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Peter drags himself up the stairs to his apartment, legs numb and head buzzing. He fumbles with the key and drops it before shouldering the door open. The screw from the lock clatters as it drops on the floor.
The quiet of the kitchen rings in his ears. It’s too quiet, but much, much too loud. He feels his hand reach up and touch his split eyebrow. It’s sticky.
If May were here, she would be fussing over him like crazy. Disinfecting it, stitching it up even though it would inevitably heal in a couple of hours.
May.
A new wave of nausea rises in his throat and he stumbles to the sink and retches, holding onto the edge with agonizing grip. The formica countertop cracks under the pressure.
His head pounds and his throat burns and the heaving doesn’t help. If his broken ribs didn’t already ache, they sure do now.
Once his stomach has nothing left to reject, his knees go weak and he doesn’t even try to hold himself up any more.
His jeans are stiff from the blood. It flakes off and lands on the linoleum tiles. He doesn’t know if it’s his or…
Hers.
His vision blurs and he looks up at the clock display on the microwave. 5:32. In the morning? It must be morning. There’s not as much traffic noise as there would normally be at 5:32 in the evening.
Traffic.
A sob rips itself from his throat and his chest aches.
He sucks a sharp breath in.
He’s thirsty.
He hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in… 6 hours, he thinks. His eyes fall on May’s wine cabinet.
She collected bottles that she’d receive for gifts or buy when she was in the mood for a glass while grocery shopping. She worked through them slowly, having a glass or two before bed while reading a trashy romance novel or watching a movie. Her dirty wineglass still sits upside down in the sink, waiting to be washed, berry lipstick stain on the rim.
Peter pushes himself up off the floor and grabs one of the bottles and the cork opener off its hook.
He doesn’t think about it until he’s a bottle and a half deep. He just drinks and drinks. It’s bitter. He doesn’t like it. But he drinks anyway.
After the second bottle, he doesn’t even think any more. Just does. Reaches for his phone. No luck. It’s gone. (Still in the car that’s mangled beyond recognition. Still at the hospital, long forgotten on a waiting room table. But it doesn’t matter. It’s gone.)
He grabs the landline he always made fun of May for using.
(maymaymaymaymaymaymaymay)
He dials Tony’s number.
(Why? Why bother when every parent he’s ever had has died? Didn’t he already almost die? Wouldn’t it just be better for everybody involved if Peter just cut all ties?)
He lays on his back on the kitchen floor. There are blood flakes by his face. He closes his eyes. His limbs are heavy. So heavy.
“Hey Pete, what’s up? If you’re skipping school right now, I swear--” School, right. He had school today. Yesterday was Thursday.
(yesterdayyesterdayyesterday)
So today must be Friday.
He gags. If the wine tasted bitter going down, it was worse coming back up. The vomit mixes with the blood flakes on the floor and it’s on his pants and soaking through his sweatshirt, and this is never coming out. It’s the new one that May just bought him.
(maymaymaymaymaymay)
It’s probably ruined forever.
A mix between a gag and a sob shakes his bones. He vomits again. “I’m sorry,” he chokes.
“Peter, talk to me buddy. What’s going on? Are you okay? Where’s May?”
May.
A keening whine builds in Peter’s throat and tears flood his eyes and leak into his hair and ears. A strangled “May,” is all he can force out before he’s hyperventilating because he’s all alone and he hasn’t even graduated high school yet and he’s the last living Parker now. The last one. He’s gonna lose the apartment and have to live on the streets and be kicked out of Midtown and man he’s never even gonna graduate, is he?
“Peter, I need you to stay with me, okay?” His voice is higher than it normally is. “Are you at your apartment right now?” Peter whines and twists into his side. Everything is mushy and everything hurts. “Come on bud, focus. For me. Where are you?”
“My ‘partment,” Peter rasps, throat torn raw.
“Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 7 minutes. Be honest buddy. Can you wait that long for me?”
“Uh huh,” Peter says. At least, he thinks he says it. Maybe he doesn’t.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” FRIDAY’s voice says something he can’t make out and Peter thinks. Hurt? He… hurts all over. His nose hurts, from where it connected with the airbag, his chest from the seatbelt that cracked his ribs.
But all of that pales in comparison to the enveloping, all-consuming nothingness clawing to eat him alive.
He can only whimper and take another swig of wine. Except, he’s laying down and significantly drunk. Some of it gets in his mouth but most of it is in his hair and up his nose and in his eyes (man it burns) and on the landline too. The call disconnects.
~
“Boss,” FRIDAY pulls, “I recommend that you take a few deep breaths before you get to Peter’s apartment.”
Tony scoffs and wills more power to his thrusters. “I’m fine, this is fine, everything’s fine,” he pants. “It’s not like the kid is over there,” he dodges a bird, “possibly dying, or anything.”
His sarcasm doesn't phase her. “It would be worse for the both of you if you are incapable of taking care of Peter because you yourself are experiencing a panic attack.”
Tony nods. “Yeah, okay,” he takes a deep breath but it does nothing for the tightness building in his chest, “I guess you’re right.”
When he gets to the building, he doesn’t even bother with doors. Just crashes straight through the window. You know, like a maniac. Thank God for FRIDAY, otherwise he totally would have crashed through some random family’s window, completely unapologetic.
The glass shatters and his footsteps press the shards into the shag rug, but he’ll worry about that later. “Peter?” He retracts his faceplate and the stench hits him like a ton of bricks. It’s alcohol. It’s vomit. It’s blood. Unfortunately, Tony knew those scents all too well.
He rounds the corner around the kitchen island and gags when he sees Peter, passed out, empty wine bottle in-hand, vomit and blood covering his clothes. He kneels down in the puddle surrounding Peter, trying hard not to think about what it was. “Peter, hey, come on,” he cups Peter’s face in his hand and Peter stirs. His eyes open, and then droop shut again. “Hey, wakey wakey Sleeping Beauty,” Tony’s chest tightens and he taps Peter’s face. “Hey, focus up bud. How much did you drink?”
Peter groans and shifts away from Tony. “Uh, two? Three?” His words slur and Tony can barely even understand him. Tony’s stomach does a little flip. No, it’s more than a little flip. It’s a whole entire trapeze show.
“Three what, Pete? Three glasses?” He eyes the empty bottles next to Peter.
Peter doesn’t respond.
“Pete? You with me?” Tony’s breathing hitches and FRIDAY interjects.
“Peter is suffering from severe alcohol poisoning. He needs immediate medical attention.” Tony scoops Peter up in his arms and his faceplate covers his face again. Peter’s face is bruised and stained with blood and wine and there’s a cut above his eyebrow that hasn’t quite healed yet.
“Call Cho, tell her to meet us in the MedBay,” he barks, and jets out of the broken window. His heart is pounding out of his chest and he can barely see straight because this kid is dying in his arms and he’s unconscious and bloodied and smells disgusting.
“Done.”
Peter only starts gagging again twice during the 7-minute flight to the Tower. He doesn’t wake up either time. Tony’s guts are twisted in knots and his heart is beating harder than it ever should. Is this how Rhodey felt? Rhodey had always been the one to take care of a drunk Tony back in college and after. He makes a silent amendment to bake Rhodey a cake or something. Maybe cook up some nice spaghetti. He deserves it.
Despite the wind, Peter’s curls don’t move. They’re plastered in-place with a horrifying mixture of dried vomit and wine and blood. Tony thinks he might puke.
When they finally make it to the landing pad, Cho is waiting outside with a gurney. Tony sets Peter down as gently as he can and holds his hand as Cho wheels him inside.
“Alcohol poisoning? How much did he have, Tony? His metabolism is faster than Steve’s, and Steve can’t even manage to get drunk.”
“There were a few empty bottles of wine on the floor when I found him,” Tony relays. Peter’s skin is so pale. Normally, yes, he’s pretty pale. But it’s never like this. It’s so pale it’s almost blue.
“Sheesh,” she grabs two bags of saline and pushes the bed into the first bay. “What happened to him?” She hangs the bags on the hook on the wall and pokes his arm with the needle.
“I… don’t know. He got really upset when I mentioned May.” He pauses. “FRI, where is May Parker?”
The AI thinks for a moment, the silence almost saying more than the coming words. “May and Peter Parker were involved in a serious car accident late last night. She was killed on impact.”
Tony’s stomach drops and his knees buckle.
(He’s 21 and walking out of his biomechanics class at MIT to see Jarvis standing outside leaning on his car with tear stains on his jacket and red-rimmed eyes.)
(He’s 46 and watching a security stream of his parent’s car accident. There’s a single headlight on a dark road. A pair of footsteps crunching gravel. A choked cry. His father’s choked cry. Strangled screams. His mother’s strangled screams.)
(Both times, he’s hitting, kicking, screaming, and, finally, drinking to numb the pain.)
He grabs Peter’s hand and pulls the chair closer to his bed. His hand is sticky. Cho hooks him up to monitors and mentions something about x-rays and anti-inflammatories.
Tony closes his eyes. Strokes Peter’s knuckles. And waits.
~
Peter comes-to with a pounding headache. He feels sticky and sweaty and gross and-- and man, he smells horrible. His stomach clenches and he sits up and heaves. Someone is there, holding a bowl under his mouth. Someone is rubbing his back. Someone is telling him to ‘take it easy’ and that ‘everything’s going to be alright’.
What happened?
“May?” he groans but he knows it can’t be her. She had an early shift this morning, so she's probably already at work.
He cracks open his eyes and the light pierces his retinas. He squeezes them shut and tries again. Tony’s face is drawn. “Tony?” he grinds out. Another wave of nausea drives his face back into the bowl. His chest hurts with every breath and the pain only adds to the nausea which only adds to the pain which only adds to the--
“Hey kiddo,” he whispers back.
“What… happened?” Peter pants, in-between heaves. The ache in his stomach is more than just a hangover, and Peter knows it.
Tony’s hand works it’s way up to the base of Peter’s neck and squeezes. Peter looks back over at him. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“May?” His voice is not more than a whimper.
Tony shakes his head.
Peter is shaking.
His face is wet and Tony wipes a finger along his cheek.
All Peter can manage is a weak ‘no’.
(No. Not again. This can’t be happening. No. Not again. This can’t be happening.)
His head is pounding and his vision is blurring and his breathing is hitching and then he’s in someone’s arms, Tony’s arms, and they’re rocking back-and-forth as sobs rack through Peter’s body.
~
Peter is let out of the MedBay several hours later.
Tony guides him into the shower and strips him down to his boxers.
His chest is bruised. Cho said that 9 of his ribs were broken in the accident.
Peter hasn’t said anything since he found out.
He slumps over on the bench, head in his hands. There’s no way that’s comfortable.
Tony tests the temperature of the water and holds the stream above Peter’s head, careful to angle it so it doesn’t get in his eyes. Tony’s clothes are wet now, but it doesn’t matter.
The water runs red down the drain.
Tony shampoos Peter’s hair three times, until the water runs clear and Tony can run his fingers through Peter’s hair without getting caught in snarls. Peter didn’t open his eyes once. Tony can’t tell if the wetness trailing down Peter’s cheeks is water or tears.
When Peter is finally clean, Tony turns off the water and wraps him in a towel. Peter didn’t say anything.
Tony grabs an extra pair of sweats from his drawers and helps Peter get dressed, guiding his feet to step through the legs of the sweatpants and pulling his arms through the sleeves of the faded MIT sweatshirt that Tony doesn’t remember buying.
He leads Peter down the hall to his room that he stayed in when their lab nights went too late or when he was injured and didn’t like the smell of the MedBay. Now, it feels different.
Morgan’s room is next to Peter’s, and she stumbles through the door as they walk past, rubbing the sleep from her eyes from her afternoon nap.
“Hi Petey,” she looks up at him and reaches for his hand. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even take her hand. Tony rests a hand on the top of her head.
“Hey little miss,” he says, heart heavy. May was important to her, too. She even called her ‘Auntie May’.
“What’s wrong with Petey?” Peter still stared straight ahead. Tony’s heart aches.
“Petey’s not feeling too hot right now Morguna.” Because his aunt just died.
“Oh,” she says.
“He’s gonna go take a little rest, but why don’t you go draw him a picture? I bet he would really like that.”
She chews her bottom lip like she always does when she’s thinking. “Good idea. He always feels better when I draw him a picture.” She takes another look at Peter and plods back into her room in pursuit of her Crayola markers. Again, Peter gives no response.
He lets Tony lead him into his dark room without complaint and sits on his bed to stare at the wall. Tony sits next to him, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. “You hungry, buddy?” He tried not to use that voice, but man he now realized that it was hard not to. You know that voice, that voice you use when talking to someone who’s grief so deeply surpasses anything you’ve felt before. Sympathy, bordering on pity. Okay, maybe a hair over to pity’s side. No, definitely fully crossing over into pity.
But what is he supposed to do? The kid’s lost not one, not two, but four parental figures over the course of his 18-year life.
He’s only 18.
Tony blinks tears from his eyes.
Peter gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“You gotta eat, bud. I can make you some soup? We’ve got cans in the pantry. I can make it up really quick,” Peter sighs.
“Okay,” he whispers and closes his eyes. His shoulders slump like they're carrying the weight of the world.
Tears burn Tony’s eyes as he dumps the soup into a bowl and sticks it into the microwave.
What is he going to do? Peter’s 18 now. He’s an adult. He’s old enough to be out on his own.
Old enough? Yes. Ready? No.
Tony wasn’t about to let that happen.
The microwave beeps and Tony pulls the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup out. He grabs a spoon and goes back to Peter’s room. He’s in the same position Tony left him in. Perched on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, brows furrowed, eyes vacant.
Tony pushes the bowl into Peter’s hands and Peter stares down at it, like he’s never seen soup before. He has seen soup before, right?
No, yeah. Of course he has. Stupid question.
Peter raises the spoon to his mouth, but his hands are shaking so bad that all of the liquid inside spills out by the time the spoon reaches his lips.
He lets out a shuddering sigh and turns to Tony. “I can’t,” he whispers.
Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Peter turns his face in towards Tony’s chest and Tony holds him tighter.
Tony rests his chin on Peter’s forehead. After a few moments, “Do you think you can try again? For me?”
Peter whimpers a muffled ‘yeah’ and sniffles. He pulls away from Tony and stares down at the bowl again, as if trying to telekinetically raise the bowl to his mouth.
He gets one, two spoonfuls down before his face crumples and his hand falls back to his lap. Tony takes the bowl and sets it down on the nightstand.
“I’m sorry,” Peter’s voice cracks.
“It’s okay. No need for apologies here, bud.” Tony scoots back so his back is against the wall and he pulls Peter along with him.
Peter closes his eyes. “You went pretty hard last night. You should try and get some rest.” What a hypocrite. He wasn’t able to sleep for weeks after his parents died. He just drowned his grief in whiskey and gin.
Shockingly, it didn’t work as well as he’d hoped it would.
Peter is quiet for a moment.
“Tony?” Peter asks, voice quiet and tired and impossibly small.
“Yeah kiddo?”
“What am I going to do now?”
If it’s possible, Tony holds him tighter. “Hey. You don’t have to worry about that, okay? Not even a little bit. We’ll figure that out tomorrow. For now, just get some rest.” He presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head and Peter nods.
After Peter has been asleep for a while, there is a soft knock on Peter’s door and a Morgan peeking her head through the crack. “Is Petey sleeping?” she whispers, loudly. She understands the idea of whispering, but the execution of it leaves something to be desired.
“Yeah babe. He’s sleeping,” he whispers back, more quietly.
“Oh.” She comes in and closes the door behind her. She extends a colorful piece of paper to Tony and he takes it. Figures colored with red and gold and red and blue that Tony can only guess are him and Peter are holding hands with a shorter figure with brown pigtails and a purple dress. His stick-figure is holding hands on the other side with a blonde woman who must be Pepper and Peter’s is holding hands with a brunette that must be May. May. “It’s Mommy and you and me and Petey and Auntie May,” she explains. A lump grows in his throat and tears prickle his eyes.
“I’m sure Pete’s gonna love it.” The affirmation is forced and his throat is tight and he can hardly see because of the tears welling up in his eyes.
Morgan’s eyebrows furrow in that pensive sort of state where she's about to ask, in her innocence, ‘what’s wrong Daddy?’
She’s interrupted by the ding of the elevator that signifies the end of Pepper’s workday.
“I’m going to go say hi to Mommy.” Her whisper is still not a whisper.
Tony stares down at the picture in his lap and a tear splashes down onto the page. He rests his head on Peter’s and breathes in the scent of his shampoo.
Pepper doesn’t come into Peter’s room until Morgan has been put down for bed. Tony’s back aches and his butt is asleep. He also hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since before 8:30 this morning when Peter called him. The cold soup on Peter’s nightstand was starting to look appetizing.
Needless to say, he's uncomfortable.
“Hey,” he greets, squinting into the light of the hallway as Pepper steps into the room. She closes the door behind her.
“Hey,” she says back. “FRIDAY filled me in on what happened.” She sits down on the bed next to him and her eyes shine with tears. He drapes his other arm around her, and she leans in, looking down at Peter. “He didn’t have any other family, did he?” She already knows the answer. They all do.
Tony shakes his head. “It was just him and May.” She nodded. A tear leaked from her eye, and once the first drop fell, the dam broke. May and Peter are their family. They came over to the Tower for pizza and game nights. Watched Morgan for them when an unexpected meeting came up and Happy was busy.
Oh man.
They still had to tell Happy.
Tony rubbed his hand up and down Pepper’s arm and let his own tears fall.
Peter only wakes up once during the night, which is surprising because Tony had broken ribs before and he remembers it being so hard to breathe that he thought his lungs were punctured and he was going to die.
“How’re you feeling, buddy?” Pepper jerks awake on his other leg at the sound of his quiet whisper.
“Hurts,” Peter wheezes. His voice is raw and quiet.
Pepper sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “I’m gonna go grab your meds. I’ll be right back.”
It’s quiet until she comes back, the only noise in the room the sound of Peter’s strained breaths.
She comes back with an orange pill bottle, a glass of water, and an ice pack covered in a dish towel.
“Here babe. Let’s have you sit up.” Tony helps Peter into a sitting position, back against the wall, stomach twisting as Peter winces. He swallows the pills and hands the glass of water back to Pepper with a shaking hand.
“Do you want to lay down? We can get you lots of pillows so you can be more comfortable.” Peter thinks for a moment, then nods.
“Alright,” Tony gets up and helps Peter gingerly move underneath the covers. Pepper grabs some extra pillows and blankets from the linen closet in the hall and her and Tony help prop Peter up on both sides with pillows so he doesn’t move around too much and wedges the ice packs between his sides and the pillows to try and keep the swelling down.
And Peter, well, Peter just watches them with vacant eyes. Tony would have been freaked out if he didn’t know exactly what Peter was going through.
Tony’s stomach growls. Loudly.
He huffs out a laugh, even though nothing in the situation is really laughable. “I guess I’m hungry.” Nobody says anything. “Well, I’m going to let you get some sleep, okay Pete?” Peter doesn’t respond. Just watches him. “You know, Pepper and I are right down the hall. Holler if you need anything, okay? Everything’s going to be alright.” He brushes Peter’s bangs out of his eyes and turns to leave.
“Can you--” Peter’s voice cuts off and Tony turns around. His bottom lip quivers and his eyes are swimming in tears. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”
“What is it bud?” Tony backtracks and kneels down by the edge of Peter’s bed.
“It’s just--” a tear leaks from Peter’s eye into his hair. “Can you stay?”
And of course, Tony’s heart breaks all over again. Why would he even think of leaving? The kid’s grieving and in pain and feels all alone. Why would he think it would be a good idea to leave?
“Yeah, of course I can.” He pulls the chair away from the desk and moves it next to Peter’s bed. “Of course I can.” He makes eye contact with Pepper and she closes the door softly behind her.
After a moment, Peter’s voice spoke up again, quiet and wavering. “I know it’s stupid, but could you… read to me?” He looks at Tony. “I’m sorry, it’s just,” his eyes are glassy and his voice cracks when he speaks again. “When I was younger, she would always read to me until I fell asleep.” Tony’s throat tightens and he forces a stiff smile. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“It’s not stupid, Pete. Not at all.” He looks around the room and finds Morgan’s copy of Le Petit Prince she’d left in there the last time he’d spent the night.
He sits back down and opens to the first page and tries not to hear Peter’s soft crying noises.
“Lorsque j’avais six ans j’ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image dans un livre sur la Forêt vierge qui s’appelait “Histoires Vécues”. Ça représentait un serpent boa…”
Peter falls into a fitful sleep.