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‘May, I don’t need an English tutor,’ Peter whined, hands threading through his hair, cereal long forgotten.
‘I don’t want to push you but you have big aspirations for MIT,’ May smiled encouragingly. ‘And you could be doing so much better than you’re doing now!’
Peter protested. ‘I’m passing!’
‘Just passing won’t get you into university,’ his aunt raised an amused eyebrow. ‘And MIT isn’t just any university.’
Peter grimaced, swirling his spoon around the edge of his bowl mindlessly. ‘Mr Stark could help me.’
‘That man may be the most intelligent man of his generation but he cannot form coherent emails,’ May chuckled, unrepentant. She reached for a mug, checking on her coffee at the same time.
‘Okay, look,’ Peter said, wincing, ‘his emails aren’t that bad.’
‘You aren’t the one with an inbox clogged up full of nonsense,’ May sighed. ‘Hon, if it isn’t for you, we can stop, but I think this would be a good opportunity to get help.’
The teenager nodded into his cereal. ‘Fine, fine.’
So, here he was, four days later, wandering into a red-bricked a few blocks from Midtown. His boots crunched through snow as he trudged up towards the door, a simple glass one that squeaked if you pulled too hard.
He tugged it open and brushed the few snowflakes from his shoulders onto the carpet. The foyer was quiet, a room not much bigger than his living room with sharp white walls and a basic reception. Kind of like a doctor’s office, except with the bare minimum.
The building felt cold, like the lingering chill from outside had seeped through the walls. The plaster was cracking at the edges, with a few smaller patches painted over in a shade just too grey.
He stomped his feet onto the doormat, interrupting the tense silence that he could cut with a butter knife. Snow peeled apart from his boots and landed onto the carpet in an icy slush.
A few students sat on cheap plastic chairs that hung beside the wall. One boy had prescription glasses and his head resting in his hands. He looked a little like Peter a few years ago, before the spider bite.
Peter’s lip twitched at the memory.
He approached the receptionist desk, stomach curling at the empty seat. The service bell gleamed atop the counter like a diamond, seamless and untouched.
He pressed it once. The bell emitted a sharp ring that nearly reverberated throughout the empty silence. It pierced his eardrums like a protruding stab wound. He winced, recoiling a little.
As he waited, his eyes fell past the counter. Against the far wall, a pinboard hung. It featured a few local advertisements, the only pop of colour in the entire establishment.
A woman with a bright smile and perfect hair met him at the front. Her entire demeanor felt too polished for the building, which was piecing apart at the seams. She beamed brighter, a mouth full of unnaturally white teeth. ‘Hello love,’ she began acrylic nails clicking on her keyboard, looking back up at him as if he’d flee if she didn’t watch him.
He probably would, if he was being honest.
‘Hi, um, my name is Peter Parker,’ Peter hesitated, tapping his fingers against the counter. ‘I’m here for English tutoring.’
The woman nodded enthusiastically as she scrolled with her mouse. ‘Ah, yes, your mother called earlier!’
Peter flushed, rubbing uneasily at his neck. ‘Oh, no, she’s my aunt. That I live with.’
‘Got it. English tutoring—you’re with Mr Wescott!’
The blood drained from his face. He grimaced, begging hoping possibly, the name was just a severe coincidence. A coincidence that was just the universe egging him on, reminding him of the tight collar they held on his fate.
He bristled. ‘Um, are there any other tutors available?’
The receptionist’s thin brows pressed together as she scoured the screen. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, all our other slots are booked. Mr Wescott is a lovely man,’ she assured.
Peter wanted to severely disagree, but the clock hanging against the wall laughed and reminded him to get moving. ‘Okay, um, thank you.’
‘Of course! Your room is upstairs. Mr Wescott’s name plaque is on his door.’
He nodded as if his stomach wasn’t suddenly churning like a concrete mixer. Shortly after, he trudged up the stairs, hoping to prolong every footstep for as long as possible. Alas, the walk seemed just too fast.
And soon, he stood before Steven Wescott’s door. He raised his hand, fist, hovering just before the door.
‘C’mon, Peter, man up,’ he hissed, biting down on his tongue. Then, he knocked. Once, twice, a third time for good luck.
The door opened with a quiet click. After another breath, one that was meant to be reassuring, he stepped inside.
Mr Wescott looked up from his desk. He gestured with his hand towards the table in the centre of the room, a warm smile spreading across his face.
‘Good mornin’, Peter,’ the tutor collected his papers at his desk. ‘What grade are you in?’
‘I’m a junior, sir,’ Peter replied hesitantly.
‘Ah, Midtown, I’ve taught students there,’ Mr Wescott smiled. ‘Good school.’
The teenager nodded silently.
‘Sit down, you’re lookin’ as nervous as a first grader,’ Mr Wescott chuckled. ‘C’mon, take off your jacket, feel at home here!’
Peter’s stomach curled at the man’s saccharine smile.
Mr Wescott’s whiteboard marker squeaked against the board. He wrote his name in big letters, as if Peter was ever able to forget it
Steven Wescott.
Written in streaky red lines. A ringing alarm bell. A name painfully tattooed at the forefront of his mind.
For the next twenty minutes, Peter had felt like they’d repeated the same things over and over again. It pained him to pick up the pencil, callused fingers curling around the writing utensil to rewrite the same sentence in repetition.
‘You’re practically Einstein, aren’t ya?’ Mr Wescott chuckled.
The sentence felt contradictory to the exercises he’d put the teenager through. Peter swallowed hard.
Mr Wescott looked expectantly at him, as if he awaited a response.
Peter forced a laugh, but it came out wrong. Too dry. Too hesitant, with his voice too high to sound natural.
Mr Wescott didn't notice. He didn’t seem to notice much. He hadn’t made any indication that he’d recognised Peter. Maybe he’d turned a new leaf.
-
For a few weeks, the lessons went okay. Peter never really learnt anything. As a general guy, Steven Wescott was pretty vanilla. No better than any old classroom teacher he’d been stuck with in the past.
But then, things took a turn for the worst.
They’d gotten fifteen minutes into the session when Mr Wescott stopped. He turned to Peter with an unreadable expression.
‘You’re so smart, aren’t you, Einstein?’ The tutor chuckled, his smile bearing janky yellow teeth.
Peter almost waved it away, threading a hand through his hair as he laughed awkwardly. It was a sentence Mr Wescott was unashamed of repeating, even with the odd choice of wording that scratched at Peter’s chest.
‘Y’know, you look kinda familiar,’ the man continued, dropping his pen onto the desk.
Peter, unsure of how to respond, just chose to smile weakly again. Mr Wescott’s eyes swept over him, first bearing an expression Peter couldn’t read. Then, it switched.
Mr Wescott’s eyes darkened.
‘Einstein, please, ya know me too,’ Mr Wescott laughed suddenly, jaw tightening. ‘Remember me, Pete? Remember all the fun we had?’
Peter threaded his hands through his hair. ‘Skip,’ he croaked, the air fleeing his lungs.
‘That’s my name, baby, don’t wear it out.’
His chest tightened sharply.
‘Einstein,’ Skip cooed, fingers moving to pet Peter’s face. ‘Aren’t you pretty, lookin’ so sweet. Thought I wouldn’t remember you?’
‘You didn’t say anything before,’ Peter muttered, moving his chair further away.
Skip’s fingers held just out of reach, freezing midair. He brought his hand back towards his chest, fist pressed across his heart in a disgustingly dramatic display of sorrow. ‘Not when that nosy receptionist kept pokin’ her head in,’ he replied bitterly. ‘How was I supposed to earn your trust? You know how I like it when I can break it and see it in your face.’
Peter bristled.
‘You ain’t really got that same innocent look you had six years ago,’ Skip purred. ‘But a similar doe-eyed look, like you ain’t really knowin’ what I’m up to.’
‘You’re disgusting,’ the teenager scowled.
‘Up-bup-bup,’ Skip pressed a finger to the teenager’s lips. ‘You’re cute when you’re pathetic and flustered like this—for me.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Normally I’d be disappointed you don’t look the same as you did, but I ain’t a liar,’ Skip chuckled darkly. ‘I like you better broken, Einstein.’
Peter had heard these words before. Knew what they meant, what Skip wanted from him.
‘Please, no,’ he spoke quietly, standing before his feet. A sharp hand smacked across his jaw.
Peter winced, legs crumpling before him. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.
He should’ve seen it coming. Pathetic.
‘It’s cute when you beg, Einstein, down on your knees for me. Aren’t you so sweet to remind me?’
Peter swallowed hard, eyes trapped against Skip’s like his gaze had literally been locked. ‘Stop.’
Skip stepped forward and rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder. It wasn’t even a hold, but the action felt possessive in a way that Peter couldn’t describe.
And then the man’s belt clinked.
-
Peter left the session feeling empty. Like his skin didn't fit right over his skin. It was humiliating, passing the bright-eyed receptionist with his throat scrubbed raw and chest heaving pathetically.
He couldn't give Skip the grace—but, this was a man he could fight off. Kill, even.
But, Peter had just frozen.
The same hollow feeling he’d gone great lengths to attempt to scoop from his body years before. It had an empty mass to it, like it weighed nothing but took up enough volume to suffocate him.
As the subway rolled up to the station, a broken sob ripped from his eyes. He choked out, sleeves rubbing raw at his eyes.
-
Tony noticed very quickly that something was up.
Maybe a patrol had gone wrong. He really didn’t want to pry, knowing Peter would recoil further if he went too far. Like a crab retreating back into his shell, once the kid was pushed too far, he’d just shut down.
But Peter wasn’t doing anything. While AC/DC played softly through the speakers, the teenager just drew the screwdriver back and forth in a quiet circle. He’d been folded up, back curved and eyes fixed on the tip of the item for the past hour.
Tony took a slow breath. ‘Kid, it’s time for Happy to take you to that English tutoring thing.’
‘I don’t need to go,’ Peter said quietly, tapping the end of the screwdriver onto the counter. ‘My English is fine.’
‘May said you gotta go, kid,’ Tony frowned, standing up from his chair. ‘I’d teach you myself but I’m sure your aunt would berate me for my poor emailing attempts. I can take you though.’
‘Please don’t take me,’ the boy tried again, almost a whine.
‘What, am I too cool? Skibidi toilet or whatever the fuck you kids say.’
Tony winced as the joke didn’t land. In fact, judging by Peter’s face, it damn near flew out of the window. The screwdriver tapping quickened. It was practically hammering into the counter.
Peter shook. He recoiled, curled up in the corner. ‘Please, I don’t want to go.’
‘Kid, you gotta tell me.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Tony frowned. ‘Peter, you know, you’re incredibly intelligent. Even if English isn’t your forte—’
‘It’s not about me,’ the boy snapped suddenly, before his face froze in fear after he realised his outburst.
‘Shit, kid,’ Tony pursed his lips and threaded a hand through his hair. ‘Well, kid, how about I come with you. Check it out. We can get you a different tutor if you need it.’
The teenager nodded, suddenly silent. Quiet as if he’d lost all the words that had once clearly settled on the tip of his tongue.
So, Tony took the kid.
He followed the boy into the building. Ignored the look of surprise from the bright-smiled receptionist with veneers and settled into a plastic chair opposite a twelve-year old watching anime.
Tony nodded once at the kid and turned on his own phone. Although the building felt too cold, he’d passed it off. Maybe the building just needed a little refurbishment.
-
There was a wet crack and a violent thud that made both Tony and the receptionist freeze in their tracks. Even the twelve-year old blinked, although they only paused for a second to itch at their jaw.
‘I’m going up there,’ Tony said, to no one in particular. The receptionist nodded sharply from her desk, getting up from her seat. They hurried up the stairs, each footstep feeling too far for Tony to manage.
The woman’s eyes peeled, searching each room for a sign of disturbance. Although she seemed to have no indication, something horrible churned in Tony’s gut.
He took off towards the far door, knowing the bare minimum but the tutor’s name. Mr Wescott. Peter had mentioned it once or twice in passing.
The receptionist's towering heels clicked against the floors as she followed, fumbling for the masterkey in her pocket.
She knocked twice. ‘Mr Wescott?’
Tony swallowed hard. ‘Unlock it. Something’s wrong.’
The receptionist ignored Tony’s desperate request and knocked again. Three sharp raps. ‘Mr Wescott? Skip?’
The name hit Tony like a ton of bricks. It burned through his skin until the words branded into his flesh. The words hurt, like a hand constricting tightly around his throat.
A few months ago, when they’d grown closer, Peter had confided in him with something that he knew burned to think, let alone speak, about. Held in the palm of his hands and kept close so no one else could see it. Peter had believed it was humiliating.
‘Open the door,’ Tony growled, already fumbling with his nanotech glove. ‘Open the door, right now.’
The receptionist flinched at his expression but fumbled with the key. It shuddered in the lock until the door budged. Tony didn’t waste time before pushing in like he was infiltrating a base with his team.
The room in itself felt cold. Tony noticed that quickly. Goosebumps peppered his skin, even under the thick, goose down coat.
But it was the look on Peter’s face that made his blood curdle.
Bloodshot eyes, wide and petrified and staring straight at the door like he was pleading guilty with just his pupils. A look that was the epitome of a deer staring straight into the headlights of a car, except if the deer was begging merely through the look he provided.
Tony knew Peter feared the extent of his powers. He knew it kept the kid up at night, dreading the day he’d eventually lash out because he’d watched The Dark Knight once and had memorised some ridiculous quote.
You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
Tony believed it was utter bullshit. He could never see someone with a conscience as morally grounded as Peter. Even Steve, with a heart of gold, could never live up to the kid.
But Peter, Peter, would never believe it.
The receptionist gulped audibly. Peter registered the new company, seemingly trapped in his own mind. His eyes latched onto Tony’s and his entire body stiffened like a marionette doll wound by a few threads.
‘Kid,’ the billionaire began quietly.
Peter buried his face into his hands and promptly burst into tears.
‘I didn’t—I didn't mean to,’ he sobbed, eyes redrimmed. ‘He—he—’
Tony didn’t waste a second before moving closer. He stepped hesitantly, aware that Peter could flee at any moment. That Tony could chase him out of the window by accident. That even a brush of skin could cause the boy to lash out like a petrified animal.
As Tony moved, he became alarmingly aware of what had unfolded only moments before.
Peter wasn’t wearing a shirt. His shirt, in question, hung over the side of a chair alongside his snow jacket. It was folded roughly, like whoever had done it had done so without care, as if wrinkles were no issue. As if it was done in a hurry.
Peter’s arms were folded across his chest, pressed across like he was ashamed of his own skin, head tucked into his chest.
And lastly, Skip Wescott, lifeless on the floor. Blood pooled around his skull, which had lolled to the side. His belt hung loose around his waist, the clasp eerily undone.
Tony’s jaw locked. Then, he pulled Peter tightly into his arms and let the boy cry into his sleeve.
‘Mr Stark,’ the boy croaked, wiping at his face, before flushing at the sight of the receptionist. ‘Sorry, um, it’s pathetic.’
The receptionist shook her head, staring at the scene with a look of unadulterated horror. She strained through a smile. ‘Sweetie, was there anything else here?’
‘His drawer,’ Peter managed to make out.
The receptionist followed Peter’s eyes hesitantly, moving as if an animal were to creep out from between the gaps in the wood.
She tugged at the first drawer, face falling. ‘It’s locked, sweetheart, I’m sorry.’
Tony peeled himself off of Peter and without looking back, moved to stand beside the receptionist. He pulled the nanoglove from his wristlet and aimed a short blast at the lock.
There was a sharp pop before the lock clattered to the ground. Tony nodded once at the receptionist, who opened the door.
She let out a strangled gasp. Peter recoiled further.
Tony didn’t even dare touch the contents of the drawer. His stomach crawled in disgust, both towards Skip and just in general nausea. Peter just stared at his feet in a refusal to say anything else.
If Skip wasn’t lifeless already, Tony would’ve turned him into dead meat with a flash of his palm.
‘Kid, I’m so sorry,’ Tony whispered, ducking around the desk to pull the kid into a tighter hug. ‘I’m so, so, sorry.’
Peter’s hug back felt stiff. He quietened, voice stripped raw. ‘I pushed him off of me. He hit his head, and, um...’
Tony heard Peter trail off, but all he cared about was holding his kid tighter. He felt Peter bury his head in the crook of the billionaire’s neck.
‘Call the police,’ Tony muttered. ‘If they ask questions, send them to me.’
‘Already on it,’ the receptionist nodded sharply.
‘Let’s get you home,’ the billionaire continued, unlatching himself from the trembling teenager. He moved towards the chair and passed the shirt over. Peter slid it over his shoulders uneasily, refusing to look up. Tony helped slide the snow jacket onto the shaking boy’s shoulders.
‘We’re going to get you help, okay, kid? He’s going to be gone for good. I promise, you’re never going to see him again.’