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i.
In the three hours it takes Tony to arrive at the hospital after he gets the phone call, the hospital staff has obviously forcibly removed Peter from his aunt’s side. Tony finds him sitting in a nondescript hallway by the morgue, staring blankly ahead with blood shot, half-lidded eyes. There’s a nurse at the desk nearby who’s clearly keeping an eye on him, and she looks relieved when Tony shows up. Tony makes eye contact with her and then turns his attention toward Peter.
He crouches in front of the kid. Peter just blinks at him and then looks down at Tony’s hand on his knee.
“Peter,” Tony whispers. He opens his mouth to say something else, condolences or assurances, he’s not certain, but Peter takes a deep breath and stands, knocking Tony’s hand away.
Tony shoots up to his feet as well, holding out a hand to brace Peter. He barely sways, but his face drains of blood and he stares down at his feet like he doesn’t recall them being attached to his legs.
“An adult has to be… so I can handle… there’s a lot of paperwork,” Peter says, his voice wrecked. He’s skipping words like a scratched disc, but Tony can get the gist of it so he doesn’t point it out. Peter hadn’t called Tony to take him home and look after him like Tony had thought. He called because the hospital wouldn’t let him make the burial arrangements without an adult present. He probably hasn’t even thought ahead far enough to wonder where he’s going to sleep tonight.
Tony hooks a hand around Peter’s elbow and tries to gently push him back into the chair. Peter resists, possibly without even thinking about it, his forehead wrinkling in a weary sort of confusion.
“I’ll take care of it, Peter. Ok?” Tony assures. He exerts a little more pressure and Peter finally sinks back into the chair.
“I should be the one…” He starts, fumbling over the words. Tony puts a hand on his head and he stills under the touch.
“No, you really shouldn’t.”
Peter’s hands are shaking. Tony hunts down a vending machine and buys him a bottle of terrible orange juice and forces it on him. Peter looks at him like he hadn’t noticed that Tony had left, and then at the brightly colored bottle like he wants to throw it at the wall but can’t muster up the energy. Tony reaches forward and tilts Peter’s chin back until he looks up.
“I’ll be back in a little bit, ok?” Peter looks like he wants to protest again, but instead he just pulls his chin out of Tony’s grasp and fumbles with the lid of the orange juice, giving a twitchy nod.
Tony follows the nurse’s directions until he finds the tiny legal office on the same floor. They make him sign a release form for temporary custody of Peter before they let him touch the Parkers’ file, but he was planning on doing that anyway, even if it wasn’t what Peter had intended when he gave the hospital Tony’s number.
The last time he had done this had been for his parents. He had been a legal adult at that point, but Obadiah had been there. The thought brings no comfort, and he tries not to dwell on the obvious parallel between himself and the orphan sitting a few halls down.
He fills out every form carefully, blinking away Maria Stark from his mind and writing May’s name instead. He feels guilty as he does, reminding himself that a human life has been lost, the life of a passionate, loving woman who by all accounts should have lived another fifty years. The hospital worker that’s watching him assures him that he’s probably in shock, and Tony almost tells her that he barely knew May Parker. But then he remembers who instilled Peter with his compassion and resolve and sense of duty and realizes that that isn’t true. He nods instead, and keeps writing.
It takes Tony longer than he expects, and he hurries back to where he left Peter, anxious to get the kid home and into bed. Peter’s in much the same position as he was when Tony first arrived, his eyes practically closed. He’s only drunk about a quarter of the orange juice, but his hands are steady around the bottle, so Tony gently takes it from him and chucks it.
“Sorry that took so long, buddy. We’re going to go now, alright?” Tony murmurs. Peter processes this, looking almost suspicious.
“Where are we going?” He whispers.
“Home,” Tony says. He expects Peter to ask him where he means, but Peter merely closes his eyes as if resigning himself to this and then whispers a small ‘ok.’
Tony leads him out of the hospital with a hand on his back, which Peter seems to allow more than appreciate. He’s shivering, probably from shock more than cold, so when they get to the car Tony cranks the heat and points all the vents at Peter before pulling out of the parking lot. He turns the radio on, but keeps the volume so low it’s essentially inaudible. It only takes twenty minutes for Peter to fall asleep and Tony breathes a sigh of relief.
He spends the remaining two and a half hours of the drive deep in thought, planning for the next seventy-two hours. He has about a million phone calls to make, top of the list being his lawyer for adoption paperwork, the funeral home, and Pepper. And despite all that, he keeps looking over at Peter and thinking that the only thing that matters is taking care of this kid.
It takes about forty miles for him to realize that taking care of Peter is going to be his primary job for the next two years at least by going through with this adoption. It takes another hundred for him to think through all the reasons that’s a terrible idea and all of one mile to decide that he’s doing it anyway.
Tony glances over at Peter as they pass another car going the other direction, and in the fleeting illumination of the headlights, when the tear tracks on Peter’s pale face gleam in the yellow light, Tony vows to himself that Peter will not turn out like him. Not if Tony has anything to say about it.
It’s nearly three in the morning by the time they reach the compound and Tony’s exhausted. Peter doesn’t wake up when he parks the car, so Tony goes around to the passenger door and eases it open. He isn’t so lucky this time. Peter blinks himself into awareness slowly.
“Mr. Stark?” He asks, his voice hoarse, as Tony reaches across him and unbuckles the seatbelt. Tony isn’t sure what does it, but Peter must remember suddenly why he’s in Tony’s car because he freezes. When he looks up and meets Tony’s gaze, his eyes are filled with tears and unadulterated horror.
“May…” he whispers. If he had any hope at all that he was wrong, it’s crushed when Tony just sighs.
“Let’s get you to bed, kid.” Peter’s face falls. The tears start to drip down his cheeks immediately and he seems to be disconnected from reality, because he doesn’t even flinch when Tony rubs his arm and murmurs, “Come on, Peter. You need sleep.”
Tony has to physically haul Peter to his feet, and then wrap an arm tight around his waist to keep him upright. In the time between getting out of the car and into the elevator, Peter’s gone from silently weeping to sobbing so forcefully his entire body is shaking with it. When he sinks to the floor of the elevator, Tony doesn’t know what to do but to sit down next to him.
“Peter,” he says, but he doesn’t think Peter hears him over his own ragged breaths. Tony reaches out and pulls one of his hands away from where it’s fisted in his hair, and wraps it in his calloused hand. “Look at me, buddy.”
Peter squeezes his hand so hard the bones ache. Between gasps, Peter pants out, “I can’t do this again. I can’t do this.”
“I know, I know. But you’ve got to. There isn’t any other option.” Tony tries to keep his voice level and calm, but Peter’s hyperventilating, shaking his head while his entire body quivers and tears drip unheeded down his cheeks and Tony feels so out of his depth.
“I can’t sit through another funeral.” Peter presses his hand flat against his chest, nearly choking as he sucks in another tiny breath. “It hurts,” he whimpers. “So bad.”
The only thing Tony can think to do to help is reach out and pull Peter into his arms, but Peter flinches away, pressing his forehead into his knees, and Tony freezes, the motion aborted.
Tony is pulled out of his quickly spiraling thoughts of self-recrimination and embarrassment when Peter tips to one side and vomits. Tony swears in surprise, then grabs Peter’s arm and yanks him back before he face plants.
Peter croaks out a colorful curse. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says between too-fast breaths.
“Don’t worry about it, Pete. Let’s stand up, ok?” Tony gets to his feet and then tugs Peter to his. The kid walks like his legs are made of jelly, and Tony has to practically carry him out of the elevator and down the hall. Tony shoulders the door to the bathroom open, maneuvering the both of them inside. He leans Peter against the counter, but he slides, boneless, to the floor the instant Tony lets go of him.
Tony hurriedly wets a washcloth and once again kneels down in front of Peter. He tilts the boy’s head back, wiping away sweat and traces of sick from his face.
Peter looks up at him with too bright eyes. “Make it stop.”
“I can’t,” Tony breathes, confessional, horrified.
“Please, Tony. Make it stop,” Peter begs. His breathing is ratcheting up again, half a step away from hysterical.
“I can’t.” He’s managed to find one of The Great Tony Stark’s few limits, one of the few impossible things even Tony’s brilliant mind and unlimited resources can’t fix. The words “I would do anything to take this from you” are on his lips, but Peter turns away before he can say them, his eyes squeezed closed. Tony knows, somehow, that Peter will never look at him with the same unquestioning faith again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers instead. Peter thumps his head hard against the cabinet behind him, gags, and then lunges for the toilet to cough up bile. When he sits back, he runs a shaking hand over his mouth, tears dripping from his chin.
“Peter,” Tony says, feeling his heart break as he looks at this kid who has lost everything. And there is nothing Tony can do to fix it. He reaches up and puts a hand on the back of Peter’s head and pulls him forward. Instead of trying to hug him again, Tony just guides him until he’s laying down with his head on Tony’s lap.
Peter doesn’t resist. He just lets Tony comb fingers through his hair while he sobs, curled up on the bathroom rug.
It takes him a long time to cry himself to sleep. Tony sits with his head tilted against the wall, never taking his hand away from Peter’s head. He doesn’t sleep.
After Peter’s breath has been even for awhile, Tony slowly maneuvers his arms under Peter’s shoulders and knees. His back protests the minute he lifts Peter into his arms and stands, but the kid doesn’t wake up. He carries him to the room he’d set aside for him all those months ago and gets him into bed. He closes the door silently behind him, and gets to work.
ii.
Peter comes home from school looking pale. When Tony asks him what’s wrong, he shrugs and curls up in the armchair, which is enough for Tony to know that he really doesn’t feel good. He eats almost nothing at dinner, and goes to bed early. Tony bids him a good night, but plans on checking on him before he goes to bed.
About an hour and a half after Peter retreated to his room, Maggie appears in the living room where Tony’s sitting on the couch, working on a design. She gives a little bark, which she almost never does. Tony looks at her with a raised eyebrow. She barks again, and then turns and takes a few steps down the hall before stopping and looking over her shoulder at Tony.
“Ok, Lassie, I get it. I’m coming,” Tony tells her. He shuts off his laptop and follows Maggie down the hall to Peter’s room, where the door is open just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Tony knocks before opening the door wider.
“Peter?” He asks. The light from the hallway shows that Peter’s not in his bed. Maggie is sitting by the open bathroom door, again looking back at Tony as if waiting for him. Tony rounds the bed and stands at the door of the en suite bathroom. Peter is sitting on the floor, his face pale and shining with sweat, his cheek resting against the bathtub. He looks fairly miserable.
“Hey, bud,” Tony says, coming into the bathroom and sitting down next to the kid. “How long you been like this?”
“About fifteen minutes, I guess,” Peter whispers, his eyes closed.
“You could have had FRIDAY get me. But I guess Maggie the Wonder Dog works too.”
Peter breathes a small laugh, and then gags. Tony spends the next minute or so rubbing Peter’s back while he vomits into the toilet. When he’s done and leaning against the tub again, Tony stands and gets him a glass of water to rinse his mouth out.
Tony feels his forehead. He’s a little clammy, but certainly not feverish.
“Is there a bug going around at school?” Tony asks.
Peter shrugs. “Ned wasn’t feeling good at the end of the day either. Same with MJ.”
Tony hums. The chances of them all getting sick at the same time were pretty slim, but Tony supposes weirder things have happened. His thoughts are derailed when Peter throws up again. Tony rubs his back some more, for once grateful that his colorful past means that the sound of vomiting doesn’t phase him.
As Peter’s slowly sipping at some water, Tony’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket to find an email from Peter’s school.
“Yikes,” Tony says after reading it. “I hate to say it, but you’re in for a rough night, kid.”
“What?”
“School just emailed. Apparently the cafeteria lunch gave about half the kids food poisoning. Including you, it would seem.”
Peter groans dramatically and lets his head fall back against the tub with a dull thunk. “I always knew the school food would kill me.”
Tony chuckles at his dramatics, stretching his legs out in front of him. “On the plus side, school’s cancelled tomorrow.”
“Yippee,” Peter mutters drily. He makes it another fifteen minutes before he’s vomiting. He groans, shakily wiping at his mouth with a towel. He looks about an inch away from curling up on the bathroom rug, so Tony gently takes his shoulder and pulls him down until his head is resting on Tony’s thigh. For a moment the scene is so reminiscent of the night May died that Tony almost expects to hear Peter’s heart-wrenching sobs. But instead the kid seems to relax, turning onto his side and loosely wrapping a hand around Tony’s shin. Maggie, watching from the doorway, skulks closer until she can press her nose into Peter’s stomach, like some weird kind of chain.
“Can we sue the school for cruel and unusual punishment?” Peter asks, absently rubbing at Maggie’s short fur.
“You bet,” Tony says, huffing a laugh.
“Don’t mock me, I’m in pain.” Peter’s words are starting to blend together as he begins to doze off. Tony unconsciously starts rubbing Peter’s arm and the rhythm seems to lull Peter even deeper into sleep. Tony lets his eyes close.
Twenty minutes later, Peter’s awake again, hunched over the rim of the toilet. He coughs up bile, and then lays back down in Tony’s lap without any prompting.
“This is unfair,” he grouses hoarsely while trying to make Maggie’s ears stay inside out. “I thought I had spider powers. I shouldn’t be able to get food poisoning.”
“I don’t think spiders have to worry about stuff like that. Just, you know, actual poison.” Tony’s half asleep as well, the grin he shoots at Peter probably dopey and lopsided.
“Unless they eat a bug that’s already been poisoned,” Peter reasons. “But I suppose that would just make them die, too.”
Peter’s starting to drift again, so Tony just hums in agreement.
The next time Peter wakes, he seems to have lost all of his humor. He’s so tired he practically slumps head first into the toilet before Tony pulls him back, and when he does lay down again, he turns his face into Tony’s leg and whines quietly in his throat. Maggie echoes the sound, licking at his exposed neck and ear until Tony shoos her away.
“I’m sorry you’re so sick, kiddo,” Tony says, placing a hand on Peter’s back to ground him. “But you’re almost through it.”
Peter groans before turning over so he’s facing Tony. He looks utterly spent, his eyes dull as he frowns. “You didn’t have to stay with me.”
“I know.” He wipes away the single tear that slips down Peter’s cheek when he closes his eyes.
“I’m sorry for making you do this again,” Peter slurs. He doesn’t see Tony’s expression of surprise. It’s the first time Peter has mentioned that first night, when Tony brought him home from the hospital. He’s not really sure what to make of it.
“No one’s making me do anything,” Tony assures him, rubbing Peter’s side in a steady rhythm. “I’m here of my own volition.”
Tony knows that Peter’s exhausted and sick and his defenses are down, but his heart still skips a couple beats when Peter hums and sleepily mutters, “You must love me a lot.”
Tony is honestly beginning to wonder if he’s dreaming, because if they don’t talk about May, then they definitely don’t talk about this. It’s a little outside of even Tony’s comfort zone, and unlike Peter, he’s wholeheartedly in support of this relationship. He feels kind of guilty that it takes him a moment to decide if he’s going to deflect, say something sarcastic, or tell the truth.
It’s impossible to tell if Peter is asleep or not by the time he quietly answers, “Yeah, I do.”
Tony combs his fingers through Peter’s hair, where it curls around his ear. The kid will need a haircut soon. Tony leans his head back against the wall, figuring he may as well try to get some sleep before Peter gets sick again.
Tony’s numb legs wake him up before Peter does, which is a first for the night. He blearily opens his eyes, sees Peter still asleep with his head pillowed in Tony’s lap, Maggie dozing by his feet. When he checks his watch it reads almost 4 AM, meaning they’ve actually slept about two hours. Which leaves him a choice: stay on the floor for the rest of the night, just in case, or hope that Peter’s through the worst of it and put him to bed.
Tony’s back answers for him. He can’t take sitting like this much longer. Sighing, he grasps Peter’s shoulder and gently shakes him. If he could, Tony would just carry him to bed rather than wake him, but he barely managed it eight months ago, and since then Peter has grown two inches and filled out in the shoulders. Deadlifting him from the floor would be pretty much impossible now.
“Peter,” Tony says. Peter scrunches his eyes closed and rolls onto his back before squinting up at Tony with one eye. “What do you say you move to the bed? You’ve slept for two hours straight.”
Peter sits up slowly, his hair sticking in every direction. “Bed,” he declares. He heaves himself up, supporting himself with a hand on the counter. Maggie’s awake now and excitedly wagging her tail, licking at Peter’s hand. Despite being weak and a little shaky, Peter still offers Tony a hand and helps him to his feet. Tony groans in pain as his back and legs protest, and Peter offers him a bleary, sheepish smile.
Tony puts a hand on Peter’s back and shepherds him toward the bed, where Peter collapses gratefully, curling up on his side. Maggie jumps on as well, padding to the other side of the bed and laying down like it’s her designated space. Tony goes back into the bathroom for a minute and grabs a towel, a glass of water, and the trash can, which he leaves within arms reach of Peter, who’s almost asleep again.
Tony fixes Peter’s blankets until he’s fully covered. “Let me know if you need anything, alright?” Peter hums and pries his eyes open.
“Thanks, Tony.” Peter’s face is soft as he looks at him, softer than Tony thinks he’s ever seen directed his way, as if in his sleepiness, Peter has forgotten that he doesn’t allow himself to look at Tony and think ‘family.’
Tony smiles down at him. “Get some sleep, Pete. I’ll check on you in a few hours.”
“Keep an eye on him, Mags,” Tony instructs the dog as he goes to leave. She snuffles a little, laying her head down on Peter’s other pillow. Tony closes the door silently behind him before going to his own room and falling into bed. He’s asleep in an instant.