Chapter Text
The frantic race was over. Peter’s senses, usually a cacophony of incoming data, were now honed to a single, profound truth: he had made it. He had burst through the doors of the Raft’s medical bay, his heart a raw, exposed nerve, and there he was. Daimon.
He lay on the pristine white sheets, a stark contrast to the vivid memories Peter held of him. Pale. So incredibly pale that his skin seemed almost translucent, stretched taut over sharp, unfamiliar angles of bone. His frame, once strong and vibrant, was now heartbreakingly thin, fragile like a piece of delicate glass. Peter’s breath hitched in his throat, a sob catching as he saw the faint, erratic tremor that ran through Daimon’s emaciated form. This wasn't the man he’d known, not truly. This was a shadow, a whisper of a life clinging precariously to existence.
Peter moved to the bedside, his movements as gentle and careful as if approaching a frightened bird. He knelt, his knees hitting the cold floor with an unheeded thud, and reached out, his hand trembling as he touched Daimon’s arm. The skin was unnervingly cool, almost clammy, but the contact was real. He was here. He was alive.
"Daimon," Peter whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing relief that threatened to break him. His fingers, still stained with the grime of his desperate flight, gently traced the sharp line of Daimon's jaw, then the hollow of his cheekbone.
Daimon’s eyelids, heavy and bruised, fluttered open. His eyes, once a vibrant, mesmerizing gray, were now dulled, unfocused, but slowly, painfully, they settled on Peter's face. A flicker of recognition, faint but undeniable, sparked within them. His hand, so weak it was almost imperceptible, slowly, agonizingly, lifted. It was shaking violently, but it moved, inch by agonizing inch, until his fingertips brushed Peter’s cheek, cupping it with a feather-light touch.
"P-Peter?" The name was a mere breath, a raspy, broken sound that tore at Peter's soul. It was so low, so raspy, a ghost of the voice he remembered. But it was his voice. And he recognized Peter.
"I'm here," Peter choked out, pressing his cheek into Daimon’s cold hand, tears finally blurring his vision. "I'm right here, my love. I told you I'd come. I told you." He covered Daimon's hand with his own, holding it firm, warm, and steady. "Don't try to talk. Just rest. You're safe now. I'm not leaving you."
Daimon’s eyes, however, held a profound, aching sorrow. A single tear, clear and cold, tracked a path from his temple, disappearing into his hair. "You... shouldn't have," he whispered again, the words a raw, painful confession of his fear, of his self-sacrifice. "You should have stayed away. Saved... yourself."
Before Peter could even begin to formulate a response, to tell Daimon that saving him was saving himself, a harsh, metallic hiss ripped through the quiet of the medical bay. The double doors exploded inwards, not from a violent breach, but from an intentional, powerful opening. The Avengers. They stood silhouetted against the stark corridor lights, a grim, unyielding wall of opposition. Tony, Iron Man's armor gleaming. Steve, shield at the ready. Natasha, Clint, Sam, Bucky, Yelena, even Bruce standing at the back, his expression etched with a familiar, weary sadness.
Peter’s body tensed, every muscle screaming defiance. He instinctively pulled Daimon closer, shielding him with his own body, a desperate, protective instinct overriding all else. "No," he breathed, his voice a low growl, more animal than human. "You won't take him. Not again."
"Peter, we don't want to hurt him," Steve said, his voice, usually so firm, now laced with a desperate plea. "We just need to ensure his condition is stable. You need to let us help him."
"Help him?" Peter snarled, the word dripping with venom. "You put him in here! You let him rot! You think I'm going to let you 'help' him now? I don't trust any of you!"
Tony stepped forward, his helmet retracting, revealing a face etched with a profound, agonizing sorrow. "Kid, please," he said, his voice strained. "We're not going to fight you. We just need to take both of you back. To the Tower. Where he can get proper care, and we can talk. Properly."
Peter just shook his head, pressing his face into Daimon’s shoulder, his heart a frantic, terrified drum against his ribs. He felt Daimon stir weakly in his arms, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. He knew what they wanted. They wanted to separate them again. They wanted to take Daimon, and then they'd deal with Peter. He wouldn't let them. He couldn't let them.
He was about to launch into another desperate, defiant plea when a low hiss filled the air. A thin, silver mist began to billow from unseen vents in the ceiling, quickly filling the sterile room. It wasn't smoke. It was something else. Something heavy and sweet that coated his tongue and burned faintly in his nostrils. His vision, already blurred with tears, began to swim. His body, already pushed past its limits, felt a profound, overwhelming weariness wash over him, stealing his strength, draining the last vestiges of his defiance. He tried to fight it, to move, to shout, but his limbs felt like lead, his thoughts like molasses.
The last thing he registered was Tony's face, a blur of profound sadness, leaning close. "I'm sorry, kid," Tony whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing sorrow. "I really am. But we couldn't let you hurt yourself anymore. Or him."
Then, the world tilted. Peter's grip on Daimon loosened, his head lolled to the side, and the overwhelming darkness consumed him, pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep. The rhythmic beeping of the medical machines was the last sound he heard before oblivion claimed him.