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He’s standing under the streetlights, soaked to the bone, watching Ben get shot, and he screams and runs to catch him before he falls to the ground, only to have his arms wrap around the cold air. He turns around, frantically, and Ben is standing there, arms up, gun pointed to his chest. He sprints across the street, but he’s too late, and his arms reach out and grab at the heavy raindrops. He stares at his empty hands, red, dripping velvet beads of sticky blood. He looks around again. He sees Ben there, just out of reach. He runs. As fast as he can. Ben is gone. Again. And again and again and again.
He lets out a wail of agony and pain and guilt. His fault, his fault his fault hisfaulthisfaulthisfault. His knees wobble and crash to the concrete, loud and bone crushing, but there’s no pain. He should probably worry about that if he wasn’t falling through the sky.
Falling through the sky. Wrapped in a white sheet, he struggles against gravity as he's pulled down. Pulled down, hitting the surface with brutal force, knocking the wind out of him.
He inhales sharply, trying to get his lungs to work, only to have them fill up with murky water. He kicks and punches through the rough waves, but the fabric only tightens. Confining him and binding him like a snake to its prey.
He’s being crushed by his own failure, chest exploding and ribs digging into his insides. His bones creak and grind together, and as much as he wiggles and tries to move, he’s stuck under a mountain of rubble and concrete and all he can hear is his own wheezing and pebbles rolling down and hitting the puddle in front of him.
Tony’s voice rumbles around him, nothing like the loving tone he’s so used to. Nothing like the soothing words of comfort he gets when everything is rough. If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it.
He’s not good enough. He’s not a hero. He can’t save anyone. He’s not a protector. Gwen’s wide eyes and gut wrenching scream as he falls off the bridge is proof of that. He dives after her anyway. He can’t lose her. His best friend. Reaching out for him, desperate. Even in the face of death she believes in him. And he only makes it worse.
He crouches down, green smoke covering the ground, making it impossible to see anything at all. His heart hammers in his chest as he tries to listen. He blinks, heaving for air, stepping slowly forward.
A hysterical laugh echoes from the shadows of the fog, and he turns, stumbles, catches himself. Stares right into the glossy eyes of Harry. No.
His trembling hands reach out, touching his cold, grey cheek. The manic laugh rings in his ears again, and he grits his teeth, curling his hands into fists, trying to locate it.
The green, sickly clouds part and an orange faint glow peaks through. He turns, ready to punch, ready to kill , but his knuckles hit a wall of purple muscle. A yellow, sparkling glove grips his wrist, and he’s hauled up in the air.
An evil smile and proud eyes lock on him, calm, collected, as if he’s no threat at all. It’s all just a game. He’s just a pawn in a universe where monsters make the rules and there’s nothing he can do. He’s powerless, insignificant. Insect .
He’s thrown away like a ragdoll, crashes into ruins of a planet he never should have been on. Tony is there, watching him. Scared. Something’s wrong . Tony doesn’t get scared. Tony is his rock. His savior. The only one who can make everything better.
He falls forward, right into Tony’s waiting arms, every inch of his skin tingling and vibrating. Trying to knit itself together even as he falls apart. He tries to tell him, tries to talk, but nothing makes any sense.
He clutches his shoulders, gripping tight, sticking to the metal armor with everything he’s got until there’s nothing left to hold on with. His tongue is weighted down by ash, drying up his mouth, making it impossible to say what he so badly wants to confess, and all that comes out is a distant sorry .
*
He springs up in his bed, coughing, clicking his tongue, smacking his lips. He drags his fingers through his hair, ruffling it. His hands are shaking, his heart is beating out of his chest, and he fumbles for his phone.
“Hey sweetheart,” Tony’s voice soothes, and all his muscles loosens their hold on his bones. He sags back down into the mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling. “It’s gonna be okay, Pete,” he continues, and Peter sobs quietly. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he sniffles, holding the phone so tight it’s threatening to break.
“No matter what happened, know that it wasn’t your fault. I know you, okay? Don’t let this consume you.” Peter chuckles wetly, wiping his eyes. His chest struggling to decide whether to warm up or freeze. “I wish this didn’t have to happen at all, honestly. But sometimes reality doesn’t care what you want.”
Peter sniffles again, blinking tears away from his tired eyes. They roll down quietly, a gentle steam following, dampening his pillow. “I wish we could make the reality we dreamed of, Pete. But if you’re hearing this, then that’s not gonna happen. I love you, and I’m sorry.”
The phone goes silent, and Peter’s lip trembles as he sobs. I’m sorry. How ironic that the last thing he would ever hear Tony say is the very last thing he got to say to him.
I love you . Peter never got to say that. Three small words, that he was too scared to voice out loud. Hearing Tony say it now doesn’t really make anything better. If anything it makes it all a hell of a lot worse.
He turns around in his tiny college bed, dragging the blanket over his head. He’d choose every single one of these nightmares over the reality he has to deal with when he’s awake.
Or maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same no matter which state he finds himself in. Everyone is still dead because of him. He’s still a failure.