Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

dancing in the dark

A/N: so I was inspired by a fic I read on archive of our own. please ignore any medical or science inaccuries because as much as my parents want me to be a doctor, i'm not. i'm a proud fanfic writer. this is also a long one so buckle up boys and girls. 

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A weary Peter Strange exhaled softly while he rubbed his tear-filled eyes as he climbed up the stairs of the New York City Sanctum. The teenager didn't know what time it was, and with the night he had, he was long past caring.

Another exasperated sigh escaped thin, dry, lips as Peter whispered the chant to open the Sanctum doors and slipped inside. He hoped no one was hope because the only thing the Strange wanted at the moment was at least ten hours of uninterrupted, peaceful slumber.

Peter let out a slight curse under his breath as he bumped his bruise-littered arm against a relic, wish for sleep intensifying. Right behind him, a too-familiar British voice tsked in a tone of slight annoyance, "Language."

Peter bit back a sigh as he turned around to face his father; Stephen Strange. Stephen had his arms crossed against his chest and his left foot furiously tapping against marble, two clear indications that he was pissed. Peter bit his lip, he was in for it now.

Stephen spoke in a no-nonsense tone, "Peter?"

Peter asked tentatively, "Yeah, Dad?"

Sleepsleepsleepsleep.

Stephen frown deepened, indicating that he was in a non-playful mood. He asked sternly, "Peter, you're late. Do you know what time it is?"

Peter's stutter took a hold of him, "No, I'm sorry." His response was genuine despite the irritation that was visibly laced in it. He really was sorry, he was caught on patrols because bad guys loved to do crime at night. At a high inconvenience to anyone else.

Stephen's brow furrowed, "Peter, it's one am. What time were you supposed to be home by?"

Peter sighed, wishing harder than ever that he was already in bed, "10."

Stephen prodded, "What happened?" He eyed the weariness across Peter's body; the bruises that weren't there earlier this morning, and the continuous shifting of weight between his son's feet. A dark theory formed in his head.

He spoke carefully, "Those patrols, I don't know why I let you do that. Peter, I consider myself a fair person, and you missed your curfew by a lot, I think that a suitable punishment should be in session. No patrol for the rest of the week, because clearly you can't follow the simplest orders, Peter."

Peter bit his lip as a watery sensation pricked the back of his eyes. Were it any other day, Peter would've explained to his Dad what had happened, but he was too exhausted to even form words. So he weakly asked, "Can I please go to bed?"

Stephen didn't know what made him say it, but the man blurted before Peter could walk to the safe haven he longingly desired, "Peter, were you on drugs?"

Peter's saddened expression immediately morphed into one of betrayal and anger, "What?! Dad, I was on patrol, as Spiderman. You know that!" He spoke curtly, "Why would you even ask that? You know I'd never take drugs, I know better than that."

Stephen replied to his son's probe, "Well Peter, you tell me. You're hours late from curfew, seem oddly defensive and secretive. You have bruises and red in your eyes. The scene practically writes itself, Peter. So I'm going to ask you again, were you on drugs?"

Peter couldn't get his voice louder than a whisper as he defended himself from the accusation that made a harsh wave of anger and betrayal course through him, "No, Dad. I wasn't."