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Wails bounced around the room. Tony groaned, picking his heavy body up once more to comfort his child. The man stumbled down the hall; his bed beckoning him back. He craved sleep now more than ever. Only once he had a baby did he realize how tired, how overworked, he truly was. Not that he’d ever admit it to any outside parties, of course.
After all, he knew about the ‘How Long Will It Take Tony Stark To Realize He’s Exhausted’ betting pool and he was not about to let Steve Rogers -of all people- win it. But right now he had to focus on his baby, not the righteous, shield-carrying asshole.
Tony entered his sons’ room, walking straight to the crib. His baby, Peter, was a squirmy little thing. Cried at the slightest upset in the universe, he did. Already, the boy had given his father a lifetimes worth of gray hairs.
Peter Benjamin Stark. A perfect child, even at only a few months old. Not past the one year mark just yet. Tony picked the little boy up, cradling him gently in his arms. He hoped his son would turn out to be better than him.
Better than Howard before him, too. Old bastard.. Even Tony was better than his own father, as bad of a parent he thought himself to be.
“It’s alright, bambino,” He soothed the sniffling child in his arms. “Daddy’s here now; you’re alright.”
Peter’s eyes widened immensely, brown irises the mirror image of his fathers. The baby scrunched his chubby face, screwing his eyes shut tight. Tears leaked out, sliding down his cheeks.
Tony shifted Peter to one arm to gently rub the tears away with his thumb. He whispered sweet nothings that not even he believed. Trauma haunted him, looming over his shoulders still. Maybe he’d never be able to keep Peter truly safe.
Maybe his little boy would grow up wondering if his Daddy actually loved him. Maybe he’d get taken, kidnapped, much like Tony had been. Maybe.. maybe he’d hate Tony when he got older.
Peter, oh sweet little Peter, seemed to have sensed his father’s distress. The boy was tugging on his shirt, begging for Tony’s attention. Pleading for his Daddy to come back to him.
That was enough for Tony to snap himself out of his own stupid head. Pushing his anxieties down to deal with later; right now his baby needed him.
“Daddy’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s okay and so are you.” He bounced Peter softly, rocking him back and forth.
His son seemed to understand him just enough to register that things were fine. Nothing to cry about anymore. He calmed, settling into Tony’s arms to fall back asleep.
The man wasn’t ready to put his child down just yet. He’d happily allow Peter to join him in his bed, but he was terrified of the possibilities. Peter getting wrapped up in the blankets, unable to breathe. Tony crushing his baby unknowingly as he slept on. Peter falling off the side of the bed.
Tony took a breath. It was fine. He was fine; Peter was fine. They would be fine. They were safe and happy. Tony had his baby and Peter had his father.
He took another breath, his one more steady than the last. Peter got placed back in his crib, still tiny in his tiny bed. Such a tiny baby, what if it was a defect? What if he was physically impaired? Then it would still be alright, Tony told himself. He had the money to care for his son either way. In perfect health or with as many disabilities as Steve had before he was injected with serum. Peter would be alright, even though he came out of the womb a bit small. He was still healthy, as all the tests showed.
Tony pulled himself out of the room, clutching the doorframe for a moment. His breathing quickened; heart rate spiked. Jesus Christ, another panic attack.
He dragged himself to the bathroom. Can’t.. cant break down in front of his son. Can’t let Peter see his father panicked. Terrified. Quaking at the idea of letting anything or anyone steal his baby away from him.
The lights were dim. Tony stared at his reflection in the mirror for a few very, very long seconds. How.. how did Peter not flinch away from him-?
Bags sagged heavy under his eyes, looking more like black eyes than just a lack of sleep. His eyes themselves were almost bloodshot-looking, split with red streaks. Hair mussed in all directions. Hell, he couldn’t find any of his old charm; his old redeeming features.
It only added to his stress. He couldn’t take care of himself anymore; what if that passed onto his child? What if he couldn’t take care of Peter any longer? And then.. they’d have to take him away? Take his baby away from him?
Tony knew he’d put up hell before letting them take his child. Enough hell that they’d feel justified in their actions once they got him.
...Fuck.
He leaned back against the wall, sinking to the floor. One hand pressed over his face as tears ran down his own cheeks.
The words “I’m a changed man.” echoed through his head. ‘Changed’ was right, he scoffed.
The only thing that had changed was that his cracks had multiplied.
He was only more broken than before.