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Sylvan.
It’s the only thing that comes to mind.
Braided sweetgrass and wild daisies. Semi-blue upholstered frame. Spring in bloom floating up to his window.
Each blink is a butterfly’s flutter, and Tony can feel them squeezing his heart.
Peter, hunched on the couch and fiddling with a pen, visibly submerged in thought, looks up from his notebook when he hears footsteps in the hall, and notices him.
“Hey, Mr. Stark!” he exclaims, straightening his back slightly. “How’d the meeting go?”
A smile paints his face, and the curls spiral down his forehead, sneaking behind the lenses of his glasses. He sets the notebook down, laying it on his crossed legs and, with distracted fingers, adjusts the glasses higher.
Tony clears his throat. Shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Meeting was fine, kiddo,” he looks at Peter for a moment before crouching down and yanking the leather laces of his shoes loose. “Snoozefest per usual.”
He straightens up and shakes the shoes off his feet, sighing loudly and collapsing next to Peter on the couch, who laughs and slides back to give him more space.
Tony shifts onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.
“Whatcha workin’ on?”
Peter leans back, sinking into the velvety fluffiness of the pillow.
“Nothing, really. Just tweaking the new web formula,” he flips through the pages of his notebook, thumb tracing the curves of the spiral binding.
Tony hums in acknowledgment, his expression distant.
Peter stretches his legs with a soft groan, and Tony watches as his toes flex beneath his socks.
And, almost involuntarily, his ambling gaze drifts back to those eyes and settles on them.
“New glasses, bambi?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can catch them.
Peter jumps faintly in place. He brings a hand to the frame, brushing it briefly.
“Uhm, no,” he runs his hand through his hair, “no, uh, I used to wear these before the bite. Sort of stopped needing them after that, though. But, uh, lately, my eyes started getting tired more easily, like they used to before, so I figured...” Peter resumes his fiddling, letting the sentence trail off.
Tony reaches out a finger and playfully twists a curl, a smile forming on his face as Peter glares at him, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
“They look good, tesoro,” he assures, his voice all chamomile warmth.
Peter’s cheeks dust pink, and his glasses slide a few millimeters down the bridge of his nose as he ducks his head.
“Thanks, dad.”
Oh.
Tony inhales sharply. Feels the fluttering return. Swallows.
“‘Course, Pete...” It comes out on an exhale, voice barely a thread; air and words weaving together until they wrap around him, making his palms sweat.
Tony clears his throat. He sits up, abruptly, drumming his fingers against his knee. Turning toward the window, he tilts his head at the darkness outside, then glances back at Peter.
“What time did you get here, kid?”
“Uh,” Peter leans toward the coffee table, stretching his arm to grab his phone and check the time, his brow furrowing slightly as he tries to remember. “At like, five-thirty, I think.”
Tony checks his watch—it was already quarter to eight.
“You hungry?”
Peter nods.
“Come on.” Tony pushes himself up from the couch with a soft grunt and offers Peter his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Let's get you fed, kiddo.”
Taking his hand, Peter follows Tony into the kitchen, doubting he’s ever felt flesh more tender than that calloused palm.
Tony heads to the sink, releasing his grip to wash his hands. He turns on the faucet; the stream, with its steady murmur, roving through the room, pealing against gleaming aluminum.
“Go sit by the counter,” he says, scrubbing his fingers. “I'll have dinner ready in a jiffy.”
This was probably his favorite sound, Peter thinks—the sizzle; the sibilant stream hushing the scene; interspersed chops and slices of fresh vegetables, crunching and snapping as they roll across the wooden board; the bubbling of the pot, and his dad’s voice. A singing voice. One of those voices that sinks into your bones and settles deep in your marrow.
Sleepy and slightly wobbly, Peter drops onto a stool and leans against the counter. Folding his arms to use them as a pillow, he rests his head and watches Tony glide skillfully around the kitchen.
“What're you making?”
Tony, one hand on his hip and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirs the pot at a placid pace.
“Pumpkin soup.”
Peter shifts his arms to get more comfortable.
“Is it good?”
A small smile tugs at Tony’s lips.
“You doubting my culinary skills, kid?”
“Evidently.”
“Gonna leave shell in yours for that.”
Peter huffs a laugh before letting out a soft yawn, his eyelids growing heavy.
His breathing begins to slow down as a pleasant tingle runs down his back. A low hum lulls his senses, and he feels himself be engulfed by the warmth of his arms.
The rest of the room seems to orbit distantly, fading as it drifts away. It floats, and Peter floats—everything sways and sinks into a calm lethargy.
Lost in his reverie, he feels as something warm presses against his cheek, making him blink groggily to shake off the sleep clinging to his lashes.
“Hey, bug,” infinitely brown eyes and facial hair hover over him, “can you stay awake a little longer for me, tesoro? Food's almost ready.”
Ah, the fog clouding his mind begins to lift—Tony.
“Hmm,” he yawns, stretching sluggishly, “dad?”
Something flickers in Tony’s eyes that Peter can't name. Leaning forward, Tony presses a kiss to his forehead, and as he pulls back, he moves the hand resting on Peter’s face and gently nudges one of the glasses’ arms back up.
He’s all soft. All corduroy curves. Stray curls caught between lashes brushing over cheeks, squished against cotton-covered arms. And Tony thinks he’s never seen him look so young.
“God, kiddo,” the breath slips out of him, “the things you do to me.”
Peter tilts his head clumsily, eyes half-lidded.
“Wha' d'you mean...?”
“You're too cute for me to handle, bambi”, Tony chuckles, hand rubbing absentmindedly over his heart. “You've ruined me. I'm as low as Legolas now.”
Peter smiles lazily before yawning again. He lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes.
“M' tired.”
Tony strokes his cheek.
“I know, buddy, I know. You just gotta eat a little bit, and then you can go to bed, yeah?”
He nods heavily.
Tony smiles and ruffles his hair.
“That's my boy.”
He heads back to the stove, turning off the fire and uncovering the pot, then grabs two bowls from a cabinet and fills them with steaming soup.
He asks Peter to sit up, placing the bowl in front of him and handing over a spoon and a glass of water just a moment later.
Tony settles across from him, one hand busy with the spoon, the other reaching out toward him. Peter doesn’t hesitate to take it.
They eat in quiet peace, hands intertwined. Warmth flows and descends slowly down their bodies. The moon peeks in through the window to gather its honey from the scene. Tony drags his spoon along the bowl, its faint clink tiptoeing around the kitchen.
His eyes flicker up and his son’s somnolent face knocks the breath out of him; freezes him in place, as suns stitched in satin on September mornings, misting over pastures with their pear-yellow light; blossoms slithering in a premature dawn, with manners so algid and radiant.
“It’s bigger than me,” he whispers, and Peter lifts his gaze to him, disoriented, “the love I have for you. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with it.”
“How come...” Peter breaks off with a yawn, “how come you’re bein’ s-so sweet t’night?”
Tony stretches out an arm and brushes the hair from his eyes.
“Pretty sure it’s those damn glasses, bambi.” He lets out a small chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “You look, like, three years younger with ’em.”
Peter scrunches his nose, glances down at their joined hands, fingers twitching. A bitter little pout tugging at his lips.
“S’that mean you won’t be sweet to me when I get older…?”
Tony’s laughter dies in his throat.
“What?” he leans forward. Both hands reach out to take Peter’s and give it a squeeze. “What? Kid, no. No, of course not.” His brow furrows, eyes veiled by worry, and he strokes the back of Peter’s hand with his thumb. “That's not what I meant at all, bug.”
Peter studies his face before nodding, gently pinching the fingers wrapped around his own.
Tony sighs and mutters something under his breath before pushing his chair back and spreading his legs, leaning into the seat. Peter looks at him, puzzled. Tony clears his throat and pats his lap.
“C’mere, kiddo,” he says at last.
He sees the hesitation in Peter, the way his legs tense and his shoulders lean forward involuntarily, how his gaze shifts up and down with graceless longing.
Just as Tony is about to call to him again, Peter rises from his chair and takes timid little steps toward him.
Tony feels himself melt, and the smile returns to his face. He helps Peter settle onto his lap and pulls him to his chest.
They breathe. Slowly. From the tips of their toes to the ends of their hair, the same air flows through them and makes them shiver.
“You worried about that, baby?” Tony’s voice is low, resonating against Peter’s shoulder, where his chin is resting.
Peter shifts in his place, shrugging his shoulders.
“A little,” he murmurs. “Ned says his parents don’t really hug him much now that he’s older. MJ doesn’t really talk about that kind of stuff, but I think she said hers don’t, either.” He lowers his head and watches his shoes catch the light as he swings them. “Aunt May has never, you know, rejected me,” Peter tilts his head and rests it over Tony’s sternum, “but it’s not like she comes by my room to give me a good night kiss anymore…”
Tony hums, encouraging him to go on. Strokes his arms reassuringly.
Peter groans, frustrated, “Do I sound really…? I know I'm being, like, super dramatic about this, and definitely a lot more childish than necessary,” before Tony can protest, Peter continues, “but it’s just—” he groans again, “I wasn’t a kid that long ago, right?”
Was he? Tony cannot say for sure.
It dawns, mercilessly on him that his son has only been his for a very short time; that whole years of his life were spent skirting his own. Incoherent babbles that might have paved the little streets where he learned to ride a bike—all fantasies in photos of toothless smiles.
He looks at him, pausing at every edge; the tip of his nose, the line of his jaw and cheekbones, the widow's peak in the sight of his cupid's bow. For all that softness, his kid was undeniably sharp. He won’t be able to steer the question into safer ground—he knows that.
He swallows.
“God, Pete, I don't know,” he holds him a little closer, afraid of falling short of what the moment demands. “You know your old man sucks at mushy stuff,” he places the tiniest kiss on his shoulder, “doesn’t mean he loves you any less, baby.”
They cling to the silence, their minds oscillating far away. From the extractor hood, a vernacular hums resonates and the light bounces and skips across the tiled walls. The smell of pumpkin spreads lazily, perfuming the room with no haste. The day feels as distant as the sun.
“I...” Tony starts, “I always want you close, kiddo. Ain't no silly number gonna change that.”
Biting his lip, Peter turns his head to look him in the eyes.
“You sure?”
Tony nods, then gently presses his forehead against Peter’s.
“Cast-iron.”
Neither of them can fight the smile, and in Peter's case, the yawn.
"Bedtime?" Tony asks, holding back a chuckle between his teeth.
Doing his best to glare at him as his eyelids flutter shut from sleep, Peter says yes, so Tony—with a worrisome crack from his back—scoops him up and leads them towards Peter's room, rocking him.
“Want me to sing to you?”
“You're on thin fucking ice, Stark.”
Cackling and forgetting the dirty dishes in need of cleaning, their shadows trail away down the hallway until they disappear into the room.
“And don't think I didn't notice that crack,” Peter croons as he is deposited on his bed,“we're gonna be dissecting your impending middle-age crisis next.”
“... I'm selling you to the circus.”
“You kidding? I climb walls, dad. I'd rule over that tent so quick, the ringmaster would get whiplash.” Shedding his jeans and handing them to Tony, who folds them and puts them away in the closet, he huddles under the blanket and sighs. “On reflection, I think I might've missed my calling...”
“Don't worry, we can call one tomorrow and rewrite your legacy,” Tony sits on the edge of the bed, crooked smile planted on his face.
“A man of action, I see.”
“'Course I am, kid, who do you think you're dealing with here?”
“A senior citizen. Duh.”
“That's it, I'm disowning you.”
Peter leans back on his pillow, laughing, and Tony takes his glasses between his fingers and places them on the bedside table.
As the laughter subsides and calm settles over them once more, their hands find their way back to each other, linking atop the fuzzy blanket.
“I love you, bambi,” Tony murmurs, “so much, okay? You keep my world spinning.”
Peter clears his throat, blinking; his face softens, cheeks flushing faintly, pupils dilating. The world stops cold, and the air thickens. For a second, there is nothing but the certainty of his dad’s voice and the warmth of his hand.
“I love you too, dad.”
Tony’s lips land on his forehead, planting a sunbeam at the hairline that warms him from head to toe. And when he pulls back, Peter sees his own heart reflected in his eyes.
“Good night, Pete,” Tony whispers.
“Night, Dad.”
Sleep, now at last settled, unpacks its bags and watches peacefully as its stay begins to unfold.