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It starts with a curse.
Tony Stark doesn’t know however that there is any curse, or that there’s anything to start for quite some time since the said curse is being cast. He lives his normal boring life of a billionaire genius who saves the world in a self-designed flying suit, and everything is fine.
He’s at the top of the food chain. He’s on top of the world. It feels just like you’d imagine—if you’ve got a really good imagination. He’s nauseous. Dizzy, with the whole world spinning under his feet, each gust of wind trying to push him down into the abyss. Lonely, because there is not enough space for more than one up here. And, as it has already been said, it’s extremely fucking boring.
He doesn’t admit it to himself, obviously. Because he’s not only the fill with whichever of countless titles he owns—he’s also the master of denial.
Who would expect the gust of wind that does it eventually to carry a bittersweet aroma of green pea?
Not him, that’s for sure.
It’s Cap’s fault. It’s always Cap’s fault, even if he only appears to be a tool in white-gloved hands of fate this time. What other person would think of ordering two dozens cans of peas? It smells strong of malicious intentions, right? It’s asking for trouble.
He picks the package, because he’s the only person who’s up at this ungodly hour—except the delivery man, of course, who he long since decided belongs to some alien species—and carries it to the kitchen to put it inside the cupboard filled with Thor’s instant spaghetti. If all these kids who take them as their role models knew their diet, it would no doubt lead to a national health crisis.
He has to put the too many pounds for his unsuited body down on the countertop before opening the cupboard to make space beside the month’s supply of spaghetti. When he turns back, the peas are gone.
He clearly remembers waking up, as it was one of his reliving the trauma nights, but what if this was one of those dream within a dream situations?
“JARVIS? Am I mad, or have two dozens of canned peas just disappeared in the span of ten seconds when I wasn’t looking at them?” he throws into space.
“These things are not mutually exclusive,” his AI butler’s voice carries from the closest speaker.
“Ha, ha, now can you fucking answer my question?”
“They indeed have disappeared, sir. Precisely it the moment you were sticking your head into the cupboard.”
Tony might actually feel better if it was only his delusion, because tricking the human brain is easy, but deceiving an AI is an entirely different thing.
“Well, mind explaining me what the fuck?”
“I have no explanation to that, sir.”
That’s not how Tony raised him.
“Uh, find it then?”
JARVIS is silent for a long moment. Then—
“I have found one possible answer, sir, that might interest you, although I can’t prove it has anything to do with the matter. It’s more of what you might call intuition, and what is in fact the ability to detect patterns and relations between events that seem unrelated from the scientific point of view.”
Tony raises his eyebrow.
“All ears?”
“Some time ago I have overheard Mr. Thor and Dr. Banner cursing you. It was the time when you’ve decided that they both could use a vent to their frustrations. A relationship, that is.”
“A sexual relationship,” Tony feels the need to point out. “That’s all I suggested. It’s them who for whatever reason have decided to take it a million steps further.”
“Yes. And they seemed upset with your lack of belief in love, genuine affection and adoration, as well as mutual respect as the foundations of sexual relationship.”
“Tsk. So petty?” Tony mutters under his breath. Wasn’t it that Asgardian He-Man who dared call him “petty” that one time? Ha. He’s the pettiest of all in this nest of petty pests pestering him with their zest, all sweaty and petty and… Yeah.
“I’m still waiting for someone to thank me for my efforts, you know,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Why does no one ever thank me, JARVIS?”
“Because, while your methods are usually effective, they’re often morally ambiguous, and it’s also not unusual that they make people hate you, sir.”
There’s that.
“Anyway, what were we talking about?” he asks, because his thoughts have started going in the unwelcome direction of all the ungrateful people of his life, as well as those too grateful, and Tony can’t deal with that at this hour.
“The problem with the missing peas, sir,” JARVIS supplies. “And the possible explanation being the curse of Mr. Thor. I cannot estimate however how likely this explanation is. I have found no scientific proof of the effectiveness of curses.”
Tony groans.
“He is a freaking god, JARVIS. If anyone can do shit like that, it’s gotta be him.”
He rubs his eyes tiredly. That’s exactly what a person gets when trying to help. Every fucking time. He should finally learn the lesson.
“What was the curse about?” he asks in a resigned voice.
“He said you shall not find peace until you find your true love and treat them with respect.”
“What the fuck?!”
“That’s what he said, sir.”
“And my disturbance of peace is supposed to be caused by the lack of… peas…” He stops as the realization hits him hard. “No. You can’t tell me magic is that dumb.”
“I can’t tell you that indeed, sir. I wouldn’t know.”
Great. Fantastic. It seems Tony won’t be able to find any peas until he finds his true love.
･.𓆩♡𓆪.･
He tries of course. He goes to a restaurant and orders green pea soup, and the mess it causes is too much even for him, with his thing for trouble. The soup should be green—right? Well, it’s not, and the first time the waiter is eager to admit his mistake, but the second—not so much. He swears he brought the right dish, and Tony lets it go, but then orders green pea hummus because he likes to poke fate with a stick—his idiotic decisions being the stick.
It comes to the point of the chef having a screaming fit and throwing things at the poor stuff, and then the police comes, and Tony will murder one god and one genius, and no one can blame him.
Yeah, Tony. Because they are not the single two beings in this pea-forsaken world that even Iron Man cannot deal with.
Perhaps next time he should meddle in affairs of someone less powerful.
Ha-ha, as if.
He tells the team, since he so loves to be the source of their entertainment. They all find it hilarious and are not in the slightest concerned about the fact that the god in their compound can make some quantum magic happen with his single stupid wish. Sometimes Tony wonders if he’s the only sane person here. And isn’t this concerning?
Well, there’s also Peter. He’s normal. Apart from the fact that he’s a genius and an embodiment of all good on top of that, he’s just a teenager. Well—young adult, almost. He does what people his age should do: looks cute, nerds out, runs around in his worn sneakers. He’s… precious.
Anyway, Tony’s always had the thing about obsessing over stuff that he cannot have, so he does his best to deal with the curse—otherwise the idea of scrambled eggs with peas for breakfast or a pea-brimming risotto for dinner will drive him insane.
So he does a few casual hookups, because if this god magic thing is stupid enough to confuse peace with peas, then how hard can it be to fool it? He loves some things about these people that he meets, or at least enjoys them profoundly—it’s hard to really fall for someone after doing it so many times, you know?—and he does treat them with respect they deserve, paying them outrageous sums of money.
It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
It’s Nat’s birthday and everyone except him put in effort—he put in money—to make a huge ass cake. They had their fun, laughed at each person’s attempt to cut the monstrosity into reasonable pieces, and it was great. That is, until he finally got his piece and was about to stick his fork into the sinful chocolate mousse with raspberries—and it wasn’t there. Steve laughs at his appetite—he clearly licked the plate clean—and gives him another piece. It disappears, right when he is looking at it, and this time he has witnesses.
“What the fuck?” Clint offers, speaking Tony’s mind.
“Did you put peas in the cake?” Tony is scandalized.
“Why the fuck would I put peas in my cake?” asks Natasha, and even she looks slightly concerned.
“I don’t know, to fucking mess with me as a part of your birthday gift?”
“I have so many better things to do.”
“Um.” They all turn their eyes to Peter. “It might be stupid, but maybe it’s just the fact that it’s a piece? A piece of cake?”
They look at each other. Tony feels weak in the knees. And like he needs a glass of something strong. Luckily, he did order indecent amounts of alcohol for this night. He pours himself the first thing he can grab, then goes to the couch. Some of them follow, finally showing some bit of concern.
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense!” he vents, after half of the glass has gone down his throat. “I can understand confusing peace with peas, but not with a piece! It’s a piece, it’s a countable singular noun, it needs an A!”
“Do you really think magic cares about English grammar?” Natasha asks softly, filling up his glass.
“I think it has a wicked and a very bad sense of humor,” he grumbles, taking a canapé from the plate pushed in front of him by one charmingly concerned Spider-Boy. After that, he feels slightly better.
In the end, everyone feeds him bits of their cake portions—and, surprisingly, it works. That means he can cheat the curse. He shall not live a peasless, cakeless life.
Next morning he announces that he will pay a thousand bucks to whoever makes him scrambled eggs with peas and toast, feeding included.
Many raised eyebrows answer him, which was to be expected, since he provides these ungrateful loafers with literally everything they need, and their salary can easily make them spoiled.
“I—I can do it,” says a timid voice from the corner of the room.
He should have known.
Someone snorts, and this would be much easier if he didn’t have a fucking audience eager to see how he deals with that.
“You—don’t have to. I was just fooling around.”
“It’s no prob, Mr. Stark. I was about to make myself breakfast anyway.”
So—he’s just encouraging the youth to eat a healthy meal. Nothing wrong with that. Not the slightest thing to be worried about.
“Right. Okay.”
The kid sends him a sheepish grin and goes to the kitchen.
“Hm,” Natasha says from over a Stark Science splayed on her lap.
“Whatever you want to say, don’t.”
She smirks without raising her eyes from the paper. Tony needs coffee. So he follows Peter to the kitchen. Coffee is the only reason.
“Thanks,” he says, watching Peter take eggs from the fridge and is he really gonna eat all of that? Ugh, of course he is, Tony berates himself. The kid’s a Spider-Man. Sometimes he has trouble remembering that. Probably because of the cute little puffs underneath the molten chocolate puppy eyes or because of these adorable monkey ears. Or his teeth. Honestly, how can a crime-fighting superhero have teeth like these? He should advertise a strawberry-flavored kids’ toothpaste.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Stark,” the boy speaks. “I’ll make sure it gets inside your mouth.”
What? Peter throws him a sidelong glance, a very sweet one, and goes to the freezer this time to take out a bag of frozen peas.
Right. Peas. The thing that all this is about. Peter wants to put it in his mouth, so the curse doesn’t make it disappear. Right.
Coffee, coffee, coffee. He needs coffee. Does he really? He should make himself a fucking lemon balm tea.
“Yeah, nah,” he says to save last bits of his sanity. “I appreciate, but let’s skip the feeding bit.”
“How can you eat it then?”
“I—can’t. It’s okay. I’ll just eat whatever.”
Peter frowns.
“No, Mr. Stark. We made a deal and I’m going to keep my end.”
His moves are very decisive as he puts the biggest pan on the stove. It takes him a while to crack all the eggs into a bowl while the sinful mountain of peas slowly loses its cover of crystal powder. Tony has already forgotten about the coffee.
When the peas become fully green and start spreading around their sweet aroma, Peter reaches and takes one seed between his fingers. Then he puts it in his mouth and chews.
“Mmm,” he makes a very convincing sound of satisfaction. “It’s really good, Mr. Stark. You should try it.”
Before Tony knows what’s happening, two fingers holding one green ball of forbidden temptation appear before his mouth, and it’s a reflex, okay? Of course he’ll open his mouth when someone gives him food to taste. Everyone does that. And he can’t fucking help the fact his tongue touches the two digits. Peas are small, okay?
Then the cursed thing lands in his mouth and he tastes .
An indecent groan escapes his mouth. “Fuck. You actually did it, kid.”
Peter beams.
“I wouldn’t let you go around hungry, Mr. Stark.”
It might be this moment that Tony swears to himself to never let anything happen to his Spider-Angel, who’s simply too good for this world and sooner or later is bound to get into trouble because of that.
He watches as Peter adds the eggs to the pan and stirs continuously to make the best kind of scrambled eggs, the one where it all becomes a thick, creamy, golden blessing. Tony knew the kid’s talented, but now he thinks he’s not only talented, but… compatible. With him. In some impossible to explain way.
“You like pepper, right?”
Of course he likes Pepper. Everyone likes Pepper. But why—
Oh.
“Red or black?” Peter throws him a quick side look.
“Your pick, kid,” he replies, trying to sound casual. How did his mind go into that area, he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. The thoughts of Peter and the thoughts of Pepper shouldn’t come close to each other under any circumstance. It’s wrong. Even he knows that.
A jingle of tableware snaps him back to reality.
“We’re done,” the kid announces with a victorious smile. He’s holding two plates of golden treasure with speckles of green temptation, and there’s toast. When did he make toast?
“You really don’t need to do this,” Tony says, and he sounds almost pleading. Ugh. “I can give you a thousand bucks. I can give you ten thousand. What do you need? New shoes? A LEGO set? A hookup with a discreet gentleman?”
“Mr. Stark!” Peter blushes violent red—actually, no, it’s a subtle tint of pink, which is pretty becoming on him, really—and turns his gaze away. “I—I don’t need money”, he mutters, which is a blatant lie. “I just wanted to help you.”
Tony melts.
He’s the butter on the toast, the chocolate of those eyes that look at him like they care in the scorching sunlight of the goodness that is Peter Parker.
He… should fucking stop.
The kid has already moved to the lounge, so he follows him, readying himself for the nasty smirks, distasteful comments, and meaningful looks from his team, and—
They’re all gone.
Why are they all gone?
They sit together on the couch and Tony tries to protest one last time, but is cut short.
“It’s no problem, Mr. Stark,” Peter reassures him. “You should eat nutritious meals. I’m—” he stops here for just a second, “willing to help,” he ends with a shy smile.
Tony suddenly feels he needs help with so many things. He’s really helpless.
How come the kid doesn’t see the problem? He casually feeds him breakfast, half-attentive, eating himself at the same time. He puts stuff in his mouth, licks his fingers, and then uses the same fingers to put toast in Tony’s mouth, which he really should have done himself, but it wouldn’t change anything so whatever.
The revelation strikes him as Peter removes a bit of egg from his mustache. Of course he doesn’t see the problem. Tony probably is a dinosaur to him. It’s like feeding his grandpa or something. He’s just such a good kid. Tony wants to keep him forever.
So he allows himself this moment of guilty, very guilty pleasure, and eats the sinful seeds delivered to his mouth with a fork held by slim fingers. The nails on these fingers are round, pink and ridiculously pristine, as if Spider-Boy didn’t beat the shit out of some rascals a mere few days ago.
Tony stares, tastes, feels—and maybe, just maybe, thinks vaguely about the curse not being entirely without its benefits.
･.𓆩♡𓆪.･
The next disastrous event in this plethora of disastrous events takes place in his lab. He’s lost a piece of armor, and this time he has absolutely no doubt who or what to blame.
“For fuck’s sake. JARVIS! Where is it?”
“I don’t know, sir. It has vanished the moment you turned away.”
“Why did it wait for me to turn away? The cake didn’t!”
“You would not take your eyes from the cake and there were many other people looking too, so I imagine it had no choice that time. But it seems this force tries to act inconspicuously when it can.”
“Very inconspicuous. Snatching a piece of my armor from under my very nose,” he snarls and is so absorbed in rummaging around the lab in his hopeless search that he doesn’t hear someone coming until a cautious voice sounds from the far end of the room.
“Um… Mr. Stark? You alright?”
“Kid!” He gets up on his feet faster than is good for his knees. “Yeah, I just… lost something.”
“What did you lose?” The expression on the boy’s face is that of sheer curious innocence.
“A… piece of armor,” he admits, swiping his hair back from his sticky forehead.
“Which one?”
Peter always wants to know everything. But while other people with the same trait usually end their streak of questions with some wordless mumble—or run away—he always gives something back in the end: some thought, some insight, some solution. Tony is never tired of answering his questions.
“The top cover of the right pauldron.”
“Ah.” The kid considers. “I can help you look for it, Mr. Stark.”
His eyes are big, warm, and eager, and—this should be forbidden. The world cannot do this to him.
“It’s the curse,” Tony sighs. “You won’t be able to find it.”
“We can at least try.”
They can. It makes perfect sense. There’s nothing wrong with trying. Nothing wrong with keeping the puppy boy in his lab for whatever reason. Nothing wrong with tracking his every move with his eyes while he scurries around, reaching up, leaning down—nothing wrong with watching his clothes do indecent things.
Oh wow. He is fucked.
“Found it!” The boy beams at him with the power of a supernova. “You were looking for this one, right?”
“Yeah,” Tony admits, bemused. He blinks a few times. “How…?
“Aunt May always loses her stuff. I’ve become pretty good at finding it.”
Is this enough of an explanation for how easily he dealt with the curse? Tony thinks not. He watches Peter as he comes close and offers him the piece with an easy smile.
“I’m not sure if me taking it is a good idea,” Tony observes, stepping back just in case.
“I found it for you, so it’s okay,” the boy says with conviction. “Just don’t lose it again.”
That’s the hard part, Tony thinks, but doesn’t say it.
“Yeah. Okay,” he says instead. Peter smiles at him and puts the piece on the table. He is about to leave when Tony’s stupid mouth proves once again it wishes to be the end of him. “But in case I do… wanna stay for a bit?”
The kid looks back at him, surprised.
“Maybe you should do the maintenance and put it back in the place,” Tony goes on, before he can change his mind. “You know… better stay on the safe side. I have a few spare ones, but—”.
“No prob, Mr. Stark! I can help.”
Peter looks… happy. He’s happy. His smile makes the dimples in his cheeks show—cute little holes that make Tony want to stick his finger into them—and that’s a terrible idea. It’s a terrible idea to even think of it. He should stop now. He should—
“What do you want me to do?” Peter asks, and when did he get so near? He watches closely the armor bit he picked back from the table, tracing delicate fingers over the smooth metal surface, and—
What did he ask again? Right. Tony knows. He asked, What do you want me to do?
Phew. Okay. Tony can’t give a fully honest answer to that, but he goes for a half-truth, and so they spend the entire evening together. It shouldn’t feel so natural. So good. Tony has only one explanation for why it would feel this way and he’s never gonna admit it to anyone.
･.𓆩♡𓆪.･
And then finally comes this day. The day that the future will remember as the day of his ultimate fall.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter’s voice carries across the common space, and while it’s not unusual at all to see him excited, he normally doesn’t make that much noise. Tony is intrigued.
The kid lands next to him on the couch.
“Look what I got from Mrs. Romanoff!”
It’s… a jigsaw puzzle. Of the Stark Tower. Against the sunset. With too saturated clouds in the sky and black silhouettes of birds.
There are a million things he could say about it, but then he sees the boy’s expression, the sparking joy in his eyes, and he holds them all in.
“Nice,” is what he goes with. “Two thousand pieces, huh? Think yourself a pro?”
Peter grins.
“Wanna do it with me?”
Tony lost it. He finally admits it. It’s not the kid’s fault. He really can’t blame him for the way every single thing he says sends his mind reeling.
Wanna do it with me?
“Sure, kid,” he says weakly, adjusting his position on the couch so that his knee doesn’t touch Peter’s bum. He puts his glass of something he shouldn’t drink at this hour on the floor and leans to help the boy with unpacking.
They start with the edges, which he always considered a hallmark of sanity, but now he’s clearly not sane, so he might need to revise this theory. They progress quickly, far quicker than he ever remembers doing it himself. Not that he has many memories of playing with jigsaw puzzles. He wasn’t exactly a normal kid.
After they got the frame, the kid immediately moves to digging for pieces that will make the STARK neon. It’s sweet, like everything he does. Tony picks out all the pieces that look like the sky, because he’s a masochist.
Hours pass. People come and go. He pointedly ignores all the comments, because they can’t be any worse than the ones he showers himself with in his ass of a brain.
The kid smiles, then turns focused, then laughs at something, then throws some comment, then is focused again. Their hands brush all the time. At one point, Peter literally grabs his to stop him from connecting two parts with a piece he’s holding, and does it himself with another one. He says, “Ha!” and grins wider that Tony thought possible. His eyes crinkle, sending sparks through the space between them, and if Tony catches fire, no one can blame him.
They don’t even stop to eat dinner. They take Thor’s spaghetti and slurp it—carefully—over the puzzle. They’ve gone round the bend, and Tony doesn’t even care anymore. He is dorkily happy, and no one can take it away from him. He’s bound to smash it into pieces sooner or later so might as well enjoy himself while it lasts.
Evening comes. Hawkeye joins them to put the bird pieces together and leaves when Coulson steps into the lounge. Natasha sits with them for a bit and deals with the what the fuck is this pile that they put aside. Thor appears with his own cup of spaghetti and observes their work, visibly intrigued. Bruce comes too.
“Alright, Tony?” he asks.
“Huh? Me? Yeah, I’m okay, why do you ask?”
Bruce doesn’t answer, just puts his hand on his arm and squeezes reassuringly. Then he takes his boyfriend away.
They’re alone.
Working in companionable silence, exchanging pieces that match what they’re currently working on, getting into each other’s space all the time—before they know it, it’s midnight. And there is only one piece missing.
The thing is, there is no piece left—not on the table, not in the box, not in their hands, not on their knees.
“No. No, no, nonononono!”
Tony gets down from the couch, looks under the table, even slides his hand under the sofa. The final piece is nowhere to be found.
“It’s lost! I’ve lost it!” He looks up at Peter, desperate for something to hold on to.
“Get up, Mr. Stark.” The boy wraps his hand around his arm and easily yanks him back onto the couch.
“I’ve fucked your jigsaw!”
“I’d say… it’s more of our jigsaw at this point?”
“Anyway, I fucked it! I’m a fucking disaster!”
Peter huffs.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Stark.” He squeezes his arm the way Bruce did earlier—but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t care about the jigsaw. It doesn’t matter. And anyway—whatever you lose, I’ll find it.”
He says such an implausible thing—and Tony believes him.
He’s lost faith in humanity, and this kid gave it back to him. He’s lost passion for what he does—and the Spider-Boy came swinging into his life, with all his energy, enthusiasm, ideas, and the will.
He’s lost love—and now he’s found it. It came in a shape he’d never have expected—but it came.
“You will?” he asks helplessly anyway.
“Sure. Told you. I’m good at finding stuff.” He sends him a sheepish smile, and gets up to look in the creases of the couch. Then he falls on his knees, and… fuck.
Tony swallows. There is only one thing he can do at this point.
“I… need to tell you something.”
Peter looks up at him, slightly uncertain. “Okay?”
“Sit first, or else… Just sit.” Tony takes a deep breath and waits until Peter is properly seated next to him. “I might have come to… develop some feelings… of not entirely platonic nature.” He clears his throat. “Towards you,” he adds, and it doesn’t kill him. Yet.
Peter blinks.
“You—”
“Whatever you might think, I am however not completely depraved, and I’m fully aware of how improper and unwelcome this is.” He breathes. He just put together a logical complex sentence. He’s doing fine.
Then he looks at Peter and he’s not doing fine. There’s something pained in his expression. Tony gets it. He really does. But he can’t help feeling this as a deep sting in his heart.
“Mr. Stark—”
“Uh-uh, let me finish.”
“Okay…”
He clears his throat again.
“This curse… was put on me to teach me respect. Apparently. To the ones I care about. So that’s why I’m telling you this. You’re almost an adult. Right? You deserve to know. So you can put however much distance you deem fit between us.”
Peter frowns.
“What if I don’t want to put distance between us?”
He… didn’t really consider this possibility.
“It’s… fine.” It’s not fine. “I can deal with that. I’ll… be respectful.”
Peter smiles. Then grins. Then, seeing Tony’s confused expression, he laughs.
There’s nothing mocking or cruel in it, however—well, how could there be? Peter’s an angel—so Tony just stares at him, watches his teeth and his eyes, and the dimples in his cheeks—and waits.
“Well…” Peter finally stops and looks at him mischievously. “Can you… respectfully… kiss me now?” He ends on a hopeful note.
There’s no mistaking it. It’s hopeful. He hopes Tony will kiss him.
How did it come to this? What has he ever done to deserve it?
Before he can answer either of these, Peter leans closer and in the end, he’s just Tony Stark. There’s a limit to how much he can pretend to be someone else.
He covers Peter’s mouth with his and tastes. It’s better than fresh green peas, better than chocolate mousse cake with raspberries, better than anything. A quiet growl escapes him. He tried to be good, but honestly, how good can one be when faced with an angel? So he kisses him harder, deeper, exactly how he wants. Makes their mouths meet again, and again, and again…
Peter… doesn’t seem against it. On the contrary. His lips are pliant, his hands clutch the fabric of Tony’s shirt, and there are tiny sounds he makes that stir something dangerous inside him. When they pull apart, his cheeks are flushed with this familiar shade of pink that looks so good on him, and he breathes heavily. Tony needs to look away, or he’ll do things that no one would consider respectful at this point of their… thing? Which is how his eyes land on the almost finished jigsaw.
“Oh.”
The last missing piece of the puzzle is there, right next to the gap, innocently waiting to be put into its rightful place.
“Found it,” he says stupidly.
Peter snorts and reaches for the piece. He examines it closely.
“Seems right.”
Tony leans over the table next to him.
“You should finish it. Before we get distracted.”
But Peter pushes the piece into his hand and squeezes.
“You should do it,” he says softly.
So Tony does. With the last piece finally in its rightful place, they can call it done, and focus on more important matters.
He reaches for Peter once again, pulls him closer, and before he knows, the boy is in his lap, fingers clutched in his hair, tugging softly, kissing, murmuring sweet nonsense. Actually, no. It’s him who’s murmuring sweet nonsense. What? Again: How did it come to this?
Tony blames everything on the curse. And one god, and one dorky scientist. And one Cap. He’s pretty sure Natasha was involved too. And didn’t it actually start with that one talk with Clint? But Tony’s pretty sure the talk wouldn’t happen if not for Coulson…
Yeah, let’s blame Coulson. He’s a safe choice.
“You tell me if I’m disrespectful, okay, Pete?” Tony says, sliding his hands under the boy’s loose T-shirt.
Peter snorts.
“You’re so funny, Mr. Stark.”
“Tony.”
“Tony,” Peter whispers.
He has dimples in his cheeks and sparks in his eyes, and Tony would devour him if his hands weren’t currently busy stroking gentle circles over Peter’s back.
Oh, well.
All in good time.