Archive of Our Own

It’s 3 hours to New Jersey. Maybe less, if Peter’s lucky.

May’s been blowing up his phone nonstop since she discovered he was gone. But that was hours ago. He wasn’t even on the bus then, and now he’s too far gone to turn back.

He picks a seat toward the middle of the bus, somewhere he won’t be immediately spotted, but also where he isn’t making the obvious choice. The other people around him pay him no mind, and Peter feels himself begin to relax. Nobody knows his name here, and nobody is going to stop him.

Peter rests his head against the window, staring blankly at the outside world that looks more like a muddied mess of color as it blurs together while the bus moves. He says a silent goodbye to all the familiar buildings and landmarks, everything he’ll never see again.

He’s maybe 2 hours into the trip when Tony speaks from right beside him. “I never took you as the running away type," he says. Peter startles, head smacking against the window. He hadn't even heard the man show up. Come to think of it, he didn’t even realize the bus stopped. "Yeesh, that upset to see me?"

When Peter continues to stare at him in silence, partially trying to figure out if he's hallucinating or not, Tony carries on. "You know, when your aunt called me to tell you were missing," he says, "I was thinking you were horribly injured, or something. Maybe kidnapped. Dead." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "But here you are, on a bus, freaking May out for no good reason."

Peter blinks. "Why are you here?" he asks, looking around at the other people on the bus. None of them seem to care about the fact that Tony—Tony Stark, mind you—is within 10 feet of them.

"Did you listen to a word I just said? Worried aunt, presumed kidnapping and-slash-or death, et cetera, et cetera."

"I wasn't kidnapped."

A pause. "I know," Tony says, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you okay?"

Peter doesn't have an answer. "You should go," he mumbles, turning away from Tony and resting his head back against the window.

"Kid, you know I can't just let you run off on your own like this," Tony says. "Come home."

"You don't get it."

Tony leans back, sighing. "Maybe I don't," he says. "But I do know that you won't solve anything like this. We could get off right now, and head home. Just like that." He reaches over to squeeze Peter's knee. "May's not mad, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what are you worried about?" Tony asks. "Where's this bus even going, anyway?"

Peter shrugs. "Not far enough," he says, then closes his eyes. "New Jersey."

"New Jersey?" Tony repeats. "Why? Not that I'd be fond of you going anywhere else, either—I just want to know why Jersey, of all places." Peter can feel the eyes on the back of his head. "What's the plan when you get there?"

Another shrug. "Find a really tall building," Peter says. "Jump off of it." He opens his eyes to stare blankly at the back of the seat in front of him. "Maybe I'll get lucky 'n it'll rain, or something. So they don't gotta scrape me off the sidewalk."

Tony shifts in his seat, leaning forward to force Peter to make eye contact. "Don't joke about that," he says, eyebrows drawn together in deep concern. "That's—that's not funny. Don't do that."

“‘m not joking,” Peter says. “I got it all planned out.”

“Why don’t we get you home, kid?” Tony says.

Peter sighs, glaring hard at Tony. “Fine,” he grumbles. “‘m not getting off until we’re there, though. Tickets aren’t cheap.”

But Tony seems pleased regardless. “That’s fine,” he says. “As long as you come home, that’s fine.”

They ride in silence. Peter closes his eyes, pretending to sleep while Tony scrolls through his phone for the better part of an hour. Eventually the bus pulls to a stop, and Tony’s shaking Peter by his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s figure out a bus back.”

Obediently, Peter nods and stands to follow Tony. He walks down the center of the bus, and out the door right behind the man. But the second he’s off, Peter weaves himself into the crowd. He matches the going pace, pulling his hood on and keeping his head down as he hurries along.

Through the mess of noise around him, he can hear Tony swear under his breath, and his heart rate increasing. The sound makes Peter giddy, and he walks just a little faster, Tony's panic his encouragement.

He stops only when he’s several streets away, and can no longer make out Tony’s heartbeat. He moves from the middle of the sidewalk, letting the crowd leave him behind, and stands in front of a window.

It’s one of those mirrored types, but the material is warped and his reflection is distorted. Peter stares at it for a long, long time. If he shifts his weight onto one foot or the other, the whole image changes. Sometimes his eyes are stretched thin, or his nose disappears.

If only change were that easy all the time.

With his luck, Tony will probably find him within the hour. He left his phone behind, but for all he knows, there’s 15 trackers in his shoes alone.

It’s odd, honestly, to be stood in a city he has no attachments to, nobody knowing where he is. It’s like he doesn’t exist, even for just a few minutes.

People pass by him on the sidewalk, not even sparing a glance in his direction. Peter feels free. He doesn’t exist here—he’s not even real. In a place like this, where nobody knows who he is, his death will only be a single day headline in the news. Something for people to frown at, to say how sad, and move on.

A smile crosses his face, his teeth barely visible against the metal. He turns, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head as he merges with the crowd going down the sidewalk. Nobody can tell who he is from where he walks, surrounded by people all focused on their own lives. As long as he keeps his head down, Tony won’t be able to see him.

Every so often, Peter glances up at tall buildings. He imagines himself at the top, one foot hovering over the edge. Maybe he’ll gather a crowd, or the fire department will come to talk him down.

He can’t wait.

Peter crosses several streets and eventually finds himself at a small park. It’s fairly empty, with some kids playing soccer and a guy walking his dog in the distance. He makes his steps light as he follows the path deeper into the park, waving when he passes the guy and telling him his dog is cute.

Noncommittal kindness, society’s greatest invention.

He slumps down onto a bench shaded by some trees, somewhat hidden if you’re looking from the street. Peter would’ve laid down, or something, but cities love their hostile architecture more than they love their own people.

If he cared more, if this were a different day, maybe Peter would’ve removed the metal armrest with his bare hands. But he doesn’t. So he sits.

Waits.

And sure enough, just as he expected, Tony finds him. It’s sooner than Peter thought he’d do it—he was hoping for at least another 10 minutes, maybe. But he hears the unmistakable sound of the repulsors and the suit touching ground, and he knows it’s too late to find a new spot.

"Would you stop doing that?" Tony asks, sounding frazzled as he approaches Peter.

Peter only spares him a glance over his shoulder, forcing the nonchalance in his tone as he speaks. “Doing what?” he asks.

"Uh, running away? What else?"

"S'not running away if I told you where I'm going and what I'm gonna do," Peter argues weakly. "I'm gonna—"

Tony sits beside him. "Yeah, yeah, throw yourself off a tall building," he says. "How poetic, really. Is it because you're Spider-Man? Think it'll send a message?"

Peter lets out a frustrated sigh. "No, it's because I want to kill myself where May won't find my body,” he huffs. "Was hoping you wouldn't either, but, you know. You're here." He looks at Tony for a moment. “You found me faster than I thought you would, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” Tony says. “I had to fly over the city. Multiple times. You know, to make sure you weren’t already on top of a building. I even found out how fast my suit can go at max speed!” He throws his hands up, letting them come down hard on his thighs. “I’m only here ‘cause FRIDAY found your face in surveillance footage. I got lucky.”

“Yeah, you got lucky,” Peter mutters.

Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Why are you acting like I’m punishing you?"

Peter’s shoulders slump. “Just go home, Tony,” he says tiredly, no longer keeping up the facade as he keeps his eyes fixed on a point somewhere off in the distance. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I can’t just leave you here, kid,” Tony says. “Not when you’re like this. You know that, right?” The look in his eyes is enough to drive Peter insane—genuine concern mixed with fear. It’s the kind of look that makes his chest tighten and waves of guilt wash over him. “Pete.”

“You haven’t told anyone you found me, have you?” Peter asks. “You don’t have to. You can leave now, pretend you never saw me. Then everyone wins.”

Tony sighs, his expression darkening. “I don’t win,” he says. “May doesn’t win, you sure as shit don’t win if you’re deciding to kill yourself before you’ve even lived.”

“I’ve lived enough,” Peter replies. “More than enough.”

“You’re not even out of high school,” Tony says. “You’re telling me your life’s peaked before you hit college? Come on, that’s bullshit.”

Peter remains silent for a moment, gaze flicking down to the ground and staying there as Tony’s words sink in. “You don’t get it,” he says.

“So I’ve heard,” Tony replies. “Care to help me get it?”

“I’m tired,” Peter says. “Okay? I’m—I’m tired. I’m done. I don’t wanna do this anymore.” He runs a hand through his hair. "Please, just go."

Tony pauses for a moment, humming thoughtfully as he watches Peter and carefully considers his next words. “Ever tried lobster flavored ice cream?” he asks.

And the question is odd, so out of the blue, that it has Peter blinking rapidly and snapping back to reality from whatever plane of existence he’d been on. “What?”

“Lobster flavored ice cream,” Tony repeats. “Crime against humanity, isn’t it? If you don’t kill yourself, we can try it together.”

“I don’t want to try it.”

Tony leans back and crosses his arms. “O—kay, we can try it and hate it together,” he says. “Gives you something to look forward to.”

“I don’t like you,” Peter says, lips curling into a scowl.

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual right now,” Tony replies. “So. Lobster ice cream? You and me? I don’t care how much it costs, I can get it on special order—same day delivery, even.”

Peter lets out a frustrated groan. “Why are you like this?” he asks before standing and stomping off in a random direction.

Tony is quick to follow after him. “Because I’m trying to stop you from doing something stupid and irreversible,” he says. “Is that so wrong of me?”

“You’re not my dad,” Peter hisses. “It’s not your job to stop me.”

“I know I’m not your dad,” Tony says, grabbing Peter’s arm roughly and pulling him to a stop. “But I’ll be damned if I let you throw away your life like this.”

Peter wrenches his arm free. “I never asked you to care,” he says. “Go home, Tony. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Yeah, well, tough shit, kid,” Tony retorts. “I’m here, and I care, whether you like it or not.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter mutters, shaking his head in frustration as he starts to walk again.

“And you’re a pain in my ass,” Tony replies without missing a beat. Stubborn and persistent in a way that makes Peter want to scream, the man continues to trail after him, undeterred by the argument. “But I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

He grabs onto Peter's arm again, but it isn't in an attempt to stop him this time. The gesture acts more like a means to leash him instead, not quite restraining him, but serving as a reminder that there's nowhere to run.

“Is this necessary?” Peter asks when they reach the sidewalk again and people are beginning to stare. It’s not everyday you see Tony Stark holding some kid's hand as they walk down the street, after all.

Tony gives him a deadpan look, as if to say, seriously? “You’re a flight risk,” he says. “When are you going to stop?”

Peter refuses to look at him. “Stop what?”

“What do you think I mean?” Tony says. “Running, pushing me away, scaring your aunt. Take your pick.”

That gets Peter’s steps to falter for just a moment, before he picks up the pace again. “I can’t stop,” he says. “Tell May I’m sorry. It's not her fault.”

“Tell her yourself,” Tony says, squeezing Peter’s arm. “She won’t be mad if you call her, you know. She’s worried, not angry.”

“She should be angry,” Peter says. He keeps his head up, mentally picking out his building. “I wouldn’t blame her.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, me neither,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean she cares any less about you. You know that.”

“Maybe it’s better if she stops caring.”

“Hey,” Tony says. He walks a few steps ahead of Peter and forces him to stop, the stern expression upon his face softening into something more of genuine concern. “Don’t talk like that. May loves you more than anything else in this world. You’re her kid, Pete. You disappearing like this, it’s—it’s killing her. She was destroyed when I talked to her.”

There’s a bitter taste in Peter’s mouth as he shakes his head, trying to push away the lingering guilt. “She’ll get over it,” he says.

“No, she won’t,” Tony replies. “She’ll blame herself—don’t shake your head, you know she will. Okay, she’ll sit there, and wonder what she did wrong, what she could’ve done differently. And she’ll beat herself up over it for the rest of her life. Is that what you want?” He tilts Peter’s chin up, forcing him to look at him. “Tell me, is that what you want?

“Stop,” Peter says.

Tony grips his arm harder. “Is it?”

“Just—Stop, stop talking, stop,” Peter digs his hands into his hair, tugging hard on his curls. His chest feels tight, and he has to take a few steps back.

Thankfully, Tony gets the hint and releases Peter’s arm. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ll stop.” But he takes the steps to close the gap between the two of them once more, his concern for Peter overriding any sense he has to stay back.

“Go ‘way,” Peter mumbles, backing up until he’s leaning against a nearby building. He sinks down to a crouch, putting his head in his hands as he calms himself. “Just. Stop.”

Tony doesn’t back away immediately. Instead, he crouches down in front of Peter, maintaining some distance between them but remaining close enough to stop him from taking off. “C’mon, bud,” he says. “I’m not leaving until you’re ready to come with me.”

“Why do you care?” Peter asks, voice cracking with emotion against his will.

“Because you matter,” Tony says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Peter isn’t so sure it is. “And not just to me; May, Ned, MJ, the whole team, New York—”

“They only care about Spider-Man,” Peter corrects. “The team. New York.”

Tony lets a hand slap against his leg in defeat. “Sure, New York only knows Spider-Man. You got me there,” he says. “But the team? They love you, kid. They adore you.”

Peter scoffs, a bitter edge to his voice when he speaks. “All they do is tease me,” he says. “They don’t even want me around.”

“That’s not true,” Tony says. “They tease you because you’re like their… annoying little brother, you know? One that they’d do anything for.”

“You’re lying,” Peter says, glaring at Tony. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Pete, if I told any of them what was going on right now, they’d be here in a second. You know that,” Tony says. “Don’t give me that they don’t care about me bullshit. We only started having family dinners ‘cause they all wanted to see you.”

Peter bites down on his lip to keep it from trembling. He won’t cry, not now. “They’ll get over it.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, they won’t,” he insists. “You’re not just some… thing people forget about. You’re Peter. You’re my kid. If something happens to you, no one will ever get over it—Spider-Man or not, you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. To all of us.”

His words hang in the space between them and slip down Peter’s lungs to choke him like it's the city’s polluted air. He stares at Tony, searching his eyes for something more—maybe insincerity, a sign that this is all one cruel joke.

And Tony takes his silence as an invitation to keep speaking. “So please, come home,” he says, voice strained. “Because I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if I lose you. I’m begging you, kid. Just come home.” He stands, offering a hand to help Peter to his feet.

A pause. “Fine, okay,” Peter mumbles, accepting the hand.

“Alright, then, let’s get out of here,” Tony says, sounding relieved at how easy it was to talk Peter out of his plans. But Peter stands there, looking just past him. “What?”

“Nothing, just—” Peter’s mind is running at a million miles per hour, searching desperately for a way out. “What is that?” He points to the area behind Tony.

Tony turns. “What’s what?” he asks, trying to catch what Peter’s gesturing to.

But he won’t find anything, there’s nothing to find. Peter knows that. With Tony distracted, he draws back his fist. There’s a moment of hesitation, where Peter stands, asking himself if he really wants to do this, but ultimately, the desperate part of his brain wins.

He knocks Tony out in one hit, mentally thanking Natasha for all the lessons she gave him.

Now, Peter isn’t a total monster. He knows bad things happen to people who are unconscious in the middle of the sidewalk—and even worse to billionaires in the same position—so he drags Tony to a more secluded area. One completely out of view of anyone who might be passing by.

Peter feels guilty. Really, he does. But it’s not his fault that Tony showed up and made everything so complicated. He whispers an apology to the man before turning on his heel and promptly bolting from the scene of the crime.

He ducks into the shadows, staying just enough out of sight to get out of the public eye, and makes sure to stay aware of the surveillance cameras in the area.

Getting to the rooftop of a building is easy enough work, given his powers and the protection of the shadows cast by the setting sun blocked by a neighboring building. When he gets to the edge, he sits down, letting his legs dangle over the side.

The evening breeze runs through his hair, the ends tickling the back of his neck. It’s honestly peaceful, watching the city below continue on as if everything is normal, as if they aren’t about to bear witness to something so terrible. From his vantage point, all the people below are almost too small to notice, even with his eyesight. He can't even see where he left Tony.

He holds up two fingers, his pointer and his thumb, and squishes the civilians below when they pass by, imagining them to be a bunch of ants coming for a dropped candy bar.

Will he be able to watch them get bigger as he plummets to his death? Or will he fall too fast?

He kicks his feet mindlessly, rocking back and forth to the whistle of the wind, to the music playing some blocks down from him. Maybe next time he’ll dance, he supposes. Maybe he'll hear the song playing in his next life and the words will feel familiar, like a welcome home with open arms.

Peter stands, heart beginning to race as he takes one last look over the city. This is it, he tells himself. One step and it’s over. He lifts his right foot and holds it out over the edge. His hands are shaking, but there’s a smile on his face. He's fucking thrilled.

But just as he’s about to lean forward, to take the final step, metal arms come up and wrap around his body. “No!” he shouts, banging his fists against the suit as he’s yanked back forcefully. “No, no! Let me go! Let me fucking go!”

“I can’t do that,” Tony’s voice comes through, a robotic edge to it as he speaks through the suit.

Peter thrashes in his grip, kicking and screaming as the roof’s edge grows further and further away. When he finally manages to shove Tony off of him, he’s sent tumbling to the ground. His knees hit the pavement hard and his palms scrape the surface before he’s kneeling in front of Tony. “Fuck you,” he grits out, breaths coming out in ragged gasps as he glares up at the man.

“I think you mean you’re welcome,” Tony replies as the suit retracts. “Do you have any idea how stupid you’re being right now?” He grabs Peter by the arm, yanking him up forcefully.

“Wouldn’t have done any of that if you’d just left me alone,” Peter huffs. “You still can, by the way.”

But Tony only pulls him inside, through the roof access door and into whatever building they’re on. “You and I are gonna go get something to eat, and then we are going to have a talk,” he hisses, and Peter’s never heard him so angry. “And if you try this—this running away shit one more goddamn time, oh, I swear, kid—we’re gonna have a fucking problem.”

So Peter lets Tony drag him out of the building, tail tucked as the man silently seethes beside him. People gawk when they see Tony Stark, in the flesh, in some random building a state away from his own. Tony doesn’t even so much as flash them a smile, only storms past them with Peter in tow.

Eventually, they end up at some restaurant. Peter doesn’t quite catch the name, but he sees the blinking neon, open 24 hours sign in the window.

A diner, of sorts. All the smells wafting through the air mix together and make Peter nauseous. Sweet and savory, sweat and cigarette smoke off people. Combined with the buzzing, bright lights above him and the too-loud music in his ears, Peter thinks he might die.

They’re sat at a booth toward the back, somewhere more private, as per Tony’s request. Not that there’s many people to spot him around, anyway. Not exactly the most popular place in town.

Peter stares straight ahead, blanking out while the waiter runs through his spiel. Their voices blend together as Tony places his own order, and Peter only knows they’re looking at him when all falls silent.

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

Tony looks at him for a moment, as if to analyze him, before turning back to the waiter. “He’ll have a stack of pancakes. And a milkshake, thank you.”

The waiter nods, jotting down the order before disappearing into the kitchen, ultimately leaving the two alone once more. Tony’s gaze falls onto Peter again, concern showing in every part of his face.

“You can’t just not eat,” he says. “Especially with the day you’ve had.”

Peter pulls a face. “I’m supposed to be dead right now,” he says, turning to stare longingly out the window. “Shouldn’t need to eat.”

Tony sighs. “No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re supposed to be here—alive, and breathing. None of that nonsense.”

Peter keeps his eyes focused on the world outside, watching cars speed past in a blur of motion and lights. “Why are we even here?” he asks. “Shouldn’t we be going back?”

“Happy’s gonna come pick us up in an hour,” Tony says, still not looking at Peter.

Peter tilts his head. “Why don’t you just fly?” he asks. "Isn't that a lot faster?"

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe because you might try and launch yourself out of my arms?” Tony replies with an edge to his words. “Cars have child locks. My suits don’t.”

“You think a car door’s gonna stop me?” Peter can’t help but ask. He has to bite down on his lip to keep the grin off his face when the words leave his mouth.

Tony’s head snaps up to meet Peter’s eye. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you until we get our food. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter mumbles, hanging his head.

10 minutes are spent in awkward silence as Peter stares at his lap and Tony watches him carefully. A bitter thought comes to Peter’s mind—he’s been kidnapped by people less attentive than Tony.

He runs through every possible escape scenario in his mind, from simply standing up and running to busting through a window, but they all end in Tony finding him. The only reasonable solution he can think of is screaming out that Tony’s kidnapped him, but even then, where would he go from there?

The waiter returns with their food, a plate of steaming pancakes for Peter and a burger and fries for Tony. The milkshake sits in front of Peter, and he half considers knocking it straight off the table.

His appetite is gone, lost somewhere between the rooftop and the diner’s front door, and watching the syrup pool at the edges of his plate only helps make Peter nauseous. Tony eats his burger in silence, eyes remaining on Peter.

“You gonna eat any of that?” he asks, nodding at Peter’s plate.

Peter shrugs. “Not hungry,” he mumbles, pushing the plate away.

“Eat,” Tony orders, pushing the plate right back.

Reluctantly, Peter picks up his fork and pokes at his food. The action lacks enthusiasm, and he glares at the pancakes like they’re the ones that put him into this situation in the first place. He takes a small bite, fighting back a gag as he slowly chews and swallows it. The taste of the food is lost on him, drowned out by every emotion swirling around in his head.

After a long stretch of silence, Tony clears his throat. “I’m trying to be patient,” he says. “I’m trying to understand, to talk things out with you, for your sake, for my sake, for May’s sake—but the shit you just pulled? What the hell were you thinking, kid?”

Peter pushes his food around with his fork. “I was thinking that I’d be dead by now, and it wouldn’t matter.”

“Can you stop saying it like that? So casually?” Tony says. “How do you think May would feel if I had to call her, right now, and tell her her kid was dead. What about Ned, or MJ? Think they’d be okay with losing their best friend? How do you think I’d feel?”

“It’s not about you!” Peter exclaims, slamming a hand down on the table. “It’s not about you, or Ned, or MJ, or May. It’s not about any of you!”

“Then what is it about?”

Peter throws his hands up. “I don’t know,” he snaps. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He puts his head in his hands, gripping his hair tight. “It’s all—I can’t take it, Tony.”

“And you didn’t think to talk to anyone instead of—instead of running off and trying to kill yourself?” Tony says. “I—shit, kid. I know I’m not the best with emotions, but I could’ve at least gotten you the help you need.”

“I’m not going to a therapist,” Peter says. 

Tony leans forward, reaching around the plates to grab Peter’s hand. “You need help,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be a therapist, but you can’t keep everything bottled up like this.”

Peter jerks his hand away. “I’m not crazy,” he says. “I don’t need help.”

“You tried to jump off a building today,” Tony says, his voice low. “You might not be crazy, but you fucking need help. That’s non-negotiable.”

“I don’t want your help,” Peter grumbles. “I don’t want any help.”

Tony leans back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “You might not want it, but you need it,” he says. “I’m not gonna sit back and watch you—watch you self-destruct.”

“I’m not self-destructing.”

“Really? Then what do you call what happened today? Everything you did?” Tony replies, the sarcasm clear in his voice. “Because, from what I’ve seen, you pushed everyone away, and ran off to go jump off a building. If that’s not self-destructive, I don’t know what is.”

Peter slumps down into his seat, defeated. Each word is a punch to the gut, a reminder of just how bad a mess he’s made of his own life. “Whatever.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Tony says. “You can’t shut everybody out and expect us to just let it happen.”

“Sure I can,” Peter says, his words defiant. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Tony’s expression softens into something sadder. “I don’t know, kid,” he admits.

Something small dies inside of Peter at the admission, a certain guilt settling into his bones. He doesn’t know what kind of response he was hoping for, maybe something angry, or fighting words. But not defeat. Vulnerability is a terrifying look on Tony, and it kills Peter that he’s the one to bring it out of him.

He looks down at his hands, fingers picking at the edge of the table. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You can start with calling your aunt,” Tony suggests, then shoves Peter’s phone at him from across the table. “You left this on the bus, by the way. I’m sure you already knew that, though.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna be tracked,” Peter mumbles, eyes flickering to the phone as resignation takes over his features. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you put a chip in my neck or something, though.”

“After today, I might,” Tony says firmly. Then, in a softer voice, “Call your aunt. She needs to hear you’re okay.”

Peter hesitates. “What if she’s mad?”

“Then she has every right to be,” Tony says. “But she’s also worried about you, okay? Call her. Please.”

With a heavy sigh, Peter takes the phone and dials May’s number. It barely rings once before May’s voice comes through. “Peter? Oh my god, are you okay? Where are you?” she says, voice trembling as she fires off questions in rapid succession.

“I’m with Tony,” Peter says quietly. “‘m okay, May.”

“Do you need me to come get you? Where are you?”

Peter closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jersey,” he says. “You don’t have to. Tony called Happy.”

May lets out a long, shaky sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she mutters, her voice thick with tears. “I was so worried, baby. If you ever do something like this again, I swear—”

“I know, I know,” Peter mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the call before May speaks again, her voice steadier this time. “I know, baby,” she says. “I just want you to come home.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Peter promises, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Good, good,” May says. “I love you, Peter. Don’t forget it.”

“I love you too, May,” Peter replies.

The call ends, but he can’t bring himself to set the phone down. He clutches it tight in shaking hands and stares blankly ahead, suddenly overcome with nothing but regret.

“Is she mad?” Tony asks, breaking him from his thoughts.

Peter shakes his head. “Just wants me home.”

“Told you,” Tony replies, but the words are almost mocking to Peter. “You scared the shit out of her. She’s worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again. He suddenly feels a little too vulnerable, and the need to ask creeps up. “Are you mad at me?”

Tony’s expression is something unreadable as he sighs again. He looks exhausted, really, slouched in his seat with ruffled hair. “Yeah, I am,” he says. “A lot of the things you did today—not okay. But I think you know that.”

“I know I messed up,” Peter mumbles. “Jus’ thought it’d be better if I disappeared. You don’t have to forgive me.”

“It’s not about forgiveness,” Tony says. “It’s—It’s about you being okay. Sure, I’m mad at you, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you spiral out of control like this. I’ll get over what happened today, eventually, but what I’ll never get over is going to your funeral.” He grabs Peter’s hand again. “Got it?”

Peter nods, his throat feeling tight with emotion. “Got it,” he replies.

Tony squeezes Peter’s hand once, giving him a tight and unconvincing smile, before he removes it to check his phone. “Hap’s almost here,” he says, then motions to the waiter for the check. He’s quick to throw down a few hundred dollar bills. It’s way more than their meal cost, probably enough to buy out the entire menu, but who is Peter to complain?

When they step outside, Happy’s there to greet them. He’s leaning against the familiar sleek black car, arms crossed and a serious expression on his face.

Peter is the first to enter when Happy opens the door, and the two adults have a very quick, quiet conversation about what happened. It’s mostly Happy asking what the hell is going on? And Tony replying, A lot. I’ll tell you later. Tony slides into the backseat beside Peter before he can even decide to be annoyed over more people knowing his business.

It’s 45 minutes back to Queens, both too long and too short of a trip. Peter finds himself both not wanting to face May after what he’s done, and at the same time wanting to fall apart in her arms and let her tell him everything’s going to be okay.

Halfway through the drive, he realizes that Tony hasn’t broken physical contact with him once the entire time. Whether it be their shoulders pressed together or a hand on his arm, it’s clear he’s afraid Pete will take off the second he moves away. And he might, honestly.

And Tony continues to keep a hold on him. All the way up the stairs, down the hall, and right up to the apartment door. He knocks twice, and the door is opened almost instantly to reveal May’s stricken face. 

“Oh, Peter,” she says, expression dissolving into tears as she pulls Peter into her arms. “I was so worried.”

Peter lets himself fall limp in her embrace, his cheek squished against her shoulder. “May,” he mumbles.

May breathes in deep, squeezing him tight. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Of course I’m mad,” May says, but the softness never leaves her voice. “But you’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

Tony clears his throat awkwardly from behind them, reminding the two he’s still there. “We should talk, May,” he says, gesturing toward the apartment.

May nods, pulling back from Peter but keeping her hands on his arms. “Right,” she says. “Why don’t you go sit down while we talk? Just right in the living room, sweetheart.”

“Can’t I go to my room?” So I can go put my suit on and leave, Peter adds on mentally.

“I want you where I can keep an eye on you,” May says firmly. “No more running off, okay? Go sit on the couch, please.”

Peter’s throat tightens. “But—”

“Peter, please.”

When he continues to stand in place, May sighs and looks to Tony for help.

Tony takes Peter by the arm for probably the millionth time in the past 24 hours, and guides him to the living room. “If you leave this couch for even one second,” he begins, pointing a threatening finger at Peter, “I swear to God, I will get the entire NYPD on your ass.”

“That’s extreme,” Peter mutters, eyes to the floor.

“Extreme? I can call in the Avengers, too, if you keep pushing it!” Tony says. “How about this: Stay here while I talk to your aunt or I’ll get your face put on every goddamn milk carton in the nation, got it?”

Peter frowns. They don’t even do that anymore. “Fine, whatever,” he says instead, sinking down into the couch cushion.

Tony eyes him for a moment like he’s going to say something, but ultimately turns and heads toward the kitchen, where May is now waiting for him.

There’s a few moments of silence broken up only by the sounds of Tony’s footsteps, where Peter glares at the TV ahead of him. His reflection in the device is barely visible, and he finds himself missing the old building from before.

“This isn’t—this isn’t him, Tony,” May says. “He’s never done anything like this, not—not running away, or ignoring my calls. It’s not like him.”

“I know,” Tony says. “I don’t know why he’d…”

The two talk in hushed voices, low enough to convince themselves they’re hiding the conversation from Peter, but not enough to escape the boundaries of his enhanced hearing.

“Do you think it’s something I did?” May asks. Her voice trembles, and it’s like a knife in Peter’s chest. “Did he—did he say why?”

There’s a pause as Tony shakes his head. Peter can tell by the way the fabric of his jacket rustles. “He was going to kill himself,” he says. “He—He almost did, I caught him on the roof, but—”

“Oh, god,” May says. “Oh, god, Tony. What do we do?”

The noise that leaves her is something Peter hasn’t heard since the day Ben was shot. Since he was brought home by one of Ben’s cop buddies, and they had to break the news while he sat shaking on the couch. It’s full of anguish and is broken, and Peter can’t help but wonder if May’s begun to grieve him too.

His body goes cold with guilt, fingertips tingling like they had that night, after he’d pressed his hands to Ben’s bleeding wound in his dying moments.

May wasn’t supposed to know, he thinks. May was never supposed to know.

“I should’ve known something was wrong,” she says with a sniffle. “I should’ve known.”

Peter decides right there that the worst feeling in the world is the way he feels now, having made May cry. Not making Tony angry, or punching him, or arguing with him. None of that even comes close to rivaling the ache in his chest at May’s pain.

He can’t help the tears that come suddenly to his eyes as he breaks down for the first time all day. A sob rips from his throat, louder than expected, and catches the other two’s attention.

“Kid?” Tony ventures carefully.

Peter curls over on his side, hiding his face in his hoodie.

May’s out of the kitchen in a heartbeat, pushing past Tony in her rush to get to the couch. “Peter? What’s wrong?” She kneels beside Peter, concern lacing her every movement.

“I’m so—rry,” Peter chokes out between sobs, trying to bury his face further into the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m so—I’m so—” He can barely form coherent sentences through his tears, hands coming out to flail in front of him as he tries to make sense of his words.

“You’re okay,” May says, her arms wrapping around him in some attempt to cradle him like a child. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Peter latches onto one of her arms, clinging to it like a lifeline. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats desperately. “I’m sorry.”

“Here,” May says, pushing Peter up so she can wedge herself under him. “I’ve got you, baby. Don’t worry.” She holds Peter close, letting him bury his face in her shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

Tony stands a few feet away, lingering at the edge of the room but never taking his eyes off the pair. It’s clear he wants to join May in comforting Peter, but he doesn’t know how. Peter can’t blame him, really, after all the shit he’s put the man through today. “You know what? I should get going,” he says. “I’ll give you two some space.”

May scoffs, lifting a hand from Peter to motion for him to come over. “Get over here, Tony.” When he doesn’t immediately move, she gives him a stern look. “Sit.”

The couch dips beside Peter’s feet when Tony sits down, and then his hand is on his knee, squeezing it gently to try and provide him some comfort. “You’re alright, kid,” he says.

But Peter burrows his face further into May’s shoulder, continuing to cry until he’s gagging on tears. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t make yourself sick,” May says. “C’mon, look at me, please?” 

Peter pushes himself up, gasping for air and wiping at his eyes. He’s sweaty, and his whole face and neck are sticky with tears. “I’m sorry,” he says again, moving to sit on the cushion between May and Tony and tucking his legs against himself.

May brushes his damp hair back from his forehead, her touch warm and comforting. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “You’re okay.”

“I messed up,” Peter whispers, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t—I’m sorry.”

“Why’d you do it?” Tony asks. “Running away, trying to kill yourself? This isn’t like you, kid.”

Peter wants to simply shake his head and avoid the question, but May and Tony are both looking at him and waiting for answers, and he has no way out. He sniffles, then looks down at his lap.

“I don’t know. I’m—I’m tired,” he confesses, quietly. His shoulders slump forward like the exhaustion has finally seeped into his bones and taken him down with it. “I want—I want to die, I want to die.”

May’s face pales as she stares at him, deep worry lines creasing her forehead. “You don’t mean that,” she says. “You can’t mean that.” She reaches forward to cup Peter’s face in her hands, brushing away his tears with her thumbs. “Please.”

Peter closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. “Tony wasn’t supposed to find me,” he says. “He—He wasn’t supposed to find me.”

“I’m glad he did,” May says immediately. “Do you know how much it would kill me if something happened to you? Were you expecting me to just move on?”

“You will,” Peter says. “You all will. You have to.”

May jerks her hands away as if she’s been burned, and Peter’s eyes snap open. Her hand is over her mouth and her eyes are closed this time, with tears streaming down her face.

Peter’s mouth opens and closes repeatedly, the words he wants to say all tangling up in his throat and coming out in silence.

“Don’t talk like that,” Tony says to him. His words are gentle, but sharp at the same time. He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Remember what I told you earlier? Nobody will ever get over it if you—if you decide to...  disappear?”

“Why do you care so much?” Peter tries to shrug his hand off, but Tony keeps it firm. 

“Are we seriously going through this again?” Tony says.

Peter deflates, refusing to look in May’s direction. He can hear the way her breath hitches, caught in her throat on Peter’s admission. “I just—” he starts, not quite sure where he’s going with it. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry,” and puts his head in his hands. “I’m—I can’t. I don’t know what to do.”

Tony scoots off the couch to crouch in front of him, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, buddy,” he says softly. “We’re gonna get you all the help you need, okay? We can get you into therapy, or—or send you on a vacation if it’s what you need. Don’t even worry about the cost.

May nods in agreement, sniffling as she leans her head against Peter. “Anything you need, baby.” She links their arms, kissing his shoulder. “Anything at all.”

Peter lifts his head. “I don’t deserve it,” he says. “Don’t waste your money.”

“You deserve to get better,” Tony says. “You made some mistakes, sure, and you’ll deal with the consequences for them. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve our help.”

“But—But I messed up, I—I—I stole money out of May’s purse to pay for the bus ticket, and—and I ignored your calls, and ran off, and—and I punched you. I don’t—I didn’t—”

A startled laugh leaves May. “You punched him?”

Tony nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Knocked me out, took off.” He looks to Peter. “Don’t think we won’t be talking about that later.”

“Peter!” May scolds, her head no longer on Peter’s shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

Peter’s cheeks flush with shame and he buries his face in his hands again. “I wasn’t,” he mumbles. “I panicked.”

“Yeah, and I’m probably concussed,” Tony replies. “Conversation for another time.”

May sighs. “Yeah, another time,” she says. “Jesus, Peter.” Her hand finds Peter’s back, patting it twice before retreating. “You’re lucky a cop didn’t see that.”

Peter shrinks into himself, feeling small, like a child being scolded for misbehaving. He hates it, hates the feeling, but a small part of himself knows he deserves it. “Sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t—I didn’t—" He cuts himself off, exhausted. "I don’t know. I'm sorry.”

Tony sits back on his heels, eyes focused on Peter. "You messed up," he says. "Big time. And we'll get to that later, okay? I know you're sorry." He takes one of Peter's hands. "But right now, we're gonna focus on getting you help, and we need you to work with us. Can you do that?"

Peter glances at the window. It’s closed, probably locked, and it’ll take too long to open if he wants to take off again. Part of him wonders if May’s going to childproof the whole apartment now, or something. (Do they make child locks for everything?) “Fine,” he says. “I’ll try.”

May kisses his cheek, her hand cradling the other side of his face. “I love you,” she says. “I love you so, so much.”

Peter's hand comes up to cover May's. "Love you."

It's 3 hours to New Jersey. Less by car, more on foot. Peter's thought of every option, every path and every street. None of it matters, though. He'll never make it that far. Never again.

He probably won't even make it to the street, not with Tony nearby, prepared to haul his ass back inside the second he tries anything. He's smart enough not to, anyway. That's just another lecture he doesn't want to sit through, that nobody has any time for.

So, he sits. Folds his hands in his lap. Listens.

May and Tony watch him warily as they discuss their plans moving forward, as if expecting him to leap out the window or make a run for it out the front door.

It's fine. He dug his own grave. Whatever.

He's going to have to face the consequences, eventually, he's sure. And there's a world of therapy and hard conversations to come, probably a padlock being put on his door and a chain holding him to his wall. (He wouldn't be surprised if there was.) But despite it all, despite the broken trust and and stress he's caused all day, he still has May and Tony. He still has them.

He's got May holding his hand, and Tony's arm around his shoulders as they talk, and neither of them seem to mind the way he's clinging to the contact like it's the only thing keeping him from disappearing completely. They just continue to hold him, quietly reassuring him and telling him that they don't hate him, that they'll get through it together.

And at the end of it all, Peter supposes he's pretty lucky anyway.