Chapter Text
Quiet unease pulls Peter from sleep. Something warm hovers over his chest. A hand. It drifts lower, stopping just at the band of his shorts.
Not that, Peter thinks. He promised.
Peter kicks out with both feet, heels making contact. A man lets out a shocked gust of air and a muffled yell.
“Ah heck,” Dad says, his voice pinched and nasal. “You got my nose, kiddo.”
Oh.
Peter smothers the misplaced panic and sits upright. Bright winter sunlight peeks through a picture window. There’s a half-assembled LEGO AT-AT on the rug. His Santa Chewie PJs are damp with sweat; Star Wars sheets kicked to the foot of the bed overnight.
His childhood bedroom had always been hot. Even in winter.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Dad pinches his bloody nose closed, fumbling in his pocket for a Kleenex. “You used to love it when I tickled you awake.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m not five, Dad,” he says, reading from the script.
“No, you're eight and already giving me grief.” Dad grins around his hand and tugs at Peter’s sheets, teasing. “Tick tock, kid. We’ve got presents to open. Your Grandma needs your help with the hot chocolate. Pops burnt the last batch.”
Of course he had. Pops' memory lapses had been getting worse. Harder for him to hide from the family — but not impossible. Stubbornness would kill the Parker patriarch by the spring, leaving their little family of five in shock and mourning.
By the following New Year, they would only be three.
But right now, Pops is downstairs — bickering with Grandma Ann in the kitchen while Uncle Ben sets the table. Mom’s in the attic, digging out everyone’s ugly holiday sweaters. This year, Peter’s won't fit.
The chemistry set he begged for is under the tree. He'll whoop when he unwraps it, overly loud and performative, making everyone laugh. Later, Peter will turn off the Christmas lights from Dad's blackberry, showing off the basic home butler he made from jerry-rigged palm pilots. Pops will play with it all day, telling Dad he lucked out with such a smart “little man”.
Mom's father will call around noon. She'll excuse herself and come back, fifteen minutes later, hiding red eyes behind a smile. She’ll kiss Peter’s hair and say, “Grandpa can’t make it this year, sweetie. He said he loves you and wants you to have an amazing Christmas. He sent 50 dollars for you to spend on any game you want.” — and this will be the first year Peter will realize that she's lying.
Grandpa never spared a dime, not on something as cheap as family, and Grandpa never showed, especially not when he was needed.
The last time Peter will see him will be at her funeral.
After lunch, Uncle Ben will bring up the new woman he's dating and Grandma Ann's expression will harden, the same way it will when Tony first mentions Emma Frost, years later. Her questions will hover right on the edge of rude — “What kind of person is named after a month?” — but Ben won't take it personally. He'll laugh that loud, booming laugh of his, and kiss his mother’s cheek. He’ll say, “A person you’re gonna love, Ma.”
Utterly unfazed. Untouchable.
Later tonight, Peter will practice that laugh in front of the mirror.
“Petey?” Dad says quietly, resetting time. His eyes are hazy. Blood drips unchecked from his nose. “Who… Who did you think I was, just now?”
“W-What?”
Dad stares uncomprehendingly at the red dots on the floor. He touches his face, seeming lost. “Did you… Did you think I was him?”
Which is totally wrong. This isn’t how the script goes. No one knew yet.
Least of all Dad.
“I-I don't know what you're–”
Dad’s face transforms, his confusion curdling, sour and sharp. “Don’t lie to me.”
Then he jerks forward with sudden impact, takes a staggering step, and—
He’s Uncle Ben. Staring blankly ahead.
A river of blood streaming from his neck.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
Peter scrambles out of bed, and stands on tip-toes, stretching, frantic, forcing small fingers into the wet void of his uncle’s body. The little Queens boy, plugging the dike.
But Ben doesn’t seem to notice. He’s crying ugly, quiet tears — but they’re from an old pain. His hands are still covered in Dad’s blood.
“Why haven’t you told anyone?”
“What?”
Slowly, he takes Peter by the chin, tilting his head so their eyes meet. Painting his brother’s blood across Peter’s face.
“Why haven’t you told anyone?”
Comprehension dawns and it’s all wrong.
This isn’t how it goes.
“It’s… There's nothing to tell.” He jerks away, dislodging Ben’s hand and the moisture from his eyes. His fingers push deeper into Ben’s body, reaching for the leaking artery. The carpet squelches beneath his bare feet. Blood wet between his toes.
“You’ve gotta try. This isn’t good for you,” Ben says, his voice thick and pleading. “It can't just be me. It’s not fair.”
“Yeah, well. W-Well, you’re not fair!” Peter’s voice pitches high and, finally, the script is back on track. He remembers these lines. He’d written them at thirteen, betrayed and furious. “You said it was over. You promised. You said it.”
“At least talk to May. You don’t have to go into detail, I’ll help—”
“No way.” Peter shakes his head, refusing to be thrown off. He presses in deeper, finally pinching the blood vessel shut. “You swore I wouldn't have to talk to some stupid stranger.”
“May’s not a stranger. She’s family.”
“No, she's not. She–She—” Peter picks up the knife on his tongue that will cut this conversation off for good. “She’s just the lady you make me live with. I’m not stupid. Everyone knows you only married her so you wouldn’t be stuck raising me alone. Just because she packs my lunch doesn’t make her family. She’s not my Mom. You can’t make me forget her.”
Ben rocks back, the words hitting harder than the bullet had. His vein slips through Peter’s fingers.
“No one wants you to forget—”
“You do!” Peter screams, and the lie hurts more now than it did then. “She will never be family. I’m not telling her anything. You can't make me. You can’t make me.”
“Please, Petey—”
“Don't call me that!”
His fingers tear from Ben's neck. Blood arcs out in a hot, violent jet — coating his face. His eyes. Shooting into his mouth.
It tastes like come.
“Don't call you what, kid?” Mr. Stark says, standing naked and spotless in Ben’s place.
Peter falls to his knees. Blood soaks through his pajamas, creeping up his legs. Painting his dick red.
Mr. Stark frowns. “Whose blood is that?”
“It's– It's my family’s. But don’t worry, Mr. Stark. I’ll clean it up.” He yanks off his pajama shirt, trying to soak up the blood, then scrubbing, desperate, when that fails. “I'm sorry. Just give me a second. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”
Mr. Stark crouches beside him. He tilts his head, watching Peter work.
“Why are you sorry?”
The carpet is now a shallow pool, scarlet and sinking into the foundation of the house. Peter gives up on the shirt and presses his mouth to the floor. Lapping at it like a dog. Trying to swallow the evidence.
The blood still tastes like come.
“Why are you sorry?”
———
When Peter wakes again, the winter sunlight is shining through a different window.
He blinks slowly. His mind is a fog, his mouth achingly dry. There had been a dream about… something. Someone? The faint memory slips away, and Peter doesn’t chase after it.
He has more important things to focus on. Like working out where he is.
He’s hooked up to a hospital bed. Diagnostic sensors affixed to his temples, an IV in his arm. Half a dozen holo-displays show vitals and brain activity. Beyond them, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline.
It’s a view Peter knows well.
I’m in the Tower.
With the realization, memories of the previous night come rushing back. Dario. The alien plants. The dog, his dog. The explosion—
Tony.
Tony, arriving exactly when Peter needed him. Tony, saving him when he ran his mouth off. Tony, eyes wide with panic as Peter said he loved him.
Had that really happened? The memory feels distant, almost out of body. Nothing like what he had imagined.
Peter sits up slowly, grimacing. The IV hurts. Heck, he hurts, and it’s the same dull burn of mid-healing that he felt after the explosion, which makes no sense. Why is it so cold in here? He hasn’t been this cold in… he can’t even remember when.
There’s a familiar zip-up hoodie folded at the end of the bed. His heart lurches. He forgets about his pain as he snatches it up, drapes it over his shoulders, and dips his head. Looking for Tony’s scent.
Finding nothing.
Not just no Tony, but nothing. Cold, stale air utterly devoid of information.
Something’s wrong.
Peter finally notices a tray of pre-prepared injections beside the bed, a folded sheet of paper perched on top. He blinks hard, trying to clear the haze from his eyes — but he can’t read the labels. Not even from this close.
He grabs a syringe, sending the note floating, and squints at the small font. They’re filled with Dr. Banner’s super-power suppressant. The one developed in case Peter ever needed surgery.
So. That explained the sudden dullness of the world.
He fishes the note from the gap between the bed and the medical tray. It’s torn at the edges and covered in Tony’s chicken-scratch handwriting.
Peter—
The green gas was alien atmosphere — the base form of the compound you isolated in the street drug. It throws open neural pathways to facilitate its absorption. A truth serum on steroids, essentially. Your powers tried to fight it off, failed, and set your brain on fire in the process. Suppressants are keeping your immune response in check. The compound should burn itself out in a few hours, maybe less. FRIDAY has the dosage schedule. Follow her instructions.
Don’t talk to anyone. Try to rest. Your other injuries are still healing. Don’t ignore them. Bruce will check in later.
There’s a pause in the ink, a shift of pressure, then:
SHIELD has a solid lead on Dario’s location. All Roxxon assets have been frozen. Your Thor-dog needed surgery. Relatively minor. He’s already in recovery.
And that’s it.
Peter reads the note again and again, mind skittering as he rearranges pieces of memory to match this explanation.
It fits.
Dario had twisted the compound for all kinds of mind-control effects — it makes sense that the compound’s base function would strip away the mind’s most basic protection. It also explains Peter’s earlier honesty — truths spilling out, raw and unchecked, in front of Tony and the Chief of police.
It wasn’t therapy that had stopped Peter from lying — it was chemistry.
It was chemistry, finally fixing him.
As soon as the realization hits, his mind is off. Out of his control. It hums with endless possibilities, each worse, better, worse than the next. Steadily, his confusion takes a new shape. Twisting into something far more devastating—
Hope.
This is his chance.
(“Why are you sorry?”)
It's probably a terrible idea.
Tony asked him not to talk to anyone. If he can’t do something that basic, he’ll never gain Tony’s trust back. If Tony wanted to see him, he would’ve waited for Peter to wake up. He hadn’t. Not even Peter could pretend not to understand that. He needs to respect this boundary. He promised Sandra he would respect all of Tony’s boundaries.
He promised himself.
(“You're the dream — what was I supposed to think?”)
Peter’s instincts have only ever led him wrong with Tony. Why should this be any different? This idea is the polar opposite to the slow, careful approach he prepared during therapy. That approach is the smarter one. The “see, here’s proof that I’m better, you can trust me” one.
Except it isn’t the approach Peter would have come up with if he could have done this.
(“Isn’t that why everyone lies?”)
Because Peter’s still a liar. He’s getting better at being honest, but it doesn’t come naturally. It’s just who he is, deep down.
So who’s to say that careful approach would’ve survived contact with Tony? Wouldn’t he have cracked, the way he had every time before? If this opportunity hadn't struck, maybe he would have come up with some other crazy idea. One far, far worse.
Past performance is indicative of future behavior and his past performance has been very poor indeed.
("The lies weren’t just unfair to Tony. They were unfair to you.")
Except Peter doesn’t want to lie. Not to Tony. Not again. He’s done more than enough of that.
He’s lied endlessly, about everything and nothing. Lied so much that even if Tony wanted to believe him, he wouldn’t be able to. Peter’s lies would always be in the room with them, niggling at the back of his mind.
Lies that convinced him that Peter’s mistakes were his fault.
(“What have I done to you?”)
And that wasn’t fair. Even if Tony should’ve been more communicative or whatever, his failings were nothing compared to Peter’s. Even Sandra could admit that.
Tony deserves to hear that, and know it to be true.
(“Iloveyou.”)
Even though it’s childish and selfish, Peter wants to say those words again. He needs a memory of saying them that’s clear and honest.
Finally laying bare more than his body.
(“I am being honest.”)
Maybe Peter should be afraid of what else he might say. Even now, there are things he doesn’t want to admit — the stalking, the lines crossed, the many back-up plans — but Peter will do it if Tony asks.
If there’s any fear in him, it has been drowned out by hope.
Peter closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. With the decision made, an unexpected calm settles over him.
It feels like relief.
Like handing over the pilot seat to Dr. Strange's cape after three days awake. Like Tony hugging him as he confessed to failing his MIT test. Like MJ holding him in her father’s truck, matching his breath to hers, and May rocking him as he cried. Like—
(“I believe you,” Ben said, a lifetime ago. “I’ll take care of it, I promise. You’re never going back.”)
—other things.
———
The lab is uncanny without his powers.
It’s dark — far darker than he remembers — and far harder to navigate. Every holo-projection is powered up, creating a labyrinth of busy displays. He edges carefully forward, skirting a five-foot live feed of SHIELD’s manhunt; they’re tracking a plane to Oklahoma. Past it, a curtain of drone feeds shows agents in hazmat suits handling the fire-red alien plants pulled from the rubble. Taking a left at a half-dismantled F1 car, he passes a map of medical data, tagged to the sensors still taped to his temples. Three more steps, and he’s surrounded by SWORD files — Mr. Fury’s young face glaring at him with both eyes, before dissolving into a map of a planetary system Peter doesn’t recognize.
It’s… a mess, basically.
Peter made a mess.
He tightens his grip on his hastily written list of talking points, tucks his chin into the collar of Tony’s hoodie, and forces himself to keep moving. Without enhanced senses, it’s hard to tell what’s hiding a desk, or a suit, or a lab bench, or a—
—or a Tony Stark.
Tony stands in front of the bio-sonicator that used to be Peter’s. He’s wearing the same threadbare sleep clothes Peter remembers from the snow, rumpled and somehow just as out of place in the lab. His head is bowed, both hands braced on the desk. Shoulders tight.
Peter’s heart skips as a comforting warmth washes over him. The sight of Tony here — in the private space they used to share, standing at a desk that had been his — fills a hollow chasm in his chest.
For the first time in months, he feels whole.
It’s an unhealthy thought. It’s unreliable. It's regressive. But it’s the truth.
“You know,” Tony says, cutting through Peter’s longing. He doesn’t turn around, addressing the machine. “I left that note for a reason.”
Peter stiffens. Heat crawls up his neck. He had been staring like a creep. As usual.
“Oh, um.” He coughs, awkward. “I know.”
“Good. That’ll make it easy.” Tony takes a vial from the machine, slots it into a rack of similar green test tubes, then pulls another. “Go back to bed. Rest. Reconnect the heart and lung function monitors while you’re at it. I only just got you stable.”
“But I don’t want to go,” Peter blurts out, his voice high and grating. Why does he always sound like a child?
Tony huffs, humorless. “Yeah, well. Do it anyway.”
There’s a sharp snap as Tony rams a new sample into the sonicator. The machine whines and he grabs another vial. He doesn’t turn around.
Doesn’t even spare Peter a glance.
This isn’t how it is supposed to go.
Last night had been so easy. They had fallen into sync like no time had passed, working as a unit. Tony had put his hands on Peter’s waist and hadn’t flinched. Heck, he’d even laughed.
But whatever warmth and familiarity there had been in the snow is gone now.
Peter looks to his crumpled list for help. His hands are shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know this is part of my problem. Like, boundaries and the way I walk right over them. I’m working on that. But, um, I think we should talk. Now. While I’m like this, I mean. This is such a good opportunity.”
Tony goes rigid — then curses as he spills the vial he’s holding. He sets it aside, shakes out his hand and finally turns.
He’s beautiful, of course, but he looks like he’s the one who had a building fall on him. The circles under his eyes are bruise-black. His skin is pale and paper thin.
He looks every second his age, and the sight aches.
“What happened to you isn’t an opportunity,” he says slowly, his voice low and tired. “Someone tried to kill you. Your powers turned on you. You’ve been drugged. None of that is good.”
“Some of it is,” Peter insists, speaking fast. “I can’t lie to you, and you know it. It’s perfect. I can tell you—”
Except Tony’s having none of it. “If you have to be high to say it, I don’t want to hear it,” he says brusquely. “You’re way off base about me, kid. I’ve been plenty of terrible things, but never a predator. At least, not of that variety.”
Peter reels, stung.
“D-Don’t call yourself that. And don’t call me kid. I hate it.” Tony blanches, and this isn’t what Peter came here to say, but— “And I’m not off base. I know you. The only terrible thing about you is– is that you care too much. You care about everything, all at once, and it can be awful. You take responsibility for things that aren’t your fault. You help people who hurt you.” He gestures, helpless. “Even now, you’re trying to protect me, even though I don’t deserve it and it's not what I want. It’s exhausting, and it’s wonderful, but mostly it– it’s who you are. So don’t use that other word. It’s not true. You’re my favorite person in the whole world, Tony Stark. I love you.”
The words hang in silence for a long, heartbreaking moment while Tony watches him, expressionless. Then his forehead creases, his shoulders slump. He looks to the ceiling, blinking rapidly.
Peter wants to hold him.
“See, um,” he stammers. “That’s why this is an opportunity. There are things you should hear while you can believe me. Things I want to tell you, so. Please. Let me try.”
Tony’s gaze drops to meet his, eyes still unfocused. Peter takes a single, cautious step forward and Tony doesn’t retreat.
That has to mean something.
It has to.
Peter takes one last look at his notes, then breathes in, long and centering. Just like he practiced with Sandra.
“What you should know is that I was… lost,” he says. “Lost with you. With myself. It was like I was living in a dream. I couldn’t make it make sense. I had everything I’d ever wanted, and all I could think about was losing it. It became a fixation. I needed you to stay and that wasn’t in my control. So I– I controlled what I could. I tried to be what you wanted.
“Except… I didn't actually know what you wanted. I should’ve asked. I should’ve believed you when you said you wanted whatever I did, instead of changing myself into whatever I thought you’d want. Because every time you were nice about it, every time you seemed to like the changes, I– I warped that kindness. I gave it meaning you never intended. I see that now.
“You said this thing b-before, maybe you don't remember, but you said, ‘What have I done to you?’
“I– I didn’t answer you. I probably would’ve lied if I had, but— it’s really been bothering me. Because it was nothing you did. I was the one lying to you, and tricking you, and setting these crazy expectations for myself. That was all me. And sure, maybe you could have been clearer about how you felt, especially at the start, but, like, I get why you weren’t. I made sure you never felt like you had to be. That was the whole point.
“I was so afraid of losing you that I never stopped to think how you'd feel about what I was doing. Or, if I did, it was only to think that because it was for you, that made it okay. But that’s not a relationship. It... It’s not even consent. I understand that now and I’m sorry.” He swallows. “More than anything, that’s what I’m most sorry for.
“So, yeah, I—” He crushes the paper in his fist; this is the home stretch. “I’m sorry. I love you. I miss you. You always made me happy. I never lied about that. And, if you’d let me, I would like to be in your life again. As your partner. Or– or in whatever way you’d be comfortable with. I'd like you to think it over, but—”
(No. No buts. Shut up—)
“—but I won't pretend that I'm fixed. I’m still a liar. I’m still controlling. I’m trying to be better — not just for you, but for myself, I promise — but I still catch myself doing it. With May and my friends. It’s who I am, I guess.”
Peter’s throat grows tight. He'd said it, so it must be true. For some reason, that confirmation stings.
“Anyway—” His voice wavers as he brings his derailed speech to a close. “That’s it from me. I think it would help if we talked about what happened. Talk honestly, I mean. Now. Before the drug fades.” And, unplanned, “For both of us.”
A long pause. Tony rubs the scruff of his jaw, his eyes distant. Considering.
Peter shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets; he doesn’t trust them not to reach out.
Slowly, carefully, Tony speaks.
“You should never have been afraid, Pete. Not for a second. No matter how good a liar you are, I should have noticed. I should have protected you. That’s on me.” Tony pauses. Clears his throat. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better. Whatever you need from me, in terms of support, you’ve got it. No conditions. I want the best for you.” Then, in a matter-of-fact tone, leaving no room for argument, “Which starts with you going back and resting. I understand why you’d like to talk, but that’s not going to happen. We’re not there.”
Silence stretches, giving time for realization to trickle in, very much against Peter’s will.
That’s it. That’s all Tony has to say.
“Oh,” Peter says. The word comes out small. He’d thought he was prepared for this. He wasn’t. The knot in his stomach unwinds, only to reform in his throat. “Um, okay. Thanks for hearing me out, I guess.”
“Never thank me.” Tony forms a trying smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Just look after yourself. You’ll need your next dose soon.”
“Right. Of course. Yeah.”
Peter steps back, forcing his feet to move. He yanks the string of his hoodie tight, and pretends he can smell Tony on it. The hope that’s been powering him drains away, leaving him exhausted. Tony’s right. He probably should lie down.
That wasn’t all bad, right? Tony had listened to him. That was something. That’s what Peter came here to do. An important first step. Just because they weren’t there now didn’t mean they never would be. After all, Tony had said the same thing years ago, and—
Peter stops. Replays Tony’s words. Frowns.
Tony hadn’t said exactly the same thing, had he?
He turns back.
“Sorry, um— can I ask one thing? It’s just— Dr. Ortiz says I shouldn’t assume I understand what people mean because I’m, like, really bad at it. She said it nicer than that, but still.” He shakes his head, tries to focus. “Did you mean you’re not there yet? As in, you might be one day?”
Tony doesn’t answer right away, and that’s answer enough.
“Or—” Peter rushes on, “—were you trying to let me down easy and, actually, you never want to see me again? Because if that’s it, you need to tell me. And it would help if you could be, like, clear.”
Tony flinches.
“That’s… fair.” He draws the words out, his mouth forming a thin, pained line. When he continues, it’s with an unfamiliar caution. "The truth is, Pete… I don’t think you’re there. Not yet, at least.”
Peter’s thoughts scatter. Lost again.
“So– So, wait. Does that mean you want—”
“No, I do not,” Tony’s rejection is as swift as it is ruthless, “because it has never been about what I want. You’re still working through things. You need to give yourself time.”
“But– But I don’t want time. I’m ready now. I swear. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I talked it through with Dr. Ortiz and everything. Like, a bunch of times.” Peter digs the paper from his hoodie, and holds it out. Exhibit A. “I made notes.”
“It’s good that you can talk to her about this.” Tony glances at the paper. There is absolutely no judgement in his voice. “But what you’ve given me is a list of symptoms. I can’t tell if you did that to hide where they came from, or if you genuinely believe that’s all there is. Either way, it tells me you’re not ready. And I’m not going to push you. Not again.”
Nothing makes sense. “Y-You aren’t pushing me. I’m ready. I’m not lying. You know I’m not.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re being honest,” Tony counters gently. “Which is completely understandable. You’re allowed your secrets. But don’t pretend they’re not there. I can’t—” His careful calm cracks along with his voice. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No. We’re not doing this. Not while you can’t protect yourself. I can’t.”
“How am I not being honest? I've told you everything.”
“Not everything.”
“Everything that matters,” Peter insists, panic threading his voice. He steps closer, maybe too close, but— “Why can’t it be enough? I’m trying here and you won’t even—”
“For fuck’s sake, Peter.” Tony’s voice is sharp enough to stop him in his tracks. “You called yourself a liar. You said it as if it was who you are. As if people are born that way, and it’s bullshit. Liars aren’t born. They’re made.”
Peter goes cold as understanding arrives too late.
Tony’s right. He doesn’t want to talk. Not about this. There’s nothing to talk about.
“No one made me anything,” he says, a familiar noose slipping around the truth. “I’m just like this.”
Tony steps forward, his anger sudden and raw.
“You’re Peter Parker; you’ve never been just anything,” he snaps, and Peter’s heart snaps with it. “Someone taught you to lie. Someone told you you didn’t matter and made you believe it. Someone put the idea in your head that only submissive little boys get fucked and it wasn’t me—”
“Don’t.”
“I encouraged it, but I didn’t put it there. You were right about that much. It was someone else. Maybe it was those parents you never talk about, maybe it was that uncle you talk about too much—”
“Don’t say that.” Peter’s voice is barely a breath.
“You don’t have to tell me who, but don’t pretend that you’re being honest just because you’re on a goddamn truth serum—”
There’s distant beeping. He might throw up.
“—because I can’t do it, Peter.” Tony’s still talking, voice threadbare and fading. “I can’t. Not with you. Not again.”
The noose pulls taut. Then, for the first time since the only time—
The line snaps, loosening something far worse than panic.
Clarity.
Tony is never letting this go, he realizes.
Tony always has to know everything. Tony has to probe, tinker, break. Tony never lets anything stay buried.
So fine.
Fine.
If Tony wants the truth so badly, he can have it.
“My babysitter liked to watch me touch myself. When I was little. Like, really little.”
The words set off a spell of silence. Of stillness. Tony simply stares at him, uncomprehending—
Until he comprehends just fine.
Revulsion flashes across his face, as sudden as it is expected, and this, this, this is exactly what Peter never wanted.
But since when has that ever mattered.
Peter shifts his gaze to a point past Tony’s shoulder. “It started out as a game.” He keeps his voice level. “Like, something special I got to play that other kids didn’t. It was weird, but it only happened sometimes and he– I thought he was my friend. So I didn’t say anything. I didn’t stop him.
His nails dig into his palms. Grounding. “But then he started college, and he wanted to take pictures. A-and videos. Of me. I was six by then, and I knew my parents wouldn’t like it. I didn’t know why, but I knew that much.
“Only, when I told him I didn’t want to, he… he said things. Scary things. About other kids and what would happen to them if I didn’t help, so I just. I stopped saying no. Even when he wanted me to play w–with toys and– and other stuff. I never said no. Never.”
Tony makes a small, broken sound and a fresh wave of humiliation hits.
“It was fine,” Peter continues quickly. “It wasn’t like what happens to other kids. It was bad, but it wasn’t r-rape. It wasn’t even assault or- or whatever they called it. He never touched me. He promised he wouldn't and he didn't. And I wouldn’t have tattled, except—
“Except I got old. Too old, you know? He wasn’t as interested in taking pictures, no matter what I did. He started talking about new friends, and things being different, and I–I knew I wouldn’t be enough. I knew everything he’d said about other kids, he was going to have to do. So I went to my parents.”
Laughter bubbles up in his throat, inappropriate and honest.
“My parents,” he chokes out, “who used to babysit him. They loved him. Everyone did. They'd known him his whole life. Of course they couldn’t understand me. That wasn’t their fault. They were good. But—” His voice is no longer a laugh. “But kids were going to get hurt unless someone believed me.
“So when Uncle Ben came to talk to me, I tried again. I can’t remember what I said, but he understood. I remember that. And he made it stop. The guy went away and everything was fine. It was just— over.”
His breath hitches. “Except it wasn’t over, because my parents kept wanting to talk about it. They kept apologizing, and crying, and acting as if I were a– a—” Spit wells in his mouth. “A victim. Which I wasn't. I made a bargain. I kept kids safe. That was my choice.
“And maybe they would have understood that, eventually, but they didn’t because then… then they died.” He finally looks at Tony. This part he might understand. “My parents died feeling guilty, thinking they had failed me, and I can never fix that. I did that to them. No one else. That’s on me.”
But Peter finds no understanding. Tony simply stares at him, pale and haunted and mute. Stares as if Peter is something to stare at, with a powerless expression Peter had only ever seen on Titan.
It’s all wrong.
“But don’t you see? None of it makes a difference.” Peter pushes forward, pleading. “Not really. A lot of bad things have happened to me, Tony. My uncle bled out on top of me and I couldn’t fix it. An alien gutted you in front of me and I couldn’t fix it. I lied to you and you left me and I couldn’t fix it.”
Something claws at the back of Peter’s throat, but he’s not going to cry. Not about this.
He never has and he’s not starting now.
“So, yeah— I don’t talk about it. It doesn’t get to be special. Not compared to everything else. I won’t let it be.”
Peter invites the anger in, drowning out anything else.
“So fuck you for thinking this is what matters.” He balls up the note with his heart and throws it at Tony.
“Fuck you for leaving and not even trying when I would do anything.” He rips the sensors from his temples, ignoring the sting and trickle of blood.
“Fuck you for only wanting to hear about stupid stuff that has nothing to do with anything.” He yanks off Tony’s hoodie. His shirt goes with it.
“Fuck you for looking for a–a fault in my manufacturing. There’s nothing here for you to fix, Stark. No bad guy to fight. Not everything is about you. Nobody broke me—”
He jabs a finger into his chest, pressing into a bruise.
“I did this to myself.”
Tony lurches forward, hand outstretched. Peter slaps it away.
“This is who I let myself become, and maybe that’s not enough for you—”
“Peter, please.” Tony keeps closing the distance.
“—but I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying.”
Then all at once, he’s surrounded by Tony, breathing the words into Tony’s neck.
Tony’s arms lock around him, pressing their bodies together, holding him still — and it isn’t the touch of a parent. He holds Peter like something precious. Like something he plans to keep.
It’s everything Peter has ever wanted, but he feels like he’s lost something. As if something has shaken loose from his chest that he can never put back.
It makes no sense.
“You’re enough,” Tony whispers, the words as resolute as his voice is wrecked. “You’ve always been enough.”
“You don’t mean that. Y–You just feel guilty.”
Tony presses their foreheads together, refusing to let Peter look away.
“I just love you,” he says simply. “Exactly as you are. I always have.”
Peter’s vision blurs. “No, you don’t. You just want to fix me. Fix me and– and leave.”
“Never again.” Tony’s arms grow impossibly tighter. He presses dry kisses to Peter’s forehead, threads fingers through his hair, runs steady patterns along his back. “I promise. I’m here. I love you. I love you.”
Tony keeps saying it.
Says it, even after Peter’s tears arrive, ugly and uninvited. Says it, even as Peter crumples to the floor, folding in on himself. Says it, until his throat is dry, his voice barely a whisper, and he’s rocking Peter to sleep.
Says it, over and over.
Peter never believes him.
Not once.