leaving the gray area in the dust

When he was still gone, he'd dreamed about coming home. He'd ached for it. He'd thought about hugging his parents. He'd thought about seeing his friends— going to the movies, playing video games, putting together Lego sets. He'd even thought about school, the dull but comforting familiarity of that routine, the praise from his teachers and the purpose that came with having something to do and the chatter of hanging out in homeroom and getting to talk to someone, anyone other than—

But school wasn't going to happen. Not anytime soon, anyway. Peter kept waiting for his parents to bring it up, but even Howard hadn't mentioned it. They just indulged him, letting him lie around the house all day wrapped in blankets like a baby, sleeping or pretending to watch TV or nodding along while they talked at him, and feeling— feeling—

(safe scared dirty relieved wrong useless stupid bad wrong wrong wrong wrong)

And Peter missed his friends, so much, so much, but every time he thought about actually having Harry or Ned or MJ come over— after everything, after all that time, when everyone knew what happened to him even if his parents hadn't actually told the press because that's what happened to people who were kidnapped and how was he supposed to just talk about plans for the summer or the cool movies that he'd missed or funny things at school when—

(wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong)

He did hug his parents, though. Sometimes, when he could stand to. Sometimes he wanted to cling to his mom like a parasite and never let go, burning like lungs without air to be held by someone that actually loved him, that actually wouldn't hurt him, to have the memory seared into his skin of what family and love and safety actually felt like.

And sometimes it set him on edge even to have someone sit too close to him on the couch, like the next accidental brush against his body might finally be the touch that he could never come back from, and sometimes his feelings flipped back and forth between need and 'nonono' so quickly he was just left sitting with an agonizing, indecipherable ache that he didn't know how to get away from.

So he didn't go to school. He didn't go out to any of his old favorite haunts with his friends. He didn't poke at the projects he'd left half-completed in his corner of the family workshop. He didn't go to his family with all the impassioned speeches he'd imagined in his head about how much he loved and appreciated them or about how they had hurt him or about how they could change things so that all of them could really get along and be happy as a family.

He just let the days pass as mindlessly as he could make them, the unlocked door and his bare wrist a glaring reminder of what he could be doing with his new lease on life if he wasn't too (weakpatheticstupidwrong) to use it.

His mom wanted him to see a psychologist. Howard did too, even, or at least he wasn't against it, which— just went to show how fucked up he thought Peter must be, because Peter knew what he thought about men who went to psychologists.

Peter had gone noncommittal in his panic. His old patterns colliding with his new ones— the desire to be a good son and go with the flow to make his parents proud, the conditioning that if he let his dismay show on his face it would be taken as an excuse to be pet and coddled and fucked until he was too exhausted to be afraid anymore— and he hated it, he hated himself, he hated that after everything he was still just going to let things happen to him that he didn't want—

And then Tony had piped up with, "C'mon, give the kid a little time before you start adding stuff to his plate."

Maybe he'd seen the suppressed panic in the tension of Peter's shoulders, or maybe he'd just recognized what a waste of time it would be for Peter to try and talk about anything when he couldn't be honest about what happened.

Or maybe he had his own reasons to not want Peter to talk to a therapist, Peter had thought even in the midst of his relief, because he had weird, mean thoughts like that about Tony now.

But either way— it was enough. His mom's mouth had gone flat with uncertainty, and Howard had started in on Tony like he always always always did no matter what Tony said, all "Leave the decisions to your mother and I, Anthony," but with Tony bringing it up first it didn't leave Peter to strike out all alone when he said:

"...It might… be good to have more time first."

His parents seemed shocked to hear him speak up for reasons that Peter was too exhausted to examine, but his mom finally hesitantly agreed, and Howard followed her lead. They were worried about him, but didn't want to push him either, all of it clear on their faces.

Peter didn't know how Tony felt or what kind of expression he was wearing, because he didn't look.

---

Having Tony around was… weird.

Peter knew that what happened wasn't Tony's fault—

(Would he have taken you if he didn't know about your brother, his mind whispered.)

Peter knew that his brother wasn't the person who had hurt him, but that didn't matter to the stupid prey animal part of his brain that was always on alert for— his— moods.

They wore the same expressions. They had the same laugh. They had the same scowl. Tony's eyes were darker and his skin was smoother and he didn't laugh or smile much at all these days, except for little wincing ones sometimes like someone trying to fake enthusiasm over a bad gift, so it really seemed like that should've been enough differences. But it wasn't, and Peter found himself tracking Tony's position in a room the same way he had back in that tower, listening for footsteps or the distant sharp edge of irritation from another room or the gentle sigh that meant he was about to feel hands on his hips and lips against his neck.

Which was stupid, because Tony was avoiding him, too.

That should've been enough. The way Tony had even— thought to ask, "Do you want me to leave?", that should have been enough. He'd heard what Peter had to say and connected the dots about how Peter might feel about it and he'd offered to leave, to let Peter out of his sight, just so Peter could feel more comfortable, and— it should've been enough.

And if that hadn't done it, the fact that Tony stayed squirreled away in the workshop all day studying multiverse theory should have. Peter hadn't asked him to leave, so he was staying, tucked away where he couldn't make Peter feel scared, researching how to keep him safe from anyone else out there beyond the reaches of their universe.

It should've been enough.

Peter went to see him in the workshop that night. Their parents had already turned in, but Peter knew how late Tony stayed up when he was working on something, and Peter got all of his sleep through napping in the living room these days.

"Hey," he said as he picked his way down the stairs, and Tony looked up sharply, surprise written all over his face.

Peter didn't remember him being so expressive, before. He'd always felt like he was two steps behind, left wondering what Tony actually thought, what he actually wanted, how he actually felt.

"...Hey, kid," Tony said after a beat, with one of those forced, bad gift smiles. Peter didn't blame him. "You're still up?"

Peter shrugged, folding himself into a rolling chair that he pulled back over near the stairs. There was another one at the work bench across from Tony's that he could've pulled up to see what Tony was working on, but— neither of them wanted that, he figured.

"Thanks for backing me up before," he said, instead of 'the last time I fell asleep in my bed I woke up in that tower.' "With Mom."

Tony echoed his shrug, but his shoulders were tight, and it didn't look as casual as Peter thought it was supposed to.

"Yeah," Tony said, turning his eyes back down to the mess of paper on his bench. "Figured you might… need to get your story figured out."

Peter shook his head, winding and unwinding a loose thread from his sweater's sleeve around a finger.

"I'm not going to go."

He would, if their parents forced it. But it felt nice to say something like he had a choice.

Tony looked up, a slight pinch between his eyebrows, and Peter dropped his own gaze to his hands.

"...You could tell the truth," Tony said slowly. "I know you're… worried. But there were enough things about your case that didn't make sense… We could get them to believe you. Mom and Dad and whatever shrink."

Peter scoffed, frowning as he pulled the loose thread taut around the tip of his finger until it bloomed a deep, angry pink.

"About everything?" he asked. His pulse was fast, which was stupid.

"If you wanted to," Tony said, and speaking of stupid—

"You don't actually want me to do that," Peter said. His chest was tight. He was being rude. If he didn't calm down, Tony would—

But Tony didn't come over to cuddle him and tell him he was just tired and that he'd feel better in the morning. He just stood there, quiet, until he finally said, "You can say anything you want, Pete."

"You don't mean that." He never did. He never did, he always said that Peter could say or ask for or do whatever he wanted but it was a lie every single time— "You don't want me to go and you don't want me to talk about who took me and you don't want me to talk about us."

Peter couldn't look at his face. He didn't know why he was still afraid that Tony would be angry at him after all this time, because he never was, but he remembered what he looked like every time he ordered Peter out of the room so that he could deal with his men.

"...I want you to— I want you to feel better, kid," Tony said, and his voice was so strange that Peter couldn't picture what his face looked like.

He looked up, and Tony was—

Sad. Hurt. Helpless. It wasn't anything new after all. Usually Tony just sighed and cooed over Peter's bad moods, sympathy and pity but no real heartache, but sometimes he would look like this when Peter cried.

'I hate you,' Peter screamed at him sometimes, and it would make Tony cry too. And he'd say 'I know,' and 'I'm sorry,' and—

"He told me he loved me," Peter said abruptly, not meaning to, the words just materializing in the air, and Tony flinched like he'd been slapped.

And now that the thought was out there, Peter had to finish it.

 "He told me all the time," he said. "Am I supposed to talk to someone about that? That he was nice about it. He's the one that took me and kept me and, and controlled me and didn't listen to me but he was nice. And he never teased me or bit me or pulled my hair, and he didn't call me names, he never called me a slut or a whore or anything, and he told me he loved me."

Tony looked—

Hollowed out. Miserable. Like he could sink through the floor. And Peter realized he was being mean, throwing those things they'd done together in Tony's face like he hadn't liked them at the time, he was being— horrible and spiteful for no reason, but—

"You've never said it to me at all, did you know that?" The thread around Peter's finger snapped as he pulled it too tight, and the choked flush of color in his fingertip seeped away, the skin seeming sickly pale in the new light of comparison. He said, "Not even since I got back. And— and not on the phone or on my birthday or after you fucked me, not ever. Am I supposed to— am I supposed to talk to someone about that?"

It was ridiculous. Ridiculous. Peter shook his head frantically, and he couldn't stop the words from pouring out.

"Like, what does that mean? I wanted that from you so bad and then he's the one who actually said it, and he was a— a monster, and he said it while he—" Peter's throat caught on a disgusted scoff instead of the word for what had happened to him, because after all this time he still couldn't bring himself to say it. "So what does that mean? What does that mean? What do I do with that? What's a doctor going to tell me about that?"

Tony was pale and shaking, holding himself up over his work bench. Peter felt vicious and horrible and out-of-control, like he wanted to throw something or scream or cry or make Tony hold him.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, like he always did. "I know, I'm sorry, Pete, I'm so sorry, I—"

Peter braced himself for it. 'I love you,' those words that meant everything and nothing and that he didn't know if he'd ever be able hear again without it feeling hollow—

"I can leave," Tony said. "I can go, I can leave you alone, I shouldn't be here. I just wanted to help. Tell me what you need and I'll do it, I promise, just tell me, kid."

Peter stared.

There was a part of him that wanted to be angry. That Tony still wouldn't say it, even after everything, even after what Peter had just said.

But then— he would've been angry the other way, too. That when Tony finally said it, it was only after it had been ruined for him, after Peter had damn-near begged for it.

So if he would be angry either way, maybe it wasn't even actually about the words. Maybe he just wanted to be angry, an excuse to be nasty, and Tony was a convenient outlet. Maybe that's what the other Tony had done to him— made him into the kind of person that looked for excuses to hurt people.

"I don't want you to leave," he said. It was strange to realize, his anger suddenly distant as his mind found something else to latch onto, and he continued slowly, testing the truth of the words on his tongue. "You're helping. With… research, and Mom and him."

Tony's face did something then that Peter couldn't read all the nuances of, shifting with half-formed emotion, but it finally settled on 'helpless' as he said, "You're scared of me."

Was he? Well, no, obviously he was. It may have just been a stupid animal part of him, conditioned to cringe by the set of those eyes in that face just as surely as a dog flinches at a raised hand, but he was scared. All the time, of everything, but especially Tony.

And yet—

"But I don't want you to leave," Peter said again. His eyes fell to his lap as he toyed with the thought, frowning. Tony was… a buffer between their parents, yes, and the only person who knew what actually happened, but more than that— "It… feels different, with you here. Like he can't… come after me. Even though that's stupid."

"...I thought you said he was dead," Tony said, quiet.

That's not what Peter had said. But there wasn't a point in correcting it, really, when it was probably true. The other Tony— the other-other Tony, the one with dark hollow eyes who had sent Peter home after Peter drugged away the traces of Extremis in his system— he had made it pretty clear he wouldn't have anything to stick around for, once Peter was gone.

Peter shrugged, drawing his knees up to his chest on the chair.

"I said it was stupid."

Tony didn't say anything for a moment, and his voice was quiet when he said, "It's not stupid."

He cleared his throat then, but his voice still cracked when he said, "Do you… You mean it? You feel… better, if I'm…"

Peter didn't speak, but he nodded, and he knew that Tony had seen from the sound of his shaky answering sigh.

"Okay," Tony said, finally. "Okay. Then I'll stay."

Peter tucked his head down against his knees. He said, quietly, "Thank you."

And then, "I'm still mad at you."

He didn't know how Tony would take it. He didn't even know what he would say if Tony asked why. He hadn't known he was angry right up until they started talking, and the idea of pulling on that thread was exhausting.

But it felt important to say.

"I know," Tony's response came, finally. "You should be."

It was a little bit satisfying to hear, in a bitter way. In a way that none of his apologies or promises so far had been. Peter still didn't know exactly what he'd been looking for when he decided to find Tony downstairs, but he thought maybe it was something like that.

He uncurled himself and stood up from his chair. He didn't look at Tony's face, because he didn't want to have to think about what kind of expression he was wearing.

"I'm going to bed," Peter said, taking a few steps towards the stairs. And then, because he could, because Tony might listen, he added, "Don't follow me."

Tony made a soft noise that Peter couldn't interpret.

"I won't," he said, when he found his voice.

Peter believed him, more or less. It should have been enough, but he still crawled onto the living room couch instead of into his bed, letting the solid backrest reassure him that no one else could slip in beside him.

Maybe he didn't know what he wanted, but he knew what he didn't want.