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Peter’s eyelids fluttered open, then slammed shut immediately on instinct at the bright light that greeted them. He was slower to open his eyes the second time around, squinting harshly as he heaved himself up from where he’d been lying curled-up on the floor.
He didn't recognize where he was. It was some sort of long, white-walled hallway, framed with windows that shone with such glaring light, Peter couldn't see out of them.
He glanced around, uneasy; he felt like there was something important that had happened, but he couldn’t quite . . .
Jean.
He remembered her with a start, turning in a panicked circle as alarm surged in his chest.
She had been in his mind, and then — and then —
And then . . .
"I'm okay. I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm —,"
. . . That had really hurt.
He remembered telling her to run, as the blood — his blood — had pooled around him — and then, everything had gone dark, only for him to wake up here. Here, in this hall of bright, endless nothing.
"Shit," he whispered, voice hoarse and panicked. He looked down at himself; he was wearing his suit, but it wasn’t bloodied or damaged, and he wasn't in any sort of pain — he didn't even have a headache. Gingerly, he reached around to pat at his back; it was smooth and unblemished. His suit wasn’t even torn.
Confusion rolled over him in waves — until he looked back up, and then it didn't matter anymore.
The white walls and windows were gone; instead, he was standing in the small, softly-lit kitchen of the apartment he had grown up in, the one that they had lost after the Blip.
It was as familiar as he had known it for years and years — as familiar as the woman standing in the living room across from him was, stepping around the couch and walking towards him with her arms spread wide and a broad smile across her face.
“Hi, Peter.”
“May,” Peter whispered, his voice breaking. His eyes went wide, and he began to shake as he stumbled towards his Aunt May and all but fell into her arms, tears beginning to pour down his face. He felt lightheaded with shock and emotion as four years’ worth of guilt and grief and pain slammed into him all at once, knocking the air from his lungs as he choked on it all.
"May," he sobbed, his knees nearly buckling under the weight of his desperation and his disbelief. "Oh my God, May."
"Shh, shh, baby," May murmured, pressing a fierce kiss into his hair as he hunched into her, making himself small as she held him tight.
"I'm here,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m right here, Peter.”
“How?” He asked in between choking sobs, breaking away to stare at her in disbelief, laying his trembling hands over her shoulders. She looked younger than he remembered, her face softer, her hair fuller; she, too, was neither bloodied nor wounded. “Am I — dead?”
“You don’t sound nearly as concerned about that as you should be, Peter,” May said sadly, cupping his tearful face in her palms and brushing a stray curl away from his forehead. "But no, you're not. You're . . . in between, right now.” She hesitated, eyes shining, then added: “Your friend — Jean — is breathing for you."
Peter shuddered in a rasping breath, and imagined Jean doing the same, but slower, more purposeful; keeping his living heart beating.
“It is bad, then,” he said dazedly, remembering the feeling of the blood pooling underneath him; soaking into his torn suit, oozing from the hole in his back and onto the concrete, glass-covered floor.
He hadn’t even hesitated to take such a blow; he wished he could say with certainty that that was only for Jean’s sake.
In front of him, May pursed her lips, her eyes shining with tears.
"You'll be okay," she murmured. "You still have so much life to live, Peter. Real life,” she added, gentle but almost scolding, “not what you've been doing since I died."
He flinched at her words, bowing his head, pressing into her touch as his own trembling fingers grasped at the collar of her shirt. He thought about sleepless, lonely nights spent scrolling through Ned’s Instagram, eating shitty delivery food and wishing desperately despite himself that he would get a crime alert so he could throw on his suit and forget about Peter Parker — just like everyone else already had.
“I’ve been — trying,” he managed eventually, voice tight. "But it's so much easier to be Spider-Man. To just be Spider-Man."
“Since when do you only do things that are easy?” May shook her head. “Peter, that’s not you.”
“I don’t think I even know who I am,” he mumbled, familiar self-doubt surging up in his chest. It had been present for years, but had been rearing its ugly head with a vengeance ever since the first time he’d seen blacked-out eyes in his unsteady reflection.
Are you Peter Parker?, Jean had asked him — Or are you Spider-Man?
I’m both, he had said to her — but how could he be, if he hardly even knew who Peter Parker was anymore?
“It’ll take time,” May told him, “but you’ll learn again.” She gave him a look that he recognized well, because he had seen it from her so many times, even right before she had died; the look she gave him when she needed him to remember something she was saying. “And once you stop pretending like you can do all of this on your own, it’ll come easier.”
“I know,” he said brokenly, because he did know that; he had meant what he had said to Jean in his mind, after they had both heard what May herself had said to him, years and years ago. “I . . . I know that ‘cause of you, you know.”
“You know most things because of me,” she teased him, patting his cheek teasingly. “You just need to listen to those things more.”
Peter laughed, even as his eyes still burned hot with tears.
“It’s — it’s really good to see you, May,” he said softly, and she smiled.
“Come sit with me,” she said, guiding him to the couch and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Tell me about you, while it’s just us. Maybe we can get a head start on figuring out who Peter Parker is in however much time we have here, hm?”
Peter gave her a crooked smile in return, leaning into her, his heart aching but still so very, very full, because, God —
He had missed this.
They sat together and talked for what felt like hours, but may very well have been days; it had been so long since Peter had done anything like this, save for the brief time he’d spent with MJ and Ned that same day, and it was almost a shock to his system, but a good one nonetheless.
However long it was — it wasn’t enough, in his opinion.
It came to an end when, after a while, he began to hear a faint beeping noise. It got louder and louder — the consistent, steady beeping of a heart monitor — and he broke off reminiscing about his last Christmas with his May to look quizzically over at her. His aunt’s expression had gone sad, but was still gently hopeful.
“I think it’s time for you to go back now, baby,” she murmured, reaching out to take his hands in hers, squeezing gently and rubbing a thumb over his knuckles.
“I don’t —,” He stared at her desperately. The beeping was getting louder; he swore he could hear someone snoring, too. Sudden, frantic panic surged in his chest, his hands beginning to shake in hers, his heart beating uncomfortably fast in his chest even though he knew that his real heart was beating through Jean’s.
“I don’t want to go, May,” he burst out. “I want to stay here, with you, I — I miss you, I can’t — no one knows me there, but you — you — May, please —,”
“Peter . . .”
May drew him back into her arms, and hugged him tight; he buried his face in her shoulder, and he thought, unbidden, of Jean’s words through MJ on the rooftop the night before.
Some people would kill to hold the person they love one last time.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out brokenly, clinging to her desperately, afraid to let go because he knew that this was that one last time, for him and the woman who was his mother in all but blood. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
May shook her head, pressing her cheek against the top of his head. “What on earth are you sorry for?” She asked gently.
“You died,” Peter cried, shaking, “you died, and it was all my fault, and I couldn’t save you, and it’s not fair that I get to go back when you don’t and it’s not fair that I don’t even want to and —,”
“Peter. Peter,” she repeated, squeezing him tight. “Listen to me. Are you listening?” She waited for him to give a trembling nod, then said, voice firm and without room for argument: “It was not your fault. Your empathy, your compassion — none of that is a weakness, and none of that is a fault. I am proud of you for your choices. You were trying to help those people. And their choices were not your fault. Okay?”
“Okay,” he whispered miserably. She kissed the side of his face, fierce and protective.
“I love you,” she murmured. “I’m glad that I never had to live in a world where I didn’t know Peter Parker.”
He half-laughed, half-sobbed, even though it wasn’t funny at all.
“I miss you,” he whispered desperately, his heart aching. “I miss you so much. Everything is so hard, and I just — I miss you.”
“Keep bringing me flowers,” she said simply, and Peter’s breath caught.
“How d’you . . .?”
“I’m always watching over you, Peter,” May told him gently. “And that’s what I want you to do. Whenever you feel like everything is too much, or . . . when you feel like you would have nothing to lose, by taking a bullet for someone else. Your life has value, Peter, because you, Peter Parker, have value. Not just Spider-Man; you do, too. You just haven’t had anyone to remind you of that, have you?”
Peter shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
(Some people would kill to hold the person they love one last time.
Well. It was himself he had almost killed — but he thought to himself that it might’ve been worth it, to be held by her again. And to know now, with certainty, that she was still with him. That he still had someone, even if he didn’t really have her anymore.
But what else was new, there?)
“Keep bringing me flowers,” May repeated, “I love them. And I love you, Peter.” He could feel her own tears trickling into his hair; he could hear the tremble in her voice, as the beeping got louder. But her hold on him was firm and steady as she said, “And I want you to live.”
“I love you too,” he choked out. “And — I will. I promise.”
She held him, and he held her — and for the moment, he let go of his grief and his guilt and his pain, and he just let himself live in this moment, in the in between.
But then, he breathed —
And he opened his eyes.