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“You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that.”
― E. B. White, Charlotte's Web
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Peter is sprawled out on one end of the sofa and facing Tony, who sits at the opposite end.
“Ready for the pass?” Tony checks, hefting a giggling Morgan up by her armpits.
“I’m open!” Peter grins.
Pepper enters the room just as her daughter is tossed deftly into Peter’s waiting arms.
“Hon, your phone’s been lighting up for -- and what are we doing in here?” Pepper pauses, her eyes tracking Morgan’s flight across the sofa.
Peter reddens instantly, clutching Morgan to his chest with an expression so guilty it makes Pepper’s stern facade twitch with the beginnings of a smile. Tony is predictably unmoved.
“Baby Football. Who’s winning, Mighty Mouse?”
“Peter!” Morgan crows, wrapping her arms around the teenager’s neck.
“Nope,” Peter sputters, “I’m not winning. I’m -- I’m barely playing, honestly --”
Pepper rolls her eyes, bending over the back of the sofa to press a kiss into her daughter’s hair and then a second one into Peter’s. His blush deepens.
“You want in, Pep? Peter’s thrown her out of bounds a few times, you can hang to the side and toss her back into play.”
“Tempting,” Pepper intones dryly over Peter’s stammered denials, “but you’ve got six missed calls from Nick Fury. And it’s someone’s bedtime.”
She hands Tony his phone, which is indeed blinking urgently up at its owner, the edges of its screen flashing ominously red. He frowns at it for a moment, sweeping a finger across its surface until a holographic image of Fury is projected into the air between them.
Peter sits up straight, momentarily embarrassed to be caught in a scene of casual domesticity in front of the man -- a moment later, however, it becomes clear that the message has been pre-recorded:
“Stark. Contact me at your earliest convenience.”
Tony’s expression darkens, and Morgan cranes around in Peter’s grasp to swipe her hand through the projection.
“Daddy, who’s that?”
Without missing a beat, Pepper taps her on the nose. “You know what? I bet Peter is even better at reading bedtime stories than Daddy is.”
Peter is impressed by how well the distraction works; Morgan careens off his lap and attempts to drag him off the couch by his hand.
“Pete, can you do the voices? Daddy never does them right!”
Slightly wrong-footed by the sudden change in atmosphere, Peter glances uncertainly at Tony, who is still leering resentfully at his phone. “Um, sure -- can you pick out a book for me?”
“Toothbrush and washing up first, little miss!” Pepper interjects, making her way to the bathroom with a reluctant Morgan in tow.
When the girls have rounded the corner, Peter looks up to find Tony’s gaze on him.
“What -- um, what d’you think Nick Fury wants?” Peter tries for casual, but comes up short.
Tony shrugs, twirling the phone in one hand -- Peter gets the impression that he is also trying for casual. “Little late in the day to be wishing me a happy Father’s Day.”
Peter reddens slightly at the reminder, and a familiar prickle of unease crawls up his spine.
Tony and Pepper had invited him to the lake house for the weekend along with Scott Lang and his daughter, Harley Keener, Happy and Rhodey, and Clint’s entire family. They’d had a cookout and made the most of the beautiful weather. Scott and Clint had spoken almost entirely in ‘dad jokes’ for the duration, to the horror of their respective children.
Peter had done his best to hang back, catching up with Harley and pestering Rhodey and Happy. He'd felt more than a little out of place among the families. When the kids had gathered after the meal to present their fathers with gifts, Peter had been painfully aware of the weight of a small parcel tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt -- even Harley had chucked an 'MIT DAD' sweatshirt at Tony's face with a laugh -- but he'd chickened out at the last moment and kept the package hidden away. He'd thought he caught Tony watching him carefully a few times, and had made a point of smiling broadly back at him on each occasion, not wanting to draw the man away from the festivities for Peter's sake.
All things considered, it had been the best weekend Peter had had since his return, and he’d been dreading its end. Even so, when supper had ended and the other guests had begun to make their goodbyes, Peter had felt painfully self-conscious of the fact that May had not planned to pick him up until the following morning -- he would be intruding on Tony’s Father’s Day with his family for the rest of the evening.
In a panic, he had tried to flag down Happy as the man headed for his car.
“Happy! Hey, man, um -- do you think you could take me back with you? I just think, you know, Mr. Stark probably wants to spend some time alone -- I mean, since it’s Father’s Day, I just thought --” he had stammered, but Tony had called him back to the house before he had time to interpret the almost pitying expression on the face of the head of security.
Despite his self-consciousness, Tony had not seemed to mind Peter’s presence in the least. They’d spent the remainder of the day alternating between helping to clean up the mess they’d all made outside and pausing to engage in imaginary battles with Morgan, who had donned the papier-mâché Iron Man helmet she’d presented to Tony for Father’s Day.
By the time they’d settled onto the couch for a raucous game of Baby Football, the sun had well and truly set and Peter had all but forgotten his unease. Nick Fury’s calls and Morgan’s bedtime routine now brought it crashing back.
“Pete? You good, kid?” Tony’s voice is soft, but Peter still jumps.
“Yeah! I’m -- I’m good. Um -- I can, I mean, if you want to read Morgan her story, I can head off to bed. Or -- or if you want to call Fury back, I can distract her until you’re ready, or…” he trails off, unable to phrase his thoughts.
Tony rises from his seat on the sofa and claps Peter on the shoulder, his attention still half on the phone in his free hand. “Nah, you go ahead, kid. I’ll check in on her once she’s tucked in. Go work your magic, read some books, do some voices, while I --” he gestures to the phone vaguely, lets his hand linger on Peter’s shoulder for a moment longer, and makes his way to the door to the patio.
Peter watches him go, guilt weighing him to the couch like lead.
Down the hall, a soapy-sounding voice shouts, “PETER! MY TEETH ARE BRUSHED!”
Peter snorts, smiling despite himself and shaking off his unease as he makes his way to the hallway bathroom to find a long-suffering Pepper rolling her eyes at him. Morgan rinses and spits in the sink.
“Call me if you need reinforcements,” Pepper advises, hiding a smile.
“We’ve got it handled, right, Mo?” Peter grins, holding out his hands to help Morgan down from her step-stool. She beams a sparkling gap-toothed smile back at him.
“Goodnight, baby. Be good for Peter, okay?” Pepper strokes a hand over her head as Morgan begins to haul Peter in the direction of her bedroom.
“Goodnight! C’mon, Peter, I’ll show you my bookshelf!”
Several minutes later, Morgan is tucked in under Peter’s arm atop her covers, peering at the worn pages of Charlotte’s Web; its corners are dog-eared and marked with tiny fingerprints bearing the drippings of what Peter suspects are juice-pops. Its position on Morgan’s bedside table rather than the bookshelf had immediately identified it as a favorite, and sure enough:
“Daddy reads this to me hundreds of times,” Morgan confesses around a yawn, snuggling closer until she can see the first illustration clearly, “but he accidentally ripped out the ending, so it doesn’t have any pictures.”
Startled, Peter flips ahead to the last chapters of the book -- sure enough, the final two chapters are missing. “Are you sure you want to read this one?”
Morgan nods against his shoulder, her eyelids already drooping. Peter reasons that it’s not likely they’ll make it far enough to run out of reading material. Tilting the book so she can read along with him, he begins: “’Where’s Papa going with that axe?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast…”
By the time Tony checks in on the pair of them, Wilbur is beginning to feel lonely in his pen, Peter’s arm is full of pins-and-needles and Morgan is fast asleep.
“You can imagine Wilbur's surprise when, out of the darkness, came a small voice he had never heard before. It sounded rather thin, but pleasant. ‘Do you want a friend, Wilbur?’ it said. ‘I'll be a friend to you. I've watched you all day and I like you.’”
The door creaks open, and Peter pauses in his reading to lock eyes with Tony. He grins, slightly embarrassed.
Tony makes his way over to the bed, expertly extricating Morgan from Peter and tucking her beneath the covers without waking her. Peter flexes his arm gratefully, sliding off the bed as gingerly as he can. He catches a glimpse of an open, tender expression on Tony’s face as he bends to kiss his daughter’s forehead, and quickly averts his gaze.
He isn’t sure why his chest feels simultaneously empty and too tight, like it’s stretched wide to leave space for something that was ripped away.
He heads for the door, intending to slip away to the guest room without being noticed, but Tony stops him with a gesture, indicating for Peter to follow him outside.
They settle themselves onto the patio where Tony makes his way to the overstuffed porch swing they usually occupied on nights like this one. Although he would normally drop in beside Tony, something stops him tonight, and he makes a beeline for Rhodey’s usual spot: one of the few pieces of furniture designed for a single occupant. He wedges himself deep into the backrest of the chair and immediately draws his knees up to his chest, carefully avoiding Tony’s eyes.
Now that it's just the two of them, he's painfully aware of his own discomfort. The overpowering sense that has been creeping at the back of his awareness all day -- the sense that he is an intruder in this home, with this family -- threatens to overwhelm him.
Even without looking at him, he can feel Tony’s gaze on him. Desperate to break the silence, he tries, “So um, what did Fury want?”
Tony snorts, leaning back into the swing with a low creak, “Nothing he’s getting from me. Some business about abnormal read-outs on seismic charts in Europe. I told him to pound sand.”
That gets a startled grin out of Peter, “You didn’t.”
“’Course I did. I’m retired. Let him go bother Wilson or Strange with that shit.”
“Still -- Europe? Did he say if -- I mean, do you think it’s anywhere near where I’ll be going next month?” Peter can’t help but ask, but Tony waves a hand dismissively.
“It’s nothing, kid,” he pauses a moment, and then, "You feeling okay? Got any super spooky spider symptoms you want to tell me about?"
Peter manages a wobbly smile. "Yeah -- I mean, I feel fine. No -- no symptoms here."
Tony nods distractedly, his brow slightly furrowed. He looks as though he's trying to puzzle something out in his mind. Peter is taken aback when he claps his hands together and says, “So. Charlotte’s Web. You ever read that book before?”
Peter seizes gratefully on to the change of subject, glancing back at his knees. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. May used to read it to me. When I was little. After, um…” Peter trails off, feeling suddenly lost.
After my parents died hangs in the air between them, almost palpable.
“She didn’t do the voices or anything. But she used to do this thing…” and he trails off, raising one hand and crawling it up his own shoulder like a spider. “Just to make me smile, I think.”
It brings a smile to his face even now. A moment later he catches himself, and the faraway look in his eyes vanishes as he glances almost guiltily in Tony’s direction.
“I’d never read it before,” Tony murmurs, gazing fixedly out at the lake, “but Pepper stocked up Morgan’s library from the time she was in diapers. Found it on the shelf one night. We got through it in about a week,” he pauses, steadying himself. “But I should’ve pre-screened it. Should’ve read it through beforehand, you know. We got all the way to Charlotte’s death and I just…lost it. Total meltdown.”
Peter remembers the torn out pages of the book and feels himself go cold all over. Oblivious, Tony continues:
“I made up a new ending; Charlotte lives, goes home to the farm with Wilbur and watches her babies hatch. They all fly off in different directions -- that part I kept,” he pauses a moment, and Peter can feel his eyes on him again. “Went a little further, though. One of them flies off to Queens. Ends up in the lab of this mad scientist, until this kid comes along and finds her. Almost steps on her, actually -- not on purpose. But she gives him a little bite to show him who’s boss.”
Peter can’t seem to find his breath. Tony’s voice is gentle. “That was the first time I told her about her big brother.”
Panic floods Peter’s veins and he rises to his feet, the sudden rush of blood from his brain to his limbs making him sway a little. “I should -- I should go. I’m sorry, I’ll just--”
Tony’s voice is startled. “What? No! Kid, please, just -- come on, sit down and let me talk to you a minute.”
Tony sweeps an arm to indicate the spot beside him on the swing, but Peter beats a too-hasty retreat back to his armchair. The air around them feels somehow colder.
“Wha-what do you want to talk about?” his voice is an octave higher than normal.
Tony waits until Peter looks up to meet his eyes; his expression reminds Peter achingly of the way he had looked at Morgan, and it rips through him like fire. He looks away.
“Pete. Kid, you know how important you are to me, right?”
Peter exhales wetly into his knees, his fingers stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie; his fingertips trace the outline of the gift still hidden there. He feels pathetic. He glances up just long enough to fix Tony with a reassuring smile, “Yeah. I know.”
Tony’s expression is unconvinced. “Pepper had it wrong, by the way. About the missed calls. Only five of them were from Fury. One of them was actually from Happy. Weird, right? Considering he was just here and all.” He seems to be waiting for a response, and Peter nods dumbly. “Yeah, weird. So I called him back. He said you asked him to take you home.”
If Peter didn’t know better, he might think Tony sounds hurt. But what can he say? He settles on the truth. “Um -- yeah, I just -- I thought, you know, since it’s Father’s Day, you might -- I mean, maybe you’d want to just have a night with your family.”
He risks another glance up and sees that the hurt in Tony’s voice has made its way to his eyes. “I do. That’s why you’re here, Pete.”
But the meaning in his words is lost to Peter behind the roaring buzz of anxiety in his ears; It’s a buzz that had begun with Tony’s death on the battlefield and only grown in intensity since, despite his return. It seems to vibrate through Peter’s bones and his teeth are chattering too violently to speak.
“Okay. Nope. We’re not doing this long-distance. Come here, Peter,” Tony gestures again to the space beside him, and Peter casts an uneasy glance at the cushion. “Please.”
It’s barely three paces between the chair and the swing, but Peter still manages to stuff his hands into the pocket of his sweats along the way before wedging himself into the corner furthest from Tony. Tony’s face teeters between fond exasperation and a kind of aching tenderness before he scoots pointedly along the cushion to sit beside him.
“Hi,” he quips, breaking the tension.
Peter almost cracks a smile, but his voice still comes out a little hoarse. “Hey.”
Peter feels Tony’s hand settle on shoulder, its calloused thumb sweeping a reassuring pattern over the rumpled sleep shirt.
For a moment Peter stiffens. An instant later, however, he breathes a shaky exhale through his nose and raises his hand to grip Tony’s, white-knuckled and desperate.
“What’s going on here, kid? You’re walking on eggshells around me.”
And Peter can’t answer, because Peter doesn’t know. He only remembers.
He remembers the way Tony had looked as he died -- the way his eyes had seemed to dim and fade and blink out in just the same way Ben’s had done. He remembers the endless mantra in his head of please no, not him, not again, please, please not again.
He remembers the first time he saw Morgan, her little eyes wide and uncomprehending. And he remembers the rush of shame he had felt on seeing her.
“I just -- I just know you’re not really my -- I mean, I’m not really your son.”
Tony’s hand on his shoulder stiffens and begins to pull away, but Peter tightens his grip, his voice rising again in panic, “No! I mean, I just mean --” but God, he can’t do this.
Tony seems to relax by degrees; he stops trying to pull away and shuffles closer instead, returning Peter’s desperate squeeze with a gentler one. “I get it, kid. I know I’m not your dad, or your uncle, or…”
But that isn’t it either. Frustrated, Peter tries again.
“You, um…you know May’s not really my aunt? I mean, she’s still my -- she, um, she was married to my Uncle Ben. And he was my dad’s brother. So I just mean…we’re not blood relatives.” Peter still isn’t looking at him, and his tone changes from cautious to apologetic and back again in a way that probably makes him sound insane.
Still, Tony nods, and Peter goes on.
“So I’m not really her family. She doesn’t owe me anything. I, um -- I don’t have any real family left.” He finishes dumbly, the hand buried in his sweatshirt twisting away at the fabric.
“Oh, kid.” It’s just two words, barely even a sentence, but it goes right to Peter’s heart. He hurries to continue before he loses his nerve.
“But I owe her. I just -- I owe her everything. After Ben -- she was so scared. And I had these powers, so I -- I started to follow her in to work. As Spider-Man, I mean. Just to make sure she was safe. And I’d, I’d…you know, make sure she was eating. Try to cheer her up. And that was fine. It was all fine. We were doing okay, you know? But then you came along…” Tony inhales sharply, but Peter goes on, “…and it was like -- it was almost like -- I mean, I wasn’t on my own anymore. There was someone looking out for me.”
The hand on his shoulder squeezes tighter, its thumb resuming the reassuring sweeping pattern over his collar. It makes his throat catch, and he fights to keep his voice steady.
“And even after um, after the snap. When I found out May had been snapped too, I was -- I was so relieved. Because she hadn’t had to -- to mourn me, or worry, or…I don’t know. I mean, what if she had died while I was gone? But with you… you just, you were dead. And I was standing there at your funeral. And I saw Pepper, and -- and Morgan, and I thought -- God, you’d been happy. You had a family. And they lost you for -- for what? For the rest of us? We took you from them. We weren’t worth that. I couldn’t -- I couldn’t believe Pepper let us come.”
He is careful to censor himself; careful not to say: I took you from them. I wasn’t worth that. But Tony seems to hear it anyway. He rises to his feet so suddenly that Peter is pulled along with him. “C’mere a second.”
Peter is steered along beside Tony to the kitchen, dimly lit and still warm with the remaining heat of a day’s worth of cooking. They pass by the fridge littered with alphabet magnets and Morgan’s colorful drawings and come to a stop beside the sink, where Tony sweeps his arm to indicate two photos sitting atop a high shelf.
“See these? These have been here since we moved in.” Tony murmurs, tracing a finger over the frame of the photo on the right. Peter looks closer, feeling a flicker of recognition -- sure enough, it’s a match for the photo Peter has set to Tony’s number in his phone contacts. To its left sits an older photo of a man Peter faintly recognizes as Howard Stark.
“They’re, um -- they’re really nice, Mr. Stark.” Peter tries, a little unsure of the point of this sudden field trip.
“Yeah. That’s my dad on the left. I always did the dishes at night, so this was kind of my zone. Wanted some family photos to look at in the evenings. Funny thing, though -- I only bent the laws of time and space to save one of these people. And it wasn’t the one who was a blood relative.”
Peter’s throat grows tight, a familiar terror stirring under his breastbone. “Don’t say that, sir. It wasn’t -- it wasn’t just for me. It was for everyone, you -- you were happy, you had a wife and kid --”
Tony’s hand slams down on the countertop hard.
“I had a dead kid!” Tony hisses, and Peter jumps, glancing anxiously in the direction or Morgan’s bedroom. But Tony’s hands grip both his shoulders, turning to face him head on and continuing in a gentler tone. “I had a dead kid, Pete. And it was just…God, it was destroying me.”
Tony glanced at the photos, then back at Peter.
“My dad…he was real big on Cap, did you know that?”
Peter hadn’t. He shakes his head. Tony nods.
“Yeah. And he -- he spent most of my childhood just… obsessed with trying to find him. Had a team out there constantly. He was so sure Cap was still out there somewhere. I hated him for it. Both of them, actually,” Tony chuckles without humor. “I don’t think I really forgave him until I lost you on Titan.”
Peter meets his eyes reluctantly, puzzled. Tony seems to ground himself, his hands re-settling on Peter’s shoulders.
“I hardly touched Morgan or Pep for the first year, did you know that? Spent all my time in the lab. I was trying to re-create the Infinity Stones from scratch. Didn’t work, obviously. And Pep nearly left me. Told me I was turning into Howard.” Tony swallows hard. “She was right.”
The guilt in Peter’s chest roars to new heights and his eyes fill. He wants desperately to flee, but Tony’s hands keep him in place.
“So we moved out here, away from the lab. And I put the photos up to, you know, to remind me. Of what I had lost, and what I had left to lose. And I spent the next four years trying to do right by Morgan and Pepper. Turned the team down flat when they showed up at my doorstep. And then that night, your picture…” Tony trails off, his eyes distant as they focus back on the smiling face of the photographic Peter. He clears his throat. “But that’s the thing about family. It never really leaves you."
Peter’s head raises. He meets Tony’s eyes, and he tries to communicate all the things he doesn’t know how to say. Tries to give him an out. “You could -- you could leave me. If you wanted to, I mean.”
“No. I couldn’t.” Tony looks as though he means to keep his voice gentle, but the words still sound angry and flat; a discordant note against a sad melody.
And Peter can’t breathe. He’s getting it all wrong, the words and meanings are jumbled up in his head within a mass of grief and it spills out of him in a rush. “I can’t -- I can’t -- I can’t be the reason they lose you, Tony, I can’t -- May lost Ben because of me, and my parents, and I -- I got you killed, you were happy, you had a life, I shouldn’t -- I shouldn’t be here, I can’t --”
Tony pulls him in hard, wrapping him in an embrace that is almost crushing, and they’re back on the battlefield with the sounds of Thanos’s army all around them, and Peter buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck.
He feels his mentor thread a hand through his hair, scratching soothingly through his curls the way May always did -- the way Ben had done. “Shhh, Pete. Okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The tears came anyway, soaking the collar of Tony’s shirt, but Peter can’t bring himself to let go. He clings tightly to the man’s back, the rough fabric of his jacket twisted up in his fists. He tries to choke out an apology, but Tony shushes him again. For a while, they stand together in the pale golden light of the kitchen, Tony holding Peter upright as the full weight of the boy’s guilt and grief shakes through him.
When Peter’s sobs slow enough for him to catch his breath, he begins to pull back, but Tony holds fast. Peter laughs a little wetly, but he lets himself lean in until his hiccuping breaths even out. At length, Tony gives him an affectionate squeeze, tilting his head far enough to press a kiss to the side of Peter’s head. “Okay?”
And Peter thinks he might be. The guilt and terror are still present in the back of his mind, but it's as if they've lowered in volume. And maybe he can have this -- maybe for now he can pretend that he is family, that he hasn't ruined everything. After all, Tony is still here. And while he'd been tortured for weeks by the idea that Tony had been willing to throw away his happy ending for Peter's sake (and, although he could barely admit it to himself, maybe a little hurt that his mentor had moved on without him) he can't shake away the image of the missing chapters from Morgan's book.
Peter nods, exhaling slowly. “Yeah.”
They pull back, and Tony keeps an arm around Peter’s shoulders to lead him back out onto the patio. “C’mon. It’s still Father’s Day and I want to watch the stars with my kid.”
This time, there is no question of where to sit; Peter settles in at Tony’s side on the porch swing, leaning back into his mentor’s shoulder and gazing up at the sky. They sit like that for some time, comfortable at last in each other's company. Peter feels the familiar sleepiness that always seems to creep up on him when he sits with Tony, and he lets himself revel in the feeling of safety, pressing in a little closer to his side.
He's nearly dozed off when he decides it’s warm enough that he doesn’t really need the sweatshirt after all, and Tony lifts his arm long enough for Peter to take it off.
The parcel that had been nestled in his pocket clatters to the floor, its outrageously gaudy red and gold ribbon glinting in the moonlight.
They stare at it for a moment, and Peter flushes.
“That’s a present,” Tony points accusingly.
“What? No, it’s -- Tony, wait!”
A brief but spirited battle ensues as both attempt to wrestle the gift away from the other. It looks as though Peter is winning until Tony gooses him in the ribs and sends him scrambling away with a muffled shriek.
“Cheap move!” Peter gasps for breath, trying not to smile.
Tony is unrepentant, shaking the package in both hands appraisingly. His fingers find the seam of the wrapping and he pauses for a moment, catching Peter’s eyes. “Still okay?”
Peter reddens, his hand rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck, but he nods. “Yeah. It’s, um -- it’s for you.”
“Obviously,” Tony snorts, shooting him a playfully dry look. He unfolds the paper around the package to reveal a small rectangular box. Inside the box, the faded, tattered fabric of a small red glove is nestled beneath a single worn piece of paper emblazoned with a child’s colorful drawing of Iron Man, and a scrawled essay.
Peter scoots close enough to read the paper over Tony’s shoulder, though there’s no need -- he’s long since memorized it:
WHAT I BROUGHT FOR SHOW AND TELL
By Peter Parker, Age 8
Last week my Uncle Ben took me to Stark Expo because I really love science. He bought me cotton candy and a cool Iron Man costume. When I grow up I want to be like Tony Stark because he is very smart and
coolhelps people. Some robots came and tried to hurt people but Mr. Stark stopped them. He also saved me from a robot and some glass flew off and tore my costume in case you do notbeleivebelieve me. He also said NICE WORK, KID! That is why my hero isIron ManTony Stark.
Peter watches as Tony lifts the paper out of the box to examine the red glove more closely. His fingers trace the battery-operated light stitched into the palm of the pretend gauntlet, then trail over the sleeve -- sure enough, the fabric is still littered with tiny remnants of broken glass.
Tony turns to catch Peter’s eyes, his expression unreadable. Peter blushes.
“Ben told me to throw it out, but I brought it in to school. They still didn’t believe me,” he laughs a little self-consciously, suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of the gift. “I um, I didn’t know what to get you. Or if I should even -- but I wanted it to be a surprise, and this was the only surprise I could think of, because I don’t think you knew it was me, and --”
For the second time that night, he is cut off mid-sentence as Tony pulls him into a hug. “Oh, okay -- more hugs. Happy Father’s Day?”
Tony’s laugh rattles through both of them, and he feels his mentor’s hand squeeze the back of his neck with unmistakable affection. It warms him all the way through. He squeezes back before Tony can pull away, and they settle back on the swing, Tony pausing to wipe his eyes before tucking Peter back under his arm. He lets his head tip sideways onto the man’s shoulder.
“I love you, kid. Just in case the heartfelt speeches and manly tears and time-travel didn’t give it away.” It’s the most sincere Tony has ever sounded, and Peter can almost feel the too-tight emptiness in his chest begin to pull itself together like a healing wound.
“Love you, too. Sorry about -- you know.” He whispers into the dark, waving a sleepy hand that’s meant to convey his earlier breakdown. Tony bats it away, tugging him closer and leaning back onto the cushioned backrest of the swing.
“You’re family, Pete. I keep telling you, kid. One of these days you’ll believe me. We’ve got time.”
Peter lets his eyes drift closed, breathing in the familiar scent of the lake house and Tony and home. I’m getting there, he thinks. We’ve got time.