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lyssismagical · 4 years

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do you swear you’ll stay forever

Febuwhump Day 7 & 8 – Leather Bound Wrists & Dark State of Mind

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{TW: kidnapping, violence, bad brain stuff (implied mental illness), some swearing}

Peter realized a long time ago, when he was just a little kid, that he could never be what everyone around him wanted him to be.

They all had this version of Peter that he could never live up to, no matter how much he tried.

He was good at pretending to be the selfless, bubbly person everyone expected him to be.

He was good at not showing the jealousy, the unbelonging, the loneliness that built upon his shoulders like he was Atlas carrying the sky.

He was good at going about his days with a smile, no matter how much it didn’t reach his eyes. He would play with Morgan and help May and Happy with the wedding planning. He would go to his classes and ignore the tears building at seeing MJ with Brad, Ned with Betty. He didn’t need a relationship, he was just tired of third-wheeling, of dealing with Flash on his own, of spending his lunches by himself. He was tired of a lot of things these days.

He was good at pretending to be the version of himself everyone wanted him to be. No matter how much it hurt him.

“Peter?”

A small, childish voice, ringing in his pounding head.

He’s awake but barely.

Everything hurts.

He blinks his eyes open nonetheless, wincing at every movement he makes.

The room is dimly lit by a single bulb in the center of the ceiling. It’s a pretty small damp room, dilapidated hardwood beneath their feet and mold creeping up the walls. Morgan’s across from him, sitting in an old wooden chair. She seems smaller than ever, looking up at Peter with wide tearful eyes and a quivering bottom lip.

Everything’s spinning and blurry, and everything hurts, and Peter feels like he might collapse. If he could.

His hands are tied above him to the ceiling, holding him up. His toes, shoes missing, just barely brush against the ground.

“Petey?” Morgan tries again, but her voice sounds far away and feels like daggers to Peter’s aching head. She sniffles, obviously upset by something, though Peter can’t remember what.

He opens his eyes again, not even having realized they closed, and tries his best to focus. He’s pretty sure he has a nasty concussion, that would explain a lot, but the thoughts slip through his grasp faster than he can hold onto them.

“Mor… Morgan?” he tries. His hands are numb, his shoulders aching, his legs straining to try to get some weight off his wrists. “Wha’…”

She’s only six. She’s probably scared out of her mind, but Peter can barely hold his own head up, let only try to soothe her worries.

“You’re hurt,” she says, voice growing louder with fear and worry. “I- I want Daddy.”

He lets his chin fall against his chest, trying his best to think through the pain.

“Morgan!” he screamed. “Don’t fucking touch her!”

A metal bat and then darkness.

Kidnapped. They’d been kidnapped.

He pushes himself to focus, looking at Morgan and getting his eyes to focus a little better.

“You… hurt?” he tries, mouth feeling clumsy and uncoordinated.

Morgan sniffles again, wide eyes latching onto Peter’s for some form of comfort. “No. You- You’re hurt.”

He knows that for sure, it’s the only thing he can really focus on, but he doesn’t really care. Not in a way that matters. When they get saved, everyone will care that Morgan’s unharmed. They’ll care that Peter let the little kid get taken in the first place.

Everyone will hate him anyways, so what does it matter that Peter’s hurt.

“Petey?”

It’s like his brain has been filled with molasses, slow and sticky and making his thoughts disappear faster than he can voice them. But he gets his eyes open again, blinking slowly and struggling to focus on Morgan again.

His arm is screaming in pain, but all he manages is a small muffled groan.

“Petey!” Morgan cries, but Peter’s so tired, he’s so tired, he can’t think past how tired he is. He just wants to sleep for a thousand years.

But then he hears the door to the room open. That gets his attention through the haze of pain.

“Hmm, poor Petey isn’t doing too good, is he?” a lighthearted voice says, addressing Morgan who whimpers quietly.

The young hero forces his heavy eyelids open once again, head pounding, room spinning, and glares at the blurry figure.

“Leave her alone.” He wishes he sounded strong and heroic, but it comes out slurred and small.

Cold laughter fills the space and then pain explodes through his face.

It takes all of his effort to stay conscious, keeping his eyes open defiantly, even as his head slips between reality and dreams.

“Hey! Please! I’m down here! I’m stuck!”

Morgan’s crying and the laughter finally dies down even as they hit Peter again, hard.

The Fake Version of Peter is slipping away from his grasp. All the bravery and selflessness he pretends to have, all the heroism and the capability disappearing before his very eyes as tears start falling down his face.

Another hit and then he hears the person take a step back, shoe splashing.

“That’ll teach you to talk back, hm?” They say, patting his cheek once. “Now, we just need to snap a few pictures and send them off to your dear Stark and get some nice money off you, alright?”

There’s a dark, ugly part of him that laughs at that, though not out loud. A part of him that thinks it’s hilarious that they think Tony would care enough about him to pay a ransom. Tony would if it were Morgan’s photo, she wouldn’t even need to be roughed up. It’s the jealousy that he’s kept locked up since the snap was reversed. A part of him that he swore would never show.

The bright flash of the camera makes Peter’s eyes fall closed again, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get them open again.

Another flash and Peter’s stomach flips and turns and knots, and he flinches, whining quietly in pain when he jerks his throbbing shoulder.

“That’s it for now. I’ll be back in a little while,” they say and finally they leave, lock clicking echoingly.

Morgan’s cries are the only noise leftover. “Petey, I wanna go home. I want Daddy. Please.”

His heart aches for her, but there’s nothing he can do. Normally, he’d be able to snap the leather holding him up, but he’s so hurt, so tired, he can’t do it.

“’m sorry,” he says, slumping against his restraints. “’m sorry, I can’t- I-”

There’s a flash of white-hot pain as his stomach knots, and he’s pretty sure he throws up, but the next thing he knows is darkness.

* He drifts between consciousness and dreams of dying.

Whenever he’s awake enough to process anything, he knows Morgan’s finally fallen asleep and they’re still alone in their little cell. He knows he’s bleeding badly and his head constantly pounds with a concussion-induced migraine and that he threw up over his shirt. He knows he’s hurting, but they’re still alone. No rescue team yet.

This time, though, when he comes to, blearily and exhausted, it’s to a voice.

“Turns out Stark wasn’t as compliant as I thought he’d be,” they’re saying. “Plan B, it is then.”

Peter blinks open one eye, the other too swollen from the hits he took earlier, and glares at the stranger.

“Don’t hurt her,” he says, good arm tugging at the restraints fumblingly. He doesn’t have the strength to break through the leather though. “Please. She’s just a… She’s jus’ a kid.”

Tears stream down Morgan’s face and Peter wishes he could comfort her at all, but he’s so weak. So pathetic, his brain substitutes. Can’t do anything right.

The cold laughter’s back. “You think I care?”

“Please,” he begs, but he’s tied up, he’s concussed, he can barley stay conscious let alone offer any help to Morgan. “Please, don’t.”

A hand grabs his collar roughly, jerking him forward. He cries out hoarsely in pain as his bad shoulder is twisted.

“Stark doesn’t care about you,” they spit harshly. “Stark saw the photos of you hurt and he saw the consequences of what I’d do to you if he didn’t comply. And he didn’t give a fuck.”

Peter cries and tries to shake his head, but the room is spinning and the ugly emotions have crawled out of the boxes Peter had shut them in years ago, reminding him of the truths he’s been pushing as far down as he can.

The version of himself everyone wants him to be, sees him as, isn’t him. He can’t be this perfect boy, selfless and kind and a genius. It’s not him. He’s jealous and selfish and so fucking alone.

The stranger gripping his collar is right. He means nothing. He’s worth nothing. He is nothing.

“Don’t touch her,” he repeats weakly. “Please.”

They grab his chin and force his head up. “Fine. But if he doesn’t cooperate again, you’ll pay for the consequences.”

When they let go of his chin, his head falls forward again, too weak to hold himself up. There’s a few more clicks of the camera taking photos of both of them this time, and then they leave once again.

He looks to Morgan, shame burning in his stomach. He almost couldn’t keep Morgan safe. He has to get her out of here, but he doesn’t how.

He needs a plan, but trying to think is like trying to lift the warehouse off his back and he doesn’t want to have to ask Morgan to help them escape. She’s not tied up, she’s free to move, but she hasn’t left that chair since they got here.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells her quietly. His voice trembles, giving away the lies. That’s all he is, a liar. “I’ll get you out of here.”

And then he sees it, the little bobby pin holding back a section of her dark hair.

He looks up at his limp hands, fingernails turning a light shade of blue, and smiles drowsily. The leather around his wrists are attached to a metal pole on the ceiling, connected by a lock.

He swallows thickly, unconsciousness tugging at his mind, dark spots dancing across his vision, but he turns to Morgan with as much confidence and reassurance he can.

“I need you to help me out here,” he says, focusing all of his depleting energy on this plan.

She follows all of his steps with unsurprising intelligence. She drags the wooden chair over to Peter, stands up on her tippy toes on top of the chair, bobby pin in hand and starts fiddling with the lock.

He gives her quiet instructions on every step of the small plan, and he hates how much he’s asking her to do, trying to lockpick with a bobby pin at six years old, but they need to get out. He needs to get her home safe.

Tony won’t forgive him for the hell he’s put his daughter through. He’ll be hated, even May and Happy will agree with how pathetic and weak he is. He can’t do anything right.

“I think I got it!” Morgan gasps, leaning a little higher on her toes to see better in the dim light.

There’s a little click as the lock undoes and then Peter’s falling.

His limbs are uncoordinated and he’s so tired, reflexes much too slow. He collapses, knees buckling, and smacks his head against the corner of Morgan’s hair.

He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.

“Petey, please, wake up, please,” Morgan’s pleading when Peter comes to. “Please, I wanna go home. I wanna- you need to wake up. Please.”

Peter lifts a hand, glad that he can finally move his hands and fumblingly grabs hers, good eye opening quickly to find her tucked against his side.

“It’s okay,” he chokes out hoarsely. “It’s okay.”

She sits up, tears cutting their way down her dirty face. She’s trembling but she hands onto Peter’s hand tightly. “Time to go?”

He wants to ask for another few minutes lying on the floor to try to breathe, but he doesn’t have the time to spare. He needs to get her out of here for Tony.

So he nods and he uses the wall and the chair to drag himself to his feet. His legs ache with every step but he pushes himself to keep going.

After everything he’s done, getting Morgan kidnapped, making her be strong enough to pick the lock, leaving her alone not once but multiple times from passing out, the leas the can do is get her out of here.

“Stay quiet,” he tells her. His wrists are still bound together with the old leather, so he has to keep them both to one side to hold her hand, and his shoulder screams in protest, but he pushes it down.

Focus, focus, focus. Escape. They need to escape.

They stumble out into the hallway of the surprisingly unlocked door. Peter has to lean against the wall, dragging his body forward as they walk as fast as he can.

It’s silent, as far as Peter’s ringing ears can tell, but he doesn’t know how much he trusts his senses at this point.

Focus. Escape.

“It’s okay,” he says again, squeezing Morgan’s hand. She’s still crying, but at least she’s quiet. If they get caught, Peter doesn’t know what he’ll be able to do.

The squeal of tires alerts them and they duck into the first room they see. Peter stumbles into the doorframe and he nearly falls.

If he fell, he’s not sure he could get back up, so he’s glad when Morgan pushes him upright again.

They’re in a kitchen, of sorts. Not far from when they can hear the front door open with a loud bang. Morgan flinches, hiding her face in Peter’s leg.

He leans back against the counters, vision blurring badly.

They’ve been caught. This’ll be it.

And then the door is shoved open.

“Daddy!” Morgan exclaims. The warmth disappears from Peter’s side, little hand leaving his.

His head lolls to the side, meeting Tony’s worried gaze, and then he finally sinks to the floor again. Morgan’s safe, that’s all that matters.

Morgan’s wailing in Tony’s arms, face hidden in the crook of his neck, hanging onto him like a lifeline.

“Peter, hey, look at me,” Tony instructs, reaching out for him.

“’m sorry,” Peter cries, all energy disappearing. It was only there for Morgan anyways. “’m sorry.”

“Kid, no, don’t apology. We’re going to get you some medical attention and you’ll be just fine, okay?” Tony kneels beside him, detaching one of his hands from comforting Morgan to touch Peter’s cheek, lifting his head.

“’m sorry,” Peter repeats anyways. “I tried- I tried, but I- I-”

Tony catches a tear that falls with his thumb, gently soothing the skin under his bad eye. “It’s okay, buddy, it’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ve got you.”

The soft reassurances are enough for Peter to let go of the little bit of consciousness he’d been retaining for Morgan’s sake.

He’s kind of there when Tony disappears from his side, replaced by a less comforting hand to his good shoulder, leading him back up to his feet.

He’s barely present as the hands lead him forward into fresher air and then into the back of a car. The hands are careful, cautious like every touch might set Peter on fire. He feels an ice pack against his eye and then pressure against his hip and leg.

He’s more or less unconscious when he feels the telltale prick of an IV and a mask situated snugly over his mouth and nose.

The last thing he recalls before he lets the darkness wash over him, is a gentle hand brushing back his curls and a kiss pressed to his forehead.

* Peter jolts awake, hands already fumbling for the IV in his hand, fear imprinted in the front of his mind.

“Morgan,” he says before his eyes are even open. She has to be okay, she has to be, Peter didn’t mean to pass out again.

Hands grab his, pulling them away from his IV, and pushes him back into comfy pillows.

“You’re okay, kid, you’re okay,” somebody says near his head. “Morgan’s okay. She’s with Happy and May upstairs. You’re both okay.”

He lets out a breath of relief, relaxing in the comfortable and bed, and finally opening his eyes to find Tony sitting beside him.

“You with me?” Tony asks quietly. He looks tired and concerned. Peter has a hard time believing Tony’s concerned about him.

Peter nods, sitting up slowly this time. He feels a million times better than the last time he’d woken up.

“The list of injuries you sustained is longer than imaginable,” Tony says, lifting the clipboard sitting on Peter’s bedside table. “Severe concussion, two bullet wounds in the hip and thigh, dislocated shoulder, broken wrist, broken nose, three broken ribs, lacerations and contusions over the majority of the body. How in hell did you manage all of that and nearly escaping on your own? On top of Morgan getting out of there without a scratch?”

Peter shrugs, immediately regretting the movement when a flash of pain shoots through his arm. “Had to.”

Tony frowns. “You had to? You didn’t have to keep yourself safe? We have to get your selflessness under control, kiddo.”

Something about that makes Peter uncomfortable and he rebukes it as quick as he can. “’m not selfless. I let your daughter get kidnapped. The only reason she’s safe is because whoever took us chose to hurt me and not her. I didn’t do anything.”

“From the footage I saw, you took a metal bat to the back of your head not once but three times trying to keep Morgan safe and fight back. I also heard from Morgan that you were the reason you were used as the first ransom.”

The anger flashes through him faster than he can quell it. He’s still drugged up with pain meds and all of his emotions are running rampant.

“That you didn’t pay.”

Tony flinches, eyebrows furrowing. “I didn’t pay because we were trying to find you, Peter, not because I wasn’t scared. If I had paid ransom, I might never have gotten you back. They would’ve continued asking for more.”

The young hero tries his best to not look so upset, but it’s hard when the jealousy and the loneliness are free to crawl around his head and leave darkness in their wake.

“They told me you didn’t care,” Peter murmurs, remembering the way he’d been grabbed and his worst fears had come to life. “They told me you would’ve cared if it were Morgan.”

Tony grabs his chin, a much gentler touch than the last person who’d done it, and makes the teenager look at him.

“Peter, kid-”

But he pulls his head back, away from Tony’s touch, shaking his head. Peter feels small and his brain gets stuck and it’s been so long since he’s really said what he’s been thinking. He’s so tired and he just wants Tony to stop pretending.

“You love her and not me,” he says childishly. He would’ve stopped himself if he wasn’t so high. “You should be angry.”

Tony touches his shoulder, just the lightest touch, but his voice sounds all wrong like he too might cry like Peter is. “Kid, that’s not true, you know it’s not-”

Peter shakes his head, pouting like he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum. He hates himself. He hates everything. He wants Tony to shout at him for imposing on his family time and time again, for letting his daughter get kidnapped, for not being the person he wants him to be.

“I’m not your version of Peter,” he says like it’ll make sense. “I’m not- I’m not the person you think I am.”

“How long have you been feeling like this?” Tony says, somehow understanding through the thicket of Peter’s layers of thoughts.

Peter sniffles, wiping at his tears, though they continue to pour. “The Snap.”

“Buddy, you have to talk to me about things like that-”

“You don’t care!” Tony doesn’t understand it like Peter needs him to. “You’re supposed to be angry. You’re supposed to leave me.”

“I don’t get it, bubba, why would I do that?”

Peter crosses his arms, turning his gaze towards the window. “Everyone thinks I’m this version of Peter where I’m all selfless and happy and smart and everything, but I’m not. No matter how hard I try, I’m not. I keep fucking up and I can’t do anything right and I- I’m- I don’t belong, Tony.”

“You do belong, kid-”

“I don’t!” Peter hates that he has to fight this side of the argument. He wishes Tony would just get it over with and agree with him. “May and Happy are getting married, Mister Stark. Ned has Betty and MJ has Brad. You have Morgan. Nobody needs me anymore.”

Tony gently takes Peter’s hand, thumb running over his knuckles.

“You don’t need to have me following you around everywhere,” Peter says. “You don’t deserve to be burdened by me all the time. And you’re so nice to not say it, but I shouldn’t have just let myself take up all this space that I don’t deserve. I just- I don’t belong anymore.”

“Peter, kiddo, look at me.” Tony waits until Peter turns his teary eyes up to him. “I love you, kiddo. I’ve loved you for nearly eight years now. You belong right where you are, with me and with Morgan and with Pepper and with May and Happy. You’ve always belonged here. There’s always space for you.”

“No, Mister Stark-”

Tony shakes his head. “I know you don’t see it, but there is no fake version of you. We all see you as Peter and that’s all that we want. If you want to be selfish, that’s allowed. That’s not a bad thing, kiddo. The things that you think you are that’s what’s a lie. Those are your insecurities talking, not the truth.”

“My brain feels so dark and ugly, Mister Stark, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what to do.”

Tony’s eyes are soft and made of light in a way Peter feels like he could never achieve. “There’s nothing wrong with you, kiddo. But you just need to believe me, okay?”

“Believe you?”

“Yeah, bubba, believe that I love you and that I would do anything to keep you safe. Believe that May and Happy are planning their marriage with you in mind, every step of the way. Believe that Morgan loves her big brother and she doesn’t mind sharing me. Believe that MJ and Ned still love you and care about you. Believe that Pepper loves you just as much as she loves Morgan. Believe me, okay?”

Peter’s silent as he gives a little nod. It sounds so easy, so relieving, to trust his hero. Tony would make it all okay again.

Tony presses a kiss to Peter’s temple and then another to the back of his hand. “I know a lot of people have left you, but I’ll never be one of them. No matter how badly you think you mess up, I’ll be here, at your side. Forever.”

“You promise?” Peter asks, voice young and small. “Forever?”

“I promise, baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

#lyss writes #febuwhump #kidnapping #violence #graphic depictions of violence #tw mental health #irondad #morgan stark #peter parker #big brother peter parker

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