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On his first patrol since the defeat of Thanos six weeks ago, Peter sustains multiple injuries.
Tony distinctly remembers the time the kid punctured a lung after toppling from a rooftop and into a dumpster after his webbing ran out. Then there was the time that a would-be bank robber got lucky and managed to stab Peter through the thigh, leaving a six-inch blade sticking out of him like a cocktail stick.
Yeah, that had been a fun night.
He’d been pretty beaten up during the final battle too. Not that Tony saw much of him in the aftermath, what with being all kinds of wrecked and ruined himself. Still, a fleeting and blurry glimpse of Peter’s battered and bloody face had been enough to tell Ton that the kid wasn’t in great shape.
Peter had come to visit him two days later, gazing forlornly at the empty space where Tony’s right arm used to be and holding himself shyly, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Tony, dozy and full of the seriously good stuff, had blinked sleepily at him, unable to touch him on account of his remaining arm being wrapped around a sleeping Morgan, and tried to offer slurred reassurances which only seemed to make the kid tuck further in on himself.
In the hazy fog of his early recovery, Tony couldn’t dwell on it too much. It took two weeks before he was able to stay awake for more than three hours at a time, let alone retain the seemingly endless list of things that people told him. He remembers asking for the kid a few times and being told that he was back in Queens with May. Chalking the lack of visits up to the kid adjusting to life, Tony had let it go, hopeful and confident that Peter would come to him when he was ready.
He designed and built a replacement arm during the third week after busting out of the medbay with Nebula’s help. By the fourth week, he was fully back on his feet and eager to get started on living the life he had dreamt of for five years; one where they were all together, one where the pictures on the shelves in the cabin weren’t a turbulent reminder of all that had been, of all that could have been.
One where Peter was alive.
So it was concerning when each call he made to Peter went unanswered, when each text message was responded to with lame excuses. It became upsetting when all his requests for the kid to come and visit were ignored.
And now?
It was downright hurtful.
Because Peter was hurt and Tony hadn’t been the first to know about it.
Three cracked ribs, a broken wrist and a heavy blow to the head, along with multiple cuts and bruises.
Not so bad as Spider-Man injuries go.
So why is he driving like an absolute maniac towards the tower (a hastily repurchased tower to stand in place of the decimated compound) with a roiling churn of something bitter and painful in his stomach.
Because before, Peter would always call him. Always.
This time though…
The kid called Happy instead.
Tony arrives in a squeal of breaks and wastes no time in racing to the medical wing of the tower, only pausing when he encounters Happy emerging from one of the rooms.
''Easy, boss,'' Happy says, putting out a hand to halt Tony. ''He’s on the heavy stuff so he’s, ah…'' a fond smile crosses Happy’s face and Tony feels an irrational hot burst of anger at the sight, ''he’s a bit loopy.''
''Yeah, I know what the kid gets like when he’s on painkillers,'' Tony snaps and Happy flinches, a shadow of hurt appearing on his face that immediately fills Tony with regret. ''Sorry, sorry.''
Happy, decent and loyal Happy, claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a nod before stepping aside. Tony wastes no time in opening the door and hurrying into the room. He rapidly takes in the sterile whiteness, the beeping of a heart monitor and the nose-wrinkling scent of hospital before his eyes land on Peter.
The kid is propped up in the bed, looking all kinds of terrible. His arm is in a cast and there’s a large gash across his left cheek. He’s holding himself a little stiffly, back arched up slightly to ease the tension on his ribs which suggests that the meds aren’t quite doing the trick, and there’s a glazed look to his eyes. However, the doziness is quickly replaced with wide-eyed surprise when the kid catches sight of Tony standing in the doorway.
The fact that he looks so surprised stings.
It stings a lot.
''Hey there, kiddo,'' Tony says gently, instinctively smiling at the kid, so happy to see him despite the circumstances, despite the fact that, as far as he can tell, Peter doesn’t actually want him here.
He’d called Happy, after all.
Tony sidles up to the side of the bed, ignoring the increasing tempo of the heart monitor as he does so. ''Happy tells me you took a tumble earlier. Looks like the floor got you good, huh? Tell me which street and I’ll go and kick its ass for you.''
The attempt at levity falls flat as Peter doesn’t laugh or even smile; instead he stares at Tony, reserved and timid in a way that Tony doesn’t like, at all.
''Pete?''
To his horror, Peter’s lip trembles and he turns his face away.
''Y'threw my kitty pants away.''
Tony blinks, utterly confused.
His lack of response seems to distress the kid more and suddenly, the room is filled with awful, heart wrenching sobs.
Tony pauses for only a moment before he reaches out, arms open to offer comfort, but jerks back as Peter flinches away. The movement jolts Peter’s broken ribs and he lets out a cry, buckling over at the waist.
''Pete, c’mon, buddy,'' Tony tries, ignoring the awful clench of rejection in his chest as best he can in favour of helping Peter. ''You’re gonna hurt yourself.''
Tony is panicking now because this doesn’t feel right. Sure, it was nothing new for Peter to cry whilst under the influence, but this was something else, this was –
Wrong.
All kinds of wrong.
Tony wants to go and shout for a doctor but his attempt to move towards the door only results in Peter crying even harder.
''Underoos,'' he murmurs, managing to get a hand into Peter’s hair which he instantly begins to trail his fingers through. Peter’s cries ease off into trembling whimpers and he turns to look at Tony, the vulnerability on his face making Tony positively ache with the need to hold him.
''Talk to me, kid. Please.''
''My kitty pants,'' Peter snivels. ''Y-you threw them a-away.''
Forcing patience to the forefront and willing it to hold steady against the rushing waters of worry and dismay coursing through him, Tony keeps his hand moving through Peter’s curls as he tries to understand.
''Kid, what the hell are kitty pants?''
Peter hiccups. ''The ones y’bought me. When you took m’suit.''
A swirl of bright pink and white kitten faces dances across Tony’s mind.
''The Hello Kitty pyjama pants?''
''Mm,'' Peter nods, lips pressing together as he fights to keep himself from unraveling.
''I didn’t throw them away,'' Tony tells him, moving his thumb to rub across Peter’s forehead. ''Everything got destroyed when…well, you know.''
''S’actly,'' Peter weeps, lifting a trembling hand to rub sluggishly at the escaping tears. ''Y’left all my stuff there when I was g-gone and May put all my things in storage and I can’t find m’favourite hoodie and all my Lego models got b-broken up and you didn’t keep my kitty pants and – ''
The heart monitor is beeping in overdrive and Peter’s breath is hitching in a way that makes Tony’s heart crack, because he just sounds so young, so vulnerable. Suddenly, the world of superheroes and epic battles on fiery ground seems so far away as he gazes at Peter, at the child that he really is.
Long gone is the mentor with a begrudging fondness for a kid who needs a bit of guidance. In his place is a father who just wants to make it all better.
''I’m sorry, Pete. I didn’t realise they were so important to you.''
''S’the first thing you ever got me that wasn’t Spider-Man stuff,'' Peter explains wetly, ''was jus’ for me.''
''Just for you?''
''Yeah. Peter. Not Spider-Man.''
Trust this kid to view a present bought in a momentary fit of harsh scolding as something wonderful, something worth treasuring. Tony had gifted him plenty of other things since then and each one had been met with quiet reverence and blushing joy. He had no idea that the cheap pyjama pants that the kid wore when he had stayed over sometimes meant so much.
''S’all gone,'' Peter whispers forlornly through his tears, looking away from Tony to stare at the blanket covering him. ''Ev’ryone moved on wit’out me.''
No.
No no no.
That’s not right.
''Oh, kid. We didn’t move on. It was just…'' Tony frowns as the needle on the turntable of his thoughts lodges on fix it fix it fix it . ''It was just what we had to do. We had to keep going.''
''Forgot me.''
''Never,'' Tony’s voice comes out firm and harsh, desperate in his desire to be believed. ''Not once.''
''May has Happy now,'' Peter laments, his body trembling so badly that he has to brace a hand against his undoubtedly aching ribs, ''and y’have Pepper an’…and Morgan…''
A nauseating kind of heat flares up in Tony’s chest, a gnawing pressure that presses heavily on his lungs.
''Nobody needs me.''
''Pete - ''
''I don’t have a place 'nymore.''
Tony’s heart shatters.
He can practically feel the buzz of anxiety coming off of Peter’s damp skin, can see the hurt and loneliness as if it were physically woven in to Peter’s body; a jagged, ugly pattern that is suddenly so stark and obvious that Tony can’t believe he hasn’t noticed it until now.
He should have known that something like this would happen. How could it not?
Dying was one thing. But coming back to life five years later to find that the world has carried on turning? That was something else.
Tony should have known.
Peter sniffs and lets out a ragged gasp, a mess of wrought nerves and a battered spirit that has gone so long without the love that he left behind.
''Kid,'' Tony tells him gently, ''your place in the world is still right here.''
''Where’s here?'' Peter asks brokenly.
Tony reaches out to tuck his fingers under Peter’s chin, gently tilting it so he can look into the kid’s tearful eyes.
''Right here. With all of us. With May,'' Tony swallows as a heavy shudder ripples up into his chest and catches hold of his voice, ''with me.''
Peter’s face crumples and he only has to lift his arms a little for Tony to know what he needs. He immediately scoops the kid up, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed and pulling Peter as far forward as he can without hurting the kid’s ribs, one hand quickly sliding up to cup the back of Peter’s warm neck and holding on tight as harsh sobs are pressed into his shoulder.
''I know…I know it must hurt, Underoos,'' Tony whispers against Peter’s temple, lips brushing against the hot skin there. ''But you gotta believe me when I tell you how much we missed you, how much I missed you.''
God help him, how the hell can he convey the full magnitude of what he felt in words? The weighted agony in those five years, how even after the birth of Morgan it still dragged against him like iron chains, a strange sort of taunting darkness on the edge of his mind that he surely would have given into if it weren’t for Pepper and Morgan.
How can he explain the fathomless chasm of grief that never seemed to fully close? The bitter, cloying sorrow that would bring tears to his eyes at random moments, drown him in memories and break off pieces of his heart with a ruthless kind of digging that seemed to go on and on forever – how could he ever find a way to help Peter understand that he was never simply dead to Tony , but stolen, snatched away mercilessly without the chance of a goodbye, with so much left unsaid between them?
''Is…'' Tony tries to clear the thickness from his throat, ''is this why you’ve been avoiding me? Why you called Happy instead?''
Peter nods against his chest. ''Didn’t wanna ‘trude.''
''Intru – Peter,'' Tony leans back to hold Peter’s face in his hands. The kid stares up at Tony with such sadness in his eyes that Tony has to grit his teeth to hold back his own tears. ''You’re family. You hear me? I love you like my own, as much as Morgan, no question about it.''
Peter sucks in his lower lip as it wobbles and fresh tears fill his eyes.
''But my pants…''
Tony closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Peter’s in an old and familiar move, not only to provide some form of comfort for himself and the kid, but to also hide the smile that’s suddenly threatening to break out on his face. It’s a sad, watery one but it comes with a tiny glimmer of hope, of the joy that only Peter Parker can bring, because this is fixable, Tony can fix this.
He knows he can’t chalk all of this up to the influence of the painkillers, that at some point he and Peter will have to talk properly, but for now, he’s got something to work with.
He can make it better.
''Scoot over, bud,'' he instructs softly, hooking his prosthetic arm around Peter’s back to help him shuffle over without hurting his ribs. Peter watches Tony as he hops up onto the bed and barely waits for Tony to lift his arm invitingly before cuddling up close, leaning his weight back against Tony’s shoulder and tucking his face into Tony’s neck.
Tony takes a few seconds to savour the moment, to revel in the opportunity to hold his kid close for the first time in weeks. Peter, despite his distress, seems to feel the same way and mumbles a tearful ''missed you'' into Tony’s skin, finally drawing tears from the older man that he allows to fall freely.
''You too, Pete,'' he breathes into Peter’s curls, eyes closing tight against the weight of all that he feels. He lingers there for a little while, listening to Peter’s shuddery breathing and the steady pace of the heart monitor before reaching into his pocket for his phone.
He taps a few buttons and brings it to his ear. It rings twice before a voice answers. ''Hap? You still here? Good - Yeah, there’s a little bodega downtown, the one with that stupid oversized pretzel outside it? Yup. Head down there now for me, there’s something I need you to pick up…''
Happy arrives forty minutes later with a small carrier bag. Tony, still stretched out on the bed with a sleepy and freshly dosed up Peter curled against his chest, accepts the bag with a grateful smile, chuckling as Peter waves sluggishly at Happy when he leaves the room.
''Hey, Underoos,'' Tony gently taps the kid on the arm, ''look what I’ve got here.''
Peter lifts his head curiously as Tony eases something out of the bag: something pink with white cartoon faces all over it.
''M’kitty pants!'' Peter gasps, reaching out to take them from Tony with his good hand. He gazes at them with such joy, eyes shining and lips parted in happy surprise. He strokes a few of the Hello Kitty faces before clutching the pants close to his chest, only barely wincing from the impact against his ribs. He turns his head to look at Tony who is staring down at him with undeniable adoration, the kind of love only a father can have for his son.
''You really do love me,'' Peter whispers in awe, smile as wide as Tony’s ever seen it.
''Yeah, kiddo,'' Tony agrees, pulling him close again, ''I really, really do.''
It's a patch job, a hastily taped together kind of repair that can only hold for so long, but for now, in their little bubble of drowsy chatter and lulling hugs and pink pyjama pants covered in cartoon kittens, it's enough.
In the morning, the sun will rise and Tony will fix everything.
Just like he always does.