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The living room of the Stark cabin was filled with the soft hum of classic rock playing low in the background, the scent of cinnamon candles mixing with the sharp tang of pumpkin guts. Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, hands deep in the squishy innards of a particularly stubborn gourd.
“You know, kid,” Tony said, watching Peter dig with surgical intensity, “you could probably invent a pumpkin-gutting drone in the time it's taken you to scrape that thing.”
Peter glanced up, a smudge of orange across his cheek. “Where’s the fun in that? This is supposed to be traditional. You can’t outsource Halloween.”
“Says the kid who once used a web shooter to hang cobweb decorations. Real subtle.”
Peter grinned. “It was festive.”
Tony rolled his eyes but smiled, reaching over to pluck a pumpkin seed off Peter’s head. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Peter looked up again, more serious this time. “You more than like me, right?”
Tony paused, hand still mid-air with a gooey seed pinched between his fingers. “Oh boy. We getting emotional already? It’s not even It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown time.”
Peter smirked but his voice softened. “Just checking.”
Tony tossed the seed into a bowl, leaned back on his hands, and looked at the kid—his kid, even if no paperwork said so. “Yeah, Pete. I more than like you. I tolerate you. Which, in Stark terms, is basically unconditional love.”
Peter laughed, genuinely this time, and Tony felt that little warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with arc reactors and everything to do with the dork sitting beside him.
They worked in comfortable silence for a while, Peter carving a web design onto his pumpkin, tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrated. Tony was going for a minimalist Iron Man mask—naturally—though his lines were crooked, and he’d already broken two carving knives.
“You know,” Peter said after a while, “I used to do this with Aunt May when I was little. She always let me pick the biggest pumpkin, even if it was too heavy for me to carry.”
Tony nodded, gaze soft. “She sounds like a good one.”
“The best.” Peter’s knife paused mid-curve. “She would’ve liked this.”
“She would’ve liked how good you are at cleaning pumpkin guts, that’s for sure,” Tony replied, trying to keep it light. “Seriously, you missed your calling. This is like watching a neurosurgeon at work.”
Peter chuckled, and the moment passed—soft and quiet like the falling leaves outside the window.
When they were finally done, Peter stood back to admire their work.
Tony squinted at his own pumpkin. “Okay, that looks more like a very surprised toaster than Iron Man, but I stand by it.”
“Mine’s a little crooked,” Peter admitted, “but it’s got character.”
Tony flicked off the lights and flipped on the tiny LED candles inside their pumpkins. The room glowed with warm, flickering orange. Peter’s webbed design cast shadows that danced along the walls, and even Tony’s surprised toaster took on a kind of charm in the dim lighting.
They stood there together for a moment—man and kid, genius and spider—watching their jack-o’-lanterns glow.
Peter nudged him. “Happy Halloween, Mr. Stark.”
Tony slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder. “Happy Halloween, kid. And hey—next year, we build a pumpkin-launching cannon. Deal?”
Peter beamed. “Deal.”