A/N: So, for this one keep in mind that it's written from Peter's POV and that there's obviously stuff going on in Tony's mind that makes him act the way he does and that I didn't explicitly write his thought process. Hope it makes sense anyway! Tell me what you think of me switching between POVs in this story :)
"Mister Stark, Mister Stark, Mister Stark! Did you see how I got that last one?"
Peter is buzzing with energy, grinning widely down at his mentor as he continues to crawl along the wall to collect the last of seven drones he webbed up in the last hour.
The man in question is sitting on the floor cross-legged, back propped up against the wall with a small grin on his face and remote control for the drones in hand. He looks more relaxed than he did yesterday but Peter doubts he actually got a lot of sleep last night after he nagged him to go to bed at around midnight. At least Peter's presence makes sure he at least got breakfast.
Still, he smiles warmly and the teenager feels pride swell in his chest. Small victories, he tells himself.
"Sure did, kiddo, but I'm guessing you're gonna tell me all about it anyway."
He is absolutely right of course.
The teenager dissects every little detail of the morning routine the whole way through cleaning up the obstacle course they built after breakfast. He talks about how cool the flips were that he tried out for the first time today and how that one drone was coming straight for his head but upon seeing a flash of it in his peripheral view he just summersaulted and shot out a web and –
"Mister Stark, it was like – like I was flying! I swear, flying is the best thing in the world!"
"Oh really," Mister Stark sounds amused when he pulls him into his side as they make their way to the kitchen. "I thought the best thing in the world were blanket forts. Oh, and I think last week you said the best thing in the world is pizza and the week before that –"
Peter rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder into his mentor's. "You're a killjoy, ya know? Let a man enjoy the beauty of the world."
His mentors snorts. "Man? Are you referring to yourself? I think I would've noticed that, squirt."
He quips back easily and when they've reached the kitchen he slumps down on one of the chairs with a relaxed grin and leans forward to rest most of his upper body on the counter while the billionaire goes to prepare an after-work-out snack like usual. Chin resting on the back of his hand that's lying flat on the cool surface he watches him pull out utensils and ingredients with ease and a familiar domesticity.
It's normal - part of their routine at this point - that Mister Stark makes him a healthy snack to replenish all the calories he burnt swinging through the training facility and makes him drink tons of water to keep him hydrated. It's actually kind of sweet how much of a mother hen he becomes after training. Not that he'd ever admit to it.
"Uh! Mister Stark," he perks up when the superhero puts down his scrambled eggs, avocado toast and glass of water in front of him, "Can we make hot chocolate, too?" He takes a big bite of the toast and keeps talking, "Ya know, so I don't accidentally go into hypoglycemic shock again?"
He shrugs nonchalantly at the eye-rolled glare directed at him.
"Aren't you supposed to be having brunch with your aunt later?"
"So?"
"Right, human trash can, I forgot." His voice is flatter than it was before and Peter frowns inwardly at the change in tone.
He covers it up, sticks out his tongue at his mentor and just continues eating. "Aunt May will be asleep till at least 2pm and you know my metabolism… I need to eat." Feeling like he might need to bring out the big guns for this conversation he pouts and flutters his eyelashes expertly. "Please. I mean, it's Christmas! If you don't drink hot chocolate now when are you gonna?"
"How about never? I told you how I feel about Christmas."
The teenager knits his brows together at the dismissive manner that is so foreign directed at him. "Yeah, but I don't get what your problem with hot chocolate is. You love chocolate!" He narrows his eyes at the billionaire whose shoulders are tense again. "You'd eat chocolate with everything if Pepper let you."
"I just," Mister Stark starts and now that Peter is paying attention he sees how he's avoiding meeting his eyes, something Mister Stark never does with him. They dart around the room as if their looking for a way out, his left hand is clenched tightly around his green smoothie and he can hear his heart beat speed up.
"Really, hot chocolate is just too much of a good thing. I mean whipped cream and chocolate? You drink more than one and you're practically begging fate to get you a brand new type two diabetes," he snaps but the harshness can fully cover up how his voice gets a , "Can we – Can we just not talk about hot chocolate anymore? Stay healthy, drink a smoothie."
Peter knows the signs of an incoming anxiety attack when he sees them and he knows that he should probably do as he is told and let it go but his mentor's eyes look downright haunted and seeing him this shaken calls to a protective instinct deep in his core. There has to be something he can do.
"I think we should talk about it, actually," he says carefully, voice even and calm, and puts his cutlery to the side. Slowly he turns so he's looking directly at Mister Stark who looks more than a little bewildered. He's not sure how to best go about it but, well, he's already climbed up the ladder. He might as well jump the spring board now.
"I know, it's not really my place and maybe you don't want to talk about it with me but I think you should talk about it to someone. I don't want to see you so –" Sad. Lost. Broken. "And – and I know that you and Aunt May always make me talk about stuff and, even though I hate it in the beginning, I usually feel better afterwards."
He can see in the billionaire's eyes how he's starting to shut him out, how he's preparing to put the mask back on he usually takes off around Peter and he can't have that. So, he takes in a deep, panicked breath and tags on: "I – I know it's probably because of your parents and- and," he stutters because Mister Stark's eyes are wide and his heart is beating so fast and Peter's own heart is beating so so fast, too, and what the hell was he thinking?
"I just –" he soldiers on anyway, "it's okay to be sad, I know what that feels like but I don't believe you when you say that you don't like hot chocolate and I think – I think that – whatever is cause it – that's something you should talk about. So.." He trails off, unsure of – well, everything at this point.
"Sorry, I know it's not my place," he whispers and now he's the one avoiding looking at the other man who's completely rigid with his eyes screwed shut tightly and arms crossed in front of his chest.
What if he just made it worse? What if Mister Stark really doesn't want to talk about it? What if he just really messed up and he's going to throw him out? What if –
"You're so much stronger than I ever could be, kid. Oh, and smarter. Can't forget smarter."
Peter's head snaps up at the words spoken so softly he isn't sure he would've heard them without enhancement. His mentor's eyes are still closed, albeit his stance is a little more relaxed. Forced relaxed, probably, because his heart hasn't really calmed down and he's straining his lungs, trying to even out his breathing. But his hands are resting on his thighs lightly and he's making an effort to loosen the tension in his shoulders.
He's about to disagree, to tell him that he's not strong, not really, but before he can open his mouth Mister Stark is talking again.
"My mum and I used to make hot chocolate for Christmas every year."
The admission hangs over them like a thick fog, raw and cold with loss and heavy with the trust that it must've cost to say.
And when those blue snowflakes start falling that's when those blue memories start calling
Peter isn't sure why the song pops in his head like a weirdly prophetic background music supposed to lessen the weight of their situation. He keeps looking at his mentor, who is finally meeting his eyes again, posture unnaturally still.
"It was our thing," he says after a pause, "we would make it every Christmas Eve without fail and it was the best hot chocolate I've ever had but it was more because –"
"Because she was the one making it with you," Peter adds quietly when it's clear that Mister Stark won't finish the sentence. "And making hot chocolate without her is just not the same."
He nods sadly and it's quiet again until… Until suddenly his whole demeanor changes in the time it takes Peter to blink and he raps on the table twice, like a switch flipped. "But that should not keep us from making you the damned best hot chocolate we can. Come on. Chop chop."
Just like that, Mister Stark is back to being vibrant and flitting around the kitchen like a man on a mission but it only intensifies the lump in Peter's throat when he watches him pull out all ingredients from the shelves.
"Milk – check, dark chocolate – check, heavy cre –"
"You don't have to do this," the interrupts his mentor, "You really don't."
Mister Stark turns around, whole body facing the teenager, heavy cream still in hand, and his gaze softens. "I want to, Pete." He waits a beat in which Peter tries his best to read the enigma that is Tony Stark. "So, are you going to help me or are you just going to keep standing there like a lost puppy?"
"Well," he recovers finally and moves forward to take the cream from the man with a grin, "someone's gotta watch out so you don't end up burning down the kitchen, again."
It's weird at first.
Usually when they work together they act like a well- oiled machine, pieces fitting together seamlessly but now the kitchen feels too small for both of them and they trip over each other every other minute.
Peter is reaching out to put the whisk away and accidentally bumps into Mister Stark who's mixing the corn starch with the milk powder and the bowl tips over with a sad thump, blend spilling all over the countertop. Mister Stark picks it up first but he's trembling and the dish keeps clonking against the hard surface of the countertop.
After an awkward moment the teenager reaches out to take the now empty bowl from his mentor's shaking hands and gives him an apologetic smile. "You okay?"
The hands clench to fists and he breathes out deliberately before he nods, turning the corners of his lips up in a tentative smile of his own. "Yeah, I'm good. Can you start boiling the milk – 3 cups – while I clean up your mess? I'll get more starch and milk powder."
Peter nods and moves over to the stove to do as he's told, already picking up the milk and a cup to measure it. "Do you want me to chop the chocolate, too?"
They don't talk very much except to give and take orders and exchange suggestions for the recipe, still, as time goes on they discover their rhythm, a slightly new one, and when it's time to add the whipped cream to the cup Mister Stark is close enough to his usual self to adorn Peter's nose with a blob of the white paste with a cheeky grin.
He giggles, going cross-eyed trying to make out the extent of the mess. "For that I'm getting some of your hot chocolate," he declares firmly.
"Whatever squirt," Mister Stark shakes his hand fondly, "Just get over to the couch and try not to make too much of a mess. We still gotta get you back to your aunt in time for brunch."
But I'll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas
Elvis is back but, as he watches his mentor hesitantly sip his hot chocolate over the rim of his own glass, Peter is starting to contemplate that, maybe, there's still time to save Christmas.
They already worked through the hot chocolate trauma in a morning's work. Just give him a couple more days. He'll figure it out.