Chapter Text
Peter shifted uncomfortably in the tiny plastic seat, the hard curves digging into his hips through his jeans. Three hours of being stuck in the same position hadn’t made it any more manageable. He leaned his head against the bus window, angling himself carefully so his glasses didn’t get in the way.
The scene outside had remained the same for the last hour and a half, despite the bus speeding over miles of land. As far as the eye could see was green - rolling fields and forest, everything covered in a thick white fog. The fog seemed to twist the scenery, so much so that at one point Peter convinced himself that there was a person in every field they passed, watching the bus, which was obviously ridiculous. Peter wondered what he would do here, where colours seemed like muted imitations of the bright hues back home.
Yesterday, when the train had pulled out of New York City, Peter had been overcome with a desperate, uncontrollable sadness. He’d watched with a clenched chest as the city he grew up in passed by in a blur.
Here and there, he’d caught glimpses of places he’d visited himself - the publishing firm tower block he used to pass on the way to school; the McDonald’s he’d been to on the way home from the Met; the park with the creaky old swing set he’d played on as a kid.
He’d fought back tears when he realised he’d never get to visit them again.
It had come as a shock, a sharp spike of pain after weeks of involuntary numbness. After his parents’ deaths, Peter had felt nothing. It just hadn’t seemed real, even after the police found the bodies, swaying side-by-side in the forest on the outskirts of West Virginia. Watching news reports about the double hanging had only made it seem more removed from reality.
Hearing his name on television had thoroughly convinced him it was all a sick dream he hadn’t woken up from yet.
He had watched news anchors and grief counsellors, complete strangers, get choked up at the idea of his situation, yet his body refusing to produce even a tear. It was like everyone around him was breaking apart whilst he remained untouched by the grief that struck anyone who heard his story.
The investigation photos had been leaked to the press after the media took an interest, and soon people from all over New York were gawking at the gory details in pseudo-sympathy.
In the face of his story splashed across the front cover of every tabloid in the city, he ended up missing the tactful, sad news reports, with their soft lighting and cleverly-placed boxes of tissues. It didn't matter that they were frustrating - at least they hadn't made him into a sick semi-celebrity.
He'd been stopped on the street once, by a man he'd never seen before, waving a flashing camera in his face. Peter didn't remember the exchange too clearly. He'd been too occupied fighting down bile rising at the back of his throat to process the man's explanation about his horror blog.
He had tried to make himself cry, stared at the pallid faces of the people who raised him until his head hurt, but he couldn’t summon any emotion beyond apathy. He’d pictured his mom and dad going out into the woods, taking the rope and tying the nooses - putting it around their own necks, knowing he was waiting back home.
He’d recovered old home movies and watched them play with him as a chubby baby. It evoked nothing, except the faint sense of embarrassment he usually felt seeing his younger self. That was the worst part, actually. His parents were gone and all his mind could focus on was how dumb he looked in a dinosaur bucket hat.
The bus juddered, bringing Peter back to reality.
At that moment, he was glad he was the only passenger, his thoughts so intense he was sure anyone in close vicinity would hear them.
When the last passenger asides from him had shuffled off the bus about forty minutes ago, he’d figured the driver would allow awkwardness to settle over them.
But the driver seemed perfectly happy, puffing away on an old fashioned cigar and listening to the patchy radio describing local fox hunting. It was curious how the smoke never seemed to mingle with the wisps of fog intruding from a window near the front of the vehicle. Every time the driver coughed out a cloud of grey, the tendrils seemed to retreat, before returning to their original places.
Peter watched, hypnotised, as this strange movement continued.
His mind wandered. He tried to picture his future in a place like this, and came up blank. It was difficult for him to imagine anyone wanting to live here.
His thoughts drifted to when the lawyers had first told him that he was expected to leave New York City to live with a man he’d never met - Tony Stark, Peter’s father’s best friend once upon a time, and Peter’s lawful godfather. The lawyers had then revealed that train tickets and bus fares had already been booked, as they told him the exact address and travel instructions would be forwarded to him via email before he left.
His parents hadn’t even written him a goodbye, yet had found time to forward a document detailing all of this to their lawyers.
He was so engrossed in his memories that he didn’t even notice that the bus had stopped until the busdriver announced, “Arrived at Beggar’s End,” at the top of his lungs.
Peter checked outside the window, gathering his stuff. They’d pulled into an old-fashioned rail station, the traditional, non-electric kind. In front of the old railway line was a platform, and on it, a bus-stop with ‘Beggar’s End, Stop Here’ written on it in loopy white writing. Peter assumed it had been repurposed as a busway after technology moved on from the nineteenth century.
He made his way past the empty seats, passing the bus driver, who took his cigar out of his mouth and opened the doors.
Immediately, fog flooded into the bus, so swiftly Peter almost took a step back. It felt very, very cloying, even if it was totally harmless. The driver pointed his cigar in the direction of the door, coughing as he took another pull and blew it back out, forcing the fog to retreat a little. “Out you get, lad.”
Peter stepped off the bus, dragging his suitcase behind him. He took in the station around him, shivering slightly in his loose jacket.
It was probably beautiful at a time, but the years had dulled the painted benches, and worn away the cursive on the timetable. The only distinguishable words that remained were those on the bus-stop label. It unnerved Peter, who was wearing scuffed converse and a Knicks hoodie. He felt out of place, like an unwelcome intruder on a landmark from the past.
Peter turned back to face the driver. “Thanks for the ride.”
The bus driver smiled a nearly toothless grin at him. “You’re welcome, son.”
Peter peered at the mist-shrouded map next to the station timetable. “Do you know where I can find the Stark Manor? It’s supposed to be north of Withersgate”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” the older man scratched his head, tone apologetic.
Peter shrugged. “S’alright. I’ll find my way. Thanks again.”
The driver nodded. “Just be careful not to get lost, alright? You know what they say about young folk who lose their way round here.”
“Wha-” The bus doors slid closed, and the driver revved the engine, the bus driving away into the mist.
Peter stared after it, dread building in his stomach. His imagination was kicking into overdrive, trying to figure out what that could mean. He glanced around him, paranoia rushing through him - he hoped that was all it was. The thought of the fears being not so irrational and baseless was the scariest part.
Peter tried to slow his pounding heart. Maybe a few minutes ago, he would have welcomed the intensity of the feeling, but standing alone in an abandoned rail station, the images the man’s words were bringing to life seemed far too real.
And the silence . Peter had no idea how he hadn’t noticed it when he’d first stepped off the bus. He couldn’t even hear the retreating bus, the fog swallowing up its sound as soon as it was out of sight. The only noise around was Peter’s increasingly fast breaths. It was disquieting.
The mist wasn’t as overpowering as it initially had been on the bus. In fact, it didn’t seem to be touching him at all.
A loose stone sent Peter stumbling, dropping his bag. He flinched at the too-loud sound of his weighty suitcase hitting the floor and bent down to pick it up.
He grabbed the case’s handle, and began to get up, before pausing. He looked down at his clothes and sniffed. Just as he’d suspected, he reeked of cigar smoke, the smell floating heavily around him like a thick, second skin. He wrinkled his nose, getting to his feet with the retrieved bag. He had to find Withersgate. Everything else could be sorted out after that.
He steeled himself and stepped forward, the fog seeming to part before him, allowing him a clear pathway.
---
The village was mostly deserted when Peter got there, using his intuition and a lot of luck. It was almost as quiet as the train station, but occasionally he’d hear the patter of footsteps in the distance, out of his sight. The stillness was probably just because of the time. Peter checked his digital watch, noting that it was only just five in the morning.
He struggled forwards, suitcase in tow. Two days of travelling without a break had left him exhausted, but he soldiered on. Something in his head was telling him not to stop.
He glanced back at the fog. It was still keeping its distance.
“Huh.” Peter said out loud, then grimaced as he realised his mistake. The short exclamation echoed around the empty street, unforgivingly loud. He winced, looking behind him for any disturbance in the mist. Everything was still, thank God. Peter didn’t know what he would do if anything moved.
He paused, listening out for the distant footsteps to resume, but nothing came; they seemed to have stopped entirely. Peter ignored the hairs rising on the back of his neck at the thought of why.
He carried on walking, until the number of houses started to dwindle and the path began to narrow, becoming more overgrown by the minute. More than once, he tripped on tree roots invading the walkway, and batted away sharp branches emerging unexpectedly from the mist. By the time he reached the end of the pathway, his hands were covered in scratches, and his knees were aching from multiple knocks.
He jumped when a large signpost loomed out of the fog. He set his case down and squinted at it. It only had two arms, one pointing straight on and one pointing sharply to the right. It was wobbly at the base, and looked like it was one shove away from falling, but that wasn’t what fascinated Peter.
The arm that pointed straight on was completely blank. The words hadn’t been scratched or worn away, or painted over, there was just nothing there. Peter reached up with curious fingers to feel it, finding it smooth and undecorated. Without thinking, his feet began to carry him in the direction the arm was pointing.
All previous fear vanished as he trudged forwards. Something irresistible was pulling him towards whatever the signpost pointed to, and he moved without thought. He didn’t need his parents, he didn’t need his parents’ lawyers, he didn’t need a godfather...
Peter felt a spark of recognition at the thought of a godfather. He went to grasp his case and found his fingers empty. What was he doing?
He forced his feet to a standstill, and turned back to where he’d been standing. The mist had swallowed most of the signpost, but he could still see the blurry outline of it. It was worryingly far away, and Peter was unsettled at the idea of him walking that distance without consciousness.
He strode determinedly back to his previous position and picket his case up off the floor. It felt damper than it had when Peter had been holding it.
He cautiously regarded the signpost again, focusing on the right-pointing arm. It read ‘Stark Manor’ in neat black lettering.
Peter heaved a relieved sigh at the thought of finally reaching his destination. He checked his watch, the glowing red numbers telling him it was nearing six in the morning.
He started following the path’s dramatic right, hoping that soon he’d be able to close his eyes and rest.
---
When the trees first parted, revealing the Stark Manor, Peter couldn’t believe his eyes.
It appeared through the fog gradually, a vague shape slowly revealing a high, terraced roof and pointed towers, filling out into balconies and archways, all preceded by a twisted, wrought iron gate. It looked like something from a fairytale, and it utterly stunned Peter.
He walked up to the gate, every second the details getting clearer every second. Through the bars of the gate, he could now see a stone courtyard, broken up by plots of grass and untrimmed hedges. Out of the small gardens rose more leaf-bare trees, obscuring the front of the manor from view.
Peter pushed lightly on the gate, not seeing any kind of padlock, and it swung open with a loud creak. He stepped through and guided it back into its original place, hinges whining. He groaned quietly when the noise set a group of birds aflight from their perches in the trees outside the gate. The flapping off their wings was amplified by tenfold, and Peter half-expected the sound to set off some sort of bigger reaction.
Up close, he could see imperfections not visible from outside the gate. The bricks of the third story were yellowed with age, and there were tiles missing from the roof. At the very top of the house, the ornately detailed spires were chipped in places, and the right-facing balcony supports were crumbling. Still, it took Peter’s breath away.
He walked through the courtyard, steps echoing on the hard floor. He passed the squares of grass and the trees, making his way to the front door. He dropped his case on the doorstep and reached for the silver knocker, before hesitating. The back of his neck was prickling, like he was being watched.
He swiveled around cautiously, and almost had a heart attack when he saw where the sensation was coming from.
There, on the lawn, was a statue of a man, hands clasped together in prayer. The statue’s posture was relaxed, but the expression on his face was hauntingly unreadable. His eyebrows were drawn together, face tilted upwards and mouth open. It was like a terrifying mixture of euphoria and pure agony. It was horrible .
And even with his head tipped back to the heavens, Peter felt like the eyes were following him whenever he moved - like he shouldn’t turn his back to it. He backed slowly up the porch steps, eyes fixed on the statue. He groped blindly behind him for the door knocker, and slammed it against the door as many times as he could. He waited, holding his breath, for any kind of response.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened behind him. His eyes were automatically drawn away from the statue, refocusing on the doorway. In it stood a handsome, dark-haired man in his late forties - bare-faced, except for the slight dark shadow around his jawline and down-turned lips. He was bleary-eyed, as if he’d just woken up, but dressed like he was heading to the office, in a white shirt, black tie and pressed trousers.
They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. When it became clear that the man didn’t intend to speak without prompting, Peter decided he had to be the first to talk.
“Are you Tony Stark?” he asked, cringing internally when his voice cracked.
The man considered Peter for a moment more before nodding. “Peter Parker, I assume.” he said, voice husky.
Peter muttered a conformation, picking his suitcase up off the floor. Thoughts of the statue on the lawn had fled to the back of his mind, where they seemed like the fancies of a stupid child - which he supposed they were.
He looked up to find Tony regarding him with furrowed eyebrows. An uncomfortable second passed, before Tony reached across him and took the case from his hands without words.
Peter blinked. “Mr Stark, you really don’t have to-”
Tony quietened him with a simple hand gesture. “It’s fine. Close the door,” he instructed, in that same gravelly voice.
Peter grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut, shoulders already feeling lighter after hours of lugging the suitcase around.
“Thank you,” he said belatedly, cracking his neck and relishing in the sensation of relieving his aching joints.
“Don’t mention it.” Tony replied. He began to lead the way down the corridor, carrying Peter’s case effortlessly.
Peter followed a few steps behind. It was too dark to properly gage his surroundings, but he spotted two paintings as big as him and a crystal chandelier hanging above them. This house truly was unreal.
They rounded the corner and climbed the staircase in silence.
They stopped outside a navy-painted door near the top of the stairs. Tony pushed the door open and set the suitcase on a side-table next to the door. In the centre of the room, there was a plush, red velvet couch, with sheets and a pillow folded on top of it.
“You’ll have to stay here until the bedroom upstairs is ready,” Tony told him apologetically.
Peter wanted to tell him that here was absolutely fine, but his eyelids were drooping and all he wanted was to do was sleep, so he settled on a nod, drifting towards the sofa. Everything else could wait.
“I’ll let you get some rest, then.” Tony said, voice hushed.
Peter didn’t even bother unfolding the sheets, just collapsed on the couch. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.