Chapter Text
In hindsight he knows that he saw this coming. He recognised the signs with more than enough time to have alerted May, or anyone on what he knew was progressing. But in the end, he just really wanted it to not be true. Just to be a figment of his paranoid over-reactive teenage mind, conjuring up the worst possible scenario. Maybe he had just seen it so much out on the streets as Spiderman that he was bringing it home with him, still seeing the darkness in those kinds of people’s eyes… in the way they moved and spoke. Or maybe he had just assumed that the blearing alarms of his spider-sense from the moment he shook hands with the guy was just aftershocks of the armed robbery he had just wrapped up only moments ago.
Hindsight can be a real bitch sometimes.
May was never supposed to spend her life alone, he knew that. He knew eventually she would bring someone into their home. When he thought about who was going to make them a three again, Grant was the furthest thing from what he imagined.
He never really did hide his distaste for Peter, and Peter never really understood how May never saw that. But then, he never said anything either so could he really blame her?
‘Family’ dinners Peter spent staring at his plate, half listening to the conversation around him… trying to tune in when he heard words like ‘Peter’ and ‘School’ and ‘Stark internship’, but even those conversations seemed to fizzle out quickly once Grant steered the topic back away from Peter.
In the beginning Peter was offended, and then over time he became thankful to not have the attention on him at all. No attention meant he couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing or have the wrong attitude.
Wrong things and wrong attitudes brought hissed threats when May was away from ear shot. Threats about how his teenage behaviours wouldn’t be excused anymore. How “being a prick will only get you hit Peter, so watch your mouth”.
The first time Grant had held his shirt and pushed into the wall of the hallway, telling him how ‘things are changing from now’ and ‘Your aunt doesn’t deserve your shit’ and ‘you’re an embarrassment to yourself’, Peter had been dumbstruck.
He knew Grant didn’t like him, but he had been civil up until then. He had been polite and he had let May gush and gossip about this great man who finally saw the real her and liked it. How finally she didn’t feel alone anymore. And frankly, that stung more than anything Grant would ever say.
Had he not realised how lonely May had been? Was he not enough to make her happy?
So, he kept his mouth shut and agreed with May over how Grant indeed was a great catch, because May had never seen the vicious stares thrown across the room, or the sarcastic comments whenever Peter spoke about something he was interested in. She never questioned that Peter spent more time in his room when Grant was over, and only spoke when spoken to at the table.
So of course, when she told him that Grant was moving in after 8 months of a seemingly perfect relationship, he had to pretend to be happy for them both.
But then Grant got more physical.
And May started working more to help with the added person in the house.
If he couldn’t stop it before he was Spiderman, he shouldn’t be able to stop it now right?
So here he lay. On the couch nursing what was now a bruised rib, and what would be by the morning, a mere shadow on his chest.
He had of course, forgotten to pack up his bag and strewn out books from the coffee table. And of course, that was deserving of the punch delivered to his ribs, and the spittle on his face as he was reminded yet again of his teenage antics and questionable intelligence.
Peter closed his eyes to hide the eye roll and bit his lip to stop from defending himself from this jerk. He knew it had been going on too long now. There was no point in going for help now. Why hadn’t he called out a year ago when he first met the guy and had a bad feeling? Or 6 months ago when Grant had just moved in delivered the first slap of many to come as punishment for coming in late and missing dinner.
Honestly? He couldn’t explain why he hadn’t either.
May was still happy: rose coloured glasses and all. There was more food on the table every night, and the fridge didn’t have that depressing emptiness anymore. Two incomes were always better than one.
Only, Grants work was early mornings to late afternoon, while May was working mostly nights. Meaning it was just Peter and Grant in the house from 6pm until early hours of the morning when May would come home and by that time the damage was already done and healing under the covers with an ice pack and a couple of aspirins.
Tonight was a better outcome than other nights. Keeping it only localised to his chest meant he didn’t have to work to cover it up if the bruising hadn’t faded. Being Spiderman always helped when a bruise was too deep to go down by the next morning, and May stared at him with wide eyes and barely concealed agony on behalf of her nephew who was trying to save the world, one petty criminal at a time.
Tony was also easy to keep in the dark with ‘Spiderman’ excuses. When his eyes would flicker up with worry at a cut on his cheekbone (from the ring on Grants right hand), or when Peter would flinch if Tony raised his voice at an inanimate object in the lab (yelling always meant pain). Sometimes Peter even threw in Flash getting a bit rough for good measure, just in case Tony actually one day followed up on an injury on the baby monitor protocol. Which only led to Tony ranting for an hour about the failures of the schooling system and how nothing had changed from when he was in school and why did Peter have to have such a self-sacrificing hero complex?
Peter thinks about Tony often when he is nursing an injury. How easy it would be to just call him and say the words. He knows Tony would be there in break neck speeds with a repulsor aimed at Grants head. It gives him some comfort knowing Tony would believe him and help him.
But then he thinks of May’s face when Grant buys her flowers at the end of the day, or how she doesn’t have those bags under her eyes anymore, and he puts his phone back down and stares at the roof some more.
“You know Peter, you would think after over a year you wouldn’t be making such stupid mistakes anymore. I know you haven’t had any discipline in your life. Obviously not from your parents, and definitely not from your Uncle. You’re lucky to have me.”
Peter winces at that but doesn’t let it show. Grant’s just had too many beers and wants to be cruel.
“I know May is wrapped around your little finger, so she would never tell you what she really thinks” Grant continues in a casual tone. “But she tells me. Tells me how much better you are since I came in. How for once you’re actually useful.”
Humiliated tears are building in Peters eyes, so he shuts them quickly and turns his face more towards the back of the couch.
“So maybe for once you could be grateful that I’m actually bothering to help you at all.”
Peter stays quiet. Clenching his jaw, trying to not show how much the words affect him.
“Or maybe I haven’t done enough if you’re still being a brat and spitting the dummy” he growls now, and Peter knows that’s his cue to say something, but he’s so goddamn tired and his ribs are aching, so he keeps his eyes shut and his mouth shut and doesn’t make a sound.
Of course, having his eyes shut turns out to not be his smartest move because he doesn’t see Grant leap up and grab a handful of hair on Peters head.
Peter shoots up with a shriek, the hand unmoving, and his hair pulling excruciatingly at his scalp. His hands reach up to loosen the hold and his legs kick up but Grants too strong, and suddenly he’s being dragged.
His body hits the ground painfully and he whines at the added assault to his ribs, but Grant’s still pulling him by the hair, dragging him further into the house until he stops abruptly and pulls more harshly, forcing Peter up onto his knees and then even higher, until hes colliding painfully against something… the dining table his pain riddled mind supplies.
He’s still reeling from the shock of the abrupt action when his aching torso is shoved down on the table top, legs unsuccessfully scrambling for purchase underneath him. The hand holding his hair brings his head up and slams it straight back down into the table.
Peter feels his noes crack painfully and his mouth fill with blood, he cries out louder as the hand lifts again, but this time he manages to turn his neck slightly to avoid his nose being crushed on second impact, so it’s his forehead that takes the brunt, and takes it again as Grant repeats the action.
By now he’s reduced to a keening, withering, sobbing mess on the dining table. His blood puddling and splashing as he hits the table again and again. His face a wreck of blood, snot and tears as he tries to focus on even trying to protect himself.
But he can’t. His head is spinning, and the pain is overwhelming, so he just slumps as the hand finally retreats from his head. Now there’s nothing supporting him he falls to the ground in a heap, curling protectively around his face and stomach. His shoulders shaking, and eyes glazed, still staring accusingly at Grant.
Grant merely drops to a squat in front of Peters face, conveniently his foot stepping on Peters hand, and Peter lets out another shriek as his hand is crushed under the weight. The hand is back in his hair lifting his face up again and drawing his neck back painfully to meet the unavoidable gaze of Grants dark face.
“Next time I speak to you Peter I expect you to answer me.” He says calmly. Peter wouldn’t be able to take it if it started again so he manages a weak nod with the hair still pulling his hair with such force that Peter can feel the strands starting to give and rip. His tears are blurring his vision and Grants becoming more of a black shadow than a person, but maybe that’s the concussion he’s now positive he is sporting.
“Now you can thank me for yet again having to teach you your manners Peter.” Grant continues, and Peters vision clears just enough to see the threat in Grants eyes. His mouth opens and closes uselessly and finally captures the word he’s been aiming to conjure.
“Th- Thank you” he grits out, his vision swimming again and he starts to think he might actually pass out. The hand finally let’s go and he watches the blur of feet walking away before he succumbs to the pull of the darkness.
. . .
When he comes to, its pitch black in the house and his face feels like he’s been hit with a baseball bat. It only takes a couple of seconds to remember how he got to his position, and another couple of seconds to blink off the tears that have begrudgingly returned to his eyes.
Peter shakes his head to try and stop the ringing in his ears and manages to gently twist his body so that his arms are underneath him and he can push himself onto his knees. The room spins around him, and he needs to blink a few more times to wane off the feeling of dizziness and nausea.
He doesn’t know how long it takes to move from his knees to his feet, gripping the chairs for support as he stands up as best as he can.
The ringing in his ears has simmered down to a buzzing, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s not his ears making that noise but his phone, still on the couch and flashing insistently.
Peter wobbles over and falls, catching himself on the back of the sofa, trying again to clear the dizziness from his head. Concussion, he remembers.
He scans the room quickly and notes that Grant isn’t around. How long had he been unconscious for? He picks up his phone, squinting at the bright light before he sees its just past 10.00pm. He was lying on the floor for over an hour. Vaguely he registers that head injuries and prolonged unconsciousness are very dangerous, but he’s got a healing factor to help wipe the worry from his mind.
He clutches the phone in his hand and makes his way towards his room, making a detour to the bathroom to clean the blood off his face.
He startles a bit when he sees his reflection, the bruising already a dark black around his eye and cheekbone. Crusted blood sticks in his eyebrow where the skin had split, as well as his cheek, and lip. The half of his face exposed to the violence is puffy and a range of colours, the other half seemingly only affected by his tears and some smears of blood that had run from the other side.
His attention goes to his nose and he feels around cautiously at the bone and sighs in relief when he finds its not broken. He looks at his fingers while they hover in front of his face and notes that his ring and middle fingers are slightly askew, so broken, but not enough to panic about.
Peter looks at the shower contemplating his best method of clean up. But one step closer to the curtain has him seeing stars and he decides that slipping in the shower is not ideal if he passes out again and settles for an old towel and the sink.
Grant’s getting more aggressive. This is the first time Peters walked away with a concussion and the first time blood has been drawn at such an aggressive rate. Usually it’s a small droplet when the ring catches his cheek, or if Peter accidently bites his own tongue or cheek when a blow comes, so it’s only his own fault when that happens.
But this time he’s acutely aware of the volume of blood that swirling down the sink and seeping into the towel and a prickly fear descends upon his spine. If Grants moving from gut punches, shoves and the occasional heavy-handed slap to almost causing a brain injury and breaking bones, then Peters in more danger than he thought.
He remembers suddenly that Grant doesn’t know he’s Spiderman, so he has no idea that Peter is stronger and can heal faster, and if Peter didn’t have his powers he might be dead now from such a brutal force to his head. Another shiver works its way through his body.
Has he let it go too far? Is it time to call for help?
Not tonight Peter decides. Tonight he just wants to curl up and sleep and pray to whatever that when he wakes up the swelling has gone down completely. Hiding a tortured face is extremely difficult. Not to mention tomorrow is a Friday, so a school day and a lab day with Tony.
Head injuries would call for him to check Peters Spiderman feed, and if Peter says its Flash again, Tony might not agree to let this kind of aggravated assault go lightly and involve the school.
Fuck.
Peters anxiety starts to stir, his mind coming up with other alternatives to cover for himself. Maybe he shouldn’t cover and just come clean? Yeah. Maybe this time it’s gone too far and he needs Tony to make it better. His mind is too hurt and reeling to think any further on the matter, so he finds his way back to his room clumsily and falls into his bed.
Remembering his phones alerts earlier he reaches out to check his notifications… ignoring the texts from Ned about school gossip and zoning into the two missed calls from Tony and the text message accompanying them.
Peter frowns and opens the message, and reads it slowly, eyes still straining at the light.
T.S: Hey Pete, stopped by earlier to see you, I noticed you accidently left your homework assignment in the lab the other day and I know the due date was tomorrow, so just dropped by to give it to you. Gave it to Grant. Sorry I didn’t catch you. See you tomorrow.
Peter reads the message again. God, he wished that May had found someone like Tony. Or even just ended up with Tony himself. A warm feeling swells in his chest and before he realises what he’s doing, his phone was calling Tony.
Tony answers on the third ring.
“Hey Pete, decided to actually check your phone huh?” he chuckled. Peter could hear the soft sound of papers rustling in the background.
“Why are you still working? It’s like 11pm” he can hear Tony scoff and the papers stop moving. “You and your great hearing. I’m an adult I can work as long as I like. You are the child, why are you still awake kid?” his tone brings a smile to Peters face, which he instantly regrets as his muscles pull painfully. He doesn’t realise he’s let out a sound until Tony’s slightly more alarmed voice rings through.
“What was that? Are you hurt? Did something happen on patrol?” His concern is clear and Peter replies without thinking.
“Didn’t go on patrol tonight” he instantly realises he can’t now use Spiderman as an excuse tomorrow if the bruising hasn’t gone down, so he hastily adds,
“But I’m fine, misjudged a jump yesterday, ate the concrete, still recovering”. The lie slips off his tongue easily, and he cringes again. He was planning on speaking up tomorrow about what he had endured tonight, but he’s just shot his chance at that now.
Tony groans down the line “Jesus kid, can you please try to be a bit more careful when you are out there, you’re going to give your old man a heart attack”. Peter pauses at that. Tony just referred to himself as his father. Peter feels like he should be a little weirded out by that, but instead he’s filled with a happiness he didn’t think he was capable of feeling.
He knows he’s hesitated too long and Tony is probably freaking out at the omission on the other end, so he quickly jokes “my clumsiness is not what’s going to give you a heart attack Mr. coffee is a well-balanced meal and I don’t need food for 72 hours”
He can almost feel Tony’s relief on the other end “how dare you, it was only 60 hours before someone tattle tailed on me and forced a, might I add, delicious, sandwich on me”.
Peter laughs at the memory, and this time he can ignore the twinge in his ribs and the ache in his face. He knew Tony would always make him feel better.
“Anyway kid it is late, make sure you don’t forget to get your assignment off Grant.” Tony chides, and follows it up with “Wait if you weren’t on patrol why were you out so late tonight? I popped over around 9 and he said you were out?”
Peter reels at that, his mind going into a frenzy. “You were at the apartment only 2 hours ago?” Tony was in the apartment while Peter was sprawled out unconscious covered in blood only meters away. Suddenly he wants this conversation to be over.
Before Tony gets a chance to respond to his question he butts in “Yeah I was at Neds. Thanks again for coming by. Goodnight Tony.” He hangs up as he hears the confused stuttering, but he can’t listen anymore.
Tony had been so close. If he had walked further than the front door he would have had a direct eye line with the dining room where Peter was. Peter feels bile rising in his throat at the fact that his saving grace had been right there, and it had slipped away. Its bittersweet.
Peter falls asleep ignoring the tears that are sliding down and sodding his pillow and tries to hold on to the happiness he felt when Tony called himself his father. It works just enough to pull him under into sleep.
. . .