All of my fake 'warrior cats as a ghibli film' drawings so far.
I didn't draw the backgrounds, they're from:
top: Howl's Moving castle. (unedited)
middle: My neighbour Totoro (edited)
bottom: Arrietty (edited)
(edit) This post got SO much more love than I thought it would, thanks so much!
“All shadows are part of the same substance. There is only one darkness, and creatures of the Underworld can use it as a road, or a door”
-Nico di Angelo in The Last Olympian
Ozai is so pathetic, like that “take his bending away haha he’s harmless now” trick would never have worked on Zuko, if you took his bending away he’d just grab his swords and come at you twice as hard, Azula doesn’t have swords or anything but she’s pretty good at hand to hand and amazing at talking her way out of problems, Iroh bust himself out of prison with no bending at all, meanwhile Ozai? Gets his bending taken away and then just collapses, doesn’t even try anymore, then just sits in prison and tries to get into Zuko’s head some more, he could have trained up and tried to break out too! But no! Bet he can’t break steel bars with his bare hands. Bet he can’t kick a steel lever in two. Bet he can’t even do a flip.
Also we never really see him do any really impressive firebending apart from when he has magic comet power, I guesss he shoots some lightning at Zuko, but that’s it and Azula is still better at the lightning thing. Azula has blue flames. Zuko can do firebreakdancing and bend with his swords. Does Ozai, who is not 14 years old, have blue flames? No he doesn’t.
He didn’t even do his coup himself, Ursa had to kill Azulon for him! Could have just challenged Iroh to an Agni Kai for the throne but he didn’t bc he knew he’d lose.
And then he only ruled for like 6 years! He lost a war that had been going on for 100 years bc of a bunch of kids.
This picture I drew for the word prompt "complete" and I got a suggestion to draw like 'a complete family unit' and well... all I could think of was Pepper, Tony and Morgan 🤷♀️🤷♀️🤷♀️
Summary: Peter sustained a head injury six months ago that gives him migraines. After a particularly bad episode at school, Peter can't take it anymore. *Cue self-sacrificial angst*
-----
When the thirtieth migraine he’s gotten in six months hits in the middle of algebra, Peter is done. Done with pretending everything is okay ever since he got knocked down. Done with being in pain.
Just…done.
At first he tries to ride it out. He squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his head into his arms on his desk, hoping above all else that Mr. Harrington doesn’t single him out for his behavior. Time passes in a haze of pulsing pain and muffled words until Mr. Harrington plays a math tutorial over the projector and the audio blasts through on full volume.
The whole class jumps, but for Peter it’s different. It whites out his vision and makes his knees weak. He must make a sound because the entire class turns to face him, some laughing and others with looks of mild concern.
“S-sorry. Bathroom?” he asks, trying to find Mr. Harrington through his slowly clearing vision.
“Sure, Peter. Go ahead.”
Peter holds his breath to keep the pain at bay and uses the wall to keep himself steady as he leaves the class. He doesn’t realize Ned has followed him out until he stumbles, his friend’s familiar hand grabbing his wrist.
“Migraine?” Ned asks, his voice hardly above a whisper. Peter can smell the pepper he had on his sandwich for lunch.
“Yeah. Really bad.”
“You should go home.”
“May’s at work.”
“I’ll call Happy.”
Peter wants to argue, but he can’t find it within himself to muster up the energy. All he wants is for this to end. If you hadn’t been so distracted, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten your brain bashed in. Then none of this would have happened.
“Peter?”
“Do whatever you want, Ned.”
“Okay. Hang on.”
Peter is only half aware of Ned’s phone call and even less aware of Ned’s gentle hand guiding him to the office and finally to the front doors. After a particularly bad spike of pain he only realizes he’s in Happy’s car by the smell of leather and Happy’s ritzy cologne.
“Where’s Ned?”
For once, he’s in the passenger’s seat. He has a clear view of Happy’s pinched expression at the close of his question. “You just said bye to him. You don’t remember?”
“Oh…yeah. Sorry.”
“Let’s just get you upstate, kid.”
Peter groans. The light is too bright. Everything too loud. He sinks down as far as his seatbelt will allow and clamps his hands against his ears.
“Peter.”
Peter swats away Happy’s hand. “What?”
“Jesus, kid. Did you hear anything I just said? What the hell is up with you?”
“Migraine,” Peter says through ground teeth. “Bad.”
“Alright. Okay. Just hang tight. We’ll have Bruce check you out.”
Done. Peter is done. He slides down against the door and presses his head hard against the window. It’ll pass, he tells himself in some half hearted, delirious hope. It’ll pass.
But it doesn’t, and by the time Happy parks in front of the compound he can’t see out of one eye and the whole world is simultaneously the quietest and loudest it's ever been. He can’t get out of the car by himself. He can’t even unclick his seatbelt. Happy loops a strong arm around his shoulder and drags him up the steps, the concrete beneath them warping and shifting.
“Jesus, Peter. You’re three shades away from a corpse.”
Peter can’t do anything more than moan unhappily against Happy’s side. They only make it half a dozen steps inside before Peter digs in his heels, his mouth salivating and his stomach protesting. “Hap…”
With a complete lack of coordination, Peter spins away from Happy’s side and lunges for the garbage bin by the doors. Everything comes to a head. The noise. The smells. The pain. Every heave brings tears out of his eyes.
He collapses.
He knows Happy is kneeling beside him. He knows Tony has come into the room, too. Both of their hearts are erratic. They’re sweating. Happy is mumbling curses under his breath.
“Stop…” Peter pleads. He needs it to be quiet, for the agony to end.
“Oh buddy.” Tony’s hands are hovering over where Peter is slumped against the trash can like he’s terrified to touch him. Maybe he is. “Bruce and Helen are waiting upstairs. We’re going to help you, alright?”
“Dying,” Peter says. Because that’s what it feels like.
Tony’s eyes hold a new fear to them. It’s like nothing Peter has ever seen from him. “Jesus. Help me get him up,” he says to Happy.
Together, they lift Peter between them. The contact is scalding but the connection between his pain and his voice have become unhinged. Maybe his brain will explode. Maybe the pain will strike down through his heart.
His breaths are loud. Ragged. Harsh.
“Help!”
Peter is layed back on crinkly paper that makes him wince and writhe. There are hands on him. Voices. Questions that he can’t even comprehend let alone answer.
Then, a coolness to his bloodstream. Something soothing that he latches onto with every remaining part of him that can respond. It spreads until he can’t feel his fingers and toes. Until he can’t feel his arms and legs.
And finally, until he can’t feel the pain.
------
Tony is tired of watching Peter carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s tired of sitting in medbay.
He’s tired of the way his heart aches when Peter comes to, groggy and unfamiliar with his surroundings until his eyes land on Tony. When all the tension in his shoulders disappears and the drugs take him back under.
He’s tired of not being able to protect his kid.
Peter wakes up for good three hours after they sedate him. His doe eyes catch Tony in the low light of medbay, his eyelids droopy and a guilty half-smile curving the side of his mouth. “Hey Mr. Stark,” he says, his voice rough with disuse and sleep. “You didn’t have to sit with me.”
“Who’s to say I didn’t just walk in now?” he counters, though they both know it isn’t true.
“It’s one of my spider powers.”
“Is lying one of your spider powers too?”
Peter’s smile grows, but he doesn’t laugh. There’s an unresolved tension in his face, like he’s pinched a nerve.
“How’re you feeling?” Tony asks him.
“Well, I can see out of both eyes now. So a lot better.”
“I’ve had bad migraines before, kiddo. But that episode you had just about takes the cake.”
“It was bad,” Peter admits, which leads Tony to believe that it really was off the kid’s pain chart. Bad enough that he let Ned drag him out of school. Bad enough that he let Happy get involved.
“You told me you were dying,” Tony says. “Do you remember that?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Was that your first migraine, Peter?”
“Not exactly.”
Tony’s stomach sinks. As if the kid hasn’t been through enough as it is. “Do you get them often?”
“Ever since I got that concussion in June.”
Peter’s honesty startles Tony. It also scares the living hell out of him. “You’ve been getting migraines like that since June? That was months ago! Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
“Why do you think?” Peter asks, with just enough bite to the question for Tony to really consider it. Both their shoulders sink, their gazes drifting.
“I wish you would tell me when you’re hurting,” Tony says eventually. Quietly. He sees Peter turn to face him out of the corner of his eye, though he keeps his own focus on the window.
“I don’t want to worry you,” Peter says, equally quiet.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s exactly how it works.”
Tony squares his jaws. Straightens his shoulders. He grasps Peter’s hand tightly in his fist, who looks down in surprise before raising his chin to look at him. “Peter. Listen close, because I’m not going to say it twice. You don’t have to do things alone. You have people who care about you in your corner. You have me.”
Peter’s eyes shimmer. His chest stills as if he’s stopped breathing. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Tony says, giving the boy’s hand a squeeze. “‘Oh’.”
Peter clears his throat. “Mr. Stark?”
“What is it, kiddo?”
“I think- uh, I might need some help. With my migraines.”
Tony chuckles, relief bursting through him like a dam. He cups the back of Peter’s neck and pulls him in for a hug. “Now you’re getting it.”
Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35672854
Summary:
“I’m worried about him, Tony," May says. "He’s not sleeping. Barely eating. I think he’s getting sick.”
Peter’s senses have been off kilter lately, but he still hears Mr. Stark’s response through the receiver. “Sick? Is that possible?”
“I- yes. He does this to himself every year. Works himself to death.”
“Every year?”
“His Uncle,” May explains. “He died around this time. Peter still blames himself, I think.”
Or, even superheroes mourn.
The air is getting colder.
It’s making Peter restless.
He’s perched on a random rooftop in Queens, his body sore and his mind running a million miles a minute. This is his twelfth day in a row being out as his alter-ego, pushing his curfew to the limit and hardly evading the wrath of May. The last of the sun’s warmth dips behind the horizon, the sky turning steadily from pink to black.
It’s a school night.
As if on the same wavelength, a call from May pops up in his vision. With a twist in his gut, he allows Karen to answer it.
“Peter?” May’s voice is strained. It always is this time of year. “Where are you?”
“A couple blocks away-”
“You’re late.”
“I know.”
“I thought something had happened…”
“Nothing’s happened,” Peter assures. He’s tired in his bones. Exhausted in every sense of the word. For a moment, he sets his eyes closed.
“Come home, okay? It’s getting late.”
“Alright.”
“Be careful. Stay off the streets.”
His throat burns against a sudden lump of emotion. He tries to swallow it down. “See you soon.”
“See you soon, baby.”
After the call disconnects, Peter leans forward until his forehead is pressed into his knees. He tries to breathe deep and even but it’s like someone is sitting on his chest.
Stay off the streets.
Peter forces his body upwards and stumbles against a sudden rush of vertigo. Upset with his weakness, he balls his hands into fists before jumping over the lip of the roof.
He takes the long way home.
------
May’s waiting for him at the window.
Her arms are crossed, her long hair raised up in a messy bun and the legs on her pajama pants uneven. There are purple crescents under her eyes that Peter knows mirror his own.
He tugs off his mask and somehow, it makes it harder to breathe. “Sorry,” he says, focusing his eyes on a splash of mud on the carpet. He probably tracked it in.
Whatever tension had been in May’s shoulders leaks away. She drops her arms before holding them out. “Come here.”
Slowly, Peter listens. It’s hard at first, but as soon as he’s within reach, she pulls him into a hug. He stands still for a moment, her warmth filling him. Then, with watering eyes, he crosses his arms behind her back.
“I’m worried,” May says. “That’s all.”
“I know.”
“It’s just… This time of year...”
Peter pulls away. Something sharp pierces his chest. “I get it, really. And I’m sorry. I’ll be better.”
“Peter-” May sighs, reaching back for him. Her small hand closes around his wrist. “Wait. You’re warm.”
Her other hand rests against his forehead and he resists the urge to pull away.
“Are you sick?” she asks.
“No. No, just tired.”
“Honey-”
“I should go to bed.”
May opens her mouth to say more but closes it decidedly. Her calloused fingers fall away from his wrist. “Alright baby. See you in the morning.”
“Yeah. See you in the morning.”
He all but runs to his room. After shutting the door, he slides down it. Every part of his body feels like cooked spaghetti.
When he checks his phone, there’s a text from Ned. Hey man. Haven’t seen you in a while. I know this time of year is tough for you. I’m here if you need me.
Peter doesn’t respond, simply lacking the energy.
He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling until the dawn breaks through his window.
------
The next couple of days pass in a blur. He’s making mistakes on patrol. On Wednesday, he pukes in an alley until his arms shake too badly to support his weight.
When he comes home, the window is cracked open. He hears May pacing. She’s on the phone.
“I’m worried about him, Tony. He’s not sleeping. Barely eating. I think he’s getting sick.”
His senses have been off kilter lately, but he still hears Mr. Stark’s response through the receiver.
“Sick? Is that possible?”
“I- yes. He does this to himself every year. Works himself to death.”
“Every year?”
“His Uncle,” May explains. “He died around this time. Peter still blames himself, I think.”
Both adults are quiet. Peter sways in their silence, suddenly dizzy.
Mr. Stark breaks it. He sighs; a sad, tired sound. “Oh, kid. What can I do?”
He imagines May biting her lip. Guilt rips through him like a firework. “I wish I knew.”
---------
Peter wakes up to a light hand on his shoulder.
His eyelids are sticky when he pulls them apart. He’s disoriented, and his breath catches in his throat. Blurry shapes come together to form his physics classroom. The hand on his shoulder connects to Mr. Harrington.
“Peter? You with me?”
His head feels like a bowling ball on his neck. He nods, though unsure. The rest of the classroom is empty. “I- what happened?”
“You fell asleep during class,” Mr. Harrington explains, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You don’t look so good. How are you feeling?”
Peter blinks. Blinks again. The room is spinning.
“Peter?”
“Fine,” he says. “Fine.”
Mr. Harrington smiles, but it’s tense. “I think you should go see the nurse regardless. Okay?”
Panic swells through his chest. “But-”
“Ah-ah, no exceptions. Do you need an escort? I’m sure Mr. Leeds would be more than willing-”
“He’s in another class,” Peter interrupts. He pulls away from Mr. Harrington’s supporting hand and shivers when it’s gone. “I’m okay.”
Lifting up his backpack is almost impossible. But he manages. He always manages.
“Straight to the nurse’s office,” Mr. Harrington says. “Are we clear?”
His feet are sinking through the floor. For a second, his vision tunnels. God, his throat is dry. “Yes sir.”
“Alright then. Feel better, Parker.”
Peter can only nod. Swallowing down bile, he makes his way out of the classroom. By the time he reaches the hall, he has to use the wall for support.
He doesn’t know how he ends up at the nurse’s office, but by some miracle, he does. He stands shaking at its threshold, a cold sweat running down his back.
The nurse, Julia, startles when she notices him. She stands from her desk and helps him to a chair. She says something to him that doesn’t make it past the static in his head.
Eyebrows pinching, she settles behind her desk and reaches for the phone. After some clicking at her computer she dials in a number and waits before hanging up. She looks at him and speaks again, but it’s gibberish.
She dials a second number.
This time, the words come through.
“Happy Hogan? Yes, this is Julia from Midtown High…”
Peter’s next blink lasts an eternity. When his eyes open again, Happy is crouched in front of him, a heavy hand on Peter’s arm. It reminds him of the time Happy had come to his school after homecoming. He had hid in the bathroom. For some reason, the memory makes him laugh. Quiet and delirious. Something in Happy’s eyes darken.
“Kid?”
Peter’s body sinks further into the seat beneath him. His hair is wet with sweat. He can feel it beginning to curl against his forehead. “Happy.”
“We’ve got to get you to the Tower, okay? Think you can stand?”
The question is almost impossible to decipher. Then Happy squeezes his arm, and Peter understands. “Yeah,” he says much too late. “I can.”
Happy shrugs on Peter’s backpack. Guilt mixes with his nausea. “I can carry that,” he says.
“You can barely walk.”
Peter mulls that over all the way from Julia’s office to the parking lot. His vision is tunneling like the time Tombstone had punched him square in the face. The air is cold.
Cold.
Happy leaves his side to open the door for him. Without the support, Peter stumbles.
“You better not throw up in my car,” Happy says, collecting papers on his seat and shoving them in the glove compartment.
“Happy…”
“I’d never let you live it down, you know.”
Peter’s vision goes from black to white. He can’t see. His lungs stall.
“Happy-”
He hears more than he sees the moment Happy turns around. “Christ, kid!”
The static in his head spreads to the rest of his body in one violent slash. He loses his strength and his knees buckle.
He doesn’t feel himself hit the ground.
------
Happy Hogan was having a pretty good day.
Until Peter passes out on him, that is.
Quite literally.
“Christ, kid!”
Peter is more pale than Happy’s ever seen him. Every inch of him is covered in sweat. He stands a couple feet away where Happy had left him, swaying as if the ground is moving. The kid’s eyes, scarily vacant, flutter before nothing but the whites show.
Then he collapses.
Happy isn’t the head of security for nothing. With reflexes faster than his brain can compete with, he runs forward and Peter’s deadweight slams into his chest. Happy circles his arms around the boy, rushing to support his head. They end up leaning against the car, Peter slipping and Happy’s heart beating a mile a minute.
“Kid?” Happy prompts, his hands shaking a little as he maneuvers them both to check the kid’s face. It’s slack, his head lolling on his neck in Happy’s hands as if he’s never had life in him at all. “Peter? Jesus. Wake up.”
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. It’s never easy with Peter.
“Alright kid. You’re okay. I got you.”
By some miracle, Happy manages to shift Peter into the passenger’s seat. He buckles him in and reclines the seat so Peter doesn’t fall forward. He lifts the kid’s eyelid and sees nothing but white.
“Peter?” he asks again, louder. “Peter Parker!”
Nothing. The heat coming off Peter is scalding. Who knew skin could burn?
“Okay, okay. You’re not in the chattiest of moods. I get it.” Happy shuts the door and runs around to the driver's side, sliding into the seat and peeling out of the parking lot in one fluid movement. “Never thought I’d miss your rambling. But here we are. Now I’m the one rambling.”
He almost expects the kid to respond. To laugh.
But he doesn’t.
“Damn it. Holy Jesus. Okay.” Happy tightens his hands around the wheel. “Call Tony.”
“Calling Tony Stark.”
It rings once. It only ever rings once when it has to do with the kid.
“Hap?”
“Are you still in your meeting?”
A pause. “Yes. You got the kid?”
“I think you should leave your meeting.”
He can hear Tony stand and excuse himself. After some muffled shuffling and the obvious click of a door, Tony’s voice comes back through the speakers. “What the hell is going on? Is he okay?”
Happy’s throat goes dry. He swallows hard in hopes to fix it. “He’s- he’s really sick, Tony.”
“How sick? Let me talk to him.”
“I can’t.”
“I swear to god Happy, if you don’t start making sense-”
“He fainted,” Happy interjects. “It was all very dramatic. He fell like a damn puppet that got its strings cut, or- or whatever that saying is.”
Tony curses. A lot. “He’s still out?”
“Hasn’t moved an inch.”
“Damn it. Okay. I’ll get Cho on this. How long until you’re here?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten.”
“Right,” Happy says, and presses down harder on the gas.
“Keep him safe,” Tony says. His voice is weak. Fragile. But before Happy can dwell on it, Tony hangs up.
Happy sighs, swerving through traffic and earning dozens of angry honks. At a red light, he checks on Peter. The kid has slumped over against the window. The heat from his face is fogging up the glass.
“You really know how to keep us on our toes, don’t you?” Happy asks him.
He imagines Peter laughing, and when the light turns green, Happy accelerates so hard the tires squeal.
They make it to the Tower eight minutes later.
Peter is still unconscious.
Happy barely makes it out of his seat before he notices Tony racing through the double doors leading out of the Tower. His glasses are gone, his eyes turned hard like stone in worry.
They meet in the middle at Peter’s door. Happy yanks on the handle and even before the door fully opens Tony is crouched by Peter’s seat, his weathered hands gentle as they reach for the kid’s face.
“Peter?” Tony prompts. His voice is quiet, as if Peter’s fragility has made him weaker. His fingers reach to tap on Peter’s cheek, then to rest on his forehead. Tony swears, twisting to look back at Happy. “Did he get his temperature taken at the school?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay. Okay.” Tony unclicks Peter’s seatbelt and without a second of hesitation, scoops him up into his chest. Happy helps position Peter’s head so it’s propped on Tony’s shoulder instead of being lolled back. At his close distance, Happy can see faint tremors in Tony’s hands.
“He’s going to be fine,” Happy says. “He’s as tough as they come.”
“Right.”
Happy moves his hand from Peter’s burning skin to Tony’s shoulder. “I’m serious. He’ll be fine. Now go get him some help. I’m right behind you.”
Something foreign shines in Tony’s eyes and it cuts through Happy like a blade. “Thanks for taking care of my kid, Hap,” he says, the words choked.
“Always.”
And in seconds, they’re gone.
------
Peter is sick.
Really sick.
Tony tries to keep his panic at bay as he races through the lobby and into the elevator. Peter’s skin is too hot, like he’s been sitting in the sun for hours. His hair is curled with sweat and his breath rattles in his chest; every movement that Tony makes jostling his limp body.
“Pete?” Tony says aloud in the elevator. He’ll deny that his voice shakes. “Now would be a good time to wake up, buddy. You’re heavy, you know.”
If anything, Peter sags further into his arms, and by the time the elevator doors open Tony is weak with worry. Cho and a team of doctors are on the other side, their arms outstretched to help. Together they maneuver Peter onto a stretcher, and Tony is pushed back by a doctor’s arm.
“Hey!” Tony says, stumbling back. Fear builds from the pit of his stomach to his throat as they swarm around his kid, sticking him with needles and oxygen.
“Temperature is over 104 degrees…”
“His heart is racing…”
Tony continues to fight his way through the swarm of doctors. Get to Peter. Get to Peter. He’s blind to anything else until Cho’s firm hand grabs his own. He stares at it, then shifts his focus to her eyes. Her lips are moving.
“Call his aunt. We’ll take care of him.”
“What?” Tony asks.
“His aunt, Tony. She should be here.”
“I need to stay with him.”
“You’ll get in the way.”
Before he can object, the rest of her team begins wheeling Peter away. He looks small against the stretcher. Tony immediately sets off after him, but Cho pulls him back.
“Let go,” he says.
“No.”
“Helen-”
“Tony. Call his aunt. Peter will be alright. I promise.”
Finally, she releases him. All his strength drains. He feels like he’s aged a decade.
“He’ll be okay,” she says again.
Then without another word, she turns and runs to catch up with her team.
And Tony watches, alone.
-------
Peter is still with the doctors when May arrives.
She comes in a flurry, out of breath and still wearing scrubs from the hospital. She grabs Tony’s arm in a tight grip when she sees him. “Where is he?”
“He’s with Helen. They’re helping him get better.”
May exhales, though the hold she has on his arm doesn’t loosen. “I told you he was working himself to death.”
An eerie silence follows her words. Tony lays his hand on hers, gently prying off her fingers. “Let’s sit down,” he says.
May follows him into the next room, where Happy waits with a cup of tea. He presses it into May’s hand and she smiles at him for it. She accepts his guiding arm to the sofa, where they sit together. Tony stands at the door.
“Ben’s death hit Peter really hard,” May says. The hold she has on her cup turns her fingertips white. “He blames himself. I know he does. And when it comes to the anniversary…” May sighs. A tear drips down to her chin. “He doesn’t sleep or eat. He kills himself trying to save as many people as he can, like it’ll reverse what happened.”
Her words are soft. Pained. Like they’re coming from the most broken parts of her heart. “He’s been through so much. I don’t know how to help him.”
May’s lip trembles, and Happy pulls her into his arms. Tony shifts from foot to foot, watching, as an uncomfortable pressure pushes through his chest.
“I’ll go get an update from the doctors,” he says, and as soon as he leaves the room, he hears May sob.
They have Peter situated just a few doors down. Tony hovers in the doorway. Helen is standing by Peter’s side, a clipboard in her hand and a thread of worry pulled between her eyebrows, though it disappears when she notices him.
“He’s fine,” she sighs. “Just… exhausted, Tony. I’ve never seen a person so exhausted.”
Tony inches into the room. When he reaches the end of Peter’s bed, he curls his fingers around the frame. It’s hard to look at him, with the red flush in his cheeks and neck and the sweat plastering his hospital shirt to his chest. “I know.”
“He needs rest. Lots of it.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Helen smiles. “Good. He’s all set up for the night. His aunt can see him now, if she’d like.”
“Thank you,” Tony says.
When Helen leaves, the room is silent aside from Peter’s strained breathing and the quiet whirring of machinery. With some hesitance, Tony steps forward to Peter’s side. He runs his fingers across his hair and Peter leans into the touch.
“Buddy?” he whispers.
Peter’s eyes part. In time, they find Tony before squinting in confusion.
“Take your time,” Tony says. “There’s no rush.”
“Ben?”
Tony’s breath catches in his throat. He kneels down at Peter’s side so their faces are closer. “No, buddy. It’s Tony.”
Peter squints further, then squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize…”
“May?”
“She’s here. She’s just down the hall. Do you want me to go get her?”
Slowly, Peter nods.
“Alright. Okay, underoos. I’ll be right back. Just hang tight.”
After gently squeezing the warm skin at Peter’s wrist, Tony turns back through the hallway. Happy and May are sitting close together on the sofa, Happy’s hand running a comforting path across her back.
“He’s awake,” Tony says.
May’s shoulders dip in relief, and together they walk to Peter’s room. Tony enters first, and freezes in his tracks.
The bed is empty.
The window is open.
And Peter is gone.
------
Peter doesn’t know where he is.
Well, not exactly.
He knows he’s outside. It’s cold, like there should be snow but there isn’t. Sticks and rocks bite at his feet and he stumbles, his balance gone. He feels terrible, burning both hot and cold.
But there’s only one thought in his mind.
A gunshot. A scream. The taste of salt on his lips from where the tears had hit. The smell of May’s perfume at the funeral.
He stumbles again. Harder, this time. The sticks and rocks end up under his hands and he crawls, his legs numb and shaking and weak.
His hands hit something smooth and hard, and when he looks up, he can see the shadow of his reflection against polished rock. A tombstone.
Ben Parker, it reads.
He turns his head, because there’s more.
Richard Parker.
Mary Parker.
“Oh.”
Vertigo twists through him. The trees spin in one great arch.
He’s in a graveyard.
They’re all dead.
Peter collapses against the tombstone, curling his bare feet underneath him and hugging his arms around his middle. He’s alone, and it’s his own fault he’s that way. It’s cold.
Cold.
He thinks he’s crying, because his shoulders are shaking and his face is wet. But he’s not sure. He can’t breathe. His mind fills with static.
He can’t.
Breathe.
------
The sight of Peter’s empty bed is just enough to lurch Tony into a panic. He stands as if struck by lightning in the center of the doorway, May and Happy’s voices an indiscernible hum in the back of his mind. When his initial shock ebbs, their words come through. May is speaking.
“Where is he, Tony?” The way she says it makes Tony figure it’s not the first time she’s asked.
“I don’t…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “FRI?”
“It appears that Mr. Parker has left the building via the center window. I am unsure of his current whereabouts.”
May swears louder than Happy does. Tony’s knees go weak.
“Where do we start looking?” Happy asks. His voice holds a weary quality to it.
“He was delirious,” Tony says. “He thought I was his uncle. He could be anywhere.”
“FRIDAY, did Peter have his web shooters?”
“No.”
“Then he can’t have gotten far.”
Happy is already halfway out the door before May stops him with a wide cutting gesture. Her hand trembles where it rests midair, like she’s just downed three cups of coffee. “Wait. I- he’s done something like this before. I think I might know where he is.”
With three taps of his watch, Tony has a suit called. “Where?”
“Queens Cemetery.”
Happy’s shoulders sag. He returns to May’s side and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. After a hesitant nod of confirmation from her, Tony leaves for the balcony.
“Hold tight. I’ll go get our kid.”
-------
Peter is burning.
Cold.
There’s no air, like the universe is thinning.
Sharp sounds cut through the static but he can’t move his head to find their source. It sounds like footsteps. A voice. One that’s familiar but doesn’t belong to the person he thinks it does, because he’s sitting on their grave.
A hand on his back. His face. Turning to look at him.
Recognition. Love.
And with it, warmth.
-------
“Pete.”
It’s the third time Tony’s tried saying the kid’s name, but Peter just stares at him with brimming eyes, not blinking. Tony is on his knees on the cold ground, one of his hands on Peter’s shoulder and the other resting against his cheek. He’d found the kid huddled against Ben’s tombstone, littered with superficial scrapes and shaking.
“Pete. Buddy. You’re okay. I’m here. Try and breathe for me, alright?”
Tony sucks in an exaggerated breath of air, hoping, even if subconsciously, it’ll help the boy breathe on his own. Peter squints. Tries. Chokes.
“Good, good. Keep trying. In and out.”
Peter follows the pattern of Tony’s chest until some coherence returns to his eyes. Tony sees the moment it clicks. There’s confusion, at first.
Then he realizes.
“O-Oh. Oh my god.”
Tony catches Peter against his chest when he breaks down, his slight frame shaking with silent sobs. The boy’s fingers curl against Tony’s back, gripping him close and his face hot against Tony’s neck. Tony returns the hug with equal strength, hoping to exchange some warmth into Peter’s cold but fevered limbs. “Shhh. You’re okay, bud. You’re okay.”
“I- I don’t know why I’m here.”
“You’re sick. You got a little confused.”
“I thought-”
“It’s okay, Pete.”
“They’re all dead.”
The admission echoes through Tony’s ears, stopping his heart for a beat before it continues in its unnatural rhythm. He holds Peter tighter. “I know. I’m sorry.”
In an instant, Peter stops crying and sags against Tony’s hold. For a minute, Tony thinks Peter has passed out and his heart spikes again.
But Peter speaks again, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I miss them.”
There are no words. None. Tony runs his hand up to the back of Peter’s head and cups it, hoping to convey through his hands the words he wishes he could find. His hands fix things. His hands mend.
Machines, he has to remind himself. Not human hearts.
After a couple quiet minutes, Peter pulls away. His face is wet and red with fever. “I’m so sorry Tony.”
If possible, Tony’s heart breaks further. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I dragged you all the way out here.”
“You didn’t drag me anywhere.”
“I already knew they were dead. I was just…I don’t know.”
Something sour spreads in Tony’s gut. “Pete. It’s okay, really.”
Peter sighs. Dark rings of exhaustion color the skin beneath his eyes. “I’m cold.”
“Actually,” Tony says, raising a gentle hand to Peter’s forehead, “you’re burning. We should get you back to the tower before you melt through the ground.”
Peter smiles, but it doesn’t hold. His eyes meet Ben’s tombstone, then drift tiredly to look at his parents.
“They’re proud of you, kiddo. You know that right?”
Peter makes a frail sound. Something between a gasp and a sob. He uses his hands to wipe at his eyes. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
Peter drops his hands. When he looks at Tony, there’s something different in his eyes. Something soft and deep, like the ocean after a storm. “Thanks,” he says. And it’s enough.
Tony returns to the suit. He doesn’t ask if Peter can stand. He just scoops him up into his arms, and Peter buries his face into his chestplate.
He takes one last look at the three tombstones at their feet before taking off. Thank you, he says in his mind. You raised one heck of a kid.
Then they blast off into the stars, leaving the tears and the cold behind.
Author's note: Hey everyone!
First of all- how have you been?! I have been so extremely busy with life, and I'm sorry I haven't been posting very often. I think it's normal around this time of year to feel overwhelmed and burned out, and that's the main inspiration I took for this fic. This topic is really important to me. Sometimes it feels as if the entire world is on our shoulders, but it's important to remember that we can take breaks, and that we have people in our corners who are there and willing to help should we need it.
Thank you for the undying love and support, and thank you for being in my corner <3 If you ever need/want to chat, you can reach me @polaroid15 on tumblr :)
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