Chapter Text
Thoughts were bubbling in his head, he couldn’t push them away like usual.
All because that-that boy’s hands lingered on Peter’s skin as it traveled a little too high on his thigh and a little too low among his back. He fought back a shiver and grit his teeth to push it away.
Peter takes three showers a day to wash off the touches, but they never fail to tickle his pale and damaged skin. He scrubs relentlessly at his legs and neck and he can still smell the sweat and blood caked on him from that night.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y., skan me for STIs.”
He’s asked this the hour after it happened. He’d stepped foot in his bedroom and locked the door and pulled his own hair out in painful chunks. The teenager chewed on his lip as he waited for the response of the Al. Peter had never really prayed before but he figures now is a good time.
By some miracle, he hasn’t contracted anything. Not clean, but almost halfway there.
Peter lets his skin burn under the hot water and barely winces when soap accidentally falls into his left eye. The washcloth slips around the bruises on his hip bones with more ease than Peter would like to admit. He traces them with the urge to rip at that part of his skin. He just gets more soap and continues to lather his dirty body in vain. They’ll be gone the next time he wakes up, but the image is burned to the back of his eyelids.
He winces as he lifts his arms to yanks on a hoodie. Peter’s stomach is rumbling but he can’t fathom something going back into his mouth, ever. His gag reflex is subconsciously triggered and he’s throwing up, right into the toilet. The boy heaves everything into the bowl and neglects the white streaks littering his vomit. More and more until he’s spitting bile and flushing.
He washes out his mouth and rubs the towel over his hair like nothing happened. He quickly brushes his teeth and he slips into his warm bed. His pillow is soaked in water from his hair and he eyes never leave the ceiling and his fingers twitch at the strings of his sweatshirt. The boys’ muscles clench and cramp before the door is opened and light cracks over his face, much to the spider’s distraught.
It's been two days. Two days since he left his room, only heading to the shower. He counts five before his mentor worries.
“Mr. Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. buzzed, pulling him away from his thoughts. She sounds almost sad for him, like she know. “Boss wants you in the lab, he said to ‘hurry your ass up,' as you will, sir.”
"You don't have to call me sir, F.R.I.D.A.Y." He reminds the Al.
She doesn't anser as he pulls himself out of bed and drags his feet all the way down to the lab where Tony is sitting in the spinning chair. He only sits there when someone’s in trouble, and Peter knows it’s him.
“Oh! Mr. Parker.” Tony’s voice is dripping with sarcasm as he turns to look at the drowsy teenager. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.” He says immediately. Peter still feels the ache in his back and bottom when he sits or lays down and he wishes it would go away. It’s a constant reminder of-”
“Suit yourself. Care to tell me why I haven’t seen you in three days? Or maybe why- not that I’m complaining, you need a life - you haven’t been protecting the dangerous streets of your beloved borough since then?” Tony drops a little bit of his anger and replaces it with concern. “Did you get hurt?”
Peter wants to scream and have it echo for the world to hear him: yes! I am very hurt!
He settles on a squeaky, “I’m fine, Mr. Stark. Just a little tired with school and just-”
“Bullshit!” Tony snaps, standing up and pushing a finger at the boy’s chest. “This isn’t puberty or some measly homework-” It’s in air quotes, his tone is venomous in the cold air between them. “Give it up, Parker.”
Peter flinches at the name and covers it with a weak cough. His chest begins to hurt again and he can feel the promising panic creeping up on him like a monster. He opens his mouth to defend himself but nothing comes out but a weak wheeze.
“Hey,” Tony says softly. Now his eyes are the only evidence he was ever irritated in the first place. Peter can’t help but flinch away from the hand touching his arm. It’s burning him, he’s bleeding from it, the fingernails digging into all of his body parts inside and out and he can’t breathe.
“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry.” Peter whispered. He can feel his lips trembling and he’s desperately trying to hold in his tears. They cannot fall under any circumstances and he can taste the blood in his mouth that he can’t help but spit out.
“What hurts, Pete? I can’t help unless-”
“You can’t help me!” Peter yells, stumbling from his mentor’s reach.
And fuck, now he’s sobbing. He’s sure his lungs are shaking behind his ribs and the skin on his abdomen is ripping all by itself. Peter’s cries wrack through his body and the lab. His legs are shaking but he forces them to stand tall, he can’t fall again.
What kind of hero was he? Peter could have easily pushed that boy off him. He could have screamed louder, pushed a little harder and he would have been fine. What kind of hero lets some weak boy control him?
Peter Parker was assaulted, violated, raped, permanently dirtied in the eyes of society. Peter Parker isn’t the hero in any situation, Spider-Man always is. Peter Parker doesn’t save lives, doesn’t walk girls home when men follow them and dodge bullets. He lets the building crush him and lets the bad guys get away. Peter trips in the hallways and does nothing but annoy the adults he’s unknowingly wrapped around his fingers like balloons on wire strings.
Spider-Man would have saved Peter Parker, but they’re painfully contrasting in too many areas yet they are too familiar.
Tony breaks the silence. His hands are awkwardly fidgeting like they don’t know where to go and he’s breathing heavily too. Peter can feel the man’s heart rate spike and he finds himself confused. “Kiddo,” he begs, “tell me, I can fix it.”
“It’s me!” Peter wails. “I’m the problem, I’m weak and scared and I can’t even… I can’t…”
What he can’t do is tell Tony. He cannot tell his mentor, he’ll be kicked out, he won’t be an Avenger-in-training anymore. He won’t be Spider-Man.
“Pete, it’s okay to be scared. I’m fucking terrified about what is happening right now, I want to help you. Please tell me, I won’t be mad at you.”
Peter swallows down the lump in his throat. God, he’s about to lose his father-figure for the third time. It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault.
“It’s all my fault, Tony.” He whispers, refusing to look away from his socks. “I could have done something, I could have-have yelled louder or-or done something.” Peter finally looked up his mentor’s scrunched eyebrows and crossed arms. “He touched me and-and did things.”
Tony froze where he was. His chest didn’t contract to breathe nor did he blink. His expression was glazed-over fear that confused Peter. The billionaire's jaw was clenched in pure agony that made the teenager sweat.
“Peter.” He breathed, looking destroyed .
“I’m sorry.” Peter muttered, unable to prevent the tears strolling down his cheeks. His breath was hitching into sobs again. He hugged his arms around himself and cried until his tears were gone.
“Tell me everything so I can fix it, Pete. What was his name?”
Peter reached out his arms for his mentor and was immediately pulled in. The hand massaging his scalp and the arm wrapped across his back was comforting but not enough.
“Please don’t take the suit, I’m so sorry!”
Tony tensed and Peter wondered if he should let go. The question left his mind when he was held tighter in the embrace. “You’re not in trouble, I’m not mad at you, it’s all going to be okay.”
“It won’t.” Peter bawled, his tears were soaking through Tony’s shirt.
“Yes it will. You know how I know?”
Peter shook his head and looked into his dark brown eyes, they looked like home to the boy. “How?” It was cracky, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.
Tony sighed and kissed the top of his head. It made him feel clean, the clarified part of his body. “You’re a hero.”
Peter whimpered and balled his fists into the man’s shirt. “I’m not.”
Tony shook his head. “I wanted you to be better than me, ‘member? You’re ten times as great as any hero I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I know me.”
He couldn’t help but let out a weak giggle. It was gone before he knew it, and he was back into the hole he would need an army to get out of. He’d need ladders, wires, ropes and none other than Tony Stark.
Peter supposes,
“I’m right here, kid. I’m going to fix this, I fix everything.”
He isn’t alone.
So when he goes back to his room puffy and red, he gets into the shower and scrubs through his body twice. He consciously missed where Tony’s lips had been, he needs it. It’s clean. His body is still dirty and aches with retrospect. His hair drips from sweat and there’s blood mixed with white seamen still drizzling down his thighs but when he looks it’s soap and water. When he looks at himself in the glass doors his eye bags could hold whole grocery stores and his cheekbones could cut up fruit that his body yearned for.
Peter fiercely scrubs his hip bones until they’re red and the skin would rive on contact but at least it’s not red with fingernail scrapings and bloody spit.
He watches the water and soap circle the drain and feels a little less dirty.