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The rain slashed against the top of their tent, slashed and thundered and pit-pot-pattered.
It was raining, and he was sharing a tent with Flash Thompson.
He hadn't wanted to, of course. Flash Thompson was a bully, and Flash Thompson would probably eat him for dinner if he dared even look at him wrong. Peter had begged Mr. Harrington, please no, not him!
When that hadn't worked - Ned's stomach upset meant Peter "had to share" with the bully - Peter had begged his father, Mr. Stark. He had quite thought that would work, after all his father was scary when he wanted to be and he was joining the field trip as a parent ambassador after Peter had asked even though he would have much rather stayed at home sleeping in bed and wouldn't you, kiddo? But even Dad had said no can do, kid, everybody else is paired up and you can't stay with Dad in case the other kids see and - whispering now, a shared little joke between the two of them - if Flash knew you got to stay with Daddy maybe he'd cry for his Daddy too, hm?
Flash Thompson snorted and shivered deeper into his sleeping bag, rolling over.
Peter's mind was whirring a mile a minute, so even if he cuddled up tightly like a caterpillar in its cocoon he couldn't get comfy enough to sleep, not like Flash was sleeping. Peter was glad that Flash did not snore. He talked in his sleep sometimes, no I want the pink one, papa and mommy where are you and (once, mind you) it was, love you mommy, and he was sucking his thumb. Peter thought Daddy had, for one rare moment in his life, got it wrong - Flash wouldn't miss his daddy at all, but definitely his mommy. And Peter was glad that Flash did not snore.
It was still raining. Some of the raindrops were thick fat circles that sploshed onto the top of the tent, and some of the raindrops were thin and ran in tired little lines. Reaching a finger out of the cocoon Peter trailed the tracks the raindrops made, and fidgeted. All of this thinking about the rain seemed to go directly into the pit of his belly, all urgent tickles.
It was raining, he was sharing a tent with Flash Thompson, and now he had to pee.
Peter rolled over onto his tummy, and the tickles were a bit more muffled. He pressed his face into his pillow and mumbled. The toilet was far away, in a little concrete block, and quite smelly. Peter did not want to go out into the cold rain to pee. He was going to wait until morning.
It started to get windy. Peter had heard Daddy talking to Papa about a storm rolling in. The wind did not roll but it howled and whistled through the trees, lashing at their tent. The tent wobbled like it was a big, fat, birthday party jelly and the rain came down against the tent in slashes. The trees rustled and moaned and swayed in the wind, quiet and first and then a bit more furiously, and Peter snuggled deeper into his sleeping bag. When the wind howled like that, when the tree branches creaked and whined, it sort of sounded like something was there - a creature - great big and hairy, skulking for its dinner - or silvery and small, dashing forward to get a nibble of a finger or a great big chomp of his ears. Just before bedtime Flash had said there was a monster here on their campsite, one that sat in the trees and slithered down on its belly when the children were asleep, because it ate children for dinner. Peter had never heard of a more stupid story, after all if there were any child-eating monsters he was sure his parents would have made him stay at home. But now, out of the corner of his eye-- what was the shadow he could see brushing past the tent? What was that noise? A cracking branch or... or... the gurgled sound of an empty, hungry monster stomach? Peter's breath caught in his throat, terrified. He trembled, the sort of tremble that juddered his entire body from head to foot. His gaze was frantic -- darting two and forth between the door of the tent (shaking in the wind) and the sides (lashed at by branches, or long wet grass slithers... or slimy monster talons?)
What was it going to do? Climb in through the door, or rip the roof off and reach down inside? Who would it choose first? Peter, trembling, or Flash, who had rolled over onto his back, mouth a little 'o'?
Thunder boomed in over Peter's head. Thunder that started off a low, menacing growl and rumbled into a loud snapping cackle, circling all the way around the tent. Peter's entire body turned to jelly, ducking down into the confines of his sleeping bag where it was safe. Flash was still asleep - he could hear the boy mumbling as he stirred - how could he sleep through this?
Lightning came next, lightning that lit up the tent with bright hot white. Peter could see the whiteness filling the tent even if he didn't chance a peep - and he could imagine the forks and splinters of light invading his sleeping bag. His heart thudded, thudded so hard it could have oozed out of his ears. After every flash and fork of light there was a thunder, or a wobble, or a whoosh, or sometimes all three.
It was raining, he was sharing a tent with Flash Thompson, he had to pee and a storm had begun.
Don't eat me, Peter pleaded, wondering if this was the monster, warning them that he was hungry and about to step inside. Please, please don't eat me.
Flash had said that the monster only ate sleeping children, though, and Flash was still asleep. How he was able to sleep over the monster-storm-howls was a mystery. Peter wasn't quite sure he wanted to be awake when Flash got eaten, either. Maybe the monster would want seconds and turn on Peter after all. Would he go for Peter's arms first, slurping up like spaghetti, or swallow him whole? Peter's toes bunched in his sleeping bag as he trembled and twisted uncomfortably.
It was raining, he was sharing a tent with Flash Thompson, he had to pee, a storm had begun, and now he was going to get eaten by a monster.
"Daddy..." Peter whimpered into the quiet of the tent, bunching and un-bunching sections of his sleeping bag in each tiny clammy fist. Daddy could help him, after all, he was a parent ambassador which was a very big word to mean 'he was also on the trip' - and, most importantly, he was a super-hero. He was in his own sleeping bag, tucked up a few tents away. Not next to Peter; not on his left (that was Liz, in her spotted pink tent and bubblegum coloured sleeping bag) and not on his right (MJ, her tent green, her sleeping bag to match) but four tents away, pitched up right at the beginning next to Mr Harrington. Lightning lit up the tent again; Peter's breath hitched as though he were about to cry. All of his neck was hot and cold with fear, and he was itching. This was the sort of itch that he couldn't scratch, the sort that went all up and down his arms and made every hair stand on end - the tingly itch of his Spidey senses. There was a monster, and he was getting closer, and the longer Peter did nothing, the closer he was going to get and--and--and--
--and he scrambled from the tent calling "Daddy!", face hot with upset, feet thudding against the slick muddy floor, rain freezing and running in sheets down his back. Lightning again, this time followed by a low-bellied growl, the kind that said 'I'm following you!' and Peter keened a little, running faster, so fast he nearly slid onto his bottom as his heels dug into a particularly slippy puddle. Mud spattered up the bottom of his 'jamas. Getting to his father's tent, his fingers fumbled to unzip the flap and run inside. His heart pounded all over his body and all the hairs on his arms and his neck were all risen like he knew something bad was about to happen. "Daddy!" he called again.
Tony was roused and propped himself up on one arm, squinting as lightning and unwelcome moonlight threw his tent into brightness. "Peter?" he asked, surprise stitched into his voice. What was he doing here, it felt like four o'clock in the morning, the elder was about to ask - but then the menacing snap of thunder rolled into his ears and he fell to realisation. He sat up properly and took in his son for the first time. Peter's hair was dampened with rain, his cheeks were ruddy-red with cold, ruddy redness that spread out over his nose and ears too, and his pyjamas were spattered with a brown mosaic of mud and wetness, especially all along the bottoms. As for his feet--caked, absolutely caked in black-brown mud with only slivers of porcelain skin peeping through, tinted blue with cold. On top of that, he was trembling so hard his teeth were beginning to chatter. Tony's heart rose in concern and he leaned forward, itching to bring his little boy into his arms and hold on tight to warm him up again; to give him enough warmth to last all night long. "Did the storm wake you?"
He cocked his head, still concerned, although the tiny hint of sternness chose not to hide.
"M- my Spidey senses!" blurted Peter, stepping into the warmth of his father's tent and shifting foot to foot. "I- it was storming and-- and my Spidey senses went..." he gestured, making pinching motions with his hands, "--and I thought there was a monster and..." he was gnawing at his lip now. His father was listening intently. Now that he was with Daddy, the storm didn't feel so bad - still raging but quiet, like when they were at home. It did not sound very much like a monster at all, and Peter's Spidey senses tingled off to nothing much.
"No monsters here, kiddo," Daddy crooned, confirming. Peter liked it when he crooned, this sweet and low little growl. Papa always said that was Daddy's 'papa bear' sort of growl. It swirled in the air and hugged him tight and made him feel warm and safe. He opened his arms and Peter barrelled into them right where he belonged, sinking in happiness when Daddy wrapped his arms around him. Nestled against Daddy's chest, he felt how his chest rose and fell and crackled ever so slightly as he breathed. It made Peter feel safe even more so, protected, like he could shrink down tiny small and stay curled up with Daddy forever. He pressed his thumb against his lip, but not into his mouth, 'cause he did not suck his thumb and only Flash did that.
"...All safe," Tony smiled, and he rubbed Peter's cold wet back. If he was being honest, he couldn't have been more glad that Peter had slipped into his tent. Although Steve had teased him that he was getting a kid-free night (sort of) the tent felt even bigger and emptier without Steve by his side and Peter bunched up with a fist in his ribs. Peter rested against him, pliable and soft and gorgeous like he always was at bedtime. Tony rubbed his back in long, gentle strokes, through the sopping cotton material of his pyjamas. "Poor kid, you're going to catch a cold," he tutted, frowning.
"My Spidey senses 'r still goin'," Peter complained, bunching himself up tighter against his father. His eyelids were finally growing heavy with sleep and yet the itchy tingling wouldn't quite leave him, all up and down his arms and spiky branches in his belly.
"I think you need to pee, kiddo, that's all," said Tony, tipped off by the wriggles, and he drew Peter into his arms as he stood. Spidey senses indeed. Peter was going to pee and change into some dry pyjamas before he worried himself to death over his baby catching a cold.
Oh yeah, Peter remembered sleepily, he did have to pee earlier. Tucked against his father he braved the storm for a second time - but only mumbled and curled in against Daddy because Daddy kept him safe. "C'n I sleep wi' you afterwards? In your tent?"
He did not want to sleep in his tent with Flash. He drew his thumb into his mouth at last, secretly.
"Of course you can, kiddo," Tony smiled, even if he knew that he was bending the rules a little bit.
Peter smiled, and sucked his thumb, just a little bit. It was raining, and there were no monsters, and he was with Daddy and he was safe.