"PETER!" Tony stumbled over to the edge and peered over, eyes scouring the water for ripples or any evidence that Peter had landed in it. There was nothing.

Thank god.

He'd swung away.

Now there was the problem of figuring out where to?

"Did that kid just jump?!" A woman came barrelling over.

Tony looked back to see a couple others peering, wide eyed, to where Peter had just stood.

"Hold up," the woman looked at Tony and he watched as the concern instantly vanished. "You're Tony Stark! Oh man, can I get a picture with you? It's such an honour to meet you!"

Tony stared at her dumbfounded. How easily she'd just forgotten about the kid who - from her perspective - just committed fucking suicide.

The others all started murmuring similar statements, not one of them bothering to call the police or even fucking look over to see if they could spot the kid. They didn't fucking care.

Jaw tightening, he fixed each one of them with a glare that could kill and stormed back to his car, slamming the doors shut as he got in. "Fuck," he breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The kid was clearly going through a much worse time than Tony had originally suspected.

May's number was no longer in use.

Peter was doing drugs.

Peter was running away.

The realization hit him like that moon once had.

May's number was no longer in use.

"Oh god."

. . .

Tony found him. A month later, he found him.

To say the least, it had been a stressful fucking month.

After the bridge incident, Tony had done some research on the whereabouts of May Parker.

What he'd found out didn't help the fear he felt growing inside. Fear for the kid.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to help. For God's sake, he didn't know how to bring it up. Had the kid talked to anyone about it?

Probably not.

And Odin knew Tony wasn't the poster-child for emotional health.

Pepper.

Tony would have to lean pretty heavily on Pepper for this one. She was better at that touchy-feely-emotional-stability stuff. She'd have an idea on how to help.

Tony just hoped to God he wouldn't be too late. With how the kid had been acting, he didn't trust him to be alone for a second. But that was a little tough given Peter kept fucking running away from Tony like he had the plague.

And that worry wasn't exactly helped by the fact that Peter had straight up vanished. Tony had tried visiting his apartment, but he never seemed to be there. There was barely any evidence he even lived there at all. And Skeeter wasn't very much help. Tony was pretty sure the kid had told that friend of his to keep quiet about his whereabouts; the fucker kept offering Tony nothing but indifferent shrugs for answers to his questions.

And of course Tony had tried tracking Peter, but the kid - curse his genius - found a way to allude even Tony's intellect.

The only ease to the mad panic growing in Tony's chest was the one fucking question Skeeter would answer: the kid was alive.

That was it. He was alive.

That was the fucking bar.

Being not-dead.

Fucking great.

Still, he'd find himself asking it every few days. Thank god Skeeter never denied him that salvation.

There were no sightings of Spider-Man over the weeks, either.

But finally, on a whim of all things, Tony decided to make a short trip to a place he hoped would help. He knew it wouldn't, but he supposed at this point it couldn't hurt.

So there Peter was, standing hidden behind a big mountain ash, shrouded in shadows cast by the rising sun.

A silent exhale of relief left Tony the moment he glimpsed those curls. Lately, every time he'd left the kid - or more accurately: the kid ran away from him - it was on bad terms.

Tony hurred forward.

The only indication that the kid knew he was there came from a slight turn of his head when Tony was within earshot.

The ground was made up of half snow and half wet grass, creating a mixture of crunches and squishes as Tony walked. He came to a stop at Pete's side.

Two granite stones stuck out of the ground, each with a twig with some red berries in front of it.

"I couldn't afford flowers." The kid's voice was gravely, like he'd just been crying. He didn't bother looking at Tony.

Tony just nodded.

They stood in silence, side by side. The field was quiet. A few lone people in the distance. It was funny, how all the noise in the world seemed to die in these places. Every distance honk or rumbling engine never made it past the gates.

It was quiet.

Sometimes almost an eerie sort of quiet, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves, the padding of soft footsteps, the chirping of crickets, and hushed whispers. Occasionally there would be a stifled sob creeping through the field from a distant place.

"This is where I'm going to be buried." Tony's heart lurched in surprise. He looked at the kid. "Right there between them. May and Ben bought three plots. Maybe they knew deep down that I wouldn't end up with a life of my own." The kid's eyes stayed on the graves. His eyes reflected gold in the setting sun. A gentle breeze rustled his hair. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. "Sometimes… sometimes it feels like I'm just waiting around to join them… like, my life ended when theirs did… you know?" His head finally turned to look at Tony.

With a start, Tony noticed some red flecks glowing like embers in the chocolate of his eyes. It was a subtle glow, but there nonetheless. He'd never noticed it before. "No, I don't understand, Pete." The kid looked away. Nothing changed in his expression, making it nearly impossible to know what he was thinking. "You wanna know why that is? Because life has so much possibility. It doesn't end when you lose something, kid. You have so much-"

"Potential?" Tony paused. "Yeah, I know, I've heard it before. But the thing is, I actually don't. Sure, I've got the brains to get into MIT, but I don't have the money. Or the grades now that-" He caught himself. "Also, I'm tired. So I don't care anymore. I don't care about potential. And I'm tired of waiting for my life to get better. Everyone always says 'give it time,' but I don't wanna do that anymore. Time never helped. Time doesn't make anything better. All that time has done for me, is take more and more until there was nothing left. So I. Don't. Care. Tony. I don't care."

"I wasn't talking about careers. That shit doesn't matter. I was gonna say you still have love in your life, you're just not seeing it."

Peter's brows knit together and he side eyed Tony. "No one even knows me anymore."

Tony didn't know what that meant, but now wasn't the time to ask. "I do."

His frown fell into an annoyed glare. "That's not love, that's pity. And I'm not interested in pity."

"First of all, don't try to tell me what I feel, I don't like it when people do that. Secondly-"

"Wait.' The kid's back snapped straight like he'd been zapped. He turned, full-body, to look at Tony. "Why're you talking about this? You-" his eyes searched Tony's. He took a step back, eyes watering, but still wide with what looked like a derivative of fear. "Why are you saying these things? Why're you here?"

Tony clamped his mouth shut. Swallowing, held up his hands: the kid looked about ready to bolt. He spoke slowly; "I did a little research… I know about May."

The kid was frozen, so still, it was as if time itself had stopped.

"You did… you did 'a little research…'"

"Mhm. I know what's going on now. I can help. I want to support you, Peter. But I gotta know how I can do that. It's not pity. I promise you, it's not. I-" he fought through his stupid allergy of emotions to get out the words. "-love you. That's what this is: love. So come, Pete, lay it on me: whaddya need, whaddya want? I want to help."

The kid was just staring at him, eyes watery, but no tears falling.

He looked broken.

Completely and utterly, broken.

Tony felt his own heart squeeze just looking at him.

"Come on, kid," Tony was surprised by the rashness of his own voice. "Let me help you."

The cold prick of fear stabbed Tony's heart when the kid shook his head. A slow rock from side to side. He stepped back.

"No."

"Peter-"

"No. You can't help me, Tony. You can't."

He bolted.

Tony tried to start after him, but a web shot out, sticking his hand to the tree. He tried to tap his reactor, but a second web trapped his hand against his chest.

"Wait!" Tony called out, futilely struggling against the webs. "Goddammit. KID! Come back! DAMMIT!" Tony stopped, the kid was gone. "Shit."

Guess he was gonna be hanging out in the graveyard for a while. Twisting a bit, he managed to get his tree arm into a position that let him sit down.

He sighed. His eyes fell to the stones a few feet away.

Richard Parker

Father, husband, brother.

Mary Parker

Mother, wife.

Tony nodded in greeting. "Hey. So… you're the kid's parents, huh? Tony. Nice to meet you." He sighed, rolling his eyes at himself. He was talking to a couple stones. It was stupid, and yet here he was, still doing it. "You guys raised a good kid, you know." He inhaled a long, tired breath and shook his head. "This is all kind of a mess, isn't it? He misses you guys, clearly," he gestured with his head to the twigs. "You guys should see him. He's an amazing young man, really. You know, when I first met him, I never planned on becoming this close - I just wanted an extra hand." He chuckled, "but the moment he introduced himself: 'hi I'm, I'm, I'm, uh, I'm Peter.' Yeah, he had me wrapped around his finger. God he's such a dork. I love him so much." He paused. "I do love him, you know. He's… look, I'm not trying to come up in here and replace you guys, but he feels like a son to me. You know, he's the reason I had Morgan - my daughter: also kinda a dork. I was worried, given my history - I'm sure you know what I mean - that I wasn't fit to be a dad, but Peter… he made me see it was worth it. If I could have a kid even half as wonderful as him, it would be worth it… Plus, I've got Pepper around to make sure I don't screw up too badly." He sighed, the reminiscent smile leaving his face, "I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'm here for him. I know he feels alone right now, but I promise you he's not. He's not alone. He'll never be alone as long as I live. Because I'm here for him. I know I'm probably not who you hoped would end up - dare I say - taking care of him. But look, I've grown up, and I wanna be a good father-figure to him - I hope you don't mind me calling myself that. And, anyway, I promise I'll take care of him. I promise. … I'll take care of him."

He sank further into the tree. He was really starting to wish he had a free hand: he had a flask of whiskey sitting in his inner pocket that was begging to be drunk. "God, I wish you two were here, though. He keeps fighting me and I don't know how to get him to let me help."

He didn't know how, but he'd figure it out. He'd keep popping up in the kid's life, annoying him, or whatever he had to until Peter finally talked to him.

Odin be damned, Tony would help this goddamn kid.

. . .

So there Peter was, strolling down the street and minding his own business when what should he hear, but a guy yelling for help.

A guy who was getting beat up for who-knew-what-reason.

Peter stopped in his tracks.

Ok.

He was high as a kite and swaying in place.

But a guy was getting beat up. And could possibly die.

His feet were taking him toward the noise. About halfway into the alley, he found a paper bag. Picking it up, he poked a couple eyeholes - which didn't really do anything - and pulled it over his head.

It wasn't his Spidey mask, but it would do.

Not like he would deserve to wear it anyway.

That was part of why he never really tried to maintain the whole Spider-Man thing. He'd thought about it. He'd held the suit in his hands.

His suit.

Not Tony's.

His. His own suit. The satin rippled against his fingertips. It was almost calming, reminding him of the friendships he'd made with Peter and Peter.

He missed them.

But he was also glad they weren't here to see him. To see what he'd become.

They'd inspired him, they really did. His suit reflected that: it was a mesh of theirs mixed with a little of his own design.

But.

It wasn't enough.

They weren't here. He was probably never going to see them again.

He was never going to see…

Whatever. It didn't matter.

It was probably for the best - that he gave the suit up when he did. At least this way, Spider-Man got to die in peace.

But he couldn't not help when he saw someone needing it.

He turned the corner and stumbled onto a group of four men surrounding a guy curled up on the ground. They were shouting and kicking him. Peter could hear him crying.

All of the sudden, he remembered why he did it - why he used to do it. Helping people. Saving people.

Sure, about half of everyone hated him, but some of them… some of them he truly did save. Some of them got a second chance because of him… It was tough to remember that sometimes. He just always seemed to make things worse. He always seemed to end up hurting more than he helped.

But here and now, no way he couldn't make it worse.

Unless he got himself killed, which, let's face it, was barely worse than where he was at right now.

"Hey!" Peter shouted.

All four of their heads turned in his direction. He suddenly felt very small.

Also it didn't help that the world was spinning a little. Well - not spinning so much as swaying. It wasn't too bad, though.

One of the guys laughed, looking to his buddy. "Who's this fucker? Garbage-Man?"

"Wow, good joke there, bud." Peter shot back, voice maybe slurring a little. Maybe. And maybe his walk reflected that fact when he took a step and somehow ended up going diagonally.

Now all the mens' attention was on him. Which was both good and bad. Good for the victim, who was crawling away to cower behind a dumpster, but bad for Peter.

"I think this fucker's high." One of them said, bemused.

"Uh… maybe?" Peter said smartly. "I mean… no?"

"Let's teach 'im a lesson to mess with the One-Eyed Snakes

A round of cheers went through the group and they got into 'fight mode.' They separated and surrounded him.

Ok so, here was the problem: Peter's sixth-sense worked like really accurate anxiety. And anxiety could be waned with the use of certain drugs. Such as narcotics. Ie. opioids. Ie. heroin.

So.

Peter's sixth-sense hadn't been working so well lately.

And given that he couldn't see all four of them at once, this was going to be a problem.

A fact that was confirmed by the fist that came around and clocked him right in the jaw.

It was definitely a hard punch, given how he stumbled back, but also he was durable, so, eh. Whatever. He shook his head and looked back at the guy who delivered the punch. He saw the man's brows furrow and his toothy grin falter, clearly he was expecting to have at least some reaction from Peter. Instead, Peter tilted his head.

He darted forward and rolled right between the man's legs and, extending his foot as he went, delivered a good smack to the guy's crotch with the bottom of his shoe. Peter finished his roll and found his footing rather gracefully for being high - if he did say so himself. A squeak made him look back. The poor guy had fallen to his knees, hands clutched right between his legs and his face was beet-red.

And like the asshole that he kinda was, Peter laughed.

Which definitely distracted him 'cause he did not see the crowbar swing his way. The blur of metal hit him right in the stomach, making his keel over.

Now, Peter may have been durable, but he wasn't indestructible. And taking a metal bar to the ribs didn't feel too good. Thank god he didn't feel anything break.

With a cry of one part frustration and another pain, Peter grabbed his assailant's collar and pulled, smashing his knee into the guy's face. He felt the cartilage of the dude's nose break, warm red suddenly speckling his pant leg. He tossed the guy away, watching as he landed on his face with a hard thud.

He wasn't done, though. He shoved himself to his feet, face twisted with rage.

Peter smiled. And then promptly remembered none of them could see it though his paper-bag mask.

Oh well. This is why quips existed.

"If it helps any, your nose is way prettier now."

The dude's eyes flared and he motioned to his two non-incapacitated goonies. They ran at Peter all at once. Peter jumped, relishing as he all three of them rammed into each-other.

Peter landed, careful to not be too acrobatic-y. He didn't want them thinking he was Spider-Man.

"I'm sure there are some plastic surgeons that could help you out. I could do some research and refer to someone, you know."

"SHUT IT!" Broken nose dude bellowed. "LET'S FINISH THIS PUNK!"

"Never thought I'd say this to a strong burly man like yourself, but I'm going to have to ask that you do not 'finish me off'." Peter grinned at the confusion that passed across the dude's face. Then the realization hit, which made him, like, a billion times more angry.

They all charged, kicked-in-the-nuts-guy finally back in working order.

"Ok, I'm getting bored," Peter muttered to himself.

He focussed - as best he could.

He dodged the first guy, side-stepping using his momentum to redirect him into the brick wall. The guy collapsed and Peter delivered a quick kick to the head. His body went limp. He was out.

One down.

The second guy - Peter first victim threw a punch that caught Peter in the shoulder of all places. Peter grunted and punched back, delivering a solid hit to the jaw. Meanwhile, a third guy tried to throw his own right-hook, but Peter's spider-sense actually worked for once, so he ducked. The fist flew through the empty space that formerly held Peter's head and slammed right into his buddy's barely recovered face.

The buddy went down. Poor guy. Kicked in the balls, punched by a super-strength teenager, then knocked-out by his friend. How sad.

"AH SHIT, LARRY!"

Poor Larry.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Ugly Nose." Peter quipped, quickly dodging yet another punch by doing a super-cool backflip. God he loved seeing random bad guys' faces when he did that. It was usually at that moment that they realized they'd picked a futile fight. "If you keep treating me that nice, maybe I will let you finish me afterall."

Mr. Angry returned full-force. He bellowed, kinda reminding Peter of a bear and launched himself forward. Peter sighed.

Peter flipped forward and brought his heel right now onto the guys' head. The dude went down like a sack of rocks.

"He he…" Peter chuckled. He really was an asshole.

A shuffling behind Peter made him turn around. The final guy was staring at him, fist raised and eyes darted between his unconscious buddies and Peter. He looked uncertain. "Fuck this." He turned on his heel and started running.

Peter tilted his head, watching the man run.

He scanned the alley for a small rock. Finding one, he picked it up and took aim. He launched it.

It glided silently through the air for a few seconds before colliding with the back on the thug's head. He grunted, stumbled, then fell.

Final one down.

Taking a moment, he looked around the alley. Four unconscious thugs, and the guy he saved- wait. Nope. That guy had left probably a long time ago. How nice. It was just Peter now.

And a pigeon- nope. It flew away as soon as he looked at it.

Oh well.

Peter spotted his reflection in a puddle on the ground. He pulled off his 'mask' and leaned in closer. He eyed his face. He had a small bruise on his jaw, but it wasn't bad. It would probably be gone by the end of the day. Other than that, he likely just had a bruise on his ribs. That might take a day or so to heal.

Peter finger gunned his reflection, "still got it!"

Sort of.

He didn't die, so he was gonna consider this a success.

. . .

With a grunt, he felt the sharp twinge of metal leaving his vein. A spurt of red followed it, but Peter ignored it. It never bled very long.

Pulling down his sleeve, he dabbed up any blood that had reached his wrist.

He opened the door and exited the stall.

He acted completely normal. And he did a damn good job of it too. Sure, his vision was a little wonky and, yeah, he kept almost falling over while washing his hands, and yeah his eyes were bloodshot, but other than that, he was completely normal.

Definitely.

The guy on the far end of the sinks that kept casting passing glances with wide, concerned eyes was the weird one. Not Peter.

The dude left pretty quick. He didn't even dry his hands. Which reminded Peter, he'd been washing his own hands for, like, a solid three minutes now.

He hadn't even added any soap yet.

Oops, ha ha.

Finishing up and patting down his unruly curls. Peter looked at himself.

What a fucking mistake that was.

He looked almost as bad as he felt.

To say the least, he averted his eyes pretty quickly. He full-on had to turn away from the mirrors, like his goddamn reflection was cursed. Maybe it was. Whatever.

He heaved a deflated sigh.

Shooting up at work probably wasn't the best idea. Especially considering his job involved driving a scooter. It wasn't that bad, though, he'd never hit anyone. Quite the opposite, he'd be moving so slow at times, the entire bike would just tip over. Which, yeah, would spill the pizzas and get him yelled at. Also he'd get lost. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. He just couldn't make sense of the tiny map on his phone. All those lines and symbols meshed into a blob of disorienting colours. And he couldn't exactly rely on his memory to guide him anywhere these days. Lately, he'd just find himself wandering the streets, not a clue where he was. Buildings that he once recognized were grey masses, uncharacterized and looming overhead. They blocked out the sun. As he'd walk, they'd all bleed into each-other becoming massive walls, leering over him.

Scrubbing at his face, Peter squeezed his mind back into the present. His crippling psyche would have to wait.

He pushed himself away from the counter and turned towards the door.

Time for work, yaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy.

His eyes landed on the object hanging on the wall. It was a murky yellow plastic box contained in a clear hard plastic case. A solid white piece framed the edges of the front, working as a door with a lock so what was inside couldn't be stolen. The top was a lid that lifted and shut, similar to a bread box. The moment the lid would close, it would dispose of its contents into the locked base of the yellow box.

Peter inhaled, eyes glued to it like it was magnetic. It was there for him. Well, people like him and a few others. But right now, in this moment, it was there for him alone.

His attention fell to the mass in his pocket. Thin and long and dull. It still did the job, though. Just hurt like a son of a bitch when it did. Also, it had blood in it. Which was bad. He knew it was bad. But he was always running low on them. He needed to keep them at least for a little while.

Yet there that stupid box was. Sitting there, calling to him - not even that. It was just making itself known. It was there if he wanted it - no pressure, no judgement.

He didn't want it. But… but it kinda reminded him that… that there were people out there who cared. Who cared enough to put those stupid boxes up in the first place. Who cared enough to give out Naloxone kits for free. Who cared to keep people like him safe. Who cared to keep people like him alive.

With a start, he felt his fingers brush against the stupid thing in his pocket. Much to its own volition, his hand had snaked into his pocket, fingers curling around the cursed object. He slowly pulled it out.

It sat motionless in his hand.

No one else was in the bathroom. He could deposit it - get rid of it - without anyone knowing.

But what would he do then? How would that help him at all? He'd just be short a rig.

Still… something deep inside yearned to get rid of it. It wanted to stop. It wanted…

Peter watched his arm lift. He felt his body take a step. He felt the plastic lid under his fingertips. He heard the quiet scrape of the compartment opening, like a carnivorous plant waiting with an unhinged jaw for its prey. He watched, frozen in place, as his hand placed the needle in the compartment.

A heartbeat.

He closed the lid. A frosted shadow of the syringe fell into the yellow. It sat there, a screaming testament to his sickness. But also a show of his disposition. Some part of him still wanted to be safe.

Some part of him wanted to get better.

. . .

"LATE AGAIN! AT JERRY'S PIZZA, WE ARE NOT LATE! YOU COST ME A PIZZA! THEY DIDN'T PAY BECAUSE YOU WERE LATE, SHITHEAD!" He threw the dough in his hands at Peter's face, hard, bruising his nose.

Peter just stood there and watched the little man walk away. He didn't bother trying to catch the dough as it fell, or to pick away the pieces that'd stuck to his face, or the flour. He didn't care.

He was pretty sure he was about to be fired anyway, so whatever.

God, he was a mess. A straight-up disaster.

He was what parents warned their kids to never become. He was a cautionary tale. A tragic story that adults would sit around tutting at before going on their merry way forgetting about all the others like him. The orphans who didn't have anyone.

He couldn't help but wonder where he'd be at right now if he hadn't pretended to be 18, if he'd bitten the bullet that was foster care.

He probably wouldn't've been placed anywhere. 17 year olds weren't exactly coveted by foster families.

Not like he would've wanted a foster family anyway. It would've been a lie. And he wasn't interested in playing family with a bunch of strangers.

So whatever.

Nothing probably would've been different.

And… and it was too late for anything - anyone else to help.

He didn't need any help anyway.

He was fine.

He was just messing around.

He wasn't addicted.

He'd said it before and he would say it again: he had it under control.

He had it all under control.

He was fine.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING SHITHEAD?" Short man whatever his name was appeared outta fucking nowhere and smacked a burnt baguette over Peter's head.

"Ow," Peter said, although it didn't really hurt much.

"FUCKING SLACKER! NO WONDER YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING RIGHT! YOU'RE FIRED!" Like yelling, hitting and firing Peter in front of an entire restaurant wasn't enough, he dumped an entire bag of flour on him for good measure.

Peter didn't bother reacting. He could've defended himself or dodged or whatever, but he just didn't care.

He sighed.

It was almost a relief in some ways. He hated it here. He hated being that guy's bitch. Peter shed his apron, leaving it on the floor and stepped on and over the counter. The old fuck shouted somewhere on the other end of the counter 'WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SHITHEAD'.

Peter didn't really have an answer for him.

Maybe it had something to do with all his family dying, and then everyone in the world, friends and girlfriend included, forgetting who he was.

He snatched a muffin on his way out. It was old and dry and gross. He tossed it into the mud. Some pigeons would appreciate it more than him.

Peter felt like shit, but he also couldn't really be mad, either. He was just a very fireable employee. He was an idiotic fuck-up. He really wanted to get high. The heroin he'd taken was wearing off. That reminded him, he had some Train Wreck in his pocket. Not as good as heroin by a long shot, but for the moment, it would take some of the edge off.

He needed a little something extra to help him through this.

One of the good things about that fucking shithole sorry ass excuse of a restaurant was that it was near the park. And the park always had outhouses. And the outhouses were the perfect place to hit some shit, good ventilation and all. Peter locked the door shut and dug in his pocket, fishing out the blunt. He breathed in the smoke and instantly felt better. His mind started to slow down, calming the violent waves crashing around his brain. His muscles relaxed and he slumped back onto the toilet. Which was pretty gross, but he was too fucked up to care. He just really hoped there wasn't piss or shit sitting on the seat. He did not have the spare change to wash a load of clothes and these were one of the only pairs of jeans he owned.

Finishing up, he tossed the end of the joint into the toilet and opened the door. There was someone waiting to use it. Peter watched their nose wrinkled as they smelled it. Peter smiled cheaply. "I ate… mexican… food."

What.

Now the person just looked concerned and grossed out.

Peter hurried away, eager to escape the awkward encounter.

Honestly, more than anything, he just wanted to walk. He wanted to hear the birds chirping. To feel the breeze gently brush against his skin and through his hair. He wanted to feel the evening rays warm his skin, making him feel alive again. He wanted to lay in the grass under a bushy tree. Feel the green blades between his fingers and see a leaf break free from the herd, falling gently onto him.

He wanted to feel.

So he did. He did exactly that, except that the grass was mushy with half-melted snow. Plus, It just wasn't as good as he'd hoped anyway. Yeah, it was nice, but he felt… distanced from it. Like he wasn't really feeling it. Still, he tried.

Peter rolled his head and spotted a bench near him. The grass squished under his fingers, making them cold as he steadied himself, hobbling over to the seat. He plopped down, a little too hard, which hurt his ass a bit. But he didn't really notice. His attention was locked in on the lake just down a short hill in front of him. He'd really wandered a ways into the park, hadn't he? Resting his chin in the palm of his hand, he let his mind drift.

He thought about May.

He thought about MJ and Ned.

And he thought about Tony.

For some reason, right now, watching the water, feeling the gentle breeze tickle his skin, he wanted to tell Tony. He wanted to knock on his door and confess everything.

It probably wasn't a good idea but still he wanted to. He wanted Stark to care. He wanted to open his heart and let everything out. To let Stark know that he wanted to be clean. That he wanted help.

But what was the point?

He was doomed. He probably had been since he was six. Being orphaned at a young age usually made for a shitty future.

Footsteps crunched behind him, making their way around to the front of the bench. The wood creaked as an additional weight was added to it.

Speak of the devil - or think of the devil in this case.

"Hey."

Peter's eyes flickered weakly to look at Tony. "Hey." His voice was meek even to his own ears, but Tony didn't show that he noticed it.

Tony's eyes stared forward and Peter saw what he was looking at: a row of several ducks. Most of them were smaller - probably last year's babies. They followed a fully-grown mama around the lake, nibbling at the water surface as birdseed was sprinkled from the bridge. On the bridge, a little girl jumped happily and tugged at her father's pants. With a big toothy grin, her head swivelled between the little feathered family and her dad who chuckled and ruffled her hair, handing her some birdseed.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Tony's voice recaptured Peter's attention and he looked at the man once more. Tony was still staring ahead. "How simple it is sometimes. A day out with your dad feeding ducks." Peter just nodded lightly and joined Tony in observing the peaceful, joyful scene once more. "When does it all become so complicated?" Peter's eyebrows knit together slightly and he side-eyed the man: he still wasn't looking at Peter. He looked lost in thought as he spoke. "For me, it's always been pretty complicated. Not to get all mushy or anything on you, but my father never liked me much, so I never got a moment like that with him. But it all really went to shit when my mom died."

Peter was silent, this was the first time he'd ever seen Tony open up about… anything, and it was very unexpected. Peter breathed, feeling a little bit of tension disappear from his shoulders. "I'm sorry." That got Tony to side eye him. "I know that doesn't help at all, and it's just the thing people say, but still… I'm sorry for your loss."

Tony nodded. "Thanks. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks." They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the family of ducks, and watching the dad and his kid. Peter saw the dad pour the last handful of seed into the little girl's cupped hands. Leaning over the railing, she dumped it. The teen ducks and mama resumed their crazy mad-dash. Within seconds, they'd eaten it all up. The dad scooped up the girl and her little arms wrapped around his neck as her head nestled against his shoulder with a big yawn. Peter watched as they walked away. Similarly, mama duck led her babies back into the reeds. The lake shimmered gold in the light of the setting sun. The world took on a gentle quiet as the hustle and bustle began to slow. "For me, I think it was after mom and dad died." Through his peripheral vision, Peter saw Tony's eyes find him. "That's what started it, I guess. I don't know, it's all just been getting more and more complicated over the years, but… everything just kinda changed the day they died, you know?"

Tony didn't say anything for several moments. But it didn't feel awkward. The conversation had lulled peacefully, letting them both relax into the quiet. There was no demand for answer, no need to carry on a pointless conversation riddled with hollow confessions and insincere condolences.

Which made Peter happy. He appreciated Tony not pretending he understood nor trying to sway Peter's feelings. He just listened.

Tony inhaled. "Are you high right now?"

Peter hesitated. There was no point in lying. "Yeah."

Tony nodded slowly, "what're you on."

Another pause, this time longer. "Does it matter?"

It was Tony's turn to hesitate. Of course it mattered, but how would he convince the kid of that when he was acting so… resistant. He inhaled, deciding to go a different direction. "Are you using any hard drugs?"

"No."

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Thank god.

"Are you stalking me?" Peter said, too tired and fucked up to bother softening his tone.

Mr. Stark cleared his throat, "no. Well, sort of, but in my defense, you keep running away."

"Yeah, that's what people usually call 'a hint'. Maybe you should take it."

"You have a point there, but I'm going to ignore it."

"Thought I blocked you from tracking me?"

"For a while, kudos on that by the way, but you're dealing with a genius here. I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve." The kid didn't say anything. "You're pretty good at acting aloof, gotta give you credit for that."

"Aloof." Peter echoed the words, thinking. The remembering he and Tony had spent next to no amount of time together. "How'm I supposed to be 'aloof' to someone I don't spend time with?"

That made the man's jaw tick. "I don't know why you keep saying that. We've spent plenty of time togeth-" Peter got up and started walking away. Tony grumbled to himself and hurried after him. "-or we would have if you stopped running away from me for one goddamn second."

The kid side-eyed Tony. "So it's my fault? All those months that I had no way of contacting you, that was my fault."

"What're you talking about? I gave you Happy's number-"

"Happy's. Not yours: Happy's. Who, by the way, only started answering me after you died. Which I can only guess was because of pity, so you wanna clarify how I was responsible for- you know what, never-mind. I don't care. Forget it."

Tony inhaled, thinking. "Well, I care, so we're gonna keep having this conversation. Is that why you keep avoiding me? You're mad at me cause I didn't give you my number? Well sorry to break it to you, kid, but I'm busy. I can't just give out my number to anyone-"

Peter came to a dead stop. His face went slack, like it was wavering between being angry and hurt. He clicked his jaw shut.

Too late did Tony realize what his words had implied. He didn't mean for it to come across that way. Or maybe he had, he wasn't sure. He was a fuck-up after all with some serious self-destruction when he was confronted with his own vulnerability - such as chasing after someone he cared abo- loved.

"Just anyone." Peter hissed the words, hurt lacing his tone.

"Kid- I didn't mean it like- look, we didn't know each other too well back then-"

"And that hasn't fucking changed so why don't you piss off, Stark." He fell back into his walk, footsteps hard on the concrete path.

"Goddammit," Tony muttered to himself. "Pete, hey, hold up, ok full disclosure-"

"I don't care."

"-I have some issues. I didn't give you my number because I knew I-"

"I said I don't care."

"-would end up getting close to you, because you had me wrapped around your finger the minute I met you-"

"I Don't. Fucking. Care."

"-and I have an allergy to feelings-"

"STARK!" Peter whirled on him, barely contained rage twisting in his expression. "I DON'T FUCKING CARE."

Tony clamped this jaw shut and quietly regarded the kid. Peter stared back, eyes hard, but expression softening just a bit: an indication that he hadn't meant to snap like that.

Peter sighed, eyes dipping. "Sorry. Just- I'm tired, ok?"

Tony deflated. He inhaled, ready to just bite the bullet and explain how incredibly he'd fucked up. Not like Tony had an official diagnosis, but he was pretty sure he had a few screws loose that tended to sabotage his meaningful relationships - Odin knew Pepper could attest to that. And Rhodey. It was honestly a miracle either of those two stuck around.

He wasn't going to let that mess up his relationship with the kid.

Tony cared too deeply for him to let that happen.

Now, he just had to figure out how to explain all that to Peter without deflecting and being an asshole about it.

Well, Tony didn't have to worry about that after all because as soon as he opened his mouth, he was cut off.

"Hey! TONY STARK! Tony Stark, why are you avoiding making public comments about your death?!"

They came barreling down the path like a pack of wolves. Cameras like bared teeth, ready to tear at their prey until there was nothing left.

Fucking paparazzi.

They swarmed him, cutting right in between him and his- the kid.

"Tell us, how did it feel when you died? How did it feel when you were resurrected?!"

"How did you come back from the dead, Tony Stark? Is there a diet and exercise routine we should all be following?"

"What is the future for Iron Man? Will he reprise his role as leader of the Avengers?"

"What are your comments on Spider-Man's recent disappearance? How do you feel about your recruit to the Avengers being a murderer? Were there signs of his violent nature all along?"

The crown started piling up and Tony had to physically push through them to get ahead. Every step he took, he was met with more faces, the flashing of cameras nearly blinding him.

Through the bodies, Tony spotted the back of Peter's head, curls unruly and sticking out at odd angles. He needed a haircut.

"KID! Wait, up, hey, Kid!"

A few of the fuckers veered to block Peter's way, shoving microphones and cameras in his face. The kid stumbled back a few steps, clearly startled. But they didn't give him any space.

"Why is Tony Stark following you?! Are you his bastard son?!"

"You appeared to be arguing with him, do you have a vendetta against him?!"

"You look upset, is Tony Stark stalking you?! Why is he after you?!"

"Who are you, young man, and why is Mr. Stark talking to you?! How do you know each other?!"

The kid blinked, head and eyes snapped from one voice to the other. His eyes were wide, but also hard, like he was overwhelmed, but also annoyed. Setting his jaw, he faked a step to the side, then quickly skirted around them, hurrying away. Tony wasn't so lucky, unfortunately, as he had the vast majority of the fuckers swarming him like flies.

The kid cast a glance his way, his eyes were sympathetic, hearing and probably seeing the hint of desperation in Tony's voice, but he didn't stop. The resolve shone clear in his face and he turned away, leaving Tony to be drowned in the sea of shouts, cameras, microphones, and cologne.

. . .

"I'm gonna bring a drug addict into the house."

The words just fell out of Tony's mouth.

He'd been thinking about it for a while now. But it was… complicated to bring up. Family dinner with Morgan wasn't a good time. Dropping by the office wasn't a good time. Right before sex sure as hell wasn't a good time. And after sex was almost worse.

So here he was sitting on the couch with his beautiful wife who was way too good for him, being stared down with a look of one part confusion and the other disbelief.

Tony had already committed to this, much to his mouth's own volition, so might as well go all-in. "And I'm gonna get him to stay here for a while." Pepper's face remained the same. "I'm not sure what all he's using, but I have a feeling it's pretty bad." She continued to just stare at him. Inhaling a breath, he opened his mount to continue. "I-"

"What are you talking about?!" Tony clamped his jaw shut. "Who- who are you talking about? Why are you- who?!"

Tony inhaled through his nose. Pepper must've seen something in his eyes, because she softened all at once, letting him explain.

"It's the kid."

"The kid- Percy? Is that who you're talking about?"

"Peter. And yeah." Tony sank into the couch, hands scrubbing at his face. "His aunt died and he started using."

A brief pause. Pepper's hands gently patted his arm, massaging it. "I'm sorry to hear that Tony. What about his parents? Do they know?"

Tony wrapped his hand around hers and shook his head. "They're dead. All his family is dead, actually. It was just him and his aunt."

"Oh god…"

"Yeah. Yeah. So… I… want to ask him to stay here. So I can keep an eye on him."

Pepper's eyes flickered back and forth between his, thinking. She inhaled, face tense. "What about Morgan? Tony I know you care about this Peter, but Morgan…"

"I know, I know. But trust me, Pep, he's a good kid. He's just having a hard time. He'd never do any of it in front of her and he'd never hurt her. I promise you."

"I know you think that, and I'm sure he's good, but Tony, addiction changes people. Makes them act in ways they normally never would. What happens if he goes through withdrawals?"

"Then I'll scoop him up and whisk him away to the Tower. Plus, I'll have FRI monitor him the whole time. She'll let me know if he starts showing any symptoms." Pepper bit the inside of her cheek, confliction evident on her face. She sighed. "You just gotta meet him and you'll see what I'm talking about. How about I invite him over for a night? If you don't trust him, I'll stay with him at the Tower instead."

"You stay with him at the- Tony, for how long?"

Tony sighed. He didn't know. Could be a couple months. Could be more. Could be less.

Obviously, the end goal was to get him clean, but how long would that take? What if the kid never agreed? Would Tony just have to force it? How would that workout? The kid had super strength, how was Tony supposed to contain that? He wasn't even sure how strong Peter was.

Through the various messages Happy had forwarded him back in the day, it seemed he was able to easily stop Bucky's vibranium arm (a fact he liked to remind Happy of when saying he was ready for their next mission), and Tony had taken a few licks from that, so he knew how much strength that would take.

So that was the kid back in the day before he had any real experience.

So that brought the question of how strong was he now? He'd likely learned a great deal more about his own powers since then. In addition, this time around, he wouldn't be so happy. How strong would he be while pissed as can be? Because he would be. Tony had yet to witness any withdrawals first-hand, but he knew the stories. Everyone did. So what would that look like for a mentally unstable kid with superpowers?

Maybe out-strengthening the kid wasn't the right move. Wit had always been Tony's superpower. Maybe that was what he needed to focus on. If the kid could hold back vibranium - the strongest metal on earth, then clearly nothing would survive his anger.

Maybe it wasn't about keeping him in an unbreakable place, but rather making a place that would heal quick enough to take unrelenting damage.

But whatever, that wasn't what mattered right now. He had an idea, but right now he was just focussed on getting the kid close enough so he could keep a proper eye on him.

He wanted to bring him here. Tony wanted to bring him home.

Yeah, he could just stay at the Tower and figure out how to force a make-shift rehab right off the bat, but that wasn't what he wanted to do. He didn't want to get the kid clean only to have him relapse immediately after. It wasn't just addiction that they were fighting, it was grief. It was the pain and loneliness that the kid was feeling. That was the core of this mess. That was what needed to be remedied.

He wanted to show the kid that he had a family in front of him. He wanted to show him he had a home right here. He wanted to show him he had a present and future to live for.

That couldn't be done in the Tower.

But Tony would not risk his wife and daughter's comfort and wellbeing.

He could always stay with the kid at the Tower, get him clean then bring him home.

He could do it that way.

It would be tough and might not stick the first time, but he could make it work.

He would make it work.

He wasn't gonna lose that goddamn kid.

Not again.

Never. Again.

Pepper inhaled. "I don't know Tony…"

"Just one night." Tony wrapped his other hand around hers and looked her in the eyes, dead-on. "Please."

She didn't say anything for several heartbeats. Her eyes scanned his face, crinkling with uncertainty. Finally she sighed heavily and held up a finger. "One night. I'll meet him and then I'll think about letting him stay longer, ok?"

Tony had to bite his own tongue to keep from celebrating. He smiled - a smile he knew was stupid looking and dopey. He sprang forward and wrapped her up, making her squeak in surprise. He squeezed her close and planted a kiss on her cheek. "God I love you."

She laughed through her nose and patted his back. "Yeah I know, you big dope."

Just as quickly, he let her go and jumped to his feet, calling for his suit. "FRI, find Pet-"

"Hey?!" He turned to see Pepper staring at him, dumbfounded. "What're you doing?!"

Tony blinked. "Going to get the kid?"

"Right now?! It's- it's the middle of the night!"

Tony paused. Peter might be asleep, that was a good point.

"I found him, Boss." FRIDAY chimed in. "He's headed towards the Upper West Side museum - the one that's under construction."

Never-mind, he was awake.

Tony blinked again. "Yeah, but he's awake and I'm awake, so…"

She stared at his for a few moments, face twisted in that signature look like she couldn't fathom what the fuck was going through Tony's head. She slumped back, waving a dismissive hand and rolling her eyes. "Fine. I'm going to bed. Don't stay out all night."

Before she was finished, Tony was already at the entryway. He called over his shoulder as he threw open the door - completely forgetting he had a sleeping daughter upstairs who he probably just woke up. "No promises!"

. . .

Well, there Peter was. Sitting on the cold marble floor of the museum. It had been empty for about 10 months now. It was supposed to be under renovations, but apparently someone somewhere messed up a bunch of budgeting figures and it turned out to be a whole lot more expensive than it was supposed to. Anyway, people got mad, threw tantrums and ended up in court, where they'd already been for, like, five months at that point. Peter liked it though. Cause it was the perfect place to be alone. Well, peacefully alone that was.

His apartment never really felt like home. It was just the only crap he could afford. His neighbours upstairs were always either fighting or hooking up. Or fighting and hooking up at the same time.

Skeeter was cool, but he wasn't at his place too often. And when he was, he was usually doing business or passed out or having sex.

So that left Peter alone with his thoughts a lot. And that was never good.

There was something about being out that made him feel better. He liked going to the park to see the water lapping gently against the rocks, the leaves rustling gently in the wind, and to breathe in the fresh air (well, as fresh as you could get in Manhattan). But, you can't do drugs in the middle of Central Park, so Peter often resorted to vacant lots like this one.

Peter lined up the white powder he'd crushed up. With the single five dollar bill he had found crumpled in his pocket, he inhaled them, relishing in the sting as the tiny shards scratched at his nostrils. Peter leaned back and sniffed, doing his best to suck in any loose powder remaining in his nose. The familiar taste of meth landed on his tongue. Despite how disgusting it was, Pete loved it because it mixed perfectly with heroin. He plopped back, leaning on his hands and grabbed the bottle of Olde English he'd been nursing for the past thirty minutes. It was a 40 ounce bottle that was now about a third empty. Peter chugged some more, feeling the dizziness slither into his brain and choke his mind.

"Let it take me… please, God, let it take m…"

Everything spun.