Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was frigid during the day, and at night it had become unbearable. Just like any villain that a hero is unprepared to fight, December is merciless and has no qualms in leaving its opponent to rot. At that moment, however, Peter hardly noticed he was shivering at all. Instead, he focused on the flames gradually licking across the sand, inching to approach the dilemma he found himself pinned underneath. The concrete was heavy, but the smoke was infinitely heavier. 

Helplessness was not a new emotion to Peter; it was quite a common occurrence. He felt helpless when the subway was too loud, when his debit card was declined, when his aunt died in his arms, and when his boss degraded him…Helplessness was just an unavoidable emotion, and his responsibility was to manage it, so he did just that. 

Focusing solely on the weight of the rubble, he forced air into his lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He did this over and over until the panic subsided. Only once his breaths evened out did he notice the impending threat that loomed in the distance. Metal wings menacingly jutted out of an imposing figure staring right down at him. There was no malice in the stare; there was no emotion at all. Strangely enough, Peter didn’t feel alarmed by this. 

An unfamiliar sense of peace washed over the young man as the Vulture approached. The crunching sound of silver boots against the sand with every step almost felt calming. The rippling heat haze and the bright orange glow of the flames made the otherwise terrifying figure appear ethereal. The young hero felt some of the tension melt from his shoulders as he traced the figure’s outline. With each passing second, however, the smoke impaired less of Peter’s vision. Yet, the clarity left him further confused. As he continued to approach, the man’s amalgamated wings and metal embellishments faded into thin air. Suddenly, all that stood before Peter was, just that, a man. Realization washed over Peter as he took in the man’s features. This was not Adrian Toomes at all. Maybe he never was in the first place.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter heard himself call out despite never having spoken.

It dawned on him the absurdity of this situation. There was no way this could be real. The Vulture was long gone, the fire occurred after he had escaped the building, and Mr. Stark was… well. Despite his sudden lucidity, Peter couldn’t find it in himself to break the illusion. God, it’s been so long.

“Previously on, ‘Peter Screws the Pooch,’” Mr. Stark began.

Peter blanched. After not speaking to him for nearly a year, that was not what he had been expecting Dream Mr. Stark to say. Peter lost eye contact and vaguely listened to the “Ferry incident” speech ripple in and out of his awareness. Out of everything he could have wanted to hear from his mentor, this lecture was not what he had in mind. 

“If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it, okay?” Peter watched the words come from his hero’s mouth.

Funny that those had been the very words that saved him from the rubble he was now trapping himself under. He studied “Mr. Stark’s” face, and all at once the dread that the Vulture’s approach hadn’t provided slammed into him. The man he had missed for so long was in front of him, regurgitating a shameful lecture laced with old guilt, but none of what he was saying met his eyes. Tony Stark didn’t look dead, but he didn’t look alive either. 

This mocking embodiment of Peter’s grief seemed to notice the emotional shift. It looked at Peter with something akin to pity and subsequently bent down to the young man’s eye level. It made Peter nauseous. The soulless figure reached out its hand to Peter. Hesitantly, the young adult eyed the olive branch and reached his hand out to grasp his phantom mentor’s. 

The “hand” felt like nothing, and with this new knowledge, all of Peter’s previous panic returned to the surface. No amount of breathing could calm the sudden and suffocating need for comfort from the man in front of him. As if on cue, which it probably was, the dreamscape roared to life. The fire lept to the sky, and the sand swept off the ground and into Peter’s eyes. Left behind was a dusty, red terrain far too reminiscent of a planet the vigilante would rather never return to again. 

He grasped the false hand, in hopes he would be freed of the wreckage. Despite his trepidation, he couldn’t care less that this wasn’t the real man. He just wanted out of this nightmare. He wanted to go home. However, at the light, initial tug, the arm in question detached itself entirely from the figure and fell to the ground. Upon impact with the dirt, the flames extinguished and the sand settled. An eerie, unbearable silence crept in and swallowed the scene. 

Nobody and nothing stirred as both men stared at where the arm had fallen. Even the void of stars overhead seemingly dimmed at the irreparable image. Peter felt like he couldn’t breathe, nor did he want to. Slowly, the young man let his awareness shift to find his mentor’s eyes. For a moment, and it really was just a moment, Peter saw genuine anguish in the hero’s gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Pete.” The man spoke quietly, voice laced with guilt.

Peter quickly glanced back at the disembodied arm, nausea pooling deeper in his gut as he realized what was happening. As the limb dissolved into nothing, the planet that the dream had shifted to suddenly felt far too fitting. Peter finally sensed the chill in the air.

“It looks like you’re on your own, kid.” The young man closed his eyes tightly, moving his free hand over his ear and letting his head fall to the cement.

He refused to see or hear any more of this. He wanted nothing more than to leave this conjured recreation of every horrible thing to ever happen to him. He wanted to wake up 5 years ago and do something, anything, to undo it all. To redo it in a way where he didn’t have to live in the place of someone else. 

Despite not seeing it, he knew exactly when the building collapsed. He knew that, unlike his reality, it collapsed with him under it. He also knew that if he had just tried a little harder, he could have lifted the building again. He knew he only had himself to blame for all of it.

***

Peter shot up from his twin-sized bed, startled and swinging. He discovered the probable cause of his immobility; his too-thin sheets were acting as a straitjacket. In the self-inflicted chaos, he lost his balance and tumbled onto the cold, hardwood floor. He groaned as he slowly rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced up at the alarm clock on his nightstand. In garish red letters, “3:30 am” was displayed on the analog screen. 

“Great, thirty more minutes.” The young adult muttered, already forgetting why he had woken up so shaken in the first place.

He grabbed his pillow from the bed, feeling too lethargic from the frosty air to move back to the mattress. He might have been being dramatic, but for the life of him, he could not remember the last time he was warm. Although counterproductive, the floor was far more comfortable than the stiff mattress anyways. He clutched the pillow to his chest and curled in on himself listening to the sounds of the city below.

Before he knew it, the insufferable, pitchy sound of the alarm clock rang in his ear. He frowned, reached up, and placed his hand down on the stupid thing. He would’ve slammed it, but he had learned from experience that groggy “half” strength did far more damage than hitting the snooze button. Quite frankly, he hardly had enough money for food, let alone another alarm clock. He pulled himself off the floor and stretched. It did absolutely nothing for his back. 

Turning about 180 degrees from his bed and taking 2 steps he made his way to the bathroom. He briefly saw his reflection before immediately looking away from the mirror. Spider-Man was all lean muscle and abs according to pop culture journalism, but Peter Parker was skin and bones. The protruding rib cage had become an Achilles heal of sorts on patrol. He was doing the best he could with the resources he had, but his diet was nothing like it was in high school. To be fair, neither was his support system. 

Once he finished up, he made another 180, taking 4 steps this time, and made his way to the kitchen. Staring at the entirely barren fridge, he could acknowledge putting off going to the grocery store so long was maybe not the financially sound move he thought it was. Digging around in the cupboard, he found what decidedly was going to be today’s breakfast. His four am feast consisted of the stale end of a loaf of bread and the scrapings of peanut butter at the bottom of a jar he bought a month ago. 

“Skill issue.” Peter grimaced to himself before leaning against the counter and enjoying his food.

He did decide to enjoy it because Dr. Bruce Banner (and the scientist’s Cognitive Behavioral Therapy self-help book that Peter found at the library) was right; it’s all about perspective. That book had helped a lot, actually. It taught him breathing and mindfulness and all of these other skills that were helping him “cope.” In fact, he was perfectly happy with his life most days…

Who was he kidding? Dr. Banner was one of his favorite (and probably the healthiest) of the Avengers, but there was no way he wrote his novel with Peter’s situation in mind. The apartment was dark and cold and the bread was gross and cold. He couldn’t even sleep through these feelings because he had to work to afford the dark and cold apartment and the gross and cold food. Not to mention his city depended on him.

The thought leaves him feeling ashamed, but he would be lying if he said he’s never considered giving up Spider-Man. Being a hero that never sleeps in The City that Never Sleeps was starting to catch up to him. His movements were sluggish, his responses were slow, and his awareness was lacking severely. The AI in his suit was programmed to support him when he was at a disadvantage, and it was a luxury he grew used to. He should have expected it, but unfortunately, he was thrown off guard when Karen locked him out under the pretenses of “There is no Peter Parker in my database.” So without Karen, his suit is now just a suit. It gets the job done. That's all it is now, really, going through the motions. He gets the job done. 

The clock read 4:30 am now, it was time for Peter to head out. The young man quickly grabbed his jacket, backpack, and keys and headed out the door. He had far too much on the line to climb out the window in his civvies, and he was too cold for that today anyways. He couldn’t help but continue his train of thought as he made his way to the subway. Spider-Man was important. Not just to him but to everyone in Queens. To May. He couldn’t just give it up because if he gave it up, what was it all for? 

He found himself a seat in the subway car and curled his knees into his chest. Once the car left the station, he peeked out the window. His eyes traced the little white flakes that were unmistakably what he had been fearing as soon as the temperature started to drop. In high school, he learned very quickly that spiders can not thermoregulate. Winter had quickly become his least favorite season. It was harder now that he lived on his own and barely had the money to stay warm in the Fall. It was going to be a long month, longer than the ones that preceded it. He put his head against his knees and listened to the rails beneath his feet.

Chapter Text

“The Daily Bugle,” shone in big, bold letters at the front of the entrance to Peter’s work. Out of everything he’d done since The Snap had been reversed, this had to be the most embarrassing. That was saying a lot. He wondered what May would think… what Mr. Stark would think. Peter was convinced that conversation would be more humiliating than when he had to tell Dr. Str- Stephen (still weird) that he had never called the MIT Head of Admissions. In hindsight, Peter was positive that his letter of rejection had been deserved. 

This arrangement worked though. He took high-quality pictures and wrote slanderous articles on Spider-Man, on himself, and J. Jonah Jameson slides him cold, hard cash in place of an official, taxable paycheck. God, what was he doing? Despite it having been highly necessary considering all of his legal documents were wiped, birth certificate and SSN included, it was highly illegal. Imagine if the Daily Bugle found out Spider-Man committed tax-fraud. That would certainly be a headline, and Peter Parker would be writing the article. 

Peter made his way inside and dropped his things on his desk. He had mixed feelings regarding the morning shift. On one hand, it was nice to be one of the only three people in the building; on the other hand, it was 5 am, and Spider-Man often patrolled until 1 to 2 am. If he kept on like this, Peter was about to take “Graveyard Shift” to a whole new meaning. He sighed, pulled his company-lent laptop out of his backpack, and began on his most recent assignment. 

“Spider-Man or Spider-Menace”

Peter found humor in the cheesy clickbait title of this little series. Every piece was the same: Spider-Man Wreaked Havoc, Spider-Man Indirectly Killed Tony Stark, or Spider-Man Destroyed the City. The young vigilante was never given a new or interesting take to spin. That was why the job was so excruciatingly easy for Peter Parker. Peter already laid awake over-analyzing every action he had taken as Spider-Man. What he wrote came from a genuine place of truly understanding the havoc Spider-Man wreaked and maybe hating him a little too. Somebody had to hate Spider-Man, it was part of the job. Who was better than Peter Parker? If he was paid for it too, well, that was just a bonus. 

Spider-Man was wreckless. He endangered billions of people just to be accepted into university. Spider-Man was selfish. He refused to involve himself with S.H.I.E.L.D. because he wanted a “fun vacation”. Spider-Man was not worth Iron Man himself dying. He still could not believe it. Iron Man: a father, a husband, a real hero; died for a wreckless, selfish, stupid, worthle-- ok. Maybe Peter had some issues he needed to work through. In Dr. Banner’s book, the older man had recommended journaling, and being a journalist seemed practically synonymous. 

Peter worked from 4 am to noon every day, and occasionally he picked up shifts or stayed for later hours. For every high-quality picture of Spider-Man that Peter provided he received a $200 to $500 stipend. Selling out had become the only thing keeping Peter on his feet. The pay on its own would hardly be worth it. If Peter wasn’t currently trapped in the constant Hell that was not existing, he would have a better-paying job for sure. He would be in university studying biochemical engineering. He would have a family. He would be home. 

“Hey, Paxton!”  The tiny bell on the doorframe jingled as his co-worker entered the office space. She looked far too awake for 9 am on a Wednesday. 

“It’s Peter….” The young man mumbled back, grimacing.

She frowned and he could tell it was not at him but at herself. He felt a little guilty. 

“What’d I say?” The young woman genuinely questioned.

Peter sighed, Gwen Stacy was probably his favorite coworker, and he could stand to be kinder to her. It’s not her fault that there’s an active “curse” thing preventing him from having any meaningful relationships. 

She was nice enough though, and Peter didn’t dislike working with her. Gwen was a 20-year-old college student majoring in communications. Peter had learned while eavesdropping that she had dreamed of being a journalist since she was a child. Though, probably not for the controversial news network they found themselves “employed” under. Employed used loosely. 

Nobody who worked here planned to stay. The Daily Bugle was just a pit stop. Which was great for people, like Gwen, who knew where they were going. People who had plans and dreams. For Peter, however; it was just another point of dread and uncertainty. 

Gwen was funny, intelligent, and witty with a touch of sarcasm to match. She reminded him so much of MJ. So despite how much the young man enjoyed her company, Peter did not go out of his way to talk to her.

“So,” Gwen started. Peter hummed in acknowledgment, half typing and half listening to her as she spoke.

“Harry and I were going to go to the Avengers Broadway musical thing tomorrow night, but he bailed on me because his dad needed him to do something...” Gwen faltered on the last sentence.

Peter figured it was probably something Oscorp-related she couldn’t share with him. Which was fine because he didn’t care to know.  However, he paused and looked up fully. He felt like he was missing some context to half of what she’d just said. Harry Osborn was her best friend since childhood, so he came up a lot in conversation, but they were going to see… what?

“I’m sorry, did you say the Avengers…musical?” Peter gaped, he swore he heard her wrong.

What could possibly be the incentive for something so… well he couldn’t think of an adjective. 

“‘Rogers: The Musical. It’s about the Battle of 2012,” Gwen regarded him with a raised brow.

She seemed to be analyzing his expression. He redirected his attention back to his work, feeling scrutinized, but, apparently having found what she was looking for, Gwen nodded with newfound respect.

“Yeah. I know. A culturally insensitive capitalist move to make a quick buck on the grief of real,  living people.”

Man, she sounded just like MJ. He loved it, but it also stirred a sadness he’d been trying hard to repress. He swallowed it down and nodded at Gwen. Why did she bring this up at all? An uncomfortable silence fell between them momentarily.

“Anyways. Since Harry can’t come, I was wondering if you wanted to go with me instead?” Gwen asked noncommittal.

That was not what Peter was expecting at all.

“Um. Can I think about it? I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing I’d really be into.” Peter responded sheepishly, while he anxiously fiddled with his sleeves.

He kind of wanted to say yes. He knew for a fact it was going to be bad, but it was the extent of “bad” that worried him. 

“Yeah of course. Sorry, I know the topic of superheroes is a really sensitive subject for a lot of people,” she had no idea, “but I’ve been meaning to ask you to hang out for a while. You’re pretty chill, and I feel like you and Harry would get along well. So,” she paused, “um just let me know.” Gwen smiled at him and finally sat down at her desk and started on her article.

“Yeah for sure,” Peter reflexively answered, always a bit of a people pleaser.

He looked back at his screen and furrowed his brow. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine being friends with Harry Osborn. The guy was probably as sweet as Gwen described, but with the spider bite and Norman and May… Wait, Gwen actually wanted to spend time with him? On a nonobligatory basis? 

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, now typing furiously as if she had been in a groove the whole time. Even though she didn’t advocate for The Daily Bugle, she was dedicated if nothing else. Gwen’s area of expertise was government-based politics, and she definitely demonstrated expertise. He almost believed she was a far right-wing conservative from the articles she produced for Jameson. 

Peter’s specialty was hero-based politics. He kept up on any news he could consume about the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., other vigilantes, and anything in that realm. This was for two reasons. The first being coming to the table with new and “hot takes” was a great way to keep his “job” and make extra cash. Spider-Man slander couldn’t be his only specialty if he wanted this to be lucrative. The other reason… he just wanted to check in on his family and make sure they were safe. It was literally the very least he could do.

Maybe he would go with Gwen. It could be healthy for him to do something different and put himself out there. He could try to be a person again. Gwen didn’t know him before, so there was nothing to rebuild. If the musical was awful, he could just write an article on it. The outing didn’t have to be about the musical at all. It could just be a good thing. He really needed a good thing.

“Hey, um, I think that thing tomorrow night sounds really fun. Thank you for inviting me.” Just before he clocked out around noon, he approached Gwen.

She looked up at him with an amused smirk on her face. God, he was so awkward. Not to mention how he avoided mentioning the musical at all. Maybe this was a bad idea if he couldn’t even talk about it. Before he had a chance to take it back, Gwen spoke.

“Oh my god! I was hoping you’d say yes. Can I have your phone number, so I can text you all of the information?” Gwen had the contacts app on her Stark Phone open now, looking at Peter expectantly. 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Peter opened his bag and scrambled for his work-issued flip phone.

He felt a little self-conscious, but Gwen didn’t mind. He gave her his number, and she saved Peter’s name in her phone.

“Percy TDBugle” with a little spider emoji next to it. Peter was about to break into a sweat. He hadn’t been obvious, had he? Had she known? If he hadn’t been obvious before, he was for sure being obvious now. He tried his best to look relatively normal and not like a vigilante very poorly hiding that he’s a vigilante. Gwen, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice his mini-heart attack.

“You know, when I read your articles, it really sounds like you hate Spider-Man. Do you actually hate the guy, or are you just a stellar writer?” She questioned genuinely, putting a slight emphasis on “stellar,” while looking up from her phone to make eye contact.

Peter sighed in relief. Of course, she’d put a spider by his name, that was his whole thing. 

“Well honestly, it just depends on the day,” Peter laughed, brushing off the question.

Truthfully, he didn’t hate Spider-Man. He just couldn’t seem to forgive Peter Parker, and that isolating feeling extended to the hero.

“Well, that’s too bad.” Gwen supplied in a challenging tone, not breaking eye contact. Peter felt his stomach drop. All at once, he felt seen. It was a horribly vulnerable feeling that made his skin crawl. He immediately wanted- no, he needed to be invisible again.

“Yeah well, you know how it is. I have to uh… the subway leaves at… and uh yeah. Text me the information! I’ll see you in the morning.” With that show of intellectual prowess, he practically sprinted out the door without waiting for a response.

He wasn’t ready to even vaguely discuss it, and he especially was not about to be ready on a random Wednesday at his place of work. 

The snow falling outside had intensified since early morning and did nothing to calm his brain. Despite feeling a chill so sharp that it was painful, his palms were clammy and moist. He just felt gross. When he thought of every mistake he had ever made, every lie he had ever told, and every hard situation he had ever run from; it all made him feel disgusting. 

He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself and headed in the direction of his apartment. Maybe he could get a nap in before his nightly patrol, maybe he would remember to go grocery shopping, and maybe he’d do all of the above without living in a constant state of shame. For now, however, he just wanted to get out of the cold. 

Chapter Text

Peter crawled in through the apartment window at around midnight. It was an early night, but he had made an executive decision that the weather was simply unsafe for his arachnid alter ego. He slammed the window shut a bit harder than he originally intended, but after having seen the accumulation of melting flakes on his mattress; he was just relieved it shut so quickly. 

The vigilante went to his now reasonably stocked fridge and grabbed one of his previously prepped microwave dinners. It had taken some trial and error for Peter to be as well prepared for the week ahead as he was now. Unfortunately, he’d had to learn quite a few things the hard way. If he did not make his meals directly after work, he would not have the energy to make them later in the night. His enhanced metabolism meant that food was a necessity, and that particular learning curve had been the most detrimental so far. 

As he sat down with his dinner, Peter pulled out his phone and saw 9 texts from an unsaved number. Gwen must have messaged him details about the show later today. He felt a little guilty having procrastinated his response for so long.

Yesterday 6:32 pm

“Hey, Preston! It’s Gwen”

“From work”

“Just in case you know other Gwens...”

“So the show tomorrow starts at 8 pm”

“Meaning we should probably be there around 7 pm”

“Broadway Theatre

1681 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

Between 52nd and 53rd”

Yesterday 9:53 pm

“We could also get dinner before if you want. So like 5:30 pm, after my shift.”

“Unless you’re busy tomorrow”

“Just let me know.”

Dinner sounded nice, but the young adult did not have the means to afford it, and honestly; Peter had a little too much pride to admit that. He thought of a reasonable excuse so that Gwen didn’t think he was actively avoiding her. Admittedly, he was a little excited. He hadn’t had a friend in a little over a year, much less something real to look forward to.  

Today 12:32 am

“Hey, Gwen! It’s Peter.

I’m sorry for the late response. I had a super busy night.”

“But yeah, sounds good! I will see you at 7 pm.

And also 9 am. haha”

I would love to get dinner, but I have some deadline

 stuff to get done for the boss man.

So let’s reschedule that, okay?”

“I’m excited. :)”

As Peter hit send on the final message, he wondered if his name would be saved on her screen. How did this all work? Nobody had called him Peter since he had talked to MJ at her old cafe. That was a year ago. Was his name just not memorable? Was there a clause in Strange’s spell where people had to call him every name except his own? This was too complicated to think about early in the morning. 

He went through the usual motions of his nighttime routine, however; he found he wasn’t dreading waking up tomorrow. Maybe he would get a full night’s rest too. It would be great if he didn’t wake up on the floor, under the bed, or in the corner of his ceiling. 

He was feeling genuinely okay tonight. Dr. Banner would be proud, Peter thought to himself as he climbed under the covers with the aforementioned self-help book. He grabbed the flashlight from his nightstand and read to himself until sleep pulled him under.

***

The next morning, Peter had woken up from a dreamless sleep to his blaring alarm clock. He peered out his window, and every building was coated in a white sheet far thicker than the blanket he was snuggled in. His back was stiff, and the mattress springs poked into his ribs. He sat up and yawned. Today was another day. 

On his way to work, he clutched the metal railing through his sweater sleeves. Curse steel and its low specific heat capacity. He felt some previously non-existent nerves building up in his chest. Some days he had a hard time identifying the difference between his anxiety and his spidey sense. Today happened to be one of those days. He looked around discreetly but found nothing that could have triggered his 6th sense. So, he took a breath and acknowledged his situation. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. It made sense he was uncomfortable, he had been doing new things. He had been vulnerable and taken a risk. Hopefully, it would amount to something.

Once Peter made his way inside, he settled at his desk and got to work. Thursdays were his “extra project” day where he researched and reported on any new or recent events. “Recent” could be anywhere from a month to a year old. It didn’t matter, as long as the take was relevant. 

Not every article he wrote was approved by Jameson. For example, Peter had written an emotional piece about how John Walker being handed the shield had degraded everything Captain America stood for. Peter emphasized that the shield and the title were symbols. Whoever wielded said symbols represented not only the country but what it meant to be a hero. How Sam Wilson had been the obvious choice for Captain America. It had been The Falcon who held that shield on the battlefield with humility and bravery. He fought for and represented a better future. 

Jameson had laughed him out of the office that day. Not that he would’ve continued his shift after such a disrespectful exchange. When Jameson suggested Peter write an article about how Wanda Maximoff’s death was a “necessary evil” because she was “crazy,” and The Vision was “government property;” Peter left without a word. The vigilante refused to return his boss’s calls for a week. Decidedly, Peter hated the man. Every interaction further cemented that fact.

If the job were even a sliver more conventional than it was, Peter knew he would have been fired by now. However, the fact he hadn’t been but stuck around anyway felt far more shameful than hypothetically being let go of by the slimiest reporter on the East Coast. 

Now, when he wrote non-Spider-Man-related articles, they were simply opinion pieces about different aspects of the Sokovia Accords or post-Snap politics. Today, however; his topic was probably the best one he’d found in a long time. News had been circulating about how a couple of aliens (allegedly unidentified, but they totally had to be the Guardians) kidnapped Kevin Bacon from his house in L.A. Despite how silly of an adjective it is, Peter couldn’t help but be flabbergasted.

He hadn’t heard anything about the Guardians since… well since Thanos. They had been MIA from Earth for a year, and the first reappearance they made was to kidnap the Hollywood Footloose star. While Spider-Man couldn’t advocate for it, Peter Parker thought it was so based. As long as the man came back in one piece, he would be fine. Not to mention he’d have the coolest Christmas story ever. 

Sure Peter Quill had held a gun to the young hero’s head, but it was a misunderstanding. Nothing detrimental had actually happened. Peter couldn’t help but wish Star-Lord and his team would drop down in Queens and kidnap him too. He could go to space, have awesome adventures, become a Guardian of the Galaxy, and… he could have a real purpose again. 

“Hey, Paul!” Gwen had run in and slammed the door behind her.

She had been out of breath and her nose and cheeks flushed from the cold. She was wrapped tightly in probably the comfiest green overcoat Peter had ever seen. He’d been saving his money to buy more effective winter clothes, but yesterday’s grocery run had set him back at least a week. 

“Morning, Gwen.” Peter smiled back.

There it was, that nervous feeling from the subway. He shook it off and listened to his new friend as she talked about how busy it was for a Thursday, the weather, and whatever else was on her mind. Once settled, Gwen briskly walked over to his desk and set a steaming styrofoam cup in front of him.

“Hm?” He looked up at her confused, but she avoided his gaze.

Instead, the young woman had been pointedly looking down at her phone. He picked up the cup and just held it for a moment, swirling around the warm liquid inside. 

“You look exhausted, dude. I go to bed at 11 pm. I know you get here 4 hours before I do, and I struggle to wake up at 8. Why were you awake at 12:30 this morning?” She frowned at her phone, but he could tell she was genuinely concerned.

Putting two and two together, he realized the drink in his hand was coffee. She had gone out of her way and brought him coffee. Huh. That was really thoughtful of her. He hadn’t even considered that she would even blink an eye about when he had texted her. 

“Oh. I just had some late-night responsibilities. Volunteer work and all that stuff,” Peter attempted to explain away.

Gwen gawked at him, exasperated. Before she had the chance to say anything or question this “volunteer work,” Peter needed to express his gratitude.

“Thank you, by the way. For uh for the coffee. That was really nice of you. I can’t usually get coffee,” Peter hadn’t meant to say that last part, so he attempted to fix it, “because, you know, 5 am shift. I don’t have time most days to do much other than get up and go to work. So, it just means a lot, and uh yeah, thanks Gwen,” Peter cut his word vomit short.

He felt flustered, God, why couldn’t he just talk to his friend like a normal person?

“Of course dude,” Gwen stated.

Peter quickly glanced up at her and, despite still not making eye contact, she had been smiling softly. Peter felt his face grow redder. She probably saw something cute, like a cat meme, or something. He nodded briefly and returned to his research on the abduction of Kevin Bacon. 

***

The workday came and went pretty swiftly. Before he knew it, it was noon. He exchanged his temporary goodbyes with Gwen and now had to decide what he wanted to do with the next 7 hours of his life. 

He’d been thinking a lot about MJ. His old life before The Snap was consistently on his mind, especially now that he had started making a new friend. Maybe he would stop by his (ex?) girlfriend’s old workplace and see if she or Ned were there. It was unlikely, but he knew his friends were back in town for the holidays. He also knew they frequented that cafe in the afternoon. He knew this because he happened to have (very casually, and not suspiciously at all) passed the cafe every day on his route for the past week. It was time to do the hard thing. Peter nodded to himself, and the young man started toward the coffee shop before he could psych himself out. 

Without looking in, he opened the door and let the scent of lattes and croissants consume his senses. He had expected this expedition of curiosity to be fruitless. However, his stomach dropped as the very first thing the young man saw was Ned and MJ sitting at the counter having an animated discussion. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, it was exactly where he was sure they would be.

He turned to leave, unsure why he’d come or what he’d expected in the first place, but a familiar face on television caught his eye. A bittersweet feeling washed over Peter as he watched what he assumed to be an old interview with the world’s favorite “billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.” Peter stepped further into the building to get a better look at the muted channel. There were no subtitles, and the headings moved far too fast for the boy to process. However, just seeing the man was enough to make him emotional. 

“It’s crazy isn’t it?” Peter looked over at the source of the question.

Ned was looking at him or at least in his direction. Peter shifted slightly, confused as Ned continued to stare his way expectantly. Peter pointed at himself, just to clarify that his old best friend had actually been addressing him.

“Yeah, sorry dude, I saw you watching the TV.” Ned nodded as if that was supposed to clarify what he’d meant in the first place or why he had started speaking to Peter. 

“Oh, uh, yeah I mean, it’s Tony Stark,” Peter responded, unsure what else to say or what exactly he was responding to. ‘It’s Tony Stark’ just seemed like an easy enough conclusion. 

“For sure, but I don’t think anybody really could have predicted this,” MJ spoke this time.

Her characteristic disinterest was emphasized in the statement. Despite her displayed tone, her expression seemed conflicted. Before Peter could ask what she meant, she continued her observation.

“In all honesty, if you had asked me to predict any of the last 7 years, I may have missed the mark significantly. This is nothing really.” MJ smirked and Ned laughed outwardly.

Peter found himself shrinking inward slightly. He felt left out of an inside joke. There was no balance. He either felt completely invisible or far too vulnerable. He was unsure what he had hoped for when coming here, but this vaguely ominous interaction was not it. 

“You’re uh, Peter, right?” MJ questioned noncommittally.

It was the same tone he’d begun to expect from Gwen. Peter immediately made eye contact with her, looking for any sign of recognition. However, he only received a confused eyebrow raise. 

“What?” Peter whispered, desperately needing some confirmation he’d heard her correctly. 

“You’re Peter. I remember you from last year because you came in, announced your presence, and then left. It was the most bizarre interaction I had with a customer that whole month.” MJ stated matter of factly. After the fact, she averted her eyes to the wall behind him in discomfort.

Oh, right. Peter’s shoulders slumped. That made more sense, he had forgotten about his whole “main character moment.” He cringed thinking about how he had tried to reintroduce himself but instead backed out. He had assumed they wouldn’t remember that. He had just felt, at the time, that maybe MJ and Ned would be better off without him. That feeling still lingered. 

“Right uh yeah. I’m sorry about that.” Peter muttered sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I uh, I just have a hard time making friends sometimes, and you guys seemed cool. And uh yeah. It was weird, I’m sorry,” Peter attempted to justify his actions, but honestly it just sounded sad out loud.

To his relief, Ned chuckled.

“Dude, don’t worry about it, MJ and I were literally just talking about how we feel like a trio without a third.”

MJ rolled her eyes at that statement, but Peter internalized it. Maybe they did remember him, even if they didn’t quite remember… him. He knew it was stupid to get his hopes up, but maybe this didn’t have to be a “forever” thing.

“MJ and I are going to be in town for the next two weeks before our semester starts back up. If you ever want to come stop by, we’ve been spending our afternoons here.”

Peter thought them talking to him at all had been significant, so he had hardly expected an invitation to spend time with them again.

“Yeah, Loser. What he said,” MJ seconded.

She seemed disinterested, but she wouldn’t invite him if she didn’t want him around. He thought back on what MJ used to say, “If you expect disappointment, then you can never really be disappointed.” She had digressed and changed her outlook eventually, but when did Peter adopt it? 

“Ok, awesome. Thanks, guys really, uh, I’ll see you around?”

Peter felt excitement bubble in his chest like an old friend. Within the last two days, it had become familiar again, and he felt so much peace wash over him. Maybe all the bad things that happened to him were not some sick punishment for an unknown evil act he had committed. Maybe they were just things that happened.

His high school friends nodded at him kindly, thankfully neither acknowledged the glaring fact that Peter had walked into a coffee shop and had not purchased any coffee. While turning to leave, the young man noticed his deceased mentor on the screen once again. Momentarily, his eyes were once more glued to the report. In the top right corner, the word “LIVE” was printed in bold, red letters. He pursed his lips, that couldn’t be right.

He thought back to what Ned and MJ had said, unsure what they meant or how to feel about it. He squinted his eyes and scanned the captions. There were brief mentions of Pepper and Morgan, Captain America and the Winter Soldier’s recent team-up, the Sokovia Accords, and other superhero-based politics. Nothing stood out. It was all old news. 

Peter took a breath to recenter. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He straightened his back and opened the door. His old friends hadn’t been talking about anything recent. It was still hard to fathom the consequences of The Snap, even when years had passed. Still, something felt off. His 6th sense tingled in the back of his brain. He was missing something. Peter shook his head, quickened his pace to beat the chill, and left the store's aroma behind him. Even if he was out of the loop, there was nothing he could do at the moment.

All that mattered was right now, and right now; Peter Parker had an exciting night ahead of him.

Chapter Text

By the time Peter arrived at the venue, it was dark out. The festive lights that adorned the city shone brightly while reflected in the gently drifting crystals. People were already swarmed around the entrance waiting eagerly for the ushers to open the doors. The young man felt a little overwhelmed, he wasn’t used to intentionally being around so many people.

His eyes scanned the crowd and, towards the front, he spotted a familiar enthusiastic journalist. She had on the same green overcoat, white gloves, and a white turtleneck. Peter couldn’t help but think she looked lovely. He waved to her as he headed over. She looked up from her phone and smiled brightly. 

“There you are! I got here a little early so we’d be towards the front of the line. All of the seats are assigned, but I know how you feel about the cold.” She winked.

Peter smiled at the young woman in front of him. He’d never told her that before, the vigilante wondered about what else she noticed about him. 

“Awe thank you, I appreciate it.” Peter found a place next to her and tried to think of something to talk about.

He didn’t know too much about her outside of work, and the “getting to know people” stage of friendship was not his strong suit. Before he could say anything, however, Gwen’s phone began to ring.

“Oh hang on, it’s Harry. Give me like 5 minutes.” Gwen muttered, sounding vaguely irritated.

He assured her he’d keep their place in line, and she moved somewhere a little less crowded. He wondered what that was about. Usually, when it came to Harry, he minded his business, however; Gwen also didn’t usually have problems with the billionaire’s son. Maybe her irritation wasn’t with him. Maybe something happened that they were both upset about. Peter pondered the matter only for a moment before he decided that if he had nothing better to think about than his friend’s drama, he probably needed a hobby.

She returned soon after, looking as if that exchange had never happened. Peter didn’t want to seem nosy, but he did think the whole thing was out of character and weird. Not spidey sense weird, just normal weird, which he would prefer any day. 

“Everything ok?” Peter prompted, hoping she would maybe talk about it.

To Peter’s relief, she was more than willing to discuss it. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. Norman’s being weird again… The guy’s been acting off lately, and Harry is always having to compensate for it. Maybe the money and fame are finally getting to his head. Mr. Osborn has always been nice enough, but you know how billionaires are.” Gwen crossed her arms, disdain present in her features. 

Peter immediately felt defensive. Being a billionaire didn’t objectively make someone a bad person. Take Mr. Stark, for example, he saved the whole world. He was Iron Man; he had been a hero. Sure, that other Norman Osborn had been a villain, but- Before he could finish that train of thought, Peter’s brain supplied a gruesome image of May and the rubble and the blood, oh god, the blood and-

“Peter?”

He was pulled from the memory to see Gwen scanning his face with confusion and concern. Peter took in his surroundings once more, evaluating his senses individually. He heard the excited chatter of the crowd, he smelled various foods from street vendors, and he felt an icy chill at his fingertips. Oh. He was in line with his friend. The young man flushed with embarrassment. 

“Oh sorry, I was just thinking about what you said. Yeah, that really sucks, I hope things with Harry and his dad work out.” Peter said half-heartedly.

Gwen nodded slowly, not quite buying his response but not sure what to say. Suddenly, the young man processed what Gwen had said.

“Wait, hang on, what did you just call me?” That was the second time someone had called Peter by his name today.

What was happening? Peter felt so many emotions bubble in his chest at once hoping he’d heard his friend correctly. Something was changing, but why now?

“Your name?” Gwen questioned with an amused tone.

Peter rolled his eyes without malice, she knew what he meant. However, before he could ask for further non-sarcastic clarification, the doors opened and people were being ushered in. The question would have to wait. 

Gwen excitedly intertwined her gloved hand in his, and together they walked towards the entrance. The young man assumed that she had grabbed his hand so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crowd. He remembered hearing somewhere that people would do that at concerts, so he didn’t think too much of it. Peter glanced over at Gwen and saw she was using her free hand to pull up their tickets on her phone. 

Once the pair made their way through the metal detector and bag-checking station, they headed to their seats. Peter had begun to feel anxious again. What did “Rogers: The Musical” entail? Gwen must have seen the worry in his expression because she leaned over.

“I’m pretty sure this musical is going to be a disaster. Maybe working at the Daily Bugle is worse for me than I originally thought. I get a little too excited at the thought of trainwrecks.” Gwen’s eyes shone almost mischievously, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

He felt relaxed. At least he wasn’t the only one disturbed by the subject matter.

“Yeah, I get that. I guess it’s kind of like a car crash. There’s an explosion and it’s horrible, but you just can’t tear your eyes away.” Peter supplied.

He knew it was a little out of pocket. The hero, of course, spent his free time preventing car crashes, crime, and other unpleasant things. Despite this, he felt the metaphor was still sound.

“Dude! That’s an awful analogy. What-” Gwen cackled, exasperated and smiling brightly.

Peter giggled along with her. He hadn’t really let himself just be himself with anyone in a long time. However, at this moment, all of that uncomfortable, clammy awkwardness that often plagued him had melted away. For the remainder of the wait time, the two chatted and joked amicably, all the while still holding hands. 

About a half hour later, the theater lights dimmed. Gentle and abrasive shushes alike rippled through the audience. Peter leaned back in his seat. He had no idea what to expect. He’d never been to a musical before, to begin with, and he felt uneasy about his first one being about real people. Some of which he knew. Some of which were dead. The harsh word was one he often avoided using, but he had to be honest with himself. If he didn’t tip-toe around it, whatever he was about to see wouldn’t impact him as much, right?

*** 

He was wrong. Oh god, he was so wrong. He stared at the performance on stage feeling bile build up in his throat. They made a mockery of his heroes with their silly dances and thoughtless, quirky oneliners. He didn’t know how he was feeling, but he knew it wasn’t pleasant. Gwen squeezed his hand gently. She had been watching him, he could see her out of the corner of his eye. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He could handle this. He wasn’t a child who needed to be coddled. 

“Save us all from the state of this musical, amirite?” Gwen whispered to him with a smirk.

Peter chuckled half-heartedly, which had earned both him and Gwen irritated shushes from the people behind them. Peter redirected his focus to the “New Yorkers” as they expressed their “desperate” need for heroes to protect them from the God of Mischief. 

Peter had been very young during the Battle of New York. He’d certainly been too young to remember it now. Despite this, he knew what happened; everybody knew what happened. More importantly, he understood how negative the impact had been. Parts of the city had been in ruins. People were left homeless. People had died. 

Mr. Stark used to have frequent nightmares about it; they would keep his mentor up most nights. Peter knew this because the man was always exhausted whenever the then high schooler would spend time with him. Make-up and TV magic could convince the whole world otherwise, but Peter knew the truth. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.  

Peter couldn’t quite process what he was feeling. Seeing actors dressed like the Avengers dancing and singing was so surreal, and not in a good way. His stomach felt like it was on the floor. This whole thing just felt so… disturbing.

When this musical was written, what were the producers even thinking? Some of these lines were borderline disrespectful. Tony’s entire schtick was that he was an idiot who only thinks about shawarma and what- “catches nukes?” Peter scrubbed his eyes in exasperation. He didn’t even know all of the Avengers that well, and this was still difficult to watch. He couldn’t imagine Clint Barton or Bruce Banner being made to sit through this. They were there when it all happened. 

“We’ll blame you then, but you’re good for now,” The line echoed in Peter’s brain making him feel nauseated.

All of the articles he’d written about Spider-Man came to mind. All of the news excerpts he’d seen about those he had fought alongside. All the times he had been blamed for things he couldn’t change. It all felt just a little too real. 

Suddenly everything just felt like too much. The music was too loud; not to mention, he could hear what he had deemed to be every individual heartbeat of every single person in the venue. The lights on the stage were far too bright. The man felt his hands start to shake as he was hit by everything all at once. Peter decidedly would not sit through another hour and a half of this. 

He had to get out. Peter grabbed his phone out of his pocket and turned to Gwen. He gestured that he had to take an important call. She had squinted at him, confused. It had been obvious the phone was not ringing, and it didn’t take a genius to see that Peter was not well. He just couldn’t care enough, at that moment, to think of something more convincing. He quickly got up and maneuvered his way out of the crowd and out of the venue. He couldn’t breathe in there. He just needed air. 

The crisp O2 filled his lungs and he shivered. He’d take the frigid weather over the suffocation of… whatever that was, any day. He leaned against the wall, put his chin to his chest, and wrapped his arms around himself. He wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he just get over it? He’d been through far worse than sitting through an insensitive musical. He didn’t even fight in the Battle of 2012. It would be one thing if this musical was about the Battle on Titan or the Attack on the Avengers Compound, but it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with him. 

Even if he had been involved enough, which he wasn’t, he definitely didn’t have the right to act like some kind of victim. If it weren’t for him, Mr. Stark, May, and everyone else who directly and indirectly died because of him would still be around. He was no victim. He was the perpetrator. Peter knew this would be a bad idea before he even agreed to go. He should’ve listened to that feeling. 

Peter pushed himself off the wall and headed away from the venue. Even though he didn’t really have a good reason to give her, he hoped Gwen would understand. He just needed to blow off some steam. A back alley caught the young hero’s eye. He glanced around to make sure he was unnoticed, and once the coast was clear, he ducked inside. 

The vigilante wore his suit under his clothes. It had become a habit overall, but especially during the winter months. Layers were the only thing that kept him from freezing to death, and it was always good to be prepared for anything. He pulled his mask out of the pocket of his jeans. He saw himself reflected in the lenses and just stared. A drop of water hit the polycarbonate surface. He looked at the clouds, it hadn’t been raining. Reflexively he lifted his hand and wiped a tear from his eye. Oh, why in the world was he crying? 

He pursed his lips and wiped his eyes harder. He wasn’t doing this. The web-slinger readjusted the nanites to be in front of his clothes, pulled his mask on, and scaled the wall. Once he reached the top of the building, he lingered on the roof. He took in the city below. It was beautiful. The fluorescent lights illuminated the streets, and the snow made everything shimmer. An abundance of people were out tonight, Peter noticed, either heading out or heading home. The young adult often felt lonely. It was hard to go from having an established support system to having absolutely no one. This feeling especially consumed him in his cramped apartment. An apartment that, despite its small size, still felt too spacious for him. 

So yes, Peter Parker was often lonely, but that wasn’t the case for Spider-Man. Spider-Man belonged to the city he cared for, and for the most part, the city took care of him in return. Sometimes the people of Queens would offer the vigilante sandwiches or churros or other miscellaneous foods. Gifts that he would gladly accept; he could not afford to take generosity for granted. Other times, they would offer words of encouragement or admiration. They’d ask for pictures with him and encourage him to do “cool tricks.” All of which he would oblige. Spider-Man loved Queens and Queens loved Spider-Man.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Peter gracefully dived from the roof of the building, letting the thrill of falling consume his senses. Moments before impact, he shot a web and was swiftly propelled upward. He let gravity flip him through the sky before catching himself once more. The adrenaline that rushed through his bones negated the temperature, and the endorphins soothed the grief that had been stirred in his brain. Over and over he repeated the practiced motions, while he patrolled the street for any disturbances. 

Just like most nights, the crimes had been few and far between. Peter had stopped a couple of robberies (all of which happened to be related to the stealing of Chrismas presents and/or ornaments; oh how proud The Grinch would be), found a lost cat, and helped a young woman, whose date had stood her up, to her car. It was a classic Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man type of night. Peter had been out for a couple of hours at least but felt nothing but energetic. At the very least, he wasn’t ready to go home yet. He had salvaged his night and was not ready to potentially process anything that lurked beneath the surface. 

He continued to swing through the night, even occasionally hollering with glee. The young adult was grateful for this outlet. Without Spider-Man, he didn’t know how he would manage the constant stress of complete and total independence. He went to shoot another web when, suddenly, a voice he hadn’t heard in a very long time spoke up. 

“Spider-Man, you have an incoming call from Tony Stark.”

Wait, Karen had locked him out of her system. Why was she speaking to him now? He paused then. Who did she say was calling? He missed the next shot and slammed into the side of a building, hard. He watched people run over in alarm and cringed in embarrassment. That was going to leave a bruise. 

“Spider-Man, I would like to reiterate, you have an incoming call from Tony Stark. Would you like me to answer?”

Peter found the nearest roof and propelled himself there. Absolutely not. He pulled the mask off and dropped it, not even checking if he was in the clear. He was not doing this. He began to pace the roof, running his hands through his hair. What kind of sick joke was the universe playing on him today? 

Peter sat down on the ledge of the rooftop and put his head in his hands. He recalled how, when the man was alive, Mr. Stark would call him on nights he was out later than normal to check in on him. On weekends or during the summer, he’d invite him over and they’d watch a movie or work silently in the lab together. He lifted his head and tried to gaze back over the city, but his vision was heavily blurred and distorted. Of course, he was crying again. 

It wasn’t fair, this was all so stupid. He just wanted to have a fun night with his new friend. Instead, he was sat by himself on the roof of some random apartment building crying over a dead man. He didn’t mean to be so blunt, but he just needed to get it through his head. Tony Stark was dead. Deceased, gone, passed away, and not coming back. The sooner he could accept that fact, the sooner he could go back to being a functioning person. 

He sighed, ignoring the tears that occasionally escaped, and stood back up. He felt too anxious about the whole “Karen malfunction” to put the mask back on, so he moved the nanotech back behind his clothes and walked down the stairs of the building in a rather lame fashion. He slowly trudged his way through the snow back to his apartment building and headed inside. 

He couldn’t find it in him to even heat a microwave meal, he just wanted to go to bed. Before his head could hit the pillow, his heart dropped as he remembered ditching Gwen. He pulled out his phone and sure enough, the screen read “11 missed messages from Gwen Stacy.”

Yesterday 8:30 pm

“Hey man, are you ok?”

“I’m really worried about you”

“Did you leave? I went outside to look for you”

“It’s ok if you did, I could tell you were uncomfortable”

“The musical sucked”

“I just want to know that you’re ok or at least safe”

Yesterday 10:00 pm

“You’re scaring me, man”

“You didn’t get like jumped right?”

Yesterday 11:05 pm

“Text me when you’re ready”

“I’m sorry about tonight.”

“I enjoyed spending time with you, Peter.”

Peter was suddenly plagued with guilt. Of course, she was worried, he had vanished into the night in New York City. After two days of being a friend, he was already winning the first-place award for the biggest jerk in the Western Hemisphere. How had he already managed to mess this up so badly? She was so understanding too.

Today 1:37 am

“I’m so sorry, Gwen”

“I shouldn’t have just ditched you like that.”

“I can’t really explain it, I just really needed to leave.”

“It wasn’t you. I had a good night with you too.”

Read 1:38 am

Peter stared at the read receipt at the bottom of his messages. He had screwed this whole thing up. She doesn’t stay up this late, so if she had it was probably his fault. If she never wanted to talk to him again, he understood. He had lied down and stared out his window, clutching his mask without realizing it. He thought about how Gwen had typed his name out, but he didn’t have the energy to ruminate too hard on it. All the grief, guilt, and anxiety that had been eating at him melted away as he turned his head and focused on how the moonlight illuminated even the darkest corners of his room. 

Chapter Text

A ringing trilled through Peter’s ears. He’d been worried about developing tinnitus, especially after the Battle at the Avengers Compound. He had been lucky enough not to develop it when he had hitchhiked on that Stark plane that had crash-landed on Coney Island. That luck could only take him so far. The young vigilante’s head lulled to the side.

The familiar optics of the mask glitched in his line of sight. He’d damaged it. Mr. Stark was going to kill him; the man had just helped him upgrade the tech last week. Peter observed how heavily he was breathing. He needed to regulate his heart rate before he activated one of Mr. Stark’s 10 million protocols. When was the man going to trust him? Peter didn’t need a babysitter. 

He ignored the disjointed lines of code blocking his line of sight and took in his surroundings. The vivid pink petals that cushioned his head were the first oddity to draw his attention. After peeling his mask away from his face, he shifted his head back to the sky. A vast universe greeted him; the cluster of celestial bodies within the Milky Way glimmered unearthly. Eyes wide and jaw slack in awe, he pushed himself into an upright position. The full moon’s radiance flooded the tulip field in which the vigilante had awoken. Brilliant pinks, purples, and yellows permeated his awareness. Peter’s eyes watered as the strong fragrance of pollen overwhelmed his senses.

He remembered this tulip field. He hadn’t been here since Happy had dropped down in the Netherlands like the guardian angel he was. Peter used to be so dependent on the people around him. He couldn’t imagine it now. Needing people was so crippling. He had begun to debate finding an abandoned warehouse and taking shelter. He’d do anything if it meant not needing J Jonah Jameson and his filthy money. Deep down, beneath his pride, however; he missed his family. God, he missed them all so much. 

He picked himself off the ground, being careful not to trample any of the florals. The last time he was here, it had been midday. The meadow felt forebodingly isolated late at night. Inspecting the scenery, the vigilante realized it was far more vast than he remembered. The skyline and the open field appeared to match. With nothing but his busted suit, the lone hero had no other option than to walk aimlessly. 

So, he wandered deeper into the landscape. The same colorful hues rotated his vision with an occasional white or red. He traced his fingers across the petals, feeling the mildew soak into the gloves of his suit. He hummed to himself to drown out the ringing; he couldn’t name the song, but it was gentle and soothing. He could’ve been walking for hours or days; time had been indiscernible nor did it feel relevant.

Eventually, in the distance, Peter spotted something new. He squinted and placed his hand over his eyes to block out the sun. For some reason, that had been the opposite of helpful. He then put his hand down and repeatedly counted the digits. 4 fingers. 6 fingers. 5 fingers. Did he not have enough fingers to create a shadow? He frowned, oh, it was the middle of the night. There was no sun.

Peter quickened his pace until he was sprinting, but the objects in the distance only appeared to move farther away. He was growing tired and frustrated. This was fruitless. He stopped abruptly and exhaustion hit him like a freight train. He doubled over with his hands on his knees gasping for air. It felt like he was in middle school again. However, he hadn’t been asthmatic since he was 15, the vigilante reflected. Just as quickly as it had come, his fatigue vanished. Huh. He uprighted himself and surveyed his surroundings. The objects that had been miles away were now directly in front of him. Well, more accurately, they now surrounded him. 

He examined the arc-shaped headstones that encircled him like a miniature Stonehenge. All of the remaining tulips had wilted, and the dirt beneath his feet was barren and dry. He tilted his head upward and noticed all of the stars had blinked out. It was as if a fuse in the galaxy had blown. All that existed in the vast nothingness was him and 5 cracked tombstones. 

He skimmed the names. The air grew thicker with each name he read, “Richard Parker,” “Mary Parker,” “Benjamin Parker,” “May Parker,” until finally, his eyes lingered on the final grave, “Tony Stark.” Peter shivered and took a step back. His hands felt heavier than they had been the previous moment. The young adult looked down and noticed he was holding a bouquet. 

The arrangement consisted of 5 tulips. One pink, one purple, one yellow, one white, and one red. He glimpsed from the flowers to the tombs and knew the numbers correlated for a reason. Going from left to right he knelt by each grave and gently set a flower at the base. Pink for his father, purple for his mother, yellow for Ben, and white for May. 

MJ had always been one to know things such as the meaning of each individual flower. He hoped none of these had an embarrassing sentiment. He was pretty sure red represented romantic love, but he didn’t think the dead would mind if you gave them the wrong flower from a paranormal selection. Red and gold were for Iron Man, as far as Peter had been concerned. He clutched the red tulip to his chest, and slowly knelt down next to the burial. 

With a shaking hand, Peter lowered the tulip into the dirt. He had expected maybe a hand to dig its way out of the soil or a zombified man to sneak up behind him, but there had only been silence. The ringing, too, had ceased. Peter let himself drop to his knees and rested his head on the tombstone. His shoulders shook as a sob escaped his lips. 

Peter would often contemplate why all of this had happened to him. There were 7 billion people on the planet and an uncountable number of individuals beyond it. The vigilante lived his life to protect everyone else’s. When people could do the things that he could, but they didn’t, then the bad things happened because of them. The bad things happened because of him. 

It had been a shock to learn that 5 years of his life had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. He and half of the universe had been eradicated. Just like that. It was dizzying to conceptualize. 

He could remember the moment hazily if he focused on it long enough. He had no clue what had been happening to him, but his spidey sense was stronger than it had ever been. His skin had been made of glass, and every individual atom had begun to shatter. He had fought hard to stop the fracturing at all, but it had been too much. It was terrifying.  

He lifted his head and hovered his hand over the name engraved on the tombstone. He pondered how helpless Mr. Stark must have felt on Titan as his team had turned to dust. Aside from how it felt, Peter couldn’t remember much else about the first Snap. He didn’t know if Mr. Stark had watched him vanish or noticed after the chaos. 

The grieving adult often wondered what had happened in 5 years to make his mentor embrace him so tightly on the battlefield. While they had spent quite a bit of time together, they definitely still “hadn’t been there yet.” It had reminded Peter of the way Ben used to hug him. 

Peter placed his hand on the grave, and on contact, watched it turn to ash and scatter into the void. Peter closed his eyes. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. When he looked again, there was a new grave in its place. Despite having never seen it before, Peter knew exactly whose grave it was. 

The dirt at the base of the tombstone was dug out. Enough space for a single person. Peter sighed, and, one foot at a time, the young adult lowered himself into the hole. He laid down as if getting ready for bed. Pillowing his head on the soil, Peter relaxed his vision into the nothingness above him. Dirt began to shovel over him from an unknown source. He exhaled in acceptance and let the universal truth swallow him whole. Everybody dies eventually. 

***

Sun poured in through the glass and burned through Peter’s eyelids. It was an unusually lovely day. The sky was clear, and the birds chirped a familiar tune. A headache pulsed dully in the back of Peter’s brain. He groaned and pressed his pillow against his face. It was too early for this; all he wanted was a couple more hours of shut-eye. The young adult tensed and rapidly sat up, glancing around his room until his eyes landed on the alarm clock.

“Oh no, no, no,” Peter muttered to himself, panicking.

He tossed on the first long sleeve shirt he could find and rummaged around his laundry basket for a roughly clean pair of pants. This was not happening. He hadn’t been this late to anything since he was in high school. To top it all off, today was Friday. Friday was deadline day; that meant Jameson himself would be at the office to evaluate (read: berate and criticize) them from 9 am to 5 pm. Peter grabbed his backpack and basically jumped down all 4 flights of stairs. 

Once on the subway, Peter pulled out his phone. The screen read “10 missed calls from Jameson” and “1 missed text from Gwen.” Peter closed the phone and just held it to his chest. He anxiously bounced his leg up and down and stared out the window. Of course, today the weather had to be welcoming. All he wanted to do today was hide under his covers for the rest of his life. The device in his hand began to vibrate. He sighed, and without looking at the caller, he picked up the call.

“Boy,” A chewy, harsh, and unfortunately familiar voice spat, “you are on thin ice. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you better get your ass over here in the next 10 minutes or I swear I-” Peter winced.

He always looked forward to J Jonah Jameson being his lovely and compassionate self.

“There was traffic. I’m on the way.” Peter responded in a monotone.

About a year ago, Peter may have groveled and promised that it would never happen again. Now, however, Peter refused to validate the man’s constant lack of professionalism. Jameson scoffed.

“6 hours' worth of traffic? Unlikely. You’re lucky you have an in with the Spider-Menace, or I’d dispose of you faster than you can think of a shitty comeback. You have no idea how good you’ve got it. Without me you’d. be. nothing.” Jameson drawled out, emphasizing every syllable of the final statement.

With that, his boss hung up the phone. Peter imagined the angry man had probably slammed it down, like some sort of cartoon character. 

The young adult tossed his phone from one hand to the other, attempting not to worry about what Jameson had said. The man constructed his entire personality and career around being a horrible person. Any and all of his opinions lacked value. It didn’t matter that there may have been an ounce of truth in what he’d said about Peter. Oh god, he was entirely dependent on this degenerate job, wasn’t he? Peter had begun to spiral, and despite this knowledge, he didn’t know how to stop. A sweet-looking older lady sitting in front of Peter shifted uncomfortably. The young man raised his hands apologetically as he realized he had been glaring.

Get it together, Peter, the man thought to himself. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He couldn’t let Jameson’s words change who he was. He had made a mistake and slept in. That’s all it was. Peter had made far worse mistakes than this. The boy cringed, briefly thinking back to the “Ferry incident.” Ok, not the point of this train of thought. Everyone made mistakes; he just needed to take accountability and move forward. 

On that note, he opened his phone and checked to see what Gwen had written him. The worst thing she could say is that she never wanted to hear from him again. If that happened, it would be sad, for sure, but he would live. He’d respect her boundaries, and he would do better going forward. It didn’t matter how anxious he was; he had to do the hard thing. It was a part of being an adult. 

Today 8:28 am

“You should really check the news.”

Peter read and reread the message at least 3 times. “You should really check the news,” what did that even mean? That hadn’t been on his radar of things she possibly could’ve said to him this morning. He typed and untyped several messages along the lines of asking what she had meant, beginning another apology, and smashing his keyboard in total confusion and frustration. Before he could think of what to say, the subway lurched to a stop, and he was hastily jostled and shoved onto the platform. 

By the time he had made it to the double doors of The Daily Bugle, Peter had sufficiently worked himself up. He was jittery with dread and just wanted to get the whole thing over with. The telltale jingle of the bell over the entrance alerted the workplace of his arrival. The young man recoiled, having hoped he could have snuck his way in. With an unreadable expression, Gwen glanced up from her laptop. Peter briefly made eye contact with the woman before she went back to typing furiously. Sheepishly, the young man trekked to his desk and pulled his own laptop out, hoping the embarrassment of his unfashionably late arrival was the worst of it. Abruptly, a familiar tingle crawled up his spine, and the vigilante sensed the threat was standing directly behind him.

“PARKER,” boomed the source that had provoked his 6th sense.

Due to his enhanced hearing, Peter could hear a pin drop before, however; at this moment, the young man could probably hear a pin drop on the other side of the planet. Peter’s brow furrowed as he realized Jameson had said his last name. It was hardly the forefront of his concerns, but it had never happened before.

“Look who finally decided to join us. You better have written the best article this week to make up for your complete and utter insolence,” his boss snarled at him.

Peter rolled his eyes. What a cliche thing to say. He was convinced that the Chief of The Daily Bugle kept a thesaurus on him so he could insult his employees with different terms consistently. Well, if a scene was going to be made at Peter’s expense, he supposed he’d play along. 

“You see, you’re never going to believe this, but bear with me here. I did, actually, have the best article ever written. It was so great, in fact, that I genuinely think it could’ve made the Daily Bugle billions.” Peter hyperbolized dramatically, “Unfortunately, however, I seemed to have lost it. A lot happened between this morning, when I woke up, at 4 am, of course, and the 5 excruciating hours that I was stuck in traffic. You know how drivers are in New York,” he lamented exaggeratedly and with an uncharacteristic snark.

He wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into him, but he was feeling bolder than he had in a while. The young adult hadn’t been bullied since Flash Thompson, and that had been in high school. He didn’t need it from some pathetic, middle-aged lowlife who got off on publicly belittling his employees. 

Jameson gawked at Peter, curling his lip in disgust. The young journalist’s audacity had the whole room captivated, and just as quickly as it had come, the boldness evaporated. Peter started to feel a little out of line. He couldn’t speak to his boss like that, especially not since he needed this job. The last time he copped an attitude with Mr. Stark, it hadn’t ended well. Ok, that was different, but still. He glimpsed at Gwen’s expression, and while she seemed partially amused; her demeanor primarily displayed unease. He was digging himself into a hole, and she knew it too. 

“I don’t know who the HELL you think you’re talking to, but I’m feeling generous today; so I’m going to give you one chance to fix your attitude. Screw this up, and I don’t care WHO you have an in with, you’re out of here.” Peter gulped and nodded without eye contact, not daring to say another word.

As long as he didn’t have an identity, this disgusting job had him on a leash. If he hadn’t been embarrassed before, he certainly was now.

Peter’s boss stood by him arrogantly and had Peter show him what he had accomplished that week. Refusing to admit total defeat, Peter didn’t sit down; instead, he remained standing for the entire 20-minute one-on-one evaluation. The young adult only gained back pain from the act of defiance, but it was better than being towered over. The man constantly attempted to make the vigilante feel small, and Peter wasn’t about to give him that victory. 

“That’s it?” Jameson demanded impatiently.

Peter wanted to bang his head against the wall. The expectation for the week was 3 pieces, but the overachiever had shown his boss 7 different well-fleshed-out articles. All of which the young man had spent extra time after the workday revising. What more could the insufferable man possibly want?

“Yes. That's it,” Peter answered coldly, glaring a hole into his computer screen.

Some days, Peter wondered if being able to support himself was worth the constant mistreatment. Today was one of those days. Jameson shook his head in exasperation, and Peter couldn’t wait to hear why he was angry this time. 

“One of the most conspiratorial events since the Star Spangled Freak was resurrected,” Peter clenched his fist at that, “occurred this week, and you don’t even have the mental initiative to report on the story? Are you that much of a dim-witted piece of shit?” Jameson snapped.

The young adult winced at the insult. He had absolutely no clue what the older man was going on about, and, frankly, it pissed him off. He hated feeling so out of the loop, and he had been feeling that way more and more lately.

“In all honesty, sir,” Peter spat the addressal, “I don’t know which ‘conspiratorial event’ you are referring to.” he tried to keep the irritation out of his tone, but it was a lost cause.

Thankfully, Jameson seemed too distracted for it to have any impact. The older man approached Peter with a newspaper and slammed it in front of him.

“In two hours, there is going to be a public press conference. You’re going to be there, and you WILL get the best scoop in the whole city. You’d be smart to get your head out of your ass before then. I expect a completed article on my desk before 10 pm tonight.” With that, the man stormed off to go harass another unsuspecting victim. 

Who did this guy think he was treating Peter like garbage? The uninspired journalist agitatedly scowled as he packed up his desk for the day. No other details, huh? Just some inexplicable public press conference at 1 pm that Peter just had to be present for. Sue him for not being omnipotent; he did his best. The young adult cared enough, but he had a life outside of this dead-end job. Something had to keep the lights on. 

Peter figured he should probably figure out what this was all about and where he needed to be. His best source happened to be the print Jameson had oh so thoughtfully retrieved for him. Reluctantly, he picked up the article and scanned the headline. The boy’s indignation and disinterest swiftly dissolved into disbelief. Without realizing it, the paper had slipped from his grasp and slowly drifted to the carpet beneath his feet. His hands continued to tremble as he felt the ink leave the paper and wrap tightly around his neck. 

“War Hero and Intergalactic Savior Tony Stark, a.k.a Iron Man, Lives,” read the headline in bold, unapologetic letters.

Directly underneath was a picture of the man Peter spent so much time grieving over. Distinctively, however, the man was missing an arm. The same arm he had snapped with, Peter noted. He fought hard not to be pulled back to the battlefield as his eyes glazed over the charred stump. Shakily, he diverted his attention to the rest of the photo. Next to his hero stood Pepper Potts, looking stunning and powerful as ever, holding their 6, maybe 7, year old daughter, Morgan. Peter recalled the little girl from the funeral. She was so small, yet she already held the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

Peter felt his throat continue to close. There had been so many signs. He had written off the blinking, red LIVE indicator in the corner of the screen as a technological error. Karen had asked him if he would like her to answer the call. Had it all really been- The, once again, spiraling vigilante was pulled back to the present by the distinct feel of paper being placed in his hand.

“I don’t know what's going on with you, and I don’t know how to help. But it’s going to be okay,” Gwen whispered, her voice soft and genuine.

She had walked over, picked up the paper, and placed it back in his hand. She regarded him with a troubled and knowing expression. Peter hadn’t been entirely sure what it was that she knew. There had been a lot Peter was unsure of. 

He nodded at Gwen and thanked her the best he could. At least, he hoped it came across as a thank you. There had been too much going on in his mind for him to properly process the interaction. He had to get to the bottom of this. It was entirely possible this entire thing had been an elaborate ruse that a majority of the city had fallen for. Ever since the “Mysterio incident,” Peter had to be skeptical. Nothing was true until Peter had seen it with his own eyes, and then metaphorically (and occasionally literally) dismantled it piece by piece. Journalism was an excellent outlet for this compulsive need.

The “Mysterio incident.” Peter shivered, the event haunted the young vigilante consistently. His nightmares were often plagued with variations of his hallucination-induced zombified mentor. His reality was consistently plagued with the aftermath of it all. He couldn’t escape it. So, no, Peter certainly did not believe that Iron Man was miraculously back from the afterlife. Stranger and far more outlandish things had happened, absolutely, but this would be amazing. Amazing things didn’t happen for Peter Parker, as had been proven time and time again.

Peter felt a bump jostle him, and only then did he realize he had made his way to the city bus. He glanced around the vehicle he was sitting in; did he even know where he was supposed to go? His backpack was in his lap and the newspaper was tightly scrunched in his hand. He noticed his knuckles were white from how tightly he had been clutching the article. Relaxing his hand, he opened the paper and scanned it once more. Once he found an address, he tossed the crumpled sheet into his backpack. It had been a long time since Peter had been to the Avengers Compound. 

If Tony Stark was truly alive, would it really be all that amazing? The intrusive thought wormed its way into Peter’s brain. He immediately felt guilty. Of course, it would be amazing. Peter had dreamed of this for years. So, why did it bring him so much more dejection? He let himself dwell on the thought when another dawned on him. If he really were alive, had Mr. Stark ever been dead at all? Would it have been magic that brought him back or some elaborate lie? Even if it was some unforeseen miracle, would Mr. Stark have any idea who he was? These questions left a hollow sort of emptiness in his chest. Unsure how to process these feelings without concrete answers, Peter fell despondent for the remainder of the trip. Despite how bright the sun shone, today felt far more numbing than any of the days that had preceded it.

Chapter Text

The massive crowd of people made it abundantly clear he had arrived at the Compound. Personal, press, S.H.I.E.L.D, and even FBI vehicles honed in on the massive driveway around the building. It was chaos.

A make-shift stage had been constructed in the field. Peter supposed that tracked, there were far too many people here to use the indoor space. Food trucks, gaudy decorations, and small vendors attempting to make a quick buck selling cheap Avengers Merch overflowed the premises. Peter even noted that there were cosplayers taking pictures with other conference attendees. The journalist made a face. He didn’t have a problem with cosplayers, but he hadn’t been under the impression this was some kind of comic-con. 

Tripping off the bus steps, Peter was very quickly made aware of the fact he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Bad move. He attempted to pick himself up, but the remaining bus passengers stepped over and around him. He decided to just stay down until the bus departed. A hand reached down to help him up. Awkwardly, Peter accepted.

Unexpectedly, the young man came face to face with (maybe) Stephen Strange. Peter let his gaze linger on the (very convincing) sorcerer who had helped him off the ground. He examined the man’s white streak and goatee. For the life of him, the vigilante couldn’t discern whether or not he was looking at the real man or a very dedicated fan. It didn’t matter either way; it’s not like the young adult would be recognized. He quickly pulled his hand away, muttered his thanks, and shoved his way into the crowd. An involuntary annoyance had crept into Peter’s awareness. 

At this point, he didn’t care if an alien species had invaded and the only way to survive was to be at this gathering. He would gladly be eradicated a second time around. The musical, which had been an entirely controlled and fabricated environment, had been overwhelming. This whole thing had him over-stimulated and made his hands itch. He clenched his fists and scowled. He wanted to punch something or… someone. Hell, maybe it could be one of these disrespectful ass cosplayers' lucky day; let’s see how they do in a fight with a real mutated human-

“Alright alright, knock it off,” the overzealous teen mumbled to himself, moving his hands to his pockets.

What would Bruce Banner do? Scratch that, what would the Hulk do? Peter mozied his way over to one of the taco trucks that lined the property and ordered himself four tacos de carne asada, and damn, he had needed those. 

Yeah, he had definitely been hangry. His already emotionally overloaded senses had been heightened into an unacceptable irritability. With great power came the great responsibility to not cause a scene just because he neglected his basic needs. Now that that was settled, it was time to get to business.

Peter wasn’t very tall or buff, but he also wasn’t Thor or the Hulk. In other words, he didn’t need to be. Spiders were known for crawling their way into places they didn’t belong. Of course, some species were massive and unmissable, but plenty of spiders were itty bitty and probably hidden in the nearest piece of furniture. Peter often used this knowledge to his advantage. 

Gradually, but effectively, he slinked and scittered his way to the front of the crowd. He easily maneuvered his way through hundreds of individuals using brief excuses and the occasional quip until he had made his way to the 10th row. With a little determination, he could’ve made his way to the front, but spiders didn’t survive by making themselves a spectacle. 

That hadn’t been the purpose, anyway. The 10th row had the perfect segway to the side of the Compound. Specifically, a location with an opening in the wall. He knew this from when he had spent weekends at the Avenger’s Compound. If his mentor was preoccupied with a meeting, the teenager would sneak to this spot to read or finish homework.

Peter couldn’t deal with being pushed and shoved by all of these people. He wasn’t going to play paparazzi like Jameson wanted him to, so there was no point to be congested in with these lunatics. An added bonus, Peter thought, was that the nook blocked out the wind. 

Peter crept his way over and, while no one was looking, slipped into the opening. It was a tight fit, but he had enough room to crawl up or down, so it worked for him. The sticky-fingered vigilante scaled the wall until he could see over the head of the conferencegoers. He positioned his back and feet against the parallel surfaces with his backpack behind him acting as a cushion. He placed his notebook on his lap and hung his camera around his neck. From where he was sitting, he had a clear (and enhanced) view of the stage. If someone were to stumble upon him, he’d simply look like an athletic kid with above-average parkour skills. 

Ever since the “Vulture Incident,” the vigilante hadn’t been too keen on tight spaces. A newfound claustrophobia seemed to be a reasonable consequence. He didn’t mind the nook, however; it was familiar and safe. He remembered how Mr. Stark had (non-maliciously) teased him when he stumbled across his hiding place. What did he expect? His arachnid alter-ego was referred to as Spider -Man for a reason. Hiding in tight nooks was very on-brand, in Peter’s opinion.

While he waited for the conference to start, Peter pulled out his phone. No new notifications. He knew things between them were a little rocky right now, but he had still hoped for a message from Gwen. Looking at the time, he saw it was 12:56 pm; it was still deadline day. She was probably preoccupied with Jameson. The man threw a hissy fit if his writers did anything other than work when he was in the office. The click-clack of keyboards and the gruff, booming voice of their boss was the soundtrack of the day. Sometimes JJJ would send him on errands like this, and it was a nice change of pace. Correction, it was usually a nice change of pace. Today, Peter preferred the tense atmosphere of the Daily Bugle. 

Cheering roared through the crowd, and Peter knew it was time. Resting more of his weight on the wall, he steadied his gaze onto the stage. Security personnel had made their way onto the platform and to the wings, including a familiar ex-boyfriend of Peter’s deceased aunt. The young man swallowed, already feeling unpleasant emotions brew in his chest. He was more grateful at that moment he had chosen to hide because, while Happy may not recognize him as Spider-Man, he encountered the bodyguard occasionally. Before Peter could dwell on said encounters, the Avengers made their entrance. Wait, the Avengers?

Oh, so this was a whole thing. How had Peter only been made aware of this today?

First, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes stepped into view, frankly, looking totally badass. They waved to the audience who excitedly whistled and cheered. Peter would join them, but he didn’t want to draw attention to his hideaway. So, instead, he held up his camera and did his job. 

Next, Bruce Banner and Clint Barton emerged. Peter had expected Mr. Barton once Cap and the Winter Soldier made their appearance. They’re all New Yorkers, after all, but didn’t Dr. Banner live in Mexico now? That’s what the man had written in the autobiography segment at the back of his book, anyhow. Unrelated to the topic at hand, Peter couldn’t help but acknowledge that, seeing him in person, the scientist definitely had the aura of someone who would write a self-help book.

Mr. Barton looked tired, older, and like he very much didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t a shock, Hawkeye wasn’t known for large public events. Peter felt like he and the archer probably had a lot more in common than the other Avengers in that regard. The 4 heroes took their seats on stage. Peter guessed he should’ve predicted everyone would be here, considering how many chairs were in the line-up. 

Charismatically as ever, Pepper made her appearance. The observant journalist noted Morgan’s absence. He respected that decision; she was very young, and unfortunately, the child was already in the public eye. She shouldn’t be dragged into these sorts of things. Peter scribbled his thoughts down, knowing he was procrastinating reacting to the scene in front of him. There was only one entrance left, and Peter still wasn’t convinced. Not even a little. Which was why he gripped his pen so tightly that the cartridge cracked. 

An unmistakable rumble sounded overhead. The stage shook. Peter shook too, but he wasn’t sure if it was related to the reverberations in the pavilion. The sound grew, and the young vigilante squeezed his eyes shut. It was something he had started to do during nightmares; if he closed his eyes, it would be over sooner than not. The boy covered his ears at the joyful screams of the audience.

It was too loud. Everything was too much again. He just wanted it all to stop. 

Instead of stopping, however, the roar intensified in a crescendo and music boomed from the speakers. Some AC/DC something or other. Peter recognized the band because Mr. Stark loved them. He’d play their music in the background during lab days. 

Peter tentatively opened his eyes. Center stage, the Iron Man suit stood heroic and striking as ever. With an unsteady hand, the boy raised his camera and took the shot. There was no proof this was actually Tony Stark. This didn’t mean anything. Anyone could control the suits with the right permissions; they didn’t even have to physically be there. With a hiss, the suit opened. 

“What the fuck.” 

Peter dropped the camera. In the flesh, some of which was charred, stood Anthony Edward Stark. He raised his arm to greet the crowd, and their thunderous cheers drowned out any of Peter’s further thoughts. He watched a drop of water splash onto his notebook and quickly wiped his eyes in disbelief. 

It was really him. 

Peter felt as if Stephen had shoved him out of his physical form again. He was watching himself watch the man on stage. The yelling had dulled down into a fuzzy humm in the back of his brain. This wasn’t real. He had dreams where this exact thing happened. Mr. Stark would miraculously be alive and it would be grand, incredible, and other adjectives, and then Peter would wake up. This dream was just lasting a little longer than normal. Microphone interference pulled Peter back into his body.

“Is this thing on?” Mr. Stark prompted, double-tapping the mike.

The crowd laughed and hushed in response. The speakers lowered to a less piercing volume, and once the world evened out again, Peter was on the metaphorical edge of his seat. He and his mentor were the only two people at the venue. Until they weren’t.

“I bet this may come as a shock to a good number of you, but, yes, I am alive.”

The man paused for dramatic effect, letting the audience cheer again. It was exhausting, Peter mused. He let his eyes leave his mentor to take in the reactions of the other Avengers. Most of them seemed different shades of content. However, Mr. Barton appeared to be lost in thought; he gets it, Peter decided. 

“And on that note, my team and I will be taking questions for the next hour.”

Tony gestured to the Avengers with an ostentatious flourish, and made his way to his seat next to his wife. How anti-climactic and presumptuous. Pepper had always been the one to handle press; maybe it was for good reason. However, the billionaire was definitely relishing in this. Peter mulled over this thought, conflicted. An unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t quite name painted his features.

Peter set his pen to paper and just listened for the next half hour. It was something he had learned from Dr. Banner’s book, “listening to understand, not to be heard.” There was a lot that needed to be explained, and Peter needed to have the patience to hear the said explanation. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. 

“Tony! Tony! Over here. Shelby Blake, New York Times, Where have you been for the past 2 years? Were you alive the whole time and just taking a break from being Iron Man?” 

“Good question! No, I was not in hiding for the past couple of years. My sustained injuries were so severe that I had fallen into a coma. The likelihood of my survival was slim to none, so my family made an executive decision to declare my death to the public.” Tony answered, practiced and poised.

Peter digested this new information. 

So…he hadn’t been dead.

“Mr. Stark! Hi, yes, Brent Quinn, CNN, so your family was aware that you were alive; did any of your fellow Avengers know?” 

“Yes, in fact, a majority of my close associates knew. My lovely wife and CEO of our company, Pepper Potts, was of course aware. My personal bodyguard, Happy Hogan, knew. All of the living Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D were made aware. The wizard and the Sorcerer Supreme, were aware. My best friend, colonel Rhodes. And uh, who am I missing? Oh, yes. My daughter of course knew.” Mr. Stark answered cheekily.

The audience laughed in approval; a sound reminiscent of the Truman Show. Peter dropped his pen. It slid off his notebook and onto the gravel below. 

Everybody knew. 

Peter tangled his hands in his hair and yanked in helpless devastation. Happy, Fury, Rhodey, Pepper, the Avengers, Strange, Wong. Everybody knew. Even before the memory of Peter Parker had been wiped from the world. Everybody that mattered had known, and they had all kept it from him. 

Peter sunk from the spot he was wedged in until he was next to his pen. He picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. The boy moved further into the nook until the wall surrounded him on 3 sides. He could hear as his old mentor continued to answer questions, discussing his further plans for the company and how he was planning to assist the newer heroes that had arose in his absence. He sank to his knees, buried his head, and took in a long, shaky breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He was positive the emotions would come later, but for now all he could do was stare blankly and process everything. 

He knew he wasn’t really Tony Stark’s personal intern. It had been a cover for Spider-Man, but it had begun to feel like something real. The young vigilante had looked to the man for genuine guidance and sometimes even comfort.

He’d admired Iron Man since he was a child. He hadn’t told the man this, but Iron Man had saved him from being blasted by a drone at the Stark Expo in 2011. Tony Stark was literally his hero. He had never expected to meet him, let alone fight side by side with him. It had been a rocky start, but by the end, Peter had felt that Mr. Stark respected him. Maybe the man even liked having him around.

God, Peter was an idiot. He had let himself believe that some of these people were his family. He had let himself believe that Mr. Stark cared about him. Hell, allegedly, the man had expected him to take over the company eventually. What was it all for? Was this the plan the whole time; Iron Man would be resurrected from the dead and then everyone could mock him? Look at Peter Parker, what a stupid kid; he genuinely thought he was a part of something. Everybody point and laugh. 

Clearly, that feeling had been wrong. Iron Man had told his “close associates” that he was still alive, and the web-slinger hadn’t been on that list. Peter finally identified the emotion bubbling darkly in his stomach. Resentment. With that thought, another tear slipped out, uninvited. 

Peter wiped his face and steeled his expression. He grabbed his camera, stepped into the open, and captured the photos for Triple J. He wanted a slam piece on Tony Stark? Some controversial article that would blow up on social media? Yeah, Peter could write him that piece, and he’d do a damn good job too. He focused his camera lens on Tony, capturing the man’s expressions. The genius seemed so proud of himself with a dumbass smug expression. Maybe Gwen was right about billionaires. Peter took the photos he needed and then slipped his way out of the crowd. It was unnecessary to stay for the entire conference. 

He’d heard enough. 

Peter sat on the curb, fiddling with a hole in his sleeve. He was ready for the next bus to arrive. It was on a half-hourly schedule, and, after checking his phone, Peter learned it was 1:47 pm. The young man sighed in relief. He used to love the Compound, but after Thanos, and now this, the memories were tainted. Thirteen more minutes and he could leave this rotten place behind him. 

***

Peter practically rammed open the door to the Daily Bugle, the bell making more of a screeching sound than a jingle. The young man had unintentionally drawn the attention of most of his coworkers, but he was too mentally preoccupied to care.

It was around 4 pm, meaning his boss was still in the office. Peter wasn’t fooled by JJJ’s lack of unwanted presence. The man had made his expectation clear and would give Peter the silent treatment until he followed through. The moment Peter initiated evaluation, the peace would end, and the vigilante would be at the vile man’s mercy.

If this were any other Friday, Peter would have to drag himself to his desk and force himself to focus. The young adult hated having to get things done while his boss was breathing down his neck. Today, however, the uncharacteristically eager journalist was on a mission. One that may be better suited for a diary than a very notorious news network but a mission, nonetheless. Peter opened a fresh document and let the emotions pour out of him.

“Billionaire, Tony Stark, Cheats Death for an Impractical Publicity Stunt.”

Peter spent the next few hours jotting down his (admittedly exaggerated) retelling of the conference and slandering his ex-mentor. Jameson had asked him several times over to write a piece like this on countless Avengers and vigilantes, but Peter had stood his ground. He empathized with and, in some cases, cared for these people. It was a boundary he would never cross.

That was before. Everything was different now. It had to be. For the evening, the journalist played the part of a painter who splattered his words, colored red by an indescribable pain, over a canvas he had spent years perfecting.

It was an image he hadn’t intended to paint, but once he had, he recreated it over and over until it had been the only one his heart could conjure. The portrayal of a picture-perfect savior who blasted into his life and took him in. The artist had immortalized the original masterpiece in a glass frame and admired it from a distance. The canvas had been placed atop a high pedestal in Peter’s gallery. Each day, he would take it in, reminiscing how pure and lovely it was. He had often wondered what someone like that had seen in someone like him.

The answer was just as nuanced as he’d been expecting: Absolutely nothing .

He lunged for the painting and slammed his fist into the frame. On impact, the glass shattered. His heart shattered. His atoms shattered. Everything he thought he knew shattered and swept away into nothingness. Everything except the canvas. It had been there all along, just out of reach.

Each day that Peter had attempted to recreate the painting, desperately trying to hold onto the memory and the version of himself he’d captured within its frame, had been wasted. All that ink, all that grief, had been wasted. So, the painting, too, would go.

Which was where he found himself now. Except, he was no artist, and there was no treasured masterpiece. He was simply a devastated little boy who had lost everything he had, and then lost it all again 5 times over. So, if Peter wanted to scrap and rewrite it all, that was his prerogative.

Daylight came and went. Beams that illuminated through the blinds gently dwindled into an aureate hue. Dusk swiftly took hold and choked the golden hour into submission. Without Peter’s knowledge, the only light source had become the screen that unflatteringly highlighted his exhausted features. He typed incessantly, scanning and revising his piece repeatedly. He had lost track of time hours ago, but the defamatory article was the only thing that mattered. 

With a final inspection, Peter was satisfied. He printed off a copy, as Jameson was rather old-fashioned and refused to accept final drafts in technological form, and checked the time: 9:45 pm. The young man leaned against the printer, letting his shoulders relax. It had been a long day. He had expressed a good amount of the day’s emotions in the paper that he was currently organizing, but he hadn’t given himself the space to really feel them. He didn’t plan on changing that. 

He had chosen the life he was currently living. It was for the greater good. What was that thing Strange had said on Titan? Right. There was no other way. He had taken it in stride, and he thought he understood. He trusted Dr. Strange’s judgment. The sorcerer could see the future and he knew what lay beyond the unknown. So if he said there was no other way, well…

He remembered how emotional the moment had been. How Peter had sacrificed himself for the stability of the universe. How Strange had admitted he cared for him, “everyone who knows and loves you we’d…” He had said “we,” Dr. Strange had grouped himself into that category. The young vigilante often remembered that when he felt hopeless. Now, Peter wasn’t too sure if it had any meaning. All the “hero” had done was fix his own mistake. Besides, would somebody who really loved him hide something so pivotal from him?

“No,” Peter declared outwardly to himself, “they wouldn’t.”

The young man aggressively snatched the final paper from the printer, stacked them together, and straightened said stack. He stapled the upper left-hand corner a little harder than necessary and marched to his boss’s office. The man had left around 5 pm, as usual, but then he returned around 8 pm to “finish extra tasks.” Peter knew, however, that the man had come to make good on his threat. Fortunately, Peter intended to deliver. 

J Jonah Jameson looked up sharply as Peter walked in, arms crossed expectantly. The man wore his usual scowl. Peter hadn’t ever written a bad article, per se, but when it didn’t come to Spider-Man, the young adult “held back,” according to his boss. More accurately, Peter didn’t go out of his way to write libel on the public figures he respected. Wordlessly, the foul man held out his hand for the news segment.

His boss was nothing if not predictable. Peter was expected to stand there for the entire duration of Jameson’s excruciatingly slow initial read. At the very least, the man was expressive. His features didn’t portray much, however, other than the occasional eyebrow raise and/or guffaw. 

Peter was getting antsy, he’d never put so much personal stake in an article before, but this one was different. It meant more. He watched the clock tick as he waited for JJJ to express his displeasure or exasperation. It felt more like the tick of a timed grenade. Any moment an explosion could occur and Peter would be on the receiving end.

After what felt like hours, Jameson lowered the paper. He gave Peter a once over and the young adult tensed further. The man stood from his desk and sauntered over to the fretful journalist, hands in his pockets. This was new, but Peter stood his ground. The man stopped directly in front of Peter and lifted his right hand. 

Oh, ok, this was happening. Some imaginary line had finally been crossed, and his boss was about to assault him. Could he defend himself? This was tricky because the malnourished vigilante very clearly looked weak. How was he going to explain his inhuman strength? Should he just take it and deal with the aftermath later, maybe legally? Matt Murdock gave excellent advice last time Happy had called him, and didn’t he and some other guy have a firm down in Hell’s Kitchen…Peter mentally prepared for some sort of altercation when the hand stopped in front of him. The appendage was held out, almost amicably.

“Nice work, son,” Jameson contorted his lips upward in an unnatural gesture for his features.

Peter thought it might’ve been a smile. It made his skin crawl. If Jameson approved so heavily of his piece, maybe he had written something a little more sinister than he intended. Peter stared blankly at the hand in front of him until Jameson took the initiative and skipped the handshake altogether, patting Peter on the back. It reminded him of Mr… Peter sharply cut off that thought, flinched, and stepped away from the contact. Maybe he could still press assault charges.

“I didn’t think you had it in you but wow, this, Parker,” Jameson had picked up the article once more, and, with the back of his hand, slapped the paper, “this is good stuff. I might have been wrong about you.”

Peter smiled, tight-lipped and alarmed. This was not the feedback he’d wanted. If the slimiest man Peter had ever met thought so highly of him, what did that say about Peter?

“I bet you’re exhausted. I’ll tell you what, how about you take tomorrow off? Paid leave. You’ve earned it. Now get out before I change my mind,” Jameson snickered harshly with an imitated joviality.

Peter nodded, meekly muttered his “thank you, sir,” and left the office as quickly as possible. The door closed behind him and Peter was left alone with no sound but the echo of what he’d done. He shivered, feeling regret creep its way up his spine. 

Peter shoved the dread down. No. He had to be final about this. He wanted nothing more to do with the Avengers or Tony or any of it, so what did it matter what kind of piece he published on them? Peter gathered his things and prepared to leave when he heard somebody clear her throat. 

Peter quickly faced the entrance, defensive and ready to strike. With a neutral expression on her face, lit up dimly by a flickering street lamp outside, stood Gwen Stacy loosely wrapped in her green overcoat. Next to her, holding the door, stood a vaguely familiar figure dressed rather sharply. The vigilante identified Gwen’s plus-one as Harry Osborn. 

Like a deer in the headlights, the young man froze. While he hadn’t really done anything wrong, he wasn’t an idiot either. The duo hadn’t just dropped by the Daily Bugle at 10 pm to say hi. Peter had never even met Harry, and the introduction certainly wasn’t on his bucket list. He sighed and scrubbed at his face. It was definitely going to be another long night. 

Chapter Text

Orange light poured into the office space in the shape of an open door. The shadows of Gwen and Harry elongated across the room to where Peter stood, dumbfounded. Gwen had a no-nonsense expression, clearly very tired and ready to leave. Harry, while having a sophisticated aura about him, was slouched over in an uncomfortable posture, as if he’d rather not be present for the confrontation.

“It’s late, come on,” Gwen stated, with no room for argument.

Peter scrunched his face in confusion and made eye contact with Harry. The billionaire’s son smiled awkwardly and briefly waved. He must’ve come along for Gwen’s sake.

“Um. Are we going somewhere?” Peter questioned, clutching his backpack straps.

He didn’t remember making plans with Gwen, and he had been intending to patrol for a couple of hours. He was hungry and couldn’t afford to skip another meal, so, more realistically, he’d only be out for a single hour. Still, that single hour hadn’t included a detour with Gwen and, apparently, Harry.

“Yeah. It’s too late for you to walk home by yourself, so Harry and I are taking you home. End of discussion. Now come on, it’s cold out here.” Gwen was irritated, Peter could tell.

He really didn’t want to be around people right now nor did he need a ride, but he’d been a bad friend lately. Gwen’s agitation was a byproduct of worry, and it would be easy (and kind) to humor her. The woman had tightly bundled her overcoat around herself and cooly strode to Harry’s car parked by the curb. 

Peter hesitated, but eventually resigned and readjusted his backpack so it sat correctly on his shoulders. He shuffled by Harry who had an elite air about him. The vigilante eyed the other boy, who seemed to sweat under Peter’s gaze, suspiciously. People who were anxious had something to hide, Peter should know. Sure, the Norman Osborn who had murdered May had been from another dimension, but the Green Goblin could manifest in any universe. As his son, Harry could be working with him; Hell, in this dimension, the Goblin could be Harry. Peter would have to keep an eye out.

“I’m Harry, by the way, Gwen’s best friend. I don’t know if she’s mentioned me, but she talks about you a lot. It’s very nice to meet you.” Harry paced behind Peter, annoyingly chattering on.

Peter nodded and hummed with disinterest. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he also wasn’t being polite. 

Steam radiated from the car. As the sun set, the air had returned to its frigidity. Gwen was in the passenger seat, hands in her lap. She was watching Peter, expressionless, through the window. He at least had the decency to feel remorseful. He had ditched her the night before, acted out all day, and basically ignored her when he returned from the conference. Yet here she was, completely unprompted, ensuring he made it home safe. 

Harry opened the back door for him, and the exhausted young man settled in. Harry entered the vehicle and turned on his music. Peter had expected maybe classical or opera or something equally pretentious; instead, the boy played a mix of alternative rock and soft indie. Peter would never admit this aloud, but it was nice. He settled into the silence and it was only slightly awkward. Maybe a little more than it needed to be due to Harry’s off-key singing. Finally, after a few minutes, Gwen spoke up.

“Where do you live Peter?”

Oh. He guessed that was important. Peter tried to think of any reason that information could be incriminating (and subsequently how to imperceptibly escape the car) but when he couldn’t find one; he gave his address. Sitting in Harry Osborn’s fancy, sleek black Bugatti, the young man was tempted to lie.

It was no secret that the Osborns were insanely wealthy. Peter recalled the first time Tony had taken him to his penthouse; the teen had bounced off the walls in amazement. Normal people don’t just have that sort of money, but Peter’s family had always struggled financially. Tony Stark was gracious enough, but he and May had been proud. They didn’t accept handouts. The Parkers worked hard for what they had, and they didn’t need anyone’s pity. 

Peter didn’t want anyone's pity. He shifted so he was facing out the window. The day's circulated in his head like clothes in a washing machine. Except all of the clothes were white, and a careless individual had thrown their red shirt into the load. Now, all of Peter’s laundry was pink. He’d either have to learn to love the color or buy new clothes, and the young adult didn’t have the funds for a whole new wardrobe. Where was he going with this…?

“So, how did the press conference go?”

Looking forward, Peter saw Harry peering at him through the rearview mirror. Gwen must’ve filled him. The guy was trying to make small talk, and Peter would rather he didn’t.

“Fine.” The vigilante answered apathetically.

Gwen huffed, unamused, and looked back at him. She sized him up briefly, before returning her gaze to the road. The car fell into an uncomfortable silence. Peter could hear Harry’s heart attempting to jump out of his chest. Why was the dude so nervous?

“Give me your phone.” Gwen reached her hand back, assertively.

Peter wondered what she wanted with it, but didn’t have any qualms about handing it to her. He didn’t really talk to anyone other than her. She typed something in and then passed it back within a matter of moments. 

“That's Harry’s number, you need anything, you call either of us. Got it?”

Peter stared at the new contact in his phone before glancing back up. Harry had his eyes on Peter, even though he definitely should’ve been watching the road, he noted. Despite this, the young adult begrudgingly made eye contact. Harry nodded briefly and redirected his attention back to driving. Huh. This whole thing was so weird.

Before he knew it, they were in front of his apartment building. Peter watched their expressions as they approached, looking for judgment or distaste. However, their demeanors remained the same. Gwen’s features schooled into a cool neutral, and Harry’s expression (pretentiously) twisted deep in thought. What an odd pair. Harry pulled the car up to the curb, and both turned to face Peter. 

“Do you need me to park closer?” “Would you like us to walk you inside?” His friends fussed over him in unison.

He hesitated. He didn’t know how he felt about referring to them as “his friends.” Well, of course, Gwen was his friend, but Harry- Peter didn’t trust him yet, honestly, he didn’t even know if he liked him. To be fair, he had just met the guy… and a variant of his father had caused the vigilante unimaginable grief and trauma.

However, despite how horribly tense the car ride had been, their intentions had seemed genuine. Peter didn’t know what to make of any of it. Now that he was home, he didn’t even want to patrol tonight. He supposed that, while this whole arrangement was uncomfortable, he was lucky Gwen hadn’t returned the favor and ditched him completely. He thanked the pair and assured them he was perfectly fine. 

He opened the car door and was grateful for the fresh air. Gwen had gotten out of the car to catch him before he headed inside for the night. She frowned at him, probably unsure what to say. Before he could think too hard about it, Peter pulled the thoughtful woman in for a hug. She tensed, having been caught off guard, and then squeezed him back. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit friend,” Peter whispered quietly enough for only Gwen to hear.

The apology didn’t feel like enough, especially since he’d still been a jerk in the car. She rested her head on his shoulder in response and huffed a laugh. 

“Yeah, you have been.” She whispered back, not unkindly.

Neither of them said anything to that. The silence left an unspoken conversation that both of them understood. It was nothing Peter could verbalize, but the fact she was here told him what he needed to know. 

Gwen ended the hug first and half-smiled at him. Her eyes shone redder than they had a moment ago, and Peter felt guilt pool in his stomach. What felt worse is he had no idea if he’d really worried her to tears or if there was something else going on. He knew absolutely nothing about her. He hadn’t put the effort in at all. He really needed to do better with this whole friend thing. Before he could ask her if she was ok, Harry had already come around and opened the car door.

“Have a good night, ok, Pete? Gwen and I are here if you ever need anything.” Harry smiled at him and closed the door for his friend.

Hm. Peter would rather he didn’t call him “Pete,” the nickname was reserved for Ben and…well, people who weren’t around anymore. Not in ways that mattered anyhow. Brushing off the thought, Peter considered the interaction. Harry really did have that whole chivalry thing going for him. Maybe he could play nice, for Gwen.

“Thanks, Harry, you do the same. It was uh, it was nice to meet you,” Peter tried not to sound too forced.

The billionaire’s son beamed at him. Peter wasn’t too sure why, he’d said that like he was reading off of note cards. He guessed it was the whole “effort” thing. It seemed to be the pair’s forte. Peter headed towards the apartment complex, noting how Gwen and Harry hadn’t driven off until Peter was safely inside the building. 

Was having friends always this draining? Peter threw his backpack onto the floor and heated a meal for himself. That wasn’t fair. He couldn’t have it both ways. Peter was always moping about how lonely he was. Now there were people genuinely attempting to spend time with him, and he wasn’t happy with that either. If nothing made Peter happy maybe he had to reevaluate the problem.

The young man began to eat his dinner and stared at the mirror on his bathroom wall. Deep purple bags rested beneath his eyes, he drowned in his shirt, and his hair stuck up in 5 different directions. He looked like a total mess, and he knew it would be a stretch to classify said mess as “hot.” He wasn’t too sure if he liked who he was becoming. 

Self-hatred wasn’t a new emotion, in fact; it was the closest thing he had to a friend. It whispered in his ear that he didn’t need anyone else. It held his hand and told him that without it, he’d become something far worse. It promised him that nobody else could love him because of all that he had done. Peter was scared to challenge it because what if it was right? So, he accepted it with open arms and let it devour him whole. 

Peter cleaned up from dinner and readied himself for bed. However, his dresser caught his eye. The young man knelt down beside the nightstand and opened the drawer. He hadn’t touched it in quite a long time. It had been at least a year if Peter had to guess. The stack of photos had gathered dust, literally and maybe metaphorically too.

Peter reached in, pulled the memories out one by one, and lay them on his bed. 

There were several photos, Peter reminisced on some of the captured memories. A tiny Ned and Peter on the beach in front of a massive sandcastle, smiling brighter than the sun that shone overhead. May, Ben, and a tiny Peter wearing an Iron Man Mask. At the bottom of the polaroid, “Stark Expo 2011,” was written in handwriting that was distinctively Ben’s. Peter and his decathlon team holding a massive trophy. Peter took a shaky breath. There were the photos he’d been looking for.

Together, Peter and Tony Stark held Peter’s “Stark Internship” certificate. The whole thing had been fabricated to make the internship look believable for May. There were three photos. the first one looked awkward and definitely served the purpose. The second and third…well, those had just been for them.

Mr. Stark had held the certificate upside down and teenaged Peter had sported the goofiest smile. At first glance, the genius looked agitated, but underneath, the man looked amused. The third picture was the same except instead of silly expressions, the two held peace sign bunny rabbit ears over each other’s heads. 

Peter had loved these photos, but now…now he wondered if he overthought the whole thing. Maybe the man’s initial agitation was just that. Peter scooped up the rest of his photos and placed them gently back in the drawer. These three, however, he didn’t ever want to see them again. In anger, Peter went to tear the photographs. It was a fantastic idea, really, a symbolic freedom from the connection he had been tricked into believing was real. It would be very cathartic and healing, he decided.

However, instead of doing that, the boy broke down into uncontrollable sobs. He left the photos on his nightstand, face down, and buried himself into his bed. He had been able to write an entire article about how selfish and egocentric the man was, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to rip some silly, little photographs. Pathetic. Slowly, the sobs diminished into the occasional sniffle, and eventually, the young man fell into sleep’s unwelcoming abyss.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Peter was awoken rudely by the insufferable blaring of his alarm clock. Groggily, he blinked open his eyes. Peter was swathed tightly in his blanket, but it may as well have been plastic wrap from the lack of heat it emitted. The wall-crawler stared down at his bed, uncomprehending of anything other than the piercing beeps. Wait. Why wasn’t he in his bed? In a moment of panic, his bedsheet slipped out of his grasp. He groaned in frustration.

Shit, he’d sleep-crawled into the corner of his ceiling again. This had begun to happen soon after he found himself living alone. It was pretty common, especially after a particularly hard patrol or a long day at work. It was another genetic instinct triggered by the bite, he had concluded. 

However, it was not something Peter had gotten used to. Waking up in a different location than he’d fallen asleep never stopped being alarming. The web-slinger unstuck his left hand from the wall and repositioned it onto the surface above him. The intention had been to lower himself back to the mattress, but, as soon as Peter removed his body from the wall, he understood why he had instinctively taken to the corner. The apartment was freezing. 

Peter yelped and curled himself back into the corner. Hadn’t Jameson given him the day off? Of course, he’d set his alarm on the one day he didn’t need it. That was so typical of him. The next 10 minutes consisted of Peter working up the courage to peel himself from the wall, sprinting for the blanket, unplugging the alarm altogether, and scuttling back into his corner. It was the most insulated part of his room and already warmed by his body heat. His raggedy mattress wasn’t cutting it today, and if his inner-arachnid wanted to sleep in a corner, who was he to judge?

***

Once the sun had spilled in through the window, Peter knew it was time to get the day rolling. After last night's meltdown and subsequent sleep-spidering, he decided he was going to take advantage of his (very rare) day off. First, however, Peter decided he was going to try out this whole “effort” business. 

Today 8:34 am

“Good morning, Gwen! 

Jameson gave me the day off so I’ll just be around. 

Thank you for the ride home last night.”

Satisfied, Peter sent the text. While he wasn’t too sure it was deserved, a day like this was long overdue. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a whole day to himself. It was a little overwhelming if he was being entirely honest. Peter let his eyes rest back on the drawer he kept his photos in, letting the well of emotions brew in his chest.

Why couldn’t it have been May? 

Despite the anger that he’d become reacquainted with, the thought invoked more of that nausea-inducing guilt. Who was he to trade one life for another? That wasn't what it was though. This wasn’t him wishing Tony Stark had stayed dead. It was simply him asking why May had.

Bad things happened to good people all the time. It was essentially a proverb, and it was one Peter had been familiar with his whole life. It was written on cards and whispered by adults who were at a loss for words. When “I’m sorry” wasn’t enough for Peter and he demanded an explanation, it had always been just that. Sometimes terrible things happened to the best people, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. That's just how it was.

May had been the best person, and a terrible thing had happened to her. That terrible thing was currently 19 years old and spent his free time swinging around New York City like Tarzan. What a joke. May had been a saint. Without her and Ben, Peter didn’t know what would have happened to him. All of the hero worship he had for Tony growing up was a byproduct of the incredible parenting those two provided. They had encouraged him to reach for the stars. So he had. 

If May and Ben were the moon and the tides, Tony had been the sun. In theory, it sounded like a dream, but when reaching for the heavens, people tend to forget how it feels to wander the beach at night. How the most grounded and safe they’ll ever be is when the water shimmers and the moonbeams reflect off the gentle waves. Just like any old Icarus, Peter had taken to the skies (for selfish reasons), and in the end, he had been burned. 

Except, unlike the Greek myth, the ocean had dried, and the moon was nowhere to be found. Instead, all that remained for Peter was a wasteland of shame and despair. Anger eroded the edges of cliffs where a body of water used to hold an abundance of life. The sun bore down on his back, blistering him without relief. Peter only had himself to blame. 

It was his fault May was dead. 

May had been unwaveringly kind and compassionate. It was never their responsibility to save the Goblin, yet she had insisted it was. She had died being someone far braver than Peter could’ve ever been on his own. That glider never would have touched her had he never talked to Strange, had he never gone to Germany, and had he never decided to be Spider-Man. May would still be alive had she never decided to love Peter Parker. 

It was easier, Peter decided a while ago, to reminisce on his grief for Tony. While he had often humored the train of thought that blamed him for the man’s death, it wasn’t so glaringly true. He could show himself forgiveness on his better days, and he could store that pain away the way everything else had been compartmentalized for him. “There was no other way.” Bad things happen to good people. Iron Man saved the universe, and that was the path he chose. These rationalizations didn’t always work. Ok, honestly, they hardly worked, but they were something, at least.

For May, however, there was nothing. There was no way to hide from himself what he’d done. This woman had raised him. After Ben had died, it had just been her and Peter against the world. She gave everything she ever had for him. There had been no rhyme or reason. May didn’t owe him a single thing. 

The day May discovered that Peter was Spider-Man, she had been terrified and furious. The livid woman had stormed over to the Avenger’s tower, Peter in tow, and given Tony a piece of her mind. She had fired off about how irresponsible the man had been, and how he had no right to bring a child into the horrifying world of superheroes. 

At age 15, Peter had thought his aunt was overreacting. While he understood her concerns, he had simply brushed them off as her worrying too much. Especially when she had eventually come around and supported him full throttle. Now, as an adult who had lived through the consequences that May had tried so hard to protect him from, Peter so desperately wished he had just listened to her. All she wanted was to keep him safe.

Spider-Man was a part of him, and it would always be, but he had been reckless. May could’ve kicked him out or buckled down and taken his suit or done anything, but instead, she had Peter’s back through it all. If Ned was his guy in the chair, May had been his home base. She held him accountable when he was wrong, provided comfort when he was hurt, and loved him more than Peter had ever been loved. She loved him more than Peter would ever be loved again. 

So, no, Peter didn’t think about her death often. He couldn’t afford to. She didn’t die saving the universe. She didn’t die in shiny armor surrounded by a fray of heroes. She didn’t die with a legacy of red and gold. May had died human. 

May died bleeding out from a preventable wound and effectively at the hands of the boy who had been like her own son. Peter could hate Norman Osborn and mistrust Harry for the rest of his life, but it wouldn’t change the truth. Peter had indirectly murdered the woman who had been like a mother to him. Every time Peter grieved her, he would have to suffocate in that grotesque, black, oil spill of regret.

If May had that miraculous second chance, she would’ve used it to help others. Even if she never remembered who Peter was, May’s return would’ve been nothing but a blessing. There would be no press conference. There wouldn’t be taco trucks or cosplayers or ear-splitting applause. There wouldn’t be fanfare or controversial news networks or angry, belligerent journalists. It would be just like any other day, but…the hospital would have one more nurse, the soup kitchen would have one more helping hand, and the Earth would have one more Angel walking its soil.

But normal people didn’t come back from the dead, right? There were no miracles for the everyday good people that terrible things happened to. Those were reserved for the billionaires, Gods, and supersoldiers. The Iron Men, the Captain Americas, the Lokis, and the Winter Soldiers were apparently, in the grand scheme of fate, more important than the May Parkers. 

That's just how it was.

***

Peter wrapped his arms around himself, shivering hard. The Harlem Cemetery always felt colder than the rest of the city. Even in the hot, humid high 90s of the summer sun, Peter would have to bring a jacket to these visits. The walk to the graveyard was one Peter had been taking longer than he could remember. At first, it was made with him, Ben and May; then it was just him and May. Now, Peter made the trek alone. 

There had been days Peter had come only intending to stay for a few minutes but unintentionally remained for hours. He and May used to make the trip once a month to visit Ben. They would bring a picnic and flowers, and then May would take him out for ice cream. There were many tears but also smiles and laughter and love. God, everywhere May had gone, there had been so much love. 

“Oh hey, long time no see.”

Peter jumped, not expecting anyone else to be there with him. Where was his spidey sense when he needed it? Sharply turning around, Peter faced the source of the intruder. Standing under a tree, a respectful distance away, stood Happy Hogan smiling softly. 

This wasn’t an unusual occurrence. While he hadn’t regained any of the rapport he’d built with the man, they did occasionally bump into each other at May’s burial sight. It was always courteous nods and unspoken understanding, however; today was different. Peter straightened his back and glared at the man before returning his attention to May’s headstone.

“Have you been doing ok, kid?” As if he feared spooking Peter, Happy spoke slowly. 

The young adult must look like some sort of frightened deer. That frustrated Peter heavily. He wasn’t intimidated by Happy, he was angry. No, he was livid.

“You know," Happy began, "every time I think I understand death or grief or any of those kinds of feelings; I’m made to realize that I don’t."

He sounded like he was trying to be comforting or wise or… something. Sometimes, when they had these run-ins, he and Peter would fill each other in on vague details about how their lives were going. Peter learned that Happy had moved into a new apartment and that, while it was hard without her, he was healing. 

However hard it was for Happy, it was 10 times harder for Peter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, considering the notion. That had never been a thought that crossed his mind before, but here he was. He didn’t want to hear whatever “nugget of wisdom” Happy had in store for him today. He just wanted time alone with his aunt.

“I have this friend,” Happy continued when Peter didn’t reply, “who I really thought was going to die.” 

No. No, no, no, no. Happy was not going to come to Peter’s aunt's grave and start talking about Tony Stark. He had no right. A fury boiled deep in his chest, making his hands shake. Peter tried to hold his tongue, but, ultimately, lost the battle.

“Happy, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.” 

Peter quickly pursed his lips and stared at his feet. He felt shocked by the words that had just left his mouth. Had he really just said that to Happy in front of where May was buried? He could practically feel the woman roll over beneath his feet. He had been way out of line. Still, Peter couldn’t bring himself to apologize.

Happy had gone completely silent. The only sounds Peter could hear were his own heartbeat, the (probably bewildered) heartbeat of the man standing next to him, and the rustle of the wind between the leaves. However, the loudest sound in the space between them was the billowing of betrayal. Peter couldn’t have screamed over it if he had tried. 

When it had just been him and May, there were days Peter felt like she was the only one who really understood him. Peter had lost his mother, father, and uncle. May had lost her brother and sister-in-law and her husband. Together, they taught each other how to navigate the stormy waters of grief. It was like a sitcom with a really tragic premise…so kinda like Frozen. She was Anna and he was Elsa. Except, instead of saving her in the end with true familial love or something beautiful and Disney, his “ice powers” (read: spider powers) killed her. 

Peter never wanted to watch Frozen ever again. 

“I saw you,” Happy whispered shakily. 

Peter frowned and finally looked up at him. However, Happy was no longer looking in his direction. His arms were crossed and he was glaring intently at the headstone in front of them. 

“At the press conference, I mean. I uh. I watched you duck into that weird nook in the side of the compound," Happy continued, "The others were about to pursue you, but I told them I recognized you. That I knew you weren’t up to anything sinister."

Peter grimaced. Why couldn’t he just take a hint? He didn’t want to talk about- he paused. He had been seen; well, so much for subtlety. He didn’t really care that Happy had defended him or whatever. That didn’t change what he did. 

“Thanks,” Peter spat out. 

Happy nodded and they both returned to a stiff stalemate. Neither of them had disclosed how they knew May to each other, other than “through Spider-Man.” Whatever that was supposed to mean on Happy’s end. 

May hadn’t known either.

Nobody had told Peter this, but he knew because if May had known, she would’ve told him first. As he said, she was the only one who understood. If May was here now, she would be just as outraged as he was. She wouldn’t just let Happy off the hook for it, so Peter certainly wasn’t about to. 

Peter didn’t want to be around him anymore either. The man had literally let Peter cry to him about how much he missed Tony, and he had comforted him. Why? Which of the default responses could this one chalk up to, “bad things happen to good people,” or “there was no other way?” He huffed a humorless laugh to himself out loud, drawing Happy’s confused attention. Peter didn’t care. 

Closing his eyes, he knelt down beside his aunt's grave, gently kissed his own palm, and set it against the cold granite. He could feel it when Happy averted his gaze, apparently wanting to give the boy and his deceased family member some space. Peter had done what he needed to.

He stood back up, side-eyed Happy, and shoved his hands in his pockets, marching out of the graveyard without another word. He wouldn’t wait so long to see her again next time. It was the least he could do. He’d put so much energy into attempting to reconcile his grief for Tony by trying just as hard to neglect and shove down his grief for her.

It didn't work.

All he'd managed to do was repress her death as a whole. He was done fighting it. It was time to take accountability. It was everything May stood for, and it was everything she would want for him. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

“With great power, comes great responsibility,” 

He clenched his palms and pulled his hood over his head. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a good person, and it was evident in the collateral damage that always trailed in his wake. The Sokovia Accords were in place for “so-called heroes” like him. Spider-Man was amazing on paper, sure. He had the powers, the saves, the stats, and the colors. None of it mattered. The day May died, Peter Parker lost his heart. 

God, he really wished it had been May.

Chapter Text

Peter shoved open the doors to the cafe he knew his old friends would be at. After his run-in with a certain head of SI, he really wanted some positive interaction with his past. However, when he entered the store, he was hit with an icy chill unrelated to the weather. It was a bizarre thought, but he almost felt like an intruder. Sitting at their usual booth, MJ and Ned stopped their conversation as soon as they became aware of his presence. 

MJ gave him a once over and crossed her arms, and Ned averted his gaze to the table. Peter was perplexed. What happened between now and when they last spoke? Was this related to him at all? A part of him wanted to bolt, but instead, he decided to approach the pair anyways. Even if they didn’t know it, they were his friends. He knew them, and he knew they weren’t unreasonable. At one point in time, they had cared for him. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

“Hey guys,” Peter attempted.

“Oh. Hey,” MJ muttered, agitation present in her tone.

“Hi,” Ned squeaked out.

Peter stood at the base of the booth shifting from one foot to the other. Neither of them invited him to sit down, and he wasn’t sure what to do now. Seriously what was going on, did he smell bad or something? He decided to try a little harder.

“So, what have you guys been up to?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh uh, not much, just here, you know…”

Peter frowned. This whole conversation felt incredibly out of character for both of them. They were giving him the Flash treatment . When the guy wouldn’t stop giving them a hard time, they eventually just started treating him with indifference. It worked well enough, but he’d never been on the receiving end of it before. They all regarded each other with a tense silence, before Ned finally sighed and moved over so Peter could sit. MJ glared at the boy, but he shrugged helplessly.

Peter tentatively accepted the seat and claimed the space next to his friend. Ned glanced at him out of peripheral, and MJ stared him down in a challenging manner. Peter shifted in his seat, doing his best to seem unbothered. Finally, MJ broke the ice.

“Peter, as in Peter Parker , right?” she practically spat his last name.

“Uh…yes?”

“Mm.”

“MJ, come on,” Ned muttered, clearly embarrassed.

He glanced between the two, confused and increasingly becoming irritated. Here he was in the dark again. This was the exact opposite reason he had come here. He was losing his patience. If he did something wrong, they just needed to tell him. Though he couldn’t imagine what he did.

“Is there a problem?” he didn’t mean to snap, but it just came out that way.

“Oh, no, definitely not. Well, except for that you’re one of those vultures for the Daily Bugle,” she sneered in disgust.

He didn’t say anything to that. All of the frustration that had been building up dissolved into a tired defeat. Yeah, this was deserved. He didn’t even consider that they would think anything of it, let alone learn about it at all. Not for the first time that week, shame bubbled up to the surface and threatened to spill over.

“Yeah man, it’s just not…” Ned trailed off.

“Not cool?” Peter supplied.

MJ pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows in a “something like that,” gesture. Ned nodded meekly but earnestly. Peter sighed and debated just calling it a day. He was doing so good too. He’d finally worked up the courage to talk to them again, and now because of his stupid day job he wouldn’t be able to reconnect with them. 

“Why do you work there, dude?” Ned questioned.

“It’s easy,” Peter answered without thinking.

Ned wore a confused frown and MJ’s expression was indiscernible. Neither of them spoke, however, giving him the time to elaborate. He honestly didn’t know why he said that. Sure it was easy, but that didn’t really matter . Lots of things were functionally easy . He didn’t know how to express what he was trying to say in a way that they would understand.

“I don’t like the job,” he clarified.

“Then why do you do it?” MJ pushed, “There are so many other easy jobs. Besides, from what I read of that article published this morning, you could’ve had me fooled.”

“Yeah…MJ and I aren’t really ‘pro-billionaire,’ but Tony Stark saved the world. You wrote about him so personally. You were kind of…” Ned gestured with his hands, attempting to imply…something.

“ projecting ,” MJ finished, bluntly, “I could hear your daddy issues through the article.”

“MJ!” Ned gasped, wide-eyed.

Peter couldn’t move. He, Ned, and MJ used to criticize the writers of the Daily Bugle together, and MJ had said in their group setting that, if she ever got the opportunity, she’d tell one of them exactly how she felt. Turned out that she wasn’t lying. 

Also, what the hell was that about? He hadn’t written down, what she had said… “Daddy issues?” God, no. It had been a little over the top sure, but other than being dramatic, it was a perfectly reasonable critique of Tony’s misuse of power. Briefly, he couldn’t help but remember how Jameson had praised him so highly. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

“I don’t have a choice,” he hissed.

“Bullshit,” MJ retorted, “there's always a choice.”

Peter was reeling from this interaction. MJ would’ve never talked to him like this before. He wanted to say she’d never talk to anybody like this, but he knew it wasn’t true. She was never afraid to stand up for what she believed in. He tried not to let it hurt that she no longer believed in him. 

He stood up to leave. He wasn’t oblivious, and he knew where he wasn’t wanted. However, Ned lightly grabbed his sleeve.

“What she means is that we think you’re better than that, dude.”

He let go of his shirt and continued to avoid eye contact. Peter wished he could hug him, but…things were different now. He knew that they were right. What he was doing was cowardly, and what he’d written last night was inexcusably vile. He’d let the anger seep from him like venom and spread hateful propaganda for his own personal gain.

All of this turmoil was eating at him from the inside out. If he couldn’t rid himself of the parasite that was consuming him, he would rot eventually. He’d be no better than bitter, old J. Jonah Jameson. The thought made him ill, especially considering he still didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the knowledge.

“Thank you,” Peter whispered and turned on his heel to leave.

“Come back sometime, loser.”

With his hand planted on the door to push it open, he turned his head sharply. MJ regarded him in a way that he wasn’t going to attempt to understand. Was she always this confusing? He definitely still had feelings for her, the butterflies that swarmed and slammed into his abdomen promised as much, but he didn’t remember it being a fight for his life. However, he also wasn’t a journalist for the scummiest news network before either so…

“Okay, I will.”

He let the door close behind him and made his way into the bustling crowd of people. It was only 12:30 pm. He still had the entire day ahead of him. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he patrolled during daylight hours. He was absolutely about to take full advantage considering how awful the conditions had become at night.

Ducking into an alley, he shifted the nanotech in front of his clothes and raced up the brick. He wasted no time projecting himself out and into the city. The sun reflected against his lenses and he basked in midair, letting the cool breeze clash with the warm rays. Sometimes, when the sun kissed his cheeks, he’d imagine it was May watching over him. The thought comforted the dull ache in his bones.

“Spider-Man, you have an incoming call from Tony Stark. Would you like me to answer?”

Currently midswing, he gripped the web tighter. Not this again. He wouldn’t go barreling into a building this time, but damn did he want to smash into something. While Bruce Banner may not approve, he and the Hulk would be best friends, for sure. Why was Tony even trying to contact him? It wasn’t like the man remembered him.

Unless…the possibility hit him like a freight train. What if, because of the coma, Tony never forgot him? It wouldn’t undo what the man did, no. Peter was still livid, but…it would be so nice to be remembered. It would be such a relief to pick up the phone and have someone, who knew him, want to speak to him. In a fluid motion, he thwiped to another building and made a decision.

“Answer the call.”

Karen transferred the call through. Neither of them wanted to speak first, (at least, he certainly didn’t) he was met with silence. He wouldn’t give in. It wasn’t his responsibility to put in the effort here. He never would’ve put Tony in this position. If the roles were reversed, Peter would’ve told him.

“Hello?” Finally, Tony spoke.

“Hi.”

“Oh, so that’s what Spider-Man sounds like, yeah ?” his tone almost sounded accusing.

All of the hope he’d built up was quickly blown away by the rushing wind. Of course, he didn’t remember him. Everybody forgot Peter Parker. A sickening question wormed its way into his mind. Did that include the deceased?

“Got nothing to say? Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t either.”

He squinted in confusion, momentarily dismissing the looming fear. Instead, he wanted to circle back to the absurd situation. Tony almost seemed angry with him. The irony of it all was not lost on Peter. If anything, he was about to start laughing. 

“I’m sure you know who I am.”

Presumptuous much? He wasn’t Thor or Jesus or something. He couldn’t recall seeing the Bible of or Complete Mythologies of  Tony Stark in the bookstore. Not wanting to stroke his ego further, he played dumb.

“Remind me,” Peter spat.

“Anyways,” the billionaire dismissed, “I don’t know if it was the coma or old age, but I can’t seem to remember who exactly belongs behind that mask. However, I do know he was like a son to me.”

Peter gaped. What in the Orphan Annie? MJ’s comment on daddy issues, now this garbage? Whatever he was remembering had to be distorted because if he really was “like a son” to him, then he would’ve left him off the “people to jumpscare,” list. 

“Right-” he half muttered and half laughed before Tony cut him off.

“Like I was saying, I specifically gave him the suit you are currently wearing. I don’t know how you got it or what you think you’re doing. Honestly, I don’t care, but now that Iron Man is back in business, I’m going to need you to hand it over.”

“Ok, it’s not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back.”

Peter found the nearest rooftop and harshly rolled onto it. What kind of insane, backward logic was that? He couldn’t even assume for a minute that maybe whoever he remembered being “close” to was whoever was in the suit. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, and Peter…well Peter was just an idiot. 

“I know you heard me,” Tony sounded much closer this time.

His spidey sense licked at his spine, and immediately Peter pulled himself to his feet and faced the threat. Standing directly in front of him was Iron Man in the titanium-gold alloy. Peter shifted to a defensive stance and remained silent. Two years ago, he may have been rambling explanations or indignantly shouting. 

“I don’t want to have to do this the hard way,” Tony stated, tinny and distorted through the armor. 

“Then don’t. This is my suit,” he stood his ground.

“How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“You gave it to me ,” Peter’s voice hitched on the last syllable, despite his desperate attempt to remain collected. 

Tony furrowed his eyebrows. Peter had never tried before, so he didn’t know if he could coerce memories out of people. Not that he wanted to. What he wanted was for Iron Man to mind his own damn business so that he could go back to patrolling. What he wanted was to visit his aunt in peace. What he had really and truly wanted was to be able to move on with his life.

“Did I…?”

Peter had expected some denial and maybe a string of insults. Instead, Tony prompted FRIDAY to shift the suit to sentry mode. He got out and slowly began to approach him. Reflexively, Peter took a step back. The man’s features definitely reflected his age. He had wrinkles where they hadn’t been before, and gray had seeped into his previously dark roots. Time was a malevolent ruler, even to the most loyal of its subjects.

He guessed the man who broke the rules to save the world couldn’t really be considered loyal . Seeing him on TV had been one thing, and seeing him at the press conference had been another.

Face-to-face, however, was an entirely different rodeo. He wanted to punch him, to hug him, to hurt him; to scream, to cry, to…he didn’t know. 

He didn’t know, so he didn’t do anything. 

The closer Tony got, the more Peter was reminded of that moment on the battlefield. How he had saved Tony from a fatal blow, and in response, the man had pulled him into one of the safest hugs he’d ever experienced. It was second only to May’s. There’d been many times before, and even more after, that he had wanted a hug like that.

This moment was not one of them. 

He wasn’t being entirely honest, but he also wasn’t about to let his guard down. Tony lied to him, and now he was here for…for what? The suit? He was probably being manipulative with his whole “did I” act. Peter wouldn’t fall for it. Hovering directly in front of him, Tony extended up his hand, and Peter cautiously followed it with his eyes. What was he reaching for? Peter’s face? His cheek? 

No. He was reaching for the mask. 

Peter shoved the man backward. Despite his anger, he attempted to hold back. Without the armor, he was just that: a man. He wouldn’t let Tony’s blood be on his hands. Never again.

Tony stumbled at the push and briefly lost his balance. Peter watched as he caught himself on the concrete roof. The expression on his face was complete and utter disbelief . 

Good, now he could imagine how Peter felt.

He lingered a second later to make sure Tony wasn’t injured and then bolted. Taking off in the opposite direction, he turned corners and dodged into random alleyways. He needed to use this moment to his advantage. He could always outrun Tony, but Iron Man (Iron Man with a tracker that is) was a different story. 

Once he felt satisfied, he slipped into a final alley and shook off the nanotech. The tracker had to go, but, as of now, he didn’t have the materials to do it. 

Flying under the radar was so much easier when he was a student. Random materials in chemistry class made perfect ingredients to his endeavors, but now…he barely had the resources to live, let alone be a superhero.

Peter pulled out his phone and noticed he had a few incoming texts from a group chat he didn’t recall being in. 

Today 3:43 pm

Gwen: “Hey! Just thought I’d make this

in case either of you just wants to talk.”

Harry: “Hell yeah.”

Staring down at the messages, a thought occurred to him. Oscorp had plenty of lab space. He didn’t know how to approach the conversation, but maybe Harry and Gwen were exactly who he needed to speak to right now. For the umpteenth time that day, he made a split decision. Hovering over Harry’s contact, he quickly hit “call” before he could second guess himself.

Chapter Text

“Hey man, thanks so much for letting me use the lab.”

“Don’t sweat it. What are friends for?”

“Ok, but you can kick me out anytime.”

“I know,” Harry grinned cheekily, “Gwen should be over once her shift ends. Maybe we can make a whole night of it.”

“Yeah, maybe...” he muttered.

Peter felt a little guilty using Harry like this, but he was desperate. Also, “ using” wasn’t the right word. He needed to put the effort into his friendship with Gwen, and bonding with her best friend might be a step in the right direction. The problem resided in the fact that he didn’t really want to talk to the guy. 

After visiting May’s grave earlier in the day, everything that happened with alternate Norman Osborn suddenly lurked front and center in his mind again. It was as if he’d ripped a bandaid off of an open wound.

Harry showed him to his father’s personal lab, which felt way too nice, and told Peter to “make himself at home.” However, the guy didn’t leave. This meant that Peter was forced to come up with an excuse because he couldn’t very well remove the tracker without revealing the suit.

He did write articles about Spider-Man, so maybe the vigilante called in a favor? This whole thing was going to look so suspicious. He sighed and pulled the mask out of his pocket along with the nanotechnology. He rolled it around in his hands before setting it on the table and looking around the lab for tools.

The lab was pretty impressive, to say the least. It wasn’t quite Mr. Sta--

He pushed the thought down. There was no need to make comparisons. Harry had a nice lab. There were a ton of high-tech works in progress scattered around the space that really added to the pristine factor of a billionaire’s lab.

Peter’s favorite part, by far, resided a couple feet from where he stood. Built into the wall, a toolbox, monitored by AI, held anything under the sun that ge he could possibly need.

He truly felt back in his element.

He meandered over to the toolbox and found what he was looking for. Nanobots weren’t simply “hackable,” which was the whole point. He needed to dig a little deeper, and the materials needed to do so weren’t cheap. Thank the world for billionaires. 

He laughed humorlessly at the irony of it all.

When he moved to go back to the table, he saw Harry Osborn hovering, turning over a specific red and blue piece of cloth in his hand. His eyes shone with wonder and awe but, notably, not surprise. Peter didn’t dwell on that, instead ripping the mask out of Harry’s hand.

“Hands off the merchandise,” he snapped.

“That’s Spider-Man’s mask…”

“Yeah.”

“What are you gonna do to it?” 

There was no accusation in Harry’s tone, instead only curiosity. It was refreshing because a part of him genuinely wanted to explain it to someone. Peter still didn’t know if he could trust him, but he was in Harry’s lab. He’d made this choice the second he picked up the phone.

“He asked me to remove some technology from it.”

“Didn’t Tony Stark build that suit?” 

“Yeah, but it belongs to Spider-Man,” Peter growled with misdirected irritation.

“I’m not saying it’s not, but why would he want to mess with multimillion-dollar technology?”

Peter shrugged. When he said he wanted to explain it, he had meant the technological aspect. Not all the nitty gritty details of why he was doing it. The reason he was doing it was between him and a certain nosy ass man who followed him onto rooftops and threatened to take the suit back. 

Harry didn’t press further, instead sitting on the table and watching Peter work. It was a bit strange, but Peter didn’t flinch under the observation. It became kind of calming, actually, to have somebody sharing his space just to be with him. 

“Do you sit on the table when your dad is working?” Peter questioned.

He wasn’t too sure why he prompted the conversation. He hadn’t wanted to actually talk to Harry to begin with, but…something about this whole interaction prompted him to break the silence. 

“Oh, God, no. He’d kill me,” Harry laughed.

Peter found himself laughing too. The two fell back into an unexpectedly amicable silence for a while. He found himself not actually minding the company. At one point, Harry raised his hand slightly before putting it back down. It was like wanted to say something. Peter didn’t know what that was about but decided to wait it out. He’d talk when he figured out what he was trying to say. 

Peter debated what he actually wanted to do here. He had now hooked up the suit to a circuit board and was looking at the code from within his laptop. It was written in Python, which he wasn’t too familiar with, but also not afraid of. On one hand, he could remove the tracker alone and leave Karen. However, Karen was A) no longer able to respond to him, and B) programmed to specifically contact Tony in the case of emergencies. 

New grief washed over him as he realized that, if he kept the AI, it would defeat the purpose of this entirely. Maybe Tony had a backup in his lab…but that didn’t matter. That was the whole point. He’d never be in the Avenger’s lab again. Tony was never going to remember who he was and the AI wouldn’t either. If he wanted to separate himself from his old mentor, he would have to go through with this full send.

“If you delete that AI, what do you lose?” 

Peter jumped, not realizing that Harry was directly behind him. Hadn’t he just been on the table a second ago? The guy had stealth down for sure. He added that to the list of reasons he was suspicious of him. Also, he hadn’t even considered that Harry may know a thing or two about programming. 

“I don’t lose anything.”

Harry seemed to mull this over in his head. Peter hadn’t been lying. He wouldn’t lose anything because he’d already lost it. If he kept the AI in, all it would do was cause problems. He missed Karen an unreasonable amount (considering that she was Artificial Intelligence), and it had been a comfort that she was still in the suit. However, he’d lost significantly worse than some fake, built-in robot. He needed to sort out these nonsensical attachment issues. 

“This may seem…uh,” Harry shifted so he was leaning against the table and facing away from Peter, “My dad and I aren’t as close as I wish we were.”

Peter stopped typing for a moment and peered over at Harry. He was curled in on himself slightly. Ok, weird. Were they having a therapy session now? It was sweet that Harry thought he was so trustworthy, but he was just Peter. If he were decked out in his Iron Spider suit, he’d totally be on board, but this was a little unprecedented. 

“He’s a busy guy, you know? Never really makes the time for me.”

Peter picked up one of the tools and tossed it from one hand to the other. He didn’t know where Harry was going with this, but he waited for him to continue. Maybe he just needed someone to listen to him. He could get behind that. 

There wasn’t a personal hell quite like feeling invisible. 

“The guy is selfish and shitty and only cares about money. He’s been acting weird lately too, and I gotta pick up all the pieces,” Harry curled his hands into fists.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Peter.

Harry shook out his hands but continued to stare at the floor. His gaze was intense and contemplative like he was trying to find the perfect thing to say. Eventually, he sighed.

“No, Peter, I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Harry glanced at the suit on the table before speaking again. Peter tensed, unsure of what was about to happen.

“Iron Man was kinda like Spider-Man’s father figure right?”

“No,” Peter snapped, once again, a little harsher than he’d meant to.

“Ok. Well, I still think what he did to you- your friend is shitty,” Harry was watching him earnestly now.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Peter shifted so he could no longer see Harry.

“If my dad, who I’ve got a bit of a rocky relationship with, was in a coma for years but made sure everybody had told me he was dead, I’d…I don’t know what I’d do.”

Peter dropped his tool at that. It clattered on the ground, the sound filling the space with an ear-splitting ring. What did Harry just imply? The whole world forgot he was Spider-Man, so why the fuck would Harry fucking Osborn know? He did not want to deal with this today. In fact, he didn’t want to deal with it ever. He didn’t want to go back to the graveyard, he didn’t want to talk to Ned and MJ again, he didn’t ever want to see or hear about Tony Stark again, and he didn’t want to know why Harry knew his identity. 

Finalizing his decision, he quickly deleted Karen from the code in his suit. The loss was inevitable, and it was better to rip the bandaid off, watch the blood spill and soak into his clothes, and let the wound heal jagged and rough. Scars built character. He shut the laptop, grabbed the suit, quickly thanked Harry, and headed for the exit.

“Peter, man, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry called after him, “Hey if you need space, I get it. Just know I’m on your team.”

Harry’s parting words stuck with Peter as he trudged his way through the fresh snow back to his apartment. He was “on his team” huh? No, this whole thing smelt fishy. There was no way that Harry, who he’d just met, would know his identity. There was something seriously rotten going on. 

He slammed the door to his apartment and threw his backpack onto the floor. Following his nightly routine he warmed himself up with some food, brushed his teeth, threw on night clothes, set his alarm, and made his way underneath the covers. He didn’t check his phone. Today’s “effort attempt” had been a bust. It was as if everything he could’ve possibly considered dreading happened all at once.

Happy had betrayed him, Ned and MJ hated him, and Tony was actively hunting him down. He wasn’t even going to bother trying to decipher what had just happened at Harry’s lab. He pulled the covers closer into himself, shaking.

As sleep began to claim his mind, a little bit of grace gradually trickled into his consciousness. Every single person he’d spoken to today had done something a little unexpected. Happy had defended him despite barely even knowing him, MJ and Ned had been disappointed in him but told him to come back anyways, Harry had genuinely attempted to connect with him, and Tony…

Tony could’ve laughed in his face when he said that he’d given him the suit but he didn’t. Sure, he’d reached for his mask, but maybe it was a little more complex than just trying to take the suit by force. What if it was just a genuine desire for knowledge? What if he had just really wanted to see Peter? 

Something was happening either with the spell or with him or both. He had noticed the little changes. The different ways people had begun to address him stood out. It seemed heavier. He felt like people were starting to see Peter Parker again. Honestly, after being unseen for so long, it was petrifying.

He was well acquainted with the endless void of being forgotten, but he couldn’t begin to comprehend what it must feel like to forget.

With that final thought, he drifted off into the icy caverns of sleep.

Chapter Text

Despite going to bed earlier than not the night before, Peter was basically a zombie by the time he arrived at work. Usually, since he’s one of the first people in the office, he’d turn on the lights and maybe play some music from his laptop. Today he didn’t do any of that. In truth, he didn’t do anything at all.

When he opened his computer, he was greeted with the saved code from the day before. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he could’ve gotten away with keeping Karen in the program. 

Realistically, he knew that wasn’t an option, but it still hurt nonetheless. He read and reread the source file. In an ideal world, he’d never have needed to mess with it in the first place. He didn’t know how removing the AI’s specific memory was going to affect the suit’s call and response. He hoped it wouldn’t be a hassle to control the different webbing functions. 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the telltale sound of someone entering the office space. Looking up, he saw Gwen, with one earbud in, humming to herself. When they made eye contact, she smiled at him. 

“Good morning, Peter! Harry told me you two had a bit of a boy's night yesterday.”

“Is that what he called it?”

Peter didn’t know what to think of that. Those probably weren’t his exact words, but the interaction hadn’t necessarily been positive. Aside from the final 10 minutes, however, it hadn’t been negative either. He certainly wouldn’t have described it as a “boy's night” though. 

“No,” Gwen snorted as she went to turn on the light.

Oh man, had no one else come in today? Peter didn’t even notice. He’d just been sitting in the dark for 4 hours completely unbothered. It had been nice on his eyes, at least. Before he could ask what Harry had actually said, Gwen spoke again.

“You look like you were hit by the subway on your way here,” she teased while setting a coffee in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he rolled his eyes playfully, “do you want me to pay you back?”

“Nope,” she popped the ‘p’ and sat down at her desk. 

Peter smiled to himself. He was starting to feel more himself with Gwen than he had in forever. He really did miss having friends. Accepting he wasn’t going to get much work today, he wanted to follow through with the realization he’d had the night she and Harry drove him home.

“So, what’s been going on with you?”

“Hm?” Gwen paused her music.

“I just feel like I don’t know too much about you.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve been staying over at my mom’s for the holidays. Christmas is coming soon, you know,” she clapped her hands in mock celebration, “My siblings were supposed to fly out, but the weather had different plans.” 

“I didn’t know you had siblings.”

“Yeah, 3 brothers. It’s nice having everyone back,” she sighed wistfully, “my siblings and my mom were blipped, so for a while it was just my dad and I.”

“You weren’t snapped?” Peter whispered.

It was still hard to talk about. Losing 5 years of his life had been jarring. He originally had thought it’d be more difficult for the people who lived through it to discuss, but he quickly discovered that most of them were desensitized to the whole thing. 

“No,” she hummed, thoughtfully, “I was 13 when it happened.”

His eyes widened. She was 13? That was so young. He had been 15 when he became Spider-Man, and, in hindsight, he realized that was insane. The whole thing was so surreal. Sometimes he forgot that there were little children who had been born in the midst of it all. Sometimes he forgot about Morgan Stark…

He’d only met her a couple of times, but she had adored him. It was mutual, of course, but she always treated him as if he hung the moon and the stars. He had no idea why, but it was beyond endearing. He missed her.

“You said it was just you and your dad?” 

“Yeah, it was until I was about 17. He passed around this time 3 years ago,” Gwen had stopped typing and was staring at her screen, unseeing. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

He didn’t know her exact grief, but he understood how heavy it was to lose a parent. From what she was saying, Gwen had been on her own for at least a year before Tony reversed the snap. Maybe they had more in common than he initially thought.

“Don’t be. He died doing what he loved,” she smiled softly, “he was the head of the NYPD.”

Peter had worked with the New York Police Department before. Well, kinda, it was more of an unspoken collaboration. He had them on speed dial, and they listened to him directly when needed. The thought that he may have known Gwen’s father felt foreign and bizarre.

“After,” she paused, tilting her head back in thought, “after Spider-Man was snapped, Queens became a cesspool for crime.”

“Oh…?” 

“Yeah, especially since Chitauri weaponry was still being distributed under the table.”

This was news to him. Hadn’t he and Tony (but mainly Peter) dealt with the Vulture? That whole operation should’ve been shut down.

“Wait what? I thought they caught those guys?”

“They did, but there was a massive prison breach during the snap.”

He supposed that made sense. If half of the world was erased, that could have plausibly meant half of the security was as well. 

“What did they do about it?”

“Well, it took a while, but they reincarcerated a good majority of the escaped convicts. The damage had already been done at that point though.” 

He nodded solemnly. There was so much that happened when he was gone, and he had no idea how he was supposed to keep up with it all. Despite being a reporter, he still didn’t know half of it. 

“Spider-Man has always been my favorite superhero.”

Peter glanced over at Gwen, confused as to where she was going with this. He hadn’t been a vigilante for that long, not really. At least, it definitely hadn’t been enough time for him to do anything truly impactful. 

If he wasn’t snapped, maybe he could understand her take. However, she had 5 years (in between the 5 he’d been swinging through the city) to pick a different, more reliable hero. 

“I was 10 when he first appeared in Queens.”

Holy shit. He almost had to do a double-take. She wasn’t even in middle school when he first dawned the suit. 

“I wasn’t a big fan of superheroes until that point. What happened in 2012 only solidified that for me,” she made direct and unwavering eye contact with Peter. 

“People with powers or money or grand abilities were dangerous, and they didn’t care how many people were hurt or how many cities they leveled. Don’t even get me started on how Sokovia was obliterated because of an AI…”

He understood where she was coming from. He’d never quite looked at it like that. It made him grateful that he fought for the accords, but that gratitude left him with more questions than answers.

“So one day this new guy in a red and blue sweatshirt and weird goggles starts swinging around my city,” she huffed out a laugh to herself, “my dad hated him initially. He spun more of that ‘Spider Menace’ angle that you’re weaving over there.”

“Spun…weave…” he muttered with a mischievous grin.

An eraser came flying in his direction and hit him on the side of his head. Ow. What was that for? He totally thought those puns had been intended.

“Shut up, Parker, I’m being serious right now,” she chided with a wide grin.

“My bad,” he chuckled.

“It is,” she paused for dramatic effect, “as I was saying, we hated this guy, right?”

“We?” 

“My dad and I—“

“Weren’t you 10?”

“Anyways, so we already had this general disdain for him, and then he starts swinging around in Stark tech.” 

Huh. He never considered how that could be off-putting, but his suit was more expensive than anything he’d ever owned…it was probably worth more than him. Tony seemed to think so, if nothing else.

“So then we’re like ‘great, just what Queens needs, a trust fund superhero.’”

He cringed at that. Sometimes he contemplated getting rid of the suit entirely. Owning something like that after— well, it felt like an anvil on his chest. It wasn’t so simple, however, Spider-Man wasn’t just a costume. It was him , and he didn’t have the funds for any protective gear remotely similar to the SI suit. Honestly, he didn’t even think he could afford the old hoodie and sweatpants he used to wear.

The suit would absolutely sell for an unmentionable sum of cash, but everything about that felt dirty. The tech was dangerous, and it couldn’t just belong to anyone. Also it was a gift, and it was the last real thing he had from…not that that mattered. 

“But y- he was never like that. Spider-Man turned down being an Avenger to stay in Queens and help little old ladies cross the street,” she grinned.

Peter almost didn’t catch the slip at the beginning of her sentence. Almost being the keyword. 

“And he fought Thanos…he helped save the whole damn world. Like he literally died, and the first thing he did when he came back was to go kick an ugly purple alien’s ass—“

“So yeah, we were wrong about him. I just wish my dad was around to see how it all panned out,” she smiled at him earnestly, “He was really rooting for you.”

“…me?” 

Gwen‘s eyes widened as if she’d made some sort of Freudian slip. She quickly shook her head and cleared her throat. 

“No, of course not. You as in uh the erm the ‘metaphorical you.’“

“Right…” 

She said “you.” She looked directly at him and said “you.” There was no way both Gwen and Harry could know, right? Actually, no, that would make a lot of sense. Still…

“I don’t think I like superheroes anymore,” Peter attempted to change the subject. 

“If I were you, I don’t think I would either.”

Either both of them were waiting for the other to say something, or neither of them had anything left to add. The conversation ceased, and they fell into a forlorn sort of silence.

***

The workday had come and gone. Peter waved his goodbye to Gwen who stopped him and gave him a hug before he left. He was grateful to have her in his corner. 

His intention today had just been to go home and take a nap. From the way he could barely keep his eyes open on the route home, he knew that his body desperately needed it. He’d been burning the candle at both ends. 

He went to open his apartment door but faltered. A familiar but unwelcome tingle crept and crawled its way up his spinal cord. In place of its usual stream, time became a slow and steady drip.

Drip.

        Drip.

                   p.

                          Thump.

                                       Th-Thump.

There was someone in his apartment. 

The heartbeat was irregular and matched the pitter-patter of the rain that had begun to fall outside. It was concerningly rapid in some moments and far too slow in others. The beats were smooth and jagged as if their owner was both perfectly content and in a frenzy of anxiety. He knew that heartbeat. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Peter slammed open the door. 

“Oh good, I was wondering when you’d be home. I’m starting to get a bit hungry, but your pantry is a little barren,” the intruder quipped.

“Get out.”

Sitting on his raggedy old couch that he’d managed to find in a thrift store was none other than Tony Stark himself. He’d taken the tracker out of his suit, sure, but he supposed that didn’t account for any previous stalking the billionaire had done. 

“Awe, come on, let me treat you to lunch or something. In return, you can tell me why you have my suit,” he held out his hands amicably.

“Get. Out.” Peter repeated, pointing at the door. 

“Woah, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed-“

“No, you can’t just barge into my home uninvited. This is the kind of shit you do,” he started to pace around the small space.

“You did it to me when I was 15 and dragged me into your stupid flexing contest with Captain America, and now you’re doing it again ,” he fumed.

“Are you talking about Germany?”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter, Tony. What matters is that if you don’t leave, I’m calling the damn cops.”

Tony smirked at that, probably not intentionally, but it set Peter off. He stepped toward him threateningly. While his strength may be hidden, he’d never dream of using his stature to intimidate a civilian, but this, however, was self-defense. Plain and simple. 

Tony didn’t even flinch. In fact, he seemed more confident than he had before. Maybe confident wasn’t the right word. His demeanor reminded him of how Tony would come across when he attempted earnestly, but—

“Why don’t I remember you, Peter?” 

The question sent him spiraling. Despite not a finger being laid on him, it was as if he had the wind knocked from his sternum. He couldn’t be here. 

Earnest or manipulative be damned.

He couldn’t stay here either. Now that he knew where he lived, Peter could never come back. 

“It doesn’t make sense. I believe that you’re the Spider-Man that I remember, but I don’t remember you ,” Tony glared daggers into the wall.

Peter tossed his backpack onto the bed, unzipped it, and started digging through his apartment for anything important…which honestly wasn’t much. He already had his suit and laptop. He grabbed his clothes, the self-help book, and his single blanket before staring at his nightstand for a moment. He nodded to himself and rifled through it, throwing the photos in his bag.

He noticed the ones of him and Tony that he had left on top of the nightstand were gone. For some unknown reason, he was almost choked up about it. Shaking it off, he zipped the pack. 

“I found your name and address and routine. It all feels so familiar- except the address. Have you always lived here? Anyways…” he paused, “okay that sounded really creepy out loud. Let's backtrack. If you’d just talk to me for a second—“

Peter was already out the door. Sprinting to the emergency stairway exit, he practically jumped down the remaining flights. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. The search was very short-lived as he only had 2. He could either call Gwen or…

He ducked into an alley to get out of the downpour and squatted into a crouch. Harry picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Peter. I’m so glad you called, I’m really sorry about—“

His phone was old and the quality gave everything a static timbre, so he had to really focus in order to understand what his (maybe) friend was saying. 

“Don’t worry about it, man. This is going to sound absolutely insane, but can I ask you for a favor?”

“…Sure, anything.”

“I think I need a place to stay.”

The line fell silent. Peter was worried he overstepped his boundaries. They weren’t really on the greatest terms, and now he was calling to ask if they could be roomies. This was stupid. He could probably find that abandoned building he’d considered crashing in. He had a blanket, which was all he really—

“Yeah, yeah totally…um— so I know my father is rich and all, but my apartment kind of gives a ‘possessed mansion’ vibe at night, and I honestly think it might be haunted?” 

Peter raised an eyebrow, amused. That was far from what he expected as a response. He stood up and crossed his free arm over his body to fight off the chill. 

“Ok?“ He prompted Harry to continue.

“Right, yeah, so I don’t really think having your own room would be the best move. I can pull an air mattress out, and we can be roommates in the literal sense,” Harry chuckled nervously through the receiver. 

“Oh uh…if that’s what works best? I’m kinda out of options man,” he shrugged.

“Ok cool,” he sighed in what seemed like a relief, “I’ll set it up when you get there.”

“Thanks, seriously, you have no idea how much you’re helping me right now.”

“It’s mutual. I’m going to be honest with you so there aren’t any surprises. I’ve been a little creeped out lately being in such a big space by myself.”

Oh. That wasn’t something he’d ever added to the realm of possibilities. Gwen had said that Norman was acting off lately. Ghosts weren’t really on his radar, so it could be related to Harry’s dad’s strange behavior. It wasn’t really his business, but he was suddenly anxious about what exactly he was getting himself into. 

It wasn’t like he really had a choice.

“No problem, see you in 10?” 

“Yeah, see you then, Peter.”

Click

Chapter Text

“Home sweet home.”

Harry exited the vehicle leaving Peter on the passenger side. His father’s penthouse mansion was certainly…grand. He had walked to Oscorp and found Harry parked on the curb waiting for him. Originally, he assumed that he’d probably have to wait in the lab for Harry to finish up, but his friend (they were probably there) had been just as, if not more, eager to leave.

Peter pulled himself out of the car and stood next to Harry who was agitatedly staring down at his phone. He looked up from the screen briefly to give him a once over, raising an eyebrow.

“Is that all of your things?” he gestured to Peter’s bag.

Self-consciously, Peter pulled the bag off of his shoulders and clutched it to his chest.

“Yep,” he pursed his lips and kept his gaze on Harry’s mansion, so he wouldn’t have to look at the (apparently judgemental) guy.

“No, it’s cool, I just thought you’d have a little more…” he paused before continuing, “did you get evicted?” he whispered, “I’m not judging, I swear.”

“No, I didn’t get evicted,” Peter snapped, “even if I was, I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“I mean, I thought you hated me, man. Now you’re asking to move in? Seems a little sudden…”

“Sorry, yeah, you’re right. I’m just a little on edge. I wasn’t expecting to be in this position,” he muttered sheepishly.

Harry was being way too generous by letting him stay over. Of course he was going to be curious. This wasn’t just a random request; it was also incredibly out of character for Peter. He couldn’t refer to the dude as his friend, ask for favors, and then treat him like shit. 

“You’re alright, I shouldn’t be digging. Come on,” Harry put his hands in his pockets and started toward the lobby.

Everything about this apartment complex was lavish, from the luxurious double doors to the English Manor style rooftop. He didn’t know too much about this dimension’s Norman Osborn other than what Tony had shared with him. The two were professional rivals, so he hardly had anything of significance to say other than the occasional teasing of, “if I ever catch you accepting an Oscorp internship, you’re dead to me.” 

At the time, Peter had never thought the man meant it. He supposed there was always a possibility to test those waters. This whole spontaneous living arrangement could be the tipping point to get Tony off of his back. He could kill two birds with one stone. 

When the elevator doors pinged open, Peter was stunned into silence. Between the checkered flooring, the massive archways, and the dazzling chandeliers, he wasn’t sure where his captivation should be directed. 

“When you’re done gawking,” Harry smirked, but it didn’t appear to be with pride, “You can come help me set up the air mattress.”

“I’m not gawking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not,” he laughed while following Harry up the imperial staircase.

Entering his bedroom, Peter was once again overwhelmed by the sheer space of it all. The room itself was larger than the apartment he had been renting for the past 2 years. It was definitely one of the more humble rooms that he’d seen in the penthouse. Not that that said very much. 

Upon first glance was a couch (a very nice one at that), a coffee table, a bed, a nightstand, and a desk with a lamp sitting on it. Small decorations adorned the walls, but other than that it was actually pretty barren. There wasn’t an ounce of personality to decipher within the space. A small part of him, one that he hadn’t interacted with since May passed, wanted to change that at some point. 

“Nice room.”

“Ok, you don’t need to lie,” Harry rummaged around and pulled a box out of the back of his closet, “help me set this up, would you?” 

Unsure what to say to that, Peter walked over and helped pull the blow-up from its packaging and hooked it into the wall. The machine that actually inflated the bed was way louder than he remembered. To be fair, the last time he had used one of these was long before he received his spider powers. May and Ben used to set one up for him in their living room when he was visiting as a child. A soft fondness washed over him at the memory.

“Sorry about the noise. If you ever need this thing blown back up, just let me know. I’ll handle it while you’re out of the house,” Harry had made his way back over to the walk-in closet.

“There’s no need, I can handle it, but thanks.”

“Yeah right, don’t you have like super hearing or-” he abruptly stopped talking.

While the offer was considerate, Peter was caught off guard by him just knowing something like that. It was extremely personal, but that statement applied to his whole identity. 

“Sorry,” Harry muttered while exiting the closet.

In his arms, he carried bundles of what looked like blankets, maybe? He dumped them onto Peter’s mattress and reentered the walk-in once more. The second time around he came out with three pillows. He didn’t even sleep with one, normally. 

“Woah man, hey I don’t need all this,” he pulled his own thin blanket out of his backpack and raised it up for Harry to see.

“Good one,” Harry snorted, but when Peter didn’t laugh he frowned, “wait are you serious? Is that all you’ve been sleeping with?”

“Yeah, it’s functional,” he shrugged.

“Peter, it’s been dipping into the negative double digits at night,” he muttered in exasperation.

“Yeah, well…”

“You’re taking the bedding, end of the discussion,” Harry dumped the pillows onto Peter’s mattress and sat down on his bed.

“Alright, thank you,” Peter began to make his space a little tidier. 

“So…do you like video games?”

“I guess?”

“Sick,” Harry turned on his console and tossed him the second controller. 

Peter caught it midair and watched Harry pull up his downloaded games. The last time he’d played a video game was at Ned’s house a couple of days before the trip to Europe. Research and reporting were the only things he ever really did with the internet these days.

“Ever played Mario Kart?”

“Who hasn’t?”

Harry smiled and started up the game. After ensuring both controllers were connected, they scrolled through the character menu. Peter decided on Shy Guy and Harry went with Waluigi. Once they were prompted to pick a track, they landed on Mount Wario. 

“I hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked, Parker,” he muttered smugly.

Peter was taken aback by his total change in demeanor. Harry always seemed a little uptight, but lately, he’d been seeing a different side to the guy. That initial perception was probably entirely unfair, considering that he’d only heard about Harry from Gwen and then chose to misinterpret her description of him. This still felt entirely out of pocket for what he thought he knew about him.

“You’re on.”

The two of them ended up playing for a long time. Neither of them had a winning streak of over 3, and they had been playing for hours. The sun was now barely visible through the window, but having turned on the lamp a few rounds back, neither of them noticed the daylight shift anyhow. Harry was lying down on his bed, and Peter was standing slightly adjacent so Harry could still see. He had nervous energy, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t directed toward anything of significance. 

He was genuinely having a lot of fun.

Aside from the game commentary and sprinkled in, “you suck” and “get wrecked,” the boys hadn’t really said anything of substance to one another the entire session. Due to this, Peter was thrown for a loop when Harry spoke up.

“Hey, can I talk to you about something, Peter?”

“Oh, yeah, sure sure, what’s going on?” 

He was pretty immersed in the game, so a little bit of his anxiety was overshadowed. He wasn’t too sure where the conversation would lead, but he also didn't find himself as worried as he could be. 

“So,” he chuckled nervously, “God ok, this is so embarrassing.”

Peter looked up from the screen momentarily to peer over at Harry. His face was flushed slightly and he was staring intensely at the screen, but a quick glance proved that he wasn’t really playing. Waluigi’s car was driving at full speed into the nearest wall. He narrowed his eyes and put down his controller to better listen.

“What’s up?” Peter moved so he was standing in front of the TV and crossed his arms.

“Okay okay, so you know how Gwen and I are best friends, right?”

“Yeah, for sure. She talks about you all the time. Sometimes it almost feels like you’re one of our coworkers with how much-” Peter paused, realizing he was rambling, “yeah, I know.”

“Oh, cool, she really talks about me that much?” Harry’s face had only grown redder.

A smirk slowly crept its way onto Peter’s face as it dawned on him what this may be about. He moved to sit on his air mattress crisscross and faced in Harry’s direction. He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly, grinning mischievously. 

“Harry Osborn, do you have a crush on my coworker?” 

“No!” he basically jumped, “ok, yes. I do.”

“Awe, dude that’s so cute. Are you going to tell her?” 

“Wait, but I thought you liked her?”

Peter paused at this. Harry wasn’t exactly wrong, he did think Gwen was cute. He enjoyed spending time with her and really liked being her friend. She was great, but she wasn’t MJ. Gwen Stacy wasn’t Michelle Jones, and it wouldn’t be fair of him to try to start anything with anyone when he still loved her. Now that Harry had confessed his feelings for Gwen, there was no way in hell Peter would ever come between them. 

“Nah, I’ve got someone else.”

“Really? Ok, I was actually really worried about that,” he sighed in relief.

“I don’t know why. Haven’t you known Gwen your whole life? You should totally ask her out, I think that would make her really happy.”

“I know, I know. I’m just a little scared because what if she doesn’t feel the same? I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Harry leaned back on his bed so that he was facing the ceiling.

“Dude, even if she doesn’t feel the same, I’m sure you wouldn’t ruin anything. She adores you. Even if it’s not in the way you’re hoping for; there’s no reason she would just drop you,” Peter grabbed one of the pillows and pulled it close to his chest.

“I’ve had a crush on her since we were like 10 years old,” Harry whispered, covering his face with his hands.

“Yikes.”

“Hey, come on, you don’t have to be so blunt about it,” Harry flung a pillow in his direction; it missed.

“All I’m saying,” Peter picked up the new pillow on his bed, “is that if you never ask her, you’ll never know,” he flung it, with barely any strength, back.

It made direct impact and knocked Harry off of the bed with an oomph. He froze as his friend lay on the floor breathing heavily. Slowly his breaths turned into huffs of laughter, and Peter let out his own huff of relief. It was entirely short-lived however, as he was suddenly slammed in the side by something ultra fluffy. 

“That’s for trying to kill me,” Harry continued to pummel him with the pillow until Peter was doubled over in a fit of laughter. 

“When did you become so vengeful, Harry?” He reached out and grabbed the pillow, subsequently flipping Harry onto the mattress.

“No fair, you can literally lift a bus,” he wheezed while pulling himself back up.

“To be fair, I don’t think you’re built like a bus,” Peter laughed.

“Gwen was right, you’re such an idiot,” Harry slapped at him, “aren’t you supposed to be able to dodge all of my hits or something.”

“Yeah, and I also have a massive army of spiders that bends to my every whim,” he teased with sarcasm bleeding from his words. 

“REALLY?” he practically shouted, throwing himself into a completely upright position.

“No, dumbass. Don’t you think it would be more obvious if Spider-Man had a whole army of spiders? Who's the idiot now?”

Peter could not control his laughter. The last time he’d had this kind of interaction with someone was over 2 years ago. A part of him wished that he’d given a friendship with Harry a chance sooner. If this was what living with him was going to be like, he was suddenly very excited about this new development. 

“When did you gain your powers? Were you born with them, or…?” 

A conflict brewed in his head. Harry already knew, and there was no denying it. It was one thing to joke about it, but it was another to really talk about it with someone. However, this question did eliminate what he thought he knew. He assumed that Harry had somehow figured out he’d been bitten by an Oscorp spider. This revelation (or un-revelation) certainly made things interesting. 

“I was actually bitten by a spider on a field trip to Oscorp,” he decided to share, wanting to gauge Harry’s reaction.

“Ha. Ha. Sure. I’m being serious, man, how’d you get ‘em?” he nudged him in the ribs.

“I am being serious, Harry.”

Slowly, his expression melted from one of jest to deeply troubled. His eyebrows raised practically into his hairline before he covered his mouth with his hand. He stood up and began to pace, sometimes pausing and turning like he wanted to say something, before continuing the action. Peter stayed put, just watching him and waiting for him to speak. He supposed that would be a lot to process.

“How old were you?” he finally asked.

“15.”

“Fuck.”

Silence spilled out of the walls and rose into the room, drowning them both. Peter wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to help. He was honestly a little confused. While it had come with its issues, being Spider-Man wasn’t some curse. He didn’t know why Harry was acting like his father had come and run over his childhood puppy or something. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Peter cut through the silence, “and even if it were, it’s not like you had anything to do with it.”

“I know, it’s just like- shit, I feel so weird telling you this because I didn’t understand before, but-” Harry faltered and wrang his hands together. 

“Telling me what?”

Harry held eye contact with him, occasionally scrunching his brow in thought. Peter shifted under scrutiny. He was honestly a little terrified about whatever was going to come out of his mouth.

“My father, he’s-” Harry shifted before continuing, “actually ok, from the beginning. I was, what? 11? When you became Spider-Man— or at least when you started swinging around the city.”

These ages were crazy. Jesus. He realized Harry hadn’t been blipped either considering the guy was 21. That was good. At least he and Gwen had each other. The thought was pretty cute and he smirked to himself before being pulled back out of it.

“What are you grinning about? Actually, don’t answer that— As I was saying, once Spider-Man appeared right? Norman became obsessed, and I mean unhealthily so. He had a whole evidence board dedicated to “unmasking Spider-Man,” it was…it was weird.”

“That- I don’t know what to say to that,” Peter muttered.

He agreed with Harry. It was weird. Actually, that adjective didn’t encapsulate the feeling. It was fucking creepy. 

“He tracked your routine and everything: the days you patrolled, how many times you were seen at the Stark Tower…dude he even collected the notes you’d leave by like bikes or stolen merchandise.”

“Why the hell…”

“I don’t know. It was one of the first times I think I ever outwardly acknowledged we had a rough relationship. It had never been the best. He’d do shitty things and then try to buy me back with money, but this…it was too much.”

“Yeah, that's a little insane,” he whispered, not wanting to insult Harry.

“Agreed. Then everything happened with that alternate-universe version of Norman a couple of years back. That whole “green goblin” deal. I think you were involved, but I don’t know what that was about. It was just really…eery.”

He nodded. It was bizarre hearing Harry recount it like that. This whole thing was honestly so strange to discuss. He noticed how he’d switch between “father” and the man’s first name. He supposed it was a way to disconnect himself from it all. He couldn’t help but feel bad for him. There was no world where Peter would be equipped to handle a deranged version of his own father showing up and creating chaos. He barely knew the real man, as it was.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Peter muttered, guiltily. 

“Why are you apologizing to me? Even if it was your fault the multiverse opened or something,” his tone implied there was a joke somewhere, and Peter wasn’t ready to correct him, “I still wouldn’t blame you for it. My shitty relationship with my dad is no one's fault…well except his, but I digress.”

“You ‘digress?’” Peter teased.

“Anyways,” Harry nudged him again, “he never got over it. I’m pretty sure there's a weird board in his personal lab with pictures of Spider-Man scattered all over it. I think he’s losing it, Peter, if he hasn’t lost it already,” he wrapped his arms around himself. 

“Shit, man.”

“I can’t picture him as that ‘Green Goblin’ guy. Yeah, we have our issues, but he never…”

“I thought I could change them all,” Peter whispered.

Harry dropped his arms and tilted his head, waiting for him to continue. 

“The whole ordeal was because I asked Dr. Strange to help me with a dumb personal problem, and I fucked everything up…it became this crazy out-of-control spell, and suddenly everyone from every dimension who knew Peter Parker was being transported here…”

“Woah.”

“I know. For a short period of time, everybody knew who I was—” 

He didn’t know if he could talk about the spell, or if it was some Howl’s Moving Castle type deal. Peter had never tried before. If he had to tell someone, Harry wouldn’t have been his first choice, but here he was. 

“It was horrible. Jameson went completely insane, my friends and I were denied college admissions, my aunt was in danger, I had to get a lawyer, and we had to crash at her boyfriend’s place. It was a mess, and I was stupid, so I thought that maybe Dr. Strange could help.”

“If everybody knew, why don’t I know what you’re talking about?” Harry’s brows were furrowed in desperate concentration.

“That’s like the whole thing,” Peter waved his arms, laughing without amusement, “At the end of it, I had to wipe my identity from everyone’s minds. Not just like my superhero persona but my identity,"  he stood up.

There it was, out in the open and painfully raw. 

“Jesus…” Harry shook his head and pursed his lips.

“And sometimes,” now that the dam had broken, he couldn’t stop, “I feel like it didn’t just erase my memory from the world— but also, like from myself? If that makes sense? I just feel like I’m going through the motions sometimes-" He paced the room, forgetting his friend for a moment.

"Going to that musical with Gwen the other day was like the first time I’ve really done something for myself in 2 years. Except the musical was ass,” he chuckled, “and then that night my suit’s artificial intelligence basically tried to tell me that Tony Stark was alive. That fucking AI locked me out when my memory was wiped, so everything about it was just shocking—” he took a breath.

“And then I found out for real later that week in the worst possible way. Who would’ve thought that the worst boss I’ve ever had would tell me about the second coming of the best boss I ever had?” he paused, “Except best doesn’t feel fitting anymore because I’m so hurt, Harry,” he started unintentionally raising his voice. 

“I’m so fucking devastated? He had this massive list of people who knew he was in a coma, and at first, it could be like, ‘Oh, I was snapped, so it made sense I wouldn’t be on the list,’ except half of his list was snapped. It was everyone, Harry, EVERYONE,” his voice cracked, and he quickly wiped at his eyes.

“Everyone except me…” he whispered the last line barely audibly, sitting down and pulling his knees to his chest. 

“I heard,” Harry matched his volume, “well, not all of it…but that Spider-Man wasn’t on the list given at the conference. It’s why I brought it up at the lab,” he paused, “I really am sorry about how I went about that.”

“You’re ok. It’s kind of nice, actually…to have someone who knows,” he took a shaky breath to steady himself, “how did you find out anyways?” 

“I can imagine dude, shit. Also, I didn’t find out.”

Peter straightened his back and narrowed his eyes at Harry. If there was a joke hidden in that statement, it went over his head entirely. Of course, he’d found out, there was no way he could just know. The spell ensured as much.

“I appreciate that you think I’m so perceptive, but yeah it wasn’t me. Gwen practically sprinted to my father’s work a couple of months back and told me her theory—don’t give me that look, you’re too obvious.”

Peter definitely hadn’t been giving him a look, but he was pretty floored by the new information. Harry meant to tell him that he and Gwen had known for months. That was an outlandish claim, and he didn’t believe it for a second.

“Ok, let me lay it out for you. A new guy shows up and his specialty is articles on Spider-Man. Somehow, this dude not only knows the guy but has permission to take and use pictures of him for some pretty slanderous writing? Interesting.”

Peter tensed. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best move in terms of keeping his identity a secret, but he could easily explain that away.

“That’s just part one though, right? Not only are you the Spider-Menace guy for the Daily Bugel, but you also apparently live in the heart of Queens and work the hours that Spider-Man has never been seen patrolling during? No one has ever seen Peter Parker and Spider-Man in the same room, just saying,” Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. 

Ok, maybe he believed him just a little.

“Alright, alright, I get it. Can you blame me, though? Nobody even knew my name like a week ago…”

“Ah ha!” Harry stood up, clapped, and pointed at him abruptly. 

“What?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he returned to his earlier pacing, it seemed to be how he liked to think, “I found it so weird how everytime Gwen would talk about you, she’d use a different name, but I also didn’t ever question it. It was a passing sort of weird. It wasn’t something I ever had the presence to acknowledge.”

“Ok,” he laughed awkwardly.

“So what changed?”

“What?”

“Why can people say your name now?”

“I don’t know, honestly…I don’t think it’s related to Tony or anything. He’d wake up from that coma if I was remembered or not,” he shrugged.

“I didn’t assume it was…did you?”

“I guess,” he frowned, never having thought about it in detail, “I think part of me I kinda wanted it to be. Coulda been some sorta fairy tail. My,” he waved his hand briefly for a lack of adjective, “ whatever comes back from the dead, the spell breaks, everything goes back to normal, and we all live happily ever after. It was stupid.”

It was an especially idiotic hope because normal included May. It included May and Ned and MJ, and it included being able to go home. Even if Tony remembered him and hadn’t kept such a heavy secret, there wasn’t anywhere to go from there. Nothing would’ve changed…

“I disagree,” Harry stood in front of him, staring at the wall.

More accurately, he was looking at a framed picture on it. Peter glanced over to see what had him locked in place. It was an old photograph of, what he assumed to be, a much younger Harry on the shoulders of, who he recognized to be, Norman Osborn. The edges of the photo were yellowed with time. He could feel the nostalgia radiating from the scene. 

“I don’t think it’s stupid to miss the way things used to be.”

The sentence seeped its way through his skin and into his bones. God, that was all it was. That’s all any of it ever was. He felt a sob build up in his throat but he swallowed it down. This on its own was probably more than Harry had signed up for. Peter wouldn’t dream of full on breaking down in his bedroom. He thought that would be it and they’d both just call it a night, but unexpectedly, Harry continued.

“But all we really get are the way things are now. If we’re always stuck where we used to be, we’ll miss what’s directly in front of us,” he averted his gaze from the photograph and smiled sadly at Peter. 

With that, Harry turned off the TV and went to go brush his teeth, telling him there was an extra toothbrush for him if he needed it. Peter stayed where he was for the time being, considering what his friend had just said. He had spent so much time living in the past that the thought of leaving it behind made him almost nauseated.

Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate, the ringing came from his pocket. Gwen was the only other person with his number, so he pulled it out with the intention to answer. However, looking down at the caller ID, he realized it wasn’t a saved contact. Not that it mattered, he had the specific string of numbers memorized to heart. He groaned. Jesus, the guy just couldn’t take a hint. He put the device down and let the call roll to voicemail. A pang made itself known in his chest, but he decided to ignore it for now.

Despite not eating dinner, his appetite was nonexistent. Harry must have felt the same. Finally moving from the air mattress, he went about his nightly routine, said goodnight to Harry, and settled into the bed. Despite just being an inflatable, with all of the blankets and pillows, he was the most comfortable and warm he’d been in months. He set his alarm and pulled out the picture of him, May, and Ben, just tracing his eyes over it for a few moments. 

“Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“The house doesn’t feel so haunted tonight.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

Chapter Text

After knocking on the door and receiving no reply, Tony used the master key he attained in…less than legal ways…to open the door. 

Oh the laws money could break.

Freezing, stale air blasted into his face. If someone told him it was a metaphor, he would probably believe them. 

“Alright,” he said to himself, “so this is the spider-boy’s web, huh?” 

“Web” didn’t even miss the mark considering the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. He grimaced at the footprints on the walls and dried blood in the carpet. This little shack (he could hardly call it an apartment) packed a massive punch.

By punch he meant biohazard. 

As soon as his AI notified him that someone was using the Iron Spider tech, he assigned himself a mission. The initial hypothesis was that the suit had been stolen while he was MIA. Looking back, he probably would not have taken such a strong approach. 

He most likely scared the shit out of Peter and worse than that, he’d been a total asshole about it. Turns out that indifference and accusations didn’t foster healthy communication. 

Alas, it was already said and done.

Who was he, Shakespeare? The fumes of a depressed teenager's living situation were already making him loopy. Peter better get home soon before he starts waxing prose. 

Returning to the topic at hand; logically, if he couldn’t remember who he built the suit for, there was a good chance they still kept it in their possession. However, Tony didn’t just build suits willy-nilly.

Ok…maybe he did, but— major emphasis on the conjunction, he didn’t build suits at random for strangers . 

Shit. Maybe he did that too. Scratch that and toss it like a garbage lottery ticket. The point was that he remembered all of his suits. That memory included who they were for. 

Yet, even after researching who owned the suit, he couldn’t recall even hearing the name. 

Peter Parker. 

Age 19.

So maybe not technically a kid, but he was definitely on the younger side. No doubt about it. That was assuming he’d been blipped. If he wasn’t, Tony would probably have a heart attack right there and then. Nobody would catch him dead having formulated a multimillion dollar suit for a 10 year old.

God, what if he had?

No, nope. Choosing not to humor it, he derailed that train of thought into the Dream Graveyard… Morgan made him watch too many movies. At least they were good ones.

Ok, alright, fine. Say Tony built a suit for a 15 year old. That didn’t explain why the now 19 year old apparently wanted nothing to do with him. Hell, he’d shoved him. He didn’t even know Spider-Man and that seemed out of character. 

To be fair, Tony had been out of line. If it were him who was the “illusive” vigilante and someone he had some (apparently) deep-seated resentment toward reached out and tried to unveil his identity? Yeah, Tony would’ve lashed out far worse than Peter did.

Honestly, half the shit Tony said or did in that confrontation didn’t make an ounce of sense to him. He’d meant it, but just meaning it didn’t decode any grand mysteries. For one, he did not have a son. So whatever looney toons file cabinet of his consciousness that had been filed lingered outside of his jurisdiction.

Fine, more accurately, he said that whoever he’d crafted the suit for had been like a son to him. Like or as. A simile. Defining the difference did not assist in removing the syntax errors. That one was a metaphor. 

Tony grunted in annoyance at his brain’s unhelpful commentary. 

Pacing around the little room, he took in the 4 walls. The more he saw, the worse he felt. Peter didn’t own very much of anything…where were this kid’s parents? He knew he had no room to comment on anything financial. He would be out of line, but…the only blanket he could find in the whole damn apartment was thinner than a curtain. 

Tony wore 3 layers and he still wished he had brought a bigger jacket. If Peter were actually his son—

He snorted at the thought. Hearing it in that context eased some of his worries. It was extremely possible the original sentiment had no depth behind it. Tony’s old age might finally be catching up to him. Falling into a coma for a couple of years wouldn’t be the most jarring trigger for early onset Alzheimers.

Point was, Peter could handle himself. His spidery powers likely kept him warm, and he just didn’t need heat the way humans did…Except, that couldn’t be right. Spiders couldn’t thermoregulate .

Why did he know that? Tony didn’t even like the damn critters.

Staring down at the crumpled sheet, he worried his lower lip. All of the animosity from earlier that day told Tony that Peter probably wouldn’t accept help if offered, but what if he just didn’t offer? He could take Peter to lunch sometimes and (like a significantly less malicious character from The Twits) sneakily replace items in his home. 

They could skip in a circle and sing kumbaya. 

Just being plain nosey, Tony snooped around for more of the things Peter had strewn about. What he hadn’t expected to find was his own face staring back up at him from the bedside table. 

Grabbing the pictures, he sat down onto the couch. The springs made a horrible creak and, for a moment, he worried that he broke it. The leather wasn’t even comfortable. No way in hell was he not replacing it, but he could save that project for later.

Finally, some solid evidence of…No. Nope. Wait.

After taking in the image, he felt less sane than he had before. Was this some really clever photoshop job? It had to be. Tony didn’t take personal interns, so if he did; it wouldn’t just be something he forgot.

There were so many questions ringing in his head. Primary question of course being if the picture was real, but the follow up questions were just as elaborate. 

Had he known that Peter was Spider-Man when accepting him as an intern? How old was he in this picture? He didn’t look college aged, but that was the minimum SI requirement. They seemed close in the photo. Like friends— well, he was a kid, so more like a mentor/mentee situation. 

Most importantly, why when he stared down at the photo did he feel seconds away from tearing his own heart out? 

Who had Peter Parker been to him, and why was he not anymore?

Very carefully, he pocketed the photos. Maybe it was scummy, but he couldn’t just put them back. He couldn’t just let them go now that he had them again.

Again? He’d never seen—

The door forcefully swung open and slammed into the drywall with a sharp crack . A livid young adult loomed in the hallway. Refusing to make eye contact, Peter cast a shadow across the room with his presence. 

“Get out.”

***

Tony flinched as the door knocked shut, cutting him off halfway through his sentence. Sighing in defeat, he double checked that he had all of his things.

Chasing after Peter crossed his mind, but he couldn’t very well catch someone who never stopped running. Peter’s response left him a little conflicted about his initial evaluation.

People who were angry shouted or fought or stonewalled. Sure, Peter did some of that but…

Fight, flight, or freeze. 

People who were scared ran. That contained all the confirmation he needed that yes, Tony should know Peter. 

Once he arrived home, he immediately set to work trying to uncover more evidence. Tony, as an engineer, could effectively be referred to as an applied scientist. There was nothing scientists wanted more than to be disproven. 

Today was Pepper’s turn to take Morgan to her dance practice. She had one everyday, except weekends, so turns allowed them both to have nights to reset. Tonight, it meant that he had time to tear apart the house without alarming his wife.

He dug through cabinets, opened old boxes and photo albums, threw couch cushions onto the floor, flipped the carpet over, and even took a ladder to access the extra storage space in the garage. 

His findings ended up amounting to 2 hours down the drain. 

Irritated, he opened his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he found Peter’s. He’d dug that up off some internet databases. The number hadn’t actually been in his phone. If he truly knew Peter before, wouldn’t his contact at least be saved? 

Mulling it over in his brain, eventually he hit the call button. He was sent to voicemail. Yeah, he figured just as much. Leaving a less than couth message, he attempted to express his regret for the way he’d handled everything thus far. 

Breaking into Peter’s home? Sneaking up on him during a patrol? Not Tony’s finest moments. He just needed to know what was going on. Was that too much to ask?

Scrolling down further, 3 contacts stuck out like sore thumbs. He recognized all of them, but their significance was trapped behind a mental wall.

“Aunt Hottie.”

“Scary Michelle.”

“Ted (real name: Ned)” 

Those names meant something to him. Aside from the contacts being obscure, a siren wailed in his head informing him of their relevance. 

Aunt Hottie. She- her name- her real name was May. Okay, great, something. First name May, last name…Parker. May Parker. Spider-Man’s aunt. Happy said she passed away…

What did that have to do with Peter?

He scrunched his brow. The answer seemed so obvious. A Tony junior in his brain screamed at and berated him, but he did so from behind a soundproof curtain. 

May Parker. Spider-Man. Peter Parker. How were the three connected? His frown deepened. Why did he feel like he had less information than when he started? The more he tried to dig into this, the more external (internal?) resistance was created. 

Almost like a counter force. He knew Spider-Man’s real name, address, and phone number. He had that information when he began this investigation. Where did it go?

Okay, moving on. Michelle and Ned. Spider-Man’s girlfriend and best friend. So they must know Spider-Man’s real identity. He did it. He found a lead, he—

Wait, that wasn’t the question he’d been asking. 

Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same. So what did those two have to do with anything? 

A headache pulsed through his skull. Something actively fought against him solving this puzzle. Despite having the pieces, they were all distorted and janky. Like…magic? Science didn’t do this type of “abracadabra” bullshit, so there could only be one other option.

Well, there could be several (including medical but he wasn’t ready to open that can of worms), but he needed to focus on one thing at a time. Considering the only light in the room shone from his phone screen, he’d have to follow that trail of breadcrumbs on a later date. 

Grabbing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, he sat on the couch, threw his feet on the ottoman, and opened his laptop. Tony knew he had the tendency to be extra. Everything he knew about Peter Parker came from utilizing the software he preprogrammed into FRIDAY. The results had been spectacular up to a point. 

Private data couldn’t relay memories or personality. 

Sometimes the answer lied in a good, old fashioned Google search. Blue light from the screen intertwined with the individual clicks of the keyboard (one hand designated as an ice cream delivery device), and the combined sensory input reminded him of his days locked in the tower’s lab. Give him some golden, glowing locks, and he’d be on his way to inheriting the kingdom of Corona.

Typing “Peter Parker” into the search engine, more results popped up than he’d been expecting. However, he soon realized why.

Well, expectations be damned. Peter worked for that slimeball JJ at the Daily Bugle. Tony almost choked on his ice cream at the discovery. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed, amused, or—

Peter never failed to surprise him. 

Hm. Massive generalization for someone he just met, but the sentiment held pretty well. Clicking on a couple articles, it dawned on him what he was actually looking at. 

“Spider-Man, once again, more trouble than he’s worth…”

“Woman survived after falling 3 stories— No thanks to Spider-Man...”

“Some may believe Spider-Man, but those of us with half a brain know that, if nothing else, Mysterio had a point…”

“Spider-Menace strikes once more, local neighborhood upheaved by…”

Fragments upon fragments built into a final, disheartening message. 

Peter Parker hated himself. 

Normally, Tony would laugh it off, maybe make a self-deprecating joke along the lines of, “don’t we all,” but something in him twisted painfully at the notion. He wanted to know hobbies, interests, favorite food—

Not the demons that claw at this kid’s soul.

He started to close the laptop when a very peculiar headline caught his eye.

“Of Despereaux and Men.”

Like the mouse…?

Clicking into it, he immediately saw the “too long didn’t read” segment, and his heart sank, “Billionaire Tony Stark Cheats Death for Impractical Publicity Stunt.”

He settled further into the couch cushions and debated his next move. On one hand, if he never read it, he would think about it until the end of time. On the other hand, the contents of the article made him antsy. 

Tony didn’t usually care what the public thought of him. His ego far exceeded whatever they could say, but this… something about it gnawed at him.

Well, he knew the old saying, curiosity killed the cat.

***

Of Despereaux and Men

As a child, on sleepless nights, I used to observe the reflective glass panes of my window. One could easily chalk it up to imagination (or the poster hanging on the opposite wall), but I swear to you, I could see Iron Man watching over me. Each and every night, he chased away the boogey man, or at the very least, provided comfort in spite of its presence. 

Growing up under his protection, I dreamed of becoming an Avenger. I dreamed of being just like him. I vigorously studied STEM, I recieved top marks, and I applied for MIT. I did everything right, and still, I did not get in. 

My experience is not unique, nor does it say anything about me. It simply confirmed that no, I was not meant to be the next billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Which, in hindsight, turned into the best possible outcome. I never wanted to be another Iron Man. 

What I truly wanted was to be someone who made a difference in the life of others. I strived to be not the poster on the wall, but the knight in shining armor who swoops in and saves the day. I wanted to resemble the hero that a younger me lacked.

The day Tony Stark died, I, and the rest of the universe, mourned. The sacrifice shone so monumentally selfless that there remained no other choice but to grieve. The stifling thing about grief, however, is the isolation of its consuming nature. Every person in the whole supercluster can grieve one man and still feel incredibly alone in doing so. 

I let it define me, and even now, I still do. Yet, after being privy to the resurrection of the man I once looked up to, I can’t help but feel that admiration has warped. The beautifully tragic loss of Stark’s life gave new hope to a generation who missed 5 whole years. With that in mind, I can’t help but wonder how much of that foundation consists of lies. As someone who blipped, I’m almost meant to think that the value of my life served as a convenient exit strategy for Iron Man.

The ordeal is painted as a trade of one life for many. A philanthropist’s final contribution to the people; the most altruistic act a man made of flesh and blood could commit. His life now serves a symbol for life itself. I agreed with every bit of spirit and soul I could muster up, but that was before.

Standing amidst the crowd, the fanfare made itself evident. From the food trucks to the cosplayers, the intention of the announcement radiated from the venue. Holding a notebook, pen, and camera, I waited to hear from an actor, a king, or a God, not a man.

What I loved about Iron Man, about Tony Stark, was that he used to be a man. He used to be a boy. He used to be just like us. The sacrifice only cemented that fact because, like man, he fell to his knees at the mercy of a greater power. He did what he had to do with a bravery beyond admirable. What separates a man from a mouse is, when given a purpose, the ability to look into the void and charge forward with reckless abandon. 

This interpretation carried me through the past two years, but after the ostentatious, performative saviorism I witnessed, I no longer hold this belief. While half of living things vanished for 5 years, amidst and after our temporary departure, real people will not return. Whether it be other Avengers or average citizens, the loss couldn’t all be avoided.

Gods and billionaires are the pillars of make believe, yet they walk among us. They trample among, on, and over us. Their sacrifices are not in vain because they are not real. Tony Stark’s sacrifice was fabricated, and now he has returned to turn our desperate need for miracles into profit. So the cycle continues.

A man who “catches nukes” and tosses them back down to Earth, only to catch them once more, is no man. He is a mouse hiding behind mountains of wealth. If I could afford a cushy lakeside life, a fake death, and 5 years of my life back, I would not be writing for the Daily Bugle. 

Being casted in the reality TV show that was the press conference, I’ve been handed a new burden in the form of a question. What is a sacrifice without consequence? The answer is simple. Tony Stark. 

*

*

*

***

The chirping of crickets outside and the hum of his laptop were the only two external sounds present in the living room. In comparison to his harsh breathing and rapid heartbeat, they hardly made noise at all. 

I wanted to resemble the hero that a younger me lacked.

Tony considered how much of himself Peter revealed in these articles. This could easily be construed as a metaphor, which had likely been the angle, but the literal nature of it left his throat dry.

The stifling thing about grief, however, is the isolation of its consuming nature.

When he intruded on the kid, he seemed so angry and not the normal, “you’re overstepping my boundaries,” type of anger Tony often invoked. Reading this line, he began to understand, if not the reason, the empirical existence of that anger.  

As someone who blipped, I’m almost meant to think that the value of my life served as a convenient exit strategy for Iron Man.

His eyes traced this line over and over, stomach sinking the more he processed it. He felt completely and utterly taken aback. He never meant to leave at all, let alone use half the population.

…ostentatious, performative saviorism…

Blunt. Peter didn’t pull any punches, did he?

Their sacrifices are not in vain because they are not real .

This knocked the wind out of him like a particularly sharp gut punch. It felt like an entire dismissal of everything he ever stood for— everything he ever risked. He did make real sacrifices. He lost two whole years. Sure, he didn’t die, but that had been pure, unadulterated luck. He should’ve.

God knows he should’ve.

A man who “catches nukes” and tosses them back down to Earth, only to catch them once more, is no man.

What…? Tony had to physically stand up and take a breath. He must’ve really fucked up to warrant such a low blow. Not many people knew about how heavily that incident weighed on him. Peter couldn’t be one of them…right?

What is a sacrifice without consequence? The answer is simple. Tony Stark. 

He stared, unseeing, past the computer screen. 

Never in his life had he so eloquently been told to fuck all the way off. 

Not wanting to dwell on the contents anymore, he scrolled down to the comments. They were—harsh, to put it nicely. 

However, the variance of “harsh” threw him off. The feedback ranged from people adamantly agreeing to sending Peter literal (and graphically detailed) death threats. 

The network dubbed itself controversial for a reason, but…the judgements felt like overkill. While what had been written in the article hadn’t been true, per say, it hadn’t been unreasonable. It hadn’t been…it hadn’t…

The dull pang in his chest spiked into a painful sting. Fuck. The words, the sentiments, the analogies; they all pooled into his head like acid, burning everything in their wake. Dampness began to gradually spread down his cheeks. Touching his face, he realized that his tear ducts acted on their own accord. 

The last time he cried felt like eons ago. 

Tony had seen far worse and far more ludicrous (read: genuinely slanderous bullshit), on the internet, about himself before, so he didn’t know why this hurt so damn much. 

Except— he did know. 

It hurt because Peter Parker wrote it, and for whatever reason, Tony should know him. They should be close. Reading the article, once again, that much seemed obvious. Yet, it also negated the assumption entirely. 

This lacked the narrative of a stranger recounting his personal view of the disappointing reality of his heroes.

No, it read like Spider-Man directly telling him, in the most cutting way possible, that Tony personally let him down. If that wasn’t the understatement of the century…

The worst part being that he didn’t even know why . 

In honesty, some of what Peter said hurt because he had every right to say it. The “validity” of the statements didn’t matter. Everybody knew the road to hell was paved with good intentions. 

What good intentions tore him and this kid apart so unforgivingly? 

Eventually, his vision blurred over too much to see the computer screen anymore. If he genuinely had the desire to do so, he could very well scrub his eyes and keep reading, however; he decided to take it as a sign to call it a night.

Closing his laptop, he sighed. His phone sat on the coffee table with no new notifications. The amount of progress he made tonight almost felt like too much. At least, in terms of trying to understand the kid. Uncovering how he knew Peter in the first place? Not so much. 

The creak of the front door and high pitched giggles indicated that it was time to give it a rest. The moment reminded him of the same mental cue he used to rely on, during the 5 year gap, to stop dwelling on who he’d lost…

No, that didn’t seem right. Pepper and Rhodey didn’t blip. Happy didn’t…who had he been so distraught over losing? Stephen? He frowned. The wizard was decent, but they weren’t best friends or anything. 

Pulling him from his thoughts, a bundle of joy wearing a pastel pink tutu bounded into his arms. He huffed at the sudden impact before initiating a tickle fight.

“Daddy can you read me a bedtime story?” Maguna bounced on the balls of her feet. 

The questions, the article and the baggage that followed could be tomorrow’s problem. 

Right now, he had a certain little girl to attend to.