Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Smoke Signals

Spooktober 26: Bonfire

It's nearing twelve in the morning. The temp in the tower's seventeenth floor, remaining in the private living quarters, is a raging seventy-nine degrees Fahrenheit. This kind of heat makes him itchy— there's no reason for it to be that hot indoors, whether it be the middle of autumn or the early winter, it's too damn hot.

Seriously, if he wanted to be in a sauna, he would just go to one. Hell, if he wanted to be boiling in his skin, he'd just book a trip to the other side of the equator, bypass the sauna idea entirely. It's not like he doesn't have the money for a spontaneous vacation.

When he voices these very logical thoughts on temperature and whatnot, he's told this quality officially makes him an old man— and Pepper's feet are cold, yes even with socks on, Tony, so the heater stays cranked up. He sticks on his glasses and scrolls through his phone, and tries to keep the grumps to a minimum.

That isn't too difficult. Especially when Peter comes dawdling into the room, a pair borrowed pyjama pants clinging loosely to his ankles, his NASA shirt disproportionately baggy, and his face all scrunched up from the low lights like he's just woken up from a good nap.

"Kid," Tony greets simply, looking up from his screen. "Up for a midnight snack?"

There's a warmth in his chest, sticking to him like a second skin, seeing the teenager so at home. This had been one of his better ideas; the lab nights. Giving Peter a chance to take a break from his patrolling, something that Tony is learning he needs way more of, and— as May had described to him, over one terse-to-tactful phonecall: giving Peter someone who understands on some level the shit that goes down when aliens and petty thieves get involved in the world's problems.

Sometimes they end up stretching long into the early morning hours, but lately, because Tony's been getting good at this whole 'mentor' thing, he sends him to bed at around eleven. Sometimes earlier if he knows the kid's been dancing around sleep like a cat to a cucumber, which, he had been this week. As soon as Tony caught him yawning today, he wrapped up the session neatly and subtly— or at least he thought so.

To his question, Peter grunts.

His shoulders making a shapeless motion that vaguely resembles a shrug. He trudges into the living room and falls belly-first onto the couch, his face smushing into the cushions.

"Graceful as ever," Tony comments.

Peter grunts again.

"Couldn't find anything in the kitchen?" Tony tries. He wracks his brain back to the last grocery list he made, but he's almost positive that he got actually quite the extensive list of the kid's favourite snacks.

(Frozen pizzas, instant ramen, microwave popcorn, and when those aren't fast enough options, nearly every flavour of chips, yogurt cups, pudding, granola bars, blah blah blah known to the American man. His pantry could become the new poster child for the risks of red dye 40. It's fine though. He doesn't feed him everyday, and he's pretty sure Peter's immune system can take it. Probably.)

Tony brushes the thoughts off, watching with amusement as Peter doesn't even twitch from his spot on the couch. "I could make you something. We both know I'm banned from the oven and the stovetop, but I could manage the microwave. Or a delivery service."

Peter makes a low, grumbly sound into the couch.

Tony waits.