#tw:hurt

It was Tony’s worst nightmare.

So many years later and it was still haunting him — gnawing at him in the back of his mind, terrifying him at the most inconvenient moments. His therapist gave him exercises: count to ten and breathe. It doesn’t always work, so Tony started carrying around objects that helped. Scraps of fabric from Peter’s old spider-suit, a pencil Peter chewed on and left in the workshop, threadbare varsity sweaters with Peter’s name stitched to the back.

After Thanos, after the end of the world, after Tony finally had time to calm down and breathe, he realized how much he loved his boy. He watched him return to school, join sports (as a way to release pent up superhero energy), graduate his classes (top grades, immediate acceptance and full ride to any top college of his choice), and pull Tony aside any time he was having a panic attack, help his head between his shoulders, and Peter’s once small frame slowly getting larger, shielding him from the world. Peter meant safety — and Peter meant home.

Most days Tony was okay.

Most days, Tony would occupy himself by running Stark Industries with Pepper, hanging out with with Morgan in the park or a bookstore, sneaking small kisses with Peter before and after dinner. Pepper and Tony had separated amicably. Their priorities changed after the war and as much as they loved each other, their worlds and perspectives too different. Despite the seemingly endless counseling sessions and finally the divorce, Pepper would forever and always be his best friend and soulmate. Plus, they had agreed that between Morgan, Peter, and May the five of them still made an amazing team and great family.

Most days Tony forgets that he is the epitome of trauma. The death of his parents, the kidnapping, almost dying, years of battling, being a superhero, the world literally resting on his shoulders would disappear and fade into wisps of memories in the back of his mind. Morgan’s laughter and Peter’s smile would clear a path and Tony would forget that he had ever known such terror and unhappiness.

But most days don’t last.

Some days...some days Tony can’t make it out of bed. His body would be paralyzed with phantom pains from old wounds, his brain unable to process that he had long since retired. The Mark 85 sat quietly in the back of the workshop collecting dust (before the cleaner bots polished it up) and Tony would stare at the dents and scratches, mind immediately flashing back to that last battle.

I should be dead.

He’d hear the ringing and the rush of blood—the pain from hitting his head on the floor dulled by fear as the memories flash through. He’d be cold, and his face wet from tears he didn’t know he had cried.

Tony!

“I’m sorry…”

Tony!

Tony! Come back to me!

“I’m so so sorry, P-pete, I’m so sorry…”

“Tony!”

The ringing would fade and the dust would settle and he’d open his eyes, blinded by a mop of brown curls, the scent of apples and cinnamon would take over his senses.

“Tony! You with me?” Peter’s concerned cries would wash over him, soothing over old wounds and scars, “FRIDAY alerted me of your heart rate and I found you on the floor. Did you hit your head? Do I need to get Strange in here?”

“N-no,” Tony groans, “I’m fine, sorry, just a small bump.”

Peter would wipe away Tony’s tears and he’d press kisses over them, slowly, softly, and the taste of Peter would overwhelm the dread and Tony would feel grounded again.

“Thank you for finding me kid, as always.” His shaky fingers would stroke Peter’s face and in return, he’d lean into Tony’s touch.

“Always.”

Another kiss.

“I’m always here for you.”

Most nights Peter slept shirtless. Something about the spider bite making his blood run hot, Tony never minded.

But on the bad nights, Peter would make sure to sleep in the soft sweaters and hoodies he knew Tony liked. He’d slip his old threadbare varsity sweater over Tony’s head, the collar stretched out from use, the sleeves a bit too long.

“Sorry about the growth spurt Mr. Stark,” Peter had joked the first time Tony made a comment about their heights.

On the bad nights, Peter would make sure he kept the hallway lights on dim, Morgan’s old Iron Man night light plugged into the socket by Tony’s side of the bed, and that the air conditioner was turned on so Peter wouldn’t sweat through his clothes. He’d wrap Tony up in his arms, making sure his arms shielded him from his nightmares.

He’d make sure to fall asleep after Tony’s breathing evened out and his body relaxed, fingers combing through his salt and pepper hair, humming Morgan’s old lullabies in Tony’s ear.

Peter would make sure to kiss the top of Tony’s head throughout the night, adjust himself to make sure they were always touching, spooning up behind him, or shifting so his chest rested under Tony’s head.

“I can always fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat Peter,” Tony had murmured one night, pressing his right ear into Peter’s chest.

Ba-dum

Tony would play with the drawstring of Peter’s hoodie, speaking softly, scared that anything above a whisper would bring him back to the battlefield, back to Peter’s body fading into dust, back into his nightmares.

“It reminds me that you’re here, not...lost.”

Ba-dum

“I’ll always be here Tony,” Peter would whisper back, stroking Tony’s hair as the soft glow of the night light bounced off their bodies, “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

Ba-dum

“I know. I just…” Peter would press a kiss, stealing the words from Tony’s lips.

“I’ve got you Mr. Stark. You’re safe now.”

Safe.

Tony would smile, bury his nose into Peter’s hoodie, inhaling his scent. Apples and cinnamon.

“I know. Goodnight Pete, I love you.”

“I love you too Tony.”

Safe.