This is very hard for me to word. Today I woke up to find out that a... friend, has liver cancer. The cancer is inoperable and has spread too far, so he has a few months at the most and they're not going to be good months. Could you write some kind of cancer fic for me? I know it's a bizarre request and there are hundreds of cancer fics out there already but you're my favourite author. I would just like to see some avengers supporting the shit out of someone with cancer.
[Honestly … I just wish I could hug you. Of course I’ll write this. Let me know if it doesn’t work, or not what you wanted, and I’ll write something different. Anything at all.]
[Features sick!Peter Parker and Peter Parker & Tony Stark with protective team all around. Overall disclaimer: I am not a doctor]
This isn’t how he’d imagined it would be.
That’s probably not fair. He’s imagined this time throughout his entire life, and his imagination is vivid enough that he’s had hundreds of scenarios play out in his mind on some type of morbid, entertaining mental reel – and granted on top of that, he’d always imagined his final moments. He hadn’t ever considered he’d have more time of … knowing.
Of going through and considering the process.
Against the softness of a couch that definitely hadn’t cost more than a few hundred dollars (and is therefore out of place in Tony Stark’s tower, it’s probably from Steve’s apartment, or from one of Bruce’s thrift shop exploits – hell, maybe it’s from Russia, why hadn’t he ever asked, he could be sitting on a Russian couch right now without knowing it), Peter shivers against a flood of coldness that doesn’t exist outside of his body, pulls the purple afghan (definitely from one of Bruce’s thrift shop exploits) a little tighter across his body until he feels his bones straining against the wrap.
Hadn’t imagined this at all.
He should get up, maybe. Get up, do something. He’s pleasantly not nauseous today, and he’s managed to be awake for … two whole hours, give or take. It’s good, for what good can be anymore (for when good can be anymore, God, the sun isn’t black today, and isn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic?)
“Uh, no? What is this? What. Is this? We had a deal.”
A tired grin tugs at Peter’s lips and he doesn’t try to fight it, focuses his attention on the common room’s entryway as Tony slips all the way through. The billionaire is frowning at him, a funny little expression that screws his face up into something that leans more toward adorable than annoyed – fuck, it’s a good day.
“Hey, Tony,” he mumbles, pushes his head a little further into the pillow against his cheek. The older man snorts, hands twitching as he nears.
“A deal,” he insists. “One of us with you, all the time. You promised, I remember this promise. You actually said the words “yes, Tony, I promise to remain permanently chaperoned”.” Tony flops down on the couch, as close to the edge as he can get so that the movement doesn’t jar Peter. Funny, how he’s caught onto all of this man’s tricks after only a year and a half of living in the tower. “And yet-“ he waves his hands again, more grandly than before. “I find you. Alone. Promised, Parker.”
“Natasha was just here.” It’s either a whine or a protest, Peter isn’t sure which, but either works when it comes to Tony. He’s still grinning. “Not even five minutes ago, you had to’ve passed her on your way. Shuddup.” He joins in Tony’s hand waving, giggles just slightly as their fingers slap before a warm hand finds his ankle.
“Whatever,” Tony grumbles, gripping gently. Peter squints slightly, sees his friend eyeing him in consideration. “Good day, is it?”
“I haven’t puked today,” he confirms happily. “And nothing’s … foggy. No foggy vomit.” His grin burns as Tony snorts.
“Congratulations,” the billionaire offers dryly, but his hand doesn’t leave Peter’s ankle, and so he doesn’t buy the tone. Tony Stark is publicly notorious for being self-obsessed, but inside this tower he’s nothing but heart (one of the biggest shocks of Peter’s life, actually, getting to know the man behind the entertainment image. Right up there with … well …). “How’s the head?”
Peter’s imagined dying in battles, or accidents, or from being shot down in friendly fire. Quick, meaningful, fast.
“… Grey thoughts better than black thoughts?” He tries.
“What shade grey to what shade black?”
“Overcast skies to pen ink,” Peter offers immediately, pulling from the chart Tony and Steve had devised with JARVIS months ago, something for Peter to express himself in simple words that explained their own context so that he didn’t have to, a language for this … thing. “Or … charcoal to oil slick. If you want.”
“It’s flipping, then?” The tone of Tony’s voice is rhetorical, and so Peter remains quiet under the steady ministrations of the fingers against his bone. Quietly. “No oblivion today?”
“Not since Sunday, actually.” Sunday had been … well, Sunday had been oblivion. He still needs to apologize to Clint for that.
“That’s good,” Tony says slowly, adding a little smile of his own to their mix. Oblivion hadn’t been a contender for a shade label until Tony had brought it up – it was the second-to-last option at the end of the chart, right behind a blank square. “That’s …” there’s another squeeze to his ankle to finish the sentence. “Anyway, cool. What are we doing today? We don’t have umbrellas to deal with the threat of rain from overcast skies, so … video games? We can get Steve and Bruce up here for Mario Kart, I’m sure. Or do you want to watch a movie? If you don’t tell on me, I’ll have JARVIS dig through Fury’s private movie collection.” There’s a pause. “What do you think he watches? I want to say Pirates of the Caribbean, but the might be too predictable. Maybe the entire series of Powerpuff Girls? Oh fuck, what if he has the entire series of Powerpuff Girls-.”
“Actually, I just kinda wanna lay here.” Peter swats at Tony again, except this time he’s not close enough to reach without effort, which Peter doesn’t feel like extending. Instead, he soaks in the warmth that slips from the other’s hand, through the blanket and his socks and into his skin. It’s a nice feeling. “Just … lay. And … think. I want to think.”
“We can do that,” his friend agrees easily, the smile falling from his face. “What are we thinking about?”
‘How not quick and very imminent this is.’
“Nothing.” He stretches his legs out, digs his toes carefully into Tony’s thigh, takes comfort in the fact that, despite the movement, the hand doesn’t move. Such a good day. “We’re thinking about … nothing. About what it would be like to … find a void. Some deep pocket in the universe where time doesn’t exist, and you can just … pause. Stop for a while, you know? Just tuck into nothing. Just for a bit. A nap.”
“That sounds a little more like thunderstorm than overcast, kiddo.” There’s no judgment in Tony’s voice, no accusation – his static grip morphs to movement, his palm running slowly up and down Peter’s lower leg like he’s a cat that needs stroked, a dog that needs comforted. “We can do thunderstorm.” Rhythmic, soothing – he’s watching Peter, and Peter looks away.
Calm before the storm – so maybe he hadn’t caught the shift in shades. He burrows a little more into the pillow, huffs out a sigh. The sun isn’t black, but under the clouds it can’t really be seen anyway. It’s not to say that he doesn’t still feel the warmth, just … he shivers again, more violently than before in a wave of chill that scratches at his bones. Tony’s hand immediately (disappointingly) stills.
“You’re cold.” And there’s the accusing tone. Though, again, in the man’s defense – “another promise you’ve broken. JARVIS!”
“Sir?” Peter loves the sound of JARVIS’ voice. The promise that something’s there.
“Call the heater up from the lab, will you buddy?” The motions start back up again, and Peter’s eyes shift as he feels his companion lean in. “I’m such a nice guy, I’ll let you use my personal space heater, free of charge. Again. Nice guy.”
“The best guy,” he agrees quietly, feels the smile again. Some days, it’s windy. “I punched Clint.”
“On Sunday?”
“Yeah.” He had – hadn’t meant to as much as he had, lashed out because he couldn’t not and cried the entire fucking time. “I was … it was … I got sick. Really sick, and he came in, and I just-.” He remembers, being wrapped around the toilet bowl, his back arched in agony, his abdomen pulling itself apart, his head pounding because he hadn’t been able to stop. And then Clint had come in. “I punched him and screamed at him and, and then he hugged me. Who does that?” It’s a grumble, and he’s probably whining again. “Cleaned me up and tucked me into bed. I haven’t seen him to apologize to him.”
“You know he wouldn’t accept it if you did,” Tony tuts. More truths – there’s an entire mental list of promises and deals to go with the chart that sits on every display in the tower. “If it makes you feel any better, I think Natasha was going to find him. Something about a animal? They’re probably going to bring you a kitten. Fair warning.”
“I don’t necessarily want a kitten.” Loud, tiny, young. Young with time. “Actually, I know that I don’t want a kitten.” Peter doesn’t have time, but Tony just shrugs.
The elevator chimes softly, Peter’s attention drawn to the silver doors as the glide seamlessly open to reveal Bruce’s hunched form.
“I hear that we’re cold and thinking,” the physicist says as he steps into the room. He’s dressed in a sweatshirt Peter knows belongs to Clint, obviously having abandoned his lab coat and button up before coming.
“I’m storming, apparently,” Peter offers, as much a joke as it is a warning. Bruce simply smiles at him, the small soft kind that reminds him of why he loves these people so much at all.
Which kinda sucks, all things considered. Loving people.
“Move,” Bruce orders as he nears the couch, his hands gentle as he helps Peter to sit up – Tony scoots more until he’s trapped against the arm, Peter’s feet across his legs. “Storms are perfect,” Bruce continues as he worms his way between the back cushion and Peter’s body; spoons against his back, wraps an arm around his chest. His feet, too, stretch to go across Tony’s legs. “Too much sun dries things out, and if the only alternative is rain, people can become complacent. Thunderstorms are good. Even violent ones.”
If the day had been a little better (or much worse), Peter think he would call Bruce out on being a hypocrite, brush off his words as too fairytale, to unrealistic. But the warmth from the man’s radiated body is seeping into his own freezing one, soothing aches he hadn’t been aware enough to really notice (anymore), and he finds himself melting back into the comforting embrace of his friend as a large, kind hand finds the space under his ribs.
“Are you hurting?” Bruce asks – low, not prodding, just-. “Do you want another fentanyl patch? Breakthrough meds?” Tony’s rubbing his calf again, quiet, listening. He just shakes his head.
He has pictured his death so many times, in so many ways. Gutted by a villain, shot in a robbery (his heart clenches), killed in a car accident or plane crash. Something fast, something quick. He’s even dreamed (hoped) for something meaningful – sacrificing himself for the victory of a battle, for the life of an innocent. Something … good.
What is this, in the scheme of things, but his body turning on and destroying itself?
“I’m dying,” he whispers – Bruce’s arm tightens around his chest, Tony’s fingers around his leg.
“Yeah,” Bruce whispers back, almost inaudible even in Peter’s ear. It’s undeniable. Imminent.
“You guys don’t have to do this.” He’s said that before, and he knows what they’ll say (what they always say), but he never stops. Because it’s another truth. “I don’t want to make you stay here. Or guilt you into it. I know you have things to do-.”
“Shut up, kid,” Tony chirps on cue, as he knew the man would. Tony, oddly, is the most fitting of them all. “We want to be with you. And do thinking time. I’m doing thinking time. Bruce? Are you doing thinking time? You’re always doing thinking time, why the fuck did I even ask that?”
Peter swallows, his abdomen burning, and laughs a little.
(Cross-posted on Ao3)
