Thursday - April 28, 2016

New York City - Unknown Location

02:13 a.m.

The ship hovered idly in the air for a moment before slowly dropping down to the wet, puddle-filled ground. The back hatch quickly opened up, exposing the Rogues to the chilly night air and the frigid rain that fell around them. They quickly made their way into the warehouse, Steve hovering by the main doorway as he stared out at the ship. He glanced down at the small remote in his hands that Shuri had instructed came with the ship. He clicked a small button on the side, watching as the wings of the jet began to fold in on themselves before retracting into the body, the ship now resembling the size of a car rather than a Quinjet. The paneling on the outside shimmered before the reflectors flipped on, the ship remaining visible for a second longer before disappearing in the dark.

Steve stared in disbelief for a moment before giving a small shake of his head. He missed the days when the most technologically advanced thing he'd ever seen was a metal frisbee that occasionally ignored the laws of physics.

Still, he breezed past the thought and stepped into the warehouse, now aware of the argument building among the others.

"Clint, I said I'm fine! It's just a scratch. It's nothing."

The archer stared Wanda down with an unimpressed look, the girl throwing him an annoyed one in response. "Scratches aren't nothing, especially considering this isn't a scratch. Please, just...go with Scott and let him redress your arm."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "No. I want to stay and talk about this," she insisted, obviously referring to the debrief they were scheduled to have now.

Sam, Scott and Natasha were storing away their gear as the argument ensued, but quickly turned towards the commotion as it only brewed louder. Scott stepped closer and placed a hand on Wanda's shoulder, knowing he was at least semi-involved. He smiled. 'It's fine. We can just-"

Wanda shrugged his hand off and turned her heated look on him. "It's not fine. They're trying to get rid of us!"

Natasha walked over to Clint. "It's not like that, Wanda."

"How so? What, just because we're the latest to join the team means we won't understand? I'm not stupid!" she seethed.

Steve decided that was a good time to make himself known, coming up behind the girl and placing two calming hands on her shoulders. "Nobody's calling you stupid."

She whirled around to stare at him, the irises of her eyes gleaming with a bright red tint. "Well, obviously you don't trust me enough to let me listen in, to let me be a part of the discussion."

Steve tried to bite back a sigh. Wanda had been growing more...agitated as the months dragged on, expressing her displeasure at their situation, insecurity at her place on the team and even of her own powers at times.

Before the issue of the Accords had dropped a bomb on them, Steve had been attempting to coach her, both in terms of her powers and as a member of the team. She was the youngest and the most inexperienced. Plus all of her training had been at the hands of a known Nazi organization, so the credibility of such was slightly lacking.

But now it seemed more and more that the girl was questioning her placement on the team and the trust her teammates placed in her. Steve didn't really know what had brought it on, maybe it was just the stress of being on the run or of having the world constantly calling her a monster. But whatever it was, it was making the girl more and more insecure and anxious as the days wore on.

With that in mind, the man opened his mouth to calm the girl down, only for Scott to beat him to it as he gently grabbed the girl's wrist, catching her attention. "Look, Wanda, just...take a second, okay?" he started calmly, in a tone of voice that was much softer and gentler than Scott's usual chipper and hyperactive bouncing. "They're not trying to get rid of us. You're hurt. You need to get that looked at and rest," he said, glancing down at the bandage that had been wrapped around the girl's upper arm.

She glared down at it. "I'm fine-"

"Let me finish," Scott said in a firmer tone that made all of them blink in mild surprise. "Yeah, we're the newest ones on the team, but that doesn't mean they're calling us stupid." He shrugged. "It's just that we don't have the most experience with this stuff. They do. They're kind of the pros at this. We're still fresh meat."

She turned to him, voice slightly calmer. "All the more reason to let us stay. We could learn something!"

"Any other time, I'd agree," he continued with a soft smile and a gentle tap to her shoulder. "But this is serious stuff going on here and they need to be able to talk amongst themselves with people who know what they're talking about, people who have dealt with this kind of stuff before. I know I've never dealt with illegal arms dealers and underground black market activity disguised as government work bends." He paused and quirked a brow at her. "Have you?"

Wanda stared at him for a moment before blowing out a sigh and glancing down at the ground. "No."

"Alright. So...let's let them do what they do best. And in the morning, they can fill us in. It's not like they're planning on leaving us in the dark forever, right?" He pointed this last question to the others, Steve quickly answering for them. "Of course not. We just...need to talk alone. I need some...expert opinions on this."

Wanda stared at the soldier for a minute, eyes hard before she relented, swallowing thickly as she rubbed her bandaged arm. "Alright...but only if you promise to tell us everything in the morning. And I mean everything."

Steve nodded. "Of course."

The girl continued to stare at the ground, obviously not satisfied. Scott let a small chuckle fall from his lips as he wrapped an arm around the girl. "Trust me, kiddo. This has got nothing to do with a lack of trust, alright? I mean, how could they not trust you? They literally leap off of buildings with nothing to catch them but you. Which, I'd like to add, is just about the coolest thing I've ever seen. Well...almost."

He lifted his hand to brush up against the girl's hair, only to suddenly pull a playing card out from behind her ear. She blinked at the card, watching as he twisted it around in his fingers before smirking at her. "I mean...it's hard to top that, right?"

She stared at him for a bit before cracking a smile and letting out a little laugh. "It is pretty hard to beat."

Scott passed her the card. "Why don't you hold onto that for me and go set up the medical supplies. I'll be over there in a second. Maybe if you're an extra good patient I can teach you a couple more tricks."

The girl rolled her eyes but the smile remained and she didn't protest the offer as she walked off.

The others watched her leave before Sam was clapping Scott on the back. "Not bad, man. How'd you do that?"

Scott smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "That? That was easy. You should see me try to convince a 7-year-old to finish her math homework. Not gonna lie, I can only count how many apples Sally has in her basket before I crack," he sighed, Clint shooting him a knowing look and a sympathetic nod.

Steve chuckled and folded his arms. "And the card trick? Didn't peg you for the magic type."

"What? You think I'm gonna hire someone to entertain my kid at a birthday party? Please!" he called over his shoulder as he walked off.

 

---

 

Sam folded his arms from his seat at the makeshift table, which was really just a collection of boxes that had been scattered around the warehouse, all of their files and papers strewn atop it. "So, how are we supposed to figure out who the rat is? I doubt that sort of info's just sitting around on someone's desktop hard drive," he muttered, glancing around at the others.

They'd been discussing the topic of what they'd discovered at the facility for over an hour now, Cap and Natasha filling in both Sam and Clint on what they'd found on the servers. Scott and Wanda had long since fallen asleep in their makeshift beds, Steve making a point to remind them to keep their voices low.

"I was thinking about that on the flight back," Natasha started, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. "The majority of the hauls the DC facility has been collecting have come in from Manhattan, leftover tech from the 2012 attack, right?" They nodded. "Well, we just have to find out more information on who's in charge of the haul transfers for Manhattan, considering this is where the tech leaks are coming from."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "That would be the head of the Damage Control New York division. They'd have access to all information about the haul sites and the drive routes. Not to mention when the best times to hit said trucks would be."

Steve noticed the others casting wary glances at each other, knowing there was a high probability that the head of the division was the leak himself. He decided to address their unspoken thoughts. "We don't know for certain that he's involved, whoever he is. But it's a start. At the very least, the head of the division most likely has access to the database we need, the names and information of any and all suspects."

Natasha pressed her tongue into the inside of her cheek and cocked a brow. "The only problem is the DDC New York office is smack dab in the middle of Manhattan." She uncrossed her legs and leaned in. "This isn't some isolated storage facility on the outskirts of a DC forest. This is right in the heart of the city, with cameras and eyes everywhere."

Steve remained silent for a moment, resting his elbows against the crate and folding his hands together. She was right. Pulling off a job like this would be immensely harder than the one they'd just pulled. The chances of them being spotted, or worse, caught were much higher in a populated metropolitan area where there weren't many places to hide.

"We'll have to plan," he finally murmured lowly, the others turning to him. "And it's gonna have to be tight. We draw attention to ourselves here and we'll have no choice but to leave and move hideouts, which will only make things harder now that we're getting closer to actual answers."

Sam lifted his brows for a second and rested an arm over the lip of his chair. "Not to mention if we bring Ross or his goons or...hell, Stark himself sniffing around, who knows when we'll be able to safely go out again."

Clint's eyes narrowed as his jaw tightened. "I'm not afraid of Ross, or his iron attack dog."

"Well you should be," Natasha snapped, obviously not in the mood for Clint's rilings. "As long as he has the keys to the Raft, he's a threat and one we should make a point not to aggravate."

"Enough," Steve piped in before Clint could respond with an undeniably sharp retort. "We'll worry about Ross later. Right now," he reached into his pocket and held up the flash drive they'd loaded with the server info from the DDC, "this takes priority. This is bigger than any of us were expecting. We have to take this seriously. If not, who knows how many people will get hurt, how many lives those weapons will destroy. Hell, who knows how long this could go on if this guy isn't caught?"

Nobody said anything at that, the gravity of his words filling the room with palpable tension. It was no secret how big this was getting, bigger than just a few goons smuggling underground weapons. This was stretching higher and higher up on the chain of commands the longer they stayed on the trail. Who knew how high up this went, how high it would continue to go?

Steve took the last few moments to discuss when they'd start tacking down a real plan, complete with times to start contacting Hill to fill her in as their informant before dismissing the others to go and rest. Their day had been long to say the least.

The others didn't put up too much of a fuss considering at this point they were basically dead on their feet as it neared four in the morning. He excused himself from the table while Clint and Sam walked off towards their corners of the warehouse, murmuring quietly to each other as they left.

Steve watched them walk off before turning away and glancing over at the rickety stairwell in the corner, which led up to the large catwalk overhead. He hesitated for a heartbeat, debating whether or not he should heed his own advice and call it a night before letting out a small sigh and making his way up the stairs.

He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

The catwalk itself was fairly wide, most likely able to fit at least six people standing shoulder to shoulder, with thick railings along the sides. The walk extended around the entire warehouse, stretching along each of the four walls before reconnecting back where it started at the stairwell. Steve ran his hands along the rusted metal of the railings before stopping at one of the many massive windows that dotted the walls.

It was still raining outside, the inky skyline so black and foggy the soldier couldn't even see the outline of the distant buildings. He could hear the rain though, hear it pounding against the metal roof, sharp and distinct. It was like a rolling wave, the rain weakening in moments before growing stronger in others, the noise cascading in rhythm to the changes.

The man gently ran his fingers over the flash drive in his pocket, tracing the etched lines and grooves of the device. After a little bit, the metallic thrumming was joined by the familiar sound of footsteps approaching on the rickety catwalk. Steve didn't turn away from the window as Natasha joined him, her shoulder brushing up against his as she sidled up.

"We're finally getting somewhere," he said after a few beats of silence.

She scratched at her cheek. "Yeah...but are we really sure it's somewhere we want to be?"

Steve blew out a sigh and shut his eyes, knowing they'd revisit this conversation eventually. Still, he'd hoped the woman would save it for another time, or just forget it entirely, but he knew it was just a pipe dream. "We can't just ignore this, Nat. This...little we're doing...at least it's something." He turned to her, bright blue eyes meeting vivid emerald. "We're still Avengers, no matter what the rest of the world says, no matter what Ross or...Tony says." The woman's eyes twitched at his hesitance. He pretended not to see it.

"And while we still hold that title...we do what we can." He turned back towards the window, eyes hard. "I can't just...stand by and let people get hurt because I'm too afraid to do anything. I can't. That's not who I am."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not asking you to be that. I never would." She rolled her eyes. "You'd never listen anyway, so there'd really be no point."

Steve huffed a small chuckle. Natasha continued with a more sober tone. "I'm just...I want you to be smart about this, Steve. It isn't just you that you need to think about, here. It's them." She angled her head down towards the ground level. They were both high enough that they could see into the sectioned off sleeping quarters of the warehouse.

They could see Sam sitting on his makeshift mattress, reading a book by the light of a spare flashlight. Wanda was already fast asleep, curled up against Scott's chest, who was sitting on his mattress with his legs stretched out and his back propped up against the wall. The man's eyes were closed, but he cracked them open as Clint approached, throwing the archer a humored look as he plopped down next to him. Clint rolled his eyes, but gave no complaints as Wanda rolled over slightly so that her head was now cushioned by the men's shoulders, her body positioned right between them both. They said nothing as Scott went back to sleep and Clint turned his head to glance out the nearby window.

Steve watched for another moment before turning away. He didn't need Natasha to remind him of what was at stake here, not just the lives of innocent civilians, but his own teammates.

He glanced down at the railing, fingers curling slightly around the metal. He knew he had a job to do. He was an Avenger, whether the rest of the world wanted to acknowledge it or not. He had a duty, a responsibility to protect the people down in that city, in the surrounding cities, in every city he could reach. He had a duty to protect every man, woman, child, every family that needed it.

Still...he cast one last glance at the others down below.

It never got easier...putting his own family at risk.

So with that, Steve turned back to Natasha, jaw set. "There's another manufacturing plant that Hill said is rumored to be somewhere in Queens. I'm gonna investigate tonight."

Natasha sucked in a breath and threw him an exasperated look. "Steve..."

"Just reconnaissance. Don't worry."

The woman continued to give him an unpleased look. She thought about offering to go with him, but could tell there was something lurking in his eyes, a reason to his sudden declaration. It was obvious the man wanted to do this alone, or else he would have set up a group operation. She considered pressing him on the matter, but decided against it, realizing if there was something he wanted to tell her, her poking and prodding wouldn't get him to open up any faster, despite her impatient thoughts.

So instead, the woman huffed and shook her head. "With you, I always worry. You have a knack for being an idiot, which usually leads to trouble."

The man smiled and bumped her gently with his arm. "Well...guess it's a good thing you always have my back, huh?"

She stared at him for a moment, taking in the unwavering trust that shone behind those stupidly brilliant eyes, eyes that had been shining for the past four years that she'd known them, ever since that first day on the Helicarrier.

It was safe to say they'd both changed in more ways than one since those days. Steve, fresh out of the ice, newcomer to just about everything. His discomfort had been obvious and understandable. He was a man out of time, plopped into a new world that wasn't his own. And Natasha...well, she'd never had people call her by the same name for so long before, to say the least.

It had been rough, both back then and now. It seemed that whenever they stopped one crisis, another was taking it's place. And when they couldn't find a crisis, they made one within themselves.

But despite everything, despite the hardships and the fights and the struggles, the politics and shootings and monsters, as she stared into those eyes that refused to give up, refused to stand down, Natasha Romanoff could say something now that she never could of said four years ago on that Helicarrier: that she would lay her life down in a heartbeat to save her friend, to save her brother, just as she knew he would, too.

So with that, the woman rolled her eyes and flicked the man in the shoulder.

"You're such a dork, Rogers."

 

---

 

Date: Ap#vrT4/v

Location: ?hh*88%

Time: 0s..ygZ#r

Peter blinked open his eyes and breathed.

He glanced around, eyes flitting back and forth as he stood rigid, muscles tense and mind racing.

He existed...somehow. One second, he'd been nothing, felt nothing, just a consciousness floating around in empty space. And the next he was here, standing in the middle of the downstairs hallway. At least, he thought it was the downstairs hallway. It looked...different somehow. He stared long and hard at the walls, the peeling wallpaper and the faded green rug underneath his feet. Huh...that was odd. He wasn't wearing any shoes. Why wasn't he wearing shoes? Why was he down here anyway? Why couldn't he remember coming downstairs?

The teen blew out a small breath, surprised at the white mist that trickled through his lips. He shivered and rubbed at his bare arms. That was weird, too. He never went out without a jacket on anymore. Too many scars to cover up. He looked down at his arms and balked as he realized the scars were gone! His fingers were rubbing at smooth skin!

"Okayyy...?"he mumbled to himself, starting to get weirded out. What was going on?

He took a hesitant step forward, feeling the soft carpet squishing underneath his bare feet. The feeling felt somehow...familiar. As he warily began to tread down the hallway, his eyes caught sight of a few photo frames hanging on the walls up ahead.

But...we don't hang photos anymore...

He approached them with scrunched eyes, blinking in shock as he caught sight of the first photo.

It was a picture of him and his mom, at least...that's what he assumed it was. The photo itself held him as a toddler sitting on the lap of a woman. But he couldn't make out her face. Her head was blurred out, nothing but a smudge of swirling colors where her face would have been. The teen took a step back before glancing at the other wall and finding even more photos, all containing him as a baby and the woman with the same blurred face. His gut clenched as he stepped away from the walls and continued down the hall.

As he walked, the photos continued to come. But they were...changing? There was a picture of twelve-year-old him standing with May at a grave sight, smiling happily and holding ice cream cones and balloons. There was another of him in his Spider-Man suit, posing with the Cons in a normal group photo, even complete with bunny ears. But his suit...it was black, the spider emblem a stark white. And there was a polaroid picture pinned to the wall with a thumbtack, with writing scrawled on the bottom line: Me and Danny. But when he looked up at the actual photo, it was just him, with his arm around empty air.

He continued to swivel his head around to stare at the increasing number of photos adorning the wall, each and every one of them...off in some form. Peter smiling next to strangers, his father and Mr. Stark shaking hands. Hell, there were some photos that were of nothing but butterflies, close-up shots that revealed the tiny details of their wings and their delicate shades of color.

It wasn't until he started approaching the end of the hallway that he noticed the final picture.

It was of him and Mr. Stark, but even this one seemed...wrong. They were both smiling at the camera in what appeared to be the Tower. But every time Peter blinked, the picture changed. With each shift of his eyes, the background began to fill with more and more butterflies. First there was just one or two behind them, seemingly unnoticeable. But every time he turned away and glanced back, there were more of them in still-picture form, more and more swarming the photo until eventually they blocked out both Peter and Tony's faces.

He could almost hear them through the confines of the picture, their wings beating furiously in time with his rising heartrate.

He didn't like this.

Peter narrowed his eyes and reached forward, grabbing the frame by the sides. He reared back as it jolted in his hands, almost as if the butterflies were literally coming alive off the paper. But instead of dwelling, the teen lifted his hands and smashed the picture on the floor.

Instantly, a cloud of butterflies shot into the sky, erupting from the remains of the photo. Peter gasped and lifted his arms over his head, stumbling back until he hit the wall as the swarm filled the hallway. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled his arms protectively over his head as he heard them fluttering around him, slamming into the walls and colliding with his body before they finally began to pool down the seemingly never-ending hallway, disappearing into the darkness and leaving him in total silence.

He gasped for breath, eyes wide as he stared off into the black void where they'd disappeared, latching a shaking hand onto the front of his shirt. His frantic eyes slowly drifted back down to the photo frame. The wood had broken into pieces and the glass had shattered, leaving the actual photo lying underneath the broken remnants. Peter hesitated for a moment before warily approaching, stooping down and brushing the glass and wood aside before picking up the picture and flipping it over, stomach dropping.

The photo was empty, simply showing the background of Stark Tower. He and Tony were gone, as if they'd never been in the picture in the first place.

Erased.

Peter aggressively flicked the photo to the ground as if it had physically burned him. He stared at it with panicked eyes before whipping his head back up. What the heck is going on here?!

Suddenly, his ears perked and his head lifted as the teen heard something. It was soft and hard to hear, but he could still pick it up. It sounded like...humming? What?

The teen turned his head as he realized it was coming from the end of the hallway. He glanced back at the wall of pictures, his gut clenching in worry before he blew out a breath and shrugged his shoulders. What else was he gonna do? Sit in the hallway with the demon photos? No, thanks.

So, with a small roll of his shoulders, Peter began down the hallway again. Distantly, he could have sworn he heard the soft fluttering of more wings, but every time he looked back to check, there was nothing but the encroaching dark void that seemed to suck in more of the hall with each step he took. Finally, as he reached the end of the hall, he rounded the corner and quickly froze, eyes blowing wide and mouth falling agape.

It...it was his living room...from ten years ago!

It was exactly how he remembered it. The faded yellow wallpaper that clashed with the dark green carpet. The small crackling TV that held nothing but static and even the tiny rounded coffee table with a multitude of different marker and paint stains. There was a radio on one of the cabinets, softly chiming out a song Peter's fritzing mind didn't even register. The window curtains were drawn back, allowing the early-morning light to filter in, illuminating the tiny room in beautiful golden rays. Even the temperature had leveled out into a nice warm breeze. But what really made his heart stop was the woman sitting on the couch, facing him, head down as she tinkered with something in her lap, peacefully humming away.

His mother lifted her eyes and caught sight of him, smile growing on her face. "There you are, honey. Do you think you could grab that for Mommy, please?"

She gestured with her hand towards the table, where a small tool kit suddenly glitched into existence. Peter stared at her, body stuck as his mind tried to wrap around what was happening here. He could hear the blood rushing around his ears, the sound of his rattling breathing as his hands shook beside him.

Mary lifted her eyes as she seemed to notice the lack of movement. She tilted her head. "What's the matter, honey?" she called before giving a playful roll of her eyes and standing. "Fine. I'll get it myself."

"Mom..." the word trickled out of his mouth, a small little drip that splattered onto the floor.

He could hear the music a little clearer now. Eleanor Rigby...one of his mother's favorites. She glanced down at whatever was in her hand as she grabbed the tools and sat back down. "I think I'm finally making some progress here, huh?"

She held up the arc reactor that rested in her palm, light flickering dimly inside.

Peter took a small, shy step forward, heart pounding and stomach flipping all over the place. "You're...y-you're here?"

"Of course I am, silly? Where else would I be?"

He continued to stare, afraid that if he took his eyes off of her that she would disappear entirely. He couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his lips as he stepped closer. He knelt down on the floor right in front of her, drinking in the sight of her as a wave of relief swept through him so strongly he thought he'd collapse. Peter reached a hand forward to grab hers, only to watch as he simply passed right through her, her form glitching out before returning to normal.

He gasped and reared back slightly, wide eyes growing even larger. The warmth that had been blooming in his chest quickly froze over into icy realization as he stared up at her face, watching it continue to glitch before falling still. Her eyes had switched from a light blue to a deep green.

"This...this is a dream." He let out a small breath as he slowly lowered his hands into his lap, body physically deflating as he dragged his gaze to the green carpet below. "You're...you're not..."

She started humming, the noise rattling in her throat as she continued to fiddle with the invention in her hands.

Peter felt his stomach clenching as he shut his eyes tightly.

"Can we please change the song, Mary?"

His eyes sprung right back open at the new voice that entered. Peter whipped his head around and nearly fainted as Ben walked into the room, grimacing at the radio as he approached. "I can't stand this depressing shi-uh, stuff." He threw Peter a sheepish look and a smile. He thought his heart was going to burst right then and there. He could feel it buffering like a dying car battery.

"Ben..."

The man winked at him. "What's up, sport?" Ben got to the radio and flicked the knob on the side, shuffling through the static before landing on a...song? Whatever it was was garbled and warped, an audible mess that sounded like a song being played in reverse, leaving nothing but the distorted jumble of noise. Ben crinkled his eyes and smiled. "There. That's better. A classic."

Peter swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy as he raised himself up to his feet, a chilling shiver running up his spine. Something wasn't right here.

Mary rolled her eyes at Ben. "You're such a fart."

"Real mature. Do us a favor, Pete, and don't take too much after your mother, huh?"

Peter could hear the man laughing but quickly grimaced at the noise, wrapping his arms around himself as he stared at the carpet, trying and failing to wrap his mind around what was happening. His mother must have noticed his distress, for she set down the reactor and stood up. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

She glitched again.. Her eyes changed from green to brown and her hair turned a shade darker. But not only that, her voice also sounded...off. It was normal at times, but at the end of her sentences, it would go all fuzzy, a static noise that made it sound like she was speaking through a radio transmission, like the frequency was about to be lost.

(He couldn't remember her voice.)

His breath hitched as he stared up at her for a fraction of a second before ripping it away. He couldn't look at her, not when this wasn't even her.

"This...this isn't real." His voice was weak, trembling. "None of it is."

Mary chuckled. "Of course not, honey. I figured that much was obvious."

Peter blinked, but decided not to comment as his mother took another step closer, wrapping her hands over his shoulders. The touch felt cold, foreign. It was a stranger's hands. "Gosh, I'm just so proud of you, Peter."

This time, he did look up.

"I know it must be hard memorizing all those lines. Script reading is never easy. Oh, and of course all those clunky masks you have to wear must get so heavy. But you carry it all like a champ!"

At this, Peter's brows furrowed and he crinkled his eyes in confusion. "What? What...are you talking about?"

She continued on as if she hadn't heard him. "Oh, but it's all worth it so long as the audience is happy." She turned to stare at him. She glitched again. "It's all for the audience."

Faster than Peter could react, she shot her hand out and grabbed him by the chin, spinning his head to the side and forcing his eyes to the living room wall. Except...the wall wasn't there anymore.

Peter gasped as he saw that, where the wall used to be, there was now row after row of auditorium seats. He glanced around and realized that his living room had now transformed into a set piece on top of a stage. He gulped and took in the sights of the people in the actual seats, faces he recognized with a panicked glance: Ned, MJ, May, Delmar, Rosa, Murray, Mr. Harrington, Flash, Abe, Sally, Charles, even Pepper, Rhodey and Happy.

The people he did recognize, however, only took up about the first three rows. The others were filled with strangers, random bodies whose faces he couldn't make out. They were all swathed in shadow, unidentifiable.

Peter felt himself shaking and wrenched his face out of his mother's grasp, staring at her with horrified eyes. Whatever comfort he'd felt when he'd first seen her had quickly evaporated, only to be replaced with frenzied panic. He watched her take a seat back on the couch, placing one leg over the other as she reclined. Ben grabbed a seat on the ottoman.

"I...I don't understand."

The crowd let out a loud wash of laughter, making Peter flinch at the abrupt noise. As he listened, he realized the laugh was that of a sound bite, a laugh track that would play endlessly on the TV sitcoms. He blinked and glanced back at the actual audience, face pinching in distress as he realized none of them had actually moved. They were like statues. Their mouths weren't open. They weren't smiling. None of them were really laughing, but the track played on for another second before falling quiet.

"It's easy, baby."

Peter turned back to his mother as she spoke.

She gestured out with one hand at her surroundings. "This is just a show. All of it." She smiled and pointed at him. "You lie to your friends, cover yourself with mask after mask, disguising every last part of yourself in something better, something people want to see. Every day of your life, you put on an act. And I must say, you are one of the best actors I've ever had the pleasure of watching live. The director must be so pleased!" She chuckled and pointed behind Peter, causing him to whip around and stumble backwards in shock at the sight of his father standing off to the side of the stage, arms folded and face slackened back into an emotionless expression.

Peter choked on a strangled gasp as he stared at the man, jumping as he felt his mother come up behind him and grab him by the shoulders, spinning him around to face her as she spread her arms wide. "It's all a show and the world is your stage!"

He stared at her, mouth agape before he was turning his head back around to spy for his father, only to find that the man was gone. Peter grunted in frustration and shut his eyes, whipping back around to face Mary as she smiled down at him, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. He shook his head, recounting her words with a growing gnaw of anguish as he looked up at her with a pleading gaze. "But...I-I...I don't want to keep doing this," he murmured softly, glancing out at the rows of watching eyes, turning away with a wince before staring down at his hands. "I don't want to keep lying. I don't want to put on a performance." He let out a small sigh and dropped his hands back down to his sides.

"I just...wanna be me."

A loud "awww" sounded from the audience, another audio track that clipped at the end before cutting off again. Peter narrowed his eyes and shook his head, turning away to keep staring at the floor.

He could see his mother's shoes approaching. They didn't make any noise on the floor as she walked.

He felt her grab at his chin again, but this time the touch was gentle, soft. Peter closed his eyes as she cupped his face carefully, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks. For a brief moment, Peter felt a sliver of comfort, like he could pretend he was four years old again in his mother's arms.

Her fingers grew cold suddenly as her grip tightened. Peter opened his eyes and met her eerie stare and chilling smile. "Well...we hardly get what we want in life."

Peter blinked up at her before quickly pulling out of her grip, taking a step back as Ben pushed himself out of his seat with an exaggerated groan. Peter remembered the man would do that to make him laugh as a toddler. He felt sick hearing it again.

"I'll say. Cause honestly, I think I'd prefer to still be living," the man quipped. The laugh track sounded again. The audience still didn't move, didn't even breathe.

Mary scoffed and placed her hands on her hips as she gave the man a teasing smile. "Yeah? Well at least there are people who still remember your face. I can't even get a consistent eye color here!" she laughed, the noise making Peter's heart thud against his ribs and the guilt climb up his stomach.

Ben waved his hand. "Oh, please. You have no right to complain. At least he still mourns you. Apparently, I'm not even worth his guilt."

Peter physically recoiled at that as he took a step forward, face pained. "That's...that's not-"

"I figure I'm at least entitled to that considering you're the reason I'm dead."

Instantly, the air filled with a deadly silence as Peter's body locked up. The audience didn't make a noise. The radio ground to a slow halt, like it had run out of batteries. In fact, he couldn't hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in his head, rattling his brain as it tried to jump start back into remission.

Peter stared out at Mary and Ben, two people who had once brought so much light into his life. They gazed back at him with kind smiles and casual grins, but there was no warmth to be had. Peter could feel the cold snaking through his skin again, could feel it growing in his stomach as the guilt extinguished whatever flame had been melting away the ice. As he felt the frost begin to coat his throat, the only word that was able to escape the icy prison was,

"What...?"

Mary turned to him with a slight furrowed brow. "Oh, honey. Don't tell me you're shocked." She shrugged and smiled. "I thought it was obvious that the only reason we're dead is because of you.

"I...I-I..."

Mary began to run a hand through her hair, absentmindedly detangling a few strands as she continued on in a casual and carefree tone, as if she were discussing the weather. "I could have gotten out of the house. I could have left and run away, never to look back. But I didn't. I couldn't cause I had you. I had to protect you, and I died because of it. " She gestured towards her lifelong friend. "And Ben...well, he didn't even get the decency to die in his own home. He died on a cold, disgusting sidewalk because he tried to make you feel better, because he was protecting you."

Peter wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes were drilling holes into the carpet floor. He could feel the chill spreading, slicing up his arms in delicate little patterns, snaking up his muscles and through his bones, turning them brittle and breakable. The ice was in his lungs now. He couldn't breathe.

Mary took a step closer. Peter couldn't move. His legs were frozen to the stage. She stood behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders again, leaning closer. Her breath came out as a swirl of white mist. "Everyone who ever tries to help you suffers for it...and now history is repeating itself." She grabbed his chin again and forced him to look up.

"Mr. Stark..."

The man stood not five feet away, staring blankly at the boy. He looked like he'd just been underwater, his clothes were slicked back to his body and his hair was matted to his forehead, drops sliding down his cheeks and splattering onto the stage below.

The radio crackled off to the side and suddenly Peter heard his own voice filtering through, full of static and fuzz.

"You're getting wet..."

Mr. Stark opened his mouth, but didn't move his lips, not even as the man's words came through as if there was a speaker lodged in his throat. Peter shivered again.

"Yeah, cause apparently you'd rather have this conversation up on top of a metal tower in the middle of a goddamn thunderstorm."

Suddenly, the tiny TV in the corner of the room blared to life, causing Peter to gasp and jump in his spot. He could hear it whirring, fizzling as the grainy picture slowly began to come to life. Peter reluctantly dragged his eyes towards the screen.

He watched as the fuzz died down, displaying a scene that appeared to be from a month ago, when he and Mr. Stark had hidden from Pepper and Rhodey in the tower. It showed the man leaning up against the railing as they stood on the rooftop, face long and weary. His eyes were tired, holding a certain sadness. The image flickered again, changing to reveal him in the car with Peter as they drove to Delmar's for the first time. His face switched from a casual smile to a small frown as he glanced out the window. Again and again, the screen flickered from one image to another of different times from the past two months, showing faces Peter had never caught, looks the man hid from him.

He looked so...sad.

Mary tightened her grip on the boy's shoulders. "You really think this is a man who deserves more on his plate?"

Peter pulled his eyes away from the screen and back over to the man standing before him. The teen watched with a choked breath as a portion of skin at the corner of the billionaire's eye cracked, a long jagged scar that cut through the skin like it was made of porcelain.

"He's already dying, Peter. Are you really going to be the one to finish him off?"

More cracks began to appear all over the man's skin, on his face, his arms, his neck. Deep and black and crooked. Peter could feel tears pooling in his eyes as he reached a shaky hand forward, mind flashing to the outstretched hand Tony had extended to him in the park, on the bridge, a hand that had been extended for the past two months.

As he thought of the moments, Peter felt a brief flash of overwhelming guilt as he wondered whether or not Tony had been offering a helping hand...or reaching out for one.

"I...I just wanted someone to talk to. S-someone who...who understood."

The audio track looped again, a resounding "aww" that made Peter curl his free hand into a fist. He watched with baited breath as the man before him slowly began to reach his own hand up, ignoring the cracks and scars looping around the limb as he reached his fingers for Peter's.

"Nobody can understand, Peter. They're not allowed to."

As soon as their fingers made contact with each other, Mr. Stark's entire body exploded into a flurry of butterflies, the bugs swirling around the room in a massive cloud. Peter gasped and fell to his knees as the swarm flew past, filling his ears with the roaring sound of their wings beating furiously. He pressed his palms into his eyes and choked on a sob, grinding his teeth together as the butterflies began to evaporate into the air.

He wrapped his arms around himself, but they only made him shiver harder, for they were two thin blocks of ice. Tears dripped down his face, splattering onto his knees as he gasped for breath. It was too hard. His throat was so cold he thought it was going to shatter. The temperature in the room has dropped, the bright rays of sunlight now gone, leaving a starry swatch of purple and blue swirls outside the window. The audience slowly began to disappear, engulfed by the encroaching darkness, leaving only their living room floating in an endless expanse of nothingness.

Peter dragged in a painful breath, but it felt like inhaling tiny little needles that stabbed into his lungs. "I...I n-never wanted to...hurt anybody," he cried.

Mary stood overtop him, her glitching form seeming to suck in whatever warmth remained in his body. "So why do people always die around you?"

The ice had reached his heart now. He could feel it beginning to seep in. "I'm sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't bring us back, baby."

The frost was growing. He had to get this out now before it completely froze over. He lifted his head, eyes wide and pleading as the tears streamed down his face. "I miss you. I...I miss both of you. E-everything was so much...easier when you were here!" He shouted, voice growing in pitch as his heart raced, desperate to stay warm, stay alive. "Dad wasn't so horrible when you were here. And...and Ben...it was so easy to talk to you." He stared at the man, who gave him a gentle smile in return. "You made...everything so much better."

He paused, staring down at his hands. The tips were turning blue, icy. He tapped them together, hearing a soft clinking sound. "You...you made me feel safe. I just...I just wish I could feel that again, stop feeling..." he raised his hands up, watching the blue discoloration begin to spread further down his palm until his entire hand was pure ice. "...so cold. I'm...I'm so cold."

Ben huffed a laugh. "Just wait till you're dead."

From the darkness, the laugh track looped again. It shorted out and winded down into a deep drawl that grated into a guttural growl before cutting off altogether.

Mary slowly got down to her knees, cupping Peter's face with her hands. "Peter...baby...look at me, honey."

His brown eyes, now seeping into a cool blue, lifted to meet her gaze. "It's alright, baby. I know it's scary sometimes, but it's all just pretend!" He stared at her, brows furrowing. She continued, gesturing around her. "It's just a couple special effects, right? A couple of lights..."

The Dark Room's lights shot to life overhead, making Peter wince and squint his eyes.

"Maybe some sound effects..."

A roll of thunder clapped overhead, shaking the entire floor.

"And a couple of props!"

Peter tore his eyes off of the lights above him and over to where she had moved, blinking as he caught sight of Ned and MJ standing off to the side, expressions neutral and bodies stiff. Any relief he might have felt quickly turned to unease, remembering the butterflies from before. Mary walked over to them. "But it's all fake. All of it." She placed a hand on Ned's shoulder and pushed, revealing them to be mere cardboard cutouts that flopped to the floor with a small thud.

Peter didn't react. The ice had spread over his arms now. He could see the bones through the clear coating.

Mary approached him again, smiling warmly as she stooped down and ran a hand through his hair. "You just have to keep going, keep pretending...for them." She gently pushed his head to the side, angling his eyes out towards the dark void where the audience had been. There was nothing there now, a sea of blankness.

Ben cleared his throat from where he'd been leaning up against one of the chairs, throwing them both loose grins. "Alright, well I'm gonna tap out. I'm sure there are a couple of crosswords I can hear calling my name." He winked over at Peter. "Hey, sport. Be careful out there."

The man began to walk over to the edge of the living room, glancing back towards the boy. "Oh, and see if you can maybe kill May next, huh? It's be nice to see the wife again. I'm starting to miss her nagging."

His heart clenched, trying to fight the icy tendrils snaking around it.

The man threw them a wave before turning to face the darkness head on. "See you around!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a loud gunshot echoed around the room and suddenly Ben was wordlessly falling to the floor. Peter's eyes widened as he watched the man pass through the floor and disappear altogether.

"Ben!" he shouted, trying to lurch his kneeling body forward, only to find that the ice had now encased him from the floor up to his waist. Mary knelt down again, cupping his face as she whispered soothing words. "It's alright, Peter. It's okay," she shushed, wiping his tears as they fell. The room around them darkened even further, the starry sky outside fading away to be replaced with growing storm clouds. An churning boom of thunder rolled over them, a brief flash lighting outside.

Peter turned his wavering gaze to his mother, mouth chattering as the cold began to overwhelm him and a deep seed of dread curled around his spine, making him pant in fear as he stared at her. "Mom...m-mom..." He wanted her. He needed her here. He couldn't do this.

Whether she seemed to read his mind, or could just tell by the scared look on his face, she pressed her lips against his forehead and pulled him into a hug. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, trying to soak in any ounce of warmth, anything to stop the ice that was soon to engulf him. She pulled him away too soon though, staring at him with kind eyes. "Everything's going to be okay, I promise" With that, she lifted her hand and extended out a pinkie and suddenly Peter was four years old again, looping his tiny little finger with hers.

He stared at her, stared at the extended finger, at the promise it symbolized before his eyes darkened. The ice crawled up his neck. He could feel it spreading over his cheeks.

"How can you promise...when you aren't here to make it happen?"

She stared at him for a moment before lowering her hand. She didn't respond as she silently leaned back and stood up, taking a few steps backwards. Peter's chest thudded dangerously as he watched her stand before him, a tingling sensation spreading down the base of his neck, making the ice vibrate as he caught sight of a form standing right behind her, eyes glowing violently. She finally spoke.

"Everybody lies."

A gunshot cracked through the room and her body dissolved into a mass of butterflies exactly like before. Only this time, the bugs began to fill the room, beating and banging against the walls, crashing into one another as wings tore and tiny masses fell to the floor. Peter scrunched his eyes as he felt them flying around him, felt their wings licking up against his cheeks, crawling through his hair.

He tried to move his arms, crack through the ice and beat them away, but he couldn't move. He was completely helpless as they encroached upon him, crawling up his frozen limbs, around his face.

They pushed through his lips and crawled down his throat, choking him as they skittered down his body. Soon enough, he was filled with bright, beautiful butterflies with happy wings, happy colors, happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts...

 

---

 

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

04:23 p.m.

Over the years, Tony had grown quite accustomed to the taste of alcohol.

Since his first drink at thirteen, the man had quickly evolved his palettes to adapt to the taste, going on to partake in as many drinks as he could try. And he had tried them all. Drinking pints of beer Rhodey would reluctantly smuggle in for him in the doors, taking shots of tequila at New Years Eve parties with women he couldn't remember the names of ten minutes after meeting them, even some glasses of champagne at high-class functions or dinners with Pepper. From the fanciest Vodka to the cheapest bourbon, Tony had tried it all.

He could honestly say he'd tried a lot of things over the years. College hadn't just been textbooks and inventing, it had provided him with the tools to fill the gnawing pit inside of him. Alcohol, drugs, girls, college had been the gateway, opening up a path of bad ideas wrapped in ecstasy and one-night stands.

Of course, as he began to fill his time with suits of armor and world-ending missions - the drugs, the girls - he just didn't have time for it anymore.

But the alcohol...the alcohol stayed. As long as there were memories he longed to forget, the alcohol would always stay, an ironically sobering thought. Despite the depressing undertones, and despite Tony's years of tasting and partying and vomiting, nothing beat a simple scotch on the rocks.

Except maybe drinking it straight from the bottle, which he had been doing for the past six hours.

Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. After all, he'd passed out for a good four hours somewhere in the middle of that stretch. He wasn't entirely sure where, nor did he care to find out. As long as there was another bottle to replace the last, he didn't really much care about anything.

Tony sat on the floor of the penthouse, pressing up against the back of the couch as he faced the large glass walls overlooking the city. The lights were dimmed to near total darkness, matching the tint FRIDAY had graciously placed on the windows so that the glaring lights of the nearby buildings didn't make him hurl again. The steady pitter-patter of raindrops sliding down the glass made the man scrunch his face in annoyance.

("Kid, what are you doing out here?")

He was really starting to get sick of the goddamn rain.

Tony turned his narrowed eyes away from the window and the dreary sights as he brought the bottle of scotch up to his lips and took a swig. The bite still stung his throat, even after hours of drinking, much to his pleasure.

The brief thought of alcohol poisoning had floated through his mind at one point, which had literally made the billionaire laugh at loud. It seemed fitting that of all the ways for him to go, it wouldn't be by an alien attack or a jealous billionaire psychopath or at the hands of his own teammates, but instead by one of the only things that brought him any joy nowadays.

Of. Fucking. Course.

Tony quickly brushed the thought aside. He wasn't lucky enough to die anyway.

A loud vibrating noise made him jump from his seat on the floor and turn his head. His phone lay on the tile beside his knee, the screen bright as the caller ID flashed: Pepper. He watched it clatter on the floor, not even considering reaching for it. After a second, it fell silent, the notifications popping up.

57 MISSED CALLS:

- Pepper: 28 calls

- Rhodey: 19 calls

- Happy: 10 calls

Tony stared at the screen for another moment before turning his head away. He took another sip. It burned.

He supposed he should feel guilty. They'd been calling him nonstop since that morning, most likely when they'd discovered him missing and that their access to his private floor was restricted. That had been a few hours ago and they were still trying. Points for determination, he had to give them that.

("God, why can't you just GIVE UP?!")

He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see anybody right now. He just wanted to sit and drink and not have to think about anything! He couldn't handle thinking about anything right now! It was just too loud.

He could hear it. This little voice in his head that had been niggling at him the second he'd met Peter. It was the same voice that had warned him about getting involved with the kid, the same voice that told him this was something way beyond his scope of remedying, the same voice that told him he would only make things worse, that he only ever made things worse.

Well he hadn't listened. He had ignored it and now he was facing the consequences...because now he was listening. Listening to the sound of the kid's voice, the sound of the rain slapping him in the face, the sound of the wind screeching and the thunder crackling and the cars speeding. He was listening and now he couldn't make it stop.

("I don't understand! I don't understand you!")

He never should have taken the kid under his wing. He never should have gotten involved in his life in the first place. He'd brought him to Germany, to a fight that didn't even concern him all because Tony needed him, because he hadn't been able to handle things on his own, because he'd fucked up, because he wasn't good enough. Not then and certainly not now.

He knew it. Steve knew it. Even Peter knew it.

("This... this is all such a bad idea. You and me, we're such a bad idea!")

Maybe that's why he decided to drag the kid along, using Peter for his own sick gains, as a means to prove to himself that he was capable of doing things right. That Tony Stark could actually do something...good for once. Instead, he'd used the poor kid, distracting himself from his real problems while simultaneously making the boy's life harder than ever before. He'd tried to do good and in the process, he'd made everything worse!

("These past two months have been some of the worst of my entire life!")

But not only was he destroying Peter's life, he was destroying his own. The Accords were in shambles, Ross was a threat that grew in power ever passing day, the Rogues were loose and on the run. Everything was falling apart around him and all he could do was watch...all he could do was drink.

It burned.

Tony blew out a sigh and rested the back of his head against the couch, eyes glancing around the room.

The shadows were long, stretching out against the cold metal flooring and sleek jagged corners of the walls and tables, sucking in any traces of light and leaving nothing but dripping black marks that made his skin tingle and flare up as a wave of heat washed over his face.

Empty...so gut-wrenchingly empty.

Tony couldn't help but tighten his grip on the bottle as he stared at the couch that would have once housed numerous bodies, too many in fact.

Despite the assortment of other places for them to sit, they had always tried to fit as many people as possible on the couch. Usually it was him squished in with Cap while Natasha splayed her feet over their laps. Sam would sit on the floor by their feet, bowl of popcorn hoarded in his lap. Clint would sit in the armchair next to them, Wanda usually curling up in his lap whenever she wasn't with Vision at the compound. Together they'd pick some trashy flick or a classic Cap had never seen and waste the night binging shitty movies and making stupid jokes.

The vision faded and the burning sensation returned...only, he hadn't taken a drink. It was in his chest, a hot ball of fire that made his stomach churn painfully and his head splinter.

They were gone. There was no point reminiscing with those memories because they were gone and now he was the joke.

The heat grew, spreading throughout his skin, making his hands shake. He scrunched his eyes shut.

They were all gone. Taken or walked out. One or the other. His parents, Obie, Pepper, Steve, everyone. Gone. By choice or by design. It didn't matter which. The end result was always the same. He was alone.

His blood was boiling. He could feel beads of sweat trickling down his face. They burned up. His skin was bubbling. God, why was it so fucking hot?!

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he could never make them stay. He pushed them away. He drove them out. He was doing it now and he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop. Why couldn't he stop?!

He gritted his teeth, feeling them burn his tongue, melting it to the top of his mouth, welding it shut. God, he was on fire!

He was alone. He was alone. He. Was. ALONE.

With a sudden violent jerk, Tony whipped his body to the side right as a torrent of vomit spewed from his mouth, pooling into the trash bin he'd lugged next to him hours ago. His body shuddered as sweat rolled down his brow, shivering in heat as his stomach lurched painfully. Red dots flashed before his eyes as his hands shook against the rim of the bin. It took another few bouts before the bile was expelled, leaving him heaving up nothing but despair for a few seconds before he wiped a shaky hand across his mouth and slumped back down to the floor, teeming with exhaustion.

His eyes drooped as his heart hammered, stuttering against his chest pitifully as he sat in the heat, burning alive in his own thoughts.

He wasn't good. Not for himself and certainly not for Peter.

He'd call the police in the morning. He knew it wouldn't help but what else could he do? He couldn't let this kid be his problem anymore. Peter didn't deserve that, didn't deserve him. At least with the cops and CPS handling things, Tony could say he'd done his duty as a concerned citizen, wipe his hands of this problem.

The hate that grew in himself at the thought nearly made him gag again.

He pushed it down, down into the pile of mistakes that grew with each passing day. The taste of regret remained in his mouth. It tasted like vomit, bitter and dry, impossible to wash out, impossible to forget. It was all impossible to forget, no matter now many drinks he had. Still...he needed something to wash the taste away, wash out those disgusting thoughts, those invading memories.

He was alone.

(And it's probably for the best.)

Tony's phone rang again. His eyes drifted over to it...then over to the bottle laying next to it. He reached over, ignoring the call as he wrapped his fingers around the glass. It was cold in his hand, hissing against the flaming skin. Maybe it would cool him down, put out the fire charring his insides black. His phone went dark. He took a sip.

It burned.

 

---

 

NED

7:12 AM

Hey, u getting here soon? Ur usually here by now

. . .

7:20 AM

Is ur train late again? Do u need me to tell the office?

. . .

7:34 AM

Are u skipping first?

. . .

9:21 AM

Peter, I'm starting to get a little worried here.

I know today's really rough on u, but we usually handle it together, right? Are u coming to school at all?

It's alright if u can't. Just LMK.

. . .

12:32 PM

Mr. Harrington was asking about u. Don't worry. I got u covered. Would just like to know ur okay. LMK

. . .

1:14 PM

MJ keeps asking questions. I don't know what to tell her. I don't want to tell her about your mom if u don't want me to but she's getting really pushy.

Peter?

. . .

2:23 PM

I told her. I'm sorry.

We just want to help.

I just want to help.

Peter?

Please respond.

I'm worried about u.

. . .

2:45 PM

I don't think ur gonna respond.

. . .

3:01 PM

That's okay.

I'll talk instead. I'm great at that.

. . .

3:05 PM

So English was boring as usual. We got a new project assigned for Romeo and Juliet, paper and presentation. Gross, I know. Don't worry, I signed us up as partners. It's due May 13th so we got plenty of time.

We watched a video on population growth in AP Human. That was pretty interesting. No make-up work.

Flash was annoying as usual today. Thank god we don't have any more Decathlon practices till next season. I don't think I could have taken his garbage if we had practice today. He loves when ur absent. He gets to flaunt off all his wrong answers lol

. . .

3:06 PM

So I guess u didn't miss much today

. . .

3:07 PM

Still missed u though

. . .

5:34 PM

Peter?

Are you okay?

. . .

5:35 PM

Sorry. I know that's probably a stupid question.

I'd come over to see you if...you know...

I guess it's probably not a good idea.

Still...

. . .

5:37 PM

It's okay if you don't wanna talk, Peter.

I'm not mad. In case you were worried.

. . .

6:21 PM

MJ was pretty upset when I told her. Not at you, just that...you know...that we didn't tell her about today sooner.

I guess I understand.

I'm sorry I told her. But you know MJ. She can be scary when she wants to be.

Don't worry. I told her not to bother you. But like I said, you know MJ. She does what she wants so I wouldn't be surprised if she goes ahead and messages you.

Just a heads up.

. . .

7:53 PM

Peter?

I'm sorry about your mom. I really am.

I know I say that every year. I wish there was something else I could say, but there isn't cause I'm still sorry.

I know this day is hard on you, even more so since Ben. And...and I know you must feel like total crap right now, but-

. . .

7:55 PM

Sorry. Guess I just had to think about what to type for a second.

Look, man. All I want to say is that I know you have a lot on your plate, even BEFORE you met Tony Stark.

You're life is SUPER crazy and you have to deal with so much shit. But I'm not here to add to that, you know. I...

Sorry. I'm rambling.

. . .

7:56 PM

Peter, just...

I love you, man. You're my bestest friend in the history of best friends. Nothing's gonna change that. Spider-Man's not gonna change that. If anything, that just makes it even cooler!

I just wanted you to know that.

Okay.

I'll leave you alone now.

 

---

 

Thursday - April 28, 2016

Parker Residence - Third Floor

08:32 p.m.

Peter used to have stars on his ceiling.

It was a stray thought that floated into his mind as he stared up at the ceiling, tracing over the bare white surface as he'd been doing for hours now.

Back when his life had been on the bright path of normalcy and his mother had been lively and full of breath, he'd had a very different room. A tiny little thing with barely enough room for a twin bed and a mini desk for his papers and crayons that matched Daddy's.

He remembered it had been his mother's idea to put up the stars, said that it was impossible to have a small room with the galaxy at his fingertips.

Well, the "galaxy" had consisted less of comets and black holes and more of cheap, glow-in-the-dark, dollar store stickers that constantly fell off when the adhesive revealed its true 99 cent-quality. But Peter had been blown away nonetheless. After all, it wasn't anything a little tape couldn't fix, and the faint glowing of each individual star served as a soothing night-light that would swirl before his eyes in rhythmic little twinkles as his eyes would glaze and he'd dream.

(He still dreamed. They were much different now.)

His ceiling was bare now. Plain and white and empty. Peter supposed it was fitting, matched the rest of the room.

He remembered a game, something the Cons used to play with him back when he was younger. Whenever he was bad (or if they were bored), they would storm his room and try to figure out what he cherished the most. Games, toys, inventions, books, they'd destroy it all on the hunt to figure out his favorite. They competed with each other, fighting to find it first, holding things up and asking if "this book" or "this toy" was his favorite. No? They'd destroy it anyway and keep looking.

They called it Peter's Pick. They kept score to see who had the most "wins."

Peter didn't decorate his room anymore. All he had now was his bed - folded with corners that could pass military inspections, a desk with a few papers and pencils stashed in the drawers, a shelf filled with dusty textbooks and a dresser with baggy, ill-fitting clothes to mask how painfully small his figure was.

They didn't play Peter's Pick nowadays. There was nothing of value to destroy anymore. Besides, there were plenty of other games they still liked to play with him, plenty of games where they still kept score. Hide and Seek, Deep-Sea Diver, Capture the Kid, Simon Says, Crack the Whip, Knucklebones...just to name a few that he remembered. And not once had Peter ever won.

Peter perked up slightly as his ears caught the distant sound of walking. The Cons were downstairs, he could tell from the pitch of the voices and the heaviness of each footstep.

He'd been calculating such details ever since he was a kid, would sense the vibrations of their steps from his hiding spot under the bed whenever they'd march towards his room. He could pick out Sandra's trilling or Max's heavy boots from more than a block away, picking up the distinct volume of their voices, the highs and lows of their vocal ranges, even the balanced weight of their walks. Two steps and a word were all he needed to know who was who from three floors down.

(It never made a difference. But it made him feel just a tiny bit better knowing who was on their way to beat him. Gave him time to prepare.)

He could hear their voices mingling together and the sound of a throat being cleared. His father, he could tell from the soft gruffness that laced onto the man's every word and the cool collectiveness of his commands. His father's voice was unmistakable, if only for the way it made his skin prickle every time he heard it.

They're leaving... He thought to himself as he heard the collective thrumming of their footsteps before the sound of a door closing. Peter couldn't help the small sigh of relief he let out as his body released some of the tension it stored permanently in his muscles, an ever-present ache that appeared the second he stepped foot in the house.

It wasn't like they were going to mess with him, they never did today.

Peter knew his father was a lot of things but sentimental was not one of them. However, through the past ten years of hard schedules and rigid systems, today was the one day with...none of that. In every other sense, Richard Parker never even acknowledged that he'd ever had a wife, let alone ever took the time to grieve or mourn the anniversary of her death (unless someone else brought it up, to which he'd quickly whip up some grief-stricken face and quietly lament his sorrows for his "beloved" late wife).

But for some reason, when the day came around each and every year, there would be no trainings for Peter to complete, no yellings or beatings. Hell, they'd never even come into his room.

For all intents and purposes, today was the one day they left him alone.

Peter didn't know why. He knew his father must have ordered the Cons to comply, but he just didn't know...why. Perhaps today was the one day his father took genuine pity on him. Maybe it was just as hard on him as it was on Peter and leaving the teen to his own devices was the best way for him to avoid showing weakness in front of his son. Maybe...maybe this was his way of grieving, another display of his humanity, however small it might be.

Whatever it was, and whatever Peter chose to believe, he didn't question it, not then and certainly not now.

Peeling his eyes away from the door now that the potential threat had vacated the premises for what he had to assume was the rest of the night, Peter instead glanced down at his phone. It sat discarded on the floor near his foot, silent and still for at least the past couple of hours.

Ned must have finally gotten tired.

It was never easy, seeing just how much his friend cared about him, to the point of worry. His stomach lurched as another bubble of guilt floated up to his throat. He couldn't bring himself to respond to any of them. He didn't know what he'd say if he did. Sorry for being such a troublesome friend but it'd probably do you some good to just drop me altogether and save yourself the hassle!

Something told him it wouldn't fly over very well with his buddy, despite the ringing truths.

Peter thought of MJ, more specifically, what Ned had apparently confessed to MJ. He shouldn't have been very surprised. His mother's death wasn't exactly a secret. Anybody with a computer could look up some newspaper articles from a decade ago, when the story had been blasted all over the circuits. Still, the idea that somebody else knew the circumstances of the day. that somebody else was intruding on his grief...it left Peter with a strange tickle in his throat, a stickiness latching onto his chest.

Most kids didn't know about his mother, it had happened so long ago, before any of them were old enough to really understand the headlines scrolling along the bottom of their TVs. The adults, however...They were a different story.

Peter could remember the looks teachers would throw him before he'd decided never to go out in public on the anniversary. Their cloyingly-sweet expressions, mixtures of unwanted sympathy and unwarranted sadness as they stared at him in pity, patting him on the shoulder and whispering encouraging words. (He still remembered the feeling of Ned holding him back as Mr. Dicharo walked back to his desk, his words of "My mom moved away when I was little so I know how you feel, buddy" still echoing.)

He shook the images away. His head was already too crowded at the moment, too noisy. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine that made Peter wince and grit his teeth, stooping forward slightly from his seat on the floor. He placed a hand to his head and ran his thin fingers through his hair.

It was still damp.

Peter's felt his fingers twitch against his scalp as his eyes warily trailed over towards the underside of his bed, where a small portion of the Spider-Man suit could still be seen. He stared at it for a second before reaching over and pushing it further under the bed.

It hadn't stopped raining, not since last night. He'd changed into clean clothes, stripped of the suit and had plopped down onto the floor, where he'd been for the whole day. He just couldn't bring himself to get up. Around his shoulders was Ben's jacket, warm and heavy. It served as little comfort, though.

("At least he still mourns you. Apparently, I'm not even worth his guilt.")

He kept his eyes trailed on the glass balcony doors, watching the raindrops slide down the glass, interweaving between each other or clashing altogether in large splashes of water that sunk down and splattered onto the floor.

Peter could still feel it, the rain hitting against his skin. Could feel it soaking through his clothes, slicking them down. He could sense the wind slapping up against his face, brushing his hair across his forehead in dark wet strands that rolled water down his cheeks. The thunder was rolling, the lightning flashing. He could see Mr. Stark with his hand outstretched. First the park, then the bridge...it was so close.

The teen gingerly flexed his fingers against the soft carpet, touching nothing but empty air. There was no hand now.

He narrowed his eyes and glared down at the floor as he dropped his hands into his lap. Of all the days for Mr. Stark to start riling things up again, it had to be today? Of all days it had to be today?! Peter gritted his teeth, eyes burning holes into the soft carpet floor. "Dead for ten years and you're still causing problems, huh?" he muttered bitterly before he felt his face grow hot with shame, averting his gaze to the back wall as he sighed. God, Parker. Leave it to you to blame your dead mother for your own problems, you lowlife.

He knew...he knew and he didn't want to admit it. He knew that there was nobody to blame here but himself. He'd made the choice to go to Germany. He'd decided to take up Tony's offer to intern. He'd decided to stick close to the man. He'd decided to brush off Michelle's warnings, the Cons' warnings, his father's warnings.

Well, not anymore. He couldn't ignore his instincts anymore, they had kept him alive for the past ten years, he couldn't afford to forsake them now.

He'd gotten careless. He'd indulged himself with ridiculous pleasures and toxic circumstances, putting himself in danger with his own reckless behavior. Now it was coming back to bite him and there was nobody to blame but himself.

( "I figure I'm at least entitled to that considering you're the reason I'm dead.")

He was always to blame.

Peter blew out a haggard sigh and shut his eyes, resting his head against the side of the bed as he tried to ignore the clawing yearn in his stomach that made him want to vomit. He couldn't afford to start throwing up, not when his main source of food was now effectively cut off. Peter dug his teeth into his lower lip at the thought, as his mind swirled around the billionaire.

Tony Stark.

He had been hearing that name his entire life. From the TV reports to his father's rants to the excited rabble of his schoolmates in the playground, Tony Stark had been a name in his head for as long as he could remember. But he never thought the man would become more than just a name.

And yet he was. Mr. Stark was so much...more to him. Peter didn't know how to explain it, and that was what scared him. With his friends, his family, even May, he knew exactly where they fell, what category they filled, what box they occupied. He knew their place and his place among them. He was an equal with his friends, a submissive in his family, maybe even a comrade with the people of 57th Street. He knew how to act with all of them, the rules that applied to each group.

But Mr. Stark? He was the wild card. Peter had no idea where the man fit, and thus, no idea how to act around him. He couldn't afford that, couldn't afford to not know. Not knowing meant unpredictability. The Cons might be horrible to him, but at least he could always expect that horribleness, could prepare for the smacks and the verbal jabs. With them, he always knew the hit was coming even if he didn't know when.

There was no sense of predictability with Mr. Stark. the man had built his entire name on the idea of unpredictability! How could Peter associate with him when he never knew how to prepare, what to expect? Mr. Stark was always nice to him now but how did Peter know that wasn't going to change, that one day, he'd get so angry that he'd just lash out?

And it wasn't just that. His father had made it abundantly clear that the only reason he'd allowed Peter's relationship with the man was so they could use it against Mr. Stark. He didn't know how, but he knew his father never made mistakes. If he wanted Peter in there, then there was a reason. And whatever it was, it wouldn't be good for Mr. Stark.

Could he really keep himself in the man's company, knowing all that he knew, knowing that he was a ticking time bomb that could be detonated at any moment?

But still...despite the looming degree of uncertainty, Peter couldn't help but enjoy the man's company. He knew it was selfish, but how could he not? For the first time in ten years, Peter had the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted. And not just as Spider-Man, but as Peter Parker too! How could he not adore the man that had given him said freedom?

So how did Peter repay him?

("Everyone who ever tries to help you suffers for it...and now history is repeating itself.")

By bogging down his life. By piling him with problem after problem that weren't his to deal with.

("You really think this is a man who deserves more on his plate?")

By making him feel responsible for Peter, responsible for helping Peter when it wasn't his responsibility. His responsibility ended at Spider-Man.

("He's already dying, Peter. Are you really going to be the one to finish him off?")

There was only one real reason Peter had to cut contact with Tony Stark: to save his life before Peter had the chance to kill him, too.

 

---

 

Peter jolted awake as the harsh sound of banging flicked against his ears. His eyes quickly blinked against the oppressing darkness encroaching around him. He pressed a hand to his head as he tried to orient himself, groggily reaching for his phone to check the time.

10:21 p.m. He'd only been asleep for a few hours.

He noticed Ben's jacket was still draped over him. He pulled it tighter. Ears still ringing from the strange noise, Peter flicked his eyes around the room, trying to locate whatever had woken him. It was still raining outside, the sound of the drops hitting the deck of his balcony muffled against the glass barrier. Peter glanced back at the door with a grimace of apprehension, straining his ears to search for the telltale sound of thudding boots and booming voices.

Nothing. Silence. They weren't home yet.

The teen breathed a small sigh of relief at that, only to jump as he heard the noise again, a harsh thumping that echoed around his room. Peter narrowed his eyes and lifted up to his feet, swaying slightly as he quickly realized he hadn't gotten up in hours, nor had he eaten. The familiar pangs of hunger began to gnaw on his stomach at the realization, but Peter pushed them aside. He was used to them by now, knew how to choke them down and live with them.

Realizing the noise had come from the balcony, the teen warily began to approach the glass. There weren't any trees nearby, so a stray branch most likely wasn't the culprit, nor was the rain hard enough to mimic the harsh rapping he heard.

Pressing his hands against the glass doors, Peter leaned his face closer to try and peer through at the balcony beyond.

"Hey!"

"Gah!"

Peter reared back so forcefully he tripped over his feet and stumbled to the floor as he caught sight of the face that had suddenly popped into view. Danny's hair was slicked with rain, his clothes soaked through. He had to be freezing, but he wasn't even shivering as he stood outside the teen's doors. He just wiped his face of the rain and threw the boy a humored look. "Wha? Got somethin' on my face?"

Peter stared at the boy with a slacked jaw, grunting as he fisted at his shirt as if the action could slow his thudding heart. He blinked and scrunched his eyes. "Danny?"

"Obviously."

"W-what are you...what are you doing here?!"

The older teen rolled his eyes, seemingly unfazed by the rain still splashing down over him. "I'm here to drop of a care package. What'dya think I'm doing 'ere, ya daft prat? Now you gonna let me in or would you rather I do a lil' jig first?"

As the shock began to wear off, it was quickly replaced with annoyance as Peter's face fell into a look of exasperation. He could handle Danny's rugged attitude most of the time. He dealt with a lot worse from the Cons, and it was mostly understandable considering the older boy's predicament. But today, today he didn't even want to hold a conversation with his nice friends, let alone the jagged street kid who was prone to pushing buttons.

Still, Peter couldn't ignore Danny's soaked state. His clothes were hanging off of him in sopping rags and his hair was falling down around his eyes, his skin pale and clammy. He looked like he'd just been drowned.

So with a long sigh and a curse muttered towards the calendar, Peter rose up from the floor and over to the balcony doors, unlocking them. He didn't even have time to open them before Danny was shoving his way through. Peter bit back his irritation. It was just Danny being Danny.

The older teen wasted no time as he headed over towards the bathroom and walked in. Peter heard his voice floating out. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but I think I used to like the rain a lot more when I had a roof over my head. You feel me?"

Peter said nothing, merely hummed as he plopped back down onto his bed. It barely even creaked.

Danny popped his head out of the bathroom, towel fuzzing up his hair. "I mean, what kind of shitty week has two wash out days in a fuckin' row? this is New York, not fuckin' Florida!" The teen finished drying his hair and tossed the towel to the floor. "The streets are gonna turn to marsh by the end of the month, cuz. Just you wait."

Peter disregarded the statement, choosing instead to stare at Danny's clothes, which were still in a poor state. "Aren't you cold?"

"Huh?"

"You're soaked. And it's still in the 60s outside. Aren't you cold?"

Danny gazed back at him for a moment before waving his hand dismissively. "Ah, just a bit parky out there. Why? You worried 'bout me, mate?" he teased with a smirk. Peter didn't react to the poke, however as he simply glanced back over towards the balcony doors. It was so dark, it was hard to really see anything past the lights of his balcony, a dim yellowish haze that illuminated the rain in a small cloud of light.

Danny must have picked up on his silence, for he popped a seat on the edge of Peter's desk and tilted his head. "You're being a bit tight-lipped. More so than usual."

Peter shrugged. His bones felt heavy. "Whatever."

The older teen paused for a beat, seeming to weigh his options, before he pushed off of the desk and waltzed over to Peter. "What? The rain making your bones ache, ya codger? My Pappy used to say that, said he could feel the rain in his hands." He reached out and latched onto Peter's wrists, shaking them in the air before pressing his ears against them. "You getting anything from them, bruv?"

(Too close. Too close. Touching. No touch)

Peter ripped his hands out of Danny's grasp, hackles raising as he leveled a harsh glare. "Leave me alone, Danny! Stop touching me."

Danny raised his hands in defense. "I'm just playing, mate." He took a step closer.

"I said back OFF!"

The teen finally got the hint as he leapt backwards at the sudden display of anger. "Alright, alright! What's got you so worked up, ya tosser?!"

Peter felt his last dregs of patience snapping as he clenched his fists. "Are you seriously asking me that today?" he growled, voice tight and pinched.

Danny stared at him for a moment before a wave of realization washed over his face. But instead of regret or shame, a look of annoyance marred his features as he threw his hands into the air. "Ah, come off it," he muttered before placing his hands on his hips, staring Peter up and down. The teen tried not to squirm under the scrutinizing look, masking his unease with anger as he glared back at the boy in defiance. "There's something else, ain't there?"

Peter sighed harshly. "No, Danny. There isn't. Believe it or not, today's just not my favorite out of the year. I hope you can understand that," he muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms.

The older teen leaned in closer, eyes narrowed. " Bullshit. Your mum was dead two years ago. She was dead two months ago. What difference does today make?" He straightened up and began to pace in front of the bed. "I've told you before and I'll tell you again. It's just another day, that's all! You think I remember the day my parents died. No, cause guess what. It's just a day. Nothing more. Just a number, ya dick."

"Fuck you, Danny."

Danny stopped moving at that, head swiveling around to stare down at Peter. For a moment, he wondered if the boy was gonna rush him. Danny never had before, but he wasn't about to put anything past him. The street kid wasn't exactly the safest to be around and he certainly wasn't one for controlling his impulses, especially when he was angry.

But instead, he simply folded his arms over his chest, tongue pressing into the side of his cheek. "There is something more, isn't there?" Peter opened his mouth to refute him, only for Danny to speak first. "I've seen you get narked. I've seen you get upset. You're...angry. You don't get angry today. You get sad, quiet. Not angry." He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you angry?"

Peter didn't say anything, staring tersely at him before ducking his head to glare at the headboard of his bed. "Leave it alone, man," he growled in a low voice, trying to ignore the slight waver to the words.

"Something happened, bruv. Something to get you all pissy and foul, huh?" He leaned closer, gesturing to the door. "What? They do something? They don't mess with ya today. What is it?"

"Nothing, Danny! Just drop it." He fisted the bedsheets to keep his hands from shaking.

"Tell me why you're angry. Tell me what's making you so angry. What happened that's got you so frazzled?" He reached forward and pushed Peter's chest with both hands, causing the teen to lurch to his feet in defense. "What? Daddy forget to kiss you goodbye tonight?"

Peter gritted his teeth, forcing his arms to stay by his sides. He could feel a growing heat working its way onto his face, thawing out the numbing ice that had been encrusting his limbs for hours now. "I'm warning you, man. Shut the fuck up."

"Tell me, Peter."

"No."

"What happened?"

"Nothing! Stop it!"

"Tell me! Tell me what's wrong with you!"

"Everything, okay?!" he screamed, shoving his hands into Danny's chest, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Peter advanced, getting right into the boy's face. "I can't stand up to my family, I can't talk to my friends, I can't ask for help or I'll end up getting someone killed, the one person I really can talk to is a homeless kid who doesn't give a rat's ass about anyone other than himself and the only other person that could have actually helped me I push away! What isn't wrong with me, Danny?!" Peter sucked in a shaky breath, blinking away the stinging sensation that filled his eyes. It took him a second to register the feeling in his chest. It wasn't cold, it was...tingling, odd. He didn't know what it was, but anything was better than the cold.

He dragged his gaze over to Danny, a familiar weight of guilt sinking into his stomach as he stared at the boy on the floor. Peter bit his lip and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I...I'm-

"Don't apologize."

Danny didn't get up from the floor. He simply pushed himself up into a sitting position and scooted back so that he was leaning up against Peter's desk. "I know an explosion waiting to happen when I see one, cuz. Better for you to do it here while we're alone than with your family."

Peter blinked at him, watching as the boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He blew out a small sigh and crouched down to sit on the floor as well, resting his head against the lip of his bed. "Thanks..." he murmured softly.

Danny nodded, tapping out a cigarette and popping it between his lips before extending the packet to Peter. "Fag?"

He shook his head, the older teen retracting the pack and shoving it back in his pocket before pulling out a lighter. "You know, I should have guessed. Only Stark can make you go this bonkers, mate," he flicked the lighter open and lit the bud.

Peter tilted his head away, stuffing his hands into the jacket. "Just leave it alone, Danny."

"Nah. You say I'm the only person you can talk to, then fucking talk. Go on, spit it out if ya got so much to say."

The smell of smoke slowly began to fill the room, a pungent, biting fume that seemed to thicken the already terse air. Peter watched Danny fiddle with the cigarette, rolling it around on his teeth before pulling it away from his mouth and puffing out another ring. The teen didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, simply resting a hand on his knee as he fiddled with the bud.

Peter's lungs burned, as if the smoke was being blown directly down his throat, burning his tongue a crisp black. It was a welcome departure from the icy chill that had staked a claim on him. Any feeling was better than nothing at all, Peter found in times like this. So with that, the teen let loose a small smile as he brushed his hair back.

"You know...every time this day comes - from one year to the next - I think to myself...next year...next year will be better. Next year, things are going to look up." He traced the lines on his palm, digging in slightly with his nail with a small pinch as it nicked the skin. He could feel his hands again. That was good, at least.

"I know it's a lie. I know it's not true, nothing's gonna chance, hasn't changed in the past ten years. But...I still say it. I say it because...because I don't have anything else. All I have is that lie, that...hope that something's gonna change. And without that...w-without that...there's nothing."

Danny blew out another plume. It burned Peter's eyes.

"But you wanna know something...really strange?"

"Tell me."

Peter glanced up at the starless ceiling, imagined he was counting them again, counting them so he could sleep...sleep and dream. "For a little while there, I actually thought this year...it might not be such a lie." He tore his eyes away, but the dreams remained.

"I used to have these dreams...when I was little. The Avengers had just saved New York City. They were everywhere, every kid's fantasy to meet them. I used to imagine they'd come. They'd come and they'd...I don't know, they'd...fix things." He paused, lifted his eyes. "You ever have dreams like that?"

Danny tightened his lips, glancing down at the cigarette between his fingers. "I think everyone has dreams like that."

Peter sighed. "I hadn't had one in so long...hadn't thought of the Avengers for so long and then all of a sudden Iron Man is coming to me asking for my help? It...wasn't what I'd imagined, but...it was real, the first real thing that had happened in so long, I just...I wondered if this was what I'd been waiting for all those years, if this was the change I'd been hoping for."

Another smoke ring. "And...what happened?"

The teen scoffed. "What do you think happened? Everything went to shit, as usual."

Danny cocked a brow. "He flake on you?"

"No! No, no. It wasn't him. At least...I don't think. I, ugg..." Peter buried his face in his hands. "I don't even know anymore, Danny."

The older teen sat up, face hardening. "Alright, alright, don't get yourself into a tizzy again. Come on," he pressed. "Explain it."

Peter swallowed hard, an unease prickling sensation trailing down his skin at the sound of a direct order. Then again, Danny never was one to beat around the bush. He hesitated for a moment, picking at the numerous scratches and scars that littered his hand, like he'd been playing in shards of glass since he was a toddler. They varied in sizes, shapes, colors, an arts-and-crafts project on his skin.

"He...he started asking questions, questions I don't have any answers to...at least, no good answers."

Danny narrowed his eyes in thought. "He's not the first person to ask questions. Why was this different?"

"I don't know, it...it just was. It was harder to lie to him, like he could see right through them."

The street rat flicked the bud back and forth from hand to hand. "Well if that's true, then he must know about Dear Ol' Daddy Douche. And from the looks of it," he gestured with his arms around the bedroom. "he hasn't blabbed."

"Yeah, for now. How do we know that isn't gonna change?" Peter muttered, leaning his cheek against his propped-up fist.

Danny shrugged. "I don't know, cuz. Guy seems like a pretty top-notch fibber. I'm sure he could keep a secret or two."

"Can I really afford to chance it, though?" he murmured softly, glancing down at the floor. Another roll of thunder sounded from outside, merely a murmur compared to the roaring that had erupted last night. A familiar gnawing guilt worked its way into Peter's stomach, a feeling the teen knew he'd have to get used to.

(There was plenty for him to feel guilty about.)

"It's not just that. He...he worries about me."

The older teen scrunched his face up. "Okayyy?"

Peter leaned forward. "He shouldn't! You don't know the kind of stuff he's dealing with!"

"No more islands for him to buy?"

"I mean it, Danny," he growled with a pointed glare. "I, of all people, should know money doesn't make you happy."

"Try living without it."

The teen relented at the withered look Peter shot him, holding up his hands in surrender. The younger let out another sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I saw how much stress he's under. The Accords, the Rogue Avengers, apparently it's a lot more serious than what the news has been saying." Peter clenched his hands together, willing them still.

("You really think this is a man who deserves more on his plate?")

He shut his eyes. "He's...he's struggling and I'm doing him no favors, dragging all my crap along with me."

Danny sat up an inch. "That's not your fault, though. He chose you."

"Come on, Danny." Peter tossed his hands up in frustration before gesturing at the room. "He couldn't possibly have known that I'd come with all of this! If he'd known, he never would have considered it."

("He's already dying, Peter. Are you really going to be the one to finish him off?")

"I...I'll only make things worse for him. So I...I'm cutting ties."

A fresh wave of ice settled on his chest. Peter didn't try to fight it this time.

Danny, however, didn't seem to be as resigned to the role as he leaned in closer, face filling with an unreadable expression. "Seriously?"

"It's what's best for him."

Danny folded his arms. "Uh-huh. And what about what's best for you?"

("I'm not gonna...punish you or whatever just for saying what's on your mind.)

(Don't be afraid to talk to me, aright? I'll listen. I might not be good at it, but I'll try.")

("Silver linings.")

("Forget the starvation. This right here is what's gonna do you in!")

("Nerd tournament, huh? I'll see if I can squeeze it in.")

("To Stage 5!")

(Peter, please stay. Just...just talk to me.")

("We can work through this together, kid!")

("Peter...trust me.")

His hands were growing cold again. "He's a threat."

Danny narrowed his eyes. "So am I. So is Ned and MJ and May and anyone else who doesn't fall for your lies. What's one more?"

Peter shook his head. "He's different! He's one of the most powerful men in the world. If May or my friends ever spoke up, it would get buried, swept up as nothing but rumor. If he speaks up...people will listen."

The older teen paused for a moment, glancing down at the cigarette. "And yet...being one of the most powerful men in the world, you still managed to wrap him around your little finger in, what? Less than two months?"

Peter furrowed his brow. "What...w-what are you talkin-"

"Are there any other billionaires taking their interns out to lunch, or watching their Decathlon tournaments?" At Peter's pointed stare, Danny merely shrugged his shoulders. "I read the news."

Peter felt a plume of annoyance billowing out, mingling with the smoke already filling the air. "He's dangerous," he ground out, confused as to why Danny was so hung up on this. Why couldn't he just let it go. His decision was made!

"Why? Cause he has the power to be?" Danny huffed and pulled the cigarette from his mouth, a trail of gray smoke following his movements. "Pete, I think you're looking at this the wrong way. Why are you so sure you have to see him as a threat? Cause to me, it sounds like he'd be a valuable player on your team?"

The teen scrunched his face. "My team?"

"You know, your support system. May, Ned, MJ, all those jags. Lord knows it's pitifully small right now. Could use some billion dollar steroids." At the way Peter scoffed and glanced away, Danny bobbed his shoulders and popped the cig back in his mouth. "All I'm saying is that you started acting real different after you met him."

"Yeah, I know. That's the problem."

"Is it? Cause I must say, I rather enjoyed the new Peter Parker more than the old one."

Peter reared back slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You were...happier. Seemed to be more confident. Hell, i can't remember the last time you yelled at me before that night on the roof, when you were standing up for a guy you barely knew. He definitely made a difference in you." He paused, giving Peter a hard stare. "Are you so sure it was a bad one?"

The younger boy blew out a sudden breath, incredulous look on his face as he narrowed his eyes. "Why...why do you care so much? In case you forgot, I was yelling because you were ragging on him, saying I shouldn't trust him. Why are you changing your mind all of a sudden? Why do you care?"

("God, why can't you just GIVE UP?!")

Danny shrugged, a wave of indifference washing over his body as his posture slackened. "I don't," he muttered, puffing out another ring of smoke before leveling Peter a pointed glare. "But I think it's stupid of you to throw away something this good over something so stupid. Do you know how many people, how many kids would kill to have such a powerful ally? Are you seriously going to give it up just because you're - what? Scared? Give me a break!"

Peter clenched his fists together, indignation flaring in his gut as he faced off against the teen. "You don't get it, Danny," he ground out. "It's not just that. My dad...he has plans, plans that he's gonna use me for. I..." he faltered, glancing down at his hands, flexing his fingers and brushing them up against his palms. "I can't disobey him...but I can't hurt Mr. Stark, either. It's...it's not fair to him. He's gonna try and protect me, just like mom, just like Ben. And it's going to get him killed!"

He pressed his palms into his eyes, colorful dots blinking before him at the added pressure. He could feel himself getting worked up again, a growing thrumming in the back of his head, a steady pulsing that made his body tense and his stomach churn. All he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep, just sleep for a hundred years, sleep and pray he'd wake up to a different life.

. . .

"So...why don't you protect him?"

Peter blinked open his eyes, slowly lowering his palms away from his face. He furrowed his brow and parted his lips. "W-what?"

Danny stared at him for a second of silence before sighing, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and rubbing the tip of it against the back of Peter's desk, effectively putting it out. "Face it, Pete. You couldn't save your mum or that neighbor of yours. You couldn't. You weren't strong enough. That's fact. They would have died either way so there's no point bemoaning it."

Peter glanced away, images of his dream flashing before his eyes. His mom, Ben, the butterflies, butterflies in his stomach, butterflies crawling down his throat, across his skin. He scratched at his arm, as if he could still feel them. Danny reached forward and lightly pushed Peter's shoulder, getting him to look over once more. "Look, you couldn't do anything back then, I get it. But things are different now." He waved a hand in the air. "You're Spider-Man. If anyone can keep a superhero safe, chances are it's gonna be another superhero."

He folded his arms and cocked a brow. "So, if he's gonna be so busy protecting you, then...why don't you protect him?"

Peter said nothing. He couldn't, there was nothing to say. He blinked and glanced down, eyes flitting back and forth across the room as his thoughts raced.

Spider-Man...

He looked down, looked over towards the underside of his bed. He reached over and lightly brushed his fingers against the edge of his suit, the answer he'd been ignoring all this time. And for the first time in forever, Peter stared down at the suit and began to feel something other than guilt.

(Why couldn't Spider-Man save them?)

Guilt that had been pushing him to do such good deeds, going out for hours upon hours, searching for people who needed help, people who needed him, people who deserved to see another day, people who could maybe make up for the two he hadn't saved.

Peter truly did remember the dreams, dreams of the Avengers. And he remembered the day he'd stopped having them. ("We're calling it the Dark Room.") He remembered how it had felt, the realization that nobody was coming for him, that there was nobody to protect him now. And that anybody who tried always suffered for it.

But maybe...maybe the point wasn't protection for himself, it was protection for others, the very ideal Spider-Man stood for.

He was Spider-Man for a reason. He had a duty to fulfill, a responsibility to uphold. Spider-Man wasn't for him, it was for those around him! He was the one to take the bullet, to stand in the way of the blow, to take the hits and the kicks and the chains and the butterflies. He had to. He was there for a reason. He was there and his mom wasn't, Ben wasn't and there had to be a reason for it. He had to be alive for a reason!

Maybe this was it.

Danny scratched the back of his neck and yawned, glancing over towards the balcony doors. "I should be off."

The younger jolted back into reality at the words, turning to stare out at the stretch of sky just outside the doors. "It's still raining," he murmured softly, worried his friend somehow felt unwanted. Despite their terseness, Peter didn't want to just throw him out into the freezing rain.

Danny, however, merely shrugged it off, opening the balcony doors slightly. "Eh, it's lightening up. Besides, I'd rather not tussle it out with those wankers fighting to rush the subways once this rain passes up." he said causally. Peter peered over his friend's shoulder and realized he was right. While they were arguing, he hadn't even noticed that the rain had backed off slightly, lightening for the first time in hours. He could still hear it though, the soft pattering of the droplets splashing down into puddles on the balcony floor.

Peter watched the older teen make for the door. However, just as he placed his hands on the handles and was about to walk out, he stopped and turned back around. His face held a sobering look. "Look, mate." he sighed, seeming to hesitate for just a moment before shaking his head. "Bad things happen. That's just life. Bad things happen to good people and you can't do anything to change that. There's no nitpicking, no karma. It's just who's jammy and who gets the shaft. And you're in the business of getting snookered."

"Dude, speak English."

He rolled his eyes. "You don't have good luck, ya muppet! Things like this don't just...happen to chavs like you and me." He paused, licking his lips and running a hand through his ratty hair. "You have a chance, right in front of you, a chance to change things for yourself. Are you really gonna let it pass you by?"

Peter could feel his stomach lurching from side to side, as if fighting for a solution, an answer he so desperately needed. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, desperate to warm them just a tad. "What if it's a bad idea?"

Danny reached behind him and flicked his jacket hoodie up over his head, throwing Peter a smirk.

"Well...maybe you need a bad idea."

With that, Danny pushed through the doors and stepped onto the balcony, climbing up the side railing as he reached for the rooftop to Peter's building before crawling out of sight. Peter could hear his friend's footsteps against the roof before they leapt off the side, landing on the adjacent building before falling further and further away.

The teen stared at the balcony doors, at the rain that was beginning to blow into his room, trickling against the side of the carpet that brushed up against the doors. He didn't get up, though. Didn't try to close the doors. Instead, he just listened. Listened to the rain, to the soft steady drumming of each drop splattering onto the floor, reminded of the sound of rain against metal, the sound of the bay below lapping at the bridge beams, the sound of metal boots landing on the slick, rusted surface.

He listened to the rain, listened to his thoughts. He lifted his head, resting it against the back of his bed once again, and stared up at the lonely white surface above him.

Peter used to have stars on his ceiling.

Maybe he could have them again.

 

---

 

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

11:32 p.m.

Tony opened his eyes to darkness.

For a moment he was confused, briefly wondered if blindness was a side effect to alcohol poisoning before he noticed the lights from the surrounding buildings gleaming against the tower window. The tint was down, most likely FRIDAY's doing.

"What time is it?" His voice was low, coarse from hours of silence. There was some irony in there, he was almost sure of it.

It's 11:32 PM, Boss. At this time, there are currently 54 missed calls from Ms. Potts, 32 from Colonel Rh-"

"Mute."

Tony let out a low groan, bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. The slight movement made his head shriek in protest, a grinding noise that made his ears ring and dull red spots dance before his eyes. He pulled his lips back in a grimace, body aching as he shifted his muscles and stretched his legs. He must have been sleeping for hours now if the darkness outside was any indication.

He glanced over towards the window, noticed the rain still falling. He scowled and turned away, not even noticing how the rain had lightened up considerably since his last moments of consciousness.

"Is this shit gonna last forever or what?" he muttered to himself, shutting his eyes as he aimlessly patted the floor next to him, searching for the next available bottle to graze his fingers. With a flare of satisfaction, he latched himself onto one and brought it up to his lips, only to realize with a disappointed huff that it was empty. Reluctantly cracking open his eyes again, he glanced around at the other empty bottles littering the floor around him and noticed that they were all in the same condition.

He sighed and rested his head against the back of the couch. For a brief minute, he considered stopping, just sitting there and hopefully catching up on some more sleep. But...no. He could hear it, against the back of his head, crawling down his neck. Whispers, whispers of thoughts, of words and ideas and memories. His mind was sobering. He could hear himself think again.

That wouldn't do.

The comforting haze of emptiness was evaporating, leaving him with nothing but himself. Quickly deciding between the two evils, he decided to chance his body potentially calling it quits on the walk over to the bar for the overwhelmingly worthwhile prize of forgetfulness that came with being black-out drunk.

He stumbled his way over to the bar in record time, only tripping up once or twice on his own feet as his body tried to reboot itself from its ten-ish hours or so of disuse. He vaguely noted the sound of distant rumbling as the rain continued to slide down the glass walls of the tower. Leaning up against the side of the bar, Tony shambled his way over towards the sink.

Turning the faucet, he pooled some water into his hands. He could almost swear he saw steam rising up as it made contact with his hands, could feel the white-hot heat of his skin, feel it bubbling over his bones. At least he could count one constant. Would this just be how things were now, constantly running at a thousand degrees as the years of shit and stress and everything in between coursed through his veins in streaks of fire?

He splashed the water onto his face, grateful for a modicum of relief from the heat as he groaned into his hands. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, feeling the thumping of the migraine in his pulse, in the tips of his skin as the blood rushed.

(Peter's blood, on his arm, soaking through the bandages, bright and red and-)

Tony turned around and glared at the wall of liquor, grabbing the first bottle he saw and ripping it from the shelf. The entire structure wobbled at the movement, but he didn't care. He huffed out a breath, the smoke swirling around him as his lungs crisped to a deep black color.

Before he could take more than a couple of steps away from the bar, his eyes were drifting up and his legs were stilling. He couldn't hear the rain anymore, couldn't see it trickling down his windows, for all of his senses were honed in on Peter as he stared right back at him.

The kid was in his suit, a brown leather jacket overtop, and his mask clutched tightly in one hand. He was soaked, dripping water onto the floor in a horrifyingly similar fashion to last night, but he didn't seem to pay it any mind, not even as his hair hung down around his eyes, which were zeroed in on the billionaire before him.

Tony vaguely recalled the rumbling he'd heard before, realizing it hadn't been thunder at all, but the sound of the outdoor pad doors opening as the kid crawled his way in.

For a while, neither of them said anything. They just stared at each other as if neither of them truly believed the other was there at all. An illusion, gone in a puff of smoke.

Finally,

"I need to talk to you."

Peter's voice was soft but it seemed to echo off of the walls, bouncing all around Tony's head.

He thrummed his fingers against the bottle. "Didn't we say everything we needed to last night?"

"No."

"No?" Tony scoffed. "What, you leave something out? Figured we covered all our bases: regret, despair, hopelessness, maybe a bit of anxiety thrown around in that mess. Am I getting everything? Maybe the thunder drowned out some bits." He noticed Peter wasn't fidgeting like usual. He was just standing stoically, an air of calm around him that wasn't usually there. The kid was usually bouncing off the walls either in excitement or just plain nervousness. Now he was...different, off.

"Mr. Stark, listen-"

"Listen?" He took a step forward. Peter didn't take his eyes off of him. "I did listen, kid. I listened for half an hour freezing my ass off while 300 feet in the air in the middle of a goddamn hurricane." He noticed the kid's face twitch slightly at that, perhaps out of guilt. Tony narrowed his eyes. "I listened, and you know what I heard?" He stopped, glanced down at the bottle in his hands, watched the liquid slosh back and forth against the glass walls. "The truth."

Peter's face did change at that, brows knitting together and eyes squinting. "What?"

Tony started walking again. He stepped off of the raised platform that led to the kitchen and began to make his way back over to the windows, leaning up against the back of the couch. Peter still didn't move, just watched.

"You said you needed some time to think. Well, I went ahead and took a page out of your book and I realized something." He pointed a finger at the teen. "You...were one hundred percent correct. This..." He shook his head and gestured around at their surroundings. "...all of this was such a bad idea. From the very beginning I knew it was a bad idea and I still went along with it. I guess I just can't help myself from making messes, so much so that I gotta seek them out!"

Peter's face scrunched into something akin to frustration. "You...you didn't mess this up. I did."

"You don't get it, kid. I messed this up by taking you on in the first place! I thought it was to help you but...it was just to help myself." Tony glared down at the bottle, itching to pop it open and start drinking it right now, if only to quench the burning sensation wrapping around his throat. "I was using you, kid. I...I didn't want to believe it, but I can't just ignore it anymore. You were a distraction...to keep my focus away from the things I didn't want to deal with."

Tony glanced down, spying the array of empty bottles that lay scattered around the floor.

"This is my mess."

The teen didn't say anything at that, leaving the soft noise of the pattering rain outside as the only reprieve from the silence that grew thick and heavy around them, a suffocating mass that hovered around their heads.

Tony sighed before turning his head to glance back at the kid, eyes sharp. "What are you even doing here?"

"I already said. We need to talk."

Tony huffed out a humorless laugh as he shook his head and leveled the kid a hard look. "Talk? Peter, there's nothing to talk about! My mind's made up!"

Peter took a small breath. "No it isn't."

The billionaire raised his head at the kid's response, or more at the fact that he'd had a response at all. Peter was talking back? Peter Parker was talking back to him?

"Wha-"

"If it was you wouldn't be drinking."

Instantly, Tony was straightening up. He had to take a second to make sure what he'd heard was correct before he felt himself take a step closer, body tensing as a wave of crackling heat flooded through his system, a bubbling anger that was beginning to surface, hot and impatient after months of stress.

"Excuse me?" His voice was low, his tone sharp.

Peter glanced away at that, seemingly unsure for the first time since arriving. But the boy surprisingly didn't back down, not even at the obvious anger beginning to show on the billionaire's stoic face. The teen glanced down at the bottles, maybe just to avoid meeting the man's eyes. "You're unsure, conflicted. That's why you're drinking. It's too loud, too much noise...and this helps you quiet it."

Tony could feel something, hot and thick, coursing through his veins. He couldn't get angry. He couldn't yell. But the surging fire crackling in his gut willed his legs forward, eyes blazing as he approached. "Hey, I- no, no, no. We're not doing this." He snapped, clenching one fist behind his back in an attempt to keep his voice level while the other hand pointed a finger at the...brat in front of him! "You don't get to just barge in here after that little stunt last night and parade around like you own the place, alright? And you certainly don't get to talk about things that don't concern you in the slightest!"

Did this kid know how much he'd gone through in the last few months...just for him? The stress and the shit that he'd had to take and now he had the gall to disrespect him like this?

Peter took a step back at the man's advance, but he didn't back down. The teen clenched his own fists, but kept his eyes trained on the floor. "I just think-"

"I don't give a shit what you think!" It was too hot. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you not understanding, Peter? We're done here! This little...whatever it was, is over. I don't have time to be dealing with you anymore so why don't you just swing your little butt out of here before you say anything else to piss me off?" He forced his mouth shut, locking his jaw as he raised a hand to pinch his eyes. His head was pounding, a steady humming beat he could feel in his fingertips. He had to end this. He had to do what he should have done months ago.

"Look, you did me a solid in Germany,

(Meet the kid.)

"I did you one in return by way of the suit.

(Help the kid.)

"Our transaction is over. We can now officially part ways."

(Forget the kid.)

"But just so you know, this has got nothing to do with you." He gestured to the bottle clenched so tightly in his hand he was certain the glass was going to shatter into splinters right there in his palm. Peter flinched back slightly as Tony leaned closer to him, but he didn't back away. Instead, his face was tight, jaw clenched and hands fisted at his sides.

"See, you don't get to just pretend that you have some...wise insight into how I work just because we spent a few months doing stupid shit together, alright? Because that's all it was."

He couldn't breathe. There was too much smoke.

"The fact of the matter, Peter, is that you don't know anything about me."

Tony had to turn away at that, had to steady himself as he felt his last remaining wills slipping right through his fingers like ash in the wind. He had to leave, had to get out of there before he did something, said something he was going to regret. He had to get away...for Peter's sake.

He began to walk, each step heavier than the last, more final. He had to be leaving scorch marks in the flooring, deep black smears, impossible to get out. He had to get out. He had to breathe. He was burning alive.

. . .

"You can't sleep in the dark."

Keepwalkingkeepwalkingkeepwalkingkeep-

His feet stopped.

"What?"

Peter didn't say anything at first, glancing down at his mask for a moment. Tony finally turned back around and their eyes met. The kid blinked at him. "I know you probably don't sleep much as it is but...when you do, you can't sleep in the dark."

Tony opened his mouth. No words came out. His fingers twitched against the bottle, a soft tapping noise, like water droplets in a puddle.

"You need a light...don't you?"

A soft rumble sounded from outside, distant, faint. Tony could barely hear it.

"I read about what happened to you in Afghanistan. The reports didn't go into much detail cause you didn't back then but...I can guess." The kid's voice was soft, quiet. It quivered slightly, a fragile thing that teetered on the edge of silence. "It was dark, wasn't it...where they kept you? Dark and empty and cold and...everything you imagine in nightmares, everything you feel when you're alone...those feelings you can't explain, they're just there."

Tony stared at him, lips parted for words that still didn't come. He could hear his heart beating, loud and fast in his ears. His fingers tightened. The bottle creaked.

"And then 2012...the wormhole? Space is the darkest thing in existence. And you saw it...you were in it." Peter blinked, his eyes glossy and his breathing quick. He scrunched his face, tightening his grip on the mask. "You don't sleep cause when you sleep you dream and you can't have those dreams if you never sleep. But it's not just that. It..." He shut his eyes, voice pinched. "It's just...so dark in the room, isn't it? And you feel it again, that...that feeling that sucks the air right out of your lungs and leaves you speechless, leaves you vulnerable, exposed."

Exposed, like his chest, like his beating heart as he lay on that slab of rock, a car battery hooked into his skin, stabbing into his muscles.

And...and the lights, they just...make that feeling go away. They m...they make you feel safe, remind you that...that you aren't back there."

Tony distantly registered the sound of glass shattering. He didn't bother to look down at his hand or at the bloody scratches now adorning his wet fingertips.

Peter opened his eyes again, drifted his gaze down to the noise before lifting them back up and sucked in a shaky breath. "You don't sleep...but when you do, you need that light. Because you're afraid that if you...if you close your eyes...you're gonna wake up back in that cave, back in that hole in the sky, with nothing...nobody...afraid."

Tony tried to swallow but his throat was too tight. He tried to clench his fists but the blood on his hand was too slippery. He blinked, willing the images and the memories away, but they stayed.

He could smell sweat and sand and salt all mingling together in a blast of hot air that threatened to rub the skin right off his face, feel the tug of wires in his chest, poking and prodding around his ribs, pulling back muscle, metal scraping up against his heart. He could hear the echoing silence as he flew into the wormhole, a blanket of nothing that enveloped him, the sight of so many dangers lurking above their heads, lurking and waiting and ready to attack at a moment's notice and nothing to do but wait and wait and pray that they would be ready and they would be enough but they aren't enough and they would lose everything and everything would burn and he would burn and there would be nothing left but ash and smoke just ashes and ashes and ashes and-

Tony jumped, a startled gasp falling from his lips as he felt something touch his hand. He glanced down and noticed that Peter was holding his damaged hand in his own palm, pressing a clean towel into the numerous nicks. The kid's hands...they were cold, frigid, even with the suit. Peter lifted his head, lifted his bright brown eyes and met Tony's gaze and suddenly the images were fading, the memories were fading, the heat...was fading. All he could feel was the cold touch of Peter's hands.

He sucked in a breath, a soft little gasp that was really all he could manage. "How...?"

Peter seemed to understand his question even with the bare whisper of a single word. He lifted the towel slightly off of the man's palm, exposing the numerous scratches in the skin. "It was dark...the night she died." He didn't look up, just pinched his lithe fingers around a small shard of glass sticking out of Tony's palm. "That much I can't forget." He removed it gently, Tony barely even felt it. It clattered to the floor with a soft plink and the towel was being pressed down again. Peter looked up. "Mr. Stark, I don't know what it's like to be you...but I know what it's like to be afraid."

He looped the ends of the towel around the underside of the man's hand, creating a makeshift bind out of the cloth and securing it to the palm.

"In that way, we are the same."

The kid didn't say anything more after that. Instead, he bent down onto his knees and grabbed another towel - most likely one he'd gotten while retrieving the other - placing it on top of the puddle of alcohol pooling onto the floor. Once that was secure, he cupped one hand and began to trail his fingers along the floor, picking up any shards of glass that he could see.

Tony stood and watched him, watched the kid quietly cleaning up the mess he'd made, literally on his hands and knees just to help him. It was strange, not feeling the familiar burning sensation he'd been growing used to. Like lave cooling over rocks, it was hard, a crusted layer of earth that seemed to rub his skin the wrong way, an uncomfortable emptiness that opened in the pit of his stomach. But he wasn't hot. His hands weren't burning. They were bleeding...but they weren't burning.

He reached over, brushed his fingers up against the cloth wrapped around his hand. Suddenly he found himself kneeling down across from the kid. Peter lifted his eyes to gaze at him before going back to his work. Tony didn't say anything as he began to gather up small little fragments, brushing them off to the side. For a brief moment, as the silence overtook them once more, the two of them could almost pretend things were back to normal and that they were just working in the lab, tinkering away or writing up new prints. A week ago, the silence had been a comfort. Now...

"Before Afghanistan...before the cave...I didn't have anyone."

He owed it to Peter to fill it.

"I had everything, could have anyone, but I didn't. 38 years of...nothing. Then the suit. Bad guys. Aliens. Super soldiers. It all culminated with that team."

Peter stared at him, shifted his own little glass pile off to join Tony's. "The Avengers."

Tony let a faded smile creep onto his face as he leaned back on the floor, resting one hand on his knee. "Avengers. You know, I never asked Nick where he got that name. Knowing him, it probably came off the back of a super secret spy cereal box or something." It was weird cracking jokes again. He supposed he couldn't help to fill the uncomfortable air with something stupid. Made the weight of the words easier to bear. He hoped Peter understood.

"You know, Cap and I...gosh, we really butted heads when we first met."

"Really?" Peter's voice was quiet again. It was never really loud, just...firm, even. Now it was back to its usual soft demeanor, a gentle little lull of sound.

Tony rubbed at his forehead. "Yeah. You know, I'd been hearing about the guy my entire life. My dad never shut up about him, always reminiscing about his old war buddy, the best guy he'd ever known. It was a lot to live up to, especially since he never stopped looking for him. He was...let's just say, we had our issues. So when the guy who practically kept my dad out of the picture just shows up out of the blue...I'm already not a very good team player so throw that into the mix and you're looking at an interesting development."

He gave a small shake of his head, casting a glance over towards the windows. Still raining. "God, I hated him. It wasn't even his fault and that just made me hate him even more."

"Did...did that change?" Peter asked, shifting his position on the floor so that he was now sitting cross-legged, hands resting in his lap.

Tony glanced back over. "Yeah, it did. Everything changed after that. I mean, aliens. Come on. But, I always thought of that team as the one good thing that came of it all, you know? That maybe...maybe this would finally be that something I'd been missing. And Cap...Steve, god. He made it so hard to hate him. He was just so ridiculously righteous."

He paused, hearing words he hadn't planned on saying, thoughts he hadn't planned on voicing. But if anyone was going to hear them, it might as well be the kid who could maybe understand. He couldn't even understand.

"He was...he was a good guy, though. They all were."

"Then why did they leave?" Peter muttered, a discernable note of anger flickering onto his face. "If they were so good, why did they leave you behind to clean their messes?"

Cause I'm the mess they didn't want to deal with anymore.

"It's complicated. Fact of the matter is that they're gone. They gave up." Tony blew out a small huff. "Maybe that's why I used you, Peter. I just...didn't want to listen to the silence anymore."

Didn't want to think about how the thing they gave up on was him.

Peter glanced down at his hands. "You didn't want to be alone."

Tony removed the towel from his palm, noting each and every new scratch adorning his fingers. "Maybe," he murmured, a strange sense settling in his chest as he finally admitted it, like a balloon releasing the water trapped inside, dousing whatever fires had been burning underneath. Suddenly feeling cramped in the dark space of the room, Tony rose up to his feet and glanced over toward the windows, to the lights just outside the glass.

Peter followed as the man made his way over, Tony plopping down onto the floor once more. He scooted back until he was pressed up against the back of the couch, now fully facing the glass panels of the back wall. Peter didn't sit down. Tony didn't turn to him.

"Do you want me to leave?"

The man sighed. He watched the rain sliding down the glass. "No. I just...I don't get it, kid. Why did you come back? What changed?"

"I did. Two months ago." Peter slid his way down to the floor. "But if you're talking more recent...let's just say I got some friendly advice from a not so friendly guy." At Tony's pointed look, the teen shook his head and waved his hand. "Don't worry about it."

"So, what? You just...completely changed your mind?"

"Not exactly. Look, Mr. Stark...everything I said before is still true. When I'm with you, I change." He glanced down at his hands. "I don't like change. But...I think I'm starting to get used to it. With you, I...I like who I change into. It makes me feel like Spider-Man all the time, just without the mask."

The rain was soft, nothing like the roaring monster it had been before. Tony didn't mind it as much like this.

"I'm tired of being in the dark all the time. But with you...it's like the flood lights are on, shining through my window." The teen's eyes scrunched ever so slightly. He still didn't lift his gaze, just kept them locked on his hands. "I feel something. I feel...safe."

Tony didn't respond, didn't let the fact that 'safe' was a foreign concept to the kid show on his face. He just kept watching the rain.

"I said I needed time to think, and so I thought. And I realized something. I...I realized I don't want to lose this." This time Peter did turn, lifted his eyes towards the man next to him. Tony glanced over as the kid spoke. "I'm scared, Mr. Stark. I said it before and I'm still scared now. I've never had something like this before. I've never had someone like you before, someone to...look out for me. I don't know how any of this works, I don't know how any of this will work. I don't even know if it's a good idea-"

"I know. It isn't."

Peter ignored the man's comment and continued. "But I still want to do this." His eyes hardened, narrowing ever so slightly. "I don't...I-I don't care what anybody else says. For once, I want to be selfish, think about myself for a change, not the Cons, not my dad." His voice was tight, not as calm as earlier. A new shaky element edged on his words, but Tony still heard them clear as day.

"So if...if I can be brave enough to do this, then...then maybe you can, too."

Tony continued to stare at him, letting the kid's words wash over him. Brave... What was the brave thing to do in this situation? What was the right thing to do? He scanned his eyes over the kid's face, tried not to notice the pleading look adorning his features. He could still picture the scars, the bright, red, angry lines that had slashed across the kid's face on Monday. How could he forget them? They were burned into his mind, another blister in the mess of millions.

"Am I just supposed to be okay with letting you go back to that house every single day knowing what I know now?" He noticed the slight waver in his voice.

Peter was the one to glance out the window at that, shoulders slumping ever so slightly as an air of exhaustion seemed to wash over him. "We don't have much of a choice, Mr. Stark. I...I can't go to the police. I just can't. I know it must be hard for you to understand, but it's important to me," he said softly.

Tony shook his head, face pinched as he exhaled loudly. "Even if I was okay with that, it still doesn't change the fact that I'm in this for the wrong reasons, kid." Peter turned to look at him. "I'm not the hero you think I am. I used you." The words were bitter, but he had to say them, had to get the kid to understand. "You were just distracting me."

"And you were distracting me!" Peter shot back, eyes narrowing as he turned to fully face the billionaire, leaning closer as he spoke. "Wasn't that the plan? Wasn't that what you were trying to do all along? Get me to focus on something other than my dad?" He scoffed and tossed his hands into the air. "What's so wrong with wanting the same, Mr. Stark?"

He didn't get it. Why couldn't this kid just understand?

Tony clenched his fists as he felt the telltale burning sensation beginning to build back up in his fingers once more. He shut his eyes, hoped he didn't see them start to char again. "Kid...I'm going to hurt you." He could sense Peter tense at that, hated how he could literally feel the kid's anxiety spiking, but he had to get it through his head. He had to make the kid see for himself why this would never work.

"You said it yourself, I'm a wild card." He blew out a harsh breath. "I'm asking you to trust me when I shouldn't even trust myself! Hell, look around you, kid! does this look like a responsible adult to you?"

Peter's lips curled into a sneer as he snarled. "I've been surrounded by 'responsible' adults for all my life and not one of them has ever given a shit about me." His voice was harsh, a biting sting that was so different from his usual soft-spoken manner that Tony literally reared back at the sound of it. The kid took a breath, sucking it in slow and letting it out smoothly before lifting his eyes back up. "You can't do any worse than them."

The teen glanced away for a second, face scrunching in thought as his brows knitted together. He turned back, eyes filling with a familiar gleam of hazel-brown light. When he spoke again, his voice was back to its soft murmur. But Tony listened to each word as if they were literally being screamed in his ear.

"Mr. Stark...your life sounds really difficult. Trust me, if anybody's gonna be a good judge of that, it's me. And...and I understand that you wanted to help me, it's natural. It just proves how good of a person you are because you didn't have to do this, any of this." The kid smiled, a sight Tony had sorely missed. "You are a hero, to me at least. I know that probably doesn't mean much. But if I can repay it by taking your mind off of some of the heavier stuff, then whatever! It's mutualism."

Peter grimaced slightly at that and rubbed at his neck. "Biology's not really my strongest suit but just hear me out. I benefit by spending less time around the Cons and more time with people who don't make me want to drown myself in the sink and you get some time away from all the political crap. You...you don't have to think about the Avengers. We both win."

The kid leaned closer, teeming with nervous energy as a growing sense of desperation seemed to enter his voice. "It...it doesn't have to be difficult. Look, we can just...we can just forget this whole week ever happened!"

A sickening sense of dread entered Tony's stomach, the same he'd been feeling all week, all month, from the first day he'd met the kid.

"The park, the bridge, all of it! I'll never bring up my dad, I'll get better as covering up the bandages, you look the other way"

He curled his fingers, fists shaking at his sides at the kid's words.

It's perfect! Plausible deniability! Then we can just go back to how thing were before!"

(Blood on his forearm, dripping onto his lab floor.)

(Collapsing to the ground from sheer starvation.)

(Screaming and crying and begging Tony to let it go, to look the other way, to forget about it, forget, forget, forget, forget-)

But Tony couldn't forget.

"Peter, I don't want things to go back to how they were!" He finally screamed, his voice echoing off of the walls of the room, bouncing and hovering over their heads before tapering off into silence.

Peter stopped, freezing at the man's words. His face slowly began to crumple as his eyes drifted to the floor. "I...but, I..."

The kid stopped, didn't say anything more. Tony stared at him, stared at the look of rejection beginning to seep onto the kid's face, sucking in whatever hope had been growing in his's voice. The man hesitated, shutting his eyes for a moment as he considered what he was actually about to do, the weight of what he was about to say. But as his eyes drifted to the boy's chest, to the spider symbol in the center, the teen's words echoed in his head.

Brave.

Could he be brave?

Tony reached over and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, the kid jumping in surprise before lifting his eyes to meet Tony's.

"I...I want them to be better."

The kid blinked at him, eyes wide. "What?"

Tony sighed, removed his hand and dropped it into his lap, leaning back against the couch. "Peter, you might think that whatever we were doing before was fine, but-"

"It was!"

"No, it wasn't." The man's voice was hard, his eyes reflecting the same tone. "It wasn't fine. We were both just...ignoring the bigger problems." He stared down at his hands. Peter watched in silence as the man gently removed the makeshift bind on his palm. The blood had long since stopped, leaving nothing but bright red scratches adorning the skin. Tony narrowed his eyes and glanced over at Peter.

"I want to make a deal."

Immediately, he saw a shift in the kid as Peter tensed, posture tightening as he leaned back slightly, eyes pinching in distrust. "What kind of deal?" he said carefully.

Tony ignored the suspicion in the boy's voice as he lifted his uninjured hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "A crazy one, because I can't believe I'm actually considering not going to the police."

"What? Really?!"

"Hold on. I'm not finished." The man stared at him before letting out another sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck as he felt a particularly painful twinge. He was quickly reminded of why he didn't usually make it a habit of sitting on the floor. "Peter...I want you to be safe, not just feel safe but actually be safe. And I know you're not safe in that house," he murmured soberly.

"I-"

"Don't lie. Not anymore, not to me." Tony paused, taking a second to steel himself. He furrowed his brow, folding his arms over his chest. "You don't want to go to the police? Fine. Then you go to me."

Peter reared back, jaw dropping. "What?!"

"Just...hear me out. From here on out, if...if you're ever scared or hurt or upset or...just want some place to sleep where you don't have to keep one eye open, you come here. Understand me? You come here, you come to me and you tell me what's wrong, the truth about what's wrong. In return..." he took a breath. "In return...I won't tell anybody."

Peter stared at him, lips parted as he tried to process everything that was being thrown at him. Tony tilted his head to the side. "Got any plans for the summer?"

"Umm...no?"

"Good. You're spending it here."

If possible, the teen's eyes grew even wider as he sputtered. "What? I...he would never agree to that!"

"Then I'll make him agree!" Tony shot back, eyes narrowed as he thought of Richard putting up any resistance to his plan. That douchebag wasn't going to stop him now that his mind was made up, that much he could be sure of. "Anything to keep you as far away from them for as long as possible. If that's the best I can do, then that's what's happening. If you won't let the police protect you, then I will!"

He paused, taking in the kid's face to see what his reaction would be. This did sort of hinge on the teen actually agreeing to his plan. Peter didn't say anything at first, face tight and brows furrowed as he stared at the ground, eyes flitting back and forth in thought. Tony stayed silent, decided it would be best to let Peter take this in slowly. Finally, the boy carefully lifted his eyes, voice small.

"You...you don't have to do this..."

"I know. I want to."

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into here? What you're telling me to do? What...what you want to know...you really want everything?"

Tony reached over, carefully rested his hand on the boy's shoulder once more. "No more stories, Peter. Just the truth."

"...even if it's ugly?"

"Better than a beautiful lie."

The teen glanced away. "I'm not so sure about that."

Tony stared at him for a moment longer before realizing the kid wasn't planning on saying anything else. He slowly removed his hand, fingers twitching as he tapped them together. "So?" he called, anxious for the teen's answer.

Peter lifted his eyes, blinked at him in silence. His hands began to pick at the corner of the jacket overtop his suit. Tony decided not to ask about it. One crisis at a time here.

"You're asking me to trust you."

"I am."

"That's not an easy thing for me to do."

"I know. I'm hoping to change that."

'Yeah." Peter's foot bobbed up and down against the floor, a steady rhythm of anxiety. He huffed a small breath, a pant of sorts before he whipped his head around towards the billionaire. "I want you to do it with me." Before Tony could even open his mouth he was continuing. "If I'm going to be telling you my problems, then I want you to tell me about yours. I want to know you're risking just as much as I am."

Tony tried not to let how uneasy the request made him feel show in his body language as he shifted slightly, clearing his throat loudly. "You don't need to worry about my problems, kid."

Peter obviously saw right through that as he narrowed his eyes. "And you don't need to worry about mine yet here we are." The look slowly disappeared from his face, a softer quality melting onto his features. "Nobody else knows how hard it is...to really trust someone. But you do, don't you?"

Tony didn't respond. That seemed to be enough of an answer for the kid.

"You know it's not as easy as everyone makes it out to be. You know how much it can really...damage you. How much of a risk it is, a threat in waiting. So I know you won't take it for granted...will you?"

The man held his gaze. "No. I won't."

Peter sucked in a sharp breath and turned his head away, glancing up towards the ceiling as he muttered something under his breath. "Alright, then. If...if you can trust me, then...then I'll trust you. Or...I'll try, at least." He sheepishly threw the man a small look. "That's the best I got right now."

Tony smiled a different smile from the ones he usually wore. This one didn't hurt. "That's all I'm asking for, kid." He lifted his hand, extending out a palm. "So...deal?"

Peter stared down at the hand for a moment before lifting his own hand. But he didn't extend his palm. Instead, he held out his pinkie finger. Tony blinked at it before glancing up at the kid, a perplexed look on his face. Peter shrugged his shoulder, a smile falling onto his own face. "Just...trust me."

The man hesitated for a bit before huffing a small laugh of his own, looping his finger with the kid's. He raised his other hand, pressing it up against his face as he continued to laugh, but it was breathy and ended with a sigh. "Oh, god, kid. This...this is going to be..."

"Interesting." Peter finished, scooting back so that now he was also pressed up against the back of the couch, shoulder nearly touching the other man's as he unfolded his legs and splayed them out in front of him.

Tony scoffed. "That's one word for it." He dragged his hand down so that it was now rubbing at his straining neck. "I know I'm not exactly the best mentor. Hell, I'm not even qualified to be a mentor."

Peter cocked a brow. "Then don't. Nobody's asking you to be perfect. I'm not asking you to be perfect cause you're not. You're like me. Cause we both don't know what we're doing here." He paused, rubbing his fingers along the seams of the jacket. "And...and I think I'm okay with that now. I think I'm okay with not having all the variables, with...not knowing what comes next cause...at least now I know I'll be doing it with you...together."

He turned to look at Tony as he said so and the man couldn't help but stare at those big brown eyes, full of purity and innocence. How anybody like Peter could still hold such a look in his eyes after going through so much baffled the man. But by God if he could find some way to keep the kid's eyes looking like that, keep them looking so bright and happy and...full of hope, hope that Tony could actually help him, then he would do whatever possible.

"Mentor is a...big word, bigger responsibility." Peter said. "You'll grow into it. But for now...why don't we settle for-"

"Sidekick?"

"I was gonna say 'partners.'" He huffed, elbowing the smirking man in the side. Tony chuckled and elbowed the kid right back. "In crime?"

Peter shrugged. "I mean, I do already have a mask."

They both grinned at that as another wave of silence washed over them. But this wasn't crushing like before. This wasn't freezing cold, or boiling hot, or suffocating. It was...nice, a soft little lull that wrapped them in a comforting quiet. In fact, it took them both a second to realize the silence was really because the rain had stopped.

For the first time since the day previous, the downpour had finally ceased. The clouds were even beginning to part, revealing the bright, big, beautiful moon shining right above them, a disk of light that shone down through the windows. And for Tony, a new sense of peace began to spread through him. The tightness in his chest was gone. He took a breath, felt it slowly enter his lungs and leave with no hindrance, no shakiness. He could still feel a warmth underneath his skin, slightly too hot to be comfortable, but manageable.

He could work with this.

Peter felt something similar. The cold numbness was slowly crawling back to the center of his chest, releasing the rest of his limbs from its vice-like grip. It remained, a small little ball of black doubt encrusted with frost, but he could deal with that. There was no ice, no butterflies.

Tony reached over, looped his arm around the kid's shoulder. He could still feel the familiar little jolt underneath his fingertips as the kid flinched, as he'd expected. But what he wasn't expecting was for Peter to slowly lean closer until his cheek gently resting on Tony's shoulder, barely even touching it. But the contact was there, the realization was there.

It was the first time Peter had ever reciprocated contact.

Tony tried not to focus too hard on what it meant. Instead, he just smiled, gave a little pat.

"Thanks, kid."

"For what?"

"...Not giving up on me."

Peter lifted his head for a moment just long enough to meet Tony's gaze. They shared a small little smile before he leaned up against the man once again and the two of them were left to sit together in the silence. There were no words, no politics, no villains, no dreams, no butterflies...just them and the moon and the light.

And that was enough.

---

 

(Dreams are a weird fucking thing.)

(Ask any two people and they'll always give you a different response on what they are, what they mean, what they're supposed to represent. But honestly, anyone who tells you they've figured out the trick to them is full of shit. Nobody really knows how they work, not even the experts who'll give you some facts about the hippocampus or some repressed trauma or other crap. Fact of the matter is that dreams are just proof that our brains are fucking insane, the bare blatant craziness that makes us who we are, the parts we try to hide from one another day to day, our brains leave them exposed for us to see. And if we could see each other's dreams, see who we really are inside, we'd each see something different - a picture, a little snippet into the mind, a snapshot polaroid of who we are, what we aspire to be, what we hope will come.)

 

---

 

Wanda sat up against the wall, wistfully watching trails of red energy pooling around her fingers, illuminating her skin in a hellish glow that leaked onto the walls and cast her shadows as long stretches of black spearing the concrete.

(Some of them hurt,)

 

---

 

Sam rested an elbow on the window ledge, thrumming his fingers against his cheeks as he stared up at the moon, sleep just out of his grasp as it had been every night for the past two months.

(Some remind you of the things you don't have,)

 

---

 

Clint ran his fingers along the edge of the picture, eyes flitting from child to child, making out each and every detail, shutting his eyes for brief moments as he tried to recall each dimple, every freckle and birthmark, quizzing his brain to make sure he couldn't forget, wouldn't forget.

(The things you've lost,)

 

---

 

Scott fiddled with the corners of the scrap of paper, the words My Hero, still discernable despite its age, scrawled over the top of his daughter's drawing, wrinkled and stained but still standing.

(The things you'll never be.)

 

---

 

(Safe to say, dreams can be a real cruel bitch. But every once in a while, you have to remind yourself that it isn't the same for everybody. You just happen to be one of the unlucky few whose brains find it fun to taunt you in the dead of night with images you can't control.)

(Of course, there are others, the lucky ones who don't have to fight against their own minds every second of every day. Privileged bastards.)

(Their dreams are much, much different.)

Natasha stared out at the bay, fingers frozen against the rusted metal railing. She gazed at the light of Stark Tower in the distance, a ghost of a smile on her face as she listened to the soft lapping of the waves washing against the weathered concrete below.

(Not a picture of the past but a piece of a future within their grasp.)

 

---

 

(Those people find inspiration in their dreams, goals they can envision for themselves. They see their dreams as potential realities, images they can bring to life.)

Tony stared down at the bottles around his feet, scattered around the now empty penthouse. He sighed, bent down and slowly got to work.

(Within them they carry that spark of hope.)

One by one, they found their way into the trash.

(Hope of change.)

The liquid gurgled as it poured out of the bottle, quickly spiraling down the drain and out of sight.

(Hope of a chance. Hope that the world isn't as bleak as the rest of us see it.)

"FRIDAY, open up a new file for me. Private, not in the mainline servers. Link to the Parker file and triple encrypt."

"Of course, Boss. What would you like me to title it?"

(Hope that the world may become like how they dream it)

"Evidence."

(If they just try hard enough.)

 

---

 

(We all have dreams, each and every one of us, whether we deserve them or not. )

Ned stared down at his phone. No new messages. No responses. He sighed, set it back down on his dresser, and rolled over in bed.

(Sometimes it's hard to keep them alive, especially when you want them to.)

 

---

 

Michelle cursed as her pencil snapped. She lifted it away from her sketch and glared at the dull tip before standing up from her desk. She vaguely noted the time, glanced over at her bed and quickly banished the idea of sleep. She grabbed another pencil from under the desk and silently got back to work.

(Sometimes it's hard to see them as anything more than fantasy, children's whim.)

 

---

 

May turned over onto her side, reaching out with one hand towards the other side of the bed. It was cold. She cracked open her eyes, briefly wondered where he was before reality faded into mind and she shut her eyes. She knew better than to just pretend he was in the bathroom, as she had done for the first few months. Instead, she forced her breathing still and rolled over again.

(Sometimes you have to walk away, know that if you don't, if you allow yourself to stay in that bed under the covers and force your brain to conjure up those images again, you'll be stuck there forever even after the sun has come up and the oxygen has left your body.)

 

---

 

Richard walked along the dimly-lit halls, occasionally casting glances into the rooms lining either side of him. Even through the steel doors, he could hear the screeches and shrieks of the creatures from inside, from the people who had yet to realize they were not getting out of there, from the monstrosities just beyond his reach.

(Sometimes we want so desperately for them to be real that we drift from the real world into a fantasy and we'll do anything to make it a reality, even if it means tearing down the old world to get it and lighting the way by the burning fires of what you once had.)

He said nothing. He simply kept walking, turning onto another hallway of the same. One of hundreds.

 

---

 

(I've had dreams my whole life, some good, some bad. But they were always there. In a life that's defined by the changes, I guess it's one of the only real constants, so much so, in fact, that I really can't imagine not having them. I've never really been sure if I want to have them, but I do and I know there's no changing that. I also know that staying hung up on them is pretty fucking pointless. They come, they go. That's it. Just like my Dad says, just like anything and everyone, they leave.)

(Maybe that's a sad thought.)

(Maybe that's why I forget sometimes, forget that I'm not supposed to take them seriously. I guess sometimes when they're so good, it's hard not to picture them becoming a reality, hard not to imagine what it would be like if they came true.)

Peter breathed in the air as he swung through the city, the sharp blasts a welcome relief of adrenaline as he fell and flew past buildings, billboards, roads, trains.

(I know I'm not supposed to, but every once in a while, when my brain's feeling nice for a change and lets me have a particularly pleasant dream, I imagine it coming true. I imagine the life I'd have.)

A sense of freedom bloomed in his chest, a warmth that spread all throughout his body as the moonlight illuminated his paths in the sky.

(And I can see them, see the images growing before my eyes, full of color and warmth, growing and morphing and adapting until they completely overtake life as I know it, changing it into something different, changing me into someone else.)

A tingling sensation in the back of his neck had him veering from his path home.

(But then my alarm goes off, the sun starts coming up and the chill of my room starts to seep into my skin again. It's like the world outside of my bed can feel me dreaming, can sense my slip-up, and it's angry, angry at my audacity, at my disrespect.)

(Doesn't matter anyway. Sooner or later, those dreams fade.)

The sound of guns going off and loud grunts led him to an alleyway that tapered off underneath one of the subway bridges. The sight of bright flashing lights instantly had his curiosity peaked and his senses alert as he carefully crawled his way along the side of a nearby building. There were about ten of them, all male, all large in stature. The lights were from the guns they were holding, for they were glowing a bright...purple?

(Sooner or later, they dissolve.)

Upon closer inspection, Peter noticed the group was already fighting someone, a lone man who seemed to be having difficulty defending against the lasers and the explosions emanating from the glowing weaponry.

Quickly realizing he needed to intervene now and question later, Peter swung down and landed in the center of the group, quickly webbing up two of the nearest guys and facing off against the others. However, all of the men froze as he appeared, including the one man who appeared to have been fighting the others.

And as he turned to face him, Peter felt himself freeze up, his heart stopping and his eyes blowing wide as Captain America stared back at him.

(Sooner or later...we all have to wake up.)

 

---

 

End of Part I