Chapter Text
Nobody else knew. Mr. Stark had made sure of that. Not even Pepper did. She did know about Tony, but not Peter.
Nobody knew why the billionaire had been able to snap his fingers and survive, except for his wife and the kid, that is. Thanos was gone for good, and Tony would be too if it hadn't been for the fact that he was a vampire. Fortunately he was just in a coma. And even though that meant he wasn’t dead, it also meant that Peter would unfortunately not be able to feed.
It had already been three months but the spiderling could still taste the ghost his mentor’s blood on his tongue. He tried not to think about it every time he visited, because nobody knew. And how could he even begin to explain it? ‘Hey guys actually I’ve been a vampire this whole time and Mr. Stark is too and we accidentally formed a parental vampire bond and the only way I can survive is by drinking his blood.’ Yeah not very friendly or neighbourhood or Spider-Man, if you asked him.
So he just decided to hold on. Hold on to hope that Tony would wake up soon enough. In the meantime, he'd find a way to sustain himself on his own. There were plenty of options to choose from (like about three) but they provided barely any form of sustenance to his still manifesting vampiric nature. Despite being almost 17 already, he was barely a fledgling in the blood-sucking culture.
So his best bet was actual living human blood. And that made his own blood run cold. Tony had tried to teach him. He was a billionaire, after all, and with enough money and a good amount of signed NDAs anything was possible. So they'd been practicing biting, controlling his instincts, drinking the blood… All the logistics around vampire biting, as crazy as it seemed to him.
The problem was, that he had been almost completely incapable of even thinking about biting in any of the sessions they’d done. He had tried his hardest, every single time. Very few times, he had managed to extend his fangs. Even fewer times, he’d been right there, at their necks, but backed away at the last moment, too panicked to go through with it.
One single time, he did it. He bit, but in a Parker Luck™ fashion, it all went sideways. The person underneath him squirmed in his grasp because his venom hadn't been strong enough to relax them yet. So, he spooked, which in turn made blood spray violently when he pulled out his fangs. Without having tasted a single drop, he found himself covered in blood, dripping down his cheek, off his chin and to the floor, his shirt completely stained as well as his hands. He knew the human would be fine, as his mentor quickly stepped in to heal her, a sound akin to purring vibrating in his chest, reaching his ears, trying to pull him out of his fear. But he couldn't take his eyes off the gruesome scene that had unfolded before his eyes.
In all honesty, he felt like a monster. He could guess when he was turned, but he couldn't be certain as it hadn't manifested until much more recently. And then, in case that wasn't enough, he was also bitten by a radioactive spider. So two traumatic species-changing memories to account for. Probably too many for being only 16.
And that's why he was currently in his suit, swinging through Queens, about as high up as physics could allow him to still swing quickly. He'd been coping extremely well, ignoring his double-enhanced senses when he was hungry, focusing on training his patience, as he knew Mr. Stark would be waiting for him, happy to feed his fledgling soon enough. He’d probably fuss all over him as he always did. Hopefully he’d be proud he hadn’t turned into some monster. At least not yet.
However that wasn't the case, so for the time being, he avoided other people as much as he could, only approaching when he needed to protect those who couldn't defend themselves. He kept swinging, the air zipping past him, muting the noise of the city in his ears.
It was starting to get dark, which meant he needed to pause to be able to hear, instead of see. Even his enhancements had limits. He landed expertly on a roof, on one of the lower buildings around. A sweet aroma breezed through the air, suddenly making him painfully aware of the hunger crawling in his stomach. ‘Damn it. Higher next time.’ he thought to himself.
He did his best to tune out his sense of smell, like he'd practiced countless times with his mentor, and tune in his hearing, like he knew he could do. Some dogs barking down the street. Nothing new. A car honking a bit further away in the intersection. Classic New York. A girl giggling with some friends. His mouth started watering without him realising. A young guy walking alone. Easy prey. He opened his mouth to smell him better, his fangs starting to grow–
He hit his head with his hand, trying to focus his senses again, and ignore the scents wrapping around him, “Stop! Come on, you're Spider-Man,” he breathed heavily. Sweet delicious blood was all he could smell with every inhale, coming from the street below. His breaths became shorter as his hands rose up to his hair, pulling on his curls, wishing for a reprieve from the hunger. Maybe he wasn’t coping that well. One good feed from Mr. Stark could get him by for a month. After that, he could hang on for about another month. It was nearing the three month mark, and it was the first time he’d ever been so hungry. He never let him go for longer than a month. Sometimes not even two weeks.
The pain served as a momentary distraction, although knowing his enhanced strength he was vaguely aware he needed to let go, or else he would end up pulling his hair out. When he managed to recollect his thoughts, he decided he'd pay a quick visit to the tower. It pained him to see Tony Stark, his hero and quite frankly father figure, looking too much like a corpse. Even if he could hear his breathing, and his heart beating, he just missed him so much. And it wasn't just about eating, not at all, he was feeling sad and lost.
Even if he wasn’t dead, the uncertainty of his recovery had left everyone in a mourning state. He felt like he was being ungrateful for his aunt May, and his best friends Ned and MJ, and even to Pepper Potts, but he couldn't help but miss his father figure. He was the only one that could fully understand him. A little whiny noise escaped his lips.
He took a deep breath, and focused his ears. He searched, reaching further and further away, until he could zero in to a café, cups clinking, chairs scraping, cash registers dinging and light chatter all over. He tuned out everything else, literally everything, and just started swinging towards it. It was some miles away, one third of the way to the tower, so he hoped it would distract him as he headed over.
When the heartbeats started ringing in his ears, that's when he knew he was getting too close. He needed a new target. After some scanning he found it, soft music playing inside a supermarket, carts rolling around, the beep of cashiers scanning items… When he reached it, he was sure he'd be able to guide himself with the tower itself, the humming of the electricity blatantly obvious to his ears. But first, getting halfway there.
His plans got derailed when, mid swing, a violent hunger pang froze his body, instincts almost taking over as his mind screamed at him: food food foodfoodfood. That wasn't normal. He was very hungry, sure, but that was not normal. He could almost taste the copper in the air, and he knew he’d be able to even without his vampiric instincts, which meant that someone was bleeding nearby. He scouted the area quickly, until he finally heard it, soft crying and laboured breathing coming from inside an alley.
The metallic tang in the air got stronger as he approached, no doubts left in his mind that he was in the right place. Soon he saw her, slumped on the floor, clutching her side as her baby blue shirt started becoming redder and redder.
“Excuse me ma’am, do you need help?” She startled at the voice, trying to crawl back in fear but quickly groaning in pain.
“Help me, please…” She cried out.
“Of course, um–” he rushed forward, looking around for something to slow down the bleeding, “Is this jacket yours ma’am?”
She nodded weakly.
“Alright, call 911 Karen,” Peter whispered to the AI in his suit.
“Calling 911.” The robotic voice replied.
He grabbed the jacket from the floor and took no time to drop to his knees right next to the girl and used it to put pressure on the wound.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hello, there’s been a stabbing? There’s a girl, she’s– she's bleeding out,” He passed on the details of their whereabouts and heard the call click after the operator assured him help would be on the way soon.
He listened carefully for some minutes, but no sirens were coming yet. He considered just grabbing her and swinging to the nearest hospital, but he didn’t know the extent of her wounds and didn’t want to risk jostling her too much. The jacket was too thin so, not before long, he felt the warm liquid seeping through his gloves, the scrumptious sweetness of young prey enveloping him, instincts screaming at him to take the chance, not waste the opportunity, he didn't know when he'd ever eat again He felt his fangs begin to shift and he'd never been so thankful that he wore a mask.
His gums itched with want and hunger, his sense of smell completely overloaded and blaring in his brain. He desperately tried to shift his focus, straining his hearing further and further, searching for sirens. When he finally heard them, he started working his brain, determining the distance and how long it’d take them to get there. It’d be so easy. He shook his head harshly. ‘Come on Peter. Come on, come on, come on! Focus on the ambulance’ he chastised himself.
It was still too far, her breaths were too shallow, his gloves were too wet. And it would be too easy to just bite. She didn’t have long left anyways. He’d be doing her a favour really, the venom would make her go out peacefully. So it would be okay. His gut churned when he realised his thoughts and he barely caught himself, his hand already reaching for the seam of his mask. ‘Stop! Stop stop stopstopstopstop’
“STOP!” He realised he’d voiced his internal turmoil when he heard his own voice, booming in the alley, the girl beneath him gasping in fear at his outburst. Teary eyes looked up at him, her heart barely picking up due to her weakened state. The rancid smell of terror finally registered in his brain, coming in waves from the poor girl trembling in fear.
“I– I’m sorry, I wasn’t, I– I didn’t,” He needed to get away now. He needed to get far, before he did something rash. But he couldn’t just leave her there until help came, so with steel resolve he held on until finally, finally, the ambulance braked right by the alley. He went to grab her, so he could carry her out to get help quicker, but when he inched forward she cowered backwards.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Help is here, come on,” He put his arms below her back and legs and carried her out to the paramedics. He was guiltily thankful she was too weak to fight back.
“Thank you, Spider-Man,” one of the paramedics said as she was placed on the stretcher. There was nothing to be thankful for. He didn’t trust his voice so he just nodded, concealing his emotions, and slinged away.
Back on track. Stark Tower.
Finally being close enough, the buzzing of it grounded him, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he came in through a window on the penthouse floor. He heard Tony’s machinery beeping and humming steadily. He dreaded the chance of one day not being able to hear it anymore. The entire penthouse floor was bathed in a calm-safe scent. The underlying motor oil and strong cologne trace he was so used to was barely there anymore. He decided that three months was too long, an instinctual whimper escaping his lips, and wished Mr. Stark would just wake up.
He listened around, checking that Pepper wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity. When he was certain, he made his way to the special fridge he knew Mr. Stark kept his blood bags at. Pepper was the one making sure her husband was getting the blood he needed. She knew about Tony’s nature, so realistically, she would probably be okay with him too. But he couldn’t bring himself to admit it, how disgusted he felt by his dietary needs and his monstrous features. Of course, his mentor was completely different in that regard. Nothing disgusting or monstrous about him, just about Peter. They’d been working on his self-esteem, but progress was slow. Now there was nobody he could turn to when he wanted to hide his darkest side from the world.
The guilt of stealing one of his mentor’s blood bags was almost insurmountable, but he needed something to keep going, to hold on until he woke up. He just really hoped Pepper didn’t notice it was missing. He checked, once again, that nobody would find him out, before stuffing the bag in his suit, flat against his torso. He shivered at the cold plastic that now separated his heated suit from his skin. Not only did his spider metabolism make it hard for him to thermoregulate, but his vampire DNA had made it borderline impossible. Thankfully, Mr. Stark, ever so fussy about his mentee, had poured over the suit’s temperature system for nights on end until he deemed his fledgling would be warm and cozy in colder weather.
The guilt of leaving without actually visiting the man that had cared for him for over a year now was eating at him, pestering him with guilt, but he knew he had to do so in order to keep the people he loved safe. Peter had just realised that nobody was safe around him while hungry if his internal battle in the alley was anything to go by.
Not long after, he sat on the roof of an abandoned warehouse. It was as dark as New York could get, and he took off his mask. His fangs had been out since the girl, and the itch in his gums had gotten to a point where it was unbearable. The worst part of it all was that he knew it was pointless. The bag wouldn't really actually help as much as he needed.
Tony had taught him so, explained it all when he’d found out the kid was like him. Essentially, his body was just starting to manifest with vampiric traits, which meant it wasn't used to getting nutrients from blood, although that's what it needed. Kinda inconvenient, if you asked him.
For starters, he could eat food, but that would be as nutritional as licking a wooden stick. But he was glad it wasn't like in the movies and TV shows, and he could actually taste and enjoy food with his friends and family. Next thing on the list of edible stuff was the blood bags. That was Tony’s supply, but for Peter it was barely a snack.
“C’mon Mr. Stark! I wanna try…” Peter had whined jokingly, making his best puppy eyes at his mentor. “Just one! Unless that's like, a problem for you. In that case I don't mind. I'm just– I'm curious, and stuff,”
“Kid, you can't fool me,” Stark had replied sternly, but with a smirk.
“What?”
“I know you want to stop drinking from me because of whatever self-righteous thoughts you got going on in that noggin of yours,” he'd said, poking his finger at the boy's head playfully.
“I– It's not that, it's um–”
“Yeah, yeah. Curiosity. You already said. Come on, let's get you a blood bag,” Peter jumped from his seat, following him close, excited to try and find something else he could eat. Mr. Stark hadn't been wrong, though. He wanted to be able to sustain himself without help. He didn’t like feeling so dependent on the man. Although he was starting to come to terms with the fact that maybe he didn't have a choice.
He was lost in thought when his spider senses made his arms reach out, and he realised he'd caught a blood bag thrown at him.
“Alright, go ahead kid,”
He felt his canines elongate and was about ready to bite when he realised–
“Wait. I don't know how to bite this,” Tony chuckled at him, “It's not like, y’know, skin and stuff,”
“Do you want me to demonstrate?”
A blush crept to his cheeks, ashamed that he didn't know something so basic as that. It was probably like slurping juice for a kid. He was the kid and the bag was the juice. It seemed like a basic skill to have. As a vampire, at least.
“You know, it actually took me a little while to drink from these without making a whole mess,” Stark started, as if reading Peter's thoughts, with a bag of his own in his hands.
“Look, I like to mix it up a little like this,” He showed Peter how he was squeezing the bag around, “And then I bite up here, so it doesn't start pouring out. Check it out,”
He saw how his mentor sank his fangs into the bag, and tipped it up, drinking quickly. When he was done with it, he brought the bag back down.
“You got some on your chin,” Peter giggled.
“Did I, now?” He wiped his chin, blood staining his hand. “Well, see? Not even I can be perfect at everything, bambino. It's your turn now, let's see how you do,”
Peter mixed it up like he'd seen his father figure do, and then sank his fangs into it. Instead of a clean bite, like Tony did, his teeth went through both sides of the bag, so when he tipped it upwards it leaked everywhere. Before he actually became aware of that, the liquid was pouring into his mouth. It wasn't sweet with a savory undertone, like he was accustomed to when drinking from Mr. Stark. It was sour and bitter. It tasted stale, too. Like bread left out for days. Or cereal with the bag left open. Or even more accurately, water soup. Rotten water soup. The taste of iron or copper or literally any and every other metal in the world started making his tongue itch.
He gagged and more blood splattered on the floor as he lowered the bag.
“Oh god, I'm so sorry Mr. Stark I just– I didn't know, I, I thought it–” He tried saying, muffled as he wiped his mouth furiously.
His mentor cut him off quickly, grabbing the bag from him, paying no mind to the mess. “It's okay, Peter. Relax. When I told you you wouldn't like it, I wasn't joking,”
“I know, I just didn't think it'd taste that bad. You didn't even flinch,” Before Tony had the chance to quip back at him with some sarcastic joke, and reassure him it was okay, he continued, “Plus, I made this whole mess. I'm so sorry,” Peter truly felt like a burden at times.
And now that Tony would not accept. A bitter scent reached his nose, and he knew it wasn't the blood spilled around them. It was embarrassment and guilt. Emotions the fledgling he took under his wing should not be feeling if he had any say about it.
“Hey, hey, look at me, kid. None of that,” he crooned at him softly, a rumble coming from his chest, a whiff of something soothing-caring wafting through the air. “C'mon, let's get you cleaned up, tesoro. Don't even worry about all… this,” He waved his hand around vaguely in the direction of the blood, with a nonchalant expression on his face.
Peter followed him to the bathroom, still not completely over it. Although the low purring sound coming from his mentor was certainly helping. Something about their instincts or something, he didn’t pay too much attention to that vampire lesson. It was too embarrasing to endure.
“If Pepper sees that before we get to clean it up I'll say it was me. It wouldn't be the first time, so you don’t need to worry about it, alright?” And the younger boy did the math in his head. If it wouldn’t be the first time Pepper saw that, and she’d known about his need for blood for some years now, that meant that he’d made a mess well into his adulthood.
At that, the kid perked up, “Really?”
“Yeah. really,” He said, ruffling his curls. The air was starting to settle now, no trace of the guilt-shame from before, and Tony was glad.
He remembers how he changed his bloodied clothes for clean ones after washing his hands and face. He’d been slightly hungry when he tried drinking the blood from the bag, and he drank quite a bit of it, which in Tony’s blood’s terms, would have satiated him for a few days easily. But instead, he was just as hungry or maybe even more than before some hours later. When he asked Mr. Stark about it, he’d explained to Peter why his body couldn’t benefit from it.
Firstly, that kind of blood was “raw”, per se, and Tony had compared it to being lactose intolerant. There were nutrients in that blood, sure, but Peter’s body didn’t have a clue how to decompose it and ‘make good use of all the nice stuff’, in Mr. Stark's words. On the other hand, his instincts needed to feed as closely to their nature as possible. Which concerned him, at first, as their nature was being predators, and he did not want to hunt down people to drink from. His mentor quickly assured him that even though that was the best way, other details also had weight in the matter, like the temperature of the liquid, whether it was flowing or stagnant, the fact that blood bags had anti-coagulant chemicals mixed in so it was drinkable, etc.
So when he took off his mask, and grabbed the stolen pouch from his suit, he knew he was in for quite a challenge. He was glad now, more than ever, that Tony worried over him like a mother hen, and they’d had sessions of Peter trying to learn to drink and stomach the sour liquid that his tongue barely considered blood.
‘Just in case, Pete. You never know when you might need a snack if I’m not available.’ He’d said. And Peter had laughed, joking that he was never not available when it came to him. And even though it wasn’t by choice, it was exactly the situation at hand. He needed Mr. Stark. He needed his father figure. Another one of those stupid whines came from his throat.
He shook his head, ridding himself of any Stark related thoughts. He needed to focus, make sure he didn’t waste a single drop. He squeezed the bag around and then, as slowly as his desperation let him, he sank his fangs into the plastic. Thankfully, he managed to only puncture one side of the bag. Now onto the worst part, drinking it without reflexively gagging at the horrid taste of it.
It was cold, so much colder than blood should be, had it been from an actual body. He tried to focus on a faraway sweet scent and pretend that’s what he was actually drinking. But his efforts were futile, as the pang of bitterness hit his tongue like a train. He tried to gulp it down as quickly as he could, rancid taste slithering down his throat, threatening to make him gag. ‘No wonder Mr. Stark drank them so fast’ He thought to himself as he lowered the bag, seeing he was only halfway through.
He had never managed to drink a whole one before, but there was always a first, right? Hopefully. The itch in his gums was relenting, and his head felt clearer, he could finally think of anything other than blood. Speaking of, he probably should’ve brought water or something with him, to try and wash it down. Bag blood was too stagnant. He tipped the thing back up, determined on getting past the sourness scratching at his tongue.
He was doing great! He’d definitely tell Tony about it when he woke up. He’d probably be so proud. But that was clearly the wrong thought to have, jinxing it all instantly. He tried to rush the last bit of the bag, which proved to be a mistake. There was only so much he could swallow at once, especially if it was so disgusting. He discovered so when he started choking, trying to stop coughing up blood as it splattered on the floor.
He spit one last time, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He had a few other suits, courtesy of Mr. Stark, so he’d just have to sacrifice this one. He considered trying to slurp the last remnants of blood in the bag, discarded to the floor sometime while he was trying not to throw up just minutes ago, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. ‘Maybe he won’t be proud. What a mess.’ The involuntary thought rattled him, and he tried to keep his mind on the memory of the first time he’d tried a bag. ‘He wouldn’t mind the mess. He would not mind the mess. He wouldn’t mind.’ He tried to convince himself.
He’d have patrolled right after recovering from all that. But he was afraid. He didn’t trust himself around people, especially if he grew tired. And, on top of exerting himself, which would make him need to eat to regain strength and energy, he could also get harmed. Which would mean bleeding, which would mean he’d need to eat, again, but even more. And he couldn’t afford that right now. The city needed Spider-Man, but if things kept going the way they were going, they’d need someone to stop Spider-Man. As much as it hurt him to realise, and even more to admit to himself.
He swung to his and aunt May’s home, finally able to get a reprieve from all the flavours he could smell on every street and around every corner as he went. He sighed in relief when he went into his room through the window, and realised he could ignore his aunt’s enticingly sweet scent. Nonetheless, the best thing he could do at that moment was sleep. Overconfidence could be his greatest enemy. He needed to sleep and to hope that Stark would be finally awake when he opened his eyes in the morning, if not to feed him, at least to guide him on what to do. He felt lost without his mentor’s support.
As he took off his bloodied suit and changed into his pyjamas, he remembered one of the nights he was at the tower, after a particularly messy patrol.
“Hey kid. I hear you coming in through the window.” Mr. Stark’s voice reached him from the other side of the penthouse. They didn’t need to yell at each other, thanks to both of their enhanced hearings. Especially Peter’s.
When he heard no reply, he approached his fledgling’s room. He knocked on the door and spoke from the other side, “Pete? You there kiddo?”
Still, no reply. He was about to try again when a cutting scent reached his nose, probably coming from the little gap under the door. Fear.
“Peter, if you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it right off its hinges, you hear me?”
And then he heard it. A sniffle. And accompanying the anguish-fear, there was salt. His kid was crying. So he grabbed the doorknob and crumbled it under his hand. When the door opened, he froze right under the doorframe. Peter’s suit was covered in blood in certain spots, his mask was on the floor and he was leaning heavily against the wall, right next to the window. The stench of terror, now mixed with humiliation, multiplied tenfold. It was all over the room.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he sniffled again, his gloved hand wiping his tears but instead leaving his cheek stained with blood, “I– I’m sorry, I was too slow and, and I got hurt,”
“Kid you don’t have to–”
Peter barreled on, barely listening, “There were too many and– and,” He was crying now, his hiccups interrupting, “it just, my spider sense, it didn’t, I didn’t know they had knives, I messed up–”
Tony took a careful step towards the boy, about to interrupt him, when he suddenly tumbled forward. His vampiric speed rarely came in handy, only sometimes when he put down a tool in the lab too close to the edge of the table and managed to catch it before it clattered to the floor.
But now he was rushing forward, catching the boy in his arms. He lowered both of them carefully to the floor. He adjusted their positions, cradling his fledgling carefully. Peter often joked that he wasn’t a baby, but they both knew he actually liked the comfort.
“Shh, stop apologising. It wasn’t your fault. They stabbed you, kid.” He was sobbing now, “C’mon, breathe,” His instincts were ahead of him, already unconsciously emanating a sweet relaxing scent, something rooted deep in him since he was turned. He wasn’t as badly hurt as the Toomes incident, but it was bad enough that his brain was going haywire, a deep need in him to comfort, soothe, protect.
He knew he needed to feed him, too, but he was too worked up still. Seeing his efforts weren't enough to calm the boy down, he started emitting that low frequency from his chest that meant calm-safe. That was something he could do on command. The scent thing not so much. He rocked them both back and forth, murmuring words of affirmation into Peter’s ear.
After some time, he’d realised the kid had fallen asleep in his arms. As much as he would have loved to let him sleep, so much blood loss would bring a kind of hunger that he couldn’t allow Peter to feel in good conscience. Instincts were instincts after all.
“Hey, kiddo,” He whispered, shaking him gently, “Wake up, tesoro. You need to eat.”
“Mmmno,” he turned away.
“Hey, no can do, come on,”
“Ugh, fine.” he turned back around, eyes still closed, and nuzzled his head into Tony’s neck. But he didn’t move after that.
“Pete… Did you seriously fall asleep again?” he said, a little louder this time.
“Huh? Oh, s’rry. Wh’t?” He mumbled. He was seriously out of it. He feared it was the blood loss. He had to insist.
He gently placed his hand on the back of the kid’s head, carding through his curls, paying no mind to the fact that he was sweaty.
“Come on Petey. You need to drink or you’ll feel very very bad later.”
“Mkay,”
Finally he bit down on his mentor’s neck. Having a teen vampire was like raising a baby all over again. Not like he knew what that was like. Or like he’d ever tell Peter either. He knew the kid hadn’t come to terms with his nature yet, and it was all surrounded by shame and disgust. He could smell it on the kid every time.
“Good job, Pete,” He kept caressing his head, in no rush to move.
When Peter was eventually done, his breathing had evened out completely, and his cheeks looked flush again. Relief washed over Tony. He grabbed the kid bridal style and carried him out of the room, all the way to his king sized bed. Pepper was away for the week, and he figured she wouldn’t mind if he let the kid sleep in their bed.
He was hoping to teach the kid about their need for nesting sometime soon. Just some days ago he’d gone to fetch him for breakfast and saw him trying to get rid of the excessive amount of pillows and blankets that had mysteriously appeared on his bed, trying to mask his embarrassment behind jokes about sleepwalking. He’d done it on instinct, no doubt.
So he’d prepared his king bed for that lesson now that Pepper was away. What better way to show him it was okay than seeing it in his own mentor’s bed? He lowered him carefully, tucking him in underneath the comforter, making sure the blankets properly wrapped him. Right as he was about to turn around and leave, he heard the boy’s muffled voice very clearly from underneath the fabrics and froze right where he stood.
“Don’t go dad,”
He had to be so out of it, after the blood loss and the crying and being completely full after how hungry he must’ve gotten, but his heart ached in the best way possible nonetheless. He was utterly incapable of denying his fledgling anything he asked, so he got in bed and pulled the kid close to his chest, who buried himself even further. Probably instinctually seeking to be completely enveloped by his father’s scent.
And he breathed in deeply the kid’s own scent, happy-safe-calm. That’s all he ever wanted to smell on the kid. Not terror or shame or the blood from his wounds.
Peter remembered how well he slept that night. And how much he hated the nest stuff. But that was only in his mind, as his body moved on its own, getting blankets and pillows, covering every edge of his mattress. He then got into bed, threw the covers over himself, crawled into a ball and tried not to cry. Or, well, tried to cry quietly. Tony would probably hate how his room smelled right now. Embarrassment, fear and blood. And tears, too.