someday (i'll make it out of here)

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:02 PM

“...a difficult case,” Judge Pearce is saying. She is sitting down behind a large wooden desk, her hands resting on it. “The worst I’ve seen, in my time as a judge.”

Both Matt and Norman Osborn are seated on the other side of the desk. Foggy stands behind them with nowhere to sit, lingering near the door. Osborn’s face is plastered with a pleasant smile, whereas Matt’s tension is near-palpable—his face taut with frustration.

“And it is very clear to me that Mr. Parker has been through an unimaginable amount of suffering.” The judge interlaces her fingers, relaxing in her seat. “However,” the woman continues, “no matter the contents of this case, it does not warrant two well-respected attorneys such as yourselves to fight in front of the court like a couple of children. I am not a kindergarten teacher—I will not have you turning my courtroom into a playground. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, your Honor,” says Osborn quickly, and Matt does the same.

“Mr. Osborn—you will remind your defendants that intimidation is not permitted in my courtroom or any other. This may not be a hospital or a psychiatrist’s office, but it will not be a place where that boy should be terrorized, do you understand me? He’s been through quite enough.”

Osborn sets his jaw. “Yes, Your Honor.” His thick brows draw in for a moment, and then he smiles. 

“And Mr. Murdock?” Foggy can tell from the way he’s sitting that he’s still upset—his hand gripping his cane, his foot tapping against the carpeted floor. “This is a federal court. We do not have the time for breaks every time Peter Parker is upset— I’m sorry, I know, but it’s just a fact. He will be granted the same treatment as every other prosecutor.”

“Your Honor,” he continues, “my client suffers from severe post-traumatic—”

“I’m aware,” the judge interrupts. “Truly, I am. Dr. Cho and Ms. Wilson have made Mr. Parker’s difficulties more than clear to me.”

“But I'm afraid,” says Judge Pearce, “that in the court of law, it doesn’t matter how severe his psychological issues are. If you want him to take the stand against the captors, he has to declare his case. He’s enhanced, Mr. Murdock. You know the law.”

“But if we could just have more time—”

“Mr. Murdock.”

Matt shuts his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I feel for Mr. Parker, I do. It’s impossible not to. But the law is the law. We’ve already spent a month putting the arraignment on pause. I will not drag on this case any further.”

“But—”

“Mr. Murdock ,” the judge says again, stiffer. “That’s enough. I don’t want to see another motion on my desk, do we understand each other?”

Matt and Foggy had spent hours on those motions, agonizing over whether or not to request another extension from the judge. The first few had been granted, and then after that… 

“Yes, your Honor,” Matt says.

“Mr. Osborn? Are we clear as well?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Good.” She smooths her hair down with her hands. She looks a bit rattled from what happened in the courtroom; for a moment, her eyes glance down to the packet of pages in front of her: United States v. Charles A. Keene. “Well, if there’s nothing else—”

“Just one more thing, your Honor.”

“Go ahead.”

Matt clears his throat. “I’d like to make a formal request.”

She nods, allowing him to continue.

“I want to request that the court and the defense… That they only refer to my client by his first name.”

This catches her attention. Her eyes flit to Foggy, and then back to Matt. She takes her hands off the desk, a wrinkle deepening her brow. “Why’s that?”

Foggy hasn’t ever spoken directly to the kid; today is the first day he’s met Peter Parker in person. Yet now he knows exactly why Matt’s making such a strange request. He saw what happened in the parking garage—the way Peter blinked awake when Tony Stark said his name. He’s seen the camera footage from the Avengers’ invasion of the bunker, has heard Charles Keene scream Peter Parker’s last name like a curse.

“...conditioned response, from when he was still their captive,” Matt is saying, one hand propped up on his cane, the other gesturing vaguely. “It would help him, your Honor, it really would.”

Osborn grumbles something under his breath, and Judge Pearce shoots a look at him, which is surprisingly enough to shut up the green-suited man. “Of course, Mr. Murdock. That won’t be a problem. Counsel, did you have anything to add?”

Osborn widens his eyes in mock offense and then shakes his head. “No—no, of course not. That’s fine.”

“Then you’re both dismissed.”

Foggy turns to go, and as Osborn closes the door behind him, the judge adds, “Mr. Nelson, could you find Dr. Cho and Ms. Wilson and bring them here when they’re done? I’d like to speak with them.”

He nods.

She thanks them both then, and they walk out, back into the courtroom. The audience is filtering out in slow packs—Peter Parker is already gone, although everyone else is still at the prosecution’s table—including Tony Stark, who is still sitting down with a hollow look in his eyes. There is a crowd of gray suits at the defense’s table—and one green. Osborn. He’s speaking to one of his attorneys, arms folded. He shoots an impish look back in their direction mid-sentence before continuing to speak.

Matt walks fast over the carpet with his cane in front of him, alarmingly fast for someone blind, fast enough Osborn looks back again, startled. “Osborn,” says Matt, stopping in front of him. “Waive the rest of the arraignment. You’ve made your point.”

Osborn’s hair is brushed back and stiff with gel—his tie is knotted all the way to the base of his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, with a faux smile. 

“Waive it,” he repeats. “You know Peter’s not ready to face them—you know what you’re doing.  Peter has been through enough in the past five months without you forcing him up on the stand—”

“Forcing him?” the man chuckles. “This is your prerogative, Murdock. Parker doesn’t have to go up.” Neither Matt nor Foggy miss the way he says Peter’s last name. “All he has to do is drop the charges against my clients.”

Matt shoots a hard look in the attorney’s general direction. “You know we can’t do that.”

Osborn raises his hands in mock surrender, a slight smirk gracing his face. “I'm just looking out for the kid.”

Matt can’t see the smirk on his face, and Foggy spits, “Like hell you are.”

“Waive it,” says Matt again. “Osborn, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he says coolly. “It’s my clients’ legal right to have their indictment read before the court. You’re the ones forcing him through this.” The man clicks his tongue. “Not very ‘Nelson and Murdock’ of you, is it?”

Matt shifts his cane to the other hand and grabs Osborn by the elbow, hard. “This is not a joke,” he says angrily. “This is not a game, Osborn. Peter Parker’s life was ruined by what they did—and forcing him up in front of the court when he’s just barely left medical care… Do you have a single shred of empathy for him?”

Osborn rips his suited arm away from Matt’s grip. “Do you?” the man says, smoothing down his green sleeve. “Listen—drop the charges, and it all goes away.”

Matt’s silent then; his hand clenches into a fist at his side. 

“Well, then…” Osborn says, with a flash of a grin at Foggy. “Guess I’ll see you after the break.”

Murdock manages another vicious look in Osborn’s direction, but as soon as he opens his mouth to respond, the attorney’s already walking away.

Gleaming teeth. A bloody hand gripping a knife. A wild laugh. “Say hi to the camera, Spider-kid!”

Centered in the grainy video, cuffed tightly into that massive chair, is Peter. He’s slumped forward, head bowed, hair dangling into his lap, his chest moving up and then down again.

“Parker! PARKER!”

With a pained sound, the kid forces his head up, and his groggy eyes meet the lens, staring straight into Tony’s. His chest is littered with scars and half-healed cuts and open wounds, one is wide and dark and oozing blood—beneath it, a peek of white rib. Blood dribbles from a poorly stitched gash on the side of his head, sticky and dark in his matted hair; he’s breathing heavily through his mouth. Dark scabs have hardened around his wrists—several of his fingers are bloody at the tips—pink spots, nailless. His feet are bare and his heels are coated in grime.

There is no corner of him untouched.

Charlie takes a step towards the chair, and the kid’s toes curl against the cement floor. His face shines in the room’s harsh lighting; light shadows over the scar in his cheek and into the hollow of his jaw as he cringes away from the man.

“Say it! I said FUCKING SAY IT!”

Both of Peter's hands grip into tight fists and then shakily unclench. He croaks out a cracked sound through his teeth—an incomprehensible echo of Charlie’s words. Laughter and talking and high-pitched chuckling, and Charlie smacks Peter on the shoulder—hard enough that Tony can hear the smack as his palm meets skin—the kid cringes again, body taut as a bowstring, squeezing his eyes shut and trembling, waiting for a second blow. “I THINK WE’LL KEEP HIM! WHAT DO YOU SAY, STARK?”

It’s July now, Tony thinks. July and they’re still here. 

Renee’s got ahold of one of Tony’s weapons—a smaller one, plastic-and-metal with a glowing blue light in the center. She examines it, turning it over and over, smoothing her hand over the barrel, placing her finger on the trigger. “We finally got one that works, Stark? You gonna save your Spider-Baby this time?”

It doesn’t work. Like all the others, it doesn’t fucking work. “It’s the best I can do,” Tony stammers into the phone, gripping it hard. “Please—I’m—I’m doing my best, I—”

“Does it work, Stark?”

“I need more time,” he begs. “Please—just, don’t hurt him today, please don’t hurt him today_”

But they will. 

They do.

No matter what he says, or what he does, or how hard he works, they will always do it.

Charlie rambles on—slurring about saving the world and HYDRA and the bigger stick. All the while Tony watches his kid. Peter, who can barely lift his head but is still managing to focus directly on the camera. Peter, whose face is marred by half-healed layers of scarring. Peter, who jerks against the cuffs every time Charlie says his name.

Peter’s mind is gone—his mouth shut now, his eyes unfocused, his grip on the chair loosening. 

Good, he thinks. The phone slips in his hand, sweat against plastic, and Tony grips it tighter, eyes on the television. Go somewhere else, buddy. Anywhere else.

Renee’s picked up the weapon now—one of his shitty ones. She lifts it up, waves it around as Charlie screams into the phone. She pokes at the chair with it a couple times—it clanks, the sound of metal against metal echoes through the room before she raises it and pokes at Peter’s shoulder.

No. Oh, God, no.

Charlie’s still shouting, spittle running down his chin—too high to notice anything else.

Tony can’t hear any of the words coming out of the bearded man’s mouth—just the echoing clang of the weapon as Renee swings it up and bangs it against the chair with a metallic clank.

Peter doesn’t even flinch. 

Renee lifts the poorly-made gun and pokes him again with the barrel. Nothing—Peter stares emptily at the camera. The third time, she lines it up with Peter’s head and jabs him in his temple, and his head tips slightly to the side, his eyes still on the camera. 

His eyes still on Tony .

“Kid’s gone all radio-silent again!” Remee shouts out, and then she giggles. “Should I wake him up?”

Wake him?

Oh, no.

No, no, no—

“Please,” Tony begs, slapping his hand against the television. “He’s had enough—you’ve done enough—give him a break—“

Charlie staggers to the side, grasping the chair for a moment to support himself. “What?”

Renee repeats what she said, louder, and Charlie laughs. “You want me to wake him up, Stark?” she calls out, waving the gun again. “Let’s wake him up!” The red-haired woman hauls up the gun, rests the barrel against the chair, and says, “You’re gonna make me do this, Parker?”

“WAKE UP, SPIDER-BABY! UP! UP!”

Peter mumbles something back. His voice is rough, strained and quiet, another echo of what’s been said. Tony recognizes that weapon—it’s one of his very first prototypes, one that was so poorly made that it would barely kill the mouse he’d practiced it on.

Renee cackles out another laugh. “Fine, Parker. You asked for it—let’s see how good this thing really is.”

She takes the gun and taps it against the chair a couple times—a threat. Then the woman heaves up the weapon, lines it up with his good leg and fires. 

A sizzle of flesh, and Peter is screaming—what used to be a chunk of emaciated flesh now has smoke rising from it, and the kid’s writhing against the cuffs, twisting his wrists, pulling hopelessly and howling in pain. “YES! HA! GOT HIM UP! GOT HIM UP, STARK—”

“…Tony? Tony?”

Someone shaking his shoulder. A dark brown hand grasping and shaking a bit harder. “Tony,” the man says again. “Hey—Tony, come on.” 

He’s still sitting in the courtroom. There’s a low mill of voices around him—people shuffling towards the open doors, others sitting with their heads in their hands. In the midst of all the noise, someone is crying. 

“Where is he?” 

Rhodey takes a moment; his hand stills on Tony’s shoulder. He’s wearing a brass-buttoned military suit, his nicest one, ironed stiff with a couple dozen pins pricked to the front. A metal clasp pins his tie down. His hair has been recently cut, buzzed closely to the scalp. “Sam already took him out back,” Rhodey says. “Bathroom. He’s safe.”

Safe, he thinks vividly, and he can’t help but remember how Peter wasn’t.

Tony knows there was a car accident on the day that Peter went missing. He knows that’s how they took him. Pepper’s mentioned it a couple times—that’s how it happened. He just never watched the footage. 

Did Peter have his suit, his webshooters? Did he have his phone? Did he call for help? 

Did he call for Tony?

He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t. Tony’s never asked Happy for the footage—he’s never wanted to watch. But he can’t help but wonder how long it took. Minutes? Hours? 

Did he fight? Did it hurt? 

Did he even have a chance?

Tony wonders then, a brief flutter of a thought, if Peter knew it was coming—if his spider-sense told him he was going to lose the next five months of his life to a madman.

(Five months Peter lost, and he’s still losing time. They’re barely a month into Peter’s recovery and still they haven’t made much progress. Peter would probably lose much more time to Charlie Keene. Months if he’s lucky. Years, more likely. 

Who knew if it would ever end? Maybe Peter would be like this forever.)

Tony’s still blinking away the afterimage of Charlie’s face, and for some reason he keeps remembering that first phone call—the start of it all. Charlie’s voice coming in fuzzy through the phone. The prickle of frustration at FRIDAY. 

—Charlie smiles at the camera, one fist in Peter’s hair, pulling Peter’s head back against the headrest, the other pushing the knife deeper. “This is your life now, Stark,” he declares, his forehead shining with sweat and pride. “You’re gonna make my fucking weapon, and I’m gonna take this freak apart piece by piece. Every day until you finish.”

Then he slides out the knife, eliciting another groan of protest from semi-conscious Peter, and flips it down, stabbing it directly into the kid’s broken left forearm with a horrific crunch as metal meets bone.

Peter’s scream makes every bone on Tony’s body light on fire—he can’t breathe, he can’t think, his knees wobble—Charlie’s twisting the knife—anger bursts into panic, bubbling over in his aching chest— “Stop, stop it! I’ll do it— I’ll do it, I’ll make your fucking weapon!” 

A victorious grin. Charlie’s hand stops, pulling the knife out, and a woman beside him presses a bandage to the bleeding wound as Peter whimpers. “I thought you might—”

“Tony. Tony. Hey…”

Rhodey’s speaking again, and Tony looks up at him. His best friend is just how he remembered him—tall and proper, an easy smile, a scolding look. The only person who has never left his side. Tony used to hallucinate him back in the lab—used to imagine Rhodey passing him a tool, waking him up, pushing a wrench or a screwdriver into his hand, telling him he had to keep going. 

Not that it mattered. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Tony never did make that perfect weapon.

He could only dream for so long then, before he was shocked back to reality—to Peter’s face on the television screen, to Charlie howling out demands. NOW, STARK—I MEAN IT! ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID? THE WEAPON! NOW, OR I’LL—

“Tony. Tony.”

“Hm?”

Rhodey’s brow tightens—a wrinkle in his forehead—and his mouth pulls downward at the corners. “Jesus, Tones,” he says, gentle. “We were so focused on Peter—I forgot how bad this would be for you.”

Bad, he thinks, for me?

No.

Tony is perfectly fine. He is wearing a suit and he is out of the lab and Peter’s face is no longer grainy on a television screen. There are no weapons to make, no blueprints to design, no equations to calculate, no mechanisms to test.

He is clean and safe and well-fed and there is a warm hand on his shoulder. 

How long did Peter go without that?

“You’re shaking,” says Rhodey, and his friend grimaces. “Tony…”

Is he? Tony glances down to check and finds his hand trembling at his side; he raises it, stares at it, and feels a twist of revulsion in his stomach.

Rhodey’s mechanic legs move with several clicking noises as the man shifts towards him. “I thought Helen fixed that.”

“Most of it,” Tony says, weary. When he asked Cho why it hadn’t gotten better, she’d assured him there was some damage, but nothing that wouldn’t heal with time. The rest, she said, and she looked a bit sad, her eyes soft, could just be stress. 

“Do you need something?” Rhodey asks, squeezing Tony’s shoulder again. “Coffee, or water, or…” 

He can’t have coffee anymore. Not with the way he wrecked his heart with those supplements. He supposes he hadn’t thought of the risk when he was trapped in the lab. “Can’t,” Tony says. “The, uh…” He waves vaguely at his chest, at the arc-reactor, now pacemaker, steadily glowing blue. 

Eyes flicking down to Tony’s chest, his friend nods quickly. “Right. Sorry. Forgot.”

Pepper’s a couple aisles away and talking to a teenage boy, both still seated on the bench—her hand on the boy’s shoulder, the kid talking nonstop. He barely even remembers who that kid is—someone involved in the case, he’s sure. Murdock and Nelson are standing at the prosecution’s table and talking to each other. Peter’s already gone. His chair is empty.

A pang of panic hits him in the chest—a burning pain, and his mind blears with the echo of Peter’s face. Where… Where…

Someone took him, Tony’s mind whispers, and his gut twists violently at the thought. Someone—

“—did you think I was just fucking around, Stark?” His voice slides down, a broken whistle. “You’re not hacking your way out of this one—not without watching me blow Peter Parker’s brains out.” The man on the other side of Peter pulls out his weapon, a large pistol, and slams the muzzle against Peter’s bloody head; through the phone, Tony hears him cry out through his swollen mouth in shock. A “no” dies in Tony’s throat. 

His left arm’s tingling, going strangely numb, and everything starts to spin. He can’t breathe.

On the other end of the line, Charlie growls, “I told you not to try any of this hero business, Stark.”

The man beside Peter slams his fist against Peter’s swollen wrist. Peter gurgles in pain. 

Panic spears through him; Tony gasps out, “Please.”

Charlie ignores him. “Get started on my weapon, Stark. Or it’s Parker’s head on a platter.”

Through the phone, Peter makes this sound, so weak and pained that Tony’s legs buckle beneath him.

Charlie’s voice. “You’re my bitch now, Stark.” A chuckle. “Don’t forget it—”

“Tony?”

Charlie’s gruff voice over the phone. A knife pressing hard into Peter’s cheek. The television grainy in front of him—the chair empty in the center of that tiny room, the cuffs clamped down on chafed-bloody skin—

“Tony. Tony.”

“I’m fine,” he says, pushing himself up from his chair. Why is Charlie Keene’s face sticking in his mind? Why can he still see the man’s face as clear as that first day? Hear his voice barking orders over the phone? Hear Peter begging for help—begging that man for mercy? 

Only one time they’d let him speak to him over the phone. One time, and Tony could remember it like it was yesterday. Is it gonna work? he’d asked, his voice raw and full of tears, and when Tony had lied to him and told him yes, Peter sobbed out three more words.

Do you promise?

He thinks Peter knew he was lying. He thinks they were both lying to each other—but what else could they have done? Peter saying he’d watch the Godfather, Tony saying that fucking weapon would work. 

Not one day could he pull together something to save Peter.  Not once. Hundreds of hours, thousands, and not one of Tony’s weapons that worked the way Charlie Keene wanted it to.  How could he have ever claimed to be a genius? An engineer? A marvel? 

He was nothing. 

He couldn’t save Peter. He couldn’t save anyone.

God, he hates himself.

“Where is he?” Tony manages. “Where’s Peter?”

Rhodey looks at him. “The bathroom,” he says, an awkward lilt to his voice. “With Sam. Tony—”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, but Jesus, he really is shaking because he takes one step and has to brace himself against the bench, his knees going weak. Tony keeps picturing Charlie’s face: wild eyes, bearded chin, open mouth screaming Peter’s name. His heart patters in his chest, faster and faster, and he just keeps seeing the man—wide bloodshot eyes, matted beard, face speckled with Peter’s blood, raising that hammer—

A low whirring sound as Rhodey’s mechanically-supported legs move towards him. Then a hand resting on his shoulder, a warm pressure on his back.

“Sorry,” Tony says, feeling shame harden in his stomach, and he presses his fingers into his eyes. Peter had been tortured for months by that man, and here he was, trembling at the sight of a guy who’d never laid a hand on him. “I just…”

He looks up at his friend—who has seen him turn from a glossy businessman into this wreck of a person. He wonders if Rhodey knows how badly he failed Peter. 

He wonders if Rhodey thinks about that when he looks at him.

Tony sure does.

Rhodey opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and then quickly shuts it. The man stares down at his own legs, a strange, hollow look, and Tony thinks, Of course. How could he even think of self-pity after what he did to Rhodey? After what he did to Pepper, to Peter, to everyone?

His legs shake again, a pathetic quake, and Tony clamps his hand down on his knee to stop it. He doubts he’ll be able to make it out those courtroom doors without help.

When Tony looks up again, Rhodey’s got one arm extended towards him, his hand out towards Tony’s. He beckons to him, wordless, and then extends his hand a second time—an offer.

Tony takes it.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:08 PM

The hallway is crowded with people—men in suits and women in blouses. One step at a time , Rhodey helps him the whole way, and they avoid speaking to any of the people they pass. A lawyer who was at Tony’s first Iron Man hearing. Clint Barton dressed in a smart navy suit, talking quietly with Happy. Natasha Romanoff, as unreadable as ever, who stands as they pass and follows right after them. Foggy Nelson, who’s sitting on a bench and wiping at his forehead with his sleeve; he, too, gets up and follows them down the hallway.

And then a man in a tailored suit. White with a gray mustache and well-combed hair and glossy black shoes. There’s an army pin on his lapel, and he’s got a sandwich in his hand and takes a massive bite—he’s chewing and laughing at the same time. He’s speaking to a couple other men, clapping one on the shoulder as he speaks. 

Someone Tony knows too well.

Secretary Thaddeus Ross.

“What is he doing here?” Rhodey asks, giving a hard glance at the man.

Foggy Nelson answers this time. “Secretary of Defense,” he says. “He’s allowed to.”

“You know the guy?” Rhodey asks.

The blonde man rubs the back of his neck as they walk. “Ran into him a couple times, yeah. Me and Matt work a lot of enhanced cases.”

“And he’s…”

“Secretary of Defense,” says the man. “Head of the newfound Enhanced Containment Division, so he’s usually…around. Any enhanced cases, law of collateral stuff… Usually he’s trying to get them on technicalities, you know, ship them off to the Raft.”

“But what the hell is he doing here?” asks Rhodey. “Peter didn’t do anything wrong.”

Nelson shrugs. “You’d have to ask him.”

Tony glances back at the man as they pass. The man takes another bite of his sandwich, chewing now with his mouth open and laughing again. He hates, suddenly, that Ross is eating like that—easily, casually, like there’s nothing to it.

Like Peter doesn’t struggle to take down every meal, like Peter hadn’t been starved for five months, like Peter wasn’t so skeletally thin when they found him that he contracted refeeding syndrome, like Peter didn’t chew cardboard between meals, like Peter couldn’t look at a slice of damn pizza without wondering about what he’d have to sacrifice for it.

Tony watches as Ross drifts to some men talking on the other side of the room and waves to them—their slapping him on the back as a greeting. Ross laughs loudly, and abruptly Tony thinks.

When was the last time Tony laughed? 

When was the last time Peter did? 

Rhodey taps his shoulder again, and Tony keeps walking, turning away from the man. Rhodey helps him down the hallway, past the men’s bathroom and the women’s, to the end of the hall where there’s a lone door with a handle. A family bathroom. One room. At the end of this hall, their group gathers—Clint drifting to Nat’s side, Agent Woo holding two cups of coffee and talking to Sarah. 

“Hey,” says the agent as he approaches. “Good job in there.”

“Haven’t done anything yet,” Tony says.

“Still,” Agent Woo says, and then they both fall silent. A beat, and he gestures with one hand with the white styrofoam cup “Coffee?”

Rhodey takes the first cup with a “thanks” and Woo holds out the second one to Tony—a wisp of steam rises from it.

Coffee.

Tony stares at it for a moment, and he can remember the taste too well—black and bitter, milky and sweet, sipping from a plastic lid.

Woo clears his throat. “Uh,” the agent says, still holding out the cup. “Did you want…”

Before the sleep supplement pills, Tony had coffee. Tons of it. He was drinking so much of it that he started to dream of it, too, and his whole body would tremble from the mere lack of it. He drank it so much that he couldn’t last more than a couple hours without it, so much that headaches would press at his skull and squeeze at his every thought, begging for more. 

“Can’t,” Tony mumbles. “Meds.”

He’s no longer weaning off the stimulants he took, but the aftereffects still remain. He still takes medication for his weakened heart. He can still feel that pacemaker thrumming through him, keeping his heart going steady. After so long on the sleep supplements and dangerous levels of stimulants and stress, Helen advised him to avoid caffeine altogether. 

 “Oh,” says Woo, pulling the cup back. “I didn’t know… Uh.”

Tony used to go on Starbucks runs with Pepper. He and Rhodey used to go to local coffee shops and buy new coffee beans for them to try—French roast and breakfast blend, mocha and Irish cream, hazelnut, too—Tony’s favorite. Anything they could find, they tried. Tony used to make it for Pepper. She always got up before him, and he’d make her breakfast while she was in the shower—slide a steaming mug across the counter to her every morning, the way she liked it—with too much milk and a sprinkle of sugar.

(He can picture her now, the way they were before—Pepper Potts falling asleep next to him, Pepper Potts stepping out of the shower, Pepper Potts in her skirt and blazer, kissing him goodbye.)

Then April came, and coffee became a commodity. A means to an end. Something he used in his struggle to save Peter. After weeks and weeks of drinking it, Tony stopped taking any pleasure in it at all. He started drinking it like water, gulping it down like air, knowing that every second he took to sleep was a second wasted.

He thinks the longest he went without sleep was ten days, at one point, after Charlie waterboarded Peter and forced him to watch. 

“Sorry,” Tony adds, and he has to blink away the image of Peter coughing up water—of liquid spilling out of his mouth, streaming shiny down his chest.

Agent Woo nods awkwardly. Then he turns and passes the cup to Foggy, who thanks him with a pat to the shoulder—then sips, winces at its bitterness, and lowers the cup to his side.

In the corner, Sam Wilson is talking quietly with his sister, frowning and pointing at the bathroom door; Sarah takes a glance at it, then returns to their brother, giving a hushed response. A few feet away, Barnes and Rogers are standing closely together and talking in low voices—Rogers emphasizing each word with urgent jabs of his hand, Barnes holding him steady by the shoulder. 

Tony and Rhodey approach the Wilson siblings, and Sam is still talking, barely noticing the people approaching. “....something you can do, right? To help him?” asks Sam. “I mean, Sarah, come on… ”

“There’s only so much talking I can do, Sammy—”

“But he needs you. He needs something— anything —or he’s not gonna—”

“How is he?” Tony interrupts, and the brother and sister both turn to him.

Sarah opens her mouth and then shuts it; Sam folds his arms. “Not good,” he says. “Practically had to drag him in there, which did not help—he’s freaking out.”

Drag him? Tony tries not to remember, but the memory comes like a weight to his ankle, pulling him down, and all of a sudden he can see Peter—

— facedown on the cement table. Charlie’s in the corner with Renee, both of them leaned over a table staring at long stretches of white powder cut up in thin lines. They’re taking turns now snorting it up, while another man is leaning over Peter in the same manner, blocking Tony’s view of him, the man’s arms shifting above the kid’s bare chest.

Tony can’t see what he’s doing; all he knows is that Peter has long since passed out—thankfully, no one has noticed yet that their victim is unconscious.

Eight o’clock then, and relief as the man backs away from Peter, and wipes his hands on his pants. Peter is very still, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed; Tony can’t truly see the damage—just blood, too much of it, leaking down Peter’s side in beaded lines. The man tries again to wipe away the blood, roughing his palms against his thighs, but only manages to leave streaks on his jeans. 

Charlie stands then, wiping at his nose and coughing a couple times before staggering over to Peter’s body. “That’s a wrap, huh? How’d we do?” He laughs a little, and the other man laughs, too. “Think Parker learned his lesson?” He cackles again, and leans over Peter’s body, smacking his cheek a couple times. “Falling asleep on me, Parker?”

Peter’s head lolls back to its original position; Charlie grabs him by the head and smacks again, leaving pink on his face. “Parker!” The kid’s head rolls to the side, but still he doesn’t move—his arms are still in the cuffs.

He’s not fighting anymore—he’s just laying there.

“Fuck. Get him down to the doc.”

No one moves to help him—and Peter is too small, and too still, and he’s bleeding without anyone to help him.

“I said get him down to the fucking doc! Daria! Lyle! Now!”

A tall girl unlocks his cuffs—they’re black-crusted, and a skinny guy grabs Peter under one arm and pulls. 

He leaves a smear of blood on the table as he goes.

What if he’s dead this time? What if Charlie’s gone too far? What if Tony’s finally—

—a cough, and Sam Wilson is staring at him. Did he say something? 

“What?” Tony says. 

Sam clears his throat a second time. “Just, uh… worried about Peter, that’s all.”

Tony stares at the bathroom door; it’s got a black and white sign on the front with a handicap symbol on one side. “Is he…” Alone, he wants to ask, but he can’t bear the thought of it.

“Cho’s inside with him,” Sam says.

Tony doesn’t think then, he just moves, pushing open the door and slipping inside. Cho’s crouched in the corner by the kid, who’s sitting silently against the wall. “...hold out your arm, Peter,” she says, reaching out with her blue-gloved hands, and he just does it, tipping his head back, and he doesn’t look at her as he does.

That’s something he used to do before April, too. The kid hated needles. Refused to look at them as they went in, the way kids did. Peter could take a bullet to the chest and fight through it but couldn’t bear needles. Bruce Banner once wanted to draw blood to test him and Tony had to bribe him with pizza just to get him to sit still. 

How many times has he been forced to do this?

“Thank you…” the kid murmurs. “Thank… you…”

He’s seen the kid tune out during an injection, cry, even flail and fight back.

But thank her?

“What?” Tony says, much too loud.

The kid jerks his head up at the sound of Tony’s voice—and he flails a bit, smacking at Cho, and she says, trying to block Peter’s thrashing arms, “Damn it, Tony, wait outside! Sam—help me out here!”

Sam comes in then, shoves Tony back, and shuts the door in his face.

There’s some motion inside, some urgent talking, and for a while no sound at all. At last Cho walks out and she snaps her gloves off. 

There’s a mark on her face now, slowly growing red. It looks like it’ll bruise. 

“Tony,” she snaps, “you can’t just do that. You know how he gets when I—”

“What were you giving him?” he interrupts.

Her nostrils flare. “His meds,” she says coolly. “Muscle relaxant, electrolytes, pain relief—”

“I thought you were doing that when we got back,” he says, bristling, and when Tony tries to move past her to the door, the woman takes a step to the side, blocking him, her white lab coat swaying. “You said he was fine.”

“That was when we thought the arraignment would only last half an hour,” Cho says. “Now we’re looking at three. I brought it all just in case we needed it, and you should be glad I did.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. 

“Listen,” she says, her voice softening, “I can give him something. Just to…make this easier. It might help—it might not.”

Give him something? “You mean—” he manages. “You want to sedate him?”

Cho lets out a huff of air—that mark on her face is getting redder by the second, becoming an irritated pink. “He’s not gonna take this well, Tony,” she says, excruciatingly calm. “I’m not sure what else we can—”

“How many times do I have to say we’re not doing that again,” Tony snaps. 

“What would you rather us do?” she says, pressing on. “Wait for him to break down at the podium? Wait until he makes a run for it and hurts someone?”

Cho’s face—the bruise. 

Tony shakes his head. “He wouldn’t—”

“Hurts himself?” she adds.

Tony wants to grab her by the front of her lab coat and scream, It’s Peter! He wouldn’t hurt anyone! 

But he could.

God, he just did. Tony forgets sometimes that he isn’t looking at the old Peter. That this is a new one, molded and cracked like clay, a shadow of his former self. “Forget the drugs,” he says. “You’re scaring him—and you know what they used to do to him in there.”

The woman stiffens, looking suddenly uncomfortable, and then adds, “I know.” Helen is one of the few people who knows the details of Peter’s captivity—having access to all of his medical records alone allowed her to figure it out. “But he needs them—all of it.”

“He doesn’t need fucking muscle relaxant, Helen—”

“He does,” she insists. “Peter hasn’t had the strength of his old powers in months. Months, Tony. He doesn’t understand how strong he is now. Look at the door.”

Tony looks back at the door then, just as she asks. There’s no damage to the doorknob, which makes it seem like someone opened it for him. The door jamb is what’s warped—the edge of the door melded in the shape of fingers.

Like he’d been forced inside.

Nausea stabs at his belly, and Tony presses a trembling hand to his stomach, just below the arc reactor, before it rises up. The bruise on Cho’s cheek. Sam’s hand pinning his arm down. The mark on the door. “You made—“ he says, blinking away another memory, “you made him—“

“We didn’t have much of a choice,” she says. “He’s not in a good place right now, Tony—not after seeing that man.”

That man, Tony thinks, and he hates that she can see it like that. One man. One human man without any powers—who single-handedly ruined both of their lives.

“It’s not safe for him to be at full power,” Cho says. Her black hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands trailing into her face. “And it’s not safe for you to be in there with him—not with his mind the way it is.”

“Oh, so it’s fine for you, but not for me—”

“I’ve done it before,” she says. “I can handle him. I just don’t want him to hurt you, Tony, he could—”

“He won’t,” Tony says, and tries to sidestep her but she’s quicker than he is. 

“Do we know that?”

“Yes,” he says, and for a second time he tries to get past her and she blocks him.

“You forget you’re fragile, too, Tony,” Cho says. “You spent nearly three months with consistent heart problems left untreated. You barely ate enough to sustain yourself, barely slept, no nutrition, I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did given your medical history—”

“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, because he is. Whatever happened to him is nothing compared to what happened to Peter. Who was he to complain about a bit of exhaustion while Peter was beaten unconscious? Who was he to complain about the stabbing pain in his chest while Peter was being cut open? Who was he to complain about loneliness while Peter had been locked in that tiny room like a damn animal?

Compared to what Peter lived through, it was nothing. Tony was fine; it was nothing. He was fine.

“Take a walk, Tony,” she says fixedly. “You can see him when I’m done.”

He tries to push past her again, and then there’s a red-haired woman between them, bodily shoving him back with one hand—Nat. "She’s right, Tony,” she says, staring him down hard. “Go get some water, food, go to the bathroom—anywhere. Just give her a few with him.”

“I don’t need a man in the room while I’m working,” Dr. Cho says. “He’ll react, and we don’t need him any more agitated than he already is—“

“It’s me ,” Tony says, ignoring the way Natasha is looking at him.

“He doesn’t know that,” Cho says.

“He does,” he insists.

“He doesn’t,” she says again, harsher. “Not like this, and you know it. Take a walk, Tony, and let me help him.”

Tony tries one more time to get past the woman to those bathroom doors, and again Natasha pushes him back. “Back off, Tony,” she says firmly. “Just let her do her job.”

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:14 PM

Tony storms off.

He doesn’t get very far before Rhodey’s at his elbow again, helping him along. They head for the men’s bathroom—passing Rogers and Barnes again as they do. 

They’re farther from the bathroom now, and Rogers is sitting against the leftmost wall with his head in his hands. Barnes is squatting beside him and talking to him; Rogers is nodding and nodding and nodding, covering his face with one hand, rubbing ever so often at his eyes with his wrist—the navy suit now a little dark at the sleeve. 

He’s crying. Steve Rogers is crying . 

Barnes touches Rogers’ shoulder, rubs a little, and says something else in that low voice. 

Rogers shakes his head, huffs a breath in his broad chest, and scrubs a hand down his face as he says something back. Barnes shifts down onto his knees and then talks, says something, dipping his head a little as he does, trying to meet the other man’s eyes.

As Barnes talks, Rogers nods, pauses, and nods again, dropping his hand away from his face. Barnes grabs his shoulder and then shifts his metal hand so that he’s thumbing the other man’s neck—a gentle touch, so gentle that it startles Tony to see from something that’s so obviously built to be a weapon. 

Steve nods again, makes a strangled sound, and immediately covers his face again. Barnes helps him stand them, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up; in a split second, they’re embracing—Rogers tipping his head into Barnes’ black-clothed shoulder, Barnes wrapping his arms around the blue-suited man.

Tony looks away. He remembers holding Pepper like that; he doesn’t have that anymore. He doubts he ever will again.

Would he even deserve it after everything he’s done?

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:18 PM

When they finally reach the bathroom, Rhodey asks him if he needs help; Tony says three times that he’s fine before Rhodey finally agrees to wait outside. 

He finds himself leaned up against the sink as his arms shake. There are three sinks in front of him—ceramic white—and a row of stalls across from a row of urinals over a tiled floor. Tony walks up to the sink first, turning on the faucet to let the water run. Drawing his hands under the water, he then rubs his face, knuckling the cool water into his forehead and cheeks until finally Tony manages to look up at the broad mirror in front of him, droplets beading on his skin.

He looks old.

Tony forgets sometimes how much he changed in there. Gray hair that used to be black. Deep wrinkles under his eyes—skin there that used to be smooth. He’d had gray hair before, of course, but he generally dyed it. Now his beard’s grayish too, his hair lighter and streaked silver, the dye faded away, remnants of the occasional shower he took. 

There was no room for vanity in that lab.

Then Tony hears it—a sound coming from one of the stalls. Light coughing followed by retching; Tony can see their legs outstretched from beneath the stall. Navy blue slacks and sneakers.

Tony takes a couple awkward steps in the stall’s direction and then backs up, not knowing what to do. “Hey,” he tries, “you alright in there?”

“All good,” says the person, in a voice that sounds decidedly not good at all, and after a second it’s followed by more retching. 

He sounds young, Tony thinks suddenly. He sounds like Peter.

Peter used to stress-vomit before exams. Before any big thing, really, decathlon competitions and class presentations and Stark Industries events. Tony’s found him once in the bathroom upstate like that.

Tony knocks on Peter’s door. 

It’s getting late now, and the kid should head home before May starts to worry. “Hey, Pete?” He knocks again, a couple times with the back of his hand. The door’s not fully closed, so he nudges it open with his foot, a slow creak. Maybe he’s fallen asleep on his textbook—God knows Tony’s found the kid snoozing on his textbooks enough times this semester. He needs a break. Maybe Tony should fund a summer trip for his school. Disney, maybe. Europe or DC or something. “Peter? You asleep already?”

The door’s open enough now that Tony can see the kid’s empty desk and cracked-open textbooks. 

Then he hears something—coming from down the hall. Ah. Bathroom. Tony follows the sound, closer and closer until finally he sees the crack of light beneath the bathroom door and hears it—a gross retching sound and then a shaky breath. “Peter?” he says, the worry creeping in already, and he presses his hand against the door. “Buddy, what—”

“I’m okay,” croaks a voice from behind the closed door, but it’s followed by a very distinct gagging sound.

“You don’t sound okay!”

“I am! Don’t worry.”

“I’m gonna worry, Pete, you can’t stop me from worrying.” Quiet then, and he can hear the kid breathing hard. “You’re sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Peter says, and even through the door Tony knows the kid’s doing the awkward shrug of his.“Just. You know. Finals week.”

Nerves. Not sick, then. That soothes the twist of worry in Tony’s chest, and he nods. “Okay… “You need anything? Water?”

More quiet, and shifting, like he’s sitting up. “Ginger ale? Please?”

Tony walks out into the kitchen, snags a can from the fridge and kicks the door closed, heading back for the bathroom. “Alright, now lemme in, Parker,” he says, knocking lightly. “I brought you some of the good stuff.”

That earns him a chuckle. “Yeah, ‘cause I want my idol to see me like this. Just leave it outside.”

“Oh, please, Parker, you’ve known me long enough to know I’m nobody’s idol.” He raps his knuckles on the door. “Gotta let me check on you, bud, or none of the good stuff for you.”

A sigh from the other side, more shifting, and then the lock on the door clicking. Tony shuffles inside, sets the can on the bathroom floor, and sits down on the ground beside the kid.

Peter’s dressed in a Midtown High sweatshirt and jeans. His socks are blue with little green Yodas on them. “Nice socks,” he says. The kid seems fine—tired and stressed and a little pale, but fine. 

Peter wiggles his toes in them. “May got ‘em for me for Christmas. Cool, right?”

“Oh, of course. Very cool.”

Peter takes the can then, pops the top, and sips at it. Tony rambles about his day as Peter drinks his ginger ale, and when the can’s empty and Peter’s looking a little less pale, Tony asks, “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

He waves his hand at the kid.“Don’t worry about it. Now, I know you gotta be hungry, cause my world-famous bolognese is down the drain. You want something to eat?”

Peter sighs. “I just wasted, like, your entire dinner—”

“I don’t mind,” Tony says, waving the kid’s comment away. “Now, you wanna eat or not?”

“Does it make me a bad person if I say yes?”

“Nope, just a hungry one. Come on.”

They eat in the kitchen. Peter tears through the leftover bolognese until the tupperware’s empty and looks longingly at the fridge until Tony gets up and makes him a sandwich. White bread. A couple slices of ham, a couple slices of provolone cheese. “Mustard, too?”

“Yes, please.”

He slathers on a thick layer of mustard, both sides, just the way the kid likes it. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he mutters through a mouthful of sandwich. 

“No talking with your mouth full. And you’re welcome.”

Eventually, the person in the stall coughs roughly—then the toilet flushes. Those navy-suited legs clamber up and the stall door opens, a tall blond boy walking out, wiping at his mouth. 

The boy looks startled to see Tony, and he says, “Oh, shit—oh. Sorry. Uh.” 

He looks familiar, this kid, and it takes a second for Tony to remember who he is, although he can’t remember the kid’s name. This is the doctor’s kid. The one living at the Tower. He’s spotted him a couple times, lingering in the Medbay hallway or heading up in the elevator, but Tony’s never spoken to him.

“Sorry, man,” the doctor’s son says, still looking greenish. “Just, uh…”

Tony’s seen photos of the doctor. He looks remarkably like his father, but Tony doesn’t mention that now. 

“Wasn’t expecting…” the boy continues. He looks like he might be sick again. “I knew about a little of it—the—the torture and the, uh, you know—but they—“ He takes a labored breath, and then he presses a fist to his stomach like he’s trying to keep it down. “Like shit, man.” He waves his hand at Tony. “Sorry. I know you know this. Obviously. You know it better than anyone.”

He thought he did.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Tony says. The doctor: a man he’s never met, the one who saved Peter’s life. 

The boy winces, and then he shrugs, hands stuck in his pockets. “It’s whatever.”

Tony stares at him.

That’s something Peter used to say, whenever he mentioned his parents in passing. It’s cool, he’d say, with a shrug of his shoulder. It’s whatever. 

“It’s okay to talk about this kind of thing,” he says. “I know a thing or two about dead parents.”

Peter laughs, and then mimics in a commercial-ad voice. “We know a thing or two ‘cause we’ve seen a thing or two—“

“I’m serious, kid.”

Peter mimics him then. “I’m serious, kid—“

“If you don’t cut it out right now—“

Peter was never the kind of person to talk about things. He let them linger and linger until they festered. 

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re impossible—“

He throws his hands in the air. “This is why I’m never having kids—”

“Hey, man…” 

Tony blinks, and he’s back in the bathroom, and a teenager is staring at him, crooking his head.

“You okay?”

This boy looks nothing like Peter: very blonde with blue eyes, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, dressed neatly in a navy suit. 

“You kind of…” The boy hovers his hand over his face, wiggling his fingers. “Nevermind. Sorry. I get this is… Uh. I don’t know.”

He’s so much like Peter was before—awkward and talkative, sheepish and a little insecure.

“Sorry,” the kid says again. “Thanks for the water.”

He nods then to Tony—and walks past him for the door.

Pepper finds Harley sitting on a bench at the opposite end of the court hallway. He’s alone—like always, Harley’s alone. He’s eating something, too—a candy bar from the vending machine, and he’s holding the half-eaten piece in his hand.

She sits down beside him; Harley takes another bite of his candy bar, chews, and then swallows. “Thanks for driving me,” he says, “but, uh…”

She leans back against the wall, easing the strain in her back—the baby is large enough now that it gets in the way of everything—sitting, standing, walking.

( Not it, she has to remind herself. She. )

“...this was a bad idea.” The boy takes a quick glance at her, and then back at his lap. 

“Coming here?”

Harley nods, and he takes a sharp breath, holding it in for a moment before exhaling. “I thought I could handle it, you know, hearing about everything… but…” He shakes his head. “They’re gonna talk about him, right? My dad? How he…”

Pepper nods. “When they get to Charlie… Yes, they’ll be charging him. First degree murder, forced labor… All of it.” There had been some mentions of Harley’s father with the other defendants—but not most of it. Not his death.

Harley looks away for a second, and his eyes look a little red. “Mr. Barnes said it was fast. The shot, or whatever. That it’s good that he, like, went fast. Didn’t hurt. He didn’t know… didn’t know he was gonna…”

Pepper watches the boy sniff—his nose is running a little, like he’s holding back tears. 

“I don’t know, though,” he adds, his voice strained. “I read some of those notes he wrote. On the prescription pads?” Pepper’s seen some of them in evidence—there were dozens of them, all addressed to Harley. “He kept track of, like, everything. Of Peter Parker, mostly—his injuries, his medications, but everything else, too. What they talked about. Some of them mentioned they were going to kill him. So. He knew. And I think he knew he was dying for a long time. He knew it was coming. That it was inevitable, you know? It was just, like, a matter of time.”

He chokes up a bit, tears coming, and he sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “And, like, I didn’t even look for him. I just thought he was, you know, on some bender or like, doing what he always does, and he’d been sober for years but still I just gave up on him… He’s my dad and he was locked up and I didn’t even…”

“Harley,” Pepper says gingerly, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, you couldn’t have known.”

He nods, and then he shakes his head. “I know,” he says, tearily, and the candy bar has melted a little in the sweat of his palm. “I know. Just—I… I’m going. I don’t think I can…”

Harley doesn’t finish; he doesn’t have to.

“Well,” Pepper says, “Don’t spend it alone, alright? Never good to be alone after things like this.” The boy nods in response. “Happy’ll take you, if you’d like. Don’t think he wants to stay much longer, either.”

The large man is sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, elbows braced against his knees, grinding his palms into his eyes. Happy’s been like that for most of the case, hunched over like he’s bearing the weight of it on his back.

(Happy had warned her that Peter was missing in June. It took her two months to take him seriously. Two months of Peter being tortured to the brink of breaking, and she’d ignored it. If anyone had to bear this burden, it was Pepper, not him.)

Harley nods. “Thanks, Ms. Potts.”

Peter used to call her that, too. They’d spent months together—years together—yet even in April he’d called her Ms. Potts, just as Tony was Mr. Stark. 

What would he call her now, if he could? 

“Pepper’s fine,” she says.

“Pepper,” he says again, like he’s testing how it sounds. Thanks.”

She nods, gives him a polite Pepper-Potts smile, and watches as the kid walks over to Happy. 

Honestly, she doesn’t really know what he’s thanking her for. 

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:23 PM

Tony stays in the bathroom for a while after Harley leaves.

And although he wants nothing more than to walk down that short path to Peter in the bathroom—he can’t bring himself to. He doesn’t want to leave—he can’t leave. There are no windows in this bathroom, only the mirror and his leering reflection. 

He’s not trapped in here. He knows he’s not trapped in here.

But now that he’s alone again… It sure does feel like it.

He’s rarely been alone like this since he got out—and now, after seeing Charlie… His hands are twitching for something to do,  waiting for someone to help, for a television to flick on, for a phone to ring, for a screen to flicker on to Peter’s bloody face. 

Tony washes his hands again in some vain attempt to calm himself, letting the water run hot over his fingers, and scrubs water into his face. Tony’s beard is a mess, his hair, too, and when he looks up in the mirror he sees a beard and a pale face and bloodshot eyes and his stomach plummets straight down.

Was that—

Tony’s leg is trembling again, and he stares down at it and wills it to stop. 

When he dares to look again, the mirror has changed back to what it was. Tony forgot—just for a moment, he forgot—that he didn’t look the way used to. That he looked just as broken as Charlie.  Maybe they were the same, he thinks. Driven mad—drug addicted—haunted by dreams of bloodstained chairs and shattered knees and Peter Parker dragged down a dark hallway. 

His heart is still pumping from the shock, and Tony forces himself to exhale. “You’re fine,” he says to his ragged reflection. “You’re fine.”

Tony tries not to hear Charlie’s voice screaming in his head: …KILL HIM! I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM!

He turns on the sink again, drowning out the sound of Charlie’s voice in the rush of water. He’s not here. Why does he have to keep reminding himself of that? He draws his hands out of the water and stares

Behind him, the bathroom door opens—a swinging creak—and Tony shoves his hands under the faucet, letting the water run clear over his fingers. He takes one short glance up at the man who’s entered—and freezes.

There, letting the door fall closed behind him, with a low smirk on his face, is Secretary Ross. 

Tony turns around to face the man, his hands still dripping wet. 

Ross looks healthy—pink-faced, his mustache groomed, his gray hair brushed with care and hard with gel. Even his suit is nice. Tailored to fit his huge torso, pleated in crisp lines down both legs.

“Stark,” says Ross, with a distinct look of haughtiness.

If this had been five months earlier, Tony might’ve spit in his face—After the Civil War debacle, Ross’ vying for control led to Rhodey’s paralysis, to the breakup of the Avengers, to the loss of some of his closest friends.

And if Ross had never gotten involved in the Bucky Barnes business, Tony thinks suddenly, with crystallic clarity, if Ross had never interfered, Tony never would’ve met Peter Parker.

Would it be better that way? If he’d never met the kid at all?

Too late now, Tony supposes, to be wishing he never took the kid under his wing. Too late to ponder on what could’ve been. Way too late.

“Ross,” he replies.

Some days, it’s difficult to remember what life was like before he was trapped in that lab. Difficult to remember the smell of Pepper’s hair, the sun coming over their bed. Of drinking coffee in the morning in their compound upstate, of going to work in the afternoon, of walking the short brick path from the lab down to the main house to start cooking dinner. Of picking Peter up from school, of hearing him gush about some new superhero movie, of working side-by-side with him in the lab.

The man seems fine—blue eyes traveling down Tony’s baggy suit, to his trembling hand, to his hastily brushed hair. “Nice suit.”

Tony looks down at himself; this suit doesn’t fit the way it used to, not with the weight he lost. He didn’t bother to tailor it. How could he care now about tailored suits and trimmed beards, about brushed hair and pleated pants? It now slips a bit in the hips, loose in the legs, drooping in the shoulders. 

He feels, suddenly, like a child in his father’s clothes.

“What do you want?” Tony asks dully.

The man smiles briefly, then cocks his head at him. “See you finally stepped outside to enjoy a bit of sunshine,” Ross says. “How’s Parker?”

“Peter,” Tony says after a beat. 

“Right,” says Ross, but he doesn’t correct himself.

They stare at each other. 

“Didn’t look too good on the stand,” Ross says, taking a step forward, and Tony takes a step back.

“He’s doing his best,” Tony says stiffly.

Then Tony sees it—more flashes of before: Peter tossing his backpack into the backseat of the car, Peter falling asleep on his textbook, Peter grimacing at a bite of May’s meatloaf. Peter in his yellow decathlon jacket, Peter dressed up for a convention, Peter climbing into Happy’s SUV—

— and the car door opens. A teenager with messy brown hair and a bright yellow jacket tosses his backpack onto the seat and climbs in. 

“So?” Tony asks, glancing up at the rearview mirror to look at Peter. “How’d it go?”

The kid had a decathlon meet today—he’d been studying for it for weeks. 

The kid huffs. “Where’s Happy?” he says, dodging the question. 

“Took the day off—now how’d it go?”

The kid fiddles with his seatbelt, jabbing it at its plastic slot until at last it clicks. Letting out a short sigh, he answers, “Fine.”

“Fine?” Tony says. He shifts the car into reverse, backs it up, and pulls out of the parking spot. “That’s all I get?”

Another mild glare from Peter. “Can we go already?”

“Yeah, yeah, alright… You wanna stop for food first?”

He shrugs, both shoulders of his yellow blazer barely moving. They’re in the street, and the road is so jammed with cars that Tony moves only a few feet at a time—tipping his foot off the break and then pressing down again. 

“McDonald’s? Wendy’s? What do you want?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Course you are—”

“I’m not!” 

“Okay, okay, no need to get all worked up, we’ll eat later…” He trails off, and the kid goes quiet, mumbling a sorry before opening up his phone and tapping onto it.

It eases as the afternoon goes, until finally they’re out of the city and onto the highway, and the noise around them starts to fade—honking horns and thrumming engines.

He knows he lost; Peter knows he lost—and neither of them will say it aloud. Peter is not a kid used to losing; Tony himself hasn’t lost anything in a long time. They’re one and the same: blatant overachievers, always have been. Sure, it was the whole team who lost—but Peter doesn’t blame MJ or Ned or Flash for any of it. He always does this; Peter places the weight of winning on himself every time.

He’s ashamed to say it, but he expected Peter to win. And now Tony doesn’t know what to say now that he hasn’t.

“I’m so stupid,” the kid says. When Tony looks at him, Peter’s brown eyes are on the road—refusing to meet his. “I screwed it all up.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says.

“Tell that to my whole team,” Peter replies. He’s got his arm propped up against the car door, his face tipped against his hand as he stares out the window.

“Hey.”

Peter looks up at him—the dip in his brow, the stress in his face, and Tony can see himself in every corner of the kid’s face—can see the failure claw into him.

“You’re not stupid,” Tony says again.

Peter immediately looks down again at his lap; he’s holding his phone in one hand, and it’s still on, open to blue-bubbled messages. “Yeah,” he says. “Whatever.”

Tony tries to come up with something to say in response but draws only blanks. What can he say? Peter’s the kind of kid that never loses—who’ll do anything not to lose. The kind who falls asleep on his textbooks and skips meals to study and forgets his winter coat in the back of Tony’s car but never his backpack. The kind of kid who spends nearly every day practicing for decathlon, the kind of kid who memorizes movie quotes, the kind of kid who builds Legos for fun. He’s not used to losing.

The car ride upstate is quiet—and quieter, as each second passes, Peter’s phone buzzing against his lap, the kid checking it every time it does. 

It’s been too long now, and Tony hasn’t said anything at all. He should say something. Howard would always let him sit in his failure in utter silence—through car rides home and family dinners and morning breakfasts—all of it quiet until finally Tony would crack under the weight of it and apologize.

He doesn’t want to do that to Peter.

He glances up at the rearview mirror, and Peter’s still staring sullenly at his phone. 

Tony opens his mouth to speak, and finds himself without a single word to say. He’s not May—he’s not Peter’s parent. Why the hell is he trying to—

A snap of fingers, and he jumps.  Secretary Ross is staring at him, an amused smirk on his face. “Cat got your tongue?” the man says, lowering his hand from Tony’s face, and then he chuckles. 

Tony can still see Peter’s face in the rearview mirror.

“Wow,” he says, with another dry chuckle. “Keene really did knock the wind out of you, didn’t he?” He clicks his tongue. “Gotta say, Stark, I didn’t think anyone could.”

Tony can’t come up with anything to say in reply. Ross isn’t wrong—Tony really has lost his spark. It was stamped out sometime in that lab. “What do you want?” says Tony quietly, for a second time. He tries to cling to the warm memory of Peter—sullen in the passenger seat.

Ross gestures vaguely “Benefits of being the Secretary of Defense. Just trying to make sure justice is served.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony says stiffly, feeling blood warm on his face. His heart thumps furiously—pounding in his ears. 

Ross draws a long, irritated look at him. “I never said he did.”

With every second that passes, Tony could be sitting beside Peter and making sure he’s okay—instead he’s in this bathroom and Ross is blocking the way out—all because Tony was too cowardly to leave. 

A hand pats him on the shoulder—a sudden touch, and Tony flinches. “It’s a shame about Parker,” he says, his hand stilling on Tony’s shoulder. His eyes scan Tony’s face—his messy beard, his grayed hair. 

“Peter,” Tony repeats.

This time, Ross doesn’t say anything at all, just tightens his grip on Tony’s shoulder. “You’d think,” he says coolly, “that someone as smart as Tony Stark would’ve managed to whip up something satisfactory to save that poor Spider-kid.”

Tony blinks. 

That’s what he used to call Peter before everything happened. It was a joke, really, and then Charlie took it and twisted it around. 

Poor, poor, Spider-kid, Charlie would say, chuckling, with a hand on the back of the vibranium chair. No one to save him now…

Peter, limp in the chair with blood dripping from his nose. Peter flat on his back. Peter forcing himself up onto his hands and knees and trying to crawl away. Charlie squatting beside him as Peter dragged himself one inch at a time across the cement floor, watching him try—watching him fail. 

Tony stares openly at him. “What?”

Ross’ smile fades a little; he releases his hand from Tony’s shoulder. “Nothing,” he says. “Good to see you, Stark. Glad to see you made it out of there in one piece.”

The man pushes past him to the row of urinals—and Tony is frozen where he stands. 

Spider-kid.

Charlie only ever called Peter that as a joke—to mock what Tony called him. It wasn’t exactly a public title, certainly not in the news or in the media. No one even really even knew that Tony knew Peter Parker,  let alone the nickname he called him.

He couldn’t know—right? How could he?

Spider-kid, he thinks again, an echo.

It feels like someone’s sitting on his chest, the weight of it almost painful, and he’s suddenly unable to breathe. He looks up at the door—where Ross stood only seconds ago—and finds himself yet again without a coherent thought. The weight grows heavier, and he feels dizzy with it, like a cord tightening around his throat.

Only he calls Peter that. Not even Pepper does. He’s certainly never called Peter that in public , so how—how could he—

The sound of jeans zipping up followed by the urinal’s loud flush. Ross lumbers back towards Tony, turns on the sink faucet, and sticks his hands beneath the water.

Just then, the bathroom door creaks open again. This time, a black man pokes his head in. “Tony? We’re starting back up in a few minutes—” He stops talking, noticing who’s flicking the water from his hands, who nods at Rhodey as he lingers in the doorway. “Rhodes,” the other man says dryly.

“Ross,” Rhodey says, tense.

Ross rips a couple of paper towels from the dispenser, crushes them in his palms and tosses them in the direction of the garbage can. He misses. “See you in the ring,” he says, and he shoves at the bathroom door, bumping Rhodey’s shoulder as he passes.

As the door closes behind Ross, Rhodey pushes inside, and at last the door creaks shut.

Tony slumps backwards against the counter. His face prickles with warmth. How did Ross know? Maybe something had slipped out into the media—the general public didn’t know that the victim of Charlie’s crimes was Spider-man—it wasn’t necessarily an unreasonable assumption that someone would leak it to the reporters, given that there were only so many young superheroes in New York—but still, how did Ross know about the nickname?

“Tony?”

Rhodey takes a couple steps towards him, and Tony can still hear that word ringing in his head as his friend approaches: Spider-kid. Spider-kid. Spider-kid. 

“What did he say to you?” Rhodey asks.

Because Ross didn’t say anything, not really. He didn’t threaten him, didn’t threaten Peter, didn’t say anything that should rattle him like this. 

So why the hell is it bothering him so much? 

“Nothing,” Tony manages, standing up straight.

“Tony, what did he say?” Rhodey repeats, and Tony just shakes his head.

The thought flashes through his mind, and Tony can’t bring himself to stop it.

Did Ross—

“What happened?’ Rhodey says, grasping Tony by the shoulder, and the thought fades as soon as it came. “Look—Ross is a dick. Always has been. Whatever he said… Don’t worry about it, okay? He shouldn't even be here.”

No. No. It’s impossible. Ross is a fed, but he’s not a felon. Ross is the Secretary of Defense—he knows far more than the average person about this case. Maybe he’s even seen some of the files. Tony’s just being paranoid; he’s been paranoid since he left that lab—he needs to get more sleep. 

Tony nods again, letting Rhodey pull him towards the door.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — 4:26 PM

Pepper meets them in the hallway. 

She’s dressed in a loose white blouse and black pants, her belly stretched beneath her maternity blouse, her face fuller, her arms thicker. Her bangs have grown, crowning her face, and she’s wearing a bit of makeup. 

He hasn’t seen her dressed up like this since before he was locked in that lab. She looks different now; she looks beautiful.

Pepper is holding a cup of coffee in one hand, and when she presses it into his hands, her fingers brush his. “Here,” she says. “Decaf.”

Tony stares at it. Coffee. He’s not really supposed to—

“Decaf,” she repeats, and this time she pushes it a little harder into his hands. “Drink. It’ll help.”

Oh, he thinks sharply, and he takes it that time. After a couple sips, it does seem to help, warming pleasantly in Tony’s stomach.

(He wonders if Peter ever ate anything warm. Was it just cold cans and lukewarm happy meals? Sink water and room-temperature beans?)

They walk together towards the end of the hallway, Pepper’s arm looped in his, her hand settled at the base of his spine. She moves differently now—each step heavier, surer, stance a bit wider. Tony finishes the cup of coffee before they reach the end of the hall, spotting Barnes and Rogers along the way.

As they pass, Barnes gives him a sharp nod.

A year ago, he might’ve taken out a gauntlet and blasted Barnes where he stood.

But things have changed. 

Murdock and Sam are speaking in front of the family bathroom door.

“….not much left,” Murdock is saying. “Just Keene and Beck, then they’ll call each victim up to officially make their charges…” 

Sam pats Tony on the shoulder as he approaches, as Murdock keeps talking. “...Mr. Rogers first, it looks like, then Tony, then Peter. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, the rest of it—”

“Where is he?” Tony blurts out.

Sam looks up at him, and then nods his head toward the bathroom door. “Cho and Sarah left a few minutes ago—judge’s talking to them now.”

“He's alone in there?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, with an ill look of unease. “Yeah, he’s alone.”

According to the evidence folder, Peter was never alone. Ever. He only lived in that cell with Cassie—dragged to the main room and back, and then to the doctor’s once he arrived. 

And now Peter’s alone in a room barely smaller than the room he was trapped in for five months. 

“Move,” Tony snaps, pushing past Sam and grabbing for the door handle—yanks and pushes inside, closing the door behind him.

Peter is curled up in a ball in the farthest corner of the bathroom, hiding in the small space between the wall and the toilet, his eyes screwed closed. Tony takes a couple steps across the tiled floor, and the kid cringes at the sound. A couple more steps and he’s barely a foot away from the kid, and he kneels with aching knees beside Peter.

He’s scared.

“Hey, Pete…”

Peter’s eyes flick to him—and he knows that look, that frightened-beyond-comprehension look, and Tony winces at it, remembering Peter—

— in the chair, his head dipping down, blood falling from his nose and spotting his chest —

— coated in sweat, flailing too late away from Charlie’s red-spattered hands—

He’s not gonna last through the second half of this hearing, Tony realizes. The kid’s this close to losing it. He puts his hand on Peter’s back and the kid nearly throws himself into the wall to get away from the hand, clinging to the toilet like some kind of shield, his whole body trembling with the effort. “Just me, buddy.”

The kid doesn’t respond, so Tony tries again. “Peter. Peter .”

Nothing again, and Tony puts his hand on Peter's shoulder. The kid cringes and then peers back at him and for a second Tony's stomach twists violently at the look in his eyes—at the wrench of guttural terror there, the glaze of fear, like a rabbit staring down an open jaw with rows of bloodied teeth. A cub caught in a bear trap. A wounded fawn looking down the smoking barrel of a gun. 

Then a beat, and some recognition, like a fog clearing away in his eyes. “Oh,” the kid croaks, relaxing a fraction, and he tips his head into the rim of the toilet.

“We gotta get moving,” Tony says. 

Peter shakes his head, his chest heaving with each coming breath, and he curls his arms around himself.

“It’ll be over soon,” he says, “and then we can go back home.”

“Home,” Peter echoes, and he shuts his eyes even tighter, lines crinkled around his eyes. “Home, home, home…”

“Yeah, buddy,” Tony says, but the kid’s already devolving into that echo, burying himself in it, chanting, “Never going home, never… never going… never going home… home…”

How far gone is he?

“Peter,” Tony says, startled, and when he reaches out for the kid’s arm, he makes a 

“Friday—” the kid chokes out, pleading for an answer. “Friday, where—who’s—who’s here—”

Friday. Just a couple days ago Tony had given him a mode of safety, and it’s already been stripped away from him.

“Friday’s not here,” he says gently, moving a little closer, and the kid makes a gasping sound into his arms; his teary eyes flick up to Tony for a second and then squeeze shut.“Peter, tell me where you are. Can you… Can you do that for me?”

The kid drags in a ragged breath; his hands claw at the rim of the toilet, and the And another—faster and faster.

“Pete, buddy, just tell me where you are.”

“Medbay,” the kid croaks, “Medbay, Medbay, Medbay…”

Tony sits down on the bathroom floor beside him.

Oh, Peter.

That’s one of Sarah’s four questions— place. 

“No,” he says, “you’re—buddy, look around—where are we right now? We’re in the courthouse, remember?”

Peter manages about one glance around the bathroom before shutting his eyes and working himself up again, resting his forehead against his knees, choking out, “I’m not—I’m not—”

“Do you remember what day it is?”

 The kid just sobs, inhaling desperately as he hunches into the toilet like he’s going to throw up. 

“What day is it, Pete, what day is it?”

Tony can’t go back to the way they were before—watching Peter scream bloody murder every time the door opened, pulling at the bedside restraints until he bled, hiding in corners and cradling teddy bears, refusing to eat and barely speaking to anyone at all. He can’t do it. They’ve come so far— 

“What day is it?” Tony says again, and when he touches Peter’s arm, the kid jerks away hard, whispers something unintelligible and squeezes his eyes shut.

The disappointment hits him then, that horrible feeling that’s lingered in him since they found out about the hearing. That Peter was going to lose it again—that everything they’d done was for nothing. And in desperation, Tony says, “Tell me what day it is, Pete, just tell me the date.”

Nothing. Fucking nothing.

Four hours ago Peter was calm and lucid and answering simple questions like this.

How has it all gone downhill so fast?

“Peter, your name, just tell me your name.”

Everything’s going backwards—he’s missed every single question. Person, place, time… Tony doesn’t even bother to ask about the situation—he doubts the kid will even understand the question at this point.  

“Peter,” he says finally, “look at me. Who am I?”

The kid sobs again without looking at Tony, still cowering behind the toilet.

“It’s just me. Just me, I swear. Look at me, buddy.”

Peter only manages one timid glance, barely moving save opening his eyes—his arm still guarding his head, his knees still pulled up to his chest. His stare finds Tony and wavers, trembling. 

This is how he used to stare into that camera—into the television—his gaze sinking right into the pit of Tony’s stomach. Frightened. Helpless. Long since given up.

“Who am I?”

Peter makes that strangled sound again and shuts his eyes. 

“You know me, Pete, come on. Who am I?”

“Tony,” he whispers, a miracle of a word.

“That’s right,” he says, relief pricking at his eyes. “It’s me.”

The kid hums and hugs his knees. His hood is drawn up over his head, and as he moves it shifts to reveal his dark brown hair.

“I’m right here,” Tony says, shifting closer to him, reaching out towards the kid with his hand,  “so you’re safe, okay? You’re not going back there.”

Peter looks at him, at his outstretched hand, and he uncurls his arm out, reaching out like a child would for Tony’s arm. “Tony,” he whispers again.

A pressure on his arm—a hand grasping at his suited sleeve. It startles Tony so badly that he’s rendered mute, watching as the kid’s pale fingers curl around his forearm and squeeze.

“Don’t go,” Peter manages, “please, please don’t go…”

Then with his other arm, Peter slides his other arm quickly up Tony’s chest and hooks his arm around Tony’s neck and pulls him closer.

A hug.

His arms hover above the kid’s back, afraid to touch him—one wrong move, Tony knows, and this could all be over, this moment could be ruined in an instant.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tony swears, his heartbeat pulsing loudly in his ears. Peter is a little warm, probably from all the panic, and his arms are so much thinner than he remembers. He smells like antiseptic and sweat, and it takes everything Tony has not to throw his arms around the kid and squeeze him tight and never let go.

Peter moves a little, pressing his forehead into Tony’s shoulder, and mumbles something into his sleeve—a hitched breath then, and a wet cough of an exhale. 

Tony doesn’t think he’s ever been gentler—wrapping his other arm around to hug Peter back. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he reaches around until his trembling palm meets soft cotton. 

He never imagined it happening like this: the kid drugged past sanity, on the sticky tiled floor of a family bathroom in a New York district courthouse in the middle of Manhattan, Tony in a poorly fitting suit, Peter bundled up in his best friend’s sweatshirt and shaking like a leaf.

“He’s gonna,” Peter chokes out, “he—he’s gonna—”

No matter what he says, Peter’s right. He will have to go back there—whether the courtroom guards or Sam Wilson or Tony himself has to take him. They are going to take him away, just like before. But now instead of Charlie’s crew, Sam Wilson. Instead of cuffs, a hand at his back. Instead of a vibranium trap, a small black chair with leather cushioning. 

But Peter doesn’t know the difference.

“Mr. Stark…”

He so rarely calls him that now— Mr. Stark. In the bunker, he called him that. Tony doesn’t know why that changed, why since he got out, Peter’s only called him Tony.

All he knows is they’re back to Mr. Stark now. It used to bug him a little—the kid’s overly polite nature, the “sirs” and the nervousness and the near-constant apologies—but now Tony doesn’t mind. 

Peter’s arm curls up around his back—tighter. 

Almost three years ago, Peter was a freshman and Tony was a stuck up billionaire arguing over little things like politics and thought the superhero going viral on the Internet was the fastest way to get what he wanted. He spent most of his time in boardrooms and labs. He cared about presentation; he cared about money; he cared about stupid things like getting Peter into MIT and wearing the perfect outfit to the gala and having the particular type of jam for his toast in the morning. He cared about having his coffee at breakfast, about getting to therapy on time, about winning every single argument he had with the board. 

He learned very quickly there were better things than winning.

He had gotten irritated at Peter for little things—for being late for pickup, for making mistakes in the lab, for refusing to talk about anything that was bothering him. He got irritated at the kid for so much shit—for getting injured on patrol, for going into dangerous neighborhoods, for taking the subway without telling him.

Now Peter is seventeen and he should’ve entered his senior year in August. Tony is forty-seven and hasn’t stepped in a boardroom since April.

Now, he’s just glad Pete’s alive and breathing.

Now, he’s grateful for something as small as this.

At last, Tony’s hand rests fully on Peter’s back—the kid’s still trembling, and Tony’s shoulder is damp with his tears. Peter’s chest quakes with each coming breath, an earthly tremble, and Tony stills him.  “You’re alright—”

With a final shudder, Peter's heaving breaths gradually slow. A cough of more tears, a wet sniff, and Peter grasps onto him harder, two-armed, like a child afraid of a coming wave, an animal peering up at the thunderous sky. 

“You’re alright….”

Tony doesn’t dare look at his watch—he doesn’t dare think of the time—but it’s there.

The moment that door opens again, this moment will disappear and Peter will be lost. 

And Tony’s trying to be gentle, he is, but that ache in his chest makes him want to pull the kid closer and wrap his arms around his thin shoulders so hard that it deforms him, so that the kid leaves indents in his bones, bruises in his arms, so that it warps Tony at the edges—so that he’s left with an imprint of him long after he’s gone. 

God, he wants to keep him here. He hates that he broke the lock on the bathroom door, that he has no way of keeping the kid safe. He relishes in it, this small moment. For now, Peter feels safe in his arms; for now, his panic has waned; for now, his terror has abated.

But he knows it’s not forever. Soon, they’re going to open that bathroom door. Soon, they’re gonna take what’s left of Peter away.

For now, he thinks, for now, Peter. 

When Tony was young, his parents would go on long trips without him. So for weeks, sometimes months, Tony often found himself home alone. He was left alone like this often—for long stretches of time, eleven years old and left to his own devices.

This time, it was winter, and he picked the lock to Howard’s liquor cabinet with his mother’s bobby pin and opened the door to a treasure trove. He felt good for a while, really good. He felt grown up like this—sipping on vodka and seltzer, mixing orange-ish gin and soda, sipping some of his mother’s glassy rieslings that tasted a bit like soap. He tried it all. 

He felt free—stupid and careless and free.

And then he felt sick.

Tony crawled all the way to the bathroom, but didn’t make it to the toilet—he curled in on himself and woke up with a spread of vomit on his shirt—with the bathroom door cracked, and a man in brown slacks and a sweater vest in the open doorway.

Jarvis.

He looked down at himself—at the sticky vomit down his front, at the mostly-empty bottle of riesling tipped on its side by his feet, at the mess he’s made. But Jarvis didn’t care what he had done.

The man took the towel from the marble rack and wiped down Tony’s shirt; he dabbed the corner of it with water and wiped at his face.

Tony was too big to be carried then, eleven years old and much too big to be carried, and he just curled in on himself and shook his head. He remembers bits and pieces from then on—Jarvis wrangling his vomit-soaked clothes off of him, getting him into a set of clean pajamas. He thinks Jarvis cleaned off his face, too.

Jarvis knew in the morning that his parents would find the liquor cabinet half-empty, would find the empty bottles of wine and the bathroom that still smelled a bit like vomit. 

“I’m scared,” Tony whispered, into Jarvis’ sweater-vest. Jarvis always smelled old—a nice old, like clothes that had been worn and washed a thousand times, like soapwater and shampoo. 

“It’s alright to be scared,” Jarvis told him then, his voice quiet and tired. The way he held him was slightly crooked—Tony could almost feel the ache in Jarvis’ old elbows, the pain in his back, the soreness in his old fingers warm on Tony’s back. “You’re alright.”

But Tony knew that his father would be there in the morning—that Jarvis wouldn’t be there to protect him, that Tony would have to fess up to what he’d done. 

But here in this moment, the morning didn’t seem quite so close. With Jarvis, sometimes, things were alright. With Jarvis, things didn’t feel quite so bad anymore. Fear tempered, nausea waned, and the world felt small—like the universe was the bathroom with the shut door. 

Jarvis stayed with him until he fell asleep—there on the bathroom floor as Tony clung to wakefulness, headed for sobriety, knowing that eventually he would wake to the morning and his father’s rage. 

He’ll do that for Peter now. He'll always do it—hold him until the inevitable sun rises, until the bathroom door cracks open, until the judge slams her gavel down and calls him up to the podium.

Like Jarvis and Tony on the bathroom floor all those years ago—he and Peter hiding away from the world, the bathroom door with its broken lock, what’s left of Cho’s medical supplies on the floor. Tony won’t look at his watch—he won’t—and each second pulses in his aching chest, each second closer to returning—each second closer to seeing them all again.

And the morning—the morning will come.

It always does.