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“I can't do this anymore,” Peter whispered, the smell of the medbay becoming overwhelming, the lights always hurt his eyes— but now his eyes were dry, tired, overworked and they burned.
No one seemed to hear him, between the sounds of mourning and the shuffling of the many heroes' feet in the building, he would be surprised if anyone noticed when he stood, using the little motivation he had to walk out of the waiting room. His feet felt like cement blocks were holding them down as he walked aimlessly.
Peter ended up in a dark storage closet, on the same floor, but he didn’t know where. He wasn’t paying attention— between his emotions, exhausted and overworked senses that were already so much, he couldn’t find the energy to care. He didn’t have the energy to process the death of Tony. The death of Natasha. the fact that five years had passed even though it felt like it was only yesterday when his body was torn apart molecule by molecule. He didn’t have the energy to remember or rather acknowledge the fact that Tony had a daughter, who was now fatherless. How she was the same age he was when he went to live with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, after both his parents passed.
He chose to ignore it, even though the thoughts were tearing through the flimsy walls he was desperately trying to put up. He thought about how he barely remembered his parents, and how Morgan may not remember her father, Tony, similarly to how he vaguely recalled Richard and Mary Parker.
He hated the way the spider suit he wore was now a bitter reminder of what he had lost, and the painful day attached to it. how looking at the shiny metal just brought back a mixture of memories but the most prominent had come from just hours earlier, where the snap of Mr. Starks fingers rang loudly in his ears.
Snap, snap, snap. the words he said sounded faint compared to the thunderous snap as it played on repeat in his mind, a never-ending loop.
When he thought of Tony— his charred arm, the blood that slowly spilled from his suit, the pain in his eyes— he was brought back to Uncle Ben, the blood on the dark pavement, the life leaving their eyes.
Suddenly he had to have the suit off. It was too much, heavy, and constricting mentally and physically. He shoved his way out of the closet, trying desperately to make room for whatever the fuck was going on in his mind and his surroundings because nothing seemed to help what he was feeling and nothing stopped the pain— the suit retracted around him, and he fell out of it onto the cold tile floor of the hall he was in.
It was nice. The cold against his skin.
He felt less restricted, the light t-shirt and boxer shorts much more gentle.
The knowledge of Tony’s death sits in the forefront of his mind, refusing to leave when all he wanted to do was pretend it wasn’t real. It didn’t feel real, but he knew it had happened. The strangest, most contradictory feeling— those two, the knowledge of reality but the fact being so incomprehensible that it seemed fake. Even though he was there, he couldn’t believe it.
He would do anything to trade places, to not go through this— Tony had already grieved him, he had a daughter and Pepper.
Peter had been gone, and god does he wish it would’ve stayed that way. If not that, then he would’ve been the one to snap. He had the gauntlet, he had it in his arms why didn’t he do it? Why didn’t he?
If he had the knowledge he does now he would have done so many things differently. He would have done the snap, he would have told Mr. Stark what would happen as they made their way out of the atmosphere— no, before that. If he would have known…
He spiraled. Peter spiraled, falling endlessly in darkness and blinding “what if” s and “ would have” s. Whether this was Tony’s destiny, or if the universe decided to cut his life short as some cruel act of torture, he didn’t care. Peter would have done anything to bring Tony back, anything to not have to face his pain or face his reality. Face the fact that he was gone. Really, legitimately, heart stopped, and stopped breathing gone.
He picked himself up off the ground at the sound of footsteps, faint but closing in. He bolted into the storage closet, closing the door and locking it for good measure.
Maybe if I don’t see anyone, if I never leave this place, if I never go out there, it’s not real. His mind spun, moving clumsily and frantically to clean up this emotional wreckage, so big and overwhelming he had started to sob— when did that happen?— to try and make room in his head. he didn’t know he could cry again, he thought he was all cried out from earlier, that’s why his eyes burned and were so exhausted and tired. He let the tears fall, not bothering to wipe them off his cheeks, knowing it was no use, the mess was too big to try and fix right now. Snot quickly clogged his sinuses, making it difficult to breathe through the body-racking sobs as tears endlessly streamed down his face.
He bit his lip, trying to calm himself as the footsteps grew louder, the person turning the corner to the hall where his reality-blocking closet was at. The echoing grew louder, and louder, and louder until it became overbearing and then suddenly ceased to exist. The sound stopped right outside the closet door, a sliver of black, heavy boots could be seen between the gap between the floor and the door. The strong smell of black coffee, metals, and leather filled his senses— the sharp smells of engine oil mixed with menthol and eucalyptus cleared his sinuses almost immediately, practically burning his nose off in the process; it was already raw from before.
But he would always know who this was by the smell of them.
This person, he wasn’t sure if he could see him right now. It might break him, permanently snap his reality in half before he could even try and reset it like a broken arm.
The knock was gentle, and peter didn’t answer. he continued to try and stifle his crying, which had eased up a little. it was easier to breathe, but he still felt like he was suffocating. “Peter,” colonel Rhodes. Spoke softly, voice slightly hoarse. He didn’t know what he expected anyone to say, he didn’t know what to say back to that or how to behave in front of anyone. “I just came to check on you, Skywalker. Friday said the suit was near here, so I figured you’d be around here too…” he trailed off, and Peter could hear him shuffling. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know his feet were shifting weight from one to the other. Rhodes cleared his throat, the door making a slight noise as his weight was now resting on it.
Rhodey leaned against the door, racking his brain for what to say. Suddenly his mouth began moving. “Peter, I am so sorry.” He closed his eyes, “Tony, he… you’re so young, kid. You don’t deserve to go through this. I knew you were young when Tony recruited you for Berlin, but when I found out you were fifteen, I was so mad at him. thought he was being stupid, and reckless. I thought he was being… Tony.” he sighed heavily. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, I just— I wanted to check on you, I didn’t see you when I came back from…” watching his best friend die, unspoken words finished for him.
Silence settled among the two, and slowly the door handle clicked and it slowly creaked open. He heard a faint voice, mumbling something. Rhodes peered into the closet, eyes finding the boy slumped against some wire shelves with cleaning supplies stacked on top of them. face glistened with tears, red and puffy. “It would’ve been really awkward if you hadn’t been in here, y'know.”
That drew a weak chuckle from the boy, the slight smile disappearing as quickly as it formed.
Silence. Heartbeats. Breathing.
Snap.
“I’m hiding in this closet,” was all Peter said, glancing at colonel Rhodes briefly. “You could find your own, it’s a big tower.” he attempted at joking, yet his voice was hollow and empty like an abandoned pool. Rhodes hummed, moving to sit across from Peter, back against the now shut door. “I’m really tired, colonel Rhodes,” the words barely made their way out of Peters mouth, faint and weak.
“a shower and some clean clothes might help, and bruce is requesting everyone gets checked out at the medbay—“
“No, I’m tired of everyone dying. I’m tired of grieving. ” the words were sharp, laced with pain and cold sadness that sent a riveting chill throughout Rhodey's chest. “My parents, my uncle, my friends, Nat, Mr. Stark.” Peter shook his head, “I can't leave this closet,” he finished, not meeting Rhodey's gaze once since he had opened the door. his head hung low, eyes fixated on the ground.
“You can’t? or won’t?” Rhodes questioned.
“I can’t.” Peter's voice faltered, like flickering flames. “if I leave…” Peter couldn’t face the outside world or acknowledge his reality in the slightest. he was surprised when his body began to move, opening the door for colonel Rhodes, but he couldn’t stop himself. now, the real world was in front of him. his reality was staring him down, and he couldn’t even face the man. “I’m gonna be here for a while, so you go shower and change, get that checkup from Bruce or whatever. I’m okay here,” he forced out, focusing on his breathing. “Please, Colonel Rhodes.”
Rhodey nodded, standing up. his hand was on the door handle when he heard peter let out shaky breaths, but he obeyed the boy's wishes and left.
And when that door shut behind him, peter felt worse than before he even knocked. he got what he wanted, to be alone.
but now he was left alone with all these memories, all this death.
he was left alone with the knowledge he couldn’t run away from. but, he could try and ignore it. he could really, really try. He could try and ignore the image of his lifeless body, ignore the tears streaming down his face, he could try and ignore the fact that Morgan Stark no longer had a father, and neither did he.
he could try.
fin.