welcome to my personal hell, my mind
Peter
Peter didn’t even bother to wrap his hands when he went into the gym. He just walked straight to the punching bag and threw off his shirt, using exercise to block out the dark thoughts crowding in his head. Thief-- Peter’s dog-- settled down about ten feet away, watching him take his frustration out through violence.
Thief had been a sort-of gift from Fury-- the dog was going to be put down. He was “dangerous” because he was half-wolf, half german shepherd. A massive, lean black dog. He didn’t even look like a dog, to be honest. He looked pure wolf.
He had adopted him when Fury called him to his office and just said “I have a dog, and they’ll kill him if you don’t take him. He’s fully trained,” and brought Thief out from behind his desk, and Peter said yes immediately.
Peter glared at his dog as the wolfy creature rolled it’s eyes at him, seemingly remembering the same thing. “I would cuss you out if you weren’t a dog,” He growled. Thief laid down. “Actually, you know what? Fuck you.” Thief huffed and closed his eyes.
Thoughts and memories flooded his vision as he shut his eyes for a minute, regretting the absence of sleep from the night before yet acknowledging that he most likely wouldn't get any that night as well.
You did it, you did it, he’s dead he’s dead he’sdeadhe’sdeadhe’sdead and it’s all your fault--
He shut those thoughts as he threw a punch at the bag, it groaning wildly against the force of the movement. A burst of pain shot up from his knuckles, but he didn’t even give himself time to pause as his other hand shot toward the hard leather in a quick left right left right pattern.
He lost himself in the familiar motions, blocking out the thoughts and memories-- he didn’t need them. That was what he was good for-- he was a protector. He was a weapon.
Peter didn’t bother to keep track of time, but a while later Thief barked at him to get his attention. He reached out, steadying the bag before looking back at the wolfdog. “What do you want?” He sighed.
The dog looked at him for another beat before trotting over to the treadmill, looking back at Peter expectantly. Peter stalked over, crouching down so he could be eye-to-eye with the wolf. He dug his hands into Thief’s thick black fur, bringing their foreheads together for a second. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, mouthing seemingly random words onto Thief’s head. He scratched the wolfdog’s ears a couple of times, then pulled away. Just as he took his hands off, straightening, Thief grasped his wrist, not biting him, but keeping him there. When Peter looked down again, Thief released him, licking as his bloody knuckles.
“I know, boy. Just a little longer, okay? Then we can go up and have a movie marathon or something.” He patted the treadmill belt expectantly, and Thief hopped on as Peter reached up to turn on the machine.
As Thief started to run, muscles rippling under his fur, Peter set it to gradually increase over the next ten minutes to warm Thief up, then letting him run at his regular speed.
Peter unconsciously rubbed his hip through the fabric of his exercise shorts, where his scars were. He pulled his shorts down a bit, revealing the long, parallel lines running down his side. The sight made him suck in a breath, despite how many times he’d seen them all ready.
“Oh, kid.”
Peter looked up from his shaking hands, where he was wiping disinfectant over the cuts on his hip, standing out against the pale white. The knife he used was resting on the sink, fully cleaned already. The cuts were deep, blood having already seeped through the first round of bandages.
He wondered at how he was so calm, despite his mentor looking down at him, seeing how weak he was. Insane. He needed to push back the fog that had surrounded his mind. He could barely think, barely force himself out of bed when his mind told him there was no point.
He looked up at his mentor’s face, bracing himself for anger, but Tony looked devastated. The look pierced through the fog that surrounded his mind and cut into him, and Peter flinched away from Tony. He mistook the look for disappointment.
‘Now he knows how crazy you are. Just when he was starting to like you. You’ve gone and ruined that, too, Parker.’ A voice in the back of his mind whispered.
Peter snapped out of the memory with a gasp, his hand digging into the soft skin of his wrist, and he tugged the waistband of his shorts back up. Thief let out a whine, leaping off the moving treadmill to come and nuzzle at his palm.
“I’m-- I’m okay, boy. It’s alright. I just need a breather.” Once again, he kneeled down, fingers sliding into the silky fur on Thief’s neck, pressing his face into it and breathing in the wolf’s scent. “What would I do without you,” he whispered. Thief put his head down on Peter’s shoulder, his ear brushing against Peter’s bare neck. The two stayed that way for a little longer, until Peter’s hands slipped from the dog’s neck, taking in one last long breath before pulling away. Thief lifted his head and looked at Peter, then the punching bag, pointedly.
“Yeah, alright, I know. I’m done.” His voice was hollow.
He walked over and turned off the treadmill, the wolf following dutifully behind him. He paused for a moment after the machine slowed, looking around the room. The punching bag in the center had blood on it.
It was blue blood. Unmistakable. A freak’s blood.
On his way back to it, he grabbed one of the towels slung over the bar of the bench press, using it to wipe off the dark blue liquid. His mind settled into an easy quiet, thoughts pushed back and a calm fog thrown over the forefront of his mind. He slid the towel over his knuckles, relishing in the soft sting they gave.
Thief whined. “I’m fine, boy.”
He scooped up his phone and shirt with one hand, the other going to hold Thief’s collar. The black leather was there for Peter’s sake only-- he trusted the dog enough to never expect to have to grab him in he was going after something. He had it there so he could always hang on to the wolfdog, just to keep him present, keep him sane. His leash only came on when he was running, attached to his wrist to make sure people didn’t call the cops on a wolf. Thief stayed right next to him anyways when they went running-- often with Steve. In the wake of the… battle, Steve and him had grown closer, as someone who understood what was happening to him, the dark thoughts he had. Steve watched him, made sure he didn’t put a bullet through his brain like he was tempted to. The man kept him alive and sane until Thief was there to do it, until Steve didn’t have to keep him in his apartment, watch him 24/7.
Peter would’ve liked to say he got better over those four months since the Snap, but he just learned to ignore it, to bottle it up until it exploded.
Steve had been there the first time it had. Helped him through it, taken the hits Peter threw at him, and cared for him all the same afterwards. The second, he had been alone, a text from Happy saying he’d missed Tony’s funeral.
Peter didn’t grieve. He hurt, he hit the bottle, he sucked down alcohol until he couldn’t feel anything and the thoughts were all drowned out.
Peter was contemplating saying fuck it and getting a shot when he and Thief went up when his phone rang.
Nick Fury it read.