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Soap, Peter realized bitterly, was a horrible cleaning substance.
He pressed it into his hands, wringing them out, and glared down. It wouldn't come off. The dried blood - Mr. Stark's blood - wouldn't come off his hands. He scrubbed his hands harder under the water, breathing ragged. It wouldn't come off. It wouldn't come off. It wouldn't come off. It became a chant in his head, filling every single nook and crevice in his thoughts. It wouldn't come off.
Peter blindly flicked the hot water up, cold water off, his hands tremoring even as he held them under the steam. It wouldn't come off. He shoved his hands together, pulling and scratching and twisting at them, but the blood still wouldn't come off. "Please," he gasped, his whole body shaking. "Just get it off, please..."
It felt like hours of vigorously trying to scrape the dried blood from his hands, piling on more and more soap, the hot water handle turning higher and higher. "Get it off," he whispered, utterly numb but unable to stop. Is this my blood or his? his thoughts whispered, a traitor to his actions. He choked on a sob and pressed his hands further into the bloody, soapy water. A burning sensation singed his arms and he welcomed it. Anything to get it off. He had blood on his hands, Mr. Stark's blood on his hands, dried and gone and there would never be any more blood or laughs or snarky remarks from the man because he was-
"Peter?" Peter's head snapped up, his vision and thoughts foggy.
"Mister Stark?" He heard himself say.
"No. I'm Stephen. I fought on your side, remember?" The man's voice was soft but not pitying. Peter subconsciously pressed his hands to the bottom of the sink once more. "Here. Let me help." Trembling fingers took his own, pulling his hands - his bloody hands, blood on his hands, it wouldn't come off - out of the sink. Stephen rested one of his hands on Peter's two and pulled the drain plug with the other. Peter watched the red sudsy mess swirl down the sink and shut his mouth as tight as it could go. He vaguely felt like crying, but he had no idea why.
"It's still on my hands," he whispered, not able to move. "It's on my hands. Please-"
Stephen took Peter's wrists and gently held them below the tap. He pushed the cold water on in a light stream and, so, so gently, used the edge of his shirt to dab away the blood. Within a few minutes it was gone, with just a few cuts - new ones , from his own hands, Peter realized heavily - remaining in its place. "All better?" The sorcerer asked him quietly, still loosely holding the boy's hands in his own. Peter nodded, with a dizzying wave of exhaustion and relief. He felt his throat tighten, eyes burn, and turned and pushed himself into Stephen's arms, burying his face in the folds of the tall man's shirt. His chest heaved with a sob as Stephen brought his hands up to press between the boy's shoulder blades, holding him close.
"I know," he whispered to Peter, shutting his eyes tight. "I know."
Peter didn't let go. Not even when the sorcerer's shoulders trembled and a singular tear dripped onto the back of Peter's neck.