Work Text:
1970:
The sound of crying fills up Howard and Maria’s bedroom.
Howard is filled with irritation within less than a second. He groans under his breath, tilting his head back against the headboard with a dull thud. Maria gives him a dirty look from the foot of the bed, where she’s rubbing lotion up and down her arms.
Maria huffs and stomps out of their bedroom and down the hall, where the baby sleeps. Howard has tried and failed to convince her, on several occasions, that they should move the nursery further away, so the crying doesn’t keep them up all night, but she just glared him into silence.
The baby stops crying after a couple minutes. Maria comes back less than ten minutes later. She doesn’t even finish her usual nighttime routine; she just plops onto her side of the bed and grabs the bible off of the nightstand.
“I’m telling you, the kid needs a fucking doctor.” Howard says, before she can even open it. “Carter’s kids don’t cry half as much as him.”
“Right, because you spend more time with Peggy’s kids than your own son.” Maria doesn’t even look at him as she skims through the pages. “And Anthony doesn’t need a fucking doctor, he probably just wants his fucking father to comfort him once in a while.”
“You are so unattractive when you swear, you know that?”
Maria slams the bible down on the nightstand. She glares, blue eyes boring into him as her thin lips press together. She was twenty-two when they met, full of life and curves. The baby (and the eighteen years since that first night as his Manhattan property) has aged her; withered her.
Then, she stands up and gathers the only blanket on the bed with her, ripping it off of his half-nude body so quickly that a chill runs through his torso. “Where are you going?”
“The guest room.”
The door slams behind her, and Anthony starts crying again a few seconds later. Howard thinks about punching the wall until his hands bleed, but then there will be questions and the house staff will give him that look again. God only knows what lies Maria feeds all of them, when he’s busy providing for her and the baby that never shuts the fuck up. They all act like he beats the kid.
This has been Howard’s life for the last three months. Anthony doesn’t stop wailing day and night, little limbs flailing and face nearly turning purple from the lack of air entering his lungs. Howard has spent more time sleeping in his office than ever before, and even that is saying something.
It takes nearly a half-hour for the baby to calm down, this time. By the time the crying stops, Howard’s ears are ringing, and he desperately needs a glass of whiskey. He’s quiet when he sneaks out of the master bedroom and to his study, relieved to be with the one thing that doesn’t scream in his ear every night.
-
2002:
Tony has just drifted off, when he hears crying coming from the room next door.
He’s up in an instant, drowsiness forgotten as he pads into the nursery. The soft blue walls look more purple in the pale moonlight, illuminating his path to the crib in the corner. Chubby, tiny hands wave and flail at him through the crib bars.
When he gets close enough, he lifts Peter into his arms.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, Petey?” Tony croons, settling his son against his chest. He rocks back and forth on his heels, lips pressed to the baby’s temple as he whispers, “Huh? Why are you upset?”
Peter stops crying quickly, wails turning into quiet whines and sniffles. He rests his head against his father’s shoulder, leaning into him heavily, tiny fists gripping the collar of Tony’s stained Black Sabbath T-shirt and pulling.
A soft, unbidden laugh rises in the billionaire’s chest. “Oh, you just missed me, huh? You just wanted to cuddle, you little manipulator.”
Peter just exhales sleepily in response. A suffocating wave of fondness crashes over Tony and quiets him, leaving him to silently pace around the nursery as he rocks his baby back to sleep. Even through days of sleep-deprivation on account of finishing a military project that Obadiah has been breathing down his neck about, every one of his senses tune onto Peter until nothing but what is inside this nursery exists.
In the three months since Peter was born, Tony’s priorities have shifted dramatically.
Long gone are the days of sleeping around and hangovers and casino nights, even if that’s how Peter was created, in the first place. His mother is a red-headed, quick-witted woman from New York who insisted that she sign away her parental rights on account of not wanting to spend her twenties taking care of a baby, but it’s not like Tony holds her in bad regard. All he can be is thankful that she gave him this gift.
It takes a few minutes of pacing and rocking, but eventually, Peter falls asleep. He breathes deeply against his father’s chest, little face smushed against the fabric. Somewhere along the lines, Tony has gotten soft, because he gets misty-eyed every time Peter does this, which is almost every night.
“Dad loves you, Petey-Pie.” Tony whispers, pressing a long kiss to his son’s cheek. “Daddy loves you a whole lot, you know that? Yup, I do. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, I swear.”
He takes a moment to swear to whatever is above that as Peter gets older, he will never go a day without hearing just how much his father loves him. Fuck, Tony will pay a blimp to go by the mansion every day with the words Tony Stark loves Peter Stark just so the message gets through.
With a heavy yet oh-so-full heart, Tony gently sets Peter back down in his crib. He kisses his head one last time before tiptoeing back to the master bedroom, eyes significantly heavier than they were just minutes ago.
As he drifts off, his mind hangs on to a single thought: Did Howard ever love him like this?
-
1975:
“You have a minute?” Obadiah holds out the glass of whiskey as an offer, as if it’s something Howard would actually have to consider.
“For my fine friend Jack Daniels?” Howard places his pen, where it was just poised over the latest stack of paperwork, down on his desk. He motions to the chair across from his desk, a sort of relaxation enveloping him like a blanket. “Of course.”
Obadiah grins, flashing a row of pearly-white teeth before he clambers over and takes a seat at the chair across from him. Howard pulls out the whiskey glasses he keeps under his desk for this exact reason and sets them on the desk, loosening his tie and leaning back as Obadiah pours the expensive drink.
“Enjoying being back in warmer climates?” Obadiah asks, taking a large gulp out of his glass, throat bobbing.
“I was only gone four weeks.”
“Four weeks too long.” The man sighs. Howard really is happy to be back from the fucking arctic, though he wishes he could be back with Steve Rogers. “Poor Maria practically had the house-service fanning her to sleep at night. I saw that butler of yours once, had Tony just hanging off his leg.”
“Speak of the abnormally sexy devil.” Howard mumbles when he sees Maria’s shadow in the closed door before three soft knocks ring out. The door pushes open, revealing a well-dressed Maria, holding Anthony’s hand.
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Stark.” Obadiah says from his chair, even though no one in the room is looking at him.
Maria presses her lips together in an irritated way. She’s always been vocal about her distaste for Obadiah. “And you, Mr. Stane.”
“Hi, daddy!” Anthony’s high-pitched, mildly aggravating voice cuts in. He’s holding one of those flimsy model planes that he made last week, crying when he wasn’t allowed in Howard’s workshop to show him. Jarvis and Maria both coddled over him like Howard had committed some atrocity by not wanting a clumsy little kid all over his sensitive materials.
“What’s he doing in her, Maria?” Howard pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning forward on the desk. As usual, a new fury takes over his wife’s face. “I’m working.”
“You’re drinking.” Maria hisses in a whisper, as if the kid can’t hear her. “It’s his birthday, Howard. He wanted to come see his dad.”
“He’ll have other birthdays.”
“Oh my God-”
“Why don’t I go take the kid to see the display case?” Obadiah cuts in, straightening his tie as he stands. He ruffles Anthony’s mop of wild curls, then grabs his hand and pulls him out. Anthony casts a pleading look towards his parents, but he disappears behind the door with Obadiah before he can throw another tantrum.
Maria’s eyes bore into him, lip starting to tremble.
“Awe, Mar, you know I don’t like it when you cry.” He huffs, grabbing a napkin from his desk and passing it to her rather frantically. “Come on, get it together, sweetheart. This is my work.”
When Howard gets home later that night, Anthony has long since fallen asleep and Maria is locked back up in the guest room.
-
2007:
Tony has just sat down in his office for lunch, when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Come in.” He calls, expecting another mountain of paperwork or Pepper apologetically explaining that she booked him for three more meetings this afternoon. He holds his breath when the mystery person behind the door is, indeed, Pepper, but any anxiety melts away into pure relief when a much tinier person rushes in beside her.
“Daddy!” Peter half-sprints into the room, backpack hanging from his shoulders and sneakers scuffing against the carpet as he jumps up into Tony’s lap.
Tony gasps in faux surprise, pulling back a little to look his kid in the eyes. “Oh no, Pepper, we have a runner. Did you run all the way here from school, Pete? I bet you were so fast that the teachers didn’t even realize you left.”
The five-year-old laughs, toothy smile on full display and he grips the lapels of his father’s suit, adjusting his position in his lap. He lets his backpack clamber to the floor. “No, daddy, I didn’t run! Uncle Happy picked me up so I can come visit and my- my- my teacher even said that- that she hopes I have a fun time with my dad and you’re my dad.”
Tony pretends to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Whew, I was getting worried you were too big to have a daddy.”
“I’m not too big, daddy. Mrs. Cowen is really big, and she still has a daddy. He likes to go- to go fishing. Like Uncle Rhodey.” Peter curls bounce with each squirming movement, flapping along as he talks. Tony takes a moment to glance over at Pepper for an explanation.
She shrugs. “I knew you were stressed out today, and Peter really wants to have lunch with his dad.”
“Thank you.” Tony says sincerely, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead. In the two months since Peter started kindergarten, he’s finally warmed-up to school, though he knows that separation anxiety is still a big issue. Peter is only in school until one o’clock, so Tony often finds himself (at least once a week) signing him out early to come eat lunch in his office.
“I’m hungry.” Peter complains, leaning against his father’s shoulder, just like he used to when he was a baby. Tony grabs his backpack off the floor and riffles around for his lunchbox, pulling out the tuna sandwich he packed for him this morning. “Thanks, daddy.”
Pepper bows out of the room, leaving Tony alone with his favorite person in the world. Peter shares every detail of his day, sandwich crumbs flying from his mouth and all over the expensive carpet. Tony hangs onto every word, nodding along and laughing when the story permits it.
When Peter is done eating, Tony cleans his face with a piece of paper towel and lifts him. “What do you say about us sneaking out early, huh?”
“You’re gonna’ get in trouble, daddy.” Peter’s face lights up at the prospect of his father breaking the rules.
“You’re right.” Tony nods, beginning to sneak through the long hallways with Peter in his arms. “Just don’t tell on me to Aunt Pepper, okay?”
-
1980:
Howard’s eyes are glued to the honey blonde-haired woman with the microphone.
Honey-Blonde's slender, pale legs peak out from beneath her dress. Her eyes are green as emeralds, boring into his very soul as he answers some other reporter’s questions. He knows his should tear his gaze away at some point (God knows this moment will be plastered on every magazine first thing in the morning), but Maria has spent every night in the guest room for the last three weeks and Honey-Blonde looks like she could just devour him right here.
Maria is somewhere in the crowd with Anthony, probably being entertained by Obadiah, just so she doesn’t cause a scene. The PR team said it’s good business to bring his wife and child to big announcements like these; that it humanizes him to any American that still isn’t sold on Stark Industries. As far is Howard is concerned, it’s more of a pain in the ass than anything.
Finally, Honey-Blonde gets her turn to shove the microphone in Howard’s face. In a smooth, sultry voice, she says, “Good evening, Mr. Stark.”
“Evening, Ms...?”
“Walker.” Honey-Blonde says. “Joan Walker.”
“Ms. Walker.” Howard amends. Joan chews on her red lower lip, and for a moment, he completely forgets about Maria and Anthony being somewhere in the crowd.
Joan doesn’t even ask about the announcement on the expansion of the weapons division, which is what every other reporter has been hounding him about. “I heard that your son is starting high-school in the fall. Quite the achievement for a ten-year-old.”
“Let’s just hope he stays that way long enough to run the company.” He grins, flashing paper-straight teeth. A thought occurs to him suddenly. “He’s here right now with his mother, you know. Would you like an interview?”
Joan looks fucking delighted. “ Are you sure that’s okay with Mrs. Stark?”
“Gotta’ get him used to the limelight somehow, right?”
It takes a few minutes for them to find Maria and Anthony. The kid is watching the crowd in mild interest, playing with the hem of his expensive suit. He blinks when he notices Howard approaching, then blinks even harsher when he sees the woman that’s practically hanging off his arm.
“Anthony,” Howard calls, grabbing both his and Maria’s attention. Maria’s eyes narrow. “Ms. Walker wants to ask you a few questions. Get over here.”
“He doesn’t want to be interviewed.” Maria says shortly.
“Yes, he does.”
“No, he doesn’t.” She insists. “The microphones stress him out; I’ve already told you this. Why doesn’t Ms. Walker find someone else to talk to?”
“It’s a fucking microphone, Maria, not a gun. You’re letting him be a pussy.”
Anthony shrinks back at the word, eyes wide and glued to his father. Howard can’t understand why they have to be like this, why they have to treat him like a monster disguised as a breadwinner. When Anthony speaks, his voice is irritatingly timid, “I don’t want to.”
“Christ. Boy, how do you think you’re going to run my company when you can’t even have a fucking conversation?” Howard steps closer, utterly humiliated that his kid is doing this on such an important night. “Get over here, now.”
Cameras flash across the scene. Howard knows that tomorrow, when these pictures are splashed across magazines and newspapers, no one will pay attention to the fear on Anthony’s face.
-
2012:
There’s nothing Tony hates more than the paparazzi.
He can’t count the number of times his privacy has been invaded, his boundaries have been crossed, his most private moments have become a public spectacle. His first memory of it was at some big event his father dragged him and his mother to, and the headlines about Howard Stark’s kid-genius son being a spoiled brat earned him a slap across the face that no one besides him and Howard ever knew about.
A few weeks after he first brought Peter home, someone managed to get a picture of Tony walking around his Malibu property with a stroller, and the media became just as obsessed with Peter Stark as they were with ten-year-old Tony, all those years ago.
It’s become Tony’s personal mission to make sure none of the vultures traumatize his innocent kid, no matter how much they try.
“Tony,” Pepper’s steps into the living area are frantic. He looks up from where he’s walking Steve through tech upgrades. “The school just called. The paparazzi found Peter on his fieldtrip and ambushed him in the parking lot. He had a panic attack and won’t get on the bus.”
Tony shoots up. “I’m gonna’ kill someone.”
“Why would the press be following around Peter, like that?” Steve questions genuinely, brows furrowed. If it weren’t for the circumstances, Tony would laugh at his obliviousness. “He’s only a kid. As if he knows anything about the company that he can tell them.”
Tony doesn’t stick around to hear Pepper’s response, because he’s half-sprinting into the parking garage in a second. Even with midday traffic and the long drive to Peter’s elementary school, he’s there in less than fifteen minutes (the fucking paparazzi should count themselves lucky that he didn’t take the Iron Man suit).
There are still droves of paparazzi gathered outside of the kids’ science exhibit that Peter’s fifth-grade class is visiting, but Tony ignores them for now, too focused on getting inside to see his distressed son. Indeed, Peter is sitting and waiting for him, with a worried-looking teacher by his side while a TA tries to keep the other children away.
“Pete.” Tony says when he gets close enough, heart shattering when he sees the tear tracks down his baby’s face.
“Dad.” Peter lifts his arms in a plea for a hug. Tony takes him in immediately, crouching down and rocking a little. He presses a lingering kiss to the side of his kid’s head, nuzzling his nose into Peter’s wild head of curls. “There were- they were all yelling and- and I got scared and-”
“Shh, I know, honey.” Tony soothes, standing with Peter still in his arms. Even as he gets older, Peter is still yet to overcome his childhood clinginess, especially when he’s upset. “It’s okay. I’m gonna’ take you home, okay? We’ll come back another day, just me and you. I promise.”
“And Uncle Bruce.” Peter sniffles.
Tony holds back a laugh. “Okay, and Uncle Bruce.”
Every single paparazzo in the parking lot is pale and jobless, by the time Tony is finished with them.
-
1985:
In fifteen years of being a father, Howard doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before.
He waits in his office, foot pushing against the desk as he rocks slightly, fingers tight around the rim of his whiskey glass. If Howard’s father were here, in his position, he would beat Howard into half-unconsciousness for the transgression and call it a night.
In all honesty, that’s starting to be an appealing option.
Maria is away in Italy for a cousin’s funeral, only set to return next week. He probably won’t even tell her about what’s happening with Anthony, just to spare himself of the argument. Howard will handle the discipline, and the generous donation it takes to keep Anthony from getting kicked out of school. She doesn’t need to know about any of this.
Finally, after a lifetime of waiting, there’s a knock on his office door. The door pushes open, revealing a solemn-looking Anthony on the other side.
“Sit down.” Howard says, gritting his teeth to control the rage boiling under the surface. Anthony rushes to obey, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to make it to his seat in front of Howard’s desk. These last few years of puberty have sharpened Anthony’s face, made him more defined. Even so, he’s still a cowering child.
There’s a long moment of silence as Howard takes a sip of his whiskey, watching his son fidget with a surgical intensity. Anthony says, “Dad-”
Howard holds up a hand, cutting him off. “I don’t think I need to explain to you the amount of sacrifices I’ve made for you, Anthony.”
The fifteen-year-old nods hurriedly. “Yes, I know-”
“When I was your age, my family didn’t have two fucking pennies to rub together. My father was a fruit vendor. A fucking fruit vendor. That’s how he provided for my sisters and me. I was in my twenties when I stopped going to bed hungry. And still, even though he couldn’t even provide for his own goddamn family like every other American man out there, I respected my father.”
Anthony swallows, throat bobbing. “I respect you.”
“If you respected me, then you wouldn’t allow me to waste my money on you getting an education that you’re going to throw away for fucking party tricks!” Howard stands, chair clambering backwards. He slams his open palm onto the desk. “How do you think I feel when I get the call from the school I’ve spent a fortune on for them to even consider letting my sub-par son attend, telling me that my fucking moronic offspring set a trashcan on fire at a party? Huh? What did you want me to say to them?”
Anthony is quiet. For a long moment, Howard doesn’t think he will respond, but then, in a nearly inaudible voice, he whispers, “I’m not sub-par.”
“What was that?” Howard leans closer, angry and vicious and very close to giving into a violent impulse that tugs at his brain and hands.
“I’m not sub-par. I have a scholarship.” Anthony says, suddenly confident. “I could have gotten in with or without you. You just can’t stand that I can do things without you.”
The sound of Howard’s fist cracking against the teenager’s face is deafening.
-
2017:
Tony first instinct is self-disappointment.
Is he not doing enough? Should he have had this conversation with Peter sooner? Is this some late teenager rebellion that is caused because Peter is realizing that his father isn’t the man he thought he was?
The self-deprecating thoughts bounce around Tony’s head, landing against his skull and only worsening his endless anxiety. From his spot in the living room, he watches the back of his son’s head as he pours a bowl of cereal and pointedly won’t look at Tony. After a few minutes of heavy silence, Tony takes a deep breath, and finally speaks.
“Hey, Pete, can I talk to you, for a second?” Tony stands and strolls towards the kitchen, trying to appear as casual as possible. Peter turns to face him, face hesitant and anxiety-filled, but the teenager still nods and slides onto the island stool. Tony sits next to him.
Before the older man can even begin, Peter starts talking a-mile-a-minute. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry you had to come pick me up and I’m sorry I lied to you about where I was going. I didn’t- I understand if you want to, like, ground me, but please don’t take away the suit again because-”
“I’m not taking away the suit.” Tony assures, watching his kid’s shoulders slump in relief. “We already talked about this, buddy. I’ll never take it away again, okay? Not after last time.”
Peter chews on his lower lip. “You’re not... you’re not mad about- about last night?”
Tony sighs. What would Howard do? Probably scream and put hands on Tony the second he would try to defend himself, just like every other argument. Tony would cut his own hands off, if just the thought of doing that to Peter even crossed his mind.
“I’m not mad, Pete, I’m just trying to understand why you would be drinking, in the first place.” He decides on, after some contemplation. He thinks this is a good place to start. Hopes, at least. “Because I know you’re smarter than that.”
The fifteen-year-old shrugs, picking at a spot on the counter. He still won’t make eye-contact. “I just... ever since- ever since what happened with... you know, Toomes, I just feel like I’m- I’m hyperaware of how different I am from everybody else. Like, I was always different, but now I just... it’s just extra, I guess. And I know that- I wanted... I just wanted to be a normal teenager for a couple hours.”
Sympathy rears in the older man’s chest. He places a warm hand on the back of Peter’s head, twiddling with his curls until the boy finally uncurls and looks up at him. “That’s okay, Pete. It’s okay to want to be normal. I mean, I don’t think you’re not normal, but I know I’m just some old guy and that you won’t listen to me, anyways.”
Peter laughs.
“And, please, take it from me, drinking is the worst. I spent half my life drinking and I look back at all the stupid shit I did and I'm so... so disappointed in myself. I never want you to look back on your life and be disappointed in any of it. You’re too good for that.”
Before he can even congratulate himself on a speech well done, Peter is diving into his arms for a hug. Tony wraps his arms around his kid, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.
He doesn’t tell Peter this, but Tony has been sober for fifteen years, four months, and seven days.
He hasn’t had a drop since the day before Peter was born.
-
1990:
Sometimes, Howard regrets it.
He regrets the words tumbling out of his mouth. He regrets the late nights at the office, especially when Maria is in a bad enough mood that she locks herself away afterwards. He regrets the bruising fists and hurled words. He regrets not being better.
Only sometimes.
Tonight, is not one of those times.
He finds Anthony out on the balcony leading from the upstairs living room, elbows resting on the railing. The suit they made him wear for the Christmas party looks wrong on his shoulders. It bunches awkwardly around his torso and tightens around his wrists.
“You should go inside.” Howard says shortly, leaning against the wall. Anthony doesn’t cower back or rush to obey with wide eyes, like he used to. In his newfound adulthood, Anthony has gotten rebellious and pushy; the exact opposite of how Howard hoped he would turn out like. “People don’t come to our parties to watch us be dramatic on the balcony.”
“When I was a kid,” Anthony starts, full of melancholy. He sways slightly, clearly intoxicated. “I used to sit out here and wonder why my dad didn’t love me.”
Howard can only sigh. “I’m not in the mood for you being dramatic. You’re starting to sound like your mother.”
Anthony tips further over the railing and laughs into the night. Laughs. “When I told Rhodey that- that my father has never even told me that he loves me, he looked at me like I had three fucking heads. Before that, I thought it was normal.”
“Did you want me to be soft on you, or did you want me to make you into a man?” Howard questions, drifting closer. “ I’m the reason you have any kind of future ahead of you, barring the fact that you’ll probably throw it away.”
“I didn’t need to be a man; I needed a dad.”
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get everything you wanted, Anthony. I’m sorry you grew up rich and privileged and with fucking genius in your DNA.” Howard scoffs. Anthony quiets, refusing to look up at him. “You’re just like your mother, you know that? You’re both ungrateful.”
Silence wraps around them in a chokehold. Soft specks of snow cover the ground and land in Anthony’s hair. He doesn’t make a move to wipe them away. Inside, through the heavy balcony door, Howard can hear the party continue on, glasses clinking and mindless chatter barely reaching his ears.
A stinging flash of acid-sharp bitterness hits him. Twenty years of giving his wife and son a life of privilege, all for what? So they can complain about what a failure of a father he is? So Anthony can end up just as angry and alone as his mother?
He turns to leave, but Anthony speaks one last time. “Do you love me?”
There is only stillness. Howard closes his eyes, breathes deep, and reaches for the door handle. The metal is cold and sharp against his fingertips.
“Go back inside, Anthony. Don’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have.”
-
2022:
Once the chaos of the beginning of the party has died down, Tony finds Peter on the party deck.
His kid (who isn’t really a kid anymore, sue him for still thinking of him as such) is sitting on the cold deck, a ratty blanket wrapped around his shivering shoulders as he peers up at the endless night sky. Despite the freezing, mid-December air, Peter’s posture is relaxed; almost peaceful.
Tony casts a quick glance to the inside of the tower, where the rest of the Avengers are drinking and laughing, spread out across the massive living quarters. He approaches Peter’s figure slowly, carefully sitting down cross-legged next to him.
“Mind if I sit here?”
Peter finally looks at him. He’s aged considerably in the last few years, going from a baby-faced teenager to a full-blown adult. Tony still doesn’t like it, but he’s already slowly (unwillingly) getting used to it. “You’re already sitting down.”
“God,” Tony shakes his head and pretends to scoff in disappointment. “Who raised you?”
“Some rich guy. You might have heard of him; he’s really into himself and he’s got a head full of greys. It’s kinda’ sad, actually.”
Tony blows out a breath, physically biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The laughter from inside the warm penthouse is audible, but strangely, Tony would rather be out here than in there. He supposes it has something to do with his kid.
“Any reason why we’re waxing and waning in the middle of the Christmas party?” He asks gently, knowing that this could very well be a real issue. Peter’s mental health has been an issue since he was barely a teenager, and he knows that he’s still prone to depressive episodes when he’s not taking his medication.
“I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
Peter searches his face, regarding him with those eyes that are identical to Tony’s own. “Grandpa got brought up in my chemical engineering lecture, the other day. I know the anniversary is this weekend. Of when... you know.”
“And it... upset you? When he was brought up?” Tony tries carefully, subconsciously playing with the curls that dance across the nape of Peter’s neck.
“No. It...” Peter waves his hands around like he’s trying to snatch the words to his thoughts out of thin air. “He just... he wasn’t a good dad, right? And it just got me thinking about- about you, I guess. You had the shittiest dad in the world but you’re- you’re the best dad.”
Tony swallows down a sudden mouthful of emotion. “Well, I wouldn't say the best dad-”
“Stop being humble. It’s a bad look for you.” The kid laughs.
The billionaire can’t help but lean over to press a kiss to Peter’s temple. He’s growing up fast (too fast, in all honesty), but he’s still Tony’s baby, in Tony’s mind. He always will be. Was he ever Howard’s baby? He doubts it. He doesn’t think he was ever anyone’s baby.
“You deserve a good dad, Pete.” The older man says sincerely, eyes burning with emotion that he refuses to let fall.
Peter’s smile is sad. “So did you.”