~Iron Family~

I Didn't Say Dad! You Did.

Peter opened his eyes groggily. His head felt like it had been microwaved, and he found it hard to keep his eyes open. At first he couldn't make out anything, and he thought he might still have been in that white void. But already that memory was slipping away, and he couldn't remember all that had happened.

The first thing that came into focus was the heart monitor by the bed, beeping steadily.

The next thing he saw was an IV bag. His eyes followed the tube down to his arm, where it disappeared under a bandage. The white tape was cold against his arm, and he could feel the needle. It was very itchy.

Various tubes and needles were pumping who-knows-what into him. The feeling was disgusting, as he could pick up each and every drop sliding through his body.

He was tucked under a blanket, one arm draped across his stomach and one at his side. He tried to move his fingers, which felt duct-taped together, and managed to yank one of the stickers out of his arm. He found it hard to control his hands, and he felt unbalanced simply laying in a bed.

He wasn't wearing a shirt, and there were so many bandages wrapped around his chest he wondered if they'd been trying to mummify him.

He blinked again, the world still a bit fuzzy. Who was "they?" What had happened?

Peter's vision expanded a little, and he saw Mr. Stark sitting on the edge of his bed, talking to someone. He was dressed in casual attire, a coffee mug in his hand. His other hand was resting protectively on Peter's good leg, almost as if out of habit.

Alarm surged through him as he realized Mr. Stark was right there and he didn't have his mask on! Too late, Mr. Stark turned his head and caught sight of Peter's open eyes.

"Hello," he greeted with a smug smile, "Spider-Man."

Peter felt if he opened his mouth he might throw up everywhere, but he smiled at the older man. "Hey, Mr. Stark," he said weakly. His voice didn't sound like his own; it was dry and hoarse. His throat was so sore he wondered if his neck had gotten shot instead of his chest.

Mr. Stark tried to keep his composure, but he totally broke down. He grabbed Peter's hand, staring at his face as if he couldn't believe he was there.

"We thought we lost you, kid," he said, his voice trembling.

Peter blinked and looked around the room. He was in the infirmary, but his little section had been totally redone. There were colorful paper chains above his bed, a get-well-soon succulent plant on the counter, obviously from Uncle Steve, and since he was in the bed closest to the window, there were drawings on it done in window-markers. The people drawn on it had thousands of fingers, humongous eyes, and no necks, so Peter could tell it was a drawing by Morgan.

No one else was in the infirmary but Happy and the nurse at the front desk, who was so far away she wouldn't be able to hear their conversation.

Happy was sitting across the room in a folding chair, listening to what Mr. Stark had been saying. He stood up and approached nervously, fiddling with a pair of sunglasses.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, trying not to look too worried. He failed miserably.

"I'm good," Peter lied. Happy smirked.

"Don't lie." He pointed the sunglasses at Peter like they were lie detectors. Maybe they were.

"Okay. I feel like I've been exploded out of an active volcano," Peter mumbled with a smile.

"What hurts?" Mr. Stark asked quickly. "Bruce'll be up here soon. He's probably doing some other work."

"Does that man ever not work?" Happy grumbled. Mr. Stark snorted.