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English
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Part 10 of Peter Whump Dump
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Infinity War Favs
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Published:
2018-05-06
Words:
1,074
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1/1
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118
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Just A Man

Summary:

Peter knows that his father ultimately prepared for his own death.

Peter, himself, just wasn’t prepared for it to actually happen.

Notes:

I’m so sorry. Please feel free to yell at me in the comments.

EDIT: So, since so many people have left comments freaking out about this being the last fic in this series, I want to make this perfectly clear: THIS IS NOT THE LAST FIC IN THIS SERIES. I promise there is more coming and this is a complete, %100 AU to the rest of the fics in this verse. :)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

 

Peter knows that his father ultimately prepared for his own death.


Being Iron Man was a dangerous job, one that Peter knew could kill his Dad whenever he went out in the red and gold suit, repulsers blasting the neon blue and his thrusters propelling him further and further away from the young boy.


Until one day, Tony went too far, too fast, made a move too heroic and it propelled him to a place that Peter could never reach, no matter how high he climbed or how far he shot his webs.


The damage was too severe for them to remove the Suit fully from his body, the metal having bubbled up and reached a temperature so hot it melted into the man’s very skin.


Tony and the Suit were one when the man exhaled his last wheezing breath.


The funeral was a quiet affair, only the two Starks and their family, all of them huddling around Peter and blocking the Press as the swarmed the outside of the room, the flashes of their cameras a faint glow against the muffled fog of the spiderling’s internal walls.


Those walls held strong as the casket was lowered into the ground, as the priest talked about God and Heaven and all of the other stuff Peter knows his Dad would scoff at if he were here.


But he’s not. He’s dead. Dead dead dead dead dead.


They stayed in place all through the jerky ride home, back to the tower and away from the pristine gray stone with the name of the man who loved Peter more then his own life, who had died protecting the world and his son from the horrors that tried to take away all they held dear.


They won. Even though they are gone and the world is safe, they won. Because they took the very thing Peter held dear. And he isn’t coming back.


This fact doesn’t sink in until after they arrive home, after Steve forced Peter to eat a saw dust tasting sandwich, his blue eyes clouded in grief and pity for the broken boy in front of him and the man whose melted body is now resting far beneath the earth. Peter picks at his food with no expression, no nothing. The rest of the team is around him, pushing back tears and scratchy sobs as they wait for the inevitable breakdown that is sure to happen.


They don’t need to wait long.


It started to with sniffle, a barely there sniffling that turned into a few tears, that turned into cries that turned into sobs that turned into screams. Peter’s voice cracks with the force of them, his face turning blood red and his eyes cascading tears like a broken dam. He tries to run to his room, to shut himself away from the pain and the horror, but his legs give out after barely a step, his body hitting the floor and causing a dull thud.


He doesn’t register the pain, doesn’t register the fact that Clint is talking to him, trying to get him to sit up and calm down, but the boy just pushes him away, pushes them all away as they reach for him because they aren’t his dad, they aren’t him and they will never be him and he can’t take this agony.


He can’t he can’t hecan’thecan’thecan’t


He is still screaming, still gasping for breath as his heart burns on the cold, hard floor when the sound of repulsers fills up the living room.


Peter’s head snaps up from his personal cocoon, a choked off whine slipping past his chapped lips as an Iron Man Suit flies into the room, landing a few feet away and seems to study them with its squinted blue gaze. Natasha goes toward it, her stance weary, fingers reaching out even as tears cloud her eyes but it suddenly pushes past her, slipping through her hands as though she wasn’t even there at all.


The Suit leans down once it gets in front of Peter, the cool metal hands lifting up the teenager with ease and gently settles the boy on its lap. The last remaining Stark gasps as his Dad’s voice filters from the helmet, sounding far too real as it whispers recorded reassurances to the distraught boy.


“It’s okay Petey Pie, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m right here Peter, Daddy’s here and I’ll always be here.”


But Peter fights, pushing against the still chest of the Suit with all of his strength as sobs gurgle up, big bustling sobs of a newborn infant as his father’s voice leaks out of this fake person, this fake thing that isn’t alive, isn’t warm or real or anything but fake fake fake.


The Suit just continues to ramble, the tone not even shifting as Peter grows slowly more and more tired, the rest of his family continuing to watch with an expanding sense of horror and sorrow.


Finally the boy gives up, slumping against the hard chest of metal as he continues to whimper, wet pleads still slipping past as the Suit’s arms wrap around him, the metal cold and biting.


“Dad. Daddy please come back please. Pl-please d-don’t leave me alone Daddy. I’m scared I’m scared and I need you to make it better, I need you to make me feel safe, I-I need you please please please. . . “


But no matter how hard or long he begs, his father isn’t coming back, isn’t going to be around to teach him to drive or shave or talk to girls/boys, or watch him get married or comfort him at night when he is scared or just be there.


All Peter will have is just a fake hunk of metal, a false stand-in that doesn’t smell right or feel right and that can’t even kiss his head and tell corny jokes or help him make new web shooters.


So, with an exhaustion the teenager feels to his very core, into his very soul that he knows will never go away, Peter rests his head against the Suit, nearly flinching when the encasing arms tighten and the robotic voice continues to ramble hollow comforts.


His burning eyes close, tears slipping past even as he clenches them shut. Lying limp, Peter just listens to the whirl of the machine parts under his cheek, and tries to pretend that the sound is his dead father’s no longer beating heart.

Notes:

Thank you for reading and now I’m going to go cry.

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