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Tony and Peter lay on the carpet, staring up at the fan going at full blast. It’s July, hot out and disgusting—they already went to the pool today, and it’s been two hours since bath time. Peter is still half bundled in his pile of towels, wearing his fox onesie. He’s chewing on the tail of his dolphin toy and leaning against Tony’s side.
“What are you thinking for dinner, huh?” Tony asks, poking Peter in the ribs and making him laugh. “Dinner? Eat? Just me and you today, Petey, so our choice, no fancy Ben dinner. Just bad Daddy dinner.”
“Dada din,” Peter says, shaking the dolphin in the air. “Eat! Eat. Cheese? Mac cheese?”
Tony snorts, brushing his hand through Peter’s hair. “Oh you love mac and cheese. Yeah. Don’t I know it? Doesn’t the deep clean the house went through know it?”
Peter giggles, happy with himself.
Tony clearly remembers when he was sure Peter was never gonna talk. That logically, they were gonna have to go to speech therapists and shit to try and get him back on track, but now it feels like some weird alternate universe because the kid never stops talking. It usually seems like some kind of multilingual deal, with the baby gibberish thrown in there, but it feels like every day he picks up another word. Sometimes it’s harder, like the new word is trying to fight its way out, and Tony can see Peter getting irritated that he’s not saying it exactly as he heard it. But other times it comes out clear as a bell, like he’s been saying it all along.
They’ve been using books and shows to connect the meanings, and it’s insane to watch Peter’s face as he takes it all in, his little mind working.
How the hell does one teach a child a language? Tony’s sure he’s fucking it up. He’s lucky Peter’s smart or the kid would go around calling elevators elephants or some shit. But Peter is smart smart. And Tony’s not just saying that because he’s his. He just seems ahead of the curve.
“You want mac and cheese for real or do you want something else?” Tony asks. “What about the food from the kitty commercial? Huh? Kitty food?”
Peter huffs, shaking his head. “No kitty.”
“Yeah, smart, you know that’s not for you,” Tony says, watching the fan. He runs a hand through his own hair. “Potato? Rice?”
“Rice,” Peter says, matter of fact. “Eat rice din din.”
Tony wonders if Peter knows what the hell rice is. Tony’s been making sure to repeat things when they’re around them, about a hundred times, point, repeat, point, repeat, like a moron. Peter just stares at him, sometimes repeats them back, but there’s no way to know if he really gets it until Tony hears him use the word himself and connect the dots.
Peter laughs a little bit, slamming his left hand on the picture book he’s got in front of him. He forces the page to flip, crumpling it a little bit in the process. Tony cranes his neck to look at what it is, sitting up.
“What’s that, monkey joe?” he asks, one hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Is that a—lawn and garden book?” He scoffs, looking at the page Peter flipped to, something about the gardens at Buckingham Palace. “What loser left that here? We’re not gardeners. Where’s your monster truck book, huh? Have you pulled all the pages out yet?”
“No!” Peter says, and he chews on the dolphin tail again. “No, no. Big truck. Big red—big r—red truck.”
Tony snorts and leans in, cupping the side of Peter’s face and pressing kisses to his cheek. “Yes. You love your big red truck. That’s your favorite. That’s why you like to hurl it at the wall and mess up the paint.”
“Love big red truck,” Peter says, muffled, because he’s still got the dolphin tail in his mouth.
“Love you, Pete,” Tony says, kissing him one more time before he groans to his feet, putting the trucks and baby foam piano down there with Peter so he doesn’t tear the house apart. “I’m just gonna make you a smorgasbord. I refuse to disappoint.”
Peter gurgles and says a bunch of shit that doesn’t make sense, but the words monkey, cheese and dada are all in there. Tony smiles to himself, heading into the kitchen, and makes a mental note to call Pepper after dinner and see how today’s presentation went.
“Dada,” Peter says, and the dolphin squeaks once.
“Yes?” Tony says, without turning around. He opens the cabinet and takes out the bag of rice and the box of mac and cheese. He puts them on the counter and looks around for the bag of sweet potatoes he absolutely knows Pepper bought for them and left here somewhere.
“Dada! Love Dada! Love Dada!”
Tony stops.
“Love Dada. Love Dada! Dada! Dada, Petey monkey!”
Tony covers his face with both hands and breathes, in and out, deep, heaving breaths because holy shit. No, no, there’s no possible way that he actually, genuinely knows what he’s saying. No way. He doesn’t know what love means. He doesn’t. He might feel it but it’s an abstract fucking concept so he can’t put it to words, he can’t, he’s an eleven month old, he doesn’t know what love is—
“Love Dada! Love Dada!”
Tony twists around, chewing on his lower lip, and Peter is standing now, smiling, and he stomps his feet a couple times, walks around and around the gardening book or whatever the hell, and pitches the dolphin at the wall.
“Love Dada. Love Dada! Love Dada.”
“Petey, stop—you have no idea what that means and you’re killing your father, you’re literally killing your father—” Tony drops down to his level, crawling over on his knees, and Peter squeals, rushing over and pushing on Tony’s shoulders.
“Love Dada! Love Dada.”
“Stop, stop,” Tony says, eyes getting misty because what the hell, babies aren’t supposed to say that shit with any intentions until they’re nearly two years old, not that he’s looked it up or anything and this is giving him heart palpitations. “Stop, nutter butter.” He gathers Peter up and Peter shrieks with laughter again, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck.
“Love Dada,” Peter says, a little softer, dipping his face down into Tony’s shoulder.
“Oh my God, I love you so much,” Tony says, holding him tight. “You don’t even know. You have no idea. Beyond—just, out of this world.”
“Cheese din din,” Peter says. “Dada.”
“Oh yeah. I know you’re buttering me up for food,” Tony says, tickling him, sweeping him up and draping him over his shoulder. “Food machine! Petey monkey!”
Peter laughs joyfully, holding onto him tight. “Love Dada! Love Dada!”
Even if he doesn’t know what it means yet….God, Tony loves hearing it. He can’t possibly explain or fathom how much.