Tony sat on the couch of his living room (well, technically the Avenger’s tower, but he owned it, so fuck them), facing the door. He’d specifically positioned himself to watch the one entrance to the common area, because he knew it was the most defensible position in the 600 sq foot space. And also because he knew that living with a teenage super hero meant that breaking curfew was bound to happen. And if such happenings occurred at 2 in the morning, said teenager was probably intoxicated.
He looked at his watch. 2.27am.
“Boss, Mr Parker has just entered the premises.” Friday called out softly, knowing not to wake the entire building up.
About fucking time. “Thank you Friday. Send him up please.” He took another sip of his scotch, savoring the intoxicating taste before swallowing and sighing heavily. I’m not getting paid enough for this. He thought absently. Soon enough, he heard the uneven squeaks of worn out sneakers heading in his direction, and a guilty (and a tiny bit queasy) face revealing itself.
“Good morning, Peter,” he said dryly. “You’re up early.”
“Please,” Tony cut him off. “Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, the arachnid-inspired hero stumbled towards his mentor (or father, in better circumstances) before gingerly plopping onto the couch, facing Tony.
“What time is it, Peter?”
Peter looked around the room, trying to locate a clock, before Tony sighed.
“You’re wearing a watch, Peter.” The teen had the gall to giggle, before realizing his mistake and swiftly looking down at his wrist.
“Is that a question or an answer?”
“An…answer?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “An answer!”
He could tell that the kid was trying his best to concentrate, but coming back drunk (on a school night) was inexcusable.
“You know, I don’t have a problem with you going out to parties.” He started his mentally-rehearsed lecture. “And I know you’re still a kid and it’s not a patrol night so you just wanna let loose.”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. You’re in trouble, so you listen, and i talk. That’s how this works.”
“No buts!” Tony growled, standing up and leaving the scotch at the coffee table. “It’s not just irresponsible to do this on a school night, but you didn’t even tell me where you were! Partying’s fine! But at least give me a head’s up on your location! May didn’t even-“
“WHAT!” Tony yelled as he whirled around, rage knitting his eyebrows together. But his eyes shot open as he took in the sight of his ward. Peter was sweating profusely, and even for a white schoolboy whose skin never saw the sunlight, his face was extremely pale.
“I…I don’t feel so good..” he wheezed out.
No. Tony thought, rushing forward and catching Peter as he slipped off the couch. No no no no no. Don’t say that.
“Peter, talk to me,” he breathed, trying to control the tremble in his voice. Or the rapid pounding of his heart. Or the shake in his breath. “What doesn’t feel good?”
“I don’t..I don’t know what’s happen-I don’t know what’s happening!” Peter was crying by now, and Tony arms had never been tighter around another human being.
Tell me what’s wrong and we can fix this! He wants to yell. I can fix this. But all that comes out of his mouth is a agonized whisper of, “You’re alright. You’re alright.”
He can tell that Peter is getting lighter by the second, and he can feel the inevitability of the situation.
“Mr S’ark…” He looks at the boy (because he’s just that - a boy who was supposed to graduate the next year and bring his girl home and get married and have kids) and he sees the cracks forming on his cheeks, but he feels the same cracks digging into his heart.
“I don’t wanna go,” the tear-filled eyes beg him. “I don’t wanna go. Sir, please! I don’t wanna go!”
Tony opens his mouth, and wants to yell words of comfort and courage and tell Peter to hold on, but nothing comes out. He just shakes and shakes and doesn’t let go, even as the arms around his shoulders dissipate.
“..Mis’er S’ark..” His arms are tighter and tighter, even as he feels the erosion of the child in his arms. His child.
Tony’s head shoots up and he gasps for air, his heart beating like a war drum and his entire frame shaking like an earthquake. Nightmare. His head whips around to find the blue bald alien, hand on his shoulder, concern etched subtly on her features. Nebula. He looks around. Red. He touches his cheeks. Tears. He looks down at his hands. Ash. And reality sat in.
The universe had finally (finally) blessed him with a shining light that did not deserve to see the darkness that exists, and had torn that light away mercilessly. It had finally given him the taste of true, pure, unselfish happiness, but had ripped it away with a sneer. He wished he had said something to Peter. You’re ok. Stop apologizing. I’ll fix this. I love you. But in all his years as a genius playboy philanthropist, the one time his silver tongue failed him, was the time it mattered the most.
