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May slid a small wrapped box across the table, which Peter unwrapped eagerly.
Inside, tucked neatly between layers of blue tissue paper, was a pair of nerdy socks with tiny chemistry beakers printed on them.
“May, these are—” Peter pressed them to his chest. “These are the ugliest things I've ever seen. I love them. Thank you.”
"You're welcome." May ruffled his hair before grabbing another gift. Way bigger, and clearly heavier if the pinch in her brow was anything to go off of. "And this ones from Tony."
Peter blinked. "He— Mr. Stark sent a gift?"
"Eight, actually. He didn't number them or anything so I decided to start with the smallest one."
Peter stared at the box like it might detonate.
“Eight?” he echoed. "He sent eight gifts?"
"Apparently." May shrugged. "I told him he didn't have to, but he said I could either accept the eight or he'll be back on Christmas with a whole sack."
Peter reached out and poked the box. It didn’t hiss or beep, which was the only reason he continued, turning the box around as if there will be some hint on the other side. The wrapping was… immaculate. Not a wrinkle in sight. Ribbon curled like it had been styled by a hairdresser.
Yeah. Tony definitely made someone else do this.
He started peeling it slowly, being careful not to rip the dinosaur adorned paper. (Which, dinosaurs? really?)
"..Is this a blender?"
It was. A very fancy blender, at that. The kind with chrome plating and a touchscreen that's probably connected to the internet.
There was a sticky note taped to the box, written in Tony’s aggressively fast, almost-illegible handwriting:
“Saw you trying to liquefy a sandwich in that war crime you call a blender.
This one won’t smoke or implode.
Don’t put metal in it.
—T”
“Oh my god. He saw.”
May didn’t even try to hide her laugh. “Peter, sweetie, the entire building saw. You set off the smoke alarm! Twice!”
Peter covered his face with both hands, groaning loud enough to rattle the light fixtures. "It's a spider thing!"
"Doesn't change the fact you blended a grilled cheese."
Peter sighed, staring at the blender. The blender stared back.
“…Do you think it has Wi-Fi?”
May shrugged. “Probably. He sent a 42-page PDF of the manual to my email at five this morning. I haven't looked at it yet.”
Harley had already torn through the pile of gifts Tony had somehow gotten into his garage without anyone noticing. Lab goggles with auto-tinting lenses. A centrifuge. A new toolbox.
All practical.
All too.. normal for Tony.
Which left one last gift—soft, lumpy, wrapped in tissue paper printed with tiny wrench because Harley's learned a long time ago that Tony has zero taste.
Harley picked it up, already squinting. “This one’s gonna be dumb, isn’t it.”
Tony, through his tablet, smirked behind a mug. “Depends on your definition of dumb.”
“Dumb like you’re proud of it,” Harley said.
“Ah,” Tony nodded, “then yes.”
Harley snorted and peeled back the tissue paper.
Then immediately recoiled.
“Oh my god—” He held it up like it was biohazardous waste. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
It's a t-shirt. The fabric was pale yellow. The text, purple. In what looked like a Barbie font, it read, "SON" and under it "Sulfur Oxygen Nitrogen."
The back had a glittery skull wearing sunglasses. For reasons no earthly soul could explain.
Harley stared at it, horrified.
Tony looked way too proud.
“Why,” Harley asked flatly. “Why would you do this to me. What have I done to deserve this.”
Tony shrugged. “It’s loud. You’re loud. I thought it matched your whole vibe.”
“My vibe is not—” Harley gestured aggressively at the shirt “—whatever the hell this is.”
“Sure it is,” Tony said, sipping his coffee. “Plus, I have a matching one."
Harley drops the shirt, eyes widening in fear. "No. Nonononono—"
Tony grinned, absolutely feral. “Oh, it’s happening. Father-son fashion statement. You and me. Twinning like champs.”
Harley buried his face in his hands. “I’m gonna die. I’m literally gonna die.”
“Yeah, but you’ll look incredible doing it,” Tony said cheerfully.
Daphne had been vibrating in place since breakfast, legs tucked crisscross on the living room rug, glasses slightly crooked from how many times she’d shoved them up to peer at the pile of presents under the tree.
“Okay, Daph,” Tony said, nudging a medium-sized box toward her. “Last one.”
Daphne took it, squealing happily.
“It’s heavy,” she whispered.
Tony tried to play it cool. He failed. His grin looked like he was restraining a fireworks show.
“I mean, it’s… y’know.” He wiggled his hand vaguely. “A box. Box things. Very box-like.”
“Subtle,” Harley muttered.
Daphne tore into the wrapping paper, bounced on her knees, opened the box—
Inside, nestled in foam like a precious relic, was a sleek, glossy dachshund-shaped robot. Long body, stubby legs, floppy metal ears that twitched slightly at the brush of cool air. Its little digital eyes blinked awake, glowing warm amber.
Daphne made a noise so high-pitched Harley swore only bats could hear it.
The robot dog tilted its head, ears whirring softly, then let out a chirpy synthesized boof like it had been practicing for this exact moment.
Tony beamed, practically basking. “Meet your new best friend.” He knelt beside her, taking the dog out of its box. “He uses the same core behavioral code as Dum-E, but with less… fire hazards. And more cuddles.”
“Cuddles,” Harley echoed. “The dog has cuddle protocols?”
Tony shot him a look. “She’s seven. Of course it has cuddle protocols. It also knows her voice, follows commands, plays fetch, and can call me if anything happens. Oh—also it can stabilize itself on stairs.”
Daphne threw her arms around him, practically tackling him. "Thank you, dad!"
Tony held her close, chin on top of her head. "Of course, love."
Daphne was still clinging to him when the robot dog nudged her hip with a tiny metallic bump, as if politely clearing his throat to remind her he existed. She gasped and scrambled back, scooping him up like he was a newborn made of spun glass instead of alloy composite.
“Hi,” she whispered reverently. “Hi, puppy.”
The dog’s tail (antenna?) wagged in rapid little sweeps. He woofed again, softer this time.
“He likes me,” she said, voice trembly and awestruck.
Tony’s smile gentled into something warm enough to melt steel. “Yeah, sweetheart. He’s yours. He was built to like you.”
Harley flopped onto his stomach beside her, chin in his hands. “He’s kinda cute, actually. For a metal wiener dog.”
Daphne gasped again—this time in scandalized offense. “Don’t call him a wiener dog! He’s a dachshund.”
Harley raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. The robot dachshund.”
Tony leaned over, flicking Harley’s ear. “He’s got more processing power than your Xbox. Show some respect.”
"I feel like you have a favorite," Harley mutters.
"Obviously."
Tony wasn't expecting anything.
As a matter of fact, he'd specifically told the kids not to give him anything. There wasn't really anything he needed. And even if that weren't true, it's his job to spoil them, not the other way around.
He got his usual gift from Rhodey, and that was supposed to be it.
So, when he walked into his room after getting back from Tennessee the last thing he expected was a paper bag sitting neatly in the center of his bed.
“…No.”
He walked closer, staring at the bag like it would suddenly explode with glitter. (he wouldn't be surprised, if he was being honest.)
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How does that little shit keep getting in here?”
But he was smiling.
He kneeled on the edge of the mattress, and grabbed the bag.
Inside was denim. A jacket. Folded carefully, like whoever left it hadn’t wanted to crease their handiwork.
Tony lifted it out reverently. Mostly because the stitching looked a little frayed, and he didn't want to risk it falling apart before he even saw it.
The jacket unfolded in his hands with the stiff, uneven weight of something homemade—something made by multiple someones, if the chaotic stitching was anything to go by.
Patches covered the back like a scrapbook exploded on denim. AC/DC, Suicidal Tendencies. One of those cheap little ones of his own helmet. There was a little bi flag on the hem, right next to a rainbow butterfly.
Across the upper back, in red thread was his name.
STARK.
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. Of course they would.
He flipped the jacket over.
More patches. Smaller ones. Goofier ones. Much more… them.
A little enamel moth—Daphne. She’d been on a moth kick ever since she saw one on the balcony last spring and ascribed it a whole arc.
A bubblegum patch—Harley. He's been sending Tony that stupid bubblegum song for weeks now.
A hand-sewn Spider-Man logo—Peter's, obviously. Uneven. Messy. Threads pulled too tight in some spots. But detailed, in the way that said someone spent far too long on it.
Tony didn’t realize his eyes stung until he blinked.
He slipped the jacket on before he could overthink it. The denim was stiff, not broken in yet, but it fit shockingly well. Custom-measured, probably. Which meant someone had roped JARVIS into this.
Now that he's thinking of it, that's probably what Harley was doing when he took Tony's phone last month. He should've known something was up when he didn't see anything changed.
He walked around the bed to look at himself in the mirror.
The patches. The uneven stitches. The color choices that made no sense. The pride in every crooked seam.
He swallowed, hard.
“…God, I’m gonna cry.”