Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

we'll fall (and we'll get back up again)

Everything comes and goes. Time flies, whether we ever catch up with it, is an entirely different story. 

A melancholy, dejected sigh floods the sterile room from dry, cracked lips. He’s tired of trying, he’s been doing so for months. And it hurts. 

It hurts to see his face gaunt and trembling, with sickly pale skin that matched lifeless, emptying eyes. He stops looking in mirrors, too afraid to see what he knows he’ll see. It hurts to breathe, because doing so pulls on the needle stuck in his arm that hurts just as much. It hurts to breathe, knowing that he’s going to die and there’s nothing that could deter his fate. It hurts to sleep, as pain radiating from the drugs that cause sore limbs and trembling muscles give him terrifying nightmares. Speaking of nightmares, Peter Stark-Rogers just had one. 

It’s the same horrifying sequence every damn time. He’s in the same room that he’s in now, with his Dads doing their damndest to not burst into sobs as Peter struggles to stay awake, body seizing as coughing fits snake a hold onto his heart. And then the lingering darkness, which somehow is the scariest part. 

He jolted awake, and found his head carefully tucked against his Dad’s asleep form. Peter said nothing, as he can’t help but notice furrowed eyebrows, and wrinkled skin that tug against a solid frown. It hurts for the son to see his father so pained and lost, all because of him. He whispered silently, praying the man holding him to be rid of his mental plague, “I’m so sorry.” Tears spring out of the corner of his chocolate-colored diminishing eyes as he burrowed himself as close to his Dad as possible. The boy can’t help but think, were it not for the cancer that was plaguing his body, his Dads would be okay. He’d be okay. Everything would be okay. 

For one, Tony and Steve would cry less. Peter knew that they refused to cry in front of Peter, but Peter always noticed the puffy, red-rimmed eyes, just like they could easily spot that of his own. 

They wouldn’t have had to move from the city to the Compound. Peter knew how much his Dads missed it, truth be told he did too. Tony had his biggest lab there, with a giant window that reflected the cityscape, which served as a constant reminder of home. His Papa had his entire art studio in a section of Tony’s lab, a neat desk littered with the finest charcoal pens, pencils, and tools of every true artist’s dream. Peter had his own little area of R&D as well as a dash of artisticness, the true composition of his Dads that he was. 

Tony’s eyes were still shut as he wrapped his warm arms around Peter and whispered, “It’s not your fault.” Still asleep, the elder man pressed a firm kiss on the top of Peter’s matted locks of loose curls. He murmured, “None of this is your fault. None of it, I promise.”

Peter didn’t say anything as he leaned into his father’s hold, tears spilling onto Tony’s shirt. He placed his aching head onto his father’s lap and buried his face there, savoring the affectionate gestures and just being with his Dad. He didn’t know how many more moments like this he’d get. 

Father senses tingling, Tony cracked his eyes open as one of his hands unconsciously moved to card Peter’s hair, or at least what was left of it. Sensing something on his son’s mind he inquired softly, “Peter, what’s on your mind, kiddo?”

Peter weakly shook his head, not wanting to worry his Dad any more than he already was about him. His Dads always worried about him, and Peter didn’t want to be a burden on them. He sighed, but no words escaped his dried lips. Eventually, the pain became too much to burden alone. He raspily croaked, “Am I making it worse?”

Tony firmly shook his head as calloused fingers traced soft, deteriorating skin, “No, never.” Suspecting more was upsetting his son he spoke, “Petey, none of this is your fault. You know that.” The older man looked down at conflicted eyes, “Papa’s coming back any minute now. Bucky and Natasha came and they didn’t want to wake you up.”