Chapter Text
By the time the school bell rings, Peter is already swinging through the streets of New York, feeling the wind rush past him as he races ahead of the traffic.
It’s been over five years since he’d last done this, though to him it’s been a mere week, and the familiarity that he normally felt taking this route is nearly all gone, and Peter finds himself having to dodge signs that hadn’t been there before, and shoot his webs at different spots where there hadn’t been solid matter before in order to grab a hold and be able to swing.
Five years ago, or one week ago, Peter would’ve seen Delmar’s Deli-Grocery as he swung by, people going in and out, usually with a sandwich in hand. But now all he sees are boarded up windows and worn letters that now only read “Delmar’s Del” before the letters are too faded to read.
He still hasn’t had time to process the change, with his chaotic first day back and the week he spent curled up in his room, trying to force himself to get up and eat something as my mind tried to properly acknowledge that Tony Stark, with too many wrinkles and grey hairs than there should’ve been, would never talk to him again, and would never be seen again.
Now, sat on the top of a building, legs dangling off the side, Peter pulls out his phone and navigates to his call log. The most recent log shows an outgoing call to “Mr. Stark” and Peter hesitates before tapping on it, calling the contact again.
He holds the phone up to his ear, waiting to hear the disgruntled man answer and ask him why he finds it necessary to call him when he doesn’t seem to be in any mortal danger and knew he was a busy guy. Instead, the line keeps ringing until the voicemail plays, and Peter listens closely to the same message he’d heard countless times already that week.
“Hey, if you have this number, you already know who this is, and don’t leave a message unless it’s actually important. Even then, you’re probably better off just not leaving a message, there’s only about a 3% chance I’ll actually listen to it. If this is Peter, I’ve told you before, I don’t need a play-by-play on what old lady you helped and what food you ate, but I know you, for whatever reason, like to give me one anyway, so just ramble on about it after the beep.” It was long winded, and rather unnecessary, but it was exactly what someone would expect from Tony Stark.
The beep plays and Peter, after a beat of silence, whispers a shaky ‘I miss you.’, before realizing that he’s crying again and getting his mask wet, so he quickly ends the call and pulls the mask back so he can wipe the tears away.
He takes a few deep breaths, feeling suffocated despite the air feeling crisp and cool against his skin, before pulling the mask back over his face and making a decision to end patrol early.
As soon as Peter’s back in his room, he’s out of his suit and into a shirt and a pair of shorts that had been strewn on the ground. The next moment, he’s on his bed, arms wrapped around his pillow, trying not to think too much about anything. He tightens his grip around the pillow as he lays silent, and listens to the footsteps and Aunt May wanders around the kitchen as she decides whether to order takeout or cook something. He listens to the neighbors below them, one is pacing back and forth while the other isn’t moving at all, talking in a quiet voice laced with exhaustion as the other says nothing. He listens to a bird on the roof, who hops around, poking at assorted twigs and leaves before settling on one and taking off with it, the sound of it’s wings flapping nearly deafening to Peter.
He listens to everything, all the little noises, all the big noises, and it’s all too much, and suddenly his ears are ringing and his whole body is tense and the noises aren’t distinguishable anymore but they’re still too loud and he just wants it to stop, why won’t they shut up-
And the door swings open and Peter opens his eyes and looks up to see Aunt May standing in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed and eyes full of concern. He knows she can see the tears falling down his cheeks and doesn’t even bother to try to hide his face, and instead loosens his grip on his pillow and tries to sit up and try and look a little less pathetic. He rubs at his eyes, and by the time he drops his hands again, May’s arms are around him, and she’s kissing the top of his head as her hand rubs soothing circles on his back.
A few minutes pass as Peter’s breathing slows and he calms down, ears no longer ringing as all the sounds are back to background noise that he’s used to. He moves away and May lets go of him. She smiles a sad smile at him and caresses his cheek with her hand, before she drops he hand to her side and stands up, leaving the room without a word and closing the door gently.
Peter opens his eyes and sees Mr. Stark. He sees Mr. Stark and he sees dust floating and settling on the ground. He sees Mr. Stark and feels his hair stand up and something feels wrong. He stumbles forward toward the man and feels a rising sense of panic.
And suddenly it’s happening again, he’s clutching to Mr. Stark and apologizing as he feels himself turn to dust. Except this time, he doesn’t wake up to Doctor Strange telling him to get up and get ready. This time, he opens his eyes again, though he never closed them, and he sees nothing.
He can see, but there’s nothing to see. He looks down, tries to check over himself but nothing’s there. And then he’s hyperventilating even though he doesn’t have a body now so he shouldn’t be able to breath at all. He looks around at nothing and tried to see something but nothing is there.
And then he tries again to clutch at himself, at anything, but he has nothing to clutch with and he feels like he’s being pulled apart at the seams but there’s nothing to be pulled apart. And on top of it all, Peter can’t hear anything. Ever since he was bitten by that spider he could always hear something, could always hear too much, but here there was nothing to hear. The sheer amount of nothingness is overwhelming and Peter wants to scream for Mr. Stark to help him, but he can’t make a sound. He has no body to make a sound. And that makes no sense, because he can think and knows he’s there but yet he’s not there and he can’t deal with this, he doesn’t know what to do.
The next thing he knows, he’s sitting up and sweating, breathing heavily and grabbing every part of himself to make sure that he’s still there. He clutches to himself in fear that if he lets go, he’ll turn to dust again and then he’ll be gone.
He slowly lets go, and wipes the sweat coating his forehead, before tossing the blankets off and making the decision to take a shower and comprehend what the hell just happened.
The cold water pounds against his skin, and Peter lets out a sigh as he runs his fingers through his hair, working out the knots that had formed over the past few days. His mind drifted, and he thought of the dream he’d woken from minutes ago. He couldn’t understand it, not completely. He knows that it hadn’t been just a dream. He knows that it was a memory, of some sort. And that baffles him even further. The five years had passed without him even knowing, he didn’t understand why he’s now remembering things that would’ve happened
after
he was turned to dust, and before he was back.
An accidental tug at a hair as he pulls a knot apart too harshly brings him back and out of his thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be in the shower this long, their water bill would skyrocket if he makes a habit. Sighing, he turns the knob, and the water sputters, then stops. He steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around himself. There’s a steady dripping noise as the water that’s clung to the shower head drips down and into the drain. Peter ignores it, leaving the bathroom and going back into his own room.
Once he’s sure he’s dried his hair as much as he can, he grabs his spider-suit, and pulls it on, placing his hand to the chest so the suit fits itself to his body. He makes sure to send a text to Aunt May, letting her know he’ll be out for a few hours, before he opens up the window and jumps out, already shooting a web so he can swing through the streets.
Peter’s sitting on a fire escape when he decides to message Happy, not knowing what else to do.
“
Hey do u have any contact with the other avengers”
He hopes, just maybe, if he can talk to just one of them, he’ll know if he’s the only one that has started to remember things. If anyone else would be in the same boat as him, it’d be other superhumans.
“ Only a couple. Why?”
Peter, now sitting across from a man with chin length hair and a scruffy beard, wonders if this was such a great idea. He’s only met this man once, and it was during a fight, which probably doesn’t leave them on good terms.
“So, uh, hi.”
The man, previously known as the Winter Soldier, nods at him.
“Uhm. Sorry about the whole webbing you up thing before. No hard feelings, still think the metal arm is, like, super cool. I just fought you ‘cause, you know, Mr., uh, Mr. Stark said he needed my help.” His voice quiets as he finishes his sentence.
“It’s fine.”
Peter clears his throat, “So uh. I wanted to ask you a question. Do you remember anything from the five years we were gone? Like, did anything happen between the time you got dusted and when five years had past?”
The other man furrows his eyebrows, presumably in confusion, before he answers with a simple, “No.”
“O-oh. Okay! J-Just checking. Making sure I wasn’t the weird one for not remembering anything.” Peter lets out a nervous laugh, fully aware he sounds incredibly suspicious.
“...sounds to me like you remember something.”
“No, no! I really don’t,” he taps his fingers on the table nervously, “but thanks for meeting me, even though it was just for one question. I should get going.”
Peter gets up before Barnes can get another word in, and rushes out the door. He doesn’t want to have to explain what he remembers. If no one else remembers, he won’t tell them. Who knows if he could trigger something that could make them remember. He wouldn’t want to put someone through that.
He sighs, turning into an alleyway, and slips off his sweater and pants. His suit was already on, and he quickly slips his mask on, taking another moment afterward to web his clothes to a wall. He’d get them later, as long as he remembered.
Just as Peter lifts his arm to web away, he hears footsteps behind him, and turns to see Barnes again. He drops his arm, and blinks.
“Uh, hey man, what uh- what do you want?”
“If you remember somethin’, you shouldn’t just keep it to yourself, kid. You could probably, I dunno, talk to the other Avengers,” He scuffs the toe of his boot against the concrete, “keepin’ things like that to yourself ain’t healthy.”
“R-right. Thank you.”
Peter turns, lifting his arm, and shoots a web, swinging his way back to the main street. As the buildings pass by him in blurs, he wishes he could just talk to Mr. Stark about everything instead. Doing what Bucky had told him would be easier said than done, since Peter wasn’t sure how he’d feel talking to people he hardly knew. He knew Mr. Stark. He lets out a sigh as he swings over to someone’s balcony, perching there for a moment.
He looks down at his hand, and for a moment, he can’t see it. His throat tightens and he blinks, and his hand’s there again. He’s still there. Shaking his head, Peter wishes he wouldn’t have had that nightmare. That memory. Whatever it was.
He sighs again, looking around at his surroundings. Across the street, partially visible, Peter spots a mural in an alleyway. He sees Mr. Stark. Fully suited up, he sees Mr. Stark as Iron Man. From what he can see, the mural is incredibly well done, and a lot of care was put into it. Peter wishes he could take a picture and send it to Mr. Stark himself. Instead, he clenches his jaw and jumps off the balcony, looking for crime to fight.