Friday - May 20, 2016

Parker Residence - Second Floor Stairway

04:41 PM

Peter traced his fingers along the wall as he descended the stairs, searched for any bumps or blemishes in the drywall. He knew he'd find none, but that didn't stop him from running the tips of his hands along the cold surface, ducking underneath framed Gentileschi and Richter paintings that cost more than most of the cars that pulled into the lot at school.

He remembered when family pictures had hung on those walls, back before they'd expanded their previously humble home into the three-story modern mansion it was now.

Peter pulled his hand back as he stepped off the final step onto the second-floor landing. Flint was rummaging around in the kitchen, but other than him, no other Cons were in sight. He could hear them scurrying around somewhere and from the sound of Sandra's laughing, she was high on something. Best to steer clear, then. She could get pretty grabby when she was high.

So instead, the teen focused his attentions on the hallway past the stairs, on the door at the very end.

He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and slowly let his feet guide him forward. The floors made no noise when he walked save for the soft thudding of his shoes against the hardwood below. He never took off his shoes in the house, a habit he'd picked up after shattered beer bottles had become a staple in their house and he'd grown tired of picking shards out of his feet.

He wondered if Mr. Stark would get upset at him for wearing his shoes in the Tower.

Thankfully, before he could dwell on the uncomfortable thought, the door approached. He reached out a hand, pressed his fingers against the sturdy wood and held them there for a moment, let the cold seep into his skin. It was already cracked, which was a rare sight. His father's office was always off-limits, always closed. He wouldn't even let Peter clean in there without strict supervision.

Swallowing another breath, this one shakier than the last, Peter steeled himself and slowly pushed the door open-

 

---

 

His fingers curled into little fists as he scribbled on the page, knees digging into the office's carpet floor below as his feet knocked together in the air, stomach pressed flat as he drew.

Peter felt his little tongue stick out as he furrowed his brows, concentrating on getting the lines just right, on making sure the smile was big enough and the colors were perfect. Above him, he could hear Daddy talking on the phone, so he tried hard to be quiet as he scribbled. Underneath his father's desk, it was dark and cozy, but it allowed enough light for him to see his handiwork as he finished up. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position and held up the paper, grinning at the newly finished piece.

He jumped up to his feet, wincing as his head banged against the underside of the desk. He heard it wobble overtop, heard his Daddy grumble something that he couldn't hear. He rubbed at his head, but the discomfort wasn't enough to sway the excitement bubbling in him.

So with a large grin on his face, four-year-old Peter Parker scurried out from underneath the desk and turned around towards his Daddy.

His office was small with two desks along opposite walls, one for Daddy and one for Mommy. Mommy's was empty now, but Peter tried not to pay attention as he gazed up at his father.

The man's face was stern, as it had been for the past few months now. He was talking to somebody on the phone (also a newly common sight), and whoever he was talking to must have been angry, for his father didn't look pleased.

Peter could help.

"Listen. No. No, I got that. I'm going to need more time here."

"Daddy."

"Well, in case it hasn't been clear, I'm a little busy here. Turn on the goddamn news. I got eyes all over me right now and the fucking cops won't leave us alone. At this point, I just want to forget about it and move on."

"Look! Look what I did!"

"What do you want me to do? No. I'm literally asking you what you want me to do cause I'm fucking lost here. What are you expecting here, huh? I can't just pull these things out my ass."

"Daddy!"

"Peter, Daddy's busy."

"But I- "

"No. No, absolutely not. Not happening. No, you're not listening. I literally cannot make that happen. It's too soon and I don't have anybody here to help me unless you're volunteering. Yeah, I thought so. So why don't you shut the fuck up and find me some volunteers? And I use that term very loosely."

"Daddyyyyy!"

"Peter-! I don't care. I don't care where you find them. Doesn't your boss have a host of morons ready and waiting for use? Just pluck up some of them and ship them over. I can't very well do what you're asking without proper equipment!"

"You're not looking!"

"Don't you fucking threaten me, you little rat. I… yeah. Yeah, I don't care. I don't care who your guy is. I don't care how many numbers he's racked up. I'm not some political weasel he can snuff out with some well-placed 'accidents'. So, if you want to keep your little attack dog from getting put down, I suggest you keep him far away from me, cause I promise you, no 70-year-old enhancements are going to help him against what I got."

"DADDY!"

The phone slammed against the table so hard the entire room seemed to rattle. "PETER!" His father roared, eyes blazing as he leaned in, spittle flying.

Peter leapt back at the sudden explosion, paper falling from his hand as he stumbled against his feet. His father advanced.

"What the hell did it look like I was doing, huh? Are you fucking blind? How many goddamn times have I told you never to interrupt me when I'm on the fucking phone? What the hell is the matter with you, you fucking brat?!"

Peter took another stumbling step back as he felt his face scrunching, felt his eyes beginning to pool with tears as he retreated.

"I swear to God, you ever interrupt me like that again and I'll smack you silly, you understand me? I'll smack you around till you can't sit down, you understand?"

Peter whimpered as he felt his back hit the wall. His father's lips curled as his face twisted into a vicious snarl.

"I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

The boy didn't respond. Instead, he just curled up onto the floor and started to cry, wrapped his arms over his head as he buried his face into his knees and weakly called out for his mother. He was scared. He was scared and he was confused. His father had never yelled at him before, never over something like this. Once, when he'd spilled juice on the carpet, the man had given him a stern talking-to, but nothing like this. Peter didn't know what this was, but he didn't like it.

He stayed there on the floor, crouched there with his arms over his head for a moment of silence. He was too afraid to look up for his Daddy. He might make him mad again. But when he didn't hear any more yelling, he finally spared a small watery glance up.

Daddy was staring at him, watching him intensely. His face didn't look angry anymore. His eyes weren't mad, and his face wasn't scrunched up in an ugly, monster-like way. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was slightly parted, staring silently at Peter with an expression that almost resembled…. shock. He lifted a hesitant, shaky hand and rubbed at his mouth, something Peter had seen the man do whenever he was deep in his work. His eyes drifted for a moment to the phone on the desk. He brushed his fingers over it before slowly pushing it to the side. His eyes lifted towards his son again.

Slowly, the man approached.

Peter let out another whimper and tried to scoot back, but the wall wouldn't let him. His father didn't let up, just kept approaching. Once he was close enough, he knelt, coming face to face with the boy before him.

Daddy didn't say anything for a moment. He just kept staring at Peter, scanning his eyes up and down over him. Slowly, he reached out a hand. Peter watched him, watched his movements until they found their way into his son's hair. Peter leaned into the touch as his father rubbed his scalp, something he'd done hundreds of times before. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, calm, more like the voice he recognized.

"I'm sorry. I…. I didn't mean to yell at you." He kept running his fingers through Peter's hair as he spoke. "Daddy was just upset, that's all. But you shouldn't interrupt Daddy when he's on the phone, alright? Do you understand?"

Peter did understand. He knew that rule. But he'd been excited. He'd made his Daddy mad.

More tears welled up in his eyes at the realization. "I'm sorry."

Daddy smiled. "It's alright. I'm sorry for scaring you." The man hesitated for a moment before resting a hand down on the floor, folding his legs underneath him as he sat cross-legged on the floor. "So, what did you want to show me?"

Peter hesitated for a moment, kept his eyes trailed on his father for any signs that the man was still angry. But his smile remained, fixed and stable. He wasn't angry anymore. Peter smiled at this and scooted away from the wall, going down onto his hands and knees as he crawled over to where he'd dropped his paper.

He grabbed it and sat back on his haunches as he turned around and proudly held it out with his hands.

They were in space, all three of them, wearing helmets and everything. He'd made sure to add lots of stars and even put Saturn in the corner. Saturn was his favorite planet.

Daddy leaned back, smile remaining as he chuckled. "Is that us?"

"And Mommy," Peter said with a grin, pointing a little finger towards the stick figure with long brown hair sticking out of the space helmet.

He'd drawn them all together, him and Daddy going up in suits and all just to visit Mommy. He remembered the party where they'd gone to say goodbye to Mommy, the party in the rain with those stuffy suits. He remembered people saying that Mommy was above them now, somewhere in the sky.

Peter wondered how much actual spacesuits costed. Maybe he and Daddy could visit her in real life.

His father reached out a hand, and Peter, recognizing the signal, crawled over and plopped down into the man's lap. He felt Daddy wrap an arm around him, his big warm hand resting on his shoulder. "Quite the artist you are, kiddo. You should really save some talent for the other kids."

"You like it?"

"I love it." The man faltered. He reached out to finger the corner of the paper. "But you know it's just the two of us now, right?"

Peter lifted his big brown eyes and blinked up at him for a moment before lowering his head, fingers rubbing against each other as he pressed his cheek into the man's chest, listened to his heart beating loud against his ear.

"Yeah…. I miss Mommy."

His head bobbed up and down with the deep sigh his father took, felt the man's hand rubbing against his shoulder. "I know. I miss her too." He felt Daddy shift and suddenly found himself being propped up to look him in the eye once more. His face was serious again. For a moment, Peter was afraid he was angry again. But his father didn't yell this time. In fact, when he spoke, his voice was soft and calm.

Peter liked the sound of his father's voice, liked to listen to it read him stories and feel the rumbling of the man's chest against his ear like the sounds of the car whenever he pressed his forehead against the window.

"But she's gone now, and we have to accept that. Mommy would want us to be happy with each other." The man paused for a moment, reached out a hand and brushed a few curls out of Peter's face. "You love Daddy….right, Peter?"

The boy smiled and nuzzled his cheek into the man's neck, giving a big nod as he did so. He felt the man chuckle, felt the arm around him grow a bit tighter.

"Daddy loves you too, Peter. Nothing's going to change that."

The sound of paper rustling made Peter poke his eye out and he watched as Daddy held up his drawing. The man was silent as he folded part of the paper back so that Mommy couldn't be seen, only him and Daddy floating together in space with big happy smiles, holding hands so they wouldn't float away. He ran his fingers along the crease and held the newly edited picture out for the two of them to see.

"See? Isn't that better?"

Peter didn't think so. He couldn't see Mommy anymore. But Daddy was smiling. Daddy looked happy and he wasn't angry anymore, so Peter decided he was happy too. He let another grin fall onto his face as he nodded again. Richard smiled down at him, a warm gaze untouched by the new speckled dots on his cheeks. They were new. Peter still wasn't quite used to them yet.

The boy reached a small hand up and ran the tips of his fingers against his father's cheek, pressing against the dots. Daddy kept smiling, ran his own hand along Peter's arm as the boy traced the speckling.

"Oh, wait. Hang on." Peter watched his father reach towards the pile of crayons Peter had left discarded on the floor nearby. Grabbing a yellow, Daddy repositioned the paper and drew a little golden crown on top of Peter's space helmet.

"There we go. Perfect. Now everyone in the galaxy known that you're my little prince," he said with a chuckle as he suddenly scooped the boy up and wrapped him in his arms, bringing his hands around towards his stomach as he tickled him. Peter squealed in his grasp, giggles falling from his lips as he squirmed in his father's arms-

 

---

 

"Peter."

He jolted in place, eyes blinking to quickly find his father as the man stared at him from his desk. "Why are you just standing there? I told you to come in."

The teen swallowed the dryness coating his throat and stepped through the door, shutting it behind him as he entered. He shuffled on his feet, unsure as to whether or not his father wanted him to do something. The man gestured towards the chairs opposite his desk. Peter gave a muted nod and quietly walked over. He folded his hands in his lap and sat down in the chair, resisted the urge to glance around the room.

There were no hand-drawn pictures in his father's new office, no originals with his messy four-year-old signature in the bottom corner. Peter fiddled with his sleeves, pulled them overtop his hands. His father didn't look at him, just kept adjusting some files on his desk. His glasses were perched on the tip of his nose, giving him a sterner expression than usual. Or maybe he was just angry. Peter strained his ears, listened for the beating of his father's heart.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

Steady. Even. No discernable signs of displeasure. Peter eased another breath into his lungs at the realization.

"So…" Richard patted some papers into order before slipping them into a manila folder. He set it down and gazed at Peter overtop the rim of his glasses. "You're leaving soon." His voice was even, gave no hints to any outward emotion. "Are you excited about it?"

Peter lifted his gaze for just a second, caught a glimpse of the man's face. His expression was neutral, no hints of emotion on his features, either. The teen lowered his gaze once more, unsure as to how he was supposed to respond. So he settled with a silent shrug of the shoulders.

"That was a yes or no question, Peter."

He winced at the sterner tone, licking his lips as he angled his head away. "Yes? N-no, I….I don't know."

It took him just a second to realize he was telling the truth. He didn't know.

"Why?"

He blinked, lifted his head again. "What?"

Richard gazed down at him, reached up and plucked his glasses off, setting them down on the desk as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you know?"

Peter furrowed his brows, kept his eyes on the floors below. His fingers clenched tighter around the sleeves bunching in his palm. The dryness in his throat was back, sticky and uncomfortable.

"I've… I've never left home before. Not… for this long, at least."

Richard breathed, in and out, slowly, and deeply. Peter could practically hear the air swirling around the man's lungs. "And you're concerned." It wasn't a question.

"I just…don't know what to expect."

The man sniffed, gave a small shrug of his shoulders. "You've been around Stark for three months now. That wasn't long enough?"

Peter sighed, set his hands down to grip the edges of his seat. "It's different now. I'm going to be living there. Who knows if that changes things?" He bit at his lip, felt his grip wavering slightly. "It probably does, I just don't know how or in what ways. I…"

He swallowed again, found it was much more difficult this time. "I don't know what's going to happen."

Richard leaned forward slightly. "You're scared."

Peter hesitated for a moment before giving a small nod, bracing himself in his seat as he winced. "I'm sorry."

But the reprimand he'd been expecting didn't come with sharp words and a slap. It didn't come at all.

"It's understandable."

He lifted his head, met his father's gaze. For once, he found he didn't want to look away as the man stared back at him with those hauntingly deep eyes, one a dark brown and the other a ghostly pale.

Richard lifted a hand, gestured with it a bit. "This is your home, Peter. And all of a sudden, some stranger is coming in and plucking you out for who knows why, changing everything you've built your life around. And it is your life. A life you're happy with… right?"

He nodded without hesitation. "Of course."

"Right. So, it's completely understandable that you would have some concerns of your own." He took another breath, another deep, ear-ringing breath. "This isn't some small little adjustment. This is a life-altering set of circumstances that we've been given here"

Peter stared down at his hands, flexed his fingers into fists and unclenched them. He took a breath, loathed how shaky and unsteady it was compared to his father's. He lifted his eyes to stare at the man, gaze dripping with desperation and uncertainty.

"What do I do?"

He needed an answer. He needed something.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter suddenly saw himself clinging to his father's leg, hiding behind the man from all the stares of the strangers at the funeral. He saw himself reaching up for his father, gesturing for him to pick him up. He saw himself nestled into the crook of the man's neck, small little hands wrapping around his shoulder.

For the first time in a long time, Peter wanted his father, desperately craved the man's comfort, his warmth, and his reassuring words.

He wanted the man to smile at him, to pat him on the shoulder and tell him that everything was going to be fine. He wanted it so badly that his chest hurt, a deep ache he could feel against his ribs, making his breath falter and his hands shake. He wanted to hide in his arms, curl up against him and duck away from the rest of the world.

He wanted it so badly that all the tension in his body at the prospects of being punished seemed to melt away, his desire for comfort outweighing his fear, if only for a moment.

Richard stared at him in silence. His fingers tapped together as he thought, his eyes piercing and sharp. Finally, the man pushed his chair back and stood up. Peter instantly found himself zeroing in on the man's movements, watching for any signs of aggression. But Richard showed none, not even as he spoke once more.

"Have I ever told you about my grandfather?"

It's a rhetorical question. They both know he never has.

The man moves around towards the front of the desk and takes a seat on top of it. He rests his elbows on his knees. "My father's father. The original owner of the cabin upstate."

Peter perked slightly at this. "He built that?"

"After the war. Even when our family fell on hard times, my grandfather refused to sell that cabin. Said it would stand the test of time. Eventually, it was passed down to my father and then to me. We kept the old man's wish and it remains a part of our family to this day."

It had been years, years since he'd even thought of the Cabin. Situated in the deeper brush of upstate New York, Peter distantly remembered the smell more than anything else. The scent of water on the air, mingling with pine and soil, freshly sodden with rain from the night before.

("Look! Look! It's got a cave!")

("That's called a fireplace, sweetie.")

("Jesus, I forgot all about that thing. I wonder how many birds nests I'm going to have to smoke out of there.")

("Peter, honey. Don't touch that ash. You'll get dirty.")

Peter felt a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. "I like that cabin," he said in a small voice. He was sure his father heard him nonetheless, for the man gave a little nod of agreement. Richard lifted a hand to press against the back of his neck.

"My grandfather… he was recruited for the war right when it started. He was only twenty years old, newly married to my grandmother when he was shipped off to the Western Front. And from the stories I've heard, passed down from my father, well… let's just say words don't do it justice, my boy."

Peter listened in silence. He had no idea why the man was telling him such things, but he didn't question it. His father always had his reasons.

"He was scared. All around him there was chaos and bloodshed. He'd eat breakfast with his friends and by lunchtime, he was zipping them up in body bags, picking their limbs out of the trees." Richard's face grew an almost amused sort of scoff. "It's enough to make anyone shiver."

He let out a deep sigh, leaning back a bit in his seat atop the desk. "Well, one day, while he's out scouting with his troop, they're ambushed by a German squad, captured, and brought back to a holding camp. For two months, he's trapped there, suffering their torture, and their knives, their electric shocks, and their acid baths."

("Serum C31. Trial 1.")

("Peter, goddamn it, would you hold still? Rich! The fucking kid won't stop moving. And – Jesus. Would you shut the fuck up already? Enough with your wailing!")

He shoved the thoughts away, intrusive and annoying. Richard continued.

"Anything and everything to extract what they needed from him. When I was little, he used to show me the three missing teeth they'd yanked out of his skull and the finger they'd cut off." The man drew a line overtop the second knuckle of his right hand. "I was young, thought it was cool."

He straightened up in his seat, grunted a bit at the movement. "He doesn't give up, though. And one day while they're bringing in the meal rations for the day, the guard - a rookie - accidentally gets too close to the bars. So, Granddad grabs the kid's arms, yanks them through the bars and smacks his head against them. Dazed, the kid can't defend himself when his keys get grabbed, nor can he stop the old man from snapping his neck clean round." His face remained passive and calm as he spoke, voice light and unrestrained by the weight of his words. "He said it sounded like the crunch of those walnuts we used to collect out back behind the cabin. You remember those?"

Peter's stomach gurgled uncomfortably. He shifted in his seat. "I remember."

Richard sniffed again, gave a little nod of his head.

"From there, it's a three-week trek through the middle of Nazi-riddled Germany in early December." The man gave a little chuckle and scratched at his cheek, glancing up at the ceiling as if the words to his tale were written there in the roofing. "He lost two toes to frostbite and went permanently deaf in his left ear. Sleeping during the day in the dense woods, he'd make his way at night, using the shadows to his advantage. Whenever he'd come across a German platoon, he'd wait for them to fall asleep before sneaking into their camp."

He stopped scratching his cheek and glanced down at his nails. "Sometimes he'd slit their throats. Sometimes he'd let them live and just steal their food. He said it depended on the day, depended on his mood, whether he'd gotten a good night sleep the day before, whether one of those guys just looked or smelled funny."

Richard shrugged with a smirk. "Little things like that."

Peter remained silent, kept his eyes focused down on his hands so his father wouldn't see the grimace beginning to work its way onto his face. It was the longest conversation he'd had with his father in weeks. He didn't want to spoil it by making him think he wasn't mature enough to handle it.

"Eventually, he makes it within a few miles of the border. And just as he thinks he's home free, he's stopped by a lone German gunner." Richard crossed one leg over the other, folded his hands overtop his knee as he leaned back once more. "Now, he's yelling something or other in a language that's completely foreign to Granddad, so he has no idea what the guy's saying. All he understands is that he's going to die just a few miles from safety."

He paused for a moment, causing Peter to glance up from his safe position of staring down the floor. The man gazed back at him for a second of silence, seemed to look him over for a moment before averting his gaze, speaking up once more.

"So, he gets down on his knees and he starts to beg. He's crying, he's snotting, he's pleading with all his heart. Meanwhile, the gunner's still screaming, but after a few minutes of hearing this begging, he starts to quiet down a little.

"Finally, the German stops. He looks at Granddad. Granddad looks at him." Richard gazed back down at his hands at this, fiddled with his fingers in an oddly similar fashion to his son, Peter realized.

"Maybe he saw how young he was, or how cold and miserable he looked. Or maybe he just wasn't in the mood to kill anybody else. But whatever the reason, the German – who Granddad said couldn't have been more than 19 – lowers his gun and takes a step back, nodding for him to pass."

Peter watched his father, watched the man as he seemed to take a step back in time, sitting with an almost thoughtful expression on his face as he reminisced. It was an expression his face didn't seem used to making, for it still held a grimace of sorts, like it was out of practice and didn't know how to untighten its screws.

Nevertheless, when Richard spoke once more, his voice held that same airy tune, light and casual like they were simply discussing weekend plans.

"So… Granddad takes the knife he swiped from a villager he strangled in Reims and stabs the kid in the eye. Then the face. Then the neck. Over and over he tears the kid apart, slices him up into ribbons, and stomps on his bones."

Peter could barely turn his head away in time to hide the gag that involuntarily shot through his throat, stomach rolling as he gripped the edge of his seat in a white-knuckle hold. He took a breath, took a couple more when the shakiness of the attempt left him light-headed still.

"Why…?"

Richard took a deep breath of his own, leaned back down against his knee. "He didn't know. I asked him that too and… he didn't know. He just did."

Peter didn't look up at him. Didn't release his grip on his chair. There was a new tingling beginning to spread along his arms, down his back, crawling up his neck. He didn't want to listen anymore. But he didn't dare get up.

"Eventually, he made it back onto Allied territory where he was awarded for his bravery and skill." Richard lowered his gaze down to the floors below, voice dropping a bit. "I don't think he told them about the kid. I don't think he told them about a lot of the things he did." His gaze hardened as his voice softened. "They wouldn't have understood. Even in the throes of war, they wouldn't have understood."

Peter jolted in his seat as his father suddenly got up from his position on top of his desk. The boy watched him as he flexed his fingers, curled them into fists before relaxing them at his sides.

"People nowadays… they still don't understand. Don't understand the lesson he learned out there, trekking through the snow and the blood and the bombs. They don't understand the sacrifice it takes to come out the other side."

He turned away from Peter, pressed his hands into the desk as he lowered his head. His voice was little more than a murmur, but Peter heard him nonetheless.

"They don't understand what it truly means to live."

For a moment, Richard didn't move. He didn't turn back around. He didn't lift his head. He just stood there, hands pressed against the desk, back to Peter. He stood there for so long staying so still that Peter had to focus on his senses once more just to make sure the man's heart was still beating, that he hadn't frozen to stone right then and there before his very eyes.

"You asked me what you're supposed to do."

Slowly, Richard turned back around. In his eyes was something Peter couldn't trace. An emotion he didn't recognize. It wasn't anger or disgust. It wasn't something he'd ever seen in his father's eyes before. For a brief moment, it almost seemed… gentle.

"You do…exactly what he did." Richard took a breath, lifted his chin, and expanded his chest, squaring his shoulders as his face hardened into a stern look. "You do exactly what our entire family has done through the height of poverty and despair and degradation. You do what I did when I was cast out by a company I'd once believed in, when I was stepped on and spit on and shunned from the very people I'd wanted to help." The man's voice grew a hard edge as he said this. But as he took another step forward, Peter was shocked to see him suddenly kneel down, resting his arms on his propped-up knee as he got down onto eye-level with his son. Peter held his breath, held his grip on the chair as he found himself enraptured in the man's stare, trapped in his gaze, in this rare moment of closeness.

"You do exactly what I've been teaching you to do for the past ten years, with each round of discipline, no matter how harsh. You do what you've been brought up to do your entire life:"

Richard leaned in. Peter could feel the chair creaking against his own grip.

"Endure."

There was no clock in the room. No fan circling above their heads. Nothing that could have potentially broken the silence between the two of them with small little clicks or whirs. Peter could hear his heart, hear his father's heart. He could hear the two beats fighting over each other, smashing and crashing against each other in a fight to be heard, mingling and intertwining into a single steady drumming in his ears, echoing against the walls, radiating around his head.

"It's the most valuable lesson I could have taught you. One that I've painstakingly been trying to bring up in you." Richard sneered and glared towards the door. "Those people out there, outside this house, they don't understand the value in something like that, the true reward of learning a lesson as harsh and as cruel."

Richard turned back to him and Peter noticed a new expression shifting into the man's eyes. It took him a long moment of staring to realize with a jolt that the expression was affection.

"I wish you didn't have to learn it, Peter. If anything, I wish you didn't," he said, voice surprisingly somber as he gazed at the teen with an almost regrettable gleam in his gaze. He blinked and the look was gone. "But I know that there are some things that I can't protect you from, and the reality of our world is one of them."

Richard rose up to his feet. It took all of Peter's strength not to flinch. The man began to move around the room, gesturing towards the door. "Out there, every challenge will weigh on you, every eye, every glare, every obstacle and man-made wall they put in front of you will test you. And in that moment, you'll have to decide whether or not you can overcome it. Whether or not you can survive that trek through the snow, whether you can survive staring down the barrel of a gunner, whether you can stand up and walk away from it all with your head held high and your eyes to the sky."

Richard turned, walked over towards the back of the room, towards the wall of books stacked high to the ceiling. The man lifted a hand, ran it down the side of the bookshelf. Peter watched his fingers tracing the edge of the structure, gentle and slow.

"Parkstem… came from challenge. It came because I had endured everything else." The man lowered his head and Peter caught sight of the bitterness shining through in his eyes.

"I had been fired, outcast, shunned, and humiliated. Oscorp and the sly rats that ran it were intimidated. So, they snuffed me out."

Richard clenched his fists, watched them flex and unflex against his palm. "I was at the bottom. I was lower than the bottom. I was underneath this. And in that despair, I found clarity. In that hopelessness, I saw the truth. It was that emptiness, that raw suffering that had built in me a strength that could not be challenged, a determination that could not be broken."

Peter lowered his own gaze, furrowed his brow slightly. He imagined his father, younger, more desperate. He imagined what he had to face, imagined the struggle and the hardship. And as he did, a new feeling began to brew in his stomach, one that he would later recognize as awe.

The man turned back to him. The previous bitterness in his gaze was gone. Slowly, he approached once more and this time, Peter didn't flinch as the man knelt down in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was soft and calm, a warm, comforting lull of noise that rumbled from somewhere deep in his throat.

"You have to find that, Peter. You have to find that strength hidden beneath that suffering. Find that hope beneath the hopeless." The corners of the man's eyes crinkled slightly as he leaned closer. "Every day, I see you get stronger. Every day I see what living in this house, what living with our family has done to you."

He shook his head. "You're not like all those other kids out there, those kids around you. They don't understand. They're weak, soft, and out of touch. But you…? You're special."

Richard reached out and placed his hands on Peter's shoulders. The teen let out a shuddery breath at the touch, found himself rooted to the seat, a heat beginning to thrum underneath his skin as he fought the urge to leap away and curl up in the man's arms all at the same time. He could feel a tightness in his chest, a burning in his eyes as his lungs hissed and his body shrieked and screamed a whole host of conflicting messages.

"You're a light shining above them all. You have endured what they cannot imagine, and from that darkness, I can see you burning. Burning them all away, right out of your path, until all that remains is you in your glory."

Richard leaned closer, gave a gentle smile. "That's what I've always wanted for you, Peter. I've always wanted to see you burn bright."

("You're going to stay in there and think about what you did! Pray that I let you out in this century!")

("Peter. Don't touch that fridge. What have I told you about that? How many times do we have to go over it, goddamn it?")

("These are my friends, Peter. I want you to do whatever they tell you, alright?")

(This is our family, boy! You ungrateful, wretched little rat! Do you want to be alone? Is that it? You just want to be alone forever?! Cause I'll make that happen!")

The teen choked on a hiccup, shutting his eyes as he lowered his head. He could feel the tightness of his muscles, the hum of electricity coursing through his bones until he couldn't hold it back any longer and a tear slipped down his cheek.

"It's hard…"

He felt a thumb run against his cheek and brush the tear away. "I know. But it'll all be worth it in the end. I know it's hard to see now, but I know it." Richard gave a tighter squeeze of the boy's shoulders and Peter opened his watery eyes to meet the man's gaze once more. "You just have to trust me, Peter. I know what's best for you. You believe that, right?"

And when Richard brushed away another tear, the touch was so soft and so gentle that Peter couldn't help but nod 'yes.'

The man pulled his hands away much too soon, glanced towards the door. He took a deep breath. "Stark's coming soon."

And the sheer heart-stopping despair that filled Peter's chest was almost enough to choke the air out of him. He resisted the urge to reach out for his father, settled for leaning closer. "I don't want to leave you," he whispered with a faint desperation leaking through his words.

Richard turned back to him and remained silent as he stared the boy up and down. Finally, he pushed himself up to his feet. "I want you to have something."

Peter watched the man move back around to the front of his desk and open a drawer. "My grandfather, when he killed that gunner, pulled something from the body. Something that's been passed down in my family since." Peter couldn't see what the man slipped into his hand, not until Richard walked back around and knelt in front of him once more. Slowly, he opened his hand, and Peter stared down at the silver pocket watch now resting in his palm.

It shone with detailed gold carvings in the silver, roman numeral numbers circling the glass as two thin hands slowly ticked by with each second, smooth and precise in their movements. On top sat a little ring with a long silver chain dangling in the air. Richard pinched the end of the chain and lifted it up, allowing the watch to dangle on the end, swinging back and forth. Peter watched it, entranced.

"It's an antique. German-make, 1842."

The man shifted his gaze from the watch to his son. Peter did the same. Slowly, Richard extended the watch out. Peter flipped over his own hand and allowed the man to carefully drop the antique into his awaiting palm. "I want you to keep this." Slowly, Richard grabbed Peter's fingers and carefully curled them overtop the watch, placing his own hand on top as he gazed at the boy with a piercing gleam in his eyes.

"I want you to keep it close and when you look at it, I want you to think of me, think of our family, think of everything we've endured together." The man smiled, a strong determined look. "That's what this is, Peter. Our strength as a family. Nothing can tear that apart. Nothing. Not the press, not any squabbles or disagreements, and certainly not Tony Stark."

Peter blinked, tore his gaze away from the man's stare, and turned to the watch in his palm.

It was bigger than the coin in his pocket. Heavier, too.

"Thank you." His voice was soft. His father heard anyway.

The man slowly reached out a hand and rested it against the side of Peter's neck, gripping it tightly but not uncomfortably. "I am going to miss you, Peter. I want you to know that. This isn't easy for me, either. But it has to be done. For the good of the family."

Peter fingered the watch in his grip, didn't tear his eyes away from his father. "For the good of the family," he whispered.

Richard straightened his back slightly. "But I want you to remember something, Peter. Something important. If there's one thing for you to take away from all of this, it's what I'm about to say right now."

He nodded.

The man wet his lips and gave a nod of his own. "When you leave, when you're sitting up there in that Tower, when you're listening to his ridiculousness and pompous condescending explanations of what our family is, when you're feeling doubt…doubt about me or our family, I want you to look at this…" He tapped his fingers against the teen's fist, the watch secure within. "…and I want you to remember something."

Richard's eyes never blinked, never wavered for even a second. They gazed back at him with a fiery intensity that Peter couldn't look away from. They burned inside of him, held him down and wrapped him up in a hold he couldn't escape, a hold he didn't struggle against, not when he was so mesmerized. His voice rang around the room, rang in Peter's ears, in his brain, his chest, his heart. They etched themselves into his skin, into his bones, his lungs so that every time he breathed, every time he shut his eyes or stared down at his hands, he would remember, he would see them and he would remember.

"I am all that you have in this world. Without me, you have nothing. Without me, you are nothing. Do you understand?"

Peter shut his eyes, felt the warmth of his father's hand as it cupped his face. He leaned into the touch, leaned into the warmth, let himself sink into it. "Yes."

"Would you ever betray me, Peter?"

"No. Never."

"Not even for Stark?"

"Not for anyone. I love you."

"I know you do. I love you too, my little prince."

The hand dropped away, taking its warmth with it.

"Don't make me doubt that."

 

---

 

Daddy was still talking to someone.

Peter hadn't recognized the man when he'd come in. He was old, maybe even as old as Daddy. A grown-up. But not a grown-up Peter had ever seen before. He had yellow hair and wrinkles on his face like Daddy and Ben. He'd smiled at Peter as he'd walked past.

Daddy hadn't smiled. Daddy hadn't said anything, just walked past him with his new friend trailing behind as they left for his office.

Peter cast a small glance over his shoulder down the hall towards his father's office. The door was still closed, even after an hour. He couldn't hear anything inside. He turned his head back down and snapped another Lego piece into place.

Auntie May and Uncle Ben had bought him this set for his birthday last year. He wondered what they would get him when he turned five. It was happening soon. Only a few months from now.

He wondered what his Mommy would have gotten him, too. He wondered if she was sad that she had to miss his party, wherever she was.

He wished he could visit her. Tell her about Daddy and his new friend. Maybe then she could tell him who this new friend was. Daddy hadn't. Daddy hadn't told him anything.

It wasn't until Peter was almost finished building his Lego rocket while simultaneously wondering whether or not Daddy's new friend liked the picture Peter had drawn for his father - which still hung up on the wall of his office – when the door behind him finally opened.

Peter lifted his head and pushed his glasses up higher over his nose. The man was in front this time. He glanced down at Peter again and gave another nod. Peter didn't smile back. He didn't know why. He just didn't.

Daddy followed behind him. He still wasn't smiling. He didn't even look at Peter as he walked his friend to the door. They whispered something to each other, something too soft for Peter to make out. Then the door was open, and the man was gone.

Peter watched his father carefully, watched the man keep his grip on the door handle, tight and unmoving. His head didn't lift, eyes didn't wander. Slowly, the fingers by his side clenched and unclenched.

He turned, made eye contact with Peter.

Peter wanted to reach down, wanted to pick up his newly finished rocket ship and show it off, watch his father's face turn into a smile as he proclaimed how proud he was of his son's creation.

But he didn't. He just stared back into his father's eyes. They were hot. Peter felt his skin starting to itch as he stared back at him, a tingling he'd never felt before making him shiver. But it wasn't cold in the house. Why was he shivering?

Finally, his father lowered his gaze. His face remained grim as he pushed away from the door. He strode across the room, making his way back towards the office again. Peter wanted to get up, wanted to get in his way and stop him from going back into his office. It seemed that's where his father always spent his time now, locked away behind a closed door. He wanted to tell his father to spend time with him, sit and play Legos with him like he'd used to do, see who could make the better house, car, tree, whatever.

Peter always won. Daddy always let him win.

But Daddy didn't sit this time. All he did was throw a sidelong glance towards the boy sitting on the floor, his gaze slowly drifting to the Lego pieces scattered across the floor.

His lip curled. "Would you clean up this goddamn mess? Jesus."

Peter watched his father start down the hall again, heard the door to his office closing shut once more, the sound echoing off the walls.

He lowered his head, eyes tracing over the pieces scattered around him, the rocket next to his crossed legs. Slowly, he reached a hand down and picked up his creation.

It wasn't that great. He'd made better pieces before. He'd once made a car with eight wheels and a house with six walls. Maybe that's why Daddy wasn't impressed. Because it wasn't impressive.

He could do better.

But later. Right now, he had to clean up. He didn't want to make Daddy angry.

Not again.

 

---

 

Friday - May 20, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

05:26 PM

Last time. This was the last time. He couldn't keep going over everything.

Tony's eyes scanned over the bedroom, the newest addition to his private floor. He meticulously scoured his gaze over the walls, flitting his eyes from one detail to the next over and over again circling around the room searching for a flaw, an imperfection, a mistake that could cause them to postpone, stop time, keep things from moving forward.

He huffed out a breath, a hot, humid puff of air that made him order FRIDAY to turn up the AC another few notches. She obliged, obviously, but it didn't help the sudden heat tingling underneath his skin, mingling with the disgust he could feel pooling in his stomach as he kicked himself for said thoughts.

It was wrong. They were wrong thoughts to have. Peter had to come. He had to. But the reality that said scenario was happening now left him searching just a little more desperately for something to call his decorators over, something for him to scream at them about, to demand they come in, tear the whole room down, and start from scratch. Something to keep the kid away, keep him away from the disaster Tony could see lurking in the back of the room, leering out from underneath the bed, glaring at him from the walls.

He glared right back, turning on his heel as the door slid shut behind him.

The kid's friends had left around an hour ago, taking with them any and all confidence Tony might have been feeling about Peter's impending arrival. If anything, they'd just made him feel even more unprepared. Their presence had only solidified the fact that his Tower was not a place for kids. They stood out. Period. Like a rock in the bottom of a crystal punch bowl, drowned out by the sheer lavishness around them.

He knew Peter was different. For one thing, Peter had grown up around such riches. His father was a freaking billionaire for Christ's sake. Not only that, but it wasn't like the kid was a stranger to Stark Tower. Said building had been his go-to for the better part of three months. He was nothing if not used to the place.

But working somewhere is a hell of a lot different than living there. And a boss is definitely way different from a roommate.

Tony started down the hallway. He considered heading back down to the Common Floor or maybe even the study to recheck everything, make sure they were in their proper places. But the reminder that he'd done that exact thing a sum total of six times already made him head for the elevator instead.

He had to head to the garage. He had to go.

("Quick question, before you two go. Did Peter talk about tonight at all?")

("Um...I guess a little. He hasn't talked much about it at all, honestly. Like, all week, he's been pretty quiet about it.")

("But he has said something, right?")

("Yeah, I guess.")

("And...did he seem, I don't know...excited? Nervous? You get anything of the sort from him?")

His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he walked, the heels of his shoes clacking against the tile. He swallowed, felt his fingers tapping against his legs. He patted his pockets, felt for his phone.

The ride down to the garage was a blur as his mind stumbled through the list of possible ways he could tackle this night. The next night. Every night.

Maybe pizza for dinner. What should he say to the kid when he saw him? How should he introduce his room without coming off as too overbearing? Maybe buy a couple of movies, which ones didn't he own? How could he kill Richard Parker without going to prison? What could he do to make the Tower more comfortable? Are there any books on convincing kids that their parents are evil? He should ask Pepper to look that up for him. Is it too cold? Will Peter be too cold in the Tower? How would he know if the kid never told him? What if Peter didn't talk to him? What if he couldn't do this? What if he failed? Maybe Chinese instead.

The doors open and Tony mechanically stepped out of the elevator. He drifted toward a car, he didn't know nor care which one until he was already sliding into the driver's seat. He lifted his hands, wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, and took a long, deep breath, in through his nose and out through a small slit in his mouth. Then again. Then a third time just for good measure.

He couldn't think like that. He couldn't afford to think negatively anymore. Not when there was so much riding on his thoughts, now. Not when there was a kid who could hear what he was thinking just by the beating of his heart (a realization that still made him uneasy).

Tony slid the key into the ignition, felt the car purr to life underneath him. He tightened his grip on the wheel and took a fourth and final deep breath. He could do this. Peter needed him to do this.

One day at a time. And that started now.

He backed out of the space and put the car into DRIVE, heading towards the newly opened doors and out into the cool dusk outside, the sun setting faster than he could comprehend.

. . .

("Scared. He seemed...scared.")

 

---

 

Friday - May 20, 2016

Parker Residence - First Floor Living Room

05:57 PM

Peter could hear each of their heartbeats ringing in his ears. Loud. Oppressing. Drowned out his own withering beats thumping against his ribs, hiding from the sheer force of the noise around him.

Otherwise, the house was silent.

Occasionally, Flint would take a swig of his beer and they'd hear the soft sloshing of the liquid against the glass. Sometimes, when Curt took a puff from his cigarette, his breath would let out an audible whistle as the smoke dripped from his lips. Every once in a while, Sandra would switch which leg rested against her knee, the soft sound of her heel settling against the wooden floors emitting a soft thud. And even Max would sometimes shift in his seat, the subtle sounds of his knuckles flexing mingling with his little impatient sighs.

But despite their little noises, Richard was silent. As was Peter.

Both father and son sat on the same couch. The older rested with his back comfortably leaning against the back cushions, leg folded overtop his knee as he rested an elbow against the armrest, hand pressing against his mouth as he stared off at nothing. Peter sat next to him, his legs folded crisscrossed underneath him on the cushions, hands resting in his lap. He stared down at his fingers, picked at a scar he couldn't remember getting that ran overtop one knuckle.

The Cons sat around them, reclining in the surrounding cushions and chairs and sofas that made up the designer living room. But nobody said a word. Nobody moved, or got up, or made to do anything other than sit. Sit and wait.

But it was hard to drown out the sounds of their heartbeats.

Maybe they weren't different at all. Maybe they were all exactly the same, the same monotonous beating of the same tuneless drum. But Peter had been listening to those drums for his entire life. And just like their footsteps, he could pick them out of a crowd, could recognize them with a single thud and a half-measure of stutter.

Sandra's was the quietest out of all of them. Her heartbeat was fast and steady, but quiet. And it always had the same pattern, the same beating path it always followed whenever she passed by him. Tha-th-thump. Tha-th-thump. Tha-th-thump. A three-pronged melody.

Curt's was the fastest. It made sense. His mutation hadn't just affected his muscles and his skin, but his organs and circulatory system as well. His room needed a heater. His clothes were always insulated. They were little details, but they all culminated around the beating of his sickly-cold heart, a staccato pattern like the stuttering of a machine gun. Tick-tack-tack-tic-tack-tack-tic-tack-tack. No discernable end. No stop. No pause.

Flint's was, by far, the loudest. Just like its host, his heartbeat was loud and boisterous and obnoxious, drowning out everything else. Peter always had to try extra hard to divert his focus away from the large man's dra-drum, dra-drum, lest he completely lose himself in the sound.

Meanwhile, Max had a very sharp beat, sharp enough to elicit a wince whenever it assaulted Peter's ears. Unlike Flint's, which was deep and rich, Max's heartbeat was cold and disjointed, echoing with the faint humming of electricity. It was hard to even discern a noticeable beat underneath the steady humming of voltage like the eerie, tingling air of an electrical pole, Zzh-mm. Zzh-mm. Zzh-mm.

Then there was his father's.

Peter felt his eyes flicker for just a moment over towards the man next to him. His father still hadn't moved. Hadn't let on any signs that he was anything more than a plastic model, a stone molding of a human not really there.

His father had a heartbeat unlike anything Peter had ever heard before. Deep down, if he stretched his senses out enough, Peter could make out the details of a normal human heartbeat, the steady Tha-thump of every heart he heard on the street. But around it, surrounding that normal melody was an aura Peter had never felt replicated in anything alive or otherwise.

It was hot. An uncomfortable itch that he could practically feel in his ears but couldn't scratch. It was a crackling, the popping of logs in a fire. It was a sharpness, a loudness, a boldness he heard in every heart and yet with a uniqueness not found in anything else.

Richard's heart had a power all its own. It could control Peter's own heartbeat.

Every time his ears picked up on the sound, Peter felt his chest go AWOL. He felt the air leave his lungs, felt the blood underneath his skin curdle and jolt deep underneath his bones. He heard the beating of that heart, heard it echoing in his ears, felt it sliding down his throat, coating his stomach, his ribs, his chest. He felt it sliding into his body, seizing control of his muscles as it gripped his own heart in a vice, an iron hold he couldn't escape from until his heart and his father's were one and the same, until he couldn't tell one from the other.

Which was why Peter had always had nightmares about his father, about his father's death, his untimely demise. Because Peter knew that if his father's heart ever stopped, it would drag Peter's right down with it.

But these fears were alleviated somewhat by a semi-comforting, semi-disconcerting thought: in the years he'd been listening to the beating of that heart, never once had Peter ever heard his father's heart stutter. Never once had it missed a beat, had it jumped in surprise or shock or dread. It was always constant, always steady, always strong.

And if his father's heart could be strong, then Peter's didn't have to be.

Maybe that's why each minute that ticked closer to six seemed like a noose around Peter's neck. How would his heart keep beating if his father's wasn't there to beat for him?

He didn't voice this question though. Didn't lean closer to the man next to him and curl up against his side. Didn't cry and beg and plead with him to change his mind, to let him stay there, stay with him, stay and let him listen to the sounds of that heart beating for as long as he could, so his own heart would never falter, never stutter out and die. Peter didn't say anything.

Not even when the doorbell finally rang.

The sound echoed, a haunting chime that floated through the house. Everybody raised their heads, slowly turned towards the door. Nobody made a move, though. Nobody did anything, really. Flint set down his beer. Curt put out his cigarette and Sandra uncrossed her legs. But nobody got up. Nobody made to answer it.

At least, not until Richard let out a little sigh and pushed himself off the couch. He swept his gaze around the room for a moment before his eyes found Peter. The teen blinked up at him, waited for him to speak, to tell him to unpack his things and go back upstairs while he sorted everything out. But he didn't say anything. He turned away before Peter could say anything either. So, instead, the teen got up to his feet as well, stooped down to grab the suitcase sitting by his feet and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He followed after his father in silence. The Cons remained in their seats, but he could feel their eyes on him.

Richard swung open the door with a single graceful pull of his arm, revealing the fairly tense face of one Tony Stark. The billionaire hid it well behind a pair of tinted sunglasses perched atop the bridge of his nose. But once he pulled them off and folded them into the collar of his T-shirt, Peter noticed the tense film glazed over the man's eyes, a look that stood out against his laid-back posture and casual smile.

Mr. Stark tightened his grin. Peter could practically hear it creaking against the strain it took to keep it fixed in place.

"Mr. Stark," Richard gave a little nod of his head, a smile of his own spreading onto his lips. "I never pegged you to be one for punctuality."

For a brief moment, Peter watched the billionaire's eyes flicker down to him. The teen found himself swallowing a sudden tightness in his throat as he shuffled further behind his father's back. He didn't see Mr. Stark's reaction, only heard as the man cleared his throat.

"Well, I figured this is a bit more important than a press conference or two. Reporters live to wait on guys like us."

"Too true." Richard glanced behind him and took a small step to the side, leaving Peter exposed and vulnerable to Mr. Stark's full line of sight. "Well, he's just about ready."

Tony turned his gaze back to Peter, who suddenly found himself without anybody to stand behind and the even-more concerning question of why he even wanted to hide at all.

But when he watched Tony give a little smile - one not encumbered by forced diplomacy and seething contempt - Peter felt his grip on his suitcase loosen just a tad as he took a breath, then took a few more when he found it wasn't as difficult this time around. It was still just...Mr. Stark.

"Yeah? You need to grab anything else? I mean, we can always swing on by again if you forget anything, but might as well make sure now."

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Peter wet his lips and shuffled a bit on his feet before giving a little shake of his head. "I have everything," he said softly. Mr. Stark had a steady heartbeat. Peter listened to it, let it slow his own breathing down to a tolerable rate.

Tony clapped his hands, causing the teen to jump just a tad. "Great. You mind waiting in the car for a sec, kid? I gotta talk to Pops over here."

Peter lifted his head, suddenly jerked his gaze towards his father. It was happening now. It couldn't be happening now. He still wasn't ready. It was too soon and everything was happening too fast.

Richard must have seen the flash in his son's eyes, for he took a small step forward. Peter lost sight of Mr. Stark as his father came in between the two of them. Distantly, he heard Mr. Stark's heartbeat skip a bit as his father approached, but Peter's attention was soon drawn elsewhere. A strong hand pressed against the side of his neck, gripping it firmly in a tight and securing hold. Richard leaned down, deep piercing eyes boring straight into Peter. He could feel his father's heart all the way down in his throat.

"Remember what we talked about."

Peter took another deep breath. It was shakier this time but he let it out slowly, giving a little nod of his head as he shut his eyes. His father's hands were hot. They were always hot, uncomfortably warm against his skin. But this time Peter longed for them to stay, for that securing grip against his neck to stay, comforting and strong. He lifted his own hand and wrapped his slender fingers around his father's wrist, lifting his gaze as well.

"I love you," he whispered.

Richard gazed down at him, squeezed a bit tighter around the side of Peter's neck, strong and grounding. Finally, he sniffed and dropped his hand. "I know." He gestured with his head. "Car's waiting."

Without another word, Peter gave a nod of his own. He lifted his gaze for just a second to see Mr. Stark staring at him with a new uncomfortable tenseness in his eyes, a sheen of concern and unease that made Peter turn away. Tightening his grip on his bags, he headed down the stairs and towards the sleek car idling by the curb. Setting his bags in the back seat, Peter slipped into the passenger side and shut the door behind him.

He folded his hands in his lap and lowered his head, letting his ears do the work his eyes wouldn't.

"This'll be the last he sees of you for the next two months, got it? If I catch wind that you've been poking around trying to get in contact with him through anything other than a phone call or a passing text, then-"

"I'm a man of my word, Stark." Richard cut off the man's terse warning. "He's all yours. Besides, my associates and I aren't even going to be in the city."

"What?"

"We have other matters to attend to, so you won't have to worry about us showing up unannounced at your doorstep. We won't be back until August."

Peter drummed his fingers against his knee. He hoped Mr. Stark wouldn't ask him about where his father was going, hoped he wouldn't have to reveal the fact that not even he knew.

He heard feet shuffling. He focused back in.

"Take care of my son, Stark." His father's voice took on a baleful tone, low and menacing as it rumbled in his throat the way only his father's words ever did. That signature rumbling growl that traced the edges of his voice, a purring undertone of warning. "MY son. Don't forget that."

Peter finally couldn't help but spare a small glance out the window, just enough for him to catch the sneer spreading across his father's face that accompanied his next words.

"He certainly won't"

Peter could still hear it even through the car window. His father's heart was just as steady and strong as always, the deep heated rumblings of a fire burning inside his chest, charring his lungs and blackening his ribs. But now he could hear Mr. Stark's heartbeat as well, heard the tell-tale heightened stutterings of anger, of emotion and passion leaking through with each thud and every pump of blood. He could hear the strength beneath the billionaire's chest, the echoing noises that refused to be drowned out by his father's beats as his own heart always was.

He saw Tony give a curt nod as he took a deep breath, the angered stutterings of his heart calming as the air blew overtop. "Good to see you, Richard."

"And you too, Mr. Stark."

Peter dropped his gaze once more, hiding any traces of evidence that he'd been listening in. After a second, Tony opened the driver-side door and slid in, slamming it shut perhaps a bit harder than necessary. As if realizing this, the billionaire took another deep breath and let it out slowly before finally turning towards Peter. He stared at the teen for a moment, a moment in which Peter stared right back, gazing back at the man's dark brown eyes as he waited.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Peter felt his fingers starting to curl underneath the man's gaze. He must have seen Peter's nerves. He was going to ask about them. And Peter wouldn't have an answer for him. What was he supposed to say? What could he say? What did Mr. Stark expect him to say? What-

"You wanna drive?"

Peter blinked out of the thoughts clogging up his head, furrowing his brows as he leaned forward a bit as if to make sure he'd heard correctly. "I...what? I don't even have a permit."

Tony shrugged. "Doesn't matter as long as we're faster than the cops."

They stared at each other again. Silence.

Then they smiled.

Peter found a chuckle escape his lips, strengthening into a full-blown laugh as he pressed a hand to his forehead. The tightness in his chest instantly dissolved in a way only Mr. Stark seemed capable of doing. And for that, Peter was grateful in a way words wouldn't express.

"You're a terrible role model," he finally choked out through snorts.

"Whatever. Avoiding law enforcement is a very valuable life skill. I think I learned about it in Home-Ec."

"Yeah, easy. Rule 1: Don't break the law."

"Nope. Rule 1: Eat whatever's in your hand when they pull you over."

They both fell into snickering chortles at that, Peter wiping at his eye as he took a deep breath, suddenly finding he could breathe much better now. Falling back into a lull of silence, Mr. Stark reached over and placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. The teen glanced over at him, their eyes meeting once more. Mr. Stark's gaze was warm. Peter could see an underlying hesitance shining through in his gaze, a hesitance he was sure gleamed in his own eyes as well. But neither of them commented on it.

"You ready?"

Peter took another breath, stared back into those eyes that seemed just as scared as him. Somehow, this fact made him feel just a little better, so much so that he was able to give a real smile, albeit a small one as he nodded his head.

The billionaire gave a nod of his own and turned towards the road. Peter shifted in his seat, wrapped his fingers around his knees so they wouldn't start tapping again. He turned towards the window as the car hummed to life underneath him, eyes catching sight of Richard leaning in the doorway. Peter's smile disappeared.

The man gazed at him in silence, arms folded over his chest. Finally, as the car began to pull away from the curb, Peter saw his father's face change. The teen craned his neck to stare at the man for as long as possible before the distance became too great and he disappeared from sight, but he was certain that what he'd seen had been real.

His father's smile had been small, but it had been there.

Peter lowered his head and stared down at his lap. The air of lightness that Mr. Stark had created slowly began to seep back into a darker heaviness, sitting tight on Peter's chest. Silently, the teen found his hands sliding into his pocket.

The coin was still there. As was the paper, carefully folded. But neither of these two items were removed. Instead, Peter's fingers wrapped around the newly-acquired trinket. He pulled the pocket watch out and rested it on his palm. He traced his fingers along the etchings and let the cold metal seep into his skin. He thought of his father. Thought of his great-grandfather. He thought of the blood that must have once coated the watch. He wondered if there was still any traces of it left on the antique, black and rusted with time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Mr. Stark watching him. Neither of the two said anything though.

The entire car ride was silent.

 

---

 

Friday - May 20, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

06:42 PM

"Oh. My. Good God."

"Too much?"

Peter didn't say anything despite the hanging of his jaw. He couldn't. Not as his brain tried to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. Mr. Stark leaned in the doorway, trying to hide his anxious waiting for Peter's response with a casual posture and a laid-back smile.

The room was, for lack of a better word, mondo-ginormous.

Two of the adjacent walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching way overhead. The floors were a cold silver and the walls were a dark blackish-gray with patterned darker dots. In the center of the massive room sat a luxury white couch with designer gold pillows, flanked by two plush armchairs of the same sun-yellow coloring. The set-up was complete with a coffee table and a massive flat-screen TV sitting on the stand across from the couch, housing a host of different gaming consoles and DVDs lining the shelves underneath. Against the windows opposite the main door sat a large mahogany desk, pushed up into the corner of the room, holding a state-of-the-art monitor and matching computer system.

Further into the room, behind the TV setup with the backboard pressed up against one of the normal walls sat a plush white bed with similar yellow blankets and yellow and blue pillows, the entirety of which stood at double the size of his bed at home. Twin nightstands sat on either side and to the left of the bed - closer to the windows - sat a massive bookcase, positioned with six different shelves, all already housing a few books of their own. An armchair sat next to the case as well as an ottoman and a reading lamp beside it.

On the other side of the bed sat another door, presumably to a bathroom, but Peter's eyes didn't stay on the door for long. They drifted to what sat above the door, hanging overtop.

Next to the main door for the bedroom sat a straight-shot staircase that hugged the wall, leading to a second-floor balcony that overlooked the bottom floor. And from where he stood, Peter could make out sleek tables, shelving units, monitors, tools along the walls, wires running over the ceiling, and a host of different lab-based equipment he couldn't even find in his labs at school.

"I...I don't...ca...and...I, just...dah..."

Peter spun in a lazy circle, trying to take in as much as possible. Tony took a step into the room, shoving his hands into his pockets. "So? Did I go a bit overboard?"

Peter turned to him, staring with wide eyes. "Overboard? I - are you kidding me, overboard?" He scoffed and waved his hands. "We are so far past overboard that you can't even see the boat anymore, I - the boat is a dot, okay? The boat is gone."

Tony scoffed, letting a smile fall onto his face as the traces of joy were made apparent in Peter's voice despite his scoldings.

"I mean it, kid. It's...alright?"

Peter shook his head, letting out a scoff of his own as he pushed a hand to his head, brushing strands of hair out of his face. "Alright? This is...I mean...this is insane!"

Tony's smile grew. For the next few minutes, the two of them milled side by side around the room that could probably be classified as its own version of a living room, Tony pointing out this thing or that while Peter stared with eyes shining in awe and shock. The whole experience reminded the teen of when he'd come to the tower for the first time, that initial tour of the building, standing side by side with his soon-to-be mentor.

Things had certainly changed from that day three months ago.

Peter couldn't help but glance over towards Mr. Stark as he was busy explaining that the state-of-the-art TV was capable of browsing the internet, and had a supply of over 500 channels. The teen stared at the man as he excitedly showed off the room like a kid boasting about an art project he'd brought home from school and Peter couldn't help but smile as he watched Tony act so...excited, so...happy that Peter was happy.

"And - as I'm sure you've already noticed - I took the liberty of adding in your own version of a mini-lab up on that second balcony. Nothing dangerous, no chemicals that could potentially bring my tower crashing down into a smoldering mess. But I figured you might want your own space to tinker around with your web-shooters."

Peter stared up past the stairs to the balcony level above his bed. He gave a little shake of his head as he gazed around the room for another spin. "I just...this is so...amazing, Mr. Stark."

"Well, figured if you're going to be living here, might as well make it worth your while."

The teen glanced down at the floor for a moment, took in the pristine paneling below his feet, clear of any creaking wooden boards or cracks in the surface. He pushed down the small gurgling unease lingering in his gut and lifted his gaze towards Mr. Stark once more, giving him a small smile once more. "Thank you," he said softly.

Tony gave him his own smile and patted him on the shoulder before letting out a deep sigh as he turned away. "Rhodey's picking up a couple pizzas for dinner. That good?"

Peter gave a nod.

"Alright. I'll give you some time to get comfortable and FRIDAY will call you when the food's here." Tony turned and began to make his way towards the door. He paused at the entryway, though, lingered in the newly opened doorway for a moment before turning back around. "You sure you're okay?"

Peter hesitated for a moment as he caught sight of the man slowly scouring his gaze up and down over him, like he was inspecting him, searching for any details or hints that something was amiss. Peter knew exactly what details the man was looking for, though, and made it a point to conceal each of them as he gave another smile and a nod of his head.

Tony lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before giving a nod of his own. And with that, the door automatically slid shut behind him as the man left and Peter was suddenly alone in the room...his room.

Peter shuffled on his feet, suddenly feeling very unsure of himself, dwarfed in the massive room. He swallowed and tightened his grip on the bags still in hand, walking over to the bed as he set them down.

The comforter looked plush and sank down with the weight of his bags. Peter hesitated for a moment before lifting up a hand and carefully bringing it to press down against the bed. It made no noise, no creaks or groans as he gently ran his hand over the cover. It was soft to the touch, cool and light with no trace of dust or stiffness.

He didn't sit though. He didn't start to riffle through his bags or start exploring his room more. Instead, Peter moved towards one of the nightstands next to his bed. He carefully slid open the drawer and wasn't surprised to find it empty, patiently awaiting his stuff.

Peter slid his hands into his pocket and pulled out two things: the watch and the coin.

He held them both in the same hand for a moment, felt them pressing against each other, a soft little clink as metal hit metal. The coin was gold and fairly shinier than the watch, which was heavier and bigger. The teen let his eyes drift back and forth between the two trinkets in his grip before he carefully placed the coin inside the drawer, the only thing in it. Then he closed it back up again and slid the watch back into his pocket, where it rustled against the folded piece of paper still sitting silently in his pocket.

With that, the teen turned away from the drawer and felt his eyes moving towards one of the glass walls. His feet began to move towards them, eyes catching sight of the tops of buildings scattered around them. The Tower stood tall against all of them, leaving Peter with a clear view of the streets and roads down below as well as the rest of the city stretching out around him.

He lifted his head, his eyes following as he scanned across the East River towards Queens. And despite the mass of skyscrapers around him, he found that Queens loomed stories above them, casting its deep-rooted shadow across the room, leaving him in a dark coldness that dripped along the walls.

It took him a moment to realize that during his staring, he'd somehow wound up with the pocket-watch back in his hand, fingers gripping it in a white-knuckle hold.

 

---

 

Friday - May 20, 2016

Stark Tower - Common Floor

07:51 PM

"Die Hard is not a Christmas movie!"

Rhodey grabbed the remote and paused the film, gesturing angrily at the screen. "Look at that. Look at that and tell me this isn't a Christmas movie!"

Mr. Stark snatched the remote from his friend's hand and pressed play, the rest of the room watching as Alan Rickman glared at the newly decorated body in the elevator.

"I'll say it again. Look, we'll rewind it and I'll say it three more times."

"How can they possibly make it more clear? Look at all the references, man!"

"Just because it's set during Christmas doesn't make it a Christmas movie!"

"Now I have machine gun. Ho, ho, ho."

"Is LA Confidential a Christmas movie?"

"The soundtrack is literally nothing but Christmas music."

"Is RENT a Christmas movie?"

"His wife's name is Holly, for Christ's sake!"

"Is Rocky IV A Christmas movie?!"

Pepper leaned closer to Peter as he, her, and Happy watched the ongoing argument like a tennis match. "Get used to this, honey. This debate has been going strong for twenty years."

Tony folded his arms, scrunching his face as he scoffed. "Never. You're never going to change my mind, Rhodes."

"You're in denial."

"The Die Hard Christmas sweater you got me last year is still sitting in the back of my closet out of sheer principle alone."

The Colonel threw up his hands and flopped back down into his chair, thoroughly disgruntled as Tony marched back over to his seat - which was right next to Peter - and plopped down with a grunt.

He let out a deep breath and set his sights back on the movie currently playing on the TV.

Peter waited a moment before leaning towards him. "It is a little Christmas-y."

Tony lifted a pointed finger. "Don't you even dare."

The teen snorted and smiled as he turned back to the movie. He heard the man beside him finally relent and do the same as he threw his arm to rest against the lip of the sofa. Boxes of pizza sat on the coffee table in front of all of them. Happy and Rhodey sat on the two love chairs on either side of the couch while Pepper sat on one end of the sofa, Tony on the other with Peter in the middle.

The billionaire tilted his head towards the teen, poking him in the side of the head. Peter swatted his hand away with a grin.

"You havin' fun?"

The teen smiled and gave a little nod.

Tony gave one of his own and turned back to the TV. "It's been a long time since we've gotten together to sit down and do this," the man said softly, drowned out by the sounds of the movie but with perfect volume in Peter's heightened ears. "Used to be a regular thing. Maybe we can start it up again...if you want, of course." He smirked now. "Though something tells me it was very dangerous of me to offer that considering your pension for Star Wars-related...well, anything."

Peter turned back to the TV, smile remaining. "They're still coming out with new movies, too."

"Joy."

With that, Mr. Stark turned back to the movie and fell silent. Peter's eyes watched the screen, took in the sight of Bruce Willis mercilessly pummeling his way through bad guys with the admittedly distinct sound of Christmas music in the background.

This movie was one of May's favorites. Which meant that Peter had seen it close to over thirty times in the span of his short life. Unfortunately, that meant he was quickly starting to get bored. And with this boredom came any lack of distraction, allowing his mind to start playing fast and free.

Everything was going okay. No impending doom right off the bat. Everything was pretty calm. Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy were just chilling out like usual, as if this were nothing but an extended stay for one of his intern days; when his father wouldn't be home until morning and he stayed over late eating dinner and chatting with Mr. Stark and his friends.

Those times...when the tower and home weren't synonymous with each other.

Home. This is your home now.

He swallowed. It was bitter.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and silently pulled out the pocket watch. An explosion on screen caused a bright flare of orange light that briefly illuminated the watch, causing it to glow with a fiery sheen. He traced the tip of his finger against the carvings on the side, against the smooth glass overtop the ticking hands.

His father had never given him anything before, not in years. Not unless he counted the designer watches and sleek, expensive-looking computers he was always gifted with whenever his birthday came up. But those presents weren't for him, he knew. Just like the parties his father always threw in huge, lavish ballrooms with hundreds of elitists, businessmen and CEOs weren't actually for his birthday, weren't actually for him.

They were for the cameras, for his father, for the dozens of photographers itching at the doors hoping to get a glimpse of Gold-Hearted Richard Parker and his son. But never before had his father gifted him with something when there wasn't a photo opportunity present or a watchful eye. Never before had he given him something that truly was just for Peter.

The watch was cold in his hands. He imagined it was never cold in his father's hands, not with the teeming heat he always emitted warming the metal in his grip. If he shut his eyes, Peter could still feel that warmth pressed up against his cheek, against his neck. Not threatening and painful as it had been so many times, but strong and comforting.

Peter couldn't remember the last time his father had touched him gently. With love.

And now it would be months before he even got to see the man again, before he would ever get the chance to earn that love again. He tightened his grip on the watch.

"Pete?"

He snapped his neck towards the noise. Mr. Stark was staring at him again. Had he been calling his name? Why hadn't Peter heard him?

"Hmm?"

The man glanced down at the paper plate sitting on the coffee table, a single slice of quickly cooling pizza limp on the surface. Peter's plate. "You haven't eaten anything, kid."

Peter turned his head to stare at his plate. It took him a moment to fully understand what the man was saying, to digest and absorb it in his brain, which suddenly seemed so much slower, like it was trying to process his words through a pool of molasses. He blinked and rubbed at his neck. It was cold.

"Oh. Sorry, I just...um...we had a lot of end-of-the-year parties at school so I...filled up on a lot of stuff there."

Lying. Why was he lying?

Tony leveled him a calculated stare, lifted his head just a bit as he gave a little nod. The man smiled, but it did little to hide the scrutiny in his eyes. "I'm sure. But you should still eat something. Spider-babies need their daily dose of...flies? What is it? I think it's flies."

Peter didn't laugh at his joking this time. "Any bug, really," he murmured distantly.

"Well, you'll have to settle for Italian."

With that, the teen turned back to his plate, sitting silent on the table. It was only a single slice of pizza, not even enough to fill a quarter of his stomach, which he could hear growling in his ear. He was hungry, that much he could tell. And usually, he had no trouble giving in to his stomach's demands when he was at the tower, when he was buffered by an environment of freedom and joy. But for some reason, his hand wouldn't move. His eyes didn't leave the plate but his body would not move.

He tightened his hold on the watch in his hand.

Eat. He had to eat. He'd barely had anything all day save for school. He was at the Tower. He was allowed to eat at the Tower.

(But not at home.)

(This is your home now.)

(You know the rules.)

Peter sucked in a breath, felt it catch in his throat. He swallowed it down, anyway, flanked by bile as it slid down into his stomach. He could do this. He could eat. He was hungry and he could eat. Mr. Stark had said so. Mr. Stark wanted him to. He had to eat.

("Peter? What the hell did I say about touching the fridge? Get away- No. No! Put it down. Put it back right now! Did I give you permission to take that? No, I didn't! And I didn't raise a thief!")

Take the plate. Take it, Peter.

("Do you own that food? Did you buy that food? Did you buy the fridge that stores that food? No, then why the hell do you think it's okay to steal what belongs to me? I - No! Don't you dare run away from me, you little shit! I - Max! Stop him! Peter, you get back here right now! RIGHT NOW YOU LITTLE RAT!")

"Peter?"

("This is MY HOUSE! These are MY RULES! And as long as you live under my roof you will LIVE by my rules!")

His house. His rules. New house. New rules. No rules? What rules? What were the rules? What was he supposed to do?

"Kid-?"

Peter lurched up to his feet as Tony touched his shoulder. Everybody jolted in their seats at the sudden movement, eyes instantly shooting over to him. Rhodey paused the movie. Silence.

He could hear his heart beating, could hear the air being sucked in through his mouth. But he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything. His body was too sore. There were too many bruises. How many belts did Mr. Stark own?

"I...um...sorry." His mouth was moving. It took a second to realize. "I'm just, uh...I'm a little tired. It was kind of...kind of a long day." He turned his shaky gaze over towards Mr. Stark, who had now gotten to his feet. "Please...m-may I please be excused...please?"

("You can never say it enough, Peter. 'Please' is your word now, do you understand?")

He watched Mr. Stark's gaze flicker from him over towards the others. Peter couldn't see their faces, but he was sure they were as shocked and concerned as his mentor's was. He couldn't bring himself to alleviate their fears, though. Couldn't sit back down. Couldn't look at that plate anymore. Mr. Stark must have seen Pepper mouthing something, for the reluctant glint in his eyes that showed he was hesitant about letting Peter go finally gave way to acceptance as he gave a little nod.

"S-sure. No problem. Uh, you need me to show you-?"

("Let me show you what happens to disobedient boys.")

"No." Peter cleared his throat when the word came out shaky. "I...I got it."

The hesitance was still there in Mr. Stark's eyes, even as he began to speak once more. "Alright...um...good night. Just let FRIDAY know if you need anything. Or you can tell her to get me."

Peter didn't respond, not even when the others quietly wished him a good night as well.

The watch ticked in his ears as he silently walked down the hallway, listening for footsteps, for heartbeats he knew he wouldn't find. And yet, he couldn't escape the itch they left on his skin, the teeming vibrations under his bones.

---

 

("You know I love you, Peter.")

 

("You know I love you-")

 

("You know-")

 

("You know-")

 

("You know-")

 

---

 

(I remember the first time he hit me.)

 

(I don't remember a lot of firsts, but I remember that.)

 

Peter's feet shuffled along the floor as he entered the room, the door sliding shut behind him. It was dark now. The city outside his window had fallen to night and there was no more light seeping through the glass. He was sure FRIDAY would turn on the lights if he asked. But he didn't. If he opened his mouth, vomit would coat the floor, a black torrent of spew and bile. Mr. Stark would probably get mad.

So instead, the teen silently walked across the floor of a bedroom he didn't recognize, his shin bumping against the corner of the coffee table. He grimaced but didn't stop walking. Not until he made it to his bed, where he slowly sat down on the edge.

 

(It was Kindergarten. Mother's Day.)

 

(My teacher forgot.)

 

(They couldn't console me, so he had to come pick me up from school, dropping a full day of work, as he would later tell me. I could tell he was mad as we drove home. By then, he was always mad, always in a bad mood. But it had never escalated before then. Never gone above annoyed grumblings and demands to clean my room or to get my toys out of his way. I didn't understand yet.)

 

(I would.)

 

He took a deep breath, heard how it rattled in his chest, tight and restrictive. It burned his throat, but he greedily sucked down another. His fingers curled into the covers below as he let his eyes stare out at the windows looking back at him.

 

(He didn't start yelling until we were inside. He'd gotten more used to yelling by then, so it didn't surprise me. But then he started yelling about my mom. It had been a while since we'd talked about her, so I guess it was cathartic for both of us, not that I even knew what that meant, of course. Just that my dad was angry at me again, as always seemed to be the case in those days.)

 

(Then it started to get worse. Usually, he'd finish his scoldings and send me to my room. But he just kept going, on and on he screamed. I remember how the house seemed to rattle with his yelling.)

 

Everything in the room was coating in a thin layer of moonlight, a film of pale white gleam that illuminated just enough so that he wasn't in total darkness. The buildings outside the window shone with the intensity of a major city's heart, loud and in his face. There were no curtains to draw. No doors to close. He couldn't hide from the lights, from the blinking and the flashes. And the moon, so intense as it glared at him.

This isn't your home.

He could hear it speaking to him through the glass.

This isn't where you belong.

 

(He told me to forget about her.)

 

(Told me she didn't matter anymore and that it was time to move on. It wasn't anything I hadn't heard him tell me before, but this was the first time he'd ever screamed it at me, the first time he'd ever said it with anything other than gentleness I would later learn to be fake.)

 

(This was years ago…but I still remember how angry I got. I was only five, so the emotion was new to me. Apart from running out of my favorite cereal or not getting the toy I'd wanted, anger wasn't a usual thing for me. But I remember being angry. I remember how hot it was, how unfair, how furious I was at him for talking that way about my mother. It was the first time I ever got angry at my father. It was the first time I ever yelled at him.)

 

(And the last.)

Peter choked down another breath and shakily glanced over towards the door. Did it lock? Was he allowed to lock it? His father had removed the lock on his door years ago. Would Mr. Stark get angry with him for locking his door? How angry would he get?

Another wave of bile rose up in the back of his throat. It took longer for him to choke it down this time.

 

(Thinking back on it, I think he was just as surprised as me when it happened.)

 

(Whatever he'd been planning, it wasn't that. Never before had he resorted to anything physical, anything other than his grumblings and a few well-placed glares. But any doubt about what happened was quickly dismissed when I felt the stinging in my cheek rise full force. I don't remember crying. I'm sure I did. All I remember is him, staring down at me, looming over me with a newfound largeness I'd never seen in him before.)

 

(He didn't apologize afterwards. Those days were over.)

 

New house. New rules. What were the rules? What was he supposed to do? What did they want him to do?

 

(Endure)

 

With startling speed, Peter shot his hand into his pocket and ripped out the piece of paper he'd stored there earlier. Unfolding it with shaky hands, he smoothed out any wrinkles as fast as possible, as if he were dealing with a delicate piece of glasswork. He stood up and crouched down on the floor, spreading the paper out before him.

Twelve.

Twelve rules.

His rules.

His life.

 

(Can't forget. Don't forget. Don't, don't, don't-)

 

His chest was tight. Peter fought through the dizzying fog beginning to cloud the corners of his eyes as he lunged for his backpack and hastily zipped it open, pulling out a fresh notebook he'd brought with him. Flipping to the first page, he grabbed a pencil and quickly began to drag the graphite over the surface of the book.

 

(Like I said, there were plenty of firsts after that. The first time I met the Cons. The first day he put that lock on the fridge. The first time he went a full day without even looking at me. The first time a bruise showed up on my arm.)

 

(There's too many to count, too many to remember.)

 

(In all honesty, I don't remember much between the ages of five and eight.)

Rule One. Rule Two. Rule Three. On and on until he had all twelve written down in perfect order, every word in place. He lifted his eyes to check the original paper. But he knew it was pointless. Nothing would be out of place. Everything matched. His hands were shaking. He moved down to the second line.

 

(It's like the world was a dream, the limbo that sits between sleeping and waking. A fog that hovers right in front of your eyes, clouding everything in your mind, leaving you slow and sluggish, your muscles heavy and your skin dragging behind you, leaving little trails in the dirt.)

 

(Everything you see moves in slow motion, like you're watching the world bleed into a water-color painting, corners seeping into each other, muddying, and churning into an unrecognizable sight. The days crash into each other. When you can't tell whether your eyes are open or closed, whether you'll open your window and find something still there, something that still exists outside the glass.)

 

Rule One. Rule Two. Rule Three…

The corners of the paper started to crinkle with how tightly he was gripping the book.

Rule Four. Rule Five. Rule Six…

His tongue felt dry, puffy and too big for his mouth. His lungs had disappeared, melted away to blend in with the shadows encroaching on his room – NO! Not his room! Not his room! Not-

Rule Seven. Rule Eight. Rule Nine…

 

(All I know is… one day I went to sleep, and the next it was three years later, and everything was different.)

 

Over and over, one after the other the paper began to fill, every ling occupied, every inch filled with scribbles. Until it was completely full and he had to start writing in the margins. And once there was barely a speck of white left on the paper, he flipped the page and started again.

Twelve.

Twelve rules.

One hundred pages.

 

(My house. My family. My father. One day I found I couldn't even recognize it anymore. I couldn't recognize him. It's like there was a stranger in my house, wearing my father's skin, speaking in his voice, rolling his eyes around in some fake plastic skull. And the worst part was I was the only one who seemed to notice. I was the only one who could see that imposter.)

 

(And I hated him. For the longest time, I hated him. I hated him for hitting me. For making me go hungry. For introducing those horrible people into my life. For tearing our family apart.)

 

. . .

 

("I am all that you have in this world")

 

. . .

 

(But it didn't last long. That anger. Just like when I was five, it was only a spark, a little flare of emotion. Because I realized something. Then and there, staring at him walk around our house, talking like normal, acting like normal, smiling for cameras, and talking with his friends, I realized something.)

 

(Maybe it wasn't him who had changed.)

 

(Maybe it was me.)

 

What was his father doing? What were the Cons doing? They weren't there but he could still hear them, could hear them down the hall, hear their footsteps getting louder. Curt's smoke was thick in the air. Flint's boots stomped against the floor. His pencil hissed against the page.

The air was too thick, there was too much smoke. He could feel it swirling around his neck, strangling him in a hold he couldn't escape from.

It was the conference all over again. There was no air. There was nothing. There was only an impending sense of dread clinging to his skin, dragging him down into a murky black mass. Only there was nobody to pull him out this time. Mr. Stark wasn't there. Mr. Stark couldn't see him. He'd get angry. He'd yell. He'd tell him to forget. Forget her and be a good son. Peter was a good son.

There were tears in his eyes, he could see them dripping onto the page, but he couldn't feel them sliding down his cheeks. He couldn't feel anything other than the pain blooming in his chest, like someone had driven a knife into his ribs and was hacking away at him, cutting off muscles and stripping flesh. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear anything save for the sound of his ribs falling to pieces as his chest exploded, a bloody mess staining the floors.

He'd have to clean. He couldn't have a mess.

Rule Ten. Rule Eleven. Rule Twelve.

What could he do? What should he do? How could he pull this off when he couldn't even breathe?

The pressure he was putting on the pencil suddenly became too much as his aim slipped and the tip jammed into Peter's palm. He yelped and dropped the book, taking the first breath in what seemed like forever as he suddenly blinked back into reality, the haze that had been crowding around his eyes fading a bit.

 

(Even now, I still see him.)

 

He stared down at his hand, at the blood now beginning to bubble up to the surface. Some of it had gotten on the page, left a stain. Peter stared down at the injury, felt his chest heaving up and down as he panted there on the floor, eyes fixed and body still.

Slowly, as if his muscles weighed a hundred pounds, he lifted his hand over the page and watched another drop of blood drip down onto the paper, seeping through the lines and the words, blurring them together as they seeped through to the other pages. Down and down it went, a deep red dot of blood. His blood. Familial blood.

He swallowed. There was ash in his mouth.

Because he knew what to do.

Slowly, he picked his pencil back up. He didn't bother flipping to a clean page. Instead, he just started to write again. But this time was different. This time there was no list, no set of rules.

There was a word.

One word. One instruction.

Over and over again until it filled the page, then on to the next one.

 

(I can hear his voice, and it's not angry. It's not violent or cruel. It's…. nice. It's exactly how I remembered it. I can see him underneath that shell. I know he's still there. Sometimes I can hear his voice when he explains his work. Sometimes I can see his face when he gives me an extra portion for dinner. Sometimes, I can feel it when he pats my shoulder. I can feel him in there. He's still my dad. He's still there. Despite everything, he's still there.)

 

(And what kind of son would I be if I were to give up on him?)

 

Peter sat on that floor and he kept writing, kept at it over and over again until the bones in his hand creaked with each twitch. Until the tips of his fingers were red and raw, his nails bleeding with the force of pressure he was putting on the pencil. He kept writing even as the weight settled back in his chest, a tightness he couldn't outrun, a fog he couldn't escape. He kept writing even as the room closed in around him, the walls licking at his arms, the windows pressing against his face until all the air had been sucked out, stolen straight from his chest like it had been cracked open and someone had sucked the life from his lungs. He kept writing even when he finally went through all of the pages. And then he went right back to the first and began to scribble the same word over and over again into the black scrawlings of graphite already present, leaving the pages a dark, smudged mess with no discernable words at all.

But Peter knew what they said. They were carved into his bones.

 

. . .

 

("Without me, you have nothing.")

 

. . .

 

(He's complicated. But I know how much he loves me. Maybe I couldn't appreciate it then, but I appreciate it now. He doesn't have to say it. I know it's true.)

 

(Because if he loves me even half as much as I love him, then how could this possibly be wrong? How can our family be wrong?)

 

(It's not. I know it's not.)

 

. . .

 

("Without me, you are nothing.")

 

. . .

 

He kept writing until he couldn't anymore, until his shaking hands couldn't hold the pencil, until the book collapsed to the floor and Peter suddenly found his hands pressed to his face, trying to hold the pieces together, trying to keep himself from falling apart right then and there in his palms. There was a violent lurch as a choked gasp retched its way out of his throat, body shivering like a leaf in the wind as he wheezed, his lungs spasming. He couldn't make a sound other than a few tiny whistles as his lips moved on their own, clawing for any bit of air they could get. But it wouldn't come. He was alone. There was no air.

He fell to the floor, nails digging into his arms, scratching against the floor as his toes curled, heart lurching against his ribs, face going red. His eyes scrunched and his breaths came out in nothing but ragged pants as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, the world nothing but blobs and shapes.

He coughed, a wet hack that finally drew in a sliver of air that he hungrily sucked down, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but it wasn't enough. He needed help. He needed help and he was alone.

His body ached and moaned with a plea for energy he didn't have, a beg for something, anything that could take away the sudden dread poisoning his blood, turning his skin a sickly gray and his muscles nothing but strings hanging off of him.

He tried not to, but eventually, the stranglehold on his chest broke free with a hacking sob. He didn't have the energy to wail, to beg and scream and let loose the sudden despair clinging to his skin. All he could do was shake as the tears dripped down onto the floor, pooling around his head as he curled in on himself and let the silence of the room swallow him in a darkness he couldn't recognize.

 

(I don't deserve a father like him. But I was lucky enough to get him. And nothing is going to change that. Nobody is going to convince me, otherwise.)

 

Peter didn't sleep that night. Not when his tears ceased or his lungs finally took their first deep breath hours later. Not as he lay there in silence on the floor, cheek pressing against the tiles, fingers running along the linoleum. Not even when the sky began to lighten and gave way to pale morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(And Mr. Stark… if you're reading this, then I'm sorry. But that includes you, too.)