Chapter Text
"Why'd 'ey hang 'is picture in 'ere?!"Some old man, drunk and barely holding himself upright, says suddenly from the bar counter. He kicks the countertop with his fist, staring at the bartender with such a scandalised expression that it looks comical on his features.
He then descends into a drunken rant, spilling slurs and swears left and right, after time losing track of his own words completely and jumping from topic to topic for nothing more than mindless rage.
The man moves on quickly, swallowing down the last of his beer and asking the bartender for a refill, but something still stirs at the bottom of Peter's stomach even after the rant is done. He stares at the picture the man spoke of, slowly zoning out of his own conversation.
A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts, after all.
Even now, several years after Tony's death, Peter still can't quite shake off the undying loyalty burning aflame in his heart.
Every time he looks at the murals in Iron Man's name, wrecked and ruined by the ungrateful masses or uncaring vandals, all he sees is red. Red filling his vision, enraged by their audacity; hot-rod red blinking in and out of his mind in remembrance of Tony's presence; the dark crimson coating his hands and everything around him, smelling foul of metal, as another person he cares for fades away. Peter reads hateful words towards his mentor, written all over the internet as they always are, and feels an urge to smash his phone against the wall over and over again until it cannot be recognised as a phone anymore.
Because how dare all those people say such terrible, careless things about the man that saved them all, one who sacrificed his own life and happiness to give humanity a chance to experience their own?
Sometimes Peter's mind is clouded by muddy, ugly thoughts. "He wouldn't have done what he did if he wasn't sure you would be here after he was gone." Happy's words come back to him in those moments, ringing in his head worse than that bell ever did. It's a bittersweet taste that sits at the tip of his tongue: both a certain bitter anger towards Tony for daring to trade his life for Peter's own, and a glowing warmth spreading in his chest as he thinks, 'Tony did it all for me'.
Sometimes Peter lies awake at night wishing he was never saved. It's a scary thought, and he's sure that had Aunt May or Pepper or even Happy heard him, they would get emotional. There would be tears, he imagines, with a certainty he rarely feels nowadays. Perhaps then people wouldn't have to die from the mistakes he made.
He slaps himself any time he tries wishing for Tony to never invent time travel in the first place, because then nobody would've gotten their happy ever after. But a nagging voice— for you, for you, he didn't save the world, he saved you— whispers into Peter's ear, akin to the demon on his shoulder, that he should've snapped instead of Tony.
The world still would've been saved. Everyone would've been alive. Morgan Stark wouldn't have to grow up without a father, and Virginia "Pepper" Potts Stark wouldn't have to become a widow.
"You're spacing out again."
Peter snaps into awareness, words hitting him like a slap to his face. He turns to face Michelle, sitting opposite from him at the booth, chin propped on her hand. She tilts her head at him and smirks as he finally focuses back on her features.
"Uh— Sorry? I'm just— thinking," he mumbles, looking down at the table and shaking his head.
She huffs and then turns to look where he was staring. It's a picture of Iron Man, hanging high under the ceiling. It's decorated with precision, with little notes sticking to the frame with various kind words written over them. It's a nice little thing, a simple way to honour a hero.
Peter follows her gaze and lets himself smile.
They sit at a nice fast-food place. The fast-food place, the one where the Avengers went to get shawarma after the Chitauri invasion and soon became famous country-wide for the pictures leaked from here. It's already been a decade since then, and most people had completely forgotten about it, but it remains famous still among the superhero folk for kicking out any overzealous vultures with cameras that would make a ruckus at many other places should they hear that an Avenger is present.
He wonders briefly why the drunk man from earlier would go to such a place if he felt that strongly against Tony Stark.
"Are you ready for tomorrow?"
"As ready as I can be, I suppose," he says with a shrug. Peter's entire body is shivering the tiniest bit— not enough to be visible but enough to feel bothersome— and his left arm is tingling the way it does when he gets twitchy about one thing or another, but overall he knows that it's as good as he will be until the task is done.
Michelle hums.
"Good luck, then," she says. "I hope it goes well. The last time you talked for the cameras looked awful."
"Yeah." Peter takes a sip of his soda. "It felt awful, too."
"They'll be asking about Tony," she continues. "A lot. Don't run off again."
"It wasn't my fault," Peter argues. Thinking about Tony is still hard. After the mess with Mysterio— "If you were better, maybe Tony would still be alive" and "It's clear to me that you were not ready for this"— the bare thought of him brings Peter into a pit of ugly guilt and scorching grief.
"I know it wasn't. Trauma is shit. But people— and the press, especially— overlook PTSD too much. They'll either say you're too mentally unstable to do your job or act blind and say you lost your marbles." Michelle points a finger at him. "I know it's hard. For you even more so. But try to take the high ground, for once."
"Easy to say," he grunts, conveniently hiding his twisted expression behind another sip.
The bell above the entrance rings, but no footsteps follow. Peter turns to look in the direction of the sound. Happy stands in the doorway, sending him a pointed look. Peter huffs and, without turning around, stands from his seat. Michelle follows suit.
There's a short pause. He can see, out the corner of his eye, as Michelle stares at him— something regretful and pained brimming in her expression, but she doesn't say anything.
"Need a ride?" He asks, waving at Happy, who looks less and less happy with each second that Peter continues to stand in place.
Michelle shrugs. "Sure."
The ride to her apartment is tense. They sit against the opposite doors, looking out of the windows, not turning to face each other at all. Only their hands are drawn together, fingers intertwined with each other in silent support. They stand on Michelle's doorstep half an hour later, lean in, foreheads pressing together, and Michelle gives him a quick kiss— before the moment ends, and they part.
It was a long month for them all. But the fight is over now.
Peter ignores the looks that Happy throws his way in the rearview mirror. He also doesn't pay any mind to the concern with which both Pepper and Rhodey regard him once they reach the compound.
He does, however, make sure to give Morgan an extra-long hug upon his arrival. The girl giggles, squeezing him just as tight as he himself dares, and drags him to the common room to watch cartoons with her before bed.
They end up falling asleep on that same couch, curled up against each other and with an Iron Man blanket thrown carefully over them later by Pepper.
Pepper is giving a short introductory speech at the front of the stage, announcing his upcoming appearance and reminding the press of the basic set of rules they hold.
Peter is watching her talk on a monitor hanging in the room behind the stage. His breathing is ragged and shaky with nerves. He's afraid, and it's clear as day to anyone who can see him. Because this is it: the day he finally takes on the mantle, takes that torch passed to him by Tony long before Peter knew he was in the race.
He hears footsteps approaching him from behind, a whirring sound following them. He feels it when another person's presence closes up on him until it stands just out of reach of an outstretched hand.
"I remember when Tony walked on stage like this." Rhodes suddenly appears at his side, looking up at the monitor. "God, how long has it been? Almost two decades? I'm so old now."
Peter tunes in to listen to the Colonel, just a little curious. The man sends him a smile.
"I know what you're thinking," are the words Rhodes starts with. "I know you've made mistakes. And I'm sure you will make many more in your lifetime. But here's the thing— Tony made a lot of mistakes, too."
Peter turns to stare at Rhodes. The words aren't anything new to him, and neither are they a shock. Peter was never blind to Tony Stark's past or his darker, more questionable actions. Peter admired him despite the blood on his hands and the mud to his name, despite how questionable such admiration might have been.
But that isn't the problem.
"I know," Peter stresses. He suddenly feels very desperate for Rhodey to understand him. "But he said— he didn't want me to be like him. He wanted me to be better."
"And you already are." Rhodey locks his gaze with Peter's, and the boy squirms under the intensity behind the words. They are as solid as a rock, daring him to deny them and fully capable of holding their place. "He told me that countless times, Peter. You are already better than him."
Peter doesn't know if he believes the words or not. It feels surreal. He wants to curse.
"Shouldn't Morgan be the one who inherits this position?" He jumps away from the topic as soon as he can.
He can see that Rhodey catches his intentions, but the man lets the topic drop.
"It's gonna be a long fifteen years before she has the legal right to do so, and the company needs someone to fill the spot as soon as possible." Rhodey snorts. "Besides, last time I heard, little miss bought a tutu for Gerald and declared that she'll become a ballerina."
"And what tells you that I'm interested in the position?"
"We all know you are." Rhodey's tone changes. It softens a bit, and his gaze grows distant. He looks at Peter with understanding and sympathy that contrasts the pity he was facing the last few weeks. It's a welcome change, but at the same time, it gives Peter hives.
He swallows down the knot in his throat and pointedly averts his gaze. Rhodey places a hand on his shoulder.
"It's not the disinterest that makes this whole thing hard for you. It's only the fear and roaches running around in your head doing all this."
Peter stays silent.
"You know that you were Tony's kid as much as Morgan was, right?" Rhodey's tone is pained and desperate. His words stir something in Peter's chest, and his vision blurs from the onslaught of unshed tears.
Above them, Pepper's voice comes from the speakers, inviting Peter onto the stage.
"I wish I could hear him say that," Peter bites out, more bitter than anything. He pulls away from the comfort of Rhodey's presence and wipes the wetness in his eyes away, quickly concealing them by the infamous EDITH glasses.
He turns towards the entrance and strides forward, swallowing the lump that forms in his throat when he hears the defeated sigh from behind him. It feels like a deja vu, and Peter is thrown into a memory from a long time ago.
He thinks of Rhodey's words. He thinks of the last time he saw Tony alive and how nice he felt cradled in the man's arms. Thinks of Morgan, who looked at him like he was the eighth world wonder and called him 'Big Brother', all capital letters like it was a title of honour. Thinks about the EDITH glasses, holding enough power to control every corner of the known world.
Thinks of the words, written by hand on paper, 'To the next Tony Stark. I trust you.'
The door slides shut behind him, and Peter strides forward, searching the audience with a glance. His every step is illuminated by camera flashes, the sound of polite applause echoing through the room.
"Hello to everyone present. Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedules to come here. I'm Peter Parker— but I'm sure everyone already knows who I am," he says, letting out a breathy laugh. The words are difficult to form, his mind cloudy from emotions and what-not, but Peter manages.
It's what Tony would've wanted. It's what Tony did want, as told by the glasses sitting firmly at the bridge of Peter's nose. And Peter learnt from his mistakes. Turning around is not an option; running away has never been possible. But it doesn't have to be a bad thing.
Peter can do it. For himself, for Tony. For the people who helped him along the way. His gaze, surprisingly, finds Stephen among the invited non-press guests, standing with his hands in his pockets and his cloak masquerading as a ridiculously thick scarf. Less surprisingly, he also sees Aunt May standing a short distance away, with Ned and Michelle hovering at her side.
He breathes in.
"And I'm also Spider-Man."
And his world comes to a halt.