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Peter’s been teetering on the edge of his Little side since he blinked awake this morning.
Sitting up in bed, the spiderling’s eyes had widened at the familiar press of his thumb in his mouth, his normal pacifier sitting on his nightstand a short ways away. Hesitantly, Peter had removed his finger, a whimper rising in his throat that he’d hastily shoved aside. He can’t regress today, can’t let his Little side win because he has to go to school, has to ace his Physics exam and hopefully seal his spot as co-captain of the decathlon team next year.
Not to mention the Spider-man suit that’s still hanging, untouched for the past few days, behind his door.
So, Peter had pushed through, had forced himself to get up — like a big boy — and get dressed, brush his teeth, comb his hair. All the while, he could feel his regression rear up; the urge to suck his thumb, sob when the buttons of his jeans wouldn’t connect, smear toothpaste along the mirror because Peter loves to color and maybe Daddy would color with him today after school cause that would be so fun and—
Safe to say, it was an exhausting morning.
May had, thankfully, left for work a little earlier than normal, a sticky note in her neat scrawl stuck to the fridge, reminding Peter to eat breakfast and to text either her or Tony if he needs anything. The sight of the cute little smiley-face — one of the only art pieces May apparently perfected — had nearly been enough to send the boy over the edge completely and he’d reluctantly crumpled it despite the guilt that had jabbed his heart.
Grabbing a poptart from the panty, Peter had sat down at the kitchen table, trying to ignore how difficult it was, to get into the chair by himself. His high-chair, the one with the little stars and turtles, sits tantalizingly close in the corner and the boy forces himself to glance away from it, feeling the ache in his chest grow.
His phone had dinged then, and Peter carefully pulled it from his pocket, not even bothering to wipe the crumbs from his mouth and hands. Tapping at the screen, the boy squints, a grin a mile wide forming at the glow of Tony’s name across the screen.
Morning, buddy. The text says, the blue arc reactor heart getting smudged with strawberry filling as Peter ghosts his finger over it, a happy babble exploding from him before the Little could stop it. You still swinging over here after school right? Movie night and all that?
Swallowing, Peter forces his hands to move, to type out what he hopes is an age-appropriate response and not a complete giveaway to his father-figure just how close he really is to regressing into his Little headspace. Sure sounds good, we can watch disney movies!
There’s a split second of hesitation between Peter’s text and Tony’s and the Little feels his heart start to crawl up his throat, praying with everything in him for his dad to fall for the ruse, at least long enough for Peter to finish the school day. Tony, thankfully, sends back a single thumbs up and an arc reactor heart and Peter sighs, stuffing the rest of his poptart in his mouth and grabbing his backpack from the floor.
Now, it’s third period and, if he’s being completely, one hundred percent honest with himself, Peter isn’t doing so well.
It wasn’t that he’s embarrassed about being a Little. Hell, nearly half of his school is classified as Littles but that doesn’t make it any less annoying sometimes. Bringing his pencil up to his mouth, Peter started chewing on the wood, trying to, once again, resist the urge to suck his thumb.
“Peter—” Ned’s voice, hushed in a whisper behind him, startles the 15-year-old and Peter blinks, turning around with his pencil still in his mouth. Ned, his eyes widening, gently reached forward, pulling the writing utensil away from Peter with a frown. “Uh, you haven’t regressed, right, lil’dude?”
Lil’dude.
Being a Caregiver classification, Ned had immediately picked up on his best friend's own classification, staying with the younger boy during some of his regressions to help his own Caregiver instincts ‘thrive’ as May had explained. The nickname, normally a source of joy and comfort to Peter, now causes him to frown, his Little drop looming closer and closer.
“No—” His voice leaves him in an almost-childlike whine and Peter feels his face go red, hastily reaching for his pencil. Ned’s still studying him, a furrow between his brows and Peter swallows. “Not, uh, not Little right now. Didn’t sleep good, don’t think—”
Trying his very hardest to ignore how that definitely wasn’t a complete or ‘big boy sounding’ sentence in the slightest, the spiderling spins back around in his chair just in time for Mr. Harrington to call everyone’s attention. Thankfully, Ned seems to drop the impending questions in favor of focusing on his physics exam and Peter breathes out a sigh, glancing down at his own test. The first few questions go pretty smoothly, and Peter circles each answer he gets, his confidence growing, kicking his feet under his desk.
He wishes, for a split second, that he had his light-up sneakers on Tony had gotten him a few months ago, but they’re still in his room at the Tower, next to his toy chest and lego table.
But he’s a big boy.
He doesn’t need his Aunty May or his Daddy or his Bestest Friend Forever Ned to help him. Peter can do this test all by himself and get a good grade and everyone will be so proud of him and maybe they can get ice cream and Aunty May will let him use all the gummy worms he wants and—
“Hey, Pee-Pee Peter—” Flash’s voice, nasly and smearing, causes the boy’s head to pop up, glancing from where he was painstakingly coloring in-between the numbers on his test, toward where the bully sits in-front of him. The taller Little’s eyes are blazing, his own chewed pencil pointed toward Peter like a weapon. “Stop shaking my desk, stupid, I can’t focus.”
“Oh,” Glancing away from Flash, Peter looks toward his feet to see that yes, he was accidentally kicking Flash’s desk. Swallowing, Peter flushes, bringing his pencil up toward his mouth and nibbling on the eraser, ignoring the bits that flicker down to his desk. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Ugh.”
With an eye-roll, Flash turns back around and starts on his exam again and Peter bites his pencil harder, wishing that he had his Winnie The Pooh pacifier instead. At Mr. Harrington’s call of “20 minutes left,” Peter flips his paper around, eyes widening when he sees that he’s not even half-way finished with his test. Hands shaking, the boy quickly starts on the top question, trying his hardest to not color the numbers as he goes.
It’s when, in his haste to get to the very last page, Peter gives himself a paper cut. It’s not very big, would barely even be noticeable under normal circumstances, a small knick near the edge of his thumb.
But Peter’s already so close to the edge of his Little regression that this sends him completely over.
His cry of pain starts low, more of a whine but when more blood wells from his red finger, Peter sobs loudly, startling the other students next to him. Stuffing his fingers in his mouth, the boy cries as his thumb stings, barely registering Mr. Harrington as his teacher crouches next to his desk.
“Hey, hey, Pete.” Gently pulling the crying Little closer, Mr. Harrington carefully starts to pull Peter’s fingers from his mouth, cringing slightly at the way the 15-year-old sobs. Brushing away Peter’s tears, Mr. Harrington meets the boy’s eyes. “It’s okay, buddy, it’s — Have you felt close to your Little side all day, hm?”
“Want my Daddy—” Instead of answering, Peter babbles, reaching up with his free hand to dig his small fingers into his eyes. “Wan’ Dada—”
“Mr. Harrington, uh, sir, I can take Pete while you go call the nurse?” Ned, his brows furrowed in worry, leans up from his desk, reaching across toward where his best friend sobs. Practically falling out of his chair when his teacher nods, Ned gently tucks Peter’s face under his chin, rubbing one hand up and down the crying Little’s back. “Shh, lil’dude, shh, it’s okay.”
“He’s loud.” Flash, his nose wrinkled in disgust, turns around in his own seat, pointing toward Peter. “Mr. Teacher, tell Pee-Pee to shut it.”
“Hush, Eugene.” Raising a hand when the bully opens his mouth again, Mr. Harrington sighs, walking quickly toward the phone on the wall. Tugging the receiver from the charger, Mr. Harrington dials the nurses office, speaking above Peter’s cries toward the rest of the class. “Eyes on your own papers. If I see any wondering gazes, you’ll be marked down — Hi, yes, this is Mr. Harrington. I have a Little in my care who’s regressed, yes, Peter Parker—”
Sniffling at the sound of his name, Peter turns his face from Ned’s chest, his still-bleeding thumb in his mouth. “Wan’ Daddy.”
“He’s gonna be here soon, buddy.” Brushing away Peter’s tears, Ned reaches into his best friend’s backpack, pulling out his emergency pacifier and placing it in the boy’s mouth, cutting his sobs off. “There we go, it’s okay, Pete. Can I see your finger? Please?”
Shaking his head, Peter turns his face away from Ned’s gentle hands, sucking his pacifier harshly. His free hand continues to clutch at the young Caregiver’s shirt, however, twisting the fabric in-between his fingers. Both boys turn to face Mr. Harrington as their teacher walks closer, the man’s frown causing a deep furrow between his brows.
Leaning down, he meets Peter’s eyes, his frown deepening at the tears that still glisten down the Little's red cheeks. “Principle Sherri’s on her way to take you to the nurse, alright, bud?”
“Daddy there too?”
“They’re going to call him as soon as we get your finger looked at, okay? We have to fix the boo-boo first. Do you understand, kiddo?”
Nodding despite the way his face screws up with more tears, Peter nods, sniffling. Gathering his feet underneath of him once Mrs. Sherri knocks on the door, the 15-year-old takes the woman’s gentle hand as she reaches out, guiding him from his classroom and toward the nurses office. Glancing behind him at his still-whispering class, Peter ducks his head, an embarrassed flush coloring his damp cheeks.
“Pete?” Ned’s voice, echoing in the silent hallway, stops the Little and Mrs. Sherri in their tracks and Peter turns, giving a small wave when his best friend smiles gently. “I’ll call you later, alright? We can play superheroes tomorrow—”
“And-And play cars and legos?” Peter hiccups, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “And eat snacks? Goldfish and apple sauce and fruit snacks and chips—”
“Yeah, lil’dude. If you’re Big again, we’ll even go see a movie. The new, scary one—”
Mrs. Sherri taps her foot. “Mr. Leeds—”
Holding up his hands, palms out, Ned lets out a small, bashful chuckle, starting to duck back into his classroom doorway. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll just go, uh, finish my test now. Bye, Pete.”
Waving away his best friend, Peter carefully follows behind Mrs. Sherri as she finally leads him into the nurse's office. Mary, the head nurse, immediately sets up a small cot for Peter in the little back room, wrapping a spare, thin blanket around the Little’s shoulders. Brushing a gentle hand across the teen’s forehead, the older Caregiver shakes her head.
“No fever, it doesn’t seem like it.” Cupping Peter’s chin in her palm, the nurse clicks her tongue. “Does your tummy hurt at all, darling?”
Shaking his head, Peter sniffles. “Uh-uh. Can we-we call Daddy now, please?”
“Let me see that finger first and then I’ll go call him. We don’t want our hands to be all yucky right?” Gently taking Peter’s hand when he hesitantly holds it out, Mary squints down at the cut, reaching up to push her glasses further up her nose. “You must’ve been really close to regressing if this little thing was enough to set you off. Have you felt like this all day, honey?”
Biting his lip, Peter nods. Sighing, Mary quickly cleans the tiny cut and wraps it in a blue bandaid, the little stars decorating the surface catching Peter’s eye. Bringing his finger up, he traces the outlines of the stars with his free hand, listening vaguely as Mary talks low on the phone in the next room.
Glancing up when the woman lumbers back in, Peter hiccups. His pacifier’s still in his mouth, the tit getting chewed on and he whines when Mary reaches for it, allowing the Caretaker to pull it away even as his eyes fill with tears. Shushing him, Mary quickly pops in a thermometer, double checking her suspicions from earlier, nodding when no fever is detected.
“Daddy picked up, sweetheart. He’s on his way, okay? Do you wanna lay down for a minute—?” Cutting herself off, her eyes widening, Mary ghosts a maternal hand over Peter’s jeans, glancing from the boy’s face, down toward his legs. “You’re potty trained, Pete? Do you need to go potty? Your file said you’re Little age is 5, but accidents happen—”
“Uh, no, no, I’m a big boy.” Holding up his hand, all of his fingers splayed, Peter wiggles them. “See?”
“That’s right, hon, you are a big boy but do you need to go potty ?”
Thinking about it for a second, his brows furrowing, Peter shifts on the little cot, reaching for his pacifier from the nurse but she holds it out, away from him. Huffing, he shakes his head, a loose curl falling into his eyes and he swipes it away angrily, his bottom lip jutting out.
“No potty, want paci, want-want Daddy.”
Satisfied with this answer, Mary finally hands Peter back his pacifier, fixing the teen’s blanket as it slips from around his shoulders. She’s just turned around, reaching for a water cup along the counter, when the sound of the nurse’s station door opening interrupts.
“You don’t need to follow me in here, I got it, thank you.” Tony’s voice is slightly muffled, getting clearer as he waves away the school’s receptionist and Peter stands up so fast he nearly trips. “Alright, Mrs. Mary, where’s my boy at—?”
“Daddy.” Sobbing fully again, Peter staggers over toward the billionaire just as he loops around the doorframe, the boy’s trembling hands held up and out toward his father in the universal signal to be held. “ Daddy —”
“Oh, baby.” Immediately, Tony drops Peter’s backpack and diaper bag to the floor, swooping on one knee to gather his Little into his arms. Tucking Peter underneath his chin, Tony presses sweet kisses against his kid’s hairline, nuzzling at Peter’s soft curls. “Shh, shh, hey, bubba, it’s okay.”
“He isn’t running a fever, Mr. Stark.” Showing Tony the thermometer when the superhero glances up, Mary sighs, smiling gently at the way Peter clings to his Caregiver. “Didn’t have an accident either, I think he just— really wanted to come to school today and ignored the signs of his next regression.”
“We’ve talked to him about this a million times, I swear.” Shaking his head, Tony gently runs his hand up and down Peter’s back, patting lightly when he continues to sob. “I’m assuming you already called May—?”
“We did, and left her a message explaining the situation.”
“Good, good. I already talked to her, she's updated.” Giving a jerky nod, Tony reaches down, gathering his son’s backpack and diaper bag back into his free hand, carefully adjusting Peter in his arms. Pointing behind him, toward the door, Tony takes a small step backwards. “I’m just gonna—”
Waving them away, Mary grabs the disinfecting wipes from the cabinets, spraying down Peter’s cot. “Go take care of your Little, Mr. Stark. Give us a call when Peter feels better. We’ll send his makeup work home if he’s not back in a few days.”
“Awesome, coolio, thank you.”
Giving a small salute, Tony makes his way out of the office and down the hall, pausing at the check-in area to officially sign Peter out. The boy grumbles, rubbing at his eyes with a tiny fist, holding out his bandaged hand, waving it in Tony’s face. Ducking out of the way of his son’s wiggling fingers, Tony laughs.
“Let’s not poke Daddy in the eye, okay, buddy? Uncle Happy’s driving us home, but I still wanna be able to see.”
“Uncle Hap here too?”
Tony kisses Peter’s forehead. “Yeah, sweetheart, Uncle Happy’s here too. See if you can use that cute face of yours to butter him up, yeah? Maybe we can convince him to get McDonald’s on the way home.”
“Oh, m’kay.”
Sniffling, Peter settles back against Tony’s chest as they finally step outside, the slightly chilly autumn air causing the boy to shiver. Tightening his hold around his baby, Tony quickly walks across the little front lawn, giving a wave toward Happy as his friend ducks out of the car. Handing Peter’s bags toward the driver, Tony meets his friend’s eyes, Happy’s brows furrowed more so than normal.
“He’s okay, Boss? He’s good—?” Happy asks, reaching out with his free hand to brush Peter’s hair from his forehead, his touch gentle. “He looks fine—”
Nodding, Tony wrenches the back seat’s door open, pulling Peter’s Thor-themed blanket off of the boy’s car seat, settling his son in it instead. Ignoring the way Peter whines, Tony quickly gets him buckled in, tucking his blanket along his lap. “He’s not sick, got a little paper cut though. They think that’s what set his regression off, he’s been fighting it so hard lately, I don’t understand.”
Shrugging, Happy sets Peter’s bags along the floor at the kid’s feet before shutting the door on his side. He speaks above the roof of the car. “He’s stubborn, a lot like you actually.”
“You know, I didn’t ask to be roasted. I didn’t even mention it— Ow, Peter, don’t pull on Daddy’s hair, it’s already almost falling out as it is— Like father, like son, you could say.”
“Something like that, Boss.”
Waving away his friend’s laugh, Tony finally gets his son settled in his seat, pressing a few loving kisses against Peter’s baby-soft cheeks before pulling away. Peter’s getting tired, his doe-eyes drooping, filling with aggravated tears and he whimpers as Tony goes to shut the door, reaching out.
“N-No, Daddy.” Peter sobs, big crocodile tears spilling down his red cheeks. “No, stay. Stay, Daddy—”
“Shh, bubba, I’m getting in on my side. One second, one second.”
Flinching at the way Peter shrieks when the door is carefully closed, Tony quickly makes his way to the other side, ripping the door open and practically falling into the seat. The sound of his child’s cries, his Little’s face screwed up in distress, causes something deep within Tony’s own chest to ache, somewhere behind the blue gleam of the Arc Reactor.
Leaning across the seat, not even bothering with his own seatbelt, Tony cups his son’s red face in his palms, brushing away Peter’s tears with his fingers.
“Hey, hey—” Cooing, Tony makes soothing sounds in the back of his throat, carefully pulling Peter’s pacifier from the boy’s mouth as his Little sobs. “Oh, baby, shh, I’m right here. Please calm down, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”
Tugging at his car seat straps, Peter kicks his legs in anger, more screams tearing from his throat. Thanking everything both above and below for reinforcing all of Peter’s Little equipment with vibranium after an unfortunate high chair incident, Tony cards his fingers through Peter’s hair. Thankfully, the Tower isn’t too far from Peter’s school and they’re pulling into the garage before Happy can rip the steering wheel from the holster.
Before they’ve even fully parked, Tony’s wrenching his door open and jogging to Peter’s side, unbuckling the Little and lifting him into his arms. Peter, still sobbing, buries his face into his father’s chest, smearing both snot and tears against the man’s faded band shirt.
“Daddy, Daddy—” Peter babbles, his small voice wet. He shivering, practically clawing at Tony and the man swallows, rocking his son slowly back-and-forth. “Dada—”
“Shh, shh.” Nodding at the way Happy points toward the elevator, both Tony and the driver make their way upwards, Peter’s bags getting passed from Tony, back to Happy. “Petey-Pie, shh, it’s okay. Are you tired, pumpkin? Are you hungry?”
Peter, instead of answering, just whimpers, curling up tighter in Tony’s arms and the billionaire sighs, shoulders loosening as they finally step off the elevator and into the penthouse. New York’s skyline glistens in the distance, the setting sun turning the sky a lovely orange-blue and Tony lightly bounces Peter as they both stop near the tall windows.
“I’m gonna put his bookbag in his room, Boss.” Happy says, keeping his deep voice a low rumble. “His diaper bag—?”
“You can put that on the couch, I gotta go through it anyways.”
Holding up his hand, his bandaid wet with drool now, Peter sniffs. “I got a boo-boo, Daddy.”
“You did, baby. Does it still hurt?” Sighing again in relief when Peter shakes his head, Tony finally closes the blinds as the sky darkens, waving away Happy as his friend steps back toward the elevator. “You don’t gotta stay, Hap, I can take it from here. Thanks, by the way.”
“Don’t mention it. If you need anything, Boss, just let me know.” Reaching out, Happy gently adjusts Peter’s sweater, giving a small wave when the Little blinks up at him. “Bye, bud, try not to run your old man too ragged, alright?”
Laughing at the serious nod Peter does, both Happy and Tony slide away from the window, Tony going toward the kitchen and Happy toward the elevator. A final goodbye is exchanged before the elevator doors close behind the driver, leaving Tony and Peter in relative silence. Patting Peter’s back when his son wiggles, Tony starts to set the boy down, starting toward the fridge.
“No, no, Daddy hold me. Daddy hold me.” Peter whines, grabbing at Tony’s pant leg, pausing the man in his tracks. “Please—”
Clicking his tongue at the way the spiderling blinks up at him, his doe eyes wide and red-rimmed, Tony lets out a small groan as he leans down, gathering the boy back into his arms. Hitching Peter back into his normal spot, Tony huffs.
“You’re lucky you’re so cute, bug.” Tugging open the fridge, Peter’s hand clutching at his shirt collar, Tony grabs a spare apple sauce packet from the door, glancing down at Peter when his Little shakes his head. “What? Do you want something else?”
“ ‘eese ‘tick.”
“Please take your paci out, Pete, I can’t understand you.”
Doing as told, Peter lifts his head just enough from under his Caregiver’s chin to speak, his tiny voice broken by a yawn. “Can I have a cheese stick, Dada?”
“What do we say?”
“Please?”
“Good job.” Kissing his son’s forehead, Tony puts the apple sauce packet back, grabbing a cheese stick from the drawer instead. Warming it in his palm, Tony hums as he walks, smiling gently at the way Peter traces the Arc Reactor, his Little’s peaked nose haloed in blue. Glancing from his son, toward the boy’s Black Widow decorated high chair in the corner, Tony sighs. “Are you gonna sit in your chair like a big boy or do you need to use your Aunty Tasha chair?”
“Stay with you, Daddy.”
“Or you could sit on my lap.” Huffing when Peter wiggles closer, Tony lets out a low chuckle. Taking a seat at the table, Tony situates himself so his son’s leaning over the wood, handing Peter the cheese stick when he reaches for it. “Don’t choke on it, sweetheart, you’ve already given me enough heart attacks today as it is.”
“Your heart ‘kay?” Not waiting for an answer, Peter leans backwards, a bit of his cheese still stuck to his lips. Kissing at the Arc Reactor, Peter giggles, wiping away the crumbs left behind. “Oops.”
Grabbing a napkin from the case in the center of the table, Tony wipes both his Little’s hands and his own chest, throwing it half-heartedly toward the trash can. It bounces along the rim before falling to the floor and Peter laughs, his mirth increasing at the way Tony playfully blows a raspberry-kiss against his cheek. Grinning, Tony leans back, tapping along the table.
“Alright, alright, eat your cheese, bubba. I wanna put another bandaid on your finger after you’re done.”
Nodding, Peter eats the rest of his snack, gulping down a full cup of water before he’s finally done, practically falling back against his father’s chest. Rising from his chair, Tony wipes the table with a cloth before wrapping his arms around his son, cradling Peter against himself as the spiderling yawns. Walking down the hallways toward Peter’s room, Tony hums.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom, kiddo?” It’s a few seconds of contemplation before finally Peter nods, kicking his feet against Tony’s hips as the man nudges his bedroom door open. “Okay, go pee-pee while I get your comfy clothes out. Make sure to wash your hands.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Yes, we sing Happy Birthday three times. Good remembering, bug.” Brushing back Peter’s unruly curls from his eyes, Tony waits until the boy’s in the bathroom, the door cracked behind him, before turning toward his dresser. Tugging the top drawer open, Tony studies the shirts and pants, holding up a pair, speaking over his shoulder. “Do you wanna wear your Cap clothes, Pete?”
“Yeah! And my-my I’on Man socks.”
“They don’t really match but okay.”
Shaking his head, Tony gets out the clothes, laying them along Peter’s navy comforter. Smoothing his hand over the soft fabric, Tony turns just as Peter skids out the bathroom, holding his bandaid in his uninjured hand. Grabbing at the bandage, Tony wrinkles his nose at the wet fabric, throwing it toward the little trash can near Peter’s desk.
“Alright, sit up here for me,” Curling his hands under Peter’s arms, Tony gently guides the boy to sit on the edge of his bed, tugging his son’s socks off as he goes. “We’re gonna put on comfy clothes before I get you a new bandaid.”
“So I-I can be comfy?”
“That’s why they’re called comfy clothes, scooter. Arms up for me, please.”
Carefully getting Peter dressed, Tony brushes a hand through his Little’s hair, smoothing down the tousled chestnut curls. Once done, the billionaire holds out his hands, allowing Peter to climb back into his arms, resting his own chin on top of his son’s head.
“Bandaid time, and then I think you need to take a nap before dinner.” Kissing at Peter’s temple when the boy whines, Tony shushes him, rocking slowly back-and-forth as he walks down the hallway back toward the living room, making a quick stop in his own bathroom to grab another bandaid. “Don’t give me the attitude, Peter, you’re tired.”
“ ‘m not—”
“Yes you are, I know you didn’t sleep good last night. Aunty May told me earlier.”
Pouting, Peter sighs harshly, no double annoyed at being backstabbed by both of his Caregivers. He doesn’t argue again, however, and Tony sags a bit in relief, grabbing a spare Bob The Builder water bottle when Peter sticks his fingers in his mouth. Gently pulling them out, Tony replaces it instead with the bottle, listening as Peter drinks greedily.
“All that crying earlier made you thirsty, huh, peanut.” Patting his son’s back once the boy finishes, Tony grabs the bottle from his son’s hands, setting it on the coffee table as he sits them both down. Curling up tighter in his arms, Peter sniffles. “Let me see your finger, I got a new bandage for you.”
“It’s red.” Peter whispers when Tony unwraps it, ghosting his free hand over the fabric. “Like your I’on Man suit, Dada.”
Tony nods, kissing his son’s hurt finger once before wrapping it up. “That’s right, baby. Like your Spidey suit too. When you go back to being Big again, we gotta talk about everything. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the lack of logs this past week, kiddo. It’s not like you were grounded.”
Blinking owlishly up at him, clearly only partly understanding in his regressed, Little state, Peter nods sleepily. A yawn stretches his jaw, one of his tiny hands rubbing at his eyes, Peter settles further against his father, cuddling closer. Chest expanding in an amused, loving huff, Tony scratches at his baby’s scalp, resting his cheek against Peter’s head. His son’s soft baby curls tickle his nose and Tony sighs again.
“Get some rest, my little lovebug. I gotta figure out what to make for dinner later.”
“Hm, pop-tarts? With chocolate milk?”
“That’s not dinner, silly.” Kissing Peter’s temple when his kid giggles, Tony grabs the spare fleece blanket from the back of the couch, wrapping it around both himself and Peter. “We’ll see what Pepper wants when she gets home, huh? See what Mama wants.”
Instead of answering, Peter softly snores, both of his hands clutching at Tony’s shirt. He’s knocked out so cold that he doesn’t react to the way Tony laughs, just buries his face deeper in his Caregiver’s chest with a small sniffle. Tugging the spiderling impossibly closer, Tony rests his lips against his son’s temple, feeling Peter’s heartbeat drum under his kiss, his own heart expanding.
“What am I gonna do with you, Petey-pie? What am I gonna do with you?”