Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter had noticed the bruises. Mr Stark’s tired eyes. Tony’s soft, sad smile whenever he glanced toward Peter. As if he was pulling a hood over his eyes every time he glanced his foster-kid’s way. Tony didn’t know Peter knew. Mr Stark acted so smitten by Aldrich, laughing at all of his jokes, comfortingly leaning into his touch. The sickest part was—Peter actually believed Tony loved Aldrich. Mr Killian. The guy who served up black eyes to Peter’s dad on a silver platter, every evening he thought the kid wouldn’t notice. Peter had seen the sparkling in Tony’s eyes when he looked up at Aldrich, seen the way Tony smiled at the man. How could Tony love somebody so mean?

Peter was no stranger to violence; a red ‘troubled’ sticker slapped across the front of his foster file. What, with Ben and Skip and his late dad and all. But Peter had almost gotten used to this nice, new life with Tony and Aldrich. Tony was better than anything Peter could have asked for (or deserved), and Aldrich was nice, at first.

It started small. A cuff around the ear, a cig put out on his back, hot coffee splashed on his wrist, an apple at his head, a coin flicked to the back of his neck. Peter didn’t really mind that, Aldrich being nasty; as long as he could have Mr Stark, Peter was happy. He didn’t find it really necessary to tell Tony that Aldrich was a dick, Peter figured Tony would find out soon enough on his own terms.

True to his prediction, Tony’s first bruise, on his forearm, appeared a couple months after Mr Killian had taken an interest in Peter. Not that this new obsession with hurting his boyfriend made Killian any less active with Peter.

The constant irritation never stopped. Killian stepping on one of Peter’s fingers, pouring beer into Peter’s drink bottle, stealing his jacket so he had to walk to school freezing, tipping broken glass down the boy’s shirt, withholding meals because he was ‘misbehaving’. Peter was just tired. He had had enough of this in his past homes. Didn’t he deserve a break? It wasn’t fair.

But there was Tony. Always. Unknowing of Peter’s hardship, but still there to joke around with, to hug, every time Peter needed it. He was that one person that Peter looked up to. Just like there was May when there was Ben, and… well, there was no one when there was Skip Westcott.

Peter didn’t expect to feel anything when Tony finally started getting hit by Killian. Surprisingly, however, at the time, Peter felt a deep flame of anger welling in his gut. And then shame. And confusion. Why did he care so much? It wasn’t a big deal. It was nothing compared to what Aldrich could do. It was nothing compared to what Aldrich did do to Peter. So why did he care?

All Peter wanted was for that sticky, guilty, angry feeling to go away.

“Mr Killian?” So Peter had asked, one time, in the middle of Aldrich carving the word SLUT with his pocket knife into Peter’s side. And before you ask—it did hurt. Of course it fucking hurt. The reason for that particular word?

Aldrich had found out about Skip. About what Skip did to Peter.

The boy continued, swallowing the pain. “Can you stop hitting Tony, please?” Aldrich looked up. “You can do whatever you want with me, would you just stop hurting Tony.”

Mr Killian looked up, a lick of hunger in his eyes. He paused for a second, his blade hovering over the tip of the unfinished T. “You’re stupid, kid.” He cackled, and then sliced the blade across Peter’s skin, finishing the T.

But it worked.

Peter stopped spying bruises on Tony’s pale skin. The sticky, guilty, angry feeling went away. When the rare occasion occurred that Peter would spot a stray cut or bruise Tony had acquired, he would act out even more in front of Aldrich, so the man would take out his anger on Peter and remember their deal.

Hurt Peter, not Tony.

Peter deserves it, not Tony.

On a cold night, where Peter’s stomach was clawing with hunger, Tony slipped him hot chocolate before bed.

Peter should have known not to take it, Tony probably just delivered the mug from Aldrich, who had actually made it. Something had been slipped into the drink, and Peter was out before he had finished the mug.

No. Not again. Please.

Peter awoke to sharp, blinding pain. He was pressed up against his bedroom wall, and Mr Killian was there on top of him. His huge body was pressed against Peter’s, and the boy could feel his ribs bending under immense pressure, and an unbearable burning sensation radiating from his unlaced pyjama bottoms. Alcohol was laced in Aldrich’s breath, seeping through his teeth as he grinned. “Remember our promise, Petey.” He had whispered, a wet tongue then slugging its way across Peter’s cheek.

And Peter had. So he hadn’t said anything. He shut up after that night, knowing stupid Mr Killian had finally broken him. After a few more nights, Aldrich didn’t even have to drug Peter. The boy was exhausted. He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, stuck in the same spot on a spinning floor, falling, falling, falling… as he was greeted daily by a good friend by the name of Pain. Peter wasn’t a snitch. But even if he was—who would believe him? Aldrich was a police officer, a good bender of rules. He knew people. And Tony—Peter’s hero. Peter’s father . Who would get hurt if Peter ever

opened

his

mouth.

Chapter Text

Shit. Shit. Goddamn , that hurt.

Something wet and warm and sticky cascaded down Peter’s face. The bottle had hit the entire left side of his face. It was full, and it was heavy. It shattered on Peter’s skull and sent the boy flying back. Peter momentarily blacked out, coming too after a few seconds, and seeing the world now through a fuzzy, discoloured lens.

He was on the floor for some reason. Come on, Peter, get up! Tony will be home soon, you don’t want him to see you like this, right? Weak. Pathetic. Hopeless. Peter groggily turned his head to the door, and—

shit.

It was Tony. Standing in his work suit and tie, briefcase and keys dropped flat on the ground in shock, and an unreadable expression panning across his face as he glanced between Mr Killian and the bloody little boy on the ground.

“Sweetie—” began Aldrich—

“Don’t even start .” growled Tony. His hands were balling into fists at his sides. The man rushed to Peter, crouching down and shrugging off his jacket. “Oh God—Peter.”

Peter immediately sat up, to show Tony he was fine, and it was probably all an accident—when suddenly his arms didn’t work to push himself upwards.

“You’re alright. You’re alright.” Tony kept muttering. Peter thought that was stupid; he was the one who was hurt, why was Mr Stark telling him so? “Okay, I’m just going to grab a few things, yeah, kid? Then we’ll head out. Just for a little drive.” Tony’s voice tried to remain calm, but it was shaking. “And you .” He turned to Aldrich. “Get out of this house!”

Peter had never heard Tony yell so loud. Unfortunately, Aldrich yelled back. “The kid fucking fell ! Are you seriously suggesting I fucking punched him ?”

“No, I’m not suggesting.” Tony hissed, snatching Peter’s backpack from a coat hanger and sweeping his briefcase off of the ground. “I saw you chuck a bottle at the poor kid, Aldrich. This is over.” There was an evident quiver in Tony’s voice as he turned to Peter. “Do—do you think you could get up for me, bug? We’re just going to go out for a bit. Just you and me.”

That sounds nice, thought Peter. He nodded slowly and heaved himself up off of the floor. The floorboards felt like a churning ocean and he was beginning to get very tired. But with Tony’s arm tightly around his waist, the two staggered down the stairs and out the door. Peter stumbled into the backseat, and Tony dashed around to the front.

Aldrich was a few metres away, starting from the house door, charging towards the car across the driveway. “You’ll regret this!” He screamed. “I’ll ruin you!”

Tony just clenched the steering wheel tighter and took off down the road, ten above the limit. The roads were empty and long. They stretched on and on for ages, and Peter was beginning to feel like he was in a time loop. The city lights pricked the outside blanket of night like a fork through a cardboard box. They whizzed past, blurred by the motion and Peter’s screwed-up head. He had blood staining his vision red now, his hand too tired to lift and swipe it from his eyes. Peter was pretty sure he had more blood streaming from the back of his head, too, where he supposedly hit the floor.

It was getting cold in the car. All Peter was wearing was sneakers, blue jeans, and a thin, cotton t-shirt. The air smelt old and damp. It took a bit of effort, but Peter eventually flickered his eyes to the person driving the vehicle. Peter tucked his knees up to his chest and looked out the window once again, wondering how long it would be before those worried eyes in the rear-view mirror stopped constantly flickering over to him.

“Peter. Peter,” Tony’s soft voice slowly throbbed its way into Peter’s half-consciousness. “We’re here, bug. Not home. Just—somewhere we’ll be safe.” he paused.. “God, Pete, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry .”

Mr Stark thought this was his fault? Weird. Peter nodded a yes to Tony’s request, and with the older man’s help, staggered out of the car. They walked, together, across a smooth field as the crickets performed a deafening concert from the trees. The occasional owl joined them, and Peter winced at the loud, under-watery sounds.

Suddenly, the door opened, and the porch Peter now realised he was standing on was flooded with warm, yellow light. Peter winced as his heightened senses got the better of him. Luckily, Tony’s arm was still wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist, so he didn’t stumble.

A figure appeared at the doorway. He had brown eyes, like Peter, and spiky brown hair. He wore blue checked pyjama bottoms and a black top. His chin was dusted with a light stubble, and he sports his own purple suitcases underneath his eyes. At first, he looked quite shocked to see Peter and Tony there—but after half a second of deliberation, dropped the gun.

“Jesus,” he swore, leaning against the doorframe. The man ran his fingers through his hair, his muscles protruding out of his black shirt, soaking up the sight of the two of them. “You two look like shit.”

“I know.” Tony’s voice cracked, “I’m sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Shut up, Stark.” The man—Clint—stepped aside. “You Goddamn know our door is always open to you.” He suddenly glanced at Peter, as if just realising he were there. “Shit. The kid okay?”

“I don’t know,” Tony cradles his head in his hands as they walk inside. “I just grabbed a bag and left. He slept in the car. He doesn’t sleep easy in his own bed, so I’m not sure that’s a good sign.”

“Judging by the blood, I think you’re right.” Clint peered at Peter’s face. The whole left side of his face was bleeding. Especially the part just above his left eye, where the corner of the bottle hit, and where the skin is a deep purple. “He fall backwards?” Clint asked Tony.

“Yeah.” replied Stark.

Suddenly, a hand was reaching out and cradling the back of Peter’s head. Clint pulled his hand away and it, too, was covered in blood now. “Okay, kid, let’s get you to makeshift medical. Tony—you wanna take any photos?”

Mr Stark swallowed dryly as Peter was steered by his thin shoulders into the dining room. “Yeah.” Tony breathed, taking out his phone and snapping a few of Peter’s bloody face.

Clint fetched a first-aid kit from a cupboard in the kitchen and sat down opposite Peter, unzipping the pack.

Tony inhaled, sharply. “You... Do you wanna know what happened?”

Clint shrugged, remaining un-sided. He dabbed at Peter’s wound with a cloth. “I can paint myself a picture.”

“Well—it’s not—he’s never hit the kid before. Never.” Tony frantically explained, pacing slightly. “It was just… this one night, he was drunker than usual, and Peter left a plate out, and… and… This was the first time it was Peter. I swear. I’m so sorry, kid, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Peter said, the first time he had opened his mouth in two or three hours. Both adults looked at him strangely. “What?” said Peter. Damn, his head was really starting to ache now.

Clint’s jaw just tightened, sadly, but Tony couldn’t purse his lips. “What do you mean, ‘It’s fine ’?” He hissed. “You just got fucking smashed with a beer bottle! That is not one. Bit. Fine, Peter!”

Peter shrank back from the shouting. “My bad.” he apologised, quietly.

“No, Peter, don’t fucking say sorry!” Tony lifted his hands in the air and rubbed the back of his neck. Clint just held up a hand.

“Tony. How about you go take a hot shower? I’ll deal with the kid. We’ll be fine. You need some rest.”

“Oh shit—oh shit, Pete.” Tony froze, his face paling. “Your—your meds. God, how could I forget something so important? I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Tony.” assured Clint. “You were just rushing. I’m surprised you managed to grab all that you did. If it’ll help you calm down, there’s a 24/7 chemist a couple dozen miles down the road. Why don’t you take a drive, clear your head?”

Tony closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Alright. I’ll—I’ll be back soon, okay, bug?” Tony leant in to ruffle Peter’s hair affectionately, but at the last second thought better of it and turned, leaving out the front door.

And Peter was alone again.

Chapter Text

Peter wouldn’t take the drugs. He wouldn’t swallow the pills or drink the water he was given. He wasn’t taking any chances, not with him feeling like shit and Tony not around to make sure nothing happened.

“You want a glass of water, kid?” Clint turned around with one in his hand. Peter pursed his lips. He was really thirsty.

“Thanks, sir.” Peter took the glass, stood up, and walked to the sink. He tipped out the liquid inside and let the freshwater, straight from the tap, refill his cup once again. As soon as it was full, Peter drank it, right there, standing by the kitchen sink.

Clint watched with sad eyes.

Suddenly, Peter felt exhausted, and his knees buckled underneath him. Luckily, Hawkeye was by his side in less than a second, hooking his elbows under Peter’s armpits to steady him. Unfortunately, the slippery glass wasn’t so lucky.

It slipped from Peter’s hand and smashed onto the tiles. Peter jumped at the sound of the shattering glass. He scowled, immediately, hating how his body reacted so scared of—let’s face it—just a sound. “Sorry.” Peter swallowed the thick lump in his throat and bent down to pick the shards up.

Why was he so clumsy? Couldn't he do anything right? Peter deserved to be hit. He deserved to die. Tony probably didn't even love Peter. He probably just tolerated the boy for the money they got for fostering him. Not that anyone ever has loved Peter. I mean, why would they? He's worthless. He can't even hold up a glass of water.

Clint didn’t stop Peter from helping, but snatched a brush and shovel from underneath the kitchen sink, and the glass was gone with a few swipes of the brush.

The two sat back down, in silence, and Clint began placing steri-strips gently on Peter’s head. Peer looked down and twisted his shirt on his fingers. He hated the silence. It was so big .

Suddenly, Peter was aware of a figure behind in the doorway. Peter whipped around to see—the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff. Leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and a soft pout on her face. Why was she here?

“I was wondering when you’d come out.” Clint said, his eyes still on Peter’s wound. “You’ve been listening from the hallway, I assume?” Peter froze. “Sorry, kid, I forgot to mention, Nat’s staying with us for a couple days. She’s been here for a few. In fact, I thought she’d be gone by now.” Clint shot Natasha a playful look as she shrugged it off, going to take a seat on the couch and tucking her legs up underneath her.

“So, bug,” Natasha said to Peter, referring to him by Mr Stark’s nickname for the kid. “Who’d you spar to get that wicked cut?”

Peter shrugged. No point lying now. “My foster-dad’s boyfriend.”

“Ah.” Natasha nodded. “And what’d you do?”

“Left my plate out from dinner.”

“Ooh,” Clint hissed. “That’s a nasty one.”

Peter contorted slightly. They were… understanding. Why?

“I just forgot. I was tired, I guess.” He tried to explain. “But it’s not that bad. It doesn’t even hurt.” That was a lie, and the two spies in the room could easily spot it.

“He hit you before?”

The question, from Clint, came so bluntly that Peter automatically answered, “Yeah.”

The boy pursed his lips. Goddammit. Stupid, stupid Peter. “I—I mean, I don’t know. Not really. Not at all, actually.”

Both Clint and Natasha raised their eyebrows. “You sure about that?” Natasha asked. “You know, we’re spies, kiddo. We’re good at keeping secrets. We won’t tell your dad, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Foster-dad.” Peter corrected, although it hurt to do so. Tony was so much more than just Peter’s foster dad. He was his best friend, his mentor, his hero . Peter loved Tony like his own father. Except, not his own dad, because his own dad was shit.

There was a prompting silence. Clint broke it. “ My worst was with the poker.”

Peter looked up, confused.

“Straight from the heather.” continued Clint. “Harold beat the shit out of me when I was seven. That’s how my ears got so messed up; he drove the thing into my earlobes.”

Peter’s eyes were wide with shock and confusion. Why was Clint telling him this? And was that really how he got to be hearing-impaired? He doesn’t know why, but Peter always assumed it was just from some superhero accident or something.

“ My worst was the glass.” Natasha said, and Peter’s wide, brown eyes flickered to her. “Indurance. They put glass in our ballet shoes and made us dance for hours, non-stop.” She sucked her gums. “After a while, your feet just go numb.”

Why were they telling him this? Wasn’t that the private bit of their lives that nobody—especially not superheroes—shared?

Natasha chuckled slightly. “Ruins a good pair of points as well.”

Peter tried not to think back to his worst; but  those nights kept appearing. When Aldrich would unlace his belt from his jeans. The worst sound in the world, Peter had decided, was the unziping of a fly. At that point, Peter always prayed for him to keep the belt wound tightly around his fist. For him to beat Peter with the belt, over and over. Because it was much, much better than what followed if the belt dropped to the floor.

“Buckle,” Peter suddenly said to fill the silence.

Both of the superheroes glanced at each other. Sadly, quizzically.

“The metal bit.” Parker shrugged. It was close enough to the truth. Plus, Killian had taken the buckle of his belt to him before. It fucking hurt.

“That’s rough.” Clint said, his eyes partially glazed over.

Peter shrugged, again. “He’s done worse.”

“I thought you said that was the worst,” said Natasha.

“Well—” Peter flushed. “I don’t—those nights… I—”

Both Natasha and Clint stayed in a kind silence.

“If he hurt me ,” said Peter, flustered now. “He wouldn’t hurt Tony. He—he said that. So… so I let him do other stuff.”

Peter was bright red. He wrapped his arms around his chest. Why did they have to ask him about this stuff? Wasn’t it best to leave it where nobody ever sees it? Saves both parties a lot of embarrassment. But Clint and Natasha didn’t appear to be embarrassed. They didn’t even appear to be pitying Peter. They just stood there, a sad, understanding smile on their faces.

“He ever give you any scars?” asked Clint. He pulled back his sleeve and grinned. On his bicep was the tightest line of pinched skin. “Mine looks pretty mean. I’ve got one on my neck too.” He was grinning like it was a competition.

“Well, the bottoms of my feet are permanently ugly.” Natasha laughed. “Plus, I’ve got a few bullets in my hip.”

Peter sucked his teeth. Should he tell them? Should he show them? Mr Killian would find them—and hurt Tony. Tony would find out, go back to Aldrich and try ‘teach him a lesson’, when in reality Tony would probably die.

But… but Tony wasn't here.

And for some reason Peter was aching to tell. Someone, anyone. He didn't even know why.

Peter hesitantly lifted up his shirt, and turned so the heroes could glance at the word SLUT carved deeply into the boy’s pale skin, underneath his armpit on the side of his torso. That was a month or so ago, now, so the wound had sort-of scabbed over, but you could plain as day see the letters.

He let the scar do the talking.

This was a reaction Peter wasn’t expecting. Clint sharply inhaled—and his eyes went all stoney. Natasha just tightened her grip on the armrest and shook her head. “What?” Peter asked, flustered now. He didn't want superheroes to think he was weak . “He’s—h-he’s done worse.”

“I think it’s about time you tell us this ‘worst’, kid.” Clint said, gently. “Would ‘ya?”

Peter pursed his lips tightly shut. There was no way literal superheroes were finding out Peter Parker was a slut. He was. Peter was dirty. He was unlovable. Nobody could ever love him, not after Skip, not after Aldrich. And yet, it seemed Mr Stark did love him. Didn’t he? No. Mr Stark was gone. He probably used the chemist as an excuse to get away from the stupid little boy. Parker was pathetic .

And suddenly, the whimp’s eyes were welling with tears. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

“Who?”

“Mr Stark.” Peter began shaking. “He left me with you guys because he doesn’t want another burden. He’s gone back to Mr Killian because his life was better without me.”

“No, kid.” Clint corrected Peter, surprisingly roughly. “Tony Stark is obnoxious. He is a playboy. He barely loves anyone. But I tell you, the day he began fostering you—he told me himself—his life changed. He wouldn’t stop talking about you; how incredible his son was.”

Peter’s chest tightened at the word ‘son’. “I… then… Then why did he leave me?”

Natasha answered, “It’s for you, Peter. It’s always been for you. How often do you need your meds?”

“E-every six hours.”

“And how long has it been since your last dosage?”

“Eight.”

Clint leant back in his chair. “There, kid. Tony knew you needed something, so he went and got it. It’s as simple as that. He loves you, Peter.”

That sentence carved a hole in Peter’s heart. It burned. “If you’re lying to me…” He growled, but his voice was full of hope.

There was a quietness that swelled in the air and Peter let in bloom into a silence. Then, Natasha. “You know, there was this one guard.” she paused, and locked eyes with Clint. “At the institution. In the red room. In fact, there was a group of them.” Clint raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Natasha continued. “They liked little girls. They were meant to just punish us. Beat us, torture us… the works, y’know…”

Peter shifted in his chair. Natasha calmly continued. Her gaze dropped onto the floor.

“They used to touch us.” she said. “Do stuff that was even more illegal than the experiments they were already performing. I hated it, because it hurt most of all.”

She then directly locked eyes with Peter, and fell silent. The boy was tired. He was uncomfortable. He just wanted Mr Stark, and to go to sleep.

“There was this acrobat—” Clint began, taking a deep breath. “At the circus I ran away to. My mentor, apparently. He trained me up, and threatened to kick me out if I didn’t participate in the extra ‘activities’ he issued. Off the rink.” Clint paused for a deep breath. “I had nowhere else to go. No choice, really. So I complied.”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, again. “Yeah, it hurts. It really hurts.”

They all sat in silence. It was at least five minutes long. Tears were blooming in Peter’s eyes, and some had already trickled down his cheeks. Peter Parker was not weak ! He was a protector! Of Tony Stark! He wasn’t a wimp! He wasn’t a slut! Peter didn’t want to tell them. To think back to all of those horrible nights. To remember the pain—and how dirty Peter was.

Peter’s head ached. He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

“Yes.” he breathed, answering a question only the silence had asked.

Chapter Text

Just at that moment, there was a steady pound at the door. Peter’s head snapped up, his body tensing as if expecting another blow. The sound was too familiar—the slow, deliberate rhythm of someone who knew they were already unwelcome. His breath hitched, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch. Aldrich. The name slithered through his mind like a curse. But Aldrich wouldn’t knock. Aldrich would kick the door in, or worse, wait in the shadows until Peter was alone.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. Mr Stark was back. Peter staggered to the door, threw it open, and wrapped his arms around the man.

“Oh Peter.” Mr Stark whispered into his curls. Peter’s small boy was racked with sobs. For some reason, he was crying. How pathetic. “Here, Peter.” Mr Stark handed Peter a bottle and the boy swallowed two of the pills dry. They stuck to his raw throat.

After a few minutes, Peter calmed down. The pills immediately took their effect, and he and Mr Stark took a seat on the couch. Clint and Natasha took the other, all the while looking pointedly at Peter. They wanted him to say something, no doubt, to Mr Stark. About Mr Killian.

But Peter kept his mouth tightly shut. Why would he get Mr Stark even more upset? There was no point. It was all in the past. It would make no difference.

“Why didn't you tell us?” asked Clint, out of the blue. Tony looked up and flushed red.

“I don't know.” He said, defensively. “It wasn't that bad. I swear. Plus, if it was, wouldn't you guys have figured it out?”

Natasha and Clint gave each other a glance. Tony recoiled.

“You—you knew?”

“Fury forbid me from slitting his throat.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “But yeah, we knew about it. Why else do you think Clint called you every other day?”

Tony glanced at Clint for desperate confirmation.

“I—uh,” Clint chuckled. “I don't know. I just… didn't really want you to die… if you know what I mean.”

Tony was touched, he was hurt.

“Fuck that. It’s not about me. Oh, Peter.” Tony’s voice cracked as he took in the sight of the boy: the fresh steri-strips on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes, the way he was curled in on himself like a wounded animal. Peter didn’t hesitate. He lurched forward, throwing his arms around Tony’s waist and burying his face in the man’s jacket. The fabric smelled like leather and something uniquely Tony —warm, familiar, safe.

Tony’s arms wrapped around him instantly, one hand cradling the back of Peter’s head as if he were made of glass. “I’m here,” he murmured into Peter’s hair. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving you again.”

Peter sobbed, his body wracked with the force of it. He didn’t understand why he was crying—he never cried. But the dam had broken, and now he couldn’t stop. The pills Tony had brought burned in his stomach, dulling the physical pain but doing nothing for the storm inside him.

Clint and Natasha watched from the opposite couch, their expressions unreadable but their presence a quiet support. Peter could feel their eyes on him, waiting.

Tony broke the silence first, his voice rough. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter stiffened. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. But the words clawed their way out anyway, a whisper so soft he barely recognized his own voice. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

Tony’s breath hitched. “Leave? Peter, I would never —”

“You would’ve gone back to him,” Peter interrupted, his voice rising. “You would’ve fought him, and he would’ve hurt you, and then you would’ve left me because I’m too much trouble. I’m always too much trouble.”

Tony’s hands tightened on Peter’s shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce. “You are not trouble. You are my son . And I am so sorry I didn’t see it. I should have—”

“You couldn’t have known,” Clint cut in, his voice gentle but firm. “Aldrich is good at hiding what he is. He’s had practice.”

Natasha leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “But we do know now. And we’re not letting this slide.”

Peter’s stomach twisted. “What does that mean?”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “It means Aldrich is done. I’m pressing charges. I’m getting you out of that foster system for good. You’re staying with me, Peter. Permanently. ”

Peter’s heart stuttered. He wanted to believe it. He ached to believe it. But the fear was still there, gnawing at him, dragging him deeper into his guilt, shame, and horror. “He’ll find a way,” he whispered. “He always does.”

Clint’s expression darkened. “Not this time. We’ve got enough evidence to bury him. And if the law doesn’t do it…” He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air.

Tony’s arms tightened around Peter. “No one is touching you again,” he promised. “I swear it.”

Peter wanted to trust him. He did trust him. But the ghosts of Aldrich’s hands, Skip’s laughter, Ben’s indifference—they were all still there, whispering that this was too good to be true.

Natasha seemed to sense his doubt. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the steri-strip on Peter’s forehead. “We’ve all been where you are, kid,” she said quietly. “We know what it’s like to think you’re worthless. To think no one will ever choose you. But Tony did choose you. And he’s not letting go.”

Peter’s vision blurred with fresh tears. He looked up at Tony, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. But all he saw was determination—and something deeper. Something that looked an awful lot like love.

Tony cupped Peter’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears. “You’re mine, Peter,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “And I’m yours. No more secrets. No more hiding. We’re in this together, okay?”

Peter swallowed hard. He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it. So he nodded, just once, and let himself lean into Tony’s touch.

For the first time in a long time, he felt something fragile and hopeful unfurl in his chest.

Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t alone anymore.