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Peter isn’t even sure where he’s going until he gets there. He certainly cannot go home, because wow. Wow, mother of god, then he’d have to do some semblance of dealing with it. Ha, deal with it, he can’t even say it outloud or in his head, what it is. And he just. He knows his dads mean the best but they’d ask questions and just, he’d end up more crying than explaining and he can’t cry. Can’t. Absolutely cannot.
So going home is not happening and going to Gwen’s is not happening because – oh wow. Wow wow wow, he really just thought that like going to Gwen’s is even a viable option right now, like. Just. Jesus Christ. Good job self, yeah, not crying, remember?
He tries to keep his head on straight because, hey, flinging himself through the air at top speed may be second nature by now, but his night is definitely missing some last, ultimate horrendous finale of him slamming into the side of a building and falling twelve stories to his death – or at the very least breaking all the bones in his body. Because his life is stupid and heartbreaking and. And he can’t even find the energy to lament everything that goes wrong in his life. Because, really, everything else sounds petty and stupid, everything else pales in comparison to – to.
Ugh, he’s gotta stop thinking about it. He can’t…deal. Not with tonight. Not with how life-shattering altering tonight has been. He feels numb and like this isn’t real, like he’s suddenly self-aware in a dream and in limbo between still dreaming and slowly waking up. But he’s not going to wake up and leave this all behind because this is real life. He knows that, but it doesn’t change the muted horror he’s sitting on, keeping at bay for as long as possible. It’s making his skin crawl, it’s making his head pound, it’s making him feel like he’s seconds away from hyperventilating and if he could lie down and just stop being for a little while, that would be great.
He lands on the rooftop where he stashed his clothes and tries to figure out which side of town he’s on, who’s close by and won’t ask questions while he takes a second to take refuge and breathe. He can’t go home, no way: the mere thought is so surreal it hurts, because life can’t just keep going on like nothing’s wrong, nothing’s changed. He knows, in all honesty, that Aunt Natasha would be the best if he doesn’t want to talk, but he doesn’t actually know where she lives normally. Or really even where she is right now. She lets people see her when she wants to be seen, she drops in on him not the other way around, and right now isn’t one of those times she’s on the radar – she could be on a mission or just laying low or whatever it is she does, but she’s definitely not accessible right now. Uncle Bruce might be alright since he’s got a thing about letting people open up with what they want, when they want, Peter thinks as he unwebs his backpack from its hiding place –
Argh, but then he has to fling himself over the side railing of the roof and scale down the wall, anxiety filling him up so completely that he can’t stay still and form a coherent thought. Because standing on the roof, looking out across the rooftops, that’s not. Not doing wonders for him right now.
He’s gasping quietly, like tiny dry sobs are trying to work their way out of his too tight chest, so once he hits the alley he strips out of his suit and changes, giving himself some time to breathe. Ha, like he’s a hero anyway. Naw, he’s just some scrawny scared kid who never knew what he was doing and now has messed up big time. He might as well stop playing a part. He just. Can’t right now.
He hits the streets running, costume tucked under his arm instead of safely at the bottom of his backpack because if he stops moving for too long, he’ll –
Maybe he should go to MJ’s, he thinks even though he is not at all on the right side of town for that. She needs to know soon anyway, and it’d be the right thing to do, for him to tell her before word spreads, before she finds out at school or tomorrow morning on the eight o’clock news or something. That would hurt a whole lot, Peter imagines. Her finding out something so important like she’s an outsider and not Peter’s best friend, not Gwen’s best friend too.
Peter’s brain is suddenly slamming back into self-aware mode as he rounds a corner and realizes – god, he knows where he’s going. Wow, he’s so his dad’s son, Pop would say. And right now, as the numbness fades for a second leaving him with hot, hurting anger (before he covers it up with a quick nope not dealing with that right now, please and thank you, alright, cool), he would be inclined to agree.
He gets to the high-rise apartment complex, and it’s funny that he always forgets how really really nice it is. How that always startles him when, looking at the circumstances of his life, it shouldn’t. It’s funny – it’s actually, honest-to-god incredibly hilarious – that it startles him even now. Peter might be quivering, with his hair simultaneously windblown from the run and matted down from the mask, and he has a killer stitch in his side (how far did he run, actually?), but he manages to pull out his student ID so the concierge at the front desk can find his name on the approved visitors’ list and have the elevator operator take him up to the right floor.
He thinks he’s holding himself together pretty well, right up until he knocks on the door and Aunt Pepper opens the door with a concerned expression on her face.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is totally put together too.
She is having none of that, as she pulls him inside and closes the door behind him. “Peter, Tony called looking for you – do you even know what time it is?”
He doesn’t actually, because the last indication of time he had access to was the official announcement of time of death and – whoa. Whoa that’s the threat of tears. Yeah no, how about not. “Uh.” He eventually manages to say aloud. It’s a mumble and all he can focus on now is how hot his eyes feel.
Pepper is looking way too intently at him and Peter wonders why he even came here if he wanted to be left alone and not talk about his feelings, because she’s. She’s really good at reading body language and minds like it’s no big thing. He exhales shakily as she escorts him to the living room, and for a split second he’s sure Dad or maybe even both him and Pop will be sitting on the couch, stern with worry, because just his luck. But they’re not, and instead it’s Uncle Rhodey who’s sitting there looking concerned but calm. Calmer than his dads would be, anyway.
“Are you okay?” She asks as she sits him down and keeps just looking at him.
“How late is it, Aunt Pep?” Peter asks, trying to keep this normal. She’s mentioned something about time earlier, and Dad calling. He must have broken his eleven o’clock curfew.
She touches a careful hand to his forehand. “Forget about that Peter, are you injured? You look…” She searches for some specific word, and apparently fails to find it. She instead slowly exhales and asks, “Are you hurt?”
He shakes his head a little, then doesn’t know what else to say. It doesn’t matter though; she just shares one of her indecipherable looks with Rhodey and heads towards the kitchen.
“Kiddo,” Rhodey says when she’s gone. “You want us to call your parents and tell them what’s going on?”
Seeing how Rhodey and Pepper don’t even know what’s going on yet, Peter knows he’s asking if they need to call and cover for him – and okay, how bad does he look? He can’t look absolutely horrible, he feels like he’s disassociating pretty well at the moment. And that’s gonna come bite him in the butt really badly later on, but. But for now…
“Can we just. Not?” Peter isn’t even sure what he’s asking. Not call them? Ha, okay good plan. Because that will just make them worry even more and up the ante on finding him. And Peter doesn’t need Pop calling in favors from SHIELD. And Peter really doesn’t need Dad tracing satellites and video feeds in all of Manhattan to figure out where he’s been, because then he’ll probably end up seeing –
(What, how much of a not-hero Peter is?)
The thought makes Peter lurch forward, arms curled up to his chest, just as Pepper returns with a glass of water.
“Peter?” Her tone is tight but controlled – Peter’s aware that he’s probably freaking them both out. He’s not exactly hyperventilating or crying, but only because his throat is too tight and god, he can’t handle thinking about these things right now, can his brain just oblige that one tiny little wish and stop it?
Rhodey is by his side, easing something out of his arms – oh, his suit. It’s a wonder he’s managed not to drop it. “Breathe Peter, breathe,” Rhodey’s saying, voice a low murmur. His hands are on Peter’s shoulders and he’s rubbing them comfortingly. “Hey come on now. Seriously, are you hurt?”
“I – ” Peter tries, but nothing else comes. Come on, he can do the basics. He can. He can. “No, ‘m not hurt.”
Pepper’s on his other side, sitting down carefully next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He takes a deep breath. “No,” he admits, stuttering a little on his swallowed tears. “I just want tonight to have not happened.”
And if he wasn’t acting so strangely she’d probably say something like no can do kiddo because his godparents and his dad are really similar in a lot of ways, like how they talk to him. And the more he sits here on this couch, just barely not crying, the more he thinks about how this was a bad idea if he wanted to not talk about his feelings and avoid dealing with what’s happened.
“Do you want to stay the night?” Pepper ends up asking him instead, and Peter doesn’t know if he does.
“No – what time is it?” He asks again, because he really is trying to pretend that everything’s okay, even with his head nearly between his knees. He can keep on pretending his world hasn’t fundamentally changed in the worst of ways, when it actually has.
“I should probably – ” And he chokes. Good job, he congratulates himself. If he ever needs to do undercover work he won’t, because clearly he can’t act for his life.
Pepper’s hand is now on his back too, gently rubbing, and neither she nor Rhodey ask anything else. Because, they’re probably thinking, maybe it’s one of those bad days to be a hero. Those days when you don’t save a little kid from a fire, or a woman from an armed robbery, or a family from supernatural phenomenon. And yes, Peter’s been there too, had those days. And this day is just infinitely worse, in so many ways.
He’s crying he realizes, little shuddering gasps, and his head is dully aching and he’s so tired and so sorry.
“Peter, you’re staying here,” Pepper tells him in her firm, ‘there-is-no-arguing-with-me’ voice. “I’ll explain it to your parents – and we’ll. We’ll work something out tomorrow, about school and…”
And whatever it is that’s going on with you, she doesn’t say. He gurgles something incoherently, the words caught on a watery exhale. Pepper pats his back before she gets up to go make the arrangements. It’s kind of funny, how good of a pair Rhodey and Pepper make – because the next thing Peter knows is that the cool rim of the forgotten water glass is being pressed to his lips.
Peter manages to uncurl a little and looks at his godfather. Rhodey only presses the glass closer, insistent. “Come on, you’re dehydrated right? Drink. The whole glass.”
Peter, above all else now that some of his wits are coming back to him, doesn’t want them to worry. He tries to joke with, “I bet this freakout is, like, a three on a ten point scale in comparison to looking after my dad all the time,” but it falls completely and totally flat, and his remaining quips scatter again like the light, weightless, meaningless things they are (god, what was even next, talking about obvious laws of physics he should know? Good ole jokes about whiplash seminars? Because ha ha). Even Peter knows it’s in poor taste, but he’s used up the last of his energy on making the stupid joke to begin with – he can’t even find it in him to apologize.
Rhodey sighs as Peter resorts to silently taking the glass and attempting a tentative sip. “Just drink your water, kid. Don’t worry about it.”
Peter works on downing his water slowly, saying nothing more. Rhodey keeps his hand on Peter’s back, gently massaging, and Pepper comes back without making a sound and watches him carefully from the doorway of the kitchen. The silence is comforting, just like the tiny tasks set before him: drink the water, go to bed, and deal with everything else in the morning.
He can get through this, he thinks as swallows the last gulp of water and lets Pepper take him to her guest bedroom. He totally can, he thinks as Rhodey cracks the door to look in on him ten, twenty, thirty minutes later to see if he’s still okay.
The two of them keep a pretty vigilant guard throughout the night, Peter notices. Every time he half nods off, he hears the echoes of a long, high-pitched scream and the rush of air cutting past his ears as he dives towards the rippling water and – and he jolts up, fully awake in a cold sweat. He must make some noise during this, because both Pepper and Rhodey always come in right after, usually with a damp washcloth and a fresh glass of water and quiet comforting murmurs.
It’s a rough night, and none of them get much sleep during it. Peter finally nods off in the cool blue light of early morning, and only after Aunt Pepper and Uncle Rhodey crawl into the guest bed with him with mutters of, “Go to sleep Peter, or so help me,” and “You’re fine, come on, I can’t handle much more of this,” and sandwich him between the two of them.
There’s a lot to be said for how much tenderness Peter’s family couches in callousness, after all.