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Peter stood, with his feet buried in the wet sand, and watched the rain beat into the ocean. Technically it was still day, but thick clouds covered the sky, making it dark and dreary.
Thunder crackled, and with a smile, Peter moved closer to the ocean.
He loved the rain. He loved the way it felt on his skin, the way it sounded when it crashed on the ocean’s waves, and the ocean, he loved that, too. It was alive. Just like him, and even on gloomy, rainy days like that one, he was happy to be alive.
When he got close enough to the water, he jumped into an oncoming wave, letting it wash him back up to shore, where he was greeted by Tony, decked out in his rain gear, frowning down at him.
It was purely Tony Stark. Only he could manage looking disappointed, enraged and absolutely terrified all at the same time.
“What the hell are you thinking?” yelled Tony. He had to compete with the rain, and it made his yell raspy. “Are you insane? Are you trying struck by lightning? Caught in a current? Eaten by a shark?”
“…by a shark? Tony- hey!”
He pulled him up by his arm and marched him towards their beach house, a large, three-story haven on some island Peter hadn’t known existed until he was on Tony’s jet, with May, and the rest of the family, headed towards it.
They were taking an extended vacation, while Tony recovered from the injuries he’d gotten in the snap, and Peter and May got reacquainted with breathing. Every day was its own challenge. Every day Peter felt differently, about everything, but on that day, all Peter felt was content.
To be alive. That his family was alive, and with him, and they had the sand and the ocean and the sunshine surrounding them.
“Tony,” said Peter, once they made it to the back deck, under cover of its upper level. “I was fine. I was having fun.”
“Uh huh,” said Tony. “It’s all fun and games until you get stung by a jellyfish.”
“That can happen when it isn’t storming – “
“Or become fish food,” said Tony, ignoring him, cutting him off and continuing with a rant, stopping only when Peter sneezed. “Or catch a cold.”
Peter sniffled. “No, I’m – I’m not sick.”
Tony eyed him, then slid opened the door and did a little motion with his hand, ordering him to step through.
With one last mournful look out at the ocean, Peter did as he was told. Air conditioning made him shiver as he dripped water all over the floor. Tony immediately wrapped him in a huge, warm towel, and once Peter hugged it to his body himself, Tony grabbed another and began running it through his hair.
“Tony,” said Peter, ducking away, laughing. “Stop, I can dry my own hair.”
“You’re a disaster, Parker,” said Tony, but he stopped with the towel. “Even when you’re not Spider-Man, you’re thinking of interesting ways to get yourself injured, or killed.”
“I’m sorry. I just… I was bored, and I wanted to see what the ocean was like, up close, when it’s raining.”
“Next time you’re bored, do what Morgan does and build a tent.”
Tony left him in the foyer, sniffling, and still dripping water on the floor.
*
His adventure in the ocean didn’t catch up with him until halfway through the night.
He woke up, with a scratchy throat, and a burning forehead, but with no regrets. He died at age seventeen, and now that was breathing again, he was determined to make every minute count, determined to be alive always, determined to make Tony’s sacrifice worth it. At the moment, though, all he felt was misery.
He stumbled out of bed, and down the stairs, and into the dimly lit kitchen, in search of something to make his throat feel better. Instead, he found Tony, in his robe over his pajamas, standing at the sink with a glass of water.
“I’m sick,” said Peter. He sounded four. He sounded like a child waking up their parent after throwing up in the middle of the night on their bedroom floor.
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Who could’ve predicted that?”
Peter pouted, ignored Tony, and went to the fridge. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe some Gatorade, maybe something cold and soothing.
“What hurts?”
“My throat.”
Tony moved him out of the way with a light push and opened the freezer, instead. He pulled out a box of Morgan’s juice pops. “Which flavor do you want?”
“Red.” The answer was immediate. He used to eat the same brand, and when he was little, it was always the same flavor. “Iron Man Red.”
“They don’t call it that,” said Tony, handing him the popsicle. “It’s Crashin’ Cherry.”
“They should call it Iron Man Red. It’s a better name.”
Tony chuckled, as Peter unwrapped the juice pop and put it in his mouth. It was soothing. It was just what he needed, even if his face was still hot and his nose still felt stuffy. Tony, with his dad instincts, pressed the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead.
“You’re pretty warm, huh?” asked Tony, and Peter waited for the I-told-you-so to follow, but something better came instead. “How about some medicine? To make you sleep. And a movie on the couch?”
Normally Peter was whiny when he didn’t feel good, but with the solution Tony offered, there was nothing to whine about. “Can we start a fire in the fireplace?”
“Sure.”
Peter nodded, and accepted the medicine, and got cozy on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, watching Tony mess with the electric fireplace before he joined him on the couch. He put his arm around him and pulled him closer, while the fire crackled.
“Why are you up, anyway?”
Tony breathed deep. “I had a nightmare.”
They all had their nightmares. It was a rare occasion when no one in the vacation home made it through the night without one. They were all recovering, they were all healing, as a family.
“I need this movie night just as much as you do,” said Tony, as he gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe even more.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was the same one,” said Tony, and Peter understood.
Peter’s nightmares were split between being dusted and watching Tony die after his snap. Tony’s were always the same. Watching Peter being dusted.
“I’ll try to be more careful,” said Peter. “I’ll stay away from sharks.”
Tony laughed. “I appreciate it, kid, but maybe I overreacted. I’m happy you’re so intent on living, even if it scares the hell out of me sometimes.”
Peter sat up suddenly, angled his head away from Tony, and sneezed. When he turned back around, Tony shoved a box of Kleenex at him. He took them and blew his nose.
“Sorry, Tony, I know – I’m gross.”
“It’s okay,” said Tony. “You missed a lot during your five-year nap. I’m a certified dad now, I’ve been puked on, snotted on, peed on, you name it, I’m not afraid of your germs.”
Peter tested the theory by putting his head back down on Tony, by using him as a pillow, and when Tony didn’t complain, he shut his eyes and let him pick the movie. He felt pretty miserable, but he was content to be miserable, if it meant being alive.
He worshipped being sick, the same way he worshipped rain when it hit the ocean. It meant he was alive, that he got to sleep on the couch and watch movies with his dad, that he got to breath, even if it was a struggle with a stuffy nose. It meant he got to be with his family, who were whole, and who had grown by several members since Peter came back into the world.
Tony pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, kid.”
“’night,” said Peter, rearranging his head on Tony’s chest, and letting him run his fingers through his hair, over and over again. The comfort he provided outweighed the misery his sore throat gave him, and it was incredibly clear, nightmares and colds, they didn’t stand a chance.