Work Text:
“Get it-get it off me,” Peter gasps. “Get it–”
“I’ve got it,” Tony soothes. “Take a breath, kid. There you go.”
He brushes Peter’s shaking hands away from the buttons of his shirt, undoing them as fast as he can. The smell is starting to get to Tony, too, the look of it. His stomach churns as he forces the plaid material over Peter’s shoulders, unceremoniously tugging it down his arms. It lands with a wet smack on the expensive bathroom tile that makes Peter visibly swallow back bile.
Peter undoes his jeans, practically falling over in his haste to shed the stiff fabric.
“Tony,” he whines when the material sticks to his legs.
“Easy,” Tony warns, putting a bracing hand on Peter’s waist. When he’s sure the kid isn’t going to trip, he crouches down and finishes pulling Peter’s jeans off his ankles, one at a time like a toddler still learning to dress themselves.
The kid’s t-shirt comes last, less stained than the rest. Tony works it up over Peter’s head, threading his limp arms through. It makes his hair stick up in spikes, leaves the kid standing, trembling and in shock in just his boxers.
Tony turns on the shower, making the water almost too hot for Tony’s liking, but just how Peter prefers it. Peter stumbles into the spray, scrubs furiously at his hands and arms.
The water turns pink as it runs into the drain.
Peter lets out a strangled sound and nearly collapses. Tony lunges forward, soaking half his shirt as he catches Peter under the arms, lowers him slowly to the floor of the tub. Peter lifts his knees to his chest and sits under the spray of water.
“I’ve got you,” Tony murmurs. “Shh, it’s alright. We’ll get you cleaned off.”
Tony grabs a washcloth from the cabinet, then seats himself on the closed toilet and squirts an indiscriminate amount of soap onto the material.
Tony starts with Peter’s hands. He takes them each in his, rubbing the course fabric over Peter’s knuckles, his palms, makes sure all the blood is gone from under his fingernails. Then he works up his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He’s getting drenched in the process, but he doesn’t care.
Tony doesn’t even know how Peter got blood on his back, but he scrubs that clean, too. Peter’s fair skin is pink from the heat of the water and from Tony’s methodical attentions.
Once Peter’s body is all clean, Tony dumps the washcloth in the trash. Then he selects his own shampoo and squeezes some out onto his palm, rubbing his hands together until it foams.
Peter’s curls are stiff with blood. Tony works his fingers through it, trying not to show how ill it makes him on his face. Peter squeezes his eyes closed, curls further in on himself as Tony tugs at knots.
Tony uses his hand to pour water over Peter’s head, rinsing out the soap, protects Peter’s eyes with the other one. Then he washes his hair again, just in case.
Finally, when there isn’t a speck of red left on Peter, Tony shuts the water off.
The silence in the bathroom is almost painful. Peter has barely moved in all the time Tony was cleaning him. He’s staring straight ahead, his face ashen.
“Peter?” Tony asks quietly. He tips Peter’s chin up with a gentle finger.
They make eye contact, and for a heartbeat, the horror that Peter witnessed today is shared between them.
And then Peter breaks.
He drops his head onto the side of the tub and sobs–whimpering, desperate sobs that make Tony’s chest ache.
Tony drops to his knees next to the bath and lowers his head until his forehead is pressed against Peter’s sopping hair, the water still dripping from his curls quickly turning cold.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Tony whispers over Peter’s hiccuping wails. He grips the back of the kid’s neck, rubs his bare arm with the other hand. “It wasn’t your fault, Peter.”
“There was s-so much blood,” Peter spits out between gasping breaths.
“I know. I know, buddy. Shh… Shh, you’re alright now.”
Tony kneels on the hard, wet floor of he bathroom and calms Peter until they’re both shivering from being cold and wet, until Peter’s breaths are less frantic. Then he hauls the kid up and guides him out of the tub, wrapping him in a huge, fluffy towel and grabbing another one as he leads him out of the bathroom.
Tony sits Peter on his own bed and gently begins rubbing at his wet hair with the spare towel. When Peter’s hair is dry, damp locks once again curling haphazardly around his ears, Tony pulls fresh clothes from his dresser.
Peter is just as limp as when Tony had undressed him, but at least he isn’t frantic and shaking as Tony pulls the shirt over his head, slipping his arms into the sleeves. Tony closes his eyes as Peter changes into a pair of dry boxers, then helps him with the loose flannel pajama pants.
Tony takes a second and changes his own clothes as fast as he can, then comes back and coaxes Peter to lie down, pulling the covers up to his chin before crawling in himself. He’s tired, and still a little ill at the memory of Peter covered head to toe in someone else’s blood.
“Tony,” Peter whispers again. He fists both hands in the front of Tony’s shirt and pulls himself closer, buries his face against Tony’s chest.
Tony sighs, wraps his arms around his kid, kisses his still damp hair. He smells like soap and Tony’s shampoo, now, rather than blood.
“Shh, buddy,” Tony whispers as he feels Peter’s eyelids flutter closed. “I’ve got you.”
They’re both going to remember this night for a long time. But at least, right now, they have each other.