Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter runs his fingers over the cold metal under him, feeling out the grooves and smooth quality of it–it feels expensive.

There is an almost suffocating atmosphere in the ship, adults stealing what they think are inconspicuous glances at him. He can feel their gazes penetrate into his skin, shooting right through the scar tissue and blood. It makes him itch, but he keeps silent, doesn't fidget except for the minute movements in his hands. 

There’s too much noise and light in the ship–the beeping from the consoles, the hum of hundreds of lights, the thrusters and the blinking controls. It makes his head spin, nausea creeping out from the back of his throat, depositing itself on top of his tongue. The lights and the noise and the stares make his teeth vibrate, body coiled in apprehension.

And still–

He stays still, stays quiet. He doesn't scratch the itch that has formed at the base of his spine, does not clear away the dust in his throat.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

His fingers rove across the metal under him, seeking out the leather of the seat, the supports that are slender and firm. 

Blink.

Breathe.

Remember how to do these things. Remember how to listen to one thing at a time, to breathe through everything else. 

( God, you just can't get anything right, can you?)

Don't focus on the scuffing of boots or the birds thousands of feet below or the dust circling in the air vents. Just pay attention to your heartbeat and the air in your lungs–remember how to pull it in and push it out and keep tapping your fingers.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

A door opens somewhere down the hallway, and before he can help it, Peter is jerking up and looking directly where it had come from. The other people shift, turning to look at him. He doesn't move again, just keeps his eyes locked on the door fifteen feet away, fingers still. He purposefully stills his heartbeat, doesn't blink, doesn't swallow. 

The man with the blond hair stares at him strangely-he can feel it-and presses a hand to his own heart.

Footsteps. Tapping. Thunking. Footsteps.

Growing closer, belonging to somebody shy, someone who is aware of every step getting taken, the wariness being a foolproof indicator. Not anxious just…curious. A half second between each movement, calculating.

Interesting.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

His fingers move again, though the rest of his body is shockingly still–it's like looking at a painting, everything orderly and static, but then just–a twitch. Just one. He knows without looking down that his lungs aren't moving (he doesn't really know if he has lungs anymore, anyways), content to only take one breath every few minutes.

The person is closer now, and Peter can tell he is carrying something-his left side is slightly more weighted than the right, there are items shifting in his grip.

He closes his eyes, breathes in, focuses on what they are-every item has its own sounds.

There's gauze, a bottle of something thin, a package of something soft, and…a needle. Medical items were not on his list of conditioning noises, but he grew so used to hearing them that he simply attributed them to memory. There’s no scalpel, which confuses him but…

Hope imbeds itself in a pocket right next to his heart, hidden under his ribs, and he decompresses his lungs, tries to eat it out.

It remains stubbornly there.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

Breathe in, just once, remember you are alive. Breathe out, just once, and wait for a few more minutes. Do not breathe often. Do not waste oxygen.

( Don't be a waste of space, you little freak. )

The door Peter is determinedly staring at opens, revealing a harried looking man with glasses perched on his nose, wearing a worn purple sweater and carrying various medical supplies. Peter feels himself tense, especially as the man’s voice calls out, echoing around the room.

“Hello! I’m just going to check up on you, okay?” Peter can't stop his flinch, reaching up to cover his ears. He's just so loud. He tries to focus on his heartbeat, forcibly slowing it down again, taking in one gulp of air. This all happens in the matter of one second, and he straightens out before anyone can really do or say anything.

There's a look of concern and confusion on the man's face, before understanding wraps it up completely, cinching the corners of his eyes in. He gives a slight nod, clearing his throat almost silently, though even that grates against his ears.

“Okay, lets try this again-Is it okay if I check up on you? Some of your wounds look pretty nasty.” His voice is much softer this time, curling around his ears, and he nods before he can even think of saying no.

The man purposefully lowered his voice to comfort him.

To help Peter.

He lets out a small sigh before sitting up suddenly, looking down at his bare chest where sure enough, bleeding cuts drip lazily down his skin, bruising watercolors against a torn page. He lets out a small breath, opening his mouth the smallest bit, barely flinching when the blades imbed in his gums.

He nods again, not quite sure if this is really real. The eyes in the room are on him again–staring staring--and he flinches when the man moves up beside him, sending not so conspicuous looks to everyone else.

They look away, busying themselves with tablets, books that had been abandoned a second ago, sudoku pages. Peter breathes out again, locking himself into place, some of the tension released from his shoulders.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

“My name is Bruce, and I’m going to touch your back now, okay?” The man’s–Bruce’s–voice is low and smooth, a richness to it that makes Peter’s ears tingle. It's like the one time he was allowed outside in the dead of night and got to watch the stars, the impossibly smooth sky. He had felt so small, had taken comfort in that, despite the vague vestiges of fear that clung to the insides of his skin, prickling.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

Warm hands hover above his skin, as though he is a delicate thing, as though he is breakable. Heat emanates off of them, soaking down into his bones, stretching out along the tops of his ribs. Peter thinks of the night sky and the billions of stars, the shapes he had mapped out, the ones that were brighter than the others.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

Bruce’s hands ghost over his skin, barely brushing against old scars and new wounds, mapping out the inches of him, the hollowness that is all of him.

A sharp sting reaches his nose, and he scrunches it against the onslaught of chemicals, the ones that burn down through his nasal passages and attack his throat. He sneezes downwards into his shoulder, immediately flinching and burying himself down into his lap, heart beating wildly, body aching.

( You can't even follow orders?)

Soft murmurings meet his ears, sound he doesn't pay attention to, just trying to focus on his heartbeat. His heart beating, the blood in his veins, the shiftings of healing bones.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

“I’m going to clean your wounds now. This might sting a little.” Bruce whispers after his tongue has been unstuck from the side of his cheek. Something scratchy and cold touches the base of his neck, and he can't help his full body flinch when it happens, curling further in on himself. The hands stills just long enough for Peter to sit up again, before continuing its path.

Swiping down across his shoulder blades, making the cuts there scream but-

The dried blood is cleaned away, the dirt gotten out, dead flecks of skin that had been clinging to the more healthy areas falling off. He expects any second for his back to flare up in the agony it usually does when it gets cleaned but-

Bruce’s hands are impossibly gentle, almost loving, cleaning and wiping. Wringing out water into a tub that is sat down by someone who walks very quietly, applying a thick gel to everything when it is done. 

He doesn't know why he listens when he's asked softly–so softly–if he would be willing to turn around. He's always been one for defiance, for annoying them, but he does it. He listens and turns and stares into dark brown eyes that hold a million starbursts, and he sighs quietly and drops his head a fraction of an inch.

He doesn't slide forwards, just tucks his legs under him, crossed at the ankles, and lets his arms hang limply at the side. The process is repeated on the front–stinging chemicals and water circling in smooth motions over his concave of a stomach, over his ribs and chest and barely defined muscles. Over his taut wire neck, his loosening shoulders.

He thinks of the sky and how cold it had been when he was outside. The frost that had broken apart under his hands, the dark spires of trees that had reached up towards the bowl he was in, the bars of cages he had not yet known existed. 

The sky and her stars.

The ground and her life.

No clouds and no birds, only the diluted warblings of far off owls, only the mournful bales of coyotes. Only him and the nighttime, the grays of dawn just slipping up over the mountain ridges, kissing awake the world.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

Cold water cleanses his stick like arms, rubs delicately over the skin on his wrists and hands, tugs out against his fingers.

He shivers, the cold so similar to that one night, and is startled to feel water running down his face, warm.

His eyes burn and he realizes with startling embarrassment that he is crying. 

He doesn't make a sound as it happens–just does it as though it is a part of him, pretends this is fine and this is okay even though he hasn't cried in so long and why is his heart beating so fast-

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

He digs his fingernail under a groove in the metal, scratches along the underside of it, drags it up. Sets it back into place, does it again. 

( Fingernails scrabbling at a lock, at bars set in place, at iron clamps that shake in a grasp. Breath harsh against hands, lungs filled with water and hair dripping onto the stone, blood or water, maybe both-)

“I’m going to check for broken bones, okay?” Bruce says, and Peter gives a noncommittal hum, still crying steadily. 

He braces for sharp impact, for poking fingers and blade sharp hurt but it doesn't come.

Just gentle caresses, slight presses into skin that feel everything like existence and nothing like failure. There are quiet noises of sympathy, little hisses of understanding, and then Peter is being wrapped tight with white gauze.

( Don’t struggle, you little brat, you’ll make it worse.)

He is being wrapped tight and soon they will get to his head and he will suffocate and his lunge will pop like breaking balloons-

The hands fall away, making Peter’s eyes snap open, shaking his head.

Bruce’s eyes are warm but somber, his smile there but forced. Peter doesn't know what to make of it. He takes in a shallow breath, ducking his head, tying his fingers up in his lap. He lets out a low grunt, one that had symbolized gratitude when he was at HYDRA, but Bruce doesn't seem to understand. His eyebrows are curved downwards, face pensive, and he gets up, patting Peter on the knee.

As he walks away, the teen lets out a small growl of frustration, alerting the attention of the man next to him–brown hair, brown eyes, mustache and goatee.

He smells of withdrawal.

Hands shaking in little spurts of seconds, pupils wider than normal peoples are, his eyebrows creased as though he has a headache. His heart beats faster than those of the people around him, and he smells like sweat and desperation. No one would think that desperation has a smell, but it does–it smells like bitterness and broken teeth and iron.

Peter’s definitely been staring for too long.

The man seems to think so, too, because he scratches at the space behind his ear and leans forwards, tapping against the seat that separates them.

“It's rude to stare, kid.” He says, though a hint of amusement creeps through and Peter’s been trained on this sort of thing–this man is going through withdrawal (probably from alcohol, if the way his eyes dart to the many water bottles when they roll around are any indication), he has a girlfriend who is taller than him, has severe anxiety and puts on a false bravado to people he doesn't know well.

There isn't much more he can get-this man keeps all the parts of him close, tucked to his chest like his own personal poker game, one he's sure he can win.

Peter doesn't know the man's cards, but he doesn't know his own, either.

He doesn't answer, just continues staring, not blinking. Waiting for something.

( You never fucking stop looking at me, okay? Never do it-especially when you need to be punished.)

His limbs are locked, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, his teeth itching and his hands curled.

This place just screams danger.

“Okay, you’re kinda freaking me out.” Peter rears back, shaking his head aggressively, putting up his hands defensively and looking away–something you should never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever-

“I can get that muzzle off of you.” The man says softly, any bravado, any joking gone. The room is silent again, the only sounds being stifled breathing and heartbeats and blood rushing through veins and headaches forming.

Peter looks up, hands still poised for defense, met with sincere eyes holding the most devastated look he's ever seen, hidden behind deep irises and deeper pupils. 

He looks away.

Tap. Scratch. Tap.

Shakes his head and folds himself up against the noises and lights of the ship.

It takes three days.

Three days in a room filled with harsh white sheets and starched gowns and dripping packages and stinging chemicals for Bruce to finally say it's okay for him to leave, once he's thoroughly wrapped up in tighter gauze and as long as he promises not to overexert himself.

Peter doesn't know what that means.

From all the pages of dictionaries HYDRA had fed him, ‘overexertion’ had not been on any of them, and he wracks his brain to figure out what it means. Maybe to disobey.

He is escorted to a room by a woman with fiery hair who introduces herself as Natasha, a woman who is all confidence and fragility. He holds open the door for her, and she gives him a quizzical look, but explains that this is his room, that he can do anything he wants in it.

There's a floor to ceiling bookshelf against one wall, a window covered in gray curtains, a large bed with soft sheets and a carpet that he digs his feet int, feeling the electricity snap at his skin.

He doesn't know exactly what she wants him to do.

“We can get you a desk in here, and Tony’s already ordered a few lamps, and nearly bought out all the posters and paint I think he could find. It's a wonder he's still a billionaire.” She leaves without saying anything else, other than letting him know that dinner will be ready in two hours, and he sits down on the floor. She had said he could do anything he wanted, but…

The bed isn't safe, neither is the bookshelf, or the carpet, or the walls. He doesn't click the light on, afraid of what he might see in himself, instead crawling over to the window.

Pulls himself onto the ledge, legs tucked so tight together they are barely existing, folded into his stomach.

He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, ignoring the whiplash of this change. You breathe in and breathe back out and you do not let your lungs take over. 

They are just lungs.

(But maybe he is just a person)

The sky is burning.

The kind of burning

You lose yourself in

Wrap yourself in its flames.

The matches that smolder on skylines, golden smoke curling up, melting mercury buildings, metal peeling off like dying worms.

Breathe.

Feel your lungs press to your ribs, deflate them. Your lungs–such fragile, strong things. Such brilliant, breaking things. Do you feel them? Do you feel them breaking? Maybe not–not yet, it'll take some time but-

A corner peels off, just a teeny tiny, atom sized hole.

It will grow.

Fray the ones next to it, not be stitched back up or taped over–you will lose parts of yourself without even knowing, unravel when there is no thread nearby.

Breathe.

Inhale, exhale.

Peter watches the smeared sun slowly disappear, down under concrete trees and plastic people. Distant harbors he can hear and smell (just-a little-just salt and rotting wood-) but not see, something he itches to do.

He breathes.

He traces his fingers against his palms and wonders how the world can be so beautifully broken, so fantastically fragmented. All these eautiful broken things, these beautifully broken people that he has never seen, not once, has never met. All these people he has never known, these things he has never experienced.

He presses bruises into his thighs until his eyes stop burning.

Without meaning to–he really doesn't because you keep your hands away from what isn't yours–his fingers find themselves pressed against the window, against lights that flicker on as darkness stretches itself out. He looks up, just once, hopeful, holds his breath and-

There are no stars.

He turns around gracefully, drops onto the ground without sound, sits down again.

He was told dinner would be ready soon, but was not told he would be allowed to attend it (doesnt really know how he would either, since Bruce had just been giving him food through his feeding tube).

He wonders what he did to already get on their bad side.

He breathes.

He ignores the itching in his eyes (tries not to think of how long ago he last slept, how long ago he last reallyate), the twisting of his stomach, feels the feeding tube placed in there.

Breathes.

Runs his fingers through the carpet, scratches at it with torn off fingernails, because surely they wouldn't know about this disobedience. There are no cameras he can sense, so he must be fine.

Then he remembers that maybe they don't make any sound or smell like any different material so-

He stops.

And breathes.

Because sometimes breathing is all you can do.

Peter rests in the corner of his room, curled as tight as possible, because he is not one to disobey.

Well, he is, but not now. Not before he knows what they are like, what they want.

He presses his head between his knees and practices turning off the different parts of him, jumping them back to life.

His thigh muscles are no longer working, completely still even though the rest of him isn't, then jumps back out. One muscle in his finger, twitching. One of the muscles just above his eyebrow barely moving.

(Learn to control every part of yourself-learn how to stop the blood in your veins and the air in your lungs. Turn off neural connectivity to your hands. And feet. And do it again until you have truly mastered the monster that you are.)

He doesn't sleep.

He knows he usually wakes up screaming and he doesn't want to bother them with that so-

He doesn't sleep.

He keeps his eyes closed, but he doesn't let his body stop moving, stop working. 

If you keep yourself awake, you keep yourself alive. 

(Being asleep is a weakness anyways.)

Instead of sleeping, he deactivates his body. Wraps all of it up in restfulness, but keeps his brain awake.

He thinks of climbing up and out ripping a hole in the sky, nestling himself inside. Thinks of breaking apart stars (despite them being gas, he knows that) and curling against the edges of things unfathomable. Thinks of living up there, unchained and unbound and just

Floating.

He lets himself float.

“Tony wants to see you.”

He immediately snaps around, arms firm at his sides. You listen and you obey, see how far they will take it, how much you can withstand. 

The man–Clint, he was called, forty two minutes earlier when he threw an orange in the kitchen–leans against the room's stark white doorway, arms folded (no, he doesn't question how he is just learning the man's name four days later).

He is all confidence, all assuredness, but a kind of sadness hides in his eyes–he looks at Peter and there are balls of yarn of emotions, trying to work themselves out into the semblance of something but-

He nods. Keep standing there. Doesn't let himself blink, or grunt an affirmation. Soldier stance, they called it.

The man–Clint–cocks an eyebrow, straightens himself out, lets out a dejected sigh. He looks up when Peter doesn't move, doesn't twitch, and grits his teeth.

“You can leave the room.” Peter expects his voice to be firm, snarling, exasperated.

Not soft.

No, not soft, not sad, just accepting as if he didn't want to be.

Clint leaves the door open, a perfect golden rectangle of light, the only brightness in the dark room.

Peter lurches forwards just the smallest bit, just enough to reach the doorframe, grip clenching it–not hard enough for it to break or even splinter just-

Hold it.

(He's been trained)

So.

Steadies himself against the doorframe. Holds himself upright, tries to conjure up an image of the man–brown hair, brown eyes, recovering alcoholic.

Taller girlfriend.

Distrust.

He slowly takes his hand off the frame, listens to the clatterings of people twenty floors below him, dilutes them out, and tries to find the exact presence of the man. 

Around five foot eight, probably with more jagged, jerking movements. His breathing hadn't been obvious, mostly just something that scratched at the back of his mind, but he didnt breathe through his mouth, so that ruled out the person seven levels below. 

He finds the man two levels below, puttering around in a lab that seems to be on fire.

He breathes again, scratches at an area just above his muzzle. Stretches out his leg, expecting trip wires or explosions or someone to come bearing down and tackle him back into the room and he sets his foot down and-

Nothing happens.

He breathes again, just for a moment, just for a second, because this–this is different.

He wouldn't call it wandering, but for the sake of it, he wanders out into the hallway, determines he needs to go right, and is met with a kitchen and a common room or sorts.

There are exactly three people in it–the tall, blond man that anyone would be stupid to not recognize as Captain America, Clint, and a man with a metal arm and long brown hair.

A metal arm.

Identical to the one he has seen hundreds of times before, to be able to identify the Winter Soldier.

His muscles seize up, even as the man jerks around to look at him eyes wide. He had to curl the hatred in his gut because this man–this man he was taught to hate for his whole life-

Because he betrayed HYDRA. Because he betrayed them but also-

Because he betrayed Peter.

He left him alone, stranded in the holding cell right next to him and didn't even tell him he was leaving-

(Small hands grip onto impossibly cold bars, a face pressed between them, not grinning but not frowning. 

“Hello, sir! My name is Peter! What's yours?” The question is directed to a snarling, broken man, who snaps up his head, growls, and turns away.

Peter nods determinedly.)

The Winter Soldier’s–Bucky’s, James’, every name he has ever been–eyes widen a fraction of an inch, mouth falls open in a silent gasp.

(Peter is deposited back in his cell, both arms broken, tears running down his dirt covered face, bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow.

Well, happy birthday to him.

He sniffles and wishes–not for the first time–that he was back home with his parents and his aunt and his Uncle and his dog, because this–this hurts, and makes him want to break right there on the floor, crack in two and bleed out.

“The name’s Bucky, kid.”)

“Peter?”

( It takes two months for them to learn everything about each other.

Three months for Peter to start talking about science.

Four for Bucky to tell Peter about a friend he will never see again, a friend he had loved and hated, a friend who he had seen just one last time, covered in bomb sweat and shrapnel.

Peter listens, head tucked between his knees, staring at Bucky with wide, wide eyes, sporting bruises and scars over every inch of him.

It takes five months for HYDRA to realize any of this.

Five months before they start putting them in training together-s-omeone who is far younger than they should be and someone who is far older. 

Six months before they come to an understanding, as they are dragged away from each other, as Bucky and Peter howl because the other does not deserve this. They come to an understanding that they would die and kill for the other

If only

They got the chance

And Peter is sent away

On a mission to where he used to live

Threats of a man's life on his hands

If he doesn't comply.

Forced to kill the people

He loved

To save another one

And isn't he such a coward?

How can he be in the right, when he feels so in the wrong?

The only people Peter ever kills are:

Mary Parker. Richard Parker. Ben Parker. May Parker.

And the dog is given

To the pound

Which somehow hurts even more.)

Peter knew there was something he was ignoring–something just–and there it is.

His knees are weak, his hands shaking, as he remembers how terribly they had cried when they saw him again, their baby boy who had been gone for two years and then-

How terrible their screams had been, how warm the blood on his hands, how burning the flames eating up his eyes.

And then

How much he had wanted

To bury that gun

In his mouth.

But he didn't.

(He doesn't see Bucky for two weeks after that. He just takes more beatings, gets electrocuted, doesn't even complain because-

For Bucky. For his friend. The only person he had not killed yet.

He sees him once more.

And they stare at each other.

Gripping onto metal bars

Faces pressed between them

Like their are trying to squeeze out

And Bucky reaches out his hand

Peter his

And they can almost

Almost

Touch.

“I’ll get us out of here.” Bucky promises, whispers through bleeding lips and cracked teeth.

And Peter nods, not yet understanding-

That People Always Lie.

That was Rule #3.

Bucky was gone the next day, when Peter was ten, and Peter held out hope for 

Three years

Three lives he never got to live

Until he learns you never hope.

You will always be disappointed.)

“Peter-oh my god-I’m so sorry-” Bucky’s eyes are pained, his breath rattling in his chest, pupils dilated. His arms shine under the lights of the kitchen, and Peter’s eyes flick to it for a fraction of a second.

Just one.

(Secrets were traded like scandals.

Whispers flown on bee paper wings and bleeding breath across stone hallways.

Two hands

Pressed against bars on either side.

Two small.

Two big.

Both equally scarred, eyes equally scared but

They had each other and that was their only saving grace.)

Technically Bucky had saved Peter.

So Rule #3 maybe wasn't so right.

Peter is wrapped tight in a man he hadn't seen for so long, a man he had forgotten the sound of, almost the name, almost the stories.

He flinches, tries to draw back because those hands are burning but-

He is held tighter, tighter, tighter and-

He hugs back.

“Peter, Peter, Peter…” Into his shoulder, his hair, every part of him that can be reached. And-

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…” Into the neck and chest and every part that he had forgotten existed, through a muzzle, garbled and not like much of anything at all, blood filling up into his mouth.

Into every memory he had lost, every one that he hadn't.

It takes Clint clearing his throat before Peter can snap back to reality, back tempered steel and eyes hard, determined. He presses his palm to Bucky’s and taps twice, the man nodding and letting him go. 

He bows to Clint, To Steve, ignores the shaking in his hands, anxiety fizzing up in his chest like a drowning firework. 

Burning up.

Down to the wick.

Until everything

Eventually

Will explode.

Mr. Stark taps at his muzzle, examines every side of it, tilts his head, all while Peter cringes and shies away, twitches and flinches everytime he moves.

The man frowns but says nothing, instead rocking back on his heels, arms folded, a new burning kind of determination in his eyes.

“I think I can get it off.'' He states simply, eyes burning holes into Peter’s who, to his credit, doesn't shy away.

He straightens up, hope ballooning like sugar bubbles and breathless breath because-

He deflates just as quickly, shakes his head because–no one has hurt him yet. They still have the power to, of course but-

His sense hasnt gone off. Not once.

So maybe that's enough.

But he still deflates, shakes his head, such a small act of defiance, bracing himself for bloody reprimand that will surely follow but-

Silence.

The man takes a breath, drinks slowly from a crinkly plastic water bottle, sets it back down.

“No? As in, you don't want it off, or you don't believe in me?” There's amusement but–concern–in Tony’s voice, and Peter stills, balls his fists in his hoodie, smooths it out, collects himself back together again.

He shakes his head more violently, miming electricity. The man's eyebrows shoot up, before drawing down, face going impossibly pale, just deep brown eyes staring out at him. There's a dawning horror in his face–like if you were forced to kill your family.

“Oh.” He breathes out, most confidence gone–there's still that determination, that air of ‘if you say I can't do it I will’ but it's mostly expelled now. There's a kind of reality shift, a look of newfound vehemence that Peter shies away from, but for some reason doesn't feel threatened by.

Interesting.

“That's fine. I can work around that.”

And he does.

It takes him three hours to draw out the plans–he had eventually caved and asked Peter if he knew anything about it and Peter had proceeded to draw up a firm and write out mathematical equations that left Tony shocked, eager to please the man who had-

Thrown back his head and laughed-

Reached for his shoulder-

And drew it back quickly when Peter violently flinched-

Then smiled warmly and said he was brilliant.

Oh.

So that's what it felt like, the feeling he had been missing for so long–pride? Contentment? He wasn't sure but it made him feel…nice. Warm and addicted, falling into something he may never fall out of.

It takes Tony two more hours to make the device, in which time he tells someone to bring Peter down a sandwich and a KoolAid.

Then there is a crux of a moment, a place in time where Tony is reaching for Peter's face and he doesn't flinch away, the kind of place where stars are born and wishes are granted and moonlight is turned into tears. Peter can hear wind rustling leaves a few streets down, a kid laughing as they hopscotch, can smell someone burning breakfast, a beetle being squashed.

Feels his blood in his veins, his bones against his flesh, rubbing.

And then-

All he can smell is Tony’s citrus soap, all he can hear is Tony’s breathing and all he can feel

Is a brief zap of electricity that spiders around the muzzle and then

The muzzle

Falling

Off.

He chokes, on nothing and on everything.

He's sure there's some psychological reason behind why he feels like he's losing a part of himself, why it feels liberating though, but he doesn't analyze.

He brings his hands up, shaking, shaking so very violently. Touches them along the scar tissue where the muzzle had gouged into his skin, the dried blood surrounding his mouth but-

He breathes, and breathes, and doesn't stop breathing, breathes until he is crying from so much air in his lungs, breathes until there is so much air that it weighs him down until he is pressed against the floor.

And breathes just a little bit more.

Breathes because sometimes that is all you can do.

Tony drags a tired hand over his face, rubbing at the space between his eyes. He clears his throat, pulls at a strand of hair once–sighs deeply and tiredly, the kind of tiredness that comes from knowing things that should never be known.

“SHIELD sent us his file.” The man flicks out his wrist, a manila folder dropping onto the table, the rest of the Avengers staring at it as though it is on fire. Tony growls, drops himself into the only open chair and leans forwards.

“His name’s Peter Parker, known by HYDRA as The Spider–he was brought in when he was fucking nine.” Tony takes a deep breath in through his nose, flicks open the file, spreads the papers out.

“There–every horrible thing they did to him–starvation, beatings, making him walk on glass, waterboarding… ” Steve’s eyes widen exponentially, flipping through the papers on the table.

“But, Tony…no human could ever withstand this much. It's–it's impossible! I don't think I could even withstand this much.” He winces at the punishment ‘forced to swallow scraps of burning metal’ and promptly sets the papers down. 

Tony huffs out, the shadows under his eyes becoming even more prominent from the growing stubble on his chin, fingers laced together contemplatively.

The silence in the room is absolute because–-as the Avengers register and digest this new news, they look to Tony confused because. Yeah. These things, these pages and pages of things, are enough to kill any regular human twenty times over.

“He's stronger than you and Bucky combined.”

Its one sentence–such a simple one, too, just a statement but-

How can one sentence be so horrific? This teenager–this child– was forced into this horrible, horrible torture, but he wasnt even given the reprieve of death because he was stronger than two of the strongest men in the world.

“Oh, and there's more.” Tony gives a hollow chuckle, eyes wide and mildly crazed, stuck open with the kind of horror that leaves you shaking for days. He grabs a folder next to him–this one plastic and red–and draws papers out of it, lets them flutter to the table.

“Records of all of his activities. From what we’ve seen from Bucky’s,” He spares a glance towards the man. “This would track how many kills he made, when he made them, the method and the reason.

There are only four names listed there–and you want to know what they are?” Tony shuts his eyes, forces himself to remember how his lungs work, grabs onto his left hand for support, rubs the thin skin there. God, he shouldn't be the messed up one here.

“Mary, Richard, Ben and May Parker. His fucking family. They made him murder his own family for the reason of ‘severing ties’.” Tony leans back in his chair, a sudden bone-tiredness enveloping him.

He's tired of dealing with Ross’s shit, trying to dictate him every other turn. He's tired of Fury’s shit, making them house a horrifically traumatized and brutalized kid that he doesn't know what to do with. He's tired of his own shit, too, and not for the first time wonders why he can't just be better. He brushes the hair out of his face, takes Advil from his pocket, swallows it dry, and tries to stave off the impending headache.

And watches.

Watches as Bucky turns away and breathes harshly, something like regret crashing around in his eyes. Watches as Steve just…stares. Stares at nothing, blankly, at everything he cannot see. Watches as Bruce closes his eyes, twists his mouth into a grimace because–well, he saw it but this, this is so much worse. Clint has tears in his eyes, hands shaking. Sam’s eyes are wide, disbelieving.

And Natasha–her normal calm, composed exterior is almost completely shattered, bits of her breaking all over the floor because this–this is not what any of them were expecting.

Rhodey settles his hands on Tony’s shoulders, squeezes once, twice. Massages circles into the tense bundles of muscles there, brushes his rough fingers over Tony’s collarbone.

Tony sighs, sinks down, and wonders–not for the first time–what he's gotten himself into by being alive. 

Peter had this little–game, you could call it. He had this thing that he called a game because if he called it anything else he might cry.

So.

He had this game where he would try to fit himself into the smallest areas possible. The very, very edge of a corner. A box left in his cell. The slivers of shadows on the very sides of the wall.

He was good at it. Alarmingly good at it.

He could fit into almost any space given–the spaces behind tables, compressing himself under the ledge of rock that is his bed. Bending joints and flattening out muscles and learning how to not really exist at all.

He does it now.

He maps every spot of the room he can tuck himself away into, every place that screams ‘uninhabited’, every shadow that deserves to be filled, be given life. 

Places that have never existed filled with one thing that used to.

But he doesn't move. He sits completely still, completely straight, eyes lowered to the table, jaw locked. His hands shake imperceptibly in his lap, just–such slight movement you would never ever notice it unless you knew exactly what to look for. And maybe not even then.

There are exactly thirteen places set out on the table ( unlucky ) but only eleven of them are occupied with drinks, glasses of water with condensation running down the sides intermittently, ice shifting and melting into the rest of the water.

There's boxes and boxes of pizza tacked up in the kitchen that smells like grease and calories, bowls of salad that seem ever so slightly palatable. Bread in the oven, still warming, and Pepper’s cutting oranges at one of the counters.

Peter is the only one at the table.

Everyone else is in the living room, save Tony, who is currently griping about needing a new microwave, before he presses a kiss to Pepper’s temple. Peter doesn't see this–doesn't see anything but the table in front of him–but he hears it. 

He hears Pepper’s soft, fond chuckle, Tony popping a piece of fruit into his mouth, swallowing it without really chewing. He hears Steve curse at Clint, who squeaks and throws what seems to be a controller at the man, which thumps off of his chest.

He takes a deep breath in, folds his fingers tightly against each other, sits up straighter. Ignores the burning in his eyes, the sudden dryness of his throat, the pull, the need to be closer to all of that but–

He curls forwards a fraction of an inch, settles his tongue against the roof of his mouth, presses up. Pokes at his thigh–so strangely covered in a soft material–until he feels blood come to the surface, creating bruises that will only stay for a few hours.

Tries to pretend that his ribs aren't breaking, that the food in the kitchen doesn't make him want to throw up, that the bandages around his chest and arms aren't bothering him, digging their fibers into his flesh like he has done something to personally offend them.

Natasha flips a page in her book. Bruce cleans his glasses gently, mouth pulled into a smile. Wanda adjusts her left sock. Sam changes positions, hand now grazing the floor idly.

Rhodey laughs.

So does Steve.

Pepper does too, after Tony makes a comment about being a privileged teen and then–

Their mouths snap shut, gums squeaking, tongue clicking against the insides of their cheeks and god, it makes Peter want to rip out his teeth.

“Dinner’s ready!” Tony calls, and soon everybody is scrambling to get their plates, everybody is in the kitchen except for Natasha who is sitting across from Peter. Her hands reach forwards and he immediately flinches–force of habit, muscle memory–but she doesn't seem bothered.

“You can come get something to eat, it's okay.” She smiles, furrows her brows. “It won't be taken away from you, either.” She gets up–though she doesn't push in her chair–and just…stands there. Peter jolts when he realizes he's supposed to follow, quickly scrambling up and reaching for his plate, holding on to it as though it is a lifeline. 

He follows after Natasha, who gives herself three slices of pizza and a generous helping of salad and–Peters at a loss. He doesn't know what to grab, doesn't know what he's allowed to have, doesn't know how much he can make and how much he can handle because he just got the stomach tube out and–

“Here.” Half a slice of pizza is deposited on his plate, five forkfuls of salad. Two tomatoes gleam up at him, hidden among glossy, healthy leaves. He snaps his head up to Bruce, who smiles and that smile says it's okay. Those hands and those teeth and that skin–it's okay, it's okay.

It's okay.

“Thank you.” Peter whispers, voice still hoarse, still raw, still everything it should be. His eyes are lowered to the floor, but his words are sincere–Bruce muses that the words are far too sincere for the simple act of getting food, food that his stomach might not even be able to handle.

He’s determined to change that.

“Peter, I’m going to watch you while you eat, okay? I’m going to need to see how you do with solid food.” Bruce tacks on, waiting for Peter’s nod–that came much too quickly–before exiting the kitchen and seating himself next to Clint at the table.

Peter breathes in once, holds it for the amount of time it takes him to stop shaking, releases.

It's okay.

He's okay.

( When you say things enough, they eventually will become a reality.)

He sets himself down quietly, seated next to Bucky and Tony, waits for someone to start eating before he moves to. Steve starts first, followed by Natasha, then Clint, Wanda, Bruce, Bucky, Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, Sam. Peter reaches forwards on impulse, grabs his fork, holds it up. Doesn't do anything with it. Just holds it above the food in front of him and wills it go down further, to pick up the food and make its way to his mouth. To chew and then swallow. 

It doesn't work.

He stares at the pizza that oozes grease, the cheese that melts off and congeals into just–heard paste. He flinches slightly when Bukcy nudges him, draws away. The man inclines his head while he chews, eyebrows raised. Peter takes this in, registers it, but he can't focus on anything else but the sound of chewing. Usually he's able to block things like that out but.

Not now.

All he can hear is chewing, the sounds of food and spit and swallowing, of it getting worked around on tongues, the sound of teeth hitting each other. The sound of clearing throats and scraping chairs and clinking dishes. He grits his teeth and swallows hard, shuts his eyes, tries to bring everything into just–

A pocket, in his mind, that sits directly behind his skull. Tries to shove them away in that pocket, a water droplet that completely mutes the noise, tucks the sounds away. He tries to listen to his heartbeat, to the blood in his veins, the blood in Bucky’s. 

The ant crawling along the window outside.

The sounds of people making coffee thirty-five floors down. The elevator opening, shutting.

All put into different droplets, until the only thing left is him. The only thing left is him and his plate of food and the taste of blood behind his tongue.

He spears a tomato, slowly lifts it to his mouth, wraps his lips around it. Puts so much thought into pulling it off the fork, into closing his mouth, into getting his jaw muscles to work and chew it.

God, this is so hard. 

The muscles and his teeth protest, aching, but still–they cut into the fruit, bite down on it, get through its skin. 

It's sweeter than he thought it would be.

He chews on it slowly, pokes at seeds with his tongue, swallows just the juice. Lets his mouth get accustomed to each texture, slides the peel around.

Swallows the rest of it.

Feels it travel down his throat and-

He picks up the other one. Chews on it. Savors the feeling of being able to eat again, tears burning up in his eyes. Forces himself to eat more, despite the protest of his jaw and stomach just–

Picks up food on his fork. Lettuce and onion. Deposits it in his mouth. Chews, Swallows, Repeats. 

There's one set of eyes watching him, just one and even though they are–feel like their burning holes in the slides of his cheeks–he doesn't really mind. He forces his way through his salad, starts turning back into the conversations around him as he pokes at his pizza.

“Hey Tony?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are there two more places set up? Are we expecting guests?” Wanda poses the question, mindlessly cutting a tomato in half. Tony hums in affirmation, swallows quickly, wipes his mouth.

“Mhm, Thor and Loki are going to be staying with us for a few days.” He says nonchalantly, wiping pizza sauce off of his fingers. All the heads snap towards him, even Bruce’s, and the billionaire shrugs, cracks his wrists.

“Yeah, they're just visiting.” He shrugs again, even as Wanda’s head tilts in confusion.

“But…isn't Loki a…bad guy?” She asks, just the right kind of disbelief to get Tony to respond.

“Not really.” He doesn't elaborate, and no one asks him to, just digests the information. Peter can hear the gears turning in their heads, which leads him to think about how interesting it would be if human brains were actually made from gears and springs, which then leads him to wonder if someone had ever made that. Probably.

His stomach is thoroughly cramped, nausea licking at the edges of his throat, but he doesn't do anything about it, doesn't get up. Forces himself to sit there, just takes deep breaths through his nose. Bruce surely notices this, but he doesn't really care.

It's okay.

He pushes his plate away every so slightly, sits higher, listens to the sounds of the wind changing, of atoms and stars being ripped apart.

The sound of two gods reaching out into the darkness that is the carbon dioxide choked sky, the smell that comes with them–like stardust and something so infinitely powerful it makes Peter shiver.

“They're here.” Peter whispers, before slapping a hand over his mouth, shaking his head back and forth.

Bucky places a calming hand on his back, is shocked when he doesn't flinch, then squeezes at his neck.

“ Все нормально. Здесь разрешено говорить.” If anyone else had heard what he had said, they would probably glare but as it is, the only people who speak Russian are Natasha, Bucky, Wanda and Peter, so no one does. They just see the righteous fury in an assassin’s eyes, the acute sadness in a young girl, Peter relaxing, and nothing more. They don't understand that something momentous has just happened, that a string of momentous things are going to happen so very, very soon.

Wanda can feel it.

The stars can feel it.

And, up there, in that small rift between time, the place that gods crawl out of, the space where galaxies are born, two gods can feel it.

The wind–fate–shifts. Re-adjusts itself.

And the world is forever changed from it.

“So, Peter, wanna meet some gods?”

Peter does meet them. He sees Thor and Loki, standing side by side, and they radiate such power, such ability for anger that he flinches back almost immediately. Thor doesn't seem to notice this, but Loki latches his gaze onto Peter.

Who doesn't back down.

Flinches again, but does not back down. There's a sort of…thrill it creates, a tingling sensation that buries under his skin and makes his heart beat faster, that makes him feel more alive than he has in years.

So Loki stares him down, wars and a hundred thousand bloody things in his eyes, but Peter doesnt move. Does not blink.

Loki smiles.

Thor’s booming voice inquires after who he is, a large hand slamming into his shoulder even as protests form on Tony’s voice and Peter rears away so quickly Thor is left blinking in shock.

Peter clutches his hands close to his rapidly beating heart, curled away from hands that can hurt, hands that may never be kind, and tries to remember how to breathe. 

The silence almost hurts.

It presses down on Peter’s ears, rocks up against his hips and elbows, tries to climb between his eyes. He breathes raggedly and snaps away from Bucky when he comes up in front of him because he cannot be touched right now.

“I didn't mean to scare you, little one. I am sorry.” Thor’s voice is still impossibly loud, and Peter flinches away violently again, though it's much less frantic than the first one.

It's okay.

He's okay.

He shakes his head, straightens himself up, and ignores everybody else in his room.

Says he's fine.

And ignores the shaking in his hands. 

Loki rarely shifts his gaze from the small Midguardian, instead watching every time he flinches, everytime his hands shake against his sides. There are scars on them–scars on his fingers and wrists and face, his neck and feet. 

Loki is intrigued.

He has this sort of righteous fury about him, this kind of righteous sadness. He's the perfect kind of mistake, the perfect kind of creature made from revenge and every broken thing.

As Loki is ushered around, glaring at anyone that isn't Thor (though he does glare at the other god a fair bit too), he tries to probe into Peter’s mind, reach in and learn everything he can about him.

He reaches in and almost immediately rears back, holding himself up on a table because that–that was worse than any torture than he has ever seen.

There’s no cohesion there just–waves and…tsunamis, tidal waves of thoughts and flashes of blood, of chains, of pale hands falling to floors and collapsing lungs and blindfolds on eyes.

He holds his breath, counts to ten, and reaches out again, this time more slowly, this time more gentle. 

It's still–so chaotic–like bubbling, flaming metal and drowning ships but–there's just one thing that he can really pull out, actually make sense of.

Four bodies. Four bleeding bodies laying on a rug in a warm house, gaping, stacked on top of each other.

Four bodies that share noses, eyes, chins, hair with the boy he had just seen and–in everything–in the ceiling and floor and the pictures on the wall, in the wallpaper and the blood in the carpet and the humming fridge–

Guilt. 

So, so much guilt, coating everything, gasoline and oil, guilt guilt guilt.

Loki can't even wrap his head fully around it before he's shoved–forcefully–out of the head.

And is met

With the wide, wide eyes of a teenager, some sort of anger but also acceptance in his eyes.

And Loki realizes something, especially as the boy turns away silently, walks silently without anyone else noticing down the hallway.

Loki realizes that this is the only person to ever resist him.

Loki smiles again, grabs a glass of room temperature water, and sips thoughtfully.

Peter doesnt know why the brainwashing never worked on him.

Why for everyone else they forgot everything they had ever been, why he just had a migraine for a week afterwards but every part of his mind was intact, every part of it was there. 

He doesnt know and he has never known, even though it's something he’s come back to whenever he needs to fill his mind with something other than its brewing tempests. 

He doesnt know why he can resist Loki.

He doesnt know he doesnt know he doesnt know and it eats him up.

( Well, you’ve always been weird.)

Peter presses bruises on his arms because he doesn't really know what he's supposed to feel.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel because he likes it here, because he likes the people here and the food and the view from his window. But he misses HYDRA, which he definitely isn't supposed to do and he knows he shouldnt be missing them. And he can't remember what his family sounds like and he realizes his dog is probably dead now too and-

He presses bruises into his arms because physical pain is easy.

Physical pain makes sense–there, your leg hurts because you got it broken. You feel like you’re going to pass out because of the bullet in your shoulder, because your blood is coating the ground. Your arms shake because they made you hold ten tons for three hours.

It makes sense.

It makes sense because you know why you are hurting–maybe not why you deserve it–but you know why. It's easy. It's simple. It takes away from everything mentally and so–

Peter moves on to his legs, when he really can't tell what color his skin is anymore.

He's dressed in soft gray pants and a white t-shirt. They both hang limply on him, waterfalling from bony joints and caves that have become his muscles. He keeps shifting around, ignoring the tags in them, the fine fibers that grate against his skin.

Another bruise, just above his knee, right next to a scar.

Pretty much everywhere on his skin is right next to a scar.

He draws himself up when his mind has decided its riot is over for the day, walks over to stand in front of the mirror.

Catalogs.

Lifts his shirt to make sure he really still exists, brushes his fingers over the many, many scars there, the ones from surgery without any anesthesia. The ones on his chest, from seeing if his heart worked like normal. The ones on his back from whippings and beatings. 

Walking on glass. Getting bolted down to the ground through his feet, poles stuck through the middle of them. Gun shot wounds. Knife scars. Ones where needles have been inserted to make him stronger, make him faster, make him better.

And the cruel thing?

They made sure that these scars would never, ever fade, that they would stay there no matter how long he had his healing. 

He traces over the shape of his lips that he has barely seen in the past two years, maybe flashes of memory. Over his crooked nose that's been broken too many times to count. Over the hollows of his cheeks and the faint edges of glistening scar tissue from his muzzle, the ones that have started to fade but will probably never completely.

Over the shadows under his eyes that have grown from ghosts to chasms, from chasms to back holes, swallowing him into their abyss.

No matter how much he hates–everything here, everything that is a part of him, he can't make himself turn away. He doesnt turn away from the reflection of this thing in front of him.

He practices how to smile.

Winces. Aches.

Does it again. And again. And again.

Stretching out his face muscles, situates his lips correctly, draws his eyebrows up accordingly until he has mastered the art of looking like you are fine.

(One day–someday–everybody must die. 

That’s how it works.

It doesn't matter how inevitable you are, how hard your features are, or how brilliant your mind is.

You will loosen from life, little threads plucking away and away.

And then you will die.

Peter is going to die some day.

Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, maybe it's years and years away.

But

He will surely surely die, because that is what he is destined to do–to live and exist and to die.

To melt away into the ground, become a house for every desperate clawing thing.

He digs his way under his skin, sitting on a burning windowsill, and cries because

Sometimes this life isn't worth living.)

(Because sometimes these hands are not kind.)

(Because sometimes it doesn't take a village to make or break a child–sometimes it just takes a few years and a few people.)

(A few broken bones and broken smiles and shattered faces.)

(Sometimes he doesn't really want to exist anymore.)

(Wonders why he let himself do it in the first place.)

The first time Peter sleeps–not just rests–is two weeks after he first got to the Tower. 

He sleeps and dreams of hands covered in knives and blood, giant bands that attach him to a table made from bones that slowly crack and pierce his back as he is forced further down. He dreams of needles that stab through his stomach, skewer him to the ground. 

When the table of bones finally breaks, he falls–down, down, down, into a starless, inky sky, while voices around him laugh.

He has heard those laughs every single day of his life since he was nine years old.

He wakes up when his body crashes against the bottom of something that is unfathomable.

Peter aches. His bones and muscles and tendons, his teeth and tongue and skin. Everything that makes him up–his scars and his memories.

They all hurt.

He rolls over, presses his face into the carpet, screams for just–just a few minutes. Only a few because this is what he was expecting but it's somehow worse.

“You appear to be in distress–do you wish for me to contact Boss?” FRIDAY asks, though it's soft, and Peter still marvels at the ingenuity that is the AI. He says no, forces himself up from the ground on shaking arms, ambles to the windowsill.

Watches stars that turn out to just be planes.

Realizes that everything lies, eventually, even the sky.

Peter remembers when he first fell.

Well, he doesn't remember when or why it happened, but he remembers how it felt.

The gut punching, air sucking split second of panic, of fear and disregard of everything rational. That moment between tripping and falling, where you could catch yourself or meet the ground and-

He remembers what it felt like to fall. Not how the ground felt, not how he felt afterwards.

Just…how it felt. To slip. To wonder how hurt you would be from this. To feel your lungs, your heart stop.

He figures he's been falling ever since.

Tony takes him to a bookstore on a whim one day.

He doesn't tell Peter where they're going, just helps him into the car and hums along to a song on the radio, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Peter chooses to ignore the sounds of the man's anxiety.

He focuses on how it feels to be in a car, how the engine feels, the leather under his fingers, the feeling of the glass on his nose. Watches the world amble on, zip by.

And he simply…exists in the middle of it all.

He is in something that takes him through the world, through these lives, everything a blurred riot of color while he…remains unchanged.

He smiles. 

Practices how to exist.

When the car pulls by the side of the road, Tony gets out swiftly, fluidly, opens Peter’s door, lets him walk on his own but hurries him to a little building wedged between two others. Very inconspicuous, quaint and…soft?

“Here–get anything you want. Romance, muder mystery, nonfiction, I don't care. But you have to leave here with at least fifteen books.” Peter nods in affirmation as Tony softly pushes a worn green bag into his hands and wanders off.

Peter blinks. Blinks again. Gets started.

He starts on the aisle he's on, surveying the shop in little handfuls of glances–finds the exits, finds the people, finds every nook and cranny he could squeeze into.

It's suspiciously empty, which he finds mildly interesting, but brushes it away and smiles softly.

Digs his feet into the ground, closes his eyes, takes in the scent of biblichor and leather, emanating particularly strong from behind the counters. Wood and cleaning supplies, but it is muted, soft. He breathes in again just because he can, tries to attribute this to some sort of feeling–the one in between comfort and something akin to happiness but not quite there.

He looks at the faded green bag, tugs its straps over his shoulder. Breathes again, just once more, and picks up the first book.

Peter very quickly gets into the flow of it, finding himself almost too easily lost in the wonder of it all.

He runs his fingers so delicately over the covers–the ones embossed with golden patterns of ivy, the ones with cracking covers, the ones bound in leather that seem to be as old as the sun.

 He takes some of them out, one by one, runs his hands over their covers, smooths them out under his fingers, presses his nails into the spines. Opens them up, flicks pages, breathes in their smell, places them back or puts them in the faded green bag at his side if he finds them interesting. 

He senses rather than sees Tony glance over at him a few times, then at his bag, but the man remains further away, seeming to dance away from wherever Peter is–he appreciates it. 

He has books on Greek Mythology, ones on old wars. Some are regular fiction that he found especially interesting, some of them are mysteries. But most of them are on Science–electromagnetics, quantum physics, black holes, spacetime, relativity, genetics and evolution, atmospheric dynamics. Ones on math, too- introductions to topology, differential equations, combinatory, mathematical physics, computation, signal processing.

As he's flipping through a book dedicated solely to the island of Krakatau, Tony walks up softly, a few books in his hands. Peter looks down at his bag, simply bursting with tomes, and opens his mouth to apologize, to say he can put some of them back because he's surely gotten far too many books-

Tony holds up a hand to silence him, smiling softly.

“I told you that you could get whatever you wanted and this–this is great. You can read, right?” Tony asks, as though actually puzzled by it, and Peter laughs. He laughs.

In the month Peter had been with them, he had never once laughed–smiled a handful of times but–never laughed. Tony blinks, the only indication that anything has happened, but otherwise does not show any of his surprise. 

He pays for Peter’s books, making noises of approval at every single one, then drives them back to the Tower.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Peter whispers over and over, holding the bag to his chest, head ducked down.

Tony smiles, heart breaking, and says that he's very welcome.

Peter learned very early not to cry.

He learned very early that it doesn't matter how much pain you’re really in–you don't cry because crying is a weakness and if you cry then you are a failure.

He learned very early that you do not cry because if you cry then you will make sure you are never able to cry again.

They poured bleach in his eyes. Again. And again.

He healed.

Again and again.

But he learned to not cry, even if he could, which is why now, as he sobs into his floor, he wonders how he even managed it.

He is in the perfect position for worship, forehead pressed to the ground, legs tucked under him, back curved and neck bared. By now he's learned to worship bathroom tiles.

His fingers are curled into the edges between two of the tiles, because this–this is the only way he knows how not to fall. You make yourself as small as possible, you make yourself as weak as you were made out to be.

You become everything you were told you were.

Bruce wants to run tests.

Bruce wants to run tests so Peter finds himself in a bright training gym filled with equipment and padded walls and windows way up high. He finds himself in a room shaking, heart pounding because he doesn't know what these tests are going to be and that scares him shitless-  

He's told to get on the treadmill first, the rest of the Avengers now gathered a few meters back, and he breathes out because–he can do this. These aren't…bad tests, these are like fitness, how capable he is and that–he can do that.

He starts at five miles an hour, just lightly jogging. After a minute, Bruce moves him to ten miles an hour. He's running now, leg muscles stretching and retracting, burning blissfully from disuse.

He keeps going.

Twenty miles. Thirty.

Fifty.

By the time they’ve hit seventy miles he's finally broken a sweat, though his breathing isn't too bad, his arms pumping by his sides. His lungs are starting to burn, his ankles weighted down by invisible force, but he keeps going.

Keeps going until the machine–not Peter–reaches its maximum of 120 mph. 

Steps off, legs shaking, breathing heavily, to the shocked faces of the Avengers. Mouths all open, something like admiration in their eyes.

They buffet him around on all sides like he is flotsam in a storm, and he's flinching but–its small, nothing big. Minor. They crowd him and ask him questions and ask how fast can you really go?

Bruce does more tests.

And Peter does better than he ever thought he would, because the Avengers are clearly proud of him and in awe because he bench pressed fifteen tons and barely batted an eye. Because he could fit himself into the box that housed their jump ropes (which was, admittedly, a small box). Because he could walk on the ceiling and walls. Because he could do all these things without even making a sound .

Peter just smiles, pretends it doesn't hurt.

Because it shouldn't hurt, because they praise him, even if it's over things someone else made him.

Peter smiles and keeps pretending.

(Eventually, sometime, Peter will look at himself in the mirror and hate the person he sees there. And he will scream, as though he is being murdered, stabbed over and over again and he wants to get all the air out of his lungs.

He will scream like that is the only thing he can do, and he will punch the mirror down to nothing–snap its wooden frame, glass embedded in his knuckles.

He will pick the shards out, one by one, and ignore the empty space on the wall.

His skin will knit itself back up, and he will continue as though he can see himself in the mirror everyday and be fine with it.

As though the person he sees in the mirror is him, as though it's not this ghost, composed entirely of scar and bone and bad deeds that can never be erased.)

Peter climbs out on the roof most nights.

When he can't sleep, cant even just rest, his crawls through his window and climbs, lifting one leg and one arm at a time until he deposits himself at the top, swings his legs over the sides and

Floats.

Sometimes he floats, wonders what it would be like to fall, but he's a coward. He won't ever test it out.

He stares down at that ground he can barely see, wonders how his blood would look on it. Wonder just how long it would take him to fall, how long he would have to regret everything.

Still. Cowardly.

Sometimes he just…leans back, spine pressed to an eternity he will never live out, and looks up at a sky that lied to him. Maybe–sometimes–there are three, small specks of stars.

Constellations die in the city so that dreams can live.

Bucky has his feet tucked under Steve’s thigh, his head resting on the arm of the couch. His metal arm is off in the lab, Tony working out a kink that had caused it to malfunction. He lets out a deep sigh, shifts farther into the cushion, listens to Peter up on the roof, walking around as Pepper shows him her garden. He smiles, flexes his toes, cracks his spine.

“Y’know, they treated him worse than they ever treated me.” Bucky says, Steve pausing in the middle of flipping his page, turning to look at the other man. There's a sort of apprehension there, a caution that makes Bucky shiver. After he had gotten back and found Steve again, they had spent so many months rebuilding their friendship and eventually opening up to each other about the things that had happened.

There were so many nights where Steve just held Bucky, pressing his arms to his sides as he sobbed into America’s shoulders, whispering about how horrible it was, how lucky he was to have gotten out.

So to know what he had gone through–or at least bits and pieces of it–and to know that someone else, a kid no less, had gone through worse?

“Really?” Steve’s voice is soft, as though if he speaks any louder something–or someone–might break. Bucky just hums, closes his eyes.

“Yeah. A lot worse than they treated me. Because you know he was immune to the brainwashing, right? So he didn't do what they asked so they just…” Bucky pauses, trying to blink away the sound of a screaming, sobbing child, trying to calm the guilt that churns in his veins.

“I know you read the file.” Steve flinches away as though he's been struck, although nothing was said that should have garnered that reaction. Steve lets out a little growl, nods his head jerkily, carefully sets down his book.

“Yeah, yeah I did. How…how can people be so horrible?” He questions, eyes staring down at the ground, because he knows. He knows people are terrible–he punched Nazis and liberated labour camps but…nothing, none of that was even close to what Peter had experienced. He shudders, thinking of the pages and pages of detailed punishments, tortures of everything to get this boy to break.

He isn't ashamed to admit that his throat starts to burn, as though he will have to pull himself out of it and dump it back on the floor, remembering how to put out fires that didn't ask to be started.

“He was still the kindest kid, which made it somehow worse. If he had been angry, had lashed out…for some reason that would've made it better. But he still had his hope, his joy, his general care for the world and…that somehow hurt worse.” Steve has to remember that he was, in fact, having a conversation with Bucky, and he settles back against the couch so that his head is tilted towards the ceiling. 

Bucky turns to him suddenly, eyes wide and thoughtful, head tilted. Something about his gaze makes Steve go cold, but he quickly tamps down the urge to bolt.

“I asked myself everyday why nobody saved him–why nobody connected any dots, tracked anything.” Bucky looks away, blows a strand of hair away from his face. “He’s just a kid, Steve. Just a kid.” He finishes, eyes closing again, though they shut tighter this time. 

Steve squeezes his best friend's knee, rubs circles into the bone, both of them ignoring the shaking in his hands. He doesn't say anything, does not offer any platitudes or reassurance because–this isn't something that should have that. There's no way to justify it, to pretend that it was okay, that eventually it would be okay.

It wouldn't.

Bucky eventually falls asleep, his head turned into the couch back, his breathing deep. 

Steve doesn't sleep.

He opens his book to a random page, eyes wide, stares. Catches a few words, flips the pages after an appropriate time has passed, but he doesn't absorb any of it, wonders if he's even reading in the correct language. Because all he can think about is a child–younger than Peter is now, with no discernable features except a shock of curly brown hair–laying on the floor of a cell, covered in blood and scars and being told that he must live with this forever. Live with what these people have done to him.

What he may end up doing to himself.

He thinks of Peter’s senses–almost ten times that of his or Bucky’s which is…a terrifying thought. Because Stee can hear Peter on the roof, kneeling on the ground, and he can hear Wanda a few doors down drop a pencil. So Peter? He has to be hearing everything.

Steve stretches out his arm slowly, careful not to jostle the man tucked under him, grabs his sketchbook and charcoal. He traces an eye first–just one–that seems to eat up the entire page, wide and young, pooled with tears.

He doesn't add anything on except for an eyebrow, one downturned and confused.

Flips to the next.

Draws the flexible arch of a young nose, one round and still holding that childlike resemblance.

Flips again.

Lips, slightly parted, with two missing teeth, open in a kind of silent scream.

Draws every part of what he can imagine Peter looked like–gaunt and terrified but just–a light of hope in every inch of him, maybe only a few. When he flips through his sketchbook then starting with the eye, it's as though the pieces of Peter are coming together, even if it creates something horrific.

Or maybe it's the pieces of him falling apart.

Eventually, Peter is going to walk back in behind Pepper, steps completely silent, only breathing a few times a minute. Eventually, Peter is going to sit on an opposite chair and crack open a new book, just hold it for a few minutes, trace his fingers over the cover delicately. Eventually, the rest of the Avengers will gather and dinner will be served and Peter will be quiet, but he will eat. He will eat and offer a few comments, a few idle pleasantries and after that…

Steve’s not sure what he will do. No one knows what Peter does when he goes to his room, and FRIDAY would have alerted them if it were bad. He can't even imagine what Peter would do–there are a few things, like look out the window or keep reading but…neither of those seem quite right. Too normal, perhaps.

All of this, eventually. Everything will happen sometime and sometime everything will happen.

But for now, Steve flips back the pages to where he had been, reads starting from the second paragraph of page seventy three, and rubs circles into Bucky’s knee.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

Peter doesn't remember why he's here.

He can't remember if he was already on the roof or if he was in the living room or the kitchen or his room and–that should probably concern him. 

Surprisingly, it doesn't. What has never existed will never be remembered.

The sun is high overhead, the warmth of the day kissing along the curve of his spine, the top of his head. Bees hum somewhere distant, but not up here. He takes in the sight of pots and plastic containers, wooden planters that smell strongly of herbs, earth that stretches and sprouts little plants that look as though they will die so easily. Everything dies so easily.

“Do you want to plant some sunflowers, hon?” Pepper’s voice is soft as she pulls on gloves, taking a trowel from a hook on her belt, extending the purple handle towards him–far enough away that it isn't a threat.

He takes it.

Listens to Pepper as she guides him to his knees, tries not to flinch at the familiar position. Hands placed on the sides of a terracotta pot, told to dig two inches in. He dips the tip of the metal into the earth, digs it down just a little bit, lifts it up.

Pepper smiles.

She tears off the top of a paper packet, gently dropping a striped seed into his hand, which he dutifully buries. Pepper brushes her bangs out of her eyes, smiles wide as he starts filling up the hole without being told.

“You want to leave some air so the seed can breathe, so make sure not to tuck it too tight into the dirt.” She advises, voice quieter now as she moves farther away, dragging out more pots and bags of compost and gravel. Peter takes extra care to get it just right, knees grinding into the ceiling. Bucky and Steve are talking about him, he can hear them. He's tuning out exactly what they're saying, but their emotions betray them.

Peter decides not to listen.

Takes a water droplet, swipes it across everything he can hear, lets it be swallowed. Drops the water down the sides of his head, like car windows in the rain.

Breathes in deeply the smell of mulch and earth, the cooking of empanadas somewhere close by. Focuses his ears on the sounds of Pepper filling up a watering can from a hose, the sounds of wasps and crickets sleeping.

Peter looks up at the brilliantly blue sky, a few skidding clouds rippled by air waves, and watches birds fly over his head, confident and strong. The kings of the sky. 

He jumps slightly as Pepper places a soft hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, but otherwise doesn't do anything. She shakes the watering can, laughs, tips it over his pot. He wants to say that no, she’s going to ruin it, the seed is going to drown and she must sense the panic in his eyes because-

“I won't overwater it, don't worry.  I wouldn't want to ruin such a wonderful job, now would I?” She laughs as Peter’s face burns, and he watches the water cover the little mound in the soil, watching it soak into the earth. “Everything in life has its balance–these sunflowers need just the right amount of sun, just the right amount of water. Need to be planted at a certain depth, need to be given nutrients and pollinated.”

Pepper steps back, smiles, and sets down the watering can, holding out her hand. Peter takes it, lets himself be pulled up.

“All of the things in this garden,” She gestures to the rectangular boxes of earth that cover most of the entire roof, the vines growing lazily, the beginnings of fruit and vegetables and flowery things. “Are alive, or will be–that seed you planted will grow and will live, those watermelons, those strawberry bushes.” Pepper takes his hands, traces over his knuckles, the lines on his palm, making him shiver despite the heat of the day.

“When I started this garden, I thought I would kill everything in it–I basically did, to be fair. My first few attempts were…not great. But…” She smiles again, squeezes his hand. “I got better, and now–we have this. These plants are practically self-sustaining, but I like gardening. That doesn't mean you have to, but it is something you can do if you're ever feeling stressed or you just need a moment to breathe. You dont need me or anyone else out here if you want to be, either. Do you want to go back inside, or would you like to do a little bit more?”

He sees that there isn't anything important in this choice–the staying or the leaving. She just…asked a question, and he will provide an answer, and that is all there is to it. There won't be any punishment if he answers wrong. Maybe there isn't a wrong answer.

“Stay.” He whispers, looks down at the ground, scuffs the bottom of his feet against the heated concrete. Scrapes his calloused, elephant hides soles over them, takes in a deep breath. “Stay, please.” He says softly, and Pepper doesn't laugh–she just smiles as though her heart is breaking and leads him to more pots, pointing out plants that need a little help.

He pretends he is burying stars. 

Pretends that they will grow into constellations that will make a condensed galaxy right here above the building, that he can watch meteor showers and lunar eclipses even if he cannot see them in the sky.

He holds the beginnings of supernovas in his hands, tucks them into the kind of darkness they need to live and tries to listen to them breathe–listen to them shift and sink into the darkness that are the cosmos, send out little threads of lights like hungry mouths that will latch on to everything and anything.

He is building a universe on earth.

It's a common sight to see Peter with a book–curled up on the couch, his feet tucked under him, elbows close to his ribs. Compact and small, as though he is trying to turn himself into his very smallest form, simply existing on the very edges of atoms and every room he is in.

He's long since burned through the books Tony bought him.

He had apologized profusely, saying that he could simply re-read them, but Tony quickly put a stop to that spark of…something in his eyes. He had told Peter to wait there in the common room as he went down to his lab, the other Avengers filing in for movie night, coming back up a few minutes later, pulling a wagon behind him that was filled with books.

So many books.

“Here–read any of these you like, and tell me about your thought processes, and we can discuss them so you have more to think over, hmm?” Tony had said, hooking the handle into its notch and disappearing into the kitchen to make popcorn.

So Peter did.

( You follow instructions when you are told to do so, understand? )

He pressed himself into the corner of the couch, elbows propped on his knees as he ran his hands over the first book, one on wave particle duality. Breathed, read the table of contents, started reading.

It had surprised him how fast he read–well, it had really surprised everyone, to be honest. When Tony had first brought him back, after he was sure that he was allowed to read the books, he had finished Jane Eyre within seven hours. After he finished each book, he had taken to stacking them on the coffee table in the common room, figuring that after he read them they weren't his anymore.

( You don't get what isn't yours, you little bitch. You use it and then you’re done. )

No one had commented on his behavior, but Tony did keep saying that they were his so–

This reading was a thing he kept tucked to his chest–held between his ribs, under his heart. It was something he could do freely that took his mind off of everything, forced him to think about the worlds he needed to experience, the lifetimes he held at the tips of his fingers. Chemical equations and imaginary numbers that pressed against the very limits of his brain, connectivity tissue between his shoulder joints rolled as he turned pages.

It was this… thing he didn't have a name for, one of those kinds of things that sits you down and breaks your ankles so you can't walk away, one of those kinds of things that are intoxicating and make you want to live between the spaces of atoms where they exist.

Because somewhere, out there, there could be a place where everything is just molecules, where you can walk between time and sound and light itself, because out there–there must be no limits. There could be houses made out of bee paper wings, people that can split themselves apart and back again. Fire that puts out water and water that burns up everything.

Somewhere, somehow, there must be a place where the impossible is possible–where real heroes exist as something other than that, where real villains are not treated as though they are kind. 

Circuses filled with magic and contortionists and disaster, towers that are home for dragons, towns that produce beasts that can melt flesh and live in mist.

Maybe a place he can breathe without his ribs hurting, without his throat aching as though he has been running his entire life and isn't quite sure how to stop.

He furrows his brows, re-reads the sentence he was on, reads it again, looks up at Tony who is now seated a few inches away from him, feet propped on top of a cushion.

“I don't understand electron diffraction–is it like hitting a mirror with light, and the light just…bounces everywhere?” Peter talks quietly, but Tony looks up as he speaks, working a popcorn shell out of his mouth as Clint and Sam squabble over which movie to watch.

“Do you understand the electron beam?” Peter nods, fingers losing their death grip on the cover of the book. “And the crystal lattice?” Peter nods again, leaning forwards. “Well, it's essentially the electron beam coming in contact with the crystal lattice. The lattice acts as a grating, which causes the electrons to scatter. It’s an electron pattern, as where they go can be determined and mapped out beforehand, based on the composition of the subject.” Tony taps his finger on his knee, makes a vague gesture with his hand. “The waves the beam sends out is the electron diffraction. Does that make sense?”

( Don't speak unless spoken to, don't ask stupid questions.)

(Don't let them know you're stupid, even though you are.)

(You’re useless, you know that?)

(God, to think they picked you.)

(You fucking screw up!)

“So…it's like a ray of light hitting a disco ball, and the light passing through the spaces between each mirror, which then sends the light back out in the pattern the ball is in, and the waves are the lights you see?” Peter asks slowly as Bruce walks in, dropping two containers of juice pouches near Tony’s feet.

Tony blinks.

Blinks again.

Sits up slightly, and Peter is ready to apologize and promise he wont talk again but then–

Tony laughs.

It isn't mean, or demanding, or harsh it's just…a laugh.

“Yeah, you got it kid! Wow! I didn't understand that theory at all until I was in my twenties! And for you to have attributed its idea to something else?” He shakes his head, smiles smaller, warmer. “You’ve got some real smarts.”

( You are nothing, and you will always be nothing.)

(They will never love you like we do.)

(No one else would ever tolerate you.)

(You know we love you, right?)

Peter smiles and looks down as he closes his book, straightening out his back and tucking his hands under his thighs.

Steve looks over when Peter makes no move to leave, the beginning of Top Gun starting to play, Maverick flying in the air with Goose. If he's surprised he doesn't show it, just happy that Peter–for the first time–is joining them for movie night. 

Steve offers Peter a juice pouch, which he gladly accepts, drinking from it in little sips and looking delighted at the flavor each time. 

Peter is completely invested in the movie, going through three more juice packs and slowly inching towards Tony’s side. He doesn't cry when Goose dies, but his eyes do burn, and he stares dumbfoundead at the screen for perhaps a bit too long.

( Hi! My name's Sarah, what's yours?)

(Im michael.)

(I don't know my name but…you can call me Daisy? I like daisies, I know that.)

My name is Peter, and yours are Sarah, Micheal and Daisy. Your favorite colors are purple, red and green. Sarah owns a turtle named Toast, Micheal has a rabbit named Dino and Daisy has three dalmations named Petal, Rose and Lily.

Your names are Sarah, Micheal and Daisy. I won't let you die.

Your names are Micheal and Daisy. I won't let you die, I promise.

Your name is Daisy. You won't die, I promise.

(Promises he could never keep, promises they never remembered him making.)

He snaps himself out of it when Maverick is looking into the mirror, finds that only a minute or so has passed, finds the words “smash” coming out of his mouth without his permission and then–he freezes because

( You will never be allowed to like boys, understand? What you feel is wrong because you are unnatural.)

(Because you're a little freak.)

Loki is the first one to laugh, followed by Bucky and Clint, then everyone else, and despite Sam wiping away tears from Goose’s death, he's laughing too. 

Maybe it's okay here.

Maybe he's still unnatural but maybe–maybe it's okay.

Peter ends up falling asleep on Tony’s shoulder as they watch the awards ceremony, and the man runs his hand timidly through the teens hair, snagging on tangles that he pulls out gently. He hasn't–done this before but it feels…nice. The heat tucked into his side, the breath ghosting over his shoulder that smells like fruit punch.

The wonderful kid that has been through so, so much, so much more than Tony can ever fathom, the kid that trusts him enough to even exist in his presence.

He smiles and knows that an entire galaxy of a person, a boy with a supernova heart and a meteor shower mind and skin made from stardust, veins from a milky way, bones made from abyss is under his arm.

He holds the whole world in his hands. 

Bruce makes Peter go to therapy.

He says that he's been through a lot and that he's clearly struggling a lot, eyeing the bags under his eyes as though they are missiles. Peter says okay and goes and sits on a couch in a room that smells like eucalyptus, back rigid, hands folded in his lap. They're not folded delicately–there's nothing delicate about him, just teeth and blood and bone. 

He speaks when spoken too.

But he doesn't really say anything.

Sure, words form sentences and fall out of his mouth and they keep the therapist nodding, but he doesn't really say anything. He talks about the books he's read, his favorite animals, any music he's listened to, and how all of it makes him feel. He lets the woman in front of him–hair falling loose around her shoulders–think that she's doing something.

He leaves after the hour is up and tells Bruce it went fine, and then he climbs onto the roof and ignores the shaking in his hands and the sudden fire building behind his eyes that makes him want to bash his head into the walls over and over again to smash his skull and feel his brain leak out over the cavities in his eyes–

He leans back and watches the sky bleed into itself, fold its colors like origami and then shape it into the night. He listens to dinner being made and Tony talking on the phone angrily, runs his hands through his hair. If he stretches his arms up and up, so that his hands are completely vertical above him, he can pretend that there is nothing holding him down. That the invisible stars are just to his back and he sees.

Nothing.

He exists in nothing, and for some reason, that is the most comforting thought.

Peter knows he's been getting better, whatever that means exactly. He knows Bruce adjusted his diet and he can eat more, he knows he's joining the Avengers for movie nights and reading more nd he knows that he doesn't stay in the shadows anymore but–

He still hasn't slept in his bed. He still hasn't put the books on his shelf. He still hasn't slept more than four hours. 

( There's just something unfixable about you.)

Peter chews on leaves heavy with salad dressing when dinner comes, cuts lazily at a piece of chicken, tears up two pieces of bread. He doesn't say much, keeps his eyes on his plate, but for some reason– for some reason –they are proud of him, and he can't figure out why. He's not really…doing anything, just doing what he was told.

He finds himself more confused everyday that he is here (five months and seventeen days, six hours and thirteen minutes). 

And he doesn't really know what to do about it.

Five days later, Peter is up and out of his room before dawn has even thought of breaking the sky, Apollo still sleeping, unaware of any falling Icarus’. His hands and knees shake as he pulls a hoodie on and steps into the hallway, shivers at the cold floorboards and–

He cries.

For the first time since his bathroom tiles, he finds himself crying, full on sobbing, because Sarah died today. Sarah died–Sarah, with her little blonde braids and two front teeth that were almost fully grown in and her hazel eyes and freckles and little hands that liked to poke at his knees–today so many years ago and. She was never coming back because Peter couldn't protect her.

Peter knows, rationally, that HYDRA was going to take her eventually. Sometime, HYDRA was going to collect her and Michel and Daisy and either train them until they passed out or inject them with the same thing they did him and then train them until they passed out.

To this day, Peter is still the only one to have survived the injection.

( Your name is Sarah and you like to fly kites. You want to work in a zoo when you’re older, and you love your older brother more than anything in the world, even though sometimes he's mean to you. I know you don't remember–that's okay. But a brave, brave girl told me these things, trusted me with them, and so I'm telling them to you because they are the truth. It's okay, you'll remember. I’ll protect you until then.)

Peter finds himself sliding down somewhere–there's a wall, so he knows he hasn't just walked off a ledge of the building–and buries his head in his arms and sobs. 

He sobs for Sarah and Daisy and Micheal, for those kids he tried to protect and save but he didn't, cries for the lives they lost and their blood that got stored in packages, their organs taken for experiments. 

He pieces together what they all must have felt as they died–first a little prick, just above their elbow, not hurting yet.

But that prick would grow, until their whole arm was consumed. Until every bit of them was on fire and they found they could hear everything and their cells pushed against each other and their structures rearranged themselves and their skin split open from the exertion. How their teeth must have vibrated and their body seized and their body wasn't their own anymore, they were sharing it with something else and–

Somewhere along the way they died.

Maybe all their blood vessels popped.

Maybe their core temperatures reached 120.

Maybe they choked on their own spit and died coughing on things that used to be theirs, things they would never see again or experience ever-

Maybe they died with Peter’s lies, his broken promises, the things he swore would never ever happen.

But they did. And they suffered. And they died.

And they will never come back.

Micheal with his curly hair that he had to brush out his eyes, his skin that glowed in the fluorescents, the one little mole on the top of his right cheek. Daisy with her hair that poofed up and around and never seemed to end, that Peter spent hours braiding down the length of her back. Daisy with her missing teeth and chipped nail polish that somehow stayed and her jokes that she thought were funny.

( Why did the chicken cross the road?

Why?

Well I don't know, I don't speak chicken!)

Peter lets out a choked noise, laughing and sobbing at the same time because her jokes seem so funny now. Micheals dino facts are so interesting and Sarah’s knowledge on turtles is so important and he must remember, he has to write it all down, he needs to know that velociraptors could run 25 mph and that turtles spines are connected to their shells and he needs to know what the duck said when it walked into the store–

He finds himself crawling somewhere–anywhere–choking on his spit and breathing harshly and tears running down his face and onto the ground. He crawls because he cant walk just like they cant, like them and his parents and family and all the people he could never save–

Clint finds him five minutes later and just–holds him. Holds him and whispers how it's alright, even though it isn't. Holds him and strokes the wrinkles in his shirt and lets him know that he's there. Presses Peter's head to his own chest, making him feel the man's heart.

Eventually, Peter turns around and buries his face in the man's shoulder, takes in deep gulping breaths of laundry detergent and toothpaste, settles his nose into the man's collarbone. Clutches at him as though he is a lifeline and Peter is a storm that will never stop raging, spinning and spitting and never stopping. 

Clint says nothing.

Holds a child that has had the world ripped away from him when the whole world should have been his. Holds a child that has never known how to exist as anything other than what he was told.

“Things aren't alright right now. But they will be. They will be.”

Over and over.

Again and again.

Until everything slows down and things start to make sense again and Peter can see the stars in the distance.

The first time Peter tries to actually sleep, he spends ten minutes in front of his window, breathing deeply and stretching from side to side, which Natasha had said helped calm her down.

He watches one star–hooks onto it–imagines he is breathing it in. Fills his lungs with stardust and fire and kerosene, lets nebulae and supernovas take over his flesh, pours gasoline down the sides of his skull, lights them on fire, breathes them out as the smoky tails of comets. 

He imagines he is eating the stars–licking up their heat, burning his face on their glory, expanding to become one that can float up and up and burn for eternity, until he will die in a  blaze of reliance befitting his life.

Up in flames, up in the universe, held between the lips of night and the kiss of the impossible.

(Peter will wake up seven hours later, heart racing, thrashing around on the floor. He will be screaming, terror ripped from his lungs and throat like they are gifts of desperation. He will lose himself in those few seconds to insanity, and he will not be able to breathe, clutching onto carpet that smells like gasoline and burning bodies and poison that slides down a throat like water.

Tony will come in and hold him and take him to Bucky and all three of them will watch Barbie Princess Charm School until Peter falls asleep between them. He will twitch and morph into something more innocent, something more calm, until he looks like any normal teenager would. If you don't look close enough to see the scars on his face or hands or feet or ankles or shoulders or everywhere .

You can pretend it's okay.

You can pretend that this is just a kid who will go back to someone in the morning because he has a family to go back to.

He does, he really does, but he doesn't know that yet. 

He doesn't know that soon he will not remember his parents' laugh or his dog's eye color or his aunt's favorite song. But he will find that it's okay. He will find that he knows Tony’s and Thor’s and Wanda’s laughs. He knows the color of Bucky and Steve’s and Natasha’s eyes. He knows Bruce's favorite song and Sam’s favorite game and–

He’ll feel bad. But it'll be okay.

He’ll be okay.)

Peter drowns himself in stardust and protons and collapsing clouds of gas and dust. Buries himself under meteors and sky and every thing that means freedom. Supernovas and galaxies. Planets and rhapsodies of crying light. Whispering fields of jade crickets that catch the moonlight.

Peter loses himself in the impossible, in the arms of people he has grown to know.

He is the most brilliant thing the universe has ever created.