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Peter climbs through the window, drops to the ground ungracefully and tries to pull himself back up on the clear glass surface. He staggers against a protruding corner and stumbles his way towards the living room. On his way he hits his flailing arm on a doorknob and his shin on a lamp and coffee table.
Deliriously he plops down on the larger than life couch and closes his eyes. Somewhere from his right comes a voice – it’s frantic and worried – and then there’s a hand on his forehead – cold and calloused – and he leans into the touch because he’s so hot. Way, way too hot.
“Mis’er S’ark?” he tries weakly, waving his arm around until his hand grabs onto a sleeve. “I th’nk. Think ‘ome’ing’ wr’ng.”
Then he gives in to the alluring nothingness that has been trying to claim him and promptly loses consciousness.
When he blinks awake, he’s in a darkened room in a comfy bed that definitely isn’t his. He stretches his fingers and crawls them into the soft mattress, enjoying the fabric underneath his fingertips. He still feels hazy and allows his eyelids to close again to counteract the overwhelming dizziness.
He tries to move more than his finger and immediately groans and strains his head because it feels like there’s a jackhammer going at it on the side of his skull. There’s something else, too, that he can’t quite name. A sense of irritability in the bottom of his soles. Far enough away from his center to not be dangerous but still there. Like an itch he can’t scratch.
A cough to his side demands his attention and Tony leans forward, eyebrows furrowed in worry, tablet on his lap.
“Rise and shine,” he greets him but it’s not as cheerful as he would’ve liked it, “Feeling better?”
Peter frowns at him, annoyance slowly creeping up his shins. “Better than what?”
“You passed out in my living room. I called May and she said you didn’t even finish breakfast. Just ran out of there like a scalded cat.”
“So what?” Peter glares, “I wasn’t hungry.”
Tony raises an eyebrow at him, slightly put off but somehow not surprised. Unfazed he continues, “I talked to Karen about your patrol last night and asked her to show me some of the footage.”
“Are you spying on me?” he bursts out, feeling the irritation now warm and alive in his belly. The second the words are out of his mouth he’s as startled about them as Tony is. Maybe more so. “Sorry,” he says, covering his mouth, “I don’t know what –“
Tony gives him a forgiving nod and keeps going. While he’s talking Peter realizes that he hasn’t touched him yet. It’s a weird thought to have because his mentor is a self-proclaimed “no-touching kind of guy” but he isn’t really. In fact, Peter can’t remember the last time something even mildly inconvenient happened to him without Tony offering solace or encouragement through touch.
“You went to investigate a bank robbery not far from Delmar’s –“
“No, I didn’t,” Peter interrupts harshly, clenching his hands to fists when he feels his fingertips tingle with annoyance. “I mean,” he exhales slowly, screws his eyes shut and tries to get his body to calm the heck down before opening them back up. “I don’t remember that,” he rectifies evenly.
He keeps watching Tony because he always does when he’s scared, and he’s starting to border on terrified, but his mentor seems on edge as well. He has his fingers clenched around the arms of his chair tightly and his voice is strained. Peter realizes then – and he can’t believe it took him this long – a blue light shimmering through the dark fabric of his shirt in the middle of his chest. He’s wearing the arc reactor.
“What happened?” He asks, voice shaky and he can’t even pinpoint whether it’s anger or fear that is holding his mind hostage. “Why am I so angry?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Tony replies. While his eyes turn soft his body stays tense. “One of the bank robbers threw something at you that must have made it through the filtering system of your mask. F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s still analyzing it but it’s none of the usual drugs. I’ve reached out to everyone I know who might be able to help and I took some blood samples while you were out.”
“You took blood while I was unconscious?” Peter balks. The anger is now curled up tightly in his chest and it would be so much easier to succumb to it than the fear that’s somewhere in the back of his mind. He tries to hold on to everything he knows as a fact but, slowly but surely, the anger blurs out everything else.
“You had no right!” he exclaims, fists hitting the mattress forcefully. “How do I know you didn’t do anything else? How do I know you’re not the one drugging me?” he spats furiously and tries to scoot away from Tony as far as he can.
In the blink of an eye, his mentor is on his feet, hands raised to head level, palms facing Peter who absolutely despises the image in front of him.
“I can show you the footage.”
“How do I know you didn’t alter it?” he shoots back. “I’m leaving,” he declares.
“I can’t let you do that,” Tony replies with a stupidly gentle voice considering he just told Peter he’s taking him hostage.
Peter is seething. “Try and stop me.”
Before he can throw his legs over the edge of the bed, Tony has surged forward, pressing down both his arms to the bed and Peter sees red. He starts thrashing and kicking and screaming.
“Let me go!” He screams over and over again, trying to head-butt his opponent. But no dice. Every time he lashes out he’s met with a new piece of armor that all seem to appear out of thin air.
“Let go, let go, let go!” He tries wriggling out of his grip and the longer he doesn’t succeed the angrier he gets. But his enemy seems to get stronger and stronger and Peter doesn’t understand.
He snarls, backs away and surges forward, catching his opponent by surprise and freeing one of his hands. He uses it to punch the shiny suit of armor and growls in satisfaction when he leaves a dent. He kicks out, exhausting every bit of range of motion he still has left but his assailant blocks the kick and grabs his leg, rendering him essentially helpless and at his mercy.
“Peter,” his new declared enemy tries but the name doesn’t resonate. There’s only anger – hot boiling rage – in him and everything is covered by a red veil. “Pete, come on,” his enemy is pleading and Peter grins because his opponent doesn’t want to hurt him. “You can fight this.”
“I can fight you,” he spits out and surges forward with his upper body, forcing the other man to either tighten his grasp to keep him from moving or letting him go.
“Ah,” he cries out in surprise when the grip around his arms tighten.
“Sorry, sorry,” the man curses, “I’m so sorry, buddy.”
The nickname incites something in him. It’s almost insignificant compared to the all-encompassing rage but it’s there, like a petite spark in infinite darkness. He stops, just for the quarter of a second but long enough for his attacker to notice.
“Peter, buddy? Are you there? Can you hear me?”
He bares his teeth and shakes his head violently, amplifying his efforts to get out of his hold and trying to shake that spark. “Let go,” he repeats forcefully. “I’m gonna– I’m gonna hurt you,” he cries out, panting from exertion.
“No, you won’t. Peter,” the voice is back and it’s everywhere, as if it somehow connects to a part of Peter that broadcasts it through his entire body. He’s still fighting his attacker both mentally and physically and is completely taken aback when part of the armor he’s fighting opens up to reveal a face.
The face is contorted in pain – mentally or physically Peter can’t pinpoint – but his eyes are hopeful. “Come on, kid. Look at me. That’s not you. You can fight this.”
Peter stares at him, startled enough to stop dead in his tracks.
There’s something there at the very back of his mind that once again sparks a flicker of recognition. It’s the familiar face with the warm eyes and that stupid nickname. No one calls him that. No one. Except for one person.
It’s as if his inner compass has returned to its axis and can show him the way once more. It’s revelation of its own right but somehow that’s still not enough to fight the ever-prevalent anger in his body.
“Mister Stark,” he gasps out but can’t help when his body continues to struggle against his mentor. He tries to push it away. Tries with all his might to exile the rage and helplessness that comes with it in favor of holding on to something safe and sacred.
“Mister Stark,” he tries again and screams out when his body won’t obey his orders. He bites down on his lip hard until he can taste blood and screams again because it hurts. But the pain helps clear his head a little. He kicks out and immediately cries out in pain when he shins hit impenetrable armor.
“Don’t hurt yourself, kid.”
Tony backs off when he sees what Peter is trying to do but instead of letting him, Peter hurtles himself towards him, clashing full front with the armor so that Tony has no choice but to hold him there in a rather rough embrace.
They’re both breathing hard but with every passing second Peter relaxes more against his mentor, his mind growing dizzy again and he’s not sure if it’s the emotional turmoil he just went through, the exertion taking its price on his body or simply the drug but he feels the world spinning.
He’s swaying when Tony gently disengages from the tight hold and he’s infinitely grateful when he’s back only a second later, this time without the armor. Peter stumbles back into the warm embrace and trusts Tony to maneuver them to the bed and hold him upright when he needs to be.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, fighting against the fog trying to bury his sanity underneath a drug-induced haze. He’s exhausted and overwhelmed and the simple fact that he’s being held and that he’s safe makes everything that the anger suppressed bubble to the surface. His sobs are muffled by Tony’s shirt and somehow that simple fact makes it all a little bit better.
“Shh,” Tony shushes him, carding through his hair ever so gently. It’s calming but Peter almost wishes that it wasn’t because he’s scared of drifting away and falling asleep when he can’t control where he’s gonna go.
“What am I supposed to do,” he whispers just as fatigue is finally beginning to overwhelm him, “When I can’t even trust my own mind?”
He can only hear Tony’s soft promise of figuring it out before he’s gone again. And he’s too far gone already, to will that promise into truth with all he has.
But Tony has never let him done this far, right?