Peter had been watching the news. He always kept up to date, especially when his dads were involved.
He knew something bad was going to happen. He was smarter than the reassuring messages F.R.I.D.A.Y. had given him from his father. He wasn’t an idiot.
When he got a call from his pops he didn’t know what to expect, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Pete, you know that I love you, right?” His pops had said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“What are you going to do?” He asked again.
“I love you, Peter.”
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare-“
“I’m sorry,” was the last thing said before the call cut out. He hurled his phone at the wall.
He had left. He had really just left.
Peter found himself getting angry at the news calling his pops a war criminal, but he wasn’t sure why. He was angry too.
He was so fucking angry.
His pops had just left. Just fucking left.
He saw how broken his dad was, the state he had come back in.
He saw that he was going to have to be the strong one. The one who stood up for his family. And at the moment, his family was just his dad and him.
His dad saw how angry Peter had got. How he refused to talk about his pops, and when he had to he hissed his first name.
“Peter, your father loves you. I know it’s hard to believe that now, but he does. He didn’t leave because of you,” His dad had said.
“I don’t care! I don’t fucking care. He can leave because of whatever damn reason he wants. He still fucking left. He left and I’m still here. He left and he isn’t fucking coming back, even if he wants to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m not letting him come back. Not into my life. I don’t care what he wants. He left. I needed him and he left. I told him not to and he left.”
His dad had tried to tell him otherwise but Peter was a stubborn child. A stubborn, angry child.
He was fourteen years old and felt like he was older than his pops.
He was nothing but rage.
His pops came back three years later. Or he tried to.
He had been pardoned a few weeks earlier and Peter knew it was a matter of time.
He had found his pops in the kitchen, looking around.
“Peter,” he had gasped. He had tried to throw his arms around Peter.
“No.”
“What?” He had asked, confusion crossing his face.
“Leave.”
“Wait, what?”
“I don’t want you here,” he saw sadness flash across his face. Good.
“Look, I don’t know what your dad has told you but-“
“Nothing, actually. He told me not to blame you.”
“Then why-“
“He told me to forgive you, doesn’t mean I listened.”
“Oh. But why-“
“Why?! You wanna know why? Why I’m not letting you waltz back in here? You fucking left for three goddamn years. You left. That’s on you.”
“You don’t understand-“
“I don’t give a fuck about why you did it. I don’t care. The point is you left. I’m your son, and you left. You made your damn choice and I’ve made mine. Get the hell out of here and continue staying the fuck out of my life.”
“Peter, I’m your father.”
“You stopped being my father when you left. I don’t care what you were. You’re nothing to me anymore.”
“You don’t mean that-“
“Out.”
“But-“
“Get out.”
And with that, he turned and left. Defeated but determined. Determined to gain a forgiveness he wasn’t going to get.
Because Peter was seventeen now and he was a man scorned. He wasn’t sad anymore. He was pissed.
And he had every right to be. He got to be.
He was tired of forgiving and he didn’t care how much he loved his pops.
He was doing what was best for him.
They told him to let go of his anger so he let his father go.