The Part Where You're Okay

The suit alarm started going off at 11:47 PM, which Tony had learned meant Peter had overridden the return protocol and was letting himself in through the lab window instead of the front entrance, which meant he didn't want FRIDAY announcing his arrival, which meant something had gone wrong. Tony was already at the window when Peter landed. "Hey," Peter said, and his voice was doing the thing — the careful, controlled thing that meant he was working very hard to sound fine. "I got your message about the upgrade to the web—" "Sit down." "I'm fine—" "FRIDAY." "Bio-scan complete," FRIDAY said. "Two cracked ribs, probable. Laceration on the left forearm, approximately four centimeters. Mild concussion indicators." Peter sat down. The lab table was cold under his hands — Tony watched him notice it, watched him brace against it like he was deciding whether to be embarrassed. He'd gotten better at staying still for the first-aid kit, at least. Month one he'd flinched every time Tony picked up the antiseptic. Now he just watched the ceiling with studied nonchalance while Tony worked. "Talk me through it," Tony said. "Dock fire in Red Hook. The structure was—" Peter stopped. Swallowed. "There were more people inside than the initial report said." "How many did you get out?" "Fourteen. Plus a dog." A pause. "I didn't know about the dog until it was already on my back." Tony pressed gauze to the forearm and taped it without saying anything. "There was a woman on the third floor," Peter said, to the ceiling. "I went back for her. The stairwell collapsed while I was—" He stopped again. "The floor was mostly gone. I had to— it was fine. I got her out. But there was about forty seconds where I wasn't sure I could." Tony put the tape roll down. "Forty seconds is a long time," he said. "Yeah." Peter's voice was very quiet. "It really is." The lab was quiet except for the ambient hum of the building. Somewhere below them, the city was doing its thing — sirens, distant music, the particular frequency of eight million people who didn't know they'd almost lost a kid in a collapsing building in Red Hook tonight. "I was scared," Peter said, like he was confessing something. "I know I'm not supposed to—" "You are absolutely supposed to be scared." Peter blinked and looked at him. "Any version of you that isn't scared in that scenario is a version I should be worried about," Tony said. "Scared means your brain is working. Scared means you understand the situation correctly. Scared is—" He stopped. Picked up the tape roll again, put it down. "Scared kept you alive long enough to get the woman out." "You're not scared," Peter said. Tony laughed, short and real. "Kid. I'm scared every single time." "But you—" "I'm scared every time and I do it anyway, which is the actual job description. Nobody told you the job was not being scared. Somebody should have told you that earlier. That's on me." Peter was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully: "Is that what you tell yourself?" "It's what I know." He meant it. There was a version of this speech he'd given Pepper in the dark at 3 AM about seven years ago — rougher, less formed, mostly him staring at the ceiling while she was better at this than he was. But the core was the same. "You got fourteen people and a dog out of a burning building. You almost didn't make it. You were scared. All of those things are true at the same time." Peter nodded, slow. "The ribs," Tony said. "You need to ice them and you need to sleep here tonight. Non-negotiable." "Aunt May—" "Is already texted. FRIDAY handled it. She says, and I quote, 'Tell him to eat something.'" For the first time since the window, Peter smiled. It was small and tired and genuine, and Tony felt the knot in his chest loosen by an increment. "The dog was a golden retriever," Peter said. "He kept licking my face the whole way down." "Sounds like a liability." "Sounds like a hero," Peter said, and the smile widened. Tony handed him an ice pack and didn't say the thing he was thinking, which was something sentimental and embarrassing, the kind of thing he'd learned to convert into proximity instead — staying nearby, making sure the ice pack was held at the correct angle, finding a reason not to leave the room. Peter fell asleep around midnight, ice pack still in hand, still in the suit from the waist down. Tony stayed in the lab. Not for any particular reason. Just in case.