Chapter Text
Peter tried to kill himself.
It had been seven hours since he’d tried. Jumped off a tall building and everything. The whole shebang – disabled his parachute, used all his webbing up so his body couldn’t react and try to save itself. He’d fully expected never to wake up when he stepped off that ledge.
His jump had been miscalculated and he’d hobbled away with a broken wrist and a sprained ankle. Stumbling back to his apartment, he had never wished more that May was alive to bandage him up and tell him everything was okay. But she was dead.
Was he? Sometimes he felt like he was already dead.
Lots of things had changed since he’d come back. May hadn’t been dusted but she had died two months after half the population had been snapped. Peter had been given an apartment by Tony in Brooklyn, where he lived alone until Tony (supposedly) was going to make a room for him at the lake house (that promise was made to him three months ago). The Avengers were all back together and better than ever, operating not under Captain America but the resurrected Black Widow. Queens was cleaner, somehow. Tony had a kid. He lost an arm. He and Miss Potts got married.
And Peter wanted to kill himself.
Peter had been sad before. Heck, he’d been depressed before.
This was different.
He wasn’t entirely sure how to tell Tony. He wasn’t sure he should tell Tony. Ever since they’d defeated Thanos and everything had finally gotten normal… I mean, what was he supposed to say? ‘Hey, Mister Stark! I’ve been depressed since I was like, ten, and I’ve never dealt with it and it’s come back to bite me in the butt! I tried to throw myself into the street the other day, didn’t quite work out. My aunt is dead and you don't really pay attention to me anymore. You have a kid now, and actual one, who is better than I could ever be. I don’t want to exist anymore. How was your day?’
That sounded stupid in his head. He couldn’t imagine what it would sound like out loud.
He’d promised May that if he ever felt this way, if he ever tried to do anything like this, he would tell someone. If not her, then someone.
Anyone.
She had known him so well.
God, he missed her.
Ever since coming back, he’d felt lost. He was always out of place. He didn’t fit into Tony’s family. He was no longer Tony’s kid. He didn’t get called ‘kiddo’ or ‘Peteypie’. He didn’t get to have movie nights because the Stark family went to bed early, something he had never expected Tony to do, because Morgan slept better if she knew her parents were asleep as well. He wasn’t an Avenger, he wasn’t good enough for them, but he wasn’t normal. Spiderman still saved people, he still stopped robberies and out of control trains. Spiderman still made a difference.
Peter didn’t. Peter was barely alive. He lived in an apartment by himself, making his own meals and never sleeping. It was too quiet or too loud, never a balance. He had panic attacks half the time and the other half he disassociated. He was a walking statistic for teenagers with mental disabilities, a poster child for what can happen to a kid who’s been raped, abandoned, seen countless deaths, saved people instead of saving himself…
Who was he kidding. He was a superhero. There weren’t statistics for him.
He hadn’t gone back to school, choosing instead to teach himself and take online classes. Tony had sworn he’d teach Peter himself, but … well.
He was lost in a world that he used to know so well. The Tower used to be his home. Tony used to be his dad. May used to be alive.
Peter used to be happy.
He was drowning in a current that was sweeping him away. He couldn’t breathe.
Peter remembered the Soul Stone. No one else did. He wondered if it was because he’d caught Thanos’ eye. If he saw a child and spared him a moment’s thought. If he resigned Peter to five years of torture purely out of spite or some insane fluke. But he remembered.
Every.
Single.
Second.
The slow realization that he had tried to commit suicide hours prior was setting into his bones. The soft noises of the dishwasher filtered in from the kitchen, light from the windows laid across the pillows of his couch with white serenity. There were flowers on his table, though he couldn’t remember how they’d gotten there. There was Physics worksheets on the table, an open notebook beside.
It looked like a home. Just not his home.
He missed May’s tea mugs all over the apartment. He missed the classic Italian music filling the living room as she cooked dinner. He missed feeling safe and warm and wanted. He missed his home, his apartment, his May.
He was shaking. He hadn’t been shaking on that roof. There had been a blissful peace from all the way up there, looking down on the city he loved. Away from all the noise and the light. Up in the air, among the clouds it seemed, closer to the stars. He’d been in space. Staring up at the black expanse high above him, he’d remembered what it had been to be in that flying doughnut, seeing galaxies upon galaxies. It had been peaceful. He hadn’t been afraid up there, there had been no doubt as to what was the right thing. Step off the ledge, close your eyes, and let go.
It had been beautiful for the longest moments of Peter’s life.
And then he’d hit another roof, pain had sprung up in every part of his body, and the peace had ended.
He needed to tell someone. He’s promised May. She deserved at least this from him. He didn’t care about himself, but May had. May did. She always would.
Peter didn’t believe in God, but just for a moment, he selfishly prayed that someday, he would love himself like May had loved him.
He reached for his phone. The world around him looked like someone had taken the saturation tool and decreased it. Everything was dimmed, dull. Was this his life now? He couldn’t remember seeing color except his own blood. His own blood was always the brightest thing in the room. It entranced him whenever he saw it. The scars on his wrists bled like neon lights. His injuries on patrol were like shooting stars. The world around him was greyscale, lifeless, and his blood was the only real thing about him.
He needed to call someone.
His fingers clicked Tony’s contact before his demons could scream more doubts and insecurities about what an awful idea that was.
Tony picked up the third round. “Hey, kid, is this an emergency?”
Peter was silent for a second in shock. He knew that Tony was busy; Tony had a kid now. A real one. One that he’d chosen to have, not one he was landed with because of Peter’s own mistakes. He had a baby to look after. Why had he even picked up his phone he was so stupid oh my god just go jump off a building Peter no one wants you-
“Pete, can we raincheck this phone call? Morgan’s having a screaming fit because she hasn’t been sleeping well.”
Was this an emergency? May would have considered this an emergency, but May was his aunt. He was her family. He’d been with her since he was four years old. Tony didn’t care about Peter, at least, not in the way that May had. Not in the way that family loved on another. Tony had a kid. He had a family.
He didn’t need Peter.
Did anyone?
He swallowed. Tears continued to stream down his face, but he used his well-trained cover-up voice and said, “No, no, it’s not an emergency. Sorry for bothering you.”
“I swear I’m working on moving you down here, kiddo. It’s almost-,”
I have more important things to do than house an unwanted orphan. “Don’t sweat it, Mister Stark. I hope you and Morgan get some sleep.”
Peter hung up.
‘You should hang yourself.’
Peter’s hands shook even more.
Tony didn’t care. Why should he? Peter was just a kid he’d met because he had superpowers and he needed help beating Cap. They’d spent hours at a time together and Tony knew almost everything about him, and he kissed Peter’s forehead when he was proud of him and they fell asleep to Star Wars and Peter had called him Dad before the Snap but what did any of that matter?
He wasn’t Tony’s kid. Not like he used to be.
That hurt him. That hurt him so much. Tears grew in the corners of his eyes and he heard himself apologizing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mister Stark. I’m sorry for …”
What? What was he sorry for? Being a burden? A bother? A nuisance? Was he sorry for dying?
Or was he sorry for coming back?
A voice that sounded like May’s said, “Call someone else.”
Now.
Ned answered but informed him he had a college final to study for. MJ was working on a journaling gig and didn’t have time to talk. Steve was on a mission. No one had time for him. No one cared.
Sam Wilson’s phone number glared at him. He almost didn’t press it.
Sam picked up almost immediately.
“Hey, Pete. Odd to get a call at five in the morning. Rough patrol?”
He answered. He wanted to talk.
When he didn’t reply, Sam’s voice grew slightly concerned. “Peter? You there?”
No. Peter hadn’t been here for three months. He was still in the Soul Stone. None of this was real. He wasn’t alive. He was dead. Just like May, and Ben, and Mom and Dad. All the Parkers were dead. That was their fate. Live here for a little while and then disappear off the face of the planet like they had never existed in the first place with no one but the next Parker to care. But what happened when the last Parker died? Who remembered him?
Who remembered Peter?
“Peter? Bud, you sound like you’re freaking out. What’s wrong?”
“I tried to kill myself.”
“What?”
Peter shook. He shivered. He was breathing quicker each passing second. Horribly clarity pierced him like a bullet and melted into his skin like acid. Ice filled his veins and suddenly the tears that he had pushed back cascaded down his cheeks in torrents. Sobs that had been crushed beneath the weight of his insecurity broke forth like tidal waves and he was drowning. The world came back into bright, brilliant, colorful focus and it was overwhelming. The blood on his palms was startling and dry, dark against his pale skin. The dishwasher was suddenly so loud it hurt his ears and the light from the moon was making his head hurt.
Everything was too much and he wanted to run for his razor, for a kitchen knife, for anything that could make all of this just quiet and-
“-in your apartment in Brooklyn. You’re on the phone with me, Sam Wilson. It’s 5:03 in the morning of July 30th, 2023. Your name is Peter Benjamin Parker, nephew to May and Ben Parker, son of Richard and Mary Parker. You’re Spiderman. You are turning seventeen next month.”
Sam was safe. Sam had picked up the phone. Sam wanted to talk to him.
“Sam.”
“Hey, buddy.”
Peter’s breath picked up again. Someone knew. Sam knew. He knew what Peter had done. He wouldn’t want him when he understood. He would see how weak Peter was, how useless and unlovable. He would hang up, like Tony. He would abandon him. He should. Peter killed everyone he loved in the end.
Maybe that’s why he couldn’t seem to die.
“Sam. Sam.”
“I’m right here, Peter.
“Sam, I tried to kill myself. Sam, I tried to kill myself!”
He wasn’t safe even around himself. How could he be a hero if he couldn’t even save himself?
“Peter, you wanna come over here or do you want Buck and I to come over there?”
They wanted to see him?
“Of course we want to see you, Pete. You’re our friend and we care about you. We’re worried, Peter.”
Peter shook his head. “No, no, I’m fi-,”
“No, you aren’t.” How did Sam achieve such a calm tone in this situation? How did he keep his cool when there was a suicidal teenager on the other end of the phone? “You aren’t fine, and you aren’t okay. That’s okay, Peter. No one should expect you to be.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” The young hero whispered, tears stinging his cold cheeks. They were hot and salty and they weren’t stopping. His vision was shaking just like his hands and nothing seemed steady. He was falling, he was still falling, and he was never going to hit the ground. He was just going to float forever, never reaching his destination.
“Peter, you’re not a bother. You’re never a bother.” Sam’s voice was pained as he said this, as if he couldn’t understand why Peter would think that. As if he didn’t know. “Why told you that?”
Didn’t Sam understand? That was all Peter had ever been. To his parents, to May and Ben, to Tony.
Peter couldn’t even kill himself correctly.
He shouldn’t be alive.
“Okay, kid, Bucky and I are coming. Stay where you-,”
“No, no, I’ll – I’ll come to you.” And suddenly he was shooting to his feet, ignoring Sam’s shout of protest and stumbling around the coffee table to his bedroom. He abandoned his phone on the couch and slipped on his Spiderman suit without blinking once. His eyes continued to sting as he yanked on his mask. The material buzzed beneath his fingertips, or maybe that was just Peter disappearing again. Disappearing was better than living like this. Disappearing was better than living at all.
Karen didn’t let him disappear though. She patched Sam’s call to the suit without hesitating a second. Falcon’s comforting voice filled his ears right as he jumped out the window and swung into the city below.
“Peter? Pete, I don’t think it’s safe for you to be out right now. Go back to your apartment and sit tight, okay? Buck and I-,”
“I need to get out,” Peter gasped, Karen warning about heart rate but he couldn’t really hear her because he wasn’t really here. “Sam, Sam, I need to get OUT.”
“Okay, okay, Pete. Just have Karen send you over here, okay, kiddo? You know Buck and I love you.”
“You make fun of me,” he whispered even as he blindly followed the route his AI set out for him. “Call me names.”
“That’s because we care about ya, kiddo.” Sam’s voice was riddled with sorrowful fondness. “I call Bucky all sorts of names. Does that mean I don’t love him?”
Well, that was ridiculous. After the final battle for the world was over and Thanos had been defeated, he’d watched as Sam had tackled Bucky in a hug and then kissed the man like his life depended on it. They lived together, hell, they were probably going to end up married. Of course they loved each other. They teased each other because they liked each other. That was the point. “That’s different.”
“Why, kid?”
“Bucky matters.”
Sam’s breath hitched. “Peter, you matter.”
Did he? Swinging through streets full of thousands of people, he couldn’t imagine why he would. He’d watched a young boy bleed out beside that intersection. He’d been too late to stop a girl being raped in that alley. He hadn’t caught a woman who’d jumped off that building.
He hadn’t saved May from dying in that hospital.
“Do I?”
Why couldn’t things get better? Why couldn’t he be better?
“Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“How far away are you?”
He lazily looked at Karen’s timer. “Two minutes.”
“Okay, kiddo. The balcony’s open, alright? Come right in.” Sam sounded so sad. Had Peter done that? Why did he have to mess everything up? Why couldn’t he do anything right? Maybe he’d come back wrong. Maybe he remembered the Soul Stone, but he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe he was broken.
“Hmm.”
“Do you want me to stay on the line until you get here?”
Peter wanted to say no. He wanted to let go of his webbing and let himself drop to the street. He wanted to die.
Most of him did. Most of him wanted to die.
Not all.
“Please.”
Sam let out a wet laugh. It sounded like he’d been holding his breath. “Of course. Of course, Peter.”
His hands started shaking again. “Sam?”
“I’m right here, buddy.”
“I’m scared.”
“That’s okay, Peter. I am too.”
That couldn’t be right. Sam was a hero. He was the Falcon.
“You are?”
The soldier laughed again, sounding only slightly hysterical. “Kid, I’m terrified right now.”
“Why?”
“Because someone I care about a shit ton just told me that he tried to kill himself.”
“Oh,” Peter answered nonchalantly. His eyes raked over the building that used to be Stark Tower. It was something different now. Some big cooperation. He wondered if it still looked like home. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Peter. I’m scared because I care about you. I care about you, Peter.”
“You said that already,” he replied.
“I know, Peter, but I have a feeling that you haven’t heard it a lot recently.”
The truth hit him squarely in the chest. He landed on Sam and Bucky’s balcony with ease, letting his shoulders fall. His eyes slowly dragged themselves from his shaking hands to the open door into their apartment. On the threshold stood his friends, wide and worried gazes tracing him from head to toe.
Bucky was the one who made the first move. He walked forward and put on hand on Peter’s shoulder. The other snaked around and cupped the back of the boy’s neck. “Hey, kiddo.”
He broke.
Sobs overtook his body and he crumbled into the hero’s arms. Bucky wrapped him in his embrace, settling Peter into his chest and neck, safe and warm and wanted. Was this what love felt like? Was this what he’d forgotten?
May’s hugs had felt like this. How had he forgotten?
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry…”
“Shh, shh,” Winter Soldier stroked Peter’s hair. “Come inside, kiddo. I made hot chocolate.
“I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t want to do it, but I did and I’m so sorry,” he croaked, throat screaming in agony as more cries escaped his lips. All he did was cry nowadays. Why couldn’t he stop crying?
“We’ve got you, Peter,” Sam’s voice joined the cacophony that was Peter’s overwhelmed brain, settling a blanket of stillness over his dark thoughts. “We’ve got ya.”
Peter was settled on their couch between the two heroes. Bucky pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa and threw it over the three of them. The teenager glanced up at them.
They were both trying not to cry.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
“Oh, Peter,” Sam sniffed, a tear falling from his chin. “What’s wrong?”
“I – I want to die,” Peter moaned, choosing to stare at his shaking fingers. “And – and I feel like I came back wrong, like I wasn’t supposed to return after the Snap. I don’t belong anywhere. Tony moved on and – and he has Morgan; he doesn’t want me. May’s dead and my old apartment has other people living in it. I can’t sleep and I have nightmares and I cut myself and I cry all the time and I wish I was dead.”
Sam ran a hand through Peter’s curls, “Peter, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
The boy stared up at him, brows furrowed in confusion.
“No one asked.”
Bucky scowled, turning away. His jaw quivered as tears shone in his eyes.
“Peter, can I see your arms?”
He couldn’t hide anything anymore. Not from Sam’s pleading gaze. He lifted up his arms and rolled up his sleeves. Sure enough, white and red scars crisscrossed over his pale skin. They weren’t older than three months. May would never have let him get this far. May would have stopped him.
“Kiddo, why do you hurt yourself?”
“S quiet.”
“Okay,” Sam took his wrists, slowly drawing circles on Peter’s palms with his thumbs. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”
“I want to die.”
“Why?”
Peter swallowed. Why?
“I want to find peace.”
If heartbreak could be seen in human emotion, he saw it that morning in Sam Wilson’s eyes. “Does Tony know?”
Because everyone knew how close he and Peter were … how close they’d been. Because everyone saw the fatherly way Tony had treated the kid, the warm hugs he never gave anyone else, the worry he festered when the kid got hurt. They weren’t blind. Even if the Rogues hadn’t been around to witness it, they’d heard stories from Rhodey and Pepper about how Peter groomed Tony to be a dad.
“I called him,” Peter shrugged. “He was busy with Morgan.”
Sam frowned. “Did you tell him what was going on?”
“Didn’t get the chance.”
Bucky jerked suddenly and Peter could practically feel the rage emanating off his body. “I’m going to kill him.”
“No!” He shook his head frantically, grabbing Bucky’s arm. This was exactly what Peter was afraid of. He was just getting in everyone’s way and messing everything up. “No, no, it’s fine. Morgan’s much more important than I am and she wasn’t sleeping-,”
“Oh, and you committing suicide is so much less important than a five-year-old’s sleep schedule!” the war hero tore himself out of the kid’s grip and whirled around, fury burning in his dark eyes.
“Peter, Morgan isn’t more important than you,” Sam intervened gently.
The young hero scoffed softly. “She has to be.”
“Peter.” Tony used to be able to do that – say his name so soft and kind and stern all at once, like he couldn’t contain how much he adored the boy but had to get him to understand. Sam was pretty good at it too. Peter raised his glassy eyes to meet the Falcon’s brown ones. How did someone hold so much emotion in a single gaze? Peter always thought that he had such emotionless eyes. Whenever he looked at himself, all he could see was an emptiness that used to be so full. Would he ever be like that again? “Morgan is not more important than you are. She’s young, yes, and she’s Tony’s biological child. She is adorable and loud and mischievous and she’s the perfect little Stark child but she is not more important than you.”
“Yes, she is,” He stressed, closing his eyes tightly and shaking his head. It couldn’t be anything else. That had to be the reason. “I don’t matter like she does, not to Tony, and that’s okay. That’s fine, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I should be okay with that. I’m not even his kid, I don’t know why I’m acting like this-,”
“Why does she have to be more important, Peter?”
He didn’t want to answer Sam’s tender inquiry. “Because if she’s not… then why doesn’t he care?”
“He does care, Peter.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does.” Sam sighed heavily. “Peter, I know it’s easier for you to say that Tony doesn’t care. I know it’s easier to just shove him into the box of parents who have died or left or whatever you call it and force yourself to act like it’s all okay, but it’s not. And Tony loves you, Peter, he does. But he’s also human and you know better than most that human beings are flawed creatures.”
He hummed in reply. It all made sense. Sam was being perfectly logical and compassionate all at once. It didn’t make anything better. Bucky seemed to think the same thing.
“Sam, that man is supposed to be his legal guardian! He’s supposed to be taking care of him! He – Peter, when was the last time you saw him? Face to face, in person? Hmm?”
The teen let out a shaky breath. “I – I don’t know. Two weeks?”
Bucky turned around again, fists clenching and unclenching with his need to break something. Sam sighed sadly.
“Peter, you know that people love you, right?”
Peter stared at him. No.
Sam’s eyes were so sad when the boy didn’t answer. “Bucky and I, Rhodey, Steve. And, bud, Tony loves you too, even if he’s been crap at showing it recently.”
“Shit at showing it, if you ask-,”
“Bucky.” Sam’s tone garnered no interruption. “Pete, there are lots of people who love you.”
He couldn’t possibly understand why. He glanced down at himself and scoffed softly. What was he? Useless. He couldn’t even die correctly. “I didn’t come back right.”
“Yes, you did, Peter.”
“No,” He spat, irritation rearing its ugly head. “No, I didn’t. I was fine before. I kept myself together, I didn’t cry myself to sleep, I didn’t cut, I didn’t try to kill myself. I was fine until – until stupid Thanos and – and now I’m a mess and I hate myself and I wish I was dead!”
“Were you?” Sam didn’t look convinced. “Because, Pete, if I had to make a guess, I would say that you’ve been depressed for a long time and coming back from being dead just … avalanched everything you were feeling.”
“Well, why can’t I go back to that?” Peter looked down at his hands, shaking in Sam’s gentle grip. “Why can’t I go back to just … being sad and that being okay?”
Bucky lowered himself back to the sofa, anger dissipating as he placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Kiddo, you’re a genius. You know that’s not healthy.”
“I don’t care.” He’d gone this far. He’d gotten to the point of wanting to kill himself, hadn’t he? Why should he care?
“We do,” Sam hadn’t stopped rubbing his palms. It was calming, the soothing motion of constant touching.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not worth it.”
The men sitting beside him gasped softly, their eyes finally shedding the tears they had kept at bay. In front of them was a child, a baby by their standards, who had suffered more than most of the heroic adults they’d met. He had lost his parents, his aunt and uncle, was bullied and harassed, died, and felt abandon by the man who should have called him son. He hated himself for so much that wasn’t his fault and he had gotten to the point where he felt worthless. Where the only thing he should do is die.
“I’m just a kid, Sam,” Peter whispered, eyes wide and searching for an answer he didn’t think the man could give him. “Kids aren’t supposed to be heroes.”
“Peter, Peter, look at me.”
He did. He turned and really looked at him. He looked James Buchanan Barnes straight in the eyes and held onto the certainty he found there. He latched onto the steady ground that he couldn’t feel under his own feet and grabbed onto the love he didn’t deserve.
“You don’t have to be anything here. Just be Peter. Just Peter.”
“But – but nobody likes just Peter.” It was so childish to say it like that, but, well, that’s how it was.
Bucky cupped his cheeks. It was such a familiar action. Years ago, Tony would have done the same thing.
He could barely remember the last time Tony held him like this. Like he wanted him.
Did Bucky and Sam want him?
“I do. I like the sassy, nerdy, dorky, courageous and literal ray of sunshine that is Peter Parker. I like him an awful lot and I want him back.” Bucky pushed some of Peter’s messy hair out of his face. “I know he’s still in there. Do you know how I know?”
“How?” Please tell me. Please help me.
“Because you called us, kiddo,” the ex-assassin chuckled wetly. “Because you picked up your phone and actually called instead of going to another roof or pulling out a bigger knife and trying again. Because somewhere in there, underneath all this sadness, is a boy who wants to live. There’s the kid who talks during fights and gets up early to feed the stray dogs on Saturday mornings. There’s the kid who means the world to Tony Stark. He’s still here, Peter.”
Sam’s hand released his wrists and settled on his back. His fingers were warm. “Peter, do you really want to die?”
And he thought about it. He really did. He thought about the quiet that he’d experienced, the silence in his brain as he stepped off that roof in contrast to the small buzzing of their coffee machine or the birds on the balcony. He thought about the absence of fear and the blatant emotionlessness of it all, the disregard for life in its entirety as he let himself be taken by gravity and he pondered the absence of fear in this very moment, staring into Sam and Bucky’s fond eyes. He searched the depths of himself, the peace that he’d felt in those few seconds of lifeless falling, and then he compared it to the peace he was finding bit by bit in the slowly rising sun he could see from Sam and Bucky’s couch.
Falling, shockingly, came up short.
“No.”
How odd that the sun broke the horizon at that moment. How weird that suddenly he could hear everything again. There was a shop opening far below them, the smell of fresh bread breaking the air. There were pigeons cooing on a roof three streets over. A family was singing Happy Birthday. How strange that suddenly all the colors around him were bright but not crimson like blood, but blue like the sky and golden like the stretching rays of the sun. The flowers growing on Sam and Bucky’s windowsill were red and purple. There was a bright orange sweatshirt hanging off a balcony across the road. A white plane pierced the atmosphere above them. How remarkable that touch returned at that moment. How Bucky’s hand on his shoulder and Sam’s hand on his back were rough and gentle all at once, that they were grounding him in a world that he had been floating away from only moments ago. He could feel the couch under his legs, fuzzy and warm. He could feel the cool morning air against the skin of his face, could almost taste the coffee being brewed two floors below them.
Was this peace?
Peter fell asleep on that couch, huddled between two people who loved him. Who loved him, who told him they loved him, and who he believed. He rested his head on Sam’s shoulder and closed his eyes, finally feeling safe. Bucky’s metal fingers untangled his disheveled curls and situated the blanket atop them so that they would all be warm. Peter hoped that Tony had this. He hoped that he was curled up with his wife and daughter, feeling more loved than he ever had in his life. He hoped that somewhere in the man’s head, he was picturing Peter there too, asleep at his feet, safe and warm and home.
He hoped May was too, wherever she was. He hoped that she was looking down at him and proud.
He hoped she felt this kind of peace.
He awoke to the gentle sounds of Mario Cart. It was the best sleep he had had since the Snap. He opened his eyes slowly, a natural smile gracing his lips. Sam and Bucky were playing the video game whilst still keeping an arm around Peter. It was so odd of a thing to wake up to.
It felt like home.
“How do you keep getting first? You’re like ancient.”
“Not my fault I’m better than you, Birdie. Maybe if you didn’t have automatic drift on you’d play better.”
“Last time I tried manual drift I fell off of Wario’s Goldmine every ten seconds.”
Peter snorted.
Bucky and Sam looked down at him, pausing the game.
“Heyah, kiddo. Wanna join us?” Bucky lifted a spare controller. His boyfriend slapped his hand. “Ow!”
“How ya feeling, Peter?”
Peter thought for a moment. He almost started crying when he didn’t have to lie as he answered, “Good.”
“Yeah?” Sam smiled fondly, ruffling his hair. “Anything you need?”
His hands weren’t shaking anymore.
He glanced back up at the two heroes.
“I think I’d like that hot chocolate now.”
Both heroes laughed, scrambling up from the sofa to do just that. As they bickered in the kitchen, gathering supplies for a breakfast that they’d never gotten around to eating, Peter settled into the couch, happier than he’d been in a long time. As the smell of eggs filled their apartment and the sunset’s rays fell upon his tired face, he grinned.
Picking up Sam’s controller, he pressed play. Might as well get his friend up a few places.
“HEY!” Bucky yelped from the stove. “That’s cheating! Sam, get our kid under control!”
Peter laughed, throwing his head back as he passed Bucky’s halted cart, whizzing down Rainbow Road with the skills of an expert.
It wasn’t perfect. But then again, it didn’t have to be.
It was peaceful, though, and Peter supposed that was perfect for him.