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xxx-cat-xxx · 5 years

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okay, i've got it. i'm asking you for a fic bc i LOVE your writing and, well, you did offer hjsgdf. i want a fic where tony Dad Carries peter. (re my last post on the topic lmao) i want peter to get hurt, and i want, nay, n e e d tony to pick him up and Dad Carry him IN FULL IRON MAN SUIT through the m c f r e a k i n g sky back to the compound while peter whimpers half consciously and tony worriedly reassures him through the ride. idc how he gets hurt or what else happens i just NEED this gkshj

I had a blast writing this prompt! Consider it a (very) late birthday or an early Christmas gift. I picture it taking place at some point of time after Endgame,in a world where things are fixed and broken all the same. Injury, emeto, angstahead.

Away from the Sun

The bomb looks like it’s been built by a 14-year-old as part of their science project, and Tony is halfway through a joke about it when the thinggoes off, hitting his shoulder in a series of explosions and knocking him deadout of the air.

While falling, he hopes against all odds that the web Peter had beendangling from is still intact. But of course he’s wrong, and the first thing hefeels after hitting the ground is the boy’s hard impact next to him. The secondthing is a raging fire in his shoulder that makes his vision go black.

He can’t have been out for too long, though, because pebbles and dust - it’sdust, only dust - are still falling from the sky when he forces his eyes toopen and his arms to push him upright, because the kid got injured.

Tony makes it to his knees and bends over Peter, feeling his heart thudagainst his ribcage at an ever-rising speed. There’s blood flowing from a gashon the kid’s temple, and he looks still, awfully still.

“Hey, buddy.” He touches the boy’s arm carefully, knowing better than to shakesomeone with a probable head injury. Nothing.

“Pete, if you’re trying to pull a show, that’s not the moment,” Tonyhalf-jokes, but he can clearly hear the panic in his own voice.

The boy finally stirs, and the relief flooding through Tony makes him momentarilydizzy. Or maybe it’s just the injuries catching up with him.

“Ow,” Peter moans, blinking hard against the streetlights brightening theearly New York winter evening. He shifts as if to make to sit, but Tony pusheshim back down. He uses the kid’s mask to temporarily stall the blood flow onthe side of his head.

“Your name, kid. And tell me where we are,” he demands.

“P-Peter Parker?” It sounds a little like a question, but Tony decides tolet it pass.

“On a – a mission…I guess.” Peter adds, then swallows, his face now turningashen below the crimson lines.

“Okay. Tell me what’s hurting.” Tony is sure that there was more to theconcussion protocol, but confirming that the boy is not dying from anyinner injuries seems more important at the moment.

“My - my head. And I feel –” the rest of the sentence ends in a wet gurgle.Tony turns Peter to the side when a gush of vomit pours out of his mouth,spilling over his suit and onto the pavement. The kid’s shoulders hitch and hebrings up another wave, screwing his eyes shut against the pain in his head.

“Easy, kid, easy,” Tony soothes, now using the blood-stained mask to wipethe boy’s mouth. He absent-mindedly makes a mental note to ensure that the nextversion will be liquid-repellent.

“I..don’t feel well.” Peter states hoarsely when he is done retching andlets himself slump against the Iron Man armour.

“Yeah, I got that much. You’re pretty concussed.” Tony replies.

“Oh. Ok.” Peter mumbles, already shutting his eyes again.

“Hey, no sleeping yet,” Tony orders.

He’s had enough concussions in his life to know that this one is notlife-threatening, but it’s far from benign, either. A quick glance around thebus-station-turned-battlefield confirms his suspicion - there’s no way anambulance will get through to them any time soon, and even a helicopter landingwould be difficult at this point.

Flying it is, then. Tony gets up with a groan, pulling Peter with him into asitting position. But as soon as he locks both of his arms under the boy’sshoulders, the agony ripping through his own momentarily takes his breath away.The joint is out for sure, and the skin above it probably burnt if the stingingpain is anything to go by. There is no way he’ll be able to manage Peter’sweight dangling from his arms like this.

“Kid, I need your help,” he says, making a split-second decision to benddown and scoop Peter up in some sort of a one-armed embrace. “You gotta workwith me here.”

“Hmm,” Peter mumbles, opening his eyes slowly, apparently havingdifficulties in focusing on the older man’s face. But he locks his legs aroundTony’s middle obediently, then wraps his arms around his neck, his head comingto rest on Tony’s good shoulder.

Taking off while minimizing his movement is a challenge if Tony’s ever facedone, but Peter is light like a feather, and they make it into the air withoutany further problems. The boy lets out a noise suspiciously close to a whimperwhen they shift from the vertical to the horizontal, and Tony curses himself,not for the first time this night, for ever calling him to the mission in thefirst place.

“Straight to the tower, Fri,” he murmurs into the helmet once they havereached skyscraper-level. “And give Pepper a heads-up that we’re about to bargein.”

“Kid, you still with me?” he asks aloud, to keep Peter engaged, and maybe alittle bit to keep the darkness inside his head and the other, more menacingdarkness above them out of his thoughts. Flying at night has become quite of achallenge recently.

“‘s stars are beautiful,” Peter slurs in reply, clearly not sharing Tony’saversion.

“Yeah, everyone says that.”

He forces himself to look at the ground, where New York is rushing by atbreath-taking speed. It’s filled with lights, with lives, with loud andannoying people. Not with blackness and desperation and the futile longing forrescue.

“But once you’re out there,” he adds, because talking helps, talking meansthat he’s still here, and it’s not like Peter’s going to remember any of thisanyways, “It’s not beautiful at all. It’s fucking empty and it scares the hellout of you.”

He holds Peter a little closer, a little tighter, so that he can nearlydeceive himself into feeling his warmth through the armour. Alive.

“Misser Stark, you okay?” Peter asks, sounding a little more lucid now.“Cause your heart beat’s through the roof, and I can sorta hear youhyperventilating.”

“My shoulder’s out. I’m in a little bit of pain here, buddy.” It’s ahalf-truth, at least.

“‘s it bad?”

Peter tenses in his grip, trying to sit up and get a good look at hismentor, and jostles Tony’s arm in the process. He hisses in pain and drops afew feet before he can catch himself.

“Don’t worry, boy, I’ll be fine. Not gonna let you fall.”

“Hmm.” Peter nods and then gags in response. A slim stream of vomitsplatters onto Tony’s armour.

“Ugh. Sorry,” he says weakly. “Just…so nauseous.”

“It’s okay, kid. I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill.”

But the joke is lost, since Peter has buried his face in Tony’s neck againat the sight of the approaching tower, shielding his eyes from the growingshape as if he was a child on a rollercoaster ride. Or maybe he’s just passedout again.

Tony makes a tumbling and embarrassingly unsteady landing on the terrace,hoping in vain that no one is there to witness it. But at least it’s onlyPepper and not any of the Avengers that’s waiting for him.

“God, Tony, this looks terrible!” she fusses as soon as she’s at his side.

“It’s a pretty nasty flesh wound, but he’s lost less blood than it lookslike, the concussion’s what we gotta worry about…”

He trails off when he realizes that she isn’t looking at Peter but at hisown shoulder, where the melted metal is burying itself into his skin.

“Oh, that. Yeah.”

The smell of burned flesh is suddenly filling his nostrils, eliciting aqueasy feeling in his guts. He’s lightheaded all at once, as if someone hadflipped a switch and cut off his adrenaline supply. Tony had fully intended tocarry Peter down till medical, but when he takes a step towards the balconydoor, the head-rush hits him full force, and it’s all he can do to grab thewall for support as not to lose footing.

“Woah.” He sets Peter down as gentle as possible, blinking through thegreyness clouding his vision.

“Can you just get Bruce,” he addresses Pepper. “Or Sam? Whoever’s onmedical?”

As soon as she’s gone, he gives up any pretence of being able to stayupright, letting himself slide down next to the boy. Stars are dancing in frontof his eyes. Stars. Hollow, all-consuming, nothing - stop. Don’tthink about it.

“What?” Peter slurs.

Was he talking out loud?

“Nothing. It’s okay, buddy, just stay awake. Help is coming.”

“…hurts.”

“Yeah, I know. It’ll be better soon, trust me.”

“My hands…” Peter stares at his fingers as if it was the first time he’sseen them, and unfortunately Tony has a pretty good idea of what the kid ishallucinating there, “Something’s wrong with my hands…”

“Your hands are alright. A-Okay. Here, see.”

Tony takes the kid’s fingers into his own, squeezes them tightly, toconvince the kid that he’s intact, that they are flesh and blood and not dustand no, not going there now.

Then, suddenly, Bruce is standing over him, pulling molten pieces of metalfrom his arm.

“Whatcha doin’?” Tony glares, because Peter is the injured one, the one thatneeds to be taken care of, “Look at the boy first, he’s hit his head.”

“Already done,” Bruce reassures.

And it’s true, Tony must have lost time again, because when he shifts toglance at Peter, his head is covered in white bandages. He smiles at Tonyhazily, his pupils wide and unequal, the kind of smile that comes after a doseof painkillers on the heavier side. Tony is a bit jealous, because fuck, hisshoulder is more than just stinging now.

“What happened here?” Bruce asks in a calm voice, examining Tony withadmiringly steady fingers.

He rides out a wave of nausea when the doctor prods at the injured joint andhe can feel something shift below the skin.

“It’s…” He searches for an expression that adequately describes thesensation of fire and pain raging in there “…wrong.”

“That’s the most creative euphemism for broken that I’ve heard in awhile now.” Bruce replies drily. “Keep still for now, Pepper’s coming with themedics, they are getting a gurney.”

“I can walk,” Tony says for the sake of it, but he doesn’t even attempt tomove.

His gaze returns to Peter, and yes, the boy is staring upwards again, eyesfixed somewhere on a star Tony can’t see, doesn’t want to see, and for a momenthe’s irrationally afraid that someone’s just going to reach down and pull thekid up and away. He resists the urge to rub his hands clean on his armour, becausethey are not coated in dust, no, they just aren’t.

“Hey kid,” he says, and there must have been something in his voice, becausePeter turns towards him instantly, and even through the drug-concussion-haze inhis eyes Tony can see Titan clearly written all over his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, and Tony’s throat goes so tight that hecan’t even tell him to shut up. Instead he just sits there, silently, thinkingabout all the cracked and damaged people on this planet, wondering how they areever going to be strong enough to piece each other back together.

When the tranquillizers kick in and Peter starts listing to the side, Tonyputs his good arm around him and pulls him close, just to keep the boy upright,to make him feel safe, not at all because the touch helps to ground his fragilesenses in reality. He can hear the kid’s breathing, loud and clear and alive,and he focuses on that, because it is all that counts now.

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