"That is so lame."
"You're lame."
"Your face is lame."
"At least it's not as lame as yours."
Tony can't help grinning as he steps into the kitchen. Conversations like these—the sort he hadn't heard since middle school—had become commonplace in his home over the last six months, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Once upon a time he'd thought children of his own would be a nuisance, getting underfoot and being loud and demanding attention and generally distracting him from things that were actually worth his time. And once upon a time he'd thought he would be a bad father—thought he would be like his father. But now he knows better. He never smiled so often, laughed so hard, or loved so easily before these boys came into his life.
He knows, now, that he was always meant to be a father, and that these boys were always meant to be his sons.
As he enters the kitchen, Harley and Peter's playful immaturity grinds to a halt. They're sitting next to each other at the center island table, bowls of sugary cereal mostly untouched in front of them, and when they see Tony they start eating in earnest (probably expecting one of Tony's "you'll be late for school if you don't stop goofing off" warnings). Tony rolls his eyes. "Don't slow your roll on my account," he says dryly. Harley slowly sets down his spoon and turns to Peter, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"Slow your roll," he repeats. "What year does he think it is, 1970?"
Tony reaches out to playfully tug at the irrepressible blond mess Harley calls hair. "Have some respect for your old man," he says, and Peter chuckles.
"Emphasis on old," his youngest teases, and he and Harley share grins as Tony rolls his eyes again—this time so hard they hurt.
"Thank you, Peter," he says balefully as he lowers himself into an empty chair. "I really appreciate that. Now—" his demeanor changes (he's still wary of pretending annoyance with his boys for too long, lest they get the wrong idea)—"what's prompted this conversation about lame faces?"
Peter sighs and crumples dramatically so that he's slouching in his seat. "Harley keeps calling me a baby," he complains. "I can't be someone's baby brother when I'm fifteen! And Spider-Man!"
Tony takes in the full picture in front of him. Peter's eyes are wide and indignant, mouth downturned in a pout that only serves to draw attention to the cereal milk lining his upper lip in a neat mustache. As if he senses Tony's train of thought Peter reaches up with one sweater-pawed hand to wipe it away, miraculously retaining an air of injured dignity throughout.
Tony bites his lip and tries not to laugh. "Peter…" he cajoles, but Peter immediately sits up and shakes his head.
"No, not you too!" he cries. "That is so mean!"
"He's almost two years older than you, Peter," Tony reasons as Harley grins triumphantly.
"Ha!" the older boy exclaims as Peter groans and shakes his head.
"I'm not a baby," he whines, and Harley just laughs at him.
"Sadie's coming up to visit in a few weeks," he snickers. "Maybe then you can get a taste of what it's like to not be the littlest person in the room!"
Peter swats out at Harley as he protests "I'm not!", but he's not quite able to stop himself breaking into an embarrassed grin at the attention.
"Baby," Harley teases, and Peter buries his red face in his hands.
Tony surveys the boys in front of him. Bright eyes, smooth cheeks, easy smiles. They're so young. Love and fondness surge up in him. Fatherhood has ruined him; he is made of mush. "Yes, you are," he agrees with a soft smile. "You both are."
Now it's Harley's turn to frown. "Uh, Tony? We're both teenagers. You adopted two almost-adults. Peter's almost sixteen; I'm eighteen in six months."
Oh, Tony remembers the days when he thought eighteen was grown up. He nods. "Exactly. You're both babies."
Harley rolls his eyes. "Oh gods, he's getting sentimental again. Quick, Peter, we have a subway to catch!"
Tony rolls his eyes right back. He's been using them a lot for that purpose today, he reflects. "All right, all right—begone, scoundrels." He makes a sweeping motion at Peter as he moves to put his and Harley's dishes in the sink before grabbing his backpack. "Take food with you, all right? Neither of you finished breakfast."
"Got it, boss," Harley says with a thumbs-up from the back of the kitchen, and Tony sees that he has an apple for himself and one of Cap's protein bars for Peter. "We're not starving today, don't worry."
"You'd better not." Because I swore that would never happen to you again, not under my roof. "You both have everything?"
"Yes, Mom," Harley deadpans. Peter dashes over to hug Tony, and once he lets go Harley does the same.
"You two be good, okay?"
"Yes, Mom!" Peter calls from the door, a teasing grin across his face. He waves goodbye and turns into the hallway that leads to the elevator, Harley following a few yards behind him. Just as Harley's backpack is about to disappear, Tony calls him back.
"Harley?"
Harley turns around and pokes his head into the kitchen, a question in his raised eyebrows, and Tony smiles at him. "Look after your little brother, yeah?"
Harley smirks. "You know I will," he promises before giving Tony a nod and closing the door behind him.
"I do," Tony says out loud to their empty living room. "I do."