avengers x reader │ one-shots

She's Gone.

The sheets he's laying on are too soft. That's what he's decided to blame it on. He's heard stories about how people come home from war, from seeing the absolute worst parts of humanity, from doing the absolute worst things in the name of humanity, and they can't sleep anymore. It's not because the images burned into their mind are also stuck to the insides of their eyelids, though that might be true. It's because their beds are too soft. They get so used to sleeping on the ground, to using memories from home to wrap themselves up and keep warm, they forget how to act when they have access to a physical blanket, too. Peter may not have been to war, but the sheets are too soft and the bed is too soft and his brain won't shut up even though he's so fucking tired.

It's been two years now, since the night outside the café, where he watched the life drain from his girlfriend's eyes as they sat together on the cold pavement. Two years is plenty long enough to move on, right? He should be able to sleep again, right? Harley can sleep again, he's been able to for at least a year, maybe longer. Maybe it's because he's at college, studying and partying. Maybe he's coping though, and it feels like he is. Peter still hasn't worked out how to do it yet. He doesn't bring it up with him though because he can see the way that he smiles, stirring creamer into the coffee cup that used to be hers. What right does Peter have to dredge those heavy feelings up for him again?

So he decided the sheets in Tony's guest bedroom "for the last time, Pete, its your bedroom" are too soft. He can't sleep without the threadbare comfort of his childhood bed at his and May's dusty little apartment. He can't sleep without the nightlight that's been plugged into his wall, unmoving, since he first started dating her and Y/N brought it home for him. She noticed the nightmare's he was having, the ones no one else did.

"Check this out, babe! It's a Tidal Wave nightlight, so I'll always be with you!" She had said, trying to avoid bringing up the fact that Peter hadn't slept in his own bed since the Vulture attack. Trying to avoid the fact that her boyfriend had made a home for himself in the sweet spot in the middle of her mattress. Y/N doesn't tell him that he doesn't have to be afraid of the nightmare's anymore because she wants so desperately for him to know that it's okay to feel afraid sometimes. Y/N doesn't tell him that. Instead, she holds the piece of plastic out for him to look at, rotating it around bathing the space in a soft blue light.

Before Peter knew it, tears were running down his face. He lay flat on his back and let it happen. Sometimes that's how it goes. He was tired and he missed Y/N and these sheets were not his sheets. He doesn't try to calm down, he's passed the point of holding his breath, the point of counting or whatever you're supposed to do anymore when the world feels unbearably small and terrifyingly big all at the same time. So he let them fall and he didn't wipe them away either. Not when they dripped down the sides of his cheeks, gathering in his ears and on the too soft pillow case. Not when they threatened to overtake him, to drown him.

You can't hate someone for dying, can you? Peter asked himself, as he lay there. He didn't hate Y/N. He didn't. He missed her so much it felt hot and angry, the way that only animosity can when it settles down in the pit of your stomach. If he was going to be mad at someone, it should be himself, right? For not stopping the man with the weird gun. For not putting the right kind of pressure on the wound, for not calling for help fast enough. For not learning from his mistakes with Ben. Right? Y/N couldn't stop the flow of her own blood, right? So it didn't make sense to want to scream at her for not holding on. It didn't make sense for him to be mad at Y/N for leaving.

"Mr. Parker, it seems as though you are experiencing emotional distress. Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark?"

JARVIS' voice was too loud against the walls of the room. It echoed around in the emptiness, bouncing across corners and hitting Peter in the stomach. Even if Tony did come to help him, how was Peter going to explain that the sheets were too soft? How could he say it without feeling ungrateful? Tony had loved him, sure, he'd said it, even, so many times that Peter knew without a doubt that it had to be true. It's hard to tell a lie like that and stand behind it. Tony loved him and how could Peter tell him that it wasn't enough? Was he supposed to hurt like this forever?

And Tony also loved Y/N, he might feel this way, right?

Peter didn't respond. He felt paralyzed, burning up from the inside with no way out. His fingers danced across the fabric around him, just to feel it, just to take it in again and make sure he wasn't imagining it.

They were still too soft.

When Tony opened the door, the light that came in from the hallway was enough to break him. His sobs became louder and more persistent, his hands coming up to grab at chunks of his own hair. At least that felt the same. He wasn't trying to stop it. He wasn't going to stop it. He couldn't have stopped it even if he'd wanted to.

"Oh, kid" Tony whispered, stepping into the bedroom. He was dressed in his flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that didn't look like something a billionaire should be wearing. It had struck Peter as odd, the first time he'd seen Tony out of a suit, that he ever wore anything else. It made sense in some way, in the back of his head he knew rich people didn't sleep in their runway clothes. Tony didn't sleep in Prada, or Gucci or whatever. He slept in pajamas, frayed at the bottom of the legs because they were too long and Tony refused to roll them up at the top to keep from stepping on them.

Tony crossed the room in a few short strides. Settling down on the edge of Peter's bed. He's touching the sheets, Peter thought, how can he do that without thinking about it? How can he feel this and not know?

"Okay, bud, you're alright," Tony started, wrapping calloused fingers around Peter's wrist and bringing his hands down from his hair. "Shh, kiddo, can you tell me what's wrong?" He just kept sobbing. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, it would be like he didn't miss Y/N anymore. He would miss the comfort of being sad. He couldn't stop.

"Underoos, you gotta calm down. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's up."

Maybe he could tell Tony. Maybe he could bring his voice up to the surface and tell him the truth. He could trust him, right? Tony loved him. Tony loved him like Y/N had loved him (ofc tony's love is platonic, u sickos) and that's what was important, right? He bit his lip to try and keep the words in, to protect them. But the hand that was carding through his hair now was rough and worn and familiar. Those hands weren't soft.

"I-- I miss-- I miss Y/N." He blurted out before he could think it through again.

To his credit, Tony didn't make a sound. Peter couldn't see the way his face contorted, lips parting in a frown, eyebrows pinched together, his own eyes shining with tears. His hands stilled, locks of Peter's tear-dampened hair still intertwined in his fingers.

"Alright, kid, that's okay. It's okay to miss her, I miss her too," He spoke softly. He didn't tell him he was sorry. He wanted Peter to know that being afraid, that being sad, was not a shameful thing. That missing someone was not a shameful thing. "Scoot over."

Peter sniffled, and rolled over twice, leaving a space on the left side of his mattress, where Tony gingerly lay himself down in the sweet spot at the edge. He sat himself up slightly against the headboard, and wrapped an arm around his kid, bringing his head to rest on his chest. He brought his hand back up to run his fingers through Peter's hair again, using the other hand to hold him in position, like he was scared he would slip away if he wasn't anchoring him.

Peter slowly brought a tentative hand up, pulling at the loose, dryer-rough fabric of Tony's t-shirt. He rubbed it together between his fingers, let the scratchy old cotton pull the heat from his face, from his heart.

They lay together in the silence as Peter calmed down, the light from the hallway bathing the space in a soft blue light.

haha, not me crying