Chapter Text
The battlefield screamed with the victory of a war won. Silent praise and joy mixed with trepidation.
Silent. Because there is nothing joyous about war.
There is only loss.
In victory, there is loss.
In loss, there is emptiness.
There is only the stench of blood and death.
Only cries of the injured, and screams over the ones whose hearts will never beat again.
For Peter, there was more.
There was the smell of sweat and tears, the sound of torn flesh and cracked bones.
There was the nauseating smell of burnt flesh.
The fading heartbeat of a man.
The man who had taught him so much.
The man who constantly refused affection, like he was allergic to it, but had adoption papers hidden in his desk for months.
That man. Tony Stark. He was dying in front of him.
He knew it was his fault.
Peter knew.
He knew that it was all for him. The time travel, the war, and the new sibling that he so desperately wanted to meet.
Tony wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for him.
Peter tried to beg, cry out to whatever gods and divines to spare him this pain. Beg the universe to take him instead. Pray for a miracle.
But his prayers were unanswered.
They always were.
“It’s not your fault.” The stifled words of his mentor cut through him like a knife. He could only sob harder.
“I know you, kid. I know exactly how you’ll take this, but it’s not your fault.”
Tony’s soft smile and dimmed eyes focused on him. The uncharred hand came up to ruffle his hair one last time.
“I… I love you, bambino.”
Tony’s heart stopped.
Peter screamed.
Two thousand, seven hundred, and fifty-six.
That’s how many times he’s watched Stark’s death play out before his eyes.
At first, he begged.
“PLEASE! I… I can’t! I-”
Now he just cried.
The vibranium chains had long since rubbed his skin raw as he struggled. Stuck in this constant loop of death and blame.
He should’ve long since been immune to it all, but with each loop of the projections, the hurt and emptiness hit him just as hard as the first time.
Because it wasn’t just Stark.
Uncle Ben
Aunt May
Tony Stark
Gwen
Every single one of his failures repeating and repeating to torture him.
Sometimes it played as it happened.
Other times…
“Why didn’t you save us, Peter?” May’s voice screamed in his ears. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know what she looked like. He long since stopped trying to get glimpses of her as a comfort. Her image was tainted.
She only looked like a mutilated corpse, blood dripping from her mouth and eyes, gut torn open from the glider that went through her stomach.
It should have been him.
“It should have been you.”
She said it every time.
They all did.
He knew they were right.
“You could end this, Peter.”
Dr. Otto Octavius strolled through the projections with all the confidence of a man who knew he had the upper hand. There was only so much psychological torture a teenage boy could go through before he broke. Peter was stubborn, but at the end of the day, he was only human.
“Fuck… you.” The boy’s voice was raw from his cries and screams. His throat was too dry to provide relief. He hadn’t had water in days, only getting it when he was on the brink of death from dehydration.
Otto sneered; he had expected the boy to last only a week. He was confident that this was still the same bright-eyed and timid child he’d met ten years ago. He hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with a mini Stark. The same smartass comments, the same casual confidence, the same oblivious shows of superiority as he dressed you down and made you feel lesser.
“What’s wrong, Spider-Man? Can’t handle the truth?”
With the press of a button, four ghosts kneeled next to Peter with dead eyes and bloody smiles.
“You’re a curse, Parker.”
“Why did you kill me, Peter?”
“You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”
“You’re pathetic.”
Peter screamed and thrashed against his restraints, begging for the end.
He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than the beginning.
When he had been in the lab, strapped down like an animal, poked and prodded with no anesthesia.
They had quickly learned that what they wanted couldn’t be taken by force. By that point, they were just testing his abilities. Hydra agents constantly in and out with new tools and serums. Trying to replicate his abilities, figure out what made him tick. Taking skin, blood, spinal fluid, whatever they could get their hands on.
Each day, they’d try to torture what they wanted out of him.
Each day, he refused.
“You’re as stubborn as a roach. You know what I want. The question isn’t if you’ll give it to me… It’s when you finally stop torturing yourself and give in.”
Peter mumbled something. Too quiet for Otto to hear.
“What?” The doctor leaned in, only to get a face full of bloody spit.
“Go to hell.” Peter laughed manically. He’d be punished, but the look on Otto’s face was well worth whatever consequences would come his way.
Otto screeched, gagging and desperately wiping his filthy lab coat across his skin. His tentacles shook in disdain before abruptly stopping.
By the time he registered what happened, Peter’s face was bloody and bruised.
“You filthy child. Remember, this was your choice.”
Otto pulled out an SD card, inserting it into the remote in his hand with a feral grin.
Peter had seen that remote many times since he’d been locked in his prison. A gross amalgamation of Tony’s B.A.R.F. and EDITH tech, programmed to only target the many traumatic experiences that have scarred Peter’s mind.
The very device used to project and twist the faces and figures of his loved ones to torture him for hours on end.
Whatever Otto had planned, it was just going to be another psychological scar on Peter’s fragile mind.
But that wasn’t anything new.
“Peter, my baby, Muro ćhavo”
The catch in Peter’s breath gave it all away.
Otto’s already confident smile gave way to a Cheshire grin at the sound.
He found it.
He found what he needed to break Spider-Man.
“There are so many things we want to say, but we don’t have much time.”
“Tati…” Peter’s voice was like a whisper, so quiet that he was almost sure he imagined it.
“You’re such a smart boy. Our little genius.”
“Mama…”
“We love you, ćhavo. Your mom and I wish we could be there to see you grow.”
Mary Parker opens her mouth, then the projection cuts. Leaving Peter to pick up the pieces of his broken heart.
Otto speaks, but the roaring of Peter’s blood in his ears is too loud.
Each breath took conscious effort, and his hands were numb.
His father.
He’s had and lost so many father figures over the years, but none could hold a candle.
Richard Parker was a constant fixture in Peter’s dreams, singing Romani lullabies and running his fingers through Peter’s hair.
Oh, how Peter wanted that. He craved the comfort of his father more than anything.
He’d give anything.
Green.
Peter’s entire vision went green, and his entire body burned. His bones ached and felt like they were collapsing into themselves. His skin felt too tight and too loose; his teeth were too large in his mouth.
He could feel Otto grab him, trying to stop whatever spell had been cast, but the moment his fingers brushed Peter’s skin, he screamed.
Peter’s arms slid out of his chains, wrist too small and frail to fit into the once too small chains.
His hands, once thin and frail from months of underfeeding, were now small and chubby. Without looking, he knew his legs would look the same.
Otto let out a frustrated cry as he stared at his own changed body.
Gone was the chubby old man that Peter had grown used to. In his place stood a lean young man with a full head of hair.
“How dare you?” A metal tentacle wrapped around Peter’s throat as another light filled the space.
Blue.
His stomach dropped, and his vision swam. Like the world’s worst roller coaster, their bodies were jostled violently, and they were thrown apart.
Peter crumpled against a wall, yelling erupting around him.
“What the hell?”
“Is that a kid?”
“Give me the boy!” he heard Otto yell somewhere beyond him.
“Stop him!”
“You morons! I’m so close! You will not take my prize from me so soon!”
The grating sound of metal on metal felt like a dagger to Peter’s brain.
Sounds of a fight were garbled in his ears. Something was happening, someone was fighting Doc Ock, and if there was a possible chance at escape, he needed to take it.
Peter tried to lift himself futilely, arms folding beneath him. Two months of disuse made his limbs practically useless. He was sparsely fed, too little for his healing, too much to starve to death. He could barely lift his head to look around.
But he did. He had to.
The room around him was sleek and modern, with walls and floor made of white metal panelling and glass.
His stomach dropped out from under him.
Peter was in space again.
In space, surrounded by heroes he didn’t recognize. In a body he barely recognized.
Again.
He heaved and puffed heavily, lungs screaming for relief as he once again tried to lift his body into a sitting position and put his back to a corner.
Peter’s spidey sense screamed, and suddenly he was lifted into someone’s arms. A tentacle embedding itself in the floor where he was before.
He was pressed against a blue and black suit, held with strong arms.
“Don’t worry, buddy. I won’t let him get you.”
Peter’s heart stopped.
It was impossible. Hearing that voice, feeling that warmth, it should be lost to him.
He was dead.
Richard Parker was dead.
“Richard?” Otto called out with an almost gleeful tone. He had come to an understanding before Peter had. One that filled him with too much joy to be good.
With a slow turn of his head, Peter looked into the eyes of the man holding him. Familiar blue eyes he hadn’t seen in years.
“Tati?”
Silence.
Once again, the world was silent as Peter’s father the man’s eyes widened to an impossible size.
Peter watched the man as his breath faltered slightly, arms shaking and tightening around the boy as his eyes studied the child in a new light.
It was obvious.
So painfully obvious.
The hair, the cheeks, the nose, the freckles.
They were all his.
“Muro ćhavo…” the man breathed the words like Peter would disappear, shaking and trying to regulate his breathing.
Peter could see it. The moment the man accepted him as his, no verification, no tests, he just filed the information away and claimed him with no hesitation.
And Peter broke.
Heartbreaking sobs racked his body as he clutched onto his father’s body, chanting ‘tati’ over and over again.
Cries of despair, of pain held back for years, all poured out into the man he longed to see for so long.
A man who, despite his confusion and terror at the situation, ran his fingers through Peter’s hair and kissed his forehead, pouring love and affection into a child who long since forgotten what it felt like.
The fighting around them faded into the background as they held each other. At the moment, they became the only ones in the room.
Father and son.