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Peter had been preparing for four years to die alone. Happy, at last. At peace, with nothing but the stars to watch him.
He wasn't prepared to be held, to be loved, to be cried over. But when he jumped in front of that bullet, Jean held him like he was a child.
And god, did he feel like a kid again.
'Mister Stark, I don't wanna go. Please, sir, I don't wanna---'
Back then, he had things to live for. People to live for. But not anymore, not since he made them all forget him. Now, he welcomed the embrace of death.
"It's okay," he muttered, just like his Aunt did, once. Would she remember him, wherever people ended up after they died? "I'm okay."
"I wanted this", is what he didn't say. What he couldn't say. But he thought Jean might've heard it anyways. "I needed this."
"Shit!" He heard from far, far, away. That was Frank's voice. He hoped the man wouldn't blame himself. Or worse, Jean. She deserved a second chance at life so much more than he did.
"Peter, please, stay with me," Jean whispered. There were tears in her eyes and blood on her hands --- his blood, he realised --- and for a moment he felt guilty. "You can't do this to us, Peter, please."
"Jean, you gotta--- you gotta run. Please."
He heard footsteps thundering through the building. He saw Frank's blurry form. He heard yelling, arguing. Over him? That didn't make sense. Nobody remembered him. Nobody loved him. Nobody was left to argue over him.
Rough hands picked him up, cradled him. Peter let his head rest against Frank's shoulder and stared up at nothing.
He felt a strange warmth in his chest as he stopped breathing. Black spots filled his vision. A smile crept onto his face.
Was this peace?
Something that wasn't him was breathing.
Keeping him alive. Barely, but alive.
The streets of New York awoke, the people jolted from their trances.
They remembered Spider-man. Peter Parker.
Mysterio.
Why did they ever believe him over their saviour, over their hero, over the man --- the teenager --- who had sacrificed so much to keep them safe?
How had they ever forgotten?
The first thing Peter heard was the slow breathing of a man asleep next to him, and the steady beeping and whirring of machines.
Was he dead?
His eyes fluttered open, and he groaned at the light flooding his senses, removing his oxygen mask. Everything hurt. Peter looked to his left and saw who was sitting in the chair.
"...Frank?"
He heard the slow speeding up of the man's breathing. The Punisher woke with a start and stared at him.
"Peter," he breathed.
He stilled, clenching his fists. "How do you know my name?"
"Peter," the man repeated. "You... you're Stark's kid."
His heart sank. "What?"
"How did I forget? What happened, kid?"
"No..." Peter saw a number on the vital signs monitor increase as his heartrate sped up. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Doctor Strange said... he said---"
"The fuck does that quack have to do with this?" Frank crossed his arms, never once looking away from him. "Kid, you died. Your heart stopped, that--- that telepath was the only thing that brought you back. And now the whole world remembers a guy that's been a blank hole in our brains for years!"
He gulped, looking away and staring at the yellow curtains. Looking anywhere but the man who had questions he couldn't answer.
Luckily, he was spared by the sound of the door opening. He glanced over and saw none other than Stephen Strange rushing in, freezing when he saw him.
"Peter!"
"Hi, sir," he whispered.
The man made a beeline for his bed and placed his hands on the bed, leaning forward. "I thought I told you to call me Stephen."
That was what did it. Peter let out a broken sob, curling forward and putting his head in his hands. Fat tears trailed down his cheeks. "You remember, you--- you all remember?"
"Yes, Peter. We do. And I am so sorry that we ever forgot."
"It was my fault. If I had never trusted Quentin, then... then---"
"Quentin Beck was a madman. How any of New York ever believed his lies about you is beyond me. But he was manipulative, Peter. You couldn't have known." The doctor took Peter's hand in his own and squeezed it lightly.
Frank's eyes were drifting between the two of them. "You mind giving this old man a bit of context?"
"Later," Stephen snapped. "Our priority right now should be making sure Peter is alright."
"Sir- I mean, Stephen?" Peter whispered. At the man's nod, he continued. "Do they still hate me?"
He saw Frank's glare soften. "Why don't you see for yourself, kid?" The man stood up from his chair, walked over and opened the curtain. Meanwhile, Stephen helped him get to his feet and put a steady hand on his back as he hobbled over to the window.
Peter wiped his wet eyes, peered down, and found himself wanting to cry again.
On the ground, surrounding the hospital doors, was a crowd of people --- hundreds, at least --- all dressed as him. As Spider-man. They held balloons, and 'get well soon' posters, and donned replicas of his mask.
"Does that answer your question?" Frank asked, a fond smile on his face.
Peter nodded, finding himself beaming, too. "Yeah, yeah, it does."
Behind them, the door opened again. A nurse poked his head in, covering his eyes sheepishly when he saw Peter out bed without his mask, before seemingly remembering that everybody knew he was Spider-man already. He lowered his hand from his eyes slowly.
"Um, there's these two teens out in the hallway claiming to know Mister Parker?"
Frank sighed. "Is it a short guy with glasses and a girl with a terrifying death-glare?"
He stepped back and glanced down the hallway, shrinking back after a moment. "Uh, yep."
"Let them through, they're good."
The nurse gave a thumbs up and stepped out of the room again, holding the door open for Ned and MJ to come running in.
"Peter!" They cried in unison.
MJ rushed forward and enveloped him in a bear hug. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I didn't remember you, and you came and found me and I love---"
He cut her off with a gentle kiss, holding her close. Stephen grumbled something about stupid teenage love, and Frank laughed. "I knew it, she is something to you."
"Shut up, Frank, let me have this," Peter snapped, with no real malice. He turned his attention to Ned, who had tears in his eyes.
"Can I still be your guy in the chair?"
"Yeah, Ned, of course."
His best friend rushed over and pulled him and MJ into a really cheesy group hug. "I missed you guys so much," he muttered, tears welling up in his eyes again.
"I'm so glad you're back," Ned whispered, holding him tight as if he was worried Peter might disappear. Which, he realised, Ned probably was. They'd lost each other for four years, and neither MJ or Ned had known.
"I'm sorry."
"We nearly lost you, Peter," MJ said softly into his shoulder. "But it's alright now. We'll be alright."
Peter had to stay in the hospital overnight for monitoring. That, and he had to wait until some of the crowd dispersed so that he could sneak out the back.
Stephen left shortly after explaining the situation to Frank, apologising profusely to Peter and wishing him well.
Ned and MJ stayed for hours, before being sent home so they could get some sleep.
Which left Frank.
"So, that telepath."
Peter narrowed his eyes at him, tilting his head. "She has a name, you know."
"Right." Frank sighed, gesturing to nothing in particular. "Well, Jean told me your mind was a hot mess."
"Ouch."
"Kid." The man stared at him with an indecipherable expression. "You wanna tell me why the last thoughts Jean got from you were that you were fuckin'--- glad to die?"
Peter looked down at his hands laying in his lap, and leaned back further against the hospital bed. He really didn't wanna talk about that.
"C'mon, Frank, I had nothing. No one."
"You had me."
"You're not listening to me. I lost everything, I was alone for years! I had nothing to live for so why would I want to?" He let out a shaky breath. "I didn't think the spell would ever be reversed. I thought that was the end of it. I'd die, and none of the people I used to love would care."
"Jesus, kid." Frank ran a hand down his face. "Let me tell you, I think that Jean was on to something."
He scowled. "I'm not a mess, or whatever you or her or--- or anyone wants to call it! I was alone! You were a teammate at best, you didn't know me. You still don't!"
Frank seemed conflicted. "I guess I don't. But that's because you never let me in, kid. How am I supposed to help if you don't let me know you?"
Peter sent silent for a second, losing the venom from before. "I'm sorry." He looked away. "I was scared that... that I'd lose you too, if I got too close. Fate's cruel like that."
"Oh, come on, none of that fate bullshit, you're too good a kid to wallow in your misery. You have people who care about you now."
"That doesn't change the last four years," he muttered.
"I know it doesn't. I know loneliness, I know loss, but I know that if anyone can get through it, you can. You're the toughest kid I know."
"I'm not a kid, Frank. I'm 22."
"Eh. Still a kid."
"Frank," he whined, crossing his arms.
The man leaned back in his chair and kicked his legs up onto the edge of the hospital bed.
"Peter."
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're with us."
When Peter was finally well enough to go out as Spider-man again, he was terrified.
What if New York hated him, and the hospital was just a fluke?
What if they still believed Mysterio?
His worries were quelled when he was greeted with yells and cheers as soon as he swung into view of the streets.
"Thank you, Spider-man!"
"We're sorry, Spider-man!"
But, best of all, was the cried,
"We love you, Peter!" From MJ, hands cupped around her mouth as she poked her head out of Delmar's Deli, Ned waving excitedly from next to her.
She was right; he'd be okay.