Chapter Text
Tony Stark had read seven parenting books in ten days.
The stack beside his bed had grown so quickly that Pepper had stopped pretending not to notice it. One evening she had stood in the doorway of his room, arms crossed, staring at the collection of brightly colored covers and optimistic titles that promised guidance through every catastrophe childhood could invent. Grief. Trauma. Loss. Anxiety. Nutrition. Healthy routines. She had laughed softly and asked if he understood that parenting books were not instruction manuals. Tony had glanced up from a chapter titled “Helping Children Through Sudden Traumatic Loss” and replied that his current parenting strategy consisted mainly of begging a thirteen-year-old to eat a carbohydrate before wasting away, so he was willing to accept advice from anyone with a publishing contract. Pepper hadn’t argued after that.
Because neither of them knew what to do.
The books were something to hold onto; a blueprint, a distraction. A way to feel useful when everything else felt impossibly fragile.
Peter was still asleep.
Tony stood outside the bedroom door and listened.
Silence.
No muffled gasps. No startled cries. No sounds of someone waking up confused and terrified. Just the low hum of the Tower and the distant whisper of air moving through the vents.
For most people, silence was nothing.
For Tony, lately, it had become a blessing.
The first few nights had been brutal. Peter would jolt awake at every sound, every shift in the weather, every distant rumble of thunder over Manhattan. He never screamed, and somehow that was worse. He would simply sit upright in bed, eyes wide and unfocused, breathing hard as though he’d surfaced from somewhere deep underwater. The panic in his expression always looked the same, as if part of him expected to wake up and discover there had been a mistake. That another phone call was coming. That somehow things could still get worse.
Tony had started leaving his bedroom door open.
Neither of them ever acknowledged it.
Around three in the morning on the fourth night of Peters stay, Tony had gotten up to use the bathroom and found Peter sitting in the hallway wrapped in a Tower blanket. The kid had been curled against the wall, knees tucked to his chest, staring blankly at nothing.
Tony had asked if he couldn’t sleep, and Peter had shrugged. Just shrugged, like the exhaustion and grief and terror were all somehow too large to fit into words.
So Tony had returned to bed, scooted over, and patted the empty space beside him. He’d turned the television on low volume and pretended to watch an infomercial for a vegetable chopper whilst Peter hesitated in the doorway. Eventually the kid had climbed onto the mattress, careful and uncertain, like he was afraid he wasn’t actually allowed there.
He’d fallen asleep less than ten minutes later. Now, more than a week later, Peter still spent most nights in Tony’s room, and Tony wasn’t complaining.
The mornings had developed a routine.
1. Tony made coffee.
2. Peter claimed he wasn’t hungry.
3. Tony asked him nicely to eat.
4. Peter insisted he was fine.
5. Tony reminded him again.
Eventually Peter would sigh with enough drama to power a Broadway production and consume approximately half a piece of toast.
Progress.
Apparently grief could steal hunger; or atleast several of Tonys books agreed on that. Other books insisted grieving children frequently forgot to drink water. One swore routines were essential, another warned against turning meals into power struggles. A third contradicted both of them entirely.
Tony had eventually given up trying to reconcile the experts.
Now his strategy was simple.
“Eat six bites and I’ll stop bothering you.”
It worked often enough to keep everyone alive. By the time he reached the kitchen, FRIDAY was already waiting. She informed him that Peter had not consumed water since 11:43 p.m, and so Tony accused the AI of becoming judgmental.
FRIDAY informed him she was simply becoming observant, although the distinction feels suspiciously semantic.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and told her to remind him again in ten minutes. She replied that she had already reminded Peter twice and that Peter had politely thanked her before continuing to stare out the window.
That sounded exactly right.
Lately, Peter spent a lot of time staring. Not at anything specific, just… away, like a dramatic movie character. Except Tony can tell it isn’t performative, and he truly wishes he could read whats going on in that curly head of his.
Besides that, Tony understood. His own thoughts kept dragging him backward too; always to the hospital. Always to that hallway.
The memory had rooted itself somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
He could still see Peter exactly as he’d looked that afternoon, for the kid had seemed impossibly small.
His bare feet shoved into his bedside slippers, sporting blue plaid pajama pants that hung loose around his thin legs and a faded Midtown science club shirt wrinkled from being worn far too long. Somebody from Child Protective Services had draped one of those white hospital blankets around his shoulders, and it had somehow made him look even younger.
His curls had been flattened on one side where he’d dozed off against a waiting room wall, but none of that is what Tony saw. It was his eyes that haunted Tony. Not because they were red from crying, nor because they were bloodshot from exhaustion.
Because they looked ancient.
The eyes of a child were supposed to be full of possibility. Curiosity. Reckless certainty that tomorrow existed. Peter’s eyes had looked like someone had reached inside him and ripped tomorrow away.
Tony knew that feeling, for Tony had lived that feeling. The seventeen year old heir of Stark Industries sitting in the hospital for nearly thirteen hours and answered questions.
Doctors.
Police officers.
Detectives.
Social workers.
Administrators.
Insurance representatives.
An endless parade of adults demanding information from a child whose entire world had collapsed overnight.
Name.
Birthday.
Address.
Emergency contacts.
Relatives.
Documents.
Details.
Questions repeated over and over until they blurred together.
Tony remembered sitting exactly where Peter was, watching from the doorway as Peter’s responses grew slower and slower. Each answer took more effort than the last. Eventually a nurse had crouched beside him and gently asked if he was alright.
Peter had stared at the floor for several seconds before quietly apologizing. His voice had cracked when he admitted he was too tired to remember anything anymore.
The nurse had looked close to tears, and Tony hadn’t been much better.
When Tony finally pulled himself together and walked into the room, the first thing Pete had asked was if he was in trouble.
The question had landed like a knife in Tonys heart.
Not “what happens next?” Or even “Where am I going?” or “Am I okay?” Tony has a feeling Peter knew the answer to that one. But no, all he asked was “am I in trouble?” before leaning forward and emptying his stomach all over Tonys loafers.
A frightened child trying to figure out whether the worst day of his life was somehow his fault. Of course, vomit dripping down his chin, he broke down into babbling apologies and sobs, clinging to Tonys suit jacket. And there was that question again-
Tony had immediately told him no.
Absolutely not.
Peter had stared at him for a long moment through damp lashes before asking why he was there.
The truthful answer had been complicated.
“Because May trusted him” sounded condescending, but it was the truth. He’s here because she’d planned ahead, because she’d known life could be cruel, and knew Peter would need someone to keep him upright.
Because she’d believed he’d show up, and Tony hasn’t had someone believe in him for…a very long time.
Instead, Tony had told him he was there to take him home. Peter’s response still woke him up some nights.
“Where?”
Just a word. A single, tiny word carrying enough grief to crush a building.
Because home wasn’t a place anymore. Home had been Aunt May’s voice from the kitchen, knowing exactly where she was when he got home and she was out.
Home had been a future that no longer existed, and Tony didn’t have the words to tell the kid that “home” wasn’t an easy destination for him, either.
Happy had driven them back to the Tower.
Peter had fallen asleep before they reached the bridge. Tony sat in the back with him, and Pete stayed wrapped in the hospital blanket the entire ride, his head resting against the window, seatbelt crooked across his chest. He hadn’t even stirred when the car hit one of New York’s potholes hard enough to rattle the frame.
Tony had called Thor to carry him upstairs, even though the kid weighed almost nothing. Tony didn’t think he could manage it. Even though the kids tiny, he doesn’t know if the weight of that unending grief could be properly supported by him alone. He doesn’t know if he can do this at all—
“Boss?”
FRIDAY’s voice snapped him back to the present.
Apparently he had spent four minutes staring into his coffee. Tony thanked her, and the AI accepted the gratitude with an amount of enthusiasm Tony certainly wasn’t feeling himself.
A few moments later he heard soft footsteps in the hallway. Ah. Peter appeared wearing one of Tony’s old MIT shirts that practically reached his knees, which would’ve cracked him up if the kid didn’t look so damn miserable.
His hair stuck out in every possible direction, and a pillow crease marked one cheek. For a moment Tony’s chest tightened, because this was what grief kept stealing from him.
Perspective.
Sometimes he forgot Peter was only fifteen. Not Spider-Man, who hasn’t gone on patrol since that night. Not an Avenger, for he’d already gotten chewed out by Cap for letting a teenager leave the HOUSE in New York, much less swing around protecting it. Not the kid who had identified his aunt at three in the morning, who cried so hard he vomited down Tonys suit jacket (and why, WHY had he worn a suit to the hospital to pick up the kid?? The kid who he KNEW had just lost his mother.)
Just fifteen. Just a sleepy highschooler who should have been worrying about homework and video games and whether his friends thought he was cool.
Peter mumbled good morning and shuffled toward the kitchen island. Then, without saying anything, he leaned lightly against Tony’s shoulder. His hair isn’t clean, and his curls tickle Tonys nose. The contact was so casual it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Tony noticed. He hugged the kid right back, kissing the top of his shaggy brown head.
Lately, there had been more moments like that. Small, unconscious reaches for comfort. Brief hugs that lasted a second too long. Standing close. Resting his head somewhere safe before realizing what he was doing and pulling away again.
His body always seemed to decide before his mind did, and it was endlessly endearing, although Tony spent hours up at night wondering if his reactions were what the kid expected.
Good God, Tony has no idea what he’s doing.
After a moment of silence, Peter quietly asked if they could watch another episode of that ridiculous show they’d started together. The first day Tony got Peter out of the guest bed, he decided they should start a TV series together. Something to get Peters mind focused on, and they had agreed on The Rookie. God, Tony doesn’t know if he’s regretted anything more, it’s so boring—
The request caught Tony so off guard he nearly dropped his coffee. “Can we watch a second episode?”
Peter immediately looked embarrassed, as though asking for company was somehow asking too much.
Tony agreed before the kid could take it back. Peter was agreeing to leave his bedroom, much less breaking their silent episode-a-day agreement. The parenting books…holy shit, Peters getting comfortable enough to ask questions.
Peter admitted he wanted to know whether a particular character died, and the seriousness with which he delivered the statement was so unexpected that Tony laughed.
A real laugh, the kind that escaped before he could stop it. Immediately, Peter looked startled by the sound, and Tony could’ve hit himself. He probably thinks he’s laughing at him. But Peters look is less offended, more so…as though he’d forgotten laughter still existed. As though grief had convinced him joy was something inappropriate now.
The realization hurt. Tony recognizes that look, remembers looking in the mirror and seeing it in his own eyes. He pulls the kid further into his chest.
This time, when Peter looked up, something had changed.
The grief was still there, along with the exhaustion and the loss. But beneath all of it was the faintest spark of belief.
For the first time since the hospital, Tony thought Peter actually trusted that someone would stay. And no matter how unsure Tony was of his parenting capabilities, he wouldn’t be the one to take that away.