"Ok, here, eat this," Natasha said, handing Peter a jar of peanut butter.
"But Aunt Nat, Pops says that I can't eat peanut butter," Peter said, perplexed. Natasha sighed in annoyance.
"Look, kid, I don't care if you're Cap and Iron Man's son, you're going to eat whatever I—"
"Relax, Tasha," Clint said from the stove, where he was cooking an omelet or something, because of course Clint was a fantastic cook. They'd only been living together for three months, but already Natasha had had to refuse his food several times for fear of getting out of shape. Clint liked butter, and a lot of it, and it was still a mystery to Natasha how he managed to burn it all off. "It doesn't surprise me that Steve's imposed dietary restrictions, even if Tony's ignoring them."
"'Dietary restrictions', he's six. Don't' tell me Steve's gotten with the time on the whole parenting thing and put him on some crazy sugar-free, gluten-free diet," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. She plopped a spoon in the peanut butter jar. "There, kid, go to town."
"Tasha, Peter's his kid, if he has got him on some crazy diet, who're we to break it?" Clint asked. Peter scooped out some peanut butter with a spoon and examined it for a moment, before taking an experimental lick. After that, his eyes lit up and he put the whole spoonful in his mouth.
"See? Look how happy he is," Natasha said.
"That's hardly a meal—couldn't you have at least put it on some bread, maybe with some jelly? I think we have grape jelly in the fridge," Clint said, grumbling. He put the omelet on a plate in front of Nat.
"Relax, Clint, he's six," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. "Children are built to survive bad parents—I'm pretty sure Peter can handle a less than perfect pair of babysitters."
"This is really good," Peter said enthusiastically, licking up another spoonful.
"Yeah, isn't it? Your Pops is kind of a—oh, what would they have called him in the forties?—a fuddy-duddy."
"Tasha. That's the Captain."
"Whom I have the greatest respect for, but he's kind of uptight sometimes. Thank God for this little vacation, he was starting to sound particularly prickly, hopefully Tony can get that stick out of his—" Natasha looked at Peter, and then back to Clint. "—that thorn out of his side. I mean, who doesn't give a kid peanut butter?" Clint didn't answer—he was looking past her with wide eyes. He ripped the peanut butter and the spoon out of Peter's hands.
"A father with a kid who has a peanut allergy!" Clint said, horrified. Tasha looked at Peter—a red, bumpy rash was crawling up the side of his neck.
"Peter!" Tasha exclaimed. "Oh shit."
"They'll be fine, Steve, stop worrying. I gave them a phone with JARVIS installed, he can take care of anything and everything in an emergency and knows every phone number in the world," Tony said, exasperated. They hadn't gone on a vacation without Peter since Peter was born. Tony thought a little trip to a private island (ok, yeah, it might have been their private island, but Tony wasn't going to tell Steve he'd bought it because Steve could just be so weird about that stuff) would be the perfect thing to loosen up and relax for the both of them, but Steve had been tense all through dinner, and really, the dinner deserved their full attention. He was not going to let Steve be stressed through dessert, which really, truly deserved their full attention.
"You did warn them about Peter's allergy, right?" Steve asked. Tony blinked.
"Allergy?" Tony said, his face falling. "Damn it." Steve's eyes widened a bit and he whipped out his phone. Tony groaned. "Steve, I'm sure Peter knows he isn't supposed to eat—what is it again? Strawberries?"
"That's Pepper—it's peanut butter," Steve said, dialing rapidly.
"If he knows, he won't eat it. Besides, what are the odds Clint and Natasha will serve him up peanut butter, anyway?" Tony asked. Steve stared at him while the phone range.
"Are you serious? Peanut butter and jelly is like, a staple for most six-year-olds, of course they'll try to give it to him!" Steve said.
"Well, let's not get too worked up here, ok? It's not a bad allergy—"
"Were you not listening to the allergist? No, of course not—he said any other exposure could lead to anaphylaxis, and it was like playing Russian roulette with his life! Do you want to play Russian roulette with Peter, Tony? Because I—Clint, hi, it's Steve," Steve said, sounding relieved that Clint had picked up.
"Peter, how bad is your allergy?" Natasha asked. "And why didn't you say it was an allergy?"
"I couldn't remember the word!" Peter protested. "And I don't know."
"Shit, Clint, should we call the hospital?" Natasha asked, examining the hives on Peter's neck. She lifted up his shirt—they were popping up all down the left side of his chest, too. At that precise moment, the phone rang.
"Oh, hey, Steve," Clint said, trying to keep the note of panic out of his voice.
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry to interrupt—I just wanted to let you know that Peter has an allergy to peanuts," Steve said.
"Oh, yeah, Tony neglected to mention that—" Clint said.
"Oh, God, is something wrong?" Steve asked.
"No, no, it's fine everything's—everything's fine—hey, could you give Tony the phone for a second? I have to ask him about—uh—an arrow design he's got in the works for me—" Clint said.
"Yeah?" Tony's voice answered a moment later.
"Ok, Tasha gave him peanut butter and now he's breaking out in hives, what the hell do we do?" Clint asked. Tony laughed.
"Really? He said that? He said 'I'm going to kill you with my bare hands'?"
"Hey, you're the idiot who forgot your kid's allergic to freaking peanut butter," Clint said.
"That's hysterical—hey Steve, I'm just going to be a minute, ok, Clint and I are going to talk shop, be back in five—" it took a few moments, but then Tony continued in a deadly serious voice. "Ok, how bad is it, what's going on?"
"He's just got hives, what do we do?" Clint asked. Tony sighed in relief.
"Benadryl. Just give him some Benadryl and don't take your eyes off him until all that swelling goes away. If it gets any worse, inject him with epinephrine and take him to the hospital and fucking call me and keep me in the loop," Tony said. "I don't want to worry Steve until this is something to worry about."
"Inject him with what?"
"A fucking EpiPen!" Tony said in a hushed voice.
"Tasha, do you know what a—" Clint started to ask, slightly away from the phone, when he looked to see Tasha handing Peter a pill and a glass of water. On the table was a yellow, cylindrical object that said EpiPen on the top. "—how did you…? Nevermind—Tony, we're good here, I'll call you when anything changes."
"You better," Tony said, and then hung up the phone. Clint just looked at Natasha.
"How did you know what to do?" Clint asked.
"How are you a super spy with no idea how you treat a mild allergic reaction?" Natasha asked.
"Where did you get that Epi-thing?"
"It was in Peter's backpack. I figured even if Tony can be a moron Steve would have the sense to pack it," Natasha said. "Fuddy-duddies are also always the best prepared."
"Peter, you tell us if you start to feel faint or anything, ok?" Clint said. Peter nodded.
"Yeah, ok," he said. "Can we watch Wall-E?"
"There is no doubt in anyone's mind that you are the genetic spawn of Stark," Natasha said, rolling her eyes but getting up from the kitchen island.
"What?" Peter asked.
"That's a 'yes'," Clint translated.
"Yay!" Peter said, and he dashed off towards the living room.
"Well," Natasha said. "Day one and we nearly killed him. Can't get worse than this, right?"
"Oh, God, don't say that you'll jinx it," Clint joked. He put his arm around Tasha's waist and they headed to the living room to watch Wall-E—and more importantly, to watch Peter.
"You're right, I shouldn't have been so worried," Steve said sheepishly half-way through dessert. "And this dessert is amazing—what is this, even? Cheesecake?"
"Huh? What? Oh—yeah. With brownie and fudge or something," Tony said distractedly. He was checking his phone every five seconds for a text from Clint.
"I should have known Clint and Natasha would be fine with Peter. They'll be fine. I'm sure Peter will have a great time with them, too," Steve said. He reached across the table, taking Tony's hand in his. He smiled and gave it a little squeeze. "And we can just relax together."
"Yeah," Tony said. His phone still refused to buzz—so the swelling hadn't gone up, but it hadn't gone down yet, either. Of course, now that Steve wasn't tense or worried, Tony was. And he would be all night, he just knew it.
"And I think I'll ask one of the staff if we can get some of this chocolate delivered to our room," Steve said, innocently dipping his finger in some of the chocolate syrup on the plate and licking it off. But Tony knew that suggestion was anything but innocent. And he couldn't even enjoy it.
God damn peanut butter.