Chapter Text
"Mister Stark," One of the nannies, an older woman with kind eyes and a round face, held a bundle of blankets out to him. "Peter has been out of the NICU for a week, sir. This is a vital time for him to bond with his parent, and you need—"
"—just on my way out, Nancy," Tony tried to wave her away. She held her ground, shoving the infant out toward him again. Tony caught a glimpse of the baby's tiny red face; his small button nose and one little hand peeking out from his swaddle. It was cute, almost—for an infant. Tony frowned.
"Just hold him for five minutes," The woman insisted. "Miss Potts told me that you have no meetings today, so I'm sure whatever important work you have to do can wait for five minutes, sir."
Pepper was a traitor. She'd been nagging him constantly, the last week, telling him to spend time with the baby and telling him that he needed to stop his dalliances and his drinking. It was bullshit, all of it.
Tony sighed, pinching his nose. He had a headache; all he wanted was a drink and a few hours alone in the workshop to collect his thoughts. He didn't want to think about the baby or the nurses or any of it.
"Fine," He rolled his eyes slightly, awkwardly holding the crook of his arm out toward the nurse. A bright smile broke out across her face and she gently placed the baby in his arms, rearranging his limbs so that the infant was comfortably nestled against Tony's chest.
For a second the infant laid there, silent and asleep, and Tony got his first real look at him. His face was wrinkled and his features were tiny, much too small for him to distinguish as his or Mary's, rest her soul. For a moment, for one tiny, blissful moment, it was just Tony and his son, Tony and Peter. And, alright, maybe he could do this after all.
But then the baby opened his eyes. He squinted, a tiny look of confusion on his little face. The baby blinked, stared up at Tony, then screamed.
Tony reacted before his brain caught up; he shoved the infant back into the arms of the nanny, turned on his heel and fled.
He wasn't cut out for this, for fatherhood. His son had only been alive for a mere few weeks, and already Tony had fucked it up.
None of the staff tried to make him hold the baby again, after that.
Every time Tony saw the baby, he was bigger; smarter, more capable. He was a helpless, screaming newborn, and then he was months old, laughing and clapping whenever Pepper or Rhodey or one of the staff entered the room, and withdrawing into himself, suspicious, every time that he laid eyes on Tony.
"He's wary of strangers," one of the night nurses told Tony one evening, as he stood at the entrance to the nursery, watching the sleeping infant from afar. "He'll get used to you, Mister Stark, he just needs to see you more. He's just a baby, he only cries because you're unfamilliar to him."
"Hmm," Tony hummed noncomitally, staring at the rise and fall of his son's small chest and listening to the gentle sound of his restful breathing.
His son was only months old and already, Tony was a stranger.
But a stranger was better than a reincarnation of Howard Stark, Tony decided. Tony had despised his father; his father had hated his grandfather, and his grandfather had fled to America because he hated his great-grandfather so much. It was only destiny for a Stark to be a terrible father, but Tony could break the cycle. Tony would break the cycle.
He wouldn't be suffocating and aggressive and abusive, like Howard. He would never scream at his son, or hit him or force him to mature before he was ready.
No. It was best if he just provided; gave him the best nurses, the best nannies, the best tutors. He would give anything, anything for his son to grow up happy and healthy and okay, far from the Stark curse of shitty dads.
It was best that he removed himself from the equation entirely, and allowed his son to grow up unburdened by all of his generational shittiness. As much as his heart yearned to be there, to hold his son and love him fully and undoubtedly, Tony knew that he would only end up hurting the boy. It was better this way.
For Peter's sake.
Tony kept his distance.
At Pepper's insistence, he began to limit the number of women that he brought to the house. It was a safety issue, after all, and it was his responsibility to ensure that no harm came to his young son.
The booze was another issue altogether.
Tony had started drinking very young, and had spent decades chasing the bottom of a bottle. He saw the dirty looks that Peter's nannies and nurses would give him, when they found him in the kitchen at midday, pouring himself a finger of whiskey. He saw Pepper's incredulous glares every time he had a nightcap before leaving the office; heard the hard edge in Rhodey's voice every time he accidentally called the other man drunk.
But without it, without something, anything, his hands would begin to shake and his head would ache. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate; he was useless, without something to take the edge off.
Before Peter was even born, he had been in and out of rehab three times. It didn't work, and Tony couldn't function, couldn't do his job, without a drink, or some adderall, or something to keep him going.
He couldn't stop, but he couldn't risk his bad habits impacting Peter, the way Howard's alcoholism had impacted him, and had led him directly into the same spiral of abuse. He would break the cycle. Peter would be okay.
The first time Peter sat up by himself, Tony was in Vegas, taking shots after receiving his third Apogee Award. One of the Nannies called him, and, when he didn't pick up, sent him a long message documenting the entire event, along with more photographs than was strictly necessary.
After that, the team of Nurses and Nannies began to keep detailed diaries about every moment of the babies life, in both physical and digital form. The diary entries were emailed to Tony at the end of each day, along with photos of the boy, and copies of colourful scribbles that were, presumably, created by Peter.
Peter took his first steps at ten months old, which he was assured was early, and advanced, according to one Nurse. Tony was in Monoco at the time, attending the Grand Prix—and all associated after-parties—and recieved the message just before he fell into bed with the lovely gentleman who had driven his car in the race that day.
It became routine for him to check over the information every night, with a nightcap and a couple more melatonin pills than his doctor had recommended. The boy was already showing signs of genius, even at such a young age, and Tony intended to protect him from the expectations that came with ingenuity at all costs—the was that Howard Stark had not protected him.
Peter's first real word, at eleven months old, was dada.
Tony wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but he figured it had to mean he was doing something right.
He was in Japan, and had only witnessed the moment through a pixellated video sent to him directly by JARVIS. He wished, more than anything, that he could have been there, and seen it, and could be the father that his son deserved.
But he couldn't—generations of Stark's had proven that he couldn't be the father the boy deserved. And so, he stayed in Japan, and he drank himself silly, and, when he returned home to Malibu, he did not visit Peter on the third floor wing, despite how the Nurses and Nannies (and Pepper) begged him to.
He couldn't risk hurting his son the way Howard had destroyed him.