Stumbling from the elevator, the first thing Peter does is plough into the kitchen and make a beeline for the fridge. His blood sugar is getting low. Too low. He feels dizzy. Peter rips open a packet of blueberries and practically inhales them in one go. He chomps into an apple next, the juices mingling pleasantly on his tongue and dribbling down his chin. A dark stain blossoms on his shirt and it's his favourite shirt, AH Element of surprise, but Peter doesn't care. He hops onto the countertop and braces his heels on the proud handle of an adjacent drawer. He pauses to hack up a seed that goes down the wrong way, carries on. Man, oh, man, is he hungry...
"Want me to fix you a grilled cheese?" Tony offers from the side-lines, eyes slanted in amusement and lip curling in disgust as he watches his caveman son choke on his third titanic chunk.
Peter moans around a mouthful of apple bits, "God, yes. Thank-you. Please."
He locates the non-stick skillet and dials the ring to a low heat. Thinly buttering both sides, he leaves them to one side while he grates the cheese—which is generally Peter's job but it's best he remain an innocent bystander at this point. Tony doesn't trust him with a grater with the state he's in. Who knows, he'd probably peel off a layer of skin—before sprinkling over the bread and squishing the two pieces together.
He lays them flat on the pan and flips them over periodically, ensuring an even golden brown. It's the ideal density of melted cheese, oozing languidly without spillage. The buttery toasted surface, crisp and crackled, is simply divine.
His mouth salivates at the sight.
Luckily, Tony serves the sandwich in record time, cutting it into two neat triangles, and immediately setting about making a second. Good thing, too. Peter is quick to devour them. He tears into the crunchy bread, pulling apart the ooey goey cheese and swallowing whole, ignoring the burn as it scalds his throat. It'll heal.
Tony makes the best grilled cheese. At first, Peter had to get used to him substituting the time-honoured Wonder bread for something a lot less traditional, aka sour dough, which he's not ashamed to admit made him more than a little sceptical. You don't mess with genius, after all.
Except, he should have known better than to doubt Mr. Stark, an actual genius, because holy cow do they taste like heaven in your mouth. Tony says the credit goes to Rhodey's mother, who cracked the perfect recipe for her cheese-obsessed children in the 80's, though he has tinkered with it since. Apparently the cheesy American delicacy and childhood classic helped cement their friendship in college. Go figure.
Peter loves when Tony shares little details like that. He could listen to him spout hilarious, far-fetched yet no less true, stories about the duo's adventures all day.
Today, however, is not one of those days.
Knowing the youngster is suffering the effects of hypoglycaemia, he hands him a bottle of Gatorade and instructs him to down the whole thing, watching his trembling hand clench around the groaning plastic and wring out every last drop. They could have stopped for a bite to eat, if only Tony had grasped how precarious the situation really was. He kicks himself for not paying enough attention.
"Another?" he asks, pulling one from the fridge.
Peter pumps his head in an erratic nod. He empties that, too.
"Y'know," Tony begins in his 'Dad-lecture' voice, the one Peter despises, eliciting a low groan from the teenager as he brushes the crumbs off his clothes and wipes his mouth clean with the corner of his shirt. What? It's already filthy. "Normally this is my cue to say something responsible like 'this is what happens when you deprive an enhanced super-powered being of food,' or 'guess whose body's going into starvation mode.' Maybe scratch my head and wonder, 'how does one simply forget about their crazy-fast, accelerated metabolism?" His lips pull at a wry smile. "But you already know all of that. So I'll let you take it from here."
Peter glances down at his scuffed sneakers like they're the most fascinating thing in the world. He twists his fingers in his lap. "You wouldn't understand," he mutters.
"Try me," Tony presses, voice quiet and earnest. "A wise man once said, 'in life there exists no problem, Iron Man, Tony Stark, rated People Magazine's sexist man alive three years in a running, cannot solve with a finger of whiskey and a half-assed smile.'"
He barks out a watery laugh. "That was you. Last Tuesday."
"And was I right, or am I right?"
They share a small chuckle for a moment before Tony's brows are drawn low in concern and Peter's smile dims, falling away. His tone switches to that gentle register Peter has yet to resist. "It's not like you to be so cagey. So what gives?"
"I..." Peter breathes a resigned sigh. He toys with the hem of his damp t-shirt, dragging it out; both the material and the explanation. Here goes nothing… "I ran out of lunch money."
Tony frowns, puzzled. "What?" Jeez. Someone hang a 'Does not compute' sign above his head. Rich people, am I right. "Some kids hackle you for it?"
"No..." Peter refutes, grimacing. "My stomach did."
"I don't follow."
Of course you don't.
He tries; he really tries, to keep the bite out of his voice. "You said it yourself. I eat like, all the time. Sometimes," he shrugs, casual—just be casual. "My wallet can't keep up."
A pause, then:
"Does May know about this?"
Peter chews on his bottom lip. "She's doing the best she can."
"That's not an answer, baby spider."
"No." It costs him the steadiness of his speech to admit this aloud. "And, and she's not gunna," he pleads, guilt lacing his tone. "Please, Tony. This whole Spider-Man thing has been hard enough on her as it is. I can't do that—" His breathing ramps up, panicked.
"Leave it to me, Petey. I'll take care of it, okay? I'll take care of everything, I promise."
"How?"
"Same way I always do. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"
Tony smiles a sad, bleak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He chucks him under the chin and plates the second sandwich, sliding it over and nudging the rim against his thigh. "Eat up."
As much as Peter wants to dig deeper, he also wants nothing more than to wipe that haunted look off Mr. Stark's face. So Peter sniffs and tries to think of what he can to do to cheer him up. Pushing aside the final dredges of unease, he begins a dramatic rendition of his day, regaining confidence with every embellished word.
Even though it's been less than 24 hours since they'd spoken at length on the phone, he still finds he has a million and one things left to say.
Peter sways in his webbed hammock five feet above the ground, fiddling with the remote control to the entertainment centre and surfing through the literal thousands of channels. How is he ever supposed to choose?
"F.R.I.D.A.Y?"
"Yes, baby Parker?"
"What's on Animal Planet? Anything good?"
"I believe it is a repeat of 'My Cat From Hell,'" she answers succinctly.
"Is it one I've seen before?"
"Several times, yes."
"Why do I get the feeling that you're judging me?" Peter pouts. "It has cats. I like cats."
"Okay, baby spider," F.R.I.D.A.Y replies.
Peter frowns. He has the oddest hunch that the A.I is indulging him, but she switches it over nevertheless. Part of why he loves his hammock is for this very reason. It makes him feel closer to her.
Tony always says she spoils him rotten.
F.R.I.D.A.Y and Peter are about ten minutes into the episode when duty calls.
"Nuh-uh," Tony's disgruntled voice floats up from below. He's still in his suit, looking none the worse the wear for it. "You know the rules. Get down. It's homework first; TV later."
"But—"
"Homework. Now. F.R.I.D.A.Y, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on him."
"But, Tony," his voice sounds annoyingly whiney and high-pitched to his own ears.
"Now, Peter."
He scowls darkly. "Fine," Peter huffs and leaps down from his private fortress in the ceiling. Tony doesn't permit him to work from his hammock—even though it's totally feasible! Plus, the view is so much cooler—because he doesn't trust that Peter won't start scrolling through his Instagram feed or texting Ned out of complete and utter boredom. Which, in some ways, yes, that's fair. Homework sucks. But in others…come on, man. Don't you think you're taking this a little far?
Apparently not. Because Tony sips at his coffee from the opposite end of the couch and props a Stark-pad on his knee to optimise productivity, where Peter can say with one hundred percent certainty the engineer will stay—until Peter himself is finished.
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your lab?" Peter had mused once, in the beginning. He may have had ulterior motives.
Tony had raised an eyebrow at him. "Um…let me see. Would I—" he compressed his lips; eyes narrowed in thought, "—be more comfortable sitting on a back-breaking swivel chair than one of the best couches on the market? Hmm. Probably not. "
"What about the holograms? The LCD monitors? Your rack mount servers? The optimal lighting? How you always have AC-DC blaring?"
"But the chair, Peter. Not a comfy chair."
Which is bull. Peter happens to know, first-hand, that it is a very comfortable chair. It's reclining, adjustable, has heating features to soothe aching muscles, fantastic lumbar support. Everything you'd ever want in a chair! Otherwise, Mr. Stark wouldn't have it. He'd invent a superior one; like he always does.
But, Peter can't complain too much. If ever he gets stuck on a tricky question, Tony is always there for assistance. If sometimes he lacks the motivation or innovation for a project, Tony's around to bounce ideas off. Win-win.
Except…that is, times like this. This is just a straight-up suck-fest.
"Have you finished your Chem homework yet?"
"I'll do it tonight," Peter grumbles, turning away to discreetly rolls his eyes as Tony levels a stern look in his direction. He tries not to get too irritated, but he swears Tony's been obsessed with his grades lately. God, he misses one test one time and suddenly it's like he's in danger of throwing away his future by dropping out of school entirely. Tony's been neurotic about so much lately. He's forever on Peter's case about stupid stuff.
F.R.I.D.A.Y keeps him up to date on the school's online calendar. (That in itself is dumb. Why do they need to inform parents via an accurate and detailed log, of every single test and every single assignment that is made accessible for everyone with an internet connection? And what possessed Mr. Stark to check it? May never checked it).
Tony reminds him about the creative writing essay that's due next Tuesday. And congratulates him on getting an A on his Spanish quiz. And he purchased supplies online for Peter's approaching World History project, worth twenty percent of his overall grade. Actually, that last one was super handy. He appreciates that. Peter straight up forgot about that assignment.
And, well, it was nice he cared about the Spanish test. And remembered too! Peter studied crazy hard. And he was pretty proud…
But, whatever. It's still stupid.
"See to it that you do," he warns, "I'm not letting your grades take a nosedive again."
"It wasn't a big deal!"
"So you say."
Rolling his eyes so hard they almost fuse with the back of his skull, Peter slumps down onto the large area rug and fishes around his overflowing backpack for his dumb homework.
"I saw that!"
He smirks, firing up his laptop and pulling up a Wikipedia page on exothermic and endothermic reactions. Peter plugs in the charging cord to the nearest free power socket and inserts his earphones, head lolling back on the ivory sectional as he wriggles around to get comfy. Something tells him he's gonna be here for a while…
As Peter thumps his thick textbook on the plush ottoman and rifles to the correct page, Tony glances up and smiles, brown eyes soft and tender, crinkling at the corners.
Not that it means anything.
He's just making sure the kid ain't slacking off again.