Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Dreams of Birds and Beaches

Spooktober 25: Sand

⚠️tw: canon-typical violence ⚠️

His ears are ringing.

His body twitches, too cold, too hot, burning against bits of metal and flame. Blood is caked against his face, dry and fresh, choking him with iron.

Sand is crusted across his eyelashes. It's everywhere. It's getting caught in the cuts on his chest. It's in between his teeth. It's hitting pin-pricks against his cheeks.

He's being picked up, claws of metal striking deep into his flesh and picking him up. He's being swung around the air carelessly, no thought or worry of a bone snapping or joint ripping from place. His sight, while moving dangerously to black as spots start to creep up around the edges, is spinning wildly. He picks up bits and pieces in his half-conscious mind. Fire. The broken wing of a plane. The glow of Coney Island. The moon.

Then he's being shoved down into the hot sand, and yanked up, only to be shoved down again. He can feel himself brace late for every incoming impact, going tense just before he hits the rough ground.

Everything was going fuzzy. There was panic within that, but also the blankness of not knowing what to do. Peter's mind was fighting as hard as it could, but it was slipping, and his body was already at the point where he lay limp and had no choice but to be broken like this, to be picked apart like the prey a Vulture had.

He couldn't breathe, even, because god— the sand.

It's getting choked down his lungs, it's sticking dry to the walls of his throat, and he's screaming, maybe it's in his head, maybe he's screaming himself hoarse, maybe he's coughing up blood, he's—

"Peter!"

Peter twists back and forth, covered in sweat yet feeling like he'd just been dunked in ice water. His eyes wrench open, purely as a survival instinct. He can feel his hair standing on end.

There's someone in front of him, and the room is dark. Behind the figure, a light comes from a door. He blinks frantically as he tries to make sense of it, to piece the parts together before the attacker can get the best of him.

"Peter, just breathe! Hey, just—"

A hand reaches out, and Peter feels it before he sees it. His sixth sense works on instinct to get away from the threat. He stumbles back so fast from it that he ends up falling from his bed, hitting his head on something hard and wooden.

"Shit!"

He finally pauses at that, his breath settling from panic momentarily just to wrap his thoughts around the sharp stinging suddenly coming from his head. He reaches up and rubs at the spot on his scalp, a disgruntled sound working from his throat.

"Peter?" The figure walks around quickly and crouches below him. Peter still can't see very well, but he's coherent enough to understand who it is.

"Mr. Stark," he says dumbly.

"Yeah," Tony breathes, sounding almost as panicked as Peter does. A more-awake Peter would laugh at this. "Are you alright?"

"Um." Peter sniffles. He rubs some more at the back of his head. "Yeah."

Tony carefully puts a hand on his shoulder and maneuvers him so that he's embraced in a hug, with the both of them leaning against the side of the bed.

"It was just a nightmare," Peter explains shakily. He takes another carefully measured breath, concentrating on not letting it shudder. "Um... Vulture."

"The wing suit guy?" Tony murmurs. Peter can hear the frown.

"Yeah. I definitely know how Anakin Skywalker felt like, but I'm okay. I lived."

"I know that," Tony says, huffing a dry laugh. "Jesus. I know you lived, kid. That doesn't mean the nightmares aren't scary."

Peter goes quiet, not knowing how to respond to that. He decides to continue breathing, listening to Tony's own heartbeat as he thinks of something else to say. He finds it cradled in his own guilt.

Peter wipes the tears from his face. "Sorry for waking you up."

"It's alright," Tony says. The hug tightens for just a moment, and then relaxes again. "It's always alright, you know that. You can wake me up for anything, Pete."

He did know that.

He knew that for a while now, and while it's been easier after the newest collection of horrors they'd been subjected to together, now sealed away in the form of dust and building ruins, it was still embarrassing. Sixteen years old, almost seventeen, and having nightmares about things that happened two— seven years ago.

"I just," Peter sighs, looking away. He settles back, out of Tony's arms but still beside him. Enough to lean into the warmth, if need be. "I've been through so much worse than the Vulture, Tony."

He doesn't say, "I've literally died and come back to life. I've literally fought in a war." He doesn't have to say that. Tony knows already, and bringing it up, even now without saying the words, puts an intangible sadness in his eyes.

He laughs quietly, something pitiful and full of needless shame. "Shouldn't I be having nightmares about..."

(Orange skies, orange dirt. Blood on his hands, dust in his face. The feeling of his skin breaking apart, his own atoms flaking off into the wind. Space is cold. He shivers just thinking about it.)

"You do," Tony points out firmly, his voice only a breath away from a tremor, "have nightmares about that."

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Kid," Tony tries. He inhales stiffly through his nose. He tries again. "Peter, you... unfortunately have been through more than anyone ever should have to."

Peter can't look away, like he's frozen. A spider stuck in amber, his eyes glossing up.

"Things will keep happening," Tony admits, his voice pained. "I wish they didn't, but that's life. You're going to carry these things with you until you're old and grey. And guess what?"

Peter relinquishes his tongue from where it was held between his teeth just to croak out a weak, "what?"

"Every single thing," he enunciates. "Every single thing that you go through will still be just as important. Each one is a battle that you lived through, and that makes it so, so, so important. No matter what. Okay?"

Peter jerks out a nod.

Tony gives him a meaningful look. "I gotta hear you say 'okay', kid."

"...Okay," Peter says. He sniffles. "Okay."

"Okay." Tony sighs. He leans back, satisfied, and then moves on to his next gentle inquiry. "Do you think you can get some sleep? Do you want to stay up and watch a movie? I'll make some of that expensive Italian hot cocoa you like."

Peter shakes his head. "No, it's alright. I can— I'll try and get some sleep."

"You'll wake me up if you can't get to sleep in half an hour?"

"Yeah. I will."

"Promise?"

"Yes, Tony," Peter cracks a tired smile. "I promise, alright? I promise."

"Okay, then." Tony grins. He stands up, stretches with a painful groan that truly shows his age, and looks at Peter with soft eyes. "Goodnight, kiddo. I love you."

Peter crawls back into bed, shuffling under the covers. He hopes his gratitude shines through his words. "I love you too. Thank you."

Tony ruffles his hair before he leaves with a whisper: "Anytime."

Peter watches Tony's silhouette in the door disappear as the light folds in on itself. The door closes with a shut.

When he sleeps this time, he doesn't dream.

He likes it better this way.