Work Text:
“Hey Mister Stark,” Peter plops down on the couch next to his mentor who is very intently staring at the tablet propped up against his thighs. He barely blinks when Peter announces himself and he doesn’t get more than a very brief. “Hey kid.” Not even eye contact.
Weird. But it’s not like he’s entitled to this man’s attention every breathing moment. Okay, he kind of is, but he can act like the 16-year-old, mature teenager that he likes to pretend he is for the time being. So, he lets it go. For now.
He manages to keep himself entertained with his phone for another 10 minutes and by turning on the tv he makes it to half an hour. Honestly, he’s proud of his determination and self-control. His body, however, is a lot less in control of itself and from minute 25 to 30 his stomach demands his attention non-stop with a loud growl that would put the Hulk out of a job if tested.
A little banter never really hurt anyone, he figures, and lowers the volume until the flashing pictures in the corner of his eyes are the only proof of the Scrubs rerun he’s watching.
“You know, the service here used to be better,” he jokingly complains, trying to catch his mentor’s attention – because, yes, he’s acting entitled but with two dead parents he thinks he deserves a little more attention. He curls up on the couch trying to look like the starving child he is and starts poking Mister Stark’s thigh with his toe.
“Oh, I miss the times of warm food, a full stomach and enough love to go around,” he laments dramatically until, finally, he gets what he’s asking for and Mister Stark actually looks up and flicks him off. He grins, simply poking him in the side instead as a response. Something seems wrong, though.
Something is off in his posture when he responds to his dramatic antics with his own. His heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. Still, he puts his tablet away and dutifully gets up to somehow procure food, with Peter hot on his tails. They don’t talk through the familiar movements and maneuver through the kitchen in-synch like they usually do.
Still, something’s off.
Mister Stark barely meets his eyes and when he pours the milk into his oatmeal his hand shakes ever so slightly.
“Mister Stark?” he asks, before he can think better of it. He carefully takes the bowl that is being handed to him and studies him for his reaction. “Are you anxious about something?” As very much expected, the first thing Mister Stark does, is glare at him then he very curtly shakes his head at him and tells him to “Just eat, kid, the hypoglycemia is making you delirious.”
“I don’t think so, actually,” he retorts, keeping his voice neutral and calm as if he was talking to a hurt animal. He gives his mentor time to eat some of his oatmeal in peace and tries to restock his own body with enough fuel to get through a serious talk.
When they’re both done and the bowls are meticulously cleaned, Peter is glad when Mister Stark doesn’t immediately go back to hyper focus on his work. He worries, however, when his stare grimly settles on the flickering faces of J.D. and Turk and he feels truly troubled when he starts clenching and unclenching his left hand as if it were cramping.
Okay, so this sign he most definitely knows. How could he ever forget the first time he truly noticed.
He curls himself up next to Mister Stark, most definitely in touching distance but without bridging the last few centimeters between them. He gets comfortable and follows his glance to the blue screen.
“What are you anxious about?” he asks quietly into the near silent room. On the screen someone is being wheeled into an emergency surgery by three frantic doctors.
When Mister Stark exhales deeply like he held his breath before that, Peter almost doesn’t expect a reply.
“It’s stupid, is what it is,” he says eventually but it’s lacking the fire these words would’ve usually held.
“I’ve been told that it usually isn’t,” he replies, intently watching the patient’s rapidly changing vitals on the screen and listening to the constant too fast beeping that he really hopes Mister Stark isn’t also hearing.
“You’re a smart kid, kid.” A tiny smile swings in his voice and Peter mentally pats himself on the back but stays quiet. “It’s a work thing,” Tony says after a small pause and shifts on the couch until his posture is opened up to where Peter’s head is laying. He stretches a little, careful not to establish contact, until he’s more comfortably in his mentor’s space.
“I have a presentation tomorrow. It’s a very boring and uneventful presentation to tell you the truth. Some finance stuff? Honestly, never heard of anything less interesting,” he rambles and Peter lets him, “I tried to tell Pepper to send an assistant to read some numbers of a presentation slide but apparently, they’re a very big partner and yada yada, blah blah and now it’s my job.” He pauses. “I mean, it’s probably for the better, too. This way I get to go out for a while, stop being the house spouse –“ Peter snorts which earns him a hair ruffle “– to my very successful wife and stay-home dad to my very annoying quasi child.” To soften the blow, he gets another hair ruffle. This time the hand lingers for a little while before it’s gone again.
“Anyway, very boring presentation, very smart decision made by the boss herself and the only problem,” he shifts again. His thigh is now resting against the crown of Peter’s head, inviting the contact Peter has been avoiding but now gladly accepts and makes himself more comfortable. He feels Mister Stark loosen up at the familiar position.
“The only problem,” he reiterates, “is the building it’s going to be in.” He flails around with his hand as if in search of something to hold on to, to tether him to the moment, until it comes to rest at the base of Peter’s neck who cranes it to give him better access. He starts unconsciously rubbing circles into his skin and Peter hums contently.
“The last time I had to hold a presentation there was when Obie,” he gulps, “Obadiah Stane was still there. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him but he is… he was –“
“An ass,” Peter finishes for him, bitterness ringing in his voice, “He was a real jerk, Mister Stark.”
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, nodding jerkily “He was a real jerk.”
“So, you’re anxious because you’re thinking about that guy while you’re preparing for this presentation?” Peter asks, not really expecting an honest answer but still taking the grunt in response as confirmation. “I understand that. That must really suck.”
Mister Stark snorts, hand momentarily stopping the caressing and squeezing his neck gently. “It does, Pete.”
“I know what’ll help.” He cranes his neck a little more to send him a sneaky grin.
“Oh, really,” Mister Stark loosens against him, his voice a little less tight than it was before, “Will it end with both of us having a stomach ache?”
“No,” he rolls his eyes, “It’s super healthy, actually.” He pauses for dramatics. “Just pet my hair.”
“What?”
“Just pet my hair,” he repeats calmly, “it’ll make you feel better.”
Mister Stark levels him with an unimpressed glare, “I really don’t think that is how mental illness works.”
Peter wiggles around until he’s dead center in Mister Stark’s lap whose hand is still unmoving at the base of his neck. He points a finger in his face. “First of all – and I can’t believe I get to be the one to tell you this – but oxytocin is thing. And secondly,” he points a second finger, “You love playing with my hair and it always calms you down.”
“I do not.”
“Would you please stop being so stubborn and let me help you?”
“Am not.”
“Oh my god, Mister Stark,” Peter finally exclaims and grasps his wrist to maneuver his hand to the top of his head, “Just pet my hair already.”
(He does.)