Would I lie to you?

Previously on Would I lie to you?

"Mr. Stark, he needed me to do it. I didn't want Pete to get into trouble all by himself. I am his ride or die, after all. I didn't even know... Wow. He really does have your eyes."

"Ned? Peter?" Pepper's voice got caught in her throat, as she ran to hug them.

"I do, I really do." Pete's mouth was agape, going between Aunt Pepper, who is really his Mum, and Uncle Tony, his Dad. He struggled to breathe the air around him. 'This must be what an anxiety attack feels like' he thought, just as everything was going black.

Pepper managed to catch Peter, right as he was fainting. She looked at Tony dead in the eyes in exasperation. "This is all your fault."

Tony knew it was, but he had been going through an anxiety attack of his own, only three thoughts swirling in his head 'Peter fainted. He's okay. Peter knows'

"Don't worry Ned, he's going to be okay. He fainted because he was shocked."

"I would be shocked, too, if I found out that the people I believed to be my parents weren't really my parents, and that the Aunt and Uncle I saw quite often actually were." Ned spoke out, before he could stop himself. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive. You must have had your reasons"

"It's alright Ned, you've got the right to be angry as does Peter." Pepper said, as she held onto her son tightly. Rhodey, on the other hand, was holding Tony.

"Did Mr. Stark faint, too?" Ned asked Rhodey, with a raised eyebrow. Rhodes just nodded his head, finding this situation hilarious. He told Tony he should have told Peter the truth when he was 10, but Tony had hyperventilated at the thought of his son being kidnapped again. He should have pushed him to do that more. Then they wouldn't even be in this situation in the first place.

Pepper didn't look up from Peter even when Tony was taken to the MedBay and everyone else had left. She caressed his hair, his head on her lap, and her guilt came to her in waves. How will they explain it to Peter. Will he shut them out? Will he understand? She keeps crying even when Ben and May get there, panicking about what it will mean. Everyone's emotions are in an overdrive. Peter still sleeps through Ben picking him up and taking him into a separate room in MedBay. May sits on one side, Pepper on the other one as they each have Peter's hand in their hands.

When Peter wakes up, everything is quiet, too quiet. He can only hear breathing and heartbeats. He doesn't understand where he is or what happened before. Even the city sounds are so far away from him and he can't hear them. In the beginning, he doesn't understand where he is. He is about to open his eyes, wanting to rub the sleep out of them, but both his hands are in vice-like grips which don't seem to budge. His eyes snap open looking to both his sides and he sees that one his hand is in Pepeer's while the other one is in May's hand. They both look like they've been crying, both Aunt May and Aunt Pep. His Mom. And with that everything comes crashing back. Everyone he loved lied to him and betrayed him. Everyone except for Ned. He thought he could trust them, but he realised now that he actually couldn't. As he looked at the three of them, he understood that he was right. He absolutely couldn't stay here. They didn't deserve to see him break. None of them, except for Ned.

Peter was heartbroken and angry and he feared that he might hurt them in unimaginable ways because of his anger, so he made a choice. He used his super strength to wiggle out of both Pepper and May's hold and headed for the door. The metal door handle snapped clean off in his hand. He forgot his strength. Which is precisely why he can't possibly stay here. He might break something, or someone in his anger. He dropped the doorhandle onti the sofa as carefully as he could and then he slipped out of the room as quietly as his powers allowed him.

The corridor was mostly empty, other than Ben, Ned and Bruce sleeping in front of his room of the MedBay. He looked at Ben, fuming. How could he betray him like this? Him and...the other one. They were the people he considered his Father figures and he would listen to them and their input. And both of them betrayed him. The other one more than Ben did. He couldn't even bring himself to think to say his name. The other one. His real Dad.

After he turned the corner, the corridor became dim, instead of bright lit only by the soft hum of blue emergency strips lining the floor. It reminded Peter of his life before and after finding out. He was bright before because he had a family he loved, and now... Peter’s bare feet barely made a sound as he padded past the doorframe, body tense, holding in every ounce of fury and grief threatening to shake out of him. He didn’t know where he was going—just that he couldn’t stay. As he walked past a room, he could hear the erratic heart beat of the other one closer and closer and it overwhelmed the living shit out of him.  But as he turned the corner, right past the observation window, a shape stirred on the bench against the wall. Colonel James Rhodes sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes, only to freeze when he saw the silhouette of a boy in hospital scrubs, curls flattened against his forehead, and a look on his face that screamed do not speak to me or I can and I will make you regret it.

“Pete?” Rhodey’s voice was low, rough from sleep. He didn’t get up. Didn’t move. Just… looked. He was worried both about his friend, his brother and his nephew. Peter stopped. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The hallway felt like it was holding its breath.

Then: “You going somewhere?” Rhodey asked gently, like he was asking about the weather. Peter’s eyes were glassy.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered. “I’ll break something. Or someone.” Rhodey looked at the kid he’d watched grow up. The one who used to fall asleep on Tony’s chest during late lab nights. The one who built a motorized Lego suit at age six. The one who, right now, looked like he had aged five years in five hours.

“I get it,” Rhodey said. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling. “But you know they’re gonna freak when they wake up.”

Peter nodded once. “I’m not running. I just… need to breathe where they’re not.”

Rhodey studied him, long and hard. Then he sighed.

“I never thought I’d say this, but... you sound like your dad.” Peter flinched at that. Rhodey stood, walked to him slowly, and held out something—a small folded piece of fabric. A hoodie. “Take this. It’s cold out.” He didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t call for backup. Just offered the hoodie and stepped aside. Peter hesitated only a second before taking it. As he slipped it over his head, Rhodey said one last thing. “You’re allowed to be mad. But don’t stay gone too long, okay? You’ve got people who’ll wait forever if they have to.” Peter’s throat tightened, but he couldn’t speak. He gave the faintest nod, then turned and disappeared down the corridor—swallowed by the quiet hum of the Tower, hoodie sleeves too long on his arms. Rhodey sat back down, head in his hands, and muttered, “Tony’s gonna kill me.”

The hoodie Rhodey gave him wasn’t enough. Not with the wind biting through the fabric and the world suddenly feeling five sizes too big. Peter kept walking. Rooftops at first, slipping between shadows like second nature. But his senses were still off—he could hear too much, feel too much. Every horn was a scream. Every heartbeat on the street below was a warning bell. It was like his powers were punishing him for feeling. When he tried to web-sling, the line shot out crooked, missed the ledge. The second one latched on, but the trajectory was off. He crashed into the edge of a water tower, scraping his arm, tumbling onto gravel. He lay there for a second, breathing hard. Face stinging. Heart pounding. Then he sat up, clutching his ribs, and whispered, “Okay. Cool. We’re glitching. Great.” He didn’t cry. Not yet.

It wasn’t until he reached Queens after hours of wandering that his feet stopped moving on their own.

He didn’t even remember deciding to go there. But suddenly he was in front of a brick building, fourth floor, a soft golden light behind one window.

MJ.

She didn’t know. About Tony. Or Pepper. Or the lies. That’s what made her safe.

His knuckles hovered in front of the door for a full thirty seconds before he knocked.

Three soft taps.

He almost turned around.

Then: click. The door opened.

“Peter?” MJ blinked. She was in a hoodie and pajama pants, a book in one hand. “It’s—Jesus, it’s like two in the morning.”

Peter looked up at her. Soaking wet from the misty air. Cheeks flushed from wind and emotion. Lips parted like he was about to say something—and then didn’t.

Her voice softened. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Peter didn’t answer. His shoulders just sagged, breath catching like he wanted to say no but couldn’t.

So MJ did the only thing that made sense. She reached out, grabbed his hoodie sleeve, and tugged him inside.

MJ handed him the cup filled to the brim with tea and didn’t say a word as he took it. Peter’s fingers curled around the mug like he needed it to anchor him in the room. He was soaked and shivering under Rhodey’s hoodie, his curls matted with mist, eyes too bright and too dark at once.

He hadn’t said much. Just showed up at her door with a blank expression and a voice that sounded like it had been torn out of him.

Now, over thirty minutes later, the silence finally cracked.

“Do you ever think about... how well you really know someone?” he asked, staring into the tea like it might have the answer.

MJ tilted her head slightly. “Sure.”

“Like... what if the people you trust the most—your family, the people you love—turn out to not be who you thought they were?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her brows pulled together slightly. “Peter, what are you trying to say?”

He took a shaky breath, chest rising in a way that looked almost painful.

“Okay,” he said, voice too calm. Too detached. “What if you grew up thinking your parents died when you were five? That your aunt and uncle took you in. Loved you. Raised you. Gave you everything. What if they made you feel safe in a world that made no sense?”

MJ nodded slowly, unsure where this was going—but already feeling the weight behind his words.

“But then you find out,” Peter whispered, “that the people you called Mom and Dad died two years before you were born.”

MJ’s eyes widened just slightly.

“And the aunt you’ve always loved? Who kissed your forehead and made you lunches and cried when you scraped your knee?” His throat bobbed. “She’s not just your aunt by marriage. She’s your realmother’s sister. And she took you in because your real parents—your actual, biological ones—gave you away.”

He still wasn’t looking at her. His voice was thin, breathy, as if saying any of this out loud might cause him to break.

“They were there the whole time. Watching. Pretending to be something else. Pretending they were just the aunt and uncle who stopped by and spent time with you whenever they could. Letting you call them by fake names. Letting you idolize them without ever giving you the truth. And you felt at the same time loved and cherished and a bit like a charity case from time to time, because of how... Awesome both of them are and you were always starstruck around them. But they still abandoned you and hid the truth from you for almost a decade.”

His hand was trembling now. The mug clicked softly against his knee.

“And the worst part is... they didn’t do it out of hate or disappointment. They did it to protect you.” His voice cracked. “Because someone tried to take you when you were a baby. Because the world would’ve hurt you just for being their kid.”

MJ’s heart squeezed in her chest.

“And now... I don’t know what’s worse. That they lied to me. Or that I still love all of them so much I don’t even know how to hate them properly.”

He let out a hollow breath, finally setting the mug down on the table. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. “I’ve been sitting with this for hours, MJ. And my brain won’t shut up. Like, who the hell even am I now? Every memory I have is poisoned. Every smile, every ‘I love you’—I don’t know if it was real or part of the lie. If I ever even had a real family at all.”

Silence.

Then he added, even softer: “And the worst part? I think they were scared I’d turn out like him.”

MJ leaned forward, her voice careful. “Who?”

Peter’s eyes closed. A breath in. A breath out.

He opened them, and they were glassy.

“My dad,” he whispered.

MJ didn’t breathe.

Peter swallowed hard, voice cracking all over again. “You know my Aunt May? The person who was my mom, basically? My real Mom... She’s her sister. They all knew. They all knew.”

He was blinking fast now. “Ben, May, her, and him an —every adult I trusted. They let me grow up thinking I was someone else. They handed me a fake life and smiled like it was real. And I—” his breath hitched—“I feel like I’m drowning in someone else’s story.”

MJ didn’t move. Her fingers were curled in the blanket in her lap, her heart cracking open so wide it felt like it would never seal again.

And then she got up. Quietly. No dramatic movements. Just sat down next to him and gently reached for his hand.

At first, he didn’t respond.

Then, slowly, his fingers slid between hers.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, tears slipping past her lashes. “Except... I’m so, so sorry they, whoever they are, did that to you.”

Peter let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re hiding,” she said softly. “And that’s okay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I couldn’t breathe in there. In that building. In that room. May on one side. Her sister on the other. Like I was some... tug-of-war. And I wanted to scream, but all I could think was—if I stay, I’ll hurt them.”

MJ was quiet.

“Because I don’t trust myself anymore, MJ. I don’t know what I’ll do with all this... anger. And I’m scared of what I might say. What I might break. Or who.”

She reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead.

“You came here,” she whispered. “That means you still trust someone.”

He finally looked at her—and there it was. That same open, shattered honesty that had drawn her in from the start.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You don’t lie.”

She didn’t say anything. Just shifted slightly and pulled him into her arms.

And Peter—finally, completely—broke.

Not in a dramatic way. No sobbing or screaming. Just quiet gasps against her hoodie, his body trembling, hands curled into fists against her ribs.

MJ held him like gravity itself might tear him away. Like if she didn’t hold tight, the wind would scatter him across the skyline.

“You’re still you,” she whispered. “You’re still my Peter.”

And slowly, quietly, he melted into her arms—curled up, finally safe enough to fall apart.

"They... My parents. They're," Peter’s hands were trembling in his lap. He was breathing like he’d just finished running—but he hadn’t moved. Just sat there, hoodie damp, eyes red, chest heaving like his lungs didn’t know what to do with the air anymore.

MJ watched him quietly, holding his hand, every instinct in her telling her to wait, to let him lead.

“I can’t—” Peter’s voice cracked and fell away. He shook his head. “I can’t say it. It’s too—”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I’ve been trying. All night. In my head. Over and over. I thought if I just said it out loud, it’d get easier. But it’s like... if I say it, it becomes real.”

His fingers fumbled toward the coffee table, grabbing her phone with a whisper of a look that said please trust me.

MJ passed it over without a word.

Peter tapped slowly. Each letter felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The screen glowed in the dark room, lighting the shattered look on his face. When he turned the phone around, his hand was shaking.

First image: Tony Stark. Not from a press conference. Not a battle. Just a candid photo someone must’ve snapped at a charity gala—half-smile, tie askew, the exhaustion barely hidden behind charm.

Peter’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s... my dad.”

MJ’s eyebrows shot up—but he was already swiping.

Second image: Pepper Potts behind a Stark Industries podium, sharp in a blue suit, face caught in the moment before a blink. Controlled. Powerful. Familiar.

Peter’s throat bobbed. “And that’s... her. My mom.”

He dropped the phone on the couch between them like it burned.

For a long moment, MJ said nothing. She blinked slowly, lips parted, trying to piece it together.

Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands over his face.

“I called them Aunt Pep and Uncle Tony my whole life. Every birthday. Every family dinner. Every stupid childhood fever, every science fair—I looked up to him like he walked on air, and I never knew.”

He let out a shaky laugh, mirthless and hollow.

“They let me think they were just friends. ‘Old family friends.’ What a joke. I thought I was lucky that they cared. Turns out I was their kid. I just didn’t know it.”

He paused. And then, quieter:

“May—as I said she’s Pepper’s sister. My mom’s sister. And she raised me like I was hers. Never said a word.”

MJ’s eyes softened, the full weight of the lie crashing down on her as she watched Peter come undone.

“Ben lied too. Every time he said he was proud of me. Every time he tucked me in, or told me my parents would be proud... he knew. They all knew.”

Peter looked up at her then, and MJ nearly choked on the heartbreak in his eyes.

“I feel like I’ve been living someone else’s life. Like I’m a guest in my own skin and no one ever planned to tell me.”

His voice dropped.

“And the worst part? I still love them.”

His hands twisted into the fabric of his sleeves.

“I want to scream. I want to hate them. But I can’t. Because they did it to protect me. Because someone tried to take me when I was a baby, and they thought lying was safer than telling me the truth. So they built this lie and dressed it up like love. And it felt real. God, it felt real.”

He was blinking fast now, trying to hold it in.

“I don’t know what’s worse—that they lied to me… or that I still want them to hold me like nothing’s changed.”

Peter’s voice was flat now. Detached, like he was recounting someone else’s life.

“There’s this memory I’ve never told anyone about. Not all of it.”

MJ looked up from where she was sitting beside him on the couch, her chest already tight.

Peter’s eyes were on the floor.

“It wasn’t just once. Not with Skip.”

The silence after that sentence felt like a chasm.

Peter kept going, even though his voice was barely a whisper. “It started with stupid things. Games that didn’t feel like games. Hugs that lasted too long. Questions I didn’t understand but knew weren’t right.”

MJ’s hand tightened around the blanket in her lap, nails digging into the fabric.

“I told May once that I didn’t like him. That I didn’t want to be alone with him. She thought I just didn’t like babysitters. I was a quiet kid. Easy to brush off.”

He breathed in sharply through his nose. “So they left me with him. Again. And again.”

His shoulders curled in, smaller somehow.

“I thought maybe I was being bad. That it was my fault. That I wasn’t saying the right words to make them listen.”

MJ blinked away the tears rising fast.

“And then one night,” Peter continued, voice distant, “Tony and Pepper flew in early. Ben and May were supposed to meet them at the apartment. But they decided to stop by and pick me up before going there.”

His hands were locked together in his lap. White-knuckled.

“They heard me screaming. They broke the door down.”

A breath, jagged.

“Tony was first in. I remember him pulling Skip off me—slamming him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. Ben grabbed me and yanked me out of the room like I was on fire. May and Pepper wrapped me in towels even though I wasn’t bleeding.”

He blinked fast. Too fast.

“But the part I remember most?”

He finally looked at MJ. Eyes red. Wet. Trying to hold her tears, because she knows she's holding him together now.

“They couldn’t look at me.”

MJ’s mouth opened—but he was already continuing.

“Not that night. Not the next day. Not for weeks. They looked at each other. They cried. They argued. But they didn’t look at me. Like I was... contaminated. Like they didn’t know what to do with me now.”

He laughed once, bitter. “They told me it wasn’t my fault. That I was brave. But their eyes said something else. Their eyes said dirty.Ruined.”

MJ couldn’t take it anymore. She reached out and gripped his wrist—not hard, just enough to steady him.

“Peter,” she said, voice breaking. “That’s not what their eyes said.”

He didn’t respond.

She shifted closer, still holding on to him.

“They didn’t look at you because they were ashamed of themselves. Not of you. They loved you. They failed you. And I think that guilt nearly destroyed them.”

Peter blinked, the world around him tilting.

“You think so?” he whispered.

“I know so,” she said. “You were a little boy. You didn’t do anything wrong. And when they realized what was happening, they didn’t stop at words—they tore the door off its hinges. That wasn’t disgust. That was rage. That was love. And guilt. And the kind of helplessness that tears people apart.”

Peter’s breath hitched.

“They should’ve looked at you,” she added, gentler now. “They should’ve held your face in their hands and told you how good and brave and whole you were.”

He finally let out a quiet sob. “They lied about everything else, MJ. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

She cupped the side of his face.

“Believe this,” she whispered. “You weren’t dirty. You were just a kid. And the fact that you’re here, that you’re still standing, still kind—that means you’re stronger than any of them ever realized.”

Peter broke then, soundlessly falling into her arms.

And MJ—steady, fierce, unshakable—held him like she was made for this moment.

Peter’s sobs faded gradually, like a storm losing strength—each one shallower, quieter, until finally, there was only the sound of his breathing.

MJ ran her fingers gently through his curls, untangling them in slow, steady motions. Her other arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close, anchoring him like a lifeline.

His face was tucked into her neck now, warm breath brushing her collarbone. She could feel the tension melting from his body little by little, like his muscles were finally releasing the weight of too many truths.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to fix it. Just held him.

After a long while, Peter whispered, so quiet she almost missed it: “Don’t let go yet.”

MJ’s throat tightened. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he believed her.

Within minutes, his breathing evened out, soft and steady. One arm draped across her stomach, fingers curled gently in the fabric of her shirt. His legs folded up beneath him like a child, instinctively pulling himself into her space.

Safe.

For the first time in hours—maybe days—he was safe enough to sleep.

MJ looked down at him, her hand still in his hair, and whispered, “I got you.”

She reached quietly for her phone with her free hand, careful not to jostle Peter. The screen lit up the room softly as she opened her messages.

Ned (1:46 AM):

“dude is he with you?? please tell me he’s with you”

MJ (2:02 AM):

“He’s safe. Stay quiet.”

Ned (2:02 AM):

“ok. thank god.”

She added:

MJ (2:03 AM):

“Don’t say anything yet. They’ll find out soon. Let them.”

She turned the screen off, set the phone aside, and rested her cheek on the top of Peter’s head.

The quiet was a gift.

May sat on the edge of the bed like she was afraid to breathe too loudly.

The room still smelled like Peter—antiseptic and boyish shampoo and panic. She stared at the crumpled blanket where he’d lain, where she’d held his hand while he slept, where she’d whispered please forgive me over and over like a prayer he never heard.

He was gone now.

Gone without a word.

She had checked the corners of the room four times, as if he might be hiding behind the curtain, under the bed, curled somewhere small like he used to when he was scared of thunder.

But the truth was simple: he had left.

And she didn’t even know when.

She pressed her hand over her mouth to stop the sound rising in her throat. Not a sob. Not quite. Just… something broken.

She had promised Pepper. Promised Tony. “I’ll keep him safe.”

But now?

She didn’t even know if he would ever look at her again.

Pepper hadn’t left the bedside.

She was still sitting in the chair next to where Peter had been, her fingers hovering just above the sheets like she was afraid to touch them and erase what little warmth remained.

The door handle was gone. A jagged twist of metal sat on the nearby counter like a quiet accusation.

Bruce had said it was probably adrenaline. Shock. A fight-or-flight response from a traumatized kid.

She didn’t care.

She only knew that he had broken something on his way out—and not just the door.

She had tried so hard to love him from a distance. To be Aunt Pep. The kind adult. The safe one. The one who dropped off presents and never said I’m your mother.

She thought she was protecting him.

Now all she could see was his face—“You let me believe I was nothing to you.”

And the worst part?

She had.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, curled over herself in the chair, and wept as quietly as she could. Like if she didn’t make a sound, maybe the guilt wouldn’t hear her.

Ben Parker sat in the corridor outside the medbay, staring at the floor like it had answers. Like maybe the tile could tell him what he should’ve done differently.

Ned lay nearby, wrapped in a blanket, pretending to sleep. Bruce was on the other end, reviewing security feeds. Quiet. Analytical. Controlled.

Ben wasn’t any of those things.

He’d told himself for years that silence was safety. That the fewer people who knew, the better. That letting Peter live a quiet life—even if it was a lie—was worth it.

But what do you do when the truth comes anyway?

What do you do when the kid who called you Dad looks you in the eyes and sees a stranger?

Ben dug his hands into his jacket pockets and stared harder at the floor.

He didn’t deserve to cry.

So he didn’t.

Rhodey stood in front of the door like a soldier on post.

Tony was on the other side. Locked in. Voluntarily.

“I need ten minutes,” he’d said. That was half an hour ago.

Rhodey hadn’t moved.

He’d heard the crash. Something metal against glass. Then silence.

Then the sound of Tony’s voice—low, shaky, too quiet for words to be made out.

Rhodey didn’t knock. Didn’t call out.

Tony needed space. But Rhodey was going to make damn sure he didn’t take that space and implode inside of it.

He crossed his arms. Planted his feet. Waited.

Tony Stark sat on the floor with his back against the wall, staring at a shattered panel from one of the medbay monitors. His hand was bleeding. He didn’t care.

Peter was gone.

He had seen the bed. The broken handle. The empty silence.

He had heard Pepper’s voice break. May’s silence. Ben’s stillness.

And all of it led back to him.

He’d built walls. Told himself stories. Called it “protection.” Called it “strategy.”

But the truth was simple:

He was a coward.

He couldn’t face telling a child the truth, so he built an empire on lies and hoped Peter wouldn’t notice the cracks.

And now?

His son was gone.

His son.

Tony dragged his hand down his face and exhaled slowly. It sounded like glass breaking in slow motion.

Outside, he knew Rhodey was waiting.

But for now?

He couldn’t move.