Chapter Text
After leaving the hospital, routine starts to take place in Peter’s life again. It's flimsy at first, but slowly becomes defined and this time it includes other human beings actually being in contact with him.
There’s brunch with MJ and Ned on Saturday mornings, there’s FaceTime calls with Jean every sunrise, there’s Friday night patrols with Frank, and there’s even evening walks in the park every Sunday with Dewolff and her children as Spider-man (that one was a complete accident).
It’s overwhelming, really. Peter is trying hard to break old habits, he’s trying hard to let people be close to him. Most of the time he finds himself just listening to his friends, not really giving input but simply existing in their presence. He’s lost many social skills that don’t include bantering and mocking villains and criminals; it sucks really, because he wants to bare his heart like he used to , he wants to joke like he used to, and he wants to blabber nonstop like he used to. Yet, every time he starts a sentence that feels too much like his old self he feels his throat constrict, the words trapped and his heart aching in his chest heavily. So he smiles, nods, and listens. Speaking when necessary and trying to keep talk light.
He doesn’t move out of his shitty apartment. Jean does spill that it’s a mess when Peter is with Frank and the teenager tells Frank that it might be a hazard for him to live in that dump with a healing bullet wound just to hit all the right spots. This causes Frank to force a deep clean of the place. And thanks to that comment, Peter now has to actually keep the apartment clean. So, while there is asbestos everywhere, at least there aren't roaches or rats to join the fray.
Cleaning is done on Sunday morning. Food shopping is done Monday afternoon before his first patrol. Frank hosts chili night every Wednesday and sometimes Peter makes it—sometimes he gets a violent text instead. Every weekday night at 11:20 Jean sends him a text to tell him about her day at Xavier’s School for Gifted Yougsters. Sometimes he replies, sometimes he gives it a thumbs up, and sometimes he doesn’t have the energy to do anything and leaves the message on read. Jean doesn’t mind, but Peter always feels a little bad when he doesn’t respond directly.
There are a lot of new parts in Peter’s life and it’s overwhelming. He’s trying to balance it, but in the two months since he’s saved Jean and returned to his apartment life has been…tiring in a way different than before. He feels like he’s being pulled along and while he’s willing to go, sometimes he needs to stop.
That first stop is abrupt.
Peter became a ghost one month into the routine. It started with a skipped brunch Sunday, then an unanswered FaceTime from Jean Tuesday followed by a ghosted chili dinner Wednesday. He’d been patrolling without his civilian phone and completely ignoring anything that came from Pun-Pun on his Spidey phone. He’d even neglected answering Dewolff, going ghost on the cop by sending her to voicemail and cleaning up crime scenes and booking it before the cops sirens could even be heard within his proximity.
His silence caused a duo of angry people to show up at his apartment, setting off his Spidey senses and banging on his door. From who-knows-where Jean had taken over Frank’s body and was with MJ, the two chewing Peter out had made him feel so small—he hated it.
The first wall broke that night as the two continued to talk, and Peter came clean that everything overwhelmed him. The changes, the socializing, having people in his life—it overwhelmed him, and by God it scared him.
Being close to people scared him. It terrified him to his bones that no matter how careful he is, one mistake or one slip-up could ruin their lives and he’d be at fault again. He’s nearly ruined everything for MJ and Ned once, he almost got Jean killed, and he’s hurt Frank in ways he didn’t know existed after taking that bullet.
He constantly feels like he’s walking on eggshells and while he knows—he knows—Frank and Jean are capable of caring for themselves he still feels responsible for them because they know Spider-Man and they know Peter Parker. He’s decided to only do brunch with Ned and MJ as Peter Parker because he doesn’t want to risk anything; they’re civilians, and while he wants his friends back and he wants to be more active in their lives he can’t risk more than brunch right now. His brain won’t let him. Even during that hour he’s constantly on edge, on alert, and ready to take anything to protect them.
MJ and Jean listen to him.
The second time he ghosts everyone they send text messages—Tiktok’s, HRU’s, and updates about their lives without expecting him to respond. He skips brunch, skips chili, skips Friday patrol, and when he comes back the following week to each event he apologizes and the world keeps spinning.
Routine. Shaky.
By month four, less shaky.
It’s Monday morning and Peter has decided to take a leap of faith.
Before going grocery shopping he shoots Ned and MJ a texts to ask if they’re home and if they would like coffee. Both respond (YES!!! and yeah) and Peter is grinning to himself, heart pounding as he places an order for three and swiftly walks to the duos shared shared apartment.
They both work remotely and end up taking their lunches, inviting Peter into their home and sharing their leftovers with him while watching a random YouTube video essay and drinking their iced coffees and lattes. No one bombs the apartment, no one breaks in the doors, no one threatens Ned or MJ for the entire thirty minutes they share.
When Peter leaves no one is injured or dead.
He grocery shops, anxious in his skin; he checks his phone for any alerts and finds none. He texts MJ and Ned as he enters his own apartment building, his groceries in his hand as he asks them if they’re okay. MJ assures him they are and Ned sends a picture.
The world isn’t collapsing after having coffee with them.
He lets his phone fall into his pocket, and leans against the elevator as it shakily takes him to his floor.
His heart still races and his senses still tingle and he can’t believe what his life is; he can’t wrap his head around the fact that he’s allowed to have this…he smiles to himself as the elevator rings and the doors open.
His hands are shaky as he opens the door to his apartment, and his head is so loud—there’s a happiness buzzing in him that hasn’t dared to make itself known in the last four years of his life.
His phone rings—once, twice—and it’s so loud because for some reason his senses haven’t calmed down since leaving. He answers it quickly, wincing at the piercing noise and is greeted by a mop of red hair drinking from a cup with a cry familiar logo.
Peter laughs lightly, wincing as his head pounds, “Are you in Queens right now and didn’t tell me, Jean?” he asks, closing his eyes to ignore his kitchen light. He leans on the counter, letting his head rest against the cool surface top.
“Yep,” she says, popping the P and grinning. “I’m coming to see you after I stop by old man Pun-Pun to drop off some top tier bomb materials.”
Peter groans loudly, looking at her through the phone with a glare. “He doesn’t need those. Throw them in the sewer.”
“He’d get all mad and groan and probably bruise his own lung by yelling at me,” Jean says, shrugging and flipping her hair. Peter is about to give her some logistics when he hears it—a creek and a heavy step deep in his living room. His breath hitches, his ears ringing, and suddenly the constant ringing of his spidey-sense makes sense.
“E.V., lights on in all rooms,” he yells quickly, his voice high and strained even to his own ears. Bright lights flicker on, blinding him as his senses try to adjust. There’s a hooded figure standing near his computers now and Peter feels like he’s going to throw up as his stomach churns and his head aches.
The figure steps forward and Peter yells again, taking a step back—he’s disoriented in his own apartment and for a moment he wonders if this is a regular break in of a Spider-Man problem—who’s in danger if it’s a Spider-Man one?
There’s a voice from the man. He’s speaking—but everything is so loud. The dripping faucet, the fluorescent light, the dogs outside, Jean yelling on his phone, and the man’s voice piercing through him as another footstep comes closer. And then—everything freezes. The kitchen light illuminates the man’s face, his hood no longer shadowing him, and Peter thinks Frank’s bullet should have killed him.
“Who are you,” he yells as his body shakes and his mind runs. “Stop right there, don’t come closer,” he warns, and before he can think he throws his phone at the figure; the man dodges the projectile and then the phone crashes against a computer monitor and both objects shatter.
There’s bile on his tongue as he looks forward at the figure with red-rimmed eyes. He glances around and urges his ears to listen for any drones, any technology, any noise of electricity that’s unfamiliar. He finds nothing—which can’t be true, because standing before him is Tony Stark.
Tony Stark who hasn’t been heard from in years. Tony Stark who Peter witnessed fall into a coma, flatline multiple times throughout the first few weeks in the medbay, and then silently lay in a hospital bed. Pepper had told him and Morgan that the chances of Tony waking up had been dwindling everyday; she had been strong when she told them, but Peter still can remember the way his heart broke when he caught her sobbing alone in the hallway afterwards.
He stopped by Tony’s room everyday after school and before patrol, telling Tony about any and everything up until Mysterio happened. And after the spell…he’d never seen him again. That has been years ago, and Peter didn’t realize it but he’d already grieved Tony Stark. When Peter lost everyone he grieved everyone in his life and that included his adoptive father. He hasn’t heard of Tony Stark dying but he also hasn’t heard of Tony Stark waking up—and the possibility of that was just so low.
“Kid,” the man says, and it’s so familiar and warm and Peter wants to cry when he’s snapped back to the present. Spider-Man is a guy who just wants to help. Peter is a guy who just wants to help. Why?—Why does the world continue to hurt and beat him? He takes a step forward and is constantly punched backwards.
“Don’t,” he warns, his eyes hardening as he glares. His hand is shaky as he raises it, threatening the guy. “Don’t use his face. Don’t call me that.”
“Pete—“
“Stop!” Peter screams and webs the guy's feet so he can stop inching closer to Peter. The guy doesn’t move and places his hands up instead. Peter feels like his lungs are betraying him as he struggles to breathe. “Don’t you—don’t you come any closer to me.”
Peter takes a step further into his kitchen, a tear falling as Tony’s face looks at him like he’s devastated—how? How are they doing this? He looks heartbroken—like when Peter was hurt on a patrol after being told not to go out that specific night. Or like when Peter and Tony had their first real argument after the adoption was certified—the man looks like his father and Peter cannot handle it. Tears start to fall freely down his face for the first time in a very long time.
“Mysterio,” Peter says, wiping his eyes and standing up straighter. The guy raises an eyebrow. “Mysterio is dead. He’s been dead. You’re using his tech? Are you coming to finish his work? What’s going on? Huh? Where’s the drones, Guy?”
“I’m not with Mysterio, kid,” the guy says. “Don’t even know who that is, to be honest. Look, Pete—it’s a long story—but I’m here and I’m wanting to talk to you. I woke up and everyone was there—everyone but my son and no one knew where he was. No one knew that you even existed. What happened? What happened while I was out of commission, Bambino?”
He sobs, his knees giving out below him. He leans against the counter, his head aching and his heart hurt and his mind absolutely going haywire. He can’t piece his heart together as it shatters; he’s been so busy, so occupied, so exhausted that he just wants to collapse into his fathers arms—even if it’s a trap and even if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
He wants a hug.
“Stop,” Peter cries, his voice staring as he uses the palms of his hands to cover his eyes instead of reaching forward and embracing the man. “Please stop. You’ve done it, you sound like him. Now what?” Peter croaks, his throat tight and his mouth dry. “You come here to torment me with my dad’s face and voice before you kill me? Come to fix Mysterio’s final mistake?”
“Pete—“
“Stop the act!” Peter yells, hitting his head hard against the counter to try and stop the tingle in his neck. It doesn’t work, but he does it again to try and regulate himself in some way.
“Stop,” the guy yells, his own eyes watery and hard
and so fucking familiar that Peter wants to throw up. “Stop hurting yourself. I can prove it—we’ll call Pepper and she’ll tell you I woke up and then we can stop the dramatics and figure out what’s going on—“
During his spiel the door bursts open and both Jean and Frank are there, both holding guns and pointing them at the guy.
“What the fuck did you do to him?” Jean shouts, taking a step closer to the guy and pointing her very unnecessary gun at the man’s head.
“Jesus, Kid,” Frank mutters, wincing as he takes in Peter’s red face and puffy eyes. “Got you in worse shape than that bullet that almost took you out.”
Jean and Peter both glare at Frank. He doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t really care.
“Why’s this guy got Tony Stark’s face?” Frank asks loudly, waving his gun around at the guy.
“I am Tony Stark, genius,” the guy bites, glaring at Frank.
“Okay,” Frank says, stealing his gun. “Tony Stark, why’re you makin’ this kid cry in his own apartment? Breakin’ and enterin’ your thing now?”
“Tony Stark is dead,” Jean cuts in, her arms shaking with the pistol in it. “Peter—when I went into his mind I felt it. The same feeling I felt with his aunt. They’re dead. Peter’s heart and mind say so.”
“You’re that mutant girl then,” the guy says. Jean glares hard and the guy sighs. “Teenagers. It’s always teenagers. Okay, jump in my head then. Find out it’s me. Come on, the sooner the better.”
Peter feels his heartbeat speed up again. It’s a trap.
“Jean—don’t—“ but it’s too late, Peter can tell she did it instantly. She did not hesitate to jump into the guy, his body going limp for a second before reawakening.
“Holy shit,” the guy's mouth says. His body pats itself down, then blinks rapidly. He goes limp again and returns as Jean lowers her gun.
Her green eyes are wide and teary as she looks at Peter and he feels his heart burst open again.
“Peter,” she breathes, her lip quivering. “It’s your dad.”
Everything fades to black.