Secrets

Tony returned swiftly with two ice packs, placing the one under Peter’s neck and grabbing a damp washcloth for his forehead. Just as he was wringing the water from the cloth, he heard another shuffle from the connected bedroom. It must be Peter moving again. He continued with the cloth and exited the bathroom, heading over to the body swaddled in a down comforter. 

Sitting down gently next to the boy, Tony placed the cloth over his forehead and moved the covers back slowly. It was crucial not to wake Peter, so Tony took extra care in moving the silky shirt up his chest to reveal his wound. 

The overwhelming area around Peter’s left rib cage was red and swollen, splotched with small bruises and broken blood vessels. The bruises were just starting to turn blue and black. Even with Tony’s limited medical knowledge, he knew they couldn’t have been more than a day or two old. 

How could Peter keep something like this from him? Tony just couldn’t fathom it. He grabbed the second ice pack to lay delicately across his bruised rib. Sure, maybe Peter thought his super healing would take care of it, no big deal. But the flu too? The Tower was more than well equipped to care for Peter if he was ill. 

Peter shuffled in the bed again, moving against Tony’s hand which kept the ice pack in place. When Peter relaxed again, Tony tugged his shirt back down slowly, fingers brushing against Peter’s skin. His stomach muscles spasmed, retracting from the touch.

Jesus. 

Settling his head against his knuckles, Tony gazed at the boy. Natasha’s voice rang in his head.

Touch-starved.

Now what the hell kind of treatment could make Peter react to touch like this? And why on earth has he been keeping all of this to himself? Shouldn’t Tony know that his kid is touch-starved? Isn’t it his responsibility to make sure he’s not?

No. Peter’s not my responsibility. He’s not my kid.

As much as he tried to convince himself of this, the pictures of Peter on his workbench, Peter’s bedroom in his home, the movie nights, the snack hours, they all betrayed his thoughts. 

Whether Tony liked it or not, he was all this kid had in the father department. Peter was alone a lot of the time. 

He’s used to it. He’s used to handling things alone.

He’s just like me.

That last thought shook Tony to his very core.

He’s just like me.

Peter shuffled again, this time his face contorted with pain. Afraid to be causing him pain, Tony moved off the mattress and crouched beside the bed, face to face with the boy. The deep, dark circles and scrunched face revealed too much. Peter was in agony, body full to the brim with exhaustion. Tony recognized it well. 

Peter’s shuffling grew more ferocious, going from gradual movements to more spasmodic twitches. His head leaned back against the pillow, neck stretching out and veins popping. Tony could practically see the lump in his throat, fighting for relief. A small whine escaped from the boy, breaking through the silence. 

Tony was shocked and sat back watching the scene play out. He almost forgot that he was more than just a witness, that he was there with Peter. 

Nightmare. Must be.

For someone that had a lot of nightmares, Tony really did not know what to do about them. That was really Pepper’s department. He drew an absolute blank while trying to recall what Pepper does for him, helpless while watching his kid begin to throw his head back and forth. 

Touch-starved. Touch-starved. Touch-starved. 

Reaching out, Tony’s hand made contact with Peter’s slick curls and pushed them back from behind the wash cloth. Peter’s entire body jumped at the movement, his eyes bursting open.

The boy startled, immediately sitting up in bed. The wash cloth dropped from his forehead into his lap, body shaking and teeth chattering. Chills wreaked havoc on his body, running down his arms and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Sweat caked his hairline and back, staining the shirt he wore. The ice pack on his ribs slowly slid down under his clothes, dragging against his side and bringing on a dull pain. 

Short breaths exited Peter’s mouth. He screwed his eyes shut and held onto his head which pounded against his palms. Letting out another pathetic whine, Peter grabbed for his side, grappling for some relief there. 

“Pete” a voice called from behind him. He knew it well. He wanted to turn and face the person behind him, but his body screamed in protest. Peter stayed screwed up in his position, groans of pain slipping from his trembling lips. 

A gentle pressure on his back had him jumping again, breaths quickening and panic rising in his stomach. 

What happened? 

The thought rang true in his aching head. He had no recollection of where he was, what was happening. All he could remember was–

Concrete slabs slammed against Peter’s body, rebar scraping against his suit and cutting deep gashes into the soft skin of his back and shoulders. He screamed out in pain, voice cutting through the deafening sound of fire cackles and a building collapsing.

A building collapsing– on top of him. 

Please! Anyone!

Peter screamed out to no one. No one was coming. There was a sickening crack as more concrete gave out above him, pressure building on his back.

He could feel his ribs giving out against the slabs below him, each rib beginning to give with the weight on his back. The white board of his anatomy class appeared plainly in his head. If his ribs were to compound fracture or puncture his lung, he was sure to die.

He was sure to die.

“Peter, please, breathe” Tony sat in front of the mess of the boy on the bed, “please, kid. Breathe.”

Tony sat close enough to feel Peter’s choppy breaths fan across his chest, just so he could reach around and rub circles along his spine. Using one hand to rub his back, Tony used the other to run through his curls, hoping to soothe his kid. Each groan and whine from the twisted face of his kid shattered him, watching the beaming light he holds so dear fall apart in front of him. 

“Breathe, Pete.”

Peter heard that sentence clearly. You know, there’s only one person on the planet who calls him Pete.

Mr. Stark.

“Yeah, it’s me, Pete. Just breathe.”

Peter had not intended to choke out the name, but as it exited his lips, he felt some relief crash against him. 

Mr. Stark is here.

“Mr. Stark.”

“It’s me, I’m here. You’re safe, Pete. I’ve got you.”

“Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark.

Peter felt his throat opening up, the weight on his back lifting ever so slightly. Sucking in just a bit more air, the pressure on his back moved gently. Gently moving, back and forth. Up and down. Back and forth. 

Up and down. Back and forth. 

He followed the movement of the pressure in his head, breathing in on certain movements and out on others. He focused on the feeling of it, the numbness that it spread across his back and to his side. 

“That’s it. Keep breathing, just like that Pete.” 

Peter loosened his hands, relieving his grip from the comforter wrapped around him. Relaxing the muscles in his face and shoulders, he let himself drop on to the sturdy being in front of him. 

Mr. Stark.

He felt arms wrap around him firmly, the pressure on his back changing slightly before resuming its pattern. Arms. Arms wrapped around him. A hand rubbing on his back. That’s what the pressure was. No concrete, no rebar. Just warm, calloused hands rubbing circles on his back. Peter didn’t have to have his head against the chest to hear the electric hum of the arc reactor, something only Peter seems to hear. 

Arc reactor. Warm arms. Expensive cologne. Soft bedding. 

Mr. Stark.

Taking a deep inhale and exhale, Peter winced at the pain in his side. Now that he could breathe again, he felt the reminder of why it was so hard in the first place. Bruises.

Bruised rib. Cold. PT day.

The memories of the day started coming back to Peter, slowly but surely. It was then he remembered just what he had done, which made him not want to lift his head from Tony’s shoulder. 

He kept a secret from Mr. Stark. And now Mr. Stark knew said secret. This was not good.

Well, I’m sure my suit will be taken away. Maybe I won’t be allowed at the Tower anymore.

Peter let out a stressed exhale.

What if I never see Mr. Stark again? What if he kicks me out and I get a building dropped on me again? What if he gets a new Spider-Man? What if–

“Hey, Pete, you’re freaking out again. Keep breathing the way you were. Everything’s alright.” Tony kept soothing the boy with one hand on his back and another in his hair. 

Peter let out another stressed exhale, then sucked in a deep breath. His eyes opened against Tony’s shoulder, but he wasn’t ready to pull his head back just yet. Savoring the feeling of comfort for just a moment more, he sucked in a few more breaths, hand holding his ribs delicately. 

Gotta face the music sometime.

Peter lifted his head gingerly, slowly raising his chin to look Mr. Stark in the eyes. Given the dull pain lingering in his head, his eyes took a moment to adjust to Tony in the dim lighting. As his eyes focused, the wrinkles of worry and concern on Mr. Stark’s face were clear as day. He was looking at Peter so earnestly it made him want to drop his head back on his shoulder and pass out.

Imagine if I just passed out right now. I’d never have to tell Mr. Stark what I did.

The idea didn’t seem half bad as Peter stared into Tony’s concerned eyes. Expecting a reprimand, the boy almost jumped when Tony lifted a hand to his face, only for Mr. Stark to softly feel his forehead with the back of his palm. 

“Pete, you’re still burning up” he whispered for the boy’s hearing. Peter was grateful.

Although, that wasn’t what he was expecting. Where was the lecture? The yelling? He’s in trouble, isn’t he?

“I’m sorry.” Peter’s eyes dropped, hoping Mr. Stark would feel the sincerity radiating off of him. Really, Peter was saying, I’m sorry, please don’t hate me.

Tony let out a deep exhale, moving to place each hand on his kid’s shoulders. 

“I’m– I wish you would have told me, kid. But, I understand why you didn’t.” Peter’s eyes snapped back to Tony’s.

He's just like me, Tony thought again.

“I understand feeling like you need to handle these things by yourself. Hell, I do the same,” Tony cupped Peter’s cheek to assert his point “But, I can’t have you gettin’ hurt and not telling me. Especially when it was this bad.”

“I thought that it would heal, but I was sick and I hoped it would go away before I got here and–”

“I know” Tony cut him off. “I know, and it’s okay. I’m not mad.” Peter let out yet another stressed exhale. Shaky, more so.

He gave Tony a weak smile, “Mr. Stark–”

“Tony.”

“Can I,” he paused, “well, if it’s okay, that is. It’s just Aunt May is working late again tonight and my ribs still really hurt and we don’t have any soup at the apartment and–”

“Of course you can stay, Pete.” 

Peter gave Tony another weak smile, which was returned, before falling back into his arms. Tony was quick to wrap up his kid, holding him securely against his chest and bringing the blankets up around his back. 

It wasn’t long before Peter’s breathing evened out again and Tony was able to settle him back down on the bed, opting to sit next to the boy on the mattress. Back resting against the headboard, Tony ran his fingers through Pete’s hair and thought about what he needed to fix. 

Ice packs back on his ribs and neck. Wash cloth back on forehead. Soup cooking in kitchen (mental note, have Pepper make it, NOT Steve). Run fingers through hair. Hug when I see him. Firm pats on shoulder. 

Tony went through the list in his head. 

Touch-starved. 

He scoffed. 

No child of his will be touch-starved.