Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Alien Survival Reprise

Spooktober 19: Operation

a/n: sorry for the late update I had homework ,, anyways uhh idk *fremulon voice* not a doctor

⚠️tw: graphic injury, needles, (inaccurate) medical procedures⚠️

It was all so stupid. An impromptu fight with aliens that decided to give them a surprise visit, met with Peter being in the wrong place at the wrong time, met with a futuristic sword now embedded into his stomach.

The entrance of the jet couldn't open fast enough. Tony's heart is going a mile a minute as all of them clamber on— all of them meaning: Steve, Bruce, Peter, and himself. Peter, writhing with pain in Steve's arms and yelping as he was carried over to the nearest flat surface, a pull-down cot for incidents such as this. The kid's mask is held in Tony's clenched hand.

"Ow," Peter sobbed, his body convulsing, trying to yank itself away from its own pain. Blood poured down and pooled underneath his side. His face was pale. He shivered and it caused his limbs to jerk out more. "It hurts, it hurts—"

"Steve, you need to hold him down," Bruce ordered with a sharp, loud voice. He pulled on medical gloves aggressively, the latex hitting against his skin. "I need to remove the sword, it could be infected with god-knows-what."

"Steve won't be strong enough," Tony said. He was restless. Fidgeting. He tossed the mask over and took one side, bracing Peter down against the cot. He looked up immediately at Steve, who— who damn it, wasn't moving fast enough, and glared.

"You gonna stand there all day?" He snapped. "Get over here, Rogers. Help me hold the kid down."

Steve, ever the soldier, followed the command. He was at Peter's other side, holding down the super-strengthened patient. He didn't even have the heart to look exasperated or annoyed with Tony's anger, not that Tony would have clocked it, anyways.

He knew distantly that Steve had been the one to see the teenager go down. He heard it over the comms a second after it happened, the alarm in Steve's voice as he told Tony they had to get Peter off the field. He tried to picture it then, as he flew around enemies and rubble, the way Peter's body would have fallen to the concrete limp. It made him sick.

Peter yanked against their arms, his chest heaving. "No, no, no—"

"I know, kiddo," Tony tried, his voice strained with emotion. He schooled his expression into a smile, something terse and anxious. He wanted more than anything to just run his hand through Peter's hair, to make it all better, to soothe the tears, to take his pain.

Bruce walked over, carrying a rickety metal roll-over tray that was loaded with all the medical supplies they carried on the jet. Tony's blood ran cold.

"I'm scared," Peter sobbed. "Tony— Tony, it hurts so bad, it—"

"It's gonna be okay," Tony said, his voice louder and more measured than it should have been if he were speaking naturally. He didn't think he could breathe properly. Every movement of his was cataloged and very pointedly thought out in the background of his mind.

He took a breath. Leaned his weight further on Peter. Checked the amount of blood on the table. He let the breath out. Leaned his weight further on Peter. Checked the colour of the kid's lips, whether or not they were too pale— they were white. He took a breath.

"It's gonna be okay," Tony repeated. He clocked in the wandering of Peter's widened eyes, how the panic in them increased whenever he looked down, or looked at Bruce. "Hey. Hey, Peter. Pete, look at me."