Peter Parker... Stark?

Still Broken

"You're free to go, but I want you sleeping in here every night for the next little while in case something happens. Okay?"

Peter had never been so excited in his life.

Well, maybe that wasn't necessarily true, but sitting in the med bay for hours on end with obvious amnesia concerning his various injuries had him ready to start tearing his sheets into little strips so that he could braid them all together. It would at least give his fingers something to do while also taking his mind off of things.

Which is why when Bruce said he could leave, Peter practically jumped out of the bed.

The first thing he wanted to do?

Shower.

He knew that while he'd been hurt, either Bruce or Tony had been sponge bathing him as best they could. Standing under a stream of hot water and have the chance to actually feel clean sounded heavenly.

He grabbed a towel from the little cabinet in his private bathroom and had Friday start the water in the shower. While there were no cameras, she was fully capable of helping with other bathroom functions. She even already knew the temperature he preferred.

Peter pulled his loose blue T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, but froze when he saw his reflection.

The full-length mirror on the wall was already starting to fog up, but behind the steam the reflection of his chest was weirdly distorted.

Peter dropped his chin and looked down at his chest, his breath hitching as he realized it was covered in scars.

Peter wiped the condensation from the glass surface in a panic, leaning close to try and get a better view.

Were those... words?

"I didn't get this on patrol," Peter whispered to himself, his voice shaking almost as much as his hands. He squinted, slowly reading the message imprinted in his skin.

I AM WORTHLESS

Peter didn't feel himself fall backwards, he just heard the sound of his head smacking against the side of the counter behind him.

Someone was on top of him. Was there?

A female voice, almost inhuman sounding, was coming from above him, so surely there must be someone there.

Why were his hands so cold, and yet so warm at the same time?

Peter shivered, a strange sense of panic coming over him. His eyes were wide open, but it felt like he couldn't see anything. His body was covered in a sheen of water. Sweat?

Something about this was all so familiar, but not in a comfortable, nostalgic way.

He pressed his hands to the scars in his chest, realizing only then how fast and hard he was breathing.

Wait, he could move his hands? Since when? They were usually cuffed down with that freezing cold metal, the same material always pressed against his back.

The door burst open and Peter flinched. He'd broken the rules again, his hands were supposed to be restrained. He wanted to protest that it wasn't fair--he hadn't meant to break himself free.

A part of him was angry. Surely the electric man had just been here and punished him only moments ago, otherwise how could he be so sweaty and bone-tired? What had he done in such short a time to warrant another awful visit?

The man's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him. Was he yelling, too? That was weird. Usually he spoke in a soft voice, which made him more terrifying than if he did what he was doing now all the time.