Archive of Our Own

four years after the world forgets him, peter parker becomes very good at speaking hypothetically.

hypothetically, an organism altered by arachnid dna might begin expressing dormant traits years after the initial mutation.

hypothetically, prolonged social isolation could destabilize the balance between the organism’s human endocrine system and its altered genetic material.

hypothetically, the resulting increase in sensory perception might cause migraines, insomnia, irritability, and episodes of defensive aggression severe enough to override conscious judgment.

hypothetically, its eyes might turn entirely black.

peter rehearses the questions until they no longer sound like a confession.

he writes them in the margins of a borrowed physics textbook, disguising molecular pathways between notes on quantum mechanics and field equations. he removes anything that sounds too personal. changes my hearing to auditory sensitivity. changes when someone threatens a person i care about to during a perceived territorial threat.

by the time he reaches empire state university, the questions look almost academic.

the physics building is quieter than the rest of campus in the late afternoon. most of the students have already left, leaving the corridors filled with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional closing door. rain gathers against the tall windows, turning the brick courtyard outside into blurred shades of red and grey.

peter stands outside dr. banner’s office with both hands wrapped around the straps of his backpack.

a typed schedule is taped beside the door.

1. bruce banner

   advanced theoretical physics
   office hours: tuesday and thursday, 3:00 pm – 5:00 pm

peter checks the time.

4:47.

late enough that there should not be many students left. early enough that approaching him will not look unusual.

he knocks twice.

“come in,” bruce calls from inside.

peter opens the door.

bruce sits behind a desk crowded with papers, three open textbooks, and a ceramic mug filled with pens instead of coffee. equations cover the whiteboard behind him, some written neatly in blue marker and others added in black at angles that suggest they occurred to him halfway through something else.

he looks up from the paper he is grading.

“office hours are almost over,” bruce says, setting his pen beside the page. “but you have a few minutes.”

peter steps inside and closes the door gently behind him.

“thank you, professor,” peter replies.

bruce gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “which class are you in?”

peter sits without removing his backpack. “i’m not.”

bruce’s eyebrows lift.

“not officially,” peter amends, rubbing his thumb across the frayed edge of one strap. “i’ve watched a few of your lectures.”

“from where?” bruce asks.

“the hallway.”

bruce studies him for a moment before leaning back in his chair. the old wood creaks beneath his weight.

“all right,” he says. “what’s your name?”

the answer peter prepared still catches in his throat.

“ned,” peter replies. the name hurts more than he expects.

bruce reaches for a blank sheet of paper. “last name?”

“just ned is fine.”

the pen stops above the page.

peter forces himself not to shift beneath the silence. bruce looks at him, then places the untouched paper aside without asking again.

“what can i help you with, ned?” bruce asks.

peter opens the textbook across his lap. several loose pages sit between the chapters, covered in cramped handwriting and hastily drawn molecular structures.

before he can begin, the cuff of bruce’s left sleeve shifts as the professor reaches for his mug.

a narrow device circles his forearm. 

matte black metal rests flush against the skin just below his elbow, interrupted by a thin strip of green light that pulses once before dimming. the design is too specific to be commercial and too clean to be improvised. peter recognizes the spacing of the contact points, the biometric sensors embedded beneath the casing, and the careful absence of anything that might inhibit movement.

the question leaves him before he can reconsider it.

“can i ask what that is?” peter asks, nodding toward bruce’s arm.

bruce follows his gaze. instead of covering the device, he rolls his sleeve back another inch. the green line brightens beneath the office lights.

“this?” bruce asks.

peter nods.

“it’s an inhibitor,” bruce replies. he says it plainly, as though explaining a wristwatch rather than something designed to hold back enough gamma radiation to level the building.

peter leans forward despite himself. “you built it?”

“i helped,” bruce says, turning his wrist until a small display becomes visible along the inner edge. “a few people contributed.”

peter does not have to ask which people. the precise machining carries traces of stark design, though it is quieter than anything tony usually builds. functional rather than theatrical.

the thought of tony settles beneath peter’s ribs before he can stop it.

he looks down at the device again.

“does it get rid of him?” peter asks.

bruce’s expression changes almost imperceptibly. his thumb rests against the edge of the inhibitor, not activating it, only acknowledging its presence.

“no,” bruce answers. “it isn’t meant to.”

the radiator beneath the window clicks as it cools. outside, a gust of wind sends rain scattering across the courtyard, forcing two students beneath the narrow awning near the building entrance.

“then what does it do?” peter asks.

bruce lets his sleeve fall, though the green light remains faintly visible beneath the fabric.

“it suppresses the physiological cascade that brings him forward when i don’t want him to be,” bruce explains. “it gives me enough time to make a choice.”

peter watches the light pulse once beneath the cotton. 

he expects something different. a cure, a restraint, a prison locked around bruce’s arm. instead, the device looks almost ordinary. something bruce puts on each morning with his watch and removes when he sleeps.

“i spent a long time trying to get rid of him,” bruce says, folding his hands loosely on the desk. “i thought becoming one person meant erasing whichever half frightened me most.”

peter looks up. a small, tired smile touches bruce’s mouth.

“turns out i was already one person,” bruce adds.

the words remain between them.

peter lowers his attention to the textbook, pressing his palm flat against its open pages.

“hypothetically,” he begins.

bruce inclines his head. “hypothetically.”

“if someone wanted to design an inhibitor,” peter says, choosing each word carefully, “but didn’t want to suppress everything the mutation gave them, would the same principle work?”

bruce doesn’t reach for the blank paper again.

“what kind of mutation?” he asks.

“genetic.”

“as are most mutations.”

peter traces one finger beneath a line in his notebook.

“nonhuman dna introduced into a human organism.”

bruce’s face remains neutral. “what kind of nonhuman dna?”

peter hesitates.

“arachnid,” he answers.

the radiator ticks again. bruce glances once toward the closed office door before returning his attention to peter.

“what kind of arachnid?” bruce asks.

“does the species matter?”

“if you want a useful answer, it usually does.”

peter looks toward the rain-streaked window. “a spider.”

bruce remains still.

peter continues before the silence grows heavy enough to become suspicion.

“hypothetically, the mutation initially increases strength, reflexes, healing, sensory perception, coordination, and adhesion,” peter explains. “the subject adapts. everything remains relatively stable for several years.”

“and then it doesn’t,” bruce says.

it isn’t phrased as a question. 

peter tightens his grip on the edge of the book.

“the sensory traits begin increasing first,” he says. “hearing, smell, visual processing. normal environments become difficult to tolerate.”

bruce reaches for his pen but does not write anything.

“how difficult?” he asks.

“multiple conversations become impossible to separate,” peter answers. “electrical currents are audible through walls. subway brakes can be heard from several blocks away. heartbeats…”

he pauses, choosing the least revealing version of the truth.

“heartbeats become distracting,” peter finishes.

“painful?” bruce asks.

“sometimes.”

“headaches?”

peter nods before remembering the conversation is supposed to be hypothetical.

“possibly,” he corrects.

bruce’s gaze lingers on his face.

“what else?” the professor asks.

peter looks down at the diagrams hidden between the textbook’s chapters.

“heightened aggression,” he says.

rain presses more heavily against the windows.

“general aggression?” bruce asks.

“defensive.”

“toward threats against the organism?”

peter’s thumb moves along the edge of the page.

“or people it has bonded with,” he replies.

bruce turns the pen once between his fingers.

“territorial behavior,” he observes.

“not exactly.”

“protective behavior, then.”

peter says nothing. bruce waits.

peter hates how good he is at that. no pushing, no accusation, only a quiet space that becomes harder to hide inside the longer it remains open.

“the response is disproportionate,” peter admits. “the subject doesn’t just want to stop the threat. it wants to eliminate it.”

bruce’s pen becomes still.

“does the subject remain conscious during these episodes?” he asks.

“yes.”

“does he remember them afterward?”

“everything,” peter answers. the word leaves too quickly. 

he looks toward the window.

students cross the courtyard beneath umbrellas. their shoes strike wet pavement. a bicycle chain rattles near the rack below. somewhere on the floor above, someone drags a chair across tile. the elevator motor strains behind two walls, carrying three people toward the lobby while one complains about an exam and another unwraps a piece of peppermint gum.

each sound arrives separately. each one demands his attention.

bruce notices the direction of his gaze.

“how long has the sensory increase been happening?” he asks.

peter turns back toward him. “hypothetically?”

“of course,” bruce replies.

“a few months.”

“and the aggression?”

“more recently.”

“has the subject injured anyone?”

peter presses his thumb into the side of his index finger.

“no.”

“come close?”

the bar mirror flashes through his mind. black eyes. a stranger’s throat beneath his hand. the pulse beating there.

peter remembers how easy it would have been. how little pressure he would have needed. how the man’s friends froze around them because something in peter’s face told them he was no longer the smaller person in the fight.

“yes,” peter answers.

bruce looks down at the untouched paper beside his hand.

“you mentioned physical changes,” he says.

peter’s shoulders tighten. “did i?”

“you said certain traits were becoming more pronounced.”

“right.”

bruce waits again.

peter looks at the green light beneath the professor’s sleeve.

“the eyes change,” he says eventually.

“how?”

“the pupils expand.”

“from adrenaline?” bruce asks.

“past the iris.”

bruce’s expression remains carefully neutral.

“the sclera?” he asks.

peter nods.

“entirely black?”

the question is quiet. peter closes the textbook.

“hypothetically,” he says.

bruce sets the pen on the desk. for several seconds, neither of them speaks. the office continues around them. rain moves down the glass. the radiator releases another soft metallic click. the clock near the whiteboard advances with a nearly inaudible movement that sounds much louder to peter than it should.

bruce leans back.

“what does the hypothetical subject want?” he asks.

peter looks at him.

“an inhibitor.”

“for the mutation?”

“for the increased expression.”

“without suppressing the beneficial traits,” bruce says.

“ideally.”

bruce’s attention drops to the textbook. “you brought something with you.”

peter doesn’t ask how he knows. 

he opens the cover and removes the loose pages, smoothing them once against his knee before placing them on the corner of the desk.

protein structures cover the first sheet. receptor pathways fill the second. the third contains a proposed model for suppressing hormonal expression without interfering with neuromuscular function. equations crowd the margins between tightly packed notes, sections crossed out so many times the paper has gone soft beneath the graphite.

bruce does not reach for them immediately. instead, he watches peter.

the office settles around them. somewhere down the corridor, a classroom door opens, followed by the muffled conversation of students filtering toward the stairwell. the sound fades as quickly as it comes.

only then does bruce pull the first page toward himself. he reads without interruption.

peter watches the movement of his eyes instead of the equations. they slow at the receptor diagrams, pause over the endocrine pathways, then stop entirely at a paragraph written smaller than everything around it.

social isolation as environmental pressure?

bruce turns the page. then another. he doesn’t skim; he studies each line as though the order matters. eventually, he places the stack back on the desk with the same care peter used setting it down.

“you wrote these,” bruce says. it is not a question.

peter rubs his thumb against the worn backpack strap.

“hypothetically,” he answers.

something close to amusement touches bruce’s face.

“hypothetically,” bruce repeats.

the expression disappears almost immediately. he taps one finger beside the note about isolation.

“why this variable?” bruce asks.

peter follows his gaze.

“social species change under prolonged isolation,” he explains. “hormones shift. sleep cycles change. aggression can increase.”

bruce nods once. “they can.”

“some spiders do too,” peter says.

bruce reaches absently for the ceramic mug beside the papers before remembering it is filled with dry-erase markers. he studies it for a second, mildly disappointed, before returning it to the desk.

“what made the hypothetical subject consider isolation?” he asks.

peter watches rain bead along the edge of the window frame.

“because nothing else changed. the mutation was stable,” peter continues. “for years.”

“and then?”

“then the subject spent an extended period alone.”

“how extended?”

peter’s fingers tighten on the backpack strap.

“four years,” he answers.

bruce’s gaze lifts.

“without meaningful social contact?”

the question settles too close to the truth.

peter thinks about the apartment. eating dinner over the sink because there is no one to sit across from. waking to an empty room every morning and returning to one every night. listening to ned’s voice through the wall of a coffee shop without stepping inside. watching mj leave work beneath someone else’s umbrella.

he thinks about you.

your window lit high above the city. your silhouette passing behind the curtains while peter remains crouched on a rooftop three buildings away, telling himself that seeing you alive should be enough.

“mostly,” he says.

bruce looks down at the pages again.

“this inhibitor suppresses everything,” he observes.

peter nods. “that was the idea.”

“was?”

peter’s attention returns to the device beneath bruce’s sleeve.

“i don’t want to get rid of it,” he admits. “the mutation saved the subject’s life. it lets him help people. it lets him reach places no one else can and hear things no one else notices.” his finger follows one of the pathways he has drawn. “it isn’t bad,” peter continues. “just parts of it.”

“the parts that make him stop feeling like himself,” bruce says.

peter looks up. bruce turns the third page around and taps a smaller note peter has nearly crossed out.

selective regulation.

“this is where i’d start,” bruce says.

peter leans forward. “because it leaves the rest intact?”

“because the mutation isn’t necessarily the problem.”

bruce rests one hand lightly over the papers.

“don’t build an inhibitor to erase part of yourself,” he says. “build one that lets you stay yourself.”

peter does not realize he has been holding his breath until it leaves him.

for the first time in months, the hypothetical does not feel impossible.

it feels like the beginning of an answer.

—

the headaches begin with queens.

not the place itself. you have been to queens often enough that the borough should not feel different from the rest of new york—too many cars pressed into streets too narrow for them, voices rising from open storefronts, apartment windows glowing above laundromats and corner markets.

nothing about it should make pressure gather behind your eyes.

still, every time the word appears in a mission report, pain settles beneath your temples.

it starts as a pulse. then a tightening. then the brief, disorienting certainty that you have forgotten something important.

you never remember what.

the first time it happens, you sit beside your father in one of the conference rooms at the avengers facility. a holographic map of the city hangs above the table, blue light washing over scattered files and half-empty coffee cups left from the morning briefing.

“queens took the worst of the damage,” sam says from the opposite side of the table, moving two fingers across the projection to enlarge the eastern edge of the city. “but emergency crews have most of it contained.”

your father hums without looking up from the tablet in his hands.

“friendly neighborhood spider-kid got there before the fire department,” tony remarks.

the pain strikes before the sentence is finished.

you press two fingers against your temple, pretending to study the map while something bright flickers at the edge of your vision.

a rooftop beneath a summer sky.

red fabric moving beside you.

a young voice laughing.

you turn toward him.

his face is missing.

not blurred. not hidden beneath a mask. missing.

there is only sunlight where his features should be.

the memory collapses before you can speak.

the conference room returns with a suddenness that makes your stomach turn. sam is still talking. rhodey taps a pen against his legal pad. your father has moved on to complaining about property damage as though the last few seconds never happen.

you lower your hand. tony notices anyway.

his gaze shifts from the tablet to your face. it lasts only a moment, but you know that look. he has worn it since you were old enough to climb onto his workbench and young enough to believe the arc reactor was a night-light built especially for you.

he waits until the meeting ends.

the others file out in pieces, carrying tablets and cold coffee with them. sam pauses to speak with rhodey near the door. your father remains where he is, one hand resting against the edge of the table while the hologram dissolves into pale fragments between you.

“headache?” tony asks.

you pick up your phone, though there is nothing on the screen worth reading.

“just tired,” you reply.

“you slept nine hours.”

you glance up at him. “are you monitoring my sleep now?”

“friday monitors everything,” tony answers, as though that somehow improves the situation.

“that’s worse.”

“you’ve been getting them a lot.”

“i’ve had three.”

“you’ve had seven,” he corrects.

your mouth closes. tony raises his eyebrows.

“friday,” you say toward the ceiling, “betrayal is an ugly color on you.”

“i’m sorry,” the ai replies, sounding not remotely sorry.

your father circles the table and stops beside you. the sharp smell of coffee clings to his shirt, mixed with metal and the faint smoke that follows him from the workshop no matter how many ventilation systems he installs.

“banner’s gonna looking at you,” tony says.

“absolutely not.”

“that sounded like a challenge.”

“it was a refusal.”

“same thing in this family.”

you slide your phone into your pocket and move toward the door.

“i’m fine,” you insist.

his hand closes lightly around your upper arm before you pass him. not enough to stop you by force. just enough to make you stop yourself.

when you look back, the humor has left his face.

“you don’t have to be dying for me to worry,” tony says.

the words land more gently than you expect. you look toward the empty chairs and the abandoned coffee ring someone has left on the table.

“they’re just headaches,” you murmur.

“then banner tells me they’re just headaches.”

you exhale through your nose. arguing with your father becomes pointless once fear works its way beneath the sarcasm.

“fine,” you concede.

his grip loosens immediately.

“tomorrow,” tony says.

“next week.”

“tomorrow.”

“you’re impossible.”

“it’s genetic,” he replies.

you leave before he can see the reluctant smile pulling at your mouth.

the hallway outside is quiet, emptied by the end of the briefing. sunlight stretches through the tall windows in pale rectangles across the floor, interrupted by the long shadows of support beams and potted plants someone keeps replacing after every attack.

you make it halfway to the elevator before the pain returns.

this time, there is no rooftop. only a voice.

“you always do that.”

young, warm, amused. close enough that for one impossible second, you expect to feel breath against your cheek.

you turn.

the hallway is empty.

—

bruce finds nothing.

he runs the scans twice, then a third time because your father stands behind him with both hands braced against the back of his chair, staring at the monitors as though suspicion alone might force them to reveal something useful.

“neurological activity is normal,” bruce says, enlarging an image of your brain while you sit on the edge of the examination table. “no swelling, no lesions, no abnormal electrical patterns.”

tony leans closer to the monitor.

“you said normal too quickly,” he accuses.

“that’s generally what people want to hear,” bruce replies.

“normal is suspicious.”

“only to you.”

the lab continues around them while they argue. machines hum beneath the counters. a centrifuge turns softly somewhere behind you. rain taps against the high windows, blurring the compound grounds into dull greens and grey pavement.

you rub the small adhesive mark near your temple.

“so i can go?” you ask.

“not yet,” tony answers before bruce can.

bruce gives him a tired look, then turns back to you.

“have you noticed any triggers?” bruce asks.

“lack of patience.”

“helpful,” your father mutters.

you look toward the rain crawling down the glass.

“sometimes places,” you admit. “certain words.”

bruce reaches for a tablet. “what kind of words?”

“queens.”

your father’s expression changes.

you notice because you have spent your entire life learning the small differences between every version of his silence. this one is brief, but not empty. something passes through it—confusion, maybe, or the uncomfortable recognition that a piece of information has failed to settle where it belongs.

bruce notices too.

“anything else?” he asks.

you hesitate.

“spider-man,” you answer.

the name feels strange in your mouth. 

not unfamiliar, but the opposite. too familiar.

the ache begins behind your eyes before you finish saying it. you press your thumb into your temple and wait for the room to steady.

“there,” tony says, pointing toward you as though bruce might have missed it. “that.”

“i see it,” bruce replies.

he steps closer to the examination table and lowers his voice.

“what happens when you hear his name?” he asks.

you close your eyes.

red gloves.

a hand reaching for yours.

the view from somewhere too high above the city.

someone sitting beside you on the floor of a workshop, knees drawn up, face turned away before you can see him.

“flashes,” you admit.

tony straightens. “flashes of what?”

“i don’t know.”

you open your eyes. both men watch you.

“they disappear too fast,” you add.

“memories?” bruce asks.

“they don’t feel like mine.”

that’s not quite true. they feel more like yours than most things do.

that is what frightens you.

—

the question about spider-man settles into the back of your mind and refuses to leave.

you know the story everyone knows.

your father recruits him before the fight in germany. he gives him a suit built with technology advanced enough to make several governments deeply uncomfortable. he brings him into battles beside people with decades of training. he trusts him with civilians, with missions, with you.

but he doesn’t know his name. at least, that is what he claims.

you wait until evening to ask.

tony is in the workshop, bent over the open housing of a damaged repulsor. music plays quietly through the speakers, though he has paused the same song often enough that it hasn’t reached the final verse in nearly an hour.

you sit on the edge of the workbench beside him, moving a screwdriver out of the path of his elbow.

“how did you meet spider-man?” you ask.

he keeps his attention on the repulsor.

“the internet,” tony replies.

“seriously.”

“seriously. the internet has everything. cat videos, conspiracy theories, teenagers committing felonies in homemade pajamas.”

“you recruited him from a video?”

“there were several videos.”

you watch his hands work. he removes a narrow strip of scorched wiring, places it beside the tools, then reaches blindly toward you.

you pass him the pliers before he asks. his fingers close around them automatically.

“did you know who he was?” you ask.

the movement stops. only for a fraction of a second, then he continues.

“the kid wore a mask,” tony answers.

“you gave classified stark technology to someone whose name you didn’t know.”

“i’ve made worse decisions.”

“not many.”

tony looks up at that. you hold his gaze, waiting.

behind him, one of the robotic arms shifts a tray of tools to the opposite side of the room. the low music starts again, filling the silence with guitar before tony pauses it again.

“what’s this about?” he asks.

“it doesn’t make sense.”

“most of my life doesn’t make sense.”

“you don’t trust anyone.”

“i trust people.”

“you ran a background check on my dentist.”

“he had bad reviews.”

“yeah, for parking.”

“patterns matter,” tony says.

you slide off the workbench and lean against it instead.

“you brought spider-man into our lives,” you say. “you trusted him around me.”

tony looks down at the repulsor.

“apparently,” he replies. the word is quieter than the rest.

your chest tightens.

“you don’t remember.”

his jaw shifts.

“i remember recruiting him.”

“do you?”

he reaches for another tool, finds nothing, then looks at the empty space beside his hand as though the absence surprises him. you pick up the wrench near your hip and hold it out.

he doesn’t take it.

“dad.”

“i remember the apartment,” tony says eventually. “i remember talking to his aunt.”

“what was her name?”

the question hangs between you. his eyes narrow, not at you but at something beyond your shoulder. searching.

you know that look. it is the same one he wears when an equation refuses to balance.

“i don’t know,” he admits.

you lower the wrench.

“what did he look like?”

tony’s gaze shifts toward yours.

the workshop feels suddenly too large. every monitor continues glowing. every machine remains where it belongs. still, the air changes around the question, thinning until the smallest sounds become clear—the cooling tick of metal, the ventilation system moving overhead, rainwater slipping through gutters outside.

“i don’t know,” he repeats.

this time, the pain arrives hard enough to make your vision darken. 

you catch the edge of the workbench. your father is beside you before the wrench strikes the floor. one hand closes around your elbow while the other steadies the back of your neck.

“hey,” tony says. “sit down.”

you hear him, but the workshop has already disappeared.

you are somewhere else. somewhere smaller, warmer.

someone crouches in front of you, both hands holding yours between them.

“look at me,” he says.

you try. the memory won’t allow it.

his face is a blur against the light, every feature erased except the shape of dark hair falling across his forehead.

“i’m right here,” he murmurs.

your chest breaks around the sound of his voice.

then the workshop returns.

you are sitting on the floor with your back against the workbench. your father kneels in front of you, one hand cupping the side of your face.

“what did you see?” tony asks.

you try to answer. the memory is already slipping.

“someone,” you whisper.

—

the dreams worsen after that.

they come every night, pulling you through moments without beginnings or endings.

you sit in the passenger seat of a car while someone drums nervous fingers against the steering wheel.

you share cold noodles from the same carton on a rooftop.

you stand in a bedroom decorated with model kits and old science posters while rain strikes the fire escape outside.

you dance badly in a kitchen while someone laughs into your shoulder.

every memory holds the same absence. a boy whose hands you know, a voice your body recognizes before your mind can place it, a face that disappears whenever you turn toward it.

sometimes you wake with tears already cooling against your temples. 

sometimes you wake with your hand reaching across the empty half of the bed.

by morning, the details fade, but the loss remains. it follows you through breakfast, through meetings, through long afternoons spent pretending to read while your gaze drifts toward doors for no reason you can explain.

you begin keeping notes.

red sleeve.

web pattern.

rooftop.

coffee too sweet.

“you’re staring,” pepper says.

you look up from the notebook.

she stands across the kitchen island with one hand wrapped around a mug of tea. morning light catches in her hair and in the thin steam rising between you. she looks tired, though she always hides it better than your father does.

you close the notebook halfway.

“thinking,” you reply.

“dangerous habit.”

“you’ve been spending too much time with him.”

pepper smiles faintly before glancing toward the page.

“more headaches?” she asks.

you nod.

pepper circles the island and sits beside you. she does not ask to see the notebook. she waits, tracing one finger along the rim of her mug while the coffee machine hisses behind you.

“do you ever feel like someone is missing?” you ask.

her hand stills.

“from where?”

“everywhere.”

the answer sounds ridiculous once it exists outside your head. you look toward the windows instead, watching clouds move between the towers beyond the glass.

“i keep having these memories,” you continue. “except they’re not complete. there’s always someone there, but i can’t see him.”

“him?” pepper asks.

you nod. pepper considers that quietly.

“does he feel familiar?”

“more than familiar.” the ache builds beneath your ribs, not your head this time. 

“it feels like i loved him,” you admit.

pepper’s breath catches so softly you nearly miss it. when you turn, she stares down into her tea.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing.”

“that wasn’t nothing.”

she presses her lips together before looking at you.

“sometimes i feel like there are things i should remember too,” pepper says.

your pulse stutters.

“about spider-man?”

pepper’s gaze shifts toward the window.

that is answer enough.

—

peter returns to bruce’s office the following tuesday.

he nearly doesn’t.

the inhibitor design waits in his backpack, changed in twelve places since their first conversation. he removes the global suppression model, isolates the endocrine pathways associated with sensory amplification and aggression, and recalculates the dosage until the numbers blur beneath another sleepless sunrise.

bruce has written three comments in the margin of the paper peter leaves with him.

none ask who he is. peter decides that is why he returns.

he arrives at 4:32 this time. a student is already inside the office asking about an exam, forcing peter to wait near the window at the end of the hall.

the building is louder in the afternoon.

a professor lectures behind the wall to his right. two students argue quietly near the elevator. someone on the floor below drops a metal water bottle, and the sharp impact travels through the building hard enough to make peter’s jaw tighten.

he presses two fingers against the base of his skull.

the headaches start there now.

pressure beneath the bone. heat moving behind his eyes. every sound gaining a sharper edge until the city seems to exist inside his head rather than beyond it.

the office door opens. the student exits with a stack of papers clutched to her chest. she passes peter without looking at him.

bruce appears in the doorway.

“ned,” he greets.

peter pushes away from the window.

“professor,” he replies.

bruce steps aside.

peter hears your heartbeat before he enters.

he stops.

the rhythm is familiar enough that his body recognizes it before thought can interfere. steady, slightly quickened by the stairs, accompanied by the rustle of paper and the scent of rainwater drying in your hair.

four years disappear.

for one impossible second, peter expects to step inside and find you waiting for him the way you used to—one leg folded beneath you, his coffee cooling beside your hand, a complaint already prepared about how late he is.

then he remembers.

you don’t know him.

peter keeps one hand around the doorframe.

“something wrong?” bruce asks.

“no,” peter replies. the lie sounds thin.

he enters.

you sit in the chair across from bruce’s desk with your notebook open against your knee. one of your father’s old hoodies hangs loosely around you, the sleeves pushed above your wrists. you look up when peter crosses the threshold.

the breath leaves you. peter hears it.

he hears the sudden acceleration of your heartbeat. the minute movement of your fingers against the page. the swallow that catches in your throat when your eyes settle on his face.

he knows he should leave.

instead, he stands beside the door with rain dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

“you’re early,” bruce tells you.

“my father tried to follow me,” you reply, though your attention remains on peter. “i took the scenic route.”

“did it work?”

“for now.”

bruce closes the folder beside his elbow.

“this is ned,” he says, gesturing toward peter. “he’s been consulting with me on a research problem.”

the name makes peter’s stomach tighten.

you look at him more closely.

“ned,” you repeat.

“hi,” peter says. his voice breaks slightly around the single syllable.

your eyebrows pull together. pain flickers across your expression, and your hand rises toward your temple.

peter takes one step forward before catching himself.  the movement is small, but you notice anyway.

“have we met?” you ask.

peter’s throat closes. he knows the correct answer. the safe answer. the answer that keeps the spell intact and you alive and the world exactly as it is supposed to be.

“i don’t think so,” he says.

silence settles over the office. bruce looks between you. you don’t move.

“right,” you murmur. the disappointment in your voice does not make sense.

that makes it worse. 

peter forces himself to breathe.

“sorry,” he says.

“for what?” you ask.

he has no answer. for lying, for surviving when you lost him, for every promise you no longer remember he made.

“nothing,” peter replies.

your gaze remains on him.

peter feels it even after bruce gestures toward the second chair. even after peter sits with his backpack trapped between his ankles. even after you return your attention to the notebook on your knee.

“the headaches have become more frequent,” bruce says, turning one of the pages toward you. “but the neurological scans still show no structural abnormalities.”

peter looks up.

you rub the edge of the page beneath your thumb.

“so i’m imagining them,” you say.

“that isn’t what i said,” bruce replies.

“it’s what my father heard.”

bruce exhales softly through his nose.

“tony hears whatever gives him permission to build something,” he observes.

a smile touches your mouth. peter’s chest aches.

he remembers that smile against his lips. remembers causing it across dinner tables and rooftops and the back seat of happy’s car while your father complains from the front.

the radiator beside him clicks. you flinch.

the pain enters your expression before your hand reaches your head.

peter is out of his chair before thought catches up.

he crosses the office as you fold forward, one hand gripping the edge of bruce’s desk. peter closes his fingers around your wrist while his other palm settles against your shoulder.

“easy,” he murmurs.

your body relaxes. not gradually, immediately. your hand turns beneath his and closes around his fingers.

peter stops breathing. bruce notices.

you notice a second later. you hold a stranger’s hand, except it does not feel strange.

peter’s palm fits against yours with the unbearable familiarity of a habit. your thumb rests beside his knuckle. his grip has already adjusted around the small scar near your finger without needing to look at it.

you stare down at your joined hands.

a memory flashes behind your eyes.

christmas lights strung badly across an apartment ceiling. warm fingers linked through yours. laughter against your cheek.

“you taped it to the sprinkler,” you say.

peter goes still.

bruce leans closer. “what did you see?”

you look at peter. the memory disappears before you reach his face.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

peter releases you. the loss of contact hurts more than the headache.

he retreats until the edge of the desk presses against his hip.

“i’m sorry,” he says again.

you watch him.

“you keep saying that.”

his mouth closes.

bruce removes the sensor from your temple slowly, though neither of you remembers him attaching it.

“ned,” bruce says, keeping his voice even, “could you give us a minute?”

peter nods before the request is finished.

“yeah,” he replies. “sure.”

he reaches for his backpack. one strap catches beneath the chair, and his hands shake when he pulls it free.

you watch him reach the door. something inside you panics.

“wait,” you call.

peter stops with his hand on the frame.

the word has surprised you as much as it has him. you search for a reason to keep him there and find nothing except the deep, shapeless certainty that letting him leave is a mistake.

“ned isn’t your name,” you say.

peter’s shoulders tighten, and he looks back.

“yes, it is,” he lies.

pain pulses behind your eyes.

“no,” you reply. “it isn’t.”

his hand curls around the doorframe.

“you don’t know me.”

“that doesn’t mean i don’t know when you’re lying.”

peter looks at you for another second.

then he leaves.

—

you return to bruce’s office three days later without telling your father.

bruce sits behind his desk with a stack of exams spread around him and the green light of his inhibitor pulsing beneath his sleeve.

“who is ned?” you ask.

he finishes writing a comment before looking up.

“a student,” bruce replies.

“you said he isn’t in your class.”

“he isn’t.”

“so he isn’t your student.”

bruce caps his pen and rests it across the exam.

“he’s someone asking questions,” he says.

you close the office door behind you.

“about what?”

“i can’t tell you that.”

“because it’s confidential?”

“because it’s his.”

you approach the desk. peter’s diagrams no longer sit in view, but one corner of a page protrudes beneath a folder. you recognize the handwriting from the brief glimpse you had during the last meeting—tight, slanted, impatient wherever equations begin fitting together.

“he knows me,” you say.

bruce folds his hands over the folder.

“he reacted to you,” he replies.

“that isn’t the same thing.”

“no.”

you wait. bruce does too.

you understand suddenly why your father hates discussing anything with him.

“you know who he is,” you accuse.

bruce’s gaze remains steady.

“i know he doesn’t want to be identified.”

“is he dangerous?”

the green light beneath bruce’s sleeve pulses again. he considers the question longer than you expect.

“not in the way you mean,” he answers.

“what way do i mean?”

“malicious.”

you look toward the rain-streaked window.

“that wasn’t reassuring.”

“it wasn’t supposed to be.”

you turn back.

“why did my headache get worse when he walked in?”

bruce’s attention drops briefly to the notebook beneath your arm.

“why do you think it did?”

“because i know him.”

bruce doesn’t answer.

you place the notebook on his desk and open it to the first page.

queens.

spider-man.

red gloves.

rooftop.

a boy without a face.

bruce reads the list without touching it.

“my father recruited spider-man,” you say. “he built equipment for him. trusted him on missions. let him into the facility.”

“i remember,” bruce replies.

“do you remember who he was?”

bruce’s expression changes. it lasts less than a second. still, you see it.

“no,” he admits.

“does that make sense to you?”

“no.”

“then why is everyone acting like it does?”

the question leaves louder than you intend. your voice strikes the office walls and settles beneath the rain.

bruce studies you.

“sometimes the mind protects an absence by making it feel ordinary,” he says.

“this doesn’t feel ordinary.”

“no,” bruce agrees. “it doesn’t.”

you close the notebook.

“tell ned i want to speak to him.”

bruce reaches for his pen again.

“i don’t think he’ll agree.”

“then tell him i’ll keep coming here until he does.”

a faint smile touches bruce’s mouth.

“that,” he observes, “sounds like your father.”

“don’t insult me.”

—

peter returns the next tuesday because bruce sends him a photograph of the revised receptor model with three words beneath it.

she knows something.

he considers never going back.

he spends half the night crouched on the roof opposite the physics building, watching the dark office windows while traffic moves below. the city is too loud. sirens overlap across three boroughs. a couple argues through an open window six floors down. someone in the next building snores badly enough to change rhythm every few minutes.

beneath all of it, peter hears his own pulse. slow. wrong.

the spider doesn’t like fear. it converts fear into readiness, grief into vigilance, loneliness into an environmental threat the body must survive.

peter leaves the roof at sunrise. he returns during office hours anyway.

you sit inside bruce’s office when he arrives.

this time, you occupy the chair beside the window with two paper cups on the sill. your notebook rests closed in your lap. late afternoon sunlight breaks through the clouds, catching on rainwater left along the glass.

peter stops in the doorway.

you lift one of the cups.

“coffee?” you ask.

“i’m fine,” peter replies.

“you hate black coffee.”

the statement leaves before either of you can examine it.

peter’s fingers tighten around his backpack strap. 

you look down at the cup.

“i don’t know why i said that,” you admit.

bruce watches from behind his desk.

peter hears the slight change in your heartbeat.

“i don’t hate it,” he says.

you look at him again.

“you drink it when you’re tired,” you reply slowly. “but you put too much sugar in it when you think no one is watching.”

peter cannot move.

a memory flickers through your mind.

a kitchen after midnight.

peter standing beside a coffee machine in a shirt that belongs to your father, pouring sugar into a mug while you watch from the doorway.

his face vanishes before he turns.

you press your fingertips against your temple.

peter takes a step toward you.

“don’t,” you warn.

he stops. hurt crosses his face.

“not because i don’t want you near me,” you add. “because i need you to stop deciding what i can handle.”

peter looks toward bruce. the professor adjusts a stack of papers that doesn’t need adjusting.

“professor banner said you had questions,” peter says.

“i do.”

“i don’t have answers.”

“you have at least one.”

peter remains by the door.

you place both cups on the sill and rise.

“what is your name?” you ask.

“ned.”

“no.”

“you don’t know that.”

“my head hurts every time you lie to me.”

peter’s expression tightens. “then stop asking.”

“that isn’t how this works.”

“it can be.”

“for you, maybe.” your voice softens. “you’ve had four years to decide what this is,” you continue. “i’ve had headaches.”

the number catches between you. peter’s breath stops.

you notice.

“four years,” you repeat. “why did that matter?”

peter looks at bruce.

bruce meets his gaze without offering rescue.

the building shifts around the silence. pipes move behind the wall. footsteps cross the corridor. a phone rings in another office and stops after the third tone.

“i should go,” peter says.

you cross the space before he reaches the door.

your fingers close around the sleeve of his jacket. peter freezes.

the contact sends a memory through you.

the statue of liberty beneath a broken sky.

blood along peter’s cheek.

your hands clutching his wrists while the world tears itself open behind him.

“promise me,” you beg.

“i promise,” he says.

you lose the rest.

your grip tightens.

“you promised me something,” you whisper.

peter’s face drains of color.

“let go,” he says.

“what did you promise?”

“please.”

“what did you promise me?”

a door slams in the hallway.

peter reacts before anyone else.

his head turns sharply toward the sound. every muscle in his shoulders hardens beneath your hand. his heartbeat slows until each beat arrives with measured force.

black spreads across his eyes. brown disappears first, then white.

within seconds, his eyes become entirely dark, reflecting the office lights like polished glass.

you release his sleeve. peter steps between you and the doorway.

bruce rises from his chair.

“there isn’t a threat,” bruce says, keeping his voice low.

peter does not respond. his head tilts by a fraction as he listens beyond the office. the student responsible for the noise laughs nervously, apologizes to someone, and continues down the hall.

the danger does not exist. the spider does not know that.

“ned,” bruce says.

peter’s jaw tightens. the false name does not reach him.

you look into the dark surface of his eyes and see your own reflection.

another memory cuts through you.

peter standing between you and a collapsing wall.

peter carrying you through smoke.

peter’s eyes turning black when a weapon lifts toward your father.

not for the first time.

you step around him. his hand catches your wrist. not painfully, instinctively.

you turn your hand beneath his and close your fingers around his.

“peter,” you say. the name enters the room. 

peter’s grip loosens. his face changes around it, fear breaking through the predatory stillness.

“look at me,” you tell him.

his head turns. you move closer until your reflection fills his eyes.

“there is no threat,” you say.

peter’s breath catches.

“you don’t know that,” he replies, his voice lower than before.

“i know bruce.”

peter’s gaze flickers toward the professor.

“i know this office,” you continue. “i know the student slammed the door because the hinges are terrible, and i know you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

black begins receding from his eyes. brown returns around the pupils first, followed by the whites. peter releases your wrist as though the contact has burned him.

he steps back.

“i’m sorry,” he says. the words sound exhausted.

you look at him.

“peter,” you repeat.

his eyes close.

“don’t.”

“that is your name.”

“not anymore.”

“what does that mean?”

he grabs his backpack from the floor.

“it means i can’t be here,” peter says.

he leaves before you stop him.

—

you follow him across campus.

rain has weakened to a fine mist, gathering in your hair and along the shoulders of your coat. students move between buildings beneath umbrellas, stepping around puddles that reflect the old stone facades and pale afternoon sky. somewhere near the library, a bicycle bell rings twice before disappearing beneath the scrape of shoes and the low rush of conversations.

peter walks quickly.

not impossibly quickly. just fast enough to make it clear that he does not want to be caught.

“peter,” you call.

he does not stop.

you follow him down the library steps and across the courtyard. your shoes strike the wet pavement harder than they need to, splashing cold water against the hems of your jeans.

“you’re making my headache worse,” you shout.

that stops him.

peter turns beneath a red-leafed maple near the edge of the path. rainwater slips from the branches overhead, darkening the shoulders of his jacket. students divide around you without paying attention, absorbed in phones, conversations, and the rush toward their next classes.

“go back inside,” peter says.

his voice stays low, but you hear the strain beneath it. his fingers close around one of his backpack straps as though he needs something solid to hold.

“tell me the truth,” you demand.

peter looks past you toward the physics building. “you don’t want it.”

“you don’t know what i want.”

his mouth tightens.

“i used to,” he replies.

the words settle between you, quieter than everything moving around them.

you take one step closer.

“who was i to you?” you ask.

peter looks toward the library instead of answering. his attention jumps between sounds—the scrape of shoes, the squeal of bicycle brakes, a name shouted across the courtyard. the sensory overload presses tension into every line of him. his shoulders remain raised, his jaw fixed, his eyes moving toward disturbances no one else notices.

“somewhere quieter,” you say.

peter’s gaze returns to yours. “what?”

“you can hear all of them.”

something shifts across his face.

you do not know how you recognize that either. you only know the crowded courtyard is hurting him, and the certainty arrives with the familiarity of something you have done before.

you lead him toward the physics building without waiting for agreement. a narrow service courtyard sits behind it, enclosed on three sides by brick walls and mostly abandoned during the rain. only the muted hum of the ventilation system reaches the space, accompanied by water dripping steadily from a rusted gutter near the overhang.

the campus noise dulls there.

peter remains beneath the shallow roof while you stop several feet away. rainwater darkens the pavement between you, gathering in the uneven places before spilling toward the drain.

“better?” you ask.

he gives a small nod.

you fold your arms against the damp chill. “the inhibitor is for the spider dna.”

peter looks toward the wet pavement.

“yes,” he answers.

“because you’re losing control.”

“sometimes.”

“because you’re alone.”

peter looks up sharply.

you think of the notes you glimpse on bruce’s desk. hormonal expression intensified by prolonged isolation. increased territorial response. heightened aggression surrounding perceived threats. the handwriting has been peter’s, though you did not know that when you read it.

“bruce didn’t tell me,” you explain. “i read the margin before he covered it.”

peter’s shoulders lower by a fraction.

“it isn’t that simple,” he says.

“then explain it.”

he leans back against the brick wall. the backpack remains hanging from one shoulder, the bottom of it pressed between him and the damp bricks.

“the spider changed more than my strength,” peter says. “most of it stayed balanced for years. human hormones, human instincts, spider traits. everything regulated everything else.”

“until now,” you say.

peter turns his face toward the rain beyond the overhang.

“until i stopped…” he begins.

the words trail away. his fingers flex once at his side before curling into his palm.

“being around people,” he finishes.

“you’ve been alone for four years.”

his silence answers.

the ache inside your chest deepens. it has been there longer than the headaches, longer than the dreams, an absence you have spent years mistaking for restlessness.

“why?” you ask.

peter laughs quietly, but the sound breaks before it becomes anything real.

“because no one remembers me.”

you stare at him.

water continues dripping from the gutter, striking the pavement in the same place until the sound begins to feel like a clock.

“what does that mean?” you ask.

peter looks down at his hands.

“there was a spell,” he says.

the rain seems louder.

“people found out who spider-man was,” peter continues. “it destroyed my life. it hurt everyone close to me. i tried to fix it, and i made everything worse.”

his fingers curl more tightly against his palms.

“the only way to stop everything was for the whole world to forget peter parker,” he finishes.

your breathing slows.

the sentence should sound impossible. it should make you laugh or demand evidence or accuse him of lying again.

instead, it settles into the empty places inside you as though it has always belonged there.

“including me,” you say.

peter does not answer.

“including me,” you repeat.

“yes,” he replies.

the word almost disappears beneath the rain.

pain begins building behind your eyes, but you force yourself to remain still.

“what was i to you?” you ask.

peter closes his eyes. a drop of water slips from his hair, following the curve of his cheek until it disappears beneath his jaw.

“you were tony stark’s daughter,” he answers.

“that isn’t what i asked.”

“you worked with the avengers.”

“peter.”

“you knew spider-man.”

“peter.”

his jaw trembles.

“stop,” he says.

you take another step toward him. “tell me.”

“i said stop.”

his voice strikes the brick walls harder than he intends. you stop, but you do not retreat. 

peter pushes away from the wall. his backpack slips from his shoulder, catching at his elbow before he pulls it free and drops it onto the dry strip of pavement beneath the overhang.

“you want me to tell you?” he asks. 

his breathing has changed. each breath enters slowly, held too long before it leaves. the rhythm seems deliberate, like he is trying to restrain something with nothing but air.

“yes,” you reply.

peter looks at you. anger sharpens his expression, but grief keeps breaking through it. neither one manages to hide the other.

“you were everything,” he says. the words leave him rough and unsteady.

your throat tightens.

peter drags one hand through his wet hair and turns away. he makes it two steps before stopping near the edge of the overhang, where rain begins striking the toes of his shoes.

“you were the first person i looked for when i walked into a room,” he continues. “you were the person i called when something went wrong, and when something went right, and when nothing happened but i wanted to hear your voice anyway.”

his hands close into fists.

“peter,” you murmur.

he turns back too quickly.

“you asked,” he says. the words hold an accusation, but not one meant for you. the anger has nowhere useful to go, so it enters his voice and makes every syllable sharper.

“you wanted the truth,” peter continues. “the truth is that i remember everything.”

rain blows beneath the overhang. cold droplets catch against his face, but he does not seem to notice them.

“i remember how you take your coffee,” he says. “i remember that you hate when people leave cabinet doors open. i remember that you steal food off my plate after saying you aren’t hungry.”

your head pulses. peter steps closer.

“i remember you falling asleep in the workshop while you waited for me to come back from patrol,” he continues. “i remember carrying you upstairs because your dad would complain if he found you there in the morning. i remember the first time you kissed me and the first time you told me you loved me and every stupid argument we had because neither of us knew how to apologize without making a joke first.”.

“i remember all of it,” peter says. “and you look at me like i’m someone you passed in a hallway.”

the words catch at the end.

you step toward him. peter retreats until his back meets the wall again.

“i’m not blaming you,” he says.

“it sounds like you are.”

“i’m not.”

his voice rises.

a door opens somewhere inside the physics building. footsteps cross the corridor beyond the brick wall before fading toward the stairwell. peter’s head turns toward the noise. he listens until the person moves beyond whatever range his instincts consider dangerous, then forces his attention back to you.

“i know you didn’t choose this,” he says. “that’s the worst part. you didn’t choose to forget me. you didn’t choose to wake up one morning without knowing there was someone missing. you didn’t choose any of it, and i’m still angry every time you don’t remember something.”

his face twists around the admission.

“i hate myself for that,” he says.

the anger collapses into something rawer.

“i hate that it hurts when you don’t know my name,” peter continues. “i hate that some part of me still expects you to smile when you see me. i hate that i keep thinking if i stand close enough or say the right thing, you’ll look at me the way you used to.”

you cannot move. peter presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“and i hate that i want you back,” he says behind them. “because you have a life. you’re safe. you’re happy, or you were before i walked into that office and ruined it.”

“you didn’t ruin anything,” you say.

peter drops his hands.

“you’re standing in the rain with a migraine because i couldn’t stay away from you,” he snaps. “how is that not ruining it?”

“because something was wrong before you came back.”

“you didn’t know that.”

“i felt it.”

“that doesn’t mean—”

“i missed you,” you interrupt.

peter becomes still. your eyes burn, but you refuse to look away from his.

“i didn’t know your name,” you continue. “i couldn’t see your face. i didn’t know what i had lost, but i missed you every day.”

his mouth opens. nothing leaves it.

you press one hand against your temple as the pain grows sharper.

“i kept looking for you,” you say. “in every room. in every memory that didn’t make sense. i kept waiting for someone, and i didn’t know who.”

peter shakes his head.

“you can’t say that.”

“why?”

“because you don’t remember.”

“then help me.”

“i can’t.”

his answer comes too quickly. 

your anger rises through the pain.

“you won’t,” you correct.

peter’s expression hardens.

“there’s a difference.”

“is there?”

“yes.” his voice cracks against the word. “because i already tried,” peter says. “i found you after the spell.”

the rain presses harder against the courtyard. 

you lower your hand from your temple.

“what happened?” you ask.

peter looks away.

“you looked happy.”

“so you left.”

“you were safer.”

“you don’t get to decide that.”

“someone had to.”

“no,” you say. “you decided you had to.”

peter’s jaw tightens.

“you don’t know what happened,” he replies.

“then tell me.”

“everyone who knew me got hurt.”

“that wasn’t your choice either.”

“it became my responsibility.”

“and what about mine?”

peter looks at you.

you cross the remaining space between you, stopping near enough that you can see raindrops caught in his eyelashes.

“you decided i was happier without you,” you say. “you decided i was safer. you decided forgetting you was something i could live with.”

“you were living with it.”

“i was surviving something i couldn’t name.”

his eyes flash. peter turns away and drives his fist into the brick wall.

the impact cracks through the courtyard. mortar fractures beneath his hand, falling in pale pieces onto the wet ground. several bricks split through the middle, the damage spreading outward from his knuckles.

peter stares at the wall. his breathing becomes shallow.

“that,” he says, “is why i need the inhibitor.”

you look at the fractured brick and then at his hand. the skin across his knuckles remains unbroken.

“you’re angry,” you say.

“i wanted to put my fist through the building.”

“because i told you that you were wrong?”

“because you’re right.”

his eyes remain fixed on his hand.

“because i left you,” peter continues. “because i spent four years telling myself it was noble when really i was scared.”

his fingers shake when he draws them away from the wall.

“and because you don’t remember me,” he adds.

the confession leaves quieter than everything before it.

“i know it isn’t your fault,” peter says. “i know that. but i remember loving you, and you don’t. i remember what your voice sounds like when you say my name half-asleep. i remember what it feels like when you reach for me before you wake up. i remember standing in front of you and promising i would find you.”

his shoulders fold inward.

“you don’t remember any of it,” he whispers.

you move closer.

peter steps back, though the wall leaves him nowhere to go.

“don’t,” he warns.

“you keep saying that.”

“i could hurt you.”

“have you?”

“not yet.”

“that matters.”

“not enough.”

you stop within arm’s reach. rain drips from the edge of the overhang between you in a steady silver line.

“you caught me before i fell,” you say.

peter’s throat tightens.

“instinct.”

“you stood between me and the door.”

“instinct.”

“you let go when i asked you to.”

he looks at you.

“that was you,” you tell him. “not the spider.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i know you.”

pain moves across his face.

“you don’t remember me,” he says.

“my body does.”

the admission stills him.

you lift your hand slowly, giving him time to move away.

he does not.

your fingers settle around his wrist. his pulse beats beneath your thumb—slow, powerful, controlled by something not entirely human. the rhythm should frighten you. instead, relief moves through you.

peter watches your hand.

“every time you touch me, something comes back,” you whisper.

his eyes lift to yours.

“and every time, it hurts you,” he says.

“losing you hurts more.”

his face folds around the words. the anger leaves first. tension drains from his mouth and shoulders until only the grief beneath it remains.

you slide your hand down until your fingers meet his.

peter doesn’t close his hand. not yet.

“let me choose,” you say.

his fingers move carefully around yours.

the world opens. memories return without mercy.

peter teaching you how to swing from a web line while your father shouts from below.

peter eating cereal at midnight in the tower kitchen.

peter sitting between your knees while you stitch a cut near his shoulder.

peter smiling when you tell him you love him.

peter crying at the statue of liberty.

peter promising.

peter leaving.

then his face returns.

dark eyes. soft mouth. brown curls slipping between your fingers. every smile, every worried crease, every expression you spend four years grieving without understanding.

your knees weaken.

peter catches you.

the arachnid instinct moves first, fast enough that you never begin to fall, but tenderness follows it. one arm circles your waist while his other hand supports the back of your head.

“i’ve got you,” he says.

you remember those words.

you remember all of them.

your hands rise to his face. peter stops breathing. his features remain clear beneath your palms. 

“i can see you,” you whisper.

his eyes close. tears slip free before he can hide them, warm against your thumbs.

“you remember?” peter asks.

“yes,” you reply. the word breaks into a sob.

peter pulls you against him.

you bury your face in his neck, arms locking around his shoulders while four years of absence collapse inside you. his body shakes beneath the wet jacket. he holds you too tightly for an ordinary person, not enough to hurt, only enough to prove that he is real.

“i’m sorry,” peter sobs against your hair. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

you clutch the back of his jacket.

“stop leaving.” the words come muffled against him.

his arms tighten.

“okay,” he replies.

you pull back enough to see his face.

“don’t say it unless you mean it.”

peter looks at you. his eyes are brown, tearful, terrified, but open in a way you remember only from quiet rooms after midnight, when he became too tired to hide what he wanted.

“i mean it,” he says.

you search his face, tracing every feature the spell has kept from you. your thumb passes beneath his eye.

“you’re still angry,” you murmur.

peter lets out an uneven breath.

“not at you.”

“i know.”

“i wanted you to remember so badly,” he admits. “every time you looked at me, i kept waiting for it. and every time you didn’t…”

his gaze drops.

“it felt like losing you again,” he finishes.

you touch your forehead to his.

“then be angry,” you tell him. “just don’t disappear.”

peter’s hand rises to the side of your neck, his fingers resting beneath your hair.

“i love you,” he says.

the words come out rough, stripped of everything except the truth he has held alone for four years.

“i never stopped,” he continues. “i tried. i thought i had to. but i loved you when you walked away from me in that coffee shop. i loved you every time i saw you and didn’t say anything. i loved you when you didn’t know me.”

his thumb brushes beneath your ear.

“i love you now,” peter says, his voice trembling. “even if you wake up tomorrow and forget again. even if none of this stays. i love you.”

your eyes burn.

“i remember,” you whisper.

peter closes his eyes. the answer breaks something open in him. his forehead presses more firmly against yours as another tear travels down his cheek.

“i love you too,” you say. “i think some part of me always did.”

you kiss him.

for one second, he does not respond.

then his hand cups the side of your face, and everything familiar returns—the careful tilt of his head, the breath he takes against your mouth, the way his thumb rests beneath your ear.

the kiss carries the anger neither of you knows where to put. it carries four years of missed mornings and empty rooms, every word peter swallows while watching you live without him.

then it softens.

his mouth moves against yours with the aching care you remember. his other hand settles against your waist, holding you close while rain continues falling beyond the overhang.

someone opens a door across the courtyard, catches sight of you, and quietly closes it again.

when you pull away, peter keeps his forehead against yours. his breathing moves warmly across your lips.

“your dad is going to kill me,” he murmurs.

you laugh through the tears. the sound makes his mouth curve, though uncertainty remains in his eyes.

“he already forgot you once,” you say. “you can survive him remembering.”

peter’s smile falters.

“what if he doesn’t?”

you brush the wet hair away from his forehead.

“then he gets to know you again,” you reply.

peter looks at you for a long moment.

behind him, water continues slipping down the broken brick. the campus moves beyond the courtyard walls, filled with footsteps and closing doors and hundreds of lives continuing without knowing yours has shifted back into place.

peter bends to retrieve his backpack.

before he can straighten, you catch his hand. his fingers close around yours without hesitation this time.

“you’re coming with me,” you say.

peter glances toward the path leading out of the courtyard. “where?”

“home.”

fear flickers through his expression. you squeeze his hand.

“you promised you’d stop leaving,” you remind him.

peter looks down at your joined fingers.

“right,” he murmurs.

you lead him out from beneath the overhang. the rain has almost stopped. only a fine mist remains in the air, softening the old buildings and turning every distant window pale with reflected light.

peter stays beside you.

he does not let go.

—

your father doesn’t remember peter when you bring him to the compound.

tony waits inside the workshop with his arms folded and two gauntlets visible beneath the sleeves of his shirt. pepper stands near the door, pretending her presence is not meant to keep him from doing anything reckless. bruce arrives ten minutes earlier and occupies the stool beside the main workbench, the green light on his inhibitor blinking steadily.

peter stops at the threshold.

the workshop recognizes him before the people inside it do.

friday’s security grid pauses around his face. one of the old robotic arms rotates toward him, then settles as though recalling an unfinished task. a drawer near the back wall unlocks without instruction.

tony notices. his attention moves from the open drawer to peter.

“that’s new,” he says.

peter looks toward you.

you take his hand.

“his name is peter parker,” you tell your father. “he’s spider-man.”

tony’s jaw tightens.

“i know who spider-man is,” he replies. “i don’t know him.”

the words hurt peter. you feel it in the way his fingers loosen, preparing to release you before you can choose to stay.

you tighten your grip.

“you did,” you say.

tony looks toward you.

“the spell erased him,” you continue. “not just his identity. him. every memory connected to peter parker.”

pepper’s face changes.

she steps closer, eyes moving over peter’s features.

“you’ve been in our kitchen,” she says quietly.

peter swallows.

“a few times,” he answers.

pepper’s brow pulls together. “you hated the blueberries in the pancakes.”

tony turns toward her.

“you remember that?”

“not exactly,” pepper replies. “i remember making something different.”

peter’s eyes shine.

tony watches him.

“why didn’t you come back?” he asks.

peter’s shoulders fold inward.

“i did,” he says. “you didn’t know me.”

tony’s gaze drops briefly to your joined hands.

“and her?” he asks.

peter looks at you.

“she was happy,” he answers. “i thought leaving her alone was the right thing.”

“it wasn’t,” you say.

“i know,” peter replies.

the quiet that follows feels different from the silence inside bruce’s office. this one is crowded with things your father cannot remember and peter cannot forget.

tony approaches.

peter’s grip tightens around yours. his heartbeat slows.

you look toward his face. brown still fills his eyes, but his pupils widen as tony closes the distance.

“he isn’t a threat,” you murmur.

tony hears you.

his mouth twists.

“comforting,” he remarks.

peter breathes out slowly.

tony stops in front of him.

“you’re the kid from queens,” he says.

peter’s throat moves around a swallow.

“yeah,” he answers.

tony studies him with the same attention he gives damaged machinery—looking for the place where the shape in front of him fails to match what he expects.

“i built you a suit,” he says.

“more than one.”

“you hacked one.”

“technically.”

“technically,” tony repeats.

something flickers across his face.

a workshop.

webbing across a chair.

a teenager talking too quickly while alarms scream overhead.

the memory vanishes before tony can catch it.

he presses two fingers against his temple.

“i hate magic,” he mutters.

“you’ve said that before,” peter replies without thinking.

tony looks at him. peter lowers his gaze. the corner of your father’s mouth lifts despite himself.

“yeah,” tony says. “you might be the kid.”

he does not remember enough to hug him. not yet.

instead, he turns toward bruce.

“banner says you’re becoming more spider,” tony says.

peter’s attention snaps toward the professor.

“i didn’t say that,” bruce replies.

“you used, like, seventeen more syllables.”

“that doesn’t make your version accurate.”

tony gestures toward peter’s face. “eyes?”

peter becomes very still.

you step closer to his side.

“black when he feels threatened,” you explain. “or when someone he loves is threatened.”

tony looks at your hand in peter’s.

“that seems inconvenient.”

“that’s why he went to bruce,” you say.

bruce removes peter’s folded diagrams from a leather bag and places them on the workbench.

“he’s designing a selective inhibitor,” bruce explains. “something to regulate the increased expression without suppressing the traits that allow him to function.”

tony studies the papers.

“no blood work?” he asks.

peter shakes his head.

“no tests,” he answers.

“paranoid.”

“careful.”

tony looks toward him.

“good answer.”

he pulls one of the diagrams closer. peter watches his eyes move over the receptor map.

“this section is wrong,” tony says.

peter steps forward before he can stop himself.

“it isn’t wrong.”

“you’re using a static response threshold.”

“because the baseline changes.”

“exactly. so static is wrong.”

“unless the device recalibrates continuously.”

tony looks up.

peter points toward the lower margin.

“it’s there,” he says. “adaptive feedback loop.”

tony follows his finger.

silence passes.

“huh,” your father murmurs.

peter shifts his weight.

tony pulls a stool toward the workbench with his foot.

“sit down, kid,” he says. “your handwriting is terrible.”

peter stares at him.

“are you helping?” he asks.

tony uncaps a marker.

“don’t make it weird.”

peter looks toward you. the hope on his face is fragile enough that it hurts to see.

you smile, and he sits.

—

the inhibitor takes three weeks.

bruce refuses to design it without safeguards. your father refuses to let bruce install safeguards he cannot improve. peter refuses all testing that requires storing a genetic sample, though he eventually allows bruce to monitor his heart rate and hormone levels through a temporary sensor placed against his skin.

you spend most evenings in the workshop with them.

the work develops a rhythm.

bruce recalculates receptor targets while tony builds the casing. peter rewrites the feedback algorithm every time new information forces him to change an assumption. you keep coffee near your father, tea near bruce, and food within peter’s reach because he forgets to eat whenever the equations begin making sense.

the first time you slide a sandwich toward peter without asking, his hands become still above the keyboard.

“what?” you ask.

peter looks down at the plate.

“you used to do that,” he says.

you lean against the workbench beside him.

“you used to forget lunch.”

“i still forget lunch.”

“exactly.”

his mouth curves. he reaches for the sandwich.

the memories continue returning in small pieces.

peter reaches for a chipped mug in your father’s kitchen, and you remember buying it because world’s okayest dad is printed across the side.

he sits at the end of the couch, leaving the exact space beside him where you always curl against his shoulder.

he hands you the screwdriver you need before you ask.

you steal the pickles from his sandwich.

every small thing restores something.

sometimes the memories hurt. sometimes they make you laugh.

sometimes peter stands alone near a window, staring out at the city with the quiet expression of someone still waiting for the world to take everything back.

you learn not to ask whether he is all right. instead, you stand beside him.

the first serious episode happens on the nineteenth night.

tony tests the inhibitor’s power supply while bruce monitors the feedback loop. peter sits on the edge of the examination platform with the unfinished device secured on the back of his neck. it resembles bruce’s inhibitor, though smaller and slimmer, built from dark metal with a narrow red line running beneath the casing.

you stand beside him with one hand resting near his knee.

“baseline is stable,” bruce says, studying the monitor. “sensory response is elevated, but the regulator is compensating.”

tony adjusts a setting on his tablet.

“increasing output by five percent,” he says.

the inhibitor vibrates softly against peter’s neck. his fingers tense.

“how does it feel?” you ask.

“quiet,” peter replies.

the word carries wonder.

he looks toward the workshop door.

“i can still hear the ventilation system,” he continues. “and the elevator. but it isn’t…”

peter closes his eyes.

“it isn’t inside my head,” he finishes.

bruce records the response.

tony lowers the output.

the power cuts out.

darkness drops across the workshop. emergency lights ignite a second later, painting the room in red.

peter moves before anyone else.

he pulls you from beside the platform and places himself between you and the door. his body lowers into a defensive stance. black covers his eyes before the backup generator completes its first cycle.

“peter,” you say.

he does not answer.

something strikes the outer hallway. metal bends. tony’s gauntlet forms around his hand.

“that wasn’t the power,” he says.

the workshop door tears inward.

three men in tactical gear enter beneath the emergency lights. the first carries a weapon built from stolen stark components. the second lifts a sonic emitter toward bruce. the third looks directly at the inhibitor secured on peter’s neck.

they have come for the research.

the sonic emitter activates. the sound exists beyond the range of ordinary hearing.

peter feels it everywhere.

pain tears through his skull. the world fractures into violent frequencies—the weapon’s pulse, the attackers’ heartbeats, your sharp intake of breath behind him.

one man aims toward you. the spider takes control.

peter crosses the workshop before the weapon fires.

his hand closes around the attacker’s throat and drives him into the wall hard enough to crack the reinforced panel. the weapon falls. peter catches it with his other hand and crushes the metal casing without looking.

the man claws at his wrist.

peter tightens his grip. his face is empty. his eyes reflect the red lights.

“peter,” you call.

he does not hear you beneath the emitter.

tony fires a repulsor toward the second attacker. bruce ducks behind the workbench as the pulse strikes the wall above him. the third man lunges toward peter’s inhibitor with a blade.

peter turns.

the blade never reaches him.

he catches the man’s wrist and bends until bone snaps beneath the glove. the scream cuts through the sonic frequency.

something in peter’s expression changes. not satisfaction, recognition.

prey is hurt. the threat remains alive. his body intends to correct that.

he throws the man across the room. the attacker strikes the floor near your feet.

you step back. 

peter sees the movement.  the first man has recovered enough to lift the fallen weapon toward you.

peter is on him before tony can fire.

he pins the attacker beneath one knee. one hand grips the man’s jaw. the other braces behind his skull.

you know what he is about to do.

“peter,” you shout.

his hands tighten, and you cross the room.

tony reaches for you.

“don’t,” your father warns.

you pull free.

peter’s head snaps toward the movement. black eyes fix on you. his breathing is slow, body held in the terrible stillness before violence.

you kneel in front of him.

“look at me,” you say.

the attacker gasps beneath his knee. peter’s gaze flickers toward the sound.

you place your hand against his cheek.

“not him,” you tell him. “me.”

his skin burns beneath your palm.

“he threatened you,” peter says. the words barely sound like him.

“he can’t hurt me now.”

“he tried.”

“i know.”

peter’s fingers remain locked around the attacker’s head.

“let him go,” you say.

his jaw tightens.

“peter.”

the black surface of his eyes reflects your face.

“you stop when i ask,” you remind him.

his breath catches.

“you always stop.”

peter releases the attacker.

the man collapses against the floor, coughing. tony fires a restraint disc that expands around his wrists and ankles.

peter remains kneeling. 

the rage leaves him too quickly.

his body begins shaking as the black recedes from his eyes. brown returns around the pupils. horror follows it.

he looks at his hands.

“i was going to kill him,” he whispers.

you keep your palm against his face.

“but you didn’t.”

“i wanted to.”

“but you stopped.”

peter’s eyes lift to yours.

“because you were here.”

“yes.”

his expression breaks.

“what happens when you aren’t?”

the question reaches something deep enough that you cannot answer immediately.

behind you, bruce disables the sonic emitter. tony secures the remaining attackers. emergency lights continue pulsing across the workshop, turning peter’s face red and then dark in repeating intervals.

you take both his hands.

“then we keep working,” you say. “we make the inhibitor better. you learn other ways to come back.”

peter stares at your joined fingers.

“and until then?” he asks.

you move closer.

“until then, you stop being alone.”

—

peter moves into the compound two days later.

he argues at first.

the apartment is paid through the month. his things fit in three boxes. the city needs him closer to queens. every excuse arrives too quickly, rehearsed through four years of refusing to need anyone.

tony listens while tightening a screw on the inhibitor casing.

“great,” he says once peter finishes. “guest room is down the hall from hers.”

peter looks toward you.

“that wasn’t—”

“temporary,” tony interrupts. “banner says isolation makes you homicidal. i’m prescribing communal breakfast.”

bruce glances up from the monitor.

“that is not what i said.”

“close enough.”

peter’s mouth opens. you take his hand, and the argument fades.

“temporary,” peter says.

tony returns to the inhibitor.

“sure, kid.”

the first night, peter sleeps on the floor beside your bed.

you wake at three in the morning and find him sitting against the mattress with his knees drawn up, staring toward the window. the city glows beyond the glass, quieter from this height but never silent enough for him.

you reach over the edge of the bed.

“there’s room up here,” you murmur.

peter turns his head.

“i’m fine,” he says.

“you’ve been awake for two hours.”

his eyebrows lift.

“how do you know?”

“you tap your fingers when you’re trying not to move.”

peter looks down. his hand rests against his knee, index finger striking the fabric in an uneven rhythm.

“right,” he murmurs.

you lift the blanket.

“come here.”

he hesitates. not because he does not want to, but because he does. too much.

you recognize the fear now—the certainty that comfort is something borrowed, that every good thing has an ending already waiting inside it.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you say.

peter looks toward the floor.

“you don’t know that.”

“neither do you.”

“that’s not comforting.”

“it isn’t supposed to be.”

you extend your hand.

“we never knew what happened next,” you continue. “not before the spell. not now.”

peter studies your fingers.

“but i know you’re here tonight,” you say. “and i know you.”

his hand closes around yours. you pull gently.

peter climbs onto the bed and lies beside you. the mattress shifts beneath his weight. for a moment, he remains on his back, staring toward the ceiling while rain begins tapping softly against the window.

you move closer.

peter lifts one arm before you reach him.

habit.

you settle against his chest, resting your cheek over his heart. his arm closes around your waist, and his other hand finds yours beneath the blanket.

neither of you speaks for a while.

the room continues living around you. rain whispers against the glass. the air conditioner hums softly. somewhere down the hallway, one of the floorboards creaks beneath your father’s footsteps.

peter’s body goes rigid. his heartbeat slows.

you lift your head.

black spreads across his eyes.

“peter?” you whisper.

his gaze fixes on the bedroom door.

“someone’s outside,” he says.

you listen.

your father mutters to himself in the hallway, probably returning from the workshop at an hour he will later deny.

“it’s my dad,” you tell him.

peter’s shoulders remain tense.

“i know.”

the black remains. you reach toward his chest and stop before touching him.

“can i?” you ask.

peter looks at your hand.

he nods.

your palm settles over his heart. it beats too slowly beneath you. controlled, watchful, waiting.

“you’re safe,” you whisper.

his eyes fix on your face.

“you’re safe too,” peter replies.

“i know.”

“he was near the door.”

“he lives here.”

“i know.” the words sound strained.

you move closer until your forehead rests near his chin.

“nothing is threatening us,” you say.

peter closes his eyes.

when he opens them again, brown has begun returning around his pupils.

“i hate this,” he admits.

you trace your thumb over his shirt.

“the eyes?” you ask.

“the part where i look at someone i love and think about what i’d do if anything touched them.”

you stay quiet. rainwater moves down the window beside the bed, catching distant lights in broken lines.

“what do you think about?” you ask eventually.

his jaw tightens.

“you don’t want to know.”

“you’re still you when you think it.”

“it doesn’t feel like me.”

“then let me remind you.”

peter turns toward you. the black fades completely. 

you touch the side of his face.

“you stop when i ask,” you say.

his eyes search yours.

“you came to bruce because you were afraid of hurting someone,” you continue. “you designed an inhibitor because you wanted to protect people without losing the part of yourself that saves them.”

your fingers move into his hair.

“you spent four years alone because you thought it protected us, even when it destroyed you,” you add.

his mouth trembles.

“that wasn’t the spider,” you tell him. “it was you making a terrible decision for a good reason.”

peter covers your hand with his.

“what if the inhibitor doesn’t work?” he asks.

“then bruce adjusts it.”

“what if it gets worse?”

“then we handle worse.”

“what if—”

you kiss him.

his question disappears against your mouth.

peter exhales shakily before pulling you closer. his arms settle around your waist, careful despite the strength inside them.

when you draw back, his forehead remains against yours.

“you’re not doing this alone,” you whisper.

his eyes close.

“i love you,” peter says.

the words sound different now. not like a confession, like something returning to its place.

you press your lips against his forehead.

“i remember,” you reply.

peter’s hold tightens.

outside, rain continues washing over the windows. 

inside, his breathing gradually matches yours.

—

the finished inhibitor rests on peter’s neck.

the casing is dark enough to disappear against the red fabric, interrupted only by a narrow line of white light that changes to amber whenever his hormone levels begin rising. bruce calibrates the sensory threshold. tony builds three redundant power systems. peter writes the adaptive software himself.

the device does not cure him. it does not erase the spider.

it quiets the electrical current inside walls until it becomes background noise again. it lowers the ache behind his eyes. it creates distance between a threat and the instinct to destroy it.

most importantly, it gives him time to choose.

the first morning he wears it outside, you stand with him on the roof of the compound.

the sky brightens slowly beyond new york, darkness softening into blue along the horizon. the city stretches beneath you, windows catching the first light one building at a time.

peter rolls his neck.

“still strong,” he observes.

you lean against the concrete ledge beside him.

“devastating news for the criminals of queens,” you reply.

peter smiles.

the wind catches his curls and pushes them across his forehead. he wears his suit beneath an old sweatshirt, mask tucked into one pocket. the inhibitor gives a faint pulse against his neck.

“how does it feel?” you ask.

peter looks toward the city. a siren moves somewhere downtown. traffic gathers along the bridges. birds lift from the roof of a neighboring building, turning together above the morning streets.

“quieter,” he says.

you study his face.

“too quiet?”

peter listens for another moment, then he shakes his head.

“no,” he replies. “just enough.”

you take his hand. the movement is easy now. familiar.

neither of you has to think about it.

peter looks down at your joined fingers.

“i thought i had to choose,” he says.

“between what?”

“being peter or being spider-man.”

you move closer until your shoulder rests against his arm.

“you’ve always been both.”

“bruce said something like that.”

“bruce is smarter than you.”

peter looks offended.

“academically debatable.”

“he has seven doctorates.”

“i didn’t say i’d win the debate.”

you laugh. peter watches you with the quiet, disbelieving softness he still wears whenever happiness catches him unprepared.

“what?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“nothing.”

“that isn’t a nothing face.”

“you remember my faces?”

“all of them.”

the smile fades slowly from his mouth. you turn toward him. peter’s eyes shine in the early light.

“even before i remembered,” you say, reaching for his hand, “something in me knew you.”

his fingers close more firmly around yours.

“your body remembered,” he murmurs.

“my heart did.”

peter’s breath catches. you reach up and touch his cheek.

“even when i couldn’t see your face,” you continue, “i knew someone belonged in the empty space.”

he leans into your palm.

“me?” he asks.

you smile.

“you.”

peter kisses you beneath the rising sun.

the city continues waking around you. horns sound below. wind moves between the towers. the first warmth of morning settles across your face while the inhibitor pulses once against peter’s neck and goes still.

somewhere behind you, the rooftop door opens. tony steps outside carrying two mugs of coffee and a third filled with tea.

he stops when he sees you.

“seriously?” your father asks. “at sunrise?”

peter pulls away, though his hand remains around yours.

“good morning, mr. stark,” he says.

tony holds out one of the coffees.

“you take too much sugar, right?”

peter stares at the mug. your father’s expression tightens as though he does not understand where the knowledge comes from.

peter accepts it carefully.

“yeah,” he whispers. “i do.”

tony looks between the two of you.

a fragment of memory shifts behind his eyes.

a teenager in the workshop. a red suit folded across a table. laughter from beneath an overturned chair. your hand resting in peter’s while tony pretends not to notice.

the images disappear before they fully form.

this time, something remains.

tony pats peter once on the shoulder.

“don’t make me regret the guest room,” he says.

peter looks down into his coffee to hide his eyes fill with tears.

“i won’t,” he replies.

your father hands you the tea.

“he will,” tony says. “statistically.”

peter releases a wet laugh.

the rooftop door closes behind tony as he returns inside, leaving the three of you with the morning.

peter stands beside you, coffee warming one hand and your fingers threaded through the other.

the headaches have not disappeared entirely.

his senses remain sharper than any human’s. the rage still lives somewhere beneath his skin, no longer denied and no longer given permission to decide what he becomes. some memories return slowly. others may never return to anyone except you.

four years cannot be undone by a device on his neck or a kiss beneath the sunrise. 

but peter is no longer trying to erase the parts of himself that frighten him. you are no longer searching every room for a person without a face.

the city knows spider-man.

you know peter parker.

and when he steps onto the edge of the roof, he looks back. you remember every time he has done that.

every promise, every goodbye, every return.

“come home,” you tell him.

peter pulls the mask over his face. the white lenses turn toward you, bright against the red fabric.

“i will,” he promises.

then he jumps.

the web catches somewhere beyond the roof, carrying him out over the waking city. sunlight flashes across the inhibitor on his arm before he disappears between the buildings.

you watch until the line swings empty.

this time, the space he leaves behind does not feel like loss.

it feels like waiting.

and you know he comes back.