Work Text:
Universe 199999
May Nineteenth, 2018
Manhattan, New York.
-
It’s the middle of the night.
The TV clock reads 2:24, flashing just under the colorful array on the screen. What was supposed to be a singular Star-Wars movie that they started just past ten, has turned into a full marathon. Peter is absolutely still, barely even breathing, trying to avoid Tony noticing that he’s up more than a little past his bedtime.
Peter is nearly sixteen, anyways. He doesn’t need a bedtime anymore, no matter how much May and Tony disagree with him on every occasion. It’s been Hell since the two of them started getting along; they’re always ganging up on him about getting eight hours of sleep or eating enough to satiate his super-powered metabolism.
The credits roll, and the teenager can’t help but shift ever-so-slightly, after he realizes that his backside is aching with numbness.
In a heart-stopping instant, Tony finally looks over at him, seemingly remembering his presence for the first time in well over an hour. His mentor’s face is half-illuminated by the screen, flashing blue light as he raises an eyebrow at Peter, who grins sheepishly.
“Well, we might as well watch the next one, right?” The boy tries, already knowing it will be useless. He just likes bantering with the Tony Stark. Not many other people can say that. “Remember when you told me there’s nothing you hate more than cliffhangers? I’m just trying to spare you the pain.”
The billionaire doesn’t look impressed. “What I actually said was; no, Peter, don’t dive off that cliff to chase after that Road Runner-themed bad guy, it’s not worth it. You have selective hearing, kid.”
Tony was pissed after the cliff incident that landed Peter in the MedBay, last month. He lectured him for twenty-seven minutes straight and threatened to ban him from patrolling until Christmas. Peter doesn’t plan on going cliff-diving again.
Sensing he’s getting nowhere, Peter says, “I’m not even tired, Mr. Stark. I could do a dozen cartwheels, in fact.”
“I’m not biting.” Tony says dryly. “Come on, buddy, you’re killing me. Why are teenagers so opposed to sleeping, these days? Did you know that the average teenager needs closer to ten hours of sleep than eight hours? You’re all a bunch of idiots with no self-preservation.”
Tony’s arm has been wrapped around him since they first sat down on the couch. Back when Peter first started coming over here, his mentor used to push away every hug-attempt with a joke. The difference makes the teenager’s heart warm.
“How do you know how much sleep I need?”
“I may have done some research.”
“Oh my God, you’re a nerd.”
“I’m Tony Stark, kid.”
“Tony Stark the nerd.” In a display of absolute maturity, Peter sticks his tongue out. Tony rolls his eyes and pushes his face down into the couch cushions with no real force, keeping him there. The fifteen-year-old wheezes his laughter into the fabric.
When he sits up, Tony is beaming at him in a way he previously thought Tony Stark was incapable of. If there’s anything he’s learned in the last almost-year, it’s that very few people actually get to know the real Tony. They see all the bullshit on TV and take that as the absolute truth. They don’t see nights like these, with wrestling and movies and afternoons in the lab. Peter knows a side to his mentor that he knows very few (if any) people could even imagine.
If only his eight-year-old self could see him now. He’d probably pass out, to be honest.
The comfortably silent moment ends when Tony flicks off the TV and says, “Time for bed, underoos.”
“You told me you’d stop calling me that.” Peter groans in annoyance, refusing to uncurl from his spot on the couch. In fact, he makes a point of getting even more comfortable, stretching his legs into Tony’s lap, just to see what he can get away with.
“Nope. I never said that.” The billionaire smirks. “What is it that your aunt used to call you when you were little? Petey-Pie? Peter Pumpkin Eater? Peter Pan?”
The teenager screeches, tumbling off the couch as he smacks his hands over his ears. Even through his fingers muffling the noise, he can hear Tony’s loud laughter. His face is so red, it must be fuchsia. Goddamn May, telling the man all of Peter’s childhood nicknames when she was showing up the album of humiliating baby pictures, when he came over to dinner a few months ago.
“I’ll stop if you go to bed.” Tony says once Peter removes his hands from his face.
“You’re so manipulative.”
“You’re right, Stinky Pete.”
“Fine! Fine, you win.” The teen stomps away with no real malice, down the hall and to his bedroom. Somewhere along the way, the barren guest room he’d use on the weekends has become his second home. It’s filled with Star-Wars posters and concept ideas for Spider-Man that have yet to be anything more than scribbles on the looseleaf in his binder.
Peter collapses into bed, only just now realizing how tired he actually is. His eyelids are heavy, and his movements are uncoordinated as he wrestles with his blanket, trying to get into a comfortable position. He’s just reaching over to click off the lamp, when his door creeks open.
“I just got into bed and now you wanna’ hang out?” Peter grumbles, switching off the lamp. The only light comes from the moonlit window. He can just barely make out his mentor’s figure in the dark.
“Go to sleep.” Tony commands with no force. “Spider-kids’ need sleep, or they get sleep deprived and accidentally burn themselves with soldering irons in the lab and make me freak the fuck out.”
The teenager grins wickedly. “That was one time.”
Silence falls over them like a warm blanket. Distantly, there’s commotion down on the street as people walk home from clubs. Peter thinks Tony might be his best friend in the whole world. After a long, peaceful moment, Tony says, voice dripping with warmth, “Night, kid.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”
-
Universe 810202
August Twenty-Ninth, 2006
Malibu, California.
-
Tony wakes up to little hands poking his face his face.
His exhaustion melts away into confusion as he blinks, straining to see in the darkness. There’s the faintest outline of a figure mere inches from his face. He doesn’t have to be confused for very long, though, because a loud sob erupts from the figure.
Recognition bursts through Tony like an explosion as he sits up, flicking on his bedside lamp. The dim yellow lighting now gives him a perfect (and heartbreaking) view of the figure, who he now realizes is Peter. The four-year-old's face is red and streaked with tears, snot smeared over his upper lip as it quivers. Peter’s little chest jumps with each hitching sob.
“Daddy.” The boy cries, reaching out for him again. His little fingers hold the collar of Tony’s T-shirt in a death-grip as he continues sobbing. “Dada.”
Tony’s heart stutters and breaks as he lifts his son off the floor and into his arms. He settles Peter into his lap, rocking back in forth in a desperate attempt to soothe him. Peter’s tears have always been his weakness, ever since he was a newborn. “Hey, hey, baby, what’s wrong? Do you feel sick?”
Peter hugs him tighter, not saying a word as he squishes his face into his father’s chest to the point where it’s completely hidden from view. The billionaire turns to squint at his alarm clock, which displays 1:57 in red, blocky font.
“What happened, sweetheart?” Tony whispers, leaning back to get a good look at his kid’s face. He gently wipes Peter’s tears away with his thumb. “Did you hurt yourself?”
The toddler finally shakes his head. He chews on his fingers as he replies in a tiny, impossibly heartbreaking voice, “I- I- I had a- a bad dream.”
Tony feels like the worst parent in the world for being relieved. Nightmares are undoubtedly hard, but they’re still easier to handle than sickness or blood. He lets out a long breath, dashing his plans to jump into the car to rush his baby to the hospital. He smooths back Peter’s wild curls, hugging him closer.
“Aw, honey.” He coos, pressing a kiss to his son’s too-hot temple. Peter sobs again. “Shh, it’s okay, sweet boy. You’re okay. Daddy’s here.”
They stay like that for a while. Tony rocks him back and forth, kisses his head and continues to whisper soft reassurances. Four years ago, when Peter’s biological mother had come to Tony about her pregnancy and asked him to raise the baby on his own, he was skeptical about his ability to be a father, much less a single one. He’d never done the whole kissing babies thing; he didn’t know the first thing about comforting a distressed child.
But then Peter was born, and it felt like the most natural thing on earth. Like a first instinct he wasn’t even aware he had until he heard his son, who was so small and fragile, cry for the first time. Peter is four now, no longer the tiny newborn he once was, but he’ll still drop everything at even the barest hint that his baby is close to tears.
After a few minutes, Tony slowly stands with Peter still in his arms. Peter grips his shirt tighter and rests his little head on his father’s shoulder. The billionaire shuffles to the other side of the room to get to the washroom, where the light automatically flicks on.
He sets his kid down on the counter and wets a cloth that he finds under the sink. He’s been better at keeping himself fully stocked for emergencies, since Peter started walking and, inevitably, hurting himself at least once a week. Almost every room in the mansion has a first-aid kit packed away somewhere. He takes a moment to thank the entities above that he doesn’t have to use one, tonight.
“What was your bad dream about, Petey-Pie?” Tony prompts gently, cleaning his boy’s face off with the cloth. Peter pouts but doesn’t try to move away, chewing on his finger.
The toddler shrugs, little shoulders lifting indifferently. Tony holds back a laugh at the action that looks too adult. “I don’t ‘member, Daddy.”
He leaves the cloth in the sink when he’s done, placing his hands on either side of the counter to lean closer to his kid. He rubs their noses together, a trick that always makes Peter laugh, and this time is no different. The boy giggles and moves his head.
“That’s okay, Petey.” Tony says sincerely, voice surprisingly clogged. “You can still come get me whenever you have a bad dream, okay? Daddy will always keep you safe.”
Peter nods enthusiastically, tears forgotten and replaced with sleepy eyes. “I know, Daddy.” He yawns, stretching his jaw. “Is it bedtime?”
“It’s a little past your bedtime, baby.” He pulls his kid off the counter and shuffles back into his bedroom, towards bed. He has no intention of forcing the poor kid to sleep alone, in his room across the hall, after all that. “Wanna’ have a sleepover?”
The toddler rubs his eyes tiredly. “Uh-huh.”
Peter, predictably, is extra clingy tonight. He wraps around Tony like a little spider-monkey, chubby fingers digging into his neck. The billionaire wouldn’t have it any other way, though. He loves when Peter is like this, because he knows in ten years’ time he probably won’t be. Everyone is always telling him to cherish when his kid is still a cuddly toddler, because before he knows it, he’ll be begging Peter to come out of his room for just ten minutes.
He has a feeling he doesn’t have to worry about that too much.
Tony reaches to turn off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness. He kisses his baby on the forehead, laughing softly when Peter just snores in response. God, he loves his kid.
He’s lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his son’s breathing, steady and peaceful with a now dreamless sleep.
-
Universe 515151
June Sixteenth, 1858
Albany, New York.
-
It’s the first warm day of the year.
This winter was impossibly freezing; Peter hadn’t experienced anything like it in his sixteen years of life and feels like he never will again. He spent countless nights by the fire, heating up May’s food before she realizes how thick the layer of frost on his fingertips are.
But today, the sun was wonderfully warm against his skin when he stepped out this morning for the walk to the shop. He treasured every step, every breath of summer air. Mr. Stark didn’t question when he was two minutes and thirty-three seconds late.
The sun has long since set by now, taking the glorious warmth with it, but the night is just a little less cold than it was the last. Peter works the hammer against the stone, hands on autopilot. He loves nights like these, where everything outside of the shop ceases to exist and all that’s left is-
“I thought you went home.” A gruff, but not unkind voice startles him. Peter nearly drops the hammer on his foot as he turns to face Mr. Stark, who is leaning against the doorway with paper in his hands and his glasses pushed down. He must have silently been doing finances in his office.
Peter shrugs, turning back to his task. “I’m making up for being late this morning.”
“I told you that you’re free to go home three hours ago.” Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow and walks closer, gently prying the hammer from his grip. “I think you’ve more than made up for it.”
The teenager sighs deeply, fingers twitching as he resists the urge to snatch the hammer back from his mentor. He doesn’t know why he feels like this tonight, like he’ll collapse into a pile of dust if he steps foot outside of the workshop, but he does. He wants to stay here all night; he’s sure Mr. Stark wouldn’t mind if he curled up with the ratty blanket he keeps in the office.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been eight months since Peter marched up the steps of Mr. Stark’s blacksmith workshop, determined to find work. May had fallen ill barely three months after Ben died. It was terrifying, watching the woman who raised him rot away in her bed like old fruit. Mr. Stark giving him work was a long shot, but he had to try, for May’s sake.
Peter hadn’t been prepared for Mr. Stark employing him as his mentee in the shop. He had gone from the wonderful veneer of childhood innocence, of zero responsibilities besides school, to working long days in the workshop. The teenager had never envisioned blacksmithing as a career (he had always been more interested in science), but he wasn’t going to pass on Mr. Stark’s endless kindness.
He owes that man his and his aunt’s life.
“I like working.” Peter cleans his sore hands with a rag.
“That’s not all you’re good for, you know.” Mr. Stark says sincerely, looking him in the eyes. Peter tries not to feel intimidated.
The boy clears his throat. “You’re here late, too.”
“I have no one to go home to.”
The words put an awful taste in Peter’s mouth. Mr. Stark is so kind (if a little sarcastic); it boggles Peter’s mind that he doesn’t have a family, doesn’t have anyone, really. Howard and Maria Stark died years ago, before the Starks’ blacksmithing business became known throughout the state, Mr. Stark doesn’t have a wife, or kids, or friends. He just has this shop.
Peter chews on his lower lip and tries not to make eye-contact. Mr. Stark continues as if what he just said isn’t one of the saddest things he’s ever heard. “Anyways, I’m glad you stayed, because I have a gift for you.”
The teenager looks up. “Oh?”
“Yup, for my favorite employee.” He grins.
“I’m your only employee, sir.”
“Do you want the gift or not, kid?” Mr. Stark retorts, but there’s no bite in his voice. The bags under his eyes are darker than Peter has ever seen them before, purple and angry. Worry expands like a balloon in his chest.
Peter keeps his mouth shut.
Mr. Stark pulls a small, white envelope out of his coat pocket. Peter’s name is scrawled out in the front of it in barely legible handwriting. He gingerly accepts the envelope when it’s passed to him, apprehension making it’s home within him. Mr. Stark just smiles at him, so he takes the hint to open it, gently tearing the paper.
He does a double take when he finds a wad of cash inside the torn paper. Peter feels his eyes bulge out of his head as he looks back up at his mentor, desperate for answers. Inelegantly, he says, “What?”
“It’s a raise.” Mr. Stark says simply, like this isn’t everything and more. “So, you can go back to school.”
“W hat?” Peter feels his stomach do a somersault.
“Listen, kid,” Mr. Stark tugs him closer. “You’re a brilliant kid; everyone can see it. You don’t belong here, working in grease all day. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to let you go, just yet. Now, you can still work on weekends, but you can go to school during the week and pay to take care of your aunt.”
Peter struggles to pick his jaw off the floor. “You’re- you’re paying me double to only work two days a week? Mr. Stark, this is too-”
“Please, don’t say it’s too much, Peter.” Mr. Stark says. “The only thing I want in return is for you to promise that you’ll finish school. You get let everything up here go to waste, okay?” He taps Peter’s temple for emphasis.
The boy nearly knocks his head off with how fast he nods. “Yes, yeah, I promise. I’ll finish top of my class, sir. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Mr. Stark just smiles, softer than Peter has ever seen before. “Now, go home and get some rest.”
Peter knows he shouldn’t, knows that he’s probably crossing at least a few lines, but he tackles the man in a hug before he can think better of it. The teenager pulls away quickly, running out the door with several, panting, “Thank you, Mr. Stark. Thank you, thank you-”
He feels like he’s flying when he runs home to May.
-
Universe 296251
February Fifth, 2021
Cambridge, Massachusetts.
-
There’s something going on with Tony’s favorite student.
Because, really, he’s not an idiot. He sees it; the deeper bags under Peter Parker’s eyes and his stained shirts; the dead-eyed look he’s been taking on in the middle of lectures and the unexplained absences. Tony knows what a mental health crisis looks like when he sees one because he’s had too many to count, himself.
But there’s something so jarring about seeing Peter anything less than overjoyed and eager to learn. Even on the most miserable days, when every other student looks like they could pass out in the middle of lecture hall, Peter Parker is there in the front row, all smiles and attentive to the lesson.
Tony first noticed the decline weeks ago, when everyone returned for Christmas break. He likes to think that since September, he’s established a good teacher-student relationship with Peter. The kid will always make it a point to stick around after lectures to talk and ask questions that are far too intelligent for even his smartest peers (that kid is going places, mark Tony’s words). But he’s the first student out of class these last few weeks, stumbling and panicked-looking.
Any other time, any other student, Tony would assume it’s simple first-year burnout. He’d let the problem work itself out because keeping track of young adults’ mental health is certainly not in the M.I.T professor job description.
But the idea of something... something awful happening to Peter because Tony ignored the obvious signs is physically painful. He’s grown awfully fond of the kid, in the last five months.
So, that’s how he finds himself walking through the south dorm building at nearly midnight, trying to find Peter’s dorm number. The kid mentioned it in passing once, and Tony remains steadily grateful for his photographic memory as he walks the halls.
He finally finds Peter’s dorm after a few minutes and takes a moment to compose himself before knocking.
It takes twenty-three seconds (yes, he counted, sue him) for the door to slowly creek open. Standing there, on the other side, is Peter Parker. He’s wearing a hoodie with the school logo on it and grease-stained sweatpants. Peter’s eyes widen exponentially when he realizes who it is.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter says weakly, one hand gripping the door handle.
“Hey, Pete.” He smiles, knowing it probably looks weak and anxious. “Mind if I come in?”
If possible, the eighteen-year-old's eyes go from wide to bulging out of his skull. “I mean- yeah, of course, but... it’s really- it's such a mess-”
“I don’t mind a mess. Really, you should see my office right now.” He says brightly, stepping in before Peter can kick him out. He’s determined now. The dorm is the same size as every other one in the building, with the three small windows and too-small desk shoved in between the two, twin size beds. Peter’s roommate is, apparently, his high-school best friend, so the knickknacks littered across the floor seem to be for both of them to enjoy. There’s Star-Wars memorabilia plastered all over the walls and desks, next to the stacks of books and Chinese food containers.
“Nice place.” The older man comments, lips quirking.
Peter shrugs. “Thanks, it’s mandatory.”
Tony chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. There’s a pointed silence as Peter shifts from foot to foot, watching Tony expectantly. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with, right? Or is he supposed to be calm in sensitive, considering the subject matter?
“Listen, kid, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time.” He starts unsurely, clearing his throat. “But I noticed you’ve been sort of off lately. You’re not in trouble, but I just wanted to let you know that if… you know, something is going on, my door is always open, alright?”
Peter chews on his lips, breathes in deep and says nothing. After a long while, a moment that is more than uncomfortable, he says, “I’m fine, Mr. Stark. I’ve just been, uh, tired. Really, really tired. Thanks for checking up on me, but I’m fine.”
Disappointment grows in his chest like a bad weed; impossible to cut away and ignore. Tony nods and smiles though, already turning to leave. “Okay, kid. Sorry for bothering you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for-”
“Wait!”
Tony pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”
The kid pinches his lips together. “I don’t… I don’t know why I said I was fine. I’m not fine. I- I’m not fine and I can’t talk to anyone about it because all my aunt does is cry about it and…”
“You can talk to me.” The older man offers. “I’m pretty good at keeping secrets, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Peter sits heavily on his bed, picking at the threads on his sheets. He chews on the nail of his other hand, pointedly not making eye contact. “I’m going to court next month.”
“Oh.” The teacher says instinctively, carefully. That is certainly not what he was expecting from his highest-ranking student. What could Peter Parker, who keeps Star-Wars Legos in the dorm room of his Ivy League school, have possibly done wrong? “Did you… do something illegal?”
“No.” The kid huffs. His eyes scan Tony’s face, and he must find whatever he’s looking for, because he continues, “I was... I was abused when I was a kid. My foster... father abused me for a couple years, and he just abused some other kids and now I have to go to court and testify. I know it’s stupid, because I’m an adult and I shouldn’t be freaking out over this-”
“It’s not stupid.” Tony says. “It’s not... thank you for telling me, Peter. You’re very brave.”
“I’m not brave.”
“You are.” He insists. “And I meant it when I said that my door is always open. So, if you want to, you know, talk, I’ll listen.”
Peter chews on his lower lip, contemplating the offer. “Would that... be okay? Like, right now?”
Tony is beyond relieved, like he’s floating. Peter Parker might be his favorite student of all time simply for surviving, for plunging forward, He motions to the ground in front of Peter. “Of course; the floor is yours.”
Peter talks, and Tony listens.
-
Universe 200000
July Twenty-First, 2023
St. Lawrence, New York.
-
It’s quiet.
The sound of crickets and the sloshing of the lake against the dock are the only sounds in the night sky, tonight. Peter is so used to falling asleep to horns honking and drunk clubbers stumbling home that the endless silence of the lake house is eerie, like he’s waiting for the axe to drop.
Peter counts the seconds in between Morgan’s heartbeats. He can hear it through the wall, filling his ears like the drum of a marching band. Gently, he traces his fingers against the wall and feels it pound ever so slightly. He can’t tell whether he likes the sound or not.
He told Tony he was going to bed just past midnight. It’s almost four-in-the-morning now and Peter has barely blinked. His eyes are burning and his brain aches for the release of sleep, but his body won’t allow it, firmly protesting the rest he so desperately needs.
He’s barely slept since The Fight. When his eyes close, he dreams of giant aliens in the sky and dust on his fingertips and Thanos’ fingers wrapping around his neck like a noose. More often than not, Peter wakes up long before the sun has even begun to dance along the horizon, covered in sweat and his own tears pouring out of him like a waterfall.
Tony is there every time, though. He’ll bust into the room mere seconds after the teenager wakes, taking him into his arms and whispering sweet nothings into his hair. Tony rocks them back and forth and rubs his back with steady and promising hands, tells him how safe and loved he is. He’ll spend the rest of the day doting over Peter, telling Morgan to keep it down when the boy tries to nap and brings him food and brushes his hair when he asks in that oh-so-soft voice how he’s feeling.
In some twisted way, Peter almost looks forward to the aftermath of his nightmares because of it.
He can’t bring himself to look forward to the actual nightmares, though, so he finds himself awake. He’s too terrified to sleep, to see the awful things his memory has conjured to torment him into submission. Thanos may be dead, but he lives on in Peter’s dreams.
Going on the fourth hour of deprivation, the fifteen-year-old throws the covers off of himself and marches out of his room and down the hall before he can think better of it. He’s desperate to get out of that room that feels more like a prison, on nights like these.
Peter flicks on the lamp behind the couch in the living room, intent on watching mindless TV until he passes out against the cushions, but he’s startled by a figure sitting on the couch, now illuminated by the dim lamp light.
“Hey, kiddo.” Tony greets, smile warm. He’s lounging casually on the couch, StarkPad in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He only looks marginally surprised to see Peter at this time of night. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Hi.” Peter whispers, automatically curling up next to his father-figure. Tony shifts the two of them so that the older man is horizontal on the couch and Peter is lying flat against him. Like an automatic, deep-rooted response, the teenager wraps his arms around Tony’s waist and rests his head against his chest, listening to the thud thud thud of his heartbeat.
“What are you doing up?” Tony whispers his question. It’s too quiet and peaceful to speak any louder.
“Couldn't sleep.” The teen replies simply. Shame burns within him; he’s too old for this. He didn’t even have a nightmare tonight, he’s just too terrified to spend another second alone. Heat pools in his cheeks as he continues, “I... I’m scared of having nightmares again.”
Tony doesn’t reply for a moment, and Peter is scared that he’s ruined everything, and he starts to get up when he’s tugged back into his father’s chest. “Oh, Pete. How long have you been up and feeling like this, huh?”
“All night.”
“You should’ve have come to get me earlier.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Hey.” The older man sits up, taking Peter with him. He grips the teen’s chin gently and looks him right in the eyes, speaking every word with a careful tenderness that Peter doesn’t deserve in the slightest. “You could never bother me. If you have a nightmare, or you’re scared that you’ll have one, I want you to come to me, okay, baby?”
Baby. Every time Tony has called him baby (a new development since coming back from The Snap), Peter feels everything in his body light up like a livewire. Baby is what parents call their precious child, baby is what makes Peter feel so loved, baby is what Tony calls Morgan.
Something has shifted, since The Blip. Tony is softer now, gentler. It's like he’s finally shed the carefully crafted layers that he’s been building his whole life in favor of expressing his real feelings. At first, Peter thought it was because Tony is a real father now, but Tony insists it’s because of what happened on Titan. The night Peter returned, Tony told him that his biggest regret in his entire life was not telling Peter he loved him sooner.
“Okay.” The teenager croaks, trying his hardest to keep the tears at bay. “Okay, I will.”
“That’s my boy.” Tony kisses his temple. “You can sleep now, if you want. I’ll keep you safe.”
Peter’s fingers get tangled in Tony’s sweater, feeling his eyelids start to grow heavy. The nightmares and memories can’t touch him here; nothing can. He’s invincible in Tony Stark’s arms. “Love you.” He murmurs, seconds away from falling into the darkness, letting it wrap him like a warm blanket.
Tony’s hand runs down his back. He leans in impossibly closer and tucks a piece of hair behind the boy’s ear. “I love you too, Pete. God, I love you. Good night.”
It’s the last thing Peter hears before he succumbs fully to sleep.