#please forgive any inaccuracies I was mostly fluking it off of my limited cowboy knowledge

[superherotiger]

Born Anew From Dust and Blood (Outlaw Irondad AU)

Hello everyone! I’ve been obsessing over this idea for the past week after seeing an old artwork of mine, and couldn’t stop until I had it finished, so please enjoy this completely random Western AU oneshot that I made with my favourite father-son team hah! Also please beware the tags below before you start to read :) Stay safe and please like/reblog/comment if you enjoyed! Your support means the world to me! (And big thanks to Grey who read over it for me as I wrote!)

(Trigger Warning: Skip Westcott, implied sexual assault of a minor, violence and murder)

Ao3 Link

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“Not another step.”

Warm, brown eyes grew wide at the unfamiliar voice, turning ever so slowly to face the speaker as the sound of a gun locking into place echoed through the stable like thunder. The boy froze on instinct, visibly shaking with terror as his gaze levelled another set of brown eyes, though these ones were steely and worn down with age. Blood red rays from the sunset poured over the stalls and horses, and though the intruder’s dark suit blended perfectly into the shadows, his face was anything but a secret. The boy’s eyes grew impossibly wider.

“You’re… you’re the Iron Bandit,” the stable boy breathed, half in awe and half in terror, which was entirely reasonable considering said outlaw was still aiming a gun to his chest with a calculating glare.

But seeming to find no danger in the scruffy, wild-haired child who couldn’t be older than twelve, the outlaw lowered his gun and leant back into the stack of hay he had found himself resting against for the past hour. He’d planned to take one of the horses and rendezvous back with his crew, the infamous Avengers, but that’s the thing about bank robberies. They tended to end in shootouts, which usually ended in a situation like this.

“Oh my god… you’re- you’re bleeding,” the boy suddenly stuttered as he realised the deep crimson blood that had pooled onto the stable floor beneath the outlaw’s leg.

The Iron Bandit huffed, dropping his head back against the hay as another wave of exhaustion rolled over him. “That’s usually what bullets do,” he muttered sarcastically.

“Oh jeez, can- can I do something?” the boy asked rapidly, surprising the outlaw with the genuine concern etched into his features as he shifted from foot to foot. Anxious to help, but unsure if he should get any closer to one of the most notorious criminals in the state.

Unsure what to do with a reaction that wasn’t outright fear or hatred though, the Bandit just rolled his eyes and said “Stop talkin’ so loudly for a start kid. I’m trying not to get caught if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, right! S-Sorry,” the boy stammered out, wringing his hands together in the most endearing display of sheepishness that the Bandit had ever seen. “Are… um, are you okay sir?”

“Just swell, as you can see,” the Bandit said with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

The boy’s cheeks tinged red as he dug his heel into the soil, saying “Sorry… I, uh, I’ve never talked to a real cowboy before…”

“Does that mean you’ve talked to fake cowboys before?” the Bandit joked, feeling his lips twitch upward when the boy let out an amused snort.

“You’re funny.”

“I try,” the Bandit mused.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” he asked again, the terror from before replaced with worry that the Bandit hadn’t even seen in his own crew’s eyes for many years.

“Yeah kid, I’m fine,” the Bandit assured. He didn’t say how the wound felt like a wildfire in his nerves, or how the amount of blood that was already seeping into the hay was probably fatal. He didn’t say that he wanted to fall asleep right there and never wake up.

No, the Bandit just mustered a smile and stifled the pain, because this was only a kid. A kind, innocent kid. And while he might be an outlaw, the Iron Bandit was no monster.

And maybe, just maybe, this boy saw that too, because after hesitantly stepping forward until he could crouch beside the man, his face grew somber with understanding and, more surprisingly, grief. Loss haunted the depths of his once youthful eyes, and the Bandit recognised a familiarity in his posture as he assessed the gnarly bullet wound, like he had seen it before… like he had been in this very position sometime in his past.

Curiosity overruled his usual wariness, and the Bandit found himself just watching silently as the stable boy stared down at the wound, an endearing little crease in his brow as he got lost in thought. And when the boy stood up and offered out his little, dusty hand, saying “I can help sir, I wanna help,” the Bandit didn’t find himself fighting, as he so often did these days. Instead he listened- listened to a stable boy of all people, and actually accepted his help. Actually hobbled up to his feet with the boy supporting his wounded side as they shuffled into a nearby shed, which the outlaw quickly realised must have been the boy’s sleeping quarters as he collapsed against the stiff, rickety bed.

“Christ, a boulder would be better than this,” the Bandit muttered.

“It’s not so bad when you get used to it,” the boy chuckled as he pulled out some spare rags from a chest and tied them around the Bandit’s leg, staunching the blood flow as best as possible.

The Bandit wasn’t sure why he let him do it exactly. He told himself it was because of the blood loss, that he’d just been too weary to fight it, but it was undeniable that the Bandit felt a strike of fondness for the kid who had offered nothing but kindness to a hardened criminal like himself. Such gentleness, and generosity, and selflessness was hard to come by these days, and the Bandit wasn’t going to let it be destroyed, at least not by his hand.

“You got a name kid?”

The boy glanced up in surprise, fine curls of hair framing his bright smile as he answered, “Peter, sir.”

And offering a genuine smile of his own, the Bandit said “Thanks Pete... And you can call me Tony. Sir makes me feel like a prick.”

The brief moment of surprise that crossed Peter’s expression at the name was replaced with a bout of laughter by the end, and Tony couldn’t help but soften at the boy whose eyes shimmered like the stars that littered the sky outside. When the chuckles had fallen back into a comfortable silence and Peter had brought over a damp rag for them each, the two began to wipe away the blood that stained their hands, Tony’s carved with scars and blisters while Peter’s were calloused from relentless hours of labour.

“So, how’d you end up in this pit kid?” the man eventually asked, quickly wishing he hadn’t when he noticed Peter’s jaw clench in response.

“Family died,” the boy answered softly, shrugging away the weight of his statement as if it were a mere turn of weather. “The mines took my Pa, and my Ma and Aunt got new- um… new…?”

“Pneumonia?” Tony offered softly.

“Yeah… that,” Peter murmured, wringing his fingers together again as he added shakily, “And my uncle Ben… he… he got shot tryin’ to stop a thief.”

Realisation dawned on the outlaw like lightning piercing through a storm as he glanced down at his crudely bandaged leg, a flash of those haunted young eyes appearing across his vision, before he turned back to the boy with a sigh. One of understanding, but also of something less common… something like care.

“He a good man?” Tony asked, breaking the dreaded silence that hung in the air.

Fondness swirled into the former sorrow as Peter glanced over to the far wall and replied, “The best. He was kind, and strong… he taught me everything I know.” The weak smile that had worked onto Peter’s expression was slowly shadowed with darkness once more, scratching at his neck almost anxiously as he murmured “That’s, um… that’s how I got here, actually. I knew how to look after horses, so I was useful, I guess…”

Tony nodded slowly and swept his gaze across the shed, taking in the cramped, dreary walls and leaking roof. There were no belongings on the shelves. No pictures or toys or books or anything a normal child should have. The room was practically barren besides the rickety bed and a small chest of clothing, and Tony felt his heart sink for the boy beside him. Being an outlaw was by no means a luxurious life, but even the Iron Bandit had more than this.

Even Tony hadn’t lost as much as Peter had in his young life.

“So… who’s got you now then?” the outlaw asked carefully.

The boy tensed up in the corner of his eye, and Tony felt his suspicions spike like ice spreading through his chest.

“Mr Westcott,” Peter eventually murmured, fingers locked together to hide the fact they were shaking. “He’s… I don’t like him very much.”

“Why’s that?” Tony pressed.

“Uh, he... w-well he…” Peter floundered for a moment as he tried to find the words, but in the end, his voice just trailed away into an uncanny silence.

“He mean to you kid?” Tony asked as he eyed the boy for any injuries. The outlaw was no stranger to abuse, or what it felt like to be beaten down as a child by someone with far too much power and control over you. But the answer he ended up getting was almost worse.

“He’s… friendly,” Peter said, eyes hollow and cold with something Tony couldn’t understand. “…Too friendly…”

But before the Bandit could dwell on his ominous words for long, Peter shook his head as if trying to chase away a bad thought and turned back to the Bandit with a shaky smile. “Enough about me, what about you?” he asked with those entrancing eyes of his. “I’ve heard so many stories, and- and I know you’re part of the Avengers and all, but they don’t hold a candle to the things I’ve heard about you!”

Tony blinked, stunned at the rapid flood of words, only to soften into a smile at the pure excitement radiating out of the boy like sunshine.

“Is it true that you robbed a train singlehandedly last year?” Peter asked, voice reduced to an awed whisper.

“True as can be,” Tony chuckled.

“Will- will you tell me about it? About life out there on the run?”

And hell, how could the Iron Bandit say no to those curious, beaming eyes?

So as the moon crawled up the horizon, the little shed became filled with tales of bank heists and train robberies, of lands far and wide and the many adventures it took to see them. Peter sat beside the outlaw, completely enraptured, as he retold his most entertaining stories both with and without his fellow Avengers, lifting up the victories while leaving out the horrors. The shootouts and spilt blood they left in their wake. He got the sense that Peter had already seen enough cruelty in his life as it was.

Maybe that was what surprised the bandit most of all though; that this kid who had lost and grieved and suffered at every turn could somehow still be so innocent, so awestruck by a world that had shown him nothing but scorn. Even earlier that day when he was faced with an injured outlaw, the very same type of criminal that had stolen his uncle away from him, Peter offered him only concern and assistance. Had offered him compassion, which was more than a person like Tony deserved.

He wondered when Peter would be rewarded for his years of trials, when his kindness would finally be repaid.

And the horrifying answer returned: Not yet.

A clatter of something out in the stables had both outlaw and stable boy freezing mid sentence, Tony’s hand immediately falling over his gun while the boy jumped up to his feet in panic. No wait, not panic… dread. Like he knew what was coming and was powerless to stop it.

Acting on instinct, Tony forced himself back onto his shaky feet and hobbled towards the door, gun out of its holster and finger on the trigger in the blink of an eye. The Iron Bandit feared nothing- no one. But when Tony glanced over towards the boy still frozen in place beside the bed, his heart dropped like a stone into a deep, icy lake when he took in his petrified expression.

“It’s him…” Peter whispered, eyes wide with fear and the trembling spreading out from his hands to his entire scrawny frame. “I… I don’t want to…”

It was spoken so softly, so weakly, that Tony almost missed it. But he didn’t miss the terror that bled out of every syllable, or the tears that had begun to pool in his haunted doe eyes. Whoever this was, they were a threat to Peter. In what way, Tony wasn’t sure, but any threat to the kid would be six feet under if he had any say in the matter.

So, following his instincts, Tony shifted behind the reach of the door and listened to the heavy footsteps that approached from the other side. They were close now, and Tony always preferred the element of surprise when possible. He’d hoped that Peter would get behind him when he waved him over, but the boy remained paralysed like a deer caught in headlights, too far out of reach for the bandit to pull him over by force.

But before the urge to pull the kid behind him could take over, the door creaked open at a painstakingly slow pace, causing both Peter and Tony to become as still as statues. There was a moment of hesitation from the opposite side of the door, before it swung open enough for the intruder to step in and reveal himself unknowingly to the outlaw waiting in the shadows. It only took a heartbeat for Tony to make his assessment, seeing no weapon on the stranger’s figure but already despising his groomed, snowy hair and overconfident smirk. He smelt of rich cologne and the metallic scent of wealth, which Tony recognised from all the scummy bankers he’d robbed over the years.

But his distaste quickly shifted to a cold fury when the man stepped closer to the both with a sickening leer, making Peter flinch under his gaze.

“You’re awake,” the man observed, his voice falsely sweet.

“I… I c-couldn’t sleep,” Peter whispered as he kept his eyes trained to the floor, unaware of Tony pushing himself away from the wall with amazingly stealthy movements.

The Bandit had been in dozens of deathly situations in his life, and he knew the feeling of danger more deeply than that of comfort. But this was something different. Something cold and acidic that burnt at his very skin and churned his stomach with dread, telling him to move, to fight, to protect-

“Well,” the man crooned just before his hand ghosted over the ridge of Peter’s collar bone like the filthy monster that Tony realised he was. “I can fix that…”

A sob slipped out of Peter’s mouth, and something inside of Tony snapped at the sound of it.

Fury like nothing the outlaw had ever experienced before exploded out of his chest in a guttural roar, pouncing forward before the man could even think of laying another finger on the boy and throwing him into the opposite wall by his collar. It took all of Tony’s energy to bite back a snarl as he levelled the man’s startled blue eyes, relishing the horror that washed over his features when he recognised the outlaw’s face.

Good, Tony thought bitterly. Be scared while you still can.

“Peter,” he managed to say with an even tone, never breaking his fierce staring match with the man who began to squirm and struggle under his grasp. A quick knee to the gut was all it took to silence him though, his whimpers getting muffled into scratchy exhales as the Bandit shoved his arm against the man’s throat.

“T-Tony?” a broken voice replied, stabbing at the Bandit’s heart when he heard the cries Peter was desperately trying to suppress. But as much as it pained him to ignore it, Tony could only steel his nerves and tell himself he’d help Peter later. That there would be all the time in the world to help him when he was through with the low life before him.

“Get the horses ready,” he ordered calmly. Too calm for the expression of pure hatred the bandit had fixed on the man right now.

Thankfully, Peter didn’t object, disappearing out the door with a weary sniffle before his footsteps faded into the distance.

A beat of silence passed through the room as Tony held the man against the wall, enjoying every moment he trembled under his fists, before he asked with a sneer “Westcott, I assume?”

The man tried to speak but the pressure against his neck was too fierce to even breathe fully let alone talk. It didn’t really matter though. The strike of terror in his eyes was enough of an answer for the outlaw, and he had never taken such great pleasure in firing his gun as he had in that moment.

The scream that Westcott made when the bullet went through his stomach was one Tony hoped to remember, and finally stepping back from the wall, he watched the pitiful man crumble to his knees with a stuttering exhale. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for someone as horrid as him.

So holstering his gun, Tony pulled out the iron knuckle dusters from his jacket -the very ones that had earned him the title of the Iron Bandit all those years ago- and slipped them over his hands with a final, icy glare.

“I’d say start praying,” he growled. “But ain’t nobody up there’s gonna be able to save you from me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The air was cool and crisp as Peter gazed up at the expanse of stars above, marvelling in their beauty, in their silence, as he tried to ignore the scene he had left behind in the stables. Tremors still ran through his fingertips as he smoothed down the mane of the horse by his side -a strong stallion named Jarvis that would easily keep up with an outlaw like Tony-, and drew comfort from the memory of the Iron Bandit’s stories and laughter.

It had been the first time since Ben’s death that Peter didn’t feel weighed down by shackles of guilt and shame, and he’d wanted to hold onto that warmth for just a little while. Just a single night- that’s all he asked for.

But then Mr Westcott walked through the door, and Peter couldn’t breathe- couldn’t move, and the panic was so fierce and overwhelming that he’d forgotten about the other person hidden by the door until-

Peter was jerked from his spiralling thoughts by the sound of boots crushing dry grass, whipping around so fast it might have hurt his neck if not for the relief that flooded over him at the sight of the familiar figure.

“You’re okay,” he breathed with a smile, causing a brief flicker of amusement to cross the Bandit’s expression. He had a slight limp as he approached the stable boy -most likely from his earlier bullet wound-, but it was the blood that caked his knuckles that really caught Peter’s attention, straightening slightly as he searched the outlaw for any new injuries. The concern was purely instinctual at this point though, since he knew, deep down, that the blood didn’t belong to him. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t be standing let alone walking if he’d lost the amount of blood that now stained his dark coat.

But if Tony noticed Peter’s worried gaze he didn’t mention it, glancing past his shoulder to the midnight-black horse with a confused furrow of his brow.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Oh,” Peter murmured, recoiling slightly as he searched the man’s face for the disappointment that surely must have been there. “I… I-I didn’t realise you wanted more…”

The Bandit levelled him with a perplexed stare, but as Peter began to fidget with his still shuddering hands, realisation seemed to dawn on Tony like sunlight burning away a winter fog. “Not for me kid, for you,” he quickly clarified, causing Peter to become the confused one instead.

“Me? Why me?” he asked.

Tony smirked, asking lightly “Well would you prefer to walk instead?”

Peter could only blink up at the outlaw with wide, disbelieving eyes, the shock falling into awe, and then into excitement, and finally, a cold misery. “Why...?” he asked, voice a weak murmur. “Why would- would you help me?”

A heavy sigh escaped Tony’s mouth as he ran a thumb over his bloodied knuckles, saying sincerely “There’s nothing left for you back there kid. No life, no future in that stable… at least not one you deserve.”

Peter glanced away to the far horizon. To the hills and fields that reached further than his imagination could even fathom, and he winced at the longing that ached inside his heart. “This is the only life I’ve ever known,” he admitted wearily. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin… where to go, what to do…”

“Then join me, and I’ll help you find it,” Tony offered, his expression so serious it might have worried Peter if he hadn’t witnessed the full extent of his fury only minutes ago. “If you wanna leave at any point, then you can take your horse and go. But until then, stay with me and my crew, and no one will ever lay a finger on you again.”

The breeze swept over them and replaced the faint scent of copper with that of fresh grass and dusty soil, of nature and adventure. The call of freedom was strong, but his fear was even stronger. It was only when Peter turned back to the outlaw to see not the legendary thief or fierce, deadly criminal, but a friend… a protector who had saved him from more horrors than he could bare to voice, that the terror melted away.

“You’d do that for a nobody like me?” Peter asked as his hands began to tremble with anticipation instead of dread.

Tony’s face lifted into a smile, and after raising his hand between them and awaiting the boy’s reaction, he lowered it over Peter’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re not nobody to me.”

Something bright and strong and safe bloomed inside of Peter’s chest, and he could almost feel the weight of the world lift from his young shoulders with the help of Tony’s words. Smiling up at the outlaw who he had saved and who had saved him in return, Peter shut his eyes and drew in a steady breath. The last breath taken by the broken stable boy of Westcott farm, and the first breath taken by the free and alive Peter Parker.

“Thank you,” Peter whispered as Tony helped him saddle up another horse for the journey ahead, settling on a kind mare that he affectionately named Karen. “Thank you for everything, Tony… I mean it…”

Giving the boy a warm pat on the back before they both climbed a top their steeds, Tony flashed him one last smile and gazed off towards the horizon of untold potential. Where it would lead, neither of them would know, but Tony was certain that this kid had a bright future ahead of him. And if he didn’t, then Tony would make sure to forge it for him with his very own hands.

“Come along Young Buck,” Tony called, softening at the beaming smile that Peter offered in reply. “There’s a big world out there just waiting for you to join it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

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