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After an unfairly difficult struggle, Peter’s eyes open. He is met with the bulging face of a fish.
Peter screams (although it comes out more like a gurgle) and flails backwards, the fish continuing on its way like he wasn’t there.
He’s underwater.
Fuck.
He tries to orient himself, direct the faint glow of light to be above him, but then he sees it. The dark, unmistakable silhouette of a body, limp below him.
It’s a split second decision before he’s diving down to it, trying to grab the person’s arm and haul them both to the surface before he runs out of air. The water swirls around him, salt stinging his eyes and plastering his hair to his forehead.
His lungs burn as he reaches-
Fingers brush against their wrist-
And they fall.
And Peter falls.
His limbs ache from swimming, but he can’t give up here. He’s moments away from letting the water fill his lungs, just for a reprieve from the pain, but he pushes to the surface, gulping a huge breath as his head breaks the waves.
They’re gone.
Whoever that is, they’re dead.
And Peter didn’t save them.
Eventually, he heaves himself onto the rocks lining the shore, draping his body over them and finally letting go of his mask, which had been clutched tightly in his hand ever since he came to.
The guilt rolls through him like a storm, but Peter pushes it away in favour of fixing his current situation.
He doesn’t remember how he got into the water. He’d been on patrol before this, fighting someone whom he can’t recall. And then… the memory fizzes out. He’s left with nothing, grasping at thin air.
He spits out a mouthful of saltwater.
Maybe he should go to the medbay. This one time.
Peter slips his mask on, waiting for Karen to come to life and scold him about the importance of self-preservation, but nothing happens. The display stays stubbornly dark.
She’s probably damaged by the water. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
Besides, he’s due for lab time tomorrow, since he’s staying at the Avengers Tower for the weekend. He’d just slipped out for patrol late at night (or, early at morning, he guesses).
Peter shoots a web at the nearest building and hurls himself into the air.
It’s not long until Peter is back inside his room, having shoved himself through the open bathroom window and very nearly face-planting into the floor.
He’s laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he tries to remember what led to him nearly drowning. He was… dropped? He remembers falling, the terrifying sound of his web tearing, and hitting the water.
He remembers the feeling of the freezing water rushing around him, mask torn off his head so he could see better in the murky depths and determine which way was up. He remembers panic striking through him, desperation settling in as his breath slowly ran out. He remembers clawing at his throat, arms and legs lashing out at a failed attempt at breaching the surface.
He doesn’t remember giving up.
Peter trembles, phantom shivers wracking his body. That’s enough of that line of thinking.
He’s quite cold. And because of the whole radioactive spider thing, he doesn’t handle cold well. Is it worth it to go to the medbay though? Probably nobody’s awake, and Peter doesn’t want to disrupt someone’s sleep just for them to look him over and determine that he’s fine.
He’s still wearing the suit, he realizes. That’s probably why he’s still cold. Who woulda thought it.
Peter presses the spider emblem, standing up and letting the suit fall off of him and onto the floor. He’d been wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt earlier, and he’s never been more glad for how the suit can be put on over an outfit, because he’s able to collapse onto his bed again with only slightly damp clothes.
He misses how the suit shimmers as it hits the floor, phasing into it for a moment.
Who was with him? Who was that, who was below him, whom he couldn’t save. No, whom he could save, but didn’t, because he was too busy thinking about himself. Peter could have lasted the few moments longer it would have taken to properly grab onto them, he knows that. Even if it were only on sheer determination, he would have been able to get to the surface with them.
They’re dead. There’s no way they’re alive now, and Peter curls in on himself in a weak attempt of comfort. He doesn’t even know who they are, but he knows that he didn’t save them.
A tear slips down his cheek.
Peter’s mind slips out of focus then, thoughts blurring into a jumble that he registers but can’t begin to process.
He hurts.
Light streams in through the window when Peter tunes back in, and if he strains his ears, he can hear someone clattering around in the kitchen. It’s morning.
He picks himself up, forcing himself out of his quarters and down to the Avengers’ commons. He’d gotten in a short nap yesterday evening, but Peter’s sure that dark bags currently reside underneath his eyes.
Sam is making enough pancakes for a city-wide feast, which means there’ll be just enough to tide them all over until lunch. Steve is leaning on the counter next to him, flipping through a book as they exchange a quiet conversation.
Peter slumps onto an armchair, mumbling a greeting. He gets no response, but chalks it up to him being too quiet.
As the morning progresses, Avengers file into the commons one by one. They each take their own plate of pancakes and sit down, conversations that Peter doesn’t take the time to comprehend starting up. Natasha sits across from him, but pays him no attention.
It’s calm.
And then Tony Stark walks in.
He enters from the balcony, Iron Man suit still on and helmet flipped up. Peter twists to look at him, raising a tired eyebrow at the sight.
And pales. Tony’s eyes are tinged red and still glossy, tear tracks painfully visible in the morning light. His mouth is twisted into a frown, eyebrows furrowed.
“Tony,” Steve says, standing up and crossing the room in three strides.
Tony waves him away, his suit collapsing into a briefcase and subsequently being dropped onto the floor, revealing rumpled pajamas.
He stumbles towards the table, gripping onto the back of a chair.
Peter frowns. His breathing is far too fast.
“What’s going on?” Steve tries, laying a hand on Tony’s shoulder, and something must be terribly wrong if Tony is letting the contact happen.
“He- I found him. At the bottom of the East River. His body.”
And Peter feels his blood run cold. That person. They weren’t just a stranger, they were important to Tony. And Peter let them die.
“I- I’m so sorry Mr. Stark, I-” he forces out, but is interrupted by Natasha.
“Whose body?” she asks, painfully calm.
Tony just shakes his head, rubbing tears from his eyes.
“It’s been hours, there’s no chance at all of him surviving. He- he went out for patrol last night, even though I told him not to, and now he’s… gone.”
Peter had let another hero die.
“Kid,” Tony’s voice breaks, sinking onto the chair and burying his head in his hands.
Peter freezes.
“Yeah?”
Everyone else is deathly silent. Peter spares a glance at Natasha, and her hands are covering her mouth, breath shallow.
“He’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Tony’s voice is hollow.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I was trying to save him but I couldn’t reach him,” Peter pleads, but a faint whisper from Steve shuts him up.
“Peter’s… dead.”
He stares.
“No, I’m right here. I’m really sorry Mr. Stark, I tried to save him but I couldn’t breathe and it was dark and I just- I’m sorry.”
There’s no response. Peter feels his panic grow.
“Guys? I’m really sorry, you can give me the silent treatment if you want, Mr. Stark, but can somebody answer?”
Nothing. Someone sniffles behind him, but Peter doesn’t care to know who.
“Come on guys, I’m right here. Please.”
He reaches out to Natasha, hand landing on her wrist.
And passes straight through.
No.
Peter tries again, but his skin shimmers as he makes contact and then he’s through.
No, no, no, no, no.
He holds his hands up to the light, and-
Peter can see the room behind them.
“Peter,” Tony whispers.
“Mr. Stark,” he responds, breath speeding up. But of course, he doesn’t get an answer.
Because Peter is dead.
He’s curled up in the same armchair, hugging his knees and holding back tears while FRIDAY plays Karen’s footage of the event, people gathered around it like a morbid version of movie night.
It keeps playing, over and over again. Nobody has dared to stop it.
Peter is hanging off the back of some villain, too low-profile to have a recognizable name but enough to have a drone that can carry them around. The bad guy notices he’s there, pulls out something that manages to cut his web, and then Peter is falling into the East River.
He’s found out that the person whom he tried to save was actually his own body, sinking away as its spirit (? soul? He doesn’t quite know the mechanics) tried to save it. Which feels like a twisted joke that the universe decided to play on him. But at least someone else isn’t dead.
But he is.
Peter is well and truly dead. Gone, kicked the bucket, left the mortal coil, deceased, perished. He’s alone.
It hasn’t sunk in yet, and Peter’s reveling in that feeling while it’s still here. He doesn’t want it to sink in. He wants to keep living in disbelief, and right now, with them huddled around his armchair, he is.
His armchair. Oh, nobody’s currently sitting on him (or in him, he guesses) because this is was his favourite armchair, blue with dimples on the seat back that he idly rubs when he’s bored.
Peter hugs his knees tighter.
Tony’s not here. He muttered something about going to the lab after the fourth time that the video replayed and hurried off, and nobody stopped him. Peter hopes he’s okay. He’s the one who didn’t listen to Tony and got himself… killed.
This sucks.
Steve stands suddenly, and Peter flinches.
“I’m going to find whomever that is,” he gestures to the screen. “They need to be apprehended.”
“I’m coming too,” Natasha says, voice tight. Steve only nods, and Peter watches Vision join them silently.
They get in the elevator, and the video loops once again.
“He’s only a couple years older than Cooper.” Clint’s voice is hoarse when he speaks, and Peter winces. He’d forgotten that Clint has his own kids.
“I kept forgetting. He’s in high school. He shouldn’t have been-” he cuts off, and Sam pats him on the back.
“He was happy, doing it. Saving people. He told me, once, that he wouldn’t reverse the bite if he could. I don’t think he’d have it any other way,” Rhodey says, and Peter nods.
Video-Peter plunges into the water.
May arrives soon after Rhodey shuts off the video, saying something about how they can’t change the past. She comes in a flurry of watery eyes and shrill words, demanding to speak to Tony.
She does.
Peter doesn’t listen to her yell. Tony’s head is hung low, accepting her blame.
He shouldn’t be.
Peter knows that within half an hour, she’ll be apologizing profusely, but it still hurts to watch. It wasn’t Mr. Stark’s fault.
It’s midnight. Peter is still sitting in his armchair. He doesn’t want to go back to his room.
Wanda’s cross-legged on the floor next to him. Her fingertips are sparking red, and Peter doesn’t want to see the torn-up expression on her face.
She’s been silent all day, sitting next to Peter. They’ve all been quiet, but Peter hasn’t heard her speak a word other than murmured thanks when Rhodey’d handed her a plate of food for lunch.
He wants to hug her. He wants to hug everyone, but he can’t.
Peter hates being dead. He’d like it to stop.
“You and Pietro,” she whispers. “Always, with the hero complexes. You remind me of him.” She sniffs.
“The same name, too.”
Peter stills. He does have the same name as her twin brother, doesn’t he. And both of them are now dead.
“Self-sacrificing bullshit. You both, leaving me here.” her voice pitches up.
Peter slides onto the floor next to her. He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t hear anything.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. Wanda’s eyes are glassy, but she’s not crying. Peter doesn’t know if that’s good or not.
“Why can’t I come with you?” her voice is small.
Peter leans into her, ignoring how he’s slightly falling through her.
“Please don’t.”
She doesn’t respond. He tries anyway.
“Please don’t, Wanda. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here. But don’t follow me. Please.”
“It would be so easy. I want to see you again,” she says. Peter doesn’t know who she’s talking to. He doesn’t think it’s just him anymore.
“You would box my ears if you heard this,” she breathes out a faint laugh. “I don’t know if I care. It’s not like you can.”
“Please, Wanda,” he shifts closer to her.
“I don’t want to die.”
She tips her head back, staring up at the ceiling.
“And you shouldn’t have.”
Peter nods.
“You shouldn’t have, but you did, and there’s nothing I can do now.” She slips into Sokovian, mumbling things that Peter can’t make out.
“But I miss you.”
Tears finally spill from her eyes.
“I miss you too,” Peter whispers.
He doesn’t sleep. He finds he doesn’t have to, so instead the night is devoted to figuring out what he can do.
A list is started in his head, titled Ghost Physics. The first addition is ‘can’t touch people’, which Peter has had to suffer with all day. The next is ‘everything that I died with is with me, but not real’, judging by how his suit and clothes had both stayed, and he was able to shed the former.
He’s still sticky, proven by how he jumps onto the ceiling after being startled by some distant sirens, but if he focuses hard enough, he can also float, which makes it significantly less cool.
He tries to walk through a wall once and promptly smacks himself in the face, but finds that he can stick an arm straight through, so chalks that one up to chance.
Wanda falls asleep, still sitting against the armchair, and Peter finds out that he passes through most objects when he tries to drape a blanket over her. He can, however, touch the armchairs and the couch, and most other furniture in the room.
He pokes at the floor for a while, watching his finger phase through the tiles. It usually does, but when he tries to channel ‘solid’ into it, he’s suddenly a tangible person again. It’s nice.
And then Peter falls through the floor.
He catches himself in midair, but only after he’s fallen through a couple more floors and ceilings. A quick glance around confirms that he’s in a guest bedroom.
May’s bedroom.
She’s not asleep. Peter wishes she was.
She’s sat up on the bed, blankets wrapped around her. Her eyes are glazed over, and her phone dangles in her grasp.
Peter looks at it.
She’s told Ned.
He doesn’t seem to have taken it well.
Peter winces.
“Sorry, May,” he murmurs, sitting down beside her. She doesn’t react.
“I wish you didn’t have to deal with this,” he says, and watches as tears drip into her lap.
Tony and May leave in the morning to sort things out with the funeral director. Peter doesn’t follow them.
He could, quite easily, slip into the car and stow away to the funeral home.
But he can’t. It’s still not real, so Peter’s going to keep believing that. He shouldn’t leave May and Tony to do it alone, but he can’t bring himself to face the fate of his body.
So he doesn’t. Instead, he floats back up to the commons, settling on his armchair. Wanda’s still there, but she’s awake and brewing herself a cup of tea. Sam is having a hushed conversation with Steve at the table, and Peter tries not to eavesdrop.
The commons are otherwise empty, though. He thinks he heard something about Natasha and Vision either still being out or going back out to look for the guy, and he saw Rhodey leave in his suit, presumably for the same reason.
Peter stifles a sob. Nobody hears it.
Of course nobody hears it.
Peter catches Clint staring at Spider-Man compilations with wet eyes. He leaves him be.
The next night is spent staring at his room, before fleeing back to his armchair without entering.
Peter never hears them talk about the funeral, but they’re all wearing black in the morning, and they’re all out of their rooms.
He hitches a ride in Happy’s car, swinging his legs (without a seatbelt!) on the dashboard while Tony, Pepper, and May all sit silently. It’s quite awkward, but then again, it’s a high schooler’s funeral.
When they pull up, it’s only a second of processing before Peter decides he’s not getting out of the car. He doesn’t want to see it. And neither does May, who stays in the car, heels of her hands pressed to her eyes for a few minutes, before dabbing under her eyes to make sure her mascara hadn’t smeared and getting out.
It feels like only a moment, but then they’re all back, driving to wherever the memorial service is being held.
Peter feels his thoughts blurring, mind melding together into a sluggish mush before he’s able to pick it apart into vaguely normal thoughts.
He does, however, recognize Ned and MJ at the service, joined by Betty, Abe, Cindy, Flash, and some other people that he can’t quite put a name to.
They look stricken.
He supposes it’s because he’s dead. Understandable.
Peter finds that he’s been losing time when he looks at the kitchen calendar after what feels like four days since his death passing, and it shows that it’s over two weeks past the date that he’d thought it was.
That tracks. It explains why everything seems to have gone by so quickly.
Is that good? He doesn’t know.
May goes home, and Peter follows. She goes into his room and cleans it, and he watches her hold back tears when she finds his excited sketches of a new suit.
Peter walks to school one day, and watches. The seat next to Ned is empty. Every so often, he turns like he’s going to say something, but then just slumps further into his seat.
He leaves soon after. He can’t keep watching.
He stops at Delmar’s. Says his order, pretends they hear it. Tries to pet Murph.
Peter swings back to the Tower with his web-shooters, which he’d snatched from his suit before leaving. It’s a solid quarter hour before he remembers that he can now fly. He swings nonetheless.
Tony has upgraded all of their suits to be waterproof and have emergency buttons that send a video feed, location, and vitals to FRIDAY. Peter stares sadly as he mutters to himself in the lab at four in the morning. His eyes have heavy bags, and they’re unfocused on the screen in front of him. Peter watches Rhodey coax him into bed.
He isn’t there when Natasha shatters, but he finds her surrounded by shards of a broken mug, her breath heaving. He sits in the puddle of tea with her, and pretends not to see her cry.
They’re Spider Buds, after all. Peter’s going to be there for her ‘til the end, even if she doesn’t know it. It hurts to see her in pain.
Peter’s getting more transparent. He can cover his eyes with his hand and read the street signs outside May’s apartment through it.
Ned comes over. Sam guides him to Peter’s quarters, and they all manage to sit in them as Ned is consulted on what should be kept, and what should be put away in storage.
They end up leaving everything. Ned leaves with tears sparkling in his eyes, and Peter can’t do anything about it.
Peter discovers that now, whenever he tries to pick something up, a phantom version of it comes with him, which exists as long as he’s touching it.
Emboldened by this knowledge, he retrieves his suit and begins to tinker down in Tony’s lab, hoping that it isn’t unfixable. It very nearly is, so Peter thanks the universe that he’d been studying exactly how the suit worked before his death.
Karen is gone. She won’t come back, no matter what Peter tries. Eventually, he gives up. He’s not going to get someone to talk to any time soon.
Every time he passes a dog on the sidewalk, it barks at him. Peter smiles at every single one. He hadn’t appreciated how nice it was to be acknowledged, before. Then again, he hadn’t thought he’d be put in this situation.
Peter is tired.
According to the kitchen calendar, it’s his birthday.
May is bustling around in the kitchen, following a cake recipe she’d found online. MJ had come early, and is now exchanging embarrassing stories about Peter with May as she whips up a bowl of icing.
Peter is perched on top of the cabinets, listening to them talk with a small smile. It’s nice to know that they still care. That they haven’t forgotten.
He exhales, tuning into the conversation below him.
“-and then, Peter’s just sitting there with a face as red as a tomato, and he still tries denying it while his hands are covered in flour. We had him sweep it up himself,” May laughs, and Peter hasn’t heard that sound in so long.
“Sounds like he hasn’t gotten much better at lying, since,” MJ offers a smile of her own, and Peter grins along with them.
The cake goes in the oven, and they both move over to the couch.
Peter steps away as their conversation continues, slipping through the door to his room. Nothing’s gone, which he's thankful for. May comes in to dust, every once in a while, but for now, he’s content with still having this place be the same.
He flops onto his bed. Today’s a much more ‘there’ day than most. Peter can almost feel the sheets under him.
The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling still shine, and he shines back.
He’s flipping through old school papers when the oven dings, and he pays it no mind. Was he that bad of a writer two years ago?
He never thought he’d miss school. But now, what with him being set adrift without any sort of direction, he can understand how school kept him sane (although not very well).
Here, he’s just meant to exist. Until… well, the end of time, he supposes. Drift around, make some spooky noises if he’s feeling bored and imagine that people can hear them.
There’s a knock at the door. Peter sticks his head through the wall and watches May get up to greet Tony. He’s quiet, a lot less flashy than the other times Peter remembers him being here. He sits on an armchair, and joins in on their conversation.
Peter smiles.
Soon after, Ned arrives, a tin full of Peter’s favourite cookies gripped in his hands. May welcomes him with open arms, patting the spot next to her.
Peter lets himself drift through the apartment as they ice the cake, limbs starfished in the air as he floats past them.
They sing ‘Happy Birthday’, voices quiet but still somehow loud, and go silent for a few minutes before cutting the cake.
Peter grabs Tony’s slice and gets his own ghost version, bringing pieces to his mouth and pretending to eat them. He’s learned now that even though the food exists in his hands, doesn’t mean it has a taste, let alone a good one.
They set a cupcake on the windowsill, and let the wind blow the candle out. Peter makes a wish, regardless. It’s lost in the breeze, snuffed out along with the flame.
Peter tells them what it is, because it’s not like it’s going to come true.
He works on his suit, whenever he’s bored. His workstation sits untouched in Tony’s lab, so he’s able to tinker alongside Tony whenever he wants.
Peter doesn’t quite know what the point of his upgrades are, but the suit now has nearly a hundred emergency protocols and measures for different situations.
Including an oxygen tank. For obvious reasons.
Sometimes, he can still feel the water filling his lungs, choking him. Suffice to say, it’s not very fun. He’s left a sobbing mess on the floor, people walking straight through him.
Peter accidentally walks in on Steve and Sam, talking about him. He leaves, but not before hearing Steve say “He was like our kid.”
He rubs his eyes.
Being a ghost is weird. Peter’s not quite sure why he exists, honestly. He hasn’t seen any other ghosts anywhere, but it’s not like he’s the first person ever who died.
Is it like a mutual invisibility? Peter’s yet to meet somebody living who can perceive him, so maybe it’s the same for the dead, except he also can’t perceive them.
That’s kind of sad. If there’s billions of ghosts, but they’re all invisible to everyone, even each other.
Peter hopes that’s not the case.
Peter wants a hug. He’s so cold.
Ned and MJ start a new school year. There’s no longer an empty seat next to them. Peter doesn’t know if that’s good or not.
He wonders what the press thinks about Spider-Man being gone. He doesn’t remember any talk about it within the Avengers, so they probably don’t even know that he’s dead.
He feels guilty, thinking about the civilians whose Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man just disappeared. They’re probably wondering where he is. He’s not saving anyone.
Then again, he’s quite dead.
Peter dons the suit and goes out as Spider-Man, mostly for the principle. He sits on a roof and watches the lights of the city. He doesn’t want to see crime and not be able to stop it.
It’s so cold.
He looks at the stars. There’s a lot more than he remembers. He can see the Milky Way.
They have a movie night. Peter joins in his armchair, still untouched. Everyone’s there, and they’re happy. It’s a sight for sore eyes.
They eventually fall asleep on the couches, leaning on each other and huddling under blankets. Peter watches them sleep, the slow rise and fall of their chests.
He smiles.
Peter’s smudgy around the edges now. Everything’s fuzzy, and it swirls into a mash of colours when he looks away.
He wonders if he needs glasses. That would suck. It would be kind of hard to find a ghost optometrist.
Peter finds himself at an AcaDec practice, and watches MJ lead the team through the questions. He tries not to cry.
There’s less of him, now. He doesn’t quite know what that means.
It hurts, though.
It hurts.
He visits Ben’s grave. There are fresh flowers, courtesy of May. It’s been a long time since he’s been here.
Peter talks, for a bit. Tells Ben that he’s dead, even though it happened a while ago. Tells him about what’s been happening.
It’s familiar. Leaning on the gravestone, a finger tracing circles in the dirt, rambling about who knows what.
It reminds him of home. There isn’t a lot of that, nowadays.
His ears ring. It’s hard to hear their words when they talk. It’s loud, and high, and all-encompassing.
It’s cold.
Peter passes through himself, now. He tries to hug himself and his arms pass clean through his chest.
He can barely touch the real world, too. The floor is barely there when he wants it to be, and never when he doesn’t.
It would hurt, he thinks, if he could still feel.
He misses life. He misses being able to touch, to be heard, to be seen.
Sometimes, everything looks like static, crackling and sharp. Peter can’t even see his own hands through it.
He chokes on the ghost of water, suffocating him mercilessly. Around him, May carries on with mopping the kitchen.
He wishes it were different. Anything, just not this.
It’s cold.
Peter succumbs. Lets the darkness swallow him.
Everything disappears.