Chapter Text
Peter didn't sleep that night.
He stared at the ceiling, at the little bioluminescent stars that dotted the plaster. They were peeling around the edges, now, fading with age but still contrasting with the Landlord White colored ceiling. The stars didn't help him sleep; he didn't think he’d ever sleep again.
He’d made mistake after mistake after mistake in his life. He didn’t think anything would be able to top this.
His chest felt like it was collapsing. That was all he’d ever really done, that was all his life seemed to be - a series of bad calls, compounded by blind trust and his unrelenting need to fix things, no matter how naive and stupid he was. This, though was probably the worst thing he’d done so far.
Nothing felt real. Nothing about the last few hours had felt real.
Peter let out a shuddering breath, rolling onto his side. His phone sat on the bedside table, and he didn’t want to touch it. He wanted to break it, but that was probably a bad idea. That was his only line of communication to Beck, and he needed to be able to talk to the man despite how sick it made him feel.
He’d been lied to. Again.
Karen was compromised. His AI wasn’t malfunctioning - it was tampered with. Beck had gotten to her, and he should have done more to figure out what was wrong with her when she’d first started acting erratic.
And his identity. God, his identity.
What did Beck have on him? What didn’t Beck have?
Peter sat up, his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress as his head swam. It wasn’t just about his identity, as awful as that was. He knew Peter’s friends, apparently. He knew where he lived, he knew at least some of his abilities - what else did he know? Did he know that Mr. Stark had adopted him? Did he know about CPS? The time he’d spent at the warehouse?
He’d known he was working on the gangs. Beck had used him, had manipulated him into taking out his competition. All those raids, all those missions where Peter thought he was doing good, stopping arms dealers and weapons traffickers - it had all been a way to help him. Peter clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
Beck had been setting them up.
He’d sent Peter after rival traffickers to eliminate the competition, to distract from what he was really after; Stark tech. Beck wasn’t just eliminating rivals; he was consolidating power, stealing whatever Peter had found. Had it been Beck’s guys who got away in the truck those weeks ago?
Peter’s hands shook as he pressed them to his face, his breathing shallow. He wondered how many times he’d unwillingly helped the man.
With great power comes great responsibility.
He had power. He was responsible for it. And yet… what had he done with it? Trusted the wrong people. Let innocent lives hang in the balance. Helped a man like Beck rise to power. He could have helped people. He’d ruined everything, instead.
Peter felt sick.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor. The air in his room was stifling, heavy with the weight of his failures. He needed to move, to do something, anything to stop the thoughts from eating him alive.
But what could he do?
He didn’t even know how far this went, how much damage Beck had already done. For all he knew, Beck had been planning this from the moment they crossed paths. How many lives had Peter unknowingly put at risk? How many people had paid the price for his blindness?
He had power. He was responsible for it.
Peter inhaled deeply, steadying himself. The guilt wasn’t going away - it was a lead weight in his chest, and he knew it would be there for a long time. But guilt wasn’t going to fix this. He stood, his movements stiff as he crossed the room to his desk. His suit lay crumpled in the corner, torn and stained from the fight. He picked it up, running his fingers over the damaged fabric.
It felt heavier than it should have.
—
Peter couldn’t sleep. He’d given up trying hours ago.
The clock on his nightstand blinked mockingly at him - three thirty-two in the morning. He’d stopped pretending to be tired somewhere around one in the morning, throwing off the covers and staring blankly at the peeling stars on his ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, Beck’s smug face seemed to materialize behind his eyelids and he wanted to punch a wall. And cry, too. Maybe in that order.
He swung his legs out of bed with a groan, the cold air prickling his skin. Maybe he’d exhaust himself through sheer willpower. He padded down the hall, pressed the button for the elevator, and made his way to the kitchen.
It was relatively clean after their mess earlier, but Peter couldn’t just turn and go to bed. Instead, he grabbed another sponge and wiped at the already clean counters. After they were clean, he set on emptying out the fridge and tossing whatever looked old despite the fact that it still made him a little queasy to toss food.
There wasn’t much to throw away - it was kept pretty clean, thankfully, but there was always at least one thing that was past it’s use-by date. Without thinking too much about it, he grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing.
The repetitive motion was mindless, which was… nice. Soap suds foamed over his now-gloved hands as he scrubbed away at the food scraps and dirty containers. The sink filled with soapy water, and he dunked a few more plates in, trying to focus on the sound of the water over anything else.
He stewed over everything and nothing. He couldn’t really push the rest of his thoughts away, and the miserable feelings lingered on the way Beck had manipulated him. The way Tony had looked at him, disappointment and anger and worry etched into every line of his face. The way Natasha hadn’t been in the kitchen and he tried to ignore her absence. The clatter of a plate jolted him out of his thoughts, his wet hands fumbling to catch it before it slipped into the sink. He sighed in relief, setting it carefully on the drying rack. He pulled off the gloves, before balling them up and tossing them into their space under the sink.
Peter stood back, surveying his work. The kitchen was clean, but it didn’t make him feel any better. The weight in his chest hadn’t lessened, and his legs felt heavy as he moved to put the last container away. Leaning against the counter, Peter let his head fall into his hands. The quiet of the common room felt oppressive instead of relaxing, for once. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.
He needed sleep. He needed to stop thinking.
But both of those things felt as impossible as pulling himself out of the hole he’d dug.
He turned back to glance over the kitchen, before he spotted a piece of hard candy that Harley had managed to melt onto the stovetop. After ten minutes of scrubbing at it, Peter heard the faint chime of the elevator. His heart sank as the doors slid open. Mr. Stark stepped out, looking as exhausted as Peter felt.
He froze.
The man wasn’t… he probably wasn’t drunk anymore. The lights were low, but he looked miserable from what he could see. His shirt was rumpled, and he looked like he’d just woken up after what would have probably been a thirteen-hour nap.
Peter froze, sponge still clutched in his hand. "How’d you know I was here?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"FRIDAY said you were up," Tony replied, scrubbing a hand down his face. His movements were deliberate, almost like he was stalling, trying to find the right words. "Figured I’d… check in."
Peter nodded but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned back to the counter, working on the stain a little harder than before. Tony didn’t leave, though. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze heavy on Peter’s back.
"Are you… are your injuries healed?" Tony asked finally, breaking the silence. His voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Mostly," Peter said, still not looking at him. He focused on the sponge, his knuckles white as he gripped it. "Just a couple scrapes."
There was another beat of silence, before Mr. Stark spoke again. "FRIDAY said you broke your ribs," he said after a moment, and it didn’t sound quite like an accusation but it felt like one regardless.
"Hairline fractures," Peter shrugged gently, still refusing to look away from the stain. He hadn’t turned around, yet. He didn’t want to meet the man’s eyes. "They’re almost better by now anyway, probably."
Tony let out a low hum, the kind that wasn’t really a word but Peter understood just as well. Silence settled between them again, thick and uncomfortable as Tony stood there, his weight shifted awkwardly and his eyes avoiding Peter’s. He shifted uncomfortably, dropping the sponge with a sigh and turning around, eyes still lowered as his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the edge of the counter.
"I’m sorry about… earlier," Tony finally said, his voice low and rough. Peter stiffened, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew what was coming next.
Peter couldn’t stand it. He tossed the sponge into the sink and turned to face Tony, though he still couldn’t quite meet his eyes. "Look, I know I messed up. You don’t have to-" Peter started, but Tony cut him off.
"You didn’t mess up," Mr. Stark interrupted, his voice sharp. Peter’s head snapped up, startled by the sudden intensity, and he didn’t know whether it was directed at Peter or himself. Tony sighed, his shoulders slumping as he scrubbed a hand down his face, his exhaustion showing in every line of his body. "Okay, maybe you messed up a little. But you didn’t… I shouldn’t have-”
"You were drunk," Peter said quickly, cutting him off. "I get it. Whatever. It’s fine."
"It’s not fine," Tony said firmly. He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer. "I… That was not okay. It’s been years since I let it get that bad. Kid, I - I said things I shouldn’t have. Things I didn’t mean. That’s on me, not you. I just… I don’t know. It’s just been… it’s been a hell of a week."
Peter’s stomach sank further, that awful swell of guilt rising up again. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. This was his fault. He’d stressed Mr. Stark out so badly that the man had relapsed.
Peter swallowed hard, his throat tight. "You weren’t wrong, though," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "About me being stu-"
"Stop," Tony said, holding up a hand. "Just stop right there. I don’t want to hear you say it. Because it’s not true, and you damn well know it."
Peter blinked, his mouth snapping shut.
Tony sighed again, raking a hand through his hair. "Look, I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, his voice softer now. "This… parenting thing. Or whatever this is. I’m bad at it. I screw up. A lot. But you’re not - you’re not a screw-up, Peter."
Peter’s chest tightened, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. There was no deflection, no sarcasm, just raw honesty. It caught him completely off guard. "Feels like it sometimes," he muttered.
Tony stepped closer, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. It was a light touch, almost hesitant, but it was enough to make Peter finally look at him.
"You’re a kid," Mr. Stark said, his voice steady but kind. "I’ve never been in this situation before," the man admitted, waving a hand vaguely. "Harley was my responsibility, sure, but only during school holidays, and even then, he wasn’t actively trying to kill himself by getting shot at and grabbing bombs."
"I’m not-" Peter interjected quickly, his voice cracking slightly. He bit his lip, struggling to find the right words. "I’m not trying to do… that."
The silence that followed was heavier than the last, settling over them like a lead blanket. Peter’s gaze dropped to the floor, unable to look Tony in the eye.
"I don’t know what to do," Tony repeated, his voice quieter this time. "Because if it’s not that, then I don’t know how to fix the fact that you have no sense of self-preservation."
"I do!" Peter shot back, his voice rising as his fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of frustration and desperation bubbling up inside him. "But when you’re standing in front of a bomb in the lobby, you have to weigh up if it’s worth letting half the building blow up!"
“It’s not worth blowing yourself up, Peter!” Tony snapped, his voice slicing through the air, and Peter flinched despite himself. Tony exhaled loudly, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. The motion was so achingly familiar it made Peter's chest tighten. Harley must have picked up the habit from him. “I don’t know which is worse at this point,” Tony muttered, his tone dipping into something dangerously close to despair.
Peter shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his sides. “What? You think it’s worse to be selfless than to be, what, suicidal?” The word tasted bitter in his mouth, but he forced it out anyway.
“This isn’t selfless, Peter,” Tony shot back, his voice cold, cutting. “It’s fucking stupid.”
The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching out like an invisible wall between them. Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his head bowed, avoiding Tony’s gaze. His chest ached. He was so, so tired.
Finally, Tony spoke, his voice low and tired. “…I wasn’t lying about taking the suit.”
Peter bit the inside of his lip so hard copper exploded in his mouth. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what to do with himself without the suit. It had been his identity for so long, his reason to keep going. He could use it to do good things, could use it to be useful. What was left without it? He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do, but fighting wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Peter didn’t want to fight anymore. He’s too tired.
“I just…” He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to fight anymore, Mr. Stark. I’m tired.”
Tony’s face softened, the anger and frustration melting into something more painful to look at - regret, maybe. Pity. Peter hated that look.
“Did anything… what happened?” Peter asked, his voice quiet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Someone staged the attack as a distraction to break in,” Tony admitted, running a hand down his face. “They got some pretty high-ranking stuff. It’s gonna be… a problem. But Pepper’s on it. FRIDAY’s on it, too.”
Peter’s stomach twisted. “FRIDAY stalled the alarm,” he realized aloud, another awful feeling of misery swirling in his gut. If Beck had broken in, he’d probably used a bomb either as an attempt to cover his tracks - or to the very least distract them enough that he could make a safe get away. The threat would clear the lower floors, any lingering guards or security personnel higher up, and would let him do whatever he needed to do in peace. “By the time I got down there, most of the civilians were already evacuated. None of the other Avengers were even there.”
Tony looked away, guilt flashing across his face.
“You can’t trust FRIDAY,” Peter said tiredly. “If she let the person get in, she’s probably compromised.”
Tony frowned, opening his mouth to argue before his expression faltered. Of course Peter was right. And that was the worst part - it was Peter’s fault FRIDAY had been compromised in the first place.
“I’ll look into it,” Tony said finally, his voice quiet.
Peter wanted to tell him more, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
The silence dragged on, filled only by the distant hum of the tower’s systems. Tony finally broke it, his voice low and tinged with regret. "I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry for earlier. For snapping. For… everything."
Peter looked up, his chest tightening at the sincerity in the man’s expression. He wanted to say something, anything, to make the guilt in Tony’s eyes go away, but the words caught in his throat.
Instead, he just nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "It’s okay."
Tony’s lips quirked into a faint, tired smile. "No, it’s not. But… thanks for saying it anyway." Peter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. Tony gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. "Now, go to bed," he said, his tone lighter now, though still laced with concern. "You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Peter nodded mutely and he let out a weak chuckle, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah, okay."
"And no more middle-of-the-night cleaning sprees," Tony added, tilting his head to gesture towards the sink. "That’s not normal. You need sleep."
Peter gave a warbly smile, but it didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real, anymore.