A/N: READ BEFORE CONTINUING

tw: past sexual abuse, conversation around sexual abuse against a child, (one) brief and mild flashback to said traumatic event, childhood trauma

The sun was bright as Peter walked the sidewalk towards Morgan's school, with his jacket thrown over his shoulder. A warm breeze combed through his hair, and birds flew around, chirping, both sure signs that winter was backing off and spring was on its way. Peter worshipped its arrival, with its warm weather and rain showers and longer sunlight hours.

New York winters were rough, but they were killer for a spider. Tougher still for a spider with so many parental figures, fussing over hats and scarfs. Just a couple of weeks ago Tony tried to force him into a giant, puffy coat that looked and felt like something someone might wear if they were in the artic.

That's how fast the seasons turned in New York City. One second he wore boots in the snow, then the next he was avoiding puddles and wearing short sleeves.

Like he was currently. His hands were gloveless, free as he stuck one out and let his fingers run between the bars of the fence that guarded the playground behind Morgan's school, where she and her classmates played while they waited for parents to come pick them up, or rather, at least in Morgan's case, siblings.

She was easy to spot through the fence. Her Spider-Man backpack stuck out, the bright blue and reds, as she sat under a willow tree, holding court with her small group of friends. With a smile, Peter turned off the sidewalk and walked the path that led to the pickup line.

"Hello Peter," Mrs. Miller greeted him, as he flashed her his pickup verification badge. "Does this mean it's Wednesday already?"

"Yeah, week's going by fast."

Mrs. Miller blew her whistle, a hush fell over the playground, and then it was just her voice calling out Morgan's name. She jumped to her feet, said goodbye to her friends and started towards them.

"It'll just keep going faster, as you get older, you'll see," said Mrs. Miller, turning her head back towards Peter.

"Petey!" Morgan rammed into his legs, almost knocking him over, and she grabbed at his hand, tugging him away from the school. "Let's go, let's go, let's go…"

Wednesdays were Morgan's favorite days, and Peter's too. Every Wednesday he got out of school exactly one hour early, so teachers could have their meetings. It gave him just enough time to make it to Morgan's school for pickup, and on their way home, they always stopped for ice cream

He'd thought the excitement might die down a little bit, after the first few times, but Morgan stayed enthusiastic, stayed bouncing with excitement, every single Wednesday afternoon.

Morgan continued her chant, continued pulling on his hand, and Peter laughed, turning his head to say goodbye to Mrs. Miller, but then, sudden like spring, that laugh got caught in his throat, it choked him, it died, as Peter's eyes landed on a man across the playground.

His body went cold, and the air was filled with the smell of cheap aftershave and songs from cartoons. Mrs. Miller and Morgan and the playground disappeared, and all that was left was Peter and a man with sandy hair. He was invading his space, he had his hands where they shouldn't be, he breathed heavy –

"Peter," said Morgan. She pulled at him, again, putting all her weight into it. "Come on, let's go."

Peter blinked and shook his head. He took a deep breath, and exhaled, and looked away from the familiar man, deciding that was all it was. Just familiar. A look alike. It couldn't be him. It couldn't be Skip. Not here. Not at Morgan's school.

"Okay, yeah," said Peter, letting Morgan pull him away from the school. "Let's go get ice cream."

"Yeah!" Morgan did a little jump, and they were off, hand in hand, towards their favorite ice cream. Peter was like Tony. If there were moving cars around, he didn't want Morgan to be able to dart.

As they walked, she rambled to him about her day, about her friends and which one of them fell off the swings that day, and why Logan Jackson had to stay in during recess, about how she swapped lunches with her friend Auggie because hazelnut spread was way better than peanut butter and jelly. She talked with excitement pretty much always, but she was never more excited than when she started talking about her birthday party.

"Dad says we can have it at the lake house," said Morgan, as Peter opened the door to the ice cream parlor, and she ran inside. "And we're getting a bouncy castle!"

The shop smelled like vanilla and chocolate and sugar, and it made Peter's stomach turn, or rather, his thoughts did. He couldn't get the image of the man from the playground out of his head, he couldn't stop thinking about Skip Westcott, the monster who used to live in the apartment across the hall.

It wasn't him. They weren't the same people. He repeated it to himself over and over again, as they ordered their ice cream, as they loaded up with toppings from the candy bar, and as they found their favorite table, the one by the window, where they could watch people walking by.

Peter swirled his spoon around in his ice cream and took a small bite. It melted on his tongue but wasn't as good as it should be. His stomach still hurt, still ached and knotted, like it did when he was little and overcome with too much anxiety to process mentally.

It was ridiculous.

He could put an end to it, all the anxiety, with just one question.

"Morgan… who was that teacher, standing at the basketball courts earlier?"

"Ms. Presley?" asked Morgan, a mouth full of ice cream.

"No, it was a man, he had sort of greyish, blonde hair."

"Mr. Westcott?"

Peter dropped his spoon and gripped the edges of the table.

"He teaches first grade and he's really nice. Me and Auggie are hoping we're in his class next year, cause he hands out candy if you get the questions right."

Morgan went back to eating her ice cream and the knot in Peter's stomach tightened. He held onto the table, hoping Morgan wouldn't notice the way his knuckles were turning white, and hoping that if he held on tight enough, he wouldn't be ripped away from the planet while his thoughts spun out.

He closed his eyes. He counted. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he opened his eyes, he searched the room for five objects. A lady's purple purse. Unicorn sprinkles scattered on the floor. A ceiling tile with chocolate sauce splattered on it. A backwards cap on an employee. Morgan Stark sitting across a table from him, happily eating her treat, clueless to his anxiety.

And for that, he was thankful.

At age five, all Morgan knew about were Wednesdays and how it was their day to eat as much ice cream as they wanted without adult supervision. She knew she loved gummy bears on plain chocolate ice cream. She knew she loved cheeseburgers, like her father, and that she wanted a bouncy castle at her birthday party. She knew about swing sets and cartoons and getting to go outside at recess when the weather started getting nice.

She didn't know about people like Skip Westcott, or what they saw when they looked at kids like Morgan, or how fast childhood could be snatched away, how easy and quick it was to learn about things Morgan had no business learning about.

Peter looked at Morgan and saw his little sister, someone to be protected at all costs, but he knew Skip looked at Morgan saw opportunity, just same as way as Skip had once looked at him.

"Hey Pete," said Morgan. "Guess what?"

Peter forced a smile. "I dunno… what?"

"When I grow up, I'm going to be an acrobat."

Last Wednesday she wanted to be assassin, after overhearing Bucky and Nat talking, and the Wednesday before that she wanted to be a lawyer, after Pepper had a firm talking to about not telling teachers she wants to kill people for a living, while Tony and Peter laughed behind Pepper's back. Her objective changed every time, but Peter's response never did, not once.

"You know what, Mo? I think you'd make a great acrobat."

She beamed at him, then went back to her ice cream, leaving Peter alone with his stomachache and a sense of dread.

At age seventeen, Peter knew a lot of things. He knew what it felt like to swing, high up in the air, between the buildings in the city. He knew what space looked like, that it could be just as cold and empty as earth. He knew how it felt to die, and he knew how it felt to be taken advantage of, as a child, by a man like Skip Westcott, but mostly, he knew he couldn't let that happen to Morgan.

He couldn't let it happen to her, or any other child that went to her school, and he wouldn't. He wouldn't let Skip Westcott touch other kid. Never again.

Peter waited until May fell asleep to roll out from under his covers.

He slipped on a plain black sweater without a hood and dark jeans, before crawling out his window and down the side of the apartment building.

If he were Spider-Man, he wouldn't have to sneak. He and May had an agreement, but he wasn't Spider-Man. Skip Westcott wasn't Spider-Man's fight, it was Peter Parker's, so he left his suit, his web-shooters and KAREN in his bedroom.

He'd found Skip's address hacking into the school's website, and Google Maps directed his steps into the night.

There was a playground at the end of the street where he lived, and as Peter walked past, the wind blew through the chains on the swing set. He stopped and stared at the park. Even in the dark, he could tell the equipment was rusted over, faded out by time and by night, without even a streetlamp to bring it light.

He moved past it and didn't stop again until he stood in front of 1515 Binford Drive.

It was a normal house, from the outside. One story, a white fence surrounding the front yard, and a nice car parked in the driveway. Nobody would ever be able to tell what kind of person lived there just by looking at it, that they should keep their children close when they walked by, or maybe, not walk by at all.

Peter supposed if Skip ever taught him anything at all it was not to trust to his eyes. Appearances were tricky. They deceived. The kind neighbor who passed out candy was just a monster trying to earn his trust, so he could break it.

He hadn't really understood as a kid, what was happening to him. Just knew he didn't like it, that he dreaded when May had to go to work, because that meant Skip was coming over to babysit, and he knew he shouldn't tell anyone why he dreaded it so much.

It's our secret. Who else could understand?

Peter hated secrets, how they weighed on him, how they made him sick and isolated, but he'd held onto to that as if his life depended on it. Put it right up there with Spider-Man, the only difference being that his family knew about Spider-Man, but they didn't know about Skip.

Eventually Skip moved away. Probably, he'd moved to the house Peter was currently standing in front of, and he'd stopped babysitting, but that didn't stop Peter from having nightmares, from getting bad stomach aches and puking his guts out, for seemingly no reason.

May had taken him to doctors, and when they ruled everything out, they referred them to a psychiatrist, saying their best guess was anxiety, except their insurance hadn't covered mental health. That night, Peter listened to May cry herself to sleep, and as the days wore on, and he kept waking up, night after night, nightmare after nightmare, she got more and more desperate.

"Honey," she had told him, stroking his hair, as she laid in bed with him, while the soft glow of Peter's Iron Man nightlight filled the room. "Please, just tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help make it better."

He'd been young, but even then, he knew this wasn't as simple as kissing a scrapped knee. He'd kept his secret. May wouldn't understand.

"I… just… I just really miss Ben."

"I do, too," she said, and she hugged him, and they cried, until they both of them had fallen asleep in Peter's twin size bed.

After that night, he tried to keep his nightmares to himself. He didn't tell May when he threw up or had a stomachache. He tried his best to forget Skip, and as he got older, it worked. His memories of being nine and ten were fuzzy, with just a few standouts, but no matter how faded his memories were, the feelings stayed the same.

Shame and guilt were a never-ending cycle.

Sometimes he cried, alone in his room, when no one was home. Sometimes he couldn't sleep, and he'd find Tony in the workshop to help pass the hours until morning. Sometimes his stomach knotted, and still, after all these years, he'd get sick, for no reason.

Sometimes he went days, weeks, months not thinking about it, not remembering it, only to catch a whiff of cheap aftershave, or he'd hear the theme song of some cartoon, and it'd send him spiraling towards days he didn't want to leave his bed, days where he'd sit and watch TV and ignore everything else.

And on those days, Peter knew it'd been his fault.

He could've stopped Skip. He could've fought him off or ran away or do anything to get him to stop. There was something wrong with him. There had to be, why else would Skip pick him in the first place?

A light came on inside 1515 Binford and Peter ducked down behind the bushes. He watched through the windows as Skip walked into his kitchen, filled a glass with water and sat down at his kitchen table to sip at it and scroll through his phone. So completely normal, on the outside.

He crouched by the brushes and watched him until he stood, turned off his lights and seemingly went back to bed. He stood up and turned and began his walk back home. Behind him, the chains from the swing set rattled in the wind.

Peter went back to Binford Avenue the next night, and stuck a tracker under Skip's car, and he went back the night after that, to do nothing at all, except crouch down behind the bushes, watching and waiting. He wasn't sure what he why he was tracking him, or what he was waiting and watching for, just knew it was something, knew it was better than doing nothing.

And maybe, maybe he'd be able to stop him, if he was doing something.

But his vigilance came with a price. He spent most his days tired and falling asleep in class or bouncing out of his chair after dosing himself with caffeine, ignoring the way it sent his already provoked anxiety into overdrive, just like he ignored the concerned looks from May every morning when dragged himself out of bed.

He was ignoring Tony, too, as much as he could ignore him when they shared the same space, down in the dimly lit workshop. He kept his focus on turning the screwdriver, on the bot he was building, and tried to keep his eyes from shifting at Tony, who's stare could be felt from all the way across the room.

"Hey Parker," said Tony.

Peter ignored it.

A greasy rag hit him in the face.

He blinked at it as he watched it fall to the workstation below him, and with a tired sigh, he turned and gave Tony his attention.

"What's with the zombie act?" asked Tony. "Don't you sleep anymore?"

Peter stretched, yawned. "Patrol's been pretty rough, lately."

"Oh yeah? Logs say you haven't been in the suit in five days. Want to try again?"

Peter shifted on his feet and diverted his eyes back down on his project. He should've expected the interrogation. He should've known there was only so long he could go ignoring May's concerned questions before she'd get Tony involved, or he'd become involved on his own account.

"What's going on? Where are you running off to every night?"

"I've just been… having problems sleeping, at night," said Peter. "So I walk around."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "You walk around? Instead webbing around?"

"Yeah."

"Kid," said Tony. He gripped the edges of the workstation and let out a breath. "Look… I'm not trying to grill you, or call you a liar, alright? It's just you and me down here, and you can tell me, if something's wrong… it's just, I have this feeling – that something might be."

Peter considered it. Telling Tony the truth. The words were on the tip of his tongue. They were begging to get out, but he couldn't. Tony wouldn't understand, and he had this covered. He could handle Skip on his own. He just hadn't worked out how he wanted to go about doing that yet.

He managed a smile, but it faltered. "Everything's good, Tony, really. Everything's fine."

"Okay," said Tony. "Uh, why don't we call it a night? You look like you could use the extra sleep."

Peter nodded and pretended he didn't hear the hurt in Tony's voice, and went on pretending as he left him in the workshop and took the elevator to the suite.

His bedroom in the Stark penthouse was right across from Morgan's. She was already asleep when Peter poked his head in. He'd had dinner with them earlier, and all she could talk about was their next trip to the ice cream parlor and her upcoming birthday party.

As he drifted into his own room, he hoped it stayed that way. He wanted nothing more than for her only concerns to be ice cream and bouncy castles.

There'd be no sneaking out that night. Not under Tony's roof, when he was already suspicious, and besides that, Peter was looking forward to getting some solid sleep. Nightmares haunted his sleep after his late-night adventures, but he doubted nightmares would trouble him there. Not under Iron Man's roof, the safest place in the world.

He was wrong.

He woke up in a cold sweat, with blankets twisted around his legs, and with Tony hovering above him, gently shaking his shoulder.

"Just a dream, Pete," said Tony, as Peter sat up, and tried to regain control of his breathing.

He wished it was only that. He wished all of this, past and present, was just a really bad dream. His eyes locked with Tony's deep brown stare, and he contemplated telling him the truth, for a second time.

"Peter, just tell me what's wrong," said Tony. "What can I do?"

He laid back down, put his head against the pillows. "Will you just stay with me? Until I fall asleep?"

Peter thought Tony might demand answers. Tell him he'd stay if they could have an honest talk, and there was a part of him that wanted that, wanted to be forced to give away his secrets, because at this point, he didn't know if he was brave enough to do it on his own.

Tony didn't, though. Just nodded, slowly, and settled down on the edge of Peter's bed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He closed his eyes, hoping the nightmares wouldn't dare to come with the man who saved the universe sitting next to him. The universe might not have needed saving in the first place if Thanos would have wiped out people like Skip, instead of flipping a coin, but then again, Peter didn't need infinity stones to make Skip disappear.

Peter learned Skip's routine, thanks to the planted tracker.

He was a pretty boring and predictable. He went to work at the school, then straight home, except for Thursdays. On Thursday Skip stopped at a local Chinese restaurant, but never for every long. Take-out, Peter guessed.

Nothing incriminating. Nothing Peter could report to the police.

Peter looked at the dot on the screen, the dot that represented Skip's car. It indicated that he was parked outside his house. He closed his laptop and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't know why he thought a tracker would be helpful. It was obvious he hadn't been thinking straight.

Skip Westcott operated behind closed doors, and in homes, where kids thought they were safe.

His eyes trailed over to his open window, and a breeze blew through his hair. It was a nice day. A perfect Saturday to take a walk.

It was the first time he made the journey to Skip's house during daylight hours. It felt wrong, like he was breaking some kind of rule only he knew about. That he was going to be seen.

He found Skip before he found his house. He was sat on a bench that overlooked the playground, where Peter imagined parents usually sat and watched their kids play. Not this monster. Not this monster, who had a sketch book on his lap, and a pencil in his hand. His eyes were on a group of kids on the jungle gym. They pretended fallen tree branches were swords, and that they were pirates stealing treasure.

Skip watched them, and his hand moved across the paper.

Peter watched Skip, and swallowed stomach acid.

Didn't seem fair, that something as beautiful as art could be wielded and perverted by someone like Skip.

Peter turned, and left, his head spinning, his thoughts racing. He needed to do more than track and watch. More importantly, he ached to do something more than wait.

For the rest of the weekend, and the first few days of his week, he wrestled with solutions. The way he saw it, he had two options. He could tell Tony. He was sure Skip wouldn't survive with his freedom and his job after the fallout, or, he could handle it himself. He could handle it permanently.

On Wednesday, he made his decision.

He walked towards Morgan's school, trying to pretend like everything was normal, like everything was fine. He tried to be excited. This was his and Morgan's day to eat as much ice cream as they wanted without adult supervision. It was an afternoon for siblings, but Skip had stolen that, too. Tainted it, by existing.

But then, he took it a step further and ruined it altogether.

When Peter looked inside the fence surrounding the playground, he saw Skip, crouched down, one arm around a Spider-Man bookbag, one arm around the girl who was wearing it.

His heart pounded away in his ears. His feet pushed him forward, up off the sideway and on the path, passed Mrs. Miller and her clipboard and through the metal gate, then finally, to where Morgan and her friends stood, surrounding a pedophile.

He scooped Morgan up off the ground and in his arms, just barely catching a glimpse of her brown eyes as he adjusted her on his hip.

"Don't touch her," said Peter, glaring at Skip, who had the audacity to look confused and baffled and even embarrassed, all at once. "Don't fucking touch her."

"Peter," said Mrs. Miller, who started towards them, while Morgan's friends gasped and whispered about the swear word.

Peter didn't pay anything attention to her or the kids. He glared at Skip. His eyes were empty, no trace of recognition written in them, or his face. That wasn't fair, either. That he'd changed Peter's life in a drastic, negative way, and didn't even have the courtesy to remember his crimes.

"Mind your language around the children," Mrs. Miller continued, looking back and forth between Peter and Skip. "What's going?"

Peter backed away and the world spun. He needed to leave. He needed to get Morgan out of there, away from Skip. Without another word, he turned and marched towards the gate. It wasn't until they were out on the sidewalk and Morgan put her arms around his neck and her head down on his shoulder, that Peter realized his hands were shaking.

That his little sister had just seen her brother yell and cuss at a teacher and couldn't understand why but was trying to comfort him anyway, hugging him anyway, and she shouldn't have to see him like this.

She shouldn't be the one having to comfort him.

Everything was just so fucked up, so topsy-turvy. Everything was just so broken, or maybe that was just him.

The world titled again, and his stomach stabbed at him from the inside, until he had to put Morgan down and his face inside a trash can. He lost his lunch, and once he was finished puking, there was no strength left. He sunk down and sat on the sidewalk and watched Morgan as she stared at him with her brown, questioning eyes.

They reminded him of Tony. They contained no fear, just compassion.

"I'm sorry, Morgan," he told her.

"It's okay," she said. "We don't have to get ice cream today. We'll just go home and tell dad you're sick. He'll make you soup and watch movies with you until you get better."

He wished it really were that simple. He wished he were young enough to believe he could tell Tony where it hurt, and he could actually make it better.

Peter sniffed and looked away, to hide his tears. Nothing was ever that simple, and in Peter's life, he knew everything was going to become even more complicated.

He couldn't let Skip Westcott sketch another picture, or go back into that school, or victimize another child. He had to stop him.

Peter had to stop him from breathing.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as he stood outside of Skip's house, probably, for the last time. He didn't have to look at it to know it was Tony calling. He'd been calling all night, and part of the afternoon, starting after Peter dropped Morgan off at home and left.

No doubt Morgan had told him what had happened. No doubt answering his phone would mean changing his mind, and Peter wasn't ready to change his mind.

His plan to murder Skip Westcott was really simple.

It easy, effective, and clean. It would take only two fires from a special tranq gun Dr. Banner had given him when he was having trouble with a certain lizard man. The first shot was enough to knock out a man for a day. The second was deadly.

Peter, with a deep breath, started across the street, up Skip's driveway and to his front door. His hand shook as he held the gun inside his hoodie pocket, as he busted open Skip's door with his foot and charged inside.

Skip was inside, by his fireplace, with a mug in his hands. He didn't even have time to turn around and see Peter, or even to yell out in surprise. The traq went in and Skip went down. The mug shattered on the floor, and Peter's heart stilled. The world went quiet, just the sound of the crackling fire was left.

He edged closer to Skip and looked down at the man who wrecked his life, who probably wrecked others, who had no business being around kids but made his career revolve around it. He pointed the gun down, curled his finger around the trigger.

This was for them, for everyone he wouldn't get to hurt when he was six feet under.

Peter closed his eyes and tried to convince himself this was the same as the battle at the compound. He'd killed aliens, then, turned on Instant Kill, even. This was the same. This was premeditated, but it was premeditated vigilantism.

It was for good, for everyone's good.

It would make his stomach aches stop, and his nightmares, and his pain. It could all end with a pull of the trigger.

Peter opened his eyes, as his cellphone vibrated again.

He ached to talk to Tony. To get his advice. To ask his opinion. To, maybe, tell him the truth. He wondered what was easier, being honest or pulling the trigger. He needed to know what Tony would say, but mostly, he was just so tired of being alone. He looked back down at Skip, passed out, then took his phone from his pocket.

He answered without saying hello.

"…Pete?" Tony sounded frantic on the other end. "Are you okay? Morgan told me what happened at school – "

"-I need help," Peter choked out, lowering the gun, and turning around, looking anywhere but at Skip.

"Stay where you are," said Tony. "I'm on my way."

Tony arrived in less than ten minutes, and by that time, Peter had sunk down on Skip's couch, and had become completely invested in watching the flames eat the logs, behind where Skip was slumped down on the floor.

He wouldn't look away from the fire, even though he saw Tony enter from the corner of his eye and hear him coming long before that.

"…Kid," said Tony. "What's going on? Is he dead?"

"Not yet," said Peter. He meant it to sound emotionless, but his voice, it always gave him away.

"I'm lost, here, Peter, you have to help me out."

"He works at Morgan's school."

"He's the guy you yelled at?" asked Tony.

"Yeah."

Peter didn't offer up any more information, leaving Tony standing in the middle of a pedophile's living room, confused and trying to put together the pieces. He knew he should speak up. Say something. He hadn't been forced to answer his phone, and ask for Tony to come, but he wasn't sure what to do now he was here.

Where to start, or how to start.

He felt the couch shift with Tony's weight. He felt Tony's stare trying to tear his eyes away from the fire.

"What's happening right now, Pete? How do you know this guy?" asked Tony, softly, gently. It was the way he had spoken to Morgan when her fish died, a tone he'd mastered in the time that Peter was dead.

"He was… my babysitter, when I was little." He looked down at his hands and pulled at a loose string on his hoodie.

Even that was too close to the true. Even that felt like some kind of shameful admission, and Peter wanted to rewind and go back, to before this conversation started, to before he was nine.

"Okay… did he… Did he touch you?"

Peter's head snapped up, his eyes met Tony's, and it happened, just like Peter knew it would. He choked back a sob, but then couldn't anymore. Eight years' worth of agony and shame and doubt. Tony scooted closer to him on the couch, wrapped his arms around him, and Peter let it all out on his shoulder.

"I'm so s-sorry- "

"-Kid, no- "

"He works at Morgan's school, and he – I could've stopped him, and tonight, I could've stopped him, for good, but I wasn't strong enough to pull the trigger and –" Peter was ready to keep going, there were so many things to say, so many things to apologize for, but Tony hugged him closer, and kept hugging him, until the words died on his tongue.

"This is not your fault," said Tony. "I want you to hear me, okay? None of this is your fault. Not him being at Morgan's school, or… what happened to you as a kid."

"You don't know that."

"I do know."

"You weren't there," said Peter. "You can't know, maybe there's something wrong with me… maybe I wanted it."

"No, you didn't. You were a kid."

Peter didn't know how it was possible for Tony to talk about something with absolute certainty that he only learned about minutes ago.

"And you're not too weak to pull the trigger," said Tony. "You're too good. He'd deserve it, though. He would deserve to die, but Pete, there's worse fates than death, and he deserves all those, too."

"Like what?"

"Like prison."

Peter, slowly, moved out of Tony's hug and stared at him. He was being serious, and he was smart enough to know Tony knew that meant coming forward, going to the police, admitting everything he was a part of a child, not just to Tony, but to strangers, and to May, who would only blame herself.

"We can't tell anyone else about this, Tony."

"Yeah, I know, it's scary," said Tony.

Peter frowned. He was using the I-know phrase again. Tony was a genius, but there were somethings, somethings he just couldn't know or understand, or so Peter thought. He was quickly proven wrong.

"Look, Pete," said Tony, taking a breath. "You know I was young when I went to MIT."

"Everybody knows that."

"Yeah, they do, but no one would ever know about the professor who took advantage of me there," he told him. "Because my good old dad didn't want it to turn into a headline and a scandal."

"…what happened to the professor?"

"Howard bribed him to leave the school quietly," said Tony. "After that, I have no idea."

"That's…that's so messed up, that's wrong- "

"Like what happened to you?"

Peter looked back at Skip, hating him even more, realizing, maybe for the first time, he'd been the one to plant the idea that what went on between them was a secret. He was the one who almost convinced him killing was easier than telling the truth. That kept him from telling Tony, who turned out to be one of the only people who would understand.

"Peter, I know what's is like to want to hide," said Tony. "But I also know how much hiding eats you up on the inside."

It did. It had been. It made him sick and panicked and depressed. It made him feel like he was alone, when he clearly wasn't. If Iron Man went through the same shit, he wondered who else did, too.

"We can go at your pace, but I think we definitely need to think about telling your aunt."

"Y-you can't, she's gonna think it's her fault- "

"No," said Tony. "Nobody's fault. Only that disgusting creep's on the floor."

His voice was still so absolute and final and clear that Peter realized if there was one thing Tony was not going to let him do, it was blame himself. It was a relief, a breath of fresh air. He'd never seen Tony Stark not get his own way, unless he was talking to Pepper or Morgan.

"Let's just get the hell outta here," said Tony. "We'll figure out what to do about this asshole later?"

Peter nodded. Killing Skip seemed like an insane idea now that the truth was out there. Something that would stick with him the rest of his life, and all Peter wanted to do was leave him behind and he was ready. He was ready to leave 1515 Binford Avenue behind.

There was nothing there for him.

"Just hold on a sec, 'kay?" asked Tony. He stood up from the couch and went over to Skip, looking down at him. Something darkened in his expression, then he kicked him. Once in the stomach, then another time in the side of his head and a few more times after that. When he was finished, when he looked back up at Peter, the darkness was gone, it was replaced by his usual warmth. "Right I'm good now, let's go."

So they left. Just as simply and easily as Peter had busted in. He walked down Skip's driveway to the Audi Tony had parked out in the street, and as they drove off, Peter didn't look back.

three weeks later

The sky above Peter was cloudy, but he didn't mind.

He liked watching the clouds drift by, only to be replaced by new shapes of fluff floating just as the ones that came before. He liked to see what he could see in them. It was a game he used to play with May, and as a kid, all the clouds looked like dinosaurs or Iron Man.

When he looked at them now, they were the same as they were back then, except now sometimes he saw spiders, too.

Peter was flat on his back inside Morgan's red and blue bouncy castle. Her birthday party had come and gone, but the castle stayed. She convinced Tony and Pepper that it should stay up until they had to go back into the city and Peter was thankful for her determination.

He loved the bouncy castle. He loved just lying in it and watching the clouds, listening to the hum of the air pump, and he loved the way the air shifted beneath him, trapped by plastic but somehow still moving. It was the perfect place for a nap, and the perfect place to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.

"Petey!"

Morgan catapulted through the opening and landed on her stomach, just inches away from where Peter laid.

"Guess what?"

"I dunno, what?"

"When I grow up, I'm going to be scientist," said Morgan. She hopped up on her feet and began bouncing in place, shaking the castle and making Peter sit up. "I just have to convince dad to let me in Uncle Bruce's labs."

"Good luck with that, Mo," laughed Peter.

"Yeah," said Morgan. She stopped jumping and looked at Peter, with a very serious face. "Know what would be fun? If we had a campout in here," said Morgan, looking all around, at the blue and red walls. "Dad said no, but if you ask him, he'll change his mind."

"Oh really?"

"Uh huh," said Morgan. "He can't say no to both of us in the same day. He's too weak." She shrugged. "That's my hippopotamus."

"I think you mean hypothesis."

"Hippopotamus is more fun," said Morgan, with an eyeroll. She dropped to the floor of the bounce house. "Please? Will you ask him?"

Peter grinned, and nodded, "You know, you're right. Hippopotamus, that's way better word. Yeah, yeah, I'll go ask."

He began his crawl to the bounce castle's exit, and when he started to swing his legs out and over the inflatable ramp, Morgan stopped him.

"Peter," she said. "I'm sorry Mr. Westcott hurt you, and I'm glad he's fired and he's not going to be my teacher next year."

"Thanks, Morgan," said Peter. "I'm sorry you won't get candy for answering the questions right."

"That's alright. I get ice cream every Wednesday."

With one last smile at her, he slid under the ramp and planted his feet in the grass.

He hadn't corrected her that technically Skip wasn't fired. He was on leave, until the school and the police did their investigations, until the trial ran its course and a decision could be made.

Still, even with just technically, Peter doubted Skip Westcott would ever work at a school again, no matter what the courts decided he was or wasn't guilty of.

Peter had inadvertently set off a chain reaction that tanked Skip's carefully built kindly schoolteacher reputation, by simply talking to the police.

It had all happened so fast, like spring in New York City.

It'd been a rainy morning when he went with May and Tony and filed a police report, and it'd been that same, grey, rainy afternoon when it was leaked to the press that Tony Stark's underage had been sexually assaulted. That evening, just as the sun started to poke through the clouds, the police took Skip from school, to ask some questions, and the media did what the media always did best, they jumped to conclusions.

They posted his name and his picture next to the words pedophilia and sexual assault, and once the story was out there, more allegations poured in. More boys and teens and men came forward, more people with the same stories as Peter.

As it turned out, Peter was never as alone as Skip made him feel.

Still, Skip's reputation hadn't truly been buried until, somehow, one of his sketchbooks turned up in the mailroom at the New York Times, and Peter began to wonder, where was Skip Westcott safer, in prison, or out on the streets?

Probably, nowhere.

He asked his therapist the same question. She didn't have an answer, either. She rarely ever did. Just let him talk, or she traded funny stories about her son for Peter's funny stories about Morgan.

It was helping. Therapy. It was helping May, too.

Peter knew he'd probably never forget the way May broke when he, with Tony sitting next to him, told her what had happened with Skip. Just like Peter knew she would, but as it turned out, there were support groups for her, too, and together they were both getting better at putting blame where the blame belonged, on Skip.

He found Tony on the tire swing. It hung on a tree, near the lake, and the two of them had built it as a last-minute birthday present for Morgan. It'd been something to do, away from the city, something Peter needed more and more of with Skip's trial approaching.

"I think you spend more time on that than Morgan does," said Peter. He put his hand on the tree truck and stared out at the lake. It was beautiful, with all its sparkling greens and blues, and Peter never wanted to leave. Not the lake house. Not the peace that it provided.

"That'll change, once she finally lets us take down that castle."

Peter turned, and watched Tony slowly rock the swing back and forth, with his foot. "Maybe we can spend the summer here, you know, once that trial's over."

"That's the best plan I've ever heard come out of your mouth," said Tony.

"What? What about the time we – "

"-you better not be about to tell one of your movie reference battle plans were better ideas than spending summer here."

Peter just laughed, turned his sight back on the water, let things get quiet. It was nice just being, just existing without secrets wanting to scream out from him.

"You know I'm proud of you, right kid?" asked Tony. "I know it's been rough, but it takes a lot of guts to do what you're doing."

"Tony," said Peter, turning his head, and grinning. "You literally say that every day."

"I don't want you to forget it."

"Not everyone is as old as you. My memory's actually okay."

"Wow," said Tony. "Your lame jokes are back. You must really be feeling better."

He was feeling better. It was a good day, maybe tomorrow wouldn't be – the day before certainly hadn't been, but that day, he felt good. He felt normal, and hopeful, that good days would start to become more and more common.

"I was thinking, and you know, you already said I have such great ideas, just now even, and this one, it's equally great, let's have a family sleepover in the bouncy castle."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Morgan put you up to this."

"Well maybe, but it's a great idea."

"It's an awful idea. We'll all have backaches by morning."

Peter paused. "Remember when I said not everyone is as – "

"Alright, fine, we can have the campout," snapped Tony, standing up from the swing. "But tomorrow, I'm slashing that thing to pieces and recycling the scraps."

Peter grinned as Tony walked off with dramatic flair, then left the lakeside tire swing and went to tell Morgan her hippopotamus was correct.

Later, after it got dark, and it was time for bed, Peter, Pepper, Tony, Morgan, Happy and May took piles of blankets and pillows and arranged them in the bouncy castle. They had taken more than they needed, but this was their fort for the night, and Happy, who hated the idea more than Tony, kept whining that they would all get cold.

Despite all the half-hearted complaints from the adults, they were the first to fall asleep, and despite Morgan's claims she would stay awake the longest, she didn't make it. Peter was the last one awake.

He stared up at the sky. The clouds were gone, and the stars were bright. It was a good night to be surrounded by family, who he held no more secrets from. Not anymore and never again. His family knowing the truth, probably, helped him just as much as therapy. Trauma was easier to carry when he had an army of people helping him shoulder the weight.

Just a good night, in general, really, and as Peter shut his eyes, he was hopeful there'd be loads more just like it in the future.