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Peter doesn’t really know how he got here.
He feels like he’s floating, and dazedly accounts it to a miracle reversal of his usual Parker luck that he’s standing outside Stark Tower and not in some random alleyway. Everything around him is dark and quiet. Why had he come here?
Lacking the energy to answer his own question, Peter opens the door and steps into the entrance, leaving a smear of crimson behind. Warmth surges forward to cocoon him, and it’s not until then he realizes how cold he had been. The sudden temperature change makes his knees weak, and he stumbles over to the shining metal doors of the elevator and leans heavily against the wall as he waits for them to open.
He hears the ding, but it doesn’t register. It’s only when the doors start closing that he realizes his mistake and smashes at the button again to stop them. Glad there was no one to witness it, Peter shuffles into the elevator and presses the button for floor 34 before collapsing his weight against the back wall.
The elevator lurches smoothly, but it’s enough to upset his balance and he shoots a web at the ceiling to stop himself from crashing to his knees. He hangs on with all his strength as he forces his legs to cooperate, and doesn’t let go once he stands. A wave of nausea runs through him like an electric current, and he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through his nose for the remainder of his ascent.
“Peter.” The AI’s voice cuts through the small space, and Peter gasps, again nearly losing the vertical position he had worked so hard to maintain. “You are experiencing signs of extreme sleep deprivation and have multiple minor contusions. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark?”
Pushing on a facade, Peter straightens and lets go of the web, letting it dangle lifelessly from the ceiling beside him. The shock of the question had sharpened his senses, even if just a little, but when he speaks, his mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. “Hey FRIDAY. Is Mr. Stark here?
“Yes he is.”
Biting on the inside of his cheek, Peter weighs his options carefully. Truthfully, there’s nothing more that he wants right now than to see Mr. Stark, but the longing falls flat like it usually does in these kinds of situations. “N-no. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Thanks.” Peter’s chest tightens, and he braces himself as the elevator jerks to stop, revealing the dark space in front of him. Before the doors can slide back like before, Peter hurries out. He doesn’t bother turning on a light on the way to his room. He knows this place backward and forward, even in his current state.
It’s colder up here, and Peter suppresses a shiver. He rounds a corner and falls into his door, and proceeds forward to practically trip into the bathroom. Pressing the symbol on his chest, he feels the suit collapse around him, leaving him in an old black tshirt and joggers. As he tries to kick the suit off his ankles he falls and hurriedly grabs at the sink for support, and without meaning to, the porcelain cracks.
“Oh crap.” Peter hastily lets go, sways, and decides it’s already broken so what the hell, and attaches right back on to right himself. All he wants to do is crawl into bed, but there’s alien guts in his hair and blood on his face and in his mouth and there is no way he’s having any good dreams with that situation.
Sacrificing one hand, Peter flicks on the bathroom light, moaning as the brightness jabs into his eyes. He really doesn’t feel good.
Looking up at his reflection, that assessment is confirmed. There are bruises on his face and around his neck, ones he was too tired to even realize were there. There’s also a small cut decorating his temple, producing a small line of blood that had travelled nearly halfway down his face before exploding into a vivid smear across his cheekbone. Dirt and blood mix together almost on the entirety of his left arm, where he had fallen and gotten road rash. It looks bad. He doesn’t feel it, though.
Using his free hand, he forces open the medicine cabinet and grabs his toothbrush, sticking it in his mouth. It’s a Spider-Man themed toothbrush for kids that Tony had been very amused to give him.
Before he can grab the toothpaste, a wave of dizziness hits him like a tidal wave and he falls back into the wall, still tripping over his suit. He blinks hard, trying to rid the blurry veil that has crossed over his vision, but it doesn’t help.
Quietly, he swears, but his voice is nearly gone. Only now does Friday’s words from the elevator register. Extreme sleep deprivation. When was the last time he had slept? It couldn’t have been that long ago. Saturday? Friday, maybe?
Sliding down the wall, toothbrush sitting against his molars, he decides his brain is too foggy to think back that far. His head is resting comfortably between the wall and the shower, hand holding the toothbrush propped up on his knee. His eyes are closed. When did that happen?
He doesn’t remember much after that.
- - -
Tony really hadn’t meant to stay up this late. It’s a nasty habit he’s too stubborn to curb, despite Pepper’s frequent suggestions. In his defense, his best work happens at these hours, when the lab is quiet and his thoughts are clear, and a shiny new prototype sits on the table in front of him to prove it. In fact, this is really the only time he enjoys working. Well, except when Peter’s with him, of course. Then anytime is good.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubs at his tired eyes with his fists, catching blurred glances at the fluorescent green numbers from the clock kitty corner to him as he does. It’s nearly three in the morning.
“Alright. Bedtime.”
Tony stands, stretches, and begins to walk out the lab. He’s almost to the door when FRIDAY's voice rings through the air. “Hello boss. I am to alert you that Peter Parker arrived at the tower at approximately 2:23. He is currently in his room.”
Tony feels his eyebrows draw together in his confusion. “Peter? Here?”
“That is what I said, boss.”
Remembering the glowing letters of the clock, Tony’s confusion deepens. “FRI, that was thirty minutes ago. Why are you telling me now?”
“Because Mr. Parker is currently unresponsive, and previously asked me not to alert you.”
Immediate fear coils up inside his chest, and he quickens his stride into a run towards the elevator. “Damnit FRI, think you could have led with that?”
“Sorry.”
He presses the buttons on the wall repeatedly, watching as the numbers drop painstakingly from 34 to 15. “Come on, come on, come on. Yes!” The door is barely open enough to squeeze through, but Tony manages, immediately closing it again and ordering it back up to its original location.
As he journeys skyward, Tony notices a pale string of webbing swaying beside him. He follows it up to where it's stuck to the ceiling. “What the hell?”
Before he can wonder too deeply about it, the elevator reaches its destination and Tony is once again running. The door to Peter’s room is open and a light shines from the bathroom.
“Peter?” The fear returns as Tony walks carefully towards the scene. He feels sick. It’s moments like these he hates above all others.
When he enters, he’s dumbfounded, and the tension in his chest erupts into butterflies. The bad kind.
“Kiddo?”
Peter is on the ground, leaning heavily against the shower where it looks like he probably fell, his Spider-Man suit still hanging off his ankles. There’s a deep crack in the sink, too, one Tony knows wasn’t there before. And perhaps even more strangely, the kid’s toothbrush is hanging limply from his slack jaw, like he had given up halfway through brushing his teeth. There’s dark blood in his hair and on his face and light bruises along his neck. Bruises that look like fingers. The breath in his lungs deflates, and he sinks to his knees beside the boy, fighting to keep in control of his emotions.
“Peter.” He tries again, louder. There’s no change of expression whatsoever, and Tony sighs, scooting closer. “Kid, come on this isn’t funny. You know I have heart problems.”
Again, nothing.
Beginning to panic, Tony grabs Peter’s shoulder, perhaps a little too strongly. The pressure must spark something that words hadn’t, because Peter jackknifes back to the land of the living as if he had been shocked by electricity, pupils blown wide.
“Who died? What happened? What’s wrong?” Peter’s eyes are bleary and his speech mumbled from his toothbrush. He looks sluggishly around him, eyes resting on Tony and his already dilated eyes growing impossibly larger.
“Mr. Stark?” His voice is weak and small.
Tony nearly collapses in on himself in relief, using a supporting hand on the toilet to keep himself straight. “Yeah kiddo, it’s me. What the hell happened to you?”
In response, Peter merely stares at him blankly, his eyes connected to the man’s lips as if trying really hard to decipher what he had just said. Finally, he looks up into Tony’s eyes, giving up. “What?”
He changed tactics. “FRI, give me a report.”
FRIDAY’s clear voice sounds from above, and Peter jumps belatedly at the noise. Sheepishly, he averts Tony’s gaze as if embarrassed. “She keeps doing that to me.”
“Peter is experiencing extreme sleep deprivation as well as multiple minor contusions to his neck, head, left arm and ribs. None are life threatening. Immediate rest is advised.”
“Jesus, kid.” He tugs at Peter’s wrist, removing the toothbrush from his mouth. It’s completely clean. “Did this even have toothpaste on it?”
Peter stares at it, like he had forgotten it had been in his mouth in the first place. “Huh. Honestly, I don’ know.”
Sighing deeply, Tony sets it aside and instead presses lightly at the wound on Peter’s head. Friday was right, it was superficial. Satisfied, he leans back to sit on his heels. “Well, you look terrible, but you’ll live. When’s the last time you slept?”
Pouting as if the question was unfair, Peter leans further back into his corner, closing his eyes. “Don’ know. Wha’s today?”
“Monday.”
Peter’s eyes open again for a moment and his eyebrows raise in disbelief. Then, it melts off his face. “Doesn’ help. Too tired to ‘member.”
Now that he knows Peter’s going to be okay, he feels a lecture building up, but he forces it back down. The kid wouldn’t comprehend or remember it anyways.
“That’s okay Pete.” It’s not. “Come on.” Tony stands, hoisting the boy up with him. Unprepared, Peter grips weakly at his mentor’s forearms, breathing heavily and swaying on his feet.
“M-Mr. Stark, the floor is moving! Has it always done that?”
Bemused, Tony plays along. “Of course it has.”
Peter is genuinely impressed. “Wow!”
Tony drags the staggeringly uncoordinated teen and sets him down on the edge of his bed. He reaches down to tug off the rest of the suit, letting it fall to a heap on the floor. When he stands back up, Peter is smiling.
“What’s up, kid?”
“You’re always so nice to me.”
Tony’s heart stutters, and a smile of his own stretches across his face. “Well, seeing how many times you get thrown into a wall each week, someone’s got to.”
Peter hums in agreement. “You’re just like Ben.”
This time Tony freezes, unsure how to react. He doesn’t have to though, because by the time he collects himself, Peter’s eyes close and he falls like a jenga tower down into the mattress.
“Thanks kid.” He whispers.
But Peter of course doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t say anything at all. Using every brain cell to try and convince himself he’s not being as paternal as he thinks he is, he lifts Peter’s legs and pushes them onto the bed and under the covers. He makes sure his pillow is in the right spot, and carefully pulls at pieces of hair that are stuck in the dried blood of Peter’s forehead.
His fingers linger for just a moment, the warmth still present in his chest. This is nice, he thinks. Then he leaves.
“Goodnight underoos.”
For the first time, he’s satisfied with silence.