Work Text:
Pepper stepped into the living room, Tony trailing behind her, casually ranting about board members.
"I’m telling you, Pep! They have the collective foresight of a newborn goldfish."
She furrowed her brows, nodding with every intention of responding– perhaps a reminder that goldfish weren’t born, they were hatched– but Tony suddenly halted.
When she looked, it appeared his gaze had locked onto something above them. She followed his line of sight and nearly laughed.
Peter was in the middle of the living room ceiling, still wearing his pajamas.
He was sitting with his feet planted firmly against the plaster, knees bent, while his upper body was suspended upside down. The Spider-Man suit turned inside-out, was tucked beneath his chin, the only thing preventing it from surrendering to gravity. In his hands, a needle caught the light, glistening as he threaded careful stitches through a tear in the fabric.
She took a moment to absorb the scene– the utter ridiculousness of it. His pajama top, which was more than likely one of Tony’s shirts, hung loose, swaying gently as he moved. Even with the odd angle of his positioning, she could see he was entirely focused. To the point that he hadn’t even noticed them.
Pepper tilted her head, fascinated by the intensity of his work. He moved the needle with precision, his fingers deft despite, what she would consider, awkward circumstances. This wasn't a careless mending. It was practiced, and methodical.
Still, the fabric fought against him.
A loose edge dangled stubbornly, refusing to stay put beneath his chin. Every time he shifted, it slipped again, threatening to undo his progress. Peter exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. He adjusted his grip, wedging more of the suit under his chin while bracing the rest with his knees. For a second, it seemed to hold.
Then, another slip.
His mouth tightened.
Pepper resisted the urge to intervene– to offer a suggestion. Although it was clearly a battle of wills. She was sure that any attempts to lure him to a table wouldn’t be appreciated.
With a measured inhale, Peter tried again. With a slight readjustment of his elbow and a more strategic angle of his chin, the fabric finally yielded. Secured at last, he resumed sewing as if the struggle had never happened.
A drop of blood beaded on his fingertip, evidence of an errant needle prick. He pressed it absently against his plaid, flannel pants, completely unbothered.
Tony finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and disbelief. "Why, Pete? Why?"
Peter didn’t even glance down. "Fixin’ my suit."
"Yes, but, on the ceiling ?"
Peter gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes still on his work. "Comfortable. Has the best lighting."
Pepper bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. That was such a Peter response. Only he would find the penthouse ceiling more comfortable than a chair.
Tony, however, looked two seconds from combusting. Hands on his hips, he stared upward, with the weary expression of a man questioning all of his life choices that had led to that moment. "Get down before you fall and break your brain."
Peter cracked a smile but remained unconcerned. He tied off the last stitch, gave it a critical once-over, then hastily let go of the ceiling.
The drop should have been jarring. However, he twisted midair and landed with the effortless grace that came from having the agility of a spider. Pepper grinned, her hands drifting upward as she barely refrained from applauding.
Suddenly, Peter blinked at her, as if surprised she’d been watching.
"How often do you do that?" she asked, genuinely curious. The amount of skill she’d witnessed was indicative of a repeated activity.
"The landing?" Peter tilted his head. "Or the sewing?"
"Sewing." Pepper smiled.
Peter hesitated, shifting his weight as his eyes drifted towards Tony. "Enough."
The vague answer spoke volumes. She, too, glanced at Tony, noting the tense expression he was attempting to hide. Peter must have noticed it as well. His gaze had dropped to the floor.
Pepper studied them for a beat. How many times has Peter done this alone? How often has he sat in the corner, meticulously repairing his suit in hopes of obscuring any evidence of a battle fought?
Tony snatched the suit from Peter’s hands, flipping it over for inspection. " Atrocious ," he declared with a dramatic grimace.
Peter rolled his eyes. "It’s functional ."
"Yeah, barely ."
The suit landed on the couch, and Tony pointed at Peter like a professor about to give an unwelcome lecture. "Sit. You’re about to learn what proper stitches actually look like."
Peter groaned but obeyed, flopping onto the couch with exaggerated defeat.
Pepper sat beside them, arms crossed, watching as Tony launched into an impromptu masterclass on fabric durability and stitch tension and smiled.
Between all of Tony’s grumbling and Peter’s dramatics, there was an unspoken exchange– a quiet bond that only they truly understood.
She leaned back happy to be a part of the little world they had created for themselves.
“Are you paying attention, underoos?” Tony asked.
Peter laughed in return.“Yes, Mr. Stark! The pointy end goes into the fabric. Got it”
An exasperated sigh followed, and Pepper smiled, sighing contentedly as she thought to herself, ‘This is what home looks like.’