School, for Peter, has never been a challenge.
"Your brain's all down to your parents," Ben used to tell him, and Peter held on to the words like they were something precious, because even though he doesn't remember much about his mom or dad beyond the fragmented memories of a six-year-old, he still misses them enough for it to at times manifest as a physical ache in his chest. So he clings to the secondhand information his aunt and uncle have passed down throughout the years, feeling weirdly maudlin when it comes to the characteristics he's been told he inherited. He eats pizza like his mom—toppings first, then base and outer crust. He stutters when he gets overly anxious or excited, same as his dad used to do. He has his mom to thank for the annoying patch in his left eyebrow that never likes to lie straight, his dad for the little divot in his chin.
And, at least if Ben's to be believed, he got his intelligence from them too.
Maybe that's why Peter's always taken a quiet pride in being known as the smart kid in his classes.
For him, studying is more a show to appease May than something done out of actual necessity. He can go into a chem or calc test blind, finishing it in half the time it takes everyone else and acing it with ease. And despite his dubious attendance record, balancing homework with Spider-Man has never been an issue. Stuff like Spanish worksheets and physics projects can get to be a lot at points, sure. But they're not hard. The only subject he sometimes struggles with is English, and that's more a lack of interest than any cognitive hurdle.
And Peter's never thought of himself as better than anyone else because of it—grades aren't reflective of intelligence, he knows, or hard work or a person's value. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a tiny bit proud.
He's proud to be a straight A student. He's proud, if a bit flustered, when May brags about his report card to check-out line strangers. He's proud he can take complex ideas and whittle them down, translate them into something digestible for his classmates, make it so that other people can easily understand too.
He's proud to be his parents' kid.
It's a harsh blow then that, when finals week rolls around, he finds himself struggling through exams. Thinking has become like wading through muck. It's hard to concentrate on much beyond the constant, empty ache in the pit of his belly, and a haze of confusion has settled over him, apparently there to stay. He's never been drunk before, but he imagines this is kind of what it feels like.
His humiliations have been accumulating as a long list in his mind, and now, he adds another to the list. He's not the smart kid anymore. He's not his parents' kid—not the one Ben knew. He's not much of anything.
"What's the matter, dickwad? Your boyfriend break up with you?"
Peter lifts his head from where he'd been resting it against his folded arms, blinking against the library's harsh fluorescent lights to find Flash standing beside his and MJ's shared table, laptop in hand and a smirk plastered across his face.
MJ's feet are propped against the edge of her chair, a thick tome held balanced on her knees. She doesn't look up from it when she says, "You should probably get back to studying, Eugene. I'd hate to have to kick you off the Decathlon team if your GPA slips too low. Again."
Flash's smirk drops, a glower taking its place. "At least I can afford to drop a few points. Hey, Penis, when you lose your scholarship and get thrown out onto the streets, can I have your locker? I could use the extra storage space."
Like a lot of Flash's jabs these days, it cuts deeper than it should. Because even though Peter's not worried worried, his scholarship is still a thing—a thing that's been niggling at the back of his mind for weeks, developing there like a tumor. He's already dreading summer vacation. Free lunches aside, school, despite everything, is one of the few distractions he has from all the stuff he wants to avoid thinking about—stuff like Ben and May and Mr. Stark and how much Peter's failed them all. The idea of never coming back here period is unfathomable.
His scholarship used to just be a given. Back when he was still the smart kid and his brain still functioned as it should.
The seconds drag by as Peter struggles to formulate a response, and the smarminess melts from Flash's face as the silence becomes awkward. He draws his shoulders a little higher, shuffles from foot to foot like he's not quite sure what to do with himself.
MJ peers up from her book. Her dark eyes glint as they bore into Peter.
"Whatever," Flash finally says. "I'm gonna…" He gives a vague wave, already walking away. "Printers. Catch you suckers on the flip."
Peter blinks after him.
"Tell Stark to lay off," MJ says, and he turns to blink at her, too.
"Huh?"
MJ jerks her head—a little bob in Peter's direction. "I don't know what he's paying you for that lame internship of yours, but it's not enough. You look like an Edward Gorey drawing."
"Mr. Stark doesn't pay me anything for my internship." He doesn't know why he says it. MJ already thinks Mr. Stark's a rich asshole, which is only half true. (Three-quarters at most, and even then only around people who sort of deserve it.) She doesn't need encouragement, and it's not like he wants Mr. Stark's money, anyway.
MJ, by the purse of her lips, disapproves, but she doesn't say it. Instead, with a slight sniff, she says, "Me plus T, huh? You know, I never believed that stupid tree was actually happy."
She goes back to her reading.
He wonders if she practices being cryptic in the mirror each morning, or if it always just comes naturally to her.
Hey, kid. How'd day one of exams go?
Fine. Keep your secrets. I didn't care that much anyway.
Pepper keeps nagging me about it. Updates for her?
I can take a hint: you're obviously wasting more time needlessly studying. Call me when you get a chance, alright?
Peter, feeling like a bigger disappointment than ever, doesn't.
The last day of school comes and goes, and he reluctantly hails in the summer by selling the PlayStation he fixed to Mrs. Rego downstairs in exchange for fifty dollars and a homecooked meal. Unlike May, Mrs. Rego can cook; her sons have barely started their first game in the living room before Mrs. Rego's scooping a second piece of casserole onto Peter's plate. She sends him back to his and May's apartment with four full Tupperware containers balanced in his arms.
"I talked to Tony earlier," May says at dinner that night.
The restaurant is dimly lit and mostly empty; aside from an elderly East Asian woman slurping noodle soup in the far corner and a dreadlocked, reggae-hatted, college student typing on his laptop between spoonfuls of rice, theirs is the only occupied table. And while Peter doesn't usually mind crowded places—finding comfort in a constant thrum of activity is a natural result, he suspects, of being a born and bred New Yorker—he's grateful for the quiet. With May's exhaustive work schedule plus overtime shifts whenever she can get them, they rarely have the chance to just chill, just the two of them, anymore. Even though their outing is meant to celebrate the end of school—something that doesn't warrant any celebration at all—he finds himself laughing more tonight than he has in months.
He's missed her more than he realized.
At her quiet admission though, the exuberance ebbs.
"Oh," he says.
"He's really worried about you, Peter," May says. "We both are."
He doesn't feel hungry anymore. Instead of taking another bite, he starts to etch a stick figure Thor descending from the clouds, Mjolnir wielded above his head, into his half-eaten larb gai.
May is quiet for a minute. "I know my kid, Peter. I know when something's up with you. And something's been up with you for a while now." She nudges her foot against his ankle. "We're a team, remember? You can tell me things."
Peter frowns down at his plate. It doesn't look anything like Thor.
He exhales, fast and hard through his nose, and sets the chopsticks down. Shoves the plate aside. When he looks up, the worry is clear on May's face, lined across her pinched brow and at the corners of her earnest, searching eyes, and a pang of guilt stabs into his belly. She has enough stuff to be stressed about between work and bills. She shouldn't have to deal with his angst on top of it.
He plasters on what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I've just been kind of overwhelmed with finals. Things'll be better now." It's not a promise he can live up to, but it's the only thing he has to offer.
May chews on her lip. "I was thinking. Maybe it would be a good idea to take a break from…" She glances at the restaurant's other occupants, neither of whom is paying any attention. Leans a little closer and lowers her voice. "Spider-Man."
Peter reels back as if she'd slapped him. "What?" he sputters. "No. Why would you even— No."
It's illogical, and he knows he's being unfair because it's stupid to expect anyone to read his mind, but the suggestion still registers as a betrayal—yet another letdown by one of the few people he was sure would just get it without needing to be told. Spider-Man is everything to him. How could she ever ask Peter to give him up?
"Peter." She runs a hand through her hair in one of her telltale signs of stress, revealing a grey streak that had previously been hidden behind her ear. She looks old, suddenly, the lights casting a sickly yellowish tint across her tired features. It scares him a little. "Throw me a bone here, honey. Being a parent is hard."
"I'm an angel," he says. The words sound familiar, and it takes him a moment to recognize them as Mr. Stark's.
"A real cherub," May agrees, but doesn't otherwise take the bait. "Cut the bullshit and give it to me straight, alright?" Despite the blunt statement, her voice is soft. "What's going on in that ridiculous head of yours, huh?"
"Nothing," he says. "I don't know." Then he takes a deep breath, shoulders wilting in time with his exhale. "Did you and Ben ever regret taking me in?"
Would you do it all differently, if you'd known how much of a burden I'd be?
May watches him, slack-faced and silent.
Peter drops his head, cheeks heating. What a stupid thing to ask. He rests his hands on the table and intertwines his fingers, squeezing until the knuckles hurt.
A moment later, May sets her own hands over his. "I would do anything in the world to give you your parents back. Ben would have too." She leans forward, ducking to the side until he's forced to meet her gaze. "But getting you? That was the single best thing that could've ever happened to us."
His eyes burn, and the inside of his nose feels disgustingly damp. He sniffles, trying to be subtle about it. "Okay," he says.
May's squeeze is significantly gentler than his. "Okay."
If May wants him to give up Spider-Man, she's going to be sorely disappointed, because with no school to distract him, Peter leans into his alter-ego full throttle. He's been letting enough people down lately; he's not going to let Queens down too.
At least, that's what he tells himself. It's easier said than done when he's not only having to contend with bike thieves and muggers anymore, but his own failing body alongside them. It's not like his powers have been fully stripped away—he can still heft semis up in the air with one hand and dodge the occasional bullet shot his way during bank heists. But as if taking a page from his brain, everything about him has just gotten…slower.
He thinks of May, and then he wonders if this is what it's like to be an old man, a little shaky and sore and confused all the time. He feels old.
"That's one thing they never tell you, Spidey," Hannah, a longtime member of New York's homeless population, says when he drops by her latest squatting place for one of his habitual patrol check-ins. "People don't age at the same rate. It's dog years for some of us."
Dusk has long since fallen, the condemned office building they're sitting in reduced to shadows and gloom, and the lit end of Hannah's cigarette is a lone soldier left to combat the darkness.
She leans her head back against the wall they're sitting against, exhaling a long stream of smoke. Taps out a few orange embers. Laughs, soft and weary. "Not even forty years old, and it's like I've already lived a hundred lives, you know? It tires a person out."
It's been a long day—he just barely managed to save a man who'd jumped a twelve-story building before his visit to Hannah, his adrenalin crashing as soon as the ambulance drove out of sight—and his own fatigue makes her words resonate all the more.
Fifteen years old with a hundred lives under his belt. It seems like a pretty accurate summation, even as he's immediately ashamed for thinking it. He doesn't have any right to pretend to know what she's talking about—not when he's got a loving aunt and home to go back to, and Hannah has nothing except an abandoned office that smells like mildew and forgotten things.
Peter tilts his head, the lenses of his mask making a soft whir as they readjust. "Is it worth it?" he asks quietly.
The smile Hannah flashes him is all teeth. "Here's hoping, I guess."
Their conversation lingers in his mind for the next few days as he goes about his patrols. He thinks of it during interrupted muggings and rescue missions into fires. He thinks of it when he gives a group of college students directions, and when he escorts a woman home late at night.
He wants to be that person, he decides. He wants to be the person who makes life—even in the thick of its sludge and muck—worthwhile for someone else. More than anyone, he wants to make it worthwhile for May, because she's stuck with him even though she deserves so much better. And, with school having come to an end, she deserves not having to pay for the extra expense of his now-void free lunches.
It's this motivation that compels him to add Friday and Saturday fights to his roster.
Ned's just as reluctant to alter the suit this time as he was when this whole deception was born, but he finally caves after Peter promises to go to Cindy's upcoming house party with him. He doesn't want to—he always feels awkward and out of place trying to mingle with people, and he's not in a very celebratory mood these days—but at least he won't be expected to bring anything.
i just want to focus on sm for a while, he texts Mr. Stark in excuse for his altered schedule. all the good crimes happen on wknds
Then, when Karen (the traitor) forces Mr. Stark's incoming call through two hours later, "I haven't had much time for patrol lately, with all the craziness. I really need to play catchup now that school's done."
"Catch up on what?" Mr. Stark demands, glaring Peter down from the corner of his HUD display. "This is supposed to be a freelance gig. Boba Fett style, for you nerds."
"Takes one to know one, Mr. Stark," Peter quips, but it lacks the usual spark their banter once had. Everything feels tainted now.
"You don't have any quotas to meet. You don't owe anyone anything."
He shrugs even though Mr. Stark can't see. The motion startles the pigeon that had been resting on the gargoyle beside him, and he watches it fly away as he says, "I just feel like I could be doing more."
Mr. Stark expression is a little pained. "Kiddo. If this is about something I said…"
"It's not," Peter quickly interrupts, even though it tiny, a little bit, deep down is. "I…I want to spend a bit more time with May too, you know? And my friends. We've all been really busy lately."
An uncomfortably long moment passes in silence. Finally, Mr. Stark brings a hand up and rubs at his eyes. "Well, if our sleepover's off, do you at least have a free slot tomorrow afternoon? I had big plans for a DIY spa treatment while we talked about cute boys and tormented Rhodey with prank calls. Pretty sure the face masks are nonrefundable."
Peter agrees. But when the next afternoon rolls around, he finds himself caught up in a bank robbery; this time, Karen lets him deny the call. After that, more excuses fall like January snow, cold and predictable and building walls once they've landed: He helped an old lady carry groceries from her car and is obligated to stay for tea and stale cookies. The magician failed to show up to a birthday party in Kissena Park, and the kid looks so dejected that Peter volunteers to be the stand-in entertainment, doing backflips and summersaults to the cheers of adoring ten-year-olds. MJ arranges an animal rights protest outside the local McDonald's, and he can't not be there; it's important to her.
Any guilt he feels over continually ditching Mr. Stark is absolved when he thinks about the fact that it's Tony Stark, who probably only spends time with him out of some misplaced sense of pity-driven responsibility. Chances are he's secretly relieved to be seeing less of Peter.
May's less relieved, judging by the lingering, worried looks that trail him from room to room. He knows he looks worse than ever—thin and tired and worn down, with clothes that might as well be hanging from a coat hanger with how well they fit him after two weeks of being away from Mr. Stark and the endless food he provides—but her attention isn't a problem.
Until, after his third Friday fight, it very abruptly is.
For months, Peter's healing has been slowing down. Bruises have taken longer to fade. His cut skin longer to stitch itself back together. Sprained ankles have become a lot harder to walk off.
His healing keeps slowing.
And then, that weekend, it stops altogether.
May's in the kitchen when he gets up, her presence there foretold by the noxious smell of burnt eggs permeating their apartment. For the first time in his life, he regrets not owning a turtleneck; he's forced to make do with a sweatshirt, hiking it up as high as he can and carefully bunching the hood into strategic place before going out to join her.
"Morning," almost making the nonchalant he's aiming for. "Omelets?"
"Only a little black." May—already in her work scrubs—glances up from the stove with an apologetic smile, and Peter's tensed shoulders ease when she doesn't notice anything out of place. "Grab the ketchup?"
His relief is short-lived. He's just finished setting the table when—
"What the hell is that?!"
His head shoots up in time to see May drop the pan she'd been holding and rush over the few feet to his side.
He winces. "It's nothing," but she's already tugging the sweatshirt away from around his neck. He knows what she's seeing. It's the same thing he saw in the bathroom mirror a few minutes ago: two hand-shaped bruises stained into his throat; thumb lines overlapping across his larynx; darker, smaller circles left by fingertips trailing in a path below either ear.
Last night was the first time he'd ever been pinned down in a stranglehold during one of his fights. It scared him a lot more than he's willing to admit.
In a similar vein, something like fear is seeping into May's face. "Peter," she breathes.
"Seriously," he says, gently disentangling her fingers from his clothes and pulling the hoodie back up to hide the mottled mess. "Some guy cornered me on patrol, and I didn't want to hurt him trying to get loose. It'll be gone in a couple hours."
May crosses her arms, more self-soothing than mad. Her voice is shaking when she says, "You can't do this, Peter. This isn't okay."
"I won't let it happen again."
May lays a hand over her mouth and closes her wet eyes. She inhales a deep breath through her nose, holding it a moment and releasing before she opens her eyes again and says, more composed and firm but still with a noticeable tremor, "I think you need to get away for a while. Out of the city. Give yourself a chance to enjoy summer vacation as an actual vacation instead of jumping right into the next thing."
The suggestion catches him off guard. She's never brought up going on a vacation before, in large part because the Parkers have never been get out of the city people. They've never been able to afford it—a status quo that's truer now than ever.
"We can't go on a vacation." Even though the bruises are covered, May's gaze is shifting rapidly between Peter's face and neck. He takes a step back, fidgeting nervously with his drawstring. "I've got Spider-Man. And it's not like we have a ton of extra money to blow right now anyway."
May's expression hardens. Not the mean kind of hardening, but the kind that she gets whenever she's particularly passionate or determined. "I told you: our finances are for me to worry about, not you. And if it'll convince you to go, Tony was pretty insistent about being the one to arrange everything. Something about a private island," she finishes in a mutter.
His stomach drops. "Tony?"
"He was the one who suggested it might do you some good to get away for a while. But, Peter, he's right. You don't look well, honey." She brings her hands up to cup his cheeks, so gentle she could be handling wet paper. Her thumbs run over the dark bags he knows are underlining his eyes. "He said you guys talked about you maybe taking a mental health break?"
Peter blinks.
No, he thinks. They hadn't talked about that. They talked about Mr. Stark's time in rehab, and Peter joked about going to Cancun, but he just thought Mr. Stark was trying to…connect with him or something. So Peter wouldn't feel so alone.
Hurt, sharp and serrated, tears into him. It was all a ploy. To open Peter up to the idea of being sent off to–to an eating disorder clinic or something, because he can read between the lines as to what vacation means. It makes sense: why bother trying to fix his charity case of a mentee himself when he can just throw money at someone else to do it for him?
For the second time in however many hours, Peter feels like he's being choked.
He takes a faltering step back, away from May's gentle hands and stifling attention. "I'm not leaving New York." The words sound faint even to him.
May twitches forward as if to follow before changing her mind last second. "Peter…"
He does the only thing he can: deflect. "It's still cool if I go to Cindy's party tonight, right?"
It looks, for a moment, like May's going to argue. Finally though, she sighs. "Only if you promise to let go and have some fun. We could use some more of that around here."
He spends the rest of the day swinging aimlessly around Queens, trying to lose himself in the motions of patrol and while away the hours until the party. As the sun starts to meander closer to the horizon, he makes his way toward the auto shop. It's not like anyone other than Ned will notice him being fashionably late, and he needs whatever cash he can get.
The sun has fully set by the time he leaves, the four fights he saw through marked by a throbbing right eye. There's almost certainly a bruise forming over it, and the fact preoccupies him as makes his way back to where he left his things. He's considering ways he can try to hide it before heading to Cindy's (He could try some of May's makeup? And why the hell didn't he think of that when he was getting ready this morning?) when he rounds the last corner and sees—
"Would you look at that." Iron Man's face plate flips up to reveal a livid-looking Mr. Stark underneath. Peter's backpack—the one containing a Spidey suit that's supposed to be registering on the other end of Queens—is dangling at his side. "The man of the hour's finally arrived."
Shit.
Peter's paralyzed, the breath knocked from his lungs in surprise. His heart is firing like an automatic rifle in his chest, his eyes blown too wide for their sockets. The entire world condenses, all of time and space boiled down to this single second in a dingy, graffiti-ridden alley.
Shit, he thinks. Shit shit shit.
Mr. Stark tosses him his backpack—still sticky with webbing from when he'd left it for safekeeping high up on the brick wall—and he catches it with numb, unthinking hands.
"Put your mask on," Mr. Stark says. It's not a suggestion. It's not even an order—not really, because orders can be defied, and the man's voice leaves no room for brokering obedience.
Peter swallows a wad of saliva that travels like a bowling ball down his bruised throat, lodging somewhere in the middle. Among the crackling static of his frenzied mind, one single thought is clear: I'm dead. "Mr. Stark. I…"
Mr. Stark's already rigid jaw tightens further. The grinding of his teeth is audible.
"Put your mask on," he repeats, low and hard as steel. "Now."
Peter's trembling so bad it takes a few fumbling tries before he's able to tug open the backpack's main zipper. Even then, he only manages to get it parted a few inches when the zipper snags and jams because of his shaking, and he's forced to grope around inside until his fingers meet the plasticky finish of a lifeless white lens.
Same as the zipper, his movements are panic-clumsy as he scrambles to get the mask on, and it's bunched up around his face, obscuring his vision, when he hears the Iron Man helmet clank shut.
Peter's never been afraid of Iron Man. How could he be? It's Iron Man—the same hero he grew up watching on the news with wide, fawning eyes. When May used to say in passing that the mask creeped her out, Peter always just laughed. But in this moment—as he listens to the heavy, clanking footsteps approach, finally getting the mask tugged down all the way just in time to see two glowing, glaring eyes loom over him just inches away—Peter gets it. He's terrified.
Mr. Stark doesn't pause. Not even when Peter stumbles a half-step back. One second they're on the ground; the next, they're hurtling into the night sky, metal arms clamped around his waist, the backpack smushed tight between them.
If Peter didn't already feel like a toddler about to be put in timeout, being forced to koala cling to Mr. Stark is plenty to hammer the analogy home. He knows they're too high up and moving too fast for anyone on the ground to really make out, but heat still creeps towards the tips of his ears as he imagines the headlines. Hero or Hellion? Iron Man Spotted Taking Spider-Menace in Hand. It's exactly the sort of article a place like The Daily Bugle would run.
It's a short flight though, and as soon as they land on the penthouse roof though, Peter finds himself almost wishing it were longer. Anything would be better than seeing the too-blank expression on Mr. Stark's face when the suit retracts.
With hesitant movements, Peter slings his backpack over a shoulder. Tugs off his mask. Wrings it in unsteady hands. "Mr. Stark?" he whispers.
Mr. Stark doesn't spare him a glance. Just walks past and heads inside, leaving the empty Iron Man suit to float there like a specter in his wake.
The silence is thick enough to drown in as Peter trails Mr. Stark down the stairs, and the analogies just keep coming: worse than a little kid being led to the naughty corner, he's pretty sure this is how a death row inmate might feel when they're marched toward the electric chair. It's a stomach-twisting image—especially when they reach the kitchen and Mr. Stark, still not looking Peter's way, makes a sharp gesture in the island's direction.
"Sit," he says shortly.
Sitting is the very last thing Peter wants to do—his jackrabbit heart is still hammering rapid fire beneath his sternum, and he has the desperate impulse to flee—but there's no way out of this. He abandons his stuff on the floor and pulls out a barstool, watching, dry-mouthed, as Mr. Stark rummages through the freezer drawer. The man emerges a second later wielding an ice pack.
Normally, Mr. Stark has a tendency to hover when Peter gets hurt, even when it's only minor bruises or abrasions. (He's a lot like May in that regard: they can both be annoying, even if, deep down, Peter can admit it's kind of nice.) Now, his expression is aloof as he reaches out and tugs away Peter's shirt collar with a finger. His thumb ghosts over the mostly healed skin.
"You're lucky your throat didn't close up overnight," he says, inflectionless. "Your aunt and I could be planning your funeral right now."
Peter flinches.
Mr. Stark's eyes, usually warm and kind, are as glacial as the ice pack he sets in front of him in a moment later. Peter stares down at it, shoulders almost touching his ears the frigid gaze, but makes no move to pick it up.
He startles when Mr. Stark snaps his fingers.
"Let's go, Parker," he says, impatience bleeding into his tone. "Get that on your face before your eye swells shut."
Cold sweat is beginning to prickle across the nape of his neck, but he obeys.
If Mr. Stark approves, he doesn't show it. Instead, he steps back and turns away. Stands there with his back to Peter, hands on his hips, posture rigid, head hung. He takes several slow, deliberate breaths. When he turns around again, he looks only marginally more composed.
"You know, when May called me this morning and ask me to check up on you, I figured it was just going to be the same old. I mean, God knows I never know what's going on with you anymore, but I at least thought we were past the whole screwing with my tech behind my back phase."
Peter swallows, slowly lowering the ice pack. "Mr. Stark, I'm so—"
Mr. Stark glares. "If you don't keep that on, the doc'll have to amputate your head. You want them to amputate your head?"
It's an objectively ridiculous statement, but there's no trace of humor in his voice.
Peter, stupidly, tries to add his own. "That's not even a thing." It doesn't sound funny though. It sounds timid and weak, and something shrivels up inside him when the venom in Mr. Stark's face gives no hint of abating.
"Keep it on," he grits out.
Peter sets the ice back against his eye.
Mr. Stark starts to pace back and forth. "I thought my best bet would be to try and catch you on patrol, seeing as you never answer my calls anymore, forget ever deigning to show up in person."
"I didn't mean—"
"Imagine my surprise when I got to your suit's coordinates. You want to know what I found? I'll give you three guesses."
"I don't—"
"Fuck all, that's what. Just some drunk college kids and a hotdog vendor who barely spoke a lick of English and swore up and down he hadn't seen Spider-Man swing that way in weeks."
"Sometimes he packs up early," Peter interjects weakly.
"Oh, but it gets better. Because I finally did find the suit—its actual location, not whatever bullshit decoy you programmed into it. Took me having to get the cell tower your phone last pinged at and hack into several hundred CCTV feeds trying to get an eye on you, but I did it."
Peter bites his tongue hard enough to taste copper. He checked for cameras around the garage; he didn't think he'd need to worry about checking around the alley, too.
"And you know what I thought when I found your multimillion dollar suit stuck to a wall like a piece of old gum?"
"Technically, it was my backpack stuck to the wall."
He wants to take it back a second later, because Mr. Stark spins around and hisses, "No, this is where you zip it, Peter. Because I thought my kid had gone off and gotten himself into mortal danger—again—and that this time I'd be too late to drag his ass out of it because I didn't fucking know where he was."
At those words, some unidentified emotion flickers to life in Peter's gut, but Mr. Stark is bowling on before he has time to try and name it.
"I scrolled through the baby monitor footage," he says. "What existed of it, anyway, since someone's apparently been busting out of their crib on the reg." He levels Peter with a deadly look. "Where the hell have you been, Peter?"
And oh—the emotion is anger.
Yeah, Peter thinks as it solidifies inside him. It's definitely anger. Anger that's quickly building from a spark to a fledgling fire because he's sick, absolutely sick of being treated like a little kid by someone who's never once in his life had to worry about where his next meal it coming from, or if he's going to be kicked out of his own home because he's not able to scrounge up enough spare change. Who's Tony to berate him like he's some disobedient child? Peter's never been a child. He's never been given the fucking chance.
The ice crunches in his fist as he lowers it again. "You promised you weren't going to watch my patrol logs anymore," he says, voice quivering a little despite his attempt to keep it even.
Mr. Stark barks a humorless laugh. "You've got some cojones on you, kid, I'll give you that." The glare returns. "You have zero right to get all pissy with me right now. Not after you hack my suit, again, and completely betray my trust."
And the anger keeps bubbling, boiling, steaming until it has Peter pushing the barstool back and springing to his feet. "You want to talk about betrayal? How about the fact you and May have apparently been conspiring behind my back to ship me off to some–some clinic resort." If anything, the confused furrow that brushes across Mr. Stark's forehead makes him even angrier. Did he really believe Peter was that stupid, that he wouldn't figure out their plans? "I–I told you stuff, man. Personal stuff. Because you told me I could, but then the second I look away, you go and blab it all to May."
"Told me stuff?" Mr. Stark's tone is a mix of incredulity and ire. "You haven't told me anything, even though I've been practically groveling at your feet trying to get you to talk to me. And hey, as long as we're laying our cards on the table: the whole lone wolf schtick? It's really starting to piss me off a little bit. I can count the number of people who've ever managed to get my full attention on two fingers, and congratulations, kid," he praises, lifting both hands in a sort of What can I say? gesture. His smile is mockingly hollow. "You made the list. Maybe try to act a little grateful for it."
"Yeah," Peter scoffs. "Poor Peter Parker, right? He should be lapping up whatever breadcrumbs you throw him." He's still shaking, but it's not from anger anymore, and his body suddenly feels too small to contain the enormity of his rage. He rounds the island, trying to put more distance between them. "I don't need your pity. I don't need you to fix me like I'm–I'm…I'm one of your projects!"
Mr. Stark leans back, seeming caught off guard. "Where the hell is that coming from, huh?" he demands, but he doesn't wait for an answer. "And you don't like what I'm putting out? Fine. Just fucking tell me what you want me to do!"
"I want you to stop pretending you care!"
Mr. Stark is quiet for seven seconds. Peter knows; he counts every one. When he does speak, his voice is dangerously low. "You don't get to say that." His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white. "Not after I spent the last five hours trying to flag your location because I was worried you were bleeding out somewhere."
The admission of worry is overshadowed by righteous fury. "What, so that justifies spying on me?!"
"I'm scared, Peter!" It's a shout. One accompanied by a swipe of his hand and a sudden stride forward and Peter—
In an ironic twist, Peter's the one who's suddenly struck by fear. Or at least, his body is. It's the same thing as what happened in the car when Mr. Stark reached out to feel his forehead: he moves on pure instinct. Before he's even registered his own actions, he's stumbling away, shoulders hitting the kitchen wall, but the barrier doesn't stop him. He clambers up, only slightly impeded by the slipping of his shoes against the paint, and doesn't stop until he's halfway to the ceiling, a good ten feet off the ground.
Below him, Mr. Stark freezes.
Both the blood and venom drain from his face.
"Kid," he says. It's guttural. As if Peter had just landed a roundhouse kick to his stomach.
He stops. Steps back. Deflates, like someone poked him with a needle and let all the air out. His voice is a little broken when he says, "I'm not going to hurt you, Pete." Then he drops down to his haunches and bows his head, clutching at his hair. "Christ," he whispers.
All the anger that had been so overwhelming just a few seconds ago vanishes, leaving Peter to feel like he'd been run through a washing machine and set out to dry. He shouldn't be mad at Mr. Stark. Peter's the one who's fucked everything up.
Slowly, he slides back down the wall until his feet touch the floorboards. He stands there, wavering. "…Mr. Stark?"
It's another long minute before Mr. Stark heaves out a deep breath and rises. When he lifts his head, his eyes are red. "I need you to tell me what's going on."
Peter hugs his midriff. Looks down, pressing his lips together.
"Come on, honey," Mr. Stark says, and Peter would call it begging if that were the sort of thing Tony Stark did. "It's just you and me here. No judgement. No more yelling. Just…" He spread his arms, palms out as if in offering. "Lay it on me."
Just lay it out, he remembers May saying after the disastrous ferry incident that lost him his suit and Mr. Stark's faith in one fell swoop. It's just me and you.
Okay, it's not working out, as if Peter was a defective purchase that could be thrown away, just like that. Maybe he was. Is.
"I…I can't."
For a few seconds, Mr. Stark looks gutted.
But then the expression is gone, closing off, the shields going up around him every inch as tangible as the one sitting in the Compound workshop, star-spangled and collecting dust.
He sniffs. Casts his gaze off to the side, away from Peter, and crosses his arms. "Fine. You wanna play the long game? Let's see how that works out for you." He starts to turn away, gesturing—a dismissive wave of his hand, like a king might give a subject—as he does. "You're grounded, by the way. Indefinitely."
Peter's drooped head shoots up. "You can't—"
"Yes I fucking can, Peter!" Mr. Stark snaps, spinning back around with a glare. He moves forward, into Peter's space until they're squared off with only inches between them. "Because these little escapades of yours? Whatever the hell has you disappearing for hours on end and then showing up sporting mystery bruises and choke marks? They end now."
And the resentment is back, red as hot iron because how dare he. How dare he try to take away Peter's freedom, and with it, the only thing keeping May afloat. How dare he take that away when he himself has never gone hungry or been looked down on or treated like absolute dirt once in his entire life. How dare he stand in his stupid luxury brand clothes in his stupid multimillion dollar penthouse, lecturing Peter as if he has a leg to stand on and acting like…like…
"You're not my dad!"
Mr. Stark's face flashes with hurt before quickly shifting back to anger. "Yeah, well, I don't see anyone else left in line for the job!"
Silence.
Peter blinks. What?
Mr. Stark's face had flashed with hurt, then anger. Now, it settles on horror.
"…Pete." He takes back a step. Shakes his head minutely, as if in denial of the words that just came out of his mouth. "I didn't mean—"
I don't see anyone else left in line for the job.
The words start to sink in. Peter doesn't know why—there's nothing funny about any of this—but a laugh bursts from his throat, dark and disbelieving. He feels like he's floating. He's disconnected from his body. He's been torn in half. This can't be real life. "You know what?" he says, and it's his voice and his lips are moving but it sounds like it's coming from another person, another room. "Fuck this."
"I'm sorry," Mr. Stark says. "Kid… I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking. I…" He raises a hand when Peter moves past him, as if to reach out and grab, but something stops him from carrying through. "Peter. Peter, please, just…"
Peter grabs his backpack and doesn't look back. "I'll take the subway home."
"Peter. Wait. Please, just let me— Peter!"
It's the last thing he hears before the elevator doors clunk shut.
Peter lies awake in bed that night, staring with empty eyes up at the top bunk's railed underside. On the nightstand, his phone keeps lighting up in sporadic intervals, dousing his room with a bluish haze between bouts of darkness. It's kind of like being underwater.
He stopped bothering to check the notifications hours ago, but he imagines the continuous stream of incoming texts are more of the same.
Tony called. He told me what happened, from May. Are you okay, baby?
DUDE! where r u?! from Ned, and Peter knows he's being a shitty friend for bailing but he just can't bring himself to care.
Because then there's the rest of it.
I'm so sorry, Peter.
You don't have to answer me, but please at least let May know if you made it home safe.
You mean a lot to me. Even though I've done a shit job of showing it, I need you to know that.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
They'd had a fight about money. Peter and Ben. The night Ben was shot.
I'm going to be regretting what I said for the rest of my life.
Everyone on the Decathlon team had been going insane because Bruce Banner was scheduled to give a lecture on gamma radiation at Queens College the next month. Dr. Banner's public appearances were already in pretty high demand due to their rarity, and that demand had skyrocketed in recent years by the hordes of people who wanted to come see him not for his research, but his Avengers fame. The fact that Abe's mom taught at CUNY, and therefore had an in, was an unexpected stroke of luck.
At least, that's what Peter had thought. He should've known better. Parker Luck always wins out in the end.
"But it's educational!" he argued when he got home only to find his pleas for the hundred dollar entrance fee all being met with denial.
"I'm sorry, buddy," Ben said. To his credit, he looked like he meant it as he glanced up from the dirty dish water and over at his nephew. He rinsed the plate he'd been washing and set it in the drying rack. "We just don't have that kind of cash lying around right now."
"But he's going to be talking about 'Gamma-Ray Emitting Radionuclides and Their Applications in Medical Physics and Radiation Biology,'" Peter said, bouncing a bit on the soles of his feet and making a conscious effort not to break the plate in his excitement. His strength was still new and foreign, too big for him to really wrap his mind around, and several indented doorknobs bore proof of the ongoing learning curve.
Ben furrowed his brows. "Gamma radio emitting what?"
"'Gamma-Ray Emitting Radionuclides,'" Peter corrected helpfully. "Dr. Banner's new paper."
Somehow, Ben looked more confused.
"It's about science and stuff."
"Gotcha. You know, some kids like graffitiing old dumpsites and lighting bottle rockets in their spare time. You ever consider branching out a bit?"
"Hardy har." Ben flicked some water at Peter's face, causing him to give a sputtering laugh before he went back to his begging. "Mr. Harrington already said he'd talk the school into giving us the day off. We're not going to be missing anything important."
Something tired seeped into Ben's expression, though he made an apparent effort not to let it show when he gave Peter a smile that looked all wrong on his face. He looked guilty. "How about we set aside some time that week to do something special as a family instead, huh? We could go to the planetarium. You love it there."
"I don't want to go to the stupid planetarium," he muttered to the glass in his hands. The warning look Ben shot him had him quickly changing tactics. "Please, Ben. It's Bruce Banner. He's, like, the literal coolest."
"Nice to see where I sit on the totem pole." Ben's tone was teasing, but when the only response he received was a flat stare, he sighed. "I'd say yes if I could, Pete. But a hundred dollars is a lot."
Peter's fingers clenched around the damp tea towel. "You don't get it. The entire Decathlon team is gonna be there, and talking about it for weeks and posting pictures all over Instagram and stuff, and I'll be the only person who didn't get to go."
"You don't know—"
"I do. I know because that's what happens every time. I just…" I just want to fit in for once. Peter shook his head. "Can't I charge it to your credit card? Just this once? I promise to pay you back. I promise."
"You know we've gotta be more responsible than that, Pete." Ben pulled the sink plug, scrubbing the suds from his forearms before turning to Peter. "A lot of people have ruined their lives falling into that trap."
"It's not fair," Peter snapped, frustration swelling inside him because he was always left out, always the poor kid, always expected to be responsible despite never getting anything to show for it in return. "Flash's parents give him a hundred bucks a week."
Beneath the simmering bitterness, Peter felt a pang of regret when the mention of Flash made his uncle tense.
Nothing positive had ever come from those sparse occasions Flash's parents bothered to show up at science fairs or school plays. They left a bad taste in Peter's mouth—even worse than their son did—and he credited it to the superiority that oozed from their pores. It was obvious they thought they were better than everyone else. Especially people like Ben, who made a living with his hands and sweat.
("So your husband works for the city," Peter once overheard Mrs. Thompson say to May after a Decathlon tournament. He remembers how Mrs. Thompson kept a good distance between them as they stood together at the back of the auditorium. Like she was afraid of catching a disease. "How…nice.")
"Flash Thompson is a spoiled bully," Ben declared, "and he comes by it honestly. That family has climbed to their wealth on the backs of a whole lot of others." His eyes were intense as they stared Peter down. It was the same serious expression he always assumed when he was trying to impart something important or profound. "We never put money over people, Peter. Never."
Peter couldn't think of anything good to say to that, so he just repeated the one thing he knew to be true. "It's not fair."
Ben was silent a long moment. "It's a no," he finally said. "End of discussion. Your aunt's had a long shift, and she's going to be dead on her feet. Let's try and fix the attitude before she gets home."
Peter crossed his arms and glowered at the kitchen tiles and seethed, feeling so wholly wronged because he was a good student and a hard worker and did his chores and didn't even get an allowance and the one time, the one time he asked for anything…
He knew they were poor. And normally, it wasn't a big deal. But right then? In that moment?
I hate you. He aimed the bitter thought in Ben's direction, half-wishing his uncle was secretly telepathic so the message would get through. I wish I wasn't your nephew.
As soon as he heard the door to Ben and May's room click shut, he grabbed his jacket and keys and walked out of the building.
(That's all he wanted to do: walk. He only ever wanted to take a walk.)
The floating, dissociated sensation that descended on Peter in the penthouse never really leaves, and he doesn't remember much of the week that passes besides worried glances from May and the TV shows he's stared at without watching.
He drifts like a ghost around their apartment, rereading every text and replaying every voicemail Mr. Stark sends. Peter's emotions are too big for him to know what to do with them, so he doesn't respond. He doesn't patrol. He doesn't do much of anything until Thursday night, when he leaves—taking a bus for once in lieu of swinging—for the auto shop. It's the only constant left in his life.
He's become mostly numb to the crowd's bloodthirst by now; the cheers wash over him as he stands in the back, covering him like ash after a volcano.
Andre's not among the faces packed around the makeshift ring, and even though it's not unexpected, Peter's still a bit crestfallen by his absence. They're not friends—they haven't even spoken outside to each other short of acerbic mid-fight exchanges—but Andre feels somehow safe. Relatable. He's someone who gets it in a way that Ned or MJ probably never will. That's kind of like friendship, he supposes.
And Peter's in pretty desperate need of friends right now. Ned hasn't been giving him the full silent treatment, but he's spent the entire week giving only pithy responses to Peter's texts and making up excuses to not hang out; his annoyance at Peter for missing Cindy's party isn't exactly subtle. MJ's at least talking to him, but it's not like he can tell her anything important. Not when his life is one big pustule of a lie just waiting to burst.
Mike, eventually, calls Ben's name.
Like Peter's very first fight, he's numb as he moves into the makeshift ring, not really registering much about his shirtless opponent save for a few cursory details: White. Mid-twenties. Neither bulky nor wiry, but somewhere in between. His entire torso is a jigsaw of ink. The number 88 is tattooed above his heart.
The punches don't really register either, and Peter wonders if something in his brain is broken—if whatever nerve that connects his body to reality was severed at some point, or withered away like a lot of his other tissue has done. Maybe he's just broken, period. What's the difference between broken and broke?
Another punch, this one to the side of his head, and the guy's jeering at him and saying something and Peter's ears are ringing and the lights are too bright and it's like he's in the bathroom with Mr. Stark all over again, splayed out on the floor on the cusp of vomiting even he hasn't eaten anything except a meager omelet that morning.
Knuckles connect with his face, sending Peter flying back. His skull collides with the concrete, and there's white-hot pain.
The garage's ceiling goes blurry, then dims. Above the buzzing, he hears a loud, metallic bang.
"Police! Everyone on the ground, now!"
Ben always wanted to be a police officer.
It's with this final, fleeting thought that Peter lets the darkness take him.