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His hand hurt.
His right hand, the one he used to create, to fix, to complete -- it ached. It throbbed, it stung, it hurt and he couldn’t forget it.
It shook, too; shook like there was a hurricane next to them, like the fire had burned him and his nerves were exploding, like he’d just cut himself with a knife and the panic --
And the panic was setting in.
And he couldn’t forget, couldn’t unsee, and he was quaking.
“There’s a fire, on the beach.”
There’d been a woman, one with brown hair and brown eyes and pale skin and she couldn’t have been older than twenty, couldn’t have even been out of college yet, couldn’t ever --
Couldn’t ever unsee, couldn’t forget.
“Yeah, a plane -- it crashed, I think, and there’s -- yes, there are… victims.”
He’d turned harshly, a wicked look in his blue eyes as he huffed, as the breath refused to enter his lungs, as the realization set in and the woman, as the woman spoke to the dispatcher, told them all of it, told them --
“Just… one, actually.”
Just one.
“A boy.”
A boy.
“He looks… young, real young.”
He is young.
“There’s a man… he stabbed the boy, he’s killed him, oh my -- ”
And she was right, she was so, completely correct and it made him look back down, at his right hand, at the specks of blood on it, at the greyness of the brown brown brown --
He stumbled back, landing roughly a few feet away, looking at the cuts on the hands because goddamnit, he’d struggled, he’d fought, he’d looked at him with those brown eyes all wide, all big because this wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t supposed to --
“He stabbed the boy.”
He’d stabbed him.
“Near the neck, next to his collarbone.”
He’d stabbed Peter.
“It’s a small knife, I’m nowhere near them, I can barely see.”
He’d killed Peter.
He’d thought up a plan, right as he’d pulled the knife out, right after he’d been dragged out of the fire. He’d thought that he could do this, could get away, could make it look like an accident, or like he didn’t do it, but --
But there was this guilt, this heaviness, that he hadn’t planned for.
Maybe it was the way Peter’d struggled, the way his eyes had gone all big and his mouth had opened, gulping for air that he was no longer getting. Maybe it was the absolute, shocking fear that had taken him over in no more than three seconds.
Maybe it was the way he hadn’t expected it.
Adrian had seen Peter avoid his boots, his jacket; he’d known the knives were there, ready and wicked, but he hadn’t seen them coming, hadn’t expected the man he’d just saved to turn on him once again.
They’d been catching their breath.
“No, what, Toomes, what’re you -- ”
They’d been laying next to each other, alive.
“I can’t breathe, Toomes, I can’t breathe -- ”
They’d been alone.
“Why’re you, why… I can’t breathe, I can’t….”
Adrian curled up, holding his head, hearing the woman getting closer and closer; there were scratches on his wrists, bruises in the form of desperate hands, of small, hopeful hands as they clawed at him, trying to get him to pull it out, to take the knife, to --
To stop.
To let go.
He hadn’t spoken a word the entire time. He’d just stared and stared as the life left the brown eyes, as tears ran down his face, as desperation rendered him strong in his dying moments.
And he hadn’t said a word.
“Why did you do it?”
Adrian jumped slightly, head whipping to his left. “What?”
She frowned, looking away from him. “I watched him pull you out of there, out of that explosion. So, why’d you do it?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“My dad’s the principle of Midtown High,” she continued, hands clasped painfully together. “And you -- you’re Liz Allan’s dad.”
Adrian nodded, looking at the body.
“And that’s her date to homecoming.” She concluded, eyes empty as she looked back at him, at his blue eyes. “That’s Peter Parker.”
“I’m sorry.” He rasped, chin quivering.
“I know the cops won’t come. I know it’ll be Stark and Happy and all of them because this is their stuff, their mess, and they’re going to have to break the news to his Aunt, won’t they?”
Adrian gave her a look. “Who are you?”
“And he’s Spider-Man, isn’t he?” She whispered, looking back at the body. “That’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“That a fifteen-year-old stopped and saved you,” she shot out, an unrelenting look in her eyes. “And then you killed him, out of nothing but false hope and greed.”
“New York doesn’t have the death penalty.”
The room was white, and it was quiet, and the fan above seemed too loud for the confined walls. There were no windows, and without windows there was no hope, and this all felt wrong.
“Just thought I’d let you know that,” Tony said, a smug look in his eyes. “Good for both our consciousnesses, anyways. He wouldn’t have wanted you dead for the world.”
Adrian grimaced. “Stark -- ”
“You don’t get to talk anymore, Adrian.” Tony interrupted, fists clenching underneath the metal table. “You don’t to say a single meaningful word, not after what you did.”
The fan was loud. Too loud.
“From what I’ve come to understand in the past year and a half since you hijacked our plane,” he continued, a dangerous look in his dark eyes, “is that Peter ran after you in his pajamas.”
There was a dangerous undertone there.
“And that you dropped a building on him, on his back.”
There was a storm brewing, underneath those fine clothes and the tailored collar.
“And he got out, and ran after you still.” The billionaire looked at his hands, then at Adrian’s. “He steered the plane away from the city and crashed, alongside you, on the beach.”
Adrian nodded.
“And you hung him, by his sweater, because you still couldn’t stand that he was there.” Tony tilted his head, a spark in his eyes. “And then he got you out of your own exploded carnage, and you killed him.”
They’d reached it. The climax, the mountaintop.
“You stabbed him and he fought, didn’t he?” There was a cold in the room, now, and it wasn’t from the fan. “There was an autopsy. There were cuts on his hands, and his left shoulder was broken, beyond repair, and his collarbone -- damn, that was shattered with no hope of return.”
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, why….”
“You killed your daughter’s date, Adrian.” Tony deadpanned, sounding disappointed. “You met him, you drove him to his school alongside your beloved daughter, and you killed him an hour later. How do you live with that, Adrian?”
“I don’t.”
“He was fifteen.” He grimaced, looking incredulous. “Fifteen. He was in his first year of high school. He was young and smart and he had so much to look forward to, and you killed him, Adrian, you ended him.”
It was something strange, that undertone. That reality that they were living, the way the billionaire spoke such words like bullets, spoke such words like knives, but was shooting himself, stabbing himself, and --
And that was tragic, the way he was killing himself.
“I know. I know he was young.”
Tony narrowed his eyes, tilting his head and leaning back, a scolding, cold look washing over his face. “And you still killed him. You still took his life.”
“Are you here to guilt-trip me?”
“I’m here,” Tony spat, clenching his jaw, “to help you understand the value in life.”
“Who’s taking you to Homecoming?”
“This boy from decathlon, Peter. He’s really sweet.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s smart; so, so smart. And he’s got the kindest morale about him, it’s miraculous -- ”
“There’s always been something wrong with him, Adrian.” The fan shook, its blades unsteady as it spun. “There was something wrong with him, there’s something wrong with you, and there’s something wrong with me. That’s fact, that’s sound, and you’ve got to understand it.”
“ -- I think there’s something wrong with him, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He always seems so lost, y’know? Like that look in the eyes that just screams broken, or not quite okay. Like something’s -- ”
“His Aunt used to call me, to tell me about him.” Tony looked at his hands, stroking the callouses. “She’d tell me about how he wouldn’t let himself get any sleep, and that he wouldn’t come home till early in the morning, and he wouldn’t eat enough and wouldn’t stop working until it was all done.”
“Strong?”
“Stupid.”
“You sure he’s not mental?”
“He had a hero-complex, Adrian.” Tony looked at him, at his blue eyes, his brown ones hard and still. “He’s too kind to say no and too sad not to be sorry.”
There was a shock there, a hilarity that the billionaire would never understand. It was tragic, the truth behind the statement, the surety behind it all, and there was absolutely nothing that could’ve made it sound any other way.
“Peter was far braver than I ever was,” Tony bit out, glowering. “He was smarter, kinder, and farm more benevolent. And that made him a fighter, y’know? That made him a martyr, a savior, and y’know what?”
“He shuts up real easily. Gets scared like something’s going to come and -- ”
“He ended up alone and bloody.”
Adrian’s head hurt, his jaw quivered. “I’m sorry, Stark.”
“Do you want to know how Elizabeth reacted? When she found out her father was a felonist, a murderer?”
“Stark -- ”
“She sobbed.”
“Peter’s so much better than Tony Stark -- ”
“She weeped, because she’d never expected a figure like yourself to commit to such actions.” He nodded at the handcuffs on the metal table. “She never expected to be forced to mourn over a friend’s murder and a father’s loss.”
“ -- he’s not a superhero, but he knows how to act like one, and it’s absolutely embarrassing for him -- ”
“And your wife?” He shook his head, bowed in disappointment. “She was strong, brave, resilient; she helped Elizabeth and threw you in the goddamn trash, because that is where you belong, Adrian.”
“ -- But it’s a great thing, dad, he’s a good person.”
“You will never see your daughter again, Adrian.” Tony stood up, slow and steady, a stiff, final look in his frame. “You’ll never see her again, and you’ll never forget her.”
“Stark -- ”
“You will understand what loss feels like.”