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The city was quiet in the kind of way only a storm could make it—rain pounding so loud that it swallowed everything else. Peter swung low between buildings, his soaked webbing sticking and slipping on the glassy surfaces as thunder rumbled overhead. Patrol was usually his favorite time—the calm hours when the noise of the world dimmed and he could just be Spider-Man—but tonight was different. It was 2 a.m., and all he could think about was how heavy his eyelids felt and how cold the water was seeping down his spine.
He was almost home when movement caught his attention. A shadow darting across an alley, a muffled shout. His body reacted before his mind did—he veered downward, landing hard on slick pavement with a splash.
Two people in black masks had cornered a man against a dumpster, trying to wrestle a bag from his hands.
“Hey!” Peter’s voice echoed, sharper than usual. “Shoo—leave him alone!”
The robbers froze. Then, the second they registered who they were dealing with, they bolted. Their feet slapped against wet concrete as they vanished around the corner, leaving the man and his spilled belongings in a puddle.
Peter relaxed a little, his heartbeat slowing as he jogged closer. “You okay, sir?” he asked, crouching beside him.
The man’s hands were trembling as he gathered his things, muttering under his breath. “Yeah… yeah, I think so. Damn, that was close.”
Peter nodded. “You’re lucky I was nearby.” His tone was light, trying to calm the man down. The guy looked up, rainwater dripping down his forehead, and gave a shaky laugh.
“Thanks, Spider-Man. I owe you one.”
Before Peter could reply, the man stepped forward and hugged him.
Peter froze.
It wasn’t the first time a civilian had done that—people hugged him all the time after rescues—but this one felt different. There was no hesitation in it. No relief. Just… grip. Tight. Too tight.
He tried to return it, awkwardly patting the guy’s back, but something was wrong. His spider-sense didn’t just flicker—it screamed. A tidal wave of danger crashed over him, lighting up every nerve in his body.
Then he felt it.
A hand slid down his back, slow and deliberate. Lower.
Peter’s breath caught. His body went cold despite the rain. The man’s hand moved again, creeping where it shouldn’t, fingers brushing along the edge of his suit.
Every muscle in him locked. His chest burned. The sound of the rain seemed to vanish, replaced by the thundering echo of his heartbeat in his ears.
And then—he wasn’t standing in the alley anymore. He was nine years old again.
On a couch that smelled like beer and laundry detergent.
Someone whispering, “It’s okay, Peter. Don’t tell May.”
That same hand. The same pressure. The same feeling of his own body not being his.
Skip.
His lungs seized. His mask felt too tight. He stumbled back, nearly slipping on the wet ground.
“Sorry, sir—gotta go,” Peter stammered, voice trembling. He didn’t wait for the man to respond. He shot a web and launched himself into the air, desperate to get away.
The city blurred beneath him, streaks of light and shadow and rain. His breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts, every inhale shuddering like his ribs were splintering. His head was spinning, his chest aching. He couldn’t focus on his web-slinging, couldn’t steady his grip.
He landed clumsily on a rooftop, crouching low as nausea rolled through him. His gloved hands shook violently. He pulled off his mask, sucking in air that wouldn’t come fast enough. The rain hit his face hard, cold and relentless.
“Breathe, Peter,” he whispered to himself, pressing a trembling hand against his chest. “Just breathe.”
But he couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t let him.
Every time he blinked, he saw that man’s face replaced with his.
He heard that voice again—Skip’s voice—slipping through his memory like poison.
He’d spent years pretending it didn’t happen.
That he was fine.
That he was normal.
But the storm, the touch, the cold—everything had pulled it all back.
He couldn’t go home. Aunt May wasn’t even there tonight, visiting friends across town. And he couldn’t fall apart alone. He needed—he didn’t even know what he needed. Just someone. Someone safe.
He looked out across the cityscape, rain streaking his vision. Then, through the haze, he saw the faint light of a familiar building—tall, solid, glowing through the storm. The Avengers Tower.
Tony.
Peter pushed himself up on unsteady legs, shoved his mask back on, and fired another web. His swing was sloppy, jerky, every line of movement trembling with leftover panic. His arms burned, his fingers numb. His thoughts wouldn’t stop racing.
He didn’t even realize how high he’d climbed into the storm until it was too late. The rain had thickened to a white curtain around him, wind howling in his ears, and when he fired his next web—
nothing.
The line missed entirely, the web dissolving uselessly into the night.
Before he could react, gravity yanked him downward.
“Shit—!”
He hit the ground hard, knees first, the impact cracking through him. The pain was immediate and sharp, burning through the soaked fabric of his suit. He hissed out a broken breath, clutching at his leg as blood seeped warm beneath the fabric. “Ow—fuck…”
The curse barely made it past his lips before he forced himself up again. There wasn’t time. He needed to move. Needed Tony.
Peter fired another web and swung low, each movement sending jolts of pain through his knees. His landing at the Tower was clumsy—more of a stumble than a graceful touch-down. He collapsed onto the slick platform outside the glass doors, gasping, before forcing himself upright and running as best he could toward the entrance.
“FRIDAY, open the door,” he said, voice trembling and wet with panic.
The AI responded instantly, her calm tone cutting through the storm. “Welcome back, Peter.”
The glass doors slid open, and warm light from inside spilled across his soaked suit. He half-staggered, half-limped through the lobby, leaving small trails of water and faint streaks of blood from his torn knees on the polished floor.
By the time he made it into the elevator, his breathing had become erratic again. He pressed his gloved hand against the wall for balance, trying to steady himself as the lift rose smoothly toward the penthouse. His reflection in the mirrored panel was pale, eyes wide and glassy beneath the half-peeled mask.
When the doors finally slid open, the room was dark except for the soft blue glow of the TV.
Tony was on the couch, an arm draped lazily around Pepper, both of them half-curled under a blanket. The hum of the movie filled the quiet, peaceful and ordinary—something Peter almost didn’t want to shatter.
Peter hadn’t meant to make a sound. He’d meant to sneak in quietly, just find Tony, maybe get patched up, maybe just… breathe for a second. But the moment his eyes landed on the familiar shape of Tony on the couch—with Pepper tucked into his side, the flickering light of a movie washing over both of them—his chest tightened. The warmth of the room, the normalcy of it, was too much after what had just happened.
And then the sob slipped out before he could stop it.
“Mr. Stark?” His voice cracked halfway through the name.
Tony’s head snapped around immediately, instincts kicking in before his brain caught up. He was on his feet within seconds, eyes widening when he saw Peter standing there—mask clutched in one trembling hand, dripping wet, shivering hard enough that his shoulders visibly shook.
“Kid?” Tony’s voice was soft, but the alarm underneath it was unmistakable.
Pepper paused the movie, her brow furrowing as she sat up.
“FRIDAY,” Tony said sharply, never looking away from Peter. “Lights.”
The room brightened instantly.
And now Tony could see everything. The kid looked wrecked—soaked from head to toe, his hair plastered flat, raindrops streaming off his chin. But it wasn’t just the rain that worried Tony. It was the knees. The bright, sharp color against the dark fabric. The torn suit. The blood.
It was dripping. Onto the carpet.
“Jesus, Peter…” Tony was already crossing the room, closing the distance fast. “What the hell—are you hurt? What happened?”
Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat felt tight, his lungs barely keeping up with his heartbeat. He took one small, shaky step forward, his knees trembling under him—and then they gave out completely.
“Whoa! Easy, easy, I got you.” Tony lunged, catching him before he hit the floor. Peter’s hands grabbed weakly at Tony’s shoulders, trying to find balance, but the tremors in his arms gave him away.
Tony guided him down slowly, lowering him until he was sitting on the floor, one hand steady behind his back. Peter’s breath came in short, broken gasps, and when Tony looked closer he could see how pale the kid was beneath the wet curls stuck to his forehead.
Pepper was already moving before Tony even had to ask. “I’ll get towels and the first aid kit,” she said quickly, her voice steady but urgent.
Tony nodded, his eyes never leaving Peter.
Pepper slipped down the hallway, her voice echoing faintly: “FRIDAY, warm the guest room.”
“Right away, Ms. Potts,” the AI replied.
Tony turned his attention back to Peter. “Hey, kid, stay with me, alright? Just breathe. You’re safe.”
Peter tried, but it came out in a sharp, wet gasp. “I—I fell. I was— I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracked again, trembling.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Tony said, lowering his tone, gentler now. “Don’t try to explain yet. We’ll deal with that later. Just focus on breathing, okay?”
Peter nodded weakly, tears mixing with rainwater on his cheeks. His knees were a mess—scraped open, skin torn raw from impact, the crimson bleeding through the fabric. Tony winced just looking at it.
“You’re leaking on my carpet, you know that?” Tony tried to joke softly, but his voice was tight with worry. “I’m billing Spider-Man’s insurance.”
That pulled a tiny, breathy sound from Peter—something almost like a laugh, though it broke halfway through into another sob.
“Hey,” Tony said quietly, his expression softening. “That’s better. Keep breathing, okay?”
Pepper popped her head into the room. “Tony, can you get him to the guest room? You need to get his suit off him so we can get to his knees—and also so he doesn’t go into shock from how cold he is in it.”
Tony nodded and slid one arm under Peter’s knees and the other around his back, lifting him bridal-style. Peter let out a quiet whimper at the movement, clutching onto Tony’s soaked shirt. “Sorry, kiddo,” Tony murmured, adjusting his grip to make it gentler as he followed Pepper down the hall.
In the guest room, Tony crouched and lowered Peter carefully onto the edge of the bed. “Alright, bud,” Tony said softly, “I gotta get your suit off so we can clean you up. You got underwear on under there?”
Peter nodded quickly, voice trembling. “Y-yeah.”
“Okay, good.” Tony pressed the spider emblem on Peter’s chest, and the nanotech loosened instantly, peeling away and pooling on the floor. The kid shivered, soaked to the bone and trembling. Tony helped him stand just long enough to pull the suit down to his ankles before setting him back on the bed.
Pepper came back in, holding a towel over one shoulder and a bundle of Tony’s old clothes in her arms. “These might be a little big on him,” she said, setting them down beside Tony, “but at least they won’t bother his knees.” Her eyes flicked to Peter’s legs—blood was still trickling steadily down from both knees, streaking across his shins and soaking into his socks.
Tony nodded and took the towel first, gently rubbing at Peter’s hair and shoulders to get the worst of the rain off. The boy flinched slightly at the contact, still shaking, his breathing uneven and fast.
“Hey, easy, kid. It’s just me,” Tony said softly, slowing down and making sure every movement was deliberate. “You’re okay. You’re safe here.”
Peter’s breathing hitched again, but he nodded.
Tony reached for the shirt and held it open. “Arms up, kiddo.”
Peter hesitated, eyes still distant, but slowly raised his arms. Tony slid the shirt over his head, being careful not to jostle his knees. The fabric hung loose on him, the sleeves nearly swallowing his hands.
“Good job,” Tony murmured. “Almost done.”
He picked up the pair of sweatpants next, but Peter shook his head weakly, his voice small. “No… I’m fine with just… just my boxers. I don’t want material on my knees, please.”
Tony looked at him for a moment, then nodded and set the pants aside. “Okay, no pants then. We’ll let your legs breathe.”
Pepper came back over, crouching next to Tony to get a better look at the injuries. “We should clean those before they get infected,” she said softly, already unscrewing the cap on the antiseptic.
Tony opened the medkit, pulling out a few disinfectant wipes. “Alright, Pete, this is gonna sting, but it’s quick, okay? You’ve handled worse.”
Peter nodded shakily, gripping the sheets beside him as Tony gently dabbed at the torn skin. The wipes stung, and Peter hissed through his teeth, a tear slipping down his cheek. Tony’s heart twisted.
“I know, I know. Almost done,” Tony said quietly, his tone steady and grounding. He wiped carefully until the blood was gone, then pressed light gauze over each knee and taped them in place.
When he finally sat back, he exhaled slowly. Peter’s head hung low, his wet curls shadowing his face, and his hands were trembling in his lap.
“Hey,” Tony said softly, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look at me, kid.”
Peter blinked and met Tony’s eyes, his own watery and unfocused.
“You did the right thing coming here, okay? I’ve got you now. You don’t have to talk about anything yet—just breathe.”
Peter nodded weakly, swallowing hard. “Thanks… Mr. Stark.”
Tony gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anytime, kid. Always.”
Pepper stood nearby, her eyes soft but worried. “Let’s get you something warm to drink,” she said quietly. “And then maybe some rest.”
Peter just nodded again, silent, exhausted—but safe.
Soon Peter was sitting propped up against a pile of soft pillows in the guest bed, a thin blanket draped loosely across his legs. The light from the bedside lamp cast a soft orange glow across the room, making everything feel warmer, calmer. The rain still whispered faintly against the window, and the only other sound was the soft clink of mugs being set on the nightstand.
Tony sat next to Peter, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, both of them holding steaming cups of hot chocolate. Tony’s idea — something small and grounding. He figured the sugar, warmth, and routine of it might help. Peter sipped at his drink with both hands wrapped around the mug, staring down at the swirl of foam. His curls were still damp, and every now and then, a small shiver ran through him.
They sat like that for a few minutes before Tony finally spoke, his tone gentle but firm. “You wanna talk about what happened, Pete?”
Peter didn’t answer immediately. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. “Not really,” he murmured after a moment, setting his mug aside. He shifted closer, curling into Tony’s side. Tony instinctively wrapped an arm around him, careful not to press against his knees.
Peter winced a little from the movement but didn’t pull away. His voice was quiet when he spoke again. “But I know I have to tell someone.”
Tony didn’t rush him. He just gave a small nod, rubbing slow circles on Peter’s arm, waiting. The silence wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, but patient.
Finally, Peter began. “I was on my way home after patrol,” he said, his tone small and shaky. “It was raining really hard, and I was tired. I just wanted to go home. But then I saw these two people robbing some guy in an alley, so I went down and stopped them. They ran off, and I went to check on the guy.”
He swallowed, his throat tight. “He said thank you and gave me a hug, and I didn’t think anything of it — people do that sometimes. But then my Spider-Sense went off… and I felt—” Peter’s voice cracked slightly. He glanced down, his hands tightening in his lap. “I felt his hand on my… on me. He was touching me. Inappropriately.”
Tony’s chest tightened. “Jesus, kid…” he breathed quietly, but he didn’t interrupt.
Peter continued, voice trembling. “I froze. I didn’t even move at first — it’s like I couldn’t. And then I just pulled away and left. I couldn’t breathe. I just— I panicked.” His breathing was getting faster, the tremble in his voice rising again. “I didn’t want to go home, and I didn’t want to be alone, and you were the only person I could think of. I just needed—”
Tony’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “You did the right thing coming here, Pete. You did everything right.”
Peter blinked a few times, his eyes glassy. “It just brought everything back,” he whispered.
Tony frowned slightly. “Everything?”
Peter hesitated. His voice came out barely audible. “When I was nine… my old babysitter. Skip.” He winced at even saying the name. “He used to… do stuff.”
Tony’s stomach dropped, but he kept his tone soft. “What kind of stuff, kid?”
Peter’s eyes darted toward the floor, his voice fragile. “He started with magazines — ones with naked people. Said it was a secret game. Then he started putting his hand on me. My back, my butt. I thought maybe it was just weird grown-up stuff, but then he started coming into my room at night.” His breath hitched, and his hands started shaking again. “Sometimes he’d close the door, and I’d pretend to be asleep, but he’d still—”
Peter’s voice broke completely, a tear slipping down his cheek. “He—”
Tony didn’t let him finish. He immediately set both mugs aside and pulled Peter fully against him, wrapping both arms around the kid’s shaking frame. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to keep going. I got you,” Tony murmured into his hair, holding him tight but careful not to hurt his knees.
Peter’s breath hitched again, a choked sob escaping before he could stop it. He grabbed onto Tony’s shirt, fists curling tightly in the fabric.
“You’re safe, Pete,” Tony said quietly, his hand moving in slow circles across the boy’s back. “You hear me? You’re safe now. That asshole can’t touch you ever again. I promise you that.”
Peter cried harder at that, his whole body shaking. The sound was raw and small, like it had been trapped inside him for years. Tony just held him, not saying anything else, just grounding him with his steady breathing and warmth.
After a few minutes, Peter’s sobs began to slow. His breathing evened out, though his grip on Tony’s shirt stayed tight. “It still feels like it’s happening sometimes,” he whispered. “Even though I know it’s not.”
Tony swallowed hard. “That’s not your fault, kid. It’s your brain trying to protect you. But it’s over now. You’re here, you’re safe, and you’re not alone anymore.”
Peter nodded weakly against his chest, eyes red and puffy. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
Tony smiled softly, brushing Peter’s damp curls back from his forehead. “Anytime, kiddo. Always.”
They stayed like that for a while — Tony’s arm around Peter, Peter leaning against him, both of them just sitting in the quiet. The rain outside softened to a gentle drizzle, and the city lights shimmered faintly through the window.
Pepper peeked in quietly at one point, saw the way Tony was holding Peter, and didn’t say a word. She just gave Tony a small, sad smile and shut the door softly again.
Eventually, Peter started to doze, his breathing slowing, his head resting on Tony’s shoulder. Tony stayed still, sipping what was left of his cocoa, one hand still resting protectively over Peter’s arm.
He glanced down at the sleeping kid, his chest heavy. “You’re safe, Pete,” he whispered again. “No one’s ever gonna hurt you like that again. Not on my watch.”
And he meant every single word.