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Peter stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan as it slowly circulates air around the room.
His window’s open, the city noise serving more of a background than it had when he first got his powers– comforting now as he watches dust particles play in the light.
He’s hot, unbearably so and refuses to move– willing himself to be cooler by sheer force of will alone. The fan above his head is struggling, but the effort it would take for him to get up, walk to the kitchen, get an ice cube and come back to bed feels more impossible than the literal train he stopped earlier.
He sighs, feeling as if he’s melting into the comforter when he hears familiar footsteps– sounding more like a shuffle as she slowly pushes the door open.
“Hey kid, you alive?”
“Nope.”
“Damn. So you’re haunting me then?”
“Yep. Forever and ever,” he says dramatically lifting both his hands up into the air– the cool slick of sweat across each arm giving off a sheen as he wiggles his fingers. “Boo.”
“Terrifying,” May deadpans, “well if you’re magically undead in the next–” she looks down at her watch, “ten minutes, you might find some ice cream on the table.”
Peter brings his hands down, slightly lifting his head up.
“You want me to be a zombie?”
May stares for a beat.
“What?”
“Undead,” Peter offers, May staring at him as if he’s grown another head. “That’s like, a zombie or whatever.”
“I thought you were a ghost.”
“Yeah, dead not undead.”
“What’s the difference?”
“What’s the– you’re the one who made me watch Night of the Living Dead,” Peter says indignantly, May just staring at him with a blank expression.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about sometimes,” she says, Peter thinking she’s full of shit as he scoffs out a laugh. “Anyway. Ice cream. T-minus 8 minutes zombie ghost boy.”
“How’d you get ice cream?” Peter asks, watching as May grins. “You said it was so hot it’d melt your shoes.”
“It is, however,” she says, pointing a finger to him, “I called a favor.”
He frowns, the two of them staring at each other and confusion flowing through him before it clicks, rolling his eyes.
“May,” he says, exasperated as he lays his head back down, “come on.”
“He owes me,” May says, opening his door further which just makes Peter sigh. “You know that.”
“May, that was like, a year ago.”
“Six months, Peter!” She calls out, already walking down the hallway as Peter huffs a laugh out to himself, shaking his head and staring back at the ceiling.
It was nice, in a way, that they could laugh about it– Peter withholding the biggest secret of his life, Mr. Stark knowing said secret and never saying a word. It was a massive improvement than what it had been, if May could freely guilt trip Iron Man into hand-delivering ice cream to them across the city.
Peter smirks. The chances of him actually showing up versus sending a suit were a toss-up. He might know that May had forgiven him or at least had gotten closer to it, but as far as Mr. Stark knew, May was still holding a– well-deserved and understandable– grudge against him.
It would make him laugh more if it wasn’t also completely embarrassing, that feeling being short-lived when he hears the familiar whine of an Iron Man suit flying closer.
He sits up, wiping his forehead off with the back of his hand, making his way to the kitchen before the ice cream melts.
Peter watches in awe as tiny fingers wrap around his, an irrevocable hold pulling him down to earth in a way he’s never been before.
He’s swung his way around the city so fast it felt as if he was flying. He’s leapt through windows, off of roofs and between buildings– he’s gone to space– yet nothing feels as impossibly vast as it does to watch as his daughter’s little hand gently pulls, feet wiggling and arms moving as she gurgles.
“I think she’s smiling.”
“It’s probably gas,” MJ says from across the room, Peter smiling down at Maya— laying across the bed with his feet hanging off the edge.
“You hear that? Mama thinks it’s gas and that’s not right, is it? Huh?” He asks, Maya cooing as her eyes focus on him– or so he likes to believe. All the baby and parenting books in the world couldn’t convince him of what he knew to be true.
“She’s smiling,” he repeats, hearing MJ laugh under her breath as she grabs a towel for the shower. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m gonna use all the hot water.”
“Go for it,” Peter says, eyes still fixed on Maya.
“You sure?” MJ asks, Peter nodding.
“You deserve it. Take your time.”
“Trying to get rid of me already?” She teases, Peter’s eyes immediately lifting to meet hers.
“Never,” he says sincerely, watching as MJ’s smile at him deepens. “But you got all this time with her before me. I’m just catching up.”
Her eyes soften, shaking her head.
“You’re a sap.”
“The sappiest,” he says with a wink, feeling a lightness in his chest at the sound of her laugh. MJ walks to the bathroom, Peter watching her until he hears the shower run— giving his attention back to Maya who is steadily staring at him.
“Hey you,” he whispers, head propped up with one hand and the other still held tightly by Maya— one finger at least— that he wiggles.
“You’re real,” he whispers again, more to himself— thinking of all the months, all the years that’s led him to this moment.
Stretched out in the bedroom of the apartment he and MJ share that has decor and real furniture. It’s a far cry from the boxes as tables and air mattress on the floor that their first apartment together had, but even then— it had been filled with love.
Love that now feels wholly and completely alive in the way his daughter’s legs kick against him, the way her eyes dance around and her hand ever so tightly holds his.
“Dad!”
Peter lifts head up, pushing his glasses back as he takes a deep breath and yells again, “DAD!”
“What? What’s going— what are you doing?” His dad asks, rushing into Peter’s bedroom.
“I broke it,” Peter says, trying desperately not to cry because that’s what babies did and he’s not a baby anymore.
He lifts up the plane up to him, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as his dad looks at the plane then to Peter— eyes widening as he rushes to him.
“Peter—“
“I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to. It was an accident,” he says in a rush, out of breath as his dad gently takes the model airplane out of his hands. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” his dad soothes as he then gingerly examines his hand and the cut that— now that Peter’s paying attention to it— hurts. A lot.
“What happened here?” His dad asks, Peter’s fight to hold back tears quickly losing as he tries to explain.
“I— I just wanted to see if—“ he hiccups, or maybe sobs, “if it was really green on the inside but then I leaned too far and it made it come down and I tried to stop it but—“
“Oh bud,” his dad says, Peter’s vision blurring as he blinks back tears. “Come here.”
Peter doesn’t hesitate to throw himself at his dad who holds him with ease, feeling himself be lifted up and out of the room.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” his dad says as Peter sniffles, hand throbbing and model plane forgotten as his dad holds him.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Peter says, hand-in-hand with Maya as they get on the train.
“See what?” She asks, looking up at him as Peter smiles. He’d put two little bows in her hair today, matched exactly to her shirt and shoes and was still amazed at how cute she was.
MJ’s eyes, but his smile. Hair more like hers, a chin more like his. The perfect blend of the two of them and yet still wholly her own little person— Peter feeling as if every time he blinks she changes and grows a little more.
“Dinosaurs,” Peter says conspiratorially as they take their seats, Maya’s eyes widening as she plops onto the seat.
“Where?” She asks, completely in awe— Peter bringing his free hand up to his mouth and making a shushing motion.
“It’s a secret,” he says, Maya mimicking him with a shhh followed by a giggle.
“A secret,” she parrots, Peter laughing as he brings his hand down— Maya scooting closer to him as the doors close. “I’m good at secrets.”
“Yes you are,” he says, before thinking better of it. “Except we don’t always keep secrets, right?”
Maya nods. “We always tell mommy.”
Peter snorts, but doesn’t argue.
“Yes, always tell mommy. Unless it’s a surprise.”
“Mommy doesn’t like surprises.”
“No,” Peter says wistfully, the train beginning to move. “She does not.”
“I’m gonna be sick.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am. I’m gonna die. Right here, right now,” Peter groans— putting a pillow over his face.
“It’s not that bad,” Ned says, voice muffled from the pillow Peter has.
“I sent the risky text—“
“Yes.”
“The risky text.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that.”
“The one that talked about last summer at Coney Island—“
“Uh huh.”
“Where we—“
“Yep.”
“You know—“
“Don’t need a repeat,” Ned interjects, Peter pushing the pillow harder against his face— willing himself out of existence.
“To her mom.”
There’s a quiet beat. Then another— before Ned bursts out laughing, Peter groaning as he flips over. Maybe with this angle, he thinks, he might black out a little.
“Oh dude.”
“I know,” Peter mumbles.
“You’re fucked.”
“I know,” Peter repeats, miserable with each passing second as Ned continues to laugh.
“Did he like trains?”
“What?” Peter asks, looking up from the playset in front of them. It’d been quiet for the last few minutes, enough that he’d almost forgotten that she was still in the room with him. When she’d texted him saying she was coming over, he had already planned on working on the LEGO set– suggesting to her to come and work with him as a way to gauge how she was feeling.
He should’ve guessed when she agreed– instead of making fun of him or suggesting they go see a move or something– that something was wrong.
“I don’t know,” Morgan says, fiddling with the piece still in her hands. “Never mind.”
Peter watches her for a beat, noticing the way she is pointedly not looking at him– LEGO piece in one hand, twirling it around, and her head being held up in the other. Her life is almost nothing like his had been at sixteen on the surface but it strikes him now, watching as she grinds her teeth and purses her lips– how similar they really were.
“I don’t think so,” Peter finally says, dropping his eyes back to the set to give her space– or at least the illusion of it, in their tiny apartment. “We didn’t really talk about that kind of stuff.”
It’s quiet for another beat, the sound of pieces snapping together the only sound in the living room until–
“What did you talk about?”
Peter shrugs, eyes now intentionally focused on the set– seeing the way she’s looking at him from the corner of his eye as he says, “not a lot, to be honest. Suit stuff. Spider-Man stuff. He didn’t really talk about the Avengers though,” he huffs out a laugh, “not for lack of trying on my part.”
“Is that when they had their break up or whatever?”
Peter laughs, nodding as he snaps another piece together. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
When she doesn’t immediately answer, Peter looks up– Morgan’s face pinched and the piece tightly held in her hands. It’s almost comical– how much she looks like she did when she was six and not sixteen– on the verge of a meltdown or from arguing with him about something, back when she was still an angry, grieving little girl born into a world that no longer resembled the one she knew– figuratively and literally.
She’d grown up a lot since then, Peter having seen it in a way that he would’ve never thought possible. After London, after the spell, after May– Peter had all but believed that chapter of his life would forever be closed, forgotten like the world’s memories and long since buried from the work of Matt when any connection to Stark Industries– and the Stark family– would only have hurt him.
When MJ and Ned came back into his life, it was Ned who convinced him to reach out to Pepper– if for nothing else than to make sure no one else could weaponize that connection in the way Kraven had.
He hadn’t expected Pepper to believe him– or even know where to start– but like everything in his life, once he committed to it– he found a way. And ever since, he’s gotten to know Morgan– the little girl he’d only ever met once at a funeral before and who served as the living embodiment of the five years Peter had missed.
It was easy for him, in a way it shouldn’t be, to forget how much Morgan really was still just a kid– grieving the dad she barely remembered and with a legacy that felt too big for any one person to handle.
Peter could relate.
It’s why he waits– he doesn’t push, doesn’t interject– letting her take the space and the time that she needs before Morgan finally blinks back tears, swiping at them and sniffing as she says.
“We talked about him today. You know, with the anniversary coming up.”
“Yeah,” Peter says softly, setting the piece in his hand down and sitting back– Morgan grinding her teeth again.
“And it’s so fucking awkward,” she says, clicking her teeth in a way that feels eerily familiar, shaking her head, “to have people talk about my dad in front of me and like, look to me for answers to things and I just– I don’t fucking know anything.”
“You know what matters,” Peter says simply, expecting the way her eyes flash– looking up at him hotly.
“What? How he used to drink his coffee? The movies he used to watch with me?” She asks indignantly, Peter seeing a tear escape– Morgan swiping at her face as she sits back and pulls her knees in closer to her chest.
“It’s bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Peter says with a sigh, mirroring her posture. “It is.”
Morgan snorts, still fiddling with the piece in her hand as she asks, “aren’t you supposed to tell me something like, ‘no, don’t say that it’s not true’ or something?”
“Maybe, but if you wanted that, you would’ve called Rhodey,” he says pointedly, Morgan letting out another laugh under her breath.
“He’s really corny.”
“He is,” Peter says in agreement, “and he’s not wrong.”
Morgan taps the piece against her knee.
“But?”
Peter shrugs again, sighing as he says, “it’s just different. For us.”
He lets that sit with her, watching as Morgan absorbs it and sees when it clicks– eyes flicking up to him. Mind reading’s never been a power of us– as much as he wishes he did– but he can safely bet what she’s thinking now.
“Yeah,” she whispers, half-smiling before it falls– focusing again on the piece. “It is.”
“Keep your hands in the vehicle–”
“We’re on the train–”
“–at all times,” Peter says with a wink, Maya rolling her eyes.
“You’re annoying,” she says with another eye roll, looking out the window. To nothing, but the darkness of the subway, but it just makes Peter smile.
“Hi annoying, I’m dad.”
Maya groans. Peter laughs, leaning back in his seat– the soft rhythm of the train carrying them to the museum.
Peter brushes at the dirt across the top of the headstone, reaching back into his pocket and placing a stone on top– kneeling down as he does.
“I miss you,” he says with a sniffle, feeling something catching in the back of his throat. “I’m so, so sorry.”
His vision blurs, blinking back a few times before letting out a deep breath– lifting himself up and taking a step back– willing himself the ability to go back in time, to change things.
“You ready?” May asks, coming up beside him as he nods– wiping at his face. “Come on, let’s go get some dumplings.”
He smiles, or tries to, wrapping an arm around May as she does the same for him– the two of them walking away from Ben’s grave together.
Peter taps a finger against the journal in his hand, looking out over the city.
He’s almost all packed– not that there was much to pack anyway– for his move into he and MJ’s first apartment. If he hurried, he could actually try and get some of the moving itself done today but the journal in his hand had given him pause– just as the key had he had unsurfaced in the bottom of a bag that had used to be May’s.
He hadn’t gotten to keep almost anything of hers, after the spell– the loss of everyone’s memories of him not nearly as painful as the recognition that all of theirs was lost too.
Happy had taken some things, thankfully, but the vast majority of May’s life– their life– had been given or sold away by the city after she died, Peter having had no claim to anything of hers at the time.
It’d been a lucky thing to grab what he could from breaking into their old apartment– this bag included a jumble of things like her favorite blanket and a few pictures. He’d poured through the contents all those years ago but hadn’t thought much of the key he’d found in a pocket at the time– too consumed with his own grief and trying to build a life out of nothing to investigate it.
He has the time now– has his people– finding a storage unit in May’s name and, with Pepper’s help– figured out that Tony had paid for it in perpetuity.
“During the Blip, maybe,” Pepper had mused but Peter hadn’t pressed beyond that– too overwhelmed with the trove of memories of May’s life, of his parents, that he had long since thought were gone forever.
Which is why his mother’s journal in his hand, a whole carton full that he hadn’t even knew existed, had stopped him in his tracks.
Peter looks back down at the journal, open to an entry she’d written right before he was born, struck at how human she feels.
She’s raw and honest and terribly funny– a part inside him aching to ask questions, to confirm, to learn more about the person she had been– knowing that there wasn’t a person alive he could turn to.
His thumb runs across the page, thinking of his mom and what she would think of his life– if she could even understand it.
If he could even explain it.
Maya looks up, staring at the sky.
It’s weird, she thinks, to see the stars so clearly.
The night sky feels so vast out here in the country– or at least the closest thing to it. Vacationing at the lake house wasn’t her first choice for spring break but when her mom had told her about Morgan’s invite, Maya quickly got the impression that it wasn’t up for discussion.
She’d freak if she knew Maya was up here on the roof or maybe she’d laugh– uncertain sometimes, what her response would be about the way that Maya pushed boundaries.
If it wasn’t so cliche, Maya thinks she’d laugh with her.
She sighs, looking up and trying to pick out the constellations like she used to do with the fake night sky she’d had in her bedroom when she was a kid.
She remembers, or thinks she does, when they first went up– hearing her dad and Uncle Ned argue about the placement of a glow in the dark star for Cassiopeia. Maya finds her easily now, eyes tracking across to others– the soft glow of the moonlight making it even easier to see.
When you miss me at night she can almost hear her dad whisper– at night before bed, when he would leave for patrol, look for the moon.
Why? She’d ask, Maya smiling at the memory.
Cause no matter where I am, he’d always say, pressing a kiss to her forehead, I’ll see the same moon.
And you’ll miss me too? Maya had asked– ritual, tradition– the memory of her dad’s smile causing her throat to constrict.
Until the sun comes up.
Maya lets out a laugh, or something close to it.
“I love you,” she whispers to the moon.
The moon says nothing back but it’s as if she can feel it, a quiet voice in the back of her mind.
I love you too.