Chapter Text
“‘He’s good’?” Steve repeated. “That’s it? Wanda, you’re crying. What happened in there?”
“I said he’s good, Steve,” Wanda huffed. She lifted her hands to swipe at the tears on her face, but they were soon replaced with fresh ones. “We agreed that I wouldn’t talk about what I saw, so I’m not. Do you not trust me?”
Steve grimaced. “Of course I trust you. It’s just…why are you crying?”
“He’s crying too, Steve! Do you not see that? I saw a painful memory, that’s all.”
Vision came towards her slightly. He hadn’t spoken at all yet, simply standing by the door. “It’s alright, Wanda. What matters is that we can trust him, yes?”
Wanda let out a breath. “Yes. We can trust him.”
Someone cleared their throat. “If you guys are done,” a hoarse voice began, “I would like to know what time it is.”
-
Of course his mind would betray him like that. Sure, just lay out all of your trauma for the nice Avenger, why don’t you? It wasn't like—
Wait.
Peter heard voices. Incredibly muffled voices, sure, but voices.
How long had he been under? How could his hearing possibly be recovering already? He'd been unconscious, had suffered through a tedious interrogation, and has his mind picked apart. He supposed that during that time, Peter had slowly been coming to his senses. Infinitesimal, barely noticeable changes in his hearing and eyesight. They were hardly anything, and Peter had apparently been able to ignore them. How long did it all take? It was a little hard to analyze his super healing when he couldn't tell what was going on.
Peter tuned back into the conversation, straining to understand what was happening.
“—are you crying?” A male’s voice floated towards Peter’s ears. It sounded like Peter was underwater, maybe with earplugs in as well. He had never experienced that feeling, so maybe that was an unfair comparison.
“He’s crying too, Steve!” That was a woman. Peter assumed that the he she was referring to was himself, and he flushed with embarrassment at the realization that he was crying in front of the Avengers. “Do you not see that? I saw a painful memory, that’s all.”
An understatement, but a fair assessment. That indicated that Ms. Maximoff was the owner of the feminine voice.
Another man’s voice filtered in, saying, “It’s alright, Wanda. What matters is that we can trust him, yes?”
Moment of truth. Had it all been for nothing? Maybe Ms. Maximoff was scared off by the plane crash. Peter had kind of fucked up there, but how else was he supposed to handle a plane catapulting straight for the city? But…he was the one who let Toomes get to that point in the first place. At the same time, though, he'd done all that he could, and maybe Ms. Maximoff would understand that. But she had also seen the death. Did she think that was his fault? Peter wouldn’t blame her, even he knew that it was his fault. If he had just been faster, if he had just stayed slightly longer, then…
Hopefully Ms. Maximoff wouldn't hold it against him too much.
“Yes. We can trust him,” the woman declared.
Oh? Oh. Oh!
That meant he didn't have to be sent to SHIELD, right? Holy shit, Ms. Maximoff was on his side! Another 10 points to Maximoff.
Perhaps now would be a good time to speak up. Peter wasn’t used to signing all the time, and he had been doing so for hours. He kind of missed using his voice, especially considering how often he used it as Spider-Man. He assumed that he probably would not be able to hear his voice amazingly well, so he just hoped it wouldn’t be uncomfortably loud on the others’ ears. If it was, they could deal with it.
He cleared his throat, wet with tears, and interjected, “If you guys are done, I would like to know what time it is.”
His words were followed by silence. Unless the Avengers were whispering, which Peter thought to be an odd response to his interjection.
A few more seconds passed, and a male’s voice questioned, “Spider-Man?”
“No, it’s the gingerbread man.”
The room erupted. Peter had no idea what the fools were saying; all of their muted voices were overlapping, and he couldn’t pick just one to focus on. Safe to say, he got a bit overwhelmed. This was the most sound he'd heard in hours, and while it was still muffled by that god-awful ringing, it was still a few steps up from the pure ringing. He resisted the urge to cover his ears, and instead crossed his arms. He tucked his hands in between his torso and arm, so he could hide his fidgeting fingers.
When they must have realized that Peter was still silent, they slowly quieted down.
“I can barely hear, idiots,” he told them. “Only one of you talk at a time, and try to be louder than your normal speaking level.”
It was quiet once more, before the same voice who asked if he was Spider-Man spoke up again. “You, uh, said you wanted to know what time it is?”
The voice was fairly close, so based off of that and his previous interactions with the Avengers, he guessed it was Barton. Greatest deductive mind of the century.
“Yeah, man, time flies when you can’t see a clock.”
If Barton laughed, Peter didn't hear it. “It’s getting close to 9. At night, that is.”
Peter gave a sharp exhale. Christ, the whole kidnapping thing took up his entire day. That sucked. Additionally, he really didn’t know when he’d be able to see Matt now. Who knew what the Avengers would want to do with him.
“Pretty near quitting time, yeah?” Peter hoped that his implication of can I please sleep was clear enough.
There was a hesitation, then a, “Well…”
“Didn’t Ms. Maximoff say that I’m all clear?” He hoped his agitation didn't show.
“She did,” Barton assured, and Peter could picture him holding out his hands as if to calm him, “but I’m not quite sure we should leave you alone.”
Peter raised an eyebrow, hoping it would convey his thoughts. What was he going to do, escape? He was still missing 1.5 senses, so that would be a fairly difficult task. Did they think he would he wreak havoc? Would a Trusted Vigilante™ do that? (He was pretty damn close to it, but probably no havoc-wreaking tonight.)
This time, a woman’s voice answered, “Because if SHIELD finds out that we had you, then simply released you? They would have our heads.” Peter was quickly able to place her as Romanov. She just had a recognizable prowess.
Peter sighed. Fucking SHIELD. He didn't have to like that, but it could be worse. “Okay, then what’s the plan?”
It went quiet once more. Maybe people were talking, just not loud enough for him to hear. Or they might have been farther away. Peter wouldn’t know.
Another new voice. “So, uh, what if you just stayed here? Under the Avenger supervision?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me, or telling me?” he challenged.
“Kinda both,” the voice told him. “It just doesn’t seem fair if we make you a prisoner here, but it’s also the best we can think of right now.”
“Alright. Um. Who are you?” Peter could sense the familiarity of the voice, but he wasn’t able to identify the speaker as easily as he had everyone else so far.
“Right, sorry,” the guy sputtered. “Harley. Um, Keener. Harley Keener.”
Right. Harley. He had forgotten the other teen was there. Harley's suggestion didn’t sound too bad, to be honest. Sure, being surrounded by the Avengers wasn't ideal, but it was a place to live. And it had heating, as well as running water. And maybe he could eat more. And maybe he could have an actual bed to sleep on. Yeah, the Tower sounded like a bit of an upgrade from his dilapidated apartment complex.
Peter recognized his own priorities.
And anyway, it wasn't like all residents of the Tower had caused him grief. Ms. Maximoff kept getting better and better, and Peter would be lying if he didn't want to get to know Harley a bit more. It might be nice to have friends close to his age again. That is, if he didn’t fuck it all up again.
Which led him to: what if Peter fucked this all up? He had a track record of Fucking Things Up. Any sort of relationship he's ever had—platonic, romantic, or familial—had gone down the drain. Exceptions being Matt, who couldn’t die to save his life, and Ned, who might want to reconnect at some point, if Peter tried. However, Peter had to lose his phone a while ago so no one could track it, and since he hasn’t been able to get a new one, he hadn't spoken to Ned in a long time, so maybe that relationship was inching towards to drain as well.
Everyone else, though? His entire family? MJ? Whatever had been going on with Liz Allen? Down. The. Drain. Because of Peter. Who was to say the same thing won’t happen with these people? God, what if one of them died? Parker Luck always ensured an increased chance of death. Maybe all of the benefits wasn't worth staying here, wasn't worth bringing harm to these people. Peter could probably escape soon enough. He could just—
Through his spiral, Peter felt blood begin to seep beneath his fingernails. He suddenly became aware of the burning sensation in his inner elbow—he accidentally broke skin. He felt for the bit of exposed skin, and got more blood on his fingers. There must have been a rip in his suit there, which provided an area for his fingers to work. Maybe he needed to start wearing actual gloves, instead of his current fingerless gloves. They didn't even look cool.
The action was enough to pull him out of his spiral, and allowed him to think rationally. These were the Avengers he was talking about. They could protect themselves if Parker Luck became an issue. It'd be fine.
(Tell that to everyone else who was faced with Parker Luck, Peter. See what they have to say.)
Peter ended up shrugging. “Okay,” was all he said.
“‘Okay,' what?” Harley asked, and Peter could almost feel the way Harley's eyebrows were definitely furrowed.
“Okay, as in, okay, that arrangement works. I can stay here, and you guys can watch over me.”
Before anyone could say anything else, yet another new person spoke. Except this voice was the easiest to identify.
“Great!” Stark exclaimed. “If that’s all settled, should you call your mom or something to say you’re not coming home tonight? It shouldn't take us long to sort it out with SHIELD, just say you're with a friend, or something.”
Guess again, Stark.
“I don't have one," Peter countered, knowing that this topic had to come up eventually. "A mom, I mean.”
“Okay…your dad then?” Stark suggested.
“Nope.”
“...Siblings?”
“Nada.”
“Uncle?” Stark tried once more, and yeah, okay, that one stinged.
“Do you want to keep digging this hole, or can we move on?” Peter snapped.
It was quiet once more. Maybe Peter shouldn’t have gotten short with him. But, honestly. Take a hint.
“Okay, no one to call, that’s fine,” male voice number 784 said, trying to defuse the situation. That one would be Rogers, with that weird air of righteousness he always had, even when he was hesitant. “Bruce, you still have to do a check up, right?”
Peter assumed that the man who answered was Dr. Banner. “Yeah, I wasn’t able to get that far earlier.”
“What would this check up entail?” Peter asked, suddenly feeling way more off-balance.
“Well, I would probably start with getting the blood off of your face,” the doctor started, and Peter's stomach rolled at the reminder. "Then, if you’re alright with it, I’ll see if you have any other injuries. Might take a blood sample, do a test.”
Peter stopped him there. “No blood samples. My blood is radioactive and filled with spicy DNA, and I don’t tend to allow people to get their hands on it.” That happened once. Not willingly of course—one couldn't prevent much when they were kidnapped by an international terrorist organization.
“Your blood is—” Dr. Banner interrupted himself. “Okay, nevermind. That’s alright.”
“If you’re going to have to take off my suit, then I want the others to leave. Doesn’t seem like they all need to examine my body, right?”
Rogers took over once again, announcing, “We can leave. We’ll just…Yeah, we’re leaving. Bruce, we’ll be on the common floor when you’re done.”
“Alright. If he’s alright, I’ll bring him up with me. Yeah. Yep. Go on out, guys. No, I’ll be fine. Come on, out the door. Closing the door now, Tony. Bye.”
Peter heard the door slam, and he let out a harsh exhale. “Hey, Dr. Banner. How do you do?”
“I’m alright, Spider-Man, thanks. How are you?”
“Not so stellar, doc, if I’m being honest,” the teen chuckled. He decided then that if he trusted Ms. Maximoff, then he could probably trust the good doctor, who he had never fought. “You can, uh, call me Peter. If you want.”
To his credit, Dr. Banner only paused for two seconds before he calmly went on, “Okay, Peter. You can call me Bruce.”
Bruce seemed a bit too informal for Peter. The only reason why he wasn’t geeking out at the moment was because he had gotten scarily good at masking his emotions. If Peter'd had this exact conversation with the doctor even a year ago, he’d have been a blubbering mess. This was the Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. Peter used to spend his free time reading his papers on gamma radiation and biochemistry. Later on, when he had to utilize it in his extracurricular activities, he read up on the man’s physics research. Dr. Banner had seven doctorates, for Christ’s sake. Midtown had posters of him in the majority of its science classrooms.
But Peter didn’t say any of that, instead going with, “Bruce. Cool. Should I, like, take off my suit? I have a shirt and stuff on underneath.”
“If you’re alright with it, then yes, go ahead. I want to clean off your face first, though.”
As Bruce must have been gathering some water or antiseptic, Peter took off his suit. At that moment, he realized that his backpack was still in an alleyway on 16th street. Shit. Maybe he could go back out sometime and get it. If he was lucky, maybe the team would let him drop by his estate and collect his other belongings. He wanted to keep his knives and his first aid supplies. Aside from those, though, he had some more personal things that he needed to pick up. May and Ben’s wedding rings on a chain, along with his parents'. A picture of him with his parents when he was a toddler, framed. There was a small bag with a few Legos from his and Ned’s favorite set. MJ had given him a few crystals for his birthday two years ago, and he kept those as well. He had a collection of written notes from Matt, ranging from reminders about their sessions, to simple Have a good day, fuckwad messages. He wanted to keep all of those things, especially if it seemed like he was going to be living with the Avengers for a while.
Bruce snapped him out of his thoughts, saying, “You can just put your suit on the floor next to the bed. Is it alright if I touch your face?”
When Peter gave his affirmation, he tensed as he could sense Bruce getting closer. It was fine, Peter. Bruce was a doctor, he was just trying to help. Don’t move, don't move, you know what’s coming, don’t move—
Thank fuck. He didn’t flinch backwards.
Bruce was methodical, yet very gentle, in his movements, wiping across his face in smooth strokes. They were both silent until Bruce pulled back once more. Peter’s face felt much more clean, so he thought this little meeting was going great.
That was until Bruce said, “Uh, Peter? Why is there blood on your fingers?”
Right. The blood. He subconsciously moved his hand to cover up his arm, which must have drawn the doctor’s attention to it.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“I, uh…I accidentally scratched it a bit too hard. Don’t worry, it stopped bleeding a while ago.”
“You did this?” Peter didn’t pick up the concern lacing the man’s voice, just the accusation.
“Yeah. Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t—” Bruce paused. “Don't apologize, Peter. We’ll just have to…work on not doing that.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Sure.”
There were, again, a few moments of silence, except this time you could cut the tension with a knife. It didn't even have to be a Romanov Knife.
Bruce was the one who broke it. “Could I lift up your shirt to inspect your torso?”
Peter tensed even further, and threw his hands out to prevent Bruce from moving his own. “I’d, uh, prefer if I did it.” He hesitantly lifted up the hem of his shirt. “And could you keep telling me before you touch me? That’s been pretty cash money of you.”
“Yeah, of course. If you…” Bruce trailed off once Peter fully removed his shirt. "Oh, Peter."
Right. Peter was used to his scars, but he always forgot how bad they looked to fresh eyes. His entire body was marred with scars, including his face. He didn’t know why people always thought the scarring would end there. There was a faint scar on his neck from a knife (one he didn't get to keep), but you had to be looking for it to see it. His back had burns and stab wounds and etched whiplash scarring, and the story was no different on his chest. PROPERTY OF HYDRA had been branded onto his upper back—it was easily the scar he hated the most, an insistent reminder of the worst few weeks of his life. His arms held the typical crime-fighting scars, including some that were self inflicted as well. There were some of those on his thighs, too. His wrists and ankles showed signs of being rubbed raw from restraints.
Peter meant "marred with scars" quite literally.
Peter knew his body wasn't a pretty sight, and hiding it with the suit and hoodies was his go-to. He couldn’t very well explain all his medical history to Bruce, so while it was embarrassing, he figured he could suck it up. It wasn't like Bruce would be the first—Ned and MJ had seen him without a shirt, and Matt knew the shape of certain scars well.
Bruce seemed to be a generally chill person, so despite his discomfort, Peter reckoned he needed to let Bruce continue to study him.
“Let’s not talk about the glaring issues here, yeah?” Peter suggested, resisting the urge to curl into himself slightly.
All Bruce allowed him was a warning that he was going to touch him. This time, Peter couldn't help the slight flinch.
Bruce worked in silence, and even though Peter couldn’t see the man, he turned his head away. Trying to release some of the nervous energy that had built up, he fidgeted in any way he could without disturbing Bruce. He wiggled his toes, drummed his fingers on the side of the bed, cracked his neck, bit the inside of his cheek.
“You know,” Bruce started amicably, “I’ve tried to kill myself several times.”
Peter blinked in surprise.
“Hated the Hulk. Blamed myself for all the times he wreaked havoc, of course. And really, it’s still my fault if I can’t control my emotions properly. But every time I tried to put a bullet in my head, the Hulk spit it back out.”
“Oh,” Peter muttered. "I...Me too."
He surprised himself with the lack of restraint, but something about Bruce's casual approach made Peter feel like it was okay to admit his own attempts.
(He wasn't ready to admit that the only reason why he had stopped trying was because it never seemed to work, his healing ability just seemed to be dead-set on not letting him die.)
“Eventually, I realized that I was stuck with the Hulk. So, I resorted to self harm. Seemed like a better solution than repeatedly killing myself. When I became an Avenger, though, things changed a bit. Nat helped me learn to love myself a bit more. I found a best friend in Tony. I got a support system. Slowly but surely, I started to heal. Went to therapy, and when Sam joined, I talked to him, too. The Avengers are my family, and they were able to pick me up when I fell. That sounds cheesy, but I’ve been clean for over a year now. I still go to therapy, too. I needed to learn that it was okay to get help, and when to utilize it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” There was a bit of a waver in Peter’s voice.
“Because I want you to know that there’s hope, Peter,” Bruce told him, sincerity emanating from his entire being. “You might be here for a while. Maybe you could come to one of us if you need help. I know that may not feel like an option to you right now, but those guys are good people. They didn’t mean to hurt you that badly. If you don’t want to go to them, you have me. I promise.”
“Thank you, Bruce. I appreciate it.” And he did. If Bruce hinted at a longer-term stay, maybe he had a friend here.
Maybe he could have more.
“Well!” Bruce exclaimed, and the tone change jolted Peter slightly. “Seems like your healing ability is truly something else. You’re extremely malnourished, dehydrated, and probably due for a long night’s rest, but you don't have any dire injuries.”
Peter was grateful for the change of topic. “Could’ve told you that, doc.”
“So,” the man went on, “that means that I can take you up to the common floor, if you’re up to it. I can lead you since your eyesight is still in poor condition. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat, yeah?”
“Sure,” Peter breathed out. “Sounds like a plan.”