Chapter Text
When Peter came too, he was in bed, and an alarm was going off.
One thing he noticed was a lack of migraine and unforgivable crust around his eyes, unlike every single other morning when he woke up.
And he knew he blacked out, but he did not bring himself to his bed.
Maybe it was all a dream.
He then inhaled and immediately broke out into a coughing fit, and that hope had died.
It hurt so badly to breathe, and his stomach hurt. As he went to cradle it, he noticed it felt sticky.
He drew his hand back, and though it was slightly hard to tell in the dark, it was most definitely nearly dried blood.
Crap, his wound must’ve reopened.
He gingerly sat up and threw his legs over the side of his bed. He briefly checked the sheets to make sure it didn’t stain anything, and, thankfully, there was no blood. He then reached over and into his backpack.
He rooted around in it and finally found his first aid kit.
He opened it and was starkly reminded,
…That he had run out of gauze.
He groaned.
He got up - not without struggle - and carefully and slowly approached his door.
Thank God for his spider-like agility.
Skip was never home when Peter woke up, but Peter didn’t want to take that chance.
He pressed his ear right up to the door and listened for any sign of life.
Nothing.
No breathing, no heartbeats, no shuffling movements. Just the sounds of pipes and buzzing electricity.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and made his way to the bathroom.
Peter winced as he crouched by the cabinet and grabbed the med kit. He was in a bit of a hurry, so he tried to sift through it as quickly as he could.
He found the old bottle of pills. The bottle was missing a few since the last time he had checked, but he didn’t dwell on it.
He didn’t have the time to.
He eventually found the gauze and alcohol and sat back against the wall.
He peeled back his t-shirt and wished he hadn’t.
In doing so, he had ripped off some of the developing scab, angering it more.
It was so ugly.
Peter didn’t have the time to treat it nicely, so he figured drowning it in antiseptic and fastening it with bandaging would be enough.
He pulled his shirt back down, put everything away, and stood from where he was sitting.
That’s when he looked up and saw himself in the mirror.
His hands and shirt were bloody. His eye bags were so deep. He looked like he had lost at least 10 pounds.
Worst of all, was the large red and purple handprint that covered his entire neck.
How on earth was he going to hide that?
A scarf he didn’t have? Makeup he also didn’t have?
It shouldn’t’ve even looked so bad; his enhanced healing should have fixed most of it.
Maybe the sudden calorie deficit was affecting him in more ways than just his looks.
Peter remembered then that he still had to get to school, so he washed his hands swiftly, brushed his teeth, threw on a hoodie, and ran to the subway.
🕸
When the kid came back on Monday, he seemed even worse.
Even less talkative, hypervigilant, and genuinely upset.
“It’s pretty warm, kid. Are you sure you don’t want to take that off?” He gestured to the kid’s hoodie.
“Uhm, I’m actually pretty cold, Mr. Stark.”
“Are you sure, ‘cause it looks like you’re sweating.” The man leaned closer to get a better look at him, when he caught a glimpse of darkness hidden beneath his hoodie. “...Shit, kid, what’s on your neck?”
Peter immediately shifted, trying to hide himself better, and tried to deflect.
“What are you- What are you talking about?”
“Peter, what happened to your neck? And don’t tell me it’s a hickey.”
“...It could be,” He defended.
“And who gave it to you? Ned, the geek, or asexual MJ?”
“She’s not- …Oh, my god, she totally is.”
Tony raised his eyebrows at the kid in a very unimpressed way.
Peter sighed.
“It’s nothing, Mr. Stark.”
Tony Stark felt hurt. Hurt that his kid- his kid that he was interning, wouldn’t tell him what was going on. Did he not trust him? Did he not feel close enough to him?
He just wanted to help him.
God knows the kid needed it.
God knows the kid deserved it.
He also couldn’t help but feel angry. He’d been trying to push it down for a little while now, but that started to become increasingly difficult.
The kid was hurt. And maybe the kid was telling the truth, that it was nobody’s fault. But Tony knew better.
Somebody had hurt this kid. Deliberately hurt this kid. This kind, smart kid.
“...Who was it?”
“What?” Peter looked up with the saddest eyes, circumscribed by dark, deep bags.
That only solidified Tony’s anger.
“Who did this to you?”
“Nobody, Mr. Stark, I- I fell-”
“So, you’ll have me believe you fell, and of all places, bruised your neck?”
No response.
“FRI, scan him, would you?”
Suddenly, the kid seemed to get this look of panic on his face.
After about a second and a half, the AI responded.
“I detect bruising on his neck, shoulders, and abdomen. As well as injury to the trachea, a slightly infected laceration across his abdomen, and a healing puncture wound to the left thigh.”
Tony felt winded.
He tried to speak, but the kid beat him to it.
“Mr. Stark, it’s not what you think!” The boy floundered, “The leg thing and the stomach thing were both accidents! I tripped while I was running when I was late for school, and I swear the bruises are nothing, I just fell the other day, but I swear it’s nothing-”
“Let me see,” The man said simply.
“...What?” The boy's eyes widened even more.
“Well, if it’s nothing, let me see, and I can take you to the medbay if necessary.”
“No!” He cleared his throat, “No, it’s, uhm, not necessary.”
“Take off your hoodie.”
“What, no, no, it’s fine-”
Tony raised his hand and started to approach the kid, to see if he could at least pull his hood down to get a better look, when the kid jumped back.
“Whoa,” The man threw his hands up guiltily on instinct, “It’s okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.”
Peter exhaled shakily.
“Please, Peter,” The man pleaded, “Just let me help you. Did someone at school do this to you? Was it something that happened at home?-”
“No,” The kid quickly cut him off.
“Right, of course,” Tony remembered, “Aunt May would never do that.”
It seemed as though right when he said that, the kid’s eyes welled up.
“Please, kid,” Tony sighed, “You’ve gotta level with me, here. I’m worried about you.”
Peter then looked up at Tony, with eyes that resembled those of a kicked puppy, and opened his mouth to speak, when all of a sudden-
The elevator doors opened, revealing a woman with a blonde ponytail, a white t-shirt, and a high-waisted, gray pencil skirt.
“Tony, you’ve-” She started, then stopped in her tracks when she noticed the kid. “Oh, I didn’t realise you were here. You must be the intern, you’ve been absent the past few days, so I figured- anyway, it’s nice to finally meet you.” She outstretched her hand. “Pepper Potts.” She introduced herself, as if necessary.
Peter didn’t respond; he was too stunned. He eventually lifted his hand and shook hers a little too enthusiastically.
“I-I’m Peter, Peter Parker.” He stuttered, “I’m a huge fan, Mrs. Potts.”
“Oh, please,” She smiled, “You can just call me Pepper.”
“Okay, Pepper.” He smiled back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell is this?” Tony asked, offended. “She gets ‘Pepper’, but you still call me ‘Mr. Stark’?”
Before Peter could say anything, Pepper seemed to notice the darkness on Peter’s neck.
“Son, what happened to your neck?”
“Oh, nothing-”
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
And before the kid could stop her, Pepper pulled his hood back and finally revealed the whole bruise, which Tony could now see, was a handprint.
It was ugly, and mean. Whoever left it was a sadist.
And had huge hands.
His entire neck was purple.
Pepper gasped and covered her mouth.
“Holy shit, kid,” Tony rushed to him, “That’s so much worse than I thought it was.”
Tears started to swell in the kids eyes.
“No, no, it’s nothing, Mr. Stark, I swear-” He said as he desperately tried to cover it all back up.
“That’s not nothing, kid.” And he then realised… “How bad are your other injuries?”
Peter looked down as Pepper - almost hysterically - asked, “Other injuries?”
“Take off your hoodie, please.”
The kid's breath started to come in a lot faster, and as Tony tried to say something to help calm him down, the kid bolted.
“Wait, kid!” He tried to scream, but Peter had already made it to the elevator.
“Tony,” Pepper asked warily, “What happened?”
Tony didn’t answer.
He was too busy trying to answer that for himself.
🕸
The second the elevator doors closed, Peter broke down crying.
He had seen the horrible bruise. He’s going to find everything out.
He was probably the smartest person in the world, of course, he is.
He’s going to find out about all of Peter’s lies: his lies about May, and about how it wasn’t his fault.
Because it was. And the man was going to find out how horrible Peter truly was.
And frankly, Peter had planned on staying a whole lot later; he really didn’t want to face Skip.
Not that he could do anything about it now, he got himself into this situation. And he was going to have to deal with the man sooner or later.
🕸
Peter took his time swinging back home. But not so much that he made himself late. He was going to make sure he never did that ever again.
He eventually got there, and considered crawling in through his window so he didn’t have to face the man. But he had a hunch that doing so would probably get him into more trouble.
At least if he was caught.
But he wasn’t taking that chance.
So, he gently opened the door.
And there he was, standing in the kitchen like usual.
He had his back turned to the door, and was tending to something on the stove.
So, Peter beelined for the stairs.
“Sit.” A monotonous voice suddenly halted him.
He opened his mouth, to protest, but the voice spoke again.
“Sit.” The man finally turned to face him, a look of ire painted across the man’s face, and Peter immediately obeyed. He sat in his usual spot at the dinner table.
He sat there, dread multiplying with every second.
It felt all too short and all too long before Skip finally walked towards the table with two plates. The man set one of them in front of Peter and walked slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, to his end of the table, and set his plate in front of himself in a like manner.
He picked up the fork and started to eat.
It felt like a test.
Peter sat there, staring at the man as he ate. His brows knit together and he almost had an angry look on his face. It was all just a facade, though. Underneath it all, Peter was confused. Utterly confused.
“Eat.” The man commanded.
Peter looked at his food, chicken and potatoes. But it didn’t matter. He looked back at Skip, squinting his eyes in a wordless question.
“Eat. Now.”
Peter warily took a bite, only breaking the non-reciprocated eye contact when he collected food onto his fork.
His paranoia sort of quieted after a few bites, and Skip spoke again, this time less taciturnly.
“Listen,” Skip paused, “I am sorry about yesterday. That wasn’t the right way to handle that situation. I won’t do it again, as long as you don’t disobey me again. Got it?”
Peter stared at the man. But eventually, he nodded.
And they finished their lovely family dinner together.
🕸
The next morning, when Peter woke, he was met with a migraine. He had almost forgotten how bad they were, since he hadn’t had one the morning before.
It made no sense. Why would they stop and start again?
He was drinking enough water, getting… Enough sunlight. More than enough sleep.
The only changing variable was his food intake. He wasn’t usually hungry anymore, only when his body started to genuinely shut down. The only real food he had been eating lately had been Skip’s food.
And then, it dawned on him.
He didn’t eat with Skip yesterday.
The thought almost makes him laugh, because what was he insinuating? That Skip had drugged him?
He dragged himself out of bed and noticed some dried blood in his sheets.
He shook his head and exhaled a long, shaky breath.
Maybe, it was old blood from the night before.
…But, he remembered checking the sheets the night before and seeing no blood.
Maybe, his wound reopened.
…But, when he checked his gauze, it was still intact.
His recent humour starts to morph into nausea.
Because there was no way.
Then, he had an idea. A realization.
He walked slowly over to the bathroom with mounting fear. Peter reached under the cabinet and grabbed the med kit he had used the other day.
He carefully and slowly dug through it, until he found it.
The bottle of pills.
The bottle of pills that had one less pill since the last time he had checked.
He wanted to be sick.
He staggered back a little.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, immediately googling whatever the hell was in that bottle.
Flunitrazepam, or Rohypnol.
He had heard that name before.
Used to treat severe insomnia and as a pre-anesthetic. It’s commonly known and often used as a date-rape drug.
He dropped his phone and backed up until his back was flush with the wall.
It felt like he was being choked all over again, except this time the hand couldn’t come off.
His breaths start getting too fast for his likings, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that somehow that could help.
But it couldn’t. Nothing could help.
He’d never felt so powerless.
How long had it been going on before he noticed? How many times had it happened? He couldn’t even know because he was asleep.
How could he have done that to him in his sleep?
But then again, there was simply no way. There was no way Skip would do something like that, and Peter honestly felt guilty for even thinking such a thing.
He was trying so desperately hard to deny all of this, but no matter what he told himself, he knew it.
He could feel it in him.
If his sixth-sense told him anything, it was screaming at him he was right.
That he had finally found out.
God, how could he have been so dumb? How did it take him so goddamn long to figure it out?
He was abruptly reminded of all those strange dreams he had had, the ones that he forgot most of when he woke in the morning.
He picked up his phone, to double check that what he read was really ture, and noticed the time.
Fuck, he was going to be late for school.
🕸