Title: careful fear and dead devotion.

Fandom: Marvel.

Characters: Tony Stark & Peter Parker.

Words: 800.

Warnings: Infinity War spoilers.

Notes: set after infinity war/av4, but without much explanation on how they're alive. title taken from don't swallow the cap by the national.

The ride back to Earth is abnormally quiet, the team scattered across the ship: exhausted in the aftermath of a battle they'd barely won. Tony watches Peter stagger toward the seat in front of him, sees him slump against the side of the ship, mask pulling back to reveal his face.

He looks tired; like he could sleep for years and it still wouldn't be enough. Tony swallows, tries to stifle the emotion—the guilt—that crawls up the back of his throat.

It doesn't help.

Not everyone had made it back, and the fear, the utter panic that had gripped Tony when he hadn't been able to see Peter… it lingers, still. Makes his hands itch with the urge to reach out and touch, to remind himself that Peter really is there, alive. That he's solid.

Instead, he says: "I told you to go home."

It's quiet; a yell restrained to a sigh. It almost sounds angry, but it isn't. Not really. It's fear—is worry that's bled over to frustration. Is repressed emotion. The kid looks up at him—eyes wide, red rimmed, and so childlike that Tony feels sick.

"I know," Peter says, and he sounds sorry. Broken. Sounds like he had years ago, when Tony had found him after the Staten Island Ferry incident. "I know, Mr. Stark, I'm sorry. I just thought—"

The sentence is cut off abruptly, Peter's mouth clamping shut. Tony stares at him, barely notices that the others are starting to watch them.

"What did you think?" he asks, voice increasing in volume. "Because it seems to me that you didn't think."

He ignores the way the words remind him of his own father. Ignores the voice in his head telling him to calm down, that he shouldn't be so hard on the kid. But Tony can't—doesn't know how. Still can't wrap his head around everything he's experienced in the past few weeks.

"I thought—I was just trying—I didn't want—" Peter stutters, stops. Looks down, away from Tony. He sighs, long and loud and sad, and tries again. "I couldn't do anything when my Dad died," he says quietly, "and then—with Uncle Ben. I didn't—I could've, but I—"

Peter shakes his head, reaches up to rub at his face, his eyes. "I just thought, if I stayed, then I could help, you know? I didn't want... I didn't want another fathe—" The word dies on his tongue, but not quick enough to hide the implication. Peter sighs a second time as he turns back to Tony. "I didn't want you to get hurt," he says. "Not if I could help."

Peter's arms curl across his middle, as if he's trying to protect himself, and Tony exhales. Deflates. Lets frustration fall away to bone-deep exhaustion.

"Peter," he starts, stops. Doesn't know what to say. Peter's goodwill, his capacity for kindness—it's always been something Tony has found admirable, something he's never quite been able to understand. Something that had made him love the kid in the first place. To hear him say that, to hear the beginning of the words father figure…

Tony stands, steps forward to take the seat beside Peter. "It's not your job to worry about me," he says, head turned to look at the kid. "Alright? I'm the adult. I do the worrying."

Peter's response is a breathy laugh, the sound nearly humourless. "You sound like Aunt May," he mumbles, and Tony lifts his arm, drapes it across Peter's shoulders. He tugs gently, Peter melting against his side instantly, face turned to bury in the dip of Tony's neck. "I'm sorry," he whispers again, voice cracking this time, and Tony shuts his eyes against the flood of emotion, tilts his head forward to press his mouth to Peter's forehead.

"It's not your fault," he murmurs, and he means it, too. If anything, Tony thinks, it's his. "None of it, okay?" He waits for a response, pulls Peter closer when he doesn't get one. "Okay?"

There's a pause, and then Peter is nodding against his jacket, fabric rustling beneath the movement. Tony nods back, lifts his hand to ruffle the kid's hair.

"Good," he says, leans against the ship's side. His head hits the wall with a dull thud, his eyes falling shut as he shifts in his seat. "Now how about a nap? It's past your bedtime."

Peter laughs, the sound lighter this time. It's followed by a sniffle, a soft murmur of I'm pretty sure Space time is different.

He eventually falls asleep like that, face cushioned against Tony's shoulder, and though Tony finds no rest, he doesn't mind so much. He's happy to sit there and watch the kid sleep: to breathe, slow and steady, and watch as Peter does the same.