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Peter stumbles through the rubble and masses of dead aliens and warriors. Numb from head to toe, he lets his brain shut down, and his head fills up with cotton and white noise. They won. They did it. They saved the world. But it all seems so distant. So far away from reality. It doesn’t feel like he won anything at all.
Just earlier this day he was swinging his way to class, praying he’d make it on time for once. Coffee and bagel in hand, dodging buildings and pigeons as he tried to swing just a little faster, without spilling his hot drink on the poor souls walking underneath him.
Then he was on a spaceship, saving a wizard, and then there were aliens and an orange planet and they lost and he turned to dust and then he woke up a few minutes later and Tony was gone and apparently those few minutes were 5 years.
And now he’s been in another fight, another battle. A war. And they won. But no one is celebrating. Tears and pain and hurt hover over the entire field like a thick fog, and it’s deafening in the absolute silence around them.
He kicks a few stones away from his aimless path as he walks. Not knowing where to go or what to do. Other heroes are sitting around, breathing, tending to their wounds, looking for lost friends.
Some are hugging and reuniting, others are just as helpless and lost as he is, himself. Just walking around, picking up rubble and throwing it away, looking up to the dust-covered sky, waiting for someone in charge to tell them what’s next.
“Pete?” A familiar voice rings in his ears, and he snaps his head up, looking straight at a slightly older Happy. He’s walking cautiously as if any sudden movements will scare Peter off. As if he can’t really believe that he’s actually there. A sob pushes itself from his chapped lips, and he wants nothing more than to have Happy’s safe arms around him.
He takes one step, stumbling over his feet on the next, but determined to make it across the war zone. Mind set on curling into a ball in Happy’s strong hold. His leg isn’t working like it’s supposed to, and he almost falls over as he works his way towards his… he doesn’t even know what they are.
Peter has been gone for 5 years. Happy might very well have moved on. And it’s not like they were in a relationship or anything. They were… close. And right now he’s the only one Peter wants to be close to.
Happy jogs to meet him halfway, and Peter collapses against his big form and he feels his chest expand and he inhales the familiar scent of safety and home . His arms envelop him, and his beard scratches his cheek. “Hey, Happy,” he whispers, and sniffles, blinking away tears.
Happy sighs and his warm, big hand and fingers curl into his hair, holding him even closer. The other hand wraps around his back, and Peter’s feet wobble and give up under him. He’s safe. It’s over.
They don’t say anything. There’s no need. They just stand there, holding onto each other. Clinging to something familiar. Something solid. A constant in a world where nothing can be taken for granted.
“Let me take you home, yeah?” Happy murmurs into Peter’s hair, and he shivers slightly at his gruff, deep voice, rolling down his spine. The only sound Peter is able to produce in response, however, is a quiet whimper.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here and patched back up.”
*
Happy takes him back to his place, and Peter sits on the dinner table in his boxers when Happy checks him over, stitching up places that need to be stitched up, cleaning off dirt and dust and blood and grime from his beaten up body.
Happy works in silence, while Peter looks him over, tries to map out this man he saw yesterday at the latest, who somehow got grey hairs and crow feet overnight and for some reason needs glasses suddenly.
The radio is playing quietly in the background, and he can hear people cry and laugh and celebrate in the apartments around them. The only sign they won. The only sign they did the right thing. Tony did the right thing.
“It should have been me,” he mutters, watching Happy’s steady hand as it wipes blood from his knee. He stops, sighs, and gets to his feet, standing tall in front of Peter with sadness and loss covering his face.
“No,” is all he says, and places one palm on each of Peter’s cheeks, caressing him with his calloused thumbs. “It couldn’t have been you, Pete. Tony wouldn’t have let you.”
But it could have been Peter. He had the damn thing in his hands. He had the chance. He should have done it. He should have snapped away all the aliens, and Tony would still have been here. The world needs Iron Man. It needs Tony Stark. It doesn’t need Peter Parker.
Peter was already dead. He has been gone for five years already. What difference would it have made if he died again, really?
Happy’s hand combs through his hair, and their foreheads connect as he leans down. They breathe the same air in the dimly lit kitchen, and Peter feels both at home and out of place at the same time. He shouldn’t be here, but he’s so grateful that he is.
The guilt and sorrow swell in his chest, and he sobs, his eyes sting with unshed tears, building up and spilling over, rolling down his cheeks and dampening Happy’s palms. “It’s my fault, Happy,” he croaks, throat made of sandpaper and barbed wires.
Their lips meet, soft and wet and slow. Dancing together just like always. Melting together like they’re meant to fit. Peter sobs and Happy swallows them, letting him know it’s okay. He’s okay. He’s not alone, and Happy won’t abandon him.
“It’s not your fault, Pete.”