“Tony, I think we should call Dr. Strange,” Peter announced, breaking the early morning silence that hovered over the penthouse.
He’d taken to spending his nights with Tony since the news they received of his brain four days ago. Now that he’d had time to wallow in his misfortune, he was starting to wonder how he could get out of it.
Tony frowned. “Why? So he can brag about how his facial hair is so much better than mine? Again.”
“What? No.” A surprised laugh burst out of Peter. “I didn’t know you two competed over that, but honestly, I should have known. Anyway—I want him to look at my scans.”
Tony set down his coffee, turning all his attention to Peter now. “You think he can help?”
He would suck up all his pride and maybe even admit to Stephen that his facial hair wasn’t totally subpar if it meant he could fix this.
“Well, I know he used to work as a neurosurgeon,” Peter said slowly, sorting through his thoughts, “so he has some expertise. He could look at my scans. And Dr. Roberts said the growth isn’t happening at a natural speed. So, I figured maybe…”
“It’s magic,” Tony finished. The thought gave him an odd sense of hope. Magic didn’t seem so incurable. “It’s worth a try.”
Without hesitation, Tony whipped his phone out of his pocket, dialing Stephen’s number at a speed that raised Peter’s eyebrows.
“Have you ever dialed my number that quickly?” Peter asked, trying to alleviate the tension seeping into the air as the phone rang. He was trying his hardest not to hope that Stephen could be the answer to his problems. To potentially saving his life.
Tony scoffed. “It’s not usually life or death when I call you.”
“Wow,” Peter said, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “And here I thought you liked me.”
Tony fixed him with an annoyed look. “I more than like you. Which is why when I dial your number, I do it at a much quicker speed than that.”
“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Peter melted, dropping the act and winding his arms around Tony’s waist, only a little shy now.
One perk of having stayed with Tony for four nights in a row was that Peter was growing increasingly comfortable with him. He could be more affectionate than before. Maybe he’d even drop his own ‘sugarplum’ one of these days.
The call picked up and a long sigh preceded Stephen’s greeting, which consisted of a “What now, Stark? If you’re not calling about that sorcerer, I’m busy.”
“Actually, he might be relevant,” Tony mused, choosing to ignore the snark. “The cabinet…do you happen to have access to their scans?”
Stephen was silent for a minute. “Why would I give them to you if I did?”
“Peter has had scans done recently, and they’re showing an unnatural growth. Dr. Roberts says it shouldn’t be possible for it to have grown so fast.” Tony clenched the hand his phone was gripped in.
It wasn’t any easier to say that out loud, even several days after hearing it.
Stephen’s voice was somewhat softer now, sympathetic. “That’s awful, Tony. But it wouldn’t make sense for the sorcerer to be in New York and DC at the same time.”
“It wouldn’t have been at the same time,” Peter spoke up. “I’ve been off for a couple of weeks now. What’s happening to the cabinet started five days ago. He would’ve had plenty of time to get from New York to DC.”
Tony furrowed his eyebrows. “And back to New York again. I doubt he’s out of state. He can’t be too far if he’s plotting something.”
“Okay,” Stephen reluctantly murmured. “Send me Peter’s scans and I’ll compare them to what I have of the cabinet’s. I’m not sharing that with you.”
Tony scowled at his phone. “You know how easy it would be for me to hack you?”
“It’s okay,” Peter nudged him. “Thank you, Dr. Strange. I really appreciate this.”
Stephen hummed distractedly, as if already pulling up the cabinet’s scans on his end. “Just sit tight, kid.”
He hung up, and Tony tossed his phone onto the counter, fuming. “Witholding the scans? What right does he have? We’re talking about your life here!”
“Tony, we’re not exactly neuroscientists,” Peter pointed out gently. “We wouldn’t know what to make of those scans anyway. He’s already shared more sensitive information with us than he should have.”
“So what’s stopping him from sharing more?” Tony clenched his jaw.
Peter sighed, the exhaustion that’d been following him from the moment he heard his diagnosis flooding back in. “Let’s just hope we’re right about this.”
Tony released the tension in his face, a guilty shadow washing over it instead. He stepped closer to Peter and pulled him into a gentle embrace. Peter had never quite thought of Tony as gentle before. The Tony in front of him was a stark contrast to the Mr. Stark he’d known years ago.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so…” Tony trailed off. “You’re the one suffering here and I’m throwing tantrums.”
Peter laughed quietly, relaxing into his grip. “I think we’ve both earned a few tantrums. Actually, if the sorcerer is really behind all of this, then–”
“It’s his fault you kissed Osborn,” Tony spat, his voice growing rougher though his touch remained careful, as if Peter might fall apart any moment. “That bastard.”
Peter pulled back a little. “Not really how I was going to say that, but yeah, I guess everything that’s happened since I fell in the shower would’ve been his fault.”
“He’s a dead man walking,” Tony proclaimed, and Peter wasn’t fully sure if he was joking, but he shrugged and leaned back in.
If this was what kept them in more cheerful spirits, so be it.
“FRIDAY,” Tony called, though his words came out muffled with his lips pressed against Peter’s forehead. “Forward Peter’s scans to Strange. And give me an update on that sorcerer. Any new footage?”
Peter poked his ribs. “You could be a little more polite.”
“FRIDAY knows how I am,” Tony waved him off before redirecting his voice to FRIDAY. “Don’t you, baby girl?”
“Affirmative, Boss,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Snuggle Muffin’s scans have been sent. As of now, the sorcerer has not been spotted on CCTV, but I will be narrowing the search to the East Coast. Permission to proceed?"
“You got it,” Tony nodded, pride lifting the corners of his mouth.
Peter withdrew fully from their hug, looking scandalized. “Snuggle muffin?”
“What, you don’t like it? It’s cute!” Tony insisted.
“Tony, no,” Peter facepalmed. “FRIDAY, please don’t call me that. Can you change that?”
“How about ‘sugar lips’?” Tony suggested, pleased with himself for the idea.
Peter blanched, horror dawning on his face. “Tony!”
Imagining Starker talking all day via “the world’s tiniest bluetooth,” a la Jim and Pam on the Office. Pepper finally catching on as Tony’s talking to both her and Peter at once. Berating him about confidentiality while Tony, in his heart of hearts is like, there’s nothing I need to keep secret from this precious creature (plus I intend to marry his ass). Peter in his 200-person chemistry lecture subconsciously humming along with “Highway to Hell” as Tony works in the lab, not noticing the weird looks fellow students throw him. Etc.
Peter: okay, you were right; board meetings really *are* boring as hell.
Tony (chuckling dryly, trying to hide his disappointment that Peter will be signing off, cause he’s started to really enjoy the company): i’m always right.
Peter’s silent. Just when Tony thinks he’s gone, he hears: …what do you call a fish with a bow tie?
It started as a joke. Tony threw Peter a Spider-Man themed birthday and told everyone to bring Spider-Man merchandise as a present. But Peter genuinely loved everything, still amazed that he was cool enough to have merch. And then that turned into everyone in his life who didn’t know about his secret identity started giving him stuff. Next thing you know Peter makes a joke about cosplaying in a dumbed down version of his suit and Tony is already putting the designs in.
Peter thinks it’s all fun until he accidentally takes his mask off after patrol in front of someone and instead of assuming he’s the real Spider-Man they just ask “Whoah! You’re Peter Parker right? The cosplayer?”
Sometimes hiding in plain sight really is the best.
Peter looses his memory in an accident and afterwards everyone is very helpful
But he’s not stupid. He realizes he has feelings for Tony pretty early on, but he knows there’s a big age difference so his memory-self probably kept the feelings hidden. So Peter does too
It worries everyone, especially Tony, who thinks Peter doesn’t love him anymore now that he doesn’t have his memories
And then Peter asks who the person he tells everything to is and the consensus is that that’s Tony. But Peter can’t talk to Tony about this! So he asks for the second person
Which actually feels like someone stabbed Tony. Thank you very much.
And when Peter’s sitting together with Ned and MJ and he gets to know his apparently best friends he finally whispers his secret to them… and he’s met with guffawing laughter and an exclaimed „I sure hope you love him! Marrying him wouldn’t have made a lot of sense otherwise“
Oh how I love your prompts. You've inspired me again <3
also on ao3
The first thing Peter notices when he wakes up isn’t pain. It isn’t confusion, either, though both sit like dull weights in the corners of his mind. It’s warmth. A blanket tucked up to his chin, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air, the sound of someone breathing quietly beside him.
He blinks slowly, disoriented. The room is unfamiliar but soothing, all clean lines and soft tones, sun-filtered light casting long slants across a nearby armchair.
The man in the chair is asleep.
Peter doesn’t know him. Not really. But something about him feels… magnetic. Like the air bends a little around him. Like gravity itself is confused and keeps leaning toward that one person.
The man’s head is bowed, his jaw darkened by stubble, a pair of sleek glasses dangling from one hand. He looks exhausted in a way that isn't about sleep. It's something deeper. Worn down. Hollowed out.
Peter shifts, and the sheets rustle. The man jerks awake.
For a moment, their eyes meet—and it’s like the entire world tips.
Not because Peter remembers him. He doesn’t. But because of the way this stranger looks at him.
Like Peter is the moon and he’s been stranded in orbit too long.
“Hey,” the man says, voice hoarse and unsteady. “You’re awake.”
Peter nods, slowly.
“Do you… do you know where you are?”
“No,” Peter whispers. “Do I know you?”
The man smiles. It's a poor disguise for heartbreak. “Yeah, kid. You do. You did.”
There’s a beat.
“I’m Tony.”
-
Tony doesn’t leave the hospital.
Pepper brings him clean clothes. Happy brings food he forgets to eat. Rhodey brings sympathy he doesn’t know what to do with. But none of it touches the ache.
Peter is awake. He’s alive. And he doesn’t remember a damn thing.
The doctors say it could come back. They’re optimistic, tossing around hopeful percentages like confetti. Young brain, high resilience, good odds.
Tony doesn’t care about odds. He’s a man of absolutes. And the absolute truth is: Peter looked at him like a stranger.
A kind stranger, sure. But still.
He lets Peter call him Tony, even though it rips something open every time. Lets him say thank you too formally. Lets him sit on the opposite end of the room like he doesn’t know they used to fall asleep tangled together on the couch, limbs a confused knot of comfort and trust.
Tony doesn’t push.
He can’t.
Because this is his punishment, isn’t it? For every bad choice. Every time he put the suit before Peter. Every time he failed to say I love you out loud because he thought he’d always have more time.
Now Peter doesn’t remember any of it. Not their late nights in the lab. Not the quiet mornings making pancakes. Not the rooftop in Venice where Peter, eyes shining, asked if they could maybe, possibly—try forever.
Not their wedding.
Tony still wears his ring. Keeps Peter’s in a velvet box in the top drawer of the nightstand Peter doesn’t sleep beside anymore.
-
Everyone is kind.
Aunt May smiles through tears and holds him too tightly, like she’s afraid he’ll vanish. MJ and Ned crack jokes like they’ve been waiting for him to come back all along. Pepper visits often. Rhodey too. Even Happy, who seems less like a bodyguard and more like a weird uncle with emotional constipation.
But it’s Tony who unsettles him the most.
He’s always there, and yet never in the way. He brings Peter food but never hovers. He offers rides but never pressures. He answers questions with just enough detail, never trying to manipulate or steer.
He lets Peter forget.
And Peter hates it.
Because the more time passes, the more certain Peter becomes of one quiet, painful truth: he is in love with Tony Stark.
It isn’t dramatic. There’s no single moment of epiphany. It’s a slow accumulation of small things—the way Tony says his name, careful and soft. The way his voice changes when he thinks Peter isn’t listening. The rare, radiant smiles when Peter laughs at one of his dry jokes.
Peter knows this feeling.
Knows it instinctively. Because whatever the past version of him remembered, this version is still his.
Still Tony’s.
But he also knows it’s wrong. He’s young. Tony is—was?—his mentor. There must have been boundaries. There must have been reasons he didn’t say anything. That other Peter probably understood how complicated it was.
So he says nothing.
He hides it. Buries it beneath polite smiles and grateful silences.
He watches Tony fade, piece by piece.
-
The worst part isn’t the forgetting.
It’s the distance.
Peter sits close enough to touch and still feels miles away. Tony sees glimpses sometimes—flashes of the old Peter in a laugh, a certain tilt of his head, the way his eyes light up when he discovers something new.
But it never lasts.
Peter avoids him now. Not coldly. Not cruelly. Just… carefully. Like someone trying not to trip a landmine. He thanks Tony for every little thing. Doesn’t call him babe, or love, or you absolute disaster of a man, like he used to.
He doesn’t call at all.
And Tony tries to be understanding. He really does. This isn’t Peter’s fault. The accident was cruel and random and unforgiving.
But late at night, in the silence of the penthouse they used to share, Tony leans against the kitchen counter and finally lets himself feel it.
The grief.
Because Peter isn’t just forgetting moments.
He’s forgetting them.
-
The question slips out before he can stop it.
They’re all sitting together in the tower one night—Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, even Bruce for a moment before he mumbled something about quantum fields and fled.
Peter asks, casually, “Before the accident… when something happened—something good or bad—who did I talk to first?”
They hesitate. Rhodey glances at Pepper. Happy shifts uncomfortably.
Pepper says, carefully, “Tony.”
Peter nods. “Right. But who was the second person?”
Silence.
Tony steps into the room just in time, holding a cup of tea he’ll never drink. His eyes flicker to Peter, then to the others.
No one answers.
The tea is placed gently on the table. Tony walks out without a word.
Peter feels like he’s just broken something delicate. Irreparable.
-
Grief, Tony has learned, isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it doesn’t scream. It doesn’t sob, or shatter glass, or crumble beneath the weight of its own fury. Sometimes it’s quiet. Whisper-soft. A gentle erosion that wears away the pieces of you that used to be whole.
Tony’s grief has Peter’s face.
Not the face from the wedding, glowing with nerves and joy under fairy lights strung up across the terrace of their French hideaway. Not the one from quiet breakfasts in sweats, barefoot and messy-haired, grinning over burnt toast.
It’s this version. The one that looks at him like a kind stranger. The one that laughs politely at his jokes but doesn’t lean in. The one who still flinches a little when Tony reaches to hand him a mug.
He used to touch me without thinking, Tony remembers. He used to cling like I was oxygen.
Now Peter seems scared of breathing too deeply around him.
Tony doesn’t blame him.
He knows how this must look. A man twice his age, hovering at the edges, carrying far too many feelings and far too few answers. If their roles were reversed, Peter would have been gone by now. Would’ve taken the clean break. Would’ve spared himself the ghost of what they were.
But Tony stays.
Not because he’s noble. But because he doesn’t know how to leave. Because even now, even like this, Peter is home. Even when he doesn’t remember the life they built.
The wedding rings are still in the drawer.
Tony opens it sometimes when he can’t sleep. Just to look. The smaller band—Peter’s— is warm from where he’s held it too long, too often. A subtle scratch mars the edge where Peter once caught it in a fight with a scrap of jagged rebar. Tony remembers kissing that scrape on his hand later, murmuring something soft and stupid that made Peter smile into his neck.
He remembers everything.
And Peter remembers nothing.
-
The word married keeps bouncing around Peter’s head like a marble in an empty room.
He hasn’t asked. Not directly. He’s too scared to.
But MJ and Ned's laughter—the way they said it, casually, without hesitation—made something crack open in his chest.
He tries to find proof. Starts looking at Tony differently, from behind doorways or across the room. Noticing little things.
Like how Tony still wears a ring.
How his phone wallpaper is Peter, asleep in the sun, mouth slightly open and drooling onto a textbook. How every cabinet in the penthouse is too short for Tony and just right for Peter. How there’s an extra toothbrush in the holder in Peter’s favorite color.
There’s no toothbrush in his hospital bag.
It hits him one night in the middle of brushing his teeth—the exact kind of useless revelation that sneaks up when your mind is doing something mundane.
I’ve never had a place that felt like mine. But this did. This feels like mine.
And that means Tony does.
Which is terrifying.
Because if they were married—if they are married—that means Tony hasn’t just been watching Peter from a distance, aching.
He’s been waiting.
Peter’s been breaking his heart without even knowing it.
-
Tony keeps a photo in his wallet.
He doesn’t take it out often. But tonight, sitting alone at the bar while Peter sleeps down the hall—or pretends to—he unfolds the worn creases and stares.
It’s from a beach in Nice. Peter’s wearing sunglasses too big for his face, hair windblown, laughing mid-sentence. Tony had said something—probably about sand being the natural enemy of billionaires—and Peter had turned just in time for Pepper to catch it with her phone.
It’s blurry. It’s perfect.
They were stupidly, recklessly happy that day.
And now?
Now Tony barely breathes when Peter enters a room. He’s afraid to hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope has teeth. Hope looks like his husband asking who his second-most trusted person is.
Tony had gone into the hallway and cried silently against the wall, just once, just long enough.
Then he came back in with a fresh cup of tea and a smile.
Because that’s what Peter needs from him now—not a husband. Just a support system. A safe place.
A second chance, if Peter wants one.
Or a graceful exit, if he doesn’t.
Tony would give him that. Even if it kills him.
-
He dreams, sometimes.
Little flickers. Shadows that don’t quite make sense.
A hand in his hair. Laughter. Rain hitting glass. Someone whispering “You’re safe now, I’ve got you.”
They don’t feel like new dreams. They feel old.
One morning, he wakes up with the ghost of a voice in his head—his own voice, saying something out loud.
“I’ve never been afraid of falling. Not if it’s into you.”
He doesn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not until he knows what to do with it.
But it lives in his chest all day, thrumming.
That night, he lingers outside Tony’s office door, hearing the low murmur of his voice on a call. Peter imagines opening the door. Walking in. Sitting beside him, like he used to—if he used to—and asking to hear the story of their life.
He doesn't.
Instead, he turns away. He doesn’t see the way Tony’s eyes lift toward the door a second later, hope flickering and fading in the same breath.
-
Peter doesn’t sleep much anymore.
He goes through the motions—lies down, closes his eyes, pretends to breathe slowly—but it never sticks. His mind is too loud. Always humming, replaying fragments he’s not sure are real.
Memories that might be echoes. Or dreams. Or maybe just the parts of him that didn’t forget.
Like the way Tony’s voice always goes soft when he says his name.
Or the way their silences used to be full of something, not hollow.
Tonight, Peter is curled on the couch in the common room. The tower is asleep, but the city outside pulses with restless light. He stares out the window, watching the world shimmer, and wonders what version of himself is out there, trapped in a memory he can’t reach.
He holds a mug in his hands. Lukewarm now. Forgotten.
And then he hears it—footsteps. Soft. Familiar.
He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Tony.
Tony always walks like the ground is a thing he’s learned to be gentle with. Like he knows it could give way if he’s not careful.
Peter doesn’t move.
Tony doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits down in the chair across from him with a quiet sigh, the kind that sounds like it carries a whole galaxy of weariness.
Peter speaks before he can lose the nerve.
“Was it good?”
Tony looks up. His eyes are shadowed. Guarded. “Was what good?”
Peter doesn’t look away. “Us.”
There’s a long silence.
Tony leans back slowly, folding his hands in his lap. “It was everything.”
Peter’s throat tightens.
“I don’t remember,” he says softly. “Not all of it. Just pieces. But… I keep feeling things. Like echoes. Muscle memory, but for my heart.”
Tony doesn’t speak. He barely breathes.
Peter forces the words out. “I thought it was just… leftover emotion. Like static. But it’s not. It’s me. It’s who I am. It’s still who I am.”
And now, finally, Tony moves. Not much—just a small shift forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers loosely knit. “What do you feel?”
Peter swallows. The words taste too big in his mouth.
“Warmth,” he whispers. “Like I’m always supposed to be next to you. Like I’m better when I am. Like the world makes more sense when you’re in the room.”
Tony blinks hard.
Peter looks down at the mug in his hands. “I’ve been scared. That if I said something… you’d think I was clinging to something I didn’t earn. That I’d be trying to pick up someone else’s love story and pretend it was mine.”
He finally lifts his gaze.
“But I don’t want to pretend. I want to choose it. Again.”
Tony doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t rush toward him. Doesn’t smile. He just sits there, his face unreadable, eyes wide and shining in the half-light.
And then he asks—quiet, broken—“Even if you don’t remember the wedding?”
Peter breathes in like he’s about to jump off a cliff. “Will you tell me about it?”
Tony’s hand clenches slowly into a fist. Then, just as slowly, releases. “I can do better. I can show you.”
-
He doesn’t know how he walks to the bedroom without falling apart.
His hands shake as he opens the drawer. As he lifts the box.
It’s blue velvet. Peter chose it. “Stark blue,” he’d said, proud of the pun, grinning like an idiot.
Tony used to tease him that the real color of their love was black, for all the near-death experiences.
But this blue always wins.
He brings it back out and sets it gently in Peter’s hands. Doesn’t open it. Lets him do it.
Peter flips the lid.
Two rings. One plain. One a little scuffed, like it’s lived through things. Like it’s loved through things.
Peter stares at them for a long time.
Then he picks up the thinner band—his—and turns it over in his palm. “I wore this?”
“Every day,” Tony says quietly. “Except when you had to punch people. Then I kept it in the lab.”
Peter’s lips twitch. “Figures.”
Tony clears his throat. His voice is rough. “You proposed, you know. On a rooftop in Venice. You were nervous as hell. I was trying to fix a drone with a broken actuator and you blurted it out like you were asking if I wanted fries.”
Peter’s eyes dart up. “What did I say?”
Tony smiles. “You said, ‘You make me feel like I’m already home. Can we build the rest of it together?’”
Peter’s breath catches. “That sounds like me.”
“It was you.”
A long silence stretches between them, full and sharp and brimming.
And then, very softly, Peter asks, “Can I wear it again?”
Tony can’t speak. He just nods.
Peter slides the ring onto his finger.
It fits like it never left.
-
It doesn’t feel like claiming someone else’s life.
It feels like coming home.
Tony still hasn’t touched him. Still hasn’t dared. And so Peter closes the space between them, slowly, carefully, until their knees bump and their foreheads nearly meet.
“You said I used to tell you everything,” he murmurs.
Tony’s breath hitches. “Yeah.”
Peter touches his ring, still getting used to the weight. “Then here’s the truth. I’m still in love with you.”
Tony shatters without a sound.
He doesn’t cry. Not really. Just lets the wall fall. The wall he’s held between them since that first painful, polite do I know you?
He wraps his arms around Peter like he’s afraid he’ll vanish.
Peter holds him tighter.
And in that silence—deep and complete—Tony breathes for the first time in weeks.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!! ❤️ I always want to do good by your prompts (honestly I get a little nervous about you seeing the end results). Your prompts are just so good!!
Peter has all these powers that make him extremely capable and difficult to harm in any way, but he still never feels completely safe unless he’s in Tony’s arms. Tony, not even with his suit on. Just human non-powered Tony. Because Tony’s his safe place ❤️🥺
Ok so idk if I’ll ever actually finish this fic but I love this section so, here.
Context: Tony suggests Peter use his Hamptons house for a (grad school) graduation party. Peter insists he has to come too. They finally hook up.
The MIT tee shirt Peter found somewhere in the deepest darkest depths of Tony’s drawers is positively ancient.
He does this all the time, wears Tony’s clothes.
It started out of convenience and necessity.
Something- motor oil, lunch, web fluid, would get on Peter. And Tony, as a veteran engineer, had a decent stockpile of emergency clothes in the lab.
And then came the Peter-sleeping-in-the-tower nights, and then, apparently, a pure stylistic preference that Peter comfortably stole clothes right out from under Tony’s nose.
He called it ‘oversized’ and ‘vintage’ on various past occasions when he’s worn them. (apparently he’s very fond of Tony’s MIT shirts. Like his new MIT shirts aren’t good enough or something).
On one extremely unlucky occasion, when Rhodey casually let himself in to the penthouse on a Sunday morning, Peter made the (unfortunate for Tony) decision to call it ‘so cute’ and ‘retro’ to Rhodes face and Tonys still hasn’t heard the end of that one. Thinking about it too long almost makes Tony’s head spin. The look in Rhodes’s eyes, seeing something Tony liked to pretend wasn’t there, was dangerous.
Now though, now there’s no hiding from it.
Peter’s zipping a pair of- god fucking damn it- Tony’s old, skinny, party boy jeans- still hanging a little loose on his hips, a consequence of Tony’s slightly broader build. It leaves a slim sliver of torso visible and it’s dangerous. Those jeans are probably from before he kid was even born- when Tony focuses again.
“Oh, hey. You’re up. Good morning.” he smiles, coming over to the bed to lean over and kiss him- morning breath and all.
Jesus fuck, the button isn’t even done.
“Hey. Where you off to? Hit it and quit it?”
“Of corse not” Peter laughs like it’s so outrageous he can’t even consider it a possibility.
“I was gonna go grab coffee and something to nosh on. There was a cute coffee shop we passed on the drive yesterday, I looked it up they had good ratings. I figured I’d be safe to get you a large drip, you’re not picky. Some like, chocolate croissants or something, or maybe like, a big platter for everyone’s hangovers before we make an actual breakfast. I figured you wouldn’t care if I took the hummer- you don’t, right? I kinda wanted to surprise you with coffee but now you know so...”
“can you talk to me like this for the rest of my life?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. This whole, like, bossy housewife thing you have going on is really doing it for me. Fuck the hummer baby I’ll get you a Range Rover. G wagon. Whatever Pilates-doing-Erewhon-shopping-alo- matching-set-wearing-country-club-ass vehicle you want. Take the hummer, baby, fuck it talk half of everything in the divorce”
“You’re insane, Tony.” Peter laughed in a way that was almost reminiscent of young Pepper.
Tonys blinked some sleep out of his eyes, sitting up a little in bed, taking Peter all the way in.
He was beautiful.
And he looked so right here.
“Seriously. I can wake up to this forever.”
“Tony, oh my god I never took you as being so clingy” Peter grinned.
