Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May’s funeral had been quiet. It was nice. Simple. A collection of her favourite memories. It had been a small ceremony with a few of May’s work associates from the hospital. A few weeks after his own “funeral”, actually. That’s what Happy said, at least, because Peter had been blipped when it happened. She hadn’t passed from the blip—she’d been in a car crash and a drunk driver had swerved and hit her front on.

So, Peter was the last Parker left. Even then, he hadn’t been allowed to live alone, even if he was eighteen in a few months. That allowed Tony to take him in.

Peter loved spending time with his mentor, truly. He and Tony had gotten closer since sophomore year when Peter had been recruited to go to Germany. From then, Peter had come to the compound every weekend and they’d tinker and eat boxes of takeout for subsistence then end the nights by watching reruns of Star Wars.

But that was before he was snapped for five years. Tony, clearly, hadn’t. And now, his mentor had a life—a family—that had happened while Peter was dead.

And now Peter felt like he was imposing.

If he was being honest, he hadn’t wanted to go to the lake house. The lake house wasn’t really somewhere he could ever call home, even if home was forced upon him. The walls ached with memories of a family he wasn’t a part of. The floors creaked like a reminder of the hundreds of footsteps before him that had run across during the five years of his death.

It felt like he was intruding in a life he didn’t belong in—but he had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t want to go anywhere, really, just his back to the apartment with May and the rest of his belongings. But as Happy had driven up the gravel road leading to the cabin for the first time, he realised it was a non-negotiable.

The Starks were easily a family he wasn’t a part of, even if Tony had been the one to insist he move in.

Pepper was effortlessly put together with slick ponytails and high heels, still CEO of Stark Industries even now. Just being in her sheer proximity reminded Peter of his own selfishness—his patheticness, because he hadn’t been the only one to almost lose Tony those months ago. She'd been the one to birth and care for a child, worrying about Morgan while her husband was in a coma. Here she was, head held high and moving on with her life while Peter was stuck at the restaurant.

Pathetic.

Tony had been on a road to recovery ever since he’d woken up from the coma. It was May, now, and he had returned to full health with the absence of an arm. Even then, Peter had noticed quiet changes since he imagined the man that had confronted him back when he was fifteen. Tony had become a family man, replacing engineering for school lunches and building suits for tea parties with his daughter. He still had the same snark, just hidden under soft lines and genuine smiles like not a few months ago, he was grimacing at the mere idea of Peter wearing the same shirt three days in a row.

But it hadn't been a few months ago. It had been five years, and in those five years, Tony had become different. He had a home, not a penthouse above his work or an empty mansion swimming with the impressions of his father.

He had a daughter.

Peter liked Morgan. She was funny and bubbly and already very intelligent for a six-year-old. They’d play with action figures and he’d teach her the times tables up to 13 because she was already on track to becoming smarter than her father. Her energy was unmatched, a fire cracker beside Peter’s dragging frame that wandered the cabin like a lost ghost.

But since he’d been living around her, and the other Starks, Peter had come to term with a few things.

The first was that his mere presence was a curse to those around him. It was a sheer miracle that Morgan was still as vivacious as ever, even with him lurking like a squatter forced out of the rain.

The second was that his guardians never chose him—he was a burden after the last parent passed. According to law, he couldn’t live in solitude no matter just how much he wanted to. He knew the Starks were above the law in some sense, but even the billionaires wouldn’t allow him to become independent quite yet.

The third was that he never would fit into Tony’s family.

-

It had been a few months since Peter could return to school. Strangely enough, it had returned back just before the winter holidays, and since then, he’d been driven to and from the lake house everyday.

It was coming up to the end of his junior year, just a few weeks before the summer holidays. Something he both looked forward to, as well as dreading it with all his heart.

Peter, now, awaited Midtown with eagerness clawing under his skin. Even Flash’s unruly taunts that seemed pathetic compared to the face of Thanos and his army was something to look forward to.

It was a reminder of the aching familiarity he yearned for while at the lake house—a sense of normality in a world where May was gone and he lived with Tony Stark. There wasn’t much of that anymore, not really even at school sometimes. He had some of the same friends, but others had graduated and kids he hadn’t even seen in middle school were now suddenly finishing their junior year with him.

But even then, Midtown remained vaguely similar if he squinted. Meanwhile, the lake cabin was no more confronting than fighting on Titan.

He woke up in a room that still didn’t feel like his, even after months of staying in the lake house. A blinding sun drilled in through the blinds, drifting onto his comforter like a blaring light. The blanket over him was too heavy, pinning him against the too-crisp sheets that missed the aching comfort of feeling lived-in. Nothing like the old Superman bedding with muted colours that had faded over hundreds of washes and pilling from age.

Nothing in the room was his possession—only a few sentimental possessions that he’d found in a box. The walls were bare, except for a Star Wars poster Tony had bought him a few weeks ago. It was Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. Peter had never gotten to see the movie. He wasn’t alive during its release, and he never got around to watching it after, being in a house with a six-year-old that hopefully wouldn’t have to understand the concept of violence until it inevitably would sneak up on her like it did with her father.

Peter’s muscles ached as he slunk to breakfast. It was too early, his mind pleaded, but in truth it was the only time he could afford to wake up if he wanted to make it to school on time.

His face hurt too much to smile. There was a gnawing, persistent ache that remained in his chest like a brick. The dining room table was usually empty anyway. Months ago, there were blueberry pancakes and bacon at the crack of dawn. Now, Peter was on his way to school before anyone could hassle him on what he was eating.

Or not eating.

Usually he’d just skim through the kitchen with just enough time to snatch a muesli bar and meet Happy for the gruelling ride to school. The clock barely skimmed past 5:30, the sheer numbers begging for Peter to crawl back under the covers and shut his eyes.

He stepped down onto the last step and into the living room. It was empty like every other morning nowadays. There was a gentle frost lining the edge of the windows, brushed against the glass like a final farewell of the cold. Summer was approaching, the first long holidays without May, a stretching few months of having to bear witness to a family he didn’t belong to. Pretending the walls didn’t feel like they caved in around him like a hydraulic press.

The room felt hollowed out, the mahogany floors an icy bite on the soles of his feet. He padded forward, shivering as the morning chill nipped at his bare arms.

‘FRI, can you turn the heaters on?’ He asked, scrubbing at his upper arms as goosebumps peppered his skin.

‘It isn’t 6 yet, Peter, Mrs Boss has instructed that between the hours of 12 and 6, the heater remains off for environmental sustainability,’ the AI responded quietly.

Peter pressed his palms into his eyes. He sighed, a heavy breath that he felt rattle against his ribs. Happy wouldn’t be here for another fifteen minutes, yet there were still a million things to do and only so much time. Instead of getting ready, Peter was standing at the bottom of a staircase and watching an empty living room like some nostalgic idiot.

Like he expected, Tony wasn’t in the kitchen. Why would he, when it wasn’t even a logical hour to be awake? If Peter wasn’t so intent on staying at Midtown till graduation, he wouldn’t have succumbed to the torture in which waking up at 5:30 brought.

Tony usually wasn’t even downstairs to greet Peter anymore. Peter had learnt over passing time that he was less of a priority, not worth waking up in the bare claws of a spring morning to farewell.

He also knew he was second to a six-year-old. A six-year-old that was biologically Tony’s and not just someone who’d been given to the billionaire because they had nowhere else to go. Really, Peter should’ve expected it. He couldn’t have expected it to go the same way as it did with May and Ben, who’d taken him in after his parents passed. Who’d been the kindest, caring souls who never should’ve been burdened with him.

Peter was a curse and Tony shouldn’t have been burdened with having to watch over a child whose own blood was infected with such mortality.

Tony had his own daughter now to look out for, a daughter who was still a child. A child who hadn’t faced the hostile claws of the world in which Peter fought against when he could. It was only a few months until Peter would become an adult—he shouldn’t need someone looking out for him.

It was a family not worth attempting to slot into.

Peter swore he could hear the faint giggles a room away. His stomach churned. He tried not to be upset, it wasn’t Tony’s responsibility to take care of him when he was intruding. He would turn eighteen in a few months and leave. Then the Starks could become their perfect family again.

There was now just a rare passing moment, where Tony would flash him a concerned smile and Peter would nod back, as if he was no more than just burnt out from exams and not facing crippling, debilitating thoughts.

Like every other morning.

He stepped into the foyer, a room the size of his bedroom back at the apartment with a single French door the same shade of umber as the floors were. There was a carpet runner that ran down the hallway from the entryway, plush maroon threads that paused just before the kitchen.

He was almost blinded by a harsh abysmal beam of light that glittered through the window panes of the front door. The sun bloomed across the mahogany grain, flooding across the floorboards in a river of warm rays.

His ratty shoes remained tied and worn to shreds beside the Starks’, lined up from Tony’s expensive sneakers to Morgan’s light-up kicks. The pair he’d worn since sophomore year remained beaten-up and strewn haphazardly like he was an unruly guest.

That was all he was. A guest.

-

School was normal enough. Even if it brought back familiarity, it wasn’t necessarily fun. He went to graduate and see Ned and MJ, only so happy to receive as much homework as he did. The only saving grace—lab time with Tony. Every Wednesday, when Morgan had ballet lessons and Pepper was out with the other dance mothers—a posse of manicured, put-together adult women who sipped champagne as their grade-K children skipped around in dance class.

‘Kid, you better be getting your license soon,’ Happy huffed, rolling into the cabin driveway. ‘Tony doesn’t pay me enough to dry you for three hours each day.’

‘That’s if he lets me near a car,’ Peter chuckled, perched on the edge of his seat for the car to park. His fingers itched with anticipation. ‘Are you staying for dinner? I think Pepper’s getting burgers from that diner in Albany.’

Happy sighed, waiting as the teenager slunk out of the car. ‘Not tonight, I’ve got some work down at the tower. But you know I’m staying after your decathlon practice—I’m not driving home at 8 on an empty stomach.’

Peter grinned sheepishly before waving through the open window. ‘Alright then, see you Happy! Thanks again for driving me.’

‘I drive you every day, kid, no need to thank me.’

‘Oh, okay, sorry, but thank you!’

‘Just go, Pete,’ Happy scoffed, waving him away with a flick of his hand. Before Peter knew it, the man was spinning the vehicle back out towards the gate.

With his chest blooming and mind whirring of ideas for his and Tony’s next project, he skipped towards the front door and stepped inside. He kicked his beaten shoes off against the wall wrap and nudged them together, attempting to mimic the neatness that other pairs displayed.

His left sneaker was a little askew. But after a beat of shuffling it back and forth, he realised it was a lost cause and that it was stupid to care so much about how his shoes were positioned. They looked like they’d been run over by a train—they probably couldn’t ever look neat.

‘Sir Anthony, do you want sugar with your tea too?’

His eyebrows pulled together as he stilled, pausing to listen to the giggling down the end of the hallway. There was a gentle clink of plastic china, hollowed out and empty like the cheers of drained cups.

‘Little Miss, don’t you think you’ve had enough sugar?’

A gnawing itch clawed at the base of his ribs. He dropped his bag beside his shoes, hoping the thud of textbooks and his laptop—a product of years of dumpster-diving—would dim the growing ache. It didn’t. He still walked forward and forced a strained smile until he was in the living room.

He stopped hesitantly in front of the two.

Tony sat crosslegged on a cushion, donning an elaborately designed monarch costume and a plastic golden crown. Kneeling on a cushion on the opposing side of the coffee table, Morgan was dressed in a poofy Glinda dress and wore a slightly bigger silver crown. Her hair was pulled into a disastrous updo, clearly improvised and held together with the sheer willpower of a pink scrunchie.

‘Mr Stark, you ready for lab time?’ Peter asked, although the longer he spoke, the more he realised how stupid the question was.

Tony’s smile faltered. ‘Ah, shit—’

Peter’s stomach twisted. He should’ve known his fate, should’ve prepared for the spike of pain that always came with disappointment.

Morgan’s eyes widened, chocolate curls spilling from her self-done updo as she jabbed a finger at her father. ‘You said shit! That’s mommy’s word, you said she coined it!’

Peter grimaced, watching as Tony paused to give Morgan a reprimanding smile. ‘Um, it’s okay if you’re busy. We can do it another time.’

‘I’m sorry, Pete, because of Morgan’s recital, classes are at different times and she was home today and didn’t have anything else to do—we’ll tinker after dinner, alright?’

Peter did interject that Morgan could play on her own, or watch a movie, or do literally anything else that she usually did by herself on any other day after school.

‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ the teenager nodded and tried to ignore the knot growing in his throat. ‘Sounds good.’

He shifted and wasn’t sure whether to wait for a reply. He was indecisive on his fee, eventually losing hope as he began to move backwards.

‘Where are you going?’ Tony’s voice made him turn around again. ‘Not feeling like rose and sprinkles tea? It’s homemade.’

Although he didn’t miss the humor in his mentor’s tone, Peter still swallowed and shook his head. ‘I’ve got a lot of homework, sorry, um, maybe later.’

‘If you say so,’ Morgan shrugged, rolling her eyes in a perfect imitation of her father. ‘Guess Sir Anthony and I will just have more tea for us then.’

‘Sir Anthony doesn’t need any more tea,’ Tony retorted with a snort, glancing warily down at the pink liquid in his cup and the colourful flecks floating at the surface. His daughter watched with an expectant smile and perched herself forward. The man gulped and took a sip, eyeing Peter with a distraught look.

Peter smiled weakly, waved, and retreated back to his room.

They never made it to the lab after dinner. Morgan insisted they’d watch a movie, and Peter had to finish his night by listening to the little girl and her father belt out the songs from Frozen until Let It Go had permanently engraved itself into the back of his mind.

Now every time he felt dejected about his loss of time with Tony, he’d have Elsa telling him to Let It Go.

Fucking pathetic. He was so pathetic.

-

Ever so often, the Starks would get guests. Not one or two, but a whole assemblage of Avengers for a routine dinner. The first time it had happened, Peter had been thrilled to reunite with the heroes he’d fought alongside with and finally talk to someone about being a superhero without getting the same lectures Tony gave.

He’d been wrong, as he usually was.

The heroes never once struck up a conversation about Spider-Man. Usually, anything of the sorts would end in a backhanded comment about how he was seventeen and putting his life at risk at such a young age. As if he hadn’t been fighting beside them only months before in the hardest battle of their lives.

The crunch of tires on the gravel outside the front door made Peter jerk up immediately. Even if he didn’t move from there for a second, he stopped and listened to the familiar laughter and bantering from outside. A curse or two from how someone cut someone else off on the way here.

He dropped his pencil onto the desk. He hadn’t even started his homework yet. Like a loser, he’d just stared at it like the answers would just appear on the page for him. Even if it were possible, his luck was too shitty to ever achieve such magic. Why would someone like him be able to do the impossible?

The laughter came closer and he finally stood up. A sharp rap on the front door struck him in the chest. He picked up the pencil again and shuffled from his bedroom. Morgan’s squeals were nearly successful in drowning out his dread.

Peter, hands tightly gripping his calculus paper, glanced down from the top of the stairs. Today, the cohort consisted of Natasha, Steve, Sam, James, Rhodey, as well as Clint and his family members.

‘Kid, come down!’ Tony called from the living room. Peter swallowed. It had been the first time he’d been spoken to since the quiet afterschool greeting. Then, he’d slunk off to his room and had been alone.

He shuffled down the stairs, hoping that he didn’t look as pathetic as he felt.

Tony’s expression was feigning cynical towards his teammates, but rather like he pretended to be snarky than with true feelings like he used to do. Like he pretended to be nonchalant about their presence, even mildly disinterested.

It was impossible to miss the sheer joy in his mentor’s eyes.

Something Peter had missed for months. His eyes glazed over the guests as they flooded into the kitchen.

The Avengers looked mostly the same, just different haircuts and more relaxed frames. Same as Tony—softer lines, genuine smiles. He guessed a universal threat could do that to people.

Clint’s wife hung nearby Pepper, laughing and occasionally motioning to her children. The kids followed, maybe as awkward as Peter felt. Or maybe not, judging by the anticipation across their faces.

Cooper was 21, in university and quick in striking vivid conversations with the adults in the kitchen. He was allowed to have a beer and could complain about work and didn’t have annoyingly righteous law-followers breathing down his neck.

Lila was a few years younger than Peter but preferred to hover around Morgan and her little brother as Tony’s daughter fawned over her like any young girl did with a teenager. Neither Peter nor Lila ever really could have a cohesive conversation—he was graduating in a year and she was barely in high school and they never shared any common interests.

Nathaniel was still in primary school and usually built legos with Morgan out in the living room. Even though his fingers itched to join in, Peter could hear the quiet, offhand comments about how Nate would hopefully grow out of it in a few years.

As usual, all the adults were completely infatuated by Morgan. The girl greeted them with a bright-eyed smile and was met with endearing hugs. She was peppered with

‘Stark, how the hell did that pure angel come from you?’ Sam retorted, beaming down at Morgan.

‘I’m a saint, thank you very much,’ the billionaire retorted. ‘I sacrificed my arm for the universe.’

‘Like we haven’t heard that a million times,’ Rhodey rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. ‘But seriously,

‘I dunno, s

Like Pete

‘Mongoose, tell Uncle Rhodey how you

Peter forced a strained smile.

‘Peter’s going to Europe over summer,’ Tony spoke up with a grin. ‘

‘Oh, yeah, we won nationals so our team is going on a trip to, well, Venice, Prague, London and Vienna,’ Peter chuckled, a small spark of hope blooming in his chest.

‘Vienna? That’s near Budapest,’ Clint smirked, turning to Nat. ‘Brings back fond memories.’

‘You and I remember Budapest very differently,’ the woman raised an eyebrow, halfway through a mouthful of food. ‘And as far as I can recall, there weren’t any fond memories.’

A misplaced smile found its way onto Peter's face as the conversation deviated further from anything he could input.

Nate tugged on his father’s shirt collar with a grin. ‘Dad, what happened in Budapest?’

Clint and Nat shared a ‘That’s a story for when you’re older, bud.’

‘But I’m old enough now!’ Nate complained indignantly.

Beside him, Cooper sighed and patted his younger brother on the shoulder. ‘Dad says he’ll tell you, but he hasn’t even told me what happened.’

‘That’s because it’s a confidential mission,’ Nat replied with a taunting smile. ‘You can imagine, Peter.’

He was almost grateful for the conversation to deviate back to him, except for the way Clint’s kids turned in tandem.

‘He was always hiding things from me,’ Tony prattled on, and Peter attempted to pretend the pang of misery in his chest was just from heartburn. ‘You think being the friendly neighborhood spider, he’d stick to small instances.’

‘You’re Spider-Man?’ Cooper’s eyes widened and turned immediately to Peter. The teenager shrunk a little in his seat. ‘I thought Spider-Man was at least 25. Man, that’s insane, how are you not dead?’

‘He’s a pipsqueak, isn’t he?’ Sam snorted, looking him up and down. ‘Crazy to think he ever stood a chance against us back in 2016.’

‘Don’t be fooled,’ Tony snorted conspiratorially. ‘He packs a punch.’

‘Oh, um, yeah,’ Peter chuckled uneasily. ‘I’m part spider so I have enhanced, well, everything.’

‘Do you make your own webs?’ Nate leant over the table. ‘Dad said spider webs come from their butt.’

The teenager grimaced. ‘I make my own webs.’

‘That’s so cool,’ the boy grinned, starry-eyed. ‘Dad, can I be a superhero?’

‘Absolutely never,’ Clint rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t even know how Tony here let Peter out onto the field.’

‘I’ve fought with you guys before,’ Peter reminded the man sardonically. ‘I’m pretty skilled.’

‘Kid, leave the big threats to the Avengers,’ Steve chuckled. ‘It’s not safe for you, out on the field like this.’

‘You’re a hypocrite, Stevie,’ Bucky shoved him lightly before turning to Peter with a smirk. ‘Captain America lied six times to be able to fight in the war and they still didn’t let him enlist.’

‘You never fail to bring that up, do you?’

‘Not when you’re a fu—fudgin’ liar.’

And with that, the conversation shifted again.

After a while of just hovering, Peter felt utterly dismissed. Every step, every word, felt like wading through molasses.

So, he did what he thought was the most appropriate reaction and went upstairs. It wasn't as if anyone would notice anyway.

He’d made it as far as the window before he heard shifting behind him. His jaw tightened.

‘Peter.’

Apparently someone had noticed. Funny.

‘I’m just taking a break,’ he murmured, already halfway out the window frame. His fist crumpled his mask, the other bracing himself against the wood. ‘Needed some fresh air.’

Tony frowned, concern written across his face. ‘Don’t you want to take a walk? Maybe Cooper can go with you—you can talk about college or something.’

Peter waved the hand encasing his mask. ‘No, it’s fine, I’m just gonna—’

‘Kid, you’re not going out as Spider-Man.’

‘What?’ He stopped, caught like a deer in the headlights. His breath caught in his throat, limbs frozen as he watched Tony’s careful expression. ‘What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean.’

The billionaire was obvious in choosing his words, each syllable resting on the tip of his tongue. ‘We’re taking a pause. Come hang out with the rest of the Avengers, they’re only staying for a few days.’

‘I don’t want to.’ Peter’s chest ached, words burning like flames, licking up his throat and threatening to implode. ‘Spider-Man isn’t your thing. You can’t take away something that isn’t yours.’

A part of his subconscious mocked his tone. He sounded like a petulant child, naive and sulking as one did when they didn’t get their way. The hollowed-out feeling gnawing against his ribs made him disagree.

Tony sniffed. ‘I can take away the suit.’

The words hung in the air like a cruel blanket of disapproval. It was suffocating. Peter couldn’t breathe.

‘I just wanted to be like you.’

‘And I wanted you to be better. Okay, it’s not working out. I’m gonna need the suit back.’

‘For how long?’

‘Forever.’

Peter took a step forward, the knot in his stomach tightening further like a coiling snake winding around its prey. His voice was frail—breathy and incredulous as he looked his mentor in the eye. ‘You can’t take away my suit. Not this time.’

‘I can do exactly that,’ Tony reprimanded, eyes narrowing. ‘Haven’t you had enough crime fighting for now? Even after Titan?’

At the mention of the planet, Peter’s stomach twisted violently. He looked away and tried to ignore the grating panic that suddenly clenched around his lungs like a trash compactor.

‘Spider-Man is the last thing that feels remotely normal in my life,’ he began, a wavering tone that threatened to trail off if he didn’t focus on the burning in his lungs.

Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line.

‘I didn’t ask to live in a cabin miles away from my old life, without my old stuff, my friends, my aunt.’

More words stung on the tip of his tongue—the cold, mean things that his mind replayed like a broken record. A part of him wished that something would tip him over, rid him of the curse in which the words held against him.

The billionaire ran an exhausted hand through his hair. ‘We took you in—I took you in to stay with us, be with our family, be a part of my family. If you weren’t feeling comfortable, you should’ve said something.’

That would do it.

‘You’re trying to control my life!’ Peter shouted, stepping forward with a jabbing finger. ‘Don’t pretend that I’m your responsibility when you only hold it against me when it’s convenient for you—’

‘Don’t use that tone with me, Peter,’ Tony cut him off, tone sharp as a whip. ‘Morgan might hear you and you know how she gets when people yell.’

‘I don’t, actually,’ the teenager sneered, ‘because I’ve been so ostracised since I got back from Titan. I don’t know who anyone is anymore—’

‘Nope, nope, you don’t get to have this conversation with me,’ Tony snapped, cutting him off sharply. ‘The gauntlet? I did all of this for you. You don’t get to act like none of us are trying…I get that it’s hard, but seriously, kid, we’re all suffering here.’

‘You cut me off and for what…seriously?’ Peter scoffed. ‘We’re all suffering? Morgan sure isn’t, with all her toys and playdates like half the world wasn’t dead for five years.’

‘Don’t talk about your little sister like that.’

‘She's not my little sister,’ he whispered lowly.

Tony stilled.

Then, there was a quiet sniff. Both men turned to the doorframe, stilling immediately. Standing just behind the doorframe, clutching a Barbie and weakly withholding sob, was Morgan.

‘Shit, Morg—’ Peter began, but Tony held out a hand.

His eyes burned into the teenager’s skull. ‘You’ve done enough.’

His words were blunt, yet sharp enough to cut through Peter’s hazy blindness of pain. His chest hurt so much that he didn’t even have it in him to feel remorseful for Morgan, who’d blubbered until Tony scooped her up.

Before the billionaire held his hand out to shut the door, he held it out so he could glance back behind him. ‘If you thought you had a chance of keeping the suit before, you’ve lost it now.’

The door shut with a soft click. Peter could hear Morgan’s repressed whimpers escalate into body-wracking sobs, followed by Tony’s insistent murmurs in an attempt to comfort her.

His chest ached, heart thudding like a jackhammer. He took one look at the door, at his hands, at himself—before diving out the window.

-

Peter had lost the suit quickly after that. He hadn’t even made it twenty minutes down the road before Tony forced through a call and ordered him to turn around, his voice warning like he hadn’t finished dishing out consequence after consequence.

Peter had to return to a full house, bearing the full brunt of his mentor’s disapproval surrounded by Avengers and Clint’s family and Morgan, who’d looked up at him with wide, glassy eyes like he’d committed the biggest act of betrayal. As soon as he’d stepped shamefully into the front door, he’d been chased down by Tony and chewed out again.

His eyes had stung with humiliating tears.

He couldn’t cry. Not in front of everyone. Not like a child.

He wasn’t going to cry.

The Avengers couldn’t say anything. And within a second of Tony’s irritated scowl, Peter had lost all credibility as a superhero. To them, he was no more petulant, no more immature than Morgan and Nate.

From there, things could really only worsen. Peter couldn’t dream of lab time when he couldn’t even look his mentor in the eye. He retreated from dinners, slinking quickly back to lock himself in the room that wasn’t really his and stare at his untouched calculus paper until the ink blurred and his eyes were red-rimmed, dry and aching from nights of solitude.

Apparently, all the time alone reminded him of one thing. When he’d been alone for the first time, swinging the city with no restriction and only Ben’s motto a mantra in the forefront of his mind.

So, he dug out the box in the back of the closet and dragged it into his room. He stared at the box of his last physical possessions, hands shaking with unease as his fingertips brushed against the edges. With a deep breath, he removed the lid and placed it next to the box, as if it might disintegrate and disappear like the rest of his belongings.

Judging by his previous fates, it very well could’ve. He had a right to be cautious.

Far at the bottom, hidden under May’s family photobook, peeked out scraps of red fabric. He pushed aside the journal and tugged at the material until it came free and spilled onto his bed. It splattered across his comforter in all its scuffed, burnt glory, patched up with mismatched fabric and held together with sheer will.

He stripped and began to pull on the article of clothing with exhausted determination. It was just a little snug—after all, he hadn’t worn it since he was freshly fifteen and as thin as a twig. The material was worn in and paper thin. The goggles did their job, barely, but were okay because he was desperate.

And so he went out.

It wasn’t as if he would be heading back to Manhattan or Queens every evening, although sometimes he managed to get away with it.

Newburgh made Forest Hills in Queens look like a highrise. Peter hadn’t yet gotten any good swings, just grateful to feel the familiar tension in his shoulders as he jolted from side to side across highways and bridges.

It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wasn’t the last. After that day, he’d gone out multiple times a week after Tony put Morgan to bed. It wasn’t as if Peter was spending time with the Starks anyway, so they wouldn’t notice. Didn’t care.

He’d find his own way to the town, struggling through the forestry and thick trees. After a harder day, he’d burn out the debilitating disappointment by running all the way, cherishing the way his feet crunched against roots and stones as the tension loosened.

Occasionally he’d persuade Happy into letting him stay later at Ned’s, sometimes even for a sleepover, and take to the streets of Queens like he used to. It gave him time to swing faster, leap higher, feel the sharp chill of wind rushing past his face as he dodged air traffic.

He was sure Tony knew it was happening—it would provide reason to the disappointed glances the billionaire thought Peter couldn’t see. But he wasn’t doing anything about it. He didn’t care.

Chapter Text

The end of the year was approaching faster than Peter could register. For the first time, he wasn’t dreading the summer holidays like he’d done with the last few breaks. Europe was calling—a trip he could look forward to, a well-needed break from superheroing and the lingering brick on his chest that pressed harder after every glance from his mentor.

But until then, he’d have to hold out.

He’d received his report card today at school. The anticipation crawled up his spine as he held the sealed envelope between two hands as he waited out the drive from Queens to the cabin. Decathlon practice had made him hold out already, extra minutes of sitting on the edge of his seat. His fingers itched to toy with the sticky seal, brushing against the edge of the package as he awaited the turn onto the gravelly terrain.

Something was stopping him from tearing it open, maybe a fear that his hard work was for nothing. Nerves nipped at his skin like ice, taunting him and mocking him until he had to shove the envelope into his school bag and turn to Happy for solace.

As soon as the vehicle stopped, he dived from the door. Happy was somewhere behind him, parking the car properly before he too could get out.

His fingers picked at the edge, lifting up the corner with a calloused thumb. It lingered for longer than he liked, but he tugged and the paper tore enough for him to wedge his hand into the envelope and tug out the thick card.

Mr Peter Parker is a dedicated student, although with frequent absences, performs exceptionally in class with enthusiastic effort and well-thought answers.

His chest bloomed a little, a warm, sunny feeling he’d missed. Maybe a small win was what he needed.

‘Good news, kid?’ Happy asked, unlocking the door. ‘You look more excited than usual.’

‘I got my report,’ Peter grinned and held out the paper in front of him. Happy peered down to get a good look before a smile broke out on his face. ‘Congrats, kid, I’m sure Tony will be proud of you.’

At the mention of his mentor’s name, Peter's stomach swam in unease. They hadn’t talked since the altercation—not really, anyway. He avoided looking back at Happy, worried that his nerves were painted across his face, but forced a strained smile and nodded. ‘I hope so.’

‘C’mon, go show him,’ the man nudged him. The teenager kicked his shoes off and made the journey down the hallway, hoping it would stretch on forever.

It didn’t. In fact, if Peter had been thinking even a little more rationally, he would’ve sworn it had gotten shorter purely just to spite him.

Goddamn Parker Luck.

Like Happy had predicted, Tony was in the kitchen, hovering beside the bench as he waited for the oven timer to go off.

‘Happy, you want something to drink, don’t you?’ Tony asked slowly, taking a sip of wine. He glanced confusedly between Happy’s expectant smile and Peter’s less than willful grimace. His expression was hesitant, another unsure smile like many others Peter had been the recipient of. ‘You okay, kid?’

Peter gulped, lips pressed into a ghost of a smile as he waited. Aware of Happy’s anticipating eye, he forced his best grin like a giddy teenager and slid the report card across the bench. ‘Report cards are out.’

‘And I imagine, flawless as always?’

Always? He’d read others?

‘Why don’t you check it out for yourself?’ Peter couldn’t help but chuckle, even if uneasiness curled in his stomach like a tightly wound knot.

Clearly Tony’s engagement with him was fueled because Happy was hovering. His movements were stiff, less than appreciative and a little dejected. It made Peter’s eyes burn.

Tony’s expression shifted again as he picked up the booklet. He glanced at the first page and smiled, almost a little sadly. Peter’s heart swelled willfully.

‘I knew it,’ his mentor said with a gentle tone. ‘3.9 GPA? You’re going places.’

‘I hope so,’ he chuckled, able to take a larger breath. ‘Guess all that hard work has paid off.’

‘Yeah it did,’ Tony nodded. ‘Kid, I’m so proud—’

The billionaire’s words were cut off by a shrill shriek that reverberated from the hallway.

‘Daddy!’

And before Peter could finally breathe again, frantic footsteps stampeded against the floors. Morgan burst into the kitchen, bearing a beaming smile and her Monster High backpack.

‘Mongoose, you’ve still got your shoes on?’ Tony’s tone raised and he crouched down to meet the girl beside the island.

‘Mommy said it was an acception,’ Morgan stated with a matter-of-fact tone, arms folded cockily across her chest.

‘An exception, sweetie,’ Pepper entered the kitchen, smiling briefly at Happy before meeting her husband with a kiss. ‘Now show Dad what you’ve got for him.’

Morgan threw her bag onto the bar stool and rummaged through it with frantic hands. After a moment, she pulled out her own envelope and shoved it into her father’s grasp. While the man fumbled with the sticky seal, she turned to Peter, her face curled into disgust.

‘What have you got?’ Her tone was accusatory, like she dared him to one-up her.

‘Oh, um, my report card.’

Pull it together, Parker, she’s six.

Morgan’s eyebrows furrowed and she jabbed a finger at his chest. ‘You copied me.’

Peter blinked, scratching the nape of his neck. ‘I didn’t copy you. I just got my report card on the same day.’

Her face wrinkled, eyes already glassing over. ‘You’re lying! You want him to like you more than me!’

He inhaled sharply, stumbling backwards instinctively. In a spark of desperacy, Peter turned to Happy, hoping his expression was enough to signal as a cry of help.

‘Top marks in art?’ Tony beamed over her shrieking, wrapping his arms around the girl. ‘My little girl is the next Van Gogh!’

‘Hopefully she hasn't cut her ear off in a few years,’ Peter murmured with a small smile and wandered over to stand beside Happy. ‘Ned told me that Van Gogh gave his ear to a prostitute to impress her.’

‘Watch your language,’ Tony glanced up at him with a reprimanding look. But before Peter could interject, his mentor had returned to hugging Morgan tightly, whispering comforts in her ear.

‘Gosh, she better not be doing anything of the sorts,’ Pepper’s eyes widened, chuckling amusedly. ‘You either, Peter.’

‘I don’t plan on it,’ the teenager snorted. His tone lightened, hesitant once again. ‘Mr Stark, do you need any help with dinner?’

‘It’s fine, Pete,’ Tony replied dismissively, still partially focused on the girl clinging to him. ‘Don’t you have homework to do?’

‘Um, no, not tonight,’ Peter replied with a smile that felt a little too casual compared to the crushing feeling in his chest. ‘But, I guess, just let me know if you want me to do anything.’

He retreated from the bench, hands fumbling for his pockets as he turned. He didn’t know where to go—he couldn’t go to his room because he didn’t want to ignore Happy, but he also couldn’t stay in the kitchen.

Happy’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Kid, why don’t we go kick up the barbeque so when Tony’s ready, we can cook the meat?’

Peter exhaled quietly and nodded. ‘Sounds good. Let’s go.’

He tried his best to ignore Tony’s conversation with his daughter as he descended onto the back porch. Something ugly curled in his stomach. A ghost of what could’ve been.

‘Daddy, can I help you make the food?’

‘Of course, Mongoose, grab the stool.’

-

One week later and Peter’s swinging in Manhattan. The sky glowed a blazing orange, like the clouds were an inferno of blooming flames.

It felt amazing to be back in the heart of New York. The esoteric adrenaline high of swinging through the city. Letting go of a web to flip before jerking in another direction.

He’d patrolled for a few hours already. There was a dull pain in his muscles but part of him enjoyed the lingering pain—it reminded him that he could be useful.

After a beat of perching on the corner of a building, Peter’s eyelids drooped. He yawned, stretching forward. Maybe it was worth clocking out for now.

His head throbbed, a dim warning of danger nearby. He jolted forward, eyes scanning the horizon for danger. The skyline looked relatively normal, so he stood on two feet and glanced out further.

Then, he was back in the lake house. He glanced down, frowning as he took in his surroundings. Tony, Pepper and Morgan were all in the kitchen, huddled around the island . ‘What—was I always—’

‘Daddy!’ Morgan’s shrieks bounced like a ping pong ball in his skull…back and forth and back and forth and…

‘What the fuck?’ Peter blinked, glancing around the kitchen. ‘Mr Stark?’

Tony, who’d been cooking dinner, looked up with a deep scowl. Peter stumbled sideways. His jaw tightened.

‘You’re just a useless kid in a sweatsuit.’

He faltered, hands fumbling with air.

‘If you were good enough, maybe you wouldn’t be such a disappointment. Deep down, you know I’m right.’

He reached forward, hoping to use the kitchen counter as something to ground him. Tony’s eyes were glassed over with a sheen of hostility, his eyebrows pressed into a thin line.

‘Mr Stark—fuck!’ His feet slipped, and then he was dropping from the floor. The scene crumbled, whipping away until he caught sight of windows whizzing past him. He was freefalling, plummeting to the concrete below. Before he could graze the busy road, he expelled a web and swung upwards back towards his high perch.

Once he’d crawled back up the rooftop, he glanced across the horizon, careful to remain attentive to his sixth sense.

‘Karen, can you loca—oh, um, shit,’ he mumbled to himself, grimacing as he took to swinging to a higher perch. He didn’t have Karen anymore, just his own debilitating consciousness to remind him of just how pathetic he was.

The nape of his neck burned in warning, gently increasing in intensity until he found himself crawling up the side of glass. His neck craned for the sight of danger, ears peeled for a shriek.

His sixth sense suddenly spiked and he arched backwards off of the building. With a flick of his wrist, he jolted sideways and scanned the horizon.

Then he heard it.

A cacophony of chaos—hundreds of screams, the sizzling crackle of flames, a low hum of electricity buzzing through the air. He narrowed his eyes, peering through the buildings, freezing in front of a billboard in which Central Park was plastered, littered with fire.

‘Spider-Man, we know you’re out there,’ Octavius snapped towards the camera, a thin smile on his face. ‘We’ve truly missed you, insect, man up and face your fate.’

The Sinister Six had always been a constant thorn in Spider-Man’s side. Not like he’d ever versed them together, but as separate villains that happened to be a group under the same moniker. It had begun with the Vulture in his sophomore year, before extending to Octavius and eventually the other four menaces.

Sighing reproachfully, Peter leapt off the side and swung towards the park. Steve Rogers had told him to back down a few weeks back.

‘Kid, leave the big threats to the Avengers. It’s not safe for you, out on the field like this.’

But as Peter stared into the abyss of chaos, he knew that even in his crappy suit—even with his crappy mood, Spider-Man had a responsibility. Plus, the Avengers were out at the lake house for Morgan’s ballet recital, fawning over her and completely unaware. They wouldn’t be fast enough to stop him from throwing himself at six overpowered assholes whose main mission was to kill a seventeen-year-old.

Electro lit up the park like birthday candles, cackling vivaciously as each tree exploded into another flickering match. The low hum of electricity fizzled like a powercord, gentle but a lingering buzz at the nape of Peter’s neck that wouldn’t dispel.

Kraven mashed his fists together, snarling and searching the air like a bloodlusted predator. He licked his lips, saliva dripping from his tongue.

Peter dropped onto the grass, immediately choking on the egregious blanket of ash he was engulfed with. ‘Fire, Sparky? Isn’t electricity enough for you?’

‘You know my name, insect,’ Electro spat, whipping out a sparking current of lighting. It fizzled unpredictably like a loose current and glittered across the grass.

Swallowing, Peter jerked out of the way. ‘I’ll stop calling you Sparky when you acknowledge me as an arachnid.’

He twisted away from another bolt and spun on his foot. The heel of his crappy costume dug into the dirt. He groaned audibly as he met a new face, lips curled into a snarl.

‘Spider-Man, haven’t seen you in a while,’ Octavius cackled, a thin smile across his face. His mechanical tentacles whirred like a fan, dipping across his path. ‘Ready to give up yet? Your head would look purely terrific on my mantle.’

‘That is, if you can stop me,’ Peter quipped, jolting sideways to avoid a claw. His hands failed to wrap around the tentacle but stuck on like glue, sending him jerking upwards as the mechanical appendage moved too. ‘Central Park, really? Pathetic—you can’t even beat me without handicapping me—fuck!’

‘Please,’ Octavius drawled and shook his metal limbs violently. ‘You think anyone cares about fair? It’s six against one—you, the miserable little insect.’

Peter yelped as his body jerked back and forth, barely attached. ‘I’m…shit…an arachnid, pissant,’ he shouted, unlatching himself from the shaking tentacle and tumbling onto the dirt. He stood up and brushed the ashen blades of grass from his suit. ‘You should know that, considering you’re Dr. Octopus, and last time I checked…octupi have eight legs too!’

Sand slid from under his feet, and after a beat, it morphed into Sandman’s smug sneer that tugged Peter onto his ass. He yelped, reaching out to grasp the villain but was only met with handfuls of burning abrasion. Mysterio cackled, entertained, as the hero fisted for sand.

‘You don’t ever just shut the hell up, man,’ Electro mocked, and Peter sprung backwards as a bolt of electricity snapped just inches from his previous position. Caught off guard, he flew haphazardly through the air. His body ached painfully, toppling across the grass and into the base of a tree. Biting back a pained wheeze, he hauled himself up and dusted himself off again.

‘It’s kind of embarrassing,’ he said, dodging a mechanical leg by the skin of his teeth. It swung past recklessly before taking a moment to recalibrate. ‘You know who I am, you know how old I am, and you still haven’t won.’

‘It’s more fun seeing you squirm,’ a deep voice purred maliciously. Peter whipped around, dodging Kraven’s fist before pummelling him sharply in the stomach. Nearby, Mysterio reached for his utility belt.

With a flick of his wrist, Peter attached a web onto a tree branch and pendulated across the battlefield. Soaring across the man’s plains, he kicked his helmet sharply. ‘Can it, fishbowl. Last time I checked, your power was being an unpaid magician.’

Mysterio sneered and tugged at a small spherical item. ‘I’m an illusionist.’

‘You carry a projector,’ Peter replied back with a mocking smile and webbed the skeleton of a smokebomb into the man’s gut. ‘Seriously though, if you want a dollar, all you gotta do is ask.’

His laughter was cut off as he was engulfed in smoke, darkness flooding the battle field.

He huffed, shrugging his shoulders and bouncing from foot to food. ‘Right, Mysterio, I know your tricks, no big deal—’

‘If you weren’t feeling comfortable, you should’ve said something.’

Peter stilled, eyes darting around him for the source of Tony’s voice. ‘Mr Stark—wait, no, he’s not here, it’s all an illusion.’

Mysterio’s voice rang through his head, a slow, taunting drawl that slithered from ear to ear.

‘How can you be so sure?’

As if to further deceive him, the distant whirring of repulsors droned a few blocks away. He stumbled backwards. His arms flailed desperately as he attempted to peer through the darkness. His chest heaved frantically, heart thudding like a jackhammer against his chest. The air had sucked from his lungs and left him sucking in futile breaths that did nothing to aid his suffocating body.

‘That’s not—that’s not Mr Stark, he swore he’d never step foot in the suit again—’

He choked out as the floor stripped from under him. The darkness faded but was replaced with a rising horizon, the skyscrapers drifting further under him. Ice nipped at his skin, a chill coiling up his spine.

‘You look the same as the last time we met,’ a gruff voice interrupted his spiel, metal claws encasing around his torso. ‘Same second-hand suit. Where’d Stark’s fancy one go? Couldn’t afford to rent?’

Peter glanced up, still choking as the metal compressed around his chest like a trash compactor. ‘Toomes?’

‘I’m shocked you recognise me,’ the man scoffed insincerely. ‘Locked me up quite a few years ago.’

After a second of heaving, Peter got his voice back. ‘Does Liz know you’re still out and about? You’re pretty spry for an old fella, can’t believe you haven’t settled down yet.’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Toomes sneered. ‘Suit?’

‘Even Iron Man’s a family man now,’ Peter rattled on, his tone edging on sardonic. The Vulture’s claws wound tighter around his ribs like a crushing brace. ‘Iron Man, can you believe it! Not to me though, he’s ignoring me even though I live under his roof, how miserable is that? He’s prioritising his daughter, which, fine, I get, but then he wouldn’t let me patrol and took my suit and—shit.’

Peter shut up quickly.

‘Took your suit again? Fuck, Spidey, that’s humiliating,’ Toomes retorted. ‘That’s why you look like a homeless freak?’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever,’ Peter huffed, using his arms to press outwards. Metal strained against his skin, compressing tighter like he was trapped in a soda can. He let out a pained groan, shoving the claws open with his muscles. The claws whined against his tension, but eventually he popped free. Only narrowly missing Toomes’ claws snapping shut again to pop his head like a grape.

He plummeted towards the ground, surrounded by the irradiant glow of fire that encircled the battle field.

His suit provided no protection as he hit the grass with a thump. The suit was already torn in multiple places, paper thin and blood red—not from its original colour. A violent, throbbing pain shot through his body like someone was incinerating him from inside out. Biting back a yelp, he pressed onto his hands and knees.

Metal limbs struck violently against his back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Peter let out a pained wheeze as agony flared across his ribs, his arms giving out. He flopped pathetically against the grass, ignoring the searing feeling every time his suit scrubbed too hard against his skin. His hands searched for something to grab onto as a spike of white-hot pain bled through his body. He swallowed and curled his fingers into the grass, instinctively tugging at chunks of grass as he fought through the brunt of pain.

‘C’mon, brat, stay still,’ Octavius’ voice sounded muffled but his malicious tone was distinctive, even if all Peter could hear was a cacophony of ringing. He fumbled to his feet, coughing out ash onto the mauled grass. Blood smudged against the vibrant green like a horror movie scene. Peter felt like the victim.

Mysterio, Kraven and Electro all leapt at him. Through gritted teeth, Peter swerved, and ducked, and threw punch after punch after punch until his muscles were screaming bloody murder in protest, searing like they’d been electrocuted.

After a beat, he was electrocuted.

His jaw tightened like a deadbolt as white hot agony seared through his flesh, muscles seizing and spasming until his legs gave out. The grass felt like asphalt under his body, almost knocking him out. He could hear the blood rushing to his head, limbs heavy like bricks as he tried to shift. He endured the physical abuse of Kraven’s fists as he writhed on the grass.

Pathetic. He couldn’t even breathe.

He couldn’t stay here though.

No one was coming to get him.

A gargled shout ripped from his lungs as Mysterio pummelled him in the gut, his body arching and snapping like his nerves had just lit up. He didn’t even have the heart to protest, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

Eventually, the buzzing stopped. His legs barely could bear the brunt of his weight but he carried on and tried to focus on stopping the Sinister Six.

He still had webs, and maybe strength, and enough pain that it felt like he might drop dead at any second on the spot.

He peeled himself from the ground. His muscles were stiff and burning in debilitating warning. Sand whipped past in a tornado, burning and abrasive like shards of glass.

A mechanical arm wound around his ankle and jerked him sharply from his web. His arms flailed wildly body rocking back and forth until he was hurled sideways. His spine arched around the curvature of a tree. He choked out, gasping for air as wind fled from his lungs.

He had half the heart to give up, his path stained with dirt and grime and his own blood, because fuck, everything really hurt.

Tony wasn’t here to help. He wasn’t coming. Stop being so fucking pathetic.

‘What’s your obsession with burning my suit?’ Peter chuckled painfully, wincing as he patted down another burning spark. ‘I’d rather retreat than fight in boxers, you know. Sounds like pedophelia to me.’

Groaning through the growing agony, he hauled himself up and bounced back and forth lazily on the balls of his feet, mimicking a boxer’s stance. His head ached like never before,

Kraven threw a fist, brash and stiff that Peter could dodge lethargically. He webbed the hand, tugging sharply and throwing himself out of the way of the man’s fall.

Almost instantly, another metal arm smacked against his thighs. He doubled over, groaning as the throbbing pain dimmed.

‘Ever heard of consent, man?’ He shot, wrinkling his nose. ‘Stop feeling me up with your tentacles, that’s like breaking…well…probably at least five laws. Haven’t you ever watched that one YouTube video, the one that says to not give unconscious people tea?’

His ears filled with static and before he knew it, a buzzing tentacle was shackled to his chest, pressing violently against his ribs. He bit back a shout and scraped with all his might—which wasn’t much, considering his willpower was depleting by the second—to rip the metal shackles from his skin.

Just before he could claw the metal appendage from his skin, Toomes smashed into him. He knocked backwards, tumbling into a burning tree.

‘Toomes, you bastard,’ Octavius shot, smashing his

His sleeve caught fire. The shitty, charring cotton was already black as he caught sight of it. Through gritted teeth, he tore the entire arm of material from his skin. It dropped limb onto the ground, but Peter was bearing too much pain to acknowledge it. He dismissed the burns across his forearm and crawled forwards.

He clung to the lamp post, relying mostly on his stickiness and the equilibrium as his axis tilted. There was the familiar crunch of dirt not far, so he ascended further.

His feet sprung from the light. The villains stared up at him, sneering and spitting. Octavius outstretched a mechanical tentacle but Peter shot out a web and jerked it down with him, webbing it to the grass.

The villain growled, cocking his head at Mysterio. The man reached for his belt before hurling a smokebomb towards him. It burst midair, engulfing him in darkness once again.

‘I’ve had enough of your pyrotechnics, fishbowl,’ Peter said sourly, shutting his eyes. What he couldn’t see couldn’t hurt him.

‘Oh, don’t speak so soon,’ Mysterio drawled. His voice floated around Peter’s head, swimming back and forth like it had engulfed him completely. Peter felt like he was drowning.

‘You’re just a useless kid in a sweatsuit.’

Peter’s senses burned like he’d been shot. He ducked instinctively, feeling for a fist and yanking it as sharply as he could. A gruff voice—Kraven—shouted hoarsely. Peter kicked out his foot before flicking his wrist, the movement automatic and solely based on how strongly his sixth sense warned him.

‘If you were good enough, maybe you wouldn’t be such a disappointment. Deep down, you know I’m right.’

‘I wanted to be like you.’

It was his own voice, young and naive and hollowed out like he’d been crying. He hadn’t remembered the moment playing like that. There hadn’t been tears. There’d been yelling and begging but he hadn’t gone red-rimmed. It still made him pause mid-lunge. Something pummelled into his stomach, blunt and stiff. He doubled over, feeling bile swimming in his stomach like a wavepool.

‘And I wanted you to be better.’

‘Stop,’ he breathed and jerked away, feeling metal skimming his side. ‘Stop, stop, stop.’

The words played over like a broken record.

‘I wanted to be like you.’

‘And I wanted you to be better.’

‘Stop…don’t—’ Peter blocked a limb before another snapped into his shoulder with an undeniable crack. He keened over, dry-heaving as the contents of his stomach mocked his poor state. ‘I can’t—’

‘I wanted to be like you.’

‘And I wanted you to be better.’

He could feel the burning buzz of lightning barely scraping near his foot. He swerved, hissing as static fizzled through his suit. ‘Please…I need…Mr Stark—’

‘I wanted to be like you.’

‘And I wanted you to be better.’

He paused, muscles pulling taut. Something ugly curled in his chest. His jaw tightened, pain searing across his skin like a burning flame.

Tony wasn’t coming to get him. God, it was so pathetic. Peter was screaming and begging like a petulant child for a man who wasn’t coming. Tony didn’t care—didn’t care if Peter was in his room pretending to do his calculus paper or throwing himself at danger like it screamed his name. Tony hadn’t, not for months. The only shred of attention was disappointment, or that sick façade he put on when he wanted to pretend they were a happy family. Peter wasn’t a part of their family. He hated feeling like Tony feigned having their stupid little picture perfect group.

‘I wanted to be like you.’

‘And I wanted you to be better.’

Peter bit down on the corner of his cheek and sprinted. The only thing he could do was listen to his instincts, his sixth sense, that screamed like a banshee from one ear to the other. It burned like he was running directly through the flames. His skin seared, blistering and bubbling.

His hands reached out blindly. The fear coiled tightly around his spine unravelled a little as his fingers wrapped around the lamp post. The metal was freezing and he almost tugged away, taken aback as his palms scraped the chipping paint. He kicked off, swinging round with callused hands. His feet sprung from the ground, kicking out into something that knocked back.

‘You fucking insect!’ Octavius snapped. Peter blinked, relieved to see his assailant.

He wound back before lunging forward, his fist pummelling sharply into Octavius’ gut. The man doubled over, mechanical tentacles aiding him in retreating. Peter lunged from Kraven’s fist, jerking sideways as Octavius’ metal appendage swung past his skull. The limb, unpredictably flailing, smashed into Kraven’s chest. With a sharp flick of his wrist, Peter webbed the man to the appendage and shoved both with all his might.

The two villains went soaring backwards, dragging a mindless Mysterio with them. With a thud, Octavius smashed into the trunk of a flaming tree and growled, spitting vile profanities as the fire licked his skin.

Peter grimaced and webbed Kraven closer to the trunk, pinning him and Mysterio to the grass. His jaw tightened as he turned.

‘It’s just…cough…you and me, Sandy,’ he huffed. Bile swam in his stomach like a wave pool, churning and roiling.

He jerked to the side, bloody hands fumbling to grasp at Sandman’s shifting form.

Every punch was splintering with burning sand. The abrasive particles grit into his knuckles, searing like molten ash as he plummeted into the villain. Sandman deformed, a tornado of grime on Peter’s tail.

The hero darted, jolting and swerving trees with all his might. After a second, he sprinted straight at a burning trunk, pulsing feet digging into the blackened grass. His skin burned with the upcoming flames, so close it scorched through his suit. At the last second, he threw himself to the side and grimaced as Sandman’s groans echoed from nearby the tree.

Once Sandman was just dripping into the mud, Peter vomited onto the grass.

Four down and he was seconds from giving up. Arguably, Electro and the Vulture were the most obnoxious of the group.

Electro had been feeding on a lamp post which flickered ominously, drained of its power. From above, Toomes circled ominously like a watchbird.

Peter hurled again for good measure. Then, he turned to Electro, cocked his head, and leapt over a spike of lightning. His body twisted through the air before just missing another burning tree and aiming for another.

He swung across the branch of a tree, its foundation barely a skeleton and crumbling from the trunk. Ash blackened across his hands. His body propelled upwards, soaring past the burning trees and into the air. Using the last threads of web fluid, he used one end to hang himself from Toomes’ suit.

The Vulture faltered. He stopped his circle and stared down, watching the teenager clench his silk tightly.

‘Can’t stop us now, Pete,’ Toomes cackled and tilted sharply in an attempt to flick him off. Peter choked out, pulling tighter.

From below, Electro sucked out the last juice of energy from the lamp post. He grinned menacingly and leapt from the ground. His whip of lightning crackled sharply like sizzling meat. Peter wanted to throw up.

It all happened in five achingly show seconds.

Through a vivacious cackle, Electro shot out a beam of electricity up towards the teenager. Before he could get struck with the overwhelming energy bolt, Peter flicked his wrist and caught the current with his web. His silks stretched through, weakening by the metre, before latching tightly to Electro’s chest.

Up above, the Vulture was jerking himself left and right to throw Peter off. The teenager groaned as his muscles were pulled taut, both men tugged from either direction.

He braced himself, anticipating the obliterating feeling of lightning crawling through his skin like ants. There was still a persistent buzz of the last shocks simmering through his suit—fizzling static.

After a second, the burning pain he’d thought he was ready for caught him off guard, making him falter. He tightened his muscles and grit his teeth as the sharp spike of pain ricocheted through his body like a livewire.

A hoarse shout tore from his lungs, incoherent and broken. He grit his teeth, biting through the brunt of electrocution. His limbs spasmed and seized—hands barely grasping the ends of his webs.

Rapid strobes of electricity pulsed through him. It felt as if someone had just lit up every nerve and then incinerated them for good measure. He sobbed unwittingly, burning tears scorching against his skin.

Toomes’ suit seized, faltering midair before bursting with a deafening crack. Below, Electro swore as the energy drained, his eyes searching for a new current.

The lightning bolt finished and Peter dropped like a dead weight. His eyes fluttered, jaw clenched tightly.

He used his last inch of momentum to tug both villains with him, webs pulling taut as they jerked towards him. Before he could hit the ground, he yanked them sideways and into the tree in which Octavius, Kraven and Mysterio were webbed. He shot out a web to a tree to dampen his fall before webbing the men up tighter.

Pain curled in his muscle, burning like his wound was licking with flames. His legs shuddered as he stood up, taking one last look at the trapped villains. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he spat. ‘Couldn’t even beat a highschooler.’

‘At least we’re still a team,’ Mysterio drawled viciously. ‘Spider-Man, you’re all alone.’

‘Man, that was corny as hell,’ Electro scoffed, tugging at a web. His grimace deepened as his fingertips didn’t budge from the silk. ‘What is this shit?’

Peter inched forward. ‘I work alone, fishbowl. I don’t need anyone helping me.’

Mysterio continued, smiling thinly. ‘Your so-called mentor didn’t care enough to assist—he’d rather let you die like the rest of us.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Beck,’ the teenager snapped, lunging for the man’s smug grin.

Then he felt it.

The claw tore roughly through his thigh, ripping down through the thin cotton and in downwards spike through flesh. A hoarse gasp escaped his through, breathless and choking as he struggled to stand. He shot out another web across the surface of the group before landing sharply on his side.

His snapped shoulder hit the dirt first. He jerked out, a broken sob spitting from his lungs. The bright smear of blood smudged across the grass just under him, leaving him to writhe in his own misery.

‘You’re pathetic, Spider-Man. Just as wretched as us.’

-

He’d webbed up his wound, a temporary solution that was near pathetic in execution. The crawl to his best friend’s house had been nothing short of hell. He was definitely bleeding out from at least three places and it hurt to breathe but he didn’t have a better plan at the moment.

‘Hey, Ned,’ he rasped, barely managing to crawl through the window before he collapsed onto the floor with a thud. His breath hitched, broken bones crushed further under his skin.

‘You look like shit,’ his best friend grimaced. ‘I saw the news. The Sinister Six was using you as a human punching bag. You sure you don’t want to stay over tonight?’

Peter wanted to. He really wanted to. But if Ned saw his wounds, his injuries, he’d freak out to a degree that the mere idea of it made his head throb.

He shook his head and sucked in a sharp breath as he heaved himself up. ‘It’s alright, man, Happy’s gonna worry, and you know how he gets when he worries.’

He farewelled his best friend with a half-smile, trying his best to hide the wounds before the boy could comment on it. Ned hugged him, worry painted across his face. ‘Dude, if anything happens, I’ll sic MJ on whoever’s to blame.’

‘Thanks, man,’ Peter chuckled wetly and pulled on his mask. ‘I’ll see you Monday.’

‘Touché.’

‘Touché?’

Ned grinned. ‘I’m trying to sound more sophisticated for Europe. Ladies love a distinguished gentleman.’

And with that, Peter disappeared out of the window.

-

Much to Peter’s displeasure, he wasn’t alone when Happy had gotten him back to the lake house. His head hung low at his chest, throbbing with a constant torturous ache. He’d already borne the brunt of Happy’s disapproval—luckily, his worry had been out of concern. Peter feared his fate at the cabin would be severely different.

He’d gained a shred of energy from hunching over in the backseat and could finally make it to the door without throwing up in the bushes on the way.

Tony was alone in the foyer when he got back, sitting on the hallway bench with his head in his hands.

Peter didn’t want to do this now. He wanted to recede from the crowd, disappear into his room and scrub the grime from his body.

The look on Tony’s face said that Peter, once again, wasn’t about to have his wish granted.

Happy unlocked the door and stepped through, leading Peter whose shoulders were hunched over. As they entered, he took a quick glance at his reflection and almost stilled. His mentor’s head snapped up and for a second, Peter swore there was the aching concern that he’d gone so long without. But as quickly as it had appeared, it fell.

‘We saw the news,’ the billionaire said simply, eyes focused on the book in front of them. ‘Morgan tried to cheer us up. Impressed them with her ballet skills. Pirouettes, arabesques, and whatnot.’

Peter stilled. He chose to assume who was here, the thought making his stomach churn a little more. ‘Where is everyone?’

Tony didn’t respond, instead looking straight at the teenager. His breath hitched as their eyes met. The billionaire sighed softly like he’d been holding it for a while. Peter wasn’t worth all that effort.

He stood up, and automatically, Peter felt compelled to follow. His aching feet moved mechanically, each movement a spike of agonising pain. He ignored the crimson dripping against the floor, footsteps wet and squelching with blood.

Immediately, he was engulfed with faces. He wanted to hurl. It was all too fast, too many eyes burning into his skull, looking, staring, glaring, aware every visible inch of skin was either blistering or tainted with grime.

‘What the hell happened?’ Sam stepped forward, looking the teenager up and down.

‘Bad patrol,’ he muttered, staring at his feet. ‘Bad company.’

‘You should’ve called us,’ Steve’s voice intended to be gentle, but it only made Peter’s stomach curl further. ‘The Sinister Six are dangerous—they’re all enhanced individuals, worse than people we’ve fought.’

‘I didn’t want to fight them,’ Peter huffed, scrubbing at his ashen face. It was near bone dry and itchy against his flesh. ‘It was that, or I let Central Park burn.’

‘You needed backup,’ Clint added bitterly. ‘You could’ve died. We could’ve handled it for you.’

‘They don’t care about you.’ Peter shot back with more venom than he intended. He could feel the tension bubbling like lava in his chest. ‘Their mission isn’t world domination—it’s getting rid of me.’

The Avengers didn’t reply. Instead, Peter turned to Tony. ‘The Vulture, I took him down. When I was barely 15, not long after I was dragged to Leipzig-Halle Airport, he dropped a building on me.’

Steve looked like he was ready to interject, so Peter cut his breath off quickly. ‘I made it out—scathed, of course, but I had a responsibility to make sure he didn’t steal Stark technology. I stopped the plane, crashed it on a beach, got beaten like a punching bag and still managed to beat him.’

‘He was my homecoming date’s father,’ he added as a bitter afterthought. ‘I ditched her that night to go fight her father.’

‘Pete—’

‘So, Mr Barton, respectfully,’ he pursed his lips. ‘I know I could’ve died—I’m not afraid of fire, not of bullets, not of knives. I’ve done this before.’

‘I can’t imagine Cooper fighting crime,’ Nat said, her face ridden by the distress exhibited by her teammates. Peter was almost grateful for it, if he wasn’t seconds from his feet dropping from under him.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not Cooper, am I?’ Peter snapped. ‘You all need to mind your own business, unless you actually help. And as far as I’m aware, I was alone on the battlefield today.’

They all stared at him with intruding eyes. Peter felt naked, judged, pathetic.

After a beat too long, he hurled at Captain America’s feet. And almost immediately, his stupid petulant apologetic instincts kicked in. ‘Holy shit, Mr Rogers, I am so sorry, I can’t believe—’

‘It’s fine, kid,’ the man replied dismissively. From not far, Bucky stared at the puddle of bile with amusement.

Peter glanced up at him with something that might’ve had a semblance to a scowl if he wasn’t feeling so dejected. ‘What?’

‘You’re an idiot,’ the man snorted without judgement.

‘Yeah,’ he said bitterly, staring at his feet. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

He waited for someone else to comment, but they just remained staring at him.

Peter pursed his lips, sighed, and receded from the bile on the hardwoods. ‘I’ll clean this up, I guess.’

‘It’s fine, kid, I’ll get it,’ Tony muttered, eyeing the other superheroes. Without another word, they slowly disassembled, leaving the two of them to stand quietly in the room. ‘Just take a shower and go to bed.’

The teenager nodded slowly. ‘Thanks.’

Peter nodded again, hesitant, before he took his first footstep up the stairs.

‘Are you okay?’ Tony paused, his voice cracking. He pressed the bridge of his nose. ‘I—do you need medical attention?’

Peter’s jaw twitched. A small part of him wanted to tell the truth, but the overbearing ache that controlled his body spoke otherwise. Webbing scrubbed at his wounds, sticky and invasive as it held together his broken skin.

‘I’m fine,’ he responded dismissively and began to make the torturous ascent up the stairs. He waited for Tony to ask FRIDAY, even step closer, but the billionaire just dropped his head again, muttering quietly. ‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk about consequences later.’

Chapter Text

October 27th, 2018

He looked up, mind swimming just as much as his stomach had, crashing waves of bile roiling through. It was nearly four o’clock, the long hours stretching into the claws of a bleak morning. Another morning where he’d get nowhere in the same project he’d been slaving over for months and finish before midnight. Then, he’d drown himself in the familiar lull of AC/DC and stare numbly into the neck of a drained liquor bottle.

He’d been sitting and watching the electronic clock on the lab counter for maybe an hour, noticing the miserable minutes tick by as if time could pass any slower. FRIDAY’s voice was now a slurred mess in his head. The automated voice bounced back and forth through cotton, her Irish twang merely garbled as he stared into the face of the clock. He couldn’t be bothered to listen. He hadn’t been bothered for a while.

Things had just stopped. The days were getting longer, the liquor in his cabinet lessening by the day. Pepper’s weariness increasing until the inevitable day that she’d up and leave. A sharp bitterness lingering on his tongue. Documents stacking up and fingers stained with ink that smudged against crisp paper.

More reminders of how miserable he was. How everything he touched, he built, he owned, fell to ruin. Just like Midas, with fingertips that turned his life into gold. Permanently etched into history as a solid reminder of his burdening presence.

Even his armor just stared back at him from the walls of the lab. Mocking glares looking down at him as if they too had something to say. Sharp eyes, glowing with a faux sense of authority. As if on their own, they had power over him. Shooting through his soul like bullets.

Like his kid falling through his fingers.

His suits were what gave him strength. Without them, he was no more useful than ordinary man. He remembered a day when he’d snapped back at one. His fist had met the helmet. It had looked like a face, reprimanding and smug like it gave him the power. Confidence.

But who was Tony Stark without Iron Man?

And who was Iron Man if not a hero?

He’d spent hours debating the question, lost in his own cage of a mind plagued with the same rewinding thoughts. He was no longer a hero. He couldn’t be a hero if he failed to save people. He wasn’t a hero because he hadn’t saved his kid.

It wasn’t even because he could, because for the first time on God’s green Earth, he didn’t know the answer.

He’d promised Pepper a million times over that he wouldn’t try to drink away his guilt. Now, as he stared at his reflection through the glass of a whiskey bottle as his fingers curled around the neck, he knew it was probably too late.

Here he was.

He could feel the liquor soaked deep into his shirt, irrevocably ruined like everything else he touched. A faint sheen of amber across the counters, the floor. He’d tried not to let it consume him—the everlasting guilt that clawed up his ribs and coiled around his spine like a serpent. A serpent, sinking its venom into him until he couldn’t breathe.

Ugly and festering. That was what he’d described to Pepper. She’d told him he needed help. To see someone.

Pepper, beautiful and amazing and his wife. He’d been the one to put that fat rock onto her finger all those months ago. To kiss her under the stars and promise to be by her side, always and forever until the stars burned for the last time.

Now he was staring into his own star, his own creation built to ruin. Something that too could burn out like the ones he told Pepper wouldn’t die out until they had. It too would burn and sear until what was left was coldness.

He’d been cold for a while, shivering through his bones, muscles paper thin. Maybe it was time to be warm again. Maybe his kid would be there, standing in the warmth with a wide smile like he had a million things to say.

Tony had a million things to say.

Pathetic. As if he could die out. His body could be six feet under but the torturous legacy he’d built would reign forever.

The reminder that he’d failed. He let out a lackadaisical laugh, steadying himself with the edge of the lab counter.

His repulsor glowed like a prized ruby under the light. Beautifully crimson and glistening like a million dollars. His hands burned to reach out, to grace himself with the hot-white relief that it gave so many others. If it hadn’t killed Thanos, maybe…

FRIDAY’s voice, cutting off his thoughts again. Her voice was garbled, barely even making it through his ears before he decided enough was enough.

Sluggishly, he shifted in his hand from against his face and reached for the lab desk. His hands trembled as he reached for the liquor. Some expensive vodka he once saved for special occasions but now relied on it like the money in his pocket.

He’d given up on the crystal decanters when he’d come back from space, watching his kid die in his arms. He didn’t deserve the luxury of one. His fingers curled around the neck of the bottle.

He responded automatically, something slurred and incoherent and said with the bite of a man who lost the world. His world. His fault.

A while ago, he’d been able to shoot a flying watermelon high off his ass. He knew his aim was impeccable.

So, if he tried, he wouldn’t miss. Maybe all his work, his achievements would be drowned out. Maybe all would remain were his failures, the failure, lingering like the last dregs of whiskey at the bottom of a bottle.

He stared back into the heart of the repulsor, watching its core flicker to a start.

It had been a long six months.

-

Present day

When Peter woke up, his only thought was just how much everything hurt. How hollow his skull felt, like someone had scooped out his brain through his ears. His throat was stripped bone-dry, so itchy he couldn’t help but splutter as he sat up.

The comforter trapped him, pulling him under and tangled like rope around his feet. He kicked out sharply, wincing immediately as he was met with white-hot pain. A quiet hiss slipped from his lips, air blowing through his teeth as he turned to the side.

He took a deep breath. His chest burned. There was still a faint buzz in the back of his mind, clothes tingling with static.

‘FRI, what time is it?’ He croaked, grimacing at the state of his voice. Words itched, apparently. After a long, aching battle with his blanket, he found himself stumbling into the ensuite. As his palms pulsed against the countertop, he gulped up lukewarm tap water like he hadn’t drank water in years.

He scraped at his burning tongue with his teeth and spat out into the sink. Blackened saliva pooled into the drain like ink, making him quickly run the water again to dispose of the sight before it could trigger the roiling in his gut. The roof of his mouth tasted of death or like he’d swallowed worms and tingled a little against his teeth. His lungs were coated thickly from ash, in which he keened over to hack out at the tiles.

‘It is 10:35PM, Peter.’

He nodded and cracked his knuckles, muscles aching like he’d been run over by a concrete-roller. The light peeked through the blinds like shards of glass, sharp and blinding in his otherwise dark room.

He stretched and quickly slapped a hand over his mouth as a hoarse groan vibrated from his throat. His thigh, sewn together through debilitating exhaustion, screamed in protest. It still burned angrily, festering under the tightly wrapped gauze.

Peter knew all his effort was fruitless. It usually was. Limping at each step, he opened the door.

A bowl of cereal.

By instinct, he scrubbed his face. His palms were sandpaper coarse, which he drew from his jaw quickly as he felt the abrasion against his healing skin. He wasn’t sure whether the feeling in his chest was a small bloom of hope of being noticed, or the lingering disappointment of expecting something else. Maybe a verbal greeting, a small smile as if he hadn’t almost killed himself keeping New York safe.

If anything, he appreciated the small acknowledgement. But if anything, the sentiment stung. Had no one considered knocking—just left the bowl in hopes that he woke up soon enough to not have to eat old cornflakes?

He sucked in a harsh breath and leant down to pick it up, the bowl cold against his healing palms. Then, he sat back onto his bed, onto the crumpled comforter, and stared woefully into it. Maybe if he blinked hard enough, it would look like cinnamon oatmeal or something else that didn’t make his stomach roil like the cornflakes did.

Pieces of cereal floated mindlessly, swimming in just-colder-than-lukewarm milk. His body screamed at every slight movement, a sharp bite every time he brought the spoon to his lips.

He finished the bowl before lifting it carefully from his lap. His gut churned. One bowl wasn’t nearly enough, especially if the soggy grains merely roiled in his gut. There was no point leaving it in his room to fester, not when he’d already receded from everyone plenty.

He’d barely made it out of his room before the scent of food hit him like a freight train. Not like soggy cereal floating in a cold bowl. Real, hot, sugary and buttery and oily and hot.

The smell made his legs waver a little, his body so overcome with warmth as if it carried him forward and down the stairs. It clouded his vision, strangely enough distracting him enough to bear the pain of each torturous step.

He was ashamed enough to be aware of his mouth watering at the aroma of sizzling bacon, the homey sweetness of blueberry pancakes. Food plated as high as the ceiling. Glistening syrup drizzled across a full plate, its amber sheen coating the pancakes until it sunk into the fluffy dough.

But before he could envision the sugary bliss on his tongue, he swallowed idly.

Plates stacked haphazardly in the sink, squished blueberries marring the counter, a sheen of syrup glistening across marble. A lingering warmth from the stove and the pans still sitting on the burners.

An ugly feeling bloomed in his chest, tightening around his lungs until he was struggling with simple breaths. A little uselessly, he dropped his bowl atop the pile in the sink and watched the pool of leftover milk swim back and forth in the curve.

‘FRI, how long ago did everyone eat?’ He murmured, watching the ceramic bowl clink as it shifted in the sink.

‘20 minutes ago, Peter. They are now outside, next to the lake.’

He suspired, pressing his palms to his eyes to dim the longing sting. They’d eaten eggs and bacon and blueberry pancakes without him. They’d had a decadent meal with eggs and bacon and blueberry pancakes and all he’d received was a bowl of cereal left alone by his door. A bowl of cereal, which probably wouldn’t have kept for longer than twenty minutes.

He then reminded himself that they’d assumed he was bedridden. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they thought he’d be asleep for longer.

Nonetheless, the horrid ache of emptiness roiled in his stomach. Cereal wasn’t enough. It had never been enough, not now, not when he was fifteen, pretending to be full at breakfast at the tower and afraid of overeating food that didn’t belong to him. Not when he was sixteen and scarfing down an entire large pizza in the lab.

Tony should’ve known.

‘FRI, who brought me breakfast?’ He whispered, voice fraying at the edges.

‘Mr Barnes did, Peter.’

He felt pathetic, asking Tony’s AI questions just to confirm the churning in his gut. Of course James wouldn’t have known, he didn’t know Peter. Not well, anyway, just a couple of smiles and the kind of talks people had when they happened to be standing next to the kitchen bench together waiting for food.

Numbly, he opened the fridge and for a second, just stared into the blue light as if it would supply him with the familiarity he yearned for. Pizza leftovers, boxes of Thai food like in May’s fridge. But this wasn’t May’s house. This wasn’t his, either.

Stacked atop a carton of eggs, wrapped in cling film and gleaming like a bar of gold, sat a small plate of bacon. They probably hadn’t been saved for him, just unfinished but wrapped so they didn’t go to waste.

With shaking hands, he lifted out the small plate and placed it onto the sticky bench. He carefully pulled the edge of the cling film, fingers sticky and unsure.

Within a second of it being exposed to the air, he’d finished it off and stared guiltily at the empty plate. It wasn’t nearly enough and his gut still ached, longing for substance. It probably wasn’t his, either. But it was there and he was alone. It didn’t matter. His head hurt too much to care.

Sighing, he ducked out into the yard.

Everyone—Tony, Pepper, Morgan and the Avengers, were outside enjoying the warmth of the early summer sun. Heat bloomed against Peter’s bare arms, still a little blistered and ugly. Even after a shower, his skin was marred with gashes and faint outlines of where ash had gotten stuck within the crevices of dried skin.

That was probably the price for letting himself run into an open fire and get electrocuted.

Sunlight felt like a blanket over his healing wounds. They still itched, still stung, still remained a reminder of how he’d almost killed himself in the field again, but he knew better than to be picking at it. The laceration in his thigh ached, a dull throb that pounded with every step.

Pathetic, walk it off.

Spider-Man was worth all the pain, even if Peter Parker was the one who had to reap the consequences. He had a responsibility to uphold, and superheroism prioritised over being a meek civilian that slid in with society. Even Tony could see that Peter wasn’t worth the effort. Peter didn’t do anything at all.

Spider-Man, however.

Morgan stumbled past him towards the open french doors, pausing to glare at the teenager with all her young might. Peter, for some reason, felt the need to chew a little quicker.

She dashed indoors, leaving him to stare out at the lake. He stepped forward, moving down the porch stairs with firm hands on the wooden railing and nodding carefully at anyone who saw him. They all receded, even if slightly, turning their heads to look away from him when he passed. He swallowed, taking in a slow breath.

Tony was next to Pepper, an arm swooped around her waist. It was so normal, so simple, so domestic. So unlike the Starks, a family high in society and even further above the law.

Peter swerved quickly and turned in the other direction, gasping as white-hot pain exploded through his thigh. He hissed, biting hard on his lip to blanket a sharp cry. Dirt crumbled under his steps, feet digging under the soil until he steadied himself.

Eventually he stopped at the lake. He chuckled miserably, a half-hearted sob noncommittally leaving his throat. The water just stared back at him. Probably mocking him.

‘Who ate my bacon?’

Peter whipped around, staring at the girl on the porch. Morgan shrieked, small hands squished into tight fists. Her face was pulled into a tight sneer, her lip jutting out.

Tony’s eyebrows furrowed as he caught sight of his daughter and he spun around to face the Avengers. ‘Alright, fess up, this isn’t the day to be doing this.’

Pepper placed a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder before digging her phone from her pocket. ‘Tony, take a deep breath. FRI, who ate Morgan’s bacon?’

Peter swallowed and stared at the ground. His stomach was starting to swim.

‘Peter, Mrs Boss,’ FRIDAY replied. Everyone spun to face the teenager, suddenly aware that he’d been alone on the dock. His feet inched closer to the edge.

Morgan looked at him like he’d just killed someone. She began to sniffle, her lip quivering.

Humiliating tears burned at the back of his eyes. His throat tightened, stripped raw. ‘I thought it was just leftovers. I was hungry.’

He watched Tony’s smile morph into tightly pressed lips, strained against his teeth. His eyes flickered from Morgan, endearing, before moving uselessly to Peter. ‘Well, do you want anything else?’

The teenager didn’t have it in him to be hungry anymore. The sun burned against his skin, sweat glistening on his forehead. He shook his head and chuckled ruefully. ‘No, I’m just gonna go upstairs.’

‘Are you sure—’

‘It’s fine,’ he said quickly, lying through his teeth. Something flickered behind Tony’s eyes but Peter had moved past him before he could register it.

‘I’m going to get ready for later,’ he muttered and disappeared back towards the house. Watching eyes bore into the back of his skull. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, ignoring the searing pain that tore through his thigh as he stumbled back through the doors. There was merely silence behind him, chasing him like a ghost until he was back in the seclusion of his room.

His room, a spare with four empty walls and a caving ceiling that somehow soothed him further than his own mentor.

-

Prom, a day he’d dreaded for a while. Tried not to count the days as it inched closer, sneaking up on him like he hadn’t been watching time flicker by. A sort of anticipation that made his skin crawl, both out of excitement and sheer horrific discomfort. Junior prom had once been something he envisioned with starry eyes after homecoming—a redo, both for him and whoever he’d take.

Now, after feeling himself piece apart inch by inch on a planet far from Earth, it seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things. That didn’t stop him though. Prom was normal. He liked normal.

This year, he was taking Michelle Jones-Watson—MJ. His best friend, aside from Ned, and his second real friend ever. It was a little pathetic if he thought about it, taking one of his only two friends to prom.

But Michelle was special. Peter knew it, he’d seen it, and he’d felt it even when she’d merely been another student sitting at the end of the table. Sitting by him and Ned watch Liz, pretending to be engulfed in her own book like she never watched them from afar. Speaking up in class and shooting down Flash when he had nothing better to do than call Peter male genitalia.

And she was beautiful—sharp, observing eyes and dark, curly hair that she pushed behind her ears when she concentrated on things. A bright smile that she reserved for rare moments that made his heart palpitate. A cynical laugh like a million stars where Peter wasn’t ever sure whether he was being mocked or she genuinely found his nerdy humor funny.

She’d made Peter’s heart flutter for a while.

But even his adoration for her couldn’t distract him enough from the churning dread in his stomach.

The crisp dress shirt itched against his skin. He wanted to rip it from his skin, shred it into pieces and burn it in a bonfire out back. It ached, rubbing against healing flesh and clinging to sweat. Even worse, it wasn’t his. It was one of many articles in the closet connected to his room, too expensive and nothing like he’d ever wear usually.

He didn’t own anything else though.

He’d spent the last hour or so in front of a mirror, attempting to recite May’s old instructions on how to do his hair and refusing to cry because of how her voice was disappearing from his mind. After Titan, he’d given up on keeping it just out of unruly, now letting his curls grow out until he could learn to trim it by himself. Now he found himself locked in the bathroom, hands tacky with the residue of gel coating his fingers.

Gashes from yesterday’s fight still marred his skin. There were scrapes and blisters and so many bruises. He hoped for Michelle’s sake that things would heal faster, so she wasn’t going to prom with Frankenstein.

He’d tugged nice suit pants—something he was scared to guess the price for—over the thin gauze and hoped the bandage lines wouldn’t peek through the fabric. It still stung, a visceral wound even under the bandages. A tie hung lazily around his neck, unknotted as he finished up with his hair. With a last twist of a curl hanging just against his forehead, he washed his hands and exited the bathroom.

After popping a few pills of painkiller, he shuffled down the steps with quiet footsteps.

‘FRIDAY, where is Tony?’ He asked. A small part of him knew the answer, but it hadn’t stopped him from hoping. He’d done a lot of that recently. He hadn’t heard the bubbly giggles of Morgan for at least an hour, even if it was usually backseat in his mind.

‘Boss has left with Mrs Boss for Morgan’s ballet recital,’ FRIDAY responded, and Peter almost had the nerve to believe she sounded sympathetic. ‘The other Avengers are with them.’

His chest ached—honestly, it was the dreaded inevitable. The childish hope that even after all the disputes, that Tony would be there for his prom, was almost regrettable to think about. Especially after he knew that no one really had the nerve to talk to him.

How miserable was that. He was so pathetic that even Earth’s Mightiest Heroes chose to avoid him.

He laughed ruefully to himself and ran a hand through his hair. Immediately after, he winced and pulled his fingers away like he’d been burnt, aware that he’d just ruined hours worth of work because of his own misery. The thought just made him want to rip off the stupid dress shirt from his suffocating chest.

The sun had disappeared below the horizon an hour ago. Peter had also been supposed to come home an hour ago, but he and Tony had gotten caught up in the lab for the second time this week. With a stomach full of pizza and what seemed like a permanent smile, he watched his mentor veer the car onto his street.

‘Kid, next time you have a school dance,’ Tony began, parking into the free space nearby Peter’s apartment block. ‘I’m going to drive you and your date myself before you get sidetracked again.’

‘That sounds like overkill,’ Peter chuckled lightly, unclicking his seatbelt.

‘I don’t want to see Spider-Man on the news, covered in his own blood.’

Peter rolled his eyes and opened the car door. ‘Mr Stark, if there’s a threat, there’s a threat.’

The billionaire’s eyes softened, a gentle smile on his face. ‘Maybe I want to see my kid off to his school dance.’

Peter’s face flushed, warmth blooming in his chest. ‘I might have to take you up on that. May’s car can only be described as shabby-chic, and there’s no way I’m driving with my date’s dad again.’

‘Who would you take?’ Tony continued, the smugness returning. ‘That MJ girl you’re always going on about?’

‘MJ and I are just friends,’ the teenager corrected quickly. ‘We’re just, really close, that’s all.’

‘Really close, huh,’ the billionaire smirked, waving his hand. ‘Now go, don’t make Aunt Hottie call me because you’re late.’

‘Stop calling her that!’

‘May is objectively good looking, unfortunately,’ Tony stated. ‘Pepper agrees—she’d probably drop me for your aunt if we weren’t so devastatingly in love.’

‘Didn’t you two have a break like, a year ago?’

‘Hush, Underoos, now skedaddle before I step on the gas while you’re hanging out of the side.’

Peter blinked up at the ceiling, taking a hesitant breath. ‘Well, um, how am I supposed to get to Midtown?’

‘Boss has instructed that you don’t leave the premises until he’s back,’ FRIDAY instructed monotonously.

Peter blanched, wiping his sweaty palms on his thigh. ‘Excuse me?’

‘If you leave the premises, Boss will be alerted.’

‘Well we don’t want to do that, do we,’ he muttered sardonically. He had half the nerve to just do so, call off the entire evening just to sulk in his room. But it wasn’t about him. He wasn’t going to show up like this for Michelle. God, it had been a sheer miracle she’d said yes to going with him. He wasn’t planning on fucking this up.

Even with his stomach roiling, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled. The phone connected on the third ring.

‘Hi Happy, um, I was just wondering if you could pick me up from Tony’s?’ He asked, hoping the fragility in his tone wasn’t painstakenly obvious.

‘Kid, you okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I just need a ride to prom,’ he hurried, hoping his voice wouldn’t give out on him before he could get it out.

‘Tony can’t himself?’

Peter sucked in a sharp breath. Humiliating tears burned at his eyes, a stinging reminder of his solitude. ‘He’s out for Morgan’s ballet recital.’

He heard Happy swear faintly across the line.

‘If it’s too difficult, I’ll just call an Uber,’ the teenager added quickly.

There was a violent shuffling on Happy’s side, before the man replied again. ‘Hell no, I’ll be over there soon, kid, hang tight.’

‘Thanks Happy,’ he whispered, swallowing.

‘Always, kid,’ Peter’s heart swelled a little when he could hear the smile on the man’s face. ‘Oh, and you know that box of possessions? There’s a red pouch in there, bring it with you. Don’t open it.’

‘Oh, okay, see you.’

The line disconnected and he pressed his mobile into his thin back pocket. Maybe things would still be okay.

-

FRIDAY alerted him of Happy’s presence after a while. Too long. Too much time to let him sit in his room and debate the bane of his existence with his reflection. He’d sat in front of the box for an hour, fingers itching to pull it apart until he could find the pouch. Last time he’d checked, there wasn’t much in there, barely enough to scrape together a representation of his life.

His breath hitched as he let himself lift off the lid. He dug through the contents, pulling out each item and placing it beside each other like they were historical artefacts.

Clearly he’d missed it, under the burnt suit bearing a similar shade of red. With a careful hand, he lifted it out from the bottom and placed it in his palm.

FRIDAY spoke again and Peter stood up, wobbly on his feet. His skin burned, but he shoved it away and took a swig of water.

Happy met him at the front door with a gentle smile. ‘Ready?’

Peter nodded and flicked off the last light. His teeth bore into the side of his inner cheek, clamped down to stop the humiliating dejection.

‘Kid, you okay?’

‘Can you…can you tie my tie for me?’ Peter choked out, pressing his lips into a faint line before his voice could crack.

Happy nodded and dropped his keys into his pocket. His hands picked up the tie, threading and weaving while Peter stood stiffly. The man was gentle, concentrated on the tie but moving with gentle precision—he’d done this on himself hundreds of times, after all.

‘Do you have the pouch?’

Peter nodded and drew it from his pocket. Slowly, he held it out in the palm of his hand and looked up.

‘Before your aunt passed,’ Happy began slowly, studying Peter’s expression carefully. ‘She told me that if something happened to her, I’d pass these on to you. Open it.’

Peter did as Happy instructed, fingers shaking as he undid the clasp of the pouch.

‘They were supposed to be a present for your eighteenth, but that isn’t so far away anymore, is it?’ Happy chuckled, although there was a sadness to it. ‘May told me that they belonged to your uncle, Ben.’

‘These were Ben’s?’ Peter choked out. ‘Happy, thank you…thank you for saving these.’

‘Peter, I never wanted your stuff to be sold,’ the man replied softly. ‘If it were up to me, I would’ve kept all your things. All May’s things.’

‘It was just the wrong circumstances,’ the teenager finished with a quiet smile. ‘But still, thank you. You don’t know just how much this means to me.’

‘And I imagine it’ll mean just that much more if Michelle gets picked up on time,’ Happy chuckled and nudged him towards the door. ‘C’mon, we don’t want to be late, do we?’

Peter nodded as warmth bloomed in his chest, a comforting feeling. The cufflinks sat in the palm of his hand, grounding him as he followed Happy out towards the car. Maybe he could finally take a breath.

-

He couldn’t breathe.

Michelle’s unit towered over him, the front door a menacing spruce wood that he swore laughed as he held his hand in just arm’s reach of the door bell. Once upon a time, he’d been doing the same thing with Liz, waiting as he fought the horrific battle of teenage anxiety. He was probably sweating through his suit, the material clammy against his back and his pits and his heart was hammering against his ribs which were compressing around his lungs…

He’d fought terrorists and universe-ending aliens and somehow this was worse. He’d been determined to do everything but leave Michelle alone at prom, and now he was suffocating in front of her security door.

He’d probably been standing for an hour before he gathered enough courage to move. He inhaled sharply, finger brushing against the doorbell.

The door swung open and his breath hitched.

‘Hi,’ Michelle smiled gently.

‘Um, hi, hey, I was just about to—um,’ Peter breathed, trailing off quietly. His face flushed. ‘You look really pretty.’

‘And therefore I have value?’ The girl retorted with a snort. Somehow, the words unloosened the anxious knot in his chest.

‘Shut up,’ Peter chuckled, lowering his head to his chest. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘I know, I’m just messing with you, tiger,’ Michelle laughed lightly. ‘I don’t usually wear something this…sparkly.’

‘Well, um, as I mentioned before, it looks good on you.’

‘Thank you,’ the girl smiled sincerely and took his hand. Her skin was warm, like she’d been nursing a cup of tea only moments before. Knowing her, she probably had. ‘Let’s get going, then.’

Her smile faltered as she stopped in front of the vehicle. Happy had parked along the street across her driveway, the blinker already signalling left. Peter’s stomach churned in unease as he caught her expression. ‘MJ, are you alright?’

‘A limousine?’ Michelle raised an unimpressed eyebrow, her amusement prevalent. ‘You don’t have to show off to impress me.’

‘I didn’t choose it, if that makes you feel better,’ Peter offered a weak smile and opened the door for her, swinging out his arm dramatically. ‘Tony’s driver. I don’t have my license, and it was kind of an emergency.’

‘I guess I can let it slide,’ she rolled her eyes, lifted up the hem of her dress and slid into the car.

Peter gulped and followed, shuffling beside her. ‘Ned texted to say he and Betty have just arrived at the venue,’ he tried hesitantly, hoping that would change the mood so he wouldn’t throw up all over her.

‘We don’t want to be late then,’ she placed a gentle hand on his thigh.

Peter snorted. ‘Not wanting to be fashionably late, m’lady?’

‘Peter, never call me that again.’

Sweetheart.’

‘No.’

‘Baby.’

‘Even worse.’

‘Love.’

Michelle shrugged amusedly, although her cheeks were dusted with a light pink. ‘Not as bad as your other options.’

‘Peter, when I agreed to drive you two, I didn’t mean also bearing the brunt of your lovesick teenage antics,’ Happy huffed from the driver’s seat.

Peter chuckled, meeting Michelle’s eyes, and then everything seemed to be okay.

-

Prom had been the first night Peter had felt his smile in months. After a night of blissful dancing, spiked drinks and just being around enjoyable company that didn’t consistently ostracise him, he’d forgotten about the hollowed silence awaiting him at the lake house.

Together, he and Michelle had stumbled onto the roof in a lovesick daze, hands intertwined as they skipped across the concrete of the venue roof, a fancy hotel funded by the richest students. The skyline glowed like a million stars, flickering lights from Manhattan’s skyline greeting them like a familiar friend.

He smiled giddily, wrapping an arm around her as they settled by the concrete railing. Her skin was cold to the touch, peppered with goosebumps.

‘Oh, are you cold?’ He asked dazedly, frantically pulling at his blazer. ‘Here, take this. I don’t…I don’t need it.’

Michelle beamed, tilting her head sideways and turning so he could drape the jacket over her shoulders. He lifted her curls from her neck to slide it on. After a beat, she melted into the fabric and smiled back at him. ‘Thank you, Peter.’

He nodded, grinning, before moving forward. He could hear the faint pitter-patter of her heartbeat, quickening as he inched closer. He decided on a whim that he could be braver, if not for himself, but for her.

Before he knew it, they were face to face. Absentmindedly, he brushed a piece of hair from her face and left his hand to linger for a second more.

Her smile deepened and he watched her cheeks turn a brushed shade of pink.

‘Can I…kiss you?’ He whispered. The girl nodded slowly, her face flushed. He pulled her in softly and brought her hand to cup her jaw.

For a second, it was utter bliss.

But like everything else in Peter's life, it was over too quickly. Michelle pulled back sharply. Her eyes shot open, wide and panicked.

Peter stilled. His heart rattled against his chest. Distant sirens from the street below wailed through his head like alarm bells. ‘What? Um, did I…did I do something?’

‘No, it’s,’ the girl paused, confusion on her face. ‘You’re burning up. Actually, Peter, how are you still conscious? Wait, wait, you’re not sick are you? You don’t look sick—’

‘I’m not sick,’ he assured her quickly. ‘Positive.’

‘Why are you so hot then?’

‘Well, thanks,’ he chuckled uneasily, hoping the puns would distract him from the growing nausea in his stomach.

‘Not the time, tiger,’ she hissed, and leant over him. ‘Your heart is beating at a thousand miles per hour.’

‘It’s, um…nerves.’

Michelle scowled, searching him before she paused again, moving closer again. She ran a hand up his arm, slow, steady and hesitant. ‘Is this okay?’

Peter nodded mindlessly, merely blinking.

Her hands rested against his ankles and carefully, cautiously, they drifted further up his legs. He let out a quiet hiss and she drew her hands away. She glanced between the two legs, eyes flickering back before she settled on the injured one.

‘Your thigh?’ She asked, although her tone left a slim chance for error.

He nodded again and took a short breath.

‘What happened?’ Her voice was cautious but an underlying concern proved that she’d already come to some conclusion.

‘Oh, um, delayed onset muscle soreness,’ he hurried out and glanced reluctantly. Her eyebrows pressed together into a thin line.

Her tone sharpened. ‘Cut the shit, Peter, I know you’re Spider-Man. I watch the news. Now, what happened?’

‘I’m not—I’m not Spider-Man,’ he tried, the air sucking from his lungs. ‘It’s…it’s nothing, I swear.’

‘You live with Tony Stark,’ she hissed, rolling her eyes, before continuing with a sigh. ‘So, I’m assuming you’re hiding an infected wound under those ridiculously expensive trousers?’

‘You might…might be right,’ Peter chuckled ruefully, feeling the world spin around him. ‘Why, you wanna…see?’

‘Your festering laceration? Not entirely,’ Michelle wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe when you aren’t two seconds away from passing out from a fever. I can hear you slurring.’

The teenager sighed happily, blinking dazedly. ‘A win is a win.’

‘Shut up and give me your phone.’

He shot up, before wincing at the immediate movement blurring through his vision. ‘What?’

‘So I can call Tony Stark, obviously,’ she stated, huffing. ‘You’re lucky I like you enough to call a billionaire on your behalf.’

‘No, no, no,’ Peter grimaced, eyes shooting open. ‘No, no no, do not call Tony.’

‘What? Like he’s too busy to deal with the fact that you might be in life-threatening danger if we don’t get you to a hospital?’

He glanced away, his voice quiet. ‘He’s just…just busy or somethin’, um, it’s fine…it’s fine.’

Michelle paused for a moment, hesitant, before brushing off the worry painted across her face. ‘Who should I call then?’

Peter pressed his lips together. ‘No…no one, it’s fine…MJ.’

‘Fucking hell, Peter, you’re panting like a dog. Give me something before I call Tony—or, or, another Avenger!’

He paused. He really didn’t want to call Happy, but if Michelle was as insistent, maybe he’d be the person to go to.

‘Um, Happy Hogan?’

Michelle let out a quiet sigh of relief and tapped away at his phone.

She held the device to her ear, muttering quietly, and Peter nodded along as if he could understand a word of her conversation. The world was starting to tilt again, so he pressed his palms onto the cool concrete and let himself find his way to the floor.

‘Shit, Peter!’

Icy hands found their way around his torso, guiding him to a sitting position before feeling at his ankles.

‘I’m glad we’re past friends,’ Michelle rolled her eyes. ‘It makes me feel less uneasy with having to undress you out in the open.’

‘You’re saying that as if you’re the one…the one taking your pants off on…the rooftop of a swanky hotel,’ Peter replied cynically, helping aid the woolen-silk blend down his legs with sticky hands. The material caught on the gauze and he flinched, wheezing painfully.

‘Stop wriggling, nerd.’

‘I’m in pain!’

‘You’re delirious. Now shut up and let me do this,’ she retorted and tore the material down the middle. The sound of ripping fabric was muffled in his head, along with everything else swimming around his skull like he was underwater.

Eventually the wound was exposed, the fabric torn from his ankle up to the waistband of his pants. Peter could sense Michelle’s hesitance in looking away but if he was honest, decency had gone out the window when he’d decided to become a superhero years ago. To prove that, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

‘Well that’s one way to end prom,’ Michelle sighed, leaning back against the railing. ‘Don’t touch your wound or—’

‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was barely a hoarse whisper, lost in the flow of the wind. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so…so sorry…I fucked up the night and now you’re here making sure I…I don’t die on prom night.’

‘Peter, are you crying—’

‘No, MJ, it’s not okay, I shouldn’t have burdened you with this—with me—’

‘Peter! I’m not upset!’ Michelle hissed, pressing closer to him. ‘You loser, I like you, I’d sew you up if it was necessary because I want you to be okay.’

Peter sniffed, chuckling wetly.

‘You getting mauled is not selfish.’ Michelle pressed a hesitant, but gentle kiss to his temple. ‘See, the fever’s messing with you.’

Peter’s phone buzzed. ‘Happy’s here,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get him to…to drive you home on the way back to—’

‘Can I come with you?’ Michelle asked, her smile hesitant. ‘I’ll keep you company. Maybe chew Tony Stark’s ear off if I get the chance.’

Peter chuckled. ‘You don’t have…have to.’

Michelle sighed, eyes rolling. ‘I just offered. Did you just miss the point of our conversation? Why would I go if I didn’t want to?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry, and stop talking before you lose your breath—if that’s possible.’

He smiled weakly. ‘Sorry.’

‘Peter!’

-

Apparently he’d passed out soon after that, because his eyes fluttered open to a skylight ceiling. A vibrant blue sky with sunlight that bloomed through the windows in a soft warmth. He was greeted with a clinical hum, the offhand beeping of a monitor. A faint buzz settled in his chest, warm and fuzzy and a little muffled. Actually, the entire room spun a bit, just a hazy blur of whites and blues and greys and darker greys.

Weirdly enough, he wasn’t staring into the skin crawling whiteness of a hospital. No awful, mildly tangible smell of sanitation that hung in the air like he’d inhaled hand sanitizer. He wasn’t sinking deep into scratchy sheets that clung to his clammy skin.

Wincing, he sat up. Almost immediately, he shared a glance with a doctor. Or at least, a woman in a white coat. Her hair was tied back in a slick ponytail, dark eyes watching the monitor beside him. She noticed him stir and lowered her clipboard.

‘How do you feel?’ She asked with a short smile. ‘Things took a turn from last night, didn’t they?’

‘I feel like I was run over by a train,’ Peter muttered dryly, before instantly regretting his tone and flushing. ‘Um, sorry.’

‘No, no, I understand,’ the woman nodded, her ballpoint pen scribbling against her clipboard. ‘I imagine…healing burns, broken bones, abrasions, lacerations, Mr Parker, you’ve been through a lot of physical trauma over the past forty-eight hours.’

‘Just a bad patrol,’ the teenager mumbled, scrubbing at his face. His vision was slowly returning. Suddenly he was aware he was nearly face to face with a low-mounted indoor basketball hoop.

‘A bad patrol that led to a major injury,’ the doctor corrected, pointing to his thigh with her pen. ‘Judging by the pattern of stitches, you handled it yourself?’

Peter nodded, still looking mindlessly around the room—pool table, basketball hoop—Happy’s bachelor pad apartment.

‘Well,’ she hummed. ‘You had sepsis.’

‘Sepsis?’ The teenager froze, eyes widening instantly.

‘Correct,’ the doctor noted. Her expression was gentle, yet upheld professionalism to a degree Peter didn’t know was possible when he, the patient, was midway through a crisis. ‘You’re lucky I arrived when I did, or things would’ve been more difficult.’

‘Sorry, um, who are you?’ Peter blinked.

‘Helen Cho, typically a geneticist,’ the woman replied. ‘Mr Hogan called me. Good thing he did, considering you exhibit unusual mutations in your blood, Mr Parker.’

‘Spider DNA,’ the teenager replied automatically before clapping a hand over his mouth. He was outing himself to a stranger.

‘Do not worry, I’ve worked with Dr. Stark for many years,’ Dr. Cho assured him. ‘I also happen to take patient confidentiality seriously.’

Peter let out an exhale he didn’t know he’d been holding.

‘I’ll give you a moment with Mr Hogan, actually.’

The teenager nodded weakly, cracking his neck before shuffling up against the headboard. After a moment, Happy was at his bedside. His usually tightlipped smile had softened and he was gazing worried at Peter like he might snap in half.

‘Turns out your girlfriend doesn’t live far from here,’ the man chuckled wearily. ‘I took her quickly to grab some stuff, she’s downstairs somewhere. I think she’s got clothes for you.’

‘She’s not my—’

‘Sure sounds like it,’ the man scoffed. ‘She chewed my ear off on how once she got ahold of Tony, she’d chew his ear off—nothing I haven’t wanted to do for a while, honestly.’

‘Happy, it’s fine,’ Peter brushed it off awkwardly.

Happy grimaced. ‘It's not fine, kid, he’s a grown adult and hasn’t been thinking rationally.’

‘He’s just busy.’

The man’s brows furrowed. ‘No, Peter, stop making excuses for Tony.’

‘I swear,’ the teenager tried again, ‘it’s not a big deal.’

‘Kid—’

Michelle interrupted Happy’s train of thought, hurrying into the room with a bundle of clothes and an anxious smile. She’d changed, now wearing a simple pair of pajamas and an expression matching Happy’s.

A hesitant smile masking concern that ran deep.

‘Um, I wasn’t sure what you might need,’ Michelle started with reluctance, ‘so I brought you a shirt and pajamas from my dad’s wardrobe.’

‘Are you sure he doesn’t need them?’ Peter asked warily, eyeing the shirt.

‘Trust me,’ the girl smiled. ‘He doesn’t wear them. They were a gag gift a few years ago and he’s never touched them.’

Peter took the clothes apprehensively and unfolded the top item—a creamy yellow t-shirt and superhero-themed pajama pants. Ask me about my feminist agenda was plastered across in thin black capital letters. A smile immediately broke out onto his face and he huffed. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘It’s perfect for you,’ Michelle retorted with a snort. ‘When I asked you what you were up to on the weekend once, you told me you were going to a pro-abortion rights protest in Manhattan.’

‘Spider-Man made an appearance, actually,’ he nudged her gently.

‘So, the shirt’s perfect.’

He chuckled lightly before leaning forward so Michelle could remove the gown. Sensing her apprehension, he nodded in encouragement. ‘Now that you know I’m Spider-Man, you’ll be seeing a lot more of this.’

Michelle grimaced. ‘Just because I help you tonight does not mean I expect that I’ll be stitching you up at 3 in the morning.’

‘No promises,’ Peter snorted. After a beat, she repressed her own anxiety and tugged at the gown, guiding it off his shoulders. His skin had mostly healed, ridden of the grazes and lighter burns. Of course, his thigh was strapped with thick gauze but he allowed her to pull the shirt over his head.

Then, from a room over, the sharp slam of a door.

Happy flinched, sitting up straighter. Michelle squeezed her eyes tighter for a moment before continuing to ease the fabric onto his torso. Peter tried to ignore the way Happy’s smile turned into a grimace. He then tried to ignore the way his heart sank into his gut.

They all knew who it was.

Heavy footfall down the hall, fast and like every step shook the world. They tended to have that effect.

His heart rattled against his chest. Like a trash compactor, his ribs caged tightly around his lungs until each breath was as pathetic as the last. Beside him, Michelle sat onto the mattress and leaned against the headboard. Subconsciously, he reached out to her and pulled her in.

Happy stood up, stiff, before turning to meet the figure at the door. When Peter’s eyes met theirs, his chest seized.

‘I can’t even fathom why nobody called me earlier,’ Tony hissed, eyebrows pressed into a tight line. His eyes drew towards Michelle, pausing as he frowned.

‘Peter told me specifically not to,’ she hissed, taking Peter aback by her tone—hardened, sharp like the tip of a blade. Sharper than what she used against Flash at school. Her eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled like the billionaire was a piece of gum on the sole of her shoe. ‘I tend to not go behind his back if he specifically says not to.’

Tony’s eyes glazed over the girl with confusion. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

‘I don’t have to answer to you,’ she stated. From beside Tony, Happy looked like he wanted to interject.

‘My kid had sepsis.’

Michelle’s eyes widened. ‘Your kid? Who refused to let me call you after he almost passed out on the roof of our prom venue?’

‘MJ,’ Peter began quickly, noticing the unease on Tony’s face.

‘No, Peter I’m not letting you be a doormat—’

Peter watched something click into place behind the billionaire’s eyes. ‘Kid, can I talk to you?’

Michelle’s eyes sharpened. Happy shifted, wiping his palms on his thighs.

‘Just the two of us?’ Tony urged further, quietly.

The silence was so loud that he could cut through it with a knife. Both Michelle and Happy turned to the teenager with frowns of varying intensity. Tony gazed at him like someone he’d lost.

He hoped maybe he’d sink into the mattress and be swallowed whole. ‘Happy, Michelle, it’s fine, um,’ he murmured, shifting backwards on his bed.

The girl grimaced. ‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. He can’t coerce you into anything.’

‘No, no, I want to,’

‘Are you sure?’ Happy asked hesitantly, eyes wavering between Peter and Tony. The billionaire’s eyebrows pressed into a thin line like he debated speaking up. But from the sheer malice in Michelle’s eyes, he seemed reluctant to.

Peter nodded carefully, leaning back into the girl for a moment.

Michelle kissed his temple before sitting up from the bed and turned to Tony. She jabbed a ruthless finger at his chest. ‘I don’t care if you’re above the law because Peter has rights.’

Tony raised an amused eyebrow before passing by her with a mild shrug. Michelle discretely flipped him off before giving Peter one last assuring glance. Then, she disappeared behind Happy.

They sat in silence for a moment. Peter didn’t want to have this conversation, the inevitable one on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to throw up—puke all over Tony’s perfect shoes that screamed of wealth and newness. He tried not to meet the man’s eyes as he watched his expression. The billionaire looked tired in a way he hadn’t noticed before—dark eyebags, hair ruined with gel, a frown like it had been hiding for months.

Peter didn’t fall for it. Not anymore. Who was Tony Stark if not great at putting on a show?

He shifted on his bed, adjusting to Michelle’s absence. He frowned, scrubbing at his eyes. ‘She’s right, you know.’

Tony pursed his lips and sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed. ‘I didn’t know you had a date to prom.’

Peter watched him, waiting, holding his breath. ‘You don’t know much about me.’

The billionaire sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounded tired—probably tired of pretending to care. ‘About the other night…you should’ve come to me.’

The teenager swallowed and took a breath. ‘I wanted to,’ he began dejectedly, as if maybe for one more time, it was worth the fight. Maybe then Tony could see him. ‘But you were too infatuated with your daughter. It doesn’t matter, she’s your family anyway.’

Tony stiffened further, muscles visibly wound tightly. ‘Kid, you’re my family too.’

‘Why weren’t you home then?’ He frowned. His chest still ached, like the words were being pulled from him by a thread. ‘Did you know I had prom or did you forget that too?’

Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘I made a mistake, I should’ve remembered but it was Morgan’s recital and she was insistent, it must’ve slipped my mind.’

Peter tried to ignore the way his lungs tightened, a sob threatening at his throat. The teenager’s voice receded into a whisper. ‘When isn’t it about Morgan?’

‘What? Kid, you’ve gotta speak up.’

Peter swallowed hard. He tried hard to not catch the way the man’s jaw locked, the way something flickered behind Tony’s eyes that he couldn’t quite catch. ‘When isn’t about Morgan? When can something be about me?’

‘Kid,’ Tony began, leaning forward. ‘Morgan’s young, she can’t handle everything you can. I know you’re strong, I’ve seen it, I know it.’

‘No, stop, stop,’ Peter shook his head, feeling the tension bubble in his chest. ‘I don’t want your excuses—I don’t want to have this conversation if you’re just going to bring up Morgan. I know she’s your daughter.’

‘You’re seventeen and she’s six, she doesn’t understand everything you throw at her—’

‘I don’t throw anything at her.’

‘It’s an analogy, kid, I know you don’t legitimately throw things at her.’

‘You don’t know anything!’ Peter snapped.

‘So you’re saying you throw things at your sister?’

‘She’s not my sister,’ He hissed bitterly, scrubbing at his face. ‘Doesn’t feel like it, at least.’

The billionaire shifted uncomfortably. Peter knew he’d hit a nerve. He could see in the man’s eyes a fiery willingness to stand up for Morgan. He understood why. It didn’t make it hurt any less.

Tony’s breath hitched.

Peter, after waiting for silence, continued with newfound courage in his chest. ‘You, Pepper, Morgan, you’re like my weird overachieving relatives that I’d only see once a year and make small talk at gatherings like I didn’t fucking die in your arms.’

Tony visibly recoiled, eyes widening, almost…afraid?

‘You’re scared of losing me, but when you finally got me back,’ Peter choked out, ‘you ignored me.’

‘Peter, I didn’t—’

The teenager sat up. ‘That’s the problem. You refuse to be accountable, and look I get it. I’m not a part of your family, I’m not supposed to be here—but you’ve gotta understand, I never wanted to impose.’

‘Impose?’ Tony’s tone was scarily vulnerable. ‘Of course you’re a part of our family.’

‘Your family is here,’ Peter ignored the way the man’s voice shook, continuing with a scowl, ‘and my family is Queens. It was my parents, it was Ben, it was May, and even though they’re gone, it’s still my home.’

The billionaire swallowed.

‘Coming back after five years, Mr Stark? That was hard. I disappeared and felt my body piece apart bit by bit and it hurt. It hurt so much, and then to come back, watch you almost die,’ he trailed off. ‘That, in itself, really sucked.’

‘Peter, please.’

‘Then I come back to Earth, and wow, Mr Stark, you have a daughter. A full, living daughter appeared in, to me, what was a few hours. It all happened for me, within a few hours. In those hours, I found out that you had a daughter, my last living relative passed, and all my stuff was just…gone.’

‘We took you in,’ Tony whispered, frowning. ‘I wanted you here, with me.’

‘To a life that I didn’t belong to,’ Peter swallowed. ‘I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in a house next to a lake away from my friends and school and tall buildings that I can swing.’

The billionaire bit his tongue. ‘But, Newburgh?’

‘The town, half an hour from the cabin and with buildings shorter than a public high school,’ he replied sardonically. ‘I can’t abandon Spider-Man. It’s my life, Mr Stark, you know this and we’ve talked about this, so why don’t you get it?’

Tony took a breath. ‘Just let me—’

‘I still don’t think you understand,’ Peter whispered. ‘For the past few months, I’ve just been a ghost in your house—a burden. You don’t have to look after me if you don’t want to, but I would’ve liked to know before I was ostracised.’

‘You’re not a burden, Peter, you could never be a burden,’ Tony murmured softly, his voice rattling with unease. ‘Of course we want you—’

‘Stop saying we, Mr Stark, I don’t care about them, I care about you, and all you’ve done is pretend like I’m a ghost. Not really there, just hovering and somehow always being a fucking disappointment. I thought,’ Peter paused, sucking in a harsh breath, ‘after these past few months, I thought you would’ve preferred if I just stayed snapped.’

Peter watched Tony’s eyes widen, his posture stiffening sharply. ‘You thought…I would’ve preferred if you stayed snapped?’

‘You had me, then I disappeared, then you had Morgan to look after and a new life, and I was just a reminder of the old you…before you had this perfect family, so, yeah,’ he nodded. ‘It never looks—’

‘Stop…stop, stop,’ Tony cut him off with a glaringly vulnerable tone. ‘Stop saying that. Stop saying that I wish you stayed dead.’

‘Mr Star—’

‘No, it’s my turn,’ he snapped instinctively as if he were a startled animal, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. ‘Fuck, kid, I know you’re grieving, you’re suffering, but so am I.’

The teenager recoiled back, words burning at the tip of his tongue.

‘Any reminder of you was suffocating,’ Tony spoke, careful in placing his words as he collected himself. ‘I’d failed you. I couldn’t defeat Thanos and that killed you, and you were gone.’

Peter bit down on his tongue, feeling the tightness curl around his lungs.

‘Fine, you want to have a conversation?’ The man hissed bitterly, more to himself than Peter. ‘Fine then, I’ll lay it out. All of it. You deserve to know.’

‘Fine,’ the teenager whispered uneasily but forced it through his teeth.

‘When you died, I fell back into old habits,’ the man started quietly, forcing the words out before he backed down. ‘Ways to cope, because I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle knowing you were gone.’

Peter’s breath hitched.

‘The Avengers, we all split up, went our separate ways. The world kept begging for answers, begging for things we didn’t have,’ Tony said slowly. ‘With most of the team off the grid, they turned to me. Something about me being a genius that knew everything, huh.’

He chuckled darkly, ashamed.

‘Apparently there’s only so much loathing you get that turns into self-loathing. So, to soothe the pain, I drank. Shamefully so, it almost killed me.’

Still repressing his own bitter retort, the teenager nodded again. His mentor’s eyes were already red-rimmed and glassy.

‘One night was bad—scratch that, it was so much worse. Exactly six months after I arrive back on Earth and you’re still haunting me in the lab; your stupid doodles on paper, faulty web fluid, the photos—fuck, I couldn’t even use FRI without seeing your face,’ Tony scrubbed at his face. ‘I drank too much. Even inebriated, I knew it, but it was consuming me because I couldn’t just

He paused and dropped his head.

‘So, I shot myself with a repulsor.’

Peter’s breath hitched. The only sound was the beeping monitor beside his bed, buzzing in his ears like a wailing siren. His throat clenched, and he looked back at his mentor with a seizing heart.

‘The whole night’s a little hazy, actually,’ Tony chuckled bitterly through the quiet, wiping his palms on his thigh. ‘Pepper recited it to me. She was the one that dragged my bleeding body out of the lab, said something about alcohol poisoning too, yeah.’

He paused, glancing at the teenager with a cautious smile. Then he continued shakily. ‘Pep was really mad, like, full throwing things and threatening divorce and everything—but then, news.’

‘Morgan,’ Peter breathed, his words almost silent. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

‘Yes, Morgan,’ Tony nodded apprehensively. ‘A baby, a chance to be better. A chance to be better than how I was with you. It dragged me out. I had to be better for the baby. If I couldn't be with you, I had to be better for her.’

Peter shuddered, blinking. ‘You had her to be a better…father.’

‘A father, yes,’ his mentor looked up. ‘But then Steve came back. He wanted help.’

The teenagers hands fisted the hem of the comforter tighter. ‘You had a family with you.’

‘That was the reason I was originally apprehensive,’ Tony bit down on his tongue. ‘But by bringing back the other half of the universe—even with Morgan here, I agreed to help bring everyone back because I could bring you back.’

‘You had Morgan at home and you risked your life to save…me?’

‘If I had died that day, snapping to get rid of Thanos,’ Tony paused, inhaling sharply. ‘I would’ve let myself die if it meant you could live on.’

That was it.

‘You would’ve died…for me?’ Peter choked on a sob.

‘Fuck, Peter, don’t sound so unsure,’ Tony sniffled. ‘I would’ve died for you if I had to. I still would.’

‘Then…why?’ The teenager’s lungs squeezed tighter and tighter. It hurt to breathe. An ugly sob ripped from his throat. ‘Why ignore me?’

Tony’s eyes softened and he moved closer to the teenager, pulling him against his chest.

‘I’m awful and broken and I know this, I’m horrible and I was trying to get better but clearly I’m still the same asshole as before,’ Tony choked out. ‘All I could see when I looked at you was how I had failed you once—how I’d gotten a second chance, and you’re real and here and with me...God, Pete, I missed you so much.’

‘I thought I wasn’t good enough for you,’ Peter leaned into his mentor’s chest and let the sobs wrack his body. ‘I thought you hated me.’

Tony pushed the teenager’s hair from his face. ‘I’m just like my father, awful, cold, neglectful, but kid, you’ve gotta understand, I could never—never hate you. You’re the light of my life, the reason I looked forward to the day—our lab sessions, checking in on you, your voice messages—’

‘You listened to those?’

‘Every last one,’ Tony admitted wetly. ‘I sent one back. I couldn’t let you back into your suit—I’d sent it, one night, drunk and miserable, but just going back to find it could kill me.’

Peter sniffled in agreement.

‘I knew if you heard it, it would kill you too,’ Tony said, his voice cracking. ‘God, kid, I’m so scared of losing you, I watched you die once, I can’t watch you die again.’

Peter took a slow, wavering breath. It shuddered through his body, rattling his ribs.

‘I know there’s risks,’ he paused to purse his lips tightly. His voice rattled, shaking in his throat. ‘I knew when I signed up. I knew, when I watched Ben step in front of a gun for me. He was young, but he did what was right and…and I’d do it too.’

Tony blanched a little. ‘I know, I can’t keep you from who you are, Peter, but it’ll never stop me from being fucking scared. Yesterday, after you’d fought in the city—’ he trailed off, choking on a sob. ‘When I saw you walk through the door… I watched the news—you almost died, kid. Again. I…I…almost…’

The words hung in the air like a dulling blanket, but from Tony’s despair, Peter could guess where it would’ve led. He imagined his mentor, slumped against the wall by the door. His hand fisting the neck of a drained bottle, something expensive and strong and debilitating.

He could hear Tony’s heart speed up.

‘The only thing stopping me from getting into that suit for one more time was because Pepper said—Pepper knew you’d make it, knew Happy would be there to make sure you didn’t bleed out in an alleyway hours away from the cabin.’

‘I made it out,’ the teenager sniffed into his mentor’s chest. ‘But it hurt, Mr Stark, everything hurt.’

‘I know, I know, kid, and I was an idiot for not seeing that,’ Tony whispered. ‘I’ll be better. I have to be better for you. We can’t do this anymore, you hear me?’

Peter let himself be held as the sobs ripped from his throat, tears flooding and soaking into Tony’s expensive shirt.

‘I think,’ Peter paused, fumbling for the right words. ‘I need to spend some time away. Maybe with Happy, if he’ll let me.’

‘Okay, okay, if you want that,’ Tony whispered, holding him tighter. ‘If it’s what you want, Peter. I know you won’t…trust me to be better even if I take you back to the cabin, but you’re always welcome.’

‘I think it would be best,’ Peter replied quietly. ‘I just need…space. Time to think, I guess.’

‘Okay,’ Tony shifted, readjusting himself. ‘Okay, that’s…that’s fair.’

They sat together, sniffling and crying and holding each other until Peter’s eyes stung. ‘God, we’re both terrible,’ he chuckled wetly, wiping at his eyes. ‘Guess I’m not the only one with crippling hatred for myself.’

‘The self-loathing runs in the family, kid,’ Tony hugged him tightly, brushing his hair from his sticky forehead. ‘But please, Peter, if you ever feel like this, you have Happy, you have Pepper, you have Fred, you have your scary girlfriend that refuses to give me her name.’

‘Ned, Mr Stark,’ Peter chuckled. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend. Just my prom date.’

‘By the way she talks about you, I would believe it if you said you’d been dating since freshman year,’ Tony wrapped his arm tighter. ‘Maybe you should call her in before she calls the police on me for attempted assault.’

The teenager shook his head in disbelief. ‘She’s just worried.’

‘Worried isn’t a strong enough word,’ his mentor laughed.

As Peter finally looked back at Tony, his chest bloomed a little. A flicker of hope that for the first time, he had some sort of faith in.

He didn’t know whether things would be different just yet. But maybe, this time, they could try to be better.

There wasn’t any chance of going back to normal—“normal” had disappeared like everything else had after he’d left Earth.

But there was a foundation they could rebuild from. Then, they could rebuild and start again.