Chapter Text
December 1st, 2023
Present Day
[Six weeks post Hulk-snap]
Flashes.
Explosions.
“We won, Mr. Stark.”
Peter jackknifed awake, heart hammering violently in his ribcage. He wet his lips and sat up groggily, rubbing his unwashed hair with one hand and his sleep-crusted eyes with the other. He was still on the rooftop where he’d fallen asleep, pillowed against one of the heat vents under an overhang. His back was not particularly a fan of sleeping on solid concrete, but he was a teenager— he’d manage. All things considered, he was lucky to get this spot; it was under an overhang, warm (ish), and relatively well protected with a good lookout over the city.
Peter sat up fully, scraping a hand over his eyes, digging his thumbs into the corners, and letting his head fall back with a dull thunk against the building’s wall. The air was cool with a light mist, fog suspended eerily in the air and wrapping its tendrils around his form. Peter shivered slightly; he still hadn’t quite gotten used to sleeping on concrete and rooftops, and the way the material seemed to leech any and all scrap of warmth from his body. With the rapid approach of NYC’s winter weather, it was only going to get worse, not better. He rubbed his face again as he thought of how the hell he’d gotten here . Homeless, tired, hungry, cold. (Though the last three were more like side effects of the first one.)
Thanos snapped.
Five years passed.
Hulk snapped.
Mr. Stark snapped.
Peter thought he was going to lose yet another person he cared about.
Mr. Stark lived.
Mr. Stark was rushed to Wakanda, was placed in a coma, and hadn’t woken up yet. (Or maybe he had, by now— Peter certainly wouldn’t know unless someone tracked him down to tell him, specifically.)
Peter returned to Queens.
Peter found May, who had been snapped too. (Their old apartment was occupied by a nice enough couple; but it wasn’t theirs anymore.)
May was offered her old job as a nurse the day they all returned— she was one of the lucky ones. Hospital personnel were essential, especially in the disastrous aftermath of the return of half the planet. She got lucky again (perhaps Parker luck didn’t count as much when the last name was acquired by marriage) when she secured a spot in the nearby women’s shelter. The only downside (affecting Peter, of course, because it had been proven time and time again that he wasn’t immune to Parker luck) was that the shelter only had space for children 12 and under to stay with their guardians—older kids were redirected to the nearby teen shelter.
Peter showed up to the door of the shelter, took one look at the overcrowded room with faces just like his own, and walked back out.
He didn’t tell May.
And, alright. It wasn't that Peter wanted to be homeless and living on rooftops and the streets, he wasn’t crazy. But his wants in the situation were irrelevant.
The city was a mess. The world was a mess. There were displaced people everywhere, and countless people who needed beds. Peter knew it would all be sorted out eventually, of course, but for now, it was as close to apocalyptic as he thought it could get.
Aside from that, he knew that he had it far better than most. He had a temperature-controlled super-suit. He had May, who had a job and was fighting tooth and nail for a new apartment. He even had the Avengers he could call on if things went totally to shit. In other words— he didn’t feel the need to take any modicum of support from someone else, not when it was in such short supply. A part of him (that sounded suspiciously like MJ or May or Mr. Stark) knew that it was stupid, that he deserved a spot just as much as any other displaced person. He knew he was only lying to May about having a shelter to stay in because she would immediately disapprove of his reasoning.
But… when it came down to it, Peter was Spider-Man. He didn’t have any other time commitments at the moment (school certainly wasn’t at the top of anyone’s priority list), and he spent all of his free time on the streets helping people anyways— crime had skyrocketed, with people fighting over food, supplies, shelter. Desperate people were dangerous people, and there was no shortage of either, especially with the encroaching below-freezing temperatures.
Having a bed and a roof over his head to return to for a few hours of sleep each night was tempting; he’d almost accepted the offer to join the waitlist for the teens-only shelter, he really did. But then he thought of one more teenager, just like him but without all the supplies Peter was lucky enough to have access to— and he couldn’t bear the thought of them sleeping on the streets because he’d taken an extra spot.
Besides, he doubted he’d be getting much sleep; his Spidey-sense had been perpetually buzzing since he’d returned, and sleeping in close quarters with other teenagers wasn’t bound to improve that. Not to mention, he doubted he’d become a fan favorite if he woke everyone up with his screaming and thrashing from nightmares.
So rooftops it was.
—
October 17th, 2023
[0 days post Hulk-snap]
Dirt and blood rolled together over Peter’s tastebuds as he leaned to the side to spit onto the ground below in an attempt to clear his mouth of the unpleasant mixture. He was rather unsuccessful in his endeavor, and the action of spitting seemed to remind his stomach that he hadn’t eaten since this morning. ( No, not this morning , he corrected himself. Five years ago. The thought almost caused him to laugh hysterically.) Before long, the bitter tang of stomach acid joined the mix, rising up in the back of his throat.
He didn’t even know at what point in the fight he’d gotten dirt and grit into his mouth, given that he was masked for a decent portion of it. Peter couldn't tell whether it was remnants from their original fight on Titan, or whether it was dust from the wreckage of the compound and Thanos’s entire army turning to ash or Peter himself turning to ash ( I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, please, Mr. Stark, I don’t wanna go )—
His breathing rattled in his chest as he struggled to get it under control— knowing he couldn’t have a breakdown here, not in the wreckage of the compound, with dead bodies and scattered Avengers all around him. If he started, he wouldn’t stop, and he didn’t think sobbing and wailing would win him any brownie points with the remaining Avengers in his vicinity. Though, he supposed he’d already gotten the sobbing part down (and he was really too exhausted and worn out to care about what the other heroes thought of him right now).
Peter scrubbed fiercely at his face, at the tear tracks cutting through the grime there— the reminder of saying his goodbyes to Mr. Stark, of Colonel Rhodes gently tugging him away, of the man’s heart stopping before it was re-started and he was rushed to Wakanda through one of Dr. Strange’s portals. Peter was pretty sure there had been a lot of yelling and medical mumbo-jumbo— though he couldn’t say for certain. He’d tuned most of it out, just as he had the night Ben was shot, focusing only on the sound of a heartbeat, fading, fading, flatlining—
Peter shook his head, fiercely. Not flatlining. They’d brought Mr. Stark’s heart back online. He wasn’t Ben. He wasn’t Ben, and there hadn’t been any blood, and Peter’s hands weren’t soaked in it… but they were shaking all the same. He crossed his arms over his chest protectively, tucking his hands in his armpits in a futile attempt to quell the tremors there.
Glancing up, Sam Wilson caught his eye. “Spider-Man,” he said in acknowledgment. Peter nodded. He hadn’t noticed him approaching— too preoccupied not having a breakdown— but the other man was making his way towards him now, picking his way through the rubble. He came to a stop in front of Peter, and they both just stared at each other for a moment, as if realizing neither really knew what to say to the other.
“You fought well,” Mr. Wilson praised, and Peter swallowed. He appreciated the sentiment, but he didn’t feel like he’d fought well. He’d failed to get the gauntlet off on Titan, and he’d barely survived the onslaught of aliens less than an hour prior. All in all, he felt about as useless as a lawn sprinkler in the middle of a hurricane.
Nevertheless, he murmured a small “thank you,” voice hoarse and gritty. Peter watched as the man’s eyes flickered over his unmasked face, a faint frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knew that look, and he knew it would probably be accompanied by a question about his age. Before Mr. Wilson had the chance to ask, Peter continued, raising his voice a little louder to be heard.
“Uh, I need to—” he firmly pushed all thoughts of Mr. Stark and the infinity stones and Wakanda away. “I need to get to Queens. My aunt… do you happen to know if there’s a way I can get back?”
There was nothing he could do to help his mentor now; in fact, he was likely to only get in the way if he tried to insert himself. Peter had seen Ms. Potts go after Mr. Stark, and so had Colonel Rhodes— he had his family with him. Peter would only be intruding, and he needed to see May. He and May were all each other had left.
Peter refused to think of everything that could have happened in the last five years. Five years . He wondered if it was selfish to hope that May had been snapped too.
Luckily, Mr. Wilson seemed to understand, because his face softened incrementally. “I’ll take you back to the city, kid.”
Kid . The familiar nickname made his stomach twist even further— an unpleasant wrenching sensation that felt a bit like his guts were being sliced into with a serrated knife. Idly, Peter wondered whether it was a side-effect of reforming from the snap or something else entirely.
“You don’t need to do that, Mr. Wilson,” Peter said quietly. “I can just— if I can just call her, that’ll be fine.” His chest ached violently at the thought of not being reconnected with May immediately, but he didn’t want to inconvenience the man by forcing him to drive Peter multiple hours into the city. Especially right after a battle, when they were both exhausted and sweaty and dusty and injured. He could hold out as long as he knew May was alive and heard her voice.
The man’s face twisted slightly. “Sam is fine,” he corrected, before hesitating. “You can try calling, but I doubt you’ll be successful. All the phone lines are overwhelmed with the sudden influx of people trying to call family members, and if your aunt was among the snapped, her phone number might not even be in use anymore.” He hesitated again after that, clearly not wanting to entertain the other possibilities of May’s fate— for Peter’s sake— even though both of them knew what the other options were.
Peter swallowed and nodded. “Right,” he said. He hadn’t considered that aspect of it. He spared a glance at the wrecked remains of the compound. If there had been anything left of it, he may have been able to hunker down in a guest room until he could hitch a different ride into the city, but there didn’t look to be a single habitable part of the building still standing. Regardless, he’d be stuck walking to the city if he didn’t take Sam up on his offer. Part of him suspected that the man probably wouldn’t let him go unless he had another ride secured anyways.
“If you really don’t mind…” Peter trailed off, gaze flicking back to Sam, who gave a small, tired-looking smile.
“It’s no problem,” he said— despite the fact that they both knew that was a lie. The trip was completely out of the way for Sam, and Peter was certain that if the phone lines were a congested mess, the roads would be as well. NYC traffic was overwhelming on a good day, much less in the immediate aftermath of half of the population spawning back to life right where they’d been snapped— likely leaving no shortage of people stranded on the sides of the road. Not to mention all of the family members trying to track down their loved ones, emergency vehicles tending to the injured, people trying to get back into the city…
In other words, it was most certainly not a small offer from Sam, but it was one Peter was immensely grateful for regardless.
Sam’s eyes flickered down to his suit. “I’ll get you some spare clothes. You’ll need something to change into if you’re trying to meet up with your aunt.”
Peter opened his mouth, though he wasn’t really sure what he’d say to that— the refusal was automatic on his tongue, even as he recognized that Sam was right and he did need something to change into. He doubted people’s top priority at the moment was trying to find out Spider-Man’s secret identity, but he’d rather not run into questions as to why he was reuniting with a random woman from Queens. It’d be all too easy to track down later.
“Hey, Rogers,” Sam called out, before he could even come up with something to say— and Peter’s head snapped up, eyes wide, as Captain fucking America headed in their direction, breaking out in a half-jog and coming to a stop in front of them. He’d pulled his cowl off at some point after the battle; there was a clear delineation in the grime coating the lower half of his face in comparison to the upper half, and his blonde hair was spiky and ruffled with sweat. It made him kind of look like a reverse tuxedo cat. Or a raccoon. Peter almost huffed a laugh at the comparison.
“Queens,” Steve Rogers greeted him, eyes flickering in surprise when he took in Peter’s unmasked face. He hesitated, like he wanted to ask a question but wasn’t sure whether it’d be well-received. It was the same look Sam had given him no less than three minutes prior, and Peter was too exhausted to bother to try and deflect that line of questioning again.
“I’m sixteen,” Peter said in resignation, watching as both adults before him reared back a little bit at the news. “Or— well, it’s been five years, hasn’t it?” He shook his head. “Guess I’m technically twenty-one, then.”
They both stared at him for a long moment, and Peter fidgeted awkwardly under their stares. “That… was what you were going to ask, wasn’t it, Mr. Rogers?” he asked warily. It would have been a really awkward non-sequitur if not.
Luckily, the question seemed to shake the man out of his stupor, because he gave a small laugh of his own and nodded. “It was,” he confirmed, and Peter relaxed. “And please— call me Steve.”
Sam snorted. “I got Mr. Wilson,” he said dryly. Peter shrugged.
“I still call Mr. Stark—” he stopped, clamped his mouth shut, and swallowed. The air turned charged as the three of them remembered what had happened less than twenty minutes ago— all too aware that none of them knew whether the man in question was still alive at this very moment. Whether he was or wasn’t, they wouldn’t receive the news for some time, until the medical team had time to assess and treat him.
“The kid needs a spare change of clothing. I figured you’d probably have some on hand,” Sam stepped in, steering the conversation to where it was supposed to go in the first place. Peter was painfully, immensely grateful for the distraction, and for the fact that they weren’t going to comment further on his age. Though he supposed it was really a moot point, now— whether he was sixteen or twenty-one or anything in between, he’d still just fought in the same war as the rest of them. He’d died and come back to life and fought in a war and used instant kill protocol and had listened to his mentor’s heart go still in his chest before being shocked back into rhythm. He figured he’d be just as fucked up by those events even if he were as old as Steve Rogers himself.
The super soldier in question—unaware of Peter’s internal diatribe— nodded.
(Steve took a moment to assess Peter, then, noticing the exhaustion that seemed to weigh him down like a heavy cloak. It wasn’t just the physical toll of the battle— though that had affected all of them— it was the emotional weight too. Steve had seen that look before, in soldiers far older than Peter.)
They moved from the middle of the wreckage to the outskirts, towards an area of the compound that hadn’t completely fallen. Peter was pretty sure it had been part of the garage, at one point— there was only one wall left standing, and the concrete floor was cracked in multiple places, but at least there was a floor, rather than just dirt.
“Hang on a second,” Steve said, his voice gentle— a far cry from the voice Peter had heard rallying the Avengers into battle just a few hours prior. It was almost like a completely different person was speaking; this was Steve Rogers , not Captain America.
The man in question turned and hurried away, disappearing behind the half-crumbled wall. Peter watched him go, feeling strangely detached from the whole situation, as if he were observing it from a distance rather than living it. (He was pretty sure he was in shock from the adrenaline rush fading, but what did he know— he wasn’t a doctor.)
His eyes dropped to his feet, and he dug his toe into the concrete— pushing with just a little bit of his enhanced strength and watching as a crack formed. He should feel bad about the property damage, but right now the only thing that was keeping him from falling back into a full-blown panic attack over the memory of disintegrating into dust was the feeling of the concrete giving way under his very solid, very real foot. (Not to mention a little more cracked concrete in the grand scheme of the wreckage of the Compound was… irrelevant, at best.)
So he pushed his toe into it again. Listened to the faint crack. Watched the split grow.
It was a nice distraction.
Sam was quiet next to him— thankfully, not bothering to try to strike up an attempt at small talk; both of them were too exhausted for that. After a few moments (Peter wasn’t sure how long; he didn’t exactly have a watch), Steve returned, holding a tattered and dusty duffel bag. Peter had absolutely no idea where the man had pulled it from, nor how he’d found it in all of the mess, but he was grateful when a bundle of clothes was held out to him in offering.
“They might be a little big on you,” Steve said, a small, apologetic smile on his face, “but they’ll do for now.”
Peter nodded, accepting the clothes. They were simple— just a soft long-sleeved henley and a pair of gray drawstring sweatpants— but the sight of them made Peter’s chest ache. They looked so normal . Nothing about this was normal; Peter was standing in the wreckage of a battlefield, and Captain America was offering him his clothing. And yet— Uncle Ben had worn the same type of loungewear in their apartment on his holidays when Peter was just a kid.
Peter had a sudden, overwhelming desire to just be normal again, to go back to a life where his biggest worry was getting to school on time or missing curfew.
“Thanks,” Peter murmured, not trusting his voice to say more. He didn’t know how to express the gratitude he felt towards Steve and Sam for their kindness. They barely knew him— in fact, the first time they’d met, they’d been fighting against each other— yet they were going out of their way now to help him. And they weren’t pushing him to talk, either; they seemed to understand without needing to speak.
“No problem,” Steve said with a nod, stepping back to give Peter some space, turning his back. Sam did the same, and Peter realized they were giving him a moment to change.
Peter glanced down at himself, disengaging the Iron Spider suit without further preamble. The nanites rolled smoothly back into their storage units in his webshooters, and he blinked in surprise when he remembered that he still had the old Spider-Man suit on underneath. Right. He’d almost forgotten about that. (“ You gotta let go, Pete, I’m gonna catch you.” “But you said to save the wizard!” “We’re too high up, you’re running out of air.” )
He tore himself out of the memory, unwilling to dwell on the sound of Mr. Stark’s voice any longer. They were still out in the open, and though he didn’t so much mind the modesty aspect of it all (plenty of alleyways had seen him in his boxers before), his aching muscles protested the idea of trying to maneuver out of the suit at the moment. Besides, the Iron Spider suit had blocked most of the dirt and dust from reaching the old suit underneath, so it was relatively clean.
Shrugging, he decided to pull the borrowed clothing over his suit, figuring it would hide the material well enough. The clothing was too big on him— the shirt nearly sliding off his narrow shoulders and the sleeves pooling at his wrists. Even though the clothes clearly weren’t his , he felt a little more like himself— less like the superhero Spider-Man who had just fought in an intergalactic battle, and more like Peter Parker, the teenager from Queens.
He cleared his throat to let them know he was done. Sam turned back around first, giving him a once-over.
“Ready to head out?” he asked, and Peter just shrugged and nodded, unable to come up with any other response but luckily not needing to.
Time kind of phased in and out after that point— Peter ended up in a car, with Sam driving.
Like the clothes, Peter wasn’t quite sure how Steve had managed to find a working car among all the wreckage (maybe that was his real superpower; finding things). The paint was scratched and there was a layer of dust and dirt over the entire vehicle— along with one too many dents to count— but the engine turned on, and that was all that really mattered to Peter.
They drove in silence for the most part, the landscape passing by in a blur and the rhythmic hum of the car lulling Peter into a half-asleep state. He was just starting to drift off fully when the sound of a phone chiming jolted him back to awareness. Peter knew it wasn’t his right away, because he didn’t have a phone on him— but apparently Sam did, because he quickly fished his phone out of his pocket with one hand.
If it had been any other day, Peter would have made a joke about texting and driving, but today he just shot Sam a mildly curious glance out of the corner of his eye. He remembered the man telling him that phone lines were overcrowded, so Peter was a bit surprised that he’d gotten a notification— but he didn’t want to pry and ask who, just in case it was a family member or something.
Sam must have sensed Peter’s unspoken question, because he glanced over at him, then back at the phone.
“Looks like calls still aren’t going through, but some text messages are.” He passed the device to Peter as he said it, and he blinked, surprised by the action before looking down at the words on the screen.
Steve Rogers: Tony’s alive. In Wakanda– medically induced coma. Let Queens know.
The sheer relief at reading the first two words made Peter slump into his seat like he’d just been sucker punched— tension he didn’t even know was in him bleeding out before he had a chance to stop it.
“Queens, huh?” Sam asked after a moment, and Peter shot him a glance.
“Airport battle,” he filled in, and Sam arched his eyebrows. Peter thought it was pretty cool that he had a nickname with Captain America, though it was a little strange that he used it over text message instead of just Peter’s name—
“Oh,” Peter let out a breathy laugh. “I never introduced myself, did I?”
Sam shrugged at that. “I wasn’t gonna push,” he said mildly. “I figured even though we saw your face you may not want us to know your name.”
Peter shook his head. “No, I just— forgot, I guess.” In his defense, he was a little shell-shocked and preoccupied with other matters. “My name’s Peter. Peter Parker.”
“Good to officially meet you, Peter,” Sam said, a small smile tugging at his lips. He kept his eyes on the road— some sort of unspoken agreement to give him space that Peter found himself immensely grateful for.
Mr. Stark is alive .
Peter knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up— he’d seen the damage to his mentor’s body, known that the infinity stones were in no way meant to be wielded by a human. Except, well— Tony Stark always lived to defy expectations, didn’t he? If there was anyone who could survive it out of sheer force of will, it was him. It was at least a chance— a chance that he would wake up, that he would be alive . It was a strand of hope that was dangerous to grip onto, Peter knew that, but one that he held onto tightly nonetheless.
He glanced out the window, watching the familiar landscape of Queens begin to take shape as they neared his neighborhood. It was… strange, seeing the city he’d grown up in after five years had passed. There were places that looked exactly as he remembered them, and others that were completely unfamiliar— boarded up windows and shattered store fronts, looking fully like the scene of a dystopian sci-fi movie.
Peter realized he was still holding Sam’s phone— gripping it a little too tightly— and he quickly loosened his hold, not wanting to damage the device. His hands were still trembling, though, and he deposited the phone in the cup holder between them before tucking his fingers under his thighs to keep them steady.
As they got closer, the streets became more crowded. It seemed like the entire city was out, more populated than Peter had ever seen it— teeming and overfilled, some people running past each other, others looking confused. People laughing, others crying, a few screaming, and everything in between.
It was… disconcerting, to say the least. Peter had seen NYC in many states; it was one of the most lively and bustling cities in the world. But this? This was utter and complete chaos, in the purest sense of the word.
Peter could tell Sam was having the exact same thoughts, because he slowed the speed of the car down to a crawl. People kept darting in and out of the streets, right in front of the vehicles with absolutely no regard for their own surroundings (and hell, Peter was used to jaywalking from New Yorkers, but not like this ). Sam had to hit the brakes more than a few times, despite the fact that they couldn’t be going more than 10 mph at best.
Peter grimaced as someone ran past their car, screaming— eyes trailing over the throngs of hundreds of people scurrying around the streets like displaced cockroaches.
He was indescribably relieved when he spotted the street he’d walked down hundreds of times— knowing his apartment was right around the corner. He gestured for Sam to take a left, and the man obliged.
“You can just drop me off here,” Peter said, sounding a little breathless as the familiar building came into view, the car rolling to a stop. “Thanks for driving me.”
Sam frowned as he glanced at the apartment complex. “I don’t want to just leave you here, kid, your aunt might not be…” he trailed off. “…here.” he finished diplomatically.
Peter swallowed at the many implications that statement could hold. “You don’t have to stay,” he said instead, because he couldn’t even fathom the idea of May not being there.
“I’m staying, Peter,” Sam replied, and his tone was gentle but firm.
Peter would have argued more— Sam had already done more than enough by driving him here, he didn’t need to spend time waiting too— but every second he argued was a second longer he stayed separated from May. So instead he nodded and clambered out of the car, hurrying up to the apartment entrance and taking the steps five at a time. He reached the apartment door in record time, and didn’t even wait to use his enhanced hearing to listen if anyone was inside— raising his knuckles to rap against the doorframe.
There was the sound of scuffling, before the door was yanked open, and Peter came face to face with… a stranger. A woman. There was a man behind her, too, that might have been her boyfriend or husband. It didn’t matter; neither of them were familiar.
Peter’s voice caught in his throat at the sight of someone other than his aunt— anything he’d been planning to say dying on his tongue. Relief and panic warred in equal measure— relief that she might have been snapped, too, if she hadn’t been here in years, and panic at what that could mean if she was one of the many other more permanent casualties. He didn’t have time to dwell on it before the lady’s gaze swept over him.
“You’re Peter? Parker,” she questioned, and his heart hammered in his throat. He nodded, mouth dry and tongue stuck to the backs of his gums. “Your aunt was here earlier. She left a message if you came by to say that she’s at the women’s shelter a few blocks away.”
Peter almost collapsed on the spot and thanked every deity in the world for not taking his last surviving relative away from him.
“Thank you,” he rasped out, and she gave him a searching one-over before nodding in response. Then he was turning on his heel and leaving, and the door was shutting behind him, and he was walking away from the apartment he’d grown up in. It didn’t really sink in; he supposed it might later, but right now his main priority was finding May.
He made his way back outside, and Sam was waiting for him— head snapping up and concern creasing his brow when he saw Peter approaching him alone.
“She’s alive,” Peter got out, noting the way the man’s face practically radiated relief at the words. “I think— she must have gotten snapped, too, there was a couple in our apartment who said she came by earlier. She’s at the women’s shelter now.”
“That’s… good, I’m glad,” Sam said, and Peter’s chest tightened at the realization that the man really was glad. He’d barely known Peter for a handful of hours, yet he was relieved on Peter’s behalf for the sake of a woman he’d never met.
“I’ve got it handled from here,” Peter said, and his voice came out stronger than he felt. “Really, you’ve done more than enough, and the shelter is just down the street.”
Sam didn’t seem too happy at the thought of leaving Peter alone before he’d seen him reunite with his aunt with his own two eyes— but something in Peter’s face must have warned him not to argue, because he didn’t protest further, instead nodding slowly.
“Alright,” he agreed, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezing loosely. “Stay safe, kid. I’ll see you around.”
Peter nodded and offered a faint smile. “Thank you,” he responded, hoping the words came off as grateful as he felt. Sam mirrored his smile, before climbing back into the car and restarting the engine as Peter turned on his heel and headed down the block in what he hoped was the right direction.
The shelter the woman in the apartment had mentioned was easy to find. There were still throngs of people wandering the streets, calling out names of loved ones (presumably) and looking horribly displaced. Peter slipped into the crowd, following it in the direction most people seemed to be headed.
He quickly encountered a building— with a haphazard sign labeled “WOMEN’S SHELTER” propped up front. Peter could still smell the faint whiff of sharpie mingling with the material of the poster board, even through all the other scents, and figured that the sign must have just recently been created.
A small crowd of women and young children were gathered outside, some with tear-streaked faces, others with a hollow, dazed look that Peter knew all too well. He scanned the group, his heart in his throat, searching desperately for May. She wasn’t there.
Peter pushed down the panic in his chest, trying to think rationally— to remind himself that the woman in their apartment had said she was just there. She had spoken to them. She was alive. He resisted the urge to start shouting her name— to push through the front doors of the shelter and search every room until he found her. There were already plenty of people doing that around him, he didn’t need to add to the chaos; nor would it increase his chances of finding her.
Instead, he closed his eyes and focused his hearing, searching for the familiar sound of her heartbeat or voice. The onslaught of noise and the effort of trying to sift through it all made his head ache, but he scrunched his brow and kept going, not allowing it to get to him.
May. I’m looking for May.
He was certain he probably looked like a crazy person, standing stock-still near the shelter doors with his face screwed up and eyes closed, but luckily for him, crazy people were in no short supply at the moment.
There . His head shot up and eyes flew open as he caught onto the sound of his aunt’s heartbeat, and he focused on it, holding onto it through sheer force of will. He let his feet carry him towards the sound, eyes scanning the people, looking for her familiar long brown hair and wire glasses—
“May!” he called out, voice sticking in his throat when he finally laid eyes on her. At the sound, his aunt’s head whipped around, before she was darting towards him and wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug.
Peter buried his face in her shoulder, the familiar scent of her usual shampoo and perfume mix hitting him all at once and making him choke up. He clung to her, his arms wrapping around her with a strength he wasn’t fully aware of, but May didn’t complain— she just held him tighter, as if letting go would make him disappear.
Hysterically, he figured that that was an actual viable possibility now.
(Predictably, that thought did absolutely nothing to aid in repairing his crumbling psyche.)
“Peter,” May said, pulling back, gripping his shoulders and looking over his form. “What the hell happened on your end? They said it’s been five years? Half the universe died? What did—” She stopped, eyes widening when she finally caught the dust and blood streaking his face; remnants from the battle at the Compound. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m—” Peter cut himself off with a disbelieving laugh, looking down at his toes. He realized that nobody who had just returned even knew who Thanos was, or what the infinity stones were, or what had transpired at the Compound earlier today. They’d just disappeared and been back in the same breath. However confused and disoriented he felt by the matter, everyone else likely felt tenfold. He looked back up to May.
“No I’m fine,” he reassured her, watching as her shoulders relaxed. “It’s… a long story,” he got out. “But, uh— Mr. Stark, he— he’s hurt. Badly. He’s in a coma.”
As he said it, he felt tears burning in his eyes; everything he’d held back crashing down around him all at once, because this was May and he didn’t have to be Spider-Man around her. He didn’t have to be strong. He could just be Peter.
May must have seen the way his face crumpled, because she tugged him into another hug— impossibly tighter this time, tucking his head in the junction where her neck met her shoulder and pressing comforting fingers on the back of his neck. His whole body shuddered at the contact, practically folding in on himself, slumping on her— and she held him, fingers firm and soothing against his neck and back. He realized he was crying, then— body shaking and tears soaking his face. She just made comforting noises and murmured reassurances, uncaring of the fact that they were standing in the middle of throngs of people.
“Shhh… I’ve got you, honey. I’ve got you.”
—
It took Peter an embarrassingly long time to calm himself down, and to become coherent enough again to speak full sentences. When he was finally able to, he explained everything that had happened— from the spaceship pulling him from Earth, to the battle on Titan, to returning from the snap, to the final battle and Mr. Stark’s sacrifice. He left out most of the dangerous bits, glossing over getting choked out by Thanos himself, or clinging to Mr. Stark and begging for help as he was dusted. He left out the all-consuming terror he’d felt when facing Thanos’s army in the wreckage of the Compound, or the sickening, twisting feeling in his chest when he heard Mr. Stark flatline and saw the burns stretching up the entire right side of the man’s body.
May probably knew he was leaving things out, given the way he was rambling about portals and infinity stones and gauntlets and hammers and Captain America— but she didn’t question him on it, merely listening intently and nodding and hugging him at all the right moments.
In turn, she told him what had happened on their side— the screaming and chaos she’d heard for only a few moments before she herself had been dusted away, and had re-formed in the exact same spot.
“I was in the hospital, mid-shift, when I dusted. I re-formed right next to Sarah, you know Sarah, right—” Peter nodded, and she let out a little laugh. “Scared the living daylights out of her; she was one of the half that survived, but apparently has still been working in the same hospital this whole time.” She shook her head. “When she— and everyone else— realized what was happening, and who was returning, she pushed for me to fill out some temporary paperwork to be reinstated as a nurse.” She rubbed a hand over the bridge of her nose.
“With other jobs, apparently, it’s going to be more complicated, but they’re willing to rush the paperwork process on former hospital employees who come to reclaim their jobs. At least everyone who was… snapped doesn’t need to be re-trained or anything, since the five years only felt like a second to us.” May huffed at that, shrugging a bit with a small smile. “I guess it’s lucky for us that hospitals are perpetually understaffed with nurses and always need more.”
It was lucky, Peter supposed— even less than a day in, and he’d already heard people talking about not having jobs, and not having money or any legal paperwork or homes or even their families . May already had a spot in a shelter, plus a job, and her and Peter being together was far more than he could say of almost anyone else around them at the moment.
May seemed to be following his exact train of thought, because she gave him a faint smile. “After Sarah explained what she knew to me, I left right away for our apartment, knowing it’d be the first place you checked. And then I ended up here.” She pulled on his arm a bit. “Speaking of which— come on, I’ve already signed my name as a resident of the shelter, we’ll find someone to talk to so that you can sign your name to get a bed here, too.”
Peter frowned slightly. “Isn’t this a women’s only shelter?” he asked, scanning the surroundings again. He hadn’t really taken it all in when he’d first stepped foot inside— far too preoccupied with finding his aunt rather than considering the reality of their apartment being gone and May being in a women’s shelter. (Teenaged boys were not exactly the target demographic of such places.)
“Women and children,” May corrected. “I’m your legal guardian, it’s different for cases like that.”
Peter furrowed his brow and glanced around once more. It was true, he did see some children— boys and girls alike— paired with women he assumed were their mothers. But all of them were young, maybe ten at the oldest; Peter didn’t see a single person his age, or any teenagers at all.
May didn’t seem to take note of that, striding away like a one-woman mission. Peter trailed after her, because when her mind was set on something, almost nothing could get in her way. Not that Peter wanted to get in her way on this particular matter, anyways.
“Hi,” May stopped a frazzled-looking woman. “You’re the shelter owner, right?”
“I— yeah, sorry,” she said, giving them a small smile and running a hand through her hair. It had clearly been tied up in a low ponytail at some point earlier today, but had since come almost completely undone by her ministrations. She grimaced and pulled the dangling hairband free of the last few strands it stubbornly clung to, sliding it onto her wrist and sticking her hand out for a handshake.
“My name’s Katherine. Can I help you?” Her eyes darted to the line of people behind them, as if she were trying to multitask mid-discussion. Peter couldn’t blame her; it was already evident that the place was overrun and understaffed.
May tugged on Peter’s arm, and he stumbled up next to her. “I already got a spot in the shelter; this is my nephew, Peter. I know it’s crowded, but he’s a minor and I’m his only living relative and legal guardian…”
Katherine was already shaking her head before May could finish, a grimace twisting her face. “I’m sorry, we have a strict policy that only children twelve and under can stay with their guardians. Teenagers older than that have to go to the teen shelter down the street.”
May’s expression fell, and Peter could see the exhaustion drawn in the lines of her face. “Please,” she implored. “He’s just sixteen. It’s not safe for him to be out there alone.” Peter felt something twisting in his chest at that— he was Spider-Man, he was safer than most— but he knew this was more for May’s mental sanity than his own, so he stayed quiet.
Katherine sighed, her gaze softening somewhat, but it was evident she’d already faced too many families like theirs today. “I wish I could help, but we simply don’t have the space to make exceptions. The teen shelter is his best option. I’m really sorry.”
Peter placed a reassuring hand on May’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Aunt May. I’ll go check out the teen shelter. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He turned to Katherine, giving her a grateful nod. “Thank you for trying.”
May looked like she wanted to argue, but she knew Peter well enough to see that he had already made up his mind. Katherine, for her part, nodded shortly before hurrying onto the next person the second that the words were out of his mouth. May went along with Peter willingly as he tugged her away from the crowd, though with a displeased expression on her face.
“Hey, May, it’s fine ,” he repeated, as she turned her gaze on him, mouth twisting down at the corners. “I mean— it could be worse, right? We still have each other.”
At that, she gently placed both hands on his cheeks, squeezing lightly. Her fingers were soft, but her gaze was intense, eyes searching his own. “Say the word, and I’ll leave,” she swore. “We’ll find a shelter that can take the both of us—”
Peter was already shaking his head before she finished. “May, no,” he said, quiet but firm, meeting her gaze head-on. “You know as well as I do that the likelihood of that is way too small. Plus this shelter is near your job, if we try to move to another one you’d have to figure out how to get there, and transportation is a mess right now, and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not worth it. Really. We’ll both be busy, anyways.”
She pressed her lips together firmly, but sighed. “Fine. But if the teen center doesn’t work out, for any reason…”
Peter’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “I know,” he said. May pinned him with a long, calculating stare.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be able to stop you from patrolling?” she asked, and her voice was quiet so that nobody would overhear— not that anyone was listening. Peter grimaced slightly and shook his head, apologies on his tongue.
“I… can’t,” he apologized. “There’s just— there’s so many people who need help, all over, and it’s a mess, and I can help—”
May raised a hand to stop him, sighing quietly. “I know,” she murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Just be safe, alright?” Peter nodded, and her mouth twitched slightly. “I’m not a fan of letting you out of my sight with no phone to contact me, but…”
Peter shrugged slightly. “The phone lines are a mess right now, anyways, it wouldn’t be very useful. I can leave you a note at the front desk if I stop by and you aren’t here, and we can schedule meet-up times to check in.”
“I’ll get you a phone as soon as I can,” May promised, as if he hadn’t spoken, and he smiled at her softly.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine .” He said it with as much conviction as he could muster. For anyone else, he probably wouldn’t be able to muster much, but this was May . If he could do even one thing to decrease an iota of her stress, he would. That included not stressing about him.
May hummed, like she didn’t quite believe him, but sighed and pressed another kiss to his cheek, wrinkling her nose a little bit and patting his shoulder. “You might want to hit the showers at the youth shelter first,” she suggested lightly.
“Ha ha.” Peter deadpanned, rolling his eyes but unable to stop the small smile from tugging at his mouth. Glancing over his shoulder towards the doors of the shelter and the street outside, he grimaced a bit. “I should probably go check it out now, there might be a line I have to wait in.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” May asked, even as Peter immediately shook his head.
His aunt nodded, as if she’d expected that answer— tugging him into a final quick hug as if she didn’t want to let him go, before stepping back and glancing at the watch on her wrist.
“Alright, I have a shift until noon tomorrow— why don’t you get settled into the shelter tonight and tomorrow we can meet up for lunch?” she suggested, and when Peter smiled and nodded, she gently shooed him towards the doors.
Stepping back onto the streets gave Peter the same strange sense of deja vu as before, like everything was the same but shifted ever-so-slightly off-kilter. The layout of everything was identical, and even almost all of the buildings were the same, as well as the crowds of people befitting a densely populated city. But when he looked closer, he saw the signs of the time that had passed— a crumbling wall that had once been perfectly stable the last time he saw it, a boarded up shop with a thick layer of dust coating the inside, the huddles of people who wandered aimlessly instead of with purpose— given that they had nowhere to be or to go.
He walked down the block and turned the corner, finding the building Katherine had mentioned— the front was nondescript, with a small sign propped up front, just like the women’s shelter. It didn’t at all look like it was intended to be a shelter in the first place— though, Peter figured, it probably wasn’t . They’d probably just picked the first empty building they could find to start cramming people in.
He hesitated for a moment outside the door, taking in the sight of the small crowd gathered around the entrance. Kids his age and younger, maybe thirteen or fourteen— some in groups, others alone, all in varying states of panic or shock. The screaming, at least, had seemed to die down in the few hours since everyone had gotten back— it seemed as though information had spread enough that everyone knew what had happened. Peter didn’t know whether the dull acceptance he saw in some peoples’ eyes was better or worse than the outright panic.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The place was packed . Every available space was occupied, with kids lounging on chairs, sitting on the floor, leaning against the walls. The air was already thick with the unmistakable scent of teenager , and Peter’s nose wrinkled unpleasantly, even though he knew he himself smelled no better. It was also almost painfully loud— kids talking, arguing, some trying to sleep through the noise. Peter could see that the staff were doing their best to keep everyone in order and attended to, but there were too few of them for the number of teens crammed into the space.
Suddenly, he was very glad he’d insisted that May hadn’t come along, because he didn't want her to have to worry or think about him living in a place like this; one that was even more crowded and run-down than the women’s shelter had been.
“You looking for a spot?” A man nearby with a clipboard asked, looking as exhausted as Peter felt.
“No, that’s… it’s okay,” Peter said, forcing a small smile and glancing around once more. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll check back later.”
The man looked surprised. “You sure? We can at least get you some food, maybe a shower…” he sounded weary as he offered it, but the words were genuine.
Peter shook his head, stepping back toward the door. “Thanks, but I’m okay. Really. I’ll come back if I need to.” He didn’t wait for the man to respond, slipping out of the shelter before he could change his mind. He was lying; he had no intention of stepping foot inside ever again.
He turned back to the women’s shelter, hesitating for a moment. He couldn’t tell May. She’d leave her spot for him, even if it would make traveling to her job more difficult. Even if it meant sleeping in the streets herself. He’d just have to lie to her, to say that he got a spot at the shelter. She would have no reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth, and too busy with work anyways to try and go there herself to check if his name was on the list.
He could try and find another shelter, a little further away— but he had the sneaking suspicion that May wouldn’t want him that far away from her. The only reason she reluctantly agreed to the teen shelter was because it was so close; if Peter were to move to one further away, he was certain she’d insist on moving with him. So other shelters were a no-go.
Throngs of people on the streets seemed to have the same idea as Peter regarding the shelters— either that, or they’d been outright denied due to lack of space. People were already gathering in alleyways, laying claim to deserted corners or prime positions for sleeping.
Peter knew his Spidey-sense would be thrumming uncomfortably if he tried to sleep among that many people (in a shelter or on the streets). His eyes trailed up to the rooftops, which looked relatively empty— save for the occasional person who had managed to climb up a fire escape. Peter figured he’d have better luck than most taking the high ground, considering his sticky powers and all. If he could find a rooftop to sleep on that was relatively nearby, he could keep close to May and not take a spot from someone who may need the roof over their heads more.
Peter— and everyone around him— often joked that he was a bad liar. That wasn’t the entire truth. He was a bad liar about most things— but pretending he was fine? After Ben? During his early days as Spider-Man, hiding his injuries? He’d become an expert at that. At least to the extent to get people off his back, for the most part.
Time to put it to good use, he supposed.
~ ~ ~
October 26th, 2023
[One week post Hulk-snap]
Peter spent the large majority of his time over the course of the next nine days patrolling. He found a rooftop on 53rd that was warm and dry enough for his needs, relatively well-protected from the elements and high enough up that someone would either need to be able to fly or climb walls to reach it. His only real contestants in that department were the pigeons.
He’d thrown himself into his patrols, using them as a way to distract himself from everything he couldn’t control about the situation. He'd tried to find MJ and Ned after reuniting with May, but without his phone or a solid lead, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Even if he had a phone, he wouldn’t be able to call them, unless they somehow kept their old numbers. They could be anywhere. Maybe they were in another borough, or maybe they'd ended up somewhere completely different when the snap was reversed. Or maybe they hadn’t been snapped at all, and had lived through the last five years. He wasn’t entirely sure that was the case, since he’d checked both of their old addresses and had found new families living in them— so either they’d been snapped, or they had moved out sometime in the last five years. He had no way to know which.
He supposed he could wait until Midtown went back into session, to see if they’d show up there. Or he could wait to get a new phone and then try to search them up on social media. Both options were unappealing for the sole shared factor that he’d have to wait to find out what happened to them. Peter had never been good in the waiting department.
It was ironic, then, that what he was doing at that exact moment was… waiting. In the past week, his patrols had consisted of almost constant movement. Crime rates were through the roof, with people stealing food, clothing— really anything remotely valuable or useful that they could get their hands on. People were fighting over spots in the streets, or vying for open job applications, or trying to break into their old apartments that were now inhabited with new occupants. It was far busier than any patrol Peter had ever faced in the past, and had seemed relentless for well over the past week. This was the first real break he’d had in days that had lasted longer than an hour— hell, Peter hadn’t even been able to sleep for that long most nights before Spider-Man had to jump up to intervene in another incident. Not that he’d probably be able to sleep much longer than an hour with the way his nightmares were going, anyways, so he may as well put the insomnia to good use.
"Hey, Spider-Man! You know it’s rude to ghost your friends, right?"
What the—
That was— that was MJ’s voice. Peter whipped his head around, nearly falling off the ledge as his eyes snagged on the familiar forms of Ned and MJ. Together. Here. In front of him. (Or, well, below him, if he was being technical.) Was he hallucinating? He was pretty sure he had to be hallucinating. It really wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’d faced in the last two weeks— not by a long shot. (And man, that was kind of depressing to think about.)
“Are you just gonna stare at us, or…?” MJ called out again, and Peter blinked. Not hallucinating. Fantastic.
Snapping out of his stupor, it finally registered that it was MJ and Ned in front of him— real , in the flesh. He practically leapt down from his ledge, yanking them both into tight hugs, uncaring of the fact that he was pretty sure that was the first time he had ever hugged MJ. (He could blame it on hysteria and adrenaline from coming back from the dead.)
“You— I— how did you find me?” he asked, a little of the hysteria that he felt seeping into his tone. “I’ve been looking for you guys ever since we got back, but…”
MJ snorted at that, looking a little uncharacteristically flushed from Peter’s hug. “We’ve been trying to track you down for the last week,” she said, exasperatedly. “This is the first time you’ve stayed in one spot for longer than, like, thirty minutes.”
“Yeah, we cannot move as fast as you can, man,” Ned chimed in, panting a bit. It was clear that they’d both hurried here as quickly as they could— afraid that Peter might swing away again before they had a chance to catch up with him. He straightened up, waving his phone in one hand. “Thank god people are still running the Spidey-Watch twitter account, though.”
Peter let out a breathy laugh at that, shaking his head. Glancing around, he didn’t see anyone watching them yet, but he was reminded of the fact that he was still in his suit and they were still in the middle of the street. He gestured to the roof he had just been perched on.
“We can talk up there,” he offered. “I can swing you up.”
Ned looked positively delighted by that prospect; MJ did not. Nevertheless, both nodded, and Peter swung them up, before pulling his mask off and staring at the two of them.
“How did you— how’d you two find each other?”
“We were next to each other at MoMA when it happened,” MJ said— and oh, right. The field trip. Why did Peter always have such bad field trip experiences? “The teacher freaked out about you disappearing off the bus, by the way,” she continued conversationally. “Right before everyone else started disappearing, and then we all had much bigger problems to deal with. But, anyways. We re-formed, or whatever, in the same spot. So it was easy to find each other. You, on the other hand, were off re-forming on…” she trailed off.
“An alien planet,” Peter filled in, trying not to have a minor breakdown about it. “Wait.” He turned to stare at MJ— realizing, with a start, that he had never told her that he was Spider-Man. “How did you…?”
MJ snorted loudly. “Really?” she asked, dryly. “I’ve known for ages. Though it was pretty obvious when Ned started getting everyone riled up about the alien spaceship— except for me, of course— and then I watched you climb out of the bus window and swing away. No clue how you’ve managed to keep your identity a secret for so long,” she mused. “Pretty sure everyone on that bridge saw you climb out of a school bus.”
“Oh,” Peter said, flushing a bit, in tandem with Ned. “Uh— yeah, I guess that was…” he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. He shook his head, not wanting to think about Spider-Man or Titan or potential identity reveals at the moment.
“Do you all… I mean, I went to both of your old apartments but—” Peter trailed off, not sure how to ask if they were staying in shelters too. Both of them shook their heads— luckily not commenting on his complete change of topic.
“My dad didn’t get snapped,” MJ said. “He moved to a new apartment, but I’m staying with him.”
“Same with my parents,” Ned said. “New apartment. Apparently that’s, like, a thing.”
Peter shrugged. Grief did weird things to people. He and May had chosen to stay in their apartment after Ben died, but he still felt his uncle’s ghost around every corner sometimes. He imagined that some people couldn’t handle the reality of that, in the wake of the first snap.
“May was snapped, too,” Peter said, when he caught their expectant gazes on him. “We, uh… there’s a new couple, living in our old apartment.”
“So, wait, where are you two staying?” Ned asked, brow furrowed.
Peter shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. “Shelters,” he said vaguely. Both of their faces creased in concern, and he rushed to reassure them. “It’s only temporary. May has a job and is apartment searching. Really, we’ll be in a new place soon.”
MJ scoffed at that, as if she couldn’t help herself. “Soon,” she said, flatly. “None of this is going to be fixed soon .”
Peter didn’t know what to say to that— and neither did Ned, it seemed— because they both just stared at her. She sighed, and slumped against a nearby wall, sliding down to sit at the bottom. Slowly, Peter and Ned joined her, sitting criss-cross on the cool concrete. There was a beat of silence, before MJ started speaking again.
"Everything’s messed up," she explained. "My dad— I mean, he’s a big fan of keeping me in the loop regarding adult stuff, I guess,” she waved her hand. “That’s besides the point. Anyways, he’s been keeping me up to date on… everything. Lots of people don’t have homes— and there are issues there of legalities, of people who had gotten snapped but still had rent or mortgages to pay, coming back and not having the property anymore but still technically in debt to it. People’s bank accounts were closed or frozen, so they can’t withdraw money, and banks and businesses don’t have the sheer amount of printed money needed to pay everyone in cash in the meantime. Half the population is considered dead, so our social security numbers aren’t exactly valid anymore, and trying to keep track of reinstating old ones is near-impossible, given that you can’t exactly verify that you’re, well— you — if you have no legal paperwork to back it up.” She sighed and dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not even touching on the need for housing or jobs, or getting kids back into school…”
Peter pressed his lips together in a firm line. In some sort of unconscious way, he’d known this— had seen the displaced people on his patrols with his own two eyes, had seen the ramifications. But he hadn’t considered social security numbers, or legal paperwork, or bank accounts or anything of that regard. He wondered how May was getting her paycheck; whether her bank account was somehow still active after five years, or whether she was being paid in cash. He doubted the latter option was the case, given what MJ had just said.
They were all silent for a long, drawn out moment, before Ned spoke up.
"My parents said the UN is setting up something called the… uh, the GRC?” Ned asked, ever the optimist. “Maybe they’ll help get everything sorted out?”
“Sure, about as helpful as government organizations usually are in crisis situations.” MJ snorted a bit, sarcasm dripping from her tone. At Peter’s blank look, she elaborated. “The Global Repatriation Council. Haven’t you seen all the ads for it? They’ve been quick with it. I didn’t even know the government could get anything done over the time span of a week, but I guess they’re capable of it in times of crisis. They’re supposed to be helping with housing and the social security issue, I think.”
“Do you think they’ll be able to do anything?” Peter asked, voice quiet. “I mean, really make a difference?” MJ had never been a particularly optimistic person, but she wasn’t unfairly pessimistic, either. Peter trusted that she’d give a fairly accurate assessment of what she thought— even if she didn’t sugarcoat the situation.
MJ sighed, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a mess, Peter. Even if they do manage to sort out some of it, it’s not gonna happen overnight. This is gonna take years to fix, and that’s if everything goes perfectly.” Her mouth quirked in a faint smile. “Besides, when does anything ever go perfectly?”
Peter didn’t have an answer for that. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers towards his web-shooters out of habit— feeling overwhelmed with the idea. The fight against Thanos had been one thing— it had been a tangible enemy, a clear goal, even with how messy the fight had gotten. This, though… this was different. There was no single enemy to punch, no alien weapons dealers to web up and toss in jail. He wasn’t entirely sure Spider-Man could help in this situation— aside from trying to stop people on the streets from murdering each other over a can of beans.
“So,” MJ was the first to break the silence, punching him on the shoulder lightly. “Enough of that. Do you have a spare change of clothes hanging around? Ned promised me a Delmar’s sandwich, and I’m hungry from chasing you around all day.”
Peter opened his mouth to respond, but Ned cut in before he had a chance to— face lighting up hopefully at the prospect. “ Please , Peter? I know you’ve got patrolling, but it’ll be quick.”
Peter grinned— smaller than usual, but a genuine smile nonetheless. He hadn’t been intending on turning the offer down, but their insistence warmed him anyways.
“I think the city can spare me for an hour or two,” he agreed— and the resulting smiles that stretched over both of their faces was worth it.
~ ~ ~
November 1st, 2023
[Two weeks post Hulk-snap]
Peter hadn’t entirely expected to run into Sam again, so soon after the man had dropped him off in Queens the first time around. He honestly thought that most of the Avengers would have left the city— with the compound destroyed and the streets a chaotic mess, he figured they would have scattered.
Yet here he was now, on patrol, perched on the wall of a brownstone, staring down at the startled face of Sam Wilson. He pointed his finger to a nearby roof and mimed swinging them up there— as he had with Ned and MJ a few days prior— and the man nodded, before yelping as Peter scooped him up without further preamble. He shot Peter a mild glare when their feet landed on the rooftop, pulling away and straightening his clothes in an attempt to regain some sort of dignity— grumbling something under his breath about “teenagers” and “warnings” and “stupid super-soldiers flinging themselves on and off buildings.” (Peter had the distinct impression that the last one was more about Steve Rogers than Peter himself.)
Now out of sight of any prying eyes, Peter pulled off his mask, swiping a hand through his hair in a useless attempt to make it more presentable and grimacing when it just flopped into his eyes instead.
Immediately, Sam’s brow furrowed. “You look like shit,” he greeted, and Peter snorted.
“Hello to you too,” he said, flatly. “‘What a fine morning we’re having.’ ‘Hi, how are you? I’m good, thank you, how about you?’ All viable options for a standard, polite greeting.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “What a fine morning we’re having. You look like shit,” he revised, and Peter sighed. At least the man listened. Sorta.
“What do you want?” he asked, tiredly, and Sam arched an eyebrow.
“Now who’s the rude one?”
Peter shot him a half-hearted glare, and Sam softened a bit, eyes scanning over Peter’s form. Peter knew that he did look like shit, to put it quite frankly. He’d lost some indeterminate amount of weight, and he was grimy and dirty and kinda stinky, and his hair was too-grown out and greasy, and he had deep eyebags from a general lack of sleep.
“I was in the area and saw you patrolling, decided to check in,” Sam said, and Peter arched his eyebrow in mild disbelief. Sam snorted. “Not a lie, man. Since the compound is wrecked, Barnes, Steve, and I are staying at a sort of safe house in Brooklyn. At least till we can get better options.” His face twisted into a grimace; Peter could relate.
“Yeah, the housing market is shit right now,” Peter sighed, getting a startled half-laugh half-snort from the other man.
“I feel like I should reprimand you for your language or something,” he commented, and Peter gave another half-hearted eye roll. “What do sixteen-year-olds know of the housing market, anyways?”
Peter sighed. “My Aunt May has been apartment-searching ever since we got back,” he meant for the words to come out in a joking tone, but they ended up just coming out tired. “No luck.”
Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Where are you staying in the meantime?” he asked, in a calculated fashion, and Peter had to force his spine not to stiffen.
“There’s a women’s shelter down the street from our old apartment that May’s staying in, and a teens-only shelter nearby,” Peter explained, carefully skirting around the specifics and hoping the man wouldn’t call him on it. “Ideally we’d try to be in a shelter together but,” he shrugged helplessly. “Y’know how it is.”
He waited with bated breath for Sam to point out that he never said he was staying at the teens-only shelter, but luckily he didn’t seem to catch onto Peter’s skillfully-worded phrasing.
“You’re welcome to come back to the safe house, if you need a better option,” Sam offered, and Peter instinctively shook his head. The man sighed, as though expecting that answer. “At least come have lunch with us. I know Steve’s been wanting to check up on you, anyways.”
Peter’s stomach chose that moment to let out a particularly loud gurgle at the mention of food, and Sam laughed a bit, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Well, there went any chances of refusing. Not that Peter probably would have, anyways— he was aching for some human contact, and the thought of having lunch and talking with people casually was… painfully appealing. Plus, the safehouse was in Brooklyn, so it wasn’t like he’d need to commit to a multi-hour commute like the Compound. Not to mention free food was something he could hardly afford to turn down.
Peter shifted awkwardly on the rooftop, the weight of Sam’s concerned gaze making him feel oddly exposed. He tugged his mask back on, hiding his expression behind the familiar fabric. “Lunch sounds good,” he said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “I could use a break anyway.”
Sam gave him a considering look before nodding. “Alright, let’s get going then. Steve’s been experimenting in the kitchen, and the guy is a surprisingly decent cook for having grown up in the 40s.”
Peter let out a small laugh, the sound surprising himself. “Who would I be to turn down a meal cooked by Captain America?”
Sam snorted and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Just get me off this roof, kid.”
Peter obliged, and Sam led him over to the same car that he’d originally driven them to the city in two weeks prior. It was significantly less dusty this time around (though no less dented). Even through the Spider-Man mask, Sam must have been able to sense Peter’s arched eyebrow, because he shrugged.
“What? It still works just fine. Not all of us can swing around the city as a mode of transportation.”
“You have wings,” Peter reminded him, and Sam made a face.
“They got a bit damaged during the battle, and I haven’t had time to get them fixed.” He waved a hand. “I’ll get to it eventually.”
They made their way to the safe house in companionable silence after that, Peter’s thoughts drifting as he stared out the window. The neighborhood shifted around them, the brownstones giving way to more modern buildings as they entered Brooklyn proper. It wasn’t long before they reached their destination, a small complex nestled between a row of shops, with a long flight of spindly steps up to the front door. Sam parked the car before leading the way inside, unlocking the second apartment door and gesturing for Peter to enter the tiny space. Almost immediately, he tripped right over Bucky, who was perched on the couch— drinking what looked to be a beer. The man in question waved off Peter’s stumbling apologies with a “you’re fine, kid, don’t worry ‘bout it.”
Steve emerged from the tiny adjacent kitchenette, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hey, you made it,” he greeted with a warm smile. “Perfect timing— I’m almost done.”
Sam hadn’t been lying about Steve being a good cook— though Peter had to admit that the bar to impress him was relatively low, considering his background with May’s cooking and the fact that he hadn’t eaten properly in two weeks. (Peter figured that at this moment, arugula would have tasted like a delicacy to him. And he hated arugula.)
Peter couldn’t help but scarf down more food than he’d intended— his hunger making itself apparent despite his best attempts at holding back. Luckily, Steve and Bucky also seemed to have enhanced metabolisms, so he didn’t feel completely rude with the amount he was eating, and they didn’t comment on it, either.
“So,” Sam started, after their conversation had settled into comfortable silence for a few moments. “How’s your aunt doing?”
Peter swallowed his mouthful of food. “She’s good,” he responded, echoing the words he’d spoken on the rooftop an hour or so prior; he figured Sam bringing up the conversation was more for Steve’s and Bucky’s benefit rather than his own. “Still working at the hospital and apartment searching.”
At that, Steve gestured at the walls. “You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime, if you need,” he said, immediately echoing Sam’s offer from before, and the kindness in the words almost brought tears to Peter’s eyes. He held them back and smiled. Even without taking another look around, he knew that the offer wasn’t really a feasible one. He was certain that Steve had meant it earnestly, but it was clear that this safe house had been intended only for one person, maybe two. They were already cramped as it was with three— and four would be infeasible. Two of them would end up on the floor, and Peter couldn’t allow someone to sleep on a floor for his sake. (He could convince himself that sleeping on a floor was close enough to sleeping on a roof that turning the offer down didn’t really matter.)
“Nah, wouldn’t want to cramp your style by bunking with a teenager.” He grinned as he said it, hoping the humor would deflect any further questions about his housing. Or lack thereof, really.
“Are you sure?”
Peter nodded, more firm this time. “I’d like to stay closer to my aunt, anyways.”
Steve nodded slowly at that. “Alright,” he agreed, and Peter was a little surprised that he’d managed to get away with lying yet again . This was an unprecedented streak for him. Or— it wasn’t a lie , really. He just didn’t tell them he was “staying closer to his aunt” on the adjacent rooftops rather than inside the shelter itself. Oh well.
Distracted by his internal monologue, Peter didn’t notice Steve scribbling something on a slip of paper before he was holding it out to him. “Here. My number— for emergencies.”
Peter took it, blinking at the paper now gripped in his fingers. “Uh,” he glanced up at the man. “I really appreciate it, but… I don’t exactly have a phone yet. I mean, when May and I got back to our old apartment, there was another couple living there, and I really didn’t think to ask what happened to all our stuff, but— I assume it was thrown out, I mean—” His throat closed up at the thought, of something he hadn’t really considered in-depth before now. All his childhood toys, and pictures, and Ben’s hoodies and May’s cookbooks and—
Steve was shaking his head before Peter had the chance to truly spiral (thank god for that, or Peter would have been utterly mortified for life).
“Tony kept yours and your aunt’s things,” Steve said to him, halting all his thoughts in their tracks. “He… paid the rent to your apartment for three years. Finally allowed Ms. Potts to have it all moved into a storage unit for the last two. But it’s all there. He didn’t get rid of any of it.”
“Oh,” Peter said, voice coming out small.
Mr. Stark had always been a hopeful man, as much as Peter was willing to bet he’d deny it. Not in the “everything is going to be alright” kind of way, but in the “I can fix things” kind of way. So it didn’t really come as much surprise to Peter to hear that the man had remained hopeful enough to keep May and Peter’s rent going for three whole years. As if he’d find a solution, as if he’d be able to bring them back.
The question, really, was why Peter ? Mr. Stark was also an eccentric man, Peter knew, but why had he cared enough to keep all the belongings of the family of a kid he mentored? Even after it seemed there was no hope of getting them back? That spoke to sentimentality, and Peter didn’t quite know what to do with that word in regards to Mr. Stark.
“Oh,” he said again, because he had nothing better to say. “Thank you for letting me know.”
Steve nodded, and it was suddenly all too much for Peter. Something was tightening in his chest— or maybe expanding, he couldn’t pinpoint the sensation— and he was hot and cold and everything was too overwhelming. He stood up, blinking rapidly.
“Speaking of my aunt, I— I should go. She’ll… uh, she worries,” he babbled, waving his hands a bit. May was at work, but they didn’t know that, and it wasn’t that far of a reach. “Thanks for lunch and, well— everything, I guess,” he finished lamely, before turning to make his final escape out the door. He almost thought he’d be able to leave without any of them questioning it, before a voice calling his name forced him to turn back around.
“Peter.” It was Steve. The man scrutinized him for a moment, before giving him a short nod. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
Peter almost furrowed his eyebrows in response. What was it with everyone telling him that recently? He was fine , thank you very much. He was helping his city— he was no worse off than everyone else on the streets. In fact, he was better off than they were. And now, with the storage unit and everything— May and him even had all of their old stuff back, thanks to Mr. Stark. He was fine.
“I will,” he promised, instead of saying any of that.
He didn’t know why it felt like he was telling a lie.
—
By the time Peter got back to Queens after his detour and some more patrolling, it was 7 PM. Peter knew May was supposed to finish her shift at 6 and would be expecting him to meet up with her, so he stopped on his rooftop to slip some clothes on over his suit before heading over to the women’s shelter.
May was already waiting for him outside, hands tucked into the pockets of her recently thrifted jacket. Peter shuffled up to her, and her head shot up at the sound of his footsteps, mouth twisting in a frown when she caught sight of his face.
She looked exhausted, Peter could tell. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes were creased in the corners in the way that they always were when she was stressed and trying to hide it, but she still stared at him with an expression of motherly concern.
“Honey, are you okay?” she asked, reaching a hand out to grasp his, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. “You look…” like shit . Peter filled in, Sam’s words from earlier echoing in his mind. He tried to plaster on a smile.
“I’m fine, May, don’t worry.”
She shot him a look, one that said ‘I know you’re bullshitting,’ and Peter sighed. He loved May, he loved her immensely, and he was beyond grateful to have someone who cared about him so much — but it did make trying to lie about his well-being much more difficult.
“I’m fine, it’s just— my metabolism, y’know?” he shrugged. “There’s not even enough food for normal teenagers, much less an enhanced one. Makes me more tired, I guess.” It certainly wasn’t a lie — just not the whole truth. He just wasn’t taking the food from the shelter like she thought.
Ideally, Peter would have just said he was fine and not caused his aunt any worry— not when she was already so stressed— but May knew him too well and was just as stubborn as he was sometimes. If he wanted to keep the complete facade up, something had to give. Explaining that he didn’t get enough food because of his metabolism was a far better alternative in his eyes than explaining that he was sleeping on rooftops and scrounging for food. She certainly wouldn’t be happy about the first option, but Peter knew she’d raise hell and back if she found out he didn’t have a roof over his head and a semi-constant stream of food from the teen shelter. Peter had no doubts that she would probably manage to find him a spot somewhere , but that was time that she could be spending working and apartment searching. And he was fine , really, he didn’t need her to waste so much effort on a temporary solution for him.
At that, she wordlessly tugged him into a hug— despite the fact that he was sure he probably didn’t smell very pleasant by this point. He stayed as clean as he could, but he practically lived in the suit every day, and had no opportunity to wash it. It wasn’t like he could run it through a washing machine, after all. Besides, it didn’t matter. Most people he encountered were in similar states anyways; looking scraggly and unkempt was the norm these days.
Peter melted into the hug, trying to absorb some of the comfort that May was radiating. It was moments like these that he missed the most, just being able to feel safe and cared for. He squeezed her back tightly, as if that could make all the stress and exhaustion go away.
When they finally pulled apart, May gave him a soft smile, but her eyes still held that concern that she couldn’t quite hide, scanning over his form once more. Luckily, she seemed to sense not to push on it (not today, at least), instead blinking like she’d just remembered something.
“Oh— I managed to get something for you.” She rummaged in her bag for a moment, pulling out a phone— it was an older model, a bit scuffed up, but still in good condition. “One of the nurses at the hospital gave this to me,” she explained. “She heard that I’d been asking around to try and get one for you, and she doesn’t use this model anymore.”
Peter tugged her back into a tight hug at that, murmuring a “thank you,” into her ear. It was a small thing, he knew— hardly the biggest thing his aunt had ever done for him— but it inexplicably reminded him of just how much she loved him. Here she was, living in a shelter, working full-time in the hospital and apartment searching all at once— yet she’d still found the time to ask around, to get him a phone just to make things even a little bit easier for him.
Pulling back, Peter rummaged in his pocket for the slip of paper that Steve had given him earlier. He carefully input the number, his fingers trembling slightly as he typed. (He figured he could excuse that on the hunger or lack of sleep.) Frankly, it was a good thing he’d gotten a phone sooner rather than later, because he didn’t have the best track record with losing things. He shot off a quick text to the super soldier, letting him know that it was him and thanking him again for lunch earlier.
“Whose number is that?” May asked, peering over his shoulder.
“Oh— Steve’s,” Peter replied, glancing at her. “He gave it to me for emergencies.” He scrunched his face up at that. “Though I’m not too sure what that qualifies as in his eyes.”
May’s eyebrows shot up. “Steve Rogers? Captain America Steve Rogers?”
Peter snorted faintly. “Yeah, that’s the one. He invited me for lunch today. Or, well, Sam did. On his behalf. But he was there.”
May was looking at him with a strange expression, and Peter hesitated. He knew May supported him as Spider-Man, even if she couldn’t fully understand where he was coming from sometimes— but he’d never really done this before. The whole… talking about other superheroes so casually (with the exception of Mr. Stark).
“Is… that alright?” he asked, hesitantly. “Or—”
“No, it’s—” May smiled, then. “It’s good. I’m glad you have other people looking out for you. Makes me feel better.”
Peter ducked his head, cheeks warming a bit at the idea of the other Avengers “looking out for him.” Except, well— that’s what they were doing, weren’t they? He was so used to only having Mr. Stark and Ned on his team in regards to Spider-Man that it felt almost foreign to have so many people who knew his secret identity.
He heard the sound of a crash from a nearby alleyway, followed by the sound of heated arguing, and his head shot up. He knew it was probably yet another argument over sleeping spots— he was certain he’d had to break up more fights over squatter’s rights in the past two weeks than he had in his entire previous career as Spider-Man.
May instantly knew what the look on his face meant as he turned to her, eyes wide. “There’s—” he started, but she just shook her head and placed her hands on his shoulders, kissing him on the cheek.
“Go on,” she said. “I know you have to.” He turned on his heel, and she grasped his forearm before he could dart away. “Stay safe. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Peter said, before twisting and hurrying towards the sound, stripping off the long-sleeved shirt over his suit and pulling the pants off just as gracelessly— tossing and webbing them to a wall and hoping that they’d still be there by the time he returned.
(Belatedly, he realized he never promised that he’d stay safe. He wished he could say that it was an accident, but he didn’t think he could lie about that, even to himself.)
Nevertheless, he pulled his mask back on and swung towards the fight— pointedly trying not to think of the way his stomach twisted in hunger, or the soreness of his muscles, or the burning behind his eyes that warned him of sleep deprivation. He pushed aside the echoing voices of Sam and Steve and Ned and MJ and May; asking if he was alright, what was wrong, if they could help.
Stay safe. Take care of yourself.
He was fine . He was fine, and he had a job to do.
~ ~ ~
November 9th, 2023
[Three weeks post Hulk-snap]
A little over three weeks after the battle, they contacted him. Well, they contacted Spider-Man. They said they were re-building the time machine and they could use some more brains, or at the very least, another set of hands. Peter was flattered, really, but he had a feeling it was moreso an invite out of pity than out of actual necessity. Nevertheless, he jumped at the opportunity to be useful outside of just patrolling, and took the trip upstate.
The compound was still utterly trashed; as it turned out, they were re-building the machine at Mr. Stark’s lakehouse. Apparently, the man had a lakehouse. Tony Stark, the futurist, had a lakehouse in upstate New York. The Mr. Stark Peter had known would probably have turned his nose up at the oak wood slats and the rustic feel— a far cry from the sleek silver chrome of Avengers Compound and the Tower.
That wasn’t the only surprise Peter was met with.
Mr. Stark had a daughter .
And his daughter knew Peter’s name.
“You’re Peter,” she declared, and he stared down at her, utterly bewildered. She couldn’t produce the hard “r” very well, so it came out more like an “uh” sound, but it was still very distinctly his name.
“Uh,” he cleared his throat and plastered on what he hoped was a cheerful smile, crouching down to her level. He didn’t know much about children, but he’d had enough encounters during his Spider-Man patrols to know what not to do. Hopefully.
“Yeah, that’s me. How do you… how do you know my name?” he asked, carefully. He couldn’t imagine any of the Avengers would go out of the way to warn a five-year-old that he, specifically, was coming, but maybe they had.
“Daddy told me,” Morgan said, furrowing her brows in a ‘duh’ look. “You’re ‘pider-Man.”
Peter had to blink back the sudden burning in his eyes, clearing his throat again. “Yeah,” he said, and it came out in a breathy kind of laugh. Mr. Stark had told his daughter about Peter. For the life of him, he couldn’t discern what that meant. “Yeah, I am.”
Morgan frowned a little, as if she was trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle, before nodding like she’d come to a satisfactory conclusion. “Daddy missed you,” she said, and it knocked all of the air straight out of Peter’s chest, like he’d been sucker punched in the diaphragm.
“Yeah?” he managed to choke out, uncaring of the fact that he’d said ‘yeah’ at least five times in this conversation already. “Did he— he said that?”
“No,” Morgan said, and Peter couldn’t tell whether that single word alleviated the tension in his chest or crushed it even further. He didn’t have time to come to a conclusion before Morgan was continuing. “But I could tell. He would always get that— that look on his face when I asked ‘bout you.” She drew her brows together and her lips twisted down in the corners in demonstration, and Peter was hit with the eerily familiar expression of his mentor, holding him on Titan, knowing what was about to happen and already grieving. It was just different enough on Morgan’s tiny face not to send Peter into a full-blown spiral, but the pinch of her brow and twist of her lips, and scrunch of her eyes was all so very Tony Stark that Peter wanted to cry.
Tiny hands were on his cheeks, and Peter blinked back the tears, focusing on Morgan’s clear brown eyes. She frowned at him, but it was more of a pout now rather than Mr. Stark’s usual grimace.
“You’re doing the face now too,” she said. “Did I upset you? I’m sorry, please don’t cry Petey.”
Peter managed a wavering smile at the nickname. “I’m not going to cry,” he promised, and though his voice was hoarse, he blinked rapidly a few times, pushing the tears back into his tear ducts through sheer force of will. “I’m just— uh, thank you,” he said, and Morgan looked even more confused.
“You’re thanking me for making you cry? Daddy said you were weird like that,” she declared after a moment, and a startled laugh ripped its way out of Peter’s throat. He clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle it, not having expected the words in the slightest.
“Morgan!” a familiar voice called, and Peter and Morgan turned together as Colonel Rhodes approached them. “Are you bothering our guest?” he asked in a mock-serious tone, picking up the five-year-old and swinging her to his hip as she let out a shriek of laughter.
Peter shook his head. “No, she’s not bothering me, it’s okay,” he reassured the man, even as Morgan giggled in agreement. He received a snort in response.
“Tony told me about you, kid, I doubt you’d say anything even if she were .” Before Peter could open his mouth to respond, the man tacked on: “Speaking of which— call me Rhodey, I’ve heard Tony griping about your penchant for calling everyone by their full title, no need for that.”
Peter shook his head and spoke through the tightness in his chest at the idea that his mentor talked to his daughter and best friend about Peter. “Not their full title,” he protested. “Just ‘Mr.’ and ‘Ms.’ My aunt and uncle raised me with manners.”
Rhodey snorted again. “You should have your aunt share some parenting tips with Tony,” he said, tickling Morgan as she shrieked delightedly once more. “Pepper could use some help straightening out the Stark genes with Little Miss here.” Even as he said it, his tone was fond— it was clear he was just as smitten with the little girl as everyone else was.
Peter felt a lump in his throat grow at the reference to his mentor— at the implication that the man would wake up, that he would be able to be talked to, that he’d be here to see his daughter grow up. When Rhodey glanced back up at him, some of his feelings must have been plastered all over his face, because the man gently set Morgan down while keeping eye contact with Peter.
“Why don’t you go find your mom? I’m sure she could use some help,” Rhodey suggested, and the five-year-old darted off, delighted with her new mission. Peter watched her go, the lump in his throat not disappearing.
“He will wake up, kid,” Rhodey said, and Peter almost laughed. Was he really that easy to read?
“And if he doesn’t?” he asked, and that wasn’t what he’d intended to say— nor was it the tone he intended to say it in. It came out soft, hoarse, pathetically weak. He’d never sounded more like his age before. Rhodey sighed, reaching out a hand to squeeze Peter’s shoulder.
“One thing I’ve learned about Tony,” the man said conversationally. “Is that the second you put him out for the count, the more stubborn he is to defy your expectations. I swear it’s like he senses it somehow. He outright refuses to let death take him before he’s ready— and trust me, he’s not ready, not before he gets to see his kids grow up.”
Kids. Peter almost wrinkled his nose in confusion. As far as he was aware, Mr. Stark only had Morgan. Maybe it was a figure of speech? Or maybe Pepper was pregnant, or they wanted more kids. He felt like it would be impolite to ask such a thing, though, so he didn’t bother— instead allowing Rhodey to continue.
“Point is— Tony’s a stubborn bastard. He’ll wake up. And then say something stupid like ‘miss me?’”
Peter did laugh at that— almost able to hear the words in his mentor’s voice.
Rhodey grinned, like he’d just accomplished some particular mission. “If I cried every time I thought that man was dead, I’d have cried myself out years ago. Don’t spare him the tears just yet. It stokes his ego.” He patted Peter on the back before he could formulate a response. “Now c’mon, I think Bruce needs a little help on the quantum machine.”
Peter followed willingly— not having anything better to do. Rhodey was right; Bruce set him to work checking on some of the wiring in the machine; it was mostly finished, and since they’d used it multiple times already, they only had to rebuild it, not engineer it from scratch.
He was perched on the small platform, panel lifted up and examining the components inside, when he heard the sound of voices on the back porch. Peter knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he found himself listening in before he could tear his attention away.
“—I know you’re planning on doin’ something stupid, pal,” Bucky’s now-familiar Brooklyn twang reached his ears. Steve sighed— and Peter knew it was Steve, because the man had a very distinct, patriotic-sounding sigh.
“I have to try, Buck,” he said, and he sounded tired.
“She wouldn’t want you messin’ up the timelines for her sake. She’d probably choke you out at the very suggestion.”
Peter had no idea who she was in this scenario, but heard the rattle of breath in Steve’s chest as he exhaled.
“Banner said that the Ancient One explained how it all worked, when he went to get the time stone. By returning the stones to their exact original positions, I should be able to erase the divergent timeline from ever existing at all. But that means… if I return the soul stone to the exact moment before her— before her sacrifice, I could bring her back with me. That divergent timeline would cease to exist, anyways, so it wouldn’t be like I was taking her from a timeline that needed her. If anything, I’d be saving her from blipping out of existence.”
Oh . They were talking about Natasha Romanoff, Peter realized. Steve’s voice sounded… almost desperate , when talking about her. It wasn’t a tone he’d ever heard on the man, and he suddenly felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be. (Well, more than he’d already felt before.)
Bucky was quiet for a moment. “Then why haven’t you told anyone of this little plan of yours, if it’s all based on what Banner said?”
Steve was silent. Bucky sighed.
“I know that even if he told you not to do it and that it wouldn’t work, you’d still try,” he sounded tired. “Just… be careful.”
“I will,” Steve replied, and his voice was fond— almost amused— as he continued. “Don’t do anything stupid till I get back.”
“How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you.” Bucky snorted. “Quite literally, this time.”
“Jerk.”
“Punk.”
Peter firmly yanked his attention away this time, focusing on the wiring in front of him intently and ignoring Steve’s approach until he was right behind him. He only looked up and twisted around when the super soldier cleared his throat a bit.
Peter glanced up at the man’s face, searching for any sign of the desperation in the conversation he’d accidentally overheard— and found none. Other than the slight creases in his forehead and the tension in his jaw, Steve looked… like he always did. Peter figured that was probably concerning in some regard, how easily he seemed to hide the emotions weighing him down, but it wasn’t his place to pry.
His mouth had other ideas.
“You okay?” he asked, before he could help himself, and Steve blinked in surprise, looking utterly thrown off-guard. Peter scrambled to backtrack, gesturing at the quantum machine. “I mean, uh— time traveling, kinda scary. I guess you’ve already done it before, though, so maybe it’s not scary, but— returning all of the infinity stones is a lot of pressure, right? Oh, man, I’m not helping, am I? Sorry, I’ll just—” he clamped his mouth shut.
Steve was looking at him now, something indecipherable in his gaze. “You overheard my conversation with Bucky,” he said— and though he didn’t sound angry or judgemental, Peter still winced, which was an answer in and of itself. He didn’t know how the hell the man had deciphered that from his rambling, but he supposed he had absolutely no hope of lying now. Not successfully, at least.
“Sorry,” he said instead, gesturing to his ears. “Uh— super hearing, hard to… turn off, sometimes.” Steve was still looking at him, and Peter never did well when adults stared at him like that, so he continued rambling.
“I wasn’t gonna… tell anyone, in case you were worried. Unless you want me to. I just—” he cut himself off, then— swallowed and looked back down at the wiring, avoiding Steve’s eyes. “If I had a chance to… bring back someone, like this— I think I would.”
“You’re a good kid, Queens,” Steve said, after a long moment. Peter looked up, startled, and found that he was smiling.
“Oh,” he responded. Not exactly the response he expected from eavesdropping. “Thank… you?”
Steve’s smile seemed to grow at that. “I’m okay,” he responded, answering Peter’s original question. “And I think she’ll like you.”
Peter’s brain backfired just a bit at the implication of the Black Widow liking him . He offered a cautious smile in return. “Yeah, as a fellow spider, I think I should be safe from being murdered as long as I avoid marrying her.”
Which, okay… that had so not been what he meant to say. At Steve’s bemused look, Peter elaborated, making it worse— as usual.
“You know, because black widows sometimes kill and eat their— you know what, never mind,” he said, cutting himself off in a significant show of self restraint.
Steve chuckled. Peter was saved from his mortification by the sound of Bruce approaching, along with several of the other Avengers.
“How’s the wiring looking?” Bruce asked, and Peter looked down at the mess of wires. He had been checking them, before he got sidetracked eavesdropping and then embarrassing himself in front of Captain America (though that wasn’t new). In any event, he’d kind of forgotten what he was looking at.
“Uh… fine, I think,” he said, making a final cursory scan of all the wiring but not spotting anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t think they’d actually given him a task that was crucial to the functionality of the machine— not that Peter could really be insulted by that fact, given that he was a sixteen year old (and an easily distractible one at that)— but it was nice to do something with his hands. And to feel like he was included as part of the team. He glanced back up to Bruce, who nodded.
“I think we’re ready, then.” He turned to Steve. “This’ll be the same deal as last time— except this time, you have to return the stones to the exact moment you got them. Or you're gonna open up a bunch of nasty alternative realities.”
“Don't worry, Bruce. Clip all the branches. I’ve got it.”
Bruce paused for a moment, pain twisting his expression. “You know, I tried. When I had the gauntlet, the stones, I really tried to bring her back.” He looked at Steve, and nobody was under any illusions as to who the ‘ she’ was. “I miss her.”
Peter saw the momentary flash of emotion across Steve’s face. “Me too,” he agreed quietly, and even though Peter had only known the man for a few weeks, he could hear that familiar tone of determination in his voice, and the resolve set in the lines of his face. Bucky was standing next to Peter, now, and he shot the super soldier a side glance. Bucky glanced back, and they stared at each other for a moment— both of them knowing exactly what Steve was about to do and neither of them raising a protest about it. Maybe Bruce knew, too, because he didn’t comment on the fact that Steve never promised not to try his own way to bring Natasha back.
“How long is this gonna take?” Sam asked, as Steve stepped up onto the platform, holding the case with the stones and picking up Thor’s hammer.
“For him?” Bruce asked, standing at the controls. “As long as he needs. For us? Five seconds.” He glanced up to Steve. “Ready, Cap?”
Steve nodded.
“Alright. We'll meet you back here, okay?” Bruce confirmed, sounding awfully like a worried mother hen. Steve grinned reassuringly.
“You bet.”
“Going quantum,” Bruce said, reaching for the controls and pressing a series of buttons. “Three, two, one—”
A bright flash, and then Steve was gone.
Holy shit.
Peter waited with bated breath, along with everyone else, staring at the platform Steve had just disappeared off of. Peter wished he could take that moment to freak out about how cool seeing time travel was, but he couldn’t think of anything until he saw the man back, in the flesh.
Bruce’s voice rang out in the silence. “And returning in five… four… three… two… one—”
There was another flash, and Peter felt his chest swell at the sight of two figures on the platform. One man, and one woman.
Steve locked eyes with Peter, who was right in his line of sight, and both of them grinned in tandem.
… right before pandemonium broke out.
“Rogers, what the hell did you do?”
“What the fuck .”
“ Natasha ?”
—
It took some time after the incident for everyone to calm down enough for Steve to explain. Bruce had chewed him out (in his usual, placidly-calm-bordering-on-terrifying kind of manner) for potentially screwing up the timelines. He was only put at ease when Strange was consulted. The sorcerer had— with great consternation— begrudgingly admitted that it didn’t mess up any of the timelines. He’d then glared at all of them and told them not to get any “ideas” from this incident— whatever that meant.
Natasha had slapped Steve over the head for that one— hissing something like “you reckless idiot, you didn’t check beforehand ?”— before tugging him into a bone-crushing hug.
Steve himself looked notably unrepentant through it all.
There had been more reunions after that— Clint and Bruce and Rhodey and Pepper and everyone else; hell, even Morgan had gotten in on the action. They spent some time talking, probably updating her on everything— on the final battle and Thanos and Mr. Stark and the stones.
Peter had stayed mostly removed from it all— not wanting to intrude, not feeling like it was his place to. He’d been leaning on the railing of the back porch, staring out at the sunlight glinting off the lake, when footsteps had shuffled behind him. He turned, just a little, spotting Natasha out of the corner of his eye. He knew she probably would have been able to sneak up on him if she’d wanted to, so he appreciated the scuffling footsteps for effort.
“You’re Peter Parker,” she said in greeting, and Peter nodded. He didn’t ask how she knew— it was likely that one of the present Avengers had told her, or maybe she figured the information out some other way. He figured super spies tended to do that kind of thing. She tilted her head, considering him for a long, stretched out moment— almost as if she were sizing him up, gathering intel. He blinked and met her gaze head-on.
“Tony grieved you, you know,” she said next; conversationally, as if it were as simple as discussing the color of the sky. Peter figured that the blunt opening to the conversation would be strange and out of place coming from anyone else— but from her, it didn’t feel weird. “We all lost someone close to us. You were his loss.”
Peter opened his mouth to say that couldn’t be right— the people close to his mentor were Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and the Avengers. Not him . Sure, he was a loss, but he wasn’t the loss. But Natasha shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, and he found himself closing his mouth again, words abandoning him.
And if you died? I feel like that’s on me .
Peter shifted, slightly, rocking onto the heels of his feet as the memory of the Ferry incident flashed through his mind. Maybe that was what Natasha meant by “you were his loss.” It would make sense that Mr. Stark thought it was his responsibility to protect Peter, and that he’d failed— despite the fact that Peter had signed up for this, so that was kind of a stupid argument.
Natasha didn’t seem to be looking for a response to that statement, but he still felt like he should say something . He shifted again, this time to the balls of his feet, and opened his mouth— before he was interrupted by the sound of his name being called.
“Hey, kid!” Sam shouted, from over in the driveway. “Barnes and I are heading back into the city, now— figured you might want to hitch a ride.” With a quick glance at his phone, Peter realized that he’d already been up here for hours— between calibrating the quantum machine, and the aftermath of bringing Natasha back, more time had passed than he anticipated. He probably should head back into the city; there were no guarantees he’d be able to hitch another ride anytime soon.
“Yeah, be there in a sec!” Peter called to the man, before turning back around. “It was, uh— nice to meet you. I’ll… see you around?” Peter offered, cringing a little internally at how he could never seem to leave a cool-headed impression on any of the Avengers. Natasha smiled— a small thing, but genuine.
“I’ll see you around, маленький паук,” she replied. Peter blinked at the Russian that rolled off her tongue— he didn’t know what she had said, but the words sounded almost… fond? So he was hoping it was a friendly goodbye instead of a threat to behead him or something. She continued speaking. “Think about what I said.”
You were his loss .
Peter swallowed and nodded, unable to say anything else as he hurried over to the car where Sam and Bucky were waiting. As he climbed into the backseat, Sam muttered something like “took you long enough.” Peter shot some sort of quip back, instinctively, and tried to pretend like he couldn’t feel the phantom weight of Natasha’s gaze drilling holes into the base of his skull, even as the lakehouse disappeared into the distance.
~ ~ ~
December 1st, 2023
Present Day
[Six weeks post Hulk-snap]
In all fairness, Peter hadn’t expected Mr. Stark's coma to last so long. (Even if he had known, he didn’t think he’d have changed much about his decision.)
Peter didn’t know a whole lot about comas. But he knew enough to know that Mr. Stark's first words certainly wouldn’t be “Where’s Peter.” They’d probably be some sort of mumbled garble of syllables, followed by him falling back asleep, then waking up and muttering more nonsense, then back to sleep— rinse, repeat. By the time he was even healed enough to have coherent thoughts, he may not even think of Peter— certainly not first, and he’d probably assume Peter was with May. And Peter couldn’t blame him— or any of the Avengers— for not knowing better, because the world had gone to shit. They were doing their best to mitigate everything, but people inevitably slipped through the cracks, and Peter was very good at going unnoticed when he wanted to be.
He shivered slightly once more as the fog brushed against his neck, wishing— not for the first time— that he had a jacket or blanket or something to wrap around himself. He shook the thoughts to the side when he heard a ding sound coming from the pocket of his suit, and he hurried to pull his phone out, wondering who on earth was texting him at four in the morning.
Squinting against the sudden bright light of the screen, Peter inhaled sharply, breath catching in his throat when he saw the content of the notification.
For a long, drawn-out moment, he stared at the text message from Steve, fingers gripping the sides of the phone so tightly he was afraid it would crack from the pressure.
Tony is awake
.
Notes:
I promise Tony has a MUCH bigger role in chapter 2 than this one. In my defense, I did NOT anticipate putting as many interactions with the Avengers as I did (nor did I expect the amount of Sam in this at all), it was originally supposed to just be Tony and Peter and Peter and May as the main reunions. Then again, I also thought this was going to be 15k words max and one chapter, so clearly it got away from me. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed nonetheless.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Peter stared at Mr. Stark.
Mr. Stark stared back.
He knew the man was taking in everything about his appearance— the hollowed cheeks, the too-long hair, the exhausted expression he was sure he wore on every crevice of his face. The slight hunch in his back from sleeping on concrete (he’d been naive to think teenagers were immune from back pain).
In turn, Peter observed Mr. Stark. The burn marks stretching up the side of his face (significantly improved from the last time he’d seen them, immediately post-battle). The gray hairs that were far more predominant than they’d been five years ago. The added wrinkles and stress lines to his face (even smile lines, Peter noted distantly). The lack of a right arm.
He wondered what it said about him that the man who’d freshly come out of a coma looked more alive than he did.
Nothing good, judging by the expression on his mentor’s face.
Notes:
TONY REUNION IS HERE!!
Welcome back everyone, less than a day later! Patience is a virtue (one I do not have). Anyways I'm bored on a train about to go watch Deadpool and Wolverine, so I finished the last scene in chapter 2 and with 5 minutes left in my train ride I figured I may as well go ahead and post.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The trip to Brooklyn and the safehouse only took twenty minutes at the speed Peter was swinging. Part of him wondered if he should have waited until a more socially acceptable time of morning to barge in, though his need for more information won out in the end. Besides, he doubted Steve would have sent the message at the time he did if he hadn’t expected Peter to show up right after.
When he rapped his knuckles lightly on the front of the door, it only took a few moments before it swung open, and Steve was staring down at him. Peter offered an attempt at a smile, twisting his Spider-Man mask in his hands out of nervous habit, and the man smiled in return, stepping back to allow Peter to shuffle in.
Glancing around, he saw that both Bucky and Sam were also awake— unsurprising, given how small the apartment was; it was nearly impossible not to be woken up by someone moving around. Sam gave him a faint smile and a wave, and Bucky grumbled something that sounded like a “hi,” before cutting himself off to curse at the coffee machine he was trying to wrangle. (It wasn’t looking like a particularly successful endeavor.)
“So,” Peter cleared his throat. “He’s uh— he’s awake?” He didn’t need to specify who.
Steve nodded. “I texted you as soon as I found out, so that you and I can go visit him.”
“Are you sure?” Peter pressed, despite the hopeful jump his heart gave at the thought. “I don’t want to, like, overwhelm him or something if he just woke up.” It was a half-truth (as so many of his sentences were these days); Peter was more worried that he’d be intruding or unwanted if Mr. Stark wanted to spend time with his family first.
Steve shook his head. “Apparently he first woke up two weeks ago, but spent most of the first week drifting in and out of consciousness. He was awake enough for a few visitors over the past couple of days, though the doctors kept it restricted to a select few people— immediate family, I think— so as to not overwhelm his immune system. They just gave him the green light to expand that list to include a few more people.”
Peter ignored the pang of disappointment in his gut at the news that the man had been awake for two weeks and he was only just now receiving the news. He’d expected this. Frankly, it was more than he could have asked for that Steve thought to notify him the second he got the news. At the very least, Peter wasn’t the last one to find out— which he had kind of thought he might be, given the situation.
“He asked for you,” Steve continued, sending all of Peter’s thoughts grinding to a startling halt. “Once he was coherent and awake enough, a few days ago— Ms. Potts brought Morgan to see him and he asked about you.”
Peter blinked. “Oh,” he responded, voice soft, before swallowing past the tight knot in his throat. “Did he— do you know what he said?”
Steve shot him a look at that. It wasn’t a bad look— not judging by any means— but Peter couldn’t discern the underlying meaning. “I don’t know the specifics, but he was asking about your well-being, if you’d been injured or if someone had helped you after the battle. He calmed down hearing that you were— though he wasn’t too happy that they wouldn’t let him call in any other visitors and was grumbling at the nurses about it.”
Steve grimaced at that, face twisting into something that could count as vaguely amused. “Granted, he’s never been the ideal hospital patient by any stretch of the imagination.”
Peter let out a startled huff of a laugh, because that was familiar. His mentor would never admit it, but Peter knew that Mr. Stark’s idea of medical treatment was asking FRIDAY to consult a glorified version of WebMD. He was certain that Wakanda had better medical treatment than—
“Wait, isn’t he still in Wakanda?” Peter blurted out. “How are we supposed to get there?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered that particular hurdle; he didn’t want to stay away from the city and Spider-Man for multiple days, not to mention leaving May alone. As much as he ached to see Mr. Stark alive and talking, he couldn’t just up and travel halfway around the world with the state his city was in. He had a responsibility to help.
“I was going to ask Dr. Strange,” Steve said, effectively stopping Peter’s spiral. “I imagine you won’t want to be away from your aunt for too long, so I assumed he could make it a quick trip.”
Oh. Yeah. That made a lot more sense. Bless Steve Rogers and his seemingly inherent ability to read Peter’s mind.
Speaking of May— Peter pulled out his phone, intent on calling her to update her on the situation, before he remembered that it was still way too early in the morning. Still, he hesitated; he and May weren’t able to see each other often, with how much she was working and he was out as Spider-Man, but he should still tell her that he was going halfway across the world.
Sighing, he stepped into the small adjacent bedroom, gesturing to his phone at Steve, who nodded in understanding. Peter gently shut the door behind him and pressed her contact number on his screen, raising it to his ear and listening as it rung a few times. Just before he was certain it was about to go to voicemail, the receiving line picked up, and Peter heard his aunt’s groggy voice on the other end.
“Peter?” she asked, clearly trying to tug herself into instant wakefulness, and Peter winced— he’d clearly just woken her up. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine, May, nothing’s wrong,” he reassured her. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up, but—”
May huffed a little, cutting him off, sounding a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t apologize, honey. What is it?”
“Mr. Stark is awake,” Peter blurted out. Even though he couldn’t see his aunt’s face, he could hear her surprise on the other end of the line. “And he’s asking for me. Or, well, they’re finally allowing him more visitors and he asked how I was and Steve is offering to accompany me to Wakanda where he’s being treated. And I know it’s like halfway across the world and a whole different country and you’re already stressed and busy but we’re trying to ask Dr. Strange to portal us there so it should only be like a day trip and I can call you when I—”
“Peter,” May cut him off, and he snapped his mouth shut. “Take a breath.” He did as she said, surprised when his head spun slightly at the influx of oxygen. “There you go. Of course you can go see him,” she continued, voice growing softer. “Did you really think I’d tell you that you couldn’t?”
“I— well, no, not really,” Peter admitted. “I just…” He didn’t really know what he was intending to say, then— he knew that May would understand how much he needed to see his mentor alive. She knew him and understood him better than probably anyone else in the world. But it still felt… selfish, almost, to leave New York while his aunt was working so hard to provide for him. When his city was in shambles. Frankly, if Mr. Stark hadn’t explicitly asked about him, Peter didn’t think he would have gone— not now, at least. It would have felt too self-serving; like he was going to see the man just to make himself feel better, and not because his presence was actually wanted.
“Go see him,” May said, and her voice was soft. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Peter exhaled, long and slow. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice wavered with emotion he tried uselessly to hold back. “I larb you.”
May chuckled at that. “I larb you too, honey,” she replied, and then the line disconnected with a click .
Shuffling back out of the bedroom, Peter knew that the other occupants of the room had likely heard every word he said— downsides of being in a single-person apartment— but they had the decency to pretend as though the closed door had given him some semblance of privacy. Steve glanced up and shot him a small smile.
“You ready?” he asked, and Peter nodded, before glancing to Sam and Bucky.
“Are you two coming too?”
Both of them shook their heads. Sam spoke up first. “Nah, we’re not the people he’s most interested in seeing. We’ll wait till he gets discharged back to New York.”
“Right,” Peter agreed, watching as Steve grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and motioned for the teenager to follow him out. As they left the apartment, Peter waved to Bucky and Sam, who both nodded in return.
Steve led him outside, to the same car that Sam had apparently been driving for the past month and a half. Truth be told, Peter was more than a little surprised that it had survived this long; the amount of car jackings he’d had to stop on patrol since the Blip had increased exponentially (as with most other petty crimes). If not to steal the entire vehicle itself, then to strip the car of its valuable parts to sell for a bit of extra cash.
Then again, maybe people had pieced together that it was an Avengers’ car and had left it alone. Peter would not want to be the poor schmuck caught stealing from Captain America.
Steve seemed to mistake his silence during the drive for nervousness, because he spoke up once they were crossing the bridge into Manhattan. “Dr. Strange shouldn’t be too hard to convince. He’s an ally, and he’s probably been keeping an eye on things in the city.”
Peter just nodded, though privately, he wasn’t entirely sure how Strange would react to being woken up at such an early hour. He wasn’t exactly known for his patience… or his cheerfulness.
As it turned out, Peter was concerned for nothing, because when they knocked on the Sanctum doors at Bleecker Street, Dr. Strange was there— dressed in his usual robes and sentient cloak and looking perfectly wide-awake despite the time.
Secretly, Peter wondered whether sorcerers even slept. He suspected that they did— given how quiet the Sanctum was at this hour— and that Dr. Strange himself just liked to keep a weird schedule to creep people out on purpose.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a pre-dawn visit?” Strange drawled, arching a single eyebrow in their direction. “Usually when I have two Avengers on my doorstep, it spells out trouble. Though you’re not exactly… dressed for the occasion.” He gave a pointed look towards Steve’s general lack of Captain America outerwear.
Steve didn’t rise to the bait— nor did Peter expect him to. (The benefits of having Tony Stark as a teammate, Peter supposed, was that one got used to such remarks. Though Mr. Stark himself was usually a lot more vulgar and less outwardly pretentious in his language— he probably would have said “ass-crack of dawn” or something similar.)
“We need your help to get to Wakanda,” Steve explained, without preamble. “Tony is awake, and he asked to see Peter. We don’t want to leave New York for too long, so we were hoping you could portal us there and back.”
Strange made a somewhat insulted sound at that. “I’m not the pony express,” he grumbled. Peter shifted slightly on his feet— the need to see his mentor alive was warring with the wish to not bother the sorcerer (despite the fact that they had no real other way to get to Wakanda). The movement caused Strange to look at him instead of Steve, and something seemed to almost soften in his gaze before he heaved out a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Fine,” he muttered, rubbing at his temple. “One trip there and one trip back. Don’t make it a repeat habit,” he warned, and Steve nodded in sync with Peter.
“Just one trip is all we need. Tony will be discharged back to the lake house soon,” Steve promised.
Strange sighed again, and Peter resisted the urge to fidget. “Thank you, sir,” he tacked on to Steve’s statement.
Strange shot him a considering look. “You’re welcome.” Then his face twisted in a slight grimace. “Though I think we’re past the ‘sir’ now.”
Before Peter could come up with a response, Strange was waving his arms in the air, doing the orange sparkly thing again. It was eerily reminiscent of the last time the man had done that— Peter on one side, and Mr. Stark on the other. Except this time there was no battle and no danger. (That didn’t change the way his heart was racing.)
“Go on,” Strange shooed them through. “I’ll reopen it in twenty-four hours.”
Steve stepped through— offering his own thanks— and Peter hurried after him. He half-expected some sort of alarm system to go off, and he mentioned as much to the super soldier, who chuckled and held his phone up.
“No, I warned T’Challa in advance that the two of us would be coming. They already know we’re here.” Steve turned and glanced around, orienting himself. “He said Tony was in medical bay A.”
Peter had no idea what that meant, but he dutifully followed the man through the hallways, since he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Peter almost had to jog to keep up with the super soldier’s long strides, and he found himself gaping at his surroundings as best he could at the speed they were going— because holy shit they were in Wakanda .
As they turned and made their way down the final hallway, Peter could hear the sound of two familiar voices bickering, focusing his hearing to discern the exact words as they got closer.
“—he’s fine, Tones. Rogers and Wilson have been checking in on him every so often. I saw him myself three weeks ago when they set up the quantum machine at the lakehouse.”
“That is not reassuring, honeybear, do you know how much trouble that kid can get into in the span of one hour , much less days to weeks?”
There was a long, heaving sigh. “Your helicopter parent side is showing, Tony.”
“I prefer the term ‘proactive problem prevention’ really—”
Steve, half a step in front of Peter, rapped his knuckles against the room’s doorframe, stopping the conversation in its tracks. There was the brief sound of shuffling feet before Colonel Rhodes pulled open the door and glanced between the two of them.
“Is that him?” Tony’s voice called out from inside the room— the sound inexplicably causing Peter’s chest to tighten.
“Yeah. Him and Rogers,” Rhodey confirmed, not glancing back as he said it. His eyes momentarily flicked to Steve, giving him a short half nod, before shuffling back a little to allow the super soldier to poke his head into the room. Peter was still standing slightly behind Steve— the man’s silhouette was so large that he couldn’t really see past him, even now that the door was open. As he stood there, he felt the weight of Rhodey’s gaze on him, from where the colonel was now scrutinizing him. Peter kept his eyes on his toes, flexing them through the canvas of his shoes and watching the material bend.
“I’m just here to drop Peter off,” Steve said, voice warm and soft. “But it’s really good to see you, Tony.”
“Decided to grace you with my presence for a little while longer,” the voice of his mentor shot back, and Steve chuckled, pulling back to allow Peter to move into the room. He patted Peter on the shoulder as he passed, and it felt almost like the way Mr. Stark used to do it— except the pat was too firm and heavy-handed to pass as the quick, comforting squeeze of his mentor’s hand. Nevertheless, Peter appreciated the gesture, flashing a small smile before finally stepping past the threshold of the room.
His eyes swept over the surroundings, taking in the walls, the machines, the assortment of chairs— before finally landing on the hospital bed, and the occupant within. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see and hear Rhodey shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind him, but he didn’t tear his gaze from its target.
Peter stared at Mr. Stark.
Mr. Stark stared back.
He knew the man was taking in everything about his appearance— the hollowed cheeks, the too-long hair, the exhausted expression he was sure he wore on every crevice of his face. The slight hunch in his back from sleeping on concrete (he’d been naive to think teenagers were immune from back pain).
In turn, Peter observed Mr. Stark. The burn marks stretching up the side of his face (significantly improved from the last time he’d seen them, immediately post-battle). The gray hairs that were far more predominant than they’d been five years ago. The added wrinkles and stress lines to his face (even smile lines, Peter noted distantly). The lack of a right arm.
He wondered what it said about him that the man who’d freshly come out of a coma looked more alive than he did.
Nothing good, judging by the expression on his mentor’s face.
Tony opened his mouth. Peter expected something along the lines of “you look like shit.” Like everyone else thus far. They’d laugh it off, it would be funny— they’d settle into the dynamic they had before. They’d banter, Peter would leave, and things would be… normal.
That wasn’t what he said.
“Peter,” he said, and the tone was soft and disbelieving— a sort of pain lacing the singular word. “Christ, kid, what happened ?”
Peter blinked. The use of his first name— startling, he had to admit. The second part of the statement was more along the lines of what he’d originally been expecting, though the tone they were spoken in was not. He’d never heard his mentor sound so… raw before. So open.
Evidently, his expression was broadcasting those emotions, because Tony’s face twisted into something akin to grief. Peter watched it in a sort of detached fascination. If he’d had any doubts before that five years had passed, this was his reminder. The Tony Stark he’d known before wouldn’t look at Peter like this— with fondness and sadness all mixed into one bigger emotion he didn’t dare put a label to. In fact, the only time he’d seen anything even remotely similar to it had been when half of his body was disintegrating and he was staring into Tony’s eyes on the dusty ground of Titan. That emotion had been there, behind the sheer terror. He didn’t have time to identify it then, but he knew what it was now.
Love.
“Mr. Stark,” he said in return, and his voice was rougher and more strained than he’d intended. He watched the emotions twist and pull at the man’s face; it looked… wrong, on him. Like someone else was under his skin, controlling the neurons and the attached muscles in some sick puppeteering game. Peter didn’t know what to do with this train of thought, so he just kept staring.
“Thanos happened,” Peter continued bluntly, and was almost surprised by his own tone, just as he was by the way his mentor nearly flinched at the words. This dynamic— everything felt wrong. Tony was the one who was supposed to be blunt and dry and caustic and joking, and Peter was supposed to be the one with every emotion laid bare on his face.
Peter snapped his mouth shut, unwilling to speak more, not knowing what would slip out if he dared to try. For a long, stretched-out moment, they both stared at each other once again, in a perfect standstill. Peter could hear the rattling thump of Tony’s heartbeat in his ears— slightly irregular and faster than it should be, but strong and alive .
Tony’s eyes raked over his form, snagging briefly on the patch where Peter knew there was a smear of dirt or dust on his collarbone. His curls were matted uncomfortably at the base of his neck, and he resisted the urge to run his fingers through the strands in an attempt to dislodge some of the grime.
“Does your apartment not have running water or something?” The comment was intended to be of the joke variety— Tony clearly realized that Peter had been thrown off by his unusual demeanor and was attempting to ease the tension, but his voice came out too weak to be successful. “You look—”
“We don’t have an apartment,” Peter reminded him. “There’s another couple staying there.” Before this, he may have felt too embarrassed to interrupt the man like that or admit to the fact that he hadn’t showered recently (the last time had been when he’d caved and stopped by the youth center a week and a half or so prior), but he was exhausted and worn thin and he’d long since stopped caring about sugar-coating the reality of the situation. His mentor looked at him incredulously; though Peter suspected that had more to do with the content of his words rather than the action of interrupting itself.
“You…” Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you staying, then?” he asked, carefully, like he was afraid of the answer.
“May is staying in one of the post-snap womens’ shelters down the street from our old apartment,” Peter responded, watching as Tony’s shoulders relaxed incrementally at the mention of May— before tensing up again when Peter didn’t continue.
“And you?” his mentor prodded, though knowing that the non-answer in and of itself was answer enough.
“Rooftop on 53rd, when I’m lucky,” he responded, shoulders rising and falling in a faint shrug.
“ Kid, ” his mentor said, and his tone and expression were pained again. His eyes swept over Peter’s form; likely taking it all in for a second time with the new context. “Jesus, you mean to tell me you’ve been homeless for the past two months?” He said it with a kind of incredulous distaste, like he couldn’t imagine Peter in such a condition. Peter knew the tone wasn’t meant to be malicious by any means, and that May would probably respond in a similar manner once she found out, but it still sent a pang of annoyance running through him. It wasn’t like he wanted to be homeless. It just made the most logical sense, given the situation, and it was one that plenty of other people faced at the moment. This wasn’t unique to him; there were bigger problems at hand.
“Mr. Stark, I know you probably haven’t seen what it’s like out there— but it’s a mess,” Peter sighed, annoyance flooding out of him just as quickly as it came. “The crime rates are off the charts. There aren’t enough supplies or shelter. I couldn’t— May has a job, and is looking for an apartment. I’m spending most of my time as Spider-Man anyways; I couldn’t take a spot from someone who needed it more.”
Peter wasn’t quite sure how he expected his mentor to respond to that. Maybe calling his line of reasoning stupid, maybe chewing him out, maybe trying to reason with him (though Peter was still staunchly sure he’d made the right choice here).
He didn’t do any of those things.
Tony didn’t respond for a long, drawn out moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and scratchy, and filled with a sort of pain that he couldn’t truly pinpoint. “Peter, you know I invented time travel for you , right?”
He—
“You what ?” Peter asked, all other thoughts coming to an abrupt halt, because he was certain he didn’t hear that right. His mentor fixed his eyes on the far wall, gaze distant.
“Rogers and Lang and Romanoff came to me. Said they had to try, and that they needed my help. I said no. I couldn’t risk it.” Tony said, before leveling his gaze straight at Peter. “I changed my mind, because I saw a picture of you. I didn’t do it because it was the right thing to do, or because I’m Iron Man. I did it so that you would have a chance to live the life I knew you could have. This —” he gestured with his good arm to Peter’s haggard state. “—isn’t that.”
Peter opened his mouth. Then closed it again. “You…” his voice came out weak and wavery, a far cry from the confidence he tried to inject into it. Tony didn’t interrupt, just stared at him with a kind of unfathomably sad expression, like he was waiting for Peter to take it all in, and suddenly it was all too much. Peter felt his chest twisting uncomfortably at being the sole recipient of his mentor’s attention, at the admission, at the sheer weight the implication of that single statement carried. At the idea that it was because of him — him alone— that Tony could have died . He felt weak, and he didn’t think it was because of the malnutrition or sleep deprivation this time.
“You— you had a daughter. You have a daughter.” Peter corrected. “You had Ms. Potts. Why would you risk that for—” For me? For a teenager you knew for less than a few years? He tried again. “You shouldn’t have chosen me over…” Over your daughter. That didn’t come out right, either.
There was that pained expression again on his mentor’s face (Peter still wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile this man with the same Mr. Stark he knew).
“I didn’t choose you over her,” he responded, and his voice was quiet. “I could never choose you over her, in the same way I could never choose her over you, because you’re both—” this time it was him who cut himself short. But Peter wasn’t dumb. He could fill in the rest of the sentence well enough (and suddenly, Rhodey’s statement from three weeks prior made crystal-clear sense). My kids .
His throat was tight, and Tony was looking at him again. “I know it’s… I know I’ve changed.” he settled on. Peter almost laughed, because yeah, no shit. “I know it has to be different for you, and that I’ve had five years to come to the conclusion about how much you mattered to me, when you’ve had a month or two.” he let out a long breath. “It’s a lot, and I understand if you don’t… if you don’t reciprocate the feelings. But I need you to know I would have done anything for you if you’d asked, kid. I still would.”
“You weren’t awake to,” Peter responded, and he didn’t mean it as an accusation, but it came out as one. He shook his head, because that wasn’t what he’d been trying to say. He was still trying to wrap his head around the entire situation. First, he’d been “Iron Man,” then “Tony Stark,” then “Mr. Stark.” Then they’d fallen into some sort of weird mentor-mentee dynamic that he could never really label, but was happy with regardless. They’d worked that way, and things had been good. Then Thanos had snapped, Peter had died, five years had passed, he’d come back, Mr. Stark had died and momentarily become “Tony”— and, now… he didn’t know where they stood. The man had five years to grieve him; longer than he’d even known Peter for. Part of Peter wondered whether it was just some strange form of grief— that Tony didn’t necessarily love Peter as he was now, but rather the idea of him that he’d built up in his mind, as some sort of protection for failing to save him.
He dismissed that thought fairly quickly, when he remembered leaning over Uncle Ben, bleeding out on the sidewalk, and realizing in the moment that he was basically losing a father all over again. Death always did put things into perspective. Mr. Stark wasn’t just his mentor anymore. Peter supposed that dying in someone’s arms and coming back to life probably called for some sort of relationship change.
That change didn’t come on Peter’s behalf, this time— it was Tony who had changed. He’d become a father. Peter knew the stories: of how fathers tended to become protective of all children because they saw their own in each one— even complete strangers. He wondered if that was what was happening here— except that Tony had said that the feelings were already familiar, when he’d had Morgan. Implying that he’d already felt them with Peter. So was he the first? Was he a projection onto Morgan, or was Morgan a projection onto him? He hadn’t been Tony’s child before this. But he’d been his “kid.”
Then he looked up, and locked eyes with the man in front of him, and he supposed none of it mattered anymore. Playing the “what came first: the chicken or the egg” argument with him and Morgan would lead to more questions than answers, and would leave Peter thinking of dusty planets and infinity stones and dying and battlefields and things he really didn’t want to be dwelling on.
Here, now, in the present moment, these were the facts:
Tony was a father.
Morgan was his daughter.
Peter was his kid, even though he wasn’t his son.
Tony was… not Peter’s father. He wasn’t Uncle Ben. But he was Mr. Stark. He was Tony. He was his idol. He was his mentor. He was the man whose arms Peter had died in. He was the man who invented time travel to bring him back. He was the man who, without a doubt, loved him. He was the man who occupied the space in Peter’s heart right next to where Ben was still placed. He was the man who Peter loved in return.
Peter wet his lips briefly, before speaking. “It is different,” he admitted, with a faint smile. “But I think I gathered that when you hugged me.” He knew the admission spoke all the feelings he couldn’t put into words, and he watched as Tony’s eyes softened and crinkled at the corners. (I love you.)
“C’mere, kid,” he said, moving slowly to the side with difficulty but giving Peter enough space for him to climb onto the bed. Peter went willingly, tucking into the space between Tony’s rib cage and his arm, careful not to jostle him too badly. This, at least, was achingly familiar— despite the hospital, despite the man’s appearance, despite the time gap; the feeling of Tony’s arm resting around his shoulders was the exact same as it had been since the day he met him. (I love you, too.)
Tony was the first to break the silence, fingers resting in the curls at the nape of Peter’s neck. “For the record, you need a shower, you smell like you just came straight from dumpster diving.” The Mr. Stark of Before would have made that comment in order to subtly send Peter off, but the Tony of now kept his arm curled tight around Peter’s shoulders, not allowing him to pull away. It was a joke meant to relieve the tension; no double-meanings or subtle messages he had to try to pick up on.
Peter allowed himself a slight snort in response, the sound slightly muffled by Tony’s collarbone. “You do realize dumpster diving doesn’t normally entail actually climbing into dumpsters, don’t you, Mr. Stark?” he asked, a little dryly. “It’s usually just picking stuff out from on top.”
Tony didn’t dignify that comment with a real response, making a faint ‘hm’ sound instead. “Still Mr. Stark, huh?” he asked. “You know, I seem to remember being upgraded to Tony at some point.”
Peter resisted the urge to stiffen at the reminder of the battlefield, of hearing his mentor flatline ( “We won, Mr. Stark, we won, Mr. Stark. You did it, sir, you did it… I’m sorry, Tony. ”) It was… easier than he expected to push the bad memories away— at least with the man right next to him, very much warm and breathing and alive.
“Can’t be held responsible for things I said under duress,” Peter muttered. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure what had possessed him to say Tony as he was being tugged away— only that he’d been running out of time, and he needed to say something , and that was what had slipped out.
It had been one of the only things that the billionaire had repeatedly asked of him— granted, it was more of a running joke than anything, but still. It had made sense to Peter in the moment; he couldn’t say everything he needed to say, all the apologies and thank-yous and I-love-yous, so it made sense to give the man one last thing— something Peter couldn’t (and didn’t) give before. Fulfilling one last wish. Or so he’d thought, at least. Now that the man was alive, Peter felt like he was on uneven footing, scrambling for something constant to hold onto. Calling his mentor Mr. Stark had been a constant, but it wasn’t anymore.
And, truthfully, the man next to him didn’t really feel like Mr. Stark. Because he wasn’t— not the same one from five years ago, at least. That version of his mentor would not have sat in a hospital bed for this long, nor would he have allowed Peter to be tucked against his side like this. This was more… familial. Closer. Peter supposed it would be weirder to try and rectify the Mr. Stark of the past with the one of the present. Perhaps calling him Tony would make it easier to separate from the then versus now .
At that, Peter heaved a sigh. “Tony,” he said, trying the name out on his tongue. It felt both foreign and familiar— like a new suit he hadn’t quite gotten used to yet (almost like the Iron Spider suit had been). Tony’s arm tightened slightly around him in response.
“Well, you’re not under duress anymore, so no take-backs,” Tony said, voice purposefully light, though unable (or unwilling) to hide the undercurrent of emotion. Peter couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Another few moments of silence passed, before Tony spoke up, tone lowering into something more serious. “May doesn’t know, does she?”
Despite the apparent non-sequitur, Peter didn’t have to ask what Tony was talking about. They both knew, and they both already knew the answer. He shook his head slightly, the movement barely visible. Tony sighed.
“You know I have to tell her, right?”
Peter pressed his lips together. Truthfully, he hadn’t really thought of those ramifications when he’d blurted out his response about being homeless earlier— he’d just been too tired to lie. He let out a faint, unamused snort.
“She’s going to kill me,” he said, by way of response. Tony rolled his eyes.
“She’s not going to kill you, she can’t do that through a video call when you’re in a different country.”
Peter opened his mouth to retort something along the lines of ‘she’d find a way’ or ‘you’re terrible at reassurances,’ when the real meaning of the man’s words sunk in.
“We don’t have to call,” he protested. “It can wait until you’re discharged and back in New York.”
Tony shot him an incredulous look. “Kid, if you think I’m going to let you sleep on a rooftop for even a single additional night before telling your aunt, you’re out of your mind.”
“She’s got enough on her plate right now,” Peter murmured, trying one last time. “She doesn’t need to worry about me on top of everything else.”
Tony sighed, a heavy sound. “Pete, you’re not just something on her plate. I know you’re trying to protect her,” he continued, his voice gentler now. “But she’s stronger than you give her credit for. And she loves you, kid. She’d want to know.”
Peter let out a long exhale. “Yeah,” he murmured, and Tony took that as a sign of agreement.
“FRIDAY, be a dear and call May Parker, will you? Make it a video call.”
“She has a new number,” Peter informed him, reaching for his own phone; he hadn’t memorized the new digits yet.
Something flashed across his mentor’s face at that, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. He nodded, not commenting on the matter as Peter pulled up the contact and rattled the string of numbers off to the AI, who obediently started a video call on the projected hologram.
Peter almost wished that May wouldn’t pick up, but of course she did— even though it was a random number, she probably pieced together that it had something to do with Peter visiting Wakanda.
“Ms. Parker,” Tony greeted when the line connected.
“Hi, May,” Peter gave his own greeting and a small wave from his spot, still tucked under his mentor’s arm. He saw the way his aunt’s eyes clocked the motion, and the smile she tried to suppress at the sight.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she responded, before flicking her eyes back over to Tony. “Also, please, call me May. ‘Ms. Parker’ ages me.”
Tony’s mouth twitched in a small smile. “That’s what I keep telling the kid about ‘Mr. Stark,’” he joked.
May opened her mouth to say something else, before narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Peter, zeroing in on his anxious fidgeting. Given the situation, Peter should be anything but anxious— not when he was finally able to reunite with his mentor after a month and a half of waiting.
“This isn’t a social call, is it?” she asked, slowly.
Tony shook his head, but he looked a little impressed at her ability to cut to the chase (Peter himself was near-incapable of that, so it certainly wasn’t in the Parker genes). “Your nephew has something to tell you.”
Tony prodded him in the side— gently, but Peter still twisted out of the way regardless. He sighed, feeling May’s eyes on him through the screen.
“I lied,” he admitted, knowing there was no point in delaying any longer. “I haven’t been staying at the teen shelter.”
May scrutinized him for a long, drawn-out moment. Peter avoided her eyes, but he knew she was looking at him, recalibrating all of their interactions in light of the new evidence.
“You never signed up,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. Peter shook his head, and her mouth twisted in a frown. “Did they not accept you? They had a waitlist—”
“No, I—” Peter shook his head for a second time. “I didn’t sign up for the waitlist. I didn’t ask.”
“Where…” she started, and Peter knew that her line of questioning was going to be the exact same that Tony’s had been. Where have you been sleeping ?
“On rooftops.”
A beat of silence.
“Why?” she asked, and her voice was quiet but non-judgemental.
Peter’s shoulders rose and fell in a sort of helpless shrug. “There were too many people,” he said. “Too many kids just like me, and they didn’t have space for everyone. I couldn’t take a spot from someone who needed it more— not when I at least have a support system if things go wrong.” He heard Tony blow out a small sigh next to him— the sound barely audible but there nonetheless. Peter didn’t bother to glance sideways at his mentor, keeping his attention focused on his aunt through the screen.
“You know that argument is foolish,” May said. “If it were actually based on logic you would have told me and I would have agreed with you.”
“It is a logical argument,” Peter protested. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to protect me over another stranger.”
May sighed. “Of course I want to protect you— you’re my child. But if I were overprotective and unwilling to listen to you at all, I wouldn’t let you be Spider-Man, risking your life by swinging around the city every day,” she pointed out, and that caused Peter to clamp his mouth shut. She fixed him with a searching look. “Somewhere in you, you know that your argument doesn’t make sense. You wouldn’t suggest that I sleep on the streets to give up my position to someone else, would you? Even if all of the circumstances were the exact same— powers and all?”
“I— no, of course not,” Peter said, immediately— realizing too late he’d backed himself into a corner here.
“Then why you?”
Peter didn’t have an answer to that.
May ran a hand over her face. “We’ll figure something out,” she said, but she sounded tired. “There’s still no apartments up for rent, but I’ll move to a different shelter if I have to.”
Peter’s head shot up, protests on the tip of his tongue, because the last thing he wanted to do was make things more difficult for May. He’d rather take a spot in the teen shelter than force May to uproot and try and find a new place further from her job.
“You can stay at the lakehouse. Or, actually— I have properties in the city,” Tony offered, revising his statement before Peter or May could speak. “You two are welcome to stay in one of them until you can find your own place.” He shrugged. “Or indefinitely, it’s up to you. I can have your old stuff moved from the storage unit.”
May beat him to the punch before Peter could protest that , either.
“That would be helpful. I’ll pay rent,” May said, and Tony opened his mouth to argue immediately.
“That’s not nec—”
One look from May silenced him. “I’m paying rent,” she said, with an air of finality. “Usually, I wouldn’t even accept the offer, but…”
Peter’s face twisted, and he finally jumped at the opportunity to speak. “You don’t have to do this for me, May. I’m fine,” he insisted, receiving twin looks of disapproval from both Tony and May.
“You are not fine, Peter,” May said, and her tone was firm. “My underage child is sleeping on the streets. I don’t care whether you’re Spider-Man or not, that is unacceptable. There is no situation in which my pride would stop me from fighting tooth and nail to get you out of that situation.”
Peter opened his mouth to argue, but May sighed and continued speaking before he had the chance to. “Peter, stop thinking of it from your perspective for just a moment. Yes, you’re Spider-Man. But can you imagine what it would look like to CPS if they found out I let my kid sleep on the streets? You’re my responsibility, and your health and safety is non-negotiable.”
Peter snapped his mouth shut. He… hadn’t really considered it from that perspective. When she said it like that , he supposed it sounded worse than it was. That still didn’t stop the twisting feeling of guilt in his chest at the thought that there were people out there, on the streets, that didn’t have this offer. They may never have this offer. He didn’t do anything to deserve this— he was just in the wrong place, wrong time. He had been bitten by a radioactive spider and became a vigilante and met Iron Man and was here now, and if he hadn’t — if none of that had happened— it was likely that he’d be just another person on the streets when the snap happened. It could so very easily have been him and May in that position, with nobody to help. He shouldn’t get special treatment just because it played out in a different way.
“Kid,” Tony said, and his voice was soft as he brought a knuckle up to tap at Peter’s temple. “I know you’ve got your guilt complex running wild up there. You’re not selfish for accepting help that other people may not have access to.”
Peter pressed his lips together in a thin, firm line— because of course they both managed to find out the root of the issue within minutes. Tony shot him a look but continued speaking. “And even if it were — kid, you fought in a battle to save everyone on this planet. Hell, in the universe. Twice . At the very least, you deserve a roof over your head. You’ve earned a little selfishness.”
“That’s not—” Peter shook his head. “I don’t deserve anything more than anyone else just because I have these powers and fought in a battle. That’s not fair. Nobody deserves to be homeless.”
“‘Nobody’ includes you, Peter,” Tony said, and Peter swallowed. His mentor sighed. “And no, it’s not fair. But neither is a sixteen year old fighting a war and then living on the streets. If you decline this offer, you’re not helping anyone. You want to help the city as Spider-Man, but you can’t help them when you’re in this state. You need to take care of yourself first.”
“Peter, honey,” May said, and Peter’s gaze trailed up to her. “This isn’t you taking resources from someone else. Think of it this way: as a nurse, I cannot possibly help everyone at every second. If I choose to help someone over another, does that mean the person deserved help more than the other? That they were somehow better?” Peter knew it was a rhetorical question, but shook his head anyways. May continued. “Exactly. I assess which one I have the resources and skills to help with, and I help them as best I can. Tony has the resources to help you, on an individual level that he can’t offer everyone else.”
Tony took this moment to interject. “Stark Industries is also helping fund disaster and shelter efforts,” he said, eyes trained on Peter. “We’re doing everything we can, kid.”
Peter sighed, and turned his head to the side. “I don’t really have a choice here, do I?” he asked, and his voice came out kind of hoarse.
“Honey, my first and foremost job is protecting you,” May said, and her voice was firm but warm. “And you’re a minor. You’re not sleeping on the streets anymore— it’s just a matter of whether you stay in the lakehouse or in the city, like Tony offered.”
“I need to keep being Spider-Man,” Peter shook his head at the first option, immediately. “I can’t leave the city.”
Tony huffed in exasperation, though it sounded more fond than anything. “Hence the city property, kid.”
“Besides,” May interjected. “Staying at Tony’s property with you would get me out of the shelter. It’s not the most ideal of living situations there.”
Peter knew his aunt— knew that she would tough it out in a shelter on her own rather than complain for a single second to his face or accept a handout. She was fierce and strong-willed that way. But as much as he knew her, May also knew Peter, and she knew that he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to argue more if the proposed situation helped her in any way.
Despite knowing exactly which angle she was playing and why, he sighed. “Fine,” he agreed. “We can stay in the city property.”
Tony let out another huff. “I still say paying rent is unnecessary,” he grumbled. May shot him an unimpressed look.
“Pick your battles,” she advised, though not in an unkind tone. Just as she said that, there was a clattering sound, and someone on her end of the line called out her name. May winced slightly, and Peter realized from the background that she was in a breakroom at the hospital— likely in the middle of her shift. “That’s my cue to go,” she said ruefully. “Call me when you get back, Peter.”
“I will,” he promised, and she smiled. Another person called her name in the background, and they both winced in tandem this time. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied, before her gaze flickered over to Tony. “And you— get better soon, because we have a lot to catch up on.” Then she hung up before either of them could respond.
A beat of silence passed. Tony snorted. “Forget your aunt killing you , she’s going to kill me .”
Peter grinned widely— the motion almost unfamiliar as it stretched the unused muscles of his face. “Nah, she’ll just try and feed you her date loaf again.”
“That is attempted murder, kid.”
~ ~ ~
It took two weeks for Tony to be fully discharged from Wakanda and move back into the city. The first thing he did upon his return— to the surprise of absolutely nobody— was invite all of the Avengers to the lake house for a celebratory party. Well, Tony had actually called it the “we kicked ass and nobody died” party when he invited Peter and May, but same sentiment.
Part of Peter was certain that it was all a dream— one too good to be true— when he’d looked around and seen Tony and May and Steve and Sam and Natasha and everyone . Everyone together, and alive, and laughing, with no imminent cosmic threat on their doorstep. It had made Peter feel… strangely nostalgic, even though that didn’t really make sense. He hadn’t even known the team when they were a team ; he’d only met any of them in the midst of them battling each other in Leipzig. It didn’t make sense to be nostalgic over something he hadn’t been a part of.
It only hit him when he saw Tony and May talking to Steve and smiling that it hit him— the nostalgia came from it all feeling like a family party, not just a team. Peter had never had a family this big; the closest he’d ever come to it had been when he had been four years old, at his birthday party— with his parents, Ben, May, and a few scattered cousins all in attendance. In the years since then, his family had gradually dwindled, people he loved being picked off one by one until it was just him and May left. He’d gotten used to that, and hadn’t realized just how much he missed having a support system this large until it was right in front of him.
His eyes scanned over everyone— from Sam and Steve and Bucky, who had helped him while barely even knowing him, to Natasha, who had seemingly known exactly what to say within a minute of meeting him. To Happy and Rhodey and Pepper and Morgan, who had each helped him in their own ways while Tony wasn’t there to. To Tony himself, who helped stabilize his life in the wake of his uncle’s death, who had helped him with Spider-Man, who had brought him back from the dead. And to May, who had been there since the start, who was his aunt, his cornerstone, his mother in all but name. His new family meshing with the old one. (For once, the ghosts of his parents and uncle didn’t feel like an accusation— but rather a promise.)
His chest had tightened at the sight— some unidentifiable feeling climbing in his throat— and he’d slipped away from the crowd, intending to take a breather on the back porch. He found himself sitting on the dock instead— socks off, toes brushing the top of the water. In truth, he’d only meant for it to be a short break, but he had seen the dock leading out to the lake, and his feet had carried him to the end of his own accord.
He knew someone would miss his presence eventually, so he wasn’t too surprised when he heard quiet footsteps approaching, and felt the subtle bending and creaking of the planks on the dock reverberating out to where he sat at the edge. Without turning around, Peter could tell it was Tony from the way that he walked and the sound of his heartbeat.
Tony settled at the edge beside him, crouching down with a small oomph sound and grumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “I’m too old for this shit” under his breath. He watched Peter intently for a moment, before raising his good arm in a silent invitation. Peter accepted the offer willingly, ducking under the outstretched arm to settle against his mentor’s side. Tony rested his cheek on the top of Peter’s head, and Peter was sure his hair must be tickling the man’s face in an annoying way— but Tony didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
He still wasn’t used to this— this easy, casual affection from the man. In the Before , Tony had been physical in some ways; a pat on the shoulder, a comforting squeeze at the base of his neck, even the occasional brief side-hug. But it was never so openly like this — extended hugs where Peter’s entire side was plastered against him, head resting on his shoulder and most of his weight supported by the other man. In the past, the contact was always momentary; Mr. Stark was constantly moving, talking, gesturing. Any physical contact was more a side effect of being caught in the radius of his immediate orbit rather than touches done for the purpose of comfort. This… wasn’t that. Tony was here, hugging him to his side— not talking or moving, just content in Peter’s presence alone. And that was weird. Not weird in the bad sense, just in the unfamiliar sense. Though Peter found that it was becoming familiar more quickly than he’d originally expected.
His head came to settle on Tony’s collarbone, and the man instinctively shifted to adjust them into a more comfortable position, hand curling itself around Peter’s shoulder in an almost protective manner. Peter resisted the urge to smile, even though his mentor couldn’t see his face.
“So,” Tony spoke, and the sound of his voice rumbled through Peter’s eardrum from where it was pressed against his chest. “Any reason you’re out here sulking instead of enjoying the ‘hooray, everyone’s alive’ party?”
“I’m not sulking,” Peter responded, in a mild grumble.
“I’d call it manly brooding to make you feel better, but I think your voice has to drop first for that term to be applicable,” Tony said, and sounded far too amused for Peter’s liking.
Peter huffed, trying to muster up some indignation, but the warmth radiating from Tony made it impossible to stay annoyed for long. He settled for a half-hearted eye roll, hoping Tony could feel it even if he couldn’t see it.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I’m brooding a little,” Peter admitted. “It’s just… a lot, I guess. Seeing everyone together, happy. It’s great, but…” he trailed off.
“Overwhelming,” Tony filled in, and Peter exhaled. Yeah. That. “You’re allowed to feel like that, even in the middle of all the ‘happily ever after’ shit.”
“That’s Ms. Potts’ word,” Peter murmured, absent-mindedly, remembering Morgan chastising him a few weeks prior over it. He wasn’t expecting the startled laugh that tore out of his mentor’s throat at that.
“I really missed you, kid,” Tony said, and the genuine admission almost knocked the breath out of Peter’s chest. Another difference from the Before— the Mr. Stark he’d known never said what he meant. Oh, he showed it alright— building Peter a suit, inviting him to the lab, giving him gifts— but he never said it.
Originally, he’d been beyond confused by the billionaire’s demeanor; frustrated by how he seemed to be gruff and dismissive and snarky around Peter, but would turn around and gift him things out of the blue. Peter thought it was maybe a billionaire thing, at first— trying to pay him off, or… something. But then he started to pay attention to the gifts themselves , and shifted his frame of reference. When he was injured as Spider-Man in some manner, Mr. Stark added a protocol or new invention to the suit to protect against it. When Peter off-handedly mentioned liking Star Wars, the man had gotten him tickets to the newest movie— two of them, because he knew that Peter talked about Ned, too. Among other assorted interactions.
It wasn’t the man paying him off; it was him trying to tell Peter “I’m listening. I’m paying attention to you” without saying the words themselves. It was him showing he cared, in the only way he knew how.
Point was, Peter had thought he’d figured the man out, back then— to an extent. Now, everything was different, and Tony looked at Peter with the same expression he looked at his daughter with, and he made silly faces at a five-year-old and casually tossed around “I love you”’s in a way that would have probably given his past self a conniption.
And now Tony was saying he had missed him. Casually. Easily. With no big emotional buildup, no pulling away and slipping his glasses onto his face, no backtrack or snarky comment. Just “I really missed you, kid,” and patient silence as he waited for Peter to formulate some kind of response.
Peter swallowed, eyes burning. “Yeah. I missed you too,” he said— and that didn’t make sense, not really. The five years had only been a single second to him, and the six weeks that followed were nothing compared to years. But Tony didn’t call him on it, instead making a noncommittal sound of assent deep in his throat.
“Anyways, I think Pep will forgive me for using her designated word,” Tony continued, shifting back into the light-hearted conversation from before— probably sensing that Peter couldn’t handle any more reality-orienting genuine heart-to-hearts tonight. “Just don’t tell Morgan.”
“I’m pretty sure you could do anything at this party and get away with it,” Peter pointed out.
“Nah,” Tony said. “I tried to hire a clown to jumpscare Rogers, but Pepper vetoed it. Apparently the ‘I survived’ goodwill only goes so far with her. She’s grown immune with all the near-scares I’ve given her through the years.”
“Just hire Scott, I bet he’d be all over that.” He clapped a hand over his mouth when he realized what he’d said. He hadn’t met the man more than a couple of times; it felt kind of rude to joke about someone he didn’t know very well.
“I’m telling him you said that,” Tony replied, and he was laughing unabashedly. Peter groaned, face burning as he buried it in his hand.
“Please don’t. I don’t want him to send an army of vengeful ants after me in my sleep or something,” he said, voice muffled by his fingers.
Tony scoffed. “Oh please, like they’d stand a chance against one of the suits.” He patted Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll have one stand sentry outside your bedroom door. You’re safe from any bloodthirsty ants here.”
“Don’t let Rhodey hear that. He’d say your helicopter parent mode is showing,” Peter commented, finally dropping his hand back into his lap. It was an utterly ridiculous argument— Spider-Man could survive an army of ants on his own (probably), but Peter still felt warmed by the offer.
Peter felt the rumble of Tony’s laugh against his ear, and he smiled, leaning further into the man’s shoulder.
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to get used to it, kid,” Tony replied, tone amused.
Yeah
. Peter thought— an instant agreement.
I think I can.
Notes:
For anyone wondering about the status of revolution 'verse, because I've gotten a few questions on that- it's in no way abandoned! I am working on book 3 at the moment, the plot just proved harder than the previous two to iron out so I figured why not post a short fic (well, for me) in the meantime. I hope you enjoyed it!!
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