Chapter Text
Wednesday, July 1st
It isn't often Peter knows so wholeheartedly and indisputably that he fucked up.
There are times when he wishes he'd done stuff differently, taken a different path, been a little smarter in how he approached a problem. Even with the incident with Toomes and the Ferry—perhaps one of the biggest blunders of his career—he still refuses to believe he shoulders the sole blame. Tony could've—should've done things smarter, too. He should've trusted Peter, communicated with him, and maybe things wouldn't have escalated as disastrously as a fiery plane crash.
Peter won't deny that he's stubborn. That being said, though… He fucked up. Really bad.
After waking up yesterday, he spent his entire day patrolling, from six in the morning until—well, until now. He hasn't slept, and the fatigue is showing in his every movement. It's noticeable how much slower his reaction time is than normal, and a few of his webs have been shot an inch or two off-target. Work is a necessary distraction, however, and he fears the moment he stops, goes home, and tries to shut his eyes, everything is going to come crashing down on him, and he won't be able to pull himself back to his feet.
He needs to tell Tony what happened. And he will, just… later, when he thinks he'll be able to get through the entire explanation without hyperventilating. Because as much as he wants to believe what the girl in his dreams told him isn't true, as much as he wants to stop seeing her and being reminded of his time in the arena, and as much as he wants to believe Rowan is gone and no longer a threat, he can't. This isn't something he can close his eyes against and wish away. Life is too cruel to let him off that easy, and he was foolish to think someone like Rowan would just up and disappear in the first place.
The worst part is that he knew all of this, but he still turned around and walked away from the girl. Everything suggests that she's trying to help him, and what did Peter do?
He fled.
That isn't him. Peter is never one to back down from a fight, especially not one as important and destructive as this. He has a feeling that whatever Rowan is planning—the plan that the girl somehow wants him to figure out with the snap of his fingers—is a lot bigger than him, or even New York City as a whole. It's his responsibility to protect the people, not shy away from something that might put their lives in danger.
"You're letting your memories control you," the girl told him.
It was in reference to his mind trying to pull him away from her, back to his own nightmarish subconscious to restore balance to his psyche, but Peter thinks it's more than that. He's letting his history dictate his future. Fear is driving his actions, steering him in a direction shrouded in cowardice and trauma, and as much as he doesn't want to admit it, the only infallible way to overcome it is to finish this for good. And to do that, he needs help—from the girl, from Tony, from anybody willing to pitch in.
Who knows if he'll get another chance to talk to her? After all, she's dead. They've already broken the laws of the universe by communicating even just once. At some point, the universe will seek to restore what's unnatural with what's right and proper.
It isn't until he almost gets shot in the face on patrol by a robber with a .380 that he realizes running on these scarce of fumes is a death wish. His spider sense is an instinct, but it is still in tune with the rest of his body. It's impossible for Peter to be on the brink of collapse and for his senses to function at maximum capacity. The encounter with the robber startles him enough that he decides to call it a night, and he swings back to the tower, muscles creaking and eyes half-lidded.
Tony is in the living room when he gets home. He's got a tablet propped on his right side, probably with Peter's vitals pulled up, while he types on his laptop. As Peter stumbles to the fridge to get a drink, the man says, without even glancing at him, "Long patrol."
"Mhm," Peter mumbles, fighting back a yawn.
"Any reason why?"
Peter grabs a water bottle and takes a long sip. He scrunches the plastic so the water almost overflows. The lie is on the tip of his tongue.
Instead, all that comes out is a weak, "I messed up, Mr. Stark."
Tony stares at him for a moment, then closes his laptop. "What happened?" he asks, concerned.
Peter closes his eyes when they start to burn and draws in a shaky breath. "I—I messed up," he says again. He sets the bottle aside and grips the countertop with enough strength for him to feel it stress under his fingertips.
Before Peter can process it, Tony is off the couch and right beside him. "Kid," he says softly. "Talk to me."
Shaking his head, Peter struggles to find where to begin.
It only dawns on him right then that he doesn't even know the girl's name. And he thinks there's a manic kind of irony in that, for someone who won’t leave his head, she’s still a complete stranger.