Tony sat down heavily on the wooden toilet seat cover, listening to Peter's answer. It was the easiest for now. They could go over everything, eventually. Once Tony had a chance to really understand it himself.

But God, he was still trying to understand what happened in Sokovia. When would he ever digest any of it all?

"Come here," he said, and pulled Peter close enough to tug him into a hug, nevermind that they were covered in paint. He gave him a squeeze, a pat on the back. He was warm and alive and solid, didn't melt away at his touch, and he smelled like paint fumes and not the ozone strangeness of an alien atmosphere and blood.

"You know what. No matter what happens, even when I'm so angry at you I can barely see straight, this is how I feel about you."

And he'd waited just too damn long to say so once before, and he'd lost his chance.