Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts like this.

Peter, coming back from the blip to a world changed.

It's far from the first time. It started, he supposes, with Captain America and his Howling Commandos. It changed again, the first time Iron Man launched himself from his Malibu mansion into the skies, and realized there was so much more he needed to be. Again and again, new heroes and new dangers and new people left with nightmares that would never fully fade. And, of course, the Incident, when people watched aliens pour from the sky and knew, with a clarity so sharp it hurt, that they could never be truly safe again.

The world has changed, time and again since the first emergence of superheroes, and every time the idea of things going back to normal has seemed laughable. But it happened, cleanup crews and swarms of journalists, heroes who were larger than life, living legends and raging wars, people rising everyday and going to work and coming home to greet their families. Every time, the world settled into a new kind of normal.

This time seems different. People, before, had always been scared, in awe, angry, demanding answers; a thousand and one things no one knew how to give to each other. Now, all they seem is tired. The big difference, it seems, between before and after—and it is, isn't it? So clearly before and after, a line drawn in the sand and nobody left on the other side—is that people have lost their faith.

The Avengers are still admirable, sure, still pretty collectively seen as trustworthy by those who trusted them before. But now, a mother has cradled her infant son while staring wide eyed at the breaking news, only to blink and find her arms empty, crumpling in on herself as she choked on more than just the ash.

Now, a woman has clutched her wife's hand like a lifeline, foreheads pressed together, then watched as everything she loved was blown gently away in the wind.

Now, a son has begged his father not to go, to please stay just one more minute, couldn't understand where he went when he was just right there. It's hard now, to watch the avengers assemble in the face of some new threat and think 'oh, everything is going to be okay'.

The world's best defenders are just people, in the end, and there are some things they can never protect against, can never help the rest of them forget. The world's losses may not have been permanent, but it's grief is too heavy to forget.

Peter comes home to something new, a world weary and unable to heal, and realizes maybe there isn't a place for him—for Spider-man—here anymore. Maybe it doesn't need another hero, bright and flashy against the New York skyline, a saviour for a brief moment and gone in the aftermath. Maybe he can't accept that, but maybe he doesn't have a choice.

~

Peter gives Spider-man up. He folds the costume up, lets himself remember the power and freedom—the struggle, the responsibility—it brought him one last time, before it's shoved under his bed beside old papers, dusty trinkets, and long abandoned inventions.

Ned doesn't understand, and doesn't pretend to. “But you're a hero, Peter! It's who you are man, that's not gonna go away just by hiding your suit under your bed!” And Peter doesn't know how to tell Ned that he's wrong. The world doesn't need heroes, not anymore, and it certainly doesn't need Peter. Not when he failed it when it really counted, snapped out of existence just when people needed him the most.

May tries, and fails, to pretend she isn't relieved. “It's your decision, honey,” she tells him with a strong voice and a kiss to his temple. “No matter what you choose, I'm always gonna be proud of you.”

Peter loves her for it, tells himself he imagined the brief hint of disappointment in her eyes as well. He wants to tell her why, wants her to understand, but finds the words stuck in his throat. Because he hadn't had any last words for her (“I don't want to go, please, I'm sorry” — stupid, selfish, scared), had he? And the shame of that, the fear of her finding out how much of a coward he is, when it really comes down to it, is too much for him to handle.

And Tony—well, Peter really has no idea what Tony thinks about it. They'd become something, him and Mr. Stark, since Toomes and the plane and the avengers test Peter thinks maybe wasn't really a test. Mentor and mentee, coworkers, friends. Nothing quite seemed to fit, to perfectly capture the strange relationship of sorts he had with Mr. Stark. He'd never stressed though. It was them; Peter and Tony, Spider-man and Iron Man, and that was enough.

Now, though.

Peter died—he died, in Tony's arms.

(and if you die, I feel like that's on me)

Scared, shaking, clinging as tightly as he could to the one thing on that damned dead planet that he knew he loved.

And it wasn't enough.

He's heard the stories, since, of the lengths Tony went to to bring him back. Peter's able to recognize now that he shouldn't have bothered.

And how can he come back from something like that? To look Tony in the eyes, joke around and tinker in the labs, train together, fight together, be that earnest wide eyed kid still dizzy over the approval of his hero. He can't, and he knows better than to try.

That's not to say Tony hasn't. Tried, that is. The look on his face—vulnerable, crumbling—the first time Peter saw him after the blip, is something Peter doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. It shocks him still, even now, after everything, when he gets proof that Tony cares. But he does, has made that clear with phone calls and invites upstate and casual drop-ins that are anything but.

Peter knows it must be hard, though, when he refuses to give anything back. A closed-off, withdrawn Peter Parker isn't something anyone really knows how to deal with. Tony clearly doesn't, his few feeble attempts to bring up the distinct lack of spider boys flinging themselves around the boroughs almost too easy to deflect.

This, this new kind of non-relationship, too much to handle and so far from enough, is what Peter's left with. It's not what he wants, but he's starting to realize that maybe he shouldn't get what he wants. He wanted to be a hero, to help people, and look where that landed him.

Maybe it's time to dream a little smaller.

~

Months pass, as Peter goes to class and does his homework and builds Lego's with Ned. He hits used book stores with MJ, grabs takeout with May, and tries not to listen to the sounds of a city in danger that doesn't want to be saved.

It's alright, for the most part. Some days he's even able to pretend that the whole thing was some kind of crazed fever dream, nerdy Peter Parker gets bitten by a spider and becomes a superhero—sure.

Other days, his phone buzzes with a text from Happy ('hey kid, me again, just checking in'), or his spidey-sense blares uncomfortably at the base of his skull when Flash throws a wad of paper at him during decathlon practice, and he has to awkwardly laugh off the fact that he caught it without even looking up. It's days like these that feel like they're choking him, dragging him down to get lost in his past, and it's all he can do to avoid Ned's meaningful glances until he can get home, burrow in bed and try to stop from shaking.

It's on one of these days that the news hits. The emergence of four brand new superheroes—The Fantastic Four, newspapers claim they're called, and Peter can't help but scoff at the fact that people had once made fun of his branding. They were gonna have a field day with this.

The thing is, though, that people seem to like them. Peter can't—refuses to—read more than just the headlines, so he's a little blurry on the details. Something about blasting into space in their own stolen rocket—sure sounds heroic. But the buzz is everywhere, pictures of these four people in matching blue plastered larger than life all around the city and across the internet.

Peter can guess the immediate appeal. They're beautiful, Sue and Johnny Storm, all blonde hair and sharp jaws, glints in their eyes and smirks pulling at the corners of their lips. Ben Grimm—The Thing—large and terrifying and almost stoic, almost sad. And Reed Richards, the renowned scientist Peter's admired since he was a child.

It's something more than that though. People can look at them and see something brand new. Something other than the people involved in the end of the world. They're new, fresh, probably untrained and unprepared for real battle, but what does that matter when people can look at them without fear, can finally have something to believe in again, to give the world hope?

Peter hates them for it, just a little.

~

The anniversary of Ben's death rolls around, just as it does every year. The pain of it hits Peter sharply, unexpectedly, just as it does every year.

He and May have plans in the evening; fresh flowers at Ben's grave, then takeout and binge watching of his favourite films while they both pretend they're not crying. But right now it's 7am and Peter should be on the subway, frantically adding a closing paragraph to his history essay due third period.

Instead, he'd gotten up, dressed, eaten breakfast, hugged May goodbye as she rushed out the door in wrinkled scrubs, then turned around and got right back into bed. This isn't part of the plan, but when does this goddamn day ever go according to Peter's plans?

Last year, he'd ended up cutting school at lunch, Ned and MJ trailing behind. They walked for hours, the three of them, feet slapping against pavement and collars turned up to block the wind. None of them spoke, just walked and walked, for hours and minutes until Peter was finally tired. And then, suddenly, he was exhausted. So they sat with him, backs against the side of some dingy alley, holding his hands as he cried.

And the year before. It was the first anniversary, and Peter was reckless. He didn't know how to deal, with his loss and his responsibility and so he'd flung himself out into the city with a careless determination. Anything and everything was his problem to solve that day, and he quickly got in over his head.

As Peter lay bruised and beaten on the outskirts of some kind of industrial warehouse, Iron Man approached, judgment etched into every hard line of his mask as he landed. Then the face plate was removed, and Mr. Stark was in front of him. He started in on a lecture about risks and knowing one's limits, as he apparently loved to do, and Peter just couldn't handle it.

They'd argued, Peter throwing harsh words—why did Tony even care, couldn't Tony see it was useless, Peter couldn't save anyone, not even Ben—and they both froze. Peter didn't know what to say, couldn't find the energy to try. So Tony did what Tony does, clapped a hand on his shoulder and brought him to a hole in the wall diner for lunch, talked at him about mishaps in the workshop and embarrassing stories about Happy and Colonel Rhodes, until somewhere down the line Peter found himself smiling.

He can't do any of that now. Ned and MJ both messaged him, asking if they'll see him at school or if he wants to meet somewhere, but he doesn't respond. Ben would be so ashamed of who Peter is these days. He doesn't deserve his friend's comfort for getting his uncle killed. And Tony is, of course, out of the question, no matter how much his treacherous brain whispers at him—What if, what if.

So he lies in bed, numb and aching, the hours ticking by, until the blankets he's wrapped himself in start to feel like a prison, trapping him, weighing him down. And suddenly there's a weight on his chest, and huge, gasping sobs that are wrenched from his throat, and he can't move, can't breathe—

He struggles, flings himself off the bed and shakes off the blankets, to stand in the middle of his room trembling and blurry eyed. He feels itchy, like he's going to crawl right out of his skin if he doesn't do something right now.

So for the first time in months, he acts without thinking, dives under his bed and throws on the suit, slams down on the chest and feels it close around him like a well worn second skin. He ignores the pleasant voice of Karen in his ear as he tugs open his window—the latch slightly stiff after all this time—closes his eyes, and swings.

He thought he'd forgotten the feeling. Thought if he ever came back to this it would feel uneasy, like reading a favourite book from his childhood and not being able to remember the ending. But it's not. As he swings from building to random building, letting himself fall until the very last moment and pulling himself up with a sharp upswing and a burst of adrenaline, the wind in his face and whoops tumbling from his mouth, it feels like coming home.

He slows eventually, when his limbs, no longer used to the physical exertion, start to strain, eventually landing on top of some high rise he doesn't recognize. Squinting around at his surroundings, he thinks maybe he's ended up somewhere closer to Manhattan.

And it hits him then, what he's just done. He swung to Manhattan. As Spider-man. It's the day of Ben's death, and he's here in Manhattan, here in a life he thought he'd left behind. What would Ben think if he could see him now? He sits down, hard, on the edge of the building, legs dangling loosely off the side. What's the point of wondering what Ben would think anyway? He might have been proud, he might have been angry, worried, disappointed—but he's none of those things now. He's just gone.

Peter sits there, masked face buried in his hands, until he suddenly feels that familiar sense blaring at the base of his skull. A moment later he hears someone land on the rooftop behind him, light on their feet, too close for comfort. He whirls around, heart hammering. And that's when his eyes adjust, taking the other person in. The person he recognizes, from glossy billboard ads and smug sounding interviews, blurry pictures of battles and an annoyingly active social media.

Johnny Storm approaches slowly, flaming off as he walks. Peter can't think to do anything but stare. He looks different in person, Peter notices, something softer and more human, that signature smirk missing. He thinks, for a fleeting second, that maybe he understands the swarm of loving fans this guy has collected after only a few short months on the superhero scene.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Holy shit, Spidey? Everyone—everyone thought you were dead, man! When you didn't come back after the snap, I thought—people thought—during the battle, y'know? But you're right—wow. You're back! I'm Johnny, by the way. Johnny Storm? I don't know if you've heard of me?”

He's preening, almost, by the end of it, reaching up to tug his windswept hair back into place, chest puffing up slightly, and oh—there's that smirk.

And it’s the wrong day for this. Peter can't deal with this right now, hurt and pride and a wounded kind of jealousy swirling in his gut as he stares at the other hero. He stands abruptly.

“I'm not.” His voice comes out rusty, thick. “Back, that is. And I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.” He turns away, shooting a web and swinging off the building, out of sight before he can hear Johnny's hurried shout, his pleas for him to wait.

He thinks, hopes, that's the end of that. He should have known better though, when it comes to Johnny Storm—media darling, never one to turn down an extra dose of attention. So when Peter stumbles out of bed the next morning, bleary eyed and thinking of excuses for his still unfinished history essay, he shouldn't be surprised by the headline of that day's paper, clutched tightly in his aunt's hand as she gazes at him with concerned eyes.

'Human Torch Exclusive: Spider-man Returns!'.

It starts like this; Spider-man returns, and Peter Parker hates Johnny Storm.

Chapter Text

“Oolong tea? I'm calling it. That's definitely fake.”

“Then what the hell do you call what you're drinking right now, Parker?” Michelle Jones stares blank-faced at him from across the rickety table they managed to snag in the steamy, overcrowded tea shop.

Peter takes another sip from the chipped mug cupped in his palms before grinning at her. “I call it a delicious drink from my wonderful friend—I'll pay you back by the way, I think I left a five on my dresser this morning—but oolong tea? That's not a thing. I'm being bamboozled.”

MJ snorts, hair falling into her eyes before she distractedly bats it away. “Okay, first of all? I would never bamboozle someone, because I'm not a loser. Second, when I say it's my treat it means you don't owe me jack, dipshit.”

Peter pauses, narrows his eyes. “You're being alarmingly nice to me today.”

“Must have different definitions of the word dipshit.”

“You know what I mean,” Peter sighs, waving her words away. “You split your mini wheats with me in chem this morning, dragged me to get tea even though this place is totally a you and Ned thing, and don't think I didn't notice you grilling Flash in AcaDec practice after he tripped me.”

“I grilled Flash because he's an idiot and I won't let him cost us Nationals. Have you been having any neck pain lately? I feel like you must, holding up that big head of yours.”

“C'mon MJ, stop deflecting. It's not your style.”

MJ pauses, considering, eyes roaming over Peter's face. She must find something there, as he watches her face soften, her brows furrow. “We didn't hear from you yesterday.”

Oh. With everything that's happened in the last day (Ben, the suit, Johnny Storm, Spider-man Returns!—so much, too much), Peter had forgotten he never responded to his friends' concerned messages, just showed back up at school this morning with zero explanation and a strong desire to destroy every newspaper in the city.

Ned had tried to catch his eye several times throughout the day, anything but subtle, but Peter had studiously avoided his gaze. The last thing on Earth he felt like talking about was Spider-man and the Human Torch.

“Shit. I'm sorry, I swear I wasn't trying to blow you guys off or anything, I—well, I just—"

MJ reaches over, flicking Peter lightly on the nose before he can finish his sentence. “Slow your roll, Parker, it's not like we were pissed at you or anything. We just—we love you a lot.” She pauses, leans back in her seat to cross her arms over her chest. “You geek ass nerd.”

Peter grins, almost involuntarily, as something slow and warm spreads through his chest at her words. “I love you guys too. It was just—it was a rough day. It's always a rough day.” He sounds tired, even to his own ears.

“Yeah, of course. You don't have to explain.” She stops then, seeming almost unsure, before she continues to talk. “And then, you know... that newspaper article this morning, yikes. Probably not how you planned on making your triumphant return.”

Her words are simple, innocuous, seemingly unworthy of the humiliating spit-take Peter does once he registers them. “You—huh? MJ, what d'you... you—you know?!”

“Peter, please. You're about as subtle as a train wreck. I bet I had you pegged before Stark did.”

“I—wh... MJ—what,” Peter splutters, tea dribbling messily down his chin ignored in favour of staring at her far more bug-eyed than he'd ever looked in his suit.

She takes pity on him for a split second, pressing a crumpled napkin into his palm, before her gaze suddenly sharpens. “And while we're on the topic, where do you get off never telling me? I get that you've dropped the whole act lately, but there was a really long time there where I had to put up with your terrible excuses—seriously, they only ever got worse dude—and I think I deserve an explanation.”

Peter can feel something shift in him then, shock and confusion fading away to be replaced by a heavy weight he's far too familiar with; the weight that comes with being Spider-man, with putting those he loves in danger every single time he puts on the mask.

“MJ, you gotta listen to me, please, and I know this sounds like a cop out but I swear to god it isn't. I didn't tell you because I needed to protect you.”

MJ's eyes flash, and she sits up straighter in her chair. “That's bullshit and you know it, Parker. I know Ned knows, he's even worse at keeping secrets than you are, and I'm willing to bet May does too—”.

“Yeah, they know,” the words are ripped from Peter's throat with a force he wasn't expecting, and MJ's eyes widen slightly. “They know, because I was stupid and clumsy and careless, and I'm terrified every single day because of it. I'm so scared, all the time, because I went ahead and put them in a position where they can get hurt—or worse—because of me. If you, any of you, got mixed up in any of it, it would be on me.” He realizes, belatedly, that he's clutching the edges of the table hard enough to leave finger-shaped dents.

MJ leans forward, concerned and clearly unsure—she's never seen Peter like this before. “Peter. Hey. Listen to me. It wouldn't be on you, okay? Besides, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I'm not gonna get hurt—”.

“Someone always ends up hurt!”.

His voice cuts sharply through the surrounding din, and he remembers for the first time since MJ dropped her little truth bomb on him that they're still surrounded by people in a very public place. MJ seems to come to the same realization, her eyes darting briefly around the room. She takes in the wary glances a few people are sending their way, before grabbing Peter's wrist and yanking him up from his seat.

“Not here, Parker, c'mon.” Peter hastily grabs his backpack as Michelle pulls him from the store, the bell on the door jingling with their departure. She doesn't loosen her grip on his arm for several paces, eventually stopping a few blocks away in front of a bench on a small patch of unkempt grass masquerading as a park.

She shoves him down onto one side, none too gently, before sitting down next to him. “'Someone always ends up hurt'? Come on, you nerd. What is that supposed to mean?”.

Peter sighs, a heavy thing; an attempt to release some of the tension coiled tight in his gut. “Uh. My uncle. You know how he—how he died, but. You don’t, not really. It’s my fault he’s dead. Because of what I am now. Because of what I didn’t do when I had the chance.”

It’s vague, way less than what MJ deserves, but he doesn’t quite know how to say more. All this time gone, and he still can't find the right words.

“Peter,” MJ's staring straight ahead, hands shoved between her legs to protect against the biting wind, shoulder pressed against Peter’s own. “Listen to me carefully, because I don't make a habit of repeating myself and I honestly think heart-to-hearts give me hives. But the thing is—it wasn’t your fault. Whatever the full story there is, it doesn't matter. I don’t need it to know that I'm right.”

Peter swallows, feeling raw, exposed. “How? Do you know, I mean?”.

MJ shifts then, turning slightly so she meets his gaze head-on. “Because I know you.”

The sentence strikes Peter in some unknown place, and he finds himself swallowing back a sudden lump in his throat. He breathes in, straightens slightly. “Oh, you do, huh?” It’s meant to come out light, teasing. He's not quite sure he succeeds.

“Yup. Spandex, no spandex, makes no difference to me. You’re still the biggest dork I know.”

This entire conversation is going to give Peter whiplash. A laugh escapes him anyway. “Thanks, MJ," he says softly, and it surprises him just how much he means it.

“So,” MJ leans forward, elbows on knees and head in hands. “Spiderman’s returned, huh?”.

Peter freezes. He’d managed to forget, for the first time today, about that stupid article. It hits him again now in full force, anger and irritation sweeping through him with a vengeance. He only relaxes slightly with MJ’s continued stare; curious, nonjudgmental.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so. I don’t know how he could.” He huffs out a slight breath. “I don’t know if I still have him in me.” It’s the most honest Peter’s been about this since coming back, and it’s almost a relief to admit it.

“Why do you do that? Talk about Spider-man like he’s a different person?”.

Peter starts—surprised, somehow, though he shouldn't be. Apparently nothing really gets past MJ. “Oh. Uh. I guess cause Spider-man, the idea of him, has always been something… more, you know? Something for me to live up to. But now…”

He can see the thoughts swimming behind MJ's eyes, the questions caught on the tip of her tongue. What happened up there, in space? What changed? Why did Spider-man disappear in the first place, as soon as Peter returned?

She voices none of them though, just continues to study him. Whatever she finds, she must decide not to push it. “That’s cool. Like I said, makes no difference to me.”

Peter appreciates it, more than MJ can know. That, in the middle of everything, with what feels like everyone demanding answers to questions he doesn’t even know how to ask, there’s someone who will just let him be. For the first time since the blip, he feels like maybe he can breathe a little easier.

Of course, that’s when his phone begins to ring, sharp and shrill as it blares the opening notes to the Mission Impossible theme song. Peter fumbles his phone out of his pocket, MJ's gaze sharp as he hastily hits decline. “You’re screening calls from Iron Man now?”.

Peter doesn’t really know how to explain, as he puts his phone on silent and ignores the notification letting him know he has another voicemail. That makes nine so far today. “Uh, yeah, I guess so? He’s been calling since I put the suit on yesterday, I guess it sent him some kind of alert. I just…” I’m not sure what to say, I have no idea now how to act around him anymore. I’m scared of how much it would hurt to try and go back to normal, and have it fail. “I’m not ready.”

“And he’s just cool with that? It’s Tony Stark, I doubt you can really ignore him unless he’s letting you.”

“Yeah, I mean, he could definitely push the call through if he wanted to. He’s just—trying to respect my boundaries, I think? That’s definitely a recent thing with him, I can think of so many times where he just went right ahead and…” Peter trails off when he notices MJ's attention is no longer focused on him. Instead, her head is tilted up as she squints at the sky above.

As Peter follows her gaze upward, he hears her say “I don’t think Stark's the only one trying to contact you”, as if from a distance. His ears begin to ring as he takes in what he’s seeing. A large, crude drawing of what appears to be a spider in the middle of the sky, written in swooping, red-hot flames.

A smaller, vaguely human shaped blob of fire hovering just underneath it. As the spider slowly starts to fade to smoke, the other blob begins to move, movements jerky as it leaves more trails behind it. When it stops, there’s another message left in its wake. A large arrow, seemingly pointing towards a cluster of high rises nearby. Underneath that, slightly smaller, is just one word.

Please.

The blob turns then, heading towards the roof of one of the buildings. Peter feels frozen in place, shock coursing through him. What the hell could Johnny Storm think he’s doing, trying to summon Peter like this after that stunt he pulled the day before? He’s jolted from his thoughts by a sharp elbow to the ribs, courtesy of MJ. She smirks at him, tilting her chin upwards.

“Well, loser? Looks like you’ve got a flame to put out."

Yes, Peter thinks, as he jumps up from the bench, anger and adrenaline beginning to seep through his system. He supposes he does.

Chapter Text

Peter’s a mere street away from the building Johnny Storm is hovering over, still flamed on, when a thought strikes him hard enough that he stumbles to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk.

He feels ridiculous, like a complete idiot, for not having thought of it sooner—he can’t exactly march right up there in his civilian clothes and go “Hey, Spider-Man here, my voicemail is full but I think you left me a message?”, can he?

The obvious solution, he thinks, is to just take a quick detour. Double back to his apartment, grab the suit still tangled up in the corner of his room where he left it the day before. Swing back over and confront this guy the way every cell in his body is screaming at him to do. Let himself feel the rush he experienced for such a brief few moments the day before, allow himself the feeling he hadn’t realized he missed quite so much.

So then why does the very idea have him trembling where he stands? He moves away from the sidewalk, presses himself up against a wall just inside the nearest alley, closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

It had all been so sudden, so spur of the moment the day before. The suit had steadied him, grounded him when he felt ready to crawl right out of his own skin. It wasn’t a conscious choice, not really. He hadn’t put it on thinking this is it, the moment I bring back Spider-Man.

But if he puts the suit on today, if Spider-Man goes to meet Johnny Storm on some random rooftop to talk about that stupid article claiming he’s returned—well, wouldn’t that be exactly what he’s doing? Confirming it?

He’s so far from being sure that that’s what he wants. Especially with the swarm of reporters and onlookers waiting at the bottom of the building, staring up at Johnny in wonder and waiting to see if Spider-Man will actually show.

Peter slides slowly down the wall until he’s sitting on the ground, head tipping back against cold bricks. He brings his backpack around to clutch it tightly in his lap, letting it anchor him where he sits. Here, away from the public eye, away from disappointment and hurt and failure; where nobody will glance twice at him, just another face in the crowd.

He stays, just like this, opening his eyes to stare at the clear blue sky above, until his breathing slowly evens out and the shaking stops. He feels wrung out, his limbs made up of jelly rather than flesh and bone.

It’s time to leave.

It should be time to leave.

He should stand up now, head back to his apartment, give May a big hug and let her run her hands through his hair as he tells her everything from the past day. He found himself unable to this morning, stalling until she was forced to put down the newspaper and change into wrinkled scrubs before flying out the door with a worried kiss to his temple.

Peter should do all of that. He knows he should. So he’s not quite sure why he’s still sitting in this alley, head turned now so he can stare at the flaming dot in the sky that’s still there. Waiting for him.

He can’t go up there. But, he finds, he can’t just leave either. So he watches, as the minutes fade into an hour, and then two, and Johnny Storm still waits.

He wonders why Johnny feels like this is so important. He wonders why he feels it is too.

Finally, as daylight starts to fade and the crowd slowly disperses save for a few stragglers holding up personalized Human Torch signs, Johnny appears to give up.

He flies slowly away from the roof of the building, looking like he’s winding down to land somewhere just out of reach of his superfans. Peter tries to keep track, but quickly loses sight of him from the angle he’s watching at.

So that’s it. He feels tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding drain slowly from his body as he closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders back, unclenching his fingers from their death grip around his backpack.

As he goes to stretch his legs out and shake some feeling back into them, however, his foot catches on something he’s certain wasn’t there moments before.

His eyes fly open to see a fist clenched around a handful of crumpled bills shoved obnoxiously close to his face. He traces fist up to an arm, then a neck, then a face that—oh. A face that belongs to none other than Johnny Storm, because of course it does.

If he stays very quiet, Peter's sure he'd be able to hear the universe laughing at him. Good ol' Parker luck, he thinks absently.

“Uh,” Peter attempts to swallow down the fresh swell of panic at having Johnny watching him—him, not Spider-man—as he slowly brings himself to his feet. He knows, rationally, that there’s no way for Johnny to know who he is, but he’s still left feeling hopelessly on edge. “Can I help you?”

Johnny, an inch or two taller as they stand face to face, cocks an eyebrow. "I doubt it, dude. But here, this is for you." He shifts his weight as he once again brandishes the bills in his hand with a carelessness that has Peter bristling. “Just—take the money okay? I really need to get going.”

Peter squints. “Is this like, some kind of media stunt? Or superhero PR campaign? If it is, man, you might want to reconsider your management team."

"What?" Johnny blinks, staring blankly at Peter for a long moment before his face pinches with impatience. “Dude, no, what are you talking about? You're just, like, my age and you’re sleeping in an alleyway. Just take it.”

“What?” Peter feels entirely thrown off, and Johnny’s words take a few moments to sink in. “Wait, what are you talking about? Is this—do you think I’m homeless or something?”

“I mean…” Johnny eyes Peter up and down appraisingly, and Peter can feel the flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears under the other boys' gaze. “No?”.

It's less than convincing, and Peter's shoulders hunch as he tugs on his flannel in an attempt to cover up the old mustard stain on the neckline of his T-shirt.

Embarrassment courses through him in waves, followed quickly by the renewed flicker of indignation in his veins. “Look, man. My place is no fancy-pants Baxter Building, alright, but I have a few dollars to my name and I don't need your charity”.

Johnny looks confused and slightly sheepish as he scrambles to tuck the money into the boot of his costume. “Then why were you in this alley? Oh. Oh—is it, like, a drug thing?”

Peter's mouth drops. “Dude! No! I was just—I was—avoiding someone, I guess.”

Johnny’s gaze widens at that, and he glances around sharply. “Shit, is someone following you? Are you in danger or something?” He stands taller, squares his shoulders. “You can tell me if you are, dude, I can totally handle it.”

Peter snorts, the sound coming out more bitter than intended. He can't help it, though. He looks at Johnny and he just—well, it all just feels a little too familiar to Peter. The cockiness, the desire to show off, to be the best. That dangerous, thrilling feeling of invincibility.

“Thanks man, but I’m a-okay. No danger here—unless you count the hits to my pride, which I try not to do. Just as like a general rule, you know. My hit points would never get out of the negatives and who wants to take that kind of damage? Anyway. Um. Ignore that. I'm rambling. And I should, uh, really be getting home, anyway."

Johnny relents then, shrugging as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Peter supposes he’s lost interest in whatever this interaction was now that there’s no chance to show off, to be the great big hero man.

It shouldn’t sting like it does. Johnny may have been captivated by meeting Spider-man, but nerdy, dishevelled, embarrassing Peter Parker? He's clearly had his fill.

It takes him by surprise then, as he turns away, to hear Johnny call out to his retreating back.

“Hey! Wait!”

Peter turns slowly. He honestly just wants to get out of here. The entire day's been a lot, and he can’t help but feel worse when looking at Johnny. It’s a slow, rolling kind of hurt that leaves him feeling almost hollow. He’s not even entirely sure why.

Peter asked Johnny to keep something to himself, and Johnny didn’t. So what? Johnny doesn’t know him, doesn’t owe him a single thing, and Peter really should have learned by now not to expect the best from people.

Johnny seems to flounder slightly under Peter's renewed gaze. It’s an unusual look on him. Not bad, necessarily—just unusual. “Well, I—don’t you want an autograph, or something? Or a selfie?”

Peter, incredulous, barks out a laugh. “You could probably get at least ten people still waiting by that building over there to fight Gladiator-style over the chance for a picture with you. You know that, right?"

Johnny groans, peeking around the corner. “Oh man, they’re still there?” His eyes flick up to the still vacant roof of the building. “I didn’t know you saw me up there. Not my finest moment, I don’t exactly feel like documenting the occasion.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I think most of Manhattan saw you up there. Not big on subtlety, huh?” Peter can't help but prod.

“What, you think I wanted to do that?" Johnny sweeps his arms out to his sides, turning to face an imaginary crowd. "Gather round, one and all, and watch me make a complete idiot of myself?" His arms fall, and he turns back to Peter with a huff. "No! It was just the only way I knew how to reach him.”

Johnny sounds surprisingly miserable about it, and despite his best efforts Peter feels the familiar weight of guilt begin to settle on his chest. “Well, hey man, at least you tried. Go big or go home, right?”

Johnny laughs humorlessly, his expression hard to read. “I probably should have just gone home.”

Peter really needs to leave. He’s tired, upset, on edge. Above all that though, he’s curious. And he has to ask. “Hey, why were you trying to contact Spider-man, anyway? That article made it seem like you’d already met.” He aims for casual, barely interested, and doesn't think he quite succeeds.

“Oh, I did.” Johnny replies, strained. “Couldn’t believe it actually, when I saw him there. Sitting on a rooftop casual as anything, like he hasn’t been MIA for months. Like people didn’t think he was dead.”

Johnny cuts himself off, takes a breath. “Anyway, I fucked it up. He seemed kinda off. Upset. Asked me not to tell anyone I saw him. And I wasn’t going to! Well, okay. I was gonna tell Sue. But it’s just Sue, you know? I tell her everything. I didn’t even notice the damn reporter until it was too late, and what was I supposed to do then?" He breaks off, head dipping low as he refuses to meet Peter's gaze. "I’m not—used to it yet, I guess. My life isn’t really my own anymore. Which is cool! I'm not complaining, really. I just—need to learn to be more careful in public.”

Peter doesn’t really know what to say. It was stupid, for sure. Careless. But it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t intentional. He feels like he’s lost his footing. Like he’s shot a web that missed its mark, trapped right in that moment before he begins to fall.

“So you were gonna tell him that? Spider-man? If he’d shown up today?”

“Yeah. I wanted to apologize, I guess.” Johnny scuffs the ground lightly, a layer of dust kicking up around his shoe. “I didn’t know if he would come. But I guess I figured, what would he have to lose, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says. His throat feels oddly tight. “Maybe he has everything to lose.”

Johnny looks at him oddly. “Yeah. Sure, maybe. I guess I just thought—this is stupid, but I guess I thought—if he ever came back, maybe we would get along. He's funny, y'know? And cool, and I think he might be around my age, but. Whatever. It was dumb, I know. To wish that could happen.”

Then why does Peter find himself wishing it could too?

“I think you would. Get along, I mean. You and Spider-man."

Johnny smiles, a slow thing. It does something to his features, lights them up in a way that damn smirk of his never has. “Yeah?"

Peter nods. "Yeah."

Johnny's grin widens, teasing, as he takes a small step closer to Peter. "Pretty bold statement coming from someone who doesn’t even know me.”

Peter swallows heavily. “I mean—you're the Human Torch. The whole world knows you.”

He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth, as that smile slips ever so slightly and something seems to shutter around Johnny’s eyes.

“Right. Sure am. You can call me Johnny though, you know.”

“Johnny.” Peter tries it out, rolls the name around in his mouth. It’s good, he thinks. A little weird, but good.

“There ya go!” Johnny still seems slightly off, but he sounds pleased enough. “This is normally the time you’d tell me your name as well. I mean, it probably should have happened before I ranted at you, but whatever. This works too.”

Peter jolts. “Right. I’m Peter. Parker. Peter Parker. Peter Benjamin Parker, if we’re getting specific, but we’re not, so uh, just Peter is fine—“ He cuts himself off, blushing.

Johnny raises a hand to his mouth, failing to hide his snort of amusement behind it. Peter only blushes harder, looking around for a distraction, something to help him forget the force on Johnny’s gaze on him. He pulls out his phone to check the time, only to see three missed called from May. Shit.

“Shit. Okay, I actually do have to go. Like, really really have to.” Peter’s already in the process of digging in his backpack for headphones, intent on calling her back, when Johnny nods towards his phone.

“Your mom calling?”

“Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah, basically. I’m super late, I promised her I would stop doing this, I should have at least texted her—“. He bites his lip, guilt coursing through him. He hasn’t left May hanging like this since before the blip, she must be getting worried.

“Want a lift?”

Peter pauses at that, looking up. Johnny is still standing in front of him, but now he’s holding out a hand.

“Oh.” Peter lets himself want it, just for a moment. Lets himself imagine reaching out, twining their fingers together before Johnny tugs him closer, holding him tight as they soar above the skyline.

But he can’t. It’s too much, would remind him of too much. Would be far too reminiscent of something he knows he should leave behind. “I can’t. Uh. Um—heights. Yeah, heights. Not really my thing.”

Johnny’s hand falls. He looks almost disappointed. “Oh, okay. No worries, Pete.” Pete. “I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

Peter takes a step back. His feet feel heavy. His whole body feels heavy. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you around, Johnny.”

Johnny gives him a smile, a weird little half wave, then in the blink of an eye he flames on and flies away.

Peter watches him go, an orange streak across a faraway sky, feeling like something’s been stolen from him before he knew he had it at all.

Chapter Text

Peter feels fuzzy.

It’s pleasant, he thinks. Or it would be, should be, if it wasn’t for the lights. Fluorescent, flashing in time to the music and burning bright behind his retinas even when he closes his eyes. He can’t- why can’t he filter it out? That’s not normal. Is it?

He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think so. He should ask someone. He should ask Ned. Is Ned here? Wait. Ned’s definitely here. This was Ned’s idea, right?

Peter opens his eyes, has to fight the urge to immediately snap them back shut. The sound of a hundred voices hits him at once, people talking and laughing and singing off-key. Why are they singing? And why can he hear every single one of them; each individual voice scraping on his eardrums, echoing loudly in his brain?

Ned. Ned will know. He’s gotta find Ned. He looks around, trying to spot his friend. The room is so full though - why is the room so full? Does Peter know these people? Someone across the floor catches his eye, sends him a friendly wave. Okay, so he probably knows these people.

He focuses all his energy, raises his arm and sends finger guns back towards the guy. Good. Solid interaction. Now back to the problem at hand. Where, oh where, is Ned? That’s his best friend, his right-hand man, his guy in the chair-- should Peter check the chairs? No, no, he thinks maybe Ned hasn’t been that last one for a while.

His head is pounding, he notes absently. He feels like there’s twenty spotlights shining directly on him, twenty speakers blasting noise directly in his ears. It feels distant somehow too, though, like maybe he’s hearing it from underwater. But he would know if he was underwater, right? Yeah, he probably would.

He tilts his head. One noise in particular is annoyingly persistent. Peter thinks it might be closer than the others. He turns his whole body towards it, and notes with a vague kind of interest that he’s sitting down. On a couch? Yeah. Yeah, on a couch. He tucks his legs up beneath him, leans his head onto the comfortable pillow he suddenly finds himself leaning against. This is better. This is nice, this feels safe.

“--ter! Peter!”

But there’s that noise again. Peter squints, raises his head slightly to try and locate it. He realizes suddenly that it is, in fact, not a pillow he’s snuggling into, but a person. He looks up, vision swimming, and - oh. It’s Ned.

That’s good. That’s great, actually. Peter smiles to himself, before going to tuck his head back into its newfound resting spot. He’s annoyed to find that there’s a hand blocking his path, a hand that pushes his head back up, maneuvers it until it’s pointed right at another face. Ned’s face, actually. It’s a pretty great face, Peter notes. It’s usually happier though, isn’t it? It looks different right now, all glazed eyes and furrowed brows.

“Peter, dude, can you hear me? You seem, like, really out of it right now. Do you wanna go upstairs, get some water?”

As the words slowly sink it, it finally hits Peter what he’s doing there. He’s at a party. He’s partying. And he was right, it was definitely Ned’s idea.

(“C’mon man, I’ve got my party shoes on!”

“Ned, those are the same shoes you always wear.”)

Peter thinks maybe he hadn’t wanted to come, hadn’t really been in the partying mood. It had been a long week, though he can’t quite place the reasons why. Had he been angry? That sounds familiar. Is he still angry? He closes his eyes again, tries to concentrate. He remembers blonde hair, a flash of orange. It doesn’t feel angry to him. Sad, maybe? It feels like-- like something tight in his chest, he decides.

Anyway, he hadn’t wanted to come. But Ned wanted to, and Peter wanted Ned to be happy, so here he is. He thinks there might be something more - several drinks of something more, still strong and heavy on his breath - in between, but he can’t say for sure.

He blinks, and finds himself standing. Or leaning, more like, with Ned’s arm tucked around his waist and his own arm pulled tight around Ned’s shoulders.

“Alright buddy, we’re gonna walk up the stairs now, okay? And it would be like, super cool if you don’t make me carry you up, cause I mean, out of both of us only one’s got super strength, and--”

Peter’s not listening, exactly, but he lets Ned’s voice wash over him anyway. It’s soothing, helps him finally block out a few of the other noises making his head clang. He manages to walk, mostly, only stumbling a handful of times and successfully making his way up the stairs. Are they always that difficult? How does he ever leave his apartment?

Ned leads the way into the kitchen, a constant litany of pardon me’s and sorry, excuse me, thank you so much, following in his wake. What a polite young man. He’s gonna go far in life, that one. When Ned finally stops in front of a gleaming stainless steel fridge, Peter detaches himself from Ned’s side only to throw his arms around his neck and pull him into a tight hug.

Ned makes a noise of surprise, but quickly hugs him back just as tight. Peter smiles. Ned gives the best hugs. He’s just thinking that maybe he’ll be okay right here, actually, for the rest of the night, when he hears a snort from behind him.

He reluctantly releases Ned to turn around and face the snort, just to smile again when he sees it’s only Michelle. She’s sitting on the countertop, has seemingly cleared a small space for herself amongst the bottles of alcohol and cheap plastic cups. She’s leaned up against the backsplash, legs lightly kicking the cupboard door underneath her, headphones in as she listens to something on her phone.

With both Peter and Ned looking up at her, however, she pauses it and pops out one earbud. “Sup, losers?”

“Hey, MJ. Whatcha listening to?” Ned asks, voice bright.

Michelle glances down at her phone. “Podcast. It’s about the power of third wave feminism in a society whose job market is slowly being filled by millennials and gen Z. A bit too focused on first world politics and pretty much glosses right over the importance of intersectionality, but I’m determined to see it through. At least so the response paper I’m gonna write can be fully informed.”

She’s so passionate-- and weird. Just the best. Peter’s so glad she’s here. He has the best friends. He thinks they might have seen her already earlier, might have come to the party with her, actually. But her being here, right now? That’s good, very good. He leans towards her, lifts his hand and cups her cheek in his palm, before patting it gently.

She lets him, but gives him a look like maybe he’s being weird. Is he being weird? Did she not like that? Peter always loves it when Aunt May does it. It’s so comforting.

Michelle hops down from the counter then, gaze focused hard on Peter for a moment before she turns to Ned. “Christ Leeds, how much has he had to drink? I’ve never even seen him buzzed before.”

Ned shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t actually know. I lost him for a while when I stopped to talk to Abe and Betty, and when I found him again he was practically passed out on the couch. He didn’t even notice me for like ten minutes.”

The worry is clear on Michelle’s face even as she struggles to remain blank and impassive. “Doesn’t he have like, a crazy fast metabolism? We’ve both seen him eat, he must have had way more than just a few to be this drunk.”

Ned nods. “Right. Uh, we should probably get him home?”

Michelle agrees, before tensing slightly. “Wait. Shit. My brother can’t pick us up until at least one, he’s at some work thing. Can your mom come get us?”

Ned shakes his head fervently. “No, no way. She thinks I’m studying biochem at Peter’s right now. I was planning just to crash at his place after the party.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Terrible cover up. Also, terrible plan, unless you feel like being puked on tonight. Just crash at mine instead.”

Ned smiles at her gratefully, before biting his lower lip. “What about Peter, though? How are we gonna get him home?”

Peter, who’s been standing between the two and swaying slightly back and forth for the duration of the conversation, enjoying the way it makes his head swim lightly, perks up. “May! I’ll call May. I love May, wanna see May.” Is he slurring? He feels like he’s slurring.

He digs his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and clicking on his aunt’s icon. When he sees the last text she sent him, though (Try to have fun tonight, sweetie! Text me when you get home. I’ll make you lots of coffee in the morning. Or maybe vice versa, thoughts? xx), he remembers that she’s currently on the overnight shift at work.

Okay, no problem. He sends her a string of various heart emojis, before clicking on the phone app and going to his recents. There’s probably someone in there, right? He looks down, trying his best to focus. May, Ned, MJ-- Mr. Stark! There’s a lot from Mr. Stark, actually, all of them incoming. Why hasn’t Peter called him back?

That seems silly. Silly and rude, quite frankly. He doesn’t particularly want to be either of those things, so he clicks on the name and holds the phone up to his ear as it begins to ring. Mr. Stark answers surprisingly quickly, the second ring cut short as his voice comes through, slightly tinny.

“Pete? Hey, you alright? What’s going on?”

“Hey, Mr Stark!” As soon as Peter speaks, both Ned and MJ’s heads snap up in surprise.

“Peter, what are you doing?!” Ned hisses, trying to snatch the phone out of Peter’s grip.

Peter swerves away, confused, and continues to talk. “I haven’t-- haven’t talked to you in forever! What’s that about, huh?”

Mr. Stark’s voice sounds strained when he answers. “I’ve kind of been wondering the same thing myself, kid.”

“Oh. Huh. Well I miss you, didja know that?”

Peter spins back around to face his friends, just in time to catch Michelle grimacing and Ned with his face in his hands. The force of his turn, however, knocks him off balance and he stumbles into Michelle, dropping his phone in the process.

As Michelle grabs his arms to steady him with an irritated huff, Peter notices Ned picking his phone up off the floor.

“Hi, Mr. Iron Man, sir? I mean, Tony- I mean, Mr. Stark? Yes, hi, I’m a friend of Peter’s, we’ve met a few times?” Ned pauses for a moment, presumably listening to Mr. Stark on the other end of the line. “Yeah, yeah, he’s okay, he’s just-- well, we’re kinda at a party? And I sort of lost track of him for a little while, and now he’s really drunk--”

Another pause. “Yeah, I didn’t know he could, either. I think he must have had a lot. Anyway, we think he should go home, but we can’t give him a ride for another few hours…” Ned glances at Peter quickly. “Oh, okay, really? Yes, thank you. That would be, would be really helpful, Sir. Thank you.”

Ned pulls the phone away from his ear and tucks it back into Peter’s pocket.

“Okay, dude, we’ve got you a ride. Let’s go wait outside, okay?” Ned links his arm through Peter’s, and Michelle - after snatching a bottle of water from the fridge - quickly does the same on Peter’s other side.

Peter decides to roll with it, although-- wasn’t he on the phone? What happened to that? And did Ned say he was getting a ride?

“Who…” Peter tries to gather his thoughts. “I’ve got a ride? Is Happy coming?”

Ned looks over at him for a moment in between shoving his way through the hordes of their classmates in the living room. “No, man. Tony’s coming. Tracked your cell the second you called apparently, he said he’ll be here soon.”

Tony… Tony’s picking him up from a party? That doesn’t sound right. Peter feels like there should be something wrong with that, something obvious, something that feels just out of his reach. At the moment though, Peter also thinks it sounds pretty great.

The three eventually fight their way outside, and the cold air hits Peter like a slap across the face. As they settle onto the edge of the curb to wait, Michelle presses the water bottle into Peter’s hands, and he finds himself gulping it down. His head feels slightly clearer after a few minutes, but that’s probably not saying much at this point. He also feels a wave of nausea start to curl its way into his stomach; finds himself swallowing down the extra saliva in the back of his mouth.

Ned and MJ are talking quietly about something or other, but Peter tunes them out as he lowers his head to rest on his knees, trying to focus on taking deep breaths. He hears Mr.Stark before he sees him; a purring engine and the sound of a sharp turn around a corner a few streets away. A minute later a sleek black Audi pulls up directly in front of the trio. Peter, needing no further sign that this is his ride, staggers to his feet.

Before either of his friends can jump up to help him, the driver’s side door of the car is flung open and Tony Stark is there, arm encircling Peter’s waist as Peter automatically slumps against him.

“Jesus, kid.”
Peter waits for something more, some quip or sarcastic joke about rehab, but nothing comes. Only a long, slow sigh that feels like it holds the weight of so much more.

Peter lets himself be maneuvered into the backseat, and feels someone clip his seatbelt in. He shifts, letting himself get comfortable, before he sees that Ned has now popped his head in through the door. “Night, dude! I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Drink lots of water and text me when you wake up!”

Michelle worms her way in as well, then. “Don’t choke on your vomit in your sleep, Parker. That means sleep on your side, got it loser?” She punches him lightly on the arm before they both step back and Ned shuts the door gently.

As the car pulls smoothly away from the curb, Peter notices Mr. Stark is being unnervingly quiet. He’s not used to silence between the two of them, at least not like this; tense, heavy with the weight of things neither of them know how to say. It’s starting to come back to Peter, now, exactly why calling Tony might not have been his best idea.

He leans his head back against the headrest, closes his eyes. Maybe he can just feign sleep until he gets home. He’ll text Tony a quick thank you in the morning, and that’ll be that. Everything back to normal- whatever their normal is now.

A few minutes in though, Tony clears his throat and burns Peter’s plan to the ground. “Why… why would you drink so much tonight, kid?”

Kid. Why does Tony keep calling him that? He’d stopped doing that, sometime in the past couple years, except to avoid revealing Peter’s identity while he was suited up. It feels like more than a nickname now, like some part of Tony is pushing him away, holding him at arm’s length the same way Peter can now remember he’s been doing to Tony for months.

Peter doesn’t know what to say. His head is still swimming, his stomach rolling. Coming up with a coherent answer feels like his brain is trying to sprint through molasses. “I just--it’s been a long week, you know? A really long week.”

“I don’t know, actually. How would I, when you never deign to answer your phone?” His voice is sharp.

“I- I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. Could you, could you stop driving so fast?” The sharp turns and quick accelerations leave Peter lightheaded. It feels far less pleasant than it did earlier.

Tony glances in the rearview mirror. “Christ. I don’t even want to think about what your BAC is right now.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I just-- I don’t feel so good.” Peter is muttering, forehead pressed up against the cool glass of the window, and he jumps slightly as the car veers into the left lane for a split second before jerking back.
He glances, alarmed, towards the front seat and sees Tony clutching the wheel far tighter than before, knuckles a stark white. His whole body seems tense, coiled like a wire ready to snap.

“Peter. Talk to me.”

“What-- what do you want me to talk about?” Peter has a few guesses, but it’s nothing he feels ready to say. It’s why he never picked up his phone in the first place.

“Anything kid, anything. Just start talking, please.” Tony’s voice comes out shaky, heaving. Peter knows him well enough to recognize the signs of an impending panic attack, and with a jolt of worry - and despite not knowing what might have set Tony off - he knows he has to help.

So he starts talking.

Rambling might be a more accurate way of describing it. Blabbering, really. He tells Tony about his latest chemistry test- he hasn’t gotten his grades back yet but he’s pretty positive he aced it.

He mentions MJ, how she’s cracking down on everyone even harder in AcaDec this year, but Peter doesn’t mind because it’s their last year, and he wants MJ to be proud of them all, as proud as he is of her.

He talks about May’s new book club, and the hours he’s spent quizzing her off the Sparknotes summaries once she inevitably stops reading the book a few chapters in. The ones they pick are too pretentious, she says, but she’s not about to get shown up by a bunch of snobby women she met in a T.J. Maxx.

And Ned, who’s not sure where he wants to go to school next year, but has gotten early acceptances and full rides to every college he’s applied to.

(Peter decidedly doesn’t mention that he still hasn’t applied anywhere, still can’t fight through the haze of panic and numbness that coats him every time he tries to think about his future-- any aspect of it)

He talks, and talks, in a way he hasn’t talked to Tony in months. He talks until Tony’s shoulders visibly lose some of their tension, until he’s no longer clenching the wheel tightly enough Peter fears it will break; until Tony lets out a long, shaky breath and is able to meet Peter’s gaze steadily in the mirror.

Peter feels exhausted when he’s done. Truly tired, down to his bones. He didn’t even talk about anything important, none of the things he knows Tony needs to hear. But still, it’s more than he’s said in months, more than they’ve had since before Thanos, before everything. It leaves him wanting to say more.

So when Tony pulls up in front of his building, supports him up four flights of stairs and unlocks his door, when Tony pushes him gently into bed and removes his shoes, when Tony looks at him with such an earnest, determined face and says “We’re gonna go get breakfast tomorrow, you and I, alright? We’ll go some place cheap and greasy, and you can eat your weight in hangover food. And we’re going to talk, really talk. And it’s going to be okay. What do you say?”

--Well.

What can Peter do, really, other than agree?

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up the next morning with a knot in his gut that has nothing to do with being hungover.

He can’t quite place it at first; that itching, nagging feeling in the back of his brain telling him that something is wrong. He sits up slowly, squinting around at his surroundings. Everything seems fine. He doesn’t even feel that sick (perks of advanced healing, he supposes), just tired. The kind of tired that seeps into his bones and weighs them down, makes him reluctant to ever get up from his bed.

He twists onto his side, trying to get comfortable, before noticing that he’s still in his clothes from the night before. His shoes are gone though, and another glance confirms that they’re tucked in the space between his door and laundry hamper. He can’t actually remember doing that, can’t remember there ever being a time where he didn’t just leave his shoes in a messy pile wherever he decided to toe them off.

Maybe Ned dropped him off? That doesn’t feel right, but Peter reaches for his phone to call him anyway. As soon as he clicks it on though, memories of the night before slam into him like a vibranium wall. Because there, glaring up from his lock screen as if taunting him, is a text from Tony Stark reading ‘up and at ‘em kid, be there in 20’, sent about-- about sixteen minutes ago.

Peter scrambles up from his bed, nearly sprawling onto the floor as his sheets tangle themselves around his legs. Tony gave him a ride home last night; he called Tony for a ride home last night. And now he’s picking him up so they can talk. Peter really thought he had reached his peak level of idiocy a while back, but he somehow managed to outshine himself last night.

He’s not- he’s not ready for this. What is he supposed to say to Tony? Everything is so jumbled in his head; his mistakes, his decisions, his failures. He can’t even sort through it in his own mind, how is he supposed to explain it to Iron Man? Tony was his hero long before Peter became anything to Tony. As close as they had grown in the last few years, it’s hard now for Peter to forget that.

It doesn’t matter, though, as two loud honks from the street below cut suddenly through the silence. Peter may not be ready for this, but Tony - arms crossed and sunglasses in place as he waits in a frankly ridiculous car four floors below - is ready for Peter.

So Peter gets dressed, leaves a note on the kitchen counter for May (who’s back from her shift and currently dead to the world), and does something he wasn’t sure he still knew how to do. He steels himself, and heads to face his fear.

**

The car ride is… awkward, to put it lightly.

At first, Tony tries to talk to him like normal (like before) but Peter can’t think of what to say. He tries - tries to remember the easy snark of conversations long past, tries to sound like the version of himself he knows Tony wants to see - but his performance falls flat. So Tony lets the conversation die a slow death, seemingly waiting until they get to breakfast to approach any topic that could be construed as heavy.

Peter stares out the window as they drive, catching brief glances of the city he thought he could protect, the place he knows he’ll always call home. It’s jarring, still, to see the changes it’s gone through since the snap. So much of it still in disrepair - crumbling buildings and remains of collisions, displaced families and overwhelmed shelters. So many people who died whole and human and because of that could never come back.

Peter imagines, sometimes, that he can still see ash clinging onto the tips of his fingers, sprinkling off his body like dust when he moves; leaving parts of himself behind wherever he goes. He knows - in a way he doesn’t know anything else- that he’s less now, is made up of less, than the people he couldn’t save.

They’re still somewhere in Queens when Tony pulls into the parking lot of some dingy little twenty-four hour diner that promises all day breakfast and free coffee top-ups. Peter trails behind Tony as they walk in and seat themselves at a corner table. He can see their car in the lot, looking ridiculously out of place beside the smattering of rundown Sedans and Honda Civics, but Tony looks right at home. Peter has always envied him that-- his ability to appear completely, perfectly at ease no matter the situation. He wonders what it feels like to be able to maintain that kind of a front, to have that level of control.

He fidgets in his seat now, picks at the peeling corner of his plastic menu. Tony remains silent, impassive, staring at his own menu through yellow tinted sunglasses. Peter clears his throat, no idea what he’s going to say but just needing to say something, to snap them out of this weird silent limbo, when a cheery looking waitress approaches them.

“Morning, boys! Can I start you two off with something to drink?”

“Coffee, black, and lots of it. Thank you, dear.” Tony flashes her a grin and Peter can’t tell if she recognizes Tony or is simply charmed by him, but it takes her a beat to nod and turn to address Peter.

“And for you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, just, um, orange juice, thanks.”

“Great! Are you two ready to order or should I give you another minute?”

Peter, now that he’s here, just wants to get this whole thing over with as quickly as possible. He places an order for a double helping of waffles with a side of sausages, and Tony follows with a request for some kind of fancy sounding omelette.

Once the waitress has taken down their orders and is headed to the back, Tony shifts, turning his full attention onto Peter. He feels, absurdly, like he’s sitting in the office at school, waiting to be chewed out by the principal.

But then Tony relaxes slightly, leaning back in his chair. “So kid, how we looking? Bright eyed and bushy tailed?”

Peter looks down, trying to ignore the shame that sweeps through him at the reminder of the night before. The idea of anyone, let alone Tony, seeing him like that is humiliating,. “Uh, no - I mean yeah, I’m all good. Fast healing and all that, y’know.”

“Right. Man, that would have come in handy in my youth. Just ask Rhodey.” Tony pauses, purses his lips. “Actually, scratch that. Don’t ask him anything. Don’t google anything either-- unrelated, of course. Just uh, boring. Very boring.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. Maybe this will go smoother than he had hoped.

Tony removes his sunglasses and tucks them in his shirt pocket, eyes calculating. “Okay, I’m getting off track. Let’s start here-- you wanna explain last night to me?”

Peter’s heart sinks. Never mind. “Um. Things just… got a little out of hand? It really wasn’t a big deal, though, just a bit too much fun. I’m sorry you had to come.”

Tony’s jaw tightens. “Really? That’s what you’re sticking with? Kid, you’ve gotta know by now I’d pick you up from a party on Mars if you needed me to. But I can’t-- I can’t find you like that when I do. That wasn’t ‘teenager having fun at a party’ wasted, okay? I know that kind of drunk. I’ve been that kind of drunk. But trust me, it solves nothing. You need to talk-- to me, to May, to anyone. But you can’t keep avoiding everything, you proved very loudly last night it’s not working.”

Peter works hard to keep his expression clear, to meet Tony’s gaze head on. “Seriously Mr. Stark, I’m not avoiding anything. I promise. Last night was just a dumb mistake. I guess I don’t really know my own limits, with my metabolism and everything. It won’t happen again.”

Disappointment flashes briefly in Tony’s eyes before they harden. “Not avoiding anything? Alright, then you should have a ball explaining last week to me. Spider-Man spotted in Manhattan. Go.”

Shit. “Um. I mean-- It was just a fluke, you know? Like, just a one-off, hit it and quit it, one and done--”

“That definitely doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Probably not, but you get my point. Nobody was supposed to know.”

“You were dressed as a human spider swinging off buildings in broad daylight. A relatively famous human spider, might I add, who was presumed dead. Even without pyro boy’s little tell-all I’m willing to bet people noticed you.”

Peter flushes. “Yeah, I… yeah.” He doesn’t know what else there is to say. Tony’s right, of course, and Peter’s left feeling unbearably small.

Their drinks get dropped off, then, and Peter gratefully latches onto his cup, twisting it around and around in his hand, trying not to focus on anything else.

Tony downs half his coffee in one go, steam briefly obscuring his face, before placing the mug down gently. “Okay. That part doesn’t really matter, anyway. I just need to know why, kid.You know I know what day it was. Were you out there because of… of Ben?”

Peter isn’t prepared for this. Why does Tony have to care so much? Why does he have to remember the anniversary, when Peter hasn’t mentioned it to him in over a year? Why can’t he just let this all go? Tony’s a futurist after all, and the Peter he knows is in the past.

“It was just a bit of fun. It didn’t mean anything.” His voice comes out flat.

“Oh, like last night was just a bit of fun too, huh? Cut the crap, Pete. That may have been your only stint in the suit but I know damn well you’re still wearing a mask wherever you go.”

Peter can feel tendrils of panic beginning to unfurl in his chest. He needs to get out, needs this to stop. So he squares his jaw, sits up straighter in his chair. “Honestly, Mr. Stark, I don’t see how that day is any of your business. I don’t see how any of this is your business, actually.”

Tony blinks at him, composure slipping fleetingly. “It became my business the moment I met you, and I think you know that.” He pauses, considering. “I told you, once, that if you’re nothing without the suit then you shouldn’t have it. I was wrong, to take it away like that. I cared more about my own reasons than about what it might cost you. But you know - you know what you did? You showed me just how much you are without it. I don’t know what the other day meant for you, but I think you need to know-- you’re a hero, Pete, with or without Spider-Man.”

It’s ridiculous, Peter knows, to feel upset right now. The things Tony’s saying to him-- they would have meant everything, once. He can almost feel it still, the phantom pride, the glow of acceptance. Almost, but not quite. Not enough.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. It’s, um, nice to hear you think that. But-- wanting to believe something isn’t the same as having it be real. I died, up in space.” They both try to ignore Tony’s flinch at the words. “Spider-Man along with half the universe. And we came back. But the world’s not the same, and neither am I. I’m not-- I’m not a hero. I’m not sure of much anymore, but I know that.”

He’s not sure he’s ever seen Tony look quite like he does in the moment Peter stops talking; it’s like looking at an open wound. He wants to soothe it, wipe away any part he’s ever played in making his mentor look like that. He can’t, though. He can’t even fix himself.

When Tony speaks again, his voice comes out raw. “Kid. Peter. If you want to stop, to walk away from all of this, leave Spider-Man in the dust for good, you have every damn right to do it. I'm sure as hell not gonna stop you. But don't do it because of this.”

Anger sparks his insides, shoots through his body like lightning, like steel. “When’s a good time to do it, then? When I watch somebody bleed out in front of me? When someone dies on my watch? When I kill someone? Will that finally be enough for you?” His voice is low, dangerous. Tony has no right.

Tony shakes his head, before lowering it onto his hand like he can’t bear the weight of it any longer. “What happened to you was-- unthinkable. Worst thing I’ve ever gone through, and it didn’t even happen to me. Hell, the whole world needs a good long therapy session. But Peter-- you have to see-- whatever you’re doing right now, it’s not working. You can’t just leave this all in the past and think it’ll stay there.”

Peter clenches his jaw, forces his anger down. It won’t do him any good here. He needs to switch tactics “I’m dealing with it. I am. It’s not an issue. I’m fine, Mr. Stark, I swear.” I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

“You know, you’re not doing anyone any favours by keeping this crap bottled up. Trust me kid, I know. It’s a long walk off a short pier and I have an inkling the current’s strong.”

Peter just stares. There’s a lump in his throat and talking right now feels like the most impossible thing he could ever accomplish. He just shrugs slightly, staring intently down at the tabletop.

“Nope. You're not doing this. This whole shutting me out – shutting everyone out – shtick you've been pulling? Hate to break it to you kid, but it's done.”

Tony’s words barely register. Peter just needs this conversation to stop. He swallows heavily. “You’re right. Sorry. I’ll work on it. Continue working on it, on everything, I mean. Uh, thank you for the talk, and the breakfast and everything, delicious, I really appreciate it--” Never mind that their food hasn’t even come yet, Peter just has to get out.

“Pete, please, for the love of god, stop telling me what you think I want to hear. I know that game, okay, I’ve played it far better than you should ever have to. Just talk to me. As you. Whoever you are right here, right now. Just talk to me.”

“I…” Tony’s looking him straight on now, an almost desperate kind of openness on his face, and Peter can’t get his thoughts straight. “I can’t. I can’t-- I have to, have to--”

Tony seems to really take him in then - sweat on his brow and tightly clenched fists, locked jaw and wild eyes - and makes a decision. He grabs his wallet, throws down an excessive amount of bills, before standing and gesturing for Peter to do the same.

Peter does, and proceeds to follow Tony straight out the doors of the restaurant. He expects Tony to head back to the car, but instead he leads the way around the back of the restaurant, stopping behind a large dumpster that shields them from the street. He turns to face Peter then, keeping a good few feet of space between them.

“Peter. You have to breathe. Deep breaths, in and out. Watch me, try to match my breathing.”

Peter watches, and tries. He fails, mostly, but after several painful moments his chest loosens slightly. He leans against the dumpster, shivering slightly and carefully regulating his breathing. He eventually brings himself to look back at Tony, who’s watching him with furrowed brows and a creased forehead.

“Was that a panic attack? You’ve never told me you get them.”

The truth is that Peter never used to. They started, he thinks, after the whole Vulture incident. The feeling of being crushed, of screaming for help and knowing nobody was coming to save him, was enough to steal the breath from his lungs a couple of times. They hadn’t really become a thing - an issue - though, until after Thanos.

He doesn’t explain any of that, though. Now he’s thinking clearly again, he can feel himself closing up, curling in on himself. “I have to get home. May’s expecting me.”

Tony’s frown deepens. He seems reluctant to push it now, though, afraid of sending Peter into another spiral. It’s irritatingly patronizing, but Peter can work with it.

“Okay, Pete. I’ll take you home.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’ll walk. Thank you, and everything, but uh. I just really need to clear my head. Fresh air and all, you know.” He waves his hand vaguely.

“You can roll the windows down, stick your head out like a dog. See what the hype’s all about.”

“I really want to walk.”

Tony sighs. He’s quiet for a moment, just staring at Peter. “Okay. Yeah, okay. Guess I’ll take off too, then.” Instead of heading back towards his car, however, he presses something on his chest and Peter watches as the Iron Man suit forms perfectly around him.

Nanotech-- so cool. Peter has a million and one questions about how it works on the tip of his tongue. He wishes he could bring himself to ask them.

Tony, clearly getting ready to take off, pauses just for a moment. “Just-- just tell me this. Do you miss it?”

Peter smiles, a slow thing. He guesses he can give Tony a real answer, just this once. “I miss it like breathing. Without it, it’s like…” It’s like I’m living on the fringes of myself.

He trails off. Tony nods once, Iron Man mask hard and unyielding, before turning and blasting off into the air. Peter watches him go, awe rising up in his chest despite everything. Iron Man has always been his favourite hero; he still hasn’t quite figured out how to let that go.

As he begins to walk away, navigating his way home with the confidence of someone who knows Queens intimately - every dark alley, every dilapidated corner - he keeps his mind carefully blank. He doesn’t think about Tony, about Spider-Man, about Thanos, about anything. He hones his senses in on the city around him, letting the loud noises and hordes of people comfort him with their familiarity.

Then he feels it. A cold prickle on the back of his neck, followed a split second later by a single scream.

A woman’s scream. Maybe a block away. He tenses, tries to hone in on the exact location. More noises follow, all hitting him at once. More screaming, from multiple people, and something else. Something-- mechanical, maybe? He can’t place it. Whatever it is, it sounds off, sends a chill up his spine.

He sees it next. A building in the near distance with people pouring from the entrance, glass raining down on them from smashed windows near the top, the briefest glimpse of something that Peter still can’t place inside.

And it’s instinct - set deeper into his bones than any guilt, or fear, or trauma - to go running right towards it.

Chapter Text

Growing up, Peter often felt he was prone to bad timing, prone to a life without luck on his side.

It was often in the little things. Reaching the front of a grocery line only to realize he had forgotten his wallet; always being five minutes late to any class or appointment; sneezing in his school photo for three years in a row.

And sometimes-- sometimes it wasn’t so little. Sometimes it was breaking three bones in his right arm after another kid ran into the street and he had to slam on his bike brakes to avoid them, flipping over the handlebars and slamming into the ground. Sometimes it was finally gathering the courage to ask out the girl of his dreams, only to send her father to jail and watch her be whisked across the country, left with a shitty apology he knew she couldn’t truly understand.

Sometimes it was learning the meaning of power (of responsibility ) too late, left with blood crusted under nails and a loss so permanent he knew in his core it would never fade.

He had thought, once, that this must all have been to balance, to counteract, the one time in his life when he had truly, amazingly, good timing. The one time in his life when he had been in the right place at the right time-- when a sudden, sharp pain flaring at the base of his neck had been the catalyst of a series of events so unbelievable, so extraordinary, that they had thrust him into a life where he could be considered a hero.

Lately he’s been thinking maybe it was just more of the same.

And now, as he works his way to the front of the building, it’s hard to tell if it’s happening again, hard to tell if he’s arrived too late. People are still shoving their way out the front doors; women with stockinged feet and pumps clutched in hands, men with ties flapping in the wind. Civilians pool on the sidewalks nearby, spilling onto the street, their gazes and cameras pointed up, up, up.

It’s where Peter looks too, as he manoeuvres his way through the crowd to slip unnoticed towards the entrance, towards the uppermost floor that’s still causing his spider sense to scream, towards the thing he still can’t get a good read on but feels like nothing he’s ever known. It doesn’t matter, though. People are in danger and Peter is here. Peter can help.

He steals through the door just as a straggling office worker makes her hurried way out, and pauses a moment to listen for sounds of life in the building, any sign of people who haven’t yet made it out. Upon hearing nothing, he begins making his way up the stairs. He practically flies up them, all harsh turns and leaping steps. He can clear a whole set in a single bound, and it’s still nowhere near as fast as he could get there as Spider-Man. He grits his teeth against the thought, against the reflex that has him reaching for webshooters that are no longer there; the weight of them no longer a constant, familiar thing.

When he finally bursts through the door leading to the topmost floor, the sight that greets him makes him freeze where he stands. What he first took to be something mechanical is undeniably, he realizes with a sinking gut, alien. What could almost pass as a giant octopus, if octopi were green and oozing and had sharp, glistening pincers at the end of their arms, stares back at him.

It only hits Peter in this moment just how much he’s fucked up. He’s not equipped for this, can’t handle it, this thing is from space and when has anything good ever come of that? Peter let the whole universe get destroyed last time he tried this, let himself get torn apart and never quite put back together, and he’s going to die, he’s going to fail, he’s going to die--

“Pete?!”

Peter whirls around, stance defensive. Johnny Storm lands in front of him, flaming off, concern and indignation fighting for control over his face. “What in the ever loving fuck are you doing here?”

Peter can’t, for the life of him, think of a single plausible explanation. “Uh. Is this not the Chili’s? My bad dude, I was just really craving some baby back ribs, you know how it goes--”

Johnny groans, loudly. “I don’t even-- who the fuck are you, oh my god, you gotta get out of here, what the fuck.” He seems anxious, eyes flicking between Peter, the creature that, for the moment, has remained relatively still, and the broken, gaping windows under which civilians still stand far below.

A the very least, however, Johnny’s unexpected entrance seemed to snap Peter out of his panic before he could go into a full spiral. He can think a little clearer now, can address the here and now, cope with the situation directly in front of him.

“Okay, you know what, this doesn’t actually seem that bad, right? It’s just sitting there, like a big, slightly pincier Flubber.”

Johnny shakes his head. “No, dude, you don’t understand, this is the baby. The rest of the four are trying to contain the mom until we can reunite them and get them off this planet. I swear, every time we go off-world some kind of shitshow happens, from now on I’m staying put. I’m telling you man, cold turkey. Rockets? Nope. Jets? Nah. Why can’t we ever be satisfied by a nice car, am I right? Honestly--”

“I’m sorry, did you say off-world?” A sentence that would have sent a young NASA obsessed Peter into fits of jealousy now sends a familiar fear shooting through his veins with a force so visceral he can taste it.

“Ugh, yeah. It was supposed to be just a routine mission, but these things latched on like leeches on our way back, it was disgusting. Seriously, I’m gonna need about a million showers after this.”

Peter grins at the look of disgust and slight offense on Johnny’s face. “Okay, aliens first, showers second, buddy. How should we do this? Are the others bringing the mom here, or were you gonna try to bring the baby to them? Do you have some kind of way to contain them? What about transport?”

Johnny winces, flushing. “We, uh, haven’t quite figured out all the specifics? We were just closest to where the mom landed, and I could get to the baby faster than the others so, you know, here I am.” It hits Peter again just how green they all are, how little experience they have with this sort of thing.

Johnny pauses, eyes widening. “And you’re here too. Oh shit Pete, why are you still here? You gotta go, get outside and find someplace safe until all of this is dealt with. Go!” He moves forward, placing his arms on Peter’s shoulders and pushing, moving him towards the doors with an urgency that has Peter bristling.

He ducks away from Johnny’s grip, backs further into the room. “Johnny, stop. I may not be a hero like you are, but I can still help.” His voice comes out bitter, harsh.

Johnny’s head rears back slightly, surprised. “Peter, c’mon. I can set myself on fire and I’m like ninety percent sure you can’t, so… I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

Peter had forgotten, since his few brief encounters with the other boy, who Johnny really is; forgotten that Johnny gets to be the hero that Peter never was. He remembers now, a wave of that familiar resentment slamming into him at Johnny’s words, cutting and casual and more than Peter can bear.

“Right. Yeah. Guess you’ve got it handled. I’ll see you, Torch.” Peter turns away.

“Pete!” Johnny’s expression is hard to read when Peter turns back. There’s something in his eyes that Peter can’t quite place. “I’ll find you after, okay? Just-- just wait, and I’ll come find you.”

Peter wants to. He really does, and that’s what scares him. “I have to get home. Good luck, though. Be careful.”

He leaves the room too late to miss the way Johnny’s face falls.

***

Peter’s milling around with the rest of the civilians on the sidewalk (because there’s no world where he could really just leave, could walk away like it’s nothing) when it happens.

The rest of the Four arrived courtesy of a personalized jet, allowing them to exit right onto the top floor of the building, armed with machines that vaguely resemble vacuums and remind Peter of the Ghostbusters costumes that pop up every year in the tacky Halloween shops he and Ned frequent.

Several minutes have passed with little happening from what Peter can tell, his spider sense the same constant buzz it’s been since this started. Then, suddenly, his whole body seizes up, and his mind begins to scream.

A moment later, the building explodes.

It’s like something out of a nightmare. Glass rains down as civilians scream and run for cover, heat billows out in smoky waves. And, everywhere, fire. Giant, flickering flames devouring everything in their path.

And Peter is too late.

(“I’ll find you after, okay?”)

I’m right here, Johnny, he thinks desperately. Come find me.

Peter is always too late.

Chapter Text

For someone who’s seen as much destruction as he has, it’s not something Peter thinks he’ll ever get used to.

It’s not something he ever wants to get used to.

It still feels jagged; sharp shards slicing up his insides, guilt and pain and fear pulsing out of open wounds. He stands, frozen, as sirens start to grow louder in the distance and civilians finally begin to flee the scene.

He watches, gaze trained solely on the building, nails cutting sharp grooves into his palms, for something he knows isn’t coming. For some kind of saviour, some eleventh hour miracle to swoop in and wash it all away-- to send Peter back to the top floor of the building where he still stood a chance of helping; back to the naive, cocky teen in glorified pajamas who had no idea what laid ahead of him; back to the child tucked safely in his aunt and uncle’s embrace, dreaming of faraway heroes he had never met.

But what can anyone do, he thinks, vicious, as the flames climb higher and the smoke begins to choke and the building starts to crumble, starts to collapse.

Smoke has started to fill the air, as firefighters clear a perimeter and attempt to battle the flames. Peter breathes it in, lungs protesting, as he backs away and presses himself against a wall next to an alley on the opposite side of the street.

One breath.

Two.

He tears his focus away from the ash swirling in the air, from the way it looks like it did before he died; before he became just another handful of dust in the wind, drifting, lost.

This is another time. Another failure, yes. Another loss. But Peter will deal with that later. Because unlike before, he’s still here. He can still go on, so he still has to go on.

It’s a choice, his brain rattles at him, incessant in a way it hasn’t had to be recently- Peter’s been opting to listen to it. And it’s true. It’s a choice. But the thrumming in his bones as he stares at the devastation in front of him tells the whole truth.

It’s more than just a choice. It’s a responsibility.

One breath.

Two.

His suit is still hidden away at home. It’s too far, would be too long by the time he grabbed it and made it back. Everyone’s more than clear of the building already-- everyone who made it out, that is. Peter swallows past a sudden lump in his throat.

Everyone’s clear, but the fire is spreading despite the firefighters’ best efforts. Angry, ruthless flames lick at neighbouring buildings, teasing, taunting. Not to mention the matter of the alien who somehow caused the explosion that killed the world’s most beloved superheroes. Step one is seeing if it’s still a threat, and finding a way to stop the fire.

So Peter doesn’t have the suit, so what? He could go up there without it, figure out how to handle this himself. He’s capable, he knows he is. A little rusty, sure, but he’s had a lot of practice in compartmentalizing, in perfecting the ability to push aside any thoughts of his own well-being to focus on what needs to be done.

And this would expose his identity, but he’s known since he first donned the mask that his secret isn’t worth people’s lives. The thought of exposing the others, though, of Spiderman being linked to Ned, MJ, May- that gives him pause.

And another memory flashes through Peter’s mind, then, from long before the snap but still strong enough to cause an unpleasant tug in his gut. A ferry, splitting in two as Peter almost tore himself apart trying to hold it together. And he would have, wouldn’t have let go for anything less than the total safety of every single person on board, but something else - someone else - came along first and put it back together. Iron Man saved them when Peter couldn’t.

Maybe, sometimes, it’s okay to ask for help.

One breath.

Two.

Peter pulls out his phone, and makes a call.

Tony answers almost immediately. “What’s up kid, you get lost? Too much fresh air?”

Just hearing his voice right now makes something in Peter shatter, a comfort he knows he doesn’t deserve. “Mr. Stark, I...”. He realizes belatedly that he’s shaking.

“Peter? Hey buddy, what’s going on?” Tony’s voice comes out louder now, an undercurrent of worry lacing his tone.

And the words start spilling out, too fast for Peter to control them. “I… the building exploded, Mr. Stark, I couldn’t save them, they’re dead, it’s my fault, I was just gonna leave. I was gonna leave them there, like they were nothing, like he was nothing, and he asked me to wait and I didn’t, I’m not a hero but I still could have helped. And the building exploded and there’s so much smoke. There’s smoke everywhere Mr. Stark, and the fire is spreading, and the alien, oh my god--”

“Alien?” Tony cuts in before Peter can continue. “Okay Pete, listen to me. I’ve got your location, I’ll be there in three minutes. Just hold on, okay? Just keep talking, I’m almost there. It’s going to be okay. Just stay on the phone, I’m almost there.”

Peter opens his mouth to do just that, to keep talking, to hold himself together until Tony arrives.

And then somehow, impossibly, the fire appears to start shrinking.

Peter blinks. He can hear Tony’s voice on the other end of the line, but he can’t make out any words. He reaches up and rubs his eyes. The scene in front of him stays the same; he’s not imagining it. It’s like watching the explosion in reverse, the fire shrinking back into the vague space where the top floor used to be. Growing smaller and smaller by the second, until all of a sudden it’s just-- gone.

Then there’s movement.

Something begins floating to the ground. It looks like… an orb, almost. Celestial, glowing. Peter can see just a glimpse of three figures contained within it. He squints, trying to make them out, when something else catches his eye. Another person, heading in the opposite direction. Rising further and further into the air. A person made of fire.

Johnny.

Relief hits Peter before his brain has a chance to catch up, so strong and so sudden it makes his knees feel weak. He’s okay. He’s alive. Peter doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend how that’s possible, but it doesn’t matter. He watches, heart in his throat, as Johnny continues to rise.

The rest of the four are back on the ground now, the strange orb having disappeared. Force field, a distant part of Peter’s mind supplies. And then, finally, when he’s barely a speck in the distance, a bright light set harshly against the smoke and the ash, Johnny pauses.

And it’s like the explosion happens all over again. It pours into the sky, billows of heat and flames, too high up in the atmosphere to do any kind of damage to the earth below. Peter realizes with muted horror that Johnny must have absorbed the flames into himself, and is now trying to release them in the only place that won’t harm anybody else.

There’s a moment, when Johnny seems to finally be finished, where Peter waits for him to fly back down.

Instead, Johnny falls.

There’s no Human Torch this time. It’s just Johnny, flamed off, tumbling towards the ground at a sickening speed. Peter’s moving before he’s fully realized what’s happening, sprinting faster than should be humanly possible through the crowd. He needs to do something, needs to catch him, but he can see with a dreadful clarity that he’s not going to make it--

And then Iron Man is there. He catches Johnny hard around the waist just seconds before slamming into the ground, absorbing any tremors into his suit. Peter makes it to them mere seconds later; seconds that, without Tony there to catch Johnny, would have haunted Peter for the rest of his life.

Everything moves too quickly after that.

Peter barely catches a glimpse of Johnny’s pale, unconscious face, before the rest of the Four are there, hauling him away towards the nearest ambulance with undisguised fear on their faces. At least a dozen Iron Drones are dispatched to the top of the building to deal with the alien situation. Civilians are clamoring around them, some to get closer the the Four, to Iron Man, some trying to get out, get away, get to safety. Peter can relate.

He feels ragged, split at the seams, like one more sudden movement will rip him into pieces. Tony moves back into Peter’s line of vision then, faceplate up, hands finding their way onto Peter’s shoulders.

“Pete. Hey pal, I need you to look at me, yeah? There ya go. What a day, huh?” His voice is light, but the tightness around his eyes gives him away. “It’s okay though. Everyone’s okay. No one was hurt, you hear me?”

Peter shakes his head. Shame floods his system when he realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. “I could have stopped this. If I’d had my suit, my webs… I thought they died, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s face falls. He hesitates, for just a moment, before gathering Peter in a hug so tight it’s almost painful. In a moment of weakness, Peter hugs him back. He knows he’ll regret this later. He doesn’t deserve it, but he finds he can’t deny himself the comfort in this moment.

By the time they part, the tears are streaming down Peter’s face, so quietly he’s barely even aware of them. Tony reaches up and brushes a few away, tucks Peter’s hair back away from his forehead.

“Try not to think about it right now, Pete. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

The flight back to Peter’s building is fast, the walk up to his apartment even faster, Tony’s hand a firm comfort on his back with every step.

May’s in the living room with a book when they enter the apartment. She barely has a chance to look confused, and then concerned, before Peter is throwing himself into her arms. A beat, and then she’s hugging him back just as firmly, reassuring nothings whispered into his hair despite not knowing what’s got him so upset.

She lowers them onto the couch, Tony hovering awkwardly at their side, and maneuvers Peter so that his head is tucked into her shoulder as she gently runs her fingers through his hair. He’s too big for this now, really, but they make it work.

They always make it work.

His parents are a distant memory. Even Ben feels so far out of his reach these days.

But May is here. And so is Tony. They’re real, in front of him, offering comfort and love and protection. All he has to do it take it. Maybe it’s time he works on trying.

“I love you, May,” Peter says, and none of them say it, but they all hear it lingering in the air; what Peter really means to say.

I love you Mom.

Chapter Text

Peter can’t sleep.

It’s nothing new, this insomnia. It’s been months of never getting a full night’s sleep, caught in that vague space between waking and dreaming, rising every morning feeling like he’d never gone to bed.

He’s on edge, always. The snap, every moment leading up to it, happened so quickly, so out of the blue, that Peter never could have seen it coming. One minute he’d been on the bus, in the city he loved with his best friend in front of him. The next he was dying on a lonely, decaying planet at the mercy of a mad titan. Thanos may be gone, but that feeling- that constant, swirling tenseness in his gut, that tingling pressure on his spine, like a muted version of his spider sense- still remains. Peter doubts it will ever really go away.

It’s worse tonight, though. It’s twisting, bleeding together with fresh memories, with the remnants of the day that has just barely faded.

He’d told May what happened, earlier, when he’d composed himself enough to stumble his way through a coherent explanation. The image of her too pale face, lips tight together and a slight tremble to her chin, has branded itself into his brain.

She’s always been so steady, one of the only constants in his life, and that only increased after the snap. Still, he knows the chaos that follows him wherever he goes has impacted her more than she cares to admit.

They’ve been going through life together for so many years now, each of them all the other has. Except now, May knows what it’s like to not even have that. That there was a time where Peter left May alone in the world might just be the worst part of it all. He tries not to think of it too much, the guilt an ever present simmer within him, threatening to explode if he stokes the flame.

Still, he can’t help but notice sometimes the way she watches him as if seeing a ghost.

So he’d sat on his couch, took a breath, and told May and Tony about his day. The full story meant going further back, to his brief meetings with Johnny both in and out of the mask; to the fact that he’d put the mask back on at all. He still didn’t really know what to say about that. He still doesn’t know how to feel. The world deserves heroes with more than Peter can give, heroes who don’t fail over and over and over.

But Peter could have helped today.

That thought clattered around his brain for the rest of the night. Through May and Tony listening but never pushing, allowing him the space for something that feels too big for Peter to contain; through Tony leaving with a promise to talk the next day, pausing for hushed whispers in the doorway with May; through a shower where ash melted off his skin and swirled down the drain, where he scrubbed his skin red and raw and watched it heal before he’d even turned the water off.

And the thought sticks with him now, so late into the night that dawn threatens to break over the horizon.

Tony had updated him on the whole alien situation as it unfolded; it turns out the alien had, in fact, both caused and survived the explosion. It seems it was an accident though, some kind of automatic defense mechanism that was triggered when the Four tried to contain it. It’s since been reunited with its mother and their imminent return to space is in the works. So that’s it then. Problem solved, all wrapped up neat with a bow to boot.

Except that’s not it. Because that’s never it. The aftermath, that’s what’s messy. Broken buildings and broken people, years stretched ahead and no way to know how they’ll be filled.

It’s too much to think about, all that empty time in front of him, heavy, demanding.

Who will you become? It asks. Will it ever be enough?

Here, in a dark bedroom in a dark apartment - the sounds of New York heavy in his ears yet distant at the same time, a grounding reality just out of reach - Peter has no answers.

Sleep comes eventually, fitful and restless, as the sun begins to fill the morning sky.

_____________

Peter wakes what feels like minutes later to a gentle knock on his door. He mumbles unintelligibly, fumbling in his twisted sheets for his phone.

A quick glance at the screen confirms it’s actually mid-morning, later than Peter usually sleeps but so much less than his exhausted body is screaming for. He ignores it as usual, stumbling out of bed and cracking open the door with a yawn.

“Hey sleepyhead,” May grins at him, eyes crinkling gently as she ruffles a hand through his curls. “I was gonna let you sleep more, but that plan’s been scrapped. You have a guest.”

“Tony?” Peter guesses mildly. He did say they would talk more today, but Peter had assumed he would at least call first. Then again, Peter hasn’t exactly been super reliable when it comes to answering lately. Tony might be trying out a more direct approach to communication now that Peter’s finally, sort of, talking to him again.

“Not Tony," May replies, and Peter is surprised at the brief flash of disappointment he feels. “I have to get to work. I`ve got a double today so I won't be home till late, but I`ll have my phone on me the whole time, call me if you need anything, okay?”

Peter nods as May studies him briefly before planting a brief kiss on his forehead. “He’s in the living room, don’t leave him waiting too long. Oh, and maybe put on some actual clothes. Larb you!” She calls over her shoulder as she blows out of the apartment in her familiar routine of scatterbrained flurry.

Peter glances down at his current choice of attire and scowls. Iron Man pajama bottoms, the pattern alternating between the iconic mask and a picture of Tony’s face. Tony had bought them for him, a couple of years ago now. He’d meant it as a joke and Peter had treated it like one, but now the touch-soft, worn down fabric speaks for itself. It’s a little silly, sure, but Peter takes small comforts where he can get them these days.

Shaking his head, Peter makes his way into the living room without bothering to change. It’s only Ned, Peter assumes, and this wouldn’t even make the participation ribbon in terms of embarrassing experiences shared between the two of them.

He flops face first onto the couch without looking up, groaning into the fabric his face is mushed into. “Dude, you would not believe the day I had yesterday.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

And that… is definitely not Ned.

Peter shoots up off the couch so fast his knees crack. He freezes, mouth gaping slightly, as Johnny Storm looks up at him from his current spot curled up on Peter’s favourite armchair.

“Hey Pete,” he grins, all easy charm. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”

Chapter Text

Peter gapes. “I’m sorry, did I hit my head? Am I forgetting all the other times you’ve broken into my home?”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Cool your jets, your aunt let me in.”

“How do you know my aunt? How do you know where I live? How are you--”

“How do you have better abs than me?”

“--even out of the hospital right now-- wait, what?”

Johnny uncurls himself, gesturing at Peter’s… everything. In one horrifying second, Peter becomes distinctly aware that his stupid pajama bottoms are the only thing he’s wearing.

“Dude, seriously!” Johnny’s voice is indignant as he stands and steps closer to Peter. “Like, I pride myself on my abs. They’ve gotten me on magazine covers. But yours are better. Are you on steroids? Is that what you were doing in that alleyway the other day?”

Peter splutters, tries to will away his furious blush. “What? No, I-- dude, I told you that wasn’t a drug thing!”

Johnny shifts then, his righteous anger over Peter’s abs taking a backseat. “You also told me you were in that building yesterday because you thought it was a Chili’s. Why were you actually there?”

“Well, I… you know, New York is a big place. Lot of buildings. It’s easy to get confused--”

Johnny groans dramatically. “Don’t be difficult.”

“You say that like it’s a choice.”

“Is it a choice to be a jerk?”

“I don’t know, is it a choice to look like a knockoff Disney prince?”

Johnny pauses, tilts his head. “Was that an insult or a compliment?”

Peter waves his hands around wildly. “I don’t know, okay, I just woke up. And I still don’t know why you’re in my apartment.” He hopes Johnny drops it, that stupid comment that spilled out of Peter’s mouth before his brain could quite catch up.

Thankfully, Johnny does. “Okay, look, I know where you live because you told me your full name the other day, and Google is a thing that exists. And I came by because… I wanted to see for myself that you were okay, I guess.”

The guilt is immediate, so sharp Peter can taste it. “Yeah. I’m… I’m okay. I got out before, you know…”

Johnny nods, swallows. “Okay. Good. Still doesn’t explain why you were there in the first place though.”

Peter opens his mouth, another lie on the tip of his tongue, but Johnny cuts him off. “Look, I may not be the brightest match in the box, but I’m not a total idiot, okay? If you won’t tell me can you just say you won’t tell me instead of trying to lie? You’re really bad at it.”

The irony stabs at something behind Peter’s ribcage. He scrubs a tired hand over his face. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. Okay. Honestly? I was nearby and saw something was going on and I just… I don’t know, I just wanted to help, I guess.”

Johnny blinks. “Pardon?”

“What?”

“Are you telling me you specifically went into that building after you knew there was something dangerous going on? You were facing off against an alien when I showed up!”

“Well I mean, what did you think I was doing there?”

“I don’t know, I thought maybe you had a weekend temp job or something and got lost on your way out! What the hell, Pete, you could have died!”

“So could you!” Peter blurts out. The anger surprises him. He should feel relieved, he knows, that everything essentially worked out. Relieved that Johnny’s standing in front of him, clearly okay despite his little stunt the day before. Instead, he just feels pissed. He barely knows Johnny and he thought he watched him die and it hurt.

There’s a quick beat, after Peter’s outburst, where Johnny’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open slightly, before he shifts and a slightly crooked, almost wry smile slides into place. “Yeah, well, I’m learning that it apparently comes with the territory. The grand reward for donning a tacky spandex suit in public is risking mine and my family’s life. At least it matches my eyes.”

Peter forces the tension from his shoulders, takes a few breaths. “So are you okay? Last time I saw you you were being rushed into an ambulance.”

Johnny laughs slightly at that, just a huff of air around curved lips. “Yeah I’m good, that thing I did yesterday just saps a lot of my energy, I guess. I passed out and felt really woozy for a while after, but I didn’t need a hospital. Next time I’ll know to stop a bit sooner.”

Peter’s not sure he heard that right. “Wait. Are you saying yesterday is the first time you did that?”

Johnny nods, nonchalant. Peter’s heart rate rises. “As in, you didn’t know what was going to happen? As in you absorbed the fire from an entire explosion into your own body without knowing if it would hurt you?”.

Johnny frowns, lips puckering. “Wait, are you mad or something? I didn’t know I could do it until I did it, and then I knew I had to do it. Sue didn’t know she could create force fields, either, until she did yesterday, and it saved all of our lives.”

“Am I--?! You had no idea that would work. It could’ve killed you, it should’ve killed you, did you realize that?”

Johnny scowls, flops back down into the chair. “Of course I realized that, Peter. Sometimes things are just…bigger than that though. Anyway, if you were so concerned about me dying, why aren’t you happy to see me?”

Peter’s not sure, but he thinks Johnny might be pouting. Peter lays back on the couch, resting his head on the arm closest to Johnny’s chair. Johnny doesn’t look at him, studiously examining his fingernails.

“Johnny, hey,” Peter reaches over and pokes Johnny lightly in the arm. Johnny just shifts away. “Hothead, you awake over there?”

Johnny finally looks up at the nickname. “Did you just call me hot?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Focus, please. Listen, I wasn’t-- not happy to see you. I was just surprised.”

Johnny perks up. “So you weren’t not happy to see me, and you called me hot. Well good morning to you too, Peter Parker.”

“I didn’t call you hot, I called you hothead, are you always this insufferable?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you, the stars in your eyes are too distracting.”

Peter sighs, rolls over so he faces the ceiling. “Were you put on this earth just to make me suffer? I’m starting to think you must have been.”

“My presence is a blessing on this earth, and in your apartment. You should appreciate it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Johnny hums. “I’m bored, let’s do something.”

Confusion washes through Peter. “What, like hang out?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you want to hang out with me?”

“Why not?”

Peter huffs, sitting up and tucking his feet beneath his knees. “What do you mean ‘why not’? You checked up on me and saw I’m alive, you’ve done your duty.”

Johnny’s grin slips slightly. “Oh. Sorry. I just thought maybe you’d want to. I can go, though.” He’s halfway off the chair before Peter thinks to reach over and grab his arm.

“Wait! I never said I didn’t want to, I asked why you wanted to. I mean - you’re Johnny Storm. You’re part of the world’s most famous superhero team. Don’t you have better things to do today?”

Johnny’s shoulders draw up slightly. “Can you stop saying my name like that?”

“Like what?”

“Johnny Storm. My name’s Johnny, just call me Johnny.”

“Oh,” Peter swallows, some strange kind of guilt sitting heavy in his gut. “Okay. Johnny.”

“And if you must know,” Johnny begins, the dramatic edge to his voice already starting to become familiar, “I don’t really have much else going on today, barring any world-ending scenarios. Reed and Sue are busy working on new suit designs, they said they need to take the new powers we discovered yesterday into account. And Ben, I mean, I don’t think he would really want to put up with me all day. I was just gonna spend the day in the garage, but, um, I’m free if you are.”

There’s something in the way Johnny’s holding himself, the way his eyes refuse to land fully on Peter, that gives off a distinct air of nervousness. That thought warms something in Peter, chips away at some wall he hadn’t fully realized he’d constructed. “The garage?” he asks, curious.

Johnny glances up, and quickly away. “Yeah I uh, I like cars. Taking them apart, putting them together. They make sense to me, I guess.”

“Oh. Cool,” Peter responds, like an idiot.

Except Johnny finally focuses on him again, eyes bright. “Yeah?”

“Totally,” Peter says, nodding way too many times to be necessary. “I mean, I don’t know anything about cars, but- you liking them, that’s uh. That’s really cool.” It’s really not possible at this point for him to sound dumber.

Johnny really doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s sitting taller, an almost proud grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, so very different from the classic smirk or megawatt superhero smile he presents to the public. It reminds Peter, absurdly, of the first moment he met Johnny, on that rooftop, as Spiderman.

That thought confuses him, and then scares him. He hadn’t even considered it before now, but what if Johnny knows who he really is? Peter went years without noticing that MJ knew his secret, what if it’s happening again? A small spark of panic courses through him.

“So, uh. I mean, I’m free today too. But I gotta know, why me? Why do you want to hang out with me?”

Johnny laughs. “Because you’re so very chill and undemanding.”

“I’m serious Johnny.”

“I know, it’s not my favourite look on you.” Peter just stares. “Okay, okay. So, it’s like this, I guess. I didn’t… really have that many friends growing up. And it was okay. It made sense. I was kind of a weird kid. But then this happened to me,” he holds up a hand and a tiny ball of flame appears, “and suddenly everyone wanted to be my friend. And that made sense too. But it didn’t make it real, you know?”

Peter swallows. Something about the way Johnny speaks is so raw; dismissive and impossibly sad all at the same time. It’s something Peter had never had to deal with, one of the only perks of wearing the mask. He’d never had to question people’s intentions for being in his life.

“And then I ran into you in that gross alleyway, and it seemed like all you wanted to do was stop talking to me. But you were nice at the same time? It was like, like whatever was going on wasn’t about me. Like you couldn’t really care less that you were talking to the Johnny Storm. This sounds so stupid,” he laughs, a self deprecating grating on Peter’s ears, “but I think I wanted to be your friend because you didn’t care about being mine.”

Peter holds his gaze for a long moment. Johnny`s face is so open, Peter wonders if he’s ever able to hide what he’s feeling. He clearly doesn’t know about Spiderman, though, and that’s enough for Peter.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Johnny repeats, looking confused.

“Okay, let’s be friends. Let’s hang out.”

Johnny’s answering grin is blinding, and something in Peter’s stomach swooshes. “Okay, let’s do it. This is super formal, should we shake on it?”

Peter snorts. “Oh no, the process is much more lengthy than that. I’ll go get the application, you get me your reference list.”

“I’ll grab the waver and the NDA too.”

And maybe it’s stupid, but being here with Johnny, who only knows him as Peter, who doesn’t look at him as some half formed shell of his former self, it just feels good. It feels right, like Peter’s finally settling back into his own skin.

And they stand there, trying to outdo each other with more elaborate and ridiculous friendship qualifications, but Peter knows it’s way too late for that. It’s a simple truth that already feels bigger than himself; Peter Parker and Johnny Storm just are.

Chapter Text

“So. Queens.”

“Yup,” Peter replies, popping the ‘p’ as he sways onto the balls of his feet. They’re on the sidewalk outside Peter’s building, and it’s just hitting him that he has no idea what exactly ‘hanging out’ with Johnny Storm entails. “Your navigational skills are really something else, man. If the whole superhero schtick ever gets old I bet they’d love you down at Google maps.”

Johnny sticks his tongue out as he tugs on the baseball cap he snagged from Peter’s hall closet on the way out the door. Peter’s decided to be kind and not mention that ‘Johnny Storm in sunglasses and a baseball cap’ still somehow manages to look an awful lot like Johnny Storm. Who is he to ruin the thrill of the disguise? Let the kid have his fun.

“They couldn’t afford me,” Johnny says haughtily, squinting around at his surroundings. “So what’s there to do around here?”

Peter hops off the curb and crosses the street, trying to think. He’s got four dollars, an empty Metro card, and a melted stick of gum in his pocket. That probably won’t get them very far.

Johnny follows behind him, jogging slightly to catch up. “Pete? Is this you trying to run away from me because, honestly, rude. Also I could definitely outrun you so maybe switch tactics.”

Peter laughs, but it comes out kind of stilted. As he slows down to wait for Johnny, he’s forced to acknowledge that he has zero ideas on how to fill the day. It’s stupid, but a small part of him had hoped to impress Johnny with whatever they end up doing. So, naturally, he falls back on what he always does when he doesn’t know what to do - he just starts talking.

“Well, there’s a great hot dog cart just up the street. I mean… great might be a bit of a stretch. But it’s cheap! And it’s only given me food poisoning once, and the vendor is always in a bad mood, so, y’know - consistency. Some say it’s key. Build your brand, and all that.”

Johnny makes a face and opens his mouth to say some undoubtedly negative comment, so Peter plows on. “Or, uhhhh, oh! We could go visit my friend MJ, she’s protesting outside the city clerk’s office today. I usually stop by and bring her pine nuts on days she really hunkers down.”

“Why pine nuts?”

“They’re her second favourite kind of nut, after pistachio, but I mean really, who can afford those? I’m not a billionaire. She actually prefers to be brought tea, but I always slosh it over the cup and it burns my hands.”

“Okay, as fun as bringing your protester friend handfuls of pine nuts sounds - ”

“Well I usually bring them in a container, I’m not a total heathen - ”

“Why don’t we just explore a bit? I don’t really get out of Baxter much these days, and when I do my view is usually a bit different.”

Peter swallows at that. He knows exactly the kind of view that Johnny is talking about; that heart wrenching perspective of New York from death defying angles, the city below small and beautiful and bursting with life.

He aches for it, so suddenly and so strongly that for a brief second of insanity he considers telling Johnny the truth, just spilling his identity right then and there. That way they could just go, and he could really and truly show Johnny the Queens that only he knows, could let Johnny see it the way only he does.

He can’t do that though. He doesn’t even have a secret identity to spill anymore, not really. So they set out on foot.

And honestly, it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of fun. They mainly just kick around, the familiar streets and sidewalks so familiar to Peter’s tread seeming somehow different with Johnny by his side. His running commentary doesn’t hurt either. Peter, used to essentially talking circles around everyone all the time, is kind of in awe of meeting another person as capable of spewing constant nonsense as he is.

They take detours every now and then; to pick up deep fried mini donuts from a seedy street vendor who definitely implied that he could sell them coke, to lounge in a park eating the donuts and making up backstories for every dog they see, to wander through an antique shop and point out every item they’re convinced is haunted.

Evening hits before Peter quite realizes it. As the sun begins to set, painting the sky a brilliant shade of pink, he tunes out part of Johnny’s current rant on skincare products (“ - And another thing, why do so many high end products still contain alcohol in them? I’m buying vitamin E serum to help hydrate and rejuvenate my skin, and the alcohol has the exact opposite effect Peter. The opposite effect! Why is there not more public outrage about this?”) to figure out exactly how he should go about telling Johnny he should be getting home.

It’s not like he has a super early curfew or anything - May still won’t be home for several hours. But Johnny’s probably looking for a way out by this point, and Peter - as much as he doesn’t actually want the night to end - would be a jerk not to give it to him.

When he suggests heading back, however, Johnny’s face flashes with something that looks almost like disappointment.

“Can we just do one more thing first? You’ll - I mean, I think you’ll really like it. But you gotta trust me.”

And Peter does - trust him, that is. Maybe it’s not really earned, maybe on paper Johnny is still just some guy he spent a single afternoon with but is basically a stranger. But maybe that doesn’t matter as much as the way Peter feels.

So Peter agrees, and is only slightly perplexed when Johnny leads him into the first alleyway they come across, heading deeper into it where the shadows protect them from any prying eyes out on the street. He’s slightly more perplexed, however, when Johnny begins stripping.

There’s a brief moment when Peter’s brain just becomes one relentless mass of white noise, ‘Johnny’s stripping, Johnny’s stripping, Johnny’s stripping’ the only thought banging against his skull. Hi next instinct is to shrug off his jacket, because maybe Johnny just got tired of his own clothes? Maybe he just wants new ones, maybe if Peter hands his own over then Johnny can wear them and he can stop stripping before Peter’s actual heart leaps out of his throat, he’s vaguely concerned that he’s stopped breathing long enough that there’s no oxygen going to his brain, and -

Johnny shrugs off his last layer to reveal the Fantastic Four suit he’s apparently been wearing under his other clothes. It’s possible Peter overreacted slightly. It’s even more possible that he’s just going to repress the hell out of this memory so that he never has to dwell on why.

Johnny huffs out a laugh at Peter’s face, lips quirking. “Talk about deja vu, huh?”

“What?” Peter asks, voice coming out squeaky. Then the panic hits him. Deja vu about sneaking into alleyways to change into superhero costumes? Yeah, sure, Peter has that. Johnny sure as hell shouldn’t know that, though. “What do you mean? Nope, no deja vu here. In fact, is there a word for the exact opposite of deja vu? Because that, uh, that’s what I’m experiencing right now, actually.” His voice has reached a pitch he’s pretty sure only dogs should be able to hear.

Johnny looks confused, letting out an awkward laugh. “I just meant, you know, cause we met in an alleyway.”

“Oh. Oh.” Peter’s a whole idiot. “Right. Duh. So, uh,” He plows ahead. Just blow past an awkward moment and it’s like it never happened, right? “Where are we going that needs you in that getup? Frankly, I feel underdressed. Not one single piece of my clothing is skintight and made of spandex.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “It’s made of unstable neuron particles, not spandex. You should definitely consider the skin tight clothing though, I wouldn’t be complaining. And to answer your question, you’ll see when we land.”

Before Peter can do more than barely register the words, Johnny flames on and sweeps Peter suddenly into the sky.

Chapter Text

Johnny takes him to the Statue of Liberty.

Peter’s seen it before, of course; day trips to Ellis Island with May and Ben and an aerial view as Spider Man that wasn’t half bad.

Turns out, though, the view of Miss Liberty is kind of different when you’re standing on top of her.

They land right in the centre of her head, Johnny gently releasing his hold on Peter and turning towards him with an expectant grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Peter’s waist still feels warm where Johnny’s hands had gripped him, the feeling of it searing its way into his memory even as it fades from his skin. He wonders exactly just how hot Johnny actually runs. He wonders how he could find out.

“Sorry,” Johnny says suddenly, startling Peter out of his thoughts. “I know you said you’re scared of heights, if you’re gonna hurl or something I can totally bring us back down. I just thought you might like the view.”

It takes Peter a moment to realize exactly which view he’s supposed to be appreciating at the moment. As soon as his eyes leave Johnny and focus on the horizon behind him, though, it’s like all the air inside his lungs freezes, just for a moment.

Because, god, the view.

The sky is shifting from pink as the sun sets further, blending into a rich, striking blue that stretches on farther than Peter could ever fathom. And below it - the city, just as crowded and chaotic and brimming with life as he’s ever seen it. Peter’s city. Peter’s home.

His breath leaves him all at once, a whoosh of air between parted lips as he soaks in a sight he didn’t realize he was quite so hungry for; some aching, starving part of him finally able to settle, however briefly, in his chest.

“I’m not scared of heights,” he says, voice low. “Or maybe… maybe I am. But in a good way, you know? A good scared.” The kind of scared he could spend his whole life chasing.

Johnny hums, shifting slightly before sinking down to sit cross legged on the national monument that’s currently moonlighting as their floor. Peter follows suit, settling down on Johnny’s right side. Their knees press together slightly.

“Good scared,” Johnny repeats suddenly. “I don’t even know what that means, man. I feel like I’m scared of everything and it’s never felt anything but bad.”

“You don’t seem like you’re scared of anything,” Peter says, frowning.

Johnny laughs, and it sounds more sad than anything. “Yeah, I think I seem like a lot of things. I feel like I spend every second just waiting for that first person to see through me. And then it’s all over.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t really understand.

“I think Spider Man saw it,” Johnny blurts out. He seems to regret it almost immediately, shame clouding his features as he draws his legs up and tucks his chin over them.

Peter jolts. “Saw what?”

“Me.” Johnny says, voice small. “I think it’s my fault he hasn’t come back.”

“What?” Peter blinks, confused. “Why?”

“I mean, that stupid interview. And - I don’t know. I just. I feel like I messed it all up.”

“Johnny,” Peter says, voice coming out harder than he expected. Johnny finally looks up to meet his gaze. “Whatever’s going on with Spider Man, it’s not your fault he hasn’t come back. That’s all on him. And besides, you shouldn’t… you shouldn’t let him affect you this much. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Johnny pulls his head back, something shifting in his eyes. “Why don’t you like Spider Man? It’s like every time I mention him you just shut down or something.”

“Um,” Peter drops his gaze, starts picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “It’s complicated, I guess. I think it’s just hard to have as much faith in him as I used to. When it comes to big things, like the really big things, what’s he gonna do? He can’t save everyone.”

“Yeah but I mean, nobody can save everyone. That’s a ridiculous amount of pressure to place on one hero, dude. Before everything went to shit, he was always the guy who protected the little guy, you know? When I used to imagine him busting in to save me from… from whatever stuff I was dealing with, it never felt like I was just imagining a fairy tale. Because he saved people - ordinary people like me - all the time, so why couldn’t I be next? It helped a lot, just knowing it was possible, I guess. And I think, having someone like that around, even just the idea of him, even if he can’t save everyone, it’s better than nothing. Some of him is better than none at all.”

There’s a feeling growing in Peter, ballooning so fast and so sudden in his chest he knows he doesn’t have a chance in hell of containing it. He stands up without warning, and Johnny jumps up after him.

“Whoa dude, slow down! If you fall off this thing I’m only like 98 percent sure I could catch you.”

Peter grins. “That two percent would really weigh on you, huh?”

“Well the press wouldn’t exactly be great.” Johnny’s finally smiling again, and part of Peter wants to just stay here, in this little world Johnny’s created for them. But he’s got somewhere to be.

“I have to go. I need you to drop me off somewhere, and it might seem weird but I promise I’ll explain later. Thank you for bringing me here. I can’t… I don’t know how to explain how much I needed this. Thank you, Johnny, really.”

Johnny looks confused but pleased, a small flush forming high on his cheekbones. “Anytime, man. I’ve never actually brought anyone here before. But uh, I could do this again. With you.”

Peter’s answering grin stays in place the entire flight.

______________

Tony doesn’t look surprised to see Peter, but Peter chalks that up more to FRIDAY announcing his arrival than his presence having been at all expected.

“Pete? What are you doing here? Your aunt told me you were out and about for the day, I figured we could just hook up after you’re out of school tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter blurts out, the words ripping out of his throat like they physically couldn’t stay there another second.

Tony’s eyebrows furrow. “Sorry for what, kid? Is everything okay?”

“I think I made a mistake. I think I really messed up.” Peter’s thoughts are jumbled, his mouth running miles ahead.

“Pete, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.” Tony guides Peter by his shoulders, pushes him firmly down into an armchair before sitting on the couch adjacent.

“Spider Man, Mr. Stark. I messed up with Spider Man. I don’t want to give him up. How could I ever give it up? How could I do that? I’m supposed to look out for the neighbourhood, for the little guy, and I was just… what? Gonna bail?”

“Whoa, Pete, slow down. It’s okay buddy. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I gave it up and I tried to give you up, and I just…”

Tony sighs. “Pete, please listen to me. It’s okay. It’s okay that you needed time. It’s okay if you still need more time. Trauma hits everyone differently, there’s no quick fix or easy out. Sometimes it feels like pain, or regret, or like you’ll never be enough to outweigh all your mistakes. Trust me, I know.”

He leans in now, though it’s unnecessary; Peter’s hanging on every word. “But the one thing I need you to know, more than anything else, is that all of that? Thanos, the snap, everything you’ve been through… it doesn’t have to define you. Not unless you let it.”

Peter swallows. “How do you fix something if you can't remember what it feels like when it’s whole?”

Tony’s eyes are sad. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you gather whatever scraps you can, any twisted shrapnel and jagged edges, and you try to build something new. You’re good at building, Pete.”

“I’m sorry I cut you out.” It’s all Peter knows how to say.

Tony shrugs. “Shit happens, kid. Just, if you can, try to refrain from a repeat incident in the future. It hasn't exactly been a party.”

And Peter knows, down to his core, that he won’t. Tony isn’t his dad, and he isn’t Ben. Peter had thought that meant it wouldn’t hurt as much, that Tony wouldn’t leave a hole in his life that nothing else could fill. But the thing is, Peter knows that Tony is just going to be there. Peter can hate him, and Peter can shut him out, and Peter can never speak to him again, and Tony will never stop looking out for him. Whenever Peter needs him, Tony will be there. So maybe Peter can allow himself to want Tony there as well. Maybe he’s allowed that.

Peter stands up, crosses over to the couch and sits tentatively next to Tony. Tony pauses, before reaching over and wrapping an arm tight around Peter’s shoulders. Peter leans into the touch, tucking his feet up underneath his legs and closing his eyes.

“It’s not too late?” He’s not quite sure what he’s asking. Too late for him and Tony? Too late for Spider Man? Too late to start again?

“It’s not too late,” Tony's gentle voice confirms.

They sit in comfortable silence Peter feels reluctant to break, until eventually Tony flicks the TV on, handing Peter the controls.

“Wanna watch Killer Klowns From Outer Space?” Peter asks.

Tony falls asleep less than twenty minutes in, and as Peter watches the bizarre movie unfold on the screen, his mind whirls.

It’s not too late. Maybe Spider Man doesn’t have to be a superhero, perfect and larger than life. Maybe he just has to be there; has to do what he can, when he can, and help the little guys. Maybe it’s not enough, maybe it’ll never be enough.

But, Peter thinks, Johnny's voice ringing in his ears, it’s better than nothing.

It’s better than none.

Chapter Text

Peter’s never exactly been one to think things through.

He acts on impulse more often than not, throws himself into dangers and heartbreaks and people’s lives without looking back. He’s learned to trust his own instincts. He’s learned that sometimes split seconds are all he has, that the decisions he makes in them will matter in all the seconds that come after.

This, though, this is something he’s thinking through. Because there can’t be room for uncertainty, for numbness, for second guessing.

Peter has to be certain.

So he leaves the compound the next morning. Happy drives him, gruffness familiar and comforting in a way Peter never would have expected when they first met. He asks to be dropped off a few blocks from school, on a street littered with small storefronts and early morning shoppers.

“I just have something I wanna do before class, I can walk the rest of the way from here. Don’t worry.”

“Already on it, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter sighs, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he opens the door and swings his legs over.

Happy reaches back and grabs his arm lightly before he can jump out. Peter looks back at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“I’ll see you soon?” Happy asks, some kind of emotion playing out briefly behind his eyes.

Concern, Peter realizes.

“Yeah,” he says, voice steady, sure. “Yeah, you will.”

His first stop is quick. He’s in and out of the store like second nature, like something he doesn’t know how to doubt, even for a second.

The second stop takes a little longer. It takes more thought, more effort maybe, but is no less important.

And then Peter’s stepping back onto the street, the air crisp and biting as he walks, wind whipping at his hair and watering his eyes. He breathes in deep lungfuls of it, a burn he can feel all the way to his toes. He wants to grab handfuls of it, bottle it up, keep it on hand for those moments when all he can feel is the hard press of too much on his chest.

It doesn’t work like that, though. Good things hardly last forever. But maybe, he’s starting to learn, bad things don’t either.

Who will you become? Will it ever be enough?

Maybe the outcome doesn’t matter so much as the choice.

It doesn’t have to define you, not unless you let it.

Maybe he can learn how to carry memories rather than drown in them.

He squints into the harsh morning sun, and keeps moving forward.

__________

Peter finds Ned first, skipping up to his locker with poorly concealed excitement. Ned smiles at him in greeting, wide and so, so genuine.

“Hey man! How was your weekend? I feel like I barely talked to you, which is nuts, because the craziest thing happened to me yesterday. So get this, right, I was down at the pond kinda near my house, you know the one, it’s got the wonky tree with the knot that kinda looks like Nicolas Cage in that one movie? Anyway, my sister was feeding the ducks and I was playing Zombie Smash, and out of nowhere I heard someone screaming!”

Peter looks up in alarm. “What happened?”

Ned grins. “Just wait, I’m getting to the best part. So someone starts screaming, right, and I like, jump up, I’m ready for action, because I have experience in this stuff now, you remember me with the -” He breaks off, glancing down the hall before gesturing his hands in a way Peter realizes is supposed to be him shooting Peter’s old web shooters.

“Anyway, I’m there and I’m ready to just,” He flails his arms around, “Kick some ass if I need to. And then I see who’s screaming, and dude, it was Betty Brant! And she was getting chased by a goose! Fully chased, like, she was running for her life. And dude, I remembered this thing I read on the internet, right, so I go over there, and I get right into the goose’s path. Like, there’s no way this thing is missing me. So it starts coming for me instead, but I was ready, this goose had no idea what was coming. So it got really close, right up in my business, but get this. I just reached out and grabbed its neck, right up close to the head, and I just threw it.”

Peter knows he looks stupid, mouth open in shock. “You what?”

Ned just nods seriously. “I yeeted a goose, man.”

Peter finds himself nodding back. “You yeeted a goose.”

“And then I ran for it. It doesn’t hurt them, the neck thing, but it probably doesn’t zen them out either, so I didn’t really want to stick around. Betty ran up to me before I grabbed Zoe to leave, though. Wanted to thank me for saving her. And we, uh, kinda just started talking.”

Peter thinks he can see where this story might be leading, as he watches the blush starting to stain Ned’s cheeks.

“Zoe went home, but Betty and I sat under the Nick Cage tree and just talked for, like, two hours.” Ned sighs wistfully, leaning his head back against his locker door. “I feel like I’ve never really appreciated nature before now, you know? Leaves, man. Grass.” He looks at Peter seriously, like he’s imparting some great wisdom upon him.

“Uh, yeah!” Peter says, bouncing up and down on his toes. “Can’t get enough of nature.”

Ned beams at him, seeming very pleased that Peter agrees. “So anyway, um, the point of the story -”

“Besides bragging about the goose?” Peter interrupts.

“Besides bragging about the goose,” Ned acknowledges, “Is that, uh, we’re going on a date. Me and Betty. The movies, this Friday.”

He’s looking at the ground now, seeming suddenly almost shy. Or, Peter realizes, like he’s afraid of Peter’s reaction. It’s strange, in a way. He’s never really thought about having to share Ned with anyone. He’ll learn to adapt, though. If it means seeing Ned happy, he’ll do pretty much anything.

Before Ned has a change to glance back up, to have even one more second of self doubt, Peter’s thrown his arms around him, hugging him tight. “I’m so excited for you, man! You gotta call me right after and tell me all about it.”

“Dude,” Ned pulls back, looking horrified. “I’m gonna call you during the credits. And the trailers. And probably during a pee break in between. Who knows, maybe in line for popcorn! If you don’t check your phone until after? Very uncool, Peter.”

Peter laughs, so bright and loud he thinks he actually startles a passing student. “I’ll keep it glued to my hand. Ringtone on, volume all the way up. Promise.”

Ned sighs in relief. “Thanks, man. So anyway, how was your weekend? The last thing you texted was that you were going for brunch with Mr. Stark, which, holy shit.”

Peter pauses, not sure what to say. Breakfast, the explosion, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Tony. Spiderman, maybe. It’s hard to believe it’s only been two days.

“It was … strange. But good, I think. Not totally.” His mind drifts back to smoke and ash, to Johnny falling from the sky. “But it ended up…”

You’re good at building, Pete.

It’s not too late.

I could do this again. With you.

“Yeah. It was really good.”

Ned’s watching him, questions in his eyes, but Peter knows the full story isn’t exactly hallway conversation.

“Wanna come over tonight? I’ll tell you the whole thing, and then we can just hang.”

“Sure,” Ned agrees readily. “I’ll pick up snacks. You feeling red vines or bugles?”

“Oh!” Peter almost shouts, ignoring the question. “I almost forgot, I got you something. You can bring it over later, if you want.” He swings his backpack off his shoulder, reaching inside and grabbing his first purchase from the morning, handing it to Ned.

Ned gapes, looking from the box to Peter to the box to Peter. “Holy shit! This is - holy shit! Peter!”

Peter just grins, giving Ned a moment to recover.

“This is… this is the classic Lego Millennium Falcon! This is like, the Lego set. Nothing tops this, how did you - holy shit! This is crazy expensive though dude, how the hell did you pull this off?”

Peter winces, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I, uh, might’ve had Mr. Stark make a call?” He explains sheepishly. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he could never afford something like this on his own, and Tony seemed genuinely pleased to help.

Ned still looks floored, eyes appearing at least twice their usual size. “But, dude - why? This is quite literally the greatest gift in the world, why are you just giving this to me? Are you friend breaking up with me? I gotta say, classy way to do it, this definitely softens the blow.”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Peter scoffs, but Ned doesn’t appear to be listening, his eyes poring over every square inch of the box.

“Is it my birthday?” He asks absentmindedly. “Is May pregnant? Are you pregnant?”

“Ok,” Peter says, reaching out to lower the box slightly, forcing Ned to lift his gaze. “First of all, no to every single one of those. I don’t even… anyway. I just wanted to get you something. Something to say thank you, I guess.”

“For what?” Ned asks, head back in reality.

“For…” Peter scuffs his shoe on the worn tile, unsure how to phrase exactly what he means to say. “For being you, really. I know I’ve been - weird. Since everything. I know I probably haven’t been the easiest person to be around. But you’ve just been there, my best friend the whole time. No matter what. A stupid Lego set isn’t enough to tell you how much I really appreciate it, but. It’s something, I guess.”

“Peter,” Ned says in a long suffering voice. “You could literally stab me in the neck, drop this off at my hospital bedside, and I would forgive you like, right away. But I mean, I didn’t need this. You’re my brother. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. “Good to hear,” he says, forcing his voice to be light. “Because it was actually a bit of a bribe as well, to be honest. I’m looking to hire someone. Unpaid position, high stakes, high pressure. I could use your help.”

“What’s the job?” Ned asks, frowning.

“Guy in the chair.”

Ned’s whole body straightens, eyes widening almost comically. “Do you mean… is -” He glances around quickly for any eavesdroppers, but the hallway is thankfully pretty clear, most students trying harder than they are not to be overwhelmingly late to class. “Is our arachnid friend done hibernating?”

Ignoring the less than stellar attempt at talking in code, Peter responds. “I don’t know yet. Not for certain. But… I think so.”

Ned smiles, something so overwhelmingly fond and proud that Peter doesn’t know what to do with it other than reach out a hand.

Ned responds immediately, and together they sink into the handshake that says everything words can’t.

__________

Peter finds MJ at lunch, at a table hunched over a book across from Ned, pretending to ignore him as he waves his hands around animatedly, telling her what Peter suspects is the goose story.

He sinks down next to her, flashing her a grin as he opens his chocolate milk. He expects a brief nod in return before she returns to her book, but instead she dogears the page and sets it down entirely.

Peter blinks. Lunch is prime reading time, and MJ’s usually quick to milk that or all it’s worth, friendship and conversation be damned.

“Sup, Parker?” She asks. “Run into any burning buildings lately?”

Peter gapes. “How did you-?”

“I have my ways,” She says briskly. “If my friends don’t bother to tell me first, that is.”

With that, she yanks her book back open, holding it in front of her face so that it blocks her from Peter’s view. Or maybe so he’s blocked from hers.

Peter looks to Ned, ready to share a look of confusion, but Ned still seems to be processing the information about the burning building. He turns back to MJ, still hidden away.

She’s shutting him out, suddenly and harshly, and he can’t understand why. Especially not now. They’ve been more open to each other than ever, these days since she found out his secret. Or rather, since she told him she found out his secret.

That’s when it clicks.

“MJ,” he hedges, hoping she takes pity and lowers the book. “MJ, come on.” Still, nothing.

“Michelle, please.”

She finally looks at him, lowering her book just enough to peer her eyes over the top of it, eyebrows arched.

“I just haven’t had a chance to tell you yet. About this weekend. I haven’t told Ned yet, either. But I’m going to. I promise. I’ll tell you everything.”

It tugs at him, something deep inside, when he watches her take in his words. It’s like he can see the physical walls coming down, his friend emerging from their icy protection. He should have realized sooner, the fact that she’s obviously not as okay as she let on about him never telling her about Spiderman.

She shrugs, clearly aiming for nonchalant. “I was just hoping you’d met a hot fireman.”

“Does Johnny count?” Peter asks before his brain can catch up to his mouth.

Ned cuts in then. “Johnny Storm?”

MJ eyes him scrutinizingly. “Don’t you hate that guy?”

God. It’s been a long two days. “Later, guys, okay? I’ll tell you later.” Peter practically begs, glancing around at the tables full of students surrounding them.

Ned concedes. MJ just raises an eyebrow, something like a challenge in its curve.

You better.

And he will. He’s done leaving her out. He’s done treating her with anything less than everything she deserves. Speaking of -

“I got you a present,” Peter says to MJ, and she immediately looks confused, almost defensive.

“Is this a prank?”

“What?”

“Like, you say you got me a present and then when I get excited you say you didn’t, or you give me something really shitty?”

Peter frowns. “That’s a terrible prank. And I wouldn’t do that.”

“Ok,” MJ says, taking him at his word. “Then… what is it?”

“Right!” Peter says, diving back into his bag. He feels silly, handing it over, knowing the present Ned currently has in his backpack. MJ’s gift is nowhere near as big or expensive. He hopes that won’t matter to her.

She turns the book slowly over in her hand, studying the cover. “On Lies, Secrets, and Silence. Selected Prose by Adrienne Rich,” She reads out slowly, thumbing at a peeling corner.

“I know it’s not very exciting,” Peter rushes out, suddenly feeling very embarrassed. It’s hardly a fancy looking book; used and old looking, soft cover and bent pages, spine cracked with use. “I don’t know if it was a good choice, I spent a while looking and this made me think of you, but I can probably return it if you don’t like it. I can find you something better.”

He’s reaching out without quite meaning to, as if he can just snatch the book away and pretend this whole mess never happened. MJ yanks her hands away though, guarding the book protectively. “Don’t you dare.” She opens it gently, the smell of old books and tickle of dust hitting Peter’s senses as she thumbs through the pages. “I love it.”

Relief floods Peter as the regret fades away. MJ doesn’t say anything else as she flips decisively to the first page, eyes focused and pen tucked behind her ear ready to annotate to her heart’s content, but she shifts so that her arm presses against his own.

Peter smiles at her for a moment before Ned pulls him back into conversation. The warmth of her arm against his stays there the rest of lunch.

________

May’s back from her shift already by the time Peter gets home. She greets him with a kiss to the head as she walks by towelling off her hair, fresh from a shower.

Peter heads into his room, draping his backpack over the back of his chair. He thinks of all the homework he has to do, the studying for upcoming tests, the prep for Decathlon.

He turns around, heading back into the living room. May’s settled down in front of the coffee table, glasses on as she pores over what looks to be a stack of bills.

“Do you want to bake cookies?” Peter asks.

May beams.

It’s a mess. Worse, somehow, than May’s attempts at cooking. There’s flour and sugar everywhere, three eggs are broken on the ground, the cookie dough is a half mixed ball on the counter.

But May’s turned the radio on, found some oldies station playing eighties hits, and is pulling Peter around the kitchen to the voice of Freddie Mercury. Peter’s socks are slipping through flour and yoke as he spins May around and around, and she spins him back, and their dance moves are as awkward and terrible as they’ve ever been. But Peter’s stomach hurts from laughing, and May looks happier than he’s seen her in months, and he knows this is what home feels like. He turns the music up and spins her again.

Later, when they somehow manage to get the cookies onto a tray and into the oven, they slide down to the floor and rest their backs against the cupboard doors. Peter leans his head on May’s shoulder, and she cards her fingers through his hair.

“May?”

“Yeah, hon?” May asks quietly. Peter wonders is she sensed the hesitation in his voice.

“What would you think if… If I went back to being Spiderman?”

May’s hand stills for the briefest of moments before continuing its soothing motions. “I would think… that I want you to be happy.”

“What if it’s about more than being happy?” Peter asks, not quite sure what he’s even pressing for. “What if it’s about knowing it’s something I need to do? If it’s something that terrifies me, but it’s something I know I don’t really feel… whole, I guess, without?”

“Well, then,” May says slowly, as if she’s choosing her words carefully. “That sounds like a purpose to me, babe. Some people spend their whole life looking for one, but I think you know. What it is you really want.”

“But what do you want?” Peter asks, voice almost desperate. “Will you hate it, if I go back? Will you be okay?”

“Oh, hon,” May says, pulling him closer. “It’ll terrify me too, I won’t lie to you about that. But I care about you more than anything. Every part of you. Spiderman included, if you want it to be. I think - I think you’ve been breaking your own heart, love.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, a few tears leaking out. “I think I have, too.”

May doesn’t respond, just holds him close, just gives him a place to land. They stay like that, the minutes bleeding away until the smoke alarm blares suddenly and violently above them, jerking them out of the embrace.

“Oh damn,” May says, hurrying to yank the oven open as she tries to fan smoke away from the alarm. “I forgot to set a timer.”

Peter tries to help, jumping onto the ceiling to press the button to silence the alarm, crawling over to open a window and air the space out.

May smacks him lightly with the towel, eyes fond. “Okay spidermonkey, get down before I have to clean raw egg off the ceiling. You go get cleaned up, I’ll deal with this mess.”

Peter relents, turning away as May grimaces slightly at the charred cookies.

Back in his room after a shower, he once again ignores his backpack and all the work contained within. Ned and MJ will be there later, anyway, he’s sure the three of them can motivate each other to work.

Instead, he heads over to the pile of laundry in the corner of his room. The same pile of laundry that, he knows, contains his crumpled up suit somewhere in the middle. He digs it out slowly, carefully, before laying it out on his bed. As he stares at it, something finally becomes clear in his mind, a fog drifting away.

It’s a choice. One he’s going to have to make every single day, one that might not ever get easier. Sometimes things go bad, Peter knows. But sometimes they go right. So for now, for today, he knows his answer.

He pulls on the mask.

It feels like he’s breathing in the world.

Chapter Text

Spiderman returns. For real, this time.

It’s jarring, at first, being back patrolling the streets. There’s a part of him that feels like nothing’s changed.

It’s silly, of course. Because everything’s changed, in a way, and nothing more than Peter. Spiderman returns, and it’s stepping back in time, it’s stepping into his future, it’s living in his present.

It’s taking a breath, caught in between one swing and the next, a single heartbeat, and thinking This is good. This is going to be so good.

Because he may be changed, he may be changing. He may still wake from nightmares slick with sweat and hoarse from crying and feeling like he’s floating, floating away. He may have loss living in his chest, in the very hollows of his bones, but he is the only one who gets to decide what to do with that.

Moments turn into days turn into weeks, and Peter feels himself begin to settle.

It’s a little overwhelming, at first, the response he gets to his return. It turns out New York actually missed him. There’s articles and tweets and shaky videos and graffiti and We <3 Spidey and We Missed You, Spiderman! and Peter thinks What have I ever done? and then he thinks He saved people - ordinary people like me - all the time, so why couldn’t I be next?

So he stops the muggers and he catches the thieves and he learns again and again that close to the ground doesn’t equal unimportant. He learns to stay for the aftermath, for the cleanup and the messes and the nights when he just doesn’t make it on time. These nights are the hardest, too much, too real, but still he stays. He stays for the grief, and the loss, and the sense of something ended here, something was lost and it is never coming back.

He learns to celebrate the things that once seemed so small. The nights he can walk the college student from her late night job right to her front door and hear it lock with a click that sounds like safety. The days he can reunite the wandering child with their mother, the crying and the clinging and the love. The hand drawn picture of Spiderman a child hands him before ducking her head back into the comfort of her father’s neck. The lost animals found. The kites untangled from trees. The soccer game in the park the schoolchildren beg him to join in on.

Because these things, they’re not so little, are they? No, Peter thinks. They’re the biggest things in the world.

Moments turn into days turn into weeks, and Peter’s been hearing whispers. Nothing concrete, nothing he can quite pin down. A muttered conversation, two amateurs on the dock moving contraband in the moonlight, Peter pausing on his perch before he swoops in to stop them. They’re coming back and I don’t know and it’s barely even begun.

A man in a suit, dry cleaned and posh, shifting his gaze as he turns abruptly into an alley and pulls out his cell phone. Harsh whispers of gathering intel and weaknesses and you’re asking too much.

Small time criminals and villains of the week and not if, but when, and sooner than you think, and the Four.

Peter’s not sure what any of it means. He’s been keeping an ear to the ground, gleaning information where he can, trying to put together the scattered pieces. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that whatever this is will be easier to stop before it gets a chance to really begin.

That last whisper, though. The Four. It sends a shiver down his spine, something like ice seeping into his blood. It snaps him out of professionalism, out of patience and investigation and not jumping before he knows where he’s going to land.

It’s silly, probably. Maybe. But he hears it, and all he can think is Johnny. And he needs, more than anything in that moment, to check that he’s okay.

The thing is, he hasn’t seen Johnny since that first day. Since Manhattan, the rooftop, the article. Or rather, Spiderman hasn’t seen Johnny. Peter’s seen him plenty, afternoon hangouts and burgers on the Statue of Liberty. Movie nights with Ned and MJ, getting tongue tied around Reed Richards. Tony introducing himself as Peter’s entourage and calling Johnny ‘Johnny Bravo’ just to see Peter get embarrassed.

But Spiderman’s kept his distance. Peter’s not sure why, except maybe he is. Because the world knows the Human Torch, and the world knows Spiderman. But Johnny knows Peter. Maybe it’s something he wants to keep to himself.

It’s been hurting Johnny, that Spiderman’s back and still wants nothing to do with him. He’s been brushing it off, forced laughter and exaggerated ease, and it’s the furthest thing from believable. Peter hurts for hurting him, but still he clings to the separation, to the idea of Peter and Johnny and PeterandJohnny and PeterandJohnny, to Spiderman being the one who doesn’t matter, the part of the equation that could be written out. To not chasing after scraps, to not being compared to the very best version of himself, the part that barely scratches the surface of all the ache and chaos and mess that lies beneath. He supposes, essentially, that he just wants to be seen.

But now he’s heard a whisper, a whisper about Johnny, and all that goes out the window with the strength of his need to check that Johnny is safe.

So Peter finds himself, without a second thought, at the Baxter Building. He knows by now which of those identical windows high up in the sky belongs to Johnny’s room, and it takes him no more than a few precious moments to scale the building until he’s right outside it.

He stares through the window, at the unmade bed and the full length mirror and the water cups gathering dust on the bedside table. At the light on behind the closed door of the bathroom.

And he stares at that person in the glass, that reflection looking back at him through masked eyes, that person who is both him and not him and he doesn’t know how to reconcile them, to merge these two halves of himself into a whole. He’s not quite sure if he should.

But now isn’t the time to wonder. He takes a breath, clearing his head, and raps on the glass.

Chapter Text

There’s no response.

The bathroom door remains shut and Peter remains perched on the window ledge, trying and failing to convince himself there’s no need to panic.

He knocks again. Still no answer.

Flexing fingers, roll of the shoulders. Deep breath.

He tries to think reasonably; light on in the bathroom, door closed, a heartbeat drumming quickly in his ears. Someone’s in there.

Logically speaking, it should be Johnny. It’s his bedroom. His personal bathroom.

But.

There’s a chance, isn’t there? There’s always a chance. That something happened. That something went wrong. That the whisper meant something.

Peter’s learned by now the dangers of chance (fifty-fifty, yes or no, a snap of the fingers live or die), and this isn’t one he’s willing to take.

So he knocks one more time, and takes the silence as an answer.

Pushing the window up, Peter climbs into the room as gracefully as he can manage with the slight tremor in his arms, the fear crawling through his veins.

It shouldn’t feel strange, standing in this room. It’s become familiar to him, in recent weeks, in the way few places really are. He knows it. He knows the way Johnny always leaves the curtains open so the sun can wake him before any alarm; that the plant spilling over the side of the shelf above his bed is only alive because Ned programmed weekly reminders to water it into Johnny’s phone; that there’s probably still stray pieces of popcorn hidden in the tangled bedsheets from Peter and Johnny’s most recent movie night.

He knows that somewhere in the mess making up the corkboard on one wall is a photo of the two of them - takeout on a rooftop somewhere, Johnny picture perfect and beaming at the camera, Peter caught off guard with a smear of relish on his chin. Peter felt embarrassed about it at the time, the worlds of contrast between the two boys captured on the screen of Johnny’s phone, but Johnny looked at it like he was holding something precious.

So it shouldn’t feel strange, but it does. Peter belongs in this room, but Spiderman doesn’t. So as he steps slowly closer to the closed bathroom door, picking his way around stray t-shirts and designer jeans, he holds himself carefully, focusing his attention solely on the presence in the bathroom.

He’s just reached the door, leaning towards the handle, when he pauses. He should probably knock. Right? If it’s Johnny, the last thing Peter wants to do is burst into his bathroom unannounced. Boundaries and all that jazz.

But if it’s not?

It’s not like whoever is in there doesn’t already know Peter is out here; tapping repeatedly on the window kind of shot whatever chance of stealth he had right in the foot. But knocking now and waiting for a response would just give an enemy even more time to counter an attack. Maybe charging right in would be the best way to go, to take someone off guard.

Peter is acutely aware that the worst thing he could do in a situation is to do nothing, to continue standing there staring at the door like an idiot. He feels askew, unable to tell if it’s his spidey sense or anxiety sending waves of nausea pulsing through his body. So he forces himself to rely on his thoughts, to make a decision in the space between one second and the next; the echo of that whisper still ringing in his ears, the knowledge that safety is a construct nobody can promise, he moves to open the door.

Or he would have, that is, if the door didn’t swing open of it’s own accord before he gets the chance.

He sees a brief flash of silver arcing heavily through the air, feels a sudden and sickening pain explode across his temple, and everything goes black.

_____________

“....think I killed him?”

“Would serve him right, the bastard. What the hell did he think he was playin’ at?”

“You didn’t kill anyone, Johnny. You were just defending yourself.”

Snippets of a conversation he can’t follow float vaguely around Peter’s head, voices he can’t quite place. He’s fighting his way out of a deep well of mud, of syrup; sticky, threatening to drag him back down with every slow breath he draws.

It is, fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on general outlook), a feeling Peter has become all too familiar with since fighting crime became his hobby of choice. He keeps his eyes closed, body still, trying to focus on his other senses to give a hint of where he is. The last thing that would be helpful to him right now is panicking.

He’s lying on his back. Not on the floor, judging by the slight elevation of his upper body. A bed, maybe, or a couch. He tries to test his body for injuries - wiggles his toes, tenses his stomach. He seems okay, apart from that encompassing, radiating pain in his head. It’s throbbing like a heartbeat, and Peter tries to concentrate, tries to remember how it occurred.

Those sounds drift across his radar again, muffled and not quite making sense to the mush currently operating as his brain.

“What if he has brain damage? What if I damaged his brain?!”

“I’m sure he’s been through worse than you and your hair dryer, Johnny, he’ll be fine.”

“Look, he’s twitching. I think he’s wakin’ up.”

Peter turns his head towards the noise, muddled thoughts trying to force themselves into a recognizable shape. He’s not alone, clearly. That should be more than enough to send up warning signs, but for some reason his spidey sense hasn’t started acting up.

What were they saying? Brain damage… hair dryer… Johnny…

Johnny? Johnny. A whisper. The Four. Johnny’s threatened, Johnny’s in danger -

Peter’s eyes fly open, and he regrets it instantly. Bright light floods his vision, bolts of pain shooting straight into his retinas.

“Karen, dim, dim!” he moans, except it comes out sounding more like “Euech”, the hoarse sound scratching its way out of his throat without his consent.

He settles for slinging an arm over his eyes, forcing himself to sit up on what he now recognizes as a couch. He sways slightly, pressing his body deeper into the cushions for balance as he opens his eyes again, slower this time.

As they adjust to his surroundings, he sees a figure slowly take shape in front of him, perched on the floor right next to Peter’s head.

As he squints, it finally comes into focus, solid and present in front of him, and Peter can’t help it; he lets out a laugh, loud and full of an aching kind of relief.

“Johnny!” He leans forward, grinning as Johnny’s stunned face stares back at him. “Dude, you’re okay!”

“Yes?” Johnny says, glancing at the others behind him as if seeking reassurance. “Spiderman, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, man. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you! Well, I did, I mean, but I didn’t know it was you. I just knew that someone was in my room and I kind of panicked and my hair dryer is stainless steel so I thought, you know, that oughta do the trick - ”

“Johnny,” a voice interrupts him, and Peter looks up to see Sue Storm standing directly behind Johnny, her hands curled protectively over his shoulders. “You don’t need to apologize. You were defending yourself because he broke into your room”.

Her voice comes out hard, a protective edge to it that could cut if needed. Peter’s never heard her sound like this. She’s been warm to him every time he's come over; answering his rambling questions about her powers with only minimal exasperation, working on a puzzle with him after Johnny quit part way through from boredom, always sending him home with a tupperware full of leftovers.

And Reed’s here too, Peter realizes. He looks different than usual, face unusually grim as his arms stretch to opposite sides of the room, one hand pressed against the closed door leading into the wallway, the other covering the latch of the nearest window.

Covering exits, a distant part of Peter’s mind supplies.

And the reason why hits him like a sledgehammer - the fact that it even took him this long to clue in is a testament to how awful he feels.

His hands fly up to his face, feeling the familiar material of his mask under the pads of his fingers, the flap where it meets the rest of his costume firmly in place on his neck. Johnny called him Spiderman. Not Peter.

They don’t know him.

A fresh wave of relief battles a flood of anxiety as his situation sinks in. The Four are safe, and they don’t know his identity. They’re also under the impression that Spiderman has just broken into their home for reasons unknown.

Anxiety ultimately wins out when Ben makes himself known, over seven feet of craggly rock and anger staring down at Peter with a glare that could kill.

“Yeah, we left your mask on. A courtesy I’m hopin’ you won’t make us regret. Now tell us what you were doing in the kids’ room, ‘cause I swear if you were tryin’ to hurt him -”

“No!” Peter shouts, unable to believe how big a mess of things he’s managed to make so quickly. “Nonono, I swear, I was just…”

But what was he doing? It sounds ridiculous, now that they’re all here in front of him, completely fine. He climbed through Johnny’s window, probably scared him half to death, and for what? Because he heard one suspicious person mention the group. There wasn’t even a direct threat. Peter literally could have just called Johnny. A thread of humiliation starts winding a slow course through him, hanging his head and slouching his shoulders.

“You just what?” Reed asks, voice eerily calm.

“Reed,” Johnny pleads, almost whines. “Guys, c’mon, leave him alone. I’m sure he was just… just…”

Just what Peter? What were you doing? It was too much. It will never be enough.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Peter says, voice small. He stares studiously down at the grey fabric of the sofa, unable to meet any of their eyes.

“Okay?” Sue asks, voice sharp. “Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

“I…” another wave of nausea sweeps through Peter, and he pauses to swallow the saliva pooling under his tongue. “I don’t remember.”

The lie is bitter on his tongue, the worst kind of aftertaste. But what else can he say?

I jumped to conclusions about something I’m not even sure is a problem yet and, as usual, managed to make everything a million times worse. Anyway thanks for the concussion have a great day!

“I should go,” he manages instead, rolling off the couch and planting his feet, barely managing not to sway.

“Wait, Spidey!” Johnny blurts out, jumping up as well. “You can’t go, man, you look like you’re about to keel over. At least let us take a look at you -” He reaches forward like he’s going for Peter’s mask, and Peter instinctively jerks away, taking a few steps backwards toward the window. Johnny’s hands drop, eyes wide.

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean - we’re not gonna unmask you, dude, I swear. We could’ve earlier and we didn’t. I just want… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Peter snaps. He feels trapped, cornered, that sharp edge of panic creeping into his veins. Darkness is crawling along the edges of his vision.

“Hey!” Sue interjects, stepping forward and pulling Johnny closer to her side. He goes easily, staring at Peter with undisguised hurt in his eyes. “You don’t get to talk to him that way. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Hey, hold on,” Johnny says in a rush, looking between Sue and Peter quickly.

“Yes, hold on a minute, Sue,” Reed says, staring at Peter with a curious look in his eyes. “Why did you think Johnny wasn’t okay, Spiderman?”

“I told you, I don’t remember,” Peter says, pressing a thumb into the eyebrow above his left eye. Concussions usually only take hours for him to heal from, but he’s in for a wicked migraine in the meantime. “Concussions and steel-trap memories don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, blame that one on your brother-in-law”.

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth, at the guilt clear in Johnny’s expression even as anger begins to form there too.

“Hey, listen here, bug-boy, you wouldn’t have a concussion right now if you hadn’t broken into my house like a stalker, okay? I’m just trying to help you.”

It’s true. Peter knows it’s true. “Yeah, thanks so much. You’re the best thing since burnt bread, alright, Torch? All hail the teenage superhero and his trusty hairdryer. I’m sure you’re a real asset to the team.”

It’s cruel. Peter’s a lot of things but he never thought cruel was one of them. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He shakes his head, backing up further until his back is flat against the wall beside the window.

Reed’s hand is still blocking his escape. “I think you’re keeping something from us, Spiderman.” He doesn’t say it angrily; it doesn’t come out like a threat. It’s just an observation. “Are you lying to us?”

Peter huffs, looking up to the ceiling as an old, familiar feeling swirls in his gut. Reed Richards doesn’t know what it’s like to have to keep a secret. Not a real one anyway, one with repercussions far beyond himself. The Four have never had to handle anything real. They sprung into existence shiny and new and loved. And Peter thought he was past this, thought he’d forgotten it with Johnny by his side. But Johnny doesn’t really know him, does he? He doesn’t really know him at all.

Are you lying to us?

Secrets and lies; a shaky foundation, but it’s one Peter’s built his life on.

“I’m leaving,” he replies, and his voice comes out steady. “It would probably be best for you to get out of my way.”

Empty threat, empty words, empty empty empty.

Reed relents, that same quizzical look on his face as his arm recoils, shrinks away until it hangs loosely at his side.

Peter reaches over and flips the window latch open. He chances a glance behind him, avoiding Johnny’s gaze. “Thanks for the hospitality everyone, you can expect a glowing review on yelp any day now.” With a two-fingered salute over his shoulder, Peter shoots a web at the next building over and pushes himself off the ledge, away from the collective weight of their stares.

He makes it nearly six blocks before he passes out.

Chapter Text

“Always one step forward, five steps back with you, isn’t it, kid?”

Peter wakes abruptly to a glass of ice cold water being dumped on his head.

He splutters, out of shock more than anything, and squints at a shadowy figure shielded against the light of the morning sun.

“Tony?”

“Got it in one,” the figure replies.

Peter blinks, swiping a hand over his dripping face as his vision begins to clear and his eyes focus. Tony stands in front of him, t-shirt wrinkled and suit standing guard a few feet away.

They’re in an alleyway, Peter realizes as he slowly tries to sit up. More specifically, they’re in an alleyway and Peter is crumpled on top of a dumpster. Delightful.

He peels himself off the lid slowly, wincing as his vision swims and a familiar pain settles back into place behind his eyes. “Shit,” he exhales, digging his palms into his eyelids, trying to relieve the pressure for a moment.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘shit’ is right young man,” Tony says, voice slightly too loud, climbing a few octaves past calm. He tosses a plastic cup into the dumpster and begins pacing in front of the bin, one arm crossed and the other scratching absentmindedly at his chin. Cars idle in morning traffic on the street outside the alley, horns blaring and voices mingling. “Care to explain yourself? Because I’m trying really hard not to be pissed at you here.”

“I passed out.” Peter responds, pushing himself slowly to his feet. His legs feel like jelly, and he braces one arm on the brick wall behind him. He might puke. He really might puke in an alleyway in front of Tony after humiliating himself in front of the Four and the day’s barely even begun. It’s not even - well, he actually has no idea. He’s been out long enough for the sun to rise, at the very least.

“Hey, what time is it?” He asks, swallowing heavily against the saliva pooling at the back of his throat. He won’t puke. He will not puke.

“Time for you to state more than the obvious,” Tony replies, pausing in his pacing to spin on his heel and face Peter head on.

Peter tries to meet his gaze, but something in Tony’s expression makes his stomach churn heavily. He presses the back of one hand against his mouth over the mask, and takes a deep breath through his nose.

“While a lesser man might have assumed that Spiderman’s often in the habit of curling up on dumpsters for a quick catnap between asskickings,” Tony continues, on a roll now, “I happen to be a world famous genius, and somehow managed to put together that even Queens’ favourite spiderling probably has somewhere more comfortable to cozy up for the night. Like, possibly, your own bed. Your aunt knows you never came home last night, by the way. So have fun with that later.”

Peter groans, sliding slowly down the wall until he’s cross legged on the ground with his head slumped against the side of the dumpster. He pulls out his phone, hastily turning down the brightness as the pain sears into his head anew, a fresh wave that turns his insides over.

As his eyes adjust to the screen, he sees that, sure enough, he has multiple missed calls and unanswered texts from May. Tony also tried to reach him, questions about the vital readings the suit was sending out, about why May was calling Tony in a panic.

As he continues sifting through the messages, guilt clawing at his insides something fierce, a new message from Johnny appears. He has news, it says, crazy news, and he wants Peter to call him when he can.

Just like that, one little text, and Peter’s heart is a lump in his throat, it’s a stone in his chest, it’s sinking fast in a terrible storm. He doesn’t know, he reminds himself firmly. He doesn’t know it was you.

“Hey,” Tony says, snapping his fingers above Peter’s head and pulling his attention back to the present. “I’m getting the impression your brain is basically soup right now. Any chance it’s of the alphabet variety and you have some words for me floating around in there somewhere?”

Peter stretches out his legs and rolls his head back to look up at Tony. “Uh. I don’t think grey’s your colour. Kinda brings out the grey in your hair.”

Tony frowns down at his t-shirt. “I’m kind of leaning into it at this point. Pep seems into the whole ‘silver fox’ look.”

“Barf,” Peter says, smiling slightly.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That a response or a prediction, kid? Just give me a warning, these shoes are italian leather.”

When Peter doesn’t respond, Tony sighs. Something in Peter twinges at how tired it sounds.

“Okay, look.” Tony continues. “Trust me, yelling at you is just about my least favourite pastime, and that’s saying a lot since Happy decided we were gonna start making our own wine. But I’m gonna need you to give me something, Pete, c’mon. I know you weren’t fighting anyone out here. I know you know your own limits. What gives?”

Peter’s phone starts buzzing. Johnny’s trying to call him now. He hits decline, and swallows, trying to figure out what he’s even feeling.

“You’re Iron Man,” he says finally, and Tony just tilts his head, waiting for more. “And that means something. To you, obviously. But like, to other people as well. A lot of other people. And you can’t really… you can’t control the way other people see you. Or what you mean to them.”

“No,” Tony says softly. “No, I can’t.”

Peter looks down at his hands. “I - I want to be the person people see when they look at Spiderman. But I don’t even know who that person is, really. Sometimes it just seems so outside of me.”

“Pete, people see what they want to see. Always have, always will. But it is you. You’re allowed to let it be. Every part.”

“That’s terrifying,” Peter says, a breath like a laugh escaping him. “And when Spiderman lets people down? Because he does. He has. It’s the best part of me. So what does that make me?”

Tony pauses, then crouches down beside Peter, sinking fully onto the ground after a moment. “Ow, jesus. Ugh, never get old, kid,” he says, shifting to find a comfortable position. “Okay. You are Spiderman. There is no Spiderman without Peter Parker. There is no best part. What brought all this on?”

“I dunno.” Another text lights up Peter’s screen, and Tony’s eyes cut down to where it rests in Peter’s clenched hands.

“Alright, then. Who brought this on?”

Peter clicks a button and the screen goes black. “Never mind that. I just need - I need you to tell me how to do it. How to live my life, to know when to be normal and when to be more, to know how to trust the right people, to just… to stop questioning everything all the time.”

Tony laughs, pats his hand on Peter’s knee. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

“Oh. Yikes.”

“Yeah.” Tony scrubs a hand over his beard, taps something on his watch. “Yeah. Anyway, you’re about twenty minutes late for school and you’re still dressed in a onesie. Happy’s on his way with a change of clothes. If you’re feeling up to school he’ll drop you off, or he can take you home.”

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m good. I have a test third period.”

“Alright, Einstein. And this conversation?” Tony shifts, looks at Peter straight on. “To be continued, okay? You still haven’t told me what actually happened here. And you know what we say, right?”

Peter stays silent.

“Pete. Hey, Pete, what do we say?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “‘Talking things through is what the cool kids do.’”

“There it is,” Tony says, sounding unbearably pleased with himself. “Alright, up and at ‘em,” he continues as a flashy orange car comes to a stop just outside the alley. “Time to scoot and skedaddle, you’ve probably missed circle time already.”

“You’re an asshole,” Peter groans, head swimming as they both slowly clamber to their feet.

Tony’s answering grin is swiftly wiped from his face when Peter hunches over and pukes on his shoes.
_________

Monday, 11:23am
Hothead: hey nerd, too busy at your nerd school to check your phone?

Peter aces his test, and his head feels okay by the time lunch rolls around.

3:39pm
Hothead: hellooooo are my messages going through?

May gets home from work, lectures him, grounds him, hugs him, ungrounds him, threatens to ground him forever if he pulls another stunt like this without checking in with anyone. They order takeout for dinner and watch reality TV until May falls asleep on the couch. Peter tucks a blanket over her and goes to do homework until his vision blurs and exhaustion pulls him under.
_________

Tuesday, 6:19am
Hothead: morning
Hothead: u busy tonight? u should come hang after school

Peter and MJ wander over to the bleachers for lunch. He naps while MJ reads.

2:21pm
Hothead: or not lol
Hothead: its cool if u cant
Hothead: just let me know

He goes on patrol in the afternoon. It’s quiet. No new whispers, no suspicious mentions of the Four. Maybe it’s a slow day, maybe Peter has to start digging deeper. Or maybe nothing’s going on at all, maybe it was never more than what Peter built it up to be in his head. He helps a kid make it all the way across the monkey bars for the first time though. So that’s neat.

5:47
Hothead: I’m busy actually
Hothead: incase u were gonna come over
Hothead: booked a photoshoot for a magazine
Hothead: its a cover shoot its nbd

In the evening, he tags along with Ned and Betty to get ice cream. If Johnny were here, he’d say that ice cream cones and designer jeans don’t get along. Peter would get a mint chocolate chip cone even though it tastes like toothpaste, would pretend to be annoyed a minute in when Johnny swooped in for a bite.

Today he buys strawberry.
_________

Wednesday 9:18am
Johnny: scored tickets for a drag race tonight
Johnny: I’ve got a date but I can cancel if you feel like coming lmk

Tony picks Peter up from school in the most nondescript car he can bring himself to drive, and they head upstate to mess around in the labs. Peter ignores his phone and he ignores his guilt and he and Tony only cause two minor explosions throughout the course of the evening. So, overall, a win.

12:52am
Johnny: race kinda sucked
Johnny: I’m going to our spot
Johnny: if ur awake I can come pick u up

Sleep will never come if Peter’s staring at his phone all night. He rolls over and closes his eyes.
_________

Thursday, 7:51am
JS: hey if i did something
JS: like, u would tell me right?
JS if ur mad at me or whatever lol

Ned brings Peter a pack of M&M’s before class and they make plans for a sleepover that night. Peter stops by the bodega for a snack after school and spots the exact flavor of tea MJ’s been raving over recently. He buys three bags and swings by to drop it off before starting patrol.

8:17pm
JS: ok nvm
JS: i just
JS: yeah just let me know i guess lol

Ned asks if Peter wants to invite Johnny over to hangout. Peter suggests they start on a new lego set Ned’s been dying to try out, and the idea quietly slips away.
_________

Friday, 10:24am
JS: so i talked to ned
JS: he told me you’ve just been busy lately

11:16am
JS: neds a terrible liar

Peter’s guidance counsellor calls him in to discuss how his college applications are going. Peter’s gotten about as far as browsing a handful of brochures. He’s been using one as a bookmark recently. He tells her he’s narrowing in on a few final options, polishing off those essays he’s definitely already written. She purses her lips, reminds him of the final dates for submissions and sends him on his way. He ducks into the nearest bathroom, talks himself down from a panic attack in the corner stall, and heads back to class.

12:48am
JS: heyyyyyyyyyyy
JS: !!!
JS: u should colm here
JS: at the clubbbb
JS: to da club as they youths say
JS: lmao
JS: the guy im with just said im the youths
JS: which like, trueeee bestie
JS: hes like forty!!!!!!! kinda hot tho am i int o dilfs
JS: oh also do u hate me i dont want ut t hate me
JS: come hang he;ll prob buy u drinks too hes bought me like
JS: 20 or somethg i swr
JS: is that wreird??
JS: i think its fine
JS: come dance!!!!

Well then.

Looks like Peter’s going to the club.

Chapter Text

It takes Peter a few minutes, through the haze of flashing lights and moving bodies, to find Johnny in amongst the crowd.

He’s surrounded by strangers, faces blurring one into the next. None of them are right, and what if Johnny’s not even here anymore? Maybe he gave up on the idea of Peter coming, and he’s already in a car on his way back to the Baxter Building.

Or maybe Johnny’s not alone. Maybe he’s with that man, the older one he messaged Peter about. Maybe, mind spinning from dancing and drinks, Johnny let this stranger intertwine their hands and lead him right out the door.

How is Peter supposed to know when there’s so many people? He can’t focus, there’s too much input; music pounding and voices carrying, drinks being poured and spilled and cried over, and a laugh, bold and bright in the middle of it all.

Peter knows that laugh.

He follows it, a body in motion before his head quite catches up, pushing his way through throngs of bodies. He’s nearly at the back door when he finds the source, and something catches in his chest.

How did Peter not see him right away? Even tucked away in the shadows of the dance floor, eyes closed and shoulders swaying, something about Johnny just glows.

Peter pauses, a selfish moment stolen in the wings before he steps into the scene.

He watches as Johnny tilts his head up to the ceiling, eyes still closed; the lights paint his skin blue, green, red, and Johnny raises his arms above his head as he starts to spin. He’s moving out of time with the beat, getting every word of the song wrong as he tries to sing along. He’s spilled something pink and sticky down the front of a plain white shirt that probably cost more than May and Peter’s rent, and he’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful, and he’s spinning, and he’s laughing and it’s so bright, it’s so warm, and then it’s over. A pair of hands settle over Johnny’s waist, stilling his movement. Peter’s eyes fix on those hands, at their tight grip, the greedy flex of the fingers.

He follows the hands up to the body attached, and he doesn’t need the telltale tingle crawling its way up his spine to tell him this guy is bad news.

Johnny’s head is still tipped back, resting now in the crook of the man’s beefy neck. The man leans the length of his body against Johnny’s back, crowding Johnny’s space to lean down and whisper something in his ear.

Johnny laughs once, a stilted thing, and spins deftly out of the man’s tight grip. Megawatt grin freshly in place, he wraps his arms loosely around the man’s shoulders. Something passes across the man’s eager face, and he hauls Johnny in closer again. Johnny goes easily, the alcohol in his veins leaving him pliant and malleable.

The man’s hands smooth over Johnny’s back, hungry, searching. They hold on tighter, reach lower, and-

And. Okay. Peter’s been watching long enough.

Between one breath and the next, he’s crossed the distance and pulled those gluttonous hands away from Johnny. The man flinches back at the easy strength Peter pushes him away with, and Peter can’t regret the spark of satisfaction it gives him.

“Hey man, what’s your problem?”

“You are,” Peter says dismissively, placing his body between the two and turning his attention to Johnny. “Hey hot stuff, are you having fun?” He asks gently, reaching out to place steadying hands on Johnny’s shoulders.

Peter can see the moment his presence clicks in Johnny’s brain, and Johnny’s whole face lights up.

“Peter! You’re here, you came!” Johnny throws his arms easily around Peter and squeezes him in a hug.

Peter lets himself hug back, tightly, just for a moment before pulling back. “Course I came, you big dummy. Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Johnny pouts, eyes going wide and sad. “Peter nooo, you just got here! Let’s dance, I wanna dance.” He puts his hands on Peter’s waist and pulls him close so they’re lined up chest to thighs, and starts swaying both of them side to side. Peter can feel the blush taking over his face, and harshly reminds himself that now is not the time for whatever this is. He’s on a mission here. A rescue Johnny mission.

An unnecessary reminder, it turns out, as the reason for the rescue mission itself puts a hand on each of them and pushes them apart. Johnny sways harshly with the movement, squeezing his eyes tightly together, and a pulse of hot anger has Peter seeing red.

“Don’t touch him,” Peter gets out, fury coating his voice.

The man pulls Johnny closer to his side, smirking. “Why not? You know, your little friend and I were having a lot of fun before you interrupted. Think we could all have a lot more if you loosen up a little, huh? I’ll buy you a drink, how’s that sound?”

“Johnny,” Peter says tightly. “Come here.” Johnny makes a noise of confusion where he remains pressed to the man’s side. Peter takes a deep breath, tries to rein himself in. “Please”.

And Johnny tries to, he really does. He takes one step towards Peter before the man yanks him back, circling his arms around Johnny’s hips and crossing them over Johnny’s front.

Before Peter can stop himself, he rips the man’s arms off Johnny yet again, catching Johnny as the movement sends him off balance, spinning him around so he’s safely behind Peter.

The man seems caught off guard, by the swiftness or strength of Peter’s actions, he really couldn’t care less. He takes the moment of distraction to step right up to the man’s face. “Stay away from my friend,” he spits out, and his voice comes out steady. “If I ever see you near him again, you’ll regret it.”

The man laughs, looking Peter up and down with disbelief written across his face. “You threatening me, you little punk? Look at you, you’re pathetic. What do you think you could do against me, exactly?”

Peter tilts his head, considering. “Do you really want to find out?”

The man’s eyes flick between Peter’s own, back and forth, as Peter’s gaze holds steady. He’s not sure what the man is looking for, or what inkling of the truth behind Peter’s words he might find reflected in his stare, but after a tense few moments he steps away.

“Whatever,” he sneers, already fading away into the crowd. “Your little friend was too easy, anyway. Like I said, pathetic.”

Peter sucks in a breath, hands shaking. He can’t go after him, it’s not worth it. Not here, not right now, not when he needs to be taking care of-

“Peter?” Johnny’s voice comes out small, and that’s all it takes to snap Peter out of it. He spins around, eyes already softening.

“Johnny, hey, I’m so sorry about that. Are you okay?”

“I’m… I’m fine,” Johnny replies, looking around as if confused where to go from here. “Why did you talk to him like that?”

“Why did I… because he wasn’t a good guy, Johnny. Can we just get out of here, please?”

“Yeah but, I mean, why did you…” Johnny doesn’t seem to know how to form the words he’s trying to say, and Peter’s senses are quickly reaching a level of overwhelming he can’t ignore for much longer.

“Johnny, please,” He asks again, holding out a hand. “The exit?”

Johnny takes his hand easily, interlocking their fingers. “Yeah, okay Parker. Let’s get out of here.” As they weave their way through the crowd, he looks back once, eyes shining as they lock onto Peter’s , colors dancing along his cheekbones. “Don’t forget though, you owe me a dance.”

Peter laughs, squeezing Johnny’s hand. He can live with that.

~

“Hey. So, where did that come from?”

“What?” Peter asks, momentarily distracted. The cold wind nipping at his exposed face and hands is a relief after the suffocating atmosphere of the club. He takes in big, gulping lungfuls, allowing his senses to readjust and the buzzing anger in his veins to slowly simmer down.

Johnny frowns, concentrating on the ground beneath his feet as a crease forms between his eyebrows. Peter clenches his hands into fists at his side, shoving away the ridiculous urge overtaking him to reach out and smooth it away with his thumb. Hands to yourself, Parker, he lectures himself, a wave of heat flushing red up his neck.

He takes a few quick steps away from the entrance. He can still hear the music pounding from the open doors, can see that smug face and reaching hands in his mind’s eye. Johnny is quick to follow, frown deepening and curses pouring from his mouth as he trips gracelessly on the uneven sidewalk.

“Whoa, hey,” Peter’s by his side in an instant, internal lecture tossed to the wind as he wraps an arm around Johnny’s waist, pulling Johnny’s arm over his own shoulders and holding it in place with a hand around his wrist. “Easy there, hot stuff, don’t wanna mess up that pretty mug of yours.”

“Not possible,” Johnny replies without missing a beat, and something small and undeniably fond unfolds itself behind Peter’s ribcage. He’s missed Johnny. No point denying it, really, less than a week out from the last time he picked up when Johnny called. An embarrassingly small window of time, yet somehow - without Peter’s permission - Johnny’s wormed his way into being someone Peter rarely goes a day without speaking to.

It kind of pisses him off, honestly, how much it doesn’t piss him off. And he may be stupid, but he’s not a total idiot; he knows why he’s been avoiding Johnny.

Peter can count on one hand the people in his life that he’s let truly see him, and it’s no coincidence that those same people have faced more life or death situations than the average Joe. He knows, if he rounded them all up right this second and pressed them for answers, they would swear hands down that they don’t regret their choices, that they don’t regret him. Hell, he even thinks they'd probably be telling the truth.

And sure, Johnny’s a superhero, not some damsel in distress. He’s never asked for Peter to save him. He doesn’t even know that Peter could. It’s complicated, and complicated leads to messy, and messy leads to hurt and pain and mistakes, and he just-

Well, sometimes complicated is easier to just avoid. If Johnny was given the whole picture, he’d probably agree.

But he’s missed Johnny, and now he’s here, the long line of his body warm and real against Peter’s own. He can feel the quick flutter of his own heartbeat in his fingers where they’re resting against Johnny’s waist, and how selfish is he, that everything in him is urging him not to let go? To pull Johnny in closer?

They’ve just turned the corner onto a smaller side street lined with back entrances to stores and bars and dotted with a few people milling around, sharing a cigarette or a quiet moment, when it occurs to Peter that he’s probably supposed to be the one in charge of actually leading them somewhere. He’s been a little distracted since they left the club, just kind of wandering, bringing Johnny along for the ride. He pulls them to a stop under the shadow of an overhang, leaning back against the wall.

He turns his head to look at Johnny, and something in his stomach flips funnily. Standing this close together, he can see the swoop of Johnny’s eyelashes, pale but long where they frame his glassy eyes, can see the way the alcohol has tinted Johnny’s lips an even deeper shade of pink. Johnny’s tongue darts out quickly to lick at them, and Peter wrenches his gaze away, heart hammering.

“Pete?” Johnny asks, voice soft. “Why’d we stop? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter gets out, clearing his throat too loudly. He feels embarrassed, exposed, and he’s not sure why. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine, I’m good.”

“Yeah, you’re the best,” Johnny says like a reflex, smile relaxed and a little dopey as he rests back against the wall.

The queasy feeling in Peter’s stomach intensifies, and he’s helpless to stop the way he grins back as Johnny leans over to tuck his forehead into Peter’s shoulder, taking a few steadying breaths that send goosebumps cascading over Peter’s skin.

Johnny pulls back all too quickly though, smile disappearing and that maddening crease back between his eyebrows as he shifts to pull his arm back from where it was still around Peter’s shoulder. Peter in turn lets his own hand fall away from Johnny’s waist. His fingers are tingling, and he flexes his hand as he fights off a shiver. He’s suddenly freezing again.

“Wait, no. You didn’t answer me, though.”

“About why we stopped?” Peter asks. “Realized this probably isn’t the most effective way to get you back to the Baxter Building. Whaddya say we call you a cab or something, huh? Gotta get you a few hours of beauty sleep, maybe some ibuprofen.”

Johnny’s frown deepens. “No, I asked you… before, I asked you what that was back there. In the club.”

Peter gets the distinct impression that Johnny’s fighting for every sentence, every word that doesn’t come out slurred. He’s not quite sure what Johnny’s getting at though, or why it’s worth the effort for him to ask about it right now.

“What what was? That guy was a total creep, Johnny. I just wanted to get you out of there.”

“I can take care of myself, you know. That wasn’t why I invited you to come.” An edge of irritation creeps into Johnny’s voice, and he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

Peter pauses, trying to tread lightly. Johnny’s drunk, he reminds himself, so Peter needs to be the mature one here. He needs to be responsible. “Look, let’s just get you home right now, okay? Johnny? How’s that sound?” He feels, ridiculously, like he’s trying to coax a stray cat on the street, voice gentle and body open to show he can be trusted.

Johnny takes a small step back, keeps talking like Peter’s words went right through him. “Nobody ever thinks I can take care of myself. Not you, not Reed, not Sue.” He glares at the ground as more words spill out of him, unprompted. “I get it, you know? Like, she used to be ten years older than me. But she’s not anymore, and she still…”. Peter sucks in a breath, and is it his imagination, or are those tiny sparks escaping from Johnny’s hair, from the tips of his fingers? Johnny continues, voice picking up speed. “And Reed too, even though he was there! I mean, god, sometimes it feels like Ben’s the only one who… who… whatever. Whatever! That doesn’t matter, that’s not the point. You didn’t answer me.”

Tread lightly, Peter reminds himself, but what use is that in a minefield? This, this is something Johnny’s never really talked about. Not to Peter anyway, or to the public. He knows the very bare bones of it, shards of information picked up from all the days and nights spent as a guest at the Baxter Building.

It’s not something the others have seemed very keen to bring up either, but what he’s gathered is this; Sue died in the blip. Johnny, Reed, and Ben didn’t. Afterwards, in those first chaotic months, Reed pulled some strings to get guardianship over Johnny. If he hadn’t, well. Johnny’s never mentioned any other family.

“I did answer you,” Peter says slowly, trying not to spook Johnny, trying to steer them back on track. “Look, I was just… I was just trying to help, okay? I’m sorry, I know you can take care of yourself, it’s just…” It’s just he saw that grown man with his hands all over Johnny, he could read the intention behind that glint in his eyes, and for a moment Peter wanted - horribly, overwhelmingly - to punch him without holding back.

“No, no!” Johnny’s voice is getting louder, and it’s definitely not Peter’s imagination - a burst of sparks spring from him and float to the ground, a small trail of steam rises in a lazy circle from his head. “I mean, you didn’t answer me all week. Why?” He takes a step closer, back into Peter’s space, eyes imploring.

It’s suddenly too much for Peter, who takes a step back, shaking his head. “I… Johnny, it’s- it’s hard to explain, but I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Johnny’s eye contact is unrelenting, flicking back and forth between Peter’s own. Left, right, left again. Peter feels dizzy from it. Johnny lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Is that all you’re gonna say about it? You’re really not gonna explain at all? What, do you not think I deserve that? You think I won’t understand?”

Tony’s voice echoes suddenly in Peter’s head, his words laced with a desperation Peter hasn’t put there in months now.

“Just talk to me. As you. Whoever you are right here, right now. Just talk to me.”

He feels, slightly, like he's standing outside of his own body. How is he back here again? Will he always just end up right back here? Standing behind his wall of secrets and mistakes while someone he loves begs to be let in? But what is he supposed to do?

Johnny continues, and Peter’s heart clenches at the way his voice shakes slightly. “I’m not a complete moron, you know. I thought it was kind of funny when we first met, that you wouldn’t just tell me what you were doing in that alley. But you still never told me, you know that? Or what you were really doing in that building the day with the space squids. Or how you really know Tony Stark so well, or, or…” He trails off, turning away like he can’t stand to keep looking at Peter.

“I…” Peter starts weakly. “The Stark internship…”.

“Bullshit, Peter! Reed’s had interns too, you know? He’s never practically adopted any of them. He’d try to deny it, but he probably couldn’t tell you most of their names. God, I don’t even care about this! I don’t care about perfect Tony Stark, or, or your perfect friends, or your perfect aunt, okay? It doesn’t matter, none of this matters.”

Peter’s fully lost his footing here, and despite his best efforts, he feels a familiar flicker of anger light up in his chest. “Then what’s the actual issue here, Johnny? I’m sorry about the last week, really, I was being an idiot, I know that, but can we talk about this later? What’s your problem with my friends, or my aunt?”

“No, no, we can’t talk about this later, because how am I supposed to know you’ll actually show up?” Johnny spits out.

A wave of shame courses through Peter’s veins, and he clenches his fists against it. “I will, Johnny, I promise. I’ll take you home now, and we can talk tomorrow, when you’re sober. I’ll be there. I will.”

Johnny scoffs. “I’ve heard that one before,” he mutters, and Peter can’t help but feel like there’s something he’s missing.

“What, you think I don’t mean it? Don’t you trust me, Johnny?” Peter asks, aiming for a lighter tone, anything to ease the tension that’s settled over them like a weight. It falls flat, coming out entirely too earnest as it hits him just how badly he wants Johnny to say yes.

“Of course I trust you, fuck!” Steam is starting to pour off Johnny in waves now, and the first hint of concern pinches at Peter’s nerves. For how new the Four still really are to the superhero scene, Peter’s never really seen Johnny lose control over his powers. “That’s the whole problem, you idiot. I trust you, but I don’t actually know you, do I? Not really. You won’t let me.”

Peter wants so badly to argue, to say that Johnny’s wrong. Johnny does know him, knows the ins and outs of Peter Parker more than most. But he doesn’t know Spiderman, so what can Peter say?

He’s trying to run through the logistics of bodily manhandling Johnny into a taxi without having to respond when his spider sense tingles. A moment later, a pair of footsteps approaches slowly, and someone clears their throat. As he and Johnny both turn towards the noise, Peter’s unhappily reminded that while the street they’re on is relatively empty, he’s still very much outside with a beloved public figure.

The stranger, a girl who can’t be more than a couple of years older than them, smiles sheepishly and holds out a piece of paper. “Hi! I’m sorry to interrupt, I’m just, I’m a huge fan, Mr. Storm. You’re my favourite member of the Fantastic Four! I was just wondering if I can get an autograph?” Without so much as sparing a glance at Peter, she thrusts out a piece of paper and a pen for Johnny to take.

Johnny heaves a deep breath and holds it for a moment. The steam escaping him splutters in stops and starts, and he releases the breath very slowly before pasting on a big smile. “Well sure you can, since you’ve got such good taste. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Winnie,” the girl replies, voice breathless with admiration.

“Like the bear?” Johnny asks, and the girl flushes something fierce. Something mean and ugly inside Peter rears its head at the way it catches Johnny's attention, makes him stand that much taller as he reaches out to take the paper. “Sorry hon, stupid thing to say. It suits you, really. A pretty name for a pretty-”

He cuts himself off abruptly, and Peter looks down to see why. There’s a hole singed right through the paper he’s holding, the edges still smoking. Johnny’s eyes are wide, and Peter swears he sees his hand shaking as he releases his hold to let the paper fall to the ground.

“Sorry about that, hah, it’s just- cold out tonight, you know? Been trying to warm myself up. Got another piece of paper on you by chance?”

“Um, yeah, yes, I do,” Winnie digs around in her purse and holds out a crumpled receipt with a small grin. “This’ll do in a pinch, if you don’t mind.”

“Course not,” Johnny replies, but sparks are already flying from his hand as he reaches out to take it. It catches fire in his fingers, and Johnny just stands there and watches it burn away to nothing. A few stray sparks land on Winnie’s jacket, and she yelps as she quickly pats them out, taking a few quick steps back from Johnny.

Her movement seems to snap Johnny back to life, and he raises his hands in a defenseless gesture, eyes wide. “Sorry, sorry! I'm so sorry, are you okay? Did I- did I hurt you?”

“No!” Winnie shakes her head quickly. “No, I'm fine. Um, I’m out of paper, though, so, um. I’m just gonna go. It was nice to meet you!” She takes another step back, makes a strange movement that Peter reads as a curtsy she bailed on at the last moment, then turns on her heel and hurries over to a few other girls waiting for her down the street.

Peter turns to Johnny, frowning. “Johnny? Are you okay?”

Johnny’s breathing has picked up, and he’s standing eerily still, staring down at the burnt remains of the papers on the ground. With a start, Peter sees a few stray tears spilling from his eyes.

“Johnny. Johnny, hey,” he says, moving without thinking into Johnny’s space, reaching out to cup his hands around Johnny’s jawline, thumbs gently brushing over his cheeks to wipe away the tears. “Hey hotshot, it’s alright. Everything’s fine, yeah? Can you look at me? Johnny?”

Johnny finally looks up, and when his eyes lock onto Peter, for a brief moment he looks gutted. Then without warning he shoves Peter’s hands off him and backs up several steps. “Don’t,” he gets out, and Peter’s never heard him sound quite like this, like he’s standing on the edge of some cliff only he can see. “Don’t, don’t touch me. Just go home Peter, leave me alone.”

“Johnny, what? I’m not going anywhere, okay, not till I get you back home. Let’s just go together, now, please?”

Johnny shakes his head, eyes wild, and Peter can’t help it, the way he steps closer, back into Johnny’s orbit. His strength is no match against Johnny’s forces pulling him in. Johnny jumps back, though, and it would be almost comical if Peter wasn’t so worried. “Stay away from me! Please, don’t touch me, just… god, just fuck off, Peter.”

Peter blinks. “Come on Johnny, you don’t mean that.”

Johnny’s whole body is shaking. He wipes harshly at his own tears, presses the flat of his palm against his forehead. When he speaks again, his voice is flat. “I do mean it. I don’t… I don’t think us becoming friends was a good idea. I’m the one who pushed for it, I know. It was stupid, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

The ground is cracking beneath Peter’s feet, he thinks. Soon there will be nothing solid left to stand on. He opens his mouth to speak, to say anything, but Johnny’s not listening. He’s closed his eyes, now, and for several moments he’s entirely still, just deep breaths and furrowed brows. When he opens them again there’s no steam pouring off him , no sparks, and he seems to sag with the relief of it.

“Okay,” Johnny mutters, more to himself than to Peter. “Okay, okay, we’re good. Everything’s okay.”

“Johnny, please just let me take you home,” Peter gets out. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Thanks for the offer, Pete, but I’m all good. Just gonna fly home, I think.”

“What?” Peter asks. “Come on, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It's fine, really. I’m not drunk anymore, promise. Think I burned it all out of my system.”

“But… Johnny, I don’t understand. Tell me what’s wrong, please, so I can fix it.”

Something in the way Johnny smiles in response makes Peter ache. “Genius Peter Parker. Got a solution for every problem in that big brain of yours, huh? Hey, I ever tell you how jealous Reed is that Stark discovered you first?”

“Wh- really? Reed Richards?”

“The one and only,” Johnny laughs. “Kind of a big baby once you know him well enough. Don’t tell him I said that, though. Or… well, I mean…”

Peter catches it, what Johnny’s not saying as he trails off. When would he have the chance now, to go tattling to Reed? Now that Johnny doesn’t want to be his friend?

“Anyway,” Johnny says. “I’ve gotta go. You’ll be safe getting home?”

Peter wants to laugh. Or cry. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine,” he croaks out instead. His voice sounds pathetic even to his own ears, but it’s the best he can do at the moment.

Johnny nods, swaying for a brief moment as if to step closer, arms reaching out like he’s going for a hug. Peter steps forward without a thought, desperate for the contact. When he does, though, Johnny stills.

Before Peter can do anything else, Johnny is saying his stupid, obnoxious, endearing catchphrase, a streak of fire in the sky, and then he’s gone, gone, gone.

~

When Peter finds himself back on Johnny’s window ledge, perched in his Spiderman suit, he knows he has no excuse. Johnny made it crystal clear he didn’t appreciate the last time Spiderman showed up here. Now, he’s also made it clear that he doesn’t want Peter around.

Peter tried to go home, okay? He really, really did.

Well, he went patrolling first; trying and failing to punch away all of the memories since he first got to the stupid club, since he first started ignoring Johnny’s messages, since the god awful day he first met Johnny on some random Manhattan rooftop and decided he couldn’t stand the guy.

It didn’t work, obviously, and as the morning sun crept over the city's shadows, Peter couldn’t fight himself any longer. He just wanted to make sure Johnny really got home safely. He just wanted to… to look, one more time, before the reality of the night truly hit him.

Once he arrived, though, and he saw Johnny - hair a blond halo around his head and body coiled so tightly in on itself Peter thinks it might actually be painful - he found it wasn’t enough. How could it be? How can he just leave it like this?

Moments from their fight keep playing on a reel behind the eyelids of his mask. Johnny, sparks escaping from his hair as he says nobody thinks he can take care of himself. Johnny, eyes wide and voice shaking as he asks if Winnie’s okay, if he’s hurt her. Johnny, telling Peter not to touch him, telling him to fuck off, telling him their friendship was a mistake.

Peter can’t stand it, and he wants -

He wants -

Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching up and tapping on the window.

Johnny’s head whips up off his pillow, When he sees Peter hovering there awkwardly, fist still raised, his eyes widen. He trips his way out of tangled sheets to unlock the hatch and shove the window open, mouth gaping.

“Spiderman? What? What are you doing here?” Johnny’s voice cracks on the last word, and a large yawn forces its way out. “God,” he mutters sleepily, running a hand through his mussed up hair, “What time even is it?”

Peter laughs. He can’t help it, something in him thawing at the sound of Johnny’s voice. “Rise and shine, Torchy, haven’t you ever heard the early bird gets the worm?”

Johnny rolls sleepy eyes at the mask. “No, never, it’s brand new to me. Care to fill me in on what the early spider gets?”

Peter shifts, a nervous kind of energy filling him, leaving him restless. “Look, I… I wanted to apologize. Last time I came here wasn’t exactly my finest moment, and I think we really got off on the wrong foot here.”

Johnny studies him for a moment, gaze searching, before something in his stance relaxes slightly. “Yeah, that was super weird, man. But I messed things up first, you know, you don’t have to pretend like I didn’t. I never got the chance to apologize properly, for the-” he winces, looking down. “For the article about you.”

Peter shakes his head. He forgave Johnny for that ages ago. He wishes he could tell Johnny now that Spiderman wouldn’t have returned, for real, without his help. He wishes he could make Johnny understand just how much he’s really done for Peter, without even trying. He wishes he could find some way to pay him back, to return the favour. “Forget it, seriously. Anyway, it’s not like you were even wrong. You were just… early.”

Johnny looks upset. “But you asked me not to say anything, and I completely messed it up!”

Peter lowers himself through the window, watching Johnny closely for a sign that he doesn’t want him to. Johnny gives none, so Peter slowly steps into his room. It feels just as strange as last time to be standing here as Spiderman. His gaze shifts to the corkboard on the wall. The picture Johnny had pinned up of the two of them is already missing, and Peter wrenches his gaze away.

He swallows tightly, focusing back on Johnny. “Yeah well, now I’m asking you to forget about it, can you do what I’m asking you for this time? There are no secret grudges being held here, scout’s honor.” He crosses quick fingers over his heart, and can hear its traitorous beat pick up at the small, shy smile that unfolds across Johnny’s face in response.

“No way you were a boy scout, I call BS. But, yeah. Yeah, alright, fine. Do-over?”

“Yes,” Peter responds instantly. He hates how much he wants it, a real do-over between them, so badly he doesn’t even rise to Johnny’s easy bait, even though he could’ve been a boy scout if he wanted to, thank you very much. But still, this is… yeah, he’ll take it. “Yes, yeah, do-over, deal.”

Johnny lets out a confused laugh at Peter’s level of enthusiasm, glancing around his room like he’s not sure where to look.

Look at me, Peter wants to say. Please, just keep looking at me.

“So,” Johnny says instead, when Peter manages to keep his trap shut for once in his life. “Was that all? Cause no offense or anything, but I had kind of an unbelievably shitty night, you just woke me up at ass o’clock in the morning, and my bed misses me right now, I can feel it.”

“Can’t resist the ol’ siren call, huh?” Peter replies on autopilot, trying to ignore the twinge behind his ribs at Johnny’s mention of the night before.

“I’m a very willing victim,” Johnny grins. All his edges look softer in the morning light, and Peter wants-

He wants-

“Okay, listen, and just hear me out before you say no! I came here to apologize, yeah, because I know I lost my mind a little bit the other night. But I also came here because I had an idea- well, I have an offer for you, okay-”

Peter takes a steadying breath. Is he making another mistake? Maybe. Probably. Historically speaking, his odds do point towards it.

But then again, only one way to find out.

“I’m here to offer to train you.”