[ The kid feels warm in his arms. Solid. Like he's a person, like he's right here. Real. Mechanoreceptors in his fingertips, neurons in his thalamus. They could be lying to him, but he doesn't care.
His fingers dig into the fabric on Peter's back. He breathes him in, remembers the acrid smell of ash and embers on Titan, and the silence, dead and absolute, somehow worse than the sounds that had come before. I don't want to go.
Something clenches in the pit of his gut. He squeezes tighter, keeps him here, the way he couldn't back then. For one awful second he doesn't let go, because he's afraid of what'll happen if he does.
Mr. Stark–
He exhales, sharp, and pulls away. Clasps his hands on Peter's shoulders. The world realigns around him. Gears turn, click from one mode to the next. Lenses refocus on this new reality, still a little blurry around the edges. ]
Hey – yeah, uh. You too. [ He swallows down a knot in his throat. A blip registers on the radar – "Tony"? – along with his new close-up of the kid's face. There are creases Tony doesn't recognize, dark circles, tiny marks. Tiny misaligned proportions meet faint, deepened lines.
Age. He's aged. ]
I... yeah, I... [ His mouth goes dry. He shakes his head, responds on auto-pilot. ] A few days ago. [ More blips: The kid's archaic clothes, the full shoulder bag. Tony's brow furrows. ] You've... been here a while.
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His fingers dig into the fabric on Peter's back. He breathes him in, remembers the acrid smell of ash and embers on Titan, and the silence, dead and absolute, somehow worse than the sounds that had come before. I don't want to go.
Something clenches in the pit of his gut. He squeezes tighter, keeps him here, the way he couldn't back then. For one awful second he doesn't let go, because he's afraid of what'll happen if he does.
Mr. Stark–
He exhales, sharp, and pulls away. Clasps his hands on Peter's shoulders. The world realigns around him. Gears turn, click from one mode to the next. Lenses refocus on this new reality, still a little blurry around the edges. ]
Hey – yeah, uh. You too. [ He swallows down a knot in his throat. A blip registers on the radar – "Tony"? – along with his new close-up of the kid's face. There are creases Tony doesn't recognize, dark circles, tiny marks. Tiny misaligned proportions meet faint, deepened lines.
Age. He's aged. ]
I... yeah, I... [ His mouth goes dry. He shakes his head, responds on auto-pilot. ] A few days ago. [ More blips: The kid's archaic clothes, the full shoulder bag. Tony's brow furrows. ] You've... been here a while.