The Trials And Tribulations Of Words And Notes

Sticks And Stones

NEW 2020 EDIT: THIS IS NOT STARKER.

It's around 3 o'clock in the morning when someone opens the door to Tony's room.

The wood creaks at the intrusion, startling the billionaire from his blueprints on his Stark Pad and he is sitting fully up in around a second, one now gloved and glowing hand held up as a snarl of warning curls his lips.

Peter's face, tears trailing down from his beautiful doe eyes and his small body trembling, is what stops Tony in his tracks.

"Peter?" The man chokes out, immediately extinguishing the gauntlet and lets the room fizzle into semi-darkness once more. "Bud, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

By the muted light of the Arc Reactor, the genius can see his son shake his head, his messy curls swinging side to side and his thin arms wrapping around his middle, the sleeves of Tony's extra large MIT sweatshirt curling around the boy and making him seem so much smaller than normal.

His eyes are suddenly squeezed shut, painfully tight, the force creating wrinkles around his brows. Tony longs to smooth out the taunt skin, to take away all the pain his son feels, and to make him better again.

"Then what's wrong, kiddie?" Tony repeats when Peter doesn't respond, watching with his heart breaking as his kid tucks his chin against his chest, shuffling from foot to foot as though contemplating running out of the room.

Setting his tablet aside, the elder Stark scoots over to the edge of the bed. Peter's eyes snap open and follow his movements, his dark pupils reflecting the pale blue glow around him. Reaching out a hand, Tony sets it gently on the boy's shivering shoulder, moving it to cup his neck when Peter pulls away slightly at the touch. Clearing his throat, the man gently runs his fingers through the short strands of hair that his fingers can reach.

"Come here, Pete."

"N-no!" Peter suddenly spits out, his voice full of self loathing and quivering with agonized inaccuracies.

"Wha—" Tony starts to say, but his son cuts him off, ripping his body out of his father's hold and staggering a few steps back.

"I'm-I'm sorry!" The teen sobs suddenly, like a dam breaking, his middle hunching up, his arms holding his stomach as though he was caging his entrails, his too long sleeves trailing around his bunched up hands. "I-I—"

Jumping up, Tony ignores the chill that travels up his spine as his covers slide off his legs, reaching out his arms and engulfing his kid in a bone-crushing hug as the boy's legs buckle from under him. Sweeping Peter up, Tony immediately gets back into bed,  resting the now crying teenager between his spread out legs and practically forcing his son's wet and hot face into the crook of his neck.

"Shh, kid, shh." He whispers, rocking both of them back and forth slowly. "It's okay, buddy, it's okay, I'm right here."

"'M sorry!" Peter keeps mumbling through his tears, his whole body jerking in Tony's hold. "'M sorry Daddy, so sorry!"

Tony just continues to rock them, making soothing sounds every couple of second as he runs his fingers through his child's soft locks, rubbing the expanse of his scalp again and again. Peter just gasps, clutching his father tighter and nuzzling even further against the man as he mumbles apologies.

Tony is at a loss.

Everything was fine at dinner. The man thinks, his fingers catching on a small knot and he tugs it loose, smoothing down the hair that sticks up afterwards. I mean, sure Peter was quiet, but that doesn't mean anything, right? He did leave some extra food on his plate when he was done. . . and he didn't even ask for ice cream. . .