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x-ceptionallysmall · 23 days ago

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STOP! HAMMER BORROWER!TONY TIME!

uh...hi! my first official marvel g/t fic !!?!?,,., i never thought the day would come haha

buuuuut.,.,.,,, erm...enjoy? , ALSO fair warning this is my attempt at getting used to the characters, and also maybe start some new kind of au? or...just start something cause i'd love to use this account more!

OKAY OKAY enough yap,,, i think i wanna make an "everything is the same but tony is small" au and have each title be like "how to [two/three word summary]" but idk ! bear with me here

@i-am-beckyu @justarandomsloth @local-squishmallow I MADE IT!!!!!!

an unsuccessful guide to avoid burdening the local teenager: snow edition

cw: swearing, descriptions of hypothermia and corresponding symptoms (i.e. dizziness, slurred speech, etc.), internal dilemma: fear of burden, tony being a bitch

wc: 2552

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For being a borrower, Tony never really adhered to the typical rules. They were bullshit, anyway—seriously, take only what you need? Absolutely not, Humans have enough resources as-is, and what he needed four months ago was a computer system stronger than an old, dingy ipod he’d rewired. That had been his mistake, really, trying to steal a human computer that was just sitting out in the open. Not his best move—what even was his plan? To bring the computer into the walls with him? And then, what, the human wouldn’t notice the large, rectangular spot in the midst of his dusty desktop? Tony was intelligent, sure, but really, he was quite ego-driven sometimes. And what his ego told him at the time, was to grab that computer because he deserved better than that ipod. He (the borrower) deserved the (albeit human tailored) computer more than the (human) kid did.

He had been in the wrong, he can admit that now. He’s a new, changed man. That had been his mid-year resolution some season ago—after he met the kid on account of his own stupidity. The kid—Peter, it ended up being—did seem to mind Tony’s (attempted) theft, as upon opening his door, he flicked the light on and promptly froze in his tracks and gaped. And then it ended up being a whole thing where Peter screamed and then Tony screamed, and, to make a long story short, Tony ended up confined in a web. But, hey, four months later and now they’re buddy-buddy.

Turns out, Peter was some kind of self-made vigilante-superhero-guy. Though, not exactly self-made—the idiot went and got himself bit by a spider, but regardless of that, he pretty much built himself up from the bottom. Spiderman, he called himself. Tony still argues that Bugboy would benefit his image more, but Peter seemed to shoot that down even prior to justification.

When Peter had got to talking with Tony, especially after catching him attempting to take the computer, Peter’s attention caught on the fact that this little guy seemed to be quite in-tune with technology. So, Tony ended up being roped into helping Peter with all of his superhero stuff. He helped redesign his suit, helped get the meticulous stitches in the cloth and programmed some more safety protocols for him. It was a good use of his hands, even if he did voice his complaints quite often—especially on doing stitching for Peter. He was a mechanic, not a seamstress. Yet, Tony felt strangely obligated to comply regardless.

Anyway, this story has nothing to do with how he and Peter met. It was just worth it to reminisce about stuff like that when he was freezing his ass off. Like he said, he wasn’t a seamstress, he was a mechanic. He’d tried to build a heater one time, and he had, but the heat was a little too strong and he ended up sparking a…small fire in the walls of the house. That house didn’t make it. But, without that fire, he never would’ve met Peter!

He laughs to himself at the idea, a sort of amused snort leaving him while he drags a numb hand down his face, rubbing at it aggressively while mumbling to himself. He was sitting against the wall of his nook, his knees drawn up to his chin, arms tucked into the poor excuse of a shirt he’d made. It fit more like a cloak, but it was actually serving him quite well as he was able to fit his arms into it and at least curl in on himself a little more. He was never a fan of winter. The walls were too thin, and he wasn’t too keen on burning down the poor teenagers’ apartment so he refrained from building a heater in case something went askew. And, naturally, Tony would absolutely never ever reveal that he was cold. Peter had asked him a few times, offered to cut up an old blanket and spare the borrower a few squares as extra blankets or fabric for clothing. But Tony wasn’t going to take that, he didn’t want to look desperate. He’d been living by himself a lot longer than Peter had even been alive, so he wasn’t accepting pity…he didn’t want to be taken care of by a human.

Tony shivers, groaning, throwing his head back against the wall and hitting it a few times. Stupid, stupid weather. Stupid Peter—-he can’t believe he got attached enough to a human to care whether or not his house burned down. Tony shivers again, then again. He stills his jaw as it attempts to chatter, meanwhile he tugs his limbs closer to himself and grumbles. His fingertips are numb, and following suit are his toes, ears and nose. He’s sure he’s a half hour away from his skin blushing blue. Winters are usually never this brutal. Why doesn’t Peter have the heat on in the apartment is the real question, and he sure has the intelligence to venture out and turn it on himself, but the heaviness of his limbs and the fog in his mind are kind of being a stubborn bitch right now.

In the thick shadows of Tony’s nook in the walls, a bright light appearing from the human phone in his room poses as a relieving distraction to Tony’s brooding hour. Peter’s name flashes across the screen. Engaging in a video call with Peter Parker was about the last thing he wanted to do—but the kid was out patrolling right now, and for all Tony knew, he could need help with his suit. So, with all the strength he could muster in his wintry muscles, he (perhaps a bit overly) dramatically pulled forward until he collapsed on the floor next to the phone. His arm felt like pins and needles and like it was encased in some thick liquid all at once as he raised it up and tapped at the green answer button. The call connects immediately, and the tinny whines and whistles of the wind coming from Peter’s end makes his head spin even more. He grumbles into the phone.

“Tony?” he asks, and Tony can briefly see his suit’s mask close up to the phone, and the blurs of New York City that he’d only ever seen on calls like this.

Tony grumbles again, trying to sit up so he can move closer to the speaker, but his arm quivers and he falls back down. So, he settles on snarking out, “What?”

Peter’s end is muffled and loud—chaotic. A stark contrast to the dark and sullen tones of the walls. “Hey, hey buddy. How’s it going? Where you at?” He pauses, his face getting a little closer to the camera. Tony groans. “Is it, like, really dark in there? Why–why aren’t you out in the apartment? I told you—”

Tony cuts Peter off, “yeah, yeah, s’great, kid. You havin’ issues with your suit—that why you called?” Peter’s masked face returns to the camera, a few frames too close. The camera goes out-of-focus while he starts talking again, voice choppy and slightly pixelated.

“Huh? No, no, I'm calling to tell you to stop whatever you’re working on. I have a surprise for you, I think you'll like it,” Peter explains, emitting a few panting breaths as he very obviously works his way through the city on his webs. “I’m about five—four blocks—now three, uh—two—ah, well I’m here now.” The loud whipping of wind dies to a few minute shuffles, and when Peter lands back into the apartment, the light from Peter’s end of the phone is suddenly illuminating Tony’s small nook. “C’mon out here,” he says before the screen flashes back to the homescreen. His nook is once again encased in a shadow reminiscent of winter’s hold on him.

Tony runs his tongue along his top row of teeth, his dull canines scraping against his tongue while he thinks. Peter would find out, lest Tony leaves the walls. If he didn’t, the kid would probably assume something was wrong anyway. Despite himself, he couldn’t find a way out of this. Every angle seemed to dispense him into inconvenient and vulnerable positions.

There’s a knock on the walls. Peter was home—already? Oh, yeah, the phone call. Tony would startle, if he could, but all that comes of the unexpected company is his heart skipping a beat.

“Tony?”

“Yeah, yeah—” he mumbles, “I’m comin’, kid.” Under normal circumstances, his volume or lack thereof would have been inaudible. But, courtesy of Peter’s insect-ness, he heard. Tony’s not sure if he’s grateful for that or not.

“Hey, man, I, uh, I told you it’s okay to go out in the apartment. Even if I’m not here—-it’s, like, no biggie. You live here too. Anyway, just, uh, come out when you wanna. I guess it was a little unprompted to call you. But, also, like—I do have something to show you. It’ll be there tomorrow, though, too, so—”

Children. “‘m comin’.” His voice was sharp for his slurred speech, sharper than it normally was with Peter. He didn’t care much for being harsh, especially knowing Peter had a significant lack of paternal affection in his life. But, he was cold. He was cold, about to pass out, and the last thing he wanted to do was entertain Peter in his perpetual rambling.

Peter didn’t say another word after that. Bathing in silence, Tony thought maybe the kid stepped down. There was a soft shuffle, and Tony was reminded again about Peter’s home life. Children.

His limbs are thick, like he’s suspended in a glue trap or one of those…oh, what’s it called? Podding? Putt…ugh, whatever, cups Peter sometimes is munching on. As he moves, his limbs throb. Flexing his fingers is almost futile; the contents within the digits make his skin feel tight. Tony barely makes it up before he’s stumbling, tripping over his numb, useless pins-and-needle-burdened, incapacitated legs. He catches himself before he falls on the ground, his arms grabbing pitifully at whatever he could reach. Weight supported by the homemade shelves he had, he continues stumbling. With a grunt, Tony’s weight shifts onto the dusty interior walls of Peter’s, and he slides along the drywall. At least with his attempted walking, his legs faintly throb, attempting to restore even a wink of feeling. He moves a little faster, and a little faster, until he reaches the opening in the wall. As he staggers closer, the light grows, and little by little, heat returns. It was faint. Peter had only now just turned the heat on, but he could feel it. Maybe he was convincing himself he felt it—some kind of placebo to coax him out of the walls so he could get to Peter. His hands shake, tremble against the wall. He sighs, a slow, shaky sigh that lasts all the way until the opening in the wall. It was really warm. It felt nice.

The light from Peter’s apartment, when not studied from the sidelines, was nearly blinding to Tony. He’d been so accustomed to the darkness of the walls, especially after the battery in his lights had died, that being out in the open made him wince. He holds the shaky, heavy back of his hand to shield his eyes and groans. “...kid?” he asks.

That was the last thing he said before he promptly toppled over, landing on Peter’s kitchen counters with a little oomph.

Tony woke up warm. Not warm like before, where it had started in his toes and slowly absorbed him until he’d collapsed. This time, it was an external warmth, one which came from all around him, something akin to being in a heated … dome sort of thing. It was a nice contrast to the conditions he’d endured hours before Peter came home, alone and freezing. In his half-conscious mind, Tony has the rare ability to display vulnerability and grumble something while curling a little tighter in on himself. He was still waking up, blinking blearily as he yawned and adjusted a few times.

It took the floor moving minutely for his thoughts to return to him, for his vision to supply him with the tan folds of Peter’s palms. Tony rolls onto his back, groaning, blinking, coughing.

Looking down on him, the borrower realizes, is Peter, the boy’s youth-softened features squinted with concern as he keeps a watchful eye on Tony. He was half-aware of what had happened. However, the shame of having to be cared for by a human, let alone a human kid, that he was acutely aware of.

“You…gonna stare at me like..I just lost m’head?” he mumbles, his voice still a bit slow—laggy, almost. “The deer…in headlights look’s’not a good…good look for ‘ya, kid.” His wit—Tony’s one asset to disguise fragility—still held, and strong at that.

“Did…did I do something to give off the impression that you weren’t allowed around my things? I—I mean, I know it’s in your nature, trust me, I know instinct, but—I just, I thought we were past the whole…scaredy cat thing. No offense.”

Tony frowns. He was just waking up and he was hit hard with his weak spot: vulnerability. He lifts a hand to his face, his arm still practically a foreign limb with how heavy and numb it felt. It was still vaguely tingly. The pointer and thumb of his raised hand clench his temple, rubbing at it while he wrinkles his nose in discomfort while he awkwardly tries to pull himself up. In the end, he tried to play off the struggle by just raising to his elbows. They shook.

“Can’t we leave the sappy chats for a time where I’m not being nursed by a human child?” he deflects, ignoring the way his limbs were just so, infuriatingly weak. His body just begged to lay down, curl back up in the kid’s hand and just…sleep this off. His mind was jumping off the walls at the notion of getting up and setting his ass back down in his nook where he was alone and able to collect himself. That being said, he also didn’t like seeing Peter’s face, didn’t like seeing his features wasted on being concerned for a guy like Tony. Tiny, insignificant—

“Hey, it happens to the best of us, Ton’s, no shame in being nursed. That’s why hospitals and stuff were made.” Had he the energy, Tony would’ve snorted—sorted both at his endearing attempt at reassurance and his stupid, stupid, hospitality. “Your inspirational aphorisms need some work, kid,” he responds, laying an elbow dramatically over his face. Fighting being cradled by Peter’s palm has been (temporarily) placed on the backburner, as he lay still instead, trying to pull himself back together, haul his body out of the icebox and scoop his soul back into it. “I am serious, though,” he adds, peeking out from under his elbow to the kid still studying him, “no sappy talk. No lectures.” He covers his face back up to avoid Peter’s look—the saddened eyes and tight-with-worry lips. He, cowardly, shrouds himself from the super-teenager who took time out of his not-so-little life to care for Tony, the borrower. He covers his eyes, so that all he can get out of the prolonging he’d so urged, is a small, “okay,” from Peter.

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