things back in her bag.
Tony’s got Peter in his lap and he hugs him close, rubbing his chest. Peter just sighs, leaning back against him. “Yeah, we’ve been keeping an eye on it, but this seems like—something else. He’s just not himself.” Tony hates the way he sounds, like some swooning Victorian housewife, but he can’t help it right now. This shit is freaking him out.
The doctor rests her hand on her hip and looks down at them. “You know how you have those days sometimes?”
“I have a lot of days,” Tony says, holding Peter like someone’s gonna try to snatch him away or something. “I have a lot of different kinds of days.”
She lets out a soft laugh, and he knows he sounds like a moron. She clicks her tongue. “The days when you don’t feel like yourself. When something’s bothering you but you don’t really want to talk about it?”
“That happens to babies?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Babies are human.”
“News to me,” Tony says, looking down. He squeezes Peter’s side, tries to tickle him under his arm, in the surefire spot to make him laugh. But Peter just makes a little grunting sound and pushes away, looking off towards the window. Tony’s heart lurches and he looks up at the doctor, eyes wide. “See, that’s not my kid. He doesn’t do that.”
She looks at Peter for a long moment, and then she looks at Tony again. “They can’t speak for themselves at this point, so he can’t tell us what’s bothering him. But Mr. Stark, he—he did have his mother every day for six months straight, and now he doesn’t have her anymore. It could be a possibility that’s finally—hitting him. That she’s not coming back.”
Gut punch. Dizziness.
Tony goes into a sort of daze, a different kind of shock now than the kind that usually coats his bones. Shock about his own idiocy, how he’s been pushing his own sadness back over Mary despite the fact that they barely knew each other, but Peter—he hasn’t really thought about it affecting his kid like this.
Their kid.
Tony didn’t think he’d experience sadness over her being gone in the same way May has, or Ben, because he’s a baby and babies are supposed to be different—they don’t know the world yet, they haven’t learned—but they do feel things, deeply, a feeling that’s more raw and clear and Tony is a fucking moron for not realizing this could happen. He’d thought about addressing it in the future when Peter is older and can understand, but now he doesn’t understand and he can’t speak English and all he’s got is a hole in his life that he’s realizing will never be filled the same way again. Tony can’t imagine what that feels like, for a baby, a sweet, precious thing like his Peter.
Everything seems to explode and implode inside him at the same time.
He’s so fucking stupid.
He says his goodbyes to the doctor as if he’s in a drunken haze, clutching Peter against his side and feeling completely and utterly fucking helpless. Once they’re alone again he starts pacing back and forth, glancing down to see that Peter is still staring off, blinking, eyes a little teary.
“I’m sorry,” Tony says, voice catching. “I’m sorry I’m not her, baby.”
Peter hums a little bit and leans his head on Tony’s shoulder. Tony sighs, and walks over, sitting back down on the couch. He doesn’t even know if the doctor is right, because she’s not a goddamn mind reader, but it makes enough sense. Tony still sees it in May’s eyes, that faraway look that Peter is wearing right now.
He doesn’t know if he should show him a picture of her. He doesn’t know if that’ll just make it worse.
He doesn’t know what the hell to do. He feels like calling Pepper, calling May and Ben, getting somebody over here to excite him, to make him happy.
But Tony is his father. He’s supposed to be able to take care of this shit. All of it. He’ll have the Mary problem his whole life. Peter will always, always be missing her.
Tony stands Peter up on his knees, Peter’s little socked feet trying to stay solid on top of Tony’s legs. Peter looks at him from under a furrowed brow, his lower lip trembling a little bit, and Tony wraps an arm around him again, pulling him in so Peter’s front is pressed against Tony’s chest.
Tony stares at him, desperate to make him smile. His brain breaks, and another door opens somewhere inside his head. One the past has been trying to weld closed, but this look on his child’s face is too strong to keep it that way.
“I love you,” Tony whispers, throat tight. “I love you so much, Peter.”
Peter’s brow furrows more severely and he reaches out, pressing one hand to Tony’s cheek.
Tony cracks his jaw and feels a jolt of anger at himself and how he’s been fucking behaving. This is his kid, his own kid and he’s had him for two and a half months and this is the first time he’s saying it. The first time, because he’s been swallowing it down every time, hammering the thought into a fine dust. It’s an important phrase, a weighty one, filled with meaning and comfort and half the time he can only get through the fucking day because he can hear his mother saying it in his ears like a forlorn reminder. But he’s been depriving Peter of that. Holding it back. Because he’s afraid. He’s afraid.
He’s never felt like this before. He’s always been this person but underneath the person he made, made for the public to consume so they wouldn’t swallow the real him whole. But Peter—Peter brought him back. Smashed his world wide open again and made it new.
Tony says it again. “I love you, Petey,” he says, leaning in and kissing Peter’s face. “I love you. Don’t be sad. Don’t be sad, I love you, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. You’re safe with me, kiddo. Don’t be sad, please, c’mon, don’t be. I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry, I’m the worst, I love you. Don’t be sad.”
He kisses him, over and over, and Peter laughs a bit, closing his eyes tight. Forehead, cheeks, chin, nose, each eyelid, repeat, repeat, repeat and Peter laughs again, twisting around in Tony’s grasp.
“There he is,” Tony says, kissing the top of his head. “There he is. There’s the monkey pants. There’s my little love bug.”
You’re a sap, Tones.
I know.
Tony squeezes his side again and Peter squeals, holding onto Tony’s face. He breathes fast and tries to pull back, humming and humming until they’re eye to eye, close. Tony nuzzles their noses together and Peter laughs again, more high-pitched and joyful. He babbles something that almost sounds like words, and he tries to knock their noses together again. He does it so gently, focusing, eyes almost crossing.
Tony’s never been enamored with babies before but this baby is the best baby in the whole damn universe full stop, no contest. Tony loves him. He loves him more than he’s ever loved anything, and he can’t take it back now, can’t squash the fear that comes with it, that’s been looming around it all along.
A tear tracks down Tony’s cheek and Peter immediately paws at it, wiping it away.
“Thanks, bud,” Tony says. Peter smiles at him again, and leans on Tony’s chin. Tony kisses his forehead, three times, and then Peter tucks himself closer, more cuddly than he’s been all day since all this sad, lethargic baby stuff started. Tony cradles him, gets up and starts walking back and forth again, but more calmly this time. He holds him close and tight, and he hears Peter humming softly, making little cooing noises.
It’s as if the baby can feel the shift in their world with the new phrase, how it meets the air, and maybe it felt like a soothing balm on a bad burn. Maybe it felt like a warm blanket. But it did something. He’s acting different than he was before. Better.
Tony kisses the top of his head, trying to ignore the rapid fire thump of his own heart. “I love you, kid,” he whispers. “I love you, Peter. Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you.”