And From this Love
Day 207
“Do you like Captain America, Mr. Tony?” Peter asks as he unlocks the door to Steve’s apartment. The surgery Steve is doing to save a boy’s heart is experiencing complications, and Tony hadn’t been able to focus much on work, anyway.
“Yeah,” Tony answers. He doesn’t add anything about his obsession with the comicbook hero and how he always dreamed that the guy would rescue Tony from his lonely bedroom. In retrospect, Tony realises that he’s actually gotten that dream. He’s got Steve, an All-American Beefcake with a heart of gold who was once a soldier. And he’s gotten Steve, the doctor, the father, the dorky artist.
Tony wishes he could go back to the little child crying on Jarvis’ shoulders, just to tell him that one day, one day it would all be worth it. Because he would grow up to get something much, much better.
Peter flicks on the lights, a bounce in his steps. He bends down to let Bitsy – the seven-legged spider-bot – crawl up his palm. Bitsy’s legs curl underneath its lumpy body, settling down with a whirr that never fails to make Peter smile.
They end up binge watching the new season of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, Peter giggling at Tony’s commentary about the technology and Tony joining in when Peter cheers at the Captain’s shield-throwing skills.
“I have a Captain A-bear-ica doll,” Peter admits shyly to Tony when the credits roll. “Dad tries not to show it, but he doesn’t really like me watching the show.”
“Oh?” Tony asks, turning to look at Peter beside him. The kid is stroking Bitsy softly, small fingers running over bumpy curves. Steve hardly ever denies Peter anything, and Tony can’t understand why Steve would withhold this one thing.
“The doll is from my father. My birth-father. I know he didn’t want me, but he left me my bear, so he must have wanted me safe, right, Mr. Tony?”
Oh. Those words struck a chord deep, deep in Tony’s soul, deeper than the wants to think of. Dimly, Tony realises that Peter’s gotten up, hears the sound of a door opening and closing. Maybe Peter wanted to put Bitsy back in its charging pod, and Tony’s grateful for the chance to collect himself alone.
Peter comes back, chattering something in Tony’s ears that he doesn’t comprehend, because suddenly Tony is staring at eyes he thought he’d never see again. Soft fur and slightly crooked nose, a red, white and blue mask strapped across his face, Tony reaches out to take the doll that Peter’s thrust in front of him.
His fingers close across familiar lumps, the ragged uniform stitched back together over and over again. He traces a seam down from the bear’s back to its right paw, remembers how he had watched, tearful, as Jarvis worked his magic to piece the doll back together and bring out a smile from Tony.
“Please be careful with him, Mr. Tony.”
Peter’s words are barely registering in his mind as his gaze flits between his long lost childhood treasure, and his… his... Peter. Someone must be playing a cruel prank on him, because he can’t imagine how this is happening right now. It’s impossible.
The numbers run in Tony’s head. It’s just. Not possible. The chances are essentially zero.
“Mr. Tony, are you okay?”
He nods shakily, forcing a strained smile and handing Peter back the doll. Gesturing for Peter to continue watching the next episode’s that is already beginning to play on screen, Tony stands up.
“I’m going to go and get us some water, okay?” he says quietly, almost surprised he can get the words out because his mind is so jumbled he can barely think straight. God, Tony realises, Peter’s eyes are so brown and wide.
When Peter nods, he essentially bolts into the kitchen, struggling to maintain control of his breathing as he rests his arms against the counter. He tries to run a hundred million different explanations, a thousand permutations, but none of them are plausible except one.
Peter, was, is, the little boy, his little boy, the one he gave up, let go, abandoned all those years ago. There were proverbs about how mistakes would come to haunt you, about karma and balance, and all Tony can think of is, please, not like this.
Not this.
But Tony has no right to beg, does he? All the people he’s killed, the families he’s torn apart with his careless designs and willing ignorance. This is the gods above mocking him.
Tony takes a couple of quick, shallow breaths, turning around and fetching two glasses from the cabinet, pouring himself a glass of icy water, and downing it all in one go, in the hope that it would wake him up, from this, nightmare.
It doesn’t, but it does calm him down enough to control his emotions as he grabs some juice from the fridge and fills both glasses to the brim.
He’s put on so many masks in his life, it shouldn’t be hard to put on another one (but it is, it is when he knows what he’ll be forced to do for a second time).
Taking a deep breath before re-entering the living room, Tony stares at his – Peter, who is still engrossed in the show. He hands Peter his juice and sits quietly down on the edge of the couch, trying to focus his thoughts while pretending to watch the movie.
Two episodes pass before Tony knows it, and when the credits roll again, Peter switches off the television, telling Tony that he’s changing into his pajamas to go to bed. Tony blankly checks his phone, realising that it’s past nine o’clock. Steve said he’d be home before ten.
Tony’s knees are weak, but he forces his legs to steady as he heads into Peter’s room to check on him before he falls asleep.
Bitsy is resting on the nightstand, and Peter is already wrapped up in his dark blanket, yellow shooting stars sewn innocently on it. The bear is nowhere to be seen, most likely tucked away in a secret hiding spot reserved for his most prized treasures.
The thought brings Tony pain and comfort that Peter doesn’t seem to hate his birth parents, to hate the man who left him crying alone in a cold hospital room.
“Thank you for taking care of me tonight Mr. Tony,” Peter says, yawning sleepily, and Tony clenches his jaw, forcing another tight smile.
“Goodnight, Peter.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Tony.”
With that, Peter curls up even further into his sheets, and within minutes, the even rising and falling of his body with each breath signals that he's asleep. Tony steals these last moments, lingering on the unruly curls of hair peeking out of the sheets.
Those curls are Rumiko’s, Tony realises, but the brown sheen to them is his, just like Peter's eyes are his.
He has no claim over Peter, though, no right to call Peter his. He gave that up years ago.
“I love you,” Tony breathes out in the barest whisper.
And then, “I’m sorry.”
He forces himself to look away, bending to quietly shut off the bedside light and flick the night light on, before making a quick exit from the room.
Tony isn’t sure how he should be reacting in a scenario like this, to his world coming crashing down so brutally, without any fix in sight. He wants to laugh, because for all of Tony’s skill and genius, he never had been able to fix the things that mattered most.
He thinks for a moment that he could call Rhodey or Pepper or Peggy but dismisses the thought. What would they say anyway?
What would you do if the adopted son of the man you were dating, happened to be the same boy that you gave up over eight years ago?
He’s sitting on a stool in Steve’s kitchen, having made sure to clear away all remnants of the night – the sticky glasses stained with juice are washed and drying on the rack.
What is he supposed to do now? He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t regret the decisions he made, he had his reason, but Tony’s always been a futurist, and no outcome he can think of leads to anything good for him.
It’s okay, Tony supposes, he’ll just be getting what he deserves. But a larger part of him is cracking, tearing apart irreversibly.
He stares at the picture of Steve and Peter. He wants this, whatever it was that meant Steve in the mornings and nights struggling to sleep because he’s smiling so hard, Tony wants these past months to not end.
He would beg, if he could, but he knows he can’t. He knows Steve will be so angry when he finds out. Tony just knows it, he knows it as deeply as he has grown to love Peter, to love Steve.
The tone in Steve’s voice when he had spoken to Tony about Peter’s birth parents was one of pure anger, maybe even hatred. When Steve finds out, this will all be over, and Tony’s realistic enough to know that much.
Tony has to tell him, Tony has to find a time to tell him. When he clears his head and sorts his priorities out, he'll tell Steve. Apologise. Ask for his forgiveness, for Peter’s forgiveness and hope that they won’t hate him for this.
He doesn’t hope for anything more than that. Doesn’t actually hope to be forgiven, Tony just thinks he wouldn’t be able to survive it if they hated him as much as he hated himself.
He’s so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice the key turning in the lock, or Steve calling for him as he enters, panicking when he doesn’t receive a response.
“Tony? Are you alright?”
When he looks up, Steve’s only a couple steps away from him, and before Tony can react, push him away, Steve has his arms around Tony, hands soothing as Tony tries his damn hardest not to tremble against his chest.
“It’s okay, I’m here,” Steve whispers over and over again, and each time he speaks it hurts a little more.
Tony pulls away from Steve and Steve catches his arm, his other hand cupping Tony’s cheek to stare into his eyes, concern flooding his voice.
“What’s wrong?”
Tony should tell him. He should cut his losses and just make it a clean break.
But Tony hasn’t had anybody look at him like Steve is doing right now, with pure devotion and concern, as if he’d go to the ends of the world to fix whatever’s gotten Tony into such a twist.
Tony can’t tell him now.
He can’t.
“I’m just not feeling too well.”
Steve hates secrets. Steve hates lying. Steve hates Peter's birth parents, which means he inadvertently hates Tony too.
Steve’s eyes widen, worried expression crossing his face as he places a hand on Tony's forehead to check for his temperature.
“I’m just going to get a cab home.”
Steve wants to protest, Tony can tell, but Steve can see that Tony doesn’t want to speak about it.
So, he simply takes Tony’s hand in his and guides him to the door, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Get home safely,” Steve whispers.
Tony wants to say: This is the only home I want.
He wants to plead: I'm sorry.
He wants to cry: I love you.
But he can't.
So, Tony just nods, swallowing hard.
The door that closes softly at his back echoes coldly through his bones.