Who: @lunarcovestarters
Where: Outside On Pitch Karaoke Bar
For the first time since the chaos--and the death of one of their own--Ana turned the 'closed' sign on the bar to open. Beside the single, neon word was a bulletin board with all the normal notifications: that she did not accept refunds, that Ralph was not allowed inside, and that all patrons were required to sing at least one song upon entry or else buy a round of drinks for everyone in the bar. Tonight, however, she had added a new sign, which read:
Having nightmares? Need help falling asleep? See owner for new lullaby pricing.
This sign, like all the signs, was hung up with a knife rather than a push pin, as was the aesthetic of the establishment. Satisfied with the note's placement, Ana looked up and met the gaze of the first person passing by. "Well, come on in. Don't make me sing."
gamechanged asked:
❝ it just felt like it was happening all over again. i can't shake it. ❞
❝ yeah. i've been there. ❞ ilya nods, keeping his voice low. steady. ❝ but you're safe. you have kip, and shane, and— me. ❞ he offers a soft smile. things had been rough between them for several years, but they were getting older. the world was evolving. the rivalry was never meant to last forever. ❝ do you want to talk about it? ❞
Also on AO3!
I wrote a post with this idea some time ago, and I finally had the spark to write the whole thing. Hope you enjoy it!
TRIGGER WARNINGS - child abuse and implied alcohol abuse (both happen in a nightmare).
DO NOT SHIP PETER AND TONY. P/ROSHIP DNI.
--
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Shoot- I-I was just trying to help!”
“Help?! Is this helping me?!” The man gestures at the entire mess on his desk – burnt papers, a whole other bunch of papers on the floor, pencils broken, his notebook fallen on the ground— Why the hell is the kid on his desk?
“I’m sorry- I-I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter tries, pathetically. He hands him the broken Iron Man arm, its wires no longer protected. It might still let out sparks every now and then.
Tony takes it from him harshly. Peter flinches away, recoiling, hiding like a little puppy.
“How many times do I have to get through your stupid head to keep away from MY THINGS?!” Tony screams. “All you do is destroy everything I create! You think this is just a TOY, huh?!” He shakes the Iron Man arm violently. “You’re lucky you didn’t cause a damn explosion!”
“I-I know, I’m sorry,” Peter gulps, his voice small. “I c-can help cleaning this mess—”
“Get out.”
The boy’s eyes are already reddened with sadness and regret.
“… Dad—”
“I said GET OUT!” Tony throws the arm right in his direction, the noise blaring like an explosion.
Peter has dodged it; when he looks at the man, his eyes are now wide. He wastes no time leaving the workshop, for once.
I need a damn drink, Tony decides.
As if he could’ve predicted this scene, there’s a bottle of scotch and an empty glass at his service. Luckily, that’s one thing his stupid excuse of a kid didn’t destroy. He can already tell Peter will just cry to Jarvis like a little sissy.
The sour scotch burns his throat, not anything like his rage right now. Tony can only stare at the disaster in his workshop, all the papers…
Finally, he looks at the window not too far from him.
A cold yet seething man, in his expensive, gray suit, equally gray hair neatly groomed and his mustache his most memorable physical characteristic.
And the Iron Man arm on the floor bleeds red and grief.
You’re my greatest creation.
You’re my greatest creation.
He only smells scotch.
--
“… Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark?”
Tony gasps for air, already sweating cold. His first instinct is to turn on the lamp. He’s in his bedroom, lying on his bed…
Wait. Wait, wait—
“Whoa- Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaims as Tony rushes to the restroom and turns on its white, cold light.
It’s him.
Tony is…
Just himself.
Not wearing that gray suit, not bearing that cold rage in his eyes. Tony is in his old tank top and sweatpants, eyes filled with fear, the most emotion that awful ghost could ever show.
“… Mr. Stark?” Peter knocks on the door, even though it’s open. “Are you okay? I-I’m sorry I, uh, barged in, but I could sense you had a nightmare. I think.”
From the mirror, Tony sees Peter somewhat hiding behind the door. Like he’s afraid he’s bothering him, like he’ll make him angry.
“Peter,” Tony gulps, “Peter, I’m sorry.”
The teen looks surprised. Confused?
“What? Y-You didn’t do anything, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Tony sniffs, his voice breaking with each word. “I’m really sorry.”
“Whoa, hey, Mr. Stark… It’s okay.”
Tony only cries silently, hiding his eyes with his hand. He’s only learned to cry like this; never make a scene.
“I-I don’t know what happened, but, you didn’t do anything wrong, I promise,” Peter tries to reassure him. “You didn’t do anything to me, okay? I’m fine.”
Shyly, he looks at Peter. Tony can’t unsee the terrified brown eyes he saw after throwing something at him. Imagine if Tony actually hit Peter? Would he be fine, then?
“Hey, maybe you should sit down, Mr. Stark… I can get you some water, is that okay?” Peter suggests. “Come on. I’ll…”
He doesn’t touch Tony – he’s quite insecure about that – but Peter encourages him to go back to the bedroom. Tony complies and sits on the bed. He looks at the digital clock – it’s 4 AM. He remembers that Pepper is away, currently in Mumbai.
“I’ll be right back with the water, okay?” Peter informs him.
Tony doesn’t reply nor look at the kid. Eventually, Peter leaves the room. And when he does, Tony manages to sob more obviously.
Not for long, because Peter is quick, indeed.
“Here, Mr. Stark,” he says.
Finally, Tony takes the glass and takes one sip. He then places it on the bedside table, next to the clock.
“… Can I sit here?” Peter asks.
Part of Tony wants him to leave – not because he doesn’t want Peter here, but because he’s scared he’s going to hurt him. But he doesn’t want the kid to leave again – not like that, ever again.
“You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to,” Peter reassures him. “B-But I’m here if you need me, okay?”
Tony nods, not yet looking at him. Looking at something distant. That workshop Peter can’t see, with all the papers, scotch and the broken Iron Man arm.
Drinking some more water, Tony takes a deep breath. It really hurts, but it’s something; some air gets in.
Then, he gazes at Peter.
Silently.
Peter is not at all haunted. Of course, he’s worried and perhaps a little scared. This kid has enhanced senses, so he must be feeling Tony’s distress even if he can’t understand it.
Tony pets his head, his messy brown curls, slowly. For quite some time. Peter only looks at him, and he looks quite adorable tilting his head a bit, Tony won’t lie. But Peter is also too good for this world to handle, he looks after the little guy; not too many people think about that guy.
…
“Thanks, kid,” Tony half-hugs him. He almost opens his mouth to apologize again but decides not to.
Peter smiles. “No problem, Mr. Stark.”
Tony stares and inhales.
“You’re a really good kid,” he adds. “You’re the hero everyone should look up to.”
The boy is taken aback, judging by his reddened cheeks. “Aw, gee, Mr. Stark…”
“I mean it, kid. I truly do.”
Peter looks surprised, genuinely. And it hurts Tony.
With that, the latter hugs the former, with two arms and all. The teenager takes a few seconds to process it and return the hug; soon, he relaxes in it, too.
Tony says nothing else. He holds Peter for a few seconds before sighing and letting go.
Once he’s done with the water, he concludes, “I think I need a snack.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m kinda hungry.”
“Alright, then you go back to bed, okay? I’m feeling better now.”
“No, it’s okay. I wanna stick with you, if that’s alright.”
Tony smiles fondly. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
He wraps an arm around Peter as they head to the kitchen. Briefly, Tony looks back, seeing that old workshop, knowing that Howard will be there, screaming in his head. Tony knows he can’t change them, he can’t erase them from his head.
The least he can do is build his own workshop, with his kid, for his kid to have fun, to be safe, to rely on Tony when he messes up, so they can fix it together.
That’s what anyone’s kid deserves; someone’s unconditional presence, affection and time. That’s their right. Tony will make sure Peter knows that.
Marsha was hesitant when Eath suggested having a sleepover. Marsha didn't like sleep; most of the times when she slept, she had either nightmares or one of those weird dreams again. She didn't really have good dreams anymore. This was something she had yet to disclose to Eath due to how personal it was. On one hand, Marsha was scared to accidentally fall asleep but at the same time, Eath might become suspicious if Marsha did all that she could to stay awake. In the end, Marsha ended up crashing anyways.
"I'm sorry..." Marsha muttered in her sleep. "Daddy...please...I can do better...I can get it right..."
When Eath grabbed Marsha's shoulders, Marsha didn't register that it was Eath touching her shoulder. All she could register was the last thing that happened during her nightmare: her father tightly squeezing her shoulders, crouching down so he could hiss in her ear: "Again."
Marsha jerked awake and before Eath could react, Marsha grabbed Eath by the wrist. Eyes wide, it took a few seconds for Marsha to realize where she was. When she came back to reality, Marsha realized with horror what she was doing. "Oh, lords..." Marsha quickly let Eath go as she tried to back away from Eath.
A loud bang from opening fire, and there he was, lying flat on his back, dead, bleeding through his right temple.
*
Watson sat bolt upright on his bed, staring at the wall in front of him in his bedroom in horror. He took the napkin from his pillow and wiped the sweat from his face, taking quick and shallow breaths in the process.
As his breathing returned to normal, he recalled his nightmare and frowned at it. Or rather, he frowned at the sheer realism and vividness of it.
If such a day were to come for real in his life, if his life were to end in this way, would anyone care?
Watson gave out a soft, mirthless chuckle. Who would? The public of England talked about the detective and the wonders that the said detective had done in the field of criminology, quite rightfully so.
As for Watson himself, well, he was just a humble and clueless man. He wondered whether the world would even blink an eye if he were to pass away someday.
Watson swallowed and got up from his bed and stepped out of his room to get some air.
He was met with the sight of Holmes having an intense conversation with someone in the living room. Watson raised his brow at the thought of visitors at this odd hour.
Watson did not wish to interrupt, so he decided to go back to his room. However, the intense whispers were quite distracting.
Curiosity got the better of him in the end, and Watson stopped halfway through closing the door of his bedchamber. He cocked an ear to give a part of that conversation a listen, even though he knew how extremely rude eavesdropping was.
"... but what you are asking is to make Watson a bait in the case this time, which I absolutely refuse. You will have to look for a different method, officer. The killer will have to pass through me if Watson has to die. He is my intimate friend..."
Watson finally closed the door and leaned against it, smiling brightly to himself. He did not know about the world, nor did he care, but he now knew that there was at least one person who would blink an eye. Probably more than just that.
Watson walked over to his bed and lay down. He knew he was going to sleep better now.
Aching.- Cove awoke to it in silence, gold hues flickering open to the dark ceiling up above. It didn't take more than a quarter of a second for it to register- the dull thud with each beat of their heart, the way every inch of their body seemed to growl in protest when a limb stretched to try to raise themself.
It wasn't until the snap of their elbow joint fracturing that Cove realized they were in bad shape. Their arm dropped to the sheets, all sensation instantly vaporized from the severed limb.
Panic stirred in their chest. A rabid creature that swirled and nibbled and cut and cried- and they could do naught but lay and endure it. Couldn't call for help. They could risk moving- but there was no telling how long their body would endure without its stabilizer. They were royally fucked unless someone entered the room and found them. They were going to die, here. It was going to be slow. It was going to hurt and they could only c r y -
"COVE."
They shot upright. Startled from their slumber, tail puffed and ears swiveling to try to find the source of the noise---
"---there you are...." One of their hands slid, aiming for the slot just above their hip. "You aren't out of Poppy Gel...but it is time for you and I to top up." The blond looked up. It wasn't hard to find Proto's face, a singular canary-yellow hue gazing back.
Damn nightmare...
"Right." Their voice barely managed to squeeze out of their throat. Long, lithe digits brushed through their hair- careful of delicate ears that flicked when the sensation drew too close. Cove didn't bother to fight leaning slightly into the amalgam's touch.- It was grounding, compared to that unsettling dream...
