Work Text:
Pain. Pain everywhere. There was no escaping it. The fight wasn’t over yet, but it might as well have been. Peter couldn’t move. He wasn’t strong enough. The pain was too much. The collapsing of the building had brought back too many memories. He couldn’t breathe. The memories were overtaking him. He could hear his name being called, being screamed but it might as well have been a whisper for how well he heard it. He felt strong arms around him. Turning him over. Telling him to breathe. But he couldn’t do that. Could he? He tested it and took a shuddering breath in, his lungs straining to get the greatly needed oxygen.
“That’s it, kid. Just keep breathing.”
Peter continued to take in shaking breaths, relieved that he could do it again, and looked up. Tony was kneeling over him, a worried look overtaking his face. Peter gave him a quivering smile and tried hard to make sure it didn’t look like a grimace. By his facial expressions Peter could tell he didn’t do a very good job, but Tony still tried to smile back.
And suddenly he was there. The monster that had killed so many without remorse, who had been haunting them for months. There was no stopping him. He drove forward and thrust his sword into Tony’s stomach. Tony just looked down in shock at the blade sticking out of his chest incomprehensibly as red starts to dip down onto the ground. The man grinned maliciously before yanking the sword back out and Tony collapsed, as if it had been the only thing holding him up.
“DAD!” The scream tore itself from Peter’s throat as he saw him lying on the ground. The pool of crimson beneath him growing at an alarming rate. This seemed too familiar. Another memory of someone precious laying there, bleeding out. Peter screamed again and tried reaching for him. He crawled over, not caring about the monster or where he was or what he could do. All he cared about was getting to Tony’s side. When he finally reached him, he quickly scanned his figure, taking in his pale skin and glazed eyes. Eyes that were starting to flutter shut.
“NO!” Peter yelled as he shook him, knowing that him losing consciousness in this state would be very, very bad. His shaking seemed to work as Tony opened his eyes and locked on him for a second. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a splutter and a cough, blood choking him, finding its way out of his mouth and down his chin. Peter quickly turned him onto his side, his heart pounding as he watched his father-figure splutter, spitting out blood. Peter didn’t think he had ever felt so terrified in his life. Not when fighting the vulture, not when confronting any criminals, not even whenever he got hurt and had to fight for his life in the med bay. He didn’t think anything hurt this much either.
Tony continued coughing, but it began slowing down and eventually, he fell limp, despite Peter’s best attempts to keep him with him, keep him conscious. Keep him alive.
When his heart stopped, Peter thought he had gone deaf. He suddenly felt untethered, off balance. Like he’d missed a step on the stairs. Like a vital string holding him together had been cut and now there was an unravelling where there used to be a balanced pressure. Unmoored.
There was a ringing in his ears where there used to be something else.
But he hadn’t gone deaf, he could still hear the noise of battle around him. But the most important sound wasn’t there anymore. Peter thought his heart had stopped as well.
Everything was still for a second as Peter stared in disbelief at his father. Then everything came rushing back, knocking the air from his lungs again, but this time his dad wasn’t there to help him draw it back. He screamed and felt tears streaming down his face. He wanted to push some of that pain out, his chest was going to explode from it.
The battle was still going on around them, but Peter didn’t care anymore. What was the point of fighting for the world when his just died? He continued screaming out when suddenly, he felt hands gripping him, shaking him.
“Wake up, kid, it’s just a dream!” a voice shouted. The shaking continued and so did the voice.
Suddenly, the noises of fighting evaporated, the sight of his dad laying on the ground, unresponsive, was replaced with another picture of his dad, his concerned eyes swimming into view. Peter preferred this picture, no question.
“Good; you’re finally awake.” Seeing that Tony was alive and well in front of him, Peter flung himself from his mess of tangled sheets into his dad’s open arms.
Peter sobbed openly into his chest, not caring about how childish he may have seemed, just caring about the fact that he could feel Tony’s chest gently fall and rise with each of his breaths, the warmth radiating off him, and the heartbeat Peter could feel beating steadily. He let that strong, healthy, living heart sooth him as Tony brought a hand up to his hair and started running it though his curls. The combination of his heartbeat and the hand running through his hair managed to calm Peter out of his panic addled mind. Tony didn’t ask questions until his breathing had evened out.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Peter sniffed, shook his head. The thought of talking made him feel as though he were being choked.
“Come on,” Tony shifted after a moment, standing up. Peter wouldn’t let go of him, and Tony didn’t make him. Peter stayed buried in his father’s chest, Tony keeping an arm securely around him as he led them to the kitchen. He sat Peter down on a stool there, pressing a kiss to his head before moving away. Peter grabbed at some tissues on the counter, mopping up his face as his eyes followed Tony around, going through the process of making them hot chocolate. It was the cheap powder, the ready-made just add water stuff you can get anywhere and Peter’s lips formed an approximation of a smile for a second.
When he was young and had had nightmares, Ben or May had always made him hot chocolate. At the time, the cheap powder kind was all they could afford, and even that was pushing the budget sometimes. But it was always in the cupboard. Always ready for him. The taste of it, and even the slightly powdery texture felt like comfort. Reminded him of late nights as a child, wrapped in blankets and the love of his family. Warming him from every direction.
He had grown out of it eventually. Or, it was probably more truthful to say, he had learnt to hide his pain and fear away. After Ben had died, May was living a nightmare enough, she didn’t need to deal with him as well. So, his tears were soaked into his pillowcase and his sobs were muffled and bitten off.
The hot chocolate tub ran out. And wasn’t refilled. After all, Peter didn’t have nightmares anymore.
Peter could barely even remember telling Tony this. It was probably just a passing comment he had made, but, like so many, they weren’t that to Tony. Tony, who paid attention to everything he said, to the inflections in his tone when he said them and the look on his face, in his eyes. Tony who saw things no one expected him to.
Next time he had had a nightmare, Tony had nervously brought him a cup of hot chocolate, eyes half guarded. It was, frankly, disgusting. Too hot and bitter, too watery. Peter had burst into tears and Tony had almost scalded them, barely catching the mug before it spilt. He had looked so panicked until Peter had blubbered his way through telling him this was the best thing anyone had given him in years. Peter had drunk every last drop of it. So did Tony, though he grimaced his way through it. It was one of Peter’s fondest memories.
Slowly, Tony had gotten better at making it. He substituted the water for milk, got the proportions right, experimented with temperature, found a powder they both liked. Peter had a sneaky suspicion the hot chocolate powder was imported but he let it slide. It was delicious after all. Marshmallows were added on particularly hard nights.
Peter zoned back into the present when a warm mug was pressed into his hands, a kiss to his temple. He looked down to see if Tony had put any marshmallows in it and a surprised snort left him. On the top of his drink floated a single huge marshmallow. He looked up with a smile, the sight ridiculous and unexpected. Tony hid his smile as he retrieved his own mug and slid into the stool across from him, setting a plate of chocolate chip cookies between them.
Peter sipped his hot chocolate, eyes closing and a sigh slipping out in contentment. Pure liquid comfort. Tony really had become so good at making hot chocolate.
Tony dunked a cookie into his drink silently. Peter appreciated how Tony always let him come to him, to ground himself first and get his head on straight.
He took in the ragged tank top he was in. “Were you in the lab?” His voice was hoarse when he spoke. He grimaced and cleared it. Tony watched him softly.
“I’d just finished.”
That meant he had been on his way to bed. For some much needed sleep. Peter winced. “Sorry,” he whispered. Tony hummed, sipping his drink.
“You know I don’t mind.”
And he did. Usually. He just needed reminding sometimes, which was what Tony did. Peter sighed deeply, rubbing a hand down his face, then through his hair.
Tony handed him the second half of his cookie. Peter took it and began nibbling at it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It was a whisper in the dark, barely disturbing the calm cocoon they had made. Peter nodded, folding his arms around himself. Tony got up and rounded the table, pulling him into his chest.
Peter snuggled deeper into him and shook his head. He heard Tony sigh. “It will help,” he prompted “I promise.” Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh. Just thinking about it brought the tears back to his eyes but he blinked them away.
“It was the battle,” Peter began before he felt his dad stiffen. He remembered it as well as Peter did. It was close to impossible to forget it. “Except when he stabbed you, you didn’t survive,” He took a shuddering breath and had to pause to remind himself to breathe, which was becoming increasingly difficult as his throat had started to close up. He cleared his throat and tried to continue. “You died… In my arms.” That was as far as he got before his throat closed up completely and tears started sliding down his cheeks once again. Tony tightened his arms around him.
“Hey, its ok, you’re ok, I’m ok, everything is ok.” He kept up the steady stream of comforting words as Peter calmed down again and regained his ability to breathe.
He wipe his face with his sleeves, trying to erase the tears. “Sorry,” Peter sniffed, looking down at his lap. His dad hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his head back up gently.
“Don’t apologise,” he said softly. “Never apologise for these things. It’s alright. It’s not your fault.” gratefulness welled in his chest as well as an overwhelming feeling of love, so strong Peter had to voice it.
“I love you,” he said. Tony’s eyes softened, filling with the same emotion Peter was sure reflected what was in his.
“I love you too. Never forget that,” he whispered back. Peter nodded.
“I won’t.”
They continued to stare at each other for a while, taking each other in, hugging before Peter’s eyes darted away.
“Where did you even find such a big marshmallow?”
Tony huffed a laugh, tension broken. He broke away, ruffling Peter’s hair as he went back to his seat. “We’re in America, kid. Where dreams come true and all that.”
“What’s that got to do with marshmallows?”
Tony gave him a look, “What kid doesn’t dream of giant marshmallows?”
Peter grinned. “I see your point.”
They finished their hot chocolate and tidied up together. When walking back towards the bedrooms, Peter grabbed hold of Tony’s wrist.
“Can you stay with me tonight?” He asked, feeling his cheeks darken.
“Of course,” Tony replied before he could overthink it too much, becoming too embarrassed by the request and taking it back.
The pair climbed into bed and got settled under the blankets, wrapped in each other’s arms. Peter rested his head on Tony’s chest, feeling his steady heart beat directly beneath his ear. He felt safe and secure as he fell back asleep. No more dreams plagued him that night.