Warnings: Depressing themes, familial death, and sometimes oblivious, kind of OOC Steve Rogers.
"I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil." -J.R.R. Tolkien
Part 1:
Silence. Complete, utter silence.
Peter hated it.
There was no distant rock music. There were no explosions that made their floor tremor. There was no clanging of metal in Dad's workshop.
There was no Dad.
Something inside Peter clenched painfully, and he clenched his eyes and fist tight, holding it all in. Papa wouldn't like Peter crying out. Not when he had made Papa so upset already. He could still recall the events the night before with vivid clarity.
The Night Before:
"I... I don't understand, Papa. Why?" Peter asked, eyes welling up with another flood of tears, "Why? Why would Dad do that?" The young thirteen-year-old hiccupped, his chest spasming from his prior sobbing. "When will he come back?" Of course Peter knew what death was, but there was no way. There was no way his father was gone. This was just all some sick joke... It had to be. Just watch. Dad was going to jump out from somewhere and they'll laugh it off.
Steve snapped. The heavy, thunderously loud tension that had settled days ago was drowned and destroyed under the torrents of treacherous rage.
"He isn't coming back, Peter!"
He quickly kneeled down, eye level with his son, eyes shining with tears yet stormy with a raging hurricane.
"He's NEVER coming back! I don't know! I don't know! It doesn't make sense, Peter, you hear me?! It. Doesn't. MAKE. SENSE!" Steve was shouting by the end, hot tears cascading down his cheeks as his hands trembled.
Peter's eyes were wide and his mouth was agape. No. No no nononono. He didn't want to hear any of this. It was all a mistake. His hands cupped over his ears, blocking out the offending sound. Dad was fine. Dad was fine Dad was fineDadwasfine-
But Steve would have none of that. Peter had to understand, because it was irreversible. His husband was dead, and it just didn't make sense and Peter just had to get it. He tore Peter's hands off his eyes, final line towering high and ready to crash down.
" IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE BECAUSE IT NEVER WILL, PETER. IT WILL NEVER MAKE SENSE. I DON'T KNOW WHY HE DID WHAT HE DID, BUT NO MATTER WHAT, HE IS NEVER COMING BACK." Steve screamed, "HE'S GONE." And the tsunami hit, shattering Peter's denial into millions of irreparable shards. Peter looked at his father, horrified and stunned as waves of emotions left him barely able to breathe.
Because his papa was right.
"I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I'm sorry for not being able to do anything. I wish I could make it all better, but I can't." Steve whispered.
The waters began receding from their impact, and Peter knew then. He understood. This wasn't a dream. No matter how much he pinched himself and hurt himself, this was not a dream. Even if it was, this was not a dream, it was a nightmare. A nightmare that was now his horrifying reality.
Dad was gone.
Everything crashed and receded, leaving Peter feeling empty and hollow.
He slowly turned around and went into his bedroom, numb.
Present Day:
Peter had been laying in bed for a long time now. He wondered if he should et up and get some food. Jarvis had asked him to, but he didn't feel like it. He felt like he could lay in bed forever and never get up. If he got up, he would have to face his worst nightmare.
Still curious, though, he called out to Jarvis, "J, what time is it?"
"It is 7:00 in the afternoon, Peter." Jarvis' voice called out.
Peter quickly did the math. He had gone to sleep at 10:00 PM and woke up at 8:00 AM, which meant... "So it's been 11 hours since I woke up?"
"Yes, Peter, which is why I strongly recommend that you go eat something. I'm sure your father would be willing to make you something."
"No," Peter said quickly, "No, I don't want to bother Papa. He's already upset enough as it is."
"If you say so, Peter." Jarvis replied almost grudgingly.
Peter just rolled over and curled up in a tight ball as he clenched his eyelids shut, trying with all his might to not think about and to not remember memories from before.
It didn't work.
Three Months Prior:
"J.A.R.V.I.S.!" Tony Stark called out, and immediately, a British voice replied.
"Yes, Sir?" J.A.R.V.I.S. answered.
"Pull up the old Mark VI holograms for Peter to look at."
"Of course, Sir." Immediately, light blue holograms appeared, revealing the sleek and beautiful design of the Mark VI. Peter's mouth opened in awe, and he reached forward, tentatively pulling a panel off to reveal intricate wiring.
Peter spoke up, "Wha... Dad. I can't possibly... What if I mess something up?"
"You won't, Petey. And even if you do, I have plenty others and J has a backup. Right, J?"
"Of course, Sir." J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, "Seeing how much you seem to make errors, I deemed it essential to back every armor up every once in a while." Tony's hand flew to his chest in mock hurt.
"Nice to know what you really feel about me, J. And who taught you to sass me?" At the last sentence, Tony pointed an accusing finger somewhere at the ceiling.
"Well, I learn from the best, sir." J.A.R.V.I.S. replied wryly. Peter burst into laughter, and Tony looked at him, smiling fondly.
"Knock yourself out, Petey. You learn by doing, remember that." Peter nodded in affirmative.
Hours passed, and Peter grew hungry, but his dad was busy, hands working furiously on new gear for the Avengers. Some Widow Bites, it looked like. Sighing, Peter began digging through drawers. There had to be food somewhere.
A flash of cylindrical orange plastic with a white lid caught his eye. A... Medicine bottle? Hesitantly, Peter uncovered the bottles and turned the bottles around discretely, eyes shifting to his dad to make sure he wasn't paying attention.
One of the bottles read, "Fluoxetine (Prozac)." Before Peter could see the other bottles, he heard shuffling, and so quickly closed the drawers and turned back to the hologram just in time.
"My mouth is super dry right now and I'm starting to tire. Let's head to the kitchen and get something, alright?" Peter's dad asked.
"Sure." Peter responded. Hesitantly, he added, "How are you, Dad?"
"I'm peachy." Tony replied, smiling broadly. "Just my old age catching up to me, that's all Petey."
A/N: Thanks for reading! I have the majority of this five-part story written already, so updates should be pretty regular. Please review and let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is appreciated. :)
