#irondad fandom

At first he tries to ride it out. He squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his head into his arms on his desk, hoping above all else that Mr. Harrington doesn’t single him out for his behavior. Time passes in a haze of pulsing pain and muffled words until Mr. Harrington plays a math tutorial over the projector and the audio blasts through on full volume.

The whole class jumps, but for Peter it’s different. It whites out his vision and makes his knees weak. He must make a sound because the entire class turns to face him, some laughing and others with looks of mild concern.

“S-sorry. Bathroom?” he asks, trying to find Mr. Harrington through his slowly clearing vision.

“Sure, Peter. Go ahead.”

Peter holds his breath to keep the pain at bay and uses the wall to keep himself steady as he leaves the class. He doesn’t realize Ned has followed him out until he stumbles, his friend’s familiar hand grabbing his wrist.

“Migraine?” Ned asks, his voice hardly above a whisper. Peter can smell the pepper he had on his sandwich for lunch.

“Yeah. Really bad.”

“You should go home.”

“May’s at work.”

“I’ll call Happy.”

Peter wants to argue, but he can’t find it within himself to muster up the energy. All he wants is for this to end. If you hadn’t been so distracted, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten your brain bashed in. Then none of this would have happened.

“Peter?”

“Do whatever you want, Ned.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

Peter is only half aware of Ned’s phone call and even less aware of Ned’s gentle hand guiding him to the office and finally to the front doors. After a particularly bad spike of pain he only realizes he’s in Happy’s car by the smell of leather and Happy’s ritzy cologne.

“Where’s Ned?”

For once, he’s in the passenger’s seat. He has a clear view of Happy’s pinched expression at the close of his question. “You just said bye to him. You don’t remember?”

“Oh…yeah. Sorry.”

“Let’s just get you upstate, kid.”

Peter groans. The light is too bright. Everything too loud. He sinks down as far as his seatbelt will allow and clamps his hands against his ears.

“Peter.”

Peter swats away Happy’s hand. “What?”

“Jesus, kid. Did you hear anything I just said? What the hell is up with you?”

“Migraine,” Peter says through ground teeth. “Bad.”

“Alright. Okay. Just hang tight. We’ll have Bruce check you out.”

Done. Peter is done. He slides down against the door and presses his head hard against the window. It’ll pass, he tells himself in some half hearted, delirious hope. It’ll pass.

But it doesn’t, and by the time Happy parks in front of the compound he can’t see out of one eye and the whole world is simultaneously the quietest and loudest it's ever been. He can’t get out of the car by himself. He can’t even unclick his seatbelt. Happy loops a strong arm around his shoulder and drags him up the steps, the concrete beneath them warping and shifting.

“Jesus, Peter. You’re three shades away from a corpse.”

Peter can’t do anything more than moan unhappily against Happy’s side. They only make it half a dozen steps inside before Peter digs in his heels, his mouth salivating and his stomach protesting. “Hap…”

With a complete lack of coordination, Peter spins away from Happy’s side and lunges for the garbage bin by the doors. Everything comes to a head. The noise. The smells. The pain. Every heave brings tears out of his eyes.

He collapses.

He knows Happy is kneeling beside him. He knows Tony has come into the room, too. Both of their hearts are erratic. They’re sweating. Happy is mumbling curses under his breath.

“Stop…” Peter pleads. He needs it to be quiet, for the agony to end.

“Oh buddy.” Tony’s hands are hovering over where Peter is slumped against the trash can like he’s terrified to touch him. Maybe he is. “Bruce and Helen are waiting upstairs. We’re going to help you, alright?”

“Dying,” Peter says. Because that’s what it feels like.

Tony’s eyes hold a new fear to them. It’s like nothing Peter has ever seen from him. “Jesus. Help me get him up,” he says to Happy.

Together, they lift Peter between them. The contact is scalding but the connection between his pain and his voice have become unhinged. Maybe his brain will explode. Maybe the pain will strike down through his heart.

His breaths are loud. Ragged. Harsh.

“Help!”

Peter is layed back on crinkly paper that makes him wince and writhe. There are hands on him. Voices. Questions that he can’t even comprehend let alone answer.

Then, a coolness to his bloodstream. Something soothing that he latches onto with every remaining part of him that can respond. It spreads until he can’t feel his fingers and toes. Until he can’t feel his arms and legs.

And finally, until he can’t feel the pain.

------

Tony is tired of watching Peter carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s tired of sitting in medbay.

He’s tired of the way his heart aches when Peter comes to, groggy and unfamiliar with his surroundings until his eyes land on Tony. When all the tension in his shoulders disappears and the drugs take him back under.

He’s tired of not being able to protect his kid.

Peter wakes up for good three hours after they sedate him. His doe eyes catch Tony in the low light of medbay, his eyelids droopy and a guilty half-smile curving the side of his mouth. “Hey Mr. Stark,” he says, his voice rough with disuse and sleep. “You didn’t have to sit with me.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t just walk in now?” he counters, though they both know it isn’t true.

“It’s one of my spider powers.”

“Is lying one of your spider powers too?”

Peter’s smile grows, but he doesn’t laugh. There’s an unresolved tension in his face, like he’s pinched a nerve.

“How’re you feeling?” Tony asks him.

“Well, I can see out of both eyes now. So a lot better.”

“I’ve had bad migraines before, kiddo. But that episode you had just about takes the cake.”

“It was bad,” Peter admits, which leads Tony to believe that it really was off the kid’s pain chart. Bad enough that he let Ned drag him out of school. Bad enough that he let Happy get involved.

“You told me you were dying,” Tony says. “Do you remember that?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Was that your first migraine, Peter?”

“Not exactly.”

Tony’s stomach sinks. As if the kid hasn’t been through enough as it is. “Do you get them often?”

“Ever since I got that concussion in June.”

Peter’s honesty startles Tony. It also scares the living hell out of him. “You’ve been getting migraines like that since June? That was months ago! Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“Why do you think?” Peter asks, with just enough bite to the question for Tony to really consider it. Both their shoulders sink, their gazes drifting.

“I wish you would tell me when you’re hurting,” Tony says eventually. Quietly. He sees Peter turn to face him out of the corner of his eye, though he keeps his own focus on the window.

“I don’t want to worry you,” Peter says, equally quiet.

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s exactly how it works.”

Tony squares his jaws. Straightens his shoulders. He grasps Peter’s hand tightly in his fist, who looks down in surprise before raising his chin to look at him. “Peter. Listen close, because I’m not going to say it twice. You don’t have to do things alone. You have people who care about you in your corner. You have me.”

Peter’s eyes shimmer. His chest stills as if he’s stopped breathing. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, giving the boy’s hand a squeeze. “‘Oh’.”

Peter clears his throat. “Mr. Stark?”

“What is it, kiddo?”

“I think- uh, I might need some help. With my migraines.”