Work Text:
Trope: Hair Playing
It had been months since Peter had last gotten hurt. Maybe even a year. As Peter sat in the alley, head resting against the brick wall behind him, teeth gritted against the pain, head spinning and stomach turning, he tried to count the months. It had been...he turned to the side, finally losing his battle with the nausea and throwing up all over the concrete beside him, and even that movement made him want to die. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth, all while ignoring the smell of his own vomit. Then he tried to remember...to focus on something to keep himself awake.
It had been a stab wound. A stab wound in his shoulder. Not life threatening, but painful. Stingy.
Okay, so technically it had been almost six years.
The point was, it had been a long time and the stab wound had been stingy. But he hadn't called anyone. He'd been sure that he could just walk home and try to stitch it up himself. So he'd forced himself to his feet, holding a hand over the knife wound as best he could, and had made it several steps before Happy had pulled up beside him.
"What the hell, kid?" the man had demanded, looking just as put out as he'd sounded. And Peter had tried to make excuses. Now, sitting in the alley, he couldn't remember what those excuses had been. But he remembered laying in the back seat of the car, nearly passing out. Or maybe he had. And he remembered waking up to Happy half-carrying him to the medbay.
"Peter?" The voice roused him, and Peter realized he was nodding off in an alley...with what felt like a broken leg. And maybe a concussion. "Kid!" That was Happy. And unlike the voice in his memory, Happy sounded worried. Not angry. Not put out. Just worried. It was a welcome change. Ever since the blip or the snap or whatever they were calling it, Happy had been different. Maybe the man had missed him. Either way, Peter blinked and suddenly he was right there, kneeling in front of him, a hand on his shoulder. "Peter!"
"Happy?" he asked, his voice a slur.
"Yeah, kid. What the hell happened?" It was almost the same question as before, but softer. More worried.
"Did you miss me?" he asked suddenly, rocking forward a little and losing his balance before Happy put a hand against his shoulder, keeping him upright.
"What?" the man demanded, looking confused.
"I...I got on your nerves...before…"
"You still get on my nerves, Peter," Happy told him with an eye roll, but the hand on his arm was gentle. "You hit your head?"
"My...my web...broke. My head...and...my leg. I think...I think I broke it."
"You broke your leg?"
"I...yeah...I think so."
"Okay...okay," the man murmured, grimacing and then getting an arm around Peter. "I'm going to get you to the car, then we'll get you to the medbay. Alright?"
"Okay," Peter agreed, nodding and biting back a cry of pain when the man lifted him.
"I know, kid. Hold on. We'll get you some of those super drugs and everything's going to be fine."
Peter had to disagree. Every movement sent a stabbing pain through his leg where the bones seemed to grind against one another, and tears sprang to his eyes, his head spinning as his stomach rebelled again. "Happy!" he gasped, turning his head away, and then he was retching into the alley, his whole body shaking as he threw up. Happy supported him as best he could at the awkward angle, rubbing his back a little.
"Woah...easy...easy Pete," the man murmured, gripping his shoulders. But the movement jostled his leg even more and one moment he was throwing up, and the next the whole world went black.
When Peter came to, he was on a flat, moving surface that it took him a moment to place. A stretcher. The medbay. He was in the medbay. Because he'd broken his leg. And something else...but he couldn't remember. He wanted to close his eyes and sink back into the comforting blackness where nothing had hurt, but the pain in his leg was overwhelming and people all around him were talking and the lights were so bright.
And then someone was touching his leg and he screamed, arching his back and slamming his throbbing head against the bed that wasn't actually all that soft. People were talking...so loud. Everything was so loud! He screamed again, wishing he could beg them to stop or shut up but it was like his brain couldn't make his mouth form words, and the lights were too bright and it was like needles stabbing into his eyes and then there was another voice.
"I got the alert from Karen!"
"Tony, you shouldn't be…" Happy started, and it sounded like he was somewhere on Peter's left but he couldn't really tell...he was still screaming and couldn't seem to stop as the moving of his leg continued.
"The hell I shouldn't! What happened?" A familiar smell and a familiar hand on his chest did something to his brain...seemed to flip a switch, and although his head still pounded and tears still poured down his cheeks, he managed to stop the screaming.
"I think his webshooter jammed or something."
"His right leg was broken in two places and he's got a concussion. We're try to set his leg but his healing was too accelerated...we had to rebreak it." Peter didn't know that voice, but they sounded like they knew what they were talking about.
"Without anesthetic?"
"We don't have any on hand here, sir. It was all at the Compound and Dr. Cho hasn't had the chance to make more."
The hand on Peter's chest pressed him gently into the bed and Peter let him, trying to breathe normally. Trying to breathe through the pain that radiated from his leg and took over every thought in his mind. "What do we have? Anything? Anything that might work on him?"
"We have a small supply of normal pain medication but…"
"Give it to him!"
"Tony," Happy started, but Mr. Stark went on, sounding angry. And afraid.
"I heard the kid screaming from the elevator, Happy!"
This was...strange, Peter thought as he gasped for air, still crying. For a moment there was silence, and a thumb brushed over his cheek. "Alright, bud. They're going to give you something, okay? Hopefully it's going to take the edge off. Stay with me, okay?"
"Hurts," Peter choked out, not just talking about his leg. The man moved his hand to Peter's shoulder and squeezed.
"I know, Pete. Not for much longer, okay? We're going to get you fixed up."
After that, everything was sort of hazy. He knew that the hand on his shoulder stayed where it was, and then there was a quick, sharp pain followed a rush of relief that made him dizzy. It was short-lived, and he thought he might have blacked out when they finally managed to get his leg properly set, but then he was in a dark, quiet room, covered in a soft, fuzzy blanket that was pulled up to his neck.
"Hey, Pete, you with us again?" Mr. Stark asked, the words causing him to open his eyes. The man spoke softly, his voice nearly a whisper, and Peter turned his head a little, testing it. Seeing if he could bear the pain it caused. To his surprise, there was almost no pain.
"Mr. Stark?"
"That's me." The man spoke so gently that it startled him, his tone more like the one he used with Morgan than any he'd ever used with Peter. Not that Mr. Stark wasn't kind to him. Not that the man hadn't done so much for him. Because he had! The last time Peter had been seriously hurt, Mr. Stark had been there when he'd woken up. And he'd been really nice! The man had made sure he had enough pain meds and had given him a tray of food, even sneaking Peter some ice cream late into the evening when he'd been confined to the bed. And then he'd set up his tablet, letting Peter pick a movie to watch until he fell asleep. The next day, he'd sent Peter home with extra pain meds and strict instructions on when and how to take them.
All in all, he'd been really nice.
But now...now Mr. Stark looked different. He was looking at Peter the way he'd looked at him during that battle a few months ago. Like...like Peter was important. Truly important. Like something precious and valuable. LIke he looked at his daughter. Peter tried to dismiss that thought. Peter wasn't his kid. He was a superhero that Mr. Stark just so happened to mentor. And sure, the man cared about him, and he felt responsible for him. But he didn't...well, Peter wasn't his kid. And Mr. Stark wasn't obligated to treat him like he was.
"I think that was the longest I've ever gone without ending up in the medbay," Peter tried to joke, voice slurring just a little. Mr. Stark gave him a smile that could only be described as 'fond.'
"Blip years don't count, Underoos."
"'S a stupid name. Blip," Peter muttered, and the man snorted.
"Don't I know it. They didn't exactly consult me on names though, so what can I do?"
"Should...make a video. On...you know…" For a moment, the name of the social media platform escaped him, his head feeling like it was full of cotton, and Mr. Stark attempted to help.
"Facebook?"
"No….that one's for old people. The...the young one."
"Youtube?"
"No...shorter...clock…"
"Tiktok?" the man suggested with a sigh, but he didn't look impatient. Just fond. Just happy.
"Yeah!" Peter cried, grinning in what felt was a lopsided way. He felt strange...like the whole world was spinning around him. Still, he tried to continue the conversation. "Make a video...say blip is dumb."
"I'll get right on that. I'm sure the social media head of SI would be happy to help."
"Mhm."
"How do you feel?"
"My head...feels light."
"We finally managed to get some of your pain meds. Cho had to take an emergency flight. But we should be good now. I'm...I'm sorry we didn't have any here, Pete."
"Got blown up?" Peter wondered, remembering the Compound. The battlefield. Thanos.
"Yeah, they did. But we've got more now."
"Oh...Mr. Stark?"
"Yeah, Pete?"
His mouth seemed to move without his input, otherwise he never would have asked his next question. "Why're you...looking like that?"
The man narrowed his eyes in confusion and leaned in closer in the dark room. "Looking like what?"
"Like...like with Morgan?" His voice trailed off as his eyes refused to stay open, fingers curling up in the soft blanket. "M'not...m'not yours but...but it's nice…"
And then he was dreaming again. Or...well, not dreaming. Floating. He was warm, covered in a soft blanket. And his leg throbbed dully...that was the only bad thing. Groaning a little, he tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but the pain made it impossible and he dropped back, giving up with another groan that sounded far away.
"What's wrong, Pete?" someone asked, and he didn't want to wake up. He didn't want to open his eyes or leave the warm, dark place. So he kept his eyes closed and tried to stay there. Hoped he could get back to sleep. "Pete? You with me?"
"Hurts," Peter mumbled, and then a hand landed on his head, fingers trailing through his hair. Mr. Stark. That was Mr. Stark.
"I know. I'm sorry, buddy. We're going to give you some more in about an hour, okay?" The man shifted closer...Peter could feel Mr. Stark moving closer, his chair scraping just a little on the floor, his fingers digging gently into Peter's scalp. The movement made the tension melt from his whole body and he went limp on the bed, sighing and smiling a little. "Hey, Pete?"
"Uh huh?"
"You are, you know? Mine. Just like Morgan."
At that, Peter opened his eyes, looking over at Mr. Stark in the still-dark room, the only light coming from a small lamp in the corner of the room. The blanket covering him, he realized, wasn't his. And it wasn't a full sized blanket. "Morgan?" he asked, rubbing the corner of the familiar green blanket between his finger and thumb.
"She wanted to come see you, but I told her you weren't feeling up to company just yet. So she sent his blanket. She says she hopes you feel better."
Peter smiled, blinking tiredly as Mr. Stark continued to run his fingers through his hair. "Tell her thanks."
"Will do. Or you can tell her yourself. As soon as you're up for it, we're going to get you to your bedroom upstairs. May's been by a couple of times. Happy is staying with her."
"Still weird," Peter muttered, and Mr. Stark chuckled.
"I think it's kind of cute."
Peter wrinkled his nose. Then his brain brought the words back from a few seconds ago. "Yours?" he asked, almost whispering. Mr. Stark lifted his eyebrows, leaning in as if he hadn't heard. Or hadn't understood. "Like Morgan?"
The man's face softened, and his hand moved down to Peter's cheek for just a second as he nodded. "Yeah, buddy. Mine. Just like Morgan."