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Peter sits.
He sits, because what the hell else is there to do?
He’s watched all the movies on the shelf at least three times. He tended to his garden to the fullest extent for now. He washed the dishes, did the laundry, cleaned and dusted wherever he could. Now, at five o’clock in the evening, all he can do is wait for him to get home.
Peter doesn’t know where the hell he goes. All he says whenever Peter asks is that it’s “work” and changes the subject quickly, saying it isn’t of interest, that it’s boring. Peter isn’t even sure if he has a job, for all he knows it’s nothing but a lie to play into the fantasy. But hell, Peter will take anything at this point. Whether it really is some boring job like a plumber, something sketchy like a drug dealer or hit man, or him hanging around a bar the whole day because he doesn’t have a damn job at all, it would at least give Peter some kind of answers, something to imagine while he’s here, alone.
He could use the distraction.
It’s May’s birthday.
Quentin Beck took Peter Parker 1 year, 1 month, and 8 days ago. That’s 396 days since he saw May. 397 days since he saw Tony. 400 days since he saw Ned and MJ. They would have been 396, just the same as May, if Peter had made it to school that day. But he’d been lured into an alley by the frightful screams of a man asking for help, too damn selfless to have minded his own business and kept going. He knows, of course, that it wasn’t his fault. That it was the right thing to do, that it could have been somebody in danger.
But it wasn’t. He doesn’t even remember being hit or drugged, the next thing he knew was darkness. Peter woke up here, taken captive by a man who is completely and utterly obsessed with him. So much so that he kidnapped him to a desolate house in the woods in the hopes that they could play fucking husbands for the rest of their lives.
It’s been 396 days.
Peter shakes his head, rising from the couch. It’s never a good thing when he gets too into his head, especially about his situation. It just makes everything hurt more. If he falls too deep into it, on a day like May’s birthday no less, it won’t end well for him. The one year anniversary of his captivity last month proved as much. He’d taken a bottle from the liquor cabinet above the refrigerator and… Well, he doesn’t like to think about it. The wounds are still fresh.
Peter slides open the glass door leading to the backyard and makes his way to the patch they dedicated to his garden. It was never something Peter had an interest in before all this, not in the slightest. Biology was probably even his least favorite science subject. Not that he particularly disliked it, it just never sparked the same excitement physics, chemistry, and engineering did. But here, the plants were something to care for. He loves seeing them grow, figuring out when which plants are in season from the diagrams provided on the back of the seed packs Beck buys him. He plans which crops he’ll grow during which months, kills the weeds, and protects the areas around the plots of soil so everything can thrive. He loves harvesting the fruits and vegetables and incorporating them into their meals. Peter isn’t the best cook by any means but when it comes to handling his home grown produce, he will always volunteer. Even if it means spending time with Beck in the kitchen.
The garden is so damn special to him. It gives him something to do, provides a steady purpose, and is something that relies on him to grow and survive. Essentially, it’s keeping him sane.
Peter sits down in front of the raised garden bed where he’d decided to plant cabbage. Now well into October, the time to harvest them is rapidly approaching. May had always liked— likes cabbage, Peter corrects himself. She isn’t dead. He mentally kicks himself for thinking of his family in the past tense, as if he isn’t the one missing, the one they all probably assume is—
Peter pinches himself hard on his forearm, forcing his mind away from those thoughts with physical pain. He tears his eyes away from the leaves in front of him and instead looks up into the tree line past the backyard’s fence. Sometimes he can catch squirrels running through the tree branches, those fluffy rodents more free than he is. Today, though, he sees none. Only the rare passing glint of the force field surrounding the perimeter of the property. Beck set it up, claiming to have invented the damn tech itself to ensure Peter doesn’t escape. Interestingly, it’s programmed to contain Peter and Peter only. Beck can pass through it just fine, as can the squirrels and other creatures who wander into their backyard. But a touch from Peter and he gets shocked, bad.
He learned that the hard way his first week here when he thought Beck was bluffing about it, hitting the man over the head with a chair before sprinting out of the house. His left hand bares the scars from the electrical burns. Even with his healing, it’d taken weeks for his body to repair itself. Needless to say, Beck was not bluffing. Peter still doesn’t know how exactly his captor pulled it off, making sure only Peter is affected, but he assumes keeping him in the dark is on purpose. Can’t have your prisoner figuring out your tech and outsmarting it, can you?
Peter huffs, picking at the green grass below. He’s ashamed to admit it, but he can’t deny that during days like this he almost wishes Beck was here. At least when the man is around, he’s not left alone with his thoughts. He’ll take the conversations, the movie nights and painfully domestic activities, even the touches to this crippling loneliness, to his mind that can’t help but wander to what his family is doing. It’s always worse on occasions like birthdays. Have they given up? Do they still miss him? His friends will have already started their senior year. Every day, an empty desk in every classroom remains where he should be sitting. Not wasting away in some hermit house with a sick, psychotic man.
Angrily, Peter stands and makes his way over to the potatoes. They’ve been a particular point of frustration since the weeds took a liking to their spot in the garden. It seems like every time Peter turns his back, a new stupid, annoying, damned little green weed has sprouted right where he’d just—
Peter stops when he hears the crunching of gravel under rolling tires in the distance. He tries to ignore that tiny speck of relief deep inside of him at the notion of company. He loves his garden, adores it to the core of his very being, but if he has to spend another minute alone in here he might just go insane.
Peter bends over and quickly tugs the remaining weeds from the ground, throwing them into a waste bin before making his way back into the house. He’s also absolutely starving, and Beck being home means it’s time for dinner.
Peter stands facing the doorway at the end of the couch, picking at his nails. He listens as the car pulls to a stop outside the forcefield barrier, hears the engine cease its rumbling and tenses as the footsteps get closer and closer to the porch stairs. Sure, Peter is relieved that he’s home for his own reasons even if he doesn’t like to admit it. But hell, he still fears Beck like no other. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly stop being afraid, no matter how used to Beck’s presence he gets.
The door opens and in walks Quentin Beck, wearing a roughed-up brown jacket over a black t-shirt whose plainness matches Peter’s gray one. Beck smiles, throwing the car keys on the table and closing the distance between him and Peter, diving in for a kiss. It’s long and heartfelt like they’ve been apart for days instead of hours, but Peter kisses back regardless. He’d learned a long time ago that there’s no point in not playing along. All resisting does is bring unnecessary pain and suffering, Peter reminds himself. I’d rather have empty kisses than forced ones.
“Were you waiting on me, baby?” Quentin asks, smiling down at Peter with his arms still wrapped around his waist. Peter returns the man’s smile with a weak one.
“Would it be a bad thing if I said yes?” He mutters. It’s not even a total lie, but the words still taste bitter when he says them. If Beck ever notices his insincerity he either doesn’t mention it or chooses to remain willfully ignorant.
“Not at all, honey,” He responds, pecking a quick kiss on his cheek before moving to the kitchen. “I’m thinking pasta tonight. You want rotini or rigatoni?”
Peter sighs and follows. Pasta sounds good.
“How was work today?” Peter asks, digging up a forkful of pasta. They’d decided on rigatoni.
“Fine,” Beck says, simply. “How was your day?”
“Okay,” Peter responds, considering whether to add cheese to his pasta. If he was home, he’d smother the plate in parmesan without a second thought. But he doesn’t want such a beloved dish to be tainted with the taste of this prison when he gets out. When, Peter stresses to himself. When, when, when. “I just wish sometimes that there was, like, more for me to do when you’re gone.” He says carefully.
“Well, you’ve got your garden, honey. And your movies.”
“I’ve watched all those movies a dozen times over, Quentin, and I can only do so much with my garden in one day,” Peter gripes. It was a very tricky thing, complaining to the man, but he can’t take another day sitting around trying desperately to find for something to take his mind off.. well, his mind. “Do you think you could get some more movies the next time you’re out and about? Just… Anything, really?” Peter looks Beck in his eyes, pleading with a rare sincerity. The man considers him for a moment, pushing around the pasta on his plate.
“Yeah, of course I can, baby,” He says, finally. Peter smiles. “Anything for you,” Beck reaches his hand across the table and Peter tentatively takes it. Beck rubs his thumb across Peter’s knuckles in a way that’s meant to be soothing, but so isn’t.
“Thank you,” Peter says, before separating their hands and getting back to eating. The pasta is actually quite tasty today.
Peter’s in the bathroom attached to their bedroom brushing his teeth when Beck comes up from behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and settling his chin on Peter’s shoulder. Peter spits the toothpaste out and rinses the brush off, leaning into Beck just enough to keep the man happy. On another night he might have sunk into his grasp, perhaps even initiated a kiss to really sell it. But tonight, he simply cant find it in himself to do so. Peter’s mind won’t stop wandering to May.
This is her second birthday without Peter. Another year around the sun was spent without her nephew. At least last year they were probably still so consumed in Peter’s disappearance that the weight wasn’t as heavy. Back then, they had more hope. Peter did too. But this year? There was no ignoring the empty seat at the dinner table. Peter can only pray she isn’t spending it alone. That Tony, Ned, MJ, and any of her number of friends are there supporting her in all the ways Peter can’t.
Back in the present, Beck hums contentedly. He turns his face into Peter’s neck, planting a soft kiss there. “You look so cute tonight, honey,” He whispers. As if I look any different than any other night, Peter thinks bitterly.
Beck continues kissing his neck, peppering them all the way up to his cheek before his hand guides Peter’s head to the left, their lips connecting. Beck leads him out of the bathroom and onto the bed, the pair crashing onto the soft comforter.
Peter had washed the sheets and made the bed this morning as he cried at the thought of May enduring her 51st birthday without her only remaining family. The pajamas Peter’s wearing were put away this afternoon following one of the worst panic attacks he’s had in a while, the only reason he came out of it being the jingle from the dryer signaling that the load of laundry was done. This entire day has been a struggle, he’s moved through it like molasses and the reason for it all is making out with him.
Suddenly, Beck’s lips taste sour. Peter’s face twists into a scowl. He wants nothing more than to throw Beck off of him, to send him crashing through the drywall so he could feel just a fraction of the pain that Peter does every day he’s stuck in this place.
He can’t do that. But he can’t lie here and be compliant to Beck’s fantasies either.
Peter turns his head to the side, forcing the kisses to stop. “Quentin,” he says, trying to get the man’s attention. It falls on deaf ears and may have even egged him on further, his hands finding the waistband of Peter’s sweatpants. Peter shakes his head. “Quentin,” He says again, more firmly.
“I’ve been waiting all day for this, sweetheart,” Beck breathes into the boy’s neck, rocking against him.
“Quentin, stop,” Peter speaks, but the only way he responds is by pulling his pants down further. Frustration and rage bubbles dangerously within him, and he’s had enough. “Quentin!” He shouts, pushing at the man just enough to get his weight off him. Beck stares down at him, confused and annoyed.
“What—“
“Not today,” Peter interrupts. “Please. I just— I can’t— I don’t want to do this today. Don’t make me do this today,” He pleads, allowing his eyes to water in hopes that it will spark some kind of compassion in the man. Despite the fact that he is a violent and evil predator, there have been moments where Beck is unexpectedly kind and gentle. Not for the right reasons, but there all the same. Peter hopes tonight will produce some kind of similar result.
Beck’s jaw sets, clenching, a telltale sign of anger he’s trying not to let show. He bores into Peter’s pleading eyes with his own for a few more moments, most likely deciding whether to hold Peter down and take what he wants, or to concede and hold off for the night.
Eventually, he makes his decision. Wordlessly he slips off of Peter, standing and making his way to his side of the bed. He sits down with a huff, acting like a petulant child. Peter could seriously roll his eyes, but he is so surprised and relieved that he doesn’t have to endure that tonight he can’t find it in himself to care. Peter sits up, sniffling for effect. “Thank you,” He mutters, making his way back into the bathroom to finish up his nightly routine.
Peter knows that Beck knows it’s his aunt’s birthday. The man is knowledgeable on everything there is to know about not only Peter, but his relationships. When Tony’s birthday had rolled around earlier in the year, the only words Beck had spoken to him that morning before heading off on a long grocery run was to not mention or acknowledge it under any circumstances. Peter mourned on his own while he was gone, of course, and once he got back was forced to repress his emotions while Beck moped around. Most likely, the man was angry he could tell Peter was still upset despite his commands. As if his words would just magically whisk away Peter’s emotions.
Beck wasn’t as harsh this time, and hadn’t mentioned May’s birthday at all. Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but right now all he wants is to sleep the rest of the day away. Tomorrow he can try to start fresh. Tomorrow, there are no birthdays to cry over.
Peter catches Beck’s gaze in the bathroom mirror. He’s still sitting on the bed, glaring at him through the reflection. Peter averts his eyes, puts away his things and flicks the bathroom light off as he heads back into the bedroom. Thankfully, Beck has stopped looking at Peter like he’s out for murder and is sliding under the covers. Peter does the same, getting as comfortable as you can when you have to sleep next to your kidnapper-abuser-rapist. Unfortunately, he’s used to it by now, and they settle into their usual rhythm. Beck slides his arm underneath Peter, and Peter twists into the man’s embrace, sighing deeply.
Whatever the hell Beck’s problem was a second ago clearly isn’t important enough to be dealt with right now. And with him, that usually means it won’t be dealt with at all.
Eventually, Peter drifts into sleep. He dreams of cuddling against May, his belly full of larb and cake. Tony’s at his side too, with MJ and Ned at the foot of his bed. These dreams can sometimes be painful, especially upon waking. The dreadful feeling of realizing it’s nothing but a fantasy created by his mind is sometimes too much to bear. But this time, it slips away from his waking memory before he can grasp onto it. For once, that’s a mercy.
The next morning starts out normally. Aside from Beck being out of bed by the time Peter wakes and no good morning kisses (he’s definitely not complaining there), everything seems normal. They pour their bowls of cereal, even play a few rounds of a favorite card game. Beck is being unusually quiet, unusually unaffectionate for a day off, but the man’s unpredictable. He doesn’t think anything of it.
It isn’t until after his mid-afternoon nap that he realizes something is wrong.
Peter lazily saunters down the hallway and into the main living area, still happy about his dreamless, nightmare-less sleep. It was refreshing and he plans to tend to his garden some more now that it’s warmed up a bit, the crisp morning air having been a bit too chilly for his taste. Peter wraps a light jacket around himself, keeping an eye out for Beck. He hasn’t seen him.
Only when Peter begins to head towards the sliding glass doors does the man reveal himself. He steps in the already open doorway, entering the house and stopping a couple feet inside. He’s holding a bat, causing Peter’s brow to furrow. The property is sizable but certainly not big enough for any game of baseball, not with the perimeter that’s been set. On top of that, Beck looks absolutely livid. He’s clearly worked himself up about something and dread pools in Peter’s gut.
“Quentin?” Peter tries, stepping a few feet closer but keeping a good distance between them. “What’s wrong?”
“You refused me, Peter,” Beck replies in an eerily calm tone but with an unmistakable, rage-induced waver to it. If Peter squints hard enough, he can see him shaking. Peter feels like he might start shaking too, but out of fear.
“Quentin…”
“I wanted you, and you refused,” He repeats. “It isn’t just that, though. That would be bad enough, Petey,” He hates it when Beck uses that nickname. “What's worse is the reason you refused me. Your aunt’s birthday? Seriously?”
Peter’s jaw clenches. They’re treading into sensitive territory for the both of them, although their reasons for it being a touchy subject are entirely different. Beck hardly ever mentions Peter’s loved ones, the practice proving best in order to live out this deluded fantasy that Peter’s living here willingly, lovingly. No explanation is needed on why it’s a sore spot for Peter. Yesterday was proof enough.
“I— I don’t know where you’re getting that from,” Peter speaks tentatively. He has to be very careful with what he says, but the man is so unpredictable that even the most loving sentences may be the wrong thing to say.
“We both knew what day it was yesterday. But I didn’t mention it. And I thought you were doing the same. You were being so good, Peter. Why did you have to go and ruin it?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Quentin,” Peter pleads. He’s lying, he knows exactly what he’s saying, but playing dumb seems like just about the only angle he can go for right now.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No, I—“
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Beck shouts in that horrible, throaty yell with that same terrifying expression on his face he’s seen too many times. Nothing good ever accompanies it. “Am I… Am I not enough for you, Peter?” This makes the boy falter. “Is that it?”
“No, of course not—“
“You don’t love me enough to be happy with what we have here? What I’ve created? What I’ve sacrificed?” Quentin spits. If Peter wasn’t so well and truly terrified, he might have let an eye roll slip. He’s sacrificed nothing, he gave Peter no choice. “Do you even love me?”
But Peter must continue playing along, the only path to survival. “Of course I do, Quentin, of course, I—,” He takes a step forward but Beck tightens his grip on the bat, a clear warning to not get any closer. “I do love you, and you are enough. But—“ Peter’s breath hitches with emotion. “But I love them too, I can’t help it, Quentin. I— I love it here, yes, but sometimes I just— I just miss them so much.”
At this, the wild look in Quentin’s eyes intensifies. Peter’s eyes water as the man takes a step backwards, shaking his head. “You refused me. Over some old bitch who will never care about you the way I do. None of them do, Peter, none of them!” He shouts, turning as he does and stomping outside.
The man is crazy. Insane. Off his rocker. Peter knows this, but sometimes he finds himself forgetting the true extent of it amongst all the pretend-normalcy. Moments like this shock it back into him, reminding Peter who the man really is. Maybe it’s a good thing, ensuring he never forgets it and preventing some kind of stockholm syndrome from digging its claws into him.
But god, why does it have to be like this?
Peter follows Beck out into the backyard, maintaining his distance. “What are you doing?” He asks desperately.
Peter’s heart sinks as he watches, stomach plummeting straight into the ground below their feet. Beck goes right for the garden, swings the bat over his head, and collides it with the fragile plants below.
“NO!” Peter yells, practically a scream. The worries he had about keeping a safe distance from his captor are gone, replaced with a crushing fear for his garden.
By the time Peter reaches him he’s already taken out a patch of the butternut squash, pieces of barely-ripe fruit littering the surrounding area. This is personal, such a brutally targeted attack, something he fucking knows Peter cherishes. He knows.
Peter grabs Beck’s arm before he can swing the bat into the raised bed where the cabbage sits defenselessly. He yanks, forcing the man to twist away and making him stumble. Peter’s stricken with fear, with heartbreak, and it’s making him insane. Insane enough to not have planned out his attack, insane enough to be weakened as a result of the terror coursing through his veins. He has no plan, only desperation and a drive to protect the thing he’s so preciously curated over months and months.
That drive is sapped from him once he sees the look on Beck’s face. He hesitates only to glare daggers before he swings the bat, the metal connecting at Peter’s temple with a crack!
Peter drops, his ears ringing, vision fuzzing. Distantly he feels the bat come down on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Another hit brings back his awareness a little more only to feel the pain crop up, spreading into his ribs. Peter turns on his side to try and plead with Beck but it only allows a third hit to land, this time on his side. Peter finally curls up, coughing and wheezing, a feeble attempt to protect himself from more blows that never come.
Beck appears to deem the threat neutralized and turns his back on him, resuming the raid. Peter groans as his mind recenters itself, still reeling from the brutal blows he received. Peter can already recognize he has at least one bruised rib, if not two, the feeling familiar from his Spider-Man days. He definitely has a concussion and his attempts to stand are thwarted by the intense wave of dizziness and nausea that hits him as he tries.
Peter can only watch while Beck destroys the garden. There’s no other choice, and it fucking hurts. It infuriates him. But what could he do? Hold Beck down? For how long? He couldn’t do it forever, and he can’t escape. Not with the forcefield still up that’s impossible to disable from the inside and has the power to zap him to a crisp. He’s gone through these scenarios a million times before and they all end with one of two things: Peter getting hurt, or Peter dying.
So, he watches. Peter sits on his legs with his hands braced against the ground, and he doesn’t try to hold back the tears. He watches as the only real hobby he has, the biggest and best distraction, something he well and truly enjoyed is torn apart. “Please, stop, please,” Peter cries, no real weight or determination behind the words. He knows it’s useless.
Beck tears apart the autumn flowers that had finally bloomed. He swings the metal bat against the raised garden bed, cracking the wood and demolishing the cabbage. He’s relentless in his attack, releasing some kind of pent up violence in search of getting Peter where it hurts most. Lastly, he brings the bat down on the two pumpkins that were almost fully grown. Peter had been so excited planting them, hoping to do some pumpkin carving when Halloween came around, thinking about all the foods they could make with the guts and seeds.
Beck finally, finally stops, turning to Peter’s sobbing form. He approaches him, the boy flinching and attempting to scramble back. Beck stops walking as a result and even through his disorientation Peter can recognize not only the anger that flares at Peter’s blatant fear of him, but the hint of sadness that’s there as well. It baffles Peter, he’ll never understand what is so completely and utterly wrong with Beck. He’s so afraid at this moment that the man will continue hitting him that he holds his arms up, a feeble attempt to shield his face.
Thankfully, it seems Beck is done. Peter listens as he walks away and into the house, the sliding door shutting with a clank. Peter is left there on the ground across from what is now a pile of dirt, littered with the smashed guts and torn leaves of what were once thriving crops. What’s worse is that he knows Beck won’t let him rebuild it. He won’t let Peter start gardening again, not ever. This was done as much to punish Peter as it was to say I’m taking away the thing you enjoy the most. Because that’s what Peter did to him last night. He took away the thing Beck loved the most— Sex, “quality” time with Peter. But even if he hadn’t pushed him off, they both know it would have been lousy compared to a normal day because of the occasion.
And that’s what Beck hates the most. He hates that Peter won’t ever stop longing for his friends and family. Because despite everything, Beck does know him. He knows Peter. And anyone who does can recognize the fierce, undying love he has for those closest to him. It’s the single flame within him that can never, ever be put out.
Maybe at the beginning, Peter would have made an effort to let his love be known. He would have done it just to piss Beck off, to be defiant and to instigate. But after all this time, Peter is tired. He’s tired and hurt and scared and knows what Beck is capable of. He doesn’t doubt the man’s ability to hurt his family members or even eliminate them entirely to ensure Peter has no home that isn’t him.
Peter knows he should be stronger. But he’s been strong for so damn long and sometimes he just needs to give in to the hurt.
Peter sits there long after Beck stalks away. He sits, and stares, and cries silent tears at what is lost. His garden, his defiance, his life. He sits even as his legs fall asleep. He sits even as the sky darkens and a light rain shower drenches him. He sits as the sun sets, soaking him in darkness, the only light for miles and miles enemated from their house. He sits, dissociates, falls into a place in his mind where he doesn’t have to think, can escape the thoughts and hopes and dreams that eat away at him.
It isn’t long after it gets dark that Beck finally approaches. He squats down next to Peter’s soaked and shivering form. The rain hadn’t stopped very long ago.
“Peter,” he says, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. If Peter wasn’t so out of it he might have flinched. “Let’s get you inside.” Peter doesn’t respond, but lets himself be guided into a standing position. Dizziness still plagues his movements and he has to grip Beck’s arm so he doesn’t tip over, but it’s not as debilitating as it was earlier. His super-healing is still present, if a little slower than before.
They make their way into the house, Beck leading him towards the bathroom that doubles as a laundry room just off of the kitchen. He sits Peter down on the toilet and opens the under-the-sink cabinet, pulling out the large first aid kit. It’s a new one, Peter notices. The initial kit must have been used up across their previous violent altercations. It almost hadn’t been enough to treat what had happened on the one-year anniversary, he remembers bleakly.
Beck opens the box and takes what he needs. He dabs the cut on Peter’s temple with some antiseptic and it stings, the pain bringing Peter back to reality some more. He still feels like he’s floating a little, but he’s aware of what’s happening in the present.
Beck wipes the trail of blood off with a damp cloth and throws it into the laundry basket. He opens the dryer, pulling out a hoodie, some sweatpants, and a pair of Peter’s boxers. Peter can feel the warmth radiating from the machine, deducing that Beck dried these clothes specifically for when he brought him back inside.
“Here, let me take a look,” Beck says with a chilling tenderness, removing Peter’s jacket and carefully tugging his shirt off. Peter winces with the movement of bringing his arms above his head, the action jostling the still-pulsating pain of where the bat had collided on his back and his side. Beck’s fingers find the bruises and gingerly press the area around them, inspecting the severity. Peter doesn’t need to look to know the bruising is already nasty and will only get more gnarly-looking as they heal.
Beck tsks, as if he isn’t the one who put them there. “They’re starting to swell up pretty bad,” He mutters. “I’ll get you some ice for them in a bit.”
The next few minutes consist of Beck helping Peter change out of his damp clothes and into the fresh new ones. He could probably do it himself, but the bad concussion coupled with the fact that he’s still coming out of a dissociative episode means Beck isn’t going to chance it.
It should be humiliating, needing help changing like he’s a helpless child, Beck seeing him in such a vulnerable state. It sure as hell was back in the beginning, but he can’t find it in himself to care anymore. It’s a waste of time, worrying about that stuff. It isn’t anything Beck hasn’t seen before, and it certainly isn’t the most humiliation he’s felt in his time here.
Once they’re done in the bathroom, Beck directs him to sit on the couch. No complaints there, Peter feels exhaustion on a bone-deep level.
The man returns with an ice pack which Peter takes, placing it behind him on the couch. He leans into it where the worst of the bruising is; the area on his back where the bat had come down twice. The same man who had wielded the weapon settles in next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He presses a kiss into Peter’s unruly curls. “You know I hate doing these things to you, Pete,” He whispers, a hint of genuineness lining the words. Peter’s sure he believes that, but it doesn’t make it true. Why else would he continue doing things like this, again and again? Peter thinks he only hates it because it makes him look bad, not because he’s hurting the person he supposedly loves more than anything.
Peter is so, so emotional, so angry and sad and scared and upset and a hundred other things that are swirling inside of him like a storm, consuming. A few tears slip from his eyes and Beck notices, hurrying to wipe them away. “Oh, baby,” He says, pulling Peter into an embrace. “Oh, honey.”
Peter lets out a desperate, ugly sob, everything coming bubbling to the surface abruptly. “I’m sorry,” He cries. “I’m s—so sorry.”
And he is, isn’t he? He’s sorry to Tony, to May, to Ned and MJ. He’s sorry that he gave up. He’s sorry that he stopped trying. He’s sorry that there’s a damn good reason for him doing so, that it’s justifiable for him to sit here and play along. He’s sorry that he lost all hope on the anniversary and almost succeeded in making sure there was never any chance of him getting out of here. He’s sorry for submitting to Beck when he’d promised himself for so long that he never would, even if it was for his own good.
But most of all, he’s sorry that he’s sorry. He’s sorry that he means it as he cries and sobs and apologizes into Beck’s chest. That he feels real guilt for what he did last night, because it led them here.
“It’s okay, Pete, it’s okay,” Beck hushes, running a hand up and down his back in a way that he can’t deny is comforting.
Someday, he’s going to get out of here.
Someday.