The first year was hard for both of them. Tony resisted any changes in his lifestyle. The delicate balance he seemed to hold between parties, drinking, and excessive amounts of work left no room for a child to fit in.
Peter was left in the hands of nannies and housekeepers, who circulated so often that he didn't bother to keep track. He spent days alone, nights alone, locked indoors because apparently the idea of Tony Stark's son going outside was just too dangerous. It was almost amusing. Peter had braved the neighborhoods of Queens every afternoon since he was old enough to know he had to look both ways before crossing the street. He imagined that under different circumstances, he would've been just fine – after all, he could be and often was bored to the point of invention. The grieving and loneliness, however, ate at his resolve until Peter felt like he was just going through the motions, a shell of his former self.
Peter didn't think he had ever thrown a tantrum in his life until the next year, when Tony suddenly told him he was changing schools. He had sprung it on him after summer vacation, saying his driver, Happy, apparently wasn't happy about the hour commute into "probably the most ghetto part of New York that exists."
While normally filled with enough anxiety to make him shy to the point that he was docile, Peter was immediately thrown into full-blown panic. The rapidly growing fear of losing the one stronghold of stability tying him to his former life took over. Tony and Peter argued for longer than they had ever held a conversation – Peter frantic and in tears, Tony authoritative and final.
It ended when Peter screamed – I hate you! I wish I never would've come here! – and stormed to his room.
Somehow, this seemed to set their already fragile relationship back further than it had started. Peter didn't see Tony for weeks, maybe months. He couldn't tell if the man had simply decided to disappear altogether, or if Peter was that good at avoiding him. Peter felt so bad about what he had said that he reluctantly went to the school Tony had picked out for him anyway. He had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, he was immediately bullied for being the new kid, and on the other, he made fast friends with a boy in his class named Ned.
Fast friends turned into best friends in less than a day. As it turned out, the Filipino boy offered the connection Peter was desperately craving, and it felt as though small parts of him were finally starting to heal. It was this renewal in himself that gave him the burst of confidence to apologize to Tony.
He stayed up far too late one night, his digital clock reading just past two, and managed to catch his father working in his lab.
The man looked as tired as Peter felt guilty. He sucked in a short breath as he knocked quietly on the door, fingers quickly sliding back down to nervously wring the hem of his shirt. Tony looked over at the small boy, the hard look in his eyes melting away.
"Peter…" He said softly. "Why are you up so late?"
Peter mustered up the courage to step closer until he was just in front of the man. "I…" he started, voice weakening as he realized he wasn't sure what to say.
Tony reached out slowly, gently grabbing his arm to pull him a little closer. He held his hand there, a show of comfort maybe. If Peter hadn't been so worked up, he might have leaned into it. He tilted his head slightly, meeting Peter's down-cast eyes.
"What's wrong, kid?" He asked, concern starting to lace his voice.
"I—" Peter's voice caught again, before he finally blurted out, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
Tony looked stunned, but Peter didn't notice enough to stop.
"I didn't mean all the mean stuff I said. I yelled 'cause I was really mad and didn't know what else to do. But I didn't want to make you go away! I didn't mean it. I should've been nicer..." His voice was shaky and his face was red. "Don't send me away… Please don't send me away."
Peter blinked back a few tears, trying and failing at keeping his emotions at bay. He might've cried if Tony pushed him, but fortunately he didn't. Instead, he pulled Peter closer, wrapping an arm around the boy. How Peter felt about this was unclear, but he buried his face into Tony's shoulder and gripped the front of his shirt tightly with his little fists.
Tony's softly bewildered expression was still for few long minutes, and he ran his other hand through his hair. "I'm not sending you anywhere, Pete." He finally said, his voice low and soothing, hoping the stillness in his son's body didn't mean he had already fallen asleep. "You're staying right here."
There was no immediate response from Peter, but soon after, Tony felt the boy's grip loosen ever so slightly, his breathing becoming slow and steady.
It took several minutes for him to maneuver him from the lab to his bedroom, but he was able to make it without Peter even stirring. The kid was well past his bedtime—and exhausted, no doubt, from the emotional storm that had hit them both. Tony gaze lingered on Peter's for a moment, taking in his peaceful, innocent face.
He closed the door quietly as he left, finally breathing as he cupped his face into his hands.
"Shit…" Tony mumbled, entering the kitchen to pour himself a nightcap that could hopefully get Peter's broken expression out of his head. As he laid on the couch waiting for the effects of alcohol to pull him into unconsciousness, he wondered if he could ever be the father Peter needed. He doubted it – experience told him he simply wasn't wired for children. But maybe, just maybe, he could at least try.
