Chapter Text
Peter’s not surprised when he’s back in the chair, and this time he doesn’t pass back out. Instead, he’s forced to sit there, waiting, playing it all over in his head, taking each moment and turning it over like a puzzle piece.
“Don’t worry about it.”
It was all real.
“Give me this.”
He’d kissed him back.
“Been doing a lot of that lately.”
He kept dying and he knew.
“This one time.”
He’d wanted him. Needed him.
“You’re not supposed to—”
He knew.
“Trust me. Please.”
Begged him.
“I’m sorry.”
He knew. He knew, and he hadn’t said anything. Here he is, drowning in a nightmare, living the worst day on loop, and all this time Mr. Stark knew what was happening and had let him flail alone.
(And died for him.)
(And kissed him.)
(And begged him.)
(And died for him.)
By the time Mr. Stark comes busting through the door, slapping the suit on him and scooping him into his arms with nothing more than, “Hey,” Peter’s not sure if he’s furious or completely in love.
This time, they escape without a single hitch. Peter doesn’t remove his mask once they’re out, though. He doesn’t have it in him to enjoy the freedom of flying right now.
---
As soon as they’re in the safe house Peter runs to the bathroom again, before Mr. Stark can get a word out. A little because he has to go, but mostly because he needs time to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to say.
Within a minute Mr. Stark is pounding at the door. “Pete? Kid, talk to me.”
“Give me a second,” Peter snaps. He splashes water on his face, but it doesn’t help. He tries again, and then again, scrubbing harder. By the time he stops his face is bright red, and he’s no closer to being ready to deal with any of it. But he can only hide in here for so long before it gets pathetic.
Besides, he has questions he wants answered.
He opens the door. Mr. Stark is hunched on the bed, but he jumps up as soon as Peter steps into the room.
“I didn’t know you were experiencing it too,” he says, and there’s desperation clinging to the words, a wildness around the edges of his movements; he paces, gesturing at nothing. “Kid, if I’d had any idea—”
“Do you know what’s happening?” Peter cuts in, and he’s surprised at how calm he sounds. Almost cold. It’s the opposite of how he actually feels, panic buzzing around his head, manic energy throbbing through his limbs down to his fingers, which twitch with anxiety.
Mr. Stark looks like he’s been slapped. He opens his mouth like he’s about to start talking, but then cuts himself off. He waves his hands helplessly, saying nothing.
“Seriously?” This time, Peter sounds exactly how he feels: genuinely annoyed. “If you know, just tell me. Because I’ve been freaking out, and if we’re about to go do this all again, I at least want to know why.”
“We’re not,” Mr. Stark says, with enough confidence that it’s also an answer: he knows what’s happening. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure, anyway. Point nine. Ninety-nine point nine. Though—maybe don’t count on me. Apparently I’m actually a moron.” He sighs, a heavy sound. “Even when I’m trying to protect you, I fuck it up.”
“Trying to protect me?” Peter repeats, dazed. “Can you please say something that makes sense?”
“Whoa.” Mr. Stark holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, you’re angry, that’s fair, given the circumstances—”
“Mr. Stark.”
Mr. Stark laughs, but it’s humorless. “Feels like you should start calling me Tony, after yesterday.”
With a frustrated growl Peter closes the distance between them, grabbing Mr. Stark’s shirt, taking perverse pleasure in the way his eyes turn shocked, surprised at his boldness. This close, the memory of kissing him is almost overwhelming, but so is the memory of blood spilling from his mouth. “Stop deflecting and tell me.”
“It was supposed to protect you, not suck you in—”
“What was?”
Mr. Stark takes a step back, pressing his eyes closed as if he’s gathering himself. Peter lets go of his shirt, trembling.
“After Thanos,” Mr. Stark finally says. “After we fixed it. I wanted to make sure that never happened again. So I worked with Strange. We found a spell. Created it, really. There’s actually a fair amount of science in magic.” He makes a face, like he doesn’t quite believe he’s talking about magic seriously. “It was supposed to let me fix things when I failed.”
“And by ‘failed,’ you mean…?”
A muscle above Mr. Stark’s eye twitches, and he’s quiet when he replies, “Died. On the job. I’d get a do-over. As many as I need.”
The wind goes out of Peter’s anger as he takes that in. What a completely insane thing to do. “That’s crazy.”
Mr. Stark shrugs. “I’ve been accused of being worse.”
“Okay, so that explains the looping.” Peter tries to think it through. His mind feels muddled and slow, too many memories fighting to scramble to the top. “But why do I remember? The guards clearly didn’t, because they acted the same every time, so it’s not like everyone got sucked in…”
“I think I know the answer to that one. We fucked up.”
“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t explain why me—”
“You didn’t let me finish.” Mr. Stark takes a deep breath. “So. When I said I’d get a do-over if I died on the job, what job did you think I meant?”
Huh. Weird question. “Uh—you know. Superhero stuff. Stopping disasters, saving people.”
Mr. Stark nods. “That would make sense, right? It was the original idea. Turned out to be too ambitious. Something about burning through the space-time continuum. So I had to narrow the scope.”
“To…?”
“You. Saving you.”
All Peter can do is stare, trying to register that. What it means. The enormity of it, the implications. He realizes his mouth is hanging open, and closes it.
“But obviously we did something wrong,” Mr. Stark continues, pushing past the moment before there’s time to dissect it. “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been awful. I’ll get Strange to fix it as soon as we get back, you shouldn’t ever have to go through that—”
“Stop,” Peter demands. There’s already too much, too many thoughts battling out for attention, he can’t think about the future, too. “Why?”
“Why what?”
As if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking. “Why me?”
Mr. Stark’s chest rises and falls sharply. “Isn’t that obvious?”
Peter lets out a sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. Nothing about this is obvious.
“I couldn’t lose you again.” Mr. Stark takes a step forward, hand extending in Peter’s direction, as if he wants to touch him, despite half a room being between them. “I couldn’t.”
Why? Peter wants to ask again. He wants an explanation for the memory of that beard rubbing against his chin, of those hands wrapping around him, so vivid he can almost feel it. But his mind won’t let go of the other images; the echoes of death, over and over, scraps of horrors that don’t let up. He tries to sort them into an order, make sense of it. “When you didn’t ask for a doctor yesterday—”
“It was too late by the time we landed. Not with the resources in flying distance. There was no point.”
Peter nods. It’s what he expected to hear, but it scares him how calmly Mr. Stark says it, no flicker of distress for the decision to die, choking on his own blood, without even trying to get help. “And that time when they captured you?” he asks, suddenly realizing. “You were trying to get them to kill you.”
Mr. Stark does react to that, a slight clench of his jaw, so subtle Peter would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Seemed like the best way out of it.”
That makes something in Peter’s brain click, the reason this feels so wrong. “Only because you knew you’d done the spell,” he accuses. Mr. Stark blinks back at him, confused. “You’re Tony Stark. You’ve figured the way out of worse than that. You didn’t have to die, you picked it because it was easy.” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s right. “That’s so fucked up.”
Mr. Stark’s face works overtime, shifting through a series of expressions Peter can’t hope to catalog, before saying, “I picked it because every other option meant you’d be hurt more.”
Every other option meant you’d be hurt more.
Translation: he’d allowed himself to be tortured to death so Peter wouldn’t be hurt.
Not killed.
Hurt.
That really is crazy. Insane. Lunatic. It’s too much. The anger that’s been rattling through Peter’s body since he watched Mr. Stark die on the safe house floor, the fear and pain and panic, solidifies into a tight ball and tears to the surface.
“I didn’t ask you to do that!” he shouts, voice filling the room, as if there isn’t enough space to contain everything he’s feeling. “I didn’t want that! I had to watch you die, do you know how much worse that is than torture?”
“You weren’t supposed to remember!” Mr. Stark yells back, coming closer. “You weren’t supposed to know.”
As if that makes it better. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to, but he does. He remembers, every painful detail. He had to watch, over and over, as Mr. Stark was punched, and shot, and—wait.
Wait.
“The time with my arms,” he says, quieter, slowly, afraid to ask. The way Mr. Stark goes completely still is all the confirmation he needs, but he still forces the words out. “You were fine.”
If his powers weren’t still dampened from the drugs, Peter is sure he’d be able to hear Mr. Stark swallow even from across the room. “I was fine,” he agrees. “You weren’t.”
“Does the spell reset things when I’m injured?” Peter’s pretty positive he knows the answer to that, too.
Mr. Stark’s face is pale as he shakes his head. “No. I wanted it to, but the magic didn’t work out. The loop is anchored to me.”
“Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.” It can’t. He can’t have. Because Peter’s not sure how he’s supposed to handle it if he did.
“I wasn’t going to let you stay like that.” Mr. Stark’s eyes go distant for a moment, and then he nods, as if confirming his choice to himself. “Not when I could do something about it.”
Holy shit.
“You didn’t.” Peter can hear the panic in his own voice, feel it swelling through his stomach, gripping at his throat. “Sir, please say you didn’t.”
Mr. Stark shakes his head again. “I’m not going to lie to you, kid.”
Peter’s chest tightens. He’s having a hard time breathing; it feels like the entire world is collapsing around him. He sinks to his knees, desperately sucking in air.
There’s a shuffle, and suddenly a pair of shoes are in his line of sight. A hand falls to his hair, another lands on his back, Mr. Stark’s strained voice tells him to calm down, breathe deeply, just breathe. The touch should be comforting, but instead he feels claustrophobic, hemmed in. He tries to shake it off, and when that doesn’t work, he shoves at Mr. Stark’s legs, forcing him to stumble away.
“Leave me alone,” he pants. His palms are sweaty, entire body too warm.
“Peter—”
He looks up. Mr. Stark is staring down at him with an expression like his heart is broken. Peter can’t find room in his brain to care. He just needs space. He wants to be alone.
“I—” He pulls in more air, trying to force his heart to stop racing. “I just want to go home.”
Mr. Stark nods. “Team’s already on the way. They’ll be here in an hour.” He walks over to one of the many cabinets, searches inside it for a few seconds, then tosses a bottle in Peter’s direction. It hits the ground in front of him, rolling to a stop at his feet. “Sleeping pills. Might help.”
He found those really quickly. Is that because he already knew where they were? Is this how—no. He’s not going to think about that. Peter takes a couple of the pills and swallows them, then lays on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It’s blank and white, empty. He tries to make his mind match.
“You can have the bed.” The voice, concerned, is disembodied, as if Mr. Stark has figured out Peter doesn’t want him to get any closer.
“I’m fine,” he says. He’s too overwhelmed to care that the floor is concrete, rough and uncarpeted. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to look at anything other than that blankness right now. If he has to see Mr. Stark’s face again, he might shatter. “Please, sir, just leave me alone.”
A resigned sigh. “Okay, I’ll go wait outside.” Mr. Stark’s voice is choked, like he might be holding back tears.
Peter listens as his footsteps go to the door, then fade away down what must be a hall. He stares at the nothing of the ceiling and tries to make himself numb until the pills kick in.
---
He wakes up in his bedroom at home. Home-home. His bruises have faded to faint grey spots, the cut across his face reduced to a thin red line.
May pulls him into a hug as soon as he enters the living room, squeezing tight, exclaiming, “My baby! What’d those fuckers do to you?” She kisses the top of his head, and he can’t stop himself from sobbing against her shoulder. He lets her rock him and whisper comforting nothings into his hair, past the point of wanting to seem like he’s outgrown needing the safety of her arms.
She’s ordered in breakfast from his favorite diner, piles of pancakes and bacon. He tears through it all. He hasn’t eaten for days even in this timeline, and it feels like so much longer than that. He’d forgotten what it’s like to be anything but weak and tired.
As he eats, May tells him “that asshole” explained what happened, but a little prodding makes it clear Mr. Stark has given her the official version: all of the kidnapping, none of the time loops. Peter doesn’t correct her. She’s upset enough as it is. Besides, she’s skeptical of Mr. Stark on the best day, and is clearly super pissed at him right now. He doesn’t need her take on the whole willfully-dying-to-save-him thing, and definitely doesn’t want to hear her thoughts on what it might mean.
Or what he should do about it.
She’s arranged for him to have the week off from school and has taken off work herself—“I told them it’s a family emergency, which it is”—so they spend the day watching movies and eating a rotating cast of takeout options, all his favorites at once, with enough leftovers for days. Peter forces himself to pay attention to plots of the films, tells his brain “no” every time it tries to remind him of what happened: Warm touch, broken ribs, eyes in the dark, wide and concerned. Gentle hands dragging soap across his body, blood, and blood, and blood again. It almost works.
Okay, not really. But it works enough that when he smiles and tells May goodnight, she doesn’t look quite so concerned. That’s something.
When he gets to his room, there’s a drone hovering outside his window. It’s carrying a package: a bottle of sleeping pills with a note.
Trust me, you’re not going to like whatever dreams your mind cooks up tonight. Call me whenever you want. I’m staying in the city for the foreseeable future — TS
P.S. I’m so sorry, I really am. All I wanted was to protect you, but this is what happens when I try to help.
Peter crumples the note up, but he throws it on his desk, not into the trash. And he takes the pills.
---
Ned comes over the next day, with a giant Lego set and over-enthusiastic jokes about his best friend’s kidnapping being a great excuse to skip his boring gov class. Peter appreciates the attempt. And he decides to tell him the truth. He’s the one person who knows about his hopeless (not so hopeless?) crush, anyway.
“Whoa,” Ned says when he finishes the story. “You hooked up with Tony Stark?”
“Not really the point.”
“Isn’t it? It’s part of the point, right? Like, this totally means he’s in love with you.”
There it is, the word Peter hasn’t let his mind look at. They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, Lego pieces scattered around them. He idly pushes two together, enjoying the click they make. There’s something delightfully simple about the way they fit together. It makes sense, unlike anything else. “Does it. Mean that?”
Ned shrugs. “Probably? Seems like it.”
Peter doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he keeps building, watching the shape come together with unnecessarily intense focus, as if it can block everything else out.
After a minute of working in silence, Ned pokes his shoulder. “How would you feel about that?”
“Huh?” Peter’s lost track of the conversation.
“If he’s in love with you? How would you feel? I mean, that’s what you want, right?”
Peter considers it. It is what he wants. Right? A week ago, it would have seemed completely unattainable, and completely incredible. But now—
It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but every time he tries to think about it, all he sees is the man he might be in love with dying.
Choosing to die.
“I don’t know, dude,” he admits. “This is a lot.”
Ned looks thoughtful. “You know what you should do? You should talk to him.”
Peter sighs. Obviously that’s the right answer. Except that thinking about seeing Mr. Stark, talking about any of this, makes him want to stretch out on the floor and stare at the ceiling until it all just goes away again.
“I don’t know if I can,” he admits. “I don’t know what I’d say.”
“You could say you don’t know what to say,” Ned suggests. “At least it’d be something.”
That’s actually not a bad idea. It’s probably better than nothing, anyway. Better than spending the next week wondering if it’s safe to go to sleep without pills, trying not to think about what’s happening. Better than actually giving in and staring at nothing when he knows it won’t go away, no matter how much he wants it to.
“That’s really smart.” He nudges his best friend’s shoulder. “When did you get so smart?”
“College has changed me,” Ned says sanguinely. “I’m wise now.”
Peter laughs and shoves him, but really, maybe he is.
---
He doesn’t warn Mr. Stark he’s coming. Mostly because he wants the option to back out at the last second, but a little for the vindictive thrill of seeing the shock on his face when he spots Peter tapping on his penthouse living-room window, wearing street clothes and his mask.
“You came,” he says, after letting Peter in. He sounds grateful.
Peter pulls off the mask. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I came.”
He’d expected—well, he’s not sure what, exactly, but this quiet awkwardness isn’t it. The last time they’d seen each other had been in the heat of escape, injured and panicked, loud and frenzied, secrets and anger running against each other. By contrast, this calm feels empty.
Mr. Stark, who’s looking unusually casual in jeans and a grey undershirt, clears his throat and gestures at his large, black leather couch. “Take a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Cereal? Uh…that’s all I have. But I could order something. Anything you want.”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” Peter perches on the edge of the couch, all the way to one end.
“Are you? Fine?” Mr. Stark approaches. For a moment it looks like he’s going to sit right next to him, but then he moves further away, dropping with a heavy thud, leaving room for several people between them. “In general, I mean, not about my pathetic excuse for hosting.”
“Not really,” Peter admits, and he’s hit with the urge to cry again. He’s managed to avoid doing that since the morning he came home, four days ago. Four days of trying very, very hard not to think about exactly the thing he’s here to talk about and, wow, this is going to be harder than Ned made it sound. “I’m kind of freaking out.”
Mr. Stark’s lips press together and his eyes squeeze closed, like maybe he’s trying to repress tears, too. Peter finds that strangely comforting. They’re in this together, sort of. “I realize saying I’m sorry again doesn’t amount to much here, but you have to know I am. Sorrier than I’ve been about anything, ever, and that’s saying something.”
Peter’s not sure where to go from here, so instead of replying, he just observes, taking in the dark spots under Mr. Stark’s sunken eyes, the thin sag of his skin, the stubble disrupting his normally perfectly groomed facial hair. Even from across the couch Peter can smell him, strong musk mixed with traces of alcohol. He looks like he hasn’t slept, and he probably hasn’t showered in a few days, either.
“Kid? Please, say something.”
“I don’t know what to say.” There. Better than nothing, right?
“Do you hate me?” To Peter’s surprise the questions sounds completely genuine; not a bid for reassurance, but like the answer could be yes. Ridiculous. Whatever else he’s feeling, hate hasn’t crossed his mind.
“Of course not.”
He’s met with an expression of complete gratitude, as if he’s given Mr. Stark a gift he doesn’t deserve. Not for the first time, Peter realizes he’s completely out of his depth, here. There are too many different emotions competing to come out on top.
“I am angry at you,” he adds, even though anger isn’t what’s winning right now. Right now, what he feels is concern, and a desperate desire to reach forward, touch, comfort and be comforted. But under that, somewhere, part of him hasn’t stopped howling. He probably needs to deal with that. “Like, really angry.”
Mr. Stark nods, frowning. “That’s okay. You should be angry. You deserve you be angry. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve already talked to Strange. We’re fixing the spell; this won’t happen again.”
“Get rid of it.” Until the words come out of his mouth, Peter couldn’t have told you that getting rid of the spell was what he wanted. But whatever primal part of his brain made him say it is right, because as soon as he does he feels confident it would help.
“We’re working as fast as we can, you won’t be included by the time—”
“No.” He says it with more force. “I don’t mean take me out, I mean get rid of it. No more spell.”
“Peter—”
“I mean it.” He makes his voice as firm as possible, trying to convey how serious he is. “I don’t want you dying for me.”
“I—” Mr. Stark stops, staring at him. Maybe realizing he’s not planning to back down. “I just want to keep you safe. You wouldn’t know—”
“But I would. I do.” The memory of the relentless brutal thud of fists meeting flesh overwhelms him; he has to fight to keep his mind clear. “If you don’t stop it, every time you do anything to help me, I’m going to have to wonder how many times you died first.”
“Is that a problem?” Again, it comes out like a real question, and Peter almost bursts into hysterical laughter, or maybe tears. He hadn’t realized how blind Mr. Stark is. For someone so smart, he really doesn’t get it.
“Is that a problem?” he parrots, incredulous and a little sarcastic. “I don’t know, is it? How would you feel if it was the other way around?”
That works better than he expected; Mr. Stark closes his mouth, drawing his eyebrows together like he’s thinking about it. “That’d be awful.”
“Well there you go.”
They sit in silence, contemplating each other. Peter feels like he’s posed a challenge, and now it’s up to Mr. Stark to decide what to do. It’s strange, like he’s somehow taken control of the situation, been allowed to set the terms of engagement. When did that happen?
Finally, Mr. Stark nods, a single sharp movement. “Fine. Fine, the spell goes.”
Relief washes over Peter; he feels himself physically relax, muscles loosening. He melts into the couch, letting his head fall backwards. “Thanks, Mr. Stark. That makes me feel a lot better.”
“I’d really prefer it if you’d start calling me Tony.” It’s said quietly, but with underlying urgency.
Oh right. They’re not done yet.
There’s the rest of it.
He’s so, so tired.
“And why would that be?” Peter asks, not looking up. Maybe this will be easier if he stares at the ceiling. Or at least it’ll make it less obvious that blood has come rushing to his face, turning it what he’s sure is an embarrassing color.
“Kid, come on. You know why.”
“Oh, you’re supposed to be Tony, but I’m still ‘kid’?”
He’s not sure why he said that. He likes it when Mr. Stark—No. Tony? That’s going to take some getting used to, and now is not the time—calls him kid. It always makes his stomach flip; it’s like something out of a classic movie romance, Han and Leia, or that couple from Casablanca. Maybe he said it because he’s annoyed Mr. Stark is dodging the question. Maybe it’s because he’s still angry.
He hears the soft squeak of leather, and suddenly Mr. Stark is much closer, so close Peter can feel his body heat like it’s physical touch. Could reach out and grab his hand easily, but doesn’t. “Peter, what do you want me to say here?”
With a groan of frustration, Peter sits up. Mr. Stark’s face is suddenly impossibly near; he can make out the red running through the white in his eyes, the shine of tears caught in the corners. That’s because of him. It makes him feel powerful, to be the reason Tony Stark has tears in his eyes.
“You kissed me back,” he says, because it’s true, and starting with the facts seems easiest. “You did more than kiss me back.”
“Yes,” Mr. Stark agrees, and it sounds like a confession.
“But you thought I wasn’t going to remember.” Peter holds his gaze, daring him to deny what’s completely obvious. “You didn’t want me to remember.”
That muscle in Mr. Stark’s jaw bulges as he gives a stiff nod.
“Why?”
“Why what? Why did I kiss you, or why didn’t I want you to remember?” He licks his lips, a quick movement that sends a distracting tingle down Peter’s spine. “Honestly, the answer to both questions should be pretty obvious.”
There’s that word again: obvious. That’s what he’d said before. Isn’t it obvious? Isn’t it obvious why he’d kiss Peter? Why he’d hide it? Why he’d die for him, again and again, even when he didn’t need to, just to make his life easier? Peter curls, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He hides his head in his legs. “It’s not obvious to me.”
“Pete—” Mr. Stark’s hand lands on his head and his fingers coil into his hair. Peter feels it through his entire body, can’t repress the shiver that jolts through him. Without the drug dulling his senses, that touch is completely overwhelming.
“I don’t get any of this,” Peter says into his knees. It’s easier, not looking at him. And the contact helps; it’s distracting, but it’s also confirmation that he’s not crazy. That Mr. Stark does want…something. “You want to kiss me, you’re completely insane enough to die for me. To, what, kill yourself so I could have my arms? But you didn’t want me to know?”
A sigh, another shift, and then their legs are brushing. Mr. Stark wraps an arm around his back, mouth pressing a kiss to his head. If he’d thought the hand on his hair was overwhelming, this is something else entirely; the only thing he can think about is the burn of that touch through his body, confusion and pain lost in a flood of want. Suddenly he’s very glad his knees are up.
“I told you,” Mr. Stark says, so quietly it’s barely more than a rumble in his chest, but Peter doesn’t miss a word. “I can’t lose you again.”
That gets Peter’s attention, lust subsiding, though every place Mr. Stark’s skin meets his still feels like fire. “You thought me knowing would lose me?” That can’t be right. “Am I really that good an actor?”
Mr. Stark chuckles, a gentle sound that makes Peter’s heart skip a beat. “No offense, but not at all. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Peter groans and curls into himself further. Really, he should be past the point of being embarrassed about this, but he’d thought he’d done an okay job keeping his crush under wraps. Apparently not. It’s a little humiliating to have gone around thinking he was being sneaky when he wasn’t. “If you know how I feel, then what’s the problem?”
“Peter, could you look at me?” Reluctantly, he peaks up, and is greeted with the lopsided smile he’s learned to associate with self-deprecation. Mr. Stark’s hand finds his hair again, stroking it. “The problem is that if I offered, you’d say yes. And then I’d fuck it up, because I’ve fucked up every relationship I’ve ever been in. And then I’d lose you.”
“Oh.” Peter’s mind spins, trying to find a response. It’s hard, when everything is overpowered by touch, and by the memories that touch brings, of losing himself in it, and of the taste of blood, and—fuck. He hates this. “Well, too late. I’m not gonna like, forget.”
Mr. Stark shifts to rubbing circles on his back. “Not even as a favor to me?”
Peter laughs a little. That earns a broad smile that brightens Mr. Stark’s face, as if even that small sign of happiness is the best thing he’s ever seen. “Sorry, Mr.—Tony. But I don’t exactly want to forget. That part, anyway.”
“Yeah.” Mr. Stark sighs, low and resigned. “Yeah, neither do I.”
“Yeah?” Suddenly Peter knows the answer to Ned’s question: If he’s in love with you? How would you feel? Hopeful. He’d feel hopeful. And scared, and completely overwhelmed, and still kind of angry, but mostly: hopeful. He sits up, leans forward until their lips are so close they’re almost brushing. “So, what now?”
Mr. Stark’s fingers graze along his chin, pulling him forward until that last space is erased. This kiss is closed, gentle, nothing like last time. It’s not enough, Peter wants to get lost in it. He opens his lips, flicks his tongue forward, licks his way into Mr. Stark’s mouth, which welcomes him, warm and soft and tasting like ecstasy. He sinks into it, letting go—
And then his mind explodes with memories: spots of blood, glassy eyes, gargling breaths.
He stops, heart racing.
“Peter?”
He’s shaking. Fuck. He’s shaking a lot.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.
“Don’t apologize to me.” Mr. Stark leans forward and kisses his forehead, and then his nose, fluttering touches that center him. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I just—” He almost waves it off and claims everything is okay, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get away with that. “I remembered you dying,” he confesses.
“Kissing me reminded you of me dying?” Somehow, Mr. Stark doesn’t sound upset or put off by that. More…understanding.
Peter nods, looking down, focusing on the subtle cracks running through the leather of the couch. It’s been about two seconds, and he’s already managed to fuck this up. Maybe it was a bad idea after all.
“You can back out now,” Mr. Stark tells him. “Or anytime. I won’t hold it against you. Not now, not ever.”
Yep. There it is. He might as well be telling Peter he blew his shot. “Yeah, I mean, if you don’t want—”
“That’s not what I said,” Mr. Stark cuts in. He grabs Peter’s hand, which is still shaking, and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips to his knuckles. “Not for a second.”
“But I—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, it’s too frustrating. He has the man he’s wanted since forever right here, somehow wanting him back, and he can’t even kiss him. He knows what happened wasn’t his fault, but this feels like it is. Like he’s being silly. He tries to convey all that with a vague, helpless wave of his free hand.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Mr. Stark asks. Peter nods and meets his eyes. “Every time I look at you, I see you disappearing into dust.”
Oh. That should make Peter’s heart hurt; it should be devastating to hear. Instead, he suddenly feels a lot safer.
“How do you deal with that?” he asks quietly.
“By making very poor, ill-advised decisions involving wizards.” Mr. Stark squeezes his hand. “And by reminding myself that I’m looking at you, and that means you’re here. Touching is even better. Get it?”
Peter shakes his head, because he doesn’t.
“Like this.” Mr. Stark lifts the hand he’s still holding, twisting it this way and that, observing it closely. “Peter Parker’s hand. Right here! I can see it. I can feel it.” He brings his fingers to Peter’s cheek, grazing it. “His face. Really, really soft. Rather nice. Definitely here.” Hand through his hair. “These curls. I love these curls. Could use nicer shampoo, but very much on this Earth.” Thumb across his lip. Acting on instinct, Peter wraps his mouth around it and sucks. “F-fuck, kid. Okay, definitely here. Get it?”
Peter lets the thumb go and nods. He runs his hand up Mr. Stark’s bare arm, focusing on the feel of his muscles, tense and strong. Here. Definitely here. Brings his hand to his neck, cupping the back of his head, fingers brushing through short hairs. Definitely there. Presses their lips together, in a chaste kiss. And then a not-so-chaste kiss, warm and wanting.
Mr. Stark isn’t collapsing into a lifeless pile. He’s here, kissing him back, pulling at his hair, which Peter feels through every nerve he has.
Peter breaks away. “You can’t do anything like that again,” he says, sternly. “The spell, I mean. Not the kissing.”
“I promise,” Mr. Stark says, not moving his hand from where it rests along Peter’s neck. He sounds breathless, looks amazed, as if he can’t believe his luck. Peter’s not going to get used to having that expression pointed at him.
“I’m really, really serious,” he emphasizes. “You do that again, and you actually will lose me. It might be the only way you can lose me.”
“You are not thinking nearly creatively enough about the many ways I can mess this up,” Mr. Stark says, and even though it’s a joke, it also sounds like a warning. Peter doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure he’s wrong, at least about most things he could do.
After all, look at what Peter’s already forgiving.
“I’m just saying, you don’t get to kill the person I love.”
The hand at the back of his head tightens. “Love, huh?”
“Well yeah,” Peter says. Before he has time to wonder if he’s somehow gone too far too fast, Mr. Stark breaks into a smile that could light up the room. “I thought that was obvious?”
Mr. Stark laughs. “I guess it is.”
And then he kisses him again, firm and deep, and this time, when panic catches at the back of Peter’s throat, he reminds himself that this kiss is real. It means Mr. Stark is real. This is all real, and it’s not going anywhere.