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“Shit.”
Peter glances up from his math homework at the muttered expletive. He is more than glad to have a distraction; the numbers and letters had started blurring together a few minutes ago, and the more Peter had tried to focus, the less the dark lines of printed ink on the page made sense. Clearly, it was time for a break.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Peter blinks slowly. His brain is still occupied, trying to understand the most recent formula he had seen, and it takes a little too long for Peter’s mind to process what his eyes were seeing.
Tony had been working on a prototype of what looked to be something dangerous, if the jagged edge was any indication. Or maybe it just wasn’t complete yet. But right now, what stage of completion the thing was in was the least of Peter’s worries.
A metallic clang shatters the silence in the room as Tony drops the tool he had been using. Stumbling a single step to the side, his hand shoots out, grabbing at the edge of the table. Tony’s hip presses against the table, his weight resting heavily against the sturdy wood, and he shakes his head once, like he’s dazed. “OW,” he growls, hissing lowly when he raises his right arm to access it, and Peter’s heart stutters because that’s blood, bright and glaring crimson, sliding down towards Tony’s elbow.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter yelps, rushing to Tony’s side.
“Oops,” Tony deadpans, blinking sluggishly at his arm.
Worried, Peter grabs Tony’s injured arm by the wrist, lowering it to a more horizontal position to examine the gash on Tony’s forearm. Thankfully, it’s not too deep and not on the softer underside of his arm, so it’s nowhere near his major blood vessels. However, it’s still an impressive three inches in length, blood oozing slowly but steadily.
Considerably unconcerned, Tony reaches for his mug, moving much faster than Peter expected from someone who had just cut himself open. He goes to take a gulp of coffee, but the mug is empty. Tony growls, the sound more desperate than angry. Peter snatches the mug and sets it out of Tony’s reach on the table, before Tony could chuck it at a wall in frustration.
“No more coffee,” Peter says firmly.
“Need coffee,” Tony mumbles, “I need—” His eyes cloud, unfocused, and he shakes his head again.
Peter’s eyes narrow as he puts everything together. Tony somehow injuring himself, even though he had hands steadier than a surgeon. Tony still leaning against the table, like his legs couldn’t support all of his weight anymore. Tony gulping down more coffee than usual, at an even more alarming speed. Tony shaking his head, as if he was trying to stay conscious. “Mr. Stark...”
“What’s up, kid?”
“When was the last time you slept?”
Tony hums, quite obviously stalling for time, before his eyes widen. “FRIDAY, don’t—!”
“Two days ago,” FRIDAY supplies, somehow sounding disapproving.
“Busted,” Tony mutters. He doesn’t protest when Peter drags him over to the sink, grunting lowly when the antiseptic runs over his wound.
“48 hours without sleep?” Peter exclaims quietly, reminding Tony of Pepper.
“Might I add,” FRIDAY says, “Boss hasn’t slept in over 90 hours.”
Peter frowns at the information. “I thought you said he slept two days ago?”
“For three hours,” Tony admits quietly. His grave was already dug, he might as well be the one to put in the last nail.
“You slept three hours in four days?!” Peter all but shouts, eyes wide.
Tony winces as Peter tugs a loop of bandage a little too tight, and Peter gasps a quick Sorry before carefully loosening the bandage. By the time Peter has painstakingly wrapped three layers over Tony’s wound and tied it securely in place, Tony is struggling to keep his eyes open.
Peter watches as Tony's eyes constantly flutter shut, the time it takes for Tony to wrench them open again lengthening each time. The prominent bags under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises, and even when his eyes are open, they aren't focused on anything.
“Okay Mr. Stark, let's go.”
Tony blinks in Peter's direction, eyes inky pools of hazy exhaustion. “No, I don't…”
“You need sleep, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, voice low and coaxing. Tony looks lost, dark brown eyes wide and sleepily confused.
It takes an impressive amount of soft pleading on Peter's part to get Tony to even agree to follow him. Somehow, even though Tony was pretty much asleep on his feet, he was stubborn enough to insist on walking by himself, swaying and leaning onto the walls for support. Peter hovers anxiously, afraid Tony would trip or bump into something. Once Peter manages to get Tony into the hallway that leads to his bedroom, all the fight leaves Tony and he seems to settle into habit, stumbling straight to his room and mechanically sliding into bed.
“Stay safe,” Tony quietly orders, waiting until he sees Peter nod in confirmation. It takes another reassuring nod and a tentative smile from Peter before Tony is satisfied; he leans back against the pillows, and falls asleep the second his eyes close.
Relieved, Peter perches lightly on the edge of Tony’s bed, unable to resist smoothing out a few wrinkles on Tony’s comforter. Chewing on his lip, he mentally debates whether or not he should tell FRIDAY to black out the windows. Filled with nervous energy, Peter fluffs and rearranges a few of Tony’s pillows, tucking the comforter more securely around the billionaire’s shoulders.
Peter decides to leave the afternoon sunshine warming the room; Tony is asleep facing the door with his back to the windows, and doesn’t seem bothered by the sunlight.
***
Slightly breathless, Peter lands on the abandoned roof of a short building in a crouch, twisting to watch as a small dark figure follows silently. Peter laughs, soft and delighted. He had accidentally stumbled upon it bravely fighting a large raven in an alley (the bird had been losing, badly); Peter wasn’t supposed to be outside patrolling — what Tony didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him — but it was a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Staying inside the tower was great, but Peter had quickly gotten bored without Tony and after a few hours, he’d given in to the temptation of swinging around Manhattan. He’d promised Tony, so Peter stayed near the shadows and tops of buildings, out of sight. Spiderman is a neighbourhood spider of Queens, anyway.
Peter sits back on his heels, watching as the feline approaches. It was too large to be a kitten, but still too small to be an adult — Peter supposed it was a teenager, like he was, and maybe that was why they got along so well.
“Hello,” Peter coos, “You followed me?” He had paused in the — scaring the raven into flight — to pet the brave cat on his way back to the tower, and it had started to trail after Peter, somehow following him along the rooftops. From the clean, fluffy black fur and trusting demeanor, the cat might have been recently abandoned.
It rubs against Peter’s legs, purring quietly. Peter loved the cat’s eyes — they were a bright, golden amber, almost like a fire was trapped in the cat’s irises, until Peter had realized that the colour reminded him of the gleaming gold on Tony’s suit. He had laughed out loud at the absurdly accurate resemblance, momentarily startling the cat at the sudden sound.
The cat seemed to be determined to follow Peter, so he scoops it up and settles it against his chest as he swings the rest of the way back to the tower with one arm. When he tries, multiple times, to leave it on a rooftop, it simply jumps back into his arms. Peter decides to bring it back with him, figuring that Tony would decide what to do when he woke up.
FRIDAY helpfully opens a window of the tower for Peter and he swings through the space that thick glass had vacated, tucking himself into a calculated roll to distribute the impact of landing. He sits on the floor, pulling off his mask, and carefully checks the cat for any wounds. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you,” Peter hums, “Fighting that big raven all by yourself?” The cat bats playfully at the red fabric of Peter’s mask. “Hey FRIDAY, can you scan this cat for me?”
“Certainly,” FRIDAY responds. “He seems to be perfectly healthy. There are no signs of fleas, ticks, or illness. No microchip detected.”
“Huh.”
***
Peter strolls leisurely down the hall toward his bedroom, spine straight and shoulders back, steps small and smooth. Like he was gliding forward, elegant and controlled. He feels a sudden sense of deja vu — Where have I seen this before? Who walks like this?
The cat is curled in Peter’s arms, laying still and docile, purring lightly. It doesn’t move when Peter enters his room in the tower, slapping at the spider emblem on his chest and kicking his suit off. Peter sets the cat on his bed, but it seems to have a different idea in mind; it leaps gracefully down onto the floor, heading for the door.
“Hey, no,” Peter mutters, sliding into a pair of sweatpants and scooping up the cat before it escapes.
This time, the cat lets out a soft warning hiss, batting at Peter’s arm with a hint of gleaming claws, just enough to startle the teenager. Peter flinches, confused by the sudden aggression, and the cat takes advantage of his hesitation, jumping down to the floor once again.
“Wait, don’t,” Peter stutters, fumbling for a t shirt while trying to keep his eyes trained on the cat. He pulls the fabric over his head, blowing a wayward strand of his curls out of his eyes, and stumbles into the hallway, watching in horror as the end of a black tail disappears into Tony’s room. Internally screaming, Peter silently slips into Tony’s room, hunched over as he attempts to catch the sly feline.
With a soft meow that sounded almost smug, the cat crouches low, muscles bunching, and leaps onto Tony's bed with fluid grace. Peter freezes, one foot in front of the other, eyes wide as saucers, mouth open.
That's it, I'm dead.
Tony is still deeply asleep, sprawled on his side in the middle of his large bed, injured right arm carefully cradled close to his body under his comforter. His left hand is curled into the pillow under his head, fingers clutching at the fabric. The delicate, pale skin of the underside of Tony's left arm is exposed, uncovered by the comforter, the arm bent close to the pillow. Suddenly, Peter is hit with the answer to his earlier question.
Tony is the one who walks like that.
Peter had always been in awe whenever he saw Tony: the billionaire's movements were always graceful, backed with an obvious awareness of his limbs; each step he took was light but sure, his weight shifting smoothly and beautifully with a dancer's exquisite elegance.
Wincing, Peter gasps quietly as the cat licks Tony's cheek affectionately with a rough tongue. Tony's face scrunches up, a hint of dark eyes peering out behind thick eyelashes to drowsily access the cat, who steps primly over Tony's bent left arm to settle itself comfortably on the strong forearm. Muscles tensing as if he was bracing for a fight, Peter holds his breath, waiting for Tony's reaction.
Tony only exhales a low, sleepy moan, eyes slipping shut again, fingers flexing restlessly against his pillow before he makes a noticeable effort to relax his hand (Peter doesn’t know that Tony had almost called one of his suits in a moment of irrational panic — Tony was a little too used to being jerked out of his rare occasions of slumber with an emergency or imminent danger). Slowly, languidly, Tony shifts, tugging his splayed limbs closer to himself, lean body curling up like a cat. He pushes his face into his pillow, nose lightly brushing the soft black fur of the cat, who sounds like a small engine as it purrs proudly and happily.
Stunned, Peter stays hunched in the position he had frozen in earlier, blinking multiple times as if the scene in front of him would change if he blinked enough.
The cat nuzzles at Tony’s face, small nose and thin whiskers brushing against the billionaire’s skin, before a pink tongue darts out to lick the very tip of Tony’s nose. A light frown dances briefly, like lightning, across Tony’s face, and he makes a noise like a soft whine in the back of his throat. Somehow, the cat looks pleased with itself as it settles comfortably and closes its eyes, tail flipping through the air once before it lies still against Tony’s arm.
“What the,” Peter breathes on a sigh, voice alight with awe and disbelief.
“Hmm?” Tony hums, and Peter watches as the billionaire frowns, struggling to pry his eyes open. Eventually, the wondrously thick lashes flutter open, and Tony’s half-lidded lethargic eyes focus on Peter.
What’s wrong?
“No, nono, don’t worry Mr. Stark, everything's fine, I’m sorry I woke you up,” Peter rushes to say, mouth tripping over the words.
Tony squints, obviously not convinced.
“Uhm, I… I just… wanted to check—!” Peter stammers. “Your cut.” He nods, a nervous jerk of his head. Peter knows his hastily cobbled together excuse would be torn apart by Tony’s genius brain, if the billionaire had been fully awake. Right now, Tony is far from awake, and Peter prays that his sleep slowed brain would not notice that it was a shoddy attempt.
Tony only squints even harder, intelligent brown eyes sharp, and Peter feels like a child that is seconds away from being exposed for telling an unbelievable lie. Just as Peter is about to fidget and undoubtedly seal his fate as guilty, Tony relaxes, eyes softening.
Cautiously, Peter approaches the bed. Tony blinks slowly, watching the teenager with glittering round brown eyes, his gaze both innocently trusting and predatory calculation at the same time. The billionaire doesn't make an effort to help, so Peter hesitantly peels back the comforter himself, peering at Tony's bandaged arm. He valiantly avoids meeting Tony's eyes — Peter can feel the billionaire's wary gaze burning holes in him — and focuses his attention on the bandages. Eyes fixed on the pristine white fabric, Peter unconsciously presses closer for a better view, one knee resting up on the mattress, body hunched over Tony's. Peter’s pleased that there is no crimson staining the bandages, and pokes carefully around the wound, fingers gentle and ears straining for any possible indication of pain from Tony.
When Peter finally musters the courage to glance in Tony's direction, he's met with laughing brown eyes that shine up at him with obvious amusement and fondness. A corner of Tony's lips tilt upward in a brief smirk, maintaining eye contact until he deliberately allows his eyes to fall shut. Peter notices that Tony's left hand slowly closes in a fist, fingers squeezing tightly together and then reluctantly unfurling.
Trust is a delicate thing, fragile like glass, more precious than diamonds, much like a heart. Peter knows that Tony has unconditionally offered his heart to many people in his life, and has only had it thrown at his feet, shattered and damaged. He knows Tony takes the pieces and puts them back together, attempts to fix it because he's a mechanic and that's what he does, that's what he knows and understands. Peter knows that Tony protects his cracked and fragile heart in a thick cage of armour, polished until it shines with unwavering confidence, much like how Tony does with his own self. And even though he is undoubtedly going to be hurt, Tony dons his armour and makes himself the front line in wars he has no reason to be fighting in. The world may call Iron Man a hero, but Peter is truly glad to have the honour of calling Tony Stark one.
Peter leans back, gazing down at Tony, who lays curled on his side, eyes closed. It's the most blatant show of vulnerability and trust; Tony Stark is not one to be willingly sleeping in front of anyone, unless it's Pepper. Feeling a sudden urge to cry, Peter reaches down and tugs the comforter back into place.
“Thank you,” Peter whispers. His voice is thick with emotion, and he doesn't specify what he's talking about. He doesn't specify, because there are too many things he wants to thank Tony for.
Tony slowly exhales a long breath, like he'd been holding it for a while.
And if Peter later ends up asleep next to Tony, curled up in one of Tony's favourite old MIT sweaters, he doesn't comment. FRIDAY, as tuned to Tony's desires as ever, saves multiple photos to the billionaire's heavily protected private server.