Archive of Our Own

The story always ends the same way.

A hero returns home.

Theseus, slayer of the Minotaur, savior of Athens, the kind of figure whose name echoes through centuries and centuries more. His ship, the one that carried him back from Crete, is preserved as a monument. A symbol. A reminder. A promise.

But wood rots. Salt eats. Time wins.

So the Athenians replace a plank.

Then another.

And another.

An oar and an oar more.

Piece by piece, year after year, until not a single original piece remains.

And yet they still call it Theseus’s ship.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the paradox.

If every part of something is replaced, is it still the same thing?  

Or does identity live in the pieces? In its shape? In its memory? In the journey itself?

Philosophers have argued about it for centuries. Heroes have, too, probably: mostly people who’d been broken and rebuilt more times than they could count.

Peter had never meant to join that club.

But somewhere along the way, between surviving personal losses, disastrous first quests, villainous homecoming-date-fathers, alien invasions, a Titan with a god complex and other Avengers-level disasters, Olympian quests, monsters and more monsters, and a handful of primordials who definitely need some therapy... between losing pieces of himself and gaining new ones he never asked for, well, the question had lodged itself in him like a splinter.

How many parts of a person can change before they stop being the person they remember?

How many battles?

How many scars?

How many versions of himself had he shed, replaced, rebuilt?

And if he wasn’t the same boy he used to be... was that loss? Or growth?

Or something in between?

The thought drifts, slow and heavy, like a ship unmoored. The sun is warm, the grass is soft, and he is not moving. 

Strong evening sunlight pools across his face and he doesn’t even care if he gets sunburned. The breeze brushes through the treetops. The clouds drift overhead like slow‑moving parade floats, fluffy white, sparse, but definitely moving as normal clouds in the sky would. He’s missed that.

He breathes in the relaxing smell of summer and lets his limbs go heavier.

“PEEETEEEEYYYYYYYY!” Morgan shrills from far away.

He pretends he doesn’t hear her.

A particular cloud drifts overhead: long, pale, and oddly shaped. If he squints, it looks a little like a ship. Not a real one, just the kind kids draw. Geometrical, simple, floating.

He stares at it for a moment.

Smiling, Peter closes his eyes.

The cloud can sail on without him.

…

Tony had argued, because of course he had.

Happy was already prepping the jet back home and it would’ve been smoother, warmer, safer. But Peter had shaken his head, eyes glassy with pain and leftover panic, insisting he couldn’t wait, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t be grounded for even a minute longer. He had to get out of that lair.

And Tony, well, Tony couldn’t deny him.

Besides, the idea of getting his kid medical attention (proper, top-edge) faster instead of sitting there waiting for Happy to cross the Atlantic had its own charm.

So Tony carried him. Suit on, arms locked, flight path set for home.

Peter’s body was a mess of fractures and Tony felt every flinch like it was happening to him. He tried to compromise. Easing the suit back, trading speed for stability, smoothing every dip and shift in the air so Peter wouldn’t jolt against his broken bones. The kid drifted in and out, small naps that were more like scheduled collapses. Every time he surfaced, Tony was still there, still holding him, still staring behind his face plate like he was checking for proof of life.

At one point Peter didn’t wake again until the sky outside shifted from Atlantic-dark to the soft, familiar haze of the American coastline. The faint outline of the eastern seaboard stretches beneath them, and soon, in the distance, Peter started to make out the line of the recognisable skyscrapers and the world-famous Statue of Liberty. His first hint of home.

Blinking properly awake he winced and then tried to sit up straighter.

Tony tightened his hold.

“Easy, kiddo. We’re almost home.”

But Peter shook his head, reinforcing his sticky grip on the celestial bronze armor.

“No. Not home. I need- I need to go to Camp.”

“Absolutely not,” the man's robotic voice answered, firm in a way he rarely used with Peter. The past couple hours had been a blessing, to be flying home with the kid in his arms. Alive! But Tony also had plenty of time to steam inside the armor, to think of things he shouldn’t and rethink them and relive them. His voice had gotten almost stiff from disuse. 

“You’re hurt. You’re barely conscious. You need medical attention, not a detour.”

Peter pushed weakly at his metal chest.

“Please. I have to see it. I have to know they're okay.”

Tony’s jaw clenched.

“Kid... you’re killing me,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Peter’s eyes were wide, desperate, shining in the reflection of the HUD.

He wasn’t asking.

He was begging.

Tony felt something in him crack. The same place that had cracked one too many times the last few years.

Cursed bambi eyes.

He exhaled, long and shaking.

“Fine,” he murmured. “We’ll go to Camp. But you stay in my arms the whole time. I don't care if it's embarassing. Deal?”

Peter nodded, relief washing over him so fast he sagged back down, already half asleep again.

Tony adjusted his grip, turned the suit toward Long Island, and held him tighter.

…

It’s clear Tony didn’t remember the magical barrier until they nearly flew face first into it. 

The repulsors struggled to regain them their balance last second and Tony grumbled under his breath.

“Oh. Right. I can’t get in anymore.”

Peter stired in his arms, amused. “Don’t worry. I’ll allow you in.”

Tony raised his eyebrows and peered down at him. “Well, thank you so very much for the permission, your majesty.”

“You’re welcome. I expect a tribute. Preferably in the form of food.”

"Oh, there will be plenty of food in the near future, alright."

The magic softened, parted, and the suit slipped through no problem.

And there they were.

Camp Half‑Blood lay below them: scorched, battered, gutted but alive. Smoke still curled from the woods. Kids were scattered everywhere, cleaning debris, tending wounds, putting out lingering fires and clearing out the most important spots of the place. 

However, the first thing Peter saw wasn’t the cabins or the Big House or the strawberry fields.

It was the dining pavilion.

From above, it looked so wrong and he would bet it also did from the ground. The long marble tables were either shoved aside or being used as beds. Actual cots crammed into every corner, blankets and bandages scattered across the floor. Kids laid on makeshift beds, some sitting up, some curled in pain, some being tended to by Apollo campers who looked just as exhausted as their patients.

Peter’s breath hitched.

The dining pavilion had become an infirmary.

Misery hadn't lied.

He hadn't been fast enough.

Tony felt him tense.

“Easy, kid,” he murmured, but Peter barely heard him.

His eyes swept across camp, and the damage only got worse.

Cabins were burnt out, roofs collapsed, walls blackened with soot. The Athena cabin had a gaping hole in its side. The Ares cabin looked like it had been split open by a giant axe, the boar head at its top having vanished entirely. The Demeter cabin’s garden was scorched to ash. The Hermes cabin had half its porch missing. The list went on.

Here and there the ground was torn up in long trenches, like something massive had been dragged across it.

Peter’s stomach twisted.

Tony aimed for a clearing near the Big House and landed gently, careful not to jolt Peter’s broken ribs or shattered feet.

The landing wasn’t loud, but it was different. A metallic hum, definitely loud after the silence brought by the departure of an entire monster army, something foreign enough that the kids still on edge from the battle reacted nearly instantly.

Two little campers still inside the Big House peeked out the window first, faces pressed to the glass. Outside, a few kids nearest the house straightened, hands drifting toward weapons out of habit. A pair of Hunters paused mid‑conversation, eyes narrowing toward the clearing. Even the nymphs tending the singed grass lifted their heads, alert.

The camp was still raw, still vibrating with leftover energy. Anything unexpected drew attention.

And Iron Man returning, landing in the middle of camp?

Despite having aided in the war, that was still very unusual.

At first, no one was close enough to see clearly. Then the wave began.

A satyr walking the path that way froze mid‑step, eyes widening.

Two kids stopped carrying buckets of water, nearly dropping them.

A Hephaestus camper (clearly) dropped a wrench with a clang that echoed across the clearing.

“Is that…?” Someone whispered.

And then, louder, breaking the tension like a snapped bowstring:

“PETER?!”

The shout carried across camp much like a spark hitting dry grass. Peter’s eyes snapped up, searching for the source. For a second everything blurred: the Big House, the smoke, the wreckage. Then his gaze caught on a figure at half-way up the hill.

Kate.

She’d been standing on the slope just above the Big House, bow slung over her shoulder, posture tense and alert the way everyone must have been since the battle. Lookout duty. Watching the treeline. Guarding what was left of camp in spite of the barrier being back. She looked exhausted too. Hair tied back in a messy version of her usual ponytail, ash streaked across her cheek, shoulders tighter than usual with vigilance. The moment she saw him, though, all of that cracked.

Her bow slipped down her arm and hit the ground.

Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open in a soundless gasp before the second shout tore out of her.

“PETER!!!”

She didn’t walk. She ran, stumbling down the hill, nearly tripping over her own feet, hands already reaching for him like she needed to touch him to believe he was real.

At the shrieks, more kids caught on. The sound rippled outward. Heads turned. Voices rose. Kids started pointing, whispering, shouting.

“Holy shit! Iron Man’s back!”

“No way, is that?”

“That’s him! That’s Parker!”

“He looks awful, is he okay?”

“Dude, he’s alive!”

“PETER’S BACK!”

Campers begin gathering from cabins, from the archery range, from the canoe lake, from the woods. The noise swelled, a wave rolling toward them.

But Kate reached him first.

She sprinted across the grass, tears already streaming, and threw her arms around Peter’s shoulders. Tony had to brace to keep them both upright.

Peter’s breath caught. His chest tightened painfully. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until then. Well, he had. But at that moment, just like opening his eyes and seeing Tony above him,- real and solid,- the penny finally dropped.

“K…” He whispered, voice breaking.

“You absolute idiot,” she sobbed, voice muffled and shaking. “You- you went down there alone! You didn’t even- I thought… What were you thinking?!"

“Hey, hey… I’m here. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” she snapped, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red, overflowing. It took a lot to get Kate Bishop to look like that: heartbroken. “You look like you got thrown off a cliff! At least twice!”

“Technically it was more like a pit,” Peter said weakly.

A gasp. She hit his shoulder.

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yes, you were.”

Kate’s breath hitched. Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing dirt and dried blood from his cheek. She looked at him like she was memorizing him: every bruise, every cut, every breath.

“I thought you died,” she lamented. “I thought you died because of me. Because I-”

Peter’s heart twisted violently. It was something it’d been doing a lot recently.

“Kate… no. No, that’s not true.”

“You went to Tartarus because I messed up,” she insisted, voice cracking. “Because I killed Arachne at the wrong time. Because I knew I could hit her and I was overconfident and didn’t think. My fatal flaw could have been fatal to you-”

“Stop.” Peter shook his head, as much as Tony’s grip allowed. “You didn’t send me there. I made that choice. And I’d do it again.”

Her eyes watered up anew.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it true.”

She pressed her forehead to his, careful of the bruises.

“You can’t do that again,” she whispered. “You can’t just disappear into hell and expect me, expect everyone to function.”

“Funny, I gave him that exact speech about an hour ago,” Tony piped in. “He ignored me too.” 

Peter let out a shaky laugh.

“Fine, you two! I’ll try not to fall into bottomless pits anymore. Promise. Satisfied?”

Kate sniffed, half‑laughing, half‑crying.

“On the Styx!”

“On the Styx.”

“Good.”

“Is it?” Tony sighs, “Great. I’ll just... trust that.”

Both kids snicker at the billionaire.

Kate shakes her head then, resetting the tone of their conversation. “Seriously, you better. Because if you ever scare me like that again, I swear to the gods, I will drag you back from the dead just to kill you myself.”

Peter smiled. Small, tired, but real, oh so real.

“There she is.”

She punched his arm again, gentler this time.

“Shut up. And no more quests for you.”

Peter huffed a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Oh no. Twist my arm,” he muttered, the closest he could get to snark with cracked ribs and the embarrassment of having to be held up by his dad in front of everyone.

The legacy of Apollo let out a shaky exhale, half a laugh, half a sob. She didn’t cling, Tony still had him, but she stayed pressed in close, shoulder to his, fingers curled lightly around his forearm like she was anchoring him in place. She wasn’t letting anyone pull her away, he could tell. 

And she didn’t budge, not even when footsteps crunched up behind them.

“Kid.”

Peter looked up just in time for Clint Barton to step into view, bow slung over his shoulder, eyes soft with relief. He nodded at Tony then clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gentle but solid.

“Good to see you alive,” the Avenger salutes. “Gave us all a damn big scare you know?”

Peter managed a tired smile and answered, for perhaps the millionth time that afternoon, “yeah, sorry about that. I’ll try not to fall into hell next time.”

“He promised,” Kate reminded, eyes narrowed with intensity.

Clint huffed a laugh.

“Well, better not test either of them then, Pete,” Clint snorts, motioning at Kate and Tony, who instinctively frowns at his teammate.

And then another voice drifted in flatter and accented.

“He was tough enough to survive but as always nobody believed me, did you?”

Yelena Belova appeared beside Clint like she’d been there the whole time, hands in her pockets, blue eyeliner sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. She looked wildly out of place at a teen demigod camp and at the same time like she somehow owned the place.

Peter blinked. After their shared fraction of quest back in Rome, Peter hadn’t really thought about the assassin much. He hadn’t given much thought to what she would do, other than hopefully support Kate as the blonde had hinted to by the Pit. But that somehow hadn’t translated into fighting in a literal war with Peter’s friend. Which it seemed, she had. For that, Peter would always be grateful to her.

“Uh, hi? Thanks.”

Yelena gave him a once‑over, assessing injuries with her usual efficiency.

“You are too stubborn,” she said simply, “and annoying. Death would get bored.”

Peter stared. He feels Tony’s eye twitch somewhere to his left.

“Wow. That’s super comforting.”

Yelena shrugged. “It is fact.”

She stepped closer, stopping right beside Kate, close enough their shoulders brushed. Much like Clint, Peter gathers they’d been on lookout together.

Peter raised an eyebrow. Again, thankful but a little surprised by the dedication.

“So... you’re just hanging out at camp now?”

Yelena tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “It is rather tolerable.”

Kate rolled her eyes and translated automatically.

“She means she likes it here,” Kate said.

And, despite all the pain he was in, Peter’s grin turned slow and wicked. He’d missed this.

“Or she likes someone here.”

Kate went crimson.

“Shut up, idiot,” she snapped. “Drop dead.”

Peter smirked. “Already tried that. Didn’t take.”

“This generation…” Tony grumbled and adjusted his hold, as if subconsciously making sure Peter didn't, effectively, drop dead. And then, as if to disprove his point (because his generation wasn't much better), loudly said:

“Hey Barton, heads up. You might have to start dealing with suitors.”

“I’m not worried,” Clint said, though he did look a little worried. “If it’s Yelena, she’ll scare off the rest.” 

Kate was still red: not just her cheeks, but her ears, her neck, everything. Probably not the reunion she would have hoped for. She tried to glare at him, but it kept breaking into something embarrassed and helpless. Yelena noticed instantly, because of course she did.

She leaned in just a fraction, voice amused and merciless.

“Why are you blushing, Kate Bishop?”

Kate sputtered, “why aren’t you?!”

Peter opened his mouth to make it worse, but the sound of hooves cut through the air, steady and unmistakable. And they didn't come alone.

No more stalling, then. The unavoidable is coming.

You wanted to come here, stupid. Of course the unavoidable has come.

“Oh, for the love of Olympus,” Mr. D opened the conversation with a very loud sigh, as if Peter’s bruises personally affected him. “What did you do, fight a blender?”

He’s pretty sure he feels Tony’s eye twitch.

“Oh fantastic. Carbonation Overlord.” Tony groaned. “Plus The man on a horse, The planner and The plunge, and that hot topic guy. Look, kid, the crew’s all here.”

Nico glared but the Annabth adn Percy seemed weirdly used to Tony’s snarky nicknaming habits.

Peter caught the son of Hades’s eyes, dark and perpetually tired. He managed a fatigued, resigned smile.

“So. Rome, uh?”

Nico didn’t even sigh. Just nodded once, slow, unsurprised. “Yeah.”

A simple exchange, but it wasn’t like they needed to say much. Nico’s warning back in Portugal, when they’d been resting in the Temple of Bones before the last shadow jump, hadn’t made much sense at the time. Sure, Rome was a place in the land beyond the Gods, but Peter hadn’t really understood why Nico Di Angelo, the son of Hades himself, would choose to tell Peter of his bad memories at the place. He’d already known it would be dangerous to stay there. Now though...

Bad things really did happen in Rome, and now Peter finally understood why. 

That’s when Chiron finally stepped up, tall and calm and impossibly steady, effectively directing the conversation. 

“Peter,” Chiron started, the honey warm. “I am very glad to see you alive, my boy.” Then came the hatchet. “But that was... very reckless.”

Peter’s stomach twisted.

Yeah. There it was.

The exact tone he’d been dreading.

He tried to swallow it down, but the crowd around them was growing. Kids, frozen mid task and approaching curiously. Entire cabins or near that. (Peter didn’t want to think about what happened to the rest). Campers he knew and campers he didn’t know the names of. All staring at him. Whispering. Moving closer. Forming a ring. Theorizing.

And suddenly he wasn’t there anymore.

He was back in the aftermath of his first quest, bruised and shaking, everyone staring at him like he was something strange and fragile and wrong. He remembered the weight of their eyes. The way his chest had tightened. The way he’d wanted to disappear.

And now it was happening again.

Except this time he’d left his necklace on the table on purpose and for good. This time he’d disobeyed Chiron. This time he’d run off alone. He’d ignored everyone else and gone to the land beyond the gods on a lonely quest that resulted in failing to retrieve the Golden Fleece and, because of that, Camp Half-Blood had very nearly paid the full price.

His fingers twitched.

His breath stuttered.

His vision narrowed.

His sixth sense, hyperactive as it’d been the past days or weeks, tensed on the back of his neck.

He wasn’t scared of being scolded. He wasn’t scared of disappointing anyone. He already had, anyway. He was scared because it felt like he was back there, reliving the same disaster, the same mistake, the same crushing attention. And that memory opened the door to so many fresher and worse ones.

Percy stepped forward first, not to calm him, not to shield him, but with that casual indifference he always spoke over Chiron or anyone he figured deserved it with. Dark, dry humor only someone who’d been to Tartarus could get away with.

“So, did you get anywhere near the Phlegethon? Still feels like sticking your head in a demon’s oven?” 

Peter blinked at the strange and random question. Then he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, figuring what Percy was trying to do. Confuse him, Distract him from his spiralling.

“Yeah. Uh... definitely had to try not to lose my eyebrows.” 

“Hmm... checks out. At least now I know that stupid river hates everyone equally.”

The tension in Peter’s chest loosened just enough for him to breathe again. Enough to stay in the present, trying not to fall back into that memory: the one where he’d come home a mess and everyone had stared at him like he was a problem to solve.

He wasn’t that kid anymore. Clearly.

He wasn’t.

But gods, it felt the same.

Chiron stepped even closer, voice gentler now, though still carrying that edge of authority.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “we will discuss what happened. But first-”

Mr. D groaned loudly, “oh, please. He’s alive, isn’t he? Wonderful. Gold star. Can I go now?”

Tony seized the opening instantly.

“Actually,” he said sharply, “for the first time ever, I’m gonna agree with the wine guy. Hasn’t my kid been through enough?”

Peter tugged weakly at Tony’s metallic arm.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice still thin. “Really.”

Tony didn’t look convinced, but he backed off.

“Styx, you all are a difficult bunch.” Chiron’s eye twitched this time. “I was going to say, if you let me,” he began, “that I couldn’t be more proud.”

A ripple of sound moved through the campers. Agreement, gratitude.

Taken off guard, Peter felt it like a warm pressure against his ribs. He looked at Chiron, wondering if he heard it right. Chiron, who had never been unkind to him, but who had been against his lonely claim over the quest; Chiron, who, like several of the kids still at camp, was there years ago, with a first-row seat to the screw up of the century.

He hadn’t done any of this for recognition, but he couldn’t help his cheeks flaring up in bright red. At the same time, he felt relief. This time, wrong or right, poorly or not, he’d helped Camp Half-Blood.

Chiron huffed softly, reclaiming the clearing with a calm authority that made the crowd settle. He stepped forward, hooves firm in the earth, and when he spoke, his voice carried with that usual weight he knew would get him heard by easily distracted young minds.

“These have been singular days for Camp Half‑Blood,” he announced. “Grueling and dark days. We have endured injuries. We have endured loss. And we have stood vigil for friends who will never return.”

The clearing quieted. Heads bowed. A few sniffles broke the silence.

Peter swallowed hard. Something touched his hand and Peter looked to the side, at his friend. Kate met his gaze with one of her stubborn smiles. She slid her hand in his.

Chiron lifted his chin.

“But because of our questers,” he continued, “the borders returned. The poison did not take us. And every one of you stands here today because the Fleece was returned in time.”

Cheers erupted, all raw and relieved. A Roman demigod, one of few (purple sprinkled among a sea of orange) Peter noticed, whistled sharply. His fellow campers were a mix of emotions, from the ones who’d lost siblings and friends, to the ones merely glad to still be alive. Peter felt them. Inside, he was the same unruly disconcerted crowd.

Chiron waited for the noise to settle, then continued.

“The prophecy has proven true once again.” His eyes flicked, unmistakably, toward Kate.

True aim.

Kate straightened immediately. Her shoulders lifted, chin tilted.

Yelena nudged her sharply with an elbow. “Stop inflating.”

Kate shot her a look,- the classic I’m totally not inflating, shut up,- but the smirk tugging at her mouth betrayed her.

And, really, Peter figured she deserved it. Deserved to feel the truth settle in her chest. 

She had done it.

She’d killed Arachne. She’d made the Fleece fall into Tartarus. Yes, that was all true. But, from what he’d gathered, she also ended it all. He didn’t think that was the only time the prophecy mentioned her, though. Not only during the war, at the prettiest moment behind the bow.

True aim and cunning shall thrive.

Aim takes direction, and she’d changed the direction of the whole quest with a single arrow back in Rome. He wondered then, if she hadn’t killed Arachne in the first place, if this story would have had the same happy ending. Fate was tricky like that.

Then Chiron’s gaze shifted.

It settled on Tony, and the clearing quieted again, not from volume, but from remembering the mighty Celestial Bronze Iron Man standing right there with them. With the fight over, it was probably the first time a lot of campers had time to process it.

“And for the first time in our history,” the centaur said, “a mortal was clearly part of a prophecy.” 

Tony blinked, thrown.

Chiron inclined his head toward him.

“Mr. Stark, your cunning, your steadfastness, and your refusal to yield in the face of fear,” he said, “proved no less vital than the strength of any demigod.”

A ripple of murmurs moved through the campers. Someone whistled again. Someone whooped. Another screamed “I like you better now!”. But above all, Peter felt it, the respect his fellow campers had developed for Tony. He still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, not in detail, but as he looked at Tony again, at the celestial bronze armor... For the first time, Peter didn't fear loss. 

He’s so goddamn proud of his dad.

Chiron went on, voice sharpening at the edges. Peter noticed the change in tone before he understood why.

“And let us also remember,” he said, “that the measure of a parent lies not in blood, but in constancy. For devotion is a choice, one that some embrace with greater honor than others.”

Immediately, Percy Jackson snorted too loudly. At his side, Annabeth elbowed him, whisper‑shushing the man, though she was definitely fighting a smile of her own.

Peter caught it too. In fact, even Mr. D seemed to have caught the subtle burn directed at the gods. However, he merely drank some more magically-appeared diet coke, and didn’t look very bothered to be included in the whole immortally-dead beat lot. Peter had to give it to him. Deep down, Mr. D kind of cared.

Glancing at Tony, though... Tony, who looked ever more ready to end that emotional shit-show once and for all and get Peter to a medic. Peter felt something warm and fierce bloom in his chest.

Loved.

Chosen.

Safe.

It was true. With parents like the gods, he had to be extremely lucky to have found someone like Tony Stark. Tony Stark, with his own mask of indifference at first. Tony Stark, who had changed before Peter’s eyes and grown room in his challenged heart to welcome Peter in.

Chiron let the moment settle before continuing.

“We should thank our allies,” he added. “From new friends of other worlds, ” his eyes flicked to Yelena. “To old friends who crossed the country to stand with us. To the Avengers, and I know, that is an odd one. And the Hunters, who always come at just the right time.”

Kids murmured, proud and grateful.

“And yet, even then, without Peter’s sacrifice we would have failed.” Chiron stepped closer, as if making sure Peter was really listening. “He is not our usual hero, but he is, without question, a hero to us all. And he should be proud too.”

A beat of silence followed, the kind that comes when everyone knows the truth just landed exactly where it should and it takes a moment to house it in. Then the reaction started, not a roar, not like the previous cheers but a rising, uneven wave of agreement.

A few claps.

Then more.

And soon, dozens of fellow demigods were clapping at Peter with newfound respect too. Respect, like the one they’d given Tony. Respect he’d lost long ago and never thought he'd get back. 

The Athena cabin, his siblings,- Jenna, Walker, little Sofia looking as giddy and satisfied as ever for someone so usually sullen and taciturn,- cheered the loudest, whistled, yelled his name. Even the Ares cabin seems to be on his side. Ptolema was the first to nod, sharp and decisive, like she was acknowledging a worthy opponent. Harvey,- big, loud, stupidly strong Harvey, the one Peter had flipped onto the floor and parried with a fork the first day back at camp,- stared at him for a longer moment. Then he gave a single, reluctant, almost confused nod.

Respect.

Real respect.

Peter felt it wash over him, overwhelmingly real.

The crowd was still cheering when Tony exhaled. With a quiet command, the Iron Man suit released him, plates shifting back as the armor stepped away on its own servos. It stayed behind Peter, hands still hooked under his arms, holding him upright like a silent guardian.

Peter blinked at him, frowning.

“Uhhhh... what are you doing?”

Tony, face still bloody and busted, brushed some invisible dust off his shirt, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly.

“Well,” he said, “I was already proud of you. And I’d have been proud of you anyway, even without all the drama and near‑death theatrics. Actually, I’d much have prefered that.” 

Peter’s eyebrows shot up.

Tony ignored it.

He reached into his pocket, slow and deliberate, tortuous for a curious mind like Peter’s (and the sly genius knew it).

Finally, Tony pulled out something small and familiar.

Was that?

Peter’s Camp Half‑Blood necklace.

His breath caught.

“But,” Tony finished softly, “I think the moment still calls for this.”

Peter stared.

And stared.

“Wait- how do you even have that?! I... I left it-” He stammered, turning and seeking Chiron’s eyes for an explanation. 

But Chiron merely smiled. “He’s right. It belongs to you, Peter. As much as you belong here.”

That was nice and all, but it still explained nothing! He’d pretty much slammed it down on the table. He hadn’t thought he’d ever get it back, not for the second time. Somehow, though, Tony had managed to get his hands on the thing.

Who was Peter kidding? Of course he had. This was Tony Stark. The man who built himself a never seen before armor out of scraps while held hostage in a cave in Afghanistan. The hero who saved New York from an alien army. The genius who invented time travel just to bring half the world’s population back to life. The mortal who’d managed to shape and wield celestial bronze metal into one of his own Iron Man suits without so much as a god's blessing!

At his lack of words and honestly embarrassing opening and closing of mouth, Tony shook his head, smirking as he stepped closer.

“Kid,” he murmured, “just let me put it back on.”

Peter swallowed hard, then nodded, small and shaky.

Tony’s fingers brushed the back of Peter’s neck as he looped the necklace into place. The beads settled against Peter’s collarbones like they had never been gone. 

“What do you think, kid?”

Peter blinked down at the leader string, so full of beads; at the worn clay and at times scrapped paint. Felt the weight of it.

And he smiled. A droopy thing. Bruised but relieved because, gods, he had missed his necklace. 

Chiron, still nearby, crossed his arms and gave a single, solemn nod of approval. But Peter barely saw him. Because suddenly, painfully and beautifully, it hit him.

Isn’t this just full circle?

They’d started with him hiding monster attacks, hiding weapons, hiding behind the Mist the truth of what he was: hiding the Greek side of his life from Tony because he thought he had to choose. He thought he’d lose Tony if he didn’t. He almost lost him, truly. At the Lake House, here at camp too more than likely. The idea of Tony fighting not a monster, not a hoard, but a whole army of them, that had been beyond his worst nightmares just months ago. Except, Tony had survived. Of course he had. He was Iron Man. He was stronger than Peter’s fears of loss and abandonment. And Peter had survived too (well, technically no, but that’s not important). He’d survived both the shitshows the greek world threw at him as well as villains and challenges as a hero, as Spider-Man: Tony’s world. They’d persevered. They’d changed and molded and learned to brave all of it.

And now Tony, the mortal side of his life, the side he once thought he’d have to sacrifice, was the one putting the necklace back around his neck.

As if saying: you don’t have to choose. You never had to.

The realization hit him so hard he almost swayed in the celestial armor’s hold. He snapped back to the moment, to Tony standing there, trying to look casual and failing, to the suit still holding him upright, to the voices still echoing around them.

Peter didn’t think.

He just moved.

He threw his arms around Tony’s and hugged him tight, too tight, everything‑hurts tight.

Tony let out a startled “Uff!”, then melted instantly, arms wrapping around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him in like he’d been secretly waiting for this exact moment. And then gently, instinctively, he pressed a kiss to the side of Peter’s head, soft and brief and steadying as always. He did so even with everyone watching, even as Peter’s cheeks caught fire,- was this what other kids felt when their parents got all lovey-dovey and embarrassing in front of their peers? Gods, it’s awesome and mortifying! Still, Peter didn’t dare pull away.

Tony held on for another heartbeat, definitely one more than necessary, before clearing his throat and snapping back into Tony‑mode, probably also suddenly aware of the audience.

He pulled back, hands still steady on Peter’s arms as he carefully deposited him back into the suit’s waiting hold.

“Alright, great, emotional moment achieved,” Tony said, voice wobbling only a little, but Peter caught it because he knew him. “Can we get you to a doctor now or do I have to actually drag you?”

Peter winced, considering his options. There weren’t any. He didn’t think he could stay upright much longer. “A doctor sounds amazing.”

“Of course,” Chiron said, waving towards the house behind them. “Let us bring Peter to the Big House. I will have a healer come to him there. The infirmary is full, and though it may take some time, he will be more comfortable there.”

Tony nodded, relief softening his shoulders.

The suit adjusted its grip under Peter’s arms, holding him upright with gentle, mechanical steadiness. Peter leaned into it, and into Tony, and into the moment.

Except, they’d very nearly sailed happily off into the sunset, meaning barely taken two steps toward the Big House when...

“HEY- WAIT A SECOND!”

Everyone froze. The voice came from an Aphrodite girl near the front: all glitter eyeliner, pink streak and attitude. Peter recognized her instantly from several instances, the woods when the barrier fell, the strawberry fields when everyone pushed him towards the Cabin Counselors meeting. His sister Jenna’s girlfriend.

She put a hand on her hip, scandalized.

“I’m sorry. Are we just gonna ignore what he’s wearing?!”

A beat of silence.

Next to her, Jenna’s eyes widened wide as saucers. The rest of the crowd, though, seemed a bit caught off guard. The girl blinked at the entire camp, incredulous. 

She pointed straight at him as if personally affronted.

“The giant spider on his chest, hello???”

Silence rippled through the clearing.

Peter blinked.

Tony sighed in disgruntled realisation.

They both looked down.

Right.

The tattered, soot‑stained Spider‑Man suit. But still the Spider-Man suit, nonetheless.

For a second, Peter didn’t breathe. The Aphrodite girl’s words hung in the air, and his eyes dropped to the torn, battered and dirty spider on his chest like it belonged to someone else. A cold jolt went through him, super quick and blinding, pure reaction and instinct. For a moment there, suspended in the timeless maze of his mind, Peter could only swim in panic. The kind of panic that lived dormant in the back of his ribs since forever, coiled from years of hiding, lying, protecting. His mind flicked through rooftops, alleyways, trash bins, the quiet terror of being found out. He felt the world narrow, sound thinning, his pulse jumping hard against the bruises on his wrists.

Then he forced a breath in, shaky but deep, and the edges of his vision loosened. Just as quickly he steadied. Because what could he do now? They’d fought beside him. He’d bled for them. They’d bled for him too. And Tony was right there, close enough that Peter could feel the warmth of him at his side, hear his own alert heartbeat. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t unsafe. Just like at the Colosseum, when he knew he could count on Tony to handle the rest of the Mysterio mess, he knew he didn't have to worry about this right now. Tony had him covered.

The panic didn’t vanish, but it loosened enough for him to breathe again. Enough for him to lift his head, meet a hundred staring eyes, and let out his usual nervous laugh. 

“Well... cat’s outta the bag.” 

As if on cue, Cheerio poked his head out of Peter’s bag which the armor was carrying, blinking like someone’d just woken him from a nap.

The clearing absolutely detonated.

“HE IS SPIDER‑MAN!”

“I KNEW IT! REMEMBER CAPTURE THE FLAG?”

“OH MY GOD, SPIDEY’S A DEMIGOD?”

“WAIT- IRON MAN IS SPIDER‑MAN’S DAD?!”

“I think you mean Iron-DAD...”

“That was so stupid, Kevin!”

“NO BUT SERIOUSLY, IRON DAD? IS THAT A THING?”

“It had to be the spiders,” someone from Athena muttered.

“IS THAT A LITERAL CAT IN THAT BAG?”

“And when he threw Harvey on the floor!”

Harvey groaned loudly. “Shut up!”

Another Ares kid went pale. “Holy shit, I stuffed Spider‑Man’s face in a toilet.”

A son of Hermes threw both hands up.

“PAY UP, LOSERS!”

Half the cabin groaned.

Someone yelled, “you bet on everything!”

The Hermes kid shrugged. “And I was right on one of them!”

More questions kept flying like arrows, so fast Peter and his mushy brain could hardly keep up with:

“Can you shoot webs out of your butt?”

“CAN YOU DO IT NOW?”

“Do spiders talk to you?”

“Do you know Captain America?”

“ARE YOU DATING ANYONE?”

Peter’s soul left his body.

Chiron lifted his hands, trying to calm the storm. “Campers, please-”

No one heard him.

Mr. D, who everyone had forgotten was even there, sipped his Diet Coke and muttered, “you know, Patterson, I always knew you were Ant‑Man.”

Tony’s eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a generator.

Peter’s eyes darted around before he could stop himself. In the crowd, his siblings were now pressing Sofia, apparently shocked by her lack of shock over this world-changing reveal. Peter wondered if the Nymphs already knew, as he doubted those gossip-lovers could keep a secret. If they did, the one that saw Peter racing through the woods in the suit that time was considerate enough to not let it reach the ears of the half-bloods.

Chiron obviously wasn’t surprised, as he already knew. The centaur just looked defeated, like he was considering joining Mr. D for a Diet Coke and leaving the demigods to calm down by themselves.  

Percy also met his gaze with a sympathetic wince and a helpless shrug, the kind that meant good luck, buddy. Next to him Annabeth’s expression was sharper, thoughtful; she didn’t look shocked either, more like she’d strongly suspected it for a while and was now mentally rearranging puzzle pieces.

Kate’s mouth was already twitching like she was fighting a laugh. She did feel bad, he knew,- he’d just crawled out of Tartarus, for the gods’ sake,- but she also very clearly couldn’t help herself.

“Okay, first of all,” she said, trying not to grin, “I’m sorry. Truly. This sucks.”

Then she gestured vaguely at his shredded suit.

“Second of all... you did walk into camp wearing that.”

Peter made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for divine intervention.

Kate softened immediately, bumping her shoulder lightly against his arm, careful of the bruises. “Hey. It’ll be alright,” she murmured. “They’re loud, but not evil. And honestly? They already know how to keep a secret.”

“It is funny,” Yelena decided to say. “A little.” And when he looked at her with the widest, most pitiful-looking, desperate eyes, she must have taken some pity and shrugged. “Do not worry. You look terrible. They will calm down.” 

And all of it, the staring, the noise, the sudden exposure pressed in at once. Peter pressed his foot against the floor, instinctively trying to appear less small and weak. 

He winced, pain flickering across his face.

That was it.

Tony stepped forward, raising his voice just enough to slice through the chaos.

“YES, he’s Spider‑Man,” he snapped and at the sound of his voice the crowd shushed. “And you’re all signing NDAs. Congratulations and good day, you little gremlins.”

A few looked offended.

A few looked delighted.

But eventually the crowd parted and slowly started to disperse, campers returning to their abandoned tasks, because life moves on. Meanwhile, the suit lifted Peter a little higher as it walked but Tony stayed close anyway, making faces at kids who insisted on staying and watching, buzzing, whispering, starstruck as Peter,- no,- Spider‑Man limped toward the Big House.

...

Peter sat on the Big House porch, Cheerio curled warm and heavy on his lap. His feet were both resting on their own stool, which he decided looked ridiculous, but after being through what they’d been through, Peter also thought he owed his bones their proper, embarrassing rest.

Camp was still buzzing, even as night began to fall. Hammers, voices, the soft glow of magical repairs and the campfires being lit. But it all felt far away. Kate had finally left him alone to go help her cabin, Tony had gone inside to do something Peter hadn’t been paying enough attention to remember what it was, and for the first time all day, the world was quiet.

No, not for the first time all day. For the first time in what? Nearly a month.

He pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself. It wasn’t cold. He just needed it. Comfort had become almost alien to him lately, but he still welcomed it.

Cheerio shifted on his lap, chirping once before settling again.

Peter let his eyes drift lazily over the camp. Everyone rebuilding. Everyone moving forward.

And that was what did it. The way life kept going even when people didn’t. 

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to Callie.

The girl who’d betrayed the camp.

The girl who’d died saving him.

Callie, who would’ve been out there right now yelling at everyone to lift with their legs, not their backs. Callie, who would’ve come nagging him for sitting in this porch and “brooding like a sad Victorian orphan.” Callie, who would’ve bragged to every single camper that she’d known he was Spider‑Man before any of them, had she survived the lair in Rome.

Callie, who wasn’t here.

He wondered how her funeral had gone. He’d missed it, trapped in Tartarus, dying and undying and dying again. He wondered if anyone had spoken for her. If anyone had said she wasn’t just a traitor, that she’d changed her mind, that she’d tried, that she'd saved his life; if her siblings forgave her, if anyone did.

He certainly hadn’t forgiven himself.

Her brother had died on his first quest. She’d blamed him. And in the end, she’d died because of him too, because she’d stepped between him and Arachne, because she’d seen him in the suit, seen he cared, seen he wasn’t the monster she’d convinced herself he was.

And then he’d gone into Tartarus and he’d discovered that no, she’d been right all along and actually died for a last minute lie: he was a monster.

He could still feel the moment her Arai curse hit him, the stabbing, the breath leaving his lungs, the way his body had folded in on itself. He’d died. Actually died. He’d never tell anyone that. Not Tony. Not Pepper. Not Kate. Not anyone. He’d died and he couldn’t blame her for it, could he? Because she’d died for him too. And because, when the other curse hit, the one that twisted him, warped him, turned him into something monstrous, something already present in his blood, he felt like maybe she’d been right. Not for poisoning the tree and the dragon. Not for betraying camp, never that. But for hating him and wanting him gone. 

Flashbacks of the curses assaulted his mind. The spider‑thing. He could still feel the wrongness of it in his bones, like a shadow that hadn’t quite let go. Much like the vision he'd gotten of the inside of the Mansion of Night, he suspected it never fully would.

He heaved, trying to desperately redirect his thoughts.

Yeah, she would’ve been so excited to see Tony and Clint here. She would’ve been proud too, that Peter took the prophecy and the quest to the very end. The reason she’d been obsessed with them made much more sense now: to ensure it was him that was lured to Arachne. But still, part of him, the part that had briefly fought side by side with her against the Mother of Spiders, knew she’d have been proud.

And loud. Gods, she would’ve been loud.

He missed her.

Even the worst parts.

Friend.

Especially that last part.

Cheerio purred softly in his sleep, nudging his hand. Peter stroked the little creature’s head, grounding himself.

He didn’t notice the small shadow that crept up the steps until it was already next to him.

Sofia.

She hesitated at the top, glasses slipping down her nose, hair messy from running around with the other kids. Something about the glasses hit Peter squarely in the chest. She hadn’t been wearing them the last time he saw her before leaving for Venice. Seeing her with them back on reminded him of being her age, wearing his own too‑big frames, trying to hide behind them.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and sat beside him on the loveseat bench, legs swinging.

Peter smiled tenderly.

“Hey, you rascal. What’cha doing here?”

She didn’t answer. She just leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his middle, careful of any bruises. Cheerio chirped indignantly as the movement jolted him atop the blanket but ultimately didn’t move.

Peter froze for half a second, then hugged her back.

After a moment she whispered, “you came back.” Her voice cracked. “I saw you leave the necklace. I thought you wouldn’t.”

Hades. Of course she’d been spying on the meeting.

Peter swallowed. “That was a big misunderstanding, see?” He brings a hand up to fiddle with his newfound beads. A pair of big grey eyes peer up at him behind lenses, still unsure and suspicious. “I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m really glad you’re okay too, by the way.”

Sofia shrugged. “A monster saw me,” she said, her usual bluntness returning out of nowhere. “I couldn’t run fast enough. At least Mr. Jackson got there first.” Her voice wobbled at the end.

“What happened?”  

A small pause. “He pushed me out of the way.”

She didn’t explain the rest. She didn’t have to. Peter had seen enough battles to fill in the blanks. He knows what he would have done. Percy must’ve thrown himself between her and whatever was coming. 

A flicker of memory hit him: the son of Poseidon's hand gripping his shoulder before the war, Peter begging him to watch over her, Percy agreeing to do his best.

Peter felt something warm twist under his ribs. Gratitude. Relief. Guilt. All tangled together.

He kept his voice gentle. “Weren’t you supposed to be hiding with the other kids?”

Sofia shook her head. “I was helping in the infirmary. I saw the Fleece pop up in the fire. I thought... I thought I could grab it before anyone else got hurt.”

Peter didn’t scold her. He kinda wanted to, but he couldn’t. He remembered being her age: small, scared, trying so hard to matter. He'd done the same to Tony countless times too.

“Well, I’m glad you’re the one who got it.”

Sofia blinked, surprised. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “You did good. Wherever he is in the Underworld, I know Max is really proud of you.”

That seemed to settle something in her. Her shoulders dropped a little, like she’d been holding herself tight until his reaction. This time she didn’t yell, didn’t hit him and trash and cry that he couldn’t know what Max would do or think because he wasn't him. She trusted his words, drank them greedily, and believed them. And suddenly he realised it. The way she watched him. The way she listened. The way she tried, really tried, to be brave. Somewhere along the way she’d started looking at him the way he used to look at Chance and Cayden.

Like he was someone worth following.

Someone who made the world feel a little less impossible.

The realization settled over him like a huge weight. Heavy in the familiar way responsibility always was. But warm too. Gratifying. Like something clicking into place.

Was this what Chance felt? When he’d ruffled Peter’s hair and told him he’d chosen well.

Was this what Cayden felt? When he’d stepped in front of that window and stayed behind?

Peter had spent years thinking they must’ve hated him at the end because he was the reason they died, and that they regretted everything. But looking at Sofia now, small and stubborn and trying so hard... He understood.

They hadn’t regretted it.

Not Chance. Not Cayden. Not really.

Because he would do the same for her. Without thinking. Without hesitation. Without regret.

A strange, quiet peace threaded through the constant turmoil in his chest, the first slight lifting of years-old guilt.

And, funnily, it ocurred to him: is this what Tony felt too?  The first time Peter had looked at him like he hung the moon?

Peter wasn’t sure. But he thought it might just have been.

Sofia swung her feet once, waiting for him to say something. She looked out over the camp, the cabins, the half‑rebuilt archery range, the kids hauling lumber, and then swung her feet again. When he didn’t speak, still too lost in the numbness after the chaos, the feebleness of his concentration, she let her cheeks balloon on a held breath.

Then blew the air out.

“I’m going to the mortal world this year.” She pushed her glasses up again, more nervous this time.

“What?”

She didn’t look at him when she said it. “I... I want to try. You did. And you’re you.”

Peter’s heart squeezed. “Sofia, you should do what feels right for you. Not what was right for me.”

The girl leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“I don’t have friends here. I mean, I have our siblings, but that’s not the same as friends.” She glanced up at him. “You went out there and found people. Big people. You made friends with the Avengers. That’s insane.” 

Her voice dropped, honest.

“I don’t have anyone out there. No family. Nothing to go back to.” She kicked her sneakers against each other. “If I wait until I’m older, I’ll chicken out. I should just do it now. Like pulling off a bandage.” 

Peter shook his head gently. He’s seen this mistake before, lived it first hand. “No. What you need is to be ready. It’s hard out there, and you’re too young. You don’t have to have everything figured out yet. Trust me when I say you should wait a couple more years.”

Sofia huffs. “But I’ll be alone all that time!”

“Youll make more friends here than you think, just give it time. Even if it doesn't seem so, time will surprise you. Our lives seem like they'll always be the same and next thing you know they've changed and what you thought would never happen already is."

“But what if i go out too late, and then I'll be alone out there forever? I don’t know anything about the mortal world... I didn't even know who your dad was. People will think I'm too weird. Who will want to be my friend?”

Peter hesitated, then smiled. “I think I can help with that,” he said. “But only if we make a deal.”

Sofia tilted her head. “A deal?”

Peter nodded, thumb brushing one of his beads.

“Yeah. You give yourself time to grow up. Safe. Here. A couple more years. You get bigger, stronger, and while that’s happening I’ll take you out to see the world. Little pieces at a time.”

Her eyes flicked up, curious.

“And,” he added, “I’ll introduce you to someone your age. Well, she’s a little younger. But she’s great. I bet you two would get along.”

Sofia perked up, glasses sliding down her nose.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She hesitated, then asked the question like it was the final proof she needed, “would she even want to be friends with me?”

Peter huffed a soft laugh.

“Trust me,” he said, “she’d be friends with a rock if she could. You’ll be fine.”

Sofia tried to hide her smile and failed. Her feet kicked the porch fence, light and hopeful.

“Okay,” she said. “Deal.”  

A beat.

And then she hugged him again, quick and fierce. “You’re not Max, but you’re a pretty good brother. Thank you, Peter.” 

In his out-of-it state, Peter took a second to react to the action, to the words. He patted her head, glad to have made her happy again. 

A pretty good brother.

Little did she know, she just made him really happy too.

Before he could say anything more, though, Sofia pulled back as they both heard footsteps approaching.

Tony.

Ever the slippery type, the girl quickly scrambled to her feet. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered and darted off the porch.

Peter watched her go, warmth lingering in his chest.

The screen door creaked open.

Tony stepped out of the Big House with a plate in hand: apple slices, crackers, and a protein bar chopped into tiny squares like he was feeding a toddler bird. In his other hand, a water bottle.

He spotted Peter on the porch bench, which was crazy, because Peter had been grounded there for a couple hours now, so where else would he be?

“You talking to someone?” Tony asked, too casually.

Peter blinked. “No one.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, either out of habit, after so many years hiding camp stuff, people and interactions; either to indulge the daughter of Athena and play along with her weird sneakiness; either out of utter spontaneity.

Tony nodded solemnly, stepping closer. “Cool. So we’re both mad now.”

Peter snorted. “We’re not.”

“Kid, if you were talking to yourself, that’s bad. If you weren’t and I didn’t see anyone, that’s also bad. But I doubt it. So congratulations, you’re officially joining me in the ‘voices in my head’ club.”

Peter puffed his cheeks out, letting the air deflate in a slow sigh.

Tony sat beside him and shoved the plate into his hands. “Eat.”

“No...” He complained, eyebrows twisting painfully as he pushed the plate away. Just the sight of it made him queasy.

“Nope to no’s.” Tony held the plate himself, but shook his head and tyrannically tapped it. “You’re running on fumes, adrenaline, and whatever cosmic nonsense keeps you upright. Food.”

Resigned yet reluctant, Peter took a bite of an apple slice. It was probably the slowest he’s ever eaten. His stomach twisted. Hunger was there, deep and gnawing, like it’d been for the weeks he spent in the Pit, but contrarily to the adrenaline-fueled time at the Hermes shrine, now his body didn’t quite know how to accept it after so long. His hands shook a little and he turned a little green. He hoped Tony didn’t notice.

Tony noticed. Of course he did.

He didn’t comment, just watched him chew like he was supervising a delicate experiment back at the lab.

“Good,” Tony murmured. “Again.”

“Nghhhh...” But Peter obeyed.

A comfortable quiet settled between them after he managed to finish the apple and took a couple bites out of the dry crackers, followed by a tiny sip of water. Resisting the turmoil in his debilitated stomach was hard and Peter really didn’t want to throw up at Tony’s feet. So instead, he opted to lose himself to his thoughts again. 

Tony leaned back, stretching his arms along the bench. “You’re good with that kid.”

So he’d seen. Yep.

“Sofia?”

“Yeah. You’re good with her like you’re good with Morgan.” Tony’s voice softened. “She likes you.”

Peter looked down at the lazy kitten still purring on his lap, then at his bruised and abused hands. “I... don’t know what I’m doing.”

Tony tilted his head. “With her?”

“With all of them,” Peter said quietly. “The campers. The older ones. The little ones. They look at me like-” He hesitated. “Like I’m someone.”

“That’s a good thing. You are someone, after all.”

“Yeah, no. I mean, that’s not-” He sighed. Peter’s voice stayed low, steady. “I’ve never been that. I’ve always had someone to look up to. Kate. Chance. Cayden. Even the Avengers. You. But now there are kids who think I’m that someone worth following.”

He rubbed his thumb over the tip of Cheerio’s pointy ear.

Tony hummed. “I think you’re forgetting you already were someone lots of people, millions even, looked up to.”

“As Spider-Man.” Peter countered. “Not as Peter Parker. Peter Parker was never a good example. Peter Parker wasn’t even an equal until very recently, not here, not anywhere.” He frowned. “So how do you do it?”

Tony smiled, clearly trying to keep things lighter. “Do what? Look this good at my age?”

Peter huffed. “No. I mean, how do you be someone’s mentor? Someone people look up to? Someone they... follow.”

Tony, arms stretched along the bench, looked up. “You don’t.”

A little gobsmacked, Peter felt his face twisting into a funny caricature of disbelief. “You don’t?”

Tony scratched his jaw. “You don’t. I don’t think you wake up one day and go, ‘I’m gonna be someone’s hero.’ That’s how you end up a narcissist or a cult leader.”

Peter snorted, but his chest tightened. He needed this answer. He needed it badly.

Tony continued, voice softer but still unmistakably him, “I don’t know what you want me to say, kid, that you don’t already know. I guess you avoid it at first. Then, for some reason, you just show up. You care. You try. You screw up. You try again. And one day, you look back and some stupidly amazing kid decided you’re worth orbiting. Not because you’re perfect. Because they see something in you, no matter how horrible you are.

“But you already did that. Not the horrible part, you have a heart of gold, ‘Roos. Steer clear of black markets, seriously. But the rest. What you do as Spidey, that friendly neighbourhood-ness of yours, you did that here too. I think those kids would look up to you even if they didn’t know you were also Spider-Man. I think they saw how much you loved them, even when you didn’t want to.”

And Peter let that settle. 

His worries, on how life would be from that point on, are suddenly pushed into the back seat. He’d been thinking about Sofia, the other kids, how they’d cheered for him and then looked at him in awe. He hadn’t meant for any of that and wasn’t sure what to do with something he never had. The role of a hero, an example, at camp. There was no mask to cover his face, no alias to replace his name. Spider-Man wasn’t just Spider-Man here. He was Peter Parker, the ugly duckling of the two.

What Tony said made more sense than he’d expect. And it did reassure him that his odds of screwing it all up were possibly smaller than he’d initially thought. But mostly, it moved his attention to something else. To Tony himself.

Because that was exactly what Tony had done for him. Had been for him.

And yet...

It wasn’t close to the full picture anymore. That description was ironically so little. That word,- mentor,- it hadn’t been enough for a while. Guardian had been better, but even that felt small now. After Tartarus, it felt too big, greater than any of those words. After missing Tony like a part of himself. After Rome and the lair, after Tony had held him like he was something precious and breakable and worth saving.

Peter’s mind flickered back: cold stone, faintness and confusion and the echo of his own heartbeat, warmth holding him tight. The way Tony’s voice had cracked when he thought he was losing him.

Baby...

You’re back with me, baby.

Peter swallowed hard. His hands found the edge of the blanket on his lap, afraid to hurt Cheerio if he squeezed him too hard.

Tony noticed the shift instantly. “Hey. What’s going on in that head? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because I know that’s a lie.”

Peter stared at the plate on the genius’ lap, fingers tightening around the fabric.

Years ago, he would never have asked it. Would never have dared. But that was years ago. Now was now, after everything. Still, his voice came out small, careful, like he was afraid the words might shatter if he pushed too hard. (He was.)

“When you called me... When you called me baby, back there. In Arachne’s lair. When I was... when you thought I was-”

Tony stiffened beside him.

“Did you...” Peter’s breath hitched but he finally found the courage to look directly into the man’s eyes. “Did you mean it?”

Tony didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked. His breath caught once, barely.

“You heard that, uh?”

“Not all of it. I was... I don’t remember when I became aware, most of it’s kinda muddled. But I remember that.”

With a nod, Tony finally looked back at him too. Peter waited, eyes wide and trembling, for something he never knew he wanted. 

Then, quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the fragile air between them, Tony answered.

“Yeah. I did.”

Peter’s eyes stung.

Tony looked like he was searching for something for a moment. Whatever it was and if he found it, Peter didn’t know. 

“Did you? When you called me dad?”

Peter’s throat closed. He nodded too. 

“Yeah. I did.”

Tony looked straight ahead, towards the treeline.

Silence. Not the empty kind, the kind that fills up your ribs and makes it hard to breathe because everything is just too big and too real.

And when Tony finally turned to him, Peter was surprised to see a tiny satisfied smile on his face. “Well, then, ‘Roos. I guess that’s what we are then.”

Peter blinked. 

“Yeah?”

Tony bumped his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Something in Peter cracked open, not painfully, but almost ticklishly. Like a bird finally taking off after years of singing caged.

A grin crept up before he could stop it: stupid, wide, childish, impossible to hide. Peter ducked his head, cheeks burning, because he must’ve looked completely awestruck. Ridiculous. Giddy. And Tony, his guardian,- no, his dad,- only chuckled, foundly, a sound that made Peter’s stomach flip. 

Tony shifted, arm coming around his shoulders, pulling him gently into his side. Peter didn’t even pretend to resist. He went easily, gratefully, the blanket dragging over his lap as Cheerio meowed in complaint and hopped up, finding a new position to curl atop his legs. 

With the plate balanced on his knees and arm wrapped around Peter’s shoulders, Tony pressed a kiss into Peter’s hair.

Peter let out a tiny laugh, startled and warm.

Tony gave him another kiss.

Then another.

One on the temple.

Then one on the top of his head.

Peter jerked back half a centimeter, laughing. “What are you doing?!”

Tony kept kissing him like it was a sport: forehead, temple, hairline, unbothered and silly and making Peter laugh louder than he’d laughed in weeks. “What? I’m not allowed to show affection? I’m your dad. Comes with the territory. No refunds.” 

Peter laughed again, bright and breathless, and Tony doubled down, peppering him with a few more just to hear it again.

“Stop-!” Peter wheezed, half hiding behind the blanket, half leaning into him anyway.

Finally Tony took pity on his weariness stopped, tucking him under his arm like he belonged there.

And on that porch,- blanket over his lap, cat purring on top of him, Tony Stark spoiling him like it was the most natural thing in the world,- was when they finally stopped fighting it.

Father and son.

Eventually, Tony spoke again.

“Alright, kiddo. A few more sips.”

Peter made a tiny noise of protest, but Tony was already reaching for the water bottle he’d set beside the bench. He pressed it into Peter’s hands.

“I know, I know. You had ambrosia and nectar, but that stuff doesn’t fix dehydration. Trust me, I’ve read the pamphlet.”

Peter huffed a tired laugh and took a sip. Then another. Tony watched, satisfied.

“Happy’s on his way,” he said quietly. “Figured you’d be more comfortable heading home by car.”

Peter blinked up at him, surprised but grateful.

Tony brushed a curl off his forehead. “We’re not rushing out. You rest a bit more, finish your water. But we should start thinking about heading home soon.”

Home.

Pepper.

Morgan.

MJ and Ned.

He’d needed to come here first, to make sure camp was really still standing, to see first hand the casualties, know about the fallen. To convince himself that he’d really gotten them the Golden Fleece in time. But he was more than ready to go home now.

“Our girls are waiting.”

Tony pressed one more kiss to the top of his head, softer than the others. 

It was hard to believe. They were finally going home.

He was going home.

...

The elevator doors slid open.

Peter stepped out and froze.

The penthouse looked exactly the same as when he had left: warm light, soft colors, the glowy floors and wideness of the space. Not only that, but the soft scent of wood cleaner and Pepper’s citrus diffuser.

His brain didn’t trust it. 

Tartarus had shown him familiar things before. Had twisted them. Had made him doubt his own senses. Just like with Tony, back when he’d first opened his eyes to the miracle that was his dad’s stupid yet cool goatee, Peter couldn't help the instinct to take a step back.

Am I really safe?

This is so stupid. My body wants to run but my family is right here. 

Back then he’d been lying on the floor, held securely by Tony’s arms. Here, despite the half-healed broken bones (they would so need to be reset...), there wasn’t much to stop him from doing it.

In a strange, ungraceful limp, Peter backed off, eyes wide and lost gazing at the house.

Tony’s firm hand at his upper back snapped him out of it.

“Easy, Houdini. You’re alright. Forward, not backward.”

Peter blinked, breath catching. His heel had already shifted toward the elevator, toward the small, enclosed space that felt safer than the wide, bright penthouse. Tartarus had been wide too. His body didn’t trust the light. Tartarus had been dark, why was the world so bright now? Didn’t trust the quiet. That’s when they’d always attack. 

Tony’s hand stayed steady and warm. He was real, he’d protect him.

Peter swallowed and forced his foot forward.

Aside from the familiar scents, the air inside the penthouse felt too clean. Too untouched. His clothes,- an orange camp shirt and some pants to hide the still mottled skin from Morgan,- couldn’t erase the memory of the torn suit; the stains of dust and blood and ichor and grime on his squalid, soiled skin. He felt filthy just standing there, like he didn’t belong in a place this spotless. A similar feeling, only upped by a thousand times, to what he used to feel in the early days of living with Tony and Pepper, when he’d hide his shoes by the door because he didn’t want to track anything in. Eventually, that feelig had passed. Peter didn’t want it to come back again.

He took another step.

Behind him, Happy stepped out of the elevator last, holding Peter’s backpack by the strap. The thing looked like it had been dragged through a war: ripped seams, scorched patches, dirt and whatever else grounded into the fabric. Against the gleaming floors and glass walls of the penthouse, it looked wrong. Out of place.

Peter felt a twist of shame in his stomach. He hadn’t showered yet, had only changed clothes.

I look like that too.

He must stink as well.

Like a monster.

His leg wobbled.

Tony caught him instantly, hand sliding from his back to his elbow, steadying him before he could fall. Peter hissed softly; the bones in his leg were knitting fast but crooked, pulling wrong with every step. His ribs felt the same, all tight and uneven, like they were trying to heal in the shape of the blows he’d taken from the river.

Tony didn’t comment. He just held him up.

Then FRIDAY’s voice came softer than usual, like she’d lowered her volume on purpose.

“Welcome home, Peter. It’s good to have you back. The tower has been quieter without you. Ms. Potts and Morgan are eager to see you.”

Peter’s throat tightened.

“Hey, FRIDAY. Missed you too,” he said with a tight and small smile.

He took one more slow step into the room, and that was when he heard the footsteps.

Small. Fast. Familiar.

And everything else fell away.

Morgan rounded the corner at full speed, hair bouncing, socks sliding.

“PETEY!!!”

She launched herself at him like a missile.

Peter didn’t think, he just dropped to one knee, arms open. She collided with him, and he scooped her up automatically, instinctively, the way he always had. And then, ignoring the ache in his ribs, the pull in his limbs, the way his back screamed, he twirled her around.

Morgan shrieked with pure joy, arms flung out like she was flying. “WOOOOOO!!!”

Peter laughed, breathless, pained, and yet so pure. He set her down gently, wincing only a little.

Behind him, Tony had taken a full step forward, hand half‑raised like he’d been seconds from putting a stop to his daughter’s excitement. It would’ve been of no use, because even hurting, even exhausted, Peter would always pick up his little sister.

Morgan wrapped her arms around Peter’s neck again. “I MISSED YOU! YOU WERE GONE FOREVER! DID YOU FIGHT MONSTERS? WERE THEY SUPER UGLY?!”

Peter swallowed hard, blinking fast. If she found his bruised face scary, if she was grossed out by the grim on his skin, she didn’t so much as hint at it. “Uh, yeah. Very ugly.”

Morgan gasped, delighted. “I knew it! Mommy said you were okay but I knew you were fighting ugly monsters!”

Peter huffed a laugh, small and shaky, then shifted her higher on his hip. She was getting too big to hold naturally. His ribs protested, his leg wobbled, but he held her anyway. She smelled like crayons and strawberry shampoo. She smelled like Morgan. Normal. Safe. Home.

Then, Morgan leaned back to look at him properly, her little hands cupping his cheeks with zero hesitation.

“You look different,” she said seriously.

Peter’s heart stuttered, “oh yeah? Different how?”

She only grinned wider, that sly, impish tilting of the head she definitely got from her dad.

“You look like you need a hug.”

Peter huffed a tiny laugh that broke halfway through. “Guess I do. Good thing you’re the best at them.”

Satisfied, she pressed her forehead to his. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, softer now, like it was a secret just for him.

The lump in Peter’s throat definitely grew in size.

“I missed you too, Mo.”

She hugged him again, fierce and warm and grounding. Her tiny fingers curled into the back of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

Peter closed his eyes for a second, letting himself feel it, her weight, her warmth, her absolute acceptance and innocence. No flinching. No fear. No hesitation. Just love.

He shifted to stand fully, and his leg nearly buckled. Morgan squeaked as he steadied himself, thinking it to be another playful move, and Tony’s hand shot out instinctively, catching Peter’s elbow again before he could fall.

“You good?” Tony murmured, low enough that Morgan wouldn’t hear the worry.

Peter nodded once, breath shaky. “Yeah. Sorry. Got her.”

“I know you do.”

Morgan didn’t even notice. She was too busy talking a mile a minute.

“And I made you drawings! I saved you a cookie but I ate it but I’ll make you another one! And I told Mommy you’d come back because you always come back-”

Peter’s chest squeezed. He hugged her tighter, but the tremor in his leg warned him he couldn’t hold her much longer. His ribs were pulling wrong, his limbs threatening to go on strike, and every second upright felt like balancing on a splintered beam.

He forced a smile and eased her down gently.

“Hey, Mo, lemme just-” He lowered himself back to his knees, partly to settle her down, partly to be at her height, partly because standing hurt more than he wanted her to see.

Morgan didn’t notice. She just bounced on her toes, hands grabbing his cheeks again like her excitement was bigger than her body.

Then Peter heard heels.

Pepper.

She rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Peter was kneeling on the floor, Morgan wrapped around him like a koala, Tony hovering just behind them. His leg was bent wrong. He looked small. Hurt. Exhausted.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Peter,” she breathed, a rattled release of air.

Peter looked up at her.

Her eyes swept over him, the hunched posture, the weight loss, the exhaustion, the bruises neither his healing factor nor the ambrosia had yet fully erased. Her eyes filled.

For a second, she looked at Tony as sharply as she always did: terrified, demanding answers. Almost as if she didn’t believe he was real either.

Then she took off, not walking but running his way.

Peter pushed himself up, limping but determined, and met her halfway. She cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the dirt at his temples, eyes scanning him like she was memorizing every inch.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, voice breaking. “My boy.”

Peter didn’t even try to hold himself upright anymore. He folded into her, burying his face in her shoulder. Pepper wrapped both arms around him, one hand sliding into his hair, the other around his back, pulling him close like she could shield him from everything that had already happened.

And she was warm. Warm and soft. Soft in that way all moms are soft, the kind of softness you don’t notice until you’re hurting and suddenly it’s the only thing holding you together. She smelled like that citrus freshener and laundry soap, but also of something faintly floral. Familiar. Safe.

For a split second, Peter’s brain flickered: May.

Hugging Pepper felt like hugging May.

For a moment, he could almost feel her arms around him too. They were different, but it was the same kind of safety.

His moms.

She rocked him gently, the way she used to rock Morgan when she was sick.

Slow. Steady. Reassuring.

Peter’s breath hitched against her collarbone. He clung to her shirt with trembling fingers, the fabric bunching in his fists. Nothing could have dragged him away from that moment.

She felt it, of course she felt it. Pepper pressed her cheek to his temple. “You’re home,” she murmured. “You’re home, sweetheart.”

Behind them, Tony shifted a small, sharp inhale of his own. Peter didn’t see it, but behind his own whimpering, he heard it: Tony’s heartbeat picking up, the faint scrape of his palm dragging down his face, like he was trying to steady himself without looking away. 

“Oh, Peter,” she breathed. “What happened to you?”

Peter blinked hard, trying to steady his voice. He tried to smile, smile like he always did. He didn’t want to worry her any more than he already had, any of them. But when the corners of his lips reached up, it was like his muscles couldn’t do it anymore. His smile wobbled.

“A lot.”

Pepper’s expression tightened the second the words left his mouth into a soft and aching scrunch that clearly meant she was trying not to cry.

“Oh, honey...”

She didn’t ask again. She didn’t press. She just pulled him back into her arms, wrapping around him to hide him from whatever “a lot” meant.

Peter’s breath shook. He leaned into her, forehead against her collarbone, and the words slipped out of him barely above a whisper.

“I missed you, Mom.”

Pepper froze for half a heartbeat.

He’d called her that before, once or twice, distractedly, accidentally, but this wasn’t a slip up. This was aching. Intentional. True. Her eyes shone, her breath catching in her throat. 

“Oh, sweetheart...” She whispered, voice thick with love and relief and something deeper than words. “I missed you too, son.”

She kissed him: temple, forehead, cheek, hairline. Gentle, doting touches. Her fingers threaded through his curls, checking for injuries, smoothing dirt away, grounding herself in the fact that he was warm and real and here, as much as he was doing with her.

Peter let her. He didn’t try to be strong. He didn’t pull away. He just breathed her in,- the citrus, the soap, the something floral,- and let himself feel held.

Ever unsuspecting (or feeling a little left out), Morgan chose that moment to hug Peter’s leg again, beaming up at them. “Mommy, he fought monsters! Real ugly ones! I told you!” 

Pepper let out a wet, shaky laugh, fingers carding through Peter’s curls with trembling fingers. “Of course he did,” she said softly. “That’s our Peter.” 

The woman finally eased back, her hands still on his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Back to her heedful self her gaze dropped to his leg, to the way it bent, to the way he kept shifting to keep weight off it, probably to the why he was even standing on it. 

Her expression sharpened with that quiet, efficient Pepper Potts-Stark concern.

“Peter,” she murmured, “let’s get you to-”

Then-

A sniff.

A loud one.

Everyone turned.

Happy stood near the elevator, staring at the floor, shoulders shaking, trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t crying. His face was blotchy, his nose red, and though he sported a miffed kind of frown, he was sniffling like a broken vacuum cleaner. The chief of security had driven both him and Tony back from camp, but come to think of it, aside from the initial greeting, he’d been even quieter than usual the whole car ride.

Peter pulled back from Pepper, wiping his eyes quickly. He tried to stand a little straighter, tried to look less like he’d been crying into her shoulder five seconds ago. His voice was small, still rough around the edges. 

“Happy,” he said softly. “You want a hug too?”

Happy looked up, caught off guard like he wasn’t aware of how obvious he was being. At the question he made a noise that was absolutely not a sob, more like a cough, a grunt and a swallowed whimper all fighting for dominance. “No, no, I’m- I’m fine, I’m- Just, where do you want the bag? Can’t keep holding this thing forever, it keeps moving. What’s even in here?”

Peter’s lips twitched into the smallest, swayed smile. He stepped forward slowly, limping but sure. Happy’s eyes widened.

“Oh- hey, hey, kid, don’t. Don’t come over here, I said I’m fine-” But even as he said it, he was already bending down, setting the backpack on the floor and muttering under his breath.

“Jesus, kid, you can barely walk, stay there.”

He held out a hand like he meant to stop Peter, but his feet betrayed him, carrying him forward anyway, instinct overriding everything else.

Peter kept going, determined, and wrapped his arms around him before Happy could finish pretending he didn’t want it.

Happy froze.

For half a second.

Then he broke.

His breath hitched, loud and sharp, and his arms came up around Peter in a crushing, desperate hug. He buried his face in Peter’s shoulder like he was trying to hide the fact that he was shaking.

“Jesus, kid,” Happy choked out, voice thick. “I told you to stay put. You don’t listen. Ever.” His voice cracked halfway through. 

Peter murmured, soft and earnest, “I missed you too, Happy.”

That did it.

This time Happy made a noise that was absolutely, definitely a sob.

He jerked back immediately, wiping his face with the heel of his hand like he could erase the evidence. “It’s- it’s allergies,” he blurted, voice cracking. “The dust in here. It’s... it’s terrible.”

Tony let out a tiny, involuntary snort, the kind he tried to swallow but failed at miserably.

Happy shot him a glare over Peter’s shoulder. “Shut up, Boss.”

Tony lifted both hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t say anything.”

Pepper pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to smile at either of them, her eyes still shining but steadier now that Peter wasn’t collapsing in her arms.

Happy sniffed again, louder this time, and pointed vaguely at the ceiling. “Ventilation’s a mess. Should get that looked at.”

Peter huffed, leaning a little more of his weight onto Happy without meaning to. Happy kept a hand lightly on his back, pretending it was just to “keep the kid from tipping over.”

And that’s when...

A tiny rustle.

A faint scritch‑scritch.

Morgan’s head snapped toward the bag on the floor. She tugged at Peter’s sleeve with both hands, bouncing on her toes.

“Petey. Petey. Petey.”

He looked down at her, confused.

Morgan pointed at the bag, eyes huge.

“What’s THAT?”

The zipper had shifted just enough for a small, sniffing nose and a big, curious orange eye to peek out.

Peter brightened, the exhaustion in his face cracking open into excitement. “Oh! Right! I promised I’d bring you a gift from the trip.”

Morgan’s entire soul left her body. She screeched.

Peter limped over to the bag. Happy made a noise like he wanted to stop him and also like he knew he couldn’t.

“Kid... hey, let me- you’re limping-”

But Peter was already crouching, carefully scooping Cheerio up with both hands. The little creature blinked up at him with glowing eyes, tail rattling like a dancing king cobra. Peter scratched gently under the jawbone and Cheerio leaned into it like he had actual skin.

Peter turned, holding the creature out toward Morgan like he was presenting a newborn lion cub.

“Mo,” he said softly, “this is my friend Cheerio. He’s a saber‑tooth kitten.”

Morgan gasped so hard she almost levitated.

“A SKELLY CAT?!”

Cheerio rattled again, eyeing her with interest.

Meanwhile, Pepper stared at Tony.

“Saber who? Skelly what?”

Tony held up both hands. “Hey, it’s Peter’s too. And he doesn’t have a llama, so it’s only fair.”

Pepper narrowed her eyes. “Tony...”

Tony pointed at Cheerio like that would help.

“He’s hypoallergenic?”

Morgan was already reaching for Cheerio, absolutely enchanted. Peter, kneeling beside her, shifted the kitten carefully in his hands.

“Hey, hey, gentle,” he murmured, guiding her small palms. “Now, he’s a monster. But he’s a good one, okay? Not an ugly one. And he’s still a baby. He likes being held like this. Support his tummy, uh, bones, and scratch right here.”

He tapped a spot under Cheerio’s jawbone.

Morgan copied him instantly.

Cheerio vibrated in surprise, then melted like a bag of bones into their hold.

Morgan gasped. “He purrs like a maraca!”

Peter grins, “yeah. That means he likes you.”

He gestured for her to hold him and Morgan followed his instructions with laser focus, tongue poking out in concentration. When Peter completely let go, the monster kitten chirped in surprise, glancing at Peter once as if checking that it was okay. Morgan immediately hugged him to her chest. 

Cheerio froze, eyes wide, but the very next second the kitten was already leaning into the hug, seeking out the warmth of her body and curiously biting at her hair strands.  

“HE’S SO CUTE I LOVE HIM!” Morgan squealed in delight. “Can he sleep in my room?! Does he glow in the dark?! Does he only eat ghost food?! Can he fight ugly monsters too?! Can he-” Her questions came out in a single breathless stream.

“One at a time, Mo. And yes, I guess he can sleep in your room but only if mom says it’s okay.” And he looked up at Pepper, eyes big, soft, and devastating: the full Bambi Browns deployed with zero mercy. 

Pepper, who had been watching the two of them with a hand on her hip and a sigh building in her chest, finally exhaled in defeat.

“FRIDAY,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “order... whatever a saber‑tooth skeleton kitten needs.”

Tony smirked instantly.

“Oh wow, that was fast. I thought you’d hold out at least an hour.”

Pepper shot him a look sharp enough to cut diamonds. 

“Don’t start.”

Tony held up his hands. “I’m just saying. No one survives the Bambi Browns. I resisted for a full twenty seconds.”

Pepper ignored him and crouched beside Morgan, watching her daughter cradle Cheerio like a precious artifact. The little saber‑tooth kitten blinked up at her, confused but trying very hard to be polite. 

“He’s my friend now, Mommy!” Morgan beamed.

Happy sniffed again, loudly, then scowled like the noise had personally betrayed him. Which it had. His noises seemed to be doing that a lot. “So that thing is a monster and you’re all just okay with it?”

Morgan gasped. “He’s a good one!”

Happy pointed at Cheerio like he was presenting Exhibit A and Only. “He’s a cat. He’s gonna destroy the couch. And the car seats. And probably the wiring. I’m telling you now-”

Cheerio hissed at him, offended.

Happy’s voice wobbled. He looked at Peter and Morgan together, the kitten between the two youths and undeniably cute, and sniffed again.

“I have to... go check the, uh, security logs. Yeah. See you later.”

And he turned away fast, muttering to himself.

Pepper opened her mouth to say something else, probably to ask Happy if he’d be okay, but Peter chose that exact moment to try standing.

He got halfway up before his leg buckled.

“Alright,” Pepper said sharply, stepping forward, “that’s enough, time to rest. Before someone falls over.” She paused, staring directly at him.

Peter blinked. “I’m fine.”

Tony hooked an arm under him, hauling him upright with practiced ease.

“Sure you are, Bambi. Up you go.”

Peter winced but didn’t argue.

Right away Morgan’s face fell, her own wide bambi browns looking around for someone, a weak link, to sway. “But I wanted to play with Petey! And Cheerio wants to play too!”

Peter managed a tired smile. “I want to play too, Mo. I just don’t feel so good right now. I’ll play with you later, okay? You can come visit.”

Morgan nodded solemnly, knowing to give her brother some space when he asked. They’d had good practice the previous year, after all. She hugged Cheerio tighter.

“Okay. We’ll wait outside the med bay.”

Pepper brushed a hand over her daughter’s hair. “You can bring Cheerio with you later if Peter says yes.”

“Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Morgan brightened instantly. “Cheerio, we have a mission!”

The kitten chirped, as if resigned to his new responsibilities.

With that settled, Tony adjusted his grip on Peter. “C’mon, kid. You’ve got a long overdue date with the med bay.”

Peter groaned, “can we reschedule? I’m kinda seeing someone else right now: pain.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat.

“Yeah, I heard. Though I think her name’s different. What was it, Pepper? MJ? Right?” He arches an eyebrow at the teen. “I’m seeing a very awkward conversation in your near future, ‘Roos.”

“You don’t mean?” Peter winced. “Please no. I’m like... super hurt right now. I just went to hell. Don’t you have any pity? Not the talk!”

Tony smirked.

“You bet it’s ‘The talk’.”

Morgan perked up instantly. “What’s the talk?”

Peter shriveled like a dying houseplant.

Tony tugged him forward. “Limp faster, Bambi.”

...

The med bay lights were dimmed to something soft, almost lazy. Peter lay half‑propped on the bed, an IV line taped to his arm, the steady drip‑drip‑drip the only sound in the room.

He kept blinking too fast.

Not because he was tired, though he was, more than he’d ever been before, but because every time his eyes slipped shut, something in him jolted awake again.

Tony noticed. Of course he did.

He dragged a rolling stool over and sat beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching Peter with that too‑sharp, too‑gentle look of his.

“You’re allowed to sleep, you know?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. I just... don’t want to.” He stared at the ceiling like it might blink back. It’d happened before, after all.

Tony watched him for a long moment, then sighed.

“Alright, scoot.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Tony toed off his shoes, climbed onto the narrow med‑bay bed, and wedged himself against the wall like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Stop vibrating and come here.”

Peter hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was afraid that if he moved everything would crack open again. His thoughts had become boring, repetitive and intrusive. At any given moment, everything would turn out to be fake. Sitting, or laying still? Made it so much worse, leaving him with plenty of time to sink inside his mind. Unfortunately, with both his feet, leg, and a rib having to be reset less than an hour ago, he didn’t have much room to roam around and try to distract himself.

Tony didn’t push. He just held out an arm.

That was all it took.

Peter shifted closer, slow and stiff, until he could lean into Tony’s side. The moment he did something in him gave out, safety overriding instinct. His fingers curled into Tony’s shirt, gripping like he needed an anchor. Tony was real and warm and he hadn’t melted away or turned to stone, so he knew it was all real.

“You’re safe,” his guardian said, low enough that it didn’t echo. “You can sleep, Pete.”

Peter’s voice was barely there. “I don’t want to close my eyes.”

“Well, that does make it difficult,” Tony murmured. “How about you don’t? Just rest, let your body go heavy. I’m right here.”

Peter’s breathing hitched once, then evened out, slow and shaky. His grip on Tony’s shirt loosened. “Okay, but I won’t sleep.”

“If you say so, champ.”

Sooner than he knew, sleep dragged him under.

...

This time the med bay was washed in a soft, early‑morning gold that made everything look gentler than it was. 

Peter lay half‑propped on pillows, IV line still taped to his arm, Cheerio having taken over the spot between him and the wall after Tony got up. Peter’s fingers dug into the creature’s translucent belly, holding on, though he wasn’t really asleep: just drifting, hovering, never letting himself fall all the way under.

The door hissed open.

He didn’t react at first. He thought it was Tony coming back.

Then he heard her voice: tight and breathless and stupidly beautiful.

“Peter?”

His eyes snapped open. For a moment he didn’t move, didn’t blink.

MJ stood in the doorway, mouth gaping open, hair slightly askew and wearing clothes clearly thrown on in a rush. Ned was right behind her, chest heaving like he’d sprinted through the tower.

Peter’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t let himself imagine this part yet, for some reason, not after so many reunions and people. Seeing them again, seeing them here, seeing them while he looked like this... it wasn’t what he’d hoped for, though.

“Hey,” he whispered, and his voice cracked.

That was all it took.

Ned broke first, stumbling forward with a choked, “dude... DUDE! Oh my god!” and then he was at the bedside, hands hovering like he wanted to hug Peter but was terrified to break him. Peter tried to sit up, instinctive, stupid, and pain shot through his sore ribs. Ned saw it and made a strangled sound before carefully wrapping his arms around him anyway. Peter winced but didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, a shaky breath catching in his chest.

MJ didn’t run. She walked. Fast and purposeful as she always was, eyes locked on him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked. 

“Move over, Ned, I need to strangle him lovingly.” 

Having crossing the room in three sharp steps she leaned over Ned’s shoulder, arms sliding around both of them, pulling Peter into her like she was staking a claim. Her forehead pressed against the side of his head, her breath hot and uneven against his temple. One of her hands fisted in the back of his shirt, the other braced on his ribs like she was afraid he’d slip through her fingers.

“You absolute dumbass.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

Peter let out a tiny, startled laugh that broke halfway through. “Yeah,” he breathed, “Me too.”

She didn’t let go. If anything, she held tighter, hugging over Ned, around Ned, practically climbing onto the bed just to get closer. Ned shifted to make room, still clinging to Peter’s other side, and for a moment Peter was just held. Completely. Surrounded. Anchored.

Ned’s voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Dude, you scared the hell out of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, and he meant it in a way that made his very soul hurt.

She pulled back only enough to see his face, her hands sliding up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing the sharp edges like she was checking for more damage than she could see. With the ambrosia Tony’d fed him, plus the good stuff now coming directly into his veins and a whole night of resting without having to survive a single monster, his healing factor had already managed to heal off the bruising. His reset bones were mostly sealed again too, but probably still fractured at places. The cast around his feet and leg was obviously there, but other than that his skin was finally clearer. MJ, however, seemed suspicious of that.

“You’re here,” Ned hiccuped mid-sob. 

Peter nodded, breath shaking. “Yeah.”

Ned also pulled back to look at him, eyes red and wet. “I can’t believe you’re alive.” And though he was still wrapped around Peter like a koala with abandonment issues, arms locked around his shoulders, the boy dived back in for a deeper hug, face buried in his best friend's shoulder, sobbing so hard Peter could feel the tremors through his ribs. 

Peter held him with one arm, the one without the IV, rubbing Ned’s back in slow, shaky circles, murmuring, “it’s okay, man, I’m fine”, even though he was the one who looked like he’d been dragged through a mythological blender. 

The boy sniffed loudly.

MJ stared at them like she was watching the final scene of a romance movie she did not buy tickets for. “Guys, I’m still here, you know.”

Peter laughed again, leaning into her touch instead, and MJ’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile, still hugging both boys like she was the only thing keeping them upright.

Eventually, both pulled back. Ned wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Dude, you look like... like you got hit by a bus. A bus that was on fire. And also evil.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “You should see the other guy.”

MJ’s eyes flicked over him, the IV; the way his collarbones stuck out too sharply; the hollowness under his eyes; the tremor in his hands. She didn’t hide the fear in her face, she didn’t hide anything, which was decidedly new for Peter. Lately, even back at the lair, she’d been opening up and letting him see a side of her most people probably thought she didn’t even have.

But at the same time, she was seeing one of his.

Peter felt it. Felt her seeing all of him. He flinched, barely but enough. His gaze dropped, shoulders curling in like he could make himself smaller, like if he didn’t meet her eyes she wouldn’t see how wrecked he was. He tried to pull back a little. 

MJ didn’t let him.

“Hey.”

She followed the movement, hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, guiding him gently back toward her.

“Hey hey hey,” she murmured, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Don’t do that.”

Peter swallowed. “Do what?”

“Fold in on yourself like a dying star,” she said, voice soft but edged. “I’m literally right here.”

He blinked hard, eyes darting away. “I just... I wanted to see you guys again but not like this. I look-”

“You look like death warmed over,” she said, straight to the point. “And I’m still here. Aren’t you a genius? Figure out what that means, son of Athena.”

Peter’s breath stuttered. “MJ-”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, a quick, stolen peck. Soft enough to make his breath catch, sure enough to make his chest ache. Her thumb swept along his jaw, grounding him, pulling him back from whatever dark corner he’d tried to hide in. Then she brushed his hair back again, thumb sweeping gently along his temple.

“You scared me,” she said, and the honesty in it made his chest ache. “And I hate feelings. But apparently I have them. For you. Ugh. “

And that’s when Ned, hovering at Peter’s other side, elbowed MJ lightly in the arm. In a perfect imitation of her voice, he said, “I’m still here too, you know.”

MJ froze. Turned her head. Narrowed her eyes. “Ned.”

He grinned, delighted with himself. “What? I’m just saying, you’re over here kissing his face like you’re in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation and I’m feeling very third‑wheel‑adjacent.”

MJ stared at him like she was deciding which bone to break first.

“Say Nicholas Sparks again and I’m hiding every single one of your Lego minifigures.” 

Ned gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Peter watched them. MJ’s hand absentmindedly over his, Ned still leaning against his shoulder, both of them bickering over him like he was the last slice of pizza. Something warm and painful and impossibly soft swelled in his chest.

He nearly choked.

“I missed you guys.”

They both froze.

MJ’s expression softened instantly, her hand squeezing his. Ned’s face crumpled like a paper bag.

“We missed you too,” they said at the same time.

Ned added, “like a lot, man. So-much-a-lot.”

She glanced at Peter with a soft, amused eye-roll. “Yeah. So-much-a-lot.”

Ned puffed up a little, proud of himself. “See? She agrees with me.”

MJ elbowed him. “Don’t get used to it.”

Peter let out another snicker and Ned lit up like he’d won something. “Okay, okay,” his best friend said, bouncing a little. “Since we’re all alive and stuff... handshake?”

“Yeah. But, uh, gentle edition?”

Ned immediately softened his movements, and the two of them went through the familiar motions, though smaller and slower, careful of Peter’s IV. 

They finished, and Ned grinned proudly. “Still iconic.”

Meanwhile, MJ watched them with that tiny, amused smirk she pretended she didn’t have. She leaned back on one hand-

-and something under the covers moved.

She yelped loudly and shot off the bed like it had bitten her.

“What the hell?!”

Peter jerked upright. “MJ?”

She pointed at the shifting pile of blankets and pillows at the edge of the bed, tucked against the wall. “Peter. Peter. Something just moved. Under there! What is that?”

The lump moved again. Big and heavy. And then the covers slid off.

A sabertooth tiger, a full bodied predator, sat on the bed. Fangs. Massive paws. Orange eyes. And beneath its weird fur, faintly visible through the shifting glow of its body: bone. Just bone.

MJ’s eyes widened, and she took a hurried step toward him, hand reaching out to grab him. “Peter! That’s a monster!” She hissed.

Cheerio snarled non-threateningly.

Ned blinked, clearly confused by the discrepancy between his sight and her words.

“Oh!” Peter hurriedly held up both hands. “No, no! This one’s a friend.”

“A friend?” MJ demanded, eyes wild, tracking the the monster while pointing at him like she was accusing him of murder. “Peter, that’s what’s left of Diego from Ice Age. It’s literal bones. That is a monster.”

“Uh... MJ?” Ned said gently. “I know you see stuff I don’t, but... He’s adorable. An adorable fluffy kitten.” 

Cheerio growled again.

MJ stared at Ned like he needed medical attention. “Adorable? Ned, it has fangs the size of my forearms.”

Peter reached out and scratched behind Cheerio’s ear. The muscular skeletal creature melted into a puddle of purring fluff.

“He’s a baby,” Peter explains softly. “He’s... well, he’s both. He does this sometimes, I guess. Sometimes he’s a full sabertooth. Sometimes he’s just a cat. He helped me down there. He kept me company and he saved my life. His name’s Cheerio, you know, like the cereal.”

MJ hesitated.

Just a little.

Ned crouched, delighted and fully convinced by Peter's explanation. “Hi, Cheerio!” He held out a hand, and Cheerio immediately nuzzled it.

MJ looked personally betrayed. “You’re petting the monster.”

“He’s a good monster,” he promised her.

MJ narrowed her eyes. “Are there good monsters?”

Peter’s expression flickered and he looked down at his hands. There are. Aren’t there?

I am one. Aren't I?

No matter. Cheerio is.

“I didn’t think there were good monsters either.” He smiles gently at her. “Not until recently, anyway. But some of them, well, they didn’t ask for any of it. They’re just misunderstood. And lonely.”

A breath.

“People see the teeth and the claws and the eyes that are the wrong colour and decide what they are. I don’t think that’s super fair, right Cheerio?” 

That made MJ hesitate.

Just a little.

She exhaled sharply. “Okay. Fine. But if he eats me, I’m haunting both of you.”

Peter patted the bed beside him. “Come here?”

She still hesitated, still eyed Cheerio like he might sprout wings or spew fire or acid, but she sat down. Slowly. Close to him.

Peter held out his hand. “Do you trust me?”

MJ frowned at him. “I don’t trust the tiger. But unfortunately for me, I trust you.”

And she slid her hand into his.

“Cheerio?” Peter said softly. “Cat mode.”

Cheerio looked up at Peter.

Then at MJ.

Then back at Peter.

Then at MJ again, this time with a very clear should I scare her a little longer? expression.

MJ recoiled. “Peter. He’s looking at me like I’m a snack.”

Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Cheerio, buddy. Please?”

Cheerio huffed, an actual offended tiger huff, and then, with the most dramatic pose possible, shrank down into a tiny, fluffy, skeletal kitten with a too‑big head and eyes that were way too cute for the “monster” he’d been five seconds ago. 

Peter gently guided her hand, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted, toward Cheerio’s head.

The kitten leaned forward and bumped his forehead into her palm.

MJ froze.

Then, slowly, her fingers curled into his phantom fur.

“Okay,” she whispered. “He’s... soft. Or whatever.”

As if on cue, Cheerio leaned harder into her touch, purring like he was trying to win her over by sheer volume. Peter knew he was, the smooth thing.

MJ tried to keep her expression flat. She really did. But the purr deepened. And the kitten blinked up at her with those too‑big eyes.

Her lips twitched.

And Peter watched her with the kind of awe usually reserved for constellations.

Then she actually smiled, first at the cat, then up at Peter.

His breath caught. He didn’t mean for it to, but it did. He got lost in her eyes for a second, the warmth there, the relief, the fact that she was here, petting a monster because he asked.

MJ noticed. Of course she noticed.

She shook her head, but it was bashful, fond, meant to hide the blush on her cheeks. “I swear to God, Peter, only you would come back from hell with a prehistoric emotional support monster.”

Cheerio chirped proudly, as if agreeing.

Peter’s cheeks warmed. “A good prehistoric emotional support monster.”

MJ snorted. “Yeah. Figures you’d find the one.”

And so, his friends settled in around him, MJ on one side, Ned on the other, Cheerio shifting to make room in between the warm bodies. 

Ned launched into a tale about everything he’d missed the past weeks. “Dude, the city went nuts. Like, conspiracy‑theory nuts. There were TikToks about Spider‑Man being abducted by aliens, or joining a cult, or going on a spiritual retreat in the Himalayas. That one was weird.”

MJ added, “back at the volunteering place, Flash made three videos about how he’d know something about Spidey soon because he was your ‘closest confidant’ and then cried in the bathroom when he thought no one was looking.”

Peter snorted. “Sounds about right.”

MJ’s eyes softened. “People missed you. The city felt wrong without you swinging around.”

Peter looked down at his hands. 

I don’t know how I’m coming back.

He didn’t know how to explain it, that he wanted to come back, that he missed the wind in his face (well, in his mask), and the rooftops and the helping people. But now he knew why he could do all that. Arachne. What he was made from. Her. What had been done to him. 

A monster had made him a monster, and he was still trying to figure out how to breathe with that truth sitting in his chest.

Down in Tartarus, he’d been four things:

Peter Parker.

Son of Athena.

Spider‑Man.

Monster.

And all of those things had been torn apart, twisted, tested until he barely recognized any of them. The truth was, they were continuous. Not the well-limited personas he thought he could keep apart. Just like Peter Parker was a son of Athena and Spider-Man, so Spider-Man was a monster.

He wanted to use what he had for good, the best comeback he could give, but he needed time. He needed to recover. To feel like himself again. To feel like all of those again: one. Not separate like before.

He wasn’t so worried about the rumors and the Bugle. Tony would handle the press, the cameras, the noise. He always did. Peter could swing again when he was ready. But right now... he just wasn’t.

“I don’t know when I’m coming back,” he admitted, and the words felt heavier than he meant them to. Like they dragged something else out with them.

Ned’s head snapped up. “Wait, like... so no more Spider‑Man? Ever?!”

Peter shook his head quickly. “No. Not that. I just... I need to figure out some things first. About Spidey. About me. It’s different now. I’m different.”

MJ leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on him with the same unforgiving gaze she used to draw suffering people on her notebook. In other words, like she was reading footnotes he didn’t know he was giving off.

“Different how?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat felt tight. Which is stupid, because he was the one who started talking about it.

Ned’s voice softened. “Peter... something happened down there. I mean, we knew it did. But... ”

Peter shook his head.

“Before, when you didn’t know about any of this greek stuff, I wanted to tell you. I just couldn’t.”

MJ nodded once. “And now you can.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

He looked down at his hands. His fingers wouldn’t stay still. He hated that.

He didn’t want to talk about Tartarus. Didn’t want to drag them into that darkness, nor himself, not right away. Didn’t want them to picture the things that crawled and whispered and tore. They didn’t deserve to know such unfathomable horrors cohabited the same planet as them. 

“Now I can. But I just don’t want to.”

MJ’s voice softened, but her grip didn’t. “Peter. Listen, I have no idea what you just went through. If the things I see on the streets are harrowing, then...” She shivers, shaking her head to scare the visions away. “But you’ll need to talk about it eventually. You can’t keep it inside. We went through so much shit back in Rome with that dickhead Mysterio, I’m still reeling from that. But it was only the tip of the iceberg for you.”

“I know,” he said. And he meant it.

“Knowing doesn’t spare the people who care about you from worrying on the sidelines,” MJ said, and her cheeks flushed again, annoyed at herself for sounding emotional, but not backing down either. “I’m not trying to force you to talk. I’m just saying, don’t shut us out like that again.”

Ned nodded, earnest and steady. “Yeah, man. I’m your guy in the chair for this stuff too. Whatever version of you we’re talking about.”

Whatever version.

Peter’s chest tightened, but in a good way this time. “I will, one day. Soon. I promise you both. I’m done with secrets. I really am.”

He knew he’d tell them. Because they deserved the truth. Because they were his people.

Because MJ saw through him like glass, just like she saw through the Mist. Hiding from her would be pointless.

Because Ned would sit with him through every word, no matter how bad it scared him.

Because he wasn’t alone.

But something else was clawing at him too, demanding closure before he could heal. Demanding a reset before the bone could seal off in peace. He hadn’t told Tony either. Not yet. He could barely process it himself.

He thought of MJ’s face when she saw Cheerio’s true form.

The fear.

The recoil.

The instinctive monster label.

Could he accept their trust, earn their support, if they didn’t even know who they were giving it to?

And before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice say, faint as a draft: “You didn’t like him at first.”

MJ blinked. Her dark eyes followed his own, the way they flickered to the lazy feline tangled in their laps.

“Cheerio?”

Peter nodded. “When he was the other version of himself.”

Ned made a face. “I’m lost.”

MJ, however, didn’t look away. “Yeah, but clearly I got over it.” She hints down, at the purring mess of bones. Her hand gently scratches its head.

Peter stares at the gesture. 

“Would you? If it wasn’t him?”

Silence.

MJ’s eyes sharpened, she got it instantly. Ned’s widened, he got it a beat later.

“Dude...”

Peter exhaled, shaky. “I’m like him.”

Ned blinked. “Like Cheerio? How?”

Peter rubbed his palms together, searching futilely for words that didn’t hurt. 

“You remember Arachne.”

MJ’s jaw tightened. “Hard to forget.”

Ned’s eye twitched, but he held himself. Peter knew him well enough to know what exactly he was remembering: Callie’s corpse. Peter being skewered right in front of them. Good memories to give your friends, all in all.

“Yeah. Spider‑lady from hell. Got it.”

“She made the spider that bit me.” Peter blurted out. “On purpose. To turn me into one of her children. To mock Athena. To make me a monster.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say what Tartarus did too. Didn’t say what he became down there, or maybe what he always was but finally awoke.

One day. Soon. Not now.

MJ sat back, absorbing it. Not recoiling. Not flinching. She studied him like she was trying to see through the Mist, see through him, see what he meant. Ned looked stunned, but not scared. Just trying to put the pieces together. Disbelief, perhaps. Peter’s momentary lucky shield. Still, what would they think when it ended?

“Spider-Man is a monster. I’m-”

His voice cracked, and MJ leaned in again, eyes blazing with that sharp, stubborn clarity that always cut through him. She slapped a hand over his mouth unceremoniously.

“Peter. Look at me.”

He did. His eyes kept finding her anyway, like they didn’t know where else to go.

“You remember what you just told us?” She spewed, eyes sharp. “About how some monsters are just misunderstood, lonely.” She points down at the feline snoring without a care in the world. “How they never meant to be monsters, people just slapped the label on them?

“Don’t do that. Don’t slap the label. Got it?”

Numb, that’s probably the word. He felt numb, frozen under her hand and his words turned hers. Doubt remained, creeping about in that eerie, evilish way it always did. He didn’t want to believe her. But as always, MJ had a way to make him feel stupid. Because, logically, he knew she was right.

So, numbly, he nodded.

“Then that’s settled.”

Ned nodded hard. “Yeah, man. You’re still you. Besides, we’d still love you even if you were, like, a zombie. A zombie who ate us. That’s about as bad as it could get.”

He looked at them,- MJ’s clear‑sightedness, Ned’s unwavering loyalty,- and knew he wasn’t standing on the ledge alone. Truth was, he hadn’t been for a while. So yeah, just like with Tony and Pepper, he would tell them. He would eventually open up about the Pit. Because sometimes secrets only pushed people away. Instead of protecting they hurt.

Just not today.

They drifted into easier things after that: school, mostly. The new year at Midtown creeping up on them like it always did. MJ mentioned that her favorite author was doing a signing downtown next week, and Ned immediately started plotting how to get her to accidentally talk to her for more than thirty seconds. They joked about their months of volunteering, how the staff still thought Peter had wandered off and never came back because he’d vanished after the Europe Midtown field trip. Ned brought up the convention they’d been eyeing for December, and they spent a good ten minutes arguing about which panels they’d hit first.

They talked like normal kids do, about normal things, and Gods, he needed that. He needed the reminder that he still belonged to this world too, the one with school hallways, book signings, dumb stories and nerdy conventions. Not just the world with monsters and gods and the entities that lived in the cracks beneath everything.

Even with Kate, and the new “friends” at camp (his siblings, mostly) who now didn’t hate him (not that they knew he was a monster, not that they knew he was a monst-), nobody beat Ned and MJ. They were some of his oldest people, but not only that, they tied him to the ground, to the mortal world. They had this innate ability to keep him tethered to an easier version of himself. Tony had done that too, throughout the years. Anchored him. And even now, even if they knew about the other guy, the son of Athena, they kept doing it.

His whole life had been thrown into a blender,- the mortal world, the Greek world, the hero world,- all mixed together, boundaries erased. And honestly? That was good. He didn’t have to choose anymore.

But sitting here, talking about nothing and everything with them, it felt like a breath of fresh air. To just be Peter Parker for a while. Not a demigod. Not Spidey. Not a monster. Not a survivor. Still those things, but momentarily not.

Eventually, his best friend’s stomach growled loudly. As in, loudly. Avengers-threat level loud. Ned stood, a sheepish smile on his face. “Okay, I’m getting us breakfast. Real breakfast. Like pancakes. And fruit. And maybe bacon. And-”

MJ cut in, “there’s a diner two blocks over that does those ridiculous cinnamon rolls...”

Peter shook his head, waving her off. “Just ask FRIDAY where everything is. Or if Dad’s around. He’ll feed you.”

Ned snapped his fingers. “Right! No need. I know where he stashes the good stuff.”

He trotted off, out the room and toward the elevators like a man on a mission.

Peter blinked after him. “He knows?”

MJ lifted her brows, smug. “Who do you think helped Tony Stark build that armor? These eyes right here.” She pointed at herself. “And Ned, too.”

Peter stared. “Oh my gods. Seriously?!”

“Yep.” She popped the ‘p’. “Perks of seeing through the Mist. Besides, I wasn’t gonna sit around sketching myself into my own notebook while you were gone.”

He looked at her, really looked, and something in his chest twisted. “Were you... really that sad?”

MJ frowned. Her shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug, but her voice was steady. “Wouldn’t you be if it were me?”

Peter swallowed.

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

At his answer, breathy and low and almost a secret admittance, which was stupid because there was no one else in the room with them but Cheerio, the air shifted. A syrup enveloping them, warm and sweet and slowing down time.

And then he noticed her earrings. Small, dark teardrop-like.

“Those-” Peter’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t resist bringing a hand up to her ears, touching one of the hanging petals as if to make sure it was really what he thought it was. “Those are the broken petals of the Black Dahlia. You kept them.”

MJ touched one lightly. “Yeah. I told you I would. I made them into earrings so I wouldn’t lose them in my pocket.”

“The Black Dahlia,” Peter repeated, and then slapped a hand to his forehead. “How could I forget!”

“Hey,” MJ said quickly, already bracing for him to spiral. “It’s okay. Seriously. You’re back. That’s all I wanted-”

“No.” Peter shook his head, heart pounding. “How could I not have done this sooner?”

He reached under his shirt, fingers closing around the chain at his neck, the one he’d kept there since Rome: under the suit, under the orange T-shirt, now under his soft med-bay one. He pulled it free, held it out to her, palms open.

“You still have it.”

“I told you I would. I told you I’d give it back. I meant it, MJ. I kept it safe. For you.”

MJ didn’t take the necklace.

She just stared at it for a heartbeat, at the thin chain, at his hand, at him, and then she moved. Fast. Before Peter could even blink, she’d launched forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding on like she was afraid he’d vanish again.

Peter froze for half a second, startled, then his arms came up around her automatically, instinctively, like muscle memory. He held her tight, one hand curling at her back, the other latching lightly at the tip of her curls, breathing her in. She was so warm and solid and real. He was warm and solid and real too.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for his heartbeat to slow down. Long enough for him to realize he’d missed her more than he’d let himself think. When she finally pulled back, her hands slid down his arms, steadying him even as she leaned away. She didn’t say anything, just turned around and lifted her hair off her neck.

“Go on, Tiger.” She said softly. I see what you’re afraid of becoming. I’m not scared. I’m choosing you anyway. “Put it on.”

Reason for pride, his fingers trembled just a little as he fastened the clasp behind her neck. The necklace settled against her skin like it had always belonged there. Peter figured it had.

She turned back to him, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Something in Peter’s chest pushed forward, brave and terrified all at once. He swallowed, found his voice, and let the words fall out painfully honestly.

“I really, really like you.”

MJ’s eyes softened, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Yeah,” she said. “I really, really like you too.”

And then she leaned in, paradoxically tentatively yet sure, and Peter met her halfway. Their lips touched, soft and careful, inexperienced and awed. It was better than fireworks.

She tasted like hope.

A reminder that he was still Peter, still here, still someone who could be held and wanted and seen.

When they pulled apart, MJ rested her forehead against his for a second, breathing him in, breathing through the bashfulness and the thrill. Her fingers reached gently for the flower, the missing spot where petals should be brushing her collarbone. 

Peter smiled faintly. “How are you gonna fix it now? Put the earrings back on the necklace?”

MJ looked up at him from beneath her lashes. And she smiled too, one of those unflinchingly ingenious looks of hers. “I like it broken,” she admitted quietly. 

And the way she looked at him made the meaning obvious. 

Just like I like you.

The words weren’t spoken, but he heard them anyway.

He felt them.

Something big and terrifying and wonderful swelled in his chest. He opened his mouth, to say something, anything, everything. Should he kiss her again? No. Yes? Maybe a peck on the cheek. On the forehead? No, too soon. Thank her? Don’t be stupid, Peter.

And the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Peter jerked back so fast he nearly fell off the bed. MJ straightened so fast she nearly head‑butted him. 

Tony stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed in full dad‑mode, taking in the scene with the slow, suspicious scan of a man who knew very well he’d walked in on exactly the wrong moment.

“Thought I heard some birds and bees buzzing around in here... Must’ve been my imagination. I’m a little insane these days, y’know?”

He stepped fully inside and promptly pointed at them.

“Door stays open. Always. I don’t care if you’re in the med bay, the kitchen, or the moon. Open. Door.”

Immediately, Peter’s face exploded into such a vibrant shade of red it was probably enough to trigger the fire-sensors had he been the slightest bit more unlucky. 

Peter sputtered. “We weren’t- Dad!” His face scrunched, trying to give him his best ‘why’d you barge in like that? Leave me alone! You're embarrasing me!” look.

“Don’t give me that look,” Tony cut in, waving a hand. “I invented that look.”

MJ actually snorted. Peter died inside.

Tony crossed his arms. “Good. You’re embarrassed. That means the system works.”

Peter groaned into his hands. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Tony said. “I strive for excellence.”

Then he pointed between the two teens again. “And before either of you get clever, remember I have cameras in this building. Everywhere. Alarms too. And a Hulk‑level protocol for teenagers getting too cozy.”

Peter made a strangled noise.

“Can you stop?! Please!” He glanced at MJ, either for help or to check if she was still alive. She was frozen solid, face just as red as his. Though Peter could feel she also looked mildly amused, in the midst of the embarrassment, which somehow made it worse. Probably enjoying Peter’s suffering.

Tony sighed dramatically. “Look, kid. I love you. I do. But I am far too young, handsome, and emotionally fragile to be a grandfather. So let’s all make good choices.”

That was it. His blush hit critical mass and threatened to take out the med bay.

“Oh my gods! Get out!” He shrieks, grabbing a pillow and throwing it straight at the man. 

Tony ducked with insulting ease and watched the pillow sail past him out the door with a faintly entertained smirk.

“Your aim’s really off, kiddo. You should ask True-ish Aim for more pointers later. Anyway,” Tony clapped his hands once. “I came down here because I found your friend Ted scavenging through my cupboards again. Which is becoming a habit... Not a good one.”

Smoke practically billowed from Peter’s ears. “Yeah. He was hungry.”

“Yeah,” Tony echoed, tone dry as a desert. He jerked his chin toward MJ. “If I’d known you two were showing up without eating first, I would’ve waited until after lunch to tell you Peter was back. Save myself the pantry raid.”

He jerked his thumb toward the elevator.

“Alright, Gloom Queen. Haul your ass upstairs. Breakfast is ready. And you-” he pointed at Peter, who was already opening his mouth in complaint, and his IV pole, “-nope. Don’t start. I’m dragging you and your portable blood juice up to the couch so you can sit with them.”

“Oh.” Peter deflated, argument folding like wet cardboard . “Okay, then. Thanks.”

“Sure, kid.”

A beat.

“Oh, and I guess the X-Ray can come too,” Tony added, pointing in the cat's direction. “But no scratching the skin. And no, I mean no, bone shedding.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

Tony grumbled. “I’m bossy all the time.”

Cheerio, now awake with all the talking, warbled.

Tony pointed at him. “I said no shedding.”

...

Camp Half‑Blood still looked like a half‑rebuilt memory.

Cabins patched with new planks, scaffolding leaning against the Big House, scorch marks on the grass that no one had bothered to rip out yet. The Hunters moved through the place like silver shadows, helping wherever they were needed. They really owed Artemis for lending so many hands for so long. 

Funerals still happened every morning. Too many pyres. Too many names.

But tonight wasn’t for mourning.

Tonight was Bead Night, and even mid‑August, even with the camp still healing and mourning, everything paused for it. Tradition mattered. Ritual mattered. And after a summer like this one, they needed something that felt like continuity.

Peter sat by the campfire with his necklace back around his neck. The beads were warm from the firelight. It felt like coming home. It also felt unreal. Like he was here and not here at the same time, like he was watching himself from a few feet away. Happiness and numbness braided together in a way he didn’t quite know how to handle. He was excited. He was relieved. He was safe. And yet something inside him still hovered, still unsure, still half‑waiting for the ground to fall out from under his feet again.

Kate dropped down beside him, already stealing a paintbrush from a passing camper.

“You don’t even go here anymore;” Peter snickered.

“And? Obviously I’m getting one,” she said, flicking her hair back. “Yelena and Clint too. They deserve a bead for helping us survive this circus.”

“They don’t even have necklaces.”

“Then I’ll make them leather straps,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s about the intention, Wise Boy.”

Peter poked his tongue out at her, shaking his head at her antics. Then found himself nodding anyway. It was a good idea. A surprisingly thoughtful one. 

“Who knew you could get such great ideas,” he said, leaning just far enough away to make it clear he was provoking her on purpose.

Kate gasped in mock offense. “Wow. Someone’s feeling bold tonight.”

Before he could dodge, she reached over and ruffled his hair, (thanks again, spider-sense, for nothing. Thought we were supposed to be tighter than ever), aggressively, deliberately, the exact way she knew he hated. His curls went instantly chaotic, sticking up at the oddest places.

“Kate!” He yelped, swatting at her hand, trying to smooth his hair back down. “Gods. You’re the worst.”

She grinned, smug and unrepentant. “And yet you keep sitting next to me. Interesting.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth was undeniable. It hit him then how long it had been since they’d done this together. Bead night. Campfire. Paint under their nails. Kids laughing around them. The last time had been... Gods, years ago! They’d only had two summers together. One, really, if he was being honest. One full summer before everything fractured.

And now here they were again, side by side, paintbrushes in hand, teasing each other like no time had passed at all.

The fire crackled. Kids chattered and screamed. Someone started a song on a ukelele that was only slightly out of tune. For a moment, Peter let himself breathe. Let himself pretend he was fully here. Let himself feel the warmth on his face, the brush of Kate’s shoulder against his, the familiar smell of smoke and paint and toasted marshmallows.

He remembered his first bead night, the way the firelight had made everything feel magical, the way he’d felt like he belonged for the first time in his life. He remembered thinking it was the best part of the whole summer.

He remembered wanting a hundred more nights just like it.

At that moment, Chiron stepped forward, carrying a wooden board under his arm. The paint on it was clearly still drying, because the beige sleeve of his coat was smudged with orange. Peter wondered if the centaur had noticed. He didn’t think so.

“Campers,” he called. “This year’s bead design has been decided.”

Peter leaned forward. Usually an Apollo kid painted the reveal board, someone with a steady hand and a flair for symbolism. But the campers had been too busy rebuilding and being either injured or dead this year, and so Chiron added, “our Oracle of Delphi, Rachel Dare, kindly painted the reveal for us. She was visiting earlier today and offered to help.”

A ripple of fond murmurs went through the crowd. Of course she had. She always seemed to show up exactly when the camp needed her. Peter just hoped she didn’t bring any more prophecies along with her.

Chiron lifted the board so the firelight caught it.

The design was simple yet striking: an orange circle represented the bead they were meant to paint; it was wrapped in a black spiderweb, crowned with a simple white owl silhouette with bright orange eyes to match the background. A couple yellow sparks dotted the design here and there. 

Fire.

Web.

Owl.

The whole summer, captured in one small circle of wood.

Around him, campers leaned over their beads, painting with messy enthusiasm. Someone dumped glitter on theirs. Someone else immediately stole it. A group of Ares kids started a chant. The Demeter cabin grew a myriad of snacks and offered them around: sweet corn, peaches, blackberries, cherry tomatoes and refreshing cucumber slices . A Hermes kid set off a prank that made half the campers shriek and the other half laugh.

Life. Noise. Color.

Peter’s chest tightened. It had been doing that a lot lately. Not painfully, that is, just full. Too full. Like he was overflowing and hollow at the same time. Like he was here, and also somewhere far below, where the air was hot and acidic and the shadows looked back. He blinked, grounding himself in the firelight, in Kate’s presence, in the sound of kids being kids.

As if picking up on his dissonance, Kate nudged him. “Hey. You gonna paint yours, or just stare at it like it’s gonna bite? Look, they even chose your weird friend owl with the orange eyes.”

He startled a little, just enough for her to notice, then forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m painting it.”

“Right.”

He dipped his brush into the orange paint. His hand shook only a little. He told himself it was excitement. Which it was. He told himself he was fine. Which he also was. He told himself he was here. Which... shockingly, he was.

The fire popped. Kids sang. Someone jumped over the flames. Someone climbed a tree. Someone fell off a tree. The Hunters pretended not to be amused.

Kate dipped her brush into the white paint, then nudged him with her elbow. “So,” she said casually, “how are things with your mortal friends?”

Peter nearly dropped his bead.

Kate’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god. That reaction. Incredible.”

He felt heat crawl up his neck. “What reaction? There was no reaction.”

“Hmmm. Sure.” She smirked, that shit-eating grin and narrowed eyes. How Peter hated it. “You and MJ, uh?”

“Why do you want to know?” He asked way too quickly, narrowing his eyes, suspicious she was about to roast him alive.

“Because,” she said, pointing her brush toward the next fire over, “I think your girlfriend is about to have some competition.”

Following her gesture, he froze. A cluster of girls were painting their beads, which must have been coming out awfully because more than half the time they were glancing at him, giggling, whispering behind their hands. One even waved when she saw him looking.

Peter blinked. “Oh great. I’m being ogled at Bead Night. I have ascended.”

Kate burst out laughing. “Oh my Gods, Peter. It’s definitely not just at Bead Night. You need to be careful. Spidey’s got fans, so you’ve got fans. And demigods? Especially Aphrodite kids? They flirt like it’s a competitive sport.”

He groaned.

She let out a whoop so loud a couple of campers turned. “Unbelievable! The tiny kid who used to hide under the canoe racks has a girlfriend.”

Peter groaned. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely saying it like that,” she said, pointing her brush at him like it was a microphone. White specks of paint landed all over his face. “Peter Parker. Taken man. Wild.”

He tried to glare at her, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Can we not make it a headline?”

Kate slowed, her grin softening into something gentler, mock‑serious but with real weight underneath. “Okay, but you do know demigod love tends to stick. Like, forever. However long that is. Are you sure about her? She is a mortal.”

Was he sure? Peter thought of MJ, her laugh, her stubbornness, her warmth and her gloom. The way she saw everything around her, monsters included, and was still willing to hold his hand. The way she’d stormed inside the lair, crowbar in hand, just to get to him. The way she swung the useless thing at the spiders instead of hiding away. 

They hadn’t been friends for that long, and sometimes Peter wondered how he hadn’t seen her sooner. He’d been enthralled by Liz, a boyish crush he thought meant everything. He wouldn’t call himself a man now, not yet, but this was different from that. Maybe it had started the same way, but like many other things in his life, it had changed. She held him together without even trying. She had waited for him. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sure. I’d choose her in every version of my life. Mortal or not.”

Kate studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. I get it. You’re disgustingly in love. I approve. She’s cool.”

“Funny.” He flicked his own paint brush at her. An orange dot landed on her nose. “I knew several boys at camp who had a crush on you. And now that you’ve been seen with Hawkeye and Iron Man, your cool status is, like, legendary.”

Kate scoffed. “Please. I’ve always been legendary.”

“Unless,” Peter said, voice lilting with mischief, “you’re looking at some other half‑blood. You know. From another mythology...” He tilted his head, mimicking her tone from before, “how’s Yelena, uh?"

Kate froze mid‑stroke, brush hovering over her bead. Her spine went ramrod straight, like someone had just pulled the fire alarm inside her soul. Then her eyes went wide, wide, and she snapped her head toward him so fast her ponytail whipped over her shoulder. 

“Nope,” she said immediately, voice an octave higher than normal. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.” 

“Uh‑huh.”

She jabbed her brush at him like a weapon, cheeks flushing just a little: the most incriminating shade of pink. “Shut it, Peter. Shut. It.”

Peter smirked, because of course he did.

Narrowing her eyes, she pointed the brush even closer. “I swear to the Gods, if you say her name again, I will paint your entire face orange. Don’t test me.”

Peter could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off her like heat. Which only made his grin widen. Serves her right. Great success.

Trying to keep painting was obviously not going as his friend wanted. Kate covered her face with her hands. “Ugh! I hate you! Let’s talk about sad stuff instead. It’s less embarrassing.”

Peter huffed. “That’s not concerning at all.”

She shook her head, then went quiet. Really quiet. One stroke. Another. Her brush paused over her bead, unmoving.

“Listen,” she said finally. “We haven’t talked since... you know. You came back.”

Peter’s smile faded. He set his brush down.

Kate swallowed. “I need to say this. Even if it was in the prophecy...”

“K... We have talked about this.”

“If I hadn’t shot Arachne too soon, if I hadn’t thought I could just end her because I never miss, the Fleece wouldn’t have been dragged down. And you wouldn’t have had to jump after it. You wouldn’t have had to-” Her voice cracked. “I can’t stand knowing I did that.”

Peter shook his head immediately. “Kate.” He tried again.

“I know you don’t blame me,” she said quickly. “I know. But I look at you and I see how haunted you are. How different you came out of that hole. You were forced to go through things that changed you forever and... and I did that. I helped do that.”

Peter reached out and nudged her knee with his. “Even if I hadn’t gone into the pit, I would’ve lived through things that changed me anyway. That’s life. That’s being a hero. That’s being a demigod.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Do you really believe that, or is that how you keep yourself afloat?”

And what a question. This, he wasn’t sure of.

But does it really matter?

“You’re not the same as a year ago either,” he went with instead, his voice softening. He angled his bead toward the firelight, pretending to study the paint even though he was really watching her from the corner of his eye. “Or before Clint. Or when we met at camp.”

Kate’s jaw tightened. She didn’t look at him. “I didn’t go through hell either.”

Peter shrugged one shoulder, a small, tired motion. “I’m sure the definition is flexible enough. We all go through hell one day. Sooner or later.”

When Kate finally looked up, her eyes were sharp, searching, almost offended by how casually he said it. She didn’t say anything. She just stared, white paint drying on the bead.

Peter swallowed, then set his own bead down completely. He rubbed his thumb over a smear of orange paint on his palm, grounding himself. “Listen. What happened down there... I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to talk about it.” His throat bobbed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.”

Kate’s fingers curled around her paintbrush, knuckles whitening to match the paint.

“And you apologizing for something you couldn’t have known?” Peter shook his head, meeting her eyes fully now. “That doesn’t change it either. So I know I have to think about it. And I know I’ll have to talk about it. And accepting it is the best way to control who I become now.”

He nudged her knee with his again. “We all change. We all get hurt. We all grow.” His voice softened even more. “I don’t hold anything against you. I love you. That’s what really matters.”

Kate’s face crumpled just a little, those wide and unapologetic dramatics of hers forming a clear and pouting expression on her face. Her eyes become tender, shining in the firelight, lashes catching the glow.

“You’re such a sap.”

Peter huffed a tiny laugh, bumping her shoulder with his. “You started it.”

She let out a shaky breath that turned into a half‑laugh, half‑sob, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist like she could pretend it was just sweat or paint. “Okay. Fine. I accept your forgiveness or whatever. And I’m really glad you didn’t die.”

“Yeah, me too. Dying would’ve really ruined my night.”

A wet laugh, typical of when your voice is still wobbly but you’re trying to pretend it isn’t. “Gods, you’re impossible. I feel so sorry for Stark. He has no idea what he’s stuck with.”

“He loves me,” Peter bit back, “and you love me too.”.

“Unfortunately,” she said, but her smile was real now, crooked and warm. She dipped her brush into the orange paint, shaking her head like she was trying to reset her whole nervous system. “Okay. Enough feelings. My quota is full for the next, uh, let me check. Decade.”

“Same,” he said, picking up his bead again. “I think I hit my limit around the part where you almost cried.”

“I did not almost cry.”

“You absolutely almost cried.”

She flicked a dot of orange paint at him. Now they matched. “Shut up.”

He grinned, wiping it off his cheek with the back of his hand. The fire crackled. Something in the distance made a wet, catastrophic SPLORT!, followed by a scream of pure betrayal.

“WHO PUT THAT THERE?!”

Both Peter and Kate whipped their heads around just in time to see a camper sprinting across the clearing, absolutely drenched in neon‑green slime that dripped off him in gloopy strings.

Slow night.

Peter leaned over to inspect her bead. “Yours looks good, by the way. Very... abstract.”

“That’s code for ‘messy,’ isn’t it.”

“Extremely. Hey, Kate?”

She hummed, still painting.

“Can you grab me one more leather strand? I want to make an extra bead.”

Kate paused mid‑stroke, glancing at him with a knowing little smile. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

...

As the tide rolled in slow, steady breaths, it left thin lines of foam that glowed under the moon. The bonfires crackled faintly in the distance behind him.

Peter had found himself needing to wander, to get away from the crowd and the fire for a bit. The smoke had started to feel too thick, too hot, too much like the air down there.

“Oh. Hey.”

It wasn’t surprising to find Percy Jackson here, he guessed. But it did make for two times they’d met by the water.

He’d seen Percy all night, moving between cabins and logs, checking on kids who were laughing too loudly or not at all. Some couldn’t handle fireworks and cheers when they reminded them of battles. Some couldn’t handle happiness when they were still grieving siblings and friends. Percy had a way of knowing which was which.

The guy was sat where the sand met the water, feet half‑buried, elbows on his knees. He was flicking pebbles into the surf with absent precision, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the ocean did the thinking for him.

Peter slowed his steps so he wouldn’t startle him, which was admittedly a bit of an useless instinct when he’d already been spoken to. Maybe it was Peter who needed to avoid startling himself.

“Hey,” he said back.

Percy glanced over, eyes catching the moonlight. “Thought you’d be up there with everyone else. Big night. Fireworks. Sugar rush. Chaos.”

Peter shrugged, dropping onto the sand behind the man. He did not want to get wet. He also did not come here to talk, but he might as well. Something pulled him toward the beach. He could say he’d just been wandering, but maybe he’d really been looking for the guts to finally talk to Percy. 

“Thought you’d be up there too.”

Percy snorted. “I was. Then someone tried to roast a marshmallow with a celestial bronze dagger, and I decided I’d hit my quota of stupidity for the night.”

Despite knowing it was likely an excuse (because they both knew there was so much worse to be seen at camp than someone using a weapon to roast marshmallows), Peter huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Percy flicked another pebble, watching it skip twice before sinking. “So what’s your reason?”

“Just needed air.”

Percy hummed. “Air’s pretty good down here.”

Peter dug his fingers into the sand. 

“Yeah.”

Percy tilted his head, studying him. “Too smoky up there?”

It wasn’t How do you know?!, it was more like You would know. Still, Peter hesitated. The breeze lifted his hair, cool and clean, nothing like the bonfire haze behind them amidst the trees.

“It felt thick,” he said finally. “Like it wasn’t moving.”

Percy didn’t look away from the waves. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know that feeling.”

For a while, they just sat. The waves did most of the talking.

Peter nudged a small shell with his show. “Annabeth doing okay?”

Even without seeing it, he could imagine Percy’s mouth twitched into a soft smile. “Yeah. She’s good. Busy. Bossy. Terrifying. You know. Back to work too.”

Peter huffed a laugh. “Sounds right.”

Meanwhile, Percy flicked another pebble. “How’s Stark? And the rest of your family?”

Peter snorted. “You know, I get the feeling you don’t particularly like him, which is original since everyone here already was or became a huge fan.”

“I don’t dislike him,” Percy replied. “I just think he should pay more taxes.”

Peter laughed. “Fair enough. And yeah, he’s good. Definitely got some... sequelas from the Veil, which I still can’t believe you all just let him use but- Overall, he’s good. They’re good.”

“Okay, first of all, I think you know better than most that nobody lets Tony Stark do anything. He just shows up with a plan and three backup plans and a weird amount of confidence.” Percy made a face. “Seriously, I’d watch out for him. I think your dad has a god complex.”

And Peter couldn’t really deny it, could he?

“Yeah. That sounds like him.”

But then Percy’s expression tightened. “The Veil was dangerous, yes. But he wasn’t going to stand back while you were down there.” He skimmed another stone across the water. “I get it. I think if I had kids, I’d have done the same.”

The breeze shifted, carrying the smell of salt and seaweed. Peter let it wash over him. It felt safe. Familiar. Like the world was bigger than the things inside his head.

But it didn’t keep him from the dangerous habit of overthinking. 

Tony had used the Veil of Hecate for him. That was the part that kept snagging in his brain. The simple, stupid fact that Tony had walked straight toward something that could’ve broken him, just because Peter was on the other side.

Which was exactly why Peter had hidden being a demigod in the first place.

Yes, at first, back when he had May and he and Tony were mere mentor and mentee, he’d hid it because they all do. As a demigod, you don’t just go around telling people. There’s a general consensus that endangering random mortals by making them aware of monsters does not look good on your ethical track record. But later... He’d thought if Tony didn’t know, he couldn’t get dragged into it. Couldn’t get hurt. Couldn’t end up in the line of fire for monsters and gods and all the things that lived in the cracks of the world just as May had.

And yet, here they were.

Tony knew. Tony had risked himself anyway, saving camp on the way.

Tony wouldn’t have stood back. Ever.

And Peter was no longer sure he would’ve wanted him to.

Because the truth was, down there, in that place, the idea of nobody coming for him had been worse than the monsters. If he’d fallen and Tony hadn’t been there to catch him, he wouldn’t have survived another trip.

His mind snagged on that place.

The bonfire smoke earlier had tasted just close enough to acid to make his skin crawl.

He didn’t mean to say anything else. He didn’t come here planning to. But the quiet made room for it.

“You ever notice,” Peter said slowly, “how the air down there doesn’t move?”

Percy paused, pebble in hand. He didn’t look at him, but Peter felt him listening.

“It’s heavy,” Peter continued. “Like it’s pressing on you. Like it’s trying to crawl inside your lungs and stay there.”

Beneath his shirt, Percy’s back tightened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember.”

Peter swallowed. “Turns out the smoke feels like that. Like it’s the same air.”

Percy didn’t say I’m sorry. He didn’t say it’ll get better. He just nodded, eyes ahead, on the waves. “It sticks to you,” he said. “For a while.”

Fingers dug deeper into the sand. 

“Will it ever go away?”

Percy must have thought about it, really thought, because it took the man a few beats before he answered.

 “No,” he said. “It just becomes familiar.”

Snort.

And where has Peter heard those words before?

“But it stopped scaring me eventually. Like a scar you forget you have until someone pokes it.”

Peter let out a shaky breath, staring at the sand between his fingers. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

It was on the tip of his tongue. I don’t think I can forget this. Not this specific part.

Sensing how unconvinced he sounded, Percy let out a slow breath. “And look, you’re not the only one who came back different.”

Immediately, Peter glanced up.

Percy wasn’t looking at him, he was watching the water, jaw tight, shoulders drawn in just a little. 

“There were moments down there where I didn’t recognize myself. Things I did because I had to. Things I didn’t know I could do.” His voice dropped, almost lost to the surf. “Things that scared Annabeth. Things that scared me.”

He skimmed the stone across the water, harder this time. Then, just as swiftly as it entered the water, it flew back out, right into his waiting palm. “But I’m still me. Even with the parts I don’t like. Even with the parts I don’t understand yet. Even with those new and terrifying pieces.”

He finally looked at Peter.

“And you’re still you.”

And what more could Peter need than that? A magical response to his unuttered inner fears? Magic was real, but not that. He still felt it, the amalgamation, the Frankenstein’s monster in him. Pieces that didn't feel like they slotted well enough together. However, it did feel good to see connection and understanding in someone else. Though he doubts Percy could imagine his scary and shameful changes were sadly literally true. Sitting here by the ocean, or out swinging in red spandex, he didn’t look the textbook definition of a monster.

They sat with that for a moment. The tide crept closer, nearly brushing the tips of Peter’s shoes.

That was when he looked at Percy, really looked. Under the moonlight, his eyes were advanced enough to catch anything out of the ordinary. No injuries. Not that they wouldn’t have healed in the meantime. But it hadn’t been just Tony who’d protected his fellow campers. Peter knew what he’d done during the fight. Who he’d watched over. Who he’d protected.

“Hey,” he knocked his elbow lightly against the other’s arm. “I never said thank you. For keeping your word. For looking out for Sofia.”

The son of the Big Three turned at that. Percy’s eyes flickered and Peter wasn’t the psychologist between the two of them, but he recognised something old yet blatantly wounded in them. A familiar scar that still hurt if poked. 

“I’m glad I was able to,” he said softly. “This time.”

Who the other time was, or when it was, Peter didn’t know. A well seasoned demigod always had way too many stories to tell. But it seemed to do something for the son of Poseidon, a sense of fulfilled duty Peter could relate to oh so well. At least something good had come out of that whole tragic mess.

The older demigod seemed lost in thought, then shook himself like he was clearing water from his ears. “Anyway,” he said, forcing a lighter tone, that all-knowing, premeditated easy one that had annoyed Peter before. When Percy started assessing and counseling by getting you to counsel yourself.

“Sounds like you figured it out.” 

Peter blinked. “Figured what out?”

Percy gave him a look not judgmental, just insightful. “Which world you’re gonna live in.”

Oh.

Peter stared at the horizon. The dark seam where the sea met sky. Here was place he’d stood many weeks ago, convinced he’d have to leave Tony, leave Pepper and Morgan, leave Ned and MJ, leave everything he loved because he thought he was a threat.

He felt the memory settle in his chest, but it didn’t crush him this time.

He’d thought he had to choose. To keep the monsters out of their lives. 

Now the monster was him.

How the tables had turned.

He hadn’t known what lived in his blood. He’d only known the world was full of monsters, and he didn’t want any of them getting near the people he loved. He’d kept his distance because he thought that was how you protected people: by standing between them and the things that wanted to hurt them. And the awful, ironic part was that everything he’d tried to prevent,- Tony, Pepper and Morgan getting dragged into danger, MJ and Ned getting caught in the crossfire, people he loved risking themselves for him,- it had all happened anyway. Not because he told them. But because he didn’t. Hiding hadn’t kept anyone safe. It had only kept them in the dark.

As for the new monster updates. Well... MJ knew. Ned knew. They didn’t care. And Tony... Tony won’t care either. Nobody would. And Peter’s responsibility of keeping them safe resided in trusting them. Letting them choose him back. Letting them stand beside him instead of trying to stand between them and the world. Because that’s how fights were won.

He was starting to understand it wasn’t about choosing a world. It was about choosing to stay. 

Quests need someone who stays.

Staying. That was the responsibility. 

And what greater quest than love?

“I’m done choosing,” he told him. “I’m done cutting myself in half.”

Percy’s smile was slow, proud, a little sad. “Good. Because you’re not one thing. None of us ever are.”

Peter felt something warm settle in his chest. Not certainty, not yet, but something close.

He let out a slow breath, eyes on the dark water. “This is the part where you tell me I’m growing as a person, isn’t it?”

Percy gave him a look dripping with sarcasm. “Gods, no. I’m not qualified for that.”

Peter huffed a laugh, eyes still on the water.

“Good. Because character growth brings dramatic flair, and if I start narrating my own life I might just combust.”

Percy bumped his shoulder. “Hey, some of us have a system.”

Peter’s laugh carried across the water.

...

The scream ripped out of him before he was awake.

One moment Peter was drowning in the Cocytos again, hands clawing at nothing, the next he was sitting upright in bed, chest heaving, throat raw, fingers curled like he was still fighting something only he could see.

Tony was there in seconds.

Not knocking. Not asking. Just there, barging in like he’d been waiting outside for the inevitable to happen, crossing the room barefoot in three long strides and catching Peter’s wrists before he could hurt himself on the headboard. No matter that Peter could crumble his arms into bone dust with the squeeze of a fist. 

“Hey, hey. Shh. Shh. I’ve got you, Pete. You’re here. You’re safe.”

Peter didn’t hear the words at first. He was shaking too hard, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. Tony pulled him in, caging him tight enough and bracing so he wouldn't thrash.

“Breathe with me, kiddo” Tony murmured, voice low and steady. “In. Out. That’s it. I’m right here.”

It took minutes. Long ones.

Eventually Peter sagged against him, exhausted, trembling, tears drying on his cheeks. Tony didn’t let go until Peter’s breathing evened out.

He didn’t leave, either.

He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Peter’s back and rubbing infinite circles, keeping him grounded and relaxed until sleep could finally drag him under again.

Tony didn’t sleep after that.

He just kept watch.

...

Peter woke to the sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t his. A rhythm he’d learned to recognize without meaning to. Tony’s heartbeat, two rooms away, stumbling into panic.

He blinked up at the ceiling, breath held. Then he snapped out of it. He was out of bed before he fully understood why, bare feet silent on the hallway floor. The closer he got, the worse it was: Tony’s pulse spiking, breath catching, sheets rustling like he was fighting something in his sleep.

Pepper’s voice reached him next.

“Tony. Tony, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay.”

Peter froze just outside the door.

Tony yelped. A sharp, broken sound. Shooting up and looking around without seeing a thing. Peter knew the process well. Then came the heaving breaths, the kind that scraped their way out of your throat with claws and chisels.

When he finally stepped into the doorway, both adults were sitting up. Pepper, hands on Tony’s shoulders, tried to steady him as he thrashed, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising too fast. Tony’s fingers clawed at the sheets like he was still trapped somewhere else.

Peter didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there, heart in his throat, watching. Because he knew very well why Tony was suffering.

Pepper looked up and saw him. Her face forcefully picked itself back up until it was back to her usual calm front. Ilusion.

Softly, she lifted one hand from Tony’s shoulder and beckoned him closer.

Peter crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He didn’t want to startle Tony. Didn’t want to make it worse. But Tony always had his back when a nightmare took hold of him, so Peter wanted to do the same.

Pepper guided his hand to Tony’s arm.

At the second touch Tony jumped, eyes flying open, wild and unfocused. Pepper steadied him. Peter stayed still, grounding him with the warmth of his hand, letting Tony’s frantic heartbeat sync against his palm.

Tony blinked at him, disoriented, breath shaking.

Peter swallowed. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I’m here, dad.”

Tony exhaled like the air had been punched out of him and pulled Peter into a desperate, crushing hug. Pepper wrapped her arms around both of them, anchoring them all.

Peter didn’t let go.

He stayed.

...

Morgan padded in at dawn, dragging her plushie behind her. No doubt going to wake up her parents at the crack of dawn to ask for food and cartoons.

She stopped at the edge of the bed, blinking at the pile of limbs.

“Is this a sleepover?”

Pepper, always the light sleeper, slid a hand over Peter’s hair, dragging it back and out of his drooling face. The woman smiled sleepily into her pillow. “Something like that, sweetie.”

Morgan climbed up without waiting for permission, wedging herself between Peter and Tony, tiny hand finding Peter’s shirt and holding on.

Peter blinked awake, startled, then relaxed when he realized who it was.

Tony, still half-asleep, mumbled, “Fry, we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”

Pepper laughed quietly.

Morgan yawned. “I like this one.”

Peter smiled into her hair.

...

Peter stood under a sky.

Black. Endless.

Alive.

Stars blinked in patterns that weren’t constellations. They rearranged themselves as he watched, forming an eye too large to comprehend.

It opened.

He woke up choking and finally cried.

...

Peter woke with his hands clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms.

No scream. No thrashing. Just a silent, crushing panic that pinned him to the mattress.

The door opened softly.

Tony leaned against the frame, eyes tired but steady. He crossed the room and sat beside Peter, shoulder to shoulder.

“Scoot over,” he said quietly. 

Me too.

They didn’t talk any more.

They didn’t need to.

...

Peter was standing in a hallway that didn’t belong to the Tower. It was too narrow and too long. And it looped in on itself.

Too quiet.

The walls rose and fell like lungs. They were lungs.

Something dripped.

He looked up.

Nothing.

He looked down.

Dry.

The sound kept going.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Except it wasn’t wet.

It wasn’t liquid.

It wasn’t anything.

He turned to run and the floor wasn’t there anymore.

He woke with his hands fisted in the sheets, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

...

Peter opened his eyes to someone standing in his doorway.

Tony.

Sweat‑soaked. Shaking. Breathing too fast.

“Sorry,” Tony rasped. “Didn’t wanna wake Pep this time.”

Peter sat up immediately, rubbing one eye and trying to fight the yawn forcing its way out. It was, perhaps, his first easy night in a while.

“’S fine... Can we have pancakes in the morning?” 

Tony crossed the room like he was sleepwalking. Peter pulled the blanket back, and Tony sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair.

Peter hugged him, then promptly began drooling against the man’s pajamas.

Tony’s breathing slowed.

They fell asleep sitting up.

And had pancakes in the morning.

...

Peter woke mid‑fall.

That awful lurch in your stomach.

The sensation of losing his grip on something he never even knew what it was. His hands flew out, grabbing at the sheets, breath tearing out of him in a broken gasp.

Tony caught him again.

...

Green poison.

Rocks falling, caging.

A flash.

A voice.

Warm hands.

Peter bolted upright with a choked sound.

Tony was already there, like he’d been waiting with a chair by his bedside. There was no chair in sight, but the rest didn’t feel like much of a stretch.

Peter didn’t pretend he was fine.

Tony didn’t ask him to.

...

The silhouette was back. Crowned in shifting darkness. Tall. The end staring him down.

Not a person.

Not a monster.

A concept wearing a shape.

It raised a hand. All around, they lunged. The worst things in existence. Pain became the best thing he could feel, because not even agony could describe the feeling of being torn apart forever.

And the world pulled in on itself, a galaxy turning inside out.

...

A storm of flesh. It flung him away and he never came back.

...

A muffled gasp.

A stumble in the hallway.

Peter opened his door.

Tony stood there, pale and shaking.

Camping on the floor it was.

...

Peter was falling.

Tony caught him again.

...

Peter woke up.

Relief.

...

Peter woke up.

He wished he didn’t.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter woke up.

...

At 3AM, he padded into the kitchen, random hoodie half‑zipped, hair sticking up as if covered with static. He hadn’t slept. Or maybe he had. It just hadn’t lasted long. Not as long as the nightmare, anyway.

That one still clung to him like cold water.

It wasn’t really that surprising, but he still froze when he saw Tony already there, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, staring at nothing with just the extractor fan lights on to help him see such nothing.

Tony blinked. “Hey, kid.”

Peter sighed. “Hey.”

They didn’t ask why the other was awake. Why would they?

Tony gestured vaguely at the fridge. “Water?”

Peter nodded and grabbed a glass. His hands shook just enough that Tony noticed.

“Bad one?”

Peter shrugged. “You?”

Tony huffed a humorless breath. “Oh, yeah.”

They drank in silence for a moment, the kitchen appliances humming softly around them, though they were a little too loud for Peter’s enhanced ears. Then Tony sighed. 

“You’re not going back to sleep, are you?”

Peter shook his head. “You?”

“Not a chance.”

They looked at each other, exhausted but wired, hurting, and the same idea hit them at the same time. Because clearly, great minds think alike.

“The workshop?” Peter asked.

“The workshop.”

Soon, the elevator doors were opening and the lights flickering on with a soft hum inside the wideness of Tony’s personal genius cave. The familiar smell of metal, oil, and half‑finished ideas wrapped around them like a blanket more comforting than any left upstairs at such ungodly hour.

It wasn’t clear what they would be working on, but like always, something quickly popped up. 

A few minutes in, Peter sat on a stool, pulling his knees up. Tony rummaged through a drawer for the right tool, because DUM-E had failed to recover it four times already. His hands rummaged through the mess of tools, and though he was pretending he wasn’t shaking, it was pretty obvious.

Peter watched him, guilt twisting in his stomach.

Tony didn’t even look up, yet somehow he guessed Peter was opening and closing his mouth like the most ridiculous fish on Earth. 

“Yeah?”

Peter hesitated. He frowned, cheeks puffing, trying to understand how exactly he’d been so obvious. Maybe Tony had developed a sixth sense of his own? The emotional-Peter sense. Or the yapping-Peter sense. No, that was stupid. Focus.

The distraction was, however, exactly what he needed to trick his mouth into doing what it existed for: speaking.

“I’m sorry.”

Tony froze. “For what, exactly?”

“I feel guilty.”

“Oh well, then we’re fine, because that’s pretty much your baseline. You scared me for a second, kid.”

“For your nightmares.” Peter frowned at the sarcasm. “Because of the Veil. Because you used it. Because of me.”

Tony turned, tools abandoned, expression sharp. Behind him, DUM-E dove back in excitedly.

“Peter, we’ve talked about this.”

Peter shook his head, frustrated. “I know but what if you have nightmares forever? What if you’d gone mad? What if-”

Tony cut him off with a tired, humorless laugh. “Kid, what-ifs are a waste of time and you know it. Besides, I already don’t have all the screws.”

Peter glared. “I’m serious.”

“Okay serious, I’m dad.” Tony snapped back, exhaustion fraying his patience. “So what, you wanted me to let you die? Let your friends die? Let the whole camp burn?”

Peter flinched. “No. That’s not it. I’m so grateful for what you did, I just...  every night you...” And then, thinner: “why did it all have to go down this way?”

Upon realising the actual root of the issue, Tony’s anger evaporated instantly. He sighed, rubbing his face. “Pete...”

Peter looked down at his hands. 

Tony stepped closer and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re my kid. That’s the beginning and end of it.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

Tony squeezed his shoulder. “Honestly? You’ve been taking this pretty well. I thought you’d have a stroke when you found out what I’d been doing. Fighting monsters. Playing cosmic roulette. All that.”

The attempt fell through. Peter remained quiet. Too quiet.

Tony frowned.

“That’s not really what this is about.”

Peter’s shoulders dipped. He stared at the floor, his socked foot nudging a stray bolt in a slow, lazy circle. “No.”

Tony waited, arms crossed, too tired for patience but not annoyed, just worn down to the wiring.

Peter’s fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie. It was kind of funny. He wasn’t twisting it out of fear, not really. Obviously he was nervous. A bit. But he wasn’t scared Tony would hate him. Wasn’t scared he’d throw him out, send him away. Those fears were long gone. Tony had already seen him at his worst. That wasn't the issue. It wasn’t easy to admit what he wanted to tell him. It was especially hard to admit it to himself. He already had told Ned and MJ, sure. But for some reason, telling them had felt like a field test. The Gods knew how his brain worked these days.

This was a great opportunity to inform Tony of his newfound nature. If it weren't so hard to repeat it out loud because of his wounded preide (yes, he still had some left). If it weren’t for that, Peter thinks he would have already said it over breakfast.

Funny how telling Tony that he was a demigod at the Lake House had been much harder and nerve-wracking than telling him this. 

This?

This felt weirdly easier. Like ripping off a Band‑Aid he’d already ripped off once before. Even if the wound beneath was even uglier.

So yeah, the source of his hesitation was nothing other than himself this time.

Peter lifted his chin a little, enough to show he wasn’t hiding, just bracing.

“I’m...” He hesitated, then added with a tiny, tired huff of humor, “and please don’t freak out, because I’m too tired to deal with that right now-”

Tony arched his brow. “Peter.”

Peter exhaled. 

“I’m kind of a monster too.”

Tony’s head jerked up.

Then came the finger. 

“Hey. Nope. You don’t talk about yourself like that.”

It was Peter’s turn for puzzlement. When he understood the scolding he was getting he blinked, startled. “What? No! I mean for real!” He waved both hands in front of him, frantic and balked. “Like mythology real! I’m part monster!”

Tony froze mid‑finger‑wag. “Come again.”

Peter nudged the bolt again with his toe, cheeks flushing with tired embarrassment.

“I’m serious! Not in the ‘I’m a terrible person’ way. In the ‘Greek‑mythology‑biology‑is‑weird’ way.”

Tony lowered the finger slowly, confusion replacing indignation.

“Y’know... rawr.” He wiggled his fingers weakly like a T-Rex.

Tony stared at him.

“A little reaction would be good?”

Wide-eyed, Tony rubbed his eyebrow like he was getting a migraine. “It’s not easy for me to admit it, but I’m a bit lost here, kid. I thought you were a demigod.”

“I am! I just...” Peter sighed. “I wanted you to know. No more secrets, remember?”

Tony’s expression softened a fraction, but he still looked like he’d love a flowchart.

Peter pushed on.

“So, in the lair, hmm, before you got there, I found out Arachne made me Spider‑Man. The spider that bit me. It was one of her children. She wanted to make me a monster, to get back at Athena.”

Tony’s eyebrows climbed. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked like he was trying to picture it and regretting every second. 

“I don’t know what that means yet. Being a demigod part monster. But I think people around me should know, in case I... grow fangs and eight legs again one day...”

Tony stared at him for a long moment.

“Again?”

Peter winced. “Let’s ignore that part.”

“No. Let’s not.”

“Please.”

“Fine. For now. A very short ‘now’.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you. So yeah. You fought the monsters at camp for me, but I’m a monster too. I could be evil for all we know.” 

Tony’s face went through about six emotions in three seconds: confusion, disbelief, horror, concern, exhaustion, and finally something like oh my god this kid.

Then he snorted.

And burst out laughing. He actually laughed! A real, tired, incredulous sound. 

“Kid, you could never be a monster. It’s more likely you made the spider that bit you good.”

Peter’s gaze flickered, like his brain had to reboot.

“What?”

Tony shrugged like it was obvious. He had to fight a smile, which was kind of pointless, Peter thought, after laughing in his face out loud. Still, it was contagious. Even if he hadn’t been expecting a poor reaction, a rejection, this also hadn't been a possibility. Yet Peter felt a grin of his own start to grow. Relief. Disbelief.

“I mean don’t worry your silly little head about it and I won’t either. ‘Roos, you’ve been Spider-Man for years before Spider Karen told you that. All you’ve done so far is pure and sometimes annoyingly good.” The man pulled him into his side, unable to help a small chuckle. Peter went in willingly. 

Tony kissed the top of his head, then ruffled his hair for good measure. 

“You’re you. That’s the whole thing. End of story.”  

Peter nodded, small and relieved. “End of story.”

Only, Tony pulled back and immediately lifted a finger again.

“Except for that eight‑legs‑again slide. We’re so circling back to that.”

Peter groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

Tony smirked at Peter’s groan, but the moment passed. The workshop hummed back to life. Tools clinked. Screens flickered. DUM‑E whirred around, occasionally bumping into Tony’s leg like a needy cat, which was pretty comical to Peter since every time it happened Tony would threaten to turn the robot into a toaster.

With that weight off his chest, they worked some more, delving into a crazy project with no useful purpose. After about an hour, Peter was hunched over a circuit board, soldering iron in hand, eyelids drooping. Tony was across the table, tightening a bolt also with the kind of focus only sleep deprivation could produce.

That’s when, lost in the maze of circuits, Peter’s useful brain did a flip and woke up.

His eyes widened.

“Oh, oh! I forgot something!”

Tony looked up, startled after several minutes of silence. “What, did you grow a ninth leg? Because I swear to god-”

“No!” Peter laughed, already scrambling off the stool. “Don’t be weird. Just stay here! Don’t move!”

Tony blinked after him as he bolted towards the elevator. “Kid, it’s four in the morning, where exactly do you think I’m going?”

But Peter didn’t answer, he was already gone.

Tony sighed, rubbing his eyebrow again. “Unbelievable. I raise one demigod and suddenly I’m the weird one.”

Not two minutes later, Peter came back down, breathless, clutching something in his fist. He stopped in front of Tony, suddenly shy again.

“I, hmm, really wanted you to have this.”

Tony glanced at DUM‑E like he needed a witness, set down his tools, and wiped his hands on a rag. Then he narrowed his eyes at Peter’s closed cupped hands.

“Okay, level with me. Is it alive, cursed, or going to explode?”

“What? No! Why would-”

“Kid, you say that, but statistically? I have reasons. Is it another pet? Because if that’s another stray pet, I’m calling Pepper before you can name it.”

“Would you just take it?!”

Tony held up both hands in surrender, amused.

“Alright, alright. What is it?” 

Peter rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.

He opened his hand.

A Camp Half‑Blood necklace, or more accurately, a leather string with one bead. Not just any bead. The same bead Peter had added to his own necklace this year, the one Tony had for sure seen him fiddling with absentmindedly for a few days. Same colors, orange with blacks and yellows and white. Same tiny uneven stripes. Same little smudge where Peter’s thumb always pressed.

Tony blinked, thrown.

“Isn’t this your thing? A demigod thing.”

“It’s yours,” Peter said softly. “You earned it. You were one of us. So I made you one too at Bead Night.”

Tony stared at it,- at him,- like he couldn’t believe him. And without hesitating, he closed his fingers around it. Peter smiled, knowing Tony hated being handed things, though he never seemed to shy away when it was him or anyone else in their family.

The genius didn’t say anything at first. He just held the bead in his palm, turning it slightly so the workshop light caught the uneven paint stripe. His mouth pressed into a line and Peter couldn’t, for the life of him, make the expression out this time. Not upset, right? Reflective? Touched? He hoped so. It was for sure the kind of quiet that meant something was happening behind his eyes.

The wait was killing him. Peter shifted his weight, fingers twirling together in front of him. He wasn’t nervous. Just waiting. Letting Tony look.

Tony kept staring at the bead like it was something alien and Peter felt his eye twitch.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, the billionaire cleared his throat, and clearly decided to try for casual.

“Okay, so, full disclosure? I’m not really a jewelry guy...”

“Oh.” Peter immediately panicked. “Well, you don’t have to wear it, obviously. It’s more of a memento. A keepsake. To store at the bottom of a drawer and-” He swallowed and reached for the necklace. “Nevermind. I just thought...”

Tony yoinked the necklace back so fast DUM‑E beeped in alarm. 

“Whoa, back off, I’m keeping it forever.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Tony was already looping it around his neck. “There. Perfect. Now all I need is an orange shirt and a chronic inability to stay out of trouble for more than twelve seconds and boom- demigod!”

Peter’s face lit up like someone had turned on a lamp inside him: Tony was wearing it. Tony liked it. He found himself wearing the stupidest beaming smile on his face, like Tony had just hung a crooked macaroni tie on the fridge. 

Someone else seemed pretty pleased too. The genius kept adjusting the bead like he needed something to do with his hands, which was basically Stark‑code for don’t get emotional, don’t get emotional. 

Peter couldn’t help it; seeing Tony wear the bead made everything feel lighter. Like the nightmares hadn’t taken everything from that summer after all. Good memories could grow out of the scary ones, and nightmares could bring good times.

His fingers twitched with leftover happiness and nerves.

Yeah. Maybe the summer hadn’t just been monsters and fear. Maybe it had been this too. 

And all is well that ends... as well as it can.

“You’d make a good son of Hephaestus.” Peter told him.

Tony perked up. “Really? You think so?”

“Yeah. You’ve got the whole ‘grease‑stained workshop gremlin’ vibe down.”

Tony turned to DUM‑E, snapping his fingers. “Mirror. Now.”

DUM‑E spun in a slow, confused circle.

Tony frowned. “Mirror, buddy. Reflective surface. Show me my majestic new look.”

DUM‑E extended a fire extinguisher.

Tony stared at it. “Can you do ANYTHING?”

DUM‑E beeped sadly.

Peter laughed so hard he folded in half like a lawn chair. 

...

The next night, the city hummed beneath him, alive and restless, as Peter stepped out onto the rooftop. The wind tugged at his curls, familiar and welcome.

He stood on the edge of the Stark Tower balcony and looked out over the skyline. 

The lights blurred into constellations. The streets pulsed like veins. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, sharp and distant.

He breathed in and studied the mask in his hands, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. For a moment he hesitated.

But the city was still his.

And he was still its Spider‑Man.

He didn't need to know how to do this, how to return; he just had to return.

He slipped the mask over his face.

The siren grew louder.

Peter stepped onto the ledge, bent his knees, and smiled beneath the fabric.

“Back to work.”

He jumped with a whoop, a clean and effortless dive into the open air. The city rushed to meet him.

Peter was falling.

Spider‑Man was home.

...

He knelt on the grass, laying a bouquet of pretty daisies there and brushing a thumb over her name.

“I miss you, May,” he said softly. He pressed a kiss into his palm and laid that hand gently against the stone. It was warm from the summer sun, almost like her skin would have been.

“I’m okay,” he told her. “You can rest, catch your breath. You don’t have to worry. I’ll never be alone anymore.”

A breeze moved through the trees, light enough to feel like an answer.

Behind him, Happy stood a respectful distance away, hands clasped, eyes soft in that way he always ever had for May. When Peter rose, brushing grass from his knees, he gave the headstone one last small, loving look.

“See you soon,” he whispered.

Happy steppedcloser, guiding him away. “If she were here, she’d tell you to stop talking to the headstone and go eat something,” he said, voice low, teasing. “But she’d be smiling.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh. “Pretty sure she’d tell you the same thing.”

Happy actually snorted.

“Yeah, well, she always thought I needed more vegetables.”

The moment eased, softened. Peter’s shoulders dropped a little. Happy clapped a gentle hand to his shoulder, steady and familiar, and together they started the slow walk back to the car: quiet, but not lonely.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter woke up.

...

Peter wakes up. 

The ship cloud is gone. Was it ever there?

Cheerio is now sprawled half on top of him, snoring softly, his see-through fur hot from the sun. Peter blinks, disoriented for a second. He must have dosed off, and even if only for a few minutes, it feels like the most powerful nap he’s ever had. He’d only meant to step out for a breath, to clear his head before the party started. He didn’t mean to fall asleep on the grass like some exhausted woodland creature.

“Ooof!”

He definitely didn’t mean to wake up to Morgan Stark launching herself onto him like a missile.

“Petey! Wake up! They’re here!”

Cheerio jerks awake with a startled jump, Morgan having landed squarely on Peter’s middle and bumping into the sleepy kitten. It meows in complaint, immediately scrambling back up near Peter’s head in hopes for a second round of sleep with a quiet personal human hot water bottle. It licks his chin for good measure. The devil on his shoulder. Good boy. Ignore her. Stay right there.

Peter laughs, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m up. I’m awake,” he says, probably much to Cheerio’s disappointment.

Morgan bounces on her knees beside him, hair wild from running. Her mom tried to put her in a pink headband, but it’s already crooked, hair sticking out at the wildest angles. Peter will never know how she manages.

“Daddy said I could come get you because you were gonna miss your own party!”

Peter groans softly as he rises to a seated position. He rubs his face. “It’s not even a real birthday party.”

Morgan gasps like he’s committed treason. “It IS! You missed your birthday, so we’re doing it now! Everyone said so!”

Everyone.

Yeah. That tracks.

Tony insisted. Pepper insisted. MJ insisted. Ned insisted. Even Harley texted Tony a threatening message meant for him: “This is for Peter. If you’re Peter, keep reading. Show up to your own house or I’m dragging you there myself. Check Mate, mate.”

Peter can only chuckle. He huffs, pulling Morgan into his lap. She goes with a delighted squeal. Peter takes off the handband, and begins brushing her hair with his fingers, trying to get it out of her face.

“You all really teamed up on me, huh?” 

Morgan beams. “We had a meeting. A secret meeting. I was the boss.”

Peter snorts. “Of course you were.”

He smooths her hair again, gentler this time.

“I really didn’t need a party, but I’m kinda glad you guys wanted one.” 

Morgan lifts her chin like she’s giving a press conference. It reminds him terrifyingly of Pepper. She immediately turns, and Peter is left with the pink headband hanging from his hand. She pokes his cheek with one tiny, authoritative finger. 

“Everyone needs a party, Petey. Don’t be silly.” 

“Wow. So bossy.” Hands raising in a surrendering way, Peter huffs a laugh. He forces her to turn back and begins smoothing her hair again. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m loved. Jeez.”

“Also there’s cake.”

“Ah I knew it.”

With his little sister looking more like a little sister and less like a gremlin, Peter finally gets up. He hopes he doesn’t have grass stains on his back.

Cheerio hops away, shakes himself out, and trots ahead like he’s leading the way. The lake house lawn stretches out in front of him, tables set up, balloons tied to chairs (some were definitely Morgan’s pick), the grill already smoking. People are trickling in from the driveway, and Peter recognises his friends, their voices rising in that soft, familiar chaos of a gathering.

Morgan grabs his hand and pulls him toward the crowd, her tiny hand wrapped around his like she’s towing a boat. 

They reach the backyard just as Harley steps out of the house with a soda. 

“Sleeping Beauty lives!” He announces.

Peter groans. “I was asleep for five minutes.”

“Sure,” Harley says, smirking, and then the smirk softens just a little. He steps in and pulls Peter into a quick, rough hug that smells like engine grease and barbecue smoke.

“Glad you’re okay, man.” Harley mutters into his shoulder. “Tony would be unbearable if you weren’t.”

Peter laughs, squeezing him back. “He’s unbearable anyway.”

“Yeah,” Harley says, pulling away with a grin and a wink, “but we like you more. Anyway, happy belated birthday and all. Chess later. I’m reclaiming my dignity.”

“You never had dignity,” MJ says as she pops up out of nowhere and slips an arm around Peter’s waist. She narrows her eyes at Harley, as if challenging him (for what? Who knows.), and kisses his cheek. “Happy birthday.”

Peter’s face warms. “Thanks.”

Harley freezes mid‑sip of his soda, eyebrows shooting up.

“Ohhhhhh,” he says, dragging it out like he’s savoring it. “Well, well, well. Look who finally made it official.”

Peter groans. “Harley-”

“Nope. Not letting you off the hook.” Harley points between them like he’s connecting dots on a conspiracy board. “I knew it. I called it! I called it months ago. Separately. To both of you.”

MJ deadpans. “You did. Repeatedly.”

“And you,” Harley says, turning to MJ with a wicked grin, “Miss ‘I like my life quiet and drama‑free.’”

He wiggles his fingers in air quotes.

“How’s drama‑free going for you, huh?”

MJ rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”

Harley gasps dramatically. “Oh, I will never shut up. You two were painful. I suffered.”

Peter covers his face. “Please stop.”

Harley slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a quick, warm side‑hug. “Never. This is my moment. I earned this.”

MJ pats Peter’s chest. “He really did. He was insufferable.”

“Oh, I’m about to be worse,” Harley says proudly. “I saw this coming from miles away. I practically had a betting pool going.”

Peter groans louder. “Harley...”

Harley squeezes him once more. “Relax, man. I’m happy for you. Really.”

Then he points at MJ again. “But you? Drama‑free? Yeah, right.”

MJ flicks his ear. The older boy yelps, rubbing it and frowning at her. 

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure your next birthday gift is regret.”

Harley grins. “Worth it.”

Who comes bursting out the door next that very moment is Ned, who nearly trips over Cheerio. “Oh, hello there, sir. Looking fluffy as ever... Peter! Dude! The gifts table is insane!”

“I know. And unnecessary.”

MJ flicks him this time. “Don’t be your own party pooper.”

“I thought you hated capitalism,” he jokes back, wincing. “Who are you and what have you done with MJ?”

MJ raises an eyebrow. “I can hate capitalism and still like birthdays. Your birthday, specifically.”

“My birthday’s August 10th, not August 29th.”

“Time is fake.” 

Ned opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Okay, fair enough but back to the presents? Look, man, I got you something too.”

He thrusts the bag forward, then immediately backtracks, words tumbling out.

“Sorry, it’s not a Quinjet. Those things cost, like, a kidney.”

Peter laughs. “Ned, you didn’t even have to get me anything.”

“I know,” Ned says, pushing the bag into his hands anyway, “but I did. Because I’m a great best friend. And because this one was on sale. Go on, open it before the other presents so you don’t get disappointed.”

Peter peeks inside at the wrapping. He drops the bag on the floor and rips the paper apart. A medium-sized LEGO Spider‑Man set, the kind with a figure that looks vaguely like him, just more geometric. He grins.

“I would never be disappointed. It’s perfect! Thanks, man.”

Ned practically vibrates. “Right?! And it comes with a little villain guy! And a tiny lamppost! And we can build it together later. See Peter, your guy in the chair always knows what he’s doing.”

“By now everyone and their mother knows you’re his guy in the chair,” Harley chuckles. “You never shut up about it.”

Ned gasps. “I do not- okay, maybe a little... okay, fine, a lot.”

MJ slides her hand in Peter's and gives it a little tug. “By the way, who are those? Didn’t know you had any more friends. You’re very popular, Peter.”

“First, that was rude. Second,” Peter says, bumping her shoulder, “those are my siblings. From camp. Some of them, at least.”

Ned’s eyes go huge.

“Camp? Like... THE camp?”

Peter sighs. “Oh no.”

Ned grabs his arm. “Peter. Peter. You can’t just casually say that. Introduce me right now!”

The group spills onto the backyard like a chaotic parade. Peter can only thank that they had the brainpower to pick something else to wear. With everyone gathered at the Lake House, a monster smelling them wouldn’t be far fetched and they’d just look like a giant orange-neon sign screaming: Here come eat me instead of the birthday cake! It’d also look pretty out of place.

Thinking about monsters has Peter’s eye twitching. Hopefully they’re all still licking their wounds after the war, because any sightings have been far and few recently.

Jenna comes in front, her girlfriend right beside her. Is that Walker balancing a box of cupcakes? His brother Rustin and Ferris (right, Hephaestus) look engaged in some heated arguing, likely about something mechanical, with Lou from Apollo humming distractedly under her breath. Two younger kids trail behind. Roly from Hermes weaves between them. Towering behind all of them, arms crossed, is Ptolema from Ares, still built like a tank and looking like she could bench‑press the entire house.

And behind her, half‑hidden, is Sofia.

Peter steps forward, and the moment they see him, the whole group lights up.

“PETER!” Jenna shouts, launching herself at him.

He barely catches her. “Hey!”

“I come bearing a peace offering,” Walker lifts the cake box.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I stitched you a plushie!” His older sister cheers at the same time.

“Thanks,” Peter says for the bazillionth time, laughing. He’s nervous, he’s never had a party this big. Actually, he’s never really had a party he can remember of, other than celebrating with Ned. “You didn’t have to. It wasn’t supposed to be a big thing.”

Jenna's girlfriend smirks. “You whispered it at Bead Night. Once. Quietly. Under your breath. What did you expect? No gatecrashers?”

Peter groans. “I didn’t think anyone heard me.”

“Oh, we heard you,” Walker says. “Kate Bishop announced it to the seven winds.”

“Of course she did.”

Rustin nods. “She asked Ferris to build her a megaphone.”

Ferris shrugs. “She looked excited.”

Roly pops up between them like a jack‑in‑the‑box. “Hi! I invited myself!”

Lou gives Peter a bright, sun‑warm smile. “Happy birthday, dude.”

Peter smiles back. Lou always radiates warmth. Apollo kids do that sometimes, unless you’re Kate Bishop and absolutely deserve a scolding from Peter Parker. Despite her aim, sometimes Peter wonders how she came out so challenging. Maybe because she’s a legacy. No matter, he loves her anyway, would sometimes just like to strangle her.

Jenna’s girlfriend leans in, eyes flicking between Peter and MJ, and smirks like she’s reading their entire relationship arc in one glance.

“So this is the girlfriend. Good job, Parker, she’s hot.”

MJ blinks. “Wow. No hesitation.”

“I’m an Aphrodite kid,” she explains, fluttering her eyelashes proudly. “We don’t hesitate.”

“I see that.”

Jenna elbows her. “Maya, babe, stop outing people.”

“I don’t!”

“You outed him as Spider‑Man to the entire camp,” the daughter of Athena reminds her.

“That was different!” Maya protests. “He was literally in the suit and nobody was saying anything!”

Peter groans into his hands. “Please don’t bring that up.”

Walker claps him on the back. “Relax, man. We’re proud of you.”

Rustin nods. “Yeah. You’re like... our weird little brother. Weird, because spiders are weird and yucky.” He shivers. Peter shivers too. All of cabin 06 present in that moment does. MJ, Ned and Harley share a look.

The Tenesse boy, unaware of the full meaning of spiders to children of the goddess of wisdom, snorts loudly from behind them, stuck on the weird little brother bit. “Finally, people who get it.”

Peter flips him off behind his back. Harley grins.

“Right, that reminds me,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s about to present a group project he didn’t prepare for. “Uh, these are my people from home.”

He gestures vaguely, already flustered.

“This is Harley. Michelle. Ned.”

Harley gives the camp kids a chin‑lift like he’s greeting a biker gang.

MJ raises an eyebrow.

Ned also tries to look cool. “I’m his guy in the chair.” Then he whispers, “for both things.”

“And!” Peter continues, turning toward the other kids, “these are... well, friend campers. From camp. Obviously. My siblings, Jenna, Walker and Rustin. Ferris from Haphaestus. Maya you already know.” The girl smirks like she already knows everyone’s secrets. “Lou from Apollo, like Kate. Roly from Hermes, who invited herself. Keep anything shiny out of sight. And-” 

Roly grins. “Hi!”

“-and, uh...” Peter gestures upward, because she’s tall enough to require it. “Ptolema. Ares cabin.”

Ptolema crosses her arms. “Parker.”

“Ptolema,” he replies.

They stare at each other for a beat.

“Come here to stuff my face in another toilet?” He asks.

“No,” she says. “You did that yourself just fine.”

“Fair point.”

She sticks out her hand. He shakes it.

“Enjoy the party,” he says, and she stomps off toward the food. Peter exhales. “That went better than expected.”

Harley chokes mid‑sip. MJ stops mid‑blink. Ned stops mid‑breath. All three stare at Peter like he just confessed to tax fraud.

“Your lore is insane,” MJ says.

“Wild,” Harley agrees.

Before Peter can defend himself, Lou pipes up gently, “she’s really not that bad.”

Ferris nods. “Yeah, Ptolema’s not evil, just has a whole truck of feelings she has no idea what to do with. Also she’s secretly a huge Spider‑Man fan.”

Roly bounces on her toes. “Imagine when she found out!” She snickers, glancing at Peter. “She’s in her redemption arc now.”

Peter blinks. “She has an arc?”

Roly shrugs. “Everyone has an arc.”

And just like that, the group splinters into little pockets of chaos. Rustin and Ferris get sucked into conversation with Harley and Ned, Harley mentioning he built a potato gun at ten, the camp boys and Ned lighting up like someone handed them a new religion. Lou drifts toward Pepper to help with music. 

Roly pops up again. “Uh. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Happy’s inside, he can point you.” Peter answers. “Big guy, not very happy.”

Maya and Jenna grab her by the elbows.

“We’ll take you,” Jenna says.

“Stark didn’t know to hide his silvers,” Maya whispers at him and MJ.

Roly gasps. “Treasure.”

They vanish inside.

MJ stays beside Peter, shoulder brushing his, watching the chaos unfold with a tiny smile she pretends she doesn’t have.

As everyone wanders, the noise thins just enough for Peter to notice her again.

Sofia. Standing there, looking straight at him like an expectant, awkward barn owlette.

“Hey, you good?”

His godly sister hums in agreement, scuffing her shoe on the grass while watching everyone drift off without her. She looks small in that quiet way. Lonely, unsure where to step.

He lets a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. One sec.” Then he turns and calls, “Morgan!”

Morgan’s head pops up instantly from across the yard, where she'd drifted off after dragging him back home. She’s mid‑bubble-wand swing but the second she hears her name she lights up like someone flipped a switch. She sprints over, Cheerio galloping behind her.

She skids to a stop and immediately grabs Peter’s hand, bouncing a little. “Yeah?”

Peter crouches slightly so he’s eye‑level with both of them. “Sofia, this is Morgan. Mo, this is Sofia. She’s my sister too.”

Morgan’s eyes go huge and sparkly. “You have another sister?!”

“Yep. Is that cool?”

Sofia’s grey eyes widen as well, though like she’s bracing for something.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Peter feels his stomach twist.

Please work. Please work. Please work.

Then Morgan beams so hard it looks like it might hurt. She takes Sofia’s hand with both of hers. The grey-eyed girl jumps, staring at their linked hands like it’s a science quiz she didn’t study for.

“Hi! I’m Morgan! You’re really pretty!”

Sofia freezes, then blushes. “Oh. Hmm. Thank you. Is that a monster...?” Her voice wobbles as she points at Cheerio who is curiously waiting for Morgan to come play again. Peter is about to reassure her but Morgan beats him to it.

“He’s a good monster! He likes cheerios and wearing bows!”

Sofia seems a bit hesitant, but the skeletal kitten doesn’t suddenly swallow either of them, so she seems to find it in herself to nod.

“Okay...”

Morgan nods as well, though decisively, like she’s made a ruling. “Okay. You’re my friend now.”

Sofia blinks. “I am?”

Morgan giggles, delighted. “Yep! Come on! I’ll show you the bubbles! And the frogs by the lake! And the swing! And the secret rock!”

Sofia’s shoulders loosen. “Okay!”

Morgan squeezes her hand and starts tugging her toward the yard, Cheerio bouncing around them like a happy little planet.

Sofia looks back once, at Peter, and he gives her a smug wink. She smiles and lets herself be pulled into the chaos. Peter exhales, relief washing through him.

Thank the gods.

As Peter watches the three conquer the yard, MJ drifts back to his side, hands in her pockets. “She’s cute,” she says. “Weirdly owl‑coded.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “Yeah. She’s-”

She cuts him off. “You’re annoyingly good at that.”

“At what?”

“People,” she says. MJ tilts her head at him. “Kids. Siblings. They show it all the time on TV. Spider-Man helped another lost infant find their parents. Even bought them a lollipop.”

Peter snorts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” MJ says matter-of-factly. “Because now I have to pretend I’m not impressed.”

Peter bumps her shoulder. “Oh. So you are impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m clearly not.”

Peter squints at her. “You’re mean.”

“You love it.”

He does. Obviously.

He nudges her back. “You’re just jealous they like me.”

MJ raises an eyebrow. “Peter. I’m literally the cool one.”

“You think you’re the cool one.”

“I know I’m the cool one.”

Peter grins. “Okay, then I’m the fun one.”

MJ scoffs. “You’re the 'enhanced but still trip over your own feet’ one.”

“You’re the ‘pretends not to care but absolutely cares’ one.”

MJ’s mouth twitches. “Shut up.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No I’m...” She stops, because she absolutely is.

Peter chuckles. “Caught you.”

MJ pokes his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re-”

“-tolerating you,” she finishes.

“Liking me,” Peter corrects.

“Barely.”

“Liking me a lot.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “You’re delusional.” But she steps closer anyway.

“You’re smiling again.”

“No.”

She is.

They’re closer now, all the teasing melting into something magnetic, their hands brushing, gazes mixing. They lean in-

“HEY! LOVE‑BIRDS!”

-and jump apart like they’ve been hit with a taser.

Tony stands at the grill wearing a ridiculous apron that says WORLD’S OKAYEST GRILLER, waving a spatula like he’s flagging down a plane.

“What did we talk about?!” He yells.

Peter groans. “Oh my gods...”

“No PDA near the food! Or near children! Which you two technically are, so, yeah, shut it down!” 

As everyone turns to stare at them with varying degrees of entertainment, MJ actually covers her face. “I hate this.”

Peter sighs. “Welcome to the family.”

MJ peeks at him through her fingers, smiling despite herself. “Yeah. I guess so.”

...

The party picks up fast.

Morgan is still running across the yard with Cheerio and Sofia. The cat has turned into its full tiger self, effectively scaring the hell out of Peter’s older siblings and creating a very awkward moment where he had to convince them to sheath their weapons and not to kill him. Eventually it worked, again, probably when the feline didn’t immediately eat anyone in sight.

Anyway, Peter’s mortal sister somehow convinced the daughter of Athena to also climb onto the ‘good monster’s’ back so both could ride him like a horse. Harley’s deep in conversation with Tony, lots of hand gestures, lots of “no, but listen,” lots of Tony raising impressed yet unimpressed eyebrows. Ned keeps bouncing over to Peter every few minutes to fangirl about something new he’s noticed.

And Kate’s there too, fashionably late, with Lucky in tow. Peter’s honestly relieved the dog has zero interest in chasing Cheerio like every other dog on the planet would. 

“He has manners,” she boasts.

Who also came in tow, somehow, is Yelena.

How she convinced Yelena to come along, is a mystery Peter absolutely intends to poke at.

He leans over as she sets down her gift. “So... Yelena? Really?”

Kate immediately goes pink. “She just she wanted to get out of the apartment.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “The apartment?”

Kate sputters. “Don’t start.”

Ways behind them, Yelena tears open a bag of chips like she’s been forcibly escorted to a social event but refuses to admit it.

She looks up at Peter.

“Any hot sauce around here, birthday boy?”

Pepper steps out from the house then, both hands steadying a huge cake lit up with candles, the glow catching on her smile. The whole yard gets interrupted, then brightens at it.

“Alright, everyone!” She calls, voice warm but carrying her typical CEO authority. “Birthday boy up front!”

Peter freezes as Pepper approaches, the candles flickering in the breeze. He goes red again. Kate smiles, smug. Karma.

Pepper gives him that soft, proud look that always made him feel like he belonged here.

“Ready?” She asks.

He nods, cheeks still very pink.

And just like that everyone crowds around the table, voices rising into the messy, off‑key chorus of Happy Birthday. The singing swells around him, loud and messy and perfect. The cake, aside from huge, is slightly lopsided, chocolate frosting smudged in places where Morgan definitely “helped”. On top of it all sits a tiny LEGO Peter at a makeshift lab bench, surrounded by equally tiny LEGO beakers and tools, mid–science experiment gone wrong: complete with a LEGO fire piece and a puddle of blue frosting like something just exploded. Equations are scribbled around the sides in white icing, turning the whole cake into a chaotic, edible chalkboard.

Peter stares at the cake, and for a second all he can think is that it looks exactly like his life: messy, lopsided, a little on fire, and made with so much love it almost knocks the air out of him. It’s ridiculous and perfect in a way that makes his chest go warm.

Morgan stands on her tiptoes in front of him, tiny hands braced on the table, eyes huge at the flickering candles. Peter settles his arms around her front to keep her steady. She’s practically vibrating with excitement. 

Tony and Pepper flank him on each side like proud bookends, the warm glow of the candles catching on their smiles. MJ is also on his right, Ned practically bouncing beside her, Kate leaning in from the left with Harley elbowing for space. The other kids squeeze in wherever they can. 

Peter looks around at all of them, overwhelmed in the best way. Then he glances back at Tony, who winks and ruffles his hair.

Peter doesn’t even try to glare, he just huffs a laugh and looks forward again.

And that’s when he sees her.

At the edge of the yard, just where the trees begin, a woman stands still in the shadows, watching him. 

His smile falters.

Peter looks back down at the LEGO cake. He forces himself to focus on the singing, on Morgan’s bouncing, on Ned’s enthusiastic clapping. He pretends he didn’t see her.

The song ends in a chaotic cheer.

Peter blows out the candles.

Before he can straighten, Tony and Pepper swoop in and kiss each of his cheeks at the same time. He jumps, startled, the pink now reaching all the way to the tips of his ears.

Ned immediately thrusts out his hand. “Birthday handshake!”

Peter laughs and takes it and they do their long familiar routine.

MJ leans in and steals a quick kiss and Tony opens his mouth to object again, only for Pepper to put a hand on her husband's mouth without even looking at him.

Cake starts being cut, Morgan chanting “corner piece, corner piece,” then offering it to her new friend. Harley’s started arguing with Kate about the frosting distribution, while Yelena's already stolen a slice like she’s on a covert mission.

Peter glances back toward the forest.

She’s still there.

MJ notices first. Her brow furrows as she follows his gaze. “Peter?”

Kate sees it too, yet unlike MJ she knows exactly who that is. Her expression tightens, jaw set, eyes sharp with something like warning.

“Of all days she had to pick today. Of course she did.”

Tony catches the shift in the air. His smile fades into an alert frown. “Who’s that?”

“His-”

But Peter shakes his head quickly, effectively stopping the Legacy of Apollo from spewing out an eager offense.

“It’s okay. She’s fine.” He reassures them, already starting to step his way around the group. “I’ll be back in a mi-”

He stops. Swallows. Corrects himself. 

“I’ll be quick.”

MJ’s hand finds his. He squeezes it, gentle and grounding. Kate shakes her head, gaze fixed on the woman, disapproval radiating off her.

Peter meets Tony’s eyes. There’s no words, just a silent plea that’s become too usual between them.

Trust me.

Tony’s jaw works, but he doesn’t move to stop him.

Peter steps away from the table, from the warmth and noise and heads towards the tree line.

Towards her.

...

The forest muffles the party like a magical barrier of its own and he’s not even that deep inside. Though it might also be his ears cutting out the world and ringing, warning him so he can have an excuse to back out. His spider-sense, though, ever the treacherous one, doesn’t voice its opinion. 

Peter knows better.

No danger doesn’t mean safe.

The noise behind him has faded into a distant hum of laughter, clinking plates, and Morgan’s excited squeals. It all feels far away.

Athena stands very close.

She’s dressed like a mortal this time, or at least her version of one. A hiker. A very suspiciously flawless hiker.

A slate‑grey windbreaker that somehow has not one wrinkle, hiking boots that haven’t touched a speck of dirt, dark leggings tying it all together. Her dark hair is braided back with military precision, not a strand out of place. She could pass for someone out for an evening walk, if someone out for an evening walk radiated 'eat your enemies for breakfast' energy.

Despite the outfit change, it’s still her. Recognisable and unavoidable. Hands folded neatly, posture perfect, razor-sharp silvered eyes unreadable. She still looks like she’s been carved out of lightning and marble. She looks exactly the same as the last time he saw her in his dreams.

He’s the one who’s different.

“Peter,” she says, voice smooth as polished stone. “You’ve grown.”

He stops, holding her gaze as it looks him up and down.

“Mother. You came in person,” he says in kind. “That’s new.” Hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders forcefully relaxed. “So, you’re hiking now?”

Athena glances down at herself, as if checking her disguise. “Mortals find this attire unremarkable.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, “it definitely works.”

Her gaze softens by a fraction. Really, nothing too evident. Still, Peter is almost taken back. He didn’t know his mother’s face could ever do that.

“You made me proud. I did not expect you to be redeemed.” She follows with, as if changing the conversation from something so light to the exact root of the issue is also something mortals find unremarkable.

He blinks. Feels almost dizzy. Those words, there was a time he dreamt of them almost as subconsciously as breathing. To hear them now, after everything, after burying the hope and digging it back up...

“Thus, you came in person.”

Athena inclines her head. “You have earned that much.”

He huffs a breath, barely contained disbelief seasoned with acerbity.

“Did I?”

“You persevered,” she explains, eyeing him as if not understanding his disbelief. Her irises are so intense in their greyness, Peter has a hard time not looking away. They seem to have a life of their own, about to pop out of her scleras and grab at him. “You endured and brought victory to your camp. You were wise enough to rise again. You proved yourself a true hero to all other demigods.” 

Her eyes narrow, assessing him the way she probably assesses battlefields. 

“I did not expect it.”

And there it is. The real reason she’s here. Not to see him. Not to apologize.

To claim him now that he’s useful.

Peter feels the shift like a cold wind.

Where has he heard that before?

Athena reaches into the pocket of her immaculate hiker’s coat and withdraws a small object and a longer one, placing them in Peter’s hands before he can protest. How did she even fit this in there?

His skin tingles when their hands brush and he forces the instinctive need to search for more, to quench the thirst of knowing what it feels like to hold his mother's hand. It’s something he can’t help, the subconscious and powerful magic of unshakeable ‘what-ifs’. But Tony is right. What-ifs are a wate of time.

He accepts them silently, not out of agreement but out of that old, leant instinct that knows arguing with her would be like arguing with a cliff face. 

The first item is a tiny bronze bell shaped like an owl’s head, cool and heavier than it should be, the metal etched with patterns that seem to shift when he tilts it. It’s weird, though, because no matter how much he tilts it or even shakes it, no sound comes out.

The second, however, is a narrow spear tip, not from any evident magic metal. It looks and feels like carved pale olive wood, smooth as bone, cool against his palm in a way that makes his stomach twist. This gift only brings him dread. His sense tingles faintly at the back of his neck. He wants to argue that she can keep it, he already has his twin daggers and is not about to ditch them for a magical olive tree branch, but good judgement keeps his mouth shut. She will either tell him what it is for, or she will leave him to guess, and he will stuff the thing into the deepest bottom of the most unsuspecting drawer in his room and never look at it again.

He looks down at both items, turning them over once, understanding nothing yet everything at the same time. Now she comes bearing gifts?

He huffs a laugh. He’s not amused. 

“My eyes weren’t grey enough for you back then. Are they now?”

A flicker crosses her face. Irritation? Surprise? It’s gone too fast to name, pushed down into the vast pile of pride and self-regard she carries around everywhere. Peter thinks it might be tiring, to be masked up all the time. He sure is.

“You misunderstand,” she says, eye twitching.

“No,” Peter replies, calm and steady. “I don’t.”

The breeze shifts. The leaves around him shake. He can still hear Morgan laughing faintly in the distance. It feels worlds away.

Athena blinks at him in silence. Baffled, he can tell. What did she expect? A welcome home parade? A 'missed you' banner?

She’s not a villain, but she’s not a hero either. She’s no one. No one, really. A goddess, yes, but ironically no one.

No one to him, like he was to her.

“You disowned me,” he reminds her, making it sound obvious. He'd thought it was. “You made it very clear what I was worth to you.”

Athena’s chin lifts. “I acted as I must. You were reckless. Emotional. Unfit.”

“And now?” He tilts his head.

“Now you are stronger, is that what you want to hear?” She huffs. “Disciplined. Wiser. Worthy of-”

“Of you?” Peter cuts in gently. “Of Olympus?”

“Do not make me a villain, Peter.” She warns. She’s brewing, stewing. He’s playing with a fire that doesn’t want to burn him but will. 

“You were a wreck,” she says, voice cool but not cruel. “A shame. You turned your back on a mission and ran like a rat fleeing an owl. We are the owls, not the rats.”

The words land like old bruises being pressed on top of each other, but they don’t sink the way they used to. Peter doesn’t flinch.

Athena watches him carefully, eyes sharp as flint. 

“You were unstable,” she continues. “Unfocused. Fearful. You would have died if I hadn’t discouraged you. Or worse, you would have doomed others.”

There’s no venom in it. Just logic. Cold, twisted logic.

“You must understand,” she says, “demigods like you, the ones who do not fit the mold... you are a coin toss. You can become greatness or catastrophe. And I have seen both.” Her gaze flicks away for a heartbeat. “I have lost children before. I did not wish to lose another so soon.”

Especially if that meant a risk to Olympus.

Maybe she does suffer every time one of them dies. Maybe she mourned Max, even if less than what him and his siblings did. But he knows what she’d been even more afraid of...

“And,” she adds, quieter, “I will not deny the embarrassment. The other gods do not forget failure. A child who runs, who breaks, reflects on the parent.”

... exactly that.

Peter exhales slowly. “So you turned your back on me.”

“I withdrew my favor,” she corrects. Her braid lashes against her back as she shakes her head. “Because you were dangerous to everyone. Because you were not the hero I hoped you could be. Because the Fates, those old crones, kept chitchatting about something ominous in your future.”

“Arachne,” he completes, steady as stone.

Athena’s jaw tightens. “It turned out. A monster. A curse. A fall not even I could prevent.”

He nods. Then looks back up at her.

“And what do you think about that?”

She doesn’t answer.

And that silence tells him everything: she doesn’t accept it. Not the curse. Not the transformation. Not the part of him that isn’t neat or noble or predictable. Not the part of him that is a monster because of her.

He nods again, understanding more than she says.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to turn on you. I never did.”

“I know you won’t,” Athena says, glancing at the items in his hand. “But don’t forget how close you were to being chaos. And chaos destroys.”

Peter follows her calculating gaze. He frowns, studying the presents she’s given him.

I know you won’t.

As if she’d made sure of it.

“What are these for, again?”

For the first time, something blatantly clear flickers across Athena’s face. A brief, unmistakable discomfort. A tightening around her eyes. A calculation she can’t quite hide. She looks at the gifts like they’re answers she’d rather not speak aloud about. 

Her voice softens by a fraction. “The owl-bell will only ever ring for one thing,” she tells him. “For her. Or anything she sends. Shake it all you want, it will stay silent unless she comes for you again.”

Peter’s fingers tighten around it, the metal humming faintly against his skin. He can't lie and say that doesn't sound a bit relieving, to finally be warned in time for something.

“That gift is time. You can use it to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare for what?”

“A fight.” His mother catches his eyes. “Another victory. Or a loss.”

Peter’s saliva turns so bitter he almost can’t help the grimace.

“And this?” He waves the olive branch spear tip.

“And that,” she continues, eyes flicking to the small weapon, “is not a weapon for battle.”

Her voice lowers, steadier but edged with something thicker and heavier. “It is a safeguard. Should you ever not resist her tentation, her corruption... your soul may not find its way to Hades, not entirely.” It may go somewhere else, somewhere monsters belong. “

"The Fates have never seen a case like yours.” She pauses, studying his face before she continues. “Olive wood purifies. It severs the thread cleanly. If the worst comes, use it.”

Peter stares down at the spear tip and the shape of her meaning settles over him like the cold water of the Coccytus. He’d already felt the direction this was going, but hearing it aloud, seeing it in her eyes, makes his pulse rush in his ears. 

She isn’t just giving him a safeguard. She’s giving him an expectation. A command wrapped in concern. An exit she fully believes he’ll take if it comes to that. The wood is turning warm against his palm, deceptively gentle, and he can suddenly picture exactly what she wants from him: that if he ever starts slipping, if Arachne’s influence drags him too far, if he does think about turning on the gods... he’s meant to use this on himself,- to drive it into is own heart,- before he becomes a threat to her, to Olympus, to anyone. 

What a present. The trust that he’ll end himself before he ever turns on her.

Goodwill in one hand, a threat in the other.

What birthdays gifts. You really know how to pick them. And thank you, mother, for finally remembering.

But the worst part about it is, perhaps, is that as she spoke, she spoke strategy. She spoke strategy but Peter could hear grief too. A weird, probably congested version of it. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He wonders if she doesn’t either.

“I don’t expect you to fall. But I refuse to leave you without a way out if you do.”

He meets her eyes, unblinking.

Silence.

Which is answer enough.

Her jaw tightens by a fraction. “You understand what that means.”

“How couldn’t I?” He sneers. “You expect me to use this.” His hand lifts the branch-spear and he hums, trying to place the tip perfectly over his heart. It digs into his skin. “Somewhere around... here. Right?”

Athena stares. It must be a sight, even for a god.

He lifts his eyes to hers, something tired and sharp behind them. “You think I’d do it. You’re counting on it.”

Athena doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t have to.

He shakes his head once, slow. “I appreciate the bell, I do. But this... You didn’t have to. See, I have a family,” he tells her, voice steadying around the words. “People who already keep me in check. People who pull me back when I start slipping. I don’t need a contingency plan.” 

He lowers the spear and her eyes follow it as if hypnotized.

“I’m not alone anymore.”

Her eyes sharpen. “Mortals.”

“Yeah, and they’re great,” he says, smiling a little. “A mom. A dad. A sister. Uncles. Friends. People who didn’t give up on me. All alive, well... most of them. I have to admit, it’s really nerve-wracking every time they take a plane.”

Athena’s jaw tightens at the implication. Because she knows exactly what he’s not saying. Because she knows what Zeus did. Because she didn’t tell him. 

Peter’s jaw too works once before he speaks.

“You knew,” he says quietly, stating a fact he’s carried too long. “About what happened to my parents. That he did it for no reason. You knew the whole time.”

Athena doesn’t flinch, but something in her posture goes still. 

“It was not my place to tell you,” she says, too measured, too careful. “And it would not have changed the outcome.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. Okay, maybe some disbelief. 

“It would’ve changed something,” he counters. “Maybe just how alone I felt. Maybe just knowing you cared enough to say it.”

A shadow crosses her expression. It’s uneasiness, regret, calculation, all braided together. 

“I loved your father,” she says quietly, as if the words cost her something. “And there was nothing I could have done to stop what happened.” Her gaze flicks to him, sharp and assessing. “You say I don’t care. But I watched you. Even after I left you. It went against my every rational thought,” she says, chin lifting a fraction, “but I kept watching all these years. Even if you did not know it.”

Peter looks at her then, searching her face for something human, something warm, something that might explain why she stayed silent. He thinks of Richard’s faded laugh, the blurry memory of Mary’s hands, the way they held him on that last morning. And he imagines Athena watching the plane fall from the sky, torn between love and complacency, choosing the latter because that’s what gods do. Because that’s what she does. 

Peter exhales. 

“I don’t doubt you loved him,” he says, “but your definition of love is different from mine.” He lifts the olive‑wood spear tip slightly, the motion small but pointed. 

“A mother would sooner turn this on herself than point it at her child.”

A faint, involuntary tightening at the bridge of her nose must be the closest Athena ever comes to a wince. 

“I am still your mother.”

Peter’s face falls. 

“You’ll always be my mother,” he says softly. “But you’re not my mom.”

For a heartbeat, the woods go still. A lesser god would have struck him down for less. Even a greater one might have bristled.

But Athena doesn’t flare or freeze.

Instead, something in her posture shifts. Not breaking, but bending slightly. Her head tilts, studying him the way he would study a chess board during a particularly competitive match with Harley. She looks him up and down again, takes in the way he stands, the steadiness in his voice, the way he doesn’t shrink from her or apologize for the truth he’s just spoken.

And she must see it too, the difference. The spine. The man he’s become. Because she says:

“Not who you were then.” Recognition. Maybe even approval. 

Peter takes a step back, toward the warmth and life of the party.

“I know you’re a goddess, all‑knowing and all, but I hope you know something.”

Her eyes meet his.

“The boy who ran then,” he says softly, “is the same one who stayed now. And fell. And climbed back out.”

She keeps still as her statue from the Parthenon. Utter motionlessness carved from thought. 

“Fire,” she decides, almost to herself. “You didn’t have that before.”

“Yeah,” Peter answers. “I learned my worth.”

He turns toward the reconstructed Lake House, toward the laughter, toward the people waiting for him. He glances back at her, raising her gifts in a sort of salute. 

“Thanks for the gifts. Real heartwarming stuff. ”

Athena doesn’t follow.

She just watches him go, unreadable as ever, but not untouched.

...

As Peter slips out of the trees, the party’s sounds echo across the lake like a warm welcome back. He tucks the bell into his pocket, then slides the olive‑wood tip inside the leg of his shorts where hopefully it won’t stab him and no one will see it. He knows he’s supposed to be done with secrets, but the universe seems to be testing him. No need to send the whole party into panic mode.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake Athena’s voice out of his head, the image of those haunting silver eyes he never sees in the mirror.

A soft fwump of wings lands on a rock ahead, by the lake.

Peter stops.

Then he smiles.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Long time no hoot.”

The snow-white, orange‑eyed owl tilts her head, the exact same tilt she used to give him on rooftops and fire escapes and even his own room.

“It’s been a while,” Peter says, stepping closer. “Thought maybe you forgot about me.”

The owl gives a sharp, offended hoot.

Peter laughs. “Okay, okay. You didn’t forget. I just... wasn’t around.”

A second hoot, more pointed, layered with meaning he’s born to understand.

Well, you fell somewhere I could not follow.

“Yeah.” He frowns in the midst of a smile. Could she know about where he'd been? It seems she does. She never seemed like much of a normal owl to him, anyway. “The Pit tends to work like that.”

The owl ruffles her feathers, then adds, almost primly.

I warned the metal man, you know. The pompous one. Told him you needed catching in time. What happened to your wings, fledgling? Failed on you?

Peter blinks. There’s so much to process here.

His wings? He never had wings. Could she mean his webs? They did allow him to- no, wait, back up. The metal man? The pompous one?

“Tony?! You warned Tony?!”

A very smug hoot.

He listens poorly, but he listens.

Peter frowns. “But how did you know? I mean, you’re-” He feels himself hesitate, neurons firing rapidly. “You’re not just...”

He stops.

Looks at her.

Really looks.

“You’re not just an owl.”

The owl lifts her chin, proud yet slightly embarrassed.

I am Nyctimene. You never asked my name.

Peter’s eyes widen. 

“You’re Athena’s owl. Her symbol. Her- wow. Okay. That’s a lot.”

Nyctimene makes a disgruntled clicking sound. Her clawed feet shuffle around on the rock, releasing her displeasement.

Do not say it like that. I am not her pet.

“Sorry, sorry.” He raises his hands placantingly, then shakes his head. “But how? Why? I was literally just with my mother. Shouldn’t you be with her?”

Nyctimene’s feathers puff in outrage.

I am her symbol, not her shadow. I visit whom I choose. And I choose not to spend every waking moment with that woman.

An incredulous laugh escapes him. “Wow. Divine workplace drama. Did not have that on my bingo card.”

Nyctimene leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

I would gladly poop on her.

Peter actually chokes. “Don’t. Please.” He struggles to say. “I like you not as fried chicken.”

Nyctimene freezes, scandalized.

Oh, you’re right. She would absolutely fry me. But I won’t poop on her not for that.

The owl blinks her large eyes up at Peter.

For all she annoys me, she saved me. From a great shame. I never wanted to see my face again. I owe her that much.

He knew her story the moment her name settled in his mind. Nyctimene, the princess who was hurt by her own father and then punished for the shame he should’ve carried. Athena had turned her into an owl so she’d never have to see her reflection or face daylight again, hiding her from the world that blamed her for surviving what was done to her. Peter feels his stomach twist. He’s seen too many people punished for things they never chose. No wonder she understands him. 

But shouldn’t she only keep to the night? There’s a reason owls are nocturnal animals.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know?” He says instead, because it ocurrs to him it's possible nobody's ever told her that.

It stops her cold.

Absolutely still.

Peter’s never seen an owl act like a an animal of prey, but that’s what she looks like. Feathers pressing tightly to her body, eyes wide. It’s like the words hit a place she’s kept locked away for centuries and now it’s too late to know what to do with them. Eventually, her orange eyes soften, the sharpness in them dimming into something almost fragile.

A long moment passes before she moves again, feathers ruffling for comfort. She doesn’t answer.

“Right,” he murmurs, gentler now, trying to change the subject. “How come you’re here, then? How come you visit me in the daylight? And why me?”

A small, sad adjusting of wings.

I always wanted to be a mother, she admits. So I watch. Sometimes. The children of Athena who catch my eye. I look out for them. It distracts me from what I was, from the shame. Gives me some purpose.

She dips her head in something that looks like longing. A wish she never got to live. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the ache in his chest except speak through it. Again, Athena’s methods are more than questionable. Couldn’t she have saved Nyctimene some other way? Defend her honor instead of aiding her in hiding and condemming her for all eternity to eat mice and lizards??

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping a little closer. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a really good job.”

Nyctimene blinks, startled.

“I mean it,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. I owe you my life. You look out for people. You care. That’s... that’s what a mom does.”

Her feathers puff, just slightly, not in outrage this time, but in something like disbelief and hope.

You think so?!

“Hell yeah. And you’re welcome,” he continues, “anytime. Day, night, whatever. I don’t mind you watching over me. Actually,” a small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m glad you do. I’m glad to have a mom like you too.”

Nyctimene freezes.

Then she makes a sound he’s never heard from her: a tiny, birdy trill of pure, unfiltered joy. Her wings flutter, her whole body puffing up like she’s trying not to explode with pride until she looks like a shocked dandelion. She hops in place, wings fluttering, trying and failing to contain her joy.

You’re a good kid. Her loss. She scoffs. Then seems to detect movement behind Peter and her attention diverts. 

Go, she urges at last, voice warm and bright in his mind. Your pompous father is waiting. He is a good father.

“He is.” Peter nods, stretching out his hand so she can quickly rub her head against it.

And I will be watching. Proudly. From a respectful distance. Unless you need me. Then I will be closer.

Peter grins. “Deal.”

Before she can say anything else, a familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Underoos!”

Peter turns just as he feels the rush of wings behind him, Nyctimene launching off the rock, disappearing into the canopy with a last, delighted trill. Tony reaches him a second later, slightly out of breath, slightly annoyed, and pretending he’s neither.

“There you are,” Tony says, hooking an arm around Peter’s shoulders like he’s reeling him back into gravity. “Talking to owls again. You missed the cake.”

Peter blinks. “Oh, right. The cake.”

“Yeah, the cake, Pete. The thing we eat at parties? This one’s your favorite too, remember?” Tony lowers his voice like it’s classified intel. “Chocolate fudge. Pepper made sure of it.”

Right. Chocolate fudge. May used to attempt it every year. Peter’s stomach growls on cue. 

“Okay, yeah. I’m hungry.”

Tony gives him a sideways look. “So I take it The Divine Buzzkill meeting went well, then? Or do I need to go square up with a goddess? Because I will. I’ll probably lose, but I’ll make it entertaining.”

Peter laughs and Tony is obviously smiling too. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning into Tony’s side as they start walking. “The people who care about me are here. Eating cake. She’s not.”

Tony squeezes his shoulder. 

“Damn right she’s not.”

They finish bypassing the lake and cross the last of the grass before the patio. Tony seems to be steering him toward Pepper, who’s standing by the cake and gifts with a smile that softens the whole world.

Funny, though. Peter suddenly notices how everyone at the party seems... farther away than they were before. Like the whole crowd drifted back on purpose, giving him space without making it obvious. Maybe they’ve all had cake already. Maybe they’re all just absorbed by their own conversations. Still...

"Here he is! Our favorite young adult!” Tony announces to his wife.

Peter snorts. “Watch out, don’t let Harley hear you.”

“Oh, I adore the Potato guy,” Tony says, waving a hand. “He’s chaos in human form. But I’m not adopting him.”

“Right.” Wait, what?

Record scratch.

Wait.

What?

Peter blinks. “Adopting? You’re...  adopting someone?”

Tony gives him a look like kid, please. “Well, yeah, ‘roos. I hope so. If you want your birthday present.”

Pepper beams at him, warm and soft and proud and just a little exasperated at the way Tony dropped the bomb on him. Her eye twitches a little.

“Surprise, sweetheart!”

Peter’s brain stops. Just, stops. Everything goes blank, like someone unplugged him. The world exploded and they’re all floating ash in space.

He’s seventeen. One more year and he’s legally on his own. One more year until the world can shrug and say not our problem. He knows Tony and Pepper wouldn’t do that,- he knows it,- but the thought has lived in his chest like a splinter anyway. Guardians are temporary. Paperwork expires. Kids age out.

But adoption...

Adoption is forever.

Tony’s face shifts from smug to panicked in half a second. 

“Oh no. Great. We broke him. Pepper, he’s buffering. Kid, listen, you don’t want it? Totally fine. We can return it. Exchange it. Store credit. Burn the papers. Whatever you want.”

It takes him a second too long to find his voice. When he does, it explodes so badly it cracks.

“No!!! No, I mean... really? You want me to be your son?!”

Tony blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. Then he shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Pepper tries to hide her own amused smile.

“Pete. You already call me Dad. You call Pepper Mom. At this point we just want to formalize the obvious before someone else tries to steal you.” 

Pepper swats Tony’s arm. “What he means is: yes. We want you. We love you. And we’d like to make it official.”

Peter’s eyes sting. Hard. His throat closes up and he tries to speak but nothing comes out except a tiny, broken sound.

And then he moves.

He doesn’t think, he just collides into Tony’s chest, arms wrapping tight, face pressed into his dad like he’s afraid Tony might vanish if he lets go. Tony makes a surprised “oof!” then folds around him instantly.

Before Pepper can step in too, Peter pulls her in rather savagely, unapologetically making her lose her balance and yelp. If she gets mad she doesn’t show, because her arms immediately circle both of them, her cheek against Peter’s hair. 

A family hug. His family.

“Bambino,” Tony says softly, only for him to hear, “you are the biggest mystery of my life. And also the most worthy one I’ve ever tried to solve.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed and grateful and so stupidly happy he feels like he might float away. The olive branch digs against his leg as he hugs them, but none of it matters. Not right now.

Nothing could ruin this moment.

“Yes, yes yes yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesye-”

“Okay, okay, breathe. Oxygen is free. For now.” Tony squeezes him once more before pulling back.

Pepper wipes a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “We’re so proud of you.”

Mom. His mom is proud of him.

Everyone is cheering in the background, he thinks. Clapping, laughing, Kate’s whistling loudly like she’s watching a game. But it all feels far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. Tony and Pepper guide him to the cake table set off to the side, and how hadn’t he noticed the neat stack of papers waiting with a pen on top.

Adoption papers.

His breath catches.

This is real. The nightmares are not.

Peter’s hands are still shaking when Tony nudges the adoption papers toward him. 

Pepper squeezes his arm. “You don’t have to sign today. But we wanted you to have the choice.”

Choice.

A word Peter hasn’t always had.

He reads the first page.

Then the second.

Then the line that hits him like a punch:

New legal surname (optional):  ___________________________________

Oh no.

Oh no, he’s panicking.

He looks up at them, suddenly overwhelmed. Doubtful. Begging for help.

Tony notices instantly. “Okay, okay, breathe. It’s a name, not a bomb. No wrong answers. No wrong moves. No goddess is gonna smite you for picking the one you like.”

Pepper leans in, blessing him with a more grounded version of Tony’s support. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to change anything. Parker is a beautiful name. It’s yours.”

Peter swallows hard.

He stares at the line for the surname, and something inside him goes very still.

She’s right. Parker is his. It’s everything he’s ever been and everything he survived to become. It’s Richard’s love for science and Mary’s story-reading at night; it’s Aunt May’s nearly burnt kitchen and Uncle Ben’s camera; it’s their cramped apartment in Queens; it’s the mistakes, the grief, the victories, the nights he thought he wouldn’t make it, and the mornings he did anyway. It’s the mess Tony and Pepper dragged into their lives, the broken pieces they didn’t flinch away from. It’s Morgan’s brother and the son of Athena and Spider-Man and Archne’s creation. 

He will never not be Peter Parker, for all he’s changed, for all the worlds he’s touched, that name is the very spine of him. 

But Tony and Pepper... they’re part of him now too. A new part. A vital part. A piece of his heart he wants to carry forward, not instead of Parker, but alongside it. He wants a name that holds both truths: the person he is and the family that’s chosen him as much as he chose them. 

So he breathes, steadies his hand, and writes the one that feels like all of him at once: 

Peter Benjamin Stark Parker. 

Peter sets the pen down, and for a second he just stares at the name. 

His name. 

His chest feels too full, too tight, like his ribs can’t contain everything inside him.

Tony leans in, trying to play it cool but absolutely failing. “Okay, kid. That’s... wow. That’s a name. That’s a statement. That’s- Pepper, help me, I’m having feelings.”

Pepper laughs softly, brushing a tear from her own cheek. “It’s perfect, sweetheart.”

He didn’t expect them to react like this, like he just gave them a gift. Like the name he chose means something to them too. And it does. He can see it in the way Tony’s jaw clenches, in the way Pepper’s hand trembles when she reaches for his.

The messy, overwhelming hug from earlier had been all adrenaline and shock, but this one comes slower, gentler, like something as natural as breathing. Peter melts into them, letting himself be held by his parents, letting the weight of the moment settle into his bones.

Tony presses a kiss to the top of his head then, quick, perfect Tony-style. Years ago, Peter had never imagined the genius could be so open to affection. Guess love really does things to you, crazy things. 

“I love you, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

He leans into Tony’s shoulder, eyes stinging again.

“I love you too, Dad.”

Pepper laughs softly on his other side, voice wet. “Hey, don’t forget me.”

Peter turns immediately, smooching a kiss on her cheek. “Never! I love you too, Mom.”

And as Peter lifts his head, face flushed, eyes shiny, something moves high above them in the sky. Like a white cloud, gliding as it catches the weakening rays of the sun. Nyctimene is watching.

And then he remembers.

“The camera,” he whispers.

He pulls back from Tony and Pepper, breathless and smiling. “I’ll be right back!”

He runs inside to his room. Rummaging about in a hurry, Peter finds and grabs the camera Tony gave him years ago for his birthday. His first birthday gift. 

Again, haven’t they come full circle?

As he returns with it clutched to his chest, Tony grins. “Ah, there it is. The vintage click‑box.”

Peter lifts it, eyes shining. “I want pictures. Of us. Of today. Of everything.”

Tony huffs a soft laugh. 

“You know FRIDAY is recording, right?” He asks, amused.

Peter knows. Of course he knows FRIDAY is probably capturing this from seventeen angles. But that’s not the point. The point is this: capturing the moment the way he always has, the way Uncle Ben taught him, the way Peter Parker sees the world. 

He adjusts the strap on his wrist, thumb brushing the shutter. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, “but this one’s mine.”

Tony shakes his head, smiling. 

“I’ll never understand this kid.”

But he does, and they both know it.

“Smile!”

Click.

...

Change is never a clean break or a single moment. You can't stare at it and notice it happening. It’s a slow accumulation of choices, losses, gains, loves. It’s the people who step into your life and tear you apart, but also the ones that pick you back up, that patch the holes and resew the sails and help replace the boards; that refuse to let you drift alone. 

It’s the Ship of Theseus problem made human: piece by piece, part by part, you become something new, yet somehow remain yourself. 

The world keeps trying to convince you that you must choose: one home, one identity, one version of who you’re allowed to be. Don’t let it. 

You belong to every world you’ve ever touched, every life you’ve lived, every hand that’s held yours steady. 

Change isn’t a betrayal of what came before; it’s an expansion of it. A layering. A continuation. Change is what you decide it means. 

Change is simply a matter of mind. 

I am the sail, the plank

The mast that breaks

And gets replaced

I am remade, repaired

Reshaped

But somehow still the same

Even after every cell in my body changed

I know my name

I know my name

I know my name

I know