Chapter Text
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Part 1
“Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good…”
Those words would haunt Tony for the rest of his life.
“I don’t—I don’t understand—everything’s so quiet—”
The tears in the boy’s eyes, too, would feature in Tony’s dreams vividly for the foreseeable future.
“It’s all gone—everything—I don’t—I don’t understand what’s happening—I don’t want them to go, Mr. Stark! Please, please, I don’t—I don’t want them to go…”
It had been three days since the shitshow that went down with Thanos. Tony could scarcely believe that half of the universe had just… disappeared like that, in seconds, with a snap. He didn’t think he would ever be able to believe it had actually happened until he saw it with his own two eyes.
At least, he wouldn’t have been able to believe it without seeing the way Peter became practically catatonic whenever they weren’t working to rebuild the engines on the spacecraft that Quill kept. Or whenever they weren’t counting supplies, measuring the fueling system, making sure that there would be enough oxygen to get them back to earth…
They were in outer-space; practically cruising through the stars at light-speed. Tony might have considered the view beautiful once, but beauty was the furthest adjective he would use to describe it now. Terrifying, vast, abysmal would be better suited for how he felt about space now.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s hand on his shoulder pulled Tony out of his thoughts and he met the boy’s dark eyes. For a wild moment, the shape and shade of his eyes reminded him of his mother’s—and consequently, Tony’s—but he blinked and shook the illusion away. He must be going off the deep end, between the lack of sleep and the… emptiness. From the pilot’s pit, Nebula watched them with sharp eyes.
“Sorry, kiddo. What were you saying?”
Peter’s frown was brief—barely there and gone again. His face was pale and wane. He wasn’t eating nearly enough to sustain his metabolism, but there was nothing Tony could do. He hated seeing the kid look so utterly bereft. “I think there’s a problem with the fueling tanks. The gauges are indicating we’re using more fuel than we should.”
Fuck.
Tony quickly stood up, removing the Iron Man helmet from his lap and placing it on the side. His head spun from the sudden movement and the lack of food he had eaten; he’d felt too sick to truly be able to eat. He crossed the living space, ignoring Nebula’s curious state, and crawled into the engine room. Peter followed behind him, for once silent. Tony sat in front of the tanks, feeling around for any punctures or holes in the tanks.
“Check the hoses for punctures,” Tony told Peter when he saw the kid opening and closing his mouth, as if he was about to ask what he could do to help, but lost his nerve. Peter nodded and knelt by his side, lightly brushing his fingers on top of the lines. Tony watched him out of the corner of his eye, but he was more focused on looking through the engine pipelines to truly observe the way Peter worked. He was efficient; that was good enough for now.
Eventually, after what felt like too long of a time, and he didn’t have any way to track how long it had truly been since he didn’t have any time-pieces on his person, Tony caught sight of an area on the tank that had corroded away due to what seemed to be the harsh elements. He couldn’t help but wonder what Quill had done to protect the tanks whenever he was space hopping from one light-dimension to another.
“Can we somehow weld some kind of metal over that so it doesn’t continue leaking?” Peter asked when Tony stopped him and pointed out what he had seen, tilting his head.
“If we can find the right tools, then sure.”
“Umm…” Peter got onto his feet and moved out of Tony’s field of vision. The sounds of what seemed to be his rummaging around picked up, and Tony twisted his neck to look behind him. “There might be something— maybe— potentially…”
Tony twisted back to the mess of an engine and stroked his goatee. “We might also be able to screw in a piece of metal into this, if there aren’t any welders.”
“But wouldn’t that just puncture the engine and let exhaust fumes escape in here?” Peter asked, in an absentminded sort of way.
“Not if we do it right. The screw should seal up the hole.”
“What if we just, I don’t know, duck-taped it?”
“That’s the last resort, kid.”
“Aha!” Peter crowed, and Tony turned to look over his shoulder, only to see Peter holding something that was similar to a welder. “I think I found it!” An unexpected grin crossed the boy’s face as he crossed back over and sat down. Tony took the instrument out of his hands and rolled it around in his hands, before he nodded.
“Ye-up. This should be good. I saw a sheet of metal on the other side of the—okay, good, you got it. Bring it—yeah, put it right over the hole like that.” Tony smiled at the kid when he looked down at him. “You want to do the honors, kid?”
“Really?” Peter’s eyes widened. “You’d trust me not to screw it up?”
Eeeehhhh. “It’s just a bit of fire. And I’m the only one who can control the gauntlets. Don’t aim at my hands though. I’d have to file a formal compliant when we get back.”
“Ummmm…” The kid worried his lower lip, eyebrows drawing together.
“Seriously, Pete. It’ll be fine.”
“I just don’t know if I should be doing this when it’s so important…”
“No time to learn like the present! Just gotta have a little confidence in yourself.”
“I feel like your confidence in me is severely misplaced, Mr. Stark.”
“Never.”
Peter groaned, muttering something underneath his breath that Tony knew he was meant to overhear, so he deemed to ignore him. He held the metal over the patch, and nodded to Peter to indicate that he was ready for him.
“Okay, okay, c’mon Peter, we can do this… here we go.” Peter mumbled, giving himself a pep talk. Tony sighed. Waited—and then, lo and behold, the kid actually turned on the welder. Or the equivalent of a welder, since the flames were a weird blue color—except they weren’t as hot as Tony would expect for them to be.
“We’ll probably have to fix the lines too, right?” Peter asked, frowning down at the area he had so far successfully melted into the engine. He tilted his head to the side and started on the bottom left corner. Tony moved his hand out of the way. “So they don’t leak?”
“Yeah, but we need to get this puncture sealed first.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
After they sealed the area up, Tony got up and found what looked like a sticky sealant used to plug holes in tires. Peter pulled out some of the lines and replaced them with better materials—properly, too. In a way that fixed the problem, or as much as it could in this circumstance.
I should have done this with him from the beginning, Tony realized as he and Peter worked in harmony to repair what they could of the tanks. Peter barely hesitated to use the alien tools, after watching Tony for a couple of minutes, and Tony wondered what it would have been like—to work with him in one of the labs.
He should have offered Peter a real internship at SI. Hell, with him, personally. The kid was smart. Tony only had to explain things to him once before he picked them up. He should have fostered that drive to learn when he had the chance.
He should have done more.
“When we get back and things settle down, maybe we should make your internship official.”
Peter hummed underneath his breath. “I thought it is official?”
“I meant official-official, kid. How’d you like to work in my labs a couple days a week?”
Ah yes, Tony truly enjoyed putting the bugged-eyed look on the faces of children. “Seriously? Th—that would be— but I thought you don’t like working with people?”
“Ehhh, Bruce and I got along just fine. I just can’t stand stupid people.”
Peter snorted, then hunched his shoulder, looking slightly ashamed of himself. “Sometimes they can’t help it, Mr. Stark.”
“Puh-lease.” Tony rolled his eyes. “Common sense isn’t rocket science.”
“Common sense isn’t very common either.” A pause, and then he scratched the back of his neck.
“Wow, Pete, that’s almost snarky. Have you been hanging out with me too much?”
Peter grinned, bright as the sun. “Never, sir. Aunt May told me that.”
“Smart lady. No wonder you’re as smart as you are.”
“Stop it, Mr. Stark.”
“What? Praising my incredible intern? Never!”
“Ugh.” Peter hid his head in his hands. “Why are you like this?”
“Excuse you, I’m perfect!”
“Ms. Potts would say otherwise—”
“Boys.”
Peter jumped, and Tony counted it as very lucky that he had just finished putting the final touches on the line. Regardless, he still jumped high enough that he slammed his head against the metal bar with an impressive clang, and Tony winced in sympathy for the kid.
“Nebula!” Peter squeaked, rubbing his head. Tony batted his hands away and, somewhat on an autopilot, ran his hands through his scalp to check for bleeding. Peter blinked up at him. “Uh. What are you doing?”
Tony decided to pretend this kind of behavior was very normal and not at all out of character. Even though it was. Since he hadn’t been much of a mother-hen before… like, ever. But something about how scared the kid looked on Titan was going to haunt him to the end of his days, and he couldn’t quite stop himself.
“Uh, making sure you’re not bleeding?” he mimicked the kid’s tone. Peter pulled a face. “Hey, hey, hey! Respect your betters!”
“I thought the saying was ‘respect your elders’?” Peter asked, faux polite.
“Wow. That cut deep, kid. I’m almost impressed.”
“I’ve learned from the master.”
Tony wondered how May would feel about how much he was corrupting her nephew. He would probably get a lecture from her that would have made Pepper proud.
“So, Nebula…?” Tony prompted, after clearing his throat.
“I believe we need to eat soon, if the repairs are done.”
“Yeah, probably a good idea.”
They got up, Peter pulling Tony to his feet when his knees protested the movement, without making cracks about his age. Tony shooed him into the kitchenette and looked at the fueling tanks.
“Stark…” Nebula whispered, obviously trying to keep the volume down enough that Peter wouldn’t overhear them. Tony was pretty certain that wasn’t going to do any good. “The amount of fuel lost, combined with the loss of efficiency…”
“I’m just going to have to recalculate what remains. We’ll be fine,” Tony lied. His stomach rolled.
God, he’d dragged the kid into this.
“So!” He said, clapping his hands together and gesturing for her to follow him. “What’s on the menu for today?”
...
After completing the calculations for the loss of fuel and then double checking them, Tony realized that they were well and truly fucked. Before the loss, it was questionable that they would get all the way to Earth. Now, there was no way…
They were going to die in space.
“So?” Peter asked, shifting from one foot to another. Tony looked up at his face—and God, he was so young. Only seventeen. He had his whole life ahead of him; he should be worried about college exams and choosing colleges, not fueling systems and the fate of the universe.
“We’re going to make it, just barely,” Tony said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, and he scrutinized Tony’s face—and Tony had been playing this game for years with Pepper, and she was far superior at discerning his tells.
“… but that doesn’t make sense,” Peter said softly, licking his lips. “I mean… we’ve probably lost a thousand light-years worth of fuel. There’s no way—”
“Peter,” Tony interrupted, his voice tight.
Peter blinked, and then something like realization settled in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”
There was a long moment where neither of them acknowledged the elephant in the room—and Tony’s mind raced because he had brought Peter with him. They were going to die in space, knowing that they had failed, that he had failed to protect him, and… God. What had he been thinking, recruiting this child into this madness?
He never would have done this if he had known what would happen.
Peter’s eyes were bright, and he blinked rapidly, and Tony realized with a sense of panic that he was on the brink of tears. And, well, they couldn’t have that, could they?
“C’mere, Pete,” he said, opening his arms, remembering how tactile the kid was. Happy constantly complained about it. And maybe he wasn’t the most touchy-feely guy there was out there, but the guilt was sickening and he wanted to do something to fix it. But he couldn’t fix this, he couldn’t—
Peter sniffled quietly, but he ducked his head and curled up against his side. Tony forced himself to relax his limbs, to not tense, to not give away how uncomfortable this felt to him, how jarring it was to touch another human being that wasn’t Pepper.
“I’m scared,” Peter whispered, so lowly that Tony didn’t think he was meant to hear him. But he did. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, leaning against the wall of the spacecraft. Peter was so small. Young.
He forced his hand to card through the kid’s hair. Somehow, miraculously, that caused him to relax and lean into his side with a light humming sound, as if he was a cat purring. Tony didn’t mention it, only continued the stroking motion in the hopes that it might lull the kid to sleep.
“It’ll be okay,” he lied, again.
“Peter!”
It was the thirteenth day of the space trip from Hell, and Tony – Mr. Stark – sounded angry. Peter flinched, which was due to instinct more than anything else. He was so hungry and dehydrated at this point that he couldn’t feel it.
“What?” Peter snapped, irritable. He stood up and his head swam, so he trailed his fingers against the wall to keep his balance. Tony turned and pointed at him with a trembling finger. Peter paused.
“There’s too much food in here. Why, pray tell, are there extra rations in here when I sure as hell haven’t put them in there, and Nebula doesn’t need to eat?”
Peter felt both hot and cold. “Maybe you miscalculated?”
“Do not, Peter,” Tony snarled, not quite looking at Peter in the eyes.
“Well, maybe you did!” Peter insisted, too angry to stop. It was nice, to channel his fury into a way to stand—to be able to do something instead of sitting and waiting to die from starvation or dehydration.
“I do not miscalculate.”
“Well, maybe you did this time!”
“I know that it’s impossible for us to have enough rations to last three more days when we were supposed to run out today, Peter! It’s simple math, for God’s sake!”
Peter couldn’t speak, so he settled for staring at Tony, stricken mute. That must have been enough to set him off again, because he went off—yelling about how irresponsible, and stupid, and how he needed him to eat what he had rationed for him. His knees, conveniently, gave out halfway through Mr. Stark’s rant, and he gracefully collapsed on the ground, which was fantastic timing for him to defend his point that he didn’t need the extra food. Tony glared at him. Peter glared back.
“Fine,” Peter finally snapped, physically unable to hold it in anymore. “You know what, Mr. Stark? Yeah. Fine. You’re right. I put the rations back! You know why? Because I’m eating three times the amount you do, and Nebula doesn’t eat anything—and, a-and it’s not enough, anyway you slice it, because my metabolism is going to kill me anyway and I don’t—there’s a chance that you might make it. But not if I eat more than my fair share.”
Tony’s rage drained out of his features and he, too, collapsed very gracefully. Like a puppet’s strings had been snapped, if Peter was articulate. Tony was the same height that he was now, and Peter felt exhausted, all of a sudden, as if their argument had drained all the energy from his bones.
Why were they fighting again? Wasn’t it pointless? They were both going to die in space. There was nothing they could do about it; their fate was sealed and it was only a matter of time before the grim reaper came for both of them. Peter could see it in Tony’s face—the way his cheeks had sunken in and caused his eyes to stand out like round, bulbous… bulbs.
He could see it in himself—how his feet looked webbed, the way his veins stood out in his hands, the way he could hardly stand for even short periods. Peter was slowly starving to death.
It wouldn’t be long for him.
“Peter—Pete, kid, bambino—I’m sorry, shit, I’m an asshole—” Mr. Stark leaned forward and the hand that he had used to point accusingly at him was brushing against his cheeks. Peter realized, very suddenly, that he was crying. He could barely believe he had enough water in his body to cry. And then he was angry with himself because he shouldn’t waste such a precious resource. He needed it in case—
No. They were going to die out here. There was no point in trying to stop himself.
“We’re going to die out here,” Peter whispered. He sniffled. Tony’s expression was of such recriminating anguish that he leaned forward to hide away from it. He fell into his chest, and, like a child searching for comfort from his father, —like the child that he still is— he clutched Tony’s shirt. “I don’t—I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!”
“Peter, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten you involved with this, you would have been safe in Earth.” Tony hugged him close. Peter shook his head.
“No, no, no no no it’s not your fault, Tony. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Hey, hey, no, stop that. I’m supposed to be the recriminating fool. What a pair we make, God. We’re truly cut from the same cloth.”
“Takes one to know one,” Peter mumbled.
A pause. “Finally on first name basis with me now?”
Peter tried to laugh but it was cut off too quickly to truly be considered a laugh. “A slip of the tongue, Mr. Stark.”
“Ah ah ah, but it’s not just a slip of the tongue if it happened.”
Peter groaned.
He was still crying.
“I don’t want to die.” Peter repeated, a little more calmly. Resigned. He knew that it was useless to say, that it would only make Tony feel bad, but he couldn’t stop himself. He felt like he needed to be acknowledged, like a little kid tugging on his mother’s dress to get her to pay attention to him. “I really, really, really don’t want to die, Mr. Stark.”
One of Tony’s hands was carding through his hair, the other had wrapped around his back. Peter felt, oddly enough, as safe as he could be while floating twenty-thousand light years away from home. “I know, bambino—Peter. I don’t want to die either. I’m scared too.”
Peter swallowed against the frog stuck in his throat. His too-thin, too-veinly hand mocked him, the trembling in Mr. Stark’s too thin frame mocked him, so he closed his eyes and tried to pretend he couldn’t see and focused on his heartbeat. It was still going strong and steady.
“What does bambino mean?”
“It’s Italian. My mom was Italian—she used to call me that. It means child.”
“A Freudian slip?”
“Something along those lines.”
Peter rubbed his leaky eyes against his wrist, but he still didn’t let go of Tony’s shirt. “You know, I kind of see you like a father figure.”
“I feel like that’s a terrible decision, kid.”
“Why?”
“I don’t set good examples. My father wasn’t a good example either.”
“Well,” Peter said, very, very carefully, because if this was going to be one of his last meaningful conversations in his life, then he wanted to use his words wisely. “I think you’ve managed to break the cycle.”
Tony breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth deeply enough that Peter’s head rose and fell with the motion of his chest. He kept silent while Mr. Stark tugged strands in his matted, greasy hair—as if he was trying to unravel the clumps. It was a hopeless cause, but it made Peter feel better.
“I would be fortunate to have a son like you. If you were my son.”
Peter smiled.
“Pete, I do need you to eat what you’re supposed to eat. Your metabolism rate is thrice the normal amount.”
“What’s the point?”
“I’m serious.” Tony pulled away and Peter reluctantly lifted his head and opened his eyes. His hands still grasped his shoulders, a grounding presence, and he rolled his head to rest on the back of Tony’s palm. “Please, Peter. Just… I need you to do this for me.”
Peter blinked blearily, and there was vulnerability in Mr. Stark’s face. He sighed, feeling a little sick—but he gave in because, ultimately, he didn’t want to fight and he could only uphold his noble intentions so long. “All right.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Can I take a nap now?”
“Of course.”
Sleeping was the only way to free himself from the gnawing pit in his stomach, the way he could feel himself grow weaker each passing hour. Sleep was the only distraction from his looming death.
He wondered if death was like sleeping. That would be nice. He didn’t want it to be painful.
“C’mon, let’s get you back up in your bunk.”
So, they both got up and stumbled to Peter’s messy bed. He originally slept in the top bunk, but at some point he switched places with Tony and took the bottom bunk. He crawled into his bed, and when Tony made to pull away, a sense of panic gripped him and caused him to latch onto his shirt tighter.
“N-no, stay. Please stay. Please please please don’t leave me. Don’t go where I can’t follow you. Don’t go.”
“Okay, okay.” Tony slid into the empty space between the headboard and the edge of the bed. He didn’t even hesitate or blink an eye; just sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world. “It’s okay. I won’t go.”
“Thank you,” Peter mumbled, sleep now reaching for him greedily. He blinked in an effort to keep his eyes open, locking his gaze with Tony’s. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, or why. He didn’t have anything more to say. He just… he felt, not happy, but there was a strange, deep seated gratitude.
“You’re welcome.” Tony went back to carding through his hair, and Peter wondered if his DNA had a cat mutation instead of a spider, with how much he enjoyed it. His eyes started to close, and a very low melody was either hummed or sung—he couldn’t tell which it was, or even if he was imagining it.
At some point, he heard someone say, “Are you certain you’re not related?”
“Positive,” came Tony’s drawl.
“Funny. You two look really similar screaming your heads off at each other. Anyone else would think he’s your son.”
“He’s not, Nebula. Don’t plant ideas in my head. I’m already going swirly from being out here too long.”
Peter drifted off to sleep after that.
Day twenty-one arrived without much fanfare. Peter barely moved now. He slept most of the time, and he was so incredibly cold to Tony’s touch, even though he had practically buried him in a mountain of blankets and whatever spare clothes lied around.
Tony held the Iron Man helmet in his lap. Peter slept next to him, and he didn’t worry about whether or not Peter would wake up from hearing his voice. The way he slept—it was like he slept like the dead. A very poor analogy for him to make, but still true.
“Hey, Ms. Potts,” he said, trying to smile, and failing miserably at it. “Pep… If you find this recording, don't post it on social media. It's gonna be a real tear-jerker. I don't know if you're ever going to see these. I don't even know if you're... if you're still... Oh god, I hope so. Today is day 21, or maybe 22. You know, if it wasn't for the existential terror of staring into a void of space, I'd say I'm feeling better today. The infection's run its course, thanks to the blue meanie back there. You'd love her. Very practical. Only a tiny bit sadistic.
“Some fuel cells were cracked during battle, but Pete and I figured out a way to reverse the ion charge to buy ourselves about 48 hours of time. But it's now dead in the water. We're 1000 light years from the nearest 7-11. Oxygen will run out tomorrow. And that'll be it. And Pep, I ... I know I said no more surprises, but I was really hoping to pull off one last one. But it looks like... well you know what it looks like. Don't feel bad about this. I mean, if you grovel for a couple of weeks, and then move on with enormous guilt. I should probably lie down.”
Tony looked down at Peter. At the kid, a child, who had no business being out here in space. He would have survived otherwise, and now he had sentenced him to die. He thought of Pepper, of that far-away dream where there was a little boy or girl running around the Tower with his eyes and nose and her hair and freckles.
Peter would have been a good brother. Nebula had been right—Peter looked similar enough to him that it wouldn’t be too strange to consider him to be his son. His biological son, that is. He had his eyes, and a bit of his mother’s nose, but the freckles definitely would have to come from his mother, as well as the curls.
His throat felt tight. His eyes burned.
Fuck, when did Peter become so important to him that he saw traces of himself in his features? Was he getting delusional to the point that he was desperate to see something good had come from him? Or so impossibly lonely that his mind would fabricate something too wonderful and terrible to consider?
He swallowed.
“Please know that... when I drift off, I will think about you. Because it's always you.”
With his trembling hands, he reached out and manually shut down the Iron Man helmet. He didn’t even have FRIDAY to talk to anymore, or anyone to bounce impossible ideas off.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
He wished he could see the sky—not the inky darkness lit only by the moon and stars, but the deep, blue sky that came only so often. The kind of sky that he associated with lazy days out on the Compound reading through the academic journal entries other engineers and scientists had published. Hell, he’d take a rainy day over this. He just wanted to feel the grass give underneath his feet again.
There was nothing for Tony to do now but sleep.
So he did.