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The jet touched down in the Harrison’s yard. Nathaniel was helping hold Peter up while George pursed his lips at the damage it’d inevitably be causing to his lush lawn. The blades hadn’t even stopped spinning when the door burst open, a bedraggled Matt standing there, looking displaced. To make things easier for him, Peter staggered forward, flinging his arms around him and hugging him tight.
Matt wrapped his own arms around Peter, clutching him to his chest and muttering into his hair. Even with his enhanced hearing, it was almost incomprehensible.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…Never again…I swear…”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” Peter repeated, crying into Matt’s chest, probably getting snot all over his wrinkled dress shirt.
Matt pulled back, grabbing Peter’s face in his hands and holding it tight.
“Peter, you have nothing to apologize for.” He hissed. Matt’s usually combed hair was a complete mess, and despite wearing slacks and a button down, his clothes were visibly disheveled. His red glasses were tucked into his shirt pocket, and his glassy eyes were ‘staring’ directly at Peter.
“It’s my fault, I should’ve-”
“Shut up. Right now.” Matt snapped. “I am so unbelievably angry at you. When you’re investigating, you bring backup. When you are trying to tackle a big case, you tell someone that isn’t another 15 year old. ”
“I’m almost 16.”
“You’re not gonna be out of arm’s reach until you’re 26. ”
And then he’s back into Matt’s chest, the man rocking back and forth.
—
Peter’s return to New York brought on a lot of shocks.
Firstly, when he’d seen the small impromptu first-aid area, he’d immediately
clutched onto Matt’s shoulder, breaths coming hard and fast.
“Please- Please-Dad don’t-Matt don’t let them- please -”
“Peter-Peter, it’s just Dr. Banner. It’s okay. They’re not-I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”
Peter was miles away, eyes glazing over and shoving his head into Matt’s neck.
“No -nonononono- ”
“What the fuck did they do to him?” Tony breathed, staring at Peter, wholly horrified.
“Do you think it’s the whole doctor area?” Bruce asked delicately, shucking off his labcoat, setting it to the side. He picked up the bulky first-aid kit, walking over to Peter and crouching in front of him. His face was visibly pained as he gently tapped Peter’s shoulder.
“Peter?”
“My-My mask, I need-”
“Peter, your mask is gross right now, it’s got a lot of stuff on it, we’re just washing it. Do you know where you are?”
“I don’t-I’m sorry I don’t know.” Where is he?”
“Matt’s sitting with you, Tony’s at the doorway, I’m right in front of you.”
Peter’s breath stutters and shakes again. His muscles spasm slightly, and his clutch onto Matt becomes slightly more bruising.
“I’m here to check if they hurt you at all. Is there anything that needs to get checked out right now? Mr. Harrison mentioned that you were covered in blood when he’d found you. Were you bleeding?”
“No that was-that wasn’t mine.”
“Okay. Are you hurt somewhere I need to check?”
Peter shakes his head.
“Okay. I’m going to back off then, okay? When we get to the tower, I’m going to need to check on you. Would you be okay going into the medical wing?”
Peter pulled his face out from Matt’s neck, tears dripping down his face.
He tapped his seat twice, his fingernail against the leather causing a soft noise.
“No.” Matt translated. Bruce looked at him, confused.
“What?”
“He said no. He’s doing One Tap, Two Tap, Three Tap.” Despite the situation at hand, his voice is a little fond.
“No medical wing, heard.”
Despite gentle prodding, Peter was silent for the rest of the ride on the quinjet. His clutch on Matt never waning.
–
The second shock was that, after some convincing, they were able to check his vitals once some medical supplies were brought from the wing. He was malnourished and dehydrated. While he wasn’t there for long, he was barely getting a quarter of the calories he needed to function, much less the necessary amount of water.
Worse even, was the extent of the nerve damage that’d been secured. His neck and arms were covered in the worst of it, small cauterized wounds littering the areas. Tony had had to leave the room after Bruce started checking them over. Matt had stayed, though his teeth were gritted despite not being able to see them.
Peter refused to be put to sleep for it, or for any anesthesia even as he winced and twitched at Bruce’s prodding. A small bit of green was charging up Bruce’s neck, barely tinting his skin and making him look mildly sicker than his expression already did.
“Peter, I uh…”
“What?”
“Could you tell me what you’re comfortable with me doing? I understand that you don’t want anesthesia, but is there anything I could do to make you more comfortable?”
“Uhm…” Peter’s hesitant, but at Bruce’s imploring look, he takes a breath.
“If I get any food, could it be on a plate rather than a tray? Even if I have to get up to go eat it, just..not a tray. And Matt has to be here whenever you do anything to me.”
Matt scoffs indignantly. “Like I’m going to be leaving your side for the next month.”
–
The third shock was when Foggy came to visit.
Matt had fallen asleep. Despite his best efforts, he’d been running on barely an hour a night since he’d lost Peter, and it’d finally caught up to him. Even as he slept, one of his hands clutched onto Peter’s wrist. It was comforting, in a way. Foggy sat at the end of Peter’s bed, just looking at him. He seemed tired too. Differently than Matt.
Matt’s exhaustion was deeper than bone. It’d embedded itself into his very being, and even as he had Peter back, it clung to his very being. Matt’s exhaustion was anxious and fearful and seemed like something that’d become almost its own creature.
Foggy’s was different. Foggy’s seemed almost resigned, in a way. It was clinging to him, sure, but in a way that it was barely-there. A featherlight touch. One you could see in the soft wrinkles between his eyebrows, and the small twitch in his left eye.
Foggy’s hand found its way to Peter’s knee, and he lightly squeezed it.
“Hey, Pete.” He said softly, and with so much relief that Peter’s voice got clogged in his throat.
He wanted to say so many things.
He wanted to tell Foggy that the second time they were electrocuting him, over Dr. Eugene’s vitriolic voice, he heard his gentle tone. Foggy, telling him that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Foggy, telling him that he’d be coming home, and they’d heckle The Bachelorette again.
He wanted to tell Foggy, that when Kolyenka was telling him about the way he used to paint, he almost told the burly man that Foggy would probably buy his painting.
Instead, he spit out the one that’s the least vulnerable. He was already so raw, like a still-bleeding wound. He needed to say something that doesn’t make him feel more pathetic than the teenage boy twitching in pain that he is.
“Did you know I’m autistic?” He blurted.
Foggy smiled like he understands.
“Well I know you, don’t I?”
–
There was a final shock.
Final is a loose word.
Because, of course, hundreds of things were going to shock Peter. He’d never tell his family or friends the true extent of what happened at the demented ‘rehab’ he’d been forced through. His therapist, despite knowing heavy detail, was likely to never know too.
But, Peter bounced back. He always did. Despite being a spider, he was harder to kill than a roach. Peter Parker had that kind of shine in him that could never quite be scuffed out.
Spider-Man didn’t come back for months.
Peter Parker worked in soup kitchens. He tutored children and fed stray animals. Peter Parker, on occasion, would exhibit feats of strength that would seem unfeasible for somebody using the world's most busted cane.
The final shock took months. The final shock came on May 9th, 9 months and 13 days after Spider-Man had initially vanished. Peter Parker had finished physical therapy three days prior.
Spider-Man swang through Queens, once again falling into the old routine. He said it was like riding a bike. The news was alight, blogs, radio shows, podcasts, national TV shows, any piece of media that had any kind of information spreading abilities. Spider-Man was back .
He swang through Queens, greeting familiar faces, and sometimes dropping to dry people’s tears. He hugged, but he didn’t explain his absence, and after a while people stopped asking. Local hospitals finally got some semblance of a break. Criminals stopped living in fear for their life.
Some people said that Spider-Man had to wipe a few of his own tears. Some people said that when he came down to comfort or to chat, his voice was thick and his breath stuttered in his chest. His hands still shook, and his muscles still twitched, but there was little question in the streets as people laughed and sobbed and donned masks. Spider-Man was back. Their hero.
And dear reader, I know what you’re asking.
Is this a happy ending? Peter Parker is still in pain. Physical Therapy doesn’t fix everything. Physical Therapy doesn’t calm you when you wake in the night, convinced that they’re still there. Still jabbing metal needles into your muscles and shocking them with enough voltage to down an elephant.
But, it is. This is, quite possibly, the happiest ending Peter Parker, or Spider-Man, or Spidey, or The Kid, or Petey Pie could’ve gotten. Because, although he still has his fear, he still has the rising panic in his chest at the allusion of waking up and once again being back where he’d escaped, he is still himself.
He is still the boy with the friends and family who searched tirelessly for him. He’s still the boy with a family to watch The Bachelorette with on school nights, and friends to give him hard truths. He’s still the boy with the pet spider, who tells him she missed him and makes him promise not to vanish for so long again. He’s still the boy that laughs with his friends, and stresses over school.
He’s still the boy that is human.
That is his happy ending.