Peter leaps out of bed before he is fully awake. His legs tangle in the sheets and he falls to his knees painfully, bruising them, but he doesn't pause to think about it. Back on his feet, Peter charges out of his room and down the hall, where the girls' door is always left slightly ajar. He bursts in without thinking, only realizing that he is barefoot and unarmed when he fumbles for the light switch and braces himself to see—
Nothing. It's just Lily and Emma, both sitting up in their beds.
Lily is the one who is screaming.
For a second Peter thinks he's mixing them up: he's never seen Lily be anything but effervescent, happy and giggling. But any doubt is washed away when she reaches for him, still sobbing, and says, "Peter!"
Peter crosses the room and wraps his arms around her. Lily latches on immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his torso, so Peter lifts her out of bed and turns around to sit on it, holding her in his lap.
"What happened?" he says. "Lily, are you hurt?"
But Lily is crying too hard to speak, so Peter holds onto her, making shushing noises and trying to calm his own hammering heart. Over Lily's shoulder, he looks at Emma. She's not crying, but she is pale and looks even smaller than she normally does, her shoulders hunched up to her ears, her blanket clutched to her chest.
"Are you okay, Emma?" he says.
Emma hesitates—then nods.
"She's not!" Lily sobs. "She's not, they were hurting her!"
"Shh, Lily, it's okay. It's okay, look, Emma's fine. She's okay."
Peter gets to his feet and turns around, so that Lily can see Emma over his shoulder. He stands like that until Lily's sobs turn to hiccups.
"Shh, see?" he says. "See, she's okay. Okay?"
Lily nods against his cheek, and Peter turns around again.
He receives a start. Skip is standing in the doorway.
Peter gets the same crumpled feeling in his stomach he had when Lily snuck into his room the first morning, and when Ned appeared unannounced in the living room. Skip's face is blank for a moment, and the unreadability of his expression is more unnerving than anger would be—Peter doesn't know how to brace himself.
Then Skip smiles.
"Hey girlies," he says, stepping into the room. "Bad night?"
Lily gasps and disentangles herself from around Peter's waist. She runs into Skip's arms and he scoops her up.
"Aw, baby, it's alright," he says, "it's okay, it's okay. It's just one of your nightmares, it's not real."
Peter suddenly feels useless. He stands at the center of the room, arms empty, inexplicably embarrassed, still battling that first instinct of fight or flight. His adrenaline is pounding, but his brain is catching up to the situation.
No danger. Just a bad dream.
Skip catches his eye.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I was out like a light. I should have been quicker. You can go back to bed."
Peter blinks, then looks at Emma. She is still watching him.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
He doesn't want to leave without making sure.
Emma nods again, and then, to Peter's shock, whispers the first words she's said to him since he arrived.
"I'm okay."
"Okay. Um. Sorry, I'll just…"
Face red, Peter starts to leave.
Skip puts a hand on his shoulder as he passes.
There is a brief, lighting impulse to throw the hand off. Peter stops himself just short of jerking back—instead he goes stiff, just like he did under the weight of Skip's hug.
But Skip doesn't pull him in this time. He just squeezes Peter's shoulder, once, and then drops his hand.
"We'll talk in the morning," he says softly.
Peter nods, trying not to make his hesitance obvious as he skirts around him.
Skip shuts the door.
Peter wakes for his first day of school feeling like he hasn't rested at all. He set his alarm to go off early, afraid he would oversleep, but now he stays in bed until the last possible moment, mulling over the events of the last twenty-four hours and dreading the moment he has to go out into the kitchen, where he can hear Skip making breakfast.
It was just a hug. Just a friendly squeeze of the shoulder. Just a nightmare, and for once the nightmare wasn't his.
But Peter feels… dread. Constant, low-grade, nauseating dread. It's like being back at the Arlingtons, waiting for the next blow to fall. It's like hearing Felipe's moans of hunger in the middle of the night, or sitting in the dark, listening for the door to signal that Ben was home from the late shift.
(Broken broken broken.)
Is this how he's going to be for the rest of his life?
(Irrational.)
"Peter?"
At Skip's call, Peter stops dallying. He grabs the backpack Skip bought for him, stuffs the burner phone in his back pocket and the StarkPhone in the front, and heads into the kitchen.
Bea is there already, helping the girls into their coats. Peter pauses, wondering if he's ruined something by seeing Lily so vulnerable, if he's messed everything up by sticking his nose where it didn't belong—
"Peter!" Lily runs to him, hugs his legs. "Good morning, good morning. Daddy told me to tell you to have a good first day at school, so have a good day, okay?"
Before Peter can answer, she skips back to Bea.
Peter blinks. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Skip set his mouth in a grim line.
"Thanks, Lily," Peter says. "I hope you have a good day too. You and Emma."
Something happens then, something that is both unexpected and affirms that Peter did not hallucinate the events of last night. Emma steps forward, hugs him briefly, and hurries back to Bea.
There is a moment of shared shock where Peter, Bea, and Skip exchange raised eyebrows, and then Skip steps forward, clearing his throat.
"Okay girls. Off you go."
Bea snaps out of it. She smiles at Peter and shuffles the girls out the door.
Leaving him alone with Skip.
"Come sit down," Skip says.
Peter does, apprehensive. Skip sets a plate of fresh fruit and yogurt in front of him. Peter's fingers twitch, but he doesn't pick up his spoon, just watches while Skip takes the seat across from him.
"I owe you an apology," says Skip quietly.
"No, it's okay. I'm—for what?"
"For last night," says Skip. "I had a little too much to drink, I shouldn't have slept through Lily's nightmare. Thank you for taking care of her until I got there."
Peter is relieved he isn't in trouble, but still, his stomach won't settle. He finds himself fighting the urge to pocket the apples on his plate, and he folds his hands in his lap to still them.
"Does that happen a lot?" he says. "I mean, is she okay? I thought… I just wouldn't have expected it, I guess. Not from Lily."
Skip sighs. "I try not to talk about it with my boys until I'm sure they're going to fit in," he says. "The girls are in a… sensitive position, and kids can be thoughtless—I don't like to risk triggering their episodes. But I think you deserve an explanation. And I think you've proven you have the girls' best interests at heart."
"Did something happen to them?"
Skip nods. "I know you're no stranger to the cruelties of the world, Peter, but even so, I don't want to burden you… and on your first day of school…"
"No, it's okay. I mean, it's not okay, but I want to know. I want to help."
Skip smiles, but a little sadly.
"You are a helper, aren't you? I'm seeing that more and more." He sighs. The smile disappears. "Peter, those girls come from a very troubled background. Their birth parents were… not equipped, to say the least. Their mother was addicted to heroin, and so the girls were born addicted as well. She abandoned them at the hospital, and for the first few years of their lives they were bounced between family members and foster homes. Sometimes I thank the stars I don't know all the details of what happened to them, but I know enough to say that they were very badly abused by their first homes. They were too young to remember most of it, but Emma has scars on her back in the shape of cigarette burns, and for the first year I had them Lily would scream like she was being tortured any time she saw a man with a beard… things like that leave a mark, even when they don't leave a memory."
Peter's hands are shaking.
(Bad things just happen.)
They shouldn't, though. The idea that anyone could do something like that to those girls is sickening.
Skip gives Peter a second to compose himself before he goes on.
"There were a few families before me," he says, "who tried with the girls. Good people. Good intentions. But even though the girls don't really remember what happened to them when they were little, abuse has invisible effects. Their behavior was… well, to put it plainly, Peter, it was nightmarish. Screaming fits, violence, sleeplessness. They would pull their own hair out, attack anyone who tried to stop them. Attack their foster siblings. Attack their foster parents. When the foster program approached me about taking them in, it was an absolute last resort—my focus was on teenage boys, like yourself, and I admit the thought of taking two potentially dangerous young girls was daunting. But I had enough experience with difficult cases at that point, and besides—they had nowhere else to go. Perhaps it sounds strange but I felt it was… my duty, I suppose, to look out for them."
(You gotta look out for yourself, Pedro.)
(That's not right, Felipe. Sometimes you have to look out for other people. Otherwise things like this happen. Otherwise people shoot unarmed men in alleyways and tell kids they can't eat and put cigarettes out on little girls' backs. And then it can't just be about me.
All at once, the embarrassment from last night returns, but this time it is not because he feels like an intruder on a private moment. It is because he was suspicious: suspicious of Skip last night when he hugged Peter; suspicious again when he first heard Lily scream.
(Broken broken broken.)
But it isn't Skip. It's him.
"I'm…," Peter croaks. "God, I'm so sorry."
"No, no, no, I'm not telling you because I want you to feel bad, Peter. I told you, I want to apologize. The girls and I have done a lot of work in the last two years, but as you can see there's a ways to go. They handle it differently. Emma… well, you see how she is, she doesn't trust anybody except me and Bea. And you now, it seems."
Underneath the shame, a flicker of pride.
"And Lily," Skip goes on. "Lily is a spitfire. You know. But underneath all that spunk… her way of coping is by blocking things out. The nightmares are a result, though I thought we had them mostly under control. Last night was probably my fault, too. I let her have too much birthday cake. Too much sugar. I'm sorry, you must have slept terribly."
Peter shakes his head. "I slept fine," he lies. "I was just worried."
"I know. I meant what I said last night, Peter. You're an excellent kid."
Peter smiles again, a little wider this time. He feels shaky with relief—his fears were unfounded. Everything is okay: it's just his brain, making mountains out of molehills, his wires all jumbled up, receiving too many signals. He can get this under control, and everything will be fine.
"Can I—?" Peter swallows. "Can I help with the girls? At all? Is there anything I can do?"
Skip grins, now.
"All you have to do," he says, "is keep being the wonderful older brother you've been so far. And concentrate on your school work. Which—speaking of! Your first day starts in twenty minutes. I've almost made you late. Come on, I'll drive you."
They both get to their feet. Peter is about to head for the door, but before he can, Skip pulls him into another hug.
The reassurance of the last ten minutes slides away. Skip squeezes just a little too tight, almost like he is trying to show Peter how strong he is, and suddenly Peter is not in the kitchen anymore. He is in the backseat of a crumpled car. He is lying in the bed under the stairs. He is crammed into a corner, trying to avoid Ryan's fists—
(too close too close)
—and then it ends. Skip releases him. Rubs his hands up and down Peter's arms once. Walks away.
Peter shakes his head. He presses his hands into his eyes, presses the unwelcome memories away.
He gets a hold of himself. And he goes to school.
"No. No way. This is a violation of our constitutional right to safety, or something."
Peter feels heat rise in the back of his neck as he makes his way to his seat and drops into it, resisting the urge to look around. He can feel every pair of eyes in the room on him—every pair, that is, except Flash's, which are almost as wide as his gawping mouth, and are currently fixed on the teacher, who has just introduced Peter to the class.
"If you're done with the melodramatics, Flash," she says, and she returns her attention to the whiteboard. "We were learning about covalent bonds."
Peter doesn't miss the look she gives him as he turns, however. She has just as many doubts as Flash.
Even though he didn't expect anything more, it still stings.
He doesn't have time to dwell on it. Flash, who is seated one row ahead of Peter, whips around to face him.
"How did you manage to weasel your way back in here, Parker?" he demands.
"Is it true you pushed an old lady off a fire escape?" says the blonde girl sitting next to him
Peter groans, but the girl, far from deterred by Peter's imagined violent streak, sticks a hand out.
"Betty Brant," she says. "Midtown High morning announcements, editor of the Daily Happenings portion of the school newspaper. Any chance I could get an interview? The prison system is broken, Peter, and most of the kids here are like, so privileged. They could use an insider's perspective on what juvie is really like."
"You are not actually encouraging him right now," Flash hisses. "Parker's a total suck up goody-two-shoes brown-noser, and he's like, an attempted murderer. I'm complaining to the school board."
He and Betty Brant start bickering in low whispers. It's distracting enough that Peter, who is actually pretty determined to prove he's not a dangerous delinquent, and doesn't want to start his first day falling behind in class because of Flash of all people, leans forward.
"Flash," he whispers, "are you gonna shut up long enough for me to start being a goody-two shoes brown-nosing suck-up, or am I going to have to violate your constitutional right to safety to make you?"
Flash turns red and opens his mouth, but before he can make his indignant retort, he's cut off by a snort of laughter.
Peter turns around. The girl behind him is smirking behind a sheaf of dark, curly hair. He starts to smile at her, relieved that one person, at least, isn't terrified of him, but before he can make eye contact she buries her nose in a copy of Paradise Lost, which is open on her desk.
"Since Mr. Parker is confident enough on his first day to not pay attention," says the teacher, "perhaps he would like to tell us what a banana bond is?"
Peter turns around, his ears burning. Flash smirks—until Peter gets the question right.
Peter tries to catch the girl's eye at the end of class—lord knows he could use any friend he can get—but she is out the door the second the bell rings, head bent, arms full of books.
The bookish girl's rejection turns out to be a good predictor of the rest of the day, at least in terms of how the rest of the school treats Peter. By third period he's almost missing the school he went to when he lived with the Arlingtons: the kids there might have gone out of their way to torment him, but at least they acknowledged his existence.
"I think I might have died in my sleep," he says when he finds Ned in the lunchroom. "Am I a ghost? Am I invisible? Please tell me you can see me."
By way of response, Ned offers up their secret handshake, which draws the first smile Peter's worn all morning. They take their lunches to the corner of the cafeteria, and Ned, bless him, holds his head high when Peter's ability to repel eye contact turns out to be contagious.
"They'll get over it," he says as they take their seats. "You're just the rumor of the week. Wait until someone rips their pants in gym class or gets caught making out in the band hall, they'll forget all about you."
"Maybe." Peter glances over his shoulder, and the mousy sophomore behind him spills her milk she jumps so hard. "This is weird, though. I'm used to being the punching bag. Now everyone is acting like I'm gonna beat them up for their lunch money."
"And that's a bad thing?" Ned is rummaging in his backpack. "You're the closest thing to a badass this school has ever seen. Own it, my man. Aha!"
He emerges from his bag with a fistful of pamphlets, which he shoves at Peter.
Peter plucks one off the top. It has a technicolor picture of a Dalek and Peter reads aloud,
"Robotics Club: Exterminate the competition at this year's regionals." He raises an eyebrow at Ned. "Is this how I own my badassery?"
"In fact, it is. Remember how I'm definitely the best friend and possibly the greatest human being you've ever known? These are all of the after school activities my mom is making me take. I thought, since you, you know, love me so very much, you might make this very extensive list of extracurriculars more bearable by possibly picking one or two that you could—"
"Yeah, dude, I'm in," says Peter, unhesitating. "For all of it."
"For real?" Ned, who was clearly gearing up for more of a fight, practically sags with relief. "Oh, my god, you have no idea how much better band practice is going to be with you there. My mom is making me play the tuba. The tuba, Peter, like I'm not enough of a—are you okay?"
Peter has gone still. In shuffling through the pamphlets, he's just come across one for an after-school literacy program, wherein the older kids apparently walk down to the elementary school to read with fourth graders. Where the Red Fern Grows features prominently on the front.
"Um," says Ned, "you don't have to do all of them, Peter. If reading isn't your thing—"
"No, I want to."
I don't want to be home all the time.
(And why is that? Think, Peter. Why is that?)
Because something is wrong with me.
"Okay… are you sure you're okay?"
Peter runs a hand over the pamphlets, fidgets. Now he is the one avoiding Ned's eye.
"Do you think Ben would have… do you think he'd like Skip?"
"Oh. Oh, um. Why do you ask? Has he—has he been treating you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he's been great. Like, really, really nice. I guess I just… it weirds me out a little. Like maybe he's being too nice. I guess I just feel like I don't deserve it. Or something."
"Peter." Ned tugs the pamphlet out of Peter's hand, forcing him to look up. "You've been through so much, dude. Like, a genuinely crazy amount of crap. I think it… makes sense you'd be a little, uh, criss-crossed. But people are supposed to be nice to you. You know that, right?"
Peter smiles. It's an effort, but once its on his face it comes easier.
"Thanks Ned," he says.
Ned relaxes. He smiles back. "Of course. You know I've always got you, man. Now if you're done being morose, please let me tell you about the decathlon team captain. That is one club you're going to thank me for."
Slowly, Peter's life begins to come back together. He joins band and robotics club and mathletes and decathlon (and immediately develops a raging crush on the captain, Liz, just as Ned predicted). After he turns in a few homework assignments, most of his teachers forget their initial wariness and stop watching him out of the corners of their eyes when they think he won't notice. It takes a little longer for the students, but after a month has gone by and Peter hasn't pulled a shiv on anyone, they start to lose interest. After six weeks everyone except Flash treats him like any other lowly freshman, and Peter can't bring himself to care too much about that, as Flash has always treated him like dirt.
He's busy. He's excelling at school. He has Ned. It's almost like it was before, except that the negative space left in Ben's absence seems just a little deeper now, surrounded as he is by reminders of the life he used to have with his uncle. Deeper, but not sharper. Just as with his parents, the edge of grief is beginning to wear off.
Things at the apartment have calmed down too. Since that first nightmare, Lily has slept soundly through the night, and as the weeks wear on, Peter becomes more and more convinced that his initial wariness about Skip was just a product of some weird reaction to the circumstances in which he came to live with him. Besides a few uncomfortable hugs, a few lingering stares, Skip is the definition of the perfect parent—attentive, sympathetic, available. He won't ever be Ben, but Peter's appreciation for Skip grows every time he sees a packed lunch waiting for him on the counter, or a text on his phone, letting him know not to stay out too late, letting him know he's missed.
Peter loves the girls. He loves them almost as much as he loved Ben, loves them so much it scares him a little. They love him right back: Lily, vivacious as ever; Emma, quieter, but warming to him a little more each day. They both kiss him on the cheek before bed each night, now.
Just as with his grief for Ben, Peter's skittishness starts to wear off. He sleeps better. He doesn't steal food as much—only when he's stressed about a test, and once before his first decathlon meet, but otherwise his little pile stagnates. The ghoul on his shoulder has even receded, its little whispered warnings growing quieter and quieter until Peter almost doesn't hear them at all anymore.
He starts to believe, once again, that everything is going to be okay.
Which is, of course, when everything falls apart.
Peter gets home late that evening. It's Friday, and Liz had kept them late at practice to prepare for regionals, which are next weekend. Skip and the girls have family therapy on Fridays, so Peter takes the train home, expecting to find an empty apartment when he arrives. He's looking forward to having the television to himself—there's only so much Peppa Pig a guy can stand—but when he steps through the front door, he's surprised to find Skip on the couch, watching ESPN on mute with a sleeping girl tucked to each side.
Skip makes a shushing sign before Peter can slam the door. Peter catches it; he slips his shoes off before he steps onto the hardwood, then tiptoes closer. Standing over the couch, he can see tear tracks on each of the girls' faces.
"Tough session," Skip whispers. "We had to cut it short, we've been watching Disney movies all night to get them to calm down. They just fell asleep in the middle of Moana. Can you help me get them to bed?"
Peter scoops Emma into his arms, careful not to jostle, while Skip props Lily up on his shoulder. Together they carry them down the hall and place them, fully clothed, in their respective beds. Emma's face scrunches up as Peter sets her down, but she doesn't wake; just rolls over and starts to suck her thumb in her sleep.
He looks up when he senses Skip watching him. Skip nods toward the kitchen.
"Are they gonna be okay?" Peter asks, taking a seat at the dining table while Skip rummages in the fridge. He emerges with a beer, takes a long sip before sitting across from Peter and sighing.
"They'll be fine," he says. "Sometimes therapy is like drawing poison out of a wound; it's painful, but necessary. But damn if I don't hate seeing those girls cry." He takes another swig. "Thanks for your help, Peter. I thought I was going to lose feeling in both my arms before you showed up."
"Oh yeah. I'm just glad they're okay."
"They will be. But how are you? You look a little stressed yourself."
Peter shrugs. "It's just the meet coming up. Even Mr. Harrington is freaking out, because I guess Midtown always qualifies for state, so it's like, upholding a legacy. A lot of pressure, I dunno."
Peter expects Skip to give him the usual spiel about how smart he is, how lucky the decathlon team is to have him—a familiar refrain, by now—but instead, Skip considers Peter for a drawn-out moment, and then slides the beer across the table toward him.
Peter laughs, thinking it must be a corny dad joke, but the laughter fades quickly when he sees the look on Skip's face: serious, measured. Watching Peter like he's studying him.
"Try it," he says. "It tastes better than it smells."
Peter's heart starts to beat harder, though he cannot, at first, say why.
"Um, you aren't serious, are you? Is this—is this some kind of test?"
Now Skip laughs, but there's no humor in it.
All at once, the ghoul reappears. Its hackles are raised.
"No test, Pete. First beer is a big milestone in a young man's life, and I think you've proven you're mature enough to handle it. I'd like to be the one to give you your first taste. Go ahead."
Peter doesn't want to, but something in the edge of Skip's voice, in the way he's continued to look at Peter's face while they've been talking, makes him take the bottle and take a quick, tiny mouthful.
It's much, much worse than it smells. Peter almost chokes on it—he manages to swallow, but comes up sputtering, coughing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Skip, laughing for real now, takes the beer out of his hand before Peter can spill it.
"Okay, okay," he says, "maybe not quite yet. You really are still a little kid in some ways, aren't you?"
Peter, whose eyes are already watering, tries not to show how much that stings. Skip has never spoken to him like this before. He doesn't understand what's going on.
(No, you don't understand, do you, because you never listen to me you never—)
Peter gets abruptly to his feet. "I have to brush my teeth," he says.
Skip leans back in his chair, taking another sip of the beer.
"Of course," he says. "You sleep well, Peter."
Peter almost trips over himself as he heads to his room, heart pounding, the little voice shrieking in his ear.
Just like the night of the hug, it takes Peter a long time to fall asleep.
Just like the night of the hug, he is woken by a high-pitched sound. But this time it is not Lily screaming, woken by a nightmare. It is the sound of his door, hinges creaking as it opens.
Peter sits up, but doesn't get out of bed. Someone is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light shining in from the hallway. For just a second, Peter thinks he must be having a nightmare, because this figure seems too large to be a man, and it is swaying slightly, like it's having trouble keeping his feet.
Then Skip staggers out of the glare and into Peter's bedroom.
But this isn't Skip as Peter has ever seen him. Even in the darkness Peter can see that his eyes are out of focus, can smell the tidal wave of grain alcohol that is his breath. Skip is not just tipsy this time—he is stone-cold drunk.
Before Peter can say anything, Skip crosses the rest of the distance between them and sits on the edge of his bed.
Peter flinches away. There is a siren in his head, and it is wailing (too close, too close, too close), but he is paralyzed. He doesn't even think to stand up.
"Skip?" he whispers. "Is everything okay?"
Skip lists from side to side slightly, trying to catch Peter in the cross-hairs of his vision. When he does, he smirks.
"Look at you," Skip slurs. "Always so concerned about everyone else. Always so nice. When you c—when you came to me I thought you would be… so different. More like the other boys. They always fought me, you know. Them I had to teach. But you. Not you. You're different. You're better."
"Skip," says Peter, his voice growing louder even as he struggles to maintain his whisper, "I think you should go back to bed, I think you had too much—"
And then Skip is on top of him.
It happens so fast Peter doesn't even have time to think about running, or trying to push him off—not that he could if he tried. One second he is sitting up; the next he is sinking into the mattress under the full weight of Skip's body while the older man wraps his arms around him, holds him there. Skip has at least eighty pounds on Peter—he is completely pinned.
Peter's mind goes blank with panic. He can't comprehend what's happening, can't even begin to fathom it—all he knows is that he needs to get away, needs to get this weight off of him so he can take a breath (too close too close TOO CLOSE) so he says, "Get off, Skip, please get off me, please, get—"
Skip puts a hand over his mouth.
"Shut up," he whispers. "Don't pretend you don't want this. You've always been… such a nice boy…"
On top of him, Skip starts to move his hips.
Finally, Peter understands.
(Are you happy, Peter?)
(Are you happy?)
(Are you—)