Work Text:
Somehow, it wasn’t something he’d truly ever considered. Sure, it was always there in the back of his mind. But it wasn’t something he thought about in great detail. It wasn’t something he wanted to ever think about in great detail.
Until it happened.
Until it happened and he was forced to face his worst fear.
A fear he’d faced far too often in his young life already.
You see, he never allowed himself to think of what it would be like. To come home high and exhilarated from all the good he’d done that day. Proud of how he helped the city. Hopeful for the future of humanity. But to have that hope smashed. Obliterated in an instant. The instant he walked through his front door.
Because the lights were off. Because the smell of burning meatloaf and charred vegetables was oddly absent. Because he never thought he would have to walk into his own apartment and see her tied up like that. Restrained with a gag in her mouth and pure, unadulterated terror in her eyes.
A gun to her head.
He froze. His heart stopped in terror.
It wasn’t meant to be this way. It was never meant to be this way.
Because he did what he did to protect her.
She was supposed to feel safe in her own home. Comfortable and at ease. Not strung to a chair with threats of bullets in her head. Not broken and bloody in a way that reminded him too much of that day. That horrific, horrible day.
The day that changed his life.
Forever.
He had to do something. He had to stop hyperventilating and do something. It couldn’t be like last time. He couldn’t screw up that badly ever again.
But she is already hurt. She is already traumatized. This is your fault.
A muffled sound from the back of her throat. If she was able, it would have been a scream.
It caught his attention. Made him realize the gravitas of the situation. Made him realize he couldn’t afford to freeze up. Couldn’t afford to stand idly by.
Because not even in the lowest depths of hell would he allow this to be like last time.
He would fight. And he would win.
It was that simple.
--
Pain exploded across his right temple. Tore into his skin and ripped into his skull.
He was taking a beating. A brutal and relentless beating. Because this guy was good. He knew what he was doing. He had to. If he was to get past his defenses. If he was to get to her.
And he wasn’t sure what he’d done to the man. What he’d done to warrant this kind of revenge. This deeply personal and insanely crooked revenge.
He didn’t even know who he was.
A man without a name. A man without a name who was threatening the person whose name was most important to him.
It was twisted. Twisted in a way he didn’t even want to begin to define.
He landed a punch. A hard punch. One to his nose that instantly made blood spill onto the carpet. Leaving a stain that would, if he got through this—if they got through this, be a constant reminder of his failure to protect.
But the punch wasn’t good enough. In fact, it only served to make this dark, twisted and heartless intruder angrier. More upset.
The man lunged at him with incredible force. The butt of his rifle coming down upon his chest. Knocking him off his feet and taking the air from his lungs. He felt several ribs break. A white-hot pain searing into him. Suffocating him.
He couldn’t think clearly for a moment after that.
And it was a moment that would cost him.
He was hit again. And again. And again.
In the same spot. In the same way.
Until he was a moaning, whimpering mess on his own living room floor.
The man seemed to be satisfied after that. And through the haze of pain, he retreated. He retreated back to her. A stalking, slithering, sinister gate.
And he thought he saw the faintest of smiles. If you could call it that.
No. It couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t be like last time. He had to do something. He had to find a strength he didn’t have.
The man was cooing. Caressing her face in a way that made him sick.
But he was distracted. He was distracted and that would have to be good enough.
It was all he could do to crawl away. Gripping the carpet with each pained breath. Biting his tongue to keep from making a sound. Because he couldn’t afford that.
Somehow, through the confusion and pain and breathlessness, he made it to the kitchen. And he knew this would be his only chance. He needed the element of surprise on his side. And this was the only way.
He knew where she kept their biggest, heaviest pan. It was in a place free of other dishes.
That would help him. Because he couldn’t afford to make a sound.
He gripped the counter, knuckles turning white with his exertion, and somehow pulled himself up. Got his legs underneath him. A standing position.
He didn’t remember much after that. Or maybe he did. Maybe he was just electing to ignore the worst of it. The worst of the violence and the worst of humanity.
The worst of himself.
Because even his scrambled, dazed mind knew somewhere that he didn’t have to go that far. That blood and brain fluid and grey tissue didn’t need to meet each other in that horrible, sickening way.
But an animalistic part of him had been released. It had been released when he’d come home to see her hurt like that. Threatened like that. Humiliated like that.
And now she was safe. And he’d succeeded in protecting her.
She was safe. It was over. His energy spent.
The soiled pan fell to the floor with him.
A thump and a bang.
--
--
--
Peter opened his eyes to white ceilings, white walls and white sheets.
There was too much white. It was too great of a contrast.
The contrast of something he remembered immediately but wished desperately to forget.
Because the last thing he remembered was the dark of night and the pool of blood around the head of a man he didn’t even know the name of.
He must have been in a hospital. But he didn’t much care. The only emotion he was capable of feeling at the moment was apathy.
A numb kind of apathy.
But he wasn’t alone.
There was a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Other than his own, that is.
And he looked around. He looked past the white.
May was there. Asleep in a chair next to his bed. One hand holding his, and the other in a sling. Arm in a pink plaster cast. Even in sleep she looked exhausted. Her brow furrowed; wrinkles defined.
She looked in pain. But she was alive. Okay. Breathing on her own accord.
He was almost giddy with relief. A humorless, breathless laugh escaping his chest.
It hurt. It hurt but he didn’t care.
“Peter.” A sharp, tense voice said, cutting into his thoughts.
He looked to the source of the noise. The doorway to his hospital room.
It was Mr. Stark.
The man looked slightly disturbed, leaning up against the door frame. And Peter couldn’t understand why.
But he could understand. He just didn’t want to.
Because within five minutes he obliterated everything Spider-Man stood for. Everything Peter Parker stood for. And Mr. Stark had to know that pan would forever be stained with the fruits of the greatest mistake of his life.
He made the greatest mistake in order to save the greatest person he had ever known.
But she was still hurt. Because of him. Because of all his inadequacies and shortcomings.
It was never enough.
--
The next time he woke up, the first thing he noticed was the fire in his chest. Burning brightly and obliterating everything it its wake. He wanted to claw at it. To let it free. To release it from inside him.
But only part of that fire was physical.
Only part of it was a physical pain.
He looked down at himself then, inspecting his bare but bandaged chest. Mottled bruises seeping out from underneath the white.
And the red.
A trail of it. In a tube. A tube that was sticking out of his chest.
“It’s a chest tube.” Mr. Stark said.
Peter snapped his head over to the side of his bed. Somehow, he’d been so wrapped up in his head he hadn’t noticed Mr. Stark sitting there.
“One of your broken ribs penetrated your lung. It’s there to drain the fluid out.”
“Oh.”
It was all he could think to say. All he could get his tired and sluggish mind to come up with.
It didn’t matter though.
Because he was hostage to this situation. The tube tethering him down. Like a rope. Trapping him in this moment.
A moment he would have to learn how to live with.
Somehow.
But all he wanted was to run and scream and forget.
--
Peter didn’t know how much time had passed while he was in the hospital. And he didn’t have the courage or the energy to ask anyone about it either.
But now, however long it had been, they were going home.
Him and May.
But was it a home if he didn’t feel safe there?
Mr. Stark told him it would be okay. Told him there was increased security at the building. But May was still hurt. Still had a broken arm.
And besides, Mr. Stark looked worried. He didn’t seem sure.
A plethora of security guards didn’t matter. Things could still happen.
They always did.
--
The apartment wasn’t as they left it.
Peter didn’t think it would be.
Things looked straightened. Like they were put back in their proper places.
The pan was gone.
Gone, gone.
It wasn’t even in the kitchen. Where it belonged.
But he supposed it didn’t really belong there anymore.
The only evidence that something happened was a big, dark bloodstain on the living room carpet.
And Peter knew that blood belonged to neither of the apartment’s occupants.
He had a sudden itch to remove it, although it was likely someone already tried. He couldn’t live in a place where he had to see that every day.
He just couldn’t.
But he didn’t want to be the one to scrub away blood belonging to a nameless face either.
But May’s arm was still broken. And he was completely healed.
So, he would do it.
He had to.
--
It turned out the back and forth movements of scrubbing, accompanied with the strong scent of bleach, was soothing.
For a little while.
In a twisted sort of way.
Was it wrong to think like that? Did he have the right to be calmed by someone else’s pain? A pain he caused?
He didn’t expect the thoughts to overwhelm him in that moment, but they did.
And suddenly, he couldn’t clean the bloodstains anymore.
The impulse went as soon as it came.
--
As the days wore on, the numbers on the calendar getting bigger and bigger, Peter realized he only had one desire anymore.
To bury the slimy, sick feeling inside of him. Lock it in a place where even he couldn’t feel it.
Because he had to go on.
Somehow.
He needed to live with what was left.
Somehow.
And burying that repulsive, dark feeling was the only way he knew how.
So, he dove headfirst into his studies. Blocking everything else out.
By being busy.
He went to every decathlon practice. He didn’t miss it once.
He was pretty sure MJ was on to him.
Or maybe it was just his new-found paranoia.
He even signed up for robotics club again.
Ned was thrilled, but not before giving Peter a few weird looks.
He hadn’t told either of them. Hadn’t told them what he did.
Because he was scared they would leave him. Hang him out to dry. He was scared of how they would look at him. Their expressions twisting into disgust and distrust when catching his eye in the hall at school.
And he didn’t want that.
--
Peter buried the suit in the back of his closet. Putting it in a box of Ben’s old things. He didn’t think about the implications of that. He couldn’t afford to. He just had to get the damn thing out of his sight.
Because he didn’t deserve Spider-Man.
Not after that.
He checked on May constantly. Texted her throughout the day. Called her when she didn’t respond quickly.
He stayed at home whenever he could. And he checked the locks on the doors and windows obsessively.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew none of this was good. For either of them. But he couldn’t stop. Because he was terrified of what would happen if he did.
His aunt didn’t seem to notice the change in his behavior. Too entangled in her own mind, Peter supposed.
They were close in proximity, but far retreated into their own heads.
They didn’t talk much anymore.
But it was just fine by him.
He didn’t like when she worried. When she asked questions.
But Mr. Stark asked him loads of questions. Texting him almost every day.
Peter tried his best to ignore the man. Brush him off.
He didn’t know if it was working.
--
He saved May, but she got hurt. She was hurt because of him.
And it wasn’t just a physical hurt either. Peter wasn’t naïve enough to think that.
What would Ben think of him now? For a while, he thought he could live up to the power and responsibility and all that. But little by little, that belief, that hope, was stripped away.
Until he had nothing left.
Peter wouldn’t be surprised to learn his uncle was disgusted with him.
For letting May get hurt. For letting her get ambushed in her own home.
Because of him.
Because of who he was.
--
Sometimes he wondered if that encounter was real at all. Sometimes he wondered if anyone actually came into their home like that. So brutally and so forcefully.
Was it real? Or was it a dream?
A nightmare.
None of it felt real. That was for certain.
Instead, it felt like a deep, opaque fog. One that he couldn’t shake. One that was disorienting him and leaving him lost. Wandering.
Without meaning. Without purpose.
But some days it felt different. Like a translucent glass wall was in between him and the event. And he was looking in. As if it were someone else. As if it were someone else who had done that.
That’s why he wondered if it was real or not.
--
He tried to remove the bloodstains again. Looking at them was just too much.
But they wouldn’t come out.
They wouldn’t come out.
Stubborn.
He wondered if Mr. Stark knew they were there. Or if the cleaning company was just fine with doing a shitty job and then lying to him about it.
He couldn’t imagine the man thinking this was acceptable. No way.
So, he scrubbed and scrubbed. Letting out his frustrations until his strength took over.
Peter looked down. After a while. And he realized nothing had changed. The only difference was the carpet was ripped by his strength.
But it was still red.
Bright red.
As bright a red as long-dried blood could be.
Looking at it, he let out a scream of frustration, finally succumbing to the feelings inside himself. How was he supposed to live like this? How was he supposed to live with this? How was anyone supposed to live with this?
He had to get out. He couldn’t look at the bloodstains anymore.
They were a constant reminder that he couldn’t move on.
--
Peter decided to wander the streets after that. Let himself process things while walking around slowly in the chilly autumn air. Because the very thought of being in that apartment with the bloodstains on the carpet revolted him.
May called. He left the house without telling her.
The action was weirdly off balance from the way it had been the past few weeks. Normally, he would be the one to call her first. Not the other way around.
He didn’t answer.
He turned off his phone.
He didn’t want her questions or her worrying. He just needed to be alone with his thoughts for now.
Somehow, he ended up in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, his feet carrying him there subconsciously.
He hadn’t been here in years. Hadn’t had a reason to. After all, Uncle Ben had banned him from the place after the disastrous Stark Expo years ago.
Peter stared up at the Unisphere.
Wondering.
Wondering how, out of all the possibilities in the world, he ended up with this set of shitty circumstances.
Was it Parker Luck?
It had to be.
--
In the end, Mr. Stark found him. Sitting on the rim of the fountain in front of the Unisphere. And he asked Peter why he hadn’t answered his phone. Told him that he and May had been worried.
In a detached sort of way, Peter didn’t really care.
They got in Mr. Stark’s car. One of his luxury Audis.
And they drove in silence for what felt like forever.
Eventually, the compound came into view. But Peter was feeling so detached from himself that none of it really registered until Mr. Stark pushed him through the door of his private lab.
Tools and equipment were shoved into his hands.
And although his mentor was speaking, the silence in his mind dragged on.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
And before Peter realized what he was doing, he was mixing web-fluid and messing with the cartridges.
They weren’t the ones buried in his closet.
Suddenly, a fierce wave of emotion washed over him. Why was he doing this? Spider-Man was over. Done. He had no right to be fiddling with something he didn’t deserve anymore.
He put the tools he was holding down on the counter with a bang. Wondering what he was doing here. How he ended up at Mr. Stark’s lab.
It was the bloodstains.
The thick, congealed bloodstains.
If he’d just stayed home and dealt with it rationally, then he wouldn’t be confronted with the person he’d been trying to ignore for weeks.
If only it was that simple.
“Kid. Peter. What’s wrong?” Mr. Stark asked, concern on his face as he moved closer.
They were the first words Peter comprehended since being found at the park.
“I—I—” Peter realized at that moment, he was a stuttering, spluttering mess. And he didn’t know how long he’d been that way.
His hands were clenching the table so hard, the metal became indented with the shape of his fingers.
He couldn’t go on like this anymore.
Bottling it up inside wasn’t working.
He couldn’t do it.
Not anymore.
He needed help.
Letting out a frustrated scream, he slid off his stool and sunk to the floor, tugging at locks of his hair as he curled into a tiny ball.
The only thing Peter wanted in that moment was to disappear forever.
Melt into the floor and never come out.
Because every painful emotion he stored inside himself over the past few weeks was clamoring to break free.
Push their way out of his chest.
He was vaguely aware of Mr. Stark shushing him. Trying to calm him down. Rubbing a hand across his back.
But there was only one thought on his mind. Only one way he felt like he could convey how sick he felt inside.
“There’s blood on the carpet.” He said simply, brokenly. Stilling as he looked into Mr. Stark’s eyes.
“What?” Mr. Stark asked, confused.
“There’s blood on the carpet.” Peter repeated. “At my apartment. And I can’t get it to come out.”
And for some reason, that statement was like the floodgates. And everything else from the time since then spilled out of him.
“And Aunt May is acting weird. She seems like she’s not there most of the time. She seems sad. And no matter how hard I try to focus on other things, to keep myself busy, I can’t stop thinking about what I did. Because I know it makes me a monster. And I can’t stop that sick feeling from overtaking me. And when I see the blood… when I see it… it’s like it’s that night all over again and I just feel so fucked up inside, Mr. Stark. You have to help me.”
Winded and weary after the outburst, Peter was surprised to find an indistinguishable emotion on his mentor’s face. Normally the man reserved those expressions for the press or the public, letting those closest to him read him like an open book.
And after a moment, he spoke. “Peter. You are not a monster. Do you hear me?”
“But I am!” Peter answered, frustrated that Mr. Stark wasn’t listening. “I am! Spider-Man doesn’t kill people, okay?! I don’t deserve any of this anymore! The suit, the web shooters, Karen… not when I can’t even be true to who I am.”
“You’re not, Peter! You’re not! Nothing you have done makes you a monster in any sense of the word. Nothing.”
Peter was standing now. Pacing the room and raising his voice. “But I killed a man! And I don’t even know what his name was! I barely remember is face! Do you think he deserved that? Because I don’t! Superheroes are supposed to save people. Not kill them. Not for any reason.”
“Do you think I’m a monster, Peter?” Mr. Stark abruptly asked, tone quiet but level.
“I—what?” Peter asked, totally caught off guard by the question and the change in his mentor’s tone.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” He repeated.
“What? Of course not, Mr. Stark! You could never be a monster. Ever. You’ve saved the world a bunch of times and—”
“I hate to break it to you,” Mr. Stark interrupted, “but I’ve killed people. Lots of them. Both directly and indirectly. Hell, I used to sell weapons for a living. Remember that, kid? So, I ask you, do you think that makes me a monster?”
Peter gulped. Stunned speechless for a few moments. Somehow, he’d forgotten about all of that. Somehow, he’d forgotten about Mr. Stark’s past while wallowing in his self-pity.
It made him feel uncomfortable.
“No.” He finally answered, whispering and slumping back to a sitting position on the floor. He looked everywhere but at Mr. Stark.
“Then what makes you think that you are one, huh kid?” The man said, sitting next to Peter on the floor and wrapping an arm around him. “You saved May. You did the right thing. I know how much she means to you. And I know if I’d come home to see you or Pep or Rhodey or Happy in that situation, I wouldn’t have held back either.”
“But that’s just it!” Peter said, looking back into Mr. Stark’s eyes. “I’ve been in situations like that on patrol lots of times. And I never… but—but it was… something inside me snapped. Just seeing May like that. After Ben I promised myself that I would do anything to protect her. She’s all I have left.”
Mr. Stark sighed. He seemed to be thinking everything over, weighing the situation in his mind, trying to find the right words to say.
And finally, after a long stretch of silence, he spoke. “Look, Peter, we could sit here all night and discuss this, but you aren’t rational right now. You’re talking in circles. You aren’t making sense. We aren’t going to get anywhere with this while your guilt complex is as big as the Pacific Ocean.”
And Peter knew he was right. Rationality had died for him the moment he walked into his apartment to find May like that.
“I think we should table this discussion for now. Just until morning.” Mr. Stark continued. “Why don’t you get some sleep in your quarters here, and I’ll have Happy bring May up so we can all discuss this tomorrow. We need to make some serious decisions, kiddo. I think both you and May need some professional help.”
Peter let out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He didn’t know how he knew it would come to this, but he supposed he sounded as crazy as he felt.
And suddenly he felt so, so tired.
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Peter said, standing from the floor and making his way to the door of the lab. He really did need sleep.
“And kid?” Mr. Stark said, making him pause at the door. “You have me.”
Somewhere in his sleep-deprived and panic rattled brain Peter knew that must have meant something, but it really wasn’t making sense.
Mr. Stark clarified once he saw the confusion on Peter’s face. “You said May is all you have left, but that’s not true. You have me.”
Peter smiled tiredly. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
And truly, he was grateful.
--
--
--
Things were beginning to return to normal.
Or, as normal as they could be.
After everything.
They moved to a new apartment. A nicer one. Courtesy of Mr. Stark.
Peter knew he would be happy to simply replace their carpet, but it turned out that it was paining his aunt just being there. Living in that space. Sitting with the memories.
Peter was disgusted with himself. For not noticing that. For not noticing a lot of things about May in the after.
So they moved.
And Peter enrolled in therapy. Both alone and in family counseling with May.
It helped. For the most part.
At least, he thought it was helping. And May seemed happier. More at ease.
Things were beginning to return to normal.
Ned and MJ were curious about the move. And Peter could tell they wanted to ask questions.
But they didn’t.
Maybe realizing there were some things better left unspoken.
Maybe realizing they didn’t need to know all the details to be there for him. To help.
It was okay.
Things were beginning to return to normal.
--
But for as normal as things were leveling out to be, Peter still felt like there was something inside of him that he couldn’t get rid of. Maybe wouldn’t ever be able to get rid of.
He brought it up with Mr. Stark one day.
And his mentor just looked at him with sad, emotion-filled eyes.
He said it was because it was his first kill.
First kill.
Peter didn’t like the way that sounded. It made him feel dirty. Inside.
But he was working on it. Working through his guilt with the therapist.
And it was helping.
A lot.
But nothing helped more than the day he decided to take a leap of faith. To take a chance and try to do something he never thought he’d be able to do again.
He dug his suit out of the box of Ben’s old things.
And he put it on.
And he went outside.
A web stuck to the side of the nearest building.
And he swung.
And he never felt more alive.
A leap of faith.
--
Because even in the brevity of his killing, even in the scourge of death, there was still a place for Spider-Man.
Still a place for Peter Parker.
And he wasn’t the same anymore, but he was still him.
Still him.