"I don't believe this. I don't FUCKING believe this!"

The house rattled in its frames as Richard slammed the door shut, dragging six-year-old Peter by the arm into the foyer. The boy screamed in pain at the violent tug, only to receive a sharp slap to the mouth as Richard rounded on him like a dog. "Shut up! You shut your goddamn mouth before I get the pliers and rip out your teeth and shove them down your fucking throat!"

Peter rushed to press his hands overtop his mouth, fresh tears spilling out over his cheeks as he backed away and pressed himself into the corner of the foyer. He barely caught sight of the living room over his father's hulking frame.

His father's friends. They were still here. They were always here nowadays.

Max and Sandra sat side by side on the couch staring at them with shocked expressions, the TV blaring in the background while Curt pressed his cigarette into a nearby dish, quickly slapping a sleeping Flint in the face, making the man choke on his snores and jolt upright.

His father turned away from him right as the others began to shift out of their seats. "What the hell is going on?" Max was the first to approach. "What happened?"

Richard began to shrug his suit jacket off and tossed it to the floor. Peter watched it crumble up against the hardwood. "I just got called down to his school. His teacher had some concerns that she wanted to run by me." His voice was dark. Gone was the dulcet rumblings and warm undertones Peter had once heard, replaced with a deep, burning growl, a hardness like roughened stone, sharp and jagged.

He'd done that.

Daddy was mad because of him.

Again.

The pure fury tinged on the edges of the man's words was enough to get the others sharing uneasy glances with each other. Sandra narrowed her eyes. "What kind of concerns?"

He reached for his tie next. "Apparently, they were talking about their families in class today. And boy genius over here decided it would be a great idea to share with the entire class how Daddy and his friends like to play scientist with him, complete with needles and funny liquids that smell weird and make him feel funny."

His father spared him another glance over his shoulder. Peter's eyes crinkled in fear as he saw just how hot the man's gaze was, scorching his skin from where he stood, five feet away.

Curt blew a sharp, disbelieving breath, shaking his head as he scoffed, "You're not fucking serious."

"Oh, but it gets better." He finally undid the tie and threw it down to join his jacket on the floor, folding his arms over his chest. "This bitch of a teacher tells me that she took him aside to have a little private one on one chat with him. She asked him about us and reported that he was very reluctant to share anything, saying he'd made a mistake in class and was lying. Well, t his woman won't let it go and eventually coaxes out of him that Daddy has some new friends who can get a little handsy, playing all sorts of games with him that - and I'm quoting here - made her 'very concerned'." He curled his lip in revulsion. "Fucking cunt."

Peter watched them turn their eyes towards him, dark and menacing. Just like his father's. He whimpered and felt his feet shuffling against the ground as he all but tried to will the door open the harder he leaned against it.

Max narrowed his eyes and turned back towards Richard, his voice low. "What'd you say?"

The man brushed past them, speaking over his shoulder as he made for the bar in the corner of the room. "I said I had no idea. That I'd recently asked some of my friends to help in watching him while I'm at work and that I was horrified with what I was hearing." He disappeared under the bar for a moment and returned with an empty glass, reaching towards the wall behind him and pulling a bottle filled with amber liquid from the shelves. "I asked her to keep things private while I had a chat with you all."

Sandra pursed her lips and gave a tight shake of her head, hands going to her hips. "What'd SHE say?"

Richard uncapped the glass bottle and slowly started to fill the cup in his hands. He didn't look up. His face was terse. "She said she couldn't do that."

If possible, the air in the room deepened even further, like another rung on a pit that dropped down endlessly, darker and darker the further in you went. Peter watched them glancing around at each other, speaking without saying anything aloud.

Curt sniffed, face twitching a bit. His chin jutted out like a knife, sharp and pointed like his nose. "Teachers are state-mandated reporters."

"Meaning?" Flint muttered, scratching at his crotch.

"Meaning they're legally required to report these sorts of things." Curt furrowed his brow and turned back towards Richard. "I thought we'd already gotten in contact with the teachers and established a line, funds and all. You know? Money for your mouth?"

Richard finished filling his glass and carefully popped the cap back on top of the bottle, setting it down with a gentle thud. He looked back up at them, face unreadable, lips pulled into a tight line. "She's new."

They began to shuffle, or grunt, or place their hands on their heads. They looked angry, some looked nervous. It was almost...interesting. They never looked nervous. At least, not as long as Peter had ever known them. Even if it had been less than a year, it had been a very informative year. They were nice, sometimes. Mean, others. But never nervous.

Had he done that too?

Could he really make people nervous like that? He thought only his father had that power, that skill.

It didn't make him feel very good.

"What happens now?" Max growled in his usual deep-set tone, voice curt.

Richard took a small sip from the glass and started to come round the bar again. "She said she'd have to file an official report on this first thing in the morning and send in a Request of Interference to CPS."

The others blew out harsh breaths, Curt glaring down at the ground. "Shit..."

Nobody said anything for a moment. Peter darted his eyes back and forth between his father and the others, feeling his heart racing in his chest, his cheeks starting to itch from the sensation of tears dripping down his skin. It was a tepid quiet, a bleak and flimsy calm balancing on the edge of detonation, ticking down the seconds, the milliseconds, the fractions of time that dwindled, dwindled and waited for the anger to bubble over, for the frustration to morph into something physical.

Max was the first. Max was always the first.

Without warning, the man whirled around towards him, eyes burning and face twisting into a snarl of pure rage.

"You bitch. You little fucking rat!" He rushed forward. Peter screamed as he lunged at him. "Come here!"

Big beefy hands wrapped around his arms, hoisted him off the floor, and slammed him into the wall, Peter's ears ringing as his head slammed into the wood.

"Max."

Peter stared back into the man's eyes, burning with hatred and rage, burning deep and black as they stared at him. He panted in his grip, tiny little legs kicking weakly as he clawed at the man's grip. Max continued to glare right through him as Richard slowly strolled back over, whiskey in hand.

"I'll deal with him. You're going to go deal with this fucking teacher."

Max kept staring at him for a moment longer before blowing a harsh growl through his teeth. He promptly released his hold on the boy, who quickly dropped to the floor with a cry and a terrified look over at the others. They watched him impassively with equally as annoyed glares, looking very much like they wanted to do the exact same thing.

The man whirled around on his heel to face Richard, eyes narrowed and jaw tensed in anger at having been denied his victim. "What-?"

"Her name is Claudia Morrison." Richard took a sip from his glass. "I called one of my contacts in the district to pull her address." He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over. "412 Adams Street. She lives alone. One neighbor to the left. Old woman."

Max stared down at the slip as Richard brushed past him and stalked into the kitchen, stopping at the dining room table and gazing down at the newspaper sitting on top. "You're going to deal with her. Tonight. Before she has a chance to make this goddamn report."

Flint cocked a brow, stifling a yawn as he stuck out his chin like an ape. "Deal with her how?"

Richard reappeared, shoving the newly-retrieved newspaper into Max's chest. It was from that morning, the day's top headlines still fresh in bold print on the front page: 

 

The Bedroom Butcher; Terror on the Upper East Side

 -latest victim found raped and hacked to pieces. -

 

"Here's your inspiration. Make it look legit."

Max paused for a moment, eyes tracing the words of the headline before his lips pulled into a wicked grin, eyes gleaming.

"Axe is out back. Get to it."

The man glanced down at the newspaper in his hands for a moment longer before folding it up and sliding it into his pocket, along with the slip of paper containing the woman's address. "Give me a few hours," he chuckled before casually strolling from the room, leaving the rest of them alone to deal with the still-mounting tensions stifling the already burning air. Richard set his whisky down on the counter.

"The rest of you. Circle up."

It only took Peter a second to put it together. The sound of an unfastening belt buckle made it even easier. But once his father set down the needle on his vintage record player in the corner of the room and the sounds of old 20s jazz started to fill the house in noise-canceling waves of music, Peter knew.

His breathing hitched, watching as the others began to make a semi-circle around him, effectively blocking his path down the halls as he was backed into the corner, Richard standing between them and him, freshly retrieved belt looping around his hand. He left the buckle itself to dangle. He liked to use the buckle.

Fresh, hot tears spilled over. "I'm sorry." His voice broke, high-pitched and shaky. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I'm, so, so, sorry. I didn't m-mean to tell on you. I promise. She was just...she was so nice and friendly and she said it was okay to tell the truth."

She'd lied. He realized that now.

"She said it was okay!"

Richard glared down at him from overtop the brim of his nose. "Turn around."

More tears. Peter could hardly see anymore. His hands were shaking now. "No, Daddy..."

The belt rattled. "I won't say it again."

Pianos. Horns. The music was starting to pick up.

They were staring at him. All of them. Burning him with their flickering glares. The music bobbed around, a loud, lively band. He frantically searched, looking for something, anything, any space or spot he could hide in, any pair of legs spread far enough for him to slip under. He gasped out each breath, hot and muggy, too fast to relieve the tightness in his lungs.

There.

Flint shifted, adjusting his stance to widen his legs a bit.

Peter didn't hesitate, bolting forward as he slipped underneath the man's legs. There was shouting behind him, loud and angry, but Peter didn't turn back. His sneakers stomped against the hardwood floors as he stumbled forward, pushing himself on head over heels, desperate to escape, desperate to hide, to slip out, slip away, slip somewhere his father couldn't find him.

He didn't get far. He had the stride of a six-year-old.

Hands wrapped around his midsection and hoisted him over their shoulder. Peter screamed loudly, banging his little fists against Flint's back as the man carried him, legs kicking and face growing red as he yelled at the top of his lungs, tears pouring from his face as he cried.

Flint set him down and shoved him to the floor. Peter barely had time to look up as he caught sight of his father raising the belt overtop his head, face twisted into a snarled look of pure wrath, the buckle gleaming in the light, shining back into his eyes-

It whipped down with frightening speed, cutting up against Peter's shoulder and sending him thumping to the ground.

Silence. Peter held his breath, eyes wide as he stared down at the floor. His arm tingled, pricks and burns that shot up his skin in a numbing bout of cold air. This wasn't happening. This wasn't Daddy. Daddy would never do this.

But the pain was real. So was the shriek that spilled from his lips a second later.

The man reared his arm back again.

There was a slight skip in the vinyl. A jolt of noise before the music returned, loud and unending.

Peter had been spanked before. When his mother used to take him shopping for clothes, he liked to hide between the racks, pretending he was a spy, poking his little head out and sneaking around the store. Mommy hated it. Said it scared her half to death not knowing where he was. He remembered her spanking him once when they'd gotten home. He remembered the stinging pain on his bottom and the tears that leaked from his eyes as he cried. But most of all, he remembered the warmth of his mother's arms as she held him close to her chest, whispering calming words and hushed tones of gentle silence.

There was none of that now.

And this was nothing like a spank.

This was hot and heavy. The belt snaked against his skin like a chain, ripping at flesh with raw strips of leather and metal. Peter couldn't do anything but scream, opening his mouth as the noise poured from his throat in buckets of ear-shattering noise.

It was a guttural sound, something Peter had never really heard before. It dwelled somewhere deep in his stomach and choked out in screeching wails. His little mind couldn't comprehend it, couldn't understand the levels of pain, the sheer bone-shuddering stinging that ached along his entire body. He'd never felt it before. Never felt someone ripping at him from the inside out. Huge, sinking claws grabbing at his skin and tearing at his face.

("Alright. But this is the last time. I'll look, but then you go to sleep. There's no Boogie-Man in the closet.")

His father was right. The Boogie-Man was right there. Lurking there in the floors, sinking its gaping teeth into his shoulder, his back. Stretching his huge hulking form to loom over him, the shadows of a belt whipping through the air in its big, meaty claws. That had to be it. No normal person could do this, could make him hurt this much.

It had to be a monster. There was a monster eating him up. Chewing him up to spit him out later.

The others watched quietly, arms folded over their chests or behind their backs, firm frowns set onto their faces, the implications of the day's events weighing heavy enough to cancel out whatever joy they might have found in the sight.

Richard kept going, kept whipping the belt back and forth, back and forth, metal on skin, on muscle, a raw, wet, slapping sound like meat hitting concrete, a thick and muggy noise that squelched as the buckle started to cut into his skin, pulling up blood and splattering the surrounding furniture as it whipped through the air like a flag, like a strip of cloth in the middle of a hurricane, wild and crazed.

The splatters were small. Tiny little specklings against wood, against their cheeks as it sprayed the air, against the walls and couches. But the noise. The noise was something even the music itself couldn't drown out. It was raw and visceral and nauseatingly real.

It filled the house with an audible dread, a cacophony of throaty screeches, wet thuds, and high-pitched grainy music from a crackling record player. No one sound prevailed over another. It all mingled into a single stream of noise, an intense stuttering of bone-shattering, teeth grinding screaming and screeching and swings and thuds and trumpets and bass and growls and fear and hate and rage, and rage, and rage, and rage-

Over-

 

And over-

 

And over-

 

And over-

 

And over again.

 

Nobody knew how long it was, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime blinking right before their eyes. But whatever it was, when it passed, Richard heaved a breath, chest bouncing up and down at the strain. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists around the belt as he shut his eyes and lifted his head. There was a splatter of blood on his cheek, dribbling down to the corner of his mouth. He didn't wipe it away. Acted like he didn't even know it was there. He stood there in the music, simply breathing in and out, eyes closed and posture softening like he was taking in a nonexistent breeze, letting it blow through his hair and wash his face of the poison settling into his features.

Nobody spoke. Nobody said anything really, merely stood and listened to the wheezing, whimpered cries of the boy on the floor. Listened to the music skipping and crackling a bit before sliding back into melodious rhythm. The others spared each other small glances, flickering their gazes back and forth between father and son, shuffling awkwardly as they waited for orders. Richard acted like they weren't even there.

Trumpets. Trumpets. Screeching all around them.

Slowly, like his feet weren't even touching the ground, Richard walked back over to the counter where he'd set down his whisky. His steps made no noise against the floorboards as he walked, a phantom hovering over all of them. He carefully wrapped his hand around the glass with surgeon's precision, not a single waver or shake of his grip as he lifted the glass to his lips and downed the rest of the liquid in a single gulp.

Nobody said a word. Just watched.

He pulled the now-empty cup away from his lips and gazed down at it for a moment, at the blood-smeared glass from the stains his palm had left on it. There was an emptiness, staring back into his face, a crevasse sitting between his features, dragging him down, pulling at his lips, his eyes, eating in everything it could, leaving nothing but a dark, unending nothingness. His face twitched, the crevasse deepened. His eyes remained the same, pale and hollow. He was a ghost. Empty. Lifeless.

He was still for a second longer before rearing his arm back and hurling the glass at the record player in the corner.

It slammed into the machine with a screech and a flash of smoke, the wood and glass exploding inward together into a jumbled mess of splinters and shards as the music shrieked and cut off with a cry. It hissed and steamed, sparking a bit as a small little plume drifted into the air.

Then silence. It weighed heavy on the house, a film overtop their skin.

Richard stared at the mess with the same impassive emptiness in his eyes. He blew out a small, almost indistinguishable little sigh and lowered his head.

"Alright, you lot..." His voice was quiet, eerily so. He slowly grabbed the belt with his other hand and began to refasten it through the belt loops on his pants, blood and all. Pieces of Peter's hair were still caught in the buckle.

"Get the fuck out."

They didn't need to be told twice. After a second, it was just the two of them.

Peter wheezed on the floor, throat raw from the screaming, face covered in red-stained tears. His pants were damp, covered in flecks of blood and fresh urine. He felt something rolling around in his mouth and hacked it up, staring down at the cracked baby tooth that dribbled onto the floor like a penny tossed onto the street, discarded and unused.

His father didn't move to approach him. Didn't move to kneel down and comfort him with warm tones and soft words. He did nothing but stare with those empty, doll-like eyes, eyes that bore holes into his skin like little needles poking and prodding, slipping underneath his muscles like little worms that festered and rotted in his bones. He didn't look up. He kept his eyes shut. Kept his eyes shut and his chin tucked against his chest, shoulder digging into the floor as he curled into as tight a ball as he could. Everything was throbbing; his body was shrieking almost as loudly as he had. Rickety puffs of air shot from his mouth as tiny, broken whimpers spilled from his lips like the sounds of a dying car battery, quiet and almost unnoticeable.

This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. He was in bed. He was curled up in the Star-Wars blanket May and Ben had gotten for him last Christmas. He was curled up warm and tight, away from this, away from all of this.

Richard was still panting, but it was quieter now. He pressed a hand to his head, ignoring the blood that came off his palm and smeared across his forehead. "Alright...here's what we're going to do." He stepped forward. "Get up."

Peter didn't move. Didn't even look up at him.

Richard reared down and wrapped his hand around the boy's arm. "Get up, you," he growled, hoisting Peter up to his feet. If he expected the child to scream or cry at the sudden jerking motion, then he was sorely disappointed by the sunken, desolate silence Peter offered instead. It was enough to get Richard's hand grasping Peter's chin and angling the kid's head towards him.

His face was….frozen. Twisted into a look of wide-eyed terror, shining back a film of panic and horror in his bright brown irises. His body twitched, face remaining still and lifeless as little involuntary squeaks of noise trickled from his mouth, little inaudible whimpers, stuttered and broken. His eyes stared back at nothing, stuck staring at some distant, far-off terror, a sight too horrifying to put into words or look away from. Tear tracks silently slid down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor below.

Richard stared back at him with a grizzled frown before releasing the kid's chin and hoisting him up onto his arms. Peter's face pressed into his shoulder, but he remained still, almost catatonic as his father walked into the kitchen and set him down onto one of the dining table chairs.

Peter felt his lip quivering. It was wet, dripping down his chin. His father walked into the living room once again and messed around with the desk pushed up to the far wall, opening one of the drawers and pulling out a large notepad and pen. He slammed it shut and walked back over, Peter feeling a painful tingling of nerves shooting up and down his skin as his father approached.

The man walked over to the kitchen table, setting the pad and pen down onto the surface. Peter didn't make a noise, didn't move a muscle. His body was on fire, burning with a pain he couldn't describe, a heat he couldn't outrun. But he didn't move. Tears spilled, but he didn't wipe them away. He didn't look at anything, really. Just kept his eyes down, his head lowered, his mouth shut.

He heard the chair next to him scooting out, scuffing against the floor before his father's large weight settled down into it with a loud sigh. Peter still didn't look at him. Just kept his focus on the sounds of his breathing, hitched and crooked in his lungs. Somewhere, the remains of the record player hissed in anger.

For a second, his father didn't say anything either. He just kept staring at Peter, occasionally flicking his eyes over to the pad of paper. Finally, the man lifted his hand and scratched at his chin. "She was nice?"

Peter heard. Heard him speaking. But he didn't respond. Just kept staring off at nothing, like he could see something in the floors, in the walls, some unseen force slipping and morphing through the cracks, along the shadows, and up around his arms.

He wasn't here.

"You don't have to answer. Just listen, then."

The stranger was speaking.

It had to be a stranger. It couldn't be his father.

His father was sweet and kind and played games with him. His father let him sit on his lap and told him stories, told him about his work. His father let him sit underneath his desk and draw while he was busy with his job. His father smiled and laughed and sat with a calm warmth that always made Peter feel better.

This wasn't his father.

This was a Boogie-Man.

His father never had blood on his face. His father never had blood on his hands. His father never stared back at him with such desolate, hollow eyes and a matching barrenness in his face.

And yet, as Peter's shivering gaze slowly drifted over towards the man's face, he couldn't help but recognize the features, the face, the hair, the eyes, however dark they were, cracked and empty with a bone-chilling gaze that reflected nothing but a vacant stare. It was like a room you recognized from childhood. You could make out the same walls. The same crappy paint job and cracks in the ceiling. Even with the lights out, you knew that room.

And Peter knew this man, even with the lights out.

He watched, waited. No explosion. No anger. Just an order.

So, for not the last time in his life, Peter obeyed.

Richard wet his lips and leaned back in his chair. His voice was soft now. Calm. Almost like normal. Without the tinge of anger and heat it always seemed poisoned with nowadays.

"I'm sure your school has taught you about stranger danger."

They had. With puppets. And a play. And a nice man called Officer Dan that told really funny jokes.

Peter wanted Officer Dan to come back.

"I'm sure they told you all about it. Told you to never go with anyone you don't know. Even if they seem nice. That you shouldn't believe what they say and to not trust them. That they're liars and that they might hurt you." He sniffed.  "And I'm sure when you think of a stranger, you think of someone you don't know. Someone you've never met before who might come up to you on the street and start talking to you."

Richard gave a nod at his own inquiry, as if he himself were asked the question. He grabbed the pen he'd brought with him and began to fiddle with it in his hands. "Well…what if they know your name?"

Name-

Name-

His name was Peter.

It meant 'stone' in Greek. He remembered his mother telling him how strong he'd seemed when she'd first looked into his eyes, staring back with a strength she knew she could never rival.

Daddy could rival it.

He wondered what Daddy's name meant.

"What if they know you?" Richard continued. "What if they're really nice and friendly and they know your name?" He continued to mess with the pen. "Your teacher knows your name. Is she a stranger?"

Ms. M. His first-grade teacher. She had yellow hair that smelled like strawberries and always wore dresses that tied into whatever subject they were learning in class that day. Peter liked her science dress best, with the beakers and stars and tiny squiggly strands that she'd called 'DNA'.

He didn't tell his father about her dress. Maybe it would get the man to change his mind about her, but he kept his mouth shut. Like there were little sewing needles pressing into his lips, Peter couldn't get it open. He shook in the chair, felt the familiar tingle of goosebumps on his skin.

Mommy used to call it 'gooseflesh'

"Do you think she's dangerous, Peter?"

("Snack time, everyone! Peter, where's your snack, honey? Did you forget to pack one?")

"Is she, Peter?"

(That's alright, sweetie. You can have some of mine.")

There was a shuddered whine that gurgled from the back of his throat. It seemed to be enough of a response for his father.

He let out a little sigh and carefully placed the pen on top of the pad of paper, folding his hands on the table as he gazed back at the boy.

"See, Peter. There's something they didn't tell you when they were teaching you about stranger danger. Sometimes...the most dangerous people are the ones we know." He turned and grabbed for the remaining pages of the newspaper from before, flipping through them for a second before clicking his tongue and showing it to Peter. It was a picture of a woman with eyes like his father when he was angry: dark and menacing.

"Right here, page three. It talks about a guidance counselor who got thirty years in prison for molesting her students."

Was he supposed to know what that meant? He hoped the man wouldn't get upset that he didn't.

"She hurt them, Peter They knew her...and she hurt them."

He kept staring at the picture. Stared back into her eyes. It was like she could see him through the paper, see him sitting there in his chair right that moment, staring and hating, just like his father.

"And why did she hurt them?" Richard set the paper down and her eyes were gone. "Cause she's bad. She's a bad person."

Peter lowered his gaze and stared down at the table. It was new. Daddy was making money now and everything in the house still had that new, plasticky-wood smell. It made his nose twitch.

"Now, I'm sure you don't think Ms. M. is a bad person, Peter-"

Not when he thought back to that afternoon, sitting in her office with a carton of milk from the cafeteria. He remembered her smiling at him, showing him pictures of her cats, giving him a couple new books to read. They were still in his backpack.

"But…if a stranger offered you some candy to get in their van, would you do it?"

He felt his body shivering, felt his nerves tingling as his head gave a slow shake. It seemed to take years just to shift his head and manage it.

"What if it was Ms. M?"

He stayed quiet. Didn't make a move this time.

Richard kept tapping his fingers against the table. Peter noticed the blood coating the tips of them, soaking into the skin like ink. The man pressed his elbows into the table and leaned closer, Peter feeling himself lean back in response. His father's voice was stern. Serious.

"Everyone, people you know and people you don't... Everyone is dangerous, Peter.  They pretend to be all nice and kind just like those bad men. Just like those bad men with the candy and the vans who want to take you away and do bad things." He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "They're liars, Peter. Your teacher...is a liar. She's just like those bad men. She wants to take you away, take you away from us, from your family. Do you want that? Do you want to be taken away?"

She had a van? Peter had never even seen it before. Was she coming right now? Why had he told her all that stuff?

"No..." he whispered, voice crackling in a hoarse, startling way. It wasn't his voice. Couldn't have been his voice. But it seemed to come from somewhere inside of him. His throat burned in a way that suggested it had. He spared a glance towards the window, praying he wouldn't see a van rolling up outside the house at that very second.

"But she wants to take you away. They all do. They're bad people, Peter. And that's exactly what'll happen if you talk to them again, if you tell them about us. They'll take you away and we'll never see you again. Do you want that?"

Peter felt fresh tears leaking past his eyes. He didn't want that. Then he'd be alone. No May. No Ben. No Daddy. He didn't want to be taken away. They COULDN'T take him away!

"No..." He croaked, feeling the flood of pain intensify over his body. His face twisted as it all seemed to rush in at once as his vocals shook loose.

"Would a good person try to take you away from us?

"No!" he cried, his skin crackling with a fire he couldn't see.

"But Ms. M wants to take you away."

Peter blinked open his eyes at that. Richard leaned forward. "Is she a good person?"

"...n-no..."

"No," the man repeated, standing from his chair as he moved to stand behind Peter's. He grabbed the pad and pen and moved it so that it was in front of the boy. He started to write something on the paper, but his hand was blocking it, so Peter couldn't see. Even if he could have, he was too busy wiping his face with his sleeve. It came away with bloody smears.

"Here." He stuffed the pen into Peter's still-shivering hand and pushed the pad closer to him. "I want you to write down what you see here. Exactly, word for word."

Peter tilted his head and sniffled, craning his neck a bit to read what his father had written.

"Go on. Go ahead."

His father's handwriting was usually neat. It was crisp and clean and everything Peter always tried to emulate in his own handwriting. But today it looked sloppy. It was hurried and messy, more like something he would see his classmate's papers filled with.

"Write it, Peter."

Maybe his father's hand hurt from whipping the belt. Maybe they were too bloody, stained with a heaviness that weighed down his fingers. Maybe that's why the words seemed to dance before Peter's eyes, jumbled and out of order. There was a stain in the corner of the page, dark red.

Richard's hand suddenly slammed down onto the table and he leaned down inches from Peter's ear.

"WRITE IT!"

Peter shut his eyes, hurried sob wracking his frame once more as he shakily grabbed the pad and pressed the tip of the pen into the paper. His hand was so shaky it was hard to even move the pen, but slowly, the words started to form. Richard watched in silence, stained hands slowly coming to fold behind his back as the words appeared, messy and scrawled, but there on the page nonetheless, printed in bold, in permanent ink-

Carved-

Scratched-

Stapled.

 

 

Everyone lies. Trust no one.

 

---

 

Saturday - May 28, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

01:26 AM

Tony still had dreams. Nightmares, really. If you wanted to get technical.

At this point in his life, he probably should have been used to them. Four decades of the same party trick and you start teetering the line of getting old. 'Used to it' should have been an understatement.

But it wasn't. Maybe nightmares just weren't something you were supposed to get used to. Just something you lived with. Poorly, in his case. But lived with, nonetheless. Usually in the form of a few late-night binge sessions down in the lab, much to the displeasure of whoever had the misfortune of catching him.

And, as Tony would always parrot whenever said someone would demand an explanation for his antics, it was "the lesser of two evils."

Of course, the human body can only take so much, and usually around the three-day mark of non-stop all-nighters that would put even a grad student to shame, sometimes even Tony Stark had to admit defeat. And said defeat came in the form of a designer bed and custom-made orthopedic pillows. Which, on paper, doesn't sound too tragic.

But while Tony was used to jolting into consciousness in a violent and harrowing manner….

"Peter?!"

…this was definitely new.

Cause he'd never been woken by a scream other than his own before.

Tony's shoulder slammed into the hallway wall as he stumbled out of his room, shaking off the blanket that was still half-draped over him. He blinked his eyes and tried to adjust himself to the darkness of the area, lips parted as his heart leaped into his throat.

The hall was dark, the only reprieve coming from the footlights lining the floors, giving a faint yellowish glow that was just enough to see by, leaving Tony to run in less than total darkness.

He grazed his hand along the wall as he ran, counting each door-frame underneath his fingertips and mentally assigning them away as not the kid's room, which was a hard enough task to keep straight while he was both struggling to wake up and simultaneously trying to breathe.

Peter had screamed.

It seemed to be the only thought he could fully formulate in his fritzing brain.

Peter had screamed.

Followed by,

Why had he screamed?

"FRIDAY?" He stumbled, righting himself against the wall before taking off again "What the hell's going on?!"

Someone must have broken into the Tower. Must have broken in looking for him only to come across the kid instead. Or maybe info leaked that Peter was staying at the Tower and someone was looking to hold the kid hostage for some billion-dollar ransoms. Or maybe it was just good, old-fashioned aliens again. It had been a while since he'd tangoed with that nightmare of a thought. Maybe now was about time for a reprieve.

In fact, why wasn't the Tower bathed in red flashing lights? Why hadn't FRIDAY sent him a suit by now? If the kid was in danger, then they had to-

"No sensors have been tripped boss. No added heat signatures or motion detected on the cameras, and security hasn't been activated."

He stumbled again.

"What?"

"There are no signs of activity in or around the Tower."

He slowed a bit, throwing a bewildered look up to the ceiling before falling back into stride. It didn't make him feel better. Not at all. Because his heart was still pounding. And that scream was still ringing in his ears like a bell.

In his muddied and sleep-hazed brain, he almost ran right past the kid's door, grabbing the frame at the last second as his feet skidded against the floor. He panted, righting himself in an instant as he braced himself against the frame, sucking down a mouthful of air.

No signs of activity. No signs of activity. No signs-

He tightened his hold on the frame, sparing a small glance towards the ceiling.

"Are you sure?"

"There's nobody in the Tower but you and Peter."

He winced at that.

Me and Peter.

The others were home. Sleeping, as any sane person should have been doing at that time of night. There was no backup. He was alone here, alone to deal with whatever this was.

He took another breath, vaguely noting how tight his chest felt all of a sudden before lifting a hand and pounding on the door in front of him, half-expecting it to straight-up break under the force of his fist.

"Peter? Hey, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

He didn't bother trying to keep the alarm out of his voice as he pressed his ear to the door, straining to make out anything through the metal. There was some shuffling he could make out, something thumping on the other side. He pressed himself harder against the door, straining to hear anything else. "Answer me, kid."

The shuffling stopped, cut off with a sharp silence. Tony held his breath, felt his pulse as he pressed his fingertips against the door, beating in time with his heart. He waited, the seconds ticking by. Still no noise. Nothing but silence, heavy and tense. No answer.

He took a step back, fists dropping to his sides, fingers remaining tightly curled against his palm. He forced FRIDAY's words back through his head.

Nobody but him and Peter. No threats. The kid wasn't in danger.

But that scream…

He knew screams like that.

He'd had screams like that.

Peter might not have been in danger, but he definitely wasn't okay.

"Open it, FRI."

She did exactly that, Tony charging through into the room-

Right into a super-charged force that slammed into his side and sent him flying.

SMASH!

He hit the bookshelf so hard, the thing seemed to literally explode into nothing but wooden boards and splinters, Tony landing with an audible thud as he toppled to the floor and fell among the debris.

For a moment, everything whited out, fading into background noise like the garblings of a crowd, muddy and disjointed. A high-pitched squeal reverberated through his head, grinding his teeth together as he groaned, scrunching his eyes shut as he tried to push back the wave of nausea that instantly tried to climb up.

He'd taken plenty of hits in his day. But this was definitely a contender for Top Ten outside his suit.

In fact, as the pounding of his skull started to recede and the adrenaline now beginning to flood his veins sharpened into the calls to action, Tony readied to push forward, fists clenching as the command for a suit readied on his tongue.

At least, until the ringing squeal in his ears transformed into a panicked high-pitch voice.

"Oh my god. I….Oh god! Mr. Stark?! I….I didn't….I gosh! I'm so sorry!"

A voice he could pick out of a crowd at this point.

"Jesus Christ, Peter…" Tony rested the back of his head against the pile of broken boards he now lay upon and let out a relieved sigh.

Peter stood off to the side, fists still clenched as he stared back at Tony with wide, disbelieving eyes and his jaw agape. Or at least, that's as far as Tony could tell what with the room still spinning a bit.

"What are you...I...I didn't know- I thought...I thought you were...I...I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to...t-to-"

Tony zoned out a bit, focusing on pushing himself into a sitting position as stray boards and splinters poked into his arms. He grimaced, giving a little shake of his shoulder as he pressed a hand to his head, feeling the makings of a particularly large bump forming under his hair.

He sucked in a breath, wincing at the tight ache in his chest. His heart was still racing but taking a scan of the room helped to slow it just a tad. FRIDAY was right. Nobody but him and Peter. No threats. No danger.

Unless, of course, you counted the enhanced super-spider that seemed more than eager for some late-night Krav Maga.

Tony had to admit, he hadn't expected that.

"What the hell, kid?" he finally groaned, giving a little shake to try and clear the last bits of echoed feedback in his ears.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Peter shook his head, taking a few hurried steps forward as if to help Tony up, only to stop short and back up a bit after a moment of thought. "I didn't mean to, I swear! I swear I didn't. I...I thought that...t-that you...I...I didn't know it was you."

Tony let out a muted grunt, beginning to pick himself up off the ground. "Yeah, I hope you didn't. Otherwise, I might think you're secretly trying to kill me."

The kid suddenly lurched forward so quickly that Tony fell right back into the pile of broken wood. Peter basically knelt down in front of him, almost pawing at the front of his shirt as his eyes blew wide.

"No! I...Please. I...I didn't mean to! I swear! I...I swear on my life that I didn't mean it!" he gasped, eyes filling with tears as his face crumpled into nothing short of terror. "Please! You...y-you have to believe me! I didn't mean it!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Peter! Relax, kid," Tony sputtered out, blinking in shock at the kid's sudden shift to near-breathless panic. "I...I was joking, obviously. It was an accident. I know you didn't mean it. I..."

He trailed off for a moment, catching sight of the sheer look of shame and fear gleaming back in the boy's eyes, and instantly felt a wave of regret for his cheekiness. "I...I was just joking, kid."

Peter stared at him, fingers still curling into his shirt. His eyes were wide, a watery film of fear shining back through his big brown orbs. But after a moment, perhaps how long it took for Tony's words to start sinking in, the kid swallowed. He uncurled his fingers from the man's shirt and shuffled backward.

Gone was the loose smile and cheeky attitude that had reappeared in the lab earlier that night. In its place stood the same air of nerves and distress that had reeked through the Tower all week. "It's not funny," he mumbled slowly, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I….I would never do that…"

"I know." Tony rose up to his feet, heard the boards shifting as he did. "I'm sorry. I...I shouldn't have just barged in here like that. But I..."

"But what?" Peter grunted, pressing a hand to his head as he cast a wary glance around the room, like he wasn't really sure what was happening. "What are you even doing here?"

"I..." Tony hesitated, seeing the lack of any realization or understanding in Peter's gaze. "I...came to check on you."

"Why?"

What the hell do you mean WHY?

"Peter." He wet his lips. "I heard you scream."

The teen reared back immediately, eyes widening. "What?"

"I heard it from all the way down the hall, kid. I thought you were in trouble or something, so I came over here to make sure you were okay. And obviously…you are," he said with a certain exasperation, mainly at himself for his previous panic. Tony took a few steps forward, out of the pile of splinters and broken boards. He brushed a hand over his shirt, clearing it of the particles of dust and fiber that clung to him. "Your bookshelf on the other hand..."

"I...what are you talking about?" Peter stuttered, shaking his head as his brows furrowed, nose crinkling in confusion. "I...I didn't scream. I...I-"

"Are you sure? I know what I heard, Pete."

Honestly, he didn't. He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

But Peter cleared away whatever doubts he might have been constructing, for after a moment of silence, a moment in which Peter stared at the ground with nothing short of the most concentrated look Tony had ever seen on the kid's face, the boy's eyes widened and his lips parted ever so slightly. He stumbled on a breath, Tony hearing how it caught in his throat before sliding down with shaky hesitance. "I...oh god."

Tony straightened up immediately.

Peter took a step away, shaking his head back and forth. "I didn't...I didn't know I'd...I...I didn't mean to...I mean I...I just..."

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on?"

"Nothing!"

He reared back. Peter blushed slightly before ducking his head again. "I...it's nothing. I...nothing's wrong. I didn't mean to...just...it's nothing to worry about. Really. You don't have t-to...I...it's fine. Everything's fine. I'm...fine."

The boy twisted away, spinning on his heel so that his back was to Tony. But even from this position, the billionaire could see how tightly the kid was holding himself. How tense his muscles were. How antsy the air around him was, crackling with nerves that were being very poorly hidden.

And it was...familiar.

The shuffling. The refusal to meet Tony's gaze. The air of nerves. The rambling insistences that everything was fine.

It was too familiar.

("I just...I just need a second, alright?")

("No, Pepper. I don't...listen, I don't wanna talk about it. Because it's not going to help, that's why!")

("Don't! You- don't touch me! Just...get away from me! Don't...just leave me alone, alright? I...I can't be around you right now, Pep.")

("It was just a dream, Pepper. That's it. Just a dream.")

. . .

. . .

. . .

("It's never JUST a dream, Tony. Not anymore.")

"You had a nightmare...didn't you?"

Perhaps now is a good time to reference another prominent fact about Tony Stark.

He never talked about his nightmares.

Ever.

Which was probably the reason behind the growing feeling of darkness pooling into his stomach. The same tell-tale, skin-prickling, no-chance-in-Hell-of-getting-back-to-sleep feelings of unease and nausea that always followed his dreams.

Feelings that wouldn't have followed a hostage situation, or a break-in. Hell, he probably could have even handled the aliens better than this.

Because aliens weren't personal. Break-ins. Guns. Fighting. It wasn't personal.

Dreams. Nightmares. You couldn't get more personal.

Call Pepper. Call Rhodey. May. They can handle this. You- you can't. You can't do this, not this. Too personal. Too...too- no. You can't do this. You won't help. It won't….it won't help. Nothing helps. You don't know how. You-you'll make this worse. Be smart and step away. Leave him alone. Leave-

Peter's sharp intake of breath cut off the spiraling hurricane of thoughts and Tony blinked back into reality just in time to watch the boy hunch his shoulders and if possible, grow even smaller.

"I….I didn't mean to wake you up," he whispered, voice cracking.

("Nobody in the Tower but you and Peter.")

Leave him alone. Let him be. Leave…..l-leave….. you…..y-you can't help him. You can't help him. You can't…..

("Nobody….but you…")

. . .

…You can't leave him.

Tony swallowed; his throat was sickeningly dry all of a sudden as he felt a bundle of nerves he hadn't felt in months.

Peter was running a hand across his forehead, fingers curling into the roots of his hair. He still refused to turn Tony's way. The man scanned him over, took in his appearance for the first time.

Peter was wearing plaid pajama pants that pooled around his feet and a Decathlon t-shirt that seemed two sizes too big, giving him a fairly ruffled appearance that matched the disheveled look of distress stretching across his face and the frumpled jacket he had wrapped tightly around himself, the sleeves so big that they were literally engulfing the boy's hands.

Tony swallowed down a flare of hesitance and took a few steps forward, making sure to keep his movements audible so as to not sneak up on the boy. "I...listen, Pete? I...it's okay. I..." He frantically tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. "I...I'm not upset or-"

"Well, you should be," Peter snapped suddenly, whirling around to face him. His eyes were narrowed, and his face was tense, the look melting into regret as he pressed his head into his hands. "I...I've never done anything like this before and I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have woken you up. It...i-it won't happen again. I swear! I swear it won't!"

Tony waved his hands, closing the distance between them as he wrapped his fingers around Peter's bony shoulders. "Pete! Kid, you gotta relax," he said hastily, Peter gazing up at him with wide, open eyes, gleaming back with emotion and worry. Tony took a breath, sucked it in slowly if only to buy himself more time. What should he say? What was the right thing to say? What did Peter need him to say?

(What did he need to hear after his nightmares?)

"I...I'm not angry, alright? You didn't do this on purpose, obviously," he said softly, his voice nonetheless ringing out in the otherwise silent room. "You can't control what you dream about so you shouldn't apologize for it, alright? It's...it's fine, kid. Not a big deal." He swallowed and slowly released the boy's shoulders, lowering his hands back down to his sides. "Nothing I've never dealt with before.

Peter stared up at him, seemed to scour his face for something. Deceit? Malice? Whatever it was, he didn't seem to find it, for after a second, he lowered his gaze back down to his hands, which he was now starting to wring together. At the very least, he didn't look as nervous anymore.

Tony was counting it as a win.

"Do, uh...d-do you wanna...like...talk about it?"

"No."

Oh, thank God.

Best not to push his luck.

"Right." He gave a sharp nod before patting the kid's back. Peter winced. "Well, uh...why don't you go wash your face, huh? Just take a second to calm down and collect yourself. I'll wait out here."

Peter glanced up at him for a second before giving a muted nod. He stepped forward - pointedly going around Tony - and headed for the bathroom, the door slamming shut after a second.

To which Tony promptly released a sharp breath and collapsed onto the bed behind him.

God, that was horrible.

But he'd gotten through it. Without either of them exploding. That would have to be enough for now.

He rested an arm over his eyes and let out a long sigh, feeling the ache in his muscles returning as the adrenaline well and truly worn off. But now that he was finally taking a second to breathe a gulp of air that wasn't diluted with distress and anxiety, Tony felt a wash of relief combing over him.

No aliens. No kidnappers. No hostage deals going south.

Just a kid and some nightmares. Completely normal. And he could handle it. Sort of. With minimal panic.

Tony brushed the thoughts aside before he could call himself out on his own bullshit and instead threw a dirty look towards the ceiling.

"You know, a little heads up would have been appreciated, FRIDAY. Like, maybe just some sort of clue that junior was having bad dreams and not under attack from space mutants." He rested his hand down on the bed and felt something crinkle under his palm. "I was this close to calling a suit and blasting a hole into the wall over th-"

He paused. Looked down. There was a piece of paper under his hand.

Tony furrowed his brow, carefully lifting his hand up off the offending page. He blinked down at it for a moment before he noticed a few other papers scattered along the bed. The bed that was folded neat and pristine, the covers smooth and undisturbed. Perfect.

Unused.

He parted his lips, casting his eyes back and forth along the bed as if to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Any wrinkle in the sheets. A folded back cover that showed the kid had just slipped underneath without disturbing the outer blankets. No. Nothing. The only imperfections were the wrinkles Tony himself was making as he sat, and the pieces of loose-leaf paper sprinkled around the pillows.

The billionaire's face remained tight, twisted into a look of confusion as he carefully reached towards the closest page, the one he'd accidentally touched. He pinched his fingers around the corner and lifted it up into his hand. It was too dark to make out any details, but even so, he could see that there was...something there. Some sort of writing. And there seemed to be a lot of it.

He cast another glance at the other pages. They seemed to have the same hurried scribbles as well. There was even a pile of them on the floor next to the bed. Next to the mound of blankets curled up on the ground. With a….pillow too. Like a makeshift nest, or a substitute bed…

"The hell...?" Tony murmured to himself, slowly rising up to his feet as he turned and cast a more careful look around the room.

He hadn't noticed before, what with all his attention being lost on Peter, but something about the room felt...off. It wasn't just the papers either. There was something in the air. Some sort of...tension. An unsettling air of unease that he could feel crawling along the back of his neck.

Something was wrong.

He could feel it.

Tony jumped a bit as he heard the bathroom door creak open, and Peter shuffled back out.

Without a word, Tony slid the paper in hand deep into his pocket.

Peter's face was wet, the tips of hair around his eyes damp and dripping. He was still wringing his hands. "Listen, I uh...I'm really sorry about all this but I...I'm alright now. Everything's okay, so you can go back to bed and...um..." He trailed off as he lifted his head and caught sight of Tony, caught sight of the look in the man's eyes.

He stopped walking. Stopped wringing his hands.

Tony hesitated for a moment, eyes lingering on the papers before him. There was something about how they were scattered, how haphazardly they were strewn about the room. Peter was a teenage anomaly. He was freakishly neat, to the point where Tony liked to give him flack for it down in the labs.

This was...manic mess. Emotional. Frenzied. It made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

He shook his head after a second and lifted a hand to gesture at the papers. "What is all this?" He asked softly, making sure to keep his voice neutral.

Peter's eyes darted from the pages back over to him. The kid's face twisted and morphed like water, and it took Tony a second to realize the kid was now smiling. It was painfully fake.

"I, uh...s-sorry," Peter chuckled embarrassedly, rushing forward as he started to clear the bed of the papers on top. "I meant to clean up. I...I have trouble falling asleep sometimes, so I like to brainstorm ideas. Web fluids, new inventions, you know, stuff-"

He looked up, noticed how much closer Tony had gotten, and cut his words off with a wince. He swallowed and stumbled back a bit, gripping the papers a bit tighter as he cleared his throat and looked away. "…s-stuff like that…"

It was a lie. An obvious one at that. The pit in Tony's stomach grew.

"Uh-huh." He pressed a tongue against the side of his cheek. "And, uh...the blankets?"

Peter kept staring down at the papers in his arms. "Huh?" he murmured, though they both knew he'd heard perfectly.

"Why are they on the floor?"

"I...fell out of bed."

"Right. So why aren't the covers pulled back."

"I slept...on top of them."

"Why?"

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, but didn't have a response this time.

Tony regarded the boy for a moment, the tightness in his stance and the way he wouldn't stop looking at the papers in his hands. He took a deep, calming breath, forcing the air in slowly as he spoke carefully. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Peter took another step back. "N-no?"

"Maybe about why you're screaming in the middle of the night all of a sudden?"

"I...I don't know what that's about. I swear. Really." Peter turned away at that, took a few more steps back, expanding the distance between them. He sucked in a breath, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the edges of the papers, head down. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. Terse.

"Look, like I said, I'm sorry I woke you up. Really, I am. But everything's fine now. I...you can leave now. Go back to bed, back to sleep. I...I shouldn't have woken you up in the first place."

Tony tilted his head as the kid finished, leaving them in silence again. Peter kept shuffling backward, kept lengthening the distance between them.

And even without his insistences, it was getting to be pretty obvious what the kid wanted.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

Peter froze in his step, eyes widening as his face fell into a look of half-shock, half-shame. "What? No, I-"

"You're not very subtle, kid," Tony said with a little smirk, hoping the casual look would mask the nerves growing in his stomach over the fact that he was obviously right. "Maybe we can work on that while you're here."

Peter tensed his jaw shut, lowering his gaze as he refused to meet Tony's eyes. "I…I'm not trying to….um…I just don't wanna waste your….y-your time. That's all." More steps back. This time, Tony followed.

"What aren't you telling me?

"It's…I…nothing. It's nothing."

"I don't think I'd be standing here if it was nothing."

Peter opened his mouth, only to jolt as his back suddenly collided with the wall, heels scuffing against the surface. The kid spared a frightened gaze over his shoulder before whipping his eyes back over to Tony. It was only for a brief moment before the boy was averting his gaze back down to the floor, but the little flash was enough for Tony to see the silent pleading in the kid's eyes. And hear the words that went with them.

Drop it.

Please.

It wasn't the first time Peter had made that request simply with a gleam of his eyes. Central Park. The Brooklyn Bridge. Facing his father in the Tower. Squaring up against Max before the press conference. Each and every time Peter had one request: To let it go. To forget and move on. And sometimes, Tony could oblige.

("You won him over once. Now you just gotta do it again.")

Not this time, though.

He could hear May, could hear the kid's friends willing him on, willing him to move forward with the plan they'd formulated. A plan he hadn't imagined taking shape like this.

But Tony Stark was nothing if not adaptive.

He stepped forward, gently resting his hand on Peter's shoulder. The kid gave a sharp jolt in response but didn't pull away. "Pete….hey, look at me, kid."

It took a moment, but Tony waited until the boy's big shining eyes were on him before speaking once more. "Listen, I wasn't really expecting to confront this right now at..." He paused. Frowned. "FRIDAY?"

"1:46 AM, Boss."

"What she said. But..." He crinkled his eyes, lips pulling into a firm line. "...something tells me it's not going to do either of us any good to keep putting this off." He gave the kid's shoulder a little squeeze, trying not to think too hard about how bony and small it felt under his hand. "Why are you lying to me?" He asked quietly.

Peter shook his head. Tony felt drops of water fly onto his hand. "I...I'm not."

The man's frown remained, even deepening a bit. "Something's been bugging you for this entire week. I didn't wanna say anything cause I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable and it wasn't anything too serious. But I think we've officially crossed the boundary into real-shit territory if it's starting to affect your sleep like this."

"That has nothing to do with-"

"Let me finish," he added hastily as he caught wind of the strain leaking into the boy's voice. Peter shifted under his hand, feet shuffling back and forth, but he didn't protest.

"Look..." Tony paused, letting out a little sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. "I know you're nervous about staying here. It's normal. And...at first, I thought that's all this was. Just normal nerves. But..."

He cast a small glance towards the papers pressed against Peter's chest, the boy still making no moves to set them down anywhere. If anything, with each second that passed, he just clutched them tighter.

("Now you're Tony Stark: owner of the house he's living in. Just like-")

"But that's not what this is...is it?"

Peter chewed on his bottom lip, refusing to look up. Tony could see how tense his jaw was, locked like a steel trap.

"There's something more. Something you're not telling me and that's not going to fly anymore."

("And now he's having a hard time keeping the two of you separate.")

"I have my assumptions, but they don't really help me if I don't hear it straight from you."

("You sure you're okay?")

("Why wouldn't I be?")

"Just...tell me what's wrong."

Tony held his breath, watched as Peter's eyes flickered around his face before finally landing on his deep, dark brown irises. And for a moment, they just stared.

He could see it now. He could see it in the boy's eyes. The distress shining through, the desperation and fear. The same haze that had been fogging his eyes for the past week, now stronger than ever. Whatever had been eating at Peter for the past few days was obviously boiling over now. To the point where Tony couldn't just write it off anymore. He couldn't just ignore it and wait for it to go away on its own. He had to take charge.

This wasn't like three months ago. This wasn't like when he'd first met the kid, watching him stutter and stumble over his words, exuding an air of fear and uncertainty, an aura of submissiveness that still made Tony sick to think about. This wasn't like then.

Because now Tony was responsible for this kid.

He'd made Peter come here. Now he had to make it count.

They needed to deal with this now. Before it got any worse.

. . .

. . .

. . .

(But then…you always make things worse, Stark.)

"There's...nothing wrong."

Tony tried to bite back his sigh, but it slipped out anyway. "Peter-"

The kid side-stepped him, coming out from against the wall as he turned to face him, voice hard as flint. "I mean it. There's nothing. I'm fine!"

He straightened up a bit at the sharpness in the kid's tone. That was new. "Then why are you so scared?"

"I'm not-"

"Why do you keep clutching those papers? What even are they?"

"I already said-"

"What's got you so freaked out, kid? What the hell did you see in that dream?"

"Nothing. I...I don't remember."

"Kid-"

Peter twisted around hard on his heel. "Stop! Just stop it, alright? I don't remember! And even if I did, it's none of your business!" he snapped, eyes narrowed in anger for just a second before his brain seemed to catch up with his mouth and he winced, stepping back a bit as if waiting for Tony's reply.

But the irritated glint in his eyes remained.

Tony swallowed down the snippy comment that automatically rose in his throat. The kid was getting angry. Defensive. He couldn't rise to that. He had to stay the calm, reasonable adult. "Well, you kind of made it my business when your screams start waking the whole Tower," he said, fighting to keep his voice clear of the natural sarcastic edge that wanted to leak through.

Damn his sass.

And damn Peter's ingrained abilities to pick up on it, for the kid's eyes narrowed even more and his face took on a scowl. "That's not my fault. I can't control it. I didn't even know that was a thing I could do cause I never do it at home."

There was something about it. Something about the way he said 'home', like it was a pointed jab, a knowing, purposeful sneer. Something about the look in his eyes, the blaming accusatory glare thrown his way. Like this was Tony's fault. Like he was somehow the big bad guy in all of this, the cause of all their problems and not the person actively trying to fix them.

A look that was, curiously enough, never directed at Richard Parker.

Tony couldn't help it. That annoyed him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Peter opened his mouth to respond, only to notice the newfound look of faint annoyance gleaming in Tony's eyes. Seeming to remember who he was talking to, the kid swallowed and took a second to think before responding.

"Nothing," he muttered in a way that very much said he didn't mean 'nothing.'

Tony folded his arms over his chest. Forced himself to take a deep breath. "You seem pretty ticked for a whole lot of nothing."

"I'm just….tired."

"Pete, so am I," he said with a forced little smile, hoping to cool the gradually building tensions around them. "That's why I'm trying to wrap this up, but you seem to insist on making this difficult, kid."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Peter turned to throw him a sharp glare that wiped the smile from Tony's face.

"I already told you there's nothing wrong. You're the one insisting on finding an issue that isn't there!"

Tony wet his lips, inhaling sharply as he shook his head. This wasn't going well. "So this isn't an issue?" He gestured toward the broken mound of what used to be a bookshelf, voice sharper than before. "Horrifying, heart-pounding screams of terror are just a run-of-the-mill thing for you? Cause I gotta tell you, I might not remember much about my younger years, but I sure don't remember that."

Peter's face scrunched. "You know what I mean," he growled, hands fisting around the papers he still hadn't put down.

"No, actually. I don't. Do enlighten me. Does it have anything to do with your sudden spider-powered security system, complete with exploding bookshelf?"

He couldn't help it. That sentence was made for some sass. And maybe an eye-roll.

Peter swallowed thickly as his eyes trailed down to the floor. But the subtle look of regret and embarrassment gleaming back in his eyes made the irritation in Tony's chest lessen. "I already said I didn't mean to."

"And I believe you. But, Peter, you can't just write that off like it's nothing. If you're freaked out enough to be attacking on sight, then something is seriously wrong!"

"No! It's….I…that's not….it's, it was just a one-time thing!"

"How can you be so sure?'

"I….I just…." Peter gritted his teeth, cheeks going red as he glared at the broken mound of boards and splinters. "I just am, okay? Now please just drop this! I don't know how many times I can say I'm sorry!"

"Kid, I'm not looking for an apol-"

"This wouldn't even be an issue if you hadn't forced me to come here! You and my dad!"

. . .

. . .

"What…?"

Peter tensed his jaw, seemingly ready to say more, only to pause as he caught sight of the look in Tony's eyes, the shell-shocked, stunned still look.

And he instantly fell silent.

Tony stared back at him, could feel his jaw hanging open, waiting to say something, to release some quick-witted, intelligent response that would end this conversation with Tony on top and their issues folded up and dealt with.

But nothing came out.

("If you think anything you can do will change the years of effort I've already put in…then you're kidding yourself.")

("You're kidding yourself.")

("You're kidding yourself.")

("You're kidding-")

("You're kidding-")

(You're kidding-")

Peter sucked in another breath, shakier this time. He stared down at the papers in his arms once again, if only to avoid eye contact. "I...nothing. Forget it."

"No." Tony took a step forward, felt how shaky his legs were now, how uncomfortably tight his chest was now. Like Richard was right there in the room sneering at him from the corner, burning him with his gaze, ringing taunts echoing in his ears.

"No. What'd you say?" He could see it all happening. Could see himself getting angry, could feel it. And he could hear the pleading in the back of his head, heard it begging for him to step away, to calm down and refocus, to take a breath and realize that his anger was misplaced, that he had to stay calm and rational and reasonable and everything Peter wasn't in that moment because he was a kid and he was scared and he was defensive.

But Richard wouldn't stop sneering.

And Tony's fists clenched.

Because, goddamn it, it was too early for this shit.

Peter said nothing, no response to his question. He lifted his head and gave the billionaire a hard stare, but his lips remained closed, pressed together into a tight line of rebellious silence.

But he could read Peter's eyes loud and clear.

"Alright, listen," he said lowly, narrowing his eyes. "I'm done with this. It's one in the goddamn morning. I'm not going to stand here and argue with you until the sun comes up."

"Fine. Then leave."

"Not until you tell me the truth!" he snapped, narrowing his eyes to glare down at the kid before him. "If you're going to be waking me up in the middle of the night, attacking me in my own Tower, then I damn well deserve to know why!" Using Peter's guilt was a shit-move, he knew. But nothing else was working. He was running out of options. Running out of places to go.

And Peter was determined to run out the clock. "There is no why," the boy said through gritted teeth, fists clenched by his sides. "Now leave me alone!"

("MY son. Don't forget that.")

Tony tensed his jaw and ran a hand down his face, felt how hot it was under his palm, felt each muggy puff of air that leaked through his lips. The frustration and stress and panic were mingling together now into one hot ball of emotion burning bright in his stomach. And it wanted out.

("He certainly won't.")

"Let me remind you that we have an agreement in place," he finally said after a moment, voice cold and calculated. "You don't keep secrets from me and I, in return, don't blab about your family fun-times to the CBS news."

It was a low blow. And he knew it.

Peter's eyes flashed the second the words left his mouth, gleaming with a newfound fury.

"Don't even joke about that!" he snarled. "It has nothing to do with this! Our deal was that I tell you about the things they do and you keep quiet! Well as I'm sure you're just so stoked about, they aren't here!" His face was seeping rage, eyes misty.

"My dad isn't here! He's gone! He left! He left me here! Alone! With nothing. Nothing but a list to keep me straight! And that's not enough!" With that, Peter threw the papers down where they fluttered out around the ground in a wave of white papery leaves, scattering out around their feet in a carpet of messy writings and empty scribbles.

The walls rang with the last of his shouting. The silence crept up soon after. But it did nothing for the air, hot and sticky and humid with the anger and fear and frustration filling the room in thick, choking waves.

Tony stared back at him, lips parted as his brows furrowed. He swallowed thickly, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. "I….what are you talking about? What list?"

He watched Peter slowly suck in a breath, heard how it shook in his throat. The kid carefully lifted his arms to wrap tightly around himself and slowly turned away. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

His voice was quiet. Lifeless.

And Tony's wasn't much better.

Because it was one in the morning. And he should have been sleeping, should have been trying to obtain even a few hours of dreamless rest. But instead, he was getting yelled at by a kid he was just trying to help, a kid who very obviously wasn't even trying right now.

Okay.

Tony was tapping out for the night.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, biting down the snappy retorts he wanted to spit as he spun around on his heel. "Fine…" he said softly, nothing like the burning whip his tongue wanted to lash out, hot and angry. He swallowed it down. Swallowed it all down. For Peter's sake.

He paused at the door as it slid open, resting his hand on the frame as he hesitated, waiting for just a second to see if the kid would stop him, if he would call out and explain what the hell was going on with him.

But he didn't. A quick glance behind him showed Peter standing stoically, arms folded and face twisted into an unreadable expression. His eyes weren't even on Tony.

The billionaire stayed for a moment longer before shaking his head and walking out. "I'm going to bed. Do me a favor and don't wake me up again."

He didn't wait for the kid to respond, knew he wouldn't anyway. Instead, he let the door slide shut behind him, leaving him alone in the hallway for the second time that night.

And the second it did, it took every ounce of Tony's willpower not to slam his head into the drywall.

Because he was fucking pathetic.

He rested the back of his head against the door, squeezing his eyes shut as he ran through a laundry list of curses. Once. He couldn't keep his emotions in check for once in his fucking life?! He couldn't be a responsible, level-headed adult for five minutes? No. Instead, he had to stoop to trading insults with an emotionally compromised teenager.

He groaned, pressing his hands into his face as he resisted the urge to let loose a scream. He could practically feel the disappointed stares of Peter's friends, of May. They were counting on him. Counting on him to help their friend, on getting him to open up and talk about what was obviously bugging him and what does Tony do? Make a low-blow about exposing the kid's worst fears? Try to guilt-trip a confession out of him?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

What in the actual fuck was wrong with him?

Tony lowered his hands and stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't make out any details in the darkness of the hall. For a moment, as his gaze flickered over towards the door behind him, he considered knocking. On apologizing right there and then. Lord knew he owed the kid one.

And yet, the idea of trying again, of a second attempt at connecting with a kid who seemed to have no trouble stonewalling him made his stomach twist.

This wasn't working. He needed a new plan. Peter was putting up new walls. Stronger walls. And the fact that Tony was having to get through his barriers again made him feel nothing but frustration. And obviously, frustration was not the key to getting the kid to talk.

"What the hell am I going to do?" Tony murmured out loud.

Nobody answered.

Then again, they didn't need to.

For in that moment, as Tony started to make the walk of shame back down to his room, berating and hating himself for how badly he'd screwed up, he slipped his hands into his pockets.

And pulled out a piece of paper.

 

---

 

" You worry me, Peter."

His father said as they watched Max and Curt installing new locks on the front door, big, ugly things that latched with a grating click, matching the latest bars on the windows and the fresh padlock on the outside of Peter's bedroom door.

 

"It's for your own good, my boy."

His father said as Peter's room was stripped and torn apart, the two of them watching from the doorway as Flint tore up the bedsheets and turned over his desk, ripping his pillows, destroying his toys, searching each nook and cranny for a reason he would never know.

 

"It'll all make sense one day. You'll see."

His father said the very first time Peter threw up from the stomach pains of two days with no food, the new bolts on the fridge locked tight.

 

"Discipline's important."

His father said the last time Peter begged him for an answer.

 

Soon enough, his father stopped trying to justify it at all.

 

And Peter stopped asking.

 

He didn't need to.

 

It was all written down anyway.

 

---

. . .

THE HOUSEHOLD RULES

- I, Peter Parker, swear to abide by these rules for the good of the family -

 

. . .

1) Everyone Lies. Trust No One.

 

...

2) Do Not Speak Without Permission.

 

...

3) Do Not Make Eye Contact. We Are Not Equals.

 

...

4) Your Responsibility is to the House. Keep it Clean and Orderly.

 

...

5) Do Not Take Food Without Permission. Stealing Will Not Be Tolerated.

 

...

6) Never Discuss Family Matters Outside of the House.

 

...

7) Never Leave the House Without Permission.

 

...

8) Never Let Strangers into the House Without Permission.

 

...

9) Never Ask For Help. Weaknesses Will Be Exploited.

 

...

10) Privacy Does Not Apply To Family. Room and Personal Devices Will be Checked On a Regular Basis.

 

...

11) Ingratitude Will Not Be Tolerated. Any Complaints Will Be Met with Swift Punishment.

 

...

12) Father Knows Best. You Serve Him Without Question.

 

...

...

...

...

. . .

Signed,

Peter B. Parker

 

---

NED

- Sunday: May 29, 2016 -

10:21 AM

Hey man! Just checking in!

. . .

 

10:24 AM

My sister is driving me insane! She comes into my room just to burp and then runs back out without closing the door! I can't STAND HER!

. . .

 

10:25 AM

Anyway, ignoring my sorrows, how's it going?

. . .

 

10:26 AM

You do anything insanely awesome yet? Maybe yearbook-worthy? If you tell Betty that you're staying at Stark tower, I bet they'd give you a whole page all to yourself.

. . .

 

11:41 AM

How's Mr. Stark been?

. . .

 

11:42 AM

Like, is everything okay?

. . .

 

11:43 AM

KK, you're probably busy building Iron Man suits lol. Have fun!

 

 

 

. . . . .

- Sunday: May 29, 2016 -

 

2:28 PM

DUDE! Guess what just came in the mail?

. . .

 

2:28 PM

I'll give you a hint. It's only the coolest thing that has ever been put into Lego form. And that's including our Death Star from last year.

. . .

 

2:28 PM

Oh yeah! The ultra-rare gold premium Millennium Falcon! It came early! And we have to build it like YESTERDAY!

. . .

 

2:35 PM

Dude! You there? This is not something to sleep on!

. . .

 

2:42 PM

Alright, alright, I get it. You're having too much fun hanging out with Iron Man! How can you not be? LOL

. . .

 

2:47 PM

I think I asked this already, but how are things with Mr. Stark anyway? Is everything alright?

. . .

 

2:50 PM

If not, I'm sure you could always like, you know-

. . .

 

2:50 PM

Talk to him?

. . .

 

2:50 PM

Maybe?

. . .

 

2:51 PM

IDK just a suggestion, lol

 

 

. . . . .

- Monday: May 30, 2016 -

 

12:13 PM

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm sure talking to like a super famous billionaire sounds really intimidating. But he's actually really easy to chat with.

. . .

 

12:13 PM

LOL not that I would know, lol. HAHA. The only time I ever saw him was at the Decath tournament. Lollll

. . .

 

12:14 PM

That was a lot of LOLs. Pay no attention to that. Means nothing.

. . .

 

12:15 PM

But I was serious about the other thing. The talking thing? It might be good.

. . .

 

12:15 PM

But I mean...just a guess.

. . .

 

12:17 PM

Maybe give it a try?

 

---

MAY

- Tuesday: May 31, 2016 -

 

08:32 AM

Hi, sweetie! Just checking in to see how you're doing. You didn't answer your phone when I called last night but I shouldn't be surprised. Must be like one non-stop party over there haha.

. . .

 

8:34 AM

Like I said, just checking in. Is everything going alright? Tony treating you okay? Just say the word and I'll come over there and lay some swift Brooklyn justice on his ass. Just because I'm a Queens girl now doesn't mean I don't have my bloodborne Brooklyn instincts anymore lol. I still got some mace in my purse and a tire-iron in the trunk.

. . .

 

8:36 AM

But I doubt I'd have to use them. He seems pretty nice, right?

. . .

 

8:37 AM

And if you ever have any issues, I'm sure you could tell him. Or me, if you want lol but he does have the benefit of proximity.

. . .

 

8:40 AM

Just a thought ;)

. . .

 

8:41 AM

Anyway, call me when you get a second. Love you!

 

---

MJ

- Tuesday: May 31, 2016 -

03:19 PM

Talk to Stark, loser.

. . .

 

03:25 PM

Oh and also text Ned back. He won't stop blowing up my phone.

 

---

 

Wednesday- June 1, 2016

Stark Tower - Penthouse Floor

12:32 AM

The door slid open with an audible hiss, letting in a gust of AC from the darkened hallway. A small, pasty hand slowly latched onto the doorframe before an equally as pale face peeked out and glanced around.

Peter held his breath. Despite FRIDAY's reassurances that the hall was empty, he still checked carefully, body ready to dart back into the relative safety of the room behind him should he catch sight of anybody.

But no. The AI was right. The hall was empty save for the twinkle lights adorning the floors, lighting the path down the stretch. He hesitated before focusing on his hearing, straining it out further. The only sounds he could make out were the distant grumblings of the city below and the faint echoes of a heartbeat somewhere far off, floors away. Instantly recognizable, though.

Peter retreated into the room, pressing his back against the wall as he took a deep, shaky breath. He felt his hands beginning to wring together as he cast a nervous glance up at the ceiling.

"Where is he now?"

"Mr. Stark is currently in the labs working on new propulsors for his gauntlets." A pause. "NOW would you like me to contact him?"

"Still no," Peter sighed, angling his gaze back towards the newly opened door.

Just like May and his friends, FRIDAY wasn't very subtle. Not that Peter could blame her.

It had been four days since they'd last seen each other. Four days of Peter hiding in his room like a coward, too afraid to face up to the disgusting behavior he'd displayed. Then again, Mr. Stark most likely didn't want to see him anyway. The man hadn't been back to check on him and Peter was honestly relieved. He couldn't say for sure what would happen should they try to talk again.

You gonna throw anything else in his face, Parker?

He swallowed and glanced away.

It was still there. He could feel it. The gnawing, inky blackness that had been clinging tight to him ever since that first night, wrapping tight around his lungs, his throat. That night, it had been all he could see, all he could feel. And Mr. Stark had paid the price for it.

The man had been keeping his distance ever since, sticking to the labs, the lower floors, the study. All of this was relayed to him through FRIDAY, who thankfully hadn't turned her back on him despite his treatment of her creator.

But it was strange. Despite the fact that Mr. Stark had yet to knock on Peter's door or even so much as talk to him through it, the man always, always came by. Granted, his room was in the same hall, so Peter would usually dismiss it. But every once in a while, the man would pause outside the teen's door. And just….wait.

Peter could always hear him. Hear his heartbeat right outside the door, loud enough to be right next to him. He could always hear the man's feet, shuffling their weight back and forth. And he could always hear when Tony eventually turned and walked away, always before Peter could garner up the courage to open the door himself.

What's the point?

He'd always tell himself.

You've proven how ungrateful you are. What more is there to say?

Four days of this. Of listening to each other through the door, neither brave enough to approach, rotting away in their own thoughts.

And Peter would have reluctantly accepted this, would have taken it in stride, sitting and waiting until Mr. Stark finally said enough and kicked him out. Judging by how frequently the man was stopping by his door nowadays, it wouldn't be long now. He maybe had until the end of the week if he was lucky. And then?

His family was already gone. Would Mr. Stark call his father to come collect him? Cut his trip short to come back for his pathetic son?

What would his father say?

What would he do?

What would-

The thoughts were cut off with a sharp jolt as Peter's stomach gave a painful lurch, the teen swallowing a full-on gag as he pressed his shoulder into the wall and groaned. He shut his eyes, grimacing tightly as he wrapped his arms around his midsection and pressed his forehead into the wall.

It wasn't a new feeling, this hunger. But it hadn't been missed.

Spending the past four days locked away in his room meant he hadn't been joining Mr. Stark or his friends for breakfast, lunch, not even diner, which he usually always attended. But the fact that nobody had been by to ask if he would be coming down was telling enough. They didn't want him there.

They didn't want him in the Tower. Not anymore.

Still,

Another gurgle. Peter gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead harder into the wall as he groaned.

This was getting to be a problem.

Six days was his record, a record he held with a fair bit of pride. After the spider bite, there wasn't much that bonded him to the normal human body, and this included his metabolism. While the average person could survive at least two weeks without proper sustenance, Peter's average was about a week before things started getting tricky.

So, while four days wasn't necessarily into red-alert-death-imminent territory, it certainly wasn't pleasant. Especially considering he'd spent that morning on the floor, unable to even get up from the sheer lack of energy.

Peter glanced back towards the door, towards the darkened hallway just past it.

He could go longer. He could push further. It was possible. And yet…

The teen turned to gaze back at the bathroom, where – upon finally finding the energy to push off the floor – he'd spent the rest of the day heaving nothing but spit into the toilet. He chewed on his lip, felt how dry it was under his teeth.

Don't. Don't even THINK about it.

He was starting to reach the tipping point. In a few hours, he probably wouldn't be able to stand at all. And then what would he do? If Mr. Stark decided to do anything, retaliate in any way, he'd be defenseless.

An instant gag. Peter couldn't tell whether it was from his stomach or the thought.

You can go longer. You have before. You're just being lazy. You don't need it.

He felt his heart starting to pick up, felt it starting to nick at his chest, tight and uncomfortable.

He'll find you. He'll catch you and then what? Imagine what he'll do. What you'll MAKE him do. You can't. You can't. You can't. You can't. You can't. You-

Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself through the door, swallowing down the nausea and shame that followed. It was much harder to choke down this time. But once he did, he heard the door slide closed behind him, enveloping him in the darkness of the hall.

He blinked, rubbing at his eyes a bit before they finally started to adjust to the dim lighting of the footlights underneath.

The hallway was quiet, eerily so. Back home, there was always some sort of commotion going on just a floor away, voices shouting, bottles clanking, something. Now it was silent. And Peter had to try very hard to keep his hands from shaking.

He took a breath, took a few more when the tightness in his chest remained. His fingers started to twitch, scratching up against his sweating palms as he started down the hall, stared past the lights and the shadows where the walls ended, and expanded upon the rest of the penthouse. And just beyond that? A fully stocked kitchen. Filled with so much food that Mr. Stark probably wouldn't even-

("What? You thought I wouldn't notice a thief in my own house? How stupid do you think I am, Peter?!")

He clenched his fists, body aching with phantom pains. He kept moving forward, heard how each step seemed to echo in his ears, a grating ring. Or maybe it was just the blood now beginning to rush around his head, making his cheeks warm and his thoughts muggy; muggy enough for him to dismiss how bad of an idea this was; muggy enough for him to keep walking down that hall.

Relax. Breathe. In and out. You'll be in and out.

Unless there was a lock on the fridge. Unless Mr. Stark was sitting there waiting for him with a glass of whiskey and a belt in his hands and a record scratching in the background and-

He grimaced, shutting his eyes as he gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to move faster.

It was spreading. That black, inky residue he'd felt that first night, curling on the floor of his room breathless and alone. Stronger and stronger it seemed to grow, spreading further with each step, each second that passed in that hall, in that room, in the Tower.

It was an anxiety he couldn't put into words, a fear he couldn't grasp onto, misty and elusive as it wrapped around him in thick suffocating waves, curling around his throat, pulling taut, dragging him down.

The door was further away now. He was quickly adding distance.

Keep moving. Keep walking. In and out. He won't know.

Peter could remember a time. Back before the spider bite. Back when ice cream with May and Ben seemed to fix everything and the worst his father ever did was glare at him. Back when he'd have to carry an inhaler in the front pocket of his backpack just in case his asthma ever flared up.

He could still remember that feeling.

That feeling of an eternal exhale.

Unending.

Agonizing.

The feeling of every breath in your body slipping right past your lips, fleeing right before you, disappearing into nothing but mist and watery eyes. The feeling of an unbearable tightness, a pressing weight crushing him from the inside out, relieved only by the artificial air of his inhaler, trembling in his hands, pressing painfully against his lips. The cold burst of albuterol forcing its way down his lungs, allowing him that first gasp of fresh air.

("Without me, you are nothing.")

There is no inhaler now.

There is no air now.

Not anymore.

There is nothing but that feeling of an exhale, infinite and excruciating. Sitting in O'Hara's office. Listening to his father's stories. Sitting shell-shocked in front of those conference cameras. And now, walking down a foreign hallway in a Tower he didn't belong in, with people that were too good for him. There was never any air.

Nothing but an exhale.

Neverending.

Thankfully, the hallway wasn't the same.

Because in that moment, Peter finally stepped out onto the living room floor. The area was empty, the entire room covered with a wash of moonlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up an entire wall. Past the couches, the faint gleam of the stainless-steel kitchen appliances glinted in the teen's eyes.

Peter wasn't even thinking anymore. His head was too foggy, too full of mush. His legs, tired of waiting, decided to move on their own.

It probably took a few seconds. But for Peter, it was a blink. He shut his eyes, felt the world spinning around him, and when he opened them back up, he was in front of the counter, staring down at a bowl of assorted fruits.

And there was an apple in his hand.

Maybe.

It didn't feel real. Neither did his hand. Cold. Icy.

And now the world was spinning faster.

He leaned forward, felt his hand latch onto the counter, fingers digging into the surface as he gritted his teeth and tried to push down the numbing fog swirling around his head. He had to go. He had to get back to the room before he stopped breathing. Before he shriveled up and drifted away. Before his legs stopped working. Before he froze over. Before-

"Peter?"

The counter crumbled under his hand.

He whipped around.

Mr. Stark stood at the end of the counter, blocking the exit back towards the hall. He had a fairly haggard appearance, his hair a mess, and his shirt stained with oil. On his hands were a pair of gauntlets, like he hadn't even had time to take them off. In fact, if the way his chest was bouncing up and down was any indication, then it was likely the man had run here.

FRIDAY must have told. Of course she had. Why wouldn't she? She was security. Peter was the threat. The thief.

So he stared, eyes wide, stolen goods in hand.

Mr. Stark stared back, lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. The man simply blinked at him, face slacked with a look of surprise and hesitance. Peter didn't move. Neither did Tony. They just stood in the silence, locked onto each other, frozen in their gazes.

Finally, after a second, Tony swallowed and opened his mouth.

And from it came nothing but a shrieking wail.

Or at least, that's all Peter could hear. Nothing but a grating ring, a piercing screech echoing around in his head. The man was talking, that much was obvious as Peter watched his mouth move. But all he could hear was that ringing, that teeth chattering, bone splintering wailing, like a bomb had just gone off right next to his head. No, inside his head, blowing his brain to nothing but mush, trickling out his ear in cloying little splashes.

He knew his chest was pounding, knew his heart was racing simply from how it now felt like he was going to pass out. But he couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything. Everything was garbled, thickened through fluff and fog. It was all muted. Disjointed.

Then Mr. Stark's eyes drifted. Drifted down to the apple in Peter's hands.

(The padlock for the fridge broken on the floor; the screwdriver he'd used to break it laying right next to it.)

(Rummaging. Not even bothering to look with a careful eye. Not with his stomach rolling in agony. Not after eating nothing but soap from the bathroom for the past three days.)

(The oranges Sandra had bought earlier that day.)

(The rind is bitter. He doesn't bother with peeling. Just gnaws. Like an animal. Savage. Raw.)

(Like Max's roars.)

(Like his father's roars.)

(And the shocking wave of agony that split from his mouth as Max forced a handful of metal screws into his mouth, demanding he chew. Demanding he eat them if he was so hungry as to steal. Spitting out the remnants of his half-broken tooth, staring down at the blood and gums and rind and peels and-

(Trumpets. Trumpets. Screeching all around them-)

The apple exploded into nothing but slush as his fingers curled around it. And no sooner had the mess hit the floor was Peter running.

Because there had to be air somewhere.

But it certainly wasn't here.

His feet pounded the floor as he sprinted, shoulder jarring into the wall as he lurched around a wide-eyed Mr. Stark. But no sooner had he cleared the counter when he felt something latch onto him from behind.

(Flint grabbing him from behind. Flint lifting him over his shoulder. Flint tossing him to the floor right as his father raised the belt and-)

"NO!"

He lashed out, eyes curling shut as he flailed. The grip held tight, dragging him to the ground as his elbow slammed into the linoleum.

He kept screaming, felt his throat tearing at how loud he was yelling, desperate and wild as his body thrashed and whipped and curled and did everything it could do to escape, but he couldn't. He couldn't break free. He couldn't get away. Because he was a kid. He was six years old and he couldn't get away from them. He'd broken their rules and now he was being punished. He was eight years old again, crying and begging for forgiveness, promising to never break the lock again, staring down at the broken remains of his molar, scattered among the bloody screws.

"Please! Please, god! Please, don't! Don't! God, help me! Please! Please help me!"

The grip was iron-clad, digging into his arms, curling into his muscles. Every time his body thrashed one way, the hold would drag him back. He could feel it slicing into his skin, ripping into his flesh, tearing at his muscles. He could feel the blood, felt it dripping down his arms, felt it crusting in his hair, tasted it on his tongue. The sickly metallic smell choking him from the inside out, a curling of smoke and fog and death and rot burning his nose, burning his lungs, turning them black, charring them raw, a crackling flame, cracking in time to the music, the music, the cursed music, drowning out his pleas and his cries and his screams. Covering them in a blanket of noise and fury and rage and God, he couldn't breathe. His chest was breaking. His ribs were melting. He couldn't do this. There was no air. None left in the world. None left for him. He was dying. He couldn't do this. His father was wrong. He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He couldn't. He-

"-eathe! eed….to breathe! Come on, kid! Come on, Peter! Focus!"

He couldn't. Couldn't do this. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't good enough. He-

"You gotta breathe, kid. Come on. Come on, you can do it. Focus, kid. Relax. You have to relax."

He-

"Come on, Spider-Man."

He opened his eyes.

Immediately, he was met with nothing but blurred shapes and colors and instantly shut them again. But the voice remained. In the darkness, in the wavering reality between waking and unconscious peace, Peter could hear it. Even as his chest burned and his skin paled and the poison pooled deep within him, he could hear it.

"There you go. There you go. It's alright. Everything's okay. Just breathe, alright? Just breathe. Breathe….breathe…"

Command. A command.

Even half-conscious, Peter could recognize it.

He kept his eyes shut, teeth grinding together as he focused on his lungs, focused on nothing but his longs, focused on the air that refused to pass through. And the burning only grew, deep and dark and excruciating.

"Easy. Easy. Just focus on my breathing. Focus on that and copy me. Copy me, Peter."

Something else. A heartbeat. Loud and steady thumping right next to his ears. And a motion. A smooth, steady motion, like the rocking of a boat. Up and down, up and down, it guided him, moving him steadily, calmly.

His fingers curled into something. He couldn't tell what. Didn't have the capacity to wonder. Instead, he zeroed in on the air, focused on his lips, his throat. Forced his teeth to open, prying his jaw loose. Hotter and hotter his chest was shrinking. His head was swimming, teetering on the edge of nothingness.

Focus.

Focus.

"Breathe."

Peter inhaled.

It was a choking gasp of air, so sudden and sharp that he immediately coughed it back up, the tightness remaining.

"There it is. There you go. Try again. Try again, Peter."

And he did. He forced in another breath, felt it sweep into his lungs in one strong motion of fluid oxygen, felt it swirl around in his chest with a graceful swish. He could hear it, heard the hacking gasp of air he took, like he was breaching the surface of an ocean he'd been trapped under for hours. It didn't immediately relieve the burning in his chest. So he took another. And another. Over and over he inhaled.

Inhaled.

Inhaled.

Breathed.

And over and over, the voice spoke.

"There you go. There you go. Attaboy, Pete. In and out. In and out. You got it. You got it, kid."

He curled his body, focused on nothing but the air. There was something pressing up against his cheek, something warm. And there was a weight on his back. Not violent or overwhelming, like he'd previously thought. But soft. Gentle.

Familiar.

Very slowly, with the hesitance of a child peeking out from underneath their bed, Peter opened his eyes again.

Everything blurred. There were no lines. No definite shapes. Nothing but blobs and colors and swaths of shadow. And the disturbing sight made him want to close his eyes again, curl his head into whatever warmth was pressing against his cheek and sleep. Just shut down and shut away.

"Come on, Pete. Keep breathing. Keep going. Just relax. It's okay."

But the voice remained. And Peter didn't want it to go away.

So, he blinked. He scrunched his eyes and forced them back open. Over and over until the shapes started to sharpen. Until the colors started to focus. Until the shadows crept back, and the room began to appear.

And once it did, he forced himself to blink one last time. Just to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

He sure felt like he was dreaming.

Dreaming of a kitchen that wasn't his own, pristine and clean and uncovered by blood or spit or pieces of broken glass bottles. Dreaming of warm arms around him, the feeling foreign and strange, and yet familiar in some ways too, like remnants of a past life, a different time. Dreaming of that voice, kind and gentle and calming.

Calming in a way only Tony's could be.

They were on the floor, Tony's back pressing into the wall. He must have dragged them to the ground in his haste to control Peter's flails. And control them, he had – somehow. For a moment, Peter was dumbstruck at how the man had managed to hold him down, only to catch a glimpse of the gauntlets still strapped tightly to his hands, glowing in the corner of his eye. Prototypes. He remembered the man showing him the plans for them earlier in the week. Before all the craziness.

Said gauntleted hands were wrapped tightly around Peter's shoulders, gently cradling the kid's head to his chest. Peter could feel the metal against his temple, felt it brushing up against his hair, steady and grounding. Nothing like the overbearing weight of his father's giant hands. Even with the metal coverings, Tony's hands were still somehow….warmer.

The man was still talking, still mumbling soft nothings into Peter's ear. The teen kept his head down, kept his cheek pressing into the man's chest, his fingers curling into the man's shirt.

Tony's shirt.

He was pressed against Tony's shirt. Tony's chest. Closely.

This should have sent an alarm.

Tony was touching him. A pat on the back, a hand on his head, even a brush of their hands was fine, if not a bit uncomfortable. This was prolonged. This was intimate. Personal.

Peter didn't do intimate. Not anymore. And he should have made this clear by pushing the man away.

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

("There he is! There's my favorite nephew!")

("I'm your ONLY nephew!")

("Nope. Not true. My sister's got a boy down in Houston. And what a BRAT! Right, May? Are you a brat, Peter?")

("Yes!")

("That's right. The best kind! Now come here and give me a hug, you little goober!")

The memory was gone in a flash, but the feelings of longing it left in his chest remained. The feelings of warmth and safety wrapped in Ben's arms, strong and tight yet gentle all the same.

Tony was warm.

It was the only thought Peter could form. The one thought in place of the usual shrieking bells and flashing sirens of-

(Too close. Get away. Don't touch. Don't touch. Don't, don't-)

But Tony was warm. So, they never came.

Peter found he didn't miss them.

Tony must have noticed how Peter's breathing evened out, for the teen felt him shift underneath him. "Pete….you with me, kid?"

He didn't want to respond. Didn't want to do anything that might mess with the balancing act of stability he'd reached, the precarious tip of peace and quiet he'd somehow managed to find within the hurricane of panic and fear he could still taste lurking in the back of his throat.

But when he felt his silence be met with another anxious shift, he took another breath. His lungs were painfully sore.

"Mr. Stark…." His voice was nothing. A ghost of a whisper.

But Tony heard it anyway. And with it came a sigh of obvious relief as Peter felt the tension in the man's muscles melt away underneath him.

"Oh…thank God," the man sighed, more to himself than to Peter. "There you are…"

He heard the shifting of metal and watched from the corner of his eye as the gauntlets on Tony's hands shifted and recalled back into a pair of slick silver bracelets wrapped tight around his wrists. Once they were gone, Tony rested his hand back on Peter's head and the teen nearly shivered at the feel of fingers carding through his hair, something his mother used to do when he was young.

Instantly, he felt his eyes start to tear up. His lip trembled as he turned to bury his face further into the man's chest. He should have been cowering. Should have been burning with embarrassment, clawing to get away and out of his hold. But he didn't have the energy for it. Didn't have the energy for anything anymore.

He was exhausted.

"I can't do this…"

Tony jolted a bit in shock, perhaps not expecting the teen to have spoken. He shook it off though, and Peter felt his hand start to rub up and down against his shoulder, albeit, with a faint awkward stiffness.

"Can't do what, kid?" His voice rumbled warmly in his chest. Peter felt it vibrating under his cheek. He kept his eyes shut, kept his cheek pressed up against the man's shirt. It smelled of metal and cologne.

"This. I….I can't do this. I can't live here. Not…"

("Endure.")

"...not like this."

The hand stilled over his shoulder, fingers tightening just a tad. "What do you mean? Tell me what you mean, Peter. Please." Tony's voice was steady. Calm. Everything Peter wasn't because he could still feel that thick weight pressing against his chest, felt the weight of the words stewing around in his head.

His body started to shiver. He curled tighter into the man's arms.

"I don't know….what to do. I don't know what you want me to do."

There was a moment of silence, and Peter could hear the man's heartbeat skip a little before falling back into a steady rhythm, if only a bit faster now.

"I…I don't understand, kid."

("Then I'll MAKE you understand, boy! I'll MAKE you understand where you belong and it's at the bottom! You exist for one reason and one reason only! And it's to do-")

"What you want."

Peter finally pushed himself up. Mr. Stark's arms gently detangled themselves from around him as the kid sat up on the floor and faced him. He had to see the man's face. His reaction.

"I don't know how you want me to behave," he started slowly, the words trembling slightly as he forced them out. They were sticky and stiff, wanting to cling to the sides of his throat and clam him shut. But the last time he'd muffled himself, the last time he'd tried to swallow the poison, it had come back up in heaving bouts of hate and vitriol.

He had to get it out. Had to get rid of it.

"I…I don't know what I'm supposed to do, what I'm not supposed to do."

("You do what I fucking tell you to do. Nothing more. Nothing less.")

"Do you want me to clean the Tower? Cause I can do that. The floors, windows. I can even stick to the outside of the building and clean them from there. Or…o-or if you want food, I know how to cook. And I'm sure I could learn new stuff i-if you wanted. Or do you want me to just sit in my room and be quiet cause I can do that too. I can do all of it."

("You're worthless.")

"Whatever you want. Whatever you want from me, I'll do it. You just have to say it. You just have to tell me."

("I wish you were different, Peter.")

"Please. You….you have to tell me what you want. What you want me to do. You just have to tell me. Something. Anything."

("Get out of my sight, you little rat.")

"Tell me something. Give me something. Some guidelines. Instructions-"

"Rules."

Peter forced his jaw shut as the man cut in, lifting his eyes towards his face. He couldn't read Tony's expression. Something about it seemed guarded. Rigid. "You want…rules." His voice was the same.

Peter took a breath. It whistled in his throat. "Your rules. I…I need to know how to keep you happy."

His voice cracked. He could feel it splintering off into little glass shards.

"I need to know how to survive here."

Peter shouldn't have been crying. Of all the immature reactions he could have had, crying was the worst. Because this was where he belonged. This was what he was used to, finally. Something he recognized. Something he could fall back on. Submissiveness. His own abilities to comply and yield to the directions of another. This was his life. This was all he'd ever known.

So why couldn't he stop the steady stream of tears now beginning to fall down his cheeks?

His lack of an answer only made the shame build stronger as he ducked his head away, shutting his eyes as he hitched another breath. He could feel himself starting to sway. "I'll do whatever you say. J-Just say it…"

("It's easier this way, Peter. You'll see.")

Steady hands grasped onto his shoulders, keeping him from falling over. He blinked his eyes, waited a moment for the sudden dizziness to recede again before lifting his gaze.

(His father glaring down at him. His father screaming in his face. His father spitting and raging and snaring and-)

Tony stared back at him. And Peter just took a second to look into the man's eyes, those familiar deep dark brown ones. He could still hear his heartbeat, steady and loud. He could feel it all the way down to his fingertips, felt how they vibrated under his skin.

The man's lips were parted, eyes narrowed with an emotion Peter couldn't place. The hands on his shoulders were heavy and warm and they kept him from drifting, from floating off right then and there.

But maybe he was floating, imagining things. Because Mr. Stark was speaking now. And Peter could have sworn he said-

"…god, I'm so, so sorry, kid."

Peter blinked at him. Blinked a few more times as the words drifted in and out, in and out of his head.

"Why?" He was dreaming. He felt so far away.

"Because I should have known."

With that, Tony removed his hands from Peter's shoulders, moving them towards his pockets instead.

And pulled out a piece of paper.

For a second, Peter just looked at it, tried to get his eyes to adjust to the sight, tried to make sense of the hasty scribbles he could make out on the page. The messy, frantic, hurried lines of words, all jumbling together into one mess of graphite.

After a moment, the image finally stopped spinning long enough for Peter to read it. And he should have felt...something. Some panic at Tony having found something he hadn't told to even his closest friends. Anger at the man for having taken something so personal. Denials and excuses as to why it wasn't as big a deal as the man probably thought.

But there was...nothing. He felt nothing.

No sense of terror or worry. No drive to explain or hide. He just kept staring, kept waiting for any wave of emotion to wash up, to grab onto him and shake him back into reality, back into focus because he had to explain. He had to explain it away, cover it up so they never had to talk about it again.

He blinked.

"I found it in your room." Tony was speaking again. "Those papers...those papers you had scattered all over...this is what they were, right?"

His mouth wouldn't open. His tongue wouldn't unstick. And all he felt was a gaping emptiness growing and growing inside of him, deep and dark and all-encompassing. His father would be furious. His father was sure to punish him because he wasn't keeping his end of the bargain. He wasn't doing his part. He wasn't lying well enough. Because that's what he had to do. That's what he needed to do. So why couldn't he speak? Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he see anything past those twelve lines, twelve rules, his rules, his-

"Hey..."

His eyes drifted, the world morphing as they dragged away from the paper and over to the new tingling feeling he could feel. Tony's hand was on his wrist, fingers wrapped tightly around him. His wrist was so tiny, so skinny that Tony could wrap his entire hand around it and still have his fingers overlap each other. He waited for the grip to turn painful, waited for the twist in his skin as the grip locked on with steel viciousness. Waited for the tug, the snap, the break.

All he felt was Tony's pulse beating underneath his fingers.

"Peter. You need to breathe. Relax, okay? It's okay. Just keep breathing."

Had he stopped? When had he stopped?

He focused on his lungs, focused on dragging in a mouthful of air. And the swell of relief that washed away the tight burning in his chest let him know that it must have been a while since he'd taken a breath.

"Kid...Peter...look at me."

He swallowed. His throat was dry and crusty. Carefully, his eyes flickered away from the hand wrapped around his tiny wrist and found the face now staring back at him. Tony didn't look angry. He didn't look disgusted with him. His eyes weren't filled with contempt and malice and hate.

He looked concerned.

"I need you to talk to me."

The fingers around his wrist tightened just a tad.

"Please."

For a moment, the silence stretched out, long and uncomfortable. Because this was right where they'd been before. Peter could recognize it. Tony probably could too. This was the exact same setup, the exact same problem from nights before, screaming and yelling at each other with a rage that had come from nowhere.

("WRITE IT!")

The fingers around his wrist were rough and calloused. Peter could feel the thickened texture of them brushing up against his skin, pulling them this way and that. It wasn't painful, strangely enough. It reminded him of when Ben would pick him up. The callouses of the mechanic's hands brushing against his cheeks, his forehead, his shoulders. Always contrasted by the smooth softness of the man's smile, his words, his eyes.

Peter focused on that. Focused on the thought. Focused on the hand wrapped around his wrist. Focused on the strange sensation of comfort and protection that bubbled in his stomach.

And spoke.

Because Tony had been right that night.

He did deserve an explanation. He deserved a lot more than that, honestly.

But an explanation was all Peter had to give.

"My father created these when I was six." He started off slow, felt how coarse his voice was as it left his throat, how scratchy and soft. Like it didn't want to be heard. "Some were added on later, but the gist of it was always the same. If I disobeyed, I was punished. If I questioned them, I was punished. If I did anything other than what was laid out here,"

("Get my belt.")

"I was punished.

"They were orders. Instructions. On how to avoid that. On how to stay out of trouble."

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

He winced and turned his head away. "How to be a good son."

Peter reached out and carefully took hold of the paper lying between them. The pressure from before started to lurk closer, poking and prodding up against his chest, like someone was squeezing the life out of him.

"I need this...I...I need them. Because it's...it's all I've ever known," he whispered, voice shaking. "I only have two jobs at home. Following orders, and standing by for new ones. That's it. That's all I am. And without it, I...I just..."

The words got too thick to spit out, lodging somewhere between his mouth and his throat. He swallowed and blinked his eyes a few times, hoping to rid them of the new haze of mist washing over them.

Mr. Stark said nothing. Peter couldn't blame him. There really was nothing to say.

"Spider-Man is good at a lot of things, Mr. Stark." He traced his fingertip against the page, felt the sting of the edge slicing a thin, barely noticeable cut into his skin. "But Peter Parker...Peter Parker is good at one thing and one thing only. And that's following orders. So without any orders to follow..."

("Without me-")

"...I'm nothing."

He kept his eyes down. Kept them focused on his hands and the paper squeezed between them. He didn't need to see the disappointment in Tony's expression. The disdain and scorn gleaming back in his eyes, mirror images of his father's putrid glare.

How many people could he get to look at him like that?

What did that say about him?

("Worthless...")

Mr. Stark was still for a second, sitting in the silence that bloomed between them. Peter heard the man suck in a deep breath, heard how it filled his lungs in one sweeping arc of air.

Peter held his own breath. Waited for the other shoe to drop.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Yeah...Fuck that."

He jumped, whipping his head up towards the man, only to rear back as he did.

Because Tony was angry. Incredibly so.

His eyes shone with a light of outrage and indignation, even stronger than a few nights previous when Peter had all but kicked him out of his room. No, this time he wasn't frustrated and annoyed. This was pure, unfiltered rage.

And Peter felt his heart lurch up into his throat.

The man started to get to his feet. "You can fuck right off with that," he said again, voice clipped with blatant irritation. Peter braced himself, tensed his muscles, and curled his fists as he waited, waited for the man to strike out, waited for the blow, the slap, the kick-

(Because how could you be so stupid as to think it couldn't happen? It'll always happen. They'll always get angry. And they'll always-)

Only for Tony to walk right past him.

Peter twisted around, eyes wide, and watched as Tony stalked over to the fridge. He grasped onto the handle and ripped it open none too gently, placing a hand on his hip as he turned back around.

"Look at this. What do you see in here?"

Peter stared, mouth agape. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, felt the heat of blood swimming around his head, his face. His hands were shaking. "Um..." He tried to focus, tried to zero in on what the man wanted. Only...there was nothing. It wasn't the big, industrial fridge that sat in the middle of the kitchen. This seemed to be a smaller, separate unit. And it was empty.

Was this a trick?

"Um...n-nothing?"

Tony sniffed. His face was terse. "You know what used to be in here?"

Peter shook his head.

"Tiers upon tiers of some of the highest grade alcohol you can get. And I'm not talking the pricy section of the Wally World. I'm talking some Bowmore 1957 Scotch, Dalmores, Macallans, and a few that, to this day, I still can't pronounce."

He took his hand off the handle and shut the fridge with his foot, Peter wincing at the low thud. The man paused, staring hard at the kid as he slowly brought his arms up to fold overtop his chest. "You know what I did with all them?"

Peter swallowed, felt his hands starting to get all tingly again. He curled his fingers into the fabric of his pants, hoping to quell it. "Um...d-drank them? I don't-"

"I poured each and every one of those bottles down the drain." The terse look of irritation slowly drained from Tony's face, replaced instead with a neutral look of calm. "Probably around four million dollars in cold hard liquid. There's not a single drop of alcohol left in this Tower." He blinked, shifted his arms a bit. "You know why?"

Again, Peter shook his head.

"...Because of you, kid."

"What?" The ten balked and instantly shook his head. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't...I-I didn't even know I-"

"Stop." Tony moved forward, waving his hands to cease the torrent of ramblings they both knew were seconds away from falling out of Peter's mouth. "Just listen.

"Right now, it's been 32 days since I last had something to drink. I know, cause I've been keeping track of that shit. Before then, the longest I'd ever gone was two." His lips pulled into a lopsided grin as he chuckled a disbelieving scoff. "Kid, you did something for me that in the past three decades, I've never been able to do for myself."

Peter watched the man slowly kneel down in front of him. Watched his face pull into a smile, full of gratitude and transparency. He wasn't putting on an act, Peter could tell. This was real.

"You gave me a reason. A reason to stop. A reason to get better. A reason to try." Tony tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in earnest. "That's not nothing. Not to me.

"Swinging around in the middle of the night saving random strangers just because you can isn't nothing. Neither is all your input down in the labs when we're trying not to blow each other up. Neither are the things you say or the things you think."

Tony gently reached his hand out and grabbed at the paper in Peter's hands. The teen watched him take it, watched him pull it from his grasp. He only realized after the paper was gone that he hadn't put up a fight. Hadn't tried to stop him.

"You're more than this," Tony said softly, the paper crinkling in his grasp. "More than what's on here. These rules...they...This isn't all you are. This...this isn't you."

Peter finally opened his mouth now, a new, sudden breath of air heaving from his lungs in a hitching gasp. "It's who he wants me to be," he whispered, felt a wash of new tears beginning to fill his eyes.

Tony swallowed, face falling slightly in solemn acceptance. "I know. I wish I could change that."

The teen ducked his head, hastily scrubbing at his face as Tony moved to sit down on the floor once more, scooting himself backward until he was sitting right beside Peter, their backs pressing into the wall. The man let out a long sigh, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Peter didn't look over at him, just kept his eyes focused on his hands, twisted his fingers around themselves.

"Peter, I'm sorry," the man said quietly after a moment of silence. "I'm sorry I didn't come to talk to you sooner. I'm sorry for yelling at you before. I'm sorry for not confronting this the first day you started acting strange. I just...didn't know how."

Peter chewed on his lip, kept his gaze on the tips of his fingers. "Neither did I..."

Tony, seeming to take a page out of Peter's book, started to fiddle around with the paper in his grasp, seemingly unsure of what to do with his hands all of a sudden. "When I first offered that deal, when I first brought on the subject of you coming to live here, I thought...I thought that by taking you out of that house, I was fixing something, making something better." He tightened his hold on the paper.

"I never even considered what you'd be bringing with you."

Tony glanced over. "And I never did ask. What you wanted. Whether you really wanted to come here." He hesitated for a moment.

"You didn't, did you. You didn't want to leave?"

Peter took a breath, slow and deliberate as he eyed the paper. "Part of me didn't," he admitted. "I think the same part of me that just wants to listen to this. It's just easier."

Tony nodded, the movements careful and stiff. The man turned away for a moment and Peter noticed his heartbeat pick up greatly, a new fearful rhythm to his beat. The teen glanced over in surprise, brows furrowing slightly. Only to pause as the man turned to him, face serious and grim.

"Peter...tell me the truth. Do you want to leave? Do...do you want to go home?"

The teen blinked in shock, shoulders stiffening as he straightened up. Tony said nothing, didn't press him or try to sway him one way or the other. Just stared back at him, waiting in silence for his answer.

His answer.

Not his father's. Not even the mechanic's own. Tony wanted his answer. His thoughts.

And for a moment, Peter couldn't give them. Because not even he knew.

("Is that what you want? To go back to him? Back to those...monsters?")

 

("What's the matter, Petey? Don't you wanna play with us?")

 

("As long as you're out of that house, I'm happy.")

 

("Why do you always have to be under our feet? Jesus, you're unbearable.")

 

("As of recently, it's now my JOB to worry about it.")

 

("This is your home, Peter. This is where you belong. Don't think you deserve any more. Cause you don't.")

 

("So...I just have to trust you?")

 

Except...yes he did.

Very carefully, Peter shook his head. "No...I don't."

It was hard not to hear the obvious sigh of relief Tony tried to conceal. Peter continued as if he hadn't heard it.

"Mr. Stark, I...I just don't know how to exist anywhere else. This isn't school. This isn't riding the subway. This is...this is my home, now." He swallowed the immediate nausea that followed the thought. "And I have to become something else when I'm home. I have to...be someone else."

He ducked his head again, shutting his eyes as he curled his hands into fists. "I need you to understand that. I...I don't want to feel like this. I don't want to not talk to you about stuff, I just...can't stop thinking about them. About what they'd say if they...what he'd say if he...if...i-if he-"

"Hey." The hand was back on his shoulder.

Peter slowly opened his eyes and let his head drift back over to Tony. The man made an exaggerated motion of taking a breath. It took Peter a second to realize, and once he did, he copied the movements. The burning in his lungs receded.

"He's not here, kid," Tony said after Peter had taken a few more satisfactory inhales. "There's nobody here but you and me. Just like always, alright?"

The man's face twisted into a pensive little look of sorts. "Peter, you have it in your head that just because you call it a night here instead of after Happy's dragged you through the hell that is Queens traffic post 7pm means that something's changed. And it hasn't. I haven't changed alright? I'm not about to walk around the Tower with a ruler in my hands smacking you upside the head every time you...I don't know...wear the wrong shirt color or whatever."

Peter stared back at him, eyes wide, drinking in everything. Every detail, every line in his face, scanning and searching for the truth behind his words, any signs of deceit or ill-intent.

As always, there was none.

But now Tony's smile slowly began to grow. "It's still just me, Pete. Same guy who built your incredible, can't-sing-enough-praises suit. Same guy who can't make anything close to edible without destroying at least five pans in the process. Same guy who still has a picture of Happy throwing up after finding that shrimp in his ice cream after your tournament."

Peter couldn't help it. That got a laugh out of him.

Tony joined him, shoulders shaking as he nudged the kid in the side. "There you go! See? Still just me, kid. Your partner. That's what we are, right? That's what you called us?"

Peter settled, letting the laugh drift from him with a little sigh. The smile remained though, especially as he thought back to that night. The night of their deal. The night they'd solidified this...whatever it was.

"Yeah..."

The man lifted his head to the ceiling and gazed up at the shadows stretching far overhead. He ran a hand through his hair. "Listen, I know this is hard. I know this is scary, doing something you've never done before. Cause that's what this is, for both of us. Something new." He turned to face Peter again. "But that doesn't mean it has to be bad. Just...different."

Peter met his gaze once more, their eyes locking with a steadiness that hadn't been there before.

"I want this place to be different."

("Are you allowed to swear on national news?")

 

("Happy, find the crappiest ice cream place around here!")

 

("To Stage 5!")

 

("Are you listening to WHAM?")

 

("See! Told ya you could trust me!")

 

A faint little smile worked its way back onto Peter's face.

Perhaps it already was.

Tony suddenly sat up, jolting Peter out of his thoughts. The man clapped his hands together. "Alright, new idea. From this point on, this Tower is not going to be your home."

Peter's face fell, lips parting as he stared in shock. "What? But I...I thought you wanted me to stay."

"I do," the man said quickly. "Just...hear me out."

The teen swallowed, straightening up a bit as he watched the billionaire with a careful eye. Tony stared down at the paper still in his hands, face twisting into a look of disgust and hatred, glaring down at those words beneath his fingertips. "This is...this is what you think of when you think of home, right?" He held up the paper. "Restrictions, punishments, strict guidelines."

Peter hesitated for a moment before giving a small nod.

Tony nodded as well before promptly crumpling the paper into a tiny little ball and hurling it as far as he could. Peter watched with wide eyes, following the little crumpled ball as it disappeared into the darkness of the living room. He sputtered again, the beginnings of a few objections rising from his throat, only to fall silent as Tony placed a hand back on his shoulder.

The teen let his gaze linger on where the paper had disappeared for a moment longer before turning towards the man once more. The disgust and irritation were gone, replaced with the same gentle concern as before.

"I don't want that for you, Peter. Not here. Like I said, I want this place to be different. I don't want it to be like home. Not if that's what home is," he gestured towards where the paper ball had disappeared and Peter had to resist very hard to keep from looking for it again. Tony must have noticed the look of faint distress still twisting on Peter's face, for he gave the teen's shoulder a little squeeze of reassurance.

"Think of this as something else, kid. Something better. A...home away from home."

Peter blinked, let the words wind around in his head as Tony removed his hand and turned away again.

Home away from home?

"And if you still need rules, I...shit. I'm sure I can come up with something."

"I...Mr. Stark, you don't have to-"

"It'll make you feel better, won't it?" He cut in before Peter could finish. The teen stared up at him for a second, taking in the earnest, knowing look in his eyes before giving a small reluctant nod of his head.

"Then I'll do it." The man's face dropped in consideration, brows furrowing as he blew a sharp breath from his lips. "Uh, off the top of my head, maybe, uh...oh. Easy one." He stretched out his leg and used the toe of his shoe to poke at the mess of squished apple chunks that were still littering the floor a little ways away. "If your hungry, eat something. No exploding apples necessary. Alright, next one-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait!"

Tony paused, turning to give the kid a humored look that very much did not match the incredulous dismay Peter could feel building in his chest. Was he serious right now?

"What?"

Peter scoffed. "That...I...that can't be all."

"What do you mean?"

The teen looked at him like he'd suddenly gone crazy. "I mean!" he repeated with a slight hint of exasperation in his tone. "I mean, what about exceptions?"

"Like?" The man prompted with a little smirk. Peter scrunched his nose at the look.

"Like, what if someone's already in the kitchen?"

"Then push them out of the way and grab a sandwich."

"What if I take something that someone else wanted to have later?"

"I think I can afford to buy more."

"What if...I don't know...aliens are attacking?"

Aliens. Why did they always go back to aliens?

Tony scoffed. "Then scurry your little butt over to the kitchen, web the alien to the ceiling, and grab some Cheese-Itz."

Peter floundered, face growing red. There had to be one. There had to be something. Something else. Something more. And he had to know what it was before he made a mistake. Before he made anyone angry.

"But what if-?"

"Peter."

He paused at the serious tone now edging into Tony's voice, the humored look vanishing from his face. In its place was nothing short of stone-cold determination.

"Kid, there are no exceptions. Things are going to be different here, alright? This isn't your home. It's a-"

"Home away from home," he murmured softly. Tony's smile returned, softer this time.

"Right."

The teen lowered his head and stared down at his hands, let the full weight of what the man was saying sit on him. This was...unexpected. But unwanted? He couldn't bring himself to declare that. Couldn't bring himself to raise another protest. Because, oddly enough, he had none.

Even stranger? The tightness in his chest that had been persisting since his first night there remained quiet. It raised no protests either.

"You asked me before...what I wanted," Tony said quietly. "What I wanted from you." The man paused for a moment, long enough for Peter to turn towards him. Tony met his gaze and held it steady and strong. His voice rang in Peter's ears.

"I want you to be safe. I want you to go be with your friends and act like a fourteen-year-old kid. I want you to joke around and sass me with the attitude I know you got cause I've seen it before. I want you to think about yourself for once, doing what's best for you sometimes and not just what's best for everyone else. I want you to tell me when something's bothering you. I want you to laugh and have fun and relax here, just like before when you'd come by after school."

He stopped, eyes shining with a sincerity Peter couldn't look away from, an open affection he hadn't realized he'd been craving for so long.

"I want you to be happy here. I want you to not be so afraid anymore."

("Would you ever betray me, Peter?")

The tears were back, clogging up the back of his throat. Peter sucked in a little breath, lips trembling. "I don't think I know how to do that," he whispered.

Tony reached out and placed a hand against the side of Peter's neck. Grounding. Steady.

A foreign, comfortable touch.

"It's okay," he said softly, lips quirking into a small smile. "Cause I'm gonna be here to help you until you do."

. . .

. . .

"Promise...?"

An equally foreign word.

Tony's smile grew nonetheless. "I promise."

Peter felt another breath push past his lips, a sigh of relief he hadn't known he'd been holding in. Tony's hand moved down to his shoulder and as he felt the man pulling him closer, he strangely didn't resist. Instead, he just let himself be guided, let himself curl up against the man's side as he rested his cheek on his shoulder, Tony's arm wrapping securely around him.

In his head, somewhere in a distant memory, he remembered that one night, remembered sitting in a similar position on the floor surrounded by empty bottles, a new terrifying promise having left their lips.

It wasn't so terrifying this time, Peter realized.

"You okay?" The man asked after a moment of silence.

Peter breathed in deeply, his lungs full of air and space and hope for the first time in who knew how long. It was a good feeling. The freedom of breath. It was even better than the feelings of anxiety he'd been holding in since his arrival shriveling up and slinking away.

"I think I will be."

There was something new now. A new feeling in the air. The tensions and weight and suffocating mass that had been surrounding them seemed to dissipate in that moment, fading into the background of a conversation, nothing but an afterthought now. A footnote in what was quickly becoming an interesting turn of events.

Peter couldn't hold in his smile, couldn't help the feeling of ease beginning to grow in him, a small little hesitant spark. It would take some time, he knew. A bit more effort on his part, but he had a feeling he could get that spark to grow, could kindle it into something bigger, something brighter.

("I've always wanted to see you burn bright.")

Perhaps this is what his father had meant. Perhaps this is what he wanted for him. This spark. This...happiness.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Peter knew it wasn't.

Even further back, he realized he didn't care.

Because it's what he wanted.

And maybe that's what mattered.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Mr. Stark?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm like...kinda starving."

"Right! I...you're so right. Come on, let's- t-that's progress. That is a good first step. Let's get something to eat."

 

---

Group Chat - Ned/MJ/May

- Thursday: June 4, 2016 -

 

Peter

Hey. Sorry for the radio silence. Busy week over here. Tell you about it later.

. . .

 

Peter

But yeah. I'm okay. I'm really good, actually.

. . .

 

Peter

PS. Mr. Stark says hi.

. . .

 

Peter

PPS. You guys aren't very subtle. I'm assuming you all talked to him.

. . .

 

Ned

I don't know what you're talking about.

. . .

 

May

No idea what you're insinuating. We're not that clever.

. . .

 

MJ

Yeah, we are. And yes we did.

. . .

 

MJ

PS, he's a spaz.

. . .

 

Peter

LOL

. . .

 

Peter

Thanks, guys.

. . .

 

Peter

Really.

 

---

 

It wasn't until he'd gotten off the phone with his friends that Peter had finally seen it.

And for a while, he just stared at it, eyes flickering around the paper, reading each and every line as the morning sun streamed in through the Tower windows. The floors were cold under his bare feet, but he paid them no mind, just kept standing by the door to the room - no. The door to his room, where he'd found the paper slipped under the crack.

And no matter how many times he read it, he just couldn't stop smiling.

Eventually, his smile turned into a chuckle, which grew into a full-blown laugh, tears soon streaming down his cheeks.

He didn't try to stop them this time. Just let his laughs ring out around the walls.

And somewhere in the Tower, enjoying his fifth cup of coffee since 2 AM, surrounded by piles and piles of rough drafts and scrapped papers, Tony sipped his cup and smiled wearily to himself, rereading the most recent texts he'd just received on his phone.

It was well worth skipping a few hours of sleep that night for those texts alone.

 

---

Group Chat - Peter's Cronies

 

08:32 AM

Good job.

 

---

. . .

THE TOWER RULES

- Said rules apply to any and all that live and/or spend the majority of their time in Stark Tower (including robots and AIs) -

. . .

 

1) Open access to all foods in Tower - There are no limitations on any foods that are not glowing and/or growling. Any food prepared by one Tony Stark may need proper safety checks before consumption.

. . .

 

2) All opinions are valid and open for consideration. (Except the absolute, bold-faced lie of Die Hard being a Christmas movie and you can fuck right off, Rhodey.)

. . .

 

3) Matters surrounding the Parker family are open for discussion in the Tower and ONLY in the Tower. And only with those with express permission to discuss. No secrets leave these walls.

. . .

 

4) Visitors are always welcome in the Tower. A few hours notice is all that is required.

. . .

 

5) Your space is your own. Permission will be required before entering one's private quarters or accessing personal devices (unless emergency circumstances apply, e.g., fires, earthquakes, intruders, or our favorite: aliens)

. . .

 

6) If any issues arise, reports will be met with serious consideration and concern. AKA tell me when shit's bothering you. (This one's mainly for Junior. The rest of you can handle yourselves so leave me alone cause I don't care.)

. . .

 

7) No punishments will ever result in any physical harm. EVER. No exceptions.

. . .

 

- Failure to comply with these rules will result in. . . . I don't know. Mockery? Or maybe I'll make you eat something I cooked. That seems pretty horrific.

. . .

 

Signed,

Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, James Rhodes, Happy Hogan...

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

and Peter B. Parker.