Author's Note:
Hello family! 3 The long awaited part #2. :D
This will be posted like a series of connected one-shots, collected into one story for convivence. thank you so much for your support. :)
Disclaimer: No
Warnings: anxiety attacks, past child abuse and neglect, some blood and implied strong language.
"I am not actually tired,
but numb and heavy,
and can't find the words."
-Franz Kafka
Mom's Mad At You Again:
The silence hurt.
All he could hear was the quiet. His own raspy breathing. His painful heartbeat. When he swallowed. It was so dark, he could taste it. He could feel the vapors in the air, clinging to his skin like an entity. Tears fell down his face, curling around his cheek like a wet caress, always mocking him. Always leaving him alone.
There was no one here. There was never anyone here.
He was so hungry his stomach was crawling up his throat.
"Please…" he whispered, slapping a fist against the door. The sound was dull and lifeless, swallowed up in the darkness. Always hungry. Always eating. "Please, Dad, let me out…"
No one answered.
"Please let me out," he whispered again, harsher this time. Growing in desperation. Maybe he imagined the world outside. The world with colors and sound and light and people. Maybe he dreamed it. Maybe he's not even alive anymore.
"Mommy, let me out," his voice is raspy. The hunger claws at the edges of his throat, making his mouth hot.
"LET ME OUT!"
He started screaming.
And he screamed and screamed and screamed.
000o000
"Hey, you okay?" Ned's voice is gentle. "You didn't answer any of my texts yesterday."
Ha. Sorry. Little busy getting myself beaten half to death.
Peter looks up from the spaghetti he's flicking around his plate, feeling numb and dead all at once. He barely managed to scrape two hours of sleep together after he went home, but they were riddled with nightmares. His talk with Tony helped a little bit, but not that much. His phone still feels like it's pulling down his pocket.
She texted me.
Why did she text me?
Couldn't she have just well enough alone?
Peter shrugs. He carefully avoided May this morning and stole some of her concealer after she left for work so he could hide the worst of the bruises on his face. The swelling thankfully went down a lot, but his eye still feels tender and it hurts when he blinks. Running around until someone hit him was probably not his best move in hindsight.
Someones. He didn't stop until he couldn't move.
He feels vaguely embarrassed thinking about it now. Especially when Tony had to practically peel him from the ground. He's still not sure how he got home. Or how he managed to convince Tony that he could get home.
"I dunno," he mumbles, "just tired, I guess."
Ned frowns, brow furrowing. Peter wishes MJ was here because she's better at knowing when to change topics, but she's sick and probably won't be back to school for a few days. Then he feels guilty wishing that MJ was here instead of Ned.
But he doesn't want to talk about yesterday. He doesn't want to talk about throwing up because his anxiety got so bad it was the only thing that felt like it would help. He doesn't want to talk about how he spent all of Chem hiding in the bathroom while Ned tried to calm him down without much success.
Ned does, though. Peter can see it in his face. And while part of him is warmed by this, he doesn't feel ready. He'll never be ready. Peter usually tells people that his parents died rather than explain about...this. It's easier.
"Did you get any sleep?" Ned asks, because Ned is nothing if he's not good at circling around the topic he actually wants to discuss. He can be blunt, and often is, but not about sensitive topics.
Peter pushes noodles across the plate. They leave a weird, slimy residue that makes him grimace. His low appetite manages to sink to new levels. That's disgusting. They expect them to eat that? Imagine what that does to your insides, Peter remembers Ben saying about anything with noodles. It'll stick to your ribs.
Ned sighs softly when Peter doesn't answer, then looks down at his plate, looking just as enthused about the meal as Peter feels. A stab of guilt strikes him, and Peter swallows thickly. But he can't talk about this. He never talks about this. Yesterday was the most he's talked about his parents in years since therapy when he was in first grade.
Ned knows that they lost custody of him and that Peter has intense claustrophobia. He doesn't really know why.
"Ned," Peter says his name carefully, trying to convey that he's not angry. "I just...I can't talk about it right now, okay? It's not you."
Ned nods, then looks up at him with earnest eyes. "I know, Peter. I'm not mad. I just think that maybe you should." Peter's mouth goes dry. With who? He wants to laugh. His aunt who likes to pretend Ben's brother and sister-in-law don't exist? His uncle, who's dead? He's not seeing a lot of options here.
"I don't know. It's just," Ned makes a sound in his throat, somewhere between frustration and sadness. "It sucks. And I'm sorry."
Peter shrugs again. "C'est la vie." He mumbles.
"What?"
"That's life." Peter translates. He clenches his fingers around the fork. He licks his lips, blinking rapidly. He's exhausted. He wants to lay down. He wishes he had let Tony take him to medical last night, because his ribs are starting to pulse.
"Do you think it was really her, though?" Ned asks quietly. "It's kinda weird that she would have your number."
Peter's stomach clenches. A burst of panic whispers through him.
(Let me out!...Mommy, I'm hungry...Please don't hit me again...Please don't put me back there...Please, please, please...)
"I, um," Peter's mouth moves, but words are meaningless and he's going to choke on them. "I don't know. I don't…" his fingers feel like they're going numb. The air is thinning and his ears are beginning to ring. It's fine. She's not here. Look at all the light. You're okay. You're okay. You're not going back into the basement. It's okay. You're fine. I promise.
(Please let me out...)
That's a table, and you're going to be okay. That's a window, and you're going to be okay. That's a fork and you're going to be okay...
Ned's hand clamps around his own and Peter jumps, swearing sharply. "Sorry!" Ned says, "Sorry. I'm sorry, Peter, I-I didn't…"
But Ned's goal has evidently happened, because Peter is slammed back into the present moment with a crash. "Don't touch me," Peter hisses, snapping his hand back. The panicked throbbing of his heart makes his stomach spin, and he bites harshly at the back of his hand. It was a habit that he never quite managed to shake off. The skin feels thin and breakable.
The anger ebbs off as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind only a stale feeling of regret.
Peter's exhales shakily, releasing his hand. "I'm sorry. My head is just…" he gestures vaguely, unsure what he's trying to say.
"Hey," Ned's voice has returned to that gentle tone, "I get it. You don't want to talk about it, we don't have to. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
But the thing is, beyond all the initial, instinctive resistance, Peter does want to talk about this. Not about his parents, or the basement, but this whole thing in the present? Yeah. He doesn't know what to do with his thoughts beyond letting them consume him, and he doesn't know how much longer he can tread water before he drowns in them.
Peter wets his lips. He slumps, pushing the tray away. He and Ned have barely picked at lunch, and Peter knows that he'll regret this later, but he doesn't think he could convince himself to eat if the status of his soul depended on it. He pulls the edges of his sleeves over his hands. "I don't...I don't know…"
His phone feels cold against his leg.
(Hey, baby, it's Mom!)
"You do think it's her," Ned guesses. "And not just some sort of prank."
"I don't know what to think," Peter admits. Then, quieter, he says, "I asked Karen if she thought it was legit, and she traced the number. It's registered to Mary Parker. If it's not her, whoever is pulling the strings behind this is doing a good job at it." He shakes his head, digging his nails into the sleeves. The pressure against his palm is dull and his fingers ache from exhaustion. His knuckles are bruised from last night.
Ned's lips press into an unhappy line. "Wouldn't this be a violation of her parole or something? If she's contacting you?"
How is he supposed to know? It's not like he's done research on this. Everyone dropped the topic, so Peter did, too. Beyond the occasional nightmare now, he rarely thinks about it. It was just something that happened, not something that was happening.
Peter shakes his head hopelessly. "Ned, I was six. I was hardly in the trial and barely remember anything when I was. The only people who would actually know the details around this are May and Ben...and I haven't...I didn't tell May about the text."
His friend makes a face, something between aghast and familiar exasperation. "Peter, you need to tell her. She can take it to the police."
Peter shakes his head, desperate. "I don't want to do anything about it." Doing something, he doesn't say out loud, means acknowledging that it's real, and the last thing I want to do is pull the old baggage out to air. "I just want it to go away. It's not like she threatened me or anything. I'll just ignore it."
Ned shakes his head, "This is a bad idea. You should tell an adult."
How much do you know about my parents? He did. He didn't tell Tony a lot, but he told him enough that he's embarrassed that he spoke at all. Peter knows that what his parents did to him wasn't his fault, but that doesn't matter. It's just some dark sob story of another broken kid.
"I told Tony," Peter admits reluctantly.
Ned's eyes go wide, flaring with something like hurt. "You told him?!" And you didn't tell me? Goes the unspoken accusation.
The harsh pitch of Ned's words are enough to garner looks from other tables, and Peter ducks his head, flushing. He kicks Ned's leg under the table. "Keep it down," he admonishes, "and yes. I told him. He found me last night, and we talked for a few minutes. He said he'd help. I...I guess that's good? I don't know. I don't want to deal with this. I wish she'd leave me alone. I thought...everyone told me not to worry about it…"
She can't hurt you anymore, Peter.
They aren't here anymore, Peter.
You're safe, Peter.
But what is he supposed to do when the safety net that he's built his entire life around is suddenly wrong? Because she is out there, and she can hurt him, and he's not safe. Not anymore. And he knows that Tony promised to help, and that offers him a small, tiny bit of reassurance, but in all honesty? Peter is terrified.
(I can't wait to be a part of your life again.)
(Please let me out!)
000o000
He and Ned shift topics after that, thankfully, and Peter happily discusses whether or not the Clone Wars is the superior version of Star Wars for the rest of lunch.
Peter goes home. He works on homework and ignores his phone, stuffed beneath a math textbook. He effortlessly writes an essay he's been procrastinating for days and manages to finish his Spanish homework without any issues. He's an emotionless machine whose sole purpose is to complete assignments.
Anxiety does that to him. While some people can live in a world where they can just ignore homework until it becomes a big problem, Peter has always worked on school when he's stressed. It's such a relief to be able to think about something else. School is meaningless and usually has answers. Life doesn't.
(And there's always that part of him, still six inside, that's still excited to be going to school for the first time.)
It's Peter's turn to make dinner because May's not supposed to be off her shift until six, so he hauls himself into the kitchen after five forty and sorts through the pantry for food until he figures out what he's going to make. He doesn't feel like doing anything complex and ends up making waffles.
While he's waiting for the batter to cook, his phone buzzes on the counter, and Peter's stomach clenches.
No, no, no, no, no.
I'm not doing this again.
No.
But he's being stupid, because statistically? What are the chances that it's his mom? He texted MJ before he left school if she needed help with homework, and Tony texted him earlier but Peter didn't respond, and May might message to let him know that she'll be late. Ned could be texting him something to prove his point about the Clone Wars. There are far more likely reasons for him to receive a text.
Reluctantly, feeling like he's swallowing glass, Peter reaches forward and grasps the phone. His entire body slumps, feeling weak and exhausted suddenly. It's just Tony asking if he's still alive. Peter stretches out tense fingers and texts back a thumbs up. It's not the most poetic response, but it's the most that he can manage.
I'm okay.
It's fine. It's not her.
The door to the apartment opens suddenly, causing him to jump, and May strides inside, her scrubs covered in something gross and vaguely brown. Peter doesn't ask, and she just gives him a knowing smile before she slips into the bathroom to take a quick shower and change.
Peter pulls another waffle from the waffle iron and makes sure that he has the appropriate toppings set out on the table. He studiously ignores his phone on the counter behind him, and does not consider taking an axe to it so he never has to know if his mom is going to send a follow-up.
Why would she? That's ridiculous.
It probably wasn't even her.
Just someone's idea of a joke.
May re-emerges from the bathroom in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She takes one look at the table before coming to a stop and putting her hands on her hips, expression drawn up in concern. "What's wrong?"
Peter freezes. I've been caught. She sees me for two seconds and she knows. What if Tony told her what if what if what if—"What?" he manages to get out.
May gestures to the table. "You never make waffles unless you're upset. Did something happen at school?"
He didn't know that. But thinking back, he can trace a pattern. It makes him vaguely uncomfortable that she knows that, as if some great secret of his has been shared with the world. It's just waffles, that's it. Nothing more.
"Uh." Peter scrambles for some sort of lie. He doesn't know why he's so desperate to hide this from her. But he and May haven't talked about Peter's parents in a long, long time, and bringing it up feels like he'd be speaking out against some unspoken rule. Or picking at the scar of a scab until it bled again. And what is May going to do about it anyway? "It was just a long day," Peter says, which is true. "Flash wouldn't leave me alone," which is the lie.
"Oh," May sighs, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
Why does everyone want him to talk?
"No." Peter says, "Not really. It was more of the same stuff." He rubs the back of his neck. He gestures toward the food to change the subject. "Let's just eat something, okay?"
May nods, her face still concerned, and sits at the table. Peter eats through a waffle silently while May explains about her shift and where all the brown stains came from. It's not really funny, but Peter's calms at hearing her talk about it anyway.
(We should meet up some time.)
000o000
MJ:
I'm so tired of being sick. My head feels like it's in this big fog. :(
Sent 7:43PM
Peter is typing…
MJ:
That's not unhappy enough.
:( :( :( :(
Sent 7:43PM
Peter:
I'm sorry. :/ That sucks.
Sent 7:44PM
MJ is typing...
Peter:
Can I help?
Sent 7:44PM
MJ:
Ned said that you're not doing so good.
No, you can't help, dufus.
But thanks.
Sent 7:45PM
Peter:
I'm okay.
It's nothing that bad.
Sent 7:47PM.
MJ:
...you sure? Ned was pretty worried.
Sent 7:48PM
Peter:
Don't worry about it.
I hope you feel better soon.
Sent 7:49PM
MJ:
That's a non answer.
Sent 7:49PM
Peter?
Sent 8:26PM
000o000
Peter wakes up screaming.
He can't remember the dream, he can't remember falling asleep, but he remembers waking up petrified. The dark is all-consuming, pressing in on him at all sides and trying to eat at him. His thoughts are hazy and he has to get out. He has to get out.
Outoutoutoutoutotuouttuotu
(Please let me out...)
Hands wrap around his flailing arms, pulling them taut against a chest. Peter screams louder, trying to wiggle from the grip, feeling frantic desperation pulsing through his entire body. I have to run. I have to find the light. It's too dark in here. There's something in here with me. Beyond the rats the size of my entire head.
They're never going to let me out this time..
"Peter!" a female voice shouts.
I'm so hungry...
Terror ripples through him.
I want to go...
"Mom, no!" he shouts, kicking out, trying to fight. Fighting never worked before. They'd just hit him until he couldn't anymore. He flutters and squirms, but the hands are iron and Peter is so weak. His breaths become frantic heaves, a battle for every gasp of air, and he wishes that he would just suffocate. "No, you can't put me back there!"
"Peter, look at me!" the female voice commands.
Peter can't. He can't. Oh, he can't.
He ducks his head, shaking, trying to still pull away and not accept this macabre attempt at comfort. Please just let me go. "Peter, hey, kid, look at me," the voice has gentled, trying to soothe and Peter wants to snarl because I know what this game is. I've played it too many times before. You coax me out of here, and then Dad puts me on the table and those needles and—
He wails, "No. No!"
"Peter, hey—"
Peter screams again, trying to hit something, any body part, trying to make it hurt because he's not going back, he's not, he won't, he's—
"Hey, hey, hey, it was just a bad dream. That's all. It was just a dream. Just a dream, okay? You're safe, I promise. I promise." The words slowly register, and Peter manages to connect them to a person. May. May is the one that is holding him. Rocking him slowly. Like he's five.
Peter gasps, blinking in the dark room with burning eyes and feeling a shudder race up his spine. It's so dark in here, I'm going to suffocate. "M-m-m-may." His voice is barely coherent. "L-l-l-i-i-ight?"
May hesitates, but gets up to her feet—vanishing into the dark and—you're all alone down here, no one is coming to get you let me out let me out let me OUT—and quickly crosses the room. She turns on the overhead light, and Peter's body clenches at the brightness. It hurts dully, and he winces.
May comes back, gathering her into his arms again. He clings to her, trying to hide himself inside of her arms. She smells like shampoo and bodywash, and Peter feels disgusting. His body is hot and cold, his senses on overdrive. The light hurts, but he would kill anyone who tried to turn it off.
He shakes and trembles, crying. May holds him quietly, gently tracing circles on his back.
Eventually he calms enough that she helps him lay down, but she doesn't leave, which surprises Peter more than he cares to admit. She sits next to him on the bed and stares at him for long minutes before she asks, carefully, "Should you talk about this?"
Not do you want to. The question holds more force this way, and it makes Peter squirm because there is a vast difference between should and want.
"I don't…" Peter mumbles, tired. His body feels like it's shutting down without his permission. His toes are numb. "I…"
"You called me mom," May says quietly. Then, somehow softer, "Is this about the basement?"
Peter twitches. His mouth tightens unhappily at the suggestion. His throat runs dry. There's no escaping this. He's going to have to tell her. He'd rather chew off his own finger. God, help me. He reaches for his phone and opens it, scrolling until he finds the text, then hands the phone to May.
She reads over it, her brow squinting before realization seems to dawn. Her eyes darken abruptly, going from gentle concern to fierce and murderous. May swears explicitly, her chin dropping as she clenches the phone in her grip, her fingers white.
Peter's stomach rolls, anxiety buzzing underneath his skin, waiting to explode from him.
She's going to hit you, the six-year-old within him warns.
Shut up, Peter counters. She's never done that.
Only takes the one time, six-year-old him promises.
May takes in a deep breath, obviously trying to reign in her temper, exhales, then looks down at him. "Why didn't you tell me about this? She sent it to you on Tuesday."
Peter shrugs. "Didn't want to bother you," he mumbles.
May shakes her head. "You're such an idiot," she chastises. "I can't believe you. Peter, if something like this happens, you need to tell me. I can't believe that she would…" May shakes her head, "I'll call the police in the morning and let them know what happened."
His stomach drops. Police have become something else since he put on the mask. He was wary of them beforehand, despite being told all his life to call them if something went wrong, but after Spider-Man? They shot at him. Police call their badges shields. They use their shield like Captain America uses his shield: as a battering ram, protecting only themselves and hurting everyone around them with it.
And here, Peter thinks, lies the root of this problem. Tony didn't say he would call the police. But Peter knew that May would, and that would mean that he would have to talk to them again, and Peter would rather not do that.
"It was one text." Peter whispers. "We don't need to call the police."
May shakes her head. "I'm not going to half this. Not your safety. Did you tell anyone else?"
Peter licks his lips. He needs to get water. His throat aches from the screaming. "Tony, um. We talked for a little about it."
May's mouth pinches, her eyes flashing with irritation. Peter doesn't know if it's directed at him or not and shifts a little along the bed. Six-year-old him is calling all the shots tonight, isn't he?
"And he didn't tell me. Fantastic. Open communication needs to be more of a priority between us," she looks at him pointedly. "I'm not mad at you, I promise. But I wish you'd told me sooner."
"I didn't want it to be real," Peter whispers, feeling sick. "I don't want to talk to her again."
"You won't have to." May promises, her voice hard. "She's not going to see you again. I promise."
But what if, that dark, anxious part of his mind whispers. What if…?
000o000
Peter manages to fall asleep with effort an hour later, and May stays with him until does. He wakes up when his alarm goes off and doesn't think he could get out of bed if his life depended on it. His head is aching and his throat burns, but that's not what keeps him paralyzed. Anxiety is twisting through every crevice of his body, slinking like a shadow in his blood. Everything feels twisted up inside of him, waiting to burst.
May comes in a little after seven and frowns as she sees him. "You're not looking too good." She says, stepping up to him. She puts a hand on his forehead, "You feel okay?"
Peter shakes his head. He can't talk. He's worried that if he tries, his entire rib cage will shake to pieces. Words feel stuck in his chest and his throat, like they're crowding up all the room and not leaving enough for air. Beneath the blanket, his hands are wound tightly over his stomach, hidden inside of the hoodie he put on a few minutes ago. It was the only thing he could manage to do today because it smelled like the Compound. He hasn't even used the bathroom yet.
May takes a seat next to him again, and Peter notices that she looks tired. That's his fault, isn't it? She would have been able to sleep off her twelve hour shift if he'd just managed to keep it together. But he can't. Because somewhere within him, he's still six and always will be six, still trapped in that basement and waiting.
"Do you want me to stay home today?" she asks. "I can ask to have my shift moved to another day this week. It's not that big of a deal."
Peter shakes his head again. He doesn't know how having her here would help. May would sit and fuss over him and that wouldn't be helpful because then Peter would feel like he needs to calm her down, and May has been so fragile after Ben...he can't imagine forcing her to stay here with him so that way he can have a suffer buddy. That's stupid and selfish.
May needs work. She needs that grasp on normalcy. If she doesn't, she has a tendency to lose herself in her grief for a few days, and Peter can't do that to her.
"No," Peter manages to get out. The word feels like a noose, tightening with every breath. "No, I'll be okay. I just need more sleep."
May's frown deepens, but she nods slowly. "I'm going to call you during my break, okay? Will you be okay until then?"
"Yeah," Peter promises, even though he strongly feels like no. "I'll be fine. You can go."
May presses a kiss to his forehead and there's something infinitely sad and lonely in her eyes as she brushes hair from his forehead. "We'll figure this out, kiddo. I promise. I'll call the school and let them know you're sick today. I love you."
"Love you, too," Peter mumbles.
She gives his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll talk to you in a bit."
She gets up, and Peter feels his resolve to watch her go crumple. He digs his nails into his stomach, and grimaces at the pain his numerous bruises give in protest. But it keeps him from saying anything before she leaves, which was the point.
May leaves the door open and Peter listens to her prepare for work. Changing into a different pair of scrubs, gathering her stuff together, packing a lunch, doing her hair and make-up so she doesn't look like she needs to be admitted to the hospital. Which reminds him dully that he should probably look at the bruise on his face and see if it's improved any. It doesn't hurt as much today.
May gathers her keys at last, and Peter pretends to be asleep when she walks past, not wanting to talk. She closes the apartment door behind her and locks it, and Peter tries not to let a sense of foreboding settle over him.
What did she decide to do about the police? She didn't say anything. Did she do something already? What if they show up while he's gone and he'll have to answer all their questions by himself? He doesn't know if he could do that.
Peter swears under his breath, rolling under the blankets and trying not to cry. His panicked breathing starts to descend into shuddered gasps, and he finally relents, rolling over to grab his phone. He doesn't call May, because he knows that she would turn around immediately and come back home, and he doesn't want her to have to do that.
Ned's at school and MJ is probably sleeping—a rare occurrence, given that she seems to be up at all hours of the day.
Does he even want to talk to anybody? Peter squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold himself together. Why does this have to be so hard? This is stupidly hard. He breathes out slowly, but it doesn't help him relax. Lengthen the exhale, that's what helps panic attacks. Length the exhale, length the—
I can't do this.
Peter scrolls through the list of contacts and hovers for long seconds over the name. If he can't talk to you, he just won't pick up. It won't be the end of the world. This is what YouTube is for, isn't it?
He presses call. His stomach clenches into knots and Peter bites at his hoodie's sleeve, putting the phone on speaker so he doesn't have to hold it against his face. He feels sick. He's going to be sick, all over everything and everyone…
"Hey, you okay?" Tony's voice makes Peter both relax and go through another anxious spiral all at once. The vertigo of it makes him dizzy.
Peter breathes heavily, "I'm," he tries, but tears spring to his eyes and words once again escape him. "Help?"
"Yeah, yeah, kid. That's what I'm here for." He sounds calmer than he did on the rooftop on Tuesday, which is good. Peter doesn't want to make his anxiety worse. He knows that he does that sometimes without meaning to. He can see it in Tony's face sometimes.
"I'm just," Peter can't find words. He stares up at the ceiling and the sun streaking across the white ceiling.
"Do you want me to talk?" Tony asks. "I can just talk for a bit."
"You're...not busy?" Peter asks. Why can't he form normal words like normal people? All he's doing is fumbling through his native language like he's never heard it spoken before.
"Nothing that can't wait or I can't multitask with. Are you at school right now?"
"No." Peter mumbles. "No. May let me stay home."
"Ah. Speaking of, I know you probably don't want to talk about this, but she did text me last night to let me know that you told her about your mom. She said she was going to file a restraining order with the police when she got off work. I just thought you should know." Tony says the words almost nonchalantly, but Peter can hear the underlying seriousness of them.
Peter exhales in a gust. "Will...am...do I have to police?"
Tony pauses for a second, trying to find a real meaning behind those words. "Will you have to talk with the police? Probably not. She's the legal guardian and she said she has pictures of the text. You'll be fine, okay? I just wasn't sure if she said anything to you yet. Now," Tony claps his hands, which makes Peter jump, "let's talk about something less depressing. Unless you want to talk about that…"
"No." Peter promises.
"'Kay. So, I'm working on this thing…"
Tony talks until Peter falls asleep again, his voice a quiet baritone of reassurance and safe. He sort of remembers waking up after realizing he fell asleep so he could roll over and put his phone down, but the call had ended a long time ago at that point. Peter just rolled over again and went back to bed, his mind too exhausted to work through anything beyond its clawing need for rest.
He knows when he wakes up.
There is no gentle surge of sleepy nothingness to gradual awakening.
Peter wakes up to a hand clamped over his mouth. He jerks, eyes snapping open, fists pulling into a sloppy fighting stance and trapped beneath a tangle of blankets. A face branded into his memory stares back at him, aged and yet timeless all at once. Wisps of brown hair hang over her forehead in lazy bangs, and her eyes hold the same wild, empty quality that he remembers from his childhood.
Mary Parker looks down at him, her wide mouth twisted in a smile. "Hey, baby," she whispers. Peter hears the hammer of a gun roll, and he feels the barrel of a .45 dig into the side of his ribs, pressing against dull bruises. He freezes, wanting to scream and wanting to fight. All he does is lay there, wheezing. Mary's face twists into something like a sneer. "Got the time and place for our meet up. Here and now. What do you say? You ready for some one-on-one time with Mom?"
She can't hurt you anymore, Peter.
You're safe, Peter.
Except you were never really safe, six-year-old him quietly assures. You never have been.
000o000
Ned:
u ok? u aern't at school today.
*aren't.
Sent 11:17AM
May:
Hey, I missed you at my lunch break. Hope you're okay. Love you.
Sent 12:44PM
Ned:
Are u sick or smthng?
Sent 1:43PM
Ned:
I txtd May. She hasn't heard from u all day, either.
Did u forget to charge your phone again?
Sent 2:34PM
Incoming call: May
Incoming call: May
Incoming call: May
Missed call (2): May
May is typing...
MJ:
RU dead?
Sent 3:02PM
MJ:
Ned thinks UR dead.
Sent 3:15PM
Incoming call: Ned
Incoming call: Ned
Incoming call: Ned
Missed call (3): Ned
MJ:
He just went to your house and u weren't there.
Sent 4:22PM
Seriously, a-hole. This isn't funny. Where are you?
Sent 4:51PM
Incoming call: Tony
Incoming call: Tony
Incoming call: Tony
Missed call (1): Tony
Tony:
May says she can't get a hold of you.
No one has heard from you since after 9
Are you okay? Did something happen?
Do you need me to come?
Sent 5:32PM
May:
I'm coming home.
If you're not there, I'm calling the police.
Sent: 5:34PM
Incoming call: Happy
Incoming call: Happy
Incoming call: Happy
Missed call (1): Happy
Happy:
Pick up your phone.
This isn't funny.
Sent: 5:47PM
Ned:
Where RU?!
Sent: 5:50PM
Incoming call: Tony
Incoming call: Tony
Incoming call: Tony
Missed call (2): Tony
Rhodey:
Call Tony, kid.
You're freaking him out.
Sent 6:02PM
Mrs. Potts:
Peter? Where are you?
Sent: 7:11PM
Mrs. Potts:
Tony's going to your apartment.
Sent: 7:19PM
Mrs. Potts is typing…
Mrs. Potts:
I hope you're okay.
Sent: 7:22PM
000o000
911, what's your emergency?
...
There's a...oh, sh** Oh, my—just get here, there's blood everywhere. This—this—[panicked breathing]
...
Sir, take a deep breath for me, please. Sir. Sir.
...
I'm— fu***** sh** I think she's dead. There's so much blood. I'm...
...
What's your name, sir?
...
Tony. My name is Tony. She's not breathing. What do I...there's. CPR, I should do CPR…
...
Hi, Tony. My name is Ameila. I'll walk you through what to do for CPR if you're not already familiar. But let's get help to you first. Can you tell me the address?
...
[heavy breathing] You have to...you have to get the police here. My kid's not here. My kid's…
...
Your kid? Your child is missing?
...
Yeah. He's not...he's not here. His aunt's body is.
Author's Note:
Next part: ...Um? Idk. November? No pressure for reviews at all (even though my soul does feed off of them, lol), but the more people that are interested, the higher this will raise on my priorities.
Thanks so much. I love you all. Please let me know what you think.