#his house is in such disrepair that it should by all means be condemned

[lost-in-beacon-hills]

My personal headcanon is that Haymitchs talent is gardening.

And not just any gardening, no, he likes to chaos garden. He buys expensive seeds and cheap ones. Whatever catches his fancy, walks out to his backyard, and throws them every direction.

It doesn't matter if they succeed or fail. He's in it for the shits and giggles and to say "yes I do have a talent." When people are forced to do the interview for it, he very proudly shows them the dump that is his backyard. Eaten away by vine and plants that choke out everything in its path. He doesn't water it or bother checking them.

Nah, the most he does is just toss the seeds and let nature work itself out.

[whumphoarder]

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

A/N: This is the extended version of the drabble I posted a couple days ago, now including the formerly cut crack-ish lead-up to that scene. I wasn’t originally going to post it, but @xxx-cat-xxx​ and @sallyidss​ changed my mind lol

Summary: Following a mission, a blizzard strands the Avengers together in a small cabin somewhere in rural Minnesota. Peter can’t sleep because of broken ribs. Tony can’t sleep because of shitty coffee.

Word count: 1,698

Genre: Fluffy angst, whump, hurt/comfort, humor(?)

Link to read on Ao3

“Here we are,” Clint announces. He slaps his hand at the light switch on the wall. A single bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling flickers to life, illuminating the cabin’s interior. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Peter stumbles in, letting his gaze travel around the one-room structure. The windows have all been boarded up, the paint is peeling off the walls, and there’s a strong smell of mold in the air. There is an array of mismatched furniture in varying states of disrepair, including two twin bunk beds, a wooden rocking chair, and a hideously floral patterned futon that looks to be straight out of the seventies.

“Su casa should be condemned...” Tony mutters, sidestepping around Peter further into the room.

With one arm slung across Natasha’s shoulders for support, Sam comes limping in next, his other hand braced against his bandaged side. He lets out a grunt as she deposits him down on the futon. “Shit, man...” he groans, stretching out on the mattress. “I think we finally found something lumpier than Cap’s gravy.”

Steve is standing just off to the side, stomping snow off his boots. “One time,” he grumbles. “That was one time...”

Natasha smirks. “To be fair, Bruce broke a tooth.”

Peter shoots his mentor a questioning look.

Tony just rolls his eyes. “Don’t even ask, kid,” he mutters. “This is why I don’t go to team dinners.”

A strong gust of wind slams the rickety door shut behind Peter with a bang. Dust and bits of plaster rain down from the ceiling. That, combined with the fresh whiff of mold he inhales, sets him off on a coughing fit. Tears instantly spring to Peter’s eyes as each hack sends fiery daggers of pain through his already injured ribs.

Smiling broadly, Thor gives the kid a few hearty thumps on the back.

(Peter nearly faints.)

“Yo Legolas, before we trekked two miles through the woods in a raging blizzard to get here, I distinctly remember you saying you were taking us to a ‘safehouse’,” Tony says, opening the metal door of an ancient-looking cast iron furnace. He pokes at the pile of ash inside. “This place is neither safe, nor a house.”

Clint crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s got four walls, a toilet, and at least eighty percent of a roof,” he defends. “That automatically makes it better than half the safehouses SHIELD has assigned me over the years.”

Natasha hums in agreement.

Despite all Tony’s grumbling, he soon gets right to work building a fire in the stove. Peter shuffles over and watches his mentor fiddle with the kindling for a minute or so before he finally gives into exhaustion and lowers himself down onto the nearest bunk bed. Pain flares in his chest at the movement, but releases a bit once he’s still again.

Clint takes a large plastic tub out from behind the futon and removes the lid to reveal that it’s stuffed to the brim with old quilts and hand crocheted afghans. He pulls one from the pile and tosses it at Peter.

“Mr. Barton, why do you own a cabin in Minnesota?” Peter can’t help but wonder as he catches the musty-smelling quilt. “I thought Mr. Stark said you lived in Iowa.”

“I do, but Laura’s parents have had this place in their family for decades,” Clint explains. “It’s perfect for hunting season—Cooper and I were up here for two weeks last fall.” He grins. “Nothing says father-son bonding time quite like gutting your first deer together.”

“Indeed,” Thor muses. “I still recall Father guiding me and Loki through our first disembowelment.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “We were six at the time.”

“You disemboweled a deer at age six?” Peter balks at him.

“No, no,” Thor chuckles. “Not a deer—a prisoner.”

They continue on like that for the next half hour, the team bantering back and forth as they work to make the drafty cabin a little cozier. The blizzard howls outside and Peter’s ribs still ache dully, but surrounded by his team, he somehow feels safer than he has in months.

X

Pain is what wakes Peter from his sleep. He lies there on the thin mattress, disoriented and confused, until the day’s events start flooding back to him. He recalls the team’s earlier mission, the subsequent blizzard that’s stranding them somewhere in northern Minnesota, and making the trek from the grounded Quinjet to the small cabin.

The dull ache in Peter’s ribs from the hit he took earlier has graduated to an inescapable throbbing now. It’s starting to make him feel sick.

Realizing there’s no way he’s going to be able to fall back asleep without some assistance, he gingerly pushes himself up to sitting. He’s grateful that the howling wind outside masks the whimpers that escape as he slips past his sleeping teammates, towards the cabin’s adjoining kitchen.

Peter pushes the kitchen door open and enters as quietly as he can. His hand fumbles around on the wall for the light switch and he flips it on, blinking at the sudden brightness. “What are you doing up?” Peter startles a bit at the voice. Tony is standing over the counter in the cabin’s small kitchen, spooning instant coffee granules into a mug. His eyes are bloodshot and he sways on his feet as he stands. “Just wanted a glass of water…” Peter mumbles. And a buttload of ibuprofen, he adds silently. Tony frowns at the way Peter is bracing his arm against his chest. “You told me they were bruised.” “I mean, they definitely are bruised,” Peter defends, glancing down at his ribs. “...They’re just maybe also broken?” He rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “And, uh, they kinda might be healing weird.” “Jesus, kid...” Tony mutters, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers. “Alright, let’s see ‘em. Shirt up.” “I mean, it’s not like we can do anything about them anyway...” Peter points out as he shuffles over. “I’ll be the judge of that,” Tony mutters back. He lifts Peter’s sweatshirt up and gently runs his fingertips over the mottled bruises covering his ribcage. Peter bites his lip hard to keep from whimpering. “Alright, we’ll have Cho look at them when we get back,” Tony decides after a few seconds of prodding. “‘kay,” Peter gasps out, rolling the sweatshirt back down. “Are they healing wrong?” Tony shrugs. “No idea,” he admits. “But you’re breathing alright and nothing seems to be punctured or hideously deformed, so that’s a good sign.” Peter huffs out a short laugh. “Awesome.” Locating a bottle of painkillers from the open medkit on the counter, Tony shakes out four tablets and hands them over. Peter swallows them down gratefully. “Alright Underoos, back to bed before those wear off,” Tony instructs. Peter watches as his mentor picks the spoon back up from the counter and resumes his coffee making. “Uh, Mr. Stark?” he asks tentatively. “Are you… okay?” Something flashes across Tony’s features, but it’s gone before Peter can place it. “I’m fine, kid,” he dismisses with a hand wave. “You’re making instant coffee at like, three in the morning,” Peter points out. “I wanted coffee,” Tony huffs. Peter narrows his eyes at his mentor. “But last week you told me someone could brew a pot of coffee, drink it, piss it out, and then drink that piss again and it would still be better than instant coffee.” “Yeah well I don’t exactly see a Starbucks around here, do you?” Peter hesitates for a moment, taking in his mentor’s haggard face and the bags under his eyes. He honestly looks like he could keel over at any moment. Tony heaves out a tired sigh. “What, kid?” And then all at once, Peter understands. The mission that day—the battle, the aliens, the wormhole—it’s triggered something in his mentor. He can’t sleep because he can’t afford to dream. Peter swallows hard. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “I already know about the nightmares.” All traces of humor dissolve from Tony’s features. His words come out in a broken whisper. “Pete. Just go back to bed. Please.” Peter nods. “Okay.” Quietly, he slips back out of the kitchen and into the cabin’s one main room. Over the muffled sounds of the howling blizzard outside, he can hear the crackle of the dying flames in the fireplace and the snores of his sleeping teammates scattered throughout the room. He’s just easing himself back onto his bunk when an idea occurs to him. A moment later, Peter re-enters the kitchen, ignoring the protests from his ribs as he drags two flimsy mattresses in after him. Tony’s eyes go wide and he half-chokes on the mouthful of coffee he’s just sipped. “What are you doing?” he demands in a hoarse whisper. “Sleeping out here with you,” Peter says simply. Wincing as he carefully lowers himself down to the floor, he goes on, “That way, if either of us should have a nightmare, the other person can just wake him up right away and no one else needs to know.” Tony sighs. “Look, kid, I appreciate the thought, but–” Peter locks eyes with his mentor. “Please, Mr. Stark? I’m never gonna be able to sleep knowing you’re in here, dead on your feet, drinking freeze-dried piss-coffee all night.” It’s a long moment before Tony lets out a deep exhale. “Fine,” he grunts. He flips off the light and plops down on the remaining mattress. “But only because you probably shouldn’t be lifting more than ten pounds and I don’t feel like dragging these things back.” Peter stretches out on the mattress. “Pretty sure enhanced people get enhanced restrictions,” he mutters sleepily. “Could probably still lift a car, but just like, a smaller one.” He hums to himself. “Maybe a Beetle. Or like, a Toyota Corolla…” “Hey kid?” “Yeah?” “Shut up.” Peter grins. “Alright, Mr. Stark."

Fic Masterlist

For more heartfelt Tony & Peter moments, try Give the Kid an Oscar