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“You know,” Peter contemplates earnestly, “I think you’re really hard to read.” He furrows his brows and taps his index finger to his chin, when Mister Stark just keeps looking at him without any change in countenance whatsoever. His face is completely neutral, Peter thinks, as he keeps holding up his Spider-Man suit in one hand and needle and thread in the other.
They stay in that stalemate for another few seconds until, in line with everyone’s expectations, Peter breaks the silence with a guess. “You’re hungry.”
The only change in facial expression is the subtle raise of Mister Stark’s right eye brow.
“Okay, okay, not hungry,” he hurries to correct, “you’re just really liking that yarn I chose to patch up the bullet hole?”
“So close, Peter, so close.” Mister Stark sighs and drops both suit and crafting supplies on the workbench that is currently standing between them. He draws in a deep breath and Peter has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at his dramatic antics. And everyone still wonders where he gets it from.
“Do you want to know what this,” he motions to his face, “expression means? Do you really?”
“Yes, Mister Stark, I would like nothing more,” he nods solemnly, eyes lighting up when he sees that even Mister Stark has lost some of his blank stare.
“This is me being – what do they call it? – exasperated at both,” he raises his voice and eyebrows at the same time effectively shutting up Peter’s efforts to interrupt him before he even started then he continues in a very controlled voice, “the fact that you got shot. Again. And – and this is almost insulting – that you thought you could patch the multimillion-dollar suit that I made you with some red yarn from the nearest mom-and-pop shop.”
Peter opens his mouth to explain – what, he’s not really sure – when Mister Stark picks up the yarn again and throws it at him. Catching it is more of a reflex than anything else.
“It’s not even the right red, Peter.”
He looks at the yarn ball in his hand, then back at Mister Stark and when he does his mentor is now the one biting his cheek to keep from laughing at his – almost certainly – dumbfounded expression.
Peter grins innocently. “Mister Stark, would you help me patch up my suit with some multimillion-dollar yarn?” he asks sweetly, throwing the ball back on the bench. “I’ll even remember what that blank was supposed to convey. Promise!”
Tony sighs again but this time it’s more of a half laugh than existential dread. “Whatever, kid, I don’t hold out much hope that you’ll ever learn.”
“That’s the joy of parenthood, ammirite?” (And Peter thinks, Mister Stark’s smile might even mean that he’s inclined to agree. But what does he know.)
“PETER BENJAMIN PARKER!”
It takes Peter a total of ten seconds to be sitting upright in bed, scramble out of it – almost break his neck in the process – pull on a hoodie and open the door to find Tony on the other side of it, grabbing his phone in one hand so tightly his knuckles are turning white.
“Good morning?” he tries cautiously, rolling on the balls of his feet and wrecking his mind what on earth earned him an early morning wakeup call – Oh. “I can explain!” he hastily adds, “I mean. Is this just a very excited ‘Peter Benjamin Parker I’m so glad to be spending the day with you and breakfast is ready’? Or is this about that burning building thing last night?”
That seems to pause Mister Stark just long enough for Peter to rub the sleep out of his eyes and wake up at least close to halfway in preparation of whatever avalanche of a speech awaited him.
“Yes, this is about that burning building thing last night,” Mister Stark all but glares at him, “Because, guess what, it’s the top story on the news this morning.” With that he thrusts his phone in Peter’s face. “You know how much I hate a big dose of anxiety for my idiot teenager with my morning coffee.”
Peter only spares a glimpse to the screen, cringing slightly when Spider-Man climbing up 15 stories of burning building looks a lot worse than he remembers it being. It wasn’t really that high… right? He hands the phone back. “Your idiot teenager?”
Mister Stark falters for a moment, flustered. “You are definitely taking the wrong moral from this.” One look at his phone, though, seems to remind him why he woke Peter up in the first place. “Just for the record,” he says, turning his phone off and shaking his head as if to get rid of the images, “this is me being angry at you for being reckless.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’ll put it on my list of The many expressions of Tony Stark to remember,” he stifles a yawn and thinks that maybe that’s what keeps him from being yelled at some more.
Almost instantly Mister Stark softens and Peter relaxes into his oversized hoodie. He really does not like being on the receiving end of his anger. “Come on, kid. We’ll get you something to eat.”
With that he turns and Peter follows dutifully. “Thank you, and Mister Stark?” “Hm.” “I’m really sorry for making you anxious.”
His mentor looks up at his seriously contrite tone and gives a sharp nod. “You can apologize by helping me make that suit fire proof and to improve the filtering in your mask after breakfast.”
“Isn’t it already fireproof?”
“Fireproofer then.”
“What do you think?”
Mister Stark is standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. At the question he cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, a tiny smile playing around his lips that, in retrospective, should probably have been a warning sign. “What do you think I think, buddy?”
Peter mirrors his pose and watches him intently. “Is that a trick question?”
“Nope,” Mister Stark shakes his head, stance suspiciously relaxed, “I’m honestly curious what you think my reaction is going to be.”
“That’s just unfair,” he protests, “You’re impossible to read! Like when you rub the bridge of your nose I never know if you’ve got a headache, panic attack, are mad at me for jumping of a building without my web shooters or just had a brain freeze. There should be a guide to you of some sort.”
That earns him a sigh but otherwise little to no change in his posture or countenance. “You’ll be the first one to get it if it ever comes out.”
“Thank you, thank you. But what do you think about the outfits I picked for our trip?”
Mister Stark seems to ponder that for a bit. “You know, I really like the Minnie Mouse headband with the huge glittery ribbon on top but I think the Mandalorian armor takes away from the sheer coolness of it.”
He pouts. “But I wanted to go as Baby Yoda.”
“Oh you’re going as a baby, that’s for sure,” he quips back.
“Party pooper.”
“Literal child.”
“Please?”
“Not gonna happen, kid. Try something less futile.”
(Mister Stark ends up loving both the armor and the headband.)
“Good morning, Peter.”
Peter yawns and rubs his eyes. “Why would you wake me up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, Mister Stark?” he whines, “whatever happened to good comradery?” He blinks and fully opens his eyes to take a look at a suspiciously gleeful Mister Stark, coffee in one hand and a wrapped bundle in the other. He narrows his eyes at him. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, this?” He holds the bright green package up happily. “I’m glad you’re asking. This is for you.” He thrusts the unshapely package at him. “Happy Father’s Day, Peter.”
It is at that point that he almost chokes on his own spit. “I really don’t think that’s how Father’s Day works, Mister Stark,” he remarks, “but I do have a present for you!” he adds excitedly, “do you wanna see it?”
“This first. And, believe me, it’s as much a gift for me as it is for you. Maybe more so.”
He weighs the package in his hand apprehensively and, without breaking eye contact with his mentor backs away into his room until he’s sitting on his desk and Mister Stark has taken a seat on his bed, still watching him expectantly.
“I don’t like this.”
“I’m hurt,” Mister Stark replies, not sounding hurt in the least, “don’t you trust me?”
“I’m currently re-considering that to be a good long-term option.” But he rips the wrapping off without any more complaining and stops. “Did you get me a t-shirt with your face on?”
“Yes,” Mister Stark nods, “Not to be pedantic but I got you a t-shirt with 9 of my faces on it. In hope for less miscommunication from here on out.”
Peter grins, holding up the t-shirt with “The many expressions of Tony Stark” up in front of him. “I think you might be fighting a hopeless battle but I appreciate the thought.”
Mister Stark simply looks at him and, after a moment, Peter glances down at his shirt and begins to laugh. “I pinky promise that I’m not going to kill you.” He jumps up. “Now come on. I’m gonna make you pancakes for Father’s Day, dad.”
He giggles even harder when he hears the longwinded sigh of, “Lord help me,” behind him.
“Love you, too!”