Chapter Text
The funeral home smelled of lilies and furniture polish, and it made Peter’s stomach churn. He stopped in the doorway of the viewing room, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of the hoodie Tony had bought for him three days ago - or was it four? Time had become weird and wrong.
"Peter?" Tony called from further into the room, gentle but insistent. "You want to come and look at the casket options?"
Peter swallowed. "I'm good," he answered automatically, the words flat and rehearsed. He'd said some variation of them so many times in the past seventy-two hours that they'd lost their meaning. I'm good. I'm fine. I'm okay. A mantra of nothingness.
The funeral director, a thin man with kind eyes and a practiced expression of sympathy, gestured towards a brochure on the mahogany table. "We have several packages available. The bronze collection is very popular, or if you're looking for something more economical -"
"Whatever's fine," Peter interrupted, still not moving from the doorway. His voice sounded strange even to his own ears, like he was listening to somebody else speaking through a radio - all crackly and absent. "Just - anything. I don't mind."
Tony exchanged a glance with the funeral director, and Peter saw it even though he wasn't really looking. He'd gotten good at seeing things without looking, at being present without actually being there. It was like watching his life happen from an outsider's perspective, like watching some other Peter Parker who'd lost his aunt, who was standing in a funeral home on a Thursday afternoon instead of being in AP Chem.
"Pete, buddy, this is important," Tony said, moving to stand beside him.
He didn't touch Peter's shoulder, though Peter could tell he wanted to, his calloused hand lifting slightly, hovering for a moment before falling back to his side. Everybody seemed to want to touch him lately, as if physical contact could somehow anchor him back to reality.
"These are decisions about May. Don't you want to -"
"You decide," Peter said, and there was still no emotion in his voice, just the same flatness, blankness that had been there since the hospital. Since the doctor had come out with that look on his face, the one that Peter had seen too many times in his fifteen years. "You're better at this stuff anyway."
That wasn't true. Tony Stark was good at many things, but 'good at planning funerals' wasn't on his resumé. But Peter couldn't make himself care about caskets or flower arrangements or whether the service should be in a church or a funeral home. He couldn't make himself care about anything.
The funeral director cleared his throat softly, looking at Tony. "Perhaps he needs a moment? This is a very difficult time, and -"
"He's fine, and he's right here," Peter said, finally stepping into the room. He'd never usually be so rude, so blunt, especially not to a stranger. He couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry.
His legs moved mechanically, carrying him to one of the plush chairs arranged around the table. He sat down stiffly, hands reaching out to slide one of the brochures closer to him, short nails picking idly at the curled corner.
"Let's just get this done."
Tony sat down across from him, and Peter could feel the weight of his gaze. Tony had been watching him constantly since it happened, those sharp brown eyes tracking his every movement like Peter was a bomb that might go off at any given moment.
But Peter wasn't going to explode. He wasn't going to do anything. He was fine.
"Okay," Tony said slowly, pulling the brochure toward him. "Okay, I can sort this. But Pete, at some point, we need to talk about -"
"The flowers," Peter interrupted, his eyes fixed on the table; the shine of the wood, the dips and chips around the edges. "May liked daisies. She liked tulips and sunflowers. Just - simple ones. Nothing fancy."
It was the first real piece of information he'd offered in days, and he watched Tony latch onto it like a lifeline.
"Daisies, tulips, sunflowers," Tony repeated, making a note on his phone. "Good. That's good, Pete. What else? What about music? Did she have a favourite song, or -"
“I don't know." The words came out sharper than Peter intended, but still without real feeling behind them. "Just...whatever people normally have at funerals. Do all that. The usual. You know."
The usual. In his fifteen years, he'd been to exactly two funerals; his parents', and Ben's. But he hadn't planned either of those - he barely remembered his parents' funeral, and May had taken care of Ben's whilst Peter had hidden in his room and pretended his world wasn't ending.
Now May was gone, and he was supposed to make decisions about caskets and flowers and music, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't think about it. If he thought about it, if he let himself really consider what they were planning, then it would be real.
And it couldn't be real.
The meeting lasted another forty minutes, with Tony making most of the decisions whilst Peter sat in his chair and existed. That's what he'd been doing for the past few days - existing. Breathing in, breathing out, moving from room to room in Tony's penthouse like a ghost.
When they finally left the funeral home, the September sun was too bright, the sky too blue. It seemed wrong that the world could look so normal when everything had changed. Peter climbed into Tony's Audi and stared out of the window as they drove, watching the trees blur together.
"You want to talk about it?" Tony asked after several minutes of silence.
Peter just pressed his face closer to the window, the glass cool against his forehead.
"Pete -"
"I'm fine, Tony. Really." Peter turned to look at him, arranging his face into something that might pass for a smile. "I'm handling it."
Tony's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You haven't cried."
"So?"
"So your aunt died three days ago, and you haven't shed a single tear. You haven't yelled, haven't broken anything, haven't even looked particularly sad. You're just...blank."
Peter shrugged, turning back to the window nonchalantly even though his heart was aching and his stomach was churning. "Everyone grieves differently."
He could feel Tony watching as they stopped at a red light. Could feel the man’s concerned gaze tracing over his profile. So he turned his head fully, elbow resting on the door and palm pressed over his mouth as he watched the lights change from red to amber to green again.
Tony sighed softly beside him. "This isn't grieving, kid. This is shutting down."
"I'm not shutting down. I'm coping. I've done this before, remember? A whole bunch of times." The words tasted like ash in his mouth, his voice muffled against his skin. "Can we just drop it?"
They didn't talk for the rest of the ride.
•••
School was worse.
Peter had insisted on going back just a few days later, despite Tony's protests. He'd sat through his classes with the same mechanical precision he'd brought to the funeral home, taking notes without processing the information, raising his hand and giving answers that were technically correct but delivered in that same flat tone.
His friends noticed.
"Dude, are you okay?" Ned asked at lunch, his voice quiet with concern. "You - I mean, if you wanted to go home, I can send you all my notes."
He said it with such sincerity that Peter felt guilty for the annoyance that surged through him.
"M'fine," Peter said, voice hard, unwrapping his sandwich with careful movements. He wasn't hungry - he hadn't been hungry since the hospital - but eating was something people did, so he ate. "Just tired."
MJ sat down across from them, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. "You don't have to be here, you know? No one would blame you for taking some time off."
"I want to be here."
Another lie, or maybe not a lie exactly. He didn't want to be anywhere. He didn't want to be at school, didn't want to be at the penthouse, didn't want to be in his own skin. But school was familiar, and familiar was easier than sitting alone with his thoughts.
"The funeral's tomorrow, right?" Ned asked, and Peter felt something twist in his chest, a brief flutter of feeling that he immediately pushed down.
"Yeah."
"Do you want us to come?" MJ asked. "We can be there if you need us."
Peter took a bite of his sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. "You don't have to."
"That's not what I asked."
He looked at her then, really looked at her for the first time in days, and saw the worry etched in the lines around her eyes. MJ, who faced the world with sarcastic detachment and unshakeable confidence, was worried about him.
"Come if you want," he said finally, putting his sandwich away with a few meagre bites taken out of it. "It doesn't really matter. She's not gonna know either way."
Ned looked pale, his eyes glassy as he looked at Peter, hand sliding across the table toward him. "Peter -"
"I have to go," he said abruptly, pulling away from his best friend, standing up and grabbing his backpack. "I forgot I have to talk to Mr. Harrington about making up that quiz."
He didn't have to talk to Mr. Harrington about anything, but he left anyway, walking quickly through the cafeteria and out into the hallway. He found an empty classroom and sat down at one of the desks, staring at the whiteboard without seeing it.
This was fine. He was fine.
He just needed to get through the funeral and then everything would go back to normal. He'd go back to being Spider-Man, back to his regular patrols and stopping bodega robberies and helping old ladies cross the street. He'd go back to being Spider-Man, and this weird feeling would go away.
It had to go away.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Tony:
You okay?
Peter typed back: Fine.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: Come straight home after school, okay?
Peter didn't respond. There wasn't anything for him to do after school. He was benched from patrolling. He didn't plan on going to any of his usual clubs. He couldn't hang out with Ned and MJ.
The bell rang, and Peter went to his next class.
•••
The funeral was on a Thursday.
Peter woke up in the guest room in the penthouse, the room closest to Tony and Pepper's - though it had essentially become his room over the past few months, even before - before, filled with his clothes and his books and his web-shooters - and stared at the ceiling.
The sun was just starting to rise, painting the room in shades of gold and amber, and for a moment he couldn't remember why today felt different from yesterday.
Then he remembered, and the knowledge settled over him like a weighted blanket. Heavy, suffocating, but not painful.
Today was May's funeral.
He knew he should feel something about that. Sadness, anger, fear - something. But there was just the same numbness that had been there since the hospital, the same sense of watching his life happen to him from behind a thick pane of glass.
There was a soft knock on his door. "Pete? You awake?"
"Yeah," Peter called back, his voice blank. Empty.
Tony opened the door, already dressed in a black suit. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual. "How are you doing?"
"Fine."
Tony's jaw tightened, but he didn't push. He'd been pushing less over the past few days, as if he'd realised that Peter had built walls too high to scale.
"Breakfast is ready when you want it. We need to leave in an hour."
Peter nodded, and Tony lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before leaving. Peter stayed in bed for a moment longer before forcing himself up.
The shower was too hot, but Peter stood under the spray anyway, letting the water beat against his skin. He should be crying, he thought distantly. This was the kind of moment where people were supposed to cry - the morning of the funeral, alone in the shower, finally letting themselves break down.
But the tears wouldn't come. They were locked somewhere deep inside him, behind the same walls that were keeping out everything else. And that was fine.
He didn't need to cry. Crying wouldn't bring May back. Nothing would.
He dressed in the suit Tony had bought him, fumbling with the tie until he gave up and left it hanging loose around his neck. When he came downstairs, Tony was waiting in the kitchen with a plate of eggs and toast that Peter knew he wouldn't be able to eat.
"Here," Tony said, setting the plate down before reaching over to fix Peter's tie with practiced movements. His hands were gentle, and Peter stood still and let him do it, feeling like a child being dressed for school. "There. You look good, kiddo."
Peter didn't feel good.
They ate in silence. Or rather, Tony ate while Peter pushed his food around his plate. Pepper came into the kitchen dressed in a simple black dress, her eyes soft when they landed on Peter. She hugged him gently, carefully, like he was made of glass. Peter let her hold him, sitting stiff and unresponsive in her arms.
"I'm so sorry, Peter," she whispered, for about the billionth time since she and Tony had come to pick him up from the hospital. "May was wonderful."
Was. Was was was.
"Thanks," he replied flatly.
The drive to the funeral home was quiet. Peter watched the scenery pass by, the same route they'd taken a few days ago for the planning meeting. Everything looked the same. The world kept turning, people kept going about their lives, and May was dead.
The foyer was already filling up when they arrived. Peter recognised some faces - neighbours from their apartment in Queens, a few of May's coworkers from the hospital, some people from the shelter where she'd volunteered. Happy was there. Ned and MJ near the back.
"You ready?" Tony asked, his hand hovering near Peter's shoulder.
"Yeah."
But he wasn't ready. How could anybody ever be ready for this?
The service was a blur. Peter sat in the front row between Tony and Pepper, staring at the closed casket and listening to people talk about May. They told stories about her kindness, her humour, her dedication to helping others. They talked about what a wonderful person she'd been, what a tragedy it was that she was gone.
Peter heard the words, but they didn't penetrate the fog surrounding him. This was all a mistake. A terrible, cosmic mistake that would be corrected any moment now.
Please, his mind hissed, begged, pleaded. Let me wake up.
Someone was speaking - a pastor, maybe, or a funeral director - and Peter was supposed to be listening. He felt Tony's hand on his arm, a gentle squeeze, and he knew he was supposed to react, to respond somehow, but he couldn't remember how.
"Pete?" Tony's voice was soft, concerned. "They're asking if you want to say anything."
Peter looked up and realised that everyone was watching him, waiting. He was supposed to speak. He was supposed to stand up in front of all these people and talk about May, about what she'd meant to him, and how much he loved her.
But he couldn't do that.
"No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't."
He saw the disappointment in some faces, the understanding in others. Tony squeezed his arm again, and the pastor moved on.
The rest of the service passed by whilst Peter watched. They stood, they sat, they sang a hymn that Peter didn't know the words to. And through it all, Peter felt nothing. He was a hollow shell, a void, going through the motions because that was what was expected of him.
At the cemetery, they stood around the grave whilst the casket was lowered into the ground. The early-autumn sun was shining, birds were singing, and Peter watched his aunt being put into the earth with the same detached gaze he might have directed at a wall of drying paint.
People came up to him afterward, offering condolences and hugs. He accepted them all with the same polite blankness, saying "thank you" in all of the right places until the words lost all meaning. MJ hugged him tightly, and Ned cried on his shoulder, and Peter stood there and felt nothing.
"You did good, kiddo," Tony said quietly as they walked back to the car. "I know that was hard."
Peter just nodded, looking down at his feet, scuffing his soles over the concrete.
Tony stopped walking, turning to face him. "Peter, it's okay to not be okay. You know that, right? You don't have to pretend."
"I'm not pretending." Peter met his eyes, and he knew his expression was wrong, knew he should be showing some kind of emotion, but he couldn't remember how. "I'm fine, Tony. Really. Can we just...go back to the tower?"
Tony looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. They got into the car, leaving Pepper behind to continue saying goodbyes to guests, and drove back to the tower in silence.
•••
That night, Peter lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the night through his open window. He should be crying. He should be falling apart. That was what people did when they lost somebody that they loved.
But he couldn't access any of his feelings. They were locked away, somewhere he couldn't reach, buried under layers of numbness and denial.
May wasn't really gone. Today was a bad dream, and any minute now, he would wake up. He'd wake up, and his phone would ring, and it would be her calling to check on him like she always did when he was spending the night at the tower.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand, his fingers hovering over her contact. He could call her. He could hear her voice, and this whole nightmare would be over.
But he didn't call. Because somewhere, in a part of his brain that he wasn't ready to acknowledge, he knew she wouldn't answer.
There was a soft knock at his door, then Tony's voice: "Pete? You still awake?"
"Yeah."
The door opened and Tony came in, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was wearing sweatpants and an old AC/DC t-shirt, his hair mussed up like he'd been running his hands through it.
"You want to talk?"
Peter shrugged, still staring at the ceiling. "Nothing to talk about."
Tony was quiet for a long moment. Then, he took a breath. "You know, when my parents died, I didn't cry for well over a month."
Peter turned his head to look at him, surprised. Tony rarely mentioned his parents when they were together.
"I was angry," Tony continued, his voice soft. "Angry at them for dying, angry at the world for taking them, angry at myself for not being there. But mostly, I just felt...nothing. Like someone had scooped my insides out and left me hollow." He paused. "Sound familiar?"
Peter didn't answer.
"The thing is," Tony said, "that numbness doesn't last forever. Eventually, it cracks, and when it does, everything you've been holding back comes flooding out all at once. And Pete, when that happens, I need you to know I'm here. Okay? Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'm here."
"I'm fine," Peter said automatically.
Tony looked sad, his dark eyes skimming over Peter's features, his brows drawn together. "You're not fine, buddy. And that's okay. You don't have to be fine."
"But I am," Peter insisted, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm handling it. I went to school, I went to the funeral, I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing."
"You're going through the motions," Tony said gently. "That's not the same as being fine."
"What do you want from me?" Peter asked, and there was no real heat in his voice, no emotion. Just a flat, tired question. "You want me to cry? Break down? I can't. I don't feel anything, Tony. I don't feel sad, or angry, or anything."
"I know."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
Tony reached out and put a hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter didn't pull away. "You're supposed to let yourself grieve. You're supposed to feel what you're feeling - or not feeling - and know that it's okay. You're supposed to let the people who love you help you through this."
"I don't need help. I'm fine."
"Pete -"
"I'm tired," Peter said, lying back down and turning away from the man. "I just want to sleep."
Tony's hand hovered over his back for a moment before withdrawing. "Okay. But Pete? I'm right next door if you need me - any time, day or night. You don't have to go through this alone."
"I know. Thanks."
Tony left, closing the door behind him, and Peter was alone again with his thoughts and his numbness and his inability to cry.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he lay there in the dark, blinking slowly at the window, at the night sky, telling himself he was fine; over and over again, like a prayer or a curse or a lie he could make true through sheer force of repetition.
I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.
But somewhere deep inside, in a place he wasn't ready to look, a crack was forming in the walls he'd built. Small at first, barely noticeable, but growing wider with each passing moment.
And when those walls finally came down - when the denial finally gave way to the reality he'd been running from - Peter Parker was going to shatter into a million pieces.