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Peter was swinging before he was even aware where he was going, before he could let himself process, before he could calm the pounding in his chest and the bile rising in his throat as his memory played, over and over, the injury that caused the pool of blood on the street.
The blood on his hands.
The blood coating him, clinging to him.
It repeated over and over, in his mind, and he tried to think of what he could have done. What could he have done?
His hands, arms, core worked mindlessly, balancing as he threw himself through the air, between buildings, his mind still sitting in that pool of blood, holding-
Holding him.
Peter swallowed back the bile and bit back a scream as he realized that he didn’t even know the kids name. It was someone in one of his classes. They had walked the same halls, gone to the same school, had the same teachers. It was a friend of a friend, and Peter didn’t know his name, and he had died in Peter's arms.
And Peter couldn’t save him.
The kids blood soaked Peter’s suit as it worked to propel him towards Stark Tower, and Peter fought not to puke.
There wouldn’t be school tomorrow.
Maybe not even Friday. The school might just let them off the rest of the week.
Because they all had to grieve. They had to process. They had to understand that he was gone, he had been murdered, and Spider-Man hadn’t been able to stop it.
Pete found himself standing on the landing strip, outside Tony's workshop. He didn’t remember arriving… he knew Karen had said something, but he hadn’t listened. He hadn’t bothered.
The memory of the kids scream, his cry, his attempts to stop the blood pouring from his chest, all protruding into Peter's mind so much so that he couldn’t hear, see, think of anything else.
He sat down on the edge of the landing strip and ripped his mask off. He had always loved sitting here, whenever he needed space to think on lab days with Mr. Stark, he loved watching the activity below and trying to imagine what each person might be doing.
Someone down there was getting a call that their son had died.
Died, in Peter's arms, calling out for help. As if Peter could have saved him. As if Peter could have done anything.
Peter moved to wrap his arms around his legs, curl into a protective ball, but stopped, staring in horror at his arms.
Bloodsoaked. The suit, still covered in blood. Peter could make out the exact spot blood had pooled in the crick of his arm as it poured from the boy's chest, Peter holding him up, trying to lift him to carry him to the hospital. Cradling the kid in his same grade as the boy whimpered like a scared child and Peter fought to do the same.
That spot, where the blood had pooled, seemed stained now, deeper than the rest. A splotch among splatters of red. The bile resurfaced.
“Peter?”
Peter whipped around, heart pounding, his own heartbeat and breathing and the voice all his mind can focus on, other than the memories.
The memories that Peter wasn’t sure he would ever be able to push away.
It was Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark, wearing workshop clothes, staring at him as if he was a wild animal. He must look it, covered in blood, hunched on the roof.
“Peter, what-”
Mr. Stark started walking towards him, slowly, hesitantly, and Peter urged his brain to do something, say something, but his hands were shaking and his arms wouldn’t move, he couldn’t bring himself to let the blood on his suit touch his sides, touch anything. His breathing quickened, his vision pinpointing on Stark's face.
He looked afraid.
Afraid, maybe, of him. Of what he might have done.
I killed that boy, by not saving him. The thought bubbles to the front of Peter's mind, breaking the surface as Peter broke with it, and he sobbed. He felt his body double over, memories in full pursuit of his mind, and his mind was losing the battle. The body voice, his slippery hand, coated in blood, the fear on his face as he cried out for his parents, as he clung to Peter like a lifeline.
A broken lifeline. One that didn’t work.
Peter felt arms around him, pulling him back, away from the edge, and the memories continued assaulting him. He could smell the blood, hear the heartbeat of the boy, the heartbeat that had now stopped. He could taste the bile, and felt himself throw up, but the memories did not stop.
Someone was holding him, rubbing his back, offering him water, but he couldn’t calm down enough to acknowledge him. He threw up again, but nothing came up. His body, desperately trying to rid him of the knowledge that he would carry the rest of his life- that he couldn’t save him. A boy, his same age, one he had interacted with. Peter would never see him again, and it was his fault.
“Peter, can you hear me?”
Peter nodded, on autopilot, as he dry-retched again. He wiped his face, only to feel his face dirty, and realize he had just wiped the kids blood on his mouth. His breathing quickened, and his vision was starting to spiral.
“I’m gonna pick you up, kid, we need to get you inside. Stay still.”
Arms cradled him, metallic arms, cradled him just as he had held the boy. Carrying him somewhere, though Peter didn’t have the energy to figure out where.
He fought down the urge to puke again, trying to slow his breathing, trying to zone out completely, out of his body, out of the body which just heard the kids heartbeat stop. Trying to stop feeling the blood on himself, on his arms, on his face.
He realized Tony was carrying him, in one of the Iron Man suits. He must have called it.
Peter fought down the memories, as they fought to overcome him again. He fought down everything. All of it, as he teetered on the edge of instability. He refused to acknowledge himself, his being in his body or his past of the implications of the future, anything.
He allowed Tony to carry him inside, through the lab, through to a bathroom, and allowed himself to be lowered into a bathtub. He felt the shower turn on, and dimly was aware of the water hitting him, fully clothed, as Tony spoke to him.
Tony wasn’t wearing the Iron Man suit anymore. Peter wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. He closed his eyes, trying not to notice anything. Not to notice the way the water ran off pink, or the tears on his face, or the concern on Stark’s.
Tony murmured to him assurances as he sat nearby, adjusting the temperature of the water, watching Peter. Meaningless things, “It’ll be alright” and “You’re safe”, nothing that mattered. Nothing Peter believed. Eventually, Tony asked if Peter could take the suit off. Peter did so, mindlessly. He was enjoying the dullness, the numb nothingness that came with refusing to acknowledge anything.
He was blank.
He was clean.
He was nothing.
It was a comfort. It couldn’t last.
Once his suit was off, Peter sat in the bathtub in just his now-soaked boxers, and Tony held an arm, scrubbing it lightly. Trying to get the blood off. He kept twisting it, scanning Peter's body, his voice constant and assuring but slowly growing more worried at Peter's lack of response.
Eventually, it occurred to Peter that Stark was looking for an injury, for the source of the blood. Peter pinched his leg with his free arm, fighting to stay present long enough to clarify.
“It wasn’t mine.” Peter murmured, and with the action, he became aware of how disgusting his mouth felt.
Bile and blood and grime, mixed together. Peter opened his mouth towards the showerhead, and allowed it to fill with shower water before swishing it and spitting it out as Tony spoke.
“It wasn’t yours? What, kid, what wasn’t yours? The blood?”
Peter nodded, but didn’t speak, and let go of his leg. He allowed Tony to move on to scrubbing his back, his other arm, before he started to come to himself more. The memories came again, but only in dull flashes, not the sharp technicolor they were before.
Tony continued talking to him. Asking the occasional question, watching Peter ignore it, and moving on to more nothing phrases. “You’re safe now” and “You did the right thing” and “Try to relax”. Peter just sat, sat, frozen. Thinking of everything that had happened, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, and turning his face into the water whenever the memories threatened to overtake him. He pinched his leg, as hard as he could, when the water wasn’t enough. The sharp pain cleared his mind, long enough for him to gain control of it.
It was a normal patrol. It had been a normal patrol. Nothing had been out of the ordinary, until the moment everything went wrong.
“Pete, I’m gonna wash your hands now.”
Peter nodded absentmindedly, and then realized his fist was balled. It took a conscious effort to relax one, and as soon as he did, Tony held his hand and scrubbed at them. There was no blood on them, nothing, but until they were cleaned, he felt like there could be. He watched numbly as Tony’s hands scrubbed at his, from one, to another, then Tony was done.
“Can you stand up for me, kiddo?”
Peter did, taking the arm offered to him for balance, and he spun around under the water once to let the water hit his back, pinching the skin at his hipbone in an attempt to keep his mind clear.
“Good.” Tony turned off the water, then offered Peter a towel, which he took with a quiet ‘Thank you’ as he stepped out of the bathtub, onto the mat. Tony backed up to give him room, studying him as he toweled himself off.
“I’ve got clean clothes here, kid.” Tony spoke, sliding a stack of clothes to Peter, and Peter nodded his thanks.
“Scared me, back there.” Tony tried at a joke, or at least, Peter thought it was a joke, until he looked at Tony's face. Flat, except a lingering concern. His eyes seemed to pierce Peter, picking apart the bruises and cuts across his body, and Peter knew that he noticed Peter pinching himself to stay present. The bruise on his leg, the spot he pinched routinely, had been there for ages. Tony's gaze lingered on it for a moment as he scanned.
“Sorry.” Peter murmured.
“Don't apologize, Pete. It’s alright. Just… get changed.” He spoke softly, and there was no mistaking the concern in his voice now.
Peter realized that Tony wasn’t leaving the room to let him change, but when Peter reached for the dry clothes, Tony did turn his back, facing away. Pete changed behind the towel, locker-room style, quickly, putting his soaked boxers back in the bathtub once he was done. The sound alerted Tony, who turned around.
“Done?”
Peter nodded.
“Do you… feel better? You okay?” Tony spoke hesitantly, still staring into Peter's soul. In a flash, the memories took over for just a second, enough for Pete’s chin to tremble as he nodded.
He’s okay.
Tony sighed.
“C’mere, kiddo.”
Peter broke, again, as Tony’s arms wrapped around him. One of Tony's hands rubbing his back, the other cradling his head, as Peter sobbed openly again, crying into Tony’s shoulder. Tony held him tighter.
“I couldn’t- I should’ve-” Peter tried to speak, but his breathing stopped him every time.
“It’s okay, kiddo. You're here now. We’ll figure it out.” Tony murmured, the hand which was in Peter’s soaked hair moving to gently work out the tension in Peter's shoulders. “Let it out. I’ve gotcha.”
Peter let go with one hand, moving it to pinch his leg again absentmindedly as he fought to stay in his body again, but Tony’s arm moved quickly to stop him.
“Hey. None of that. Let it out.” Tony held Peter’s wrist tightly, not tightly enough to hurt, but tightly enough Peter would have to try to get away.
He could, if he wanted to, but the shame of knowing Tony had noticed made him cry harder, words spilling from him as if he had no choice as one arm clung onto Stark. He kept his face pressed into the older’s shoulder, not wanting to see his face. Not wanting to watch his reaction.
“There- there was a robbery. Normal robbery. Guy, gun, people in the store, I tried to stop it. I showed up. The guy, he, before I could get the gun, he shot someone. He shot-”
A fresh wave of sobs overtook Peter, and he couldn’t continue. Tony hugged him tighter.
“Breathe, kiddo. In through your nose… then out, slow.” Tony breathed slowly, exaggeratedly, trying to mimic his own advice. Peter tried to copy him, to breathe alongside him. His exhales staggered, letting out puffs of air instead of a continuous breath, but he managed to mostly get his breathing under control again. He spoke, determined to explain, determined to say it now, while he couldn’t see Stark's face.
“He shot someone. Before I could stop him. A kid, my age, a kid, in my school. He- he- the kid. He didn’t- he bled, everywhere. I heard-” Peter’s breath hitched but he forced himself to continue. “-I heard his heart stop. The guy. The shooter. He got away. The kid- goes to my school, my grade- he died. He’s gone. I couldn’t save him. He-”
Tony only hugged him tighter in reply, continuing his controlled breaths, as Peter dissolved again, no longer sobbing, but breathing too heavily to continue, the hand Tony was holding balled into a fist in the effort to control himself, his rage, his frustration, his distress at the memories. Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter, waiting for Tony to say something. After a few moments of silence, Tony did, in a carefully controlled voice, pulling back from the hug to watch Peter's face.
“How do you feel?”
Peter kept his eyes squeezed shut, feeling Tony's gaze but refusing to meet it. He did a quick once-over, testing his limbs.
“Nothing's broken. He didn’t shoot me.” Peter responded quickly.
“I know, kid. You’ve got some bad bruises and scrapes, and your ankle is tweaked a bit, but otherwise you’re good. Nothing internal, Fri scanned you. I was asking how you feel… emotions, kid.” There was something in Tony’s voice, some controlled concern, and shame welled up in Peter for causing it.
Emotions.
Peter thought, for a moment, then listed in a detached tone, eyes still squeezed shut. “Guilty. Scared. Horrified. Angry. Guilty. Worried. Self-conscious. Hate, I feel hate, I hate that I couldn’t save him. Powerless. Shame”
Tony nodded, still gripping onto Peter's wrist.
“Alright. Let's go to the lab, kid. Stay with me.”
Tony didn’t let Peter's wrist go while they walked to the lab. It was a further walk than Peter remembered, and Peter tried to piece together how long it had been since he got here. How long has it been since the boy died?
Did the kid’s mom know yet?
Finally, Tony and Peter arrived at the lab, and Tony led Peter towards a far wall with a couch. Away from the project that Tony had clearly hastily abandoned, DUM-E still whirring nearby, as if trying to figure out how to help the mechanic who was long gone.
Tony sat down, still holding Peter's wrist, and Peter sat next to him, letting out an involuntary sigh as he settled into the couch.
“I’m gonna let go of your wrist, but I swear to god, if you try to hurt yourself again, I’ll have DUM-E make gloves where you can’t open your hands.” At the sound of his name in Tony’s voice, DUM-E whirred expectantly. “Rest, boy. Chill out.” The robot spun to a stop, powered off, while Tony let go of Peter's wrist as promised.
Peter flexed it hesitantly, but kept it away from his leg and his hand balled in a fist as it settled at his side. Peter still refused to look at Tony, even though he could feel the man's gaze on him. His mind was still in the store, trying to think through what had happened. What he could have done differently.
“You’re still trying to solve it.” Tony spoke.
Peter didn’t respond.
“How do you feel, kid?”
Peter felt his temper, fueled by adrenaline, rise slightly. “It doesn't matter how I feel, the kid is dead. He's dead.”
“You’re not dead. You’re the one that matters now.”
Peter’s head shot around to look at Stark, expecting him to be joking, or lighthearted, or anything other than how he actually looks - serious. Dead serious.
He continued. “I know it feels awful, and I know you feel awful, and I know you’re going to think about this day forever. But you’re who matters now. You can’t let yourself die with him. It matters how you feel, because you can still feel. He can’t. So… how do you feel?”
Peter studied Tony's face, looking for any sign of mockery, any lightheartedness… He couldn’t find any.
He looked down at his hands again, as he spoke. “I… I can’t- I can’t believe I didn’t save him. I couldn’t-“
“Guilty.” Tony says, calmly. “You feel guilty.”
Peter nodded, and closed his eyes as another damn tear slipped out. “He was a kid. I should be able to-“
“You’re a kid, too. You’re still a kid.”
Peter shook his head, ignoring Tony, ignoring his insistence on trying to make Peter feel better. “I’m Spider-Man, I should be able to save a kid from a mugger-“
“Peter.” Tony’s voice, sharp, a command. “Look at me.”
Peter did. Against his better judgements, against every instinct in him to hide the tears now steadily sliding down his cheeks again, he looked at Tony.
Tony considered him, for a second, then sighed, worry and concern etched into his face plainly. “Pete… God- Pete, you don’t have to carry that. You don’t have to carry it all.”
“But that’s what I’m supposed to-“ Peter cut in, hating the pity on Tony’s face, hating that Tony didn’t get it, and didn't understand that Peter failed.
“If you save everyone you won’t be able to save yourself.” Tony interrupted.
Something in his voice made Peter stop. Frozen, mouth open, ready to protest, but something in his words, in the older man’s face, made Peter stop.
There was more than pity there. More than a fondness that let him see straight through all of Peter’s mistakes, all of the blood on Peter’s hands.
Tony spoke, slowly, carefully, emphasis on each word. “You can’t… save everyone. If you do… you will die. You’ll die, Pete. I can’t take that.”
“I won’t-“ Peter cut in, but Tony cut him off again.
“What’s the bruise on your leg from, Pete? How long has that been there? What caused it?”
Peter hung his head, caught, stuck, wanting to defend himself, knowing he can’t smoothly dodge this question. Knowing he can’t answer, either.
Tony didn’t need him to. His point was proven. “Carry all that, kid, and you’ll die. It starts with bruises. It gets worse. Don’t… let it get worse. Don’t carry all that.”
Peter shook his head, just a little, trying to find any fight in himself to argue, but all he found was a lump in his throat and an urge to press into that bruise again and ground himself.
Ground himself, so he could keep blaming himself.
“Mister Stark… I’m so… scared.” Peter spoke, choked. Forcing the words out, ignoring the squeaks that came with them. Ignoring the tears falling, ignoring the memory of the boy's heartbeat stopping, ignoring everything, ignoring it all. Too scared to be anything but blank.
Tony’s arms wrapped around him from beside him, pulling his back into Tony’s chest, hugging him tight. The pressure felt good, on Peter’s stiff body, as he fought off anything and everything.
“It’s okay, kid. Let it out.”
Peter's stiff body resisted, resisted everything, both speech and lack of it, resisted the arms around him but resisted the motivation to fight him. Peter felt bound, by everything and nothing, and all he had left to do was sob.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re safe here.”
Peter didn’t know how long he stayed there, back shuddering with inhales and exhales against Tony’s steady chest. How long did Tony’s arms pin Peter’s to his sides, as if knowing Peter half walked to flee? How long did Peter’s body fight off the exhaustion, that all-consuming tiredness that comes with feeling a heart stop?
No matter how long it was, Tony kept up a constant murmur throughout. Talking to Peter, saying nothing. Talking through equations or his morning routine or a childhood memory, anything, talking, and Peter’s body relaxed slowly despite himself as he continued crying.
It was harder, though, to remember the dying pulse of that boy when Tony’s steady pulse was so present. It was harder to hear the boys whimper when Tony kept talking. Steadily, about everyday things, about how the world would go on.
About how Peter was still here.
Peter, slowly, let the weight of the world off his shoulders and let himself be a little kid, scared, so scared, so scared it took over him. He stopped fighting it. He stopped ignoring it.
“I held him… I held him, as he died, he died, Mister Stark, I heard it…”
Tony only nodded, and continued talking, now about some Greek myth.
About nothing.
Because life would go on.
Slowly, so slowly, Peter felt his body go limp. His breathing goes steady. His eyes close, not in an effort to fight anything off, but simply an inability to keep taking anything in.
As Peter drifted to sleep, Tony finally allowed himself to unwrap his arms from the child. Tony placed him, carefully, laying down on the couch, in a recovery position in case he threw up again.
Tony wiped the tears from his face, and cleared his scratchy throat. He found a bottle of water, drank it, and asked FRIDAY quietly about the boy from the shootout.
Tony learned his name. He watched the footage. He took a deep breath, then another, checking back to make sure the kid was still sound asleep.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Yinsen.” Tony murmurs, to the empty lab.