[Peter is seriously unhinged here so please prepare yourselves dearies]
Just a quick plot bunny that's been bouncing away in my head for a while. Hope you enjoy :D
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Prologue
There are times where Peter often mistakes water for blood.
Of course, the water has to be warm. Peter's never felt cold blood before and if he ever were to, he's certain he'd be skipping PE during the summer and never shower again. It's hard enough taking cold showers – even though he's slowly gotten used to it – if he were to never shower again, Aunt May would
Well, Aunt May wouldn't say a thing.
She never does.
Peter closes his eyes, feels the warm water rush over his hands and the smell of copper fills his nostrils.
"Uncle Ben, who did this? Who did this to you?"
"Another chore from Stark?"
Peter opens his eyes, see's Sam's reflection in the cabinet glass above his head and grins.
"Just making his life a little bit easier. It's the least I can do."
Sam smiles ruefully, "There is such a thing as dishwashers."
"Electricity bill."
"Kid, you're way too young to be worrying about taxes."
"Didn't you hear? My generation matures early."
Sam raises his hands in defeat, "Fine. Have fun with the suds you weirdo do-gooder. If you need me I'll be in Natasha's room."
Peter silently turns his head to stare, making Sam go scarlet.
"Not like that! Jesus, kid how old are you?"
"My generation – "
"Leaving." Sam marches off. Ears burning. "I'm leaving!"
Peter's smile disappears the moment Sam does, leaving him staring at the dirty dishes from lunch soaking in red bubbles.
They weren't really red though, that was simply his imagination.
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Part I
Tony Stark adopts him sometime after Aunt May gets hospitalised.
"Why?" Peter had asked, genuinely interested when he's told by the social worker. The woman, older than his aunt, looks as though she had swallowed a lemon at his question.
"Be grateful you're not in an orphanage like all the other boys and girls your age." At Peter's blank, expectant look she eventually gives him the answer he wanted. "Mr Stark is a distant cousin of your late mother's. Be thankful to God next time you pray."
"Huh."
Tony Stark isn't what his nine-year-old self would have expected. He doesn't appear in the Iron Man suit like an avenging angel. He doesn't flash a dazzling, front cover page smile, or give him a hug for his mounting loss. He simply turns up in a sports car, expression strained, and signs the dotted line.
He doesn't help him with his things. He doesn't even look at him when Peter politely introduces himself.
It's like Peter wasn't even a person.
Didn't even exist.
Tony Stark, Peter thinks behind his civil smile, you are an asshole.
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Peter has misgivings about believing in superheroes.
It started when Uncle Ben died in his arms on a dirty sidewalk. His cries left unanswered even to the dosed up homeless man across the street.
He had sat there, in a pool blood and piss with the scent of cheap alcohol and excrement hanging in the air.
(That was also the time he realised that when people die, nothing's there to stop them from urinating)
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"You must be Peter," Captain America greets him when Peter's settling into his new home. The man is large with biceps bigger than his face. There's a phantom pain somewhere deep in his shoulder from the last time they met.
It wasn't on great terms. The man had interrupted him from work by grabbing and shoving him against the alley wall.
Peter holds back his wince when they shake hands.
"Captain," he nods.
"Please," Captain gives a dimpled smile, and Peter can't believe this is the same man that has a kill count higher than Charles Manson. "We'll be living under the same roof from now, so you have the freedom to call me by my God-given name."
"Thank you," Peter says. Meaning it. He couldn't imagine living with someone and calling them Captain.
It sounded like a bad porno.
"It's a privilege."
Steve doesn't notice the difference between the lie and the truth, and decides to casually engage him in some small talk. About his history, school, friends – of which he makes up on the spot – and some other pointless things like hobbies or sport.
"Not the sporting type either, huh?" Steve appears to empathise with him. "I heard your school likes basketball." Oh? Peter wonders. Starting to get a bit irritated at his prodding. "No interest?"
He thinks back to Flash. All the times he and the basketball team got away with beating him black and blue, taunting him, shoving his books. Being the general classification of the shit society cherishes.
He thinks; those sons of bitches and answers with a shrug, "Not really a fan, to be honest."
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Night after night, Peter lay awake in his bed staring at the mould on his ceiling. Waiting for the call from the station saying they had caught him. The man who made him sit in a homeless man's drying piss as he cradled Uncle Ben in his arms.
The rage of revenge burned the back of his throat. An itch behind the shoulder blades he couldn't scratch.
Night after night Peter waited.
The call never came.
Eventually Peter stopped waiting.
When Aunt May came in to check on him, his bedroom window was open. Curtains swaying in the night air.
"Oh, Peter."
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His new room is bigger than his old one. There's lots of space to fill, and Peter finds it easy doing just that. Due to his family being on the poor side, it takes less than half an hour unpacking.
When he's done, Peter lies on his new bed. Immediately groaning on impact in pure, shameless satisfaction. The mattress is softer than a bed of clouds and coerces him into sleeping.
Someone knocks at his door.
What the fuck?
Peter raises his head to stare accusingly at an unfamiliar, but sort of familiar head peaking in.
"Little man?"
"Yeah?" Peter responds cautiously.
"Dinner." And then disappears. For a long moment Peter wonders if he might have hallucinated the whole thing and lies back down. But then the door opens again and the same head pops back in.
"Little man, dinner."
Still unsure, Peter slides out of bed and pads out the room, following the mysterious man down a corridor and into the main room. A table that wasn't there when he came has materialized, and with it all of the avengers minus Miss Potts who had introduced herself in the elevator not an hour ago.
Peter pauses a few feet away.
When Aunt May was in the hospital, Peter remembers breaking down to Gwen on the phone. He remembers telling her every horrible thing that lead up to that moment, remembers heaving and almost throwing up as truths spilled out in an ugly rush. Peter can still hear her soft, forgiving voice telling him that everything was alright and he didn't need to feel scared.
He remembers how on that same day, his phone had died. Peter had dropped it on the subway that morning.
Also, Gwen was six feet under next to her late grandma.
"You alright, Pete?" Steve asks while pouring the man who says 'little man' too much, a glass of water.
"Uh-huh." This situation was shitty. Peter strolls over, trying to act casual while his hand brushes uncertainly against a free chair next to a scary-looking man. His heart steadies at the soft wood and Peter grips it confidently. Seating himself down and observing the food on his place.
Chinese?
"None of us cook." Steve blushingly admits.
Again, this was a man who's a complimentary serial killer.
"Not to your liking?" A woman with red hair, Black Widow, purrs more than asks. It has no desired affect on Peter other than slight wonder at how she did it.
"It's fine," he smiles.
This is horrible. He thinks, nose hairs coiling when he takes a curious sniff. Did they order this from Hell's Kitchen? It smells like somebody drenched it in sesame oil and prayed they wouldn't notice.
There goes my stomach lining, Peter thinks mournfully.
"We'll order whatever you want tomorrow night, how about that, Pete?" Steve says, enthusiastic and bright.
Peter wishes he could stop calling him Pete.
"I'm honestly fine with whatever." He says with forced kindness.
Not Chinese, not Chinese.
Tony finally looks up from his phone and digs into a spring roll. "Great then, more takeaway for me."
Peter stares at Tony, imagining what he'd look like in place of Uncle Ben.
"Here, here!" the man who says 'little man' raises his glass in a toast. Tony returns it heartily.
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Flash is waiting for Peter at the end of Chemistry with a look of determination and grief. Peter passes him with a clipped, "Not today, Flash."
Flash appears after PE.
"Not now, either."
Flash keeps on appearing after classes, during lunchtime, it starts getting a little ridiculous by the end of the day making Peter almost break his locker when slamming it shut. Just as he does though, Flash is besides him. Looking earnest.
In the past Peter might have given him the benefit of the doubt.
Now, Peter doesn't have the patience.
He turns heel and stalks down the corridor, bell signalling the last class and people scatter.
"Parker, come on man. Please hear me out."
He jogs up besides him, still talking and all Peter turns to him, wondering what he'd look like dead. Would he look like Uncle Ben? Face slacked into a stupid expression? Mouth open, eyes far as though caught in a thought.
Flash doesn't look anything like that though. He's earnest, apologising for his bad behaviour, giving sincere-sounding condolences for Gwen, Uncle Ben and Aunt -
Peter suddenly shoves Flash into an empty classroom. Slapping away Flash's hands that instinctively come up to protect himself and trapping him against the teacher's desk.
"What the – "
"That expression you have on," Peter cuts in. "I used to look at you like that. Although," his hand reaches out and gently cradles Flash's cheek. The other boy flinches and stares at him wide eyed. Openly unnerved. "My face was bruised from the hits you had given me and I couldn't see for shit, could hardly hear myself pleading for you to stop over my own goddamn heartbeat." His thumb rubs gentle circles under his eye as he says in a soothing voice. "Do you know how pathetic it feels to beg, Flash? I had to lie to my fucking Aunt every time you and your looser friends beat me up. Had to tell my seventy-year-old aunt so many lousy excuses, I'm certain she's wised up and realised her only grandson was being bullied. Do you know how pathetic that made me feel Flash, do you? You fucking asshole? To lie. Over and over again to someone I love? It's so…" He closes his eyes. Rage building and dying inside of him.
"Parker." Flash whispers.
Peter opens his eyes slowly to see an indescribable expression on the other boy's face.
"My aunt isn't dead," he says. Adamant. " You fucker."
"Parker, what…"
Sighing, drained, Peter backs off. "Stay away, Flash." He warns.
Flash is left standing in an empty classroom.
Stumped.
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