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The hours following the battle were the hardest.
In the cool lab, the air around them was foggy and stale. It felt like it had stilled completely, like it needed to exhale. Unsaid words were bottled up in the backs of their throats, and Peter bit his lip, rolled his bruised shoulder and tried to alleviate some of the throbbing pain.
"What are you working on?" He asked quietly.
Tony didn’t look up from the circuit board. His fingers were moving swiftly, rewiring and adjusting the same things again and again, like he was stuck in a loop. "Nothing."
It was short and curt, and Peter nodded to himself and tapped a beat on the table and shifted on his chair. It squeaked. He winced.
"Anything I can do?"
Peter watched Tony’s tense shoulders twitch and a tremor run through his arms. "No."
He sighed. The sound made Tony clench his jaw, and Peter sunk down into himself — only for the chair to squeak and for Peter to wince again and for Tony’s hands to spasm so badly that the circuit board clattered and the wires he was holding come undone.
"Shit," Tony hissed. He slammed his hands on the table, turned and walked a few paces away, raking fingers through his hair.
"Mister Stark?" Peter knew why he was mad, knew what he was surely going to get yelled at for, but Tony didn’t just look angry. His hands were trembling and there was a glint in his glassy eyes, and he looked scared. Shaken.
"Just — don’t, Pete." Tony leant against the table’s edge, looking down as he clenched his fists.
Peter stood. This was stupid, and stubbornness made him set his jaw and cross his arms. "You would’ve done the same thing for me."
He almost flinched when Tony snapped a harsh glare up at him. He spun to face Peter, walked right up to him and snarled.
"I have a metal suit, Parker." Peter met his eyes, glaring right back, and Tony’s fists were stilled clenched, so hard that the knuckles were white and the nails were probably carving half-moons into his skin. "You’re in spandex — glorified fucking pyjamas."
"Multi-million dollar pyjamas," Peter snapped back, and the words felt just as ridiculous as they sounded.
Tony didn’t seem to hear. "I told you to keep back — to look after civilians. That was the deal."
"I thought the deal was that you trusted me." He wasn’t a kid, and Tony still didn’t get that. "I could sense it was gonna go off, and you couldn’t. I wasn’t going to let a bomb explode right in your damn face."
"No, you let it explode in your damn face, instead." Tony shook his head, whirled around and pushed that stupid, squeaky chair away so it rolled halfway across the room.
"I knew I could handle it, Mister Stark!" He could feel blood heating his cheeks and his mouth scowling like it always did when he got angry, and he felt it stabbing at his chest.
"Your heart stopped!" Tony screamed, and Peter felt it thud against his sternum. "Your heart fucking stopped, and you stopped breathing, and I didn’t know — didn’t know what to do."
Peter blinked. Tony’s hands were really shaking now, and his face was pale, and the colour under his eyes seemed so much more pronounced.
"You want me to lay off, but then you go pull shit like this, and I — I just can’t, Pete," Tony said, and the anger in Peter’s chest stirred again.
He took a breath in though, and his eyebrows knitted together, and he let it out.
"It was stupid," Peter admitted. Tony blinked. "But I wasn’t thinking smart. I saw you in trouble and — and I don’t know. I didn’t think."
The tension in the air gave slightly. Tony sunk back against the table, holding a shaking hand over his eyes.
"You would’ve done the same thing for me," he said again, softly, defensively.
Tony glanced at him. "Metal suit."
"If you didn’t have your suit, I mean."
And the silence whirled around them again for a few moments, heavy and sad.
"It’s different, Pete," Tony tried, but he shook his head.
"It isn’t." He saw Tony’s shaking hands. He saw something in his eyes that was shattered like glass. "You might not give a shit about yourself, Mister Stark, but I do."
Tony didn’t look at him when he tried to catch his gaze. He was staring at something far away; maybe Peter’s lifeless body being thrown against a concrete wall; maybe the paleness of Peter’s skin as he tried to make his heart start again.
"Mister Stark, I’m okay," he said, but maybe Tony was hearing the sound of Peter’s ribs snap underneath the pressure.
Peter gently grabbed one of Tony’s hands and uncurled his tightly clenched fingers and held it against his chest, right on his heart. It thudded against his ribs, steady and strong, and Tony finally met his eyes.
"See?" Peter said, quirking a smile. "It still works."
Tony huffed a laugh, but his face sobered too soon and he tugged Peter forwards, into his arms. His breath hitched and his grip was too tight.
Peter just shut his eyes waited for Tony’s hands to stop shaking.