Chapter 36: Fool's Paradise Part I
The glass fogged under Peter's cheek as he breathed, a tiny little cloud of condensation that dripped through the windowpane and shaded the glass into a milky white. He spared a brief glance up at the sound of crunching gravel and watched with anticipation as the old beater truck slowly pulled into the driveway. The seven-year-old puffed his cheeks a released a particularly big blast of warm breath onto the glass, expanding the fog another few inches.
He raised a slender little finger and drew a crooked butterfly into the glass, listening to the faint squeaking of the polished surface. Through the window, Ben stepped out of the truck - a rattled mess of metal and leaking engines. Peter could practically see a few paint specks fly off as the man shut the door with a thud.
The little boy pushed off the window and twisted around on the couch, flexing his neck a bit as he did. He'd been sitting for who knew how long.
The door creaked with its usual complaints of age as the middle-aged man shambled through, sturdy work boots clumping against the ground like bricks of leather. He was wearing his usual uniform, consisting of a dirty blue electrician's jumper with his name stitched into the right breast. Over his shoulders sat his regular brown flight jacket, complete with various patches and stitchwork. Peter eyed the patch on his left shoulder: a cow with a sombrero perched on its heads, the words "moo-chas gracias' written below. Peter remembered giving it to the man for his last birthday. Remembered how hard Ben had laughed.
"You're late," he said with a tilt of his head as Ben kicked off his work boots.
"Sorry, goober. Traffic was a real pain today. And the beater was giving me some trouble in the parking lot." Ben shrugged the jacket off and hung it on the hook by the door before working on the buttons of his jumper. "But I did get to work on some power lines this afternoon. Rode the crane and everything." He kicked off his boots and lined them up neatly by the door.
Ben had shown him the crane before. Had taken him on a joyride of sorts a couple months back. Peter remembered whining about wanting to stay up in the air for as long as possible, loved the idea of floating over anything and everything. Imagined being up in the sky just flying in the clouds and between the buildings, up and up into infinity.
He imagined that a lot nowadays.
Ben tugged off the top of his jumper, leaving the plain black T-shirt underneath and walked over. Peter leaned his head up and shut his eyes as Ben planted a gentle kiss to the top of the boy's head before walking over to his doorway and tossing the shirt onto the bed.
"Don't let me forget to put that away. You know Aunt May gets pissed when I make a mess."
"Stop making messes then, Uncle Ben."
"Easier said than done, buddy." He strode into the kitchen and reached across the counter, clicking the knobs on his old-time radio. It took a few seconds of fidgeting with the dials before the static morphed into melody. "How was school?"
"We planted lima beans in cups today. Ms. Franston said they're gonna grow into plants we can take home later this year." Peter wiggled his feet and twisted in his seat until he was hanging upside down against the couch cushions, socks kicking in the air above his head. "I hope mine grows the tallest. Flash said his would be the best but I hope I beat him. Ms. Frankston said the winner would get a pack of Skittles."
Ben flexed his neck with a grimace as he reached for the loose newspaper. "Lima beans in cups, huh?" He flicked the page and gave it a quick scan.
"Yeah. We're learning about photosynthesis."
"Photo-what-now?"
"It's how plants eat." Peter felt his body sliding down the couch, twisting himself around so that he was now sitting upside down, neck hanging from the bottom lip of the seat cushion while his feet kicked up in the air. He stared at the upside-down image of Ben reading the newspaper. "They eat sunshine. So we have to put the cups on the windowsill so they'll get all the sun."
He craned his neck and stared up at his socked feet. Watched his toes wiggling underneath the fabric. "They soak it up with their leaves and they drink water with their roots, like big giant straws in the dirt. That sounds kinda gross, having your straw all covered with dirt and worms and stuff. Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"Trees do the same." He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes as the blood rushed through his cheeks. "They're so big that they need a bazillion little leaves to catch as much sunshine as possible. That's why their roots are so big too. So they can drink up all the water in the ground. The bigger the tree, the bigger the straw they need, so their roots are always popping out of the ground. They're too big to fit." He slowly felt himself sliding from the cushion, propping his hands out to catch the fall as he plopped down onto the carpeted floor head-first. He tucked and rolled onto his bottom.
Ben sniffed and pushed the newspaper to the side before pulling a pan from the drying rack over the sink. "You should be careful around those roots, bud. You're always tripping over them."
"I know. I don't want to hurt the trees when they're just trying to drink." He shimmied up to his feet. "I wonder if my lima bean will grow as tall as a tree one day. He's really tiny right now. I named him Charlie. Flash said it was stupid to name a plant."
"That's not nice. I think it's a rather nice name."
"Me too. What are you making?"
Peter padded his way over as Ben pulled out a few extra kitchen supplies, talking about some recipe his coworker had shared with him. Peter, of course, asked the important questions, like were there any carrots in this dish?
Ben, thankfully, reported in the negative.
The little boy listened to the man recounting the instructions his coworker had given him, pulling out various ingredients from the fridge as he explained what Amchoor powder was and why it was integral to a good Lemon Chicken recipe.
Uncle Ben had a funny rumbling sound to his voice. It was a deep, gentle grovel, laced with years of cigarette use, undercut with the faintest hints of a southern accent: the old remnants of his past life in Houston. Before he'd met May. Before he'd moved in across the street. It was how Peter imagined a bear would sound. An old bear that lived in a cave and gave directions to people who were lost and scared. Maybe even offered them a cup of tea before they left or a spare blanket to take on the road.
"Alright, Goob. Go get your apron on. May's getting home late tonight and I wanna surprise her with something other than microwave lasagna."
Peter tramped over to the pantry door and propped it open, eyeing the bright green dinosaur apron hanging on the inner wall. He craned up onto his tippy toes and was just barely able to unhook the fabric from the wall, being unusually short for his age, according to his pediatrician, his teachers, and, of course, Flash.
Ben walked over and helped the boy tie the straps along his back before handing him a couple of placemats for the dinner table, an old creaky structure of faded wood and rickety mismatched chairs, complete with colored marker stains and coffee rings.
Peter moved around the table, clearing the surface of any loose papers, junk mail and jackets and replacing it with a few tattered placemats that Aunt May refused to replace. Peter didn't mind. He loved setting up the table for dinner. Loved lining up the silverware in perfect order and listening to May explain the proper etiquette for serving spoons and salad forks - the majority of which went out the window when the woman ate most of her meals with a spork.
But most of all, Peter liked helping Ben in the kitchen. Because here, he could watch the man do all of his work. And if there was one thing Peter absolutely LOVED more than anything in the world, it was watching his Uncle Ben.
Watch him cook, work on his truck, reading in his lounge chair. He liked to take note of the man's movements: each step, every word, every subtle wrinkle that framed his face. Ben was a man of few expressions and, sometimes, even fewer words, but Peter was making quick work of identifying them all.
The slightly amused smile he'd give Ms. Holloway after fixing up her car, pointedly ignoring the ninety-year-old woman's blatant flirtations. The throaty chuckle he'd share with Mr. Delmar while ribbing each other's baseball teams that season. The tiny wrinkle that would settle between his brows whenever his truck took just a bit too long to start up in the morning. Even the little upturns in the corner of his eyes when he'd sit in his recliner and a new song would start up on his busted little radio, the details of which he would quickly begin to recite: Who wrote it. What year. Where it was made. What it was about. Even what he himself had been doing the first time he'd heard it.
(At least once a month, Ben would recount the tale of walking into a 24-hour gas station after a fight with his parents and striking up a friendly conversation with the attendant, a pretty young girl named May while Simple Minds' "Don't You Forget About Me" played on in the background. Unsurprisingly, when Peter would ask what the man's favorite song was, he'd always turn to Aunt May with a twinkle in his normally quiet eyes and merely hum the chorus of the song.)
Peter loved to watch Ben. Loved to watch Ben staring at the world through those soft quiet eyes of his.
It was quick work moving through the kitchen. His uncle always handled the more dangerous things: manning the stove and cutting the vegetables while Peter fetched ingredients and finished fixing up the table. Two place-settings. Two salt shakers. Two fork - scratch that. One fork. One spork. May had some in every color. Peter was feeling the purple one today.
Now that he was seven though - a certified 'big boy' - Ben had finally tasked him with something just a bit more challenging: peeling the potatoes. Peter's tongue poked through the corner of his mouth as he scrunched his face at the vegetable, making careful work of slicing the peeler along the edges of the rounded surface. Periodically, he'd catch Ben sneaking glances his way, as if to check that the kid still did, in fact, have all ten fingers intact.
So far, so good.
One other thing that Peter always noticed about Uncle Ben was just how quiet he could be. Sure, when one song or another popped up on the radio or a particularly exciting recipe or wild day at work caught his attention, he'd entertain Peter with the stories. But more often than not, the old man was content in letting his nephew fill the silence instead, more than happy to listen as the child recounted the day's tales with a fervent excitement that no adult could dream of matching.
Aunt May would fill the rooms with jokes and stories and comments and anything else that popped into mind, which tickled Peter like nobody else could. But with Ben, Peter found that the man always seemed ready to hang onto his every word, listening with rapt attention he never saw in any other adult. With Ben, Peter was the star. Peter was the entertainer. And he loved the stories he'd tell his uncle, the tales of his day on the schoolyard, the nice dogs he'd pet that afternoon, the clouds that had looked like ice cream cones, the book they were reading in class with a character that looked like Mr. Pickling from down the street, the nightmare he'd had about his mom when he was sleeping, the nightmare he'd had about his dad when he was awake.
Whatever Peter said, Uncle Ben always listened. Uncle Ben always heard him.
Perhaps this was why Peter always found himself walking to their house after school instead of going straight home like his father preferred. It was nice to have those few hours in the day where someone just...listened.
"You gonna stay and help me taste-test when we're done?" Ben said while adding another pinch of salt to the skillet. "You know I always need a second opinion. May says I add too much pepper."
"You do add too much pepper." Peter watched a fresh potato skin flutter to the counter. He swiped it into the trash can. "I can't stay tonight, though."
(At home, it was different.)
"Daddy wants me home by seven. So I have to go soon, anyway."
(At home, it was Peter who had to listen.)
The radio drifted into nothing as the song faded out, leaving the kitchen in silence save for the soft sizzling of the skillet. The sharp crackling of oil against scalding metal punctuated the air with a tension that even seven-year-old Peter Parker could pick up on. He turned his head and watched Ben's shoulders. They were tight and scrunched near his ears, like he was frozen in a perpetual shrug. His foot had stopped tapping.
Peter's hand drooped a bit. "What's wrong?"
The man remained in that stiffened state for a moment before quietly clearing his throat. He spared a glance over his shoulder, stared at Peter's wide-eyed curious expression for a moment before returning it with a smile and dragging his gaze back to the skillet. "Nothing you need to worry about."
A new song started up. Ben's foot remained still.
"But you're sad now." Peter said with a candidness that only kids can ever seem to master as he stared down at the freshly peeled potato in his hand. He dropped it into the bowl of water by the counter. Watched it sink to the bottom, beside all the other freshly-skinned vegetables. He paused for a moment before grabbing a fresh potato. "Maybe I can help?"
"You're already helping. You're peeling those potatoes like a pro. Maybe soon enough, we can upgrade you to chopping the-"
"You don't like Daddy anymore, do you?"
Peter knew better than to interrupt. But the words spilled from his lips before he had a chance to correct himself. For a moment, he felt himself tense. Waiting for the inevitable shout of correction, maybe even punctuated by a thwack to the back of the head or a smack on the mouth. He watched Ben's movements slow to a halt, hand hovering over the skillet handle.
(Peter imagined it would hurt a lot to get hit with a skillet.)
The man remained silent for a few seconds, carefully clicking the stove down and sliding the pan off the hot burner. He wiped his hands with the nearby towel and draped it over his shoulder before silently turning forward, arms folded over his chest. Peter held his breath.
But Ben's face was not contorted into a scowl or a sneer. His eyes were not dark and angry.
(The skillet remained on the stove.)
Just like everything else about him, Ben's expression was gentle. His eyes were soft. His words even more so.
"...I don't like it when he yells at you," he said quietly.
Peter felt his body relaxing. Tried not to concentrate on the sick feeling bubbling around in his stomach at the idea of Ben being like his Dad. Calm one moment and screaming the next. Ben could never scream. Not even the week prior.
Peter was normally pretty good at remembering his chores. Maybe only occasionally forgetting to stack the dishes or clean his room, nothing that warranted any fuss. His father, apparently, had thought otherwise last week - punctuated with a sharp smack to the cheek that had left Peter's ears ringing, almost too loudly to hear the man's screams about his dirty room. The smack was nothing compared to the look he remembered seeing in his father's eyes, though. A film of shadowed fury and disgust, curdled contempt smeared onto his face with enough rage for even a child to understand.
May had been livid. She was always quick to anger, storming across the street and all but pounding on the door, screaming in his dad's face for the better part of ten minutes. Peter had watched from the living room window. Watched his aunt screaming at his father, who looked no more disturbed than when answering a solicitor. Ben, however. Ben had said nothing. Peter remembered the man standing beside his wife, all but ignoring her screams as he instead focused his gaze on the boy in the window. Not on his father. Not on the screaming. But him.
Ben always looked to him first.
And he was still looking at him now.
Peter's little fingers tapped against the peeler in hand. It was old, old enough for the plastic coating to start chipping near the base. He fiddled with a piece. "I don't like it either." he said softly, watching as Ben set down the tongs in hand and walked over. The man gently fitted his hands under the boy's armpits and hoisted him up to sit on the edge of the counter. Peter glanced up at the older man and stared into his dark brown eyes, warm and mottled with specks of gray. He gently tilted himself forward and rested his forehead on Ben's chest. Swayed with the steady rise and fall of his breaths.
"I think Daddy's really sad, Uncle Ben," he murmured gently, felt the man's warm hands coming up to wrap around him, carding through his hair and pressing him further into the nestled crook of his chest. "Maybe he misses Mommy as much as I do. Or maybe he's working too much now. He's so tired all the time. And it makes him angry, but...maybe being angry just feels better than being sad. And that's why he yells all the time..."
He pressed his little hands into the man's shirt and pushed away, lifting his gaze to stare up at his uncle's gentle gaze. He didn't need to look to know Ben was listening, though. Ben always listened. No matter what Peter said.
"But...if he got sad one day...then do you think that means he can get happy again some other day? If I just wait?" He glanced down at his hands and noticed the potato he'd only managed to peel half-way. He fiddled with the peeler and angled it against the skins once more. "I think he needs me, Uncle Ben. To help him be a little less angry. His yelling doesn't scare me so much when I just remember it's his way of being sad. And you're always telling me it's okay to be sad sometimes, right? It's what makes being happy so special."
The little boy stared down at the potato in his hand, nose scrunched in thought for a moment before he tilted his head and continued peeling. "Maybe I can make him this chicken tomorrow for dinner. That should make him happy right." He smiled and watched the spiral of peel stretch longer and longer the faster he worked the peeler.
"I want him to be happy. I want everyone to just be happy. Even if they yell a lot. Even if they're mean." He paused, scanned the freshly-peeled potato for any missed marks. "Even Flash. And his lima bean. He can have the skittles if he wants them."
The boy finished with the vegetable and dropped it into the bowl alongside the others, shaking his little hand when a few drops of water splashed onto his fingers. Noticing that Uncle Ben hadn't moved back towards the skillet, he lifted his eyes and tilted his head as he noticed the man smiling down at him. His eyes looked misty, that same watery film they always got when he and May would go into their bedroom and talk in hushed tones - adult matters - they would always say. Peter wasn't sure how they could be 'adult matters' when they were always about HIM.
"What's wrong?"
Uncle Ben, just like every time Peter noticed those flecks in the corners of his eyes, wiped them away with the back of his hand and a passing chuckle. "Nothing, kiddo. Nothing at all. It's just..." The man swallowed and Peter watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. Ben lifted a hand and rested it against the side of Peter's cheek, thumb brushing against the boy's freckles.
"You're too good, Peter. You're too goddamn good."
The boy furrowed his brows and glanced down at the tool in his hand. "At peeling potatoes?"
Uncle Ben's smile wavered for a moment before stretching wider. A new song started up on the radio. Peter didn't know it, but that was fine. Ben would be more than happy to tell him all about it.
After all, Uncle Ben knew everything.
"Yeah. At peeling potatoes."
(Well...almost everything.)
Thursday - June, 2016
Stark Tower - Meeting Room Lobby
09:32 AM
There was a heaviness in the air. A damp mustiness, like thickened fog coating the world in a sheet of suffocating tension - almost as if the air itself could sense that today would not be a good day.
"So, are we still on for next week?"
Peter readjusted his shoulder, phone pressed between it and his ear as he walked. One hand hovered protectively over a steaming coffee mug. Black.
"Yeah. Ned's excited. He's bringing over a new Lego lightsaber set for us to make."
"Is your little friend Michelle gonna come? You've never had a sleepover with her, have you?"
He sidestepped a pair of business men barreling down the hall beside him, papers fluttering past, pagers buzzing at their hips. "Well, I...not exactly. I mean, she's usually not into this sort of...uh-"
"Take a chance, slugger. The worst she can do is say no."
Peter rolled his eyes and chuckled, listening to the sounds of May shuffling around over the phone, probably trying to multitask the phone while cooking up some breakfast. May was infamous for her multitasking, more specifically, for her terrible multitasking. Watching TV while she cooked something horrible. Reading a magazine while knitting a sweater that ended up having three sleeves. Last week, Peter had even caught her trying to screw in a new lightbulb while straightening her hair, which - of course - had led to the new burn mark on the living room rug that was currently being covered up by the ottoman.
The shuffling on the phone quieted down, replaced with a disgusted growl.
"Uggg..."
"What?"
"No, the TV..." She paused. "Did you see? Apparently your father's launching some new business deal in Tokyo?"
His smile vanished.
The shuffling resumed, if a bit harsher now. "That's what was so important that he had to leave you all alone? Can't he at least PRETEND to care about you?"
"Mr. Stark's taking good care of me." Peter swallowed. Fought to keep his voice light.
"Anything is better than that beast. You'd think he'd focus more about getting his affairs in order a little closer to home."
"He's...got a business to run, May. He's a busy guy."
"He's a snake in a suit is what he is."
Peter didn't respond. Merely held in a wince as a splash of hot coffee landed on his hand. He steadied his grip.
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds before he heard a tired sigh. "Sorry, honey. I know you don't like me talking bad about him. Just...waking up to his face as the first thing I see on TV? It's like asking me to get all riled up."
He shifted his shoulder again, tried to stretch out the sudden ache he could feel in his muscles. "Hey...I, uh...I gotta go. It's pretty busy over here."
Alright, sweetie. Text me whenever you get a chance."
He lifted his free hand and quickly ended the call before sliding the phone back into his pocket. He continued down the hall until it opened up on a massive lobby room of sorts, filled to bursting with activity. He set his sights on the target across the room.
"Mr. Stark? Your next meeting starts in five minutes."
"I'll be there in ten."
"But...the senators are already waiting f-"
"Did I stutter? What are they gonna do? Leave? I'll validate their parking on the way out so just-"
The clerk - some scrawny looking man with a pencil-thin neck and beads of sweat dripping down his brow - quickly took note of the dismissive wave of Mr. Stark's hand, for he quickly adjusted the papers in hand, ignored the ones he subsequently dropped, and turned tail.
Peter said nothing as the clerk all but bolted past him, knocking shoulders with him as he did. Another few drops of coffee splashed against his palm and he hissed under his breath but didn't gripe after the man. Guy seemed to barely be holding it together and Peter didn't want to be the reason someone cried today.
He was sure someone else in the room would be awarded that title soon enough.
The place was crawling with people: Senators, secretaries, clerks, bodyguards, even a few waiters in uniform serving bubbly drinks on silver platters. It was amazing so many people could fit in one space. Even more amazing was the fact that each and every single person in the room looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.
That was politics, he supposed.
Peter stopped at the bar counter where Mr. Stark currently sat with his head in his hand while he scrolled through a tablet. Official-looking paperwork from what Peter could see. He'd barely even set down the steaming mug of coffee before the billionaire was snatching it up and downing at least half of it in one go.
Might as well have brought the whole dang machine.
Peter didn't take a seat, just pressed his back into the counter and stared out at the crowd of people. Tried to rub away the subtle goosebumps that were bubbling under his skin. So many voices. So many conversations. So many reasons to bolt back upstairs and hide for the foreseeable future until Mr. Stark called him back down for another round of coffee.
His eyes drifted and he caught sight of a bout of fiery red hair. His muscles loosened slightly at the sight of a familiar face as Pepper appeared through the crowd, dressed in her best business attire and hair pulled into a tight bun. He smiled at her as she patted his cheek and grabbed Mr. Stark's shoulder. The man didn't even look up.
"Did you look at that last file I sent you?"
"The one about the shock collars or the involuntary antipsychotic sedatives?"
"The one with the titanium straight jackets."
He huffed and pressed his fingers into his eyes. "I thought that one was a joke."
Another clerk appeared.
"Mr. Stark-!"
"Is the building on fire?"
"I...no?"
"Then start one or fuck off."
The clerk shriveled a bit before slinking back off while Peter spared an absentminded look at the ceiling sprinklers. Pepper sighed and began to rub at her own temples. "Tony..."
Said man lifted his coffee mug and took another sip while wagging his finger. "Mmm-nnh. I don't have time for self-reflection right now."
Mr. Stark was in a bad mood.
Peter couldn't blame him. With the newest revision to the Accords on the brink of being ratified, the Tower had been filled with politicians for the past two days, a fact that might make anybody dream up an arson-style demise. Especially since Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes seemed to be the only two people who were against this particular revision, a fact that might not make much of a difference if it came down to a twenty-to-two vote.
Mr. Stark sighed and shut off his tablet before tossing it haphazardly on the counter like it wasn't a two-thousand-dollar piece of hardware and faced Peter. "Sorry about all of...this, kid." He gestured to the crowd like it was a pile of roadkill on the sidewalk. "I know it's a bit crowded."
"It's alright. Kinda reminds me of home."
The billionaire scoffed. "Oh, great. Just what I wanted."
Peter's fingers twitched a bit at that.
"Uh, look - I'm going to be in meetings for the better part of the day, so just go ahead and order yourself something for lunch when you get hungry." Mr. Stark reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his phone. "Hell, maybe think about doing that for dinner, too. How many more conferences do we have today, Pep?"
"Seven."
"Great."
The teen let his mind drift a bit as Mr. Stark and Pepper conversed. Mr. Stark didn't talk to him much about the Accords, either because of his age or because he didn't want to scare Peter with the prospects of what these new laws would entail for someone enhanced like him. Peter liked to think it was the latter. Mr. Stark was pretty good at not talking down to him like other adults did.
Although he had to admit, hearing about shock collars and straightjackets did have him wishing he'd not heard anything at all.
Nevertheless, it was good to stay informed. Especially about something so pertinent to him. Lord knew his father would never keep him in the loop when it came to important news like this, so at the very least, it felt nice to be in the know.
From what the billionaire would tell him, Peter knew that these latest revisions were mainly placeholders until more concrete control methods could be devised on how to manage criminal mutant populations. Because sending every two-bit purse thief to the Raft wasn't the best use of tax-payer dollars, in Peter's opinion. He could only imagine what Freedom Fighter Steve Rogers would have to say about something like this, but for once, Peter was inclined to agree with him. It was no secret just how wary the government - and people in general - were when it came to enhanced individuals like himself, especially the older generations, which comprised about 99% of the standing body of leadership.
Sure, people were fine with Spider-Man swinging around to help sometimes. But maybe that was just because they associated him with the Avengers, or at least Avengers-adjacent. Even then, there were plenty of people who threw the occasional rancid burrito at him. And this was New York, a famously liberal state with pretty strong mutant rights laws. Peter could only imagine how hard it might be for a mutant in less favorable areas of the nation.
Experience or no, Peter knew.
("I don't need you to be sorry, Peter. I need you to learn.")
("Serves you right, you little bastard! Can't even do one single thing right without fucking it up!")
("You think I'm horrible, Peter? I'll tell you who's horrible.")
Knew just how easy it was to hate.
He jumped at the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder and had to swallow the instinctive growl that bubbled up from who knew where.
"What?"
"Jeez, kid, didn't you hear me?" Mr. Stark spared him a questioning look before glaring back down at his phone. His fingers tapped away furiously, occasionally drifting to his watch to check the time. "I asked if you could start adding those updated blueprints we worked on last week into the system since I obviously won't be getting a chance to."
Peter shifted his feet and took a breath to slow the sudden uptick in his heartrate. The aura was getting to him, he supposed. The tension suffocating the room was making him jumpy.
"Uh, sure. When do you want me to do that?"
"Now. Later. I don't give a shit."
"Right. But will I have access to the database or will FRIDAY ask for some sort of passcode-"
"She shouldn't." Another buzz on the phone. "Goddamn."
"But if she does, is there like a backup way to get into the-"
"Peter. Just fucking do it, will you? Jesus, I didn't think it would be this difficult."
He winced and instantly straightened up, chest tightening with the instinctive urge to be silent and still.
"Tony..." He heart Pepper murmur under her breath and the subtle inflection of her tone must have been enough for Mr. Stark to notice something was wrong, for he finally looked up from his phone and took in the hurt look beginning to spread onto Peter's face. His own expression shifted into a look of frustration and regret as he sighed.
"I...sorry, kid," he mumbled as he rubbed at his face. "I didn't mean to snap. I just-"
"It's okay," Peter said quickly. " I get it. This seems more than a little stressful. I'll...put in those prints in a little bit."
"Thanks kid," Mr. Stark said distantly, already back to his phone. "FRIDAY should give you access no problem."
"Right."
Immediately, Mr. Stark and Pepper were engrossed in another discussion on some other segment of the revision while Peter spared another glance around the room and wondered if he was allowed to leave now. Better to wait until Mr. Stark was finished talking before he could ask and-
"It's so great to be here with you all today!"
(DANGER.)
He whipped his head towards the TV over the bar and watched his father strut on screen in front of a large podium, cameras flashing and microphones shoving into his face. Peter felt his muscles beginning to tighten as he watched the man posing in front of the camera with some older Japanese man by his side. He scanned the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. New Parkstem Business Deal Launches in Tokyo.
"And I have to say, I am so excited for this partnership with Katagachi enterprises. This latest endeavor is a step forward not only for our two companies, but also for the future of travel in the modern day."
The broadcast scrolled through some more shots of what looked to be some sleek new bullet train, the iconic Parkstem logo branded on the side.
"Richard Parker's latest investment deal with Katagachi enterprises comes with the newest debut of their LightTrack, Japan's fastest bullet train and the first of its kind to travel more than 1500 miles underwater. This comes after Parkstem's initial partnership with Katagachi and their previous debut of the self-operating construction program which built this model in less than 30 days. Sources say- "
"FRIDAY, mute the goddamn TV, will you?" Mr. Stark growled, shoving his phone back into his suit as he stood. "I don't want that bastard's voice in my building."
Peter spared the man a sideways look. "He's not even doing anything wrong," he said somewhat sharply.
Mr. Stark either didn't notice it or - more likely considering his mood - didn't care. "He's existing. That's enough for me to lose my appetite."
Pepper narrowed her eyes and folded her arms as she gazed up at the TV. Her eyes were cold now. Hard. Like she was glaring at a disruptive drunk during a silent auction, full of disapproval and judgement. Peter swallowed the unease that bubbled in his stomach.
"He's going international now? What the hell is he doing making business deals in Tokyo?"
Mr. Stark scoffed. "I don't know. Burning down orphanages? As long as he's out of the country and far away from me, I couldn't give two shits about what the rat bastard's doing."
("He's a snake in a suit.")
"Please don't call him that."
Pepper seemed to startle a bit, almost as if she'd forgotten about Peter's presence. She instantly looked guilty, however, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and giving an apologetic smile.
"Sorry, honey. I-"
"Sure thing. There's plenty worse I can call him. That was just off the top of my head," Mr. Stark muttered.
Peter said nothing. Felt his fingers twitch again.
"Tony." Pepper said a bit harsher this time.
The billionaire spared a glance over towards her and then down to Peter. He swallowed, seemed to think for a second before reconsidering and turning away again. "Sorry..."
Peter tensed his jaw and glanced away. Distantly, he noticed his own phone buzzing in his pocket.
Footsteps approached and Peter half expected another clerk to be chewed out for daring to even get close. But instead, Rhodey appeared over his shoulder, dressed in his full military uniform, complete with pins, metals, and a look of complete annoyance.
Apparently, that was going around.
"Hey, man. We're starting back up and I really need you in there. They're persistent about this new revision and they're not letting go easily."
"Fuck. Alright, just..." Tony hastily grabbed the coffee mug and downed the last half in what appeared to be one huge gulp. Slamming it back down on the counter, he straightened out his suit jacket and grabbed the tablet Pepper handed over. Peter stepped out of the way as all three began to head off, but not before Mr. Stark suddenly turned and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder.
"Hey, don't forget about lunch, alright. I need you to eat something, okay?"
"Got it."
"And don't think I won't have FRIDAY tattle on you if you don't!"
Peter's frown twitched into a reluctant smile as he caught sight of the mischievous glint in the billionaire's eyes, dulled behind layers of exhaustion and bureaucracy, but still there. He gently patted the kid's shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
It wasn't going to be a great day. But they'd make it through.
Peter watched the people milling about the room for a minute or two before grabbing the empty coffee mug. His eyes drifted back up towards the TV as he began to pull out his phone with his free hand.
"Hey, FRIDAY. Can you unmute it, please?"
The channel flicked back right as his phone screen lit up the new message that had come through and Peter felt the coffee mug crack in his hand.
Call me. - DAD
"And remember, ladies and gentlemen. The Future is Bright. The Future is Parkstem!"
"The Butterfly Bastard's back."
"May..."
"What? You told me to stop calling him a cunt."
She flicked the curtains shut with a disgusted scoff and walked back over to the sofa, plopping down beside her husband with a sigh as the TV crackled with static between commercials. She let her hair out of its messy bun, greasy locks of brown hair falling down around her neck as she curled up into Ben's side, feet tucking underneath her as she set her eyes on the TV screen. The man had a book propped open on his lap, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. The apartment smelled of warm coffee and stale wood.
"You know, all it would take is one well-aimed brick and all our problems would be solved."
"Don't say things like that."
"You're right. That's too quick. Maybe I should call my brothers in from Brooklyn. Tell them to bring their league bats and a couple of friends."
"Stop it. Peter might hear you." Ben spared a glance over towards the hallway and the bathroom further down. Peter had only been gone for a couple of minutes.
May pursed her lips and glanced over at her husband. "You know, shielding him from this might not be doing all the good you think it is."
"He's too young, honey."
"Doesn't seem to matter to that prick across the street."
"And what? You want to be like him?"
May didn't respond. The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes as the light outside continued to dwindle. Neither one of them made any attempts to get up and turn on the lights, letting the house be lit only by the tinny backglow of the TV. Maury Povich was on. May's favorite type of trash TV. Ben mostly used it for background noise. Something for his ears to hear without actually listening; his eyes to look at without really watching.
The woman looped a finger through a couple loose strands of hair. She turned her head and stared out the window. They could make out the house lights of the Parker residence a couple doors down. Her eyes narrowed, lips pulling into a tight frown. "That man is the devil, Ben. He's evil incarnate and nobody can see it. Peter can't see it."
Ben shifted slightly in his seat, book falling lazily onto his lap as he rubbed at his temples. "Peter is...confused."
May scoffed and pulled away, sitting up straighter in her seat as she folded her arms and cast a glare down towards the floor.
"He's a baby, May. He doesn't know any better."
"We can't keep using that as an excuse. We have to teach him better. Teach him what a monster that man is." She whipped her head around. "If nobody else is going to, then WE have to protect him."
Ben sat up as well. His eyes were tired. Sunken. "I know, honey. But there's only so much that we can do against Richard. He's..." He swallowed and tightened his grip on the book in hand. "...money is pouring into his company now. If we make waves, it'll look like we're trying to score a payday. That's what the CPS worker told us."
"I don't care about the fucking money-!"
"But people don't know that."
May lowered her head. Her voice was sharp. Thick. Warbling like those few seconds before a cry. "Peter does."
Ben lifted his hand and removed the glasses from his face, pinching them between his fingers as he spoke. His words - as always - were slow and quiet. "Peter just...doesn't know what to do."
And May's, as always, were sharp and heated. "No. He knows exactly what he's doing. He wants to believe that everybody is just like him. Sweet and kind and innocent when they're not. For God's sake, Ben! We live in New York City and this kid walks up to homeless people and talks to them like they're his best friends! He has no survival instincts whatsoever!"
"He's a kid, May."
"He's BLIND! He doesn't want to accept what's in front of him so he's covering it up just like he does with everything else! Always covering for that bastard. Always lying. Always hiding it! GOD! Why does he defend that man?!"
Ben turned to her, didn't even seem to mind the shouting, like he couldn't hear it. For his face was calm and gentle, eyes soft and sad with a gray shine to his irises that always seemed to be so understanding. So kind. So outdated in this world.
Maury was yelling on the TV. People were cheering. the darkened house flashed with the light of the screen.
"Because Peter loves him, May. Peter...Peter loves everybody."
She narrowed her eyes at him, irises gleaming with a bright white light, misty and wet.
"How can you love a monster?"
He set his glasses down on his knee and reached out a hand, slipping his fingers into her palm and giving her a squeeze. She let out a breath, thick and wet and Ben carded a hand through her hair, roughened thumb rubbing against her temple.
"...When you just don't know any better."
They turned back towards the TV. May spared one last glance towards the window before slowly settling back into Ben's side, curling tighter into his chest and resting her cheek upon his breastbone. He slipped an arm around her shoulder and began to trace words onto her arm with his finger. First her name. Then his. Then Peter's. Over and over.
Peter watched them in silence, side pressing into the hallway wall as his cheek leaned against the cold plaster, hidden from view. He didn't say anything. Didn't make any moves to rejoin them on the couch. Just stood and listened to the TV and traced little pictures into the wall just like Ben.
Butterflies.
Peter whisked into the room swiftly and silently, letting the door swoosh closed behind him. He pressed his back into the metal and stared down at his phone, brows furrowed and lips tucked between his teeth.
He stared down at the message. Read it and re-read it over and over again. Still there. No illusions. His father had messaged him.
Finally.
So...why was his heart thumping like crazy? Why were his ears ringing like alarm bells? Why was the back of his neck tingling with the electricity of a live wire stuck under his skin?
Why did he want to tell Mr. Stark about it?
Peter cast a glance over his shoulder at the door. The chaos downstairs was still in full-swing and Mr. Stark would be in meetings for the better part of the day. There was no way Peter could interrupt a conference with some of the most influential people in the world because - what? His dad had finally texted him and he felt...uneasy about it? Because he wanted Mr. Stark's advice on how to answer a phone call? Because...because he suddenly felt very very alone staring down at those two words glaring back from his screen?
(Endure.)
No.
He could do this himself. Mr. Stark needed him to do this by himself.
Peter swallowed a dry glob of spit and slowly ambled his way over towards the couch across from his bed. He carefully eased himself onto the cushions and scrolled through his phone until he came up on his contacts list. It was still a pretty pitiful sight. Only a handful of contacts, the majority of which were his father and the Cons with a few extra slots for his friends, May and a couple Decathlon kids. But now, there were a few new numbers at the top of the list: Mr. Stark, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, even Harley. The boy had taken an insane close-up selfie and set it as his profile picture.
Peter scrolled past all of this. Landed on his father's contact.
His thumb hovered over the numbers, hand stilling as he took a breath. Then another. The ache in his chest remained, tight and uncomfortable.
BEEP.
Ringing...
In and out.
Ringing...
In and out.
Ringing...
In-
"Parker."
-and out.
He gripped the phone with two hands and pressed it tightly against his cheek. "Dad...?" he all but whispered into the phone. HIs voice felt sticky and hot.
There was a moment of silence on the other end in which Peter sank his teeth deeper into his lip and waited with stilted breath.
"Peter," his father said in that telltale rumbling baritone voice, deep and unreadable.
"Hi. I, um...hi. I-I saw your message. You...you wanted me to call." His lips were tingling, words tumbling out faster than he could control. He slouched forward in his seat. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine. I just wanted to check up on you."
Peter blinked, body tensed as he waited for his father to continue with some other dark reason, but the man remained silent. His words held steady. The teen spared a few fleeting glances around the floor before readjusting his grip on the phone. He hesitated for a moment.
"Oh. I, uh...I'm fine. I'm um...I'm doing okay here."
"That's good to hear. Stark...he's treating you alright?"
"Yeah! No, yeah. He's...everything's great," Peter said with the hints of a breathless smile finally slipping onto his face. The silence on the other end lasted a couple seconds too long, enough time for Peter to wind back what he'd said and quickly backtrack. "NOT that I don't miss you, dad. I...I do. So, so, much." And he did. With every fiber of his being, he did.
The silence lasted a few more seconds before the voice on the other end rumbled. "I miss you too, Peter."
He sucked in a breath, janky and clipped and felt the smile on his face widening. He held the phone tightly with both hands and blinked a couple of times to clear the faint mist in his eyes.
He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter on the couch. "How's Tokyo? I saw you on the news."
"Not bad. Flint's had food poisoning twice already and Sandra's gotten...oh I'd say at least five offers to star in a couple of films."
"Seriously?"
"Mm-hmm."
"How's...h-how's Max handling it? He hates Japanese food, doesn't he?"
"Oh, he's had his fair share of gripes since we've gotten here. Usually a quick trip to McDonalds is enough to keep him happy. Drive-thru, of course. You know I'd never be caught dead in one of those places."
His father continued for a few minutes, recounting his time in the city, the latest goings-on with the company, mundane, trivial conversation. Peter, of course, listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word, refusing to miss even a second of it.
The unease that had been festering in his chest had disappeared, fading away as he listened to the dulcet growlings of his father's deep voice. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the man standing beside him, listening to his breathing on the other end of the phone, imagining his smell wafting around him, that same distinct scent of expensive cologne, freshly-pressed suits and the faintest traces of smoke and ash, though not once had Peter ever seen his father light a cigar.
"Anyway, it's... it sure is something. I didn't think it was possible to find a city busier than New York. But Tokyo transcends that expectation by heaps and bounds. I doubt you'd be able to stomach the crowds."
Peter gave a light chuckle at the jab. "Probably not. I...I guess I just like the quieter places. "
"Nothing wrong with that." There was another pause on the line. Followed by the muted sounds of suppressed chuckles. Almost as if his father were trying to cover up something funny. Peter felt himself automatically grinning too as he tilted his head.
"What? What's so funny?"
"No, nothing. I just...Do you...remember our trip to Cabo? Back in 2009."
Peter blinked and scrunched his nose. That was...kinda random. "Uh...sort of? I was..."
"Seven. The business was starting to take off so I wanted to take you and the rest of the family on vacation. Somewhere warm for the winter."
Right. Peter could vaguely recall it. Remembered hating the feeling of sand getting stuck to his skin and sweat trickling down his back. Remembered craving the city smells of back home. Remembered keeping his mouth shut tight about these thoughts.
"Well, one night, we're at the cabana's all-you-can-eat buffet. Music. People. Big party. Highlight of the day for most kids. There was even a chocolate fountain they were all shrieking about. I figured you were off with the rest of them having the time of your life socializing and mingling. Well, it took me a while to find you and when I did...heh. You were camped out under one of the tablecloths reading a book."
Peter leaned forward and grinned into the phone. "Really?"
"Yes. Jules Vern, if I recall correctly. You'd stashed it away with you and I hadn't even noticed."
"Heh...well, in my defense, you can't name a chocolate fountain that's sold as many best-sellers as Jules Vern, can you?"
"No, I supposed I can't," his father mused on the other end. Another moment of silence lingered between them. Peter listened to the sounds of his father breathing in and out. Shut his eyes to the sound.
"...That's when I knew, Peter. I knew you were different from all the rest. My bright shining star."
Peter leaned back against the couch and curled his knees up to his chest, cheek resting on the cushions as he pressed his phone to his ear. His chest ached. He spoke quietly. "I really do miss you, dad. A lot."
"I know. But it's important for you to be there."
"Yeah. For the family, right?"
"That's right. It's important for Parkstem and Stark Industries to have a mutual relationship, one built on trust and understanding. And you are the bridge to building that relationship. Something that nobody else can do. Only you."
Peter said nothing. Merely shut his eyes again and let out a content sigh, happy to just listen to his father's rumbling voice, smooth and strong, if only for a second.
"I have a job for you."
He jerked. Second over.
"What?"
"A job. I need you to do something for me."
Peter sat up instantly. "I...anything. Anything you need!" he said quickly and with the fervent enthusiasm of a child tasked with helping their parent in the kitchen. He didn't dwell on the embarrassing eagerness in his tone. His father was in a good mood. Nothing else really mattered.
"You still have your backpack, right? The one you took with you?"
Peter jerked his head to glance over his shoulder. He could see his bag stashed by the bed where he'd last left it. "I...yeah."
"Check the front pocket. I left something in there for you."
"Hang on."
He muted the phone and quickly shuffled around the couch, crouching down beside his bed and pulling the backpack overtop his knees. He unzipped the small pocket and peered inside, fingers carefully sorting through the contents. Pencils, pens, housekeys -
Peter tilted his head back a bit and furrowed his brows, carefully lifting out the sleek new thumbdrive that hadn't been there when he'd left the house. Or at least...he didn't think it'd been there...had it?
He unmuted the phone and pressed it into his cheek
"Is it...is it this thumbdrive?"
"Yes. I put it in there a few weeks back before you left the house."
He twisted the drive between his fingertips, inspecting it carefully. It was black with red etch lines running down the side. "What's on it?"
"Nothing yet. That's what I need you for."
Peter's frown deepened. He lowered the drive and grabbed the phone from between his shoulder and cheek, pressing it harder against his ear. "Dad? What's-"
"I need you to log onto the Stark private server and download the files onto that drive."
The phone creaked.
It took everything to not accidentally shatter the fucking thing right then and there.
Peter held his breath. Held it in and waited for...something. Nothing? He was staring at nothing. Something? Everything? Too much. He scrunched his eyes shut as tight as he could, tight enough for black dots to begin squiggling around under his eyelids. The scrunched kind of grimace you'd make while dunking your hand in boiling water while a sleeping tiger loomed over you, waiting for even a pin-drop of noise to trigger the start of a gruesome and savage mauling. The grimace of a silent scream, tight and unbearable deep within your chest, beating up against your ribs like a steel drum. Bam. Bam. BAM. BAM-
"Peter."
"I'm here," he heard himself say. He moved on autopilot, pushing his backpack away and staring down at the drive in his palm. "I, uh...w-what do you need those...those files for?"
His father hesitated for a moment. A very uncharacteristic hesitance. "This hasn't gone on record yet, but I've discovered some unsavory insider information about Katagachi enterprises. Information I would have liked to have known about before signing any binding contracts. It's nothing serious, but it just reminds me that...it always pays to be prepared."
Peter blinked. Forced a sliver of air past his lips. It burned his throat on the way down. Whistled a high-pitched tune.
"I want to know that Stark Industries isn't involved in anything shady."
"They're not."
("He's a snake in a suit is what he is.")
"Mr. Stark wouldn't."
Another pause. 'I'm sure that's true. Which is why I want to verify that myself. And I need those files to do it."
Please.
Please.
Don't do this.
Don't be this.
"I, uh...I don't know..."
"It's nothing harmful, Peter. If there's nothing bad on those files, then I'll destroy the drive and we'll never speak of it again."
'And if there is?"
"What?"
Peter swallowed, hand shaking as he pressed it against his cheek. "Something bad. On those files."
"...Then we'll BOTH be happy I did this."
The boy wet his lips and clenched his fist. He could feel the metal of the drive pressing painfully into his palm. He couldn't figure out why his father bothered with the story on Katagachi. They both knew it wasn't true. Just a smokescreen, a ploy. He wanted those files for the same reason he wanted Peter in the Tower. The same reason he had cameras all over the house and undercover goons constantly trolling the streets.
Richard Parker liked to have all his chess pieces in their proper place.
Especially his favorite fucking pawn.
Peter opened his hand and stared down at the drive again, held it close to his chest as the dead space between phones filled his ear.
(Rule 12.)
(Father knows best. You serve him without question.)
(Understand?)
(Say yes.)
(Right now.)
(Like a good boy.)
(Good boy.)
(Dog.)
(Fucking dog.)
(Do it.)
"Peter, it's not complicated. Just-"
"I can't."
The words were sudden and swift and out before he could stop them. Before he could reconsider. "I, uh...Mr. Stark is very particular about his servers. I think...he'd probably figure out if I tried anything...um..."
"I know you're smart, Peter," his father said with an undoubtedly tight smile on his face. Peter could hear the strain of it in his voice. Annoyance. Thinned patience. "You can figure it out. Just tell him something he'll believe."
("You said you wouldn't let anything bad happen. I...I wanted to believe that.")
("If there's anything you can believe...it's that.")
"No."
His body wavered. He clenched his teeth against the burning nausea sloshing in his stomach.
"That's...that's the thing. I, uh...(come on)...I don't...(say it)...I don't think I can lie to him. I...I...don't...I don't WANT to lie to him."
Silence.
He swallowed. No going back now.
"It's just that...he's been so good to me. Letting me stay here. Giving me my own room, my own stuff. Movies and dinner. He spends time with me, teaches me, talks to me - they all do. They're all so wonderful and...and..." He choked on his next breath with how fast he was talking. He swallowed another mouthful of air and shook his head. "He's...not a bad guy, Dad. I don't want to hurt him. I don't..."
He stopped shaking, stopped moving when his eyes caught a flash of light. He shifted his gaze past his hand, past the drive, and over to the nightstand by his bed. Mr. Stark's lucky coin sat quietly in the light, catching the sun with a warm glint, like a little pool of gold sitting on the table.
Peter clenched his fingers around the drive and steadied the phone against his ear. His hand shook, but it held firm anyway.
"I don't WANT to do this."
He bit his lip and began to count the seconds. Waited for the inevitable. The screaming. The rage. The promises of pain and fury. He could feel his hands shaking, felt the urge to backtrack and apologize banging against his chest like an ape flinging itself at its cage bars, desperate to get out, clear the air, apologize and beg forgiveness.
Peter remained silent. He wondered if it was as shocking to his father as it was to him.
The silence lasted another few moments, long enough for Peter to wonder if his father had simply hung up on him. He was debating which scenario would be worse when his father finally cleared his throat over the line.
"Okay."
Peter's heart skipped a beat, air clogging in his throat as he jolted. His eyes scoured the ground for a moment before his face pulled into a hesitant grimace.
"O-okay?" he parroted, too dumbstruck to say much else.
"If you say you don't want to, they you don't want to," his father spoke matter-of-factly, no traces of anger or hostility in his voice. "I'm halfway across the country. It's not like I can make you."
For reasons Peter couldn't explain, the lack of emotion in his father's voice somehow felt...worse. Like he couldn't be bothered to get angry. He took an unsteady breath. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't be. It's alright. I just...I-I..."
Peter froze, body tensing as he fisted his free hand into the carpet below. He swallowed, or tried to. There was no saliva in his mouth all of a sudden, a bone dry desert.
Because his father was stuttering.
And his father never stuttered.
Peter stuttered.
Peter hesitated.
Peter was weak. His father was not.
(DANGER.)
"What? Dad, are you alright?"
"Yes, it's nothing. It's just..."
"What's wrong?"
"..."
"Dad-?"
"..."
He gripped the phone tighter, eyes wide.
"Dad, please say something."
"...Oh, Peter. I...I just wished you still loved me."
Silence.
A thick cloying ink suddenly clogging his throat, wrapping around his throat, choking out all the air. Gone. None.
(DANGER.)
(DANGER.)
(EVERYWHERE.)
(EVERYTHING.)
(RUN.)
"What?" he heard himself whisper, faint and shaky. His father's voice drowned it out entirely.
"It was bound to happen at some point."
No.
"That moment a son finally drifts away from his father."
Suddenly Peter was on his feet. "No - dad NO!"
"I just didn't want to believe that it would happen with you. Call me naive, but I thought our relationship was special. I thought-"
"It is! Dad, that's not what this is!" Peter said frantically.
"Of course it is, Peter. I'm not an idiot. I can see you pulling away from me. And why wouldn't you?"
His chest started bouncing, heaving with each breath. He could suddenly feeling the cold metal of a gun being pressed against his neck, a hand on his shoulder, eyes watching, watching, watching. This wasn't happening. This couldn't- His father couldn't be doubting him! Doubting his loyalty? His love? When it was the only thing Peter had? The only FUCKING THING!
("Baby...Peter, listen to me. Mommy isn't going anywhere.")
("I'll always be here for you, Goober.")
("Cause like it or not, I'm here to stay, Pete.")
Lies.
Liars.
ALL OF THEM.
(Everyone lies.)
"Stark can do a lot more than I can. He's...he's there. I'm not. He's got all the fancy gadgets and inventions. Parkstem can't compete. I...can't compete."
Peter couldn't breathe. Felt fat tears begin to roll down his cheeks. They burned like acid against his skin.
Please, God-
Please don't take him.
"Don't say that. Please don't say that! That's not-!"
"I know what they say about me."
His breath hitched. He felt his back pressing up against the bedroom door.
"What they tell you."
("Snake in a suit.")
("Rat bastard.")
("Monster-")
("Coward-"
("Evil-")
("Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad-")
He tried to speak. The words came out as little more than a whimper.
"I wanted to believe you trusted me enough to see through it."
"I...I do," he begged, holding the phone like a lifeline, like he could force his dad to stay and keep talking if he held on tight enough. He could hear the metal bending. "I don't believe them! I don't care what they say!"
("Are you angry at him...for what he did?")
("I don't like it when he yells at you.")
("Why does he defend that man?!")
"They call me a bastard. A monster. And I thought...I thought it didn't matter. My son knows me. He knows how much I love him, how much those words don't matter." His voice. His fucking voice. Peter could hear it breaking, could hear the pain and sorrow seeping through into his father's words and it made him want to die. His father - the strongest man he'd ever known, was breaking down because of him.
(Worthless.)
(Thankless.)
(Scum.)
(Fucking SCUM.)
"I suppose I was wrong."
His legs were gone. Peter was suddenly sliding to the floor, could barely keep the phone in his hand from how badly it was shaking. "No, Dad. You...you weren't. I don't believe them!"
"You obviously do. I can hear it in your voice."
"No, I-"
"I have to go, Peter."
His lungs skipped a breath and Peter felt the world graying out. "NO! No, Dad! Dad, please! Please don't hang up. Please, I love you. I love you so much. I've never...I'd never stop! I promise. I PROMISE!"
("I am all that you have in this world. Without me...")
"Goodbye, Peter."
"NO! No, please! Oh my God. Please, Dad don't leave. Don't leave me! You're all I have! You're all - no - Don't leave me alone - Please, don't-"
("You are nothing.")
"I'LL DO IT!"
It echoed.
Bounced against the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Rang around in his ears, melted into the sharp whine he could feel throbbing against the back of his head. He couldn't feel his body anymore. He was floating. Falling.
Please.
Please.
Please, God...
"What?"
"I...I'll do it. I...I'll do it just...please don't hang up. Please...don't leave."
A pause. "You just said you didn't want to."
"I changed my mind. I changed..." He shuddered, hair falling down around his eyes as he gritted his teeth and tried to speak over the staggering anguish he could feel in his heart, icy cold and shattered. His skin was freezing over. He could feel that familiar itch of ice crawling over his bones. "Just...please don't say that. Don't say I don't love you. I...I love you more than anything. More than anything in the world. More than...more than any vacations or gadgets or...or fancy buildings or...or-"
"Or Stark?"
Peter swallowed the bile frothing at the back of his throat. It froze solid on the way down. Caught somewhere in the middle. "More than anything. And anyone."
("How can you love a monster?")
He could feel himself swaying, a flush of dizziness washing over him as the back of his head hit the door. All he could feel was the phone in his hand, the glass from the screen beginning to crack and pierce his cheek.
Don't hang up.
Don't hang up.
Don't...
Don't leave me.
"Prove it."
CLICK.
("When you just don't know any better...")
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
So, I'm continuing the trend of posting shorter chapters in the hopes of speeding up the time between updates (whether that actually happens, we'll see, but at least this chapter is out now. If I waited for Part 2 before posting, it might be another 3 months or so)
I'm in the final semester of nursing school! Can you believe it? Feels like yesterday when I was telling you guys I'd just gotten in lol. And am I ready to step into the adult world? Abso-fucking-lutely not! But we'll deal.
***********************IMPORTANT*************************
I have a new WEBSITE FOR THIS STORY! A free to access, safe, website exclusively for The Chain, including chapters and ARTWORK! I've been working on a comic rendition of chapter one for this winter break and I'm making steady progress! If you wanna see it, please go check it out and leave a comment! I worked really hard setting up this website and I hope as many of you visit it as possible! And while I considered making the comic pages exclusive for paid members, I wanted everyone to be able to both read and see the story as it unfolds and see the characters the way I do! So please go and enjoy!
Website Name: thechain360 . com (link is also in BIO)
Onto our regularly scheduled programming
1. Back on the ANGST TRAIN! Next stop, clinical depression!
2. So Richard Parker is really pulling out all the stops here, huh? I wanted to focus more on the emotional manipulation rather than the physical and really emphasize just how entangled Peter really is with his father. And boy howdy did I have to watch a couple puppy videos to cleanse my palate!
3. Ben is a national treasure and nobody can convince me otherwise. You're going to be seeing more mentions of him. Perhaps as foreshadowing for an upcoming chapter...
4. Politics are dumb and make people sad.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who favorited and/or followed this story. Unfortunately, there's been some glitch with the fanfiction website and I can't see new views on this story or organize the new followers into chronological order so I can no longer do individual shout outs. But just know that I read each and every one of your comments and hold them all close to my heart! They all make me smile! SO thank you for your continued support.
UP NEXT: Chapter 37: Fool's Paradise Part II
Why does Peter defend his dad? Why does he love him? Why does he do everything he says? Tony wonders. Peter answers.
REVIEWS
PrincessRedFern: Happy Birthday! I hope this chapter helps you start your New Years right! And yeah, that secret between Peter and Steve is definitely NOT going to cause problems. Not in a million years...
Blooper: Love YOU