no erase
chapter two – the lucky one
Summary: Peter Parker is just a kid—he's goddamn fifteen years old. Tony knows that—or, he should at least know that. But sometimes, Tony, even Peter himself, forgets that one tiny little fact. Or, in which Peter decides to take the whole world's burden onto himself, when he really, really doesn't have to.
Prompt: I have once again come back to this "fandom" – if you can call it that, altho I never rly was part of it at all to begin with, just watched the films and fell in love with them the first time around, then got sick of them and moved onto some other things and the like – because clearly I have an affinity for fictional Peters, AKA Peter Pan AKA Peter Maximoff AKA Jason Peter Todd, and troubled little boys who have issues, lots of issues (I'm quoting Bruce Wayne right there btw) and I'm also a sucker for familial relationships, blood or adopted so let's roll on with this.
A/N: Not beta'd, and plot's been decided. (READ FHIS PART AT THE END OF READING THE CHAPTER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO GET SPOILED!) I want to keep most of it a surprise but let's just say it's kind of a different take on the Venom symbiote story arc in Spider-Man 3 with Tobey Maguire. I mean, the idea is there, and it's sort of similar but it's really not. Also, if you've ever watched Inuyasha between episodes 42 to 54, then you'll probably know where I'm going with this. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I just don't own The Avengers, be it the comics, films or cartoons.
It feels like drowning—dying feels like drowning, at least that's what Peter thinks. He probably is dying—and if he's not, he's going to, soon. So much water, his lungs collapse under the tight lack of air, and everything is blue. But it's peaceful—beautiful. So he doesn't really mind it much. There's no bright light, the way that people think happens, it's just blue, soft hands, and darkness. He guesses, that's what he gets for diving straight into this whole mess by himself—he'll die alone, and that's okay.
Push the meds in, he's going into shock again—do something!
A voice flits through, and Peter wonders why it sounds so—familiar. His fingers twitch, and he reaches his hand up—to nothing. There's no one there. But he can feel it, the presence—it's right there by the tip of his trigger finger. He tries to breathe one more time, but water drowns him again and again, and it's getting harder, and harder to stay awake.
What the fuck are you doing, he's not ready for that, don't fucking touch that!
A pulse. He feels it. It's warm, and it's glowing, and it's coming from something inside him. His arm fights through the thick water, and he lifts it up, so that his palm is touching the side of his chest that buries his barely beating heart. He can feel it, a silent thudding, a calling—a pleading. The desperation is real, and it's rough, and he knows that voice like he knows the hand that touches his forehead. He feels Tony.
I'm not paying you to be any kind of incompetence, do you fucking know the risk of this?!
Peter's eyes are wide open, but he doesn't really think he's seeing anything. Everything is so blurry and fuzzy, and he's so dizzy, and all he really wants is to get out and see Tony. He struggles to break free from the holds of the murky waters, holding his breath in as he feels the surface coming up. But the current is strong and stubborn, and he keeps getting pulled back before he can even make it back out.
He's in VT, and not showing any signs of slowing down—Tony, if we don't do it now he may die. You have to get out!
Peter lingers on for a few minutes, allowing the current to take him further and further away from the surface. He doesn't think he's breathing anymore, doesn't even understand what's going on. He knows he's dying—that much he's sure of—but there's a fight in him that he can't control. A fight that wants to live, a fight that wants to stay. So he stays.
One, two, three, CLEAR!
A flash of white, and Peter can feel a surge of energy running through his veins. His vision is clearer, and he sees down below a water vacuum beginning to form that pulls him in deeper into its depths. But Peter can't let go so he struggles to swim up—and another light flashes. He feels it again, that surge of energy, along with the increasing hold of the water that tries to drag him down, but he doesn't care because right above the surface—he knows—is heaven better than death can offer. So he breaks free, and comes up to breathe in the salty air—the fresh oxygen, and the wind against his cheeks.
"He's back!"
Peter's eyes blink rapidly, before they stay firmly open, lead coughs forcing their way out of his throat. There's so much going on around him that he doesn't understand, so he tries to look around for Tony, but he can't see past the scramble of nurses that surround him, and doctors putting away the AED machine that shocked him back to life. His hands are twitching by his side, but his arms are paralyzed due to the amount of IV needles that dig firmly into his veins. He lashes out because that's all he knows to do, ripping the needles out, pulling off the electrodes scattered around his body, and screeching to his heart's content, trying to make sense of what is going on.
The doors slam open, so strong the glass actually cracks, and Tony arrives panting with wild and worried eyes. They land on Peter, taking in the sight of the boy, alive, and breathing—but he's so pale, his arms are bleeding on and on, there's so many visible scars, stitches, and bruises, and Tony doesn't think his heart can take looking at the boy and his suffering form. He purses his lips tight, and marches over to Peter, careful with every step to not scare the him away. He tries to act casual—as if he's not been panicking just outside, and screaming at every goddamn nurse and doctor that came his way. And Peter reaches out to him, shiny tears in the corner of his eyes.
"Kid, you alright?"
Tony breathes out, and Peter can't hold it all in anymore—he breaks. He cries hard and loud, and the doctors all scurry away to try and stop the bleeding on his arm, fussing to reattach his IVs. Peter curls into a ball and Tony leans in to hug him with strong protective arms. He doesn't really know what's going on—and Peter hardly does either—but he's sure the kid is scared, and he's still just a fucking kid who's so small and light, Tony actually wonders if this is the same person that dresses up at night to fight off evil doers in one of the most crime infested cities in all of America.
"I—I don't—don't know what's ha—happening with me."
Peter stutters out, a heavy weight choking him, and he can't stop the tears from flowing, and he can't remember how he got here. He feels Tony's palm on his upper back, gently patting him.
"Kid, kid, listen to me, okay?" Tony lets him go, and pushes him to lie back down on the bed, gesturing for the doctors to leave them alone. "What happened tonight—it can't happen again, do you hear me?"
"Mr Stark, I'm so sorry if I worried you—"
Tony doesn't let Peter finish. He brings up a hand as a gesture for Peter to stop talking—so Peter does, following a thick swallow as he looks up into Tony's dark eyes. Tony breathes in deep and closes his eyes, just for a moment, trying to scramble back those words that's caught in his throat.
"You've got to stop—stop whatever descent this is." He starts, eyes opening, and staring right into Peter's own wide ones—wide eyes like a wounded bird that clenches Tony's heart. "You may think it's alright, you may think what you're doing is the right thing for all of us—you're not."
"I don't know Mr Stark, I honestly don't know what's going on with me!"
Peter desperately speaks but Tony is not having any of it as he stands up in a snap, causing Peter to jump in startle on his bed, salty tears forming in the corner of his eyes. He thinks Tony's going to shout at him, and he knows he deserves it, but it doesn't stop the drop in his stomach, and the tightening in his heart. He braces himself for the screaming as Tony starts pacing up and down the tiled medical room—and speaks. He doesn't shout at Peter—he speaks.
"Remember what I said about Captain America?" Tony lays out carefully, halting his pace to bend down and place a firm and steady grip on Peter's shoulder. "How I said that he thought he was right, when he wasn't? And that made him dangerous—that's you kid. You're a danger to yourself."
"But I—"
"I don't know what you're thinking or what you're trying to do, but the past few nights can't continue on, because you can't do that to your aunt, and Happy, and you especially can't do that to me." Tony grips him tighter, a desperate sensation crawling up and down Peter's arm—he feels the tremor in Tony's hold, because the man knows that if he lets go of Peter now, he might never get him back. "We're old people Pete, we can't take that kind of stress."
Peter squirms from the suffocating hold, but it only makes Tony hold on tighter. A whine escapes his mouth, and Tony lowers his eyes to stare directly at Peter's exposed chest and wounded heart.
"Whatever it is that you think you're doing, it ends right here, okay?" There's a forced softness in Tony's voice, one that made him hoarse and scratchy, his eyes patchy, and his cheeks red. "Don't be so fearless you turn reckless, and don't think just because you can heal faster than most that you're going to be okay—because you're not."
"I will be though!"
The snap comes out of nowhere, and even Peter can't believe the words that just came out of his mouth. He stares wide eyed at the man in front of him. Tony tries one more time to bring his eyes up to level with Peter's quivering, dilated ones, that are screaming help me – even when Peter refuses to admit it himself
"I've seen your test results kid, the ones for your blood, sugar and body fluids—and they are way too low for a kid with the size of your metabolism." Disapproval surfaces in the way Tony speaks, and Peter wants to so badly protest, but his mind is a mix and mosh of things he can't understand and Tony talks on because he cares. "And we're going to talk about that soon, but first, you need to listen to me because there's something important I need to tell you, okay?"
Tony sits down the bed again, his grip still never leaving Peter. The noises the machinery surrounding them triggers Peter's ears, and he can't focus on the words that are coming out of his mentor's mouth. He tries tho, but his head hurts, and his wounds are itching, and—oh god, he thinks he might go into another shock. But Tony doesn't notice because Peter can't talk from the breathlessness, and he looks like he's fine on the outside but inside he's dying to scream that there's something going on inside of him that he can't explain and it's fucking scaring him.
"It's okay to be afraid—heck, I'm an old man and I still get scared." Tony says, and it hits right just where he wants to, so Peter opens his mouth with the littlest bit of bravery he's got left, but Tony needs to say this before he forgets so he doesn't let Peter speak. "And you know what scares me, Pete? It scares me—every time I put on that suit, I'm scared it could be the last time I ever do. Every time I walk out this door kid, I have thoughts, awful, awful thoughts of the day ending and me never waking up to see the next. You have no idea what fear is until you've felt, every single time you kiss the woman you love, having that one thought right there in the back of your mind that that could may well be the very last time you ever kiss her. But you know what scares me the most, Peter? It's that I die knowing I still could've done more for the world than what I've done for the whole time I was alive. I'm scared of dying and knowing that I haven't done enough."
It's quiet, just for a little while. Peter feels lost, and his head is still spinning with so many unsaid words m, and so many things he can't quite comprehend. But he hears quite clearly what Tony is trying to say—that his biggest regret is not being good enough, and Peter thinks he might just not be. He wants to tell him that that's why I'm Spider-Man because Peter Parker isn't good enough for this world but Spider-Man can be, but the words die down as Tony squeezes his shoulder enough to bring him back to reality.
"See that suit, that Spider-Man suit I made for you? All those protocols were not in place because I didn't think you could not handle it—I put them there because I wanted to keep you safe, to preserve you so that you won't have to go all out trying to survive out there." There's a reckless sigh that Tony breathes out, his thumb jerking sideways as he gestures for the suit that's lazily hanging over across the other side of the room, ready for Tony's repairs. "You can go and put on that suit and save everybody from the bad guys, but just remember that every time you risk your life out there saving someone else, you are that much close to dying at fucking fifteen, kid."
Peter doesn't make a sound, he just looks down down on the hand that's gripping his shoulder. It's tight, and uncomfortable, but somehow he feels protected—and that's not right because he should be the one doing the protecting. But Tony's words are sharp, like blades that stab every little bit of his heart with truth that he refuses to confront.
"And that's all on you."
"I know."
He finally croaks out, but Tony only shakes his head.
"You may have enhanced capabilities, but you're still a kid. A kid who has so much more to offer."
"What else can plain old Peter Parker do?"
Tony lets out a frustrated huff. He's not getting it—this kid is not getting it rams in his head, and all he wants is to just slap Peter right then and there if it could help him understand that being Spider-Man wasn't the only good thing about him. He tries to calm himself, clenching his fist and loosening his hold on his shoulder—he tries to remember that Peter is an emotionally unstable, hormonal, teenager right now with a lot of issues, and he can't yell at him—just yet. So he opts to continue speaking, hoping somehow, some way, the words he speaks can get through the kid's stubborn heart.
"Listen to me kid and listen well, alright? I'll tell you this one thing."
Peter squirms again, under his hold—under his stare. He can tell the kid is anxious to fight back with words of denial and protest, but can't give him the chance until this kid finally gets it.
"See these here—see this brain of yours, and this heart of yours." Tony gently taps the temple of Peter's head with his one free hand, before he lets that same hand fall to rest above Peter's heart. "That is the greatest asset you can ever contribute to this world."
Peter swallows thick. He can taste invisible coins stuffed in his mouth. He can't breathe, and his whole body is shaking. And Tony is still talking.
"And if you die before you can even do anything with it, and if you die as Spider-man—the world will never know what that Peter Parker kid could've done to save this goddamn world."
Peter feels the sentiment—he hears the words but it all doesn't really do much for him when he's not listening. A little too caught up in his own thoughts, he doesn't get the full effect of the words Tony says—they're just words and as of right now, they don't mean anything. He looks down with guilty eyes—guilty for not listening, guilty for not understanding, he doesn't really know—and the man takes it as if Peter understands—which he doesn't. But it doesn't matter because Tony—Tony is finally lifting his hand off Peter's shoulder, and patting him gently with his heavy hand. He's looking down on Peter with worried brown eyes that hurt—just a little bit—in a way that makes Peter want to scream.
"You're the lucky one kid, because you've got heart, and you've got what it takes to save this world, so stay please—long enough to see through it." Tony finally stands, but his eyes are still locked onto Peter, taking in every inch of the kid's scars, and aching bones—before he sighs. "Get some rest."
Tony grabs the suit on the side, and with one last glance, and one last pat, he makes his way out through the cracked glass doors. Peter is still looking down, on his hands with all the cuts, and the way it shakes from the crumpling fear that bubbles inside of him. He hears the footsteps fade, and the glass doors close. The doctors come back in to try and fix him up but he doesn't move at all—he just lets them do what they sought to do. And once the IVs are properly back in place, and the electrodes are perfectly stuck to his bare chest and stomach, they scatter out to give him some time to himself.
When he's sure they're all gone, he lies himself back down, bringing his right hand up to inspect. There he sees, all the typical bruises and battle scars that's left from the past few of weeks of self-destruction. They're slowly, but surely healing—except for one. There's a mark on his wrist where his vein runs through that he can't quite get rid of. It dates all the way back to eight weeks ago, when he's sure this all started. It's small, and barely noticeable—and if not for the perfect focus on detail his dialed up vision provides, he probably would never have known it's there. But he can see, and he feels it festering. And this small moment of silence without the pain searing all over his body, and seeping through his thoughts, allows him the chance to think clearly and gather his everything that's scrambled itself up in his mind.
"What happened that night?"
He mutters to himself, trying to recall the specific events of eight weeks prior when his healing started to fail him and everything in his veins screamed for him to do things recklessly on impulse. It's still a bit of struggle to get his memory to cooperate, but his body remembers quite vividly the hands, the touches, and the momentary high. He thinks of flashes, sirens, syringes—last night hadn't been the only time an unknown substance has touched his skin. Even if the readings for the acid from the night before says that it's all been flushed out of his system, he knows that's not all that's in him. There's something else disrupting the calm inside him, and his stomach twists at the thought of it.
"What did that guy mean by three steps?"
Intoxication.
He tries to rack up the events as they slowly unfold before him. High-tech weapon tip from Aaron Davis, and a mad scientist on the loose selling unidentified substances.
Peter remembers going through a dark alley where some guy with ugly teeth and yellow eyes had been handing out syringes, and syringes of pink liquid. He tried taking the syringes from the guy, and made sure to chase off all the kids that bought them. But the guy had something else in mind and tried to wrestle Peter with a smaller syringe filled with black liquid inside. Stronger and faster, Peter obviously got the guy off him with ease—but not before the guy dug the syringe needle right into his wrist. The full bottle of black liquid came flowing into his bloodstream, but he didn't have time to do anything about it as the man scrambled from the ground he was thrown on to get away. Peter made to chase him but whatever it was that was injected into him began to take effect.
Every inch of his body burned for the longest time, and it exploded like fireworks inside—hot, blistering fire works that coiled itself into his bloodstream, attaching into every inch of whatever cell it came across. It's been so long since he felt anything like that before. It was almost like—like that time the spider bit him. But this was worse—way worse. He couldn't breathe, and every time he opened his mouth and flare his nose to inhale in any bit of oxygen, his lungs would wither and collapse on him, and it made everything harder, and harder to take in. And just like that, his eyes snapped open.
He woke up on a bed in the med bay of Tony's private Stark Tower—one that was built just like any other New York skyscraper on the outside, but with all the equipments and machinery that was found within any other Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. compound on the inside. It was built with both he and Tony's needs in mind—and everything that could assist, Happy, Pepper, Rhodey and even Aunt May. They were the only people – aside from the trained staff and professionals Tony hired – that knew about the existence of this particular tower. He looked to the side, through the glass windows, where Happy was talking away with the assigned doctor. Peter wiggled his nose trying to get the nasal cannula off, as he made a barely audible whine—but it was enough to get Happy's attention. The older man sidestepped pass the doctor and barged his way into Peter's room. He sat down on the chair just beside the bed, and looked down at the boy with concerned eyes.
"Hey kid, how are you doing?"
"Happy, what happened?"
"You tell me." Happy raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a frown. "I just found you in an alleyway passed out and barely breathing."
"I—I don't really know." Peter croaked through, eyes down as he searched his hands for answers, eyes focused on the small bump on his wrist. "I was fighting some crazy drug dealer in a lab coat, and then—that's it. That's all I remember."
Happy looked at him, eyes sharp as if he was trying to read if Peter was lying. But the confused and dazed eyes that looked back at him told that the boy was telling the truth. So he relented with a sigh and stood up from the chair.
"Well, if that's all you remember then we can't do much about it." He pocketed one hand and took a phone out, and Peter eyed him with a suspicious look. "Better rest up—the Boss can't see you right now since he's in a place where we can't contact him but he'll be back in three days and he'd like a full report on what happened to you."
Peter's eyes widened.
"No, no, no, no, no, no—Happy, no!"
Peter jumped up and tried to struggle his way out of the bed and all the other wires attached to him
"That's an absurd amount of nos." Happy lifted another eyebrow up. "What's up, kid?"
"Happy, please don't tell Mr Stark!"
"Are you kidding me?!" Happy nearly screamed as Peter winced at the high octave of Happy's voice. "The boss will have my head if he finds out I hid something like this from him!"
"I know, I know but please—you can't tell Mr Stark!"
"And why not?"
"Because if he finds out I messed up again, he's going to take the suit away and I can't have that happen again!"
Happy looked at Peter—really looked at him. The kid's eyes were brimming with unshed tears that were forcing their way out. His ragged breath was heavy and labored, and Happy could see him shivering through the loose med gown he wore. He sighed, and took a step forward.
"Look kid—"
"Happy, please."
Peter begged. His pleading eyes caught Happy by throat, and he swallowed every bit of reprimand he wanted to lash out. He couldn't do it—not with the kid looking at him like that. So he took in a heavy deep breath for himself, and spoke words he knew he would regret for the rest of his life.
"Okay."
Peter nearly collapsed with relief on the bed.
"On one condition."
"Of course, anything!"
Peter eagerly responded.
"Next time something like this happens—next time you need help, you call. I don't want to be getting a message from your AI at three in the morning of you having passed out in one of the most notorious places on Queens again, okay?"
"Yes I promise."
Peter nodded vigorously, a little too excited for Happy's liking. But even as he rolled his eyes, he couldn't help the tiny smirk that forced its way onto his mouth. Happy readied to leave, but a single thought struck him—he turned back to Peter, eyes a little more serious than before, and inspected him up and down.
"Lab coat, huh?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
Happy paused, halfway between Peter's bed, and halfway to the door. He wanted to stay and talk more to Peter about that throwaway comment, but he wasn't so sure where he would go with it. So he shook his head as Peter tilted his own in confusion. Happy closed his eyes, before he finally turned to face the door. He pushed the door open, and with one last look at Peter, he muttered.
"It's probably nothing."
It's probably nothing.
Probably.
Nothing.
Peter's eyes snap open as an emblem resurfaced itself into his memory. The little tidbits of that night—small details he completely ignored, all finally coming into view. The man's glasses and his yellow eyes that weren't really yellow—just tired. The spiders that scuttled the cement floors as he was pushed down to the ground by the lab coat man, and the bag of pink drugs that smelled an awful lot like poppies. And two more words uttered by the man as he squeezed in every last drop of the black liquid into Peter.
Deterioration.
Preservation.
Peter sits up, and once again starts pulling at the wires and needles stuck to him. His eyes are looking around the room, restless for any sort of movement that might indicate there's someone coming. His ears strain—and when it's all clear, he hops off the bed and crawls up the ceiling. He notices Friday's camera zooming in on him. Peter curses, bringing a finger up to his lips in a gesture for Friday to keep quiet.
"I cannot keep secrets from Mr Stark."
"Friday, there's something I have to do—something that will help with whatever's going on with me right now."
"I cannot keep secrets from Mr Stark."
The AI responds more sternly, and Peter sucks in a breath.
"How about delayed information?" He stutters out. "I mean, technically you wouldn't be keeping secrets from him—just holding off on telling him until I'm safely out of the compound?"
There is a quick minute of calculation—but Peter thinks it feels like years.
"There is no such protocol regarding you that disables me from delivering delayed information." Friday sounds and Peter almost jumps down to the floor in a flurry of relief. "However, I advice you that this is unwise."
"I know, Friday."
"Mr Stark will find out, and when he does, you will not be easily forgiven."
Peter breathes.
"I know."
"Very well, I shall pause the camera feed for approximately ten minutes. Once these ten minutes are up I will sound an alarm to Mr Stark making him aware of your absence."
"That's okay, can you guide me to my suit?"
"Mr Stark is currently working on it in his lab."'
Peter hisses, but doesn't say anything back, instead he just crawls his way out of the of med bay, trying to find the closest room with a window. He figures if can't get his suit back tonight, he'll just use his old one—besides, after what he's planning to do, chances of him getting that suit back is pretty slim. Finding the nurse's tearoom empty with the lights out, he crawls in and closes the door, eyes looking out for any movement that could risk him getting caught. When coast is clear, he unhooks the window open, and jumps out, scaling the side of the Avengers compound, and stumbling into a bush below. He makes a quick scan of the area, before dashing for the gates, careful not to get caught by the trained night guards—after all, they're no match for Spider-Man, even on his weakest day. Once he's past them, and out of the compound, he makes mad run for the closest highway—it'll take awhile to get there, but if he hops on a vehicle en route back to the city, he might just make it in time before dawn breaks again.
It only occurs to Peter then that he's been out for a whole day—and that he needs to let his Aunt know that he's okay. That he made it through the night and that he's coming home back to her soon.
But you're leaving right after, and you know that.
A nagging voice whispers, but he doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he thinks about the man who, in about three minutes is going to find out that Peter's on the run—he thinks of how he shouldn't be doing this, but he knows he must.
"I'm sorry Mr Stark." Peter whispers, more to himself than anything, as if doing so is going to atone for whatever he's about to commit. "Take my suit if you want but this is one thing I have to do for myself."
All Peter knows is that he needs to find that guy that injected him with the black liquid that night because whatever it was, it's doing unexplainable things to him. And he's got a hunch on where exactly to start looking—especially because, he knows now for a fact that it has something to do with how he got his powers. The emblem flashes back into his mind as he runs through a field, letters forming into one very familiar title.
OSCORP