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Tony often thought back to the days when he was still there, still playing and running around the tower like a little kid was supposed to. Still young, still free, still happy, still... still... still... oh god.
He would say he liked to think about Peter a lot, he supposed. Well, like was always such a strong word. It was as if his mind was a void, desperate to grab onto the hook of time and find itself far, far away.
Instead, the days following everything blended into weeks, then months, then years, then nearly a decade had passed and he still hadn’t counted a single moment. It felt, in place of the realistic approach, as if Peter was still there beside him. As if he was still holding his son for the very first time.
God, he’s just perfect.
Tony stared down at the small infant in his arms, marveling at the infinitely ting figure in his arms as if it belonged in only the most prestigious of museums. Peter James Stark, born over a month premature on August 10th, 2001, had thin strands of caramel brown hair emerging from his scalp, and made the cutest little noises when he was picked up.
The boy’s birth mother, a seventeen year old waitress from New Hampshire, had given the boy up for adoption well before he was born. She couldn’t even be blamed, really. She had taken the dollar store test to figure out that she was pregnant a few weeks too late to get herself an abortion, and didn’t even know which of her many “customers”, should one say, had brought her body to Peter’s conception.
The girl, Mary Eleanor Fitzpatrick, had specifically asked not to hold him, or see him at all. She couldn’t afford a child, and she didn’t want to grow attached right before handing the kid over to another person. Luckily for her, Tony Stark did want to grow attached. Very much so.
He had received a call from the adoption agency at nearly 3 in the morning, a special ringtone set for the phone number (not that it came in much handy, since JARVIS was the one to actually wake Tony up, curse his habit of being a deep sleeper).
He couldn’t say he was surprised that the kid came early, he was going to be a Stark after all. Of course he would want to make a grand entrance.
And, boy, was it grand.
The minute word broke to those reporters that Tony Stark was en route to a hospital in Queens, the conspiracy theorists basically ruled the world for a solid four days. By then, an official statement was finally made, attached to a simple picture of the baby in his hospital crib, wrapped in a blanket with his full name embroidered into the side, and topped with a light blue beanie.
The picture spread like wildfire, and soon there was a not-even-a-week-old baby on the cover of Time magazine, accompanied by the caption “Peter Stark Is Welcoming The World”.
(Tony eventually came around to tell the press that Peter, a name which was chosen in relation to the fictional carrot thief Peter Rabbit, was accompanied on the birth certificate by the middle name of James, which was chosen to match the boy’s father’s best friend. Of course Rhodey deserved such an honor. Why wouldn’t he?)
It was much better than Tony’s first time on the front page, which had simply claimed that “Howard Stark Continues Legacy With a Heir”. He would be lying if he ever refused to admit to having a small vendetta against the Washington Post ever since. Bastards.
Still, none of the praise and well-wishes would ever compare to the sight of his son’s eyes. Wide and curious, the baby’s head was nearly overtaken by those little orbs. They only grew more when Peter would occasionally reach out for something, such as Tony’s hand, from within the confines of his little bassinet, and blink repeatedly, as if testing to see if the item would remain. It would. It always would.
Tony didn’t recall leaving the hospital that night. He knew he must have, must have wandered home in a pout over being drug home by Pepper, or maybe even Rhodey.
The man could only assume there had been a fight, that maybe he had begged and pleaded to stay in the cramped little room where Peter was being held in the neonatal ward- he wouldn’t expect anything less from his overprotective nature. He had probably cried, screaming as he struggled to remain by his child’s side.
If he hadn’t cried and begged, he certainly should have. Sure, he hadn’t known then how the story would end, but from the beginning he’d always been worried of something going down that would tear his little baby boy away from his safe clutches.
Something big.
In his first year, Peter showed himself to be quite the overachiever. The boy began crawling, then walking, at rapid speeds, only emphasized when he had taught himself to run.
He spoke his first word, “mantra”, at seven months, which confused many people, including Tony. He wasn’t sure who had taught the baby such a complicated word, but he was still proud of his little boy for managing to pronounce it with such fluidity and eloquence.
He was proud of everything his son did, prodigal or otherwise.
Tony was often called a “poster child of fatherhood” by the press, which was a welcome change from the old days, which were filled with cries of him being a “reckless playboy who doesn’t deserve a cent of his fortune”.
No, now he was praised for being an angel of a dad. Even though, to Tony, he wasn’t doing anything special. He simply spent time with his child, and loved Peter so dearly that he spent every possible moment ensuring that his son would go on to live the best life imaginable.
A life Tony couldn’t bare not to see. Which was why he spent his time doing daily exercise. Exercise, eat, sleep, the works. Or, rather, the extent of sleep one could obtain when tasked with the care of such a young child.
No, he could never call it a task. It was a privilege to be able to live and breathe in the presence of Peter James Stark, the most beautiful thing God, should he be present, ever created. Peter did it alongside him, this pathetic display of manly torture. Despite her best efforts, Pepper had never managed to find a way around it. Peter needed to be there, or Tony simply wouldn’t care for himself. However, in times like these, when Peter was there, he worked like a machine.
“You like that, Petey? Huh? Let’s do it again! Up! And down!”
Each push up felt like a burn in his ribs, screaming at him to ceasefire. Still, he prevailed, as Tony’s eyes were captivated by his son’s once more.
The intelligence of them, the aura of acute awareness, mind the alliteration.
They were so perfect, far too perfect for anything Tony could ever trust himself with. Still, he did. Because they were Peter’s eyes. And he could never do anything to harm his son, not in a million and one years.
The memories still plagued him. He couldn’t fathom the opportunity to run from their chasing, their strong force of overwhelming dismay.
He was stuck. Stuck in the moments before. Stuck in his old life of toys and cuddles, stuck in the days when the hole in his life had been filled. Pepper had tried to heal him, but the therapist visits and psychiatric checks had come and gone without effect.
He refused to touch Peter’s room.
Moving the boy’s stuff felt like an invasion of privacy, like soon his son would be back in that same room, asking why his bag wasn’t where he’d left it. He’d be upset, like always, and Tony didn’t want that at all. He had seen Peter upset more than enough times, and after... after... after...
He’d have done anything for that last moment. One more fight, one more cuddle, one more conversation, one more chance to see his baby’s face smiling and laughing and jumping around. He’d do anything.
When he was two years old, the little boy began to turn his childish wonder into productive engineering skills, often tinkering with his many toys instead of playing with them.
Still, Tony encouraged Peter to play, hoping the toddler would develop better emotional and creative skills than he had. Howard had never pushed for such frivolous things. Still, Tony needed no help to decide what was best for his son. That being stability, of course. Peter deserved only the best.
“You wanna play with some legos, Petey Pie?” Tony asked, trying to direct the boy’s attention away from the keyboard he was reassembling. “No, daddy. Imma keep doin’ fun stuff. The funest.” Peter responded, always keeping the man on his toes when it came to entertainment.
Part of Tony was drawn to the compulsive instinct to correct the boy on his grammar, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The kiddo was set to become a genius, no matter if he thought “funnest” was a word or not. It didn’t really matter.
“And playing with cool toys isn’t fun to you?” Tony questioned, fluffing the tuft of hair atop Peter’s small head as he laughed. “Nope.” The boy replied, fixing his mane after his daddy had ruined it.
No, he had a child to care for. A child with a wide, toothy grin and a mind fit for that of a scholar. Not to mention those eyes... those glowy little eyes that were always filled with hope and happiness. Peter’s pure nature made his soul clean and polished, like glass in a fortified case. Tony knew that glass would be shattered when Peter grew older, but he did not fret over it. He much preferred to spend the time he had with this innocent being he had created, and not mind the existential dread the boy brought him.
Because Peter could never be a con, not as long as his daddy was around to protect him and keep him safe. He would always be the biggest plus around.
Nowadays, remembering how overwhelmingly fond the boy had grown to be of his precious legos, Tony could almost laugh at the memory of his little one refusing the precious company of those tiny- yet horrendously painful- plastic bricks.
Almost.
He hadn’t laughed in a while. Occasionally, on the good days, he would. He’d laugh for Morgan, or Pepper, or Rhodey, or anybody he loved that loved him in return. His family.
Even if they were missing a crucial variable in their dynamic, he couldn’t bare to hurt them like he had been hurt by their mutual loss. They were all in so much pain, even Morgan, who had been so little when it all happened that she couldn’t even remember what her big brother had looked like. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t any of their fault.
They were allowed to be happy, even if it was just for her sake.
He had to remind himself, almost daily, that he was allowed to laugh. He was allowed to enjoy himself, his grief could not overtake his love. Peter was dead, he knew that, but the boy’s father was perfectly well and alive. He would have wanted him to keep his memory alive with the laughter of his son by his side.
At age three, Peter Stark was making headlines for building his first AI, and smarts may be hereditary, but Peter was blowing his father’s measly little engine out of the park.
There was not a single chance in hell he was gonna disappoint all those papers calling him the “little genius in training”.
The boy had grasped coding very quickly, despite Tony’s frantic attempts to get him to slow his roll. They hadn’t even taught him the alphabet yet, not finding it worthwhile, but after only a few measly hours of watching his father work in the living room, Peter figured out the basic ins and outs of binary.
The AI wasn’t much, as it only had a few basic functions, such as saying hello and turning on the television; however, it showed the world a glimpse of the future. Bets were already being placed claiming the young genius as the president-elect of 2036, or that the boy would overtake his father’s position on the Forbes list by the age of twelve, or that he might one day discover the secret of immortality.
Tony found them amusing, but he knew the important thing. Even if Peter never succeeded at anything, which was highly unlikely judging by the way that the boy was shaping up to perform, he’d be the wonder of the world.
The only world that mattered.
Tony’s world.
A picture of Howard Stark was laid next to Peter’s new toddler bed. Or, rather, big boy bed, as the boy preferred it to be referred to as. Peter would occasionally question his father as to the whereabouts of his grandfather, but the answer was always the same short quip. “Not here”, Tony would say.
What Tony meant had been “Never here. Not near you. Not while you’re still this young. Not until you can eat mozzarella sticks without choking, and use the bathroom by yourself, and solve world peace with the rate you’re accelerating at. Not until then.” But that would have been too on the nose for such an innocent creature as Peter.
Still, The man knew. No matter how mature his child got, he would wait until the very last second to tell him about Howard Stark. He couldn’t risk the boy growing up to think his father was destined to hate him. Tony could never hate Peter. He could never say a single bad thing about those little eyes.
“Daddy? Where’s Rodrick?” Peter asked, as the boy had lost his favorite doll for the umpteenth time in the past month. If anyone asked, the thing was a hand-me-down from one of Rhodey’s siblings. Totally, absolutely, 100% not a toy sent through the fan mail (of course, only being given to Peter after it had been thoroughly investigated to check that it was, in fact, just a toy).
“Alright, bud. Where did you last put it?” Tony asked, leaning down to his son's level so that Peter would feel like an equal when in his father’s presence. “I dunno.” The boy squeaked, staring down at his Go, Diego, Go! sneakers.
“Hmmmm.” Tony said, smirking slightly as he remembered where the toy most likely was. “Let’s check Daddy’s bed. Maybe he wanted to hide in there.” And so they did, and Tony allowed Peter to piggyback ride his old man the entire way down the halls. When they arrived in the lavish bedroom, sure enough, a small doll was laid in the sheets.
The doll was always found in Tony’s bed, strangely.
Truly, Tony thought the kid was probably sneaking out of his room and sneaking back in before his old man woke up. He was smart enough to come up with a plan like that, and probably could have come up with better if he was prompted.
No, Tony liked to let the little genius grow on his own. Forcing his mind would stifle Peter’s creativity.
Speaking of creativity, the stuff was everywhere. Call him a proud parent, but Tony dared to wear a suit designed by his toddler-aged child to the Met Gala. The theme was life , what else was he supposed to wear? Well, then again, he could have gone for a nature theme.
Nope, Mother Nature simply paled in comparison to the elegance and refinery of Peter James Stark.
He’d been such a stage mom in those early years, constantly enveloping himself in every little thing his son had to offer. Like a sponge soaking in a lake of shimmering waters.
Shimmering waters that were fit for the eyes of their beholder. Fit to represent the most precious being to ever grace the earth. Fit for Peter. Fit for his memory, his legacy, his love, his laugh, his happiness, his insecurities, his innocence, his tears, his smiles, his looks (just like his daddy, they would say), his everything.
Few things seemed to be worthy of that little boy, or even of that teenage wonder he’d watched be carried away by the same limousine he’d been brought home from the hospital in. Nothing was good enough for him. Peter had been his first child, his first chance to see that he could be a father.
He had been such a good father. That he knew, despite the uncertainties he’d had in the beginning. Nothing is forever, they had told him. Starks are not meant to be fathers. But, he supposed, he wasn’t really a Stark then, was he? And neither was Peter, because Peter... Peter was going to be the perfect dad, when he’d get older. He would have been perfect.
He’d been such a smart boy, leagues ahead of the other children in his age range, light years beyond the universities and private schools that tried to entice the little family to have him attend.
Too smart for his own good, some would say, but smart enough to keep his head level. The perfect balance of that of an heir and that of a poor man. A sweet and savory blend that made the boy irresistible from a moral standpoint.
Peter Stark had been a gift to the world. He had brought an intellect that rivaled his father’s, and the universe (let alone their measly little world) had been graced with the unimaginable gift of seeing it set on at a much earlier age than is normal for gifted children. Anymore, people frowned when they remembered how everyone had rejoiced at the prospect of Peter saving the world one day.
They’d all been so sure of it. So incredibly positive that Peter would be the godsend the universe needed, some sort of messiah. Like father like son, Tony supposed.
Call it what you will, but Tony considered his son adorable.
In an attempt to put his son to bed faster, Tony had allowed the boy to watch a movie of his choice, as long as it was over by bedtime. When he noticed the movies in daddy’s film cabinet the had the cool spaceships and bath robes on the front, Peter immediately chose what was undoubtedly the worst possible film series for his age.
Star Wars.
Surprisingly, he wasn’t scared of the violent plot points or elaborate concepts, his small brain seemed to grasp it all extremely well, which Tony assumed to be a benefactor of the child’s DNA. He begged his father for all of the merchandise, and almost immediately was on his third viewing of the full series, all in different orders, of course.
Peter had found a love for science fiction, following the late night escapades, and frequently tried to convince Tony to make him a real lightsaber. Tony was unamused, to say the least, and continuously told his son that the whole “dangerous ideas” thing was a no-no. Not, like, a time-out level no-no. But, still, he simply could not risk his little angel being injured.
“But- but- I-“ Peter whined, kicking his legs in a fuss. The boy was rarely naughty, hence his nickname, but didn’t take well to distrust. He always wanted to be an adult, but his father knew better.
“No, baby. We can watch the movies again, if you want?” Tony attempted, nudging his son over towards the couch. “Nuh uh! Wan’ make real! Daddy, we make real! Make real t’gether!” Peter cried, only worsening his fit under Tony’s strong, large hand. “Big boy!” He cried.
“You are a big boy, Peter. But you aren’t big enough to go into Daddy’s workshop. I’ll take you when you’re older.” The tired father tried again.
Peter didn’t take that too well, instead interpreting it as an attack on his age and quickly grew backwards. “No! No! No!” He shouted, kicking Tony’s shins.
Tony gripped the boy’s shoulders, applying slight pressure under the restraining position. Peter’s breath evened out slowly, until the panting became calm and his big eyes became watery.
Tears began to flow, as Peter realized that he had been misbehaving. Tony released his hold, as Peter reached upwards and made grabby hands at his daddy. The man lifted him up to his chest, also beginning to cry at the mere sight of the upset boy.
The order of the world was always something that Tony had been heavily familiarized with from a very young age. Order, sufficiency, and reign had always been at the forefront of his mind.
As a child, Jarvis had occasionally read to him before bed. Age-old stories that the man himself found entertaining would magically unfold, sporadically shifting their talented wisdom in and out of Tony’s boyish mind. One of those stories had told of the great library of Alexandria, and how her demise led to the fall of the worldwide empire that was Rome.
Pax Romana, better known as the time of Roman Peace was killed because humanity turned on its own greatest feats. Something that was absolutely outstanding, an eerie mirror of his own boy, was destroyed because some people simply cannot handle being part of a race that creates beautiful things.
He had always imagined that library as being personified as a beast, a giant piece of work that could never be toppled, for it was too vast for any mortal to stand a chance.
No, it was frail and calm. It was crying and pleading and bleeding from its head as it begged for its assailants to give up the fight. It was young and scared and tired of the world being so cruel to itself for no reason.
It was dying alone, the only other being within meniable space being the very person who held the gun.
Peter was more excited than anyone else in the Stark household had ever been about beginning school.
He had heard of kindergarten, and was often physically restrained from trying to buy backpacks every time he went to the store, thinking that once he had one he could attend. The curious nature of the boy would take over, not like it could be helped. He seemed to be infatuated with the idea of going to a special place in order to learn new things all day.
Tony was proud of his baby for being so forthcoming. But, now being old enough, Peter was finally allowed to go to school.
And he didn’t want to go.
“Daddy!” The boy whined, pulling hard on his father’s shirt as he grasped it in his little fists. “I’m sorry, baby,” Tony spoke “but you have to go to school today.” The boy pouted, fussing loudly as he bawled his tiny eyes out in the midst of his upset.
Oh, god. Those eyes.
Apparently, Peter had been unaware that he couldn’t have his daddy with him at school, and was just now coming to terms with the idea of not being at his father’s side for a whole seven hours. Which, true, perhaps the prospect should have been better explained to the boy, but, really? Tony was at his wit’s end.
Peter had begged his father to come, and had nearly made it inside the classroom when he began to throw a tantrum. His genius head could not comprehend the grief of Tony’s absence. The boy was crying with full force, despite the fact that many other children were having the same experience.
Tony figured that this was the type of thing he heard most parents complain about. The embarrassment of consoling a whiny child in the middle of a bustling hallway in your son’s elementary school. But, Tony was less mad at the boy and more concerned. Peter had never been so upset before, not even as a newborn baby.
Tony assumed the boy would calm down once his father was truly gone, but he couldn’t risk Peter never recovering from the trauma of being abandoned in an unfamiliar location.
Howard hadn’t even shown up for Tony’s first day of kindergarten.
Peter continued bawling, until Tony noticed another boy going through the same epidemic. The kid was on the chubby side, and seemed to be of Hawaiian descent, but was grasping frantically at the pant legs of two mid-thirties aged women.
“Mama!” The child whined, stomping his foot. Tony thought for a moment, then acted on his paternal intuition. He pointed to the other boy, catching Peter’s attention. “See him?” Tony asked. Peter nodded, wiping his nose off as he gazed over towards his new classmate.
“I think that boy needs a friend. Why don’t you go introduce yourself?”
Peter smiled, happy to make friends, and not realizing that this was all one big distraction. He walked over to the dark haired boy, waving quickly in a greeting. “Hi!” He shouted, before remembering his inside voice. “I’m Peter. Wha’s your name?”
The other boy sniffled, but redirected his attention away from his mothers and onto Peter. “Ned.” He said, almost in a whisper. “Wanna be friends?” Peter asked. Ned smiled, nearly chuckling as he opened his mouth once more.
“You like Star Wars?”
Tony hadn’t seen Ned in, god, how long had it been? A year? Two? Three?
He had no remaining recollection of the last moment he’d seen his eldest child’s best friend, no use for the grief that those memories brought him. Of course, he had gone on to see the boy graduate, from both high school and college.
College. He and Peter would have attended MIT together, instead Ned had gone to Harvard. Alone. The poor thing couldn’t handle the concept of attending his dream school without Peter there to share in the experience. Nonetheless, Tony had paid off Ned’s tuition, so it was no surprise that everything had turned out well for him.
Well, besides...
Forget that. Not important. Later, he would dwell on that. For now, he’d rather remember. Remember the days where he didn’t have to remind himself that eventually... eventually he would have to think about it.
When he finally hit the big six, Peter was more excitable than anyone else in the household. He was now old enough to begin his lessons in business etiquette, or, as Tony saw them, bring your kid to work day.
Peter loved accompanying his father to the office, always needing to explore the building as if he was in some ancient castle or a recently discovered cave. The staff found it adorable, as if they actually had a choice in the matter. Whether they liked it or not, they all had to love Peter. It was either that, or risk Tony’s wrath.
Nevertheless, Peter’s sparkle was contagious. He always left valuable input during meetings, even going as far as to draw his own intricate design for a new StarkPhone with crayons on a spare sheet of paper, which Tony had handed him when the boy requested something to draw on. The blueprint was mostly scribbles, but, once thoroughly interpreted by the board members, revealed itself to be a hidden genius.
The wheels were turning in Peter’s head, no doubt. One by one, each gear was clicking itself into place as it joined the continuous machine of the young boy’s head, a machine which would never be completed, but would instead work itself until the end of time.
Starks were meant to breed genius, and that they would.
The design, despite being drawn with a bright red crayola crayon, was put on display at multiple technological conventions, as an example of the future of engineering. The phone was missing a few key components, namely some of the hardwiring that the boy had not yet heard about, but it was nearly operational. Clearly, after sitting through enough meetings, Peter had begun to pick up on exactly how the products were constructed, despite his young age.
The media was thrilled with the development, and many “blessed news” websites pointed out Peter’s humble attitude toward the entire dilemma. No one could blame them, though, because Peter was incredibly polite to all of the press folk who asked him about his latest project.
Using the skills his daddy had taught him, he gently gave the men and women a short answer to their questions, only answering at all when he was comfortable and the other person was being polite. He gave them a practiced smile, one he had begun rehearsing after witnessing Tony smiling into a mirror for twenty minutes.
Speaking of Tony, upon noticing his son’s good manners when it came to the media, the man had begun taking Peter to certain interviews.
When a specific time slot was good for Peter’s strict “eat, school, nap, eat, play, eat, sleep, repeat” schedule, and the boy was specifically asked for by the host, Peter would make an appearance on television to talk to his adoring fans. Of which he had many, apparently. The boy loved it, particularly, he loved seeing people smile when he walked onto the stage with his daddy.
“Look, she has a bouquet in her hair, daddy.” Peter whispered to Tony, taking the chance to show off the new word Pepper had taught him, but also not realizing that his mic was already turned on. The audience laughed, grinning wildly at the young genius before them. The hostess smiled, adjusting her tight fitting dress as she showed off the floral clip in her hair to her guests. “It’s called a clip. You like it?” She asked. Peter shrugged, reaching out to rub his chubby fingers along the petals.
That was just the way the boy was. Always happy when someone else was happy, obsessed over making others smile. Like a little angel. He always smiled back, often mirroring the other person, and allowed his eyes to glow.
God, those big old eyes.
Always smiling, always tilted upwards with glee. His eyes reminded Tony of just how happy he was. It was a comfort, in the end. Because if eyes were the window to the soul, Peter’s drapes were never closed.
The kid had been so endearing. A little ball of sunshine that filled every room he entered with light. His eyes, while a defining feature, couldn’t even begin to show that off.
Peter was too young, back then. Too young to really make much of a difference in the world. Peter had known that, he had known it far too well. He despised being talked down to. He wanted to help everyone, be everything, solve every problem that the world had to offer.
Even in those toddler years, when the books had claimed that no parent was safe, he was a sweetheart. Some of the child psychologists that Tony’s lawyers would insist he take Peter to see, just to make sure the media attention wasn’t harming him, had warned him that it could be a sign of something bigger.
Something worse, perhaps.
He was a touch too selfless, a touch too willing to help. He was perfect to a fault, as if his fragility meant he would certainly one day be shattered. Scared to fail, they’d said. Well, there wasn’t much failing for Peter to be scared of now, was there?
Tony ran as fast as he could, what with the injuries and all, to where his son sat.
“Daddy!” Peter squealed, running away from where Pepper was holding him tight, in a desperate hug as they waited for the helicopter to land. “Daddy, you came home! You didn’t forget me! You came home!”
Peter was crying, his poor, little body shaking from the tears that ravaged down his face. Daddy had been missing for a very long time, Tony supposed, and it was only fair to the poor kid that he would be allowed to bawl and cry all he needed. He was only seven, after all. Far too young and innocent to have been exposed to all of the recent events.
Tony would have to get better security around Peter... as soon as possible. He couldn’t bare the thought of anything he had just gone through happening to his boy.
He was just happy to be back. Even if, as he came closer to his son, the little one looked at the foreign object perturbing from his father’s chest as though it was some sort of invader. In Tony’s well worn post-kidnapping mindset, it was.
Peter was bawling, grasping tightly at his father’s shirt in a desperate effort to regain some of the comfort that he had been seeking for ages. His eyes, oh, his eyes, were red from the salt, and Tony could feel the sting as if they were his own. The sting that stung so hard, one could almost feel their pupils burn under the pain.
It was torture, but Tony paid it no mind. He was home, home with his baby boy. Home to hold his son, the car battery plugged into his chest be damned.
He’d hated every part of that torturous experience, but he had mainly hated the fact that he had no idea if Peter was okay.
On those nights before he escaped, just Tony and Yinsen in a small space, alone but still together, he had dreamed of nothing but seeing his child’s face again. Those dreams had turned to nightmares, of course. Horrific nightmares that plagued even hus waking moments, coating his brain with a thick and painful residue.
The Ten Rings hadn’t bothered to answer when he would ask them if they had taken Peter, too. Or worse. Later, he would figure out everything with Obie, and he would indefinitely hate himself for having never protected Peter against whatever had happened while he was gone.
Nobody could attest to anything, but the idea that Peter had been stuck in the tower with nobody but Pepper and Obadiah Stane left a bad taste in Tony’s mouth.
“Daddy?” Peter asked, awakening his father despite the early timing.
The darkness outside was wide, vastly overpowering the brightness of the pure white moon. Peter’s eyes were filled with tears, despite being eight now and thus far too old for crying, according to one of the boys at school that had since been conveniently suspended for bullying, Tony would never admit to Pepper how much money he had spent to get that dreaded child disciplined.
Peter was trembling, shaking so quickly that Tony could barely make out the face of his own son underneath the fast blur. “Yeah, Pete?” He asked, growing worried. “What’s wrong?” The boy hesitated, his plane of existence shifting in and out of focus as Tony stared at him, bleary eyed. “Daddy.” He spoke once again, gripping onto his father’s shirt for safety. “You have a bad dream, bud?” Tony asked. “Hm? You had a nightmare, did you?”
“No.” Peter whispered, his prepubescent voice growing horse from the quickness in his breath. He finished, “Lost ‘im.”
“What?” Tony asked, sitting up a little, “Lost who?” “Lost my ducky. He went bye bye. Not in my bed. Made me sad.” Peter explained, stumbling over the words as he did his best to recount his feelings to his father.
Oh.
A few weeks prior, Ned had gifted Peter a toy duck for his birthday, which sang lullabies when it was hugged. It was a cute gift, clearly having been picked out by the boy himself, but Peter had grown strangely attached to the little thing.
When he had asked JARVIS for help, the AI simply assumed it was an emotional attachment, and that Peter could have easily developed a connection to the toy, seeing it as a symbol of his friend, in order to make up for the lack of friends Peter had.
Really, Tony couldn’t blame his poor boy. With Peter growing up in the spotlight, it wasn’t like he could very well be sent to a public park or play group. No, that wasn’t safe. People would hurt him.
“Well,” The man began, holding his child close to his aging body, basking in the warmth of the body heat, “I can sing, too, you know.”
At that, Peter smiled, seemingly pleased with his father’s offer, and laid his head next to Tony’s heart.
“Hush, little baby don't say a word
Papa's gonna buy you a mocking bird
And if that mocking bird don't sing
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that diamond ring is brass
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass gets broke
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat
And if that billy goat don't pull
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull
And if that cart and bull turn over
Papa's gonna buy you a dog called Rover
And if that dog called Rover don't bark
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart
And if that horse and cart turn round
You'll still be the sweetest little babe in town”
Peter had been so cute in those early days. Always over-emotional and adorable, as most young children tend to be.
He often had hoped that Peter would stay that way forever, a little bundle of energy and excitement that would come to him with every little problem he had.
But those were the easy days, weren’t they? And like any good father, Tony had understood that their bond wouldn’t last. It didn’t, of course not.
Peter grew older every day, slowly getting taller and taller as his hair would switch between straight and curly by the month, never truly able to be tamed. He got less loving, less sweet and innocent. That sweet air of every little kid wore off as it did on many children before and would on many children again.
And, soon, those memories stopped being so sweet.
They turned to the striking images of black eyes and bloody knuckles, of crying fits and relentless refusals. He had tried so hard to fix everything, to be the dad he wanted to be, but nothing was enough.
Nothing would ever be enough to save his boy from the terror of the grown-up world.
Peter slowly emerged into his father’s view, full-force and emotional as ever, with a face filled with anger.
When he looked a bit closer, the man could see that Peter was sporting a brand new black eye, which was not too big. “What happened?” Tony asked, looking around the dimly-lit principal’s office.
“It seems your son got involved in an... altercation between two of our other students, sir. He got hit in the process, but neither of the two boys that were arguing were aiming for him, we promise. Just a misunderstanding, is all.” A young, probably underpaid secretary assured him, gesturing over to the injured child in a defensive stance.
“Well,” Tony responded, “I’d love a set of names. I’m sure the fighters were punished, am I correct?” The woman shrugged, leaning back in her chair a little as she stretched out of the monday morning funk most staff members were in. “I would recommend scheduling a meeting with the headmaster of a nearby private school if you expect someone of my pay grade to know the details of such matters, Mr. Stark.”
Tony looked visibly shocked, appalled by her fluctuating nature about the whole affair. He supposed she had a problem with him, specifically, as did many members of the school’s faculty. They seemed to have decided that having Iron Man’s son in their classes was a liability, and put the school at risk, but none of the claims had enough legal ground to get Peter removed from the school.
“Was it that Thompson boy? What’s his name... Eugene?” He asked, directing his question back to Peter. “Yeah, but he was trying to hit Ned!” The boy lamented. “Hit Ned? Why was he hitting Ned?” Tony began to interrogate. “I don’t know. Just Flash being Flash, Dad. It’s too late to change anything now.”
Lord, he’d raised a good kid. Brave enough to stand up to bullies, strong enough to take a hit for what’s right, and secure enough to understand that you can’t fix everything. And all of it reflected beautifully in his eyes.
Tony could only hope that Peter had learned at least a little of that from him.
God, the bullies had been a tough foe to concur. They’d nearly given the whole family a run for their money, what with the whole “top public school in the country” thing bringing in so many other wealthy families. The Thompsons had been especially troublesome. That kid seemed to hate Peter for no apparent reason, as if he blamed the other child for his own shortcomings.
It wasn’t the kid’s fault, his father should have raised him better. Tony had always taken great pride in the way that Peter talked through his feelings, no punches needed.
No punches... he often wondered if that was really true. He wondered if any of those years, growing up in the cosmic spotlight, had done something to the poor boy. He hadn’t hit the other kids, no. He’d hit those who he felt really deserved it.
He hit the very same people that he had grown up watching Tony hit.
It wasn’t anything certain, those flimsy concerns that crossed his mind whenever he saw red and blue in conjecture with one another, a painful reminder of how that blue had once been covered in a different red, far darker than the classic colors he’d grown accustomed to.
Peter had been, for lack of a better term, completely distressed since he witnessed his father dropping down to one knee in front of his girlfriend, who was his personal assistant just a few years ago.
Tony couldn’t blame him, not really. It had been a big change, and he couldn’t expect Peter to handle it well at all. Still, he loved Pepper. Not as much as Peter, he would jest, but enough to want to add her to their highly exclusive little family.
“Dad, Miss Pepper is gonna beat you to the aisle!” Peter complained, shuffling about the hallway as he fidgeted with his tuxedo.
“No she isn’t, bambino.” Tony explained, adjusting the boy’s haphazardly thrown on bow tie, “Pep can’t come down until I get there, it’s tradition. I’ll be waiting, then the rest of the party comes in.”
Peter rolled his eyes, they had been through this about a billion times. “You and Lisa are gonna walk down first, since you’re my best man, and then everybody else will follow, got it?” The boy quickly nodded his head, and began pulling at the edge of his sleeve.
“Why isn’t Uncle Rhodey your best man? Uncle Rhodey is your real best friend, with the whole army and stuff. He’s a lot bigger than me, and he actually knows what he’s doing. I’m, like, half Lisa’s age!” He complained, now kicking in his frustration. Tony sighed, getting down to his son’s level. That was, with a bit of trouble, considering that his pants were definitely on the tighter side of the fitting spectrum.
He grabbed Peter’s face in his hands, gently talking to him in the simplest terms he could muster, as to ignore the boy’s intellect in favor of his emotional stability. “No matter how old you are, or how little you understand, you will always be my best friend. Nobody, not even Uncle Rhodey, can top that. Got it?”
The child before him gave a slight smile, before leaning in to give his father a hug. They stayed like that for a few moments, held in an everlasting embrace as father and child were brought closer than they had been since the bond was first formed. Dad and son, an everlasting love that was born with full intent to never be broken.
Pepper had been so overwhelming in love with Peter from the moment they first met.
It only spoke to say that she took the ending of the story the best. He supposed Peter was never truly hers, but she never made the boy feel that way. She treated him as her own son, as if he had been the yielded spawn of their union, and Peter had always returned the favor to the best of his young ability.
They had made such a happy family, once Pepper was added. “Baby makes three” had been the saying, but all that Peter had really needed in his life was a mother.
They’d only made the adoption final a few years later, giving Peter time to come to terms with it all and to settle with the change. Still, that wedding had been the catalyst.
No amount of car batteries or schoolyard fights could take that away from them. Of course, they would always have Pepper to fall back on. Always. Perfectly safe and content, the picture-perfect image of love.
They had assumed that it would all be well.
They had been wrong.
The man ran through the cracked open doors, running to where his son sat, safe and sound. That was despite the dried up tears that marked his prepubescent face. “You- you went into a- a- a-” the boy stuttered, wrapping his arms around his father’s frame.
“I know, buddy, I know.” Tony quelled, “We don’t need to talk about that right now.”
Peter’s head cocked to the side, his curls, though ad of late they were begging to straighten out a bit, covered up the tops of his eyes.
The same eyes that were still a salty, bright red from crying, from believing his father dead for the second time in his eleven years of life. The same eyes that had looked up to him as though he were a god, while belonging to a miracle on earth.
He was adorable, still in a state of youthful bliss and wonder, not taking the chance to mind the circumstances now that his father was safe. Adorable, yet rightfully confused.
“I have some people I want you to meet, bambino. Very special people.” Tony explained, combing his son’s hair out of his face. “Who? Where are they?” Peter asked. Tony laughed at the young boy’s excitement to meet new friends, still not fully understanding just how “special” their new friends were. So, to save him the surprise for later, Tony simply asked one thing of him.
“You wanna go get some shawarma?”
Peter had loved the Avengers, he always had. Even… even when he was crudely shoved into being one of them. He had adored the action, the liability, the concept of good versus evil in his own home city.
His favorite had been Captain America, for a while. Then, it was Black Widow, more or less because his Auntie Nat would bring him cookies for breakfast. Eventually, everyone had gotten their chance to be Peter’s superhero, except Tony. He assumed, at the time, that Peter didn’t understand that Iron Man and Tony Stark were one in the same, but he had smiled through it nonetheless.
He wondered if Peter would consider his old man to be his favorite now, after everything Tony had been through. But he couldn’t be sure, could he?
Because, no matter what he tries to convince himself, Peter wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t going to come home, and he wasn’t going to pick a new favorite avenger any time soon.
Peter was bouncing with joy, his twelve-year-old body nearly exploding with excitement as he “waited patiently” in the hospital hallway.
Pepper had insisted that Peter didn’t need to be brought in until the baby was almost there, mainly out of hope that his poor ears would be saved from her screaming and cursing. He was still so sensitive for his age, far too innocent to be exposed to such colorful language, despite the few words he’d picked up from his father.
“Okay, buddy. Mom’s coming along now, so you can come in, but you have to listen to directions, alright?” Tony rushedly explained, leading his child into the swanky delivery room. A new perk he had discovered of being rich, he supposed.
“Yessir.” Peter responded, giving a mock salute back to him. Tony rolled his eyes in humorous admiration, lolling his head about as he guided the young boy through the noise. Inside, Pepper was yelling the house down, screaming in agony as the world seemed to have it out for her. It was a painful labor, no matter how much of “the good stuff” she had been given.
For a few more minutes, Tony flipped his eyes between his wife and child, and occasionally to the slowly emerging second child that was appearing near the end of the bed. Peter’s eyes, ever so wide and curious, seemed even more so, as he stood still for what felt almost like the first time in his short life.
Finally, the baby arrived, as new to the world as she was to her Mama’s arms, Morgan Hope Stark cried the whole way through being carried back over to the top of the bed. Then she was settled down, and ceased the tears and whining, and laid back into Pepper’s gentle embrace.
“Dad?” Peter had called, keeping his voice down as he replicated the behavior of the doctors and his parents. “Yeah, Bambi?” Tony had offered, holding his son’s hand in a tight grip. He knew this would be a rough transition for Peter, what with the new baby and all, and sincerely hoped his child was just as happy to be a big brother as he was to be a dad twice over.
Peter smiled up at his dad, his eyes sparkling through his tears of joy under the bright lighting of the maternity ward. “I love her.” He whispered, his grin growing ten sizes. And Tony agreed, “Me too, buddy. Me too.”
When Morgan was still little, she would ask her father to tell her his favorite stories, endless amounts of stories. But, she greatly preferred the stories that were all about her mysterious big brother.
The big brother she didn’t remember, even a few years after the funeral. That little mind had wiped it all away, leaving behind only the pictures, videos, and stories.
Tony always told her the best stories.
In those stories, the dashing young man would save innocent people in need. Emphasis would be put on his deep, chocolate eyes and curly hair. The man would describe the sound of the young man’s laughter and the way that the world seemed to still for his smile to shine as brightly as it did.
Pictures didn’t do Peter justice, although they were all that was left to teach Morgan about the boy who held ownership of the locked bedroom in the hallway. All that was left. Pictures and a headstone, nothing more, nothing less.
Even as her tiny body grew, coming of age as she furthered herself, Tony told her everything that came to his mind, everything that reminded him of Peter led to another conversation. Once, in sixth grade, Morgan had been assigned a project on her family, where she would paint a portrait of them all. Of course, uncle Steve helped her to get the easy A, and the little brunette had made absolutely sure that Peter got included.
Her big brother, her bubba, but his only son.
Peter slid into the kitchen like Ferris Bueller, kicking off his sneakers in a desperate attempt to lose traction. “Dad!” He shouted, running at full speeds into the direct line of his father’s adoring gaze, “Guess what!”
“What?” Tony responded, half-joking. “There’s a new girl at school. Like, brand new. And, here’s the cool part, she wants to go to Midtown Tech just like me!” The boy chirped. Peter had been so excited about girls lately, as if mother nature could give Tony any clearer of a warning that his little baby boy was becoming a man before his very eyes. They would need to have the birds and the bees talk soon, before someone at school did the job...
Tony pushed that thought from his mind. Nope. Gross. Save it for another day. Kid’ll make it one more week. “So, is she pretty?” He asked, nudging his son’s side a bit. “A little,” Peter responded, “but stupid Flash is already making eyes at her. I bet he’s gonna make his parents pay her off to like... make out with him or something.”
He had been noticing, in the recent days, how Peter was changing. The way his eyes were changing. Those precious little eyes were getting slender, losing their youth as puberty struck and robbed him of his juvenility. Like a gangster making his way through a bank, all of Peter’s innocent air was quickly disappearing. He was growing up.
“Is that what you kids are doing nowadays?” Tony asked, “Paying each other to kiss?” “No, Dad. Not kiss. Make out. It’s like kissing but with your tongue in the other person’s mouth and a lot of grinding. You wouldn’t understand, it’s not of your time.”
“Not of my time?” Tony gasped, taken aback by such an accusation. Did my thirteen year old son just call me old? Wait a second- did my thirteen year old son just explain grinding to me?” Peter shrugged, looking down at his feet. “Grinding is when you-” “I know what grinding is!”
God, those had to have been some of the roughest days in human history. Back when Peter was still too young for “the talk” but old and mature enough to try and explain grinding to his 44-year-old father.
Those were the funniest years Tony ever spent with his kid. Just playing around, finally to the point where those father-son conversations could become mature and adult. Like equals, for once. They were just Peter and Tony, two men about town.
Men. That really hurt to say, huh?
Peter never really got to be a man, not fully. He came close. So goddamn close that he had even started shaving, bless the tiny remnants of peach fuzz that he would get from time to time.
But, men have matured. Men have been given the chance to grow old, get married, and have families of their own. Men could have their names spoken on the news, and could have consensual sex. Men were so much older than Peter would ever be.
“You’ve been doing WHAT?” He screamed, nearly ready to put the boy in the corner the way he had done when he was three.
There, by the door, sat a pile of red and blue fabric, all tangled up with a few small smears of blood. “So, like, remember when I had the flu last year?” Peter asked, a little on edge, rightfully so for a child that was about to get in huge trouble.
Tony nodded, taking the moment to run his hands through his quickly greying hair.
“So, I may have, hypothetically, gotten exposed to some radiation? And, maybe, sorta, gotten superpowers?”
That was enough for Tony’s old ears to hear, overwhelmed by the very existence of his genius son’s utter stupidity. “Maybe? Maybe? Maybe? Are you really trying to pull that sort of crap with me right now, Peter?”
At that, Peter tensed, his small shoulders growing strong under pressure and holding their shape in the face of the man that had raised him from the day of the adoption’s finalization. His father. His dad. The one thing standing between him and a lifetime of web slinging.
“You can’t just expect me to be some little PR baby all the time. It’s my turn to do something on my own.” He said, venom lacing every word as though he meant it. Though Tony knew, of course he knew, that the boy was far from meaning it.
“Peter James Stark, you listen to me!” He raised his voice, careful not to scare his son into submission. He wouldn’t be Howard. He wouldn’t. He promised himself every day since Peter came into his life that he wouldn’t be Howard, he had to own up to that.
The lectures came and went that day, along with the arguing, crying, and ceasefire as the sun set on their eventful moment.
Tony loved his son, even if he was a reckless idiot. Because he was just like his father. A gold-hearted idiot, but a bonafide genius nonetheless.
He never should have let Peter keep doing the vigilante thing. He knew that deep in his heart. It was the superhero-obsessed wandering through the night sky, the lure of impossibility. That was what had drawn Peter to fight that day. His father’s mistake had allowed him the excitement and had brought him into danger.
It wasn’t Tony’s fault- the outcome, that is- but he had to accept that he had allowed it. He had brought it upon himself.
The curse of existential grief that had been placed upon his family was wielded by his own hand, crafted by the blindness of a father’s yen to trust in his child. No amount of reassurance could change such a thing, for it was written and it was so.
Tony didn’t blame himself for killing his son, he blamed himself for letting his son ever put himself in harm's way. That difference was important. Very important.
He loved Peter.
He missed Peter.
But Peter wasn’t coming back, was he? And even if he was, he would never give up Spider-Man. Not for the world. But Tony? He would give up that father-son bonding moment in a heartbeat.
If only he could vanquish it from existence, if only he had never turned over like a lap dog. Perhaps, when not allowed to leave the tower, and when not provided with a multi million dollar suit, Peter would have stopped.
Perhaps he could have saved his boy that fateful night.
“Dad?” Peter asked, wandering into the lab with a dreadfully vacant expression, his face drained of life by his apparent worry.
“C-can I ask you something? Something... imp- well, not important. Not if you’re busy or something. Are- are you busy? You’re probably busy, you’re in the lab. Why did I even come in here? You know what? I’m just gonna g-”
Tony abruptly cut his boy off with a sharp, yet gentle “Pete!”. On cue, like a puppy dog obeying the orders of his master, Peter quieted down, nearly melting under his father’s calm gaze. “What did you want to ask me, sweetheart?” Tony asked, turning his head so that his ear met with his shoulder, a trait he seemed to have picked up from Peter.
“Oh, nothing. I... I... I... I was... just... uh...” The young teen trailed off, troubling over the words a bit. He was nervous, horribly nervous and to such a bad extent that it was irreparably harming his ability to trust in Tony’s paternal nature.
He feared his own father.
Tony knew, as he realized such a thing, that this was something serious. Perhaps Peter had broken something, or had gotten hurt, or anything that would potentially make his dear old man burst at the seams. Or, in some manner, maybe he was just curious. He had been talking a lot about that girl from school, MJ, a lot, lately.
“If I were to, hypothetically, decide I liked a boy at school, would that be weird? Because I like girls, like- like MJ and Liz, but I’m kind of thinking I might be into dudes too even though I definitely know that I am not gay at all if I’m still onto girls, and I’ve just never really-”
Tony chuckled, understanding his son’s adolescent confusion. “Oh, bambino, that means you’re very special.” He explained, grasping Peter’s shoulders as he ushered the boy further into the room and onto a lab stool.
He remembered the first time he had learned about the concept of sexuality, the fluidity of the world. Peter was so young, he had so much infinite access to information that one could forget that the internet only puts out what one puts in. Tony wondered, in the back of his thoughts, if he should have breached the concept sooner.
Perhaps telling Peter his old man was also a total bicycle would be a bit of a shock, but that would come up another day. For now, he knew he needed to calm his child.
“It isn’t weird at all, honey bun. It’s something known as being bisexual. It’s as if you’re gay and straight at the same time. Best of both worlds, huh? Ain’t that cool, bud?”
Peter looked at him for a moment, and Tony could see the wheels turning in the teenager’s head. Those same wheels he’d seen when the boy was a mere infant, only a bigger size and more heavily greased. They were beautiful. So big, so well cared for.
The wheels had been nurtured by Peter’s mind, and now they were fit to understand what would, hands down, be one of the hardest things Tony would ever have to explain to his son. Finally, Peter spoke up, muttering out one simple phrase.
“No wonder my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”
Sometimes, when the dark chasms of his mind began to overtake his simplicity, robbing him of innocence and taking years off of his life, Tony prayed that he could make that day the last memory he had of his son.
He tinkered with the idea as if it were ons of his inventions, just an inanimate concept that had no bearing. Tony wished to ignore the blatant attack on his psyche that was unfolding, preferring to ignore the injustice of his self-treatment and to force the idea down his own throat.
The father simply didn’t want to remember anything else after that, he didn’t want to make peace with the proceeding memory that filled up the next chapter in the story. He hated the way he would force himself to bare through it and read, as though he didn’t already know that that particular chapter was undoubtedly the last.
God, why couldn’t it end with those happy feelings? His son and him talking about something personal, something special. Why couldn’t that be where the line was drawn?
Instead, the gleeful memory of speaking with his boy in the comfort of his lab was always followed by the worst memory of them all. The one story he refused to tell Morgan, as it might keep her up at night. It might allow her to see her father cry sticky tears into her pillow, wishing it was Peter’s instead.
He stared down at Peter’s lifeless body.
So small, so precious and perfect in every way. It almost looked as if the boy had been sleeping. Yes, sleeping. Like he had as a tiny baby, rocking away in that little bassinet. Breathing.
Shards of glass and pieces of Beck’s drones littered the streets of London, but no collateral damage could compare to the never ending pain that had deeply settled into his old heart.
Happy was off to the side, crying his eyes out as Michelle struggled to remain her composure in the midst of disaster. Ned was being cared for by some of the medical team, alongside that Flash boy.
Thank god that kid wasn’t here. Tony didn’t need bullies anywhere near his baby’s corpse.
As the coroners came by, lifting the mangled, lifeless body onto a stretcher and beginning to carry it off. One of the men had a sticker on the breast pocket of his uniform, reading “I Love Daddy” in big, bold letters. Upon seeing the child he was carrying, his face softened and his eyes met the distressed father, giving the man a sympathetic expression.
Tony took one last look at his son’s face, knowing he very well may not see it again until... the funeral came. He focused in on the boy’s eyes. The same eyes he’d been mawwing over since the day he finally met the baby he’d been waiting for.
Peter’s eyes were dead.