Irondad Oneshots

Stars

{This is day 31 from my 31 days of Peter Parker whump. I'm going to be writing a part two to it, but this is part one to those who haven't read my other fic}

Stars always look different when you're about to die.

Peter would find himself sitting outside Mister Stark's door more often than not. He never had the courage to open the door or ask Friday to wake his mentor, so he relied on resting his back against the simple white door, listening to the steady heartbeat from just beyond the door until he got the courage to go home.

It was the perfect position to see out the window and watch the stars flicker into existence and slowly out of view as the sun would rise in the horizon. Peter always tried to mimic the stars in his everyday life. Most people would agree that he did a pretty good job at being just as vibrant and brilliant as the stars overhead.

Nights were long and Peter found himself staying up to the late hours, sometimes until the early hours. Days were long, but some days, Peter could barely leave his bed.

The clock is constantly ticking in the back of his mind. Reminding him of his dwindling time.

It's hard to sleep when the reality of time running out is ever present.

It's another night like all the others.

Sitting with his back pressed up against his father-figure's door, focusing intently on listening to the even breaths coming from the sleeping man on the other side of the door. His heart had long since calmed from the erratic speed from earlier, but he isn't ready to move yet from outside Tony's bedroom door.

He shifts to get comfortable, stifling a yawn and tugging the sleeves of the stolen MIT alumni sweater over his hands.

The unseen breathing shifts for a moment, speeding up and blankets shift, and then it falls back into the regular patterns once again.

Peter leans his head back against the door, allowing his lungs to match those of the man behind the door, letting his heartbeats slow to a normal pace once again.

His leg is beginning to cramp with how tight he's pressed himself against the door, but he doesn't mind too much. He runs a hand through his curls, pushing the mess away from his eyes, getting worse from the static in his hoodie sleeves.

A light smile touches his face as his eyes droop in exhaustion. It's already nearing three in the morning, and it's been a long time since he's slept well.

He stifles another yawn, forcing his tired eyes to stay open, training them on the perfectly silver doorknob. He knows he has to get home in the next two hours, or May will notice his absence when she leaves for work, but he can't convince his legs to work.

He was told the story of when Steve Rogers was changed from the scrawny boy into the soldier. He was told about how Steve was worried for a long time that the serum might just wear off one day. That he'd be forced back into the tiny body of the asthmatic boy with the long list of issues that no one took seriously. That he'd be forced back to the way it was before everything.

Peter never thought it would happen to him.

Sure, he worried that one day his powers would diminish. He worried that he'd be forced to become Penis Parker again. (Although, technically he still is.) He worried he'd have to stop fighting crime and Queens would be wrecked with chaos when criminals realized no one was protecting the precious city. Of course, he worried.

But now, he's having trouble once again. His senses are still dialled up like always, but sticking to things requires more concentration, works less often. His spidey-senses are less predictable, getting him hurt more often on patrol. Wounds take too long to close up. He no longer sees the world in slow motion.