The Kid: hey Mr. Stark, you busy?
My Hero: never too busy for you kid
My Hero: don’t you have plans with May? It’s Christmas Eve
The Kid: she has to work. Double shifts.
My Hero: I’m in the shop. Come on over.
The Kid: thx. See you soon.
Tony barely glances up when the shop doors open, ushering forward the young man that had been on his mind since he had texted this morning.
“Hey kid,” he murmurs around the wrench clenched between his teeth, “c’mere,” he orders, taking the wrench out to point at the engine he has lifted on the crane.
Peter hurries over and lifts the engine easily, turning it as Tony guides him, sliding on his mechanics creeper to access the new angle he hadn’t been able to before.
With a few twists of the wrench he removes the broken part and tosses it aside before sliding away and nodding to Peter. The younger man lowers the engine carefully and offers Tony a much needed hand to help him up.
His back and knees creak and he groans, wincing.
“How long have you been down here?” Peter asks softly, shooting him a concerned look.
“Boss has been in the shop for 34 and half hours.”
Tony scowls at the ceiling—FRIDAY is as big of a traitor as JARVIS had been. “Baby girl, you’ve got too much of your big brother in you,” he comments mildly, avoiding Peter’s look of disapproval.
Wiping his hands off on a rag he smiles softly at Peter, “So what’s up? Thought you’d be with May celebrating the season.”
Peter shakes his head and toys with the tools on the table between them, “We don’t celebrate,” he mutters, shoulders hunching under Tony’s scrutiny.
Tony recognizes the discomfort in Peter’s frame, the desire to not be seen, but it also gives him cause for concern for his young protege and friend.
“Well, I could use something to eat, how bout we get out of here and grab a bite somewhere?”
Peter looks up and grins at him, “It’s Christmas Eve nothing is open.”
Tony laughs and winks, “It is for me.”
Turns out, Tony’s not wrong. Peter watches as Tony orders in fluent Mandarin from a restaurant he promises is authentic Chinese, teeth straight and white when he smiles at Peter before disappearing to his suite to shower.
Peter looks around at the penthouse in all its modern glory, undecorated for the season and empty in a way that makes Peter shiver. At home they have a strand of lights up and a small tabletop tree, but here it’s blank, empty, and sad.
He peers out the tower window and watches it snow. The glass is cold when he presses his palm against it, looking in the direction of the hospital and wondering if May is swamped in patients or enjoying a quiet moment with her colleagues.
The soft padding of footfalls alerts him to the return of Tony, breath catching in his throat when he turns and finds the older man walking toward him barefoot and in soft looking sweatpants and a T-shirt that clings to the still damp skin of his torso.
Tony grins and rubs the towel vigorously over his head, “Much better,” he comments, “now, what should we do?” he asks, “It’s Christmas Eve, so you want to do Christmasy shit?”
Peter swallows hard and rubs a hand over his neck, “I uh, was hoping we could just...not?” he suggests questioningly, a hesitant hand around his heart.
“It’s not—” his breath catches and he looks away, feels Tony’s gaze still on him. “It’s not a good time of year. Ben, he, he—”
A hand lands on his arm and looks up, surprised to find Tony so close. The older man smiles softly, “This isn’t my favorite time of the year either. How about we watch those shitty Hallmark movies and make fun of them while we eat?” he suggests.
“We can have a few drinks too if you’d like,” Tony offers, surprising Peter. Tony laughs at his look and throws his arm around Peter’s shoulders, “C’mon kid, let’s go learn about the spirit of Christmas.”
Peter ducks his chin to hide his grin, pleasure blooming in his heart as Tony guides him along to the entertainment room.
He knew he could count on Tony.
They’re two Hallmark movies in and about a half a bottle of whiskey down when Tony makes fun of the cookie baking on the screen and boasts that he could totally do better.
Which is how they wind up covered in flour, coughing and hacking as black smoke billows out of the oven thirty minutes later while a fire suppression bot battles the oven.
Peter glances over at Tony and can’t help the laugh that bursts out when he sees the soot on his face and the way his hair stands up in every direction.
Tony smirks and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “Okay so maybe it’s a little harder than it looks,” he admits sheepishly, laughing when Peter does and then he’s stepping closer, reaching out to touch Peter’s face with a look of concern in his eyes.
“Are you ok? How do your lungs feel?”
Peter flushes and inhales unevenly, “I’m fine, my healing will take care of it soon.” Brow furrowing, he reaches out in turn to where Tony’s face is soot streaked, fingers trembling as they skate over the surface of his skin.
“Are you ok?” he asks quietly, heart beating unevenly as Tony stares back at him, dark eyes wide and warm.
It occurs to him that he’s still touching Tony, heedless of the mess; smoke in the air and burnt cookies on the floor but all he senses is Tony’s skin under his touch.
He hears it when Tony swallows, a heavy, thick sound that makes his pulse thrum. Unbidden, his fingers trail down Tony’s throat, brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt before his palm flattens out against Tony’s chest.
He feels the heartbeat there thrumming, steady and strong and true. “How’s your heart?” he whispers.
Tony’s lips part around a soft exhalation and Peter can smell the warmth of the whiskey on his breath, tantalizing and inviting.
“It’s...It’s good,” he stammers softly, hand moving up to cover the one resting on his chest. He squeezes it and smiles, lips quivering, “Why don’t we wash up and then try something else?”
Peter nods, heart clenching when Tony steps back, their hands sliding apart slowly, so he feels each callous and shivers, aching as the older man walks away.
They leave cookies well enough alone and instead finish the bottle of whiskey before going out to Rockefeller Center in disguise (baseball caps and sunglasses) to go ice skating. Neither of them are very good at it and they both end up on their ass more often than not, but it lifts Peter’s spirits to see Tony laughing so freely.
The lines around his eyes and the grey in his hair fade into the background when Tony’s eternally youthful spirit is set free, and the grin on his face makes Peter’s heart ache for what he can never have.
By the time they head back to the Tower he’s sore and sweaty and hungry and most of the alcohol has burned out of his system. They eat more leftover Chinese and turn on Die Hard and about halfway through he makes the mistake of falling asleep.
He’s groggy and warm when he rouses, the lights in the theater room dimmed so low a normal human wouldn’t be able to see, but Peter can see just fine.
He can see that he’s laying on top of Tony, can feel the arm that’s slung round his hips and the warmth of Tony’s breath on his skin and when he leans up he can see that Tony’s sound asleep, face relaxed and happy looking.
Gently, oh so gently, he traces the arch of Tony’s nose and brushes over the curve of his lips, dancing up to skim over his cheekbones, heart thrumming the whole time.
When those beautiful brown eyes open he inhales unevenly, fingers still lingering on Tony’s skin. The older man stares at him but doesn’t move, except to tighten the arm he has around Peter’s waist.
“Sorry,” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he breathes.
Tony smiles faintly, “It’s ok,” he murmurs, “I don’t mind.”
In the distance Peter can hear the bells of the churches in the city ringing, heralding in Christmas Day.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispers, words sticking in his throat as Tony shifts slightly under him and he can feel the heat of Tony’s body pressing into his own.
Tony’s free hand comes up to push the curls off his brow, gaze intense and focused in a way Peter hasn’t been party to before. It leaves him breathless and aching and he struggles to move because this is too much—he wants too much and he knows he can’t have it.
“Hang on,” Tony whispers, drawing his movements to a halt. He glances back down to the older man and gives him a questioning look and the hand in his hair shifts to his jaw and Tony’s thumb passes over his lower lip and he can’t—he can’t breathe.
“I still have to give you your gift,” Tony murmurs, and then he’s leaning up and Peter’s lashes flutter and the last thing he sees before they close is Tony’s gaze, steady and true on his face.
Tony’s lips are warm and soft, a hint of chocolate and whiskey on his tongue and Peter can’t help the whimpering sigh that escapes him when Tony slides his hand up under Peter’s T-shirt. His palm is warm against his spine and Peter arches into it and somehow curls down into Tony at the same time, breath trembling as Tony cups his cheek and kisses him.
It lingers and lasts, warm and heady beneath the twinkling Christmas lights that clicked on moments ago and Peter sighs into it, moaning softly as Tony rubs his back and nips gently at his jaw.
He’s breathless as Tony kisses up and down his throat, nails gently dragging over his spine, soft murmured words of affection making his chest ache.
“Merry Christmas baby,” Tony whispers, lips brushing the corner of Peter’s mouth. His eyes sparkle with glowing light when Peter pulls back, panting slightly, to peer down at him.
“This is me, loving you, and hoping you love me too,” Tony tells him gently, a trace of unease in the quirk of his mouth.
Peter exhales shakily and leans down to kiss Tony, “God I—yea, I love you too,” he whispers with a wet laugh.
Tony laughs too and pulls him down tighter, lips and teeth and tongue more demanding this time. They stay like that for ages, till Tony murmurs jokingly that his back can’t take sleeping on a couch and leads Peter to his bedroom.
The sheets are cool and silky and Peter hums in pleasure as Tony curls up behind him, lips pressed to the nape of his neck.
“I never liked Christmas,” he whispers to Peter, “December is a bad time of year for me.”
“Ben died ten years ago today,” Peter murmurs back and he can feel it when Tony stiffens for a moment before pulling him closer and kissing his neck.
“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers, breath warm in Peter’s skin. “I wish I could make it better.”
Peter smiles softly and lifts Tony’s hand from where it’s resting at his waist to press his lips to the knuckles, “You already have. Every year with you was the best gift I could ever have gotten.”
He hears Tony inhale unevenly and presses another kiss to the work worn palm before taking it and pressing it to his heart.
“It’s yours,” he tells Tony, relief in his veins that he can finally say it.
Tony curls around him like a cat and smiles against his skin.
“Mine is a little broken and bruised,” he explains, “but it’s yours if you want it.”
Peter cranes his neck and meets Tony’s gaze, smiling softly before he kisses him.
They fall asleep like that, twined together, skin glowing softly in the lights from the city, the first rays of Christmas dawn teasing at the edges of the room.
Christmas had always been a lonely time, but now, now it has meaning for them, both beautiful and bittersweet.
It is as it always was—a story of love and heartache and finding a home in someone your heart always knew.
For @honey-honey-darling who came in second place in the raffle!! Hope you enjoy love!!
