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2019-08-13
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seen the hunger in my eyes from space

Summary:

It starts with a kiss out of nowhere.

Or: Peter gets everything he ever wanted, but some things are too perfect.

Notes:

A treat. Set in a post-Endgame world. Also can be read as FFH compliant, but it doesn’t explicitly come up, so no spoilers for it.

Title from The Mountain Goats song Woke Up New.

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

Work Text:

It starts with a kiss out of nowhere. One moment they’re discussing web fluid dynamics; the next Mr. Stark’s lips are on his, light, almost tentative, as if he isn’t sure, as if there can be any question how Peter will react. He hears himself make a sound that should be embarrassing, except that it elicits a deep chuckle that makes him glow inside. How can he be embarrassed when Mr. Stark’s hands are on his waist, pulling him close, deepening the kiss, raw and possessive?

It’s a kiss that promises so much more. Peter thinks he must be dreaming, but it doesn’t end. Keeps not ending, kiss after kiss, until Peter is dizzy and so turned on he comes without being touched.

It doesn’t end.

Even when he slips to his knees, undoing Mr. Stark’s buckle with the eagerness of someone who’s never done this before but always wanted to, encouraged by strong fingers wrapped in his hair, guiding him through.

It doesn’t end.

Even when Mr. Stark takes him apart bit by bit, opening him with gentle touch and murmured praise, slipping inside like it’s something precious, eyes never leaving his as he picks up speed, bodies pressed together with heat and sweat and need. He takes Peter over the edge three more times before he finally comes inside him.

And it doesn’t end.

Even after. That’s what convinces Peter this must somehow, inexplicably, be real. Because he’s had these dreams before, if in bits and pieces, more fragmented, less coherent. But they always end by the orgasms. Now though, Mr. Stark pulls him into a gentle kiss. Helps him get cleaned up. Laughs indulgently when Peter, flustered and hazy, puts his shirt back on inside out.

“What was that?” Peter asks as they sit, arms wrapped around each other, tucked away in a corner of the lab on a large leather couch he’s never noticed before.

Mr. Stark strokes his hair, looks into his eyes. Kisses his hand, turning it this way and that to cover every inch of it. His beard is surprisingly soft as it rubs against his palm. “That, kid, was my way of telling you I’m tired of pretending not to want you.”

For a long moment, Peter thinks he’s lost the ability to breathe. But finally wind comes rushing through his lungs and he’s able to force out a disbelieving “Oh.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Mr. Stark adds, with the confidence of a man who knows the answer.

“Of course,” Peter assures him. Of course, of course, of course. Nothing has ever been more okay with him in his life.

*

Peter thinks maybe it’s a one-time thing, or, when it happens again—this time in Mr. Stark’s apartment, on his living room couch and dining room table and finally, amazingly, in his bed—a two-time thing. Or three, or four, or at least a fling, bound to be over in less than a month.

He’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts. The rest of his life feels like a haze compared to the sharpness of his desire, the bright, magnetic light that is having Mr. Stark’s hands on his body; he can barely remember what classes he’s taking, let alone what’s going on in them, but he can recite every scar on Mr. Stark’s body, from the tiny scratches scattered across his hands to the rough, uneven circle on his chest.

By the time a month actually comes they’re spending nearly every night together. Peter expects Mr. Stark to miss the significance of the day; it’s silly, really, childish to notice. And at first it seems he’s right. He doesn’t say anything about it when they meet up, or while they coyly pretend they might actually talk about science, an act that only lasts five minutes before Mr. Stark has Peter stretched across his kitchen island.

But later, when they’re curled together, Peter half-asleep in the protective blanket of his touch, Mr. Stark muses softly, “You know, Pete, we’ve been doing this for a little while now. I think around a month.”

Exactly a month, Peter doesn’t correct. No need to make himself seem more hopelessly besotted than he is. “Yeah, I know,” he agrees, anxiety fluttering behind his ribs. “I can count weeks, too.”

He tenses, waiting for Mr. Stark to tell him it’s been too long, it’s time to end this before it gets out of hand. Instead, he nips marks and kisses down Peter’s shoulder until pausing to say, “Don’t you think it’s time you start calling me Tony? I’ll make a special exception for what happens between the sheets—I’m not going to lie, the ‘Mr. Stark’ thing is hot. But if we’re going to do this, it feels like you should probably graduate to first name basis the rest of the time.”

That’s when Peter realizes this isn’t going to be pulled out from under him at any moment. He blinks away tears as he nods, snuggling backward until their bodies curve into each other so tightly he’s not sure where one starts and the other ends.

“Okay.” He can’t believe how calm he sounds, as if his entire world hasn’t just been made whole. “Tony. Yeah, I can call you Tony.”

*

Tony takes him to restaurants he never dreamed of. Single pieces of sushi that cost more than entire meals. French cuisine served by waiters who glance at him skeptically, as if they can tell he doesn’t belong even when he’s wearing the thousand-dollar suit Tony bought just for the occasion, but who don’t dare say anything, not when he’s here with Tony Stark. A pre-fixe dinner at what Ned, gaping, informs him is the hardest reservation to get in the entire city; each plate is more delicious than the last, every one brought out by the chef himself, who smiles and shakes Tony’s hand as if they’re old friends.

Tony takes him to shows, Shakespeare and innovative off-Broadway plays they both only like half the time. Even musicals; Tony claims to hate them, says he only goes because he likes the way they make Peter’s eyes light up. But Peter catches him humming along to Cabaret and Hairspray in the lab after, so he’s pretty sure the love is mutual.

Tony takes him to museums and in helicopter rides and out to California just for the fun of it, but most of all, the only thing Peter really cares about: Tony takes him into his life. Gives him a drawer, then a dresser. Stocks his kitchen with Peter’s favorite foods, even—wincing as he does it—frozen waffles, the kind that hit the spot like nothing else at four in the morning, after they’ve been up all night fucking or talking about new suit designs.

“You like Burger King,” Peter teases when Tony mocks his choice. “You don’t see me saying anything about it.”

“Burger King is an American institution. These are an abomination,” Tony argues. But his freezer is always full with them, no matter how many Peter eats.

*

By three months in, Peter is almost never at his dorm; he could barely say what it looks like, just a vague impression of too little room and too many posters hung haphazardly. Why would he want to spend time there when he has Tony Stark—Tony Stark, sometimes he still can’t believe it—opening up space for him, acting like he wants to suck him into his life and never let him out?

He wonders if Tony moved this fast with Ms. Potts. He hopes not. He wants to be special, the only one to break down his walls so fast. Even more, he wants to be different. Because a heady, optimistic, helplessly in love part of him has decided, somewhere along the line, that he wants this to last. As impossible as that seems, he’s in it, and he thinks Tony is in it, and he doesn’t ever want that to change.

And, well, it didn’t work with Ms. Potts in the end, right? Yeah, obviously, right—though when he concentrates on it, he can’t quite say when it fell apart for them, or why. You’d think he’d remember the headlines, even if he hadn’t been close enough to hear about it firsthand. But he does know Ms. Potts has been seeing someone else for several years; that sticks out, bright and clear. He’s met the guy, Tim something—nice, he remembers thinking that.

The details don’t matter. The important thing is he wants to be different. He wants to be forever. And call him crazy—really, do, he thinks he’s crazy most of the time—but sometimes, when he catches Tony smiling at him when he thinks he isn’t looking, he suspects maybe, just maybe, he might get his wish.

*

He didn’t expect to be the first one to say I love you. It’s blatantly obvious he does, blatantly obvious he’s been in love since before any of this started, so he feels like that particular ball is firmly in Tony’s court.

Except here he is, Tony’s dick buried inside him, Tony’s hand clutching his hair, pulling tight as he rides him from below. Maybe it’s because he’s moments away from his fifth orgasm of the night, or maybe it’s because when Tony’s eyes lock with his he sees radiant affection under the blaze of raw lust, but Peter can’t help himself from gasping, “I love you.”

For a moment, everything stills: Tony stops, his breath catches, the world seems impossibly silent. And then he shakes his head, smile bright across his face. “I thought I was going to get to say it first,” he complains, moving again, slow strokes of pleasure that dance across Peter’s senses, lighting him up at his core. “I had a whole plan. Restaurant all picked out. String quartet.” Their lips touch, brief quiet confirmation that the sentiment is returned. “This is better.”

After, Tony wraps himself around Peter from behind, leg sliding over his hip, fully enveloping and so very safe. “I love you too, kid,” he whispers into his ear. His beard brushes the side of Peter’s face; he’s still not used to how soft it is. “Just so you’re clear. I love you so much it hurts sometimes. So much I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

“I know the feeling,” Peter replies, turning far enough to melt into a kiss.

It’s perfect, it’s perfect. It’s so impossibly perfect.

*

“I want to take you to Europe. Next week?”

Tony is bent over the kitchen island, sipping coffee and sketching something on his tablet when he tosses the idea out like it’s nothing. Maybe it is nothing to him, flying off to another continent on a whim. Peter wants to protest, wants to point out that not everyone can drop their responsibilities just like that, but when he tries to think of what his responsibilities are he can’t quite place them. Class? No, that’s not right. His mind won’t land on why next week is free, but somehow he’s sure it is. Must be break already. He’s losing track of time, which doesn’t seem good.

“Okay,” he says, and the tight confusion in his chest loosens, replaced by a glowing warmth. He’s going on a vacation with Tony. “Yeah, take me to Europe, Mr. Stark.”

Tony smirks the way he always does when Peter deploys that name strategically, and their plans for the rest of the morning disappear.

*

Tony takes him to Prague, where they kiss on a bridge—it has a famous name, but he doesn’t catch it, is too distracted to care—and climb a steep hill to see a palace, yellows and reds and a church whose intricacies take Peter’s breath away.

He takes him to Venice, where they drift through the city on a Gondola, Tony’s hand never leaving Peter’s thigh, his voice a steady stream of jokes and information as he points out attractions and rattles off history he somehow knows as thoroughly as any guide.

He takes him to Paris, to the top of the Eiffel Tower, where he stares at Peter with an unexplained intensity and then shakes his head and says, inexplicably, “Too cliché.”

Peter understands a few hours later when, tucked away in a corner of what must be the best bistro in the whole city—there’s just no way anything can taste better than the food sitting in front of them—Tony dips a hand into his jacket pocket and comes out with a small case.

“I was going to do this earlier, but it felt too obvious,” he explains, slipping to his knee.

Peter doesn’t take in the rest of what he has to say, can’t hear over the blood rushing past his ears, the dizzying, delighted sense that the impossible is being made real. He just nods and nods and babbles “yes, yes, yes” until Tony stops talking and kisses him.

*

That night, Tony fucks him slowly, face-to-face, foreheads pressed together. Any time they aren’t kissing, Peter is whispering a stream of disbelief: “We’re going to get married” and “This is forever”; “You really want me” and “I can’t believe it” and “How can this be real?”

“Believe it, kid,” Tony murmurs back, eyes gleaming with tears. “This is the realest thing I’ve ever done.”

Peter doesn’t think that makes any sense, but he doesn’t care, because Tony Stark wants him, has him, is promising to keep him forever.

*

He wakes up screaming, crying, covered in sweat, memory of his body dissolving onto the hot air of a hostile planet overwhelming, choking; for a moment he’s there, back in that nightmare reality in a way he hasn’t been for—for—

For months. Longer. For so long. He can’t remember the last time he had this dream. Can’t actually remember ever having this dream before, even though part of him knows, on a fundamental level, like it’s a simple fact of the world, that he’s had it so often he’s lost count. How can that be?

Tony is up, pulling him close, reassuring shushing and the solid press of his body an instant comfort, as encompassing as the dream had been moments before.

“What is it, kid?” he asks into Peter’s hair. “What big bad monsters do I have to fight?”

“Thanos,” Peter says, not thinking about it. Tony goes stiff, muscles tensing where his arms hold Peter’s head to his chest.

“Thanos?” Tony asks, confusion clear, playing out in the tone of his voice and the grip that tightens on Peter’s shoulder. “Since when do you get nightmares about that monster? That was before you.”

“What do you mean? I was there—”

Tony holds him closer. “Pete, what’re you talking about? You were—actually, I don’t even want to know how young you were. Do I need to make you stop watching those Battle of New York documentaries? I know they make your fiancé look very heroic, but it’s not worth it if they also give you nightmares.”

No—no. It’s not remembered footage from the Battle of New York that invaded his dreams, but something closer and clearer, real pain and a real fight. Titan, part of his mind provides, but even as he’s thinking it Tony’s fingers trace comforting strokes down his back and his mind chases that movement instead; he arches into the touch, humming happily. Thanos? Titan? The concepts get fuzzy around the edges. He was confused, dreams are confusing. That’s all. Thanos has been long gone, right? A nightmare from before his time. That’s what Tony said.

He hides against Tony’s chest, and lets himself be lulled back to sleep. He’s silly. He’s being silly.

*

He expects May to be unhappy about the engagement. She should be unhappy about it. She’s never really warmed up to Tony, always says he puts Peter in danger. And Peter’s young, he gets that. And they’ve only been dating a few months, and somehow the wedding is whirling together in just a few months more and all of that is crazy. It’s crazy. He’s insanely happy, but he knows enough to know that’s because he’s insanely in love. May will eventually come around, she always does, but she’s going to be unhappy about it first.

Except she’s not. Somehow, absurdly, unbelievably, when he tells her she bursts into a laugh and pulls him into a tight hug. Exclaims, “Tony Stark…so that’s why you’ve been so happy lately! Well, anything that makes my baby smile like that must be a good thing.”

Not one Are you sure? or He’s so old or It’s too fast. Nothing but, “Tell me how I can help. You’re going to let me walk you down the aisle, right?”

It isn’t the first time part of him has realized something is wrong, but it’s the first time he lets his mind linger on the idea. This can’t be right. That’s not May.

*

The thought doesn’t last long. Slips away in a bustle of activities and planning and time sliding by too fast to keep hold of. But the feeling stays stuck in his chest, side-by-side with another, twins, too painful to acknowledge: This is perfect and This isn’t right.

*

They get married at a gorgeous cabin that—that—that Tony bought to escape the city? No, that isn’t right. Peter can’t quite remember why or how they have it, and when he tries to focus on it his mind bounces away, confused and strangely sad, like there’s a deep hole there he doesn’t want to look at. And why would he, when it’s his wedding? He shouldn’t worry on his wedding.

*

The day is a blur, like a smattering of impressions rather than a full story.

May, eyes glistening, helping him tie a bowtie and secure cufflinks on a tux whose price he was scared to ask, perfectly tailored, a deep blue that’s almost black—but not quite, still blue enough to, as Tony put it, hint at Spider-Man.

Ned and MJ, laughing and hugging and proceeding him down the aisle.

Tony, in Iron Man red—black is boring, he’d said—watching Peter walk toward him with an expression like he’s looking at the sun.

Colonel Rhodes giving him a small, encouraging nod from Tony’s side. Happy, reading their vows, choking up so much he can hardly get the words out.

“I do” and “I do” and Tony’s mouth on his and they’re married, they’re married.

Peter can’t believe it.

(Part of him literally can’t believe it.)

*

“Do you think it’s a little weird how no one thinks this is weird?” Peter asks as they sit with their chairs pushed as close together as possible, watching their friends dance: May, laughing at Happy’s awkward moves; MJ, tearing up the floor, irony lost several drinks ago; Ms. Potts with Tim; even Black Widow, leading a reluctant Colonel Rhodes in what looks like a salsa. Tony’s arm is around his shoulder, fingers playing fondly with his lapel; Peter’s feet hurt from dancing, he feels tired and content and full and doesn’t want to miss a moment of any of this. And yet. “This is pretty crazy of us.”

“Mmm,” Tony replies, clearly not paying much attention. His fingers make their way to the shell of Peter’s ear, tugging playfully. “What do you mean?”

Peter resists the urge to let himself sink into that touch, to push his worry aside. This is perfect, it’s perfect, why would he be arguing with it? But he forces himself to keep his mind on the point. “I mean, Colonel Rhodes didn’t have a single thing to say about you marrying a twenty-year-old? Ms. Potts? May was so happy. I thought she was going to be worried, but suddenly she loves you…”

Tony nuzzles against his other ear, bites at his neck, distracting. “What, you would have preferred someone to have a problem?”

“I’m not saying—fuck, Tony, stop we’re in public!” Peter squirms away, body protesting the loss of those lips. “It’s not that I’d prefer it. I’m just saying, isn’t it weird? Like, a little? Doesn’t it seem weird to you?”

“They see how happy we are, and they get it.” And those lips are back on his ears. “Peter, relax. It’s our wedding. We’re married. Stop worrying for half a minute and enjoy yourself.”

So he does. He gets back on the dance floor. He laughs. He holds his husband close. He wants to drown in the best day of his life.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking: Tony is the one person who never stops worrying. Tony is always on high alert. Tony would never tell him to ignore his gut.

And his gut is saying this may be perfect, but perfect is wrong.

*

That night, after Tony drifts to sleep, Peter stays up, trying to put together the pieces of his life. What has he been studying for the last six months? When had Tony and Ms. Potts split up? Going back further: how had Tony reacted when he’d decided to stay in New York rather than go to MIT? Why, for that matter, had he made that decision? He remembers it felt urgently important to stay close to May, after everything that happened, and yet there’s a giant hole when he tries to fill in what that “everything” is.

Even patrolling. He knows he’s been doing it. Or he thinks he has, anyway. But he can’t think of a single specific thing that’s happened recently. Just a general sense of being out there, doing his thing. But no individuals. Not the criminals, not the people he helped, nothing.

It’s all wrong, all blurred and dim, everything that isn’t this: Tony being near, Tony touching him, Tony loving him. Part of him wonders how he didn’t see it before, but the rest knows. Even now, with panic coursing through him, every time Tony shifts closer, brushing against him in his sleep, part of the worry slips away.

He wants this too much.

Wants it so much he almost decides to forget about the whole thing. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. It wouldn’t work, wouldn’t last. He’d just end up back here, having this same revelation in another week, or month, or year. And meanwhile, who knows what’s happening out in real life.

He rolls out of bed. Places a kiss on Tony’s forehead, because he can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Tony stirs, hands reaching vaguely toward him. “Where’re you going?” he mutters, only just barely awake. “Back to bed. Want to hold you. Husband.”

“It’s fine,” Peter assures him. He takes his hand, places a kiss squarely in the center of it. “I’m just going to the bathroom. Go back to sleep.” And then, because this might be his last chance to ever say it, he adds, “Husband.”

Tony nods and rolls over, snuggling into the pillow. “Hurry back,” he murmurs, so soft Peter knows he’ll be asleep again in seconds.

“I will,” he lies. “Don’t worry.”

*

He considers simply throwing himself off the tallest building he can find, but while he’s confident he’s right that none of this is real, he can’t rule out a die-in-the-Matrix, die-in-real-life deal. He goes to Strange instead.

*

“It sounds like an illusion world,” Strange agrees, after Peter wakes up the sanctum with desperate knocking and explains the situation. “I can’t tell you the cause without months of observation, but there are spells that can break a person out of such a world no matter how it was created. In theory, anyway. But I have to ask: are you sure you want to leave?”

“What?” Peter is startled by the question. Does he have a choice?

“Some people stay,” Strange explains with a shrug. Suddenly they’re in a library, pouring over a large book. “This world is meant to give you your heart’s desire. It’s designed not to let bad things happen. People stay.”

He thought about it on the way over. Already misses Tony’s smile, his hands, the softness around his eyes. He can’t stop touching the ring on his finger, the one he just got tonight. It was meant to mean forever, and he didn’t even get a day. But it’s not real. Somewhere out there is the real world, with the real May and his real friends and real problems and he can’t just give up on helping people because somehow he’s found himself in heaven.

He knows one thing: he wants to be here more than anything. And one other thing: it doesn’t matter.

“I can’t stay,” he confirms. “I can’t. It’s not real.”

“Well then.” Strange opens the book. “Let’s get started.”

*

Strange pours through the book for what feels like hours. Then he stops, looks up with eyes that have gone inky dark. “Are you sure you’re sure?” he asks in a voice that isn’t his, that resonates through the walls of the library, shaking the floor. “Do you remember what your life really was? Do you remember what you’ve lost?”

Peter is hit with an image of Tony, burn up his arm, barely breathing. Remembers his own voice choking as he told him they’d won, they’d won, as he begged the world to change what was so very obvious: he was dying.

It’s just a flash, but when it’s done he’s filled with cold certainty. That. That’s what he was running from. That’s what awaits him out there, out in the reality he can’t remember: not a world where Tony doesn’t love him, but a world where Tony is dead.

Tony is dead, that’s why he’s here. Somehow, he knows, that’s why he’s here. He was trying to—fix it? Escape it? Something. He came here on purpose, and he’s about to give it up.

Did he choose this? Is he going to hate himself for waking up?

He realizes he’s crying; he scrubs the tears away with angry fists. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He’s not sure what he was thinking, how he got here, but Tony being dead isn’t enough to stay. Tony wouldn’t want Peter to waste his life here, wherever here is. He can’t. He’s Spider-Man.

He has a job to do.

“I know what I lost,” he tells Strange. “I don’t care. I want to leave.”

*

It’s amazing how easy it is. Well, maybe it’s not easy for Strange—Peter has no idea what makes magic hard, and also, can magic be hard when you’re not even real?—but it is for Peter. Strange says some words, makes some hand motions, and then one of his portals appears. It’s different from the others, sparking green and blue instead of red and orange, opening into nothing. Not blackness, not stars, but pure nothing, an emptiness that Peter feels more than sees, mind not able to grasp what’s in front of him.

“I just walk through there?” he confirms.

“Just walk through. If it’s what you want.”

It’s not. Every inch of his body screams for him to stay: that out there, Tony won’t love him. Won’t be there. Will be lost forever.

He steps through the portal anyway. He has to.

*

It’s cold. That’s the first thing he notices when he wakes up on his back. Cold and dark. The ground is hard, uneven, scraping against his hands as he pushes himself to sitting. Rocks, that’s rocks underneath him.

Each inhale is like knives to the chest as he staggers to his feet, muscles twitching and cramping under the strain of movement, as if they’ve forgotten how. His cheeks are damp, vision blurry, head pounding. It hurts. That had been missing, where he’d been: pain. He’d forgotten the insistent way it makes you aware of itself.

He blinks away the tears, eyes adjusting to the dim light, other senses filling in the rest. He’s in a cave. Or maybe cavern is a better word, walls sweeping up in an impressive curve, his ragged breaths echoing through thick, damp air. His suit adheres to him, uncomfortable. Where is he?

As the world settles into place, he realizes it’s not only his heart that he can hear, beating loud as an alarm in the silence. There’s another. Halfway across the looming space, there’s a shuffle, a groan: someone else is here. Peter throws himself into a crouch, ready to fight.

Then the figure groans again.

He knows that groan. He knows that voice.

“Tony?”

As he says it, pieces fall into place, puzzle rapidly filling to full picture. The illusion world still clings to him, mind flooded with images he knows aren’t real, that he’s afraid will fade, that his heart is scrambling to cling to while it’s busy breaking completely. But over those is memory more solid: a call from Captain Marvel, a desperate hope in the corner of a lost galaxy, a cave of miracles, rumored wonder he couldn’t pass up. Crawling down passages, sliding through tight gaps, following a map that now, when he looks, he realizes is still on the ground beside him.

Finding this cavern. Reciting words he didn’t understand. A flash of bright blue flames.

And then: that world. A test.

It had been a test.

And now here he is, back in the real world. And there is Tony Stark gasping at air as if he’s forgotten how to breathe, trying and failing to push himself up from the ground.   

Holy shit.

Holy shit, he did it.

Peter crosses the cave in a springing leap that make his muscles scream, stoops and pulls Tony, heavy and limp, into his arms, thoughtlessly intimate. He doesn’t care that they don’t touch like this here, in the real world. In this moment, that doesn’t matter, because he’s back. He’s back.

He’s back because Peter did it. He did it.

“Tony, oh my god,” he gushes, letting his nose brush the top of his head. He smells different than in the illusion world, muskier, covered in the damp mud of the cave. But he still smells like him, definitely. Something settles deep in Peter’s chest: relief, and longing, a desperate kind of giddiness that’s both happy and sad all at once. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re alive.”

His voice is choked with tears and he doesn’t even care. Tony is back.

“Peter?” Tony’s hands find his face, and oh god, it feels so familiar, even though they’re dry in a way he doesn’t remember from the world that wasn’t, calloused, a bit rough. “What—How—How’re you—How am I?” He sounds panicked, fingers twisting into Peter’s hair like he can’t believe it’s there. “Is this real?”

Wait, did he go through that too? An illusion world?

Reality is still coming back in slow waves, but the details of the deal he made start to clarify in Peter’s mind. A cave that will give you anything, as long as you can pass its test, prove what you are willing to give up to get what you want. Yes, anything, the rumors had said, even a life returned. But if you don’t pass, both lives are lost.

And the life to be returned, it will be tested too. He suddenly remembers that, read in Fury’s skeptical voice. Right. Because no one else had thought this was a good idea. It’s all coming back.

He wonders what Tony’s world was. If he had featured in it at all. Doesn’t matter. That’s silly, selfish, not what he needs to worry about right now.

“Yeah, Ton—” He stops himself before he finishes the name. Not that world anymore. “Mr. Stark. Yeah, yeah, it’s real.”

“But—how? Wha—” Tony takes a deep breath, rocking back. He squints against the darkness, hand smoothing Peter’s hair out of his face. “You look different.”

“It’s been a few years.” He remembers that now, finds it impossible that he was ever able to forget, even with a perfect fantasy world built around him. The blip, the things that happened after. His life turned upside down and then right side up again. But not really, never actually right, because Tony was gone and he couldn’t find a way to live with that no matter how hard he tried to convince himself he should. He presses their foreheads together, resisting turning the gesture into a kiss. That’s not his. That wasn’t real. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“Yeah, about that.” Tony’s hand is at his neck now, keeping him in place, fingers digging into his skin so deep it hurts. Maybe he needs that, too: the touch, the confirmation that he is here. Really here, not dead, not in a dream, but back in the solid, soiled, painful world. “Kid, I have some questions.”

“And I have some answers. But Captain Marvel is waiting outside this cave to take us home, and I’m worried she’s been sitting out there for a while. Can we get back to the ship first?”

*

Actually, Captain Marvel hasn’t been waiting long at all. It turns out months in the illusion world amounted to less than an hour in the real one, not even time for her to get worried. She smiles when they emerge from the cave, unsteady, leaning against each other. It’s the professional, satisfied smile of someone who has seen a job through to success, but her eyes soften, getting warmer, more personal, when Peter catches them. They don’t know each other well—she spends too much time off planet, an entire universe to protect—but she was the one who flew him out here. She stood with him as he stared down the entrance of the cave. Asked him if it was really worth the risk, heard his yes: unequivocal, almost angry that it could be in question.

So she knows. She knows what Tony means to him.

On the ship she takes them to the small room that serves as a mess, shoves them into chairs on either side of a table, and jams hot drinks into their hands, insisting they down them in front of her. “It’s disgusting, but it will help you heal,” she explains.

They reluctantly follow her orders. The drink is disgusting, somehow both chalky and slimy at the same time, which makes no sense. Nothing tasted bad in the illusion world, Peter belatedly realizes. That should have been a clue. He forces himself to keep drinking. It does help; it goes down with a gag, but then blossoms, coating his insides with numbing warmth.

Once she’s satisfied that they’ve emptied their cups, Captain Marvel tells them to sit tight and leaves the room, shooting Peter a meaningful glance as she goes.

Peter realizes he has no idea what to do now that they’re alone. How do you talk to someone who part of you feels married to, and the rest of you remembers as dead, and none of you believes is really sitting there, wincing and rubbing his tongue through his teeth, trying to get the taste off?

“Um,” Peter says, which is a hopelessly useless start. “So. You’re alive.”

“So it would appear.” Tony picks up his empty cup, spinning it between his hands. “You said something about answers?”

Peter hunches back into his chair, suddenly feeling awkward. Exposed. How do you explain flying across the universe to a mystical planet, putting your life in danger based on rumors and hope? More importantly: how do you explain it without making it blatantly obvious how you feel? He realizes he’s rubbing the finger where his engagement ring used to sit. Used to sit in his dream, anyway.

“Okay,” he begins, because he has no other choice. “I assume you remember dying?”

Tony shoots him a look somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “It rings a bell.”

Peter tries and fails to smile at that, wanting to make this seem casual, somehow. Impossible. “I wasn’t a huge fan.”

“Can’t say it was my favorite thing, either.”

Peter feels the edges of his lips twitch into a real smile, and then a laugh, a little hysterical, but still, it feels good. Okay. He can do this.

He starts talking, slowly at first, then speeding up into what he knows is a ramble, tripping and zagging through the story at high speed, as if that might make Tony miss the embarrassing bits. He looks at the table rather than Tony’s face. Blood rushes to his cheeks as he dances around how much it hurt to live in a world without him, how lost he was, how lonely. How he couldn’t even enjoy college because part of him felt an endless empty screaming.

For the most part, Tony remains silent, and since Peter’s not looking at him, he can’t read his expression. The only time he interrupts is when Peter mentions it’s been four years—he wants to know how Morgan is (“Good, she’s good”), and Pepper. His response to finding out about Pepper’s boyfriend is odd: rather than upset, he just sounds confused, asking, “Wait, did you just say his name is Tim? Huh.”

Peter moves on from that topic quickly, doesn’t want to linger on the reminder that while he may be mourning a marriage that never happened, Tony must be reeling from losing an actual relationship that existed in the actual world. He finds himself digging his fingers into the edge of the table, trying not to think about that. Instead, he explains about Carol reporting the rumors of this planet, Strange’s research, Fury’s warnings, his decision to come anyway, to risk it.

“I had to try.” He finally lets himself look up, even though his face feels heated and must give away too much. Tony looks horrified, jaw gone tight, lips a sharp, disapproving line. “Wait, are you upset? Why are you upset? It worked!”

Oh god, had Tony wanted to stay dead? Had he been satisfied, finally able to rest, like Pepper said at his funeral? No, that can’t be right; they might not actually be married, might not actually even be lovers, but he still knows Tony, and he’s definitely not someone who wanted that kind of release. Hadn’t he even said so earlier? But then why—

“Let me get this straight,” Tony says, voice trembling, barely controlled. “If I hadn’t decided to leave that fantasy world, you would have died too?”

Oh.

Oh, wow. He’s upset because Peter put his life in danger.

Actually, that makes sense. Tony had always been protective. Annoyingly so, or at least it had seemed to Peter when he was a teenager, desperate to prove himself and frustrated not to be given a chance. But now—now it makes him feel warm. Protected, even.

“Well, yeah, I guess so.” He hadn’t even given that a second thought. “But…it’s you, Mr. Stark. I wasn’t worried about you getting through. I was the weak link, and that was my risk to take.”

Tony laughs, but there’s no humor to it; a gruff, dark sound that’s more like an accusation. “Kid, you were always an idiot about me.”

Peter pulls back, offended. After everything he’d just admitted, idiot feels insulting. Patronizing, even. “Am I? Because as far as I can see, I’m still alive and now you’re alive, so my plan seems to have worked great.”

Tony shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, tugging at it in a way that makes Peter’s fingers itch to do the same. Stupid feeling, completely useless: he doesn’t get to do that, he might as well not think about it. “It almost didn’t. Pete, you have no idea how close I came to staying there, even after I’d figured it out. It was—I’d died. I’d died, and then I was being offered that? And now you tell me it would have killed you? I came that close to killing you?”

Peter’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know if it’s from the intensity of Tony’s glare, tight fury behind his eyes, or the realization that he was a lot closer to never coming back than he’d suspected. “Yeah, but you didn’t. You didn’t.”

“That wasn’t your call to make, Pete. You don’t get to put me in that position!” There’s real anger in his tone, a growl underwritten by fear. He shoves to standing. Wobbles slightly, leaning against the table for support, but still holds out a hand to stop Peter when he jumps to help. “No. Stop. I can’t deal with this right now. Fuck, I can’t believe I almost… I just can’t deal with you. I’m going to go lie down or…something. I don’t know. I need to process.”

Peter feels like someone’s slapped him, or maybe like they’ve picked him up and put him back on that roof in New York. He might as well be fifteen again, desperate to impress and suddenly finding he’s done the opposite. He wants to fight back, to yell that it isn’t fair, he saved Tony’s life, how can he be mad, how does that make sense?

But he’s not fifteen anymore, and he knows picking a fight won’t be helpful. So he tamps down the urge, and offers to show Tony to a free bunk instead.

“Pretty sure I can find my way around a spaceship,” Tony says, keeping his hand up. “Just—leave me alone, kid. I’ll take care of myself.”

*

Peter tries. He really does. Makes it a full hour exploring the ship. Then he watches Captain Marvel fly for a bit, until she tells him it’s creepy to have him sitting there, staring at her in silence. To her credit she also, hesitantly, asks if there’s anything he wants to talk about. But he can tell she’s not dying to dig into what’s bothering him. They don’t really know each other well enough for that anyway, so he lies that he’s fine and wanders away.

He tries sleeping. Thanks to his powers, and probably the disgusting drink thing, too, most of the pain has already faded. It’s been replaced with exhaustion so deep it feels like its own entity, wrapping tendrils around his insides, making gravity heavier, every step a slog. And yet, when he changes into pajamas, lies down, and closes his eyes, his mind jumps into hyperdrive, dumping a tumbled mess of memories around him like a pile of unsorted Legos: a death that still feels as fresh as if it were yesterday, kisses that never happened, vows he didn’t say, angry eyes and a hand keeping him away.

He spends a lot of time wondering about Tony’s illusion world. It must’ve been great, so tempting he almost didn’t give it up. Pepper and Morgan and their cabin? Or maybe a universe where Thanos never landed, where the Avengers never split, where they are all one big happy team, Peter just some kid who Tony recruits in the next generation. It might be presumptuous to think he was there at all.

He tosses, thrashing at his blankets as he remembers, wonders, longs. He can’t, definitely can’t, fall asleep.

Screw it. He might not be fifteen any more, but that doesn’t mean he has to give up fighting back at all.

*

He finds Tony in one of the other bunks, lying in bed but awake, reading something on a tablet. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Peter when he walks in. He also doesn’t tell him to go away, which feels like a good start.

Peter crosses the cramped room and crouches next to the bed. It’s low enough that kneeling puts him basically level with Tony, though he doesn’t dare settle near his head. He picks a spot around his chest instead, propping his elbows on the thin mattress, careful not to let them graze Tony’s side. He rests his chin in his hands. “So, hi.”

Tony places the tablet down, peering at Peter over his nose. Without comment, he brings his hand to Peter’s head, placing it gently on his hair. The contact makes him want to sob in relief. “Hey, kid. Sorry for yelling at you.”

Peter presses his eyes into the heels of his hands to prevent himself from crying. Before walking in here he’d promised himself he’d be okay no matter what happened, but now that Tony has apologized, has touched him, he realizes anything less may have actually killed him. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but I’m too tired to string together a real apology, so I’ll take the forgiveness if you’re willing to offer it.”

“I am,” Peter assures him. He is, he is, he is. “Everyone gets one judgement-free ‘I just woke up from the dead’ meltdown.”

Tony chuckles. He combs his fingers through Peter’s hair like he has a million times, but also, really, like he’s never done before, then guides Peter’s head until it’s resting against his ribs. It’s awkward, an odd angle that doesn’t really make sense, but it means Peter can feel Tony’s ribcage expanding and contracting as he breathes. Can hear his heartbeat, a loud thud that matches Peter’s own.

They rest like that, silent for so long Peter thinks Tony may have fallen asleep. He wouldn’t mind; he could lie here forever. But, suddenly Tony’s hand moves, petting down the back of Peter’s head, cupping his neck. “I missed you, kid.”

“Missed you too, Tony.” Peter goes stiff as soon as he says it. Tony must have noticed—his hand tightens, several fraught beats pass before he lets go. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, as if blocking out the world can make the last few seconds go away. Great job, Parker, couldn’t even keep the act up for a couple of hours. Super smooth.

“You called me that before,” Tony says, slowly, as if he’s not sure he should draw attention to it. Peter wishes he wouldn’t. “When we were in the cave.”

Peter can’t just not respond, so he nods, as small as possible, making a noncommittal sound he hopes conveys that they can just drop the topic now, please and thank you.

“Why?” Tony’s hand circles around to his chin, gripping it, encouraging him to look up.

Damn it. Peter sighs and opens his eyes. Tony is smiling at him, encouraging. That makes him feel a little better, but not enough to actually answer. “Why do you want to know, sir?”

As an answer, Tony scoots over, opening a sliver of space on the small bed. He pats it. Peter stares at the spot, mind rolling over itself to try to give meaning to that gesture other than the obvious. He can’t mean—But what else?—He can’t—

“Are you—you want me to—?”

“I know I’ve been dead for a few years, but feel like this is a pretty universe symbol for come here.” Tony spreads his arm, beckoning for Peter to get on the bed already.

Well, okay then. No mistaking that. He slides into the space Tony has created, tentatively placing his head in the crook of his shoulder, biting the inside of his lip to prove to himself he can feel pain. He can, which means this is actually real. Maybe it’s supposed to be a mentorly thing? Or a I just want to feel you’re really alive thing? Tony has never been particularly good with boundaries.

Whatever it is, Peter’s not arguing.

It’s weird, being in these arms again, both terribly familiar and a little off. Tony’s collarbone is sharper than Peter remembers it; his stomach, when Peter places a hand there, is tight and defined but not as rock-hard as in the illusion world. When his beard brushes against Peter’s forehead it’s prickly rather than soft, a lot more like Peter had always though it would feel.

Different, but just as perfect, and he can’t hold back a content sigh. To his shock, in response Tony rolls toward him, wrapping both arms around his back, throwing a leg over his, a cocooning, clinging gesture that can’t possibly, can’t possibly be explained as anything other than possessive, affectionate.

Peter freezes, heart pounding in his throat so hard he feels like he’s going to choke.

“So,” Tony says after a few moments. “Here’s the thing, Pete. The world I was in, I got used to you calling me Tony.” There’s a long pause. Quietly, he adds, “In most contexts, anyway.”

Peter sucks in a breath, astonished. There’s only one thing that could mean, right? He tries to form words, fails, tries again. Manages a small squeaking sound that’s truly pathetic and gives up before it gets worse.

Fortunately, Tony’s reaction to the entire flailing display is a laugh, deep and kind, body shaking. He tugs Peter tighter to him. “So I’m right in thinking our worlds may have been similar?”

“Um. Yeah?”

Tony kisses the top of his head and Peter makes another undignified sound, earning another chuckle. “I was wondering if they were actually the same. Pepper’s boyfriend, Tim—he was in my dream. There was no way for me to know about that.”

That’s interesting enough that it startles Peter out of his wordless disbelief. He shifts until he can see Tony staring fondly down at him. “Whatever was creating the world must’ve gotten that from my actual memories,” he speculates. “Which definitely means there was some level of crossover. Did yours involve a trip to Europe?”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Several.”

Oh. Interesting. Not exactly the same, then. “Mine only had the one.”

“Huh.” Tony’s fingers drum on Peter’s back. “Did yours involve you being kidnapped?”

“What? Uh, no, my perfect world did not involve me being kidnapped.” He pauses, trying to work it out. “Wait, why did yours? I feel like I should be insulted.”

Tony shakes his head. “I need to do some soul-searching about how badly I need to be the hero, I guess.” He dips closer, until his face fills Peter’s vision, so near they almost touch. “I rescued you. That’s when I realized—”

He places his lips against Peter’s, parting them slightly, just enough that Peter can easily open his own to deepen the kiss. As if they’ve done this before, as if they already know each other perfectly. And they do, kind of. And also kind of not: the beard really is scratchier, and Tony’s lips are chapped in a way the never were in the illusion world. Peter’s must be, too. He doesn’t care, and apparently neither does Tony, who pulls him closer with a needy moan that echoes through Peter’s body.

When they pull apart, Peter, mind a blur, can’t help himself from asking, “How long?”

“Hmm?” Tony presses a kiss to the side of his mouth.

“In your dream. How long were we—” He stops. It’s not really length he wants to know about, but depth. How serious. He wants to ask: did yours also involve a ring? But even now, with Tony’s arms around him, Tony’s lips on his face, he’s afraid to say the words. Afraid that his perfect and Tony’s don’t align. That his is greedier, needier. “I mean, I was just wondering…”

“Years,” Tony whispers, and Peter’s heart leaps. That has to be a good sign, right? “Years and years.”

They start kissing again, and Peter lets himself get lost in it. Tony rolls them until Peter is on top of him, hands roaming, lips not breaking apart. Warm and sloppy and somehow actually happening, and this time Peter knows it’s real. Knows because he’s so tired, limbs heavy, responding sluggishly even in his eagerness. Because it’s not perfect, not actually: Tony winces when Peter hits a bruise, their teeth knock together when he gets too enthusiastic. After five minutes they have to stop, Peter collapsing, exhausted, Tony’s arms coming to hold him again, as if he wants to be close just as desperately as Peter does.

“Years, huh,” Peter says, picking up the conversation as if he’s not breathless from the interruption. “So, does that mean—were we…” He trails off, still afraid to ask.

“Yeah, we were.”

Peter can hear Tony’s heart beating just as fast as his is. That’s what gives him the courage to say, “In mine, too.” The heartbeat speeds up as he pushes on. “So, I mean, if in your perfect world, and in my perfect world—would you want to? Here?”

Tony sighs, heavy, brushing his lips against Peter’s temple. “I was afraid you were going to ask that.”

It’s as if the bottom has dropped out of the room, a sick swoop of nausea. No, of course not, of course he wouldn’t. That would be too perfect, that would be better than what the world—the real one—ever gives Peter. He tries to pull away, suddenly wanting to run, hide, feeling really dumb for letting himself hope, even for a second—

But Tony grips his shirt, keeping him in place, making soft shushing sounds. “Hey, hey, hey, Pete, don’t freak out. Kid, Peter, look at me. Just look at me.”

He does, placing an elbow next to Tony’s head, propping himself on his palm.

Tony smiles, earnest and apologetic, and reaches up to run his fingers, light, down his cheek. “That wasn’t supposed to be a no.”

Peter’s breath catches, nausea flopping to hope with such speed he’s disoriented. “It wasn’t? Because it sounded like one.”

“It wasn’t,” Tony confirms, firm. “It definitely was not. It’s just—this isn’t a perfect world, Pete. There’s no magic cave making sure everything goes so well we never want to leave. This is the real world; we can mess this up.” His mouth twists into an ironic grin. “Let’s be honest, I can mess this up. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Okay?” Peter’s arm trembles from the effort of holding himself up, but he doesn’t want to miss whatever it is Tony’s trying to tell him. He drops forward until their foreheads touch. There, he can still look into his eyes like this. “So what does that mean?”

Tony’s hand comes around to clutch at his back. “It means, let me figure out my life first. I was dead for a while, that’s going to take getting used to.”

“Welcome to the club.” Peter can’t help a quick kiss, just to confirm that yes, he’s not dead anymore. “Who hasn’t been dead for a while?”

Tony rolls his eyes, which looks really weird up close. “Very funny. It also means: Let’s do this in the right order. Let me take you out for a while. We can try living together. Figure out how our lives fit together. How to tell people.” Another kiss, swift and sweet. “Give me time to plan a real proposal. A real wedding. A big one. Or a small one, whatever you want, you can have anything you want. I want to do this right.” His voice goes quiet, almost pleading, as he adds, “Please, Peter, let me do this right.”

It’s already right, Peter wants to tell him. They’re both alive, they both want each other, they are really, actually here, in the real, actual world, with its sharp angles and slowly passing time that doesn’t blur away into background noise. And that, in all its harsh glory, is already perfect.

But Tony is looking at him with begging eyes. His mouthing, again, silently forms the word Please. This is really important to him.

So, fine. Why not? They can do this any which way Tony wants, as long as Peter gets to keep him.

When he says, “Okay, have it your way,” Tony breaks into a smile, pulls him into a kiss, whispers “Thank you” and “I love you” and “Peter, Peter, Peter” against his mouth.

He still thinks waiting is silly, but who cares? As Tony keeps kissing him, repetitive and worshipful, he knows, incredible as it is: yes, he gets to keep him. He really gets to keep him.

Notes:

As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.

Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!