Peter lands on the balcony with a package of tea and a cape hanging off of his shoulders.
Matt cocks his head to the side as Peter raps his knuckles against the window, waiting for the inevitable realization that Matt didn't lock it, and the ensuing panic that follows.
"Matt!" Peter sounds absolutely scandalized as he sweeps into the room, cape swishing behind him as he sets the package of tea down on the ground. "You didn't lock the balcony window!"
Matt shrugs, running his fingers over the newest case files that he's handling. "I didn't see the point," He says, ignoring Peter's irritated huff, "The only people that would go through the window are you and Stark or someone who would already know who I was."
"Doesn't mean that you can't follow safe habits," Peter sulks, but he knows that it's a losing battle.
A small smile twitches on the edges of Matt's lips, and he raises an eyebrow. "I take this to mean that the superhero convention went well?"
"Oh, yeah!" A bit of the big S on Peter's chest has fallen off, construction paper barely clinging to his clumsily sewn Superman costume. "There was this really cool panel on the ethics of superheroing versus vigilantism, and someone compared me to Batman! Isn't that so cool? Like, you, I can understand, but Spiderman was compared to Batman!"
He drops down on the sofa next to Matt and Matt reaches over to rub Peter's head. "That sounds great, kiddo."
Peter ducks and laughs for a moment, before his eyes are drawn to the papers in front of Matt, and there's a frown in his voice as he sighs, "I thought that you were sick?"
Matt twists his lips to the side, a sheepish smile crossing his lips. "Yes, well, about that..."
"Come on, Matt," Peter sighs, hand in Matt's, fingers intertwining. "Your work can wait."
"But..."
The protest barely comes out before Peter gently tugs Matt up, leading him toward the bedroom and sighing, "Look, we can do this the easy way or I can call Foggy."
Matt wisely chooses to follow without complaint, dropping into the bed and pressing a hand against the sheets before asking, "Do I have to actually sleep or just not work?"
Peter digs through Matt's closet before tossing him some pyjamas. "Change into those while I go make some boneset tea."
Matt nods and shuffles to the bathroom, pyjamas in tow and biting back a yawn, but he can tell that Peter catches it anyways, judging by the way that his body shifts and his expression tightens a bit. "It wasn't that bad," he says quietly, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Peter sets the kettle in place and waits for it to heat up, voice stone as he asks, "Do you really think that, Matt?"
Matt is silent, eyes lowered and closed though it doesn't do anything, and he counts the breaths one, two, three, before he answers, "It's small. I'll be better in the morning."
A huff, and then Peter is skittering forwards, feet light on the floor and the back of his hand brushing against Matt's forehead, "That's what you always say," he sighs, low and quiet and reluctant to let Matt stay standing.
"It's always true," Matt answers, stubborn to the core.
Peter's rolling his eyes, he can tell, but Peter says nothing and Matt doesn't either for a while. "You sure that you'll be fine?" Peter asks, finally, disapproving.
"Yes, mom."
Hands on his hips, head tilted to the side, some of Peter's stubbornness beginning to bleed in the set of his shoulders, and Matt's mind whirls for what to say to help Peter feel better, more confident in Matt's health.
"Honestly, I could probably go on patrol."
Peter's heart rate picks up.
Oops.
Matt had been so sure that was comforting.
"Please don't," Peter says through clenched teeth.
"I won't," Matt says, but even as he says it, his brain is thinking, maybe...
"Don't even think about it," Peter says, sharp drawn breaths and fingers tapping out the intervals between, one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, exhale, one, two... Alarm rings in Peter's voice, "Seriously, Matt. You're not going to patrol, right? Right?"
"Of course not," Matt murmurs, and Peter jerks his head to the side, though there's something still doubtful, untrusting, to the way his left knee vibrates and the beat of his heart.
"Honestly," Peter mutters, sounding exhausted as he opens the cupboards, cups clinking against each other as they pull him out, "What am I supposed to do with you?"
"Great question," Matt says, "You should let me finish my paperwork."
A stern look that Matt can't fully appreciate, and Peter grumbles, "I hate when you do this." Matt is silent, holding his breath, and then, Peter, quiet, "Not, not you, Matt. That's not what I meant. I hate when you just," He flicks his hand in the air and makes a noise in the back of his throat, frustration and irate, "When you act like you're the least important thing in the world. Like, you'd probably get stabbed and be dying or something and I'd come home to find you wiping the counter because you didn't want it to get too dirty."
"Hygiene is important," Matt mumbles, which is ridiculous, he's ridiculous, why is he defending his hypothetical self in this ridiculous hypothetical situation.
Peter is silent, but Matt can practically taste the judgement in the air, can well enough catch the look that's being shot in his direction. "Seriously, Matt?" He asks.
"No," Matt isn't sure, honestly, if he's serious or not, but no seems the right answer in this case, "No. Of course not. I'll be more careful, Peter."
"That's what you always say, too," Peter says, and he sounds tired as he pulls out the tea, as he pours out the water and stirs in the rice milk and the smell wafts heavenly through the apartment.
Something guilty stirs in Matt's stomach, and then he murmurs, "I always mean it."
"I know," the sound of a cup being put on the counter in front of him, a clink of one edge and then the softened sound as Peter rests his pinky under the rim to soften the sound, because he's always considerate like that. "Finish the tea, then you're sleeping, okay?"
"What about brushing my teeth?" Matt asks, bringing the cup to his lips. Boneset tea. Mm.
"If you must," Peter says, sighing, "I'll be beside you if you collapse or something."
Matt makes an offended noise in the back of his throat, "One time."
Silence.
Awkward, accusatory silence.
"Two times."
Silence.
Why does Matt love this kid so much.
"Fine, three."
A shake of Peter's head, and then thin fingers, feather light on the crook of his elbow, guiding him to the couch and on his chest, pushing him down to sit, "You need to rest."
There's the shuffling of papers as Peter puts everything away, neatly gathering the apartment's remains, a strange contrast to the skeletal few that Matt had pre-Peter. Now objects seem scattered everywhere, on the counters, on the coffee table, between couch cushions.
And when Peter is done, a warm body beside him, the sound of tea sloshing in it's cup, and a soft breeze outside.
Matt wonders when this became normal, someone taking care of him, making him rest, when he became used to this instead of pushing himself until he collapsed, nobody around to notice or care.
Peter rests his head on Matt's shoulder and Matt drinks his tea and thinks why is my kid a better mom than me.
And then he doesn't think, because he's asleep, tea finished and on the coffee table, and when he wakes in the morning, the cups are washed and Foggy is fussing over him and Peter is breathing very smugly because he's smug and caring and terrible like that and Matt is, oddly, comfortable.