Warnings: past non-con, past child abuse, hints of alcoholism. This is rated highly due to the sensitive nature of these topics, not because it has graphic content.
The whispers follow him all day. He has a massive headache, he feels sick to his stomach, and all he wants is to curl in bed and sleep. Tony regrets going to that party last night, wishes he'd stayed in his dorm and studied for his upcoming exams. It's not like he needs to study, boy genius that he is, but maybe that could have distracted him from his upcoming Christmas break.
And maybe that wouldn't have happened.
Tony's stomach lurches violently in protest. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. He remembers last night in choppy, broken pieces, but he doesn't think he'll ever forget delicate hands, manicured nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders, high pitched moans, the scent of lavender, laughter and jeering and—
No.
He can't think of it; he might lose the fight with his stomach.
Tony half pays attention to his exams. The material is easy, even with his pounding headache. End of term exams give him a brief reprieve from the whispers, at least. It's not until he gets back to his dorm later on in the day that things take a turn for the worse.
He doesn't know who slipped the manila folder under his door, but there it is, lying on the tiled floor, unassuming, his name innocently written in blocky letters. His hands shake as he opens it, as the polaroid photos fall out, as he looks at them.
One glance at them has him running to the trash can. He retches until he's dry heaving, until he can't hurl anymore, until the acrid stench of bile and stale alcohol fills the air. Tony lets out a small sob, covers his face in his hands. He doesn't know how long he stays there, kneeling over the trash can, but by the time he moves, his knees have long since gone numb. They tingle as he stands, weak, and he clutches his desk to steady himself, his knuckles going white.
The pictures are hastily hidden in his physics textbook, hiding away all evidence of his night with Sunset. With a heavy heart, Tony curls into bed, defeated. He covers his face with shaky hands, takes in half-choked breaths. He doesn't know who sent the pictures, but he wishes they didn't exist.
Because looking at those pictures?
It's like being violated all over again.
Peter's acting weird.
It takes Tony longer to notice than he should have, but considering the bullshit he's been dealing with these past few months as the amendments for the Accords go through, as he has to welcome his old teammates back to the country with a smile on his face, it's understandable. Still, he feels like shit for not noticing sooner.
"FRI, how long has Peter been acting like this?" he asks his AI. He's in the sanctuary of his workshop. Now that Happy is taking Peter home, he no longer has a reason to play nice with his former teammates.
"Peter has been displaying sings of anxiety for the last week and a half," FRIDAY says promptly. "Karen reports his symptoms as restlessness, irritability, a lack of eating that started two days ago, shortness of breath, and short-term tachycardia."
Tony puts down his tools. Since Peter practically wears his suit underneath his clothes all the time, Karen's assessment is pretty reliable, even when Peter isn't running around as Spiderman. He runs his hands through his hair, purses his lips. "Do we know what caused it?"
"No, boss," FRIDAY says. She sounds hesitant, though.
"FRI," Tony begins, "if there's something wrong with my kid, then I need to know about it."
"There's nothing concrete, boss," FRIDAY says softly. "But Karen reports that each time Peter's been anxious, it was in the presence of a man, maybe a few years older."
Tony narrows his eyes, clenches his fists. "Peter's run into this man as himself or as Spiderman?"
"As himself. There were two different instances, one when he was with his friends, and the other when he was alone"
"Is he giving Peter any trouble?"
"Not exactly." FRIDAY sounds confused, mildly distressed. "Shall I play the audio recording?"
He nods his head jerkily, listens as the sound starts coming from all of his speakers.
"Peter, do you know that guy?" Ned, curious as always. "He just winked at you."
"No." Peter, his voice unusually high. "He probably thinks I'm someone else."
There's a little beep as FRIDAY starts to play the other recording.
"Hey there, Einstein!" The other man, voice far away as if he'd yelled from across the street.
"Peter's heartrate elevated, and he ran home," FRIDAY reports. She makes a small noise. "Boss, it didn't seem like he was harassing Peter. Am I... was I wrong? Is it my fault that Peter is behaving abnormally?"
Tony lets out a deep sigh. "No, baby girl," he says softly. "Human behavior can be tricky even to us humans. Sometimes... sometimes harassment can be interpreted as friendly behavior. Now, I don't know if this man is bothering Peter, but I'm going to find out." He glances at the time. "What time is Peter coming over tomorrow?"
"He's scheduled to come immediately after school at approximately three-thirty."
"Good." He starts putting his tools away, frowning. He's concerned about Peter, but his questions can wait until tomorrow. "Was Karen able to determine who this man is?"
"No," FRIDAY tells him. "But, using voice recognition software and comparing it on the web, I was able to make a match on some Facebook videos."
"Don't keep me in suspense, baby girl," Tony says. "Who am I up against?"
"His name is Steven Westcott."
Tony burns the pictures as soon as he gets home. He sits in front of the fireplace, waits for the evidence to disappear, feels nothing but relief when the polaroids are nothing more than ash. His relief is short-lived. Tony isn't just labeled a genius; his mind whirls as he realizes that these pictures may not be the only copies out in the world. And he has no way of retrieving any others because he has no idea who sent them in the first place.
Tony hugs his knees to his chest.
Footsteps approach, but he doesn't move.
"Young Master Anthony?" Jarvis sounds concerned. "Are you alright?"
Tony nods his head slowly. "Cold," he says.
Jarvis makes a small, disbelieving noise. Tony would normally love to have Jarvis' attention, but right now, he just wants to be alone. He doesn't want to be around any people, doesn't want to have to paste a smile on his face and pretend everything is alright.
There's a small rustling, and then Jarvis is sitting on the plush rug next to him. "Did something happen at school?" His voice is soft, worried, and Tony honestly feels like crying.
He can't tell Jarvis. What will he say? What will he think?
"School's fine," Tony mumbles.
Jarvis still presses, leans a little closer. "Are you having problems with your friends?"
Tony laughs, but it's a brittle, harsh sound. "What friends?" he grits out.
He'd thought he'd made some. He'd thought he'd found people to trust.
Sunset Bain was a godsend. A beautiful young woman, she had made Tony feel like he was more than just some snobby, genius rich kid. She had seemed to genuinely care for him.
Tony was wrong.
Jarvis places his hand on Tony's shoulder. The move is so unexpected that Tony flinches, and Jarvis pulls his hand away immediately. "Young Master," he says softly, "you know you can tell me anything, right?"
Tony grips his knees tightly, nearly folds in on himself. "I know," he says shortly.
Jarvis looks uneasy, like he wants to press Tony for more information, but Tony can't handle that right now, doesn't want to think about what happened, so he pointedly shifts until his back is to Jarvis and he rests his head on his knees.
Jarvis leaves soon after with a pat on Tony's head, his footsteps echoing in the large, empty room.
Tony's alone, then, with the warmth from the crackling fire not able to reach him, with Jarvis' obvious concern making him feel sick and panicky, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could forget everything.
"Peter," Tony says for the fifth time, waves his hand in front of Peter's face. The kid hasn't been paying a whole lot of attention, seems to be lost in his own thoughts.
Peter flinches slightly, but then he plasters on a wide smile with too much teeth. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. It's been a long day. I've got, like, a million projects to do."
Tony can barely keep himself from narrowing his eyes. If he wasn't already concerned with his young mentee, this alone would have sent up a million red flags. Peter is a genius in his own right, and if anything, the course load of a high school sophomore had seemed ridiculously easy, even with his extracurricular spidey activities.
And the way he flinched just now...
There's something really wrong with his kid, and he's going to find out what.
Tony licks his lips, flounders for a moment because he actually doesn't quite know where to start. "Is there...?" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. "Is there anything else you wanna tell me?"
Peter looks confused, his head cocked to the side in that adorable innocent puppy expression that absolutely restores Tony's faith in people. "No?"
"Are you asking or telling me?" Tony looks at Peter expectantly, his hands folded in his lap. He gestures to the table full of schematics, upgrades that they are building to install into Karen. "Look, kid, we can take a break. Whatever it is, I just want you to know that you can come to me, alright? No judgements. Hell, I'm not really in a place to judge people for anything. I just...I'm worried about you, I really am."
Peter flinches again, smaller this time, but then his eyes seem to water a little, and he looks so lost, so afraid, and Tony's ready to burn the world to the ground and find who put that look on Peter's face.
Peter fidgets, but Tony waits, doesn't press him anymore, not when he already looks like a scared, cornered animal. His patient is rewarded when Peter licks his chapped lips, says, "Lately... lately, there's been—"
An alarm sounds off, harsh shrieks and flashing lights interrupting Peter. The teen's mouth closes with a click, and his expression closes off.
Tony thins his lips, irritated. "FRIDAY, what's going on?"
"There's a small fire in the kitchen, boss," she replies promptly. "DUM-E has been deployed."
If DUM-E is on the job, Tony knows the problem will be settled. He turns back to Peter, smiles reassuringly. "You were saying?"
"It's nothing," Peter says, plasters on a fake smile and stands. "Aunt May wants me home a little early tonight, so I'm gonna take off." He's already up and gathering his things before Tony can protest.
Tony eyes him, displeased. He opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again. This is going to take prodding and careful planning. Tony is not, by nature, a very patient man. But he remembers Peter's face, the way his lip quivered, how he curled in a little on himself, and something in his chest shifts into place.
Tony nods his head gently. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says. "And if you want to talk, call me. I don't care if it's three in the morning. Okay?"
Peter nods his head mechanically, and then he all but runs out to the elevator.
Tony watches him carefully, unhappy, but knowing, perhaps better than anyone, that pushing can lead to more harm than good. Whatever it is that's bothering Peter, he'll find out. In the meantime, though...
"FRIDAY, have Karen send me a text the next time Peter comes into contact with Westcott."
"Young Master Anthony, your parents are waiting for you in the study."
Tony just barely holds in a flinch. It's not like Jarvis tried to sneak up on him; the butler has always been rather light-footed, a testament to his time spent in the British Armed Forces.
"What do they want?" he asks quietly.
"They did not inform me, Young Master."
With a sigh, Tony crawls out of bed and makes his way to the study. It's unusual, his parents requesting his presence when there isn't a social function going on. Tony had been looking forward to spending his holiday in the solitude of his bedroom.
The first hint that something is wrong is the glass in his father's hand, already full of that amber liquid the older Stark is so dependent upon.
The second is a manila folder laying atop the desk, not unlike the folder Tony had received.
He freezes when he sees it, unable to take another step further.
Please, no, he thinks desperately. His breath stills in his lungs, and he thinks he might actually faint.
His father catches sight of him, and the furious crease of his brow, the slight sneer of his lips, that tells Tony everything he needs to know.
"What is the meaning of this?" his father quietly demands. He slurs a little, his cheeks beginning to bloom rosy-pink. Tony can't tell if it's from the alcohol or anger.
Knowing his father, probably both.
"W-What?" He hates how his voice sounds, high-pitched and unsure.
His father angrily gestures to the desk with his glass, whiskey sloshing over the sides. His mother, who had been watching with quiet concern until now, stands and walks over to her husband's side, places a hand on his outstretched arm. "Dear, there has to be an explanation," she urges.
His father makes a disgusted noise, sets the glass down with enough force that a crack starts to splinter upwards from the base to the rim. He walks away from his wife's touch, grabs something off his desk and flings it at Tony.
Tony clutches his legs with shaky hands. He bites his lip as the polaroids start to fall over him. He doesn't need to look at them, already knows what he's going to see. His stomach twists and he flinches when a polaroid hits his cheek.
"I asked you a question, boy," his father snarls. "What is the meaning of this?"
Tony shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says quietly. He keeps his gaze averted, doesn't want to look at his parents and won't (can't, please don't make me) look at the polaroids.
"Howard, please," his mother says again, her voice high and pleading, but his father won't hear it.
"Is this what I send you to school for?" his father all but roars. He storms to Tony, grabs a polaroid off the floor and thrusts it in Tony's face.
Tony tries to look away, but his father grabs his chin and harshly jerks it. His heart pounds faster and harder when he sees the photo. He doesn't remember everything of that night, can only think of snippets.
He doesn't remember how much he had to drink.
He doesn't remember how he ended up in that bedroom.
He doesn't remember how those pictures got taken without him noticing.
The night blurs somewhere between that first glass of beer, that feeling of belonging as the people around him cheer and party, and waking up the morning after, dazed and confused and scared. But he remembers Sunset.
He remembers the way her breath hitches against his neck. (His ears still tingle.)
He remembers the way she gripped his shoulders. (There are tiny splotches of purple that don't wash away.)
He remembers the way her body felt moving against his. (Please, stop.)
"I didn't..."
His father grips his chin harder. "You didn't think!" He shakes Tony roughly. "You're going to inherit Stark Industries one day, and you already have a scandal under your belt. Not even sixteen and I'm already having to clean up your mess! What do you have to say for yourself, boy?"
"I didn't," Tony tries again.
"Your actions have consequences!" Spittle lands on his cheek just above his father's fingers.
"Howard, let him—"
"Don't tell me how to deal with him, Maria!"
"He's just a boy—"
"He's almost a man and he needs to be held accountable for his—"
"I DIDN'T WANT TO!"
The painful grip on his face slackens. His mother stares at him, her hands covering her mouth in horror. There are tears welling in her eyes, and Tony feels even worse now because he doesn't like it when she cries, but then he catches sight of his father's stoic, calm face, the calm before the storm, and he wishes more than anything that he'd kept his mouth shut.
"What did you say?"
Tony shakes his head, presses his lips firmly together as if that will keep the bile down. He's not going to talk, won't say it again, can't bear to repeat the ugly truth, please don't make him—
His head snaps violently to the side and he's on the floor before the first sting of pain blossoms on his cheek. He stares, dazed, at the intricate chandelier his father had imported from Italy, the pretty crystalline glass shining and dazzling. He's aware, vaguely, of his mother shrieking at his father, of him bellowing something back, but there's a curious buzzing in his ears.
Tony touches his split lip, stares at the blood on his fingertips. His tongue presses against his tooth, now loose from the impact.
His father hit him.
He's not even sure why he's crying. Yeah, it hurts like hell, but all roads have been leading to this, right?
Every time he's seen a glass of whiskey in his father's hand, every time his father's hand lowered before it could reach his face, every time that dark look overtook his father's face, he's wondered.
This has been a long time coming.
Why is he crying?
His mother is still screaming at his father, flinging small heirlooms at him, pushing him back with her furious onslaught as he tries to catch the trinkets. "—ever lay a hand on him again—"
"You're too soft—"
"—divorce so fast, test me, Howard, I dare you—"
Tony wipes his eyes, picks himself off the floor. His slow movements attract the attention of his parents, and he curls in a little on himself, doesn't want to give his father even more reason to hit him.
"Stark men are made of iron," his father firmly intones. "No son of mine will be so weak."
Tony flinches. "Yes, sir," he whispers.
He flees before more could be said. His mother calls out to him, her voice anguished, but he can't face her now. He wants nothing more than to have her arms wrapped around him, but his chest squeezes painfully tight. He doesn't deserve the comfort of her embrace.
He doesn't deserve anything.
Peter doesn't bring up their conversation again, and Tony is having a hard time figuring out how to get the teen to talk to him without pressing him too much. He just wants to help, wants to erase the growing dark circles under Peter's eyes.
What kind of hero is he if he can't save his kid?
He's scoured every server he knows of for information on Steven Westcott, but there's nothing particularly incriminating. Steven Westcott goes by Skip (which is a stupid nickname, in Tony's humble opinion) and recently moved back to Queens from Buffalo. The only link between Westcott and Peter is the apartment building they both lived in years ago.
Other than that, nothing. No criminal record, no sealed juvenile record (he checked), not even a speeding ticket. Westcott was clean.
But something doesn't sit well with Tony. Peter's odd behavior only came about after contact with Westcott.
Maybe he's a former bully?
Tony doesn't know, but he's going to find out.
It's a new semester and people are still whispering about Tony.
He can't help but feel like everyone knows his shameful secret, knows how pathetic he is. Is that why they're whispering? Do they all know what happened?
His hands feel a little clammy, but he plasters a cocky smile on. Stark men are made of iron, he thinks as he walks down the halls with his head held high, his shoulders squared, his back straight. He holds onto that thought desperately.
If he's made of iron, he's not weak.
If he's not weak, nothing can hurt him.
If nothing can hurt him, tomorrow's not as hopeless as it feels.
"You know, people used to make fun of me," Tony says mildly. He ignores the way Peter pauses, doesn't look up from the new gauntlet he's designing. "I was the youngest kid in school, and I had the tendency to make even intelligent people feel stupid. It got better when I met Rhodey, but he wasn't around until my third doctorate."
There's a long silence as Tony keeps tinkering away, waiting for Peter to open up to him. He doesn't have to wait long.
"How'd you deal with it?" Peter asks quietly. His voice is a little strained, a little tight, and Tony knows he hit the nail on the head.
Tony clears his throat. "Trial and error," he says. "I befriended some people who turned out to not be my friends, learned, and moved on."
Lies, he thinks. He hasn't moved on. He doesn't know how.
"What happened?"
He should have expected that follow-up question, but he still stiffens when he hears it. What didn't happen?
Tony clears his throat a few times. "A lot," he says vaguely. He can feel Peter's eyes on him, and he fidgets. "The point is, I know what it's like to be picked on. And if you have any problems like that, I want you to come to me."
There's another long silence, so Tony goes back to tinkering. The ball's in your court, kid, he thinks, hopes that he didn't fuck things up.
It's almost time for Peter to go home when he speaks up again. His voice is shaky, like he's nervous, and Tony's stomach automatically coils like a snake about to strike.
"Mr. Stark… have you ever…" He cuts himself off, takes in an unsteady breath. "I ran into someone the other day, someone I hoped I would never see again."
"Who?" Tony asks softly. He fiddles with the wrench in his hand.
"His name is Skip," Peter whispers. "He used to watch me for Uncle Ben and Aunt May. I thought… I thought he'd liked me. He used to say I was so smart, like… Einstein." He spits out the name like a curse.
Tony's heart aches. He knows what it's like to be bullied for being smart. His freshman year at MIT wasn't the best, and he was so alone and so desperate for companionship but unable to connect with anyone.
Well, anyone but…
No, not thinking about her.
"Did he pick on you?"
Peter's shoulders shake, quiver, and he rasps out, "No. He didn't pick on me. But he… he made me do things that I… that I didn't want to do…"
Tony freezes. There's ice in his veins, his breath caught in his throat, and he looks at Peter with dawning horror. No, he thinks desperately, his ears ringing. No, not Peter.
"But…I was too scared… to say no…"
Stop, he wants to say.
"It went on for months…"
I'm going to be sick.
"He moved away before I could tell anyone…"
Breathy moans, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, lavender…
"And I thought that would be the end of it, but he's back, and he keeps trying to talk to me, but I don't want to see him!"
He can't get her off. Why won't she get off him?
"He said that if I didn't want it or liked it, then I would have left, but I was so scared—"
"Not bad for your first time," she whispers in his ear.
"And I know it's my fault—"
"It sure didn't feel like you didn't want it."
"I'm so disgusting—"
Tony can't take it anymore. He bolts out of his chair and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He hurls and hurls until he's dry heaving and his stomach is rebelling and he's biting back harsh cries.
Tony grabs his hair and he pulls, yanks at it, his mouth open in a silent scream. He can't fucking breathe, his chest is so tight, and all he can think of is a younger Peter, innocent and doe-eyed and being forced to—
He doesn't know how long he's clutching the porcelain bowl.
He rinses his mouth and washes his face, but he can't stop shaking.
Stark men are made of iron, he thinks to himself. The Invincible Iron Man.
Peter's gone by the time he makes it out of the bathroom.
Rebecca is nice enough, cute, but Tony can't help the panic that claws its way up his throat every time she leans in too close to him. He doesn't want her to touch him, doesn't want to be underneath anyone ever again.
And he hates Sunset for doing this to him. He hates how jumpy he is, how cowardly he feels these days. He's so weak.
Tony doesn't want to feel like this anymore, so the next time Rebecca puts her hand on his thigh, he lets her.
When she leans in to kiss him, he lets her.
When she puts his hands on her breasts, he lets her.
She tries to straddle his lap, but he refuses. She can have him any other way, but not like that.
Not ever again.
He flips her over so that she's on all fours, and she giggles as he fumbles with the zipper of his jeans.
She talks him through it, and he's awkward and has no stamina to speak of, but he eventually empties his load into the condom, and something clicks into place. His mind blanks, and for a few moments, all he can feel is relief as everything settles.
Sex is… sex is good.
The mandatory team exercises aren't bad necessarily, but Tony still doesn't want to do them. He hasn't had the chance to talk to Peter again, not since he lost his shit and had a total melt down. He hates himself for it, wishes he could take it back.
Peter was opening up to him and he ruined it. He told the kid he'd listen, and he was too weak to follow through.
"Your actions have consequences!"
His father was right about him.
Tony grunts when Natasha's fist meets his stomach. She manages to grapple him to the floor, manipulating his own body weight against him, and then she straddles him, her arm positioned lightly against his throat.
Steve starts critiquing their spar, but all Tony can hear is the blood rushing to his brain.
Natasha is on him, and she hasn't gotten off yet.
He doesn't know when he starts to buck like a wild animal, desperate to just get her off him. Not again not again not again not again not again NEVER AGAIN!
She lets out a hiss when she's slammed against the training mat, hard, and Tony's only vaguely aware of Steve lecturing him, of Natasha's calculating gaze on him, of their other teammates watching them curiously.
He sprints out of the room and hides himself in his lab for the rest of the day.
Tony understands now, why his father drinks. He can't walk in a straight line, his vision is blurry as fuck, but, more importantly, he can't feel.
It's wonderful.
He giggles drunkenly, stumbles into the bedroom with Mary or Margaret or whatever her name is. They fall on the bed, laughing, and this time, sex is even better. She lays flat on her back, her blonde hair looking like a halo around her head, and she's vocal about what she likes, what he's doing right.
And he feels good.
Sex makes him feel good.
Alcohol makes him feel good.
Everything is okay.
It's not hard to locate Westcott. The other man is whistling as he walks down the street, not a care in the world. He smiles jovially at some kids passing by, his eyes lingering too long.
Tony sneers. It pains him, but he waits, watches, and when the perfect opportunity arises, he strikes. Following the other man into his apartment is easy, effortless, and he slams the door closed with his foot.
Westcott looks at him, alarmed, his hands held up in surrender. "Y-You're… Tony Stark?" He looks confused, like he doesn't know why Tony is there.
"I hear you like to touch little boys," Tony says, walking menacingly towards the now paling man. "I hear you don't care whether they want it or not."
Westcott fumbles away until his back hits the wall. "I don't know what you're talk—"
Tony slams his fist next to Westcott's head. "Don't lie to me," he hisses angrily. "You're just another one of those sickos that earns a kid's trust and then uses them."
Westcott flinches. "P-Please…" He swallows thickly. "What do you want?"
Tony's nostrils flare. He wants to hurt this man, hurt him until he won't so much as think of hurting another kid, but especially not his kid. He wants to show Steven Westcott exactly why he was called the Merchant of Death, why Iron Man's enemies tended to wind up dead.
It takes everything in him to not follow through.
He stares at the cowering man, at his pale face, and he thinks of Peter.
"You made a mistake coming after Peter again," Tony says.
Westcott's eyes light up in understanding, and he grimaces. "I didn't—"
"Let's make something clear," Tony says coldly. "Wherever you run, I will find you. You won't be able to escape from me. You want to know what I want?" When Westcott nods his head furiously, Tony continues, "You have forty-eight hours to turn yourself in, or I'm coming for you."
And before he can change his mind, Tony leaves, slamming the door harder than necessary.
Sunset laughs and shakes her head. "Don't be stupid, Tony," she says, flicks her hair. "Why would I have pictures of us taken?"
He clenches his fist so she can't see him trembling. "How else did my dad get those pictures?" he demands. The music downstairs is loud, but not as loud as the cheering as his classmates play beer pong.
Sunset is the very picture of relaxed as she lounges on the bed. She shrugs. "I was in those pictures, too," she points out. "And I don't want other people to see me naked."
Tony stares at her in disbelief. "You don't want…? You should have thought about that before making me—"
"Make you?" Sunset laughs derisively. "You wanted it, Tony."
"No, I didn't." He glares at her.
"It sure didn't feel like you didn't want it," she says suggestively.
Tony flinches. "Whatever," he says. He doesn't even know why he cornered her, why he expected her to admit to everything. Maybe it's the vodka he had earlier talking. Maybe it's because he still remembers her being the only one to see him as more than the freaky kid genius.
Sunset stands up, walks over to him with a sway in her hips. She smiles when she reaches down to grab him through his pants. "Don't be like that," she purrs.
Tony smacks her hand away and he's running out of the bedroom before he can even think about it, her mocking laughter in his ear.
It's the first time he's seen Peter since The Incident, and Tony is nearly out of his mind. He'd tried calling the kid and visiting Queens, but he was deterred by Aunt May at every turn, an apologetic but firm smile on her lips as she turned him away. "Peter's not feeling well," she had said.
She didn't say it was Tony's fault, but she didn't need to. Tony really messed it all up this time.
He studies Peter's face when he sees him, takes in the closed off appearance and sad, sad brown eyes. Tony needs to fix this, needs to make things better. He can't sleep, he can barely eat, and he doesn't know how to make it up to Peter, but he needs to.
The rest of the Avengers are all assembled neatly in the conference room. Steve stands up, the muscles of his arms tense, his face serious.
"I have news that will impact the team," he says quietly. "Spiderman has decided to resign from his position as an Avenger."
Tony pales. He can't hear the others talking, can only focus on Peter who nods his head solemnly in agreement with the news.
This is all his fault.
"—we wish him the best, and Spiderman is always welcome to—"
No, this can't be happening. He has to fix this somehow!
When Peter gets up to leave, Tony follows. He catches Peter just outside the conference room doors.
"Peter, wait!" he cries, hates how the teen flinches away from him. He's vaguely aware of his teammates staring at them curiously despite Steve's attempts at diverting their attention.
"I'll give back the suit, Mr. Stark," Peter says quietly, his eyes downcast.
Tony shakes his head. "Kid, no, you don't have to do that," he says. He hesitates, at a loss for words. "Kid, why are you quitting?"
Peter shrugs despondently. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately," he says, "and I just don't feel like I'm cut out for this superhero thing."
"That's insane!" Tony bursts out. "You're more a hero than anyone else I know."
"But I'm not!" Peter snaps back. He glares at Tony, teary eyed, and shakes his head. "You don't get it, Mr. Stark! How can I save people when I can't even save myself?"
"Kid, no, what happened—"
"It was my fault!" Peter clenches his fists, glares at the ground. "I didn't fight back, I didn't stop him. I just let it happen, and that's not what a hero does. I'm pathetic and disgusting, I know, so I just… I'm just gonna hang up the suit."
Peter turns and walks towards the elevator, further and further from Tony.
He starts talking before he realizes it, and then it's like he can't stop.
"I was raped," he says.
Peter stops in his tracks, turns around. His eyes are wide with shock. "What…?"
"When I was fifteen years old, I went to a party at school," Tony says quietly. "I don't remember drinking a lot, but I must have because, to this day, I don't remember everything about that night. All I remember is my friend on top of me, and I didn't want it. I told my parents what had happened, and my father punched me hard enough to knock a tooth loose. I've spent the last couple of decades doing my best to bury that night and pretend it never happened."
"Mr. Stark," Peter whispers, his lip wobbling.
"And, like you, I felt worthless, disgusting, and like it was my fault. Because I didn't want to have sex with her, but I didn't say no either." Tony swallows. "Honestly, I still feel that way sometimes."
"But… but you were drunk," Peter protests. "It wasn't your fault!"
Tony rubs his wet, tired eyes. "And you were a kid," he tells Peter. "You should have never been put in that position, and I'm so sorry that you were. I'm so fucking sorry, kid. I wish like hell that you never went through this, because this? This fucking sucks."
Peter sniffles. "Does it get any better?"
Tony sighs wetly. "I wish I could tell you it did," he says. "Some days are better than others." He shrugs his shoulders. "But you're not alone in this, Peter. I swear, you're not alone." He hesitates, doesn't know if this will be welcome, but then he opens his arms.
Peter runs into them without hesitation, crying and sobbing into Tony's chest. Tony holds onto the teen tightly, murmuring soft words of encouragement and reassurance.
"Mr. Stark," Peter cries. "Mr. Stark, I'm not okay."
"I know," Tony whispers. "To tell you the truth, kid, I'm not doing so hot, either. And that's okay. Sometimes it's okay to not be okay. We're going to get through this together, and someday we'll get to 'okay' again."
Peter holds onto him tighter.
Tony keeps repeating it over and over, willing Peter to believe him, willing himself to believe.
There's gotta be light at the end of the tunnel, some kind of reprieve. Because regardless of what he thinks he's worth or what he thinks he deserves, he knows with perfect clarity that Peter deserves so much more than the hand he's been dealt.
And Tony's going to make sure he gets to 'okay' again.
And one day, maybe they'll both get beyond that.