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Peter, despite the trauma he’s endured throughout his life, considers himself lucky. It’s not like many ex-foster kids can say that they ended up in a penthouse suite, surrounded by a hodgepodge family of Avengers, calling Iron Man dad, but Peter can. Through a strange series of events, he somehow ended up bonding with the man supervising a chance internship so much that when the extent of his foster parent’s abuse came to light, Tony wasted no time in adopting him.
Now, he considers himself a fairly normal kid. Leaving out the four parental deaths he experienced before the age of fifteen and the nine month stretch of hiding bruises and cowering in his closet, he lives a fairly typical life for a seventeen year old boy. He goes to school, attends AcaDec every Tuesday and Thursday, does his homework, hangs out with his dad and many uncles and aunts, and gets on with life.
His therapist has suggested a couple of times that this normality is somewhat… constructed by Peter. A desperate attempt to make up for the trauma and lost childhood of his younger years. He doesn’t really mind what it is, as long as he continues to eat spaghetti and meatballs with his family every Wednesday night and doesn’t cry in the shower more than twice a week.
Routine and domesticity maintain his sanity, and sure, it might mean that when something happens to break that routine, such as Happy being 5 minutes late for a pick up, or Meatball Wednesday being skipped by a couple of his family members, he doesn’t cope very well, but that’s just one of those things. He tries not to think about it too hard.
Not when routines like this one, spending at least an hour in the lab every night with Tony after he gets home, remain so steadfast. So constant. So reassuring.
“Pass me the wrench, kid,” Tony instructs, not taking his eyes off the inner mechanics of the robotic medical assistant they’re working on. It was initially a project idea of Peter’s, intended to tick a box and get him an A+ in Robotics class, but Tony had seen potential in it, and so had Helen Cho, so they’d decided to take it further.
Dutifully, Peter passes Tony the wrench, eyeing the tricky cog they’re attempting to wrangle under control as intensely as his dad.
“I think the problem might be with that milimeter of space right there,” Peter hums thoughtfully, pointing to the area he’s talking about. “I think it’s causing the cog to have leeway, falling out of sync with the one next to it.”
Tony doesn’t say anything for a moment, fiddling with the cog with his nimble fingers and testing the give on the joint behind it. Peter tries to peer closer, almost stumbling into the robot itself.
“God, careful, Pete,” Tony mutters, and Peter detects a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“Sorry.”
Tony’s been a little on edge ever since he found some of his dad’s old stuff in the garage last night, and if Peter’s honest with himself, it’s making him feel uneasy. Low-grade irritation used to be a precursor to violence, anger, and pain, and this unreadable tension between them has fear and apprehension forming a nauseating cocktail in his stomach.
Eventually, Tony sighs irritably and steps back from the robot, dropping the wrench with a heavy clang onto the lab counter top. Peter flinches at the sound, but Tony doesn’t see, too busy wiping his oily hands on the nearest rag.
As much as Peter wishes he could leave the tension-filled lab and go and stew obsessively on exactly what this all means, he can’t quite let his theory about the robotics issue go.
“So… do you think the space is the issue with the cog?” he asks hesitantly, leaning against the counter as he studies Tony’s tense form carefully, his subconscious still wired to scan for any sign of danger coming his way.
Tony throws down the rag and whirls around sharply, making Peter jump. “For fucks’ sake, kid, I don’t know! It’s a damn tricky robot and I’m not in the mood to figure it out right now. Just leave it alone until tomorrow, alright?”
As much as deep and buried emotions are stirring in Peter’s gut, fear screaming at him to run for cover before the inevitable outburst, righteous anger at being dismissed and a desire to know what’s got into Tony overpower them. “Don’t just dismiss it! It’s a good theory. Just because you’re in a bad mood–”
“No, what you’re not going to do,” Tony interrupts him loudly, his eyes filled with irritation and his voice shrouded in a rage Peter doesn’t think he’s seen before, “is blame this all on me. You do this all the time, Peter, you propose these random theories with no evidence or backing and then expect me to drop everything to prove them. It’s not working right now and neither of us are in the mood to work on it further. We’ll come back to it later, and your grand theory can fucking wait, yeah?”
Peter is violently taken aback by the fury in Tony’s voice, but even more so by the words he uses. “Random theories?” he asks in a tone half indignant and half hurt. “Is that what you really think?”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t make yourself a victim, Peter. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It sure sounds like you did,” Peter can feel tears burning behind his eyes and he tries his very hardest not to let them spill.
Tony sees them glistening in his eyes regardless. “Look, Pete, you’re standing here crying and pretending like I’ve said something devastating. Don’t try and twist my words like this, okay? Just go and calm yourself down.”
Peter walks the short distance to the elevator and presses the button, now desperate to get the fuck away from Tony and his harsh, out of character words.
“I think you’re just taking cheap shots, now,” Peter says sadly, watching the floor numbers change slowly. “I’ll head upstairs.”
Before the lift can arrive, though, he hears quick, solid footsteps coming up behind him, and instantly flinches away, preparing for the blow. Preparing for Tony to grab him by the shoulder and whirl him around, scream in his face about his insolence, spit flying in all directions before knocking him about.
Tony doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he heads to the bench next to the elevator, oblivious to the blind panic he just caused in his kid. He ignores Peter as he finally steps onto the elevator, slamming the ‘close door’ button until he’s safe and cocooned in a metal box where nobody can get to him.
He races to his bedroom as soon as he arrives on his floor, immediately heading for the familiar safety of his closet, hiding in the corner as the draping clothes conceal his shaking form from anybody who might want to hurt him. Tears flood from his eyes and sobs tear through his throat as he replays everything that just happened in his head.
Tony being so irritable with him was enough to spark misery and stress in someone with enough trauma and baggage to fill an aeroplane, but the words he’d said had hurt so badly. He’s always been so desperately insecure about his intelligence. It’s the one thing he really has going for him, and he’d always held it as his one ticket out of poverty and abuse during his year in the system, but the thought that maybe, maybe he isn’t quite clever enough has always plagued him. Tony confirming that he doesn’t hold Peter’s theories and ideas in the regard he always thought he had has completely destroyed whatever burgeoning shreds of confidence he’d been building since he first met the man.
He cries for the argument he’s had with his dad. He cries for the pain caused by his words; for the knowledge that Tony doesn’t think Peter is as clever as he’s always said he is; for the irritation and rage he’s never experienced from his caretaker before. He cries for all of this.
But he absolutely falls apart for the memory of his past self haunting his thoughts and mind. For the boy in the depths of grief for the second time in his short life being subjected to cruel and humiliating abuse and subjugation by the man who wielded all the power in his life. For all the flinches that did precede a verbal tirade or physical beating. For all the childlike hope and innocence he lost that year. For the Peter who was so desperately hurt and so desperately in need of rescuing, but went out every day into the cold, cruel world concealing those facts and those bruises with every tool he had at his disposal. For the Peter who wept in relief the night he realised he’d never be hurt like that again.
For the Peter of this afternoon who for a moment was so sure he would be. Who was so sure that this had all been a facade, a farce, a ruse to earn his trust and pull stupid Peter Parker under his thumb only to subject him to the same fate he’d experienced so recently.
His collapse is brutal and totally, utterly complete. He slides down until he’s laying on the floor of the closet, no longer able to hold himself upright. He sobs wantonly and openly, hiccuping breaths hauled in and out of his aching chest. His sinuses fill until they’re blocked to his ears. He cries so hard he chokes, he feels like he’s dying, like this is it, and for a moment he’s almost glad. This pain and trauma is such a weight to hold on his shoulders and he isn’t sure he can do it anymore. He’s so tired and so desperate and so completely done.
He cries until his tears dry up. Eventually, with the daylight filtering through the slats in the wardrobe slowly fading to nothing, he lays there drained, empty, and numb.
His eyes flutter closed, and the next time he opens them, the distinct golden glow of the sunrise has replaced the waning twilight.
He sits up awkwardly, back cracking from the uncomfortable position he’s laid in all night, and he sighs as he realises he should get ready for school. Refusing to acknowledge the events of last night, even privately in his head, he puts the radio on, thankful for the background noise. Methodically, he goes through the motions of getting ready for the day, and twenty minutes later he’s bracing himself to venture into the kitchen where Tony will no doubt be waiting for him.
He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to grab a banana, walk out the door, and go to school to forget about everything, but Tony insists on “healthy communication” or whatever, and always makes them talk through disagreements, no matter how minor.
As expected, Tony is sitting at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee and his tablet when Peter walks in. Tony looks up and he gets down off his stool immediately, coming over to wrap his arms around Peter. As uncomfortable and upset as he is, he can’t help but melt into the hug a little bit, because even if Tony has been the one to break him into pieces, Peter still wants him to be the one to put him back together again.
“I’m so sorry about last night, Pete,” Tony says sincerely as he pulls back and looks him in the eye. “I thought I’d give you some space afterwards, but you have to know that I didn’t mean any of it, I was just tired and frustrated by some memories of my old man, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m really sorry, okay?”
Peter nods tiredly, and Tony looks relieved. Peter doesn’t feel very relieved. His stomach is still tied up in knots, and the words Tony said to him last night echo around his brain, the apology doing little to mitigate their impact.
“Are we good?” Tony asks gently, lifting Peter’s chin to look him earnestly in the eye.
Peter nods again, and Tony gives him one last hug before stepping back.
“Good. Well, there’s bacon in the pan and the bread is ready and buttered if you fancy a bacon sandwich?”
Peter isn’t hungry and he isn’t in the mood to eat an apology bacon butty, but if he declines Tony will know he still isn’t okay and will want to talk about it, and that is literally the last thing he wants right now. Robotically, he walks to the pan and assembles the sandwich, eating it quickly with his back to his dad.
FRIDAY’s announcement that Happy is in the garage couldn’t come soon enough.
School, when you’re bone tired and on the verge of tears all day, is not a particularly pleasing environment. Flash’s words hurt more than usual, and concentrating on any of his lesson’s was next to impossible. Ned and MJ ask him all day if he’s okay, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say much at all. Time passes, but Peter feels frozen in some sticky mix of grief and misery, and he has no idea how to thaw himself out again.
Tony asks him that evening if he wants to go down to the lab, but Peter can’t bring himself to go back down there. He knows Tony probably sees it as a way to rip off the awkwardness bandaid and get back to normal, but the idea makes Peter feel physically unwell, and he rushes back to his closet to cry silently into his knees.
By dinnertime, he’s all cleaned up and ready to pretend normality to the best of his ability, but when he’s excused from the table, it’s all he can do to lie on his bed still fully dressed and stare at the ceiling until he falls asleep.
The pattern continues and repeats for the next week, but Peter’s hardly aware of it. It’s like he’s not even existing in this world, stuck in some other plane, staring down at himself as memories and flashbacks play across his eyelids, only stopping when they turn into dreams in his fitful sleep. He can’t connect with himself or others and nothing really feels real. He runs on autopilot, time a distant and elusive concept that means nothing to him on anything more than a subconscious level.
People notice. It’s hard to miss the walking zombie, but nothing anybody says penetrates the haze of misery that’s descended upon him, impossible to shake off. So he goes through the motions and hopes that one day he’ll feel normal again.
His dad, however, isn’t too keen on waiting around for a miracle to happen.
“Hey, Pete?” Tony knocks lightly on the door as he lets himself in, closing it behind himself as he makes his way over to where Peter’s lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t move when Tony sits down on the bed. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Peter doesn’t have the energy to reply. Tony will talk to him whether he responds or not.
“I’m worried about you, bambino,” he continues, proving Peter right. “You wanna talk to me about what’s been going on with you?”
Peter doesn’t dignify that question with a response, but he can feel himself getting angry at this sudden display of compassion. How does one rectify kindness when cruelty is too recently ingrained in one’s conscience?
Tony sighs. “Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can put the pieces together well enough to realise that you began acting like this since we had that disagreement in the lab, but I thought we got that all squared away the next morning.”
“Wasn’t a disagreement,” Peter mumbles.
“What’s that?” Tony asks, leaning closer.
“It wasn’t a disagreement,” Peter says again, loud and clear, the anger enough to propel him into an upright position, sitting up on the bed next to Tony without meeting his eyes. “It was a fight. You were just… mean.”
He feels Tony shift on the bed next to him and musters the courage to look up at him. Sadness and regret sit so obviously in his eyes that Peter wishes he’d kept staring at the pattern on his duvet.
As he grows up, he’s realising that things are rarely as black and white as he wishes they were. Good people do bad things. Villains have moments of humanity. Archetypes are useless when applied to human beings. Tony hurt him dearly, and he’s paid the price for the wounds sustained over the last week, but deep down Peter knows Tony is a good man. He took him under his wing, and then into his house when he didn’t need to, he’d do anything for any of his friends, he cries over the plight of people he doesn’t know, and Peter’s caught him scrolling through Go Fund Me and anonymously filling every fundraiser he comes across multiple times.
Tony’s a good man. He just did a bad thing.
“Before I came to live here,” he starts cautiously, returning his gaze to the duvet, “I had lost all sense of self-worth. I was berated every day for every action I took, and nothing I did was ever good enough. I anticipated the blows and I hid in my closet and I tried not to cry. But when I came here, you… helped me rebuild belief in myself. You showed me the kind of love I deserve and then gave it to me everyday.
“But that day… you reversed it. You made me feel small and stupid and I could feel that healed but scarred pit in my stomach reopening. When I had my back to you and I heard you coming up behind me I– for a minute, I–”
He can’t quite force the words past the lump in his throat, but before he can try again, he’s being wrapped up in a tight hug.
“Oh, Pete,” Tony says brokenly, his grip almost desperate on his arms as Peter collapses against his dad’s chest, too relieved to receive the comfort he’s craved for the past week to care. “I’m so sorry, kid. You have no idea, I– I never meant to make you feel like that, and I should’ve realised sooner that this would’ve brought up memories. God, Pete. There’s no excuse for acting out that day, I promise it’ll never happen again, no matter how upset I might be. The worst part is that I was so immersed in memories of my dad that… I became him there for a minute.”
They sit there, collapsing into each other as the combined force of their emotion rocks them from side to side. Peter buries as close as humanly possible, feeling all the grief, anger, relief, and forgiveness that’s been locked up in a tight knot in his chest for the last week seep from his heart.
Eventually, Peter feels human enough to pull himself from his dad’s chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it earlier,” he says quietly.
Tony’s palm cups his face gently, his thumb catching a stray tear. “You have nothing to apologise for, baby.” The earnest grief in his brown eyes reminds Peter of how much he loves his dad. “I promise that I will do everything in my power to never make you feel like that under this roof again, you hear me? I never want to make you feel how my dad used to make me feel when I was a kid.”
Peter nods, another tear spilling from his eye. He never would’ve dreamed of feeling this safe and secure in his own house, let alone with a dad of his own to protect him.
“Do you know something though, kid?” Tony asks, lifting Peter’s chin with a gentle finger to look him in the eye. “I’m proud of you for standing up to me in that fight. You didn’t used to talk back and tell me how you really felt, but that day you did, and I don’t want my shitty actions that day to stop you from doing it again, okay? I’m so proud of you.”
Peter knows it won’t be that easy, and that day will always play at the back of his mind when disagreements arise, but he says he’ll try, because he means it. He’ll do anything for his dad.
Tony pulls him into one last tender hug before standing up. “Right,” he says, “I think what we need is the sofa, Star Wars, and so much ice cream we’ll make our teeth fall out. How does that sound?”
Peter smiles, letting Tony help him up from the bed and lead him out of the room. “I think that sounds pretty good.”
He realises half an hour later, leaning against his dad’s chest, with the biggest dish they could find in the kitchen piled high with every ice cream flavour Peter could think of (and a few he didn’t even know existed) sat between them as the opening credits to Star Wars roll, that he finally feels human again.
The feeling is only exacerbated the next day when they finally fix the robotic medical assistant as Peter’s theory is proved right. Tony ruffles his hair and smiles wide enough to match Peter’s toothy grin. Later, he brags to the whole team.
Tony’s bursting with pride, and Peter finally feels that his world has righted itself. He knows that it’ll probably turn upside down again at some point, so he tries to remember the look in Tony’s eyes as he tells the team that his kid’s “a damn genius who puts us all to shame”. If – when – things go wrong in the future, and people’s imperfections rise to the surface, Peter will try to remember that he’s allowed to be angry and upset and tell somebody that they hurt him. More than anything, he’ll try to remember the feeling of rightness and contentment glowing in his chest even when only days earlier the world felt upended.
With his dad on his side, things always have a way of turning out alright again.