Chapter Text
Walls of peeling paint, carpet with mysterious (and downright concerning) stains, and a strong smell of mildew; Old and creaking furniture, flickering lights, and bedsheets that make Peter’s skin itch—Somehow, this is still better than where he was 12 hours ago.
Because 12 hours ago was his heart thumping in his chest as he packed every last one of his belongings into the back of his barely functioning 2004 Toyota Corolla until he could barely see out of the rearview mirror.
It took about 6 of those 12 hours to convince himself he was doing the right thing. Well—to convince himself not to turn back. His fear of leaving is still so tightly tangled with his fear of staying, but that voice in the back of his mind screaming run was too much to ignore. He owes it to himself to listen to the voice, anyway.
Leaving isn't as noble or glamorous an act as they make it sound—this motel, the cheapest one Peter could find, is a testament to that. Quite frankly, Peter's not sure he's hit a point this low before, not even in his early Spider-Man days. At least then, he had people in his corner. Now, he's alone, afraid, and stuck in this fucking motel.
Nothing makes you miss the comforts of an old life quite like spending the night at a place like this—the lowest of the low, with a whopping 1.5-star rating and more than one review talking about murder. But Peter doesn't have much of a choice right now, if his almost empty wallet and even emptier bank account are anything to go off of. Never opening a joint account ever again, he thinks bitterly. Fuck that.
Peter sighs. Checks the time on his phone. 10:12 shines back at him in bold letters, telling him it's only been half an hour since he checked in. He would've kept pushing through the night—could've, too—but the exhaustion was starting to pull him under, and the last thing Peter needs right now is to get in a car wreck. Because then he'd just end up back at square one and probably stay there the rest of his life.
Throwing himself onto the bed with another sigh, Peter tries his best not to think about how long it's probably been since these sheets were washed. If they've ever been washed, really.
He pulls out his phone, hand moving automatically to bring him to Tony's contact. He closes out of it immediately after realizing what he's doing, then does it two more times. "Just call him," Peter mutters to himself. "He's not gonna be mad, he's not—he's Tony. It's Tony. Call him."
After a few more repetitions in the same sorry cycle, Peter finally forces his thumb to hit the button. It rings and rings, and Peter feels his heart sink further with every passing second. Why did he even call? He should've just—
"Hello? Tony answers, sounding groggy and confused as if he hasn't realized it's Peter calling. Or maybe Peter's just not as important to the man as he thought. Did Tony delete his number?
Despite his concerns, Peter takes a deep breath and speaks. "Tony?"
"Holy—" Tony sounds much more awake now, and the sounds of shuffling and moving objects tell Peter he's probably leaving his room to keep from waking Pepper. "Kid?"
"Um," Peter starts, voice wavering with anxiety. He wipes a stray tear off his cheek, but a smile finds its way to his face regardless. "Hi."
Tony lets out a breathy laugh. "God, kid, I haven't—It's been months," he says, sounding relieved. Then, "What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"No, I'm—Yes, but no, " Peter stumbles. "Nothing's wrong, but I—I left him. This morning."
There's a pause on the other end of the line. It lasts only a few seconds, but Peter feels it like an eternity. Finally, Tony exhales sharply. "Jesus, Pete," he says, but the words are soft and full of concern. "Where are you?"
"Still in California," Peter says. "I'm… I don't know, somewhere off I-5? A shitty motel. Far enough away that I don't think he'll find me."
Tony swears under his breath. "I'll come get you," he says, and Peter can just picture it; Tony, half asleep and stumbling around his living room, already having FRIDAY pull up all of his options for travel, trying to figure out the fastest way to get to him.
"No," Peter says a little too quickly. "I—I mean, I get it, but I can't—I need to—" He drops his arm onto his face, sighing in defeat. "I don't know, figure shit out? Clear my head. Alone."
"I think you know how I feel about that," Tony says.
Peter gnaws on his bottom lip, blowing out a puff of air. "Yeah, I do," he says. "But I… I did this to myself, I—I have to undo it. I have to."
Another pause. Peter fiddles anxiously with the hem of his sweatshirt sleeve. It's been over a year since he was on the receiving end of one of Tony's serious dad lectures, but he can still feel one coming from a mile away.
"Kid, I'm not gonna pretend like I think you're making the right decision," Tony says. "Doing it alone, I mean. Of course you're making the right choice—Should've dumped his ass a year ago." He clears his throat, awkwardly. "What I'm trying to say is you shouldn't be doing this alone, okay? It's a… long drive. Hard to do by yourself."
And Peter doesn't miss the hesitation. He knows Tony knows something went down with him and his ex—of course he does, it's Tony. Luckily, 18-year-old Peter at least had the sense to keep things (everything) hidden from everyone else, so Tony doesn't know the full extent of anything. "I have to undo it," he mutters, more to himself than to Tony. "It's my fault."
"No," Tony says immediately, like it's the most sure he's ever been about anything. The confidence makes Peter's throat tighten. "No, it's not."
Peter swallows hard, focusing his attention on a crack that runs across the ceiling. It intersects with some weird, odd-colored stain halfway down, but Peter chooses to not think about what the stain might be. "I let it happen," he says. "I stayed."
"You left," Tony argues. "You're leaving. That means something."
"Yeah," Peter says, letting out a bitter laugh despite the tears pricking at his eyes again. "It means I'm the idiot who wasted almost two years with a guy who—" he cuts himself off, voice breaking.
"A guy who what, Pete?" Tony ventures gently. Peter freezes, a hand moving to grip the side of the bed. He backed himself into this corner, and it's terrifying, because what the guy did is… It's complicated, and Peter's pretty sure that telling Tony anything would only trap him further.
When he stays silent, Tony continues, "Whatever he did, you don't get to blame yourself for it. That's not how it works. You were a kid. You still are."
Peter scrubs angrily at his face when the tears spill. "I just feel so—so fucking stupid," he says. "Two years, Tony. Two fucking years. I can't believe I let it get this far, I—I mean, how did I not see it? "
"Because you're a good person?" Tony offers. "You trusted someone, and he took advantage of it—It doesn't mean you're stupid." A pause. "You wanna tell me what actually happened?"
"Um," Peter swallows. He wants to, he really does, but… what happened is a can of worms that he really doesn't want to open right now. Too many nights spent cleaning up messes that weren't his and too many days spent walking on eggshells and making himself as small and as hidden as possible. He lost himself somewhere in there, and he's not sure he's ready to let Tony know just how far gone he feels.
He doesn't realize he's been quiet too long until Tony speaks again, softer this time. "It's okay," he says. "You don't have to."
Peter lets out a shaky breath. "Sorry," he says. "Thanks." He sniffs, rolling over onto his side. The mattress creaks loudly underneath him, and he winces. "I just… needed to get away, you know? It's… better like this. The distance is good."
"Okay," Tony says, sounding not completely convinced. "Okay, and you're sure you don't want me to come get you?"
"Yeah, I'm—I think so," Peter says because he's not sure, but he'd like to be.
"Well, if I can't come and get you, I'll at least help you," Tony says. "You good on supplies? Food, gas, money?"
Peter hesitates, taking mental stock of the maybe 40 dollars he has left to his name that he'll be spending tomorrow to fill his tank and the various gas station snacks he splurged on before coming here. "Um. Yeah," he says. "I've got enough to make it through… tomorrow." The last word comes out mumbled in an attempt to miss Tony's ears. "I'll be fine."
Tony makes a harsh sound, imitating an incorrect buzzer. "Wrong answer, buddy," he says. "California to New York isn't a day trip, you realize that, right?"
"I'll be fine," Peter says. "I've been through worse. I'll make it home."
"Yeah, so, when you say 'I'm fine,' that usually means you're bleeding out in an alleyway," Tony says, carefully leaving off the fact that that's what it used to mean, back when things were simpler and the pair was in the same state. "I'm gonna send you money."
Peter's eyes widen. "What? No, don't—"
"Too late," Tony says. "I know you still have that account open… yeesh, twenty-six dollars? Kid."
"Are you… hacking my bank account?" Peter says with a frown. "Stop it."
Tony scoffs. "You're my kid," he says. "I have a right."
"I'm an adult," Peter says. "That's not how it works."
"Sure it is," Tony says. "It's part of parenting. That's what I'm doing. Parenting."
Peter groans. "You are not my parent," he says, though he doesn't really mean it.
"Okay, you wanna talk about your actual, legal parent?" Tony says. "Have you talked to May? Because I can get her to send you money, if that's what you'd like."
Immediately, Peter sits up straight, a certain panic flaring in his chest. "No!" he exclaims. "No, no, don't—please don't tell her." He thinks about all the missed calls, all the holiday and birthday texts left on delivered. Ignoring May always hurt the worst, and the guilt of it seems to bubble over with the added weight of Peter calling Tony instead of her. "I haven't… talked to her yet."
Tony sighs. "You should," he says. "She's worried about you, you know. Been waiting for you to reach out this whole time."
"I know," Peter mumbles, pressing his knuckles to his forehead and shutting his eyes. "I just… can't. Right now."
To Tony's credit, he doesn't push the issue. And for that, Peter is glad. Because even if May sends him money (which he knows she would without question) and tells him she misses him and to come home as soon as he can, Peter doesn't know if he can handle hearing her voice yet. Not after everything. He's not ready to face the disappointment or anger, or worst of all—relief.
How is he supposed to feel if, after all of this, after he abandoned May, she's relieved to see him come home? And Peter knows she will be, that's just the kind of parent May is. A good one. Peter hasn't been a very good son lately. He's not sure if he deserves her kindness.
"Okay, one thing at a time, then," Tony says, and Peter instantly sags with relief. "You're still getting that money, though. That is non-negotiable, got it?"
Peter sighs. "Fine, okay," he says. "But not a lot! Not a lot. Just enough to make it home, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Tony says, but his tone tells Peter that he's completely and entirely not listening. "Should be in your account now."
Despite his general reluctance and frustration with Tony's insistence on throwing money at all his problems, Peter's grateful. Like, extremely. He checks his phone, watching the notification pop up to tell him Tony sent— "How much money did you send?" he exclaims. "This is too much."
"You can send the rest back when you get home if it makes you feel better," Tony says. "Then we'll be even."
It doesn't make Peter feel better, mainly because he knows they'll probably never be even, not after everything Peter put the man through and everything Tony's continued to do for him. "Yeah," he says instead, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Maybe." Then, "I'll pay you back."
Tony chuckles softly. "Don't worry about that," he says. "The money doesn't matter to me at all. You do. All I care about is you, making it home, okay? You don't owe me a cent."
"But you've already—you've already done so much," Peter whispers. "I can't ask you to keep—"
"You aren't asking me to do anything," Tony interrupts. "Actually, you were asking me not to send you money, so... I'm doing this against your will. How's that sound?"
If the circumstances were different, Peter might've laughed. "I think that's manipulation, Tony."
"Ah, manipulation, schmanipulation," Tony says. "You're my kid; I'm allowed to do that. It's fine."
Peter rolls his eyes at Tony's antics, annoying but dearly missed. There's a warmth that settles in his chest, as well as a weight that lifts as he hears Tony's voice. It's been so long, but the subtle quirks and inflections in the man's words seem to have etched themselves along his ribs like a puzzle waiting to be completed.
"I'll find a way to repay you," he says. "Maybe I'll go through Vegas and get you a keychain with your name on it."
"Hey—if you're going to Vegas, there's no way in hell I'm not coming to join you," Tony says. "Just because you need adult supervision, you know."
The idea of Peter in the state he's in right now, leaving for a spontaneous trip to Vegas and being "supervised" by Tony the whole time, is… certainly something. His lips quirk into a smile, and he rolls over on his side, only to come face to face with a questionable patch of what looks like mold on the wall. Yeah, maybe taking Tony's money was the right move.
"I'll think about it," Peter replies, trying to muster the energy to make himself sound a little less exhausted. "I don't think I'm ready to party just yet, though. Maybe when I turn twenty-one."
"Hey, we can party every day for the rest of our lives if it means I'll get to keep you around," Tony says. The sentence is lighthearted, but Peter knows enough to pick up on the underlying: you're never leaving my sight once you get back . But it doesn't feel restrictive or like nagging. If anything, Peter missed the constant surveillance by someone who actually has his best interest in mind. It's… comforting.
Peter yawns. "I don't think May would let you," he says through it. "Maybe just… once a week."
"Someone's tired," Tony teases. "Have you slept at all?"
"Not since before I left," Peter says. And while it is the truth, the whole truth is that he's been up for probably 30-something hours at this point, anxiety keeping him restless. It's reckless, and he knows it—he knew it when he was driving—but he had to get out. He had to. He can sleep now that he's out.
Tony sighs. "That's—" he pauses. "You haven't changed a bit, you know?"
And Peter's basically an entirely different person by now, but he decides not to bring that up. "Sleep's for the weak," he says instead. "Got things to do."
"Oh, I'm sure," Tony says. "But you've done a lot today—a lot. You deserve some sleep." A pause. "Text me when you wake up, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Peter mumbles. His eyelids grow heavy, so he closes his eyes altogether. "G'night, Tony."
"Night, Pete," Tony replies. Then, after a moment of hesitation, "Actually, uh. Just a second, kid. One last thing."
Peter opens his eyes as if he's going to find Tony standing in the room. "Yeah?"
"If you change your mind at any point, and you need me to come get you," Tony begins, "Just say the word, and I'll be there in a heartbeat, okay?"
Even though Tony can't see him, Peter nods. "Thanks, Tony," he says. "Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams, kid."
The call ends, and Peter doesn't bother setting his phone on the nightstand. He simply throws it somewhere beside him, rolls over, and closes his eyes. His body feels heavy, weighted down by the events of the past day (and year, really), and he sinks deep into the pillows.
A neon sign flashes just outside his window, illuminating his room from the gap between curtains, the walls are so thin that Peter can practically hear the people in the next room breathe, and the mattress is so stiff it makes cardboard sound like a luxury.
It's miserable, and it's the best sleep Peter's had in months.