You asked for questions, so: What is the first thing DJ cooked all on his own? ( Possible follow-up: what was the first think he cooked on his own that was edible?)
Tony pried open one eyelid, squinting across the bed. “Every day is dad day, I get all the days,” he said, as a plate was plopped on the sheets next to his pillow. “This day is no different, and what is this new, fresh hell?”
DJ blinked at him, his dark eyes peering over the edge of the bed. “Dad day,” he repeated, holding up a fork in one tiny fist.
Tony reached for it. “Yes, yes, we’ve been through this, what-” He rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow. The plate contained a single, crispy-brown waffle. That looked very much like Steve’s shield. “Did you make me a waffle, bratbot?”
“Waffles,” DJ said, emphasizing the s with a great deal of enthusiasm. He hopped up and down, his grin bright and wide. “Waffles for ALL.”
“Excellent,” Tony agreed. He moved the plate out of the way and reached for DJ. “That is excellent. Jay, help me out here, what’s the over under on getting a mouthful of eggshell here? Raw flour?”
“The mix required only water and oil, and was mixed, with a great deal of gusto, in the blender,” Jarvis said. He sounded resigned.
Tony paused in the act of settling DJ in his lap. “So. The kitchen?”
“Requires a hazmat team,” Jarvis said. In Tony’s lap, DJ giggled, reaching for the plate.
Tony got there first. “Great. Thank you. That’s going to be a problem for after breakfast, or preferably someone other than me, that would be excellent.” He pressed a kiss to DJ’s hair. “Thank you. That was very nice. That was a gesture.”
“Dad day,” DJ said firmly. He pulled an edge from the shield, his fingertips soaked in syrup.
“Okay, first of all, Dad Day is in June, it is not June, it is January, which is the opposite of June, and if you get syrup on my sheets-” That was as far as he got before DJ wiped his sticky fingers on the sheets, and Tony gave up. He dug the fork into the waffle, fending DJ off with his other hand. “And where did we get a Cap Waffle Iron?”
“Phil,” DJ proclaimed. He leaned back, his mouth open like a baby bird, and Tony obligingly fed him a chunk of waffle.
“Phil has a Captain America Waffle Iron,” Tony said, and DJ nodded. “Why am I not surprised?” Shaking his head, he cut into the waffle, stealing a bite for himself. It was soggy with syrup and maybe a little undercooked in the middle, but he smiled down at DJ anyway. “Thank you.”
“Yes, waffle, and after waffle, we’re going to go see if I need to sell this building and buy another rather than attempting to clean up after you,” Tony said. DJ considered that, his mouth pursed. He held up two fingers. Tony nodded. “Fine. Two waffles, and then we flee from your disastrous mess.”