Tony'd gone back to get the evil backpack. Once he made sure it wasn't going to explode, or broadcast its location, or anything else irritating, he set about his next two tasks: finding Peter, and feeling sorry for himself.
The main issue here, he decided, was a lack of communication. Peter didn't talk about this sort of thing. Getting the kid to admit that he even had emotional needs in the first place was like pulling teeth, if the aforementioned teeth were rooted in concrete, sealed with epoxy resin, and had to be coaxed out with tweezers. His distress only really showed in the moments when it boiled over.
Why did he have to be such a goddamn handful?
Was this just a downside of responsibility that he'd never seen before?
Peter had made it to his apartment, and either ditched the trackers (unlikely) or been stopped (less unlikely).
When he'd gotten this dealt with, Tony was going to apologise to Rhode for everything he'd done before the age of 30. And most of the things he'd done after the age of 30. And maybe send Pepper a fruit basket.
The parking lot outside Peter's apartment block had people in it, which was unfortunate. Tony didn't look put-together enough to be recognised, which was less unfortunate. He'd never fly in anything less comfortable than sweatpants, and that tended to conflict with his public image.
There was grime around the corners of each button on the intercom. The name 'Parker'—in black block caps, contrasting the sun-faded writing on the other labels—was almost obscured by dust that had gathered on the inside of its plastic covering.
May buzzed him up the minute she heard his voice, and opened the door for him when he got there.
May looked rather put-upon, but still surprisingly composed. She was somehow slightly intimidating in polkadot pajamas, with her hair in two messy braids. She was holding a cup—more of a tankard, really—of black coffee, and looked utterly unimpressed.
"Come in," she said. "There's coffee if you want any."
"Sure," Tony said, because he'd spent eight hours in the air and another five chasing an idiot child, and killing for caffeine suddenly didn't seem so irrational. He stepped inside.
Peter was there, asleep on the couch in the clothes he'd left in, minus the grungy socks. He was cocooned in the striped comforter from his bed, horribly pale against the colours. A bluish bruise was forming near his eye.
May led Tony to the kitchenette and poured him lukewarm coffee from a half-full pot. The kitchen didn't have a complete wall. It was designed to create the illusion of space where there was none, and failed dramatically.
"So," she said. "He's back. He really shouldn't be back."
Her fingers drummed against her mug. Someone upstairs ran across the ceiling.
"Why is he here?" she asked, her voice low and tense, almost accusatory. "What did you do ?"
"Nothing that I know of." Tony took a sip of his coffee, and almost wished he'd declined it. "He came back here to go after the bird guy's tech, actually. Why, what did he tell you?"
It wouldn't have been a totally stupid plan, if plans existed in a vacuum. Because they didn't, it was one of the most irritatingly idiotic things he'd ever done.
"That you were being unfair," May answered. "Paranoid."
Something tight in Tony's chest relaxed. If that was all…
"That's…" May was just about the only person in the world Tony couldn't talk to easily. "Not really abnormal, for people like us. Don't worry about it."
May scoffed in an incredibly Peter-ish manner.
"I'm going to worry," she said. "Nothing can be done about that. I'm sorry Peter is giving you so much trouble, though. I swear, he's usually smarter than this."
Tony had to introduce her to Natasha, sometime. Any reasonable spy would kill for the ability both Parkers had — they could deliver a precise and effective guilt trip with just a few words, like Black Widow could knock someone unconscious with a couple blows to the right pressure points.
Peter wouldn't have done this if he trusted them. Not all alone.
"It's okay," he said. "This is far from the most annoying thing my teammates have done. It's far from the most annoying thing I've done."
May hmmed in agreement, then grew more serious.
"As I understand it," she said, leaning against the counter. "If Peter had gotten whatever sort of medical clearance you use, then this wouldn't be an issue? He could come back home?"
Tony nodded, sipped his coffee. The design on the mug was chipped in places, but it had started out as his faceplate. He was pretty sure it was one of the earlier pieces of merchandise, after the keychains but before the plush toys and pajamas.
At once, the logic clicked.
"He probably didn't think he'd make it," he said.
"That's not good," May said, under her breath. She made abrupt and interrogatory eye contact. "I just find it concerning that he felt like he had to get away from you. Especially now. "
She meandered through the open-plan space to the living room, slotted neatly into the area of sofa between Peter's head and the armrest. Tony took one of the mismatched armchairs. May was giving him the same subtly untrusting look that he got when he suggested projects involving plastic explosives or international travel. She was probably— rightfully— still a little wary from the whole Germany thing.
"So do I," Tony admitted. Peter wasn't supposed to be like this. "This is… worrying."
Peter displaced his frustration but he still expressed it, most of the time. And crucially, he wasn't totally isolationist. He didn't know how to be. If he did, that was new.
May reached for Peter's shoulder, and gently shook him awake. He blinked a few times before his eyes focused on Tony.
"Oh no, " he mumbled, shifting into a sitting position. The action made him wince. "Okay- I can explain."
There were corduroy lines on his cheek, mirroring the pattern of the sofa. He looked oddly haggard, his cheekbones sharper and his eyes dark.
"I made a mistake," he said. "And I'm sorry. Really sorry. I thought-"
His voice cracked on the word, almost imperceptibly shaking. May put an arm around him. Everything about his body language was small , his hands hanging between his knees, shoulders drawing inwards.
"I thought maybe I could start helping people again," he said. "'Cause–it's been too long. I can't just... stop . That's – that isn't okay."
The words were like a roundhouse kick to the heartstrings. That was not a pretty pattern of thought.
"Oh, Petey," May said, rearranging her body to make eye contact. "Sometimes you need breaks. This is one of those times. It's not your fault."
The atmosphere shifted, sharply. All of a sudden, Tony was intruding on a sort of intimacy he had little experience with.
"But–usually-" Peter protested.
"Usually you're healing faster," May cut in. "Usually you're stronger than you are right now. You can be Spider-Man when you get better."
Peter sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"That's– I recognise that, now," he said, his eyes darting from May to Tony and back. "I was being stupid. The–the past tense is kinda key there. And I'm sorry for that, and for making you come out here and wasting your time. But...if I promise to stay at home and sleep a bunch and not do anything, please can I stay here?"
The little speech was almost overwhelmingly pathetic, and probably not entirely genuine.
"If medical says you can, you can," Tony said. He shrugged, trying to seem calm about the situation. "New York can handle a couple weeks without you. You're not that big a deal yet."
"If he's staying with you any longer, I want to visit," May said. Peter visibly relaxed, and Tony wondered just how much of that demand was for her benefit.
"I could probably get you cleared for medical," Tony suggested. If that wasn't an option already, he'd make it one. "There's not really a precedent for this sort of thing. Most of us don't really have people to come visit in the first place."
Chances were, Peter was better off than he thought he was, and she wouldn't have to. And if she did, she was his next of kin. There'd be loopholes.
"Good," May nodded, curt and proper, then pulled Peter into a hug. He returned the gesture, mumbled something quiet that made her smile. It had been a long time since Tony had that sort of contact with someone; he suddenly craved it.
Peter was almost distressingly co-operative, after that. May brought him gatorade and toast, then went about getting ready for work, composed as always in the face of superhuman nonsense. Tony watched, slightly bored, as Peter made eating two slices of toast into a painful, Sisyphean affair, taking ever smaller bites and scraping the jam off on the rim of his plate.
"Are you concussed?" Tony asked. Peter looked baffled. "You're never this quiet unless you have a brain injury."
"Nah," Peter said. "I didn't sleep. I'm tired ."
It was difficult not to examine him, all the same. Peter seemed to be getting exponentially worse with time. The circles under his eyes were starting to look inked there. He'd developed an odd, washed-out look, a consequence of his total inability to deal with convalescence like a reasonable human being.
After Peter had finished his toast and spent half an hour digging shoes and sweatshirts out of the mess that was his room, they left with minimal fuss. A lot of hugs on May's part, but no whining. Mostly because Peter was too tired to protest. He made it out to the car, buckled in, and was asleep before they were back in traffic.
Thank god that was over.
It wasn't easy to deal with this sort of thing. Tony wasn't nurturing , by any definition of the word. Fitting him into a caring role was like fitting a square peg into a round technically possible, it was damaging to both involved parties, and usually required the use of a hammer.
He was trying . Really, really trying. But he didn't have a script for this, and nothing ever seemed to go smoothly. There was always some conflict that came completely out of left field.
Tony turned the radio on, at a low volume. Peter didn't stir, so he allowed himself a very quiet jam session to pass the time, mouthing along to 'Highway to Hell' as the stress began to leave his body. He couldn't really drive the message home of how dangerous this day had been, but Peter'd probably gleaned that from the consequences alone. The worst of it was over.
At least, it seemed that way until Peter woke up.
"Tony," he mumbled. He drew a sharp, shaky breath. "Tony?"
"Yeah?" Tony said. That sounded a little like the run-up to crying, which was utterly outside of his wheelhouse. Crying was pretty much the worst case scenario.
"I don't–" Peter just managed to get the words out before he gagged. He made the mistake of putting a hand over his mouth. Watery vomit spurted between his fingers, through his nose. It was a sudden, violent action; the retching seemed to dominate his entire body. He was bringing up something strange—thin, whitish plaques that caught in the viscous strands of bile and mucous that trailed from his mouth to his cupped hand.
'Shot Down In Flames' was playing, underlying the sound of retching.
"Jesus Christ !" Tony swore, swerving onto the shoulder. Because of course, a rescue mission in the wee hours of the morning wasn't enough. He had to clean puke out of his favourite Audi, too.
"I'm sorry," Peter gasped, between heaves. He'd curled forwards, his free hand pressed to his abdomen, where the surgical wound was. "I–your car ."
"It's not a big deal," Tony said, once Peter had definitely stopped hurling into the footwell. He wanted to slam his head against the steering wheel. If he'd been at all prepared to deal with this sort of thing, he would have gotten a baby. "I'd be more worried about Bruce's hoodie. I don't turn into a giant green rage monster when I'm angry."
Peter stayed hunched over, staring into the puddle of vomit at his feet like he was trying to see the future in it.
"Blood?" Tony asked.
"No, no…" Peter coughed thickly, squeezed his eyes shut. "I–I'm good. Not good but...not throwing up blood. I'm really, really sorry."
"There's cleaning stuff in the trunk, it's fine," Tony said, cursing internally. "How about you just–go be outside for a moment?"
"Just...gimme a second," Peter mumbled. "That–that really hurt . I, I can...just…get me, like, paper towels. I'll deal with this."
He complied eventually, and spent a few minutes sitting on the ground and sipping water while Tony rolled up his sleeves and wondered when he'd signed up for this. It was difficult not to be a little resentful, even with Peter sitting there looking all tragic. Tragic and really out of it, apparently.
"Hey," Tony said, once the car was usable again. He dropped into a crouch, waved a hand in front of Peter's face. "You coming?"
Peter nodded, then got unsteadily to his feet, still clutching the Voss bottle like a talisman. His fingers were denting the plastic. He'd shed the hoodie and tied it into a ball, isolating the stains on the inside.
"I'm still sorry," he said. And he looked genuinely concerned , which was just ridiculous.
Tony patted his shoulder, which was a mistake, because Peter took it as a cue to fold into his personal bubble. It was more physical support than a hug, but Tony still wasn't particularly comfortable with it. Peter was warm and clammy and leaning heavily enough on him to put them both off balance.
"Kid," Tony prised himself out of the not-hug, feeling sweaty and sticky by proxy. "You have got to get your priorities straight."
"Okay," Peter said. "I'm sorry for being an idiot and having no chill and, just...everything. Do you have tissues or anything? I need to blow my nose."
"Glovebox," Tony said, as he dropped back into the driver's seat. "Did you get carsick, or just...?"
"Basically? You know, like, when you get a cold, and it makes, like, the pressures in your head all weird and you get dizzy?" Peter said, explaining with accompanying hand gestures. "Like that, but…super intense."
"Yikes," Tony muttered. He noted the new downside to superhuman senses. "At least try and aim out the window, next time. I like this car."
It took Peter all of five minutes to fall asleep again. They made it back to the compound without further incident—and not a moment too soon.
