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One.
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When Rhodey hears the telltale sound of his roomate crashing into the room, banging against the walls and the dressers, his immediate reaction is annoyance.
It's a quarter past midnight, on a Tuesday, and his roommate is crawling back drunk as a skunk. His roomate, who Rhodey knows from the sparse conversation they've had, is too young to be drinking at all.
He throws his pillow over his head, trying to block out the noise. It's obvious that Tony Stark, child prodigy extraordinaire, has a drinking problem. And Rhodey is trying his damndest not to care, because he's got college classes at eight in the morning, he doesn't have time to adopt the bedraggled stray cat that is Tony fucking Stark.
There's another loud bump in the dark, followed by a slurred, "Ouchie-"
He sighs heavily, sitting up. Silhouetted there, a dark shape in the already dark room, is the man making all the ruckus. "Tony?"
The dark shape freezes before letting out a loud, slightly wet burp. "Oh, shit. My bad, flatmate."
"You're fucked up," Rhodey accuses, crossing his arms across his chest. He knows that the younger man can't see it, his disapproving parent routine, but he feels so much like his own Mama that he immediately drops the pose.
"In more ways than one," Tony admits easily, dropping down to his bed. The man giggles, and before Rhodey knows it he's joining in, too. Both of them giggling like jackasses in the middle of the night instead of sleeping.
"Christ," he says after a moment, biting back his snickers. "Don't you have class-"
"Hold that thought," Tony announces suddenly, before jack-knifing up in his bed and retching loudly. Rhodey hears the omnious, accompanying splat a second later, the scent of bile hitting his nose almost instantly.
"Fuck!" He shrieks, yanking his bedside lamp light on. It makes everything so inexplicably worse; the dark red, liquidy vomit splattered all over their shared carpet, the glassy look in Tony's eyes, the string of saliva dangling off his chin. "Shit! Christ!"
Tony blinks, running the back of his hand across his mouth. The bedsheets under him are soaked. "My bad-"
Rhodey flings his own sheets off of him, throwing his feet to the floor. The smell makes him want to gag, too, but he simply plugs his nose before marching over to Tony's bedside, sidestepping the putrid pile of what must have been a red wine kind of night.
His first instinct is to hit Tony, to clock him right across the face for waking him up at midnight to drunkenly spew all over their floor. The second Rhodey makes it to his bedside, though, full of tired fury, Tony looks up at him with those dazed, wet eyes.
"Sorry," Tony says earnestly, looking every bit his younger age. "My fault, I'm a man of too many extremes-"
Rhodey sighs again, vibrating on his heels, before stalking back across the floor to the mahogany dresser that Tony stores all of his Burberry clothes in. He pulls out a shirt, followed in quick succession by a pair of pants. He gathers them both up, stuffing them in the plastic bag he received just this morning from the on-campus grocery shop, bringing home a packet of overpriced ramen noodles. He tucks one of his own towels in as well.
He makes his way back to the bed, the bag slinging around his arms. "Come on," he says gingerly, if not a little bitterly. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He grabs Tony carefully under the arm, lifting him up from the bed and its accompanying throw-up, pulling the staggering man towards the door.
"No funny business," Tony slurs, wobbling on his feet.
Rhodey rolls his eyes. "Like you'd be my type."
Tony lets out a delighted chuckle, his hip crashing into the side of the bedroom door on the way out. Rhodey does his best to keep him steady and on his feet. "I'm everyone's type."
"Drunk and disorderly?" Rhodey deadpans. "Covered in puke?"
"Handsome. Rich," Tony clarifies, haughty in the way only someone born into money could be. "Full of tragic backstory. Tons of it."
"Uh-huh." Rhodey leads them into the communal showers, parking Tony in front of the mirrors. He wastes no time in locking the door behind him, quickly making his way to the shower stall. He twists the knob to something just above glacial, hoping the temperature will help bring Mr. Drunk Skunk over there back from the edge.
"Women love tragic backstories," Tony insists, helpfully trying to pull his shirt over his head. He's doing a bang-up job. Remarkable. So good in fact, Rhodey rolls his eyes and crosses back to the mirror to help peel the thing off before Tony can faceplant into the glass and give Rhodey one more thing to deal with tonight.
"You sure it's not the money?" Rhodey questions, waiting with his eyes averted until Tony manages to unbuckle the clasp on his jeans. He pushes the man, boxers still in place, towards the running shower.
Tony nods sagely, fixing Rhodey with another drunken, wry look before stumbling into the water. "Probably the money," he agrees.
Rhodey chuckles, gathering up Tony's puke covered clothes. He deposits them into the plastic bag that he snagged on the way out of the room, tying it into a tight knot. "This shit stinks," he calls out.
"It's Burberry!" Tony calls back, his teeth chattering.
Rhodey rolls his eyes. "It's Burberry that smells like shit. Happy?"
There's a beat of silence, and Rhodey's worried that Tony just straight up passed out in the bathroom, that's he's going to have to stage a rescue mission to the fucking shower, when Tony offers a dejected, "Never."
Rhodey curses, rocking on his heels. Because he's obviously just picked up a stray. "Hurry up," he orders, tapping his foot. When he catches that, he stops it, too. Another of his Mama's patented moves.
Dutifully, only a couple seconds later, Rhodey hears the shower shut off. A dripping wet Tony Stark emerges from behind the fogged up sliding glass door, his hair plastered to his forehead and his soaked boxers clinging to his skin.
"Cold," he remarks lamely, shivering where he stands.
"Here." Rhodey casts the towel in the man's direction, relieved when Tony catches it. The cold shower seems to have done the trick; Tony doesn't stumble when he starts drying the various parts of his body.
"I brought clothes," Rhodey tacks on, tossing the bag of burberry garments towards Tony's feet. He watches for a moment, until he's satisfied that Tony is steady on his feet, before turning his back to give the man some privacy.
He hears the shuffling of clothes, the squelch of wet boxers hitting the floor, the crinkle of plastic, before Tony offers up, "Dressed. You missed your chance. No more free show for you."
Rhodey snorts, turning back around to find a thankfully fully clothed man, even if the outfit is a little haphazard on his body. He cocks an eyebrow. "Again. Not my type."
"You can't fool me," Tony tells him, grinning. His eyes have cleared a little, but the alcohol obviously still has its claws in him. That's clear in the slanted way he's standing, in the high flush on his cheeks.
"Let's head back. Go to bed."
Tony frowns. "No can do. My sheets-"
Rhodey sighs so loudly he's sure it crosses several sound barriers. He forgot all about the goddamn floor and bed.
"How about this?" Rhodey offers after a moment. "You pass out in my bed tonight and I'll deal with the other shit-"
He'll have to run the sheets down to the corridor laundry room, which means another two hours until bed so he can switch them out. He'll have to scrub the carpets with some bissell shit.
Tony's frown deepens. "No deal, that's shitty for you-"
"You'll just have to owe me," Rhodey barters. "Servitude. The rest of your life."
Tony chuckles wildly, stumbling forward with the trajectory of it. Rhodey has to jolt into action to catch him before he falls completely to the floor. "Bad deal," he says again, still giggling. "I'm not living real long, you see-"
Rhodey grits his teeth, hauling Tony back up to his feet. "Don't say that, man."
"It's true."
It's right then, for some goddamn unexplainable reason, that Rhodey decides Tony Stark will live a long life. Even if he, James Rupert Rhodes, has to be the to assure it. "Let's just get you to my bed, huh?"
He's always had a soft spot for cats, especially strays.
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Two.
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He's gathering up his essentials on base, preparing to spend the next two weeks at home-sweet-home with his family, eating frankly obscene amounts of Mama's homemade peach cobbler. Christmastime is the only time of year she makes it anymore, and Rhodey is more than prepared to dive into the saccharine sweetness and live there.
For the next two weeks, at least, until the U.S. Air Force calls him back.
He's stuffing his last pair of boxers into his duffel bag when he hears the giveaway sound of military grade steel toes against the floor. Immediately, an action ingrained deep into his bones, he snaps to attention.
"Sir!" He calls out, stiffening his body into a straight line. He watches nervously as the Staff Sergeant marches to place in front of him, wearing an irritated expression.
"Phone call," the man announces gruffly, holding out a hand with a cellphone in his palm.
Rhodey blinks at it. "Phone call?" He repeats, confused. It's beyond unusual for an Airman to receive a phone-call, especially one hand delivered by a sergeant. Worry pits in his stomach as he reaches a hand out to take the small rectangular device from the man's palm.
Cautiously, he places it next to his ear. "This is James. James Rhodes."
Breathing answers him. Harsh, tight breathing.
"Hello?" He repeats, the worry growing and growing inside him.
"You wouldn't believe the strings I had to pull, platypus," Tony finally says, all wrong. His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and Rhodey stiffens all over again. He can feel the eyes of the Staff Sergeant roaming across him, probing, but it's the least important thing in the world at the moment.
"Tones?" He demands. "What's wrong?"
"The U.S. Air Force did not want to patch this call through, I had to threaten some shit, I'm probably one a watchlist now-"
"Tony," Rhodey interrupts, feeling the worry spreading across his veins like a wildfire. "Jesus christ. What's wrong?"
More heavy breathing until Tony finally comes back, his voice breaking on every syllable. "I didn't- shit, I didn't know who else to call, I'm fucked up right now, Rhodey, bad shit, real bad-"
"You need me?" Rhodey questions, already mentally saying his farewells to Mama's homemade peach cobbler. He glances down at his bag, filled now, and already he knows where he's headed.
Home. Just not to the one he had originally intended on.
Tony makes a wheezing sound. "It's- Mom, Dad, a fucking car accident, that's the thing that finally took the great Howard Stark down-"
A lightning bolts run through Rhodey. "Oh no," he whispers. "Maria, too-?"
Tony sobs. "Holy shit, Rhodey, they're dead, they're dead and I can't- I can't-"
"I'm coming," Rhodey vows, bending down and throwing the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. "Hold on, okay? I'm flying right there-"
"Okay," Tony says between his painful gasps. "Okay."
"Be there soon," Rhodey promises again, flicking the phone shut and handing it back to the Sergeant. The Sergeant who's looking at him like he's an alien.
"Who was that?" He asks, but Rhodey doesn't even hear.
He's already halfway out of the barracks.
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Three.
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Rhodey is staring up at the ceiling, following the zigzagging hairline fracture in the plaster, when the phone rings. He sighs before he even reaches over to grab it, knowing exactly who it is and what it's about.
He gulps, steeling himself for the oncoming conversation. His heart feels a little bit like the ceiling above him; cracked and ugly. The Air Force doesn't bother booking immaculate rooms when they send their airmen out on private missions, and Rhodey's doing his best to be grateful that at least this one only has a cracked ceiling.
The last had cockroaches in the carpet seams.
When he finally picks up the phone, foregoing even looking at the screen, he's greeted with the sound of Tony's heavy, pained breathing.
"Tones?" He asks gently, already knowing what this means. Panic attack. The man's been getting them nearly constantly, all of them still reeling from Afghanistan.
It's what keeps Rhodey awake at night, tracing cracks in cheap hotel room ceilings.
He's grateful to be back to work, he is, he's grateful that the Air Force granted him an extended leave in the wake of Tony's three-month long ordeal, he's grateful they're sending him out on cushy little missions that keep him within a hundred easy miles of New York, and thus Tony, even if the slew of hotel rooms have been less than exemplar.
He's within eighty miles of the Tower right now, and still, he can't sleep. The close proximity isn't calming the furious worry he's inherited since Tony's kidnapping and subsequent return. He keeps seeing the shit that Tony went through, the look on the man's face when they finally located him amidst all the sand in the middle of the desert.
Tony gasps loudly.
"You've gotta breathe," Rhodey orders quickly, staring up at the fractured ceiling. "Remember all the therapy shit you've been doing."
"Hate the therapy shit-" Tony wheezes.
Rhodey chuckles thickly. "Yeah, well, it's helping, so shut up and do it. You know the drill, 5-4-3-2-1 method-"
It's the method that Pepper says has been working the best when Tony lapses into these painful, hazy panic attacks.
"Sink," Tony gasps, diving headfirst into the first step, pointing out five visible objects around him. "Shampoo bottle, shaver, hand soap, towel-"
"The- bathroom?" Rhodey hedges, a little befuddled. He expected the lab maybe, Tony's always in the fucking lab, and he's not quite sure what to do with this information. "You in the shitter, Tones?"
"Yeah," Tony allows, his voice still all tight and forced and wrong.
"Four sounds?" Rhodey continues, helplessly.
"The fucking shower- water going drip, drip, drip-" Tony sucks in a breath. Rhodey winces along with him.
"What else?" He prompts.
"J.A.R.V.I.S has music playing in the lab, down the hall- I can hear it. Um. My fucking heartbeat in my ears. My foot tapping."
"Start touching shit," Rhodey orders.
He hears Tony sigh in exasperation, which is a great sign. Snarky Tony is a million times better than panicky Tony.
"Done. I've fondled my way through the bathroom-"
"Two smells?" Rhodey prompts, even though he's reasonably sure Tony is off the edge. He's not taking chances here. Not again. Not after his oversight left Tony in the clutches of the Ten Rings.
"Bleach. Fruity tooty shampoo."
"Okay, good good. What about taste?"
"Vomit."
Rhodey pulls a face. "Gross."
"You asked."
"You doing better?" Rhodey finds the crack again, in the dark, and can't prevent his eyes from following it to its twisty, bitter end.
There's a pregnant pause. "I hate the shower," Tony finally admits. "The- water. It males me think of then, which sounds fucking looney tunes, since I was in the goddamn desert-"
The fucking water-boarding. Rhodey shivers at it.
"Remember that night?" Rhodey interrupts, heeding off Tony's self-deprecation train before it can even leave the station. "Back in MIT days, when you were so drunk you threw up all over yourself and I had to take you down to the showers?"
Tony chuckles. "Christ. Barely. I remember the hangover the next morning, though, that's for sure."
"I wanted to deck you that night," Rhodey confesses for some reason. He remembers the look on Tony's face that night, the spittle hanging from his chin and the glassy emptiness in his eyes.
The same expression he had on when they found him in the desert.
"Why didn't you?" Tony questions, softly. "I was a Grade-A asshole back then, no doubt I deserved it."
To this day, Rhodey isn't quite sure what compelled him to pull Tony down to the showers instead of laying him out. He isn't sure why he took it upon himself to keep this verifiable idiot alive. The thing he does know, though, is that he'd never change it for the world.
He grins wryly into the dark, sure that Tony will hear the expression in his voice. "Your money, of course. Was hoping to swindle a Ferrari out of you."
Tony barks out a laugh. Rhodey's relieved to hear the man's voice clearing out, no longer clogged with panic.
"I guess I owe you a Ferrari, then. A few, actually. Backpay."
"Nah," Rhodey says softly. "I found something better along the way."
Neither of them have to say it aloud.
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Four .
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When his phone rings in the middle of the night, startling him from sleep, Rhodey is perturbed but not surprised. Not surprised in the slightest.
He groans, shooting a half-lidded glance at the small alarm clock on his bedside table. His not-surprise is further verified at the time he finds there; 12:01. A.M.
Tony, then. It's always Tony in the middle of the night with some kind of cataclysmic midnight plight. Rhodey mentally steels himself before ripping the phone from the table and pressing it against his ear.
"Tony, I swear-"
"I'm an idiot," the man greets.
Rhodey blinks, a little stupefied. He's used to Tony's antics, sure, but he's cutting himself a little slack on account of it being goddamn midnight. "I thought you were a genius."
"Figuratively speaking- I'm an idiot."
Rhodey sighs, pulling himself to a reluctant sitting position. "Okay. I'm biting. Why are you an idiot, Tony?"
"Because I destroy everything good I ever touch."
"I-" He's too fucking tired for this shit. The weight of sleep is still pressing down on him, trying to force him back to the mattress. "Is this real? Like a real meltdown? Or are you being melodramatic?"
Tony gasps, melodramatic as all hell. He can practically feel the indignation pooling into the phone, flooding his ear canal. "I am never melodramatic, this is a Code Red situation. I. Am. Spiraling."
Rhodey pinches the bridge of nose. "And why are you spiraling?"
Tony goes quiet. "I had a fight with Pepper."
"Okay," Rhodey says slowly, analyzing the sentence carefully in his head. It might not seem like much, but if Tony's calling in the middle of the night, it undoubtedly is to him. "How bad?"
"I'm an asshole."
"That's not what I asked," Rhodey chides patiently, letting his head rest against the headboard. He's feeling pretty goddamn thankful for the promotion, the one that earned him this private room and the rank of Lieutenant all at once. Privacy is at the very tippy-top of the list of things to be thankful for, especially with Tony all but owning his midnights.
The fancy sheets aren't too bad, either.
"She mentioned a- break," Tony admits.
Rhodey's brain short-circuits for a minute. "Like a bone?"
He hears the man scoff. "No- like, sayonara, hasta la vista, so long mother-fucker-"
"She broke up with you?" Rhodey demands, a little breathless, a little shocked.
"Well no, but she did mention it in the heat of the battle-"
"The battle," Rhodey scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"It was bad, honeybear, basically Gettysburg all over again-"
"Pray tell," Rhodey interrupts. "What was this Gettysburg-level fight about?"
"I, um." He hears Tony pause and draw in a deep breath. "I skipped a meeting. An important one."
"You want my advice?" Rhodey offers, running a hand across his face. Fancy sheets or not, he's still required to heed the crack of dawn wake-up call coming for them all.
"Yes."
"Stop skipping meetings."
He hears Tony laugh. "Touché."
"Also, apologize."
"Not exactly my strong suit, but sure." Tony falls silent before asking a quiet, unsure, "You think- she might do it one day? Take her leave of me?"
Rhodey pauses, letting the question roll around in his head. He wants to comfort Tony, some instinct imprinted into his very soul, but he refuses to let that comfort come in the form of empty platitudes. He's not about empty promises, he never has been.
It's why he believes it whole-heartedly when he says, "Nah. You guys are like-soulmates or some shit. Gonna keep crashing back into each other no matter what."
The relief in Tony's tone is evident. It makes midnight feel a little less dark. "Thanks, honeybear."
Rhodey smiles. "Anytime, Tones. Now I'm hanging the fuck up."
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Five.
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The sound of his phone has him groaning awake sometime in the middle of the night. He doesn't even bother to check the caller ID before placing it against his ear, muttering a sleepy, "Tony?"
"I don't know how to plan a birthday for a teenager," Tony greets.
Rhodey spares a glance to the alarm clock on his bedside table, unsurprised to see the blurry red numbers 12:32 A.M staring back at him. He sighs. "Why the hell are you up?"
Tony makes an indignant noise. "I just told you why."
"Christ." Rhodey yawns, throwing his sheets back to sit up. He grinds his fist into his eyes. "Did you need to call now?"
Rhodey has leave coming up next week, and he'd been silently praying that Tony's inevitable crisis would wait until then, when he had nothing to do but work the man through it. Not now, when he has to be up at the asscrack of a dawn.
"Pete's birthday is next weekend," Tony says, like Rhodey doesn't know. Like Tony hasn't been talking about the kid's upcoming birthday for weeks now.
He still doesn't quite know how some random, crime-fighting teenager from Queens weaseled himself so deeply into Tony's heart. So deeply that the man actually cares about the kid's opinion, cares enough to have a midnight crisis over the prospect of a birthday party going somehow wrong.
Rhodey groans aloud. "Go to sleep, man."
"Come on," Tony pleads, which is, of course, kryptonite to Rhodey's ears. He can't really deny Tony anything. His Mama always used to tell him his tendency to bend over backwards for the man who would be his downfall.
"What do you need?" He grumbles, already dreading the sleepless day ahead.
"Help planning a birthday for a teenager."
Rhodey lets out a croaky laugh, still rough from sleep. "He's a kid, not a goddamn martian. Just plan a party."
"That's the problem, platypus. I don't know anything about kids."
"But you know about Peter right?"
"Some things," Tony responds slowly.
Rhodey sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It's too early for this shit. "Come on. Right now. Tell me three things Peter likes."
"Star wars," Tony says with no hesitation. "Legos. Iron Man."
Rhodey can practically see the smirk dancing across Tony's lips with that last one. Smug asshole.
"Uh-huh. Okay. There you go. Plan something with any of that."
"Okay. Sounds great." There's a pause. "Hypothetically, though, if Pete were to somehow, impossibly, hate said party, would that damage said mentor/mentee relationship?"
"Pete won't hate the party," Rhodey assures. He hasn't spent as much time with the crime-fighting teenager as he would like, but he knows that Peter is nothing if not remarkably easy to please. "You could give that kid a used sock and he'd been ecstatic."
"Okay, okay. But what if he secretly hates it?"
Rhodey sighs. "You're saying nonsense, Tones. We both know the kid is incapable of hating, well, anything. This is lack of sleep talking. You're clearly delirious."
He can feel the heft of Tony's pout through the phone. "I'm in crisis right now. Code red. Code blue. Code whatever. And you're mocking me?"
"It's a birthday," Rhodey implores. "Not a nuclear threat. Keep it together."
"It's Peter's birthday," Tony insists. "Very important shit, obviously. I have to do this right."
Rhodey sighs. "You know I've got that leave next week. How about we put it all together then? I'll help, obviously."
It's not like he can plan for Tony's midnight dilemmas, they come when they choose, but this one is something he feels pretty confidently can wait until next week. The time he very carefully put aside to coincide with Tony's inevitable crisis.
"My savior," Tony replies.
"Now, please, go to bed." He's well acquainted with Tony's insomnia by now, enough to hear the telltale waver in the man's voice.
"Absolutely."
"Liar." Rhodey smirks. He adds that to his list of things to handle while he's there. Force Tony to actually sleep, for more than a couple hours at a time. "Don't make me sick Pepper on you."
"You wouldn't."
"Come on, man. You know I totally would."
Tony scoffs. "Goodbye, traitor."
The dial tone is his only farewell.
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+1
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Today is December sixteenth. The day.
It's why Rhodey is trudging into the tower at the asscrack of dawn, a surfeit of Chinese take-out tucked up under his arms. His leg braces, of which he's still trying to adjust to, whirl softly with his movement.
December sixteenth. It's why he requested, (demanded, more accurately) leave for the day. Tony spirals hard this time of year, and Rhodey's extra nervous this time around since Tony's actually sticking to his guns and staying sober.
He doesn't know what he's walking into, if Tony is catatonic or manic, if he's going to be greeted with the man's usual brand of angry grief or the more insidious sorrow that leaves him inanimate and deadened. Rhodey's just hoping, desperately, that he isn't walking into a shitshow of cataclysmic proportions.
"Hello, Colonel Rhodes," FRIDAY greets as he maneuvers himself into the elevator. Her voice still jolts him sometimes, that gentle Irish lilt where before it had been British cheek. He finds himself missing J.A.R.V.I.S once again. "Would you like me to inform Boss you are here?"
"Nah. I'm on my way to him. Can you take me to whatever floor he's on?"
"Certainly." He feels the elevator come to life beneath him, and he automatically adjusts the take-out to a more stable position in his arms.
He watches the floor indicator tick away the numbers for a moment, deliberating, before asking a nervous, "How is he, anyway? Tony?"
"Boss is in high spirits," FRIDAY tells him.
He squints up at the ceiling. "Why? Is he on drugs?"
"I believe the common terminology is high on life."
He snorts as the elevator slows to a stop, the doors rolling open. Before him, in reliable fashion, is the corridor that leads directly to Tony's private lab. The man is nothing if not predictable. He never seems to bother dwelling in any other part of his Tower.
"Thanks, FRIDAY," he says, stepping off the lift and into the hall. He turns his ears down the corridor, listening for a hint of music or even crying, some insight to the plight he's about to step into.
There's nothing at first, just the soft whirring of his braces, the crinkle of the take-out containers, until Rhodey catches the tailend of a giggle.
A giggle?
He frowns, adjusting the Chinese again. When he rounds the final corner to Tony's lab, getting his first peek into the glass windows, he nearly drops it altogether.
Tony's bent over the open chest of the Iron Man armor, sparks jumping from the soldering iron in his hands as he tinkers with something within. Next to him, the culprit of all the giggling, is Peter Parker.
Rhodey gawkes. He knew that Tony was close to this kid, this crime-fighting teenager from Queens, he knew that Tony probably loved this kid after the frankly lavish birthday party the man planned for him, but Rhodey obviously didn't grasp the true depth of Tony's affection.
Because today is December sixteenth and Peter Parker is here.
Rhodey makes a confused noise in the back of his throat, watching the pair orbit around each other. Tony's explaining something about the suit, his voice mumbled, and he looks- fine. Not like he's on the precipice of mental collapse, not like he's in the middle of another of his midnight dilemmas.
Peter's eyes flick up in his direction, widening ever so slightly. He watches as Peter yanks on the hem of Tony's shirt sleeve, gesturing over in his direction.
Tony meets his gaze through the glass, his face breaking into a large smile. Rhodey feels misplaced, like a traveler from another dimension, popped into existence in one where December sixteenth isn't the apocalypse it usually is.
Huffing, he hauls his ass and his take-out into the lab.
He can't stop himself from taking quick stock of the lab's condition; broken glass and twisted metal and empty whiskey bottles usually mean rough seas ahead. Rhodey spies none of that. The only thing even slightly amiss is Peter Parker, standing shyly by Tony's side.
"Honeybear," Tony greets, dropping the sodering iron to the table and rounding around it to meet Rhodey in the middle of the floor. "You're early. Wasn't expecting you here until tomorrow sometime-"
"Tomorrow?" Rhodey furrows his eyebrows, placing the chinese carefully on one of the mostly empty lab tables. "It is. It's- tomorrow. Today is tomorrow, Tones. Have you been in the lab all night?"
Tony glances down at the watch on his wrist, swearing softly. "Shit, kid. I've kept you up all night."
"Oh, I don't mind, Mister Stark, honest! I'm not even tired, like, at all-" As if on cue, the kid punctuates the sentence with a large yawn. He smiles sheepishly in Tony's direction, shrugging. "Not that tired, at least."
"Peter's here?" Rhodey asks, a little brain-dead. "Tony, it's-"
"Way past little Spider's bedtime," Tony finishes, which is true, if not what Rhodey meant to say.
"I'm practically an adult," Peter argues, yawning again.
"The practically in that sentence really makes all the difference, though. Let's get some food in you and send you off to bed." Tony points at the take-out on the table beside them, arching a brow in Peter's direction.
Peter rolls his eyes before they slide shyly in Rhodey's direction. "Hello, Mr. Colonel Rhodes, sir."
"Tony," Rhodey says, still reeling.
"You brought enough, right?" Tony asks him, eying the take-out with apprehension, calculating the mass in his head. Rhodey can see the disapproval as it settles over his face. "Actually, Fri, order half our usual from that chinese place down the street-"
"Order sent, Boss."
"Mister Stark, no, I'll be fine-" Peter sends an apologetic look Rhodey's way, shifting on his feet.
Tony snorts. "Stop your polite shit, Pete. You're gonna need more then what's here-"
"Tony," Rhodey says again, a little more forcefully. "Today's- you know. Today."
The day Howard and Maria Stark met their demise. The day Tony spends his entire year dreading, moreso now than ever. After that little truth bomb exploded in Siberia.
"Thanks for the reminder," Tony replies, wry.
"You want Peter here?" He asks, confusion making his tone blunt. He feels a sharp pang of regret as the kid's features twist into something painfully contrite.
"I'm sorry," Peter offers quickly, gaze jumping between the two of them. "I can leave, I totally didn't mean to, uh, intrude. I didn't know you were coming Mr. Colonel Rhodes sir, I just- I figured Mister Stark wouldn't want to be alone, today especially, but it seems like you've got it under control now, so. Um. Yeah, I can leave-"
Tony shoots Rhodey a reproving look before traversing back across the lab, dropping a reassuring hand to Peter's shoulder. "Kid, breath. Of course I want you here."
"Are you sure? I can totally go home. I mean, like, May isn't home since I'm supposed to be spending the weekend here, but I'll be fine, totally fine-"
The words hit Rhodey harder than he could have anticipated. Peter's staying the weekend. Tony wants this kid here with him to weather the spiral that is usually December sixteenth.
"You're staying here," Tony decrees firmly, staring down at the boy with what can only be described as love. "You're going to join Rhodey and I in a feast before skipping off to bed, and Rhodey here isn't going to say anything else that self-deprecating teenage minds might misconstrue. Right, platypus?" He shoots Rhodey a pointed look.
Rhodey nods, a little numb. "Of course. Sorry, Peter. I'm just- a little out of sorts, at the moment."
Peter shrugs. "That's okay, Mr. Colonel Rhodes, sir. It happens."
Rhodey realizes, with a jolt, that Tony's nighttime dilemnas don't belong to just him anymore. He looks at the kid. Really, truly looks. He sees what Tony does, the selflessness and the brilliance and the kindness. He sees what Tony probably doesn't; the mirroring love in Peter's eyes.
There's someone else in Tony's life now, someone who loves strays just as much as Rhodey does. Someone Tony feels safe enough to share his midnights with.
"Yeah," he says softly, looking at Tony's kid. "I supoose it does."