Chapter Text
'Have you seen where my jacket is?' Aunt May signs.
Peter—looking at her and watching for what she signs—just shrugs and shakes his head. No, he has not. The last he’d seen it, it’d been sitting on the window sill—because it’s outwards enough to hang a hook there. They can put things over there if they’d like, though there are rat traps and rat holes just outside because the rodents of NYC are stupidly relentless.
He watches as her chest expands and deflates from sighing with distress. He can see it in her brow. It’s obviously gonna be an important night, since the jacket is rarely brought out in the first place. It’s more of an overcoat, though, and Ben had bought it for her long before his death.
'What’s it for?' He signs back.
She looks at him and smiles. ‘Did you forget to put in your hear pods?’
Peter puts a hand to his ear, still a bit wet from the soul-saving hot shower he’d taken a few moments ago, and…oh. He did. A quiet world is second nature. It's far too easy to forget a world with sound. It'd only happened so recently that he managed to get hearing aids—or hear pods, as they've taken to calling them. Humor remains prevalent through all good and bad. Keeps the mood light. Some days he's one "pocket caught on the doorknob" away from a breakdown. Today isn't that type of day.
His spidey-sense whispers otherwise.
Peter pulls a face, pinching muscles that would have made lines by now if he weren't in his youth. In return, May crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. She points to the direction of his room. He makes way, and when he places his cutting edge aids in, he can catch the sound of some music thrumming from their downstairs neighbor’s speaker. It’s muffled as usual. However, as he leans towards the floor, he can get a more detailed idea of what the song is. It’s rather chill, lacking intensity aside from the heavy beat that’s complemented by a relaxing feminine voice.
“Peter,” May says when she walks to his room. She finds him lying flat on his stomach, his ear pressed to the floor. He’s just listening, and such a sight makes her smile. It stays even when he looks up at her. “Do you mind going to the dry cleaner’s to pick up my dress? I need it for tonight.”
“Oh. Sure. What’s happening?” he asks.
“I told you about a long time ago, didn’t I?” she inquires. “It’s this…parent night thing. Mr. Stark invited me to it. For your internship.”
He hums curiously, because Tony hadn't mentioned that, like, ever. “Oh. So…like an orientation? But only for the adults,” he concludes. “Okay. What time do you want me back?”
“Well, I expect you to be back within the hour,” she tells him, signing the time she wants him to be back—which is around 3:30PM. It’s only 2:45PM. He can make it. The dry cleaner isn’t that far anyways.
“Uh…yeah. Okay." He pushes himself up, smiling at his aunt. As soon as he faces her, May stretches her arms out and pulls him into a hug. “…What’s this?” he asks, equally surprised and worried.
Her hand rubs against his back with soothing nails. “I’m proud of you. Did you know that, Peter? You’re a good, young man, and the path you’re going down will try to stop you,” she states. Her aged wisdom is prominent in her voice, giving relaxation with the advice alone. “I hope you go places, sweetie. Just be safe getting there, please. I love you.”
Peter only feels slight confusion before he returns the embrace and buries his chin into the nape of her neck. “Yeah,” he simply responds. “Thanks.”
His shoulder feels a bit wet when she parts, but if she were crying—his mind is too occupied by the sounds of the city, and she turns away too quick for him to tell. He isn’t sure how to feel about her words; regardless, he’s getting ready to leave. When he closes the front door behind his heel, he doesn’t get to say goodbye to her.
She isn’t in sight.
“Heyo, kiddo!”
Peter jumps, probably a bit over dramatic in his leap of fear, as Tony Stark’s voice foams in through his ears, booming and surprisingly clear. That’s something he’s certain he’ll never get used to—the clarity. He lets a tense breath go as he relaxes, letting his hand fall from his chest, and waves his greeting. He isn’t sure if he should be concerned, jubilant, or professional about the sudden visit. So he just smiles.
“Oh, stop. You look constipated,” Tony playfully chides. He drapes an arm over the youth’s shoulders. He notes the dress, curiously asking, “And what’s that you got there?”
“May’s dress,” Peter replies. “Something for tonight. She’s going to the orientation.”
“Hm. Yes. Sounds pretty important,” Tony mumbles. He brushes it off like it's nothing—but shouldn't it be something? Tony Stark is well-known for being outwardly inattentive far too often, mostly to cope with stress, but that is never the case with Peter nor May Parker when it comes to their mutual involvement.
He thinks to mention it. Maybe Tony had forgotten. And, while Peter does try to tell him—even opening his mouth and nearly getting the first few sounds out—he’s interrupted.
“How’s the web stuff going, kiddo? Is it any good?”
Peter frowns. “Um. Yeah."
“Right…” Tony nods through his drawling reply; “Anything else other than that?”
“Huh? Oh. No.”
“Ah, c’mon. What’s bothering you? You’ve spoken two full sentences to me so far. The rest’ve just been words that might as well be grunts with some…vowels,” Tony pressures, waving his other free hand around.
“Sorry,” he replies, somber and thoughtful about what he should have said. “I just keep remembering what everything sounds like.”
“Yes, yes, that’s expected since you’ve been deaf your whole life,” Tony mentions with his own train of thought and contemplation. “Hm…do you want to improve on that? More than you already have, I mean.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “What, are you gonna give me ear implants now?”
“Of course not! That’s too experimental and close to that noggin of yours,” the trademarked Consultant chirps. “I’ve been working on a little something for you.” He stops walking, and so does Peter. He pulls a small, fun-size box from his pocket. “Here. Open it.”
Peter hooks his aunt’s dress on his arm, taking the little something Tony’s offering to him. He is almost hesitant, but then he opens it to find new hearing aids—new hear pods. Ha. A mirthful and incorrect way of calling them. Regardless, his eyes widen. They’re clear, differently shaped, and there is one less wire on each. “Woah! What the heck is this?”
“New hearing aids,” Tony says. He chuckles. “I almost became an advanced ear doctor just to make these for you, kiddo.”
He loses his speech—because that’s just amazing in and of itself.
“They’re…a bit experimental, y’know? But I’ve had volunteers test them out. They say they can hear more than vowels and stuff, unlike what you can normally hear even with aids.”
Peter’s eyes water up a little. Another gift he could never pay for, both financially and emotionally. “W-wow.”
Tony smiles. “Try them on.”
He nods eagerly, pulling out his left aid. There’s a daft void in one ear very suddenly, and it throws him off, but he doesn’t mind it long enough to care. He slips the new Stark Industries hearing aid in—and the world becomes incredibly vibrant.
“What can you hear, Peter?”
His heart lurches and his face runs red with excitement. He can hear so much more than what he's ever known to exist. He can hear the sharper, breathy words coming from Tony’s mouth, and the honks of New York’s horns are almost ten times louder.The closest passersby—he can catch their mixed passing conversations. He puts the other one in not so long after, and the world feels…brighter. He feels more present. Connected.
“Pete—”
“Ssss,” he sounds out, and everything comes crashing down. He can hear that pitch. He could never hear the S’s before.
Tony makes a face, parting with worry. “What? What is it? Why are you hissing?”
“N-nothing—it’s just…it’s amazing,” he murmurs. “I can—wow! I can hear so clearly. It doesn’t sound like there's a—a thin wall! Like, at all!”
Tony grins and squeezes his shoulder. “Good, I was hoping they’d work,” he says. “No ringing? Or buzzing? What about TV static?”
He shakes his head. Hearing Tony’s voice so clearly feels almost like a blessing. If he were any more dramatic, he would make an obligation to become a Stark Slave. “Th-thank you so much,” he quavers. “This is…this is amazing. I dunno how I’ll repay you.”
“No need,” Tony says. “Just keep wearing them, help me test them out with your endeavors. I want to make it as available as possible—quality and everything in between.”
Peter’s grin splits his face as he lets out a laugh for the sake of laughing. He can hear himself better—feeling and hearing laughter are different things; experiencing both sensations is just…better. So, so much better. It’s not a deep, muffled noise that’s in his body, but he still has that gentle rumble he’s always craved to hear so clearly. He moves his fingers around, wondering if they can make any finer noises as he thought they would, but there's nothing and that is still amazing.
He's basking in awe and success—then he sees his Casio watch tell the time. It’s 3:18PM. His eyes blow wide. It's true that he can make it before the twelve minutes are up, but May's event seemed important to her. He shouldn't delay any longer than he has to. “Oh, crap!”
Tony glances at him with a smirk. “What? Curfew? Are you grounded?”
“Huh? No! I'm not grounded, and it's not a curfew! Well, it's…something like that. Like a curfew, I mean!” Peter chatters, starting to move away with hurried steps. “Sorry, Mr. Stark! I gotta blast. May wants this dress before the clock hits thirty! Bye!”
Tony just waves his farewell, watching with endearment as Peter runs out from the middle of the alleyway and back into the wild streets of New York City with that red dress of May’s.
“Nice one, dad!” a voice suddenly calls. “Son’s happy and everything. Congrats!” Slow and dry clapping follows the comment, and while the man who should be wearing the iron suit jumps a little in paranoid surprise, he recognizes the voice.
He turns his face towards the red and black mask that lurks in the shadows of a neighboring alleyway. “He isn’t my son,” he tells Deadpool.
The snarky vigilante giggles, leaning a shoulder against the brick wall with his arms crossed. “Really, now? So you wouldn’t mind if I were to be besties with him?”
“I think we all would,” Tony scoffs. “What thirty-year-old man would ask me of all people to become besties with a fifteen-year-old?”
“He’s fifteen?" Wade Wilson laughs. "He looks twenty-one.”
Tony rolls his eyes, turning and walking in the opposite direction Peter had dashed off from. “Keep your hands off, Wade,” he says shortly. “Don’t touch him.”
The pseudo-immortal only shrugs off the warning. Tony just nearly feels satisfied, but then Deadpool is right next to his side humming a tune from Queen’s song. He’s idle, and he clearly wants something.
So he sighs. “What do you want?”
“Me? Wanting something? Never!” he exclaims. “No, no! I need something. That’s completely different.”
He sighs. “And what is that, exactly? It better not be something ridiculous like a huge chimichanga or something, because if it is I will be taking it off the market. You’ll be buying black market chimichangas instead.”
Deadpool’s head rolls in harmony with his hidden eyes. “No, it’s never about the chimichanga. Only I can handle the chimichanga, sir,” he says with slight mock. “It’s something else.”
Instantly, Tony takes notice of the change in tone. He stops walking and turns his face towards the mercenary. “What’s wrong?”
He leans forward a little to tell a story. “Okay, so—”
“Let me stop you right there," Tony interrupts. "I won't have any of your long-winded explanations. Tell me the short version.”
Deadpool’s jaw slightly hangs before it closes as he rethinks his story. He sighs, bummed out but thinking of a new way to tell it. “There’s this gang, right? In New York. They come from Detroit, and they migrated over here,” he says. “Have you ever heard of that happening?”
“No…not really,” Tony states. “It’s not really my area of expertise—which is a rare thing for me to say nowadays.”
“Neither for me, but I know when gangs want something,” he continues. “And they want whatever is in New York pretty badly. Gangs don’t just move.”
Tony scoffs, “Well, I would think so. Have you got anything useful to tell me, though?”
To that, Deadpool sighs. “I was getting to that,” he snips. “I’ve been putting my ears out in the street. Apparently, there’s this…new poison that’s been made from mutant blood. Crazy, right? It’s been proven to be lethal and extremely expensive. This gang from Detroit almost has the money for it. Almost.”
Tony narrows his eyes thoughtfully. He nods and struts up to his car, contently stepping and sitting in it as Happy keeps the door securely open. “I’ll…uh, look into it,” he replies. “See what I can pull from my sources. In the meantime, I expect there to be no trouble.”
“Ah, whatever do you mean? There will be no trouble whatsoever,” Deadpool drawls out. “I mean, it’s not like you’re my superior or anything.”
Tony smiles. “You know I am.”
The Merc with a Mouth just huffs, and a few seconds later, the car leaves him—suit and swords and all—in an alleyway. He sighs in boredom, slightly piqued at a sudden thought as he watches Tony leave. He’s fairly interested in the kid—the “not my son” of Tony’s. It’s an interesting thing to explore. Hopefully.
“Aunt May!” Peter calls as he enters. Her voice is one of the few things in life he’s always been excited to actually hear as clear as he currently does. It’s like talking and hearing through a blanket. Still muffled, but it works, and that’s what counts more than anything like a prototype. “May? You here?”
The shower starts, but she doesn’t say anything to confirm that she heard him, so he shrugs it off and walks into her bedroom. He sets the dress down on her neatly made bed, and steps next to the bathroom where she is. Steam floats out from under the door, and he knocks carefully. “May,” he calls, slow and apprehensive. “I’m gonna go out to see Ned, I've got something to show him. And then I’m gonna show you after your event because it’s awesome. I’ll be back at around eight. Love ya.”
And he leaves without any response. He finds it a bit weird that she isn’t responding but he isn’t too bothered by it; she thinks and worries, and he knows best that silence means one or two of those things. They can talk about it later—when he gets back—and then some sort of celebration will have to happen because his aunt never lets a chance to celebrate go by. He exits the apartment complex with a slight skip in his step, but it disappears when a stranger with horrendously burned scars, in a sketchy hooded jacket, is staring straight at him. He instantly stops walking and frowns, because he’s staring straight at Peter. “Um…do you need something…?” he wearily asks.
“Ah, no, not really,” he replies. He smiles and steps up to the fifteen-year-old. “I’m Wade, a friend of Mr. Stark’s. Well, kind of. Sort of. I call him a friend but he calls me his subordinate. I don’t see a difference.” He chuckles and extends a gloved hand out of what might be a warm welcome. Peter isn’t betting on it, so he doesn’t take it. Wade waits for a few short seconds, and then shrugs in acceptances. “Alright! Be like that. Anyways, he didn’t send me. I sent myself. I was curious about the kind of relationship ya’ll had, you know? It seemed interesting because he’s never been the, uh…fatherly type.”
Peter looks at him up and down. “Yeah, so? I’m fifteen, he’s like—what, forty-five? Fifty? He’s told me he feels obligated to take care of me before. I don’t really need it, though.”
Wade smirks. “Ah, the teen years. All the dank days…I miss it.”
Peter's scrutinizing expression doesn’t get any better. In fact, he starts to grimace. “Okay. Who are you, exactly?”
“I’m…a merc,” he explains awkwardly. “You know what that is?”
“Someone who does dirty work for money.”
“Perfect, you know me so well already! Anyways, Tony hires me on and off, but that’s formally. I owe him a favor. I don’t get paid.” He shrugs. “Way too convenient for the writer, but you know what? That’s fine. It works. We're here now! That's all that matters. The plot's gotta move, y'know?”
Peter raises his brow. “The what?”
“Yeah. Never mind—that derails the whole scene, okay? Get back on track,” he snaps, pointing an adult-y finger at Peter. “Moving on. I’m a merc, and sometimes Tony pulls in that big favor string. Now he’s gonna owe me a favor. Because I don’t like owing favors.”
Oh. “What do you mean?”
“When was the last time you saw your aunt?” he asks.
Peter frowns. “The…last…I’m sorry, what the hell are you talking about? She’s taking a shower right now,” he says with a shortened tone.
Wade shakes his head, wearing a serious face that contradicts his earlier approach. “No, no—I mean, when was the last time you saw her? With your eyes?”
“Are you trying to tell me something?” he asks, nervous and feeling a bit scared.
Wade suddenly pulls out a gun. “I dunno, let’s go check it out,” he states.
Peter feels the world around him become sensually brighter as adrenalin and fear force him to move. He pushes the gun down, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! No!” he says as quickly as his mouth can. “Absolutely not!”
“Your Aunt May is in danger, kid, and danger usually involves guns,” Wade snarkily points out, glaring down at him.
“Okay, yeah, I’ve figured that much, but…c’mon, man! There are cameras.”
“They have CCTV, we have Tony Stark. Is that a problem?”
“They also have law enforcement and criminal charges that I don't want on my record,” he snaps, hushing his voice when a group of familiar female faces pass by. “I kinda don’t wanna go to prison.”
He sighs irritably, tucking the gun in his waistband. “Fine, but we gotta hurry.”
Peter snaps to it and nods hurriedly, scurrying back inside the building with Wade not too far behind him. The elevator ride is incredibly awkward, and it doesn’t help that there’s idle elevator music. Peter isn’t sure how he should feel about that, because he feels some sort of twisted laugh bubble up in his throat.
“You’re laughing?” Wade asks. "Sheesh! Didn't know you were the type."
“I’m nervous!” he defensively replies, his hands balling in fists multiple times before it reaches the seventh floor. Peter just nearly runs out, but Wade stops him. “What? Why the hell are you stopping me?”
“Let me go first, okay? Probably best if I do. You can't go down yet. It would be inconvenient for the author to write about,” he says, and he doesn’t leave any room for debate nor explanation as he rushes out before the youth. What the fuck is the author?
Their apartment door is broken down, hinges ripping the wooden frame apart. Peter’s eyes get a bit wide with alarm, because he’d locked the door like normal. Wade motions for him to stay back, and right when he peers his head inside, Peter bursts into the apartment.
He's met with a horrifying sight. He sees it, and within the instant he does, he feels the world sway and becoming the distance behind a screen. All he can focus on is this one sight—it’s red, and it’s everywhere, and he can’t find his breath. He shouts in fear when Wade grabs his elbow, yanking him out of the apartment. His feet are heavy weights, and he’s stumbling, speechless, and feeling a bit lightheaded. He doesn’t understand.
Why was his aunt bleeding? Why is she on the floor? Is she okay? She's hurt, he can't leave her—yes, he needs to go and check on her—
“Come on!” Wade’s ushered voice cuts in. “We gotta go! Pick up your feet, kid, before I do it for you!”
Peter doesn’t respond, stuck in a shell of shock. His jaw is just slack and he repeatedly denies what he’d just seen.
The hardwood was clean. He knowa that. And then there had been the crisp outline of a large pool of blood. His aunt was on her back, sprawled out with a split lip and bruised, exposed torso. Her leg looked broken. Her chin had became the rock behind a waterfall of blood. Her neck was parted in ways it shouldn't be.
In the elevator back…up, it starts to become evident that May’s throat had been slit, and that she had gotten beaten…seeing as her stomach was bruised and her leg was twisted. He just hopes it all gets to be okay. It always does.
How will this be okay, though? Your aunt is dead.
Wade drapes an arm over his shoulders, keeping him pressed close to his side. He doesn’t process anything as it all happens, and it’s not until a bright light is being shone in his eyes that he feels the ground sink with his stomach and the world slam back into him. The next thing he knows, he’s in a helicopter meant purely for emergencies and transportation. He’s not dead or dying. He knows that much. Why is he here?
“Where’s May,” he manages out, but it’s nothing beyond a murmur and the rotors slice it before it leaves his mouth. The nurse, or doctor, or whatever he is, checking him only frowns and leans in to see if he’d speak anymore—but Peter just disappoints him by staying quiet as a reponse and staring down at the city underneath him.
The scene replays in his head over and over again. He bursts in, his aunt is in on the floor, he leaves; he bursts in, his aunt is bleeding, he leaves; he bursts in, his aunt is evidently beaten, he leaves. And it’s not until it fades to nothing but a simple memory he’s pretty sure was just a nightmare that he realizes Tony is standing eye-to-eye with him. He’s sitting on a soft bed, well-fitted with comfortable sheets. The room is clean, and there’s clear signs that he’s not home anymore.
“Peter,” Tony says. “Can you hear me?” He taps his ear with a questioning look to signal it—just in case Peter can’t.
But he can, and he nods. He tries to speak, but his voice isn’t working and with each pound of his heavy heart, the words, "May is dead," runs marathons in his head. Honestly…it’s like Uncle Ben all over again. Except not. A tragic death, with a tinge of mystery behind it. There could be another element to it, but Aunt May is too kind. She would never be involved in nefarious things.
Tony smiles a little. “Good,” he murmurs. “Can you tell me what you remember about the last few hours? You don’t have to if you don’t, just tell me if you do. But…if you could share…it’d help me—us immensely.”
Peter blinks thoughtfully, looking down at his lap. What he remembers is mere flashes of being over New York City, and meeting a man made of burn scars. He name is Wade. He had a gun. But he didn’t kill her. May’s throat was slit. “Is May okay?” he asks.
Tony frowns, a slight of tears rimming his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak before he shuts it and gives it extra thought. Then, he answers, “I’m sorry, Peter. She’s dead." Dreadful silence falls between the gaps, but Tony doesn't let it settle. "She’s was killed in the afternoon, just…a few hours ago. Do you remember that?"
Peter does nothing more than rub a thumb over his opposing palm.
“I’m…well, unofficially, I’m your guardian,” Tony states a bit awkwardly. “I just gotta sign some papers. I know now may not be the best time, but I think it’s best to get it done and over with before before CPS barges in.”
Peter nods. “It’s fine,” he whispers amiably. Or, at least, as amiably as he can make himself sound. “I’m fine with it.”
Tony pauses a little, clearly taken aback by his agreement. “O-oh, awesome. I…I almost didn’t expect that,” he murmurs, half to himself. A slight smile grows, and he places a tight hand over his shoulder. “Thank you, Peter. There’s a private lounge, kitchen and living room just outside your bedroom door. If you need or want anything, just go. Uh, FRIDAY should be at your disposal.”
He nods again, his head slightly bobbing with a clenched jaw.
“I’ll be in a call,” Tony says, arm sliding over his upper back. “Don’t fight this alone, okay? I’m here for you.”
Peter faintly smiles, and that’s when the billionaire philanthropist playboy parts way. He leaves a certain emptiness that doubles down on Peter's numbness. Along with his surroundings, it’s empty…and devoid of warmth. He can’t help but wonder why he feels so surprised at that. Perhaps it’s because this feels…much, much worse than Ben’s death. Or even his parents’ death.
“She was the last of your family, was she not?”
Peter feels fear jump at his throat; he revolts with an adrenalin pump. A noise strangles itself from his chest, and he leans away from the source of the voice.
A man of ruby skin puts his hands up, dipping his head a little in surrender. “My apologies, Mr. Parker,” he says, genuine and soft. His accent is smooth, and clearly British. But he’s also too alien-like to actually be British, and Peter isn’t sure why an alien would have a…a British accent of all things. “I did not mean to frighten you. I know you have had a long day. I just decided to come by and…see you. Meet you.”
Peter stares, but nods in understanding. “Who’re you?”
That's when the alien British smiles. “My name is Vision,” he replies. “I’m here to help you in many ways. How would you like me to…assist?”
It’s a good question—sudden, but good, and Peter isn’t feeling any motivation.
So he just shrugs, and the conversations kicks off with a terribly apathetic and simple response. “Nothing.”