“Do you think we could make my suit invisible?”
Tony looks away from his monitor to stare at the boy who was sitting no less than five feet from him. Peter was grinning from ear to ear. “What?”
“I think an invisibility feature would be a cool addition to my suit,” Peter says, moving his hands in gestures that didn’t help in any way with his explanation. “Would help in bank robberies, muggings, car chases, bringing planes down--”
“Of course it would be helpful, Pete,” Tony says, cutting the boy off before he could list any more of Spider-Man’s many tasks. “But until Ironman can become invisible, it’s off the table for spider-kids.”
Peter physically deflates out of disappointment, and he slides down in his desk chair, half-glaring and half-pouting at Tony. Tony just laughs shortly, before turning back to his work. He had a couple of documents he had to read over before meeting with Pepper tomorrow. She had been hounding him all week for a signature, but of course, Tony wasn’t going to sign anything before reading all of the fine print.
It was long and tedious, but Tony pushed through despite how much his eyes started to ache. Peter eventually gave up on trying to win Tony over and went back to his own desk.
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before Peter was pulling Tony away once again.
“I think with a few minor adjustments, we could make the Ironman suit invisible,” Peter says this like he’s more or less talking to himself, but it’s obviously directed to the other man in the room. “It already has shield programming, and if we just worked off of that database--”
“Oh my god, Peter, stop. Please. I’m trying to get this done before midnight.”
Peter spins around quickly in his chair; his eyes narrowed, but his smile lingering. “What are you working on? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read that much in your life.”
Tony turns his head, his own eyes narrowing. “Okay, one: I read. And two: you are doing exactly the opposite of what I asked you and are distracting me.”
Peter just stares at him, and even when Tony looks back to the holo-screen, blue text burning into his retinas, he can feel Peter’s gaze searing into his cheek. Finally, as if the boy had laser vision and his staring started to itch Tony’s skin, the man relents.
“It’s a contract I have to read for the company,” Tony sighs, “Pepper needs a signature from me.”
“Can’t she just sign it?”
“She can, and she will, but I just like to do my due diligence. I want to make sure that a company that designs wireless headphones isn’t partnering just so they can steal half my income.”
Peter laughs, “I’m sure that’s not the case.”
“Just my due diligence, Pete.”
Peter leaves him alone after that, both of them falling into a comfortable silence as they each return to their own work. At some point, Peter puts in his earbuds and plugs into his own music. Tony stares at the back of his curls for a second before looking away.
He feels bad that this is how he is making Peter spend his Friday night. Every other weekend was their time together, other than seeing each other on Tuesdays and the odd Thursday for lab night.
Tonight was one of those weekends, and while he was sure that Peter wouldn’t have wanted to sit in silence and do homework at 7 p.m., Tony really needed to get this done. Pepper would be arriving in the morning, and business in the city had kept the man preoccupied earlier during the day.
The clock reads 7:46 when Tony finally shuts down his monitor, feeling a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He stretches with a groan, all of his joints seeming to simultaneously crack, and pushes his rolly chair back.
Peter is still hunched over his schoolwork, and Tony walks over to his smaller desk. He stares at what the kid is writing for a second -- AP English; How “Lord Of The Flies” Relates To Modern Society, by Peter Parker -- before tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
Peter spins around quickly, looking up at Tony in surprise, and Tony suppresses a snicker. He’s definitely told him before, but Peter really did look like Bambi when his baby browns grew wide like that.
“I’m thinking dinner,” Tony says, and he knows Peter hears him despite how loud the kid’s music is.
Peter takes out an earbud and nods. Music pipes through into the open air; “Istanbul” by They Might Be Giants.
“Sounds good,” the kid says.
“Did I really scare you?” Tony asks as Peter cleans his stuff up. “I thought you could sense me with your Peter Tingle.”
Peter groans, shoving books and lose papers and pencils into his backpack. “May told you to call it that, didn’t she?”
“Hey, Kid, it’s only your fault for not telling her properly about your part-time gig. If you just sat her down and explained like a big boy, then I wouldn’t have to say embarrassing stuff. But, instead… she had to walk in on you staring at your own reflection.”
Peter rolls his eyes, “I wasn’t staring at my reflection. I was just getting back from patrol, and she just happened to-- you know what, never mind. The sense doesn't work around you because you’re not a threat.”
Tony smiles, and he can feel his heart melt the tiniest bit. The fact that Peter didn’t feel scared or nervous around him anymore made Tony love this kid more and more each day. Many people out there would definitely think of him as a threat or panic in his presence.
But the days of nerves seemed to be fading as Peter spent more and more time with him, and Tony was glad how Peter would make himself at home in the compound.
They both were getting more and more comfortable with this whole mentor-mentee thing.
“Shawarma?” Peter asks.
Tony nods, “Perfect. Should I place our regular orders?”
“Yeah,” Peter says and looks up suddenly, “But maybe we should try from somewhere new? One of my friends told me about this new Greek place that is supposed to be really good. Rave reviews and all that jazz.”
“Sure, Kid. Just tell FRIDAY the place and we’ll get someone to pick it up.”
They were eating by 9, which wasn’t rare for them. They sat at the table in the common room, tin foil wrappers and paper bags littering the area between them. Peter was right; this place was good -- maybe even better than their regular spot.
Tony had falafel, but only because Rhodey had him going on this weird health kick that shunned all meat from his diet. Tony decided to try it for a few weeks, and he only felt a little jealous as he watched Peter eat something called a “Meat Tornado”.
“That looks disgusting,” Tony says as juice drips down Peter’s chin. The man reaches out and wipes it off with a napkin, the motion so instinctual that he couldn’t even stop himself from doing it.
Peter grins, his cheeks full. “You’re only saying that because you have to eat chickpea.”
Tony looks down at his wrap for a second before his eyes dart back up. “It’s actually pretty good.” He takes a bite, “Nothing like your meat hurricane.”
“Tornado.”
“Whatever.”
Half an hour later found them lying on the couch, the garbage stuffed with their trash and very-few-leftovers, and the television playing an episode of “The Office”. It’s the one where the boss dresses up like a prisoner, and Tony’s seen it so many times that he’s only half paying attention.
Peter had his head rested on Tony’s chest, lounging comfortably on his side of the couch. The boy was watching the screen, but his eyes are slowly starting to open less and less with every blink, and Tony is smiling softly down at him.
He brings his hand up lazily and threads it through Peter’s hair, curls springing up between his fingers. Peter hums low in his throat, but it’s a noise of comfort, so Tony continues to card his hands through the feather-light hair.
The sounds of the closing credits start filling the space, and Tony allows the next episode to play as he watches Peter fight for consciousness. The boy’s eyes would start to close, his head tilting forward, but then he’d catch himself at the last second, and his whole body would snap awake.
After the third time, Tony chuckles to himself and says, “It’s okay, Pete. I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed.”
Peter just made a noise of agreement, before his eyes slide shut and stay that way. Tony doesn't realize how tired he is himself before he watches Peter slip into unconsciousness and suddenly feels envy.
When Tony follows suit, he doesn't fight it.
----
When Tony wakes, he assumes that it’s the overwhelming amount of silence that rocked him into consciousness.
Sight returns second, and Tony blinks a few times before his eyes focus on the television. The episodes had stopped playing through, and text across the screen reads, “Are you still there?”.
There was a button under the words to continue playing the show, but Tony just turns off the tv. The question his screen was asking him sounded desperate; like someone dramatically clutching to your pant leg and crying out: “Oh, woe is me! Is anyone still there to view my content? Are you still there to binge until your brains rot out?”
Stop being needy, Netflix, Tony thinks, watching the words blink away.
Peter suddenly shifts his head on its place on Tony’s chest, and Tony looks down drowsily. The boy is still out cold, and Tony runs his fingers over Peter’s forehead to brush away a few stray curls.
But the heat that greets his fingertips instead is what makes the billionaire pause.
Peter feels warmer than before, and Tony, in his semi-conscious state, tries to think about how warm it is in the room. Now that he contemplates it, he realizes that he’s a little hot himself, but whether that was because he was using the kid as a blanket or not, he didn't know.
“Nothing a little sleep can’t hurt,” Tony mutters, hoping that a good night’s rest would do Peter well. “FRI, please reduce the heat in the building by five percent.”
FRIDAY complies without reply.
“Peter,” Tony says, wanting to get the kid up and going. “Hey, Pete, time for bed, Kiddo.”
Peter grumbles, running a hand down his frowning face.
“I know you can hear me, Kid. Time to get up.”
“No,” Peter says, and Tony huffs out a laugh.
“Uh, yes. Come on.”
It only takes a little bit more persuading before Peter is uneasily getting to his feet. Tony starts to lead him towards the elevator, and Peter falls against his mentor’s side, leaning heavily. As soon as they make it to his room, Peter is falling into bed, out almost instantly.
Tony was just glad the kid was wearing sweatpants and sweater already because he didn’t want to have to wake him up for a second time just to change into pajamas.
“Night, Pete,” Tony says,
All he gets in response is a snore.
----
The second time Tony is woken up that night, it is to a soft voice seeming to whisper right in his ear. At first, it sounds like Pepper, but then he remembers that she is in the city for the week, and he thinks he must be dreaming.
His eyes start to fall shut again, but then the voice is back.
“Boss.”
Oh, his brain suddenly supplies, it’s FRIDAY.
“Yes, FRI?” He grumbles.
“Peter is currently awake and seems to be in quite a lot of distress.”
That has Tony up and going in a matter of seconds. He doesn't bother with a hoodie or socks, despite the obvious temperature drop. It only crosses his mind that he made it colder as he dashes down the hallway.
Peter’s bed is empty when Tony throws the door open, but the darkness of the room is broken as yellow light from the ensuite permeates the blackness. The door is only open a crack, but Tony can still hear the retching all the same. He wastes no time.
“Pete?” He asks quietly, pushing open the bathroom door. “Oh, Kiddo.”
Peter is hunched over the toilet, currently vomiting his guts out by the looks of it. He has stripped out of his sweater, and his t-shirt sticks to his back with sweat. Tony approaches him cautiously, still not knowing if he even knew he was there.
The boy gags violently, hugging the toilet bowl and ducking his head deeper inside. Tony kneels down at his side.
“Peter?” He asks, hesitantly placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder.
Peter’s head shoots up so quickly Tony worried about whiplash. The boy’s eyes were rimmed in red, his face pale and coated in a fine sheen of sweat. When Tony winces at his appearance, he tries to hide it.
“Mis’er S’ark?” Peter mutters, sounding only half-conscious.
“Hey, bud. How are you?”
“I-- I--” Peter cuts himself off by gaging low in his throat, and throwing his head back down.
Tony ignores the sweat and rubs his back softly. “Just let it out, Kiddo. Get it all out.”
“I’m… I’m so-- sorry,” Peter chokes out between retches.
Tony shakes his head, despite Peter not being able to see it. “Don’t worry about me, bud. Please. If my MIT days are anything to go off of, this is nothing.”
Peter most likely doesn't hear him over the sounds he is making, but Tony couldn’t care less. Right now, getting Peter better was his only priority. After a few long and gruesome minutes, Peter falls silent for the most part, and Tony runs his hand down the top of the kid’s spine.
“You think you’re good?” Tony asks.
Peter rests his forehead against his arm, his face leaning dangerously close to the toilet seat, and Tony grimaces. “I think I’m dead,” Peter whispers, forced humor hidden behind the obvious pain.
“Okay, buddy, let’s get you sitting. Here.” Tony slowly helps Peter move back, and sits him against the wall.
Peter mutters a small thank-you, but his expression is creased in discomfort. One arm wraps around his stomach, while his other hand balls itself into a tight fist.
“How are you really?” Tony asks, but he’s met with a groan in response. “You weren't this bad earlier. Just a little hot when I brought you to bed, but I thought that was just a weather thing. I guess I should’ve seen this sooner.”
Tony, realizing that Peter would be able to keep himself sitting upright, stands and walks over to the sink. He pulls a washcloth off one of the shelves mounted to the wall, and douses it in cool water. He brings it back to Peter, and carefully starts to wipe down the boy’s face.
Peter leans into the cloth, Tony’s slow movements partially washing off some of the visual discomfort. But the heat coming off of the kid is alarming, and Tony can feel it burning into his palm. The cloth is hot when he pulls it away.
“Pete, you’re burning up,” Tony says, standing and throwing the cloth in a small hamper.
Despite Tony’s statement, Peter shivers. “I’m cold.”
Tony frowns. “FRI, can you give me a scan of Peter?”
“Peter’s temperature reads 102.7 degrees Fahrenheit, Boss.”
Tony watches as Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and tears bloom in the corners. They slowly leak out and stream down the boy’s cheeks.
“Sorry, Bud, but that sounds an awful lot like--”
“No,” Peter whines, already knowing what Tony is gonna say. “Mis’er S’ark…”
“Pete, you know that’s a fever. But I could have told you that without the scan.”
“No doctors,” Peter sniffles.
Tony sighs, kneeling down despite his joints protesting. “Fine, I won’t take you to the med bay right away. But we gotta get you off the floor, okay? This is no place to treat spider-babies.”
Peter is quiet for a moment, his tears slowing down. “I’m not a baby…” He finally mumbled, and Tony snorts.
“Alright, sure, Bud. Whatever you say.”
----
Tony somehow maneuvers Peter out of the bathroom, the kid only threatening to faceplant three times, and he gets him sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for a new pair of PJs.
Tony rifles through Peter’s dresser drawer. He doesn't keep a full wardrobe at the compound, but he definitely has more than one pair of pajamas. Eventually, Tony finds something that wouldn’t make Peter hotter than he already was, and pulls the clothing out triumphantly.
When he turns back to the kid, he watches as Peter stares at the hardwood floor blankly, his eyes half-lidded and his body threatening to topple forward. Tony rushes forward, putting the clothes on the bed, and his hands on Peter’s shoulders.
“Hey, Kid, stay upright, okay?”
Peter lifts his gaze to meet Tony’s, his eyes slowly focusing, and he nods like his joints are coated in molasses.
“I’m gonna help you change, Pete. You can’t go back to sleep in something that looks like it drowned in sweat.”
“Clothing can’t drown,” Peter says earnestly. “That’s silly.”
Tony chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, what was I thinking? Definitely silly.”
It takes so much longer than it should have to strip Peter of his sweats and then change him into the new clothes. Peter smiles slightly as soon as he’s in the new outfit.
“Thanks,” he says to Tony, laying down cautiously.
Tony runs his hand over the kid’s forehead, smiling despite wanting to frown at the heat. Peter’s eyes don’t close even though he looks tired; he just continues to stare forward quietly.
Tony grabs a wastebasket to put beside the bed just in case Peter’s stomach decides to betray him again, and then he pulls out his phone. The clock said it was just past 2, but Tony couldn’t think of a better reason to text Bruce.
Hey, kid’s pretty sick. Fever of 102. What can we do to help?
“What are you doing?” Peter asks, his quiet voice catching Tony’s attention, but he doesn't take his eyes from his phone.
The three tiny dots were bouncing in the corner of his screen, which meant that Bruce was typing out a response; it was just taking longer than Tony would have liked.
“Huh?” Tony asked, still not diverting his gaze.
“Are you on the mayonnaise clinic?”
That gets Tony to look up instantly. Peter stares at him with genuine interest, the fever flushed high on his cheeks. “What?”
“The… the Mayo Clinic. Online. My friend told me about it.”
Tony shakes his head in amusement. “Nope. Not on the mayonnaise clinic… or even WebMD for that matter. I’m texting Bruce. Who is an actual doctor by the way.”
Peter smiles, but it looks forced and doesn't shine as bright as it should. Tony’s phone finally beeped, and he looks down to the device in his hands.
Brucie Bear: If he’s vomiting, allow his stomach to settle before giving him anything else to eat or drink. If he’s really thirsty, you can give him ice chips. Also, some of Cap’s fever reducers should be in the emergency box I have stocked in his bathroom. He can take some of those.
Tony nods along while he reads the message. He can do all of that. The phone beeps a second time, and a second message comes through.
Brucie Bear: Anywhere this might have come from?
Tony frowns at that, looking up at the pale Peter wrapped up in his sheets. “Were you feeling like this at all yesterday, bud?”
Peter hums in disagreement, but then he whispers, “Not really until after dinner.”
Tony can’t help it when he laughs, but then it turns into a sigh. “Okay, Kiddo, I’m pretty sure you have food poisoning.”
Peter frowns. “The shawarma… it betrayed me?”
“That’s what funky meat gets you, Kid.”
It was funky meat. Tony texts back.
Brucie Bear: Food poisoning. Sucks. Ease him into eating slowly. Also, rest won’t hurt anyone.
Tony slipped his phone in his back pocket and set off to grab the fever reducers, as well as a glass of ice chips and a towel. When he came back, Peter looked to be finally drifting off, but his eyes sprung open as soon as Tony set down the cup on the nightstand.
“Because I’m a man of my word,” Tony tries to keep his voice quiet as he unscrews the lid on the pills, “we are going to tackle this fever the best we can by ourselves. I need you to take two of these.”
Peter takes the pills with a grimace and flops back into his pillow. “Can I go to bed now?”
Tony smiles, running a hand through the spider-kid’s hair. “Yes.”
He starts to walk towards the armchair in the corner, ready to make it his new bed, when a hand darts out and clasps itself around his wrist. Tony turns around, staring down at Peter clutching onto him tightly.
“Can… can you please…”
Tony nods, already climbing onto the bed next to Peter. The boy shuffles over willingly, and then nestles into the man’s chest, his head falling close to the arc reactor. Tony wraps his arms around the child, ignoring the fact that Peter was acting as his own personal space heater, and fell asleep before he even knew if Peter had done the same.
----
“Move.”
Tony lifts up an arm and lightly bats at whoever is trying to wake him from his sleep. He grumbles, but it’s not really words and more of a string of unintelligible noises. There is a set of hands on his shoulder, and they push him weakly. Tony just squeezes his eyes tighter together.
But his ear is suddenly filled with the sound of choked off gagging, and his eyes pop open. Memory floods back, and he realizes that Peter is the one telling him to move, and it is also Peter who is about to throw up all over him.
“Oh my God,” Tony says quickly scrambling to get into a sitting position, but then he realizes he’s stuck because Peter is already climbing over him.
The boy only gets to the edge of the mattress before he’s spilling his stomach contents over the side of the bed. Tony can do nothing but watch until Peter is done, and then the kid falls on his side, completely limp. He only narrowly missed laying in a pool of vomit.
“Hold on,” Tony says, jumping off the bed and running to grab the other towel he brought.
He strips Peter of his shirt -- luckily his pants were salvaged -- and starts to wipe the bile from the boy’s face and chest. Once he was clean, Tony took out a new shirt and Peter let him pull it over his head.
“Thank you,” Peter mumbles, his face now a mix of pale and flushed, and Tony can see the embarrassment in his expression.
Tony rubs the nape of Peter’s neck and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Of course, Kiddo.”
Peter gave a small smile, and it’s the first moment of authentic joy that Tony has seen from him in the past few hours.
“Can you walk?” Tony asks, thinking about how he’s gonna have to change the sheets.
Peter stares off for a moment, looking like he didn’t hear Tony, but then he shakes his head. Tony inhales deeply.
“Okay, this is happening,” Tony says leaning down and gathering Peter up in his arms.
Peter starts to panic as Tony lifts him off the bed, “No, no, Mr. Stark! I--”
“Peter, stop struggling! You’re only making this worse!”
Peter stops moving, and instead wrapped his arms and legs around Tony. Tony really didn’t mind carrying the kid -- he didn’t weigh that much -- but it was more his back that didn’t agree with the idea. Tony bit back any groan that was starting to form.
“You’re just like a koala, Pete,” Tony says, walking towards the armchair. “Sure it wasn’t a marsupial that bit you?”
“No way,” Peter mutters into Tony’s neck. “I’m so much cooler than koala’s.”
“Definitely.”
Tony places Peter down on the chair, promising that he would be done soon and then Peter could crawl back up under the covers. When Peter looked satisfied with that, Tony slipped out into the hallway and speed-walked towards the hallway linen closet.
It was moments like this which really surprised Tony in how domestic his life was becoming -- taking care of his kid and getting sheets from the linen closet.
“Hey, FRIDAY?” Tony asks as he opens the doors.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Can you tell me what Peter’s temperature is now?”
“His current temperature is 101.1 degrees. It has dropped significantly since you last asked.”
Tony reached into the closet, pulling out a set of white sheets and a red blanket from the shelf labeled: Peter Only. Tony would have to wash the kid’s comforter, but he hoped that this would work until morning.
“What can I do next, FRI?” Tony says, trying to stall for time. He closes the doors as slowly as he can and stares up at the ceiling. “And please, don’t get your information from a website that is named after a condiment.”
“I do have to say, Boss, that Mayo Clinic dot org does have some good sources.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Please just tell me how to help the kid.”
“If Peter is having trouble keeping things down, I would recommend getting him to take a couple of ice chips to see how his stomach can hold it. If that works, have him take a couple more with one of the reducers. He does have to take something for his fever.”
Tony nods, realizing that he would have to make a second stop at the kitchen to get more ice as the ones he already got would have melted. By the time he finally makes it back to the room, Peter is nodding off in the chair, his head bobbing as he forces back sleep.
“Hey, bud,” Tony says, catching Peter’s attention.
A dopy, fatigued smile stretches across the kid’s face. “Hi.”
Tony grins. “Hi.”
The sheets get changed in silence, and when Tony walks over to Peter, the boy holds out his arms to be picked up. Tony chuckles under his breath and leans down. Peter latches on quickly, burying his face in the crook of Tony’s neck.
As soon as he’s in bed, Peter burrows under his covers, pulling the blanket up until just his large eyes are peering out at Tony. He looks like a baby owl, and Tony just smiles.
“Okay Kiddo, before you get to sleep, I need you to take a few of these,” Tony shakes the cup of ice, “and if that goes well, we’ll give you one of Cap’s pills.”
Peter whines under his breath, but still shuffles up on the headboard and holds out his hand. Tony gives him the cup, watching as the kid takes a few and hopes with all his might that they actually stay down.
They do, and twenty-six minutes later, Tony makes Peter takes one of the reducers, only because the boy looks like he might fall over with sleep and Tony did not want to wake up a slumbering Peter. That did not sound like fun.
“Stay with me?” Peter asks, and Tony rolls his eyes affectionately.
“Like you even need to ask.”
----
When Bruce shows up at Peter’s room the next morning to check in on him, he finds out from FRIDAY that Peter’s fever had settled in his sleep.
He also found Peter and Tony sleeping soundly on the bed; their arms wrapped around each other, Peter’s head on Tony’s chest.
He snaps a photo and sends it to Pepper and Happy. Then he leaves before he can disturb either of them, making a plan to have breakfast and coffee ready for when they finally do wake up.