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Peter Parker is lying in a hospital bed in Med Bay. Again.
So why do I feel like it’s Christmas morning?
How in the world — surrounded by his beeping heart monitor and whirring machinery and that omnipresent antiseptic Med Bay smell — can I, Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, be crying silent happy tears?
And they are happy tears — not just relieved ones. Those had come too, of course, the moment Bruce had come out to tell us Peter would be fine. That part’s expected, familiar, dare I say almost routine by now. But this? This glow in my chest that’s outshining even the arc reactor? This is something altogether different.
It’s hard to believe that a few years ago, I didn’t know this kid from Queens even existed. But sometimes the Universe has a funny way of bringing us exactly the things we didn’t know we needed, right? No other explanation for how Pepper came into my life. Or this kid.
This kid. Peter Parker, with his brilliant mind and one of the purest souls I’ve ever known, who’s somehow wormed — or, rather, webbed — his way deeper into my heart than even bomb-propelled shrapnel ever managed to do. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this kid. My kid.
So when he woke briefly from anesthesia and reached out his hand, palm up, asking for mine, how could I say no? And when he gave me that look, that pure Peter Parker smile and gentle eyes that said, “I knew you’d be here,” before falling back to sleep with our fingers entwined… now I understand what Hawkeye means when he talks about his children melting his heart.
Of course this is far from being the first time I’ve held Peter’s hand here in Med Bay. I think this kid’s had more stitches than the rest of the Avengers combined. But this time was different somehow. It was just so…
Natural. So utterly calm and trusting, the most natural thing in the world to him. Not a desperate instinctive grab for support when the pain finally broke through. Not a drug-haze-induced vulnerable moment. Not pretending to be fine but humoring me by letting me hold his hand. Not even the heartbreaking and nearly inaudible squeak and half-nod accepting my help during a panic attack. This was just Peter, calm and clear-eyed, looking up at me with so much love, so much trust that it was like my presence was a law of nature, a given in his universe. Just Peter opening his hand automatically as if mine had always belonged there in his.
And in a way, I suppose it has. I think it took me longer to realize it than it did Peter, of course, because I may be a genius in many areas but relationships are not one of them. But I’m realizing it took Peter longer to admit it and believe it because he’s always so afraid of being a burden. (And probably because of my own utter stupidity after Germany. ‘We’re not there yet’ in deed; what an idiot.)
I remember the first time we were here in Med Bay together. His shoulder had taken the brunt of a gang leader’s knife attack, but he’d still tried to patch himself up in the bathroom at home rather than ask for help. I only found out when his t-shirt sleeve rode up during our lab session the next day. I thought the Iron Man bandage was cute until I learned why it was there. As it turned out, of course, his healing factor had done the job already and so the Med Bay visit was about reassuring me more than the kid, but still. I remember feeling something twinge in my chest at the sight of that little pink line on Peter’s shoulder — at the thought of someone hurting my sweet intern.
I wish I could say that had been the last time I’d seen an Iron Man bandage on Peter’s skin, that he’d believed me after that first time that I wanted to know when he was hurt. But as they say, old habits die hard, and making excuses to minimize his own needs is one of Peter’s oldest habits.
“But doctors are expensive, Mr. Stark…” (Will this kid ever understand what “billionaire” means?!)
“But I didn’t want May to worry…” (Isn’t that kind of a parent’s job?)
“But it was really just a scratch…” (A ‘scratch’ that nicked a rib and required twelve stitches.)
“But it wasn’t even from patrol. It was just Flash being stupid again…” (As if that made it okay?!)
“But I didn’t want to bother you, you’re always so busy with more important things…” (As if any board meeting or donor soiree could be more important than keeping him safe.)
Apparently something had finally sunk in, though. He’d at least started coming to Med Bay for help instead of stitching himself up at home with a literal sewing needle. But it was still always FRIDAY who’d tell me he was there, and still always an apology or reassurance from Peter as soon as I’d walk in the door.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mr. Stark. Sorry if FRIDAY’s alert interrupted you; I’m really fine. See?” (A valiant smile but a one-shouldered shrug because the other was immobilized in a sling.)
“I mean, if you want to stay, I guess that’s okay, I don’t mind. But you really don’t have to, if you’re busy, I’m okay…” (Moments before the horrifying snap of Bruce setting his broken wrist back into place.)
It wasn’t until he started sleeping over at the Tower that I learned about his nightmares and panic attacks. Those always broke my heart, not just because the kid was hurting, but because of the way he’d shrink in on himself to ride it out. I’m not sure if he’d guiltily trained himself not to wake his aunt or if she just worked enough night shifts that he’d had to learn to handle these episodes alone, but either way, that twinge in my chest was growing louder every time.
One night, FRIDAY alerted me to his nightmare, and instead of just monitoring his vitals and waiting at the door in case he called out, I actually knocked. He couldn’t hear me, so I knocked again, then gently opened the door. Peter was curled into an impossibly small ball under his covers, head thrashing back and forth, arms pushing back on some invisible force, face scrunched as if in pain.
The twinge became a fist clenching around my heart.
“Hey, easy, Pete, easy, you’re okay,” I soothed, but he still couldn’t hear me. On instinct, I reached out to rub his back and he jerked, eyes blowing wide as he startled awake with a gasp. He blinked a few times before registering my presence.
“Oh, uh, hi, Mr. Stark. Is—” cough cough, deep shaky breath, “is everything okay? Do you need my help?”
“Do I need your… Pete, no, no, everything’s okay. You were just having a nightmare and I came in to check on you, that’s all. Are you okay?”
“Oh, sorry,” he’d mumbled, looking down. “I’m really sorry if I woke you. Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry. Just a bad dream.” Shrug. As if his shoulders weren’t still vibrating and his breathing still hitching every few words.
“Happens to the best of us, Underoos. But it can be ‘just a dream’ and still be scary. Wanna talk about it?”
“Um… not really, but thanks. Really. That’s nice of you.”
“Okay, kid. Just… you know I’m here, right? That it’s always okay to come talk to me, even in the middle of the night, even if it’s for something you think is silly? I mean, it’s not just ‘okay.’ I want you to come to me. Truly. You’re never a bother, Pete. You’re important to me and I’m here to help in any way I can.”
It was the longest speech I think I’d ever made resembling anything like serious emotions, but there’s just something about the quiet darkness of 2 AM that makes it easier to say certain things.
The quiet darkness and the way those big brown eyes had shone in the night light — the Iron Man night light, at his request, apparently a copy of the one he still had in his room at home. The way that twinge in my heart had roared to life and darn if I wouldn’t burn down the world to protect this kid.
My kid.
Over the next few months, he’d gradually stopped apologizing (mostly) and accepted not only my presence but my hugs and eventually even cuddling sometimes until he’d calm down enough to fall asleep again.
The shift during daylight hours had been more gradual, but we’d gotten there. Lab days had gone from teacher/student formality to shared playlists and shoulder bumps and mocking one another’s taste in junky snack foods. Movie nights had gone from perching on opposite ends of the couch to Peter inching gradually closer — literally inching, a little every week, as if tentatively testing both his comfort zone and mine to be sure it was safe — to one day waking up to Peter asleep on my shoulder and Pepper smiling knowingly as she snapped a photo.
All of which had miraculously brought us to this moment, with Peter sleeping peacefully (thanks to the good drugs) and his fingers intertwined with mine and the memory of that look bringing a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. The look that for once didn’t reflexively hide, didn’t shrink, didn’t apologize, didn’t even wonder, but instead just saw me and relaxed. Just smiled the way he still smiles at the best lines in his favorite Star Wars movies — the familiar comfort born of knowing beyond a doubt what’s happening. And the way he’d just opened his hand, not in pain or desperation or guilt, but in a natural, instinctive moment of connection. Like my hand just belonged in his — simple as that, easy as breathing.
Because after all this time, it finally is. Little by little, we’ve pushed past all his hesitation and all my walls, and now this kid, my kid, finally understands that he’s every bit as important to me as I miraculously am to him.
That I love him.
That we’re finally there.