Work Text:
It started out just like any other day. Cliché, yes, but true.
Though to be fair, all days start out pretty much the same. You rarely know first thing in the morning which ones are going to be absolutely incredible and which ones are going to be total shit storms.
Well, except for that one time Loki—in one of his more literal moods—decided it would be fun to actually make poop rain from the sky. Yes, actual, steaming, disgusting excrement that rained down on the city All. Day. Long. The Avengers and Spiderman (it would figure that this was the one time Peter’s dads not only let him help, but forced him to) had been conscripted by Shield early on to do damage control and aide hazmat in the cleanup.
Yeah. That, in Peter’s book, had been a pretty definite sign that the day was going nowhere fast.
However, this particular day started out much like any other for one Peter Parker Rogers-Stark. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the car horns were blaring during the morning rush hour—a very typical New York morning (and best of all, there was no shit raining from the sky). Peter’s alarm clock went off promptly at 7:00 am, waking him from the four hours of sleep he’d managed to snag after getting back from patrol.
Though it should probably go on record that, due to SOMEONE messing with his radio settings yet again, he was awakened not by the morning news but by the screaming tones of one of Tony’s preferred metal bands. Which meant that instead of waking up grumbling and groaning like every other teenager on the planet, Peter awoke with a shrill (yet still very manly, no matter how much Clint insisted otherwise) scream and leaped out of bed so fast he stuck himself to the ceiling.
“DAAAAAD!”
Steve sighed, turning over in bed to look at the all-too-smug face of his husband. “Tony, please tell me you didn’t program Peter’s alarm to play AC/DC again.”
“Of course not. You made me promise never to do that again after the last time.”
“Oh, well good. Then we should probably go see what Peter—,”
“This time it was Metallica.”
“TONY!”
Despite that early morning heart attack, the rest of Peter’s morning went about as smoothly as it always did.
Which is to say it had the about the same texture as the Rocky Mountains.
“Peter! Eat some breakfast before you go!”
“Can’t Cap, I’m gonna be late! Dammit! Where the hell is my bag...?”
“On the couch. And watch your language.”
“My board…”
“By the door.”
“My car keys…”
Tony snorted into his coffee mug, “Well Pete, unless you’ve added grand theft auto to your list of nightly activities—in between running around in spandex and pretending to be a spider—you don’t actually own a car.”
Peter stopped his frantic pat down of his pants and smiled a little too innocently at his fathers. “Oh right, I forgot, I’m the only son of a billionaire in New York without his own car. My mistake.”
“Aside from Harry Osborn, you’re the only son of a billionaire in New York. And last I checked, Norman Osborn isn’t exactly a great example to follow when it comes to parenting. Or anything, for that matter.”
“But Dad—,”
“Master Peter, I feel compelled to warn you that your first period begins in approximately twelve minutes. If you do not leave now, you will be tardy again.”
“Crap! Thanks for the warning Jarvis. Bye, Dad! Bye Cap!”
“Peter, don’t forget that the team is helping coordinate relief efforts in India after the factory collapse last week, so your dad and I probably won’t be home until late tonight. You sure you’re ok to get dinner on your own?”
Normally, Peter would have just thrown a quick, “I’ll be fine, good luck!” over his shoulder and continued on his frantic way. After all, it was definitely not the first time Avenger’s business had left him on his own for an evening. It was also far from the most dangerous mission his dads had been called away on. That wasn’t to say that Peter didn’t worry about his dads—far from it, he worried constantly—but he had learned to put on a brave face, both for their sakes and his own.
Yet for some reason, that morning, he paused. Peter couldn't place the feeling, but it was eerily similar to his spider-sense, though not nearly as intense. Whatever it was, it's enough to make the 15-year-old turn around and run back to where his fathers were sitting at the kitchen table and grab them both into a fierce hug.
To say Tony was startled would be an understatement. Ever since Peter had hit puberty, the teen had been shying away more and more from physical affection. Tony knew this was normal (at least, that was what Steve—and the numerous psychological experts he had frantically consulted after his son started refusing to kiss him good night—had told him), which is why the sudden change caught him very much off guard. “Whoa, Pete. Not that I’m complaining, but what’s with the spontaneous spider tackle?”
“No reason,” Peter replied, his voice muffled as he kept his face tucked into Steve’s neck. “I just…I love you both, you know? So be careful today. Please.”
Steve smiled and hugged his son’s slight form closer. “We love you too, Peter. Don’t worry, we’re always careful.”
Peter lifted his face and quirked a disbelieving eyebrow at Steve. Clearly, the boy had been spending far too much time with his Aunt Natasha lately.
“Well, I’m always careful, and I usually manage to keep your dad in check.”
“Hey, I resent that! I’m careful! I’m the careful-est of the careful! You don’t get to run a multi-billion dollar company without being careful.”
“You personally flew a nuclear missile into space, Tony.”
“That was a one time—,”
“And Aunt Pepper runs the company, dad. You just build the toys.”
“Et tu, Peter?”
“The truth hurts, Dad.”
Tony slumped back in his chair, muttering about mutinous husbands and traitorous sons. Steve smiled at his pouting husband and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Love you, Tony.”
Tony turned toward Steve and gives him sly grin, “You know, I’m not sure I believe you. We may have to go back to the bedroom so you can prove it to me.”
“Ohmygod! I did not just hear that! LALALA—,”
“Master Peter, you have approximately three minutes and twenty-seven seconds until the beginning of first period.”
“SH—CRAP!”
“Peter, calm down. If we take my bike and leave now—and provided I ignore every traffic law in existence—you should make it to school on time.”
“Really? Thanks Cap!”
“What’s this I hear? The great Captain America breaking the law instituted to keep the American people safe? For shame!”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“Thanks for the lift, Cap! You’re the best!”
Steve chuckled. “No problem, buddy. Have a great day, and your dad and I will see you when we get home tonight. Don’t stay up too late waiting for us though, ok? If we’re not home by midnight, go to bed. It’s still a school night.”
“Got it, Cap. Be safe!”
“Will do. Oh, and Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“You might want to take off the helmet before you go inside.”
“Huh? Oh, right. Thanks, Cap.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Peter smiled and gave his father one last wave as he watched him pull away from the school and head back to the tower. Sighing, Peter turned toward the building that would hold him prisoner for the next seven hours, and started trudging up the cement steps toward the front doors.
“You’re really lucky, you know.”
For the second time that morning, Peter’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He quickly spun toward the source of the voice, stopping when he saw the small figure kneeling next to the dumpster. “Carter! Dang man, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry.”
Then Peter noticed the boy’s bloody face and the papers strewn all around him.
“Aw man, Car. Did Flash and his gang of neanderthals get you again?”
“What gave it away?”
Peter hurried over to where the boy was trying futilely to force the dumped contents of his bag back into order. “I’m so sorry, man. I should have been here. It’s just that, I was running late this morning, and then Cap reminded me that he and Dad are headed to India today—,”
“It’s fine Peter! You were too busy with your perfect, super hero dads in your perfect home, living your perfect life. I get it. Besides, it’s not like I’m your responsibility or anything.”
Peter paused in his gathering of wayward papers, stunned by Carter’s sudden outburst. This was not like the usually soft spoken boy. “No, you’re not my responsibility. But you are my friend.”
Carter stilled and looked up at Peter’s face, as if judging his sincerity, then sighed. “Sorry, Pete. It’s just…it’s been a rough morning.”
“It’s cool, man. I get it. Here,” Peter handed Carter the last of his papers and stood, picking up the smaller boy’s bag and slinging it over his should as he did. “Whoa Car, what do you have in here, bricks? This thing weighs a ton! I know a bunch of papers don’t weigh that much.”
“Yeah, I hid part of the chemistry project that I’m still working on in one of the inside pockets so it wouldn’t fall out and break.”
“Smart thinking. Here,” Peter held out a hand and helped Carter to his feet. “I’ll walk you to your first period.”
“But you’re going to be late—,”
“Dude, I’m already late. What’s five more minutes?”
Carter gave Peter a small smile. “Thanks, man.”
“No prob, bro.”
“Yo Pete! Got any plans for tonight?”
Peter let out a grunt as his best friend—and fellow child of a billionaire—Harry Osborn came up behind him and slung an arm around his neck as he headed to their usual table to sit down for lunch. “No, not really. Dad and Cap are in India by now and won’t be back till late, so I’ll probably veg on the sofa, do homework and watch pay-per-view until they get home.”
“Or,” Harry interjected, giving Peter a smirk that the web-slinging teen knew from experience was always followed by one of Harry’s exceptionally bad and/or stupid ideas, “you could come over to my place and we could break into my dad’s liquor cabinet. The old man’s out of town this week—I know, please try to contain your shock—and I just happen to know where he keeps the good stuff.”
Peter sighed. Yep, this idea was definitely both bad and stupid. “Harry, do you really think—,”
“I can even get our driver to take us to the new club that just opened up downtown. What do ya think? Beats homework and pay-per-view, right?”
“Harry, it’s Wednesday.”
“So?”
“And we’re fifteen.”
“I repeat: so?”
“And, the last time you broke into your dad’s 'good stuff', you covered yourself in blue paint that you got from God-knows-where, grabbed a desk lamp and insisted that if we rubbed it three times, Robin Williams would appear. A claim made all the more disturbing, I might add, by the fact that the man had died two days earlier.”
Harry gave his friend a blank stare. “Yeah…since I remember none of that—and there is no physical proof it actually happened, so I would never have to admit to it even if, hypothetically, I did remember—I’m going to go ahead and call you a lying liar who lies.”
“Surveillance videos don’t lie, my friend. Neither do the digital copies of them I have tucked away for future use.”
“You wouldn’t dare—,”
Peter’s spider sense slammed to life just seconds before he heard the first shots. Luckily, those seconds were enough time for him to drop his tray and tackle Harry to the floor, effectively cutting off whatever his friend had been about to say.
What followed was pure chaos. Students screaming and crying, frantically trying to make it to the exit, while teachers futilely attempted to maintain some sort of order and at the same time ascertain where the shots came from and keep the panicking students safe.
It was in the middle of all this madness that Peter saw it: a small figure standing in the middle of the cafeteria, two larger bodies lying motionless at his feet. Slowly, the figure raised the gun and pointed it a third person.
Peter didn't even stop to think. He barely heard Harry screaming his name and trying to pull him back. He broke into an all-out sprint, pushing against the tide of people running in the opposite direction. Because Peter knew that small figure. He knew those skinny arms, those baggy clothes, those broken glasses. He knew it was—
“CARTER!”
Startled, the boy turned his head towards Peter, though he didn’t lower his arm and his grip on the gun didn’t loosen. “Pete? What are you doing here?”
“Carter…what are you…what are you doing? Why would you…?”
“Why? WHY? You know why Peter. You know what these assholes put me through every single day. Well, I’m done. I'm sick of being the target. I'm not just gonna lie down and take it anymore like the little bitch they all say I am. I’m going to end it, once and for all.”
Peter glanced down and for the first time realized that he recognizes the two people bleeding out at Carter’s feet: Greg and Mason, Flash’s two main cronies. And the figure Carter was currently pointing his gun at? None other than Flash Thompson himself. “Look Carter, these guys are total jerks, I know, and they deserve to answer for what they’ve done, but not like this. I know how you feel, but—,”
“YOU know how I feel?” Carter barked out a bitter laugh, “Yeah right. You’re the son of Iron Man and Captain America. Your dad is richer than God. You’re a somebody, Peter. You matter. No one would dare treat you like you’re lower than dirt. So tell me, Pete, how could you possibly know how I feel?”
Peter could see the tears streaming down Carter’s face and used his distraction to inch his way closer. “Carter, you’re somebody too, and you definitely matter. You’re my friend Carter, and I care about you, so please, please don’t do this.”
Carter gave him a sad smile that Peter found anything but comforting. “Sorry Pete, but it’s too late to turn back now. Besides, I really don’t have anything left to lose.”
Even with his spider powers, Peter knew he was still too far away to grab the gun from Carter, but there was one thing he could do.
Carter pulled the trigger. Another loud bang echoed off the walls of the cafeteria.
And Peter threw himself in front of Flash.
It was not the first time Peter had been shot, which is probably the only reason he managed to remain conscious despite the pain. As Spiderman, he’d suffered his fair share of bullet wounds. However, none of them had been at close range, and none of them had gone straight through the soft tissue of his abdomen and come out the other side.
And none of them had been fired by one of his friends.
“Pete! Oh God, no. Dammit, why? Why did you do that, man?" Carter fisted his hands in his hair, staring in horror at the bloody hole in Peter's stomach. "No no no no no no. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t supposed to be you, Peter! IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE YOU!”
Peter held his hand against the ragged wound in his gut, trying to keep pressure on it. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Flash, only to discover that the large teen had passed out from fear and shock. Peter looked back to Carter, who was trembling as he held the gun at his side.
“C-Carter, it’s ok. I-It’s not as bad as it looks. Just drop the gun and we can just walk out of here,” Peter’s vision was starting to blur, but he managed to take a few steps towards Carter before slowly slumping to the ground. “Please, Carter…”
Carter’s trembling only intensified as he slowly raised the gun again.“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to take you with me. I’m sorry.”
“CARTER, NO!”
The last thing Peter was aware of is a final gunshot and a warm spray on his face. Then, there was only black.
Tony had had a bad feeling ever since Peter left with Steve for school that morning.
He knew he was being ridiculous. After all, they were the ones going on a mission, not Peter. Peter was just going to school like he always did, and coming home like he always did. He wasn't even going out as Spiderman that night, because Tony and Steve didn't like him doing hero business when they’re out of the city.
Yet even though they were in India and had been working for several hours, Tony still couldn't shake the ominous assurance that something terrible was going to happen to his son. And each time he looked up and caught Steve’s eye, he could tell his husband was feeling the very same thing.
“Mr. Stark! Captain Rogers!”
Tony and Steve immediately turned towards the junior Shield agent running towards them. “Sirs, there’s a communication for you from Director Fury. It’s marked as top priority.”
This time it wasn't just Tony and Steve who had a bad feeling, but the rest of the team as well. As one they all sprinted back to the jet. Fury’s image was already up on the monitor when they got there.
“Tony, Steve…” Fury paused, as if unsure how to proceed. If Tony was scared before, he’s positively terrified now. Fury never hesitated, and he never called them by their first names.
Finally Fury took a deep breath and continued. “There’s been a shooting at Midtown High School. Three students are dead, and one was critically injured.”
Tony’s whole body went numb. He knew what was coming next even before the words left Fury’s lips.
“Peter’s in surgery at the Shield Med Bay right now. The doctors...we have the best surgeons in the world working on him, but they said..." Fury sighed, running a hand over his bare scalp.
"It doesn't look good."
The first thing Peter became aware of was the smell. He knew that smell all too well. It was a disturbing mix of antiseptic, stale air, and latex.
In other words, Peter Parker Rogers-Stark had once again landed himself in the hospital.
Before he had any time to figure out what he had done this time to get himself sentenced to this white, sterile circle of Hell, the reason made itself known in the form of a burning pain flaring out from the left side of his abdomen.
And the pain brought with it some very unwelcome memories.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, praying to every deity he could think of that it was all just a nightmare. It couldn't be true. No, any minute now, his dads would come in and yell and lecture him about some stupid stunt he pulled as Spiderman, and everything would be ok. Carter hadn't had that gun. He hadn't shot anybody. He hadn't…he wasn’t…
“Oh God, Carter…”
“Peter!”
Peter opened his eyes and noticed, for the first time, that he wasn't alone in the room. “Dad, Cap…”
“Oh thank God!” Steve fell to his knees next to Peter’s bed and took the trembling teenager's hand, clasping it firmly but gently in both of his. Even with his blonde head bowed over their joined hands so Peter couldn't see his face, it was easy to tell by the shaking of those familiar broad shoulders that the Captain was fighting a losing battle to keep a hold on his emotional control.
Peter saw his dad walk to the other side of his bed and wrap a shaking arm around his shoulders. “Goddammit, Peter! Don’t you ever scare us like that again! Never, never again,” Tony breathed, muffling what sounded like an aborted sob by burying his face in his son’s hair.
Peter breathed heavily, trying to hold back his own tears. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just, I c-couldn’t just let…let Carter…”
“Oh Peter, no,” Steve interrupted, looking up at his son’s stricken face. “You have nothing to be sorry for, son. You saved a boy’s life, and who knows how many others! You’re a hero, Peter.”
The teen choked out a laugh, unable to stop the tears from finally falling down his face. “A hero? Really? I don't know who you talked to, Cap, but clearly they told you a different story than the one I remember. Maybe we should go over the days events, so you can point out all my 'heroic' deeds to me."
Peter could practically feel his own bitterness choking him, but now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop himself.
"Was it the part where I spoke with Carter just this morning and didn't pick up on anything? Or the part where I carried his bag--the bag that held his GUN--and still suspected nothing?"
Peter paused, already feeling his next words just as keenly as he'd felt the bullet that ripped through him.
"Or maybe it was the part where I claimed to be Carter's friend, said I'd be there for him, and yet I had no idea...no idea how-how broken he was underneath it all."
Peter fisted his hands in the rough fabric of the standard issue SHIELD medical sheets, observing with a strange sense of detachment as his tears dripped slowly onto the material. "No, Cap. I'm no hero. There was nothing even remotely heroic about what I did today."
Steve looked at his son, confusion and dawning dread warring with the overwhelming relief he was still feeling. "Peter, what are you talking about? You saved lives today—,"
"No, I cost people their lives," Peter looked down and tightly fisted his hospital blanket. "If I were a real hero, I would have known Carter had that gun. If I were a hero, I would have gotten to him before he shot Mason and Greg. IF I WERE A GODDAMN FUCKING HERO, MY FRIEND WOULDN'T BE FUCKING DEAD!"
Peter was screaming and hysterical by the end, to the point where Steve had to grab his wrists and force his son to look at him. “Peter, none of that is your fault. Do you hear me? It is not. Your. Fault. You did the best you could in that situation, and you came out alive. Anything else that happened was out of your hands.”
“I’m supposed to be Spiderman, Cap," Peter sobbed, his voice cracking. "Spiderman is supposed to help people and save lives. But…but how can I do that…what right do I have to do that if I can’t even save my friend?”
“Listen to me, Peter,” Tony broke in, “Today, you weren’t Spiderman: web slinging superhero extraordinaire. Today, you were Peter Rogers-Stark. You were a fifteen-year-old kid thrust into the middle of a situation where there was no clear bad guy, and there was no happy ending. You should never have had to face that, Peter, but you did. And because of you, a boy who would have otherwise been killed gets to go home to his family. If that’s not a hero, I don’t know what is.”
“I-I just can’t get his face out of my head, Dad. He…he looked so hopeless, like he didn’t have anyone in the world. How could I have not seen it before? How could I not have seen how bad things were for him? Why didn’t I…?”
Steve released Peter’s wrists and placed a hand gently on his cheek. “That, Peter, is the hardest part of being a hero. The ‘whys’ and ‘what ifs’ will eat you alive if you let them. But here’s the honest, painful truth: you can’t save everybody. No matter how much you train, no matter hard you work, you just can’t do it. I’m sorry, Peter.
“Carter was hiding hurts no one knew about, and it breaks my heart to think of what that poor boy must have endured alone. But you did reach out, and you were his friend. You did the best you could Peter. That’s all we can ever do.”
Peter looked away from his fathers and stared into the empty space in front of him, not speaking for a long while. When their son finally did break his silence, it was in a voice so low that both Steve and Tony had to strain to hear him. “But it wasn’t enough, was it?”
Steve cast a stricken look over at Tony, who tightened his hold on his son, but could find no words to comfort him. Maybe there just weren't any. Maybe all they could do is just hold their boy, be thankful he was alive, and share as much of his pain as Peter will allow.