Author's Note: Okay.
Whoa.
Just. Whoa. Thank you guys so much for your flood of support! I am blown away. I really thought that this story would be read by like, three people, and sink into my dashboard. But no. (I really can't believe how many people were interested). Really, your comments and favs/kudos have meant so much. More than I can say. Thank you! Thank you!
Warnings: Death idolization thoughts (not quite suicidal), some violence, blood, and implied/referenced past child abuse.
NOTE: NOTE: NOTE:
I'm kind of ignoring Endgame ending canon, if, y'know, you hadn't come to that conclusion. For me, it makes a lot more sense that since Thanos halved the universe, Bruce and Hulk were separated, rather than merged together. So I'm saying that after they snapped again Hulk and Bruce came back together post that, but Bruce was alone for five years. I just...Hulk is a part of Bruce, but he's not Bruce. So yeah. :)
2.
"So where's the kid now?" Natasha asks, if a little breathlessly, twisting left to avoid Tony's punch. He grits his teeth in annoyance, dodging Natasha's roundhouse kick by staggering back a couple of steps. She recovers herself smoothly, as she always does. He would have toppled to the floor, but Natasha lives on her toes. She never gets off-balanced. He lifts his fists, trying to breathe. His shoulder pinches where the brace is digging into his skin uncomfortably, but he ignores it.
The brace whirring as he bends his elbow is a little harder to, though. His body didn't make noise like that before the second Snap. And now, here he is. Slowly becoming more machine than man. First the arc reactor, now his arm. What's next?
"Here." Tony says, backing up so he can circle around her. "I brought him back after the ER. You honestly think that I would leave him in some shady parking lot? No. He's asleep upstairs."
"Asleep or 'asleep'?" Natasha questions with a raised eyebrow. Tony grits his teeth, remembering Peter's exhaustion when they finally got to the Tower. The catatonic rise and fall of his chest, but the numbness of his eyes and words.
Honestly, "asleep" is probably a better word for it, but he's trying not to be a pessimist.
"Asleep." Tony snaps, going for her stomach. Natasha blocks it with ease, their forearms slamming together. He winces for her sake, fully aware that the brace doesn't feel like the kiss of an angel. The assassin doesn't seem to care, yanking her arm up and going for his face. Tony jerks their connected arms to throw off her aim. Then, when the threat has passed, he says breathlessly, "Given everything that happened, I don't blame him. When he wakes up, I'll ask more questions, but I don't see it being for a couple of hours."
Natasha's lips purse, blind eyes flitting wildly for a moment before she twists their arms away from each other and throws a false punch towards his shoulder as her hand wraps around his wrist and she twists it behind his back, yanking up. He grimaces, his fingers flexing in an effort to escape, but finding no relief.
His left hand moves, the brace making that awful noise again as he attempts to use momentum to pull himself free. It doesn't work, and Natasha's grip only tightens.
A slight noise escapes his throat.
The pain hurts, but that was the point of all of this. He needs to hurt. He deserves it after his ignorance.
"So what are you going to do about it?" Natasha's voice is oddly flat.
Tony wiggles his wrist, but Natasha pushes him forward, using the position like a leash. "I don't know yet." He says tightly. "I just know that Peter's not going back there. He can't. Aren't we legally obligated to tell the police about what's going on now that we know?"
Not that bringing the police into anything has ever been remotely helpful. If they needed the law on their side, they'd use S.H.I.E.L.D., but Tony doubts that he can get Coulson wrapped up in this without it becoming one big, ugly legal mess.
"Yeah." Natasha's voice is casual. "But that's never really stopped you before."
She pushes him forward another step and Tony sees his advantage, hooking his foot around her ankle as she completes the step with him and pulls. Both of them go toppling backward, but Tony twists from the grip in a roll, leaving Natasha to catch herself. And she does, flipping up to her feet and wiping stray blood from her nose away.
They're both sporting nose bleeds now. Tony also has several bruises forming on his stomach from when she did manage to make contact. The skin of Natasha's upper arm is split from when he got her with the brace. The metal may be smooth, but not nearly as much as it should be. He doesn't doubt he could peel fruit with it if he really tried.
Tony bites back a groan. "I don't know. I don't want to make things worse for Peter by running in there, throwing myself into the whole mess and not accomplishing anything."
"He reached out to you." Natasha points out, pointing her bare foot for a moment as she tries to stretch her ankle.
Neither one of them bothered to change before coming down to the gym. Natasha is still in her black tank top and sweatpants, Tony in the first clean pair of shirt and pants he found in his haste to get to the car and Peter.
"Yeah." Tony says, miserable. "I just wish it meant more. It just...he was so tense. Like he expected me to snap and start throwing things. He wasn't like this in November. I would have noticed if he was like this. Did things suddenly go from bad to worse in three weeks? How could all of this have happened and I didn't notice anything?"
He dives for her now, attempting to catch her off guard and use up the pent up energy, but Natasha must hear him coming—that stupid clunky brace—and pulls out of the way. Tony rolls up to his feet, and Natasha is on him again their hands moving wildly.
"You lived in another State," she says, breathless, "you only communicated via phone once a week or texting and, even as much as it seems to the contrary, Peter is more adept at keeping secrets than we give him credit for."
Tony snorts, twisting his face away from Natasha's punch. "Yeah. Right."
"You didn't have any reason to suspect—" Natasha tries again.
"Yes, I did. I knew that Peter didn't like Matt, but I didn't think it was to the extent of this. And if not for that, then I should have known because my father did the exact same thing!"
Peter was not supposed to have to go through that. No one should.
He scowls up at her. "You're supposed to be the super spy. The all-knowing Sherlock. You were with him the whole time I was, and yet you said nothing. You didn't even notice, did you? Or did you and you didn't bother to make a note of the fact that my kid was being abused?"
It's an ugly word. One that makes his stomach crawl and a sick feeling teeter at the edge of his tongue. He hates the word with a passion. Both because of what it means, and what it does.
Natasha's fist slams into his face. The shock of it startles him, and the force of it sends him crumpling to the hard floor before he can catch himself. His head smacks and his vision blurs for a moment, blood pooling in his mouth.
Natasha is breathing heavily, but her temper seems to have reached its limit. "You want to blame me for your ignorance? Fine." She snaps. "But get off your stupid yagoditsy. I may not know the kid well, but I liked him. Moping isn't going to help anyone, least of all him." She takes a wavering breath and then adds imperceptibly softer, "I know what you're doing. Why we're down here."
He looks up at her, wiping blood from his lips. "Yeah?"
He feels strangely cold, and he knows it's not because of a low temperature.
Natasha squats down next to him, her head tilted dangerously. Red-blonde hair is sticking to the sides of her face. She didn't bother to tie it back. There isn't a point anymore. It doesn't exactly impair her broken vision. All it does is wave in her face and get in her mouth. "Tell me how using me as a punisher is going to help, Tony."
He stills. He feels oddly wordless, and Natasha releases a disgusted noise. Her lips part to say something else, but at that moment the door to the room opens.
Both of them flinch, turning to face the entryway and Tony releases a soft curse under his breath, shooting a glare towards FRIDAY's camera for a moment. That's about all the time he has before Steve asks in a tone that's barely a controlled shout, "What are you doing!?"
Natasha releases a word in her native tongue that causes Tony's eyebrows to lift. One of the first things he learned from her—not Natalie, Natasha—was how to curse in Russian. He knows the good ones.
Natasha all but leaps up to her feet as Tony scrambles to his, standing by her side. He feels stupid, like a elementary school student who just got caught fighting in the hallways by a teacher. Steve is moving towards them rapidly, taking in their appearances. Bruises, blood, he can see the captain categorizing everything and knows that he's probably not going to walk away from this one without a reprimand.
"Sparring." Natasha answers to Steve's question.
"Why are you here?" Tony demands instead, wiping blood away from his nose. He wants to sneer, you're less than welcome, but he bites on the end of his tongue to control himself.
Steve comes to a stop in front of them, arms crossed, eyes tight. "What part of Bruce's warning not to get into any serious brawls did you not understand?" He demands flatly.
"We understood all of it." Natasha reassures, and the fact that she's snipping at Steve proves just how much he set her off. Great. An angry Natasha is not fun to manage. "We just chose to ignore it."
Steve shoots her a look, but it's pointless. He knows that eleven years of habit are hard to break, but Natasha doesn't see them anymore. The quick glances, the reading of expressions—it's all gone. He knows Natasha is angry with this. It's why she punched him. If she had been at her best, Peter's problem would have ended in November. He knows that he shouldn't have jibed there yet, because it's a raw, flayed wound that he shouldn't go poking with a stick at.
But what he knows and his mouth says are sometimes two vastly different things.
"You should have been more careful." Steve chides, taking a step forward and lightly taking Tony's left hand to stare at the bloody knuckles beneath the grip. Tony buries a sigh of annoyance, but has long since come to accept the fact that within the Avengers, Steve is pack mother. He worries over everything constantly, even if there isn't a need.
Really. He and Nat will be fine come a few days and ice.
Steve's frown deepens. "No more sparring. For either of you." He lifts his gaze pointedly to Natasha. "You aren't ready."
Natasha's expression flares for a brief moment and she swings a leg out to hit him, but Steve easily avoids it. "Nat." He says, resigned.
The Widow just scowls at him, arms crossed over her chest. Tony bites on his tongue, but shares her frustrations. Ever since the Snap everything has been different. He feels like an invalid now. He and Tasha, the broken ones.
Shut up.
There isn't time for your drama here, Stark.
Stark men are made of iron, remember?
"Pepper sent you." Tony says flatly, redirecting the conversation away from the thick, heavy topic. "Is it eight?"
"Yeah." Steve's gaze is still distant. Natasha grumbles something under her breath about Steve in her native tongue that isn't very pleasant and the captain winces before Natasha storms toward the door and yanks it open, storming out into the hall. Tony represses a groan, but only just. The captain shoots him a pointed look, barely above an irritated scowl.
"What?" Tony snaps.
"Nothing." Steve says, even though it's clearly a lie. Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes and flexes his fist, blowing out a long, steadying breath. He doesn't push Steve for answers, he doesn't really care. (He does, but he's being yanked at in so many directions right now that he doesn't know how much further he can go.)
Tony moves for the door, but stops when Steve grabs his arm. "Tony," his voice is softer, as if having remembered something upsetting. Tony glances back at him, and has a pretty good idea on what when he sees the heat behind Steve's calm exterior. "Pepper told me what happened. With Peter."
Peter. Not "the kid" or "your intern", even "Spider-Man." Steve has only called him Peter a handful of times that Tony can remember, and it makes him slightly sick to think about how much everything has just changed. This doesn't just affect Peter now, everyone who knows him is bait for the dangling string that is Matt.
But Peter is in the center of that hurricane, and unless they do something quickly, he's going to drown.
"How much?" Tony questions, letting his shoulders slump.
Steve is quiet for a moment. "Enough. Were you going to tell me?"
Tony hesitates. He...doesn't know. Ever since Siberia everything has been...hard. He and Steve never had the best relationship beforehand, but after Thanos and the Snap and...everything, they had to pull themselves together for the rest of the world. The trust is there again, and Tony doubts that anything could break it, but Peter is...Peter.
Tony would protect him with his life, even if that meant he had to do so from his teammates. His family.
"What would you have done if I did?" Tony questions instead of answering.
When Steve speaks, it's Steve, not the Captain. It's not the leader of the Avengers, a hardened military leader hidden beneath a cold exterior. It's the broken man that hides beneath all of that. "Was he bruised?"
Tony gives a slight nod.
Steve's expression darkens some, "Then I probably would have done something stupid involving grabbing my shield and bashing someone's skull in."
Tony eyes him with mild surprise. "You…" he repeats, and wonders for a moment if, when the rest of the team learns this—and they will, because secrets aren't common between them, not after Germany—if Matt is going to make it to New Years. Or even tomorrow morning. "You don't even know him. Not really."
Steve shrugs, as if that's only a minor inconvenience. "I do know him. I haven't spoken with him much, but I've heard you talk about him. And even if that wasn't the case, it wouldn't matter. He's important to you, so I'll protect him."
Tony tries to stop himself from openly gaping. Steve eyes him sadly and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We'll figure this out, Tony. I promise."
"But without the legal problems of a murder?" Tony mutters, moving for the door and trying to shake off his surprise. He hadn't really expected anyone to agree with him.
Steve snorts. "I never said that it was off the table."
And with that, the two of them move towards the elevator. They leave behind the conversation in the gym and Tony forces himself to pull together a semblance of a man excited for Christmas. He's not. All he wants to do is scream into a pillow and hit something. But he's already hit Natasha and that didn't really help.
So what will?
000o000
When he wakes up, he doesn't open his eyes. He lays on the mattress, the blankets wrapped around his frame, but doing nothing against the cold that's radiating from inside. He feels exhausted. Dead-weight. His body isn't responding to his demands, instead insisting that he go back to bed and ignore that he even thought about getting up.
But Peter has...things. He can't remember what they are, only that he has things to do and he can't rest yet. Work? Is it work? No. That doesn't seem quite right. Does he have school? What day of the week is it? What day of the year is it?
Peter hesitates again, but with far more effort than is probably normal, pulls his eyelids apart.
His brow furrows for a moment, because he knows his ceiling. He knows the patches and the scrapes and the repaint that he wasn't there for, but memorized from so many sleepless nights. This isn't—
Oh.
Oh.
Memories quickly sweep through his brain: ending up in the middle of New York, spending the night in that alley. Nearly freezing to death. Walmart. Tony. The hospital. Peter attempts to shift his right hand and feels the unfamiliar embrace of the cast and the sling immediately responds.
He bites on the inside of his lip before glancing towards the clock and feels as his eyes widen. Six. Six PM. He slept for the entire day. He and Tony arrived at the Tower—he actually called Tony—a little before seven, didn't they? That's like, what? Ten, eleven hours? He can't remember the last time he slept for that long. He didn't even know he could sleep for that long anymore.
He shoves up into a seated position, his body groaning with aches and protest.
He winces, shifting slightly so he can lean back against the headboard and glances around the familiar room again. This is where he was staying over the summer, when he was trying to help Tony until he moved out of the State. This is where he hid from Matt and May in July and August.
And here he is again, doing the exact same thing. Full circle.
He sighs and tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling. His arms hurt. His toes and fingers feel funny. No. His fingers feel kinda swollen, but mostly just his right hand. Given the broken bone, he guesses that's to be expected.
He's still so freakin' cold. He wraps his arms miserably around himself and tugs his knees up next to his stomach. It's six PM. It's Christmas. Peter ran away.
Peter ran away.
He hasn't seen May (or Matt) since the twenty-third. He's...he should feel guilty about that. He really should, but he just...can't. He can't feel anything. Just exhausted. His eyes feel raw like he'd been crying, but he can only remember doing that when Tony started asking—
Tony knows. Tony knows about Matt. Tony is going kill Matt. Pepper is going to help him. He's just sentenced someone to death by opening his big, flapping mouth and now all that's going to happen is a strong kick in the backside. Why did he have to say something? Why couldn't he have just sputtered up some excuse about Spider-Man—his heart twists at the word, longing not strong enough to describe his need for the other alter ego. But the suit is still stuffed in May's closet and has been since he broke her trust—and then, using said excuse, managed to convince Tony that everything was fine?
Then he could have...gone back. And it would have been fine. It really would have. Because Peter's not six. He can handle himself. And he's almost eighteen now. He could legally have moved away in what? A year and some months. Something like that. He's...he would have...have been fine.
Peter grabs his at his hair with his left hand and tugs on it, gripping the strands between his fingers desperately as if yanking can somehow give him the relief that he's seeking. His brain is too loud. His thoughts too chaotic. He wants to be sick, but he'd just sit there and dry heave as if it will help.
He has to go back. Pretending that staying here is going to be permanent is hilarious. Tony has a family now. He has Morgan. Pepper. Peter can't just impose in on that. Like he did Christmas. Morgan is still young, Christmas actually means something to her. He should have just waited until the twenty-sixth before asking...or just...just not done it at all. He was fine yesterday. He survived. He still has all his body parts and that's really what matters in the long run, doesn't it?
How long does he get to hide here?
How long is this going to last?
Is May going to call the police? If she does, will Tony get arrested if he stays here? He didn't even think about this last night. All he'd been focused on was the fact that he was cold and alone. As if somehow his discomfort is going to magically be solved by getting Tony arrested. He should leave. Go back to his proper…
He can't. He can't. He can't go back. His entire body refuses and he draws in a gasping, horrified sip of air. His stomach feels like its cramping with panic. He squeezes his eyes shut, ashamed. It's a building, not a torture room. He's just. He's doing that thing again. Amplifying up the dramatics to make his situation seem worse than it is so he can be justified in his actions.
He ran away.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and releases his scalp, slowly shuffling around the blankets so he can escape their embrace. There must be six or seven piled on top of the comforter. That explains the weight.
Peter moves towards the door on numb feet and hesitates for a moment, listening for any signs of movement. After what must be a minute with nothing but the sound of his breath and heartbeat pounding in his ears, Peter grabs the handle and opens the door to the hall.
No one immediately leaps out and demands what he's doing up. No one's there. His shoulders slump some with relief and Peter stumbles down the hall towards the shared bathroom between the rooms. He spots Morgan's door and hesitates when he sees the Christmas decorations plastered on the front. It's clearly a child's work with a ragged paper tree and glitter-covered decorations with Pepper's handwriting spelling Merry Christmas across the decoration like tinsel.
It's Christmas.
It feels like the middle of September. He can't seem to get his mind to catch up with time lately.
Peter shakes of the thoughts and moves for the bathroom, pushing the door open and turning on the light. After using the facilities, Peter splashes water onto his face and stares at himself in the mirror for a moment. He doesn't recognize himself. The black sling wraps around his jacket tightly, making him seem slightly shorter. His eyes are haunted, shadowed, and heavy, like he's bearing a physical weight on his shoulders. His hair is longer, bangs flopping down his forehead, almost past his eyebrows, lazily. His face is more hollow and he looks…
Peter doesn't know. Sick isn't the right word for it. Maybe infected with a terminal disease?
I noticed you don't put effort into your appearance lately, Ned's voice from their argument before school let out slips through his head, soft and deadly, you must not be looking in mirrors. That's good. You don't have to stare a hopeless case in the face every day.
Peter flinches back from the mirror, twisting around sharply so his back is facing the mirror and he's facing the white wall. The room is ocean themed. There's a painting of a lighthouse with the word "beach" written out over it with stickers. There are sea shells surrounding the painting.
His breath is escapes him hard and fast.
Don't have to stare a hopeless case in the face every day.
That's what it was. Not plague victim. Hopeless case. He looks like a hopeless case. Peter's grip around the counter tightens. His left hand's fingers strain, grumpy, and Peter glances at them once to see they're still a little red. Swollen. Frostbite. Because even with a healing factor, he's not immune to it. Wandering around in single digit weather for about forty hours probably didn't help his case. He shouldn't even be alive.
That isn't lost on him. He just...didn't tell the doctor about that. He said he'd been wandering around for about six and—his stomach jerks when the conversation is yanked up into the forefront of his mind. The doctor's sincere, concerned questions about whether or not Tony was the one who gave him the finger-bruise. Or if he was shoved, not pushed. He had barely been able to give coherent responses because he'd felt so horrified by the suggestion that all he'd wanted to do was scream.
Tony's never done that to him.
But what if…
Stop it.
He shoves his way towards the door, smacking against it sharply when his feet almost give out. His toes are numb and he can't balance properly without feeling his ankles. It's like knowing that they're attached to his feet, but being unable to sense the ground. His knees clap against the door and he grimaces when his hand slips and he crumples fully to the bathroom tiles. Because Tony has one of those expensive bathrooms with tiles and a huge bathtub and soaps that probably cost more than Peter's entire paycheck.
He can't even make it to the door.
This is pathetic.
He squeezes his eyes shut and leans against the wooden frame for a moment, desperately trying to calm down, but not having much success. It's like he's screaming at himself, but he's deaf to all the words. His chest is heaving like he's crying, but he's not. He thinks he might be panicking though. It's hard to tell now. His body is so tense all the time that he can't ever really tell what "relaxed" is anymore.
With effort, Peter draws himself up and opens the door, stepping back into the hall. He doesn't go much further. He turns off the bathroom light and stands there for a long moment, debating what to do. His stomach feels like it's caving in on itself—when was the last time he ate something?—but his body insists for more sleep. Does he find someone? Or does he...not do that?
"Mr. Parker," he startles at the voice, nearly jumping a foot in the air as he whirls to face behind him where the speaker is installed in the corner. "My apologies," FRIDAY's voice is calm, "I didn't mean to startle you. Boss asked me to inform you when you awoke that the Avengers are having a Christmas dinner on the communal floor. Will you be joining them?"
Suddenly he feels a lot less hungry.
He likes the Avengers. He does. It's just...that's a lot of people. And he looks like a half dead-thing drowned in a well. (A hopeless case.) And they'll ask questions. And he'll inevitably ruin their Christmas like he does everything else by dragging his problems into it. And then they'll all be plotting murder against Matt and Peter doesn't want them to kill him. He makes May happy. And...that's all that's supposed to matter in the long run, isn't it?
Peter gets pushed to the side because he's not as important as them.
Or their child. Because May is pregnant. He didn't tell Tony that. He didn't tell anyone. He thinks if he tries to form the words on his tongue, they'll only get caught and he'll be left there fumbling around and making squeaking noises. He can't even process that. May has a human being growing in her. Said human being is Matt and May's actual child. Their birth child. The one that was not forced upon them after the Snap.
"Mr. Parker?" FRIDAY's voice has a touch of concern. He flinches again, yanked from his thoughts. "Are you alright?"
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His throat is dry and his tongue frozen.
"Would you like me to get Boss—" she starts.
"No!" Peter interrupts, his voice weak and gravelly. It's hoarse. He needs to find water. He moves for the kitchen restlessly, his body walking the familiar halls as if he's lived here his entire life. But his feet still aren't working right and he has to grab at the wall several times to stop himself from face planting.
"Mr. Parker," FRIDAY's voice follows him. "I think it would be for the best if you laid down."
He shakes his head, moving forward. He passes Pepper and Tony's room and bites on his lower lip when all he can think of is May and Matt and the Soul Stone dreams that have become all too frequent as of the late. May's rejection. She's his aunt. The only mother he can really remember. Isn't she supposed...no. That's unfair. He shouldn't...shouldn't assume that of her.
He makes it to the kitchen and fumbles around the cabinets, looking for glasses.
"Would you like me to inform Boss that you're awake?" FRIDAY questions, her voice slightly hesitant. Peter feels some surprise was through him at the realization that FRIDAY hasn't done so already. He would have thought that the moment he started shifting around on the bed that she'd have alerted the entire tower with alarm bells and flashing lights.
But no.
She didn't.
And Peter doesn't know why.
"No," he whispers softly, voice still hoarse. He thinks if he tries to shout all that will escape him is a little gasp. He can't speak up. He can't even scream. He can't—
Peter manages to find a glass and fumbles with it, but his fingers aren't working right and the glass slips from his left hand tumbles to the floor, landing on the brown-gray tile with an explosive shatter. The glass shoots across the space in large and small junks alike, digging at his socks and into his numb feet and toes.
He stares at the glass for a long moment, uncomprehending.
He just wanted water.
And he...broke Tony's glass. Shoot. Peter's body alights as if struck by a poker then and he swears under his breath, fumbling with his hand as he tries to remember what to do. You're not supposed to touch broken glass, right? Paper towels and a broom or something? He broke the glass. It's Christmas themed. He can see a decapitated Rudolf staring at him accusingly from where he's laying detached from the rest of his body.
Christmas themed glasses always bear significance. Maybe this was the first set that Pepper and Tony got for their wedding and Peter completely obliterated one of them. May was always fastidious about this. She only used her set of china on Easter and Christmas on occasion.
He moves frantically, spinning around and trying to remember where Tony kept a broom in this ridiculously large space. Cabinet. Pantry. Did he keep it in the pantry? Who keeps brooms in a pantry? (He broke the glass. Tony's going to hate him now. He broke the glass.)
He moves, but accidentally steps directly over the glass, having forgotten it was there.
A darker swear escapes his lips.
"Mr. Parker, I believe it would be in your best interests if you remained where you are." FRIDAY says patiently. "I'll alert Boss of the situation."
"Don't!" Peter pleads, twisting his foot up awkwardly so he can yank the decapitated Rudolf from his perch inside Peter's arch. "Please. He'll be mad."
"I have my doubts." FRIDAY argues, sounding almost exasperated. "He has a five-year-old daughter, Mr. Parker. This is hardly the first broken glass he's encountered."
But it's Peter's fault, and Peter has to fix it. Matt is going to be so furious—
Peter moves his numb feet around the glass and dives for the pantry, ripping open the door. He locates the broom behind the door and yanks it off of the hook and grabs the dustpan. He moves back to the shattered pile of glass and tries not to be sick. First he ruins their Christmas by dragging them out to some shady Walmart in the middle of nowhere, then he sleeps the whole day away like a lazy bum, now he breaks their Christmas glasses.
"Mr. Parker, you're shaking." FRIDAY says quietly. "Are you cold?"
No. Yes. Maybe. He doesn't feel quite right. Detached from his body in a way that doesn't feel natural. Like PeterExe has stopped working and he needs to reload the computer or restart the program. But there's something fundamentally wrong with the code, so it won't help—
The dustpan lands on the floor with a clatter and he flinches, snapping back to the present. His left hand tightens around the broom like a weapon, and he forces himself to calm down. His hand trembles around the handle, but he moves methodically, awkwardly maneuvering the tool with one hand as he sweeps the glass away from the island and the oven. His fingers are aching.
He gathers as much as he can into the dustpan and then tips it into the trash, repeating the process twice before there's no evidence of his mistake. Well, no evidence except the blood smeared across the tiles. He blinks at it.
"Whose blood is that?" he whispers.
"Yours, Mr. Parker," FRIDAY answers. She seems confused and concerned at once.
Peter shakes his head, "But I'm not bleeding." He protests. He looks down at his feet and sees that his black socks are sticking to his feet. He moves back against the counter and, with a shaking left hand, slowly pulls the sock off of his foot. The skin is a mess of blood and little tingles of glass clatter to the floor.
"Oh." Peter says quietly. "That's my blood, isn't it?"
"Yes." FRIDAY agrees. "Mr. Parker, as per protocol, I am required to let Mr. Stark know when you have been injured. If you will remain where you are, I can send him your way and—"
"No." Peter protests, shaking his head. He doesn't want Mr. Stark to see. He's...it's...he broke the glass. The magic Christmas glass and decapitated Rudolf. "I'll find him. Would that...would that work?" His throat is still parched. He wants to be sick.
FRIDAY hesitates. "Yes."
Peter moves for the elevator, one bloody sock in hand. Distantly, he's aware he should clean up the blood all over Tony's kitchen, but he can't get himself to. He doesn't feel right. His body is tipped like he's been pushed underwater and now he can't tell what way's up.
It's…
Almost like...
Like vertigo.
000o000
Peter staggers into the communal room and scarcely has time to take a brief look around the room before a small body rams into him, hands wrapping around his waist. A "oof" noise slips through his lips in surprise. He looks down at Morgan who shifts some to smile brightly up at him with wide brown eyes.
"Peter!" she exclaims happily. "You're not dead."
"I'm not," Peter says, but he sounds more surprised than anything else. He bites on his lip heavily, but Morgan's brow is furrowing as she looks up at him. She pulls back slightly to take him in completely and her eyes linger on his sling.
There's an understanding there that makes Peter uncomfortable, but she doesn't say anything about his arm. "I told Lila that my brother would be here," she declares, hands on her hips, "she didn't believe me. But I was right."
Brother.
Peter feels himself blanch.
Brother?
But for that to be the case, Tony would have to be his parent and...that's...no. No. It's not like he doesn't want that, but it's not. It's not what it is. It can't be. Peter has to go back to Matt and May's apartment eventually. They're his guardians. Tony's...not. As much as he would like to pretend otherwise, he's stuck with Matt and May. Eighteen has never felt so far away.
"I'm not your brother." Peter says. His voice is still hoarse. He doesn't trust himself to get water. He'll just break another glass and remove something else's head.
Morgan's hand reaches up but she stops and then looks at him. "Why are you holding a sock?"
He beheaded Rudolf. That's why.
Peter looks down at the sock for a moment and then up when he hears someone moving towards them. Tony. The Avengers are sitting on the couches in the lounge area, plates in hand. There's no table, but Peter isn't very surprised. He can see Steve, Rhodey and Natasha sitting next to each other, the Barton family crammed into one of the couches with Ms. Maximoff, Falcon and Sergeant Barnes squished on the other end. Thor and Loki appear to have forgone any social norms and are seated on the coffee table. The rest of the Avengers aren't facing him, seated on the couch facing the far wall.
"Hey," Tony's voice snaps him to the present and Peter looks away from the group, snapping his attention up to the multi-billionaire. "I didn't know you were up. You doing alright? You look kinda pale."
"Why is your face bruised?" Peter questions softly. It looks like someone took a swing at him without restraint. Tony's hand lifts up towards the area and winces when he touches it. His lips press together for a moment and he offers a strained smile.
"Christmas present from Nat."
"She punched you?" Peter asks dubiously.
Tony shrugs. "Something like that. You're swaying. Little Miss," he addresses his daughter, "why don't you go finish dinner?"
Morgan pouts, folding her arms across her chest. "I want to talk to Peter, Daddy."
It's Christmas. Christmas is a happy holiday. People get together. They don't drag each other out to Walmarts and impose on the previously arranged celebration. Peter did that. He actually did that. Oh, gosh, he doesn't want to talk to Tony. Tony is going to bring up Matt and Peter is only going to cry again because he's pathetic.
Tony is going to say when he'll have to go.
Because Peter can't stay.
"I'm bleeding." Peter whispers, refusing to look at Morgan. Tony's expression flares with some alarm and he reaches out a hand to rest against Peter's shoulder, but Peter flinches violently back from him. Tony's hand snaps back like Peter yelled and hissed, breathing fire at his face.
Peter bites his lip, ashamed, and looks away. It's just Tony. It's not...it's just Tony.
"Okay," Tony's voice is even. "Let me get Bruce. We can deal with this first and then some food. Alright?"
No. Peter doesn't want to deal with anyone. Why did he think that getting up was a good idea? He shouldn't have called. It would have been better for everyone. Then he could have gone back to Matt and May's and...and what? Pretend that the stairs never happened? That Matt doesn't hate him? What?
Tony must take Peter's lack of a response as a yes, because he turns and shouts, "Bruce!" into the open air. Peter winces, but feels every pair of eyes in the room slide up and linger on them. The attention makes something in his stomach drop, a hollow sort of dread sinking into every crevice. He can't...they can't...
Stop staring.
Peter grips his sock harder. The room has gone quiet, studying him. Peter thinks he might be sick.
Bruce looks back once before he makes a slight "ah" noise, setting down a plate and standing up. Peter feels his stomach give a slight lurch, but Tony jerks his head for Peter to follow. Peter does so with reluctance, his feet still numb and tingling.
Bruce catches pace with Tony easily and glances back at Peter for a second, eyeing the sock with confusion. They're moving near the counter, towards the other door that leads out into the opposing hall. Tony's goal is clearly just to get them outside of the room, and Peter can't say that he's arguing with that fact.
The three of them exit the communal room and once the door has lapsed shut, Tony and Bruce turn to him expectantly. Peter has the sudden, strange desire to stuff the bloody sock into his mouth and run down the hall screaming.
Peter stares at them with wide eyes, but his mouth doesn't want to move.
Tony and Bruce stare at him, waiting.
Back and forth they go.
"Glass." Peter manages to squeak out. He sounds like he was nearly strangled to death. "I dropped." Why can't he say something right? A full sentence. Something? It's like his voice was taken captive the moment Matt shoved him. Maybe when his arm snapped. Or later, when Tony was trying to talk to him about what happened.
Tony knows.
"You dropped something made of glass?" Tony interprets. Peter nods. Tony shares a glance with his teammate before moving towards one of the doors and shoving it open. He gestures for them to move inside and Peter follows, seeing that it's some sort of office. Tony moves inside first and, after a minute or so, Peter is seated on a hastily cleared desk and balancing one leg over his knee as Bruce studies the cuts on his foot. Tony runs to the nearest bathroom to grab a first-aid kit and once it's opened and the equipment is spread out next to Peter, Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose and tilts Peter's foot back and forth in the lighting.
Peter can't feel Bruce's fingers on his feet. He watches as Bruce cleans the injuries and dresses them, but Peter doesn't say a word. Tony doesn't really talk, either. Bruce cleans the wounds and they sit in silence.
It makes him uncomfortable.
He breathes. Out, in.
The minutes drag.
"Where did you break glass?" Tony asks at last. Peter sees Bruce's eyes jolt up to the man as if surprised he broke the silence. Peter picks at the edge of his shirt, bunching it up between his fingers before letting it go. He tries a few times before managing to get a few words out.
"I decapitated Rudolf." He whispers. He looks down at the ground. He feels...small.
"You…" Tony repeats. "You decapitated...what?"
"Clean down the neck." Peter continues as if Tony hadn't said a word. "I didn't mean to...I just wanted water." His voice drops further, barely audible.
He sees a hand from the corner of his eye and flinches back from it, nearly toppling backwards onto the desk. Tony draws his arm back again, face tight like he's been struck. Peter's lips press together, but he sees as Bruce freezes in the edge of his vision, hands stilling. The doctor stares at Peter and then Tony back and forth before he exhales sharply.
When he opens his eyes, there's the briefest flare of green.
Hulk.
Peter did something to—
"Argon." Bruce seethes the word between his teeth like it's poison.
Peter nearly vomits. He knows, too!? Does everyone!?
Bruce turns sharply as if heading for the door, but Peter jerks a hand out and grabs his wrist. Bruce stops, looking back at him.
"Don't hurt him. Please," Peter breathes. "Please."
Bruce's jaw is tight, but he glances once at Tony, taut and silent before jerking his wrist from Peter's grip. When he speaks, it's through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to kill him. I was going to get you some water. Don't move yet. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Bruce leaves the room, but looks like he's having a hard time not slamming the door shut. Peter wraps his arm around his stomach and tries not to be sick. If he'd known what saying anything would do...he would have kept his mouth shut. He just wanted...he just wanted and…it, like everything else lately, blew up in his face.
He needs to go back to Matt and May's. He has to go now. Before he does or says something else to make it worse. Peter was just being dramatic. If he'd just...he can't stay here. He's making everything worse because he's overreacting to everything. Yeah, Matt shoved him, but did he really expect that Peter's arm would break?
And May is pregnant, but is her ignoring him anything new now?
He can't let anything happen. Not anything worse than what already has.
He hates this. Peter hates this so much he thinks that his insides are rotting. Withering. He can't handle this anymore. All he wants for Christmas is a headstone with Peter Benjamin Parker written down the front. He can't handle this. And no one else in his life will, either. All they'll want to do is be violent and break some bones.
But that isn't going to fix anything. Not long-term. And Peter is tired of bandaids.
He has to go back. He can't stay here. He can't. For the sake of keeping everyone out of prison. (And it wasn't that bad. It really wasn't.) The thought makes him sick, but his resolve is settling and now there's nothing—
"Peter," Tony's voice is quiet.
Peter doesn't look at him. "I'm sorry," he whispers.
I can't tell what way is up.
"For what?" Tony stays where he is, but Peter can tell that he wants to reach out and touch his shoulder. Tony's always been physically affectionate. And Peter's made a mess of that, too.
"It's Christmas," Peter answers cryptically. "I ruined it. I should've…" waited until tomorrow. Not called. He keeps those last ones to himself. If he hadn't called, maybe the hypothermia actually would have killed him. That would have been nice.
Peter. Stop it.
Tony sighs, "Peter," he shakes his head, "you didn't impose. Honestly, the background aside, I'm glad that you're here. Saved me having to deal with Christmas day traffic. I was going to pay a surprise visit, so, yeah. At least I get you for the whole day now. And you didn't ruin my Christmas. It's Christmas. I hate Christmas. I would be an actual Scrooge if Pepper let me."
The words are meant to be reassuring, but Peter's so numb that they feel flat. Meaningless. Like they would warm the heart of a teen who died five years ago on Titan, but not the half-dead thing that crawled it's way through these last few months. (A headstone. Please, someone give him a—)
"I decapitated Rudolf." Peter whispers.
"The...glass?" Tony questions. "You broke a glass?"
Peter nods, refusing to look at his face. "It dropped. I'm sorry."
Tony sighs again. "I'm not angry, Peter. Honestly. It's a glass. Probably from Dollar Tree. Clint is a skinflint, alright? I'm pretty sure that set came from him anyway. And you didn't actually kill anything. It was just a glass."
But it isn't about the glass.
The glass is just...there.
More silence stretches between them. Once, Peter would have been able to fill it easily, but he doesn't know what to say anymore. He doesn't know what would matter.
"Look," Tony's voice has dropped to something more serious, "I know that you want to skirt around the reason you're here"—Peter flinches, dropping his gaze lower—"but we need to discuss M&M at some point, alright? But not today. It's Christmas and you're exhausted. We can talk tomorrow...Peter, look at me."
He does, but he can't hold the stare for long. The attention is making his skin crawl.
"We will handle this. I promise. In a way that is perfectly legal. No one is going to be murdering anyone anytime soon."
"You told them." Peter mumbles. He looks up. "Why did you tell them?"
Tony's lips press together and he shakes his head slightly. "Peter, I didn't. Not all of them. If you're imagining some sort of group meeting with notepads and everything, yeah, no. I told them you were going to be staying for a few days. I only told Pepper and Nat. I wanted to wait until I had your permission before explaining to everyone first."
Peter buries his head in his left hand. His dark bangs brush against his fingers. It feels gross. He can't remember the last time he showered.
If they don't know, then Peter has time to leave before he has the entire Avengers team bullied up against Matt. It's not that bad. They're making it worse than it was. Any semblance of control that he'd grasped around this entire idea was swept away the moment he stepped into instacare a few hours ago.
Was that today?
"Do you hate me?" he asks softly.
"What? No. Peter, why would I...no. No." Tony shakes his head several times, as if the very words are ridiculous. "No. You're my kid."
"I'm not your child." Peter mutters. He's no one's child. Not May's. Not his parent's. He is the son of no one. Alone. He has to go back, so he can stop invading Tony's life and forcing himself into a position that Tony doesn't want to give…
(Peter is exhausted.
He doesn't want to deal with this.
He wants to be dead.)
000o000
Peter is declared well enough to stand by Bruce a few minutes later and, after water is forced down his throat and he's given a plastic water bottle to carry because Bruce is "eighty-three percent sure you're dehydrated", is guided back into the communal room. Tony pulls a chair away from the dining table next to the kitchen and sets it down next to a couch, shoving Peter onto it.
The eyes are on him again, but conversation doesn't lapse this time and Peter can only grip his knee and dig his nails to bone as Tony goes to get him a plate of the food. Bruce takes his seat on the couch again, but the plate of food goes untouched. There's something coiled in the gamma-radiation expert's shoulders as he scowls into the floor, clearly not nearly as okay as he professed to be.
If he's the reason for a Hulk-out…
(It's not that bad. Will everyone stop making it that bad?)
When Tony hands him the food and takes the seat next to him, Peter can barely manage a few bites, shuffling the food around the plate on a journey that doesn't seem to end. He's not hungry, even though he felt like his stomach was going to cave in when he woke up. For the most part, his presence doesn't seem to be a bother in the festivities much. He only exchanges a few words with some of the Avengers, but otherwise he remains an observer.
When the food is put away and plates cleaned up, Cooper manages to wrangle about half of the Avengers into playing Uno with him, and Peter can see that everyone is cheating. Especially Clint. And Thor keeps dropping cards on the floor. Peter knows that it's on purpose, because Loki will subtly pick up the card and pocket it. Peter didn't peg the Asgardian king as a cheater, but apparently the competitive part of him refuses to be appeased.
After watching Peter's confusion, Tony explains, "It's anarchy," he says flatly, "I've never seen them play an honest game before. It's kind of a running joke now. Everyone cheats. It's standard practice."
Oh.
Peter gnaws on his inner lip, weighing the words in his head for minutes before he finally turns towards the multi-billionaire and questions softly, "Can I borrow your phone? I want to wish MJ and Ned a merry Christmas, but my phone is…"
In his room. Sitting on his floor, attached to a charger. No. That's not right. He's grounded, right? Because he was a half hour late to work a few days ago. So it's probably in Matt and May's room, on their desk. And dead. Because he'd needed to charge it.
(Ned hates him. Peter finally did something stupid enough to lose the friendship he's had since second grade.)
Tony nods, already moving to pull the device from his pocket. "Yeah. Here," he hands it to Peter without a second thought and Peter nods, his stomach cramping with guilt. Tony's being so nice to him. Unnecessarily nice. And Peter's using him.
"Can I call?" His voice is less hoarse now, but it isn't loud.
Tony eyes him for a moment, seeming suspicions and Peter's entire body freezes. But whatever thoughts are crossing through the multi-billionaire's head apparently don't have anything to do with Peter's deception. "Yeah." He answers after a moment. "Don't talk all night."
If it had been before, Peter probably would have made a snippy retort in response. Now he only nods and gets up to his feet, Tony's device cold in his touch. His numb, cut feet give slightly when he puts weight on them, but Tony grabs at his arm to steady him, expression furrowed with concern. He's already halfway standing, as if prepared to catch Peter entirely if he's going to finish the journey to the floor.
Peter's entire arm burns beneath the contact, but he forces his arm to relax instead of jerk free and bash Tony's skull in. "I'm okay," Peter promises, "just stood up too fast."
Liar.
Liar, liar, liar.
Tony eyes him further, but nods, letting him go. Peter nods his thanks and moves towards a less-occupied spot of the room, lifting the phone up. He catches Pepper's eye for a moment and notices for the first time that both Tony and Pepper have hardly stopped staring at him since he stepped into the room. He doesn't know what it means, and doesn't want to think about it. Lila lets out a shout of frustration as Clint manages to prevent her from leaving the game again, and Morgan giggles loudly. His brain is filled up with so much sensory detail, there's hardly room for thinking.
He shakes his head, turning his gaze down and trying to ignore Pepper's stare on his back. Tony has mercifully glanced away to say something to Steve.
Guilt squirms in his gut about the lies, but he shakes it off. This is more important. He can't let this get any more out of hand than it is.
Still. It...
His fingers tremble as he dials May's number, hesitating over the call button for a long moment. He wants to talk to her about as much as he wants to eat his own foot. What if she's upset? What if she's angry? What if…what if...
No. He's already this far. And she needs to know. So she won't call the police.
Peter presses dial and then lifts the phone to his ear. He raises his eyes up for a moment, feeling like alarm bells are going to start whirring and people scream, pointing fingers at him. No one banned him from talking to his legal guardian, not explicitly, but it feels like it was implied that he'd never contact his aunt again after he called Tony.
He bites on his lip harder. He tastes blood.
The phone rings a few more times before it's answered and the high, worried voice of his aunt speaks over the line. "Stark? Why are you calling me? Did you find Peter? Please tell me that you found my kid, I haven't seen him for two days, Stark! Two! I'm at my end, I'm going to call the police and I swear that if—"
"May," Peter interrupts, keeping his voice down.
"Peter!? Where are you!? Are you with Stark?" Her voice, clouded with worry, trades the emotion for relief and rage.
"Yes." Peter says. He forces out a breath and then adds, "I didn't want to...I didn't want to go back to the apartment. May, Matt—"
"I know what he did." May interrupts. "He told me. He feels awful about it, Peter. How could you have run off and not told us where you were going!? We're your parents, Peter Benjamin Parker! Is this some sort of joke to you? If you'd been hurt, or died out there, that could get reflected back on us."
His chest aches like he got hit. "He broke my arm, May," he tries to explain. The sling is rubbing against his neck, a reminder of what happened. That it wasn't some sort of mystical dream.
"He didn't!" May argues, "He didn't think you would actually fall. You need to talk to him"—no. No! No!—"he'll tell you. Peter, I can't believe you did this to us. Why did you call Stark before us? Where were you? Have you been there this whole time and didn't bother to tell me until now!? I have spent these last few days worrying my hair gray, and you've—"
"I only called Tony about fourteen hours ago." Peter answers, deciding to opt out the fact that everything before that was spent on the streets. "I was asleep for most of it."
"You need to come home. Now. We need to talk this out like a family. Because what happened is between us. There's no need to drag Stark into this. Come home, Peter." Her voice is impatient now. "You shouldn't be there."
He knows that. He doesn't need her to say that.
He slumps. "I don't have money. Even if I get a cab, it will be hours before I get to the apartment in this traffic."
"Tell them that we'll pay." May snips impatiently. There's another voice on the other side of the line now, male, and Peter feels his face blanch as he recognizes the deep baritone of Matt. He can handle May. He's been living with May since he was a child. But Matt. Matt is so many unknowns.
And it. It doesn't. Peter can't do it. Not really. Not like he's supposed to be. Some hero he is. Afraid of one man he didn't defend himself against.
The phone shuffles slightly before Matt's voice snaps, "You're with Stark?"
"...Yes." Peter answers hesitantly. In the sling, his fingers grip at the edge of the cast desperately. He rocks his weight forward. His body is going numb. He thinks he's trembling, but he can hear it over the roar in his ears.
"Do you even know what you did to May? My wife? Who told you it was a good idea to run off?"
Peter swallows. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But he has to go back at some point. No one ever said he could stay here. "You broke my arm." He whispers.
There's silence on the other side of the line for a moment before Matt says, lowly, "You're supposed to be some great hero, aren't you? I didn't think that you'd actually tumble that badly. And I don't care what May said, she doesn't deserve to deal with someone like you, least of all with a baby on the way. You're not welcome in my apartment. You try and come back and I'll throw you out."
Peter feels his face drain of any remaining color.
His lips part, but no sound comes out.
Matt just…
Peter has nowhere to go now. Peter has nowhere to go. Peter can't go back. Peter can't—
He thinks he hears May making some sort of protest on the other end of the line, but she could be just as much praising Matt for all he can hear. "Please," he manages to croak. "I'll do better. Please, don't do this. Please…"
"You've made your bed, Parker, now you have to sleep in it. You chose to leave us when you ran away. If you don't want to be here that badly, you can stay away." Matt sneers. "I meant it when I said I don't want to see you again."
What is so wrong with Peter that everyone rejects him?
(Please help. Please. He can't—)
He didn't realize that he was sobbing until a hand plucks the device from his hand and lifts it up to their ear. Peter looks at Pepper with wide eyes, breath escaping him hard and fast. The CEO's expression is cool, but even barefoot and in causal clothing she wouldn't be caught dead in public with, she looks every inch a murderous mother bear.
"Who is this?" she questions, voice even.
Peter panics. He lunches for the device, but Pepper twists away from his grip and Peter goes crumpling to the floor on broken feet. His knees smack against the carpet. He can't see through his blurred vision and he can't breathe.
Matt must say something because Pepper's expression darkens abruptly. His hearing, normally so intense is swallowed by the sound of his hammering heart and gasping breaths.
"Hmm." Pepper murmurs, kneeling down next to Peter. She doesn't try to touch him, though he sees her hand twitch like she wants to. "You really believe that?" Pepper questions, and Peter hears Matt shout something angrily on the other line and then she laughs darkly. "Trust me. I have every intention of doing so. And Argon," her voice is silk, "I wouldn't rest easy tonight if I were you. Merry Christmas."
She hangs up. Sets the phone down on the ground and tries to reach out for him, but Peter draws back, unable to stop crying. He feels like a weeping child, but he doesn't want to be okay. He wants everything to be a mess, because at least then it would reflect what he is inside.
That happened.
He can't…
What is he supposed to do?
A warm hand—Tony, a distant part of him registers—touches at Peter's back and Peter doesn't pull away. Too exhausted. Too dead.
Reassured, a second hand reaches out and cups the side of Peter's face. His head is slowly tilted up to view Tony squatted in front of him. Pepper is beside him, her expression creased with worry. "Oh, Peter," Pepper sighs quietly.
He trembles, wanting to cry out, but remain silent all the same. Mostly he just wants to stop.
Tony's fingers are rough against his skin, but a reassuring weight. After a long moment, Tony says in a voice that is so even it's toneless, "That wasn't MJ or Ned, was it?"
Author's Note:
Okay, but for real. I kind of feel like this quote from Lord of the Rings describes my life recently: "A wizard is never late, Frodo Baggins! Neither is early. He arrives precisely when he means to." But instead of a "wizard" it's more like, "Lodestar is never late, fanfiction readers!...they update preciously when they mean to."
But, y'know.
Late.
:)
Thanks so, so much for your support! If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Next chapter: February 21st, 28th, or sometime in-between that.