Chapter Text
“‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.”
Tony Stark groans dramatically and flops his head against the back of the couch. “I'm going to take the batteries out of that thing if I have to hear that song one more time,” he threatens.
His nearly-ten-month-old giggles happily and slams her little hand down on the singing reindeer again—a gift from Rhodey just to torture Tony this holiday season—launching the toy into a terrible rendition of Jingle Bells.
Tony sighs, sitting up to get a better glimpse of the baby playing on the floor of the living room, surrounded by a war zone of toys and board books.
“All those nice, silent toys, and you choose that one as your favorite,” he grouses. “I'm sticking that thing in the diaper bag next time Uncle Rhodey babysits. See how he likes being subjected to hours of nonstop holiday classics.”
Morgan squeals. The stupid reindeer starts singing We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Tony's head throbs.
At least it's keeping her entertained. Mostly. Tony still knows better than to take his eyes off his child for more than ten seconds. She hasn't slowed down since the day she learned how to crawl; she's a nonstop tornado from the moment she wakes up until she goes back to sleep. And she gets into everything—hence why the Christmas tree is tucked safely behind a baby gate this year with no ornaments on any low-hanging branches.
Still, at this point Tony is wondering if the inevitable damage would be worth it for a five minute power nap. Just closing his eyes sounds heavenly right now. If Pepper wouldn't kill him, he might consider it.
Their wonderful, beautiful child has decided sleep is for the weak. The past month has been a losing battle when it comes to bedtime. Sleep regression at its finest, and Stark children aren't known for doing anything halfway. Stubborn little monsters.
Those are your genes at work, you know, Pepper's voice echoes in his head.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he says to Morgan, leaning over to brace his arms on his knees. He could look at her all day; the dark hair, big brown eyes, button nose, wearing her white and blue long-sleeved onesie with penguins on it. In the past, he scoffed at parents who constantly prattled on about how adorable their child was. Babies are just little chubby potatoes that drool and poop, he'd think to himself. Nothing cute about that.
Then he had one of his own. And Morgan? She's the cutest baby ever. No contest.
The sudden rumble of the elevator draws both of their attention.
Oh, thank God.
Morgan jolts her head up and swivels around at the sound, toys forgotten in an instant.
“Who is that, kiddo?” Tony asks, checking his watch. “Who's here?”
Morgan stares intently in the direction of the elevator. Kid seems to have an internal clock going for two very important points in her daily schedule—one that tells her when it's time to eat, and another that tells her when a certain someone is due to arrive home.
Her eyes dart back to Tony for a brief moment, and she grunts, lifting a hand in a flailing motion.
“What?” Tony asks in an exaggerated voice, eyebrows raised. “Is it big brother? Is it Peter?”
Morgan lets out a short screech, her body practically vibrating with excitement as the soft ding of the elevator announces its arrival at the top floor, and the doors slide open.
“There he is.”
Tony watches as his sixteen-year-old steps into the penthouse, hair slightly mussed and cheeks tinged pink from the cold.
“Mo Mo!” Peter wastes no time in making his way over. He drops his backpack next to the couch and promptly flops down on the floor in front of his little sister.
The baby's eyes widen, face breaking into a mirroring grin as she squeals with joy, making grabby hands toward the teen.
“I know, I missed you too,” Peter says, reaching out to tickle her stomach. “But guess what? It's officially winter break—that means no school for two weeks!”
“Puh, puh, puh!” Morgan babbles.
“Did you hear that, Dad? She's trying to say ‘Peter.’” He turns back to the baby. “Mo, say Peter. Peter. Puh, puh—Peter.”
Morgan watches him in fascination, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water but no actual sound coming out. She's very into babbling now, a conglomerate of “dadadada”s and “gagaga”s a new staple in her rapidly evolving vocabulary, but she hasn't officially said anybody's name yet with meaning.
Tony doesn't think he could find it in himself to be mad if his daughter says her brother's name before his. When did he get so soft?
“How are you so adorable?” Peter is asking the baby, who answers with a steady stream of babbling.
She reaches out and grasps his nose.
Tony is so busy trying not to grin like an idiot at his kids that he almost doesn't notice Peter isn't wearing something he should be. It's a testament to his baby-induced exhaustion that he didn't clock it the moment the teen walked in the door.
His brow furrows. “Peter.”
The kid doesn't look up, his focus still on Morgan. “Yeah?”
“Where's your sling?”
After the near tragedies of the past two Christmases, Tony and Pepper had firmly laid down the law this year—no Spider-Man the entire week before and after Christmas, just to be safe.
So naturally, Peter had gone and broken his arm just two days before that restriction went into effect. And it wasn't just a small break either—he’d practically snapped the bone in half. At this rate, Tony is certain he'll be fully gray before the kid goes to college.
Peter glances down at his left arm, encased in a deep blue cast that extends up past his elbow, immobilizing the limb almost completely. “Oh.” He shrugs. “I took it off so I could take my flannel off earlier.”
“Uh huh,” Tony says slowly. “And why are you taking that off when it's freezing outside?”
Peter huffs like the answer is obvious. “Because it was hot in the classroom during last period.”
“Got it. And you didn't put the sling back on because…?”
“Because it's stupid.”
Tony raises his eyebrows. “Didn't know it was possible for an inanimate object to be stupid.”
“Well, this one is. I don't want to wear it.”
“Yeah, it wasn't optional. Doc said it stays on for at least two weeks.”
“I heal fast.”
“Which is why you probably only have to wear it for two weeks instead of six,” Tony says, sensing a rising argument and praying the conversation doesn't escalate. He doesn't have the energy to get into it with his teenager today. Sometimes he misses the quiet, reserved kid that fell into their lives two years ago.
He dismisses the thought as soon as it forms, because he remembers why Peter acted that way the first few months after his arrival, and he has no desire for a reappearance of that anxiety and uncertainty that buried the boy's nerdy, cheery personality.
Peter just grunts, grabbing the reindeer that is beginning to rival Chippy for most hated Christmas toy in Tony's book and depositing it in Morgan's lap. It starts singing Deck the Halls again.
The baby giggles.
“Why don't you want to wear it?” Tony presses.
“Because,” Peter says, hiking his shoulders up to his ears, “it's annoying and itchy, and it gets all tangled up, and I hate it.”
Tony recognizes the edge in his son's voice, tinged with frustration that's on the verge of bubbling over. He feels for the kid, he does. He knows Peter hates being cooped up, and the physical limitations of his injury are enough to drive a grown adult crazy—that much more a high-energy, enhanced teenage boy. Not to mention the pain and inconvenience of a broken arm in general. The surgery had knocked him out for three full days, which is saying something considering he wanted to go home the morning after getting impaled and almost bleeding out last year.
“I know,” Tony sympathizes, wishing he could tell the kid to forget about it just so he could see a smile on his face. But there's no way he's going to risk compromising Peter's health for some minor, temporary comfort. “Where is it?” he asks.
“…In my bag.”
“Go get it. I'll help you put it on.”
Peter sighs and deflates, the fight going out of him in one fell swoop. “Hold on, Mo,” he says to the baby, pushing himself to his feet.
The nine-month-old whines her displeasure at the loss of attention. She rolls forward onto her hands and knees, singing reindeer forgotten, and scoots after her brother with impressive speed.
Peter opens up his discarded bag and rustles through it one-handed until he comes up with the black sling he's meant to be wearing. He walks over to the couch, Morgan on his heels, and thrusts the tangled mess out toward Tony without a word.
Tony whistles, turning it over in his hands. “You really did a number on this thing, kiddo.”
Peter sinks down onto the cushions next to him. “I told you, it's stupid,” he grumbles dejectedly, looking at the web of a sling like it's somehow personally offended him. He holds his good hand out to Morgan, who grasps his fingers with both chubby, tiny hands and lets herself be pulled to her feet. She moves to hold onto the edge of the couch and watches with rapt attention as Tony attempts to untangle the impossible knots Peter somehow managed to create with the sling. How did this even happen?
After a solid two minutes of wrestling with the thing, Tony is about ready to agree with Peter. But he's a literal genius, so he's not going to admit out loud that a piece of fabric and velcro got the best of him.
Determination renewed, Tony manages to free the strap, and the shape of the sling finally makes sense again.
“There we go,” he says with a sigh of relief. “Okay, Houdini, come here.” He eases the strap around Peter's neck and shoulder, maneuvering the contraption into its proper place and settling the casted arm into the cradle of the sling.
“There,” Tony says, adjusting the strap where it rests against the kid's neck and tightening it properly. He leans back to admire his work. “How's that?”
Peter shrugs, tucking his injured arm to his stomach and slumping against Tony's side. “Sucks,” he mumbles.
“I know.” He places a hand on the kid's head and rubs his thumb against the tousled curls in a soothing, sympathetic gesture. “That's what you get for stopping a falling concrete wall with one hand.”
Peter lifts his head just enough to glower at Tony. “I kept it from collapsing on five people.”
Begrudgingly, Tony has to acknowledge that. If not for his brave, genius, self-sacrificial kid, lives would have been lost. He's proud of Pete.
But it doesn't make him rest any easier when the teen is out there risking his health and even life to help others. That's why he's built every protocol and protection possible into the Spider-Man suit. It’s not enough, it will never be enough, but it's the best he can do.
Morgan lets out a couple of succinct little cries, cruising a few shaky steps to the right and grabbing onto Peter's pant leg with one chubby fist.
“What's wrong, Mo Mo?” Peter asks.
Tony glances at the time again. “She's probably ready for a bottle and a nap.”
The baby's eyes light up. “Ba ba ba,” she says, bouncing up and down as she continues to clutch her brother's knee.
Her antics make Tony smile, but his body aches at the mere thought of getting up. I'm too old for this.
“I'll get it,” Peter offers.
“Thanks, buddy.”
Tony is relieved that at least someone in this household is still young and spry—and willing to do mundane tasks for the baby. Peter has been like that ever since Morgan was born, almost overeager to do whatever he could to make things easier on the first-time-to-a-newborn parents.
Tony and Pepper had been a little worried at first, wondering if it was some innate insecurity that propelled him to be extra helpful to prove his worth to them. Never mind that the adoption has been in place for nearly two years now and neither hell nor high water could possibly make them consider him anything other than their son.
But it quickly became clear that Peter was simply enamored with his baby sister, wanting to spend every waking moment possible with her. The two are inseparable, and it's honestly adorable.
Still, Tony and Pepper have been careful not to pawn too many baby-related chores off to the teenager or treat him like a live-in babysitter. Though Tony won't lie and say it isn't nice to get a much-needed power nap in every now and again when Pete insists on keeping Morgan entertained for a while.
Peter extricates himself from Tony's embrace and Morgan's grip, maneuvering carefully to avoid tripping over his sister when he stands up.
“She's gonna walk soon,” he says as he skirts around the baby and heads for the kitchen.
“Please don't say that,” Tony groans. He can only imagine what she'll get into once she has zero mobility limits. She's already climbing things with the agility of her spider-monkey brother—coffee table, bookshelves, crib. Both of these kids are going to be the death of him.
As proud as he is of his daughter for each milestone she hits, Tony hopes for at least a little more time before she's running around the penthouse like a miniature tasmanian devil. She does well standing when she has something or someone to hold onto to, but she hasn't quite mastered the art of standing by herself for more than a few seconds just yet.
“Hey, you—come over here.”
He plucks Morgan up off the floor, settling her on his lap to keep her from taking off after Peter and getting underfoot—literally—in the kitchen.
Unfortunately, the already-fussy baby is none too happy at being restrained. Her bottom lip quivers, and she lets out a series of pitiful whimpers once Peter is out of sight, stretching both hands out toward the direction her brother went.
“Hey,” Tony says, flipping her around to face him and standing her up so that her little footie-pajama-covered feet are pressed against his thighs. “He'll be right back, I promise.”
Apparently, the baby doesn't believe him. She stares at him with those big brown eyes for three seconds before bursting into full-fledged cries.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey.” Tony bounces his legs, doing his best to distract. “Just give him two minutes, munchkin.”
Morgan takes no heed of his reassurances, her face reddening as her sobs reach deafening levels. Zero to a hundred, this kid.
“This is why we don't skip our morning naps,” he tells his wailing child.
She ignores him.
“Hey, Chippy’s going to tell Santa to put you on the naughty list,” he warns, the threat completely empty. His gaze flits over to the Elf on the Shelf currently sitting on the mantle, soot on his face and backside with some note about making sure the fireplace is turned off come Christmas Eve.
Tony rolls his eyes. He really thought he'd locked that thing away for good when the decorations were put up last year. Somehow the elf has returned to torment him.
“I'm almost done,” Peter calls from the other room, his voice nearly inaudible over the baby's cries.
“I spend all day with you, and this is how you thank me?” Tony asks. “I see how it is. Chopped liver.”
Morgan stretches one flailing hand out in the direction of the kitchen and screeches.
“Thanks, I didn't need my eardrums anyway.”
“I'm back!” Peter hurries into the room, shaking up a full bottle.
Morgan’s sobs immediately die down into sad, hiccupy cries. She reaches for her brother, who retakes his seat on the couch and lets a grateful Tony transfer the baby over to him.
Peter settles Morgan into the crook of his right arm, his left hand holding the bottle as best he can with the cast. He brings it up to her mouth, shushing her with a gentle “shhh.”
She latches on immediately, tears fully abating as she braces her tiny hands on either side of the bottle and begins to chug the liquid down at an impressive pace.
Both Peter and Tony relax at the sudden but welcome silence.
“There we go,” Peter murmurs to the baby, tucking her closer to him.
Morgan grunts a little, clearly unapologetic for her outburst that already seems to be forgotten.
Peter keeps talking to her, and from his position next to them, Tony just watches his kids. He knows he’s probably got a dopey smile on his face but doesn’t care. He’s too busy wondering how in the world he got so lucky.
It's crazy how fast life can change. Just two years ago, he and Pep were living in the Tower alone. Coming home every night to a dark and quiet house. Takeout more often than not. No toys or books or backpacks spread across the tables or sofas. No decorations for every holiday.
Tony can't imagine going back to that.
He doesn't intend to, but he must doze off because next thing he knows, the soft ding of the elevator has him opening his eyes.
A quick glance to his left reveals the sun has sunk away behind the New York skyline, making room for another gray winter evening. To his right, Morgan is fast asleep in Peter's arms, while Peter is also snoring softly, leaning against Tony's arm.
Moments later, the familiar click of heels against the floor make their way through the penthouse.
Peter blinks awake at the sound, mouth stretching open in a wide yawn just as Pepper enters the room. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey.” Pepper stops when she reaches the couch and leans down to kiss Peter's forehead, then Morgan's. “How are my babies today?”
“Good,” Peter answers around another yawn. He adjusts his grip on Morgan.
Pepper threads her fingers through his curls. “And how's your arm feeling?”
“It's okay. Kinda sore.”
She hums sympathetically. “Make sure you take your meds with dinner.”
“I will.”
Pepper gives their son an approving nod and eases down onto the couch next to Tony, pressing a kiss to his lips.
“You look like you had a long day,” she says as she pulls back, amusement coloring her tone. Her eyebrow arches slightly.
Tony grunts, a grogginess still hanging over him from his impromptu nap. Aren’t naps supposed to make a person feel more rested? “You could say that.”
Pepper’s gaze slides over to Morgan, who’s letting out even little breaths as she sleeps, and her lips twist. “I hate to wake her, but she’s not going to sleep tonight otherwise.”
“She won’t sleep tonight either way,” Tony complains, wishing they could figure out how to fix their daughter’s sleep schedule that has a mind of its own. Somehow it’s not as simple as rewiring an arc reactor. “Kid operates on her own clock—up all night, naps during business hours. I tried explaining circadian rhythm to her at lunch, but she didn’t seem interested.”
Peter snorts.
“She’ll get there,” Pepper says tiredly, and she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
Tony rubs a hand over his face, trying to blink away the remaining dredges of sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, and until then, Mom and Dad get to look like extras in The Walking Dead.”
Except for an eye roll, Pepper ignores his comment, instead turning and holding out her hands. “Can I see her, Peter?”
The teen nods, carefully sitting up and shifting the baby over to Pepper.
Morgan stirs at the movement, tired eyes blinking open for a brief moment before drifting shut again.
Pepper rubs her back in a soothing motion, speaking softly to her. “Hey, sweetie.”
The nine-month-old lets out a soft whine, pressing her face into Pepper’s green sweater, fisting the soft material in one chubby hand.
“Ditto, munchkin,” Tony mutters. “That's how I feel when I'm woken up from a dead sleep for no reason.”
“Really?” Pepper says with an eye roll.
“Really,” he retorts. “I have no idea how you manage to take care of a baby, run a company, and still look hot all at the same time. You're Superwoman.”
“As much as I appreciate the flattery, you didn't see me fall asleep during my one o’clock earlier,” Pepper says, but she leans over and kisses him again, and a thousand more flattering comments come racing to his mind.
Peter's nose scrunches at the display of affection. “Gross,” he says before nodding at Morgan and following up with, “I can watch her if you guys want to nap.”
“That's okay, honey,” Pepper says. “We should be getting dinner ready soon anyway. But thank you. Today was your last day of school?”
Peter nods.
“I can't believe Christmas is in less than a week.” Pepper shakes her head and leans against Tony, Morgan still nestled against her. “I’m really glad we decided to keep things quiet this year. No traveling, no parties…hopefully no chaos.” She gives Peter a playful, pointed look.
Tony hums his assent. “Agreed.”
Peter smiles faintly but doesn’t say anything. He looks down at his cast, running his fingers absently along the edge, then at Morgan, who lets out a tiny sigh.
Tony watches him for a moment, an ache flickering in his chest. The kid looks content—comfortable—but there’s something behind his eyes Tony can’t quite pin down. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few weeks leading up to winter break. The stacks of homework Peter brings home nearly every day are enough to make even a nerd cry. He doesn't know what kind of power trip high school teachers are on these days.
It's also highly possible the teen is struggling with some form of seasonal depression—it wouldn't be surprising. The holidays are never easy after losing loved ones. Even with the strained relationship he'd had with his dad, Tony still can't quite shake the ache that makes an appearance every now and then. And his parents died two decades ago. Peter has lost two sets of parents, and at a much younger age. It speaks of his strength and resilience that he's been able to move forward after facing such tragedy.
Last year around this same time, Peter definitely grew quieter than usual. The phase hadn't lasted too long, and then he nearly got himself killed on Christmas Eve, which is enough to distract anybody.
Tony will have to remember to check in on the kid later, maybe have a little father-son heart-to-heart about grief. He's gotten much better at those emotional sort of conversations in the last two years. Wild what having a teenager will do to a person.
Exhaustion burns his eyes, and Tony leans back, slinging an arm around Pepper and pulling Peter a little closer on his other side. “All right,” he says quietly, the fatigue creeping back into his voice. “Let’s call it early. If Maguna wants to sleep now, we all sleep now—while we have the chance.”
Pepper sighs. “You’re probably right,” she says.
“Okay. Goodnight.”
Peter laughs and snuggles into his side—the kid has been tactile ever since Tony's known him, probably in large part due to being deprived of physical affection for so long during the time he spent in foster care.
The thought is depressing, and Tony pulls the sixteen-year-old closer, pressing a quick kiss to his head. He’ll take as many cuddles with his boy as he can, before Peter decides he’s too cool to be seen hugging his old man.
Pepper is warm against his other side, head against his shoulder. Morgan's hand jerks in her sleep, tiny fingers landing on Tony's arm.
His whole world, right here in his arms.
Besides a little more sleep, what more could he ask for?