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“What am I going to do with you, little man?”
Peter shifts on the bed, slamming his textbook shut with more force than necessary, as though it will lock away his resounding thoughts...his resounding memories.
Except he’s starting to realise that grief is like the lake outside his window—still and slowly settling, until a pebble will fall from above, like May’s angel is reminding him that she’s gone, and suddenly the serenity becomes waves. Violent and merciless and ensuring that he never forgets what he's lost.
He thought he knew what acceptance was, thought he’d come to terms with this being his new reality when that first month had passed after the funeral, but now, staring vacantly at closed textbook, a single tear trailing down the ‘I’ of ‘atomic structure’ and with May’s words echoing in his ears, he realises that he’d never truly accepted anything.
A knock at the door sounds, and with guilt already pulsating in his veins, he opens his textbook again, feeling as though he’s just opened Pandora’s box.
“Hey, Kid.” Tony says softly, as though Peter is a porcelain bird who will shatter at any moment.
Some days it bothers him, how differently Tony and Pepper—and hell, even Morgan, treat him. A fire in his chest roaring, screaming that May is dead and there’s nothing that anyone could do to change that, so they might as well skip past the sentiment.
Now, however, Peter grasps on to the delicacy and love in the two familiar words, and the fondness of Tony’s eyes as he watches him from the doorway, one of May’s pebbles immediately finding its way into his throat.
He swallows, hard. Wets his lips. “Hey.”
“I was thinking we could fix up the car a bit before bed”, Tony taps at the doorframe a little with his knuckles, unsure of his movements, “What'd you think? I could use a bit of boy time. Actually, scratch that, I think if I watch freezing one more time I’ll self combust.”
There was a period, even if it felt like a lifetime ago, that he would have jumped at the idea of working with Mr Stark, on a car that he had bought him. And there was a time shortly after that, when Peter would have rolled his eyes: ‘We both know that it’s frozen, Mr Stark. Who calls a Disney movie freezing?’
Now, however, Peter pushes the idea of saying anything more than he has to, deep down. “I, um, I actually have some work left to do”, He laughs breathily, watching as Tony deflates slightly. “Maybe some other time?” He offers.
Instant guilt festers in his lungs like wasps at the crestfallen look on Tony’s face. He knows it isn’t the first time he’s given the man who loves him, who calls him his own, false hope.
Tony sniffs, looking away for a moment, “Right, yeah. Another time. Sounds good.”
There’s something a little flatter in the way that he says the words—something that makes Peter’s brow crease slightly, because he was becoming so used to Tony’s forced smiles. He never expected his adoptive father to allow the hopelessness and anguish to seep through his usually polished demeanour.
Still, he makes no move to change his offer, instead, he looks back to the page of meaningless words, expecting Tony to fade away.
After a few moments, Tony breathes heavily, his knees creaking as he takes a stand and making Peter’s stomach drop to the floor like it’s lined with lead. The door proceeds to click shut, and he closes his book for a second time, too caught up in his thoughts to notice the presence hovering closely.
When he glances up with a jolt, Tony is watching him intensely. Whether in disappointment because Peter had lied to him, or hopelessness from being at a pure loss, the emotion swirling in the man’s brown irises makes the teen feel awful.
He doesn't even know what to do with me, Peter thinks bitterly. I don't fit. I'm wrong.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, choking air, though it doesn't make him feel any lighter. “Usually you actually um...step through the door...and then close it...unless you’re Vision.” Peter jokes, or tries to joke—the poor attempt flatlines on his tongue.
He doesn’t remember what it means to invent witty responses on the spot, or to giggle at his own humour. Still, he expects Tony to at least pretend to laugh at his comment, or to indicate a glimpse of hope at his efforts.
What he doesn't expect is for the man to take a seat on the chair by his desk, his posture tight and coiled as he observes Peter closely, leaning on his elbows which are positioned on his knees.
Tony doesn't say anything, instead opting for rubbing a calloused hand over his overgrown goatee. His eyes are red-rimmed, yet unnaturally dry as though he's been rubbing them endlessly, and Peter has only ever seen him like this once; the day after he had put May in the ground.
(He falls asleep in the suit that he had worn to Ben’s funeral, the fabric crumpled and worn against his skin, but he had turned down Tony’s offer to buy him a new one. Everything is changing all around him, and at least it offers him some sense of familiarity—even if that familiarly was built upon the foundation of death.
After staring at the wall ahead for what felt like an eternity, he eventually feels Pepper slip his shoes from his feet, giving his back a gentle rub and just for a moment, just a moment, he relishes in the touch, pretending that she’s May, instead.
“Are you okay, honey? Is there anything I can do?” She asks, tentatively.
Peter kept his eyes firmly shut, his words splintering as he told her that he just wanted to sleep—that he felt okay when he slept. Even if that’s because he felt nothing at all.
Something protective and pained burns in her eyes, and later on he’s sure that Pepper had told Tony what he’s said, because he can hear the man crying quietly outside his room later that night.)
“Are you just going to sit there?” Peter finally speaks up, his voice sharp as frustration churns in his gut, begging for a release.
Tony doesn’t respond verbally, instead, he pouts in thought, nodding slowly.
He doesn’t understand what Tony is trying to get out of him, but the fact he’s dancing around on invisible strings rather than being blunt and straightforward so that Peter can continue wallowing alone, is causing the heat in his chest to rise.
“Can you leave?” Peter practically whines a minute later, because the lump in his throat is growing and he doesn’t want anyone to see him cry when he’s so angry—so exhausted with the weight of the world.
His patience deteriorates almost instantly when Tony doesn't budge. ”Go.” Peter says firmly, aware that he sounds like a complete brat—though the fact he knows this only adds fuel to the rapidly raving fire.
”I don't want you here”, Peter snaps, venom lacing his tone and he hates himself for not being able to control his outbursts. He hates himself even more knowing that it isn't true—that if Tony leaves, a part of him will crack. Nonetheless, he presses on. ”Whatever you're trying to do won't work.”
Tony nods again, saying nothing, and Peter can't remember ever feeling this furious, even towards the man who had killed Ben. He grits his teeth, chest rising and falling heavily like a hot air balloon, and without thinking twice, he hits the man where he knows it will truly hurt. Where there's no way he won't get a reaction. ”You don't even care about me. You're just here so you don't feel like a shit person.” He murmurs.
He thinks that he’s done the job because for a moment Tony’s eyes drop, a pinched look settling on his features like he's just been punched in the stomach; however, as quickly as the pain appears, it vanishes again with a sniff. ”Gotta say, bud, you're really throwing down the big boy cards here. I don’t care about you?” Tony sucks in a sharp breath. ”Ouch.”
He says it like it doesn't mean anything, but Peter knows that it does; he can hear it in the way the man’s heart jumps erratically, in the way his left wrist is trembling.
Peter knows that he has more fight left in him, that he could keep pressing and throwing jabs until Tony is warding off unshed tears, but instead, he sighs shakily, burying his face in his hands. ”Please go.” He begs once again, choking on each syllable.
Please don't, the ghoul over his shoulder whispers and he kicks a stray pillow—like he’s throwing a fucking tantrum.
He’s waiting for Tony to come back at him with a quip: ’What did that pillow ever do to you?’, but it promptly dawns on him that he isn't the on one who has changed. That Tony has been forced to adapt because of him—treading on eggshells because of him.
Their old banter has dried up and, now, Peter realises, he can't be around Tony without feeling as though he's looking in a mirror; the understanding that he is the reason for the dark circles and ashen complexion, eating him up.
A repressed sob erupts from his throat before he can catch it, and it isn't like when they were standing outside, surrounding a fresh, polished gravestone. There's no wind to carry away his cries, or trees to hide behind until the ceremony is over. It's just him and Tony.
(”Peter, you have to tell me what's going on. Just lay it out for me. It's just me and you.”)
Too focused on trying to stop the new cascade of hot tears from running down his face, Peter jerks slightly as two large and warm hands wrap around him from behind, followed by the feeling of a nose pressing into his back.
He wants to bask in the familiarity and tightness—the nicer kind of tightness—of the arms encompassing him, loving him. Yet, the mantra in his head is screaming at him that he shouldn't, because they don't belong to May.
And if he can't be loved by May anymore, he doesn't want to be loved by anyone.
(”Tony?” Peter asks when he wanders into the kitchen late one night to find the man washing dishes.
Startled by the teens sudden presence, the dish clatters into the sink, causing Peter to wince, coiling his hands into fist.
However, the man doesn't seem at all fazed or annoyed by his abrupt entrance, instead, his eyes crinkle into birds feet, his fondness evident as he set eyes on the boy. “Hey, kiddo, almost gave me a heart attack there.”
He means it as a joke, Peter knows that, which is why when his eyes blow open in fear—because he can't lose anyone else, he just can't—he immediately chastises himself.
“Shit, I’m sorry...that wasn’t...I’m fine kiddo, my heart’s all good.” And then, to prove it, the man takes a few steps forward, bringing Peter’s hand up to his chest, flickering blue. Sure enough, there’s a heartbeat there—slightly jumpy and hasty—but a heartbeat.
His shoulders decompress marginally, and Tony stares down at him closely, a look of pity plastered in his eyes as he cups the boy’s cheek with one hand, the other still bandaged over Peter’s hand, palm pressed against the perpetual thump thump thump.
Just as Tony opens his mouth to speak, Peter cuts in, desperate to rip the question off like a bandaid. To squash the little hopeful light hovering like a firefly in his chest, before it burns too bright. “I need to ask you something.”
”Yeah? Ask away.” Tony says, his voice light and eager as he brushes some of Peter’s curls from his forehead, and he knows that it was because he has spoken more in the last two minutes than had in days.
”It’s just...well I mean, I know that you’re going to say no, I just...um I wanted to make sure...or to hear you say it.”
“Hey hey, it’s okay. Don’t knock it till you ask it.”
Peter is almost certain that Tony has completely butchered that expression, but either way, he knows exactly what the man is trying to say. He also knows that it isn’t that simple.
His heart hammers in his chest, knocking against his sternum. It would be all too easy to recoil and admit defeat before he has even asked the question—it isn’t as though Tony would pressure him. He would probably watch helplessly as Peter shied away like a startled deer...but he has to do this...today...right now. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, and there is never going to be a better time, so with all the force he could muster, he bites the bullet.
“It’s about time travel.”
Tony immediately sucks in a sharp breath, his studious mind well aware of where this was headed. ”Bud…”
”But you haven't even thought about it!” Peter argues, his voice straining.
”I have, kiddo.” Tony sighs softly, taking Peter by complete surprise, his heart leaping into his throat.
Peter blinked once, twice, then three times. ”What?”
“You heard me”, Tony smiles sadly. The center of his forehead is creased, thoughtfulness etched into every fine line on his face. “Being a parent is hard, Pete…” He waves his hand a little, “I know, I know I make it look easy.”
A watery grin flashes on Peter’s face for a second at the man’s casual, dry humour, before he washes it away, as though it had never been there in the first place.
Tony sighs (he has been doing that a lot recently.) “When you see that one of your kids is struggling, you think of all the ways you can help them. And the worst part...the worst part is when you know what they need, and you can’t give it to them. You understand?”
Peter nodded jerkily, even though he wasn’t sure that he did. Still, Tony’s voice was thick with unshed tears, and it seemed important for him to acknowledge the man’s desperation.
“You really thought about gambling half of the universe for one person?” Peter choked out after a few beats of silence.
“I already did gamble half the universe for one person, kid.” Tony sighs again.
The glossy brown of Peter’s eyes widen in shock, unable to form a single syllable, because it’s him. Tony had risked it all for him.
The how's and why’s are instantly stripped from his tongue as Tony breathes in deeply, before pulling the teen into his chest, tucking his curly locks into the crevice under his chin.
“But we can’t do it again for her.” Peter forces out past the painful ache in his throat, and it isn't question.
Tony turns his face into the boy’s hair so that his words are muffled; drowned in the sweet apple shampoo lacing his locks. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry.”
“Because it doesn’t work that way.” Peter continues, the words so raw and intense that they are almost incoherent.
“Because it doesn’t work that way…” Tony recites, the man’s voice now also dense with anguish, and for the first time in weeks, Peter gives himself permission to cry.)
He proceeds to claw at the hands holding on to him tightly, and he knew it was a metaphor, because if they gave up, if they let go, he would fall. Except isn't that what he wanted? To fall.
”Shh shh, it's okay. I've got you. You’re alright.” Tony murmurs, pulling him closer so that he’s practically dragged into his lap.
He’s crying heavily now—ugly hiccuping gasps, and growls of frustration ripping from the very back of his throat like he’s screaming to the world ‘give her back!’
“It’s not!” Peter sobs, his flailing moves becoming careless and dishevelled, and he suddenly loses all the energy to fight. He tries to force the hands away a few more times, but they don't budge. ”It’s not okay!”
”I know. I know.” He hears Tony say, and with remorse coursing in his veins, he realises that the man's crying too now. ”I know. I'm sorry.”
(”I know, I know I'm sorry!” Peter yelps as May ruffles his hair, messing up the gel; solidifying it in place.
Still giggling, he leaps out of the way as his aunt tries to bat him with a floral dish towel, as though he is an actual spider. “But MJ insisted! And when I say ‘insisted’ I mean threatened.”
“I’m sorry?” May laughs, bright and radiant. “You mean to tell me that your scary girlfriend is the reason you couldn’t pick up some groceries?”
“Her and the rest of decathlon.” Peter grumbles, still fussing over his hair and on impulse, flattening it down completely, so that his gel has positively cemented a fringe to his forehead.
May snorts at his new look, “What am I going to do with you, little man?”
Peter looks up at her through the gaps in his vision with mock-annoyance at the nickname. “I promise I’ll do it as soon as I finish patrol. Actually, I could do it on patrol! Sometimes the man at the desk gives me a discount!”
“Don’t bother, doofus.” She smiles, shaking her head fondly. “I’ll just go now.”
Peter frowns, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure sweetheart, and hey, I might even pick up some Thai, but it gives me auntie points.”
“Auntie points aren’t a thing!” He calls out as she makes her way to the door, plucking Ben’s coat from the wrack and wrapping it around her petite frame.
“They are now!” May calls back, “I’ll be back soon.”
“Love you!” Peter responded as he stared at his reflection in the microwave, separating his hair into lines like cartoon blades of grass.
“Love you too!”
May never does return with the Thai.)
His head is laid back against Tony’s shoulder, causing his neck to become stiff; a physical ache to mirror the emotion festering in his chest; his eyes are squinted shut against the strong glow emitting from the light above him, burning from the salty aftermath.
Two tears trail into Peter’s hairline despite how firmly he keeps his lids sealed. His breath shakes like a string that had been pinged and his voice is splitting into pieces, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care. A numbness expanding. ”I don't want to do this anymore.”
Life. Living. Breathing. They’re all words equivalent to the ‘this’ he is referring to. There is a sudden, apparent shift in the air. Until...
“I hear you, buddy. I understand.” Tony murmers as softly as the term of endearment, a something wet and unknown falling down the man’s cheek and into the crevice of his nose. As unsettling as it is, the physical sensation brings him back to reality and causes the boy to relax slightly in his hold.
I hear you. I understand.
“I don’t know how to be happy.” Peter admits, Tony’s welcoming demeanour causing his tongue to run loose, admitting the things he thought he would carry to his grave.
“It’s not going to be easy”, Tony admits surely against his head, like he is recalling his own experiences. “But we’ll get there. I promise.”
We. We will get there. Both of us. Together.
Peter shakes his head as he chokes on another sob and presses himself further into Tony’s side. “Everything’s ruined. All the good is gone.”
He knows that it’s an unfair claim to make, because the good is right here, the good is holding him. But it’s how he feels. And the good always says that his feelings are valid.
Tony sucks in a sharp breath. “When...when my mom died, I said that exact same thing. I said it for a long time.”
A few stray tears drop down, staining his adoptive father's shirt, and he squeezes the man tighter at the mention of his mother; knowing that it isn’t an easy topic for him.
“Why did you stop?” Peter cranes his head upwards. His teeth latch onto his bottom lip as he watches Tony stare ahead, a knowing smile pulling at the corner of the man’s lips.
”Something Rhodey told me actually. God, knows that man pulled me out of some dark times.”
”What did he say?” He whispers, voice hoarse as he awaits eagerly.
”He told me that everyone’s life is a pile of good things and bad things…” Tony pauses, waiting for the words to sink in before he proceeds and Peter realises just how much the man has evolved over the years; patience and wisdom broadening with every passing day. He hopes that he can grow to be like that. ”And sometimes, the bad outweighs the good, but that doesn’t mean the good is spoilt or any less important.”
The words float amongst them for a moment, spreading like clouds in the air they breathe, and Peter knows that they won't fix everything. They can't.
(”It doesn't work that way.”)
But he understands them. And it's been a long time since he's understood anything. The more the meaning behind them settles, the more they act as a balm on his tender heart.
”May definitely added to my pile of good things.” He says abruptly, and he’s never been more sure of anything he’s said in his entire life.
“And that will always be there.” Tony says, breaking his sights away from the wall and landing on the boy still leant against his frame like dead weight.
There’s more to be said, Peter knows this; he knows that he won’t get better based on the premise of one conversation, despite its significance, or that he’ll ever stop missing May, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a step he can take. Small, and unnoticed in the big scheme of things—and perhaps it won't mean anything.
Or maybe it will, baby, he hears May tell him, and after a few moments of silence, with Tony rubbing circles on his clothed wrist, he speaks up.
”Tony?”
”Hmm?”
”Can I—” He clears his throat, dislodging May’s pebble a little. ”I mean, I think I would like to work on the car now. If that’s okay?”
Tony stares at him for a second, a dozen emotions shuttering across his face like a slot machine, his lips agape, but eventually... it lands on pride. And a glint of hope, more prominent than he has seen since Tony had discovered about the crash. About Peter being alone in the hospital room, his eyes swollen and hair crisp.
”I–yes, yes, absolutely.” Tony splutters, unable to smother the radiant grin blooming on his face, not that Peter minds in the slightest. He is still trembling a little from adrenaline, his teeth chattering, but it eases away almost instantaneously at Tony’s next words. “I’m real proud of you kiddo, you know that?”
And Peter knows that the second he hears Tony say it, that this moment has earnt a fixed, unwavering spot in his pile of good things.
Later that night, when he is under his sheets that somehow became fresh and crisp—most likely Pepper’s doing, he notes thankfully—he hears a set of recognisable footsteps pad across the carpet, followed by a gentle, scratchy kiss in between his brows.
“Night, kid. Love you to pieces.” Tony murmurs against his forehead, before pressing a final kiss to his hairline. Instant warmth spreads in his chest, just like it always does when the man expresses his affection.
He’s far too emotionally exhausted to respond, instead opting for a quiet ”too.”
Tony chuckles from beyond the crimson swimming in Peter’s vision, under his closed lids. And it’s in that moment—that moment when he doesn't need to explicitly say the words back for their love to be known, that Peter blanches.
He realises, with a foreign emotion building in his stomach, that his life isn’t his own. Not entirely, at least; because in the end, he isn’t the one who will miss it.
The grief will follow him like the pebbles from Hansel and Gretel, it will stab him in the gut every time he laughs at one of Ned’s jokes, it will linger in the pocket of every coat he has ever worn; it can’t be washed away. But, no matter what, he vows he won’t follow May, at least not intentionally.
Taking your life, he thinks, as he falls deeper into a place of incoherent dreams. It's a bizarre phrase in a way, because you aren’t just taking something from yourself, you're taking it away from others.