FIC: Untitled (Marvel MCU, Tony/Peter)
Title: Untitled
Author: Atanih88
Rating: R (for mild gore)
Summary: Failed 5+1.
Notes: This was actually going to be a 5+1 for Day 1 of Starker Appreciation Week, but then I couldn’t decide on the 5+1 theme and just ran out of time for that day. I kind of liked what I had so decided to post it as a drabble. I might turn it into a slice of life series.
If Peter has ever wondered what being a zombie might feel like, he thinks it might be something like this.
He’s sitting, cross-legged on a corner of Tony’s kitchen island, too tired to even take a bite of the kebab in his hand. Tony's kitchen is bright and the light hurts Peter’s eyes. He’s spent the better part of two days underground attempting to track down and get rid of a lizard the size of a human being, who of course, happened to have human intelligence and a taste for human flesh.
Peter’s gaze drops down to the food in his hand. The lamb and chicken barely fit in the thin pocket of bread, salad and garlic sauce spilling out, pomegranate juice running down the side of his hand in a translucent rosy pink. His stomach turns. Peter presses a hand to his mouth. Carefully, he sets the food back on the paper it’d come wrapped in on the table. He tries to not focus on the taste in his mouth.
Because right now, that taste is making him think of a torso half sunk into the sewage water, skin torn and stained a deep red. The ribcage had been pried open like a flower.
In a flash he’s off the counter and reaches a bathroom just in time—why are there so many rooms in this place when Tony only uses, like, two of them? —He grabs hold of the toilet seat and heaves. The bitter stench of sick drifts up to hit him in the face and it just makes him gag and retch again.
"Oh God, oh god," he groans, spits out the taste in his mouth and then just hangs his head for a bit, the toilet seat cool against his forehead. It’s not the most hygienic thing, but Peter’s cool with it. He can hang here for a bit. Until his stomach decides to behave or until, you know, the image of a massacred body is erased from his mind.
He’s not sure how long he stays there, knees digging into the cold floor of the bathroom. He thinks he hears FRIDAY in the background but he’s too busy squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to think.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.
Then he hears the sound of familiar footsteps padding softly on the tiled floor.
Peter shivers when warmth envelops him and strong fingers card through his hair, pulling gently, tugging his head back until it rests against a strong chest. Tony’s cologne is sharp, cutting, fresh and Peter breathes it in gratefully, wanting to smell anything but his own sick. He’s careful to keep his mouth away from Tony’s shirt though.
"Talk to me young padawan," Tony says, speaking into Peter’s hair as he pulls Peter away from the toilet with slow care. Peter thinks he’s trying not to jostle him too much and since his stomach seems to be holding for now, Peter lets himself fall into the cradle of Tony’s thighs and arms, leaning his head back against him and closing his eyes.
"Pete," and this time Tony’s voice is deeper, serious, "you okay?"
"Think we could get pizza instead?"
"Sure. Could even get that meal deal that gets you the Hulk cup."