Toss and Turn
We Got Peter! (I Wish He Were My Kid)
Being Good
From Heart to Hand
TBIs, with a brief history of Bastille
Caught in a Web
Being Good
sickfic:
Once Bitten, Twice Shy
Considerations of an Iron-Spider
Wishful Thinking
whump & hurt/comfort:
Little Worrier
Howl, Talk, Scream
Spider in a Jar
Alien Survival Reprise
Riled Pile-Up
All The Small Things
Smoke Signals
windows, and what's out of them
summary: rhodey hangs out with tony and his kid, and remembers some of the conversations he's had with tony in the past.
tags: rhodey realizing he has a nephew, tony being a good mentor, tony and rhodey are bestest of best friends, fluff, rhodey pov, peter is a nerd, rhodey and tony are og nerds though, introspection onto tony's relationship with parentingTM
wc: 1,713
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
Colonel James Rhodes has been working all week long on paperwork. His eyes have started to blur at the mere mention of an email, and at first that was funny, but with a chill in his spine, he's suddenly been remembering all the times his sister joked about him having cataracts in his old, ancient age.
Needless to say, maybe he should take a day. He's earned it. He deserved it. So he called Tony up to schedule a weekend at the Compound— and chuckled when his point was relatively proven by Tony's alarm and immediate worry about the whole thing.
It had just been a while since the two of them had enjoyed each other's company without any kind of universal threat looming over them. When Rhodey was still doing PT nearly every hour of his waking day, Tony had been pretty rigid in not wanting to leave his side, and that was fine, but at some point Rhodey realized he'd been doing it mainly out of guilt; so Rhodes shut that down fast and decided to impromptu move back home.
It didn't mean Tony wasn't supportive, or that Rhodey was angry— it just meant that Tony needed some tough love, and this time it meant giving him the space he needed to sort through the stuff he kept shoving down and hiding away.
But Rhodey's doing fine now. He's going to all his appointments, he's not in any more pain than usual, which is all you can ask for in his age, history, and career. He hasn't had problems with his braces, please stop asking, Tony, and he just wanted to hang out with his family.
So he made the drive, pulled into the Compound at about two in the afternoon. He walked in, and was immediately greeted by his best friend. But he had some weird growth at his side—almost as tall as him, but scrawny, and mousey, talkative, and—oh, right, a super-powered teenagerwas following him around.
"Sorry I didn't warn you," Tony had explained to him privately, while the kid had went ahead to the elevators. "He was out of school today, and his aunt was busy with work, so I kept him."
Rhodey gave him an artful side-eye. He hadn't sussed out whether Tony was joking, whether there was a punchline that he was supposed to be waiting for. "Oh, no, that's... that's fine."
Tony nodded, looking ahead to the elevator. Then he grinned, he shouted out to the kid: "Hey, don't go pressing too many buttons over there! Don't want a repeat of last time."
The teenager groaned, leaning back on the wall. "Oh, come on! That was one time, Mr. Stark."
Tony chuckled, and on catching Rhodey's lost gaze, started shrugging and waving it off. "It's just a— kid did something funny the other week, I'm pulling his leg about it."
"Right, ok," Rhodey said easily.
Yeah, no. That makes total sense. Tony usually adopted kids off the street and then made inside jokes with them like they were family. Of course. How could Rhodey forget? This was super normal behavior for the guy he'd known for the past... Thirty years? Jesus, they were getting old.
And then in the blink of an eye, Rhodey's remembering the echo of an equally scrawny blond kid in some Tennessee dump, and Tony telling him how smart the kid was, if only he'd had some good education, some direction, how far he'd probably go in life. Then, after a few drinks, in a much quieter voice, Tony asked him if he thought he'd make a good father.
("What?" Rhodey had blubbered, just confused then as he was now. "Are you thinking of actually taking this kid?"
"No," Tony huffed, and he sounded so despondent about all of it, so much more downcast from how he usually presented himself. "No, of course not. I just... When I think about all the parent stuff, the being-a-dad stuff, it makes me sick to my stomach. I start thinking of my dad, and then I'm just stuck in this cycle of shit and it's awful."
And then, the longing. Something vulnerable in his eyes that he wanted to be broken.
"But then..." Tony sighed. He shook his head. Downed the rest of his amber glass and placed it on the table with a click. "I don't know. I just don't know, Jim.")
"So, what do you want to do, Honeybear?" Tony elbowed him. The elevator doors closed, and a gentle lull carried them up to the living floors. "We don't have to, but I know Pete's been wanting to watch this movie... Ah... kid, what was it called?"
The teenager, Peter, furrowed his eyebrows. "Er."
"C'mon, you've been talking about it all week." Tony snapped his fingers a few times, staring off as thought. "You know. The Baldur one, it's like a sequel for the game."
"Baldur's Gate 3?" Peter cracked a polite smile. "It's just a game, it's not a movie."
"They made three of those?" Rhodey mumbled. "I don't even remember it being that good. Me and Tony just played regular old Dungeons and Dragons."
At that, Peter swung around to his mentor, his eyes lighting up. His mouth dropped open, and he was looking at Tony like he was about to ask a million questions at once.
"I played a half-elf bard, and yes," Tony cut in, "I made it cool. Incredibly so."
Rhodey scoffed, holding back an obnoxious bout of laughter. Maybe it was because Tony knew him too well, and therefore could sense that he was about to call him out on his tomfoolery, because he then immediately changed the subject.
"Anyways," Tony cleared his throat quickly. "So, we can't watch that. Platypus, any suggestions that are equally nerdy? Gotta give the kid the enrichment he needs, of course."
Rhodey made an amused sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. "Right, right. Well, it's getting about time for horror movies, don't you think? Does the kid need a permission slip or something if we watch The Shining?"
"No," Peter said stubbornly, "I definitely don't."
"Hmm," Tony looked over him, his eyes narrowed. His hand scratched at his goatee speculatively. "Well, I suppose I'll allow it."
"Mr. Stark."
Tony couldn't stop chuckling all the way up the elevator. (It really wasn't that funny.)
So, sure, they put on The Shining. It's just as much of a classic as Rhodey remembered it being, and through the first half, he actually found the kid's weird little behind-the-scene blurbs interesting.
("Stanley Kubrick almost wanted Harrison Ford to play Jack," Peter said mindlessly, shoveling popcorn into his mouth. "Can you imagine this movie but it's just Han Solo the whole time? I mean, I love Han Solo, but I'm kinda glad they didn't cast him in the end. It would be fun though, to have like, an extra copy where it's Han Solo and not— er— ah, I forgot the name! I just had it—"
"Nicholson," Tony filled in, hiding a very fond smile behind his hand. He wasn't watching the movie in the slightest, but he didn't look like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Right, yeah! Nicholson.")
The credits roll around, and Rhodey's getting hungry for dinner, so he yawned and stretched and looked over to ask Tony what place they should order from.
Tony was sitting very still, his eyes soft and crinkled at the edges, while the teenager snuffled sleepily on his shoulder. And Rhodey's never seen this before, it's so new to him, but he can't help but feel this is the perfect portrait of a man who's just found the piece of himself that's been missing for a long, long time.
"Baby's out for bedtime," Rhodey smiled.
"Yeah," Tony murmured gently. "He had a rough patrol last night. I'm really glad he's actually getting some rest."
Rhodey hummed nonchalantly. He studied his old friend for a few moments longer. There was a great comfort in knowing this is the first time he's seen a weight on Tony's shoulders that made him at ease.
"I've got to ask," Rhodey hazarded. "What are you thinking right now? Just, when you look at that kid."
Tony glanced up. "What, right now?"
"Sure."
Tony looked back down at Peter, who was properly knocked out, his mouth hanging open while he quietly snored. Rhodey got to see it again; the way Tony's eyes softened. A glint of that old vulnerability shining through like steel.
"I don't know," Tony answered thoughtfully. "I'm just happy he's happy. I mean, Christ, it's morbid, but it's nice to see him safe and healing, away from all the danger. It's nice to hear his heart beat at a calmer pace for once."
Rhodey let that settle in the space.
Tony smiled like he was amused. "He doesn't usually snore. He must really be tuckered out."
("Do you think..." Tony swallowed thickly. His teeth curled up in something bitter, like he was trying so hard to laugh, but just couldn't. "I mean, you know me."
"'Course," Rhodey affirmed, nodding over and over again. The world was a little spinny. He's gonna have to switch to water, soon. "'Course I do."
"Right, yeah. You know me." Tony drummed his hand on the table anxiously. "Just for throwing conversations out there... Do you think I'd be a good father?"
Rhodey's stomach lurched. He stared at Tony and the world went into focus for a few solitary seconds. "Huh?"
"I'd be shitty at it," Tony argued. "I mean, logic stands to reason, I'd just be awful. I don't know how to do it. There's not a lot I don't know how to do, and my whole philosophy for learning overnight doesn't really distend to parenting, does it? That's just... there's too much there. It can't be easy enough to just love, is it?"
Rhodey stared some more, the drunken shock only starting to wear off as Tony kept spinning himself into a spiral.
Tony looked at him, helpless. His smile, fake as it had been, faltered. He just looked tired. He looked scared. "Is it?")
Rhodey swallowed the lump in his throat. "Hey, Tony?"
"Hm?"
"You're good at this," Rhodey said. "You're good."
Tony smiled crookedly, giving him a strange look. "Oh-kay?"
Rhodey nodded firmly. He pushed off the couch with a grunt. He started toward the kitchen. "Now, wake my nephew up so I know what type of pizza he wants."
After all, his stomach was rumbling. He had a delivery to call for.
summary: mj finds herself at a family dinner in the parker home, and for some reason, tony stark is there.
tags: fluff, humour, artist mj, tony and mj interactions!! mj does NOT like him, tony doesnt like himself either though so they get along in a weird way, tony being a good mentor, found family, mj is pining hard
wc: 2,097
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
To make one thing very very clear, Michelle Jones knows that she can be difficult at times. She struggles with plenty of her relationships; snarks to people she wants to be friends with, doesn't believe it when people show signs of enjoying her company, and sure, she may have a bit of a problem with trusting people not to let her down.
She's always preferred the much safer approach to friendship, the quiet lingering in the background, the listening, the studying, the paying close attention. She'll put the stones in someone else's hands, say she won't care, and wait for when someone finally notices that she cares actually a whole lot. She lived under the strong thought process that whoever noticed would be worth trying for, and would save her the grief of betrayal for those who would have disappointed.
Then, sophomore year.
As it turned out, all the people she considers her closest friends almost dying at one, treacherous, traumatic time made for an uncomfortable series of revelations. She isn't afraid to admit that standing there at the bottom of the Washington Monument, seeing it crack and crumble, she learned that the grief would come anyways.
So, she made a conscious effort to break out, little bits of thorn breaking off from her metaphorical walls and the vines breaking loose with every time she chose not to hide a book or a mug of tea.
She befriended Abraham, Sally, Charles, Cindy... Betty took a bit more time, because she was closed off after Liz's sudden departure, and MJ could understand that. She had felt that loss too, having only relied on the small circle that was their team for comfort and, admittedly, a sense of family.
She even befriended Flash, she can't actually say for sure if that was through helping him in study sessions or her thinly-veiled threats of encouragement about Decathlon needing all of its members to be participating at their best. Either way, he's usually the first to laugh when she cracks a joke, and MJ appreciates that more than she thought she could.
Then came Ned Leeds and Peter Parker, who were strange to an excessive amount. They interested MJ the most, particularly Peter, who seemed to have a pension for keeping secrets. MJ loved secrets. Even better, she liked sniffing them out.
It took a while for her to naturally fall in with their tightly-knit duo, but once Ned stopped giving her suspicious looks, she was welcomed with open arms. Literally. MJ had a reputation, and it seemed Peter didn't care in the slightest given by the constant nudges and side-eyes in class.
It was comradery, it was partnership, it was connection. It was-- well, it was friendship.
Then sometime over the summer, MJ started noticing something horrible. Something truly, truly awful. Peter had started making her jittery.
He'd send her a two-am text of something that was downright moronic, something that should have her rolling her eyes, and instead she only found her face all warm and her cheeks hurting because she was smiling at whatever stupid thing he said.
Or he'd be late to whatever movie they were going to see with Ned, and instead of being annoyed or teasing him about it with her usual sarcasm, she'd just wait outside the theatre and try not to swoon about the melted vegan chocolate Peter would pull out of his pocket for her, because 'they don't offer any at the movie counter, so I took a detour and got some from that store you like.'
Naturally, there was only one conclusion for this. She would just ignore it. If there was anything she had practice at, it was shoving all her emotions in a box and then pointedly looking away from it.
Cut to Friday, and Peter had the sweetest idea to invite her to a family dinner at the Parker residence. In the group chat, this was followed by a lengthy chat about whether May would be cooking, which Peter assured she would not be, but his boss would, whatever that meant. Ned had been invited too, but he couldn't make it because of... she can't even remember. But she's annoyed.
Thank you, Leeds, Michelle sighs internally. She knocks on the door.
She would say that she didn't know what she was expecting when it opened, but that would be a lie. What she expected was May, her bright smile, an immediate hug welcoming her in, or even Peter, with the same thing, albeit with a lot more internal panic on MJ's part.
She can't say she expected Iron Man.
"Hi," he greets, a shiny grin on his face. He has greying hair. He has the same stupid goatee from the news. He's wearing May's mustard-colored apron, which has at least one stain of actual mustard, and he looks ridiculously domestic. "You must be Michelle."
'Peter's boss' now makes a lot more sense. MJ clicks her mouth shut, because she refuses to look shocked by this turn of events. She nods once.
"Dinner's just been finished," Tony Stark says, and steps to the side, so MJ walks in and slips her shoes off at the door. Tony Stark, she notes, is also not wearing shoes, but wearing wool socks that probably cost more than her entire outfit, which she realizes isn't saying much because most of her clothes are thrifted, but still. "Don't worry, I cooked."
"I have no idea if that's less worrying or not," MJ says blankly, "I've never had your cooking."
"He didn't cook," Peter rushes in to the hallway, wild-eyed. His hair is sticking up in all odd places because he didn't gel it down like he usually does. MJ's mouth twitches, but she refuses to smile. "He did not cook. I was lied to. Pepper cooked, and then he heated up in the oven, and I had to help him with that."
MJ looks over at Tony Stark with narrowed eyes. He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, it was either that or takeout. And I did help Pep make it, she just was very... watchful."
"Tell Ms. Potts I said thank you," MJ says politely. She's trying to be on her best behavior, watching all her words very carefully. Putting her biases of super corporations and their CEOs aside, Peter knows all these people personally. He doesn't put his respect and trust in just anybody, and this is apparently his family.
"Is MJ here?" May calls out from the kitchen. "Come on in, I've just finished setting the plates!"
Peter gives her an embarrassed smile and nods his head in the direction of the table. MJ follows him in.
The Parker table is small, shaped sort of like a diner's booth. There's usually a thing of condiments in the center, but it's been moved to the counter to make room for the four plates. On the stove, something in a ceramic dish smells good.
"Pete told me you had some dietary stuff, so we made a mushroom stroganoff sort of deal," Stark explains, dishing some onto a plate. He sets it off to the side and grabs another plate, and then flashes another smaller smile. "Hope it's okay."
Peter hands her one of the plates and then grabs the second one that's been filled, then they both squish together onto one side of the table. May and Tony crowd in at the other side.
"What were you gonna do if Ned came?" MJ jokes quietly.
Peter grins. "Eat in the living room."
A laugh bubbles out, and she quickly stuffs her mouth with food. Peter looks incredibly pleased with himself and turns back to his plate, the grin only brightening.
"So," May says, clearing her throat. Her eyes are bright and she leans across the table. "Peter told me you applied for that art contest last week, have you heard back at all?"
"Oh," MJ swallows her food and nods. "Uh, yeah. I actually--" her eyes flick to Peter nervously. He's watching her with full attention, like he's hanging on her every word. "They're meant to contact me when the exhibit happens, but they said they, uh, really liked my presentation."
"Wait, really?" Peter says, his fork clinging against his plate. He sounds so happy for her, and MJ's stomach keeps doing flips under the table. "That's amazing! I told you they would! I'm always right, you gotta stop doubting me."
"You're definitely not always right," MJ cuts in, feeling her face a blotchy crimson. She opens her mouth to say an example of one of the many times Peter was hilariously wrong to back up her argument.
"Uh, I am with you," Peter says, which stuns whatever she was about to say into silence. Well, if "silence" meant that she nearly choked on her words and was reduced to impolite splutters. Because that's exactly what happened. Damn you, Parker.
She catches Tony Stark's eyes across the table, which is an insane thing to say, and is properly horrified when she sees a very particular amusement in his eyes as he looks between the two of them.
"Whatever," she quickly says, her voice hoarse from coughing. She nods in May's direction. "The point is, yes. I've heard back. Thank you for asking."
May smiles knowingly. "That's amazing, your art is fantastic. I'm very proud, I hope you are too, honey."
MJ nods.
"What kind of things do you draw?" Tony Stark asks her, and again, weird. But he looks genuinely curious and was making an effort to try to get to know her, because of course, their only connection here was their mutual contacts.
MJ tries not to feel smug about that. Yes, she was having dinner with an ex-CEO of a multi-billion dollar industry, but he was at their table, and he was asking about her artwork-- and he better like it, because any connection with Peter was better than nothing at all in the world, probably.
Wow.
MJ blinks several times. She tries to remember what she was just asked.
Oh, right.
"People," she says, selecting a mask of indifference and unorthodoxy; one of her favourites. She hopes her stare bores into Tony Stark's brain. "I draw the complex emotions portrayed by humanity when they believe they aren't being watched. They never know that I'm always watching."
Tony meets her stare with the same indifference in his eyes. "Do you enjoy it?"
MJ stares a moment longer. Tony smiles at her. Mask for mask. Mutual understanding. She makes a vague noise of intrigue and settles back, relaxing back into herself. "Yes."
Peter furrows his eyebrows. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Tony asks coolly. He takes another bite of his food.
"I feel like I just watched some kind of standoff," Peter says, looking at the both of them. "May, are they competing for dominance or something? Who won?"
"I believe they tied," May said wisely, nursing sips from a glass of wine. She's inspecting both of them as well, but there's a glint of beguilement in her eyes, and her mouth is quirked in a smile.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," MJ says, just as blankly. "We're only talking about art."
"Right," Peter trails off, keeping his eyes on her. When she doesn't crack, he snorts, and looks away. "We should go see your exhibit when it's open. Mr. Stark, would you wanna go to something like that?"
"Of course," Tony says honestly. "I love art. I'd love to see it."
"Are there any of me?" Peter asks, nudging MJ with his knee. He has a shit-eating grin on his face. MJ wants to sink into the floor.
"Oh?" May sounds delighted. "Have you drawn Peter before?"
"When he looks especially miserable," MJ says tightly, elbowing Peter back. Her cheeks are hot again. She's sure it's visible. She's desperately trying to forget about the damn box.
"That's not true! There was that one when I was smiling!" Peter argues, and he doesn't even look like he knows what he's doing, because he's sort of an oblivious, excitable dog in that way. MJ does, though, and so does Tony, if the look he's giving and his pointed silence is saying anything.
There's not just one, MJ wants to say. There's too many. I keep thinking that if I draw you enough I'll eventually want to stop.
Instead, she says, very calmly:
"There's one."
"What's it called?" Tony speaks up. He's got a smirk on his face. She does not approve.
MJ smirks. "Caught in a web."
And with that, food is sprayed all over the table.
summary: the war is over, but it left its mark on both of them. no matter the distance, tony still is gonna look after his first kid.
tags: post-endgame, hurt/comfort, fix-it, phonecalls, tony being a good dad, insomnia, bed-time stories
wc: 1,778
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
Tony Stark died at the young age of fifty-three.
It had previously been a day of average temperature, clear skies, a nice October breeze in the air.
In the blink of an eye, war made the lands warm, the pressing of bodies running close together, the sweat, the unending nebulous blasts, the firing of magic, the burn of lightning and iron; the dirt, the desolation, all sticky with blood, covered in corpses that were still warm to the touch.
He died with the power of the universe at his hands, which was a lot less cooler than it sounded. The thing about power is that it means nothing to those unworthy to wield it— and nobody has the worthiness to hold the universe in the palm of their hands.
For Tony, the universe felt like this:
His bones were shattered, his skin was ash. Static ran across his arm, up his neck, over his skull, splitting each individual hair in two and burning it instantly in a white-hot blaze.
He couldn't see anything, and he could see everything: patterns, textures, colours that don't exist to the human eye are visible on the edge of his vision, and he could reach out and touch them if he wanted, tell you how they felt, all the unearthly things they consisted of.
There was a ringing in his ear that could rival the mightiest case of Tinnitus, and under it all he could hear it knocking at the base of his brain, everything that he fought for: 'Mr. Stark?' and 'Tony?' and 'You can rest now.''
Tony Stark died at the young age of fifty-three.
He began living again at the same age, near the same time, and has been fighting his own body to stay alive ever since. This, as you can imagine, is a massive chore.
It's been a very long few months. He spent a lot of time living in the hospital, and he hated every second of it, and tries his hardest to avoid going back. What this results in is a lot of different doctors, a lot of emergency appointments (but less than there should be), and so much daily changing medication that he can probably run his own drug ring, if he wants to.
Despite all of this, he has little complaints, even though the symptom list is long. He dutifully goes to every PT appointment, every cardiologist appointment, every neurologist appointment, pulmonologist, ophthalmologist, etc. etc., he takes the meds for his heart, for pain, for seizures, for migraines, his lungs, his damaged nerves, etc. etc. etc. — and he does it all with a smile on his face, because that's what they need from him.
They, being his family. He's doing it all for them. It's always been for them. If there's any chance he can pull through this, he's taking it, and it's the first time in a while he's had such determination about surviving on his own accord.
This whole healing thing would be a lot easier if he didn't feel constantly as though he were missing something.
He has a lot of time to think now. His extensive array of medications come with a lot of fun side-effects. They make him wide awake, and while he would just add another pill for insomnia onto his fun little nighttime routine, all of them counteract with something or other he's already taking.
("You have to understand how ridiculous that is," Tony said tiredly, his eyes boring into the fourth doctor he's seen that day. "I can't sleep because you're taking me off a drug for more drugs. Sleep is supposed to heal you."
"I know," they said sympathetically, "but there's not much we can do with your case being so particular and unique and blah blah blah blah blah—")
With all his nights wide open, he spends a lot of time just sitting, or lying in bed, or stretching his legs robotically to test if he can feel them yet— he's starting to feel the right one, but the left one is totally shot— and thinking.
Obviously, he knows what's missing. It's ironically the same thing he's been missing for the prior five years, the same thing he's found, the same thing he's died for, the same thing he's living for now.
It's just, well, complicated.
Tony understands that he's a very different person now. The grief he'd carried forced him to mellow out, drained him of all his energy and rewired it into something new. He's spent five years remembering every single thing he's said to Peter and hating himself for it, for not being enough while he was there, and subsequently promising to do right by Morgan in return.
Now Peter's here, he's alive, and Tony's had to watch that spark in his eyes dwindle every day since he's gotten back, and everything in him wants to cradle his hands around that remaining light and try to oxygenate the life back into it, try to make things better again— and he just can't.
The kid doesn't visit him often, and Tony has been trying to give him the space to come over, to bridge that gap. He doesn't want to spook him more with all the new changes, with the new person that he's become in Peter's absence.
They're meeting again for the first time, and in a way, both of them have died, and this time Tony means that in a metaphorical way, not the way that his heart literally stopped. Which also happened. But not the point.
It's another late night, and Tony's up again, and the knee he can't feel keeps jerking involuntarily, making it impossible to get any semblance of rest. He's relocated very carefully to the couch, where there's a very comfortable chair next to a window. He likes to sit in there while he takes his IV every week.
He doesn't know what time it is, but it's late, and he's just staring at his pallid reflection in the glass of the darkened window when his phone buzzes. It takes a second to fish it out of his pocket, and it causes a great deal of pain to his shoulder, but he manages.
His heart lurches when he sees a text from Peter.
[peter parkley: image.png]
[peter parkley: lol what interview was this]
It's some stupid photo of himself holding a Spider-Man doll, one of those ridiculously cheap ones with the paint chipping off at every sharp plastic edge of limb and joint. That's not what matters to him. Peter's texting him at nearly four in the morning.
He can't text very well anymore, side-effect of being one-armed, so his thumb goes right over the keyboard and instead hits the call button.
"Hello?" Peter answers, and he sounds— he sounds rough. Tony frowns.
He cuts to the chase, adjusting the phone against his ear. "The interview was for some magazine. Hey, it's not a patrol night. What are you doing up? Are you alright?"
"I'm alright," Peter answers immediately. A beat of silence. "I'm just... I can't sleep."
His voice cracks at the end, and Tony's chest hurts. It's less relieving to know that it is in fact not a heart attack, but rather a side effect of knowing his kid is hurt, and he can't do anything for it.
"Alright," Tony says. He decides then at a rapid fire pace that he's going to take this step for step. Treat it like when Morgan comes stumbling down the stairs after a nightmare. "Any particular reason you aren't able to clock in for Sleepy Town, or is it just one of those nights?"
"That's a loaded question," Peter says, sounding dazed.
"That's fine, kiddo," Tony says calmly. "I'll ask a simpler one, then. Is there anything I can do?"
Peter exhales a tired sigh.
"If it would help, I'd be more than willing to drive down there and pick you up," Tony offers. He's not supposed to drive. He knows this. He also doesn't care about what he's supposed to do, if what he intends to do will help one of his kids sleep peacefully. "I'll leave May a text, we can just drive for a bit, tucker you out. That's how Morgan got to sleep when she was a few months."
"No thanks," Peter says, his voice dwindling from the speaker like a crackling voice on a radio. He's exhausted. He's so exhausted. If Tony could, he'd scoop him up and cradle all his awkward teenage limbs and rock him gently back and forth, like he did with Morgan, and get him to sleep that way. Sing him a lullaby. Tell him everything will be okay, tell him that Tony won't let anything happen, tell him it's safe to go to sleep. Tell him, 'I've got you.'
Something settles in his mind, then. A key turning into ignition. He leans back in his chair and the old wood creaks.
The engine of his brain starts up like a rusted car he's just repaired, warming and rumbling and remembering how to run, how to work for the driver intended. He knows how to help Peter. He learned so long ago, how could he have forgotten?
"I've got a new idea," Tony says after a moment. "Lay down, take some deep breaths. Get comfy. You got blankets? Pillows? Stuffed animal?"
"I'm seventeen," Peter says, and immediately, Tony can sniff out the amusement in his voice. He's already made the right call, then. There's a shuffling on the other end as Peter follows the instructions.
"Hey, stuffed animals are for every age," Tony says seriously. "This is a non judgmental environment. I sleep every night with a Unicorn Pillow Pet that Pepper got me back in 2010."
A quiet laugh graces Tony's ears, and he lets his heart be full with the sound. Another successful win.
"Okay. Now what?"
"I'm gonna read you a story," Tony states. "Put you right to sleep. Works every time."
Peter doesn't say anything for a moment, and Tony stalls then too, thinking maybe he made a wrong turn. Then, Peter chokes out a deflection. "Why are you even up? You never actually said."
"Meds are keeping me awake," Tony says honestly.
"Oh," Peter sounds defeated. He hates that tone. "Okay."
He opens his phone and goes to one of the pdfs he has saved of bedtime stories, ones that he collected before Morgan was even born, when he was stuck in a hospital for similar reasons and grief was drowning him every second he wasn't doing something.
Tony clears his throat. "Alright, I have the tab pulled up. You comfy yet?"
"Yeah."
With his shoulders lax, Tony took a breath and began.
"Holy hell," Harley spun around in his chair, holding a wrench in his hand. He pointed at the door with it, threateningly. "I've officially had it up to here with you. Go on. Git."
Peter groaned, dumping his head on the desk, his curls splaying out in a haphazard mess. "I don't need to go home, I'm not sick."
"Bullshit!"
Tony stopped welding, sparks and electrical whirring going quiet. He flipped his helmet up and used his forearm to wipe sweat from his eyes. "Sick?" He called distractedly. "Who's sick?"
Harley stared pointedly at him. "Mister Junior Intern Peter Benjamin Parker."
"Don't legal-name me," Peter said miserably, his voice all nasally. His eyes felt like they were full of pins. His throat hurt from sneezing. "I'm not sick. I have allergies."
"Bless your heart," Harley drawled. He tossed the wrench on the desk. "I didn't even know you could get sick with your mutant-nonsense."
"I can get sick. But I'm not sick right now." Peter pulled himself up from the desk. "And yeah, I have a mutation, but I'm still human."
"Highly debated on many fronts and in several academic circles."
"Ha!" Harley grinned. "Hear that? Tony agrees with me."
"Maybe I will go home," Peter said. "Maybe I'll go home and be with people that don't bully me."
As he said this, he trailed over to the mini-fridge that was fully stocked of cherry Capri-Suns, the best flavour, one he will defend until his untimely demise— even if it was Tony's least favourite and he gagged anytime he tried one.
("Jesus, drink whatever you legally can want, just keep that away from me," Tony held up his hand, his face pinched. "Tastes like cough syrup. How can you drink that crap?"
"Mmm, yummy," Peter made an obnoxious slurping noise with his straw. "Cough syrup.")
Dum-E trailed after him, whirring quietly. It offered him a ratchet, held carefully in its hydraulic claw, and chirped.
"Thank you," Peter said solemnly. He took the ratchet and patted the robot's approximate head. "At least Dum-E cares."
"He just knows you'll drink his oil smoothies," Tony called out. "He's using you."
Harley scoffed. "Your damned iron stomach can handle a Dum-E smoothie and yet you're sick from a cold?"
"I am not sick!" Peter said again, only to finish the sentence with a sneeze crescendo. His head spun, and he caught himself on the edge of the counter.
Harley had practically leaped out of his seat. "Y'okay?" He demanded, his eyes wide. "You idiot, y'look like you're about to blow over. Si'down."
"Did you know your accent gets thicker when you're worried?" Peter joked weakly. (Obediently though, he did sit down in the nearest chair— which happened to be at Tony's desk. Nice.)
Harley rolled his eyes and sat back down, turning around in his seat. He threw up a middle finger. "Shuddup. Not worried about you. I hate your guts."
"Highly debated on many fronts and in several academic circles," Peter mocked. He blew out a tired breath and started fidgeting with the stuff on Tony's desk. Paperclips. Loose blueprints. Capacitators. Bits of frayed wire and peeled copper. He's poking around at a lone plastic pen cap when Tony snapped his fingers at him.
"Hey, you. Sickie. Stop spreading germs on all my shit," Tony said distractedly, his head turned in the complete other direction.
Peter tossed his hands up in the air. "I'm not sick!"
Three sneezes. Directly in a row.
Tony slowly turned around. He raised an eyebrow. Harley echoed the expression, although his raised eyebrow felt a lot meaner.
"Okay," Tony tried, "so--"
Harley interrupted him. "What gives? Is this like some pride thing? 'Cuz you look weaker when you're over here spewing snot all over the lab and fallin' over like an anaemic Victorian peasant."
Peter ducked his head down in defeat. "Ugh."
"What gives?" He demanded.
Peter mumbled something into his arms.
Tony leaned forward. "What was that, Pete?"
"I didn't wanna miss lab day," he said again, louder. His face red with embarrassment, but his body freezing cold, and he was even wearing his newer coat, the one he just bought from Goodwill last week. (Under that, a jacket. Then a sweater. Then a shirt.)
Truly, he's starting to regret his choice. He could be back in bed now, bundled under all the blankets stocked in the hallway closet and a heating pack and drinking warmed-up split-pea soup from a can.
"Aww, well ain't that sweet," Harley crossed his arms, grinning with all his teeth. "Did'ya miss me, Parker?"
"Hardly, Keener," Peter shivered, his teeth clacking against each other. "I just didn't want you to screw up the math on the synthetic design again."
"Okay, that was one time, first of all. Second of all--"
"Second of all," Tony held up a hand. "While your concern for truancy is admirable, kid, I'm pretty sure I speak for both of us when I say it's more important for you to be resting. Shut your mouth, Harls, don't make me point to the sign."
(On the wall, a sign with Tony's face on it. In big bold letters, written in the Stark Industries font: DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO.)
"I know," Peter huffed. "I thought I would be fine. I only felt a little under the weather this morning, but I hadn't slept, so it wasn't weird to me."
Tony paused, narrowing his eyes. (Shitttt.) Harley whistled.
"What do you mean you haven't slept?" Tony asked politely.
Meanwhile, Harley was beaming, leaning back in his chair and propping his leg up on the desk. "He sent me an invite to play 8-Ball at like, four in the morning."
Peter sneezed. "Snitch."
"Yeah, alright." Tony clapped his hands. "I'm calling it. Executive decision from the adult in the room. Peter, pack your things, I'm taking you home. Harley, you wanna come with while I drop him off, or you staying here?"
Harley brushed his hands off on his jeans and stood up. "Ain't got shit else to do. C'mon, Parker, I'll get your dumbass bag."
Peter sighed, and with the energy of Sisyphus, stood.
(The next day, Peter was happily skipping down the steps of his apartment, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and he was making pretty good time. This was why he picked up the phone easily when it rang.
A southern twang started off like a firecracker in his ears.
"You son of a bitch, your damn germs spread and now I'm coughin' like a-- ACHOO! Oh for-- ACHOO-- I'm gonna-- ACHOO-- I'm gonna beat your-- ACHOO--")
summary: a series of moments in their friendship in which peter learns he may like johnny more than he wants to admit
tags: hurt/comfort, college-age spideytorch, mental illness, ptsd, fluff, yearning, they love eachother so much, not mcu-compliant, a smidge of irondad sprinkled in
wc: 9,902
cross-posted on ao3 under the same name!
Let's be honest. Nobody in the entire world could shake the last time they had interplanetary visitors. Peter didn't exactly need to think hard to remember the feeling of his atoms splitting like nuclear fission, the taste of decay on his tongue, chalk and ash, the impending doom rattling his senses so badly he couldn't pinpoint the threat. It had been everywhere. All consuming. Inevitable.
Coming back hadn't been all that great either. Neither was the aftermath. Or Tony almost dying. Or—
Basically, everything went to shit the exact moment a massive spaceship decided to burst New York's bubble, and now it was happening again.
Tony was convinced it was fine, though, and no offense, but Tony was the most paranoid person he knew. If he wasn't worried, then Peter shouldn't be worried. He's eighteen, he's got his whole life ahead of him, and he definitely isn't going to be torn apart by a power hungry genocidal alien again. Lightning couldn't strike twice, right?
(It absolutely could strike twice! Lightning was known to do that! It especially liked striking repeatedly on people— things, that were known to attract horrible incidents like, well for example, lightning—)
"Finally, there you are. Come on in," Tony waved him forward. His arm was all synthetic, wires and vibranium and carefully integrated nano-particles. It stood a very vivid, inorganic reminder of all that could have been lost. He had been lucky.
Peter wasn't one to push his luck. Still, he stood beside Tony, let his hand clapping his shoulder ground him, and he forced himself to wave. "Hi."
There's a group of people in front of him. A woman, sunny blonde hair, short at her shoulders with neat waves. Beside her, with the same tones and face, a teenager, about his age. Both of them had vivid blue eyes. A man, slightly older, tired and angular, brown eyes, white horizontal streaks gone up the sides of his brown hair. Then there was the obvious, which was a massive heap of chiseled rock, built like the Hulk, with kind eyes and a strong structure.
"This is one of our secret identity heroes," Tony explained, gesturing to Peter. "But he's very nice, smart as a whip. This is Spider-Man."
Objectively, Peter should feel on guard. They're intruders. It's unknown what they really want, where they're from, what they can do, and all of that spells out bad. Danger. Threat. High-risk.
But he's looking at them, and it's weird, because it's like listening to a song you know you've heard before, but can't place the where, when, and what. Familiarity pressed at the stem of his brain and prodded around at the edges like it was trying to find a missing root.
He can't find any possible, logical reason, to feel the sense of calm he does. He genuinely can't explain it— he saw them, and just felt intrinsically that they were safe. His senses were just... quiet.
"Do I know you?" Peter blurted out— coincidentally at the same time as Johnny.
Well.
It all kind of spiraled from there.
—
Technically, him and Johnny met when they were eighteen. It took a slight adjustment period, because yeah, being dropped into a different universe wasn't exactly easy for either party, but after that, it was like they'd known each other their entire life.
Peter felt like he had known him his entire life. It's hard to remember they've only known each other for three-ish years. They had inside jokes, but they couldn't remember what their origin was, and consequently didn't know why they were laughing. Then Johnny would be sensitive about things that Peter hadn't even told him, or Peter would know routines just naturally, knowing the best times to drop in and bug him.
At the beginning, when it was new, Reed had theorized there must be other universes, many of them, perhaps all of them, where they were close. And so Johnny joked, "What, so we're soulmates?" and Peter gave the ceiling his most affronted lead-paint stare for the following ten minutes.
(But much later, when they were sitting in his dorm room, and Johnny was yapping his ear off about some car he had 'rescued' while leaning way too far into his personal space, Peter had to admit. If he had to be stuck with someone for all eternity or whatever, there were worse people to suffer with than Johnny Storm.)
"That's," Ned started, and then he closed his mouth. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, looking at the table. "Well."
"What?" Peter demanded, because he was definitely thinking something. And MJ had that look in her eyes that made Peter feel like he was the dumbest biggest idiot in the room. "What?"
"I mean," Ned started again, carefully. He shrugged. "So. You've known me for like seven years. And MJ for about the same time."
MJ squinted, her eyes going back to the thesis she had open on her laptop. He didn't know why, but the lack of eye contact felt way more judgmental than when she was staring at him before.
Peter furrowed his eyebrows and picked at his cuticles. "Yeah...?"
"Maybe there's a reason, you're like," Ned trailed off. "Like that. With him. You know?"
"What do you—?"
"It's homoromantic, Peter," MJ finally said, blunt. "Like, sickly so. You just called him your soulmate. Either go get laid by someone or like, ask him on a date or something."
Peter immediately reeled back, spluttering. "What the fuck?"
"Please," Ned begged. "Please, dude. It's sad. This is sad."
"That's— I don't want— I'm done talking about this, actually," Peter crossed his arms. "You're all enemies."
MJ shook her head with a dramatic sigh. "Peter acting like not talking about his problems will make them go away... At least he's reliable."
Peter scowled. His friends were dicks. He actually had a really normal relationship with Johnny Storm. No, seriously.
For example. Sometimes when Johnny said something that was outrageously stupid, his vision went all buzzy and he wanted to strangle him. (Spidey gloves leave no fingerprints. No fingerprints.) But other times Johnny would say something remarkably insightful, and it was like Peter was the only one who actually heard him.
Or Johnny would show up after a really shitty day with pizza and beer. Or Johnny would patrol with him. Or Johnny would leave his window unlocked so Peter could drop by whenever. Or—
The point was, they're friends.
What, Peter can't have friends?
—
Peter groaned, leaning heavily against him. “Torch, I am wiped. Hold me.”
He’s sweaty. His whole body ached. Kind of what happened when you were fighting aliens for like, five hours straight with no mid-day naptime.
“Ugh, get off,” Johnny swatted him lamely. “I’m too tired to hold you.”
The whole team was worn out. Peter had lifted, like, an entire fucking spaceship, and that was only during halftime. He wanted a heating pad, that cheap TENS unit he bought on a deal two years ago, and like, a table full of leftover kung pao chicken. Immediately.
It took energy to use his powers, so Johnny was pretty tired too. He’d spent the whole battle flames on, chucking fire at the neverending waves of enemies.
They half-drag themselves back onto the jet, slumping into the first available seat.
“You’re hot,” Peter said with joyful delirium, dumping his body weight onto Johnny’s side. He made a quiet sound of relief, the warmth just slightly soothing the aches.
“Pardon?” Johnny muttered, squirming away.
“You’re hot. Feels good,” he repeated, and frowned when his head was dislodged from its place on Johnny’s shoulder. “Stop movin’. I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”
“Ugh. Bug on me. Sue, there’s a bug. It’s on me, Sue. Where’s the Raid.”
“Shut up, flamebrain,” he muttered, his eyes dipping shut.
In response, Johnny made a half-hearted grumble, but didn’t move from his spot.
They fall asleep pretty quickly, using each other as a makeshift pillow. And yeah, Peter woke up with a cramp in his neck, but his whole body was sore anyway. What did it matter? They did this all the time.
Normal.
—
"No, Tony," Peter said into his phone, dropping heavily onto the fire escape. "I'm alright. Just tired. No, I didn't get beat up too bad. Don't worry about it. Yeah. Yep. You too. Okay, talk to you later."
After he hung up, he blew out a long, tired breath. It took him a moment of sitting there, recollecting himself, before he found the energy to move again. He pulled open his window and climbed inside.
Every bone in his body ached. He took a nasty slash from Scorpion, one long slice from his chest across the side of his body, ending at the back of his hip. It stung, it was all crusty with blood, and with his luck, probably was already cooking up some infection he'll have to deal with.
He hated when his bad guys decided to rally during finals week. It was like they could smell the exhaustion on him. Not fair.
He pulled off his mask, tossing it to the side, and took another deep breath. He had a paper due four hours ago, but unfortunately, sickos in poison-wielding robot suits don't really care about deadlines, so that's at least one assignment he'll have to beg and bargain over.
He could stay up and chip off some more studying for his o-chem final, but just the thought was making his eyes ache. Maybe he could convince all of the teachers to let him hibernate for the rest of the year if he looked miserable enough showing up tomorrow morning.
"human" torch
horrible night solid zero out of ten [3:15 AM]
Are you like [3:16 AM]
Bleeding out [3:16 AM]
no [3:18 AM]
hahadontkys.png [3:18 AM]
always the same image from you. [3:19 AM]
you make it SO EASY to use [3:20 AM]
Srsly tho are u ok [3:20 AM]
ah you know [3:20 AM]
helpless-cat.png [3:21 AM]
Nothing antibiotics and a nap wont fix [3:21 AM]
right. right... [3:22 AM]
Naturally, Johnny showed up in less than fifteen minutes after that. To be honest, Peter had forgotten he'd even sent him a text message. He got distracted somewhere between cleaning up his own blood and trying to find something in his freezer that he could make without having to use the oven. (The oven wasn't broken, he just didn't have the time to wait for it to heat up and then wait for it to actually cook.)
Johnny crossed his arms, looking him over with his stupid ice blue eyes. He had on a long-sleeve, skinny jeans, all of it neat and styled. His hair wasn't gelled, but it still looked good, because Johnny was just insufferable like that. He always looked good. Even at four in the morning. The moon even made his hair glow this incandescent white with how blonde he was.
Peter couldn't stand him.
"How bad is it?" Johnny asked bluntly. "Is Stark about to break down the door?"
"No," Peter mumbled, falling back on the couch. "I didn't tell him."
"Obviously."
Peter gave a lazy nod. "Obviously."
"Cool. Well." Johnny crouched over him, squinting. Disgust tugged at his bottom lip as he surveyed over the injuries. Ouch. Peter knew he looked bad, but seriously. Ouch. "Jesus. Who was it this time? Wait, no. Let me guess. Kraven."
"Nope."
"Rhino?"
"Not tonight."
"Got it, okay," Johnny said. "Grizzly."
Peter lifted his arm from his face, showing his raised eyebrows. "Wow, you actually got it."
Johnny's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"No," he said flatly, dropping his arm. "It was Scorpion."
"Asshole. You're an asshole. Anyone ever tell you that?"
"Pot, kettle," Peter sighed heavily, and pushed himself back up to sit. He groaned, tilting his neck so the muscles tugged, and the joints crack uncomfortably. He pointedly ignored Johnny's responding wince.
"You didn't clean it up very good. It looks like shit, actually," Johnny said, gesturing to the long diagonal slice across his side. "Kit still under the sink?"
"On the counter, actually," Peter muttered, lifting up his arm to look at the wound again. He didn't think it looked that bad, honestly. He'd definitely had worse, at least. (He'd gotten hit by a train before. It took a bit now to actually concern him.) "I took it out earlier."
Peter watched absently as Johnny got up and made the short stroll to the kitchen. He seemed displeased at the state of his first aid kit. Guess it was time to swing by a pharmacy and restock.
“I don’t know how to do all of this shit,” Johnny complained as he walked back, flipping open the kit and poking around in it with his hand. “Why do you have so much stuff, web-for-brains.”
“Because health insurance is expensive, Johnny,” Peter complained back. “And can’t exactly swing into an ER with a GSW. You know they have to call the cops over that? I didn’t.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow suspiciously, and made no attempt to hide how he was looking him over again.
Peter saved him the trouble with a tired snort. He leaned back on the couch. “I didn’t get shot. Not this time.”
That seemed to satisfy him, because Johnny shook his head and ducked back down to fish through the first aid kit. He made a noise of annoyance and got back up again.
In the few moments he’s gone, Peter drifted. He tried not to think about most hallucinations he saw on the job from the various exposure to toxins and gas and poisons, blood loss, magic spells, etc. (normal 9-to-5 stuff). But that was always easier said than done.
He hated when his bad guys used psycho-active drugs. Give him a target, he’ll fight til he’s bleeding and bruised, but the second they start messing with his head…
He’s zoning out, he can feel the way his vision goes delicately blank, like a blur filter, a sheet of satin pulled over his head. He’s staring somewhere between here and nowhere and he’s thinking about the feeling of concrete when it hugged a ribcage. He’s thinking of small details, grubby fingers gripping through the murk, cold water dripping from his hair and shocking his cheeks.
It was funny, how after all of this time, the events he now considered small still left their imprint on his body, on his mind. Having a building fall on him was not the worst thing to ever happen to him. Honestly, it didn’t even make top five. Not anymore.
That didn’t matter to Scorpion’s poison, and apparently, didn’t matter to his psyche— because it took five minutes for his legs to stop shaking after he broke from the hallucination, and it took even longer to remind himself that he wasn’t that fifteen year old kid.
He wasn’t ignored, or forgotten. He wasn’t alone, screaming until his voice was hoarse. He wasn’t trapped under a fallen parking garage with nothing but his own shoulders to keep the weight from crushing him.
So why did everything feel so heavy?
“Pete—?”
Johnny startled him with a hand on his knee, and Peter’s eyes snap back to the present.
“Sorry,” Johnny hesitated, and held up a washcloth. Damp. “Need to clean that cut.”
“Right,” Peter said, swallowing around the wet concrete and debris in his throat. He shifted to the side and held his arm up for better access.
Johnny was known for being brash, burning too hot to touch, all too bright, too far to reach. But with Peter, he was solid, right here, and so, so gentle. He was barely touching Peter’s skin, with the damp cloth. Just slight brushes against the worst of it, making sure it was well and truly clean.
The entire time, the damp cloth had stayed a soothing heat against his skin. The water had never cooled, meaning that Johnny had actively been keeping it warm the entire time. It was such a minuscule display of his power. Such an unnecessary exertion of energy for no reason other than the sake of Peter’s comfort.
That’s kind of just who Johnny was, though.
That’s kind of just why Peter found himself in this predicament.
—
Anyways, yeah. Peter was slipping. That was obvious to him now.
He'd probably been slipping for a long time, but willful, stubborn ignorance was one hell of a drug. If there was one thing Peter knew how to do, it was getting back up, and he's been getting back up all month with no reprieve. He's tired.
The Sinister Six were having a wonderful time tearing up Manhattan, Peter was generously failing five classes, and he hadn't slept well since... well, honestly since he was thirteen, but it was getting harder and harder to bounce back from.
He's got this consistent feeling of nausea, lately. It came in waves, and it left him rattled, on edge. It's like his head was actively fighting just to stay in the pilot seat, and everything around him became static. But he'll keep getting up, because he has to. There's nothing to do except get up, right? He had a responsibility. Peter wasn't free today. Actually, he had a lot to do— but Johnny had been texting him for at least three weeks that he wanted to hang, so, now they were hanging. Admittedly, he was treating it more like another thing on his to-do list. He wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep for a long time, and then dissociate at a wall for a few hours, and then go back to sleep again with the hopes that he'll feel a little more alive afterwards.
But I like hanging out with Johnny, he kept telling himself. I'm not making a sacrifice, I'm just... being a decent friend.
So he gaslit himself all the way to Johnny's couch.
They're not even doing anything. He's sitting, scrolling at his phone, and he's been scrolling at his phone for a while. He's not even really processing anything on it. It's just another bit of stimulation to keep his head busy, because if his head was busy, he couldn't think about how his heart was racing out of his chest, or how his hands were cold, or how his stomach was threatening to tilt.
He had a whole rogues gallery out on the streets right now, planning any number of things. Peddling some horrible new psychotropic, breaking all the gangs from Ryker's again. Maybe both. Maybe they're planting bombs, some impossible game of hide-and-seek for Peter to suffer through, later– but he couldn't win, because he couldn't be in five places at once, and people will die because he wasn't out there stopping them now—
Johnny pressed against his side with a laugh, leaning over and showing him something on his phone. He was saying something, but it sounded underwater.
"Ha," Peter smiled weakly, nodding. "Yeah, that's funny."
Johnny glanced up at him, still leaned in,and he smelled like ozone and his eyes were bright and blue and he's— he's—
"Pete," Johnny said, pressing a hand into his shoulder. He was so warm. He was always so warm. The inside of a star. "Hey, you're good, man. Peter."
"Sorry," Peter said, taking a shaky breath. His stomach twisted, every muscle felt tight, heavy. He kept swallowing like it would make a difference to his rapidly drying mouth. "I don't know," he tried to explain.
Johnny shook his head, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "That's alright," he said easily, his eyebrows dipped in concern. "Take it easy, just breathe. You don't have to know, sometimes shit just happens. Bet your brain was just working too fast, huh? Happens. You're just too smart for your own good."
Johnny's other hand comes up to card through Peter's hair, and his eyes sting immediately. Johnny was just— he was so gentle. Gentle, and good, and steady, and everything Peter felt like he kept forgetting how to be.
"Aw," Johnny noticed how fast he crumbled, because he always does. He gave a troubled little smile, cupping Peter's face now, tilting so he's at his eye level. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay, right?"
Peter nodded, jerkily, and dipped his head down. He pressed his forehead into the crook of Johnny's neck, welcoming the touch. He kept his eyes shut tight and took short little breaths, trying to steady himself. Focusing on Johnny's warmth, and his strong, steady heartbeat, his personal proxima centauri.
"Sorry," he repeated. "Need a minute. 'M fine."
"I know."
"Long..." Peter let out a big breath, "life."
"I know," Johnny said again, his voice softer. "Take a minute then. Take ten. I don't care."
"Sorry."
Johnny huffed gently, amused, and nodded. "I forgive you," he said back, like it was impossibly easy for him to do.
The thing with them was that, for whatever reason, it really was easy. Johnny was... exactly what he was; a living, breathing flame. He was hotheaded, and teasing, and bold in everything he did; always the first one in the room to take up space and attention. He acted first, and thought later, always did what he believed in his chest to be right. He was always burning up so much of himself that sometimes, he forgot how to come back down to earth.
And Peter was the opposite. He had bad days, and worse days, and a lot of his life was dedicated to picking himself up from the current. Always trying to keep his head above the water, because it was so, so easy to drown. When he got low, he got low, and it was always cold, and dark, and lonely. He was so used to being cold, dark, and lonely.
So Peter kept Johnny from burning out in atmosphere— and Johnny kept Peter from drowning in the dark.
In a way, they were the only ones who could do that for each other. Maybe that's why, in Reed's theories, there was such a high theoretical percentage of "cross-universal entanglement". ("Soulmates," Johnny had called them, and in Peter's head the word kept spinning around again, and again, and again, caught in orbit. Soulmates.)
"What're you thinkin'?" Johnny asked quietly. His hands hadn't stopped curling in Peter's hair, looping his fingers gently around the greasy waves without mind.
"I'm really tired," Peter croaked. Tired felt like a better word than tainted. Better word than sick.
Well-manicured nails scratch thoughtfully at his scalp. "Do you want to go home?"
Peter imagined returning to his apartment, which was drafty and cramped and most devastatingly didn't have a Johnny Storm in it, and his mouth tugged into a pained frown. It was pathetic, but he was weary in a way he couldn't even understand. He just knew that Johnny was helping. This was helping.
He made a soft noise of indifference in the back of his throat. He was trying to give the impression that it matter to him either way. (It did. He didn't think he was fooling Johnny either.)
"Sleep here, then," Johnny suggested. "I'm not doing anything."
"Are you sure?" Peter said, as if his words weren't muffled by the way his face was tucked into Johnny's neck. Like he wasn't already glued onto Johnny's side with no intention of moving.
"Yeah," Johnny huffed again, and shifted so he was settled back on the couch. "I'll just chill here. You can take my bed if that's more comfortable."
Peter was plenty comfortable here, so he quietly kept his head down, didn’t move too much. It was a habit to treat nice circumstances like they were made of glass. He didn’t want to be the one to break the illusion.
Peter fell asleep with the comfort of Johnny’s chest rumbling every so often when he laughed, and the sound of his heartbeat steadily putting away.
—
Being friends with Johnny meant that he was intimately familiar with messages in the New York sky, broadcasted to everybody. Curling flames written in Johnny’s neat upperclass cursive, blazing shiny in the sky.
Meet me at our spot ;)
Peter dropped onto the crown of the Statue of Liberty, his feet making contact with the copper. There were blankets set up, pillows, snacks— a laptop, connected to a power brick, paused on a production title card. Johnny smiled cheerfully, crossing his arms. He looked ridiculously smug.
“Um,” Peter huffed, laughing slightly. “Hi? Was– do you have a date I’m interrupting?”
“No. Just wanted to do something for you,” Johnny stretched back out on the blankets, giving the impression that it was actually comfortable and not a centimeter of fabric laid out on cold, hard metal. “I knew the past few weeks have been shitty with all the uglies in your yard, so. Victory movie night.”
Ugh.
Ugh.
“What movie is that?” Peter gestured to the laptop, climbing over the edge of the crown and dropping next to him on the blanket. He pulled up his mask, letting the cold air hit his face. It gave a much more acceptable reason for why his cheeks were red.
“SpaceCamp,” Johnny said, and reached over to rip open a package of marshmallows. “But I downloaded other stuff too. But I figured, you know. I like space, you like weird old movies…”
“Sounds perfect. And it’s not weird, it’s Joaquin Phoenix. And John Williams. He did Star Wars. And E.T. And—“
“—and every other 80s movie that ever made a buck. You’ve said. God, you’re such a nerd,” Johnny unpaused the movie. “Do you want a s’more? I’ll make it nice and hot for you.” (He winked).
Peter rolled his eyes and bit back a smile, sitting back against the hard copper. “Sure.”
He tried to focus on the movie. He idly handed Johnny marshmallows, and he would get distracted watching Johnny toast them and smush the gooey thing onto a graham cracker for him.
Peter had a complicated relationship with space. Sometimes weird things will set it off, like shooting stars, meteor showers, eclipses. The knowledge of being so infinitely small in a vast world wasn’t the frightening part. Frightening didn’t even seem like the right word. He wasn’t afraid of space.
There are times, though, looking at pieces of recent history — Chitauri, the Black Order, the Kree, Thanos— where he just felt cold, and tired. Space made him tired the way a war would wear on any seventeen year old’s body, because that’s what it meant to him.
“Why do you still like space?” Peter murmured. It was insensitive. If he were to have asked anyone else, he’d be biting his tongue and wincing in the aftermath. Johnny wasn’t anyone else.
“I’ve always liked space,” Johnny smiled, tilting his head at him. “Ever since I was little.”
“Well. Yeah. Me too,” Peter said. “But.”
But…
Johnny made a noise in the back of his throat, subdued. He understood now. “Oh. Because of the accident.”
“Yeah. The accident.”
Johnny lit a flame in his palm. “I mean, it gave me this. Which was pretty cool.”
Peter tried to think of it like that. Less as a traumatic event, more of a paradigm shift. That test flight was Johnny’s ‘spider bite’. (That wasn’t to say both instances weren’t traumatic, but the bigger takeaway from them was definitely the superpowers.)
Peter glanced back at him. “Do you remember it?”
Peter remembered every single detail about going to space. He couldn’t scrub it away if he tried, and god, had he tried. It stuck in his head like a sliver that the body decided to grow around, rather than reject. Unnatural, painful, prodding.
A beat of silence.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, dull. His eyes cast down at the movie absently. “I remember a lot. My sister was screaming, she kept trying to hide her face from the light… and Reed was trying to reach for the controls. Ben, he… he could hardly move, but he tried to shield me, kept telling me it would be alright.”
“And you…?”
“I felt like I was on fire.” He shrugged. “I guess I probably was.”
Then Johnny sighed and stretched out his neck. He tilted back to look up at the night sky. He looked almost wistful.
“But I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I just always had this feeling, like there was something up there, just waiting for me… and then I got these powers. It feels right. You don’t ever feel like that?”
No, Peter thought immediately. Yes. I don’t know.
Being Spider-Man, it didn’t feel like destiny. It was a responsibility, it had been from the first day he wore the mask. The thing was, anybody could have been bitten by a spider, and anybody who had would be in the same predicament. With great power, and all that.
There are times where Peter was swinging, and when his body slung up through the air after an arc, and force made gravity feel slow— it felt weightless. Free.
But most of the time it was heavy, and full of loss. To be Spider-Man meant to be stitched with grief, and that was something a lot of people didn’t realize.
Anybody could have been bitten, but it didn’t happen to anybody. It happened to him. What a selfish and immature thought it was, but he felt like everything always happened to him.
Peter’s fingers were sticky with marshmallow, and he itched to have better things happen to him. He wanted to hold Johnny’s hand. He wanted to turn off this stupid movie and kiss the chocolate from the side of Johnny’s mouth.
Instead, he only hummed, and turned back to the laptop screen.
—
Okay.
Okay, fine.
He liked Johnny a little more than the usual threshold, whatever that was. It was annoying, actually, because everyone on the planet was a little bit in love with Johnny Storm. There was no place on the internet that was immune to hoards of fans talking about how pretty he was.
He was pretty though. The worst part was all of those fans really had no idea, they never saw him close enough. But Peter did. Peter unfortunately had to see his stupid coiffed blond hair, and his stupid unilateral dimple, and the stupid smirkish pout he had when he was smug— all of it, up close and personal.
He’s so funny, they cried out, and oh, he’s dumb that it’s cute!
If Peter’s eyes could roll back any further, they would. Nobody in the world understood Johnny Storm in the very unique way that Peter understood him, and it made him want to tear his hair out.
Johnny was funny, sure. Cute— debatable. He definitely wasn’t dumb, though. Peter was pretty sure anyone related to Sue in any capacity was automatically intelligent, and Johnny wasn’t exempt from this. He wasn’t smart in the way that Reed was, but, Jesus, barely anybody was on his level.
Peter thought that the most infuriating part by far was somewhere along the way, Johnny actually got it in his head that he wasn’t smart enough. Or strong enough. Or worthwhile enough. Or just plain enough.
“Why do you do that?” Peter blurted, scowling at Johnny’s phone. He paused the recorded interview, only two minutes in. “That’s so— urgh.”
“Urgh?” Johnny laughed. “Not exactly a glowing review. What did I do? They all love me!”
“No, they don’t,” Peter said, emphatic, and he scowled harder. “They don’t.”
Hurt flashed over Johnny’s face, masked by a crooked smile. “Um… ouch? Wow. Tell me what you really think, Pete.”
“I’m saying, they don’t love you. They love,” Peter gestured to the paused video. “This… I don’t even know. This, like, slapstick caricature thing that you do. The ‘idiot playboy’. They love that. It’s fake, Torch.”
“Hate to break it to you, but, that is me,” Johnny said, crossing his arms defensively. “It’s not a caricature, I’m just…”
“Being yourself?” Peter scoffed. “Who are you kidding right now? Because it isn’t me.”
He wished he could just take Johnny by the shoulders and shake him, yell: You’re perfect!!! I’m happy to have the real you to myself, but I need you to understand that you don’t have to hide yourself!!! You’re not built wrong!!!
Johnny floundered for a moment, unsure how to respond, before finally landing on frustration. “Why are you being such a dick? If you didn’t like the interview, just say so.”
“Okay. Fine,” Peter said bluntly, trying to ignore how his tongue felt like sandpaper. “I didn’t like the interview. I hate most of them, actually. You act like a dunce, and you’re not. You aren’t stupid.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, looking away.
“I’m serious,” Peter stressed. “I know you think you’re the world’s biggest idiot, but nobody who actually gives a damn about you actually believes that. Not Sue, not me, not even Ben.”
Johnny continued to glower at the rooftop.
“You’re important, Johnny,” Peter said firmly.
“I know that,” he mumbled.
“Then you also know how much I’d miss you, if you disappeared? If you… I don’t know, got it in your head you were some kinda superhero and sacrificed yourself for the self-perceived greater good?”
Peter said it like a joke, but they can both hear the tension under it. He’d told Johnny about a lot. Everything, almost. Sacrifice was something Peter was intimately acquainted with, and he’d told him about all of it. Johnny would know what he meant, now.
Johnny exhaled in a short little burst. The fight left his body like water put to fire. “Yeah, Pete. I know.”
“…Good,” Peter said. He felt winded. He still didn’t feel like Johnny understood, but. It took more than a few strong words to change an entire inner dialogue, and Peter got that.
He’s said his piece. He was content to just sit in awkward silence for the rest of the night if Johnny kept sitting beside him.
“…I knew you liked me,” Johnny spoke. Lighter, now. Back to teasing. Easy ground. Peter was glad to know that the cosmic rays he got hit with didn’t give him super hearing, so Johnny would never know how hard Peter’s heart rocketed.
Peter fought back a smile, and shoved him back. “Get bent, Johnny.”
—
“Fuck, fuck, are you okay?” Johnny stuttered, his hands hovering anxiously over him. “Hey, look at me. Are you awake? Say something.”
Peter breathed in and out, his vision cloudy, blurring together. There was ringing in his ears, six different tones layering and reverberating with every slight sound. He blinked hazily at the rough form of Johnny crouching over him.
“Are you real?” he rasped. He’d lost a lot of blood. He’d hallucinated due to blood loss before, so he was just checking. He only regretted asking when Johnny’s face split open at the question.
“Yeah,” Johnny said intently, his blue eyes big and sad. “Yeah, I’m real. Are you drugged?”
Peter shook his head slightly, and tried to force himself upright. His vision spun. He kept hearing screaming, car alarms, police sirens. He winced, a hand coming up to his ear and then belatedly dropping. “Kraven, this time,” he managed to say, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Okay.” Johnny knelt down to help him stand, and he’s so…
He’s beautiful. Even when he’s worried, and he’s got that little dip in his squarish blondie brows, that furrow in the line of his lips. He’s beautiful. Peter wanted to sit and study him like humans first studied space, with all of the wonder in the world— myth becoming fact.
“You’re slurring your words there, babe. Can't understand you,” Johnny said, his expression pinched as he lugged Peter up as carefully as he could manage. “Fuck, you’re bleeding. Okay. Okay. New plan. I’m calling Stark.”
“Noooo,” Peter whined, his head falling back dramatically. It lost its effect when Johnny very gingerly caught it in the cradle of his palm. “He’s… busy, n’ stuff…”
Peter didn’t like bothering Tony, these days. For one, he was an adult now— he kind of did all the hard shit already as a teenager, the whole dying and coming back thing, the war, the space travel, the world ending events— all of this was small potatoes, in comparison.
Secondly, Tony had a life outside of the Avengers, now. He had like, a kid, and a wife, and even a retirement that was relatively peaceful; so long as Peter didn’t keep calling him with his occasional mental health episodes and life-threatening injuries. (It didn’t matter that Tony was willing to help at every message he sent. It’s the principle of the thing!)
“I know, I know, you hate calling him, but I kind of don’t have any faster option,” Johnny stressed. He pulled the mask up, just to Peter’s nose, and Peter leaned into his hand like he needed the touch. It made sense, in his boggled mind. All living things stretch for the sun.
“Mgh…”
“If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” Johnny promised, his thumb brushing over Peter’s cheek. “But I’m really worried, and he’ll get here faster than the Four will.”
Peter could feel Johnny’s pulse thrumming, could hear his heart’s rapid pace in wobbly dissonant tones. So he nodded faintly, trusting Johnny to do whatever was best. The best, meaning whatever put Johnny at peace. If calling Tony to help made him at peace, then Peter will simply put his insecurity aside and do the damn thing.
At his nod, Johnny exhaled.
Everything happened pretty fast after that. It was probably because he was bleeding out, kept going in and out of consciousness. He knew he was being moved, knew that his body hurt. He couldn’t open his eyes without having to squint, everything was too bright.
There’s a hand carding through his hair, astringent burning his nose, and over the beeping of machines, there were voices in his ears that he couldn’t quite hold onto. But he felt safe, and known, and warm.
“I’ll be okay,” Peter mumbled, and it wasn’t a question, but he felt a surge of the presence at his side grow brighter.
“Yeah, you’ll be okay, Pete. Promise. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” A squeeze of his hand.
“Mmkay,” Peter’s mouth went slack, his eyes drooping.
–
Peter had woken up in the Avengers Compound medical bay more times than he could count. He knew its walls and floors, he knew the nurses, he knew where to get bandaids, and pain medications, and IV fluid bags.
When he woke up this time, the room was dim, curtains drawn. His head felt full of cotton, and heavy on his head. Johnny wasn’t there.
But Tony was.
“Sorry it’s me and not your friend,” Tony started, gesturing with his hand. “He said he had to go on a mission, or something. That he’d be back soon. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”
Peter’s lip wavered for a moment and then he resolutely bit down on his own teeth. It’d been a while since he’d seen him. Longer since he’d called. A few months, maybe. He knew he had his reasons, and he’d been busy and Tony didn’t push, but looking at the older man now, all he felt was shame.
Tony looked older every time he saw him, it seemed. A head full of grey hair, crinkling lines at his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. Proof of life, of having lived— despite everything.
It’s hard to stomach that there was a time, not that long ago, where all Peter did was sit in his hospital room and stare at the wall, unable to look at him but unable to leave.
Peter’s throat burned, looking at him now. His eyes stung, his vision got blurry.
“Mr. Stark,” he warbled out, feeling all of sixteen years old again. His chest hiccuped, and he let out a blubbering noise as everything fell apart. He just wanted Tony to fix it, and make it right again. Make him right again.
Tony made a pinched face, and brought him into a hug from the side of the bed. It was awkward, the placement, Peter’s bony elbows and hunched over shoulders as he tried to bury himself in Tony’s scarred sternum.
“I’m sorry.” It was like he was drowning, the way his lungs and throat burned. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why— why I didn’t— everything is a mess, and I’m a mess, and it’s so hard—“
“I know,” Tony soothed. He didn’t smell so much of motor oil, but it was still there, faint. Now, he smelled more like pine. Fabric softener. His timbre was practiced, now. So was the way his hand dragged over Peter’s back. Different, different, different. “You’re not a mess, you’re just growing up. It sounds crazy, but it happens.”
“Why is it so hard?” Peter begged, a fresh wave of tears wrapping wire around his neck. “Why don’t I know anything?”
Tony made a soft sound, equal parts amused and pitiful. “You’ll get there,” he promised gently. “It doesn’t feel like it, but you’re doing so good at this life thing, you know. Better than I did. I’m proud of you.”
Peter turned his face back into Tony’s shirt. He’s sure he was drenching the thing with snot and tears— but he didn’t want to say anything, because if he heard Tony’s responding “it's seen worse” he’d definitely spiral more. He was barely keeping it together as it was.
Tony let him sit there for a long time, and for a moment, Peter was able to pretend that he’d never known the antithesis of this safety. That it was always like this, peace and comfort without a time limit, and Tony being here, and Peter being here, and everything was okay.
Everything was okay.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice hoarse.
“You never did kick that habit, did you?” Tony teased gently. He sighed. “You’re alright, kid. I’m not mad at you.”
“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peter admitted miserably. “About any of it. Life.”
Tony patted his back. “Twenty-one will do that to you.”
“I’m barely making it in college, I get beat up in my free time like every night, I’m living off two hours of sleep and crappy instant ramen, I’m in love with my best friend—“
A small beat, and then Tony hummed thoughtfully. “I thought you and Michelle broke up?”
“What? We did,” Peter sniffed. “Like, ages ago. We’re just friends.”
“Okay, so you— oh. Oh! Well, that’s fine too. Ned is a great choice, really smart…”
Peter pulled away, his eyes bleary and confused. “Ned?”
“Not Ned,” Tony quickly surmised, squinting back at him. “Storm,” he said. “Is it Storm?”
Peter groaned and hid his face in his hands. He wanted to feel humiliated by it, but he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed. He missed Tony. He missed talking to Tony. And there was something weirdly comforting about having a normal, non-world-ending problem for once. To pretend that he’d never had to stop being a silly teenager with a crush.
“Hotshot, then,” Tony confirmed. He clicked his tongue, disappointed. “That should have been my first guess, he’s the one that called.”
“I hate him,” Peter complained, muffled into his hands. “Everybody on Earth is obsessed with him, I can’t go anywhere with him without being flashed by cameras. He’s so annoying, and his eyes are too blue, and he smells like kerosene, and I can’t stand him.”
Tony’s eyebrows climb. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”
“He’s so…” Peter trailed off, and exhaled like a balloon let loose into atmosphere. “He’s just nice. Not like, fake nice, but just… nice, and good. He’s good.”
“You’re really giving him a stellar review,” Tony remarked. “Do you want to crack open a thesaurus before you tell him that, or…?”
Peter gave him a half-hearted glare.
“He cares about you,” Tony shrugged peacefully, letting up. “He was really worried when he carried you here. Poor kid might develop frown lines, then where would he be?”
“He carried me?” He mumbled, not sure if he should feel mortified or oddly endeared. Both, he figured. Both was good. “Nevermind. Is he— can you call him? I don’t have my…”
Tony huffed in amusement, and pulled out his phone. He rolled his eyes as he handed it over, but Peter could see the fondness the way his mouth curved.
Peter typed in the number with ease.
Johnny picked up far faster than he assumed, and immediately he was talking fast and sharp. “Stark, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Peter smiled and tucked his chin down. “Easy, flamebrain. Just woke up.”
“…Hey,” Johnny’s voice softened carefully, the same way someone would talk to a wounded animal. “You still— are you all messed up, or what?”
“The loopier of the meds have worn off, I think,” Peter answered, scratching his chin awkwardly. He didn’t feel as emotionally volatile as he did ten minutes ago, his head was clearer.
“Awesome!” Johnny chirped up, the gentleness washing away. “I can tell you to stop getting hit by shit without feeling guilty!”
Peter smiled more, pinching the bridge of his nose. He avoided Tony’s continued amusement. On the line, he heard the familiar rumbly ambience of work, orders yelled and strained metal, air whooshing past. “Are you still out on the field? Why did you answer?”
“Uh, to make sure you weren’t dead? I gotta go now. I’ll drop by in a minute.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Ughhh. Shut up.”
Peter handed the phone back to Tony, fighting back a smile. “He’ll be here soon,” he explained, looking away.
Tony hummed, squinting idly, like he was still trying to parse what he thought of all of this. And it was weird, but he really wanted Tony’s acceptance on this, like a kid showing a parent their latest crayon drawing. Throughout all of the imperfections and fuckups, Peter had done this one thing right. He was proud of this. Of being friends with someone who was so good, and so selfless.
“He likes working on cars,” Peter blurted. “He gets old ones and fixes them up. Taught himself, I think. After his— yeah. Just taught himself.”
Tony stared for a moment, then lifted his eyebrows. “…Well, I guess you’ll have to bring him around sometime.”
It was casual code, just like everything else Tony said. Maybe it was grief, or growing older, or just the familiarity that came with knowing someone so long, but Peter understood now what he meant now. Come over, Tony was saying. I miss you. You’re still the kid I found all those years ago.
Peter smiled.
—
They’re both twenty-one, when Johnny went Supernova for the first time.
It’s terrifying. His body alight in plasma, his eyes glowing with energy, beams of pure UV crushing in on itself high above New York. Everyone shielded their eyes, had to, if they didn’t want to be blinded, and Sue was screaming at Reed to do something, please do something, that’s my baby brother—
Peter shielded his eyes with a gloved hand, and stared at the concrete with horror, light spilling into every imperfect crack. His best friend was dying. He didn’t know what to think.
A Supernova required immense amounts of energy. The temperature of a dying, exploding star could reach way over ten billion kelvin, a hundred billion depending on the star’s size. Johnny wasn’t as big as the sun. He needed energy to breathe, to live, and that energy was rapidly burning up in one frightening display of power– quite literally larger than life.
A Supernova was made of plasma. Pure energy. Even if Peter wanted to, and God did he want to— if he tried to swing up there and grab him, pull him down, cool him off, then every atom in Peter’s body would hypothetically just cease to exist, before he even got close enough to touch. There wouldn’t be a body to bury.
Peter’s best friend was dying, and he couldn’t even hold him.
It was hard to breathe. Peter kept his eyes trained on the concrete, watching the backsplash of light, and waited for anything. He tried to listen to Reed, rapidly talking out loud, a desperate winding monologue of electron degeneracy and reverse decay and nuclear energy— but he’s not hearing a solution.
“The light, it’s dimming,” Ben said suddenly. “I’m gonna look.”
“Ben, wait,” Reed quickly started.
“I’m doin’ it,” Ben snapped back.
They brace for the inevitable scream, but it doesn’t happen. Peter noted that the concrete was getting darker, too. He pulled his hand down and looked up, seeing the light rapidly shrinking, absorbing into itself. The night sky, swallowing it back up.
“He’s burnin’ out!” Ben yelled. “He’s gonna fall!”
Sue gasped and turned to Peter, her mouth open with the question— but he’s already launching up.
He swung fast, knowing full well this might burn him. Third-degree, maybe fourth, and that would be one of the better hypothetical outcomes. He didn’t care. Johnny was dropping like a stone, and Peter was going to catch him.
Every ounce of light blinked out, just as Peter crashed into him. He held Johnny to his chest, wrapping an arm around him without any thought. He didn’t feel like he got burned, but Johnny was uncomfortably warm, even for Peter.
More importantly, Peter could hear Johnny’s heartbeat, which was slow, but there. He landed them on the ground and gently kneeled on the floor, and the team made quick work around him.
Ben leaned in as close as he could get, trying to hear his chest. “He’s breathing?”
“Heart rate is low, but stable,” Reed determined, his fingers up to Johnny’s pulse. “Hotter temp than normal, undergoing rapid cooling process…”
“Hold on. Let him breathe, let him breathe,” Sue said, holding her hands up. They’re shaking. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wide.
They all still. Peter hadn’t quite let him go, yet— can’t bring himself to. (Even if it was a small chance, Peter wouldn’t let any more of his loved one’s final moments be on the street. Not again.)
Johnny’s eyes flit, half-open, and a weak moan passed his lips. He blinked up at Peter, and then his body did a weird seizing motion. “No, no, don’t touch me,” he slurred out. “I’ll burn you—“
Peter steadied him quickly. “You’re not gonna burn me,” he said, sure. He cupped Johnny’s cheek. “You won’t burn me, hey. Look, I’m okay. See?”
Johnny inhaled, and exhaled, and then slumped back into Peter’s arms. He looked exhausted. His eyes were half-lidded and hazy, his breathing labored.
Peter had never seen him sweat before, honestly didn’t know he could, but right now Johnny was glowing in it. His hair was damp and stuck to his forehead, and Peter was hopelessly endeared by how it looked when it was messy.
“The city saved?” Johnny asked, dragging his eyelids open. The simple task looked like it took an exorbitant amount of effort. (Peter understood all too well what that felt like.)
“For now,” Peter said. He gave a wry smile, and it felt fake and flat and wrong. “Hardly ever stays that way. You scared the shit out of me, by the way.”
“Good.” Johnny closed his eyes. He swallowed, and Peter watched the movement of his throat. Proof of life. “Tips the balance.”
“Asshole,” Peter mumbled, and he’s too caught up on all of the details again. Johnny’s long eyelashes and faint moles, the Cupid’s bow of his soft lips, the gentle line of his nose.
There’s a fleeting moment where Peter couldn’t help but imagine Johnny’s skin a waxy grey, instead of pretty peach, and his fingers being ice cold, and not sunbeam warm. A moment where Johnny’s eyes stay open and void, because he’s unmoving, he’s still, he’s—
Whatever word you could stomach.
“You’re feeling okay?” Sue worried beside him. She gestured to Reed. “Honey, bring the car around.”
“Just tired,” Johnny sighed. He shifted barely in Peter’s arms. Breathing. Moving. Alive.
Ben tsked, looking just as rattled. “You worried us all, big time. Don’t do that again, matchstick.”
“We’re going to take you home,” Sue assured. She put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you. Do you want to come back with us? Surely that gave you a fright.”
Peter shook his head distantly. “No, no. I gotta… I’ll swing by later. Johnny, take it easy, alright?”
“What?” Johnny mumbled, sitting up more. “Hey—“
And then Peter was carefully putting him in Ben’s arms and swinging off home. He doesn’t look back.
He was a coward.
—
It took a week.
A long, awful week, where Peter got his teeth kicked in a little more on patrol because he didn’t want to go home and lay down. Laying down and closing his eyes, that meant going to sleep. Sleep meant REM, which meant nightmares of Johnny, and ash, and Oh God, he’s cold, why is he cold, he’s never supposed to be cold, please wake up please don’t leave me please—
Needless to say, Peter’s running on a crisp two restless hours of sleep, when he crawled wearily back into his apartment window. Peeled the suit down, ignored the ache in his bones, and then stilled— he recognized another heartbeat in the room. Nobody else’s was that strong.
He slowly looked up, finding Johnny on his shitty couch like he’d found perch there. He’s in civvies, a neat turtleneck, a fitted jacket, nice jeans. He’s got his crossed arms and meets Peter’s face with a rightfully unimpressed glare.
“You’re looking better,” Peter noted, straightening up. Act normal! “Are you feeling okay?”
“No,” Johnny said bluntly. “I’ve been feeling pretty bad, actually.”
Peter winced, pulling his mask off. “Oh, I…”
“Because my best friend has been ghosting me,” Johnny interjected, “and has been spiraling so bad that he’s not talking to anyone.”
Guilt shot up his spine and tightened each joint like static friction. He looked down. “I haven’t—“
“I got a message from MJ, saying she was worried,” Johnny scowled. “Should I pull out my phone and read it?”
“No,” Peter said quietly.
“That’s what I thought,” Johnny said, and he stood up from the couch with a heavy sigh. He pushed his hand through his hair, making it messy, unkempt. “Look, I get it. You got freaked. It reminded you of a lot of stuff you’d rather forget. I understand.”
Peter exhaled stiffly through his nose and looked away. He stared at the floor as if it was personally responsible for all of the trauma that made him like this. Like if he stared hard enough, he’d forget drying arterial blood caking his hands and his own carbon ash choking his lungs and every other horrible, awful thing that kept him awake at night.
“Hey. I’m serious,” Johnny’s voice gentled. “I’m not mad at you, I really do get it. I remember what it’s like for you. The whole… almost losing people, and the… all of it.”
“Mm,” Peter said noncommittally. He didn’t want to look up. That meant seeing Johnny’s face, which was undoubtedly empathetic and beautiful, and all of the words would numb on Peter’s tongue like mint.
“I just wish you’d stuck around, so I could have helped you through it,” Johnny continued. “You were probably lonely and miserable the whole week, huh? For no good reason. Goofy bug.”
Johnny reached out tentatively for Peter’s wrist, and slipped the glove off. His warm thumb worked gingerly through the tension of his palm. Peter’s jaw clenched.
“You’re my best friend,” Peter finally said, fighting to maintain steadiness. He swallowed thickly. “You’re stupid. And I love you. And I’m a mess.”
Johnny huffed lowly with amusement. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’m really glad you’re okay. I was…”
“I know that, too.”
Peter glanced up at him, and Johnny was already looking, soft and fond, knowing everything that Peter could never grasp at well enough to string into words.
“I don’t know what I would do if there was a universe where you couldn’t annoy me everyday,” Peter admitted quietly. His chest felt tight, his ribs not a large enough cage to fit his heart. It was painful and too much and not enough and Johnny just didn’t get it.
Johnny snorted, his nose crinkling up. “Is that supposed to be a compli—“
“Johnny,” Peter said, and he knew how it sounded. The yearning was dripping off his tongue like melted sugar, like syrup. He was sick with it.
Johnny’s words whisk away. He looked back at Peter for a long moment, and Peter could see the second it clicked, because a much softer smile began to rise on his face. “Peter...”
“Sorry. I know,” Peter answered quietly, leaning forward. “It’s a horrible idea—“
Johnny nodded, tilting his head in like he was the one pulled into orbit. “—I mean, we’ve had worse.”
“True,” Peter dipped his head, their noses brushing. “Like switching Ben’s cooking oil for car grease—“
“Ugh. Don’t bring Ben up when we’re about to kiss,” Johnny mumbled, his eyes closing. “That is so un-friendly.”
Peter’s eyelashes brush against his cheekbones. “Oh, is that what we’re doing? Being friendly? I thought we were—”
Johnny leaned in, and any word Peter had in his head immediately burst into sparks, fizzing and spiraling and collapsing in on itself, his knees threatening to shake. Johnny’s lighting up every nerve, causing each to fission, trickling from one after another.
There it was. Supernova.
Peter leaned his head to the side, a hand coming up to Johnny’s jaw. Clean-shaven. Johnny’s better at taking care of himself than he is. (Not that it was a terribly difficult bar to match.)
Johnny, he mouthed, and Johnny kissed him back in kind, teasing the edge of his chapped lips.
“Don’t let this give you the wrong idea, Webhead,” Johnny mumbled into his parted mouth. “You’re still in the dog house, you know.”
Peter blinked hazily, his chin tilting back in. “I do? I mean, I am?”
“Yeah. You owe me,” Johnny left another kiss on his lower lip, another at the corner of his mouth, “a week of your undivided attention, for ghosting me.”
Peter’s eyebrows lift wordlessly, the words going through one ear and swirling around in his head, leaving the other ear in a mush.
“Only fair,” Johnny added.
“Right, right…”
Johnny smiled and finally pulled away, a faint laugh in his throat. His eyes sparkle mirthfully, but his eyebrows crook in sympathy. “You’ve really worked yourself to the bone this week.”
“Little bit,” Peter admitted, his shoulders sinking into Johnny’s hands, which were steadily kneading into the overworked muscle. “Told you I was a mess.”
“I didn’t forget. But it doesn’t change anything either,” Johnny said. “You should shower. Sleep. I’ll still be here, y’know. Soulmates, and all that.”
Peter smiled, just because he could, and shook his head. “Soulmates. That’s so ridiculous.”
“We getting a happy ending?” Johnny mused.
“I think so. Feels weird. Not sure I like it.”
Johnny snorted. “Hold me.”
And Peter, who was still achey, and still tired, kissed his temple, short and sweet. “Alright,” he said simply.
summary: okay, so maybe peter lost a little too much blood. that's fine! that's what they have med bays for!
tags: iron infusions (needles, hospital, iv), banter, good mentor tony stark, the may-tony coparenting agenda, peter parker cannot sit still, star wars trivia, these fckin nerds
wc: 2,744
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
It started, technically, a two weeks ago. He'd gotten injured. Like, more so than usual.
Peter's pretty good at skimming past knives and bullets and all kinds of projectiles, all things considered. Compared to Thee Average Joe, he's basically got a 99% better chance at survival, and it showed, because at the end of the night he still managed to crawl out of whatever dumpster he landed in.
There was, though, the remaining 1%. Which was less fun. Times where for whatever reason he wasn't able to dodge in time, just barely missed the window, and— well. Well.
Those ended with a frankly traumatic phonecall to Tony, bleary memories of blue fingertips, and being bodily hauled across the floor.
But that was two weeks ago. So long it was practically forever— he's still bruised, but there's no gaping wounds, no need for any bandages anymore, nothing serious. Which is why it was alarming that, for whatever reason, he still felt waves of dizziness every time he stood up. He still felt weak, and he still felt like he couldn't get that last breath in his lungs.
He called Tony.
"You answered fast," Peter said, blinking widely at his homework in front of him. His phone crushed between his ear and his shoulder while he tapped away on his laptop.
"Wanted to make sure you weren't in another abandoned building," Tony said shortly, his tone clipped. "You just seem to like them so much."
Peter winced. So clearly Tony was still on edge about it all...
It's not like he didn't care that he almost died two weeks ago. He actually cared quite a bit. It wasn't fun. It hurt really bad, added a new pink scar to the collection of other near-death experiences on his body, and he wasn't keen on doing anything like it again soon. He had a strict "one near-death experience per month" limit.
But he also prided himself on his ability to bounce back from anything. If nothing else, he was always good at getting back up.
Peter cleared his throat. "About that. I don't want to stress you out or anything but—"
"Peter," Tony warned.
"I'm fine," Peter prefaced quickly. "I mean— I'm not fine, butlike, I'm not on death's door. Relax."
"Why, pray tell, are you not fine?" Tony asked, and Peter could hear the smile in his voice, tense and fake with the threat of an eye twitch. "You aren't in your suit."
It wasn't a question.
"No," Peter said, and took the phone in his hand. "I'm just doing homework, but I—"
He trailed off awkwardly, trying to find a way to phrase what he needed to say that wouldn't immediately cause alarm bells.
"You...?" Tony pressured.
"I feel like I need my inhaler," Peter said, scratching at the back of his neck.
A long silence commenced, before Tony's baffled response cackled through the receiver. "Then use it?"
"I haven't needed my inhaler since I got bit," Peter continued, speeding through his explanation. "And like, also, I'm super cold, and everytime I stand up the room starts spinning."
Another beat of silence. Then a swear.
"So," Peter blew out the breath from his cheeks and looked around aimlessly at his room. "I dunno, I think I'm like, low on—"
"—blood," Tony finished. "Yeah. Alright. The nurses warned me about that, they told me to keep an ear out if you complained about anything. Alright. I'm sending Happy to come get you."
Peter shot up in his chair. "What? But I've got—"
His face went numb and his knees buckled, and he fell back into his chair, going silent while the dizziness swam through him.
"Kid?" Tony said rapidly in his ear. "Peter? You okay?"
"Mgh." Peter covered his eyes with his hand, trying to will the vertigo away. "I meant, pick me up tomorrow morning instead. I'll be okay until then."
"I don't like that," Tony said finally.
"Please?" Peter tried. "It's late, I'm really tired. It'll give me a second to talk to May, too. You know. My legal guardian."
Tony sighed. "There you go again, being reasonable. Swore I taught you better than that. Alright, I'll pick you up tomorrow. Get some sleep, kid."
So, he talked to May. Sat her down when she got home from work, explained to her as casually as he could that he's a little low on that good ol' hemoglobin— but that it's cool, because Tony already told him to come in the next morning for an infusion.
"Why not tonight?" May frowned, her eyebrows furrowed as she sipped at her tea. Green, with half a spoon of honey, sweet but still a little bitter how she liked it. Peter set it out the second she got home to soften the blow.
Peter bit back a tired laugh. "Because I thought you'd want to do it tomorrow. Less last minute."
"Well, it's your health, baby," May said immediately. She shrugged, setting the mug down. "You could have called me on the way there, I would have understood. I mean, blood is pretty darn important."
"I can call Tony tonight, tell him I changed my mind," Peter suggested with a half-hearted shrug. "I mean, he'll probably think I'm at death's door, but I'll do it."
"Sooner the better," May folded her hands together, leaning forward with a serious expression. "Do you need me to go with you? I can shower really quick, I'll grab a granola bar—"
"No, no, no—" Peter took her hands. He gave a reassuring grin. "You just got home from work, and it's not that big of a deal. I'm not in like, critical condition—"
(May's frown deepened.)
"—and Tony will be with me the whole time, you know that," Peter promised.
"He does get clingy when you're not feeling well," May acknowledged, and pushed her glasses back up on her face. She studied her tea for a moment longer and quirked her lip unsurely. "You sure you don't need me there? Say the word, and I'll—"
"I know you will. I'll be okay, I swear it," Peter promised. "I'll text you updates if anything happens, but— come on, it's not the first time I've needed an IV. That kinda stuff just comes with the territory, you know?"
May pulled a hand away and scrubbed at her eyes, dry mascara blearing across her eyelids. She seemed so, so tired, exhausted to the bone— but amused. "If you'd have told me years ago that I was raising an Avenger, I genuinely wouldn't know what to say."
"Sorry," Peter said faintly, smiling nonetheless. "If anyone could do it, it'd be you."
May grinned into her tea. "Damn straight."
Peter stood up from the table, he's dizzy again, because of course. He stilled for a moment until his head felt steady, and then went to his room. He rummaged around for some essentials while he dialed Tony one-handed.
He'll probably be sitting for a while, much to his chagrin, so he pulled out some comfortable clothes. Baggy sweatshirt with a faded Japanese Empire Strikes Back print on the front, sweatpants that he's 80% sure he stole from MJ last time he was over. Vines are messily embroidered at the loose seams. He's admiring Em's handiwork when the phone immediately picks up, again.
"Mr. Parker," Tony answered stiffly.
"Mr. Stark," Peter mocked back. "I'm not passed out on the floor, I swear. I just talked to May."
"And?"
"She wants me to go in tonight, if it's still an option. Something about blood being important," Peter trailed off, tugging his D.S. from the charger and tossing that on the bed to bring, too.
"Such an intelligent lady, your aunt. I'm gonna buy her a very expensive bottle of wine."
"I mean, I won't say no to you giving my aunt nice things," Peter quirked his eyebrow. "But I can't help but feel like this is at my expense. Like you're making fun of me or something. I don't know."
"Don't know where you're getting that vibe, bugbite. Happy'll pick you up in ten minutes. I don't know how long it'll take, so expect to spend the night."
"I know," Peter huffed. "See you soon."
"Bye, kid."
The line clicked off, and Peter spent the next ten minutes sitting down and feeling generally unwell. He changed his clothes, wrangled his taped-up USB-C, and begrudgingly his USG-002 because he knew Tony would give him flack for using something so outdated.
When May called out that the door buzzed, Peter pushed himself off the bed and said his goodnights and goodbyes. He's out of the apartment before he could catch Happy flirting with his aunt again.
Peter drifted through most of the car ride, caught between being half-asleep and scrolling thoughtlessly through his phone. Ned was sending him a dozen videos a minute and talking back and forth with MJ in their groupchat.
A knock on the window startled him, and he jerked his head up to catch Tony's eyes through the dim glass. Peter opened the door up, unclicking his seatbelt.
"Hey, Mr. Stark. Feels like it's been forever since we've talked, amirite?" Peter smiled pleasantly, climbing out of the car.
Tony's answering stare was resolutely unimpressed.
Peter's puffed out his cheeks awkwardly and leaned back and forth on his feet. After a second, he raised his hands to his mouth and made fangs with his index fingers. "I've come for blood? Bleh bleh bleh?"
"I think you age me at least a century everytime I see you," Tony said blankly. Peter's smile grew.
He sighed and started towards the medbay, waving for Peter to follow him.
"They're gonna take a blood sample first," Tony said shortly. "Just to see how low it is. You're gonna be on saline and fluids while they're running the tests."
"So, same as usual?"
"Yep." Tony held the door open for him.
The medbay was quiet, only a small team of late night nurses were working, and Peter had a sudden sinking feeling that they were called in specifically because of him.
He furrowed his eyebrows, turning to Tony. "Did—"
"No. We've got some people out on a mission. This is procedure, and a happy accident. Aren't you lucky?" Tony cocked his head to the side, his eyes glinting with sarcasm.
Peter rolled his eyes, but let his shoulders relax. He liked the medbay nurses. It would really suck to inconvenience them when he seriously could have waited until morning.
They set up the IV, they take his blood— when they walk away with the vial, Peter turned to Tony and gave him an amused look. "It's kinda weird, isn't it? You'd think they'd wanna do the opposite of blood-theft. Considering."
"You know, I've told them that before," Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "They did not seem to enjoy it. Gave me a real big customer service laugh."
"They probably hear it a lot."
"Yeah. But I said it. Which makes it funnier."
"Oh, right," Peter facepalmed. "Duh."
"Duh," Tony agreed with a sage nod.
They wait for the labs to come back, Peter keeping himself entertained by watching the IV's steady drip.
"I can already taste the saline," Peter noted, the familiar cold-copper-salt sitting at the back of his throat.
Tony made a face, looking up from his phone. "You can taste that?"
"You can't?"
"No, and the needle goes in your arm. Why would anyone be able to taste it?"
"I don't know," Peter shrugged. "I always do though. It's weird. Tastes like metal."
Tony gave him a look of mild disgust, his lip curled in displeasure, his nose pulled up.
"Like brushing your teeth with penny water," Peter continued.
Tony's disgusted expression grew more severe, and then he flashed his teeth in a grimacing smile. "Delightful."
Peter hummed in agreement, and then shivered. The saline was really coursing through him now, successfully chilling his veins.
A nurse came back in, gave a bright smile, her eyes sympathetic. "Alright, Peter. We've got your results back—"
"That's where they get you," Peter remarked solemnly.
"—your ferritin levels are at an eight."
Peter and Tony both wince.
"So, we're going to start you on an iron drip right away," the nurse said, her voice light and calm. "And have you come back in two weeks for a retest of your blood."
"Aye-aye," Peter said, still grimacing. "Hey, what happens when your ferritin gets to zero?"
"Let's not find out," Tony cut in, shifting in his chair with his arms crossed. He gave another tight smile, all lip and no teeth.
So they hook up the iron bag, which is dark red— almost orangey, and Peter narrowed his eyes as the stuff sank down the tube and into his arm. It looked like blood, but he's like, eighty-eight percent sure it isn't. Either way, it didn't matter. He kinda needed the stuff.
"I'm bored."
"It's not even been ten minutes," Tony said, with all the exhaustion of a single mother of five hyperactive children.
Peter tilted his head back on the clinic seat. "Yeah. It's been a very long not-even-ten-minutes."
"You brought a whole bag of goodies," Tony reminded him, gesturing lamely. "I'm sure you've got something in there."
Peter gave a long put-on sigh and wrestled his phone out of his pocket. It was nearing one in the morning, miserably, and the IV wouldn't finish until probably three if he's lucky.
"I'm tired," he complained, just because he can.
"Then sleep."
"Do you just have a solution for everything?"
"Sure do."
Peter sighed again. Turned his phone off, stared at the wall for a few moments. Turned his phone back on. He played a few rounds of Sudoku, expert level. Turned his phone off, stared at the—
"How many parsecs did Han Solo make the Kessel Run in?" Tony asked, not looking up from his phone.
"Less than twelve," Peter answered. "Why—"
"First character to speak in A New Hope?"
Peter blinked, once, twice. "Uh. Threepio."
"Who was Luke Skywalker's gunner in the Battle of Hoth?"
"Dak," Peter furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you quizzing me on Star Wars to keep me busy? Is that what this is?"
"Something's gotta keep your brain occupied, and clearly your Sudoku games aren't cutting it," Tony said flatly. "So, yeah. Buzzfeed article— 170 Star Wars Trivia Questions That Are Seriously Tricky. What's the main stormtrooper's designation in The Force Awakens?"
"Finn? FN-2187."
"What's Jabba's full name?"
"... the Hutt?" Peter guessed.
Tony made a loud buzzer sound, waving his phone. "Jabba Desilijic Tiure. So close, though."
"This game sucks."
"You're just saying that because you don't know Jabba the Hutt's full name. Fake fan," Tony clicked his tongue, putting his phone back into his pocket.
Peter rolled his eyes.
Another long stretch of quiet. The nurses talk quietly amongst themselves, gossip about their personal lives that didn't interest him enough to eavesdrop. He's tired, and bored— and he's comfortable.
He's thinking about how he's lucky they didn't pinch his vein this time, and how he's lucky Tony was able to sit with him so he wasn't alone, how nice it was to be certain that he had people looking out for him.
"I think I'm going to take a nap," Peter said finally.
"Good idea." Tony scratched idly at his cheek. "You want anything? Blanket? Extra pillow?"
Peter shook his head, curling carefully on his side so as to not disturb the IV. "Nah," he mumbled. Then, "can you keep talkin', though?"
"Why, my voice make you snooze?"
The corner of Peter's mouth curled up. "Maybe."
Not really. He just liked listening to Tony talk. He was interesting, always. Peter's been hanging off every last word since he was a kid watching him on television. It made him sleep the same way a mom singing lullabies would make a baby sleep. Or something. Whatever. Don't look too much into it.
What they had worked for them, was what he meant. Tony wasn't his dad. May wasn't his mom, either, technically— but she was the closest damned thing he had, and he loved her down to blood. May wasn't his mom, but she was there. Tony wasn't his dad, but he was there, too.
It was kind of funny, how well they operated in the grey areas.
"Yeah, kid," Tony said, lowering his voice to a rumble. An old engine humming. A lullaby. "I'll keep talking."
TBIs, with a brief history of Bastille || IronDad + Spideychelle
summary: mj 'accidentally' gets caught in the crossfire of battle and ends up with a concussion - tony babysits, peter stresses
tags: protective peter parker, babysitter tony stark, fluff, humour, mj infodumps on history, mj tolerates tony for peter's sake, they both love that nerd
wc: 1,736
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
By all means, and in every definition, Tony doesn't like it when kids get injured— kids, meaning, anybody under eighteen, and more recently, anybody under twenty-five. Jesus, he's getting old— which is a pretty fair rule. Nobody likes when kids get hurt. If you do, you're probably a sick and twisted individual that Tony would love to spit on in a jail cell, or you're Rhodey binging old reruns of AFV instead of doing government paperwork.
Anyways, Tony tries very hard to keep any young ones, chickadees, rascals, scallywags, munchkins, younglings, whippersnappers, juveniles, the youth, scamps, rapscallions, whatever you want to call them, away from Avengers battlefields; whether they be space, a street, or some secret third thing.
So he's not exactly sure how this one slipped through his fingers. Curly-haired Michelle Jones, who he'd had the short pleasure of meeting at the last Parker extended family dinner. She had given him quite the scare.
("Shit! What are you doing here?" Tony tossed a chunk of building off into the street and swung back to meet her. "You should not be here. It's dangerous, kid. You're smart, you should know that."
Michelle heaved, a crowbar held in a white-clawed grip. She had blood dripping from her nose, which she wiped off with her torn sleeve.
"I followed Spider-Man," she said, weightily. "He escaped from gym class. I got worried."
Tony decided he would wisely think about the parameters of all that entailed later. He refocused on the way Michelle was holding a hand to the back of her head. "You're bleeding, did you get hit?"
She nodded, taking another deep breath. The blood is dripping down her arm, soaking her shirt. "Well, yeah, genius. And, also, I think I have a concussion."
Then Tony saw a look in her eyes that was wildly familiar— and he lunged to catch her right before she pitched forward.)
"So, run it by me again, if you don't mind," Tony runs a hand over his face.
"Peter snuck out of gym," Michelle repeats blankly, the tone of someone who has indeed been forced to rehash the same story again and again. "I followed him. Last time he did that, it was because he was hiding sepsis and nearly died in the bathrooms."
"Jesus." Tony sighs. "And when did you know he was Spider-Man? Does he know that you know?"
"He knows, he told me," Michelle says casually. Then adds, "after I figured it out, though. It was easy."
"Right. Well, funny. He didn't think to mention that to me. Almost like he forgot that it was a relevant detail for me to know about his extracurricular activities or something." Tony sits back in the vinyl chair and crosses his arms.
"Weird. Sounds like a personal problem."
They stare at each other. Silence meets both of them.
Tony hums in consideration as he studies the odd kid in his med bay. One of Peter's closest friends, the one he's sweetest on. She's got spark. Tony likes her.
His eyes flick up to the IV she's been set on. "Pain meds working?"
"Good enough," she acquiesces. She's blinking slow, but her words are clear. "I can't feel the staples in my head, so, I can't complain."
"Guess not."
"Peter's going to think this is his fault," Michelle says suddenly, her mouth twisting in an uncomfortable expression. "Isn't he?"
"Probably." Tony drums his fingers across his thigh. A thought crosses his mind, and he lets it start to turn. "What do you think?"
Michelle spots a game for what it is immediately. She narrows her eyes in suspicion. "What do I think about what?"
"Do you think it's Peter's fault?"
"Well, he's not the one who dropped a building on me, is he?" Michelle says dryly. "I'm the one who tailed him, and I knew I didn't have spider powers when I did it. I knew the risks."
"That's very mature," Tony comments. "Why'd you follow him, if you knew the risks?"
Michelle looks at him like he's the epitome of something deeply unimpressive. Her mask was slipping by the second— the drugs were definitely kicking in about now. Tony gives her a practiced, serene smile.
"You don't need some crazy suit, or money, or superpowers to worry about Peter Parker," she says sagely, as if she's reciting words from an ancient text. "He's very worry-able. It's worth the risks."
"We can sure agree on that."
"Mhm," Michelle squints at him. "You know, I didn't like you at first."
Tony studies her for a moment. He doesn't feel offended, because— it's hard to be offended. He's not exactly his biggest fan, either, and there's a long, long list for potential reasons as to why.
"Join the club," he says instead, remaining neutral. "Any particular gripe, kid? Or maybe you just don't like my face."
"Other than the war profiteering?" Michelle says, and yikes, that's a kick to the gut. "Maybe it's your contributions to the patriarchy and consumerism. Maybe it's your very tight and generational connections to a government that's notoriously corrupt. Or it could be the needless destruction of service buildings because you and your team can't just talk to each other like adults."
Tony is quiet for a long moment. He feels vaguely as though he's just been ran over by a train ten consecutive times, only to be trussed up like a pig after and shot out back. He feels mildly sick. He feels itchy.
He clears his throat. "...I suppose that would do it, yeah."
Michelle makes a soft, agreeing noise, looking distracted momentarily by her own hands. She's scraping dried blood out from under her fingernails.
"What changed?" Tony ask.
"Mgh," Michelle deflates, holding the exhaustion of someone far older than her. It's almost comedic, the sigh she lets out. "Peter did, I guess."
She looks up and continues:
"He trusts you," she explains slowly. "And usually that doesn't mean shit to me. He trusts too much, in my opinion. He's... soft. But I've seen how you take care of him, and... no matter how much it was hard for me to believe, you do actually... care about him. You keep him... safe."
"...I appreciate that," Tony says carefully, his heart thrumming fast under his ribs. "And I'm— all the other stuff you mentioned, I don't forget any of it. I'll be fixing those mistakes til I'm five feet under, I swear it."
"I know," Michelle says cryptically. "I pay very close attention to everything you do. If you ever hurt Peter, I'd recommend you to do the same."
Tony pauses. "Looks back at the IV bag, which is getting low, now that he thinks about it. "Those pain meds starting to hit you pretty hard all the sudden, huh?"
"Little bit," Michelle sinks back into a cot, looking younger as she buries under the cotton sheets. "You called my parents, right?"
"Yeah. Takes a while to drive upstate, but they're on the way," Tony says. He smiles. "Peter is too. He'll probably show up first."
"And why are you here?" She implores suspiciously. "Don't you have Avengers things to do?"
"Yep," Tony says, and doesn't offer anything more to his answer. Michelle narrows her eyes at him, and doesn't offer further questioning. It was funny, the way they worked together; the way she was so different from Peter.
A few minutes later, and the meds have really kicked in.
"The Bastille was originally built in Paris to protect it from invaders," she spoke at a rapid pace. "But leading up to the French Revolution, it was used more as a prison— at the end of the revolution, The Bastille was torn down by hand as a public display of denouncing the Revolution for its toll on the city. Brick by brick, they—"
Michelle is so loopy that Tony has to make a valiant effort to contain his chuckles— and he has to wonder if this is who Peter knows, how often this side of her is seen.
In a weird coincidence, the moment this particular thought crosses his mind, is when the door bursts open.
Peter rushes in, suit still donned, mask crumpled in his hands and haphazardly tossed to the floor. He's got scorch marks singed randomly on the suit, soot on his face, and looks to be in physical pain. Alarm bells immediately go off in Tony's head.
"Em," Peter breathes, stuttering to the side of the bed. He takes her face into his hands so gently, looking all over for her injuries, inspecting the bandaging around her head with utmost scrutiny and guilt.
"Oh," he crumbles, his hands hovering just over the bandage, like he wants so badly to soothe it with his touch but knows better than to try. It's a feeling Tony is all too familiar with. "Shit, Em, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
Michelle hums, her face pitching into his hands. Her pupils are blown out like crazy. "They put me on so many drugs. Jesse, we need to cook."
Peterlaughs shakily and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. He's blinking rapidly, tears coming unbidden to his eyes. "Right, yeah. They got you on some good stuff, huh?"
His head pulls up to scan the IV drip, finding the label effortlessly, reading it with a firm set of his jaw, and dropping his head back down. His eyes soften again. His thumb strokes against her cheek. "I'm so sorry, MJ, you shouldn't have gotten hurt. That's all my fault."
Michelle grumbles a bit, incoherent. She seeks for Tony, her head moving lazily she moves. She points an accusing finger at him. "I told you."
Tony feels kind of shellshocked, so he throws his hands up in surrender. Peter relaxes slightly, but only slightly, and pulls away from Michelle just enough to look at Tony properly.
"Thank you," he says fervently, and Tony notes that the pain in his face has faded. One of his hands has dropped and is now linked to Michelle's— although he's not sure that either of them are aware of this particular fact. "Thank you for sitting with her until I got here."
"Of course," Tony says with a shrug. "What can I say? I like the kid."
Peter's shoulders drop, and his smile say something like relief, his eyes say something like, me too.
Michelle tugs at his hand, and goes, "Peter, did you know the Storming of Bastille is celebrated as a national holiday in France?"
Peter drags a chair over, squeezing her hand lightly, and gives her a smile. "Not yet. Tell me about it, that sounds interesting."
summary: all peter wanted to do was stretch his legs! he didn't mean to make the medbay monitors go off!
tags: fluff, worried tony, peter parker cannot! sit still!, good mentor tony stark, peter using humour to lighten the moodTM, tony absolutely not laughing
wc: 2,105
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
Peter's restless. He's been stuck in the medbay's roller-bed for, according to his count, a rough twenty-five hours— so he's basically dying. (Which isn't true, and he can tell because he's been hooked up to some kind of vitals monitor since they got off the field, but he really does feel crazy.)
His legs are stiff, like a slinky that's been super-glued together, or a glowstick in a preschooler's reach that's just begging to be cracked. He needs to get up, he needs to move, between the undiagnosed ADHD and the anxiety and the general energy always bubbling under his skin, he was not built to be sitting in one spot for this long.
In his opinion, he didn't even need to be in the medbay this long. By all standards, Tony had been entirely exaggerating the demands for his stay. After all, his arm was healing in its cast, and his sprained ankle felt way better, and the doctor said all seven of the ribs he had broken were healing a lot faster than anticipated!
This was all great news, and he was good, he was great— they literally took him off oxygen this morning.
Tony should at least let him walk around a hallway or two. At least. Peter doesn't feel like he's asking the impossible, even though it sure seemed like it earlier.
The second they pulled the intubation out, after the uncomfortable coughing and sipping of water, it was one of the first things he asked.
"When can I go home?" He rasped, blinking tears from his eyes. His throat hurt really bad, which was understandable, given the circumstances it endured by the offending tube the nurses carried away.
And Tony, whose appearance had been scarce since Peter had wound up in here, looked at him with exhaustion and something bitter. His cheeks sunken, dark circles under his eyes, a feral dullness in the way his teeth sharpened.
"You almost died," Tony said, his voice sounding miraculously almost as bad as Peter's. He wondered distantly who shoved a tube down his throat.
Peter shoveled a few ice chips into his mouth with his good arm, wincing at the way everything ached and burned like he was set on fire. He thumbed at a button to give him some more super-powered morphine, then flashed him a properly sheepish smile. "I'm getting better?"
The conversation had ended quickly after that.
Peter doesn't even know why Tony's avoiding him. He himself hadn't actually done anything to get into trouble this time, at least nothing he thought would get him into trouble— and it wasn't Tony had been the one to kidnap him. Or drug him. Or torture him.
Honestly, he didn't remember much after the bad guys started doubling, but he remembered fuzzily Tony's voice ringing through his ears right before the pain went away. He knew Tony must have saved him— because Tony always saved him.
And anyways, he really wish Tony would stop by, because it's not helping how stir crazy Peter feels. He's always friendly with the nurses in the medbay, considering they've gotten to know each other pretty well in the past two years or so— Peter's what they call a "frequent flier"— but something in his stomach kept turning at the way Tony wouldn't show up and talk with him.
Maybe he just was clingy, but Tony was always at the medbay with him. Always. Ms. Potts usually had to fetch him personally just to make sure he showered and slept horizontally at least once.
He'd gotten used to the older man grumbling about how his back hurts from the uncomfortable chairs, how he'll have to replace them again, how he wouldn't have to replace them at all if Peter didn't get hurt so often, and around and around they went— a carousel of common grounds and conversation while Peter healed from broken noses and other minor wounds.
Tony wasn't, isn't here, and on top of that making Peter mind-numbingly lonely, it also meant something else:
When the nurses left the room, nobody was there to tell him to sit down, Spider-Boy, you're supposed to be resting.
He wants to stretch his legs so, so badly.
"A little walk into the hallway shouldn't hurt, right?" He murmurs to himself, eyeing the vitals stand and IV drip. He can probably muster the strength to drag around one of them, and it for sure is going to be the pain-med-giving IV.
He looks intensely at the vitals stand. There's a lot of buttons, and the only thing he really understands are the numbers and the wavy lines. He's never unhooked his own patient monitor before, but he's pretty sure yanking the stickers off would be the most logical first step.
Peter crawls out of bed as best he can without disturbing anything, including his own injuries, and then gives it a go. He tugs at the wires stuck to the adhesive and it comes off easily— and then, the alarms.
His shoulders shoot up to his ears, trying to block the noise instinctively. It's shrill, it's loud, one horrific, familiar note, and shit, the monitor is still on.
"Shit," Peter chokes out fervently, craning his neck to look out the hall. "I'm screwed."
He can hear a scramble outside, people are running down the hall, and knows he's gotta move fast. His fingers fumble at the sheets of his bed, and he's trying to stick the adhesive back on his chest, all in the wrong spot, and the monitor is so loud.
"Code blue," FRIDAY announces over the room. "All medical staff, report to South Wing, priority room one."
"No, no, no, no," Peter sputters, crawling back into bed, "FRIDAY, I'm fine, I'm fine! Call off the code!"
The door flings open, nurses poor into the room. They startle at the sight of Peter, clearly fine, his face red. In his hands, he holds the stickers to his chest, to no avail.
"Accident," Peter explains weakly.
Like a bunch of middle aged people doing the wave at a football game, the nurses all relax, the balloons of stress keeping them afloat all collapsing simultaneously.
"You are trouble," one of them says, shaking their heads as they go to fix the monitor.
"Can't leave you alone for more than five seconds! Did you need to use the bathroom or something? You're supposed to call us in for that," another says, equally exasperated. Most of the nurses fade back out after they realize everything is fine.
"Scared shitless," Unnamed Nurse (1) agrees.
"Just," Peter smiles awkwardly, his ears hot with embarrassment, "keeping you on your toes?"
"Well, you certainly keep Mr. Stark on his toes, I imagine he'll be down here in a minute, all out of breath and panicking," Unnamed Nurse (1) tells him gravely. "Don't do that again, Peter."
And Peter's about to open his mouth, ready to start apologizing from head to toe and make it right like May taught him, but then the door is shoved open again.
Tony's stumbling in, clutching his shoulder, his chest rising and falling and his heartbeat going crazy, Peter can hear it from where he's sitting. His hair is a mess, his eyes have this frantic look in them, one that Peter's never seen and until this point, wouldn't have ever imagined seeing, period.
His face is white as a sheet. Every ounce of him radiates terror.
Some of the nurses follow behind him, trying to frantically explain, to calm him down, and Peter can catch some of the words but his focus is askew— all that matters is Tony, who's not been in his room for the majority of his stay, and who's now stumbling towards him like he's seeing a miracle, or a ghost.
"I'm okay," Peter says, and that much is obvious. His heart monitor is properly set up again, the stickers all in their proper place. He's wide-eyed and conscious.
He supposes he confirms it to Tony for the same reason he sneaks into May's room everytime he comes home from patrol. When she's already awake and her eyebrows are deeply furrowed, the stress in her face getting worse as the minutes press on, but relaxes when he presses a sweaty kiss to her hair, and lets her look him over for injuries before he can shower and go sleep.
"I'm okay," Peter repeats earnestly. "My heart's fine, see?"
Tony shudders as his gaze locks onto the monitor, tracing the line as it moves up and down in steady rhythm. He turns around sharply. "What happened?"
"It was me," Peter speaks up, before the nurses can become any more flustered. "I, uh, wanted to get out of bed. Didn't want to bother anybody, so I just yanked the stickers off and thought it would be fine. Clearly it, uh. Wasn't."
Something in Tony's face settles, and his shoulders relax minutely. His fingers twitch around the bar at the end of Peter's bed.
"You're okay," he says, but his eyes are boring into Peter's now, his jaw set stern, like he's still asking for clarification.
Peter nods.
"Everyone's free to go." Tony blinks, looking away. He waves off the other nurses. "I'll watch the troublemaker. Go on break, you've all earned it."
Then there was just them.
Tony sits down heavily in one of the seats, and Peter's not sure what to say to him. He's still holding his shoulder uncomfortably, but he closes his eyes and leans back against the wall like he's ready to settle in for a long night. It's normal, it's what Peter's used to, but the tension in the air makes it feel wrong.
"What happened to your arm?" Peter asks, breaking the stilted silence.
Tony's lips purse momentarily, and he shifts in his chair. "Knocked it on a doorway. You scared the shit out of me, I haven't run that fast in years."
Peter swallows thickly. "Sorry."
Tony grunts and doesn't open his eyes.
"When have you last..." Peter trails off, and then firmly shuts his mouth. One eye of Tony's peeks open, looking at him in tired question. "...slept?"
"How long you been in here?" Tony shoots back dryly.
Peter fidgets with the edge of his hospital gown. "You know it isn't your fault, right? Any of this?"
Tony's jaw clenches again.
"I'm serious," Peter frowns. "That's why you've been avoiding me, right? You think it's your fault?"
Like the plane crash thing at the beach... or the warehouse... or any other time I've ever been hurt on patrol...
"I haven't been avoiding you," Tony scrubs a hand over his face. "I've been working. Making upgrades on your suit."
(The unsaid, "so this doesn't happen again.")
Peter chews the skin off his lip. "No, but— it wasn't the suit, okay? You're always protecting me, I know that. You saved me, even. I think you're just kinda taking this out of proportion, you know?"
"Taking it out of—" Tony drops his arms and moves forward in his chair, his eyes sparking in self-contained fury. "You almost died, Peter. I carried you into the medbay, and the amount of blood on the floor made some of the staff trip."
Peter doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that, but it doesn't matter, because Tony keeps talking.
"You were touch and go for six hours and fourty-seven minutes," Tony says through gritted teeth. "I called May and she was on call with me the entire time you were unconscious so I could give her constant updates. She was crying, Peter. She was halfway through buying a plane ticket back when the doctor said you would be okay."
Peter sits there like a fish, his mouth opening and closing, his face making a series of complicated expressions that he doesn't even understand.
"Just..." Tony sighs heavily. The fight drains out of him, and he slumps back into the chair, his eyes falling shut. "Now, nod off. You need as much rest as you can get to heal yourself up."
Peter settles back into the hospital bed, stunned into silence. It's quiet, other than the steady electronic beeping, the drip of the IV, the exhausted but continued breathing of Tony across the room.
Peter makes a decision. "Mr. Stark?"
Tony opens one eye again. "Hm?"
He holds his hand out, fingers outstretched. A silent question. Tony looks down at it, and drags his chair across the linoleum. It brushes against the bars of his bed.
He locks their fingers together, settles back down in his chair, and shuts his eyes again. "Go to sleep, Peter."
summary: tony feels so incredibly overheated, but if the kid wants to sleep on his shoulder, it'll take the world ending to get him to move.
tags: fluff, platonic cuddles, slight derealization, tony being a good dad
wc: 1,357
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
It's nearing twelve in the morning. The temp in the tower's seventeenth floor, remaining in the private living quarters, is a raging seventy-nine degrees Fahrenheit. This kind of heat makes him itchy— there's no reason for it to be that hot indoors, whether it be the middle of autumn or the early winter, it's too damn hot.
Seriously, if he wanted to be in a sauna, he would just go to one. Hell, if he wanted to be boiling in his skin, he'd just book a trip to the other side of the equator, bypass the sauna idea entirely. It's not like he doesn't have the money for a spontaneous vacation.
When he voices these very logical thoughts on temperature and whatnot, he's told this quality officially makes him an old man— and Pepper's feet are cold, yes even with socks on, Tony, so the heater stays cranked up. He sticks on his glasses and scrolls through his phone, and tries to keep the grumps to a minimum.
That isn't too difficult. Especially when Peter comes dawdling into the room, a pair borrowed pyjama pants clinging loosely to his ankles, his NASA shirt disproportionately baggy, and his face all scrunched up from the low lights like he's just woken up from a good nap.
"Kid," Tony greets simply, looking up from his screen. "Up for a midnight snack?"
There's a warmth in his chest, sticking to him like a second skin, seeing the teenager so at home. This had been one of his better ideas; the lab nights. Giving Peter a chance to take a break from his patrolling, something that Tony is learning he needs way more of, and— as May had described to him, over one terse-to-tactful phonecall: giving Peter someone who understands on some level the shit that goes down when aliens and petty thieves get involved in the world's problems.
Sometimes they end up stretching long into the early morning hours, but lately, because Tony's been getting good at this whole 'mentor' thing, he sends him to bed at around eleven. Sometimes earlier if he knows the kid's been dancing around sleep like a cat to a cucumber, which, he had been this week. As soon as Tony caught him yawning today, he wrapped up the session neatly and subtly— or at least he thought so.
To his question, Peter grunts.
His shoulders making a shapeless motion that vaguely resembles a shrug. He trudges into the living room and falls belly-first onto the couch, his face smushing into the cushions.
"Graceful as ever," Tony comments.
Peter grunts again.
"Couldn't find anything in the kitchen?" Tony tries. He wracks his brain back to the last grocery list he made, but he's almost positive that he got actually quite the extensive list of the kid's favourite snacks.
(Frozen pizzas, instant ramen, microwave popcorn, and when those aren't fast enough options, nearly every flavour of chips, yogurt cups, pudding, granola bars, blah blah blah known to the American man. His pantry could become the new poster child for the risks of red dye 40. It's fine though. He doesn't feed him everyday, and he's pretty sure Peter's immune system can take it. Probably.)
Tony brushes the thoughts off, watching with amusement as Peter doesn't even twitch from his spot on the couch. "I could make you something. We both know I'm banned from the oven and the stovetop, but I could manage the microwave. Or a delivery service."
Peter makes a low, grumbly sound into the couch.
Tony waits.
After a moment of what looks like a great, strenuous effort, Peter's chin lifts just long enough for him to mumble something coherent.
"Not hungry."
The voice comes out in a whisper, and the kid sounds tired. Bone-deep, voidly, like how he sounds after a bad patrol. There's an element missing, though. The first lesson Tony learned about Peter was that reading his face is a lot easier and more reliable than listening to his words.
Tony just saw him barely three hours ago, and he was fine. Tired, but fine. Unless something very bad happened in that small window of space that Tony wasn't looking, he doesn't know why Peter would be like some sort of shell.
Tony's eyebrows get this crease in them, and his eyes narrowing an imperceptible amount. He puts his phone beside him, facedown. He's admittedly at a loss for words, which is a state that he famously detests.
A nightmare could seem like a possibility, but it goes back to how the kid was looking. In the rare, terrifying events that Peter's stumbled in to the lab, to the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, after a nightmare, he looked haunted in a way that was impossible to replicate. If Tony paid close enough attention, which he sure as hell did, each time he could see the way Peter trembled in his skin.
Tony is paying very close attention right now, and Peter is entirely motionless. Like a zombie, or a plant waiting for sun.
Still, he clears his throat. "Nightmare?" He asks casually, just in the off chance that he was totally wrong about his observations.
Peter, his face still smushed into the couch, shakes his head. It looks wildly uncomfortable, but still, the message is there. Not a nightmare.
Tony feels smug. Yeah, I thought so. He can't afford to be wrong about things like this.
Even with that victory under his belt, that still leaves the original, more important problem to be deduced— what the hell is wrong with his kid? He needs to know, so he can fix it. Immediately. Like, yesterday, even.
"Can I help you with anything?" Tony tests, throwing caution to the wind. "You just wanna sleep here?"
Peter, if even possible, goes even more still. There's a hesitation that radiates off him, and once again, Tony waits— another thing he's getting good at lately. Patience is a virtue, and all that.
Slowly, Peter turns his face, just so that one cheek is pushing into the couch and he's able to look at Tony. He doesn't, of course. His gaze is unfocused, trained lazily on the coffee table in front of them. It's a step forward, though, so maybe Pepper's whole idea of open communication has some merits.
"Cold," Peter says finally, his nose wrinkled from being smushed. "In my room."
Well, Tony knows that's bullshit. He's basically sweating and he's not even in Pete's bedroom. The whole floor is too hot. Normally he'd tell that outright, but the way Peter says the words like they're a puzzle gives him pause.
There's a correct response to this. He can feel it, some weird sixth sense in his heart, whispering words to him just as easy as it pumps out blood. Tony's good at puzzles. He just needs to find the right pieces.
Peter's hands twitch at his sides restlessly, and he clings to his own shirt. He blinks long and slow. He isn't shivering. He isn't cold. But he looks like he's floating, almost— and that little detail is what makes some of the picture fade in.
"I'm warm. Come sit by me," Tony says easily, lifting his arm. He pats the back of the couch.
Peter's shoulders sag with relief, and wordlessly he clambers up and over, then back down, soaking into Tony's side like a medicine. His hard skull digging into Tony's shoulder, his bony legs and arms all awkwardly twining and twisting to get comfortable like he really is part spider.
Tony immediately feels overheated, from the extra warmth now digging at him, and the stupid heater, still running way too hot. He keeps his mouth firmly shut about both, and easily cards a hand through Peter's hair.
"Better?" Tony murmurs. "Comfy?"
Peter nods into his collarbone, pressing himself closer like a bookmark into the pages of Tony's ribs. He doesn't speak again, so Tony squeezes an arm around him and continues to brush Peter's hair out of his eyes.
There's some kind of bonfire in Tony's soul that's feeding on the apparent warmth. He thinks he could get used to the feeling of fondness, and furthermore, wouldn't mind entirely if it burned him from the inside out— just so long as the teenager in his arms wouldn't be cold.
"Get some sleep, kiddo," Tony murmurs, smoothing his thumb over Peter's eyebrow.
summary: this time tony is hurt, and peter's not nearly as put together as tony pretends to be while fixing him up
tags: field medicine, banter, hurt/comfort, humour, peter being a little shit, tony being a big shit, implied hostage situation (they'll be fine)
wc: 1,563
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
"It's not looking good, I guess we'll have to amputate," Tony said dryly.
Peter's hands flurried over the bleeding wound, panic making the tips of his fingers go cold. There was so much of it, sticky and warm as it soaked through the torn pantleg.
"Shit," he breathed. "Shit, shit, shit!"
"Wow," Tony wheezed out. He grimaced as he held a hand tightly to his calf, trying and failing to staunch the blood at its source. "That's quite the colourful vocabulary."
Peter disregarded him. He swallowed thickly, looking around his surroundings in a frantic haze. There's really nothing to use for his benefit— the cell they had escaped from was narrow, cold, empty. Each hallway since that had been the same.
A winding building in the middle of nowhere, all grey walls, no windows. Tony had nothing. He had been grabbed in his suit, but he didn't have any connection to any servers, internal or external. No Karen. No tech. No medical supplies. A perfectly normal Friday morning.
He focused back on Tony, who in the dim light, was going paler by the second. Judging by his jackrabbit heartbeat, Peter's best guess is that he's gone into shock.
He took his own steadying breath, schooling his expression. He looked Tony in the eyes, keeping his jaw set. "Mr. Stark. It's gonna be okay."
"I know," Tony said with an eyeroll. "I've survived worse. I know. Jesus, kid. Calm down."
Calming down was, believe it or not, the very last thing on Peter's mind.
No, he was wracking his brain for anything, bits from medical journals MJ had linked him on the few (read: many) occasions that she scolded him after patrols, pieces from times where he was in Tony's position; and F.R.I.D.A.Y. gave instructions at rapid speeds while he usually was limp on the floor of the med bay.
Tony pushed himself backwards weakly, sweat gathering at his temple. "Kid, I need to get my leg up."
"Yes," Peter immediately chimed. "Right. Yes."
He helped Tony get situated against the wall, and held up Tony's leg carefully. At least with super strength, his arm wouldn't get tired. He quickly apologized when Tony winced.
"Okay," Peter fidgeted, looking wildly up and down the halls. "What do we do? How do we get out of here?"
"Well, hey." Tony rapidly tapped on Peter's chin, and when he finally looked over, he kept hold of his jaw to steady him. "Stop wandering. Keep your eyes on me for a second."
Peter jutted a nod, the motion tight in Tony's grip. His wide, beseeching eyes locking onto Tony's dilated ones, ready for the man's instruction. His anxious fingers taking refuge in their cling to Tony's bloodied pant leg.
"Breathe," Tony said firmly, shaking Peter's face in emphasis. "You need to calm down. That's an order, Mr. Parker."
Meanwhile, the idiot—sorry, he didn't mean that—was starting to sound out of breath, and Peter could see the way his eyes struggled to keep focus.
"You're in shock," Peter said, bordering on a frenzy. "Sorry if I can't just 'calm down', Mr. Stark, but you're bleeding out and I don't know where we are and—"
Tony gasped for a breath, and Peter's mouth shut immediately, his teeth clacking together.
"Listen," Tony said again. "I swear to God, kid. We're not getting out of this alive unless you trust me. Do you trust me or not?"
"Yes. Of course. Obviously."
"Okay, then shut your trap." Tony shifted uncomfortably against the wall. His lips looked bluer than Peter remembered they did a few seconds ago. "I need to lay down. You need to— hey, focus."
"I'm focused! I am focusing! Shit, lay down," Peter caught him by the shoulder as he started to sway, and gently guided him down to the floor. Tony's grip on his chin finally went lax. "You okay?"
"Peachy. Tie my leg up. Use something. You're gonna tie it there," Tony gestured vaguely to the area above where he'd been sliced. "Keep pressure on it after you've done that. Hey--"
Tony grabbed at his arm, looking at him gravely. Peter went still.
"It's going to hurt," Tony warned him. "It won't be pretty. I might scream, I might kick, or pass out. You can't worry about me if I do. Tie it tight. Understand?"
A shiver went up Peter's spine, and his body felt like he was floating. Tony's fingernails digging into his arm is the only thing that kept him grounded. He swallowed thickly and put on a brave face.
"Okay," Peter nodded quick. "Okay, yeah. I can do this. Don't worry, Mr. Stark. You're gonna be okay. I won't let you die."
"I know."
Peter looked down at his suit, its stretchy material, and immediately decided its fate. He tore the sleeve, which took a considerable amount of effort. That would be an impressive note to tell Tony if it didn't directly translate into the damage he was causing.
"So sorry about this," Peter said first. "Try not to bite your tongue."
He wrapped it just above Tony's knee, just where the muscle of his thigh started. The stretchy fabric assisting in the makeshift tourniquet, he began to tie it, using his strength to draw the torn suit's scraps taught.
Tony yelped, thrashing his leg back instinctively. It was awful. Every discordant scratch of his voice shrill and pained, coming right from his gut, torn out from his throat.
Peter hesitated, the sound making every nerve in his body cringe. In that split-second, he never wanted to hear Tony scream like that again.
Still, he had a job to do-- and even though he didn't want to hear the older man's screams, it would always be better than hearing his heartbeat stop. He wrenched the fabric impossibly tighter, and tied it in a double knot.
Tony lurched backwards, but Peter was stronger, and kept a firm grip on his leg. He pushed down the pressure on the wound and wouldn't let go. He tried not to think about the blood on his hands.
"Motherfu—" Tony tossed his head back, hitting it against the concrete with a dull thud. He gritted his teeth and hissed loudly. Another pained growl. "You son of a bitch—"
"Now whose language is colourful?"
"Kid—"
"Sorry, nervous. Sorry."
Tony heaved in deep breaths, his eyes shut tight. He was so pale, almost shivering on the floor. Unsteadily, he looked up. "Is it bleeding still?"
"Not as much," Peter told him. "But you didn't pass out, so that's good."
Tony made a disagreeable noise. He inhaled deeply, and nodded, if for nothing else than for Peter's sake. "You did good, kid. I'm okay."
"You're definitely not."
"I will be, then. Stop arguing. Little shit."
"Big shit."
"That was weak."
"You're weak," Peter fired back. The banter eased the twists in his chest, pulling them loose. He shook his head. "How do we get out of here? You can't walk."
Tony scoffed, making a limp, aborted movement with his arm, as if he had went to whack Peter upside the head, but decided he couldn't. "I can walk. It'll hurt like hell, but I can walk. We can't just sit around here."
Peter shook his head vehemently. "No. Nuh uh. Listen, we cleared out the whole place. There shouldn't be any more guys. My senses have been quiet ever since we took the last one out."
"Your point?" Tony asked, tilting his head forward. His eyes had some light back in them, though, and there was an interesting creased in his furrowed eyebrows that said he was thinking fast at Peter's words. Usually when he got that look, it meant he was figuring out the kinks of Peter's plan before he actually got to spit its steps out.
"Stay here," Peter said, as if it were obvious. He stood up, pacing back and forth in front of him. "We turned the control panel on earlier already. If the Avengers haven't already found us, they definitely will soon. If you stay in this hallway, and I can go and find a way to the upper levels of the building."
He thought it was a pretty good plan. Tony wouldn't have to move, and they'd make progress getting out, too.
Tony raised a finger to interject, and Peter's shoulders dropped like he'd been kicked.
"One thing," Tony put his hand down. "If people are already going to show up, then there's no reason for you to go walking around. Let's not get separated."
"But I--"
"What, you don't want to stay with me?" Tony frowned. "I'm not cool and hip? Do I smell? What is it?"
Peter sighed, but relented, plopping down beside Tony. He tried his best to relax, and get cozy for the long haul. If he had to be stuck with anybody, he's glad it was at least Tony. "You do smell. Is that a new cologne?"
"Yeah. Eau du Blood. Like it?"
"No."
"Me either."
They were quiet for a moment. Peter stared at the tourniquet on Tony's leg and quietly fretted, until Tony noticed and pulled him in around his shoulders. He leaned easily into his side.
"I'll be okay, kid," Tony repeated, his voice warm. "Seriously. And if nobody shows up in three hours, then we can talk about your plan again."
summary: tony invites peter to a stark industries event. nothing bad could ever possibly happen!
tags: sketchy npc character, banter, protective tony stark, peter parker pretends to be a stark intern, peter parker's ever-present battle with the 'is this a threat or am i having an anxiety attack' argument
wc: 2,372
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
It was two weeks ago when he asked.
"Whether you go or not," Tony reassured him slowly, his eyes somber, "you're still going to be counted as an intern. I'm just saying, if you're worried about going just because you want it to show on your resumes, or applications, or— or anything like that, don't be. Don't be worried."
Peter blinked several times, taking it all in, struggling to click the words Tony's saying into place. With the way he was acting, you'd think Tony was asking him offering a train for him to jump in front of.
"I'm not worried," Peter laughed breathlessly, his eyebrows furrowed. His laugh falters off. "I mean, are— are you worried? I don't need to go if you don't want me to."
"No! No— I mean," Tony exhaled stiffly, pressing his fingers into the bridge of his nose. "I have a complicated history with these sort of parties. That's all, kid. I just know you've been wanting some internship stuff to show on your record, so Pepper told me to offer this."
"So, it's like a business party?" Peter clarified. "I've been to those before. May's brought me to some for F.E.A.S.T., they aren't too bad."
"Lets just the people working at your aunt's charitable nonprofit is a little different than the crowd around S.I.," Tony said dryly. "Like I said, you're more than welcome to go. Or not go."
Funnily enough, this wasn't the first time Tony tried to bring his name's company in conversation. Key word to explain, tried. To be clear, Peter has never had any difficulties with the subject; but at some point he realized it was a sensitive subject for Tony, so it never comes up unless it's on his own terms.
This is as rare an occurrence as expected, but every time it has happened, Tony acts so entirely nervous that it can be confusing as to how Peter's supposed to respond. Every sentence always ends with a BUT, always making sure to add an easy escape plan for Peter to deny.
He isn't sure what to make of it. He's still learning.
Peter shrugged. "Well, yeah. I mean... it's just one party. It sounds exciting."
"Alright then. It's on the ninth. I'll pick you up."
"Okay," Tony set his jaw. He nodded once. "Sounds good."
So.
Two weeks later, and Peter is asking the entire drive there if there's anything specific he should know, anything he should be saying, anything he should not be saying, and Tony answers every one with an extraordinary amount of patience.
"Does my suit look okay?" Peter asks, and the elevator is going up, up, up, all the way to the rooftop. They're at some fancy building that Tony said he only uses for business events, or something. "I'm not underdressed, right? Or— is my tie straight? I feel like it's crooked, is it crooked?"
Through the tangible waves of his anxiety, Tony spares enough time to give him this fond, half-tilted look and shakes his head.
"It is now," he says, moving forward to brush Peter's fidgeting hands away from the tie. He straightens it properly, and pats it down. "You look fine, very professional. Good job, kid. They'll think you're the son of a very wealthy business major or something."
"Electrical engineering major?" Peter jokes. He immediately shuts his mouth, his ears going red.
Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. After a moment, he adds: "I also majored in physics."
They step through the doors, walking out onto a very busy balcony. The party seems to swell as people recognize who's just arrived, and people begin to make their way around just to catch a glimpse of the illustrious Stark.
The thing is, as it was explained to Peter earlier, the only reason Tony is even at the party is for appearances.
("Everyone knows Pepper is the one in charge," Tony rolls his eyes. "But nevertheless, they put my name on the invitation, and if I don't show up to at least one a month the stocks start tanking. This is basically just my homework.")
Even so, Tony blends in with the crowd of the party in a way Peter's never seen before. He's like an entirely different person, which is strange because— he's familiar, isn't he? This is the Tony Stark he grew up seeing in the news, isn't it? It's the one he's had talking in his ear everytime he did his homework until he was like, twelve.
Tony smiles at those around him, and it may pull at the lines of eyes but there's a distinct lack of light in them. He waves casually to everyone who nods a greeting at him, but his arm is tense, and his spine is rigid.
Peter trails along behind him, going wholly unnoticed. It sort of feels like walking through the hallways at school, only if he was friends with the most popular kid for once, and everyone who he was brushing into him wore stuffy business suits instead of backpacks.
It's would be funny watching the switch of personality Tony undergoes between stranger and known person, if it weren't so fascinating first and foremost. He's laughing at someone's bad joke, the kind that's hollow in his chest and forces a cheek-burning smile—and then Peter taps him on the shoulder to murmur how someone's purse looks more expensive than his Very Good Condition Han Solo-on-a-Tauntaun collectible figurine— and suddenly his eyes light up and his laugh sounds so much brighter, and Peter can't understand why nobody else can tell.
"The food here is so good," Peter says to him quietly, immensely pleased with his tenth hors d'oeuvre. He very politely tries to wipe his hands on a paper napkin. "Is all rich people food like this?"
Tony guffaws, but he looks so amused that Peter knows he's not offended. "Definitely not. One day I'll take you to try this one LA restaurant's escargot— cost an arm and a leg, gave me food poisoning for four days."
Peter grimaces, sticking a laugh.
Tony chuckles, pats him on the shoulder, gently tugs him around in that gruff, paternal way that Peter is still getting used to again. Then he's pulled into yet another conversation that Peter's never seen.
Nobody has really looked at Peter the entire party. Nobody has engaged him in any conversation, they don't really pay him any mind when he leans in to say something to Tony once in a while.
To reiterate, Peter's seamlessly blended into the background for generally the entire party.
This is why it is so obvious when he feels someone's eyes at the back of his neck.
Peter shifts, and his gaze falls over the man in question. He's on the far side of the roof, lingering close to the glass, and looking insanely shady. Cartoonishly so.
There's nothing specific sticking out that tells him something is wrong about the guy, other that the fact he keeps staring at Tony from across the party. Still, every time Peter tries to look away from the guy, even if for a moment, the familiar sense of dread and anxiety starts prickling again at the back of his skull, twitching in his hands.
He makes the call. He pulls at Tony's sleeve.
This is something they talked about, before. Peter's out. His 'get out of jail free' card.
Tony is in the middle of a sentence when Peter does it, and immediately he cuts it off. He doesn't even say an excuse to whoever he was speaking to. He turns around, his vigilant eyes make quick work of scanning Peter for any immediate distress.
("Okay, I'm going to say some important shit here," Tony said, spinning around in his chair. "Listen up."
"Listening," Peter said, quickly finishing the numbers on his page. He dropped the pencil and looked up, and immediately froze at the intensity of Tony's gaze. "Uh..."
"There's going to be a lot of people," tony explained seriously. "They might act polite, but they won't give two fucks about pushing you around or getting too close."
Right. So he was back on the event again. Peter frowned, and nodded at the warning, thinking that was it. It was not.
"In the event something happens, and your senses get out of wack, or you get uncomfortable, or you just want to leave, for any reason, you let me know," Tony continued, each word pointed and sharp in the way that a seatbelt would dig into your neck.
Peter opened his mouth. He closed it again.
"Don't hesitate to bug me, I'm serious. I don't like talking to these people anyways, you'll only be doing me a favor if you drag me from some conversation about investing in some shitty influencer pyramid scheme. We'll call it a 'get out of jail free' card, alright?"
"You..." Peter struggled for words. "You really are planning a lot for this."
He couldn't tell whether to be confused, impressed, or concerned.
Tony's eyes went grave. "I wish I had one of these plans when I was your age and going to these things against my will. Even if you want to go, I'm not personally putting any kid through this without one."
Peter decided then that the proper response was to be reasonably upset.)
"Are you okay?" Tony asks firmly, his voice low. He puts his trust in Peter's ability to hear him, which thankfully, he does.
Peter nods, then subtly tries to gesture to the guy at the other end of the balcony. "Do you see that guy over there?"
Tony nods casually, taking a glass from the serving plate of a passing waiter. "Yeah, started setting off red flags when he walked in." He smiles, fake, waving at another stranger. "He setting you off?"
Peter, for the sake of urgency, sidesteps Tony's ability to apparently know danger without a sixth sense, and instead nods. He's frowning. He can feel it on his face.
"Don't look worried," Tony sips at his drink. "Act normal, kid. You act like something's off, he's gonna know that you see him. Smile."
Peter smiles.
"That's a terrible smile, you look like you have a gun to your head."
Peter stops smiling.
Tony finishes his drink. "Here's the plan. I'll go talk to him, I'll try to lure him away from all these people, you're gonna keep a loose follow behind. When the time is right, we'll see what happens and either send him home or knock him out."
"You're gonna talk to him?" Peter whispers frantically.
"Yep." With that, Tony sets the empty glass on another tray and begins making his way through the crowd, leaving Peter no more time to argue.
So, what else is he to do except follow (loosely) behind Tony while he makes his way through the crowd. The suspicious guy in question starts to widen his eyes as they corner him, and he makes their job far easier by booking it towards the exit.
Tony sighs. "Kid—"
"On it," Peter says, dodging and weaving through people to stay hot on the trail. Once he gets past the crowds, he's fast, and makes it to the door at the same time.
He feels suddenly very vulnerable without his mask, and realizes belatedly why Tony's previous plan worked the way it did. Either way, it wasn't going to work anymore, so instead Peter gets them both inside and holds onto his wrist.
The man struggles like a rat caught by the tail. "Let go! Let go of me!"
"Do you have any weapons on you?" Peter asks politely. "You're gonna wanna tell me before Mr. Stark finds them, I'll be nicer about it. Better be quick, I can hear him walking. One, two..."
"Knife!" The man splutters quickly. "There's a knife! On my waist, it's on my waist!"
Peter quickly finds it, pulls it off, chucks it to the floor. Tony slips through the door now, wearing his glasses— he starts looking the guy up and down.
"Alright, what is it?" Tony demands. He juts his chin sharply to the side. "You want something? Money? Endorsement?"
"No," the man says. Now that the initial shock has worn off, anger begins to bubble in his eyes. "None of that. You fired me. I want my damn job back."
Tony makes an uninterested noise. "I don't know why I fired you, but considering you've stalked me and my intern to a private event to do god-knows-what for your position back, I'm going to say it was the correct call."
"No," the man seethes. "No! It was my idea! You— you thief— I'll kill you! I'll kill you and the goddamn kid—"
The facade on Tony's face shudders into something dark. He folds his glasses and sticks them in his pocket, and steps close to the man's face. He looks at him with scrutiny, his lips curled in finely controlled ferocity.
"Say it again."
The man pants, fighting against Peter's grip again. He snarls, keeping Tony's eyes. "I said I'll—"
Without so much of a twitch, Tony wrenches his fist back and drives it into the man's nose.
The man goes limp instantly, his eyes rolling back in his lolling head.
"Holy shit," Peter breathes, and after a moment of shock, drops the unconscious man to the ground. "That was insane. Are you okay?"
Tony grumbles, shaking his knuckles out. "Peachy. Hey, kid, how about we ditch this party? There's a Van Leeuwen ice-cream cone with your name on it."
"I—" Peter stares back down at the guy incredulously. He gives Tony a pointed, confused look. "—are we not gonna—?"
Tony taps the side of his glasses twice. Starts making his way toward the elevator. "Happens more than you think."
Peter scrambles to catch up with him, casting repeated looks back at the unconscious dude. Security have begun to come in from the balcony. "Why do you sound so annoyed? How often does this happen?"
"Jesus, doesn't it?" Tony scoffs. "Attempts on the life get annoying when you've been dealing with it your literal whole life."
"...Wow."
"Anyways, I've officially decided," Tony says. He enters the elevator, his face stern. "Next time, you're staying home."
summary: rhodey could say he never expected tony to adopt any smart, troubled kid he came across, but that would be a lie.
tags: fluff, rhodey-tony friendship, mentions to tony's struggle w/ alcoholism, tony is a good father
wc: 1,763
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
Colonel James Rhodes has been working all week long on paperwork. His eyes have started to blur at the mere mention of an email, and at first that was funny, but with a chill in his spine, he's suddenly been remembering all the times his sister joked about him having cataracts in his old, ancient age.
Needless to say, maybe he should take a day. He's earned it. He deserved it. So he called Tony up to schedule a weekend at the Compound— and chuckled when his point was relatively proven by Tony's alarm and immediate worry about the whole thing.
It had just been a while since the two of them had enjoyed each other's company without any kind of universal threat looming over them. When Rhodey was still doing PT nearly every hour of his waking day, Tony had been pretty rigid in not wanting to leave his side, and that was fine, but at some point Rhodey realized he'd been doing it mainly out of guilt; so Rhodes shut that down fast and decided to impromptu move back home.
It didn't mean Tony wasn't supportive, or that Rhodey was angry— it just meant that Tony needed some tough love, and this time it meant giving him the space he needed to sort through the stuff he kept shoving down and hiding away.
But Rhodey's doing fine now. He's going to all his appointments, he's not in any more pain than usual, which is all you can ask for in his age, history, and career. He hasn't had problems with his braces, please stop asking, Tony, and he just wanted to hang out with his family.
So he made the drive, pulled into the Compound at about two in the afternoon. He walked in, and was immediately greeted by his best friend. But he had some weird growth at his side—almost as tall as him, but scrawny, and mousey, talkative, and—oh, right, a super-powered teenagerwas following him around.
"Sorry I didn't warn you," Tony had explained to him privately, while the kid had went ahead to the elevators. "He was out of school today, and his aunt was busy with work, so I kept him."
Rhodey gave him an artful side-eye. He hadn't sussed out whether Tony was joking, whether there was a punchline that he was supposed to be waiting for. "Oh, no, that's... that's fine."
Tony nodded, looking ahead to the elevator. Then he grinned, he shouted out to the kid: "Hey, don't go pressing too many buttons over there! Don't want a repeat of last time."
The teenager groaned, leaning back on the wall. "Oh, come on! That was one time, Mr. Stark."
Tony chuckled, and on catching Rhodey's lost gaze, started shrugging and waving it off. "It's just a— kid did something funny the other week, I'm pulling his leg about it."
"Right, ok," Rhodey said easily.
Yeah, no. That makes total sense. Tony usually adopted kids off the street and then made inside jokes with them like they were family. Of course. How could Rhodey forget? This was super normal behavior for the guy he'd known for the past... Thirty years? Jesus, they were getting old.
And then in the blink of an eye, Rhodey's remembering the echo of an equally scrawny blond kid in some Tennessee dump, and Tony telling him how smart the kid was, if only he'd had some good education, some direction, how far he'd probably go in life. Then, after a few drinks, in a much quieter voice, Tony asked him if he thought he'd make a good father.
("What?" Rhodey had blubbered, just confused then as he was now. "Are you thinking of actually taking this kid?"
"No," Tony huffed, and he sounded so despondent about all of it, so much more downcast from how he usually presented himself. "No, of course not. I just... When I think about all the parent stuff, the being-a-dad stuff, it makes me sick to my stomach. I start thinking of my dad, and then I'm just stuck in this cycle of shit and it's awful."
And then, the longing. Something vulnerable in his eyes that he wanted to be broken.
"But then..." Tony sighed. He shook his head. Downed the rest of his amber glass and placed it on the table with a click. "I don't know. I just don't know, Jim.")
"So, what do you want to do, Honeybear?" Tony elbowed him. The elevator doors closed, and a gentle lull carried them up to the living floors. "We don't have to, but I know Pete's been wanting to watch this movie... Ah... kid, what was it called?"
The teenager, Peter, furrowed his eyebrows. "Er."
"C'mon, you've been talking about it all week." Tony snapped his fingers a few times, staring off as thought. "You know. The Baldur one, it's like a sequel for the game."
"Baldur's Gate 3?" Peter cracked a polite smile. "It's just a game, it's not a movie."
"They made three of those?" Rhodey mumbled. "I don't even remember it being that good. Me and Tony just played regular old Dungeons and Dragons."
At that, Peter swung around to his mentor, his eyes lighting up. His mouth dropped open, and he was looking at Tony like he was about to ask a million questions at once.
"I played a half-elf bard, and yes," Tony cut in, "I made it cool. Incredibly so."
Rhodey scoffed, holding back an obnoxious bout of laughter. Maybe it was because Tony knew him too well, and therefore could sense that he was about to call him out on his tomfoolery, because he then immediately changed the subject.
"Anyways," Tony cleared his throat quickly. "So, we can't watch that. Platypus, any suggestions that are equally nerdy? Gotta give the kid the enrichment he needs, of course."
Rhodey made an amused sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. "Right, right. Well, it's getting about time for horror movies, don't you think? Does the kid need a permission slip or something if we watch The Shining?"
"No," Peter said stubbornly, "I definitely don't."
"Hmm," Tony looked over him, his eyes narrowed. His hand scratched at his goatee speculatively. "Well, I suppose I'll allow it."
"Mr. Stark."
Tony couldn't stop chuckling all the way up the elevator. (It really wasn't that funny.)
So, sure, they put on The Shining. It's just as much of a classic as Rhodey remembered it being, and through the first half, he actually found the kid's weird little behind-the-scene blurbs interesting.
("Stanley Kubrick almost wanted Harrison Ford to play Jack," Peter said mindlessly, shoveling popcorn into his mouth. "Can you imagine this movie but it's just Han Solo the whole time? I mean, I love Han Solo, but I'm kinda glad they didn't cast him in the end. It would be fun though, to have like, an extra copy where it's Han Solo and not— er— ah, I forgot the name! I just had it—"
"Nicholson," Tony filled in, hiding a very fond smile behind his hand. He wasn't watching the movie in the slightest, but he didn't look like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Right, yeah! Nicholson.")
The credits roll around, and Rhodey's getting hungry for dinner, so he yawned and stretched and looked over to ask Tony what place they should order from.
Tony was sitting very still, his eyes soft and crinkled at the edges, while the teenager snuffled sleepily on his shoulder. And Rhodey's never seen this before, it's so new to him, but he can't help but feel this is the perfect portrait of a man who's just found the piece of himself that's been missing for a long, long time.
"Baby's out for bedtime," Rhodey smiled.
"Yeah," Tony murmured gently. "He had a rough patrol last night. I'm really glad he's actually getting some rest."
Rhodey hummed nonchalantly. He studied his old friend for a few moments longer. There was a great comfort in knowing this is the first time he's seen a weight on Tony's shoulders that made him at ease.
"I've got to ask," Rhodey hazarded. "What are you thinking right now? Just, when you look at that kid."
Tony glanced up. "What, right now?"
"Sure."
Tony looked back down at Peter, who was properly knocked out, his mouth hanging open while he quietly snored. Rhodey got to see it again; the way Tony's eyes softened. A glint of that old vulnerability shining through like steel.
"I don't know," Tony answered thoughtfully. "I'm just happy he's happy. I mean, Christ, it's morbid, but it's nice to see him safe and healing, away from all the danger. It's nice to hear his heart beat at a calmer pace for once."
Rhodey let that settle in the space.
Tony smiled like he was amused. "He doesn't usually snore. He must really be tuckered out."
("Do you think..." Tony swallowed thickly. His teeth curled up in something bitter, like he was trying so hard to laugh, but just couldn't. "I mean, you know me."
"'Course," Rhodey affirmed, nodding over and over again. The world was a little spinny. He's gonna have to switch to water, soon. "'Course I do."
"Right, yeah. You know me." Tony drummed his hand on the table anxiously. "Just for throwing conversations out there... Do you think I'd be a good father?"
Rhodey's stomach lurched. He stared at Tony and the world went into focus for a few solitary seconds. "Huh?"
"I'd be shitty at it," Tony argued. "I mean, logic stands to reason, I'd just be awful. I don't know how to do it. There's not a lot I don't know how to do, and my whole philosophy for learning overnight doesn't really distend to parenting, does it? That's just... there's too much there. It can't be easy enough to just love, is it?"
Rhodey stared some more, the drunken shock only starting to wear off as Tony kept spinning himself into a spiral.
Tony looked at him, helpless. His smile, fake as it had been, faltered. He just looked tired. He looked scared. "Is it?")
Rhodey swallowed the lump in his throat. "Hey, Tony?"
"Hm?"
"You're good at this," Rhodey said. "You're good."
Tony smiled crookedly, giving him a strange look. "Oh-kay?"
Rhodey nodded firmly. He pushed off the couch with a grunt. He started toward the kitchen. "Now, wake my nephew up so I know what type of pizza he wants."
After all, his stomach was rumbling. He had a delivery to call for.
summary: a rough patrol leaves a very overwhelmed peter landing on tony's balcony, tired and bone-weary
tags: patrol, hurt/comfort, bamf peter parker, canon typical violence, mental illness, peter parker's struggle with responsibility, good mentor tony stark
wc: 2,939
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
Alright, sure. Maybe it wasn't Peter's best idea to take an entire drug trafficking ring down on his own, in a single night, when Tony was expecting him at the end of his patrol for a suit schematics check and some upgrades.
There's seventeen people knocked out on the ground, and more of them keep appearing– they're running through the doors in groups, waves of men in neon-orange vests making circles around him. As Peter side-steps another unconscious dude, he had to at least make the defense that this wasn't what he wanted to be doing tonight.
It really, honestly, truly, was supposed to be a standard patrol. And it had been, he'd just finished up some small-time burglary near 57th street, which is closer to Hell's Kitchen than Peter usually treads (due to some boundary agreements with some other guy he's only kinda terrified of, in the respectful way), and then it got... weird.
He thought it was just a dropoff, so got Karen to call it in quick, and then tailed the car to see where it went. It was only about eight pm, and the August sun was just barely peeking up over the horizon. He had time, he'd be able to get it done and then drop by the tower for his schematics check.
"Karen? Can you tell Mr. Stark I'll be a little late?" Peter asked quietly, observing from afar. "I have to wrap something up before I clock out."
"Of course, Peter. When should I tell him you'll be there?"
Peter looked over the warehouse very thoughtfully. He took into account the amount of exits, the amount of cars surrounding it– even the geographical location! He was thorough!
"The plan is maybe thirty minutes," Peter decided.
Well.
He forgot to account into his plan that, well, nothing ever goes according to his plans.
"How many of you even are there?!" Peter cried out, because seriously, he's tripping on people in an attempt to dodge the bullets they keep firing at him. He pulled some quick maneuvers to group some of them up on the wall with webs, but it was tricky to make sure none of them got shot in the process.
This must have been one of the bigger drug operations, because there were never this many people in one place. He couldn't tell where the boss was, but logically they wouldn't be out with all the defense. They're somewhere else in the building, surely, and maybe if Peter wrapped this up fast enough he could find the asshole before they escaped.
He didn't have a ton of experience with bigger-scale stuff. Or, at least– not all at once. He usually goes after the little operations at the bottom, one by one, and made his way up to the top. Get rid of the followers, then take care of the leader. This was not a little operations. This was stupid. This was monumentally stupid, and he should have gotten out of this mess before they all had clambered at him like rats.
But hindsight is 20-20, and he couldn't just leave now, because he knew that it would make them that much harder to find later. He just had to get it over with and power through.
In the chaos, someone managed to get the drop on him— he couldn't see their face but he knew they were yelling out like a soldier of war, and they ended up slamming the magazine of a bulky AK-47 right into the soft cartilage of his nose. Peter stumbled back, a hand jerking up to the blood that was already soaking his mask.
"Um, ouch!" Peter said pointedly. His voice came out weird with his nose all clogged up and wonked. "Not even a warning this time! Cool, no, that's great. It's not like I rely on my senses to keep my nose and other... various... parts from... breaking..."
He blocked through some other attempts of a similar attack, because obviously once the group of intelligent men saw Spidey get his ass kicked with the opposite side of a gun, they start formulating, like intelligent men do.
Peter leaped, kicked off the nearest wall and used as much force as he safely could to punch a row of armed guys down. They're webbed quickly, squirming around on the concrete to no avail, their faces red and puffy.
From across the room, someone fired another bullet. It whizzed across the room, its sound blending with the hundred other casings ringing like bells as they spin on the ground.
Peter's neck buzzed, and he yanked himself to the side just in time for the bullet to nick the span of his back. It singed the suit, it burned the skin– he hissed and cringed, his spine twisting as if he'll be able to stretch away from the pain.
"I just don't get paid enough for this," he gritted out.
He threw out his hand, and a web goes spinning forward. It gripped the gun, and Peter yanked his arm down, making the weapon and the connected man's skull hit the concrete. He doesn't have quite enough time to think about the implications of that before he's blocking another magazine, then grabbing another elbow, then sliding under another pair of ankles, and then—
The world just spun, on nights like these. He tried to explain it once to Ned, who had witnessed a morning-after moment where Peter had snapped (and quickly apologized) at him for complimenting the fight he saw on the news the night before.
("It's kind of like a rollercoaster with only the loops," Peter had said after a long bout of silence, his face pinched, his eyes shut tight and hidden behind his balled-up fists. "There's the adrenaline, and it feels kind of awesome to be moving that fast, at first, but then you're just– it keeps going, and it doesn't stop, and you just want the ride to be over.")
It's getting late. He wanted off the ride.
The waves were getting smaller, but the ground was nearly covered in unconscious men. Peter felt kind of sick, standing in an ocean of his own violence, and for some godforsaken reason, people were still finding the space and energy to shoot at him.
"Mr. Stark has sent you another message," Karen chimed in through his ear. "He is informing you that it's been nearly forty minutes, and is asking if you're okay. Shall I tell him you're being shot at and cannot respond?"
"No," Peter jolted. "Absolutely do not tell him that. Just— I need—"
A heavy guy ran head-first into his stomach, and Peter got the wind knocked out of him as he tumbled backwards.
"I need these guys to stop taking overtime," Peter wheezed out with a scowl, and shoved the guy off. He managed to scramble up from the floor, but not in time to block someone from the side presenting a nasty hit to his ribs. He heard a crack. He felt a crack.
Peter exhaled sharply. He grabbed the offender by the shirt. "Karen, turn the HUD off," he muttered.
The shiny displays go away. Everything goes brighter, sharper. In his vision, just the man, surrounded by more people who only want to hurt him. His heartbeat thudded angrily in his chest.
"I'm not scared of you," the man in his grasp spat, saliva dribbling from his lip. He wriggled, his hands tugging uselessly at Peter's hand. "Stupid fucking spider, I'll squash you like a bug."
Peter stared at him, just— just exhausted. Everything in his body hurt. He could taste his own blood in his mouth, the sharp tang of iron keeping his mind wired.
"Where's your boss?" He rasped.
The hair in his ears pricked, and he could hear someone staggering up behind them. He reached his other hand back and webbed them back to the wall. All the while, his gaze remained steady in front of him.
"I'm not telling you shit," the man shook. His eyes were wild with terror and something rabid. "You'd have to kill me first."
Around him, all had gone suspiciously quiet. Like any remaining people were holding their breath, waiting to see what happened next. Like they no longer believed they had a fighting chance, and were ready to bolt whenever the moment presented itself.
The lenses of Peter's mask narrowed.
"How much is your product worth?" He asked.
The man sputtered an indignant laugh. "What, you want in on the gig? I'm not sellin' to no fuckin' narc. Nothin' is worth that shit."
"All your men are going to be arrested," he said slowly. He watched the man's face twitch. "And you have a cell in Rykers with your name on it. Do you know why I'm telling you this?"
The man stared, gritting his teeth. After a second, he quickly shook his head.
Peter dragged the man closer, getting up in his face. He tilted his head to the side. The man shuddered in fear.
Then, clearly, succinctly, he said:
"Because that's what your worth is."
He dropped the man to the floor and webbed him stuck. He looked up, each movement feeling like a drag. His eyes carried tiredly around the room, to the remaining few. "Anyone else want to fight tonight?"
All of them seemed to jerk out of their stupor then, and made a panicked hurry towards the doors. Peter unclicked a small canister from his belt and tossed it at the door, watching it explode, and catching all of them in a net of webbing.
Peter watched them squirm. He sighed. "Karen, scan the building for life forms."
"...Scan completed," Karen said after a beat. "Everyone in the building is breathing and on this floor. And wall. And ceiling."
Peter snorted dryly, glancing around the warehouse. "Yeah. I'd have to agree with that. Tell Tony I'm on my way."
"Of course, Peter."
Peter hopped up the window at the top of the warehouse, shattered through from the bullet rain, and began his trek back.
On his way, he debated many things, like just telling Tony to temporarily shove it and going home for the night, or simply not saying anything and taking the subway home, almost drooling over the idea of letting the train lull him to sleep, drifting off and letting his aching body rest.
Of course, he didn't do any of these things. He landed on the designated balcony of the tower within twenty minutes and dragged himself in, peeling the mask off and cringing at the way it was stiff and folded in his dried blood.
Tony was waiting for him, sitting at the snack bar with his arms crossed. A half-empty water glass on the counter. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply, and his lips were pursed. Okay, so he was disappointed.
"I know. Gimme a second," Peter sighed. If he had to be scolded, he might as well fix his nose first. It'll only be worse later if he lets it finish healing wrong.
He shoved his mask in his mouth. Brought his hands up to his face and felt around his nose, where it was bent wrong. Then he inhaled deeply, held his breath, and jerked it into its proper spot. His jaw tightened, teeth clenching around the bloody fabric. A wave of nausea hit him, and he sat down in a heap on the floor.
"Jesus," Tony muttered. He scrubbed a hand over his face, keeping his eyes covered. "Kid, there's a safer way to do that. You might have just screwed it up more."
Irritation prickled under his skin. Peter didn't want to argue, was too tired to snap, so he just sighed again, and leaned back on the floor— as his spine relaxed, a series of crunches and pops sounded from the room. Tony winced in sympathy.
"Alright," Tony noted. He stood up, walking over. He looked down at him with calculating eyes, and Peter couldn't help but feel mocked. "Any other injuries I should know about?"
He let the question roll around in his mind.
"I'm tired," Peter answered, the energy rolling back and forth in his chest like a ship in a storm. He grit his teeth, then relaxed. Tried to let the nausea settle.
"Well, that makes sense when you're jumping around like a gymnast for several hours a night," Tony pointed out.
"No," Peter tossed an arm over his eyes. "I mean, yes, but— I'm talking about—"
His face felt hot, his cheeks burning with all the emotion threatening to blow out. A tea kettle whistling in his ears, the kind that's just been on the stove a touch too long, and the handle is red, and nobody wants to touch it, nobody wants to take it off the kettle for fear they'd burn their hands.
He shut his mouth, wrenched it tight. Inhaling deep through his nose, feeling the breath shake its way into his lungs.
There's a rustling of fabric, and then a struggling groan, and then Tony was sitting beside him on the floor. He didn't say anything. He was just there. Peter could hear the steadiness of his heartbeat, always a little faster than everybody else's, the careful in-out-in-out pattern of oxygen.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Peter started quietly. "I just get like this some nights."
Tony hummed. "Like what? What do you mean?"
Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Like– most of the time, I'm fine, and I love doing this. I really love being Spider-Man, I do. You gotta know that."
"Of course I do," Tony said easily. His expression was patient in that guarded way that was specific to Tony— one that looked closed-off to someone who wouldn't know him, but to Peter, was easily recognizable as concentration. He was listening. He wanted to make sure he was getting every detail right.
"But, then there's the other times, like now, where I'm just..." Peter huffed. "My rib is sticking out, and my back hurts, and there's blood in my mouth, and I'm tired."
"Mm." Tony scratched at his chin. "Okay. Well, let's break that down, then."
The corner of Peter's mouth quirked up. Let's break that down. He always said that. Peter thought it was the mechanic in him, probably. And maybe Peter had rose-tinted glasses, but he didn't think there was any problem that Tony couldn't solve or at the least understand by breaking it down, finding out how the pieces work together.
"It's totally normal to feel like that, for one," Tony started off. "You get kicked around a lot. Nobody likes that. You may have the name of a saint and the patience of one, but nobody can endure all of that, all the time, and not get fed up with it."
"I want to," Peter argued. "I'm better than that. Than this."
"Kiddo," Tony marveled genuinely. "At sixteen years old, you already are miles better at all of this than I am, than all the Avengers, than anybody in the world. Sure, you can always be better, anyone can always be better, but that doesn't discount how good you are now."
Peter worried his tongue over his teeth silently.
"You can be mad," Tony said gently. "You can be tired. If anybody deserves it, it's you, Peter."
After a moment, Peter croaked out: "I don't like being mad, Mr. Stark."
Tony smiled meaningfully at him and patted his leg. "I know. But anger isn't a negative emotion, you know. I'm still learning that, too, but... we're all just human. We're going to get mad. It's what we do with it that matters. Tonight, you were mad. What did you do with it?"
"I... I knocked out a lot of people."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "They were criminals, Pete. And they were shooting at you."
"Still knocked them out..." Peter mumbled.
"And after?"
"I went to you," Peter shrugged. "Basically passed out on your floor, and then started complaining at you."
"So, leaving the situation that made you mad, going to someone you trust, and then you talked about it," Tony listed. "Those are three healthy things you did to de-escalate, cool off. You still mad?"
"Not really?"
"Exactly," Tony nudged him with his foot. "I'm proud of you."
Then, he frowned. "Did you say your rib is sticking out?"
"Got hit hard by the boss," Peter confirmed, looking sheepish. "It hurt really bad. Probably dislocated it, but I'll be okay."
Tony sighed carefully. He took a few seconds, just staring at Peter. They did that, sometimes. A moment of silent communication, so seamless where it seemed like they were made of the same stuff. Tony looked at him, and his eyes were making a plan, and Peter looked back, and his eyes said 'thank you, I know you won't hurt me. Thank you.'
"Let's get you to the medbay," Tony said finally, his voice soft. "I'll get you some of my old clothes, I'm sure I've got something that'll fit. You can get some rest. We can do upgrades in the morning."
"...I have school."
"I'll take care of that. I'm sure May would agree we shouldn't send you to school with a healing dislocated rib," Tony said firmly. He stood up with another groan. "God, I'm getting old. Alright, kid, let's go. Do you want to run a movie marathon with me tomorrow? I've been wanting to rewatch some Hughes."
He took the segue for what it was, and when he dragged himself off the floor this time, it was with a tired smile.
summary: after a nasty run-in with some alien bad guys, the avengers struggle getting peter to stay still for first aid
tags: hurt/comfort, injuries, field medicine, avengers interactions
wc: 1,661
cross-posted on wattpad under the same name!
It was all so stupid. An impromptu fight with aliens that decided to give them a surprise visit, met with Peter being in the wrong place at the wrong time, met with a futuristic sword now embedded into his stomach.
The entrance of the jet couldn't open fast enough. Tony's heart is going a mile a minute as all of them clamber on— all of them meaning: Steve, Bruce, Peter, and himself. Peter, writhing with pain in Steve's arms and yelping as he was carried over to the nearest flat surface, a pull-down cot for incidents such as this. The kid's mask is held in Tony's clenched hand.
"Ow," Peter sobbed, his body convulsing, trying to yank itself away from its own pain. Blood poured down and pooled underneath his side. His face was pale. He shivered and it caused his limbs to jerk out more. "It hurts, it hurts—"
"Steve, you need to hold him down," Bruce ordered with a sharp, loud voice. He pulled on medical gloves aggressively, the latex hitting against his skin. "I need to remove the sword, it could be infected with god-knows-what."
"Steve won't be strong enough," Tony said. He was restless. Fidgeting. He tossed the mask over and took one side, bracing Peter down against the cot. He looked up immediately at Steve, who— who damn it, wasn't moving fast enough, and glared.
"You gonna stand there all day?" He snapped. "Get over here, Rogers. Help me hold the kid down."
Steve, ever the soldier, followed the command. He was at Peter's other side, holding down the super-strengthened patient. He didn't even have the heart to look exasperated or annoyed with Tony's anger, not that Tony would have clocked it, anyways.
He knew distantly that Steve had been the one to see the teenager go down. He heard it over the comms a second after it happened, the alarm in Steve's voice as he told Tony they had to get Peter off the field. He tried to picture it then, as he flew around enemies and rubble, the way Peter's body would have fallen to the concrete limp. It made him sick.
Peter yanked against their arms, his chest heaving. "No, no, no—"
"I know, kiddo," Tony tried, his voice strained with emotion. He schooled his expression into a smile, something terse and anxious. He wanted more than anything to just run his hand through Peter's hair, to make it all better, to soothe the tears, to take his pain.
Bruce walked over, carrying a rickety metal roll-over tray that was loaded with all the medical supplies they carried on the jet. Tony's blood ran cold.
"I'm scared," Peter sobbed. "Tony— Tony, it hurts so bad, it—"
"It's gonna be okay," Tony said, his voice louder and more measured than it should have been if he were speaking naturally. He didn't think he could breathe properly. Every movement of his was cataloged and very pointedly thought out in the background of his mind.
He took a breath. Leaned his weight further on Peter. Checked the amount of blood on the table. He let the breath out. Leaned his weight further on Peter. Checked the colour of the kid's lips, whether or not they were too pale— they were white. He took a breath.
"It's gonna be okay," Tony repeated. He clocked in the wandering of Peter's widened eyes, how the panic in them increased whenever he looked down, or looked at Bruce. "Hey. Hey, Peter. Pete, look at me."
Peter sniffled, looking over. His arms tried to fight again, trying to sit up. Tony and Steve didn't let him.
"Relax," Tony said. "Just keep looking at me, got it?"
Peter made a weak noise of acknowledgment, which broke off into a scream— a horrible, tortured thing, his head throwing back into the cot. Tony winced and risked a glance down at the wound. Bruce had an equally sympathetic grimace as he tried to pull the sword out.
Peter wailed, once again trying to fight his way out of their hold. He didn't know consciously what he was doing, Tony knew that. The kid was just following his instincts, which was all the body and mind could do under this much pain, under this much stress. Still, the sight made Tony want to break— Tears dripping down the side of the kid's youthful, agonized face, into his ears and gathering at the crook of his neck.
Tony's grip went weak for just a moment.
"Tony," Steve warned, even his own voice sounding choked with emotion.
He pushed his weight back down. He took a breath.
"It'll be okay," Tony said instead, turning his attention back to giving Peter even the slightest semblance of comfort. "It'll be okay. Keep fighting, kid. It'll be over soon."
He shakily looked up at Bruce, who was concentrating on pulling the sword out as carefully as he could. "Do we have any pain medication? Anything we could give him?"
"No," said Bruce, frown tight on his face as he slowly shook his head. "No, nothing that would work for him."
Bruce didn't even look up while he spoke, too engrossed in his task. Which was good, because Peter deserved all the attention right now. Tony might throw a tantrum if Bruce looked up even once.
"Sorry," Bruce added as an afterthought.
"Don't apologize to me." Tony glanced back over at Peter, who was clenching his teeth so hard they could break. Spit dribbled out onto his chin from the effort he kept while trying not to scream in all his torture.
"Do we have any pain medication for me?" Steve asked tightly. "If he has an enhanced metabolism, enhanced immune system... it should work the same, right?"
"It's more complicated than that," Bruce said absently, his eyebrows furrowing with frustration. "You both have enhanced abilities, but your bodies are still changed on two entirely different molecular levels. Your medication could be made from components that are either too little or too much for Peter's system to handle, we haven't done enough research for—"
Bruce tugged at the blade again. Tony knew this because another gut-wrenching scream shredded past Peter's throat, shrill and caught between suffered sobs. It was enough to pull Bruce's attention up, startled, and he blinked at Peter for just a moment.
"Do it!" Peter wheezed out, his voice hoarse. "Just, I don't care— just give me the meds. Please. Please, it hurts. It hurts."
Bruce hesitated, looking over to Tony with a pained expression.
Tony looked down at his kid for all of two seconds before he caved.
"Do it," he affirmed. "If something goes wrong, we'll fix it. Trying it would be better than just this, just doing nothing."
Tony could think of a lot of things that would be better than this.
Bruce inhaled stiffly and then nodded, pulling away and digging into a compartment across the jet. He came back with a syringe needle and vial of clear liquid. He filled the needle carefully, and then injected it into the vein of Peter's wrist.
"I gave him a low dose," Bruce explained, watching Peter carefully. "It should still act quickly."
A few seconds later and Peter's sobs quietly eased. Bruce didn't think twice before getting back to work, and the relief Tony felt was palpable in the air.
When Bruce began to work at the blade again, Peter stopped moving around as much, stopped fighting back. Peter's head fell back a lot gentler on the cot, his eyes rolling back. A surge of fear ran through Tony, who was still pressing his weight against the kid's side.
The panic must have shown on his face, because Steve let Peter go and patted Tony on the shoulder.
"He's out," Steve said. "The medication kicked in. He's all numb now. It's okay."
Oh.
Tony nodded dumbly, his head full of static even with the fear temporarily eased. He stayed at the kid's side, slumping beside him and letting the armor fall away. An exhausted sigh fell from his lips involuntarily.
"You did good," Steve said tentatively, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say, but wanted to say something anyway. "...You're good with him."
Tony worked his jaw around. He lifted his eyes. "Thank you. For the medication suggestion."
"Yeah, of course," Steve said immediately.
Tony looked back down at the kid.
"...I'll let you stay with him," Steve said after a moment longer of silence. He gave an awkward, tired smile, and then left in the direction of the cockpit. Tony's eyes didn't follow, as they were trained on the way Bruce was now cleaning and dressing Peter's wound,
The bleeding had waned considerably in the time that Tony spent talking to the kid. By the looks of it, he was already well on his way to making a full recovery, even with the scare of a lifetime that he gave everyone— especially Tony. Figured.
"His healing took the brunt of it," Bruce explained, wrapping what easily could have been their whole supply of gauze onto the wound. "He'll have to get X-rays and some blood tests run when we get back to the Compound, but I think he'll be alright. He's a tough kid."
"Yeah, he is."
Bruce simply hummed. He peeled off his gloves carefully and stuck them in a waste bag. "Well, any other questions?"
"Nope."
"Alright," Bruce murmured, looking at the two of them with a sincere gaze. He smiled softly. "Let me know if he wakes up or needs anything. You two, for that matter. I'll go talk with Steve about when we'll leave."
"Sure," Tony said lamely. He watched Bruce get up and retreat into the cockpit as well.
Adrenaline wore off easier than anything in the world, now that his kid wasn't crying, wasn't in pain, and wasn't bleeding all over the place. He squeezed Peter's hand.
