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Peter never had the chance to appreciate the beauty of the water (Is it still beautiful when it’s filling your lungs and pulling you in?). Life was always moving too fast. Too fast for the little things, for friendship, for love. Too fast to even think about living. There’s no point in trying now, anyway. Burned bridges seem to always lead back to a bridge.
Peter’s relationship with May has been nothing but strained since she found out about Spider-Man. They tried hard to make things work, but May’s concerns and reservations about her own nephew throwing himself headfirst into danger always seem to make their way into every conversation. Peter can barely stand to be in the same room as her, forced under her disapproving and weary gaze.
He doesn’t go back to college for another month, meaning he’s stuck at home the majority of the time. Ned’s off visiting family in the Philippines and MJ’s down in Florida, so Peter has no one.
Not like he’s been talking to his friends that much lately, anyway. There’s a small part of Peter that holds onto the hope that his death will be an easier pill to swallow if they can take a step back and think well, we were growing apart anyways, so half the grieving process is already done.
Without the presence of the three that he was once so used to, Peter finds himself slipping between the cracks, stumbling through the dark in search of his home, only to find that he’s just walking in circles in a cave, destined to run into another wall.
But then there’s Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony. The man that would drop everything just to make sure Peter’s okay. The only person he hasn’t been able to distance himself from. Tony’d probably come up with a way to communicate with Peter via telekinesis if he had to, be it microchip in his neck or a little help from a wizard.
It’s a thought that brings a fond smile to Peter’s face, despite his situation. But then his mind so helpfully supplies the thought, what would Tony think of this? And he’s back on his spiral.
Maybe that’s it. That’s the way to leave him behind, to show the man he can give Peter the world and it still won’t be good enough for him to stick around.
Peter sits on the railing, kicking his feet against it like a bored child on a too-big chair. Maybe that’s all the afterlife will be—an eternity of being an eager kid stuck in a waiting room, perpetually nervous for the impending doctor’s appointment, but never being called.
There’s cars driving by behind him, all the people inside a participant in the same assumption.
Someone else will call. Someone else will talk him down.
Peter laughs bitterly to himself. Years of saving lives, and this is how the universe chooses to repay him? Making him a victim to a cruel and uncaring world?
Karma stands in front of him, dangling happiness on a string like some kind of award to be won, just out of reach. Maybe if he just leans a little farther—
Peter looks up at the sky, unable to see a single star. Fucking light pollution . A sky full of stars and New York City decided they need to outshine it.
If Peter’s lucky, his body will return to the stars when it’s finished with its time on earth, crumbling back into stardust and floating up through the atmosphere once more.
Out of the darkness comes a light, shooting across the sky and flying somewhere over Peter’s head. He prays for it to just be a shooting star, or a missile intended to eliminate the whole city.
But he knows better. Missiles don’t land behind him with metal feet on the ground and a heart beating out of their chests, and they most certainly do not speak.
“Kid?” Tony says in a gentle voice that’s so unlike him it makes Peter wince. Not here, not now. He takes a step toward Peter. “What are you doing, bud?”
Sudden tears make Peter’s eyes sting. He didn’t want to cry tonight. No, he was supposed to go out without a fight. He lifts a hand from the railing to gesture vaguely in front of him. “Enjoying the view,” he chokes out.
“I see,” Tony says. “Why don’t you come enjoy it from over here?”
Peter shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says.
“Why not?”
Peter leans forward, looking down at the abyss below him. The act alone makes Tony gasp. Peter can hear his heart rate speed up. “Told myself I’d do it tonight,” he says. “It’s gotta be tonight.”
“Why tonight?” Tony asks. “There’s a lot of things we could do tonight. Like—like watching a movie! Or we could go to that diner that you love! So many things, kid, come on.”
“There’s no point,” Peter says, voice wavering. He starts swinging his feet again. They smack against the bars of the railing and create a loud, metallic thud with every contact made. “I can’t take it anymore, Tony. I can’t.”
Tony’s feet shuffle quietly behind him as he inches closer. “I can help you,” he says, voice heavy with tears. “I can find someone for you to talk to, I can get you the best therapist in the state . The country. ”
“You can’t help me,” Peter argues, feeling once again like a child. If he were on solid ground, maybe he’d stomp his feet.
“But I can try .”
Peter doesn’t want to see a therapist. He doesn’t need to see a therapist. He’s not crazy, just able to see that every life has a beginning and an end and this is where his reaches its final page in the story.
Maybe there’ll be an epilogue, and Tony will give a nice eulogy where he says all the things he’s supposed to say. Something about Peter’s contributions to society and the way he’d light up a room with his smile and heaven gained another angel and all that junk.
Peter probably won’t be going there, anyway.
“Don’t do this to me, kid,” Tony begs. Begs. “ Please.” His voice breaks, and that’s what it takes for Peter to finally turn around to face him. Tony looks destroyed, terrified, even. There’s deep worry lines carving into his forehead and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. Peter can imagine he doesn’t look any better in his current state. Tony takes another step, mouth opening and closing in a silent string of words, a plea to whatever being is up there watching them.
The lump in Peter’s throat grows to be too much to bear, and he finally breaks down. He reaches a hand out for Tony, who’s at his side and yanking him over the edge in an instant. They collapse in a heap against the concrete, with Tony cradling Peter against his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” Peter says between sobs that leave him gasping for air. “I almost—I almost—“
Tony squeezes him harder, his own body trembling with Peter’s. “Shh, I’ve got you, kid” he says into the top of Peter’s head. “I’ve got you.”
“Tony,” Peter wails, his chest heaving. He clings to Tony, clawing at the back of his shirt and grabbing fistfuls of the fabric. “I’m so sorry.”
Tony rubs his hand up and down Peter’s arm as he rocks the both of them back and forth to the best of his ability. “I know, buddy,” he says. “You’re okay.”
As they sit there on the ground, holding one another like a lifeline, the city continues to bustle about around them, unaware of the things going on three feet away from them. It makes Peter feel small, to know that no matter how big his problems are, the world still turns. The sun will come up and the sun will disappear beyond the horizon, regardless of if it shines on him during the day.
Eventually, Peter’s sobs begin to subside, and with it, more coherent sentences are formed. “I just feel so alone,” he says. “I don’t—I don’t have anyone.”
“I don’t believe that for a second , kid. Your aunt loves you, your nerdy little friends love you. Hell, the team loves you, no matter how hard some of them deny it,” Tony says. “And if you don’t believe me—if you don’t believe any of that, then you know what? I’m here for you, okay?”
Peter nods against Tony’s chest, his grip on his shirt loosening slightly. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, replacing itself with an exhaustion deep in Peter’s bones. He yawns, trying to lean his head further into Tony’s chest for a greater sense of comfort.
“You tired?” Tony asks.
Peter looks up at him. “Tired,” he repeats. His body feels heavy, as if weighed down by the events of the night.
“Let’s get you home, bud,” With Tony’s help, Peter slowly stands up. He leans on the man for support, not trusting his weak and wobbly legs, as they walk over to where his suit was left standing.
Tony steps into the suit, letting it close around himself before picking Peter up in a bridal carry. Normally, this would be laughable, and Peter would be digging his heels into the ground in protest, but tonight, he doesn’t bother.
In silence, he allows for Tony to take off into the night sky and fly him home.
The wind blowing in Peter’s hair reminds him of his time swinging through the city, soaring high above skyscrapers and believing he was on top of the world. And maybe he was, when he was saving lives and taking on challenges made for someone twice the hero he was. He was in way over his head, way over everyone’s heads, and he was free.
But Tony flies in a straight line, and Peter doesn’t feel like a hero.
Peter spares a glance at the water below them as they speed over it, and finally sees it for what it is. The water isn’t beautiful, it’s a death trap. The lights of the city dance in its reflection, creating an illusion of serenity, but that’s as far as it goes. The beautiful display of color won’t be there to meet him at the bottom.
And despite this, Peter still finds himself wondering if he should’ve just jumped when he had the chance.
Tony’s firm grip on him as they fly tells Peter that there’s no chance he’ll get away with any last-ditch efforts at taking a final plunge, so he closes his eyes instead.
The constant hum of Tony’s suit, along with the (slowly steadying) beat of his heart, lulls him to sleep.
In the morning, when Peter wakes up and realizes that it wasn’t all some stress-induced fever dream, he’ll have to sit down with Tony and lay bare every problem and troubling thought that led him to the edge. But tonight, in Tony’s arms, he finally feels the sense of security and stability he’s been so desperately seeking.
He’s finally home.