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The only thing the teen could focus on was the stunning red rivulets carving their path down his wrists. The blade had cut so very smoothly, so smooth it almost felt wrong. Almost. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew in a few days they’d be gone without a trace, unlike the uniform sketch of lines left on his shoulders.
Older. He thought, hands clenched on the white rim of the sink, blood falling from his hands and onto the sickeningly pure tile.
He felt as though he was too filthy to touch such a pristine thing.
His eyes watched himself in the mirror, breathing steady and gaze so very empty, he wasn’t sure the last time he saw his soul through his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he even had one anymore.
That was stupid, he knew it.
Though he couldn’t tell how much time had passed, the cuts raised and red, skin irritated by his mistake. It could’ve been five seconds, five minutes, maybe even five more years.
His fingers remained against the blade he’d stolen from his Aunt May’s craft tin, she never even noticed it missing. It makes him wonder what else could go missing without her noticing.
The blood had dried, he knew that much. The stinging pain remained, only intensifying as he grabbed his wrist, the first real movement since he’d finished with his vice.
The blade lay tainted with blood on the ruined marble. Though he knew it wasn’t ruined, his blood wouldn’t stain, he’d been cleaning his own pathetic little messes up since he’d started.
Though something about that made his stomach churn, the first time he’d done it was long before the bite. Young, too young. He was too young for this, it was something his aunt had said when she first found out. Desperate, broken eyes, weakness is what she saw.
He’s seen that desperation multiple times throughout his life, when they realized he wasn’t doing as good as they’d thought. It all looked the same. Concern, Fear, Denial, Confusion.
Only once, it looked different. In his eyes.
The way Tony had looked at him was raw. Something he’d recognized as familiarity. A scared father, it almost reminded him of the way Ben had looked at him in the store. Almost.
This time, it wasn’t followed by the crack of a gunshot. Instead, a strong embrace, being held like he would slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. He supposed that in a way, he would.
Tony had shown him his own scars that night, and in that moment Peter didn’t feel quite so alone.
The words he’d told him echoed through his mind. That recovery wouldn’t be easy, and that if he ever needed him for anything, anything, he could call him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he forced out in a hushed voice.
“Friday? Can.. Can you get Mr Stark?”
“Certainly, Peter.” Her voice was almost human, quiet, and just a touch melancholy. Tone soft in a way she rarely was. She knew, of course she did.
While the timer ticked, he grabbed two alcohol wipes from the drawer. Ripping one open and steeling himself as he rubbed it against his uniform wounds. Gritting his teeth and hissing in a breath as he felt his eyes sting, squeezing them shut tight as the pain subsided a bit. Dried blood coming off as he disinfected his wounds.
He tossed the one, repeating with the other. He wiped it against his arms just a bit lighter, though it didn’t matter, the ones on his left were deeper. He couldn’t bite back a broken mutter of pain.
“Sh- F-Fuck, I-I can’t-“ He took a shuddering breath in and in that moment there was a knock at the door, though it was more announcing his presence than asking for permission.
It pushed open, barely giving him time to sober from the pain. The older man’s expression shifting from concern to a flash of realization, only to be swiftly masked to a careful blankness.
Tony acted cautiously, almost as if he could sense that Peter was a flight risk. Every movement was careful as he approached, standing at his side and taking in the mess Peter had made. He didn’t yell, the teen felt as though he should’ve.
“I’ll patch you up, take a seat.” His tone left no room for argument.
Peter nodded minutely, pushing himself onto the counter space of the large vanity. Arms crossed across his chest as he gently ran his thumb over his wounds. Tony had pulled a medkit out of the cabinet, the contents being spread across the vanity.
“Do you feel better?” He asked, tone not unkind, a genuine question. One that Peter didn't know how to answer.
“…”
So he didn’t, his silence was telling enough. Tony stepped to the side, standing infront of him. He gently took Peter's hands in his and assessed the wounds, his gaze was solemn, but in a way it reminded him of how he would assess the damage to his suits. Peter almost wondered if that had some deeper meaning behind it. Almost.
Tony took some antibiotic gel onto his first two fingers, Peter tensed at the cold against his slit skin. It didn’t hurt any worse, he almost wished it did.
“I’m sorr-”
“Don’t.” Tony warned, his mask cracking much like his voice. “Please, don’t apologize for this, Peter.”
He didn’t say anything else, Tony took this as a sign to continue as he prepped the sterile pad. Unwrapping it carefully, and gently laying it across the cuts on his wrist. Peter's arms stuck out straight wordlessly as he grabbed the gauze.
“I know what it’s like to hurt, Pete, and I know how desperate you have to be in order to resort to this.”
“When everything hurts, you’ll do anything you can to at least control the hurt you feel.”
The gauze wrapped around his arm, strong hand bracing his wrist gently.
“Never apologize for how you survived, got that?”
He did, even if he wished he didn’t.
“Okay.” He whispered, eyes resting somewhere between his arms and Tony’s collarbone. Distant, but still present, still real.
And he almost felt it. Almost.
Once Tony finished wrapping his arms, he packed the medkit back up and into the cabinet. Cleaning the blood off the marble with a wet wad of tissue paper, and for a moment it was almost like it had never happened. Though the stinging in his arms was undeniable evidence that it had.
Tony’s eyes caught on the blade, he picked it up and watched it glint in the light. The blood is still on it.
He simply cleaned it off, and stared at it for a moment in consideration.
“How long were you clean this time?”
“Two months..” He said, repressing the shame that built in his chest. Tony simply set the blade back down on the marble countertop, a soft, reassuring smile on his face.
“Let’s go for three this time.” He held his hand out for the boy to take. It wasn’t a question.
For some reason, Peter smiled back. Albeit a bit wilted.
“Yeah, okay.” He placed his hand in his fathers, fingers interlocking as he kicked off the countertop.
And when the third month came. This time, instead of going for the blade in the back of his phone case, he had decided to go join Tony in making dinner for the family. They laughed about stupid things his co-workers had said during work, and bantered over the last Spider-Man patrol. They even planned a movie night with Ms Potts and Aunt May. It was familiar, calming.
It wasn’t easy, nor would it be perfect. But right now, he felt as though he could make it a fourth