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People talked.
Peter expected it. Naturally, he was bound to garner attention at one point or another, what with coming to school once in a while with bruises marring his under eyes and jawline or cuts littering his temple. Sometimes with a limp but only every so often.
There were always whispers behind hands, glances flickering his way and then guiltily back to themselves, like they were caught doing something they shouldn’t. Peter always ignored the gossip. It’s easy to ignore when he doesn’t know what’s being said so he never asked Ned or Michelle if they knew what was being said about him. They probably didn’t but then again, it was possible Michelle had ears and eyes everywhere like a Cold War spy. He wouldn’t put it past her either.
But one night, he takes a real bad beating. He attributes it to a long night and slowed reflexes, his danger sense tame and muted in the recesses of his mind. In the mirror, one eye is swollen red and ringed with bruises. Blood is trailing down along the side of his face and a mosaic of darkly colored bruises span along his side, where he was kicked by three guys twice his size.
The encounter was only a few minutes but each second could’ve been fatal. Eventually, Karen had activated Enhanced Combat Mode. It was like he wasn’t even control of his own body as Karen fought them off for him, thankfully leaving them alive. With a sigh of relief, he fled the scene and caught a train ride home.
Now, here, in the bathroom with his split lip and blood glistening in the dim lighting, he sighs, wondering how he’s going to explain this at school tomorrow. It’s one of the worst beatings he’s gotten and he knows people will talk. Well, they do anyways, but talk more than they already do. Word travels fast. Ned and Michelle will definitely hear something, albeit unintentionally or not.
He’s contemplating this when May knocks on the doorway trim, leaning around it and peering in. Her brow is creased together in concern and she’s worrying her lower lip.
“Ooh,” she says, low, “That bad, huh?”
Peter shrugs and then winces, pain pinching at his shoulder. He breathes out, slow and measured. “It’s not-not that bad, May, I got it.”
“You want me to help you?”
He would, he very much would like to sit down because he feels just a little lightheaded, so he nods, eases himself down onto the toilet lid with a groan and lets May rifle around in the cabinet for first aid supplies.
She kneels down on the tile in front of him and uncaps the antibiotic cream, spreading it onto gauze and then cleaning the abrasions on his side. He hisses sharply upon contact, heat racing around the wound.
“Sorry,” May says and dabs the cream gently.
“It burns,” Peter rasps, trying to even his breaths.
“I know, honey. Sorry, but I have to clean them.”
Peter stifles a groan. “I know.”
May cleans his wounds tenderly with a practiced ease and then layers gauze over a few of the deeper cuts. There’s nothing she can do about the bruises, unfortunately. With a damp rag, she washes away the dried blood on his face and placed a band-aid over the origin of it. They are mostly quiet. May asks him about how his night went with a tightness in her voice that tells Peter she is trying very hard not to panic.
But he answers her questions and leaves out the more graphic details. No need to paint her a complete picture. He’s already a sight for sore eyes as it is.
Once she’s done, she boxes the supplies and places them in the cabinet beneath the sink. Then she tells him to wait and scurries to the kitchen, returning with pain killers and water.
He takes them and washes them down, hands her back the glass with gratefulness in his eyes. “Thank you.”
May glances him up and down, the worry still there, ringing her irises. Sometimes, even though she tries to hide them, Peter sees the grey hairs. Only a few and she always rids herself of them as they crop up. But there are also the fine lines around her mouth, the crows feet around her eyes. She’s aging. Peter wonders if the stress he’s given her has something to do with that and he can’t help thinking he’s the guilty party here, not the guys who beat him half to death.
Peter gives her a small, reassuring smile but the effect he was trying to have is undercut by his split lip. But May just replies, “You’re welcome” in a quiet, choked up voice.
Before she can leave, Peter catches her hand and stares at her with a hard-set determination. His tone, however, is gentle.
“I’m gonna be okay, May.”
There might come a day when that’s not true, when he might not come back home and they find his body in the streets. They both know that. And yet, May nods hastily and replies with, “I know.”
Then she sniffles to herself and walks away, Peter’s hand falling from her grasp.
-
At school, it’s like a scene in the movies when everyone’s heads turn as someone walks through the door.
Peter feels everyone’s burning, inquisitive stares as he tries to slip through the crowd unnoticed. He has his hood on like it will help to conceal the cuts and bruises but it’s not working. He wants to shrivel beneath their gaze and it’s even worse as he hears the murmurs begin at a low volume beneath the louder clamour of people talking about other topics that don’t center around him. It’s unsettling. He tries not to think too hard about it.
When he arrives at his locker, Ned is already waiting. The excitement, however, written across his features falls away into shock.
“Oh, my God,” he comments, low, “Peter, what happened? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder and wincing. He begins to dial in his locker combination. “Bunch of guys got the jump on me while I was half asleep last night. Barely made it home.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, Peter. If there’s anything I can do to help today, just let me know, alright?”
Peter gives him a half smile. “Would you mind shuffling my books around for me?”
Every tiny movement he makes exacerbates the aches and pains in his sides and he has a throbbing headache where he got hit in the head. His ears are ringing just a little. He’s trying not to move more than necessary and thankfully, Ned jumps right in without hesitation and takes Peter’s backpack, pulling books out and stuffing them into his locker then replacing them with other books.
Peter leans against a closed locker for support while Ned goes through the motions of doing this. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, not the ache just below his ribcage that pulses with every breath he takes. When he hears his locker door close, and he opens his eyes, he sees multiple pairs of eyes hastily flick away from him.
He watches them to try to shrug into an air of normalcy and how they shift awkwardly with their books in their arms against a row of lockers. He turns when he feels a light tapping on his shoulder and his name being said.
“Here’s all your books for the first half of the day,” Ned says and hands Peter his backpack.
He takes it and shoulders it slowly, each movement agonizing. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
“See you. Text me if you need anything.”
-
As the day wears on, the whispers grow painfully louder.
Peter is trying very hard not to listen to the lunch table behind him gossip. He swirls his carrots in ranch and the words “I heard he was mugged last night” filter through his ears without warning.
At least he knows the truth. And so does Ned, who keeps sending worried glances his way and chewing his lip nervously. He leans forward and, low and conspiratorial, he asks, “Are you gonna do something about it?”
Peter shrugs. “Let them think what they want. It’s not true.”
“Well, yeah, but if the rumors keep going around-”
“They’ll die down eventually, Ned. It’ll be yesterday’s news tomorrow.”
Ned opens his mouth to reply but is quickly cut off by a hand being slapped on Peter’s back and a snide interjection of, “Hey, Parker.”
Peter bites back a pained cry deep in his throat and looks up to see Flash hovering over him, phone in hand.
“You doing alright?” Flash asks, concern drawing his brows together.
Pete glances at Ned, who is just as confused as he feels. Trepidation chews away at Peter’s stomach. This is a trap, somehow, he just hasn’t figured out how yet.
Slowly, hesitantly, he edges out, “Ye-ah. I’m fine.”
Flash looks at Ned. “Well, Peter, maybe you should stay the night at Ned’s house for the time being until this all blows over.”
Peter face pinches together in confusion, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. There’s a dark, underlying to current to this whole performance and Peter is waiting for the truth to come out. He doesn’t know something. And Flash is lording it over him.
“What are you talking about, Flash?” Ned asks.
“Oh, you didn’t hear? I’m shocked, Leeds, for being Peter’s best friend, I’d think you’d know.”
Peter clears his throat. “Know what?”
“Oh, you know...that Peter’s aunt hits him.”
No.
There was a time, once, when there was an exploding bomb in a building Peter was trying to evacuate as Spider-Man. But the bomb squad wasn’t going to arrive in time before the whole building blew so Peter took it upon himself to try and deactivate the bomb.
Much to his chagrin, and near ultimate demise, he failed and he only had about fifteen seconds to flee the building. He was caught on the fringes of the blast radius and there was a blinding white flash encompassing his vision as he was blown back into a nearby building wall, the air knocked straight out of his lungs. It was disorienting. The world was spinning, his ears ringing. He felt nauseated.
He feels like he did that day. Peter’s jaw clenches as his blood beats violently in his ears. He seethes, silently, anger boiling. He can’t get into a fight at school, he can’t.
“Flash, that’s not true,” Ned defends, immediate. “Okay? I know her, Peter’s aunt would never do that.”
Flash looks to him. “Is it true, Parker? Or did you just tell him to say that in case anyone ever found out?”
Slowly, Peter unlocks his jaw and stands, hoping he looks as deadly as he feels. He approaches Flash and a dark, almost unwelcome pleasure courses through him as he replies, “No.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t hit me, Flash, okay?”
Flash almost looks scared for a second, blinking like a deer in headlights. Finally speechless for once, he glances to Ned, to Pete, then straightens, turns and walks away.
He watches Flash’s retreating back and then he notices that people are staring at him, wordlessly. The world seems to spin slowly back into motion as they turn their backs to him and return to eating their lunch, a clamour of voices rising like a tide.
Peter seats himself and Ned jumps down his throat with, “Peter, I am so-”
“Let’s just not talk about it, okay, Ned?” Peter bites, agitation grating at his insides. Then he sighs. Sincere, he adds, “I’m sorry.”
Ned shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand.”
They eat their lunch in silence.
-
Happy picks him up after school.
Peter enters the car by slamming the door a little too hard, frustration still gnawing at him with smoldering teeth.
“Hey!” Happy exclaims. He glares at Peter in the rearview mirror. “Slam the door, a little harder next time will you?”
“Sorry,” Peter replies, sharp and agitated. The stupid seatbelt is stuck again.
He yanks on it three times until it finally comes free without him having yanked it free from the car entirely. He buckles himself up and then blows out a warm, heavy breath as he watches the students hurry down the front steps.
Happy hasn’t moved yet. Instead, like he’s approaching a wounded animal, he gently questions, “You okay?”
“I’m fine, just drive,” Peter replies, angry and tired all at once.
Happy waits a second before he shifts the car into drive and merges with traffic.
They weave through the city and Peter thinks about May, if she has heard any of this. If the school is going to call her, if there will be an investigation launched. Probably not but he can’t help but think he got them into this mess. It’s his fault, as per usual.
He’s trying to do the right thing, trying to be Spider-Man, but he hates the consequences that come with the work. The slandering, the rumors. The bruises and the late nights and the aunt who won’t rest until he climbs through the window and she hears the lock click. Crime takes its toll on everyone, not just those who commit it or stop it.
He sighs and leans his head against the cool, glass window. He’s been aching all day, both physically and emotionally. His stomach has been unsettling too by all the whispers, all the pain. May would never do that. She would never hurt him.
He just wants Flash and everyone else to leave him alone.
Peter doesn’t know how but he manages to fall asleep. His eyes close, he fades into his thoughts until they disappear and then Happy is saying, “We’re here” and his eyes snap open to see the compound glimmering against a clear sky.
He undoes his seatbelt and leaves the car with his backpack, sparing one glance at Happy then suddenly becoming interested in the gravel beneath his feet as he crunches over the rocks to the stairs. Guilt pinches at his stomach and he knows, until he apologizes, it’s not going to go away.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says. “For being mad at you earlier.”
Happy sighs heavily. “It’s alright. I don’t think it’s me you were really mad at anyways.”
This, at least, is true.
They go inside and Happy waves Peter through the security checkpoints and lets Peter make his way downstairs to Tony’s private lab.
“Tony should be there already,” Happy says, by way of explanation.
Peter nods as the elevator doors slide close and then he’s watching the blinking numbers go down and down until he hits one.
The doors slide apart, opening up to the lab. Tony is tapping at a tablet cradled in his arms as a hologram shifts and changes in front of him. He glances at Peter as he walks in towards the countertops.
“Hey, kid,” Tony greets, casual. “How was school today?”
With heavy footsteps, Peter replies grumpily, “It was fine, it’s...whatever.”
Tony stops to really look at him then sets down his tablet, powering the holotable down. The blue light of the shifting hologram vanishes into thin air along with it. Tony leans against the tablet and crosses his arms.
“Well, color me enthused,” he says, sardonic. He lifts his chin quick, like a challenge. “What happened?”
“Nothing!” Peter exclaims and drops his backpack beside a cabinet with a resounding thud. “But, apparently that’s not what everybody else thinks!”
Tony uncrosses his arms and comes over, suddenly serious. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s this about?” he asks, gentle.
Peter takes one look at Tony and huffs. He waves a hand in dismissal, like it will make all the rumors floating around at school disappear, just like the hologram. “Just…” he sighs, “The kids at school, they started a rumor.”
Slowly, Tony replies, “Ok-ay, well, as a public figure, I think I have some expertise in that area, so. What was it about?” He frowns. “And on another note, what happened to your face?”
Peter sighs heavily and sits himself down onto a stool. “Guys got the jump on me last night. And now, I show up to school with these bruises and…”
He trails off, emotions upset. The anger fades out and sadness comes rushing in like an ocean wave as Flash’s words echo in his ears.
“Oh, you know...that Peter’s aunt hits him.”
His eyes brim with tears and he looks down at the floor, cheeks flushed with embarrassment to be crying in front of Tony. He’s not sorry for himself about the rumors at school because sticks, stones and words can’t break his bones but he feels sorry for May, for the attack on her character. He did defend her but not fast enough because he was too blindsided by the accusations that Ned beat him to it.
He sniffles, nose itchy as Tony takes a step closer. Tenderly, he prompts, “And what did they say?”
Peter finds a scab on one of his fingers and rubs a thumb over it, refusing to look Tony in the eye. Tony, who has probably been called worse by all the press and reporters he’s dealt with on a daily basis for almost his entire life. Peter’s sure maybe even Pepper and Rhodey has been attacked. Guilty by association and all that.
It feels stupid, suddenly. Dwarfed by perspective, by the knowledge that others have gone through worse. Why should he be upset about rumors at school?
Peter shrugs and shakes his head, locks of hair falling into his eyes. Quiet, because he doesn’t trust his own voice not to break, he says, “It’s stupid.”
There’s movement in his periphery and then Tony is kneeling down in front of him, looking up into Peter’s eyes as he hovers over him on the stool. There is sincerity in his eyes, a genuine care. Not the care feigned by Flash earlier at school but not the worry May has either.
“If it’s making you upset,” Tony says, “then it’s not stupid.”
Peter closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath but when he exhales, it’s shaky and he feels unsteady, unprepared. Gutted and torn apart all because of stupid false rumors at school about him and May.
“They, um,” he murmurs, sniffling. He inhales deeply again, forces it to be even when the air comes out. “They saw the bruises and they...they said that...May hit me. Even though it’s not true.”
He doesn’t dare glimpse Tony’s reaction. It’s easier, with the distance, with not being able to watch as Tony processes what’s just been said.
But he must see through it. Because Tony’s smart and he sees through everything so once silence passes between them for a moment, the first thing he says is, “Pete, can you open your eyes for me?”
Peter does and when he opens them, he doesn’t see pity or worry. Tony’s face is almost pained. It’s etched into the frown lines around his mouth, the way his features are noticeably pinched together.
“Come here,” Tony says softly.
And without hesitation, Peter slides himself off the stool and falls into Tony’s arms.
Peter lets himself cry into the fabric of Tony’s sweatshirt, which smells faintly of coffee that reminds him of Ben. Sobs wrack his body as he sits there, curled in on himself, Tony’s arms wrapped around his body. Tony shushes him soothingly and rubs circles on his back while Peter lets it all out. All the anger and the sadness and the pain and Tony has taken one look at him and has chosen comfort rather than chastisement.
“We’re gonna figure this out, together, okay?” Tony assures, gently. “I’m gonna help you sort this whole mess out, I promise.”
Peter nods, tear stained cheeks shifting against the damp fabric. His breaths become hitched as he tries to stop sobbing, tries to even them out. He feels tired, the day wearing him through and through like a pair of old sneakers with a hole in the soles.
“Come here, come with me,” Tony says and helps Peter stand. His legs are shaky and untrustworthy beneath him.
Tony keeps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and holds his forearm with the other hand. Tony guides him over to a couch against the wall and tells him to lie down. Peter does and he lets Tony drape a blanket over his shoulders as he nestles into the couch cushions, into the pillow that’s placed underneath his head.
Tony runs a hand through Peter’s curls and he closes his eyes, an overwhelming sense of peace flooding his senses.
“We’re gonna figure this out together,” Tony says, “But why don’t you close your eyes for now, okay? You’ve had a long day and you deserve to rest while I make some calls, alright?”
Peter nods again, already feeling himself drifting. But he still has enough of his mind left to whisper, “Stay?”
A pause. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
The last sensation he remembers is Tony’s fingers still carding through his hair and the last thought he has is that, while people may talk and spread rumors, Peter knows the actual truth.
And the truth is: Tony won’t.