#thinking about arm sending medical out to the pool as soon as he sees pete's reaction to vegas getting shot through his monitors

[ronanlvnchvevo]

thinking about how vegas got to the hospital after being shot like 5 times in the chest thinking about who was the one to find pete sobbing over a dead vegas thinking about pete going absolutely feral after being told he needed to let go of him so that they can get him to medical thinking about how many hours pete had to wait and how many ‘he’s still in critical condition’s he got before getting the all-clear thinking about how long it took before pete accepted that vegas was still alive

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Keeping Company

Authors: @whumphoarder and @xxx-cat-xxx

Summary: While attempting to look after his migraine-riddled mentor, Peter manages to injure himself badly enough to need Tony’s help. 

Word Count: 3k

Authors’ note: Basically, Bethany and Cat are incredibly predictable people, so we each wrote our favorite whump tropes (Tony + migraine, Peter + stitches) and combined them to make our first collab story in response! Hope you enjoy reading as much as we enjoyed creating it together :D

Link to read on Ao3

Tony spits saliva into the toilet bowl for the umpteenth time, wishing that his stomach would get it over with and empty itself already just so that he can get back to bed. Not that it would make much of a difference; his head hurts no matter where he is, but he knows the rest of his body is not going to like the hour he just spent kneeling on the tiled bathroom floor come tomorrow.

“Tony? Are you in there?” someone calls quietly from outside the door. It takes Tony’s migraine-riddled brain a moment to place the voice. Peter, right. Peter, who is staying over at the lake house this weekend to help him upgrade FRIDAY’s interface while Pepper takes Morgan downtown for a day trip.

“Tony? Can I come in?” Peter calls. He sounds a bit more anxious now, making Tony realize that he never actually answered.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and his head thanks him with another vicious throb of pain that he can feel reverberating in the pit of his stomach. He reaches back for the doorknob with an arm that isn’t there before recalling that he took the prosthesis off in the garage because it was hurting him earlier. Then he remembers that he didn’t even lock the door to the bathroom. God, he’s a mess today. “‘S open.”

Peter steps in and immediately winces at the sight of Tony slumped on the floor. “Hey. Uh, did you throw up?” he asks.

Tony shakes his head. “Just nauseous.”

“Ah, okay.” The worry in Peter’s voice is clear. Tony has been getting migraines more frequently since the snap, but the kid has never witnessed one quite like this before. It was bad enough that Tony didn’t even make much of a fuss when Peter sent him to bed after his hands were shaking so badly that he’d slopped coffee over some exposed circuits in the mainframe and shorted them out.

He squints up at Peter. “Don’ worry, kid. It’ll pass.”

Peter nods. He crosses his arms awkwardly, looking like he’s not quite sure what to do with them, and leans against the doorframe. “Uh, how long have you been in here?”

Tony shrugs a bit. “An hour? Two?”

Peter’s face falls. “Why didn’t you tell me it’d gotten this bad? You said I should just do my homework because you were gonna fall asleep anyway.”

“Well what would you have done about it?” Tony retorts. It comes out ruder than intended and Peter’s gaze immediately drops to his feet. A pang of guilt hits Tony and he sighs, sluggishly rubbing his forehead. “Sorry. ‘S just frustrating.”

“No, it’s okay,” Peter reassures, sighing as well. “Just wish I could do something.”

“Build me a new brain,” Tony jokes weakly. “Sell this piece of crap on eBay. Someone’ll buy it—they always do.”

Just then another wave of nausea washes over him. His stomach clenches and for a moment he’s sure he is going to throw up. He bends back over the bowl and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out carefully. Saliva is pooling in his mouth and the urge to gag is overwhelming, but still, he fights it. Despite how close he and the kid have gotten in the months following Thanos’ defeat, Tony isn’t quite ready to let Peter witness him losing his lunch.

“Actually,” he gasps out after swallowing thickly, “I think there’s some ginger ale in the kitchen. Can you, uh...?” he flaps his hand around.

Peter nods eagerly. “Yeah, for sure,” he says, and disappears through the open door.

The moment he’s out of the room, Tony gags. Nothing comes up, but the pain accompanying the movement is so bad that it sends white lights crisscrossing through his vision.

After another few dry heaves, he lets his head sink down against the rim of the bowl with a low moan that luckily nobody else can hear. He’s shaking and drenched in cold sweat. Pretty pathetic, Iron Man, he thinks.

Then he hears the sound of glass shattering downstairs.

Tony lifts his head weakly. “FRI?” he rasps. “Wha’ was that?”

“Peter appears to have broken a drinking glass,” FRIDAY reports, her volume a bit lower than usual.

“Hm.” As long as it’s not that hideous French sculpture in the dining room that Pepper’s grandmother gave to her, they should be fine. Not that Tony wouldn’t  love  an excuse to finally be rid of that thing—it gives him the creeps. “Is he alright?” he croaks.

“He assures me he is perfectly fine and will be clearing the mess up momentarily,”—Tony gives a small, satisfied hum and lets his eyelids drift back closed—“just as soon as he manages to stop the bleeding,” she finishes.

“Hm… wait, what?” It takes about two seconds longer than usual for Tony’s impaired brain to latch on to the meaning of that sentence. “What bleeding?”

“I’m totally fine, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s voice hollers up the stairs. Tony winces at the sound; he always forgets about the kid’s enhanced hearing. “Got it handled!”  

“In attempting to catch the falling glass, he sustained several lacerations to his right hand,” FRIDAY informs. “Most are superficial, though one of the cuts is bleeding quite heavily and may require medical attention.”

“God, kid, what did you do this time?” Tony groans quietly as he reaches for the sink to pull himself upright. The change in altitude dials up the pain another few notches and makes his vision swim. He maneuvers his way through the dimly lit master bedroom, swaying almost drunkenly.

The sunlight streaming in through the hallway windows when he opens the bedroom doors feels like a personal assault. Tony groans in pain, unable to stop himself, and brings his elbow up to cover his eyes. “FRI, blinds,” he manages to say through clenched teeth. The AI immediately draws the integrated blinds and the hallway blissfully darkens.

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?” the kid calls from downstairs. “Don’t come down―I got this!” The slight waver of Peter’s voice at the end of the sentence however makes it clear to Tony that the kid has not, in fact, got this.  

“Too late,” he calls back, and then flinches at the volume of his own voice.

The stairs are a challenge with the added aura and wooziness on top of the usual balance issues he still has whenever he doesn’t wear his prosthesis. Holding tightly to the railing with his left arm, Tony concentrates on putting one foot in front of another. He has to stop twice—once to wait for a dizzy spell to pass, and the second time to breathe through another wave of nausea—but he makes it down in one piece.

“Pete?” he asks when he reaches the landing.

There’s a clattering sound and a muffled swear from the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re doing, just stop,” Tony says tiredly as he moves toward the kitchen, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. “Just sit down, and wait for….” he trails off, standing at the room’s threshold now and getting his first glimpse of the scene. “Yikes.”

It looks like something straight out of a B-grade horror flick. Peter is crawling around on the crimson droplet-stained floor, frantically trying to pick up glass shards with his left hand while holding his right—wrapped in a thick, bloodsoaked wad of paper towels—pressed against his chest. He glances up when his mentor stops in the doorway, eyes wide. “I’m fine—I promise,” he blurts.

“Yeah, you and me both, kid,” Tony mutters. He stands there for a moment, his gaze traveling blankly from the blood and glass pieces littering the floor, to the kid’s Pokémon-socked feet, and waits for his sluggish brain to formulate a plan of action.

“Broom,” Tony decides finally, and side steps carefully in his leather-soled slippers over to the pantry to retrieve it.

“Uh, did you still want the ginger ale?” Peter asks nervously. “Because it’s right over there,” he rambles, nodding to the bottle on the counter as he continues picking up glass. “It’s not cold or anything, which is why I was gonna put it in a cup with some ice, but—”

“Pete,” Tony interrupts.

Peter glances up at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m not all useless, alright?” Tony says. Peter opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, but Tony just holds up a finger, shushing him. “Just let me help you. Please.”

Closing his mouth again, Peter gives a single nod. “Alright.”

Tony grabs the broom and uses it to clear a path across the floor to Peter. The closer he gets, the easier he can see the kid’s pallor, which does nothing to decrease his worry.

“Alright, let’s see it,” he says, nodding to Peter’s towel-wrapped hand.

Looking reluctant, Peter peels back his makeshift bandages. Fresh blood immediately starts flowing from a deep, lateral gash spanning across the top of Peter’s palm. Smaller, superficial cuts cover his fingers, and Tony can see at least one piece of glass still sticking into his hand just below the thumb.

“Jesus…” Tony breathes. He isn’t a squeamish person, but this would be sickening even if his stomach wasn’t already on the verge of crawling up his throat. “How did you even do that?”

Peter gives a pained smile. “Super strength? Tried to catch the glass on the way down, but I guess I grabbed it too hard. Kind of embarrassing, actually...”

Tony swallows thickly. “Please don’t ever try to catch me if I’m falling.” He briefly closes his eyes, breathing out, and then forces himself to open them again. The blood flow from Peter’s palm hasn’t stopped; on the contrary, it is now steadily dripping onto the floor. “Alright, stitches,” he decides, covering the wound again. “Bathroom. Let’s go.”

Peter doesn’t protest, but he does pale somewhat upon hearing the word ‘stitches.’ Whether it’s from nerves or the blood loss starting to take its toll, the kid is visibly unsteady on his feet once he gets up. Tony would have offered a supporting hand, but he isn’t faring much better himself. The two of them start shuffling down the hall like a pair of tipsy penguins—Tony holding onto the wall for balance, and Peter clutching his injured hand to his chest, swaying ever so slightly.

“Sit down,” Tony orders once they reach the bathroom, motioning at the toilet. Peter obeys, letting himself sink down onto the lid with a heavy exhale. Tony flips on the overhead light and can barely suppress a moan when the brightness hits his retinas, but if he has any hope of fixing this, he needs to see.

He leans into the doorframe a little and briefly wonders just who he pissed off in a past life to deserve this delightful day before turning his attention back to the teenager currently bleeding all over his luxury white bath mat.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles. “You should just lie down, actually―I can take care of this on my own.”

“Sure kid,” Tony huffs. “If ‘taking care’ means passing out on the bathroom floor.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You’d rather us both pass out on the bathroom floor?”

“Gets lonely down there. Can keep each other company,” Tony mutters. He pushes himself off the wall and moves over to the medicine cabinet to start gathering the supplies they’re going to need. The suture kit he locates quickly enough, but it takes him a full minute to remember where Pepper keeps the tweezers and his hands are shaking so much that he almost drops the box of gauze pads. Then he pulls Morgan’s little step stool out from below the sink and sits down on it next to Peter. “Give me your hand.”

Upon closer inspection, there are two small pieces of glass still embedded in Peter’s palm. It takes Tony a couple of tries to remove them with the tweezers, but eventually he succeeds. Then he picks up the bottle of disinfectant from the counter and holds it out to Peter. “Can you open this?”

Peter gives him a puzzled look. “Aftershave?”

“Hm?” Tony frowns, then squints at the label of the bottle. “Oh.” He sets it back down. “Just testing you.” Peter rolls his eyes and Tony reaches behind himself for the correct bottle this time. Between their two working hands, they manage to remove the childproof cap and Tony gets the bottle in position over Peter’s hand.

“Okay, deep breath,” he advises.

Peter sucks in a sharp inhale, then bites his lip as Tony pours bubbling disinfectant over the cuts. Once the wounds are clean, Tony uses his teeth to tear open the packet containing the (thankfully pre-threaded) surgical needle. Peter gulps at the sight.

Tony carefully picks up the needle with forceps. “You alright?” he checks.

“Yeah, fine,” Peter grits back, looking anything but fine. “Let’s just get it over with.”

That turns out to be easier said than done. Try as he might, Tony can’t get his eyes to focus properly on the wound and his trembling fingers keep causing the needle to jump—not to mention the kid’s anxious flinching. After five full minutes of fiddling with the needle, Tony’s barely managed two stitches. Then the pungent stench of disinfectant mixing with the scent of Peter’s blood suddenly becomes too much for his stomach to take.

“Hang on,” he mutters before standing up and spinning around just in time to heave violently into the sink.

(So much about not throwing up in front of the kid.)

“Tony?” Peter asks in a weak voice when Tony’s retching tapers off.

“Just gimme… a minute,” Tony gasps, trying to breathe through the blinding pain searing through his skull. He shakily wipes his mouth, praying that he isn’t in for another round. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.”

“I know, I just—” Peter looks down at the needle, which is still stuck in his hand mid-stitch, and breathes out a careful exhale. Sweat is glistening on his face. “Maybe it’d be better if you just talked me through it?”

Somehow, the kid manages to look at him with both pleading and pity, and it causes a flare of anger in Tony’s chest at his own patheticness. He has to swallow hard to clear the tightness from his throat before croaking out, “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Peter picks up the needle and forceps with his left hand and follows Tony’s muttered instructions. The knots are the hardest part to explain. Tony has to talk Peter through which direction to pull the threads and how many times to wrap them around before tying them off, and it’s taking all of his patience to do so.

“It’s like the time May tried to teach me how to tie my tie for homecoming,” Peter murmurs, pulling the needle through his skin with the forceps. “Same frustration, just more blood.”

Tony huffs a bit and massages his own aching temples. “Still can’t believe you made it to sixteen without ever wearing a tie…”

“No, I’d  worn ties before,” Peter retorts, keeping his voice low, “but Ben always tied them for me.” He lets out a little hiss as he tugs the thread to pull the skin closed.

“Not so tight, kid,” Tony corrects. Peter nods and gives it more slack. It seems to be helping the kid to have something else to focus on besides the sutures, so Tony continues. “Jarvis had me doing double windsors the same week I learned to tie my shoes. Think I was three.”

“Child prodigy...” Peter huffs, though there’s no heat behind his words. After a moment he says, “Did Jarvis teach you to do stitches too?”

“Nah, that was Rhodey.” Tony feels his stomach twisting again at the recollection of that night and shudders a bit. “Don’t mouth-off to drunken frat boys, kid. Never ends well.”

Peter smirks a bit as he starts the next suture. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eventually, they manage to finish stitching the wound closed. Tony douses him with antiseptic again, then wraps Peter’s hand in gauze bandages until it vaguely resembles an oven mitt.

“Okay.” Tony lets his head fall back against the counter and sighs exhaustedly. “Congratulations, kid—you just cleared another level on the way to becoming a full Avenger.”

Peter grins weakly. “It was kinda badass, wasn’t it?” He gazes down at his hand as if he can’t quite believe what he just did. Then he looks over at Tony and his face sobers. “You should go lie down. And I need to clean up the kitchen.” He starts to get to his feet, but the second he’s up, the color seems to drain from his face. Tony shoots out his hand and grips the kid’s bicep. “Or maybe I’ll just sit for a minute,” Peter murmurs, sinking heavily back down onto the toilet lid. “Or two.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Tony says in concern. “Please don’t faint and break your leg or something. I’ve hit my capacity for field surgeries today.”

While Peter rolls his eyes, Tony mutters for FRIDAY to dim the lights. The brightness in the room immediately decreases to a minimum and Tony could honestly cry in relief. Giving up all pretenses, he slides down off the step stool and stretches out on the floor mat, crossing his arms behind his pounding head to make a sort of cushion.

“Gross,” Peter mutters.

“I threw up Pep’s carrot soup today,” Tony murmurs in response, letting his eyes slip closed. “Don’t talk to me about gross.”

He lies there for a minute before he feels Peter getting up and stepping over him toward the sink. The water turns on briefly, then goes off again and the next thing he knows, a cool washcloth is being draped over his forehead and eyes.

“Thanks, kid,” he breathes. “Now let’s never do this day again.”

Peter groans and lies down beside his mentor on the absurdly plush bath mat.  “Agreed.” 

Bethany’s fics | Cat’s fics

[deklaire-blog]

A Bad Decision {Whumptober Day 3- Prompt- Delirium}

{ When Peter doesn’t go to medical after an injury, the wound gets infected. Fearing the consequences if Tony finds out, Peter tries to take care of it himself. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go quite as well as hoped. Day 3 of Whumptober? Prompt 3- delirium. POTENTIAL T/W FOR INTENSE DESCRIPTION OF AN INFECTED WOUND, VOMITING, MINOR ANXIETY, AND MORPHINE TO TREAT PAIN. If any of these things may be triggering to you, please stay safe by doing what is best for you! @whumptober2019 }

Okay, sure, Peter had dodged medical. But they all dodged medical. He’d once witnessed Natasha claiming she could ‘stitch herself up’ whilst trying to hold her own intestines inside her body. It hadn’t been a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. It was a scratch, really. His healing would take care of it, just like it always did. Or maybe not.

He prodded the flesh gently, his hand flinching away on contact. The cut was just above his lowest rib, festering and bubbling with pus. The skin around it was burning hot, sending a sharp pain through his body with Peter’s every move. He eyed the cabinet above his bathroom sink warily. If he went to medical like this, Tony was bound to find out. If Tony found out, he was bound to kill Peter and take his suit away, not necessarily in that order. His only choice was to take care of this himself, and the cut was going to need to be cleaned, ASAP. He took a shaky breath and opened the closet door.

Bottles of pills and first aid supplies lined the shelves. Tony wasn’t stupid, he knew his kid better than to think he’d have a doctor look at every cut and scrape. To make up for it, Peter had access to everything he’d need to take care of minor things. He glanced down at his bare chest again, wondering if this counted as minor.

First thing first, this was gonna hurt bad enough as it was, he could at least take some of his superhero-level prescribed painkillers. He grabbed the bottle, shaking a few into his hand. He slurped at the tap water from his sink, washing the pills down with some difficulty. He’d never been good with capsules.

Now was the hard part. Peter could do this, after all, he’d done it plenty of times before. A little peroxide, wrap up the wound tight, and he’d be all set. Hopefully. Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the brown bottle, screwed off the cap, and poured it directly onto the wound.

Spots danced behind his eyes, his entire body shaking, trying to reject the process. He forced himself not to stop, biting down hard onto his tongue when he felt nausea building up. He couldn’t help but let out a strained cry. He had half a mind to just call his dad, let Tony take him to medical. Stroke his hair while the doctor fixed him up. Telling him to rest but promising a proper lecture in the morning. The last part is was made him push on. When he realized he’d stopped pouring the liquid fire, he put his shaking hand back, making himself pour again.

He bit his tongue again, straight through the delicate flesh. It was the taste of blood that did him in, sending him to retch over the sink. At first it was dry heaves, barely escaping as he swallowed convulsively. He wouldn’t throw up. He wouldn’t throw up. Despite his efforts, the medication came up first, strings of half digested, chalky pills dripping from his lips. Another contraction of his stomach muscles and a full fledged stream of liquid left his mouth, snot running down his nose to join. His shoulders racked with sobs as his body set out for another round, and another, and another. It was all bile now, burning his esophagus as tears streamed down his face. His body didn’t stop though, convulsing until black spots danced in front of his eyes, his body begging for oxygen.

Slowly, finally, the torture stopped. He took deep breaths, eying the wound again. Now that it wasn’t filled with pus, he could tell it was deeper than he’d originally thought. Seeping out a steady stream of blood. He’d have to stitch it up. His eyes darted back up to the shelf. Apparently his dad hadn’t thought that was necessary supplies outside of the medbay. He’d have to make do.

Pressing a wash cloth against the wound, he ventured back into his room, heading for his desk. He gruffly shoved a drawer open, rummaging through the mess. Peter’s room may be pristine on the outside, but inside the drawers junk was littered everywhere. It took him a few minutes to find the old sewing kit. The one he’d used to stitch up his makeshift suit before his dad had found out he was Spider-Man and given him an upgrade.

He reluctantly carried it back to the bathroom, opening the bag and spilling out its contents. He grabbed the biggest needle he saw, dousing it in alcohol before doing the same with a black spool of thread. He found it harder to thread the needle than originally planned. His hands were trembling, his vision doubling. It was only by dumb luck that he managed to pull the string through.

He swallowed heavily, staring at the wound. It’s just like sewing up your suit. He quietly promised himself. Nothing to worry about.

Before he could think about it any more, he pinched his skin together and stuck the needle straight through it. The needle was all the way through before the newest wave of pain caught up with him, and he had to grit his teethe hard to quiet the sobs racking his shoulders. His eyes watered, making his vision fuz all over again. He’d done it, though. He’d stuck the needle straight through. That had to be the worst part, right? Wrong. The friction of thread against skin, pulling pain stakingly slowly, finally sent him over the edge.

He let out a strangled cry, letting go of the needle so the string dangled loosely from his flesh. He tried to steady himself on the sink basin, but his hands were slick with blooding, slipping off of the smooth surface. He fell, his head smacking porcelain and tile. His vision burned bright white, and then went black.

oOoO

Tony was in the zone. Music blasting loud enough to burst his eardrums, tools being handed to him before he even had to say it, his AIs and drones and robots all working in sync has laser focused on his newest projects. This could change lives, save lives, end world hunger and-. “Uh, FRIDAY? Why did you just turn off my AC/DC?”

“Sorry boss, but I believe Peter is in distress and may need assistance.” Tony was up and walking at that. Or, more so running.

“What kid of distress are we talking here, FRI? Panic attack? Stomach bug? I swear to Thor if he caught another asgardian stomach bug I-“

“Peter appears to be suffering from a seizure” Tony’s blood ran cold.

“Call Cho, get her up here now.”

“Already done, boss.”

The ride up the elevator to the next floor felt endless, like the trip was miles long. He was out of the door as soon as there was enough space for him to squeeze through. Tony was practically tripping over himself to get into Peter’s room.

The room was empty, contents from his desk drawer strewn across its surface, and the bathroom door ajar. He could just see Peter’s bare foot, shaking sporadically.

“Peter? Pete?” He dashed forward, and the closer he got the worse it was.

Blood was everywhere, red hand prints streaming down the sink, dark liquid pooling on the floor, already drying brown on his kid’s face. And then there was the wound. The blood was almost bubbling up from it, the skin puckered and sickening red streaks spread out from his skin. Yellow pus and cloudy liquid leaked out with the blood. Infection. Worst of all a string with a needle hung from it, a single sloppy stitch cutting through his skin. He’d actually tried to stitch himself up. Tony dropped to his knees and prodded the blood-covered forehead, cringing at just how hot it was. How had this happened?

There was protocol in place for this. Karen should have alerted him, or FRIDAY, or one of the hundred of AIs and drones and robots he had flying around this place. Medical had strict instructions to always check the kid over, even if he seemed fine. The kid was a seasoned liar with little to no self preservation.

“Kid, please wake up.” He clutched the sticky hand. “Please.”

His only response was more convulsive shaking from the kid’s body. He wanted to stay there forever. Just clutching onto his baby. But Cho was shoving him out of the way, strong arms were holding him back, someone was putting Peter on a stretched, carrying him away. He caught a hint of blue on his kid’s lips, lacking oxygen and color. He all but collapsed into Steve’s arms.

oOoO

“Can’t you give him something for the pain?” Cho’s eyes studied him like Tony was a hurt puppy dog.

“The best we have is Steve’s morphine, and you know the consequences of that can be-“

“I don’t care!” Tears were prickling behind the man’s eyes and he desperately blinked them away.

“Tony,” Steve’s soft voice washed over him, always grounding. The younger man’s calloused hand rested on Tony’s shoulder. “Just take a deep breath, then decide.”

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The first inhale was choppy, anxiety racking his system. But the next was a little easier, easing the tension built up in his shoulders.

“I just… Look at him.” Tony’s eyes flickered from Peter’s trembling form to Steve’s pinched expression. “He’s hurting.” Cho nodded in understanding.

“It’s your call, Tony. I have to hear you say it though, and you’ll need to sign off on some paperwork.”

“That’s fine, just… give him whatever it takes to stop hurting.”

oOoO

Someone was stroking Peter’s hair. Long, calloused fingers allowing the curly strands to slips through their finger tips over and over again. Peter liked that.

He blinked his eyes open, trying to adjust to the light. Where was he? Everything was white, and blurry at the edges. Like the entire world had become soft. Someone hovered just to his right, but not looking at him. He slowly attached the arm to the fingers in the hair. Same person. Looking down at something small and glowing. A phone, maybe, but Peter was too tired to really tell. A halo formed around the light of it though, and Peter was pretty sure that was weird. In fact, halos were forming around all the lights. He blinked hard but it didn’t go away.

“Pete?” The voice was floaty, almost far away. “Peter, you feeling alright, bud?” Peter’s eyes drifted lazily towards the noise, apparently coming from the man next to him. He recognized the face, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He just knew that face made him feel really good. In fact everything felt really good right now. Even if he couldn’t get any of his thoughts into a straight line.

He smiled wordlessly at the man, and the face smirked back. “Go back to sleep, kiddo. You’re gonna be feeling pretty out of it for awhile.” The voice was still floaty and sing songy, like a lullaby. My tried to tell him to keep talking but only a jumbled mass of sounds came out of his mouth. He frowned a little but the man just chuckled. “It’s okay bambino, I’m not going anywhere.” The voice didn’t stop this time, and Peter let his eyes drift closing, knowing it would still be there when he woke up.

{ @whumptober2019 }