Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tony died. He’s sure of that. He remembers it very distinctly: big dramatic sacrifice, cold limbs, crying friends, the whole shebang. And while he hadn’t been happy about it—screw going gently into that dark night, he had a life he wanted to live—he had accepted it. His life for the universe, more than a fair trade.

Except here he is in the middle of a jungle, alive, with a bunch of angry, ugly aliens trying to kill him. At least, he thinks he’s alive. Either that, or the afterlife is a whole lot weirder than anyone ever let on.

It’s been a day and a half. Thankfully, the Iron Man suit somehow made it to this hellhole with him, so he’s managed to fend off his inexplicable foes, but he’s not sure how much longer he can keep that up. They keep appearing out of nowhere; different species, but all fierce, deadly, and apparently obsessed with attacking for no reason. No, that’s not fair. Maybe they do have a reason. It could be a very good reason for all he knows, but they haven’t stopped to tell him about it.

He’s currently camped out in a cave, recovering from an uncomfortably close call with a creature that would most accurately be described as a troll. It’s raining, he’s cold. The only thing he’s eaten here are a handful of very sour berries that so far haven’t killed him, but also haven’t proven very helpful at quelling his hunger.

He’s been beaming a distress signal out into the universe, but he doesn’t have much hope it’ll do him any good. After Titan, Nebula helped him install longer-range comms into his suit, but those still rely on someone, anyone, knowing he’s worth looking for. Given the whole being dead thing, that doesn’t seem like a good bet.

All of which adds up to this: when Peter Parker comes bounding into the cave, wearing his Spider-Man suit, carrying a backpack, and shouting “Mr. Stark!” with frantic, disbelieving delight, Tony is almost one-hundred percent sure he’s hallucinating.

That only lasts a few seconds, until Peter drops his bag, rips off his mask, revealing a dazzling smile, and throws himself at Tony, a blur of red and black and arms and laughter. Tony’s never had a hallucination this real: firm and solid and also sopping wet and shivering, clinging to him so tightly it’s literally hard to breathe.

For a few, uncomprehending seconds, he decides to not question it; just accepts that the universe has given him a miracle. He’s earned it. His hand finds Peter’s hair and he weaves his fingers into the damp mess of it, each strand proof that somehow, something has finally gone right. That, or the berries are damn convincing drugs.

Peter babbles an incomprehensible blend of “I can’t believe it,” and “I missed you so much,” and “this is crazy,” eager exclamations slowly trailing off as Tony rubs circles into his scalp. Eventually, he falls silent with a content sigh, nose nudging at Tony’s neck.

“So,” Tony says after letting the moment linger long past indulgence, into luxury. “Do you know what the fuck is going on?”

***

It turns out Peter does know what the fuck is going on. After extracting himself from their embrace, he explains the situation in a ramble so familiar, it makes Tony’s heart squeeze tight. He’s missed the sound of that voice.

Apparently, he had indeed died. But he’s been brought back by a bunch of mad, multi-dimensional god-like beings—“Not Thor-god. More like the people Thor’s people would call gods”—who apparently get their jollies by resurrecting “great warriors” and throwing them into a very large, very natural-seeming stadium to watch them fight to the death. Last warrior standing gets the honor of staying alive, which is an important detail the masterminds behind the whole thing just assume all their chosen contestants will immediately understand, because apparently god-like assholes are myopic about what counts as common knowledge across the universe.

“It’s like The Hunger Games,” Peter concludes, plopping to the ground, cross-legged. “But with aliens.”

“Kid, do I look like a person who read The Hunger Games?” Tony asks, mostly as a way to buy time to process the complete absurdity of the situation.  

“No,” Peter concedes. “But you totally know what it is.”

That’s true, so Tony drops it, sinking to sitting, facing Peter, knees almost touching. Okay. So, on one hand, none of what he was just told makes any sense. On the other hand, it makes no sense in the same way talking raccoons and magical stones that can destroy the universe make no sense, so who is he to say it’s not true?

“Fine, that covers me. But what are you doing here? Please don’t tell me you died, too.” He’s not sure he’d be able to handle that. Not after everything he went through to bring him back. Not after everything he gave up to make sure he had a universe to stay back in.

“Nope, still alive,” Peter tells him, running his hands through his hair, which has gotten long. Close up, his face looks different, too. Leaner, the jaw more defined. “I got your signal. It was good timing. I was just a few quadrants away, flying home from a mission with the Guardians—”

“A what now?” Tony cuts in. Maybe he should have started by asking how long it’s been. As far as he’s concerned, he faded away from the battlefield and woke up on this planet a moment later, but if “a mission with the Guardians” is something Peter can say with nonchalant ease, he must have missed a few things in the meantime.  

“Yeah.” Peter waves his hand, brushing the question to the side, as if it’s unimportant. “That’s a thing we do now.”

“It is?” It has been a while, then. Fuck. How much of Morgan’s childhood has he missed? “How long was I dead?”

Peter drops his gaze, mouth twisting into a grimace. He chews at his lip before finally replying, “Um, a bit.”

“Peter…”

“Four years.” He says it quietly, hands curling into tight balls. When he raises his eyes again, they’re sad in a way Tony recognizes. He knows the feeling behind that expression, familiar as his own skin: deep, wrenching guilt. He hates seeing it on Peter’s face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I tried so hard to figure out how to bring you back. Nothing worked.”

“Morgan?” Tony asks, and can’t quite keep the pain out of his voice. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Peter assures him. He perks up as he corrects, “No, great! Just started third grade. She’s really advanced, taking a bunch of after-school classes and stuff, but Ms. Potts insists she not skip years because of the social consequences, you know?”

Yeah, Tony does know. And Pepper knows he knows, has heard all about the “social consequences” of graduating from MIT at the age most people are worrying about prom. Has seen more of the long-term effects than anyone but Rhodey.

“That’s good, exactly what I would want.” He manages to hold back the tears as he says it. He aches for what he’s missed: not just Morgan, but everything implied in Peter’s fond smile, the way he rattles off the details of her life. The intimacy of it, the family that’s been built in his absence. The family that was supposed to be his, all the people he loves the most in the world, finally together. Alive. “And Pep?”  

“She’s good, too. Really good, actually.” Peter glances away again, and Tony’s stomach drops. He can guess what’s coming next before the words leave Peter’s mouth: “She just got engaged. He’s very nice.”

Well, fuck. He did tell her to move on, and she’s always been so much better at listening to him than he is to her. He’s hit with a series of emotions that are too hard to process all at once: jealousy, anger, heartbreak.

Relief.

Relief that she’s happy. And, a little bit, in a terrible, defeated part of him, relief that whatever happens next, he won’t have to pull himself together to be the man she deserves when he gets back to Earth. What with the running and killing and barely surviving, he hasn’t had a lot of time for self-reflection since he snapped back into being on the hard forest floor, but he has a sneaking suspicion that dying and then waking up to this shit has set him back on the stability scale. He’s spent the last day wanting nothing more than to be very, very drunk.

At least he won’t be letting her down again.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. “Are you okay?”

Tony shakes himself. Dealing with the emotional intricacies of missing four years of his daughter’s life and losing his wife in the process will have to wait. None of that matters if he doesn’t get off this planet alive.

“Yeah, kid, you know me, always rolling with the punches.” He catches Peter’s eye and forces himself to smile in what he hopes is a convincingly confident way. “So, what is this, a rescue mission? Please tell me you have a spaceship somewhere nearby, because I don’t think we can talk these other warriors into an ‘I am Spartacus’ solution here.”

Peter responds to the question with an expression Tony does not like. He doesn’t like the explanation that goes along with the expression any better. It turns out this planet is surrounded by some sort of shield that ate up Peter’s ship on entry. “But that’s okay,” he insists. “It was supposed to happen!”

Because apparently the Guardians are rushing in this direction to bring the shield down and mount a daring rescue using the power of winging it. It’s nice to know not everything has changed in the last four years. Too bad about how this “plan” sounds like a great way to never get off the planet.

“So why did you come at all?” Tony asks. If he’s going to die again because the Plucky Space Brigade can’t get their shit together, he doesn’t see why the one person he’d been willing to risk his family for has to go down with him. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better about the situation.

“I’m the messenger-slash-backup,” Peter explains, voice gone cheery in a deeply false way. “And also,” he adds, gesturing at his bag, “bearer of the homing device, which is kind of essential to the whole thing. And it’s not a problem, Mr. Stark. We have the easy part: just stay alive until they get here.”

“And how long might that be?” Having met the Guardians, Tony has a feeling he’s not going to like the answer to this question.

“A day? Maybe two. Okay, probably two. Three at the outside.”

Tony laughs darkly. “Oh, great. No big deal. Just a few more days trying to survive, locked in a death match with the universe’s greatest warriors. What could go wrong?”

Peter’s lips twitch into a sardonic smile that matches Tony’s mood.

“Yeah,” he agrees, dropping the forced optimism. “I’ll admit it’s not a foolproof plan. But hey, at least you’ve got me.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a bar, tossing it in Tony’s direction. “I have superpowers and food. That counts for something, right?”

The bar is covered in a plastic wrapper, grey, adorned in unrecognizable characters. Tony rips it open and bites into it with animalistic eagerness, stomach twisting with hunger pangs he’s been trying to ignore. It’s dry and kind of peppery, not at all pleasant, but at least it’s sustenance. He nods with his mouth full.

“Yeah, and the company’s not half bad, either,” he adds after the bar is gone.

Peter breaks into a real smile at that, as wide as the one he’d worn when he first dashed into the cave.

Yeah, the company’s not half bad. The only thing is, if anything happens to him, Tony will never, ever, ever forgive himself.

The one upside to being dead was he hadn’t had to worry about that kind of thing anymore.

***

It’s already getting dark and the rain’s picked up, so they decide to stay in the cave. It’s dark and damp, but at least it’s inside from the downpour. Everything’s too wet to even think about starting a fire—plus, the light might attract attention—so Tony resorts to suiting up just for the heater.

“Resurrection I get,” Tony muses as the nanobots close around him in a familiar embrace. “For a certain value of ‘get,’ anyway. But how’d my armor end up here?”

Peter levels him with a devastatingly disbelieving look. “I told you these are ancient multidimensional beings with the power of resurrection, and you’re wondering how they managed to recreate your armor? Really? It’s not like you’d be much fun for them without it.”

Yeah, okay, on further reflection, that was a dumb question.

“Fine.” Tony watches as Peter activates the heater in his own suit, steam rising around him, making his outline glow faintly in the fading light. “What about you? The Iron Spider not doing it for you anymore?”

“The same shield that fried my ship fried the suit when we came in,” Peter explains. “I think I was mildly electrocuted, actually.”

“Excuse you?” Tony’s sure his face is conveying exactly how appalled he is at the casual way Peter tossed out being electrocuted, like it’s barely worth mentioning.

“Mildly!” Peter insists, waving at his body, as if the fact that he’s standing makes it okay. “Very mildly. Really, Mr. Stark, totally no big deal. Sucks not to have the suit, but I’m good.”

Tony decides not to press the issue. But he marks it down: four years later, and the kid still has no sense of self preservation.

The cave is full of boulders, which they roll into piles across the entrance in a half-hearted attempt to make the opening less obvious. It’s not very effective, but at least they’ll have a little warning if anyone tries to break in.

As they work, Peter fills Tony in on details of what he’s missed. The Avengers are still around, but they’re not really a team, more a loose collection of superheroes coordinated by Fury for the “most efficient deployment of resources,” a phrase Peter says with the rote dullness of someone repeating a worn talking point. Reading between the sighs and strained attempts at making the new system sound effective, Peter seems to find the whole thing more of a burden than a source of support.

Tony’s hit with a wave of nostalgia for training exercises and parties at the tower, that period where the place was full and friendly. It was really only a brief moment, a flash of something that could have been great if they hadn’t all been a little too themselves, but it still looms large, the ideal he’d always hoped they’d get back to, one day. Apparently not.

Peter switches to talking about school. He’d gone to MIT (“Just like you, Mr. Stark!”) and graduated in only two and a half years, which he announces proudly, clearly expecting Tony to be impressed.

“What, did you stop patrolling?” Tony asks, startled.

Peter looks affronted. “Of course not. They have crime in Boston, too. I mean, not Cambridge so much, so I covered more ground. Friendly, city-wide Spider-Man.”

“You graduated in two and a half years, with patrolling? I know you’re smart, kid, but when did you have time to have fun?”

“I had more important things to worry about than fun,” Peter replies with a shrug, hoisting one of the smaller boulders on top of the base layer they’ve already put in place.

Yeah, on further reflection, if the Avengers still had a compound, Peter probably would’ve skipped college altogether. Screw nostalgia.  

While Peter continues to monologue, moving large rocks with ease as he explains his work at Oscorp, Tony tries to catalogue all the ways he’s changed. It’s hard, attempting to compare the young man in front of him to the teenage version he essentially hadn’t seen in five years. But he’d spent more of those five years than he’d like to admit thinking about that teenager. Looking at pictures, watching those silly videos he liked to make. Dreaming about him, nightmares of Titan and, sometimes, when his subconscious really wanted to fuck with him, something a little more pleasant and also so much worse. So he’s pretty sure most differences he’s noticing are the real thing.

He’s taller, broader, still lean and compact, but a little bigger all around, in a way that suits him. More confident, too. It’s there in the way he carries himself; back straighter, limbs less flailing. In his voice as well: he still talks a mile a minute, but there’s a new steadiness under the speed, more purpose to the way the words build on each other.

It all suits him. Which is something Tony is going to choose to ignore for so many reasons, thank you.

What suits him less is the undercurrent of world-weariness. Most of his chat still has the bright spark that’s always made Tony smile, that remarkable optimism, out of place on a poor kid from Queens who lost so much at such a young age. But sometimes his words catch as he drops another horrible tidbit about the way society hasn’t fixed itself. The economic crash. Riots. Food shortages. Hints of division within the team. Peter says “Fury” with bite, though he doesn’t share what the director has done to piss him off.

He’s carrying a weight Tony understands completely, and it makes him want to scream. He’d worked so hard to keep him from taking on the whole world too young, and now look. Of course, what else did he expect? This is what he gets for dying.  

And the worst part is, Peter doesn’t blame him at all. In fact, sometimes Tony glances over and catches Peter staring at him as if he’s just astonished to be looking at him. Astonished, and grateful.

That, Tony understands, too.

They finally get all the boulders in place, leaving them in an empty, dark cave with nothing left to do but sit back down. So that’s what they do, facing each other, Peter going crossed-legged again. Tony, whose knees aren’t really up for that, turns his suit off and splays his legs out in front of him, relieved to be able to relax, even a little. Peter digs into his bag, pulling out a small flask. He takes a sip, then hands it over to Tony.

“I’m guessing you need that more than I do,” he says. “It’s yours.”

Tony gulps it down gratefully. He’d gotten so used to being thirsty, his body barely knows what to do with the taste of water.

“So,” he asks when the flask is empty, “how much more where that came from?”

“Not very much,” Peter reports apologetically. “Not many more of the bars, either. I was already running low on supplies by the time your signal came through.”

That pings something in Tony’s mind, a question that’s been lingering, almost asked hours ago but dropped in favor of what the fuck and it’s been how long? “How did you pick that up? I thought it was going to be a lost cause.”

“I—” Peter’s eyes slip around the cave, the same shifty look he’s been doing all evening, every time there’s an emotional point he wants to dodge. Eventually, they land on Tony again. “I told you, I tried to find a way to bring you back. I didn’t succeed, but I did learn about these guys.” He waves at the ceiling, indicating their bloodthirsty overlords. “And a few other weird cults and things that’re rumored to have the power of resurrection. I knew it was a longshot, I wasn’t even sure if the rumors were true, but—” He shrugs. “I kept a permanent scan for your signal. I wasn’t ready to give up.”

Wow. That’s—wow. Tony swallows back a lump that has inconveniently appeared in his throat, and tries not to think about the fact that he’d come very close to giving up on Peter, when the roles were reversed. Had given up, really, until Ant Guy showed up. Of course, it’s Peter. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s better at everything, even their respective deaths.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, and his voice has gone soft, meeker. A little more like the teenager Tony remembers; the voice of someone who looks at him like he has all the answers. He’s never deserved that voice, but he always loved it. Still, does, it turns out. “Did I say something wrong?”

Acting on an instinct he doesn’t have the energy to examine, Tony reaches forward and grabs Peter’s hand. Peter looks at him in confusion, gloved fingers tentatively curling around his, and for a moment, Tony wishes they were skin-to-skin.

“No, kid,” he says, and he can hear the exhaustion in his voice, the raw emotion of it. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I’m just not sure what I did to deserve that kind of effort.”

“You mean other than bring me back to life and also save the entire universe?” Peter’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “I could make a list if you want, but that feels like enough.”

A very pathetic part of Tony would really like to hear that list. The part of him that’s still trying to keep a grip on things drops Peter’s hand instead. “You make a compelling argument, Mr. Parker. I knew there was a reason I thought you were smart.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but doesn’t quite manage to hide his grin.

***

They agree to take turns keeping watch. Peter tries to insist Tony get first sleep, but Tony wins that battle when Peter literally can’t keep his eyes open. He hasn’t said it—hasn’t come close to complaining about anything—but Tony strongly suspects his race from wherever he was to this deathtrap of a planet took hours, maybe even days. He’s probably been running on adrenaline and not much else that whole time.

Not that Tony’s been running on much else, either, but he’s used to getting no sleep. It’s not that it doesn’t bother him, exactly. More that he’s forgotten what it’s like not to be bothered by it. Exhaustion has been a constant background itch for most of his life, no reason to change that now.

And so he finds himself propped up against the wall of the cave, struggling to stay awake. Peter is huddled next to him, head resting on his backpack, body hunched in on itself. He seems so painfully vulnerable like this; strong enough to toss a truck, but still so small, and so young, even if he’s not as young as Tony remembers.

Overwhelmed by protective affection, he lets himself place his hand on Peter’s hair, stroking it lightly. Peter shifts in his sleep, arching toward the touch with a satisfied sigh, and Tony finds himself blinking back tears.

They have this going for them: it’s going to be really, really easy for him to kill anyone who even thinks about hurting Peter.

***

Tony wakes slumped sideways, still leaning against the wall, which his body does not thank him for as he pulls himself back to sitting.

Peter’s already up, doing some kind of twisty yoga pose in the middle of the cave, bent in half, face angled away. He’s rolled his suit down to his waist, displaying muscles that are far too defined for someone who was in high school two seconds ago. Too defined, and too appealing.

And it is way, way too early for Tony to be dealing with that thought appearing out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, and maybe that’s even worse. Jesus.

“Please tell me you haven’t turned into an Eat Pray Love type in my absence,” he says, dragging himself to his feet. Every inch of him aches. “I don’t know if I could live with myself.”

Peter unbends, greeting him with a smile. “You fell asleep on the watch,” he says accusingly, but he doesn’t look particularly upset about it. “And with your hand in my hair,” he adds with a spark of mischievous glee.

Tony freezes. Well, fuck. That’s—embarrassing isn’t even the right word. Revealing. It’s revealing. Of what, he isn’t even really sure. But definitely of something. “Kid, I…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, because he has no idea where it’s going.

“It’s cool.” Peter bounds across the cave to his bag, rummages through it, then tosses Tony another bar and also a small bottle. Tony catches them without reply. In response to the silence—and to what Tony can only assume is the complete horror written on his own face—he adds, “Honestly, Mr. Stark, it’s fine. It’s kind of nice to know for sure you missed me, too.”

That gives Tony a conversational hook, something to pull his brain out of the odd and dangerous course it seems determined to go down. “Pete, of course I missed you.” And then, because painfully earnest isn’t exactly a useful place to be right now, he adds, joking, “I mean, who else is going to hand deliver food and”—he glances down, discovers the bottle is mouthwash, and has to hold back an honest-to-god moan of delight—“basic grooming necessities in the middle of a death match?”

“Yeah?” Peter still looks mischievous as he pulls his suit back on. It’s that confidence again, something slightly more assertive about his bearing. “When you put it like that, it feels like you owe me one.”

“Get me off this planet, kid, I’ll repay you however you want,” Tony replies automatically, still clutching the mouthwash in his hand like it’s the holy grail. He’d managed to adjust to the way his entire mouth tastes bitter and sour, stained with the remnants of those useless berries, but now that there’s an end in sight, he suddenly can’t stand it. “A car, a house, a whole company. Whatever. Well, assuming I still have money. Actually, how does that work?” He waves the thought away. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll invent something new, make it all back. Point is, whatever you want.”

“You already set me up for life, Mr. Stark. I’m good.”

Oh, right. He’d left Peter a trust fund in his will. He’s not even sure the details, just remembers telling F.R.I.D.A.Y. to make it so Peter and May would never have to work again if they didn’t want to. Nice to know that had panned out.

“Besides,” Peter adds, “you won’t be able to thank me if we don’t make it out alive, so how about you go get cleaned up and then we find some water before things get desperate?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Tony replies with a mock salute, before heading out of the cave for some privacy.

Since when did Peter decide he has a right to order Tony around?

(And since when did Tony’s brain decide that suits him, too?)

***

There’s actually something nice about the forest during the day, now that Tony knows what’s going on and can take a moment to appreciate it. Sure, the air is misty and damp, the canopy of branches soaring above them thick and interwoven, but here and there bursts of sunlight flit down, fingers of warmth tickling his face as he passes through them. The trees are taller than anything he remembers seeing on Earth, but otherwise, it all feels familiar—greens and browns, the occasional blotches of purple and pink where bright flowers poke out from between large leaves. None of that alien orange of Titan, which still haunts his dreams. Everything smells a bit mulchy, but fresh and natural.

They trek mostly in silence, listening for potential enemies, trying not to attract attention to themselves. There’s nothing but the crunch of leaves under their feet, the occasional bird cry—or something-cry, anyway, what does he know about alien fauna?—but despite the quiet, it feels companionable.

Every twenty minutes or so Peter darts ahead, swinging through the trees when there’s room, or scampering up a trunk to get a better view. They don’t really have a goal beyond finding water, but the Guardians apparently said the higher the ground the better, so they keep an unsuccessful lookout for upward motion.

The rest of the time, though, Peter sticks close by, sometimes close enough to casually bump into Tony, grab his attention, share a smile. And occasionally, just occasionally, Tony reaches over to touch his back, landing his hand between his shoulder blades, a small confirmation that yes, after everything, the monsters, the sacrifices, the death and death again—even after all that, somehow, he’s here, and Tony’s here to feel him.

***

They finally find a stream and, after a bit of problem solving, determine that Peter’s flask can withstand being heated by Iron Man’s blasters until the water boils. It leaves it warm and tasting like metal, but at least it won’t kill them.

“Unless there’s alien bacteria that can withstand boiling,” Peter points out, settling next to Tony on a felled log, which is the closest thing resembling a comfortable place to sit. He grabs the flask and takes a giant gulp, cringing as he swallows. “That’s disgusting.”

“You didn’t have to be here,” Tony points out, taking the flask back and finishing it off. It is disgusting, but he’s too thirsty to care. “You don’t get to complain.”

Peter nudges his shoulder. “Your choices were here or dead. By that logic, you don’t get to complain either.”

Tony has an undeniable urge to lean into the nudge, maybe wrap his arm around that shoulder; the image of it bursts across his mind with a throb of want. He leaps to his feet and returns to the stream, refilling the flask as an excuse for suddenly standing. “First of all, I’m not complaining, so your argument is moot. Second of all, who says I wouldn’t rather be dead?”

When he turns around, Peter’s eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. He’s gone pale.

“Kid, that was a joke.” Peter continues to stare past him with a blank look. “A bad one, apparently.”  

“Yeah, it was,” Peter agrees quietly. “But right now I’m more worried about the footsteps I’m hearing.”

Tony goes tense. He’d deactivated the suit while they were resting, but he instantly brings it back to life, drinking in the mix of relief and adrenaline that always accompanies being enveloped in the armor. “How many, how close?”

Peter is on his feet, crouched low, mask on. Unfortunately, their comm systems don’t link up anymore—Tony had been planning to try to fix that tonight (stupid, should’ve made it a top priority)—so he has to come closer to report, “Too close to run. I think two? Maybe three?”  

And that’s when a giant monster of a creature with four legs, five arms, and enough battle axes to fill them all comes crashing into view.

“Or one really big guy,” Peter corrects, before launching himself into the air.

Tony follows him, blasting off and up, instantly launching shots at their enemy, who dodges deftly. He may be the size of the Hulk—bigger, probably—but he’s definitely not dumb. Dark eyes set deep in a lizard-like face dart between Peter and Tony with bright, malicious intelligence, sizing them up. There’s something elephantine about his skin, leathery and grey; when Tony finally hits him it barely seems to make a mark.

Great. Tony considers trying to grab Peter to just fly out of there, but without the comms that’ll be hard to coordinate, and the bag with their food, water, and the one thing that will allow the Guardians to actually find them is still jammed under the log. Too risky.

So he does the only thing he can do: he fights. He keeps as high as the towering trees let him, managing to stay out of their enemy’s grasp, hitting him when he can. The guy is wearing thick armor across his chest and belly, and when Tony lands a shot on his stomach it earns a loud growl and a vicious swipe in his direction. So that area is vulnerable, and whatever protective gear he has isn’t as good as his actual skin.

Tony adds keeping track of Peter to his list of priorities, right alongside dodging hits and landing shots on the big guy’s most sensitive areas. He’s closer in, trying to web the guy’s arms together. Doing a good job, too, moving effectively—dislodging an axe and tossing it out of reach, binding one of the dude’s arms to his side, where it tugs useless against the constraint of the web. Clearly, Spider-Man has only gotten better in the last four years.

Tony has no right to feel proud about that, it has nothing to do with him, but that doesn’t stop him from grinning into his mask as he watches Peter block a heavy punch.

He notices an axe flying in his own direction just a beat too late. Keeping track of three things at once shouldn’t have been a problem, but he hadn’t accounted for the lag time that comes with barely any food and even less water for three days straight; before he can move the thing slices into him, cutting through his armor and burying itself in his shoulder, hurling him into a tree. The world goes black.

***

When he comes to he’s hit with the overwhelming sensation of Peter: his hands on his arm, his voice muttering a stream of profanities. A few seconds later he’s hit with an equally overwhelming sensation of pain tearing down his shoulder and across his chest. He likes that a lot less.

He groans, blinking as the world resolves into place. He’s sitting, propped against a tree, Peter crouched over him. “Did you always curse this much?” he asks. It comes out choked; he coughs, lungs burning, and removes his helmet.

Suddenly those hands are on his face, tilting his chin up, wet, worried eyes filling his vision.

“Mr. Stark! You scared me.” Peter sounds breathless, and he looks worse, wane, covered in sweat, dirt, and something dark and sticky that might be blood, but definitely not human blood. His hands run across Tony’s face, into his hair, down his neck, making it hard for him to concentrate, distracted by the surprising softness of that touch. “I don’t know what I would’ve—you really scared me.”

“I’m not that easy to kill,” Tony assures him absently, catching his hands to stop their roaming and give himself space to think. He looks past him, to the darkening forest around them. No sign of the big guy. Or the stream.

“I moved you,” Peter explains, apparently reading his question. “I hope it didn’t hurt your arm more, but I was worried all the noise might’ve attracted other people.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Smart.” It was smart, even if Tony feels like his arm wants to fall off. He nudges Peter away; he seems reluctant to move, but eventually rocks back onto the balls of his feet, eyes trained on Tony as he lets his suit melt into its casing.

Tony assess the damage. Whatever that axe had been made of was strong. It had sliced straight through the armor, leaving a worryingly deep wound. When he tries to move his arm his entire body screams. If the bastards watching this are taking bets, the odds on him making it out alive just got a lot longer.

Well, there’s no turning back time. He fires up the nanobots and lets them do their best to patch him up. That’ll have to do for the next—god, it’s been less than a day. The next day or two. The space dummies better get here soon.

“Hey, it’s not like I need this arm anyway,” he says when he’s done, trying and completely failing to sound lighthearted. “What about you?”

“Me?” Peter shrugs, pulling away when Tony reaches for him. “I’m fine.”

That’s clearly a lie. There’s a nasty bruise creeping up his neck, a deep gash across his forehead, and who knows what else is going on under his suit. Well, Peter knows, but apparently he’s not sharing.

“Uh-huh. What happened to the big guy?”

“I took care of him.” It’s stated matter-of-factly, almost casual. As if that’s not alien blood splattered in dark patches up his arms.

“When you say ‘took care of him’—”

The look Peter gives him, cold and clear, answers the question. God, what happened to the kid who thought he was crazy for even thinking about an Instant Kill mode? “I guess that’s one less problem to worry about.”

“Yep. Now we just have to find shelter, ideally some more food, and last for another night or two.” Peter stands, extending his hand, sardonic grin back. He didn’t used to smile like that. He’d always had an edge to him—it’s one of the many things Tony likes about him—but this is different: not lighthearted sarcasm but a kind of bitter steeliness. It’s the smile of someone who’s gotten used to things not going his way. “We’ve totally got this.”

Tony takes the hand and allows himself to be hauled to his feet. Peter sucks in a harsh breath as he helps him up, a flicker of pain dancing across his face. That’s when Tony notices the tear in the side of his suit, a long rip near his hip that’s been webbed over.

“What happened here?” he asks, hand immediately moving to the spot. Peter catches his wrist before he can touch it, fingers closing strong and firm, unrelenting.  

“It’s fine,” he insists, in a tone that doesn’t leave room for argument. As if that’s ever stopped Tony.

“You should at least let me seal it with something better than the webs—”

“These webs are antiseptic, actually.” Peter drops his wrist and grabs the bag, slinging it over his shoulder with unnecessary force, as if to prove exactly how okay he is. “They work great with my healing factor.”

“Oh.” And then, because that doesn’t feel like enough of an acknowledgment of how impressive that is—how had he never thought of antiseptic webs? Brilliant—Tony adds, “That’s new.”

“Not really,” Peter corrects. “I invented them three years ago.”

They stand in silence, the weight of that thick in the air. Finally, Tony sighs. Might as well acknowledge it. “This is all really weird.”

Peter laughs. It’s laced with sadness, and some of that bitterness, too. “Yeah, it really fucking is.” His lips tremble around the edges. “But I can barely remember when my life wasn’t weird. At least we’re both alive now.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “At least there’s that.”

They just have to keep it that way.

***

Despite his bravado, it doesn’t take long for it to become blatantly obvious Peter is favoring his right side to a worrying degree. Plus, Tony’s arm is radiating with a deep, throbbing pain that makes it difficult to see straight, so when they discover another cave after only a few more miles of hiking, they call it good for the day. Sure, they didn’t find any more food. And yes, they’re almost out of water again. No, they never did manage to move to higher ground. But fuck it, they’re tired.

Calling their shelter for the night a cave is actually a bit generous. It’s more like an alcove beaten into the side of a cliff. It’s hard to access without the benefit of flight or Spider-Man’s confidence scaling slick surfaces, so it feels fairly safe, but the entrance is wide, providing little escape from the elements, which have decided to take a turn for the unpleasant, cool breeze transforming into a cold wind.

They split what turns out to be the last bar of food, too exhausted to talk much, and then huddle against the wall, as far from the entrance as possible, both feebly acknowledging that splitting watch isn’t happening tonight. They’ll have to count on the cave’s inaccessibility for protection.

Tony tries to drift off. The pain in his head makes it hard to keep his eyes open; the pain in his arm makes it impossible to actually sleep. The end result is a kind of muddled non-rest that leaves him aware enough to notice when Peter, huddled in a ball with his back to him, starts shivering violently.

Tony scoots closer, opening his mask and shaking Peter’s side. “Hey, kid, turn on your heaters.”

Peter rolls over. In the dark, Tony can barely make out his expression, but the general impression he gets is one of misery.

“It’s not working,” Peter explains. “Must’ve been disrupted when that guy ripped my suit.”

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

Peter shakes his head and curls in on himself again, this time facing Tony. “Nope. I’m fine.”

Tony rolls his eyes, even though he knows Peter won’t notice in the dark. “Will you stop saying that?” He tugs at Peter’s shoulder. “Kid, sit up and look at me.”

Peter tries to brush him off, but—maybe a sign of how much the cold has gotten to him—his protests quickly die, and he reluctantly allows Tony to haul him to sitting. He instantly brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.   

“Happy?” he says grumpily. “Now I’m sitting and cold. Real improvement.”

“No, I’m not happy,” Tony snaps. It’s harsher than he meant it to be, the hunger and pain and general too much of it all making it hard to keep his temper. “You’ve been avoiding my help all day. What gives?”

Peter heaves a heavy sigh, cheeks puffing out before he releases the air. It would be cute if he didn’t also look like he was about to keel over from hypothermia. Really cute. Which—fuck. Tony is too tired to even try to fight that thought. It’s there, unavoidable, but a problem for another day. Or at least another minute. Once he solves the more immediate problem of Peter Parker’s most frustrating superpower, extreme stubbornness.

When the seconds stretch out long enough for Peter’s silence to be a statement, Tony prods, “You going to answer my question, or did I do something to upset you without noticing?”

“Well, you died. That upset me.”

That strikes Tony as deeply unfair. He’d really tried his best not to. “What’s that got to do with claiming you’re fine when you’re about five degrees from turning into Frosty the Snow Man?”

Peter tucks his chin over his knees, folding in on himself like a Swiss Army knife closing up. “You’ve missed a lot,” he says after a long pause. “I don’t need your help all the time. I’m not a kid anymore.”

He fixes Tony with a determined look, laced with meaning. Or—maybe not. That might just be in Tony’s head. It’s a little hard to tell in the dark, with the world still spinning from what he is increasingly starting to worry might be a mild concussion.

“Okay,” he agrees. “You’re not a kid anymore. I get that.” Oh boy, does he get that. “But adults need help sometimes, too. Like when they’re in the middle of an intergalactic Hunger Games situation and it’s near freezing and the heater in their suit is broken. Just a random example off the top of my head.”

A reluctant smile fights its way onto Peter’s face. “I thought you hadn’t read The Hunger Games.”

“I haven’t,” Tony says, and as he does, he lets his suit dissolve away. He’s instantly struck by how cold it really is, wind biting through his shirt. “But as someone pointed out recently, I get the reference.”

That gets a wider smile out of Peter, even a small laugh. “What’re you doing? Why’d you—”

Peter’s question is cut off when Tony wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. “I hear body heat helps,” he whispers into his ear. Peter shivers against his chest; he tells himself that’s just because of the cold.

“But you’ll be freezing,” Peter protests

“Body heat helps both of us.”

“But—”

“Shut up and accept the help, Parker. Consider it a belated welcome-back-to-life present.”

Maybe it’s that, or maybe Peter’s just too tired to keep arguing, but he collapses against Tony, who guides him to the ground, positioning them so Peter is between himself and the wall, as protected from the wind as possible. He curls around him, tucking his chin onto his shoulder, chest pressing along the hard line of his back. His arm drifts across his front, pulling him close; Peter’s hand curls around it, clutching. Their fingers brush, and Tony resists the urge to intertwine them.

He quietly reactivates the suit. The nanobots crawl around his back and down his shoulder, covering the places he isn’t pressing to Peter. It’s almost enough to keep him warm.

This close, Peter’s shallow breaths are loud; his body still shakes, so hard Tony can feel it through his own. But as time passes and the space between them heats up, Peter’s trembling starts to fade. His breathing becomes steadier. Tony feels the moment he finally relaxes, muscles going slack.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he whispers.

“Don’t be so stubborn next time,” Tony replies, lips brushing against Peter’s ear. He swears he can feel him shiver again. The edge of sleep nips at his consciousness, fogging up his instincts. He presses a kiss to his cheek and adds, quietly, “You died too, you know. I get to be a little protective.”

If Peter hears it, he doesn’t respond.

***

When Tony wakes up, Peter is gone.  

Tony’s out of the cave, fully suited up, before he can even try to think things through. Yes, Peter could’ve snuck out to piss or get some air, but Tony’s entire body buzzes with an energy that tells him no, it’s not that. Something’s wrong.

Peter’s not outside the alcove, and when Tony lands on the ground below, he’s not there, either. Fuck. He was so exhausted last night he hadn’t even thought about linking the comms. Probably wouldn’t have been able to think straight long enough to make them work even if he’d wanted to, but he should’ve at least tried.

His arm hurts as he flies, pain splitting across his chest, stretching down his back. He’s weak, he’s thirsty, his head still aches; he doesn’t care. He picks up speed, swooping above the trees, scanning for heat signals. He spots them half a mile out: three large blobs of blaring red heat, a small blob dashing between them, moving with unnatural speed. Peter’s fighting style looks almost surreal lit up in only heat scans, sharp changes in direction dizzying.

Or maybe that’s the head injury talking. Doesn’t matter.

Tony kicks his blasters into high gear, closing the distance to the fight in seconds, where he finds three lumbering creatures who look like they’re made of rocks surrounding Peter in a clearing. He cowers between them, hitting at his web-shooters without anything coming out. He’s run low on fluid then, or maybe a malfunction. His mask has come off. His hair is matted with something Tony, stomach lurching, suspects is his blood. There’s a bruise blossoming over his left eye.

He looks terrified.

Tony dives into range just in time to see one of the rock men take a swing. Peter catches it, teeth gritted, but as he’s holding that blow back, a second one comes from the guy behind him, hammering into his side. He lets out a shout that reverberates down Tony’s spine, dread driving out any thought but kill.

If whatever sick demigods brought him back to life want a show, they’re about to get their money’s worth.  

He goes after the guy who hit Peter with every weapon the suit has, raining ballistics at him before anyone even notices he’s there, blasting him to literal rubble. That gets the attention of the other two, who turn away from Peter, confused faces pointing upwards.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Tony growls. “Pick on someone your own size.”

They don’t have a chance. Tony has guns, flight, and a burning rage that’s worth more than whatever motivation gets their craggy asses out of bed in the morning. The battle is over in under a minute. By the time he’s done, the ground is covered in blast marks, a tree has fallen over, and you’d never be able to tell sentient beings used to stand where there are now only piles of stones.

Peter has rescued the bag from somewhere and is clutching it to his chest, looking woozy. Without saying a word, Tony scoops him into his arms, sweeping them away before someone else can find them.

***

After putting several miles between them and the mess they’ve left behind, Tony picks a point at random to land, crashing into a densely forested spot in the hopes that the mass of trees will keep them hidden. He places Peter down gently, resisting the petulant instinct to drop him just to prove a point.  

He removes his helmet, and is met by a sullen glare. For a moment, he’s reminded of being on a rooftop in New York, every worst-case scenario flashing through his mind, unsure how to deal with his own feeling of failure. He’d been too harsh then, and he’s about to repeat the mistake when Peter cuts him off before he can get started.

“Dude, if you yell at me right now like I’m a child, I’m going to—well, okay, I’m not going to storm off because that’s a bad idea, but I’m going to be really annoyed.”

“Dude?” Tony repeats, a little incredulous. Peter raises his chin defiantly. “Okay, then, dude, what the hell happened? No, don’t look at me like that. This isn’t me yelling at you like a child, this is me asking my teammate why the hell I just found him fighting for his life half a mile away from our basecamp when we were supposed to stick together.”

“Really?” Peter snaps back, face gone red. “You talked to Rhodey like this?”

“I would if he ever did anything that stupid.” Tony closes the gap between them, bringing his gloves to Peter’s hair. It looks wet and sticky, definitely from blood, though to Tony’s relief whatever wound caused that has already closed up. “You could’ve been killed.”

Peter glances at Tony’s arm, then back to his face, expression inscrutable. Tony drops his hand, and Peter replaces it with his own, trying—and failing—to smooth his hair.

“I know,” he finally says, and while the fight hasn’t gone out of him entirely, he no longer seems like he’s about to pounce. “I’m sorry. I spotted a rabbit—the alien version, anyway—and I was trying to catch it. I thought it’d be a nice surprise. I stumbled right into those guys.” He sighs. “It was stupid.”

“No kidding.” Somehow, Peter admitting his mistake just makes Tony more frustrated. “You can’t do that, Pete. You can’t be stupid. Not in the middle of all this.”

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Stark, I know that.” And there goes the fight flaring up again. Fun. Peter crosses his arms, stepping back. “I don’t need a lecture.”

A flash of anger rips through Tony, a terrible possessive urge to point out every bruise on his body, each tear in his suit, the way he’s favoring one side even more than yesterday. “You sure about that, kid? Because it looks from here like you do.”

“I’m not a kid—”

“Peter, I know.” Tony presses forward, erasing the space Peter just put between them, grabbing his suit. Peter’s eyes go wide, and there’s something hungry in them. Another thing that’s new on that face. Another thing Tony recognizes, relates to. Likes. “I know you’re not a kid. That doesn’t make you not an idiot.”

“Do you know?” Peter asks, apparently skipping right over the idiot part. Because he’s not actually stupid. He’s smart enough to catch what Tony’s voice just betrayed. What he meant when he said I know. Fuck, he should not be doing this while he’s this wound up, too rattled to keep himself in check.

If Peter makes a move, he’s not going to be able to stop himself. He nods anyway. “Yeah, Pete, I really, really do.”

Peter makes a move, hands suddenly everywhere, one twisting into his hair, the other gripping his hip. Their lips meet, kiss deep and confident.

Tony should stop this. Three days ago he was married and Peter was sixteen. They’re in the middle of a fight for their lives. Every movement—leaning into the kiss, wrapping his arm around Peter’s back, thrusting their bodies together—sends a jolt of pain across his chest. Somewhere, the freaks in charge of this whole thing might be watching.

These are all really, really good reasons to stop.

He doesn’t.

He lets Peter pull them toward a tree. Presses his small, strong body against the trunk once they hit it. Kisses him fiercely, desperate for the heat of him, the taste, the smell of his sweat. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still wearing the Iron Man armor and goes to wave it off, but Peter whispers against his mouth, “Leave it.”   

When Tony pulls back, startled, Peter explains, “In case someone else decides to attack us.” He tugs Tony back, nips at his ear, sending a rush of pleasure down his spine. “Besides, it’s hot.”  

Wow. That’s unexpected. The lust in Peter’s voice summons the image of Tony holding him down with Iron Man’s strength, fucking him with a metal dildo until he can’t take it anymore, until he pleads for the touch of skin instead. Begs for it. Which, fuck. Tony’s dick twitches, wet with precome. He could be into that.

He leaves the armor on, compromising by freeing his hands, which he uses to trace Peter’s back, landing above the tight curve of his ass. He squeezes, enjoying the feel of him, firm through the thin material of the Spider-Man suit. Which is quite sexy in its own right, by the way. Skin-tight, sleek design—his design, barely altered in four years. Proof of the impression he’d left, Peter wearing his devotion to him on not just his sleeve but his entire body.

That probably shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“Mr. Parker,” he murmurs into the side of his head, lips brushing hair. “I never would’ve guessed you’re so kinky.”

Peter laughs against his ear, tickling and warm. “Well, Mr. Stark, I grew up.”

God, his name sounds good like that, underlined with just a hint of a growl.

Before he can dwell on the depths of his own narcissistic gratification—because really, what else can he call it?—Peter’s teeth dig into the skin below his ear, and Tony’s world goes blurry. His dick presses against the constriction of his armor, caught somewhere between pleasure and uncomfortable tightness.

“Fuck, kid,” he moans.

Peter laughs again and sucks, wrapping one of his legs around Tony’s waist, tugging him closer, thrusting up against the metal. The suit has its drawbacks; Tony wishes he could feel Peter’s body, wants to touch all of him, longs for the proof that he’s there, real and sturdy and alive, both of them alive.

He’ll have to make do with the sounds Peter makes, low whimpers and whines as he squirms. And the image of it, too. He leans back, reluctantly losing Peter’s lips on his neck so he can take in the full picture of him rutting against the armor, dick hard, outline clear and straining in his tight suit.

When Tony’s gaze wanders back up to Peter’s face, he’s met with eyes blown dark with lust, cheeks flushed red, lips smeared wet with spit, parted and panting.

“I mean, seriously, fuck, kid,” he repeats for emphasis, and Peter’s eyelids flutter, almost closing as he bucks forward with a moan. Tony shifts his own hips, trying to get some friction against the constraints of the suit. It’s unsatisfying in a way that tips from sexy to frustrating. “I want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Peter gasps, sounding broken. “Do it. If someone kills us, it’s a good way to go.”

Tony has the worst luck. Before he can even deactivate his armor, the moment is broken by harsh, artificial light pouring through the canopy.

“What the—” he starts, but a crackling voice from Peter’s bag answers the question for him.

“Parker? Parker, you there?”

Peter groans, a deep, disappointed sound Tony sympathizes with through every inch of his body. He bangs his head against Tony’s shoulder in an exaggerated display of annoyance before untangling himself from his arms and rushing to respond. He kneels, fishing the homing device, which Tony hadn’t quite realized operated as a radio, out of his bag.

“Hey, yeah, I’m here.”

“What happened to getting elevation?” the voice—which Tony places as belonging to Star Douche—asks.

“We’ve been a little busy trying not to get killed,” Peter replies testily, shooting Tony a conspiratorial eye-roll.

“Well, we’re just above the trees. Have your Iron Guy fly you up here before Katniss catches up to us.”

“No, we’re Katniss in this—you know what? It doesn’t matter. On our way.” He stands, patting at his ruffled hair, and offers Tony a wry grin. “Told you I’d get you out of here alive.”

***

As soon as they’re on the ship the Guardians descend with water and first aid. Tony’s relieved to see Nebula’s with them. He’s even more relieved when she immediately seems to notice that a group of near-strangers he’s only ever met in the context of fighting Thanos isn’t exactly his idea of a fun welcome party. She wraps her arm around his waist and leads him away from the throng with a definitive, “I’ll take care of Stark.”

They find a chair off to the side of the cabin, which she lowers him into with her unnerving combination of brutal efficiency and care. It’s been years since they survived twenty-odd days on a ship together, but this feels right. It shouldn’t be a good memory, but right now, anything familiar, even a familiar near-death experience, is comforting.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” he tells her as he finally deactivates the suit so she can get a look at his injury. Not as fun as why he’d been planning to remove the armor a few minutes ago, but probably better for him.

“You too,” she replies. Her voice is steady, nearly emotionless, but her lips pull into a smile, small but genuine. She’s gotten better at that since he last saw her. “Let’s keep it that way this time.”

As she works on his arm, cleaning it with a stinging powder, Tony watches Peter. He’s the center of everything and apparently loving it, beaming and laughing, sharing some sort of complicated handshake with Quill (really? That guy?), rubbing Rocket’s head without being rebuffed, hugging a hot green lady Tony doesn’t recognize. He feels the raw tang of tears at the back of his throat, accompanied by a wrenching pain that has nothing to do with the high-tech soldering iron Nebula just took to his arm. He really has missed so much.

Peter glances over, catches him staring, and responds with a wink and a quick wave. The ship cabin is small enough that Tony can hear Quill say, “What was that? Wait, did you guys—you totally did! No, don’t try to deny it, you did. Spider-Man, put it here!”

“Dude, be quiet.” Peter shoots Tony another look, this one apologetic. Quill keeps talking, but he drops his voice. Tony can’t make out what he’s saying, but he gets the general impression that the dickbag’s not exactly surprised by this turn of events. Apparently whatever Peter was feeling before he dropped onto that planet wasn’t a closely held secret.

“Did you?” Nebula asks quietly as she works, and Tony’s shocked to see she looks amused. He’s not sure he knew she could look amused.

He feels a blush creep up his face, which is absurd. He’s Tony Stark. He doesn’t blush, and certainly not about this kind of thing. “Are you going to judge me if I say yes?”

“Why would I judge you?”

“Ingrained puritan morality. So…I guess you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t.” Nebula finishes closing up the wound and wraps his arm in silence. As she tucks the bandage firmly in place, she adds, “I think it’s good. He loves you.”

Tony’s heart jumps at that word—love. She means it to be reassuring, a positive, something comforting and safe. But it’s too much, more than he can possibly handle trying to think about. Too big. If she even meant it that way. Maybe she didn’t. And what does she know, anyway?

His heart is beating too fast, it’s getting hard to catch his breath. He grips the chair tightly, pushing that particular train of thought to the side.

“Stark?”

“I’m fine,” he lies. Nothing she can do to help with the ways in which he’s not. Well, almost nothing. “You guys don’t happen to have alcohol on this dump, do you?”

***

A drink, a shower, a dinner Tony eats so quickly he can’t even register what any of the alien food tastes like, and then he’s staggering off to bed, Peter beside him. They’re put in the same room, with two small, metal cots (“Not that you’ll need both,” Quill stage whispers with a huge wink, because the man lacks any sense of how not to be the world’s most obnoxious person).

Once they’re alone, they immediately beeline to separate beds without a word. Tony’s asleep before he can even get under the blanket, the last few days catching up with him in a single moment.

***

He’s woken by an arm snaking around his chest. His body tenses, ready to spring into action, until he hears, in a whisper, “It’s just me.”

“Kid?” Tony shifts and twists until he’s facing Peter, who has somehow slipped into the space between him and the wall. “What?”

“I was cold.” That sounds like a lie, an excuse, but as the remnants of sleep fall away and the world resolves into place, Tony realizes Peter really is shivering again. For some reason, he’s only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. Idiot.

“You were cold…so you crawled into bed with me?” It seems like a reasonable question, but Tony can’t stop himself from placing a hand on Peter’s hip as he says it, to reassure him that it’s just a question. Not an accusation, or a criticism.

Peter draws back as he nods, bumping into the wall. “Is that okay? I thought…I don’t know what I thought. That it’d be okay, I guess.”

For the first time since Tony came back to life, Peter sounds really vulnerable. No bravado, no bite. Just a wide open question: Is that okay?

Tony slips his hand from Peter’s hip to his back, sliding under his t-shirt. His skin is soft and yes, cold. He shifts so they’re closer. “Depends on what you mean by okay.”

“I mean, do you mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Tony admits. He doesn’t add that he loves having another body next to his, warm, solid confirmation that he’s back in this world. Definitely doesn’t add that he loves even more that it’s this particular body, warm, solid confirmation that Peter’s back in this world, a miracle he’s still adjusting to. It wouldn’t be fair to add that, not yet. “But, you have to understand, from my point of view, I was married as of three days ago. That’s a lot to process.”

“I know,” Peter says, and he sounds completely earnest. As if he’s thought about that and decided he’s okay with it. He probably has.

“I have a daughter,” Tony adds. He hadn’t expected to have this conversation in the middle of the night, sleep groggy and disoriented. Hadn’t really thought about it at all, yet. But Peter asked and here he is, answering. “She has to be my top priority.”

“I know.” Peter brings his hand to the back of Tony’s neck, fingers weaving into the hair there. Tony’s body lights up at the touch, as if still remembering how good it can feel. He wonders if that’s a side-effect of resurrection, nerves resolving into place slowly. Like waking up.

“This is all a lot.” Tony presses their foreheads together. “I’m going to be a mess.”

“Mr. Stark, I know.”

“Do you? Because when I’m not around Morgan, I’m going to be drunk for at least a month. I’ve already started. I know that’s unhealthy, I know it’s bad, but trust me, it’s going to happen. It’s a rule of nature.”

Peter makes a wiggly movement that’s probably supposed to be a shrug. “I was drunk for like a year, after I ran out of ways to try to get you back.”

Tony hadn’t expected that response. It catches in his lungs, air sucked out of him. That wasn’t—fuck. That wasn’t one of the things he’d ever wanted Peter to have in common with him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Not your fault.” Peter rakes his fingers through Tony’s hair, which is more comforting than it has any right to be. “Mr. Stark, I know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not asking for it to be easy. I’m not asking for it to be anything. I’m just asking you to tell me if this, right now, is okay.”

“Peter—” He stops, because he’s not even sure what he’s protesting. He could run down the list of all the reasons Peter deserves more than him at his best, let alone whatever disaster he’s about to become when his feet hit Earth and the reality of everything he’s lost crashes down around him. But this is the kid—no, man, that seems only fair—who drove a spaceship into a death match for him. He could come up with the longest list in the world, he’d still lose the argument. So instead he tells the truth. “Yeah, kid. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me.”

Peter presses their lips together. Light, brief, barely a kiss. Something closer to a promise. “It’s okay with me.”

Tony kisses him back, deeper. “I knew you were an idiot.” And then, despite being tired, despite still being sure this is probably a terrible idea, he lets his hand drift further down. “Up for finishing what we started down there?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. He draws back far enough for Tony to see his grin, joyful and not the least bit sardonic. “Yeah, that’s okay with me, too.”