"Hey, watch those hands," Steve says, gathering Peter's wrist in his hand and moving it away from the workbench gently, "We don't want to get paint on Daddy's desk, right?"
"Right," Peter's voice is soft and quiet. His eyes are squinted in concentration, his brow furrowed so deeply that the disgruntled expression on his face makes Steve laugh. He can't help but be reminded of Tony, the faces he makes when he's really focused on a project, when he's blocked everything out of his mind but his goal.
Admittedly, Peter is just finger-painting, but the point still stands. Steve has been seeing a lot of Tony in him lately, from the facial expressions to same unruly temper tantrums that flare up right before it's time for bed. Steve isn't really struck on the latter, but eventually he'll watch Tony crawl into bed with their son and a picture book, and the five year old will stop screaming, entranced by Tony's voice and the light of the arc reactor. Things like that make the tantrums worth sitting through. Things like that make his heart flutter. He's a lucky guy.
Steve runs his paintbrush over the left corner of the paper, draws the outline of a heart in green and fills it in slowly. Peter draws lines and squiggles with the pads of his fingers, a mixture of green and blue and yellow splashed across his palms. They're in the workshop, sitting across from each other at one of Tony's workbenches. Steve has carefully deposited red, blue, yellow, and green in a plastic palette so Peter can dip his fingers right in. It's messy, but it's fun, and the smile on Peter's face will make the cleanup worth it later.
"You wanna write something on the inside?" Steve asks him. Peter looks up at him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes going slack and the tip of his tongue slipping out between his teeth.
"Yeah," Peter says, brown eyes bright and wide, "You write?"
Steve puts his paintbrush down and opens the inside of their homemade card. It's blank inside, and he flattens it out in front of Peter so that he can paint.
"You know your letters. Come on, try it out," Steve grins, watching the squint come back. Peter reaches for the paint, but Steve stops him, "Why don't we do it in Daddy's favorite color?"
Peter nods and presses his hand into the red with a smush. Steve watches him work, his fingers forming letters on the page until at the end there's a heart and a smiley face that are both remarkably finger shaped in nature. He grins.
"All done!" Peter says clapping his hands together in a way that makes the paint splatter in all directions, "When is Daddy coming back?"
Steve checks his watch, and in the background, he can hear Dummy chirp and roll over towards them. His arm reaches out and tries to pick up the paint bottles off the floor, but they slip out of his grip and gravity does its thing. Paint splashes out onto the concrete, and yeah, that's going to be a bitch to clean up.
"Soon. Ten minutes," Steve says, and Peter isn't listening to him, he's giggling and reaching out to grab at Dummy, who loves loves loves the attention. He whirrs and chirps and pats Peter's shoulder with his claw, "Hey, watch out! Dummy won't like it if you get paint on him, will he?"
Drawing back with wide eyes, Peter shakes his head, "No. Dummy doesn't like paint. Papa, can we have popsicles?"
Steve laughs, because this child has definitely learned his tactics from Tony, "You can have a popsicle after lunch. Let's get cleaned up before Daddy comes home."
He takes Peter over to the industrial sized sink and helps him up onto the plastic stool that's there. He soaps up his hands with the soap that smells like pineapples and washes the paint off, then dries them with a paper towel. By the time he's done, Peter is making grabby hands at him, and Steve knows well enough to pick him up and slot him against his hip. Peter buries his head in the side of Steve's neck, and Steve kisses the top of his head, burying his nose in the brown, curly mess of hair.
"Please tell me that's not paint on the floor."
Right. Of course he would be back early. Steve sighs and carries Peter towards the open workshop door. Tony is standing there, dressed to the nines in suit and tie, holding his phone loosely in his hand. His sunglasses dangle from the other, his hair is a mess, and this is his Tony, Steve thinks.
"That's not paint on the floor," he says, making his voice as deadpan as he can. Peter squirms in his arms, and Steve sets him down on the floor.
"Daddy!" He squeals. Peter runs at him and collides with his middle hard enough that Tony stumbles back a little bit, the wind knocked out of him.
"Hey, little man!" Tony says, wrapping his arms around his son. He pulls him up, struggling a little with the weight, which he will definitely complain about later ("We can't all have super strength, Steve!"), "You have paint on your face, bud. Big day?"
Steve laughs as Tony scrubs at a patch of dried blue on Peter's cheek, "He may have gotten a little overzealous with the paint. Dummy tried to help."
"Dummy always tries to help," Tony notes, and he leans down to kiss Peter on the head, "My little artist, huh?"
"I thought that was me," Steve takes a step towards the two, heart fluttering in his chest. Seeing Tony with Peter cradled against his side, looking at his son like he's the whole world – it's like the first time, all over again, "Or have your tastes changed?"
Tony grins, "Master the art of finger paint and then get back to me."
They look at each other, Tony smiling hard enough that it reaches his eyes. Steve is sure he looks similarly sappy. He leans over their son and sneaks a quick kiss to the side of Tony's mouth.
"I thought we agreed we wouldn't let him down here until he was older," Tony says. He doesn't sound mad, which is a relief. Steve nods in the direction of the workbench and the homemade paper card that's still sitting there, closed now.
"My fault," Steve admits, smiling sheepishly, "He wanted to make you something, but he wanted to be like his Dad. I thought just this once it would be okay."
Peter squirms in Tony's arms until Tony puts him down, and he runs over to the bench to grab the card. He runs back over and thrusts it into his father's hand, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"You gotta open it, Daddy," Peter insists, unsure of what to do with the arms he's swinging at his side, "Papa helped me make it just for you."
"Did he?" Tony asks, and Steve watches on, amused. Tony has that look in his eyes, the same look he fixes Steve in the mornings when he rolls over and burrows his way into his arms. Steve knows it as love, "Well, if Papa helped you make it, then I bet it's the best, huh?"
Beside them, Dummy rolls up, Tony hands him his sunglasses and his phone, and he opens the card. The inside reads, in the messy scrawl of a kindergartner, 'happy fathers day, daddy! love Peter and papa'. Tony looks up from the red writing with wide eyes, and yeah, he's completely forgotten about Father's Day. Steve isn't surprised, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.
"I," Tony starts, and he can't get the words out, and his eyes are bright and maybe a little misty. He closes his mouth and crouches down to Peter's height, "Hey, buddy. Thank you, I love it."
Peter wraps his arms around his father's neck and hugs him tight, and Tony startles for a moment, like this isn't something he's used to, even though Steve knows better. Then his face melts, and he's holding Peter against him like it's the end of the world.
"I love you, buddy," Tony whispers, and he presses his lips to the top of Peter's head. He lifts Peter up and holds him against his hip, spinning them in the direction of the workshop door, "How's about a popsicle, huh?"
There's a cheer, and Steve watches them go, a smile plastered on his face and warmth spreading through his belly. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"Not until after lunch!" He calls. Tony grabs onto Peter and dips him down, and Peter squeals and giggles and wraps his arms around Tony.
"Don't listen to Papa," Tony whispers, loud enough so that Steve can hear him, "Two popsicles, comin' up. Red or blue?"
Steve listens to his son weigh the decision like it's life or death, until Tony is halfway up the stairs and he can't hear them anymore. He stands there, staring at the splotches of paint on the floor, the mixes of red and green and blue, and yeah, he's got it good. He has it great.
"Steve!" Tony calls down the steps, Peter giggling in the background, "Did you lock the freezer?"
He's a lucky man.