"I know, I'm sorry—"

"No, Tony!" Came the hysteric reply from down the phone, "Do you realise how terrible this looks for your reputation?"

Tony gaped at no-one-in-particular, knuckles whitening around the phone he had gripped between his fingers.

"You really think I care about my reputation right now?" He asked, strangely calm, even though his stomach was churning in turmoil.

"I-no, I'm sorry." Pepper replied softly, "But you have to be careful, Tony."

"I'm always careful—"

"Everyone knows that's not true. But I'm being serious, okay? You have to." Pepper argued, and Tony blew out a sharp breath of air.

"Pep, please don't tell—"

"You have to be careful. For May Parker." Tony could hear the thickness in his lover's voice, which caused his heart to ache.

"Y-yeah..." He whispered, voice catching in his throat. He heard a quiet sigh of love and relief from Pepper from the other side of the line. He blinked rapidly against the late-night darkness.

"Just come home, baby." Pepper whispered, voice weary and Tony could tell she was hurting. And Tony had to be there for her.

But before he could reply, there was a beep, and the line went dead. Tony kept the cold phone pressed against his ear for a few moments longer, eyes faced towards the sky, throat tight.

If he was being completely honest, he had no idea where he was.

Actually, he knew where he was. He just didn't know why he'd come here, of all places. All he knew is that he'd run away from that damned funeral to wherever his legs took him.

(Peter said he used to do that before Ben died—)

He could think about Peter, right now. Maybe never. He emotionally couldn't. Maybe he was being weak. The last thing he'd said to Peter was "you just occupy yourself for an hour or so, okay?". Guess he had. If only Tony paid more attention to his life. Maybe he could have prevented...prevented—

(He couldn't even think it—)

God, he missed his kid.

But here he was, right now, standing weak-legged outside Thaddeus Ross' condo. Somehow.

He knocked once. Twice. Three times.

No one replied.

No one came to the door.

And there was an anger building up within him, boiling and broiling and threatening to burst.

He didn't even know why. Just like how he had no clue as to why he know stood on some random colleague's doormat.

Something had brought him here. He didn't know what.

"Ross!" Tony yelled, but there was a bright flash of light.

Instinctively, Tony flinched, but no pain followed.

No, instead he blinked a few times against the sudden light, enough for his vision to clear enough. A sleek, black car had just pulled up behind where Tony stood, the engine rumbling and the headlights blaring. Tony brought a hand to shield his eyes, squinting through the tinted windows of the car.

But he didn't have to wait long to see who the driver was, because the headlights switched off with a click, plunging the world into darkness. Ross stepped from his car, in all his suited (not) glory, a bemused but polite smile on his face.

"Mr Stark, to what do I owe this pleasure?" He asked, clasping his hands around the door knob, and opening it.

(Does he not even lock his door—?)

Tony stood dumbly for a few seconds, before snapping back to attention. His heart thudded in his chest, not able to force out his usual quips and sass.

"Alright then, how about a drink?" Ross offered, leading Tony inside. The younger man followed cautiously, trying not to notice how oddly clean the flat was. Even as Ross switched on the lights, he tried to ignore how every surface shone, like polish had been applied to it.

Before he knew it, he was seated at a gleaming kitchen bench, Ross sitting on the other side of said bench.

"So, why're you here, Tony?" Ross asked.

"I don't remember ever being on a first-name basis." He snapped, though he didn't know why. Ross didn't seem to fazed by his anger, however, which seemed odd.

"Terribly sorry, Mr Stark. Would you like to talk?" Ross asked again, not sounding sorry at all.

Tony didn't answer for a while, just took two large gulps of his beer. Did he want to talk? No. Did he want to interrogate? Damn straight.

"Ben. Mr Parker. Peter didn't kill him." Tony said shortly.

Ross raised his eyebrows sceptically. "And what makes you say that?"

"I know Peter. He wouldn't," Tony growled, "he can't kill. That's his flaw."

Ross grinned at those words, nodding in...understanding? Tony frowned, an uneasiness creeping into his skin. "Yes, yes, yes..." Ross was muttering, almost as if to himself.

"What're you up to?" Tony snarled, letting his beer crack quietly onto the table. He leant forward a bit. Something was off about Ross. Something was really, really off.

"What am I up to? What do you mean, what am I up to? Your memory of Peter Parker and mine are very different. It was about time you found out who the child truly was. He's not a hero; he's a murderer."

Anger smashed into Tony like a train, hitting him so hard he had to catch his breath. Nothing, nothing had ever made him more angry that someone insulting his kid. And here, this...political freak...thought he could spread false rumours about the most innocent person Tony's ever known, and dare even think that Peter isn't a hero in the slightest? Did he dare—?

But—

Wait and second—

Ross had said he's, not he was. Slip of the tongue, maybe? But he'd said it twice.

Tony had never been the best at English at school (he was a science guy), but he knew his past tenses to his present tenses.

So, why—?

"As are you." Ross added, eyes cold.

"Peter's not a murderer." Tony seethed, seeing red.

"Ah, but you don't know that. We have records of thumbprints on the weapon that killed Ben Parker. There was only Peter's. None else – the evidence is clear," Ross exclaimed, eyes feasting on the way Tony's hands trembled in contained fury, "as to why Peter would be driven to kill his own uncle is unknown, but according to Ms Parker, they had been fighting earlier that day. Teenage angst, maybe?"

Tony didn't answer. He feared he would scream and tear his throat apart, if he did so. Jesus, Peter, why did you leave me—?

"Or was it an accident?"

"Shut up—" Tony snapped, voice so low he would've been surprised if Ross had heard him. Even so, he could hear his own voice waver dangerously. His chest had constricted.

"Super-human strength?"

The world halted around him.

...

Michelle groaned as her pencil snapped for the fiftieth time.

Well, sure, it wasn't the pencil's fault. Michelle was just gripping it too hard. Why?

She doesn't know but has a sneaky suspicion that it has something to do with the fact the Peter Parker's dead.

Actually, thinking about it now, that's definitely why.

Dead, dead, dead. For some reason, her mind didn't seem to understand the word. Maybe she was still in shock from finding out – over the news and all – but that was about a week ago now (she'd lost track of how long she sat at her desk). The word seemed meaningless, light, uncondemning. She'd even gone to the lengths to search it up on Google, which for her was a stretch. She preferred books.

dead

/dɛd/

adjective

1.

no longer alive.

"a dead body"

synonyms:

deceased, expired, departed, gone, no more, passed on, passed away;

She'd immediately regretted searching it up.

No longer alive. Peter was no longer alive. There was no breath in his lungs, no beat in his heart, no life in his eyes. He was dead, maybe floating around unaware in a word of complete blackness. What did it feel like to be dead? Was there just...nothing? Like what there was before you were born? Or was your spirit or brain still there, floating around in an abyss, knowing everything but not able to do anything?

Personally, Michelle didn't believe there was a God. But she sure as hell hoped there was heaven that would have Peter.

Jesus, he's freaking dead—

"Honey? You doing homework?" Her mom called from in the kitchen. MJ rolled her eyes, her breath catching in her throat before she could get any words out.

"Yeah, mom." She managed in a tight whisper that was sure not to reach the kitchen. She slumped in her chair slightly, taking two shuddering breaths, trying, trying, trying to calm herself.

Immediately, she heard her mother's footsteps clopping across the floorboards, reaching Michelle's bedroom in record time even for the tiny flat they lived in. MJ tried to regain her composure, plastering a sarcastic smile on her face and pretending to pretend to hide her "homework-not-homework".

There was a click as her door opened.

"Michelle?" Her mom asked softly, noticing ­no homework, only stashes of rough sketches.

MJ faltered, stealing a quick glance at her pile of drawings, trying (and failing) to subtly put a different one at the top (one of Coach Wilson while watching the Captain America videos for gym class).

"Uh, yeah?" She said coolly, spinning around on her swivel desk chair. Her mom's face was torn between pity and annoyance – a combination that never went well together.

"That doesn't look like homework to me." Mrs Jones said comfortingly, despite her accusative words. She had her arm folded across her body, but there was a sad smile on her face.

"I don't have any—"

"You always get homework, MJ." Mrs Jones said sternly but not meanly. Michelle sighed, letting her forehead fall into her hands and her locks cascade over her shoulders. All the girls at school purposefully left their hair out – apparently it looked cool – but MJ thought it looked messy. But right now? She didn't give a damn.

"Well, I can't be bothered doing it right now." Michelle started.

"If your grades start slipping—"

"They won't. I'm too good."

"Okay, but you have to do your homework, MJ." Her mom argued.

"But why? That's what school's for!"

"Yeah, but homework helps you get into a routine of studying. You'll need if you ever want to be an engineer or a doctor or a nurse."

"Why do I need to be a nurse? Who's sick that I know?" Michelle sighed exasperatedly, purposefully not answering the statement properly. She didn't feel like it.

"What're you drawing?"

MJ blinked, brain jolting like she just got whiplash. That was a quick change of subject – another thing to nag at her thoughts while she tried to sleep. Along with the fact that one of her best friends—

"Um...uh, I was just sketching...random stuff, y'know? Like, annoying classmates and that." Michelle stuttered, offering off an unconvincing half-smile. Her mom glared.

"That wasn't convincing at all." Mrs Jones deadpanned, raising her eyebrows playfully at her daughter, who only shifted uncomfortably in reply.

Without asking for permission, her mom moved around the mess of clothes and hair pins and papers strewn across the floor (when had MJ become so messy?), to her desk, where the drawings all lay. Michelle didn't protest as she sifted through her papers. She heard Mrs Jones let out a breath of laughter at the crude one of Principal Morita. But her breath cut short, as she no doubt came across the one MJ had been trying to hide.

"Oh, baby..." Her mom whispered unconsciously, as she raised it to the light. MJ folded her arms across her stomach, that suddenly found itself churning.

Yeah, she'd been drawing Peter (that isn't creepy, right). And even if she did say so herself, it was one of the best ones she'd done. Even to the point that there was a tiny bit of pride in her, although most of the pride was smothered by pure, real pain. Not of the physical kind.

But there was something else that made that drawing different from every other sketch she'd done.

Something that set it apart, just like Peter Parker was set apart from both the world and herself.

This drawing had colour.

"It's beautiful, MJ." Her mom exclaimed, her eyes sad and her tone kind but filled with grief for a boy she barely knew, but already loved.

But no beauty could bring him back.

--

only a short (and late) one for you.

comment any suggestions you have, or just what you think about this fic in general (if you want, i promise i'm not needy XD).

have fun doing life, you'll get a bit more peter next chapter ;) (or is that a good thing? idk, but you'll get some whump with it).

anyways, happy reading! (or probs not)

LuvForStydia xx