~Iron Family~

Goodbye World

Peter couldn't breathe. He gasped for air, but it wasn't enough. He still felt like he was drowning as his lung filled with blood.

His right side burned and he shuddered in pain each time he tried to suck in a breath. It felt like more knives were slicing through his chest. He could tell the bullet had pierced it, and the smell of blood had infiltrated his mouth and throat. His lung was filling with fluid and might've collapsed, but all Peter could think about was the thought of drowning in his own blood.

The edge of his vision was dim, and anything he was able to make out had a blurry tinge, sometimes seeing in double. He barely registered that Mr. Stark had scooped him up and was carrying him to safety, barely made out his helmet looming above him.

And he was so cold. He felt like he was lying in the snow, just letting the freezing temperatures seep into his bones as his life was sucked out.

He was trembling uncontrollably. It reminded him of the time he, Uncle Ben, Aunt May, and Ned had gone hiking. He'd had an asthma attack and once they realized he'd forgotten his inhaler, Ben had carried him back to the car in a half-run, so as not to slip down the rocky, treacherous slope. He remembered gripping Ben's crinkly, waterproof green jacket in his tiny shaking fingers, gasping as he tried desperately to breathe. Ned and May had tried to follow as fast as their legs could carry them, shouting for Peter to hang in there.

Amazingly, all of them made it out unscathed, though a little shaken. Peter never forgot his inhaler again after that.

Peter lost track of time, and also eventually most feeling in his limbs as his body sent all the blood to his chest. He couldn't feel anything now--fingers, toes, nothing. Just the pain. He reached out his arm to grab someone, anyone, who would help him from this endless cycle of hurting.

He reached his father.

His vision slipped away and he was a very small child again. His father was carrying him through the dark house at night. Peter was half-asleep in his arms, clutching his father's hand as tightly as his weak little arm could manage.

"I don't want to go to bed," he whimpered faintly. Something warm and wet, maybe drool, dribbled from his mouth. He was a little old for that, but his dad didn't seem to mind.

"You're going to be fine," his dad said as he walked down the hallway, which didn't make any sense. Of course he would be fine. He just didn't want to go to bed yet.

He couldn't make out his dad's face, but his eyes were glowing in the darkness. It scared him a little. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he shuddered as his chest convulsed and he broke into a coughing fit. Oh, that's right--he was sick. That's why his dad was carrying him to bed a little early.

He gradually became too tired to cough and fell asleep against his father's chest. The pounding of his father's racing heartbeat echoed through his skull, which lulled him to sleep even faster.

His dad carried him into his room and gently placed him on the bed. The sheets were cold and metallic-feeling, but he still had the warm security of his pajamas. He was so comfortable, he wanted to sleep in past lunchtime the next day. He hoped it was a weekend so he wouldn't have to go to school in the morning. What had they been working on last? Macaroni necklaces? Learning the alphabet?

His dad tickled him and Peter giggled in his half-sleep. His mom always said no shenanigans before bedtime, but it was fun to goof off every once in a while.

Would his dad tell him a story to scare away the monsters in the closet, too?

Suddenly, blinding lights flashed everywhere, waking him up and stinging his eyes. Just for a moment, the real world shone through the illusion. Peter caught sight of a white ceiling and two people looming over him. Dr. Banner was on the left, shining a medical penlight in Peter's eyes. His face was tight with tension and his mouth was open, murmuring something Peter couldn't make out.

Mr. Stark was holding Peter's head still for Dr. Banner, looking horrified as he stared down at Peter's face. He tried to call out to him, but he didn't have the breath to do it.

Then the flashlight was switched off and everything went dark again.

Peter was back in his bedroom. His dad hurried away from his bedside, pulling out a book and beginning to read the story. He read it very quickly, though--skimming through the words and talking very fast. He paced the room nervously, flipping through the pages as if he were trying to finish before Peter's bedtime.

"Slow down," Peter mumbled, but his voice wasn't clear. Something was covering his mouth. He tried to grab at it and take it off, but someone else who was in the room forced his arms down. Was it a burglar that had broken into their house? He wanted to panic and shout for help, but nothing seemed to be working right.

The warm security of his pajama shirt had been ripped away and he shivered as the cold night air bit him. Maybe he could ask his dad to grab him an extra blanket or turn the heat up.

Something suddenly bit his finger and squeaks blared swiftly in his ear, one right after the next. Maybe it was a mouse! He tried to warn his dad about the mice in the room, but he couldn't even understand himself.

The squeaks then morphed into quick, rapid beeps. Was it a bomb, like in the cartoons on the TV?

His arm shot out, searching for the bomb to turn it off, but he was forced down again. He struggled against it, arching his back and screeching. Someone had broken into their house! They placed a bomb!

His father went back to telling the story, his voice now slow and calming as he sat down on the bed next to him. Peter slowly stopped trembling as a sense of calm washed over him. No one had broken into their house. There was no bomb. There were no mice, and nothing was covering his mouth. It was just all part of the story his father was reading to him.

His dad and brother gripped his hands. His mother stroked his hair. His little sister placed her small hand on his cheek.

His wounds didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt--he couldn't feel anything. The story was over. It was his bedtime.

He was drifting away as the stars beckoned to him, winking through the ceiling.

The sound of the beeping stopped and droned on in one unending song.

***

A/N: If you were confused, don't worry the next chapter will explain what was really going on