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“Hey, Happy, I took care of that weird vulture guy Peter was following before. Can you check the inventory of the plane to make sure everything’s still there? I’m gonna go through everywhere he’s been in the last 24 hours to make sure there isn’t anything else to worry about with this creep.”
After Happy agreed, clearly relieved to have noticed the Vulture and sent Tony after him before he seemed to do much damage, keeping his job safe for another day.
Tony paused to text Peter.
[Tony]
Hey kid
We got the metal bird guy
Told ya it would be fine
Tony pulled up the man’s last location according to the bug Tony had sent to track him after the ferry incident. It was some sort of secluded warehouse that he had left two hours ago. “Of course it’s a warehouse. Why do villains always go for the warehouses?”
As Tony got closer, he noticed the distinct lack of a building where he had been. Instead, a mountain of concrete rubble, large, jagged rods of metal sticking out in every direction.
“Hasn’t he given us enough messes to clean up?” he huffed under his breath, flying closer and stopping to hover by the edge.
“Friday, scan for heat signatures.”
“There are no heat signatures.”
“Ok, good. Scan for any potentially dangerous stuff, radiation, alien tech, whatever.”
“There appears to be one weak source of radiation. It is located near the center, buried under significant rubble.” Friday highlighted an area of concrete near the center that was burying the radioactive mystery thing.
Tony let out a tired sigh. He had hoped he could just leave this mess to the city or whoever it was that cleans it up. Now he actually had to go digging through all that just in case it was something dangerous.
Reluctantly, Tony flew over to the spot and slowly started lifting pieces up. He needed to use his thrusters for a lot of the pieces considering how large and heavy they were, and he was starting to get annoyed. “This better be worth all this work.” He grumbled as he shoved another piece to the side, panting.
He made slow progress, but eventually, he could tell he was very close to the bottom of the pile. He hauled the last piece upright with a triumphant smile, which fell immediately when he looked down.
Below the concrete, was an unmoving, dusty, red and blue form. Small. A kid. But he knew that kid. He knew those red and blue pajamas. He knew his kid.
With adrenaline renewing his strength, he chucked the final piece to the side and dropped to the ground next to the figure. He was so still.
“No no no no no. No, please. Friday?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Why did you say there was no heat signature? Why didn’t you tell me there was someone here?” he shrieked, reaching out towards the kid. But his hand hovered over his arm. His arm, which was visibly crushed and bent the wrong way, even under the loose sleeves.
“There is no heat signature, sir.” the AI responded softly, almost as if she understood what was happening here. But that was impossible because this wasn’t happening.
“Why didn’t Karen tell me he was hurt? Or track to this location? Why didn’t he use her to get help? Why-” he paused, voice stuck in his throat as he finally, really processed. Of course Karen hadn’t alerted him. Of course the figure in front of him – who he still couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the identity of, for fear that it may make it suddenly true, as if it wasn’t already – hadn’t used his suit to get help. Tony had taken it from him. He had been trying to help and Tony had taken his suit, his one point of contact and safety, the one way for him to get help, and Tony had taken it from him. He had done this.
As he choked on a sob, Tony forced himself to gently grab the boy’s arm, knowing what was waiting turned away from him, but praying he was somehow wrong. Slowly, he turned the figure over.
Peter’s eyes, which had once shone bright with admiration at everything Tony did, now stared back at him, unblinking, blank, lifeless. His skin, which had been so soft and warm when they had hugged goodbye after a long day at the lab, was now cold and pale, blue from lack of oxygen. His chest wasn’t rising and falling at the familiar pace he had known from the boy falling asleep on his side during movies. The heartbeat that Tony had listened nervously to from med bay monitors during the many trips Peter had taken there, was now silent. Everything Peter was gone.
“No. No, Peter. You’re okay. You’ll be okay. I just need to get you to the med bay-”
“Sir, I’m afraid Peter Parker is dead. The med bay will not be able to help.” Friday interjected quietly.
“Shut up Friday!” he shouted, turning back to the lifeless form of the boy that he was now cradling against his chest. “Don’t listen to her, Pete. You and I both know you’re strong. You’re a fighter. You can come back. You’ll be okay.” But even as Tony said the words, his voice wavered, tears streaking down the dust that was now coating his face, from when he had opened the face plate to get a better look, hoping his screen had been playing a trick on him.
Before Friday could interject again, Tony disconnected her, gripping the body to his chest with shaking arms and turning, determination covering the panic and guilt and grief laced through every vein of Tony’s body, setting towards the tower at full speed.
The building was packed up for the move, but Tony had saved the med bay as the last thing to move, setting it to be packed up a day after everything else, just in case someone – he couldn’t think about the fact that it had really been just in case a very specific someone who had a tendency of getting himself into an absurd amount of trouble for his age – needed medical attention before the compound was fully set up.
He blasted through the open window – ignoring the way his throat stung at the knowledge that that specific window was always left open for a certain young spidery vigilant – and gently lowered Peter onto the bed he always preferred. It has a good view through the window and it’s close to the TV so I can watch Star Wars. Tony shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the burning in his chest at the memory of the voice, the voice that he would give anything to hear right now.
“Helen, help him.” Tony barked, not bothering to look towards the woman as she rushed over.
“What happened? Was he out…” Helen’s voice trailed off as she took in the boy. The dark blood stains across various spots of his outfit, already dried. The glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. The lines cutting through the dust on the face, clearly made from now long dried tears. The way everything was wrong, in a way that not even an incredible healing factor could fix. The way the body was completely still, not even shallow breaths remaining.
“Oh, Tony…” she whispered, blinking away the tears in her eyes. She knew how to be professional, but with someone so young, with Peter? Peter, who she had seen in the med bay so often they seemed to practically live together. Peter, who always wore a bright smile and positive attitude even when nearly dying. Peter, who had lost everything but continued to fight for the little guy and never harmed anyone if he could avoid it. Peter, who was only fifteen. Helen found herself wiping away tears streaming down her face, unable to hold them back.
“What? What do you mean? Save him! This is your job! You save him! Just like every other time!” Tony was now frantic, looking at her with wild eyes as he gripped the railing of the bed hard enough to start to dent it. His breathing was coming in rapid heaves that he couldn’t seem to control, though he may not have even noticed as his panicked eyes flicked between Helen and Peter.
“Tony, I’m so sorry. This isn’t like the other times. It’s too-”
“DON’T! Don’t tell me it’s too late! It’s not! It can’t be!” Tears were streaking down both of their faces now, as Helen stared at Tony and Tony glared back. “It can’t be too late, Helen! This is- this is my- my kid! Helen, please. He’s my kid. Please. I never told him he’s my kid. Please.” Tony’s voice was quiet now, cracking as he looked down at his son laying in the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from him, nor could he make himself look up at Helen, who he knew was crying and looking at him with heartbreak, grief, guilt, and pity shining clearly through her eyes.
“Tony. I’m sorry. He’s gone. Your son is gone.”
Tony fell to his knees beside the bed, still clutching Peter’s hand with a firm but gentle grip. A wail ripped its way out of Tony’s throat as he looked at the boy. He knew it was true. But he hated himself for acknowledging it. He knew could never forgive himself for so many things about that night, but right now, all he could focus on was that he would never forgive himself for acknowledging that his son was dead.
~~~~~
The next year went by in a haze. Tony had passed out next to Peter’s bed, hyperventilating so much he couldn’t cling to consciousness any longer. He had woken to the bed empty and was filled with an anger he wasn’t aware was possible, shouting incoherently at any person who came near him, knocking over and breaking anything in sight. In the end, he was left alone. Completely alone. Peter would have stayed with him, he thought.
Then, his next memory was the funeral. Not that he remembered much of it. He felt like he wasn’t present in his body. But he did remember seeing the casked lowered into the ground, heart shattering at the soft thud as it touched the dirt. As they buried him, he had to use all his willpower to resist the urge to claw at the dirt and dig up his son. He doesn’t belong in there, underground. He is supposed to be swinging in the air of the city. He’s probably so scared, being buried, just like with the vulture. Tony had broken down in the bathroom, crying until he threw up. He didn’t have the heart to go back out.
The only thing that registered in Tony’s mind nowadays was his visits to Peter. He would bring a Star Wars picnic blanket and sit off to the side of his grave, not wanting to put more pressure on him by sitting on his grave. Most of the time, he would talk quietly to him. About life, stuff at the lab, interesting interactions with the other Avengers. Sometimes he would sit in silence, though. Others, he would play Star Wars on his phone, or build a small lego set there. Sometimes, some of the Avengers joined him. Sometimes he would run into Ned, MJ, or May, though when he did, he would quickly leave, afraid to confront the guilt that bubbled up even more at the sight of them.
Now, he was sitting at his grave again. He didn’t know what time it was, had given up on keeping track of time, the date, anything, months ago. All he knew was it was dark. Not that daylight seemed to make much of a difference any more.
“It’s a nice night out, Peter. You would have enjoyed swinging around tonight.” he swallowed, voice thick. “I’m sorry you’re not here to. I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had tried to say the words so many times, but often found that his voice abandoned him the moment he tried. This time, though, he finally spoke. “I’m so sorry, kid. And I’m sorry I never told you how much I care about you. That you’re my son. That I love you. I do. I love you, Peter. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”