So I read about Peter Parker's comic PSA that was released way back when, where he tells a kid about his past sexual abuse to help them with their own. It's absolutely a horrible thing to read about, but it's also something I thought would be interesting to expand on for the MCU version of Peter, and to attempt to write about child abuse in general. I tried to be respectful and keep things as accurate as I could, but I'm by no means an expect like child services/therapists would be.

This is gonna be, potentially, a three-part fanfic that deals with Peter's child abuse and the aftermath, and will feature some talking between Ned and Peter, May and Peter, and Tony and Peter, probably in that order. I'll add tags as I go, if I continue the fic! This doesn't end on a cliffhanger or anything upsetting. Proceed with caution if it's a topic that upsets you, especially because there are children in crisis in this fanfic, and take care of yourself!

Comments, likes, etc. always appreciated.

(Also, Peter's younger look is inspired by his actor's appearance in How I Live Now.)

This has been crossposted from archiveofourown!


Peter is ten years old when he finally says something.

He sits in the middle of a pile of Bionicle pieces that Ned had brought over to share (cogs and little plastic face plates, reminds him of Iron Man, man, he loves Iron Man). He likes Ned a lot, especially since they both know what it's like to not fit in: people make fun of Ned because he's a little bigger than the other kids, and people make fun of Peter because he's smaller than the other kids. And he only gets weirder with time, of course. But even if Peter chews his nails down to a painful nub, or plucks parts of his eyebrow, or grinds his teeth when he sleeps, or wears jackets when it's muggy and hot outside, or has to change his sheets sometimes, Ned doesn't really care.

Ned's just Ned, and he's super cool with his LEGO sets and expensive superhero action figures. He doesn't need anything in return, in order to be friends. Peter's surprised by this, because he was under the assumption as of late that friendships required special favors; it helps settle his stomach, when the other boy spends the night and absolutely nothing happens. In the days that follow their new bond, they both help each other with their tiny state floats for history; Peter's got California for his project, and he builds a surfer with his surfboard out of nuts and bolts and tacky glue; Ned took Nevada, so he'd stolen dice from the Yahtzee board at his house and bam, Las Vegas, land of lots of money and lights. Peter can't imagine it being any cooler than Broadway, but it apparently is pretty hardcore.

"Hey, Peter? Earth to Peter," Ned waves a hand in front of his face, and Peter just sits straighter and smiles wide like he usually does when he's caught spacing off. Oh, right. Bionicle set. He snaps one toy arm socket into another, and it's satisfying; building things feels nice; it makes sense and accomplishes things. These are the activities he likes doing. He'd owe a million favors like this, if he could. He'd build all day long.

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"Yeah, you do that. I'm gonna go make puppy eyes 'til your aunt gives us more snacks."

Ned thinks Uncle Ben is kind of scary, since he can be real strict and serious sometimes, but Peter knows he's not all lectures or warnings. Aunt May always surrenders to the needs of the boys, though, even after a long day at work. So they sit with their completed figures and eat pizza bites (Peter loves pizza), and Peter's stomach is fluttering with the need to say something, anything. Because the bedroom door is closed. And he's not allowed to say anything to May or Ben, but nobody said anything about Ned — Ned, who gave him a Han Solo figure, free of charge. Ned, who shoved Peter's bully at school once at his boiling point and got in trouble. Ned, who had kept turning down all of Peter's fervent apologies... Good ol' Ned, who thinks Peter's really funny and really smart.

But even though he thinks Peter is smart, he doesn't make him do anything he doesn't want to do.

"Hey, Ned?"

"Mmph?"

"Did you ever get babysat?" He sits up, pushing his rounded glasses back up his nose with the edge of his palm. Sniffs, like it's not really a big deal. Like it's just casual conversation between friends, and not something that'll potentially ruin his whole friendship. "By, like... teenagers?"

Ned licks his fingers and wipes them on his pants. "My nana usually watches me, since she's super retired."

Peter's resolve dwindles, and he 'oh's, quiet and surrendered. Ned's perceptive, though. He's just as smart as Peter, even if he doesn't say it very much; he likes to bolster Peter's shrunken pool of confidence. "You have a babysitter, right? Steven? He seems cool. I mean, teenagers are supposed to be cool, I dunno."

"... He's cool..." Peter chews his fingernail. "He's, um, like. You know. He's cool."

Peter's stomach feels really bad. Maybe the pizza rolls were cursed by an ancient monk. He shouldn't have eaten so fast, but it doesn't account for how itchy his skin feels, or the way his toes curl in their socks. But he plays it cool like Steven Westcott, because he wants to be just as cool as him. "I don't know. Do you — Is it normal to, like, um..." He smooths his shirt down with his splayed hands. "Do you have friends who, who, who. Who... Do things? With you?"

"Uuuh, yeah? Peter, friends do things with each other. Like how we're eating pizza rolls."

Ned throws his hands out, a grand gesture to the almost empty paper plates they came served on. Peter looks at them, at the finished Bionicle sets, at their half-done presentations for school... His stomach hurts worse, and he pulls his knees up a little more. "No, no, I know. I meant... I mean... He told me friends'll touch each other — like, you know. Touching — down there." His voice becomes a whisper, because if Aunt May or Uncle Ben heard him through the door, he'd never forgive himself.

"... Peter, what d'you mean?"

It's slow and uncertain, because as much as Ned knows something's really wrong, he's ten. He's not sure how to reply.

"Steven shows me... stuff. On his phone. Like, really dirty stuff."

"Oh."

"He said friends do that with each other. They look at videos and stuff like that, and they — you know. They touch each other." And Peter's never really had a friend that close before, someone who seemed to take complete interest like Steven did. He complimented him. He did work with him and even did things Peter liked to do. He smiled a lot, even during times when Peter couldn't smile at all — even during times when it seemed like nobody should be smiling, because the wrongness of the situation was radiating through Peter like a deep burn.

He doesn't much like Steven's smile anymore.

Even if he can't grasp the concept yet, he knows, deep down, that it de-weaponizes his will to fight demands.

"Dude, that's bad. That's really bad. He, like, he touches you in those places?" Ned finally manages, though he sounds like he has stage fright, or has answered a call about some great nightmare come true. He can barely get the words out, but he finds the courage to turn toward Peter's curled, defensive form; he's a scrawny, defenseless kid who doesn't have an ounce of fat or muscle on him, and when Peter nods, Ned's frown deepens. Peter can see in him the same slow-burning outrage that Ned had felt when someone made fun of Peter's teeth being too big for his mouth, or the way his ears poke out a little too far. Ned says confidently, "That's bad, like, sick. And he's not supposed to do that. It's like in those videos they show you, to warn you about stranger danger—"

"Please don't tell May or Ben," Peter says abruptly, eyes wide behind the lenses. "Please, please, I don't want them to know."

Ned's eyes are just as wide as his, earnest in his concern. He doesn't smile the way Steven does when things are wrong. He looks just as scared as Peter does. "Peter, they said if anyone ever does that, you go straight to any adults. He's doing something really awful to you, dude."

"No!" His voice is still a whisper, but it's a struggle not to go above one while his whole body shakes with the lurching panic. He pleads, hands together, locked tight in a begging, praying gesture. "If they find out, they'll think my aunt and uncle are bad at taking care of me, and they'll send me away. Mom and dad are gone, and if I lose them, too, I - I'll..."

The air between them is frozen and nauseatingly thick, but eventually, Ned nods.

"Okay," he says at length, maybe because he doesn't want to lose Peter, either. That's a scary thought on top of even scarier thoughts, the kind that are impossible to fathom. "Okay, okay, um. Alright. I'll figure... something out. I'll think of something. I won't tell, though. I promise. We'll figure things out."

The rest of the afternoon in each other's company is spent in tense silence, the bedroom door closed and Ned rubbing a few awkward circles into Peter's back, as Pete fights the pricking burn of tears. Ned says, over and over, "It's okay, I'm your friend. I'm not gonna leave you, okay? I'm your friend."

It makes Peter embarrassed, to have not known that this was what 'friend' actually meant, in layman's terms.


"Alright, Skip, there's 20 bucks on the counter if you boys get hungry," Ben says.

A rich, friendly laugh. "C'mon, Mr. Parker, my grandpa calls me Skip."

"Pete, honey, are you alright?" May leans over the top of the couch to look down at the boy, who has a large textbook in his lap — one of those English/Reading ones that have the excerpts and short stories. He's been quiet since Steven got there. And Ned's been equally as quiet, at his side, subdued despite his pleading to hang out with Peter for the weekend. May presses her lips into Peter's unruly hair, and Peter closes his eyes, relishing the kindness from his aunt.

She'd never know, because the bruises he collects are typical little boy bruises. Steven never bruises him. It's not like he forcefully does anything, because Peter only shrinks away — but never struggles, so it never actually hurts, never makes wounds. He can feel Ned watching him from the space next to him, unspoken, ugly secrets between the elementary schoolers.

"I'm okay, I'm just kinda feeling sick," Peter says.

"I'm gonna look after him! Don't worry, May," Ned speaks up.

"Should we pick up some Tylenol for you, before we go?" Ben asks, sliding a hand over Peter's forehead to check for a temperature. "No fever. Maybe a little clammy. Skip, you think you can keep an eye out, make sure he's not running anything later?" Peter shakes off his adoptive father's hand, wrinkling his nose; he's becoming a really good actor, or at least good enough that Uncle Ben considers it health defiance.

"I'm fine, Ben. Honest."

"Mm. Well. Try not to overdo it, anyway, kiddo."

He doesn't tell Peter to do his homework, because both of them know Peter always does it without prompting. Because Peter is a very good boy; Peter never causes trouble; Peter would never do anything to hurt them — and so he twiddles his fingers as they leave through the front door on their night out, the first one they've gotten to have in a long while. They both look happy to have it, and Peter keeps his mouth shut, like he always does.

Steven Westcott is a senior in high school, and he'll be an adult in the summer. He's had a bunch of girlfriends, but he's always been good to them, he's told Peter. He had also described what he does for them in bed, and had promised to show him how to get girls when he's older, too, but if it's anything like what they've done before — then Peter never wants a girlfriend. Steven Westcott has a cool jacket and he's good at football. He kind of reminded Peter of someone who'd be behind a Power Ranger's mask, before. One of those actors, sharp jawline, a kindness that told you he'd keep you safe (a dirty trick).

Really big, and muscular, and impossible to fight back against.

His heart is hammering in his chest, and when he glances at Ned from the corner of his eye, he looks... scared. This was a really bad idea, he thinks. This was a really big mistake, and he shouldn't have let Ned come here. But the two of them watch Cartoon Network, soaking in their dread, while Westcott talks to his girlfriend on the phone for an hour or two. Or three. It could have easily been ten hours, for all the focus Peter had on tracking time.

Ned puts a hand on Peter's knee and leaves it there, a reminder of a promise.

As long as I'm hanging out, he can't do anything.

The conversation on the phone seems like it goes sour, at some point, and Steven's annoyed by the end of it, pinching the bridge of his nose when he wanders out from the back of the apartment, his phone pocketed in his tight blue jeans.

It sets Peter on edge.

They order pizza, pineapples on top, Peter's favorite (Steven knows this well), and Steven asks questions about Ned's family, friends, schooling, favorite activities. Peter's thinking about all the terrible outcomes to this — he shouldn't have involved Ned. He should have turned Ned's plan down. And now he sits reliving those terrible afternoons and nights where May and Ben couldn't save him, just like he won't be able to save Ned. He can't protect him, he can't protect anything, he's not strong enough, and being smart hasn't stopped Steven from touching him—

Steven reaches over Peter's arms to hand Ned some napkins, and fruit punch ends up all over the front of Peter's shirt as the plastic Star Wars cup topples from his shaking hands.

"Aw, geez, Einstein, chill out," the teenager says (threateningly? calmly? sympathetically? angrily? Peter can't tell). He stands Peter up from his stool the moment the opportunity presents itself and Peter just — just obeys, like a clay figure in class being propped back to standing. Ned looks between the two of them like he's not sure what to do, his hand weakly hovering at empty air. Steven's been waiting for this. Steven's good at taking advantage of a situation. "We'll be right back, Ned. Pete's gotta get out of these clothes and wash off."

He winks, tugging at Peter's hand, and suddenly the child is not himself anymore, leaving his conscience at the table, with the pizza and the Goosebumps books and Iron Man sketches, because he's scared to take all of himself into the bathroom, in case all of himself gets messed up there; he leaves the good parts of himself with Ned, all the parts that Ned said he thought made him awesome.

If he doesn't let any of that into the bathroom, then none of it can be ruined—

But then there's a hand clasping his, tugging him back toward the kitchen. He squeezes it back instantly.

"That's not a good idea. He'll be embarrassed," Ned manages. "I'll help him."

Steven looks peeved now at the interruption, brow wrinkled, his fingers like burning ice where they're curled around Peter's much smaller wrist. "Okay, who's the babysitter here?" And there's something so sinister in that tone, that Peter isn't sure if he'll be able to keep dinner down.

"I said — no," Ned mumbles, weaker, unable to look into Steven's eyes.

But his grip on Peter's hand is strong.

Especially when Peter looks desperately at Ned, behind glasses that seem too big for his face.

"Leave him alone," Ned whispers, almost inaudible now behind the drone of the refrigerator and the hum of the ceiling lights. They stand in a dangerous stance of tug-of-war for a never-ending moment with their breaths held, Peter's heart nearly jacksawing through his ribcage. He can't stop trembling, and Steven sees it. He sees how the pieces are falling into place, how Ned looks at him in steadfast caution, how Peter looks at his babysitter like he's going to eat him alive—

He sees that his little game is over.

And he runs.

He wordlessly grabs his nice, new backpack and goes right out the front door in a mad escape from the nothing that chases him, cold sweat on his brow. Ned rushes to cling to Peter and bursts into tears the moment he does. And Peter — Peter rubs circles into Ned's back, staring at the door that slowly begins to creak back shut, eyes dry and listless. Fruit punch is staining Ned's shirt now, too, but neither of them can move away from each other.

Peter says, "It's okay."

It's okay, because when the Parkers come home to the two children, alone, there's at least no Steven (and really, it's the best case scenario, isn't it?). It's okay because Peter finally confesses that he'd been bad and got Ned involved when he shouldn't have been; they promise he's not going anywhere, and he hasn't done anything wrong (are they sure about that?). He has to sit with people who are qualified for this, because May can't talk about it without breaking down into tears, and Ben gets so angry he can't even think straight (and so he just cries, too, because he can't do anything with his anger), but it's okay.

He feels like he is a friend-ruiner, but Ned hasn't stopped holding his hand, like he's scared that Steven will come back the moment their fingers separate. Ned's parents come and get him, and his hand is too hot and sweaty by the time Peter gets it back.

Peter tells him later on, after the therapy and apologies, "It's okay if you don't wanna be my friend."

"Dude," is what Ned leads with, clasping Peter's skinny shoulder in his hand as they sit in each other's safe company. "No way."

Peter still wets the bed until he's almost thirteen, but that is a secret Ned can really keep for him.

Years later, the two of them walk through a bustling high school after one terribly botched home-coming. Peter's chest and collarbone are littered with cuts and bruises from large metal talons, after a night of fire, of scraping metal and a crashed airplane carrying priceless crates. It's yet another secret to hide under his hand-me-down collared shirt and cheap gray sweater, but this time, it's something he can actually live with. His footfalls feel light; he can see without his glasses; he's all muscle; he's stolen Cap's shield and has fought next to Iron Man.

He also fought as Peter Parker, just Peter Parker — and he won.

And when Peter tells Ned that his best friend had saved him, he knows it's not the first time.