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Peter was supposed to be at a New Years party. Ned and MJ convinced him to go, something light-hearted and fun and he just couldn't do it. Because in 40 minutes it will be a new year. The first year without Tony Stark.
Somehow he wound up at the sanctum.
And now he was sitting on the steps, hot cocoa in hand.
"—and—and most people didn't really know Mr. Stark. And I don't wanna bother Ms. Potts or Rhodey every time I start to miss him. But I really fucking miss him."
Stephen was always a safe bet when it came to talking about Tony. Everyone else either tried to bond or got all sentimental. Not that Peter usually minded, but that wasn't what he needed, especially not right now.
Stephen listened without interrupting, hands folded loosely around his own mug, eyes on Peter but not in that too-intense doctor way. Just… present. Solid. Peter sniffed, scrubbed at his sleeve, staring down into the cocoa like it might have answers.
“I mean,” Peter kept going, voice wobbling but stubborn, “everyone says it gets easier, but I don’t know when that part’s supposed to happen. It’s just—” He swallowed. “He was everywhere. He—he is everywhere. Everywhere I look there are memorials of him. Or—Or people trying to talk about him like they understood him. And I hate it, I hate that—"
Something clanged. Peter head snapped over just in time to see a vase teeter.
"Is that, um, something we should be worried about?"
Stephen sighed, glaring at the empty space beside the display. "No. Just give me a moment."
Stephen's gaze unfocused, just for a moment. He looked like he was about to fall over before he straightened again, slumping slightly in a way that looked wrong. "Oh, I kinda hate this.."
"… Dr. Strange?"
Stephen blinked once.
Twice.
When he looked back at Peter, the expression was different. Softer. Familiar in a way that made Peter’s chest hurt before his brain caught up.
“Hey, kid,” Stephen said.
Peter frowned. “…Hey?”
Stephen tilted his head, studying him with an intensity that wasn’t sharp or clinical—it was warm, aching, proud. He smiled, small and crooked. “Do you still miss me?”
Peter’s breath caught so hard it felt like he’d been punched.
For a second—just one—his brain refused to cooperate. Refused to make sense of the way Stephen was sitting, the way his shoulders slouched like they carried a familiar weight, the way that smile landed a little sideways, like it always had.
“That’s not funny,” he whispered. “Please don’t—”
Stephen's smile faded immediately. “I know,” he said quickly, and now there was no mistaking it. The cadence. The care hidden behind casualness. “I know. I wouldn’t mess with you like that. Not tonight.”
Peter stood up so fast his vision swam. “You—you sound like him.”
Stephen’s expression crumpled at the edges. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s because it’s me, kid.”
Peter laughed, short and broken, then shook his head hard like that might knock the moment loose. “No. No, you’re—he’s—he’s dead.” The word still felt unreal in his mouth. “I watched—”
“I know,” Stephen—Tony—said again, firmer this time. “I was there. Believe me, that part? Not my favorite memory.”
Peter’s eyes burned. “Then how—?”
“Magic,” Tony said, wincing. “Which I hate. On principle. But apparently when you save half the universe, you get… weird perks. Or maybe I have unfinished business, who knows.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Astral roommate situation. Long story.”
Peter’s hands were shaking now. He set the mug down carefully before he dropped it. “You’re—You stole Dr. Strange's body?”
Tony winced. “No. I’m… borrowing. Temporarily. With permission.” He hesitated, glancing toward the display again, then added, softer, “Sort of.”
Peter’s chest hitched. “You’re dead.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah. I know. I'm sorry.”
Peter stared at him. “You’re sorry,” he repeated faintly.
Tony winced again, shoulders hunching in that familiar way. "Yeah. I am. I'm really sorry, Pete. I wish there were another way. I wish I could've gotten more time with you. And—And with Harley, and Morgan. And—" He paused, taking a breath. "I'm sorry."
“That’s—” Peter let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into a sob halfway through. He scrubbed at his face with both hands, breath coming too fast. “That’s not funny. You—you can’t just—show up. You don’t get to—”
"I know." Tony shifted a little closer, placing a hand on Peter's knee. "You're right. You're totally right. But I'm selfish and.. honestly, I haven't really spoken to anyone but Stephen in months."
Peter dropped his hands. His eyes were red, furious and wrecked and desperate all at once. “You left,” he said, voice cracking open. “You—you promised you’d never leave. That—that you'd—”
“I know,” Tony whispered again, his thumb brushed under Peter’s eye, wiping away a tear with a care that felt devastatingly familiar. “And I hate that I broke that promise. I hate that you have to deal with all this shit."
Peter’s eyes flicked up to him, eyes flicking between Tony's borrowed ones. “You’re really here.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
“And you’re… okay?”
Tony opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged one shoulder. “Depends on your definition of okay. I don’t hurt. I don’t feel tired. Which is weird, ‘cause I was always tired. I miss my family. I miss you. I miss cheeseburgers.” He chuckled faintly. “But I’m… here. I am. And Stephen's been keeping me company."
Peter’s throat tightened. “Why are you even here? Why don't you just.. move on?”
Tony didn’t answer right away. He glanced down at Stephen’s hands—his hands, right now—flexed them once, like he was grounding himself. When he looked back up, his eyes were shining.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I—I don't even know if I can. I don't know if I really want to anymore."
Peter swallowed hard. The world felt unreal, like it had tilted a few degrees off-center and never bothered correcting itself.
“You don’t… want to?” he asked, small. Younger than he’d sounded all night.
Tony huffed out a breath. "Kid, I spent my whole life trying to die. Whether I realized it or not. And, of course, the one time I go into something with the hopes of making it out—" He gestured to himself.
“So what,” Peter said hoarsely. “You’re just… stuck?”
Tony winced. “That’s one word for it.” He glanced toward the clock. The seconds ticked loudly in the sudden quiet. "We're working on it. But for now, yeah. Can't cross over, can't go back. All I can really do is hang out in the astral realm, mess with Stephen and Wong, knock over priceless artifacts, fun stuff."
Peter let out a weak, startled laugh before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified—and then Tony smiled at him like he’d just won something.
“There it is,” Tony murmured. “I missed that.”
Peter’s eyes filled again. “This isn’t fair,” he said. “You can’t come back just long enough to—” His voice broke. “To make it worse.”
Tony nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “That's why I haven't done this yet. Honestly, didn't even know it was possible. I was just gonna have Stephen do that thingy where he makes me visible for a couple minutes, pop in, make sure you're okay. But then he suggested I could just take his body, so I'm, y'know, corporeal. We didn't even think it'd work."
Tony’s voice trailed off, like he’s realizing in real time how badly this could go.
Peter stared at him. Really looked this time. The way Stephen’s shoulders were still wrong—too loose, too familiar. The way Tony kept fidgeting with hands that weren’t his, like he was afraid they’d disappear if he stopped moving.
“You were just gonna… check on me,” Peter said.
Tony winced. “Yeah. Bad plan. In hindsight. I know."
Peter chuckled. "You don't trust Dr. Strange to comfort a hysterical teenager on his own?
"Stephen's great,” Tony replied softly. “But he's not really the best at all.. this stuff. And I—I don't think his kind of comfort is what you need right now.”
Peter’s breath shuddered.
“You don’t have to stop missing me,” Tony continued. “You don’t have to rush the ‘it gets easier’ part. That’s a lie people tell because they’re uncomfortable sitting with pain.” He tilted his head, that familiar almost-smile returning. “You can miss me forever, kid. Just… don’t let it convince you you’re alone.”
Peter wiped his face with his sleeve, voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
"You already are,” he said. “Every day. And yeah, it sucks. And it’s unfair. But you’re still here. You’re still kind. You’re still trying.” His voice softened. “That’s more than I ever asked for.”
"But I don't want to."
"I'm still here," Tony whispered. "Always. Even if you can't see me. You can just come over and talk to me, whenever you want, I promise I'll be listening."
Peter looked up, panic flaring. “Are you—are you going to disappear?”
Tony exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I think I have to.”
"Don't," Peter blurted. "Pleaes. Just—just stay. Just until—"
Tony smiled, sad and fond and impossibly proud. "I don't know how long I can stay in Stephen's body safely. I'm sorry, mijo."
Peter swallowed, then leaned forward without thinking, arms wrapping around him. Tony froze for half a second—then hugged him back just as tight, like he’d been waiting for it.
“Don't leave,” Peter whispered into his shoulder.
Stephen's went limp for a second, then tensed up. When Peter looked at him again, his usual collected expression was back. Tony was gone again.
"Sorry, Peter."