Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had been loud just moments ago. The crackle of energy blasts, the rhythmic thudding of repulsors firing, the distant wail of sirens—chaos wrapped in steel and smoke.

Now, everything was quiet.

Not literally—his enhanced senses still picked up the distorted sounds of the battle raging on the fringes of his awareness. But inside his head, inside his chest, inside his very bones—there was nothing but a cold, hollow silence.

Peter’s breath hitched as he stared at the crumpled figure on the ground.

Tony Stark wasn’t moving.

The arc reactor in his chest flickered weakly, sending out uneven pulses of light, illuminating the smudges of dirt and streaks of blood on his armor. His helmet had been knocked off somewhere in the fight, leaving his face bare, slack, too still. His body lay at an awkward angle, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Peter’s stomach churned violently.

He had seen Tony take hits before. Had watched him crash into buildings, slam into the pavement, walk away from things no human should be able to. But this—this wasn’t like those times. The suit wasn’t humming with power, his hands weren’t twitching as he tried to push himself up, and he wasn’t throwing out some half-assed quip to let everyone know he was still breathing.

Because he wasn’t.

Peter could feel his body starting to shake.

No.

No, no, no, no—

His chest caved in on itself, like something inside him had been yanked out, leaving nothing but a gaping void. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine cutting through his skull, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. He needed air. He needed time.

But the man standing across from him had already stolen both.

The mercenary—some asshole in a reinforced exosuit, sleek black plating covering a network of stolen Stark tech—was watching Tony’s unmoving body with satisfaction. The expression on his face was barely restrained glee, like he had just won the lottery.

Peter saw his lips move, but he didn’t hear the words.

All he could hear was the echo of his own heartbeat. Slow. Heavy.

Then something in his head snapped.

And everything rushed back in at once.

The world slammed into focus.

His muscles coiled, fingers curling into fists so tight they ached. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, sharp, ragged, his whole body tensing with something raw and unfamiliar.

He knew his own strength. Knew that even when he held back , he was still the strongest person in most fights. Knew that if he didn’t hold back, he could tear through steel, shatter bones with a flick of his wrist, crush a person’s throat with the lightest squeeze.

One wrong move, one punch too hard, one flick of his wrist at the wrong angle…

He had never let himself go that far.

Because Spider-Man didn’t kill.

But Peter Parker had never watched Tony Stark die in front of him before.

Before he even realized he was moving, his body surged forward.

The mercenary barely had time to register the shift before Peter’s fist connected with his ribs, sending him flying backward. His body crashed into a streetlight, bending the metal in half before he hit the pavement with a sickening crack .

Peter didn’t stop.

Before the man could breathe, before he could groan in pain, before he could do anything at all, Peter was on him.

A punch to the chest dented reinforced plating like it was tinfoil, forcing air out of his lungs in a sharp wheeze. A second one, cracking the armour. A third—

The man coughed, blood spattering his lips. His eyes went wide, shock settling in.

Peter should have felt something about that. Should have cared.

He didn’t.

Some distant, rational part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, but it was buried beneath the roar of rage flooding his veins.

This man had taken Tony from him.

This man had smiled while doing it.

This man—

A hand shot up, weak and trembling, pressing against Peter’s forearm. It was meant to push him away, but it might as well have been a child trying to hold back a hurricane.

Peter grabbed the man’s wrist and squeezed.

There was a crunch. A sharp, wet sound. The mercenary screamed.

Peter barely registered it.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

The armor was failing. He could see the seams splitting, hear the servos whine in protest. One more punch, maybe two, and he’d be through it completely. And then—

Then it would just be flesh and bone.

Peter tightened his grip.

The mercenary tried to speak—maybe a plea, maybe a taunt—but Peter wasn’t listening. He grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Fear flashed across the mercenary’s face, and for the first time in his life, Peter didn’t feel bad about it.

Somewhere behind him, someone was shouting his name.

Then arms wrapped around him—strong, unrelenting. Peter thrashed, instinct taking over. He twisted, aiming an elbow at whoever dared try to stop him, but the grip didn’t loosen. Another set of hands grabbed his wrist, forcing it back, and suddenly he was being dragged away.

“Kid, stop!”

The voice was familiar. Rough. Desperate.

Peter struggled, but then—

“Peter.”

Everything inside him froze.

His breath caught, his fingers locking up mid-swing. His whole body seized as the voice cut through the haze in his mind like a blade.

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a shout. Just a name, said softly, but with so much weight behind it that it yanked him back to reality.

Peter turned his head, his whole body trembling, and there—on the ground but propped up now, coughing, bruised, but alive—was Tony Stark.

His chest was sparking, suit damaged but functional, and his face was twisted in pain. But he was breathing.

Alive.

Peter’s vision blurred. His hands, still clenched into fists, shook violently. He looked down at the mercenary beneath him, barely conscious, terror in his eyes.

He had almost—

A horrified sound tore from his throat as he stumbled back, away from him, away from everything. The arms holding him—Steve’s, he realized now—eased but didn’t let go entirely.

“Pete,” Tony called again, softer this time.

Peter’s breath came fast, ragged. His whole body ached, not from injuries, but from the sheer force of what he had almost done. His hands flexed uselessly, the phantom of violence still tingling in his fingers.

Tony was alive. Tony was okay.

And Peter had almost crossed a line he could never come back from.

Peter felt his breath hitch.

Something inside him cracked, like ice splintering under pressure.

His gaze dropped to his hands. His own fingers were trembling, blood smeared across his gloves—he didn’t even know whose.

The air suddenly felt too thick. His chest tightened. His whole body lurched with a sharp, ugly realization:

He had almost—

A sound tore from his throat, half-sob, half-choked gasp.

His heart was hammering, his lungs working overtime. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He sucked in a breath, but it didn’t feel like enough, didn’t feel real.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

His knees gave out, but Steve was there to steady him. Someone else—maybe Natasha—was barking orders, calling for medics, but Peter barely heard it. His eyes were locked on Tony, on the weak but knowing look in his mentor’s eyes.

Peter swallowed, the lump in his throat thick and suffocating.

“You’re okay, son.” Steve’s voice was beside his ear and Peter flinched.

He wasn’t okay.

He had almost killed someone.

And the worst part?

For one terrifying, horrifying moment—

He had wanted to.