grace

the way you drank your favourite juice - not coffee, never coffee. the way you used to explain the movies you had watched, the shows that you have loved - i always loved listening to your stories. i wonder how you would explain ours to someone else one day. the way you would add a song to our playlist because it reminded you of us, of me. i still listen to them sometimes because i will always take anything that you give me - even pain.

i haven't looked at marshmallows the same since you left (why the fuck did you always leave?) because you always said you would save some for me. i haven't read (or written) love poems that don't remind me of you. i haven't loved the same since we ceased to exist (only if you had asked me to stay - once, just once -).

i think about you. a lot.

it spills into my life naturally like you did once. it trickles slowly into my days, my habits, my poems. drop by drop, like a stream always running against the edge of my conscience. i wonder if you think the same (did the scars i leave still hurt? are you doing okay?). if you also have breakdowns when it overflows just like i am - drowning and still looking for water to quench my thirst.

i remember the way i so desperately wanted to be held by someone and yet, i had no words to ask for it - always so scared of asking and saying and existing. but you didn't need words. you held me as if it was always meant to be that way (i love you god I love love love love you so fucking much it hurts), as if we were never meant to end.

sometimes, i bite deep into my skin. my teeth brutal and gnarly at my skin causing it to stretch at its seams, pain shooting in my veins, the attack of my bitter mouth on my hollow bones. sometimes, i bite deep into my skin just to see if it still holds your touch. another scar is all i get.

"I mean, isn't it all about love?" She replied after a pause, "All of it. The good and the bad. All the happiness and the grief and the pain - isn't it all about having someone at the end of the day to come back home to? Someone who is there to ask, "Hey, how was your day?", no matter what the answer is? Someone to breakdown about and with?

From parents, friends, partners, strangers you meet on dates, the planet, even yourself - especially yourself - don't all of us, somewhere deep inside or on the surface, just want to feel what it's like to be accepted without any conditions? To know you are loved without the need of a forever? The urge to love always surpasses the pain of losing - that's why the heartbroken ones still always plunge into the ocean even though they know they won't be able to swim.

Because otherwise, what kind of life is it? To be known but not loved, to be respected but not cherished, to be needed but not wanted. What kind of a way is that to live?

So, don't you think it's all about love?"

you deserved better and society failed you.

Summary - "And here I thought the worst kind of parental problems were preventing your kids from sneaking out to parties... Not to stop fucking robberies under a mask as he sweeps from building to building."

Another one where Peter is Spiderman. Tony is overprotective. Steve is tired. And the Avengers are underattack.

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Chapter One

Peter Parker, foolishly enough, thought he knew grief.

Well, come on. He was abandoned by his parents when he was five; only to been informed an year later that they were killed in a plane crash. The difficulties of growing up without biological parents were often overshadowed by the love he got from his uncle and aunt. Another wave of grief hit him when the grim news of demise of his uncle and aunt in a car crash hit him at the young age of eight. The cycle of being shifted between foster homes and orphanages settled in his life way too nicely before he was adopted by his Dads.

Being the adopted son of a gay couple-that too of the world's mightiest heroes-was, to say the least, not necessarily normal. While he built friendships cause of it, he lost a lot of them. Don't get him wrong; he loved his parents and his life but betrayal by fellow peers was something he had grown used to. His whole life story would have paved the way for one hell of a great depressing movie.

In some sick way, he had thought, it must have grown to hurt less with every loss, right?

Wrong.

Because as he watched Tony Stark resting against the rock mass, muttering his last words, he felt a pain he had never felt before. It pushed him down under the water as the wave ran over him again. And again. And again. Someone might as well just push a knife into his abdomen over and over. Even that, might have felt better.

"We won, Dad," He muttered, looking in his red bloodshot eyes, "Please. We won. You did it." His trembling hands clutched at his listless wrists, the black sleeves of shirt damp against his palms. The infamous suit hadn't been there to protect his father as he laid there, covered in sweat and scars and--.

In Blood.

There was so much of it.

Peter felt sick.

He felt someone hold him by his shoulders. Who was it? Rhodey? Steve? His mouth opened at once to protest but a strangled sob escaped his throat. He saw Steve kneel in front of him and amongst the chaos, he heard Tony whisper, "Hey, America's ass." His voice sounded nothing like him. This wasn't him. No. God, no. Tony was larger than life itself. He wasn't dying. He couldn't. Why wasn't anyone helping him?

"Tony, no-," The pain in his Pops' voice made the situation too real for him. 

He stepped forward to protest, to get him to medics, to do something but someone was holding him by his shoulders, muttering something about how Peter was hurt, how they had the situation in control, how--. Peter couldn't be bothered to give a shit.

"Just stay with me, okay?" Steve said as he hurried to wrap a cloth around the wound on his thigh. It didn't matter, there were too many of them. "Stark, you fucking better not die." Peter saw his shoulders shake and he knew that there was the world's bravest soldier Captain America, dressed in his suit, at the floor of a damaged building, crying as he begged his husband to stay alive. "Stay awake, goddammit."

Was Peter crying too? His face felt wet. It felt like the wave that had been holding him down clutched him in its grips and water had filled his lungs. There was a painful sting in his throat and he felt like puking. Time felt like a thick jelly as it slowed down. As he could do nothing but stare as his father laid there dying in front of him. He could do nothing but watch as life seemed to slowly escape his body. He could do nothing as he lost him. He could do nothing as he stared at his helpless father beside his dying one.

"Tony, please."

Iron Man saved the world once again and, somewhere along that, Peter Parker lost a huge part of his.

Three Months Ago

Tock.

Tick.

Tick

Tock.

Isaac Petrov sighed, fidgeting with the tweed sleeves of the black coat that hugged his slim figure perfectly around the waist. This is stupid. He thought for the umpteenth time before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. His hazel green eyes looked fantastically frustrated and the buzz cut he supported didn't really give a charmful look. Especially not with the scar that ran along the right side of his neck. He flinched involuntarily at the mark, tugging his white collar up to hide it.

Tick.

Tock.

Stupid. So fucking dramatic and unnecessary and stupid. He clenched his jaw, biting his tongue in hope of not letting the wrong thing out. They had a plan; they were supposed to stick to it. Not do last minute shenanigans just to attract some useless attention.

Tick.

Tock.

The forty-three year old couldn't stop fidgeting with his collar for the sake of it as his eyes looked over the hotel room once. It was dimly lit; the yellowish lights hung from the ceiling, not really working properly. The dirty white painting the walls looked ugly and was begging to be repainted with the plaster coming off from almost every corner of the room. The single bed in the room supported white sheets that still had marks that couldn't be unnoticed, no matter how many times it was washed. It looked like any other cheap shitty hotel in New York. Nothing uncommon, nothing eye-catching. Cause that's what they were supposed to do. Not this.

Tick.

Tock.

"You might wanna put a smile on that face. We are going to a gala, for God's sake," She muttered, her scottish accent seeping through her fake one, over the annoying ticking of the loud clock.

Isaac released a slow sigh, turning to look at his companion who was just strapping her heels. Catriona Alinsky. Her dark brown hair were up in a stylish side bun which paired perfectly with the dark-red lipstick on her full lips. The complicated yet elegant black dress looked a bit out of chaacter to him, yet very attractive and classy. Her dark brown eyes held that very child-like almost disturbing excitement he saw whenever she was going to do something different, something wrong, something - dare he say it - sinister.

He tried to keep his annoyance at bay but his tone came clipped out when he said, glancing away from her, "This isn't necessary."

She grinned, all her perfectly white teeth visible before she said, "Of course, it isn't." God, he kinda hated that smile; it looked disturbing. "But we will do it."

"That's not the plan!" He snapped, his fists clenching at his sides, "We made a plan and we are supposed to stick to it. We have been planning this for years, ради Бога. A dramatic start-off just for the sake of it is not necessary!"

He almost wished he hadn't said it. The displeased look was painted very clearly on her face as she got up from the edge of the bed and walked towards him in a straight line, her magnificent dress doing justice. The loud clicking of her pencil heels in the silent room made him feel a sick fear in his lower gut, all of a sudden but he ignored it, keeping the angry facade on as she stopped in front of him.

"Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского," She spoke slowly in his mother-tongue, making his nostrils flair in anger. He still wasn't sure how many languages she knew. She said, her eyes locked into his, "I am not a fan of calm before storm. Call me dramatic, if you may. As for the plan," A small tight smile painted her lips, "It's in motion and will turn out just all right. I am the one who has been planning this for years. So, it would do you real good to sit tight and just do as I say. We don't want us to have a fall out now, do we?"

The underlying threat didn't go unnoticed by him as she backed off a few inches. He could breath a bit easier now. The dangerous glint in her eyes was clear in her voice as she continued, "They don't deserve a false sense of security. Let them be scared and confused and lost. And then, we will hit them. Even though, they would have their guide high, we would hit them and they would fall."

She smirked, her eyes lost somewhere ahead. "They would wonder where they went wrong, what more they could have done. Let a man do all the perfect things that he should do and then, snatch his world from him. That's what kills people, Isaac."

He released a breath he didn't know he had been holding underneath her stern gaze as he processed her words. If he was a good man, he would think they were being cruel. But he wasn't a good man. After all, he was the one who came up with the idea for the final phase for their plan - how they could use him to get to them. Her words made sense and he almost felt himself resonating her excitement. Yet, the risk felt too unnecessary. He shook the feeling off and nodded curtly.

Her giddy, smiling demeanor was back up in no time as she turned on her heels, looking over her hair once, "Earth's mightiest heroes and can't even take care of the hotel security right." He almost spoke up to say that he was the one who came up with the fake stories but resisted.

Isaac Petrov met Catriona Alinsky like he usually met his other alliances - some under the table business, some shady alleyway deal, some bar drinks slid over the counter. He remembered it clearly even though it had been seven years ago. The way she screamed dominance and control and yet, her posture remained poised and smiling. They had found a common goal - a common enemy - and worked for it together. Together. Huh. The word felt funny in his mouth cause he knew they were never on the same level. He still felt like a pawn in a game that was played by both but was hers to begin and end with.

All those years ago, when he had met her for the first time, her eyes held that weird glint that made his skin crawl. He had never been able to place what it actually was. But now he knew what that had meant. He knew what Catriona Alinsky was and it was best described in one word.

Dangerous.

Catriona Alinsky's voice held that same agitating and dangerous excitement as she said, "Put your best shoes on, Isaac. It's a Gala of the lifetime, after all."