Sometimes, there are good days.
Good days are when Peter wakes up, slips on his favorite pair of red socks, and slides out of bed without a hitch. He walks to the kitchen and makes two bowls of cereal, raisin bran for himself and shredded wheat in the other, and sleepily munches on cereal while he waits for Tony to wake up.
Tony wakes up as well, eventually, with a stretch and a lion roar of a yawn to announce his return to consciosness. He makes his way to the kitchen as well, plopping down in the chair across from the kid and instantly begins inhaling his soggy wheat. (Peter often frowns at this because ew, that texture is horrible, but Tony insists he likes it so he's often forced to go with it.) Sometimes they'll talk, but sometimes they won't; sometimes they'll just sit and listen to the clinking of metal spoons against glass, relishing the fact that they're both alive and well.
On good days, Tony drops off Peter at school without his heart aching to never let him go. He hugs the kid a quick goodbye, waves him off with a charming smile and a shouted "try not to get in trouble, kid, and call if you need anything!" He can drive home and fiddle with robotics for the day without worrying, on those days, and greets Peter with another smile when he comes home.
Peter can do the same, on good days. He smiles and hugs Tony through the car window before turning and heading through the doors leading inside, waves one more time before jogging through the hallways to find Ned before class starts. He goes through school without a problem, doodling all through english and laughing with Ned and MJ during lunch, taking the bus home after school and griping about homework to whoever will listen.
Good days are just fine. Bad days are harder to deal with.
Sometimes, on bad days, Peter doesn't get out of bed. He wakes up gasping, throwing off the covers because they're too hot too much too suffocating all at once, and spends a few minutes collecting himself after the nightmare and the phantom feeling of fizzling away to nothing. Sometimes he curls in on himself and sobs, and sometimes he wraps his arms around his chest and tries to breathe, but he never manages to leave the bed. Tony will eventually come in and find him, whispering an "aw, damn it kid, come here" and pulling Peter close to help him calm down.
They stay like that for awhile, Peter choking out a desperate stream of "sorry, Mr Stark, please don't leave-" until Tony hushes him back to sleep.
Sometimes Tony wakes up too early just to check on the kid. He wakes up rigid and sweating, quickly making his way to the kid's room in a desperate attempt to see him alive, whole, breathing, and not a pile of ash falling apart in his arms. He will open the kid's door with an echoing pain that's not there, watch him sleep for a few minutes, and eventually make his way to the lab and continue tinkering.
Sometimes Peter wakes up on these days when he hears his door open. He only manages to say the beginnings of a question before he is scooped up, held close to Tony's chest with only a "sorry kid, it's nothing, just checking in on you is all." The kid stays silent because he doesn't need words, he knows.
Sometimes Tony cries too, but that's alright.
They're both going to be alright.