Author's Note: Thank you for your patience, I apologize about the length between updates. I am trying, I promise.

Disclaimer: No.

Warnings: Vague death ideation thoughts, gore, anxiety attack, implied/referenced child abuse, alcoholism mentioned.


"This mind isn't mine, who am I to judge?

Oh, I should be fine but it's all too much"

-Overwhelmed by Royal and the Serpent.


Chapter Three:

After going over the information about his fake seizures—maybe seizures—for the third time that day, Bruce runs a few tests that Peter thinks are rather pointless, and Tony has FRIDAY, confined inside of his phone and answering in only texts, look over Peter as well.

Neither finds anything obvious as a cause. He's not on drugs, he only has a low grade fever, no concussion or drinking alcohol, among many other potential sources.

"I don't understand," Tony says at last, leaning against the edge of the cot that Peter has been sitting on for the better part of an hour now. The comment isn't directed at Peter, but he does look up at the man anyway. "Shouldn't something have changed for him to suddenly be having seizures? Like some part of his brain got activated or turned off?"

From behind the laptop screen, Bruce is frowning. His glasses are pushed up his nose and his dark hair is hanging in front of his eyes. "Not necessarily. Seizures are just when the nerve cells in the brain have the continuity of their connection disrupted. That could be caused by a lot of things beyond brain changes."

"But to have this many in a row is indicative of something being wrong, isn't it?" Tony argues.

Bruce does spare the multi-billionaire a glance then. "It is. But even with epilepsy patients, doctors often aren't sure why the seizures happen. We can only treat the symptoms, not the problem, unfortunately. Without any obvious causes like drugs or alcohol, I don't know what to tell you. I know that both of you—" Bruce glances at Peter, his brown eyes soft, "—want there to be a reason that we can fix today, but I'm not seeing that."

Great, Peter thinks, feeling miserable.

He looks down at his hands. Even as much as he didn't want to see a doctor, he wanted there to be a reason behind this more. Now it feels like he's making it all up and stringing people along. Yeah, Ned and MJ saw it, but what if they saw something else? May could be right, and he really is only severely sleep deprived. Or maybe it's not. Maybe Peter didn't get put back together right during the Blip.

"Peter?" Tony says. He makes a grunting sound, the thought of talking exhausting him. "We'll figure something out, okay?"

Everyone always says that. Usually it means they're waiting for the problem to fix itself.

"What if it's not something you can fix?" Peter asks honestly, looking up at him. The two men stare at him, then glance at one another, sharing a thousand words in a second. Peter feels disconnected from them entirely, like he's fumbling around in a language that isn't his own. He often does with the Avengers, they communicate on a level that's almost inhuman, regardless of Germany and the mess that came after it.

Peter's just thankful that Happy and Natasha left earlier to give Tony more time before he's dragged back to the police. It gets worse when more of the team is present. They get quieter because they don't have to speak, but it makes following conversations sometimes difficult.

Tony's lips push together. "If we can't fix it, then we'll handle it."

Handle it. Handle it?

What if there isn't another seizure or whatever it is and Peter made this huge deal out of nothing? Just because he's had three doesn't necessarily mean there will be more.

And...what if it's not even...what if it's...

"No, you don't understand," Peter's fingers twist desperately against one another in his lap. Almost like if he wrings them enough he can snap them off. "What if this isn't something that...what if…"

Bruce leans forward, the light of the laptop hitting him beneath his face and leeching shadows away from his skin, making him look washed out and ethereal.

"Kid?" Tony pushes at the same time that Bruce asks, "Peter?"

Peter looks away, breathing in sharply. The room smells like antiseptic and sweat. It's a combination that makes him want to vomit. After a moment, his shoulders slump as he realizes that neither man is going to let this go. Breathing out slowly, he says in a mumble, "Have you considered the possibility that it's the Blip? Maybe I...just...didn't come back right or something." He shrugs, like this is an aimless thought.

His insides feel icy and his palms sweaty. He's not sure if he wants them to agree or argue.

There's silence, which must mean they're doing their telepathy thing, then Tony's hand rests on Peter's shoulder, warm and familiar, and Peter forces his eyes up with considerable effort. "You didn't come back wrong," Tony says quietly, but his gaze is earnest as it searches Peter's face. "I would know, I promise. You didn't come back wrong."

Peter doesn't believe him. He understands the words, and he knows they make sense on a logical level, he just can process them.

"Okay." Peter says, because that's what Tony wants to hear, and Peter's too exhausted to fight him. The expression on Tony's face assures Peter that he's well aware of the fibbing, but he doesn't say a word to counter it.

"Tony," Bruce says, his voice hesitant. In the absence of a pencil or pen, Bruce is chewing on his thumbnail as he thinks. "I don't know if it's something we can discount altogether. There have been a lot of reports of similar nightmares from the Blip victims; and Peter was on another planet. He might have picked up something foreign."

Space sickness?

Peter's stomach rolls with anxiety, and he shifts on the cot. He feels color drain from his face, lips going numb. Oh, man, what if...what if he got alien eggs laid in him or something? Or he picked up some sort of parasite and that is making him pass out? Or there was some sort of dust, or eggs, or there was this weird bacteria in the air that infected him. They made the Apollo Thirteen mission quarantine for days once they got back from the Moon. What if it's like that or eggs? Or. Just. Aliens.

God, Peter prays in desperation, please no.

"And it starts affecting him four months later?" Tony asks with skepticism. "I was fine. I was there, too. That can't be what it is."

"We don't know that it isn't. Tony, we have no idea what was there. The fact that you could breathe air was pure chance. There could have been something on Titan that...had a delayed reaction." Bruce suggests, but there's an edge of doubt in his voice about his theory.

"It could just be sleep deprivation," Peter mumbles. The two adults look toward him like he just said something unbelievably stupid. Peter's cheeks heat with embarrassment. He hadn't...that is a possibility isn't it? May seemed so sure.

"I don't think so," Tony says, his voice more patient than Peter had been expecting it to be. He sighs heavily, and ignores another notification as it buzzes on his phone. It's the tenth one in the last few minutes. There was scarcely little to do but count them as Tony and Bruce were reading over their data.

Peter blows out a breath between his teeth. He's terrified that something might be wrong, because that means his spider bite isn't going to fix it this time; but he's going to steadfastly and happily ignore the existence of anything being wrong for as long as possible. Them talking about this makes it feel real, and he can feel himself riding just above a panic attack at the thought of it. If he has epilepsy, that means another life-adjusting change.

Peter is so, so endlessly tired of those.

He drops his eyes.

"You guys can't see anything wrong. All we're doing is going in circles." He points out. He scrapes his shoe against the white-gray tile. Bruce and Tony are silent, but he can feel their eyes on him, like a physical weight keeping him pinned to the cot. Feeling fifty instead of sixteen, Peter looks up at them, "I get that you're concerned—" though Peter can't imagine why, he thinks he'd be doing the universe a favor if they did plant him "— but we can't do anything right now. You'll only make things worse long-term by avoiding those."

Peter indicates his head in the direction of Tony's phone, which buzzes again as if on cue.

His stomach muscles tighten. He can't...he won't be the reason that this murder becomes any more of a problem than it already is. If the Avengers don't seem concerned enough about Zhao, then things will only get worse. And they're bad enough as they are.

Tony sighs heavily, looking at the device with clear distaste and frustration. He probably isn't looking forward to the PR nightmare anymore than Peter is. Or the police. Or dealing with people. This is going to be a mess with no easy cleanup. Peter bites at his lower lip.

"We do need to get back up there," Bruce admits with reluctance, closing his laptop lid. His eyes return to the shadowed, almost aching edge, his glasses giving him a hunted look. Tony's shoulders slump. Peter wonders if they've put so much effort into figuring out what's wrong with him because they're that concerned or because they're avoiding the conflict upstairs and this is easier. As soon as the thought occurs to him, he feels awful. Of course they're concerned. They have to be.

Well. They don't have to be.

It just. That...that makes sense that they are. It does. It's just...sometimes, with May, he wonders. And here. He wonders here, but he can't let himself. That's rude and nasty and discounting everything that Tony has done for him, and Peter wishes he could crawl away. He doesn't want to deal with people. Emotions are so confusing.

"I know," Tony pinches the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. He opens his eyes and looks at Peter, "Will you see if May will let you stay tonight, at least? I'd feel more comfortable if you were close by."

See! This! This has to be proof he cares, doesn't it? And Peter's still wandering around discounting everything because that's what he freaking does. He takes nothing at face value and twists and warps it around until he's created his own little drama about how awful everything is. That is what he is. An over dramatized mess.

Peter wishes he hadn't come back. There was emptiness in the Blip. There was nothing.

He wants that more than he can say.

Realizing he hasn't answered Tony's question, he shrugs. "I...I can ask," he says with hesitance, because he'd really rather not. Part of him is terrified of what May will do if he's not there. And he knows that's not fair, but lately it feels like the only thing keeping her from going over the edge is him being there to physically stop her, not that he's done a good job of that. Even the thought of not being there one night makes him physically nauseous. "I dunno, I, um. I'm not sure what she'll say." He says hesitantly. He's lying, but it takes him a second to realize this. May will be fine with it, she hardly knows where he is half the time anyway.

Tony nods, but his expression is shadowed. He looks worried, and Peter bites on his lower lip, frustrated with himself for putting that there.

"Tony," Bruce nudges, and Tony sighs heavily, rubbing at his face for a moment in agitation. "We need to go."

"I know." Tony agrees. He's eyes land on Peter. "Do you feel up to babysitting Morgan?"

Peter shrugs. Not really is the honest answer, but what is he supposed to do if he doesn't? Sit here and panic? Do homework that he doesn't have? For a moment, he miserably wishes that he was behind on school, because then it would give him something to do. But no. Peter is weird and does homework when stressed.

"Yeah," he says, trying to hide his denial. "I guess."

000o000

A few minutes later, Peter is standing inside the lab, the familiar sights and scents calming his racing agitation somewhat. His shoulders drop, and he feels his breath release. In here, he feels safe. Protected. And it's ridiculous, because it's not like he isn't those elsewhere, it's just...here, it feels...different.

Pepper is sitting on the ground beside one of the desks, hair loose around her shoulders, dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. She, like Tony, barely looks a forth of the way put together, scrambling to make a semblance of their normal camera front. Morgan is seated inside her mother's lap, head resting on her mother's chest, deeply asleep.

Peter's stomach twists at the sight of her. He remembers that need to crawl inside of himself after finding a corpse for the first time. Part of him wonders if she even understands what she saw. Morgan is so young.

"Hey, Pete." Pepper smiles gently at him, and her voice is a quiet invitation. She lifts up a hand and indicates for him to come forward. Peter does, noticing that her phone is resting on the ground beside her leg.

Peter sits down in front of her, setting his backpack beside himself, feeling awkward and out of place.

"Tony, uh, sent me to trade you out." Peter explains, lowering his voice as well.

Pepper nods. "He texted me." She says, running a hand absently through Morgan's dark hair. It's tangle free for one of the first times that Peter can remember. Morgan adjusts herself a fraction, eyes still closed, and somehow looking utterly miserable.

Pepper glances down at her, then back up at Peter. She looks frustrated and torn, as if the thought that she has to leave her daughter with Peter to go deal with the NYPD makes her want to hit something. Peter chews absently on the inside of his cheek.

Pepper sighs, then twists to the side so she can see into Morgan's face. Morgan doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't shake her head, she doesn't say anything, she just sits in Pepper's lap and breathes. Pepper's lips twist into a frown, and she shares a brief look with Peter before she carefully lifts up Morgan and hands her to Peter.

Her skin is cold. It's the only sensation that Peter registers for a long moment. She's cold and she feels almost frail against him. It's not the first time that he's held her, but it does feel like the first time he's realized how small she is. There's no squirming, no talking, no movement. Morgan feels just as pliant and dead as the corpse upstairs must be.

No. It'd be in rigor mortis by now.

Peter shakes off the thought, carefully adjusting Morgan so she's held in his arms but not confined. The only indication that Morgan makes of him is to loosely fist her hand in his jacket. Peter looks up at Pepper, who is stretching out sleeping limbs.

"Are you two going to be okay for a bit?" Pepper asks softly, "FRIDAY's still active here, somewhat. She'll be able to tell Tony if you have another seizure."

Peter feels himself stiffen at the words, but manages to swallow an instinctive denial. "Yeah." He says in place of a nod. He didn't realize that FRIDAY was still in here. How much of the Tower does she still have access to? Happy, before he left with Natasha, had kind of implied that FRIDAY was in a phone and that was it.

But Peter guesses it makes sense. Tony probably wouldn't have let Pepper and Morgan out of his sight at the moment without having some way to monitor them both. It makes him feel as reassured as it does nauseous; being watched.

"We'll be fine," Peter assures, backing up a little so he can rest his back against a nearby filing cabinet. Peter's never seen Tony use it, and for the life of him he doesn't know what's in there, but it's incredibly heavy and serves as a sturdy backrest.

Pepper gives them another look, then nods to herself. "Just call or text one of us if you need us, alright? We're only a few minutes away."

Peter nods. Pepper lingers still, staring at both of them, then with what looks like considerable effort, she turns and leaves the room. A faint buzz of pressure begins to build in Peter's ears at the silence. Morgan is breathing, but it's quiet and she almost feels more like a porcelain doll than another human.

Peter swallows compulsively, and drums his fingers against his knee. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the best idea. The lab is a safe place, he knows this, but a safe place doesn't matter that much in comparison to his anxiety. It will power through whatever mental safe zones he has whenever it wants to.

Peter breathes out shakily. He almost feels like his breath is frosting. He's cold. He doesn't want to be cold. The idea of being cold causes his throat to lump. He feels sick. He needs to get warm or he's going to die. He can't move without disturbing Morgan. And Morgan is more important than any momentary displeasure.

After a while, maybe an hour or so, Peter gets a text from Tony asking if they're okay. Peter answers that they are, and bites at his finger once he's set the phone down. Morgan still hasn't opened her eyes. She's leaning heavily against him now, but she's not exactly asleep anymore. Her breathing hasn't evened out enough for that.

He should probably say something to her, but he doesn't know what. He finds himself there a lot lately.

He startles violently when his phone begins to buzz in succession, and Morgan jerks inside of his grip. Someone's calling him. It's just his phone. It's fine. It's okay. It's just his phone. Just the phone. Peter reaches out a shaking hand to pull it off the floor, and absently pulls Morgan back against him. "Hey, hey, it's okay." He soothes, "You're okay. Sorry. Just my phone. You can relax."

By the time that he's got the phone up to his face to read the caller ID, Morgan has settled again. Peter, however, has not. His stomach sinks and he has to work his jaw several times before it stops locking.

May.

He exhales slowly, tucking Morgan closer against himself for some miserable attempt at forced moral support. He answers the call.

"Peter?" May demands before he can get in a greeting. Her voice is raspy. Peter winces in sympathy, wondering if she's had any water. He turns the volume down. "Peter, where on earth are you? Why does the nurse want to send you home? Oh g—" There's a thwacking sound, like skin hitting drywall, and May groans slightly, swearing heavily under her breath.

"Are you still at the apartment?" Peter interrupts, then adds, "You okay?"

"Fine." May says shortly. "Yes I'm still at the apartment, I just woke up a few minutes ago. Why didn't you call me? You aren't here, where are you? Are you still at the school?"

"Um. No." Peter says. "Happy came and got me."

May pauses, as she always does lately whenever Peter mentions the Avengers helping him. In the dark, quiet part of his mind that likes to over analyze and pin things onto people, Peter wonders if she's jealous that Peter is reaching out to other adults besides her for help now. And that part of him, frustrated and tired, wants to snap a hissing you're not there. You're never there.

"Oh." May intones. "You're at the Tower now?"

Is she drunk? Is her speech slurring? Please, God, let her have a few minutes to be sober. Let her first thought upon waking have not been about alcohol today. Peter's stomach cramps.

"Yeah." Peter says. Morgan shifts slightly against him, and he puts his hand on her arm to steady her. "I am. Um. Tony, um, Tony said that he wanted me to stay over tonight."

"What? Why? Didn't you just have a panic attack?" May asks, and she sounds almost irritated, and Peter feels embarrassed and inadequate all at once. Of course, to her, it's just having a panic attack, there isn't any feeling attached to that word. It's just something that Peter does, like breathing or sleeping. Sometimes he panics about useless things, too.

"N-no," Peter bites hard on his tongue, and he thinks if he squeezes Morgan any tighter against him he'll break something, "No. I passed out. The nurse thought it was...she, uh, she thought it might have been a seizure. Maybe?"

May goes quiet. Peter can't even hear her breathing on the other end of the line. Just his heart smacking inside his chest and, oh, man, what if this is what makes May drink today? Knowing that something is wrong with Peter and of course she's not going to want to think about that. Peter's just going to make an already bad problem worse because that's what he does and, why can't he do anything, he shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have—

"Why didn't you go to the hospital?" May asks, and Peter remembers abruptly that she is a nurse. Was a nurse. Has the degree, but not the job. She has the training to know exactly how stupid it was for Peter to just jump from distraction to distraction instead of having his brain scanned.

There was a murder.

That's why he didn't go.

Pepper's PA got murdered.

Peter should probably have asked her if she was okay. He didn't. Doesn't. He—why did he get up? He should just go back to bed. He's going to make things worse for May by having problems. She's always worse after he has a breakdown.

Peter's hand shifts against his phone, and Morgan looks like she's frowning now, too. What if he made her upset, too?

"Um. We...there wasn't. Really. A good time, I guess? And you know that the Avengers can't leave the Tower right now." Peter reminds. His leg is beginning to bounce. Every time he talks with May lately he feels like he's going to throw up, and this isn't an exception. "Lawsuit. Temporary home arrest with some benefits?"

"Right." May sighs. "Peter, you need to come home. I don't want you staying overnight at Stark's."

That's cause you think Norman Osborn is right, Peter doesn't say, because the words would be vocalized arsenic. You think the Avengers are getting exactly what they deserve, because you're angry. He's already carefully, tirelessly, worked his way around this argument with her. He doesn't want to get into it now.

"May, something came up, I mean—"

"Just. Don't. Okay? I have a headache the size of Texas, and I really just want to lay down. Please don't fight me on this. Just come home, okay? If you're having seizures now, I don't want you to be in Manhattan." May's voice is becoming more gentle, and it only makes Peter feel worse that he doesn't want to go home. It's not a headache, they both know. It's a hangover.

"Yeah," Peter tries to stop his knee from jumping. His other leg is beginning to go to sleep, and he doesn't want to wake Morgan. Because he has come to the conclusion that she is asleep. "Uh. I know."

"You're coming home?" May confirms.

Peter hesitates. "Yeah, I guess, maybe in—"

"Now?"

Peter bites on the inside of his cheek sharply. He feels wrong. His insides feel too hot and disgusting and maybe he'll throw up. He shouldn't be this anxious talking to her, and he doesn't know what's wrong with him.

"Um. I don't know." Peter opens his mouth to explain, again, about the murder of Zhao, regardless of how unsure he is that May will take it well, but she doesn't give him the chance. She's irritable, Peter knows, because her hangover is killing her and she should find medicine and eat something, but she won't. Not that she can't, she won't.

"Seizures aren't something to take lightly." Her voice is calm, "And Stark isn't going to monitor you like you need. Just come home, I'll take care of you."

And Peter? God help him, he feels...not doubtful, exactly, but skeptical. Recently, that hasn't been the case. And he knows that he's terrible for even thinking that, but it's there all the same. Sitting in his brain like toxic waste. He doesn't believe her. Not exactly. And he is terrible.

"Um. I guess. Okay." Peter feels the slightest bit flustered, because May didn't really...ask him? Not that she would have had to. She didn't. But still. "Let me just. Get my things and tell Tony I'm coming home."

"Okay." May sounds calmer. That's good. Calmness equals soberness. Sometimes.

His foot begins to bounce beneath his knee. He's going to wake up Morgan. He needs to stop.

"I'll, uh. I'll see you in a bit. Okay?" Peter asks.

"Yeah. Be safe. Love you." May says.

"Love you, too." Peter mumbles in answer, then pulls the device back from his ear to stare at it for a second before he finds the end call button. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the filing cabinet, feeling small. He wants to curl up against the metal and just sit there forever.

This is hard. This is very hard, and it doesn't get easier. It never gets easier.

Aren't your teenage years supposed to be the golden years of your life?

If that's the case, why, Peter wonders, does it consistently feel like the seventh level of hell?

He looks down at the sleeping child leaning against him, so trusting. Peter can't remember the last time he trusted someone or something that implicitly. He sighs between his teeth before he wiggles his phone back into his jean's pocket then carefully balances Morgan against him, stopping to make sure she's still asleep.

Once at his feet, he grabs his backpack with his other hand and ignores the way the world fuzzes at the edges, making his way toward the exit.

He's not gonna drop Morgan. He can do this.

000o000

The Stark's apartment looks almost pristine. Peter had half expected it to look like a bomb had gone off. There's no signs of a struggle. No blood stains on the wall. No pieces of limbs sticking out or guns or weapons. Everything looks normal.

Except for the dragline. The hardwood floor down the hall leading toward the kitchen from the elevator is stained with a long smear of dark red ranging in thickness.

Sort of like what you would get if you dragged a corpse by their feet bleeding out from their head. But there's way too much blood. Peter's not stupid. The human body holds only what? A gallon of blood on average, give or take?

The smear kind of looks like what Peter would expect a slit throat to give off. Not a bashed in skull.

Miserably, Peter wonders what other details Tony and the other Avengers omitted because it "wasn't relevant."

One of the NYPD officers gives him a hard look, and Peter ducks his head, an instinctive shiver whispering down his spine. He spots Steve standing next to a different cop, probably a detective of some sort because he's taking notes, and Peter makes a bee-line for him. He thanks all his lucky stars that police did not stop the random kid holding Tony's daughter. He doesn't know what he would have been able to say.

Steve looks up and his gaze pins onto Peter with obvious surprise. Ignoring the officer completely, he turns to face Peter. "What's wrong?"

Hahaha.

"Nothing," Peter says, adjusting his arms as Morgan begins to lightly stir in his grip. "I have to go. Where's Tony? Or Pepper?"

"Who's this?" The officer asks. Peter flinches. Please don't talk to me. Or about me. Or near me. Or just. Go stand in the corner. Peter hates the police. Oh, man, Peter hates the police.

Steve continues to ignore the cop. "Last I saw Tony was over there," he gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. That's really far away. Peter doesn't want to go that far. He wants to lay down. His head is a terrible place to be and he wishes he could be anywhere but here. It's like being trapped in a tiny cage while people scream at him.

Peter swallows compulsively. His throat is dry.

How is he going to get to Queens? He didn't...he'll take the subway. Or something. Wait. School is probably close to getting out, he might be able to get back to Midtown High in time to get on the bus. Actually, that sounds worse than the subway.

"Can you take her?" Peter asks, gesturing toward Morgan. "I have to go."

Steve nods, though he's eying Peter strangely, and reaches out to take the child from Peter.

Looking back, Peter's never quite sure exactly why it happened. If Morgan wakes up because of the transition, or the fact that she's in Steve's arms seems to deeply displease her, or something else entirely. Morgan's eyes open. The familiar brown almost seems to spasm for a second as they lock onto Peter, then they focus, and she starts screaming.

Not the pathetic whimpers that some kids make after a bad dream. A full-out, high-pitched wailing howl. Like someone just placed a live spider in her hands. She fights against Steve's grip, desperate to be anywhere else, pounding small fists against his chest, screeching utilizing every part of her lung.

"Morgan!" Steve exclaims, pulling back from the officer's hands as he tries to reach out and help comfort, the look in his eyes almost murderous. Peter stands there, at a loss. "Morgan, hey, hey, hey, sweetheart, hey," he cups the side of her face, but Morgan bites his hand. Steve snaps it back, swearing under his breath.

What…?

Peter's shoulders loosen. His jaw is lax but he can't think of anything to say or do. He's seen a panic attack before. He's had dozens if not well above a hundred before. But seeing Morgan like this, Peter can't. Think. Function. Exist.

Morgan is getting the attention of everyone. The NYPD and Avengers and whatever other law enforcement is stuffed into this space all turn at the sound. Peter just stands there, feeling an urge to cry.

He doesn't know what to do.

Steve pulls Morgan further away, but the girl opens her mouth and the screams turn into incoherent shouting, "It's gonna get all of us! It's gonna get us, IT'S GONNA GET US! Daddy! Daddy!" She starts screaming again. "Uncle Steve, no!"

"Morgan, you're safe, I promise," Steve assures. Morgan's gone from fighting against him to trying to bury herself inside of him, head bowed against his chest, fingers tightened like a noose around his neck.

"No!"

"There's nothing here. Nothing bad is going to happen—"

"NO!"

Pepper and Tony seem to materialize out of nowhere. Tony rests a hand on Morgan's back, leaning down to say something low to her ear. Morgan sobs helplessly, shaking her head. Peter feels sick to his stomach. Oh man. What...what what what what?

Tony and Steve say something in tones too low for Peter to make out. Not that he's trying. He can't hear that much past the ringing in his ears.

"Hey, what the heck is going on here?" A sharp voice demands. Peter curls in on himself, taking a physical step back as a man with gray hair steps forward. He's tall, imposing, and speaks of authority. The jacket he's wearing labels him as NPYD. "Who is this girl, and what is she doing at my crime scene?"

His fault. Peter brought her here. What was he thinking? He should have just called. Oh, man. That would have made so much more sense than doing this. He didn't have to say goodbye in person. Someone would have come and got Morgan. Why didn't he just call?

Pepper grips Peter's arm, and the contact makes him jump. "Hey," she says, her voice low, "you gotta breathe, Pete."

He shakes his head. If he passes out, so be the will of the universe. At least he won't be awake for things to go from worse to grim.

Tony turns to face the officer, expression blank. Composed. But his eyes are a promise of pain. Morgan whimpers, burying her head against Steve's chest, looking miserable. Tony says slowly, hand still on Morgan's back, "This is my daughter. You know, the one that you've been hounding me to talk to since you got here?"

The man's expression clears somewhat, and he has the decency to look chagrined. "I see. What is she doing back here? I was under the impression that your wife had taken her somewhere else to calm her down."

"She did." Tony's eyes slide to Peter for a brief second.

Peter tries to take another step back, wishing he would combust. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Tony is going to be pissed. But he's not drunk. That's better, isn't it? Maybe Tony won't hit him too hard, then.

Peter doesn't close his eyes. He wants to. But he won't.

Pepper's hand around his bicep squeezes, like she's trying to reassure him. All it does is make Peter's skin crawl.

The cop in charge looks at Morgan, then Tony, then back to Morgan. He takes a step closer to her, and Peter sees Steve and Tony brace themselves. It's not visible, not if you didn't know them that well. The slight roll back of Steve's shoulders and the tightening of Tony's hands, but to Peter it is obvious.

He's not the only one scared of the cops, Peter realizes, and this realization doesn't offer him any comfort.

"Morgan, little miss," Tony turns his attention to her. The room has quieted with the absence of Morgan's screaming, who has stopped to stare at her father with wide, teary eyes. Peter hates this more. He needs ambience sound. Now. "Why are you so scared?"

Morgan shakes her head.

"You're safe," Steve assures her, "we won't let anything happen."

She shakes her head again. "No."

"Morgan," Tony's voice is patient. Peter knows that it won't be that way when he yells at him later for getting them roped into this mess. "What's wrong?"

It must be something about his tone of voice or maybe Morgan just loses patience. She snaps her hand out toward Peter, finger an accusatory weapon, then says in a voice that slices through Peter like a hot blade, "He made the bad thing come to kill her! Daddy, make him go! He's bad, he's bad, bad, bad—" she starts to screech again, and Steve ducks her head against his chest and carefully pulls her away from them, toward the corner of the room where Peter can see Clint and Natasha waiting.

Peter can still feel Morgan's eyes on him. A piercing scowl.

Peter can't talk, because Peter can't breathe, and suddenly he's tumbling in and out of himself, spilling everything onto the floor and holding nothing together. He doesn't understand and he doesn't want to understand.

The veteran NYPD officer turns to look at Peter. His eyes narrow. Peter feels himself begin to hyperventilate. Cops have shot at him before; and they've hit him. Cops have tried to hurt him. The police are bad, and Peter is bad, and what on earth does Morgan mean he was there?

He was in bed last night.

Like everyone else.

He was. He's sure of it. He is.

There was blood on his hands. Under his fingernails. A lot of blood, and Peter hadn't been injured.

"Who's this kid?" the cop asks.

What if they shoot him again? What if they use a taser, or they hurt him, or do something worse? What if he gets arrested? He wasn't here. He wasn't. He wasn't.

"Intern." Tony says, clipped. He's moving toward them, and grabs Peter by the shoulders, steering him out of the room. He doesn't give anyone time to protest or ask further questions.

They enter the kitchen, where Peter sees the table has been marked with a yellow evidence card. The table is clean save for broken glass from a flower pot, and a dark stain of red at one table. Peter doesn't get that much of a good luck into the scene, because he's herded into what Peter dully recognizes as Tony and Pepper's bedroom before he's pushed toward the edge bed into a seated position and Tony shoves Peter's head between his knees.

"Breathe, Pete."

Peter grips the back of his calves, exhaling a wheeze.

Tony crouches in front of him, gripping Peter's knees. The contact reassures him somewhere, but nothing present enough that it helps.

"Sorry." Peter gasps, "S—s-sorry. Sorry. I don't. Sorry. Sorry. Can't. Can't—"

"Hey, hey," Tony's voice gentles, "you've got nothing to be sorry for."

"What...what if...why…" Peter chokes on the syllables, and squeezes his eyes shut. His eyes are dry, but his hands are shaking. Peter feels the urge to talk. To ramble. To discuss anything and fill this void of silence with sound.

"Peter, you weren't here last night," Tony must follow his train of thought. "Morgan was confused. She's had a very traumatic experience. You had nothing to do with what happened."

"You don't know that!" Peter accuses. "Without FRIDAY, how do any of us—"

"Why would you think you were involved?" Tony counters. "You got some agenda against Zhao that we need to be aware of?"

"No, but—"

"Then that's that." Tony says sharply.

"There was blood." Peter whispers, looking up from the ground to stare at Tony. The Avenger has gone quiet, staring at him, eyebrows lowered, looking somewhat sick.

"What?"

"There was blood. On my hands. I was...I was picking it out earlier. Did...what if Morgan's right. What if I was here?" Peter chews on his lower lip, wanting to scream and wanting to puke. His stomach is beginning to ache, like knives are being shoved through his lower abdomen.

"What would you have had to do with the murder of Pepper's secretary?" Tony asks, and he doesn't sound as disbelieving as much as he does incredulous.

"I don't know." Peter whispers. "But there was blood under my fingernails."

And it doesn't make sense, Peter doesn't say, for all of that to have been mine.


Author's Note:

Next chapter: ? ...June? We hope?

Please leave your thoughts if your comfortable with that. I love sharing this story with you all. :)

*Yes, I am aware that May is doing things that in-canon May would not. That's the point. We barely see the individual struggles in MCU of having your entire life removed and then being forced to adapt to a society where you were legally dead for five years. This is an exploration into that. Within my stories, I enjoy emphasizing consequences.