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Tony woke to the sound of booming thunder. Sitting up, he rubbed at his eyes before looking out the window at the dark clouds, and the very beginnings of what was sure to be an incredible storm. Funny, it had been a perfectly sunny day when he’d laid down on the couch for an afternoon nap, and he was certain no storms had been forecast for that evening.
It was just him out at the lake home tonight. Pepper had taken Morgan to the city for a mommy/daughter weekend, and Peter - who had been a frequent visitor all summer - was off in Europe having fun with all his school friends. Tony chuckled to himself, wondering if the kid was managing to pull off his so-ridiculous-it-might-just-work plan to woo his “amazing, awesome, crazy smart, Mister Stark I think you’d really like her” crush, Michelle.
(Tony had only teased Peter a little about it at his last visit, asking if they needed to have The Talk. The exchange had only become memorable when Happy - also a frequent lake home guest - chimed in with, “I got the receipt for every video the kid rented in his hotel room in Germany, boss. He doesn’t need The Talk, believe me.” Peter’s face had invented a new shade of red in response. Tony had laughed so hard he gave himself hiccups.)
Tony ambled into the kitchen to find something to make for dinner. Just as he passed by the window above the sink there was a strike of lightning. For a split second the entire lake lit up, and Tony saw -
“What the hell?” he mumbled, straining his eyes as he peered into the darkness while the thunder roared. Because he did not just see a soaked Peter Parker standing at the end of the dock and staring off into the distance, it wasn’t possible.
Another lightning strike and sure enough, there was Peter, only he had fallen to his knees, and now that Tony was really looking he could see blood covering the kid’s entire back, dripping down onto the dock below.
“Oh my god!”
Tony didn’t stop to put on shoes, or a jacket, or even to turn on the outdoor lamps. He had no time to question how the kid who had been in Paris when they’d spoken on the phone less than a day ago could now be in rural New York, no time to wonder how the boy had come to be so horrifically injured, no time to look around for any sign of danger.
As fast as he could, he ran out of the house and down the porch, nearly tripping when he slipped on the wet grass. The desperate movements strained his still-healing burn scars - taking out Thanos and his army had nearly killed him, not to mention cost him a limb - but he barely felt the pull of his roughly-knitted skin as the dock creaked with every heavy footfall.
“Peter!”
By now Peter was totally limp, laying on his side, the blood mixing with the rain water, creating a macabre spider web-like pool that soaked into the wood. Tony landed hard on his knees, ignoring the blood and water soaking into his jeans, as with both his good arm and his nanite-tech prosthetic he turned Peter over and gathered him close. The pleasant smell of a night storm was suddenly intermingled with the sharp scent of warm copper, and Tony had to stifle the need to vomit.
The kid’s face was white as a sheet, or at least what Tony could see of it through all the red. He was staring up at Tony in agony, body quaking with tremors, mouth moving but no real words escaping.
“M’ss - star… To-”
“Shhh, Peter, it’s okay, I’m here kid,” Tony soothed. In truth it was not okay at all, not even close. Every inch of Peter was covered in hundreds of gashes of varying lengths and depths. When Tony lifted his crimson-stained shirt he nearly gagged again - in addition to the slash marks the kid had been stabbed clean through in his abdomen.
No wonder there was so much blood covering him - there was almost none left inside to keep Peter’s heart beating. To keep Peter alive.
The realization hit Tony like a slap to the face: Peter was going to die.
They were five miles from another person, and at least thirty from a hospital. He didn’t even keep a spare suit out here.
They were completely alone, and Peter was going to die.
There was another crack of lightning, and Peter startled in his grip, a weak mewl escaping his lips along with a trail of blood as his eyes scrunched up.
God, the first time Peter had died had been horrific enough. Looking down at the agonized child in his arms now - the child he himself had been completely willing to die for - Tony knew he couldn’t face it again. It would kill him for good this time.
But that didn’t matter now, he told himself. Because Peter wasn’t gone. Not yet.
Please don’t take him. God. Don’t take him away again.
“Peter. Peter, look at me,” Tony said, stroking his fingers through the kid’s sodden curls as he leaned over him, shielding his face from the torrential rain.
The kid, whose eyes had been mere slits, turned his gaze back to Tony then.
“Kid. Peter. I love you so, so much, you know that right? I love-” Tony choked on a sob, tears dripping to land on Peter’s marred cheeks. “Kiddo, there is nobody I love more. Not even Morgan, because I love you both the same. God, you are so, so loved, Peter.”
It looked like it took every single last ounce of Peter’s will, but he managed to whisper, “You… t-too.”
The expended effort cost him, however, and he coughed, double trails of viscous blood that looked almost black in the glow of the house lights pouring from both corners of his mouth. His gaze slowly wandered past Tony’s face and to the right, pupils blown wide. He reached a shaking arm up, only managing to lift it just a few inches. “Mmm. Ben…”
Another desperate sob escaped Tony, his hold on Peter tightening as he fumbles for the kid’s reaching hand and grips it in his own, wanting nothing more than the power to also hold Peter’s very soul, to keep it forever encased within the boy.
“No, no, Peter. Please, not yet, kid. Peter. Peter.”
But Peter was no longer listening, his breaths ratcheting up as air started to become a precious commodity his lungs could no longer tolerate. He began to jerk violently in Tony’s arms, his expression one of complete terror as his eyes met Tony’s again.
In the very back of his mind Tony vaguely registered that Peter was experiencing death throes, but he refused to accept it.
No. No. God, no, not him. Not again.
“Tone - pl’s,” Peter stuttered out as his body continued to jerk, more blood pouring from his lips. “‘M sscuh - ‘uhrd.”
“Peter. Peter,” Tony croaked out. “God, no. No.”
Peter opened his mouth, trying to speak again, but all that came out was a gurgle. His eyes widened, fear palpable, as he stared deep into Tony’s.
And then his body relaxed, the jerks abruptly stopping. In his shock Tony’s hold on the kid released a bit, and Peter’s torso slipped a few inches off his lap. The kid’s gaze, which had been fixed on Tony, now fell to the side.
“Peter?” Tony whispered. “Kid? Peter.”
But Peter didn’t answer. Nor did he blink when raindrops landed between his open lids, running across brown irises.
Tony didn’t know how long he kept calling Peter’s name, voice breaking over and over, before finally giving up, clutching the kid to his chest and howling in grief.
After losing Peter on Titan, after living without him for five long years, after traveling through time only to burn a limb to blackened char just to give him a real hug… the kid had died in his arms again.
And worse, he’d died terrified, because Tony had (again, god, again) failed to prepare him. To make certain Peter died feeling precious, and brave, and protected.
Instead, Peter’s last words had been I’m scared.
It was a failure so unimaginably horrific, so uncomprehendingly painful, and Tony didn’t want to believe it, but there it was. Peter had died terrified and broken again, and something in Tony broke permanently in that moment too.
There was another flash of lightning, but in place of thunder answering a scream cut through the patter of the rain.
Not just any scream, but a painfully piercing one, coming from the direction of the shore.
A scream that sounded like Morgan.
Tony‘s body froze even as panicked thoughts raced through his mind, still holding the body of Peter Parker - his beloved child, god - in his arms. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to think.
He had to be hearing things, he just had to be. Because Pepper and Morgan weren’t here, he knew that for certain. They couldn’t be. He had only talked to them earlier that day. They had just left the Central Park Zoo. Morgan had begged him to buy her a pet lemur.
Losing Peter again had truly broken his mind, he decided, because Pepper and Morgan couldn’t be here. They couldn’t -
“Tony!” Pepper cried.
Without thinking Tony started to stand, Peter’s body slipping off his lap and thudding onto the dock. Tony’s horror at the unnatural way the kid’s neck rolled was only outpaced by his growing terror at the utter fear in Pepper’s voice.
“Pepper?!” he yelled, eyes wide as he stumbled down the dock. He couldn’t see her - where was she?
“Tony, we’re hurt! Morgan’s hurt! Help us!”
The cries were coming from the other side of the house, and with one last devastating glance at the body of his dead child, Tony took off into the stormy dark.
From the upstairs of the house, laying across Tony Stark’s bed and wearing one of his robes, Quentin watched the drone monitors with unabashed glee.
For years he had dreamed of this night. The storm - real and raging - had felt like a blessing bestowed upon him, a cherry on top of his perfectly curated plan to first break Tony Stark and then kill him.
Watching the man scream with denial as he clutched the (fake) bodies of his wife and daughter, Quentin stood up, rolling his shoulders before letting the robe fall to the floor as he put on his suit with a grin.
Time for his grand finale.