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“Hey, Peter. Are you alright? You look really pale.”
Ned Leeds tapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. They were in chemistry, a class where Peter was usually a flurry of activity, between completing their classwork and working on his web fluid. He had been more focused in recent weeks, now he had full access to Tony Stark’s lab – Ned still couldn’t believe that had become a normal sentence – but it was still odd to see Peter so…still. He had stopped paying attention fifteen minutes ago and now sat with his hands in his lap, staring towards the floor.
“Something’s up, Ned,” Peter said, so softly Ned could barely make out the words. “I-I can sense it. I just don’t know…what.”
Ned suggested, “Maybe something’s about to blow up in here?” His gaze instinctively drifted to a group of girls in the corner who were notorious for making rather pungent mistakes.
“No,” Peter replied. He didn’t even look up. “Something bigger than that.”
“Dude, check your phone – maybe it’s ~internship~ stuff.” Although it was clear something was wrong with his friend, Ned was hard-pressed to keep the excitement from his voice. He’d happily skip chemistry for the chance to be Peter’s Guy in the Chair again.
“No.” Peter shook his head (Ned tried not to obviously deflate). “It’s-it’s hard to explain. It seems more…personal than that.”
“Text May, too, then,” Ned insisted, a flash of worry breaking through his enthusiasm. If anything happened to May… “I’ll make sure the coast is clear.” He gave Peter’s bag a light kick.
Peter shot him a dubious look but bent over to retrieve his phone. Ned watched as he dutifully sent messages to Happy and May in quick succession.
As the clock ticked ominously at the front of the room, Peter’s condition worsened.
“Hey, do you think you should go to the nurse?” Ned asked.
Peter shook his head. His forehead shone with perspiration.
“Has anyone texted you back?”
Peter shook his head again. His breaths came in shallow, erratic bursts.
Ned went for the big guns: “Maybe you should text Mr. Stark directly.”
“No, Ned.”
That got him to respond with words, at least.
“I don’t want to bother him,” Peter continued. “He’s been a little…distant lately.”
“What harm can it do? Obviously, something’s up.”
“No, Ned!” Peter replied – a tad forcefully, earning them Mr. Cobbwell’s attention.
“Mr. Parker, Mr. Leeds. Little less chatting, please.”
When Cobbwell’s back was turned, Ned tried one last time: “Just text him!”
“Okay, Ned!” Peter hissed. His fingers sounded audibly on the screen as he angrily typed a short message. “I doubt it’ll do much good.”
Tony Stark sat on the floor in a seldom-used room in once-again-Stark Tower. His stomach swirled but his heartbeat was calm, as if his body couldn’t make up its mind whether or not it was nervous. As for Tony himself, he felt nothing but a strange sense of detachment. Although he was aware of the sensations pulsing through his body, they seemed to come from a place outside himself. He could only describe how he felt as numb, a fuzzy haze which had descended weeks ago.
He took a deep breath before silently ticking off the items in his mental checklist. He’d recorded the messages this morning, and they were timed to be sent at a command from FRIDAY. He’d left the necessary documents in plain view in his workshop – which he’d left uncharacteristically tidy. The door was locked, and FRIDAY was primed to keep it that way until the proper people arrived. There was only one thing left to do.
Tony glanced down at the object in his hand. He couldn’t say where the gun had come from, exactly, or how he’d found it. He guessed it had always been there, waiting for the time to come when he’d need it. Waiting for now. He hesitated. Was he really sure about this? He’d been so caught up in preparations over the last couple of days that he hadn’t had time to stop and think: was he ready to die?
He took one last look up and down his arms, pale from months of seldom seeing the sun and decorated by a latticework of angry lines – some old, some painfully fresh. Memories of long nights spent with only a bottle as companion flashed through his mind, a single crease forming in his forehead as he recalled the desperate cries of a miserable man. Was he sure about this? Tony had never been surer of anything in his life.
Steeling his nerves, he brought the gun up to his mouth, placing the barrel between his front teeth.
A gentle click alerted him that he was almost free.
The thought brought a smile to his face as he placed a finger on the trigger.
He began to squeeze…
By the end of the period, Peter looked seconds away from passing out. He was shaking so badly he could hardly stand.
Ned helped him from his seat, shielding him from the concerned glances of their fellow students. “Peter, I really think you should go to the nurse.”
“M’fine,” Peter spluttered. “J-jus…jus’ gotta…figgur ou’…wh-wh…wha’s wrong.”
Making up his mind, Ned pulled Peter into the nearest restroom. After checking to see if they were alone, he locked the door. “Okay. If you won’t go to the nurse, you have to call Mr. Stark. This isn’t normal.”
Peter didn’t seem to hear him, eyes trained on something Ned couldn’t see.
“And if you won’t do it, I will,” Ned added. He hesitated, then took the phone from Peter’s hand. It had begun to buckle in his friend’s superhuman grip. Pressing Peter’s thumb to the sensor, Ned found Tony’s contact and hit “call.”
“Boss.” FRIDAY’s voice rang out, and the gun fell from Tony’s hand.
“What?” he snapped. “FRIDAY, I clearly told you I was not to be disturbed.”
“Mr. Parker has been trying to contact you.”
A sharp wave of feeling rushed over Tony – pride, worry, and love, all in one. “Where is he?”
“According to his device’s location services, at school.”
His chest tightened. “Is he okay?” he asked.
FRIDAY put a call from Peter through by way of reply.
“Hello? Mr. Stark?” The voice of Ned Leeds filled the room.
Tony’s heartrate shot up. Willing himself to keep his tone calm (and failing), he answered, “Yeah, this is Tony Stark.”
“Um, well, Peter’s not looking too good.”
“What do you mean, he’s not looking too good?” Tony asked, sharper than intended.
“Well, he’s super pale and sweaty, and since the beginning of our last class he’s been going on and on about sensing something being…off, but he can’t tell what.”
Tony’s stomach dropped. “I’m on my way.”
The mid-December chill barely registered to Tony as he hopped into the nearest of his cars and began speeding towards Midtown High. It was only as he was forced to pause at a stoplight that his brain turned back on, cleared of its fog…God. Had he actually almost committed suicide?
No. He couldn’t think about that now. Turning his mind to literally anything else, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a week’s worth of untidy scruff staring back at him. Well, maybe he’d be a little less recognizable, at the very least. Because, now he was thinking about it, Pepper had remarked just that morning he needed a shower. How many days had it been? Two? Three? He wasn’t even sure what he was wearing – not sure he wanted to know.
And then he glanced down and saw the ghostly pallor of his own uncovered arms.
“Fuck!”
The curse ripped from him as crushing panic narrowed his focus to the crisscrossing scars and wounds marring his skin. No, no, no no nononono- A honk from behind wrenched his attention back up. The light was green. He slammed his foot on the gas.
“Fuck,” he repeated quietly.
Tony swallowed, throat dry and uncomfortably tight. He had to go back. He couldn’t be seen out in public like…this. No, there was something wrong with Peter. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t make the kid – his kid – wait while Tony hid his own shameful weakness. Could he just wait in the car? Have Peter come out to him? No, no, Peter needed him.
But could he really walk into a high school not-so-proudly displaying evidence of yet another miserable addiction? Teenaged Tony’s scars had faded with time, so much so he’d been able to wear short sleeves for much of his adult life. But…it had gotten worse since Siberia. Everything had gotten worse since Siberia…
The single cup of coffee Tony had consumed that morning roiled in his stomach. Well, he was no help to anyone if he puked all over himself on the way there.
“FRIDAY?” he asked finally, voice cracking.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Is there any type of, I don’t know, coat in this car? Blazer?” he suggested hopefully. “I’ll take a long-sleeved onesie at this point.”
A pause. FRIDAY’s capabilities were extensive, yes, but her in-car functions weren’t really meant to scan the-
“It appears Peter left a sweatshirt in the trunk during one of his last visits.”
Tony let out a weary sigh of relief. “Thanks, FRI.”
Within ten minutes, Peter was feeling more or less back to normal. “I can’t believe you did that, Ned,” he grumbled, careful not to let the nurse hear them. Embarrassment had replaced all the doom and gloom of earlier. “I’m fine.”
“You are now,” Ned whispered. “You looked awful when I brought you in.”
“Yeah,” Peter said dismissively. He still didn’t know what had happened to make himself feel like that. The thought didn’t sit well with him, but he wasn’t about to tell Ned that. What was he going to do next, call May? “But making Mr. Stark come get me? Not cool. You know he has better things to do.” Come to think of it, if Ned was going to call someone, he could’ve at least started with May…
Ned rolled his eyes. “Peter, I didn’t make him. I told him how you looked, and he said he was on his way.” A shrug. “He hung up before I could say anything else.”
“You could’ve at least called Happy,” Peter muttered petulantly. He refrained from crossing his arms, but he believed his tone got the message across even so.
“Happy doesn’t like me,” Ned mumbled back. “Or listen to me.”
Remembering Ned’s failed call to Happy the night they stopped Toomes, Peter had to concede the point. He let his head fall back and groaned. “This is not how I wanted this day to go.”
The feeling only intensified when Tony Stark walked into the room, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, and…was that Peter’s sweatshirt? His school sweatshirt? The one he could’ve sworn he left at the Tower a few weeks ago?
Before Peter could do anything more than stare – it didn’t even fit, and Tony kept bringing attention to the fact by pulling the sleeves down – Tony spoke. “Peter! I came as quickly as I could. What’s-”
His harried tone startled Peter from his state of shock. “Mr. Stark, you really shouldn’t have come,” he interrupted. “I swear, I’m completely fine. I started feeling better as soon as you got off the phone with Ned.”
Peter could’ve imagined it, but Tony seemed to pale at that. “No, it’s fine, kiddo. Come on, I’m taking you home.”
Peter tried to protest, but Tony, after thanking Ned profusely, would have none of it. Breezing through a few school formalities, Peter was in the passenger seat of Tony’s sleek black Audi in a matter of minutes. Embarrassed beyond belief, he spent the majority of the drive looking down into his lap. Which was how he found himself, not at the apartment building where he lived, but entering the subterranean garage under Stark Tower.
“Mr. Stark-”
“Don’t want to hear it, kid.”
Once the pair was inside, Tony sat Peter firmly on the couch with a glass of water.
“Drink,” he commanded. “I’ll be right back.”
Retreating to the bedroom he once again shared with Pepper, Tony walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The pristine lighting helped her don her immaculate makeup every morning. It only served to make him look even worse. With a groan, he leaned against the wall and slid gracelessly to the floor. The kid was fine. He could take a minute.
Tony had almost done it. He’d really, truly, been seconds away from blowing his brains out. The thought was hard to wrap his mind around. He tried taking a deep breath. The exhale shuddered, and, before he knew it, he was sobbing.
All he’d been able to think about for the past weeks (months) was what a burden he’d been over the course of his life. To his mom, to his dad, to Ana and Jarvis and Aunt Peggy. To Rhodey and Happy. To the Avengers, once upon a time. To Pepper (he still couldn’t believe she was truly back, thought it had to be out of pity – after all, who proposes at a press conference?). To all the others whose names and faces had blurred much more quickly than time should have allowed, as Tony had always been too caught up in himself to notice the impact he had on those around him.
Well, what was more self-interested than suicide? He’d thought removing himself from the picture was the answer. He’d been so close… Part of him still wished he’d done it, wanted to crawl back upstairs and finish the job. But Peter was there…
He’d hurt Peter, he realized. He hadn’t even pulled the trigger, yet Peter had felt so awful that Ned had called Tony. He knew Peter had a Sense for disaster, knew this Sense kept him safe just as well as the wicked-fast reflexes and super strength.
Tony didn’t know he was worth Peter’s Sense keeping him safe, too.
He buried his head between crossed arms, shoving his nose in the fabric to muffle his renewed sobs. The material was riding up again, and it was only when Tony grasped it to pull the sleeves down, frustrated that not one thing would go right, when he remembered. This was Peter’s sweatshirt. Peter’s school sweatshirt, which Tony really needed to return. But…now there was snot all over it – as well as, he was sure, days-old sweat.
Good one, Tony.
Tony sighed. He really needed a shower, and with Peter’s enhanced senses… “FRIDAY?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“How long have I been in here?”
“17 minutes.”
Peter would start wondering what was wrong soon. Getting in the shower would only increase the chances of him losing track of time again… Well. Deodorant and a change of clothing had worked for him in college (until 18-year-old Rhodey sat 15-year-old Tony down and explained the merits of proper hygiene, that is). It would have to do for now.
Tony walked back into the living room exactly 21 minutes after he’d left, looking (if not feeling) slightly more put together. He was pleased to note the glass of water was now empty, as instructed.
Peter stood – apparently refusing to take no for an answer. “Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me; I shouldn’t have let Ned call you.” The kid began pacing, reflecting the nervous energy Tony himself so often felt. “I just had this feeling that something really bad was going to happen, but it’s passed now. And everything’s fine. You’re fine-” He pointed towards Tony.
Tony resisted the urge to flinch at how untrue that statement was.
“May’s fine,” Peter continued. “She just texted me back. Happy never texts back, but you’d know if he wasn’t fine, so it must have been a false alarm or something totally unrelated. I really appreciate you coming and getting me, but...” Peter trailed off as Tony sat down heavily across from him.
Letting out a shaky breath, Tony dragged his hands down his face. He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say when he got back down here. Now, there seemed to be only one thing he could say. Heart pounding, he glanced up. Peter had sat down, too, and was now looking at him expectantly.
Tony sighed. Looks like we’re doing this, then.
Thoughts anything but composed, he began. “Kid, when you called – or, rather, when Ted or whatever his name is called –” (stalling, Tony, you’re stalling…) “I was, uh, I was sitting just a couple floors upstairs with a…” He swallowed. There was no going back from this. From admitting this, and to Peter, no less. God, he was just a kid- “With a gun in my mouth.”
Tony heard himself finish the sentence as if from very far away. Shame, hot and oily, warred with guilty relief in the pit of his stomach. It was cathartic, he realized, to say the words aloud. Perhaps he’d been too harsh on the idea of therapy all these years… The words continued, a flood he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
“Door was locked, my will was – well,” he amended, “still is – sitting in my workshop. You inherit almost everything, by the way, but I guess that’s neither here nor there now.” His eyes flitted to Peter and away again without really taking anything in. “FRIDAY had instructions to call the police as soon as…as soon as I’d…done it, and then you would have come home to…to a suicide note.” He paused, collecting himself. What had prompted this? Oh. Right. Peter and his Sense. “So, you see, kid, you don’t ever apologize for something like this. Your instincts are…never wrong.”
Tony took another moment of staring past his own jeans-clad legs to the floor, waited until the oppressive silence grew unbearable. He looked up. Peter’s eyes were filled with tears, and he could tell the kid was doing everything in his power not to launch himself at Tony. He couldn’t help but smile, remembering the last time Peter had given him an uninvited hug. “Come here, kid.”
Peter almost knocked him out of the chair, a torrent of tears staining his fresh shirt. Tony wrapped his arms around him, feeling a bit more human as he did (and really, really wishing he’d taken the time to shower, although the kid didn’t seem too put off). Without conscious effort, he began rocking gently to calm Peter’s tears. It was an instinct he didn’t know he had. The solid weight of Peter in his arms soothed something in him, too.
Finally, Peter pulled away, face set. “Mr. Stark. Where’s the gun?”
Tony gaped. He’d completely forgotten about the gun.
Silently, he led Peter upstairs to the small room where, hours before, he had almost ended his life. The gun, stark against the light carpet, lay where he’d dropped it. Leaving him at the door, Peter turned the safety on, removed the bullets, and put them in his pocket. The gun went with them back downstairs, where Peter placed it on the counter. As if by unspoken agreement, they returned to the living room to wait.
Pepper arrived home early, her last meeting thankfully having ended early. Walking into the kitchen, she was surprised to see not only Tony but Peter, sitting silently beside one another in the next room. It was odd to see either of them so still and, particularly for Peter, so forlorn.
Upon seeing her, Peter grabbed his bag to leave. He gave Tony a hug as he stood up, whispering something Pepper couldn’t hear. Her heart clenched at the touching display. Then Peter approached.
“Tony has something to tell you,” he said without preamble, sounding much older than his age. Without another word, he shouldered his backpack and walked out the door.
It was only then she noticed the gun.
Peter disposed of the bullets in a nearby waste drop before his feet took him home, his suit forgotten in his bag. He’d already saved the only life that mattered tonight.