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Tony scrubs a hand down his face, squeezing his bleary eyes shut. He had an idea he deemed worthy of exploration earlier that night, and had sent Peter to bed before locking himself in his lab, fiddling with blueprints that floated in front of him with a cold blue glow. It was likely early in the morning of the next day, from what Tony’s tired eyes that refused to focus told him.
“Save,” Tony mutters with a sigh, swiping an arm through the air to remove the holograms.
He doesn’t want to sleep, but he knows he cannot continue working in his state.
So Tony finds himself stepping into the elevator, allowing FRIDAY to take time to the main floor of the tower. Tony can’t even bring himself to thank FRIDAY when the AI helpfully leaves all the lights in the tower off, somehow knowing that the darkness was exactly what Tony needed. He plods slowly towards the large balcony, the soft glow of the moon reflecting in his exhausted eyes.
Outside, the wind is unrelenting and frigid, made worse by the early hour and the height of the tower. Tony gazes up at the dark sky, inhales the crisp cold air, and sits down on the cold concrete, a few steps away from the door back into the tower.
Contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark is not living the dream life that media accuses him to be living. Pain follows him everywhere, like a clingy ghost — his arm constantly hurts, his chest never stops aching, and phantom pains from past injuries (broken bones, cuts, burns, terrible bruises) constantly wreak havoc on his senses, threatening to break him. He is painfully aware of his deteriorating mental health, only made worse by his constant need to blame himself for something (anything, everything), and desperate desire to protect as many people as his mortal self could. The media portrays him as a narcissistic, greedy tycoon who couldn’t care less about other people, and the government constantly harasses him with complaints followed by endless demands.
As a mechanic, Tony lives with only one thought: I can fix this. I have to.
Tony Stark lives trying to fix the planet’s problems, not even sparing a glance at his own, but no one bothers to acknowledge his efforts.
Leaning back against the wall, Tony reaches up with fingers that are stiff and slightly frozen, fumbling for a few seconds before twisting and pulling the glowing arc reactor out of his chest. The strong blue light dims, fading, the warm metal rapidly cooling in the air.
How ironic. The great Tony Stark, kept alive by something like this.
Some days, Tony takes the arc reactor out of his chest and holds it in his hands, wondering if it’ll be worth it to put it back in.
He wonders what the world would be like if he wasn’t a part of it.
He wonders how many people would miss Tony Stark instead of Iron Man.
He wonders how many people would miss Tony, and not the Stark name.
He wonders if he’s wasting his life, constantly coming home with a new, fresh wound on his battered body.
He wonders and wonders, even as he feels his heart struggling weakly in his chest and his breaths shortening, his body shutting down without the arc reactor sitting in his chest.
A particularly strong gust of cold wind strikes him in the face, almost on cue, and Tony shakes his head, shoving his thoughts into a locked box at the back of his mind. Hand shaking, he pushes the only thing keeping him alive back into his chest, just as the door opens.
“Kid! What’re you doing up?” Tony asks, hastily twisting the arc reactor into place with a quiet click and gasping softly as his body readjusts.
Peter looks down at the floor, shivering lightly in the wind.
Tony shoves a hand through his short hair, softening his voice. “Nightmare?”
Peter doesn’t respond; Tony reaches up, grasps his thin wrist, and gently tugs until Peter is falling into his lap. “Can you tell me what it was about?”
“You…” Peter mumbles, so quietly that Tony only barely catches it over the sound of the howling wind.
“What happened to me?”
“...Died.” Peter doesn’t even dare to utter the word, just shapes his mouth to form it, and Tony thinks that that’s the smallest he’s ever seen Peter look.
“Look, I’m still here kiddo, still alive and kicking,” Tony murmurs, pulling Peter close to his chest.
Trembling, Peter curls into Tony’s embrace, crying silently into Tony’s shoulder. His tears are warm, seeping through the thin fabric of Tony’s shirt. “Don’t leave me,” Peter whimpers, words muffled and voice weak.
“Not going anywhere, kid. You’re stuck with me,” Tony injects some false cheer into his voice, and is greatly relieved when Peter sniffs a wet laugh. Right there and then, Tony vows that he’ll never take the arc reactor out of his chest just to hold it in his hands again.
They sit in silence for ten more seconds before Tony begins worrying about Peter, wiping at the wet tracks on his cheeks. “Kid, let’s go inside, yeah?”
Peter is shaking, teeth audibly chattering, his short time outdoors in the cold affecting him much more than it was affecting Tony.
“Why are you so cold,” Tony mumbles to himself, carefully trying to rub some warmth back into Peter’s trembling limbs.
“Sp-spiders don’ th-ther-thermoregulate,” Peter manages to utter.
“Huh,” Tony blinks slowly, exhausted brain diligently trying to process how the information was relevant to their current situation, before his eyes widen almost comically. “Shit!”
Peter chokes out a cut off laugh.
“Why didn’t you say so earlier,” Tony panics, pulling Peter to his feet and pushing him back into the heated tower. “Stay here,” he orders sternly before running off, returning with a thick, soft blanket.
Tony drapes the blanket over Peter’s shoulders like a cape, anxiously watching as Peter weakly pulls it closer to himself. Impatient, Tony huffs a worried sigh, squeezing Peter in a bear hug.
Peter welcomes Tony’s warmth, pressing his nose to the billionaire’s neck and exhaling a soft amused sound when Tony jolts at the cold.
“It’s time for Spider-babies to go to bed,” Tony says, tone gently teasing.
“‘m not tired,” Peter mutters into Tony’s neck.
“Uh, doesn’t look that way to me.”
Peter shakes his head, tightening his arms around Tony’s waist.
“...What if I said I was tired,” Tony sighs, knowing his strength was not enough to physically fight Peter’s super strength. The steel grip around his waist immediately loosens, Peter pulling back to peer at him with wide worried eyes. “Haven’t slept in a while,” Tony admits.
This nearly gets Peter crying again, his brown eyes going glossy and so so sad.
“Let’s go to bed, okay?”
“...Okay.”
Peter curls his fists into the blanket around his shoulders, missing Tony’s warmth as they get into the elevator. None of them say anything, but FRIDAY knows exactly where to take them, the elevator silently going to the floor they need.
When they exit the elevator, Tony strides confidently to his bedroom further down the hall, and Peter silently slips into his own. Standing just inside the room, Peter stares at his bed, the blankets a mess from him hastily kicking them aside earlier in his haste to reach Tony. Slowly, he moves to sit at the end of the bed, curling in on himself and pulling the blanket close to trap some heat. He sits silently for about 15 minutes, staring blankly at the wall, unwilling to close his eyes for longer than a blink.
“Pete,” Tony’s voice echoes down the hall.
Peter scrambles to the door, sticking his head out into the hall. “Mr. Stark?”
“What’re you doing over there?”
“...Going to bed…?"
Tony laughs, a short but clear sound that warms Peter’s insides. “Get over here, Underoos.”
Confused, Peter trots down the hall to Tony’s room, the door of the room graciously open. He cautiously pushes the door open wider, silently entering, and finds a freshly showered Tony sliding his arms into a black tank top. Peter blinks, frozen in place, instinctively dragging his eyes downward and noticing that instead of dress pants, a pair of sweatpants sits low on Tony’s trim hips.
Tony pulls the tank top into place, but not before Peter catches a glimpse of his back, several scars marring the otherwise smooth skin on either side of the dip of his spine. The billionaire is bound to have scars from injuries because he’s human and not specially enhanced in any way, but Peter still feels a rush of sorrow. He finds himself wishing, just like whenever he catches sight of a scar on Tony’s arms, that the Iron Man suit would guard Tony from all injuries.
Shaking his head slightly at his thoughts, Peter raises his head again, and realizes that Tony had been observing him with mild curiosity, arms crossed.
“Done staring at me?” Tony asks, smirking.
Peter flushes, ducking his head and averting his eyes. “I-I wasn’t—”
Tony leaves Peter to flounder and stutter for a few seconds, greatly amused, before taking pity on the poor teenager and rescuing him from having to answer. “Close the door,” he gently commands, and Peter instantly complies, grateful for the change of topic.
Peter stands nervously at the door as Tony climbs into his bed, laying down and wiggling a little to make himself comfortable.
Raising his head off the pillows, Tony lifts an eyebrow at Peter, who blinks slowly in return, confused. Tony pointedly pats the space beside him on the bed, letting his head drop back down.
Lighting up, Peter approaches the bed, kicking his shoes off beside Tony’s and gingerly sliding under the covers, trying to not to disturb Tony. He takes the blanket, warm from his body heat, from around his shoulders and drapes it over both himself and Tony, under the cold covers already on Tony’s bed.
Tony hums in appreciation, eyes closed. Lazily, he raises the arm closest to Peter, waving it in a Come here motion. Even without looking, Tony can feel Peter’s brain working overtime, cycling through confusion, realization, surprise, and hesitation.
“Hurry up, my arm’s getting tired,” Tony complains, waving his hand once more to emphasize his words.
Obedient, Peter scrambles closer to Tony, jumping a little in surprise when the billionaire wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Moving along with Tony’s gentle but insistent prodding, Peter presses himself to Tony’s side.
“Lights,” Tony says to no one in particular, and the lights in the room gradually fade to darkness.
Tony slides his hand into Peter’s hair, maneuvering the teenager’s head onto his chest. Peter holds himself as still as possible, muscles tense, barely breathing, and Tony opens his eyes briefly for the sole purpose of rolling them. The billionaire exhales an exasperated sound, just a little bit frustrated, and feels Peter flinch, holding his breath.
“Breathe.” Tony taps Peter’s back with his fingers as a reminder, and Peter immediately inhales sharply. “Geez. Relax, kid,” Tony mutters, massaging the base of Peter’s neck.
Slowly, Peter’s locked muscles release their tension as he drifts closer to sleep. The teenager unconsciously releases a blissful hum when Tony switches from massaging to lightly dragging his blunt fingernails through the short hair at Peter’s neck.
Tony chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest under Peter’s ear, Peter smiling sleepily in the dark.
Warm and so relaxed he felt like he’d melted, Peter falls asleep to a gentle blue light, the steady beat of Tony’s heart in his ear, and Tony’s fingers in his hair.
Together, they sleep soundly through to the afternoon, thanks to blackout tinted windows and FRIDAY preventing anyone from bothering them.
***
Tony wakes up before Peter does but doesn’t move, letting himself doze lightly, a few steps away from fully conscious.
Peter waking up is a flurry of activity, much like his normal wide awake self. “Oh my god I have school,” he panics, sitting up. “Oh my god I’m in Mr. Stark’s room. Please don’t be awake,” Peter whispers, his half awake self evidently not having a mind to mouth filter.
“It’s Saturday, no school,” Tony mutters, mentally telling off his brain for thinking that it missed having Peter melted into his side.
“Oh my god you were awake,” Peter groans, burying his head in his hands.
“Not really, I was mostly asleep.”
“Not asleep enough,” Peter whines.
Tony drags himself upright, the vestiges of sleep still clinging to him as he rubs the back of his neck. “Morn, FRI,” he says through a yawn.
The inky black gradually bleeds out of the windows, glass restoring to its usual transparency. Tony throws a hand up to block the bright afternoon sunshine from blinding him — his eyes were used to the darkness and needed time to adjust. Peter squeaks at the sudden brightness, blinking rapidly.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” FRIDAY drones with its usual sterile voice, but Tony swears the AI is purposefully being snarky.
Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Tony just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, settling for a brief scowl. “Okay, kid, now that we’re awake, it’s time to eat and then tinker.”
Peter leaps out of Tony’s bed so enthusiastically, he promptly trips on his own shoes on the floor. Unaffected whatsoever by his fall, he pops back up, shoving his feet into his shoes and running to the bedroom door. “Hurry up, Mr. Stark,” Peter urges, bouncing in his excitement.
Tony deliberately gets out of bed in slow motion, just to see Peter frown and huff in frustration. Smiling, he puts his own shoes on, glad to see the joyous sparkle glittering in Peter’s eyes. “Okay, let’s go.”