THIS ONESHOT IS ABOUT A SCHOOL SHOOTING, DO NOT READ IF IT WILL TRIGGER YOU.

The day starts out bad, and it only gets worse.

Peter wakes up to his dad shaking him awake, a tired mumble on his lips the second he's aware. "C'mon, buddy, time to get up. You slept through your alarm."

"I'm up," he groans, batting weakly at the hand on his shoulder as he pulls his blanket up tighter around himself, his eyes staying firmly closed.

"Yeah, and I'm Captain America. Up, Peter," Tony demands, annoyance tingeing his voice. The fact that he's annoyed further serves to tug the teen's brows downward, eyes finally cracking open. He scowls up at his dad, who has one brow raised pointedly and his hands splayed on his hips like a soccer mom.

"Why can't I just stay home one day? I have all A's," he complains, not moving at all from his self-constructed blanket burrito.

"You've missed enough school as is, cucciolo. Come on, it's Friday and then you can sleep all weekend-"

"I'm not a puppy," Peter snaps, glare hardening. "And I'm sick. Can I please stay home?"

"Nice try," Tony deadpans, gesturing with his head toward the doorway. "I don't know what's up with your attitude today, but you need to get up and get ready before I fly you to school myself in your pajamas."

"Jesus Christ, fine!" The boy exclaims, throwing his blanket off of himself and nearly throwing himself into a sitting position. Tony takes a step backwards with a frown on his face, and makes like he's going to say something else but Peter makes a face, throwing his hands out. "Well? Get out, I need to change."

He continues to stand there for a moment, his frown fading, but still there, just barely. "Pete, is- is everything okay? Lately you've been acting-"

He scoffs, cutting his dad off. "Like you're ever even here to notice," he mumbles, perhaps a bit too loud, because the older man sucks in a sharp breath, and his frown falls off his face completely.

"Peter," he whispers, running a hand down his face, "I-"

"No I get it," Peter interrupts again, shaking his head. "The Avengers are gone, the world needs Iron Man. I get it. Just kinda thought maybe being a dad was important to you, too."

And Tony gasps.

His eyes are wide, face now barren of color as he gawps at his son. "Peter-" he says again.

"I get it," Peter interrupts again.

They stare at each other until finally, Tony turns and he leaves the room.

Peter drops his gaze to his blanket clad lap, with tears shining in his eyes, and he curls his fists so tightly around the cloth that his fingers turn white.

He wanted him to stay.

Minutes later, he storms out of his room with his bag slung over his shoulder, and doesn't spare a glance at his dad at all, red eyes blurring as the elevator doors close behind him.

•

"Peter? Hello-o-o, Peter? Are you listening?" Ned whispers, snapping his hand directly in front of the young Stark's face. Drawn from his intense stare at the blank paper in front of him, Peter slowly drags his gaze over to his best friend.

Ned sits in the chair directly beside him, his own notebook filled with notes he'd been jotting down the past half hour. Peter looks up at the board, where the teacher has been droning on with a presentation for the entirety of the class period.

Where Peter has been frowning down at his blank paper with a pencil held loosely in his trembling fingers. "No," He mumbles back, "no, I'm sorry."

Ned sees the blank page, glancing between it and the teacher, before finally, he says, "It's okay. I'll let you copy my notes later." And then- "Did something happen this morning? Did your dad yell at you or something?"

He hadn't. Maybe that's what make the tears rush to his eyes. Tony hadn't yelled, never yells, and Peter still snapped at him like a fucking kid. With a stressed sigh, the teen buries his face in his hands and squeezes his eyes shut.

The familiar prickling in his eyes is back, and it takes biting down on his lip, hard, to quell the flow of tears. "Bathroom," he whispers to Ned, dropping his hands and blinking rapidly as he adjusts his glasses on his nose.

His best friend nods, still looking a bit concerned, but doesn't say anything as Peter slips out of his seat and slinks into the hallway without the teacher seeing him.

The young Stark shoves his hands into his pockets, heaving a quiet sigh, and he watches his ratty converse as he walks.

His dad insists nearly every day to please let him get him another pair of shoes, but Peter likes these ones.

Or maybe, he likes the teasing banter with his father. Peter uses pushing his glasses up his nose as a guise to wipe away his tears, sniffing quietly. Just as he reaches the bathroom, contemplating whether he should actually go inside, there's a muffled noise from inside it.

It's almost enough to have him backing away, freezing up at the prospect of socializing, when the sound registers as a sob.

Somebody's in the boys' bathroom, crying. His empathy wins out, a furrow forming between his brows as he slowly walks in. And there, standing at the sink, is Flash Thompson. His eyes widen as his mouth drops open in a surprised 'o'. Flash's head snaps up, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

Tearful eyes turn angry as the boy spins on him, lips curling into a snarl. "Get the fuck out of here!"

Blinking in confusion, Peter's hands shoot up in a surrendering gesture. He stumbles back a step, stammering out a bemused, "I-It's the bathro-"

"Get out, Penis St-!"

Bang.

Both teens startle at the noise, turning instinctually toward the entrance of the bathroom. "What?" Peter mumbles, eyes glazed over in a reluctant realization.
Another bang follows the first, then a third and a fourth in quick concession. The only sounds in the restroom are Peter and Flash's shaky breaths.

And then-

"Attention, all students and staff, this is an active shooter situation. I repeat, there is an active shooter in the south hallwa-"

Two more bangs. The announcement stops.
Peter Stark has never been more terrified in his life. Not when his dad went missing in Afghanistan, not when Obie almost killed his dad, not when Peter found out his dad was dying of palladium poisoning, not even four years ago, when aliens invaded New York.

Flash lets out a whimper beside him, and that's what it takes to snap Peter out of his thoughts, brown eyes big and scared.

"We gotta- W-We gotta go!" Flash whisper-yells, darting for the doorway quick enough to make the tears brimming in his eyes fall.

A choked noise tears from Peter's throat as he lunges to grab Flash's shirt, his vision narrowing. "This is the freaking south hallway, Flash!" He cries, his voice coming out high and whining.

At that, Flash turns to him, his shirt sleeve still grasped in Peter's hand. "Then we have to go! He'll be here soon!" He hisses right back, trembling hard enough that Peter's hand falls away.

Before he can reach for him again, Flash disappears into the hall. With his blood roaring in his ears, and his breaths coming in shirt, quick pants, Peter stands there, and he doesn't know what to do.

Dad. Dad! Scrambling for his phone in his pocket, the brunet jabs his thumb against his dad's contact as hard as he can, a small sob bursting from his lips when it takes another try for his touch to register on the screen.

Finally, finally, it rings. Peter swings the phone to his ear so fast it jabs against his jaw in what will likely be a bruise in a few hours. "Please, please, please, please, please-"

"If you're calling, you know who I am. Call back later- Or don't, unless you're Peter."

His phone drops to the ground before he even realizes it, his ears ringing. A tear streaks down his pale face, and ever so slowly, his gaze follows it to the shattered screen of his "unbreakable" phone on the ground.

He didn't-

His dad didn't pick up.

Oh God, his dad didn't pick up. He must still be mad, he must hate him for what he said that morning and now Peter is going to die and his dad didn't pick up, and-

He's hyperventilating, chest heaving as fat tear droplets streak down his face and drip from his chin.

And then, there's another two bangs-gunshots-from right outside the bathroom. With them, a terrified scream from Flash.
Fuck-He can't let Flash die. Peter scrambles out into the hall and runs right into the back of his shaking classmate.
In front of them stands two other teens.

One boy, with a pistol in his hand, and a girl he vaguely recognizes in passing, trembling like a leaf as she stares down the barrel of the handgun.

When the boy with the gun spots Peter, his blood flecked face contorts even moreso into anger. "You gonna save the day? Huh? Iron kid?" He spits, swinging the hand with the gun to point at Peter and-by default-Flash. Flash squeaks quietly, audibly crying.

"N-No," Peter stammers, his hands shooting up again, not unlike the stance he'd just taken in the bathroom. "No, I just wanna go home." He admits, his lips trembling.

The girl slams her eyes closed where she stands, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You wanna go home? You wanna go home?" He cries, and then in a split-second, the gun is aiming at the girl again, and he pulls the trigger.

Peter and Flash scream in sync as her body drops, blood spraying the line of lockers behind her. "She wanted to go home! But we don't all get what we want, do we, Peter? Do we, Flash?"

It's a barely there realization that the shooter knows Flash. Peter can't think, can't see anything except for the crumpled form of what used to be a living being. That girl was alive and now she isn't.

And when Peter lets his gaze travel back behind the boy with the gun, he sees his least favorite Spanish teacher face down on the linoleum floor. There's a pool of blood still steadily growing beneath her.

Nausea climbs up Peter's throat as he slowly drags his eyes back toward the scene in front of him. The pistol is waving frantically in front of their faces, and the boy is screaming something at them, but Peter can't hear it.

His ears are ringing, and Flash has a death grip on his arm and, and, and-

"Please, please, please, Alex, I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm so so-orry," Flash sobs beside him when Peter's hearing finally comes back to him. His eyes are still wide, still brimming with tears that won't stop falling.

"Everybody's fucking sorry!" The boy-Alex-screams, his eyes squeezing closed for the briefest moment but it's enough for the young Stark to shove Flash past him and yell at him to run.

Flash obeys without question, taking off in a sprint. Alex's eyes snap open in an instant, rage overtaking his features, but Peter can't let anyone else get shot, he can't-

He pulls his hand back, and he hits the wrist of the hand holding the gun as hard as he can, watching as, in almost slow motion, the weapon flies across the hallway, smacking against the same locker that blood is still dripping down.

Alex cries out in shock and anger as he scrambles to the side to grab it, but Peter just stays where he is, frozen.

Tears blur his vision again as he watches Flash round the corner of the hallway, officially out of Alex's view. He's safe.

Peter hiccups out a sob as the shooter swipes the gun back up, and, seeing Flash gone, turns back to the brunet.

"God, you fucking-!" As the barrel aims at his forehead, Peter slams his eyes closed and thinks of his dad, and he cries.

Then, there's one more bang, but Peter's still standing, and all of a sudden, his face feels warm.

Slowly, fearfully, he peels his eyes open. On the ground in front of him, Alex's still eyes stare up at him, a bloody hole in the center of his head. "Hands up!" A voice shouts, drawing his attention to the officers marching down the hall toward him, their own guns raised.

Peter is still sobbing as he raises his arms for the third time, shaking like a leaf. There's yelling all around him, and then mutterings of 'Don't you know who that is?' before finally, a hand drops onto his shoulder and he flinches away as if burned.

"Go, kid, out of the building."

Peter takes off in a run much like he'd just watched Flash do, nearly tripping down the stairs with the hundreds of other students now piling out of their classrooms.

Ned crashes into him from the side as they make it to the bottom of the steps, one last hallway between them and the exit. "Peter!" His best friend gasps, "Peter, oh my God!"

Peter can't form any words as his chest heaves, wide eyes flickering between his friend and the door, and the next thing he knows is the bright sun glaring down on them as they step outside.

Ned collapses into the arms of his Lola as countless other students reunite with scared family members. But Peter just stands there, wrapping his thin arms around himself, looking down in shock when he feels something warm and wet on his shirt.

And he realizes, sickeningly, that it's blood. Alex's blood. His lips curl downward into another horrified cry.

"Peter!"

He looks up to the cry of his name, watches the Iron Man armor drop to its knees a few feet away. "Peter!"

He crumples as his dad steps out of the suit, lunging forward to catch him just in time. "Dad," he wails, burying his blood-covered face into his dad's shirt. Familiar arms wrap around him, holding him close, and Peter breaks.

He's shaking in his dad's arms, and he's crying so hard he's sure he's going to be sick, but he still makes himself speak anyway. "I'm s-sorry. I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry."

"It's okay, you're okay, I've got you," Tony gasps, hands gripping his shirt tightly.

"I didn't- I didn't-" Peter gags, pulling back to gasp up at his dad's red eyes. "I didn't me-ean it, I didn't- I didn't-" He gags one more time, and then turns to the side and throws up into the grass.

Tony only holds him tighter, leaning his head against Peter's shoulder to whisper soothingly to him. He doesn't recognize the words, vaguely noting that they're in Italian as his stomach clenches, and he vomits again.

His sobs are croaking against his hoarse throat by now, snot and blood and tears on his face, but Tony never stops holding him and never stops whispering softly to him, and Peter-

Peter Stark isn't scared anymore.