It was the cold that woke him up.

He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while, but he'd never really registered himself being awake. It's like, when you're reading a book that you can't put down, you hear someone talking to you in the background, but it takes a few moments for you to actually realise that they're talking to you? Yeah, that's what it was like.

Except, his life was one shitty book.

If someone wrote a book about his life, there would be no happy moments. It would be a horror story, a story of grief and pain and loss. No one would want to read it. No one would buy that book. No one would want to know about Peter Parker. Peter Parker who?

Maybe there were small moments of happiness, but Peter couldn't remember what they were. He couldn't quite recall the last time he smiled. It might've been this morning (or was it yesterday? Last weeks?), but he couldn't remember. A strange part in him didn't want to remember. That same strange part was like the devil sitting on his shoulder, whispering curses and insults in his ear. Telling him that no one loved him, no one wanted him, his parents abandoned him, he killed his uncle, he's a failure, Tony hates him, the war killed him-

But even the normal part of him wasn't sure what to do with himself. You missed your chance, it says. You've been kidnapped again, but you'll be okay, it said. You might die, but you'll be fine, it says. Or, sometimes it's falsely optimistic, like; it's normal to feel this cold. Or, Ross won't hurt you, you're fifteen. Or, sometimes, Mr Stark will find you. Tony will search for you. He knows you're missing. He knows you're not dead.

And so, as Peter scrabbled for victory over the crushing darkness of being stuck in his own head, he ignored it all. He wasn't what his thoughts were telling him. He was what his heart told him.

(But it's dangerous to love-)

He'd had dreams. Some were of a time when sat at the local café, eating rainbow-flavoured ice-cream with Aunt May – but it was dull and colourless. Some were of when he'd sit out on the balcony before it broke, writing about his friends and family in his journal, peace in his heart. Innocence in his thoughts. But it was still lifeless.

He'd had nightmares, too. He'd had nightmares of when he found out his parents weren't coming home. He'd had nightmares of when he'd been trapped underneath the building the Vulture had dropped on him, with the intent to kill him for trying to save New York. He'd had nightmares of Thanos, and what he did to everyone on the team, and what he did to Peter.

He'd had nightmares of being on the brink of death, feeling the indescribable agony of his mentor burning his body. He'd had nightmares of how frightened he was of Tony after it. He'd had nightmares of being in a coma and hearing his – as-good-as – dad and Strange discussing just injecting Peter with a drug that would just kill him, so he didn't have to suffer. He'd had nightmares of what might have happened if he hadn't forced himself to wake up at that point in time, nightmares of his death, enforced by the only person he might've been able to trust with his life.

But now, he was blinking with aching eyes, against the fog in his vision. He let out a pained groan, as he shoved himself into a seated position – curls cascading over his eyes – in the darkness.

His whole body ached, especially his arm. And the surface he was lying on didn't help one bit. He was sitting on some sort of bed, except it was made of wood, with only a mat on it for 'comfort'. He spun his head to look at it, confusion in every line of his face.

Ross. Ross took him. Ross has him...somewhere. Ross shot him with some goddamn electrocution thingy. Ross knows who he is. Ross betrayed Mr Stark. Ross did this, Ross did that, Ross Ross Ross Ross-

Another wave of cold coursed across Peter's body, making the teen shiver as goose-bumps rose over his arms and cheeks. He hugged his bare arms to his chest (why had he worn a t-shirt?), rocking slightly where he sat as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings.

And his blood ran cold again. But it had nothing to do with the temperature of the cell he was in.

The walls were high, nearly three times his height. There were no windows and the floor was a mosaic of metal grates, the holes in between each rod only big enough for a thumb to fit through. A light, many metres up, swung precariously from a dodgy-looking attachment of wires and metal, the dull light that shone from it swaying across the room like a scary movie. But not even that was what his eyes were transfixed upon.

The only way out was what he was staring at. A cell door, the bars reaching all the way to the roof. Each slate was at most five centimetres apart, black and rough. The light cast an odd shadow across the room, the silhouette of the cell door on the ground reaching to Peter's bare toes. There was a lock on the outside, Peter could just see it. It seemed pretty basic, easy to pick if Peter could just stick his hand through he would be free in moments.

So, that's what he did.

He leapt to his feet, wobbling slightly. He sent his arms out to keep him balanced – or, rather, tried to. They were cuffed together tightly, the sharp metal cutting his wrists as they were jostled. He let out a wince of pain, as it radiated into his chest, left to simmer and burn there. So, that was a no-go.

But that caught his attention of something else. Something else, a little more worrying.

Around his ankles were vibranium cuffs, thick and glowing a dull blue. As Peter froze with shock, the glow slowly died down. But his racing heart didn't stop. In fact, it was thumping so hard against his ribs that it was beginning to hurt. And, attached to those cuffs, was the sturdiest chain Peter had ever seen, trailing out of sight beneath his bed. He could barely breathe.

He took a tiny step forward, shuffling his feet. The chain jingled and slithered forward like a snake. He took another step, and it did the same. He took another, then another, and he was so close to the door now, about two metres away. So, he took another but was jolted backward as the chain reached its limits.

And that was Ross' way of torturing Peter. Let him get so damn close, but not quite close enough. Just out of reach. Just out of reach of the prize. Of the freedom, the friends, the family, the life outside of this cursed cell. God, he couldn't deal with this.

And a quiet, dark thought crept into his mind, unnoticed by his protective instincts. It snaked its way into the midst of the chaos in his head, getting louder and louder and louder as it grew until it was like a shout in Peter's head. He let out a terrified sob.

You don't have to, was what the thought was.

He told himself over and over at that moment, that that was his brain telling him that he didn't have to deal with it. That maybe Tony was coming for him, right now. Or that maybe he wasn't kidnapped, and that he was, in fact, okay and safe. Or that maybe what was about to happen to him wasn't what he thought it might be.

But, really...it wasn't. Peter knew himself. He knew the blame he always put on his shoulders, the grief and the empathy of always trying to help other people that he didn't realise he needed help himself. He knew that was his flaw.

So, he knew that you don't have to meant something else.

He knew it meant that he didn't have to wait. He didn't have to hold on any longer. Because there, on the end of his makeshift bed, was the very tool he needed to escape this place forever.

A knife.

-

<< If grief should be complete >>

It was raining. The sky was grey, like a television tuned to a dead channel. The smell of wet soil hung low in the air, along with the mist. The swaying and bustling of the trees slowed as the leaves were weighed down with heavy raindrops, glistening in the dull light.

But Tony was glad for it. That way, no one could tell the difference between the downpour and the silent tears streaming down his cheek. Even Pepper, who sat next to him – one hand on his leg in a comforting gesture – seemed to notice Tony's held-back sobs, probably too busy on controlling her own.

He watched the progression in front of him, eyes glued to the scene like he was in the cinemas, watching a horror movie that was his life. His lips were pursed together, his heart barely beating in his chest, his brain slowly dying in his head. He didn't know what to do.

"It was on this day, one week ago, that we lost the life of Peter Benjamin Parker..." Came the sullen voice of one of those too-expensive funeral people, who never showed any emotion and read a script with small, old glasses on.

Tony didn't listen to that man. He didn't want to. The guy was just stating things he already knew – stating things he didn't need to be reminded of. Instead, he thought about how the gas explosion that killed the one person who he loved more than anything, and the one person his person loved more than anything, was labelled an accident. Tony had scoffed at that. He would only accept that the gas explosion – that was both powerful enough and perfectly placed to murder an enhanced – was an accident, after he'd gone through every FBI file, interrogated every criminal, and been to hell and back to talk to those damn technicians who didn't know how to contain gas properly. Maybe not even then. There was no such thing as coincidence in this situation – someone killed his boy, and he was going to find out who.

And when he did, he will tear them apart.

<< For one you once held dear >>

"I would now like to welcome up Mr Thaddeus E. Ross, to say his words of condolence for the friends and family of the lost, gathered here today..."

Ah, here we go again, Tony thought bitterly. Political crap, here we come. This man didn't deserve a place in Peter's funeral. Peter didn't deserve to have to be at a funeral, either, but for a completely different reason. God, he was so young.

"Thank you, sir," Ross' words cut through Tony's thoughts. The billionaire ducked his head into his hands, chest burning with hate toward the man, without having even heard what he was going to say.

"I would like to begin with offering my...sincere apology for the death of this incredible person..." Ross began, and Tony found himself tuning out already. He was bluffing. Ross never gave two shits about the Parker's. He hadn't even known they'd existed before he was rung up by Pepper to perform the legal side of the funeral. All the stuff that just went completely over his head. Why did there have to be a legal side? This was an emotional celebration of lost lives, not some form you have to sign. The only legal part of it will be when Tony goes to court for the murder of whoever did this to his son-

Oh, crap-

To his protégé. That was all there was to it. Ross didn't need to be here, Pepper was just doing her job. He thanked her for that. Didn't mean he had to agree with it, or like it, so to say.

"...but despite his age, records inform us that Mr Parker has lost many important people in his life. That might have been why a fifteen-year-old was driven to kill his uncle..."

<< Who turned a back and did you harm >>

Well, that was bullshit, right?

Right...?

Tony was never told much about Peter's uncle – the kid had always avoided the subject – but suddenly he couldn't breathe. Peter Parker wouldn't have murdered his own uncle, and Ross was a bloody liar. May would hate him if Peter had murdered her husband...

(But does she know-?)

Peter was good at keeping secrets (but he didn't do it – he wouldn't do it), even from his aunt. But not that good.

The only thing he knew about Ben Parker's death was that he was shot and that they found Peter's DNA on the gun that was used to kill him. But that could have meant so many other things: Peter, being the hero he was, might've wrestled it out of the gunman's hands, or he might have touched it after the gunmen had dropped it and run. But him being the one who pulled the trigger, simply wasn't an option. The kid would be in jail if the police hadn't found enough evidence to support the fact that Peter didn't commit the crime.

<< And caused a numbing tear >>

"...more and more people, every day, lose people they hold most dear..." Ross continues, unfazed by Tony's obvious rage and discomfort.

"What is he doing here?" A quiet whisper escaped Tony's lips, as he leant over his seat to Pepper, who could only shrug in reply. The shock of what the political personal was daring to say was shown clearly on her own face.

An agonizing few minutes passed, in which the old man at the alter droned on and on about the recorded lives of the Parker's. At a few points, Tony was tempted to go up there and interrupt him – surely not everyone needed to know about how May was fired, then they went into bankruptcy and were homeless for multiple months, before she was able to get a job at the hospital, and buy the worst apartment there was in New York, just to be able to provide a shelter for her young nephew. No one needed to know that. Tony hadn't known that, but his love (and grief) for his kid only grew once he had found out.

Neither of them fricking deserved any of this-

"I would now like to welcome up Mr Tony Stark, to say his piece." Ross' venomous voice ripped through his thoughts. Why the man had said it like that was unknown to Tony. He presumed it was because he was still pissed about the Accords.

But he forced his weak knees to hold his weight, as he got to his feet. Pepper gave him a tentative smile, that Tony couldn't find it in himself to return. He wasn't sure when he'd be able to smile again. If ever. Probably never.

It was like his brain wasn't even there, as he dragged his body to the front of the crowd. He was walking through a mindless, endless tunnel of death and destruction and there was nothing else that mattered, apart from getting up in front of his kid's loved ones and telling them how he blamed himself for everything that ever happened to both of them, and how he didn't want to have to live without Peter, and how he knew he didn't deserve that kid, and how he wished he'd never met the kid (maybe, possible, sort of) because then he wouldn't be tremoring like he is right now, today.

<< No more repent that grief today >>

"I, uh—" The words coming out of his mouth were dry and dead, with no emotion, "—would like to, first of all, thank you all for coming." He began again, clearing his throat. His vocal chords weren't working. Many weary, indifferent faces blinked up at him. He only searched for one. He took another breath, before continuing.

"I, uh, knew the ki-Peter before he died." Obviously, you idiot, why else would you be here? "He was one of my, uh, interns. One of the best interns. We really, um, established a strong relationship in his time working at St-Stark Industries."

His eyes swept through every sullen face in the crowd. As his eyes landed on Pepper, she nodded encouragingly, sorrow still in her eyes. He blinked at her. Where was she-?

<< Or shed that rock of fear >>

Where the fricking hell was May Parker?

There was muttering breaking out across the crowd now, worn out faces turning to disgust as Tony failed to let words out of his too-tight throat. Even Pepper was frowning slightly, concerned. He ran his eyes over every face in the audience, twice more. May wasn't there. May Parker wasn't at her own nephew-as-good-as-son's funeral. Her last living relative. She wasn't here.

"Mr Stark?" A woman asked from in the crowd. Tony couldn't tell which of them said it. He could barely see. He didn't even register how his own hand grappled at his chest, clawing at it, trying to make it loosen. Trying to let himself breathe. He couldn't breathe.

"I—" the Stark choked out, body swaying slightly. His throat was constricted like his windpipe had been crushed, "—I'm sorry, I gotta...I gotta g-go – I'm sorry—"

Then he was running.

<< Than shake a spirit by the hand >>

He had to run. He couldn't stay there any longer, or he would die. He would die, he would die. He didn't deserve to be here. He didn't deserve to be at Peter Parker's funeral.

Peter Parker, who is fifteen years old. Peter Parker, whose greatest fear is failing AP Chem. Peter Parker, who doesn't have a mom, or an uncle, or a dad, or a life. Peter Parker, who's a superhuman. Peter Parker, who is the infamous Web-Slinger. Peter Parker, who could survive bullets, knives, torture, even his body dying for nearly an hour. Peter Parker, who, until last week, Tony thought was invincible. Peter Parker, who died because of a gas leak?

I think the hell not.

Tony will get to the bottom of this. No one can murder his boy and get away with it. No one. It didn't matter if they tried to run; it didn't matter if they tried to hide. He will find them, and he will rip them apart, limb by limb until they scream for him to kill them and then, and only then, will he finally deliver the final blow.

But for now, Peter Parker lay in a coffin, feet under the dirt.

And Tony ran.

<< Or welcome ghosts appear >>

--

so, here's the thing. i feel rlly bad for doing this to y'all, but then...I HAVE THE MOST AMAZING, WHUMPY, ANGSTY PLOT TO COME SO HOLD ONTO YOUR WIGS-

anyway, despite my confidence in this story, i can't do it without you (cheesy, i know right?). but seriously, if you peeps didn't read my stories, i would have zero motivation. so thanks a million, lovelies. 

also, 4k + on Lacuna had me screaming. y'all are incredible.

this is goodbye, for now. until i get the next chapter ready. ahem.

LuvForStydia xx

(oh, and sorry for taking so long to update...)