Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Domingo en fuego,

I think I lost my halo."

-Twenty One Pilots "Polarize"

1.

No amount of pressure, knowledge, facts, or otherwise can change Peter's opinion about hospitals: They are awful. He didn't like them much before he was bit, but after the spider-bite, and the consequential increase of senses, everything got so much worse. Hospitals smell, they're loud, the aids are frankly too cheerful, and they bring up memories he'd rather not poke at today.

Or anyday, really.

But still.

He's really not sure how long he's been sitting in this chair. He thinks it's been over three hours, but he doesn't have his phone and the waiting room, oddly enough, doesn't have any clocks in it. Admittedly, he's relieved. He doesn't want to watch the passage of time. He doesn't want to see how many minutes are slipping away.

"You. Spider." Peter jerks his head up at the noise from where it's previously been buried in his knees and sees Sam Wilson—Falcon, Falcon is talking to him—standing in front of him with two cups of something in either hand. Judging from the smell, he's going to guess coffee, but he's not certain.

His nose wrinkles despite himself, and he gnaws on his inner lip for a second. He's never really been fond of the smell of coffee, honestly. He loves the taste, but the smell...gah, it's so powerful and it makes his stomach churn with displeasure. It's only gotten worse since the bite.

Falcon said something to him.

It's common courtesy to reply back, Parker.

"Um. Yeah?" Peter questions, not shifting from his position. One leg is tucked close to his chest as the other sits on the chair in a half butterfly. This pose is one of the few that hasn't made everything below his knees go numb since he got here, and he appreciates that.

Peter tries to ignore the way the other eyes in the waiting room look up towards them at a louder noise. The attention feels stifling.

Falcon holds out one of the cups towards him, "You drink caffeine?"

Tony says he shouldn't, but he does, on occasion when the situation calls or permits it, drink himself hazy with the substance. "Sometimes," Peter admits reluctantly, and Falcon nods once before shifting the cup out further towards him.

"Here. Take it. You look like you could use an energy boost." Falcon says firmly. What is that supposed to mean? Peter looks like a half-dead zombie that just crawled its way out of purgatory? Because, frankly, given everything that's been somewhat explained to him and he's overheard, that isn't exactly wrong, is it?

He was dead for five years.

Years.

And he remembers almost nothing. He has faint whispers of memories of a yellow sky and wandering through water trying to find something, but he doesn't know if that was some sort of dream or a hallucination he created to appease his frantic mind.

Peter reaches out an unsteady hand and grasps the coffee cup, pulling it out of Falcon's hand. The weight feels funny against the Iron Spider suit, but Peter doesn't really care. He didn't have a change of clothing on hand, and he didn't really have time to drop by anywhere and pick one up between the battle and now.

The smell of the coffee brings him back, and Peter tries not to dry heave and how overpowering the sensation is. He's going to be sick all over this clean, tiled floor.

"Well," Harley—he thinks it's Harley, he's only met him once before, but he looks vaguely like Harley, if a little older—scoffs openly, leaning back in his chair as he dully rubs at his upper arm with his left thumb, "at least we don't have to fight for your favor anymore, Sam. We know who's the favorite."

Peter shrivels in the chair. Please don't say that. Please. He's not—he doesn't like it when people do stuff like that.

Pepper lightly whacks him with two fingers from her position in the chair next to him and her lips thin a frown. "Harley."

That answers that question.

Peter's lips press together tightly, and he makes a move to stand, ignoring his exhausted limbs. "It's okay, do you want the—"

"Shut up, sit down," Falcon commands sharply, and Peter stills, falling back against the seat. He looks up at the Avenger with wide eyes, thinning his lips tight enough that they hurt. The wingman is eyeing him with a stare that could wither a plant on the spot, but there's something gentle about it, too. Peter just wishes he would stop. No one, beyond when Dr. Banner briefly asked him if he hurt anywhere, has given him much attention since he got here.

He crowded into the Quinjet behind everyone else of the Vanished Avengers team as the paramedics rushed Captain America, Hawkeye, Tony, Thor, and a handful of others to the nearest hospital. Stark Medical in Avengers Tower—that Tony apparently repurchased sometime in the last five years, he missed so much—wasn't the first option, but Pepper pressed because of the medical advancements that Stark Medical has over the average hospital.

It doesn't seem to be doing anything, they were three hours behind the injured because of clean-up and reports, and they've already been sitting here for another three. Six hours, and they have had almost no words from the doctors that rushed everyone into surgery.

Peter felt the jolt as the energy from the Stones rushed rushed through him, but he didn't think—doesn't dare to imagine—what the agony of holding the Gauntlet would have felt like. It's a miracle, according to Dr. Banner, who wasn't allowed to help and has been restlessly pacing back and forth in the small waiting room since, that Tony's arm didn't immediately get charred off.

Falcon is saying something, Peter realizes suddenly, and kicks himself mentally for lapsing in attention.

Again.

It's so hard to stay present, and he doesn't know why.

"—caffeine, okay? Drink it." Falcon gestures towards the cup in Peter's hand again, and Peter flicks his gaze down at it. Ugh. It's covered in cream. Peter hates the taste of sugar. This is fine. Falcon spent money on getting this for him, and it would be rude to refuse it.

Right?

Yeah.

Um.

Peter lifts the drink to his lips and takes a sip, fighting at his gag reflex when he realizes that there's cinnamon in it. The smell of it nearly causes him to pitch it across the room in disgust, but he doesn't, trying not to breathe. He takes as much as he can mouth, admittedly not a lot, and then pulls the foam cup away from his lips.

Well. Okay. Maybe coffee doesn't taste as miraculous after being revived from the dead. (He was dead. He was actually, literally, dead). That's...disappointing. Maybe it's the sugar. It's probably the sugar. Who's idea was it to put sugar in coffee, because they ruined it. Straight black is gross, too, but Falcon must've dumped a cup of the sweet substance in this.

And there's cream.

Cinnamon coffee is the only kind he can stand. Tony knows that.

Peter looks up at Falcon's parsing expression and gives a weak grimace of something he thinks was supposed to be a smile. "Thanks."

Falcon nods a little, taking a swig from his own cup without any restraint and sighs deeply. "Drink that all, Parker, you've been dead for five years. I think that you're going to be hungry."

He doesn't feel hungry, though, and that's what's more disturbing. He's always hungry since the bite, but the knot of anxiety spitting through his gut makes it hard to feel much of anything beyond sick. The little coffee he managed to swallow settles in his stomach like lead.

"Well I haven't been dead," Harley announces, "and I'm hungry anyway. Did you see a vending machine near here?"

"This is Avengers Tower, Keener," Sam states without humor as he—much to Peter's quiet displeasure, and isn't that awful?—takes the empty seat beside Peter heavily. "You really think that there's gonna be a vending machine?"

There isn't. Peter's already scoured the halls for one in the Comp—right. This isn't the Compound, and he needs to stop forgetting that. He doesn't really think that there would be one in the Tower, either, but who knows?

Harley's last name is Keener?

Harley's jaw snaps shut and he sighs dramatically, tipping his head back on the seat as his fists clench around the handrests of the chair. His discomfort and unease is palpable, but he hasn't been here long enough to sink into the state of anxious despair that the rest of them have. He only arrived an hour ago. Apparently someone—he thinks it was Pepper, but he really doesn't know—called him, and Harley drove, but traffic was a nightmare.

Dr. Banner passes in front of Peter's line of sight again for the umpteenth time this hour.

Is he ever going to sit down? Peter swears he hasn't seen him sit for longer than a minute since he arrived here, and he must be exhausted running back and forth through the Tower, and then coming back here to pace.

"I think I have granola bar," Scarlet Witch offers, and Peter glances towards her at the sound of her thick accent. The room has chairs lining every available wall space with a large coffee table in the middle with scattered magazines that are a year out of date. There's a large hallway leading towards the medical rooms, but none of them have been brave, or desperate enough, to venture down them yet.

Scarlet Witch is seated on the chair nearly opposite of him, but Peter's been doing his best not to look in that direction because on the witch's left is Loki and the thought of making awkward eye contact after the first time doesn't appeal.

Thor, who was released before Peter got here with the others—his arm, amazingly, is mostly fine beyond third-degree burns and scars that he'll carry the rest of his life. It is wrapped to his shoulder in thick, white gauze, though—is slumped against his younger brother, head on the would-be-conqueror's shoulder and sleeping deeply.

The sight is so unnatural that Peter can't help when his eyes stray towards the siblings, but it's always brief. Loki's head is tipped back against the wall revealing awful bruising on his neck and his eyes are closed, but it really doesn't make Peter feel any more comfortable.

This entire disaster doesn't make him feel comfortable.

Peter hugs his leg closer to his chest with one hand and has to loosen his grip on the coffee cup before he breaks it.

"Yeah," Harley says and lifts up a hand, "if you're offering, I will not refuse, Witch-Lady."

"Wanda, please," Scarlet Witch insists before Peter sees a granola bar go flinging through the air. That bar is five years old. Did it die when Scarlet Witch did? Peter should be twenty-one this year, but he's still seventeen. It's 2023.

That granola bar has probably expired.

Harley eats it without any restraint, and the sound of his chewing makes Peter want to tear out his hair. No one else in the room seems to be bothered by it, though. But there aren't many. Hawkeye's wife and kids (which, he's married, who knew?) are apparently on their way here, and the others had business they needed to attend to. The Valkyrie, Winter Soldier, and Rhodey were really the only others who stayed behind.

Black Panther had a country to go assess, S.H.I.E.L.D. is helping with the clean-up and after effects of everyone returning, Dr. Strange an organization (though he left Pepper with firm, but quiet instructions to call him about updates) of wizards, and the Guardians are somewhere in the Tower, but Peter doesn't know where.

He drinks from his disgusting coffee instead of voicing his annoyance, but every sip he takes gives his stomach ammo, and he really is worried that something is going to come up violently. That cream smells wretched.

Silence lapses over their group again.

There isn't much to say.

Peter doesn't know what he would.

He doesn't drink the rest of the coffee, but beyond a brief stare of disappointment, Falcon doesn't really seem to care as Peter sets it on the coffee table in the middle of the room, glad to be gone of the dairy fragrance.

000o000

He's nodding off somewhat when the door to the room is thrown open about two hours later, and Peter's spider sense jerks dully in the back of his mind after its done so. He quietly shoots it a scowl before straightening in the chair and whipping his head up to see who burst in.

His breath catches in his throat.

May, holding up a young girl he doesn't recognize, starts making her way across the room without sparing a glance in his direction. May. May. May. She's here. She's right here. He'd wanted to contact her, but between everything that happened and the worry gnawing through his stomach after the doctor finally arrived to give an update some time ago, it'd completely slipped his mind.

"I'm so sorry it took so long!" May exclaims as she reaches Pepper. The woman's face brightens immediately and she reaches her hands up to take the girl from his aunt.

"Hey, sweetheart," Pepper whispers and Peter realizes for the first time that Pepper is wearing a wedding ring. Wait—are she and Tony married? At long last, but—Peter...didn't...Tony invited him to the wedding. He wasn't going to do anything beyond sit in the audience and make stupid faces to try and get Tony to laugh, but he was going to go.

He missed it.

Another thought strikes him, and Peter's eyes widen as he draws in a quiet, but sharp breath. This girl is their daughter. Daughter. Pepper and Tony are married, and they had a child together. He wasn't there to see her be born. She's what? Five? Four? Peter missed that.

May, apparently, didn't.

"Traffic was a nightmare," May continues, "the NYPD is everywhere trying to get people out of the roads. It took so much longer than I was hoping, but we got here, so that's something, right?"

Pepper smiles faintly, and the little girl settles in Pepper's lap comfortably, resting her head against her mother's chest. Daughter. This is—it's—he can't wrap his head around this, despite how hard he's trying. What's her name? When's her birthday? What's her favorite color? What was her first word? When did she walk for the first time?

Daughter. Daughter. Daughter.

"Thank you for looking after her, May." Pepper says and gently holds the girl close.

"Of course," May gives a nod, and Peter realizes with a slight pang that her hair has more gray than he remembers. "Happy to help. If you need another babysitter again, just let me know. A little more warning would be appreciated, though."

Pepper's lips curve up in a smirk, "Sorry. Dr. Strange's portals can be abrupt, but I needed to get her somewhere safe before this happened."

May says nothing, but Peter imagines that she's smiling. She reaches forward and gives Harley's knee a slight pat, "Hey, Harley."

"Aunt May," Harley tips his head in greeting, and something in Peter's stomach does a furious clench at the words. They slide so easily from Harley's lips, as if he's said them a thousand times before and Peter's fists clench at the sudden possessiveness towards them that rushes through him. "Aunt May" are words that really only he has spoken before now.

Not that he ever really called her that. Ned—oh, gosh, Ned. Did he vanish in the snap, or is he in his twenties now? Is MJ?—did sometimes, but more often he just called her "mom". Peter found it quietly hilarious that Ned considered May to be an extension of his parents.

"All right, well, I've gotta run. The clinic wants me to report in overtime and I need to be there in an hour. With traffic as bad as it is, it might take me two," she sighs heavily, before giving a slight wave towards the girl. "Bye, Morgan."

Morgan.

Her name is Morgan.

It's not awful, but it wasn't what he was expecting. It fits the girl, though, he can see it in her facial structure. It just says "Morgan". Why did they choose this name? Was it the first one that they picked, or the last? There are so many things that he doesn't know and he wishes—

May's leaving.

She's leaving and she didn't even say hi to him. She didn't even notice him.

"Bye-bye, Auntie May," Morgan's voice is quiet, lacking the shrill that most young females he's come across has. She called May "aunt", too. A thrum of low panic spurs through him, and Peter's on his feet though he can't remember standing, and moving towards his aunt.

His voice is a croak, but it still comes. Almost every eye in the room is on him, and he hates that. "May?"

May's posture goes rigid, and her spine straightens tightly before she slowly turns around to face him. Her hands fly up to her mouth first as she inhales sharply. Her face has aged, taking more lines than he remembers, and her glasses have changed. Her hair has more streaks of age in the front, and he feels vaguely sick at seeing her, when all he should be is happy.

May's hands draw away from her lips, and she slowly reaches out her hands to cup his face. "Peter?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Peter, are you really here?"

His vision blurs, and Peter distantly realizes that he's crying. He hasn't cried today since Tony collapsed and he and Pepper were trying to revive him without success on the battlefield of the Compound's ashes. He doesn't even feel the constriction in his chest, but he nods anyway.

May's eyes grow wet before she lurches forward and pulls him into a hug. Her grip is tight, as if she never intends to let go. Peter buries his head into her neck and returns the embrace as best he can with his shaking hands.

He wants to lay down.

He's so tired.

But he can't rest yet.

"You came back," May sobs, "you came back. I didn't think that you would...even after everything, I...oh, Peter, Peter."

The eyes in the room are not bothering to look away, and somewhere between a few minutes ago and now, someone woke up Thor. The Asgardian's gaze is, thankfully, elsewhere than them, but Peter feels slight guilt wash through him at having wakened the Asgardian king anyway.

He looks as though he could continue to sleep for an eternity without any problems, and Peter woke him.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and buries his head harder into her neck, breathing in the scent of her. She doesn't smell like what he remembers, and that realization makes him cry harder. So much has changed and he wasn't here to see it. He wasn't here to help with any of it.

He was dead for five years.

And the world didn't care, and changed without him.

000o000

The moment, as all good moments, can't last forever. After a few more tears and Peter sneaking out into the hall with May for more privacy, she kisses his forehead, cups his face again and promises to come back for him when her shift is over. Peter smiles with a plastic authenticity and watches her go with a pang in his heart.

She watches him until the elevator doors close, and Peter gives her a small wave from the hall.

Then he goes back to the waiting room, back to the endless anxiety and wanting to tear out his hair in frustration at the lack of answers. The chair is far more uncomfortable than it was before, but Peter refuses to meet anyone's gazes after he sees Scarlet Witch's sympathetic stare.

Honestly? He doesn't want to cry, he wants to hit something. The frustration is clenched into a ball in his chest, and he has no idea how to get it out beyond smash his fist against a wall. It's maddening. He doesn't think that anyone would take well if he lept to his feet so he could slam a fist into the wall, though, so he sits in the stupid, plastic, hospital chair and tries not to explode.

Bits of conversation pass over him, but he doesn't really listen. He doesn't want to contribute, and he doesn't really care, so he doesn't offer his ears.

He probably would have remained like that for a few more hours, maybe more, but he's stopped when a hand gently touches his calf. Peter flinches, jerking upright from his curled position and it's more on his spider sense's part than his own that he misses smacking Morgan in the head with his foot.

Some of the other adults are engaged in a painful conversation about food (if they're so hungry, why don't they just order something?), and Morgan must've slipped away in the midst of that.

Morgan's eyes gaze up at him, and she tilts her head a little. "Hi."

Peter untangles his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Hey."

She smiles softly, and reaches her hands up. "Up," she requests, "up!"

Peter glances at Falcon for help, but the Avenger is engaged in an argument with the Winter Soldier about—oh, look at that, they are discussing what to order—take out. Okay. Falcon is harassing the Winter Soldier who only occasionally replies.

He bites his lips tightly before leaning down and gripping Morgan under her arms and lifts her up onto his legs. His limbs feel jittery and suddenly unsupportive, so Peter doesn't let her go. Morgan studies his face again before nodding to herself and sitting down on his lap.

He has no idea what he's doing!

He's awful with children.

Spider-Man isn't, but Peter—Peter is. His heart flutters in his chest with anxiety, but Morgan doesn't seem disturbed, instead settling herself and brushing hair out of her face. "You can braid my hair," she declares quietly, "Daddy's said you can, and it's bugging me."

Peter's eyebrows shoot up with surprise, but he gives a slight nod and fumbles as he grips her strands and smooths them away from her face. May taught him how to do basic braids so she wouldn't always have to do it after Ben died. Peter didn't even know that Tony knew that. There was one time that Peter french-braided Pepper's hair, but that was mostly awkward, and he would never repeat it.

Morgan's hair is soft, but ratty, like most children's hair. It's also thicker than it looks.

As Peter starts the braid, he has to try twice before he can get the question across: "Your dad told you about me?"

Tony talked about him after he died? After they did a funeral—what did they do for the Vanished? Peter isn't sure that he wants to know—Peter just kind of assumed that everyone stopped talking. That's what he and May did for Ben. It's too hard to talk about the memories, so they don't.

Morgan gives a single nod, shifting slightly. Peter's stomach lurches and he reaches a hand down to keep her from falling forward. "Yeah." Morgan says, "Uncle Happy, too."

Happy.

Where is Happy?

Peter didn't even realize he was missing until now, but now that he's noted the missing presence, it sticks out like a sore thumb. "You were dead, but now you're not anymore. You're my big brother Peter," she says and Peter's hand still in her hair, his thoughts skittering to an un-majestic halt.

...What?

Tony said…

Happy said…

They—

It—

How—

What?

"I'm..." Peter breathes out the word slowly, trying to get his stiff fingers to move again, but they don't want to. Morgan's hair is starting to stick to his fingers from the spider bite after effects, and Peter forces himself to take a shuddering breath so he can release her brown locks.

Calm. Down.

"Yeah," Peter shakes his head slightly, trying to ground himself as he wiggles the Iron Spider's gloves out of Morgan's beautiful hair. "Yeah, I'm your big brother, Morgan." He says the words in a slight stutter, and they sound stupid as soon as they've left his mouth.

He clamps his mouth shut, but Morgan doesn't seem to care, waiting patiently until he's finished before she looks back at him and smiles faintly. "I saw you in Daddy's photos. He missed you a lot."

Peter feels his eyebrows raise to his hairline, and he tries to keep from openly gawking. He knows that Tony and he are close, but enough for Tony to raise his daughter with the knowledge of a dead brother? He didn't expect that. He thinks, with some mild embarrassment, that he called Tony "dad" on the field. It isn't the first time it's happened, probably won't be the last, honestly, but he really didn't mean for it to slip out right there.

Morgan rests a hand on his arm, "He'll be glad you came home again." She smiles, "I've wanted to meeted you."

"Meet," Peter corrects halfheartedly. He can't...why is this so unacceptable to believe? Morgan hops off his lap and returns to her mother as the realization strikes him: Because for Tony to have raised Morgan with the knowledge that Peter is her brother, he would have had to claim Peter as a son.

000o000

It takes almost twenty hours from Thanos and his army's death before a doctor comes out with news regarding Tony. The one for Hawkeye has already arrived, reassuring them that it isn't anything that won't heal overtime, and Pepper had called Mrs. Barton and his kids (still on their way because traffic is a nightmare) to let them know the good news.

No one has reappeared for a report on Captain America, and Peter has seen Falcon and the Winter Soldier growing more tense as time passes. The doctor introduces himself, shakes a number of hands (not Peter's, Peter doesn't trust that his hand wouldn't spend the whole time shaking and sweaty), and gives a grim smile.

But a smile, and that's good, right?

Peter doesn't know.

He hasn't spent much time around doctors except May, and she's just a nurse.

"Well," Dr. Petroff starts and shifts a clipboard he has in hand, "I have some good news and some bad news, unfortunately. Firstly, I've been asked by Dr. Cho to give a report about Captain Rogers for her. The surgery went well, but the injuries he sustained are…we're going to have to do some monitoring for a little bit."

The Winter Soldier visibly slumps.

"Is he going to live?" The Winter Soldier asks with a grim voice.

"Yes," Dr. Petroff assures with one of those doctor smiles. The kind that make Peter want to claw at the medical man's face because it doesn't seem sincere and he hates that. "Yes. He'll live. We're keeping him in solitary given his current condition for fear of infection or bacteria, so unfortunately we're going to have to ask that you refrain from seeing him for at least a few days."

"Idiot," Falcon scoffs. "Of course he's damaged enough to need that."

His voice doesn't sound nearly as hard or mean as he's trying to make it.

"What about Tony?" Rhodey asks, and Dr. Petroff looks up at him, flicking his gaze down to the paper again. His gaze quickly flicks over something before he visibly shifts with discomfort.

Peter clenches his fists.

"He's alive, and I don't think we'll be facing a flat line any time soon, but given Mr. Stark's already damaged heart, we're going to be monitoring for that for the next few days. We've done all we can, but there was too much damage to his left arm. I'm sorry, but…" Dr. Petroff looks up, "I was pulled off of duty from another hospital. Who's next of kin? Mrs. Stark, I'm assuming, but—"

"We're all his family," Bruce interrupts, "anything you tell Pepper, she's going to tell us anyway."

Dr. Petroff hesitates before nodding, "That's what I assumed, but I wasn't sure. Well, Mr. Stark is looking at permanent paralysis in his left hand."

Peter's face drops.

Pepper's grip tightens around Morgan, "What?"

"The damage done to his nerves was too much, I'm sorry. He was the lighting rod in an electrical storm and the rest of you took the aftershocks. It you hadn't, he would've been dead before you left the field, but as it is…"

"Is there anything else that we need to be made aware of?" Rhodey's voice is calm. Collected. Peter feels like screaming.

Dr. Petroff hands over some papers to Rhodey, "Here's the official medical report. And Captain Rogers's. I came out to get you because Mr. Stark is somewhat awake right now, and I thought you might want to see him."

Peter's feet jerk, and Pepper nods several times. "Yes. Yes, please."

Dr. Petroff nods and waves a hand, "Follow me, please. I won't be able to give you more than five minutes, and there's no guarantee for how long he'll be awake."

Peter follows behind Pepper, but the walk isn't terribly long. They pass a hall leading towards more hospital rooms, and Peter thinks he sees Captain America and Hawkeye, but he's not sure. Hawkeye's in solitary, too, because the surgery to the various bits of internal damage from the explosions did enough to leave his immune system pretty much useless.

When they enter the hospital room, Peter feels his breath hitch in his chest. Tony looks...dead. His left hand is bandaged in white cloth past his shoulder, and other cuts and bruises have been wrapped and addressed. There are so many machines attached to him, and the oxygen machine hisses lowly, almost tauntingly.

Tony can't breathe by himself.

Tony's…

Peter stops once he gets past the door, but Pepper moves forward with Morgan still gripped firmly in her arms. It takes Peter a second to realize that Tony's eyes are half lidded. He is awake, though it doesn't look like he should be.

The nurses and other aids move to the side so Pepper can reach out a hand to grip Tony's. "Hey, sweetheart," she whispers softly, "you're okay. You're safe. We won because you're stupid."

Tony's eyes lift towards her, and some recognition flicks through them. His hand shifts on the bed as if to move towards her, and Pepper gives a pained smile. "I love you," Pepper promises.

"I love you three thousand," Morgan insists, reaching out slightly, but Pepper holds her back. "Daddy, you need to get up, I'm scared,"

"M'gn," the word is muffled from both the oxygen mask, and Tony's inability to speak clearly. The others move forward, but Peter stands where he is. He can't get his feet to move. Tony looks so awful. So, so, awful. Peter didn't even realize how bad it'd gotten until now.

Tony was still standing so he assumed…

Tony makes have gurgled attempts at recognizing names, but his attempts to ask about "Stv" and "Clt" go unanswered. The only other people that Tony really asks for once he's surveyed everyone close enough to the bed for him to see (not him, Loki, or the Winter Soldier, they're all standing near the door) are three.

"Hr'ly?" Tony attempts to reach for the young adult as he steps forward, and Harley lifts out a hand to squeeze the multi-billionaires.

"I broke a dozen laws getting over here," Harley says, but his voice has a faint tremble, "the police are going to get a lawsuit and I need you to bail me. You know, when you're not half dead. Okay?"

Tony gives a half attempt at a smile, but it's lopsided and wrong. Peter flicks his gaze away.

"Mr'gn?" Tony questions and his daughter reaches out obediently. "Nebuuula?" The word slurs, but its the most coherent one Peter's heard from him.

"She's upstairs," Pepper explains, smoothing a hair from his face. "She's okay."

"M' kids all safe, th'n," Peter can't tell if it's a question or a statement, but something in him gives a cold, twisting lurch anyway. All of the...then…

Shut up. Stop it, you big baby.

Pepper nods, and lifts her hand out, "Tony, hey, look at me." Tony tilts his gaze towards her, and Peter tries to stop the sinking that his heart is falling to. It's drowning in the depths. Never to be revived. And he's—

"We're going to be okay, alright?" Pepper presses a kiss against his forehead, "You can rest now."

Tony nods, and Peter sees him slip off into the world of unconsciousness again before he slips from the room as quietly and discreetly as he can. Judging by both Loki and the Winter Soldier's slight head turns, he wasn't nearly as successful as he was hoping.

Peter manages to find a bathroom before his anxiety descends into a panic attack and he slams the door shut, twisting the lock as he lowers himself, shaking, to the ground outside of the door. Ragged hisses for breath are beginning to choke from him, and he grips the sides of his hair leaning his head forward.

Tony didn't—

Stop it!

Tony didn't—

Shut up!

Tony didn't...he said that all his kids were safe, but he didn't ask about Peter, and that means that he...what, Parker? He didn't consider the whiny kid he had to shepherd to be a part of his family? What a surprise. Truly.

Peter grips at his hair firmly, letting out a hiss. "Gah, you're so stupid," Peter whispers out loud to himself, "get it together, you idiot."

A hiccuping noise rattles through his chest, and Peter wishes with a desperate sort of earnestly that he could crawl out of the Iron Spider suit in actual clothing. He feels like he's suffocating in it's depths. The suit is strangling him.

Peter smacks his head against the back of the door, and the pain is a momentary distraction from everything. It shuffles across his skull as if out for a lovely stroll before retreating, and Peter growls under his breath, tugging at his hair again. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid," he chants.

He's been dead for five years.

Why would Tony remember him?

Why would he even want to?

Peter doesn't know how long he stays curled up next to the bathroom door, but long enough that May arrives to pick him up from her shift. FRIDAY alerts him to it, and he hastily scrubs at his eyes and does his best to appear like a normal human being before meeting her in the lobby. He pops by the waiting room to explain, rigidly, where he's going to Pepper—he doesn't meet anyone else's eyes—and she nods, telling her to call him.

He doesn't have her number, nor a phone by which to complete the transaction, but he plasters a false smile on his face and nods, before joining May downstairs. She welcomes him with another hug, and worried eyes that he's sure are probably warranted. He hasn't slept since before school in 2018, and he feels grimy and just awful, but that's the least of his worries.

Now he has life to adjust to.

Normal life.

The life he hasn't been around for five years with—

Tony forgot about him.

Chapter Text

"Gosh, I'm sorry. I know it's been two weeks since it all happened, but I haven't really had a spare moment to clean up or put something together...gah, I packed up all your stuff years ago...and I haven't..." May trails in her explanation as she opens up the apartment door and swings it inside. Peter's stomach is doing a funny knotting-thing, but nothing he does is helping stop that.

The space looks cleaner than he remembers. There isn't the messes that lack of energy from the two of them would create, and everything seems to be painfully organized. The windows are drawn closed, and May has to fumble to find a light switch in the dark hall. Peter can see his absence in the space, and it's weird.

Unwelcoming.

He's never tried to be a messy person, but he's not nit-picky, and the lack of him being here to create the small disasters shows painfully. His face falls, but he plasters on a smile when May looks back at him for reassurance.

She looks so tense, but pale. As if she's staring at a ghost.

Which, given everything, isn't inaccurate.

"'t's fine," Peter promises, "I'm just glad to not be eating hospital food, or sleeping on their couches anymore."

May laughs. Peter tries to follow, but can't. Two weeks of the constant strain has made it feel impossible to do so. Hawkeye finally woke up last week, but beyond a few broken bones and a nasty headache, he seemed fine. Captain America was only a day later, but Peter didn't get to see him before he left. After the man's awakening, he didn't see the Winter Soldier again, though.

Tony was two days ago, but Peter couldn't stomach enough bravery to see him while he was awake. He slipped in while Tony was sleeping, and had had to peel his gaze away from the fact that Black Widow—brought back four days previously—was holding Tony's hand. It felt awkward with someone else in the room besides Pepper—someone bullied her into sleeping, he doesn't remember who—and he hadn't been able to say much beyond two squeaking sentences and then booked it.

FRIDAY and Pepper have kept him apprised of updates from the phone that Pepper gave him last week.

He's had to settle with that, because he seeing Tony like this has only made him nauseous in a way he can't explain. It's almost worse than holding his hands against Ben's bleeding stomach as he descended into open panic. Tony looks so fragile on the hospital bed. Broken.

He couldn't look at it.

And that's rude.

He's supposed to be supportive right now. Tony needs him to be supportive, but Peter's running away. It's the only thing he's good at.

"—am I right?" May asks, and Peter blinks, looking up at her. She asked something. Crap. Peter wasn't paying attention. Why can't he do that? He's been so dizzy since the final battle with Thanos, as if he can't focus. Probably has something to do with the fact that he can't stomach much of anything food-wise. It settles like cement inside of him. He's supposed to be—

May's head tilts and she sighs shaking her head. "I asked if you wanted take-out for dinner, because getting out of the hospital officially is something to celebrate." She grabs his arm and forcefully pulls him into the apartment cheerfully, stopping him from lingering in the doorway and hall behind her.

He stumbles a little, but regains his footing and looks up at his aunt. "Yeah." He agrees. "It is."

It is, right?

Yes.

Hospitals are bad. Getting out of hospitals is good.

May smiles. "Good. Chinese?"

"Yeah." Peter answers distantly. The skin around her eyes grows tight for a second before she lifts up her phone.

"I'll call and get it—oh!" She smacks her forehead. Peter looks at her. "Gosh, I didn't even get a bed ready. Are you okay sleeping on the couch tonight? I'm sorry, I swear that I meant to have this all prepared when you got back, but that isn't what happened."

He was dead.

Peter gives a small nod, "Yeah. Couch is fine."

May squeezes his shoulder. "Thanks. We'll get this sorted soon. Promise."

Peter moves to the couch and sits on it, tossing his backpack on the ground beside it. It doesn't have much save his phone, a few other bits of technology, and the Spider-Man suit. The furniture groans more than usual, as if the springs have spent far to much time bearing weight. Peter's eyebrows raise slightly, but he forces himself to settle in it. The couch has aged while he was gone. What hasn't changed?

He bites at his tongue, and the pain is oddly grounding.

Peter sighs miserably and ducks his head onto his knees, tucking his sweater's sleeves over his hands. He wants to curl into a ball and not move for a decade, but that wouldn't be socially acceptable, and he has things to do. Like school. According to May, they're only giving the Vanished three weeks to settle back into routines with their families or new guardians, and Peter's leave of absence is almost over.

Next Monday, it begins.

He still hasn't found a way to contact Ned or MJ. Their numbers have changed, or they aren't picking up to him. He went digging through FRIDAY's archives two days after the second snap to see who vanished, and among his own name, saw Ned, Flash, a few other students he recognized, and MJ's. They aren't going to be older than him, and that's a relief.

There were also the names of a few heroes listed, because their public identity wasn't revealed and people wanted to remember them. Spider-Man was on that list. Along with a handful of other small heroes like him.

He'd been faintly surprised to see his alter ego there, but it probably shouldn't have been.

Spider-Man, in some way, meant something to a lot of people. It's warming...but also sickening. He's not ready to live up to that pressure. He doesn't know how anymore. This all feels like a disaster to process and manage, but he has to even though he's not ready, and doesn't want to. If he could simply will it all away, he would, but he can't.

Tony's paralyzed in his left arm. The doctors said it would be permanent. Peter doesn't know how to help that. He doesn't know how to help anything.

He bites at his tongue harder, and squeezes his eyes shut.

If he pinches himself hard enough, is he going to wake up in 2018, before Thanos attacks? This has to be some sort of weird dream. (He wants it to all be a dream, but reality, as ever, is so, so much meaner than that).

Dinner passes in silence. He and May don't know how to talk to each other anymore. The woman that he knew five years ago has changed, hardened. If he looks, he can still see her, but grief changes people, and May was no exception. Any attempts at conversation are awkward and don't last.

Peter grits his teeth in frustration, and tries not to break his chopstick from how hard he's clenching it in his right hand.

They clean up wordlessly, and May pulls out a few extra blankets for him before giving a weary sigh and placing a kiss on his forehead. Her hand lingers on his face, and she stares at him as if studying something. "I'm sorry, Pete," she sighs, "we'll get through this."

It doesn't feel like they will.

"I know," Peter assures, smiling as he takes the blankets. "It's fine."

"Good night," May offers and pulls him into a quick hug. "I love you. I am so glad to have you back."

"Larb you, too." Peter promises, and tightens the grip on her as best he can. She's strong beneath his arms. There is none of the frailty that followed her like a shadow those months after Ben. May lets him go, and, after he's settled on the creaky couch, returns to her room.

Peter rolls up on the couch and keeps his spine pressed firmly against the back.

The apartment smells weird. It doesn't smell like home anymore. He missed so much, and he wants to go back. This is awful. He wants to go home, but 2018 is so far out of reach that it's laughable. He can't break the laws of time to soothe his hurt feelings like a weepy child that has to be held or they're fussy.

He's better than that.

He wants to be better than that.

He pulls the blanket up to his nose. It smells like children's shampoo. Something he's smelled on Morgan before, and his heart gives a funny lurch at that. Morgan is...she's nice and Peter feels awful for being frustrated that, in his absence, his aunt replaced him.

What else was she supposed to do? Peter was dead.

Morgan is Tony's child. Tony's actual child, and Peter has no right to shove his way back into Tony, or even May's lives. He's being needy, but God alone knows how much he just wants to be held right now.

Peter pulls the blanket away from his nose, unable to stand the stench.

Peter sleeps, but he dreams of buildings crashing on top of him, Tony getting gutted in the stomach by Thanos, being unable to breathe and falling backwards off of the spaceship. He's sticky when he jerks up into consciousness with an audible gasp, and scrambles from underneath the covers, trying not to cry.

He feels so small.

And his eyes are wet from a bad dream.

Pathetic.

Peter scrambles towards the shower, noting distantly that it's not even four in the morning yet, but he doesn't care. May is a deep sleeper, and he doubts that she'll even notice. The thought sounds slightly bitter in his head, and he winces with guilt. He never specifically told anyone about the nightmares after the Vulture. It hadn't seemed important. May never noticed, and if she did, she didn't come.

The water is hot against his skin, but it doesn't do much to stop his nerves from jumping.

He feels jittery.

Sick.

He slips back into the living room quietly and toes the backpack to the side. His spider sense is throbbing dully, indicating that someone is in danger outside, but Peter can't get himself up. He feels wretched for ignoring the sense, but what else is he supposed to do? He'll only be a hindrance more than a help right now.

He wants to sleep.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut tightly, but when he opens them, it's still 2023.

His spider sense still throbs.

Peter plugs his ears, rolls over, and curls into a miserable ball on the couch.

000o000

May's up a little over two hours later. He hears her moving in the kitchen when his brain groggily processes that she's there from his half-dazed state, and he hops up to his feet. He's more tired than before he tried to go to sleep, but he doesn't really care. His mind is latching onto the idea of company, and he isn't going to resist it.

May doubletakes when she sees him, and then smiles sincerely, "Good morning. How does breakfast sound?"

"Good," Peter assures, giving a small smile, "good."

May rummages through the cupboards. After going through several and poking her head into the fridge, she looks up at him, face slightly flushed. "This is embarrassing. I don't think I've been grocery shopping since the second snap. I'm sorry. I feel awful. All this time and I wasn't ready for anything."

Peter gives a small laugh, relieved by how normal this all is. If May had been prepared he wouldn't have recognized her. As it is: "It's fine, May, really," Peter promises, trying to hide a smile behind his hand, but isn't very successful.

May swats at him affectionately, "Stop it. You're making me feel worse."

Peter grins, "Sorry."

May sighs and drums her fingers on the countertop, brushing a piece of brown hair from her face. The gray hairs prod for his attention again, and Peter has to pull his gaze away to stop himself from gawking at them. He clenches his fists.

His aunt blows out a breath between her teeth. "The milk went bad a while ago, I think, so how do you feel about dry cereal? I think I saw a box of Cheerios back there somewhere."

Because, of course, if one brand cereal is going to last a freakin' apocalypse, it's going to be Cheerios. He isn't even surprised. Not even a little bit. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"It isn't hospital bagels." Peter says, giving a nod, "I'm fine with it."

May looks relieved, and moves back to the cupboards, pulling out the bright yellow box. She places it onto a counter, grabbing a handful and stuffing it into her mouth before opening a drawer and tugging out a piece of paper. She has to try three pens before she finds one that works, though.

Peter reaches a cautious hand into the box, pulling out the dry cereal. It tastes as bland as he remembers it, and that is a relief. Over the last five years, Cheerios haven't changed. He honestly doesn't know what he would have done if they had. Cry? He's been in a state of near-tears for days now, and as pathetic as it is, he really does think that something as simple as breakfast food changing would have been the end of him.

May's rapidly scribbling things down, and Peter tips his head to peak at the list to abate his curiosity.

Ah. Groceries. Probably for the best. Cheerios are great and all, but they really aren't more than a one-a-week kind of thing. Also, he's pretty sure that trying to eat something from the fridge is something that his spider sense would warn him for. It's got about a fifty-fifty with poison, but he doesn't need it to see that to know that it wouldn't be wise.

Peter grabs a handful of the Cheerios, settling them on the counter in front of him. Huh. There's a stain on the far left that he doesn't remember being there. Paint? Some type of sauce? No—wait, there's more than one. There's a burn mark towards the edge. It looks like someone put a hot pan on the side and didn't place a hot pad down first. Smaller stains and scrapes from knives, other things from previous cooking disasters.

"I'm making a grocery list. Do you have anything that you want?" May questions, and Peter jerks his head up to her, trying to bury the rush of adrenaline. He's just studying the stupid counter, why does it feel like he's doing something bad?

"What?" Peter blurts, and then processes the question and shakes his head. "No. I'm okay."

May nods, "Alright," she continues writing things down and makes a slight face. "I don't know when I'm going to have time to get these," she sighs, "but at least we can be reassured that they are on the agenda, right?"

Peter nods, gripping the edge of the countertop. The edge digs into his palms. A thought occurs to him, and he blurts it out before he can really think it over: "I can get them."

May's expression flickers and she looks up at him. "Are you sure?"

No.

"Yeah." Peter nods, trying to convince himself of this. He doesn't want to wander through Queens and see how much it's changed. He barely stomached the drive back here from Avengers Tower, but that was only because he spent the whole time trying to stare at the dashboard.

His aunt's gaze lingers on him for a moment more before she nods, "Alright. That would be awesome. Thank you."

Peter nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

May writes down a few more items, moving to grab her purse from where she dropped it on the table. Peter doesn't remember her doing that, so he's assuming she did so before he woke up. She pulls out her wallet, tugging out a few bills. Fifties.

"This should be enough, I think," she says, resting the money on the countertop. "More than what's needed. Go whenever you're ready," she instructs, "but I gotta run. I slept in more than I should have today." His aunt sighs before leaning forward to give him a quick hug.

Peter relaxes in her touch, returning the gesture. "See you soon."

May runs a hand through his hair, "I love you,"

"Love you too." He returns.

May releases him, and gives a small smile before grabbing another handful of Cheerios, swings her purse over her shoulder, and moves for the door. Peter watches her go.

000o000

He leaves to find a grocery store a little over an hour later. There's a small store about twenty minutes from the apartment, and Peter's a little too tired to try and find something more official looking. It sells food, and that's enough for him right now.

Despite the fact that it's autumn and a blazing sixty degrees outside, Peter is freezing. He's well aware that it's because of his stupid spider bite, but it doesn't make him any warmer. He usually wears two sweaters around now to keep warm, but the clothing he's wearing is borrowed. He couldn't find any of his own this morning, and He doesn't even know who it came from, honestly, Pepper told him to use it when it became clear that he didn't have anything on underneath his suit.

The suit, of which he is now wearing. He doesn't...he's still not ready to be Spider-Man, but there's something comforting about having it on underneath his clothing. It's warmer, too, because of the heater, but the weight of his web shooters is reassuring. Stupid as it is, he draws strength from the fabric.

Why is he here?

Groceries.

Food.

Subsistence.

May wanted him to...no he volunteered to get the food. Right. The money is tucked into his pants pocket, underneath his Starkphone. Pepper has yet to text him any updates, and that is both a good and a bad thing. A good thing because nothing awful has happened, but a bad thing because he doesn't know what has happened period.

Okay, Parker, focus. You can do this.

Peter steps into the store, trying not to shrink in on himself. He's supposed to be here. He just needs to act like he's supposed to be here. He grabs a cart and ignores the pointed stares of adults as he shoves it forward. The menial tasks of picking fruit, vegetables, trying to decipher May's handwriting—it may as well be cuneiform—and then figuring out what she meant is a distraction he sorely needed. Thankfully, if he pushes for paper bags, there won't be too many groceries to overwhelm him when he walks home.

As expected, when he checks out, everything fits neatly inside of five bags.

Really, this is all fine.

Until it isn't.

Peter blames stupid Parker luck. It's probably just irony working at its finest, but Peter doesn't care. One moment he's standing outside of the building, groceries bought and trying to decide on whether or not he should go back in and buy a different brand of eggs—he has no idea what one of the little label thingys mean. Raised and grown in a dust free area? What?—and the next there's a loud scream and his spider sense blares in the back of his head.

He whirls, keeping the eggs balanced on his fingers. Inside the building, the cashier's hands are raised and her wild, frightened eyes are flitting up towards the two men who have just stepped next to the counter waving guns around and speaking in a rapid English that's hard to understand out with their accents and the glass door blocking them, but Peter's pretty sure that they're saying something like:

"Give us the money, woman!"

"Drugs and cigarettes, too."

They wave their guns pointedly. The cashier begins to sob, but rapidly moves to accomplish the task.

Peter's jaw sets.

Are you freakin' kidding me?

Now?

Why now all of all times? He was almost done. He really could have avoided this whole thing if he'd left even five minutes later. Ugh. He should...he should do something about this. Yeah. Uhhh—think. Breathe. Blink. Okay.

Peter glances up, trying to find security cameras outside or in. There aren't any. The men in the masks chose well in their robbing choices, Peter will give them that. Mostly, though, his annoyance overrides any appreciation he has for that.

Peter blows out his cheeks before sighing and puts the eggs back into the bag.

There are three other people in the building and a handful—thankfully, it's still early—on the street across from him, but they're all focused on the robbers with wide, frightened eyes or ignoring the building. Peter rolls his eyes up to the sky before tugging his mask out of his jacket's pocket, quietly grateful he'd followed the vague feeling he'd had earlier to grab it.

He slips into the side alley and sets his bags down, pulling the mask over his head.

He bites at his inner gums before backing up and slipping down the street. He shoves open the door to the building quietly and hops up towards the ceiling, sticking onto it easily. No one noticed his entrance, despite a small bell, for which he's quietly grateful.

His stomach rolls. Peter swallows anxiety before moving along the ceiling and tugs his gloves over his fingers, watching the robbers carefully. The one on the right has an injured leg, he's leaning heavily on his left one, and the thief on the left is clearly unfamiliar with a gun; judging by how much his hand keeps readjusting.

The cashier is apparently not moving fast enough for baddie on the right, though, because he lifts up his gun to hit her with it and Peter fires a web towards the weapon. It sticks, and Peter pulls the handgun away from the man, landing in a soft crouch behind him silently.

He clicks his tongue, trying to find something to say. "My dude, learn how a gun works. You fire from the trigger, last I checked, it aint a baseball bat."

Audible gasps sound in the space, and the cashier's wet eyes lift up to him, gawking. "Spider-Man?"

A shudder rushes down his spine at the name.

"The one and only," Peter promises, and gives a mock bow. First baddie swears under his breath and dives towards him. Peter dives out of the way when his spider sense blares in the back of his head. He leans back and watches a bullet fly past him towards the door. The glass shatters on impact. Peter winces a little before looking back at baddie two. "Yeah. Just like that. Good job," he encourages before firing a web.

In less than twenty seconds, both the robbers are on the ground, groaning from the lost fight. Peter sets the guns on the counter and smiles at the cashier. "Good morning," he greets, "call the police for me, would ya?"

He fires a web at bad-leg-robber when he tries to get up, pinning him into place.

The cashier nods. "Yeah. I...I call—can do that," she agrees, seeming dazed. She picks up a phone and Peter gives her two thumbs up of encouragement before turning around and waving at the other shoppers.

They're all watching him, looking like they might faint.

Peter makes a face beneath the mask, but forces his body language to remain welcoming. "You all good?"

He received several nods in response and nods, "Good, good, good. Well, uh, happy Tuesday."

With that stated, he, if a little awkwardly, exits the building and slips into the alley to pull of his mask and grab the grocery bags. He bites at his lip, shaking his head with embarrassment, and walks out onto the street.

"'Happy Tuesday'?" Peter scoffs, groaning. "That's the best you can do, Pete?"

His Starkphone buzzes in his pocket, and Peter stops, ducking past a rapidly moving business man to uncomfortably dig the device out of his pocket. There's a text from May telling him that she made it to work, and a more recent one from Pepper:

The doctor says that Tony might be good to move up to the living area of Avengers Tower today. Making progress. Hoping you're doing okay. :) He asked for you again this morning. When are you coming to see him?

The cheerios settle in his stomach like a physical weight.

Peter shakes his head, biting at his gums. He's still not ready to see Tony yet. He doesn't...it's stupid. If Tony wants to see him, he should go because this is Tony. But Peter doesn't know...stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He turns off the phone and shoves it back into his pocket.

He doesn't answer the text.

000o000

May, inevitably, it seems, hears about the robbery and twenty minutes later, just as he's getting home, she texts him to see if he's okay. Peter calls to reassure her as best he can, and, in his confusion, asks how she learned about it so fast.

"Peter...it's all over the news. Spider-Man's alive again. Everyone is relieved," May answers.

Peter's eyebrows knit together before he turns on the TV for a second to a news channel. Sure enough, not even half an hour after the entire mess, the leading story is the reappearance of Spider-Man. New York is relieved to have their hero back.

All of them, at least, except the Daily Bugle, but Peter expected literally nothing less from J. Jonah Jameson.

"All I did was hit a few guys and make bad jokes," Peter says, a little breathlessly.

"Yeah, but they missed you." May responds.

The story is over exaggerated by the people who were there, but it's almost funny, rather than frustrating, how much they're trying to up his heroics. In one version, there was a whole captive situation and in another, a mob of evil gangster ninjas.

Peter sits on the couch, and tries not to openly gawk with his surprise. Yeah, he's been Spider-Man for a little over two years now, but he hadn't expected this at all. He can't really process it, it doesn't seem real.

None of this seems real.

000o000

He goes out in the suit that night. At the Tower, he'd thought that he'd feel awkward and utterly hate the changes that New York had gone through, but Queens seems largely the same. The people flick their hands up to him pointing and shouting with excited glee despite the fact that it's eight in the night and they should be heading home or finishing up business transactions.

Peter waves to dozens of people, returning greetings and even posing for a few photos.

He feels ridiculous, but at the same time...it's a relief to be back.

This feels normal, and after so long without anything normal, he is more than grateful to the feeling. The weight that's been settled on his shoulders and in his chest for weeks has lessened. He feels free.

Hopeful.

Peter doesn't go home until after three AM that night. May is none to happy, but he warned her it's going to be a late night, and she gets it. She says, laughing, that Harley can get strung up like this, and she was hopeless to stop it. Then suddenly the crippling weight is back.

Harley.

Harley.

Harley called his aunt "Aunt May". Morgan slept on the couch, wrapped in one of the blankets.

Peter stays out so late to clear his thoughts, but when he goes back to the apartment, he doesn't feel any better.

000o000

After a long day of wading through storage May directed him towards for putting his room back together (it was turned into a guest room, and Peter's enhanced senses can pick out so many scents that weren't there before), he slips on the suit and swings through New York again.

People are still excited to see him.

Him.

He's not an Avenger—on a technical term, yeah, okay, yes, but does Tony waving his hands around and saying so really count?—he's just...him. And people are excited to see him. Well, more accurately, Spider-Man, but Peter gets that. He's excited to see Spider-Man. Spider-Man is a hero, Peter is a Disaster Truck™.

There's a brief lapse of activity, so Peter's been sitting on the edge of an apartment building, catching his breath and staring down at the city below when his phone rings. The ringtone is obnoxious and Peter scrambles to pull it from his pocket—he needs to learn how to change the stupid tone, but, as weird as it is, the technology feels so advanced—It's a number he doesn't recognize.

Weird. It's not a spam caller, but he doesn't recognize it.

"Uh, Karen, can you ID this?" Peter questions.

Karen is quiet a moment. "According to FRIDAY, it's Mr. Stark's private number."

Oh.

Oh.

Peter's fingers fidget in a brief panic. Crap, crap, crap, crap—he's not ready to talk to Tony. He's not. He was avoiding this whole thing and now it's all—

He presses answer, and his heart pounds in his chest. Oh no. Why did he do that, why did he—whydidhedothatnowitsallbecomingworseandhedidthestupid—

"Hey, Underoos, Pep said this was your number," Tony greets his voice sounds better and Peter stares at the phone. Whoa, the voices are so much clearer now. How had he not noticed that until now? There's a lapse of silence before Peter realizes that Tony is waiting for him to respond.

"Uh, yeah," Peter scrambles out, "it is. This number. It's mine. Yeah. I mean, I don't own it or anything, but I use it because. I um. It is what it is. And I don't own the number. Well, I mean—no never mind. Yeah."

He face palms.

Idiot.

Tony laughs a little. "Listen, are you free right now? I feel offended that you didn't stop by medical when I was awake—" Peter winces, I told you so "—and I want to see you. In person. You're quite the news story right now, you know that? I'm impressed, they've spent the last two weeks slandering the Avengers—gosh have you seen anything they have on Loki? I'm surprised that the guy hasn't outright murdered anyone—and you show up and then suddenly heroes are a good thing again. Anyway. I'm trying to say that TV is good, but I almost died and I want to talk to you. Do you have, like, an hour?"

Peter's hand clenches around the phone.

Yes.

He does. But he just...suck it up, Parker. You're almost seventeen. Stop being such a child. Get up.

"Yeah," Peter promises, trying to smile, "I can be at the Tower in like fifteen minutes. That okay?"

"Perfect." Tony answers, and Peter hears the sound of someone in the background. Dr. Banner, he thinks, and Tony huffs loudly before stating, "It's a phone, Brucie-Bear, I can hold a phone. No, stop it, don't give me that look. Oh, shut up."

Tony sighs, "Sorry. Overprotective teammates. I swear they think I'm on my final breaths. Please come save me, Spider-Man."

The tone is actually somewhat pleading, and Peter's lips quirk upwards, "Will do, Mr. Stark."

"It's Tony, Kid, how many times do we have to go over this?"

000o000

Peter arrives at the Tower in a little less than twelve minutes and easily finds his way back to Tony's room. The sharp scent of antiseptic and other hospital smells penetrates his nose with vigor, but Peter grits his teeth and endures it.

This is for Tony. He can do it for Tony.

He stops in the doorway, trying to process the sight of Tony hooked up to so much medical equipment, but it doesn't get any easier. Tony still looks sickly in the bed with faded bruises, his ribs are wrapped, his left hand in a sling and his right in a splint. He looks so small and helpless, and Peter doesn't like that.

He bites at his tongue.

Pepper is sitting on one of the chairs next to the bed typing on a laptop, and Morgan is laying on her stomach on the bed next to Tony's feet with a book laid out in front of her. Black Widow, unlike every other time he's been here, is absent.

"...this one?" Morgan questions, pointing down at the book, and then up at Tony.

Tony gives a nod, smiling, "That's the one, Little Miss. You're getting better at this."

Morgan's feet give a restless kick. "Thanks, Daddy."

Tony ruffles her hair as best he can with the brace, and then looks up. His face visibly brightens as it latches onto Peter in the doorway, and he waves him forward, "Don't just stand here. Come, join us in the all important art of homework."

Right. Because even though Peter gets three weeks off, the rest of the population does not. A week, he thinks it was. He's not sure.

Peter moves forward. As he gets closer, he tips his head to get a better look at the problems, expecting them to be letters or colors, something in preschool, but is quietly surprised to see at least first grader level math. Maybe second.

Morgan looks up at him, pulling the book towards herself a little subconsciously.

Peter tugs the edges of his sleeves over his hands.

"Hey, Pep?" Tony asks and the strawberry blonde looks up at him.

"Hmm?"

"Can you take Morgan for a little bit? It's past noon and Laura said she was going to cook lunch." Tony says and Pepper nods, closing the laptop lid and setting it on the bedside table before lifting her hands out. She and Tony's daughter—oh, that is still so weird—scrambles up into her arms.

"Let's go find some food, yeah?" Pepper asks with a smile.

"Okay." Morgan agrees.

Pepper gives him a nod of greeting before exiting the room.

Tony rolls his shoulders and blows out a breath, shoving the book out of the way with the edges of his fingers. Peter stands to the side awkwardly, not sure what to say. He should probably ask about Morgan, because that's polite—and though he is curious about her—he, uh, doesn't want to.

Jerk.

Peter gnaws on his inner gums.

The silence sets between them. It's heavy.

"You start school back up?" Tony asks, and Peter flicks his gaze up from the floor. The multi-billionaire is watching him, seeming to be grasping at the strings for a conversation topic, so switched to the topic all adults do when talking to teenagers: school.

Peter untangles his tongue from the room of his mouth. "No. Not 'till Monday."

"Ah. Okay."

More silence.

"Pepper said that you might get moved today," Peter starts hesitantly, "do you know anything more about that?"

Tony shakes his head, giving a slight shrug, "No...I don't know. They keep fluctuating. I wish someone would just make a decision. Bruce is fighting the doctor on letting me move up, but Doc is worried about and a quote 'the lack of a hospital staff twenty-four-seven will make me careless.'" Tony scoffs. "I don't think he understands how this team works."

Peter doesn't. He does know how Tony works, and can see where the doubts stem from.

He didn't meet meet the Avengers until after their dubbed civil war in the German parking lot, and by that time they weren't functioning as a solid unit. More like murderous killers. Peter's really still not sure how he feels about the fact that Captain America dumped more than a ton of weight onto his shoulders and walked away.

"Are you okay?" Tony questions, and Peter looks up at him.

"What? I mean, yeah, I'm fine." Peter promises, nodding earnestly. He doesn't know what's wrong, but something is, and he can't explain it. It's like...this thing inside of him. A weight. It's settled onto him and it isn't going away. It's hard to put into words so Peter isn't going to talk about it. Not to Tony. Tony doesn't need to deal with his teenage drama.

"You just seem a little…" Tony trails.

Peter tries his best not to mentally fill in the blank, but can't help it. Stupid, confused, unfocused, not-all-here, not the person I wanted, quiet, anxious, annoying, not what I wanted, go away—

"Tired." Peter offers in explanation.

The silence lapses again.

Peter doesn't know how to talk to him anymore. Adults with kids only want to talk about said kids, and privately that drives Peter crazy. He doesn't want to hear Tony discuss Morgan for hours on end—he feels terrible for this. Morgan has done nothing to him, but he's so nasty to her. He doesn't understand what they lost in the five years he was gone, but the fact that it's missing is painfully clear.

Peter shifts forward, opening his mouth to try and say something, but at that moment, Nebula steps into the room and he swallows the words. The Luphamoid hesitates at seeing him, but it's for barely half a second. "Bruce sent me come and tell you that he got clearance so long as you exist in a wheelchair for a week."

Tony groans, but Peter notices the relieved flit of his eyes. "Good, but bad. Mostly good."

Nebula nods, and turns to exit, but stops as Tony asks, "Hey! Did you get that mess down on 22nd cleaned up?"

What mess on 22nd?

"Yes," Nebula answers, "it was not hard, despite Quill's instance. I do not believe that they were trying very hard."

Tony snorts, "You only say that because you're a freakin' ninja."

Nebula rolls her eyes. "Drama queen."

"My past self didn't nearly kill the whole team." Tony points out with a raised eyebrow.

Nebula hesitates and then looks back at him with a slight smirk, "I do not like to lose. Besides, you are awful at winning."

Tony makes an offended noise, but Nebula has already slipped down the hall before he can come up with a comeback. Peter watches her go with an ache in his chest. The two traded quips back and forth with a fire that suggested something that Peter and Tony don't have anymore: Comfort in each other's presence.

This isn't the person Peter collapsed against as his body withered away.

And Peter has been dead for five years.

They just…

He shakes his head a little, trying not to let the sudden despair and discouragement swallow him. Peter endures another fifteen minutes of the awful attempts at conversation before he makes up a poor excuse and slips out of the room. He nearly barrels into a tall, dark-haired lanky figure walking beside someone that can be no one other than Thor, but dives out of the way and scrambles past them in his effort to get out of the Tower.

He leaps from the landing pad, grateful he still has his suit on and fires a web to the nearest building.

Why, why did he even try?

Tony has Nebula, Morgan and Harley now. He doesn't need Peter anymore. And that's a good thing, isn't it? Because he has no idea how to fill the holes that have formed in their relationship. He doesn't even know if it's possible.

Peter bites on his tongue until he tastes blood.

The pain is only a momentary distraction, but it helps.

Chapter Text

He's wading through water. It sloshes up to the middle of his calves, oddly cold, like shoving through liquid ice. His body is exhausted, and he wants to lay down and rest. He doesn't know how long he's been walking, but he's seen the sun set and rise at least four times now. He hasn't stopped to rest. He's supposed to be looking for something, but he doesn't know what it is.

He doesn't know much of anything.

Just faint sensations.

Voices. Feelings. Memories. None of that's important, though, he just needs to keep moving forward until he finds it. Whatever it is. Once he's got it, then he'll rest. He'll lay down in the water and not move until his body's energy has been replenished.

He moves forward.

His toes have lost feeling, but he can't remember if they had any when he started moving forward. He woke up alone. He's been walking for a long time without seeing anyone.

Forward.

Keep pushing.

Forward.

Go.

Tired.

His foot catches on something, and he topples forward, hands slamming into the hard ground. Rock digs into his palms and he knows it should hurt, but it doesn't. A gasping hiss releases from him anyway, and he tugs his hands out of the water, sitting back on his heels. It's still cold, and now it's soaking his entire legs.

Maybe...maybe it's okay if he stops here. He's so tired, and he wants to rest. His head tips forward from exhaustion and he lets his hands rests on top of his legs. He can see his reflection in the water murkily, but he can't tell if it's his. He looks dead. Pale. Faded.

His eyes slip shut.

He slumps forward.

Tired.

He's supposed to be moving.

Wet.

He's supposed to be moving.

Go, go, go!

Tired. Tiiirrreeeed.

"Child?" He startles at the voice, wrenching his eyes open and whipping his head up to look. The figure standing next to him isn't familiar. Female, but not familiar. Behind her are a dozen others, and it takes him a second to place names to some of the faces. Dr. Strange, Scarlet Witch, Star-Lord, Falcon, a few others he doesn't know.

I don't want to go...I don't wanna—

The woman is resting a hand on his shoulder, but he can't feel it. He can only see that she's doing so. Dark hair is falling over her shoulders, tinted at the edges. Her skin is green. For some reason this registers as odd, but he doesn't know what's normal.

"Who are you?" He questions, his voice sounds toneless to his own ears.

The woman tilts her head, "In another life, I am told I was known as Gamora. Here...I am."

He frowns. The name means something, but he doesn't know what. It's significant. He blinks several times, shifting in the water. "Do you know my name?" He asks, and despite his best efforts to add any emotion, it slips from him. Still placid. Still dead.

"I don't," Gamora admits, and her voice is just as flat.

Dr. Strange shifts forward, cape trailing in the water. "I believe you are called Peter Parker."

Is he?

That...seems right, but not right enough that he can agree. He looks up at the other figures, and sees they all look as washed out and sickly as he feels. He blinks several times, trying to adjust to this. The woman's frowning.

He thinks he's crying.

He meets the Gamora's eyes again. "Are we dead?"

Gamora hesitates, and then squats down next to him. Her face is twisted with sympathy. She shakes her head twice, "I...I don't know."

"What are we if we're not?" someone asks, he thinks it was Scarlet Witch.

No one has an answer.

And somehow that's worse.

Gamora tries to help him to his feet, but he's exhausted and he can't keep himself upright. He slips from her grip and smashes into the water face first—

—And Peter wakes up with a sharp gasp, tumbling off of the bed in a tangled heap of blankets and shaking limbs. Loud wheezing noises are sounding—are those his?—and he squirms to escape the confines of the thin blanket and sheet.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Peter curls into a fetal position, tugging up his legs and wrapping his shaking hands around them as he buries his head into his knees. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. The dream wasn't anything like the others that normally leave him like this. There were no falling buildings, no crushing weight, no withering away into Tony's arms, no Thanos. None of that. It was just wandering around in water and a crushing dread.

But he's not stupid, either, and he knows what this was.

When he first reformed, he'd been disoriented with vague memories of nothing that he'd shoved to the side for contemplation at a later date because Dr. Strange was ushering them forward. There hadn't been time to think about it. Nor in the weeks afterwards, when Tony was still in critical condition and it was anyone's guess on whether or not he'd wake up.

But it's been four weeks, two days since the second snap, and Peter couldn't ignore it forever.

That wasn't a dream. It was a memory. A memory from when he was dead—in the Soul Realm, whatever. After the first snap, but before the second. When he wasn't here-here. This isn't the first time he's dreamt about this since the second snap, but usually everything else is just foggy dialog and occasionally a few faces.

He can remember Scarlet Witch's red magic spread out around them the most prominently, but everything beyond that is blurry.

He thinks he remembers Black Widow there, too.

He doesn't know.

His hands are still shaking and Peter bites at the back of his left one, trying to ground himself. He was just walking through water and talked to someone. Why is he so shaken? Peter blinks several times, taking in a few more deep breaths before he lifts his hand up and pats around on the desk to find his phone.

He grabs at it after a few tries and turns it on, wincing at the bright light.

Three-twenty-two in the morning.

He blows out a breath.

Is he ever going to sleep well again? That would be a miracle. He hasn't slept through the whole night since he entered 2023. Running off of a full night's sleep must be wonderful. That would be so many hours dedicated to just laying down and existing rather than having to think.

Must be nice.

Peter opens his contacts, trying to stiffen his muscles to stop them from shaking. He stares at Tony's number for a long minute, running the cons and pros of calling. It's three in the morning. He doesn't know why he's considering this. Tony's still recovering, and that would be stupid to stop him from that.

Peter bites at his lip.

On the other hand…

No.

Stop.

Peter blows out a breath and scrolls up until he sees MJ's name. He can't remember what part of last week he finally managed to get in contact with them, but it's been nice to talk with them again. Ned and MJ have been busy with immediate family and extended family reunions and gatherings, so they haven't met up in person yet, but Peter's okay with that.

He wants to see them, he just doesn't want to see them.

That makes no sense.

He shifts a little before firing off a text to MJ.

Are you awake? -PP

It takes about a minute before he gets a response. He's not really surprised that she is awake, MJ doesn't really seem to sleep. She exists at all hours without being tired and Peter privately envies her.

Yep. Did you know that the human heart, so long as it receives oxygen, can still pump outside of the body? -MJ

Peter pauses. No. He didn't know that. Gross, but cool.

No. -PP

What are you doing up? -MJ

Just...not sleeping? -PP

Peter rubs at the bridge of his nose. That is the stupidest excuse he's come up with to date. If he's awake, it's a given that he's not sleeping. That's how being awake works.

Kind of obvious. So the REAL reason would be…?-MJ

Peter pauses. Gosh, he wishes she wasn't so perceptive sometimes. Even through the freakin' phone. How does he explain this? He doesn't even know what it is that bothered him so much about the dream. Only that it did. What is he doing? He's almost seventeen. He should be able to handle this on his own by now.

He presses his teeth into his tongue for a long second.

Do you remember being Vanished? -PP

MJ doesn't respond for nearly a minute, and Peter internally winces. She's going to think he's crazy. Of course she doesn't because who would and he's been making this all up since it started and—

Maybe? I don't know. It's all blurry. Sometimes I dream about wandering through water. Why?-MJ

Water. She remembers the water, too!

It's not just him.

A breath of relief escapes him.

Just curious. I think I dreamt about it. -PP

No, he knows he dreamt about it, but he doesn't say that. Not even when MJ presses. Their conversation doesn't last much longer than that before MJ says they should probably go to bed so they don't have to endure the first day back to school sleepless. Peter agrees for her sake, but he's well aware that he won't be going back to bed now.

His mind has long since deemed it unimportant.

Peter is so tired.

All he wants to do is sleep.

000o000

He gets up.

He dresses, he takes a shower, he eats, but it all feels like a routine that belongs to someone else. May takes some time off to drop him off at Midtown, and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he gets out of the car.

"Call me if you need something, okay?" she requests.

Peter nods, but he doesn't know if he will.

First period goes by okay. The teachers all seem a little shaken and Peter struggles to grapple with the information because it's not what they were learning before he died, but he gets on well enough. The students openly gawk at them, and Peter has to keep reminding himself that these kids were in elementary when the snap happened.

Elementary.

Peter doesn't know them, and they won't know him.

His classmates—the one that he knows—all seem a little fuzzy. Well, maybe not fuzzy, but just—it's probably only him. They aren't as loud as they were before. They take notes on the information desperately, and seem oddly sullen.

Then lunch happens. Peter's squished between MJ and Ned, discussing something mundane—maybe popcorn, or the proper amount of peanut butter to jam in a sandwich—when a group of the not-elementary kids walk up to the table, camera in hand.

"Hi," one greets with braces and bangs long enough to hide most of her left eye. "We're doing a report about what it's like to be a Vanished for our project this quarter and were wondering if we could ask you a couple of questions."

Peter's stomach does the funny knot-thing, but a glance at MJ and Ned reveal that they mostly seem surprised, rather than apprehensive. If they're okay with this, than he needs to be too. It's all fine. It's just questions.

"Okay," MJ agrees, sounding skeptical, "but there isn't much."

Braces-Girl sighs, "Everyone we talk to keeps saying that!"

"Because it's true," Ned states bluntly, "listen—what's your name, sorry, I don't know, like, half the people here anymore."

It's a poor joke, but at least it was an attempt at one, and Peter gives a weak smile.

"Maddie." Braces-Girl answers, no traces of amusement on her face or body language. "This is Jeff, Michael, Rachel, and Brianna."

She gestures towards the people as she speaks, and Peter sees Rachel shift her feet uncomfortably. Everyone else looks mostly enthused, and Jeff's holding a notepad, clearly prepared to take notes despite the camera that Maddie is holding.

"Listen, Maddie," Ned continues, "we're happy to help, but I don't think you'll get different answers from us than you will anyone else."

Maddie waves a hand, "Whatever. Now tell me—"

She asks about what they remember, and MJ hesitatingly offers out a thin sentence regarding wandering through the water, and Ned says something similar a few seconds later. Peter thinks about the compression in his chest and the desperation to get out because he needed to find something and blanches. "I don't remember anything." He lies.

Maddie's eyes narrow as if she can tell, but before she runs out of questions, they run out of time.

"Tomorrow, then?" she asks.

Peter wants to shake his head no, but MJ and Ned are already nodding with disinterested agreement. Peter bites at his lower lip and heaves out a sigh.

May picks him up a few hours later, and her wide smile is probably the only thing that stops him from swearing in frustration as he clambers into the seat. "How'd it go, Pete?" she asks it so earnestly, and Peter feels bad for only mumbling out a response of "okay."

It was school.

What more is there to say?

000o000

He dreams of the water again. But this time he's standing still and watching as the adults talk with Black Widow. She's waving her hands as she speaks, voice pinched with frustration. The words she's saying are murky, but he knows they're important even though he can't remember them.

Scarlet Witch steps forward and offers something.

The others give what Peter's assuming is a negative by the way her eyes flash with frustration.

The Sokovian delves forward into an argument, hands still, but her face freely showing her pique.

The water is up to his knees. Wasn't it only to his calves before? It was, wasn't it?

Oh.

Oh no.

It's getting deeper. They're going to drown.

Peter wakes up with a gasping heave of panic, and has to climb onto the roof with shaking hands before he can calm down.

000o000

It's Thursday, two-twenty-two in the afternoon, and Maddie and her group of knowledge seeking leeches won't leave him alone. They haven't since Monday. MJ and Ned gave them all the answers that they wanted, but Peter mostly stayed quiet, trying not to panic. He's remembered more than he ever wanted to.

He doesn't want to talk about it.

MJ and Ned said their deaths were painless. Peter's wasn't. His spider sense throbbed in his head powerful enough to make him want to cry, and he'd staggered forward because his limbs were on fire and he couldn't breathe anymore and "please Mr. Stark, I don't want to go—"

It's best, he thinks, not to reminiscence these memories.

Peter had spent that particular question pale and trying not to throw up. MJ grabbed his hand under the table and held it until lunch was over. He was too unsettled to even be embarrassed, only grateful that she had done it. MJ and Ned are too good for this world.

Too good for him.

"C'mon, Parker, you hardly answered anything!" Maddie whispers harshly. She'd taken the seat next to him at the beginning of physics, and Peter wishes this was a class he shared with Ned or MJ. Usually he manages to find someone else who's quieter so he can focus, but Maddie is insistent. And stubborn. Ugh, she's stubborn.

He'd take sitting next to Flash over this.

Peter stares down at the worksheet, trying to will the answers from his brain. He has to show his work, and he doesn't want to show his work because that means he has to put it all within the lines of space that are always too small. Why can't they just give him another half inch—or, like, let them use notebook paper? Peter prefers to work his problems going down. MJ does her sideways though, and so does Tony.

But really—it's not enough space.

"Parker."

He ignores Maddie to the best of his ability. He only has twenty minutes to finish this, and he probably can if he focuses really hard. He's tired. He really, really wants to sleep. Can he get May to prescribe him sleeping pills? Can she do that as only a nurse? Peter's really not sure. Besides, drugs probably wouldn't work anyway given his metabolism.

"Peter," Maddie insists in a harsh whisper, and his patience finally reaches its limits when she jabs him with the pointed end of her pencil, hard. He looks up, biting at his tongue.

"What?"

"I need you to answer the questions for my project," she insists.

"Can't you find someone else?" he asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his tone. He doesn't want to talk about this. He really doesn't want to talk about it.

"Well yeah, but you remember something they don't." She leans forward, seeming pleased that she's finally gained his attention. "I can see it in your face. Jones and Leeds were honest when they answered, but you...you weren't. You answered, like, twice, and I could tell you were lying."

His fingers tighten.

"The one I'm most curious about, though, is when I asked about whether or not the death hurt and you said no, but that was a lie, so, Peter, was your death different than the others or—?"

Please, Mr. Stark, I don't want to go, I don't want to—

The words drown out as his breath escapes him in a sharp gasp. His vision is blurring and he knows that he's panicking, but it doesn't stop him from panicking. His heart is thumping in his ears. It's pounding against his ribcage, anything but quiet.

He can't breathe.

He needs to get out of here. Peter staggers up to his feet, drawing in a sharp little breath as he grabs the papers and shove them into his backpack. Maddie is making noises of protest behind him as he staggers down the aisle towards Mrs. Walker's desk.

His hands are shaking and his feet feel wobbly.

Please Mr. Stark, I don't want to go—

Tony made such a noise when Thanos gutted him, a gasping hiss as his eyes flicked up to the Titan and his hand had gripped at the sadist's arm in an attempt to stay upright. Peter was already down, but he'd felt the weight of that settle on him. Tony was going to die, and Peter couldn't—

"Mr. Parker, honey?" Mrs. Walker looks up from the papers she's grading. Her face sobers as she sees him and she rises to her feet.

"C-c-can I-I-I take-take this one home?" his voice sounds wretched. Are his teeth chattering? He feels oddly cold.

"Of course." Mrs. Walker agrees, "Let me write you a pass real quick…" she grabs at the paper and Peter feels the eyes of everyone in the room on him. His stomach flips and he tries not to shrink in on himself. Maddie is scowling at the back of his head.

He doesn't want to come back to school tomorrow, oh, he doesn't want to come back here.

Mrs. Walker hands him the pass and he thanks her, and suddenly finds himself outside of the building, phone lifted up to his ear. He can't remember leaving. He can't remember walking down the hall or even stepping out onto the pavement. That's at least ten minutes, but they're just gone.

Peter's hand clenches around his phone and he blinks sluggishly before realizing it's buzzing.

He's called someone. Why did he—he doesn't want to call someone. He doesn't want to talk or discuss this and his hands are still shaking and—Peter sinks to his knees, wrapping a hand around his stomach as he tries not to be sick.

I don't want to go, Mr. Stark, I don't want to—

I've missed you, oh, thank God you're alive—

M' kids all safe, th'n—

"Kid? Shouldn't you be in school?" Peter freezes at the voice on the other end of the line. He forgot to hang up, and it's too late now. His mind skids to a halt violently and he makes a strange noise.

He called Tony. In the blackout—whatever it was—he called Tony.

"I'm—" Peter gasps out, and bites at the words that immediately want to follow. Come get me, please. Help me, something is wrong and I need you. Help me, help me, help me—"I'm…"

"Are you okay?" Tony's voice has sobered somewhat, and Peter can hear him moving. "Did something happen? Are you hurt? Where are you? You're breathing heavy. Are you okay? Are you—Peter. Answer me." He flinches at the harshness of the tone, swallowing along his suddenly dry throat.

"Can I come over?" he croaks. His voice is raspy.

Tony is quiet for a long second. His voice is a little softer, "Are you okay?"

No.

"Can I come?" Peter presses. He's too needy to handle this by himself right now, but he doesn't want to admit anything over the phone. He wants—oh gosh, that's so pathetic. What is he? Five? He wants to be held. Peter bites at his lower lip, fisting his shirt and breathes out steadily.

It seems to take an eternity for Tony to answer, but in reality it was less than a second. "Yes. You can come, do I need to have a medical ready? 'Cause I don't think you should join me in hiding from the doctors."

"No," Peter's voice is hoarse, "no doctors. I'm okay."

"You sound kind of shaken there, bud."

"No medical." Peter insists, ignoring his trembling hand. "I'm okay."

Please, Mr. Stark, I don't wanna—

Tony is hesitant. Peter can sense it over the phone, but he slowly breathes out. "Okay. I'll be waiting. Avengers Tower, remember? You try the Compound and you won't have much luck."

Peter can taste blood from how hard he's biting at his tongue. His nails are digging through his shirt and his stomach hurts from the pressure. "Okay. Yeah. Um—hey, before you hang up...if I take a taxi to the Tower, can I tell them you'll pay? I don't have any money on me right now, but I'll pay you back as soon as I—"

Tony's laughing. "Oh my gosh, Kid. Yes. I'll pay your taxi."

It's supposed to make him warm, he thinks, but it only makes him strangely sick that Tony's spending money on him. He should have brought extra change. If he had any, which he doesn't, but he should have.

000o000

Dr. Banner is standing outside of the Tower when Peter gets there, and Peter know immediately that he's here for two reasons: one, pay the taxi driver for him and two: check him for injuries. He can't even dredge up enough energy to be offended that Tony didn't trust his word on it, because he doesn't exactly have the best track record.

Dr. Banner gives him a gentle smile as he looks him over, and Peter blows out a quiet breath of annoyance.

"Tony's in the lab," Dr. Banner says as they step into the ground floor of the Tower, "he asked me to tell you to meet him there."

Peter gives a half nod, already moving for the elevator. FRIDAY escorts him quietly, and Peter realizes with a weird sort of clenching in his stomach that he hasn't actually been to the Tower's R&D floors. He took a tour of the Tower once in eighth grade, but that's about the extent he's been through the building. During Tony's recovery, he mostly hung around the medical floors, so Peter doesn't really think that counts as seeing the building.

Wait—Tony's in the lab? Why is he there? Shouldn't he be on bedrest or something? Peter can't remember whether or not he was cleared, and his hands clench anxiously at his sides as this occurs to him. He was on a wheelchair, right? No? Was that last week?

Why can't he remember?

What is wrong with his head?

The elevator dings, and Peter steps out into the room. He blinks several times, trying to adjust to the space. He's kind of been expecting a basic chemistry lab with the bubbling flasks and everything, but that seems hopelessly ridiculous now that he's wrapped his thoughts around that. It looks a lot like Tony's lab did in the Compound, except maybe bigger. Tony's seated on a stool in front of a desk in the middle, holograms waving around him as he plays with something with his right hand.

He looks better than the last time Peter saw him. His face has a little more color and unless Peter looks for it, it's hard to see evidence of his damaged ribs. His left hand is in a sling, and Peter's gaze lingers on that, but other than that, he looks almost...normal.

No, not quite, there's something in his eyes that Peter doesn't recognize, but for right now, it doesn't matter. Tony is here, and Peter needs him. He stumbles like a drunk man across the lab. His muscles are still tense and he can't get his hands to stop trembling and oh man he really just—

"Whoa—no," Tony lifts up a hand as Peter gets close enough, apparently guessing his intent, "I ask that you refrain from hugs, I am not put together enough for that."

Peter freezes.

Why didn't he think about that? Only thinking about his needs even though Tony—

Tony's face flashes with what looks like guilt and he sighs, reaching out a hand to give Peter a pat on the shoulder. Peter tenses beneath the touch, not expecting it. The multi-billionaire's lips thin before he gives Peter a once over.

There's no evidence of his panic attack save his hands, and he tucks them into his jacket sleeves to hide it. He bites at his lower lip when it trembles and tries to blink back his tears. He feels so stupid. Young. Like a weepy child and he's not. He's almost seventeen. He's been to space, fought off a mad-man, freakin' had the Infinity Stone energy pulse through his body—he's not five.

Tony's expression is narrowed somewhat, and he gestures to the empty seat Peter hadn't realized was there. "Well, I don't think you came all the way over here to stand and gawk. Sit. Talk to me?"

Peter sits on the stool and pulls the edges of his sleeves over his palms. He gnaws on his inner gums for a second, barely withholding a wince. He's torn his mouth apart with teeth unceasingly for a month now, and his gums are a little done with this treatment. Enhanced healing or not, anywhere he tries to grab with his teeth pulses with hurt.

It's grounding, in a way. The hurt is familiar. It didn't change between 2018 and 2023.

Always there, like a supportive friend.

"Peter," Tony gabs him with the edge of a screwdriver, and Peter flinches, looking up. Tony's head is tipped, and he looks like he's staring at a complex math problem. Problem.

Problem. Problem. Proble—

"School's just…" Peter starts slowly, trying to come up with a comprehensible story. He doesn't even know what the problem is. It's just—it's stuck in there and it's not coming out. He can't fix it, but it's not going away. He doesn't feel alive. It's...everything is just...dulled. He can't focus, and when he does, what he sees he can't make sense of.

"I don't know," Peter mumbles, "it's weird. We have pictures of a black hole now, I...didn't know that until physics today. Everything feels advanced, but, like, not? I don't know." He sighs deeply. He wishes he could make sense of this all. It feels impossible.

Tony's eyebrows raise. "Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten about the excitement around that. It was what? Early 2019? Man, I don't know, that was a long time ago."

Peter wouldn't know because he didn't even live through it.

2019 was something that in the future. Now it's come and gone.

He wants to change the subject. He doesn't want to think about the snap anymore. He's exhausted thinking about it. He digs his nails into his palms, and blows out a breath, looking around them for something to change said subject to. After a second, he finds it. "What are you working on?"

Tony glances over at the computer screen, looking a little surprised—almost as if he had forgotten about it. "Oh. Right. Um…" Tony rubs at the back of his neck, "It's the…"

Peter squints, "Is that the schematics for Sergeant Barnes's arm?" he asks, and looks up at Tony. "That's kind of weird...why are you looking at—oh. Oh." His eyes widen, and his lips turn down with sympathy. Tony's building a brace for left his arm. Maybe a replacement. The paralysis is permanent, the doctors have long since confirmed it weeks ago. Peter honestly doesn't know how he didn't see this coming.

Of course Tony's going to try and fix it, it would be a level of defeat Tony doesn't have for him to just accept this. Peter tips his head, smiling faintly.

Tony looks at him, but seems hunched. "What?" his voice is wary.

Peter looks up, pulling his nails from his palms. "Can I help?"

Tony releases a breath and smiles, nodding a little. "Yeah, kid, you can. Full function would be preferred, I don't really want to amputate my arm unless it's necessary, but all of my ideas so far haven't really worked with all the nerve endings and everything, so I was thinking that maybe—"

000o000

They work for a little over an hour on the arm. Well "they" is a bit of an overstatement. Tony's updated his computers since 2018 and Peter thought they were good before, but now it's nothing short of breathtaking. It takes him a few minutes to adjust, trying to figure out where everything is, and even then he still can't offer Tony much help.

It really doesn't help when Tony throws out "Morgan tried to dismantle the toaster this morning. Gah, I don't understand why the little genius got all my bad parts," offhandedly and a weight settles between Peter's shoulder blades. A low panic thrums in his stomach. He's not doing enough. He's not doing enough to earn Tony's attention.

Morgan is.

Peter just—he can't. Again and again and again and again and—

Tony likes smart people, but Peter's such an idiot now, and Morgan is not and it's—

He doesn't answer, doesn't know how even though it was supposed to be funny. Instead, he mostly just listens as Tony talks, trying to calm the thrumming in his heart.

It works somewhat. Tony doesn't ask why he ditched school half an hour early, and Peter doesn't bring it up. He's just grateful that Mrs. Walker wasn't being mean today. He never really can tell with her. She's a fifty-fifty on whether or not she'll be a jerk scale.

Peter's attempting to work on the physics assignment between listening to Tony think aloud in soft mutters every now and then, but his eyebrows lower with confusion as he sees keeps getting distracting whiffs of cinnamon. Peter blames his spider bite for this. He used to like the smell of cinnamon, but then OsCorp happened and—boom, now he's overly sensitive to everything and if there is cinnamon in the room, Peter can't ignore it. It's like a particularly painful mosquito bite that's impossible not to itch at.

He looks up, trying to find the source. "Why does it smell like cinnamon in here?" he asks at last, after a minute of scanning his gaze over everything and coming up empty handed.

Tony stops, looking up at lets out a slight laugh. "Sorry. That's probably one Harley's empty coffee cups. He dumps, like, a solid half cup of the spice in every drink, but has a terrible habit of leaving the empty cups everywhere. Drives Pep nuts. You should probably just get used to that."

"Oh." Anxiety digs between his ribcage, squirming into the thin space between his heart and his lungs. It drags everything with it like a magnet and Peter tries not to vomit. He wants to. He really, really wants to.

He doesn't want to get used to it.

He wants to wake up in 2018!

He didn't agree to any of this!

It's stupid, and it's childish, but he doesn't want to get used to Harley hanging around the lab (that was his and Tony's safe place for a long time. It was theirs and now it's not), or Tony praising Morgan for simply breathing, Nebula hold the easy conversations that he and Tony can't—he's such a whiny child, but life in 2018 suddenly seems like paradise.

He wishes that Thor hadn't—

Oh, Pete. Don't finish that thought. It's not a good one.

Tony doesn't know what to do with him anymore, because Tony doesn't want him. Tony's content with Harley, Morgan and Nebula. They're everything he's not. Everything he should be, everything that Tony deserves, and Peter is just a ghost of himself. A dead man walking, and he gets why Tony wouldn't want that. Why he's been ignoring Peter the last month.

(He was healing, you idiot, he can't make phone calls unconscious. Cut him some slack.)

Peter doesn't want to be here anymore. His chest is compressing and he's dying, and Tony doesn't want him and—

He needs to get out. Peter slaps a hand against his pocket, loudly declaring, "buzz." He didn't, but he's going to drown. He doesn't know how to swim and he's drowning. Sinking. Someone help him!

He looks at the screen long enough to make it seem like he's reading something before tapping at the keyboard. "May's coming home early and wants me to come home." The lie tastes bitter, but he doesn't care. He repeated words. That's not normal. Normal things. People don't…

He doesn't know where he was going with that thought.

Tony's staring at him funny, hand frozen in a projection. It's so obvious that he knows that Peter's lying, but he doesn't say anything. Peter wishes he would. As much as he would hate it.

"I gotta go," Peter explains and rises to his feet, "thank you for letting me stop by here."

"Peter," Tony's voice is careful, level, "you've seemed a little distant these last few weeks, is something—?"

"No," Peter shoots down quickly and dang it, he actually just wants people to be quiet. It's so much worse to know that Tony knows he's failing to act normal. He just wants everything to go back to the way it was. His entire body aches for 2018. "I just haven't been sleeping well." Peter blurts out. That's normal. Most people sleep badly. Right?

Tony's still squinting at him, "No, I—"

"I really have to go, Mr. Stark," Peter's on his feet and moving for the door. Peter's gone before he make a response, and barely bursts from the Tower before he's staggering into a nearby alley and crashing down onto his knees.

He feels so sick.

Somethings not right.

Peter grabs at his hair and tugs. Tony doesn't want him. Tony doesn't want him. Tony found others here. Tony moved on. Tony doesn't want him. Tony doesn't—

It doesn't hurt enough. Peter needs to ache. He wants it. He can't do this anymore. He's reached his limit. Five weeks, Parker, reeeal impressive.

He whispers a swear, tipping his head back against the wall.

This is impossible. He's never going to adjust. And—why is it just him!? Everyone else seems to be doing fine, but Peter is still a disaster. He can't get himself together and everyone needs him to be, but he's not and—

Peter bites at his right hand, heaving out a breath. He's not crying, his chest is compressed, but he's not crying. He's still—why did he even think that was a good idea to go to the Tower? He should have just stayed in class and dealt with Maddie's pestering questions because it wasn't that bad and—

Something's not right.

Peter grinds his teeth before slamming his fist against the wall. The pain rockets up his arm, spiraling in an ache that makes him gasp. He broke skin from the force, and Peter draws his hand back to his chest. "Ow, ow, ow—" Peter gasps out, looking at the redish, broken skin.

That was so stupid. Gah, now it's going to bleed everywhere and—wait.

Peter stills with surprise, looking down at his hand for a second. His head...feels...lighter almost. Focused. The chaos that was running around has quieted some, and it's because of his hand. The pain...made it better.

Peter blinks.

This...this seems backwards.

How is the pain supposed to help? That's really—he's been doing it since this all started, though, hasn't he? Biting at his tongue, his fingers, his hands, because the pain helps. It keeps his head clear and makes the ache in his stomach go away for a little. The heavy compression of knowing that everyone moved on, but Peter's still stuck.

Stucky-stuck-stuck—

No, no, no—

Peter slams his fist against the wall again, and his jaw clenches as he squeezes his eyes shut. Augh!

He needs to—

It's not enough. The weight is settling against him again. Harley and Morgan call May "aunt". Harley was in the lab. Morgan is smart, Nebula is a freakin' ninja—Tony doesn't need him, and no one wants him, and he wishes that this would all—

Slam.

It's not helping!

He needs something sharper.

He—

Peter's eye catches the glint of a broken beer bottle laying next to some of the garbage cans, and his stomach does a funny swirl. Glass cuts skin easily. He can—(stop. Are we really considering this? Think for as sec, there, Parker, it's—)

Peter kneels down and picks up a larger shard. His hand is trembling. He lifts up his sleeve a little, staring at his bare skin. It's so pale. He looks like a ghost, and he feels like one. Peter Parker died in 2018, and he doesn't know who came back, but it's not someone anyone's very happy with. He wants things to go back to the way they were.

He wishes Thor had never snapped.

Somethings not—

Peter draws the edge of the glass across his arm, then digs deeper, watching blood gush out.

 "I'm a goner, somebody catch my breath,

I want to be known by you."

-Twenty One Pilots "Goner" 

Chapter Text

"A loser hides behind a mask of my disguise,

And who I am today is worse than other times,"

-Twenty One Pilots "Message Man"

It's three-eleven in the morning, Wednesday, someday in October, and today is one of the worst days of his life, but Peter isn't quite aware of that yet.

May is scowling at him. He can feel it on his back as she stitches his shoulder back together, and he's shrinking beneath the weight of her stare. He hadn't meant to wake her, but he kind of crashed into his desk when he slipped back into the apartment and knocked over a huge pile of pencils and books and the thumping was enough to wake her.

He's never thought of her as a light sleeper, but apparently, for this one occasion, she was sleeping abnormally light. He wasn't in a good place tonight, and he gained a variety of stabs, bruises, and other as he patrolled. He's going to need to do some repairs on the Spider-Man costume, because it's kind of damaged now.

Okay, more than kind of.

At least May didn't need to have him remove his shirt for her to stitch up the worst of his injuries. He'd rather she not see his arms right now.

"I can't believe you didn't stop at the first stab." May grumbles under her breath as she tightens something. Peter flinches and bites at his tongue in discomfort. He doesn't have anything to say in response, so he doesn't. "I mean, honestly, Peter, how often does this happen?"

The truth would probably make her uncomfortable. "It's not usually this bad," Peter answers through clenched teeth.

"But it's bad?"

"I'm going after people with weapons, May, and sometimes I need to be a human shield. It's fine. Normal. You can stop freaking out." He doesn't mean for it to be so rude, but that's how it comes out. May pauses, and then resumes her stitching.

The needle digs and Peter clenches his fist.

She finishes, and snips the string before walking around the stool he's been unceremoniously bullied into sitting on and squats in front of him. Her lips are thinned. She looks tired. Peter did that. He woke her up with his stupid trip.

"People that look like this stay in the hospital for days, Pete," May whispers, "I can't believe that you were just going to go to sleep."

He always does and wakes up fine. Super healing. Whoo. Peter hesitates. "I...it's nothing, okay? This happens all the time."

May's expression twists, "I didn't think...oh, gosh, I didn't realize that—" she runs a hand through her hair, breathing out slowly. "Peter," that's the serious voice. Whatever she says next he isn't going to like. He braces himself, "Peter, I think that maybe we should...we should…"

His stomach drops.

She can't be serious.

No.

There is no way he's going to agree to this!

May bites at her lower lip. "Ever since that girl went after you with those questions two weeks ago, you've been so—I don't know, tense? You aren't well, Peter, and I think that maybe…"

Aren't well?

Aren't well!?

"I'm fine, May," Peter snips, "I'm just tired."

"You've been tired a lot recently," May points out.

"I can't sleep." Peter counters. "You know that." She doesn't really do anything to help beyond pat him on the shoulder with sympathy, but she knows. Peter resists the urge to tip his head back and clenches his fists.

May sighs, "Peter, I really think that you need to take some time to rest. Really rest. I'll call the school and let them know that you're going to be sick today—" Peter's eyes widen and he looks up at her, "—and you are going to sleep for a long, long time, okay? And I need...I think you should stop going out as Spider-Man for a little bit."

He knew it was coming, but it doesn't stop the sting as it falls from her lips. Blood rushes into his ears, and Peter jumps to his feet. "No! You can't be serious!"

May raises her full height. "I am."

"May—!"

"Peter, you aren't well!" May insists, "I can see it! Everyone can see it, and I'm tired of watching you do this to yourself! You're always so negative now. You hardly laugh, and there's just...there's just something wrong with you, but you won't tell me what it is! How am I supposed to help you!?"

Peter flinches, drawing back from her sharply.

She didn't—

She—

Wrong with him?

He needs to bleed. There's just so much inside of him. He's going to explode. He needs to—

May's expression drops, and she pales, "Oh, gosh, Peter, I didn't—"

Peter draws out a ragged breath, trying to remind himself that he doesn't want to yell even though he does. Yelling would be bad. It would only make May cry and he doesn't want to make May cry because she's important. He'd feel worse about making her upset than getting the emotion out. He's not going to yell.

"May," he tries to keep his voice level, but pulls away when she tries to reach for him. "I need Spider-Man right now."

May's jaw tightens. "Peter, I can't—I can't do this. Please, for me, just...just a couple of weeks, okay? Until you're feeling a little better."

That's never going to happen.

Peter's stomach clenches with despair and he digs his teeth into his tongue to stop himself from arguing. May looks so tired. She does so much for him and he's being a selfish brat by not agreeing to this. May needs this one thing from him (he needs Spider—Man. He needs him so badly. It's the only time that he's good) and he can give it, can't he?

"I need him," Peter's voice is small. "It's just a few bruises."

"You had seven stabs," May's voice is hard. "Your ribs are bruised and who knows what else you're hiding! Peter, could have died and you don't even care! I can't let you kill yourself because your getting reckless!"

"I'm not—"

"No. I'm done with it right now Peter, okay? Go to bed. This is the end of discussion. I'll call the school in the morning. Just sleep tomorrow, alright? I know that's when you're healing factor is most effective." May's trying to grasp at her patience, but not doing a very good job.

Peter's jaw tightens, but he gives a compliant nod.

Fine.

Fine.

After a muttered good night, he hobbles off to his room. He shuts the door behind him and releases a ragged breath. His body aches everywhere, but it isn't enough. It isn't the controlled pain, the release, and he needs this right now. Peter changes out of the Spider-Man suit with considerable effort and privately wonders when the next time he'll get to be in it is.

Not soon.

May's been paranoid since he came home two weeks ago looking like harbored death from all the blood he lost from the cutting. (Cutting. It was never supposed to get this bad. It was never supposed to be HIM. It's not that bad and he's—) He didn't tell her about the wounds, he wanted to, but the story of Maddie had blurted out instead.

May's eyes had narrowed and she'd sent him off to bed.

The cuts had been nothing but faint scars by morning.

He'd still gone to school, but Maddie hadn't bothered him at lunch, and MJ was late. She'd been seething when she sat down and Peter doesn't know how she'd known, but MJ hadn't been happy with Maddie's treatment of him.

Maddie had tried to apologize, but MJ had stared her down until she'd slunk off.

Peter just feels terrible that his panic attack got in the way of her project. It really would be an interesting topic if he hadn't lived through it, and he messed it up because he couldn't handle a few questions about being dead.

Peter sits down on the edge of his bed, digging his hands into his eyes. He can't...there's just this...this thing and Peter can't make it stop. He feels so sick. So wrong inside and he has to—he needs it to stop. His mind is a chaotic black hole that won't stop taking.

He's going crazy.

And the only thing that helps, even if is for a few seconds, is crazy. PE's supposed to make you feel better, why can't he just get up and do jumping jacks? Spider-Man only helped a little, because he didn't have to think about Peter Parker.

He hates this.

Jumping Jacks aren't going to fix it. Nothing will, and maybe he should just accept that instead of fight it. Peter bites at his lower lip heavily before looking up at his bedside table where three safety pins are sitting inconspicuously. Sometimes he uses scissors, but the safety pins take longer to break skin and it hurts more.

It feels better.

Peter reaches for the pins.

There's something wrong with you.

000o000

Peter's grasping at Tony desperately, pain radiating through his body as it starts to fade away. The words are bubbling out of his throat, but he can barely hear them. He's applying too much pressure to Tony's injured side, he thinks, because Tony has to lean forward and set him on the ground. Peter looks up at his face, but realizes with no small amount of horror that he's looking at the wrong person.

This is Adriene Toomes.

The man gives a small smirk, tilting his head a little. "Petey go bub-bye." He calls in a sing song voice that sounds strangely like Morgan's.

"Wait—!" Peter gasps out, but the building smashes on top of him, and he's laying in the cold water and trying to breathe under the crushing weight. Help, help, help.

He got out of this before. He knows. He can do this. His heart is thumping in his chest, loud and jittery. It doesn't sound right. He's trying to move, because he knows that he has to get out of here, but he's still so stuck with only a small window of visual and—

That's Tony.

He's right there.

Peter's under the building and Tony is on his knees a few feet away right hand glowing with the Infinity Stones. Thanos is behind him, sword gripped in one hand, but Peter can't see much more than that.

"—And I...am...Iron Man," Tony gasps out and snaps.

Peter's stomach drops, because something went wrong and Tony's withering away instead of Thanos and the building is still crushing him and he can hear Toomes laughing in the background and Dr. Strange murmuring you look much more like a Thanos and MJ screaming, and smashing into the water tangled in the parachute and knowing that he's going to die and May hissing there's just something wrong with you—

Peter jerks upwards with a strangled gasp, sobs of terror threatening to escape him. His arms hurt, and he feels sick. There's something around his legs and he—Peter scrambles up. He doesn't stop until his head is touching the ceiling and he's feet are braced on the wall. His body is shaking.

It was a dream, Parker.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Breathe.

Out. In. Out. In.

That's how breath works. Inhales and exhales. He's good at breathing, he's been practicing since the womb, and a full fledged participator for sixteen years. He doesn't think participator is a word, but whatever. He knows how to breathe. It's intuitive.

His back and neck are slick with sweat, and Peter lifts up a hand to wipe at his neck somewhat. His hair is damp near there. It's long. When was the last time he got it cut? Before the snap, he thinks, which means it's been five years since he's taken scissors to his head, and it would have been funny in a different circumstance to see people's reaction to that statement.

He needs...he needs to get out, this room is too small.

Peter blinks his eyes open and realizes with no small surprise that the room is already lit. Nightmares usually happen during the night, so what is this, a daymare?

It's eleven in the morning. Eleven. Peter runs a hand over his face, but doesn't shift from his perch on the wall. Well, at least he doesn't need to feel guilty about school. May probably—

There's just something wrong with you.

Peter stops, and bites at his lower lip. He...he can't believe that she said that to his face. It's the kind of thing that bullies say to their victims in movies and the protagonist proves them wrong in the end. But this is not a movie, and May is his guardian, not a bully. And she thinks there's something wrong with him.

Because there is.

Tony must see it, too, which is why he's always—

Peter slowly clambers down from the wall as he sees a note on his desk. His leg almost gives out when he tries to put weight on it, and Peter is reminded of the seven stabs he sustained during patrol. Right. Everywhere else feels mostly okay, kind of sore, but his leg is just numb. He can wiggle his toes, but, like, everything above his knee just feels weird.

Peter hobbles to the desk. It's a note from May, explaining that she already left and he should keep up on his fluids and find something to eat. No apology. No acknowledgement that last night even happened.

He needs to think, but he can't just sit still.

He'll down a few glasses of water to make up for the blood loss and then he's going to take a walk. A long walk. He changes out of his pajamas quickly and grabs his phone before he leaves his room, closing the door behind him.

He grabs something from the fridge and consumes it, but it tastes bland and dry. He can't even really remember what it was. Maybe a sandwich? Cereal? His head is heavy, but the anxiety in his body refuses to let him just lay down and exist. He wants to go back to sleep, but that's ridiculous because he's barely been awake for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes too long.

Would it be socially acceptable for him to give up on the day now?

No. He's going for a walk because he wants to think. Peter grabs the spare set of keys and leaves a note for May in case she comes back before he gets home, and then exits the apartment building. His leg still feels funny, and his chest aches in a painful way every time he breathes, but beyond that he feels mostly fine from last night.

Peter turns left on the sidewalk outside of the building and just walks.

Walks and walks and walks.

He doesn't really think about anything, just exists in an almost haze as he moves. May's words go round and round his head like a taunting melody. He hears Tony laughingly say you should get used to that as they stand in the lab the last time Peter talked to him in person. It's just—it's silly little things that stung and Peter can't seem to shake them off.

He almost wants to talk about it with someone. MJ, Ned—whoever, but that would be stupid. It'd be like running up and screaming "look how they hurt me!" and then reveling in the attention as people try to soothe his injuries.

He doesn't need that.

He doesn't want that.

The sun is beginning to set in the distance, proof of the oncoming time change, when he finally stops. His feet ache and it takes Peter a second to gather his bearings and determine where he is. His time as Spider-Man has given him a pretty good mental map of Queens and the surrounding cities, so it's honestly hard to get lost now.

He's standing on 59th Street Bridge. The pedestrian walkway. He walked from Queens into Manhattan, wandered around for a little bit, and now he's walking back to Queens and he didn't even notice until his feet insisted that he stop. Queensburo Bridge. That's...that's not what he was expecting.

Peter glances up and down the walkway for a second, trying to determine if the pedestrians will notice if he climbs up the braces on the sides, and then decides probably not. Peter hobbles up the white metal until he finds a semi-straight bar and sits down, quietly exhaling in relief.

It's probably past seven now, judging by the position of the sun, and he's hungry.

He doesn't really feel any better than he did when he left. Peter leans his head against the metal, and then digs his phone from his pocket. He doesn't have any missed calls, good sign, but he does have a few unread texts: less good.

There's a few from Ned telling him to get well soon, and one from MJ demanding that he drink water because he's "probably home because of blood loss, idiot, and you need fluids". Two from May saying she made it, and the other stating I'm on my way home. When I get there, we need to talk.

That was twenty minutes ago.

There's just something wrong with—

Peter represses a groan.

He doesn't want to talk to her. That's stupid, isn't it? May has—What about him? What if he just doesn't want to talk to her? Can May respect that? Doesn't he get a say in this!? No. Because he's the stupid minor who doesn't know anything and gets himself stabbed seven times in one night then walks to Manhattan the next day.

His phone buzzes and Peter looks down at the text. I'm sorry about last night.

His growing anger immediately fizzles out and dies. May is a good person. She's such a good person, and Peter knows that she wouldn't try to intentionally hurt him. It doesn't make the words hurt any less though. She was trying to help him, and Peter was blowing her off because—You're unwell, Peter—he's a jerk like that.

Peter rubs at the bridge of his nose and sighs sharply.

He doesn't want to talk to her. He just—if he starts speaking now, he thinks that all the nasty thoughts inside of him are going to come pouring out and he'll leave May worse than he feels and he doesn't want that. He's such a terrible person.

May was only speaking her mind, and Peter couldn't—

He bows his head into his chest; looks down at the water below. He feels utterly drained. Incapable of taking another step. The fight that he's been waging, however pathetic his attempts, seems to have come to have come to a brutal stalemate. Maybe surrender.

The East River sloshes beneath him.

...How high is this bridge? A hundred feet? More? Less?

Another buzz. May again. Where R you?

What would happen if he just fell forward? If he just made it all stop right now? Just leaned a little bit and fell into the river, done with it all. People have already mourned him, right? They all moved on.

Another buzz. Peter?

There's worse ways to go than drowning. Building collapse for example, being snapped out of existence. Drowning wouldn't—

Peter jerks back, nearly tumbling off of the bracing. His heart is thumping in his chest and he scrambles down off of the main cables, collapsing down to his knees when he hits the ground. Did he really just—?

Did he really just—?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Did he really just—?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He really just—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Buzz. Peter?

A man walks past him. He's staring at Peter funny, but he doesn't care. He swallows heavily, realizing how thirsty he is before he lifts up his phone and with trembling fingers answers May's text: I'm in Avengers Tower right now. I'll be back in a bit.

May pauses, then: Okay. See you when you get home.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back, trying to deepen his breaths. He just considered jumping off of Queensburo. He considered. Jumping. Off. Of. The. Bridge.

And the worst part is that he isn't...if he'd...he'd almost...he's not even…

Peter scrolls through his contacts until he finds Tony and debates with calling before deciding on a text. He calls anyway. It only takes a few rings before Tony picks up: "Hey, Kid, now's not really the best time 'cause I'm—"

"I need you." Peter blurts out. He can't stop it, and his eyes widen with some horror before he adds as quickly as he can: "To pick me up."

Tony pauses, and Peter can pick up on some background noise that sounds funny. Moving. Glass clicking. But lots of voices. The Avengers specifically, Pepper—what is he doing? "Yeah. Yeah. Where are you, Underoos?"

Peter barely manages to choke out a coherent answer: "Fifty-fifty N-Ninth Street Bridge."

Tony is quiet a second, "Did something happen?"

"N-no." Peter bites at his hand. Gosh, he's such a baby. Can't he say two words without stuttering or crying?

"Should I send Happy or do you want me to come? I can send someone else." Tony's voice is level, "I think I can get Steve free for a sec, but don't tell anyone I'm telling you this, but he is an awful driver."

"What are you doing?" Peter questions, wrapping a hand around his stomach.

"Pepper didn't text you?" Tony sounds surprised. At Peter's silence, he appends: "Huh. I'll explain when you get here. Happy, me, or someone else?"

He doesn't want to decide. Can't someone else—? Peter bites at his cheek, "Happy." He mumbles, "If it won't be an inconvenience—"

"It's fine," Tony promises, "I'll see you in a bit. He's on his way. And Kid?"

"Mm?"

"You sure you're okay?"

Absolutely not. He considered jumping off a bridge five minutes ago, and what the heck is he supposed to say about that? Nothing. There is nothing to say, and nothing he wants to say. He's positive Tony would make that noise or that face when he's disappointed in Peter, and he doesn't want that.

"Yeah," Peter tries to put some life into his voice. "Yeah, I'm okay."

000o000

He arrives on the floor to something like chaos. It's one of the highest points in the Tower, leading out to the balcony with a Quinjet currently parked and being loaded with what looks like medical equipment along with other...things. The Avengers are moving back and forth across the room gathering things together under Pepper's instruction and moving things.

Everyone is here.

Scarlet Witch, the Winter Soldier, Loki, Thor, the other Avengers. This is weird. Peter stands in the doorway to the room for a lot longer than is probably normal, trying to process everything before a hand swings around his shoulders and pulls him into the room.

He stumbles with surprise and looks up. "What the—Mr. Stark?"

Tony tips his head, "The one and only. And it's Tony, Kid, oh my gosh. How long is it going to take before you remember that?" Peter bites down at his lip before realizing with no small surprise that the arm slung around his shoulders is Tony's left hand.

The paralyzed one.

"You finished the arm?" Peter questions, his eyebrows lifting with surprise. It takes a second for Peter to spot the brace. He's been half expecting that it would be invisible or, like, underneath the skin, but it's not. The brace gray and visible, but disappears underneath Tony's shirt. It's most prominent around his fingers. It's clearly at an early development stage, but Tony is using his arm.

Tony nods, "Yep," he pops the "p", "as of yesterday. Still working out a few kinks, but it's working pretty okay right now."

"I love that you think that," Captain America says, walking over to them with small smile tugging at his lips. "Because everyone else here has determined from the large quantities of broken items that that is wrong."

Tony scoffs, making a face. "Jerk."

Captain America looks at Peter, and he tries not to shrink beneath the intensity of the stare. He looks healthier than Peter remembers, but there's still a slight flush to his cheeks as if he's been on bedrest from a fever for a while.

"Hi, Peter. Tony said you'd be coming." Captain America tips his head a little in greeting.

"Hi," Peter mumbles, doing his best not to hide behind Tony like he'd very much like to. He doesn't know why he thought that being around a lot of people would help with all of this. That was...that was stupid.

"Are you here to help?" Captain America asks, and Peter shrugs in one shoulder, quietly enjoying Tony's arm around him. It's been a long time since...this is so stupid. He looks up at the captain, glancing at the people behind him for half a second. Black Widow is sitting on the couch and trying to throw things at Rhodey without much success.

What is that? Popcorn?

"Um, I don't know. What are you doing?" Peter questions.

"We're putting everything in the Quinjet." Captain America's head tips, "For Tony's move from New York? The doctors gave him clearance, he's leaving today, I thought May told you."

...What?

Moving?

Tony's log house or whatever isn't even in the state. How is Peter going to—? How will all of this work? Tony's leaving them, because he's getting better and shouldn't he be happy? He's not. He didn't want this to—His breath stutters and he pulls away from Tony to look at him. "You're...you're...what?"

Tony's expression flickers. "You didn't know? I texted May a few days ago and...she didn't tell you, did she?"

No.

May didn't.

She didn't, and—why the heck did she not tell him!? She kept insisting he wasn't well last night. Maybe she didn't think that he could handle it. Why do adults do that? Withhold information because it's somehow supposed to help? How is she supposed to know what he can and can't handle if she thinks there's something wrong with him? Tony is leaving and May didn't tell him.

Because she was trying to protect him.

But she didn't tell him.

"I…" Peter hisses out a breath. "I…You're really going back? You're leaving New York?"

Tony blows out a breath, "Yeah. We've skipped as much of Morgan's school as it is. Honestly, I really want to go home, New York is great and all, but the press breathing down my neck every twenty seconds is not something I miss."

Tony is leaving New York.

His tongue is dry against the roof of his mouth.

"I mean, you're welcome any time, and it's not like I won't be coming back or anything. I can send a jet or a plane or make Happy miserable and drive you, but, like, it's really not like we're saying goodbye or anything," Tony adds.

Tony is leaving New York.

"But how will we...what if I…" Peter can't finish the thoughts out loud. They sound so hopelessly selfish. He's only focused on his needs. Tony needs to go back to his house, and Peter shouldn't get in the way of that.

Tony rests a hand on his shoulder, "Really, Pete, it's going to be fine."

No, it's not!

How can anything be fine!?

"Hey, Tony? I'm ready...at least I think. I hate packing. It makes me doubt my ability to remember things. There was this one time that I couldn't remember how to spell deodorant so I just put down 'body odor' on my packing list, 'cause, like, you know it's relateable, but—oh, hi Peter." Harley comes to a stop in front of them, looking surprised. "I didn't know you'd be coming here."

"You're...here?" Peter has to rephrase the sentence in the middle to stop himself from saying something nasty. "Why are you here?"

"Tony asked me to go with him to the cabin." Harley explains, looking up at the multi-billionaire. "It's pretty close to my college, so, like, free housing and food. Win-win for me. It's not like it's that hard to babysit Morgan."

Oh.

Oh.

"You need help around the house?" Peter clarifies, looking up at the man and trying to breathe normally. "I—" he clamps down on the words, swallowing them. I could have done it. Why didn't anyone tell me?

He has Harley.

It probably hadn't even occurred to Tony to ask him.

Tony is leaving New York.

"But, like, I think I broke your daughter." Harley adds hesitantly, staring at Peter strangely. "I let her look at one of my math books and she hasn't moved in an hour."

Tony sighs, "It's math. She won't stop until she understands how it works." He shakes his head, but there's fondness in it. "She's a smart kid, but I swear I need to get her a math shrink or something. I can't believe you let her look at that. What were you thinking?"

"Bold of you to assume I was thinking." Harley counters with a raised brow.

"Where is she?" Tony asks, and Harley turns walking off. Tony follows, giving Peter's shoulder another quick squeeze, but it's absent minded. Because Tony prioritizes his kids over Peter. His actual kids. The ones that matter. The ones that didn't die for five years and then inconveniently try and stuff their way back into his life.

Captain America vanished sometime after Harley arrived, but Peter can't remember when.

He's breathing shallowly. He thinks he's going to pass out. And suddenly Peter can't breathe anymore. The compression on his chest is tightening and the world is spinning. Tony is leaving. Tony is leaving. He won't be close enough for Peter to drop by if he really pushes anymore. Tony is leaving and he's not coming back.

He didn't agree to this.

He doesn't want this.

Why couldn't he have just jumped off of that stupid bridge? (Selfish brat).

Why did he think this would be better?

Tony is leaving.

It's—

A hand grabs his wrist, but before Peter can do much more than let out a squeak, he's being tugged out of the main room towards the hall he just exited from. His hands are jittery and his vision is...it's weird. His senses are heightened. He can hear everyone laughing, the streets below, the humming of the electricity and—

A door closes.

He winces.

"Are you alright?" Voice. Male. Peter doesn't know it very well. Not Tony. Peter's vision isn't focusing. There's the stupid buzzing and—"You look slightly ill…" a deep breath, almost a sigh of acknowledgement towards something.

Hands on his shoulders. Peter gasps and squeezes his eyes shut. The fingers are grounding. He should pull away, but he doesn't. "Take some deep breaths. Focus on my voice. You're in Avengers Tower. It's Wednesday. October twenty-fifth. Twenty-ten. Deeper. You're still shallow, Spider. Focus. You're digging your hands into your palms, can you feel that?"

No.

"The air smells like some type of disinfectant. You've been outside for a while, I can smell water on you, and blood. Do you smell that?"

Yes.

"Deeper. You're still shallow."

He inhales raggedly.

"Mm. An attempt, but not good enough. Deeper."

If he goes any deeper he's going to break one of the stitches. He'd rather not do that. Why can't he breathe?

"You're panicking. Which is fine. Nothing wrong with that, save the fact it's a waste of time. You're doing well. Keep breathing. Breathe, breathe...better. Much better."

They continue in this pattern for what must be another two or three minutes before Peter braves opening his eyes. The hands pull back as he does, and Peter looks up. He half expects Captain America, Hawkeye, or Dr. Banner.

That's not who this is.

Loki, in front of him, studies him with piercing green eyes. Peter feels small and worthless beneath the stare. There's such intelligence there, and it unsettles him. Loki isn't wearing anything excessively fancy or armored that Peter has come to associate with Asgardian's. He's in maybe jeans with a white pollo, sans a tie, and has a red jacket on that dwarfs his upper body almost comically.

This does nothing to calm him. His nerves feel jittery. This is the man that invaded New York eleven years ago. He knows that Loki was a leading factor in the reason that the Avengers won—and is technically listed in the group—but he can't stop looking for the insanity that got hundreds slaughtered.

Loki's face tilts slightly, but he doesn't return the venom, "Breathe." He instructs. That's the voice. The one that stopped him from succumbing entirely to his panic attack and it seems utterly ridiculous. Loki?

Peter's only doing little wispy-gasp things, but now that Loki has pointed out he doesn't have any intention of changing. He folds his arms across his chest and digs his nails into his jacket sleeves. He grits his teeth.

"I'm fine," he almost snarls it, and is taken aback by the irritability in his voice. Loki is just trying to help, can he not try and murder the man for it?

"Clearly," Loki agrees sarcastically. His tone makes Peter feel stupid. Chided. Like a preschooler who still can't get their letters right after hundreds of tries. Loki shakes his head, drawing in a breath as if trying to steady himself. "Match my rhythm."

Peter gawks at him.

He's not serious, is he? This is freakin', Loki.

The Asgardian takes in a deep breath, motioning with his hands as he does so and waves a little at Peter in a pointed gesture for him to mimic. After a moment more of staring, he attempts to follow suit. He still can't get it. His teeth grind.

He can't even breathe right, what is he—

"Spider," Loki's voice is hard. Peter looks up at him. Loki makes the gesture again, and Peter inhales. It takes nearly two more minutes and Loki calling him back from his thoughts nearly a dozen more times, but Peter's breathing does steady.

Loki stares at him for a few more seconds, as if trying to determine if Peter is okay.

Peter flicks his gaze down to his feet, humiliation making his face heat. He had a panic attack at Tony making success in his recovery, and Loki—a flippin' previously known super-villain—had to calm him down. (A quiet, darker part of him is privately despairing that Loki was the only person who noticed). "Oh my gosh, this is so pathetic." Peter groans and lets his head fall against his hands. "I can't believe that I—How did you even know that's what this—?"

"Thor." Loki cuts in. "My brother suffers them frequently as of late. I myself am no stranger."

His jaw goes lax with surprise. "Thor has panic attacks? But he's—Thor. He doesn't...he's Thor." Peter insists, struggling to wrap his head around this. It's—no. This is impossible. Thor's...just, like, Thor. He wields Mjon-Stormbreaker, he's a living lightning rod, he...Peter actually doesn't know that much about him save what the public knows, but he's pretty much indestructible.

Panic attacks?

Peter lifts up a hand to run it through his hair with surprise, ignoring the slightly irritated look Loki is sending in his direction. "That's...that's weird." Peter admits, "I really didn't...what are you staring at?" Loki's squinting at him somewhat, head tilted as if trying to put a puzzle together with only his gaze.

"I still smell blood. You're pale. Are you injured?" Loki questions.

Why the heck does he care? (Rude. He just calmed you down from a panic attack). Besides, what on earth could be bloody in this—Peter stills and grabs at the edge of his jacket's sleeves. His arms. He didn't clean up last night like he should have and his arms. Peter's quiet for too long, trying to come up with a response because Loki sighs and shakes his head.

"I'll go find Dr. Banner, then. Perhaps he can—"

"No, don't!" Peter blurts out and grabs Loki's wrist. The Asgardian's skin is cold beneath his touch. Loki's fist clenches and he looks back at him. "It's nothing bad." Peter assures, trying to pull up a decent smile. "I'm fine."

Loki stares at him for a long second. "You must be incredibly stupid or arrogant to assume you can lie to me."

Peter bites back a curse. "I'm—don't tell anyone. Please. It really isn't that bad."

"And what would this "it" be?" Loki questions, wriggling his arm from Peter's grip in forceful, but weirdly gentle way so he can fold his arms across his chest.

"It's…" he releases a breath. He can't explain this. And the last person Peter's going to tell is Loki. The Asgardian would probably laugh at him, and then ask why he didn't just do jumping jacks or something reasonable to fix everything.

"Spider." Loki's voice is flat.

"I can't—FRIDAY is watching," Peter whispers, "I don't want to tell you."

Loki waves a hand and Peter hears some of the buzzing die down in the room. "If you're bleeding out, I'd like to solve that right now. Stark will kill me if you're—"

Peter lets out a huff of bitter laughter. "Mr. Stark wouldn't care. Don't worry."

Loki's expression shifts. "I really don't—"

"He's too busy." Peter seethes, "I'm not important. I'm not bleeding out, okay? I'm fine. Thank you for helping me, but I really—"

"Running off to lick your wounds in private?" Loki's voice isn't quite a sneer, but it's getting there. "Because that always solves everything, doesn't it? Fine." He lifts ups his hands, "When you pass out from your grievous wounds and Stark murders you for almost dying, don't—"

Tony is leaving. Tony wouldn't care. Loki doesn't understand ANYTHING!

Peter doesn't even know what he's doing until he's grabbed at the edge of his left hand's sleeve and he's tugged it down. His forearm is still a mess from last night. He'd switched blades, but because his healing factor was a little busy with the stabs, this was deemed as unimportant. "I'm not going to pass out from this." Peter hisses, "Okay? This is what you're smelling, now shut up!"

He should be nicer.

Why isn't he being nicer?

Loki's face has drained of all color. His expression is devoid of anything helpful, but the skin around his eyes has softened somewhat. Warily, he releases a little breath.

It then occurs to him what he's done and Peter's stomach flips. What was he thinking? What was he—?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid—

A profanity slips through his head and runs around like a chant.

Peter's breath escapes in a horrified little sound. Loki's eyes slowly lift from Peter's arm to his face. Peter doesn't know what he's thinking. Oh, gosh, he can't tell Tony. Peter will beg him. Why did he do that? What possessed him? He can make something up. He can—

"I was—Spider-Man and these guys had knives and one of them got me good." Peter explains in a hurry. He's usually a better liar than this, but he's not thinking. "They're like, crazy, good and I wasn't looking and all the things were—"

He's seen it.

He's seen it!

"How long?" Loki's voice is a quiet interruption.

Peter blinks and it takes him a second to fight the words out. "I'm sorry?"

"How long have you been doing this?" Loki gestures towards Peter's skin, and Peter's fingers clench into a tight ball. He pulls his arm down and tugs the sleeve over. The lies have stopped spilling from his throat, and he can't think of anything to say. He's going to be sick.

He's seen it.

"I told you that it was the knife, and the guy I was helping with the muggers," Peter blurts out, and that makes no sense. "I need to help Tony do the—"

"I know this nasty habit, Spider," Loki interrupts, and Peter stills. His brown eyes lift to Loki, wide. He...what? The Asgardian's voice is pinched as if embarrassed about something, and it takes Peter a second to process this in his head. Loki has done...this. His thing. He's...what? He's a psychopathic sadist who murders because it's fun. He's not supposed to have emotions.

Peter has never thought of Loki as anything but a killer before...

Loki tears up the sleeve of his jacket, and sure enough after some staring, Peter recognizes scars similar to his own. The thin little white lines are scattered across what's revealed of his forearm, aged and almost innumerable. They're layered on top of each other, ageless.

Peter's teeth set. "You…" he starts.

Loki tugs his sleeve down. "I know you do not like me, nor feel the slightest bit comfortable in my presence, but, should you choose to do so...I would be willing to offer a listening ear. Have you told anyone of this?"

Peter pauses, and then gives a small shake of his head.

Loki sighs, but nods. "You need to tell Stark."

Peter nearly laugh out loud. "Are you kidding? Not right now, he's dealing with all of this," Peter gestures vaguely around them, "and doesn't need my emotional teenage angst to add to the pile of problems he's handling."

A slight scowl sets on the raven-hair's face, "I don't think that you understand how—"

The door to the hallway opens and both of them freeze, Loki snapping his jaw shut. The Winter Soldier, standing in the doorway with a box looks between the two of them. "...Is everything okay out here?"

"Yes." Peter answers quickly as Loki starts to shake his head. Peter glares at the side of his hair and then offers a reassuring smile to the man. "Yes. Everything's great. Do you still need help with the boxes, because—yeah, okay, awesome." Peter stumbles forward and ducks under the Winter Soldier's arm into the common room.

It's only because of his enhanced hearing that he softly hears the Winter Soldier say, "It's getting worse."

He doesn't hear Loki's reply.

Doesn't care too.

Instead, he delves forward and, with more enthusiasm than he has ever had in his life before, helps them load and pack the bags and boxes for the return to the house. He makes sure to keep his sleeves over his forearms carefully, and ignores Loki to the best of his ability when the prince enters the room again.

They're so beat-dead tired by the end of this, that when Tony and his family leave, Peter barely gets two words in to the multi-billionaire and counts himself lucky he got a fist pump before he's gone.

And Peter is left alone.

000o000

The blood trickles down his arms as he cuts that night, long after he's avoided May's wanted conversation, long after he's avoided her entirely. May's gone to bed, and he can't sleep.

Digging and digging and digging.

It's red.

Like the Spider-Man suit.

Like Tony was after he fell from the Gauntlet. Like Thor's arm when he rushed towards them, like Captain America's mouth as he bled from his damaged heart, like Wanda's magic, like—

His arms.

His bloody, broken, bruised arms.

Red. Red. Red.

And Peter doesn't care.

Cut, cut, cut.

It's two-thirty-seven in the morning, Wednesday, someday in October, and today is one of the worst days of his life; Peter is well aware of that now.

Chapter Text

Buzz. Where R U?

Buzz. Pete?

Buzz. Peter?

Buzz. Seriously.

Buzz. We need to talk. It's about Tony.

Buzz. I think I messed up and I need you to give me a chance to fix it. You're going to be made. Can you come home? I'm worried.

Buzz. *Mad

Peter blows out a slow breath through his teeth, looking down at his phone in contemplation of what he's supposed to say. May's been texting him almost non-stop for about five minutes now. Maybe sneaking out of the apartment excessively early in an effort to avoid the conversation she wanted to have yesterday wasn't the best idea.

He's just...not in the best place to be discussing this. He really doesn't even know what she wants to talk about. Maybe she'll give him a list for all the reasons he's messed up. She's probably written—Pete, stop. There's not much to...she's probably going to tell him that Tony left New York. Ha. Thanks. Little too late.

He bites on his inner cheek before pulling together a response: School day. I'm walking. Sorry for leaving without telling you. You were asleep.

Buzz. Kind of early, hon.

Peter's face twists. The truth is, at last, easier in this case: Meeting MJ. She wanted to talk.

Pause, and then another buzz. Okay. When you get home, we discuss. No questions, no excuses. I have a late shift. I'll pick you up.

Buzz. I love you.

Peter sighs. Love you too.

Buzz. Can you—

"Hey, you're Peter Parker, right?" Peter whirls at the unfamiliar voice, coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. A man in a business suit is walking towards him with a briefcase, and Peter recognizes him on the spot. It's the guy on the bridge. The one that walked past after Peter considered...doing the stupid thing. He'd given Peter a funny look. Peter doesn't know why that stands out so much, only that it did.

Peter pauses. His spider sense is throbbing, wary, and Peter isn't stupid enough to disregard it. "Um, no, I-I think you have the wrong person." Peter shrugs his shoulders and tugs the edge of his jacket sleeve. The man is getting closer. "I don't know a Peter Parker."

"But you're the kid on the bridge yesterday, aren't you?" The man pushes, "Queensburo?"

Play dumb.

"Uh, no. There's a bridge called Queensburn? I'm not native to New York. I'm from Kansas."

And lacking the accent, there, huh? Good cover.

Shut up.

His spider sense is beginning to give a shrill cry as the man comes to a halt about three feet away from him. It's barely six in the morning and the streets aren't nearly as full as they should be. He has his web shooters in his pants pocket, but it's the nanotech ones because trying to leave the ones he built hurt too much.

It kept rubbing against the cuts.

He doesn't know if he can reach them in time...or if he should. This guy knows his name, he shouldn't go spouting his alter ego. That would be stupid.

Businessman smiles pleasantly. "Cute, kid. Really. I recognized you from a Stark Expo photo five years ago. Well...okay mostly only 'cause 'Peter Parker' was the only name Tony Stark ever left flowers for. I did some research after the Blip."

Blip. Is that what they're calling it? That is the stupidest name. It wasn't like a computer error and then—boom, problem solved. That was five years. Peter's stomach drops anyway, and he clenches his fists. His fingers tighten around the Starkphone. There isn't any point in denying this anymore. "What do you want?"

Businessman's head tilts. "You're Stark's kid, aren't you?"

A few months (years, it's 2023, Pete) maybe even weeks ago, Peter would have had to stumble out a believable response because he thought that. Selfishly, stupidly, but it was built on lies and Peter seeing what he wanted to. A bitter sort of laugh slips from his lips before he can stop it. His voice is flat. "Absolutely not. Tony and I aren't—"

"So it's 'Tony'. They've got you trained like a dog, don't they? It would probably throw of anyone who hasn't done their research, but…" he shifts his tie and Peter recognizes it as a signal to someone else behind him before his spider sense blares. He manages to dodge the blow to the head from behind, twisting around to see a handful of other men dressed in black, faces covered, and wielding weapons behind him.

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap!

He ducks a man's attempt to pistol whip him and breaks into a run after ducking under his arm. MJ agreed to meet him before school so they could talk, and the one time he gets up early willingly for school has to be the day he's attacked. The school isn't too far away, if he can get there, then...he doesn't know. She can call the police? That's stupid, he shouldn't drag her into this mess.

On a positive note, this probably has nothing to do with Spider-Man, just Peter Parker. On a worse one: he's really not sure if this is better.

He tears across the sidewalk and looks down at his phone, backtracking in the contact list and scrolling before he hears gunshots. A squeal of surprise slips through his lips, but the spider sense earns its keep. He took seven stabs to two days ago, he's not really looking to add gunshots to the list and doesn't have to. Thank you.

They're shooting at him.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…(he doesn't even know why he's doing this. They aren't going to care, and they aren't close enough to send help, anyway).

Found it! Peter holds down call and lifts the phone up to his ear as he chances a glance back. There's about twenty of them, but no car. That's really weird. Why wouldn't they have a car? Peter has no idea what they plan on doing, but an assassination doesn't seem very likely. Kidnapping? You can't really do kidnapping unless there's means of transportation and twenty darkly dressed men dragging around a teenager isn't very inconspicuous.

So where is there—?

"Please leave a message after the tone."

A swear escapes under his breath. "Tony, please pick up. There's something going—oof!"

His spider sense blares, but it's too late. The baton smacks into his stomach and Peter gasps sharply. His healing factor is amazing, Peter will forever sing praises to its name, but the damage his body has been given over the last few weeks isn't little. That smashed against three of the still tender stabs. His hand raises to grab at the area instinctively before the baton smacks against it again.

Tires squeal, and Peter looks up.

Ah. There's the car.

WHAT THE HECK DOES HE DO!?

Start with not panicking, stupid.

Deep breaths.

Peter manages to catch the baton next time and twists it out of the man's grip, flinging it towards another's head. The twenty from behind are catching up, but Peter doesn't really have an intention of letting this guys win. He manages to down three of them in a little under five seconds using the nearby light before his spider sense screams in warning—it's not helpful if you spend the entire fight yelling at me!—and something digs into his neck.

His vision blurs, and a low thrum of panic begins to build in his stomach. Drugs.

A hand grabs at his forearm to twist it behind his back and a strangled gasp of pain escapes him. Beneath the fabric his skin is on fire, a burning bruise just—oh gosh, maybe he went to deep last night when he cut. Tears build at the corners of his eyes and Peter suddenly remembers the phone.

He didn't end the call, so he's still leaving a message.

Tony's still there. "D-dad, Dad, plea—mmmph."

A hand slams over his mouth and he's pulled roughly against a bulky man's chest. The businessman from before tugs the phone out of Peter's hand with some ease. He lifts it up to his mouth. "Mr. Stark," his voice is all silk. "I have your son. You know what I want. Bring me the glasses and he doesn't get hurt. If you don't...well...let's just say that you'll probably have to bury him in pieces. Have you ever cleaned up a body after it gets hit by the subway? I imagine it's nasty. You have seventy-two hours to give the item to one of my men. They'll be in this little self-owned coffee shop called "Coffee's Cream and Beans". When we have what we want, you can have the kid. Ciao."

The man hangs up, and Peter's limbs start to grow heavy.

Drugs.

No.

He wiggles his head until he has a little more room and then bites down on the hand gripping his face and slams his ankle against their toes. Something snaps and the man howls. "Aghhh! The little rat bit me!"

Peter makes a dive for the businessman still holding his phone, but he misses by a long shot via the drugs, tumbling hard onto the sidewalk instead. The phone starts to ring. His blurry vision can barely make out the caller ID.

Tony.

The phone drops in front of him and his fingers grab at the edge before three bullets dig into the glass. Peter draws his hand back with surprise and whips his head up before businessman slams his foot against Peter's stomach and everything goes white with pain. And his foot comes again and again and again until Peter screams and everything goes dark.

000o000

He wakes up, but it's not really awake. It's some sort of slurred state that's hard to gather data on. Drugs, his mind reminds helpfully. There's a faint light on the edges of his vision. The headache pulsing is strong enough to leave him dizzy, even with his eyes closed. People are talking.

He thinks that his hands are bound behind his back, because his shoulders are on fire.

Everywhere hurts.

A small noise slips through his throat before he can stop it, and he presses his lips together. Probably not the best idea to be announcing he's awake to the world right now, but it's hard not to. Gosh, he feels sick. Something is wrong inside of him.

Peter hesitantly opens his eyes a sliver, squeezing them shut again when the light digs into them.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

"He's awake," someone says, and Peter stills. It's not any voice that he knows, which means that...that he's still kidnapped. (Kidnapped?) Tony didn't make it in time. Given that he wasn't even in New York this morning (morning?) it really would have been stupid to assume that he would. It wasn't…

Shh. Don't finish that thought, Pete.

"What? How!? I gave him enough drugs to keep him out for at least the next forty eight hours." Someone else exclaims. Female. The other one was male, and, Peter thinks the businessman. He's probably in charge given that he gave the ransom note.

Ransom note.

They're holding him for a ransom.

For some...some sort of glasses, he thinks. Gah, it's impossible to think straight with all this noise in his head.

"Well, he's not fully here yet, but he's getting there. And it's barely been five. Your calculations always this off?" the businessman's voice is grinding. Someone touches his neck and Peter recoils before he realizes they're taking his pulse. Then he twitches away again. His stomach hurts.

"I'm never wrong, Beck. Your men must have just given him the wrong one." The female hisses and the fingers draw back. Peter shivers, clamping his teeth together tightly. It hurts. Oh, gosh it all hurts and he's so cold and he just—something is wrong.

"Please…" he chokes out, and hears someone drop something on a nearby desk. He flinches. There's more voices. Air. Lots of air and an engine roaring. Oh, gosh, is he on a plane!?

"See, I told you!" the businessman (Beck?) hisses and there's movement, "Give me the drugs. I'll do it myself."

"Oooh, because that's the best way to—"

"The drugs."

A needle touches at the crook of his elbow and Peter's eyes open a fraction in panic. "Wait!" garbles out of him, but it sounds all wrong. He struggles against the restraints and attempts to sit up, but his body is too heavy. Peter's eyes swing wildly around the white room. The light still hurts. Beck, the businessman, is injecting him with the drugs.

He needs this to stop. He has to get out. (He wants Tony. Or May. Or someone.)

Beck's wild eyes meet his.

And then Peter snaps the handcuffs behind his back and slams his fist against Beck's face. Beck staggers backward and the room explodes into chaos. Peter rips the needle out of his arm and struggles to make it up to his feet.

There's a dozen other people in the room and Peter's hand raise and his fingers press against a non existent web shooter. A swear escapes him. He's not wearing his jacket and the long sleeve shirt he's wearing beneath a T-shirt is rolled up to his elbow. His pale forearms are showing, and, judging from how much of a mess they still look, it hasn't been that long since he chopped them open. They've seen it! They'll know what a freak he is now.

They have his web shooters.

A heaving gasp of panic escapes him and it takes far too long to reach this conclusion. Peter blames the drugs, but it probably has nothing to do with the drugs. Guns draw and the safety clicks off before Beck's hands wrap around Peter's forearm and his nails dig in.

A hiss slips through his lips and Peter attempts to tug away, but his limbs feel sluggish.

His vision is blurring.

Beck is scowling at him. "Don't do that again."

"Don't…" Peter slurs, but he's swaying, and whoa is the world spinning because that's really—"Tony!"—funny. Huh. Peter slumps forward, unconsciousness before he hits the ground.

000o000

His consciousness slips in and out after that. He's really only awake long enough to register some sort of pain in his forearm, more needles, and then nothing. So. Much. Nothing...and part of Peter is relieved at this. So many hours he doesn't have to spend awake. Aware. So much time...so much time of nothing.

No hurt. No pain. No regrets.

Just the blissful embrace of drugs.

And then suddenly it's over. Peter's aware and conscious. His limbs hurt, his eyes are stinging and his head is going to split open. A low whine slips through his lips, but he bites at his tongue to muffle it. He hasn't been this aware since the plane, and part of him is relieved as the other mourns the loss.

Tony. Tony has to be here, right? Because the drugs have stopped and Tony would—

Peter tears his eyes open, and blinks several times in order to get them to adjust and—

Not Tony.

Beck.

Looking exhausted, angry, and tired. His clothing is ruffled. He looks sick. "Ah, Mr. Parker, you're finally awake."

Peter swallows the crushing disappointment as it smashes against his chest, grabbing at his ribs and tugging. It's so heavy. Everything is so heavy! Oh, man, he wants the drugs. This is so hard. This is impossible. He can't—his stomach hurts. He feels funny. Something is wrong inside.

"What do you want?" his voice is a rasp. He sounds terrible. Like he hasn't used his voice in days, and has the sinking suspicion that he hasn't. He doesn't know how long he's been here. Hours? He's being a little too optimistic with that guess, though, he thinks.

Beck's eyes harden and he sighs, shifting his hands. He's seated on a stool in front of the cot Peter's been stuffed onto. He has a gun in his left hand. Peter eyes it warily, then lifts his eyes up as Beck starts to talk: "You know, I kind of liked you kid. I mean, the nose was unnecessary, but we'd been shadowing you for days and you just—" he sighs deeply, "such wasted potential. Tony'll really regret this loss for sure. Doesn't even know what he's missing out on, does he, or...or…" Beck's head tips, "is he aware that you're crazy?"

Peter, with some effort, props himself up on his elbows. He's in some sort of small room, the walls a pale white. There are more medical machines that he really knows the names of spread around the cot he's been restrained to. His entire body feels disgusting and his hair is sweaty against his skin. Gross. How long has he been here? He needs a shower.

There's an IV attached to his left arm, and other medical equipment sticking from his skin. Something feels wrong.

"I'm…" Peter registers the words and looks up at Beck. "I'm what?"

"Crazy." Beck says blankly and then tips his head towards Peter's arms. Peter follows his gaze. The disaster of cuts he made is mostly healed save faint traces of red skin, but what happened is still obvious. Something inside of him goes cold, and he has to fight his tongue from the top of his mouth. His fists curl inwards.

"I'm not crazy."

Beck's lips split into a smile, "It's really cute that you think that. Crazy people can't tell when they're crazy, you know. So you're not a good judge. Tony must've been, though, explains a lot. So tell me, where is he? It's been six days since we nabbed you, and yet, I have seen no one come to collect the ransom. He must've decided you're not worth the effort. Can't say I blame him."

Peter's stomach drops.

Wait—

That's not—

Tony wouldn't—

How could you keep this craziness a secret? How? Loki knew. He probably told Tony and Tony decided that he didn't want to associate with a crazy kid. Even if May called the police, she wouldn't have cared after Tony told him what he did. No one wants a crazy kid. He belongs in an asylum and—

There's just something wrong with you.

M' kids all safe, th'n—

Not worth the effort.

Peter draws in deeply. He cut up his skin and now everyone hates him for it because he's supposed to be in an asylum because he's crazy. He looks up at Beck, willing the universe to be nice to him for once. "It hasn't been days. You're wrong." He croaks out.

Beck smirks, "Am I?" he lifts up his phone and flicks it on. The numbers blur before settling and Peter glances at the time, after six PM, then the date. His stomach drops. November first. The last time he remembers being conscious was October twenty-sixth. He missed Halloween. Midtown was doing a dance. MJ texted that she thought it would be fun to go, and Peter was...Ned was going to ask Betty. He thinks. He can't remember.

He missed days.

Days.

Tony still hasn't come for him. Has he even been looking? Peter left him the voicemail, and he knows that FRIDAY has voice tracing, it shouldn't be that hard to find someone should it? Tony's an Avenger. He couldn't...he wouldn't have been stuck here as long unless…

Tony wasn't looking for him.

Not worth the effort.

"I'll admit," Beck's eyebrows raise slightly, "he had me just as fooled as you. Cruel, to do this to a child. I mean, you must understand my dilemma. Stark builds you all up, butters you until he thinks you're the most important person, but then—when it really matters—he just throws you to the side uselessly. You've served your purpose and now you don't matter anymore, Mr. Parker. You're crazy, so it's not hard to see why. Only insane people draw their own blood."

Tony isn't coming.

Tony doesn't—

Tony's not—

"Do you have a point to this?" Peter tries to keep his voice level, but doesn't find must success. It sounds shaky. Childish. Panicked. Come on, Spider-Man. Stop whining. Get up. This is fine. Even if Tony's not coming, he should still…get out. Probably.

But Beck has those numbing drugs and maybe—seriously!? Now we're a junkie? That's how this works, right? Ask for one problem and seven come for free. First self harm and—it wasn't that, it was just...just release, it wasn't self—

Beck is quiet for a second, looking down at the floor before humming. "Yeah, I do, actually. I still need those glasses, but Stark's not taking my seriously and...well, he has, like, two-three? Other kids, right? There's Morgan, and then that college kid and the blue one? Galaxy? Something like that. Anyway, I've still got three people to go through and then he has a wife. Probably should have gone for them at first, but you're the easiest to reach, 'cause you're not defended or anything. But I'm sure that it will get the point across that I'm serious. I really don't want to kill you, Peter, I promise, but he made it necessary."

"Wait, what—!?"

Beck lifts a gun up towards Peter's face and Peter's spider sense rings dully in the back of his head. Almost as if exhausted and insistent that Peter just stop. The barrel of the gun makes his breath catch in his chest, but oddly enough, he doesn't feel any panic. No tears, no screaming, no weeping.

It's just a gun.

And his forehead.

It will be over.

Because Tony's not coming for him. Because Tony doesn't care. Because Peter's crazy, and no one wants to help a psycho. Peter stares the barrel down and thinks he should be more worried about the overwhelming crush of relief as it hits him. He's going to die—oh gosh, he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to stay, but he doesn't want to go—and...that's it.

But he's afraid of death.

What if there's nothing after this? What if it all stays the same? What if he can't find peace? What if it doesn't get better? What if it doesn't stop? What if he keeps existing past this? What if they bring him back again? What if—?

"Any last words?" Beck asks, "I'll write them down for Stark. And your aunt. I'm a nice guy like that."

Oh gosh, May. She's going to be crushed because she wont have anyone—no. No that's not true anymore. She has the Starks. She has Harley. The Avengers. She moved on once before. She seemed happy in the hospital. Alive. Okay. Content, and that was before she knew about him. Peter's only made her stressed and upset.

Because he's crazy.

Not worth the effort.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. The truth tastes like ash on his tongue, but he feels a strange sort of need to get it out. "T-this isn't anything I didn't want. Just shoot. Don't drag this out, please. Shoot."

If Beck's surprised by this, he doesn't indicate verbally. Instead, after a second, the barrel of the handgun presses against Peter's forehead. It's cold and a shiver rushes down his spine. A harsh, gasped sob escapes him, though he can't fathom why.

He's not upset about this.

It's fine.

Why is he waiting!?

"I swear, kid, this is on Stark. I didn't want to kill you. Promise." Beck assures and Peter hears the safety click off and his stomach curls into an impossible knot before his spider sense rings sharply, painfully, and a gun goes off.

Peter gasps, but there's no pain.

Nothing.

Just the cold metal against his head.

How—?

Beck exhales sharply, and Peter's eyes open as he looks up. Beck's hand is pressed against his chest where blood is rapidly leaking out onto his fingers. Someone shot him. What—? Who—?

Beck's hand tightens and his finger lifts towards the trigger of his gun before a blue hand wraps around his wrist and tugs the weapon up, bending Beck's arm at an impossible angle. "Try it," a deep female voice challenges, and Peter looks up, his jaw slightly slack. No way. No way. How—?

Nebula.

Behind her, slipping to the ground from where he was hanging out of the large vent that Peter didn't even notice until now, is Harley, holding two pistols. Harley shot Beck, because Nebula couldn't. She has a sword gripped in one hand, and Beck's arm in her robotic one.

"Who're—who're…" Beck gasps and lifts his eyes up towards the Luphomoid. She looks incensed, her eyes dark and angry.

"His older sister, you dimwit." Nebula growls, twisting the man's arm until he lets out a pained noise. "And you almost shot my little brother in the head."

Chapter Text

"Every time I close my eyes...I'm lost.

Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?

Which one's pain?"

-BBC's Sherlock S4E3

Harley moves forward, face just as hard and angry. Beck's eyes are wide, and his shirt is getting wet with blood where the college student shot him.

"And that was a very foolish thing to do," Nebula's head tips and she leans forward. Distantly, Peter can hear crashes from the rest of the building. Alarms are whirring. People shouting. How did he miss all of this? Something is wrong inside of him. "All this for a pair of glasses," Nebula whispers. "You're going to regret what you've done for a very long time."

She bends his wrist back, tugging the gun away from Peter fully and a strangled noise escapes Peter's chest as a loud snap resonates around them. Beck seems in too much pain to do more than inhale.

Nebula just broke Beck's wrist.

Nebula drags Beck off of the stool and Harley moves forward. Peter's breath isn't coming out right at all. He thinks he's panicking. It was almost over. They stopped it! How could they—!?

Harley shoves the guns into holsters as his hip and works on removing the straps on Peter's feet first, and then moves to his wrists. "Are you okay?" his eyes are frantically searching up and down him for something. Injuries? "It's been days, Pete, Tony's going crazy."

Is he dreaming this?

It doesn't seem...it doesn't seem right.

Not worth the effort.

Something is wrong.

"He's…" Peter swallows, and Harley leans over him to get at his left hand. His hands are swift, but gentle, as if afraid that if he pulls hard he's going to snap Peter's wrist. Harley draws back and his lips press together as he runs his fingers across the various medical equipment attached to him. He seems to be determining if he can pull it out and what the complications of doing so would be.

"Are you in pain?" Harley questions.

He wouldn't have been in ANY pain if they'd just let Beck shoot him.

"I…" Peter can't get words out right anymore. Maybe he's tongue is as broken as the rest of him. Somethings wrong—Harley hand taps at his face.

"Pete," he keeps his tone level, as if talking to a spooked cat. "Hey, focus on me, okay? We're getting you out of here. It's going to be fine."

"I can't—" Peter blinks several times as his stomach twists, then heaves, and Peter leans away from Harley and vomits. It's mostly fluid, and bloody. That's not a good sign. Blood on the inside coming out is never good.

Harley swears, hand against Peter's back.

Oh.

That's why something felt wrong inside. One to many drugs, he thinks. Since the gun didn't kill him, maybe this will. Peter flinches when he feels something wet against his cheeks before he realizes he's crying.

Sobbing.

Harley rests a hand on his disgusting hair. "Hey, shh, shh, it's okay. Just breathe. Tony's close, so's Bruce. He'll know how to fix this, alright? You're going to be okay. Shh..."

He vomits again, and his spider sense is duly ringing now.

The noises get louder and Peter flinches, drawing in a gasping breath before the wall on the far left just seems to explode. Peter ducks, curling into himself as Harley throws himself over Peter's upper body. Bits of wall still smack against his feet, but Harley takes the brunt for him.

He didn't need to do—everything is wrong. Why can't he—?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The air is thick with ozone, and Peter chances a glance through Harley protective embrace. They're there. They're actually there. Tony's at the forefront, already stepping out of the dismantled armor, and behind him is the others. Thor, Scarlet Witch, Falcon, the Winter Soldier, Loki—everyone came.

And Peter doesn't understand why. He's crazy. He's...not important. He doesn't deserve this. Not their rescue, not...not any of this.

He's going to be sick again.

"Dude!" Harley sits up, shaking bits of plaster off of his back. "There's a door! Use the door!"

Tony ignores him, "Cap, Thor, go with Nebula. Take Beck to the Quinjet and give him whatever medical aid he needs to stay alive. Bruce, come here. Harley move."

Harley does so, and Tony meets Peter's wild eyes. Tony looks as if he hasn't slept in a week. His eyes are shadowed and his whole stance radiates a deep exhaustion. Peter's fault. His kidnapping was an inconvenience and—not worth the effort—a sob of relief escapes him at the sight.

Tony's expression visibly softens with relief before he moves forward and gathers Peter up into a desperate hug. The sensation of his arms is weird, but comforting. Familiar. Peter hasn't hugged him since the battlefield of Avengers Compound. Not since he re-formed and found Tony there.

Peter's stomach rolls, but he swallows the bile as best he can.

Tony's hugging him.

"Shh, hey, it's okay," Tony whispers and his hand shifts up to clutch the back of Peter's head against his chest.

"You came…" is that his voice? "You came…"

Tony presses a kiss against the top of his head. "Of course we came. Why would you think for a second that we wouldn't?" Tony slowly draws back, and a chill washes through his body. Dr. Banner appears next to Tony, clothing tattered. He's missing his glasses. Hulk? He's holding papers.

"Tony…" Dr. Banner's voice is quiet.

"Something's…" Peter's stomach cramps and he releases a gasped hiss, wrapping a hand around the area. "Wrong. Mr. Stark, please, I'm—"

Peter vomits again, feeling something in his chest squish and a new flood of panic washes through him. "Dad, please, I can't—there's something—" his voice drowns out and he sees Tony turn to Dr. Banner who frantically starts looking over the medical equipment.

Peter passes out before he finishes.

A silent part of him still hopes he doesn't wake up.

000o000

He does wakes up.

He didn't want to wake up.

His heartbeat is thumping in his ears. Breath is audible and his throat hurts.

He can hear voices talking in the background. He knows them, but he can't really place a name to any. He drifts in and out of consciousness, managing to pick up streams of conversation about look at all these scars, he hasn't been sleeping well since it happened, he's so pale, Loki told me, I was going to talk to him about it all, I thought that he was doing okay, drugs, Beck, self harm. The last one floats around more often than not, and puts an ash—like taste in his mouth.

He can't tell if it's shame or not, and frankly he doesn't care.

He pretends he's still sleeping for most of it, but is aware in one of his more lucid states when someone kisses him on the forehead and sighs deeply whispering, "I really wish you'd just told me, Pete. You're a good kid. A good son."

That voice he can place a name to.

Tony.

The sentence fuels something in him, and he doesn't know if it's despair or not. He doesn't know what he's feeling anymore.

000o000

Peter can't even remember how he got here, or where the blade came from. The only thing he knows is that he's standing in the bathroom of the hospital room, a razor in his right hand. He's barely been awake for twenty minutes, but the crushing weight of everything…

He can't do this anymore.

He wishes Beck had shot him in the head.

Or that he'd jumped off that bridge.

They know now, they know it, and he's not worth the effort.

No one wants a crazy kid. May won't want him. Not Tony. He's...he's doing them a favor, isn't he? He's despicable. He's disgusting. He's...in Avengers Tower, he's in New York and he hasn't seen anyone since he woke up. There's evidence of people being here, but he was alone when he woke up.

Tony's probably too busy with his kids. His actual kids.

He's…

Is he really doing this?

Not worth the effort.

You're unwell, Peter.

There's just something wrong with you.

How long? I know this nasty habit, Spider.

I don't want to go, Mr. Stark, I don't want to go—

M' kids all safe, th'n—

It would be so easy.

So simple.

No pain, not after the first stroke. It would all be over so quickly, and then there would be nothing. This—this would be it. He'd be able to talk with Ben again, and his parents, and he wouldn't disappoint anyone again, they'd all remember him with fondness and these last few months tossed to the side. It'd be easier for everyone, too, because they've already mourned him, so what's once more? But this time it's permanent.

And he's okay with that.

His hands are trembling.

Peter lets out a wheezing gasp, pressing one of his hands against his mouth and biting at the skin sharply. The pain doesn't do anything. There is no relief in it like there has been in the past. It's just a dull ache that compares very little to the weight settled on his chest.

He's being crushed.

"Stop it," Peter hisses at himself, flicking his gaze up to the mirror again and stares at his reflection for a long second. He doesn't recognize himself. He doesn't know who this, and he doesn't want to. His face is shadowed and sickly, he's lost weight since the last time he looked in a mirror. His eyes are red and puffy. He looks dead.

"I hate you," he whispers, staring at the figure scathingly. "I hate you."

It's just a quick slash and some pain.

He knows pain.

He can do this.

It's fine.

Breathe.

Peter's crying, but all he feels is a steady, unyielding calm. Resolve has been settled, and he's prepared. His body is reacting in a way his mind doesn't feel. It's going to be okay soon, because it's almost over.

Over. Over. Over.

Peter lifts up the blade and presses the tip into the edge of his left wrist. It breaks skin, and blood slowly begins to trickle down his forearm. Just...push. Harder. Faster. His healing can fix this soon. Just—go.

Peter readjusts his sweaty grip on the blade and exhales, digging harder and makes it another half centimeter before there's a knock on the bathroom door. Peter startles, tugging the blade back; sucking in a ragged gasp of horror and bites at his tongue to withhold a profanity.

No. Not now. He's finally doing something right and he can't—

The knock comes again, more hesitantly, before a quiet voice asks, "Peter? I know you're in there. Can you come into the out now? I need my big brother to help me decide what color to use for the sky...I can't decide, and you always know it."

Morgan.

Morgan is outside of the door.

Peter swallows heavily. He can't...his forearm is streaking with blood from the half inch of progress he made in slitting his wrists—What the heck is he doing!? What is he—dying. He's dying and he's...he wants that.

He thinks.

He doesn't know anymore. He's so confused.

A strangled sob escapes him, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut, digging his palms into them. He can't breathe, he's going to be sick. He can smell the blood heavily and knows that it's dripping on the floor. If he wants to live, he should wrap that. It isn't immediately pressing, but it is pressing.

Morgan. Morgan wants him to help her choose what crayon to use. His little sister is outside of the door, waiting for him. He can't...he can't off himself knowing that his baby sister is standing outside of the door.

He almost slit his wrists.

Peter bites at his hand, hard, and shoves the razor into his pant's pocket, before grabbing a wad of toilet paper and wiping up the floor and his forearm as best he can before throwing the white cloth away. He grabs more and presses it against his wrist, trying to take in a full breath, but finds himself unable.

Morgan gives another hesitant knock. "Pete?"

He glances at himself in the mirror. His eyes are haunted, and he looks sick and haggard. His eyes are red and puffy from tears and there's blood on his face from where it smeared when he dug his palms into his eyes, but he can't bring up any will to clean it up. Morgan has seen blood before. Probably too much of it for a four-year-old, but God alone knows how exhausted Peter is now.

He can't do that.

Crayons.

He's—

Morgan.

Peter shuffles towards the door, feeling faintly dizzy and manages to wrangle it open with his right hand pressing the toilet paper against his left wrist. He doesn't know what to do beyond apply pressure, but he'll cross that bridge when he has to.

He's going to be sick.

Morgan is standing outside of the door, a wide smile on her young, innocent face. There's something knowing in her look, though, before she lifts up a box of Crayola crayons. "Help." She insists.

Peter nods, blinking back another onslaught of tears.

Morgan nods before lifting up a hand and, keeping a hand on his leg, guides him towards a piece of paper set on the ground past the hospital bed. It almost looks thrown with how far away it is from the coloring book used as a bracing. Morgan sits down next to the paper and Peter nearly collapses next to her.

"Pink," he mutters, in answer to her earlier question. His voice sounds wretched.

Morgan hums. "Pinks good." She agrees, and begins to dig through her box of twenty-four.

Somehow, he can't really remember how, he ends up on his stomach, propped on his elbows and Morgan sitting close enough that her knee is touching his bicep. She hums thoughtlessly as she colors, words to anything from recent releases to what Peter's pretty sure are Russian lullabies if the faint words she says to herself are any indication.

Given that Black Widow is her godmother, he really isn't surprised about that.

The toilet paper isn't doing much to block the blood or help it clot, though, and it's almost bled through in less than minute. Morgan wordlessly rises to her feet and grabs the box of tissues on the bedside table and puts it down next to them. Peter's already been through five or six tissues when Morgan finally sets down her last crayon and looks up at him.

It's an unspoken rule between them that he's not supposed to look at Morgan's drawings until she's done.

Morgan shifts forward a little and Peter watches with an air of detachment as she gently lifts up the tissue to see the damage he's done to his wrist. She's young, but she's not stupid. Peter knows that she's been labeled as "gifted", but right now she seems decades older than her age.

Morgan looks back at him with sad eyes. "You got a bad ouchie." She says.

"I know," Peter whispers.

He did that.

Morgan leans forward and presses a kiss near the injury. "Daddy always kisses my ouchies better," she declares as an explanation. "He says it makes them heal faster, but I think it's silly."

Peter smiles faintly.

Morgan sits up, "But it's a bad ouchie, and I'm gonna get you a bandaid. Maybe two bandaids."

His little sister rises to her feet, but Peter looks up at her, "Morgan—wait!" she pauses, looking back at him. He worries his lip between his teeth, taking in a steadying breath before meeting her eyes again. "Will you get Dr. Banner? I think I need something more than a bandaid."

Morgan nods a soft smile on her face. "I'll get Uncle Bruce, and make sure he gets you the fishy bandaids, they make everything better." She nudges the drawing towards him pointedly before scampering off, out of the room to find the requested person.

Peter lets out a shuddering breath before wiping at his face and shifting to get a better angle on the drawing. It's six figures, not poorly drawn, but still clearly a child's drawing. They're standing in front of a pink sky, next to the log side cabin that Peter recognizes as Tony's. Everyone in the drawing is holding hands, with Tony and Pepper in the middle. On the left of Tony is figures Peter recognizes as himself and Morgan. On Pepper's right is Nebula and Harley.

Underneath the figures it the hastily scribbled words: our family.

Peter's dark red blood pools all over the edge of the paper, and it takes him a long second to realize that tissues weren't enough to stop this in the three (five? He doesn't know) minute period that Morgan was scribbling at the sky.

It smells funny. Sweet, but coppery, and oh gosh, he's going to die. He's dying. Dead. Dead-to-dead-to-dead-dead-dead-dead—

His arm doesn't hurt.

But he's still bleeding.

And that's about all he recognizes before his blurring vision gives out completely and he slumps forward. FRIDAY is saying something. He doesn't know what, doesn't care to. The door opens and he hears the rush of feet, but that's it.

Then there's a blissful nothing.

000o000

When he's finally awake enough not to pretend he's asleep anymore, he can pick out medical room sounds. There isn't a heart monitor, but there's still the faint humming of the equipment and it's annoying. A faint buzzing, the sloshing of water, someone breathing—anything and everything.

His left hand feels faint and tingly. As if he's strained his forearm muscle and his fingers refuse to move because of that. Huh. So apparently he dug deep enough to hit nerves, but not deep enough to finish the job?

There's an IV in his arm.

And gauze wrapped around his wrist.

Maybe if he removes that he can get an infection or something. Wouldn't that be a blessing.

Peter's right hand, heavy, lifts up to complete the task and he manages to get a finger to start digging into the gauze before a hand grabs his wrist and stops him. He pushes harder, but the fingers withstand the pressure, even when he tries to use his spider strength.

"Peter, stop."

He blinks his eyes open with surprise, looking up at the source. Nebula. Seated next to the hospital bed in one of the uncomfortable padded chairs. The window is dark, it must be night. The rest of the room has scattered chairs, and Peter can see evidence of the Avengers in it. Tony's jacket is on one of the chairs, a pair of shoes that Peter's only seen Black Widow in is next to another. He can smell a type of drink that Pepper favors—the evidence is everywhere. This room has been occupied by plenty of people recently, but not currently.

Nebula's dark eyes are settled on him. Her expression is almost impossible to make out, but Peter's never been very good at people reading.

She's still gripping his arm. It's uncomfortably tight.

"Shall I alert Boss that Mr. Parker is awake?" FRIDAY's voice is too loud, and Peter flinches back from it. His gaze flicks up to the ceiling. Still Avengers Tower, then.

"Wait," Nebula commands without lifting her gaze from him, "do you want to talk to him right now?"

Peter hesitates, surprised. He hadn't been expecting her to ask him. It's not unwelcomed. Just...weird. His first instinct is to say yes, but he stops at the faint whisper of Tony kissing his forehead and I wish you'd told me sooner—and shakes his head. "No. Not now."

He feels bare and exposed and why did he have to help Morgan with that stupid coloring page rather than finish the job properly?

Nebula nods. "Not now, FRIDAY."

"Of course, Ms. Nebula." FRIDAY answers, and remains silent afterwards. Peter can still feel her stare. Nebula still has a hold on his arm, looking at him.

Peter looks up at her, biting at his tongue. "You can let go now. I'm not going to...to try again." His voice is raspy. He hardly recognizes it as his own. His throat is dry, but the last thing he wants is water to settle in his knotted stomach.

Nebula's head tilts and she blinks. She doesn't let him go, but loosens her grip some. "Peter…" she hesitates, as if trying to find words, but not capable. "I'm...not...good with emotions. They were viewed as a weakness where I grew up, and it was easier to live without them. But I want…" she stops, looking down at her feet.

Peter's tongue feels stapled to the top of his mouth.

"You are important," she settles on, "you are wanted and needed here. I am sorry for whatever part I played in this, but, should you choose to, I would like to get to know you better. Tony spoke fondly of you, and, from what I have seen, he has downplayed your strength a great deal."

Peter's mouth opens to protest, but she shakes her head. "You are a far better person than I was at your age...I'm doing this terribly, I mean to say...I...please, Peter," she releases his arm, only to place her flesh hand against the gauze wrapped around his wrist, "please don't try this again."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out heavily. He wiggles his arm until he can grip at her hand and gives it as much of a squeeze as he can. His hand still feels numb and tingly, but he can feel Nebula's skin beneath his.

Her words have hit him deeper than he cares to admit.

It didn't fix everything.

A few sparse sentences aren't going to, but it...it helped.

Peter keeps a grip on her hand and looks up at her. "I won't."

000o000

After Peter admits he doesn't feel ready to talk to anyone else, still, Nebula nods and leaves shortly afterwards making FRIDAY promise to keep his consciousness private. Peter pretends he's asleep when Pepper and May slip into the room and remains that way until he falls asleep again.

Nebula visits him twice after that in the following two days. They don't talk much, but her presence is a steady reassurance and seems to hold him up.

He can't play this con forever, though, and it isn't even one of the Avengers that notices it first. It's Harley. The young adult has been in the room once in the last two days, but only to mention something to Tony about...Peter can't remember and then scamper off. The door to the hospital room opens and the smell of coffee drafts into the space before Harley takes the seat next to the bed, places something on the bedside table, and gives his face a hard jab.

Peter jumps, letting out a slight squealing noise and rips his eyes open as he jerks forward, looking up at the young man. "What the freaking—!" Peter starts in exasperation, but Harley shoves a cup of coffee towards his face to silence him.

"Here. My treat. I spent my actual money on this, so, you know, drink it, yeah? Great." Harley holds the styrofoam up like some sort of peace offering, and Peter looks at his face for a long second. Dark circles, messy hair, and he's been in that set of clothes for at least three days straight.

Peter hesitantly reaches forward and takes the cup with his right hand.

Harley nods his approval and then takes the cup he set on the bedside table off and takes a long swing from it. Peter sips at his own drink, almost wincing at the strength of the taste and heat. It settles in his stomach, but it's warm and oddly reassuring.

Gah. Tearing up about coffee now, are we Parker?

Yeah. Deal with it.

"I'd just like to say that you're a semi-okay actor," Harley announces, and Peter looks up at him. The college student gestures vaguely towards him, "you had everyone pretty much fooled that you were still in a coma for about a total of two hours. Then, you know, uh, Steve traded out Pepper and he can hear heartbeats, you know? He knows what yours sounded like asleep, but didn't say anything to Pepper. It's almost been hilarious because everyone on the Avengers has figured it out by now, but they aren't telling each other." Harley shakes his head, taking a sip of his coffee.

There's cinnamon in it, and that's aggravating his senses for some reason.

Peter stops, realizing what he just said and looks up, "They know I'm hiding?"

Harley nods. "Absolutely. The problem is that they are all also good actors, so, yeah. Congrats, you've, like, created a drama in your sleep."

Peter winces, biting sharply at his inner gums.

Harley tenses, and is quiet for a second. "Okay, backtrack. That wasn't what I meant." He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. "I'm really not good at mushy-stuff. I do, like, math and that. Ask anyone. They'll confirm it. Especially Tony. "

Peter looks down at his coffee. His hand is trembling.

Harley sighs. "I'm sorry. I really just...gah, I swear I was only trying to make you laugh."

Right. Peter snorts, and scoots back so he can lean against the pillows. "Yeah, uh, try about five years ago before Thanos stabs Tony. I think my sense of humor died about right then. Didn't come back when we did."

Harley sobers, and Peter internally winces. Does he have to admit his darkness thoughts out loud? No one likes listening to his darkness thoughts. They always get uncomfortable or twitchy whenever he does. No one can handle that part of his head.

"Listen—"

"No! I don't want to listen!" Peter snaps, squeezing at the cup, "All I've been doing is listen and is it wrong that for once is my stupid, freakin' life that I want to be listend to!?"

Harley hesitates, "Well, no, but Tony said—"

"Then where is he!?" Peter cuts in sharply. "If he's known about my charade this whole time, why isn't he here? I needed him and he's—" Peter bites at his tongue, turning his head to the side sharply. He exhales through his nose. He's always too busy with all of you. The words seem nasty in his head, and he needs to get some grasp on his temper before he says them out loud.

Harley exhales slowly. "Tony didn't forget about you."

It jibes in places it shouldn't, and Peter looks back at him, a bitter smile stretching up his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Harley confirms. "You're the favorite child."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I am most certainly not—"

"Did he tell you that the only reason he agreed to help the Avengers was because of you?" Harley interrupts, and Peter stops, looking up at him. His jaw snaps shut, surprise washing through him. Harley gives a little nod before shifting forward on his seat. "He initially turned down Ant-Man's proposal, but agreed to help because of you."

Oh.

"I…" Peter can't find words to explain the sudden confusion and warm rush as it hits him.

Harley nods, "Yeah, so. I'm just saying, okay, that Tony didn't forget about you because he did all of this for you. You're important. The last thing any of us wanted was for you to…" Harley's gaze flicks towards Peter's wrist and he exhales stiffly.

"You're my little brother, okay?" Harley says, and stares at his face. "I know I haven't been much of a big bro, but I swear, Peter, that you are not alone in this. You're going to see why you're the favorite child, 'kay? 'Cause I can be persistent and annoying as—"

"Language." Peter interrupts.

"Yeah. See?" Harley throws his hands up, "Tony'd be so proud. But honestly, I swear I will be a better brother."

Peter's lips curve up despite themselves, and Harley looks at him. "What?"

"Sorry. It's just—that you, like, brought me coffee." Peter says, "Probably one of the stupidest things you could give someone who hasn't eaten solid food in a while, but you brought me coffee and you didn't put cream in it."

Harley nods, looking proud. "Of course I didn't, little bro, I saw the face you made at Sam's. I am the best coffee getter in the whole of the Avengers."

Peter snorts, "'Getter' is not a word."

"Sure it is."

"It's not."

"It is now."

"That's not how language works," Peter protests, "you can't just throw on a radom "ter" to the end of a word and proclaim it part of a dictionary. I mean, like: can'ter? Juster? Matter—oh, wait, that one is a word, uh, itter, andter—"

Harley groans, rolling his eyes. "Youter wayter toter practicalter aboutter thister."

Peter shoots him a mock scowl. "Add one more "ter" onto a word that's not supposed to be there and I will not communicate in English with you for the rest of the hour."

Harley smirks, "Whater? That'ster beter rudeter…"

"No hablas inglés. Lo siento." Peter says in Spanish and raises his hands in apology.

Harley squints at him. "You can't be serious."

"Parfaitement." Peter sighs sadly in French.

"Dude!" Harley cries, "That is like, not even fair—"

"No lo siento. ¿Quieres un sombrero? El restaurante esta cerrado—"

This trend continues for another two or so minutes as Peter spouts out random phrases he can remember from his Spanish class before Peter's laughing so hard at Harley's growing indication that he spills the coffee cup all over the white sheets. His ribs hurt, and the coffee stings against his skin, but the euphoria at laughing for the first time in weeks is worth it.

000o000

Peter is slowly drawn into consciousness at fingers slowly moving through his hair. The sensation is weird, but pleasant, so he doesn't panic at it. He's warm, and it's weirdly comfortable. A soft sigh of contentment escapes him and he rolls onto his side towards the fingers, curling into himself slightly. The fingers pause before continuing to stroke his hair.

It must be gross. Peter can't remember the last time he took a shower.

It takes him a lot longer than he thinks it should have to realize how weird it is that someone is working their fingers through his hair. With effort, Peter manages to blink his eyes open and looks forward first before lifting his gaze up to follow the arm to the body.

Oh.

Oh.

He's in so much trouble.

His left hand clenches and he has to swallow twice before he can get the words out: "W-What are you...doing here?"

An expression of disbelief flickers across Tony's face. His eyes are red and puffy, as if he's been crying a great deal (which, weird, and whoever did that Peter's going to kill). His hair is a mess and his facial hair isn't kept. He looks slightly ill and his left hand is in a sling, as if trying to put on the arm brace was too much effort. Wasn't he working out the kinks in the brace? He can't do that if he doesn't wear it.

"I can't believe you asked that." Tony's voice is strangely flat, almost bitter. And then, softer, "I almost lost my spider-son. I think I'm going to sit here for a little bit if that's okay with you." Wet tears slip down Tony's face and he inhales deeply before pulling his hand away from Peter's head to scrub at them with the edge of his sleeve.

He did that. He made Tony cry because he did a stupid.

The words process and Peter freezes. He looks up at Tony, trying to keep the surprise from his voice, but failing: "Your...what?"

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and rests his hand on Peter's head. "Oh, gosh, Kid. Yes. My Spider-Son. I never even thought for a second that you would...I can't…" he inhales, "I am so, so sorry, Peter."

He did that. Selfish brat. Can't you just—

"But you didn't—"

"No, quiet." Tony lifts up a finger. "Just—just listen for two seconds okay? Actually listen. Please. I just...I promise that it wasn't my intention to hurt you, but I know that I did. These...these last weeks have been crazy for all of us—but that isn't an excuse. Peter your arms alone I just...looking back I can see everything and I feel so stupid. I should have said something, pushed harder to get you to talk, but I didn't because you seemed like you were managing. I thought you were talking to May, or Fred or your girlfriend or something, but you weren't and this happened and I…" Tony's hand tightens in his hair. "I never would have left New York if I had known it was this bad, I promise.."

A bitter sort of smile works its way up his lips. "But if it was only a little bit, that would have been okay?"

"No!" Tony's voice is almost pained. "No. Oh, kid," he pinches at the bridge of his nose and Peter sees more tears slip down his face. He's only seen Tony cry twice before this, and he doesn't know what to do. He's supposed to offer comfort, but he doesn't even know where to start. The only reason Tony's crying is because Peter couldn't hold it together.

Like a five-year-old cry baby.

He digs his left hand's fingernails into his palms until Tony's hand gently closes around his fingers. Tony takes Peter's hand in his own, giving it a quick squeeze. "I shouldn't have left New York." Tony laments softly. "Why did I even think that was a good—"

"Because you weren't talking to me." Peter interrupts. His voice isn't quite a snap, but it's close. And then suddenly now that he's started, the words start pouring and Peter can't stop them. "You were never talking to me! Only at me. Morgan, Harley, Nebula—I didn't even care okay? I never said I was okay with this, and you know what everyone kept telling me? You'll adjust, you better get used to that, you're unwell—May said there was something wrong with me because I couldn't adjust to 2023, but how was I supposed to when NO ONE WAS HELPING ME!? I kept trying to reach out, but no one got it and you just kept bringing up all your kids and you didn't even care anymore. You moved on, you grieved, and I didn't. I wish Thor hadn't snapped. Oh, gosh, I wish Thor had never snapped. This hurts to much, and I am alone in it all. It would have been better if I just finished the job in the bathroom because—mmpph."

Peter's stopped mid-rant as Tony draws him into a half-armed hug. Peter falls into it with surprise. "You're not alone, Peter. You're not alone anymore. It's going to be okay, okay?" Tony's voice is quiet. "I love you."

Peter's heart stutters in his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his head against Tony's shoulder. "I love you too, Dad."

Tony tightens his grip. "We're going to figure this out. I promise. We're going to figure it out. Together. No more forced adjusting, no more forcing. Things can't be the same anymore, and we'll find out how they should be. Deal?"

Peter lets himself slump against Tony fully. "Deal."

"I love you so much, Underoos." Tony whispers in his hair. "I'm never going to let you go again. I'm so lucky to have you as a son."

Emotions so thick wash over him. Peter can't explain any of them. Only aware of Tony's arm around him and how safe he feels. How protected. Warm. This—this is hasn't changed since 2018. The hugs are still securing and something Peter can bury himself in without a care for the rest of the world's problems. The anxiety that's been settled in his stomach for weeks dampens slightly, and Peter's head feels a little less heavy.

Tony doesn't let him go.

000o000

He's never left alone after that, and Peter knows it's with good reason, but it still makes him vaguely sick and wary of himself. He does more coloring pictures than he cares to admit with Morgan of Disney Princesses, helps Nebula repair a wire in her arm, assists Harley with his biology homework—it's like, basic stuff about hearts, honestly, who doesn't know the difference between the chambers and why it's important to different type of animal—but Harley keeps repeating "impossible" under his breath as Peter explains the concepts for the sixth time.

It takes almost five days before he sees May. Apparently she's been here, but every time she comes he's had the unfortunate habit of sleeping. May looks washed out and wraps him in a hug the second she sees him.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." May sobs and holds him close. "I'm so so sorry."

Sorry doesn't fix it.

But an apology is better than nothing.

Peter buries himself in her arms and glances at Tony, sitting in the chair beside the bed for some support. Tony gives him a thumbs up, a faint pain in his gaze. May sits down on the hospital bed, wiping at her eyes and grips his right hand. "I didn't know," she chokes out, "I promise. I would have...I noticed that you were getting sick—" you're unwell, Peter "—and...oh I made a mess of everything."

Peter thins his lips. "You did your best."

"No," May shakes her head, "we don't justify this, okay? I failed you. I hurt you. I don't even know what I was thinking. I swear I will do my best to make it up to you, okay? You need to talk, I'll listen. 2023 gets to overwhelming, we'll binge movies from 2018, okay? No more of this. I'll do better, I promise." Her lower lip trembles, and Peter's heart goes out to her.

He squeezes her hand. "I forgive you. I promise. It's my fault, too. I shouldn't...I should have told you it was getting bad." He glances towards his arms, the ghosts of scars that he'll carry the rest of his life. He doesn't know how he feels about it.

Embarrassed?

Wanting to add more.

"Stop blaming yourself," May shakes her head, and runs a hand through her hair. "I should have just let you leave with Tony from New York, but I was selfish and stupid and instead this…" she gestures vaguely towards him, "happened. You were kidnapped and I-I don't...if you'd...I don't…"

What? Peter stills. He looks up at her, sending a fleeting glance at Tony first. "You...what do you mean leave New York?"

May's expression twists. "Tony's move. He texted me first to see if it would be okay if he took you for a few months and I said no. I knew that you were struggling and I thought that a familiar environment would help, but it…"

Anger bubbles in his stomach, but it dissipates just as quickly. He's too tired to be angry. It's an exhausting weight to carry. He tips his head towards Tony, who lowers his phone. "I thought that...I thought that you...I didn't think that you'd want me to go and I…"

"Oh, Pete," Tony's head tips slightly and his eyes squeeze shut. "No, I texted May first because I wanted you to come with us and I needed your guardian's permission. Harley was my second choice."

Oh.

All of this...his wrists, the kidnapping, everything could have been different if May hadn't—Stop. The blame game doesn't solve anything. May could have—

He doesn't know if he's angry, or it's crushing disappointment. Both, he thinks. Peter clenches his left hand and his jaw tenses. Don't yell. Yelling solves nothing. Don't yell. He exhales slowly, carefully. Controlled. Peter looks up at his aunt. "Can you leave? Please? I love you, but I need...I think that I need to think about this."

May's hand lifts up to her mouth and a stream of fresh tears slips down her face.

His fault.

Jerk.

Oh gosh, why did he ask for that? There is nothing worse than knowing that you hurt someone and now he's made her—

"Peter, I—" May starts, reaching out for him again.

Tony shifts forward and catches her wrist. The grip is gentle, "May, let's...let's talk outside, okay?"

May nods her lips pinched together. She rises to her feet and shoots him one last look, "I love you," she whispers. Peter nods and she and Tony exit the hospital room. Peter watches them go, guilt squirming in his chest.

Why did he say that?

He should have just accepted that May made a mistake immediately. He's not supposed to—jerk—why did he even think that that would be okay? Mean. Mean. Mean. Me—

The door opens and Black Widow slips inside. Her red hair is tugged back, and she's wearing all black save her mismatched socks. One's purple and the other is yellow. Not the most ideal color combination, but given the state of her eyes, Peter doubts she knows about it. Black Widow moves slowly across the room, fingers trailing edge of the wall, and then the bed.

Her murky, blind eyes settle forward before she sits on the edge of the bed. "Tony sent me." She offers as way of explanation.

Silence settles between them.

At one point in his life, Peter would have been gushing out words in excitement. This is one of his idols, and she's sitting on his hospital bed even though there are likely a thousand other things to be done. Oh, actually, now that they've mentioned that—

Black Widow's lips twist and she blows out a breath. "You'll be happy to know that Beck and his group of idiots are in federal custody. They were working on some sort of drone technology, I'm...it's not clear. But drones."

Peter perks some. "That's cool."

"Drones of death." Black Widow adds, her lip quirking up some. "Their set mode was destruction."

"Oh." Peter voices. "Less cool."

More silence.

May and Tony still haven't come back yet. He must have hurt her bad. Why did he say that? He's such a selfish brat for saying it. May needed the reassurance of his well being and he prevented her from having that. Why did he do that? He should have just...just not said that.

He needs to cut.

Peter's stomach churns as the thought forms from a mindless ache to a proper sentence.

Isn't...isn't—wait. Aren't those urges supposed to be gone now that he's getting better? Isn't that how recovery works? You decide you're going to get better and then it all magically goes away? It's not supposed to stay. That's not how this works. It shouldn't be.

It's—

He needs to cut.

He doesn't have any weapons. The razor he still can't remember finding was missing when he woke up. But he needs to cut. He needs that release. He's going to be sick. His arms ache. Black Widow has to have weapons on her person, right? A dagger or something. Peter's semi-okay at sleight of hand.

He might get away with it.

He just—yes, she has one. There's a dagger on the back of her belt. It's small. Barely the length of his pointer finger, but he recognizes the blade for what it is. He just...he needs this.

May and Tony aren't coming back.

"Can I have a hug?" Peter blurts out and nearly face palms. This is the mighty source of misdirection he comes up with? A hug? From Black Widow? The woman famed for having the emotional expertise of a stale piece of bread? Brilliant.

Black Widow's expression flickers before she breathes out slowly. "Yeah. Um. Okay," she shifts forward some and Peter throws his arms around her. Her arms are cold, but her grip isn't nearly as awkward as he was expecting. Peter keeps a hand around her upper back as he slips his left hand lower and grips at the edge of the blade.

Black Widow is still stiff, though.

They don't say anything, and Peter slowly works the blade out.

The door opens and Peter pulls the blade back, slipping it into the bandages wrapped around his wrist still before he pushes back as Black Widow releases him quickly. Tony steps into the room. May doesn't follow.

Peter's stomach sinks.

"Why Natashlie," Tony's voice is teasing, "are we offering out free hugs now?"

Black Widow's eyebrow lifts. "Why? You want one?"

"Wouldn't go unwelcomed." A smirk twitches on the edge of Tony's lip and Black Widow rolls her eyes, rising to her feet.

"Zatknis'." The word is clearly Russian, and Peter has no idea behind a meaning. Judging by the slight raise of Tony's eyebrows, he is aware.

"Ooh," Tony lifts up his hands, "alright. No need to get testy."

Black Widow lightly punches him on the shoulder. "You can have your free hug later."

"Square deal." Tony nods, "Now go away."

"Going." Black Widow calls as she walks off, lifting her finger up in a gesture that makes Peter's jaw fall somewhat. He hasn't seen Tony interact with the Avengers that much, but the nastiness between these two carries an obvious under layer of affection.

He wasn't expecting this.

"Jerk." Tony calls at her back.

"Narcissistic idiot."

The door closes and Tony shakes his head fondly, looking back at Peter before taking a seat. "Sorry. She was closer than everyone else. She's in a mood right now." Tony blows out a breath. "Yeah, um, anyway. May's going home."

The weight smashes on top of him again. Is it ever going to go away? Why won't it go away? Why can't Peter remember how to be happy?

"Oh." Peter's stomach squirms. "I thought that she'd…"

"I think it's probably best to give you a couple of hours," Tony interjects gently. "It's okay, Peter, you not wanting her here. Sometimes, despite how well meaning people are, it still hurts and we need a bit before we can see them, alright? There's nothing wrong with that."

It feels like there is.

Tony sighs and tips his head. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Peter looks away and clenches his left hand. He stole a blade from Black Widow. He doesn't want to talk about this. No one likes darkness thoughts. They always run away. Every time. "I think there's something wrong with me." Peter mutters.

Tony grips his hand, "Hey. Pete. Look at me."

Peter slowly lifts his gaze.

The humor has dropped from Tony's face. His voice is sincere. "There is nothing wrong with you. Even if there was, who cares, okay? It doesn't matter. You're not insane. You're sick, and we're going to get you better."

The hidden blade disagrees.

000o000

FRIDAY isn't in the bathrooms. He knew that before he attempted to slit his wrists, but right now it's most prominent. It's the only time he's alone right now. When he hides in here.

He flips the blade in his fingers over and over again.

He could break skin so easily.

But the thought of Tony's disappointed face, and that of his siblings, makes him vaguely ill.

Peter doesn't cut that night. He scratches at his arms, but he doesn't cut.

000o000

May comes back, and Peter doesn't yell at her. Their conversation is slow, but it comes, and Peter feels better after it. He keeps the blade hidden, and his smiles don't feel quite sincere.

Eventually, the doctors give him clearance from the hospital, the name of a therapist, and May encourages him to stay at the Tower until things settle. Tony hasn't left New York since Peter's kidnapping three weeks ago. He keeps insisting that Peter isn't trapping him here, but it kind of feels like that.

It's different here than it was at the apartment.

It's supposed to be different at the Tower, and Peter finds some relief in that. It's changed because the Avengers live in a higher state of technology than the rest of the world. That's fine. It's normal.

000o000

He's had the blade for two weeks when Tony catches him. He doesn't even know what he was going to do with it. He hasn't cut since before his kidnapping, but he still...Black Widow hasn't mentioned the missing blade, but he just...he knows that she knows he has it. Maybe she has since their hug and she let him take it. It feels like she's trusted him with it, and he can't let her down. He doesn't...he wants to cut, he be doesn't want to clean up, or deal with the angry faces that will follow.

Peter's sitting on the edge of the guest bed, blade in hand as he stares at the scars adorning his hand.

Tony calmly takes a seat next to him. There isn't any frantic yelling, no scramble to grab at the blade and then demand what Peter was thinking. There isn't any panic. Like Loki. Loki hadn't yelled at him, even though he's a little crazy, and anyone else probably would have. Tony seems calm save the slight anxious drum of his fingers for a second.

"You okay, bud?" Tony's voice is quiet.

Peter shakes his head. He feels like crying again and wants to kick himself. Ever since he started therapy all he's done is weep. He feels like a young child whose injustice is not being able to eat their favorite cake or something else stupidly little.

"It's not…" Peter looks down at the blade, spinning it again. Around and around and around. "Why do I still want to do this? Isn't it supposed...isn't it supposed to be gone now that I'm…"

Tony shakes his head, lips pressing together. "That's...that's...Peter that's ridiculous. Recovery doesn't mean that the urges go away, it means that you fight them, then they lessen. Pete, look at your hands, okay? You haven't done it and I'm proud of you. Even if you had, that wouldn't change. You've been fighting so hard, and I can see your progress, okay? You're getting better. You are making progress."

"Then WHY do I still have this freakin'—" Peter cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. "It's like...like I can't breathe. I'm so alone, and I can't...I'm drowning and I can't figure out how to swim. There's no one there to tell me. I just...I know I'm surrounded by everyone, and you've been great, but I have never felt more alone."

Tony is quiet for a long second. "Can I hug you?"

Peter gives a slight nod. Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "You're not alone anymore, Pete. We're going to be okay. You're going to be okay. You have me, you have your aunt, you have your siblings, Ned and your girlfriend, alright? You're not alone, we've got you. You won't fall again."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, releasing a shuddering breath.

Tony holds him.

Peter swallows thickly before he blindly reaches for Tony's hand and discards the blade into his hands. "Please take it," Peter breathes, tears slipping down his cheeks. "Please. I don't want to die. I don't know when I'll stop if I start."

Tony's arm remains a constant and he sets the blade to the side, wrapping both his arms around him. "I've got you, shh, we're okay. We're okay. It's going to get better. I love you, you're alright. Keep breathing."

Peter buries his head into Tony's chest, letting everything slip away as he focuses on the sensation of Tony's arms around him, the rise and fall of Tony's chest. Steady. Constant. He's being supported. Held. He's not alone anymore. He exhales sharply, deeply, "I love you too, Dad. Please don't go away again. Please."

Tony presses a kiss against his head and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not going anywhere, Pete. I promise."

And Peter has no reason to doubt him. Doesn't think he can. Everything is going to be fine. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after, but it will be, and Peter's going to be alive when it gets there.

Why is life so hard? Why are these troubles so hard to defeat?

Because if life was meant to be linear, no heart would beat.

Chapter Text

Tony left flowers at his parents' grave for his mother. He left flowers at Rhodey's mother's grave because she was practically his own. When Pepper's father died of an overdose at the beginning of her job at SI, Tony sent her flowers because it seemed like the nice thing to do. He left flowers in Aunt Peggy's casket, but didn't tell Steve.

He didn't leave flowers as much as he wanted to, but he still did it. Once a year or so when he was older, more when he was younger and talking to the headstone of his parents seemed to help.

Tony left flowers for Peter on a monthly basis until they left New York and he couldn't anymore.

"I think he would have appreciated it." Pepper had assured him when he visited in person, hand around his shoulders. "He was a sweet kid."

"My kid." Tony had mumbled in response, looking at the carved letters among the others underneath those stupid two words "The Vanished" with a sick feeling in his stomach. PETER BENJAMIN PARKER. The carved stone had always made him feel vaguely ill, but it was reassuring in a way, he guesses, that he never had to bury a body.

Not Peter's real body, sitting in a casket, dead and still. Like his parents had been. "He was my kid." Tony insisted and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid images of a real casket sitting in the ground and Peter rotting in it.

He'd never needed to worry about burying Peter after Thanos.

Hadn't even thought twice about it after the snap when Peter had come back. Because he was stupid, and assumed the worst was behind them.

000o000

"Can I ask you a question?" Tony asks, and, without waiting for an answer grabs Natasha's palm and slams the small blade into it. He's careful to keep her skin from being cut, but doesn't bother with withholding force. "What the heck is your blade doing in Peter's room?"

Natasha looks up from the braille she's intently studying to finger the weapon. Her expression flickers. "Oh."

Tony folds his arms across his chest, leaning against the desk and does his best not to scowl. "'Oh'," he mimics, high-pitched, "you gave my mentally distressed child a weapon and all you have to say is 'oh'?"

He's not angry at her. No. That's wrong. He's trying really hard not to be angry at her. How could she be so stupid? The last thing that Peter needs right now is for someone to give him ammo. They'd cleared the room he was staying in at the Tower of anything remotely sharp, didn't let him handle the kitchen knives—they were trying to be subtle about this, trying to help him and Natasha gives him a blade.

"Did you even know he had it?" Tony questions, and then backtracks, realizing who this is. "No. You knew he had it. How long has he had it?"

His teammate sits back in the chair and heaves out a deep sigh.

"Nat."

"About two weeks." Natasha shrugs at last. "He took it in the hospital room."

What?

A thrum of panic washes through him. "And you just let him—!?"

"Tony." Natasha's voice is soft. "I knew he wouldn't use it. He needed to know he could, but I knew he wouldn't. I trust him. You need to trust him, too."

"I do trust him." Tony hisses, watching as Natasha carefully sets the blade on the desk beside her book. "This has nothing to do with trust! It's my job to look after Peter, and until he's in a better place I don't want you handing him weapons. Sam has him on suicide watch, Nat. You don't hand someone—"

Natasha rises to her feet, murky eyes settled on his chin, but her expression is still livid. "I was helping. I don't regret my decision. Did you take it from him?"

Peter's shaking hand dumping the blade into his open palm comes to mind and Tony hisses out through his teeth, trying to bury the rouse of anxiety swirling in his stomach. Natasha's eyes narrow angrily. "Did you take it, Stark?"

"No." Tony shoots down. "He gave it to me."

Natasha's expression smooths some. "Good." She sighs softly and points towards the bed. "Now shut up and help me. You need a distraction and I need someone to help me read these stupid bumps."

Tony sits on the bed, and Natasha takes a position beside him. The dagger remains on the desk, almost like a taunting melody of Tony's ignorance the last few weeks. Look how much you failed, it whispers. Weeks upon weeks where you could have stopped this, and you didn't.

Why didn't you do more?

000o000

He thinks he recognized it when Peter came by to visit for the first time, but hadn't realized it. He'd been on more medication than he cared to admit, and it dulled his mind leaving everything feeling strangely fluttery.

Peter had just been in the news. He'd saved a small grocery store from "a team of villainous terrorists insistent on taking the street captive and murdering everyone along the way" according to one headline. Tony had been a little skeptical, honestly, but was relieved to see that Peter had donned the suit. It was the first time in two weeks according to Karen. Peter loves being Spider-Man, and it seemed a little strange to Tony that he hadn't really done anything as Spider-Man once the Vanished reappeared.

But it was Peter's choice, and Tony hadn't pushed.

Honestly, after waking up to see Steve doing his eyebrow-thing at a tablet in one hand and Bruce constantly making unhappy faces towards the TV, Tony had been relieved the media found something else to gobble on besides how awful the Avengers are. Had they thought about the consequences of snapping everyone back at once—well, no, not really, but in the heat of the moment it hadn't even occurred to them.

Had they decided to have someone nuke Avengers Compound and release all that alien radiation in the air? No.

Had Bruce and Clint, the only Avengers who can really move out of doctor's supervision at the moment, decided to publicly ward off the military trying to arrest Loki when they spotted him by claiming Loki a part of the Avengers? Yes. Did it solve problems? No. Had the media immediately started a running theory about how they're now all under the mind control of Loki and pretty much slandered the Asgardian through the dirt? Yep.

So yeah. An exaggerated story about Spider-Man stopping an attempted robbery was more than welcomed. Tony's never liked living under lime-light, and liked it even less when they spend the whole time insisting what a terrible person he is.

But Peter had saved a handful of people (or a whole street depending on what sources Tony looks at) and Tony had realized that he was tired of keeping his distance and called Peter to request his presence. Peter's voice had seemed a little weird, but Tony had chalked it up to the fact that they hadn't spoken in two weeks.

Before Peter arrives, Morgan climbs up onto the hospital bed and plops homework down onto the mattress. "I need help." She declares, and Tony blinks at her hazily through the persistent ache the drugs leave on his brain and nods.

Math.

He can do math. It's not even math figuring out how to time travel, so in-complexities—he can do that. Oh. School. Morgan's school had started before the Avengers arrived on his doorstep. It was one of the reasons that Pepper hadn't gone with him to the Compound, someone needed to chaperone their daughter to and back.

She's missed how many weeks of school now?

Two? Three? Tony can't remember how long it's been since Thanos's death. A while, he thinks. Tony doesn't want Morgan to be as isolated as he was, he wants her to have friends. He and Pepper should...they should probably talk about figuring out a way to get her back into school, but Pepper won't want to go back to the loghouse until Tony's been cleared from the hospital.

Ugh.

"This is weird." Morgan says and lifts up the piece of paper towards him, pointing towards a word problem. The words blur and Tony squints. Pepper's hand tightens around his and she looks up from her laptop to smile gently at their daughter.

"Morgan, honey, I don't know that Dad can help you right now." She says softly.

Tony shakes his head. He's not useless, he can be a good parent. He won't blow Morgan off just because his brain is hazy. "Nope," Tony says and sits up, scooting along the bed with discomfort. "I got this."

Tony stares at the words until they form a sentence and has to think beyond the watermelons and insane shoppers to find the proper formula. Once they've gotten going, Morgan lays down on her stomach, working on the problems and occasionally asks for confirmation that she's gotten it right.

It's after one such instance that Tony hears footsteps and looks up to see Peter in the doorway. His hair is a little ruffled and he has shadows under his eyes, but he looks mostly okay. Relief releases in his stomach and Tony smiles, waving the teenager forward. "Don't just stand here. Come, join us in the all important art of homework."

Has Peter started school yet? Ugh...no? Tony's not sure. Didn't the U.S. government decide on three-ish weeks before they dumped the Vanished back into school? That seems right. It's only been two. The other kids only got two weeks. Which is one of those stupid things that Tony doesn't understand, but apparently makes perfect sense to politicians.

Morgan shifts restlessly, and Tony flicks his gaze towards her for a second. Honestly, he forgets that Morgan doesn't remember Peter before the snap. She's not as comfortable around him as Tony is, and Tony imagines that it's vice versa. Peter's good with kids, he just prefers not to spend time with them unless he knows them.

Peter tugs the edges of his sleeves over his fingers, hiding his hands beneath the cloth. It's as much as a confirmation that Tony's going to get on his theory. He turns to his wife, trying to make this as un-awkward as possible. "Hey, Pep?"

She looks up. "Hmm?"

"Can you take Morgan for a little bit? It's past noon and Laura said she was going to cook lunch." Tony says pointedly and Pepper nods, sharing a quick look with him before closing the laptop and setting it onto the bedside table before picking up Morgan and, smiling asks: "Let's go find some food, yeah?"

"Okay." Morgan agrees.

Pepper nods at Peter before she exits and Tony stretches his tense shoulders, poking the edge of Morgan's math book out of the way. Peter stands there, fidgeting with his sleeves as if he's not sure what to say. Tony's mouth runs dry himself.

He wants to ask a dozen questions, maybe a hundred, but it doesn't seem like the right place. Or the right time. This is the first time Tony's seen Peter since the battle, and he doesn't want to mess this up. Tony flexes his right hand, de-tangling his tongue from the roof of his mouth: "You start school back up?" Tony asks.

He barely represses a wince. Sure. That's the best topic to say they talked about after five years. Awesome. Tony watches Peter's face carefully, biting on his inner lip. Peter's head raises, but his eyebrows are furrowed as if confused or unimpressed. Probably both.

Peter's voice is quiet: "No. Not 'till Monday."

Oh. So it's week two, then. "Ah. Okay."

More silence.

"Pepper said that you might get moved today," Peter starts hesitantly, "do you know anything more about that?"

Who knows. Bruce keeps fighting the doctors into letting him move up into the living area of Avengers Tower, but Stark Medical seems pretty insistent on keeping him prisoner until he's in his seventies. Tony presses his lips together before shaking his head and shrugging lightly, explaining as much to the spider.

Peter doesn't answer, a faraway expression on his face, almost as if he's trying to solve some sort of complex math problem. Tony's eyes narrow. Peter's usually a lot more talkative than this. Typically, Tony doesn't have to initiate the conversation in the first place and Peter will chatter on about anything any everything until he's focused.

But he's not focused on anything.

Just staring at the ceiling like it's going to solve everything.

And this isn't right. Did something happen? Peter went out as Spider-Man today, so he must be doing some better, right? Peter tends to avoid his alter ego like the plague when he's upset or never stop being Spider-Man for the same reason. Peter hasn't seen him in the two weeks, and Tony's respected Peter trying to adjust. But...that's...

"Are you okay?" Tony questions.

Peter's head snaps down, eyes focusing. "What? I mean, yeah, I'm fine." Peter assures, but his tone sounds off. Yeah, something is definitely wrong. Should he push? Peter might not appreciate that, though, and...maybe...maybe Tony's just...was he like this before the snap? Memories of those months leading up to Thanos's first attack are blurred, honestly, like it's a chunk of his life that his subconscious decided was too painful so it chopped it out.

Which was rude.

"You just seem a little…" Tony trails. Distant. Upset. Anxious?

"Tired." Peter answers.

He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn't really go away with sleep; his entire appearance is haggard and gives off the impression of someone who hasn't seen their bed in a lot longer than they should have.

Tony doesn't push for a different answer. Peter will talk to him when he's ready. That's how this works. Tony trusts him to talk and he will.

The silence lapses again.

Peter shifts forward some, eyes on math book before Nebula all but bursts into the room and Peter snaps his mouth shut. Tony side eyes him, but looks up at the Luphamoid who pauses for a moment before walking further into the room. "Bruce sent me come and tell you that he got clearance so long as you exist in a wheelchair for a week."

A wheelchair? Great, but he's leaving this room. Hallelujah. He's spent most of it unconscious, but he hates hospitals whether or not he's asleep for a large chunk of the stay. He groans softly, and sees Peter's wide eyes lift up to his face. In a somewhat explanation, he says, "Good, but bad. Mostly good."

Nebula nods, and turns to exit, but stops at Tony's question about the mess on 22nd. He really has no idea whose idea it was to put the Guardian's in charge, but considering the fact that more than half of the Avengers team is kind of incapacitated right now, it was really their only choice. Nebula reassures him that they did and leaves after a sly comment about how awful they are at winning.

Jerk.

And it's not like their freakin' name insists that they win the battle, it's Avengers. That kind of implies that they'll lose in the first place. He's about to say something along the lines, but Nebula is already gone. Stupid drugs. Can't get his tongue to work right.

The following conversation with Peter is barely more than a few staggered sentences here and there before Peter announces that May wants him to meet her at the hospital and leaves. Tony's stomach coils with disappointment, but he waves him off and watches the kid go.

He gets the horrible feeling that he's missed something here, but shrugs it off because he doesn't know what he would miss in the first place.

000o000

He gets moved up into the Avengers living area and is more than happy to be able to leave the bed, even if it does mean he's confined to the chair on wheels. Given his left arm's dead-ness and the fact that his right is in a brace, he can't do much more than sort of push himself around in circles, but it's movement.

Clint takes great pleasure in this, laughing at his expense and singing Ring a Ring o' Roses whenever Tony starts to spin in circles until Natasha throws a pillow at him and tells him to shut up. Tony spends a majority of time in the common room, and despite the fact that they all could have wandered off privately and ignored each other, the other Avengers stay there, too.

Steve is sick, but likes pretending he's not and spends most of the time on the couch, blowing his nose and groaning about how the universe hates him. Bucky stays next to him, pouring through Bruce's library collection and hands the captain a new tissue box every time he seems to sense Steve is running out.

Natasha ignores the doctor's insistence that she takes things easy until she's more adjusted to her lack of sight and bullies someone—Tony's pretty sure it was Sam, but he's not sure—until he gets her pointe shoes from her room and spends a majority of her time dancing or stretching. Sometimes she talks with Clint's kids, but she's mostly quiet.

Bruce is the nurse, and runs to and fro until someone forces him to sit down and breathe or eat. Clint, despite his injuries from the battle, doesn't really sit still, either. He helps Bruce play nurse or spends as much time as possible with Laura and his kids. Thor, still attached to IV lines and being pummeled by the doctors until he gains at least thirty pounds—and holy crap, Tony had no idea he was so underweight—so he hasn't quite graduated into the common room yet. By extension this also means—revealingly, and he feels kind of bad about it—that Loki is in the hospital room, too.

The other Vanished Avengers slink in and out of the room, sometimes staying, but for the most part keeping their distance as they adjust. Tony doesn't blame them. Five years is not a small chunk of time to have been absent from.

As much as Tony appreciates seeing his team, he's going stir crazy and he's bored. One can only watch so many movies or play bored games until they go insane, and six days of arguing as their Uno games get more and more stupidly difficult—Natasha, though she can't play, adds a new rule every time a round starts, and whose idea was it to start with seventy cards?—before exhaustion overcomes them.

Tony finds himself in his lab, attempting staggering steps until he can get himself propped on a stool. His legs are fine, the doctors insisted so, but he's been told to move as little as possible until he regains his strength, and the wheelchair was part of the deal.

Tony's never been very good at following directions.

FRIDAY pouts in moody silence for as long as she's able, clearly not as into this idea as he is, but eventually gives up and helps him. Tony doesn't even realize that he's starting the blueprints for a prosthetic until he's taking off the sling so he can measure it against his arm.

He stops, and looks at the dead weight, the pale skin, and resists the urge to claw his fingers into it. Sometimes his nerves get sporadic and he can feel pain there, but most of the time there's just nothing. He could dig and dig a knife into his forearm and not feel it, just watch the blood gush out.

Actually, that's a terrible idea. Tony shakes it off, focusing. He messes with the blueprints, trying to figure out a way to attach the stupid thing before his phone buzzes loudly, indicating a call. He uses ringtones as little as possible, preferring vibrate. He startles, slamming his right hand against his pockets before he finds his Starkphone and tugs it out.

The caller ID is Peter, and he glances at the time. It's barely two forty PM, and Peter's school doesn't get out until three. Did something happen? Is he okay? Tony's stomach drops to his feet and he answers without a second thought, lifting the phone up to his ear.

Burying his paranoia, he asks as calmly as he can manage: "Kid? Shouldn't you be in school?"

The line is quiet save a deep, strangled gasp of air and Tony's eyebrows meet, worry stirring inside his gut. "I'm—" Peter gasps out, but the word sounds all wrong. "I'm…"

In pain? Dying? Need assistance? What?

Tony shifts in the lab, pulling the phone back from his mouth for a second. "FRI, get Bruce on the line. And Happy, just in case."

"Of course, Boss." FRIDAY answers, and Tony turns his attention back to his kid. He swears, if anyone tried to lay a freakin' finger on his kids head, he's going to murder them. He didn't lose Peter for five years so that he could do it again in less than a month.

"Are you okay?" Tony demands, keeping his tone as level as he can. Panicking won't keep Peter calm. "Did something happen? Are you hurt? Where are you? You're breathing heavy. Are you okay? Are you—Peter. Answer me."

The dreadful silence drags for a few more seconds before Peter's croaky voice asks: "Can I come over?"

This…

What?

This is what the...Peter has to be crying, or panicking, maybe both given his tone and he's just...not going to say anything? Tony bites at his tongue when his first response is to demand what's wrong and push until Peter snaps and says it. Peter will talk when he's ready. Tony will be ready to listen then, too.

It's fine.

(It's not.)

Tony's tone has lost some of the worry, "Are you okay?"

"Can I come?" Peter presses. The desperation in his tone makes any hesitation in Tony promptly be discarded. His kid needs him, and he's not going to ignore that.

"Yes." He assures. "You can come. Do I need to have a medical ready? 'Cause I don't think you should join me in hiding from the doctors." He'll still have Bruce give him a once over when he gets here, just in case. Peter's terrible at admitting when he needs things. Tony has his doubts that's changed in the last three (four? Why is his sense of time so terrible all of the sudden?) weeks.

"No," Peter's voice is hoarse, "no doctors. I'm okay."

Haha. Right.

"You sound kind of shaken there, bud." Tony points out.

"No medical." Peter insists, breathing in deeply. "I'm okay."

His first response is to hop into a car and drive down to Midtown and pick the kid up himself, but there are multiple problems with that: he has exactly half of one arm, he's so high off of pain medication he'd probably wipe out half the population with how bad the crash he causes would be, and it would likely only embarrass Peter to have someone pick him up.

He breathes out slowly. "Okay. I'll be waiting. Avengers Tower, remember? You try the Compound and you won't have much luck."

"Okay. Yeah. Um—hey, before you hang up...if I take a taxi to the Tower, can I tell them you'll pay? I don't have any money on me right now, but I'll pay you back as soon as I—"

Tony's laughs out loud, surprised and relieved at how normal this is. He'd missed this side of Peter. The awkward one, rather than the ghost that's been baring his kid's face these last few weeks. (Which is fine. He's not mad at Peter for struggling, that would be stupid.) He shakes his head. "Oh my gosh, Kid. Yes. I'll pay for your taxi."

He asks Bruce to meet Peter in the lobby to do the once over with FRIDAY's scanners and Bruce sends him a reassuring text of 'some malnutrition and lack of sleep, but he's okay otherwise' and Tony takes what comfort he can in that. It's probably rude to be doing this without Peter's knowledge, but the freakin' kid would walk around insisting his fine after being hit by a train, so he's just...making sure he's okay.

That's not bad, is it?

His parents never cared to ask, and Tony is not going to be his father.

Break the cycle of shame.

Peter looks a little jittery and shaken when he arrives in the lab, but Tony doesn't push. The one thing he does have to back out of is when Peter tries to go for a hug, but his body protests violently at the idea of physical touch or being squished and he lifts up a hand to stop the action. As Peter's face visibly falls and his hands tighten, guilt swims through his stomach.

It really would have just been a few seconds of discomfort. After everything he's been through, he'd think he could've handled that. Awkwardly, he pats Peter on the shoulder, gives the spider a once over, and then indicates for him to sit on the other stool.

Harely was using it yesterday for some sort of school project. Tony hadn't been here to supervise, but he'd needed the equipment and Tony trusted him by himself. The only problem he'd had was the stupid cinnamon smell that wafts around the college student like a drug whenever he stays up late to finish said projects.

Who puts that much cinnamon into their coffee?

Tony's known him for ten years now, but he will never understand that obsession. It's like Nat and her insistence that cold showers are superior to hot ones. Because, yeah, Tony wants to be shivering with mild hypothermia every time he needs to clean his hair. For years he's been pretty sure everyone he works or associates with on a personal level is a little bit insane.

Peter.

Peter is here.

Give him some attention, Stark.

Tony grabs a spare screwdriver from off the desk and jabs Peter in the arm with the edge. Peter jerks and then looks up at him with wide eyes. Wow those shadows are deeper up close. Has he slept at all? He should talk to May. Peter's...not looking good. He's not imagining this, is he?

His head tips, but he keeps his lips pressed together, waiting for Peter to break the silence first.

"School's just…" the spider trails, looking down at his hands as he tugs at the edges of his sleeves again. Tony shifts, tilting his head some. "I know know," Peter mumbles, "it's weird. We have pictures of a black hole now, I...didn't know that until physics today. Everything feels advanced, but, like, not? I don't know."

Tony's eyebrows raise. "Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten about the excitement around that. It was what? Early 2019? Man, I don't know, that was a long time ago."

Peter sighs deeply, pressing his lips together. His gaze settles on the floor and Tony bites on his inner gums. He's terrible at this. He doesn't know how to...what is he doing wrong? Peter hasn't acted like Tony remembers him since he came back. Maybe Tony's just remembering wrong. What was he doing before, because Peter seemed mostly fine with that. Whatever it was.

Peter exhales and then looks up, shifting so he's leaning on the desk. "What are you working on?"

It's an obvious attempt at changing the subject, but Tony lets it slide, looking over at the holograph that's hovering over the table. It's the arm. Oh. Whoops. He hadn't...he hadn't really wanted anyone to know that he was working on it. It seems like a strange sort of fantasy, like he should have just accepted that his arm isn't coming back by now.

"Oh. Right. Um…" Tony rubs at the back of his neck, "It's the…"

Peter squints, "Is that the schematics for Sergeant Barnes's arm?" he asks, and looks up at Tony. "That's kind of weird...why are you looking at—oh. Oh." His eyes widen and Tony chews on his inner lips.

Tony can't help as he curls slightly into himself, staring at the kid with more wariness than he cares for. Does he thinks it's stupid? Tony knows it's stupid. He should just accept that the paralysis is permanent and there isn't anything he can do about it. "What?" his voice is wary.

Peter seems to brighten some, "Can I help?"

Oh thank all that is good in this world.

A breath he didn't realize he was holding escapes him and he nods, smiling. After explaining the major points behind what his goals are, Peter nods and offers a few suggestions. Peter seems to struggle with the technology a little, but Tony doesn't comment on it, only correcting him when the need arises deeply.

Peter's so quiet.

He's never quiet.

Tony has to fill the space with mindless chatter, even though he'd rather listen. Sitting in silence is worse though, almost heavy. Tony hates silence that isn't comfortable, he has far too many negative things associated with it. Almost anything that comes to mind he lists in an effort to fight it. Morgan taking apart the toaster this morning and Pepper's frustrations with it, Steve setting a record for how many boxes of tissues used in the Tower in a week, Thor finally getting released from medical and Loki's constant scowling at them, new SI funded projects—anything and everything.

Eventually Peter gives up on trying to fight the computers and leans against the desk, looking at Tony with a half interested expression, but his anxiety is obvious. Tony doesn't push on why he left school, on what he's doing here and why he hasn't slept.

Tony runs out of things to say and quiets, working on the arm while keeping an eye on Peter. The kid pulls out some homework and writes down all over it, but keeps looking up as if distracted or annoyed by something. After almost seven minutes of this, he looks up. "Why does it smell like cinnamon in here?"

Does it? Tony couldn't tell. He's gone numb to the scent. Thanks Harley. Really.

Spider's have a sensitivity to certain smells, don't they? Isn't cinnamon among that? A slight laugh escapes Tony at that realization and he shakes his head, waving some bites of the designs off. "Sorry. That's probably one Harley's empty coffee cups. He dumps, like, a solid half cup of the spice in every drink, but has a terrible habit of leaving the empty cups everywhere. Drives Pep nuts. You should probably just get used to that."

"Oh." Peter's voice is barely audible. Tony side glances him. That was probably the wrong thing to say. He doesn't understand why, but Peter's almost buzzing with anxiety now.

Well. Good work, Stark. Parenting at an A+ level now.

"Buzz." Peter says and slams a hand against his pocket. He pulls his phone from his pocket—a newer model of the Starkphone, Tony's pretty sure it was just released before the Vanished came back—and looks down at the screen. "May's coming home early and wants me to come home." Peter explains.

Lie. Well, a double lie. He didn't even turn his phone screen on. Tony hesitates, sitting back.

"I gotta go," Peter explains and rises to his feet, "thank you for letting me stop by here."

"Peter," Tony's voice is careful, level, "you've seemed a little distant these last few weeks, is something—?"

"No," Peter shoots down quickly. He looks like Tony might pull a machete out and try to swing for his neck. "I just haven't been sleeping well."

Well, yeah, but it's not just that. Lack of sleep wouldn't leave him this anxious. He—Tony squints, "No, I—"

"I really have to go, Mr. Stark," Peter's on his feet and moving for the door. Peter's gone before Tony can come up with a response. His teeth set and he waves the holograms off, running a hand through his hair.

Something isn't right.

He just knows that, but he doesn't know what it is.

He tugs his phone out and scrolls until he finds May's number and hits call. He knows that she's working right now, but this is important. It only takes a few rings before she answers, the sounds of people moving in the background barely muffled.

"Stark? What's the problem? Is Peter with you?" May asks.

Tony sighs and leans against the desk. "He was. He went home. I'm guessing that you didn't get off your shift early?"

"No. I didn't. Why?"

Tony blows out a breath, "Peter used it as an excuse to get out of here. I-I don't know...what's going on. Has he seemed okay with you over the last couple of weeks? I can barely get him to answer my texts and whenever I see him he's so...distant."

May is quiet. "Something's going on, but I don't know what it is. I'll keep an eye on him, and talk with him to see what it is."

Tony runs his finger on the edge of the desk. That doesn't feel like enough. They should be doing more, but Tony doesn't know what. This isn't normal behavior for Peter (isn't it). "I guess that's all we can do right now." Tony sighs, "Keep me apprised?"

"Of course." May promises. "I gotta get back to work, but feel free to text me. Oh, hey—did you still want Morgan to stay over for a few days?"

Tony bites at his lower lip. Oh. Right. He forgot about that. He thinks back over the last couple of minutes and then shakes his head. "No. No. We'll just...keep watching her. I don't think having her stay with you would be the best thing for Peter right now."

May hums in agreement. "You're right. Alright, my boss is giving me the eye. I'll talk to you soon, 'kay?"

"Bye." Tony hangs up shortly afterwards and blows out a deep sigh, wishing he had something to thump his head back against.

"Boss?" FRIDAY questions, tone concerned. Tony waves her off.

"It's nothing. I think. I hope it's nothing. Here, why don't you start printing this and we'll—"

000o000

During one of the trial runs with the arm, Bruce bursts into the lab looking like an over-hyper puppy. "Tony!" he exclaims cheerfully and quickly rushes up to him waving a clipboard. "You won't believe the good news."

Tony whirls around to face the gamma-scientist, "You found the cure for cancer?"

Bruce shakes his head, putting the clipboard down on the desk so Tony can look at it. "No. Not yet. You've been cleared from medical. As long as you take things easy and meet with your doctors regularly, you are a free man."

Oh. Yeah, almost as good as a cure for cancer.

000o000

"We can't let Morgan keep missing school." Pepper insists firmly one morning, long after Clint has collected their daughter to spend time with his own children. Breakfast is still out on the table, but Tony's only been able to halfheartedly pick at it.

He looks up, processes his wife's words, and then sighs. "I know."

"She's going to get behind. Having her homework sent to us is one thing, having her miss out on classes is another." Pepper continues, resting her palms on the tabletop. Her meal is finished, fork resting to the side of the plate.

"I know." Tony promises.

"We said that we wanted her school life to be as normal as possible, Tony, and we can't do that if she's not there to socialize. She's missed almost a month of school now." Pepper points out.

"Minus the two weeks the government gave to everyone," Tony mutters, but at Pepper's unamused look, he sighs and sets the barely used fork down. "What do you want to do about it?"

Pepper sits back, sighing, "Listen, it's been great being in New York again, I'll admit that. SI is easier to maintain and keep an eye on, and I've loved being able to spend time with the team. Really, I have, but Tony...our life isn't here anymore. We moved on, remember? You got clearance from the doctors. It's time to go back to the loghouse. To go home."

Tony stills, thoughts whizzing through his head a mile every second. But...his first instinct is to say no. It's been a long, long time since he's felt this close with all of the team. And it's been nice to be in New York again, Tony's actually missed it. After the disaster with the Mandarin and getting his house blown up, he really hasn't minded living in the city again. Mostly. Upstate was good, but it's kind of a huge pile of ashes right now.

And Peter is in New York.

If they leave, Tony won't be able to see or talk to him as easily. And he doesn't want that. Not right now.

His teeth set. "But what about everything here?" he questions, "I want Morgan to have the best life possible, I promise, but she isn't the only kid we need to worry about. Nebula will be fine, and Harley, but you know that Peter's—"

"Invite him along." Pepper interrupts.

"Sorry?"

"Invite him," Pepper repeats, "to stay with us at the loghouse. Clearly whatever's going on here isn't helping much. We can enroll him in a school somewhere up there without too much of a fuss and we can get help around the house. We'll need that. I'd suggest taking one of the team, but…"

Tony waves a hand. "Wait. Hold up. You want me to invite Peter to live with us for a few months?" Peter's stayed the night at the Compound once or twice, Tony has never been in charge of him for longer than seventy hours. Months is a lot longer than that. And...the prospect actually excites him.

Pepper nods, seeming more convinced with her idea as time passes. "It will be good for him. I think. Staying somewhere that isn't in the middle of all this crazy."

Tony hums with agreement.

000o000

...so is it okay that Peter stays with us for a few months? Probably not past January, and we'd send him home for holidays or whatever...you're the legal guardian so you get first say. -TS

It's a long, long wait before he gets an answer:

No. -MP

What.? Why?-TS

Peter can't handle that type of stress right now. Moving to another state? He's barely coping HERE. I don't want to make things worse for him.-MP

What if it helps to have a change of scenery?-TS

It won't. He's not going. He needs the stability of Queens.-MP

Did you ASK him if he wants to go?-TS

He can't. What about his scholarship with Midtown? Or Spider-Man? What about his friends? You can't just uproot Peter's life. Especially now.-MP

Does he WANT to go, though?-TS

We're not discussing this. He's not going.-MP

May.-TS

I'm serious. This is what he needs. Stability. Familiarity. So drop. It.-MP

000o000

"Wait, really?" Harley's screwdriver comes to a stop and he shoves out from underneath the car to look at Tony with wide eyes. "That's like...out of state."

"Yep." Tony agrees, tossing Harley a wrench when he lifts out his hand for it. "Pepper wants the help around the house because she thinks I'll do something stupid."

"Ha." Nebula grumbles from her position on the desk a few feet away from Harley's car. She's reading on a tablet and occasionally hands Tony the required tools. She's giving off the impression that she isn't paying attention, but Tony knows better. "Wonder where she got that idea." Nebula continues, flipping through something.

Tony scowls and throws a freeze-dried blueberry at her head. Nebula catches it before it can hit her without looking up and eats it. Tony isn't surprised. Her reflexes are not to be questioned. He sighs and Harley makes a noise before sitting up and wiping grease from his hands. "I mean, sure I'll go with you, but did you ask Parker?" Harley questions.

Yeah.

And that worked out so well.

Tony waves a hand. "He can't come. He has...homework." Tony internally winces at the terrible excuse, but explaining that May doesn't want him to come along would be more complex than he really wants to deal with right now. The arm-brace-prosthetic-thing malfunctioned terribly this morning and he accidentally dumped water on top of Steve's drawing. Steve only laughed, insisting that it added the needed texture, but Tony had felt awful. Steve is terribly possessive of everything he draws. Some simplicity after that would be nice.

"Homework?" Harley repeats, eyebrow lifting. "Riggght."

"You have homework." Tony counters, crumbling up the bag of dried fruit with his right hand and pitching it towards the garbage bin. He misses. Of course he misses. Can't do anything right this morning.

"Yeah…" Harley agrees, and then blows out a breath. "Okay. I mean, it's free food and housing so I'm not going to complain."

Wait—Tony shifts, tipping his head, "Are you struggling with finances? Because I can—"

Harley laughs, interrupting him, and scoots beneath the car again. "No. I'm good. Promise, Dad. It's just, uh, college joke. But seriously, Peter wants in and I'll opt out. No offense or problems whatsoever."

Tony nods, rubbing at his temples. "Okay. Thanks."

"Yep." Harley assures and then rolls out from under the car and lifts up the wrench and scowls at Nebula. "Hey, Sis?"

"Mm?" The Luphamoid asks without looking up.

"So do you know what steel brushes are? Because this ain't a steel brush." Harley then looks over at him. "Did you hear me? Wrench. Why did you give me a wrench—?"

000o000

Peter got seven stabs today.-MP

What? Is he okay? Do I need to send someone to pick him up?-TS

Nurse, remember? He's fine. I think. His healing factor saved his life. Tony, this is scaring me. He's been so sick lately, and this didn't help anything...I need you to convince him to back out of the spider-business for a few weeks. He's not listening to me.-MP

I'm not taking the suit.-TS

But you NEED to.-MP

HhE's going to hurt himself.-MP

He's*-MP

Peter's not stupid. He can take care of himself. I trust him.-TS

I don't want him dead again. Do YOU?-MP

I'm not taking the suit.-TS

Tony…-MP

Tony.-MP

My kid is in dnager. Can't you SEE that? It's only going to get worse.-MP

Seven stabs. SEVEN.-MP

Tony.-MP

I'm not happy about it. When things get more settled, I'll call him to talk about taking a break, okay?-TS

Hey, did you invite him to helping move, or should I? It's today. Uh...tomorrow. What do you say when it's three in the morning?-TS

Today. I'll talk to him about it.-MP

000o000

Moving day comes all too soon. Tony doesn't see Peter between the failed lab session and the frantic packing of bags and other equipment from the Tower to the Quinjet. Tony has no idea how Steve managed to wrangle all of the Vanished Avengers together, but it's good to see them in once place again. Tony would be lying to admit that he hasn't missed them.

Honestly, though, there isn't that much to move. They weren't here for very long, and what they bought was only out of necessity. It really wouldn't have taken that long if half of them weren't incapacitated.

As it is, a majority of them are shoved onto the long couch and told not to move. Pepper takes charge of directing people as Tony attempts to tinker with his arm before it creates another disaster like this morning. He has never cleaned up more spilled coffee in his life.

After something shatters behind him—Tony doesn't turn around fast enough to see what it was—Thor is shoved onto the couch beside him by a scowling Loki and told not to move before the younger of the two walks off again. Thor sighs and Tony looks over at him. "You get banished to the couch of shame, too?"

"It's not the couch of shame." Steve grumbles, furiously darkening lines on his artwork.

"It's cute that you think that." Natasha promises, throwing a hand over her eyes. She's stuffed herself into the small space between Tony and Steve, with her head brushing against Tony's leg and her feet stuffed up against Steve's thigh. Half of Steve's sketchbook is on her calves.

Thor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I dropped your coffee maker. Loki fixed it with sedir, but it shattered into a lot of pieces. Sorry."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it, Thor. From what I understand that thing's been through worse abuse today." Natasha promises and Tony resists the urge to smack her with the screwdriver. Instead, he tightens something and flexes his fingers out, wincing slightly. It still feels so funny.

"It's fine, Thor." Tony assures, "I can buy a new one if needs be."

"All the same…" Thor trails off, clenching his fists tightly.

Tony shrugs, and Thor leans back against the couch, tugging his legs up to his chest. It does a lot to make him smaller, and Tony pauses for a second, staring; and then his phone buzzes in his pocket. And then continues to buzz. Tony startles, dropping the screwdriver to frantically find the stupid thing on his person.

Why doesn't he do that thing that other people do and only keep his phone in one designated pocket?

He manages to find the stupid device and answers the phone after only glancing at the caller ID. "Hey, Kid, now's not really the best time 'cause I'm—"

"I need you—to pick me up." Peter interrupts and Tony snaps his jaw shut. The bluntess of the statement startles him, and he pauses for a long second. He can pick up background noise of a river. What is Peter doing near a river?

Also, it's like, one PM, and Peter should be in school right now. But he's near a river—?

Natasha jabs his leg pointedly and Tony snaps out of his thoughts.

Focus.

"Yeah. Yeah. Where are you, Underoos?" Tony asks. Does Peter need to be picked up from school? Something else? His voice sounds unsteady. Something is not right. Something's happened.

Peter barely manages to choke out a coherent answer: "Fifty-fifty N-Ninth Street Bridge."

Tony is quiet a second, "Did something happen?"

"N-no." Peter's voice is wet.

Tony forces himself to stay calm, "Should I send Happy or do you want me to come? I can send someone else." Tony's voice is level and he pointedly glances at Steve for a second before adding: "I think I can get Steve free for a sec, but don't tell anyone I'm telling you this, but he is an awful driver."

Pencil scratches on paper roughly and Steve looks up at him, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow and mouths, "peter?" in question.

Tony nods, and then freezes at Peter's following question. "What are you doing?"

"Pepper didn't text you?" Tony keeps his voice level. It's a blunt lie, but he doesn't want to throw May under the bus just yet. At Peter's silence, he appends: "Huh. I'll explain when you get here. Happy, me, or someone else?"

Hopefully not him. Tony still hasn't been cleared for driving yet, and that's probably a good thing given his other disasters. "Happy." Peter mumbles, "If it won't be an inconvenience—"

"It's fine," Tony promises, "I'll see you in a bit. He's on his way. And Kid?"

"Mm?"

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Peter's voice is toneless. Flat. Dead. "Yeah, I'm okay."

000o000

Tony meets Peter at the elevator, swinging his left hand over the kid's shoulders and dragging him into the common room. Holy crap, he's thin. Tony knows that Peter's always been a skinny-stick, but this almost seems worse. Peter startles some, and look up towards him, "What the—Mr. Stark?"

Tony tips his head, "The one and only. And it's Tony, Kid, oh my gosh. How long is it going to take before you remember that?"

Peter's quiet a second before his eyes trace up the brace and his eyebrows lift with surprise. "You finished the arm?"

Finished, or finished? Because, one of those is not like the other and Tony's pretty sure the arm is only "finished". Tony nods anyway, "Yep," he pops the "p", "as of yesterday. Still working out a few kinks, but it's working pretty okay right now."

"I love that you think that," Steve says, walking over to them with small smile tugging at his lips. "Because everyone else here has determined from the large quantities of broken items that that is wrong."

As if it was just him. Steve didn't get dragged to the couch of shame for nothing.

Tony scoffs, making a face. "Jerk."

Steve smiles pleasantly and then turns his attention to Peter. "Hi, Peter. Tony said you'd be coming." Steve tips his head, catching Tony's gaze for a second. There's worry in his stare; that doesn't reassure Tony in the slightest.

"Hi," Peter mumbles, shrinking into him. Tony doesn't mind, keeping his arm around the spider without complaint.

"Are you here to help?" Steve asks, even though they know they both know he's not. Tony doesn't cut in, letting Peter decide what he wants to do. If he wants to join the couch of shame, he'd be more than welcomed. Peter shrugs in one shoulder.

"Um, I don't know. What are you doing?" Peter questions.

"We're putting everything in the Quinjet." Steve's head tips, "For Tony's move from New York? The doctors gave him clearance, he's leaving today, I thought May told you."

Peter freezes, his entire spine seeming to seize before he pulls away from Tony's arm and looks at him. There's something wild in his eyes and almost frantic undertone to his voice: "You're...you're...what?"

She didn't tell him.

May never asked him, because she didn't tell him.

Well, that explains a lot. He'd suspected, honestly, but...Tony bites on his inner gums and he and Steve share a quick, comprehensive stare. This is not the way Tony wanted to explain it to him. Or for it to be addressed. Wait. Was May even going to tell him before they left?

He forces his tone to be steady. "You didn't know? I texted May a few days ago and...she didn't tell you, did she?"

"I…" Peter hisses out a breath. "I…You're really going back? You're leaving New York?"

Tony blows out a breath, trying to determine what to do about the panic that's etching on the edges of Peter's face. How does he soften this? Can he? "Yeah. We've skipped as much of Morgan's school as it is. Honestly, I really want to go home, New York is great and all, but the press breathing down my neck every twenty seconds is not something I miss."

Peter's gone pale, fists clenched, and Tony rapidly adds: "I mean, you're welcome any time, and it's not like I won't be coming back or anything. I can send a jet or a plane or make Happy miserable and drive you, but, like, it's really not like we're saying goodbye or anything."

He really, really hopes it isn't.

He doesn't want to leave New York.

Peter's so pale and sick. This isn't the time for him to pack everything up and leave. He needs to stay here where he can keep an eye on Peter and Nebula, where he's not splitting his family—not just his kids—apart. But Morgan. And Pepper.

"But how will we...what if I…" Peter doesn't seem to be able to finish the thoughts out loud.

Tony bites harder on his inner gums and rests a hand on the teen's shoulder, forcing as much sincerity as he can into his voice: "Really, Pete, it's going to be fine."

Please let it be fine.

Peter's brown eyes are wide. And wet.

Dang it, this is not how it was supposed to go.

"Hey, Tony? I'm ready...at least I think. I hate packing. It makes me doubt my ability to remember things. There was this one time that I couldn't remember how to spell deodorant so I just put down 'body odor' on my packing list, 'cause, like, you know it's relatable, but—oh, hi Peter." Harley comes to a stop in front of them, looking surprised. "I didn't know you'd be coming here."

Tony watches Peter's expression fall further. "You're...here? Why are you here?" Peter questions.

"Tony asked me to go with him to the cabin." Harley explains, looking up at him for a second. His expression is confused, conflicted, and quietly asking permission if he should proceed forward. "It's pretty close to my college, so, like, free housing and food. Win-win for me. It's not like it's that hard to babysit Morgan."

"You need help around the house?" Peter clarifies, gaze settling on Tony's face. "I—" he clamps down on the words. Bucky silently and wordlessly grabs Steve's elbow and tugs him away, probably back towards the couch and Tony resists the urge to throw his hands up and yell "WAIT!" at the top of his lungs.

Everything is moving so quickly, and he doesn't know what to focus his attention on.

This is a disaster.

Harley mentions something about Morgan, and Tony latches onto that because pulling Morgan away from a math book is something he can fix. Something he can do. He'll take a moment to think how to address the problem with Peter, but he can't—just—think.

What is he supposed to do?

This isn't—

Stop it.

Focus on Morgan for a second.

Once Tony's gathered his daughter away from the textbook and helped Harley double check to make sure he grabbed everything, they return to the common room. Peter hasn't left, avidly helping Pepper with more enthusiasm than anyone else in the room. Tony stares at him weirdly for a second.

Huh.

It doesn't seem authentic, but...maybe…?

(Don't do that.)

Tony sets Morgan down on the ground and shoves her off towards the couch of shame so they can keep her out of the way and notices that Bucky and Loki are standing next to each other and talking quietly. That's weirder, but Tony honestly doesn't want to know what they're discussing.

He throws himself into helping Pepper as best he can and ignores Loki's attempts to get his attention—because, hey, he's fine with Loki being here so long as they don't have to interact—and soon everything's completed and they're off. The goodbyes are brief and barely take two minutes, and then they're leaving New York in the distance.

And Tony really, really wishes they hadn't.

000o000

All of them are too exhausted to unpack when they get back to the loghouse, so Tony reassures Morgan they'll unpack tomorrow, helps her find her pajamas and kisses her on the forehead before saying goodnight to Harley and joining Pepper in their room.

Tony stares at their room for a long second, inhaling the scent of Pepper's candles deeply and realizes with a slight jolt in his gut that when he left with time-travel on his mind, he hadn't expected to return.

"I vote no alarms." Tony declares, tossing himself dramatically onto the mattress beside his wife.

"Mm." Pepper voices in agreement. "You're making breakfast tomorrow."

Tony groans, "Make Harley do it."

"It's your turn." Pepper insists, tugging off her shoes. "I'll do the dishes, you make breakfast."

"It's going to be cereal." Tony threatens halfheartedly, tossing his phone onto the nightstand and burying himself beneath the blankets.

"Goodnight, Tony." Pepper says in answer, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips. "I love you."

"Goodnight, Pep." Tony sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and realizing how grateful he is that he made it back here. Pepper turns off the light and Tony grips her hand beneath the covers. He's so lucky. He's so lucky to have walked away.

Pepper doesn't let go.

000o000

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Tony groans and rolls over, pressing his hand against his ear. "Didn' we agree no alarms?" Tony grumbles in annoyance, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

"Boss—" FRIDAY starts to say, but is interrupted as the phone beeps loudly to take a message.

"Tony, please pick up. There's something going—oof!" Tony freezes, his eyes snapping open at the voice and the following grunt of pain. Peter. That's Peter. What—

Tony glances at the clock, reading a little past five-forty in the morning. Pepper stirs beside him, and Tony sits up, hearing the sounds of a brief scuffle on the other line. A car skids, and Peter gasps in pain before he manages to squeeze out, "D-dad, Dad, plea—mmmph."

Tony scrambles to find the phone as Pepper draws in a sharp breath.

He answers the call and presses it up to his ear. "Peter? Peter, what's going on?"

"Mr. Stark," the voice isn't Peter's. It's older. Tony recognizes it vaguely, almost like it's from a dream. "I have your son."

Peter.

They have Peter.

His jaw tightens and he gets to his feet, pulling the phone away from his ear. "FRIDAY, get a lock on Peter's phone and get in contact with the other Avengers. Get someone over there, now!"

"Working on it, Boss." FRIDAY says.

The man continues, and Tony forces himself to listen to the rest of the ransom. "You know what I want. Bring me the glasses—" EDITH. How the heck do they know about EDITH? "—and he doesn't get hurt. If you don't...well...let's just say that you'll probably have to bury him in pieces. Have you ever cleaned up a body after it gets hit by the subway? I imagine it's nasty. You have seventy-two hours to give the item to one of my men. They'll be in this little self-owned coffee shop called "Coffee's Cream and Beans". When we have what we want, you can have the kid. Ciao."

"Wait—" the line clicks dead and Tony releases a panicked breath and swears harshly. He calls the number again, listening to it buzz against his ear. Please, please, please.

"Tony…?" Pepper starts softly behind him.

Tony shifts, beginning to pace. The number doesn't pick up. There's a click and then an automated voice begins to say, "I'm sorry but the number that you've called is not available—" before Tony hangs up and swears again.

"Tony." Pepper grabs his shoulder, rooting him in place firmly, but gently. "What's going on? Was that Peter?"

"Yeah." Tony's voice is steady for all the panic racing through him. "Someone took him. Someone took my kid, Pep, and I'm going to kill them."

000o000

After leaving, Pepper, Morgan and Harely at the log house, Tony takes the 'jet back to New York to meet his team. Steve and Rhodey meet him at the landing pad for Avengers Tower over three hours later, expressions grim. Tony's fists are clenched tightly and he ignores the sympathetic shoulder squeeze Rhodey gives him.

Someone took his kid.

Peter.

Someone took Peter.

The other Avengers meet him in the common room and Tony forces his tight jaw to work into coherent sentences. "Thank you for coming. Sorry for the short notice."

Clint waves his hand. "It's not you chose what time this was going to happen at. We got any leads yet?"

"FRIDAY's running a voice trace." Tony's voice is thin. "But not yet. We know where the kidnapping happened at least, and I have Happy headed over there to check it out." Tony pauses, and then decides to just drop the bomb instead of waiting for a better time to come along: "The kidnappers knew about EDITH."

Natasha, Rhodey, Clint, Steve, Bruce and Thor freeze, but the others shoot each other confused glances. Given that the only people Tony told about the program were a handful that the original Avengers were apart of, he's not surprised.

"What's EDITH?" Sam questions, lifting an eyebrow up. "Morgan have a twin sister?"

"EDITH is an AI program," Natasha explains, then tips her head. "Sort of."

"Imagine flying guns, but like, able to shoot lasers and stuff." Clint waves his hands as Thor makes generalized motions with his hands and then Clint shakes his head. "Yeah. That made it worse. It's supposed to be a worse-case-scenario defense program. For Peter to use. If half of us, including Tony, were dead or retired."

"Oh." Sam nods, "So it's a weapon."

Tony shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what it is. It's too dangerous to be in those idiot's hands, but I'm not leaving my child in their hands. Get to work, people, we're finding my kid."

000o000

Progress is slow. Agonizingly slow. The voice-trace gets them the identity of one of Peter's kidnappers, but knowing Beck's name doesn't magically make a location pop up. Running face-trace only helps if people are outside and in the last few days, Beck hasn't been. That or they have a hacker on their side, and Tony's not stupid enough to disregard the possibility.

He spends hours pouring over computers to pinpoint a location, but finding nothing.

Clint stalks the coffee shop, but beyond adding a few names to the list, they really don't get very far. Steve shoots down the idea of pulling in one of the men for an interrogation, insisting that they should try trails first, and they'll need the element of surprise for later.

Trails fail.

It's been five. Days.

Five.

Peter missed Halloween.

Peter is still missing.

Tony's at his wits end and ready to start throwing things with anxiety when Loki steps into the briefing room on the end of day five. His stance is taut and Tony glances at his attire and wonders if the Asgardian has ever heard of sweatpants or a T-shirt. Or, like, not dressing up unless you're leaving the house. Probably not.

Tony's eyes narrow and he shoves back from the holograms he's intently staring at. "What?"

Loki's impassive, but Tony thinks he saw a very small flinch. "I need to talk to you."

Tony gathers the very small fragmented edges of his patience and weaves them together to hold for the conversation. "Is this about Thor? Or did he send you?"

Loki sighs and he folds his arms across his chest, "This is about your offspring."

"Morgan?" Tony guesses, "What about her?" Harley joined them yesterday, and Nebula finally dropped by around the same time. Both of them are incensed and look prepared to kill someone. Tempers aren't lengthy between the two of them, and it's caused more than a few situations Tony's had to be the referee of.

Why can't they get anything?

Curse that stupid hacker.

"No. The spider-child." Loki corrects, "I will offer my services in locating him if you'll give me two minutes to discuss something with you."

Tony's teeth set. "How are you going to be more helpful than satellites? Nat and Steve are on their way to talk with Dr. Strange about location spells and—" Loki audibly scoffs and Tony blows out a frustrated breath. "What?"

Loki shakes his head slightly, as if amused. "You won't have much luck with an amateur waving around a fancy title." His voice is flat, and Tony remembers Titan, and watching Dr. Strange's sorcery and then getting to his feet on the ashes of Avengers Compound to see the dozens of portals open at once and stares at Loki with disbelief.

"'Amateur'?" He repeats.

"I can find your child, Stark." Loki says, pointedly directing the conversation away from the topic. "I just want a moment of your time. That's it."

Tony snaps his fingers, "Just like that? Really? You didn't bother to mention this, oh, I don't know, five days ago!?"

Loki does draw back a little at that. "I hardly thought it was necessary, but as more time has passed and you've had no success...I'm not stupid. Nor do I, unlike your amateur sorcerer, rely on sedir for everything I do."

Liar. Tony may not have as many years practicing deception as Loki has, but he knows a poor excuse when he sees one. Tony gives him a long, hard stare. "You didn't think I'd believe you. Or trust you to do it."

Loki flinches. "Well, I—"

"You know what? I don't even care at this point. So long as you don't try and blow up New York or something again, have at it. I need to get my kid back." Tony says, trying not to let the desperation show in his tone.

Loki nods. "Do you have something of his here?"

Tony opens his mouth to answer, and then thinks for a second. No. He doesn't. Peter hasn't spent enough time in the Tower to leave anything. In the Compound, he had left a few things, but Tony had given those all back to May years ago. Peter hasn't…

That thought makes him strangely upset.

"No." Tony mutters. "We don't. I'll get something from May for you to use. What is it that you need to discuss so badly?"

Loki's face is blank, but his eyebrows flicker some before he rubs at his forehead. "I've been meaning to say this for several days, but you haven't exactly made yourself easy to approach. I know this isn't exactly the most ideal time to be bringing this up, but...are you aware that the spider's…" Loki's gaze flicks up to the ceiling as if he's searching for the proper word. "Not okay?"

Tony pauses, trying to get Loki's angle on this. "Um...what?"

Loki rubs at his left forearm. "When he was here a few days ago, I...saw something. Thor tells me that you have ways to treat things like this here. Mental illnesses, I think they're called."

His stomach drops, and he can feel himself pale. "What the heck are you talking about?"

Loki visibly shifts with discomfort and sighs. "I think you should sit down."

000o000

Loki is frighteningly good about saying nothing, but implying everything. Tony manages to fill in the blanks with ease, even though the Asgardian isn't pointed or direct with his explanations. He explains that he and Barnes have been keeping a half-eye on the spider since he fled Tony's hospital room. "Because no one else was" Loki says bluntly, and it stings like a punch to the gut.

He's right. They weren't looking out for Peter, just...just what they expected Peter to be.

And then Loki explains about the self harm without explaining about the self harm, and Tony finds himself a mix between incensed that Peter could be so stupid, and horrified that he hadn't been there to stop it. Mostly...just a deep ache that they couldn't stop it before it got to this point. He wants to wrap Peter up in a hug and never let go again.

Tony isn't a stranger to depression or self harm—neither is his team—but he is in the way Loki explains. He didn't cut. Did he do other stuff on occasion, yes. He hasn't cut.

And Peter had.

His stupid, stupid, aching child.

Tony failed him.

000o000

After procuring the item from May, Loki has Peter's location down to coordinates in less than ten seconds. Relief is in-explainable. Tony pulls up the building's blueprints and Steve manages to sit him down before he dons a suit and barrels his way into this like he normally would.

"We need a plan of attack." Steve insisted. "Or at least a plan."

"Kill everything?" Tony grumbled halfheartedly.

"Not a plan, Tones," Rhodey promised, "that's just being stupid."

Logic eventually won over his anxiety, and Tony forced himself to sit still as Steve argued back and forth with ideas before managing to put something together. Harley—who refuses to sit out despite Tony's protesting—and Nebula will sneak into Peter's cell to take out guards on the outside as the rest of them divide between providing a distraction outside and removing any security inside.

It's as well put together as they're going to get, so Tony isn't going to complain.

Beck took his kid, so Tony's going to punch his stupid lights out.

Game on.

000o000

They show no mercy. Not where they can avoid it. The building falls apart at their attacks, and everything goes off without mostly any problems or complications. Remarkable, honestly, but Tony's just relieved.

Once Nebula gives them confirmation that they can advance, Tony and the others in the building move forward. Thor explodes the wall to the room with ease and they burst into the space. Tony ignores Harley when he says something, moving towards Peter. His kid is pale and swaying. He looks dizzy. And sick.

And Beck did that.

Tony grits his teeth, but holds back from striding across the room so he can punch Beck in the face and instead wraps Peter in a desperate hug. Peter's hair is a mess and he feels thinner than he did a few days ago. When Tony saw him last.

Before he left him in New York.

Tony presses a kiss on the top of his head, words of reassurance bubbling out of him. He doesn't understand half of them, but Peter draws back, wrapping a hand around his stomach, eyes wide and frantic. Bruce appears at his side and begins to look over the medical equipment before Peter looks up at him, brown eyes filled with terror.

"Something's…wrong. Mr. Stark, please, I'm—"

Peter vomits and makes a panicked nose. The vomit is liquid-y and doesn't look right, not that Tony makes a habit of staring at throw up, but he can just tell that something isn't right. Peter gasps in harsh breaths and Tony meets his eyes as Bruce begins to frantically press at the machines Peter's attached to. "Dad, please, I can't—there's something—"

Tony turns to Bruce before Peter slumps forward, eyes squeezing shut. Tony catches before he can tumble off of the bed and swears under his breath. "Bruce!"

"I'm working on it!" Bruce snaps, pulling something from Peter's skin. "It isn't like I have a medical chart I can consult."

"Whoa, no one panic—" Harley starts in reassurance.

"I am panicking!" Tony hisses, gripping Peter tighter to his chest. This can't be happening. Peter is...sick, dying, whatever, and Tony can't stop drugs! He's not a chemist. This isn't something he can repair the wires to and be done with.

Thor grabs his shoulder, and Tony turns to look at him, sharp words on the edge of his tongue. "You need to get him out of here. He's dying, Tony, I can hear it. He needs medical attention. Now."

Tony's stomach twists with panic and Bruce's jaw tightens before throws up his hands, mutters "whatever" under his breath and begins to remove all the needles as gently and firmly as he can. Tony watches with a distance, his hands strangely numb. He tries to help where he can, but he refuses to let Peter go.

Nebula suddenly appears next to Bruce, her expression narrowed. "Beck said they were giving him anesthesia and benzodiazepines among other things to keep him unconscious. Does that mean anything to you?"

Anesthesia used in surgery, isn't it? Tony has no idea what benzodiazepines is.

Bruce swears. "It means were looking at an overdose."

Not good.

Really not good.

Bruce manages to remove everything and Tony scoops his child into his arms, pulling Peter close to his chest. Bruce's voice is lacking humor and his face is hard when he says, "Get him to the 'jet, have FRIDAY set him up on life support and tell Dr. Cho to prepare for a stomach pump or have activated charcoal at the ready."

Stomach pump?

"Okay," Tony's voice hardly sounds like his own. It's small. Afraid. And he hates himself for it. Get it together. Stay calm. Bruce reaches across the bed and grabs at his arm.

"Tony. If you can't do this…"

"No, I got it." Tony snaps, "I can take my kid."

It's the only thing he can do.

Overdose. Tony's going to kill Beck, and he's not even sorry about that fact.

000o000

Dr. Cho manages to stabilize Peter, but the list of medical complications isn't a pretty one. She says something along the lines of keeping Peter for at least another week—even with his healing factor—to monitor him for any organ complications. The dosage that Beck and his team was using was enough to keep a normal, human adult under with no complications so long as it was used every six hours or so.

But they used it more frequently with Peter, because he kept waking up.

And his body couldn't handle the sheer amount of drugs anymore.

It's another four days before Tony finally feels comfortable enough to leave the room—May and a handful of others still present—to go track down Beck. Given that about half of the man's team is still running amok, the NYPD had agreed to let them keep him in the Tower for interrogation for five days.

The time table is almost up, and Tony's not having this.

He steals one of the guns that Natasha and Clint have hidden everywhere in the Tower (everywhere is a stretch, but ten seems a little excessive) and enters Beck's holding cell. The man looks up from the bed he's laying on and meets his eyes, a bored expression on his face.

"Ah, Mr. Stark. Good to see you again, boss." He tips his head. "No one ever tells me anything—that kid survive?"

"As if you care." Tony counters, voice barely above a sneer. "You did try to shoot him."

"Mm. Nope." Beck waves a hand. "I didn't pull the trigger. And it's not exactly my fault is it? You were the one who refused to give up EDITH 'cause you considered a program more important than a sixteen-year-old. Not my place to judge, but that's a little low, even for you. Coward."

Anger burns the edges of his vision. He storms across the room and grabs the man by the front of his shirt and drags him off the bed, slamming him against the wall. "I did not prioritize EDITH over my son, you lying rat."

Beck winces, his jaw tight. "Can we—can we maybe argue without you pulling on my gunshot wounds?"

Ha.

Hilarious.

"No." Tony growls through his teeth, "You should suffer for what you did. You nearly killed him. You nearly killed my child all over a stupid program." Tony throws Beck to the floor and as the man struggles up into a sitting position, he draws the gun, lifting it up with both hands towards Beck's forehead.

He wants, so terribly, to pull the trigger.

It would all be over. Beck couldn't hurt his kid again. He couldn't be the next Thanos. The next one to take a bit of his family from him.

The man freezes, eyes going almost comically wide. He lifts up his hands. "N-now, Mr. Stark, let's be reasonable about this—"

"Stop talking." Tony commands, finger moving to rest against the trigger. Just a little bit of pull and that's it. The end. Peter's would-be-killer wouldn't be going to prison, but a coffin. The headstone would be his instead of Peter's.

Beck's mouth snaps shut, drawing in a sharp breath. "Are you going to kill me, Mr. Stark?"

Yes.

(No.)

He holds the gun steady, jaw tightening. This man—

He…

If he kills him...what good would that do? There is no justice in that, just revenge, and a few years ago, Tony wouldn't have been above that, but Peter wouldn't be happy to know that Tony shot Beck in the head. He'd do that stupid disappointed face.

Peter wouldn't want him to kill Beck.

And Tony isn't a killer.

Not like this. This—this is murder. And that's not what he is.

Tony swears and draws the gun back. Beck visibly slumps with relief, exhaling sharply before he looks up at him and smirks slightly. "Moral ambiguity gets you at last, does it? Didn't seem to do much for anything you did before."

"Are you going to come up with something creative to insult me with, or are you just going to continue to say stuff I've already heard before?" Tony demands, releasing the death grip his teeth have on his inner cheek. "Ugh, I can see why I fired you."

Beck's entire frame tightens. "That kid's crazy you know. I saw his arms. The damage he inflicted on himself—and you know what, Tony? You know what he told me before I put the gun to his head? He said that it's not something he wouldn't have wanted. Yeah, good luck dealing with that psychopath because I—"

Beck never finishes his sentence.

Tony's fist neatly, bloodily, puts a silence to his words, and the gun he smacks against the man's forehead takes his consciousness.

000o000

Tony dumps the gun on his desk, a strange mixture of disgusted and horrified at himself for even considering the kill shot and crawls into bed and sleeps. He doesn't even know how long he's been that way when he staggers from the mattress down towards his lab to tinker and get his mind off of the whole situation so he can focus.

He should go see Peter soon, but right now he's going to do something to stimulate his brain before he implodes.

And then he gets the phone call. The ID is Bruce, which is weird because FRIDAY normally serves as the messenger in the Tower, so Tony answers on the first ring, trying to quell sudden dread.

"Hey. Everything okay?" Tony questions.

Ominous silence follows, long and heavy before he hears anything on the other line. "Tony…" Bruce's voice is very quiet. Soft. Gentle. Whatever he's going to say next, Tony knows he won't like. "You should sit down, I have something I need to tell you."

Dread seeps into his stomach.

Oh no.

Tony slowly makes his way to his lab's stool and plants himself upon it. His hand tightens around the phone. "What is it? What happened? Is anyone dead?"

Bruce is quiet a moment, and then: "Peter...Peter tried to...to...he's fine right now. We have him monitored, alright? He's going to make it. But Tony—he tried to...Morgan said she found him in the bathroom. Peter attempted suicide."

His blood rushes cold. He can't get his limbs to move right. The phone doesn't feel like a real, living item against his skin, almost ethereal. "Oh." Tony breathes out. The words don't seem quite real. He thinks of Peter and all his happy smiles and his laughter, and he can't get suicide and Peter to wrap into the same sentence.

No.

He can.

He knows Peter, and he knows that Peter has been...distant lately. He's struggled with depression and anxiety since Tony met him. It...it…

"Oh." Tony repeats.

He doesn't know if he can say anything else. Bruce said he was fine. Attempt. Tony clings to that word religiously. Attempt. It didn't succeed, Peter's alive, and Morgan found him and—oh, gosh, is she—and, Peter tried to kill himself.

"Oh." Tony says heavily.

"...Are...are you okay?" Bruce asks. "You sound like you're in shock. I don't know if...I'm going to send Steve to keep you company for a bit, okay? You can see Peter when you're ready. Just...just take some time to process this. May's talking to Sam."

May. May.

Peter tried to kill himself.

"Tony. Talk to me. Are you okay?" Bruce demands.

"Fine." Tony croaks. The line disconnects, and Tony realizes with a jolt he can't remember the rest of the conversation. He sits on the stool, phone in his hand and on his lap as he stares forward at nothing. How could have been so stupid? He knew Peter was awake. He knew Peter was struggling. He knew that his son was—

And Peter tried to kill—

He doesn't move until Steve's hand rests gently on his shoulder. Tony raises his head to look up at the Super Soldier, and realizes that Bruce probably told him last. Everyone else...two hours ago. Tony didn't even know. He was sleeping for so long and it just—

Steve stares at him for a long second before wrapping his arms around Tony's shoulders and holding him. Tony collapses against Steve's chest and inhales deeply and exhales raggedly. He can't—this isn't—

"Oh." Tony repeats, strangled.

"It's okay, Tony," Steve soothes. "He's fine."

"He—" Tony starts in disagreement. His son tried to—

"It's okay." Steve repeats. They stay like that for a long time, long enough that Tony knows Steve's body must be aching and Tony's limbs are stiff. When Tony has finally gathered himself enough to pull away, Steve's expression is lined with only patience and sympathy. "Do you want to see him?"

"Yeah." Tony agrees, hobbles up to his feet, and takes a step forward in a weirdly disconnected way only to promptly fall to his knees and vomit.

000o000

He's not ashamed to say he cries when he sees Peter. He is ashamed—well, more embarrassed—that he can't seem to stop. He rarely cries, but it feels like a flood of tears and snot have opened within him and he can't build a dam to stop it all.

He spends days in the room, watching the rise and fall of Peter's chest and is suddenly all to aware how lucky he is to see it.

The only reason he leaves is when Pepper, Rhodey, or Steve shove him off to find food or sleep, but even then it's as brief as he can make it. This is his kid, and he's not going to leave Peter alone again. He's done enough of that already.

He knows when Peter wakes up. No one explicitly says so, but it's the way that he shifts in his sleep or the little minute muscle twitches that leave him fully aware of Peter's consciousness and he says nothing. He knows he should pressure Peter into talking—Sam has already sat he and May down to explain how best to handle this—but he's not ready to face it yet, so he doesn't. Like a coward.

He knows the rest of the Avengers are aware, but no one says anything.

Harley is the one to wake him up, get him moving and Tony has never been more grateful to the college student for doing so. His conversation with Peter involves more tears and physical contact than he would normally tolerate, but he doesn't care.

This is his kid, and he's not letting him go.

He holds Peter tightly in the hug, and is reassured when he feels Peter gripping just as desperately.

000o000

Sam is a blessing, Tony has decided. He offers his services as a therapist without complaint or prior prodding, all to happy when Tony stumbles over himself to reassure him that he's "more than happy to be doing this".

He evaluates Peter, and comes out with a slight frown and notes that Tony refuses to sneak a look at to respect Peter's privacy. Sam, as gently as he's able, explains that he's putting Peter on suicide watch until further notice and say they shouldn't leave him alone by himself and remove all easy access to weapons.

Which is why, two weeks a whole lot of mental trauma and angst later, when Tony finds Peter with one of Natasha's blades in his hands, he's less than happy. Getting a weapon off of Natasha—getting anything off of Natasha—without her knowing is impossible. The fact that Peter has the blade either means she gave it to him, or she's aware he has it and said nothing.

But rather than focus on that, he forces himself to pay attention to Peter right now.

"Please take it," Peter breathes, tears slipping down his cheeks as he holds out the small blade towards him. Tony's hands are heavy and he can't seem to get them to move properly. "Please. I don't want to die. I don't know when I'll stop if I start."

Tony's heart does a weird fluttering thing of panic, but he takes the weapon and sets it to the side so he can properly wrap his arms around his child. "I've got you, shh, we're okay. We're okay. It's going to get better. I love you, you're alright. Keep breathing."

Peter buries his head into Tony's chest, and exhales sharply, deeply, "I love you too, Dad. Please don't go away again. Please."

Tony presses a kiss against his head and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not going anywhere, Pete. I promise."

000o000

Mental illness is a tricky thing, and Tony at first finds himself in a constant state of panic as he worries over Peter and reassured that everything will eventually be fine. The panic lessons as time passes and he places more trust in the fact that Peter is capable of making recovery without over-extreme coddling.

Peter is capable of anything.

And he's going to be okay.

Tony knows that now. Can see it in the way that Peter's eyes have gained life again, how he talks more now, how he interacts with other people again, and eats two boxes of pizza by himself, nerds out over Star Wars, asks MJ on a date—little things that feel Tony with great relief and a sort of reassured happiness.

That doesn't make the weird thumping palpitations lesson when he can't find him, or finds Peter in situations that he'd rather not. Like right now. He'd been looking for over ten minutes before he consulted FRIDAY and she'd told him that Peter was on the landing bay of Avengers Tower and he'd panicked.

"Why didn't you say anything before now!?" Tony demanded, rushing as fast as he's physically able to reach the space.

"Because Ms. Romanov is with him, Boss." FRIDAY answers, "And I hadn't seen a need to."

Of course not.

Stupid AI.

He's never programmed any them to talk back or have sass, yet here they are. The panic lessens a little, but he still edges towards the landing bay, fully prepared for a outright bodily tackle or helping Natasha ween the teenager away from the edge.

Instead, when he opens the door and stands there a second, he can hear Peter rapidly talking to the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, light in his eyes and his hands moving rapidly as he speaks. Like he used to. Natasha is nodding every now and then, a soft smile on her lips.

They aren't out here because Peter was...was going to do something stupid.

They're here because Peter wanted to be.

And he's talking.

The second thing Tony notices he relaxes at, leaning against the doorframe to listen because it's one of the most beautiful things he's heard since his kid was admitted to the hospital all those weeks ago. Peter is laughing. He's talking and he's laughing, because, if just for this moment—and who says it has to last every second of every day? Small moments like these are just as wonderful—Peter is happy.