Bug boy || Peter Parker

Forty Two

Tate woke to an annoyingly familiar sound of beeping and the smell of disinfectant. His body throbbed but not with the same amount of pain that he remembered. Now, it was a dull and aching throbbing, most likely muffled by painkillers. (God bless the drugs). He winced and slowly blinked his eyes open. It was a hospital room as he had guessed. The walls and floor were pale cream and the bedsheets were white. A drip hung next to his bed and his skin prickles with the familiar starchy fabric of bandages. Through the floor to ceiling windows, weak sunlight slipping across the floor and the blinds. Beyond he could see the city skyline and he knew that he was home, in the hospital floor of the tower. 

The sunlight hinted at either early morning or the late afternoon before it slipped into sunset. There was no clock so Tate did not know which one it was. Still, he glanced around the room. There was a navy blue leather couch pressed against the wall to his left. Two matching arm chairs were on the right, right under the windows or, they should have been. Someone had pulled one of the arm chairs over to rest next to his hospital bed.

 Peter was curled up in it. Feet tucked under him and head tilted back against his shoulder, one hand draped over the mattress next to where Tate's was resting. He looked both uncomfortable but also deeply asleep. Cute with hair in slightly messy waves and skull bandaids over his fingers and forehead. Soft snores emitted from his mouth and he might have also been drooling into the fabric of his Stark industries tshirt. Tate blinked and smiled in relief. Peter was alright. The busies on his face were shades of yellows and there was no sign of bandages. 

"He has been there all night you know", Tony's voice made Tate turn. His father was standing in the open doorway. He looked worn and tired. With dark bags under his eyes and the length of stubble around his chin. He was dressed in one of his inventing tshirts and a baggy pair of jeans, both stained with oil and with various small holes. But his smile was one of relief and warmth. 

Tate tried to sit up further but Tony strode over to his side and pushed him back down. "No, no. No moving. You have some pretty bad abdominal bruising small fry. Not to mention the two broken ribs". 

Tate let himself sink back into the pillows with a sigh. "Damn. I just got to get back on my skateboard. This sucks".

Tony chuckled fondly. "Better than you being dead. Second time this year. We should set up a tally kiddo". He leaned over to give Tate a hug. Hands gentle despite their concern. "You should stop scaring me".

"To be fair", Tate grinned as Tony pulled back. "This time wasn't my fault. I didn't ask Liz's dad to try and kidnap me".

Tony exhaled deeply. "God, Tate. I'm so sorry. To you and Peter both. If I had just listened to him, or not taken the suit. If I was there"- 

"Dad", Tate cut him off. "Dad. None of this was your fault. None of the vulture's previous crimes hinted that he would try something a big as hijacking your plane. It was pure coincidence that it happened to be the one I had chosen to fly. You can't change the past". 

"I know", Tony huffed. "Why have you always got to be the wise one. You're fifteen".

"Got it from my mom", Tate chirped. 

Tony smiled. "That you did. Ira was always having to talk sense into me". Peter let out a sleepy snort and shifted slightly in his chair. Both father and son waited until his soft snores resumed. Tony raised an eyebrow at his son. "Pete refused to leave. Though he was pretty banged up himself. Healed mostly within a day though, even then he refused to leave. Is there something going on here that I should know about?"

Tate flushed red. "He saved me. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't been there".

Tony smirked. "uhuh. And that's it is it?"