"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!"

"Who's the kid?"

"Is this the reason why you—"

Peter tried to keep his eyes straight ahead as cameras flashed before his eyes. His hairs rose every single time some cameraman came a little too close to him, but before Peter could quicken his step or duck away, Tony would shoot what could only be a deadly glare to keep the paparazzi at bay.

Peter had figured that this sudden crowd of reporters and photographers would have to come at some point sooner or later. Peter's weekend visits to the lake house had gradually become punctuated with the occasional weekend trip. The lab sessions and trips had always been private, but then one random day, Tony showed up in front of Peter's school on a Friday afternoon.

Peter didn't ask any questions, and Tony didn't give any answers, but the weekend visits slowly stopped feeling like suit update sessions and more like casual, routine parts of Peter's life. The fact that Peter only now had to deal with middle-aged men trying to get a picture of him standing in line at Starbucks with Tony was a bit of a miracle.

"Back off," Tony snapped, pulling Peter away as a cameraman tried to jump in front of their path.

"Are you still fighting with the Avengers?"

"Don't have to answer that," Tony muttered, and though he wasn't loud enough for the reporters, Peter still heard his mentor. Then, faster than any of the paparazzi could possibly sense, Tony whipped out a small pad of paper. "See this, folks?" he said loudly. "According to federal law, you guys aren't allowed to take pictures of me or my family unless you want a very expensive, very tedious lawsuit on your hands." He paused. "In case you morons haven't figured it out, this includes this kid over here."

Peter blinked at the paparazzi and then up at Tony, who only winked. Peter quickly returned his gaze back at the cameramen, who looked just as stunned as Peter felt.

"Anyways," Tony continued, "what're you guys still doing here?"

With that, the paparazzi bolted, some men bumping into each other with their cameras and others just retreating quickly into the street. When the pavement was completely clear of any cameramen, Tony let out a relieved—but weary—sigh. "Thank God," he said, putting the pad of paper away. "I thought I'd have to sic my suit on them." He looked over at Peter. "Things good? Eyes still working after the cameras?" He held up his hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I'm fine, sir," Peter said quickly. "It's just—you said—"

"The family thing?" Tony lifted his shoulders. "Didn't want you getting chased down by cameramen all the time. Trust me, no one should."

Peter nodded, heat rushing up to his face. "Yeah," he managed. "Thanks."

A second passed before Tony added, "And Morgan and Pepper also would have killed me if I didn't include you in the family request." He shot a quick look at Peter. "Morgan's adopted you as her official older brother, anyways." He cleared his throat. "It was about time."

Peter looked back in front, trying to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. He didn't have to look to know Tony was smiling, too, especially when the older man added, "And I may have decided to just go ahead with it because you know, why not."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." Peter said, glancing over at Tony.

"Yeah, well." Tony patted Peter once, twice on the shoulder. Not an awkward, quick pat, but a firm, heavy-handed one that left Peter feeling like something had nestled perfectly into place in his chest. "Now, c'mon, I'm hungry. You hungry? I could go for a burger—what about you?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer before he suddenly felt Tony's hand stiffen, and then Peter was being thrown across the pavement as the sky and ground thundered around him.

For a wild second, Peter thought it was raining, but when he looked up at the sky, there weren't any clouds or rain—just clods of dirt and pavement scattering and falling a few feet away from him. Peter blinked once, twice, his ears buzzing from the sudden vibrations around him. The ground still shook beneath his feet, and Peter only had enough time to think, New York doesn't get earthquakes before he turned his eyes from the sky to the ground.

That was when the screams registered to his ears. Wailing and crying and panicked shouting seeped into Peter's head like water down a drain, and Peter slowly propped himself off the ground to see people running around the streets. He saw a woman with blood dripping down the side of her face, an old man scooping up a child who was still carrying a plush toy. He saw a girl tugging another girl out of a battered car, a man shaking a dazed woman from under the shade of a half-splintered tree.

Peter's heart sank as his eyes roved from the people to the buildings around him—all of which were either missing chunks of brick and cement, some of which smoking, others with weak flames batting at a window. Something wet slid down Peter's forehead, and he quickly pushed a hand up to his head. His fingers came away stained red, which was funny, because he didn't feel anything right now.

Right now. What had he been doing right now? He had been so happy just a second ago, walking through the streets with Tony—

"Mr. Stark!" Peter shouted, scrambling to his feet. He looked around wildly, his entire body going cold. "Mr. Stark!" His eyes skipped over the man and woman again, to the little girls, to the old man carrying the boy, to the broken buildings, and then—

Peter froze.

Tony lay on his side, his face turned away, but Peter could recognize that suit anywhere.

"Mr. Stark," Peter breathed, and he felt his feet pushing him forward until he was right at Tony's side. Peter fell to his knees, hands shaking—no, his hands couldn't be shaking now—as he slowly rolled Tony over to his back.

Warmth seeped into Peter's hand, and only one look down sent his heart into his throat. Blood turned his already stained hand into a deeper shade of red. Peter looked away from the blood. He wasn't allowed to panic now—not allowed.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter whispered, daring his eyes to reach Tony's face.

All the color had drained from Tony's face—or different colors replaced Tony's face now. Cheeks streaked with soot and ash, rust-colored blood dripping down from the corner of his lips…greys and dark reds and blacks, and the colors were wrong, and this was wrong, and Peter was tunneling back into a different battlefield, into a different time when half of Tony's face was nearly burned away, back…

"Tony," Peter gritted out. He lifted his head. More people were gathering around the mess of the streets now—uninjured people, safe people, people who could—

"Somebody call for help!" Peter shouted, his throat raw. "Somebody!"

Peter looked back down at Tony, who had remained heartrendingly still. "C'mon, Mr. Stark," Peter whispered, pressing his hands against where the blood was flowing. Peter couldn't even see where the blood was coming from, only that it was flowing too fast. "Come on!"

Peter's eyes stung, but he couldn't bring his hands to wipe the pain out. "Come on," he repeated. He ignored the continual warmth running past his hands. "Come on." His voice cracked. "Please."

And then Peter heard the wailing of sirens, cries for help, boots hitting the ground. But Peter kept his eyes fixed on Tony, focused on the distant heartbeat, the warmth still spreading down to his hands.

And then, quietly, almost so that Peter couldn't hear, "Kid."

"Tony?" Peter choked out.

Tony's eyes fluttered open—slowly, at first, and then they widened at Peter. "You okay?" Tony mumbled, and then his eyes focused on Peter's forehead. He lifted up a slightly trembling hand as if to reach for Peter's face, but Peter only took the hand instead. "You're bleeding," Tony said.

"So are you," Peter managed, trying to blink the relieved tears out of his eyes. "You're worse."

"Don't compare," Tony mumbled. He tried sitting up and then, wincing, he grunted, "Okay, not the right move. Got it."

"Don't move, Mr. Stark," Peter said, and lifting his head, he shouted, "Over here!"

As the paramedics circled around Peter and Tony, Peter didn't let go of Tony. "We're going to be okay, Mr. Stark," he only said.

There had been some freak accident at one of the construction sites nearby—that was the only explanation that could be parsed together out of the news reporters. No foul play was involved, but the police were still searching for any evidence that would prove otherwise.

But the possibility of foul play was the least of Peter's worries as he paced outside Tony's hospital room. The trip in the ambulance had passed by in a blur, with Peter clutching onto Tony as paramedics told him that things were going to be fine. And then Tony was telling the medical staff to look after Peter ("the kid's head is bleeding!"), and there was an odd irony to everyone in that vehicle: Tony Stark, with his shoulder and side bleeding, demanding that a teenage boy be taken care of first.

Peter couldn't remember much of what happened after that. He didn't remember the paramedics guiding him away to patch up his head, nor did he remember the actual examinations at the hospital. He just remembered his hands and body shaking at the sudden absence by his side.

When the door to Tony's room finally opened, the doctor who stepped out gave Peter a skeptical look before saying, "Only family members allowed for now." And then, after a beat of silence, the doctor pushed open the door from behind him. "Mr. Stark said you're allowed in."

"Thanks," Peter said, ignoring the still-skeptical (now edging curious) look the doctor gave him as he pushed through the door.

"Hey, kid," Tony called from the bed. "You good?"

"I'm fine," Peter replied, seating himself next to Tony. "What about you? Are you—"

Tony gestured to himself. "This?" he snorted. "Doing just peachy. Maybe gonna be sore for a few days, but nothing I can't handle. Can't wait to get out of here, that's for sure." He turned to Peter. "What're they saying about the explosion?"

"Something screwed up at a construction site," Peter replied. He paused. "Mr. Stark, how did you…I thought you…" His voice drifted as Tony's eyes focused intently on his face. Peter dropped his eyes to the floor. "Did you push me out of the way?"

"Of course I did."

Peter looked back up. "How did you know?"

"After a decade or so of walking around weaponry and tech malfunctions, you kind of unintentionally became a disaster radar," Tony replied, and though his voice was light, he didn't smile. "I should've caught that something was wrong sooner."

"But—" Peter's throat hitched. "I could have done something. I could have helped."

"Not in a mess like that," Tony replied quietly. When Peter remained silent, Tony continued, "I'm not doubting you, Pete—I know you can do things that normal people can't. But my first priority is—look at me—" Peter forced himself to meet Tony's eyes, which were boring straight into him. "My first priority is to keep you safe. Got it?"

Peter swallowed. His voice was small when he said, "But you got hurt."

"Comes with the job description, kid," Tony replied. "And I wouldn't have it any other way." He lifted a hand, and Peter leaned forward to rest his forehead against the warm palm. The palm of someone with blood pumping through the veins, the palm of someone who is very much alive. A hard lump rose in Peter's throat, and he swallowed painfully around it.

"We're going to be okay, kid," Tony said.

A tear slid down Peter's face, and he moved to wipe it away, but Tony's other hand was already brushing it away.

"We're going to be okay," Tony repeated. "Right?"

Peter lifted his head. There were thousands of things he felt he could say—would say, should say. Thousands of images still flashing through his mind, thousands of potential what-ifs if Tony hadn't survived. Thousands of potential paths where Peter felt he'd have to deal with the sudden absence at his side again.

Instead, he only met Tony's eyes. And Tony was quiet, too, and Peter wondered—no, he knew—that there were probably thousands of things in his head, too.

So Peter saved them both the trouble.

"We're going to be okay."

A/N: I promise one day, I will try to write something happy. The prompt as stated in the summary was from the tumblr blog Irondad 1000 Feelings-please check it out, as there are literally a little under 1000 prompts left available, and we need all the Irondad/Spiderson ammo we can get. As always, comments/constructive criticism is always appreciated!

(Also, I usually use a double dash as a sign to split the story rather than the long horizontal line, but I kept trying to insert it, but fanfiction dot net is experiencing issues. A part of me is very frustrated at that, because I find the double dash rather nice, but I'm petty, so...)