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Tony doesn’t really police Peter’s morning routine.
Some of that is their dependence on AI—FRIDAY (and JARVIS before her) were both incredibly useful for regulating things like alarm clocks and schedule management.
Not to mention most of Peter’s elementary school tardies were absolutely Tony’s fault—he was determined to drop Peter off in the mornings and had the worst time and sleep management of either of them.
Suffice to say, once Peter was old enough to take care of his own breakfast and started insisting he could just have Happy or Pepper drop him off without Tony needing to see him off, they were both better for it.
Still, on this particular morning he’s promised to join Pepper for an early SI board meeting, and between turning on the coffee machine and toasting himself a bagel for breakfast, he hasn’t seen heads or tails of Peter.
Mary was more of a morning person for the short time he’d known her, always scheduling her OB-GYN appointments for the earlier slots available. It apparently passed to their son. Peter’s bright-eyed the moment he rolls out of bed most mornings, even after his wall-crawling lasts until the very last minutes of his curfew. It’s seemingly bolstered by his weird mutant DNA and a youthful lack of dependence on caffeine.
Tony sips his particularly strong, black coffee, feeling every minute that he spent awake instead of sleeping the night before. Lucky, he thinks.
Speaking of.
“Hey Pete?” he calls, knocking his knuckle against the door a few times. There’s no response. “You awake yet?”
He awaits for his teenager to run into his chest in a panicked rush or at least give a grunt of recognition that he’s awake.
“Buddy, I don’t wanna rush you, but school starts in thirty.”
While he’s lax in monitoring exactly how Peter spends his mornings, he’s always been adamant about Peter not skipping school. When Peter was younger and sicker, there were a lot of medical excuses and times when Tony caved at a pitiful look. Now, all of this Spider-Man business (initially behind Tony’s back) racked up absences in Peter’s Freshman year.
Tony doesn’t really care what Midtown’s administration thinks about him and his parenting style, but he does care about Peter’s final transcript. Unexcused absences can count towards his participation grade, skipping out of class starts discussions about truancy…
He just wants Peter to be as normal as he can be. He’s desperately trying to balance that with mentoring his own child to be a hero.
That means getting Peter’s ass into an uncomfortable desk chair every morning instead of letting the kid patrol as he pleases or handle a crisis better suited to what’s left of the Avengers.
He offers a small courtesy, leaning against the door. “I know you were out patrolling last night. Do you want to go in late? I can get Happy to give you a ride in a few hours."
He always tries to be fair. That’s their deal. Peter lives the normal teenager parts of his life, and Tony makes allowances to trust the kid in dealing with the superhero parts. It’s more than he ever thought he’d be able to do when he railed against Peter suiting up at all, so he counts it as a win.
Unsatisfied with Peter’s lack of response, he opens Peter’s door. The room is still dark. The lights from the hallway show Peter still buried up to his neck in the lump of his comforter.
“Peter?”
This time, he receives a profound, “Mmm?”
Tony inches to the bed in the dark. Something he misses about the Arc Reactor—he was a pretty decent walking nightlight for a few years.
“It’s morning,” Tony says, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting Peter’s torso through the sheets. “Time for Spider-babies to face the day.”
“M’kay,” Peter answers without opening his eyes.
Tony puts down his coffee cup on Peter's nightstand.
“I saw you after patrol last night, but I know you’re pretty good at covering injuries. Did I miss something?”
If it’s a shrug, it’s mostly hidden under the sheets. Or it’s another non-response.
“What’s wrong?” Tony tries. “Just a bad day?”
Tony has had his fair share of panic attacks and depressive episodes—he understands the need for mental health days. He can usually tell when Peter’s heading down that path, though. He’ll stay up too many hours, string himself too thin. It will only be a matter of time before he crashes into stressful nightmares and not taking care of himself enough.
He runs a hand through Peter’s hair and scrunches his brow when he finds it damp. Ever since the bite, Peter’s been more cold-natured. He doesn’t really have an issue with overheating when it comes to bundling up in four of Pepper’s knit blankets on top of a hoodie and sweats.
“FRI, turn up the lights,” Tony asks, pulling the covers away. The dark hid Peter’s face, tinted red and covered in sweat. The sheets let out a waft of warm air as they’re pulled away—the cocoon acted like a sauna and the moisture turned both the sheets and Peter’s pajamas into a soaked mess.
This isn’t just some kind of temperature reaction, he realizes. This is feverish.
“You’re burning up,” Tony affirms to himself, touching Peter’s forehead and frowning when Peter attempts to pull away. “You don’t get sick anymore. What the hell happened?”
Peter just moans in response, desperately reaching for his covers while still lying down.
“C’mon, Dad. It’s cold.”
He takes Peter’s shoulders, forcing the kid to sit up and putting himself in the path of the covers at the cost of getting his slacks damp. That’s what dry-cleaning is for. He learned that long ago when his biggest Peter-related problems were snot, tears, and mashed-up baby food wrecking his silk ties and Armani.
“No, Pete, something’s wrong,” Tony insists. “Up. Get up, let’s go.”
“I’m fine,” Peter tries, but it comes out as more of a whine. Leave me alone, it says. Let me be pitiful and sick by myself. If Peter was any good at that, they wouldn’t be here right now. He would have grabbed some of Cap’s old fever reducers and had FRIDAY actively monitoring his vitals through the night. Oh, and he would have told Tony he was feeling sick.
Peter attempts to right himself, leaning on his pillow for support but not actually moving from the mattress.
“Do you want me to carry you?” Tony offers, like Peter is six with a sinus infection and desperate for his comfort instead of sixteen and trying to pretend none of this is a big deal.
Peter’s responding look is flat, a shaking head meeting Tony’s offering, open arms.
“Then get up,” Tony says, only a little bitter at the denial. This whole growing up thing has many disadvantages, most of all that Peter isn’t as small for his age as he used to be. Tony milked the carrying years as long as he could, and even, when Peter was asleep, into his teens. Now Peter's more apt to deny the gesture even if he's just as physically affectionate as he's always been.
“Come on, scoot. We’re going to the Medbay.”
“Ugh,” Peter groans, slowly sitting up and allowing his feet to touch the carpeted floor. “It’s probably just a really strong bug. Maybe some arachnids get…bugs.”
Now it’s Tony’s turn to look wholly unimpressed.
“That was pitiful. Doesn’t even count as a joke. Terrible effort. Zero out of ten, please do not try again.”
He rummages in Peter’s drawers. They always start out neatly organized on laundry day, then devolve into a mess of graphic logos and mismatched socks as the weeks go by and Peter digs for specific items. (Not that Tony can talk. Without Pepper, would he have ever bothered to learn what to fold and what to hang up by himself?)
He finds a pair of sweatpants and throws them to Peter in a wad, then adds a freshly cleaned t-shirt stating There Is Research To Be Done, referencing that co-op video game Peter dragged him into trying with Rhodey to see which team could do it faster—Ned and Peter or Rhodey and Tony. (It was a loss for Team Honeybear, as Tony had christened them, but only by a handful of seconds.)
The shirt hits Peter’s back. Peter doesn’t reject either piece of clothing, already pulling the clean shirt over his head by the time Tony comes back over.
“Pete, I’m worried. Seriously. For me. Let’s go.”
“You’re always worried,” Peter mumbles, but allows Tony to hover at his elbow before he steadies himself into standing up straight.
Tony doesn’t deny it, wrapping the blanket from the foot of the bed around Peter’s shoulders.
Before they reach the Medbay, Peter develops a hell of a cough. It’s a rattling, powerful thing that makes them stop in their tracks three times. Peter rolls his eyes when Tony’s only response is a firm look of I told you so.
He doesn’t know if Doctor Cho is in—she has her initial research lab in Seoul near her family that he knows she prefers, and there aren’t exactly a lot of Avengers around to treat anymore.
Still, he keeps a staff of capable medical staff around campus at all times. The current nurse is idly playing Candy Crush on her phone when they arrive.
“Mister Stark,” she says brightly, locking her phone and sitting up. “And Peter. I’m Nurse Sherri. How can I help you?” She reminds Tony of the nurses that used to populate pediatrics—part of the job requisite seemed to be a positive attitude and a sympathetic ear, and he’d always been worried about Peter’s asthma and in desperate need of reassurance whenever they visited a hospital.
“The kid’s forehead is on fire, and on the way here he started coughing. His doctor knows he doesn’t, uh, really get sick anymore. Not like this.” The doctors all have NDAs. The nurses only sign if they’re needed for triage. In this case, he thinks he’ll leave the nurse in the dark despite her kindness.
“I’m sorry to hear that, hop on up.” She points to one of the many empty medical beds in the ward. While there aren’t many Avengers around right now, when there is a disaster with traces of the old crew popping up, Tony makes a point to bring people to the compound for treatment. No medical bills or insurance involved.
“Bet you’re at least excited to skip school, huh?” the nurse says while clipping the pulse oximeter to Peter’s finger.
Peter shrugs, attempting to curl himself further into his blanket. It’s not a baby blanket, but it was a gift from Pepper when he was six, so Tony considers it as much. It’s surprisingly well taken care of despite a few loose threads and worn polyester.
Oh, shit, right. Pepper. He sends a quick text as the nurse walks off with a tablet in hand.
Peter’s sick. No, really. Not going to make the meeting. Good luck.
Peter takes the opportunity of not being poked and prodded to lie down on his side, bundling back up under his blanket. Tony runs a hand over his arm. Pepper replies to his text within a minute.
Poor thing. Give him my love. Will come by later w/ soup from Vinicio’s. 💕
He texts back a heart emoji of his own.
The months they were separated, he thought he could get by. It’s like—she was it for him, right? So he just subjected himself to the fact that he’d be alone in the romantic department until he died, and it would be fine. Now that he has her back he realizes how much he’s really missed her. She remembers Peter’s favorite takeout soup for god’s sake, who else in the world does that?
He leans over from his place next to the medical bed, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead.
“Mmm?” Peter intones. He’d easily fallen back into dozing.
“From Pep.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Yeah.” He moves his hand back to Peter’s arm, rubbing back and forth. Peter lets out a hum of appreciation.
“Sorry for the wait.” Doctor Cho is in fact here today, and she smiles that soft smile people always do at Tony and Peter’s co-dependent touching and chatting and general family-ness.
“I’m glad you’re here. It’s easier with someone that knows his whole…deal, already.”
“Well, general practice medicine was never meant to be my field, but I make exceptions for sweet little Spider-kids. How are you feeling, Peter?”
“So cold,” is Peter’s answer.
“I went to wake him up for school and he was sweating like crazy. The coughing only started once he started moving around.” Tony lowers his voice even though Peter’s super-hearing makes it kind of useless. “Helen, he hasn’t been sick like this in two years.”
“Don’t worry.” Helen pats his hand consolingly. “I know you like to fret, but the fever might be a good sign. It’s how our bodies fight infection.”
He nods, accepting when she brushes Tony aside to address her patient. He’s used to that, too. He’s the most consistently hovering of helicopter parents, and doctors tend to not-so-politely suggest that he leave the room if he can’t stop pacing around and asking too many questions.
“I’m going to go for the most simple test first.” She holds up a swabbing kit. “But I’m going to take some blood too—the everyday flu hasn’t gotten to you before, so I’m going to assume we’re dealing with something a little more complicated. Hopefully traceable within your bloodwork.”
Peter scoots to sit up, allowing his head to loll back when the back of the bed is raised up under him.
The flu swab elicits a gag from Peter, but otherwise goes quickly.
At the sight of Doctor Cho about to outfit herself to draw the blood, Peter turns his head to Tony.
“Are you gonna hold my hand?”
God, Tony doesn’t even know how high his fever is, right now. His eyes are glazed like when he’s on the special cocktail of super-drugs Tony whipped up the night after homecoming. Tony hasn’t had to give Peter any literal hand-holding in a long time. He’d started the affectation of being too big for it once he started hanging out with the Avengers, who always acted like a bullet hole was no biggie and definitely didn’t ask Tony to hold their hands around needles.
“Do you want me to?”
Peter shrugs. “You used to. S’all.”
It also used to hurt a lot more than it does for him now, but Tony shrugs back and entwines their fingers lightly. Peter wasn’t ever really scared of needles as a kid, either, but it didn’t make the entrance of a sharp object into his skin any less noticeable.
The blood drawing is painless in practice, but Peter himself tightens his facial features just a little at the needle's entrance, and the hand in Tony's gives a weak squeeze, definitely not rivaling his usual grip strength.
"You're good, kiddo," he assures.
"Mmm." Peter practically dissolves back into the bed when Cho tilts it flat again. Despite Peter’s earlier denials of not wanting Tony's extra attention, he practically curls himself around their still-connected hands.
"Back in a minute." Helen gives Peter's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before gathering up her samples, equipment, and tablet. She exits back to one of the medical labs.
For a minute he just focuses on Peter, running his thumb back and forth over the skin of his kid's hand and listening to him breathe, congested and harried by the fever as it's becoming.
"You must be feeling pretty rough, huh, buddy?" He doesn't get a response. "You're allowed to admit it, you know. I won't make fun. No more holding it over your head. I just want to know how bad it is."
"I'm cold," Peter answers. "Tired. Wanna sleep. Can't."
Peter's hand gives a short, shivering tremor.
"We'll figure it out soon," Tony promises. "Get you out and about saving cats from trees in no time."
"Yeah?"
Peter is looking up at him with glossy, wet eyes. Always so trusting. In turn, Tony tries not to lie to Peter—he'd always hated that growing up. It always felt like being talked down to. But in things like this...he's more than willing to air on the side of optimism. It's not a lie if it ends up working out, right?
"Yeah, Petey. It's all gonna be okay."
Peter groans, a touch dramatic. "I know it's bad when you call me that."
“Sweet Pete, Petey-pie,” Tony sing-songs. “Here comes Peter Cottontail—"
"Don't start," Peter pleads. "No singing. Being just shy of tone-deaf doesn't mean good."
"You should hear him on karaoke night," Doctor Cho announces herself again, at the very least not wearing an obvious look of concern as she seats herself on the rolling stool next to Peter's bed.
"Hey, you were with me on that Queen duet." Tony points a finger at her. “'Bohemian Rhapsody’ never sounded so angelic.”
"Hellish, more like," she whispers conspiratorially to Peter, who lets out a snort.
Sobering, still holding Peter's hand, Tony asks, "So?"
"Well, it's definitely more than the flu." Cho presents the tox screen results, flicked up from her tablet screen into a hologram. “I tested for quite a few things, but this is what showed.”
He and Bruce had—once upon a time—created a shortlist of possible drugs and harmful chemicals, and Tony passed that down to Cho for occasions exactly like this one.
Meaning he recognizes which ones tested positive.
"Is that—?"
“Chemicals that—when combined—could create a poison, yes."
"Jesus, how—wha-what does that even mean, is he okay? I mean, clearly he's not, but is he dying, is he—"
Helen holds out a placating hand. He takes the chance to remember to breathe instead of panicking.
"Let's hold off on that assumption. I know it sounds scary, but I think it will become a little more clear once I parse out exactly how it entered Peter's bloodstream."
She turns to Peter.
“Tell me about patrol last night. Did you accept any food items as reward? Get any kind of puncture wounds? Inhale any kind of powder?”
“I—“ Peter’s eyes shift down and away from Tony, specifically, wrapping a blanket thread around his finger and then letting it go.
“I knew it," Tony sighs, letting go of Peter's hand to run a hand through his own hair. "I said you hide injuries, because you always do—“
“No, I don't! I didn't! I mean…I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think it was anything, but when she said inhaled…”
“What, are you telling me this is just some bad trip because a dumb college kid dared Spider-Man to take a hit?!”
“No!” Peter says, catching himself on a cough. “Do you really think that I would—? No. It was like…water vapor. Y’know, like when you use a fog machine. It was in an empty warehouse. I figured it was just the remnants of some kind of underground rave or something."
"Aerosol poison, interesting." At Tony's look, Cho rolls her eyes. Okay, maybe he is a bit hypocritical. He'd thought Ultron was “interesting” too before...everything.
"The obvious point of entry was inhalation, in that case—hence the overactive mucosa interacting with your lungs. I suspect that cough will be accompanied by nasal mucus soon. Whatever it was went right into your respiratory tract and moved through your blood, so it has to get out the only ways it knows how.”
“Gross snot," Peter interjects.
Cho smiles.
“I think it was designed to attack the immune system—you know, it starts as a cold, and then slowly makes your body susceptible to more types of infection, germs. If the initial chemical wasn’t detected it would just seem like some kind of super-flu.”
“So back to the dying thing…?" Tony chances.
“No—thankfully, no. I think because of Peter’s enhanced immune system, the fight started as soon as the poison entered his system. The fact that he’s already developed a fever is a good sign. His body is doing what it’s supposed to do. And considering this was inhalation exposure, the more he breathes…”
“The more the toxin will leave.”
"Exactly. And he's going to do lots of that while resting, do I make myself clear?"
Peter gives a glib thumbs up, too tired to fight her recommendations for rest as he might do normally. "No problems here."
Until the symptoms wear off and you're begging to go back to school with poison still in your lungs, Tony thinks.
“Unless the symptoms suddenly get worse, I think your best bet is a cold bath, these fever reducers, a hoard of tissues, and a little TLC from Dad. In a few days, the poison will be out of your system, and you can get down to the business of figuring out who's behind this."
"Do you think you could help with that? Give me a list of these chemicals, where you could get that kind of thing, the training required for—well, poisoning someone like that?” Tony asks. Like hell he's letting his kid take on someone manufacturing poison and testing it out in the city by himself.
Helen gives a sweeping gesture, removing the holograms and standing with her tablet. "Already sent to FRIDAY."
"You're the best."
"And I won't let you forget it." She gives a few firm pats to Peter's arm before walking off with a wave.
"Feel better, Peter."
"Buddy, I have seen everything there is to see. You’re being ridiculous.”
"Dad." Peter looks pitiful, sitting on the seat of the toilet, shirtless and waiting as the bathtub fills with cold water. “The boxers stay on. This is embarrassing enough."
"It's not embarrassing." Peter looks up at him, disbelieving. "So what if it is, it's just you and me! We need to get your fever down. FRIDAY said Cho's check had you at 105 degrees. That's way too high."
"I don't need you to stay in the room with me!"
"If you pass out from the fever you could drown. It's a big tub."
"Oh my god, I'm not gonna—"
"Just—doctor's orders. Let me take care of you. Please.”
Tony turns off the tap. He's considered adding some of Pepper's smelly bath salts, but Peter has a thing against peppermint that may or may not be about his new Spider-genes. He never used to be thrilled with candy canes around Christmas or anything either, so they can’t be sure.
Peter huffs, but doesn't argue anymore. He's probably just being petulant because he wants nothing to do with the cold water. He's been shivering all over since he removed his clothes and definitely thinks he'd rather sweat it out uncontrollably for as long as it takes than feel any colder.
"It will feel good to be clean," Tony offers. "Even if you don't use soap, it'll get some of the sweat off."
"Yeah." Peter's gaze seems to be focused somewhere just right of his bathroom mirror. He's still so warm to the touch, and he's swaying just slightly where he sits.
"Come on." This time he doesn't allow Peter the chance to refuse his help, wrapping an arm over his shoulders and getting Peter to use Tony as support on their short walk to the tub.
Peter cringes all the way into the water, setting his teeth and attempting to breathe through it. He lands with his head against the wall tile and matches Tony's gaze as he allows his head to go under before quickly bobbing back up and swiping wet hair out of his face.
(Tony doesn't think of his own head buried under dirty water by meaty fists because Peter doesn't know about it. He's just harmlessly teasing. Tony breathes in and holds it before letting go in a practiced rhythm. By god, therapy isn't useless after all.)
Peter crosses his arms, ineffectively rubbing them up and down. "This is your fault. Distract me."
When Peter was younger, such distractions were always stories. He was an avid reader, picking up Harry Potter's latest adventure as willingly as Tony's dusted up copy of an Issac Asimov work.
Peter had always been a fan of their bed time routine, properly done with Tony reading out loud and lulling his son into sleep. He read paragraphs about heroic children, painted pictures of worlds beyond the stars, and one time—in the days before superheroes were real—he'd even told the story of Steve Rogers.
But they don't talk about Steve these days.
As of late, as he understands parents are wont to do, he's become nostalgic.
Tony clears his throat, settling himself next to the bathtub on the floor and pretending as if there's any kind of comfortable position in such a place.
"So, as you know, you were a very whiny, terrible child."
Peter gives a twitch of a smile. It's a common reaction, one even Tony relates to.
Tony's father never shared beloved anecdotes, but his mother was a dinner party queen and never afraid to tell the entire world about his antics in a loving tone. It was equal parts embarrassing and flattering. At least she remembered such things. She had loved him through them, because of them. It was an odd part of growing up, to realize all of the things you did without thought as a kid were someone else's beloved memories.
"Getting you to go to sleep and stay there was the bane of my existence. You're the reason for my terrible habits, you know," he jokes.
Peter scoffs, adding a snort when he sniffs hard instead of blowing his nose.
“Don’t—“ he starts to scold, but Peter holds out an expectant hand for the tissue that Tony was going to provide anyway.
Tony holds the tissue to Peter’s face instead. “Your hands are wet. Blow.”
“Dad—“
“Peter, can you work with me for like two seconds, please?” Despite the fever, Peter seems to be in and out of resisting his help. He expects after the bath Peter will be glued to his side for an afternoon nap in no time.
Peter blows his nose obediently, scrunching his face at the color that must be left behind. Tony very purposefully doesn’t look before tossing the dirty tissue into the trash.
“Ew.”
“By the way, this is not a story about me cleaning up your bodily fluids, of which I do have many. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you.”
“Now.” Tony places a warm hand behind Peter’s neck, gently brushing at his skin and the wet hairs. Peter shivers.
“As I was saying—you were a little gremlin, but I loved you anyway. I’m just that kind of dad.”
“Modest too.”
“You know it.” He smiles at Peter and his son responds in kind, even if it’s a little weaker than their normal joking banter.
“So, on this particular night, you were on another crying jag. You and colic-y behavior were BFFs at that point, so I was low on sleep, but like, a livable amount. However, Uncle Rhodey was visiting to see his very favorite nephew for the first time since we came home from New York, and was rewarded with two nights of interrupted sleep in a row.”
Getting Rhodey to stick around an extra week after Peter’s premature birth was enough of a pull. Since Rhodey joined the Air Force, his time with Tony was rarer, but treasured. It was hard to lose his support at first, but Peter was mostly stable, and Tony and Obie had pulled all of their strings to keep him in the States as long as they did.
“So, he gets up from the couch, walks to the kitchen, and bang! Misses a step with his tired, sock-covered feet and hits his precious dome on the counter. Now—I’m thinking it’s surgery, or stitches, or blocking your precious little eyes from spotting brain matter all over my expensive granite countertops.”
“Blegh.”
“Exactly. But then, it’s dead silent. You’d been crying non-stop and then it was just. Nothing. And do you know what you did?”
Peter shakes his head, his eyes closed and his mind finally relaxed enough to be listening intently and lost in the feeling of Tony’s fingers massaging his wet curls.
“You laughed. Loud and squeaky like a tiny banshee. Rhodey fell and you lost your mind bouncing around in my arms and clapping like we were an improv troupe at your little baby disposal.”
“Was Uncle Rhodey mad?”
“At first I thought he was too dead to be anything. But he just sat up—too fast when he was later diagnosed with a minor concussion, by the way, so learn from his mistakes—and he had a grin matching yours. He missed a lot in those first months after we got home, and this was the first time he’d seen you do anything but cry at him. He offered to do it again and I forced him to hold both you and an ice pack instead.”
Peter opens his eyes, looking to the ceiling and squinting. “You took a picture, right? You had JARVIS digitize it?”
“That’s right! Of you two asleep on the couch together after, yeah. But I’ve never told you that story?”
Peter shakes his head, then seems to think better of it. “No. I guess not.”
He taps his fingers on Tony’s arm, currently out of his hair and resting against the lip of the tub. “Thanks, though. It was—nice.”
“No problem, kiddie.” Tony stands with a groan and a few intricate pops around his hips and back. Why did he sit on the tile floor with no support, again?
“How about we get you out of there? No need for Spidey-cicles. Although, that is a branding opportunity for ice cream trucks across America this summer.”
“No more cold,” Peter replies, jumping as he shifts his stance around on the bathmat and dries off with a towel. Tony feels justified for staying close when he almost lists back into the draining tub.
Tony rolls his eyes but turns to give Peter his privacy as he changes into a fresh pair of boxers, flannel pajama pants, and t-shirt—this one showcases a simple, faded Midtown Tech logo.
“I’ll warm you up easy. Here.” Tony pats the toilet and this time Peter listens without argument, settling himself where they started before the bath.
Digging around under Peter’s sink proves useless, so he ends up running to his shared bathroom with Pepper to find his quarry: a hair dryer.
He doesn’t even think Peter knows he’s slightly smiling when Tony enters the room with it. “Oh. Nice.”
“Mmhm.”
Peter has said he likes the feeling of his hair all warm and fluffy, but he’s never put in the effort it takes to use the dryer himself since Tony pretty much stopped doing it for him when bath times stopped too.
Tony had been far more concerned about his very-purposefully-styled-to-seem-messy appearance at sixteen, and in some ways he’s glad Peter very genuinely doesn’t feel much pressure to style his hair too much or wear anything but what he likes, even if it’s…thrift-store finds.
May’s going to turn him into some kind of mini-hippie, if Tony doesn’t watch her.
If Peter practically preens the moment Tony runs the comb through his hair, he completely melts once Tony turns on the hair dryer.
Tony’s mother always gave him shit about going to bed with totally wet hair, saying it’d give him a cold or something. He never actually researched any validity to her claims, but he found himself doing this routine often as Peter’s hair grew into a mix of Tony’s fluff and Mary’s curls. Peter seemed to appreciate the extra time with Tony at night, and it leant to similar results of giving Peter warmth and a repetitive, soothing motion before bed. (Likely the root of his enjoyment when Tony plays with his hair.)
“Head up,” Tony chides lightly, smiling as Peter stares off and drowsily nods in response. Normally the kid might be more antsy just sitting on the chair without his phone, but he’s still sick and his fever reducers have probably fully kicked in by now.
He methodically brushes at Peter’s hair, combing away the top layers to get underneath as the dryer whirs and applies the hot air. He fingers the strands near Peter’s neck—he should probably offer up a haircut soon. Peter’s hair starts looking really wild when it’s long, especially when he takes his sweaty mask off after running around the city.
It doesn’t take as long as he knows Pepper’s does. Just a few minutes and he’s got the hair dryer off and he’s simply brushing down errant strands that have moved out of place with his fingers.
Peter leans into the movement. He allows his head to fall directly into the center of Tony’s chest in front of him.
Tony likes keeping Peter close to his heart. The day he’d come home from Afghanistan and realized he could no longer cuddle Peter’s head up where he used to because of the Arc Reactor…it gutted him pretty throughly.
Peter’s nasally breaths puff against Tony’s dress shirt, calm and slowed. Tony chuckles, but allows the moment. He very purposefully runs his hand through Peter’s soft hair, ruffling the strands and then settling them back down into place over and over.
“Comfy?” Tony asks.
Peter nods against Tony’s chest rather than answering. And Peter thinks he’s too old to be called cute. Please.
Tony runs his other hand up and down Peter’s back, turning their position into a bit of a hug.
“You hungry?”
Peter’s stomach answers for him, growling and gurgling in a mess of skipping breakfast and being filled with whatever gunk Peter hasn’t blown out.
Peter looks up, smiling sheepishly but not moving from his place curled against Tony.
“Another minute?”
He presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head. “Sure, kiddo.”
“What kind of Gatorade do you want?”
Tony has changed out of his business attire and is currently focusing on not burning a grilled cheese sandwich at the stove.
In the other room, Peter has turned on a cartoon that Tony only vaguely recognizes from his childhood—bald kid with an arrow on his head, flying shaggy dog thing. He tried to be into the things Peter was into growing up, but animated stuff was always pretty hit or miss.
If Tony didn’t know better, he’d walk into the room and find his eight-year-old holding his stuffed bunny in one hand and his inhaler in the other, home sick because of the bad air quality outside.
Instead, his growing teenager blows his nose and replies, “Red or blue, please.”
“Is yellow okay?” he teases.
Predictably, Peter’s head rises over the back of the couch. “I know you’re joking, but if you ever bring that lemon-lime piss into this house, you’re dead to me.”
“It used to be Barton’s favorite.”
“Clint’s a disaster person.”
“Not going to argue with that.” He doesn’t have as much of a grudge against the other Avengers as much as he does Steve. Not to mention…Peter knew the Avengers, once. They were family to both him and Tony. He tries not to let everything that happened cloud those good memories for his son more than he already did when he allowed Peter to come to Germany.
Thinking about it means he just misses burning the sandwich, taking it out of the pan and letting it rest for a second while he digs a cold bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge.
Tony plates up the grilled cheese with a bowl of applesauce, easy to swallow and hopefully cool on Peter’s straining throat after all of the coughing.
He presents it to Peter with a flourish, practically channeling the late Edwin Jarvis when he says, “Your lunch, young sir.”
Peter looks down at the sandwich and then to Tony with a mocking grin. “You cut it into triangles?”
Tony tries to shrug it off, but…yeah, no, he totally remembers when Peter was obsessed with geometry and every sandwich had to be cut into triangles. He hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’s seen Peter stuff half a hoagie down his throat in four bites, he just went with old instincts.
“Just eat it,” he huffs, as if everyone in their family doesn’t already know he’s a gigantic goddamn sap for Peter.
Peter does dig into the food, but he nudges Tony’s shoulder with his own while he’s at it. On screen, there’s water being swirled around like magic, and Tony fails to remember who exactly the characters are fighting or why.
Peter swallows a bite and says, “Thanks for sticking around today. I know you had a meeting.”
Tony raises his eyebrow, questioning. He enjoys being appreciated and all, but this is hardly the first time he’s sacrificed work for Peter.
Peter shrugs. “You just—haven’t really had to in a while. And a cold just seems like, well, a dumb reason for you to have to.”
“Peter, you were poisoned.”
“And all I got was this stupid fever.”
“I can provide a t-shirt, if that helps.”
Peter laughs and it turns into a hacking cough, forcing Peter to put down his half-eaten food and spit his gunk into the trashcan Tony dragged to the couch.
“Pete, I would much rather take care of a sick kid than a skewered one.” Or seeing Peter shot. Or crushed. Or drugged. His poor heart, god.
“If you recall, I was pretty experienced at making you feel better. Sometimes I was the only one.”
“I kinda hoped that was over—the being sick part.”
“It is, exempting strange viruses. But I’m ready to fight those too.”
He wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulder, pulling Peter against his chest. Peter easily accepts the physical contact, wrapping himself around Tony in turn.
“Thanks. Again.”
“Of course. You’re gonna be okay, Peter. I promise.” And this time, he’s more confident that he means it.
“Love you,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s chest.
“I love you too, Peter,” Tony replies. “How about you rest for a while? I’ll wake you up when Pepper comes by with dinner. She’s bringing that takeout for you.”
“The chicken soup?”
“Yep.”
“Tell her I love her more.”
“Traitor.”
Peter smiles before detaching from Tony, downing the last of his sandwich with a swig of gatorade, hunkering down into the couch with his nest of blankets, and using Tony’s thigh as a pillow.
“Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, Pete.”
Tony keeps a hand on Peter’s back, protective even when he doesn’t really need to be.
He switches the television to a movie channel, which is semi-aptly playing 12 Monkeys. Tony shrugs to himself, turning down the sound and letting himself be vaguely entertained by Brad Pitt chattering on in the mental asylum as he distractedly rubs Peter’s back with his thumb.