Steve had been watching his husband pacing a hole into the floor for the past four hours by the time Peter finally stumbled home - obviously drunk off his ass - at about three o'clock in the morning.
"Peter!" they both yelled simultaneously, moving across the room to the drunk boy.
"Aw man, you... you guys waited? I tol' you not to - to wait up," he slurred with an exaggerated groan, and Steve inwardly sighed.
"Peter Stark-Rogers, are you drunk?" Tony hissed, and the kind of anger in his voice was usually unprecedented when it came to talking to Peter.
"Nah," the boy replied, but the shit-eating grin on his face said otherwise. "Jus' had a couple o' beers. No biggie."
"No... no biggie," Tony spluttered, and Steve had to reach out to grasp him on the shoulder.
He knew, of course, that Tony would never lay a hand on their boy - he was all too aware, from first hand experience, the damage a parent could do to a child with abuse - but he knew that physically touching the man was a good way of grounding him when he got so angry he could barely see straight.
"You are seventeen years old, Peter! Where did you even get alcohol from? Your friends look like twelve year olds! Jesus fucking -" Tony took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't even look at you right now. I have to - I'm -"
And, with that, he turned tail and strode towards the door - physically shaking with repressed anger.
"Tony!" Steve called after him wearily, but the other man completely ignored him and disappeared from sight.
"He's mad," Peter commented intelligently.
With a sigh, Steve turned back to his son. He looked terrible - well past the rosy cheeked stage, and now just washed out from the alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, and he swayed dangerously on the spot. This, tied together with his normally curly - but still somewhat manageable - hair sticking up every which way gave the impression that he was a mental patient.
"Yeah, Pete, he's mad," he agreed. "I'm mad, too."
Peter pouted, eyebrows scrunching together in, what looked like, a mixture of sadness and confusion.
"Was jus' a couple o' beers," he mumbled.
"You think that now, but just wait until tomorrow," Steve smiled half-halfheartedly, before steering the boy towards his room. "Now, come on, let's get you into bed. I'll bring you some Advil and water for the morning, okay?"
"'Kay, Pops," Peter acquiesced with a yawn.
After trying (and failing) to get into Tony's workshop - where the genius had locked himself - Steve spent the remaining few hours until breakfast sketching.
When eight o'clock rolled around, he got up and went for his morning jog, and surprisingly, by the time he got back an hour later, Peter was already in the kitchen, head against the table top and cup of coffee close by.
"I didn't think you'd be up yet," he told the boy, not missing the way he flinched at the noise, as he rummaged around in the fridge for some juice.
"Had to puke," Peter told the table in reply. "Couldn't get back to sleep afterwards."
Steve sighed. "Did you take the Advil I left out for you?"
This time, Peter just whined his agreement.
Steve nodded, even though he knew the boy couldn't see it.
"Is Dad still mad at me?" Peter asked softly, long after Steve had begun making breakfast.
With another sigh, he put down the spatula in his hand, turned the heat off the stove, and went to sit opposite his son - who, now, at least, could hold his own head up.
"I really wouldn't know," Steve shrugged, "seeing how he's locked himself in his workshop and refuses to open the door."
Peter's face crumpled, and it was all Steve could do not to sweep him up into a hug. But the boy had been bad, and he had to face up to the consequences.
"Are you mad, too?" he asked.
"Furious," Steve confirmed with a nod, "and you're grounded for the rest of your life, of course, but I think I can understand why the hell you would do something so stupid better than your dad."
He doubted Peter could curl himself any further in on himself.
"He's not angry at you, Peter," Steve told him, sighing heavily, and the boy's head shot up in confusion. "He's angry with himself."
Peter frowned. "Why would he be mad at himself?"
"He thinks..." Steve paused, pondering how best to continue. "He blames himself for you getting drunk, because he thinks you got it from him."
He must have shocked Peter speechless with that, because he didn't say anything for a very long time - rather, just gawped like a guppy with his mouth hanging open.
"B-but he doesn't even -" he stuttered, finally, obviously flustered, "- I mean, he stopped, a-and I... I guess I didn't even think about that."
"No, I guess you didn't," Steve agreed, lips tight. "And I think you need to go and reassure him that it isn't true."
"O-of course it isn't true!" Peter cried, tears of shame and humiliation brimming in his bloodshot eyes. "I never meant to -"
"Ssh, Pete, I know you didn't." Despite his better judgement, Steve reached across the table and ran his finger's through his son's hair. "But your dad isn't always as tough as he looks, okay? He worries constantly that he might be turning out like his own father, and seeing you in that state, he... well. It must have set him off."
Staring miserably down at the table top, Peter scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.
"He's not like his dad. It was my fault, not his," he whispered wretchedly. "And I'm never going to do it again."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Pete," Steve told him good-naturedly, having decided the poor boy had suffered enough this time. "Just... maybe hold off getting so drunk again until you're old enough, okay?"
"Okay," he agreed with a small nod of his head. "I should probably go talk to him now, huh?"
"That would be a good idea, yes," Steve nodded, getting back up to continue with breakfast whilst Peter staggered to the door. "Oh, and Pete?"
"Yeah, Pops?" he asked resignedly, turning on the spot.
"If I find even a spot of vomit in your room later, not even death will save you, do you understand?"
Peter smiled tiredly. "Yeah, Pops, I understand."
