Date Unknown

Parker Residence - The Dark Room

Time Unknown

It was the silence that really got to him.

After the first few hours, the muscles in his arms would go numb and he'd lose feeling in his knees as well as the cold became too much to bear. The darkness made his eyes sore, he could feel them burning in his skull from the sheer strain to see anything in the shadows, make out any details, an outline, a shape, something. But they would see nothing, nothing but darkness both when his eyes were open and when they were closed. There was no difference. But even that paled in comparison to the silence.

Ever since he'd acquired his powers, Peter had gotten used to the steady hum of noise that accompanied him wherever he was. Even in the quietest of classrooms he could hear the scratching pencil of the boy on the other side of the room, the breaths of the girl across from him and the heartbeats of the teens behind him. In his room, he could make out each honk of a car horn from a block away, the footsteps of people walking in the lab. Everywhere he went, there was noise. And despite the fact that, at times, it was grating both on his ears and on his nerves, he had to admit there was a sense of comfort in the constant murmur of voices, the hushed whisper of activity, letting him know that there were others around, people living and breathing right alongside him.

It was silent in the Dark Room. Utterly and horrifyingly silent.

It weighed heavy in the air, thick and suffocating in the freezing atmosphere. It dripped onto his skin like a poison, seeping into his bones and curing around his lungs, a toxic nothingness. It was a void, cruel and looming and bleak, sucking in everything and anything and leaving nothing in its wake. He could see it oozing from the walls, dripping down in thick black drops that spread along the ground and pooled underneath him, staining his clothes and stretching all around him. He didn't have to see it to know it was there. He could feel it.

He wondered how long it had been since they'd left him there. A few hours. A few days. He didn't know. There was no way to tell time. There was no way to tell anything.

His brain was thick and foggy, pulsing with the steady thrumming of pain that pounded against his skull and threatened to shatter it. Colorful spots had long since danced before his eyes and the uneasy waves of nausea had led to him vomiting long ago. He could still smell it on the floors, bitter and sour. The clicking of his eyelids with each blink was a small respite from the quiet, but they did little to clear his thoughts. Everything was jumbled, disorganized. At times, he forgot where he was and had to try hard to figure it out.

His stomach had long since stopped hurting and he couldn't even feel his throat anymore to tell how dry it was. He supposed he was lucky in that sense.

His body shuddered, an involuntary response that went off every so often. He closed his eyes, lids heavy and thick. His stomach rolled. He opened them back up.

There were moments, as he lay on the cold floor, blood long since caked, as he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of his breathing, Peter imagined he was floating. His body would slowly rise from the ground, a weightless nothingness that left him breathless and still. He could feel the wind around him, licking against his skin in a new comforting lull. His thoughts drifted out. His heartbeat became a muted drum in his ears and the silence wrapped around him, a cocoon building up in thick layers, leaving him safe and warm inside.

But then a chill would shoot down his spine or another bout of nausea would send him retching up nothing but bile and he'd be back on the ground, back in the darkness. And it was during one of these times, one of these violent descents back to Earth that Peter first heard it.

It was quiet and delicate, like someone rubbing the tips of their fingers together.

Wings, fluttering wings.

Had he imagined it? No, it was definitely a sound, that much he knew. He'd been craving one ever since he'd arrived. His half-lidded eyes flitted around the room, but even that was exhausting. There was nothing. No detail or blob of amorphous shadow that stood out against the black.

He closed his eyes. Another shiver. He opened them back up.

Silence.

 

---

 

The fluorescent lights overhead came on with a sharp buzz, shrouding the room in fiery white light that made Peter shut his eyes against the blinding wave of burning pain. The loud creaking of the door opening slashed through the silence in loud shrieks of metal against metal. His ears rang. His head continued to hang.

He felt hands loop around his arms before he was being hoisted up and dragged out of the room. He let out a small groan and cracked open his eyes, watching the ground as it slowly slid past him. They didn't move very far before stopping, a hand coming to rest on the back of his head and grabbing a fistful of his hair, wrenching his neck up as his eyes took in the sight of his father.

They were still in the hallway leading to the Dark Room, the walls dark and gray with a few swinging lights overhead casting deep long shadows on the butterflies. His father gazed down at him, a calm gleam in his eyes as he took in the sight of the dirty and delirious boy before him. His mouth moved and it took Peter a moment to realize the man was talking. It was garbled and muffled in his ears. He simply blinked at the man, face empty.

However, the sound of fingers snapping in front of his face had him finally jerking back into reality. "Guess it worked a little too well." He heard someone say behind him. A murmur of laughter. Richard silenced them with a look before turning back to the boy. "Well, Peter? Have you had enough time to yourself to think?"

He blinked.

Richard didn't seem to mind the silence. "Very well. In any case, I'd like to make myself clear. Your position is one of great importance, as I'm sure you know by now. Tony Stark is a wild card that we'd very much like to keep tabs on, which is exactly what you're going to keep doing. Whatever you have to to get that man to trust you."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "But just remember one thing, Peter. That man doesn't care about you. Not. One. Bit. So don't let him fool you into a false sense of security."

He knew he should have felt something at that. He wondered if he should be concerned over the fact that he didn't.

He blinked, let his eyes wander over the butterfly sketches. They were the only source of color in the otherwise dismal hallway.

The man seemed satisfied at his silence, straightening back up as he smoothed the wrinkles on his suit. "Take him upstairs and patch up what you need to. You're going to school tomorrow so you better sleep while you can." He turned away, only to pause as he seemed to remember something, glancing back over his shoulder with a glint in his eyes as he reached into his suit. "Oh, and one more thing."

He tossed a newspaper down onto the ground where it skidded along the concrete until coming to a stop at Peter's feet. "Thought you might like to know."

 

TONY STARK'S MYSTERY KID REVEALED!

Stark Industries VS Parkstem Labs?

 

He blinked. The butterflies said nothing.

---

 

Monday - April 25, 2016

Parker Residence - Third Floor

04:22 a.m.

Peter opened his eyes to darkness and immediately thought he was back in the Dark Room. However, the dreaded feeling in his stomach didn't last long as he realized he wasn't on his knees but on his back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling of his room. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, as he was prone to do whenever he spent time in the Dark Room before slowly trying to sit up from the coarse carpet floor.

Instantly a fiery pain shot through his entire body, making him bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from screaming out. He settled back down onto the floor and greedily sucked in a breath, ignoring the screaming of his chest as he did so. Now that he was slightly more aware of where he was and what was happening, he wished he wasn't.

His entire body was on fire. His shoulder and thigh throbbed with each beat of his heart, matching the pounding of his brain that thrummed just below his eyes. Every breath he took rattled his no-doubtedly cracked ribs and just the thought of trying to move nearly made him vomit once more. He doubted anything would come up though. He glanced over towards his bedside table and made a note of the time on the clock, as well as the date blinking in the corner of the device.

Monday.

Two days. He'd been in the Dark Room for two days. He hadn't eaten or drank anything for two full days. His eyes fluttered over towards the door, where a small plate of bread and applesauce sat. The sight made him nauseous despite the fact that he hadn't eaten in so long. They must have forcefully poured some water down his throat as he slept, for he wasn't thirsty either.

For a little while, Peter just laid there on the floor of his room, listening to the sound of his own breathing and tracing the imperfections of his ceiling with his eyes, making note of each crack and bump of texture. An air of tension hung around him, heavy and thick. Each breath he took was a privilege, a prize he'd won, that much was certain. That much he'd realized in the Dark Room.

He didn't think too much of the Dark Room. He didn't allow himself to.

He turned his head and stared down at his arm, the majority of which was bandaged. However, the bandages stopped at his palm, leaving his fingers exposed. They were dark, stained brown. Trails of electrical burns traced their way through the skin, disappearing underneath the bandages, an intricate dance of thick lines and thin etches of slightly raised, reddish skin.

He knew he should feel something. Some sense of horror, or disgust at what had just happened, at what he'd just been through. He should be terrified, panicked, crying rivers. But all he did was stare at his fingers, gaze at the dried skin, the flecks of blood caked onto the surface, soaking into the fingerprints in detailed little grooves of soft rounded spirals.

Peter turned his head again, glancing over at the clock on his table once more, reading the flashing numbers. School was only a few hours away.

He hadn't done his homework.

Finally, the boy let out a sigh and slowly began to shift his muscles. He fought against the shriek of his body and managed to push himself into a sitting position with his back resting against the side of his bed. It was at this time that Peter realized he was shirtless, his chest and shoulder swathed in bandages just like his arm. Granted, they were haphazard and obviously done with the barest of care, but they were enough to allow the wounds to heal if only a little bit. Luckily for him, he'd been fairly well-fed before everything had gone down, meaning his healing factor had just enough juice to keep him from bleeding out in the Dark Room, but had little energy for much else, meaning his wounds would be far from fully healed for quite some time.

His mind slowly and hazily began to drift over his father's words, eyes still trailing the newspaper that seemed to hang before his eyes.

They knew. Everyone knew who he was.

Peter Parker, son of white knight Richard Parker and heir to Parkstem Labs was hanging around the figurehead of his father's top competitor.

Phase 3. God, they were gonna have a field day with this.

Over the years, his father had kept him sparse in the eyes of the media. People knew who he was, but it wasn't being blasted on every bulliten and newspaper. At least...not usually. Usually, Peter was barely ever mentioned. His father liked to keep most of the attention on himself, which Peter was immensely grateful for. The most the media would ever see of him was at charity balls and galas that his father would drag him to. It boosted his image having his happy, smiling son underneath his arm for most pictures.

Lucky for Peter, this meant it would be a lot harder for the media to find any information on him. Where he lived was a given but aside from that, his school and personal files were the main things that were commonly kept under lock and key by his father. He had a few days, at the most, before they found out, however. They always found out eventually.

Peter wondered if Mr. Stark was already starting to get flack for this.

Mr. Stark.

Immediately, the numbness he'd begun to start feeling warmed and ebbed away as he thought of the man. In that moment, in that one instant, Peter wanted nothing more than to find the man and talk to him. He didn't know what he'd talk about. He didn't know if he'd talk about anything. Right now he just wanted to see him, hear his voice, feel his hand on his shoulder or ruffling his hair.

He wanted it so bad it made his heart hurt.

But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't see the man right now, not like this. Because he just knew if he saw Mr. Stark, he'd completely lose it. He'd lose it right in front of him and he'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't break down in front of the man again, not like when they'd first met in the lab. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. Cause if he did, he doubted he'd be able to put the pieces back together again. And that meant his father would do it for him.

He shuddered.

No, he couldn't be around him right now. Not after everything his father had said to him, everything he'd revealed. He was just a tool, a pawn to use against Mr. Stark. A weapon to use on him when the time was right, to hurt him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took in a shuddering breath. He couldn't hurt Mr. Stark. But he couldn't disobey his father. The thoughts swarm around each other, battling for dominance in his brain before he banished both and quickly felt himself growing cold once again. He couldn't do this right now. He had to clean himself up.

So, after a few minutes of gritting his teeth and dragging up alongside the bed, Peter was standing. As soon as he tried putting weight on his injured leg, it buckled underneath him and he nearly fell back to the floor, thankfully catching himself on the railing of his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut and found his footing again. It took another couple of minutes for him to finally shuffle his way into the bathroom.

The bathroom door began to swing closed behind him, only for him to shoot a hand out and grip the sides, nearly splintering the wood at how tightly he was holding on. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest at the thought of being confined in another small room. He took a breath and gently pushed the door back open, eyes trailing it until he determined that it wouldn't close again.

He quickly made work of undoing the bandages, taking out the medical scissors from the drawer and gently cutting through the thick gauze. He carefully removed his pants, grunting as he brushed up against the wound on his thigh before gingerly sitting on the edge of the tub. He grabbed a few towers from the rack nearby and started the water.

He reached one of the towels in underneath the spray, allowing it to grow completely soaked before pulling it out and wringing it, leaving it damp but not dripping. He then began to slowly run the wet cloth over his skin, cleaning away the dirt and grime from his face, his hands, his neck. He winced as he felt the fabric rub overtop the cut on his neck but continued.

After cleaning the parts of his body that didn't contain any open wounds (which weren't many) with soap and water, the teen turned to the task of cleaning out the wounds themselves. He rested a new damp cloth on his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he began to apply pressure before moving on to his chest and his leg, which were the three worst areas.

He then leaned back over towards the towel rack and pulled out a small rectangular box. Opening it up, it revealed two sets of tweezers and a small bottle of medical-grade alcohol. It only took a little while for him to sterilize the tweezers and set to work picking out the little bits of debris and dirt lodged in the wounds. In his shoulder, he even found a small triangular tooth about the size of a quarter.

Awesome.

He threw it in the trash with a grimace.

Setting the towels and tweezers aside, Peter gingerly rose back up to his feet, now wearing only his boxers as he moved back over towards the drawers as he pulled out a needle and some medical-grade thread. As he did so, his eyes drifted up towards the mirror. He paused in his movements and slowly straightened back up.

He was barely even recognizable anymore.

His skin had no color. Not even his eyes, which usually held bright big purple bags underneath held no semblance of hue other than the ashy gray of the rest of his skin. His nose, cheeks, forehead. All held the same pale shade. It was like looking at a corpse. In fact, the only color anywhere was around the wounds.

His chest was black and blue, deeply contrasting the white of his skin with the bright red of the claw marks. His shoulder held the same crimson hue, a large gash shaped like a semi-circle looping overtop the skin, large circular indents following the trail from each tooth that had sunken into the flesh. His thigh throbbed painfully, the long stab wound from the knife was only about two and a half inches long, but the skin was flayed and risen, purple and red mingling together.

Finally, along the rest of the skin, the same electrical burns and fractal scarring he'd seen on his fingertips trailed up his arms, just as he'd predicted, centering mainly on his wrists and wrapping around his arms, and snaking up his spine, like lightning bolts or the limbs of a hundred-year-old oak tree, spindly and stretching all across his skin, bright and puffy and red.

He stared at the sight for a while, lips parted ever so slightly as he breathed deeply, ignoring the sharp twinges in his chest with each inhale, face barren and eyes sunken.

It wasn't until he felt something wet sliding down his cheeks that he finally realized he was crying.

 

---

 

Monday - April 25, 2016

Stark Tower - Main Offices

07:01 a.m.

"We're finishing up another round of preliminary discussions regarding the Accords here in Washington, which should be done by tonight at the latest and - are you listening to me, Stark?"

"Not really, no."

Ross let out a long, audible sigh, his projection bringing his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose as Tony smirked at the look of restrained annoyance on the Senator's face. He currently sat at his desk, glass in hand and feet propped up on the mahogany surface as he stared at the frustrated hologram before him. He had to admit, these mandatory on-call sessions were much more enjoyable with a glass of scotch and a perturbed Senator.

On the desk sat a newspaper Pepper had dropped by earlier in the morning. He tried not to look at it.

The man continued nevertheless, voice notably more strained than before. "We should be finished by tonight and ready to continue our meeting there in person by tomorrow night."

"Can't wait. Gotta say, a hologram just doesn't compare to the real thing," Tony said with a smile, holding the glass out to Ross. The man didn't seem very amused as he narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. "This is serious, Stark. And I'll expect you to take it as such. These are matters of national security we're talking about. And you can be sure the matter of the Rogue Avengers will be a heavily discussed topic."

Tony hummed and took another sip from the glass. "No. Not happening. What will be happening is me talking about the Accords with the rest of your sane coworkers. So you can twiddle your thumbs in the corner while the grown-ups talk if you want. I'm sure I can have a chair set up for you if you'd like."

This time it was Ross' turn to smirk. "'Grown-up?' Is that what you believe yourself to be?"

Tony shrugged. "If not then New York is gonna have to lower its drinking age."

"Make all the jokes you want, Stark. But it doesn't change the fact that these are life-threatening circumstances we have on the tables here. Those team-" He took a breath and corrected himself at the deadly look Tony shot his way. "...EX-teammates of yours are nothing but trouble. Wreaking havoc and stirring up the local nut-jobs, like that Spider-Man character."

Tony expertly hid the way his fingers curled by taking another swig of the glass. "What do you have against nut-jobs? Been looking in the mirror too often?" His face quickly grew more serious as he thrummed his fingers against the arm rest of the chair. Ross took notice of this. "Besides, Spider-man follows all the guidelines of a probationary hero."

"He hasn't sighed the Accords."

"The Accords aren't official yet. And they only apply to permanent international-level heroes."

"He hasn't revealed his identity."

God, screw this man. "Nor does he have to." Tony was getting increasingly annoyed by this point.

Ross stared long and hard at the man before fiddling with the cuffs of his suit. "You seem awfully concerned with this Spider-Man? Getting lonely up there in that Tower of yours, Stark?"

Tony stared him down hard. Their eyes met and even through the hologram, the thick air of tension was near palpable as neither was willing to back down. He gripped the glass tightly, face serious. "Just like to have all my chips in a row."

Ross continued to stare at him before blinking. "In there lies our similarities. We'll see you tomorrow, Stark. It'll be much harder for you to avoid me when I'm right there in the room with you."

The man huffed. "Wanna bet? FRIDAY, end call."

With that, the projection instantly shut down. Tony let out a long sigh and twisted his chair around, turning to stare out the glass walls of his office and down at the city below as he often found himself doing nowadays.

It was much easier to watch the city from so high up, where everything looked so small and meaningless as the people below all went about their days, oblivious to the troubles of those around them. As he watched the people milling around going through their early-morning routines, grabbing coffee from the local shops, making the commute to work, jogging along the sidewalks, Tony couldn't help but think back to the only common New-Yorker that ever took up any space in his mind.

Peter hadn't come in on Friday.

He'd texted Happy late on Thursday that he was sick and that he'd be staying home from school and skipping his Tower visit that day. Happy had then gone on to relay this information to Tony, grumbling about how he was now the messenger to an annoying Spider-Child, but Tony had waved him off with a smirk and a pat on the head. Happy did not appreciate the gesture.

Upon getting the information, Tony had been a little confused considering Peter hadn't shown any symptoms of sickness when he'd seen him earlier that night. Immediately, the man had gotten an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he quickly chalked it up to silly paranoia. Even superheros got sick sometimes. Maybe the kid was just pushing himself a little too hard nowadays.

He glanced over at the newspaper on the desk, glaring daggers at the limp pieces of paper. According to Pepper, the story had broken late last from a small local news station and had quickly blown up from there. He was sure that if he turned on the news right now, it wouldn't be five minutes until he heard something mentioning it. He hadn't looked at any of the stories. He didn't want to see the angle they were taking it. Most likely, the media would split it down the middle, some focusing on Richard and questioning how he could allow his son to associate with his rival competitor, wondering if he was using Peter to spy on Tony, while others would lean more towards him, questioning why he was focusing on his competitor's kid, wondering if he was using Peter to spy on his dad.

One main thing held little doubt in his head: they all would think Peter was being used one way or the other. A pawn in a nonexistent game. Tony would have to try extra hard to convince the boy he wasn't should he be having any doubts. No doubt the kid would be stressed about this, as any sane person would be. The media storm was just beginning. It was already spreading. Soon enough, it'd be everywhere.

Tony was sure Richard had already heard about it, meaning Peter most likely had as well. In the upcoming days, it was going to be very hard for all three of them, not that Tony really cared how hard it was for Richard. Nevertheless, Peter wouldn't even be able to escape it at school with all his friends and classmates hounding him over it.

The billionaire let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead. Phase 3, soon to be Phase 4. It was going to be rough, but hopefully it wouldn't last long. With everything that was currently happening withe the Accords, the Rogues, even those random tech robberies happening around the city that Tony was secretly keeping tabs on, the press had its choice of juicy topics to cover. Hopefully, this little romp wouldn't last more than a week or two.

But it was sure to be a tough week. He could already feel it.

Nevertheless, the man knew they were going to be okay, Peter was going to be okay. They'd prepared him for this. Still, it was going to be stressful so it wouldn't hurt for Tony to talk to him about it when he saw him today, a smile falling onto his face at the thought.

He found himself doing this more often, small smiles growing on his face when he thought of the teenager. It was hard not to feel just a little happier around the boy, despite his less than stellar situation. Maybe it was the fact that Tony was constantly surrounded by snooty, stuck-up assholes who either hated his guts and let him know it or hated his guts and covered it up by kissing ass all the time. Maybe it was the fact that he was starting to get tired of Pepper and Rhodey's constant lectures. Or maybe it was the fact that Ross' earlier statement held some sparks of truth.

Whatever it was, Tony honestly found himself enjoying being in Peter's company.

Nowadays, the teen always seemed to be ready with a smile and a gleam in his eyes. Despite the fact that he was still shy and soft-spoken, Tony always seemed to be laughing around the boy, Peter doing the same around him. It was...strange, to say the least. Then again, Peter was a strange boy. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Once again, the small twinge of guilt bubbled in his chest ever so slightly at the idea that he was getting more out of this than Peter himself, but he quickly pushed it back down. Peter was obviously doing better. He was happier, at least he seemed to be. He was stuttering less and growing more used to small bits of physical contact (granted, Tony was always the one who initiated it.)

Tony glanced down at the drink in his hands, swishing it around and watching the amber liquid gently splashing up against the sides. His talk with Ross had left him feeling just a little more frazzled, which was saying something considering frazzled seemed to be the one perpetual state he was constantly in nowadays. He could use a little bit of relaxation.

The guilt bubbled back up. He ignored it.

 

---

 

Monday - April 25, 2016

Midtown School of Science and Technology - Building 3

07:34 a.m.

The halls were empty when Peter finally made it to school.

Getting out of the house had been a challenge. The front stoops had been swarming with reporters, all eager to catch a glimpse of any of the house's occupants to hound them with questions and beg for comments. Peter knew the Cons would be annoyed, but his father wouldn't mind. He loved the media because they simply adored him. He could do no wrong in their eyes.

No doubt he'd go down after breakfast and answer any and all of their questions with a pearly smile and a warm chuckle.

Peter, on the other hand, didn't feel like interacting with harpies. He didn't feel like interacting with anybody at the moment, but knew he didn't have much choice. So he simply crawled out the window, which was no easy feat considering the majority of his limbs had numerous freshly inserted stitches and he was currently running on virtually nothing in the tank.

Nevertheless, he'd made it to the subway in one piece, receiving a text from his father as he did so.

I don't wanna receive any calls from the school, today.

I don't care what you tell them. Just make sure they believe it or there will be consequences.

Peter had then turned off the phone, slipped it into his pocket and tried not to hurl.

He'd ignored the pointed stares of people in the car and pretended not to notice people snapping pictures of him. He'd hidden the bandages on his arms with a long sleeved shirt and baggy jacket with the hood currently up over his head to mask his face. With each passing minute and pointed stare, his hatred for the media continued to grow.

They just had to make things extra difficult, didn't they?

Case in point, making it to school had been no easy task. Every step he took sent fire down his legs, which had buckled more than once on his journey there. Luckily each time he managed to catch himself on nearby objects. Now he just stayed by the walls just in case they wobbled again. His shoulder was throbbing again and his chest felt like it was going to explode. Not to mention the fact that a steady thrumming fear pulsed through him that somebody would accidentally brush up against his shoulder or jostle his broken arm.

Luckily the hallway was empty, so his fear couldn't be recognized right that minute nor could any students hound him with questions as he was sure they would have had he gotten to school in time for the early morning crowds that roamed the halls before first period.

Because of this, he limped to his classroom door in silence. He was currently over ten minutes late to class, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. Everything was foggy and there as a constant steady ringing in his ears that made him grit his teeth and narrow his eyes to try and tone down the level of stimuli around him. He was only running on a few hours of sleep, a cup of water and a few bites of the bread he'd managed to keep down. He shouldn't have been surprised at the way the walls around him continued to spin.

At a shambling pace, he finally made it to the door. First period: AP Biology with Mr. Harrington.

He lifted his unbroken arm and gave a soft knock on the door. He could hear the teacher's voice through the wood before it even opened.

"Ah, Mr. Parker. So glad for you to join us tod-" The teacher's words died down in his throat as he opened the door and took in the sight of Peter Parker before him. His hood was still up so from where the rest of the students were sitting, they couldn't really get a good look at him. But that didn't stop the murmur of excited whispers that began to rise up now that the source of all the media buzz was finally there to answer all their questions.

But from where he was standing, Mr. Harrington got a perfect look at the teen, more specifically his face.

Peter had done well to mask the bruises, a skill he'd picked up over the years. But there as little he could do about the skin itself, which was a deathly white, plastered over his nose, cheeks, everywhere. There was not one speck of color throughout the skin or his eyes, his usually bright brown irises covered in a pale glossy film, contrasted by the bloodshot lines. There as only one bandage on his face, surprisingly, a horizontal patch that crossed over the bridge of his broken nose. The rest of the scratches around his face were too small for bandages, but they did add a nice splash of crimson to his otherwise dead cheeks and chin.

The teacher stared at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he tried and failed to find something to say.

Peter beat him to it, however, as he gingerly brushed past the man. "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Harrington." His voice was tiny and hoarse after two days of disuse.

Mr. Harrington watched as Peter wordlessly walked over towards his desk, straining not to limp and feeling slightly proud at how well he was able to hide it. He pointedly ignore the stares of Ned and MJ from their seats next to him as well as those from the rest of his classmates. A few students tried to ask him questions, mainly on whether or not the stories were true.

He didn't say anything.

Flash glared over at the teen from his seat, scoffing under his breath as he folded his arms over his chest. "What's the matter, Parker? Too good to answer a few questions, huh?" Michelle whirled on him, eyes gleaming. "Flash, do us all a favor and shut your mouth," she hissed, effectively making the teen as well as everybody else quickly back off. Michelle just had a way with that.

"Michelle..." Mr. Harrington called in a half-heated disapproving voice, but his eyes still remained on the student, who was now staring at the board like everything was completely normal. The man swallowed and hesitantly walked back over to the front of the room. It took him a moment to find his voice before he shakily continued the lesson, unsure and incredibly uncomfortable. After a few minutes, he was back into the lecture.

But the class was nothing but whispers now.

Peter pretended not to hear. He was getting good at pretending.

 

---

 

His phone must have buzzed in his pocket over twenty times in the span of the class period. He knew they were from Ned if the way the boy continued to stare at his phone and then pointedly at Peter was any indication. MJ merely doodled for the majority of the class, but Peter could see her sneaking sidelong glances his way throughout the lecture. Small pieces of paper landed on his desk every few minutes, which he'd just brush to the ground. He didn't read whatever was inside of them.

His stitches itched.

It was hard writing with a broken arm as Peter would come to find out. After the first ten minutes, he switched to his other hand. His notes suffered greatly, but he didn't really care. He had no idea what he was writing at this point, nor did he bother to check and reread them to see if they made any semblance of sense. It was something to do at least, something to focus on. He watched the lead press into the paper, leaving deep grooves and dark trails.

He traced the lines over and over again with his eyes, seeming the pencil shake ever so slightly in his non-dominant hand, leaving soft line strokes on the white surface, tiny little ridges and bumps from the unsteady grip. He could hear the scratching of the graphite rubbing painfully against the paper, mirrored all around the room with each open notebook and scribbling hand.

The chairs creaked as students shifted in their seats, papers fluttering as they moved their hands. Someone sniffed. The air conditioner turned on. His heart was beating, he heard it more than felt it. Something shifted near his ear, brushed up against his skin.

Wingbeats.

The pencil in his grip snapped in half.

A few people turned to stare at him. Ned reached out and tapped his shoulder. It took everything in Peter not to leap up and scream his lungs out. "Peter...you okay?' he whispered quietly.

Peter was saved from answering when the bell blared over head, ringing throughout the entire classroom.

How long had he zoned out?

Everyone jumped slightly before gathering their things and quickly making their way over to Peter's desk. However, before any of them could begin to question him, Mr. Harrington was clearing his throat. "Uh, Peter? Can I see you over here for a second?"

The boy glanced over at the teacher before slowly packing up his things and hoisting the bag over his uninjured shoulder. The teacher turned to throw a hard look at the rest of the students. "The rest of you hurry up and head on out. And close my door on your way out."

The low disappointed murmurings drifted through Peter's ears. He caught sight of Ned and MJ lingering back slightly, the last two students to leave the classroom. Mr. Harrington shooed them out, albeit in a much gentler tone of voice than he'd used with the rest of the class. His friends shared concerned looks before begrudgingly walking out, the door shutting with a soft click.

Peter shifted uncomfortably between one foot and the other, fingers drumming against the strap of his bag. "W-what did you...want to talk about?"

The teacher stared at him for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and making his way over to his desk. "Nothing." He sat down and pulled out his breakfast, a small bag of dry cereal.

The teen furrowed his brows and lifted his head. "Then...why-?"

"Figured you could use an excuse to get away from the crowd."

Peter blinked at him for a moment before letting a small smile slip onto his face for just a moment. "Thanks," his voice was still coarse. He could hear it in the soft graveling.

The teacher set the bag down and leaned forward, propping his elbows onto his knees. "Are you alright, Peter?"

"Fine. Why?" His voice wasn't defensive, but curt. Tired.

Mr. Harrington gave him a disbelieving look. "You...you look pretty sick, son."

Peter shrugged his shoulders, masking the grimace as he felt his stitches shifting. "It's been a pretty stressful couple of hours for my family."

It made sense considering everything that was currently buzzing around the city, but something about it didn't sit right with the teacher. He ignored the prickling anxiety and gave a small nod of his head. "I can only imagine as much. But if you're not feeling well then maybe-"

"I feel fine."

The man furrowed his brows, not convinced in the slightest and watched the teen shift onto his other leg. He seemed to be favoring one over the other.

It wasn't unusual for Peter to walk into his class not looking his best, usually with bruises or bandages, commonly connected to some excuse or another about lab accidents or trips down the stairs or into door jams. And for the most part, Mr. Harrington was willing to let them slide for Peter never seemed to be in too much distress when he told the teacher such stories. They were always accompanied with a reassuring smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.

But today no such smiles were on the boy's face. His voice was light, but still held the soft notes of disuse. His eyes were pale, almost vacant. He knew the kid had to be stressed with everything that was happening in the news. He knew he had no idea the kind of pressure his student was facing, but still...something was wrong. He could just feel it.

"If you're sure..."

"I am."

The teacher gave a small nod and Peter began to make his way over towards the door. "Thanks again...f-for clearing them out."

"...no problem."

However, Mr. Harrington was quick to stand and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, noticing immediately when Peter grimaced and scrunched his eyes shut. He retracted the hand. "Peter, I...I just..." His tongue seemed to tie around itself. "If you ever need to talk...about anything...my door is always open."

Peter stared up at him, blinking large brown eyes. Mr. Harrington couldn't read the look on his face. Before he could say anything else, the teen was turning and hoisting the bag higher up onto his shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He didn't wait for the teacher to respond before he walked out the door...and right into the clutches of his friends.

The normal joy he would have felt at seeing them was nothing but frustration now. How many people was he going to have to lie to today?

For a moment, the three just stared at each other, the loud rumblings of the students passing around them echoing through the halls. They were on break, meaning they had eight minutes until the bell for next period rolled around. Meaning Peter had to dodge their questions for the next eight minutes.

Luckily for them, nobody seemed to have noticed Peter's presence yet, so the three of them were able to slip around the sea of students and make it outside on the front steps leading up to the entrance to the school. Only one or two kids were outside, the majority of them engrossed in their phones or not caring enough to make a fuss about Peter being there.

As soon as they were alone, MJ folded her arms over her chest. "Alright, Parker. Start talking."

Ned, always the pacifist, decided to take a bit of a gentler approach. "Peter...what happened to you? You didn't show up to school on Friday and today you look, well..."

"Like Death came knocking on your door at three in the morning and punched you in the face."

Ned grimaced. "Something like that."

Peter didn't meet their gaze. He stared at the floor, counted the cracks in the cement. Five long ones, two short ones. "Nothing's wrong, guys."

Michelle scrunched her face. "Do you think we're stupid?"

"No, of course not. I just...I'm just tired."

Ned shook his head, face growing more and more concerned. "I've seen you look tired before, Peter. This isn't it. Something's wrong. I can just tell. Something's really wrong."

"No, there isn't." He started counting the stairs themselves. There were seven, all a light cream color that had darkened with age.

"Is it the news story? Cause I know it's pretty bad but it'll die down eventually."

"I-"

"Did Stark do something? Did he say something to you?"

"No, I just-"

"Was your dad angry about the press?"

"GUYS!" He finally shouted, glaring up at them before taking a breath and feeling the look whither into a more pathetic pleading gaze. "Please...I said I'm fine."

Michelle wasn't swayed, however. Her face tightened. "Yeah, we know. We heard you, and we still don't believe you."

Ned placed a hand on her shoulder. "MJ..."

"No, Ned!" She shouted back, shrugging his shoulder off and glaring down at the shorter boy. "He can't just waltz into school looking like he's three seconds from passing out and not expect us to be conc- to not say anything." She tried to reposition her mask of indifference, but it didn't work. Her worry practically oozed out of her eyes.

Peter let out a sigh and gazed back up at them, eyes hard. "Look, you wanna know what happened? I went home on Thursday. I didn't feel good. I stayed home the next day and slept in. I still didn't feel good. This damn news story broke on Sunday and now my dad's annoyed, the Cons are grumpy and I still don't feel good. That's it. End of story."

MJ didn't look satisfied. Neither did Ned for that matter, but it was the girl to first voice her doubts. "Uh-huh? So...what's with your nose?"

"I ran into a door jam."

"The bandages on your arm?"

"I fell down the stairs."

"The scar on your neck?"

"I spilled a pot of water."

"Peter!" MJ shouted, throwing her hands into the air. Peter flinched back at the yell, eyes firmly glued to the girl's shoes.

They were blue.

"Are you hearing yourself right now?! It's just excuse after excuse! And the worst part is you're acting like you want us to actually believe them! I mean, what's next? You fall off a moving truck and get run over by a bulldozer? Is that what you're gonna say tomorrow when you come in and your face is black and blue and you're in a wheelchair?"

Peter swallowed, his throat dry. "What do you want me to say, Michelle?" He didn't use her first name often. If she was surprised by it, she didn't let it on.

She stared at him, hands fisting the legs of her pants tightly, pulling at the fabric as she let out a small huff, eyes glancing away for a moment before gazing back at him, full of something Peter couldn't identify. "I want...I want you to tell us the truth. I mean, don't you trust us?" Her voice was small, quiet, so...unlike Michelle. Peter felt something in his chest. He was pretty sure it was guilt.

Ned stepped forward at this, seeing that both of his friends were beginning to get agitated. He moved closer and Peter threw him a wary look. The shorter boy raised up his hands in a placating manner, showing he wasn't going to try and touch the boy. It was obvious Peter wasn't ready for it right now. "Peter, listen. I know you're going though something right now...and I know you're scared."

The taller boy shifted on his feet again. His nails were beginning to dig into his palms, the pinch of pain keeping him grounded, level. Ned continued. "But you can talk to us. Please, we're your friends. We only want to help you. And we can't do that when you keep shutting us out." Ned took another step closer. Peter took one back. His head swam, his shoulder throbbed and his arm hung limply by his side, unable to move. "Please, just...tell us the truth. What do you feel?"

Peter lifted his head at that, staring his two best friends down. Ned's face was one of anxious energy as he wrung his hands together and bounced on his feet. He never was good at containing his emotions, both the good and the bad. He stared at Peter with soft eyes, exuding comfort and sympathy and everything that made Ned who he was. Michelle's face held something different. Anger? Regret? Whatever it was, it looked like she was in pain. Maybe she was.

His breath stuttered, startling him into a jolt. His eyes flickered in between the two teens, each of which were worrying themselves sick over him, because of him. He'd done this to them. He was doing this to them. His stomach churned and his head gave another vicious pound, this one making him wince and blink his eyes hard to clear the blurriness that had encroached.

They were still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

"I-I...I feel...like...I'm gonna-" He wasn't able to get another word out before he was rushing over to the trash can behind Ned and Michelle. The two teens stared with wide eyes as Peter hurled into the garbage, thin shaking frame leaning over the can like his life depended on it. Each wave was more violent than the last despite the fact that his pitifully empty stomach didn't have much to reject. After only two bouts of vomiting, he simply began to dry heave.

Ned began to move back over towards the door as Michelle moved to the can to hover over the boy. "I'll get the nurse."

"NO!" Peter shouted, instantly whipping his head around to stare at Ned only for the rapid movement to make his head spin. He gripped the sides of the trash can tightly, the metal denting slightly underneath his hands. Thankfully, Michelle didn't notice as she scrunched her eyes at the boy, who shook his head. "No. Please...please don't."

The girl moved her hand out to touch Peter's shoulder before thinking better of it. "Peter, you need to go home-"

Peter lifted his head again and glared at the both of them, eyes burning with something they'd never seen before. "You want the truth?!" he spat. "Well, the truth is if I go home, they're gonna kill me! They're gonna pound me and break my other arm! The truth is I want you to leave me alone!" The words were hot and angry, the boy's face flush as he seethed. Both Michelle and Ned could only stare at him, blinking in silence. Peter had never once snapped at them before, leaving them stunned and unable to speak.

Peter, however, quickly reigned in his anger and dropped his head, gritting his teeth together as he sucked in another breath. "Please...please, before I say something I'll regret...something I don't mean...please, just...just leave me alone." His voice tapered off, breaking at the end as he let go of the trash can and sank down onto the top step. He sat and cradled his arm close to his chest.

God, he was tired.

. . .

. . .

"Your arm's broken?"

He shut his eyes. He couldn't do this again. "MJ, please..."

He suddenly found he wasn't alone on the step anymore as the girl plopped down next to him, face holding its usual look of stoicism and disinterest that he'd come to know as Michelle. "Your arm's broken and you didn't even put it in a sling, you moron. Do you want it to set wrong?"

Before he knew what was happening, she was taking off her jacket. It was her usual dark green jacket that she wore everyday. She carefully moved her hand forward, gesturing towards one of Peter's arms with a questioning look. He nodded, signifying that it was the right arm before she was gingerly picking it up. He winced, both in pain and discomfort over the touching itself. Without a word, she was wrapping her jacket around the forearm, securing it snugly into a makeshift pouch before looping the arms of the jacket around his neck and tying them together. Her fingers brushed the fractal scars. He let her trace them down to the nape of his neck before she was shaking her head and pulling her hand away. In this time, Ned had made his way down to sit on Peter's other side.

Peter stared forward, watching the road as the cars drove by. "I can't wear it too long. Too many people will see me with it and ask questions."

Michelle said nothing for a moment, seemingly adjusting to the news she'd received, news she'd suspected for a while but had never gotten confirmed until just then. She wet her lips and stared out at the road alongside the boy. "Just wear it for a few hours. You can give it back to me at lunch."

Peter blinked and glanced over at her. "I..."

She stopped him, shaking her head. "Don't thank me. Just...just don't." Her voice was empty. There was nothing to thank her for.

So he didn't. His friends didn't feel better. He didn't either. They just sat there on the steps in silence, watching the cars drive by until someone came to collect them.

 

---

 

Monday - April 25, 2016

Location Unknown

10:43 a.m.

"Are we completely sure we aren't just wasting out time here?"

Natasha sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Clint-"

"No, don't get me wrong. I love taking down manufacturing plants with the threat of federal imprisonment breathing down the back of our necks and forty-year jail sentences dangling in front of our eyes but are we really making a difference here?"

The archer currently sat at the makeshift table they had set up for themselves in the center of the warehouse, arms folded over his chest and he glanced around at the others. Natasha stood over by the wall, polishing one of her guns while Wanda meditated in the air near her and Sam and Scott sat next to Clint around the table.

Wanda's face scrunched from where she hovered, letting out a long sigh as she opened her eyes and threw them a bored look. "Not again with this..."

"You know, he's got a point." Sam murmured from his seat. "Every plant we take down, another seems to just pop right back up to take its place."

Natasha's eyes narrowed as she continued to run the cloth through the mechanisms of the pistol, the others eyeing the weapon cautiously as the woman spoke. "So what? You're suggesting we do nothing, then."

Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. "No, of course not. But obviously what we're doing right now just isn't good enough."

Scott, who was organizing the pack of cards on the table surface, looked up from his work, fingers running along the edge of the card. "So, what's the alternative then?"

"I might just have one."

They turned towards Steve as he approached. His arm was raised, hand gripping a now-vibrating phone. They all moved over towards the table as he placed the phone down in the center and accepted the call. "Hill, talk to us. Tell us you found something we can use."

There was a beat of silence before they got a response. "I've been doing some research into the weapons you've confiscated so far and I've found something that might just help you out."

Wanda took another step closer. "What is it?"

"Four years ago, after the battle of New York, there was alien weaponry everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Of all kinds too, with different power cores as energy sources. When clean-up began, Damage control devised a system. And since nobody knew much about the alien cores to begin with, least of all how the different alien cores would respond when stored with each other, they created a clean-up order where weapons with certain energy signatures and power cores would be stored in the same storage area."

Clint leaned forward in his seat. "Hill."

"Yeah?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

An exasperated sigh could be heard on the other end before she continued, voice snappier than before. "Look at the weapon you all still have."

Sam stood up from his seat and glanced over towards the back wall, where the loading rack sat. Atop one of the tables was a sizable lump, concealed with a thick brown tarp. Quickly jogging over, the man removed the tarp, revealing the numerous alien weapons they'd decided to save in their possession for examination. Each were constructed of thick shining plates of fused metal and bright purple electrical lines that winded throughout the entire device, leading to a larger glowing mass in the dead center of the weapon. Carefully picking up one of the larger guns, he walked back over towards the table and set it down.

Cap spoke up once he did. "Alright?"

"See that bright purple power source?"

"Yeah?"

"That's the core. All of the alien tech has it. It's what makes them so dangerous. Take out that core and add a little radiation and you have a ticking time bomb that can take out a city block in the right conditions."

Their eyes all trailed down to the gun, muscles coiling and stomachs filling with dread. Just how much raw power was being distributed throughout the city, power that could kill hundreds of thousands if used incorrectly?

Steve was the first to speak again, glancing back down at the phone. "What about this particular core?"

"All of the weapons you've retrieved so far share this same core type. Damage Control calls it C-13. And all alien weapons that share a C-13 core are stored in a DDC storage facility in Washington DC."

Clint leaned back in the chair, pressing his tongue into his cheeks as he spoke. "Alright, so they're obviously acquiring their parts from this facility."

Sam folded his arms over his chest. "Question is, why would they go through the trouble of stealing from the DC division of Damage Control when there are closer DDC storage facilities for them to access?"

"Better yet..." Natasha murmured, setting her gun down and tossing to lay across her shoulder. "...how are common street thugs and gangbangers overpowering and taking over government-run and protected armored trucks without anybody noticing?"

Steve was quiet for a moment, eyes hardening as he glared at the gun sitting in the table, the violet glow pulsing in short intervals that illuminated the air. "There's something more going on here. And I think it's time we found out what." He reached out and grabbed the phone off the table. "Hill, thankds for the info. We'll keep you updated."

"Don't get blown up...or arrested."

Steve rolled his eyes before ending the call, setting the phone back into his pocket before dusting his hands off and turning back to the rest of the team. "Everyone get prepped. We're gong to DC."

Their eyes widened at the announcement, Clint and Scott both sharing incredulous looks with each other. The former stood up from his seat, looking ready to protest, only for Natasha to grab his shoulder and give him a hard look. He glared right back and began to speak to her under his breath, the two assassins going off to the other side of the room, whispering furiously.

The others, however, remained around the table, watching as Steve pulled something else out of his pocket and began to fiddle with it. Sam exchanged confused glances with the rest of the team before clearing his throat. Steve didn't look up from whatever it was he was doing. "And just how do we plan on getting there? Something tells me we aren't going to be allowed on any trains for the time being and my car got repossessed months ago."

The Captain continued to fiddle with the device, speaking as he did so. "It helps to know the right people. And lucky for us, a certain royal family seems to have grown quite fond of us."

He held up his hand once more, revealing the communicator in his grip. It crackled for a minute before a high-pitched accented voice cut through the silence. The excitement in her voice wasn't hard to miss. "Heard you're going on a trip."

Scott sighed, tossing a hand up into the air. "Sounds like it."

Cap angled his head towards the communicator. "Shuri, we don't have a lot of time with this. What do you got that's fast?"

There was a moment of silence. "Depends."

"On what?"

"How strong are your stomachs?"

 

---

 

Monday - April 25, 2016

Building 2 - First Floor Boys Bathroom

2:28 p.m.

There were 195 tiles that made up the ceiling of the boys bathroom. Peter was sure. He'd counted thirty-two times.

He wished he could say the day had improved after his talk with his friends, that he'd started to feel better. But the stares had continued, the whispers had hovered. In the hallways he'd literally brushed up against the walls trying to stay as far from the other students as possible. But there were still a few instances where a rushing teen had brushed up against his arm or knocked into his shoulder, making him stop and lean his head against the lockers to manage the pain before starting on his way again.

Eventually, the constant eyes and low buzz of words had begun to get to him. By lunchtime, his friends and some of the Decathlon members attempted to keep the worst of the crowds at bay. The first half of lunch, Michelle and Ned made him choke down a few pieces of fruit and a quarter of a sandwich. The last half of lunch he spent in the bathroom puking it back up. It was obvious something was definitely wrong, but Peter continued to wave off their concerns, saying he would eventually gain his appetite again and that it was just stress.

They sat with him in the bathroom after that, not bothering to go back to their table. None of them felt like dealing with the crowds again and Peter had to admit the cool tile of the bathroom floor was somewhat relaxing. Eventually the bell had rung, but the thought of going back and being around his prying classmates had made the teen feel nauseous again. Michelle didn't suggest he go home again, instead offering to skip class with him and Ned to head down to Delmar's to relax.

Peter thanked her for the offer but declined, knowing Michelle had a report due in one class and Ned had a presentation. He'd already messed with their day enough. It took a lot of convincing, but finally he'd been able to convince them to leave him there with the promise to answer their texts whenever they shot him one along with the threat of Michelle to come back down there if he didn't.

So that was how he found himself sitting against the wall of the handicapped stall in the boys bathroom, injured leg splayed out in front of him with his other bent up close to his chest, balancing his bandaged arm on his knee as he stared up at the tiled ceiling.

The bell had rung nearly ten minutes ago but still Peter remained. He'd gotten texts from both MJ and Ned asking him if he wanted them to walk him home. He'd declined once again. He didn't really trust himself to be around them at the moment, not after that morning. Everything was starting to become too much for him and it was beginning to bubble over onto his friends.

They didn't deserve that. They didn't deserve any of this.

So he sat and he waited as the hallways cleared out, students rushing to get home, pushing and shoving their way through.

Peter glanced down at his phone, which sat on the floor next to him. No new texts had come through, meaning his friends must have reluctantly abode by his wishes and gone home without him. He glanced through at the other texts he'd sent recently, eyes catching Happy's number.

He found the texts that had been sent through his phone on Thursday night saying he was sick and wasn't going to the Tower the next day. His father or one of the Cons must have sent it out. He had reluctantly followed in their footsteps and shot out a similar text a few hours ago. His excuse this time was something or other about a school project he had to work on. He didn't really know, Happy hadn't responded either way so he figured the man bought it.

Once again, the urge to see Mr. Stark flared back up in his chest, but he quickly pushed it back down. He thought back to that morning. If he'd been that unstable around his friends, imagine what might happen if he was near Mr. Stark? The things he might say, might reveal.

He couldn't afford it.

Peter sat for another few minutes before deeming it safe to head out. It took him longer than he cared to admit to get up from the floor. With a few shambles and grimaces, he was walking out the door. Thankfully, the halls were near empty save for a few groups of students casually walking to their cars or teachers milling about with their coworkers.

Nobody spared him a glance as he limped to the door, no longer needing to hide the weakness in his leg. He pushed the doors to the front entrance open and slid out, glaring down at the steps like they'd personally offended him before blowing out a huff and slowly hopping his way down.

"Bout time you showed up!"

Peter was so startled, he nearly toppled down the last step, catching himself just in time with the stone walls before whipping his head up and making eye contact with the last person he wanted to see right now.

Mr. Stark smirked from where he leaned against the side of the car, raising a hand to remove the sunglasses from his face. "Thought you might have been kidnapped or something. Nice dance moves there, by the way."

Peter said nothing for a moment, simply staring at the man with wide eyes as he contemplated maybe just sprinting down the sidewalk and booking it to the subway before the man could catch up with him. But considering the look of the most likely expensive sports car and his banged up legs, he doubted he would make it very far.

The billionaire didn't seem to mind filling the silence himself. "What took you so long anyways? Happy said you're usually the first one out those doors."

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his pants so tightly he was surprised they didn't rip. Blood was rushing through his ears and he was surprised he could hear anything over the roaring. He must have given off a look of distress, for Tony furrowed his brows and straightened back up. "Kid?"

Knowing he had to at least say something, Peter sucked in a breath and hesitantly moved closer. "S-sorry. I, um...I was...t-talking...to a teacher about...about something." The words were janky and haphazardly cut. This Tony noticed, for he quickly moved closer. "You alright, Peter?"

"Fine." He stepped back, ducking his head to the side as he tried to avoid the billionaire's piercing stare. Tony didn't say anything for a moment as he looked the boy up and down before taking a step back. "Right, well you coming or what?"

Peter lifted his head and stared at the car he was gesturing to. Somehow he found his voice again. "I...I texted Happy. I-"

"I know, I know." The man waved his hand with a smile. "We're not going to the Tower. That place is swarming anyway. You have no idea how many reporters I had to dodge just to get out of there." He chuckled, obviously expecting Peter to do the same. He didn't.

"Right...well, I needed a bit of a break from the chaos and I figured you might need the same." He moved to stand around the other side of the car. "Come on. This won't take too long." He got into the driver's side without another word. Peter flinched at the sound of the car door closing. He glanced sideways towards the street. Was there any way he could convince the man otherwise? Convince him to just leave him alone?

He jerked his head back as Tony leaned across the seats and opened the passenger door from inside the car. "Well? I haven't got all day, you know"

Peter swallowed the growing lump in his throat, stomach knotting up once again. "I...um..." He tried to form the words, politely decline and be on his way. Just turn and walk down the street. But he couldn't force them out. It was like they were lodged in his throat, choking off his airway and making him dizzy. Finally, he just settled for nodding his head and cautiously settling inside the car, if only to sit down to avoid the danger of passing out in front of the man.

That wouldn't end well.

With that they were off, pulling away from the curve and jumping onto the busy street.

Peter's hands rested in his lap and he had to fight hard to keep them steady. His foot, however, was thrumming up a storm bouncing against the floor of the car about as fast as a hummingbird's wings. His eyes remained glued to the window, refusing to glance over towards the billionaire next to him, who he just knew was giving him strange looks.

Tony watched the teen, feeling a full wave of confusion continuing to crash into him with each little mannerism the boy displayed, habits he hadn't portrayed in just about two months. He was jittery, an air of nervousness surrounding him as he stared out the window. Not to mention the fact that he was stuttering, almost as badly as when they'd first met!

When the hell did this happen?

Tony quickly squashed down his panic, simply summing it up to nerves over the media storm brewing in the background. Of course! Anybody would be panicking, especially a fourteen-year-old boy who was prone to nervousness. That's what it had to be...right?

He had to admit, when Happy had come into his office earlier in the day saying Peter had cancelled again, he had been shocked and somewhat perplexed. Peter's reasoning had been something about a project he had to work on, which Happy hadn't found much fuss in. Tony, however, immediately felt something off. Peter had been doing his homework at the Tower for months now with no complaints, plenty of projects and papers that he'd mumble and complain about under his breath while Tony tinkered next to him, snidely bragging about his adulthood and consequential freedom from said assignments.

The more he thought about it, the more it was starting to sound like excuses. But excuses for what?

"You sure you're okay over there, kid? You're being awfully quiet." And it was true. Usually, Peter would be talking his ear off by this point, rambling on about something or other, something exciting that happened at school or a project he was working on or questions upon questions about what he was working on back at the lab. But today, he was oddly silent.

Peter threw him a quick look before instantly averting his gaze. "S-sorry..."

The unsettling feeling returned to his stomach. "It's...no problem, kid. You know it never is..." Peter hadn't apologized for something trivial in a while.

The boy gave a shaky nod of his head. "R-right...right."

Tony decided not to say anything else after that, afraid of what the boy might say or display. Instead, he reached over and turned on the radio. His mind didn't register what was playing, nor did he really care enough to find out. At least it was something to fill the silence.

Another unnerving feeling...he hadn't felt a desire to fill the silence in a long time. He glanced over at Peter.

Something was definitely up. And he planned on figuring out what sooner rather than later.

 

---

 

Peter got out of the car and stared up at the trees stretching up to the sky, closing the door with a soft thud. It had been a long time since he'd visited Central Park.

He noticed Mr. Stark already walking away and hastened his stride to follow behind him. His leg twinged in annoyance but he ignored it in favor of lagging after the man, who didn't seem to be in any particular rush to get anywhere. He simply shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk down the stone pathway.

Around them, the trees loomed, thick black branches stretching up into the sky. With the month of April also came the blooms, bright and pink and soft, dotting each and every dark branch in a cape of baby pink flowers, blotting the sun and dotting little spots of light onto the stones below. They billowed in the breeze and fluttered to the ground in small little swirls. The grass rustled with each breath of wind and the soft creaking of the branches above filled the air. Around them, a few people jogged past or walked their dogs or chatted idly on the benches scattered around the park. Nobody payed them much mind, for they didn't glance their way long enough to make out who they were.

"So how're you getting along, kid?"

Peter jumped, not having been expecting to be pulled into sudden conversation. He continued to lag behind the man, who had now glanced over at him. "W-what do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Tony tried to slow his pace to allow the boy to catch up with him and walk by his side, but noticed the teen seemed determined to walk behind him. "Are you getting any flack at school with the story?" He'd have to start using his detective skills here. See if he could piece together why Peter was acting so much like the scared kid he hadn't seen in months.

He shrugged, Tony noticing he moved one shoulder more than the other. "I...I guess a little bit? Some p-people had questions. I...I answered them. Nothing...too crazy y-yet."

Tony tried to keep his voice light. "That's good at least." He blew out a sigh between his lips. "I wish I could say it improves from here but the truth is it's probably gonna get a lot worse before it gets better."

Peter scoffed. "What else is new?" he mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He could feel the billionaire staring at him and pretended not to notice, keeping his eyes on the tulips sprouting up along the edge of the grass before he felt the man turn away. "Pepper did some checking and so far they don't know what school you go to yet. Guess your dad did something right in keeping your files so guarded." Mr. Stark grimaced slightly, puffing out a bit of air between his lips. "But it's probably just a matter of time before they figure it out. Maybe a coupe of days. A week at the most."

"Right..."

"It'll be alright, though. I'll have Happy show up earlier to help you get to the car. It'll be fine. He's had a lot of experience dealing with pushy reporters. Honestly, I think he kinda likes it. Makes him feel important," he huffed out a chuckle, glancing over towards the teen again.

Peter's face didn't change. He simply nodded his head. "Mm-hmm..."

Tony swallowed, somehow feeling incredibly awkward. "...Your father seems to be dealing with the news well." he added quickly, jumping right back into conversation, hoping that maybe he was just imagining the tension and Peter would smile or crack a joke and prove that he was just overthinking things. "He's basically got them eating out of the palm of his hand. Lucky for us, he's what they consider a 'credible source' so they're most likely to believe whatever it is he tells them."

He looked. Still nothing.

"And since for the most part everything he knows about our little program is everything we've told him, we should be in the clear in terms of them checking up on us and corroborating his story. Pepper's got the internship program up and running and we're already taking in applications. College applications of course. I got lucky with you. Any other high schoolers and I'll be running the world's most highly-funded daycare center on the planet."

Silence.

"Peter?"

The boy startled slightly, lifting his gaze for the first time since they'd begun walking. "Huh?"

Tony stopped walking and turned to fully face the boy. He was hunching over, hands fiddling with each other. His right arm hung a bit more limply than the other, as did his shoulder on the same side, sloping down a bit more than the other as if it weighed more. He also seemed to be favoring one leg over the other, shifting his feet constantly as if he were trying to relieve it of some pressure. His face was tired and pale, a few fading scratches marring the skin which wasn't an unusual sight given how the teen spent his nights.

Still, something about the sight made Tony's stomach churn. "Are you okay?"

Peter blinked at him, not seeming to understand the question before gently running his fingers over the limp arm. "You...already asked me this." He murmured sheepishly.

"I know, but you kinda look like you're struggling a bit." Peter scrunched his nose at this. "You wanna sit down?" The billionaire gestured to one of the nearby benches. The teen hesitated for a moment, feet scuffing the stones underneath before reluctantly shuffling over and almost collapsing onto the bench. Tony pretended not to notice as he sat down next to him. He immediately felt Peter tense.

He pretended not to notice that, either.

"So what's up, kid?" He finally asked, tired of dancing around the subject and simply deciding to bite the bullet. "Did you hurt yourself on patrol cause you know I said to come to me if you get hurt. I need to know about these kinds of things," he said a little sternly, hoping beyond hope that Peter was just anxious because he had gotten hurt on patrol and was just nervous about Tony being mad at him.

Peter said nothing for a moment. Their walk had taken them around near the lakeside, the soft sound of water lapping against the shore filling the air. He was reminded of earlier in the day, of Ned and MJ's constant worrying, question after question of whether or not he was okay. He'd barely been able to keep his composure with them. If the same happened now...

The teen simply stared at the water before shaking his head. "Nothing's wrong, Mr. Stark. And I didn't get hurt. I'm just...a little tired today, is all. I...I didn't really sleep well last night and I'm still fighting off...the last of that little b-bug I caught on Thursday."

Tony felt a spark of annoyance flare in his chest that he quickly tried to stamp out. The words of the promise he'd made to Peter began to ring in his head, the promise he'd made to let things go. To never question the boy about things he didn't want to talk about. He felt his fingers begin to twitch against his sides. He could hear the ringing, but he just couldn't help himself. He was so tired of this.

"Right...right..."

Peter must have picked up on the tone in Tony's voice. He narrowed his eyes and felt his nose scrunching. "What?" he asked, his own voice taking on a defensive ring against his will.

"Nothing, it's just...that bug really came on suddenly, huh? I didn't even notice any symptoms when I saw you that night."

"Yeah, well...guess it was an extra strong strain," he muttered, eyes hard.

"Guess so."

Tony matched his gaze head on. He wasn't backing down this time. "So what's this little project you're working on for school?" he asked, tongue poking into his cheek as he pretended not to notice how Peter was tapping his fingers in annoyance.

"It's...just an English assignment. I need to w-write an essay. It's pretty important. Counts as...half of our quarter exam."

Tony shrugged his shoulders and leaned back against the hard wood. "You could always work on it in the tower. You've worked on others there before. How come this one's different?"

Peter shrugged, once again favoring one shoulder over the other. "I don't know. Just didn't feel like working on it in the tower today. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing."

Tony was about to continue prodding the boy, only to pause at he caught sight of Peter shifting on the bench, accidentally bumping his arm against the wood. The teen winced and pulled it back. Immediately feeling all annoyance ebb away, Tony sat up straighter and leaned closer, reaching a hand out. "You alright there, kid?"

Peter didn't seem to notice the tones of concern in the man's voice as he jerked away from him and glared. "Yes, I'm fine! God, how many times do I have to say it before you stop asking and leave me alone?!" he snapped, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Tony quickly reared back and lifted his hands up, a flare of anger sparking in his chest. "Alright, calm down. Why are you getting so angry?"

"I'm not-!" Peter seemed to almost bite down on his tongue and shut his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as his hands shook by his sides before he opened his eyes once more, letting out a quiet sigh as he seemed to deflate in his seat. He lowered his head. "I...I'm not angry. I'm j...I'm just tired. That's all. I'm just tired." He ducked his head away in shame and seemed to curl in on himself, voice tapering off at the end to little more than a whisper.

Quickly feeling the spark of anger extinguish like water being dumped over a candle, Tony scooted closer and quickly lowered his own voice. "Peter, look at me."

It took longer than he would have liked for the boy to relent and lift his eyes.

"You're starting to concern me a little here, kid. You're stuttering again. You're fidgeting. You haven't done all this in a while. Did something happen at school? Did someone say something to you about the story? Did you get harassed by any reporters?"

Through each of the questions, Peter shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I said it's nothing, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, well. I don't believe it is. Look, if you don't want to tell me, it's...it's fine." He had to force the words out of his mouth. They tasted bitter. "You're just...you're kind of freaking me out a little bit here."

Peter wrapped his left arm around his midsection, looking a bit sick. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to."

Tony sighed. "I know you don't. Don't apologize, it's okay. I guess I'm just a little worried, believe it or not."

The teen shook his head and met the man's gaze. "Don't be. I'm just...working through something right now." He turned away once more, staring down at his feet. "It's nothing important." He couldn't talk about this anymore, not when his emotions were running so wild and the threat of blowing up on the man rang so prominent. He had to shut this down now and hope that Mr. Stark would somehow get the message and just drop it.

Still, Tony hesitated for a moment, reluctant to just brush off the exchange and forget about it as Peter obviously wanted him to. But it was obvious just how uncomfortable the kid was and judging from how he looked, he didn't need anything else to be stressing over. So, against his better judgment, the man gave a small nod of his head. "Alright. If you say so then...then I believe you."

Peter let out a breath he seemed to have been holding the entire time they'd been talking. But Tony wasn't done just yet. He rested his arm on the lip of the bench behind the teen's back, Peter blinking in confusion at the move before meeting Tony's gaze once more. "But Peter, I need you to know...I just...I just want you to know that you can talk to me if you need to, alright? I think it's safe to say you've got a lot more on your plate than the average teenager."

The boy glanced away at that, for it was fairly obvious the man was talking about more than just Spider-Man.

"So I think you're entitled to a couple of rant sessions every month. Lord knows that's what I use Pepper and Rhodey for, or even DUM-E if it's something super embarrassing," he muttered before growing a grin as he caught sight of the small smile on Peter's face. "So...if you need to talk about anything, then don't hesitate alright?" He paused for a moment, chewing on his words before continuing. "I like to think that you like being at the tower, doing all this..." he gestured towards the park. "...random stuff with me." Another pause. "Am I wrong to think that?"

Immediately, Peter was jumping forward. "No! No, not at all!" He rushed, eyes wide and sparking with a hint of life that Tony had been searching for the entire time. "I love it at the tower, believe me. I..." He glanced around the park before letting out another small sigh, this one followed up with a soft smile. "I...like doing this stuff, too."

Tony stared at the boy for a moment before smiling back, turning away as he leaned against the back of the bench again. At least the boy finally seemed to be relaxing. "Good. I like to think this is working on the both of us, honestly."

Peter furrowed his brows in confusion, tilting his head towards the man. "What do you mean?"

"Well, ! don't know about you, but taking a leisurely stroll through Central Park isn't really something I do on a daily basis," he scoffed, Peter letting out a soft chuckle from beside him.

The billionaire shrugged his shoulders. "But I mean, it's nice to do this after a day of yelling at bureaucrats and stuck-up politicians. Taking a little time to unwind away from all the crazy shit I usually have to deal with is pretty therapeutic, or at least that's what Rhodey says. I don't really know. I usually stop listening by that point," he smirked, thrumming his fingers across the rough wooden surface. "I guess he's right. Back when he was working alongside more military personnel, he'd say one of the best ways to relax is to find some sort of diversion, a distraction to keep your mind off of your real problems." He waved a hand dismissively in the air before huffing in amusement, glancing around at the fairly empty park. "I guess that's sort of what we're doing here, huh?"

The man began to say something else, but Peter found he wasn't listening. Tony's words were ringing around in his ears, deafening him to whatever else might have been said as his thoughts became much too loud. Something about the words themselves wasn't sitting right with him, made him squirm ever so slightly in his seat. He tried to ignore it but found that one specific word continued to pop up before his eyes each time he tried to refocus.

Distraction.

He stared down at the ground as Mr. Stark continued to speak. He had to admit, working at the tower, eating lunch at Delmar's, even the Decathlon meet, all of it had been fairly distracting to everything else going on around him, which is what he'd assumed the man was attempting to do, distract him from everything happening with the Cons, with his father.

But he had never assumed that's all it had been...at least for him.

Throughout everything that had happened, Peter found that he wanted to be around Mr. Stark, he wanted to do all these things with him, and it wasn't just because he wanted something distracting to keep him occupied for hours upon hours on end. If that's all he wanted he could just as easily go to the library and pick out a book or three or even start diving for spare parts in dumpsters again to tinker with at home. Those were distractions, random inane tasks that didn't do anything other than fill the space in his head, leaving little room for anything else that might try and slip in.

Is that what he thinks of me? Just something to fill the space?

He felt his heart beginning to hammer, shaking his body with the full force of each thud.

Is that really why he's been doing this? Just to divert his attention? Keep his mind occupied?

His fingers began to curl into the bench, the wood splintering with each twitch.

Is that all I am to him? Just another tool?

("He doesn't care about you.")

The wood flew up with a harsh crack, splinters flying into the air from where Peter's fingers had literally crushed them. Tony's eyes widened in shock and he quickly forgot whatever it was he'd been saying as Peter shot up to his feet, panting heavily as his eyes held a look of unrestrained horror.

"Peter?! Hey, are you alright?"

The boy didn't look at him, simply brought a hand up to wrap around his throat, body shivering in place as he heaved. "I...I-I can't b-breathe..."

Instantly, Tony's eyes bulged even wider and he was rushing forward. "O-okay, okay, alright umm..." How the hell was he supposed to do this? He didn't know how to help someone through an attack like this. He didn't even know how to help himself through one!

"Just...j-just sit back down and try to focus, alright? Just...just focus on my voice and try and take deep breathes." He didn't even know if Peter was hearing him as the boy stood frozen, eyes wild and face ashen-white as he literally gasped for breath. "Focus on the air moving through your lungs, Peter. Alright? It's okay."

The teen shook his head. "No...I-I...I just..."

Tony reached out to try and gently guide the kid back onto the bench, only for Peter to rear back with a yelp of pain as the billionaire touched his arm. Seeming to snap himself out of his stupor, Peter rushed back and cradled the arm to his chest, eyes finally landing on Tony. Only they were wild and scared.

The man stepped closer, his own heart pounding as he recalled the feeling of bones shifting underneath his grip. "What's the matter? What's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing!"

He moved closer again, Peter stumbled backwards. "Here, let me see it."

"I..I-I..."

He reached out and latched onto Peter's hand, effectively shortening the distance between them as Peter literally cowered away from him. He brushed the boy's jacket sleeve up, eyes widening as he caught sight of the thick bandages coating the shivering limb. He could feel ice beginning to seep into his veins. "Peter..." He breathed, fingers running along the bandages "Peter, what is this?"

The boy shook his head, breaths coming in short gasps. "N-nothing. It's nothing, Mr. Stark. P-please, I just-"

"No, it's not nothing, Peter!" his eyes scoured over the boy's hands as he flipped them over in his grasp, noticing the bright red scars puffing up against the pale white. He followed the trail to where it disappeared underneath the bandages, gaze lifting to the boy's neck. "Look it goes...is it on your neck, too?!"

"No...n-no...I just...I-"

"What the hell is this, Peter?! Are these burns?" He squinted his eyes at the wounds before rearing back with a look of sheer dismay, a shiver running down his spine as he felt his limbs locking up, brain seeming to blitz to a complete and grinding halt. "Fractal scars...these are electrical burns..." he breathed, voice shaky and horrified. Peter stared at him with the same shaken look in his eyes as Tony shook his head in disbelief. "Where the hell did you get this badly hurt?! There were no messages on the suit and I-"

"Please stop...please!" Peter practically begged, chest stuttering as the air refused to move into his lungs. "Really, it's nothing! It's just a few burns, that's all!"

Tony's eyes blazed, he didn't even know what he was feeling right now, everything was happening too fast and the kid was looking at him in fear and pain and he didn't know what to do! "These aren't just a few burns, Peter. These are electrical scars. Fractal trails. Do you know how many volts of electricity it takes to get that kind of scarring? People get these after getting struck by lightning, kid! And it's not just a one time thing. These kinds of scars are built up over and over again with..." he trailed off, heart sinking right into his churning stomach as he felt his hand begin to shake, his grip on Peter faltering. "...w-with repeated exposure."

Peter shut his eyes, turning his face away as he shook his head, tears brimming but refusing to fall as he repeated the same mantra over and over again. "It's nothing. It's nothing. Please just...just let it go."

Tony stared at him, voice much quieter than before. "They aren't nothing, Peter."

"Yes they are. Y-yes they are."

The man stood there for a moment, eyes seeming to burn holes into Peter's face before he removed his hand from the boy's wrist, Peter quickly cradling the arm to his chest once more, only for the teen to pause as he watched Tony begin to roll up his sleeve, revealing the small winding trails of fractal scars that looped around the billionaire's forearm and disappeared under the fabric of his sleeve. They were much paler and less pronounced than Peter's, but there were there and it looked like they'd been there for a long time.

He stared at the sight, chest heaving and breathing quick and erratic. He didn't say anything for a moment before he slowly lifted his gaze to stare at Mr. Stark, the man gazing at him with a resigned, tired face. "No...they aren't." Tony murmured softly before folding the sleeve down once more to cover the scars. He stepped forward again, causing Peter to backtrack as he approached. "Peter...Peter, look at me," he called softly, hand coming to rest on the teen's uninjured shoulder.

Peter turned his eyes away again, biting down on his bottom lip as he clenched his eyes shut. "Please don't do this..." he whimpered.

"Peter..." The man's voice was soft, warm, comforting. Dangerous. "...tell me what happened."

Dangerous. Dangerous. "You seem to be forgetting your place."

"No. Nothing...N-nothing happened. Why?! Why can't you understand that?!" He practically sobbed, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Tony continued to move forward, unswayed. His face remained calm, his voice level. "Tell me, Peter."

("We require some very special forms of discipline.")

"I can't. I won't!"

He thought about running, of turning and sprinting away as fast as possible before the man got close enough to catch him. But suddenly Peter's eyes were springing open as he felt two warm hands reach up and cup the sides of his face, gently turning his head so that his eyes were now staring at Mr. Stark's face. The man's own brown eyes were dark with worry, soft and practically begging Peter to talk, to give up and give in, to dive right into those deep brown pools and get swallowed up in the comforting warmth, safe and secure.

"Peter...tell me what they did to you."

He breathed, soft and fast. He could hear his heart hammering against the walls of his ribs, painfully loud in his ringing ears.

"I..." His throat was thick, the words sticking to the walls.

Tony didn't back down. This was it. This was the moment they'd been building to for the past two months. They couldn't wait any longer. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to lay it all down on the table now. There was no going back.

"Look at me. I can help you. I can protect you I - yes I can." He cut in as Peter shut his eyes and pitifully shook his head. "Hey, yes I can. Peter, I can help you, I promise I can...but you have to let me. You have to tell me what happened. Tell me what they did to you. Let me help you."

Peter could feel the tears in his eyes. They didn't fall. "M-Mr. Stark..."

"Peter...trust me."

Everything seemed to freeze at those two words, those two little words that might otherwise seem so inconsequential. two words that were uttered every single minute of every single day with no real weight. But for Peter, those two little words made everything stop right then and there. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare back at Mr. Stark's face, concerned and pleading.

The words were building up in his throat before he could stop them, pounding against his head and beating behind his eyes. He was choking on them as they fought to push past his lips. They were heavy. They were heavy and they hurt and he was so tired of carrying them.

But he could let them go right now.

Just open his mouth, let the words out, let them do all the work. He could give in and let go and finally rest. Mr. Stark...Mr. Stark could do this. He could help him. He'd been doing it for months. He'd been by his side for months, waiting for this exact moment. And Peter could finally give it to him, finally give him what he'd been after all this time.

He sucked in a breath. It was cold and burned his throat, burned his lungs.

. . .

His eyes were shining, wet with tears.

. . .

His hands were shaking, his whole body was shivering.

. . .

He opened his mouth...

. . .

He saw it.

The butterfly was small, no bigger than his hand. It was pitch black with tiny white spots and a long lithe body that matched the broad speckled wings. It fluttered in the breeze, small and insignificant as it weaved between the branches of the blossoming tree above. Yet it's bold black wings seemed to latch onto the petals like a leech, blotting out the color entirely and coating the petals in inky black drops.

It watched from above.

("You're a waste of space.")

"Nothing but a science experiment we like to keep around to play with.")

("Stark doesn't care about anyone other than himself and he's willing to do a lot to prove that.")

...Watched

("You're just another blip to him, kid!")

("He'll tell you what you want to hear, give you what you want, but the second you're no longer useful to him he'll throw you away!")

("He didn't care about us and he certainly doesn't care about you.")

...Watched.

("A loser like you won't ever be anything!")

("And everyone around you already knows it!")

("You belong to me, you little rat. And that will NEVER change, no matter what men like Tony Stark say.")

Waited.

("He can't help you. He can't even help himself.")

Peter blinked and swallowed his heart. "I can't."

"Peter."

"I can't do this." He wrenched himself out of the man's grip and began to back away. "I...I have to go." His voice was ice. His veins filled with cement.

Tony reached out for him as the boy continued to stumble back. "Peter, wait-"

"No!" Peter snapped, raising a hand to the man. It shook in the air like one of the petals in the trees above, fragile, delicate, ready to drop on a whisper of a breeze. "Don't...please don't." His voice cracked and he could feel the air stuttering in his lungs. "I...I'm sorry. Really, I-I am. It's nothing, Mr. Stark. I p-promise...I promise it isn't."

"Peter I-"

But the boy was already turning away. "I need...I-I need to go. I'm sorry for taking up your...your time but I really need to-"

"PETER!"

He froze, shoulders tight as he slowly turned to stare at the man. Tony looked like he was about to run forward to the teen again, but knew that if he tried, Peter would just run. He held out his own hand, extending it towards the boy. Peter watched it, swallowing down the bile rising in the back of his throat. He couldn't break down. He couldn't do it. Not here, not now. But he couldn't look away from the man's reaching hand...reaching for him.

"Please...please stay. Just..." Tony seemed to struggle for the words. His hand started to shake. He didn't retract it. "Just...j-just talk to me."

Peter stared at him as a singe tear fell down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "I'm sorry..."

And he ran. He didn't know how but he ran. He ran and he didn't stop, not even when he felt his stitches tear and blood dripped down his leg.

Tony could do nothing but stare as he watched the boy disappear into the trees. His hand still hovered in the air. He blinked, slowly drawing the air through his lips, shaky and jagged. His arm slowly lowered. He brought it to his chest, clutching his wrist as the phantom pains returned full force. But he didn't look down to check on the arm. He just stood, stood and stared.

A slow frozen shard of ice began to form in his chest, crawling over his ribs and around his lungs. Two months...and it still wasn't good enough.

He still wasn't good enough.

He stood and he didn't move, not even when a small black butterfly flew down and landed on his shoulder.

It watched.