Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter doesn't remember a lot of that day.

He remembers it was dark in their apartment. He remembers the TV had been on, playing a show he used to think was funny.

He doesn't remember what had been happening, what they had eaten. He doesn't remember the exact date or the colors of the sheets on his bed (he's sure it was something Iron Man related).

He does remember that it hurt. It hurt and it burned inside him, and he remembers he was crying.

He couldn't scream, not then, and he can't scream now.

But he was crying.

They had thrown out the sheets, as Peter refused to sleep on them, even after washed.

They had thrown out the babysitter after a long trial where Peter cried on their expensive wood. 

He had thrown out his innocence, his child-like awe and wonder of the world. It was tarnished, now. 

He didn't trust babysitters anymore.

They got him a therapist they could barely afford. It smelled like Lavender and bleach in his room, and he had soft blankets that sat folded neatly on the couch.

The therapist did the same thing. 

A touch on the knuckle, the knee. On his chest and his thigh, steadily going towards the focal point of all of this.

That had hurt too.

Peter remembers there had been a picture of his kids on the wall.

Did he do this to them too?

Ben and May won another case, and Peter was silent the entire time. He didn't cry.

He refused to go to another therapist, and he never sat on the couch again (well, at least until a few years later).

Peter doesn't remember the exact date of that one, either. He remembers it was on a Wednesday.

Bad things happen on Wednesdays.

He remembers insignificant things about each. The show on the television, the way the room smelled. The Star Wars poster above his bed (torn as he tried to get away), the color of the walls.

And yet he can't remember when it happened. He knows the months-December, February-not the dates. Its a general sense of dread that comes over him during these times, and isn't that a lot of time to be dreading something?

 He still hasn't figured out why it happened, either. What sick satisfaction did it bring them? Did they leave in good conscience?

He knows that during the trial Skip had laughed, hadn't denied anything. He had laughed with those white teeth, a product of society, had called him a pussy. His own lawyer had given up, claimed him guilty, slapping papers against the desk.

They were blank. 

His lawyer had made up Skip's innocence.

The therapist-Davies-had been outraged, an excellent liar. Peter is a child, he claimed, Children make things up!

His Lawyer had taken a similar route, and Peter's case was not aided by his silence.

In both times he had been silenced, told he was weak, a fool.

What made it different now?

He was in a room filled with adults, dressed sharply, talking venomously. This was just another case to them, another child who had to be prodded at and figure out. His silence was preferred.

They did win that case, too, however slimly. They procured the pictures of the blood on the therapist's couch, the person who had found them had given a testament.

Peter does not like court rooms.

After the trial, the Judge had offered him a piece of hard candy. Small, unoffending. She had smiled, an absence of frustration. He had taken it, unwrapped the crinkled plastic. It was sweet, getting stuck between his teeth. 

The Judge was still a close family friend, coming over for dinner a few nights a month. She brought forth stories about hilarious court scenarios, and always brought little bags of colorful hard candies.

Peter enjoys sweets. They mean friendship, comfort. They remain a consistency.

A List of things Peter does not like:

The smell of Lavender. Beds. Babysitters. Couches. Therapists. That one TV show. The color green. Court rooms. Expensive wood. Blank pieces of paper. The smell of bleach. Perfect teeth. Places he should be safe.

It's written on an old piece of notebook paper, in a child's-for he was a child-messy handwriting. He hasn't produced a more elligable one. This is something he will keep forever, a horrible, ugly thing that he's gotten past.

Mostly.

May has taken a job, one down in Florida. Peter has moved in to the Tower, white and pristine, but still a comforting thing.

His List of Things He Does Not Like is tacked to the mirror, buildings, tight spaces, planes all being added to it. 

His room, which he's apparently had since after Home-Coming, is decorated with glossy posters, and a rainbow flag is furled against the window. It casts a comforting, soft glow around the room, making his many Lego sets look ethereal, something Ned had been vehemently jealous about.

He trails his fingertips along his sheets-soft blue-and relishes in this moment of peace, of quiet. Its not that he doesn't enjoy hanging out with the other Avengers-he really, really does-but it can be very chaotic, and their always very loud which can lead Peter's ears ringing for a few hours afterwards. He's asked Steve and Bucky about it, but they don't seem to feel it to the extent he does.

Be quiet, don't complain.

Its a mantra-why should he stop everyone else from having fun? 

Be quiet, be still.

Let them enjoy themselves-and if its at the cost of his own comfort, its really not that bad. And no, it definitely isn't a trauma response from being raped, its not. He just wants them to like him. Simple.

"Peter, breakfast is ready." FRIDAY interrupts his peace quietly, sounding almost sorry. Peter sighs from somewhere deep in his chest, blowing out against the world. 

"Hi." Peter greets when he shuffles into the kitchen, a chorus of tired mumbles reaching back to him. He smiles, reaching to pour himself a cup of coffee. He blows on it, and after tossing it back he slinks over to the couch, depositing himself on Bucky's lap. He's met with a raised eyebrow, to which he just shrugs and snuggles closer. Bucky rolls his eyes but threads his fingers through Peter's curls, dragging them out and twirling them. A contented rumble echoes from his throat (something that had freaked out the Avengers the first few times it happened, but they had now grown used to it, actually finding it adorable), and he closes his eyes, lost in pleasure.

"Good morning!" Comes Pepper's cheery voice, somehow alert and excited despite it being eight in the morning. The tired mumbles she gets in return do nothing to deter her, and she continues. 

"So," She says, dropping a packet down that makes Peters eyes snap open."We've decided to repaint the training room, since Clint's little 'accident' the other week..." She sends a glare towards Clint, who just shrugs and smiles sheepishly, putting a piece of bread into the toaster. "So what color would we want?"

The rest of the Avengers ponder on this, but Peter blurts out, "Anything but green." They turn to give him odd looks, causing Peter's heart to pound in his chest, a hot feeling curling in his stomach. 

"Whats wrong with green? Did Clint color you're hair like that?" Steve teases, earning an indignant squawk from Clint, but this isn't something to joke about. Its because of something very real, something no one should ever joke about. Because, maybe he shouldn't be affected by it now, but that was all he had been able to see as he was ruthlessly pounded into, as he was violated, just a month after the first few times. He knows Steve doesn't know, but it still hurts and why can't he breathe-

"I don't think green would be a very good color, either." Bucky says, hand resting firm on Peter's shoulder. He looks around, daring anyone to object. No one does.

Peter eases, his heart no longer fighting to get out of his chest. The debates on the color, on the dynamic it will create, Steve, and the aesthetic, Bruce! as they elevate, rise, and then fall, are calming. 

"Thank you." The teenager chokes out, tears forming in his eyes. Bucky just nods and continues playing with his hair.

The elevator doors shutter open as Peter scrounges in his backpack for his Spanish test, wanting to show the perfect marks to Tony. He stumbles forwards, finally grasping it, when he smells it.

Lavender.

It hurts, curling in his nose. Overwhelming, far too much, and suddenly he is back on that couch, back in that green room with the picture of kids on the wall, and he is in a place he should be safe but he is not-

"Oh, hi Peter! Do you like my new candle? I think its very calming." A voice-which he hazily applies to Rhodey-wafts into his senses. His tongue is heavy, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up. He needs to get out, get out, get out. 

"I-oh yeah, its uh-g-great. I need-I just remembered, I've gotta go to...to N-Neds house for a project. Bye!" He gets out, tripping over his feet to get back into the elevator and away from that smell.

He can't press the button fast enough, but then the doors close in front of him, blocking him off from his home, he lets out a sigh of relief and sags against the wall, feeling the panic thrum in his veins. Right now he doesn't pay attention to it, but he's sure it will spiral into a panic attack later. At the moment, however, he is content to pretend he's fine.

"Hey, is that Pete I heard?" Tony asks happily, walking into the room with a mug of coffee that reads "World's greatest Dad". He catches sight of Rhodey's confused face, the space between his eyebrows pinched as he tugs at his lip with his teeth. Oh. So he's worried, too.

"Honey bear?" The billionaire questions, setting down his mug slowly, as though if he did it quickly it would scare the man away. 

"I-yeah, that was Peter. I just...He came in, looking excited, and then just...froze up? He said he was going to Neds house for a project and rushed out, but he doesn't have an upcoming project. Right?" Rhodey inquires, a hand reaching over to rub at his knuckles. 

Tony visibly eases, now that he knows that Peter is not, in fact, in danger. 

"That is certainly...odd. And you're right, he doesn't. Maybe its a personal one? Either that or he and Ned are having an epic make-out session, which I don't want to think about. Ill ask him about it when he gets home, hmm?" Tony responds, retrieving his cup from the counter, cursing when he sees its left a ring. Rhodey smiles at the joke while Tony runs around frantically trying to find papers towels. However, he can't seem to fight the feeling that something is off. In the meanwhile, however, he blows out the candle. Its giving him a headache.

Peter is hanging off the side of the couch, his head and chest in danger of falling completely off. His hair is squashed against the ground, which Clint keeps trying to throw marshmallows into. Peter, having his "tingle" as the Team has dubbed it, simply turns to the side and catches them in his mouth, much to the chagrin of Clint and the amusement of the others.

The smell of Lavender is no longer there, now replaced with pasta, garlic, and lemony soap. Peter, after having a panic attack on the streets of New York and promptly collapsing when he got to Ned's house, is feeling decidedly much better. The panic is gone, but the memories that resurfaced are sure to haunt him later that night. 

"So, Peter, how was it working on you're 'project' at Ned's house?" Sam asks, eyebrows wiggling when he mentions the other boy. Peter blushes, but not too terribly embarrassed, opening his mouth to respond. 

"Unless, of course, you were simply having a few rounds of tongue tennis with him?" Tony asks, sweeping in dramatically from the kitchen. Peter splutters, trying to sit up. The unbalance of his position, however, causes him to tumble off the couch and onto the floor. 

"Ned and I-what-we didn't-No one even says that anymore, Dad!" Peter exclaims, blushing a furious shade of red and nursing his ribs. Tony just smiles and shrugs, pointing a wet dish towel at the vigilante.

"You didn't answer the question, Roo." He accuses, tilting his head to the side.

"I-Dad, Ned and I aren't together, despite you thinking so." Peter responds, throwing his hands in the air. The Avengers exchange furtive looks before Tony voices their thoughts.

"But you wish you guys were, don't you?" He's no longer teasing, just inquisitive, but a hint of mirth still shines in his eyes. Peters sudden interest in the carpet and his increasing blush is enough of an answer, and Tony leans back triumphantly. 

"Hey, enough bullying the Spider-Kid!" Natasha says, chucking a marshmallow at Tony's face. It dings off his nose, falling to the ground. He looks up slowly, his face blank.

"Oh. So thats how it is, huh?" As FRIDAY starts playing dramatic music in the background. He grabs a handful of marshmallows from a different bowl and starts flinging them wildly, the Avengers yelping and quickly establishing sides, a very effective distraction from Peter's embarrassment. Peter scrambles away, running over to a very confused looking Bruce, who has just arrived with a bowl of popcorn. The teenager steals a piece, popping it into his mouth. He chews contemplatively, taking a drag out of a pixie stix he procured from seemingly nowhere.

"Ah, don't you love the smell of good ol' family war in the morning?" He whispers huskily in a British accent. Bruce just nods slowly, neither of them even flinching when Sam is thrown through the air and into the kitchen, coming out brandishing salad tongs. 

Later that night, Peter is reduced to a gasping, sobbing mess, trying to tear the filthy skin off of his bones. He chokes and hangs his head, wrenching the covers off of him. He can not be in a bed right now.

He slides-shakily-to the floor, his legs bent at an awkward angle as he scrambles away from his covers. 

Breathe in

Breathe out

Something Davies had told him, long ago, back when his little green room was comforting and he was a normal therapist.

Peter shudders, still breathing harshly, when someone steps into the room-his room. And he knows it is not Davies, it is not Skip, they couldn't be here, but it doesn't stop him from flinching away.

"Baby?" Comes Tony's hesitant voice, and Peter flings himself into the man, burying his face in his shoulder. 

This is a rinse and repeat cycle. Nightmares, panic attacks, Tony, comfort. Again and again. Some nights he's fine. Some nights not so much. But Tony always says he doesn't mind caring for him, and Peter is only a little bit guilty.

Peter shudders and chokes for the better half of an hour.

Tony just holds him, whispering sweet nothings, rubbing his back. 

Peter doesn't sleep in his bed, after he signals that he is fine. He grabs a blanket, spreads it out, and sleeps on the floor.

He turns away from the bed, even though the sheets aren't the same color as they were when it happened.

Peter has now been living with the Avengers for three months, and the shock has almost completely worn off. Constant video calls with his Aunt have confirmed that she really likes the job, has great hours, and has even been asked out to coffee by a nice man. She had blushed while saying this, and Peter had teased her about it endlessly, sobering up greatly when she diverted the conversation to Ned.

Peter has found that the Avengers have panic attacks often, which makes him feel far less weak because of his.

He's also found that he is the best person at getting them to calm down.

The first few times it had happened, he had offered to help, to take over from Bruce or Natasha or Steve, because they just couldn't get Bucky or Clint or Tony to breathe.

And, while he had been questioned at first, they had stepped aside, and within two minutes the panicking person was calm and had braids in their hair. He was such a good candidate for calming people down that they started to find him whenever someone was pent up, frustrated or hysterical. 

"Peter, how are you so good at helping people with panic attacks?" Pepper asks over dinner one night, Peter delicately setting down his chop sticks. He knew someone was going to ask eventually, he just hadn't planned out what he would say. 

"I don't know. I mean, I guess its because I've had them a lot? Like since I was...seven, I think, and I just know how to handle them, I suppose." He shrugs, digging back into his carton of noodles. He misses the concerned looks of the Avengers, because they know he has panic attacks a lot-about all sorts of things-but he's had them for that long? Why hadn't he told them? And, more importantly:

What could have caused them? The answers are not good.

Their given an even greater sense of confusion-but also, strangely, some clarity-the following week.

"Boss, it appears as though there is someone asking for Peter in the lobby." FRIDAY interrupts their game of poker (their playing with Hershey kisses) just as Bruce is about to set his hand down. 

"Really? Who is it?" The genius inquires, Steve using this distraction to peak at the mans cards, leaning back incredeoously, a look of absolute disgust on his face. This has also garnered the attention of the rest of the Avengers, and they also look up, waiting for FRIDAY's answer.

"She has identified herself as Sarah Coleman. She says Peter knows her." The AI responds, and Peter jumps up, a huge smile on his face.

"Send her up, FRI!" He says excitedly, before turning to look at Tony. "Er...sorry, is that okay?" He questions, twisting his hands together.

"You know her?" Tony cocks his head, to which Peter nods exuberantly. "And it seems like you like her, so why not." He shrugs and Peter punches his fist into the air, just as the elevator doors open.

"Aunt Sarah!" The teenager exclaims, barreling into her now opening arms. 

"Ah, hello a stóirín!" She responds, revealing a heavy Irish accent, pressing her nose to his.

She is a tall, pale woman with strikingly dark hair and bright green eyes. She walks with a gentle grace and confidence that frightens most of the Avengers in the room-her stare and demeanor is similar to that of Pepper's, which terrifies them. 

Peter drags her over to the table, and she offers a small smile and slight nod to the party. 

"Aunt Sarah, these are the Avengers, Avengers this is Aunt Sarah." He says brightly, making a little noise of happiness when the woman presses a small bag of Jolly Ranchers into his hand. Tony stands, offering his hand. She shakes it firmly, smiling more warmly when Tony ruffles Peter's hair.

"Ah, so you are the one thats fostering Peter while May is gone?" She asks, head tilted to the side. Her general air makes Tony want to spill all his secrets, but he nods. "Yes ma'am." He responds, and the Avengers absolutely howl, pounding their fists on the table.

"You never call anyone ma'am, Tones!"

"Oh, you're scared of her aren't you?"

Tony reddens slightly, but gives a small shrug.

"Adopted." Peter says, sucking happily on a blue raspberry. This stills the Avengers as they smile softly, and Sarah's eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh, I suppose May did mention something about that. Honestly I thought she was joking. Oh! It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Romonov." She says, inclining her head to the other woman. 

"Likewise." The spy counters, clicking her nails on the table. 

The Avengers have every right to be terrified.

"Okay so...dont get me wrong, its great that you're here and Peter likes you," Rhodey sends a little glance to the boy, who is now unwrapping a second candy. "But how exactly do you know Peter? We didn't know he had another Aunt."

"If I may, sir, family does not have to be by blood," Sarah sends a venomous look in his direction, and Rhodey puts his hands up in an innocent pose. "And I was Peter's lawyer." The Avenger still, adopting looks of confusion or concern. Sarah seems to come to a conclusion, and abruptly turns towards the teenager, who has also stilled.

"Mil, níor dúirt tú leo?" Peter shakes his head hesitantly, and the woman sighs, dropping a manicured hand on his shoulder. "They should know, love. At least about you're list, hmm?" She whispers, eyes crinkled in concern. 

"It's not...It's not that important." Peter shakes his head, dropping the bag down on the ground. 

"Yes it is." She counters, holding his face in her hands. 

Peter turns away and doesn't answer.

After that, Peter avoids the Avengers and their questions as much as he can. They dont seem to want to press, but he can still see when the questions form in their minds, and he always makes a hasty departure. Its his secret, his memories, his life that he's keeping secret. And its not as thought its a detriment to his health. Sure, he's lost a lot of sleep, has had a lot of panic attacks because of it, but its really not that important. 

At least, its not important until Skip Westcott is released from jail.

The Avengers are lounging on the couch, decompressing after a mission. It had been fairly easy, and the only sustained injuries were bruises or small cuts, which had resulted in lots of cheering and the making of root bear floats. A tally had been added to the white board of "Missions without deadly wounds", which was something they were eternally proud of. 

Bucky was against the arm of said couch, Peter leaning against his side with his legs in Tony's lap. Steve was on the ground, Peter's hand lazily braiding the hair. Natasha had acquired a bean bag (that they didn't own) and was sipping tea, while Bruce and Sam were squabbling in the kitchen about frosting and how chocolate ice cream is so much better than strawberry, Bruce! 

Clint could be heard singing in the vents, and Peter was content to just breathe and relax with his family.

"Hey, what do you think the news is saying about us? Do you think they've even picked up on it yet?" Came the voice of Sam as he and Bruce walked into the room. Tony shrugged, sliding the remote out from his side. He pressed a few buttons and the news (the one that didn't constantly say they were horrible terrorists) flicked on, the face of a stoic reporter taking up the space. 

What made Peter's heart stop was the accompanying picture of Skip in the corner.

"He was only seventeen when the rape of one Peter Parker occurred, and due to a lack of evidence and because of good behavior, Steven Westcott is being released from jail tomorrow, at the age of twenty-six." Peter cannot breathe. He cannot think. 

He sits up, hands frozen in Steve's hair, breathe hacking wildly through his chest.

This cannot be happening. 

The Avengers, he's sure, are angry, terrified, worried. Any of the emotions he's sure they would feel, he feels. What if Skip comes back? What if he knows where Peter is? Why the hell would they let him out of jail? 

His heart pounds wildly as stuttering, sharp breaths wheeze and rattle out of his lungs, as he leaps off of the couch, the couch he cannot be on.

"Peter..." Steve says, hand reaching out. When it comes in contact with his shoulder, the teenager flinches violently, grabbing onto the large hand and twisting up, up. A snapping sound echoes around the room, and Steve gasps, whipping his hand back to cradle the wrist against his chest. 

The team surges forwards-somehow softly-whispering and offering platitudes as though they are confronting a wild beast.

And he supposes they are.

But, as the TV is cut into static, Peter's voice creating little keening noises as he hunches down and whispers, "Im sorry" over and over again, he is not in the Tower. 

He is in his bed room, lying on a bed where he doesn't know the color of his sheets. There is a show playing in the background, barely heard over his muffled sobs and the slapping of skin. Pleasure-filled moans are coming from the man on top of him, as a hand is clamped over his mouth. The feeling of it burns inside of him, as he wonders how he got here, how he ever trusted the man. 

His lips are caught roughly in a kiss he doesn't recuperate, which seems to anger him. Skip puts a hand around his throat, effectively cutting off his supply of air. He gasps and chokes, scrabbling to get away, hands making contact with his Star Wars poster. It rips, his chest attacked by thumb tacks. 

He can't do anything but cry as he feels something tear, as something hot drips down his thighs. Skip thrusts faster, more erratic, stronger. Everything and anything all at once, before something hot and disgusting is entering his body, as Skip pulls out, sitting back on his bed. 

Peter aches all over, can still feel the hands on his body, the blood running down his legs. He's nauseous and his head is throbbing, and he cries even harder when Skip sends him a smile-a shark-and presses a quick kiss to his lips, before he disappears.

Peter's skin hasn't been clean since.

Someone is trying to move him, he realizes, and he kicks out against them, sickened and also proud when his foot makes contact with a chest, a rib perhaps, because he is in his therapists office.

Davies is whispering in his ear, his hot breath smattering across his face. And Peter is frozen, frozen as the man unbuttons his pants that he had proudly buttoned that morning. 

If Peter had done something, would it not have happened? 

If he hadn't frozen, had fought back, would things have changed? If he screamed? 

His thighs are cupped as he is dragged onto the lap of Davies, as a hand traces down his chest, his stomach, down down down. 

Peter is frozen, is still, doesn't make a sound as his pants are slipped off, but makes an effort when he is placed on his stomach.

"No, none of that now, honey. You're such a pretty boy, you know that?" As his legs are spread, his balls fondled as kisses are pressed along his spine.

Something hard enters him then, something slick and large, and it burns just as much-if not more-as it did the first time. This time there is nothing near him to grab onto, unless he wants to face plant forwards and be rendered even more vulnerable, and the room is sound-proofed, for the sole factor of patient privacy.

Does this mean that there were other people he could have done this too?

There is a lavender candle burning on the table. There is a bleach bottle hidden slightly under Davies' desk. There is green paint on the walls, and there is a picture of kids on the wall.

There is a child being raped on the couch.

Peter passed out some six minutes into his panic attack. He broke Steve's wrist and one of Bucky's ribs. 

He showed the Avengers the list ("oh my god, Pete, Im so sorry, I didn't know the candle would affect you.") ("Hey, why are buildings on here?") and he had refused a therapist, at least until Tony offered that it could be with a woman and it could be done virtually. With his sessions-which were every Tuesday and Friday-he had the smells of his home around him, not Lavender, and there were no pictures of kids on the walls.

There had been an incident where the Avengers had a mission ("It's way too dangerous for you to go on, Pete.") and Clint had said, "We could get the kid a babysitter?" And everyone had frozen as Natasha punched Clint in the arm. The vigilante's breathe had stuttered for a second, hitched and out in the open, until he just shook his head and smiled. "I'm okay, I have calculus and shit." The air had lost its electric charge, while Steve whispered about language, causing the Team to laugh.

That wasn't to say that Peter wasn't still struggling. Recovery isn't a linear process, and Peter still has nightmares, panic attacks, and some days he can't stand for people to touch him. Sometimes he still wants to scrape his skin off, and some times he does. Its caused a general air of caution around the Tower, the Team trying to surruptiously peer at his arms or legs to see if there were wounds that need attending to. It had become habit, one that Peter didn't particularly enjoy, but he knew they were caring for his wellbeing. 

Another occurrence was that of the death of Steven Westcott. He had been found, beaten to death and bleeding in an alley, but not before his confessions to the rapes of several other children-including Peter's-had been recorded and sent anonymously into the police. General consensus had been that some vigilantes that were really against things like that, such as Spider Man and Daredevil, had taken care of the job. No one suspected the Avengers, or tried to figure out why there was a mysterious lack of evidence, as though he had fallen off of a building and some random passerby had simply decided to record his confessions because they were such an upstanding citizen.

The List Of Things He Does Not Like is tacked to the refrigerator, lest one of the members of the Team forget about one of the items at any time. It constantly grows and decreases, guns having been added as an afterthought, as well as lakes, needles and silence. They weren't random things, just added on a whim, but things that set him spiraling into panic or that dredged up memories that shouldn't be remembered. He was proud to say that he had been able to cross off beds, the smell of bleach and blank pieces of paper. 

Peter was by no means perfectly okay. He wasn't healed, would never be completely. These things that had happened to him would always be a part of his life, would always be a distant memory, a faint crawling under his skin.

Some places would never be safe to him.

But even more would.