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Tony Stark doesn’t hate children. There’s this misconception floating around with all the other untrue things about Stark International’s golden boy, and the ones involving him and kids are mostly false. He can attest to the idea that allowing him to spawn a child would be a bad one- disastrous is probably the better word to use in this situation- but he cannot deny the internal warmth that spreads beneath his cold mechanical heart when children approach him with fliers and toys in hand, some in half or full costume, and delight in their eyes at meeting a superhero. Children don’t have the same judgement adults do. They see the world through wonderment, and even if they knew about Tony’s past misadventures it doesn’t mean anything to them. They just like the parts where he flies around and blows bad guys up, and that’s certainly something he can get behind.
Which is why he even agrees to meet with the lawyer after the Parkers’ deaths, knowing full well she hadn’t called him over to sign off on a cassette of the 70’s greatest hits. She talks about responsibilities and the trust the Parkers held for him, how the only living family left are incapable of taking care of a child long-term. Tony just nods, tries not to look nervous, but he knows this deal. Richard and Mary had discussed the possibility when they legally appointed him Godfather. So he signs some forms and is told a social worker will do a routine check in. His heart’s going a little too fast, his hand still clasped around the pen, but he can’t stop staring at the words. They’re giving him a kid.
Nobody is going to think this is a good idea.
For the next few weeks, everyone mostly keeps their mouths shut. He child-proofs the living areas, and keeps anything work related and/or dangerous locked away. Clint and Steve even help, which he is grateful for, even if he acts like it’s no big deal. He plays nice for the social workers, makes sure the kid has a room, and lays out backup plans should he be called for Avengers duty. He smoothes bumps in his life both verbally and via computer. He is a genius after all, and he doesn’t need that one time in Boca to cause this whole jenga pile to come crashing down. He isn’t surprised at how nonchalant he acts in front of the others during the whole thing. He isn’t even surprised when his hands shake when he’s alone, sitting in the dark with his chest providing light as he wonders if he can create a reset button. He craves the burn of scotch but is too afraid to touch it, and he realises that’s what scares him most of all.
He gets the green light on a Wednesday morning, when night time hours bleed into dawn and the scream for sleep is tamped down by metal clamps and chirping technology. He blames his vibrations on caffeine, avoids food so he can keep the excuse, because he likes his ways out. He still doesn’t know why he didn’t make a back door, why he still keeps moving forward with this whole ordeal. It’s a bad idea, he knows it’s a bad idea; he keeps telling himself this even as he gets into the car.
He has Happy drive him to Newark, because apparently Jersey has been promoted from parasitic fish to half-formed lab clone. Tony is a man with too-little patience and more than enough insanity to fill the gaps, but he can’t speed up time (Or can he? He files the spark in the Review Later folder of his mind, mentally swipes the screen away), so he lets his fingers drum rhythmic patterns onto the side of the door until even he is sick of the sound. ‘The longest car trip of his life’ is too exaggerated and promotes an anticipation he refuses to accept. However, he doesn’t remember Jersey being this far away.
The house itself is quaint and painfully suburban, older than some of the others on the street and lacking clichéd picket fences or cobblestone walkways. It looks like one of those neighbourhoods that has community meetings and matching decorations during holidays, and Tony finds himself deadpanning at the thought. Despite the age, it’s well taken care of, and he barely gets halfway up the walk before the glass door is opening. May Parker is a small, older woman with a gentle smile, her grey hair wisping in curls out of her otherwise neat bun, hands not-quite taken with arthritis. She is accompanied by Ben Parker, also older and with a firm set to his mouth.
Tony doesn’t pretend everything is one hundred percent pleasant. He knows Ben would have rather kept the kid despite the circumstances, but he smiles anyway.
“His stuff is already packed,” May says with a hint of sadness, telling stories in her tone Tony could read into if he wasn’t preoccupied with himself. She’s more compliant than Ben, leading him into their home and through to the kitchen. He’s seen the kid before; once after he was born, which was followed by a decline to hold the squirming bundle, and more recent photos after that. Still, he lingers in the archway, watching patiently as a small boy of three sits at a scratched wooden table with preoccupied hands and messy brown hair, his lips pursed as he makes ‘whooshing’ sounds. He’s holding one of those Iron Man action figures that have been cropping up, and when he twists his body to make the toy fly, he freezes when he catches sight of Tony.
“Hey there,” Tony grins, his fingers tapping into his leg. He notices the confusion blossoming over Peter’s face, watches as it melts away to curiosity. There’s a noticeable double take, tiny eyes glossing over Tony’s taller form before settling on the toy in his hands. He wonders how much the kid’s been told, quirks the corner of his mouth in the mimic of a grimace as Peter hops from the chair.
“You’re Iron Man,” Peter says, voice soft and small, tone definitive. It doesn’t clue Tony in any better, so he leans down to his eye level, smirking.
“Yep, sure am. That all right with you?” Peter clutches the toy closer to his chest, tiny brows knit as if mulling the question over. His nose wrinkles, lips pursed out again, and Tony can see the determination slide in his gaze as he finally shakes his head. The kid is very expressive.
“Yea.” Peter keeps the toy closer to him, sneakered feet squeaking on the tile as he starts to lead the way out of the kitchen. Past the front door, Tony can see Happy loading a couple bags in the car. “You keep bad guys away,” he mumbles, looking up at Tony with an expression he recognises. The phrase is loaded, worry edging at the corners of the letters, a hidden fear most three year olds shouldn’t possess. Tony gives him another grin, softer than before and full of promise.
“That’s the plan, kiddo.”
--
Peter acts like he’s never seen an elevator before. Tony supposes it’s only natural; he doubts the kid has many memorable moments in the city, let alone in one of the biggest and fanciest towers money can build. It’s almost a complete turnaround to how he acted in the car, shy stillness melting into active curiosity as he fingers over the illuminated buttons of the panel, edges his fingers along emergency doors and decides stopping five times before reaching their floor would be fun. There is an interest piqued at watching him, mind churning with the thought of having never actually seen a kid act before. The intrigue hesitates as the doors open for the final time, the Iron Man toy the kid possesses becoming an imprint in his chest as wide eyes scan the new living area he is being introduced to.
Tony has enough seats for all of them, which have been moved multiple times from their original locations to become a plethora of cushioned obstacles. They’re all facing the wall-large television, which is currently turned off despite the fact that every Avenger was facing it before the ding of the elevator doors gave away their incoming. They spend a second to look from Tony to the kid, multitudes of fascination and concern flitting differently on their faces, until they are removing themselves from the chairs.
“Oh my God, they let you actually take him.” Clint can be about as classy as carnie teeth, but his words hold no bite as he scurries over the edge of the sofa. “They know he’s gone, right? You didn’t B&E the place and smuggle him into your armour, right?” The incredulous expression that catches on Tony’s face is, for the most part, ignored.
“Oh yea,” he finally sighs out, a quick tap of his fingers any indication to the uncomfortable niggling that’s trying to take firmer root in his mind. “Because that’s part of my desperation repertoire, Barton. Gotta have me a kid or I’ll explode.”
Peter turns his head to watch Tony, wrinkling his nose again like he did back at his Aunt and Uncle’s, and Tony shakes his head a little and smiles. “Joke, kid. I’m joking. Come on, come on, meet everyone, we’ll give you the tour, your little head will explode. Still joking-“ he reiterates, nipping any disconcerted expression Peter can give him in the bud, “but it will in theory.”
“Does he even know what ‘theory’ is?” Steve pipes up, tone soft as he kneels down, causing Peter’s shyness to flare up again. He inches away.
“He’s three, I dunno. D’you know what a theory is?” Tony turns to Peter, who shakes his head mutely. “All right, so he doesn’t. Also, sensing a looming going on here, I know you’re interested but c’mon, let the kid breathe. Back up, there we go, it’s not like you’ll never see him again.” The group had gotten a bit close, though Tony wasn’t sure if the sudden claustrophobia was on his end or Peter’s. Still, the kid wasn’t a goat in a petting zoo, and if he hugged that toy any tighter his body would absorb it via osmosis.
They did as they were told, taking steps from their doom circle and allowing them space. It didn’t help the constricting feeling twisting in his gut. His brain was still trying to tell him it was a bad idea. And now he felt awkward, standing there among his teammates with their silent judgement or worry, as if he’d use the kid as an experiment. Maybe they thought this was an experiment. Or maybe he was self projecting upon them. Wow, now is not the time to be so god damned self reflective, he mentally berates himself, sticking on his forced smile.
“Okay, you got Natasha, Thor, Bruce, Steve, and Clint. Don’t make her angry, don’t eat his poptarts, really don’t make him angry, he’s newer here than you are, and don’t give him your money.” He’s interrupted momentarily by an indignant “Hey!” from Clint, but it’s ignored in favour of waving the kid towards him. “Further questions can be asked after the tour.”
“Hello,” Peter greets, flecks of recognition in his face before he’s walking away. He’s struggling to keep an emotion but seems to switch back and forth between confusion and awe; gadgets or panels on the wall, sculptures or even items laying around, forcing him to stop and stare (and touch). Tony is surprisingly patient, manoeuvring through the doorways and halls, explaining who owns the rooms they won’t go into and what he’s allowed to touch and what rooms are out of bounds.
“Pretty much,” Tony starts, hovering outside of a closed door they haven’t explored yet. “If you’re not allowed inside, JARVIS will let you know.”
“Who’s Jarvis?” Peter’s already losing his hesitance, too enamoured with the new things to look at and figure out, that when a disembodied voice suddenly speaks out in a smooth but inhuman English drawl, the kid barely even flinches.
“Just A Really Very Intelligent System,” the voice tells him, and Peter stares up at the ceiling with wide eyes and a wider grin. “Good morning, Master Peter.”
“Jesus, JARVIS, don’t call him that, what the hell, I don’t remember installing the epitome of clichés in your programming-“ Tony stops mid-rant, listening as Peter starts giggling, still watching the ceiling as if he can see the voice. Tony’s words falter, spindling down until he’s clearing his throat, letting the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Nevermind, he likes it, just call him that or whatever.
“ANYWAY!” Tony starts so suddenly that Peter almost does jump, tearing his gaze from the ceiling and back at this pseudo-adult figure who’s been put in charge of him. “Saving the best for last here, kid. At least I like to think so, and if you have any taste you’ll agree with me.” This earns him a blank stare, and with a quick shake of his head he’s opening the door.
The room is huge, opening up to an expanse of wood panelling like a divot in an otherwise carpeted tier. Along the left edge of the visible lip are two large drawers, their impressed handles stark against the otherwise smooth wood. The right edge holds three shallow stairs, leading up to the rest of the room where a desk is bolted into the wall side-by-side a large white board. There is a low to the ground plastic table, deep blue with rounded edges and obviously not as cheap as Crayola, with two accompanying red chairs that stand out brightly against it. On the left of the divot is a few feet of carpeting and a wall covered with two sliding mirrors. Windows with Stark’s patented automatic tints look over the city, inset above a solid row of cabinets and shelves where a lip of carpet connects the two tiers together.
“Wow!” Peter exclaims, running inside and spinning in the spot. He runs his fingers along everything, inquisitive hands pressing on wood and carpet alike. Instead of using the stairs, he climbs onto a tier from the edge, then rolls, toddling to the plastic seats and sitting down on one, then the other. Tony is still grinning, watching this kid get excited. Despite the grandeur, the room is void of belongings, and Peter doesn’t seem to care.
“We’ll put your stuff in it, and get you more things of course.” He tells him, stepping onto the tier as well. Peter is grinning wildly, looking up at Tony with as much fascination as he had been giving the tower. “Oh, also,” Tony starts again, then looks down at the divot and says clearly, “JARVIS, the bed?” The drawer closest to the stairs suddenly starts to open, pushing out a large, already sheeted mattress, and if Peter’s squeal is anything to go by, Tony figures he did rather well.
“Yea, some German woman designed this whole thing for you. Nice girl. You. Well, you don’t actually care, but here you go. This is for you, and if you need anything just ask JARVIS or. Or me. Don’t know what you actually like or anything, but we can fix that an- what are you doing?” Tony has to stop, his rambling words falling on mostly deaf ears anyway. The kid had set down his toy near the plastic chair, moving over towards the cabinets before clambering on. Tony barely gets a chance to say “Wait!” before Peter is jumping, little body slamming into the mattress and bouncing once before settling onto it, laughing hysterically.
“Okay uhm. No. That cannot be good for the bed springs, how about you don’t do that unless someone can watch you, that is. Wow that is a bad idea, you’re a little bit crazy.” Tony is laughing though, his words are full of it, and he sits down on the edge as Peter wiggles, still grinning like a loon.
“I like bugs.” Tony blinks, takes a minute to process that, then stares down at Peter, who is still sort of rolling on his way-too-big-for-him bed. “And frogs. And superheroes and colouring and silly putty and pancakes-“
“I’m not letting you store pancakes in here, letting you know that right now.”
“-and Toy Story and bugs-“
“You said bugs already.”
“-and cartoons and juice and mac n’cheese and hot dogs and sketti and-“
“Okay now you’re just naming food.” Tony laughs, holding up his hand to cease the slew of words coming out of the young boy’s mouth and grins when he’s complied. “Let’s remember these things for now, and work on the others as we go. Also you’re not keeping food in here, seriously. You are three; there will be ants.”
Peter’s little energetic body seems to need a break. He stops his rolling and lays flat on his stomach, little hands outstretched in front of him like a lazy cat. He’s still watching Tony, staring up at him with a grin, and Tony wonders if he’s being sized up. It’s different, having a child look at him as if expecting answers; for starters, there is no judgement, only expectation and curiosity. For another, while Tony normally ignores these sorts of stares, he wonders if he can measure to whatever standards Peter is wanting from him. Tony swallows and has to look away, tamping down the fleeting panic at that thought.
“So hey, we’ve had the tour, you got an awesome room, I’ve discovered you really like food, which is good, you’ll get along with Steve and Thor there. Provided they’re not being creepy and loomy, would you like to actually meet the other Avengers now?”
So much for the lull in hyperactivity, because Peter gets up on the bed again and hops on it like a trampoline before jumping onto the floor, sneakers skidding as he catches himself. “Yes!” He practically yells, already heading towards the door. Tony just shakes his head, perpetually smiling as he goes to follow. This is going to be interesting as hell.