Chapter Text
The echoing silence that descended upon Daimon Thorne’s opulent study was more deafening than any explosion. As the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, grim and efficient, moved in to secure the unconscious Daimon, and the remnants of his formidable robot army were neutralized, Peter stood amidst the wreckage, a ghost in his own triumph. His body ached with a thousand bruises, but the pain in his heart was an abyss. He watched as they carefully, almost reverently, lifted Daimon, a figure both vanquished and terrifying, onto a stretcher. Peter’s eyes never left him, even as a thick, opaque sheet was pulled over Daimon’s face, obscuring the features Peter had come to know, to love, to betray.
Tony Stark, still in his dented Iron Man suit, placed a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Come on, kid," his voice was surprisingly soft, devoid of its usual bluster. "It's over. Let's get you home."
But Peter couldn't move. He felt like a hollowed-out shell, emptied of everything but a cold, aching void. His gaze remained fixed on the spot where Daimon had been, where their world had shattered. Natasha, Bucky, and Yelena exchanged grim glances, their faces etched with a weary understanding. They had seen Peter’s desperate plea, his agonizing defense of Daimon. They had witnessed the price of this victory.
Fury, his expression unreadable, gave a curt nod to the agents. "Take him to the Raft. Maximum security. No contact. No exceptions." His eyes flickered to Peter, then back to the departing form of Daimon Thorne. "And begin immediate analysis of his research. Every fragment. We need to understand the full scope of his 'Elysian Initiative.'"
As Daimon’s stretcher disappeared down the shattered hallway, carried by agents into the cold, sterile reality of captivity, Fury turned to the remaining Avengers. "Stark, Romanoff, Barnes, Belova. You're with me. We need to interrogate Thorne, understand his technology, and dismantle any hidden networks. The rest of you, debrief and recover."
Peter felt a hand on his arm, guiding him away. It was Captain America, his face etched with a quiet sympathy. "Come on, Peter. Let's get you patched up."
Peter didn’t resist. He was too tired, too broken. The journey home was a blur of medical checks, hushed conversations, and a suffocating sense of unreality. He was back in his small, familiar apartment, the familiar smells of May’s cooking, happy's voice as he chatted happily with his wife, may , the quiet hum of the city outside. He was safe. The world was safe. But his heart was in pieces, scattered somewhere in Daimon’s ruined study.
It had been two days. Two days since the world had been saved. Two days since Peter had saved it, at the cost of his own soul. He was back at mit college. the fluorescent lights of the hallways glaring, the incessant chatter of teenagers grating on his frayed nerves. He moved like a phantom, his senses dulled, his usual vibrant energy replaced by a hollow emptiness.
"Hey, Peter! Dude, you okay?" Ned Leeds bounced up to him in the cafeteria, MJ trailing behind, her keen eyes already studying him with an unnerving intensity. "You were out for a few days! Mr. Smith said you had… like, a super-flu or something. You look… pale. And tired. Did you catch some weird superhero super-bug?"
Peter mumbled, barely making eye contact. "Yeah, something like that. Just… under the weather." He pushed a spoonful of bland cafeteria mystery meat around his plate, his appetite nonexistent.
MJ, ever perceptive, slid into the seat opposite him. "Don't feed him that crap, Ned. You're not just 'under the weather,' Peter. You look like you haven't slept in a month, and you're radiating 'existential dread.' What happened?" Her voice was soft, laced with genuine concern, but her gaze was unwavering.
Peter flinched, instinctively pulling back. He couldn't tell them. He couldn't tell anyone. How could he explain the labyrinthine web of love and betrayal, the agonizing choice, the man whose heart he had shattered? "It's… nothing, MJ. Just… a lot going on. Exams, you know?" He forced a laugh, a hollow, pathetic sound that didn't fool either of them.
Ned looked worried. "Peter, seriously. You're usually bouncing off the walls. You haven't even mentioned the new Lego Star Wars set coming out!"
Peter just shrugged, staring at his untouched food. He felt like a ghost, haunting his own life. The vibrant colors of his world had faded to dull grays. Every laugh around him, every carefree conversation, felt like a distant echo in a muffled room.
At home, May and Happy watched him from afar. They saw the circles under his eyes, the way he picked at his food, the haunted look that occasionally flickered through his gaze when he thought no one was watching. They exchanged worried glances, their hearts aching for the boy they loved so fiercely.
"He's been quiet," May whispered to Happy one evening, watching Peter absently stare at the television. "Too quiet. He hasn't cracked a single joke, Happy. Not one."
Happy sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "He's been through a lot, May. More than any kid should. Fury said it was… a tough one. Emotionally." He didn't know the half of it, but he instinctively understood that Peter was carrying a burden too heavy for his young shoulders. "We just… we just have to be here. Let him know we're here. When he's ready to talk."
But Peter wasn't ready to talk. How could he articulate the profound, gaping hole in his chest? He missed Daimon so fiercely it was a physical ache, a constant, gnawing emptiness. Every night, the darkness of his room became a suffocating prison. He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep, but all he saw was Daimon’s face – his triumphant smile, his tender gaze, his broken, betrayed eyes.
He would wake with a jolt, gasping, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The silence of his room screamed at him. He missed Daimon’s warmth, his heavy arm around his waist, the deep rumble of his voice. He missed the way Daimon held him through his panic attacks, how he whispered reassurances until Peter’s world stopped spinning. Now, there was only cold, empty air. He wanted, desperately, to feel Daimon close to him, to feel that dangerous, forbidden comfort again. He felt like he was going completely insane, haunted by the ghost of a love he had been forced to destroy.
He’d wander his apartment in the dead of night, clutching a pillow, trying to pretend it was Daimon’s strong, comforting form. He’d pace, whispers of Daimon’s voice echoing in his mind, snatches of conversations, tender moments. "You are my dawn, my strength, my unexpected solace." Each memory was a cruel twist of the knife, reminding him of what he had lost, what he had done. He was a monster. A liar. He had broken the one person who had dared to show him a love that felt truly unconditional, even if it was based on a fundamental deception.
"I can't… I can't do this," Peter would whisper to himself, staring at his reflection in the dark window, seeing a stranger with haunted eyes. "I'm losing my mind. I need him. I need him back." The thought was terrifying, illogical, and utterly, profoundly real.
Miles away, deep within the sterile, high-security confines of the Raft, Daimon Thorne was not faring any better. He sat in a pristine, white cell, devoid of furniture save for a cot and a small, bolted-down table. The constant hum of the security systems was a monotonous drone, a stark contrast to the luxurious silence of his mansion.
Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Yelena Belova, and Tony Stark took shifts, entering his cell, their faces grim, their voices cold and professional.
"Thorne," Natasha’s voice was like ice. "We need to understand the full capabilities of your Elysian Initiative. Where are your backup servers? Who else is involved? What were your fail-safes?"
Daimon wouldn't answer. He would only stare, his eyes devoid of life, fixed on a point just beyond their shoulders. Sometimes, a flicker of something — deep pain, burning hatred, or utter desolation — would cross his features, but he remained utterly silent.
"Look, pal," Tony had tried, his usual bravado mixed with a frustrated weariness. "We get it. You're mad. You feel betrayed. But people are gonna die if we don't figure out how to shut down any residual networks. So, how about you stop with the silent brooding and actually help for once?"
Daimon’s only response was a slow, deliberate turn of his head, his gaze sweeping over Tony, then lingering, for a fraction of a second, on Natasha, as if searching for something, then dismissing them all. He was a statue of defiance.
But beneath the hardened exterior, Daimon was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. He had told Peter, Ethan, that his love was over, that it had been consumed by the fire of betrayal. He had believed it. He had wanted to believe it. But it was eating him alive, a festering wound in his very soul. Every second spent in this sterile prison, every cold, desolate moment, brought back the crushing weight of Peter’s final embrace, the tears on his face, his choked whispers of "I love you."
Why did I let him live? The question tormented him relentlessly. Why didn't I just crush him with the robots? Why didn't I let the initiative consume him too? He remembered Peter standing between him and Fury, shielding him, demanding his life. A flicker of bewildered tenderness, quickly extinguished by the scorching pain of betrayal. He was a fool. A goddamn idiot for believing in something so fragile, so easily manipulated.
His nightmares were back, worse than ever. Not of the orphanage, not of the cold, dismissive faces of his parents, not even of Alexander’s desperate cries. Now, his nightmares were filled with Peter. Peter’s innocent eyes, Peter’s soft laughter, Peter’s desperate tears. He would thrash on the hard cot, waking with a choked cry, reaching out into the empty air, desperate for the comforting weight of Peter’s body, for the gentle touch that had soothed his terrors.
"Ethan," he would whisper into the darkness, his voice raw, heartbroken. "Hold me. Please. I need you. I… I still need you."
He knew Fury was scared. Scared of what Peter would do if Daimon truly disappeared. Fury’s questioning was harsh, relentless, pushing at his psychological defenses, but Daimon could sense the hesitation, the invisible line Fury wouldn’t cross. He wasn't killing him. Not yet. All because of Peter. The thought was a paradox: a source of bitter fury, and a strange, agonizing comfort.
"He's a stubborn one, Fury," Natasha reported, stepping out of Daimon’s cell, her face tight with frustration. "He won't give us anything. Not a single word."
Fury slammed his hand on the table, a low growl escaping him. "He will. He has to. The world depends on it." He rubbed his temples, the burden of his decisions weighing heavily on him. He had seen Peter’s breakdown. He knew the risk he was taking. But Thorne was a monster, a threat to global stability. He just… couldn't kill him . Not now. Not after everything. The boy was already shattered.
In his cell, Daimon closed his eyes, wishing for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness, but knowing it would only bring back the torment of his dreams. He still heard Peter's words, his desperate, tearful confession: "I love you, Daimon. I truly, truly love you." And he heard his own voice, equally raw, equally desperate: "I love you too, Ethan. More than you could ever imagine. You are my light. My heart."
Lies. All lies. But why did it still hurt so much? Why did Peter’s absence feel like a limb had been torn from his body? He hated Peter Parker. He hated him with every fiber of his being. But a part of him, the deepest, most vulnerable part, still longed for Ethan John, the boy who had briefly brought light back into his desolate world. And that longing, that impossible, unwanted love, was the cruelest torture of all.