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“Peter, this is your third automated reminder that your curfew is 11-”
“Jeez Karen, you’re like a robotic helicopter parent.” Peter whispers into the frigid New York air, he mutes Karen's alerts as he swings down into a grimy alleyway Karen had led him to.
He looks around and figures Karen has a bug in her code that caused her to alert him, as soon as the thought crosses his mind he spots a black sneaker peeking out from a dumpster. It was shadowed and hard to spot, had Peter's senses not been enhanced he would have never seen it. Peter walks over to the trash bin and grabs the edge, steeling himself before easily throwing it aside.
“Wait! Wait, look-” the man scrambles to his knees, “Please dont hurt me!”
Peter falters, usually when he catches someone hiding their first instinct is to run away. He knows Spiderman has never been the most intimidating vigilante out there, and he also knows he doesn’t kill people. Peter has always figured the public knew this too, he’s never found a report that people suspect him of killing the criminals he catches.
He realizes he’s spent a couple seconds too long contemplating Spiderman’s public identity when the man he was chasing stands up and grabs his arms, startling him. Peter tries to shake him off, but the man is surprisingly strong. The man begs, “Please don’t call the cops, you can forget you saw me. I’ll never steal ever again, I can’t go to jail man-”
“Woah, woah slow down, who said anything about stealing?” Peter says as he gently moves the man to his left and peers over his shoulder. He spots a couple white grocery bags, the “Walmart” label not hard to spot from where he stood. He distantly remembers Karen's alert being for shoplifting.
“I’m not a criminal, I don’t do this. please-this was an emergency.” He pleads, practically clinging onto Peter, as he stumbles over an apology.
Of all the crimes Peters ever stopped on patrol, this has to be in the top five weirdest things he has ever encountered. Sure, he’s seen some weird stuff in Queens. It’s New York after all, crime happens all the time, but Peter has never seen this before. He has never had anyone come crawling to him, pleading to him to let them go.
Usually Peter never gives criminals a second thought. Crime hurts people, stealing hurts people. He tries not to resort to violence when it comes to non-violent crimes like burglary or shoplifting, he figures it's overkill to do so. He knows that he shouldn’t let this guy go.
Something stops him, not because of anything the man does, he stops when he starts to notice things that make this man more and more confusing. The guy is wearing slacks and a wrinkled button-up shirt. Next to the grocery bags in the back of the alley, is a sleek brown book bag. He’s seen some of his teachers carry similar bags.
Why would someone shoplifting bring his work bag?
Before Peter can answer the question, the man wrestles out of his grip. He turns and starts picking up the grocery bags from before.
“Here, take them. Just, please-”
“Look man, shoplifting is against the law, I can’t just let you walk away.” Peter tries to explain, he tries to sound stern but kind. The man looks a couple sentences away from breaking down, he looks disheveled, unkept, and more importantly the man looks tired .
“I’m a single dad, I’m barely making rent, and my kids are everything to me. I want to give them everything, nowadays I can’t even fuck- I can barely put food on the table .” The man begins to explain. Part of Peter wishes the man wouldn’t explain. The more he speaks the more Peter empathizes with him, sees his struggle in his own life.
Peter feels his stomach twist into knots, he knows what it means to struggle financially. He’s seen the way Aunt May works herself to death just to feed him, to keep a roof over his head.
And now here he was today, faced with a man who made a choice out of desperation, who believes he has no other options, who made a decision that was selfish and yet at the same time selfless.
His stomach drops when he sees what's actually inside the bag: baby formula, diapers, and children’s cold medicine.
“Please…” the man sounds close to tears, Peter thinks his lunch might come back up. It's nauseating, the sickening realization that he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never faced this before, he saves good people, takes down bad people. Right?
He thinks back on his first conversation with Tony, “Why are you doing this? I gotta know, what's your MO?” Tony had asked him.
It was an easy answer, it always has been. The little guy, protecting people, stopping crime. His powers were needed by people, he had a responsibility to serve those people.
But now? The man standing in front of him is those people he fights for in the first place. He doesn’t get out of bed in the morning and puts on a mask and a suit to protect multimillion dollar companies.
Walmart wouldn’t miss the stolen merchandise, and Peter knows what would happen to a man convicted of shoplifting, forced to pay a fine that could very well be crippling. He shamefully realizes that he was very close to dialing the police, having Karen send a report, and leaving. Wiping his hands and walking away. Guilt makes his mouth go dry, regret sends a shiver down his spine.
“Look,” Peter starts, gently holding the man up, “Keep the bags, I won't call the police.”
“Thank you, thank you!” The man exclaims, pulling Peter into a hug he can only imagine is driven by relief, “Thank you! Oh god, oh god-”
“Don’t do this again, I know stuff gets hard but there are programs out there to help, food banks, financial programs/ Risking jail time could make things worse.” Peter advises.
The man nods, “I won’t, not again.” He grabs the bags and briskly walks out of the alleyway, Peter loses him as he drowns into the shadowy streets of Queens. He shivers, and looks at the time. 11:39.
“Shit! Karen, why didn’t you say anything?” Peter exclaims, scrambling up the nearest building onto a roof.
Peter knows the guilt and shame of his encounter with the man hadn’t quite left him. He figured it was something to contemplate at a later time. He has priorities right now, and he knows if he doesn’t get back before midnight, Aunt May was absolutely going to slaughter him, only after he gets chewed out for missing curfew.
He swings through the night air and thinks back to the encounter. He figures he grew complacent, lost sight of what the fight is for, who he’s truly serving when he does put on his mask.
Yet, even after he climbs through his window (and prepares himself for the ass whooping Aunt May’s about to deliver), he fails to find justification. It bothers him, he knows he made a mistake. Logically he knows he was bound to make a mistake, he can’t be perfect all the time.
Guilt twists his stomach as he cautiously opens his door, walking into the living room. May sits on the couch browsing late-night TV.
“Hey Pete, I know that you know you missed curfew, what happened?” May asks, her tone stern but gentle, as if she knew the inner turmoil Peter is currently fighting.
“Weirdest thing, long story. Sorry I’m late, Aunt May.” Peter tells her, quietly making his way to the kitchen. He grabs a banana from the counter. Turning around when May addresses him again.
“Okay Peter, I’ll let you off the hook this one time. Let's not make a habit out of this okay?”
Peter smiles at her, grateful he was spared from the wrath of his aunt, “Okay May, I’m gonna go to bed.”
He walks back to his room, hoping that sleep will help untie the knots in his stomach. Peter changes out of his suit into clean pajamas, and climbs into his bed.
Shame wraps around his heart and into his gut. Peter finds sleep difficult. The whole night is spent twisting and turning in his bed, replaying the night over, and over, and over again.
His mind goes back to the man multiple times, unable to shake the question that pesters him.
Why?
Why did Peter just jump to the conclusion that this guy deserved to be sent to jail? Why is Peter allowed to decide that? He’s never considered this aspect of stopping crime, never had to question who’s a bad guy and who isn’t.
Even worse he begins to question everyone else he’s ever stopped while on patrol, what happened to them? Peter’s mind wanders to the countless people he’s stopped in his time as Spider-man, has he really had the impact he believes he has?
How many families has he torn apart, how many kids will have to grow up without a parent because of him?
The question pesters him for the rest of the week, and stays at the forefront of his mind as he gets ready for school Friday. Besides the fact that he doesn’t touch his suit again since that night, he barely gets any sleep; exhaustion tugs at his bones and he knows he’ll have to keep his temper on a short leash today, the weariness adding to his rising irritation. Peter isn’t even sure if school is worth going to, his lack of sleep piling onto the overflowing pot of boiling emotions.
Ultimately, he decides he isn’t sure he can come up with a good enough excuse to get by May, so he climbs out of bed and gets ready as fast as possible. He grabs a quick breakfast, waves goodbye to May, and makes his way to Midtown.
Peter prays the day goes well, successfully pushing down the lingering guilt from that night to replace it with the steady rising of nerves he gets when he walks through the doors of high school.
He keeps his mood as high as he can, meeting Ned by his locker helps. They talk about the latest viral social media posts, or any news about the new upcoming Star Wars movie. Peter enjoys the conversation, it isn’t difficult to maintain, in fact Peter finds he can almost forget all about his patrol last night.
Unfortunately, this doesn’t last long.
“How was patrol?” Ned asks innocently, sourly reminding Peter.
“It was fine.”
Ned gives him a curt look, narrowing his eyes slightly, before turning back to his locker, closing it carefully as he begins to walk to class.
“Did anything interesting happen? Come on,” he drawls, “I want all the deets.”
Peter chuckles lightly, “I’ll tell you, but only if you promise to never say ‘deets’ again.”
“No promises,” Ned shakes his head, “Besides, you’ll tell me anyway because I’m your guy in the chair.”
They walk into their first period class, Calculus, getting to their desks and setting down their bags. Peter manages to avoid the topic of patrol altogether, and Ned successfully picks up on the hint. He turns to the front as their teacher walks in, but Peter zones out at this point.
He’s on auto-pilot for the rest of the school day, he probably concerns Ned, who continues to talk to him even with Peter's lackluster replies. He should probably apologize but he finds that his mind wanders elsewhere.
Images of the man's sick child, wondering if their dad will ever return home. Bruising hands gripping his arms, panicked whispers crawling up his back.
“Peter?”
He snaps his head up, nearly jolting out of his seat. He turns to his left, where Ned is holding his arm lightly, giving him a look of utter concern. Peter shakily replies, “What?”
“Dude you’re shaking, you good?”
If he was shaking he didn’t notice, Peter shakes Ned’s hand off him, shifting in his seat as he nods his head, “I’m fine Ned.” He looks back to his chemistry teacher, who is going over covalent bonds in a way that even Peter finds it boring. He shakes away the thoughts, noting how on edge he is.
As soon as the bell rings, he packs up his things and tells Ned he’ll catch up with him later. He speeds towards the bathroom, bumping into multiple people, almost slamming the door open as he goes to a sink. He turns the faucet on and splashes water on his face. It helps him take the edge off, only slightly.
He hears a stall door swing shut behind him, as he looks up he is disappointed to find Flash walking up to an adjacent sink.
“Damn Parker you look like shit,” Flash notes, barely sparing Peter a glance as he washes his hands, “Keep it up and Mr. Harrison will definitely have to sub you out.”
Flash doesn’t wait for a response, simply gives him another glance and walks out of the bathroom. Peter lets the comment slide, he would rather come down with the bubonic plague than let Flash have his spot on Decathlon, and he knows the only way Flash would take his spot is if Peter is physically unable to be at the meets.
Peter genuinely thinks his day can’t get any worse, but he should know by now not to test the forces of the universe. He finds out soon enough that his day can in fact get worse, much, much worse.
To the universe's credit, his day doesn't get worse until much later. Peter is already on patrol when he gets an alert from Karen.
“Peter, there appears to be a report coming in for aggravated robbery two blocks from here, would you like me to path the fastest course there?”
He looks to the already proposed path Karen had drawn up, jumping from where he was perched and cutting through several different alleyways. He flys over several buildings before reaching a small family owned drug store. The bright neon sign basks the sidewalk in a red glow as Peter steps into the building, broken glass crunches under his feet. He swings open what was once a glass door, trying his best to be as quiet as possible.
The drug store is in complete disarray, shelves had been emptied, bottles of over-the-counter medication littered the floor, alongside numerous other products that had been displaced. The place was ransacked, in a total state of demise.
He spots two people in the back left corner of the drug store in front of the pharmacy, eyeing the ‘Prescription Pickup” sign, he crawls onto the ceiling. The two men aren’t shouting, which he finds weird. He makes his way closer to the booth, and makes eye contact with the pharmacy tech and quickly raises a finger to his mouth, praying the man gets the hint.
Thankfully he does, as he makes no indication that he sees anybody behind the man in front of him. Peter shifts on the ceiling so he has line of sight of both the men, and keeps crawling forward for better vantage.
As Peter gets closer he analyzes the man in front of the counter, he is wearing plain black clothes and a black balaclava; an open duffel bag lays at his feet, the contents inside being a variety of medical products, ranging from bandaids to insulin syringes.
The man hisses, “I just need insulin, one bottle is more than enough, I swear to god please ” Peter almost laughs, he’s never heard of someone robbing a store and saying please, these aren’t exactly polite interactions.
Crawling closer he spots why Karen listed this as ‘aggravated robbery’, the man is holding a sleek vintage revolver, something Peter swears came out of an old western film he’s seen Aunt May throw on the television. It’s pointed meekly at the pharmacy tech, who stares back at the man and calmly explains he can’t dispense a prescription that hasn’t actually been prescribed for the man.
“I’ll shoot you! I swear to god, I don’t care how much you give me, I need the meds-now!” The robber is getting more and more agitated by the minute, Peter moves to intervene but before he gets the chance he gets an alert from Karen.
“Peter, it appears the authorities are already en route, perhaps we leave this for them to handle?”
And risk letting the poor pharmacy tech get shot? No way. He swipes the alert away and jumps down. Deciding he may not be able to get a good shot at the man's gun without him pulling the trigger first, it's a touchy situation.
“Big Pharma sucks, trust me I know, but maybe we shouldn’t be pointing guns at people.”
The man barely spares him a glance, “Stay out of this Spiderman” he growls, his grip on the revolver tightens. His knuckles are nearly white, the man is growing more and more desperate.
He hears a silent click behind the counter, his enhanced senses pick up the distinct sound of a shotgun shell being loaded, he eyes the technician who he knows has a gun of his own now. The distraction Peter provided apparently enough time for the man to draw his own weapon. Not good he thinks, he doesn’t want to see the man dead.
Peter switches tactics and tries to deescalate the situation. He puts his hands up, “At least put the gun down and we can figure something out, there are great resources online to help with the rising costs of medication nowadays.”
He’s rambling, the gun is still pointed at the tech, the masked man hasn’t moved an inch. The sirens are getting louder, so is his heartbeat.
“I told you to stay out of it, I’ve tried everything. Stupid insurance companies won’t renew my goddamn plan- just leave man!” The man’s voice is getting louder, he is more agitated and Peter can almost feel his panic from where he is standing.
One step forward, he needs to be in arms reach of the gun. One small step, “Don’t fucking move!” The man screams, and for the first time since Peter walked into the pharmacy the man turns his head to him, “I’ll blow your fucking brains out, I swear to god. Don’t push me-”
Glass crunches, the sirens are near deafening, Peter hears the police radio chatter before they step into the building. “Police! Don’t move!”
The man’s eyes grow comically wide, when he looks at him, all Peter sees is panic induced anger. Clearly the man expected to have more time. “You call the fucking cops!” He turns the gun on him. Peter feels his heart skip a beat, his senses go haywire. He’s close enough now surely, he’d been creeping forward this entire conversation. Maybe a foot away from the barrel of the gun, he’s quick. All he has to do is wrestle it out of the man's grip.
Before he even gets a chance there’s a cop standing straight across from him, a gun is pointed at the man who’s back is turned. Peter thinks it’s now or never, the gun is still pointed at him, he can’t help what he says next.
“Looks like a true Western standoff, too bad I didn’t get the memo, I left my cowboy hat at home.” He shrugs, no idea where this is coming from, he’s trying to stall; he needs time to figure out how to make sure nobody gets hurt. It’s taking a lot of brain power, maybe if he actually slept last night he wouldn’t be running on two overworked brain cells.
“Please laugh, that was hilarious.”
Silence. “Tough crowd” he sighs, the cop looks at him like he just sprouted 4 more limbs. The man falters, clearly taken aback by his comment. Peter knows this is his chance, he grabs the gun, easily twisting it out of his hands. The man wrestles with him, at the same time he can hear the cop barking orders. He has two goals, subdue the guy without getting shot, and do it so that the robber doesn’t get shot either.
They’re on the ground, he knows he can throw this guy clear across the room, but that’s not what he wants. This guy deserves jail time for sure, he probably (definitely) scared the daylights out of the pharmaceutical tech, but is death the sentence so as decided by who? It wouldn’t be him, that's for sure. Webbing him up would be great, if only he could get his hands positioned to actually trigger them. He's trying to restrain the man without breaking his bones, but he’s struggling, too worried about hurting him.
His mistake is fatal.
Peter figures his attempt not to do harm is where he lost the fight, the man somehow wrestles out of his grip, grabs his gun and stands. He barely gets his hand up before a gunshot rips through the air.
Someone screams, later on he’ll realize it was him yelling out, “No!”
His breath is knocked out of him, and he thinks maybe he got shot. Warmth runs down his abdomen, he shakily gasps for air. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t remember closing them. Noises are muffled, cloudy as he orients himself again. He is still on the ground, he goes to sit up but something stops him.
What he sees when he opens his eyes will, in Peter’s opinion, be burned into his eyes possibly for the rest of his life. The man, who moments before had been armed and standing, had fallen on top of him. Blood, which he had first assumed was his, was steadily flowing out of a bullet wound just a couple inches above the man's sternum. The man wasn’t moving, Peter doesn’t hear a heartbeat.
He grunts, “Jesus-Oh god.” he climbs out from under him, the cop strode over to him.
“Are you okay?”
Peter blinks, looks down, and quickly turns away as bile creeps up his throat. He swallows harshly, “Yeah, shit, I’m- I'm good man.” Karen hadn’t reported any injuries, he’s fine. The man, not fine. Very not good, this is exactly the opposite of what he wanted.
More cops stream into the building, the technician steps out from behind the counter, he’s quickly whisked away to provide a statement; at least that’s what Peter assumes he’s doing. He’s having a hard time wrapping his head around the whole situation.
He watches with some morbid fascination as the cops take off the man's mask, Peter wonders if he should’ve gone home.
This time he actually throws up, because fuck this is the same guy from earlier this week. The same guy he’d caught shoplifting from Walmart and had let go. Same. Exact. Guy.
He lifts his mask up and hurls into a nearby trash bin, the cop who had actually fired the shot turns to him again.
“You should come with us, we need a statement, I- I’m sorry I didn’t want to shoot him, I couldn’t, he wouldn’t-”
The cop is clearly shaken, Peter doesn’t blame him. He puts a shaky hand on his shoulder, hoping to provide some comfort. The reality is, Peter owes him his life, he can only imagine what the man would’ve done if he’d been able to pull the trigger.
The gun that was so kindly pointed at his forehead.
Peter thinks he shouldn’t be feeling bad for the robber, but he’s soaked in the man’s blood and morally speaking human life is important to him. He doesn’t kill, he just detains.
What was it he said, about the little people?
The man had kids, who now had no one. Who’s to blame for that?
Peter hates the realization he comes to: he’s responsible . What would have happened if he had just turned the guy in for the first time? Sure he might’ve faced a fine, or gone to jail that night. In the end, would they still be here? Would he still be dead?
What could’ve changed if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed, if he could’ve just figured out how to keep him down and not been so worried about hurting him, god he would take giving him broken ribs over him being shot dead .
He stumbles, mutters out a pathetic “bye” given the situation and sprints out of the drug store.
Your fault. His mind so graciously tells him. repeats it, until it's ingrained into his brain, permanently etched there.
“Peter, you are currently exhibiting symptoms of shock, it is advised you stop and call for help.” Karen advises.
“Shut up Karen.”
He swings, more recklessly than he normally does but who can blame him, back to his apartment.
“Peter, your heart rate is dangerously elevated. Has something happened? You do not appear injured.” Karen asks, he wishes the AI was just a little less sentient.
He doesn’t respond, turns out he has a more pressing issue. It’s fairly early into his patrol, Aunt May is still awake. If the soft light glowing through his living room window is anything to go by. If she sees him like this…she’ll totally freak.
“Damn it. Karen, what time is it?”
“It is currently 9:48 P.M. Peter.” Her voice is calming, robotic but warm; it doesn’t do anything to sugar coat the next words to come out of her non-existent mouth, “Per the Baby Monitor Protocol, I am required to contact Tony Stark during extreme duress.”
He sighs, of course she is. He feels like a damsel in distress, what kind of hero is he? He couldn’t even stop one armed robbery from going wrong.
Unfortunately, Tony’s distinct voice cuts through the barreling train of self depreciation, “Hey kid, where are you? Karen sent me an alert telling me you went into shock, usually that means you’re bleeding out in an alleyway, hope we’ve moved past that,”
“Yup, I decided that rooftops are much more comfortable places to bleed out.” Peter doesn’t know why he jokes, he doesn’t even have the energy to sound funny, Tony probably believes him.
“Height of luxury, so it sounds.”
He scoffs, his life is the total opposite of luxurious, he tries to think of the word to describe it but the man's face is plastered all over his brain, and the blood is still wet, and he still can’t breathe.
Before he gets another word in he hears the familiar sound of repulsors touching down next to him.
“Hey this is my secret lair, no Ironman suits allowed.”
Peter just wants to go home, the only reason he’s even on this roof is to kill enough time so that Aunt May won’t walk in on him peeling off a blood encrusted suit. He doesn’t need Tony Stark to come save the day for him, doesn’t need another shameful reminder of the total failure that he is.
“Nuh uh, Ironman suits are always allowed.”
Peter turns his head to Tony, “Did you just say ‘nuh uh’?”
Good god, his life is so weird. It’s your fault, Your fault. your-
“Completely irrelevant, now I know you’re trying to avoid the massive elephant in the room, but if it gets any bigger I’m afraid it’s going to blow up all over me. Friday tells me you aren’t injured so..”
He glares at Tony, he doesn’t need this. Peter doesn’t even know where to begin. This is a jumbled mess of yarn he’s not ready to unravel yet, it’s too fresh, too soon. It’s already embarrassing enough that Karen tattled on him, having to sit here and explain to Tony he let someone die ?
No fucking way.
“Nothing to say? You know I can just ask Friday to show me, I’m more asking for your sake.”
“Will you leave it alone?!” Peter snaps, he’s angry. So incredibly frustrated with how tonight went, ashamed and disappointed in himself, in the world, in that stupid, foolish man.
He left his kids behind, he died fighting for what he believed was right. Yet, in the eyes of the world he’s some low life criminal who took the easy route to what he needed. Who’s fault is that? Peter knows how cheap it is to produce insulin; still the world made it so that a poor man felt his only choice was a gun.
“Goddamnit.” He curses, Tony hasn’t said anything since, simply stares at him, at some point having deactivated his suit. Peter’s not sure how he didn’t realize. Clearly he’s out of it.
Your fault.
“Are you done throwing a tantrum?” Tony raises an eyebrow, “or are we gonna sit here all night.”
Peter knows they aren’t that close, it's barely been a couple months since the whole Vulture incident. He turned down the Avengers and yet Tony had remained somewhat in contact (if you consider sending a thumbs up to every other text Peter sends “contact” ). He also logically knows Tony won’t judge him for what happened, but he can’t find the words to admit his mistake.
Your fault.
As if keeping his mouth shut will wipe the blood off his hands and bring the guy back to life.
“Fuck you.” It’s easier to be angry, maybe if he pisses Tony off enough, he’ll leave him alone.
One can dream. “Jesus kid, you kiss your aunt with that mouth?”
Peter turns away, aware that the roof is digging into his side weirdly and if he lays down here any longer he’ll definitely wake up with a stiff back, “Go away, I don’t need you here.”
“Of course you need me here, you just don’t want me. What happened?” Tony presses, stepping closer as he speaks, “Fine, whatever, don't say anything.”
Tony pulls out his phone and starts pulling up what Peter can only assume is baby-monitor footage, he watches with baited breath as Tony pulls up tonight's recording.
Peter feels like he sits there waiting for an eternity, he knows it's probably only been a couple minutes.; but he’s waiting for Tony to cringe and look at him with this cheap pitiful look, the one someone gives when they see someone make a complete fool of themselves. Which is exactly what Peter did tonight, he failed. Spectacularly.
Instead Tony’s brows furrow deeper and deeper, a look of concern shadowing his face until he looks away when the gunshot goes off.
“Jesus kid.”
He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want Tony to acknowledge every little mistake he made, how he should’ve just tried to web the gun as soon as he got close enough, or not even bothered to walk into the drug store in the first place. He’s tired, sick of tonight, and not in the mood for some stupid life lesson.
“I’m fine, clearly, I’m just waiting for May to go to bed so I don’t worry her.”
Tony snaps his head up, pocketing the phone just as quickly as he had pulled it out. The look of concern still hasn’t left his face, Peter can’t stand it.
Why is he to be pitied? He isn’t the one who’s probably lying in a morgue right now. He let someone die tonight, what right does he have to go and cry home about it. It’s his fault and he should own up to it.
“You’re not fine, thats-shit Peter that stuff is-”
“It was my fault, what’s the point in hosting a pity party for myself. I have no right.” he stands up, prepares himself to web home if the conversation takes a turn for the worst.
Tony shakes his head, part of Peter wants to punch that stupid look off his face. He’s getting more and more upset by the second.
“That wasn’t your fault Peter.” Tony starts, but Peter knows exactly how this conversation goes, Tony will offer some pathetic reason as to why it isn’t his fault, remind him that he’s “still learning” and offer him a ride home. He knows Tony isn’t the most emotionally eloquent, he’d rather skip the whole carnival ride.
“Yes. It was.” He turns his back to Tony, afraid of the look he’ll get, cowering away, “I could’ve stopped him before it got to-to that.”
He sniffs, he doesn’t need justification from Tony. The guilt will live with him for the rest of his life, and now there isn’t anything he can do. No amount of pep talks or understanding looks will change that.
“Okay, what good is it for you to sit here and mope about it, will you at least come with me to clean yourself off.”
“Why do you care? I’d rather just give you the suit and go home.” Peter hisses, entirely aware that they’re on a very public rooftop.
Tony sighs, rubbing his hands on his suit pants, “It’s-this isn’t about the suit Pete, you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”
The question remains the same, why does Tony care so much. They barely know each other, apart from Spiderman Tony hasn’t ever really bothered to care about Peter Parker, why the sudden change in interest now?
Does he really look that pathetic? That the most emotionally constipated man he knows notices he’s hurting?
Yet, Peter finds the concept of going home alone and even attempting to sleep tonight daunting, he’s already struggling with nightmares, aside from the one that he’s currently living in. Having to go home and face this all on his own?
He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his knees feel like jelly, but Peter acknowledges that he’s weak. He stands on this rooftop stripped and bare of all the naiveness he had so foolishly hid behind before. The world can’t be saved by simply trying to stop the “bad guys” because they’re no longer the ones holding the gun.
Sometimes the bad guys aren’t even human at all, they're monsters shaped to look like multi-million dollar companies that pretend to have your best interest in mind while they leech off your money and livelihood.
“So?” Tony’s voice snaps Peter back to the present, he lets out a shaky breath. Runs a hand over his masked head, and nods.
Tony gives him a grateful look, as if he was expecting Peter to say no. Climbs back into his suit and offers out his hands, Peter sheepishly climbs up into the metal arms, bracing himself as they launch off the roof.
The trip back to the compound is quiet, the wind sends racks of shivers down his spine and by the time they reach the compound Peter’s suit is crusted over and stiff to move. He wraps his arms around himself as they make their way inside, Tony leads him past the front entrance, a steady hand kept on his shoulder as he is ushered through winding hallways and into an elevator.
When he steps out Peter notices two things, one: Tony hasn’t said a word since they left the rooftop, and two: this wasn’t a communal area like he assumed he’d be taken too. Peter half expected Tony to take the suit, offer him a bare guest room, and saunder off to do whatever genius, billionaire, superheroes do.
Instead, he finds himself in Tony’s private living area being led into a ridiculous bathroom that’s bigger than his apartment. He strains his head as he takes it all in, Tony leaves his side and exits the bathroom. Peter finds that he misses the familiar warmth at his side. But no sooner than he had left, Tony reappears at his side with a towel, some shampoo, conditioner and body wash.
Peter feels more and more sluggish now that he’s in a warm and safe spot, his body slows and he fights to stay awake.
He blinks and sits down on the edge of the bathtub. His mind is fuzzy and it's hard to focus but he needs to clean up. Rubbing his eyes, he sits up a little straighter.
Peter wants to tell Tony he’s fine and can handle himself. That Tony should just go to bed and stop worrying about him. Instead he watches silently as Tony gets everything ready, doesn’t say a word as he’s coaxed off the bathtub and near the shower.
The steam from the hot water heats up the room, yet shivers still rack his body as he’s slowly stripped of his suit.
Maybe he should be a little embarrassed about Tony Stark seeing him in his underwear but his mind is too sluggish to care. Tony helps him into the shower. Peter sits down on the tile, hugging his knees to his chest as hot water cascades down.
It takes him several seconds to realize that there’s shampoo being massaged into his hair, he watches as red mixes in with the soap water and slowly goes down the drain.
It’s sitting there, he thinks, being cleaned up that the night's events finally sink in. He can’t help the hot tears that mix in with the shower water, and makes no attempts to conceal the heavy sobs.
The hands in his hair freeze, Tony must’ve noticed he’d started crying. Peter curls in on himself further, turning his head to the wall in a futile attempt to conceal the shame, the guilt that pulls at his heart and causes his stomach to tie itself into knots.
Your fault. You failed, you’re pathetic-
“The first time I ever felt bad for someone I had taken down, I holed myself up in the lab for hours” Tony says, if Peter didn’t have enhanced hearing he probably wouldn’t have noticed over the shower spray, “Pepper found me 48 hours later, incredibly sleep deprived and convinced that I was no better than the people I was trying to stop.”
He looks up at Tony, expecting to see hardened eyes and a grisly look on his face, instead Tony gives him a small, but warm smile.
“Dunk your head to rinse the shampoo out.”
Warm water runs down his back, soothing the tension that keeps his shoulders wound up tight, he feels Tony put a hand on his upper back and without meaning to leans into the touch. He’s still crying but the sobs have quieted down.
He pulls his head back after a couple of seconds, wiping water and tears both with his hand. Conditioner falls on his head and is smoothed over his sopping wet curls.
“It’s easy to question what we do Pete, why we do it, how we do it. Hell- other people do that job for us.” Tony muses, carefully rubbing his hands through Peter's hair.
“But, at the end of the day kid, we’re only human, doing the best we can to make this world a better place.”
“What happens when we aren’t good enough?” Peter asks, his voice is tight as he fights back tears, he wipes his eyes again.
Tony sighs next to him, adjusting so that he’s on his knees instead of squatting down.
“Life kid. Life happens, nobody is perfect. Not one person on this planet has ever gotten life right, but we still move on and the world still turns.”
He shakes his head, he has a responsibility to these people, he can’t just excuse what he did because he’s what not perfect?
“Don’t let that hamster of yours run itself off his wheel Pete, I know I’m not the most…” Tony pauses, his soapy hand waves around his head as if he’s trying to grasp the right words, “Open, with this stuff. Maybe I should’ve been…see, mistakes kid. Even Ironman makes ‘em”
He laughs, even as tears fall onto his cheeks, Tony massages his head for a couple more minutes as they sit in silence, the only noise being the water as it sprays onto glossy white tile. Peter studies the droplets that roll down the shower walls, he finds it soothes his brain into a quiet hum.
He barely registers Tony’s gentle push under the spray, he does note how Tony makes sure soap doesn't get into his eyes and the calloused hands that clean the rest of the blood off his body.
Peter makes a mental note to thank the man profusely, he figures cleaning up a blood-soiled vigilante was not on his itinerary for the night.
The water shuts off, just as quickly his skin crawls with goosebumps as the air chills. He slowly stands up, muscles aching from his awkward posture in the shower. He’s handed a towel, when he looks up Tony is standing in front of him holding a set of pajamas.
“Get dried and dressed, here's a set of pj’s you can borrow, and an unopened pack of underwear is on the counter. I’ll be outside.”
Tony doesn’t say another word, Peter reels at the sudden change in mood. Maybe he’d dried up all the emotional patience Tony had for the night, he thinks. It’s late and he’s been time consuming to deal with. He takes his time pulling his clothes on, only revel’s for a couple of seconds on how soft the clothes are.
He takes a towel to his hair and sloppily rubs it around before quietly setting it down and making his way out of the bathroom into his room.
The compound has always been a quiet place, of course it's always bustling with people and movement and more, because Peter’s typically only here during the day he doesn’t realize just how eerie the place is at night.
He shivers as he walks closer to the bed Tony was currently sitting on, neither said a word.
Honestly, if Peter wasn’t so utterly embarrassed by what just happened he would be insisting that Tony leave. Immediately. He’s supposed to protect people, yet he is so mortified that he keeps his mouth shut, hopefully Tony would get up and leave and they could pretend like this never happened in the first place. Spiderman doesn’t need a babysitter. Spiderman shouldn’t be pitying himself when others are out there getting hurt because he isn’t there to help.
He rubs his knees anxiously, Tony was still sitting on the bed, not saying anything.
Normally he’d say something but Peter draws blanks. Maybe Tony is about to tell him that this isn’t working out, and take his suit back. Irrational, he knows, but his mind has long moved past the state of thinking rationally. He panics, wringing his hands together he turns to Tony, he opens his mouth to say something but he’s cut off.
“Pete…” Tony trails off, hesitant. Peter has never heard Tony so unsure of himself, the man is the definition of confidence, nonchalance. It’s almost unnerving, seeing the man so vulnerable. Peter looks at him, the eyes he meets are filled with uncertainty, but rather than the closed hardened pair of eyes Peter has grown accustomed to, he’s analyzed with a gentle caring gaze.
Tony clears his throat and starts again, “When I first started out, I felt like nobody truly understood why I was doing what I was doing. Constantly questioned, scrutinized, people lacked faith in me. Honestly, even before I was Ironman I never truly felt like anyone believed in me. My dad wasn’t exactly the greatest father and support was never his strong suit. But, I’m determined to end that cycle, and I don’t want you to sit here and think you don’t have anyone to turn to for this kind of stuff.”
Peter swallows thickly, somehow Tony has managed to nail every little thing he’d been struggling with this last week. He was so afraid of being turned away, shunned and reminded of his shortcomings. Nobody believed in a 15 year-old kid, who would? People trusted Spiderman, always expected certain things, failure crippled him, failure reminded him that he has no place here.
“There will always be someone in your corner, kid, May, Ted-or Ned or whatever, your friends, there are people around you who care about you.” Tony continues, his hands waving around as he does when he’s explaining his latest project in the lab, or presenting Stark Industries newest product, or here: in Tony’s bedroom sitting beside a teenage vigilante with a guilt complex the size of Mars.
“I’m in your corner too kid.” Tony says quietly, Peter stills and snaps his eyes back to his mentor, their relationship had never really been addressed, he often feels like Tony keeps tabs on him out of obligation, it's a shock to hear Tony actually admit he cares about him.
He smiles, the guilt that had buried itself deep into himself finally loosened its hold, and Peter knows it may never truly leave, and he may be haunted by this for the rest of his life, but he isn’t alone anymore. Isn’t burdened to carry that weight with him to his grave.
The world keeps turning, it slows for no one and yet part of himself wishes it would still for just one moment, so that he could stay here, never have to go back and face the consequences of humanity, where he doesn’t have to live with this, can forget all about the deep suffering of the world.
Except he knows he can’t, and he knows he won’t. Peter loves the world, loves the intricacy of New York, the way people’s lives mesh into each other, the threads of human lives woven together into a beautiful tapestry that not even pain and suffering can tear through. Hope keeps weaving, love keeps threads from unraveling, kindness creates the brightest colors he’s ever seen.
He meets Tony's eyes again, not alone , he thinks.