Archive of Our Own ^beta

“This seems a little bit like overkill, don’t you think?” Tony twirled his pen in his hand boredly, slouched down in his chair. It was much too nice of a day to hold a meeting, he decided; bright sunlight beamed through the windows, and the foliage surrounding the compound nearly glowed with how green it was. He found himself paying more attention to the shapes in the clouds than Steve’s never-ending monologue, but it wasn’t really out-of-character for him to be ignoring the man. In fact, sometimes he just wanted to see how big he could get the vein in his forehead to be. It was a small mercy.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as he watched the captain tense up with frustration at his comment.

“Ensuring the safety of this team as well as the general public will always be my top priority,” The man stated tersely, crossing his arms over his chest. “and taking any and all necessary precautions to ensure that safety is certainly not overkill. ”

Tony really wasn’t going to roll his eyes at first, but he did. He couldn’t help himself.

“We are thinking of the same person, right? Spandex onesie, helps little old ladies cross the street, rescues cats from trees—”

“--An unidentified enhanced individual taking justice into his own hands? Who, in the event of any sort of conflict, intentional or not, cannot face repercussions? You know, considering we have no idea who he is or where to find him?” Steve interjected, leaning forward in his seat.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Clint’s an international spy who can pin a fly to a wall without killing it, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous. The fastest I’ve ever seen him run was away from a spider.”

Clint threw a pointed finger at him. “Hey, I did not run away! I assessed the situation and decided the best course of action was tactical retreat.”

“That’s not what the spider told me—”

“Okay, can we reel it in, please?” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, and Tony was pleased to note that the vein seemed to be of record size. “It doesn’t matter what any of us have to say about the situation anyway. The mission is a direct order from Fury, which we are not at liberty to question. Let’s just take care of it quickly and quietly and be back in time for dinner.” He settled himself with a deep breath, gathering his papers and tapping them on the table. “Tomorrow, we will seek out Spider-Man upon his first recorded sighting, which FRIDAY will be kindly sifting the media for. We find him, bring him in, have him answer a few questions, then go our separate ways. Simple as that.”

Bruce, who looked about as unsure as Tony felt, spoke up for the first time during the meeting. “Not to be pessimistic, but what makes you think Spider-Man will be at all willing to disclose any information to us?” He asked hesitantly, spinning the button on the cuff of his sleeve. “I mean, I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about the guy, but from what I have seen, he seems incredibly protective of his identity. No one has any idea where he comes from, and he disappears every night without a trace. It just seems like he goes through an awful lot of trouble to ensure his anonymity, and something tells me he won’t just give that up to us without a fight.”

A thoughtful silence filled the room. It lasted only a few moments, however, as Steve sighed and tossed his hands in a sort of ‘what can you do’ gesture.

“We’re not looking for a fight.” The way he spoke was measured, and the way his eyes darted uncertainly in Tony’s direction told him that he was trying to word his response in a way that wouldn’t illicit backlash. It made his skin itch. “But we will not be backing down from one.” 

Tony clenched his jaw, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bruce turn into himself anxiously.

“Director Fury made our objective very clear.” Steve continued. “We are to collect Spider-Man and record his information, whether we do it peacefully or by force is up to him.” He stood from his seat, belongings in hand. “Be ready to go tomorrow evening. He’s often first spotted between 7 and 10 pm, so be prepared to leave around that time. That is all. Dismissed.”  

The man was wisely out of the room and down the hall before anyone could protest.

Murmurs of acceptance and indifference came from around the boardroom table, the team members bidding each other goodnight before quickly settling into their own small conversations with one another. None of them showed an ounce of concern as they filed out and to their respective rooms. 

Tony wanted to follow their lead, get it over with and scurry off to his workshop as soon as possible. But, as always, his stupid morals kept him from peace once again. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but the whole ordeal had left a sour taste in his mouth. Perhaps it the youthful joy and optimism of Spider-Man that left him hesitant, or maybe it was the niggling suspicion that Spider-Man didn’t quite fit into the age profile provided to them by SHIELD. Either way, his intuition wouldn’t leave him be, and with a quick glance around, it seemed he wasn’t the only one feeling bothered.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Bruce’s gaze shifted to him; his face screwed up in thought. He cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, an aura of wariness radiating off of him in waves.

“There is no instances in which I can imagine this going well.” He admitted quietly, “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Tony. This isn’t right.”

Tony almost replied, words of agreement on the tip of his tongue—but he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, only sighed, shrugged, and headed out of the room without sparing a second glance. Not turning back even when he felt Bruce’s stare burning into his back. Instead, he went down to his workshop, ordered FRIDAY to play the music at full blast, and let his hands exist without his head. He hid, like he always did, just like the coward he was.

He decided to call it ‘picking his battles’. Refused to call it avoidance. 

And when he went to sleep that night, he dreamt of innocent blood on his hands.

“Are you sure about this, Tony?” Bruce pressed on, albeit meekly. He hovered around, watching on nervously as Tony slipped into his undersuit. 

“Well, as Captain Righteous so kindly pointed out to us last night, it doesn’t matter if I’m sure or not.” He replied shortly, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “What do you think, mark 46, or mark 47?” 

“Tony...”

“What do you want me to say, Bruce? There’s nothing I can do.” He insisted, paying no mind to the fact that he hadn’t even attempted to change his circumstances. How could he, without entertaining the idea that he might be right? That the man they had all assumed to be between 28 and 30 was no man at all? Tony had been a reckless kid once. Hell, many would argue that he still was. He could recognize immaturity a mile away, and he just didn’t want to think about some college kid with an undeveloped pre-frontal cortex and a newfound taste of freedom parading themselves around the city in the dead of night fighting crime. 

SHIELD had suggested that no one less than an adult would have the maturity to put the wellbeing of others over themself. Tony argued that no adult would be stupid enough to run head-first into danger in a tracksuit. But he was easily convinced otherwise, because although rare, it was one of those instances where he’d gladly be wrong. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow disapprovingly, huffing out a flat laugh. “There’s nothing that you, Tony Stark, can do? Likely.” 

Tony sighed, feeling like a child caught in a lie. “Oh, give me a break.” He sighed, pulling his hand down his face. “Look, you know I like Spider-Man,” He reasoned, holding his hands out placatingly. “I do, I think he’s cute, like a weird, freakish red and blue puppy that can climb walls and catch buses with its bare hands.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Tony couldn’t help but smirk, regardless of how stressed he felt. 

“Okay, tough crowd,” He joked, calling over one of the suits and letting it encase his body. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell Cap and the rest of the gang to take it easy on the guy, even though I can’t see it getting too heated out there today. I mean, come on. Steve likes to talk all big, but there’s no way he’d rough up Spidey too bad.” He shook out the tension from his shoulders, wondering if he was trying to console Bruce, or himself. “Like I said, he’s a puppy, and Steve Rogers doesn’t kick puppies.”

He got a small smile out of the man that time, and he felt some of the stress fall off of his own shoulders as well. If Banner wasn’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either, he reasoned.

“Be careful out there, Tony.” His voice was soft, still uncertain despite the efforts, and it was clear that his words were not out of concern for Tony, but the man he was about to face.

“Always am, Brucie. See you on the flip side.”

Peter wouldn’t say he was happy about having to stop criminals, but he wouldn’t deny how nice it was to feel useful. He wanted nothing more in life than to make a difference, maybe make himself feel like he brought a little something good into the world. He didn’t call it atonement, or solace for his guilt—even if he saw Ben’s face in every victim he saved, or worse, the ones he couldn’t. 

He shook the image of blood and shadowed pavement from his head, letting himself be overwhelmed with the familiar rush of adrenaline as he stepped off the edge of an office building where he’d been perched. The stuffy New York atmosphere changed drastically with the altitude and being in the air felt like taking a deep breath for the first time in his life. Like he was meant to be there. It was refreshing, feeling like he belonged. 

With a loud whoop, he let Peter Parker fall away, and Spider-Man take the reins. 

“Alright, let’s do this.” 

He fell into the usual rhythm easily, helping wherever he could. The night started off tame, he retrieved a soccer ball for a group of kids who had accidentally kicked it onto a nearby roof, smiling at the stream of gratitude he received from them. After that, he ran into some thugs who had cornered a young girl in an alleyway, not being outwardly threatening, but certainly scaring the poor girl to bits, so he quickly ushered them away from her and walked her back to her apartment. She thanked him more times than he could count, and he reassured her that it was no problem. He even got to pet a dog, which had been the highlight of his patrol so far without a question. 

Everything was going well, and there seemed to be very little trouble in the city that night, which is why he couldn’t understand the low warning of his spidey-sense that had been crawling up his spine the whole time. It would wither and wane, but it never stopped, and it was beginning to really bother him. So, when the action seemed to come to a standstill, he made his way to the edge of the city in hopes of waiting it out. 

He perched himself on the roof of an apartment building not far from the water, the sun setting over the horizon and blanketing the skyline in a sheet of golden light. He took a deep breath of the summer air, letting some of the tension fall away from his shoulders as he let it out. Opting to watch the sunset before getting back to his patrol, he sat down on the roof’s edge, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. 

However, his small reprieve didn’t last as long as he’d hoped. Moments after he got comfortable, the threat of nearby danger began to slowly rise. He sighed in annoyance, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort before shooting to his feet when the anxiety suddenly spiked. He scanned the area, widening his stance and holding his hands in front of him warily. His heart pounded in his ears, his stomach sinking. When he could find nothing to explain why his senses were going haywire, he began to question his sanity, until a head of red hair peaked over the edge of the fire escape, and Peter felt all of the blood rush out of his face. 

The two locked eyes for a moment, the woman smiling slyly at him when she noticed his gaze. She stepped up onto the roof, and Peter found himself unconsciously taking a step back. His mind was blank, his skin flushing with sweat in shock. He swallowed, rolling his shoulders and standing up straight, praying he looked more confident than he felt.

“Not bad, little spider,” Her voice was slick, and her words seemed to crawl over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Very rarely do I fail to catch someone by surprise.”

Peter took a shaky breath in. “Um, Black Widow? Ms. Black Widow, ma’am. Uh, your spiderness.” He winced, watching her smile at his odd choice of words. He cleared his throat, deepening his voice. “I mean, uh, thank you. Very rarely do I get company 20 stories in the air, so I guess it’s a first for both of us.”

She smirked, her eyes boring into him. Peter felt almost violated by the way she seemed to look right through him. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help the Peter Parker side of him bubbling with excitement over the fact that he was standing only feet away from a real avenger, and she was talking to him. Ned was going to flip .

“So, um...” He paused, starstruck. “Not that it’s not great to meet you, Ms. Romanoff—because it totally is, by the way. An honour, really. You’re like, so badass. Respectfully, um—” He snapped his mouth shut, trying to reel himself back in before he died of humiliation. “So, what brings you here, exactly?” He scratched the back of his neck, still unable to shake the uneasy feeling. He chalked it up to the presence of Black Widow. Holy shit, the presence of Black Widow!

“Well, as nice as this little meeting has been, I’m here on business, unfortunately.” She strode towards him, and Peter could feel his blood pressure rise with every step she took. He willed himself not to back away. “SHIELD has deemed you a threat, and they sent us to deal with it.”

The sun disappeared under the skyline, bringing a new wave of anxiety over him with the sudden decrease in light. The woman’s voice strummed his nerves like a guitar, and the more he thought about it, the less irrational his fear became. 

“Us?” He wondered aloud, his worry now rising steadily. She smiled at him, and it no longer looked amused. It looked like a threat.

“The Avengers,” She clarified, close enough now to touch. “But only if you give me a hard time. Come quietly and we’ll have no issues.”

Peter could only stand there, trembling. His fingers had gone numb, and his body burned and strained with the need to move, but he didn’t—couldn’t imagine moving a muscle with Black Widow’s stare pinning him in place. It was clear to him now how the woman had earned her name. 

“I don’t understand.” His voice came out as a whimper, but he was much too petrified to put up a tough front. “A threat? But I don’t—I haven’t done anything wrong! I help people, all I’ve ever done is help people.”

His ribcage felt like a prison for his heart and lungs, and they beat at the bars for freedom. 

Never before had being Spider-Man seemed so daunting. He wasn’t afraid of the knives, or the guns, or the threats that had been screamed at him countless times, because any fear he felt had nothing on the joy he found in keeping people safe. It was the cries of the man who’d held onto him for dear life after a particularly frightening bank robbery, teeming with gratitude for saving the life of his young daughter, who had held onto his pant leg with tears streaming down her face and awe in her eyes. It was the cheers he heard from below him as he swung through the sky, people smiling and waving and thanking him for what he had done. It was the lives he watched continue when they had very nearly been lost, knowing that he was the reason those people got to see another day. It was the difference he made that kept him going even when he was afraid, because it was always worth it in the end. 

But in that moment, it didn’t feel worth it. It didn’t feel worth it at all, and he wanted to go home.

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.” She countered, her words alone consoling, but her tone promising a fight.

Peter shook his head, tears springing to his eyes against his will.

“I can’t,” He croaked, voice wrecked. “I can’t, you don’t understand, I can’t. ” Images of smiling faces flashed behind his eyes, glasses and freckled skin, lego bricks and bright eyes, curly hair and pencil sketches—followed by the words of every criminal he’d ever fought, the vilest things Peter had ever heard in his life, what they had threatened to do not only to him, but to his family. 

No, no one could know. He’d die with his secret if it meant keeping the ones he loved safe.

With newfound determination, he turned away from the spy, readying himself to flee at a moment's notice. Out of the corner of his vision, he watched her place a hand on a weapon holstered on her hip in warning. 

“I have a lot of enemies,” He admitted, voice measured. “I wish I didn’t, but I do; and if my name were to get out...” He swallowed. “It’s not me they’d go after.” He turned back to look at her one last time. “Please, you must know, doing what you do. Being an avenger. I don’t know much about your family, Ms. Romanoff, but I know there must be someone you care about. Someone you’d die for.” He raised his eyes to meet hers, but he couldn’t read what he found there. “I can’t take any chances with my identity, not with their lives on the line.”

The sound of passing cars and people down below was the only sound for a few moments, neither of them moving a finger. For a fleeting moment, he was sure he’d gotten through to her; then he watched her grip tighten, and he was gone before he could even figure out what kind of weapon she’d been holding.

Tony saw the moment Natasha gave the signal, a blur of red and blue, and then a sudden flurry of action from all angles not even a second later. 

“Woah, what’s happening right now?” He flew forward tentatively, hardly hearing the words of his teammates through the comms.

“He’s running, Stark,” Natasha grit out, her voice suggesting she was running as well. “and you’re supposed to be following him.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” He leaned forward, picking up speed and pinpointing Spider-Man on his HUD. “Man, quick little thing, isn’t he? Not that I blame him. Black Widow approaches me in the dark with a taser? Yeah, I’d run too.” 

“Not helping, Tony.” 

“Come on,” He swerved around buildings, keeping the fleeting figure in his line of sight. “Black Widow sneaks up on Natasha Romanoff, what are you doing?”

She huffs, leaping from one rooftop to the next. “First of all, she’d never be able to sneak up on me,” she clarified. “Second of all, I’d beat her ass. I know all her moves.”

Tony laughed, rolling his eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day when Cap muttered something under his breath about chatter on the comms. 

“They’re comms, Capsicle. Communicators. You know, for communicating?” He said back, digging under the man’s skin just for the hell of it. “I know you’re new to this—you know, frozen in ice and all—but it’s in the name, buddy.” Through the low roar of activity in his ear, he could hear a few suppressed chuckles.

“Can we focus, please?” Steve barked; voice sharp with exertion and warning. It was obvious the man was becoming frustrated with the team’s bad luck so far, so this time, he held his tongue. Pushing his buttons didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore, not when he knew it would be Spider-Man to take the brunt of the man’s anger

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he opted instead to at least pretend like he was trying to take Spider-Man down, hoping to appease Captain Righteous before he had a tantrum and got someone hurt. He fired his repulsors at the man but didn’t land a single hit. What a shame.

It was mesmerizing, the effortless way the lithe form could bob and weave between his obstacles. He dipped through alleyways and followed shortcuts with ease, clearly familiar with the ins-and-outs of the city. Tony smiled to himself, impressed and almost proud of the guy. It wasn’t easy to outrun the Avengers, but he was creating distance between himself and the team like it was nothing. 

He eased up on his repulsors, just enough to allow a bit of leeway. It was almost imperceptible, but he felt like he owed him at least that small amount of reprieve. Silently, he urged the local hero on, praying that he would be able to slip out of their reach before the Avengers got that chance to ruin another possibility for greatness. 

Guilt swelled in his throat, and he was beginning to wish he’d fought harder against the plan when he’d had the chance. He hadn’t wanted any part in the matter to begin with, and the more he watched Spider-Man's attempts to flee grow in desperation, the more wrong and unjustified their pursuit appeared. 

He could only hope that Spider-Man wouldn’t hate them too much after all this.

There were very few occasions in which Peter could recall being so afraid, and even so, he didn’t think it had ever felt quite how it did here and now. 

He’s never had danger on his heels so closely before, and it introduced him to another kind of fear altogether, frantic and sharp and constant. He felt so much like a child, now; clambering across the bedroom floor and under the covers after switching off the lights, desperate to outrun the dark.  

His heart beat so fast that it hummed, and it seemed as if he was heaving out his breaths before he could get the chance to breathe them in. He didn’t look back, didn’t have the time to lose. All he knew was movement, couldn’t remember stagnancy, couldn't remember peace; only the feeling of lactic acid suffocating his muscles, and all-encompassing terror. 

He skidded to a stop when the broad figure of Falcon cut in front of him, nearly toppling over the edge of the building he was on with how abruptly he had stopped. 

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” The man told him, Peter barely making out his words over the ringing in his ears. 

“I’m not making this anything,” He panted, turning on his heel and racing to the other side of the roof. “I’m simply walking away from a senseless fight, it’s called being the bigger person! Though I don’t expect you to know anything about that.” His words weren’t real, and he didn’t know where they were coming from. Couldn’t feel them leave his mouth.

He leaped, firing webs at anything he could see and swinging away from the winged man. He felt like a tiny field mouse running away from a hawk, and in many ways, he supposed he was. 

A nearby alleyway caught his attention, the canopy running overtop of it calling out to him. He slid down from a web towards it, letting go of his tether a bit too soon, his knees buckling out from under him, unable to sustain him with the momentum. He scraped his palms and kneecaps on the pavement, but he didn’t feel the pain. Didn’t feel anything at all. 

He stumbled to his feet and into the protection of the alley, falling against the wall the second he could. He took a deep breath, sobbed, and forced himself to calm down enough to listen. 

“...any sight of him?” He picked up, the voice mechanical like it would be over the phone. 

“Looks like he found some kind of cover here, but I wasn’t far behind when I lost sight of him, so I can pin him somewhere within about a one block radius. It won’t take long to snuff him out.” 

Peter took a stuttering breath in, tears falling down his face now in silence. He couldn’t find the energy within him to cry. He couldn’t afford to stay there any longer.

So, he shook himself off, grit his teeth, and fired a web in the direction from which he came. 

It was going to be a long night.

“I’ve got visual!” Sam announced, and the action started up once again. Tony reluctantly followed as the team began to move, trying to hide his disappointment at the fact that Spider-Man hadn’t escaped them just yet. “Damn it, he’s too fast! We’ll be here all night at this rate.”

Tensions were high, and frustration was thick in the humid city air. The Avengers’ energy levels were running low, their willingness to reason waning with them—fueling Tony’s urge to diffuse the situation before it escalated to the point of no return.

Tony was about to voice his agreement with Sam’s statement, suggest they head back and call it a draw, do a little recap and give themselves a chance to cool down while he lists all the reasons why they should leave Spider-Man alone, which he’d been so graciously thinking up this whole time. 

He had just opened his mouth to speak when Sam did the same, beating him to the punch.

“Yeah, I’m done with Mr. Nice guy,” he said finally. “Cap, you think you can be the broom to our spider?”

And, like an elastic band pulled beyond its reach, the taut mood hit it’s breaking point.

Tony felt his stomach drop, and all at once, the confidence he’d had in Steve’s morality and restraint during his earlier conversation with Bruce was gone.

“Gladly,” Steve replied, vibranium shield already in hand. 

 “Hey, wait a second—" Tony started, wanting to protest, wanting to tell them to stop and think —but he couldn’t get the words out in time, and he watched as the man reared his arm back, launching his shield at the unsuspecting Spider-Man.

It felt like slow motion, watching the metal disc collide with the moving figure. Tony felt his face lose its colour as Spider-Man's whole body bent with the impact, the momentum slamming him into the metal bars of a nearby fire escape with a sound that made bile rise in the back of his throat. And then he was falling, and Tony was flying, nothing else running through his mind but catch him, catch him, catch him—

The distance between them was mere inches when Tony watched his body hit the ground, his poor, unprotected head bouncing off the asphalt with a loud crack that had dread and nausea dancing in the pit of Tony’s stomach. Bruce’s voice echoed in his memory, and the sound sent chills down his spine. 

It was all of his earlier apprehensions coming to a head at once, and just as he’d feared, the Avengers had yet again made a huge, irreparable mistake. 

The world went quiet for a moment, then—all sound flooded out of the atmosphere, leaving behind only the deafening beat of his heart. He touched down on the concrete so harshly that it sent a jolt through his body, but he paid it no mind as he hurried over to the vigilante’s side. With an air of caution he didn’t know he was capable of, he knelt down next to the crumpled form, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing tenfold as he took in the mere size of him. 

God, he was so small. He was so, so small.

He’d never been this close to the vigilante before, and he never imagined the same person he watched catch a moving vehicle could be so tiny. It ignited something within him that he’d never felt before, and it ached. 

Vaguely, he could hear voices in his ears—

‘Did you get him?’ 

‘Ouch, that’ll do it.’

‘Woah, is he alright? That little sucker went down hard.’

‘Don’t know, don’t care. As long as he is alive to answer my questions, my job here is done.’

—but he couldn’t be bothered to listen, switching off his comm. His mind focused only on the oh-so tiny body in front of him.

The skin tight suit left nothing to the imagination. Tony could make out exactly where he'd been hit on both sides, his rib cage misshapen and caved in in spots. Spider-Man's chest heaved with every wheezing breath, whimpering and keening in pain even in unconsciousness. The sound was horrific, and it cut through Tony’s heart with a serrated edge. Morbidly, he reminded Tony of a real spider, then—with its legs in the air, twitching and crawling away from swatting hands in a last attempt to live. 

This wasn’t right. If this was justice, he no longer wanted any part in it.

“Shit, it’s okay,” His hands hovered uncertainly over the trembling frame, shaking almost as much as Spider-Man's own. He feared touching him, feared breaking him even further, feared his title of Merchant of Death was coming back to haunt him. “It’s okay, Spidey. You're alright.”

There was nothing he could do. He didn’t know what to do.

“FRIDAY?” He croaked, voice wrecked. “Have Banner and a team ready in medbay, forward him Spider-Man's condition. Is he safe to move?”

“I’ve detected a large laceration in the forehead area,” She supplied, highlighting injuries everywhere. “It's bleeding quite heavily, you'll need to remove Spider-Man's mask in order to apply pressure to the wound.” 

Tony sighed shakily, glancing up towards the sky in an attempt to compose himself.

It seemed the only thing that they hadn’t yet taken from the man was his identity, and it felt like such utter betrayal to deprive him of that one, miniscule comfort. But Spider-Man's breath rattled in his chest, and Tony knew he didn’t have any time to waste.

"Damnit. I'm sorry about this."

He didn’t think as he slipped his fingers under the hem of the mask, couldn’t afford to without the risk of losing the little self-control he had remaining.  He held his breath as he gently slid the fabric up, taking extra care not to brush up against the gash that FRIDAY had warned him about. 

Tufts of brown curls fell out of the mask, and with a trembling exhale, he looked down at the face he had just revealed. 

“No,” he whispered, dread pooling into his stomach. “no, no, no, no, no…” 

Spider-Man was no man at all. 

“Shit,” he breathed. “Shit. Fuck!” 

He shook all over, eyes wide and unblinking in horror. Spider-Man was a child, just a boy, the blood pouring down the side of his face appearing incredibly foreign next to his round, youthful features. 

And it was obvious now, it was so, glaringly obvious now, and he hadn’t wanted it to be true but it was real and it was happening and he should have known. But he had known, hadn’t he? 

It was too late. It was too late, too late, too late.

His nightmare had been a prophecy all along, and the blood on his hands burned like acid.

“No, come on, this can’t be real,” He murmured, voice pleading. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”

The boy stirred at his voice, eyebrows pinching together in pain, a high-pitched whine escaping him. Tony felt panic creep into the walls of his chest.

“No, no, no, shh…” He soothed, hand smoothing the hair out of his face. The action was clumsy, but instinctual, the urge to fix it suffocatingly loud even though it felt wrong to so much as touch him, like he had no right to comfort him when he had played a part in his pain. “Don’t wake up yet, kid. Go back to sleep, come on, sleep it off...” He begged, praying to a god he didn’t believe him to allow this boy the mercy of unconsciousness, to spare him the pain and fear for as long as possible. “Just keep dreaming for me, kiddo. C’mon, buddy...”

And some way, somehow—it worked, the furrows in his face melting away, darting eyes falling still beneath closed lids. Tony had never been so grateful to watch someone pass out.

“Yes, good boy! Thank you, thank you...” He shook his head, trying desperately to keep a level-head. “Okay, alright. FRIDAY, safe to move?”

“No spinal injuries detected.” She reported, and Tony allowed himself to feel relieved, if only slightly. “However, I must implore you to exercise extreme caution to avoid displacing any bone fragments, as any further injury to internal organs may prove to be fatal.”

The word hit him like a glass bottle against the back of his head, and it stained him like blood and wine. Coming to the realization of what he’d done, or rather what he failed to prevent, sat heavy over him like soaked fabric, and the moisture seeped into his bones and promised to never let him forget. 

He could already see the nights he’d spend awake for this, already feeling the fatigue that he welcomed with open arms.

There was a searing ache in his throat and heat against the heights of his face, his arms burning with reluctance as he slipped them slowly, delicately underneath the boy’s legs and back. He took great care to ensure the least movement possible, FRIDAY’s words or caution screaming in his memory. It didn’t feel like enough, the design of his armour no longer feeling sleek, but bulky and mechanical. Unfit to be the only link between this child and life-saving medical care. 

He made it to his feet, the suit’s joints locking to prepare for flight with a small jolt. The disturbance shook the bundle in his arms, eliciting a closed-mouth sob from the boy. It broke the last remnants of Toy Starks mangled iron heart clean in two.

“I know, I know, kiddo. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His words were worthless, and he knew it. “Banner'll fix you up, don’t you worry.”

The kid was silent the entire way to the compound, and it was unclear to him whether it was better or worse than the cries. 

After landing on the helipad outside the medbay, a flurry of white coats and urgent voices surrounded him, prying the mutilated body from his arms. He felt empty, unfeeling—the world unreal for a stretch of time. 

When he came back to himself, he was alone, the drops of bright red against the white pavement the only evidence to prove the prior events had ever happened at all. 

He found himself mindlessly wandering down the familiar path to his workshop, suit still wrapped tightly against his skin. It was hot underneath the metal, but he didn’t take it off, didn’t even consider it an option. His body was numb and he was meaningless. His hands were poison and he killed all that he touched. His presence brought plague and sickness, and it seemed even the flowers shriveled and writhed wherever he went. 

FRIDAY locked all access to the lab at his command and muted any incoming notifications no matter their source. Adrenaline bled out of his skin and let overwhelming guilt and self-loathing fill it’s place, and he bathed in it. Let it embrace him like the arms of an old lover, let it crawl under his skin and burrow deep within him. 

He sat there until he could sit no longer, and the silence that engulfed him was the loudest thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“...come on, you know we didn’t mean this...”

“...accident, lapse of judgement...”

“...really trying to justify this right now? I can’t believe you...”

The words were underwater, and Peter thought that he must be too. 

“...feel terrible, I didn’t want this, you have to...”

“...just spent 12 hours reconstructing the ribcage of a child, so don’t you dare...”

He certainly didn’t feel like he was on land, anyway. His body was light in a way that felt familiar to him, yet oddly still too heavy to move. It felt like floating, but maybe it felt like sinking, and maybe he hadn’t gone swimming enough to know for sure. The movement made him vaguely nauseous, but along with the rest of him, the feeling was far away. It didn’t feel very important. 

Ned used to go to a huge water park every year with his grandparents, and every year he would come back and tell Peter how awesome it was, how they had to go together one time. They never did, in the end. He’d never even asked, not after the night he’d stumbled out of bed to find his aunt crying over the bills. He told Ned she’d said no. 

But they were doing much better now, maybe he and Ned could finally go some time.

“...can’t do this with you right now...”

“...just wanted to...”

“...are you even listening to yourselves?...”

The voices grew louder, and his consciousness began to surface. Sound came from every angle around him, beeping and whirring and conversations that rubbed his every nerve the wrong way, and he could feel it all over him. His body seemed to be now catching up with his mind, needles of sensation returning to him gently at first, a staccato of pinpricks in his fingertips. But then they began to dig in, his limbs filled with static, then with burning embers until he felt every cell in his being light up in flames.

He tossed his head to the side in attempts to shake away the ache in his bones, but it only served to pull a high-pitched whine from deep in his throat. His voice seemed to shock the chatter into silence, and he was thankful for the small relief.

It was then that a large, cool hand tucked under his bangs and laid gently over his forehead. It was unclear who it belonged to, but Peter allowed himself to settle from the comfort anyway. 

He hurt so badly.

“You all need to leave, please.” The previously upset voice had smoothed out in a second, and Peter couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

“Bruce—”

“Now.” The tone was reminiscent of Aunt May’s the first time she’d discovered he’d been sneaking out at night. Peter had managed to feed her an excuse, but he’d still been in more trouble than he’d ever been in his whole life. He wondered what the people the man was talking to had done to warrant a reaction like that.

There was no further push then, only somber footsteps leading away from him, followed by the quiet close of a door. With a sigh that spoke of long kept tension, the hand swiped his hair back over his head and didn’t return. Peter wished he could ask for it back.

“You hurting, kiddo?” He was asked, ever so softly, and the compassion was refreshing when it shouldn’t have been. 

Peter wanted to cry out yes, but his head and his shoulders still felt quite separate, and he couldn’t manage anything more than another quiet whimper. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, didn’t even know if he could.

“I know,” The man soothed, gravel in his voice. “I know, buddy. I’m sorry, I don’t have anything strong enough to take the pain away, but I’m working on it, I promise. Your physiology is quite unique, so it stumped me a bit in terms of synthesizing meds to work with your DNA.” 

Peter felt a stab of alarm at that.. He didn’t like the idea of him being acknowledged as different. Unable to remember why, but aware that anyone but him looking too closely at what he was made of was dangerous. His head was filled with cotton, and every thought was caught in it.

His breathing picked up a notch, brows pinching together and head lolling back and forth in attempts to shake his head. Everything was wrong and he didn’t know how to make it better.

“Shh...it’s okay,” The hand touched his face again, this time cupping his cheek and keeping his head still. “God, I know. I’m so sorry. I wish I could fix it for you.” 

A tear rolled out from under his closed eyelids, and a calloused thumb gently brushed it away. Images of Ben flashed behind his eyes.

“Here, this should help you sleep.” Something took hold of his hand, a tight, pinching feeling stuck on the back of it. “It kept you out for surgery, thank God, so a lighter dose might help you sleep the worst of it off.”

A cool, sinking feeling rushed over him in a wave, and he relaxed into the pull of artificial sleep. He hoped he would get answers when he awoke next.

He didn’t dream.

Tony was no stranger to ignoring his problems. In fact, Pepper had even once compared him to a possum, playing dead in the face of any threat and just praying it would go away on its own. He’d denied it, but the truth came to slap him in the face time and time again, hence why he was holed away in his lab throwing himself into numbers and material items instead of upstairs helping Pepper with damage control. She’d called him a few times, but he let it ring and pretended not to feel guilty. 

But there was a purpose behind his absence, he reasoned. He hadn’t completely forgotten about the boy, didn't think he could if he tried. Guilt loomed heavily around him, and every little thing seemed to remind him of the damage he’d done—but he couldn’t fix it in the same way he could repair a car, couldn’t build around it like the shrapnel in his chest, couldn’t do a single damn thing about it, though he loathed to admit it. So, in a poor attempt of self-soothing, he decided to make sure that what happened to that boy today could never, ever happen again.

And it did work for a while, but as always, his problem was back to bite him in the ass.

“Boss, Dr. Banner is requesting your presence.”

FRIDAY’s voice in the silence of his lab made him jump, his soldering iron slipping in his hands just enough to burn one of his fingers.

“Ah–Shit–” He cursed, swinging his hand in pain. “FRIDAY, what part of ‘do not disturb’ do you not understand?”

“He insists it’s urgent, sir.” 

A pang of dread swept through him, but he swallowed and forced it down. A million different scenarios went through his head, and he was suddenly hit with the realization that this boy may die; that he may very well have participated in the murder of a child.

He no longer felt like being in the lab anymore, hit quite abruptly with the urge to move .

Heat rose to his face, his head becoming very light. His hands were shaking violently, but he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and dragged himself to his feet. He stumbled every step of the way to the elevator, but he made it there somehow.

“Take me to him, FRI.” The world swayed beneath his feet. Time didn’t apply to him the whole ride down to the medbay, he hadn’t even realized he was moving until the doors began to open.

The scene he was met with made his face go impossibly sheet white.

It was a flurry of movement, nurses and doctors scurrying about the floor in time to the screeching of alarms and monitors. Voices overlapped with the sound, and the noise level was almost unbearable–but still, underneath it all, he was able to make out small, gasping sobs. 

His feet were moving before he gave it a conscious thought, and he weaved his way through the crowd on autopilot until he found the source. Eventually, he reached the room where all the commotion seemed to originate from, people passing him going in and out of it, Bruce at the center of it all. Laid out in a hospital bed beside him was Spider-Man, and although he was horribly relieved for a moment to see him alive, it was short lived—Because the poor kid was crying his heart out. 

“I’ve just pushed 100mg of morphine, you feeling anything, honey?” 

“He’s burned straight through the oxycodone and hydromorphone, Dr. Banner.”

“Have you tried fentanyl yet?”

People were talking around him and even to him, but the kid couldn’t seem to respond through his short, shallow breaths. He only squeezed his eyes shut, tears coating his red, feverish cheeks, body trembling in pain. 

“What the hell is going on here?” His voice quieted the voices to a murmur, heads turning to look at him from all directions. Bruce perked up upon seeing him, shoulders losing the slightest bit of tension.

“Everyone clear out,” Bruce ordered, voice firm despite the defeat in his expression. “We’ve done all we can, there’s nothing you can do for him now.”

Though clearly reluctant, the medical staff made their way out without protest, leaving only the three of them in the room.

“Bruce, what—”

“Not a single one of my pain meds work on this kid, Tony.” Bruce admitted under his breath, leaning close to him when speaking. “Not Steve’s, or mine, or any other drug in the book.”

He could feel himself pale, mouth going dry. 

“So, you’re telling me this kid’s been severely injured, undergone major surgery, and has zero pain relief?”

Bruce nodded grimly. Flashes of stone walls and hands digging around his chest ran through his memory, an empathy and understanding he wished he didn’t have settling within him. 

“There’s nothing you can do?” He asked timidly, every cry escaping the boy tearing at his heartstrings. 

Bruce shook his head, mouth a thin line. “I need to go to my lab, try again to create something that will work for him,” He explained. “But I can’t leave him alone like this, Tony.” 

The way he said it had an underlying implication, and Tony didn’t like the direction their conversation was headed. 

“Please, just sit with him while I’m gone.” And there it was. “Just talk to him, see if you can calm him down a bit, maybe.”

“Bruce…”

“Tony.” The man’s voice was absolute, and Tony knew there wasn’t any way for him to get out of this. It seemed to be a theme, lately. He sighed tersely.

“Okay, alright, I—”

“Thanks, Tony. I’ll let you know when I have something.”

And then he was off without another word, nearly running out of the door, leaving Tony alone with a crying, hurting child. 

He hadn't the slightest clue what he was meant to do next.

“Hey, kid…” He said softly, unsure of his every movement. “Not doing so good, huh?”

Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching intently as the boy shook his head weakly in response.

"Hurts," he managed to gasp out, voice barely there. "Please."

Tightness pulled at Tony's throat, his eyes blinking up to the ceiling in a poor attempt to remain nonchalant. Hearing a child beg for relief, for him to take the pain away was jarring to say the least. Being the one to cause them that pain in the first place? A different kind of torture altogether. 

"I know, kiddo…" He tried to soothe, hand hovering uncertainly beside the boy for a moment. He placed it down on the sheets. "I'm sorry, I–" a sudden wave of emotion came over him, and he paused to clear his throat. "I can't help you. I don't know how to help you." 

His voice cracked, and he knew they had both noticed, but neither mentioned it, and the kid only let out another strangled cry. Monitors continued to scream, and the fluorescent lights only seemed to get harsher with every passing second. It was overwhelming even for him, he couldn't imagine how it must feel for an enhanced child already in unimaginable pain, and he kicked himself for not thinking about it earlier.

"God. FRIDAY, mute and soundproof room. Engage hangover protocol." 

She followed the command, lights fading to candlelight level and all background noise was washed away. Tony allowed himself to relax slightly. The kid, however, immediately went nearly limp, a heartbreaking whimper of exhausted relief. His eyelids fluttered, and his breaths became a little less laboured. 

"You like that, huh?" Admittedly, the small success did feel good, and a small smile graced his face. "Not a fan of Banner's music taste? Can't blame you there. I was never one for EDM either." 

To his delight, he earned a small, raspy little laugh for that, and this time he didn't fight the grin.

"Hey, I heard that!" Without thinking, he laid his hand on the boy's ankle, drawing absent-minded circles with his thumb. "Bruce keeps trying to tell me I'm not funny, can you believe that?" 

The kid, bless him, did try to laugh again, but it only came out as a sob, bringing many more along with it.

"Okay, alright, shh…" He hushed frantically. "Come on, kiddo. You're breaking my heart. What can I do for you, huh? What do you need?" 

In his desperation, there was pretty much nothing that he wouldn’t do to offer the kid any kind of solace. Even so, he couldn’t help but freeze up when small, slender fingers looped gently around his wrist. The boy’s face was hot and red, and his eyes were looking anywhere but Tony.

“Can you…” He worried his lip, sniffing.  “Would it be okay if you just sit with me?”

His voice was quiet and thick with tears, and Tony had to lean in closer to understand him. 

“I know you’re probably like, super busy,” he sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut in what appeared to be another wave of pain. “You don’t have to stay. You can go and-” he sucked in a sharp breath. “-and you–you’re Tony Stark. You’re Tony Stark.” 

He said it as if only realizing it just then, more tears spilling out over a shuddering breath. His face became pinched, tension forming in his jaw. 

“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You, you’re too important to be here right now.”

Very rarely was Tony Stark left speechless. Even under pressure, even with the whole world watching him, he always figured out the right words to say, and he never stumbled.  

But hell, what in God’s name do you say to that?

“Hey, hey, woah-” He held out a hand placatingly, eyebrows pinched. “Listen. Are you listening to me?”

He moved to be in the boy’s direct line of vision, making sure to meet his gaze. Big, shining doe eyes stared back at him, and they were soft where he'd expected them to be sharp. It was as if he used the damage done to him to smooth out his raw edges like sea glass—and in comparison, Tony felt like the fractured neck of a beer bottle.

Peter, complaisant and kind and so terribly obedient immediately snapped his mouth shut, harshly enough that it had Tony slightly regretting his phrasing. 

With a steadying breath, he did his best to smooth his expression and lower his voice.

“The most important thing to me right now is you, you hear?" He assured him, forcing sincerity into his tone. Smiling, he added, "Plus, you're saving me from filling out that stack of paper my lovely CEO left for me. Just don't tell Pepper, okay?" 

With tears still streaming down his cheeks, the boy smiled—it wobbled tentatively, but was clearly genuine all the same. Tony couldn't seem to figure out why he found it so endearing.

The small reassurance seemed to appease the tension between the two of them, and with much less reluctance now, Tony reached out and picked up the cold, frail hand and held it in his own. It had taken him years to reach this level of closeness with Pepper, but touching him didn't feel wrong. It felt like a sense of home he'd never heard of before, new beginnings—an unspoken truce.

Tears welled up in the kids eyes the second he felt a hand on his, and despite clearly wanting to be held, he hiccupped and forced his fingers to uncurl and let go of the man's hand, taking a fistful of the sheets instead. Tony refused to admit that it hurt, only smiled awkwardly and pulled his hand back to himself. Peter withered in a second

"I-I can't," he cried, shaking. "I'll b-break your h-hand." 

Tony resented the way his heart swelled with love for this complete stranger child. Decades of walls and shields and armor he'd so carefully constructed to protect himself seemed to crumble at the hands of a soft-spoken teenager, and it felt like taking off his chestplate and handing the boy a knife. It was softness when he had built his entire sense of worth around being made of iron.

He tried not to let any self-loathing into his expression, though. Instead, he smiled slyly, hand coming up to his wrist to press a few buttons on his watch. Nanobots skittered over his skin to form his gauntlet, the kid watching on in awe. 

"You can't throw curve balls at me, kid,' He boasted good-naturedly. "I fix broken things and I create solutions. It's what I do." He held out his arm, offering his now armored hand to the kid.

With the corners of his mouth perked up into a small smile, the boy shifted his gaze onto the wrinkles in the sheets—contemplating and vaguely hazy. His hand twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach out, but he faltered at the last moment. 

"What if you can't?" Were the words he decided on, only looking at Tony with a glance. "Fix it, I mean. What if you can't fix the broken thing?" 

It was an unexpected question, one he couldn't respond to off the top of his head. Pondering his answer Tony leaned forward to gently cradle the boy's hand.

"Too many people see breaking as an ending, I think." He said carefully, paying close attention to the kid's expression. "Imagine the greatness we could create if we treated it as a new beginning?"

The following few moments were filled with rich, thoughtful silence. 

The eyes that stared back at him were so bright it was nearly noxious to look at, yet he didn't dare look away, even when they glossed over with new tears that immediately spilled over onto his cheeks. It was graceless and wavering, but in gentle curves at the edges of the boy's mouth, he smiled. It was small, thin-lipped, and shaking—but by god if it wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

And something bloomed, then. Deep in the withered remains of Tony Stark's chest, an unfamiliar feeling was planted, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with it just yet.

He felt horribly wet behind the ears in regards to any sort of affection, but in a bold, bumbling move, he wove his armored hand under the boy's own in a gentle, reassuring grip.

And then, in the quiet, dim room with this boy who was a hair's breadth from a stranger, he had a strange feeling pooling within him. An inkling inching towards certainty with each passing second that his life was about to change tremendously. He rode out a wave of unease, quickly giving into the urge to push it down to be dealt with later. He'd speed through me emotion in the past few hours than he had in the last decade, and unsurprisingly, he now had zero spoons remaining in his cutlery drawerrubbing his free hand gently up and down the boy's back, doing the only thing left for him to do. 

He waited.

Waking up for the second time was like a spark to gasoline, instant and hot. His eyes snapped open, gasping in a small breath through his teeth. The fear was back like it had never left, and his fight or flight picked up right where it had left off. 

The lights sent a bolt of electricity through his skull, and he was quick to squeeze his eyes shut, letting out a low groan as his body’s systems started up, his nerves quick to come back online. Pain gnawed at every inch of him with an intensity so potent it stole the breath from his lungs. It was everywhere, all-encompassing, and it pulsed with fervor. 

God, what happened to him?

Carefully this time, he peaked his eyes open, the sleep that had collected there like sand under his eyelids. The brightness of his surroundings whited out his vision for a moment, and he blinked to bring it into focus.

Machinery surrounded him, the familiar sounds of a hospital making themselves known. White walls and sheets of glass stood tall and sleek in front of him, and immediately he knew he wasn’t at any hospital he’d ever been to before. 

His heart pounded against his sternum, and his breaths fueled the fire in his chest. The feeling of being in danger was settling, but it did not abate—still, it lingered, and it begged him not to relax. 

The events that had taken place to lead him to where he was now remained unclear, but it was easy to decipher that it was nothing good. He didn’t like not knowing. Not knowing why he hurt right down to the bone, not knowing where he was, not knowing why he'd woken up alone—May would never have left him alone in a hospital bed if she had any say, and immediately his concern doubled.

Footsteps and muffled voices approached, and his head shot towards the sound, anxiety so intense he itched with the feeling. Slowly, they made their way closer, and when Peter tried to move to a less prone position, sharp pain snapped through him and he fell back against the sheets with a yelp. 

There was something placating about being so afraid and so helpless. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, or maybe it was acceptance. Giving up. He was too exhausted to be scared any longer. 

The doorknob turned, and Peter watched it, numb. His emotions had finally broken from the beating they had taken, his mind short circuited. Still, his heart beat made the monitors scream.

The door swung open, and like pulling the plug from a drain, everything came flooding back.

Before him stood Bruce Banner and Tony Stark, and the pieces snapped together in memory. 

He was so, so screwed.

The mere sight of the boy was enough to send Tony spiralling again. There was something in his eyes that made him feel oversized and clumsy like a bull in a china shop.

A tight ache settled in his throat, and he struggled to swallow around it. The poor kid's face was swollen and bruised, vivid hues of purple and blue settling in the curves of his cheeks and in pockets under his eyes. 

He had promised himself that he would never become his father.

"Hey, there…" Bruce greeted, softer than Tony had ever heard him speak before. "How are you feeling? You're up earlier than I was anticipating."

The boy didn't respond, only pulled his lips between his teeth and pressed himself as far back on the bed as he could with his battered body. He looked much like an injured baby bird, fresh out of the nest on clumsy wings and cornered by a predator he knew he couldn't outrun.

"It's okay, we're not here to hurt you," Bruce hurriedly explained. "No one is going to touch  you unless you're okay with it, alright? I promise you." 

Bruce set down his clipboard and raised his hands placatingly. Tony just wrapped his arms around himself, feeling awfully out of place. He didn't dare look the boy in the eye, but out of the corner of his vision, he could see him lose some tension from his form.

"I'm Bruce, I've been the one sort of keeping an eye on you lately." 

The boy brightened a bit then, a pink flush bringing life to his deathly pallor.

"Oh, I'm well aware of who you are, sir," He squeaked after a moment, eyes darting uncertainly between the two men. "I've read all your work, you're pretty much the most revolutionary scientist of our time. It's an honour to meet you, Dr. Banner." He took in a shaky breath, looking positively overwhelmed. "Although I must admit I'm feeling a bit conflicted about the circumstances. I–I don't really know what's going on."

His voice cracked weakly towards the end, and Tony's heart absolutely broke at the sheen of tears welling in his eyes. The words 'your fault' ran circles in his head.

Bruce smiled sadly

"I know you must be confused, and I'm sure you're in quite a bit of pain on top of that," Tony winced at the reminder. "But we're here to answer any questions you have, and hopefully we can get this huge mess cleared up a bit. Okay?"

The boy sniffled, but nodded timidly, curling into himself slightly. It seemed like every move he made brought him pain. 

"I'm realizing now that I never asked you earlier, so, what's your name, kid?" Tony finally asked, shifting on his feet. 

The kid looked at him, all wide-eyed and innocent and so excruciatingly endearing. 

It didn't take much for him to give up the last piece of his identity, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. He almost wished the kid would fight, yell, scream; anything. God knows Tony would take every blow with open arms.

But he only faltered for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth for a second before deflating almost imperceptibly in defeat.

"It's um—I'm, uh, Peter, sir. Parker." And as he said it, it appeared as if every word burned his tongue. 

"Peter Parker, huh?" He repeated, crossing his arms over his chest just to give his hands something to do. “It suits you, kid.” and it did. It matched up perfectly with the tufts of brown hair, lightly freckled cheeks, and wide eyes. Tony had to smile at the boy who blushed and shied away.

“So, Peter…” He sighed, sinking down in an armchair at his bedside and letting his eyes wander over the bandages. The way he still hunched over in pain. The dried streaks of blood still adorning his pale skin. It hurt and he let it. “There’s really no way for me to make this right. What happened to you– what we did to you –can’t be taken back. I can never make this up to you, and I’m sorry.”

Peter watched on silently, eyes softly calculating. 

And of course he wanted to hide like always, brush it off and curl away from the heat of the fire he'd lit, but for perhaps the first time in Tony Stark's life, he slipped off his sunglasses and stared the boy in the eyes. It was a sort of self-destruction unlike any kind he'd ever indulged in before.

"I know this is probably the shittiest apology you've ever heard, and I'll be honest, kid, I don't have the slightest idea what to do right now." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But I'm truly sorry, both for what I have done as well as the actions of my teammates. I, god…" 

There was no right way to do this. No right way to tell someone you’re sorry for nearly killing them, for breaking their bones and watching them bleed. It felt incredibly arrogant for him to sit there and offer this child his words of condolences and apologies while he laid in a hospital bed, but hell if he had any other idea what to do.

"I never wanted to hurt you, kiddo. I'm something of a fan of Spider-Man, myself. I appreciate what you do, looking out for the little guy and all that." He smiled sadly, and to his delight, Peter gave him a small one in return. "None of this ever should have happened, and if I had known that it would come to this, I never would have let this whole shitfest leave the drawing board. But it did happen, and we hurt you— I hurt you. There's no excuse, and for that, well, I'm really sorry, kid." 

He was spitting on a house fire.

The whole room basked in silence, but it wasn't as stiff as it was before. Peter looked contemplative, fingers toying with the sheets. Half of him expected the boy to blow up at him, tell him to leave and never come back, tell him to go to hell, eat shit, anything horrible and painful that he deserved—but he didn't, only looked up at him timidly. Tony hated that he didn't look outraged.

"I know you weren't trying to hurt me, Mr. Stark," He started, taking a measured breath. "I've read pretty much every article there is about the suits, the speeds they reach, the AI—the targeting systems." He paused, looking up at the man knowingly. "You could have shot me out of the sky whenever you wanted to, but you didn't. I couldn't figure out why you didn't." He let his bruised eyes fall lightly shut, smiling gently. "I do now. Thanks for looking out for me, Mr. Stark."

Tony had to look at the floor to hide the tears in his eyes. Of course they'd managed to hurt the kindest, most innocent and forgiving boy in the world. 

"You shouldn't be thanking me, kiddo."

Peter looked at him with a puzzled expression, tilting his head like an honest to god puppy.  

"You saved my life, and you apologized. I appreciate that, especially from you, Mr. Stark. I know you must be busy." He squirmed in his place, trying and failing to hide a grimace. A quick glance at his blood pressure and the sheen of sweat on his forehead confirmed that he was in pain, and once again, Tony felt incredibly intrusive.

"I should go, let you get your spider beauty rest." He said, clapping his hands together. "I'm sorry again, kid. I promise I'll find some way to make it up to you." 

He made for the door, pausing with his hand on the handle to turn and look at Peter one last time. 

"And hey, I really hope we didn't scare you away from being Spider-Man." his face changed minutely, enough for Peter to recognize the sincerity in his words. "You're doing great things, Peter Parker. The world needs more people like you."

The beaming look he received at that made him feel a little better and a little sick to his stomach.

"So, how do the mighty Avengers feel now, huh?" 

The words were quiet, but sounded much louder in the silence of the common room. Every member of the team was together for the first time since Tony had left them in the heart of queens, but it didn't feel anything like any other Avengers meeting they'd held. He could see the dust in the air and taste metal in his mouth, stale air clinging to his skin. He'd taken 3 showers and he still didn't feel clean.

Peter's presence permeated throughout the entire tower, it was in the vents and climbing the walls, and it sat along with their guilt around them in a thick fog. He could feel it so clearly he saw flashes of pale skin and purple hues every time he closed his eyes. Blinking felt like flashbacks.

But it was that very image of Peter's broken form that got him to break the silence in the room, because watching his teammates stare holes in the walls and pick at the skin of their nails was making his bones itch. He wanted them to hurt. Thinking about what they'd done was not enough, he wanted them to feel it.

Peter would carry the scars they'd given him for the rest of his life, and he would be damned if he was going to let them look the other way. He was never going to let them forget.

So he grit his teeth and forced himself to be the voice that Peter didn't get the chance to have.

"Are you proud? Do you feel noble? Heroic? Are you satisfied now that we've saved New York from the big, bad, unidentified enhanced individual?"

His chest heaved with emotion, and he could feel the crescent indents from his nails on his palms. Years of building trust, hours of training together, so many words and pain exchanged gone within seconds. Only a moment to turn his best friends to strangers.

"Tony-" Steve interjected timidly, squirming in his seat like a chastised child. To his credit, he did look incredibly guilty, but Tony couldn't find it within himself to feel bad for the man. He hoped that guilt never quite left him alone, that it served as a reminder. A warning.

"No, I don't want to hear it, Rogers." He bit back, turning away from them all to stare out the window in hopes of regaining his composure. "I don't want to hear your excuses, because nothing you say is going to justify what you did. What we all did."  

His spine shriveled, but he made sure he said it. Made sure he included himself in the fault.

The man shut his mouth with an audible click, and Tony couldn't help but feel a little satisfied.

"Now I'm not going to sit here and claim innocence, because I was out there too. I admit that," He admitted, guilt coating his throat. "And as much as I think we can all agree that we shouldn't have pursued this at all, I'd like to address the elephant in the room."

He paused then, spinning on his heel to face Steve head on, feeling no shame as he jabbed an accusatory finger straight at him.

"Cap, what in the ever loving fuck were you thinking?" 

The man looked shocked at the vitriol spat at him, but seemed to ultimately accept it. Sighing through his nose, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked the other way. 

"I wasn't." He confessed, regret apparent in his form. "I wasn't thinking, and I'd like to apologize for that. I lost control of myself, and I hurt someone undeserving." Steve looked around the room, catching the gazes of a few others before settling on Tony. "The boy, I'd like to speak to him when he's well enough. I want to apologize to him personally." 

The fact that he sounded genuine only seemed to further grate at his nerves. It had reached a point where he could no longer tell where the anger stemmed from, only that he was furious. At Cap, at his teammates, at himself—at everything and at nothing at the same time.

"I can't keep you from him," He said roughly. "It's up to Peter if he decides he wants to see you or not. But from what I've seen so far, he's ridiculously forgiving. To a fault, really." He sighed in exasperation, dragging his hand down his face. It was like he could feel himself aging with every minute.

"We fucked up. We fucked up so badly there's not even a word for it." The room was heavy with quiet, and he could feel them contemplating his words. "Being against evil doesn't make you good, and acting on orders doesn't absolve you of guilt. I think you all need to do some thinking." he said simply, turning to the door. "Right and wrong are relative, after all. The question is where do you draw the line? Because after today, I've found exactly where mine lies, and it's nowhere near any of you."

He didn't wait for a reply.