Chapter Text
New York City got snow every year, technically. Most of it never stayed long enough to matter. By midday it was gray slush pressed into the sidewalks, soaked through with salt and oil and whatever people tracked on their boots. It wasn’t meant to last. It was meant to be walked through and forgotten.
Up by the lake, though, it was different. Unlike anything Peter had ever experienced.
He notices the lack of foot traffic helps. There’s only the narrow path that leads down toward the yard where Morgan likes to play, and the short walk out to Gerald’s barn. Fewer variables. Less interference. The snow stays clean, unbroken, bright enough to hurt his eyes when the sun hits it just right.
The lake is frozen solid, glassed over and glittering beneath it. From the living room window, the whole thing looks unreal. Like a stock photo. Like something meant to be paused on, not lived in. Peter gets why Morgan has been pressing her face to the glass all morning, asking every five minutes if she can go outside yet.
“Honey, I’m sorry,” Pepper says, gentle but firm as she clears the breakfast dishes. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, and Daddy won’t be back from the compound for at least another hour. You’ll have to wait until one of us is free to go outside with you.”
Peter is already moving, scooping up the syrup bottle, the salt, the pepper. He keeps his head down, focuses on not dropping anything. If he stays useful, no one has to tell him he doesn’t need to be. He’s still working on that part. On not needing a reason to take up space.
Tony and Pepper have told him, more than once, that he doesn’t have to earn being here. That he’s family. Peter believes them in the same way he believes in theories he hasn’t tested himself yet. Logically sound. Emotionally unproven.
His therapist says that makes sense. That after the Blip, after a year where the world forgot he existed, after believing Tony was dead, his brain is going to default to contingency planning. Peter nods, takes notes, tries not to think about how many things in his life have failed after working perfectly right up until they didn’t.
“But Petey could take me outside,” Morgan says, already grinning, already sure. “Right?”
Pepper looks at him over Morgan’s head. It’s a careful look. Permission but without expectation. You don’t have to, her eyes say.
Peter looks at Morgan. At the way she’s practically buzzing though no one’s said yes yet. Saying no is possible, technically. It just doesn’t feel survivable.
If he’s going to work to belong here, then this is the logic his brain lands on. They’re taking care of him. He can take care of her. Balance the equation. Reduce the burden. He knows that’s not how families actually work, but it’s close enough.
“I don’t mind,” he says.
Morgan shrieks and crashes into him, arms wrapping around his legs. He stiffens on instinct, then forces himself to relax. She’s light. She’s safe. Nothing bad happens just because he’s here. He echoes his therapist’s words.
Pepper smiles, watching them. “Okay,” she says. “Bundle up. Be safe. I’ll make hot chocolate when my meeting’s over.”
She adds the last dish to the washer, kisses Morgan’s hair, then presses a quick kiss to Peter’s hairline. He flushes, startled every time by affection that isn’t transactional. She thanks him quietly before heading toward her office.
-
“C’mon, Petey, I need your help putting on my snow suit!” Morgan calls from somewhere near the hall closet.
Peter cuts across the cabin, quick and light, following the sound of her voice. He stops in front of her just as she hops on her toes, arms stretched up toward a bright pink snow suit hanging just out of reach.
“Up. Up. Up,” she squeals brightly.
He smiles before he can stop himself and lifts her easily, hands settling under her arms. She grabs the suit with both hands, clutches it to her chest like it secret, special treasure. Once it’s secure, he sets her back down and crouches to help her into it, tugging it over her pajamas, working the zipper when her fingers slip.
“Peter,” Morgan says, distracted now, already halfway into one sleeve. “Where’s yours?”
He stills.
Not dramatically. Just a pause where his brain reaches for something that isn’t there.
He opens his mouth, shuts it again, glances toward the hallway like the answer might be hanging somewhere obvious. He can picture the room they gave him. The bed. The dresser. The closet that had been stocked shortly after his arrival with warm winter clothes.
It’s only been a few weeks since everything came back into place. Since Tony came back. Since the spell was undone and people started remembering him again. There are still gaps. Little, practical ones that keep turning up when he isn’t expecting them.
A snow suit, apparently, is one of them.
Morgan tugs at his pajama shirt, impatient. “Petey?”
“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Uh. I’ll just do layers. That’s basically the same thing.” He nods once, an attempt to convince himself. “I’ll be warm.”
She squints at him, thinking. “Why don’t you wear Daddy’s? It’s in his room.”
Peter shakes his head immediately. Too quick. He doesn’t slow it down. Going into their room still feels like crossing a line he hasn’t been invited over yet. Like taking something he hasn’t earned.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll be fine. It’s just snow.” He gestures toward the mudroom. “Why don’t you find your boots? By the time I’m bundled, I can help you put them on.”
That seems to do it. She bolts down the hall, leaving one mitten behind in her excitement.
By the time Peter meets her at the back door, he’s stacked the odds in his favor. Three pairs of socks. Two sweatpants. Two long-sleeve shirts, a hoodie, his winter jacket on top. Gloves. Boots. A scarf. It’s not perfect, but it’s functional. He’s good at making things work with what he has.
Morgan, meanwhile, has her snow boots on the wrong feet and is trying to force her hands into mittens without thumbs.
Peter crouches again, fixes the boots, guides her fingers where they’re supposed to go. Simple problems. Clear solutions. Once everything’s sorted, he reaches for the door, already anticipating the cold, already hoping the layers hold.
-
The snow turns out to be even lighter than Peter expects. It compresses when they step into it, soft instead of slick, no hidden ice waiting to send someone sideways. In the city, snow never behaved like this. It got pushed around, scraped thin by plows, refrozen into hard ridges along the curb. Even on the rare days he and May made it to the park, it was always a little sharp, a little treacherous, like the ground was daring you to trust it.
This isn’t like that.
This is untouched. Light. It gives under his boots and holds its shape when Morgan scoops it into clumsy piles with her mittens.
“Petey, can we build a snowman?” she asks, voice muffled under layers.
He nods, because of course they can, and that’s how he ends up kneeling in the snow while Morgan sings Frozen songs at full volume. Not the songs all the way through, just the parts she knows, looping them over and over until a lopsided version of Olaf takes shape between them.
Peter finds sticks for arms. Digs around until his fingers go numb pulling stones up from beneath the snow for buttons. Morgan insists Olaf needs accessories, and before he can redirect her, she’s tugging his scarf loose.
He hesitates. Calculates the cold. The wind. Her lip starts to tremble when it looks like he might say no.
“It’s okay,” he caves, even though he’s not sure yet if that’s true. He drapes the scarf around the snowman’s neck and tells himself he won’t miss it for long.
Next comes an igloo, in theory. In practice, Morgan loses interest after about five minutes, distracted by something else shiny and snow-covered. The half-built snow fort gets abandoned off to the side, already sagging, already doomed.
“Peter,” Morgan says, eyes bright again. “Can I bury you in the snow?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Waits long enough to think through the logistics. His layers. The temperature. How long it might take before it stops being fun.
Then he lies down anyway because she looks so excited.
Morgan gets to work immediately, shoveling snow over him with uncoordinated enthusiasm. She chatters the entire time. About winter. About how snow feels better than rain. About what she wants for Christmas this year. He lets her talk. Counts the seconds between shovelfuls.
Five minutes in, the cold finds him. Wet snow seeps through the seams of his sweatpants, through layers that were supposed to be enough. His muscles tighten in response, coiling without his permission. He keeps still anyway.
Morgan is laughing. That seems more important.
He stares up at the pale sky and listens to her voice drift above him, telling himself he can stand it. That he’s stood worse. That this is fine.
Eventually, though, the cold will win.
-
“And done!” Morgan announces twenty minutes later, taking a few careful steps back to admire her work.
Peter tries to smile for her. It doesn’t quite happen.
His limbs feel wrong. Not numb exactly, but locked, like something inside him seized up and forgot the next instruction. His teeth chatter hard enough that his jaw aches, and when he exhales, the sound comes out thin and uneven.
Morgan tilts her head, squinting at him. “Peter,” she says, uncertainty creeping in. “Why are your lips all blue?”
That’s when it clicks.
Peter tries to answer her, to say it’s fine, that he just needs a second. His jaw doesn’t cooperate. His mouth barely opens, teeth knocking together uselessly. He realizes then how much snow is piled on top of him. The weight of it. The way it presses down, holds him in place.
He tries to move his fingers. Nothing.
Tries his legs. Nothing.
The signal goes out. His body doesn’t respond.
Morgan’s expression shifts fast, playfulness draining out of her like someone flipped a switch. Peter sees it happen and hates himself for it. He hates that this is the thing that finally scares her.
“I’m gonna go get Mommy,” she says, voice wobbling as she turns toward the house.
“No,” he tries to say. It comes out as air. He wants to tell her it’s okay. That she doesn’t need to interrupt Pepper’s meeting. That he can handle this. He’s supposed to handle this. That was the whole point.
The words never make it past his throat.
Morgan is already running, boots slipping a little as she goes. Peter watches her get farther away, the distance stretching, the cold creeping deeper into his muscles. The panic starts low, tight in his chest, winding itself up.
He’s alone now.
The snow presses heavier. His breathing goes shallow. For a moment, the white above him isn’t sky anymore. It’s concrete. It’s dust and debris and the sound of his own breathing trapped inside his head.
An abandoned building. Collapsing.
He knows this feeling. The way the weight pins you. The way your brain screams at your body to move and nothing happens fast enough. Back then, he’d pushed through it. Muscled the rubble off with shaking arms and raw fear.
This time, his body doesn’t listen.
The cold clamps down harder, and the panic swells, crowding out everything else. His vision starts to narrow, the edges bleaching white as his chest tightens, breath hitching in short, useless pulls.
He tries again to move.
Nothing.
-
“Mommy!”
The sound of Morgan’s voice snaps Pepper’s attention clean in half.
She’s in the middle of a sentence when she reaches for the mouse, already clicking out of the meeting without finishing her thought. The window disappears from her screen. She’ll apologize later. She’s already standing, chair pushed back too hard as she moves into the hallway.
“Morgan?” she calls, keeping her voice steady even as her pace quickens.
They nearly collide at the end of the hall. Pepper drops immediately, hands finding Morgan’s shoulders, her eyes moving with practiced speed. Pink snow suit. Zippers done. No blood. No obvious injury. Morgan’s cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, her breath coming in quick, uneven pulls.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Pepper asks, gentle, measured. “Are you hurt?”
Morgan shakes her head hard, tears spilling over. “Pe—Petey,” she sobs. “Something’s wrong with Petey. I didn’t mean to, Mommy, I didn’t—”
For a brief, suspended moment, Pepper’s mind catches on the wrong part of the sentence. Didn’t mean to. Before it corrects itself.
Peter.
Her chest tightens, sharp and immediate, but she keeps her face calm. Morgan needs that.
“Okay,” Pepper says softly, even as she rises to her feet, already turning them toward the door. “Tell me what happened.”
“He wouldn’t talk,” Morgan cries. “His lips were blue and he wouldn’t move and he was under the snow—”
The garage door opens behind them.
“What’s going on?” Tony asks, already alarmed.
Pepper registers him peripherally. The sound of his voice. The way Morgan turns toward him instinctively. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t explain. There’s no time for either.
Something is wrong with Peter.
She moves without thinking, pushing past Tony as he scoops Morgan up, her voice breaking loose for the first time. “PETER?”
She doesn’t stop to grab a coat. Doesn’t stop to think about the cold. She’s already out the door, feet skidding on snow as the white stretches out in front of her, too bright, too open.
“Peter!” she calls again, louder now, scanning the yard, the lake, the uneven shapes in the snow.
Fear sharpens into something clean and terrible as she runs toward him, the world narrowing to one point.
Her son.