wolf at the door
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21 — 10:12 PM
Peter doesn’t want to sleep. He can’t.
He sits up on the bed, curling his arm over his sore stomach. The pain curls in him, a phantom ache, and Peter’s not quite sure why it hurts: could be the drugs, the fear, or maybe this is just what Peter is now: a reservoir of old pains and remembered scars. He quickly glances to Cassie as she plays on the floor; her mother is sleeping on the cot in the corner, blanket loose over her.
He doesn’t know where Tony is—when did he leave? When’s he coming back?
He gets up and limps to the door. Peter is well enough now that he can limp around the room—something he hasn’t been able to do for a while. He forgot what it was like to feel like this—to be able to move his limbs without extraordinary effort. He takes a moment to remember it, this feeling—the hollow absence of pain in his limbs, the hum of painkillers warm in his veins. He’s not used to feeling this: good. There are no open wounds on him today. No hard-scabbed slashes, no blotchy burns weeping pus, no bruises darkening, darkening, darkening until they fade sore and yellow.
Peter presses his hands against the door to make sure it’s closed—and it presses flat against his palms: closed. Peter checks a couple more times, and then hurries back to the bed, drags the blanket over himself, breathing hard. It’s closed, it is, but even still—
—he comes for you, he always comes for you, stupid Parker, stupid Petey Parker, you know he’s coming for you— because this is when Beck comes, this is when he always comes: right as tiredness presses against him, just as he’s falling asleep, he’ll wake up with him—with him— with him—WITH HIM—
Someone’s whispering his name, whispering his name and Peter jumps but it’s just Cassie—standing there on the floor, she’s standing up. She wasn’t standing up before, was she? In her hand is that zebra, that stuffed zebra she’s taken to. “Who…” Peter tries, because he can’t remember. Who gave that to her?
“Alexis,” she tells him. “She’s nice.”
and Peter runs through their names in his head: Mateo, Caitlyn, Daria…. Haroun, Riri… Alexis? Was she new? Was she—
“She’s a doctor,” Cassie whispers. “She wears pink.”
He’s seen her before. Scrubs like the doctor’s. White shoes.
Peter nods then, staring at that stuffed zebra: black-and-white striped, with beady black eyes. He remembers when they used to get toys. Stuffed ones. Plastic games. That’s how it started. It wasn’t so bad then, the toys that came with their meals, playing house and restaurant and everything Cassie could think of.
Then they tried to run.
Peter’s thinking about running again, and his breathing goes quick in his chest. He can’t—he can’t run. He sees it then—the sharp plastic shank clutched in Cassie’s hand, the frayed shoelace keeping it tied to her wrist, her shrieking his name so loud her voice goes shrill. Cassie slipping in the pool and struggling to stand. Cassie dragged backwards by her hair. Cassie forced up against the wall, kicking her legs. Cassie right there, somewhere there, sobbing and watching him bleed—
Peter squeezes his eyes shut so hard his vision purples with spots. He wants to throw open the door of this room and bolt out into the hallway. Maybe he’ll find a door at the end, too, one thick and metal with a password-locked number pad.
Part of him knows that the door’s not there. It can’t be. “The Tower,” he whispers, to remind himself. “Avengers… Tower.”
Peter knows where he is. He does. He just…forgets sometimes. It’s hard to remember, and he spends too much time thinking about what’s on the other side of the door to think about anything else. He thinks he hears footsteps: nervous footsteps, and he inhales sharply, trying to find the reek of drugs that he knows is there. Angel dust for Charlie. Meth for Lyle. Opiods for Ava, and sometimes she slid him some through the food slot, crushed into a fine powder, dusty in a plastic bag. Got the good stuff, she’d whisper, eyes glancing down the corridor for Charlie, brown hair tangled up in the collar of her shirt. You want it?
Yeah, he’d whisper back, and she’d pass it to him. Ava was the only one who ever gave him a choice.
Footsteps. More footsteps. Pacing back and forth in front of his door, a couple one way and then the other—oh, God. Who’s out there? Heavier, a man’s steps, and Peter grips the railing of his bed so hard his knuckles go white. He blinks again, tries to blink away the growing pressure of panic gripping his chest, squeezing and squeezing.
More footsteps, and he freezes on the bed, his entire body locking up, and something cold spills open in his chest—
—YOU NEVER LEARN—YOU NEVER FUCKING LEARN, PARKER! YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE FREAK! YOU’RE GONNA LEARN! YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING—
“Peter?” whispers Cassie. She’s got on a hoodie, one from Peter’s box—not the clothes her family brought for her. It’s Peter’s, he knows, from a long time ago. Yellow with MIDTOWN HIGH printed across the front, the hood drawn up over her short hair.
He looks at her.
She scoots closer and closer. “We’re in a good place. Mommy says.”
“I know,” he says, and Peter hates that he’s confusing her, that she’s looking at him like that. Medbay. He’s in the Medbay. Not the bunker. Not locked in. The door’s not locked.
But everything feels wrong, and he can feel someone there, pacing outside—
— brown-haired, brown-eyed—
Cassie pokes his arm. “Mommy says—”
Peter makes a small noise, a hiss between his teeth, and she goes quiet very fast. He feels on edge, it’s like someone’s holding a fire under his feet—he’s listening, he’s listening, he has to listen outside to know when he’s coming— because he always comes, he always, always comes—
Several knocks at the door, and Peter flinches and stills himself— here, he’s here —no, that’s just—just Tony. Just Tony. Right?
Three knocks is Tony, two is Dr. Cho, four is Cassie’s mom.
Tony. Just Tony.
But then the door starts to open and that horrible muscle-splitting fear scrapes down his back—HE’S HERE—HE’S HERE—HE’S—
Peter scrambles off the bed. His casted wrist bangs against the railing, “Iron Man,” he hisses, grabbing her and Cassie dives behind him in the corner of the room—the bed has no room under it, and Peter backs her into it—this is as close as he can get to the three-walled safety of the bed that they used to have.
Finally, the door opens—Peter freezes, the creak sending a spiral of panic up his spine, and he presses Cassie back into the corner; she grasps his arm tight.
Three knocks again on the opening door. “Just me,” says the man, as his face comes into view. Dark beard, unbrushed black hair, long-sleeved shirt and light-colored jeans.
It’s Tony.
Just Tony.
Peter nods, wordless, the panic still thick in his chest. He tries to remind himself that he’s fine, but his body doesn’t know how to unclench. Not him, he thinks. Not—
”Hey, Pete,” says the man, shutting the door behind him. He stops there at the doorway, staring at the corner where Peter is, where Cassie hides behind him. “You okay?”
Peter takes in a shaky breath; he can feel the dread seep into him like ocean water, filling him up, murky in him and growing colder. OUTSIDE, he thinks, he’s outside, you heard him pacing, he’s gonna get you— and all of a sudden his breath catches in him— UP, PARKER, GET THE FUCK UP!
Tony follows his gaze, twists his head back to the door and then back to Peter. “Outside? Yeah, that was me. Sorry, kid, didn’t mean to scare you.”
Peter shudders—there’s something out there— someone out there— and he knows it’s coming, he knows how the door will open, the twist in the lock, the opening door, a bearded man’s high cackle, a shrill whistle— IT’S TIME, PARKER! UP!
— he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t want to— don’t take me, please don’t—
“He’s gonna—” Peter tries, panic climbing up his neck, and Cassie grips his hand tightly, inhaling rapidly, “he’s—out—out there—”
“There’s no one out there,” the man says, a little quieter. He looks thinner, too—his clothes hang on him different than Peter’s used to. “It was just me, buddy, I swear…”
Peter shakes his head. He can still hear it, the echo of pacing, heavy footsteps— left and then right, louder and louder, closer and closer— and something crawls up his back, prickles up every hair on his spine.
Cassie says something to him, and it’s muffled, foggy, and he squeezes his eyes shut again, opening them. Tony’s still talking: “…and her mom should be back in a second, she’s just taking a quick shower…”
“Tony,” he manages.
“Yeah, bud.”
He points with a trembling hand—HE KNOWS—OUT THERE— “He—he—there’s— out there—”
“Hey, hey…” says the man, kneeling on the floor with him, but he’s closer and Peter backs up, gasping, his head going hazy from air, air pumping in and out of him—HE’S OUT THERE—PLEASE—HE’S GONNA—panic punches him and he’s dizzy with it, clawing his sweaty hands at his hair, his face hollow and tingling with blood.
HE’S COMING—
“…Pete. Hey, hey, hey… Peter, look at me, buddy.”
Peter forces his head up and his vision’s swimming, blurry, water in his eyes, WHO—WHO— “Tony,” he manages, grasping at a strand of recognition: the blue pulsing light.
“Yeah,” says the man, with a strange exhale. “Good job, bud. Just me, I swear.”
“He’s… He’s…” He looks back at the door, and then he shuts his eyes again. HIDE—YOU HAVE TO HIDE—BEFORE HE—
Peter blinks himself back, spots waning in his vision, and finds himself clinging to Tony’s arm, the man’s sleeve imprinted with fingers of his own sweat. “…no one out there,” the man’s saying. “Do you want to check? I promise—”
Peter inhales so fast he goes dizzy again, and Tony stops talking. He’s grasping Tony’s arm so hard he can feel the man’s pulse in his forearm, heavy and a slight stutter. Please don’t make me, he thinks, please, PLEASE—
“Okay,” the man says. “We’ll try something else then, keep the door closed, is that okay?”
Behind him, Cassie peeks her head out at Tony; Peter doesn’t say a word.
“Hey, FRI?” the man says, tipping his bearded chin up to the ceiling.
A female voice from somewhere above him, familiar and vaguely Irish. “Yes, boss?”
Peter remembers her.
“Could you scan the hallway for me, please?”
“Nobody in the hallway, boss.”
Tony smiles at him, warm, his mouth pulling up on one side; Peter unclenches his hand a little, trying to take in a couple breaths. “Anyone in the elevator?”
“Ms. Potts is in the elevator, headed up to the penthouse, sir.”
“And the Paxtons?”
“Both on their residential floor.”
“Anyone else nearby?”
A short pause, and then she announces, “Dr. Helen Cho and the other medical staff are in the conference room.” With every word, the terror dizzying him eases, and his vision starts to clear. “ Dr. Sarah Wilson is in her office, and Dr. Alexis Miranda is in the stairwell on the phone.”
“FRIDAY,” Peter says, and he remembers her. Always announcing his arrival to the lab, always chiming in to Tony’s comments, always adjusting his chemistry errors and making sure he didn’t forget his backpack. “She’s…here?”
“Yep,” says Tony. “Installed her back last night, every room in the building, buddy. She won’t lie to you.”
Peter sniffs, the prickle of panic still there in his chest, and he pulls away from Tony’s sleeve, relaxing a little bit; his face is still wet. He looks up at the ceiling. “FRIDAY?”
A female voice from the ceiling, a little tinny from speakers: “Hello, Peter.”
Peter blinks. “You remember me?”
FRIDAY says, “Of course I remember you, Peter.”
Behind him, Cassie grips his hand, whispers something about wanting to go play; she can feel it, too—his shoulders slumping a little, his breathing slowing, and he squeezes her hand back twice: okay.
Tony lightly touches Peter’s wrist. “Anything you need, anything you want—FRIDAY’s got you, okay?”
Peter nods shakily. Cassie slips past him to the toy box and starts digging through it, whispering to herself about treasure chests.
Tony talks to him for a while—about all the things FRIDAY can do: change the lights, alert medical staff, even tell him when his next meal is. He rambles about tech and code for a while, somewhat talking to himself, and eventually he says, “...but you don’t have to stay in here. You know that, right?”
Peter presses his lips together and shakes his head. He’s sitting on the floor now, up against the wall, watching Cassie play with her stuffed animals out of the corner of his eye.
“This isn’t…” Tony adds. “I don’t know. I just don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped here.”
Peter just stares at him. Trapped, he thinks. LIKE A FUCKING ANIMAL, PARKER! GONNA PUT YOU DOWN LIKE A—
“Sarah said…” The man clears his throat, and then he palms a little at the glowing blue light there. “She said you might be staying in here because you feel safer. Is that… Is that right?”
Peter takes a moment to take in the question; doesn’t know what the right answer is, and finds that word ringing in his head: safer, safer, safer; a coil of dread twists in his belly, twists and twists, and he swallows without answering.
Tony shakes his head, mutters to himself a little. “Sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel…” He rubs his forehead. “Maybe, we could get something you like in here? More posters, or… A beanbag chair? You want a beanbag chair? You always begged me for one in the lab, and I always said it was a tripping hazard, but now…” He scratches at his too-long beard. “Whatever you want, Pete. I know it’s not like home, but I want it to feel…”
Peter glances at the corner—the bin full of clothes. Beside it, Cassie’s box full of toys. Posters covering the walls, pictures of people that Peter is too nervous to look at. Peter presses his mouth clothed, staring at the glowing blue light in Tony’s chest. He doesn’t remember Tony ever having something like that in him. It used to be in his suit.
“...but you don’t have to stay here,” he says. “Okay? This is your home…for now, but it’s not…” He trails off again, gnaws on his lip.
Pete is thinking about the apartment he left behind. Home. Is this his home now? Wasn’t the bunker his home once, too?
Eventually, the older man stops talking; he gives Peter an exhausted look, and he lets out a small sigh. “And your friends,” he says, “if you want them to come visit…I don’t know if you do, but they’re around, you know, keep asking about you…”
“Friends,” he echoes.
“Yeah,” the man says, and gives him an odd look. “You remember, don’t you?”
Peter shrugs a little and glances over at Cassie; she’s still playing by herself, cradling a stuffed animal in her lap and humming to it. Ned, he thinks, and MJ, but he can’t bring either of their faces to mind. A muted tapping sound, and Peter looks up; Tony’s tapping the wall, where there are a row of photos taped up. “Remember?” he says, and without looking Peter knows the photo: it was Ned’s home screen on his phone: a photo of himself, Peter, and MJ at a decathlon meet in matching yellow jackets.
But Peter turns away from it, lets his hair dangle in front of his face like a shitty curtain.
A strained sigh. “Peter…”
But Tony keeps talking, and he talks for a while more, and Peter just listens. It’s easy like this, Tony not moving any closer to him, sitting on the floor beside him, Peter just listening without responding. “…and we’re still a little worried about safety—but we can go to different floors in the building, we could go for a drive, maybe even the Quinjet if you want. Whatever you want. The lab… All your stuff is still there. Project Kevlar even, all your hard work from the spring, remember that? It was a great idea.”
Peter looks up at him; his neck aches from the effort. “What?” he whispers, and he rubs at his nose, at the tube there.
“Project Kevlar,” Tony repeats, and he’s frowning at him; is he angry? Peter crooks his knees up to his chest, hugs his legs up close to him. Cold creeps into him, chills spreading down his arms and legs, and he hugs his knees tighter. “No, buddy—I just… Your project. From April?”
Peter stares at his knees.
“It was still in the lab,” Tony says, “upstate, when… when… When it happened.” A flash of emotion on the man’s face, his eyes darting to one side and then back to Peter. “You wanted to make an alert system? To keep people…” The man’s still frowning at Peter, and he ducks his head, tries not to think about the way Tony is looking at him. “safe…” He shakes his head. “You don’t remember?”
Peter ducks his head, locks his elbows around his shins, staring down at his socked feet. “Sorry,” he mumbles into his knees, shame pressing at his sore chest. “All messed up.”
“What’s messed up?”
Peter blinks slowly, and he screws up his brow. “My head,” he says.
That seems to quiet the man, but eventually he starts rambling about beanbag chairs again, and eventually it grows late enough that Dr. Cho knocks, enters, and tells them both to go to sleep.
Tony heads to the bathroom first—a jittery shuffle, like an old man’s—and when he comes back he sits beside Peter on the floor and says, “There was—uh—something I wanted to tell you…”
Peter squints up at him.
A long pause. The man gnaws on his lip, glancing at the photos on Peter’s wall, and then down at his own hands. “Just, uh, we—” A low thrum of panic hits Peter’s chest. “We wanted to tell you…” Tony rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “Nevermind,” he says at last. “It’s nothing—just a medicine change, that’s all.”
Peter nods. He still feels strange, shaken by the thought of someone at the door, and he can feel the worry press at him. “You good for bed?” Tony asks, and he nods back. “Alright. Good. Well, uh, if you need anything, just wake me up, okay?”
Peter shrugs.
Cassie falls asleep first—in Peter’s arms, small raspy huffs, and he holds her a little sideways. Tony next, still dressed and sprawled on the cot, phone still in one twitching hand, mumbling in his sleep.
“Hey, FRIDAY?” Peter whispers, when both of them are sleeping soundly.
“Yes, Peter?” FRIDAY whispers back.
“Is there…” He swallows, and he scratches at his wrist, his fingernail catching on a ropey scar. “Are there people?”
"Where?"
"Out there?"
“In the hallway?” FRIDAY asks.
“Yeah.”
A short pause, like she’s thinking, and then the AI responds, “No one in the hallway, Peter.”
He tightens his grip on his arms, hugging his knees close to himself. “Are you—are you—are you sure?” he whispers.
“One hundred percent."
Peter glances at the door one more time, and then he climbs up on the bed, his leg spiking with pain as he does. It takes some time to get in a comfortable position. He buries himself in blankets, and the tubes from his central line hurt, an aching spot where each needle’s there in him. He’s not supposed to take it out. He asks FRIDAY the same question again, and she answers: no one in the hallway. "Sorry," he whispers.
"What are you sorry for?" asks FRIDAY, sounding a little confused.
Peter hates the question so much that he pulls his pillow over his head and pretends he's back in the bunker with Cassie—safe there, alone together, knowing exactly what will happen next.
When Peter finally falls asleep, he’s still in pain, and his stomach is growling—a familiar feeling, like a wolf asleep in his belly.