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you heal me like the light of day

the third fic in my febuwhump/fluff series is here :)) this is written for the fluff prompts sick day + waking up together and the whump prompts graceless + stabbed.

ps there’s mild injury description in here as well as a super brief mention of violence and shootings in schools. look after yourself x

posted on ao3 here

---

Scaring Morgan half to death really wasn’t part of Peter’s plans when he agreed to go outside and play pet hotel with Gerald after dinner in the dying autumn light.

He was in the middle of getting the alpaca ready for his spa appointment (aka Morgan brandishing a bucket of soapy water) when he lost consciousness.

It’s not like he did it on purpose. It just sort of... happened.

---

There’s a hand pressed across his forehead. It’s nice, cool - cooler than he feels anyway. He leans into it.

There’s a brief moment of confusion in which all of Peter’s thoughts jumble together and when he blinks his eyes open again, he’s not in Gerald’s pen anymore but spread out across the couch in the living room. Morgan’s there still, standing off to the side with strands of hay still stuck to her shoes while Tony is hovering over him closely, concern etched all over his face.

Peter is about to ask him what’s wrong before something is being pushed into his ear and he frowns, trying to squirm away.

Tony rests a hand on Peter’s shoulder, applying just enough pressure to keep him in place. “Just a sec, Pete. Gotta check your temperature.”

Peter scowls weakly. “Not sick.”

“You fainted, bud. I thought Gerald had bitten Morgan’s hand off or something judging by the way she was screaming.”

Guilt washes through Peter as the tinny beep echoes through his ear and Tony pulls the thermometer away. There isn’t much he hates more than scaring Morgan.

Tony glances down at the screen on the thermometer and Peter doesn’t like the brief look of worry that crosses his face as he does. “Not sick,” Peter mutters again petulantly.

“Not sick, huh? The thermometer and I beg to differ. You’re running a pretty impressive fever, just about to hit 101 degrees.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Reckon this is the flu?” Tony asks, voice still gentle even despite Peter’s clear attempts to push him away. He really doesn’t need hovering over right now. “Have you got a headache? Sore throat? Feeling achy?”

Tony’s taken a seat across from him on the coffee table, reaching out a hand to brush it over Peter’s forehead again, thumb smoothing a few strands of hair away from his eyes. Peter just reaches up to bat it away weakly.

This isn’t the flu, Peter knows it isn’t.

The only part of him that’s aching is his side, just above his hip bone, but in all honesty that’s a secret that Peter was really hoping to keep to himself - for his own good. He's starting to doubt he'll be able to though, judging by the way that Tony’s staring him down and how his brain is starting to feel like it’s melting a little inside his own head.

Peter flounders uncomfortably under Tony’s gaze, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get up off the couch and get out of this situation.

He’s always been hopeless at keeping secrets from Tony. He only didn’t cancel this weekend at the lake house because he knew cancelling would be a sure-fire move to make Tony suspicious. Now, he’s wondering whether that was the right call at all.

“I, uh, you know what? I think you’re right. My head’s really sore, it has been all day actually, and I think that’s… that’s my stomach now, feeling really queasy. The flu really is the worst. I really should be in bed right now, shouldn’t I? Sleep cures all ailments or something like that…” Peter trails off awkwardly. Tony carries on staring. He’s suspicious now, Peter can tell, and he curses himself. He must have taken the flu thing too far. Damn it.

“Peter, if there’s something I don’t know about then I need you to tell me.”

Peter shifts. He fidgets with his fingers, tries to stall having to open his mouth and say anything else. His eyes dart over to Morgan, who’s now made herself comfortable on the armchair in the corner, distracted by a couple of animal figurines now, completely oblivious that her older brother is about to get himself in a lot of trouble.

Tony takes a gentle hold of his chin and tilts it back towards him so he’s got no choice but to look the man in the eyes. Peter exhales slowly. His side really does hurt and he wonders whether he tore a few of his (very shoddily done) stitches when he collapsed. He really doesn’t remember it throbbing this much before then.

“Peter,” Tony says again, and Peter pulls his chin away from Tony’s grip so he can avert his eyes down to his lap.

“Iwasstabbedafewdaysago” Peter blurts, and Tony’s eyes narrow infinitesimally as if this wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“I don’t know if I quite got that, you wanna try slowing it down this time?” he says carefully, very clearly daring Peter to repeat what he’s pretty sure he heard.

Peter swallows. He dares. “I was stabbed. A few days ago. I took care of it, I promise, but it’s not, um, not really healing?” Peter says, voice rising at the end like he’s questioning.

“You were stabbed,” Tony repeats slowly, and Peter nods. “Okay. Wanna tell me how?”

Tony’s still staying fairly calm and measured. Peter isn’t sure where the angry reaction that he’d been expecting is.

“It was, um, look, it’s not that I wasn’t listening to you, but there were these guys and I overheard these things and I couldn’t just not-”

“You were out as Spider-Man?” Tony’s voice is lower now, just a touch more dangerous and Peter thinks ah, here’s the anger.

See, this is the issue. He’s kinda, sorta, definitely not meant to be out at Spider-Man at the moment.

He and Tony made an agreement a few weeks ago. After Europe and the whole Beck fiasco happened, Tony thought that Peter could really use the time out. Something about how being away from the Spider-Man suit would help him become clearer in his own head and himself again. The idea was mostly born out of the worry and panic that had resided inside Tony since the second he found out Peter was in trouble halfway across the damn world and he couldn’t do anything but sit back uselessly while Rhodey and Happy went to his aid. Tony doesn't like being useless, and he definitely doesn't like seeing Peter hurt.

Peter hadn’t thought it was too bad of an idea at first. He did really need the break at the time, but it was foolish to hope it would last. He wasn’t going to just sit back while everything was happening, not while there were men with weapons, not while they were threatening-

“Peter,” Tony snaps, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you listening to me? I asked you a question. Were you out as Spider-Man?”

Peter rolls his eyes, against all his best instincts. He feels like shit, he’s being interrogated and all he wants is the waves of red hot pain to leave him alone. “I… ugh, yes, okay? I was. When the hell else am I going to be stabbed?”

Tony raises his eyebrows at Peter’s tone but doesn’t do anything to reprimand it. “This is New York City we’re talking about. I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt but apparently, that was absolutely the wrong thing to do.”

Silence.

“See? I told you anyway. Not sick,” Peter mutters suddenly after a moment, and Tony makes a slightly choked sound of outrage.

“Not sick? Peter Parker, in what world can you not see that maybe hiding a stab wound is worse than just being sick?”

Peter just shrugs. He could really use a nap right about now. This conversation is officially right down the very bottom of the list of things he wants to be doing right now.

“Let’s see it then.”

Peter pulls back slightly. “What?”

“Where you were stabbed. I need to see it.”

“It’s taken care of. You don’t need to-”

“If you’ve got a fever, I have a feeling it might not be nearly as well taken care of as you think,” Tony says sternly and Peter realises that he’s backed into a corner. There’s no way he’s leaving the room, or even getting up off the couch, without letting Tony examine him.

“But, Morgan…”

Peter hopes she hasn’t been listening in too closely, but for better or for worse, she’s fairly desensitised to hearing about Peter’s escapades by now. That doesn’t mean he wants her to see the consequences of them though.

Tony glances over his shoulder as if he’s just remembered that his daughter is in the room. “Hey, baby? You wanna go find Mom for a second?”

Morgan looks up from the animal figurine clutched now in her fist - a zebra - and shakes her head. “Petey’s hurt. Wanna stay with you.”

So she has been listening.

“I’ve got a really important job for you that you could do for me and Peter, though. Reckon you could tell Mommy we might need her down here with the special spider first-aid kid?”

Morgan jumps up and dashes from the room just as Peter protests, “I don’t need the first-aid-”

“Kid,” Tony warns and Peter shuts up. “Right, show me what we’re working with.”

Peter grimaces, but reluctantly tugs up the hem of his jumper to reveal the white bandage he’d adhered slightly wonkily over his wound. Pus and blood leak from the edges, but Tony barely even flinches until he reaches forward to slowly pull the bandage away, revealing the swollen, angry-looking skin underneath. There are red streaks that travel from the wound, further up Peter’s side.

“I - okay, Jesus, fuck,” Tony breathes out, jerking his eyes away from the injury.

Peter just looks down at it with an almost morbid fascination. He’d figured that his healing was working a bit slower than usual and that was why he was feeling run-down, but he didn’t think it was this bad.

“That’s infected, Peter,” Tony says shortly.

“I thought it would heal.”

“Yeah? Well, it isn’t and you know what sepsis is. I know you do. That can kill you. Is that what you want?” Tony presses, leaning in a bit closer to Peter but he pulls away from the man.

Peter freezes. “N-No, it’s not, I - I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just had to-”

“You didn’t have to do anything. What you were meant to do was remember that we had an agreement - which is clearly defunct now - about you and Spider-Man. So why are you sitting on my couch with a stab wound in your side?”

“It’s not what you think, Tony, I-”

“I think it’s exactly what I think. I know you, Peter, you have a hero complex the size of Manhattan but you need to learn that you don’t have to be the one throwing yourself down on the wire every damn time. You and I both agreed that you were going to have this break because you were worn down. You needed it.”

Peter’s too tired to even try and explain anything to Tony anymore. He knows nothing will get through, and he feels sick to his stomach but he’s not sure whether that’s from the weight of Tony’s disappointment or the infection.

“Did I really need a break? Or did you just need a break from having to worry about me?” Peter dares to ask. His voice is quiet with the knowledge that he's stepping into territory that he's not even sure he wants to be in.

Tony’s head shoots up and an odd mix of hurt and indignation twists on his face. He considers his words.

“I’m not doing this with you, not while you’re hurt. I’m going to call Bruce. I’ll get Pepper to come and look at that for you.”

As Tony gets up off the coffee table and turns to leave the room, his shoulders are pulled up in a tight, defensive posture. Peter almost wants to ask him to come back. He doesn't. Pride lodges itself in his throat instead and stops him from calling out.

He slumps and presses himself further into the couch. Slightly deliriously, he thinks that if it wasn’t for Gerald and his damn spa evening then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

Pepper’s in front of him a few minutes later. She takes one look at his wound before declaring that there’s no way she’s going to deal with it on the couch because "blood truly is a pain to get out of these cushions.”

They end up in the spare bathroom downstairs, Peter perched precariously on the edge of the bathtub. His head is still spinning a little and he keeps a tight grip on the sides to try and stop himself from slipping backwards.

“Let’s have another look,” Pepper murmurs, and she helps Peter lift his jumper off over his head, wincing in sympathy as his face screws up in pain at the movement.

“Tony said you tried to take care of this yourself?” she asks once she’s fully removed the bandaging, "you stitched it up at home?" Peter gives a feeble nod in response.

“Okay. Clearly, your body didn’t love that, but your healing has definitely been trying a little bit. It’s healed enough that we won’t need to re-stitch this up once I’m done. We have one positive,” Pepper tells him, clearly trying to keep her voice light.

Peter tries for a laugh, but it comes out stunted and forced.

He sits as still as he possibly can, teeth digging into his bottom lip as Pepper cleans the wound with warm water, using some mild soap to wash away all of the gunk and fluid clogging it before she examines it closer.

Pepper focuses on the task at hand, but every so often Peter catches her looking up at him slightly questioningly as if she’s trying to figure something out.

“What?”

Pepper looks up again in surprise.

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, already regretting his abrasive tone. “I just - I, you keep looking at me funny.”

Pepper considers for a second.

“Sorry, no, I just wonder - why don’t you get May to do this? With her job and all. You don’t need to do everything by yourself, Peter, not all time…” Pepper says, trailing off at the end with worry that she’s overstepped but Peter just shakes his head to tell her it’s okay. He doesn’t mind. It’s only Pepper. He trusts her.

“I - I can’t.” He pauses. He fidgets with his fingers then stops because he knows he’s meant to be trying to stay as still as possible. “It's just, um, I don’t want her to worry, or have to see things like this when it’s me, y’know. Not after my uncle.”

“That makes sense,” Pepper says softly. There's a sort of underlying understanding clear in her voice and it fills a need for validation inside of Peter, that he’s doing the right thing by trying to look after himself, that he didn't know he had.

The bathroom falls into silence after that, and Pepper pulls what Peter thinks must be an antiseptic cream out of the first-aid kid, because when she applies it, as gentle as she is, it stings. Peter can’t stop the groan of pain through his gritted teeth.

A few minutes later there’s a thumping on the stairs above them, just as Pepper sits back. “There, we’re all done. We just have to leave it a couple of minutes to air dry and then we can bandage it back up again but I’ll use gauze this time. It’ll breathe easier.”

“Thank you, Pep,” Peter sighs, more frustrated with himself than anything but she just shakes her head.

“It’s nothing. We can’t be perfect all the time.”

Peter scoffs humorlessly. He’s perfect approximately none of the time.

The thumping sound stops and now there’s footsteps running down the hallway. Pepper gives him a small smile. “Looks like we’re just in time as well.”

“Peter! Daddy says it’s time for bed so I wanna say goodnight,” Morgan exclaims, bursting into the room just at the same time as Tony, a few paces behind her, lets out a slightly suffering sigh.

“You need to slow down on the stairs, Morgan. Mom and I keep telling you. You'll fall down them one day.”

Morgan doesn’t even turn around to grace him with a response, all her attention focused on Peter. “I’ll do the stairs super slowly once I’ve given Peter all his goodnight kisses!”

She wastes no time in reaching up on her tiptoes to capture Peter’s face between both her much smaller hands and press six kisses all over his forehead, nose, cheek and jaw.

“Six magic kisses to make it all better! Six is my lucky number,” she explains, before adding, “because I’m six years old now,” in the same proud way she’s been doing since her birthday a few weeks ago. As if Peter could ever forget. He spent the day letting himself be showered in confetti and his face assaulted with face-paint by the gaggle of Morgan’s tiny friends that were running around the garden, cake induced sugar-rush in full swing.

“I feel so much better,” Peter says, mustering up as much energy as he can to sound enthusiastic. It’s worth it for the beaming grin that Morgan gives him.

“Love you, Petey.”

“Love you too, bug,” Peter murmurs into her hair. It’s a little damp and it smells of her strawberry shampoo.

Tony’s standing in the doorway watching the scene with an unreadable expression on his face. He won’t look Peter in the eyes. “You feeling any better?” he asks plainly as Morgan pulls away and reaches up to give Pepper her goodnight kiss as well.

Peter’s not sure. He still feels kind of dizzy and a little bit out of it, but the antiseptic cream has soothed some of the hot pain that had been radiating from his side so he guesses that’s a good thing. In the end, he just raises his shoulders a little in a shrug.

Tony nods in response to this and opens his mouth as if he wants to say something else before Morgan is springing out of Pepper’s arms and back over to Tony, latching her hand inside his.

He closes his mouth again, words left unsaid.

They leave the room and the bathroom sinks back into a silence that’s more uncomfortable this time, as if Pepper doesn’t know quite what to say to make up for Tony’s clear cool demeanour.

“Why don’t you head upstairs and get into bed, honey? I’ll bring you up a glass of water and some fever reducers soon.”

---

Peter’s still awake half an hour later, staring at the ceiling, when there’s a knock on his door.

“Yeah, Pepper, I’m awake,” he calls out. He could really use those fever reducers right about now because his body can’t seem to make up its damn mind. He keeps throwing his blankets off when he gets too hot and then having to endure the searing pain when he gets too cold a few minutes later and he has to lean down to pick them up off the floor.

The door cracks open.

“Not Pepper,” a voice says. Peter looks up and - oh, okay, it’s Tony. He steps in the door. “She did ask me to bring you these though.” He raises the glass of water he has in one hand and an assortment of colourful pills in the other up slightly. “I’ve got fever-reducers and some of your pain killers. I spoke to Bruce before and he recommended these. He’s sending up a course of antibiotics to start you on tomorrow as well.”

Peter nods slightly listlessly against his pillow, trying to process the information through his fever-addled brain.

“Okay. Thanks,” Peter says eventually. He’s not sure what else to say. Is he meant to apologize? He doesn’t think he wants to. He’s not in the wrong, he had to do something.

“No problem.”

Tony sets down the glass of water on the nightstand, and Peter reaches out to grab it, downing a few gulps and swallowing the pills that Tony had set down next to it at the same time.

“You need anything else?” Tony asks.

Peter shakes his head. “No, I’m good, thank you.”

“Have a good sleep then,” Tony says, turning to leave the room. The unsteady waves of anxiety that have been sitting at the pit of his stomach suddenly rear up as he sees Tony’s hand hovering over the door handle.

“W-Wait, no, Tony?” Tony glances back and he meets Peter’s eyes properly for the first time. “Are you, um, are you mad at me?”

Peter hates the way his voice sounds small, childish, unsure.

Tony's silent for a few moments.

“I don’t know, Peter. I don’t think mad is quite the right word. But we had an agreement, an agreement that was solely to keep you safe." Tony sighs. "It would make me feel a lot better to know I could trust you to stick to your word."

Only ten minutes ago, Peter had been dramatically musing what could possibly be more painful than the throbbing in his side. He knows now. Tony’s words. Tony’s words are more painful.

Peter doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how.

Tony leaves the room.

---

“I’m just about to crawl into bed, you need anything?”

Peter turns his head against his pillow to see Pepper at his door about an hour later. He shakes his head, but she crosses the room anyway and lays a hand on his shoulder.

Peter sort of feels like he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t help leaning into the way her palm cups his forehead gently before she leans down to press her lips to the same spot.

He looks up at her, and he knows defeat is probably shining in his eyes.

“S’Tony really mad at me?” he asks quietly.

Pepper gives him a sympathetic smile. “You know how he is,” she murmurs, “he can’t do the whole superhero thing himself now, so watching you out there getting hurt when he can’t protect you is hard. He wants to keep you safe. That’s all it is.”

Peter finds this kind of hard to believe but he doesn’t ask any more questions. Pepper squeezes his shoulder and wishes him a good sleep before ducking out of the room, leaving him alone once again.

---

Peter’s freezing, icy water surrounding him.

It’s filling his throat.

He doesn’t know where he is, the stormy waters that surge around him have long since risen up over the tops of buildings, only the roofs visible.

He kicks out desperately to try and reach one of them for a moment of respite but just keeping his head above the water drains all the energy from him. He has to find a vantage point, he has to find Tony, find May. They were just here, they all were. Pepper, Morgan, Happy, Tony, May. They were just here. Where are they?

A shape forms in front of his eyes, flailing arms, a body and a head appearing out of the water.

Its arm reaches down for him and Peter turns, wants to run, willing his weak and shivering legs to carry him but he’s still surrounded by water, still drowning, and he can’t push hard enough-

He’s knocked down.

His head is submerged, water rushing over the top of his head, filling his nose. He tries to push to the surface, to gasp, but water just rushes down his throat.

“Peter!”

Peter hears the scream before the elemental, the Hydro-Man, knocks him back down and the screams become garbled background noise to the water gushing past his ears.

He kicks to the surface again and swallows down a huge lungful of oxygen.

“-eter! Over here!”

Peter turns his head frantically, battling the waves to try and search all around him. Where are they? They have to be-

There!

Happy, May and Pepper are huddled on a rooftop not far away. The water’s rising up towards them quickly. The Hydro-Man turns as he hears them yell and he’s heading towards them. Peter barely has time to yell out before the creature is bringing its force down onto the roof.

The roof crumbles into the stormy waters. Pepper, May and Happy disappear with it.

“May!” Peter hears himself scream. “Pe-” he coughs violently, water clogging his airways, “P’pper! Happy!”

They’re gone though. Swallowed up by the water.

“Kid!

That’s Tony’s voice. Peter has to get to him. He can’t lose everyone he loves. He won’t survive it.

Tony’s on another rooftop, feet slipping over the shingled roof. One hand is clinging to what looks like a piece of wrought iron fence while Morgan is wrapped in his other.

Peter swims and swims and swims, never daring to take his eyes off them even as the water stings his eyes, splashing up into them as he tries to keep them open.

He grasps onto what he thinks might be a bit of the roofs guttering, only feet away from Tony and Morgan now. He pants, chest burning-

The water is rising up around them, trying to drag Peter away. He clings on tighter.

“Tony, T-Tony, I don’t know what to do,” Peter wheezes.

The water level reaches the roof, the singles disappearing underneath a dangerous sea of blue.

Tony slips a little. A scream catches in Peter’s throat and he shoots out a hand to try to grab him.

“Take Morgan,” Tony’s saying desperately, pulling his own hand away from Peter’s and motioning hurriedly for him to take Morgan’s.

“Ton-” Peter starts, Morgan’s wrist wrapped in his precariously slippery grip.

The Hydro-Man raises his aquatic fist again. He brings it down, and the force from it knocks Morgan’s hand from Peter’s own. He fumbles, opens his mouth to yell her name-

When the water calms again, she’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Beck’s there. On the rooftop in front of him, having absolutely no trouble whatsoever weathering the stormy waters around him. There’s a sick smirk on his face.

He flickers for a split second, and a cluster of drones appear in his place before he’s back, reaching, always reaching, leering as he does, arm closing around Peter’s throat and-

Peter lurches awake, pathetic whimper choked in the back of his throat.

Beck’s here. Tony and Morgan, Pepper and May and Happy. Everyone is gone. He’s on dry land again. The water has retreated and they’re still gone, washed out far away. Nowhere to be seen. Nowhere to be found.

Dry land. He’s not drowning. His feet are brushing against something solid. He chokes down a gasp and his hands shoot out to find the crumpled cotton of his bedsheets swimming around him. He grasps at them with shaking hands. They’re dry, mostly save for the clammy feeling of his own sweat that he can feel seeping into them. He’s not underwater.

He’s… he’s in bed?

He lets himself take in his surroundings properly this time. He dares to open his eyes for longer than a few seconds now that he’s sure he’s not going to be snatched away by the tide, even though he’s still shivering, can still feel the icy water lapping at his skin.

He counts five things he can see, a technique Tony has always encouraged him to do to ground himself after nightmares throw him back to a hellscape of places and memories he would rather never experience again.

The curtains.

His backpack shoved into the corner of the room.

The empty glass of water on the nightstand.

The Lego set sitting on his desk that he and Morgan were planning on building this weekend.

The bedside light. It casts a soft glow around him. It’s warm, so far away from the cold blue he’s been submerged in that Peter closes his eyes for a second again, lets the golden light wash behind his eyelids so that’s all he can see.

His head is still muddling all his thoughts into a panicked mess. All he can hear is the echoes of terrified screams in his ears. The screams of the people he loves that he couldn’t save, that he let fall to their death in the arms of the elementals, of the Hydro-Man, of Quentin Beck.

So much for grounding. He can’t breathe again.

It’s not real. They’re safe. It’s not real.

The elementals are illusions. The elementals aren’t real.

It was just a dream. The dream wasn’t real.

Beck is dead. Everyone you love is okay.

It’s not real.

Peter sucks in a few deep steadying breaths to appease his quivering lungs and burrows back under his comforter to try and find some source of comfort.

Then he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

At first, it’s just the flickering of a grey storm circling in the corner of his room underneath the window. Lightning flashes from within it and Peter swears when it does, he can see a face within the darkened swirling clouds. It reaches for him, and god, it has arms now as well, just like Peter’s dream, just like the elemental in London had. Peter flinches back and-

It disappears.

It’s like it was never there in the first place. Peter dares to blink a few times and drones take its place, hovering menacingly.

Someone has to be controlling them. Peter’s eyes dart around, searching and searching, not sure exactly what he’s looking for but then finding it anyway when he lands on Beck standing at the foot of his bed, only a few feet away.

Fear freezes like ice in his chest.

They’re here. In his room. The drones, the elementals, Beck. He could get to Morgan, and Pepper and Tony. He could hurt them.

Peter shudders. It can’t be real. It can’t be. Beck is dead.

But he’s here. In Peter’s room.

Peter forces himself to close his eyes. He can feel his entire body trembling with tightly-wound shivers. He’s not sure whether it’s from the cold or the fear anymore. He closes his eyes for a long moment and when he re-opens them, Beck isn’t there. The room is empty.

But there’s a flash to his right and he jerks his head around just in time to see fiery orange molten lava creeping through the cracks in the floorboards. It rises and rises, slowly forming into a threateningly recognisable figure as Peter’s rapidly beating heart crawls further up his throat.

Peter was stupid to think he could ever be rid of Beck. He’s still here, he’s still controlling everything and Peter doesn’t want to be a pawn in one of his games anymore.

He wants what he couldn’t have the first time.

He wants Tony.

Peter tries to swing his legs over the edge of the bed but he can’t quite get them to cooperate. He’s tangled in the mess of his sheets, and he kicks out against them, panic still coursing through his veins. No, no, no. Get me out of here. I can’t do this. Not again. Tony. Tony.

He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He wants to call for Tony. He needs help, but he’s too choked with terror.

Tony.

Need to get to Tony.

With one last fumbled kick of his leg, Peter throws himself from the bed, almost managing to catch himself but his limbs collapse beneath him, knees hitting the ground with a lump. Lava is still rising from the floor, and it towers over Peter now when he’s this low, taking on a burning figure of destruction.

Peter manages to make it to his feet, wrapping his hands around his nightstand to pull himself up. His legs feel weak beneath him, barely holding his weight. He knows he can’t afford to fall, not again, not when he has to get out of here, has to find Tony.

He fumbles a hand out until he finds the wall to his right, and he uses it to keep himself upright.

The hallway is darker than his bedroom once he throws the door open, but he lurches out and pulls the door hurriedly closed again behind him as if that will keep the monsters contained. As if a closed-door has ever stopped Beck.

He can’t see where he’s going. Everything is blurry. He wants Tony. Tony’s room is at the end of the hall, next to the landing at the top of the stairs. He knows this.

He just needs to get there.

Peter can’t remember the hallway being this long. Has it always been this long? His legs shudder and nearly give way as he nears the stairs, but he just shoots out to grab at the wall to steady himself again.

He’s so close.

He makes the last few steps and closes his hand around the door handle. Usually, if he was in a sane state of mind, not riddled with a high-grade fever and the claws of his trauma that have latched on and refused to let him go, he would be far more apprehensive about entering Tony and Pepper’s bedroom in the middle of the night for comfort. He’s basically an adult. He shouldn’t need it.

But right now he does. He needs Tony more than anything.

But when he yanks the door open and stands in the doorway, Tony isn’t there. His side of the bed is completely empty, still made up.

Pepper’s there though, and she stirs at the intrusion. She sits up and looks blearily towards the door. “Peter? S’that you?”

“T-T’ny? I need, I, um, I just - Tony,” Peter stutters out, eyes wide and pleading.

“Honey, take a breath. Is everything okay?”

“Tony,” Peter repeats again. It’s clearer this time, his desperation ringing clear.

“He’s downstairs,” she tells him, voice worn with sleep. “I can help you down there if you want?”

Peter shakes his head in the darkness. He doesn't want to be a bother. He’s already been a bother. He’s woken Pepper up. He didn’t mean to. He just needs Tony.

“No, it’s o-okay. Thank you,” Peter whispers.

Peter’s bedroom door is still closed at the end of the hallway when he retreats from Pepper’s room, but he still doesn’t feel safe.

Beck and his monsters could be lurking anywhere.

The stairs are his next big challenge, and logically Peter should probably be more worried about the challenge of navigating them when his entire body feels like it’s barely functioning and he’s in danger of collapsing at any second. He’s just focused on getting to the bottom of them though and he grips the railing for dear life as he makes his way down, barely registering the wood splintering a little beneath his grip.

He stumbles down the last few, clumsy footsteps thudding against the rug at the bottom of the landing.

He’s downstairs.

Tony. Where’s Tony?

“Peter?”

That’s his voice. Peter tries to follow it, unfocused eyes searching until he lands on the dim light of the TV. Tony’s sitting in front of it on the couch and Peter’s lungs feel like they almost collapse under the weight of his own sigh of relief.

“Hey, Peter. Kid? What’s going on?”

Peter realises he’s just standing there, swaying and staring like an idiot. He takes a few tentative steps forward, and then he’s moving and he can’t stop himself.

He’s only a few steps away from Tony when he all but collapses, the tension in his legs from the fear and trembling finally flooding out and it’s like his strings have been cut.

“Whoa, whoa, steady on there, Bambi,” Tony rushes out, both arms wrapped around Peter to stop him from falling. He pulls him closer to him to steady him and gets him settled in the spot next to him on the couch. This is nice. Tony feels strong and steady when Peter is sure that he’s neither of those things right now.

“We’re not exactly feeling very graceful tonight, are we?” Peter hears Tony muse. He’s only half paying attention, eyes locked on the singular one of Beck’s drones he can see suspended in the corner of the room.

He was right. Of course a closed bedroom door was never going to hold back Beck and his horrors.

He shoves himself closer to Tony’s side, a whine escaping from the back of his throat before he can help it.

“Hey, no, that’s okay,” Tony placates, “that’s what I’m here for.”

Peter shakes his head. No, no. That’s not what he’s worried about. Beck followed him, he followed him downstairs and Peter led him straight to Tony.

Peter flinches as more drones appear overhead. Beck must be controlling them, making them disappear and appear at will to mess with him. They circle above him and Tony, green lights glowing eerily.

“No, no, no,” Peter mumbles, eyes fixated on the drones above them. He can feel himself shaking again.

Tony’s eyes follow his up towards the ceiling.

“Peter?”

“Make it stop, p-please. Make them go away.”

“Make what stop? I can’t help unless you talk to me,” Tony says gently. He draws his eyes back down to focus on Peter’s face, the way his eyes are darting around in an almost crazy fashion.

“I keep seeing things. I-I don’t know if they’re real. Beck’s here, he’s everywhere. He’s gonna hurt you, he’s gonna hurt e-everyone, I-”

Tony’s face softens in a sort of understanding, and Peter doesn’t get it. How is he not scared right now? Can he not see what’s going on right in front of him?

“Pete. There’s nothing there, I promise.” Oh. “It’s just your fever messing with you, buddy, you're hallucinating. You’re safe - nothing’s gonna get you here.”

It’s not real? Peter tries to remember the mantra he’d been repeating to himself earlier in his bedroom.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

Beck is dead. Everyone you love is okay.

It’s not real.

“How do we know?” Peter asks, voice small. “He’s clever, he could hide them, he could hide them from you if he wanted, how do we-”

A sudden thought catches Peter off-guard and he drops off mid-sentence. Tony’s voice doesn’t sound angry anymore. He was so angry with Peter before, disappointment dripping from every word he spoke.

He doesn’t sound like that anymore.

Peter hasn’t done anything to redeem himself, anything to make Tony forgive him.

What if this isn’t his Tony?

His breathing catches and he stares up at Tony - illusion Tony? - with wide eyes.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs. He shakes himself a little and it makes him dizzy again. He can’t believe he fell for it. “You’re not real. The real Tony is angry with me. This isn’t… you’re not - not him. You can’t fool me, Beck.”

Peter only has a short second to see the way Tony’s face falls with anguish before he’s being tugged towards whichever Tony is sitting in front of him.

Real or not, he feels real enough as he threads a hand through Peter's hair. Peter should pull away, shouldn’t let himself fall for this so badly, but he can’t help it. It even smells like Tony, like home, and he buries his face into the gap between his shoulder and neck, lets himself hide there.

Darkness envelopes him, and even though it’s not real, he feels safer, Tony’s arm curled protectively around him.

Then Tony starts speaking.

“God, kid.” His voice sounds so distraught. “I’m right here. I’m real. There’s no room on the planet for more than one Tony Stark, you know that. You got the real deal right here.” He pauses. His fingers carry on running through Peter’s hair. It feels so familiar. “I wasn’t angry with you, you know. I don’t know what it was. I was scared, probably. But it doesn’t matter how I was feeling, it never does and it never will when it comes to you. If you need me, that’s more important than anything.”

Peter tries to pull away, to look up at Tony, to meet his eyes. He wants to see if he can let himself believe that this is real but Beck still lurks in the corner of his mind. Tony must see the fear still lingering on his face because he tucks him back closer to him.

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? We’re just gonna relax for a bit, give your fever a chance to stop kicking everything into overdrive. You’ll feel better in a minute,” Tony promises, and Peter so badly wants to believe him, wants to believe that it is him.

The room is quiet for a few minutes. The television is still murmuring in the background. Anxiety thrums steadily through him until Tony opens his mouth to start speaking.

“Remember when we did the road trip to Massachusetts to pick up my stuff from that MIT alumni exhibition? I could have had it delivered, you kept telling me that, but I kinda wanted to show the campus off to you, see what you thought. I mean, after everything, you staying closer to home doesn't sound half as bad as I thought it would, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Tony chuckles. It reverberates in his chest and Peter feels it against his ear. He knows what Tony's doing. He's reminding him who they are.

Peter and Tony.

Not illusions. Both real, both alive. Warmth blossoms in his chest and banishes some of his nerves.

He continues. “And then the car broke down on the side of I-84 on the way back? The tow truck took hours and you told me it was too dramatic to ask Bruce to come down with a quinjet so you dragged me down to that McDonald’s because you wanted me to try that god-awful thing you do where you dip your fries in your milkshake. I still don’t understand how you like that.”

Peter makes a slightly indignant noise.

He’s breathing easier now, the illusions, his hallucinations - whatever they were - slowly loosening their hold on him. Peter focuses in on Tony’s heartbeat. It sounds like the one he knows so well.

“Y’know, I still think about the first convention Bruce and I took you too, as well. We worked on that biomechanics paper and I thought you were gonna vomit on my shoes before we went out to present it but turns out Bruce was the front contender for that one right before we got on stage. He made it to the trash can. Thank god for that, those shoes cost-”

“I don’t wanna know how much the shoes were, Tony,” Peter mumbles in protest. Everything Tony wears - or, maybe, used to wear - probably cost more than months rent for his and May’s old apartment.

“Okay, yeah, sure, we can do that. I just need you to know that they did not deserve to be vomited on.”

Peter chances taking a glance out of one eye. The drone has disappeared from the corner, and a little bit of the last tension he’s been holding onto dissipates. Tony carries on anyway, voice calm and soothing.

“What about the first time you and Morgan did me that joint Fathers Day present? I dunno if I ever told you how much I love that. I still have it hanging on the wall in my office. It really should be out here in the living room somewhere, pride and joy and all that, but Pep reckoned the colours would clash with her cushions. We’ll blame Morgan for that though, between us, we all know she can get a little bit over-enthusiastic with the paints.”

“You kept that?”

“Course I did. One of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten.”

“But it’s awful.”

Peter feels Tony shrug, his head shifting a little where it’s resting with the movement of his shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter," he says, laughter in his voice. He doesn't bother denying Peter's statement because it really is true. It is awful, splotches of paint in mismatched colours, something that's maybe meant to be a stick-figure family in the foreground. It's chaotic. That doesn't mean Tony doesn't absolutely love it.

"It's still the best,” he says, not a shred of doubt in his voice as he sits up slightly. Peter frowns at the movement but lets Tony maneuver him a little so he’s resting against Tony’s side rather than hidden in his neck. “I want you to open your eyes properly for a minute now, bud. Anything there?”

Peter does. He tentatively casts his eyes around the room, but there’s no one there apart from him and Tony.

“No. No, it’s just us,” Peter says, tone awash with relief and tiredness.

Beck isn’t here. This is all real. Tony’s here. Tony’s real.

He lets himself go lax. “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony just waves off his thanks with a lazy hand movement. The man kicks his legs up onto the coffee table and lets his head fall to the side, cheek resting against Peter’s curls.

It’s nice, Peter thinks. The feeling of Tony curling around him, protecting him from the demons that he knows are just in his head now, but are still his demons nonetheless.

“Any idea why Europe’s in your head again all of a sudden, buddy?” Tony asks breaking their quiet after a while. “It hasn’t been this bad in a few weeks.”

Peter considers whether he really wants to divulge and bother getting into it. He doesn’t want to bother Tony with everything, but maybe he owes it to him to let him know what’s going on after he’s just spent fifteen minutes talking him down from whatever the hell his fever was putting into his mind. The rational part of his brain tells him he doesn’t owe Tony anything. Tony would hate to know that Peter ever thought like that, even for a second.

He wants to tell Tony though.

Now that Beck and the drones and everything has vanished from where they were lingering in the corners of the house, taunting him, this feels like their familiar brand of normal.

He’s pressed to Tony’s side on the couch, there’s shitty late-night TV playing in the background and one of them is tangled up in their trauma. That’s Peter, tonight. He should let Tony play his part, help him sort through the mess and untangle whatever’s in his head. Peter would want Tony to let him do the same.

“I had a nightmare,” Peter admits, finally.

“You wanna tell me what it was about?”

“Yeah.” Peter stays silent for a few moments and Tony lets him. He doesn't push, just wraps his arm more securely around Peter and rubs a thumb over his shoulder absent-mindedly. He’s still way too hot even through the fabric of his pyjama shirt.

“I, uh, I couldn’t save you guys,” Peter offers up eventually. “You, n’ Morgan and May and everyone. There was all the water, like in Venice and you all needed me and I couldn’t help any of you. I… Morgan was the last to go. I tried to save, um, get to you but you told me to help Morgan instead and then you were gone and I tried, I did, I p-promise but there was too much water and she fell and I couldn’t… she didn’t… she was just gone. Everyone was gone.”

Tony sucks in a quiet breath. Peter watches him carefully. He doesn’t want him to be disappointed. It was just a dream but he didn’t mean to not save Morgan. He’s always trying to look out for Morgan - even when it results in a stab wound in his side.

“M’sorry, I tried. I just, I thought I did a good job the other day, with the guys n’ the bombs, but… but I couldn’t save her now and I think I’m still just so worried about that, that I’m-”

Tony holds up one hand to halt him and Peter bites down on his bottom lip nervously. He knows he's let his fever-addled mind and desperate need for Tony to not be disappointed with him get away from him. He wonders whether he’s disclosed too much.

“Peter,” Tony says carefully, “we’re being honest with each other right now, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” Peter says, but that sounds a bit too unsure so he tries again. “Yeah, yes, definitely.”

“Then I need you to tell me this, what are you talking about? Guys with bombs?”

Peter swallows.

“I promise I didn’t mean to go out as Spider-Man, I really didn't, but I just overheard this conversation the other night and these guys sounded kinda sketchy so I put one of those trackers you gave me on one of their cars without them noticing and I went out there later that night.”

“Okay…” Tony says. He sounds unsure as to where this is going but he nods as a signal for Peter to keep going anyway.

“They were, uh… they had this warehouse, super typical I know, nothing we haven’t seen before. But there were guns n' bombs, all that sorta stuff, loads of it. I was going to leave, I swear, I was just gonna call the police but then I heard them talking. They were going to - they were, um, gonna use them to target schools so I had to do something. I couldn't... couldn't not."

“They were going to use them in schools? To try and take out school kids?” Tony asks slowly. Peter looks up at him and he considers the words for a second before he nods his head.

“Elementary schools.”

“Pardon?”

“Elementary schools,” Peter repeats. “That’s what they were saying. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t just not do anything because I was there, and what if they got away and if anything ever happened, to anyone, to Morgan… I would never forgive myself, Tony. Never.”

This seems to shock Tony into complete and utter silence. His jaw goes slightly slack and if this was any other night, any other scenario, Peter might be pleased with himself for being able to invoke this sort of reaction out of Tony.

“You got the guys?” he asks eventually.

“Yeah. Webbed ‘em up - that's when one of the guys got me with a knife. The police swept the place out, got all the weapons.”

“Good. Good.”

“I really was going to try and stick to this whole no Spider-Man thing, I promise, it’s just-”

Tony holds up a hand.

"No. No," he says, taking a steadying breath. "I want you to be able to admit when you're wrong and that means I have to set a good example, right? I was probably too rash. I should have heard you out. It sounds like you did good, kid.”

“So we’re okay?” Peter asks tentatively.

“Of course we’re okay, bud. We’re always okay, even when I throw a bit of a strop. If you ever need anything, I don’t want you to ever not come to me about it. I just, seeing you hurt is a little harder now that I'm like this," he says, raising his prosthetic arm. "And now that we're all, uh, everything is like this..." he finishes, gesturing around the cabin, Peter’s shoes and textbooks strewn around, Morgan’s toys covering the rug. Now that we're a family, is what Peter thinks he's trying to say.

“It’s okay,” Peter says. He knows what Tony is trying to say. He remembers Pepper’s words earlier. He kind of gets it, in a weird way. He always used to hate when Tony used to jet off on missions he was barred from due to inexperience. “I know you worry.”

“Who told you that?” Tony says with a gentle scoff.

“Pepper.”

“Of course she did. That woman knows too much.” There’s a mock scowl on his face and Peter is relieved to have some sort of lightness injected back into the conversation.

They can talk everything out once they’ve both gotten some sleep. Peter knows Tony. He knows that he’ll probably spend hours on the phone to the NYPD tomorrow to make sure that they got every single explosive and firearm out of that warehouse.

He’ll then probably spend multiple more hours on the phone to Morgan’s elementary school trying to convince them to up their security or at least let him donate the equipment.

That sounds like exhausting work for a worried father. They both need rest.

“You making yourself comfy here then?” Tony asks as Peter buries himself further into the couch cushions, head still resting on Tony’s shoulder, the spot he fully intends to keep it in.

“Kinda planning on it. S’that okay?”

“Course. Mind if I join you?’

He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. Peter’s trapped Tony’s arm between him and the couch, and he hopes he doesn’t try to tug it away. He likes the little bit of extra comfort.

“You were here first.”

“Touché.”

Tony turns the television on mute but doesn’t turn it off. Peter appreciates the light that the TV exudes into the room, and he knows Tony probably did it on purpose.

As soon as Peter lets his eyes close, drowsiness begins to ebb its way in. He’s content to let himself fall completely into it this time. He’s safe and warm. He’s real. This is real. They’re okay.

“Pete?”

“Mm?”

“I don't know if I say it enough, but I'm proud of you.”

---

Peter’s muscles are stiff when he wakes up, a drowsy yawn escaping his mouth without warning. He’s shifted in the night, somehow ended up with his head shoved up against the side of Tony’s leg. There’s a throw blanket over him that he doesn’t remember being there before.

Tony shifts beside him.

“What’re you doin’ awake, Pete?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles back dopily.

“If you want any more sleep, I’d get it now. The little monster’ll be up soon.”

Peter knows he’s right judging by the gentle morning light starting to creep in through the curtains.

“M’kay. You too.”

Tony threads a few lazy fingers through his hair in response and he closes his eyes.

They both drift back off.