The thrill of emotions Peter feels makes him suffer under his touch. Eyes so wide he should've been able to see all the universe in his tiny brain–but could only manage to seek out a faraway bird, beads of blood perched on his eyelashes, blots of red in the blinding sunlight. From above, someone was looking down, shouting his name. Go away, he said in his brain. Leave me alone here, it's plenty quiet to sleep.
He relaxed into the sand, but whoever it was clamped their hands around his head and shook his skull from side to side. Peter screamed; he could feel blood slosh in his brain. Couldn't hear anything anyway, felt his throat vibrate. Finally released, his head thudded to the ground.
The blurry shapes above Peter turn blue, green, orange, into Tony Stark. Nothing, and then suddenly–poof!–a Something. Let there be Tony. I'm sorry! yelling, shouting. Tell her I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of this–
–the nonexistent voice catches in his chest.
He doesn't want to die.
Iron Man slides a hand underneath, balancing his tiny child shoulder blades on the tips of metal fingers. C'mon, kid. Get up.
His eyes shine. Does he weep for me? Peter is so tired.
They're here, they're here. You're going to be okay, you're going to make it. He's lifted into the arms of the man who cared for him, kept faith when Peter himself could no longer.
Stay awake! the voice from above pleaded, though quieter now. He was crying now, dampening the shirt of the only man who ever loved him. A soft touch against his cheek, a squeeze of the wrist–Peter is pried from his embrace. As the paramedics strap him to the stretcher, Tony looks down at the section of missing flesh across his stomach. Peter focuses on him, looks deep into his eyes and says Sorry sorry sorry sorry as quickly as he can with his brain-voice. This isn't your fault. But now he'll never know because Peter's voice won't work and his mouth stays shut and dear no he's slipping he can't stay focused on Tony's face there it goes–
He's left alone this time.
