Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm crankin' up on the throttle
Victory is mine
Show you the harder the battle
The harder I fight
I've come too far to quit
Step back I'm goin' in
I'm crankin' up on the throttle
This is how legends are made
Legends Are Made by Sam Tinnesz

***

It’s pure chaos.

There’s smoke and dust in the air, the sky practically hidden from view by the hazy clouds, evidence of the destruction and carnage taking place below. There’s screaming and shouting and clanging.

Peter Parker dodges an explosion to his left, ducks around a spray of bullets coming at his right. He lets a web fly, taking him up and over a smoking pile of fallen debris. The battle wages on all around him, a conglomerate of aliens, humans, gods, and all kinds of other creatures.

It’s the fight of their lives.

Peter slides back to the ground, bounding after the awesome glowy Sky Lady and the group that’s got the gauntlet, determined to do whatever he can to help them get to where they need to be. He can feel the blood that’s dripping from his nose, but he ignores it and charges forward.

This is…this is totally crazy. It’s a little hard not to freak out over the fact that he’s fighting alongside warriors and Avengers. And that’s not even the wildest part of this whole thing.

His mind races.

Peter grunts as he takes a hard hit to the chest. He knows he can’t afford to be distracted, not right now.

But Mr. Stark had hugged him. Just right there, in the middle of the battlefield, while bullets and lightning and who knows what else zipped around them. Like nothing else in the world mattered at that moment. And he’d had this weird look on his face, too, while Peter was talking to him.

He remembers Dr. Strange saying that five years have passed, and Peter hasn’t had ample time to truly process that statement or its implications. All he knows is that right now, the stakes are the highest they've ever been. The future of the universe lies in the hands of the Avengers.

They have to win.

And the second the victory is theirs, he's going to find Mr. Stark and have a long talk with the man. And maybe another hug. He could really use one of those, and wow, the fact that Mr. Stark actually looked so worried and fond—

A huge explosion rocks the air, the aftershock reverberating throughout the entire battlefield, sending everyone into a shocked silence. Peter stumbles and hits the ground, rolling head over heels before coming to a stop with a grunt. He lifts his head, watching as the van they were so desperately trying to reach goes up in a ball of light—and the gauntlet holding the precious Infinity Stones is flung into a clearing.

Peter gasps for air, the explosion having knocked the wind out of him. He has to get over there. He has to help. They can still win this—right? There's another way to stop Thanos.

Peter grits his teeth and shoves to his feet. There are bodies and debris everywhere, a horrific combination that overshadows the hopelessness beginning to permeate the area.

One step, two steps, and then Peter's full on charging toward the small clearing. He's gotta get there.

He scales a chunk of building and catches sight of the fight that hasn't ended just yet—Captain America and Thor are putting every ounce of their superhuman strength into keeping Thanos away from the gauntlet that lies at their feet. 

It's not enough. Not even the glowy lady can restrain the power of the giant villain.

Thanos has the gauntlet on his hand now, face contorted in pain at the sheer power the stones he's wielding possess—the stones that have the ability to wipe all of them out with a simple snap of the fingers.

Peter can't let that happen. With a guttural yell, he lunges forward and wraps both arms around the gauntlet that's fitted around Thanos's hand. 

It's a losing battle, he knows. If Avengers like Mr. Stark, Captain America, and Thor couldn't stop him, Peter won't be able to, either. He might be strong, but he's no match for a giant purple alien who currently holds all six of the most powerful objects in the universe. But like the others, he won't go down without a fight—he won't give up until there's nothing else he can do.

But wait…maybe there is something he can do.

Just as expected, Thanos shakes him off like a rag doll within a second, flinging him across the clearing with disgust—or maybe mild amusement. Peter hits the ground with a thud and rolls.

That second was all he needed.

He watches as the mad titan who, so dead-set on killing half of the universe, is overtaken by surprise and panic when he snaps his fingers confidently and realizes he holds none of the power he thought he did. The gauntlet is empty.

And suddenly all eyes are on Peter.

He knows with astounding clarity what he has to do.

The pain is excruciating, bringing him to his knees, the power he wields nearly unfathomable as the stones fall into place on the hand of his Iron Spider suit. 

He swallows and sets his jaw, determination schooling his features even as his muscles seize and spasm. He slowly lifts his hand, watching the mesmerizing crackle of electric power from the Stones dance across his fingers, ready to be unleashed.

This is it.

Thanos's gravelly voice from moments ago echoes in his ears: I am inevitable.

Peter tilts his chin up, the barest hint of a smirk crossing over his face. “And you…just—lost.”

He lets out a breath.

And snaps.

***

Tony can't breathe.

Time is elusive right now, and he can't be certain if it's been hours or days since he stood on the battlefield and watched a sixteen-year-old kid do the unthinkable. But he doesn't think he's taken a breath since the moment he saw Peter Parker tussle with Big Angry Grape and come away with the Infinity Stones.

Tony can feel his heart drop, a scream on his lips, time slowing to a near halt as he watches the kid lift his hand encased with the Stones. He knows what's about to happen, knows even he bursts into motion that there's no way he can make it over there in time.

And he'd barely had a chance to see the kid again—much less talk to him. There were a million things he had rehearsed that he planned to say the moment he laid eyes on the teen again, but all of the words went right out the window when he saw Peter in the flesh, rambling nonsense as if it were any other normal day. Alive. Not dust.

The chaos of the battle had cut their reunion short, the confusion causing them to separate before either of them could gather their bearings. Tony knew that the moment it was all over, the first thing he was going to do was find Peter and tell him every single thing he'd spent the last five and a half years wishing he'd would've made clear before.

The kid snapped. He saved them all—Thanos and his entire army faded away into dust just like half the universe had five years ago. Just like that, the threat was eliminated, the world saved.

And then Peter Parker died.

Everything since that moment has been a blur. He remembers his feet moving without permission, falling to his knees next to the too-still teenager. He remembers there being lots of shouting—the sounds echo in his ears even now—and someone shoving their way in next to Tony to get to Peter and attempting to restart his heart. He remembers a portal opening up to take him back to Wakanda, where the best medical care known to man was promised.

Tony had followed them through without another thought. There were so many things to worry about at that moment—what was going on with the rest of the world, the current state of the Infinity Stones and protecting them until they could be properly taken care of, and a million other urgent matters. But there was only one thing on his mind then, the only thing on his mind right now, and his name is Peter Parker. The sight of the kid—fading brown eyes glazed over with pain, his entire right side a blackened, burned mess from the Stones' radiation and power—is seared into Tony's brain forever.

How can he lose him after he just got him back?

“Tony.” A hand touches his shoulder softly. 

Pepper.

Some of the others have been in and out since they arrived—mainly Rhodey. Tony isn't even sure where Steve and Thor are, and he can only imagine they're still back in New York helping get a handle on things there.

Whatever. He really doesn't care right now. He's got one thing on his mind—his family.

Tony blinks, lifting a hand to wipe at his gritty eyes. He's not in his suit anymore, but even the clothes underneath are dirty and stained. He probably needs a shower and a nap. Maybe some therapy.

But he won't be stepping foot out of this room until he gets word about the kid.

“Anything?” he croaks, already knowing she won't have any more information than he does—the private room they'd been shown to is located between the specialized operating rooms and the general waiting area, meaning that if someone was coming to give them an update, they'd pass through here first.

Pepper shakes her head, her generally professionally-styled hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, loose strands framing her own dirt-smudged face. “Still trying to get through to his aunt. There's so much going on out there.”

Tony sighs. The entire world is in chaos right now—there are, unfortunately, some negative repercussions to bringing back billions of people who have been gone for five years. They didn't exactly plan for how they would handle that. Perhaps they never really expected their crazy time heist to work in the first place.

The pain of losing Natasha and Vision that he'd buried down deep inside rears its ugly head. There's always a cost.

“I heard from Happy again,” Pepper tells him. 

Tony jerks his head up at that.

“Shh, Tony, everything is fine,” she immediately reassures. “He just wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” Tony relaxes a little. There are so many thoughts swirling through his mind right now, but the well-being of Morgan takes precedence. Actually, make that Morgan and Peter. “What's, uh, what about—?” He doesn't even know what he's trying to ask. His brain feels like it's caught up in a fog.

Thankfully, Pepper seems to sense his struggle. “I think some of the team is planning to reconvene here in Wakanda soon—they want to make sure the stones are protected until they can be…returned.” She clears her throat and repeats, “We’re attempting to locate Peter's aunt. Things are—they’re pretty bad out there—chaotic—with the sudden return.”

Tony stares straight ahead and rubs at his jaw. May Parker. She'd been part of the Decimated, too. Missed five plus years in the blink of an eye. He isn't sure if it makes him a bad person that he'd been almost relieved when he'd found out. At least they wouldn't have to deliver the news that her nephew was gone.

I lost the kid.

It's been five years, and May is back now, but Tony still might be cursed to tell her that very thing. He clasps his hands together tightly in an attempt to still their trembling.

Pep continues, voice soft, “As far as Morgan goes, I'd like to know how long we'll be here before we consider bringing her over. But you know what—that's something we can discuss later. Let's just wait and see what the doctors have to say about Peter.”

Peter. Tony spent years after he lost the kid wondering what it would be like if he ever had another chance with him. The perspective brought about by that loss invoked a lot of changes and growth in Tony. It shaped him, molded him, made him into a better father and man than he ever thought he could be. If only he could've done all that while he still had a chance to show the kid.

Everything he went through just for a chance to get Peter—and everyone—back, and for what? Is fate toying with him to let him come so close to victory again just to snatch it right back? Hope reignited only to be blown out with a gust of tragic wind. Story of his life.

“Oh…this is nice.”

That hug on the battlefield with Peter might have been the last one. It was supposed to be the first—the first of many. Tony had so many plans, all carefully crafted and lived through over years and years of dwelling on what they could have had, of where they were headed before a stupid alien decided to play God. He wanted to be a proper mentor to the kid, have him over to the lake house on the weekends and help him with homework, teach him to refine and expand his skills and knowledge in the lab, take him to ball games, the works… Perhaps it all could have come to fruition if he hadn’t failed Peter by letting Thanos snap the first time.

Failing is the one thing at which Tony seems to excel.

He doesn't realize he's not breathing until Pepper cups his face in her hands. “Tony—hey, look at me. In and out.”

A burst of pain explodes in his chest. He follows her instructions, attempting to force himself out of his head. It's not the first time either of them has done this, but somehow everything feels different. “Pep…”

“I know,” she whispers, moving one hand to rake it through his already-tousled hair. “He's strong, Tony. He'll get through this.”

“Yeah.” Tony clenches his jaw, glances toward the double doors and hallway beyond that leads to the OR. He was assured by T'Challa that all of his top doctors are working on Peter. Wong is currently in there with the Wakandan specialists as well, assisting in whatever way Sorcerer Supreme can in a situation like this. Stephen Strange is supposedly off tending to some “urgent business,” and Tony will be damned if he lets that man anywhere near the kid anyway.

A door across the room squeaks open. “Stark.”

Speaking of the devil…

Tony lunges to his feet and lets his fist fly without thought, hitting the unsuspecting sorcerer square in the jaw. Strange stumbles backward with the force of blow.

Pepper gasps. “Tony—”

“This is on you,” Tony snarls out, taking another step toward the other man, the icy cold fear in his chest manifesting as anger. “Fourteen million outcomes and this is the one we win? Five years, and then letting a teenager make the sacrifice play?”

Strange, for his part, looks particularly unperturbed by the fact that he was just punched. He straightens up, using the back of his hand to wipe away the drop of blood at the corner of his mouth. ”Would you have rathered we all perished? Because that's exactly what would have happened had it gone down any other way.”

Tony falters at that, though he stands his ground and doesn't let it show on his face. “You didn't see every outcome,” he says. “Who's to say out of a trillion, we didn't win a few more? That it could have easily been different?” He would know, he's played out every possible alternative scenario in his head day after day for the last five years.

“Stark, it isn't that simple—”

“You told me there's one we win—you wouldn't tell me how because you knew I would have never let it happen.” And he's right. From the moment he was reunited with Peter on that battlefield, all Tony wanted was to grab him out of the fray and tuck him away at the lake house with Morgan—to keep him safe and protected. That's all he’s ever wanted.

Black burning radiation blood excruciating pain dying dying dying.

Strange presses his lips together and that's all the confirmation Tony needs. “I didn't want it to be the kid. Contrary to what you may believe, Stark, I'm not some heartless monster.”

Tony snorts, feeling Pepper's presence at his back. “You sure about—”

“But if someone had to die to save billions, was it not worth it?”

There's a lot in that sentence to unpack, but some sort of rageful expression must cross over Tony's face, because Strange immediately winces.

“I didn't see past the moment when his heart stopped,” he says, as if that’s any sort of apology. “It's quite possible that the boy will survive this.”

“Well, that's very reassuring,” Tony retorts, sarcasm dripping from the words. 

Pepper squeezes his arm gently.

“Dr. Strange,” she intervenes, her tone way too polite and steady for the emotional charge lingering in the room right now, “is there anything you can do, any way to know if Peter…will be all right?”

There's a chagrined sigh as the former doctor shakes his head. “I'm afraid it's not as simple as that—”

“Nothing ever is, is it?” Tony's had enough of this. “Harry Potter here can only see into the future when it's convenient for him—”

“Tony—”

“Stark, I am—”

“No, no more of this high horse routine! Because of you and your stupid mind games, a sixteen-year-old kid might die.” His chest clenches at the thought, voice breaking despite his best efforts. “Actually, you know what—even worse is that you thought he was going to die, and you just stood by and let it happen.”

“I understand how you're feeling, but it is not—”

“Get. Out,” Tony growls, voice dangerous.

Strange must sense that this is a fight he does not want to continue, so he lets out a deep sigh and nods. “All right, I'm going. And I truly am sorry. But Stark, that kid… he saved the universe. He's a hero.”

Yeah, trust me, I know. Tony just crosses his arms until the other man finally turns and makes his exit. He sinks back down into the chair he'd previously been occupying and puts his head in his hands. Pepper sits next to him, rubbing a gentle hand up and down his back.

“I can't lose him again, Pep,” he whispers, allowing his vulnerability to show in a way he only ever does around her. “I just got him back.” Is the universe really this cruel, that it would allow him to bring Peter back just to have him snatched away again?

“I know,” she whispers, just as understanding. Just as broken.

The door to the OR swings open, and a woman in scrubs steps into the room. She pulls the mask over her face down to her chin and meets Tony's gaze. “Mr. Stark? We have news.”

***

He chokes out one ragged, gasping breath. Then another.

Fire is shooting up his arm. The pain is…well, it was excruciating in the moment, but now that he's done it, he's snapped, it's ebbing away into a dull throb. It pulses from his palm and up to his shoulder and then spreads throughout his entire body.

Everything around him is a blur—it's like it's all in a haze, cloudy and unclear—

“Pete?”

That voice. That voice he knows. It's a struggle, but Peter forces himself to focus, gaze landing on the person crouching in front of him.

“Mr. Stark.” His cracked lips attempt to form the shape of the words, but nothing comes out. 

“Stay with me, kid—please.” 

Peter has never heard Tony sound as panicked and fearful as he does in this moment. It's unfamiliar from the man who's always exuded nothing but confidence in front of Peter. His eyelids flicker, and he tries to hone in on the man crouching in front of him, even while it's becoming harder and harder to draw in a breath.

“Hey, hey. You did good, kid. Okay? You're a superstar. We won—but you need to hold on now. Please.”

There are more words being said, a comforting hand splayed out across his chest, but Peter can feel himself fading.

He doesn't want to go, not again, but if he has to, at least he can go with the knowledge that he helped save the world. That's pretty cool, right? Thanos and his army are nowhere to be seen in his limited range of sight. Whatever he did must have worked.

And whoa—are those tears in Mr. Stark's eyes?

Peter wants to be reassuring, to tell the man that it's okay, but he can't manage to force any words out past his half-charred throat.

“Pete…” Tony trails off, and Peter senses someone else sliding in next to them.

His tired mind tries to place the fuzzy figure, but he's having a hard time focusing any longer.

“No, hey! Stay with me, Peter! Don’t you dare—”

The darkness is closing in on him, the pain fading into something warmer and more peaceful. Even though he can't feel much of anything on his right side anymore, the power of the Stones still buzzes throughout his body. Pulsing. Powerful. There.

Let go.

Peter releases a final, soft breath and lets his eyes fall shut.

***

He’s floating.

Voices drift around throughout the darkness and silence that generally pervades his mind. Some of them he recognizes, others not so much. He doesn't always retain the words, but the quiet, soothing tones are comforting nonetheless.

“I'm here, baby. I'm right here.”

“You’re brave, kid. Strong.”

“Thank you for what you did.”

“You saved the world, sweetie. Everyone is okay because of you.”

“Your vitals are looking better this morning, Peter. Any day now I expect you to join us.”

There's one voice that tends to garner his attention more than the rest. One that he knows but isn't used to hearing sound so soft or wistful when it speaks.

“Pete. You've gotta wake up soon, kid. I don't think I've ever seen you keep still for so long. There's a lot of people who want to meet you. Hero of the hour.” A soft, wet chuckle.

He doesn't know what it is about that voice that makes him want to open his eyes, to see the face it's attached to and confirm it for himself. Sometimes he thinks he's on the brink of doing so, but his body seems to want to keep him trapped.

“I had five years to think about all the things I wish I would've done while you were still here,” The Voice says one time. “Now you're back, and I still can't tell you any of it.”

You can! Peter thinks. He wants the voice to keep talking. He wants to know. Wants to hear.

“Sometimes I wonder if I've just built all of this up in my mind. Maybe if—when—you wake up, you'll think I'm crazy for ever pretending there was something deeper here.”

He doesn't like the sadness that he senses from The Voice. It shouldn't be there. He wants to say as much, but his brain is working overtime just to stay aware enough to hear what's being said.

“Peter? Hey—you see that? He's frowning. Is that good? Does it mean…”

The voices devolve into meaningless chatter that's difficult to follow. Peter drifts for a while longer, continuing to float in and out of awareness. Sometimes there are more voices, sometimes he even sees images in his head. Every once in a while, an explosiveness of phantom pain and light that leaves as quickly as it comes. Nothing really makes sense here. He wants to know what's going on.

But time is elusive, an enigma, as is his grip on reality. It's condensed and elongated and nonexistent all at once.

“Oh, baby.” It's the feminine voice again, the one that's so often there. It’s a comforting presence, a light in the dark. “I know you need to rest, but the doctors say you're healing well. They aren't keeping you asleep anymore. We're just waiting on you.” 

Waiting…on him?

“We don't want to rush you…but it would be so nice to see your beautiful eyes again and hear your voice. I miss your laugh.”

It continues on like this, similar routines and voices as he fades in and out and wishes for more.

Then one day something a little different happens. He hears several voices, sort of overlapping, but not in the way that he's just not understanding. Because they're all truly talking at once. He's only able to make out some of it.

“I don't know if this is the best…”

“Okay, let's just make sure—”

“—be careful, honey—”

And then there's a new voice. It's small and hesitant yet powerful. “Hi, Peter.” It's quiet for a moment. “I've been waiting to see you for so long! Mommy and Daddy finally said it's okay I...I know you're sleeping, but they said you might be able to hear me anyway. I really hope you wake up soon.”

In the end, he's not really sure what does it. Maybe it's the consistent knowledge that everyone has been waiting for him, begging him to come back. Telling him how much they love him and are proud of him. Maybe it's the new little voice that sounds so hopeful that he's still in there. Maybe it's nothing like that at all.

Whatever the case may be, it's one of those times that he's becoming subconsciously aware that it happens.

The voices around him suddenly start to become clearer. Closer. He feels like he's trying to swim for the surface and actually succeeding for once. Up instead of down.

Awareness surrounds him in an odd way—different from how it usually is when he's listening to the voices.

He wants to say something, and he puts all of his effort into the endeavor, but all that comes out is a tiny whine, so faint he barely hears it himself.

But suddenly everything around him goes absolutely silent—sans the heartbeats, all of which speed up rapidly in unison.

And then…Peter cracks open his eyes.

It takes some time, a lot of coaching and questions and assistance, but eventually he feels like he's fully present in the room. It's a lot of work to even move his head, but he recognizes most of the people surrounding his bed—namely Aunt May and Mr. Stark—and he knows where he is and his fuzzy brain is starting to remind him of the events that occurred to lead to all of this…

“Thanos?” he croaks, his throat dry and voice hoarse from disuse.

Mr. Stark gives him a grim smile, something still shimmering in his eyes the way it has since Peter first woke up. “Gone, kid. Thanks to you.”

Peter closes his eyes for a moment. He remembers. Snapping his fingers in hopes that it would stop Thanos and his army. 

It'd worked.

He lets out a breath.

“Peter.” One of the doctors steps in on the left side of his bed. She has a kind face, but there's also something pinched about the expression that passes over it when she exchanges glances with Mr. Stark. “Before we go any further, I feel that it is imperative that we let you know some important information regarding the physical injuries you sustained.”

The atmosphere in the room immediately shifts, the tension almost palpable. Peter furrows his brow.

“Do you understand?” the doctor asks.

“Yes.” Something isn't right, he knows that much. He's felt…off, ever since he's awoken. He knows he must have been badly injured, but he hasn't had a chance to place whatever's going on—

“When you wielded those stones, Peter, the amount of gamma radiation that was released was powerful enough to kill any regular human. Your enhancements allowed you the strength to survive the initial snap, but not without causing some irreparable damage.”

The picture being painted is slowly, painfully, coming into focus. Peter's breath hitches. The blanket that's covering him is pulled up almost all the way to his neck. His left hand rests on top of the covers, fingers linked tightly with May's, but his right…

Peter glances down just as the doctor says, “I'm sorry, Peter. I know this is going to be hard to hear, but your right arm was too damaged from the Infinity Stones' radiation. We did everything we could, but unfortunately, in the end, we had no choice but to amputate.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, look at you go. At this rate, you'll be breaking out of here in no time.”

Peter glances up briefly and lets out a short grunt, taking another carefully-calculated step forward. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his face, his body fully exerted even after the short amount of time he's been up and moving around. He doesn't try to wipe it away; his left hand is firmly curled around May's supporting arm anyway.

“This is our third lap,” his aunt tells Mr. Stark proudly, though Peter knows her watchful gaze remains on him as they move forward together again. “The therapist had him try the stairs today, too. And he didn't need any help until just now.”

Mr. Stark lets out a low whistle. “Defying the doctors' odds left and right, I see.”

“He sure is.”

It's a little weird, watching his aunt interact with Mr. Stark like this. They talked before, of course, but mostly over the phone, and basically only about stuff like Peter staying the weekend at the Avengers compound or when they needed to discuss his extracurricular activities. He's not entirely sure what to think about the way they act around each other in person now, but then again, there are a lot of things that have changed.

“I don't know if I can make it back, May,” Peter confesses quietly, glancing down the hall to his hospital room's open door.

It's only been a few days or so—maybe, time might as well still be an illusion right now—since he's awoken from his nearly month-long coma. While his enhanced healing had already worked wonders on his battered body during that time, the doctors told him that it seemed to be concentrated mainly on repairing the extensive radiation burns and muscle damage caused by the Snap. Thus, it may take a little extra time for him to fully regain his motor skills and strength. And that's not even accounting for the loss-of-limb trauma—which is both physical and emotional.

May gives him a scrutinizing look, as though she's trying to determine if he truly needs a break or if she should push him a little more. He's gotten a lot of those looks from her recently. It's probably for the best. He doesn't want to be coddled.

But…right now he doesn't think he wouldn't mind it. As desperate as he is to prove himself and get back to normal—whatever that even means now—he really doesn't want to make the rest of the trek down the hall. He’s also tragically aware of the fact that he’s decked out in his hospital-issued gown and grippy socks, standing out here in the open for everyone to see. And by everyone, he means Mr. Stark.

“You can do it, baby,” May says, giving his arm a squeeze. 

Traitor. His voice drops dangerously close to a whine. “May, I'm really tired.”

“Hey. What she said. Come on, you can do it.” Mr. Stark claps his hands together and then holds them out toward Peter like he's encouraging a toddler learning how to walk.

“Tony,” May chides from her position at Peter's side. But she's smiling.

“You're already this close, kid, might as well finish it.” Mr. Stark lifts an eyebrow, as if daring him to disagree.

Peter sighs, but heeds the encouragement and takes a few more halting steps forward. His left leg is doing fine, but his right still isn't back to a hundred percent, and his muscles aren't used to him being up and about again just yet.

May and Mr. Stark both continue to cheer him on as he heads down the hall step by limping step. It's a little embarrassing, but, well…it's kind of nice, too. So Peter grits his teeth in determination and releases May's arm, figuring if he's going to do this, he's going to finish strong.

In the end, his room really isn't as far as he'd anticipated. And it's a good thing too, because Peter's right leg gives out with his last step and he stumbles forward—right into Tony's waiting arms.

“Sorry,” he mutters immediately, awkwardly using his own arm—singular—to shove himself upright as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

The man doesn't seem to mind though. He keeps a steady grip on Peter with one hand, using the other to give his good side a gentle pat. “Nah, kid, don't—hey, you're doing great.”

“Thanks.” Peter clears his throat and lets himself be helped back into the room and seated on the edge of the bed, too tired to care how dependent he is at the moment.

Now May starts fussing over him, scrounging up a damp cloth to brush across his sweaty face—careful of the still-healing scars—and passing him his water from the bedside table. He gulps it gratefully.

“What's the latest from the doctors?” Mr. Stark asks, like he doesn't already know every detail.

“They say he's progressing remarkably well,” May answers. “If he keeps up at this pace, it won't be long before he can go—be discharged.” The avoidance of the word “home” sits awkwardly in the silence that follows. The Parkers’ apartment isn't theirs anymore, not since there were no Parkers left to live in it for the past five years. 

Peter tries not to think about that.

But Mr. Stark, ever the one to make sure those types of silences never last, interjects with, “Don't worry about any of the details, okay? You know that I've got it all taken care of—you two can come to our place. Or I can get you set up in a new apartment, if you’d rather. Whatever you want. I'll make it happen. We—”

“Tony.” May gives a small headshake. “Maybe this is a conversation we can have later?” In private goes unsaid. “The nurse will be in soon to give Peter his meds, and I need to get him settled here.”

“Sure, of course.” Mr. Stark clears his throat, fingers tapping against the foot of the bed. “Ready for some of those good drugs, bud?”

Peter shoots him an unimpressed look, trying to hide the way the affectionate nickname catches him off guard. He doesn’t really know what to make of it, honestly.

It is true that over the past year or so—after the whole homecoming debacle and situation with Liz's dad—he and Mr. Stark slowly began spending more time together. It started off with the internship cover-up that quickly turned into something a little more real. Peter could easily keep up with Tony in the lab and drank up every bit of advice and information given to him by his mentor, eager to learn and prove himself to the man who was his childhood hero. 

So yes, by the time Thanos happened, they were definitely more than acquaintances. Several low-level missions completed together around New York, weekends at the compound, and late nights in the lab that turned into movie nights in Mr. Stark's city penthouse had brought them closer together than Peter ever could have imagined.

And yet…there's still something notably different about the way Mr. Stark has been acting the last couple of days. The way he looks at Peter, like he's seeing a ghost. The extra touch of softness in his demeanor and words. Just like the battlefield hug, it's surprising but welcome, but also a little strange.

The two of them haven't really had much of any “real” conversation since Peter woke up. The man has been around—a lot actually, more than expected—hovering, questioning the hospital staff, doing what he can to help. But May is always right at Peter's side, and there are doctors and nurses and a lot of others constantly trickling in and out of the hospital room, meaning there's no opportunity for a deep discussion—not that Peter would know what to say if there was.

In the end, Peter has to constantly remind himself that while it's only been less than a week for him since he was dusted, practically another lifetime has passed for everyone else left behind. People change. Maybe Mr. Stark did, too?

He's not sure yet if that's a good thing or a bad thing. All he knows is that it will take a lot of adjusting before he's fully used to the easy affection the man's been showing ever since Peter's returned.

“How's your pain level, baby?” May is asking, oblivious to her nephew's current inner turmoil.

Peter offers a one-armed shrug in return. His gaze flicks over to the chart hanging on the wall across from his bed and the row of faces ranging from a big grin to a teary frown. The number five and its corresponding face are circled with dry erase marker from the nurse's last check-in. “It's okay.”

She and Mr. Stark both lift an eyebrow.

“I promise, May, I'm fine.”

“You're sure?” She gives him a once-over, her eyes lingering below his face, and he knows what she's asking even though she doesn't say it outright.

They don't bring up his arm—or lack thereof. Beyond what's necessary for PT, nobody really has said much about it at all yet—at least not around him—since the meltdown that ensued when he first woke up and found out he was down a limb. Well, maybe not a meltdown. More of a panic attack followed by a short period of shock-infused catatonia that had everyone around him concerned.

Peter himself tries not to think about any of it too much, but it's not like he can avoid the fact that stares him in the face every waking moment. The phantom pain that the doctors briefly outlined as common for amputees is already causing issues, despite their attempts to limit it. He can hardly do anything for himself. He's always been somewhat ambidextrous, but having to rely solely on his left hand is a challenge. Even simple tasks like using the bathroom and eating are exponentially more difficult now, especially with the rest of his body still recovering from his other injuries.

One day at a time, he tells himself, just like May keeps saying. But that’s easier said than done. He’s ready for things to be back to normal. He wants to be Spider-Man again. It seems far-fetched right now, maybe even impossible, but he knows he can get there. He will. He has to.

His eyelids feel heavy, but he fights to keep them open. “I'm all right,” he repeats, even as a newly-familiar exhaustion tugs at him. He's not used to being so weak and helpless.

May rubs a hand up and down his arm. “You can sleep if you're tired. I'll wake you when the nurse arrives.”

“No, I'm okay.” Peter feels like all he's been doing lately is sleeping…and yet he's still constantly tired.

Perks of almost dying, I guess. The dreams aren't helping things, either—though he's been able to mostly hide that from the adults. They're not all nightmares, per se, but they always disrupt his rest and leave impressions of strange images and emotions in their wake. Some are worse than others.

“Hey, Morgan is asking to see you,” Mr. Stark says suddenly, glancing down at his phone. “Pep just texted. Think you'd be up for a little visitor?”

Peter considers that. He's only seen the girl once since he woke up—she was also there when he first came to, but thankfully Pepper had swept her out of the room before things went too far downhill. She didn't seem to have a problem with the way…the way he looked, but he was also still a little out of it at that point, so he only vaguely recalls their conversation. And she's like, four, so who knows if she'll react differently today. “Um…”

“She usually has her quiet time about now,” the man adds. “So she shouldn't be too chaotically overwhelming.”

“Chaotically overwhelming,” May repeats, eyebrows raised and a smirk twitching at her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Appreciate that, Miss Parker.”

Peter huffs a small laugh, something that gets both of the adults smiling. In response to Mr. Stark's question, he says, “Yeah, I wanna see her. Only if she really wants to.”

“Trust me, she does.” Tony taps away at his phone. “She's talked about nothing else since the last time she was here.”

The place where the Starks have been staying while in Wakanda is right near the hospital, so it shouldn't be long before Pepper and Morgan arrive. Peter feels a little guilty that the family has practically uprooted their lives just to be here with him, but he's also extremely grateful.

Sure enough, a few short minutes later, there's a soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” May calls.

The door swings open, and a small head timidly peeks in, brown eyes lighting up when they land on the occupants of the room.

“Peter!” Morgan chirps, releasing her mom's pant leg and making a beeline for the side of the hospital bed. She's just barely tall enough to see over the side on her tiptoes. “Hi!”

“Hi,” Peter says back.

“Look what I got.” She proudly holds up a stuffed black and white dog.

“Is that your puppy?” Peter asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “Her name is Oreo.”

“She's really cute.”

“Thanks.” Her eyes drift to the opposite side of the bed. “Aunt May, do you like my puppy, too?”

May's eyes crinkle as she smiles, though whether it's from the title or the enthusiastic question, Peter isn't sure. “I love her. You picked the perfect name.”

Morgan preens. She sets the puppy on the bed, shoves it closer to Peter, and turns to look at her dad over her shoulder. “Can I get up?”

From his position at the foot of the bed, Mr. Stark sniffs. “Ah, so I do exist. Not even a, ‘Hi, Dad’ from my girl? That hurts my feelings. Peter must be your favorite.”

“Hi, Dad,” she says obligatorily. “Peter is my favorite. I came to see him.”

Heat rushes to Peter's cheeks at the little girl's blunt announcement—and subsequent dig at her father—but all three adults seem like they're holding back a chorus of “aw”s.

Impatient with a lack of response to her original question, Morgan pats a hand on the mattress. “I wanna get up. Please.”

“You need to ask Peter if he's okay with that first,” Pepper says firmly before offering a warm greeting to the teen. “Hi, honey.”

Peter turns up one corner of his mouth in return. He likes Pepper. In some ways, she reminds him of May. Fiery when need be but also gentle and loving. His interactions with the CEO of Stark Industries had been somewhat limited in the past; he would see her around at the compound sometimes, and if she wasn't out of town or busy with work, she would often invite him to stay over for dinner on the afternoons he spent at their city apartment. But she's always been kind to him and never seemed at all put off by the fact that her fiancé spent so much time with some high school kid. In fact, she welcomed it, even once remarking to Peter how Mr. Stark was always in such a good mood after seeing him.

Peter hopes she doesn't mind how much time the man has been spending in his hospital room over the past month.

Morgan's big eyes meet Peter's gaze expectantly. “Is it okay?”

Peter nods. “Yeah, of course.” He realizes belatedly that he'd tried to stretch his right arm out to help the girl up onto the bed—the arm that isn't there anymore. 

Thankfully, no one else seems to notice the aborted twitch of his shrinker-socked shoulder, their attention on Morgan as she bounces up and down on her toes.

“All right, up you go.” Mr. Stark swoops in and scoops Morgan up, depositing her gently onto the mattress. 

“But be careful, sweetie,” Pepper warns. “Remember what we talked about last time?”

Morgan nods enthusiastically. “Be gentle gentle,” she recites.

“I'm not a puppy,” Peter mutters.

“Duh,” Morgan says, pointing to Oreo. “Puppies bark. You don't.”

This time, the adults can't hide their laughter.

The little girl snuggles up to Peter like she's known him all her life, and the teen feels a pang in his chest, because his world is finally expanding beyond pain hurt no arm confusing survive survive survive and he's just beginning to realize how much he truly missed out on over the last five years. Morgan is basically a physical representation of the time Peter was gone, and that thought is a bit…off-putting.

Five years. It'd been a little unbelievable when Dr. Strange first told him that on Titan, but there hadn't been any time to dwell on the idea because they'd immediately been thrust right into the thick of battle again. But it's obvious now, looking at some of the people he knows. Like Mr. Stark. There's more gray in his hair than Peter ever remembers seeing before, and a general air about him that makes Peter wonder if it's been a decade instead of just five years.

Of course, he would never say that to the man, but…

And then there's this whole existence of Morgan H. Stark. Because Tony and Pepper had gotten married while he was gone and had a kid. She's adorable and funny and very clearly Tony Stark's daughter. Some undecipherable feeling niggles in Peter's chest.

He opens his eyes—he doesn't remember closing them, but he must have started to doze off. A quick glance downward reveals Morgan doing the same, her arms wrapped around her stuffie as she drifts off nestled into Peter's good side. The dots begin to connect on his sluggish mind. May telling him he should get some rest, then Morgan coming up here right at the time she was due to fall asleep?

Peter squints suspiciously at the adults around his bed. “Wait a minute. Are you—are you guys trying to put me down for a nap?”

They all exchange glances, but none of them actually answer.

Feeling betrayed, Peter wants to protest, but he's too tired. “Mean…” he slurs, eyes finally falling shut again.

He hears a deep chuckle from somewhere above him, and then a hand ruffles his hair. “If the shoe fits.”

Peter hums, and the hand settles back on his head, strong, calloused fingers rubbing gentle circles on his scalp. The motions are soothing, and any tension in Peter's body flees. This is nice.

He thinks he hears May say something about cat-like tendencies, but his mind is caught up in oblivion as it has been so often lately, and he gives in and allows sleep to overtake him.

***

Tony watches as Peter's breaths finally even out, his body relaxing fully as sleep overtakes him. Morgan curled up next to him is breaking Tony's brain a little bit. It still feels impossible that he's seeing the kid in person. In the flesh.

Not dust.

As relieving as that thought is, seeing Peter's injuries—his pain, his lack of an arm—twists an ugly, jagged knife in Tony's gut. The kid never deserved to go through any of that.

“Tony?” Pepper's careful voice breaks through his thoughts.

“I never should have let him on that ship,” he says, voice tight through gritted teeth as he steps back from the bed. Regrets from five years ago resurface; they’ve never truly left him. “I tried to send him home—the kid is too stubborn for his own good.”

“Tony.” May scoots forward in her chair and reaches over to place a hand on his arm. “You know it didn't matter. And he would've…we would have lost him either way. I'm just glad he had you with him when it happened. That he wasn't alone.”

The reminder of that awful day is enough to make Tony shudder. Even now, more than half a decade later, memories of that moment are vivid. He's relived it enough times in his head since. Over and over and over. Exploring every possible avenue, mapping out alternative options like it was some kind of lab experiment—trying to figure out what he could have changed, what he could have done differently. Anything that didn't end with Peter—and half the universe—fading away into dust.

Peter, fighting with all he has to help get that gauntlet from Thanos.

Peter, afraid. Watching as the others begin to drop, one after another. Looking to Tony the way a child might look to their parent for reassurance.

Peter, stumbling into Tony's arms, desperation and confusion bleeding through his too-young voice as he clings to the person he trusts to help him.

Peter, dust.

Peter, dead.

Because Tony couldn't save him.

“Tony, honey, breathe.”

Two soft, slender hands are suddenly framing his face, the touch cool but grounding. Reassuring. 

“I'm breathing,” he growls, the words rushing forth at a higher volume than intended, disturbing the calm atmosphere overshadowing the hospital room. The tightness in his chest contradicts his statement. Who cares about breathing anyway? Peter didn't breathe for five years. He didn't get the chance.

Peter shifts at the sudden disturbance, blinking blearily from the bed. “Wh—s’wrong?” he slurs, confused gaze drifting to Tony and lingering there. Concerned about others even while half-conscious and in pain—if that doesn't describe this kid to a T.

“Nothing, Pete.” Tony straightens up and clears his throat. He reaches forward to trace his thumb over the teen’s unblemished left cheek. “Go back to sleep. It's okay.”

Peter hums, eyes falling shut once again.

Tony takes a breath, taking a step back to wipe aggressively at the few stray tears on his stubbly cheeks. He needs to remember to shave tonight.

“Sorry,” he mutters to no one in particular.

His mind is a tornado of thoughts. Of what-ifs, of what-nexts, of regrets. Guilt tears at his chest, more painful than the shrapnel gunning for his heart ever was. His list of the ways he's failed the kid is miles long. One mistake after another.

Part of him wishes he'd never met Peter Parker—never sought out Spider-Man’s identity and just left the vigilante to do his thing by himself in Queens. Maybe they'd all be better off for it. But another part of Tony, perhaps that selfish piece of him hiding deep inside, whispers that his life would be so different right now if it weren't for the kid.

From the beginning, Peter had caused ripples in Tony's world. The first time they met in that little apartment in Queens, he knew there was something special about Peter Parker. At first he had ignored it, pushed the kid away and palmed him off to Happy instead. It was easier. If he admits the truth to himself, it's because he was afraid. He assumed he wouldn't be good enough even as a superhero mentor. Heaven knows he wasn't what anyone would call a good role model—he was reckless at best and self-destructive at worst. That was always the source of his biggest relationship issues with Pep.

Despite his original plans to simply keep an eye on the teenage vigilante, Tony couldn't deny that Peter's presence brought about a heightened sense of responsibility, which forced him to take more time to pay attention to what was going on with the kid. He wasn't about to let some fourteen-year-old with a hero complex get himself killed while wearing Stark tech. That would just be bad PR.

But after the incident with Toomes and the Chitauri weapons, when they started an actual internship at Pepper and May’s behest and began interacting more regularly on a personal level, Tony found himself surprised by how much he enjoyed the kid's company and didn't even notice his fears beginning to slip away. Peter was a bright spot in his life that he hadn't previously known was dark.

There was something about the kid's easy-going, ever-present smile, the way he rambled when he got nervous, the way his whole face lit up when he received any form of praise from Tony…it was somehow endearing in a way Tony had never experienced before. Heck, Peter is the reason he started having thoughts about having a kid with Pep at all. It's what made him realize that maybe he could do this whole dad thing and not see Howard when he looked in the mirror.

But he looks at Peter now, tiny and fragile in that big hospital bed. He looks at the child who grew up parentless, who has been to hell and back—more than once—and he wonders if it was worth it.

The stump of the kid's right arm glares back at him.

Pepper, the wonderful woman that she is, senses his lingering internal distress. She steps around the bed and wraps her arms around him from behind. “Tony, hey. Peter is right here. He's going to be okay.”

“His arm—” Tony croaks.

“Peter is so strong,” May says. “He'll get through this. We’ll get through this. Together.”

I know he's strong. I know he can get through this. But he shouldn't have to. “I promised I would watch out for him.”

May nods. “And you did. You did everything you could to protect him.”

May’s approval is difficult to come by. To hear her say that should release a weight from Tony's chest, but it doesn't. 

“It wasn't enough,” he practically whispers. It never was, it never is. “I should've—he should have never gotten his hands on those stupid stones. If anyone should have snapped, it should've been—”

“Do not put this on yourself, Tony,” May warns firmly, eyes sparking as she holds his gaze. “And don't you dare take that away from Peter. It was his decision; he saved the universe. Do I wish it had happened any other way? Hell, yes. Of course I do. I'd do anything to spare my child from all this pain. But acting like…telling him he made the wrong decision, making him second guess himself—it isn't going to help him, and it isn't going to change things. It happened. Let's make peace with it and move on.”

Tony stares back at the fiery woman, jaw slack. May Parker is a force to be reckoned with. No wonder she and Pep get along so well.

“Let's just…be grateful he's alive,” she adds, her voice dropping down to a whisper as her gaze shifts to dance over her sleeping nephew. “I'm so proud of him.”

“I’m proud of him, too,” Tony says, finally finding his voice again. “He's—he’s the bravest person I've ever met.” And isn't that the truth? Too brave, in some respects. Fearless.

Even now with all of the new challenges he's facing, Peter is doing remarkably well. Others in the same situation might be moping about, depressed, mourning what they've lost and spiraling downward. Peter has his days, sure—and it hasn't even been a week since he's woken from the coma—but the tenacity and strength the kid has shown in that short amount of time are undeniable. He's a survivor; he's overcome so much already, and Tony knows without a doubt that he'll keep exceeding expectations. 

It doesn't make him worry less, though. There's too much on his mind, thoughts like endless lines of intersecting train tracks awaiting him. Usually he'd handle that by just not thinking about any of it, but he can't do that anymore. He has people counting on him; important things that need to be done. Most of it revolves around Peter—his recovery process, getting him back to the States, the logistical stuff—but there are other things begging for his attention, too. He's been blowing off calls from government officials and news stations left and right.

Pepper has been a miracle worker and multitasker, jumping back into action and dealing with a vast majority of SI’s operations and issues. There are, apparently, quite a few repercussions to bringing back several billion people from the dead all at once—not that Tony regrets it one bit, and he's willing to bet most of those in the world who also lost loved ones in the Decimation would agree. But although the Starks and Parkers have been mostly shielded from it so far, the sudden return has been difficult, to say the least. 

On top of all of that, there's still the issue of what to do with the Infinity Stones. Although, other than some…minor consulting, Tony has left it up to the other Avengers to take care of that particular task. Bruce and Scott have been working together to rebuild a miniature time machine in order to return the powerful stones to their respective places in the timeline. From what he's heard, Steve is the one undertaking that mission. Tony hopes he never sees or hears a word about those stupid rocks ever again. In fact, he sort of wishes they would just destroy them.

Brightly glowing stones sit on the glove of the Iron Spider suit, nestled perfectly in its crevices but completely out of place on a child's hand. Energy is coursing through them like a current. Their power is beyond anything ever known to man or alien, ready and eager to consume whatever the individual wielding them desires. With just a single snap—

Tony shakes the thoughts away, files them away along with his to-do list and all of his other worries and fears. They won't stay in that box for long—they never do—but right now he's going to focus on what's in front of him. His whole world is right here in this room—plus Rhodey and Happy—and that's who his first priority is. Always.

His phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his back pocket and glances at the screen to find a text from Bruce.

Stones have been returned. All good. But we need to talk.

Tony's entire past is full of mistakes and regrets. Things he wished he would have done differently. Thanos was just another one of those things to add to the list—only somehow, it seems like his worst failure to date. Stamped in red right at the top. 

“I don't wanna go.”

He never dreamed he'd have a chance to make things right, yet here Peter is in front of him. Alive.

He swipes the notification away and slips his phone back into his pocket.

The rest of the world can wait.

Chapter Text

Peter knows he probably shouldn’t be doing this.

He’s honestly just surprised he was left unsupervised—there’s never not someone right at his bedside. Usually it’s May or Mr. Stark, but oftentimes Pepper, Morgan, or the slew of other Avengers who are still around in Wakanda also come by to visit. It’s like they think he might disappear again if he isn’t kept under lock and key twenty-four seven. Which is understandable, but even after only a short amount of time, it’s become more than a little suffocating.

He’s hungry, but he doesn’t want to bother the nurses by using the intercom—and hospital food, Wakandan cuisine or not, doesn’t sound enticing right now anyway. No, Peter’s had gummy worms on his mind ever since he woke up from his most recent nap. He’s been taking a lot of those lately. Enough that it is continually being used for the purpose of convincing four-year-old Morgan to take her own naps. Not embarrassing at all.

“Okay, you’ve totally got this,” Peter mutters to himself, carefully shifting to an upright position and sliding out of bed. He’s doing much better with walking on his own, but he still tires easily and he’s already maxed out his laps for today.

He almost bypasses the crutch meant to help provide additional support, but decides against it when he takes one step out the door and nearly loses his balance.

There has to be a vending machine around here somewhere, right? Peter thinks to himself as he begins to wander down the hall of the pristine, high-tech hospital. Wakanda is seriously one of the craziest and coolest places he’s ever been. Were he here under different circumstances, Peter just knows he’d be enthralled with the amazing technology that exists within this land. He’s never seen anything like it—not to mention it helped save his life.

This floor of the hospital is huge, but it’s pretty quiet, just like it usually is when Peter does his daily laps. He briefly wonders if he got a private floor to himself. It seems like the kind of extravagant thing Mr. Stark would do, but Peter feels kind of bad if that is the case, because there are probably a lot of people who are in need of medical care after the reappearance of half the world.

The hall eventually widens out into a lobby or waiting room area of sorts with a few chairs. Peter looks around, but there’s no sign of any sort of vending machine. He huffs. This whole trek for nothing.

A soft rustle of movement catches Peter's attention, and he turns his head, frowning. There's a young boy, maybe eight or nine years old, standing on the other side of the room. He has big brown eyes and curly, short-cropped hair, and he's glancing around the empty area in confusion.

“Hey, uh—hi,” Peter says, limping forward and glancing around for any sign of the kid's parents. “Are you lost?”

The boy's gaze jumps to Peter, face twisting into a puzzled frown. His fingers curl into the hem of his t-shirt. “I—sorta. I must have gotten off at the wrong floor. This is a really big hospital.” He speaks with a heavy Wakandan accent.

“It is,” Peter agrees, because even the little bit he's seen of this one floor is bigger than the entirety of the Urgent Care in Queens. “What's your name?”

“Devon,” the kid says.

“Devon,” Peter repeats. Even without the suit, his Spider-Man instincts are kicking in. “I'm Peter. I can help you. Is your family here?”

“Yes. My mom,” Devon explains, “just had a small surgery yesterday. It was supposed to be three weeks ago, but when everyone came back, there were so many new people coming into the hospital that they had to postpone it because it wasn't urgent.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter says. He can't imagine the chaos that's been present in the world in the past month; repercussions of billions of people suddenly reappearing after five years, just as society was adjusting to their disappearance.

“It's okay—my dad was one of the people who came back. My mom says she wouldn't mind waiting years for the procedure if it meant us getting him back again.”

“Oh.” Peter's heart clenches. Since finding out what really happened when he “passed out” on Titan, he's debated several times whether it would have been better to be one of those left behind or not. He's pretty much decided neither was optimal. “I'm really glad you have him back. Your family must have missed him.”

The boy nods, unable to keep a grin off his face. He's missing a couple of teeth—has a few new ones growing in. “Yeah. I don't remember him too much; I was really little when the Decimation happened. But—but he's the best, and I’ve never seen my mom so happy.”

Peter smiles. “I'm glad,” he tells Devon. “Hey, why don't we go get you back to your parents? They're probably worried about you.”

Devon waves him off. “It's all right. I just need to get back to the right floor. I know the room number.”

“Well, I'll make sure you get there safely, okay?”

Devon shrugs. “Okay. Thank you.” He moves back toward the elevator and presses the button. The doors slide open gracefully, and the two enter.

“Which floor?” Peter asks, resting against the side of the elevator to help support himself.

“Um…six.” Devon presses the button, waiting for the doors to close and the elevator to begin moving downward.

There's a screen in the fancy elevator, playing a segment of the news on mute. The TV in Peter's room has been turned on here and there, but he hasn't seen much of the news or heard about what's going on in the rest of the world right now. He figures they want him focusing on his recovery, but knowing people out there need so much help and there's nothing he can do about it rubs him the wrong way. Mr. Stark had told him not to worry about it right now. “You've done enough,” he'd chided gently.

Well, maybe Peter can't be out there swinging around the city, but he's not going to let that stop him from doing what he can, like helping Devon get back to his family.

The elevator lets out a soft ding as it arrives on the selected floor, and the two boys make their way out and follow the signs directing them toward the room number Devon had spouted off a moment before. Peter pauses to readjust his crutch, which is beginning to chafe irritatingly at his armpit.

He's extremely thankful that he's been able to wear actual clothes—sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that he's pretty sure belongs to Mr. Stark—the past few days rather than one of those ridiculous hospital gowns he'd been wearing when he'd first woken up. Morgan had told him he “looked like a beautiful princess” and he'd turned red while everyone laughed. Later that afternoon, he'd managed to convince Mr. Stark to smuggle him some “real” clothes.

Devon’s gaze lingers on Peter's right shoulder and the empty shirt sleeve, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, as they continue on, he asks, “Is your family here, too?”

“Yeah, they are.” Peter wonders if anyone has returned to his room yet, only to find it empty. He's startled a moment later when he realizes that May and the Starks were the first people he pictured when Devon asked about his family. Then again, it's not that weird, right? The Starks have all been there for him just as much as May has since his injury. Happy and Rhodey and some of the other Avengers too, for that matter. 

Peter shakes his head to clear the thoughts. There are too many things to process right now to try and figure out where he stands on a relational level with Mr. Stark.  

Several minutes later, they finally find the correct room. Peter leaves Devon with two very relieved and grateful parents. The boy's father even offers to escort Peter back to his room, but Peter declines, thanking the man anyway. He wishes the family well and promises to stop by again before Devon's mom is discharged if he gets a chance.

Halfway back down the hall, Peter can already feel beads of perspiration beginning to form at his brow, and he wants to whine at the unfairness of it. He’s not used to being this…this weak. It’s frustrating because he knows he’s better than this. Everyone keeps telling him it’s going to take some time for him to heal—that he just needs to be patient and focus on how well he’s been doing considering the circumstances.

It’s not as easy as it sounds.

After the long journey back to the elevator, Peter decides to continue his original mission, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of a vending machine as he takes his trip back up to his room floor by floor. There is definitely more traffic down on these lower levels; people wandering up and down the halls, nurses, patients, and visitors alike. He wonders if, like Devon mentioned, it has anything to do with all the people who returned from dust—if there were a lot of people who were injured upon reappearing suddenly when the Snap was reversed.

It's then that Peter realizes he probably sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all of these Wakandans. No wonder Devon’s family was so interested to know where Peter was from when they were chatting. Of course, it isn't like there are no outsiders in the advanced country, especially in the wake of the Snap that brought everyone back and Wakanda becoming a rendezvous point of sorts for the Avengers post-battle against Thanos. Still, someone like Peter definitely turns heads in a place like this. The missing arm and scarred face certainly don't help either.

Two floors later, Peter is convinced there must not be a single vending machine within the entire nation of Wakanda, much less one with gummy worms. He’s alarmingly exhausted—he knows he pushed himself too hard, and now he’s paying for it. Maybe he should have just let Devon’s dad help him back upstairs.

He lets out a frustrated growl and turns around, ready to make his way back to the elevator for the final time. Even the simple thought of walking all the way across this floor to go back up to his room is just overwhelming at the moment. Hopefully no one has noticed he’s missing yet.

Peter debates sitting to rest for a few minutes or even stopping a nurse to have someone bring him back up, but quickly decides against it. He’s fine; he can do this. Might as well get it over with.

He takes a limping step forward, dreading the journey like it’s a fifty mile trek. Of course, because his luck is just that bad—or maybe because overexerting himself was really not a good idea—his crutch manages to slip out from under him. Even with his enhanced reflexes, Peter knows he would have absolutely face-planted had a strong hand not suddenly wrapped itself around his left bicep and tugged him back upright.

“Whoa, easy there. You okay?” a voice asks.

Peter looks up to see who caught him, and his eyes widen at the familiar face. “You—you're Sergeant Barnes!” he manages to stutter. The guy from the airport, his mind supplies. The Winter Soldier. 

Even now, he still doesn’t really know many details about the what and why behind that whole debacle in Berlin, nor what happened afterward—Mr. Stark never did like talking about it—but he’d gathered enough from the news and chatter around the Avengers Compound to uncover the basic story of James Buchanan Barnes and what happened to him following his supposed death falling from a train during World War II. He knows the man was living in Wakanda before…before Thanos.

A half-smile forms on the soldier's face. “And you're the kid who saved the world. Just call me Bucky.”

Another memory sparks in Peter's mind. The fight against Thanos had been pure chaos, people and aliens everywhere, but Peter has a vague recollection of a particularly huge explosion that knocked the gauntlet from his grasp and someone jumping to cover him protectively when more explosions followed. Looking at the man standing in front of him now, he's ninety-nine percent sure he knows who it was.

“What, uh, what are you doing here?” Peter asks. He blushes, the question barely out of his mouth before he's following it up with, “Not—not that you shouldn't be here, or can't be here, of course. I just, um, I just mean—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Bucky waves him off, still steadying him with one hand. The super cool, sleek, black and gold metal arm. “I was just stopping by to see a friend. I'm on my way out now.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and then promptly forgets how to speak. Stupid.

“So I heard you're the one that stole Steve's shield and made me and Sam look like amateurs back in Germany, huh?”

Peter can feel his entire face turning even redder than it already was, the memories from that day a couple years—no, about seven years ago now—flooding back to him. “I'm—I don't—I'm sorry—”

“Take it easy.” Bucky holds up a hand, smirking. “I'm just messing with you. Seriously, I'm glad you're doing okay.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you doing down here by yourself?”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, the flush on his cheeks not fading. “Uh, I was looking for a vending machine. I was hoping they had some gummy worms.”

“Well, I can't say I've ever seen those around here, but I'm sure we can find you something to eat.”

“It's okay,” Peter says, suddenly really tired.

Bucky nods his head in the direction of the elevator. “I'll walk you back to your room,” he offers, much like Peter had for Devon just a little while ago.

“I—I'm okay, Sergeant Barnes, really. I don't want to inconvenience—”

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Peter relents.

“And it's no trouble, kid. Wouldn't want you ending up on the floor again. Come on.” 

And, well, Peter isn’t so sure he can make it back upstairs on his own, so he just nods and starts walking.

Bucky doesn't try to take hold of Peter's arm again or let his hands hover around him from behind like Mr. Stark often does, and for that, Peter is grateful. Not that he minds Mr. Stark's assistance, per se, but the man has a tendency to be a little, well…overbearing and over the top sometimes. Which is partly why Peter was making this excursion on his own in the first place. That, and the fact that he thought he'd had it in the bag. Maybe wanted to prove to himself that he's not as messed up as he really is.

But he was wrong. Of course. He's nowhere near back to where he wants to be, and he's beginning to wonder if he ever will be.

They step into the elevator, and Peter leans gratefully against the wall as he waits for the doors to close. But he doesn’t even have a moment to relax, because a sudden pain races up his arm—or rather, his not-arm—and he grunts softly, face screwing up in a wince. He reaches over to his right side as if to grab the point of pain, but his hand meets nothing but air.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, underlying concern in his tone.

Peter swallows back another pained noise and nods, dropping his hand back down. “Yeah. It’s just—my uh, my… There’s phantom pains, where my arm used to be.” His voice drops to barely-audible as he says the last few words.

“Those are rough,” Bucky says with an understanding nod, and Peter realizes suddenly that the man does know what it's like to be without an arm. He places a hand on Peter's shoulder. “It's okay. Deep breaths.”

Peter follows the soldier's instruction, his left hand curling around the bar that winds around the interior of the elevator to steady himself. The uncomfortable sensation slowly fades, exhaustion slipping into its place.

There's a soft ding, and the elevator comes to a calm stop, the doors sliding open on Peter's floor.

Bucky eyes him assessingly, arm outstretched. “Need help?”

Peter shakes his head even though he probably should accept the offer. Using his crutch, he steps out of the elevator. “Is it, like, weird getting used to the prosthetic arm?” The words are barely out of his mouth before he's backtracking on them. “I—I'm sorry, that was probably rude of me. I didn't mean to—”

“Don't worry about it, kid. Can't say I remember much of it the first time around, but this one” —he flexes the fingers of his sleek black and gold prosthetic— “was a pretty easy adjustment.”

“I can't imagine the tech they used to make that,” Peter says. “It's vibranium, right?” At Bucky's nod, he lets out an awed breath. “That's so cool.”

“I'm sure they'd be more than willing to make one for you.”

Peter glances down at his feet as they continue to amble down the hall. “Yeah, Mr. Stark said they've already been working on it, actually.” He clears his throat. “Just…it's gonna be a while before it's even something I can consider because of all the—well” —he gestures vaguely toward his right side— “damage.”

He doesn’t miss the glint of sympathy that flashes in Bucky’s eyes, but for some reason it doesn’t rub Peter the wrong way like it sometimes does with everyone else. Maybe because there's a deeper level of understanding there, something more akin to empathy from someone who's been through something similar.

“You'll get there,” the man says simply.

The moment they step through the door to Peter's hospital room, Aunt May is there to meet them.

“Oh, Peter, there you are!” the woman exclaims worriedly. She places her slender hands on his cheeks and looks him in the eye. “Baby, you know you can’t just wander off like that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It nearly scared me half to death when I came in just now and you were gone. I thought maybe the nurse had come to do PT, but you already had that today. You know I was this close to calling Tony—”

“Aunt May,” Peter says softly, “I’m all right.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—you know I worry about you, and after everything that’s happened…” She trails off, her gaze drifting over to Bucky, who's still standing in the doorway. Her eyebrows narrow, a hint of recognition flickering in her eyes. “And you are—?”

“James Barnes, ma’am,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. “But Bucky is fine. I found Peter out in the hall a few floors down and wanted to make sure he made it back to his room.”

“I see. Well, thank you very much for helping out my boy, Bucky. I appreciate it.”

Bucky offers a tight smile and a nod in response before his gaze drifts back over to Peter. “I'll be in Wakanda a little while longer, kid. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you,” Peter says gratefully.

Once Bucky has taken his leave, Peter leans his crutch back against the wall and sinks down onto his bed with a groan. His muscles feel achy. Maybe the adults were onto something with that nap schedule after all.

“Peter,” May starts.

Uh oh.

But instead of continuing to lecture him, his aunt smiles and shakes her head. “It's all right, honey. I'm not mad—though please tell me or Tony next time you want to get up and about. I don't want you wandering around by yourself. You're still healing.”

“Yes, May,” Peter says, too tired to argue or explain what he was doing.

“I was just going to ask if you would like to reach out to Ned.”

Peter realizes with a sudden jolt of guilt that he hasn't even thought about his best friend in the last week. Then again, he's barely had time to think about or process anything at all. There's just been so much happening…

He clears his throat. “Does he…did anyone tell him—”

“After a couple of weeks here, when we weren't sure how long it would be before you woke up” —she says the words like there wasn't a possibility he might have never woken up— “it didn't feel right leaving him in the dark. I had Pepper find a way to get in contact with him—since, you know, my phone was out of service—which in hindsight was probably a bad idea, considering the way he's been blowing up all of our phones ever since.”

Right. Peter keeps forgetting that not only did he miss five years, he also missed the whole first month after everybody came back, putting him even further behind on current events.

He gestures hesitantly to his right side. “But does he know what happened to me?”

May presses her lips together and nods. “I didn't want him to worry too much. We kept the details vague, but he knows the basics. Saved the world, month-long coma, all that jazz.” She tries to force a smile, her tone light.

“He knows about—he knows about my arm, right?”

She nods again.

“Okay,” Peter says slowly, processing.

“Tony says that Ned was also one of the…Blipped.” His aunt shakes her head. “Can you believe they're calling it that? The Blip? If you ask me, it seems like a little more than a blip considering we were gone for five and a half years.”

Peter doesn't respond to the remark, a weight he didn't even realize was there falling from his shoulders at the news regarding his best friend. He can't imagine Ned suddenly being five years older than him. He'd be in college by now if that'd happened. Which is just weird and wrong to even think about.

Anxiety rises up in Peter's chest as he begins to wonder which of his classmates and friends had also fallen victim to Thanos's five year vacation, and which of them have grown up and moved on with their lives. His breath hitches.

“Hey,” May says, tone soft and gentle as she lowers herself onto the edge of the mattress and brushes her fingers down his cheek. “Peter. It's all right, it's all right. Everything's okay.”

It's not the first time since he’s woken from the coma that she's had to coax him out of a panic attack. Thankfully, this one doesn't go too far before Peter's able to calm himself down.

Still, a frown creases May's forehead as she sits on the edge of the hospital bed. “Maybe you should get some rest for now.”

“I'm fine. I wanna…I wanna talk to Ned,” he decides before he can overthink it and change his mind.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay.” May starts pawing around for her phone. “That's great. He'll be so happy to hear from you. Let me just—now where did I leave my phone…?”

Peter sighs and shifts a bit against his pillows. He's kind of done with being in the hospital. He knows his body still needs more time to recover, but he can recover just as easily back in the States, right? It's been forever since he's gotten to see Ned—not more than a week for him, but technically five years. Time is confusing now; an abstract concept hanging just out of reach. Peter wonders how on earth the government is going to handle the massive upheaval caused by half of the world reappearing after half a decade.

“All right, here we go.” May finally locates the device. She unlocks it and scrolls through the contact list. “Would you prefer some privacy while you talk?”

“Uh, sure,” Peter says with a careful shrug. “Only if you're okay with that.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I'll go get us some dinner. Tony should be here in an hour or two; he's staying tonight.”

The sleek, modern couch sitting under the window on one side of the hospital room doubles as a pull-out bed if needed. May has been sleeping there ever since Peter first came out of the coma—and for the few weeks preceding that, he assumes. Mr. Stark has also more often than not spent the night in the hospital room, using the foldable cot that someone brought in at some point.

“Okay,” Peter says, accepting the phone from his aunt, which is ready and waiting for him to hit the call button.

“I won't be too long. Don't go anywhere.” She pokes a finger in his direction, wagging it threateningly.

“I won't,” he promises, nestling back against his pillows to get comfortable, his body thanking him for finally being off his feet. He has no plans to explore any more of this hospital for the foreseeable future.

The phone barely rings twice before it's answered, the screen popping up in a video call. Ned’s face appears, his eyes wide and mouth already moving. “Peter! Oh my—Peter! Peter!”

“Hey,” Peter says, a half-smile forming on his face at his friend's enthusiasm.

“Hey,” Ned says back, eyes filled with tears. “Dude, I am so glad you're alive.”

Before Peter has time to formulate a not-awkward response like “thank you?” or something, his best friend continues to ramble.

“Are you okay? Wait, that's a stupid question—I just mean, like—dude, you went to space? ” Ned's voice pitches high.

Something settles in Peter's chest at Ned being Ned. “Yeah, it was crazy,” he says.

“Whoa,” Ned breathes. “Tell me everything.”

Peter does, the tightness in his chest easing a little as he chats with his friend, knowing Ned will take in everything with wide eyes and pure, unadulterated awe.

“I'm best friends with an actual Avenger,” he whispers after he hears about Peter being knighted by Mr. Stark on the donut ship. “This is the best thing ever.”

Unfortunately, the tale is mostly downhill from there, and although Peter keeps the explanation short and simple, by the time he concludes with the last thing he remembers—snapping his fingers—he’s drained. Even Ned’s eyes are a little glazed over.

Peter flops his head back against his pillows, shifting over onto his good side. He feels the sharp stab of phantom pain again and winces. Hopefully Mr. Stark will be here soon and can massage his residual limb like the therapist showed them. May can do it too, but something about Mr. Stark's technique and pressure seems to ease the pain and sensations for longer periods of time.

“I don't…I don't regret what I did,” he finishes firmly. He knows if he had to do it all over again, he would make the same choice in a heartbeat.  He glances down at where his arm used to be, and the weight and uncertainty of the future bears down hard on him. “But knowing that—it doesn't really make any of this any easier.” Oh no, why is his voice so hoarse and choked? Are those tears trying to push their way past his eyes?

“Geez, I'm so sorry, Peter.” Ned shakes his head. “Of course this is super hard for you. I can't even imagine. And you know, it's okay if you're not okay. Wow, sorry—that sounds super cliché. But like, you went through a lot. And I just want you to know I'm here for you, no matter what. I promise.”

“Thanks,” Peter whispers. It's quiet for a moment while he gathers his thoughts, then he continues, “It’s just…everything is different now. I'm different now. And I don't know what things are gonna be like after all of this. And that scares me, ‘cause just last week, my life was normal—well, as normal as normal is for me, you know—and all of a sudden…”

A tear falls, dribbling sideways down his cheek. With his one hand holding May’s phone, Peter can't reach up to wipe it away. It lands on his pillow instead. 

“Yeah,” Ned says sadly. “I feel you. Five years. It's just wild.”

“Yeah…” Peter goes quiet, eyes drifting from his friend's face to his own in the top corner of the phone screen.

It isn't like he's been actively trying to avoid mirrors or anything like that, but he also hasn't taken time to really look at his face since he woke up from the coma. His face…it doesn't look awful or anything. Not like he just stepped out of a horror movie. But there is still some obvious scarring trailing down the side of his jaw and down to his neck. Even though his healing has worked wonders on the injuries in the past month, it still has its limits. It will take a while before it fully, if ever, heals.

Peter knows he’s lucky he didn't lose his eye or his ear. The doctors told him he actually did sustain some hearing loss in his right ear, but that it may return with time, and the enhanced hearing in his left is overcompensating for it anyway. It hasn't really been a problem that he's noticed yet. Then again, he does have a lot of bigger problems at the moment.

“How, um, how are things in the city?” he asks his friend, eager to ditch the thoughts that are creeping up and curling around him like a cold vice. Besides, he does want to get the 411 on what's been happening in New York in his absence. He's missed a whole lot.

Ned fills him in, sharing all the information he has on which of their friends “blipped” and which didn't. Thankfully—or not, depending on how one looks at it—it sounds like most of their classmates were also dusted, so hopefully school will feel at least a little normal when they go back.

If they go back. The world is going to take a long time to settle back down and figure things out after this. Even a month later, it sounds like things are still beyond chaotic. There's a housing crisis—of course—not to mention the legal confusion surrounding the ownership status of property and finances that once belonged to those who were dusted. Everything is a big mess, and Peter and Ned agree that they're grateful they aren't the adults who have to fix this situation.

“So, when are you coming back?” Ned wants to know.

“I don't know,” Peter admits slowly. He glances up when there's a soft knock on his door, and May enters with a tray of food. “Hey, May? Do you…do you have any idea how much longer I'm gonna have to be here?”

His aunt hums, setting the food down on the rollable bedside table. “I'm not sure. You're doing really well, but there are a lot of contributing factors. I would imagine just another few days to a week, maybe.”

Peter thinks he could have already been discharged by now, but the reason for his hospital stay isn't as cut and dry as the average amputation surgery. The doctors have reminded him that he was also in a coma for almost a whole month and had severe burns on basically the entire right side of his body, all things that affect his healing process, enhanced or not. They also seem to think it's important to keep monitoring him because of the exposure to the gamma radiation of the Infinity Stones, but so far there has been nothing concernable in that regard.

He’s also acutely aware that at least some of the reasons for the delay are external, what with all the ongoing post-Blip chaos.

On the plus side, Peter's hospital room is something more akin to a hotel room. It doesn't have that distinct, overwhelming medical smell, and everything isn't stark white. It's a bit homier, with an actual comfortable couch and chairs.

“You ready to eat?” May asks.

On cue, Peter's stomach rumbles. His appetite has quickly returned over the past week, his body craving the solid sustenance of real food after spending a month receiving nutrients through a tube.

“I'd better go,” he says to Ned, shifting onto his back again so he can sit up. “But I'll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course—and Peter, seriously, I am so glad you're alive. And that you didn't turn into an alien or spontaneously combust or something.”

Peter chuckles, though in his peripheral vision he sees May wince a little. “Thanks, man. See you later.”

“See ya.”

The call ends, and Peter hands the phone back over to his aunt.

“Did you two have a good chat?” she asks distractedly, busy refilling Peter's water cup.

“Yeah, we did.”

“That's good—I know he's really been missing you.”

Peter hums in response, fingers playing with the edge of his blanket. “I'm ready to go back to New York.”

May smiles sympathetically. “I know, sweetie. It won't be much longer, I promise.”

“May,” he says slowly.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Stark wasn't serious about us staying with them, was he?”

“Oh, he was definitely serious.”

Peter's jaw goes slack. “What? Really? Why?”

May gives him a funny look, sliding his tray of food over so that he can eat. “Peter, honey, I think you're underestimating just how much that man cares about you.”

“But…I'm just some kid from Queens.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Okay, so I'm Spider-Man. I mean, I guess that makes sense.” For some reason, Peter is still having a hard time making sense of it in his head. Maybe Mr. Stark feels obligated to help out since Peter was injured during the battle. Does he feel responsible somehow?

And if you died…I feel like that's on me.

“You know, I wondered if that was it, too—at first.”

At first?  

A catchy tune starts blaring from May's phone. 

“Oops, just one second.” She swipes at the screen and moves to put the device to her ear, lowering her voice to an exaggeratedly-mouthed whisper. “Eat your dinner.”

As his aunt greets the person on the other end of the line—Pepper, it sounds like—Peter obediently picks up his sandwich and takes a bite, thankful for the easy-to-handle-with-one-hand meal, but his thoughts remain elsewhere.

Chapter Text

Peter taps one foot against the ground in an unconscious, repetitive motion and yawns. It's early in the morning, the sun just beginning to peek out over the horizon. He's currently sitting alone in a private room at the airfield waiting for the okay to board the jet set to take them back to New York. Pepper has taken Morgan to use the restroom before they take off; Aunt May went along with them because apparently that's a thing women do. He isn't sure where Mr. Stark is—probably bugging Happy or whomever is out by the plane loading their bags.

With another glance at the clock on the wall and a sigh, Peter reaches over to where May’s big purse sits on the floor near his feet and digs out his gummy worms. The bag of candy had shown up in the hospital room a few days ago accompanied by a get well soon card. It wasn't signed, but he has a sneaking suspicion he knows who the gift was from anyway.

Popping a red and yellow gummy into his mouth, Peter leans back in his seat and cranes his neck to see the big screen TV anchored to the wall on the other side of the room, not surprised to find a news segment about the Blip playing. The volume is low, but there are closed captions. Peter is surprised to see a shot of a crowd of people decked out in Spider-Man gear, holding up signs like We Love You, Spidey! and Thank You, Avengers! 

The video cuts back to the news anchors.

“—held another rally for Spider-Man, who is still being heralded as a hero worldwide for his contributions to saving the universe. In last month’s address to the UN, Captain America—Steve Rogers—had only good things to say about the masked vigilante.”

The video cuts to an Avengers press conference—the little date in the top corner of the screen reveals this took place a few weeks after the final battle with Thanos. Peter was still in a coma at the time. He tunes back into what's being said.

“...and I can confidently say that Spider-Man is the reason we are all standing here today. Thanks to his bravery, strength, and quick thinking, he was instrumental in the defeat of Thanos and his army,” Captain Rogers is stating. “As previously noted, he did sustain critical injuries during the fight. He is currently recovering and will be taking a break from his usual patrolling for the foreseeable future.”

“So there you have it,” the blonde news anchor says, her mouth moving out of sync with the subtitles appearing below. “There have not been any updates on the Queens-based vigilante since. Spider-Man is not the only hero that we haven't heard from since the day the world turned upside down again. Though we do know he was also heavily involved in the plan to reverse Thanos’s Snap as well as the subsequent battle, Tony Stark, also known as the great Iron Man, has been unreachable for comment.”

“Wheels up in fifteen, kid.”

Peter’s attention is pulled away from the news segment as Mr. Stark appears, sliding into the seat next to his. The man reaches out and snatches a gummy worm.

“Hey,” Peter protests, even as he offers the bag out to the man to take more.

“Sorry not sorry—it’s tax on your fare home.”

Peter sighs dramatically. “And the rich get richer.”

Mr. Stark snorts, reaching out to ruffle Peter's already-tousled hair. “So they say.” His gaze slides to the TV, which has now moved on to footage regarding current ongoing efforts to restore order in the world.

“Do people really think I'm a hero?” Peter asks, eyes also drifting back to the screen.

“They’re planning a parade in New York as a thank you to the Avengers,” Mr. Stark says dryly, “and Spider-Man is the lead float. You also sorta kinda saved the universe. So I'm going to go with the obvious answer here, which is yes.”

Peter's jaw drops. “They're planning a parade for us?”

“You haven't seen anything about that?”

“No, none of you have let me watch the news for the past two weeks,” he deadpans. He knows it was in an effort to protect him, because apparently there are a lot of people who are not so fond of the fact that they now have to share the world with several billion others again and are making their views known. To be fair, he did get a new phone and could have easily found that information himself on social media, but he's been a little preoccupied…and also maybe a tiny bit afraid of what else he'll find out has changed after five years. He can't avoid it forever, but staying offline seems like the safer option for now.

“Ah, right. Well.” Mr. Stark scratches at his chin. “Not much worth watching anyway. But yes—sounds like Spider-Man has been the celebrity of the month.” He pokes a finger at Peter. “Don't let it go to your head.”

“Oh, you mean like you did with Iron Man?” The teasing jab comes out without thought, and Peter immediately tries to backtrack. “I—I mean—”

But Mr. Stark just chuckles, eyebrows raised. “All right, I see how it is. I'll have you know Pepper tells me I have grown and matured much since those days.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees easily, since he doesn't know what else to say. He's still sort of surprised he got a laugh out of the man without it being accompanied by an equally-sarcastic retort.

Before he can start overthinking things, a young voice echoes through the room. “We're back!”

Peter manages to deposit his gummy worms back into his aunt's bag just in time to catch an armful of four-year-old.

“Morgan, careful,” Pepper chides as she and May approach—at a much calmer pace.

“Sorry,” the little girl chirps automatically, wiggling to get comfortable in Peter's lap. With the hand not holding her stuffed dog, Oreo, she pokes her finger out toward the big windows where their jet sits on the tarmac. “We get to fly on a plane!”

“Yeah, that's pretty cool, huh?” Peter says.

“Have you ever flied on a plane?”

Peter nods in confirmation. “A few times.” He figures it's best not to regal her with the tale of the time he once flew on the outside of an airplane.

Just as quickly as she'd gotten up, Morgan squirms free of Peter's one-armed hold. “I went on the plane when we came here, and we were so high up.” She stretches onto her tiptoes, pink light-up tennis shoes blinking as she jumps up and down. “There were clouds right outside the window.”

“Wow.” Peter can't keep back a smile at the girl's antics.

“I can be an airplane. Watch.” Morgan tosses her head and begins to make vroom noises, arms splayed out as she zooms around the room.

May raises her eyebrows in amusement, stepping aside in order to avoid getting rammed into by the miniature airplane impersonator. “Did somebody give her coffee this morning?”

“No, but the donuts were probably not the best idea.” Pepper looks pointedly at Mr. Stark, who lifts his hands in surrender.

“What did you want me to do? The kid is a bonafide Grumpy Cat if you wake her before she's ready. It was five in the morning. Donuts were the only way we were making it here on time.”

“Three guesses as to who she gets her hatred of early mornings from,” Pepper says.

“Mhm.” May hums thoughtfully. “He’s a bit of a pushover, I see.”

Mr. Stark frowns. “Okay, why do I feel like I'm being ganged up on?” He nudges Peter's shoulder. “Pete, defend me.”

“Um, well—”

The door leading out to the tarmac creaks open, letting in a stream of bright sunlight. Happy pokes his head in. 

“Hey, Boss—we’re ready to board now.” His gaze lands on May and his smile brightens a little. 

She smiles back.

Peter blinks. O-kay.

Before he has time to dwell on that little exchange, Mr. Stark is standing to his feet. “Great, thanks, Hap.” The man turns to Peter, offering out a hand. “You ready, bud?”

Peter takes a deep breath. Is he? He had certainly been ready to get out of the hospital, as kind and helpful as the Wakandans have been. Yet despite his eagerness, the idea of going back to New York is almost overwhelming, knowing so much has changed. Not really being sure what life will look like now. Having to face a new normal in so many different ways.

But what's done is done; the best thing to do is leave the doubt and the what-ifs in the past. It won't be easy, but there's only one path for Peter to take: forward.

“Yes,” he finally says, taking Mr. Stark's hand with his own and allowing the man to pull him to his feet. “I'm ready.”

***

Tony's heart jolts as the lake house finally comes into view in the distance. “Home, sweet home,” he announces, waking the occupants of the vehicle who had drifted off during the drive.

Tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, he pictures what the place must look like from the perspective of someone seeing it for the first time. Quiet, hidden away from the prying eyes of the media, nice but not extravagant. Surrounded by nature, the cabin was the perfect place to get away from the world after everything went to hell five years ago and Tony found he couldn't stand being in the city. There was too much noise, even with half the population gone. Too many reminders of what he'd lost.

Pepper's pregnancy served as a great excuse to move out of the heart of the state. To build a little life for themselves out of the spotlight, to raise their baby in an environment that didn't involve cameras and flashing lights from the minute she was born. They'd kept an apartment in the city for convenience’s sake—since they still made trips there every so often and Pep continued to be involved with SI’s operations. But the lake house became their home base.

Tony never really pictured himself as the “outdoorsy” type, but he took up gardening pretty quickly once they'd moved. Living off the land and all that jazz. It had been somewhat of a necessity even, seeing as how half the food production workers turned into ash, leaving behind a struggling supply chain as the people remaining attempted to harvest, manufacture, and deliver what was needed. And Thanos thought he was being benevolent, his “solution” providing additional resources. Ha. Maybe in about a decade or two, if the rest of the population didn't die out before then.

Tony always told himself he wasn't running away, but the truth is he never saw himself returning to the city full time. Not when it was so devoid of the life it once held. Not while Spider-Man wasn't there patrolling the streets. Now, though, he thinks he could be persuaded to venture back that way.

“Whoa,” Peter breathes, nose pressed against the window in the backseat as he tries to get a better glimpse of the lake that stretches out across the property. “You guys live here? This place is amazing, Mr. Stark!”

He scoffs. “’Course it is. You don't think I would've bought some tiny, run-down shack out in the middle of the woods, right?”

“Only if you were the main character in a horror movie.”

Hearing the kid's voice is still breaking Tony's brain in a way he can't fully comprehend. There’s a part of him that keeps expecting to wake up and this all just be a dream. He prays it’s not.

“Funny.” He glances in the rearview mirror just in time to catch the kid yawning. It's been a long day for everybody—despite the catnaps on the plane and in the car, no one has gotten much real sleep in the past twenty-four or so hours.

“Finally,” Pep murmurs as they pull into the driveway, shifting to sit up in the passenger seat when the car shifts into park.

Tony concurs. Being back is like the final puzzle piece slotting into place. Some of the tightly-wound tension is already seeping out of his shoulders. Everything isn't perfect—far from it—but for now he lets himself believe that it just might be okay after all.

***

They're barely home for an hour before Morgan has a meltdown.

In his little girl's defense, it's been a long, confusing month and a half for her—well, for all of them, really, but especially for a four-year-old who isn't used to being away from home or around so many people for so long. So Tony really should have anticipated this.

But he'd been so relieved to see the lake house again, and despite the bittersweetness of the whole situation, glad to have the Parkers with them, that he let his guard down much too quickly. Of course he knows things aren't normal; he's not that naïve to think being home will magically fix everything. Still, being back at the house where everything is familiar and comfortable causes him to relax a little too much.

He's in the kitchen with both of the kids, having been tasked with scrounging up something for dinner while May and Pepper work on some unpacking. Which in hindsight was probably not the best idea.

Tony is busy digging through the fridge for anything that remains unexpired after their impromptu, nearly two-month vacation to Wakanda. They have a grocery pickup scheduled for tomorrow, but that doesn't help when there are five people who need to eat tonight.

Morgan, who is sitting on the floor—for God knows what reason—pipes up all of a sudden. “Peter, do you wanna come see our alpaca?”

“Wait. You have an alpaca?” Peter asks dubiously, confused gaze flicking to Tony before returning the little girl sprawled across the kitchen tiles.

“Yeah, remember when I told you about him? His name is Gerald. He's big and white and fluffy. He likes to eat our garden plants and it makes Mommy mad.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and Tony can tell by the sound of the kid's voice that he definitely thought Gerald was made up. Knowing his daughter and her overactive imagination, that is a more than fair assumption to make. “Um—”

“Not right now, Maguna,” Tony interrupts, snagging the box of easy pancake mix out of the refrigerator. He thinks they might have some sausages in the freezer, too. Good enough. “We just got home, and everybody needs some time to settle in. You and Peter need to eat dinner.”

“Aw,” Morgan whines, drawing the word out for at least five seconds. “But I want to see Gerald and show him to Peter!”

“It's okay,” Peter says, even though it's clear from one quick glance that the kid is two seconds away from keeling over from exhaustion. He probably needs to take some of his pain medication when they eat, too. “I can go—”

“Uh-uh.” Tony shakes his head. “You need rest. There will be plenty of time to meet Gerald later.”

“No,” Morgan protests, scrambling to her feet with renewed energy. “I want to go right now!”

“Morgan Stark.” Tony drops a hint of warning in his tone, which is usually enough to show his daughter he's being serious and keep things from escalating further. 

But today, Morgan doesn't heed the warning. Brow furrowed, she folds her arms across her chest and lets out a long whine. The sound is grating like nails on a chalkboard.

“Hey,” Tony says sternly. “That's enough. Why don't you come help me with dinner? You love pancakes.” The old redirection trick is another that doesn't often fail—especially since Morgan normally loves helping out in the kitchen.

The four-year-old bursts into tears. “No!” she shrieks, stomping one foot several times in rapid succession. “I don't want pancakes! I hate them!”

Tony stares at his daughter in dismay, the exhaustion of the day—no, the past month—creeping up on him all at once. If he feels this way, he can only imagine how a child who isn't able to fully regulate her emotions yet is feeling. Despite that knowledge, the last thing he wants to deal with right now is a tantrum. His head is throbbing with each of Morgan's ear-splitting wails.

And then he looks over at Peter and realizes his other kid is also crying. While Morgan is letting out big, exhausted wails, Peter's sobs are nearly silent, his shoulders shaking with the force of them.

It makes Tony want to cry too.

“Oh boy,” he says, unable to think. “Okay. It's okay.”

He scoops Morgan up off the floor—her tiny body going full ragdoll limp in his arms—and turns, bouncing her on his hip as he moves to place his free hand on top of Peter's head in a desperate attempt at comfort.

Have mercy. He truly doesn't know how other parents do it.

“Let’s just—everybody take a deep breath.”

Nobody does.

Thankfully—depending on how you look at it—Morgan’s cries are loud enough to draw the attention of the other two adults in the house. Within ten seconds, there are light footsteps treading down the stairs. May and Pepper appear in the kitchen, both of their expressions filled with concern as they take in the scene of tearful children before them. 

“Oh, what happened? What's wrong?” May asks. She moves toward Peter, arms outstretched. The teen falls into his aunt's embrace, tucking his head into her shoulder without a word.

“I…It's been a long day,” Tony answers for all of them.

May nods in understanding, one hand rubbing up and down Peter's left arm in a comforting motion.

“I think I see an early bedtime in our future,” Pepper interjects over the sound of Morgan's slowing sobs. She reaches out to take the girl from Tony, settling her on her hip. “Come on, honey, why don't we go get you a bath while Daddy works on dinner?”

Morgan mumbles out a whined protest but is clearly too exhausted to keep fighting. Pep continues talking to her in a hushed tone as she carries her up the stairs. 

That leaves Tony standing awkwardly in the kitchen with the Parkers. He frowns at the box of pancake mix sitting on the counter like it has somehow personally offended him.

“I know, baby,” May is murmuring to her nephew. “I know. It'll be all right.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter finally whispers, letting go of May to wipe at his wet face with his hand. “I didn't—I didn't mean to upset her.”

Of course the kid would blame himself for that. Tony shakes his head. “It wasn't you, kid. She's just exhausted and cranky. The jet lag is hitting us all hard already.” He avoids saying anything about how it's probably also jarring for Morgan to be home after being away for a month, because he knows the kid would take that upon himself too. The last thing Peter needs is more weight on his young shoulders. He carries enough. More than he should have to.

Peter just sniffles, accepting the offered tissue from May and taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Promise, Pete,” Tony assures, “she'll forget about it by the time she's out of the bath.”

“Okay,” the kid says quietly.

May pats Peter gently on the back and stifles a big yawn. “I think Pepper had the right idea. Dinner, then bed—for all of us.”

Tony nods in agreement. He's used to operating on little to no sleep, but even his eyes are burning with the need for rest. A good night's sleep will likely do everyone a world of good.

Peter's stomach growls.

But first—food.

“Hey,” Tony says, drawing Peter's attention. Maybe a distraction will help. “You up to helping with dinner?”

The kid hesitates. For a second, it looks like he's going to turn down the request, but then he glances down at his left arm and flexes his fingers before smiling tentatively. “Yeah, okay… I guess I can give you a hand.”

A surprised grin splits across Tony's face. “I can work with that. Come on, you can help me mix up the batter.”

***

It doesn't seem like the right day for a funeral.

One would expect it to be dreary, gloomy gray skies and a light drizzle in poetic alignment with the mourning going on below. Maybe a breeze in the air, enough that a suit jacket would be a welcome barrier against the chill of the day. That's how it had been for Uncle Ben's service, anyway. Peter was too young to remember his parents’ with much detail. 

Instead, he finds himself in his room sweating, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he attempts to wrangle himself into the fancy suit that has been laid out for him. He's done all right with the pants, belt, and button-down—a long and exhausting but manageable process—but his tie is another story. He barely knew how to tie a tie with two hands—how in the world is he supposed to do it with just one? Just another thing to add to his rapidly-growing list of relearn-how-tos.

He's not sure what time it is, but he can hear cars approaching and voices beginning to mingle outside, which means he probably needs to wrap this up and get downstairs soon. The last thing he wants is to be late, especially considering the service is being held right here at the lake house.

It had been the Starks’ idea to have a private memorial service honoring both Natasha and Vision. There had been one for Nat not long after the battle against Thanos; it was broadcast nationwide—probably across the world, too—thanking her for her service to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the sacrifice she made to help the Avengers bring back the Decimated. Obviously, due to the circumstances, not many of the Avengers had been able to attend, and while it was a nice tribute, it sounds like it was pretty surface-level since it was put on by people who didn't know her personally. This way, Pepper had suggested, those who knew her get a chance to grieve and pay their respects in a private environment, and Vision could also be honored.

Peter growls in frustration as his sorry excuse for a knot falls loose again. His arm aches from overuse. The undone tie hangs unevenly around his neck, sad and limp.

Relatable.

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, followed by a soft tap at his door. “Pete? How we doing in there, bud?”

“Fine,” he calls, scrubbing angrily at his face to rid his eyes of any trace of tears trying to sneak past.

Mr. Stark must not like the way his voice sounds, because after a short pause he asks, “Can I come in?”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise that is taken for acceptance, because the bedroom door creaks open and then Mr. Stark is standing in the doorway to the adjoining bathroom.

The man surveys the mess before him—the hair products, towel, and toothbrush strewn across the countertop—before his gaze dances across Peter's outfit. “I know I'm not up to date with current teenage fashion trends, but I'm pretty sure that's not how a tie is supposed to look.”

“I know,” Peter says, resisting the urge to snap the words.

“Need some help?”

His mouth twists downward. “I can't get this stupid thing to just—” He breaks off and tugs at the fabric in exasperation, a little afraid that if he continues to speak, he might start crying. And he's sort of tired of crying. Especially in front of his hero-turned-mentor-turned-Peter-isn’t-sure-what.

“Okay. No big deal.” Mr. Stark steps forward, taking control of the situation with ease. “Can I?”

Peter nods, relieved.

Mr. Stark reaches out, fingers deftly maneuvering and folding the deep red tie into the perfect knot that Peter knows he never could have done even with two arms.

“You make it look easy,” he mutters in dismay.

“Eh, I've had years of practice. I'll show you how to do it next time; unfortunately we're in a bit of a time crunch right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not you, kid,” Mr. Stark says with a shake of his head. “I spent ten minutes this morning cleaning up the bowl of Cheerios that Morgan dropped on the floor. Completely threw off my schedule. Word of advice—four-year-olds, carpets, and milk do not go together.”

That gets a smile out of Peter.

Mr. Stark finishes with the tie, tightening it with a gentle ease that for some reason has a lump forming in Peter's throat. “All right,” the man says, “jacket.” He turns to tug the piece of clothing off its hanger, shaking it out with a flourish. May had already pinned up the right sleeve to keep it from flopping around awkwardly.

“Thanks,” Peter says once it's on and buttoned up. He knows he would never have been able to finish getting dressed by himself. Shame flushes across his cheeks.

“I'd say no sweat, but that'd be a lie.”

It's true, the mid-July heat is sweltering, even in the air-conditioned house. Peter grimaces in response.

“Do I look okay?” he asks worriedly, glancing back at the mirror. He's run his fingers through his hair so many times in an attempt to tame the wild locks, but they seem to have a mind of their own. He tries to ignore the lingering scars that trail along the right side of his face. They've definitely healed a lot over the past few weeks, but they're noticeable enough that Peter is still self-conscious about them. Although he's sure the empty shirt sleeve draws more attention.

Mr. Stark, too, looks into the mirror. He pats Peter on the back, gaze softening. “You look great, kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You ready to head down there?”

Ready as I'll ever be. This will be his first time being around so many people since he's been back. Today isn't about him, though, so he nods and tries not to worry about it too much.

The hand on his back slides up to squeeze the back of his neck, the contact gentle and grounding. “All right then, let's get a move on.”

Mr. Stark is still weirding him out a little, the way he's interacting with Peter with such a different type of ease. It's not that they didn't get along before, or that there were never moments of gentleness and praise—and sure, maybe even a rare hug or two—but this…this is beyond that.

Then again, Mr. Stark is a dad now. Plus Peter almost died. That all probably has something to do with the constant softer nature he's been presenting, the way not everything is a sarcastic joke or quip or just blasé in general. It's kind of nice.

They make their way downstairs and outside, where everyone else is already waiting. Peter's heart skips a beat when he sees Bruce Banner—well, Professor Hulk now, apparently—talking to Pepper at the bottom of the front porch stairs. Yeah, he fought alongside them against Thanos and his army, but it's a bit different seeing all these Avengers in formal clothes just milling about the yard. Most of those in attendance he recognizes; some he doesn't. There's probably twenty to thirty people including himself, May, and the Starks.

The service itself is short and casual, with a few simple flower arrangements, a moment of silence at the lake, and several of those who were close to Natasha and Vision—like Clint and Wanda—coming up to say a few words or share a story about their lost friends and fellow Avengers. There is a sadness permeating the atmosphere, but it isn't a completely somber affair. 

Peter stands next to May and tries to ignore the sweat trickling down his back and the way his not-arm throbs and itches. The severity of his phantom pains varies from day to day. His meds and touch therapy help to an extent, but even they don't always fully relieve the discomfort.

Once the service concludes, Pepper announces that there are refreshments available—emphasizing the cold drinks considering the extreme heat—and adds that everyone is welcome to stay around and visit for as long as they'd like.

“You okay?” May asks, placing a hand on his shoulder as everyone begins to disperse.

“Yeah,” he answers, reaching up to scratch at his itchy suit collar. “Just hot.”

May winces in agreement. “You're right. I think I'm going to grab a lemonade. You want anything?”

He shakes his head. “I'm okay right now. Thanks, May.”

“All right, well, find some shade. And don't forget to eat something at some point, please. Don't need you passing out from heat exhaustion.”

“Okay.”

Once his aunt has wandered off in the direction of the cabin—and Happy, Peter notes—he glances around the yard, hand up to shield his eyes as he surveys the small crowd. Mr. Stark is still down near the lake talking to the Bartons and pointedly ignoring Dr. Strange. Morgan is also over there running around with the other kids.

Peter perks up when he spots Bucky standing off to the side of the house near Sam Wilson, who is chatting with Rhodey. He immediately hurries over.

“Hi,” he says as he approaches, a bit breathless from his trek across the yard. 

Bucky turns, the corner of his mouth curving upward into a half-smile when his gaze lands on Peter. “Hey, kid.”

In his eagerness to come greet the former soldier, Peter forgot that having a conversation with someone means coming up with words to say to them. 

Thankfully, Bucky speaks up before the silence drags on long enough to be awkward. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.”

“Made your escape from the hospital, I see.”

“Yep.” Peter wants to facepalm. Can he give a response that isn't a single word? “Oh! I wanted to say thank—thank you for the, uh, the card and the gift. That was really nice of you.”

“What gift?” Bucky asks, but he winks as he says it. 

Peter smiles.

“Everything been going okay?”

“It’s been okay.” Peter feels more comfortable sharing details of his struggles with someone who really gets it. He lifts his residual limb. “I’m still trying to figure out how to handle having just one arm to do everything.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgement. “It's one of those things you get more accustomed to with time. You'll get the hang of it—I’m betting you're already doing things now you weren't two weeks ago.”

Peter thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah,” he answers honestly. After he'd first woken up from the coma, he couldn't even shower or eat without help. Not to mention the number of times he'd tried to use his right arm to do something only to realize it wasn't there—he’s still trying to break that habit. But he's been practicing writing with his left hand, and his handwriting has already improved tremendously.

“See? It just takes time. You'll get there. And hopefully you'll have your new arm before long, too.”

“Yeah,” Peter says again, “I hope so.” He thinks it will be a few more weeks at least before he's able to begin the process of getting his prosthetic. Mr. Stark has been working hard collaborating with the Wakandans to design a custom, high-tech prosthetic arm for him. If he ever wants to be Spider-Man again, he'll need something with major functionality.

Peter's eyes drift over Bucky's shoulder to Sam. “I'm really sorry about Captain Rogers,” he says, changing the subject. Mr. Stark had told him about the team's efforts to return all the Infinity Stones and how Steve had elected to stay in the past once the mission was complete. He hadn't explicitly told Peter how he felt about the man's decision, but there were definitely some mixed emotions present.

Bucky smiles wistfully, though the expression is something closer to a grimace. “Thanks, kid. It's all right; it's what Steve wanted.”

“But it's not what you wanted.” The words teeter toward a question rather than a statement.

Bucky doesn't answer right away, and when he does, his voice is sad but decided. “I wanted Steve to be happy. That’s what matters.”

“Your happiness matters too,” Peter says softly. He knows from his history books—and what he's seen with his own eyes—that Bucky and Steve were best friends since childhood, inseparable. Maybe he isn't privy to all the details, but still, how could a guy like Captain America leave his best friend behind? Especially after all they’d been through. Peter can't imagine Ned just up and leaving to go live a different life without him.

Bucky opens his mouth like he's about to respond when his eyes flicker to something behind Peter. A new voice interrupts their conversation.

“Pete?” Mr. Stark appears next to them suddenly. He puts an arm around Peter's shoulders and squeezes.

“Oh—hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.

The man's eyes slide over to Bucky, his gaze scrutinizing as can be. His grip on Peter tightens minisculely, and he shifts ever so slightly so that his body is almost positioned in front of Peter. Everything about his posture screams mine.

Now, Peter doesn't know the whole of the history between the two men, but he does know the fight with Captain America back in Germany had involved Bucky somehow, and that the man was framed for the UN bombing that happened right around that same time—hey, Peter watches the news sometimes. This must have something to do with all of that?

Peter stands there awkwardly, eyes darting between the two men who seem to be having some sort of silent standoff. Unspoken words linger in the air. Time feels like it's passing much slower than it actually is.

Mr. Stark is the first to break the spell. “Barnes,” he greets, albeit a little stiffly. He sticks out his hand that isn't wrapped around Peter.

“Stark.” Bucky nods, shaking the other man's hand.

Peter feels like this is profound somehow.

Bucky tilts his head slightly in Peter's direction. “You've got a brave kid here.”

Before Peter can interject with an “Oh, I'm not really his…kid?” or another similar expression of denial, Mr. Stark clicks his tongue and says, “Sure do.”

And then Peter feels stupid, because it isn't like Bucky specifically said “your kid.” It was just a general statement. Plus, Peter is part of the Avengers. Technically. And even before Thanos, Mr. Stark had been his mentor. Also technically. What Bucky said makes perfect sense in that context. So why there's some strange, unidentifiable twist of emotions in his gut, Peter isn't sure.

Unaware of the inner turmoil of the teenager next to them, Bucky continues the conversation. “He said you're working on a prosthetic for him?”

“Yep.” Mr. Stark's gaze drifts toward Bucky's left arm; something flashes in his eyes for a split second before it's gone, and he gives a thoughtful hum. “Maybe you can give the kid some tips when he gets his new arm.”

Peter might not be fully aware of whatever bad blood or past might exist between Mr. Stark and Bucky, but even he can sense the magnitude of the olive branch that's just been offered with those words.

Bucky must recognize it, too, because his eyes widen the most miniscule amount before he schools his expression into something neutral. “Sure, I'd be happy to help.”

“Thanks,” Peter says gratefully.

The conversation moves on, and soon Peter finds himself being ushered back to the house to get some food, but not before Bucky gives him his phone number and lets him know that he and Sam are staying at Steve's old apartment in the city. They're lucky, considering how impossible it is to find housing right now. But the man reminds Peter again that he can reach out at any time, amputee- and prosthetic-related or not.

Truth be told, Peter is still nervous about the prospect of getting his own prosthetic, but seeing how smoothly Bucky’s operates up close and how the man is able to use it with just as much ease as one might their real arm is reassuring. It gives Peter hope that his dream of returning as Spider-Man is still a very real possibility after all.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a fun outing. The first time Peter would be back in the city since that fateful day back in 2018, they figured this was more or less the perfect opportunity. The celebratory parade in honor of the Avengers would give the kid a chance to see the support for Spider-Man up close and personal. Boost morale and all that.

It had taken some time to pull the event together considering the current state of the world, but the people of New York—and beyond—were determined to make their gratitude known to Earth's Mightiest Heroes. The mayor and the governor are supposed to be making appearances at the event. They'd even extended an invitation to all the Avengers to join the festivities.

Tony had easily turned down the offer—or rather, ignored it entirely. He's been out of the spotlight for over five years, and he certainly isn't eager to put himself back in it. Which is why he is currently wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses as he threads through the crowd with Morgan on his shoulders and Peter in tow. May and Pepper bring up the rear.

He's pretty sure Thor and Bruce are supposed to be riding on two of the floats. He knows Rhodey is—he heard his best friend is also supposed to be receiving some sort of military badge of honor or something. Like Tony, Barton had also declined to be involved in the event, choosing instead to hightail it back out to the middle of nowhere Midwest to spend time alone with his family. Tony really can't blame him.

Honestly, Tony could have done without any of the fanfare at all and been perfectly happy watching the parade from home on TV—or even just hearing about it later. But the kids had both expressed interest in going, and they weren't about to tell Peter no, especially since he's seemed so hesitant about going out ever since they returned to New York. May thought that getting out in public would likely do him good.

So. Parade day. Throngs and throngs of people everywhere, an anthill of activity. Not Tony's favorite thing, but he'll live.

“Why is everybody looking at me like that?” Peter mutters, head ducked down as he trails Tony down the street, pressed close enough that they're rubbing shoulders. It's a somewhat recent development—as in, since they’ve been back home; the kid remaining within touching distance of either May or Tony at almost all times. Like when Morgan was a baby and had separation anxiety. It's a natural response, he thinks, to the level of trauma the kid went through, but it's something to keep an eye on. To be completely honest though, Tony doesn't mind the clinginess—he prefers the constant reminders of the teen’s presence, that he’s here and solid and alive.

“Like what?”

“Like I'm a freak.”

“Stop,” Tony says. “You're not a freak.”

“Kinda feels like that's what they think.”

“Hey, nobody's looking at you. Trust me. They're all too worried about themselves.” A staple of the human condition, and another reason Tony is willing to haul his whole family out into the crowded streets—nobody seems to notice the Starks wandering around with the general public at the Avengers parade.

Peter grunts, evidently unconvinced, but he doesn't make any further comments. He hooks two fingers through one of Tony's belt loops.

Tony tightens his grip on Morgan's ankles and frowns over his shoulder, but neither Pepper nor May seem to have caught the exchange. Peter hasn't been too self-conscious about his arm or his scarred face at home. Apparently being seen by strangers is a different story, niggling at a previously-unknown insecurity. 

They manage to find a decent spot near the starting point of the parade, so once the last float passes through they can pack up and hopefully beat most of the traffic. Thankfully, once they're settled right at the railing blocking off the parade route a short way up from the start, Peter’s focus shifts from the people around them to the contagious excitement that is slowly mounting in the thick summer air. From where they stand, they can see some of the floats and bands preparing to begin their march, and almost everyone around them is decked out in Avengers gear or carrying hand-drawn signs and posters of thanks. Music blares from speakers down the street, forming an atmosphere of anticipation as the parade’s start time draws near.

Morgan whacks the bill of Tony’s cap enthusiastically and points over their heads. “Look, Daddy! A helicopter!”

Sure enough, what looks to be a news chopper is circling in the skies above them.

“I bet they can see the whole parade from up there,” the girl chirps.

“I guess so,” Tony agrees. “Hey, look at that.” He points out the trio of stilt walkers meandering around within the barriers. They have several inflatable beach balls they're throwing out into the crowd.

Morgan lets out a delighted giggle as the performers move in their direction. She waves her hands around, squealing when one of the beach balls bounces right past her.

With those lightning-quick reflexes of his, Peter shoots his left hand up and tips the ball, keeping it from falling to the ground and launching it back into the air. Behind him, Pepper reaches to hit the ball next, and this time it bounces back toward the others in the crowd.

“Yay!” Morgan cheers happily, leaning down to give Peter a high-five. The kid accepts it with a laugh before turning and leaning over the edge of the metal barrier, trying to get a better glimpse of the floats lined up at the starting point.

Tony doesn't think he'll ever get tired of watching Morgan—and now Peter—experience the world. Seeing their wide, star-filled eyes and big grins is the best part of this whole shebang. He's got a whole new appreciation for it now, just grateful Peter has the chance to experience this—life—again.

He should've known it wouldn't last.

In all fairness, the first half of the event passes by with no issues. Everyone fawns over the first float that rolls by, decked out in Spider-Man memorabilia, webs strung across the entire thing, and a larger than life statue of Spider-Man posted right at the front. The people on the float wave and throw candy and little trinkets into the crowd. Peter catches a mini Spidey plush and immediately hands it to Morgan.

They see Thor a few floats later, Stormbreaker clutched in one hand and waving like a king with the other as he passes by. He seems to thoroughly be enjoying himself. Even less than two months after the battle, he looks much closer to the version of himself that Tony remembers rather than the wasted, nearly-three-hundred pound gamer that showed up at the compound to help with the Time Heist. He's lost a good portion of the weight he'd put on, and he's cut—and clearly washed—his hair and beard.

A band goes by next, followed by a group of dancers who pause to perform a short routine. It isn't until the Hulk float passes that Tony begins to notice how fidgety Peter is. Over the noise of the parade and the surrounding crowd, he vaguely hears May ask the kid if he's feeling okay.

“I'm fine,” Peter reassures his aunt, but there's something strained in his voice.

Maybe it was still a little too soon to try letting him go out, especially in this type of environment. The kid's enhanced senses can be sensitive, and the last thing he needs to be worrying about is overstimulation.

With a frown, Tony turns to Peter and May. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I don't know.” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I just—”

A loud chorus of boos erupt from the crowd to their right, and everyone whips their heads around in unison to see what's going on.

“What—Tony, what is it?” Pepper asks, pushing up on her toes in an attempt to see over the many heads in front of them. The noise is rising, a conglomerate of voices that make individual words difficult to distinguish.

They aren't far from the grassy area of the park where the parade started, and beyond the crowd of parade-goers, another group seems to have gathered. Tony manages to make out some of the mutterings that are drifting through the crowd. Something about protestors.

May wraps an arm around Peter's shoulders, pulling him close. Tony keeps one hand on Morgan's ankle while the other moves to rest on Pepper's back.

Something crashes just a few yards away from where they stand, and a group of people begin to spill out into the parade route, halting its progress. Before the words on the giant banner and signs are even visible, Tony realizes what's going on. All of the air expels from lungs like he was just punched in the gut.

The chants grow louder and more unified, enough that it's clear what's being said. 

“Thanos was right! Thanos was right! Thanos was right!”

Tony's immediate reaction to the spectacle forming in front of them is disbelief and horror, which quickly transforms into anger—no, rage.

Of course he knows there are plenty of people out there who don't agree with the decision to bring back the billions of people who were lost five years ago. It is true that there were some massive repercussions as a result—but most agreed it was worth it for what was saved. Families reunited, lost loved ones returned. A fix to something that should have never been broken in the first place.

Tony would choose that path every time, even if it means some suffering in the interim as the world rights itself again.

Clearly, not everyone in the world agrees.

Security is all over the disruption within seconds, but the damage has already been done. The large group of protestors who stayed behind the barriers are still making their presence known with continued chants that are extremely derogatory toward the Returned, even as the police attempt to herd the others off the street.

Tony does not want the kids to continue to witness this—Pep or May either, for that matter. So he spins on his heel, methodically scanning the crowd for the best way out and away from the chaos. “Come on.”

“Daddy, what’s that? Where are we going?” Morgan asks from his shoulders. 

“We’re leaving, Maguna. Going back to the car.”

“But—but what about the parade?”

“Parade's almost over anyway.”

The girl whines in protest and flails her limbs a little, but lets Tony slide her down from her current position and onto his hip instead. He's honestly glad she doesn't seem to grasp what she just saw; he'd rather deal with a tantrum about leaving early than have to sit her down and explain why some people think it's okay to more or less tell others they wish they were dead.

He keeps close tabs on May, Pepper, and Peter as he threads his way through the streets and back toward where they'd parked. The last thing he needs is to lose one of them in the crowd. They follow without question, and when Tony glances over at Pepper, he can see the stony expression on her own face, lips pressed together with carefully-contained anger.

Once they reach the Audi SUV tucked away in a private parking garage, everyone piles in without a sound. It isn't until Tony is pulling out onto the street that the first words are spoken.

“Are you okay, honey?” May asks Peter.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

Tony glances in the rearview mirror. The kid is wedged in between his aunt and Morgan's car seat, shoulders drawn in as he hunches over, his left hand rubbing absently at the nub of his right shoulder.

“I'm so sorry that happened,” Pepper adds sympathetically from the passenger seat, voice strained.

Peter's brow puckers in confusion. “It isn't your fault.”

“Daddy?” Morgan interrupts.

“Yeah, munchkin?”

“Why were those people yelling and messing up the parade?”

Tony inhales sharply. It takes a second before he's able to respond. “They were being bullies.”

“Oh. That's mean.”

It's Pepper who answers this time, turning in her seat to be able to see into the back of the car. “Very. We need to remember to treat everyone kindly, even if we don't always agree with them.”

Morgan lets out a hum. “Okay.”

Everyone lapses back into a stewing silence again for a few moments. 

Then, “People…people really think we shouldn't have come back?” Peter asks, his voice small.

And what is Tony supposed to say to that? “They're idiots,” he mutters briskly.

“Idiots,” Morgan echoes, kicking the back of his seat.

Pepper shoots him a look, which he pointedly ignores in favor of glancing in the mirror again to see the kid.

Peter meets his gaze in the mirror and then looks away, shrugging. “They have a right to be out there.”

“And I have a right to not agree with a single word of the hate they were spewing,” Tony practically snarls, unable to tamp down on the boiling anger in his gut. “Don't they have better things to do?” Like maybe make an effort to help improve the lives of themselves and those around them instead of screaming that they hope another alien invades the earth and kills half of the universe all over again?

Really, the only people willing to go out and protest the return of the Blipped in public must be lonely, bitter excuses for human beings. Because Tony can't imagine losing anyone he knew to Thanos’s snap and being anything but unabashedly grateful to have them back. Either these protestors don't know anyone who vanished five years ago, or they're just horrible humans with an inability to have relationships or love anyone other than themselves.

Tony realizes he's white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. He eases up and takes a deep breath. No one in this car deserves his anger, even if it's directed elsewhere.

But dang it, this was supposed to be a fun outing, and he hates that it had to end the way it did. Peter has enough on his plate right now without worrying about people thinking he—maybe not necessarily personally, but the sentiment is still the same—should have stayed dust. And Tony knows the kid will dwell on it whether or not he says it's not a big deal.

“Sorry we had to leave before the end of the parade,” Peter is saying, presumably to Morgan—like he hadn't just told Pep three minutes ago there was no need to apologize for what had happened.

“I didn't want to leave yet.” Morgan huffs, obviously still perturbed by their sudden departure. 

“Sorry,” Peter says again.

Something about the dejectedness in his tone must catch the girl's attention, because she quickly leans forward in her seat and waves her Spidey plush around. “But we got to see the Spider-Man float. That was my favoritest part.”

Despite the underlying tension lingering in the vehicle, Tony chuckles.

Peter's ears go a little red, but he smiles, and that's better than the puckered frown he's been sporting since they left the parade.

“How about we stop for an early dinner?” Pepper asks, easing the conversation in a new direction.

“Yes!” Morgan cheers, disappointment already forgotten at the prospect of food. “I'm so hungry.”

“That sounds great,” May agrees, her hand still lingering comfortingly on Peter's leg.

Tony nods and takes a left. “That,” he says, “is an excellent idea. Food is always the answer.”

Anything to forget the last twenty minutes ever happened.

***

“Thanos was right! He was right!”

“Turn back to dust, freak!”

“No one wants you around.”

The jeered words echo in Peter's ears as he jolts awake, that awful feeling of irrational fear and wrongness that follow a nightmare clinging to him like a leech.

Not dust, not dust, he chants in his head, quickly patting himself down to make sure his body is still intact. Once he's satisfied that he's not dying, he sits up in bed, chest heaving, hand subconsciously moving to hold his residual limb.

Don't think about it. But the thought doesn't help—the moment his fingers touch the edge of the shrinker sock-covered stump, he's transported back to the moment he snapped his fingers and the unbearable pain that followed. He must have dreamed about that, too. The images in his head from the dream are fuzzy, but the emotions they brought to the surface are still in full effect. He doesn't know why, but he's terrified.

Peter lets out a childish whimper and blinks through the dark of his bedroom, desperately trying to chase away the remnants of his nightmare. A glance at the digital clock sitting next to his bed tells him it's well past two in the morning.

Part of him wants to ignore the late hour—he wants to run to May's room and curl up in her bed like he used to do when he was younger. She would run her fingers through his hair and hum quietly until he fell back asleep.

He shifts slightly as if to climb out of bed and stumble his way to his aunt like a frightened six-year-old, and it's only then that he realizes he's completely drenched in sweat. His bedsheets are also soaked from the perspiration, enough that he knows they're too ruined to sleep on.

Peter's eyes burn with exhaustion and unshed tears. He rolls out of bed; off-kilter and with only one arm to balance him, he nearly ends up in a heap on the hardwood floor. With quick, sloppy movements, he yanks the damp sheets off his bed. His shirt follows, landing in a heap with the rest of the laundry.

He scrubs angrily at his face. “This isn't a big deal,” he whispers. “It was just a dream—you don't need to bother anyone.” He's done enough of that the past few weeks. May—and the Starks—need their sleep. He’d already woken them just the other night because his phantom pains were so bad he could hardly breathe. He doesn't need to bother anyone about a stupid nightmare—especially one that involved the events of the parade. The adults already all feel bad enough about that.

With one last longing glance at the door, Peter crawls into his closet, curls up into a ball, and presses his lone hand against his mouth to stifle his cries.

***

Peter stands at the edge of the lake in his swim trunks and short-sleeved rashguard shirt, squinting dubiously at Mr. Stark through the blinding sun. The overwhelming scent of over-applied sunscreen is invading his nostrils, giving him a headache. Though maybe the dull pain throbbing in his skull has something to do with the fact that he's running on a couple hours of sleep.

“Come on, Peter!” Morgan hollers from where her head bobs just above the water. She waves her water wing floatie-covered arms. The little girl had wasted no time in cannonballing off the dock once they got outside. 

“You coming in, kid?” Mr. Stark echoes, treading water next to Morgan.

Peter shrugs, scuffing one bare foot against the grass. It isn't that he can't swim, or even that he doesn't like to swim. He just doesn't have the opportunity to do it often. Every once in a while he and Ned used to hang out at the pool during the summer, but he can't actually remember the last time he was in a body of water bigger than the bathtub. So yeah, trying to swim for the first time in a long time, down an arm no less, is a little more anxiety-inducing than he thought it'd be. Sue him.

But…it shouldn't be a big deal, right? He's probably being dramatic. It's not even like he lost his leg or something, which is the most important part of treading water.

“Do you want one of my floaties, Peter?” Morgan asks, splashing one hand against the surface of the water. “Maybe it will help you.”

Peter smiles gratefully at the girl. “Thanks, Mo. But I'm good.”

“You can sit up here with us and tan if you'd rather,” May offers cheekily. She and Pepper are relaxing on chairs they'd pulled out onto the dock, bathing suits and sunglasses on.

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Um, I think I'll pass on that, too. Thanks, May.” He's not sure which would be worse.

Mr. Stark swims back toward the bank with big, long strokes. “Come on, kid. You gotta start somewhere.”

“You do know I’m Spider-Man, not Aquaman, right?” Peter mutters, fiddling with the empty sleeve of his swim shirt. He wants to be swinging around the city with webs, not snorkeling with fish.

The man makes a pshhh sound. “Swimming is a basic life skill. It'll help you build up strength. And I seem to recall a time you ended up in a river and almost drowned, so—”

May looks up. “What?”

“Nothing!” Peter and Mr. Stark say at the same time.

In an effort to dodge any prying questions from his aunt, Peter gives in and wades into the water, stopping once it's up to his waist. He can't deny that the cool water is refreshing in contrast to the afternoon heat.

“There we go,” Mr. Stark says, moving closer until he's right next to Peter. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“No,” Peter admits, but it's not the water itself he's afraid of.

Which is funny; he’s battled super villains and aliens, almost died—he did die, actually—and that's not even the craziest thing that's happened to him. Yet here he is with butterflies in his stomach over getting in a lake. 

Come on, Peter. He's Spider-Man. He saved the world—however ungrateful it may be.

The parade incident a few days ago had shaken him more than he's willing to admit even to himself—much less to May or the Starks. He doesn't know what it is that was so rattling about it; it isn't as if he’s ignorant to the fact that not everyone was particularly happy with the reversal of Thanos’s snap. He can understand, in a way. They've had five years to move on and adjust to a new world, and now it's been turned upside down again.

Still, he thinks, had he been one of those left behind and had known even one person who had been dusted, there's no way he would actively be shouting in the streets that Thanos had had the right idea after they came back.

“All right, good job. Come on.” Mr. Stark draws him back to reality as he takes Peter's hand and tugs, pulling them out further and back toward Morgan.

It's fine at first.

The moment his feet can't touch the bottom anymore, overwhelming panic rises unbidden in Peter's chest. He scrabbles to clutch at Mr. Stark's shirt sleeve with his hand, letting out a little gasp. Water splashes into his mouth. He gags on it and coughs.

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” Mr. Stark says, grunting with effort as he works to keep them both afloat. “See, you're fine—you’ve got it. Just use your legs.”

With a deep breath, Peter nods in acknowledgement of the instruction, pumping his legs up and down in a repetitive motion. He tries to focus on his movements rather than the water lapping gently at his chin. It takes a few seconds, but it works, and some of the tightness in his chest eases.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that his right arm is still there—something he's been told is extremely normal for amputees. So rather than focus on the fact that he's down a limb, he pretends it's there instead, and moves his body as he would if it were any other day and he was taking a relaxing swim. His hand slides off Mr. Stark's shoulder as he uses it to help propel himself forward instead. The loss of contact has him sucking in a breath, but he quickly adjusts.

And stays afloat.

He can hear May and Pepper cheering him on from the dock, and Morgan from just a few yards away as he paddles through the water with ease.

Mr. Stark isn't flat out smiling, but there's a soft expression akin to pride on his face as he circles near Peter. “Good job, kid.”

Peter basks in the praise, unable to keep a triumphant grin off his face. In some ways, this seems like such a small step. But right now, things like getting dressed or making his bed are victories worth celebrating—however small—so Peter thinks it's okay to be excited about the fact that he's swimming on his own.

As if reading his mind, Pepper voices the same sentiment. “That’s amazing, Peter!” There's no patronization in her tone, just genuine excitement.

“Go, Peter, go!” Morgan yells with a giggle, flailing all her limbs in an attempt to move closer toward the others.

Peter takes a deep breath and dives under the water, using his legs and arm to swim over to Morgan and pop up right next to her. 

She lets out another delighted laugh and grasps a fistful of his shirt. “You swim like a fishy!”

He bops her on the nose. “Do I really?”

“Yeah,” she says in her classic duh tone. “And even with only one arm.” She points to his shoulder and grins. “It's your lucky fin—like Nemo!”

That innocent statement takes Peter a moment to process. He glances down at his right side. Lucky fin.

Peter wouldn't generally consider himself a lucky person—in fact, he has years of proof indicating that Parker Luck is anything but positive. But…maybe the stump of his right arm doesn't have to be a reminder of what he's lost. Despite the pain and difficulties it brings, it can also be a symbol—a symbol of what he’s survived, what he's saved, what he’s gained.

“Like Nemo, huh?” he repeats, a smile creeping onto his face. “You know what, Mo? I kinda like that.”

Chapter Text

As the days continue to pass, life begins to settle into a routine of sorts. Most of Peter's days revolve around his continued recovery—caring for his residual limb and learning how to function with only one arm.

A physical therapist comes out to the lake house almost every day to do PT with him. Her name is Jenna, and she's pretty awesome. She's kind and patient, but also firm and willing to push Peter to his limits without going over the edge, finding that delicate balance. He guesses that's why she was selected for the job. 

They work on various stretching and strengthening exercises, all aimed at restoring muscle function and preparing him for a future prosthetic limb. Some days are harder than others, especially when the phantom pain kicks in or his frustration bubbles too close to the surface, but Jenna never loses her cool.

Considering what a contrast living at the lake house is compared to his life before, Peter finds himself surprisingly comfortable and content with the current living arrangements. There's a small part of him that longs to be back in the city, desperate to wake up to a world where no aliens or Infinity Stones exist and it's just another summer of hanging out with friends, staying up late watching movies with May, and complaining because the apartment’s AC went out again.

But at the same time…staying out here with the Starks is opening his eyes to a whole new way of life. One that feels not too dissimilar to the “normal” he always dreamed about as a kid.

Of course, there isn't much about this situation that could technically be defined as normal—he came back from the dead, lost an arm, and is staying with the richest people on the planet, one of whom is Iron Man—but still, something about the rhythm of life at the lake house just feels…right.

There's comfort in the simple things: waking up most mornings to the smell of bacon or coffee that isn't burning—courtesy of Pepper—having a four-year-old trail him around and rope him into board games, playing Barbies, or making crafts that include lots of glitter, and spending evenings sitting on the front porch next to Mr. Stark or May while watching the sun set over the lake and listening to cicadas buzz in the distance. It's the kind of stuff that makes him feel like he's living in a Disney Channel show.

For instance, right now Peter is sitting at a picnic table with a checkered tablecloth that's piled high with sides and condiments, awaiting the platter of meat Mr. Stark is currently grilling on the other side of the yard. The man is bickering with Happy and Rhodey about the best method and seasoning for the perfect burger, and Pepper and May are floating in and out of the house with the last few items needed for their meal. Morgan is playing on her swing set—Peter can hear the little girl chattering away to herself as she climbs up the ladder to the slide for at least the fiftieth time.

“This is the best day of my life,” Ned says—not for the first time—reaching to grab a handful of chips from one of the bags sitting on the table. “I can't believe I'm here with you, at the Starks’ house. It feels like a dream.”

Peter rolls his eyes but has to agree with his best friend. It is all still a little surreal. Having Ned over for the weekend has been sort of like a weird collision of both his lives.

When May had asked Peter what he wanted to do for his birthday, his first request had been to see his best friend. They've been chatting regularly through text and video calls, but it's not the same as being together in person.

The birthday thing is seemingly inconsequential, yet one of the most genuinely confusing things about the whole Blip. According to the calendar, Peter turns seventeen today, but he's technically still sixteen for five more months. What is he supposed to do—start celebrating his birthday in January? 

But everyone else had been adamant about celebrating Peter's seventeenth in August as usual. Apparently, as Mr. Stark had informed them, the government came to the conclusion that it would be too confusing to try to alter birth records to account for the months and days between the Snap that made everyone vanish and the one that brought them back. The beginning of this year marks their return instead. Those who were Blipped will have a special, identifying mark on their IDs to help eliminate confusion or issues with ages. It all makes Peter's head hurt, so he just tries not to think about it, glad to let the adults handle those complicated matters.

“I didn't know Mr. Stark could cook,” Ned adds in a whisper, wide-eyed as his gaze wanders back toward the men congregated around the grill. “If I was as rich as he was, I would just, like, order takeout for every meal.”

“He's actually pretty good at it,” Peter admits. In all honesty, Mr. Stark is better at getting in Pepper's way in the kitchen, but he is a pro when it comes to the grill. Peter can't help but wonder if that's a skill the man learned during the last five years.

“Seriously?” Ned asks, impressed. As if he could get any more starstruck than he already is. “Did he make your birthday cake too?”

Peter snorts. “No. Pepper did.” And thank goodness for that. Peter loves his aunt to death, but he's had enough burnt, flat, or otherwise nearly-inedible birthday cakes over the years to last him a lifetime. 

“Awesome.”

A phantom sensation flares in Peter's not-arm. The ongoing pain in that area has been improving somewhat, but every once in a while it still flares up. He winces, reaching to grab the nonexistent point of pain.

Ned notices. “Peter? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, dropping his hand and taking a deep breath.

“Do you need me to get someone? Or something?” Ned is already halfway to his feet, clearly eager to be helpful in any way he can.

Peter shakes his head. “It's fine; this is pretty normal. My brain just…thinks my arm is still there sometimes.”

“That's so weird,” Ned says, lowering himself back onto the bench.

“Yeah.”

“So do you think you can, like, regenerate your arm?”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“Your arm.” Ned motions to the residual limb. “Will it grow back? You know, because of the whole spider thing?”

“I…don't think that's how it works.” He hasn't exactly thought of that before—is that even a thing spiders can do?

His best friend shrugs. “It could. I don't know. I mean, you can climb walls and lift a bus. Growing an arm wouldn't be that farfetched.”

“Well, it’s been two months and there's no sign of that happening.”

“But theoretically it could.”

“My arm's not gonna grow back, Ned.”

“Darn. That would be super convenient though.” 

“Tell me about it,” Peter mutters.

“I’m just saying!” Mr. Stark's voice carries across the yard as he heads toward the table with the platter of hamburgers and hotdogs. “There is absolutely no scenario in which Rhodey would ever win a cookoff.” He scoffs as if the very idea is absurd. “He once lit a grill without checking the propane cap and nearly singed his eyebrows off. Happy, you were there.”

“That was one time,” Rhodey interrupts indignantly.

“And yet, your eyebrows remember.”

The banter continues as everyone begins to trickle over and settle in at the table. The aroma of fresh fruit mingling with the grilled meat makes Peter’s mouth water, though it doesn’t distract him from the fact that May takes her seat next to Happy.

Morgan races over to claim a spot next to Peter, effectively sandwiching him between herself and Mr. Stark.

“Peter, I wanna sit next to you, uh, ‘cause it’s your birthday,” she declares as though she doesn’t beg to sit next to him at nearly every meal.

“Okay,” he agrees easily.

She grins like she just won the lottery.

Peter reaches for his water bottle and begins fiddling with the lid. It's another one of those things that should be so easy but is surprisingly a struggle to accomplish with just one hand. The cap is screwed on especially tight, and there’s condensation on the outside of the bottle, making it even more difficult to get a good grip. Peter can't seem to find the right leverage to get it open.

He's about to give up and slide it across the table to ask Ned for help when Tony, mid-conversation and eyes still on Rhodey as he argues with the man over smashburgers, reaches over and casually snags the bottle, twisting the cap off in one smooth move before setting it back down in front of Peter. “—ask the literal genius right here? I ran the numbers. Surface area means nothing if the burger’s the thickness of printer paper.”

“Seriously, Tony? It—”

“Uh-uh, I’m done hearing you out. If you like flavorless cardboard so much, bring your own next time. Let the rest of us experience the joy of a real burger.” He gestures to the thick, steaming patties on the table.

The discussion moves on, including Pepper and May’s chiding interjections, but Peter isn’t listening, too busy blinking at the now-open bottle while Mr. Stark begins putting together a burger like nothing happened. Huh. His gaze meets Ned’s across the table. 

The other boy’s eyes are wide, impressed. He leans in and mouths what Peter deciphers as “Dude, total dad move.”

Peter gives the slightest shake of his head in return, brushing off the way the comment makes his heart lurch. He grabs the water and takes a long sip. It’s not the first time Ned has made similar comments since his arrival earlier today. “Stop,” he mutters back, cheeks flushing.

Ned just shrugs, still grinning like the overeager fanboy that he is as he loads up his plate.

“Peter,” Morgan interrupts, tapping him on his right shoulder above the shrinker sock.

“Yeah, Mo?”

“Can you and Ned catch fireflies with me when we’re all done eating and it gets dark?”

He hums. “Maybe.”

“Please? ” she begs, big puppy-dog eyes staring up at him. 

Peter leans back just a little, squinting down at her and pretending to give the request serious thought. “Only if you promise not to scream if one lands on you this time.” It’s a good thing there aren’t any neighbors for miles. Peter’s pretty sure his hearing was re-damaged after the other night’s sound barrier breaker. The four-year-old’s got a set of lungs on her, that’s for sure.

“I only screamed a little,” Morgan argues.

Peter must make a face, because Ned chokes back a laugh.

Undeterred, Morgan climbs onto her knees on the bench seat and braces herself against Peter, holding out her hand. “I’ll be brave this time. I pinky-winky promise.”

That gets him. Peter chuckles and holds out his left hand, pinky extended. “Pinky-winky promise,” he parrots back.

Morgan links her tiny finger with his and squeezes twice, nodding seriously. “That means I have to now.”

“Yep. Binding contract,” Mr. Stark inserts.

“Morgan, sit down, please.” Pepper slides a plate in front of her daughter before moving to sit next to Mr. Stark.

“We’re gonna catch fireflies later!” she announces to the whole table, plopping back down into her seat in a manner precarious enough to have Peter reaching out his residual limb toward her in a reflexive motion. Thankfully, she doesn’t take a tumble.

Pepper sighs.

Morgan doesn’t miss a beat. “We can catch seventeen fireflies since Peter’s birthday is seventeen.”

A warm feeling fills Peter’s chest. 

The conversation continues around him as everyone digs into the food, the chirp of crickets and croak of frogs filling the evening air as the sun slowly begins to dip below the horizon beyond the lake.

It's definitely not what he imagined his seventeenth birthday would look like. But he has to admit it's pretty great.

***

“Peter, Peter!”

Peter jolts awake with a short little gasp, jackknifing upward so abruptly he nearly collides with the outline of a face leaning over him, only inches from his own.

“Whoa.” Ned’s hand plants itself on Peter's chest to stop his ascent. “Hey—you okay?”

Peter blinks, the images in his head already beginning to fade, but not fast enough.

“Could’ve broken your nose, dude,” he mutters, letting his head drop back down to his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. His right hand moves automatically to brush against the bare skin of his residual limb. He can feel his heart still rabbiting against his ribcage.

The mattress shifts as Ned flops into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?” he asks again around a loud yawn. “Do you want me to go get Mr. Stark or May?”

“No,” Peter says immediately.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.” It's not quite the truth, but he's in no hurry to admit he's on the verge of a panic attack over a stupid dream. “Did I wake you up?” he deflects.

“You were tossing and turning and muttering,” Ned says.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

Silence falls over the dark room, the combination of the two forming a heavy atmosphere. There's no light even filtering in through the windows—another major difference from Peter and May’s apartment in the city.

Peter tries to steady his breathing but can't seem to get them to even out. They remain quick and stuttery, his body not catching up to his brain’s realization that he was just dreaming.

Ned’s hand lands on Peter's good shoulder, patting it a couple of times. “Hey.”

“What?”

“There's leftover cake in the fridge.”

Peter snorts, rolling over onto his side, pillow pressing into his cheek. “And?” he mumbles.

He can picture his friend shrugging even though he can't see it. “You want a midnight snack?”

“Sure.” Why not? It isn't like he'll be going back to sleep anytime soon.

He slips out of bed after Ned, taking care to avoid tripping over the pullout bed his friend had been sleeping on and bracing his hand against the dresser as he guides himself toward the door.

Ned opens the door, the dim glow from the nightlight in the hallway spilling in and casting shadows across the room. He pauses and glances over his shoulder. 

Peter's brow furrows. “What?” he asks.

“Is Mr. Stark's A.I. gonna snitch on us?” Ned says in a loud whisper.

Peter gives Ned a nudge forward out the door. “No, FRIDAY isn't installed in the house. Well, she is, but mostly for security and stuff. She's not going to do anything.”

Ned tiptoes out into the hall anyway, like they're on some sort of stealth mission. 

Peter follows suit, though it's more due to the fact that he doesn't want to wake anyone else than fear that FRI is going to initiate the Intruder Protocol—which apparently includes red flashing lights and Highway to Hell blaring at eardrum-bursting levels. And he also feels jumpy, an unfortunate side effect of having just woken from a nightmare.

The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the sounds of crickets and frogs outside, and every creak on the stairs has both boys glancing around as if they expect a shadowy figure to pop up out of nowhere.

Thankfully, they make it down to the kitchen without incident, which is a miracle in and of itself. Peter flips on the lights, keeping them at a low level but squinting anyway when they come on. 

Ned wastes no time in beelining for the fridge and finding the box containing the remaining cake from Peter's birthday celebration the previous evening. 

Peter slides onto a stool at the small kitchen island, leaning his arm against the cool granite and letting his forehead rest against it. His “lucky fin” as dubbed by Morgan isn't long enough to reach the counter, so the position is slightly awkward, but he's too exhausted to care. Unconnected images from his dream flit through his head, causing the knot in stomach to tighten. It's funny how badly a nightmare can affect a person—no matter how unrealistic, the emotions that accompany them are hard to shake.

“Peter?”

Peter blinks and lifts his head, realizing Ned is standing on the other side of the island, the cake sitting on the counter between them. “Huh?”

Ned frowns. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He accepts the offered fork and lifts the lid on the cake box. There's still a good-sized portion of cake remaining, chocolate with tendrils of blue frosting that had spelled out Happy Birthday, Peter! Not bothering with plates, he simply digs in, taking a big bite of the moist dessert.

“I have them too,” Ned says casually, stabbing his own fork into the cake. “Well, probably not as bad as you, ‘cause…but—yeah.”

“I guess a lot of people do.” Kind of hard not to after what the world has been through.

“Yeah.”

They fall into a companionable silence, taking turns eating off the chunk of cake. Peter is grateful for the distraction. This is miles better than cowering alone in his room while he waits for the lingering fear to pass.

“I'm glad you're here,” he says to his friend a few minutes later.

“Me too,” Ned agrees around a mouthful, a few crumbs falling to the counter.  “Everything is really weird in the city. Even weirder without you there.”

Peter hums. His life has been so dramatically different over the last month and a half that it feels like he's jumped timelines into some sort of alternate reality, but he can imagine for people like Ned, everything must just feel off-kilter—living life in limbo, trying to figure out how to handle a colossally unprecedented situation. He's grateful that despite the many challenges he's facing, a place to live and finances aren't a worry for him and May the way they would have been if it weren't for the Starks.

“Are you…” Ned hesitates, then rephrases, “I mean, do you ever just wish everything would go back to the way it was before?”

Peter stops chewing. That's a loaded question.

“All right, what's the damage?”

Peter and Ned both jump, whirling toward the kitchen doorway with twin expressions of guilt.

Mr. Stark strolls in, eyeing the cake box on the counter assessingly. He's wearing sweatpants and his t-shirt is rumpled, indicating he had been in bed. Peter isn't sure what time it is; Mr. Stark was never known for his proper sleep schedule, but he seems to keep more “normal” hours now than Peter remembers from his time at the city penthouse.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, hoping there's no lingering evidence of his nightmare on his face. “We just—uh…”

“Midnight snack?” Ned offers sheepishly, holding up his fork like a white flag.

“Hm,” Mr. Stark says. “You save me a piece?”

Peter glances down at the hacked edges of the leftover cake. “Um…”

Mr. Stark reaches the island and braces his palms against the counter, looking into the box. His eyebrows lift. “Huh. You two really didn't hold back.”

“It's really good cake,” Ned says.

The man reaches in and steals a bite of cake with his fingers, humming contentedly as he chews. “I'll give you that. Pep outdid herself.” He looks between them. “Is sleep on the agenda, or is this just the start of a sugar-fueled descent into chaos?”

Peter shrugs, unwilling to admit that they had been asleep until his brain decided to turn on the horror channel. “We'll see.”

“Okay.” Mr. Stark licks his finger and reaches out to wipe a smear of frosting from Peter's cheek with the practiced ease of someone who's done it a thousand times before. “Maybe don't stay up all night.”

“We won't,” Ned promises, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with Peter.

Mr. Stark doesn't seem to notice. He ruffles both boys’ hair, apologizes for crashing their bonus party, says goodnight, and heads out the kitchen. A door shuts down the hall and quiet settles over the house again.

When Peter finally pulls his gaze away from the now-empty doorway, Ned is still gaping at him. “Dude, what was that?” he whispers loudly.

Peter feels his cheeks redden. “What?” 

“That,” Ned repeats unhelpfully.

“He has a four-year-old, okay? It’s reflex at this point.” Peter tries to shrug off the slightly-awkward interaction, pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t make his chest go all weird and warm.

Ned considers this, then digs into the cake again with gusto. “This is the weirdest and coolest sleepover I’ve ever had.”

Peter snorts and follows suit. Even though the nightmare still lingers at the edges of his mind, it doesn't feel quite so heavy anymore.

***

One evening after dinner a couple days after his birthday, Peter wanders outside to find May sitting sideways on the swing on the porch, her feet propped up on the cushions and a book in her lap. She looks relaxed.

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, creating a pinkish-orange hue in the sky. Crickets and birds sing their songs, a stark contrast to the traffic sounds of the city that Peter is used to. It's still kind of weird to picture Mr. Stark living out here, starting a family here. 

“Hey,” he says to his aunt.

She glances up, a smile gracing her lips when her gaze lands on Peter. “Hi, sweetie. What are you up to? I was under the impression at dinner that Morgan had your schedule completely booked for the evening.”

Peter chuckles. The little girl can be bossy, sure, but he doesn't mind it. She's smart and funny and has a way of keeping his mind from spiraling as it's so often wont to do. “She had to go get ready for bed. We're gonna watch a movie after, though.”

“Oh, I see. So you came out here for entertainment? I'm probably not as fun as Morgan, but I can bring the party when it's needed.”

“Nah,” Peter says, trying to sound nonchalant. He squints at her book. “What are you reading?”

“Just a romance novel Pepper loaned me.”

Peter makes a face. “Is it any good?”

“Yeah, it is, actually.” May closes the book and regards him carefully. “But I doubt you came out here just to question my reading habits.”

Peter shrugs and scratches at the back of his head, caught. “Well…I sort of wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” She sits up a little and pulls off her reading glasses. “What's up?”

“Um, I was just—well, Ned said Midtown is starting school in a couple weeks.”

May tilts her head and hums in acknowledgement.

Peter clears his throat. “And I was wondering if maybe I could get re-enrolled to go back?” he asks, his voice speeding up and going high at the end of the question.

It's quiet for a moment as May regards him carefully. “Are you sure you're ready for that?” she asks.

Peter tries to cross his arms before realizing he can't really do that. He awkwardly lets his left arm drop back down to his side. “Yes?” he says, even though his stomach is twisting in knots at the thought of going back to school. “I mean, it's been two months, May. I'm about as healed as I can be.” The voice in his head pokes at him with an evil laugh, reminding him that he's different now. Damaged. He shakes the thoughts away.

“I know,” May says. “But you know with everything you went through, it's—it was a lot. And I don't mean just physically. Going back to the city… Well, I just don't want you to rush yourself just because school is starting soon. If you don't think you're ready yet, that's completely okay.”

Peter knows his aunt worries about him—part of the job description, she always says—and even more so after everything that's happened in the last couple months.  After the recent parade incident, revealing the opposition he and the other Blipped might face as a part of their new normal, he's sure May is concerned about what might happen at school. He appreciates her forethought, he really does, but he knows that the answer to their troubles can't be to run away from it, as much as he might want to sometimes.

“I'll be fine, May,” he promises. “Besides, it sounds like they're going to make us take the whole year over.” Which absolutely sucks. Peter was halfway through his junior year when Thanos snapped, and even though five years have passed for everyone else, they haven't for him. He doesn't need to relearn everything he already did last semester.

But like it or not, for the sake of ease, Midtown has made their decision. Perhaps they thought it would make things easier on the students who may still be processing the trauma of having been dead for five years.

While Peter’s brain knows in theory that five years have technically passed, the fact still isn't really computing. 

He still does a double take every time he hears someone say the date or sees it on his phone screen. Five years of life that he's missed out on. He should be well into college by now, yet here he is, having just turned seventeen and about to repeat his junior year of high school. 

And all of this because some narcissistic grape decided to play God. Wow, I sound like Mr. Stark.

May must catch something in his expression, because her face softens and she swings her feet around to rest on the porch, patting the seat next to her in invitation. Peter obliges, sinking down on the cushions and letting his aunt wrap her arm around his shoulders.

“I’ve already missed out on enough,” he adds quietly. “I don't want to miss the beginning of school, either.” It feels selfish to even think that, much less voice it aloud. So many others have lost so much more than he did—there are thousands, if not more, who lost family members and friends as a result of the first Snap. Ones that can't be brought back. Who is he to complain about something as trivial as school?

“Don't go down that trail, Peter,” May warns, as if reading his mind in the silence that followed his last statement. “Just because others are dealing with their own struggles doesn't make yours any less valid. You went through a crap load. So don't start comparing, all right?”

He deflates a little in her embrace, leaning his head against her shoulder and nodding. “I can wait to go back if you think—”

“No.” May’s voice is firm. “No, this should be your decision. Now, I don't want you to go back because you feel pressured or if it's just to prove a point. But if you think you're ready and it's what you really want, then yes, we'll make it happen.”

“Really?”

“Of course, baby. You're right, we can't stay hidden away forever—though I certainly can't say I've minded being here.” May laughs, her fingers reaching up to card through his hair. “But getting back to a somewhat normal routine would be good for us, I think.”

Normal. What does that word even mean for them anymore?

“We'd have to move back to the city,” he says carefully.

May hums. “Have you mentioned school to Tony?”

Peter shakes his head, shifting to sit up a bit straighter, his back pressed against the wooden slats of the swing.

“Okay, well, let's bring it up to him later. The housing market is just—bananas right now, to put it mildly. Too many people, not nearly enough space.”

“Oh.” Peter hadn't even considered that. He's been so removed from most of the struggles the world is facing in light of the return of the Decimated. Will he and May even be able to find a place back in Queens? 

The idea of leaving the Starks’ twists uncomfortably in Peter's chest. It hasn't been long, but already he's gotten used to them being around twenty-four seven. They've become a lifeline for him—and May too, for that matter. Peter can't even begin to imagine where they would be right now if not for the family's kindness.

“Don't worry,” May reassures. “I'm sure Tony and Pepper will work something out.” 

But that's the thing, isn't it? The Starks—and May—have been working things out ever since Peter was in the hospital, doing so much for him. Mr. Stark has been working tirelessly trying to perfect the prosthetic arm for Peter. It's not fair of him to ask for this on top of everything else.

His aunt must notice the frown on his face, because her brow puckers, too. “What's wrong? You having second thoughts already?”

Peter shakes his head. “No…I just don't want to make things harder on anyone—”

“Nope.” May holds up a finger. “You're not allowed to worry about that.”

“May—”

“I'm serious, kiddo. That's not something you need to be thinking about. Let us adults handle the logistics.”

“It just feels selfish to ask everyone to rearrange their lives just so I can go back to school,” Peter says, glancing out into the yard and watching the few fireflies that are already starting to appear. Everyone has already given up so much of their time and energy for his sake. And for what? Peter isn't their responsibility, not really.

But May isn't having any of it. “First of all,” she tells him, “asking to go back to school is not a selfish request. And besides, even if it was—you saved the universe; I think you're entitled to be a little selfish every now and again, huh?” She nudges Peter gently, forcing a small smile out of him. “We'll talk to Tony and Pepper about it and go from there, okay?”

“Okay,” he acquiesces, even though he still isn't entirely confident. But it's not like school starts tomorrow, and nothing is officially decided yet anyway. They'll figure it out, and he can change his mind if it seems like it will be too difficult to get him back at Midtown.

“Guess I'd better go back in,” Peter says, swatting at a mosquito buzzing by his ear. “Before Morgan sends out a search party.”

May chuckles. “And you know Tony will be leading the charge.”

“Yeah.” Peter huffs a laugh, pulling himself to his feet.

“Oh, and Peter?”

He turns back to his aunt. “Yeah?”

“I'm really proud of you.” She stands and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. “You're amazing.”

“Thanks, May,” Peter whispers, hugging her back with his arm. “Love you.”

Chapter Text

“Nervous, buddy?” Mr. Stark is looking at him over his shoulder, fingers tapping in rapid succession against the steering wheel of the car. Midtown High lingers threateningly in the background outside the window.

“I think you're more nervous than Peter is, honey,” Pepper interjects, amusement coloring her tone.

Indeed, the man looks more stressed than Peter ever remembers seeing him before—and Mr. Stark has been in some seriously stressful situations. He attributes it to the fact that they're going to drop Morgan off for her first day of pre-K after this. Although Mr. Stark has clearly been trying to hold it together all morning, “nervous wreck” is putting it mildly.

“You know you didn't all have to come drop me off,” Peter says with a groan, sliding down in his seat and covering his face. He sincerely hopes none of his classmates see this.

“Of course we did,” May says brightly. “It is the first day of school, after all.”

Peter groans again. He's seventeen years old; the last thing he needs is three adults and a four-year-old bringing him to school. It was bad enough that they'd forced him to take a million and one first day of school pictures before they'd left the apartment, which was nothing short of embarrassing. The only thing that kept Peter from hiding behind his hoodie or flat out refusing to participate is the fact that Morgan was also included in the photos, since she's starting school today as well. Not to mention that May can be very convincing when she wants to be—though he did draw the line at their idea of making him hold up a sign with “first day of 11th grade” written on it. 

“It's technically my second first day of 11th grade,” he'd pointed out at breakfast. (Since Midtown is making him start junior year over again.)

But none of the adults had seemed cowed by his verbal expression of teenage exasperation, May and Pepper too busy gushing over how adorable Morgan looked in her sparkly pink top and oversized hair bow, and how “cute” she and Peter looked in all the pictures they'd taken together. He's pretty sure he'd heard something about a photo album.

“You're just lucky I didn't take Happy up on his offer to drive us all,” Mr. Stark says, his voice tight despite the clear attempt at lightening the mood. “He was pretty insistent.”

Peter winces. The car is nice and roomy, but there’s definitely not room for another person, and he is not fond of the idea of having to show up to school in a limo or something extravagant like that. “Oh, that was really nice of him to offer. I kinda think four people is more than enough of a farewell party, though.”

“Do you need help with anything, Peter?” Pepper asks kindly.

“Nope, I've got it,” Peter replies, grabbing his backpack up off the floorboards and slinging it over his left shoulder as he fumbles for the door handle, letting himself out of the car.

He takes a second to orient himself. There are kids everywhere, milling about outside of the school, hugging their parents at their cars, making their way inside. Everything seems a little more chaotic than the usual first day of school—which makes sense in light of the circumstances. He wonders what it's like for all the students who are used to half the amount of commotion on the first day of school. There are so many people here he doesn't recognize.

“Are you sure you don't want me to walk you in?” May asks, frowning at the buzzing crowd beyond the car.

Peter glances back at his aunt who looks one hundred percent ready to jump out of the vehicle at a moment's notice, not even trying to hide the horrified expression on his face. “No—nope. I'm good. Seriously, I’ll be fine.”

“Call if you need anything,” Mr. Stark instructs, window rolled down. He licks his lips. “And hey, if you decide it's too much, you want to leave and try again next—”

“I'm gonna be fine,” Peter promises again. Even as the words leave his mouth, butterflies flutter traitorously in the pit of his stomach. He double checks that his right shirt sleeve is firmly and neatly pinned in place. “Do I look okay?”

“You look great,” May tells him from the back seat, giving a thumbs-up.

“You do,” Pepper echoes with a nod.

“Have a good day, all right?” May winks at him. “I love you. Go kick some butt.”

“Bye, Peter!” Morgan calls, waving aggressively. “Have fun at school!”

He smiles. “Thanks, Mo, you too. Pre-K is not ready for you.” He hears Mr. Stark snort, though the sound is a little strained. In hindsight, he's glad they're dropping him off first so he doesn't have to witness Mr. Stark's inevitable breakdown when they leave Morgan at preschool. He's pretty sure the man has rigged up some sort of security camera system or something in the classroom and has about twenty bodyguards surrounding the girl's new school, and he may just try to sit outside the building all day anyway—just in case.

Before any of them can keep the goodbyes going for another ten minutes—or try to convince him it's okay if he's changed his mind—Peter gives a final wave and turns to make his way up the steps to the front of the school.

He stares at the building looming in front of him and takes a deep breath to steady himself. I can do this. 

It's just school. He's faced much worse. If he can fight aliens, he can certainly handle eleventh grade for the second time.

Right?

***

Tony is stressed. 

Letting both kids go back to school on the same day is probably one of the dumbest decisions he's ever made. They've taken every precaution in the book, as Pepper keeps reminding him, and logically there's no reason to be worried.

He worries anyway. It's part of his DNA, hardwired into the core of his being. Always has been. Protect protect protect. His analytical mind searches out every possible way things could go wrong, and Tony's a fixer, so he needs a solution to every one of them before his mind can rest. Even then, it's difficult to calm the thoughts.

It was hard enough the first time they'd left Morgan with a babysitter as an infant—Happy, at that. Now, having Peter and Morgan out of sight, with strangers, and not within several miles of him at the same time? His jaw is clenched so tightly it hurts.

Okay, so maybe he has a problem.

Tony releases a breath. It's fine. Peter is a big boy. It's not like Tony hovered over him this much back when the kid was out doing his thing as Spider-Man, or even coming over regularly for his internship.

But that was before. Before Tony realized how much he liked having the kid around. Before Peter died. Before he came back and then nearly died again, in an irreversible kind of way. Now all Tony wants is to make sure the kid is safe. He's trying not to be too overprotective—even though he wants to just keep the kid locked up in the house where nothing and no one can ever hurt him again. Pep has told him that's not healthy, and he knows. But hang it all if he doesn't just want to wrap Peter in bubble wrap and sit on him like a mother goose on her nest.

He won't lie and say he was thrilled when Peter first came to him and brought up his desire to return to the city for the new school year. Tony's first question had been something along the lines of “are you sure that's what you want to do?” There must have been a little too much doubt in his tone and expression, because the kid had immediately clammed up and shrugged, muttering something about how it wasn't a big deal if it wouldn't work out.

It isn't that he didn't want Peter to go back to school. In fact, he was glad to hear that the kid wasn't still trying to hide away from the world—as he has every right to do if he wants. Tony just…has some complicated feelings about it all. Plus, he was kind of hoping the prosthetic would be completed and ready before school was even a possibility again, but the whole process is moving much slower than he'd like.

But at the end of the day, he wants Peter to be happy, and if going back to Midtown will help the kid achieve that, well, then Tony certainly won't argue about it.

Pepper had also brought up the point that before all of this—meaning before time travel was even a remote possibility floating around—they had been throwing around the idea of moving back to the city during the summer in order to send Morgan to school in the fall. So after an overload of discussions, schedule arrangements, and forms to fill out, the Starks and the Parkers had packed their bags and left for New York City for what they've deemed a “trial period.” Their city penthouse has more than enough room for all of them, though Tony still regrets selling the Avengers Tower all those years ago.

They were a little worried the change would be a bit much for Morgan, who has already been dealing with so much upheaval in her life over the past several months, but she seems to be taking it all in stride. Spending time here and there in the city on a semi-regular basis made the transition somewhat smoother, too, since the four-year-old already has her own room in the penthouse and is familiar with it as a home. Not to mention she has been begging to go to school since forever—Miss Independent had practically told them to get lost when they dropped her off this morning. Was it really just this morning? Feels like it's been two days.

Tony glances up at the clock hanging on the wall. Still three more hours before they have to leave to pick the kids up.

He tries to ignore the anxiety eating at his gut and goes back to working on Peter's prosthetic arm.

***

Five years is a long time. This is a fact that Peter has repeatedly had the opportunity to learn in the last month. 

Most changes are gradual, unnoticeable because of how slowly they occur. Life moves on day by day, and then eventually you look back and realize how different your life looks than it did half a decade ago. 

With Thanos, Peter—and fifty percent of the universe's population—didn’t get that luxury. In the blink of an eye, all those changes were immediate. The upheaval caused by the Snaps only contributed to the craziness and dramatization of it all. 

As a result of this—perhaps unknowingly—Peter has put up a wall in an attempt to protect himself from any more trauma. If he assumes that everything that used to be is different now, the new stuff won't catch him by surprise. That goes for everything, big and little. Expect the unexpected, right? 

So for that reason, Peter is entirely prepared to walk into a completely different school than he has been for the last two and a half years.

In reality, not much has changed about Midtown. Everything looks more or less the same; they remodeled the bathrooms—something that had been needing to be done since Peter was a freshman—and some of the classrooms have a new set up, but otherwise nothing is really all that different.

Despite the familiarity he finds within the walls of the school, there's an uncomfortable sense of something isn't quite right tingling at the back of Peter's neck as he stands in front of his new locker, juggling books and binders. There's a buzz of excitement and nervousness echoing throughout the halls as students mingle and prepare for their first day of classes. Some of them are crying and hugging friends who were also Blipped that they haven't seen in months—technically years. Maybe he's just picking up on that. Although the Midtown buildings themselves haven't experienced much change, the people within them have. With more or less than half of the students being snapped away and others continuing their education, moving on, and new highschoolers taking their places, there are a lot of new faces around.

The butterflies in Peter's stomach jolt again.

“Peter!”

A sudden weight is lifted from his hand, just in time to keep the stack of books from topping to the floor—which would have been extremely embarrassing, to say the least.

Peter breathes a sigh of relief, emotion welling up his chest as he looks up to see Ned in front of him. “Hey.”

Ned sets the books down inside the locker and immediately pulls Peter into a bone-crushing hug.

Peter hugs his friend back just as tightly, thankful once again that they get to be back at school together. Even better, they have pretty much the exact same class schedule. At least he isn't alone in the midst of these new, uncharted waters.

“Okay, this is officially so weird,” Ned says after they finally pull apart, glancing around the hall. “I can't believe we were gone for five years.”

Tell me about it. “I can't believe we're starting junior year over,” Peter adds.

“Oh yeah, that too.” Ned huffs and begins helping Peter shove his necessary books back into his bag. “So dumb. Like, this is a STEM school. You would think we're smart enough to just get moved up to the senior class.”

“Right?”

The two of them gather up their things and begin making their way to their first class of the day. Peter keeps his head down as he chats and walks with Ned, but he's not immune to the constant double takes he's getting from the other students. It's been like this ever since he first walked through the doors. It's only natural to be curious, he knows, but the constant attention still puts a knot in his chest and has him analyzing his own every move.

To their credit, most of his classmates ignore the missing arm and scarred face—or at least are gracious enough not to mention it, even if their gazes linger a little longer than necessary—greeting Peter the same as everyone else as they file into the classroom and find their seats. Others are not so subtle.

“Peter!” Betty Brant comes to a halt next to his desk. “Oh my gosh, you and Ned were Blipped, too!” She gasps, eyes widening and hand rising to cover her mouth. “What…what happened to your arm? Are you okay?”

Peter's cover story is that he was injured in an accident upon reappearing. They figured most people would be conscious enough to recognize the trauma the Blipped went through that no one would press him for detailed information on exactly where and when he dusted and what happened when he reappeared. Still, Betty's rapid fire questions catch him off guard; the sudden attention on his missing arm making him uneasy.

“I—I’m fine,” he stutters out. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Did it happen when you came back?” she asks, a little softer, gaze lingering on his right cheek where the scarring is.

Peter just nods. 

“That's crazy. I'm so sorry,” she says, mouth turning downward in a frown.

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says awkwardly, but his mouth has gone dry. It's too early to call Mr. Stark to pick him up, isn't it?

No, Peter is fine. He can get through this. It's not a big deal—he was prepared for the stares and the questions. But something about the pitying look that appears in Betty's eyes as she looks at him is just almost too much to handle. It's not the first time he's experienced it—there were definitely a few nurses in Wakanda and even a couple of Avengers at the memorial service who looked at him similarly—but it is the first time someone he actually knows beyond a basic introduction has directed it his way.

He tries to remember what Mr. Stark told him a few days ago when they were messing around in the garage how even though they mean well, a lot of people don't know how to respond to situations like his. That often makes them say or do—in his words—things that are “extremely dumb.”

Betty reaches out and lays her hand against his left arm, voice overly-sympathetic. “Well, if you ever need anything, we're all here for you.”

Peter nods again in thanks, half-wondering if his “story” will end up on the Midtown news program in the next few days. He hopes Betty doesn’t ask him for an interview. 

If only his school knew what really happened to him.

Despite the semi-rocky start, the first part of the day moves by at a fairly quick pace. Not much schoolwork happens. The teachers are busy droning on and on about the aftereffects of the Blip, introducing the old and new students—or new and old?—to one another and reminding them of the importance of respecting others' feelings in this new situation. Peter wonders if any of his new peers—who were ten or eleven during his last school year—align themselves with the Thanos Was Right movement. It's probably nothing to worry about, but it puts him on edge nonetheless.

In third period—chemistry—Peter arrives to class early. It feels safer somehow, having others walk in after he's already seated, rather than walking in the room later and all eyes turning on him. Plus, he's been trying to give himself extra time in case it takes longer to get himself settled and set up for each class. Digging through his backpack and supplies with only one hand is much more time-consuming than it would seem.

He pulls out his brand new notebook and flips open the front cover. His tablet sits next to it—May and Mr. Stark had a meeting with his principal to discuss Peter's situation and accessibility options for him during the year. One of those allowances was permission for him to keep a tablet with him for taking notes or recording lectures in class, since it’s a little easier than trying to hurriedly write down a lot of information at once with his non-dominant hand. Peter is grateful, but at the same time embarrassed, because all of it is yet another reminder of how different he is now. Damaged.

Still, he wants to try to keep as many regular notes as possible, and his left hand isn't cramping yet. So he quickly scribbles out his name, class, and the date on the first page of the notebook. 

Peter Parker, AP Chemistry—

He pauses, staring down blankly at his paper and the sloppy 2018 that he'd written unthinkingly. With a sigh, he scratches it out and rewrites 2023.

“Hey.”

Peter startles at the sudden voice, jolting in his seat as he looks up. His gaze meets MJ’s, and he sucks in a breath. She looks about the same as the last time he saw her; her hair is down and she's wearing a light purple blouse with her black jeans and Converse.

“MJ, hey!” he says, stumbling over the words. “How, uh, how are you?”

“All right.” She shrugs, hugging her book to her chest. “Guess it goes without saying that you were a victim of the Blip, too.”

Peter places his pencil down and scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

MJ rocks back on her heels, her sharp, observant gaze drifting over him. “Are you okay?”

For some reason, the way she asks feels different. More like how May or Ned or the Starks talk to him. Like she actually cares, and she's not asking solely in reference to his missing limb. “Uh, yeah.” He grabs unconsciously at his right shoulder. “I mean, this sucks, but—”

“You're alive.”

Peter blinks. “Yeah…yeah. I'm alive.”

MJ hums. “I'm glad.”

“Me too?”

“You sound real sure of that.”

Unsure how to respond and confused by the way his tongue suddenly seems to be tied, he manages a, “I'm really glad you're alive, too, MJ.”

She presses her lips together in a small smile. “Thanks.”

Peter smiles back.

By the time lunch rolls around, Peter is feeling equally exhausted and relieved. Overall, things are going pretty well, considering he wasn't really sure what to expect. He hasn't even experienced much phantom pain this morning, which is a huge win.

The bustling cafeteria is a little overwhelming at first, with all its noises and smells. Because sensory overloads have been more common since his encounter with the Infinity Stones and he doesn't want to go home from his first day of school with a raging headache, Peter opts to sit at a table in the far corner of the room to avoid most of the hubbub. Plus, this way, less people are likely to see him and come try to ask about his amputated arm.

Ned sits with him, the two teenage boys digging into their lunch like ravenous wolves as they simultaneously chat.

“So, how's the new place?” his friend asks.

“It's…nice.” It's not really new; Peter had been there before, back before Thanos. It does look different now, with one of the three guest rooms having been turned into a bedroom for Morgan, and the rest of the penthouse redecorated—much homier looking than Peter remembers it. Still, it's nothing like his and May's old apartment.

“Not the same as your other place,” Ned says, echoing Peter's thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“I get it. We're living with my Lola now ‘cause the house got sold after…well, you know. It's one thing visiting her house, but it's another thing staying permanently. It's all right though,” he rambles. “We have a place to live, and some of my stuff got saved. So I really can't complain.”

“That’s good,” Peter says. He and May got extremely lucky, too. So many people didn't—whole families who Blipped and came back to no home, their personal belongings thrown out or sold.

When Peter first woke up and found out what happened, he'd assumed the same would be true for himself and his aunt. And the thought stung, sure, but he was just grateful May was okay. Then, to his surprise, the Starks informed them that they had packed up the Parkers’ apartment after the first Snap and put a lot of their things away in storage.

Peter didn't ask why, but he wondered. Did Mr. Stark always hold out hope that they'd come back one day? What's more—what made him do that? Sure, Peter was his intern, but to go through such lengths and pay the rent on a storage building for years just to keep a dead kid's clothes and trinkets?

He still isn't sure what to make of that.

His phone buzzes with a notification, and he glances down to see it's a text from Mr. Stark, checking in to see how the day is going so far. It’s the third one today.

Next to him, Ned lets out a short gasp. “Dude!”

“What?”

Ned just gestures exaggeratedly at the phone. “Mr. Stark just texted you!”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says slowly. “And you do remember I'm living with him right now, right?”

“I know! It's amazing. Well, not amazing that you have to live with him because you don't have your apartment anymore, and because you lost your arm saving the world, but—”

“Ned,” Peter hisses, whacking his friend on the arm and glancing around to make sure no one nearby heard the last part of that sentence.

“Sorry,” Ned says in a too-loud whisper. “But this is great. It's almost like he's texting me, too.”

“Ned, this is a text. You met Mr. Stark in person when you came over for my birthday.”

“I remember—it was the best day of my life. But like, come on. Do you realize how crazy it is that Tony Stark is just casually checking up on you at school?”

Peter shrugs, using his thumb to slowly tap out a response. In some ways he's gotten so used to being around the man that it doesn't even register that his childhood hero has basically become his…landlord? Pseudo-guardian? Sugar mentor? But other times, like Ned, he still gets stuck on the fact that he knows Iron Man on a personal level, and it baffles him that the man is doing so much to help Peter get back on his feet—including building a fully functional, probably multi-million dollar prosthetic arm for him.

“Okay, but wait—speaking of Mr. Stark and your arm—when are you actually getting your prosthetic?” Ned asks eagerly. “Because you know all the chicks will be swooning over the guy with the metal arm. And since I'll be the guy with the metal arm’s best friend and wingman…”

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Okay, first of all, nobody is going to be swooning over my arm.” He takes a sip of water. “And it'll probably be at least a few more weeks before it's ready.” Not only that, but he has to have a procedure done first for an internal base that will serve as an anchor for the prosthetic. It’ll surgically integrate the artificial limb with his residual bone, nerves, and muscle tissue to make it adaptable for long-term use. He has a consultation appointment with the doctor next week to determine if he's ready for that.

“Well, I can't wait to see it,” Ned says with a firm nod, not seeming to notice the hesitant undertone in his friend's voice.

So he just smiles and asks, “You wanna see it now?”

“Um, Peter, is that even a question? Yes, I want to see it!”

Peter quickly scrolls back through his texts and pulls up a picture of the arm's most recent schematics and prototype Mr. Stark had sent to him, flipping his phone around to show his friend.

Ned’s eyes nearly pop out of his head at the sight of the detailed diagram. “That is literally so awesome,” he breathes. “You'll be like a cyborg. Or the Six Million Dollar Man. Or, dude—Luke Skywalker! Heck, yeah!”

Peter rolls his eyes but can't help but chuckle at Ned’s enthusiasm. “It has all the same joints as a real arm and everything,” he explains, pointing out several features of the design. It's hard to deny the impressiveness of it. “So it should function just the same.”

“So awesome. Sometimes I can't believe we live in a world where cybernetic arms are reality. Like, imagine this was in the eighteen hundreds. You'd have to be like…I don’t know, Captain Hook or something.”

Peter lifts his stump. “...Or I'd just have no arm.”

“Right, yeah, or that. That's super cool too.”

Is it though?

The warning bell rings, and everyone begins to gather up their bags and empty lunch trays. As he throws his trash away, Peter watches as Flash Thompson—who has, surprisingly, not said a word to him yet today—skirts past on his way out of the cafeteria.

Ned’s eyes follow after the other boy. “Oh—you are doing Decathlon this year, right? Please tell me yes,” he begs. “Because no offense, but I do not want to be stuck with Flash on the main team.”

Peter blinks. He hasn't even considered extracurriculars; going back to school at all seemed like a big enough hurdle. “What about the current team?” He imagines having to compete for a spot against some kids who were literally ten years old when he used to be there.

“Oh, it sounds like Midtown hasn't really had much of a team for the past five years.”

“Wait, seriously?” 

“Yeah, since basically the whole team…disappeared, they didn't have many students to fill the gaps once school started back again. There's like, two or three people who have been competing the past couple of years. I guess Mr. Harrington was trying to build it back up again. Same thing happened to a lot of other schools.”

That makes sense; with only half the amount of students, filling up clubs and extracurricular activities would be a much more difficult task. Huh.

“So you're gonna come, right, Peter?” Ned presses.

“Well…” Peter hesitates. It's not like not having an arm is going to affect his brain smarts or ability to compete. At least Decathlon isn't a physical sport. “Are they starting practice today?”

“I think it's just more of a ‘hey guys, haven't seen you all in five years so let's get ourselves together’ kind of meeting.”

“I'll come,” Peter agrees, figuring it won't hurt. Got to get back to normal, right?

Chapter Text

“Okay, remember, there's leftover pizza in the fridge in case you don't get enough to eat—”

There's definitely no cause for concern there; the delivery driver that just dropped off their dinner brought three times the amount of food Peter would normally eat, even with his enhanced metabolism.

“—and do not open the door for any strangers, should one happen to find their way up here.”

They won't, considering it's a private floor of a private building with about a hundred and ten security features.

“You have our phone numbers, so if you need anything, call—”

“Mr. Stark, we'll be fine. I promise.”

The man doesn't look entirely convinced, and Peter tries to brush off the way it stings, even if he knows the over-the-topness is not meant in a belittling way. He'd already gotten a version of the same whole spiel from May and Pepper just a few hours earlier before they'd headed out to their manicure appointment.

“You think they'd give me half price for mine?” Peter had asked May earlier, wiggling his fingers at her.

She still hasn't stopped laughing by the time they are walking out the door.

He trails Mr. Stark from the man's oversized master bathroom to his oversized walk-in closet and watches him rifle through his stash of ties. 

“I think Morgan and I can handle a few hours by ourselves,” Peter adds.

“Uh-huh.” He's definitely not listening.

Peter’s phone vibrates, and he glances at the new notification. “Happy says to hurry up or he'll leave you behind.”

“He won't. Besides, we're running early. We'll be there with plenty of time to spare.”

“Since when do you care about being on time?”

“Since dates became a rarity four and a half years ago.”

That's…fair enough. Peter sighs heavily, letting himself sink to the carpeted floor in slightly dramatic fashion, folding his legs up into a criss-cross position and sinking his chin into his hand.

Mr. Stark finally turns around, tie in hand. His eyes narrow as his gaze lands on the teenager sitting directly behind him like a duckling that he’s imprinted on. “Pete? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm good. Great.”

The answer must have come out way too quick and stuttered, because Mr. Stark hums and says, “This isn't about your aunt and Happy, is it?”

“What? No,” Peter protests immediately.

“You know you can talk to me. Anything you say stays between us.” He mimes zipping his lips.

But Peter shakes his head. “Seriously, Mr. Stark, I don't mind it. There are definitely worse guys out there than Happy.”

Mr. Stark laughs out loud at that. 

“And anyway, it's good that May…it's good that she's happy.” She's been so focused on him lately; she needs to get out and have some fun. A double date with the Starks seems like the perfect solution.

“I see what you did there.”

Peter groans and slaps his hand to his face. He means what he said, though. Sure, it's a little weird to see his aunt dating—however new and unofficial it may be—but Peter can't find it in himself to be upset about it. May has had several years to grieve Uncle Ben, and if she thinks she's ready to take the next step of moving on by inserting herself back into the dating world, then who is he to intervene? She deserves to be happy in a relationship. Peter knows she wouldn't make any big or life-altering decisions without talking with him about it all first. Besides that, he trusts May’s judgment, and Happy is a good guy.

“Also, yes—of course I trust you with Morgan. Just don't let her give you the runaround with bedtime. She's an expert at negotiation. I'm convinced she’ll be in sales one day.”

Peter has no doubts that the girl could double SI’s revenue in a year. He snorts. “Then you'd better hope she decides to stay in the family business.”

Mr. Stark shrugs. “I've got options,” he says evasively, leaving Peter to ponder what that could possibly mean as he continues, “And for the love of everything, do not let her watch Peppa Pig.”

A smile creeps across Peter's face at the disgust practically dripping from the man's tone. “Wait, does she say you look like Daddy Pi—”

“Not another word, Underoos, or I will cancel the Netflix subscription.” Mr. Stark finishes adjusting his tie with a flourish and heads for the elevator, Peter at his heels.

“Can you please do the thing—you know, when Peppa says ‘this is Daddy Pig’ and—”

“Shut up,” Mr. Stark says with no heat, slipping his phone and wallet into his pocket. “And be good. Call if you need anything.” He pulls Peter in for a hug, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter waves him away, despite the way his heart jumps at the gentle gesture. “Have fun.”

“Yep. Maguna!” the man calls to the girl sitting on the couch, fully invested in the puzzle laid out on the coffee table in front of her. “Come say goodbye to Dad.”

Morgan slides off the cushions, socked feet pitter-pattering on the floor as she hurries over. She's already in her pajamas, relieving Peter of bath time duty later.

Her dark eyes scan her dad up and down. “You're finally leaving?”

Mr. Stark feigns offense. “Finally?” he says. “You wound me, munchkin. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been waiting for me to leave.”

“Peter and I are going to play after you go,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Fine, fine. I can tell when I'm not wanted. I'll be going now.”

“Bye!” Morgan says enthusiastically, throwing her arms around her dad's legs—and then practically shoving him into the elevator. “I love you.”

“Love you, too. Be good for Peter, okay?” 

“I will,” she promises.

The elevator doors slide shut, and Peter releases a breath. It's the first time he's really not been around other adults in…a long time. He's babysitting, so he has to be responsible and show everyone he's capable despite his new disability. He can do this.

“Ready for dinner?” he asks.

Morgan nods. “Yeah, I'm hungry!”

Step one to being a successful babysitter (according to Peter and Ned’s most recent text conversation): feed the child.

They eat dinner together, half of Morgan's food ending up on the table, her chair, and the floor. She chatters more than she eats, regaling Peter with the latest updates on her little preschool friends and the stuff they're learning in class.

“And we get to do Show and Tell next week!” she says eagerly, shoveling another forkful of pasta into her mouth. “I wanted to bring you, but my teacher said it had to be something small enough to carry.” The girl looks a bit put out.

“You wanted me to be your Show and Tell?” Peter asks, trying to cover up the incredulity in his voice. “Why?”

She gives him a duh face. “Because you’re awesome. I already told all my friends about you, so maybe if I brought you, it's only for the show part and not the tell.”

Morgan knows he's Spider-Man from stories Mr. Stark evidently told her back before the Blipped came back, but she's still a little young to truly connect the dots enough to expose anything to anyone. Still, Peter doesn't want to take any chances. “Oh, yeah? What did you tell them?”

“That you're old, like almost a grown-up.” Morgan giggles. 

Peter grins in return, shaking his head. “I'm not that old.”

“Older than me.” She squints at him for a moment before returning to her food. “And I told them that you're my brother. Big brother, ‘cause since you're older than me.”

The words are so casual that it takes a moment for them to register. Peter freezes, his cup of water halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You're older than me,” she repeats, “because I'm four and a half, and you're…”

“Six—seventeen,” Peter supplies, brain on autopilot as he tries to process what she just said.

“Seventeen. That's bigger than four, so it means you're my big brother and not my little brother. But—but if Mommy had a baby, then I'd have a little brother. Or a sister if it's a girl.”

“Who told you I was your brother?”

Morgan cocks her head like she doesn't understand the question. “You live with us.”

“I know, but—”

“You're my brother.”

“I'm not—”

“Yes, you are. I'm gonna bring Oreo for Show and Tell,” she decides, ignoring the question and completely oblivious to Peter's current…crisis? “I think my friends will like that.” 

“Wait, Morgan—who said I was your big brother?” Peter presses, wondering where on earth she would have gotten that idea. Maybe from one of her shows? It must be confusing, having some random kid and his aunt come to live with you all of a sudden—

“Um, the grown-ups,” Morgan says, distracted by the single noodle evading her kid-sized fork prongs. “Can we go play now? I'm finished.”

Peter desperately wants to keep interrogating the girl for answers, but he knows he won't get anything straightforward from her at the moment. “Yeah, if you're finished eating.”

“I am!”

Once the table is cleared and the floor quickly swept—a joint effort since it's surprisingly difficult to use a broom with one hand—the two relocate to the living area to begin working through the stack of books Morgan had pulled out earlier. It's barely six-thirty, but the sooner she starts to wind down for bed, the better. Thankfully, she loves reading time.

Even as he reads, doing animated voices through each page, Peter's thoughts remain on that startling title the girl had used to refer to him earlier. He would definitely remember if she had called him that before, right? Is this a recent thing? Maybe Pepper told her that to simplify things regarding the two new people living with them—yes, essentially as part of their family. That makes sense; he could see Pepper saying that. And Morgan does usually refer to May as “Aunt May.” It's a way to explain an unconventional situation to a child who can't necessarily comprehend the full details.

So Peter tucks that information away for now, filing it away in a corner of his mind to possibly bring up to May or Pepper or Mr. Stark later. Although…he doesn't really want to see their reactions in case none of them did actually tell Morgan that he was her brother. That would be awkward. Maybe she'll say it in front of one of them one day, and he can gauge their response to it then.

“Peter,” Morgan says suddenly, drawing his attention back to the book sitting in his lap. 

Whoops. “Sorry,” he apologizes, searching to find his place again to continue reading.

She points at one of the words printed in large font on the page. “That says ‘run.’”

“Yeah, it does. Good job, Mo!” Peter tells her proudly, ruffling her dark hair.

Morgan beams and lifts her hand. “Lucky fin,” she says, tapping her knuckles against the stump of Peter's arm in their own little version of a fist bump.

“You're getting so good at reading words.”

“I'm learning it at school. We do lots of letters and sounds.”

“Yep.” Peter nods. “You're going to be reading all these books by yourself pretty soon.”

“Nooo,” she says, drawing out the word into several syllables. “I like when you and Mommy and Daddy and Aunt May read to me better.”

“Well, I'll still read to you even after you can,” Peter promises.

“Okay,” Morgan responds easily, eyes returning to the colorful illustrations on the page. “Can we keep reading now?”

After the last book is finished and deposited on the coffee table, Morgan sighs, wiggling to get into a more comfortable position on Peter's lap. She leans back against his chest.

“Almost ready for bed?” he asks her, even though another glance at the clock tells him it's still a little early for bedtime.

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. 

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Her small hand slips upward to caress the stump of Peter's arm ever so gently, fingers dancing lightly across the smooth edge of the limb’s shrinker sock as she often likes to do. “Will your arm ever grow back?” she questions innocently, craning her neck in order to see his face. “Like my tooth I lost?”

Peter blinks. “Um—no, arms…they don't work the same way as teeth do. But when I get my prosthetic, it will be kind of like a new arm.”

Morgan's nose wrinkles. “What's a…pros—prosthetic?”

Carefully shifting the girl around so she's sitting backward on his lap, face to face, Peter tries to explain, “Well, when somebody loses an arm or a leg, they can get one that's made out of, like, metal.” He hopes that's adequate for a four-year-old. He knows she's seen the schematics of the arm Mr. Stark has been toiling away at creating. “Remember the picture your dad showed you the other day?”

“Oh, yeah! So you get a new arm?”

“Mhm.”

“But why do you need that?”

“Because.” Peter considers that for a few seconds, turning the question over in his mind a few times before he answers. “There are a lot of things that are kind of hard for me to do with only one arm. So this will help me do those things again.”

“Like opening the pickle jar?”

Peter snorts a small laugh. “Yeah, like that.”

“And maybe…clapping?” Morgan claps her own hands together a couple of times.

“That too.”

“That will be good then, when you have the new arm. Then you can sing If You're Happy and You Know It!”

While one of the biggest reasons for wanting the prosthetic is Spider-Man—and the independence that will come with being able to do so much more on his own, or at least, complete a plethora of tasks more easily—Peter can't help but admire the simplicity of a child's thoughts on the matter. “Will…will you like me better with two arms?” he can't help but ask, the question finding its way out without thought. He prays FRIDAY isn't listening in or recording or something. That would be embarrassing. Yet he finds himself leaning in, awaiting the answer.

Morgan tilts her head, regarding him seriously, a thoughtful frown puckering her face. “I think I like you without two arms or with two arms. It doesn't matter.”

Peter tries to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat, the casual sentence causing his stomach to flutter with unexpected emotion. “Thanks, Mo,” he whispers.

She stares at him for a second. “Do you need a hug?” she asks, eyes narrowing in an expression not dissimilar to one of Pepper's. She doesn't wait for a response before she wiggles to sit up taller and throws her small arms around his neck.

Peter wraps his arm around her in return, making sure not to squeeze too tightly. 

“You give good hugs with one arm,” she remarks, and Peter chuckles, noting how she didn't use the delimiter of “only one arm.”

“Thank you,” he says again.

He's about to suggest they pick up the books and turn on a movie—a sure-fire way to get Morgan to sleep within the hour—when his ears pick up the steadily climbing whirr of the elevator. The sound reaches him a second later than it would have in the past, giving him just enough time to register that someone is approaching the penthouse before the doors open with a tiny hiss.

The only thing that keeps Peter from latching onto Morgan and leaping to the ceiling is the fact that his spider sense remains silent—and FRIDAY would only ever let anyone on the very short list of approval upstairs without notice.

“Uncle Rhodey!” Morgan cheers as she peers over the back of the couch. She scrambles down and runs over to greet the man.

“Hey, munchkin,” Rhodey returns, swinging the girl up in his arms for a hug. 

Morgan is already chattering away. “Uncle Rhodey, did you know Petey is getting a pros—pros—”

“Prosthetic,” Peter supplies automatically, still processing the arrival of their surprise visitor. His good mood drops a few notches. Did they really not trust him to be alone with Morgan for even a few short hours?

“Prosthetic arm,” Morgan finishes. “And it's so he can have two hands and be able to clap.”

Rhodey’s eyes widen dramatically. “Really?” he says with a grin. “That’s great. Clapping is definitely an important activity.” He moves further into the penthouse and sets Morgan down, turning to wink at the teenager on the couch. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hi. What, um, what are you doing here? Not that you can't be here, of course,” Peter adds hurriedly so as not to sound rude. “But…did Mr. Stark send you? Because—we're fine.”

His tone must come off more defensive than planned, if the way Rhodey raises his eyebrows is any indication. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by.”

To be fair, Rhodey has done that once or twice since they've moved back to the city. Peter doesn't think the man would lie to him, but it is awfully coincidental that he showed up tonight while the adults were all gone to dinner.

Rhodey glances around the penthouse’s open floor plan. “Tony's not here?”

“No, he's out,” Peter says slowly. “He didn't tell you?”

“Kid, Tony and I are best friends, but I'm lucky if that guy remembers to text me once a week to let me know he's still alive, much less his evening plans.” Rhodey snorts.

“...Oh.” 

Tired of the likely “boring” conversation, Morgan interrupts with, “What's in there?” as she points to the grocery bag dangling from Rhodey's hand. 

“Ah, this? Just some cookies for you guys.”

Morgan squints. “Chocolate chip?”

“Chocolate chip,” Rhodey confirms.

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. According to Mr. Stark, the man seems to think it's his mission in life to spoil Morgan. Ever since she was born, he's never shown up to see the Starks empty-handed. Funnily enough, ever since arriving back in the States, the colonel hasn't ever come over without bringing something for Peter, too.

“Ooh, can I have one now? Please, please, please?” Morgan asks, all big eyes and pouty lips.

Rhodey’s gaze shifts from the girl over to Peter. “It sounds like Pete here is in charge tonight, so I think you need to ask him if that's okay first.”

Surprised by the deferral, Peter blinks and nods. “Uh, sure—just one though, Mo. It's almost bedtime.” And a sugar rush at this hour is the last thing they need.

The girl squeals her thanks, taking the offered package of cookies from her uncle and racing over to the coffee table in front of Peter to open them, declining any offers of help.

While Morgan is occupied, Rhodey steps closer, arms coming to rest on the back of the couch as he leans casually against it. “So, it's just the two of you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, fiddling with the corner of the fancy throw pillow next to him. “The others went on a double date.”

Rhodey pauses. “Double date…wait—with May and Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Ha!” The man grins. “I knew it. Tony owes me twenty bucks.”

“Hold on, you guys were betting on my aunt and Happy?” Peter squeaks. He isn't sure how he should feel about that.

“Sorry, probably shouldn't have brought that one up in front of you.” Rhodey reaches out and gives his shoulder a gentle shake, still smiling. “How are you feeling about them two?”

Peter shrugs. “They seem good together.”

“If it makes you feel any better, we've known Happy for years. He's a great guy.”

Peter nods; he likes Happy. He really does. The man can be gruff sometimes, but he's a teddy bear on the inside. Ever since that time Peter sort-of-kind-of-not-really saved (crashed) his plane and foiled Toomes’ plan, Happy had been more open with him, actually responding to his texts and driving him to and from the compound and the penthouse without—too much—complaint. He and May get along well and it just works. Still, the budding relationship between his aunt and his mentor's bodyguard is yet another change in Peter's ever-changing life, so in some ways it's…a lot.

“Do you wanna stay for movie time, Uncle Rhodey?” Morgan pipes up, cookie crumbs spilling from her mouth as she speaks.

Peter wrinkles his nose.

“I'd love to, but I've got to get home,” Rhodey says, glancing down at his watch. “Maybe next time, okay?”

“Okay,” the girl agrees easily. “Peter, can we turn the movie on now?”

“Sure—but say goodbye to Uncle Rhodey first. And thank you for the cookies.”

“Okay!”

When he glances up, Rhodey looks absolutely delighted for some reason. 

After Morgan says her goodbyes and gets settled on the couch with her cookie and her stuffed puppy, Peter grabs the remote and puts on the TV before picking up the box of cookies and making his way to the kitchen to put them away. Rhodey trails after him, the smooth, near-silent mechanical whirr of his leg braces in sync with his steps.

“So—Tony’s got that arm just about ready for you, huh?”

Peter sets the cookies down on the counter and scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Uh, he probably told you, but we scheduled the procedure for the base for next week, so…”

“Wow.” Rhodey nods. “That's soon. You sure you're ready for it?”

His tone gives Peter pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it's a big decision, you know. Don't feel like you have to rush into it.”

“I know,” Peter says. May and Mr. Stark have both had this conversation with him—several times, in fact. There have been plenty of discussions on how the prosthetic will work, what the procedure for the base will mean for him; how if he needs more time to consider things, he can take it. Though it was clear they never really expected him to have any answer besides yes. Like maybe they think he's not adequate with only one arm, or too much of a burden.

The choice to get a prosthetic has much further-reaching implications than it might have in the past. Now, the kind of technology available allows a person to integrate their prosthetic as a part of them, connecting to nerves and muscles in a way that allows it to be completely controlled by the user through an implanted neural interface. It makes the artificial limb a hundred times more effective, essentially a full replacement for what's been lost—but it requires a higher level of commitment. 

Peter's decision to move forward with the surgery for the more or less permanent base isn't one that he took lightly. But in the end, he knows it's the only way to attain the goals in front of him. Being Spider-Man again, for one. Having the opportunity to live life and do all the things that require two hands. He knows he's capable of functioning with only one—the past month and a half have shown him that—but just because he can doesn't mean he has to.

Rhodey reaches out and clasps Peter's good shoulder. “I’m just saying, I know how Tony can be. He means well, but I don't want you to feel like he's pushing you into something that you're not completely sure of.”

Peter finds himself grateful for the man's thoughtfulness. “It's okay,” he assures with a small nod. “I’ve thought about it. I really want to do this.”

The good news is even once he gets the base, it doesn't mean he has to wear the prosthetic all the time. The implant is internal with a connection port that will be placed just about flush with his skin but under the surface, meaning it won’t even be noticeable should he choose not to use the prosthetic constantly.

“Okay. Good.” Rhodey gives him a gentle shake, his eyes wandering over Peter. His voice softens with his next words. “I’ve got to admit it, kid, I still can't believe you're here sometimes.”

Peter smiles, unsure how to respond. The two see each other more regularly now, but he barely spoke to Rhodey more than a few times back before he was Snapped away by Thanos. Still, he can imagine it must be weird to interact with someone who was technically dead for five years. Five years is a long time.

“Yeah,” he says softly, fingers sliding up his sleeve to fiddle with his shrinker sock.

But Rhodey isn't finished yet. “Tony…he really missed you, you know?”

Peter's heart clenches. Rhodey isn't the first one to tell him as much. Pepper, Happy…they've both made similar comments too, about how much he was missed for the last five years. It's comforting, in a way, but a hard concept to fathom. All of these people—some of whom are literal celebrities and superheroes—mourning his death. Did Mr. Stark cry over him? Did he feel the same type of earth-shattering grief Peter felt when his parents were ripped away from him—when Ben died?

No, no, definitely not.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to—” Rhodey roughly brushes his fingers across his eyes and clears his throat of lingering emotion. “Just—it’s good to have you back, Pete.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. And because he thinks they could both use it, he steps forward and wraps his arm around Rhodey.

The man's rigid posture relaxes with the sudden embrace, and he lifts his own arms to return the hug, patting Peter's back.

“Petey! Are you gonna come watch the movie with me?” Morgan's voice echoes from the other room.

Peter and Rhodey pull apart with a chuckle.

“Better let you get back to your babysitting duties,” Rhodey says.

“Thanks for coming by—and for the cookies.”

“Any time, kid. Tell your—tell the others I said hello. Whenever they decide to show up.”

Peter grins. “I will.”

“Peter!” Morgan calls again.

“Yep!” Peter says back, snagging a cookie on his way out the room. “I'll be right there.”

Chapter Text

About to go in for surgery.

Peter hesitates for a moment but ultimately hits send on the text message as he leans back and rocks his crossed ankles back and forth. 

Bucky has been sending texts here and there over the last few weeks just checking in. When Peter told him he would be having the procedure done for his prosthetic base on Friday after school, the man had asked to be kept updated. 

Although their amputations are different, Bucky's arm completely removed up to his shoulder while Peter’s stump extends out several inches further, the man had offered to answer any questions about how his own prosthetic works. Mr. Stark, of course, has gone over the specific design of Peter’s arm, showing him exactly how it should function and getting his input on it. But something about discussing his situation with someone who really understands helps ease the anxiety in a different way. Plus, Bucky has also been able to provide some more insights on handling the phantom pain as well as some of the potential difficulties he might experience while adjusting to the new arm.

Three little bubbles pop up at the bottom of the thread. A moment later, a message comes through. You've got this, kid. The words are followed by several muscle emojis—plus the smiley face with sunglasses—and Peter has to bite back a laugh at the thought of Bucky Barnes using emojis.

“What's so funny?”

Peter just smiles and shakes his head as May eyes him curiously, responding to the text with a quick thanks before putting his phone away. “Nothing. Are they almost ready?”

“I think so. Tony was just talking with the doctor outside.”

“Okay.” Peter nods, taking a deep, steadying breath. His stomach is a ball of nerves, but the idea of being one step closer having an arm again sends a thrill through him. This is one step closer to normal. To Spider-Man. And that's what matters.

He shifts his position on the padded stretcher, fingers twisting in the thin, semi-scratchy hospital gown he'd been given to wear. Unfortunately, since the Avengers compound is still a pile of rubble, there's no personal med bay where the procedure to be done. They are, at least, in a private wing of the hospital, and Mr. Stark had brought in Dr. Helen Cho along with a Wakandan surgeon and his small team to perform the procedure.

On cue, Mr. Stark swaggers into the room. He's wearing a casual pair of jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt. Not for the first time, Peter wonders what it must be like to feel so at ease and in control all—okay, most—of the time. He tries to shove down any lingering nervousness, straightening up and putting on what he hopes is a confident smile.

The man catches his eye and winks. He comes over to the stretcher and grasps Peter's knee, giving it a quick shake. “Ready to put a ring on it, kid?”

Peter makes a face and covers his stump with his left hand. “You know it can hear you, right?”

Mr. Stark chuckles. “My apologies,” he says. “All right, final chance—any last minute questions for the doc?”

Peter shakes his head. The purpose of the procedure is straightforward enough, and he's gotten the rundown at least three times already. They knock him out, they fit him with the internal base, and voila. If all goes well, he should be ready to try out the prosthetic within a week.

“Mrs. Parker?”

“I think we're all good,” May replies, hand settling on Peter's shoulder.  “Are you sure you're ready for this, baby?”

He licks his lips and nods. “I’m ready.”

Mr. Stark claps his hands once. “Great. Then let's get this show on the road.”

***

The pain is white hot, to the point of numbness. It's a burning fire that lances up and down the right side of his body, a throbbing ache intense enough to steal his breath and make his stomach roll. 

Like the Infinity Stones’ unbridled power overtaking his body, sending crackles of electricity from the tips of his fingers to where his neck meets his shoulder. There's no stopping it.

Peter groans as he blinks his eyes open, vaguely aware of soft sheets underneath him. The comfort is minimal in contrast to the searing pain he's experiencing.

“Peter? Hey, you with me?”

He tries to answer the familiar voice, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he's pretty sure he's being stabbed. Repeatedly.

“Kid? What's wrong?”

A fuzzy form appears above him, though all Peter can make out is facial hair and a furrowed brow.

“Am…am I dying?” he manages to croak out. His mouth feels full of cotton.

There's a quiet swear, and a comforting hand lands on his chest. “No, Pete—no. You're not dying, buddy. It's just the anesthesia.”

Peter lets out a low whine in the back of his throat, because there's no way coming out of anesthesia is supposed to be this painful. It's like someone is literally driving a hot poker straight into his shoulder.

“My arm,” he forces out, the words slurred between gritted teeth. “It hurts.”

Mr. Stark looks a little concerned, but he fixes Peter with a reassuring smile anyway. “It's okay, it's just because of the procedure. You remember that's why we're here, right?” When he doesn't get an answer, he adds, “They've got you on the good meds, that should be helping.”

“No,” Peter says, frustrated at his inability to communicate. His lips and his brain are moving too slowly, like a snail trying to cross a garden. Another wave of pain crashes over him, enough to make him gasp. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark finally seems to catch on to the fact that something isn't right. “Cho, May, get in here!” he calls over his shoulder.

Peter doesn't remember even wielding all six Infinity Stones hurting this much—or at least not for such an extended period of time. His left hand gropes for his right side, but his residual limb is covered by a swath of bandages, so his fingers simply brush against white fabric.

“It hurts,” he sobs, writhing. “It really hurts.”

“Shh, hey, it's okay. I'm right here. We're going to figure this out.”

Something large and warm settles on his head. Fingers begin to comb through his hair, brushing gently against his scalp, but even the comforting motion does little to distract from the consuming pain pulsing in his right shoulder. He doesn't know why it hurts so much.

Footsteps approach from outside the room, the sound followed by May’s worried tone. “What's going on?”

“He's saying he's in pain—Cho, you see how tense he is?”

“Peter?”

Some part of his disassociating brain registers Dr. Cho’s voice, but his pain-addled mind can't formulate a response.

“It’s possible he may still be too out of it,” she says. “It might not really be as bad as his mind is telling him it is.”

The voices fade into one big cacophony of background sound. He hears murmuring about his metabolism and the dosage of pain medication they currently have him on, but he's too distracted by the teeth-gritting pain to comprehend most of it. His whole body is tense to the point where he's pretty sure he's as stiff as a board, every fiber of his being revolting against the trauma it's been subjected to. Unfortunately, there's no getting away from his own shoulder.

“Make it stop,” he begs, sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, mingling with the tears forming there. “Please.”

More words are spoken, and the hand is threading through his damp curls again. Something cold touches his left arm. Someone is telling him to relax, to breathe, and don't they know he's trying?  

Just when Peter is certain that he can't take any more, the pain suddenly abates.

Blessedly, everything goes dark.

***

Tony watches through the small window in the kid’s hospital room as May paces up and down the hall outside while she talks on the phone with Happy. Even from a distance, the woman looks exhausted. 

They all are, really. Of course they knew there was a chance of complications, but…this isn't what any of them were expecting. A few days—maybe a week, max—of rest, and then all green lights for Peter to try out the prosthetic arm.

But what was supposed to be a simple, outpatient procedure has turned into a nearly two-day hospital stay and only minimal signs of improvement in Peter's pain levels.

At least the kid isn't writhing on the bed screaming anymore. At least there's that.

“Surely you can do something,” Tony growls, scrubbing a hand across his face and gesturing to the dozing teen behind them. Even asleep, Peter's face is scrunched up with discomfort. “He's in pain.”

Helen sighs tiredly. “I understand, Mr. Stark. But unfortunately all we can do for now is continue trying to manage the pain until it fully subsides.”

“And if it doesn't?”

The Wakandan surgeon who had performed the procedure along with Cho speaks up. “It will.” He sounds confident, but he was also the one who was confident that there wouldn't be any issues with the whole procedure in the first place.

“He already seems to be improving,” Helen adds.

Tony huffs. “Not fast enough.”

“I believe with a little more time, it will resolve itself.”

“You can't even tell me why this happened; how do you know it'll get better?” Because the truth is, they don't know. This is completely unprecedented territory—they can't fully explain why the kid is in so much pain. 

Based on the tests they’ve run, they’re assuming it’s some sort of hypersensitivity in the nerves in his shoulder as a result of being connected to the prosthetic base. Helen had also reminded them that “the power of the Infinity Stones is unmatched” and they've never dealt with anything like it before. She'd suggested Peter's arm may be more sensitive due to the previous trauma it was subjected to from using them. Another possibility is an information overload related to the neural interface of the base. 

It's a whole lot of speculation and nothing concrete. Tony doesn't like that. He likes even less that Peter is in so much pain. The teen has been through enough, and another setback is the last thing he needs.

Trying to tamp down on his inner frustration, Tony flexes his fingers. “Is removing the base an option?”

“Not one I recommend,” the other doctor says grimly. “The muscles and nerves in that area are already so tender from the procedure and previous trauma. I don't believe going back in and attempting to remove it would do much to ease the pain at this point. On the contrary, it would probably do more harm than good.”

“It's not uncommon to have discomfort post-op,” Helen interjects, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. “We just weren't expecting it to be so…severe.”

That's one word for it. “So—what?” Tony says. “He just has to ride it out?”

Helen presses her lips together. “I'm going to send him home because there's nothing we can do for him here that you can't do yourselves. He'll probably be more comfortable in his own space, too. Just have him rest, keep an eye out for redness or swelling, and make sure he's taking his meds on a strict schedule.”

Considering how unbearable the pain gets if the kid misses even one dose, Tony is fairly certain they won't have any issues with that.

Helen continues, “We'll schedule an appointment for sometime next week to take another look and reassess, but until then, let's hold off on trying the prosthetic.”

Even though Tony had expected as much, he can't help the flare of emotion that flickers at the suggestion. Obviously, they don't want to do anything that will cause the kid more pain. But Pete had been so excited at the prospect of having a second arm again, of having the chance to regain some semblance of control in his life that's been turned upside down… To make him wait longer for that just doesn't seem fair.

Life, as Tony has come to learn over the last forty plus years, is not very fair to most people. It was nothing but a miracle, an honest to God miracle, that they were able to win in the end against Thanos. That Peter is alive and solid again—that half of the universe got a second chance at life. Maybe their luck has run out. 

And Tony doesn't mind that for himself—of course he wouldn't wish for it, but he’d go through hell and high water for the rest of his days if it meant the kid got the opportunity to grow up. But having to watch the teen struggle day after day—first with the loss of his arm and now with the very thing that was supposed to solve that problem… It almost physically hurts him, watching Peter deal with so much pain, the same exact way it does whenever Morgan gets hurt or sick.

A couple hours later, Peter is awake again and given his next dose of meds. It's evident he's still exhausted and not completely present, but at least his eyes are mostly clear rather than clouded with overwhelming pain. “We goin’ home?”

“We are,” May confirms, running her fingers through the kid's curls. “You ready?”

“Mhm. Too many hospitals.” His nose wrinkles with displeasure. “Don't like it.”

“Me either, kid,” Tony says. “Let's blow this popsicle stand.”

First, though, they have to get through the long, slow process of getting Peter changed from the hospital gown into regular clothes.

The nurses have already been in and out, running through their usual discharge checks, leaving just the three of them in the quiet hospital room. The blinds are half-drawn, slanting afternoon light across the bed that catches on the silver rails and the tangle of wires that have been unplugged from their monitors.

Peter is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the edge, his face slightly pale as he hunches forward. He has his sweatpants on already, and the hospital gown lies discarded at the end of the bed, but that was the easy part.

“All right, kid,” Tony says lightly—too lightly—holding up the t-shirt he’d fished out of Peter’s go-bag. “We’re going to take this nice and slow, okay?” 

He expects a retort or a protest along the lines of “I can do it myself,” but Peter just nods tiredly, gaze shifting down to his residual limb. The gauze wrapping his shoulder is bulky, a white bundle of padding taped down tight. He looks downright miserable.

Tony’s heart aches.

“Tell us if it hurts, sweetheart,” May adds, moving to stand next to them, hands at the ready to help if need be.

Tony lifts the t-shirt carefully, threading the neck hole wide and easing it down over Peter’s curls. “Head down, bud—there you go. Chin to chest. Yeah, perfect.”

Peter winces when the fabric brushes his shoulder, biting down on his lip hard, but he doesn’t make a sound. Instead, his fingers curl tightly into the bedsheets underneath him.

“I know, I know,” Tony murmurs, one hand braced at the back of the kid’s neck to steady him. “Almost done.”

May reaches out, gently tugging the fabric down and helping guide Peter’s left arm into the sleeve while Tony holds the right side still.

“You good?” he asks, keeping an eye on Peter’s face for any sign he needs a break.

“Fine.” The stiff, short answer is the only proof needed that he’s anything but.

“Good, ‘cause this next part is going to suck.”

“Just…just do it,” Peter says, lifting what he likes to call his lucky fin for easier access.

Tony stretches the sleeve open as wide as it can go, hoping to avoid accidentally bumping the residual limb any more than necessary. It feels like a game of Operation, except the stakes are a lot higher. As much as he hates to lose, an irritating buzzer and wounded pride he can handle. His kid crying out in pain—especially as a result of his actions—he can’t.

“On three. One, two—” He slips the sleeve over the residual limb before he hits three.

Peter flinches, a sharp breath escaping as the fabric settles in place. He lifts a shaky left hand to scrub across his face, as if he can wipe the pain away if he tries hard enough.

“There we go,” Tony says, tugging the shirt’s hem down to smooth it against Peter’s ribs. “Done. Easy enough, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees faintly.

May grabs an oversized jacket next. Although she slips it over his shoulders like a blanket, it's not difficult to notice the way the kid furiously bites down on his tongue when the gentle weight first lands on his right shoulder.

Tony calls ahead to let Pepper know they'll be home soon; the doctors give them one last rundown of medication dosages and what to do for the residual limb at home, along with another firm warning to watch for any signs of worsening inflammation around the incision.

Once they're all set—more or less—Tony helps Peter move to the wheelchair that had been brought up for him, being careful not to bump his arm or jostle him too much. It's a testament to how bad the kid is feeling that he doesn't protest the assistance or the fact that he has to use a wheelchair at all. He settles back in the seat while May gathers up the rest of their belongings and follows them out the door.

“You tell us if you're hurting too much, okay?” she reminds Peter.

“I will,” he promises, but even as he says it, they hit a small bump crossing into the elevator, and Tony sees the way he clenches his jaw. Unfortunately, there's not much more they could do even if he were to acknowledge how bad the pain is.

Not for the first time, guilt tugs at him, reminding him how all of this is on him. He put the kid in harm's way. He didn't do enough when it came to fighting Thanos—a sixteen-year-old had to do the unthinkable because even freaking Iron Man wasn't good enough to stop him. And even now, several months later, Peter is still suffering because of it and will have to deal with the consequences for the rest of his life.

“I'm okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter says quietly, as if sensing the man's inner turmoil even out of his line of sight.

“Of course you are. Easy day, huh?” Tony tries to keep his tone light and even, but if the look May gives him is any indication, it doesn't entirely work. She reaches out and squeezes his arm gently.

Tony lets out a breath as they exit the hospital and make their way over to where Happy's got the car waiting for them. He may have invented time travel, but even he can't change the past on a whim. He can, however, do everything within his power to make things better for Peter in the present and going forward. This is just a minor setback. The kid is going to get his new arm in no time at all, and he'll be better than ever.

Tony's going to make sure of it.

***

Despite the distressing outcome of the procedure, it hasn't seemed to quench the kid's stubborn streak one bit. Tony has been on the receiving end of said stubbornness and “I can do it” attitude before, the arguments over Spider-Man's ability to work the Chitauri weapons case—and subsequent disobedience by doing the opposite of what Tony was telling him to do—being one example. He's certain May Parker has plenty of her own experiences with the same thing as well.

It's six-thirty in the morning—Monday morning, at that—and somehow Tony has found himself in the middle of a standoff with a very tired and upset teenager. 

He hasn't even had his coffee yet, for goodness sake. 

“School?” Tony repeats, a little dumbfounded as Peter's words echo in his ears. He blinks. “You want to go to school?”

“We just started back, and I have a chemistry test on Thursday,” Peter protests. “I can't miss it.”

Tony doesn't even know why they're having this conversation; he kind of thought the whole “no school for a few days” thing went unsaid, especially considering how out of it the kid still seemed even just last evening after they'd arrived home. Also, in what world does a teenager want to go to school? Tony knows he would have been taking any chance available to play hooky back when he was in high school.

“I get it,” he says, even though he doesn't really. “But you're not going back to school today.”

“Why not?”

It's way too early for this. “Kid, you literally just had surgery, and you're still in a lot of pain.”

“I'm fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am!”

May appears in the doorway wearing her robe and slippers. “What's wrong?” she asks, rubbing her eyes, clearly still in the process of waking up.

The frown on Peter's face deepens, and the kid folds his arm over his chest, though the pose is somewhat less intimidating with only one arm, and even less so when his fingers brush against his residual limb and he can't hide a wince.

Tony's gaze slides over to the kid's aunt. “Pete here seems to have gotten it in his head that he's going to school this morning. I told him—”

“You can't tell me what to do!” Peter looks surprised at his own outburst, cheeks reddening slightly as he glances away from Tony. “I'm fine,” he grits out again, a little quieter this time.

Tony tries to ignore how that stings.

“Peter, Tony is right,” May interjects gently.

The kid's wide eyes jerk over to her, feelings of betrayal evident in the way his mouth drops open in surprise. “What?”

“If you're in as much pain as I know you are, you won't be able to focus in class anyway. Besides, the doctor’s orders were to rest. Let's just plan to take the next couple of days off, and we'll see how your pain level is and make a new decision then.”

“But May—”

“A few days won't hurt,” she says, voice firm as she steps further into the room. “The school is being very lenient with everyone considering everything that's happened. I'm sure Ned would love to stop by to bring you any homework if needed.”

Tony can see the kid warring with himself internally, but it isn't hard to tell he knows there's no winning with his aunt. Tony supposes he can understand, in a way, where the kid is coming from. That desire to get back to normal and just pretend things are okay—even if they're very clearly not? He can relate. Palladium poisoning, anyone?

Still, he's not about to let Peter put himself through unnecessary pain just to prove a point. And thankfully, May is siding with him on this one.

“There's no reason to push yourself, sweetie,” May adds. “This isn't a race.”

The words must be the final straw, because Peter's shoulders droop, all of the fight going out of him at once. “Fine,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

May gives him a sad smile. “I'm sorry.”

“I guess I'm just gonna…go back to bed then.”

“I think that's a great idea,” May agrees, reaching out to rub a hand up and down Peter's back. “You need to get as much rest as possible right now.”

“Have you taken your meds already?” Tony asks, though they all know the kid probably wouldn't be standing upright if he hadn't.

“Yes,” he mumbles. He lets May plant a kiss on his temple before he pulls back and shuffles into the hall back toward his bedroom.

May watches him go with a frown. “Parenting a teenager,” she says with a sigh, turning back around.

“I'm beginning to realize it's actually not that much different than parenting a four-year-old,” Tony quips. Speaking of, said four-year-old will likely be up any minute and demanding breakfast before she has to get ready for school.

“More or less.” May laughs, but there's a hint of sadness in her voice when she continues, “He just wants to feel normal again.”

“I know.” Tony moves back into the kitchen to fix his much-needed cup of coffee. “Listen, May, about the surgery—I’m sorry that—”

“Sorry for what?” she interrupts. “You had no way of knowing how his body would react to it. If anything, it's on me that he—well, I should have—”

“Ah ah, nope. If I'm not allowed to blame myself, neither are you.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I just hate—all of this, for him. He's trying to be strong, and he's doing so well, but I know it's hard.”

“I know.” Tony sighs. The Time Heist, bringing everyone back…it was supposed to be a good thing, the righting of a wrong, and in so many ways, it was. But decisions always have consequences, and Tony gets to experience first hand what some of those are. He doesn't regret it—but in some ways, it makes him feel just as selfish as telling Steve, Scott, and Nat he wasn't going to be a part of their time travel plan in the first place.

A one-handed Peter is infinitely better than no Peter at all. Absolutely no questions about it. But the kid is hurting, struggling, and Tony doesn't know how to fix it. He's trying with the prosthetic arm, but that train has barely left the station and it has already derailed.

“One day at a time, huh?” he says, repeating the phrase Pep likes to say. “Making sure he knows we've all got his back—that he’s not alone.”

“Right.” May nods and lets out a breath. The silence lingers for a moment, and then she moves around the kitchen island and reaches past Tony for a mug. “Now let me get a cup of coffee. It's too early to be awake without caffeine.”

Chapter Text

Peter is more or less regretting all of his life decisions at the moment. 

Okay, maybe that's dramatic, but he's a teenager, so he thinks he's entitled to be at least a little dramatic every now and then.

He was able to convince May to let him go back to school today, less than a week after the surgery that knocked him off his feet so unexpectedly. Mr. Stark had suggested at that point he just wait until next Monday since it's already basically the weekend, but Peter wasn't hearing any of it. He knows he's probably being ridiculous, but there's some deep-rooted need to stick to his routine. Maybe there's some part of him that thinks if he acts like everything is okay, it will be. FOMO is also a thing.

However, as he sits in biology class and tries to ignore the steady, throbbing pain in his residual limb where the prosthetic base now resides—as well as the scathing phantom pains trailing up and down his non-existent arm—Peter wonders if maybe the adults were onto something after all. Not that he’ll ever admit that to anyone when he gets home.

The whole situation is just…beyond frustrating and unfair. It isn't like Peter wasn't expecting any pain at all as a result of the procedure. Considering the fact that pieces of titanium were being implanted into his body, there was bound to be some discomfort post-op. Still, he was in no way prepared for the level of absolute agony he woke up experiencing, or the pain that has continued to follow him since. It's better now, sort of. His body is adjusting; he can tell it's improving slowly but surely.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wishes he had asked to wait a bit longer on scheduling the procedure. Maybe his shoulder and residual limb needed more time to heal, to get accustomed to not having anything attached below it. Maybe Peter needed more time.

But it's too late now, and there's no undo button. If there were, his life would probably look a lot different than it does now.

With a sigh, Peter lifts his hand to scrub at his gritty eyes. He's still trying to shake off the nightmare he'd had last night. The past couple of weeks, it seems like they've gotten worse—for no particular reason. But he can't count the number of times he's woken up choking and gasping for air. Or worse, stumbling to the bathroom and flipping on the light switch, staring down at his hand and watching, waiting for the limb to turn to dust once again.

I don't wanna go. Please, sir, I don't wanna go.

He still hasn't told anyone about the bad dreams, but they can't be entirely oblivious. Or maybe they're just chalking the dark circles under his eyes up to the pain and exhaustion from the procedure. That's probably for the best, because Peter has no plans to tell them what the real cause is. He's created enough trouble and upheaval in the lives of the Starks—and even May, for that matter.

The surgery was supposed to eliminate some of that burden. He was supposed to have his arm by now. Instead, he's got to wait another week at least before he can even try it on. Peter knows Mr. Stark was disappointed when the doctors told them that. They've been waiting to try out the prosthetic arm, but even now that Peter's finally had the procedure, he still can't use it.

“You okay?” Ned leans over to ask.

“Yeah.” Peter offers a smile. “All good.”

But as the day continues to wear on, Peter grows more and more exhausted. He drops several of his books trying to juggle them in front of his locker—and then breaks the zipper on his backpack when it gets stuck and he yanks too hard on it because he doesn't have a second hand to finagle it free—he nearly misses lunch because of how long it takes him to convince himself to push through the pain to walk from class to the cafeteria, and he’ll be lucky if he gets a B on the chemistry test they took this morning.

By the time AcaDec practice rolls around in the afternoon, his head is throbbing in time with arm—even though he took his meds on time, as Mr. Stark made sure to text and remind him—and he just wants to go home. He refuses to call May though; the last thing he wants to hear is “I told you so,” and he needs to prove to himself he can do this. It's just another hour. He'll be fine.

Peter takes a deep breath as he shuffles down the hall. For the most part, his classmates have finally gotten used to his new appearance and have stopped constantly sneaking glances at his right side or asking him questions about it in ways that try to be unassuming but usually fail. However, in an unfortunate but not entirely too surprising turn of events, Flash has slowly been returning to his former level of obnoxiousness at school. That includes the unbridled jock attitude and mile-wide ego. Thankfully, he's more or less avoided Peter.

Until today.

The dark-haired junior is goofing off when Peter walks into the classroom for AcaDec practice—not unusual. When he spots Peter in the doorway, he raises two fingers in a mock salute. “Hey, hey, what's up, Hand Solo? Get it—’cause you only have one—”

“Really?” MJ says from the table, eyebrows raised.

“You know, I never did ask what happened,” Flash continues, smirking gaze still on Peter. “Did your arm decide it would rather stay dusted than attached to—”

“Flash!” Mr. Harrington appears in the doorway, surprise on his face. “That was inappropriate. Let’s remain polite and respectful. I suggest you apologize to Peter.”

Peter doesn't know what's worse; the joke Flash just made, or the fact that all of his teammates are now staring at him with a mixture of pity in their expressions. Except for Ned and MJ, who both just look like they want to shoot the bully where he stands.

Flash holds his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, Parker, it was just a joke.”

Mr. Harrington clears his throat. “Right—dark humor is a coping mechanism that some do use in troubling times, but I think it's very important we all remember that not everyone handles trauma in the same way. And whether you were one of the Blipped or not, we certainly all did experience some level of trauma.” Their teacher's face twists into a frown, as if recalling some of his own emotions in regard to the Blip. “Some…more than others. None any less valid.”

No one has much of a response to that, not even Flash.

“And as per the school’s zero-tolerance bullying policy,” their teacher adds firmly, “you can head right over to the principal’s office.”

Flash’s mouth drops open. “But—”

Mr. Harrington cuts him off. “The rest of you, go ahead and get started without me. I’ll be back shortly.”

He and a red-faced Flash exit the room together.

“Okay,” MJ says once they’re gone. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

Everyone takes their seats, diving right into the meeting in an effort to dispel the awkward tension hanging in the air. But an ugly feeling has settled in the pit of Peter's stomach like a rock. It remains there for the entirety of practice, stealing his attention and ability to focus. Thankfully, no one comments on his absentmindedness or the multiple wrong answers he gives when he's called on during quizzing.

It's frustrating, because normally Peter is able to brush off the dumb things Flash says without a second thought. They've been commonplace since freshman year; it's really nothing new. And in all honesty, had it come from himself or Ned—or even MJ—the nickname would have been funny. Peter would have rolled his eyes, but they would have laughed about it and moved on. This, though… Flash doesn't do much of anything for camaraderie’s sake; it's fairly obvious his comments were thoughtless at best and mean-spirited at worst.

Honestly though, Peter thinks he could have handled it better had it even happened during the first week of school. But today, his arm hurts, he's exhausted from a week full of disappointment and physical pain, and there's a small part of him that wishes he weren't here at all.

Slowly, literally falling apart. Fighting with everything inside of him not to let go.

Dust…

Peter jolts upright, grabbing his backpack from the floor as he hastily clambers to his feet. The chair makes a metallic screech as it's pushed back.

“Peter?” Mr. Harrington calls. “You okay?”

“Bathroom,” Peter says quickly, not pausing in his escape. 

Practice is almost over; he should have just held out for a few more minutes, but there's something heavy constricting his airway and he doesn't think he could have sat in that classroom for a second longer.

Because you're weak. That's probably what Flash thinks—not that he didn't before. Their classmates too. Poor Peter Parker, the kid with one arm, no parents, and a boatload of scars and trauma.

The halls are mostly empty now, so blessedly, no one is in the bathrooms when Peter enters. He locks himself in a stall before turning around and leaning against the door like it's the only thing keeping him upright.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, he reminds himself, swiping his hand across his eyes. Come on, Peter. This isn't a big deal. You're being a baby. Having a panic attack in the school bathroom—real mature, right?

Peter's phone buzzes with a text from Ned. You okay, dude? Let me know if you want me to come join you.

Peter inhales another shaky breath and types out his response with his thumb. Thanks, I'm okay. Leaving school, someone's probably here to pick me up.

Ned's reply comes only a few seconds later. It's a thumbs-up emoji, followed by Okay. Sorry about what Flash said, btw. Don't listen to him, you know he's just looking for attention.

Yeah… Peter sends back before shoving his phone into his pocket and leaving the bathroom. The funny thing is, he's not even that upset about what Flash said—he’s more upset about the fact that it got to him like that. All he wants to do is go home, curl up in his bed, and never come out.

When he exits the building, he quickly spots the dark gray Audi parked and waiting for him. On the rare days that Mr. Stark doesn't pick him up from school, it's usually May and Happy, Happy driving and May sitting in the passenger seat. They've been spending more time together. 

Today though, it looks like it's just Happy. May must be at work. After school started, she took a part time position at F.E.A.S.T, one of the local aid centers supporting those in need, especially in the wake of Blip’s end. Of course, Mr. Stark had protested, saying there was no need for her to go to work, but May had pushed back.

“I've got nothing better to do when Peter's at school,” she'd explained. “So many people out there need help; it's the least I can do.”

Peter understands. They were incredibly lucky to have the Starks when they came back. So many others don't have that luxury and are fighting for a place to live and food to eat. He's also glad for his aunt's sake that she has something to do besides constantly hover and worry over him. She's able to get out of the penthouse, keep busy, and have somewhat of a normal routine back for herself just like the rest of them.

Peter hurries over to the car and slides into the backseat. He lets his backpack drop onto the floor by his feet and closes the door behind him.

“Hey, kid,” Happy greets.

Peter mumbles a response, ducking down in the seat behind the driver's side. The car starts moving.

“What's wrong?”

Peter's head pops up. “Huh?”

“Normally it's nonstop the minute you get in the car.” The man lifts a hand from the steering wheel and puppets his fingers in a gesture of chatter. “So what's the deal?”

“Nothing. I'm fine.”

“Are you sure—”

“Yes.”

“—because you don't seem fine.”

“I am.” Peter wishes, not for the first time since he snapped, that he could cross his arms.

Happy grunts, clearly not convinced. “Is it your arm? Tony told me to make sure you—”

“My arm's fine, Happy.” It's not, but that's beside the point. Or maybe it's the whole point. Peter presses his fingers to his throbbing temple, tension headache intensifying with the pressure of holding back tears. Gosh, this is ridiculous.

“Sorry. It's nothing,” he adds when the man still doesn't seem satisfied with the answer he received. “Just—long day.”

“Hm.” Happy glances in the rearview mirror, craning his neck in order to see Peter. “If there's anyone you need me to rough up for you, just let me know, all right?”

Is Peter really that obvious? 

“Thanks,” he says, truly appreciative of Happy's genuine concern. Though he has no plans to set the head of security on Flash Thompson—as much as he may want to.

The rest of the drive home is silent. When they arrive at the penthouse, Peter thanks Happy again for the ride and learns that the man will be joining them for dinner tomorrow.

When he wanders up to the penthouse, he can hear Sesame Street playing for Morgan's afternoon TV time. He sneaks past her to the kitchen where Mr. Stark is busy doing dishes—the task is so mundane and domestic that Peter just stops and watches for a few moments. However, the man must have heard the elevator or the footsteps approaching behind him, because he briefly glances over his shoulder before returning to his scrubbing duties. 

“Hey, Pete.”

“Hi,” Peter answers, sulky.

Mr. Stark’s neck immediately cranes back around like an alarm bell just went off in his mind, his gaze analyzing as he surveys Peter.

The teenager frowns, hiking his backpack higher up on his shoulder and curling in on himself. He feels exposed somehow. “What?”

“You okay?”

What Peter means to say is “I'm fine,” just like he told Happy earlier. Because he should be fine. He is fine, dang it. Sure, maybe he's in a little—a lot of—pain, and maybe he kind of wishes he could go curl up in bed and forget about life for a while, but other than that? Totally fine.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is a snappish “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Mr. Stark's eyebrows lift slightly before his expression settles back into a combination of concern and something else Peter can't decipher—the same thing that's been there ever since he came back and yet he still can't puzzle it out.

The man pulls his hands out of the soapy water and reaches for the dish towel sitting next to the sink. His eyes never leave Peter’s. Rather than answer the question proposed, he simply says, “What can I do to help you, kid?”

And that—that alone just about sends all of Peter's walls crumbling, because here he is being rude and bratty, and Mr. Stark is responding with such genuine kindness. The same way he’s done pretty much since the Blip ended.

“Nothing,” Peter says, voice too hoarse. He clears his throat. “I'm fine, I'm just—it’s stupid.”

Mr. Stark sets the now-damp towel aside and leans back against the counter. “It's not stupid if it's bothering you.”

Peter shrugs. “It's nothing,” he says again.

“You know you don't need a reason to have a bad day—sometimes they just happen. That's okay.”

Peter sighs, gaze dropping down to his shoes. One of his laces is loose, he notes; he's learned how to tie them with just one hand, but his method could still use some practice. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mr. Stark shift forward, and then all of a sudden finds himself wrapped up in a tight hug. He tenses on instinct before sinking into the man's hold like his own legs can't support him anymore. 

Mr. Stark is mindful of the tender residual limb, his left hand instead resting on the back of Peter's head while his right slips around Peter's back just above where his bag sits, pulling him close. The embrace isn't painful, but it's tight—almost like the man thinks if he squeezes hard enough, he can keep Peter from falling apart.

Peter closes his eyes. He'd never known Mr. Stark to be this tactile before the Blip. Now, the man gives affection away almost as easily as he breathes—not that Peter is complaining. The arms around him are strong and grounding. They make Peter feel small—but not necessarily in a bad way.

Words bubble up in his throat, desperate to roll off his tongue—everything, from the nightmares to how much he's hurting to how he really doesn't like the way the adults have recently been acting like he's somehow less without two arms. Like the prosthetic will “fix” him.

That never-ending lump of guilt surfaces again, because here Mr. Stark is comforting him over basically nothing, and Peter is only thinking of himself and his own feelings. He sets his jaw. He's enough of a burden; he doesn't need to dump all of his inner turmoil onto the people who are doing everything in their power to make things better for him. That would be ungrateful.

Despite the fact that it's been at least a full minute, Mr. Stark makes no moves to release Peter. Instead, the man's thumb brushes against his curls before a quick kiss is planted on top of his head. The gesture is so gentle and paternal it nearly steals Peter's breath away.

And then he feels stupid for even thinking something like that, because Mr. Stark isn't his dad, no matter how much Peter sometimes secretly wishes—or even pretends—he was. The Starks are family, sure, but Peter's more than had his chance; parental figures just aren't for him.

Finally, he pulls away, even though everything in him wants to stay put for a long time. His cheeks feel warm, flushed, after being pressed up against Mr. Stark's shoulder for so long.

“Better?” Mr. Stark asks, a small smile turning up one corner of his mouth as he scratches at his goatee.

Peter nods, wrapping his own arm around himself awkwardly again as he steps back. The hug did make him feel better. It had lifted his spirits in a way he can't describe. It was almost enough to make him forget about his exhausting, pain-filled day at school and Flash's rude remarks.

“You know you can tell me anything, right, kid?” Mr. Stark says. “Or May, or Pepper—”

“I know,” Peter mutters quickly, feeling a sudden need to escape from the prodding gaze and the confusing emotions swirling in his chest. “I've gotta catch up on homework. And I think—I think I might take a nap before dinner.”

Mr. Stark looks like he wants to say something else, but he just nods. “Okay. I'll let you know when it's time to eat.” 

Peter nods back in thanks before turning tail and skittering off toward his room like the ungrateful coward he is.

Chapter Text

The weekend arrives quickly, much to Peter’s relief. When he stumbles out of his bedroom on Saturday morning, he finds May and Pepper chatting in the living room while Morgan plays with her Barbies on the floor.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” May says cheerfully when she sees him.

“Morning,” Peter replies, not bothering to let his aunt know that he hadn’t actually been sleeping. He lifts his hand to rub at his eyes. “Where’s Mr. Stark?”

“Ah, I see how it is.” May laughs. “He’s down in the workshop, I think.”

Pepper nods in agreement, resting an elbow on the back of the couch. “How are you feeling today?”

“Okay,” he says, which is true at the moment, at least.

“Peter! Uncle Rhodey is coming over for lunch today,” Morgan announces.

“He is?”

“Yeah.” She holds up one of her dolls. “And—and will you play with me later? Since your arm is feeling better?”

Poor Morgan has been struggling with Peter’s lack of energy since his surgery. The day he’d arrived home from the hospital, she’d been unusually subdued, snuggling in bed with him while they watched a marathon of Disney movies all day. Since then, though, she hasn’t been able to fully understand why he isn’t “back to normal,” peppering her parents with a thousand questions about why her favorite playmate has been spending so much time resting and yet is still too tired to wrestle or build block towers with her.

“Sure,” Peter says. He can manage putting together a puzzle at the coffee table with the little girl, or maybe even racecars.

Morgan cheers.

“Go find Tony, honey,” Pepper tells him, nodding toward the door encouragingly.

Peter blushes a little at the nudge, knowing it’s no secret to anyone how much he gravitates toward Mr. Stark these days.

He makes his way to the elevator, stifling a yawn. The floor below the penthouse has been transformed into a workshop slash lab, complete with all the bells and whistles. Peter has worked in it plenty of times before, though some minor rearranging was done in the five years that he was gone. It’s another one of those things that makes him feel like there was a glitch in the matrix that caused him to jump into an alternate timeline. His entire perception of time and life has been so skewed ever since everything happened.

Peter tentatively steps into the room, realizing belatedly he’s still in his pajamas. Oh well. He sees Mr. Stark bent over something at his work table. “Mr. Stark?”

The man straightens up and turns, his gaze roams over Peter, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes—probably due to the teen’s rumpled appearance. Peter hadn’t bothered looking in the mirror when he’d been in the bathroom earlier, but he knows his hair is probably a mess.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mr. Stark says, wiping his hands on his pants. The motion leaves a black stain on his jeans. “Grab a seat. Slept okay?”

Peter gives a noncommittal grunt, unwilling to let slip the fact that a combination of lingering pain and bad dreams kept him up most of the night. “What are you working on?” he asks in lieu of an answer, plopping down on one of the stools near the table. He’s surprised it’s not the prosthetic arm; it seems the man has been incapable of working on anything except for the vibranium limb.

But then Peter remembers that the arm is ready; it’s him who’s the reason they can’t do anything with it yet. 

His residual limb twinges traitorously.

Attention sufficiently redirected, Mr. Stark motions to the parts he’d just been tinkering with. “Ah, just some upgrades and maintenance on Mark 85; it’s been a little cranky lately. Arc stabilizer needs rewiring.”

Peter peers at the array of parts and wires spread out across the workbench. “Need some help?”

“I’ll never turn down free labor.”

Peter rolls his eyes and then immediately yelps when his seat jolts, hand pinwheeling as Mr. Stark hooks a foot under the metal bar at the bottom of the stool and drags it closer to him. Peter's fingers latch around the underside of the stool to steady himself.

“You're fine,” Mr. Starks says, eyes never straying from the tangle of wires in his hand. The I wouldn't have let you fall sits in the silence that follows.

Peter readjusts and leans in closer, recalling the many times he’s found himself in this same position. Watching, learning, talking with the man he’s always looked up to more than anyone in the world. He’s found himself down here several times since they’ve been back, but the last few weeks have been so busy and exhausting that there hasn’t been a lot of time for the usual tinkering and building the two of them used to do together.

“Here,” Mr. Stark says, motioning to the parts on the table, “hold this steady for me while I solder the connection. Try not to let me get fried.”

Peter grins, accepting the little yellow wire. “Never.” He positions it against the circuit board where directed. The task is made more difficult because he doesn’t have a second hand to stabilize the board, and as Mr. Stark leans in to begin his soldering, the wire shifts out of place.

“Sorry, one sec,” Peter apologizes, readjusting his grip and trying to pin the wire down with his thumb instead.

That approach seems to work slightly better, and soon the familiar, comforting hum of tools is echoing through the lab.

Mr. Stark pauses after a minute, a frown creasing his forehead. He hums, eyes still on his work as he holds out one hand.

“Can you grab the—never mind,” he cuts himself off abruptly, a muttered curse following as a wire sparks. He jerks his hand back and shakes it before turning to fish the screwdriver out of his pile himself instead.

Peter blinks.

“Gotta say, Pete, I miss having an assistant who could hand me tools and hold the thing I’m working on.” The words are said in jest, Mr. Stark distracted by trying to readjust tangled wires and finagle his way underneath them, but they land heavily nonetheless.

Peter laughs, but the sound feels forced, even to his own ears. “Sorry,” he apologizes, eyes remaining planted on his lone left hand.

Mr. Stark waves him off. “Hey, once we get that arm up and running, this stuff is gonna be a cakewalk for you.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees with a small smile.

“Another few days and you’ll be ready. We’ll get you there, bud, promise. Soon as possible.”

***

“Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” Peter says into the phone, ignoring the bats that have taken up residence deep inside his gut. He's currently squirreled away in his room, trying not to regret his last-minute decision to call Bucky.

“You doing okay?” comes the voice from the other end of the line. “Haven't heard much from you the last few days. Thought maybe you forgot how to send a text.”

Funny, coming from the guy who is more used to rotary phones than smartphones.

“Yeah.” He winces. “I'm really sorry.”

The former soldier had been disappointed and sympathetic when he heard about the unanticipated outcome of Peter's recent surgery. Peter feels bad because the only reason he even thought to tell Bucky what happened is because the man reached out to check in a couple days after the procedure, worried when he hadn’t heard anything.

“It's okay,” Bucky's response is easygoing, similar to what it had been then. “You've had a lot going on.”

“Just—there’s been—I’m okay. My arm is doing better, anyway. Not so much pain.”

“That's good,” Bucky says.

“Um…” Peter hesitates. “I’m—I’m actually trying on the prosthetic today,” he says in a rush, before he can change his mind. He's supposed to meet Mr. Stark in the giant office-turned-lab on the floor below the penthouse soon.

He'd had another follow up appointment yesterday, and the doctor had declared him ready to give the prosthetic a try to see how it fits and feels. If all goes well, then tomorrow they'll be meeting with the physical therapist to actually begin working on adjusting to it—though they had been warned that while some people adapt to their prosthetic right away with no major issues, others can struggle to become accustomed to the new limb due to various physical or psychological reasons. Peter really hopes he's in the former group.

“Wow.” Bucky's tone is carefully neutral, like he knows this could have been a text and there's probably more to it if Peter's calling him. “How are you feeling about that?”

Peter bites down on his lip and swallows because it's the first time anyone has asked him that without the expectation that his response would be a no-brainer of resounding excitement. 

The truth is, he's feeling some type of way about the prosthetic arm. A way that's keeping him from wanting to even look at it, much less wear and use it. And that's stupid, isn't it? The arm will help him so much—it’ll practically double his capabilities, make him look “normal” again to the average passerby. When he encountered the issue with the base procedure that delayed the timeline for him trying the prosthetic, he was close to devastated.

So why is he struggling so much with this now?

“It's not my arm,” he says, and he knows it doesn't make sense but in his head it does. The vibranium limb, however incredible it may be, isn't truly his like the arm that was there before it. It will be a pretty dang good replacement, but it's never going to be the original. He'll never have his right arm again, and maybe that thought is what's bothering him.

Or maybe it’s just the anticipatory anxiety that’s getting to him.

He belatedly realizes his response wasn't really an answer to the question that was asked, so he tacks on a quick, “Nervous. Kind of.”

Bucky hums understandingly.

“I just—I don't know, it feels dumb to say that,” Peter rambles on. “I should be ecstatic, right? But honestly, I kind of feel…I don’t know. Confused.”

Bucky is quiet for a moment. “You lost a part of yourself, kid,” he says. “Grieving that is normal, and it's a process. There will probably be some days where you don't even want to look at the arm, and some days you can't imagine life without it.”

The validation of his complex feelings is relieving. Peter leans back against his bed and closes his eyes.

“Have you changed your mind about it?” Bucky asks.

“No.” Despite his anxiety and conflicting thoughts, Peter knows as soon as the question is asked that he does want the prosthetic and all of the benefits it will provide. His stomach settles somewhat, and he blows out a long breath.

“Okay. Anything else about it bothering you?”

Yes. “No,” he says again. Technically he's not lying. Everything else that's bothering him isn't about the prosthetic itself.

A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand tells him he probably needs to get moving if he's to meet Mr. Stark on time. “It's just…a lot. But I'll be okay.”

“Yeah, you will—but remember it's okay if you have days where you're not.” The words echo Mr. Stark's similar sentiments from the other day.

“Yeah.”

A soft knock comes at the bedroom door. “Peter?” May calls. “Tony said he’s ready whenever you are.”

Peter pulls the phone away from his ear and cranes his neck around toward the door. “Okay, be right there,” he says. “I gotta go,” he tells Bucky, hoping the anxiety isn’t bleeding through his tone.

“Okay. And hey, listen to me—with or without that arm, you're still Peter,” Bucky says firmly. “That doesn’t change. All right?”

Peter hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear those words until they'd been spoken. “Thanks,” he whispers, hoping the simple word conveys everything he wants it to.

“Of course, Queens.” 

They say their goodbyes and hang up, and Peter hauls himself to his feet and makes his way toward the lab with his aunt. No one else is home right now; Rhodey has taken Morgan out for the afternoon and Pepper is working. Peter is glad that it will only be Mr. Stark and May with him when tries on the prosthetic for the first time, but even that seems like a crowd. Part of him almost just wants to be alone with Dr. Cho or his physical therapist or somebody else who is at least partially removed from the situation. He feels like there are too many expectations sitting on his shoulders already; he doesn't want everyone watching this event like hawks, especially when they aren’t sure how things will go.

But he knows how much this means to Mr. Stark, and the last thing Peter wants is to disappoint him. The man has worked tirelessly on the prosthetic arm, and that's not even including all of the other things he's done for Peter and May over the past few months.

“You ready for this?” May asks him as they approach the lab, pausing just outside the door.

“I’m ready,” he says, trying to sound confident for his benefit as much as hers.

“And you're sure you're not in pain?”

Peter shakes his head. “No pain,” he assures her, and it’s the truth. The fiery pain in his residual limb from the procedure has now dwindled down to only a dull, intermittent throb, which has been improving every day. He’s gotten so used to it that he doesn’t even notice it anymore.

“All right, then. Let’s test out your new arm.” With a wink, May pushes open the door and leads the way into the room where Mr. Stark waits.

“There he is.” The man turns around with a smile reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning, clapping his hands together. “Ready for this?”

Peter nods.

“All right—sit over here. You can pull up a chair, too, May.” 

Peter is directed to lower himself down into a cushioned desk chair. It's parallel to one of the work tables close to overflowing with wires, parts, and other machinery. There is one clear spot on the edge of the table, though—and on it sits the open case bearing the prosthetic arm in all its shiny red glory. He’s seen it before, but he can’t help but smile at the customized color.

Mr. Stark removes the arm from the case and sets it back down on the table. “All right, we good on how this thing works?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the metallic plates. “Need a refresher course?”

“No, I’m okay.” Peter has seen everything there is to see about how the arm functions. He sets his jaw in determination. “Let’s just try it.”

“Straight to business—I like it,” Mr. Stark quips. He slides his own chair over, knees nearly touching Peter's. With swift, careful movements, he aligns the attachable end of the prosthetic arm with the base of Peter's residual limb.

May crosses her arms. “And we're sure this isn't going to hurt him?”

“Mhm,” Mr. Stark hums, gaze remaining fixed on the prosthetic as he fiddles with it. “Pretty sure.”

Peter snorts, and May looks a bit disgruntled.

“Tony—” she starts.

He brushes her concern off with a click of his tongue. “Don't worry, May, you know I wouldn't do this if I didn't think the kid was ready. Cho signed off on it. We're all good here.”

“It's okay, May.” Peter pats his aunt on the arm and offers her a reassuring smile.

“All right, here we go. It might feel a little bzzt bzzt for a second,” Mr. Stark says, making a small gesture reminiscent of an explosion with his hand. “On a count of three. One…two—”

In one smooth movement, the man slides the arm up and connects it to the base, twisting the upper piece that essentially latches it in place. The arm whirrs with a slight mechanical sound as it seals itself against the end of the residual limb.

An odd, tingling sensation like pins and needles runs up Peter’s shoulder, and he suppresses an involuntary shudder. After a moment, the feeling fades away.

Mr. Stark leans back from his position bent over the arm and glances at his tablet lying on the table. “It should be connected. How do you feel?”

Peter blinks. “O—Okay,” he says hesitantly.

“All right.” Mr. Stark reaches forward and puts pressure on the palm of the prosthetic hand. “Can you feel that?”

“Yes,” Peter says. The sensation is strange, but not uncomfortable.

“Good.”

“No pain?” May asks, concern in her eyes as she looks on.

Peter shakes his head. There's no pain in the traditional sense of the word, but it’s such a new feeling that his brain isn't entirely sure how to process it. Despite the lightweightness of the prosthetic, it feels a bit…bulky. He chalks that up to unfamiliarity—one of those things that will get better over time.

Mr. Stark checks it over, messing around to determine how everything fits before he finally glances up. “Looks good. You want to try moving it?”

Taking a deep breath, Peter nods slowly.

“Move your fingers first.”

Moment of truth. Peter does as directed—or tries. He isn't entirely sure what he expected. It had been mentioned by both Mr. Stark and the doctors that he might have some trouble actually maneuvering the arm, hand, and fingers around at first as his body adjusts to the foreign limb. Still, he finds himself disappointed when he focuses with all his might to curl his fingers into a fist and barely manages to lift them at all. The tiny, intricate joints contract slightly, but otherwise remain in place. His face scrunches up with focus as he strains to make the limb move.

“Relax,” Mr. Stark tells him, lifting his hands in surrender when Peter shoots him a withering look.

He tries to raise his arm above his head next, but he can barely even pick it up off the table on his own. At least the little bit it actually moves, it does smoothly.

After several minutes with next to no success, Mr. Stark leans back in his chair and grimaces, fingers tapping against the armrests. “I was worried about that. The muscle atrophy in your shoulder is impacting your mobility with the prosthetic. Jenna will have to start really focusing more on helping you build those muscles back up now that we can use the prosthetic.”

“But we have been working on that,” Peter protests, stomach dropping. He’s been putting so much effort into PT ever since he woke up from his coma. It was supposed to help. How much longer is it going to take before he can actually use the prosthetic?

“Dr. Cho did say this might happen,” May reminds him gently. “It's a big change, and it will take some getting used to.”

“Yep,” Mr. Stark adds. He has an easy smile on his face, but it looks semi-forced. “It'll get easier as you use it more.”

The thing is, Peter knew this was a possibility. Knew that he might have trouble with the prosthetic arm at first—as high-tech as it is, it isn't entirely automated. Besides that, it's only been a couple short months since he nearly died, and the gamma radiation burns he sustained go beyond the surface; his damaged muscle and tissue still aren't fully mended. In theory, it makes sense.

He just thought that somehow—magically, intuitively, whatever—he would have better luck with the prosthetic right away. Maybe it was shortsighted on his part to expect things to go his way for once. But he’s Spider-Man, for goodness sake, shouldn’t his super strength be compensating for his injuries?

The thought pops into his head unbidden: I'm never going to be able to be Spider-Man again.

“I know it's hard,” May is saying, “but it’s going to be okay, all right? We just have to be patient.”

“Easy for you to say,” Peter mutters under his breath, low enough that neither of the adults catch it. 

Deep down, he knows it's not fair to be this upset. He's lucky to have the opportunity to get a prosthetic arm at all, so he should be able to suck it up and put in the work to get to where he wants to be. A few months is nothing compared to the years of pain and struggles countless other people go through when facing life-altering injuries or illnesses. He can handle having to go through rigorous PT in order to properly learn how to manage his prosthetic.

Right now, however, there's a gleam of disappointment flashing in Mr. Stark's eyes, and May is smiling but there's something else lingering behind it. Peter can’t ignore the way his chest seizes up at the sight. He wanted to make them proud today, and it seems he's failed pretty spectacularly.

Mr. Stark gestures to the arm. “If you want to keep it on a while longer, it might—”

But Peter is already shaking his head. “I want it off, please,” he says. He's sure he'll be seeing enough of it in the coming days, therapy session after therapy session. Right now, it feels suffocating.

The man frowns but acquiesces, taking the time to show Peter how to remove it himself. Pressing the hidden release buttons simultaneously and twisting the top piece of the arm where it connects to base pops the prosthetic off just as easily as it went on.

Peter stretches his lucky fin, grateful for the rediscovered mobility but aggravated that he couldn't do it when the arm was attached. His residual limb throbs, a wisp of phantom pain sliding down where the prosthetic arm was moments ago—like his body thinks it's still attached. He wrinkles his nose in displeasure.

“Don't worry about it, Pete,” Mr. Stark reassures, clapping him on the leg. “Everything else about the arm looks great. No issues with the fit. You'll get used to it in no time.”

But what if I don't? 

Peter nods stiffly. “Can…can I go?” he asks, eyes flitting over to Aunt May.

They both seem surprised by his unenthusiastic tone, but May runs a hand over his hair and nods. “Sure, baby—are you okay? You seem upset. I know this must be frustrating, and I don't want you to—”

“It's okay,” Peter says with what he hopes is a convincing smile. “It's—we figured this might happen.”

“I know, but still…”

“It's okay,” he repeats.

As he leaves the lab and trudges back up to the penthouse, he wonders who he was trying to convince.

Chapter Text

Peter has never been a huge fan of gym class.

When he was younger, it was due to his scrawny build and lack of athleticism. He was never as fast or agile as his peers; his asthma made any strenuous activities almost impossible, and he couldn’t even do five push-ups in a row. He would much rather read a book about science than play catch or run laps. His small size made him a target, and he tried to fly under the radar as much as possible.

After the spider bite, when he’d gone from puny and weak to strong enough to lift a bus with one hand literally overnight, he’d thought maybe things would be different. It wouldn’t be such a struggle to participate in P.E. anymore. Coaches wouldn’t have to ride him to “try harder” and “keep up.”

But he’d soon been faced with a new problem of the opposite nature: still having to pretend like he was incapable of completing a full-body workout without breaking a sweat or ducking in time to avoid getting beamed in dodgeball.

His newfound strength quickly became something more akin to a curse when it came to many things. He now had to focus to ensure he didn’t make any exercises look as effortless as they now were to avoid drawing attention and suspicion. It has always been a difficult balancing act.

And now, here he is yet again, finding a new reason to wish he was anywhere but the school gym.

Having only one arm hasn’t severely limited his ability to still participate in most activities, but the lack of the appendage along with the other lingering physical damage has made a noticeable difference. When school first started, Peter still hadn’t quite fully recovered from the whole snapping ordeal, and he’d been granted special permission to have a modified plan for P.E., which had been a little embarrassing. No highschooler wants “special treatment.” Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much of a choice.

Now he’s in better physical shape overall, but it doesn’t negate the impacts of having almost died and losing a limb.

Peter sighs as he files into the gym after the rest of his classmates, thinking about the prosthetic arm sitting in his room back at home. He’d had it on this morning for an early PT session before school. Jenna had been so patient with him as he struggled through his exercises and drills, but by the end of it he felt even further behind than before.

The artificial limb still isn’t working the way it should. They’re having trouble determining what to attribute the issues to—the most likely reason being the muscle atrophy in Peter’s shoulder and arm. Mr. Stark has been diving deep into the technical side of things, talking about calibration issues and delayed neural feedback hindering the response capabilities of the limb. The man has spent hours in the lab pouring over schematics and running diagnostics to see if it’ll help. But none of the adjustments seem to have resulted in much improvement yet; the fingers still can’t curl completely into a fist, the elbow locks when it shouldn’t, and the whole limb mostly feels like a dead weight strapped to Peter’s body.

Ned nudges him. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

Peter forces himself to nod as he follows his friend toward where their teacher waits in the middle of the gym. “Yeah, fine.” Maybe they’ll have an easy class—a Captain America fitness video and a few simple exercises.

“All right,” Coach Wilson claps his hands together before swinging them back out and announcing with a tone as unenthusiastic as always, “it’s dodgeball day.”

Peter bites back a groan. Of course they’re playing dodgeball today. He could sit out if he wanted, since he technically has the excuse of recovering from his recent surgery. But that feels like a cop out, and he needs something to remind him he’s not totally useless without two arms. He can do this.

As usual when it comes to team activities, Coach Wilson has them all line up and selects two students to serve as team captains, allowing them to choose their teams. One is Abe, and one is a senior Peter doesn’t really know—a tall and broad athletic-looking kid who hadn’t been Blipped.

Peter watches as one by one, names are called alternatingly by the two captains. By the third pick, he notices a pattern. The senior—Grant, if he remembers correctly—is assembling a team made up of non-Blipped kids. The kids who hadn’t vanished for five years.

His brow furrows in a frown. It isn’t as though he’s oblivious to the fact that the school has essentially divided itself into two factions, Blipped and un-Blipped, but seeing the blatant favoritism on display right in front of him causes a tightness to form in his chest. It's another reminder of how different things are now.

On top of that, Peter is left watching as names continue to be called, and none are his.He swallows hard and tucks his left arm around himself, feeling very much like the puny fifth-grader with glasses and bad lungs who was always chosen last because he was never any good at physical sports.

Finally, it’s down to him and Ned, and Peter’s heart sinks when the other boy’s name is called and he realizes by default that leaves him as part of Grant’s team. His friend shoots him a sympathetic look as he makes his way over to his assigned team.

“All right, Parker, you’re with that group,” Coach Wilson announces the obvious, motioning widely toward the others. “Or feel free to sit on the bleachers and watch if you don’t think you can participate.”

Peter’s cheeks redden when he hears a few muffled snickers from his team. He keeps his head down as he shuffles over to the group, his sneakers squeaking against the gymnasium floor. The stares practically bore through him. He'd like to say he's used to it by now, but unfortunately the attention still makes him uneasy. His left hand shifts up to curl around his residual limb. He doesn't have to wear his shrinker sock constantly anymore, and his fingers smooth against the rounded edge of his stump, outlining the internal base that now resides underneath the skin.

Grant cuts a glance in Peter's direction as he approaches, lingering on the missing limb. “Just—try to stay out of the way, Parker,” the other boy says, lip curled with borderline disgust.

Peter doesn't even have a chance to respond before the group is dispersing, preparing for the game to begin. Some pep talk. He's glad he only shares a couple of classes with Grant, and that the senior generally ignores him. Flash is a bully and his stupid comments suck, yeah, but there's something more mean-spirited about the way Grant interacts with others, especially the less popular and Blipped students.

The two teams line up on either side of the basketball court, and Coach Wilson counts them down.

“Three, two, one…” The shrill sound of a whistle cuts through the air, signaling the start of the game.

It’s a mad frenzy as everyone rushes for the big rubber balls. The gym quickly turns into a war zone, balls flying every which way while students try to evade them. 

Peter ducks when a ball comes sailing his way, managing to avoid being hit. It’s an effort to keep from utilizing his sharp reflexes for his benefit. At the same time, it’s difficult to pick up the large balls or aim well with his left hand, and the extra effort it takes to properly throw slows him down tremendously.

One by one, players from each team are knocked out of the game, moving out of the battle zone to await the end of the round—or hopefully get back in.

Despite the challenges playing one-handed presents, Peter manages to stay in the midst of the fray for longer than most of his teammates probably expected. More of his time is spent dodging balls than actually throwing them back, and he's got no chance of catching an opponent’s ball if he's holding one himself, but hey, he's got to choose his battles.

A ball bounces past, and he hurries to scoop it up. Just as his hand is stretching out to grab the ball, Grant appears out of nowhere, nearly tripping over Peter and sending him stumbling in the process.

The senior grunts. “Hey, watch it, Blip-Boy,” he snaps, giving Peter a rough shove.

Balance thrown, Peter can't right himself in time. He hits the floor, his residual limb meeting the hardwood with a solid thud. Pain flares in his shoulder, and he clenches his jaw to keep a pained grunt from escaping. He thinks he hears a snort, but his head is spinning with the sudden jolt it has just been subjected to, and all he sees is a pair of sneakers making their way away from him. No whistle is blown, so either Coach Wilson didn't see what happened or didn't care.

“Peter!” Ned is suddenly next to him, ignoring the fact that he's behind enemy lines and grabbing Peter by the hand, pulling him to his feet. “Hey, you okay?”

From behind them, someone else mutters, “Freaks. Thanos was right.”

Grant echoes the same sentiment.

Ned starts to whirl around, but Peter grabs him by the sleeve, shaking his head even though the words sting. “It's not worth it,” he says between heavy breaths. “I'm—I’m going sit down.”

His best friend doesn't look happy about it, but he relents, keeping his hand on Peter's left arm. There are dodgeballs still flying everywhere, and the two of them do their best to evade them as they make their way over to the bleachers.

“Man, those guys are jerks,” Ned seethes, glaring out at Grant and the others out on the court.

“Don't worry about it,” Peter says, still trying to catch his breath. He drops down onto the metal seat and leans forward, resting his arm against his thigh.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

Peter nods. His residual limb is a little sore, but he doesn't think it's anything serious. “Just—got the wind knock—knocked out of me.”

Ned doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he doesn't press, patting his friend on his good shoulder instead.

Peter stares glumly out at the other kids playing dodgeball, thankful for Ned at his side but unable to keep his mind from continuing to wander. He should have taken the hints from the beginning and sat out of the game in the first place. His stomach is churning, and he doesn't think it's just because of the tumble he'd taken. The sneered words of his classmates echo in his ears, and the corners of his mouth tug downward at the memory. He doesn't understand how people can be so intentionally cruel.

If only his prosthetic worked better—or rather, if only he worked better and could use it properly. It might not solve the dilemma of being known as a kid who Blipped, but it might help with the stares and offhand comments he often receives about his missing arm.

But he can't. He's too messed up. It might be weeks or even months before the prosthetic is actually of any real use to him. Besides, he's sure people like Flash and Grant would find something to hate about the artificial limb too.

Peter lets out a long sigh. Everything is so confusing right now, and he's beginning to feel like he's fighting a losing battle.

***

The moment Peter walks through the door of the penthouse, he knows something’s up.

Mr. Stark and May are both in the living room when he passes through, which isn’t the most unusual thing in the world, but it’s not exactly normal either. Usually one of them is in the kitchen, or still at work, or busy with Morgan. Sitting together like this—quiet, waiting—it feels deliberate.

He really hopes they don’t want to have another “talk” about the situation with his prosthetic. After today’s incident in gym class, Peter really just wants to hide away in his room, drown in homework, focus on something else besides the Blip and his arm. Unfortunately, those seem to be the only two topics of interest in Peter's social circles these days.

He keeps his head down, trying for a casual shuffle toward the hallway. Maybe if he moves quietly enough, they won't even notice—

“Hey, honey,” May says, her gaze lifting the moment he steps into the room, like she has her own spider-sense of sorts.

“Hi,” he mutters, not looking directly at her.

“How was school today?”

“Fine.” He shrugs vaguely, already angling himself toward the hallway and the promised safety of his bedroom.

“Really?”

Peter blinks, thrown by his aunt's unconvinced tone. He glances up, catching the way her eyebrows are drawn together in suspicion. “Um…yeah?”

“You’re sure?” May presses. “Because I got a call from the school telling me that some boy in your class was calling you names.”

Peter freezes. “What?” He goes for casual, but the high note gives him away.

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark pipes up, leaning forward from where he’s sitting with one ankle slung over his knee. He cocks his head. “Kid called you something, gym class—any of that ring a bell?”

Peter swallows hard, his backpack strap digging into his shoulder. Who snitched? Had Ned reported it? Coach Wilson? Maybe another student overheard the exchange and brought it up to a teacher. The school has a strict anti-bullying policy, especially when it comes to anything Blip-related. Peter’s pretty sure Flash ended up with several days of detention as a result of his recent comments.

They're both still looking at him, clearly waiting for an answer, so Peter finally waves his left hand—the one that still works—and says in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner, “Oh. That. It wasn't a big deal. Stupid high school stuff, you know? People say things.”

May’s frown deepens. “They said enough that the school thought I should know about it.”

Peter’s face heats. “It’s fine,” he insists again. “We were playing dodgeball, and I got in the way. That's all. It was nothing.”

Mr. Stark looks unimpressed. “Define ‘got in the way.’”

“We went for the same ball and he tripped over me.”

“What I heard is that you were shoved to the floor.” There's anger in May’s voice, though Peter knows it's not directed at him.

He just shrugs, shooting another longing glance toward his bedroom. He doesn't know why they're making such a big deal out of this.

“Are you hurt?” May asks.

Peter shakes his head, even as his left hand involuntarily reaches for his residual limb.

Both of the adults’ eyes narrow in unison.

“Peter,” they say together, equal levels of concern in their voices.

Peter’s chest tightens. He hates this—hates the way they’re looking at him, like he’s glass—like one wrong touch and he’ll break. He isn’t fragile. He doesn’t want to be fragile.

“Did you hit it when you fell?” Mr. Stark asks, motioning to the lucky fin.

Peter wants to shake his head again, but he can't find it in himself to flat out lie. It more than likely won't get them off his back anyway. He settles for a noncommittal grunt and shrug.

Mr. Stark lets out a quiet swear.

“Oh, honey.” May is suddenly in front of him, guiding him toward the couch she'd been occupying moments ago. “Come here; sit down for a minute.”

“I’m fine,” Peter protests weakly, but he knows better than to fight her. He sinks down onto the couch with a sigh, ready for the overprotective fussing he's sure to get.

Mr. Stark moves in next to May, crouching in front of Peter. “Answer me, Pete. Be honest. Did you hit your arm?”

Peter stares at the floor. His throat feels tight. He nods.

“How bad?”

“...Not that bad,” Peter mutters. “It's a little sore, but that's all.”

 “You can’t just shrug that off, kid,” Mr. Stark says seriously. “You’ve got fresh tissue there, sensitive as hell. That’s—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “You gotta tell us when stuff like that happens.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter says, a tad bit mollified. He wasn't trying to hide it from them, he just didn't think it was worth making into a thing. Everything with him is a thing these days. Or that's what it feels like, anyway.

“Let me see.”

He carefully rolls back Peter's shirt sleeve to get a clearer look at the rounded end of the limb. His featherlight touch chases over the skin, probing but gentle.

“What's the verdict?” May asks, peering over Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Looks a little aggravated, but I don't think it's anything serious. Let's go ahead and get some ice on it, just in case.”

May nods in agreement. “I'll grab a pack from the freezer.” She brushes her hand over Peter's hair before pushing to her feet and heading toward the kitchen.

Mr. Stark stays put, his hand coming to rest on Peter's knee, the grip steady but not too tight. “You gotta work with us here, Pete,” he says, voice pitched low. “I can’t fix what I don’t know about.”

I don't need you to fix everything, Peter wants to say, but instead he just nods, exhausted from the day and embarrassed by the mother-henning. He appreciates the concern, he does, but…sometimes it's a bit much.

“We don't want any more setbacks with your prosthetic,” Mr. Stark adds, and Peter's stomach drops.

May bustles back into the room just then, all business. She has a dishtowel that she drapes over Peter's right shoulder before settling the icepack against the sore spot. The cold is biting, even through the extra layer, and Peter flinches.

“It's okay,” May soothes, her free hand rubbing up and down his back in a comforting motion.

“Couple minutes on, couple minutes off,” Mr.  Stark says, nodding toward the ice. “We’ll keep an eye on the redness.”

Peter presses his lips together and drops back against the couch cushions, futilely wishing for an escape.

“Sweetheart,” May says, “I understand why you wanted to keep this to yourself, but this wasn't a harmless prank or a mildly insulting comment. It impacts your health—mentally and physically. What this boy said and did is unacceptable. That's something we—and the school—need to know about.”

“I know,” Peter responds quietly, because it’s all he can think to say. He gets it, he does, but it's not as easy as they make it sound.

Of course he doesn't want anyone else to be on the receiving end of Grant’s—or anyone else's—bullying. But he's learned from years of putting up with Flash’s stupid jabs that it's better just to keep your head down and try to ignore it. That rule of thumb is even more applicable to the pro-Thanos students, because most of that behavior is learned at home. What's the point in constantly reporting it and being labeled a snitch when nothing is going to change anyway? It just paints a bigger target on his back.

“Okay.” May exhales, leaning over to press a kiss to Peter's cheek, which earns her a blush. “We love you, baby. We want you to feel safe and comfortable at school, especially with…everything.”

Peter nods.

Mr. Stark pats his knee, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “Something like this happens again, you let someone know right away. Deal?”

Peter forces a weak smile. “Deal.”

It earns him a satisfied nod, and May seems relieved, but the knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen. 

The ice burns against his skin, and he lets it.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Peter is sitting at the dining table with Ned, doing homework. Or rather, they were doing homework until they got distracted by googling obscure events that occurred during the Blip they missed out on. While some things are too big to not have noticed by now, a lot of stuff happened in the five years they were “dead,” so catching up is going to take a lot more than a few short months.

School has been okay the past couple of days. Grant has been absent, and the word on the street is that he’s been suspended for a full week. Apparently Midtown is serious about their new Blip anti-bullying policy.

Ned had been ecstatic when he'd been invited over for the afternoon—he’s been to the penthouse once or twice, but he still acts like he's going to pass out from excitement every time he comes over to the Starks’—like, as in Tony Stark, like, Iron Man—house. Then again, Ned kind of gets excited about everything. It’s what makes him such a great hype man.

Morgan sits across the table from the two boys, intensely coloring a picture with her array of crayons. She loves being included in anything Peter is doing, and having his friend over means extra attention, so she's having a great time, too.

“Okay, okay, how about this?” his best friend is saying, nose in his phone.  “Who won the Super Bowl this year?”

Peter twirls his pencil between his fingers, brow furrowed in thought. “Um…the Giants?” he guesses, knowing he’s holding out way too much hope.

Ned snorts. “In our dreams, dude. Try again.”

“Jets?”

“Kansas City Chiefs.”

“Oh.” Peter scrunches up his nose, taking the offered phone and scrolling further down on the web page to read out the next question. “What happened on—”

“I thought you boys were supposed to be doing homework,” Pepper interrupts as she enters the room, balancing several cups in her hands.

“We were just—uh—taking a quick break,” Ned defends, grabbing his phone back from Peter and shoving it away as they both turn back to their books with twin expressions of guilt.

“Petey and Ned weren't doing their homework,” Morgan tattles belatedly. She glances up from her coloring book and pokes a purple crayon in the boys’ direction before proudly adding, “I finished all mine already.”

“Mo, your homework is matching shapes and naming colors,” Peter deadpans. 

She frowns at him in confusion. “Yeah? And I did all of it.”

Peter just sighs, glancing down at his complex math homework and wishing he still had the innocence and workload of a preschooler.

Pepper smiles and shakes her head. She sets the cups down on the table and begins passing them out.

“Smoothies!” Morgan lets out a whoop. “And not the gross green ones!”

Peter smothers a laugh with his hand. Secretly, he agrees with the little girl—he’ll take a berry smoothie over a kale one any day. He glances at his cup, noting how Pepper made sure to place it close enough so he can lean over to sip out of the straw without having to grab it with his hand, making it easier to continue writing. He smiles gratefully at the woman.

“Whew,” Ned says, peering into his own cup. “No offense to your smoothie-making capabilities, Mrs. Stark,” he adds hurriedly, “but spinach and kale just don't belong in smoothies—or in any food, really.”

“None taken,” Pepper says, tone dry as she hands Morgan a napkin along with her pink cup protected with a spill-proof lid. “That's about the same response I used to get from Tony—but I’ll have you know I converted him. Green smoothies are his favorite.”

“You turned Mr. Stark into a crunchy mom?” Ned whispers, clearly in awe.

Peter elbows his friend in the side, who lets out an “oof” and rubs at his ribs.

“She turned me into a what now?” A new voice joins the conversation. Mr. Stark strolls out of the elevator and over to the table, suit jacket draped over his back and shirt sleeves haphazardly rolled up to his elbows. He looks tired—but then again, he always does after any business- or government-related meeting.

Ned’s eyes grow to the size of dinner plates, and he chuckles nervously. “Uh, n—nothing, Mr. Stark. I was just saying how much we love green smoothies. Really anything organic. Nutrition is important, you know?”

Peter chokes on his sip of smoothie.

“Daddy!” Morgan squeals before anyone can come up with a response. She abandons her smoothie and shifts to stand on her chair, arms outstretched to greet her dad.

“Missed me, munchkin?” Mr. Stark rounds the table to sweep the almost-five-year-old into his arms, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She shakes her head so hard her hair falls into her face. “Nope.”

Mr. Stark lets out a mock gasp, fingers coming up to tickle her in the side.

Morgan bursts into giggles, squirming to get away from the offending hand. “Stop, stop!” she begs. “I did miss you!”

Mr. Stark lets up. “That's better,” he says with a grin, kissing her again before setting her back down in the chair and bopping her on the nose. 

Peter waits patiently, pretending to read the next question on his chemistry homework, half-expecting Mr. Stark to do something equally embarrassing to him next. It isn't uncommon for the man to greet Peter just as enthusiastically as he does Morgan—sometimes it's a hug or a noogie along with a sarcastic comment—but almost always something. As much as he tries to play it off and pretend to be annoyed when he gets a hair ruffle, Peter can't deny the way he enjoys and even preens at the attention. 

Today, however, Mr. Stark's gaze slides over to Peter, and his smile dims a bit as he tilts his head. “Pete,” he greets. “Where's your prosthetic?”

Peter's heart drops, mood turning sour faster than room-temperature milk. “In my room,” he mutters, eyes on his textbook.

“Okay, my question was meant to be on the rhetorical side. Rephrase: Is there a reason you aren't wearing it?” The man's tone isn't demeaning in any way, but Peter can't help but feel like he's being reprimanded—and in front of his friend, no less.

“Jenna said I only have to wear it a couple of hours a day, and I'm doing homework right now,” he says, voice a smidge sharper than normal, almost challenging.

The physical therapist’s suggestion wasn't even mandatory. Sure, the more often he wears the arm, the faster it might help him adjust to it, but at this point it's more about his residual limb muscle than the prosthetic. Peter has been finding himself dreading the idea of wearing it around. Maybe it's just because he doesn't like the way it sits awkwardly at his side since he still can't move it with much ease or precision right now. And he knows, he knows that in order for it to get better, he needs to get used to it. But he wears it for all of his PT sessions now—and when he does his at-home stretches and exercises. And he was going to wear it for a few hours later tonight. Not that he plans to tell that to Mr. Stark now. Yes, he's going to be that petty.

“Why does he need to wear his arm, Daddy?” Morgan pipes up, a frown on her face as she watches the tense exchange.

“He doesn't need to,” Pepper interjects smoothly. “But his body isn't used to it yet, so wearing it can help with that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Morgan goes back to her coloring.

“I'm gonna put it on later,” Peter says, abandoning the resolution he'd made only moments ago. He doesn't like conflict, and he doesn't want Mr. Stark to be upset with him. Besides, if he's truly honest with himself, the real problem doesn't lie with the arm itself anymore or even wearing it, per se. He's mostly just tired of everyone talking about it—and asking him about it—constantly.

Ned makes a loud slurping sound as he sips the last of his smoothie. “This was delicious, Mrs. Stark—thank you.”

Pepper smiles. “Of course, Ned. I'm glad you liked it.”

Whether it was intentional on his best friend's part or not, the abrupt redirection in conversation eases the atmosphere into something more pleasant. The discussion switches to what the plan for dinner is, and for that, Peter is grateful. He even exchanges a few jabs with Mr. Stark when May’s cooking capabilities are called into question, but when the man leaves the room a few minutes later without so much as a shoulder pat, Peter finds himself oddly disappointed, and he's not even sure why.

***

Dead. Dust.

Dust. Dead.

Those two little words run on repeat in his mind. They didn't mean much at first, when Peter first woke up on Titan. It hadn't felt like a big deal at the time, partly because he didn't really comprehend what happened and partly because there were way more important things at hand—namely defeating Thanos and saving the world.

Now, the memory of fading away haunts him.

Because he didn't just “get all dusty.” His entire body turned into dust. He died.

Peter bites back a whimper. He isn't sure why, but he's afraid. Palm sweaty, heart thudding in his chest. He moves forward, looking around every corner like Thanos is lying in wait, ready to jump out at him like a goblin at a haunted house. 

There's a sense of wrongness that hovers over him in the form of an invisible cloud. He doesn't know how he knows, but he gets the distinct feeling that he's utterly alone. There's no one else around—no one who's going to come help him. They're all gone.

Wait—the Stones. He's supposed to be finding the Infinity Stones, to keep them out of the hands of those who would use them for destruction.

The back of his neck tingles.

“You're nothing with one arm, Spider,” a voice taunts, and Peter whirls around, but it’s coming from somewhere above, all around. A location he can't determine. “Just damaged goods.”

Then suddenly, Peter glances down and realizes he doesn't have any arms. Terror rises up within him as he shakes his head. “No, no.”

A giant, purple hand darts out and grabs him by the neck. Peter is powerless to stop it.

He flails, choking, as laughter rings out.

Peter jackknifes upward in bed with a gasp, scrambling, reaching to pat himself down to make sure he's all there and not—

His arm doesn't move. He's trying, he's trying to move it, he can feel himself trying to move it, his brain is telling him his arm should be moving, but it isn't. 

Peter's breath catches. Did he—did he actually lose both arms? Did he somehow forget that it wasn't just his right, but his left, too? Oh no, please no. It had to just be a dream. Please.

It's dark in his room—too dark. Pitch black, just how he—usually—likes it. He can't even check and see if his left arm is still there, and it feels like it's not and everything is wrong. He's scared.

Panic claws at his chest, sinking its talons deep into him and dragging him down. 

“May!” The panicked shout escapes his lips before his sleep- and fear-addled mind can even think about stopping it. His chest heaves with a sob. “May! T—Tony!”

He tries to reach with his right arm to grab at his left because he knows it has to be there, but there's nothing on that side either—nothing but a stump. This can't be happening.

His bedroom is suddenly bathed in blinding light, and Peter only has half a second to realize his left arm is in fact still perfectly intact before there's a worried voice right next to him.

“Pete, hey, kid—calm down.” Hands are on him, pressing him firmly down into the mattress in an attempt to still his writhing. “What's going on? What—”

“My arm's gone,” he croaks hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut. “I mean, I thought—I can't feel—my arm. It's not—I’m not right. Please help me.”

“Shh,” Mr. Stark soothes, hand sliding up to press briefly against Peter's cheek. “Which arm are we talking about here, buddy?”

“L—left,” he chokes out, squinting against the bright overhead lights and squirming to get another glimpse of his left side. Relief fills him when he again sees the limb still there, but the feeling is just as quickly washed away as he tries with all his might to move it and it seems like a dead weight. “I can't move it.”

Understanding forms in Mr. Stark's expression just as May comes barreling through the doorway—where Pepper is already standing, half-asleep and also looking full of worry—hair mussed from sleep. “What is it—what’s wrong?” she asks breathlessly, sliding in to sit on the other side of the bed.

“His arm,” Mr. Stark says, and he's got both of his hands on Peter's left arm now, beginning to massage it vigorously. “He must have just been lying on it wrong. It's—it probably fell asleep.”

Even as he says the words, Peter feels his arm begin to buzz with a familiar pins and needles sensation as Mr. Stark maneuvers it around to get the blood circulating again. 

The emotions from the dream are still sitting with him, and he feels more off-kilter than he has in weeks, unable to shake the irrational anxiety churning in his stomach. When May slides further onto the bed next to him, he wastes no time in turning to bury his face into her shoulder. The action feels extremely childish, but Peter can't help it.

“How's it feeling?” Mr. Stark asks, jostling his grip on Peter. “Any better?”

“Jell-O,” Peter mumbles, because that's the perfect way to describe the current state of his arm. A sensation like TV static runs up and down the limb. It takes more effort than it should, but he's able to move the limb—though it still feels about ten times heavier than usual, he can tell it's improving.

Still, the tingling is too reminiscent of how it felt to be crumbling apart; the indescribable experience of literally turning into dust an unforgiving stain in his head.

“Tony?” he says, pulling away from May a bit.

Mr. Stark glances up to meet his eyes, surprised. “Yeah, bud?”

“I don't think I can be Spider-Man anymore.” His voice quivers a bit on the sentence, but he gets it out.

The man's lips thin, and he gives a tiny shake of his head. “We can talk about it later,” he says, like he knows Peter is out of it right now and just word-vomiting. 

Peter wishes he could tell Mr. Stark this isn't some nightmare-induced nonsense. He's tired. He's hurting. It's becoming increasingly clear that saving the universe was his last act of heroism. Maybe it's a noble way to go out, but Peter can't imagine living the rest of his life without the feeling of purpose that Spider-Man brings. Even excluding his superhero alter-ego, nothing about the future is all that enticing anymore. Just thinking about tomorrow is hard enough.

“I'm sorry,” Peter whispers, possibly too quiet for anyone to hear. Why he's apologizing, he's not entirely sure.

One thing he does know, though: he should be getting better with time. So why does it feel like his life is slowly falling apart instead?

***

“He’s not okay.” 

A heavy sigh chases the words as Tony leans his head back against the back of the couch. He's not sure what time it is now, but his eyes are burning with exhaustion.

Pepper pads back into the sitting area and sets a mug of tea down on the side table next to May. She reclaims her seat on the recliner, her own drink cupped in her hands.

Peter is also sprawled out on the couch, snoring lightly, his upper half mostly in Tony's lap as Tony carefully massages the kid's shoulder, neck, and arm. There's so much tension in the small body, muscles wound tight with stress and fear.

The terrified shout that had yanked Tony from a dead sleep will haunt his own dreams for the next month at a minimum. He's only ever heard Peter sound so terrified once in all the time he's known him—the day on Titan that Tony has spent the last five years trying to forget. He never wants to see that look on the kid's face again. Helpless and frightened, desperate for someone to make it better.

They weren't able to get him to go back to sleep in his bed even after he was able to move his left arm on his own again, so they'd all relocated to the living room. The teenager was clearly shaken, and not just from waking up with the inability to move his only arm—which would have been a good enough excuse on its own; Tony can remember experiencing sleep paralysis more than once over the years and how utterly terrifying it is. Especially when he already has trauma surrounding being unable to move—thanks for that, Obie.

Tony clenches his jaw and digs his thumb deeper into the space between Peter's neck and right shoulder. Even asleep, Peter lets out a shuddering groan, his body responding to the external stimulus by practically going limp. It's almost amusing enough to pull a smile out of Tony.

May shifts to hold her tea in one hand, the other coming up to scrub at her face. “He seemed like he was doing so well with everything. Now, all of a sudden it's just…” She makes a downward sweeping motion with her hand. “I know recovery isn't linear, but he's not doing well, and I don't know how to help him.”

“Do you think it's the prosthetic?” Pepper asks carefully. “The surgery complications certainly were unexpected, and I know we were hoping that it would all be a smoother adjustment than it's been.”

Tony presses his lips together, hating that the one thing that was meant to help Peter has only seemed to make things worse.

May nods. “You may be right…that's really when I started noticing how quiet and withdrawn he's been.”

Tony considers that. Hm. Yes, it's true that the kid has seemed off lately. Much quieter than usual, unenthusiastic. Tired. He thinks of when Peter arrived home a couple weeks ago, clearly distraught but unwilling to disclose any particulars. Should Tony have pushed harder for answers? Did it have to do with that kid bullying him at school? Could they have prevented it from escalating like it did? 

He feels like he's second-guessing everything these days, especially when it comes to the kid, and he doesn't like it. Not one bit.

Running his fingers through Peter's hair, he speaks again. “He’s had nightmares before tonight?” Because surely this isn't the first time the kid has woken up in a panic, memories and unspoken fears clinging to him. Tony is all too familiar with what that's like. He also knows how easy it is to hide those sorts of things from the people around you.

“Not that I'm aware of,” May says. “But he's so closed off lately. He usually—well, he's usually pretty easy to read, and he used to talk to me. But ever since we've been back…”

Everyone has been busy. And it's kind of ironic, because they've been so busy taking care of Peter that they've somehow also managed to neglect him.

Pepper hums, gaze lingering on the sleeping teenager for a moment. “He’s been through a lot. Maybe his brain hasn't been able to truly process it all just yet,” she suggests.

“Or it was its way of protecting him while his body was still doing so much healing,” May adds with a thoughtful nod.

Tony tilts his head. “So, we need to stage an intervention or…?”

“Peter does not do well with confrontation,” May says immediately, and Tony winces, memories of the ferry incident rushing to the forefront of his mind. “He just needs support—make it clear that we're there for him, that he can talk to us. And I'll talk to him in the morning, or, well, when he wakes up.” Her eyes stray to the clock on the wall.

“In the meantime,” Pepper says, tapping her fingers against her mug, a thoughtful expression on her face, “I'm thinking that some time away might be good for all of us. I have a proposition.”

May straightens up a little. “I’m listening.”

***

“—and yeah, we're leaving at the end of the week.”

“Dude,” Ned breathes, cafeteria lunch completely forgotten. “That is so awesome. You have no idea how cool this is. I bet Mr. Stark has his own private house and beach and everything.”

Peter just grunts noncommittally, poking at his own uneaten, lukewarm food.

“Peter, listen to me—all the babes hang out at the beach. And it’s Florida. The ultimate vacation spot. You're going to have the time of your life. Ugh, I'm so jealous.”

“Might want to wipe the drool from your chin,” MJ says, clearly unimpressed. Ever since the Flash incident, she's actually been sitting with them—not at the other end of the long table—during lunch. As such, she has learned quite a few more details about Peter's post-Blip life, including his current living arrangements and his prosthetic arm.

Ned remains undeterred. “Make sure you send pictures. I'll just live vicariously through you, pretending I'm floating in gorgeous blue water instead of walking down the blustery New York streets.” He sighs longingly.

“Did you know there's a one in eleven million chance you'll be attacked by a shark in the ocean?” MJ asks.

“Um…” Ned looks concerned, not at the idea of being bitten by a shark but for MJ’s mental health. “Isn't that, like, extremely low?”

“Not when over a hundred forty million tourists visit Florida annually, and a vast majority of them spend time at the beach.”

Ned blinks, mulling over those calculations for a moment. “Maybe don't go in the water while you're at the beach, Peter.”

But Peter has bigger concerns than giant ocean creatures with teeth, so he's happy to let his friend continue rambling about the ideal beach vacation and all the things he would do were it him getting a week full of sand and sun.

“But come on,” Ned is saying to MJ now. “Don't tell me you would rather be sitting at home doing nothing than relaxing at the beach for fall break.”

“I would rather be sitting at home doing nothing than relaxing at the beach for fall break,” MJ recites, zero emotion in her tone. She turns back to Peter and squints. “So why don't you want to go?”

Taken aback by the sudden interrogating question, Peter frowns. “What do you mean? I haven't been on an actual vacation since…I don't remember when. Of course I want to go.”

Because of current world events and everyone still adjusting to the Blip's after-effects, Midtown has built in some extra breaks throughout the school year. One of those is a week-long, early fall break. Someone—he’s not sure who, though Peter suspects maybe Mr. Stark—decided spending that time on a vacation far away from New York was a brilliant idea. They hinted at the fact that it was for Morgan's fifth birthday, but Peter is pretty sure that isn't the only reason for this spontaneous getaway.

MJ looks like she's trying to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Right. Then what's with the ‘somebody peed in your Cheerios’ face?”

Peter wrinkles his nose. Is he that obvious? With as tired as he's been lately, it's been more and more difficult to hide it. Well, that and MJ is just really good at reading people.

“I am excited about the trip,” he reaffirms, and he does mean it. The adults let him and Morgan contribute their votes to where they wanted to go for their vacation; they agreed on the beach. He's never been that far south, and the chance to get away from everything for a bit sounds great.

…Except he can't exactly get away from his own mind, and half of the people he sees on a daily basis are coming on this trip with him. Not that he has a problem with that, obviously—it would be a bit boring to go on a vacation by himself, and however childish it makes him sound, he honestly can't imagine going more than a full day without May or the Starks. The thought alone is enough to inject ice cold fear into his veins, which probably says something about his current mental state.

“Okay. Then what's bugging you?”

“Bugging me? Nothing.”

“Hm,” is all MJ says, and Peter feels her gaze piercing into him as he takes a bite of now-cold mac ‘n cheese. He grimaces at the rubbery texture.

Ned jumps in again, and like the traitor he is, asks, “Is it about your prosthetic?”

Peter hesitates. He has voiced some of his woes about the prosthetic to his friends recently. “Not…entirely.”

“Are you bringing it with you on vacation?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. Mainly because he fears he'll lose what little progress he's made with it so far, even though his physical therapist has told him that's not a concern. Partially because he's pretty sure Mr. Stark would have an aneurysm if he didn't.

In reality, Peter isn't sure what to do about the prosthetic, because he struggles with wearing it, and he struggles with not wearing it. He says as much to his friends, though he knows it probably doesn't make much sense to them, because he doesn't even quite understand the reasoning behind the confusing feelings himself.

“I have a question,” MJ says, sliding her tray aside and leaning her elbows on the table. “Do you actually not like the prosthetic, or do you just not like how they're treating you about it?” she asks.

Peter's heart skips a beat. He shrugs, but she hit the nail on the head. He's tired of the focus constantly being on his amputation and prosthetic. Of the adults saying things like “how's the arm?” before they even ask “how are you?” or “imagine what it'll be like when you can do this again with two arms.” It's also in the things they don't say—how they act when he's not wearing the prosthetic. Peter had gained back some independence after they got back to New York—it had been encouraged, in fact, to learn how to do things with only one arm. But ever since he's gotten approval to wear the prosthetic, it's like he can't do anything for himself if he's not wearing it. 

They don't mean to do it, he thinks, but it's aggravating nonetheless.

MJ must take his extended silence for an affirmative answer, because she says, “Well, then you should tell them that.”

“It's not that easy,” Peter protests immediately. “They’ve been doing so much for me—”

“That doesn't take away from the fact that they're hurting you. How can they change if they don't know? I'm sure they don't even realize it. Adults are oblivious at the best of times.” She sounds like she's speaking from experience.

Peter just shrugs again. MJ has a fair point, but she doesn't know everything. There's a lot more to it than that, a conglomerate of complicated and confusing factors that have him so twisted up and turned around he has no idea which way he's facing. He can't even trust his own feelings right now, so how can he go to the adults in his life—the ones who he knows are trying to do their best—and tell them he's struggling? 

He doesn't want to do that; he can't do that. Especially not to Tony. Their relationship is precarious enough as it is. Peter doesn't know what to think of it sometimes. He knows Mr. Stark cares about him, but sometimes he wonders if the man missed the idea of him more than anything else during the Blip. Peter is afraid one day the man will wake up and decide he doesn't really want to deal with all the trouble that Peter certainly is, or the way he and May have more or less invaded the Starks' perfect little family.

A loud tap against the tabletop jolts Peter out of his miniature spiral. He looks up and meets MJ’s warm brown gaze. She looks a little exasperated, maybe, but there's a smile in her voice when she speaks. “Peter. It's going to be fine. Go have fun on vacation—relax. Use the time away to think things over. And then maybe when you get back, talk to your parents.”

Ned nods along in agreement, adding something about souvenirs and boogie boarding.

Peter is too distracted by the parents slipup—because surely it was just a misspeak—to respond right away, and MJ takes that as permission to continue.

“Or hide it forever and turn into an emotionally-constipated person who resents others who don't even know there's a problem.” She shrugs. “Either way.”

“Wow,” Ned says. “Harsh. But true.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says, finally finding his voice. His friends are right, but he isn't so sure he has the strength to have the conversation he needs to have with Mr. Stark. “I'll think about it.”

Chapter Text

Peter strolls down the boardwalk leading to the beach, Pepper next to him. Mr. Stark and Morgan are up ahead because the newly-minted five-year-old is too impatient to wait to get a close-up glimpse of their view for the next week. She had been begging to go down to the beach from the moment they pulled up at the rental house. The sun is just about to set anyway, so Pepper had suggested they all go take a quick walk along the shore to watch.

May and Happy volunteered to stay behind and start unpacking—though Peter imagines the alone time was the real incentive for them. He makes a face and keeps walking. It isn't that he has a problem with his aunt being in a relationship or with Happy, but sometimes the thought of it is still just a little…awkward. That is his aunt, after all.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Pepper asks kindly, drawing Peter out of his reverie as they leave their sandals behind and step onto the fine, almost-white sand.

Further down the beach, Morgan is wading in ankle deep water, clearly chattering away to her dad as she points at something unseen.

Peter clears his throat and nods. “Just tired from the trip,” he says by way of explanation. 

“Well, the good news is you get to sleep in as late as you want all week.” Her eyes sparkle, but she was there last week when he woke the whole house up with his nightmare-induced wailing, and Peter can't help but wonder if the lighthearted statement is in reference to the clear lack of sleep he's been dealing with recently.

“Yeah,” he agrees. It does sound nice—he just hopes his brain can leave behind its muddled web long enough to actually let him enjoy the time away. 

“Oh, look at that,” Pepper says, pointing out a smooth, colorful seashell poking halfway out of the ground.

Peter immediately crouches to pick it up, dislodging the shell from its place. However, the moment his fingers brush against the sand, something heavy and unpleasant winds its way up Peter's chest, the invisible feeling wrapping around his lungs and squeezing. He gasps. 

The texture of the coarse grains against his skin is disturbingly unsettling. Peter stares down as some of the sand falls back to ground while some continues to cling to his palm. His vision blurs at the edges.

“Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good.”

Hands getting dusty.

“I don't…I don't know what's happening.”

Crumbling to pieces.

Nothing feels right.

Suddenly, the gentle splash of the waves against the shore fades to a dull roar in his ears; the setting sun beyond him is too bright, too orange. The little shell falls from his hand as Peter stumbles backward, landing on his backside on the beach, his breaths turning into rapid little gasps.

He doesn't wanna go he doesn't wanna go—

Something cold and wet splashes against his hand, and Peter startles. His gaze flits upward to Pepper, who's crouched in front of him, her hand cupped underneath his while she empties her water bottle on top of them. He watches as the remainder of the sand on his fingers is slowly rinsed away.

“You're safe, honey,” Pepper is murmuring in a way that suggests she's been repeating the words for a while. “It's just sand.”

“I…I—”

“Shh, it's okay. Focus on me—just breathe.”

Peter’s wet hand trembles in Pepper’s. “C—can’t.” His chest feels constricted, like he can't get any air in no matter how hard he tries.

“Yes, you can.” Pepper sets the empty water bottle aside and places her free hand against his chest. “In and out. Come on. In…good…and out. There you go.”

The lightheadedness fades somewhat as Peter is finally able to successfully inhale some much-needed oxygen. Still, his body feels weak—he isn't sure his legs would be willing to hold him if he tried standing at this point.

“Pete?” Mr. Stark’s voice breaks through the haze still surrounding Peter. The man approaches hurriedly, concern etched into his expression. “Hey. What's going on?”

Pepper starts to answer, but Peter holds up his hand and interrupts.

“I—I’m okay,” he says shakily, barking out a casual laugh that sounds hollow even to him. “Sorry. I was just—I don't know what, uh, what—”

“Breathe,” Pepper reminds him, her slender hand moving to trail comfortingly up and down his arm. 

Peter does. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. “Just, the sand sort of…for a second it was…it was like—”

Despite the fact that he can't get the words out, realization dawns on Mr. Stark's face as he glances down at the sand. The man suddenly looks like he might throw up.

“I just—it just caught me off guard for a minute. But I'm okay, I promise,” Peter tells them truthfully. Even now, looking down at the tiny grains of sand peppering his feet, it doesn't bother him. Nothing about it screams you're dying! like it had only moments ago.

“You sure?” Mr. Stark asks, crouching and cupping the back of Peter's head with one hand, fingers threading through the wind-blown curls. He meets his gaze as if he's trying to decipher some kind of code. “Because we can leave right now. There are plenty of vacation spots that—”

“No,” Peter protests. “The beach is great.” They just arrived. No way he's going to make everyone pack up because he had a little…panic attack. Clearly he's already dredged up some bad memories for all of them, and he doesn't want to ruin their vacation before it's even started.

To prove he's perfectly fine, he swipes his hand against the sandy ground. The sensation is uncomfortable, but it doesn't send him spiraling this time. He rubs the excess sand off on Mr. Stark's t-shirt, taking great pleasure in the man's yelp of surprise.

“You want to eat sand for dinner?” Mr. Stark asks. “Because I can make that happen.”

“You'd have to catch me first.”

“Don't sound so confident, kiddo. Wrangling kids is parent skill number one. You may be enhanced, but just remember I survived Maguna as a toddler.”

“Mommy!” Morgan's call from just a few yards away garners the attention of the others. “Come see the water!”

“Coming, sweetie,” Pepper returns, brushing her reddish-blonde bangs out of her face as she glances up at her daughter.

After helping Peter to his feet, giving him a once-over, and asking again if he's sure he's all right—to which he quickly assents—the Starks begin to head back in Morgan's direction. 

Peter trails after them with his lone hand stuffed in his pocket and hopes that what just happened isn't a sign of how the rest of the trip will go.

***

“I don't want sunscreen. It smells funny and hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, well, if you don't put it on, Mom is going to be very unhappy with me, which will not be a fun time.”

Peter watches the father-daughter standoff from behind his sunglasses as he stands outside the modest but still entirely too lavish house the Starks had rented for the week. The beach lingers just yards beyond them, the house backing up almost right to the sand, making it a fairly short trek down to the shore. It's early, but there are already quite a few people spread out down the sandy white beach setting up for the day—including Happy.

Peter's gaze is drawn back to Morgan when she lets out another whiny complaint about how much she doesn't like when the lotion gets in her eyes.

“I don't know anyone who does,” Mr. Stark deadpans. “Do you, Pete?”

Eager to help prevent a fit, the teen shakes his head. 

“See? No one is getting sunscreen in their eyes—as long as you just stand still.”

Morgan narrows her eyes. “What about Peter?” she asks, tone almost accusatory. “Doesn't he need sunscreen, too?”

“Yep,” Mr. Stark responds easily, gently rubbing a dollop of white lotion onto Morgan’s cheeks. He picks up the bottle of sunscreen with his free hand and tosses it to Peter without looking.

“Um.” Peter looks down at the bottle in his hand and then over at his stump, hesitating as he tries to determine the best way to squeeze the cream out. He could just put it directly on his face and then put the bottle down to rub it in, but that doesn't solve the problem of his arm. Plus, he's currently wearing sunglasses and a ball cap, which means he'll have to put the sunscreen down first in order to remove them.

“One sec and I'll help you, Pete,” Mr. Stark says without even looking up, like he has his own sixth sense of sorts. “Just let me finish greasing this little goblin.”

“Daddy!” Morgan protests. “Not a goblin. I'm a princess.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry, your Highness.” He rubs the strongly-scented cream onto her small shoulders around the girl's bathing suit straps.

Morgan squirms. “It's cold,” she complains.

“Well, you can lodge a complaint with your mother. I don't know why she doesn't buy the spray stuff,” Mr. Stark mutters. “One of the best inventions ever, but here we are still living in the Stone Age.”

Morgan lets out a giggle.

“All right, you're all done. Be free. Go help Uncle Happy finish setting up our stuff.”

The little girl cheers and takes off, kicking up sand and belting out an off-key version of How Far I'll Go from Moana as she races to meet Happy down on the beach. Based on what Peter can see from here, the man is clearly having difficulties putting together the giant canopy tent they'd brought along with them.

“Go ahead and take off your glasses and hat,” Mr. Stark instructs, drawing his attention back to sun protection. “I'll do your arm and then you can finish the rest.”

Peter nods and does as requested, tugging off his accessories and dropping them by his feet. He appreciates the fact that the man didn't try to act like Peter is also a five-year-old who needs everything done for him. It's moments like these that make him doubt the validity of his grievances about how he's being treated by the adults. 

He knows he told his friends he'd think about expressing his displeasure aloud, but the thought of it causes his chest to squeeze uncomfortably. What if he comes across as bratty or selfish? What if they don't get it?

Peter bites down on his bottom lip as he watches Mr. Stark massage the sunscreen into his left arm. He doesn't want to create tension by blabbing his internalized struggles on their first day here. He already caused enough of a problem yesterday evening with his unforeseen panic attack. For now, he decides to forget about it and just enjoy a day on the beach with some of his favorite people. That was the whole point of this trip anyway, right? To get away from everything and relax. That sounds like a great plan.

By the time they're finishing up with the sunscreen, Pepper and May have emerged from the beach house. Each woman has an armful of supplies—extra towels and a cooler of water and snacks, among other things. 

“Ready?” May asks cheerfully.

Peter nods, replacing his ball cap and sunglasses while Mr. Stark stores the bottle of sunscreen in one of the beach bags hanging off Pepper’s arm.

“It's a beautiful day,” Pepper remarks, making her way toward the boardwalk that will lead them to the beach. She lifts a hand to her forehead and squints in the direction Morgan had gone just minutes ago. “I hope Happy isn't having any trouble with the tent.”

“He's fine.” Mr. Stark waves off the concern as he takes the heavy cooler from his wife's hands. The couple continues on their way, but Peter hangs back to wait for May, who's slipping on her flip flops that sit by the back door.

His aunt closes her eyes and inhales. “You smell that sea air? Mm, it's amazing—just what we needed, I think. It's been…well, forever since we've had a real vacation, huh?”

“Yeah.” Peter nods in agreement. “It was really nice of the Starks to let us come with them.”

May laughs like Peter has missed something important. “Well, come on then,” is all she says. “Let’s make the most out of this trip.”

They gather up the last of their things and follow in the direction the Starks have gone to join the family on the beach nearby the water. Peter holds his breath as he steps out onto the beach, but this time no painful memories come rushing to overwhelm him. He doesn't know why he freaked out so much yesterday.

“You all right?” May asks, eyeing him carefully, like he's fragile.

He gives her a smile. “Yeah.” He kicks at the sand as if to prove his point. Today, it's just sand.

By the time they catch up with the others, the tent is completely set up. Happy has gone all out—he’s got himself a fancy folding chair and a big beach umbrella. He's aggressively slathering himself with some kind of suntan oil and is wearing bright Hawaiian-printed swim trunks along with sunglasses and sandals.

“Wow,” May says, smiling at the man as she sets her beach bag down and surveys the setup. “You really came prepared.”

“Of course I did,” Happy says. “I'm always prepared.”

“Sometimes a little too prepared,” Mr. Stark adds with a snort.

A frown creases Happy’s face. “You can never be too prepared.”

“‘Better safe than sorry’ is Happy's motto.” Pepper adjusts the cooler so that it's holding down one corner of the oversized beach blanket. “One I happen to agree with.”

“You're all boring old geezers,” Mr. Stark complains. “Ease up, Hap, you're on vacation.” He pats the other man heavily on the shoulder and whistles for his daughter. “Come on, Maguna, ocean time.”

“Yay!” the girl squeals, floaties already on and ready to go. “You too, Peter, come with us—we’re going into the water!”

Peter obediently follows them—albeit at a slower pace—but while the two Starks dive right in, he pauses at the ocean's edge. The water laps at his feet. It's cool, but not too cold.

Mr. Stark glances over his shoulder. “You getting in?”

Peter shrugs.

“Come on, I warmed you up to this with the lake. You can swim.”

Swimming in the ocean is different from swimming in a pool or even the lake, Peter wants to say. He watches warily as Mr. Stark and Morgan venture further out.

It's really not a big deal. He's not even afraid of the water. Yet he can't deny that his confidence is shaken, has been for a while now, though he can't pinpoint exactly when or why. It's frustrating, because logic is telling him one thing while his mind is telling him another—a familiar cycle he's been stuck in for quite some time now. Recovery isn't linear, he knows this. But he feels like the only steps he's taking right now are backward. It's like he's riding on a moving sidewalk that's going in reverse and is unable to get off no matter how hard he tries while everyone else is watching with disappointment as he tries and tries and continues to fail.

Although Peter continues to hesitate, Mr. Stark has no problem filling the silence. “Hear that? Ocean's calling you, Moana. Hop in.”

“So a shark can bite off my other arm?”

Mr. Stark regards him for a moment with raised eyebrows. “Funny,” he says. “Come on.”

“We're gonna be mermaids, Peter!” Morgan hollers to him.

Peter wades in a few steps further before pausing again. “Seriously, you do know sharks can be in shin-deep water, right?” he says. Ned told him that. “This is way past that.”

The man waves him off. “Your little Peter tingle would warn us if there was something dangerous.”

“Mr. Stark, we're swimming in the ocean. My entire neck is buzzing right now. And please never call it that again.”

“There's fish pee in here,” Morgan informs them.

“Thanks for that,” Mr. Stark says. To Peter, he adds, “You know you can wear your arm if you want. Waterproof, remember? Zero rust—or your money back.”

Peter pictures the piece of vibranium—however lightweight and buoyant it may be—dragging him down to the bottom of the ocean. “No thanks,” he says, not particularly fond of the thought of sleeping with the fishes.

Mr. Stark lifts one shoulder in a shrug, gaze returning to Morgan as a gentle wave washes past them. “Suit yourself. There's a floatie over there if you want it.” He pokes a finger back in the direction of their pile of stuff, where a green inner tube sits. 

Chicken, it seems to mock, though the word goes unsaid.

“What's with the face?” Mr. Stark uses his free hand to motion to his own expression. There's a hint of underlying concern in his tone that means he's going to get serious in about five seconds if Peter doesn't offer a satisfactory reply. Bud, you okay? Do we need to talk?

And no—Peter thought he was used to the easy way Mr. Stark eases into emotional territory now and treats him like he's something fragile, something important, but it still sends an unidentifiable pang through his gut. One he doesn't want to try to wade through right now.

So Peter rolls his eyes and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “No, thanks,” he says again. “That would mean subjecting myself to Happy’s classical music.” Even from here, he can hear the boombox the man had lugged down to the beach with them.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark takes the bait. He wrinkles his nose, spinning Morgan around in a circle. “Who on earth listens to classical music at the beach?”

“Uncle Happy,” Morgan chirps.

“Love the guy. Absolutely don't understand his taste in music.”

Peter eases completely into the water, relaxing as his instincts and ingrained skills kick in to keep him afloat.

See? There was nothing to be worried about. Why are you like this?

Morgan quickly ropes the two of them into some self-created mermaid game that makes no sense but they go along with anyway. It doesn't take long for things to devolve into chaos, but by the end of it, they're all laughing.

As Peter ducks under the water to avoid getting tagged by the five-year-old, a smile and the taste of saltwater on his lips, he thinks that maybe this week is a good time to just forget everything else. All his worries, struggles—whatever. For a few days, they don't have to matter.

***

Peter wakes with a start. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. He doesn't remember exactly what he had been dreaming about, but an unpleasant feeling is churning in his gut. A now-familiar anxiety hangs over him like a damp blanket; he knows he won't be going back to sleep anytime soon. 

With a sigh, Peter clambers out of bed and tiptoes over to the doors leading to the little balcony outside his second-story bedroom. He bypasses the case holding his prosthetic arm that sits on the floor and steps outside into the night.

It's so still out here. Peaceful. Quiet except for the gentle splash of the waves washing against the shore. Peter can just barely make out the outline of the beach through the inky darkness punctuated by the moon and a few stars, but his hearing picks up the ocean sounds with ease.

He closes his eyes and settles back in the singular chair situated near the balcony railing, letting the soft cushion and metal armrest ground him. After a moment, he unlocks his phone and pulls up his messaging app.

Hi. You still awake?

If not, it's totally okay.

Sorry to bother you—I know it's super late.

Peter is debating deleting the messages when his phone suddenly lights up with an incoming call. He glances back at the house before answering, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, kid,” Bucky says, and it doesn't sound like he was sleeping, which is a relief.

Peter apologizes anyway.

“You’re not bothering me. Thought you were on vacation.”

“I—we are.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“So, this four a.m. phone call is just for kicks?” There's playfulness in the man's tone but concern underneath.

“Something like that,” Peter retorts. He clears his throat.

“Arm giving you trouble?”

“Define trouble.”

He can practically picture Bucky raising his eyebrows on the other end of the phone.

Peter sighs. “It's okay. I can move it better now, but it's still hard to control.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgement. “You've been using those relaxation techniques to keep the joints from locking up?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I know the arm is fine, so something must just be wrong with me.”

“Peter.” Bucky has the classic I'm-disappointed-in-you tone that almost every adult Peter knows seems to have perfected.

“Come on, you know it's true—you didn't have that kind of trouble adjusting to your prosthetic.”

“You can't compare that—we both lost an arm, yeah, but the circumstances were completely different. You gotta give yourself time, kid. It's not a race.”

“I know that,” Peter snaps, regretting the harsh tone the moment the words leave his mouth. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a breath. “Sorry, sorry. I just—I mean, it's not that I'm trying to compare or anything. I'm just…I'm really tired of all of this. And it's hard.” His eyes burn, and he pretends it's exhaustion and not emotion.

“I know.”

“Most amputees don't take this long to get their prosthetic and adjust to it.”

“Most amputees also didn't lose their limb to the most powerful objects in existence,” Bucky throws back at him.

Touché.

Silence lingers between them for a moment, and when Peter doesn't fill it, Bucky speaks again. “Talk to your family,” he suggests. “Tell them how you're feeling. I know it's hard—hell, trust me, I do—but it's not gonna get any better if you keep it all inside.”

The words are eerily reminiscent of what MJ told him just days ago. Maybe the universe is trying to get a point across or something. Still, Peter can't quite shake the doubts that have attached themselves like barnacles to a pier.

“Sometimes I feel like the prosthetic means more to Mr. Stark than the rest of me.” That sounds selfish, but he can't take back the words that have already left his mouth. “I don't know. I think he missed the idea of me more than the actual me. Which makes sense, you know? Like, he was sad that I was gone, but he never planned on me coming back—”

“Peter.” Bucky sounds almost exasperated this time, in an amused sort of way. “You're the whole reason Stark even considered helping bring everyone back.”

“What?”

“Steve told me—said the only reason Tony would risk everything to bring us back was if he had someone worth risking it for. That's you, kid.”

Peter needs to chew on that for a minute. Mr. Stark cares about him, yes, no doubt. But to suggest he saved half of the entire universe for Peter?

“Come on, kid, you have to see it,” Bucky says.

And that's the problem: Peter does see it. Mr. Stark went through hell and high water just to get him back. In some ways it doesn't make sense. In others, it just adds another layer of pressure on his shoulders—a desperate need to live up to the man's expectations, a feat which felt impossible even before all this. How is he supposed to do it now? 

Bucky must sense that he's overloaded Peter's brain, because he says, “I think you should try to get some sleep. And hey—don't worry about what anyone else thinks about your arm, whether you wear it or not.”

“Okay,” is all Peter can think to reply. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“‘Course. Night, kid. Enjoy your trip, okay?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

The call ends, and Peter's gaze is drawn back out toward the inky black ocean beyond the balcony. He listens to the calming, repetitive swish of the waves and wonders, not for the first time, why life is so confusing.

Chapter Text

People-pleasing planet
Got a million people saying how to plan it
I can no longer stand it
Gonna spend my days telling them to can it
Each and to their own
Got a salesman ringing my phone
Tell me where to go
No I don't wanna hear the down low
Take Me to the Beach by Imagine Dragons

***

The day is doomed before it even starts.

Peter wakes up with a crick in his neck, and it only takes a few seconds—thanks to the blinding sunlight—to realize he must have dozed off in the balcony chair sometime after he hung up with Bucky. He may still be young, but after going toe-to-toe with the most powerful objects in the universe, his body is not quite as forgiving as it used to be.

“Ow,” he mutters to himself as he stands and stretches. He feels the opposite of well-rested, which is unfortunate but not unfamiliar.

The ocean air assaults his nostrils, and not in the pleasant, slightly-salty way it had last night. More like fish; it’s headache-inducing. Ugh.

Peter takes one more squinty glance out at the heavy waves and the few people wandering up and down the shore for early morning strolls and shell-searching before finally turning around and fumbling with the balcony door handle to let himself back in.

As he steps into his bedroom, he catches another glimpse of the case holding his prosthetic. The sun catches off one side of it; the smooth, gleaming metal practically begging for attention, as if it knows it's been mostly ignored the past few days.

Peter sighs and crouches to open the case. Even one-handed, it doesn't take long to attach the arm to his base.

“I'm not trying to avoid you, I promise,” he tells the artificial limb as it whirrs mechanically and clicks into place.

He tries closing his fist, and it takes a moment, but he's able to do it. Releasing the clenched fingers requires a little extra focus. Not great, but not awful either. The arm's reaction time is definitely improving.

Without the scrutiny of Mr. Stark or anyone else in the room, Peter spends a few minutes doing his PT exercises. He finds himself more at ease with attempting to maneuver the arm around and try new things when he's alone, though he imagines that's not necessarily uncommon in and of itself. Nobody likes to risk looking stupid in front of others.

Voices from below begin to drift through the door, and Peter figures he'd better head that way before someone comes upstairs looking for him. It's still fairly early, but Morgan wanted to waste no time getting out on the beach yesterday, and chances are high the same will be true this morning as well.

Despite the warm weather, he slips a hoodie over his tank top—fighting a few extra seconds to wrangle his prosthetic through the right sleeve—before making his way downstairs. The overlapping chatter becomes slightly more discernible as he trails down the hall toward the kitchen and open living area.

“Oh, Happy—”

“I know, I know.”

“Just sit still, okay? Let me put some—Pepper, can you grab the—?”

“Yes, right here.”

“Seriously, I'm fine. It's just a little—”

“Little nothing. You look like a lobster!”

Peter grimaces and rubs his tired eyes. He definitely didn't get enough sleep last night. 

When he stumbles into the kitchen, he heads straight for the coffee pot sitting on the counter. It smells heavenly.

“Good morning,” someone says.

Peter lets out a wordless grunt in reply, grabbing a mug from the shelf to fill up with caffeine-infused liquid.

“Hm, somebody's grumpy this morning.”

Peter turns around to glower at whoever just called him out for waking up on the wrong side of the bed—the fact that they're probably right is irrelevant—and is instead met with the sight of Happy sitting on a stool in the middle of the room, shirtless. The man's skin is firetruck red, angry and swollen like he's just come out of a frying pan.

“What happened to you?” Peter blurts out thoughtlessly.

Happy grimaces, looking down at himself. “It's bad, huh?”

From his position at the counter putting together a smoothie, Mr. Stark snorts. “So much for ‘being prepared.’ You look like a stop sign.” 

“Shut up,” Happy says.

“Uncle Happy, you should wear sunscreen,” Morgan suggests. The little girl is sitting at the table nestled in the cozy breakfast nook, nodding with all the expertise of a college professor as she takes a bite of her biscuit. Between mouthfuls, she adds, “Then you won't turn all red.”

Mr. Stark turns around for a moment to regard the other man. “Hold on—you're telling me all you used was tanning oil? No sunscreen at all? Hogan. That's how you get skin cancer.”

“Trust me, I realize it was a mistake,” Happy grunts. He lets out a pained whine when May begins to slather some sort of salve or something onto his pink shoulders. “Ow!”

Morgan giggles, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“You hungry, kid?” Mr. Stark asks, turning his attention to Peter. He does a double-take, and his smile widens. “Hey, look at you. It's a two arm kind of morning, huh?”

Peter glances down at the prosthetic hand poking out from the sleeve of his hoodie. He shrugs. “Oh. Yeah.”

“How is it?”

“Good,” he says evasively. The downside to limiting his prosthetic use mostly to PT sessions is that everyone acts like he's just created a new element or something when he wears it any other time. Carefully, he uses the vibranium hand to steady his mug while he pours coffee into it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mr. Stark watching closely.

“Look at you go,” the man says. “You'll be out slinging webs with that sucker in no time.”

Peter feels his shoulders tighten involuntarily, but Mr. Stark doesn't seem to notice, having returned to the task of blending his smoothie. When he turns around, coffee in hand, he finds Pepper and May also looking on and smiling widely.

“That's great, honey!” May tells him, a bottle of aloe clutched to her chest. Her tone is proud and supportive, but the attention grates on Peter anyway. He doesn't know why, and he's not awake enough to try to figure it out right now.

“Can we go to the beach now?” Morgan, bless her, interrupts. She cranes her neck around to look out the big windows overlooking the back deck and the beach beyond. 

“Finish your breakfast first,” Pepper says, sliding into the seat next to her daughter and pointing out the food still scattered on her plate—and the table surrounding it.

“And then we can go?”

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone wants to go to the beach.”

“Yes! Me!” Morgan's hand flies into the air. “Peter and I are gonna hunt for shells and make a sandcastle.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” she replies, eager gaze turning to Peter. “Right, Petey?”

Peter's pretty sure he missed half of the conversation, his thoughts elsewhere, but he voices his agreement readily anyway. “Sure.”

Morgan squeals with excitement. “Beach, beach, beach,” she chants happily between bites.

“I think we'll spend most of the day indoors,” May comments, regarding Happy's shiny, sunburned skin with a barely-concealed wince as she finishes up with the aloe and moves to the sink to wash her hands.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Happy concedes, sounding just as tired as Peter feels.

Mr. Stark grins. “Delicate skin can only withstand so much sunlight per day.”

“Watch it,” the other man warns in a growl. He stands slowly like even the smallest movements are causing him pain.

Once she's finished drying her hands with the towel sitting on the counter, May moves to put a hand on Peter's back and rubs it up and down. “The rest of you—don't have too much fun without us.”

“Don't worry,” Mr. Stark says with a wink, “we won't.”

***

Tony yawns and shuts off his tablet, nearly cross-eyed from staring at the screen for so long. While he's used to spending hours at a time working on various formulas and designs, he's been going in circles reviewing Pete's prosthetic arm—as he seems to be doing constantly these days—to see if there are any possible improvements to be made. As if he hadn't overanalyzed every aspect of the artificial limb prior to its production to ensure its flawlessness. But there's always something that can be changed. Continuous improvement, one of the most important terms in business.

Peter had ditched the prosthetic before they'd headed out to the beach to set up for the day. It's understandable; the arm is meant to withstand all elements and clean easily, but sand in every crack and crevice is irritating enough on real skin. Tony can imagine the metal arm would be just as uncomfortable. 

Still, he was a little disappointed at the kid's eagerness to take it off after breakfast. He makes a mental note to ask later if the artificial arm is causing chafing where it connects to the base. Peter should feel comfortable—normal—with two arms. Kid deserves that. Tony just wants to see him happy.

He glances up and squints, eyes adjusting to the sunlight reflecting off the ocean beyond the safety of his current shelter. The kids are a few yards off to the side, closer to the water as they work on their sandcastles.

Since Happy had decided—or rather, May had decided—that it was in his best interest to spend most of the day inside recovering instead of adding to his current sunburn, the others made plans to spend a few hours out on the beach before going out this afternoon to do an indoor activity with everyone. 

The trampoline park is at the top of Morgan's list, but Tony's energy levels are already zapped. They're only a few days into this trip and he already knows he's going to need a vacation after the vacation to recover. The joys of having kids.

Pepper is currently inside preparing lunch to bring out for them, since Morgan is determined to spend every waking moment on the beach, searching for seashells and playing mermaids.

The waves are a little rough today, enough that red flags are flying all along the beachside, so Morgan and Peter have been busy sculpting a sand city most of the morning. Watching them interact and play together is one of Tony's favorite things in the world. What can he say? He's a simple man.

He's so incredibly glad that the two of them get along. They've had their moments, of course—little arguments, Peter getting exasperated with Maguna's constant badgering, the whole shebang—but what siblings don't?

Tony ditches his comfy beach chair and tablet in favor of swaggering over to the kids, who are currently busy working on what at first glance appears to be a box-shaped hole. 

“Dare I ask what you two are up to over here?”

Morgan spares him a brief glance before returning to hovering over Peter's shoulder while he digs. “We're making a giant swimming pool. For our sand castle town.”

Tony squints behind his daughter, and sure enough, sand castles of various shapes and sizes dot the surrounding area.

“Mo’s supervising,” Peter says, digging the little plastic shovel into the sand with quick, repetitive motions.

“Yeah, I'm supervising,” the girl parrots.

“I see.” Tony nods. “You're very good at it.”

“It's a big ‘sponsibility.”

Peter snorts.

“That it is, but you are handling it with the expertise of an old pro.” As he adjusts his sunglasses, Tony notices Peter's pink cheeks and tired eyes, a sure sign he's been pushing himself too hard out in the heat. Even in October, the Florida sun remains brutal.

“Let me dig for a while, Pete,” he offers.

Despite the sheen of sweat on his face, Peter shakes his head with determination. “I'm good.”

“Good is a relative term,” Tony says, “and you have yet to experience my agility and architectural genius when it comes to digging pools for sand castle towns.”

Peter arches one skeptical eyebrow and goes back to digging.

“Come on, you could use a break. Go grab a Capri Sun from the cooler. I've got this.”

“I'm really fi—”

“And look, you're doing it all wrong—here, watch and learn.” He reaches over and plucks the too-small shovel from Peter's hand, using the tool to wave the kid aside before going in on his first scoop of sand.

“Daddy!” Morgan sounds absolutely scandalized, and it prompts Tony to glance upward.

His daughter is staring at him with her little mouth agape. Next to her, Peter looks…well, Tony isn't sure how to describe the conglomerate of emotions that are currently present on the kid's sun-kissed face. He's blinking furiously, hand still in the same position as it was only moments ago when he'd been using the shovel.

Tony's mind goes blank at the odd reaction from both kids. “What?”

“You took Petey’s shovel without asking!” Morgan says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “That is rude.”

“Ah.” Tony barks out a short, awkward laugh. He remembers Pepper lecturing the five-year-old just earlier this morning on the same topic. “Yep, you're right, kiddo. Practice what I preach and all that. We shouldn't take things without asking. Sorry, Pete.” He sets the shovel back down next to the teen and claps a hand to his chest, the other gesturing dramatically at the plastic toy. “If you don't mind, could I have the great privilege of using your shovel to aid in the construction of this structure of pure architectural genius?”

He's expecting a laugh from Peter, or at least an exasperated groan or eye roll. However, the punchline doesn't land as intended. 

Instead, Peter casts his gaze away, the gentle breeze ruffling his damp hair. “You can have it,” he mumbles, skittering backward and pressing his hand into the sand to support his ascent into a standing position. He begins backtracking toward the canopy beach tent where all their stuff is set up.

Morgan watches him go before turning to regard Tony with Pepper's classic I'm very disappointed in you look. “You made Peter sad,” she says solemnly.

“Yeah, I got that. Stay right here for a sec, munchkin.” Tony lurches to his feet and hurries after the disgruntled teen. “Pete, hold on. I didn't mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

He's not expecting the venomous retort that comes flying out of Peter's mouth even as he continues to walk away.

“Just—hold on a second.” Tony jogs to catch up. “What’s with the tantrum act? Kid, it was a toy shovel—”

“That's not what—”

“Hey. Hold on. I was just helping out. You looked tired. Your arm—”

Peter whirls around so suddenly that Tony nearly runs into him. The kid’s eyes spark with something fiery, something that Tony isn't used to seeing there. “Stop!”

He blinks. “Stop what?”

“Stop acting like I'm useless without my arm. I know I'm a burden to you guys, to May, to everyone. I know I'm never gonna be Spider-Man again. I know, I know, I know!” The words are bursting forth with all the reckless abandon of someone who's kept their feelings bottled up for far too long. They tumble out on top of one another, harsh and fast. “I know you think I can't do anything, and I know I'm not good enough, okay? You don't have to keep reminding me. I'm trying my best.”

“Kid, that is not—”

“You care more about that stup—stupid prosthetic than you care about me.” Peter looks like he regrets the blurted words the moment they leave his mouth. His cheeks redden. An apology seems to be on the tip of his tongue, but then he snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head. “I—I'm going for a walk.” He spins on his heel, kicking up sand as he begins to make his way hurriedly down the beach. Away from Tony.

“Pete, wait,” Tony calls, but it's too late. He stares after the kid in dismay, gaze darting between Morgan filling a bucket with sand and Peter stalking off down the semi-crowded beach.

What just happened?

He desperately wants to go after Peter, but he can't leave his five-year-old by herself. As he takes a few steps back in Morgan's direction, he tells himself it's probably a good thing—both he and Pete could use a few minutes to cool off before trying to continue this conversation.

His mind replays the teenager's heated words from only moments ago. “I know you think I can't do anything, and I know I'm not good enough…you care more about that stupid prosthetic than you care about me!” Is that genuinely what Peter believes Tony thinks? He shakes his head. If that's the case… It's no wonder he seems to hate wearing his prosthetic.

When he reapproaches their tent, Morgan looks up at him with squinty eyes and frowns. “What's wrong?”

Tony blows a long sigh out of his nose and rakes a hand through his hair. “Peter is just…well, he's upset with Dad right now.”

He only wishes he knew what he did. Well, okay, he sort of knows. But the shovel thing was clearly just the straw that broke the camel's back. Tony wracks his brain. He never told Peter he wasn't capable of doing anything. Heck, the kid is the strongest person he knows. Has he really been too pushy with the prosthetic? All he wanted to do was help the kid. Why hadn't Peter said something sooner?

“Well,” Morgan says with all the wisdom of a five-year-old as she continues to pack sand into her bucket, “you need to say sorry and make it all better.”

***

Peter swipes angrily at his tears as he walks along the shore where the water meets the sand, waves lapping gracefully at his feet. The sun is warm against his face, but the heat on his cheeks has nothing to do with the external temperature.

He hadn't meant to yell at Tony—oh, why did he yell at Tony? He was—is—upset, yes, but that gives him no right to explode at the man who has done so much for him.

MJ and Bucky’s warnings echo in his mind. He'd held on to his bubbling frustrations and emotions for so long that they finally overflowed and exploded, just like one of those baking soda and vinegar volcanoes he loved to make in middle school. The straw that broke the camel's back.

And for what? He deserves nothing from Mr. Stark, yet the man has given him everything—from bringing him back from the dead to providing for literally his every need, even going as far as to design and create a multi-million dollar prosthetic arm just so Peter could have a chance at a normal life again. He did it without a second thought. Yet Peter has thrown it all back in his face like an ungrateful brat.

What am I doing? He groans and rubs at his eyes again, the salty ocean scent in the air mingling with the taste of his tears. 

He knows he was wrong, and he knows he owes Mr. Stark a big apology, but his fear outweighs his frustration with the whole situation. Because what if the man decides he's had enough and doesn't want to put up with Peter's bad attitude and struggles anymore? Anxiety rises in his chest at the thought. 

The truth is, Peter can't picture a life without Tony in it anymore. He craves the man's attention; he wants nothing more than to make him proud. Maybe at one time it was simply as a kid with a case of hero worship, new to the world of powers and superheroes and wanting to be like the amazing Iron Man. But now…now it's just Peter, wanting to please Mr. Stark the way a child would their…their parent.

Peter swallows back a sob, because no matter how much he wants that, it will never be anything more than a fantasy. Tony treats him and May like family, yes, but Peter isn't naïve enough to think that means he's that kind of family. Not like Pepper or Morgan. It's just not the same.

Are you sure about that?

Peter falters mid-stride, glancing over his shoulder and squinting at their canopy in the now-far distance and two figures underneath it. He feels like he can't be sure of anything anymore. Everything he thought he knew is like the sand underneath his feet, shifting and sinking and the opposite of solid.

Dust, floating away in the wind. The Blip—and everything that's followed—has left him so turned around that he can't figure out which way is up. 

Peter flexes the fingers on his left hand and takes a deep breath. He'll go back, and he'll talk to Mr. Stark. Apologize. Hopefully the man will agree to forget about the whole thing and they can go back to the way things were before.

He's taken one step back in the Starks’ direction when his spider sense flares unexpectedly, the back of his neck prickling with a sudden urgency. A split second later, a scream—a desperate cry for help—pierces the afternoon air; the sound nearly inaudible to the average beachgoer, but crystal clear to Peter's enhanced ears. He spins around, instinct leading him straight to the ocean. Water splashes around his knees as he whips his head around in search of the source of the screams.

Someone else lets out a shout, closer by this time—something about a rip current. Peter catches a glimpse of flailing arms disappearing under the waves in the distance. 

Without a second thought, he rips off his shirt one-handed and dives into the frothing water.

***

Tony is mentally willing Pep to hurry back already so he can go check on Peter. It's only been a couple of minutes, but he's not keen on letting the kid out of his sight, especially not when he was so visibly upset.

Upset because of something Tony had done.

He cranes his neck and shields his eyes, scanning the beach, but the kid must have blended into the array of beachgoers dotting the shore.

“There’s Mommy!” Morgan announces suddenly, jumping to her feet and taking off toward the slender figure approaching from the boardwalk up near the beach house.

Tony watches her go, making sure Pepper sees their daughter before standing to his feet, antsy. He rubs his hand against his swim trunks.

Before he can decide if he's better off waiting to explain the situation to Pep or just taking off after the kid, his attention is diverted by a sudden commotion a little ways down the beach—in the very same direction Peter had gone. There's yelling and movement and a crowd beginning to gather down near the edge of the water.

A knot of lead settles in Tony's gut. Not bothering to wait for the rest of his family to join him with their stuff under the canopy, he jogs toward the throng of swimsuit-clad people.

“What's happening?” he demands as soon he gets close.

A lady in a floral-printed one-piece lifts her sunglasses and gives him a side eye. “Some kid went out to rescue a girl who got caught up in a rip current.”

“What? What kid?” Tony presses, heart in his throat because he already knows exactly which kid would be willing to throw himself into danger without second thought to help someone else. His gaze darts over to the ocean. Churning blue water waves back tauntingly. “Did you see him?”

She shakes her head, but someone nearby overhears and says, “They just pulled them out—somebody said he only has one arm—”

Tony's heart drops. “Let me through!” he practically shouts, shoving his way through the murmuring crowd of concerned people. “Let me through—that's—that’s my kid.”

Can't lose him—not again. I just got him back. Please. 

Dizzy with worry, he finally reaches the inner circle of the scene. There's a lifeguard and a couple other people hovering over a small figure who's sprawled on his stomach. Pete. “Peter!”

The lifeguard jerks his head up to meet Tony's gaze with piercing blue eyes. “Sir, is this your son?”

“Yes,” he says breathlessly, dropping down on his knees in the sand where Peter is busy coughing up a lung—but at least his eyes are open and he's alive enough to be coughing.

Tony places a gentle hand on the kid's wet back, feeling the spasms of sinewy muscle under his fingers as Peter continues to retch. Bile rises in the back of his own throat at the thought of how badly things could have ended.

Finally, the coughing fit ends, and Peter's head drops forward with exhaustion, dripping hair hanging mere centimeters above the sandy ground. His elbow is propping him up, but the kid looks shaky at best.

“I'm sorry,” Peter whispers, so low that the hoarse words are barely audible.

“Sor—kid, you nearly just drowned,” Tony says. He slides his other hand under the teen's forehead to support his head and neck and keep him from toppling face first into the sand, beginning to ease him over into his back now that he seems to be finished coughing up water. “Are you okay?”

“‘M fine.” The response isn't surprising. This is the same kid who was adamant that he was “okay” after literally losing his right arm, after all. 

“Hm, yeah. We'll see about that.”

The young lifeguard crouched next to them speaks up. “Think he just swallowed one too many mouthfuls of seawater. He never lost consciousness. But you still might want to get him looked at to be safe.”

Tony acknowledges the advice with a grunt, focus remaining entirely on the drowned rat of a teenager in front of him. Peter's chest is heaving with the exertion of swimming through a brutal current and then expelling the contents of the Atlantic onto the shore.

“I don't know how he fought his way out of there,” the lifeguard adds with a shake of his head. 

“He's the strongest person I know,” Tony says honestly, slicking Peter's dripping wet hair back out of his face.

“He saved that girl's life.” The guy points a few yards away where a young girl is receiving similar treatment. “Adrenaline is a powerful thing, but to get her out of that surf and back to shore…it's nothing short of a miracle.” He leaves out the “especially with only one arm,” but Tony fills in the blank anyway.

Even knowing about Peter's enhanced strength, he has to agree with the lifeguard’s assessment—the odds of the kid being able to get to the victim and swim back through dangerous waters to safety are slim. Too slim for Tony's liking, considering the alternative, more-likely outcome.

He suppresses a shudder at the thought.

“You think you can get up, buddy?” he asks gently, subconsciously positioning his body to block the kid from the flock of nosy onlookers.

Peter nods. Through chattering teeth and heavy breaths, he says again, “I—I’m fine.”

He doesn't look fine, but Tony is too preoccupied with worry to argue. Right now, they need to get inside, away from prying eyes. So instead he focuses on hoisting the kid to his feet.

Peter's legs are definitely wobbly but manage to keep him upright—though he's got all his weight pressed against Tony. 

“There you go, easy does it. All right?” Tony asks once they're fully upright, checking that the kid isn't going to keel over. There's sand everywhere, clinging to their skin and clothes, and Tony tries hard not to think of dust and death.

“Y—yeah.” Peter nods, but his energy is clearly zapped.

A soft, dry towel appears out of nowhere, and Tony offers a brief grunt of gratitude to the gifter before wrapping it tightly around his boy's shoulders and pulling him back close to his side.

The crowd parts to let them through, and Tony wonders how long it will be before news stories start popping up about Tony Stark, his mystery one-armed son, and a near-drowning on the beach. He's been out of the spotlight long enough that he hopes no one puts the pieces together and comes up with the idea that the guy in sunglasses, a ball cap, and swim trunks on a random Florida beach is Iron Man, but he's not necessarily hopeful. 

He decides that's a problem for later. All that matters right now is making sure Peter is okay.

As they trudge through the sand together, Tony spots Pep and Morgan in the near distance. His eyesight isn't quite what it used to be, but he can clearly make out the worry lines on his wife's face from here.

“Pete?” he says.

The kid glances up at him wearily. “Yeah?”

“I am never taking you to the beach again.”

Chapter Text

We passed with flying colors
Time to turn our thinking forward
Feel the salt spray of the ocean
As we turn our faces toward it
Our stories make us stronger
And I know we can afford it
Don't ignore it; let it pull you closer and closer
All aboard, brave souls
All aboard, brave souls
All aboard, brave souls
We move on
 But we never forget
Brave Souls by Cozi Zuehlsdorff

***

“Sir, is this your son?”

“Yes.”

There had been no hesitation in the man's voice, no room left for doubt or questions. Only pure desperation and conviction. Peter may have been busy gagging on ocean water and battling dark spots in his vision, but that confirmation was no hallucination. 

Mr. Stark had said it so easily, like those words didn't rock Peter's entire world. Said it like Peter hadn't just yelled at him—practically told him to go screw himself—minutes earlier.

And he isn't stupid, he knows he and May are like family to the Starks at this point, even if sometimes he still wonders how or why they got there. But to hear it acknowledged out loud by Mr. Stark himself in a way that went so much further than “family friends” is just…it's just different somehow.

Peter closes his eyes and inhales, feeling the soft fabric of the couch cushions against his cheek while his still-awakening mind replays the events of the previous day.

Mr. Stark had practically carried Peter back to the house—along with Happy, who’d met them halfway there in a total lobster-colored frenzy—and May and Pepper descended on him like two protective mother hens, rubbing his hair dry, checking him over for injuries, and ensuring that his breathing was normal. Once they'd seemed convinced that Peter wasn't going to dry-drown, they let him shower and change. By the time he was finished, the women were ready to ply him with loads of food that he obediently scarfed down because he was hungry and he didn't know what else to do.

He'd passed out on the couch afterward—somewhat unintentionally—and when he'd awoken, he learned that Happy and Pepper had taken Morgan down to the pool. Mr. Stark must have told May about what happened before Peter rescued that girl, because both adults were sitting solemnly around him.

“Peter,” May says, gently brushing Peter’s hair back out of his face. “I think it’s long past time we talked, honey.”

Peter’s stomach twists into a knot, but he nods.

They’d had a conversation over the course of the evening to address…things. Still exhausted—physically and emotionally spent—from the events of the afternoon, Peter finally laid out his worries, frustrations, and feelings to his aunt and Mr. Stark. It was by no means a detailed or exhaustive list, but it had felt good to get some of that burden off his shoulders. His fight with the ocean earlier that day left him somewhat loose-lipped, allowing for the release of feelings he’d been holding back for weeks now.

Surprisingly, the adults had been understanding and genuinely apologetic, maybe a little hurt that Peter hadn't come to them sooner with all of this. 

Seeing the looks on their faces as he'd poured out the truth, he knew why he hadn't. The last thing he wanted was to make anyone feel bad, especially knowing that they didn't intend any of it. And they hadn't, he knew that much.

There hadn't been much discussion other than that, as it had been a long day for all of them. Peter is pretty sure he ended up crying himself to sleep with his head in May’s lap.

Now, in the light of day, he feels embarrassed. Although sharing his struggles has taken one weight off his chest, another load has slipped into its place—one of more guilt and uncertainty about what things will be like going forward. 

It's still early enough that no one else in the house is stirring. Peter quietly gets up, stretching his arm and lucky fin and shaking them out as his mind slowly continues to wake up. His muscles are sore, a sober reminder of just how dangerous yesterday's unexpected swim was, but otherwise he feels okay. Physically, that is. On the inside…he just feels utterly and completely drained.

Not bothering to change out of his sweatpants and t-shirt, he slips out of the house and wanders down to the beach. He sits against a dune—ensuring that he can be seen from the windows of the beach house so nobody panics if they wake up and find him gone—and watches the waves crash against the shore as the sky slowly begins to lighten, turning night into day with pretty streaks of blue. It's peaceful out here. Quiet. 

“Let me through—that's—that’s my kid.”

Peter traces his fingers through the loose, white sand, eyes drifting down the beach toward the spot where he'd been sprawled out yesterday. The whole rescue and what came after is a bit of a blur. He remembers the screams of the young girl, remembers the way she'd clung to him as he fought his way back to the beach. Remembers the strength of the current and onslaught of waves shoving water into his nostrils and mouth as he desperately tried to swim while his singular arm had alternated between helping him stay afloat and keeping the girl secured. 

He hadn't been sure for a moment, in the midst of it all, if he'd make it back. But then there had been strong hands grabbing his shoulders. Someone pulled the girl from his grip and hauled him out of the water and onto the shore, where he'd promptly collapsed in a wet, gagging heap.

Out of all of that, though, one thing stands out clearly above the rest.

“Sir, is this your son?”

“Yes.”

The waves are much calmer this morning. They wash against the shore in rhythmic fashion, flowing in and back out to sea in a mesmerizing dance.

“Pete?”

Peter turns toward the familiar voice that's laced with relief. With a small jolt of guilt, he realizes he probably should have also left a note or something so the others would know where he went right away. He knows everyone was—is—worried about him. Rightfully so, probably.

“There you are,” Mr. Stark says. He's wearing a pair of navy board shorts and has a mug of coffee snug between his hands. “Mind if I sit?”

Peter shrugs, gesturing to the empty spot next to him.

The man takes that for the invitation it is, lowering himself down to the sand just a few inches to the right. His knee knocks against Peter's. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter answers eloquently.

“No chest pain or trouble breathing?”

Peter shakes his head.

Mr. Stark hums. “Good.”

They fall into silence after that, one that isn't entirely uncomfortable but is also heavy, like there are things that need to be said but can't seem to find their way out. Peter doesn't even know where to start.

The sun stretches its way further above the horizon.

“So,” Mr. Stark finally says after he finishes draining his cup of coffee and sets the mug aside in the sand. “We should probably talk, huh?”

“I guess,” Peter agrees, though he wants to do anything but. Last night was more than enough for him. Mr. Stark hadn’t said much of anything then; May had done most of the talking while the man sat on the armchair across from the sofa, arms resting on his legs and fingers interlaced, staring at Peter with a glazed-over expression like he wasn’t really seeing him.

Peter glances down, noting that he's rubbing his lucky fin with his left hand. It’s a nervous habit he's picked up since losing the limb. He quickly drops his hand, tucking it into his lap instead.

Mr. Stark clears his throat. “I'm not great at heart-to-hearts, or apologies—just ask Pep—but I want you to know I'm sorry for everything, kid.”

Peter fidgets uncomfortably. “Mr. Stark, you don't need to—”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You already did last night.”

“I know. But I really need you to hear this. I never intended to make you feel…” The man blows a big breath out of his nose, jaw working slowly as he gathers his thoughts. “Building things, fixing things—it’s what I do. The prosthetic is the only way I knew to help you. I pushed you too hard on it, I made it too much of a priority—over you—and I'm sorry for that.”

Peter nods slowly. Hearing those words coming from Mr. Stark, getting a better glimpse into his thought process and being able to see things from that perspective…it does help. Even though he always knew deep down that none of the adults were trying to hurt him through the ways they acted toward him, something about it being acknowledged out loud lifts a weight from Peter's shoulders. “It's okay.”

“It's not, though. Because we—I—hurt you. That shouldn't have happened.”

“You didn't know,” Peter says.

“I should have. I should have seen it.”

Peter lifts his left shoulder in a shrug.

“You're allowed to be mad, you know. You can yell. Hit me. Whatever you need to do.”

But Peter shakes his head. He isn't mad. He isn't sure what he's feeling right now. But he does say, “It just…it feels like something is wrong with me. Like this is something that has to be ‘fixed,’ you know?”

“Nothing's wrong with you, Peter,” Mr. Stark says with so much conviction that Peter can't help but believe him. “Nothing. We just wanted you to have the chance to get back what you lost, in a way. The prosthetic—it can go into the dumpster for all I care. You're—what you want is the only thing that matters.”

“No,” Peter interrupts, shaking his head again. “I do want the arm. I really do, I promise. I just…I guess I just don't want it to be my identity.”

Mr. Stark hums in understanding.

“I guess I was just worried,” Peter admits quietly, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves beyond them, “that I wasn't…I don’t know, that I wasn't enough with one arm.” His voice trembles despite his best efforts to steady it. He'd already voiced some of this to Mr. Stark and May last night—how he felt like a burden because of all the extra help and attention he needed—but acknowledging one of his deepest fears so bluntly makes him feel like one of these trillions of grains of sand lining the shore. Tiny, fragile, able to be carried away by even the smallest wind.

It's quiet for a moment, but then Mr. Stark snakes an arm around Peter’s shoulders and squeezes gently. When he speaks, there’s not a single ounce of uncertainty in his words. “Losing your arm does not change how much I love you. You hear me? Hell, kid, if you had lost both arms, I would happily do whatever you needed—and I don't just mean building two prosthetic arms. You're not a burden, and you're not broken. With or without the arm, you're Peter Parker. The strongest, bravest person I've ever known. And you're more than enough.”

Peter can't see anymore; the ocean and the sand and the sky are all blurring together beyond the glassiness in his eyes. He likes to think he knows Mr. Stark pretty well by this point, and one thing the man doesn’t do is say things he doesn’t mean—especially when it comes to those rare, emotionally-heavy conversations. To hear Tony Stark—Iron Man, genius, dad—describe him with those terms sends Peter’s heart into a spasm of flip-flopping warmth…and simultaneously fills him with overwhelming doubt.

“I don’t feel brave,” he says, trying to get the words out past his quivering lips. His life has been turned upside down in every way imaginable. And while most days he’s able to push past that and enjoy all the good changes that have come out of it all, other times the reality of this new, uncertain life haunts every moment; it makes him wonder if he’ll ever really adjust to it.

Here, in the safety of Mr. Stark's arms, he allows himself to continue letting go of the thoughts that have plagued him for weeks now. “I feel like I've lost everything,” he cries, and he knows it’s stupid, because it isn’t entirely true. Maybe in some ways. For so long, Spider-Man was his everything. It was his identity, to the point where now he isn’t sure who he is without it.

The arm around him tightens. “I know. I know,” the man murmurs. “But you didn't, okay? You didn't. You're still here—you’re still alive. And you have a family that cares about you—so much.”

Peter breathes that in for a moment along with the salty air. “I know,” he says honestly. “And I do—I am happy with you guys, with May and the penthouse and everything. I really am. But…but…” He gropes uselessly for words to adequately explain the war being waged in his chest. “It's different.”

There's a low hum from Mr. Stark. “Just because you like the new stuff doesn't mean you can't miss the old stuff. Change is hard no matter what it is.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You’re gonna be okay, kid. Wanna know how I know?”

Peter shrugs, letting his head slowly drift to rest against Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Because you’re the strongest person I know. And I know a lot of strong people, trust me.”

Warmth flickers in Peter’s chest.

“And on top of that, you’ve got me. And May, and Pep and Morgan and Happy and Rhodey—and that’s just for starters, right? You’re a regular Mr. Popular.” Mr. Stark’s free hand reaches over and pats Peter on the chest. “And we’re not gonna let you sink. Pinky-winky promise.”

Despite the heaviness hanging over them, Peter can’t help but chuckle. “Are you seriously using Morgan’s lines now?”

“Did it make you feel better?”

“...Kinda.”

“Then I have no shame in it. Besides, who do you think taught that to her?”

Peter raises his eyebrows but hooks his pinky around Mr. Stark’s and squeezes twice before letting his hand drop back into his lap. 

A seagull screeches above them, and he watches it fly past before he speaks again. “I want to be Spider-Man again,” he says quietly, sniffling. The lack of web-slinging isn't one of those changes he wants to last. “But I don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll answer that one for you—you absolutely can.”

“But—”

“Pete, you're stronger than you give yourself credit for. I've never seen you not do something you set your mind to—which, I might add, is half the reason I have all this gray hair.”

Peter lets out a watery snort.

Mr. Stark continues, “Doesn’t mean you have to, though. Retirement is nothing to shake a stick at. Look at me, I’m living my best life without an Iron Man suit in sight.”

There's so much sincerity in his voice that Peter knows he's telling the truth. It's a concept that's semi-difficult for his brain to fathom, because he can hardly remember a time before Iron Man. On top of that, he knows how much the title means to the man, how big a part of his identity the whole superhero shebang was from the beginning. To hear him announce its relegation to last place on his priority list is almost mind-boggling—especially when he realizes what Mr. Stark is implying replaced it.

A breeze blows across them, gentle but enough to make Peter shiver. Subconsciously, he shifts to tuck himself closer to Mr. Stark, but as he moves, his gaze catches on something on the man's bare chest. Just above his heart sit two tattoos, side by side. Peter's never noticed them before. One is a tiara, small and simple, sparkly and pink. The other…the other is a tiny, very familiar emblem—of a spider.

His brow puckers as he adjusts his position to get a better look at the inked marks on the man’s skin. “What are those?” he asks.

Mr. Stark glances down, and his eyes light up in understanding. “Ah. Got ‘em a few years ago,” he says. “The crown is for Maguna—had it done after she was born. She’s been bossing me around since the day she arrived.”

Peter's hand moves to hover over the small spider, fingers twitching as if they’re almost afraid to touch it. Like it’s something precious, sacred. “And that one?” he whispers.

A faint smile tugs at Mr. Stark’s lips. “That one's for you, bud.”

“Sir, is this your son?”

“Yes.”

The breath leaves Peter’s lungs like it’s been sucked out by a vacuum, the sound coming out in the form of a sob. He’s known it in his heart for months, but now his brain is finally catching up. In his defense, it’s been a long few months. His mouth tries to form some semblance of a coherent response, but there are so many thoughts swirling around in his fast-moving brain that he finds himself unable to latch on to even one.

So of course the first thing that ends up popping out is, “But—but you have Morgan…you don't need me.”

“Kid.” Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “I know you and I are both only children, so maybe this is a concept that's hard for that big brain of yours to understand, but when a second kid comes along, it doesn't mean the first one becomes irrelevant.”

For some reason, that only makes Peter cry harder. He was sure that he would have run out of tears by now, but they replenish quicker than his eyes can blink them out, running down his already-sticky cheeks in droves.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark doesn't call him out on his blubbering. Instead, he simply tugs him back into a firm embrace, one arm stretched around his shoulders and the other hand cupping his head against his chest. He buries his face in Peter’s hair, thumb rubbing gently against his lucky fin in a repetitive, comforting motion.

They sit together in the stillness of the morning for the next several minutes as the sun continues its ascent into the cloud-streaked sky and Peter tries to catch his breath. His sobs eventually taper off into something more akin to smaller, shaky gasps. Although he's exhausted, his body worn out from the events of the previous day and all the crying he's been doing, there's a lightness in him that he hasn't experienced in a long time.

“You all right?” Mr. Stark asks.

Peter nods, using his hand to wipe at his face. His cheeks are probably all red and splotchy the way they get when he cries a lot—which isn't often, but there have been several notable occasions. He feels like an idiot—but a very, very loved idiot.

“Hey, look at that.” Mr. Stark lifts a finger to motion in the direction of the ocean.

Peter perks up, keen eyes darting out to the water and quickly locating the dorsal fins protruding from the waves before they dip back under again.

“Dolphins?” he questions excitedly.

Mr. Stark nods.

“Whoa,” Peter breathes with a grin, watching as the sleek silvery creatures rise to the surface in another smooth motion. “That's so cool.”

They watch together in silence as the small pod of dolphins makes their way past, squinting out to sea until the animals are just a tiny speck in the distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter catches Mr. Stark looking at him, gaze all soft—the way he always looks at Morgan.

Peter scrunches up his nose. “What?”

“Nothing,” the man says, shrugging. “You ready to go back in, or you want to sit out here a while longer?”

It is getting warmer, and his stomach is letting him know he should probably go in search of some breakfast. So he nods, using his hand to begin brushing sand off his legs. “We can go.”

They climb to their feet, Mr. Stark reaching out to steady Peter when he stumbles as he tries to find his balance. Peter's gaze dances over the beach, taking in the grainy texture of sand beneath his feet, the breeze against his lucky fin, and the taste of salty sea air on his lips.

“I have one more question,” he says suddenly.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Earlier, when you said you'd do anything for me if I'd lost both arms, did you mean it?”

Mr. Stark blinks slowly. “Are you planning on losing that one?”

“No,” Peter says with a snort. “But hypothetically—were you serious?”

“What do you think?”

Peter glances slyly over at the man. “You'd really brush my teeth for me?”

Mr. Stark doesn’t miss a single beat. “And tie your shoes, and tuck you in bed—”

“You basically already do that now.”

“—and control the TV remote for you…”

Chapter Text

“Pete!” There's a short, sharp whistle, followed by the banging of a fist against the door. “Get up, bud. It's almost time to go.”

Peter groans and rolls over in bed, curling up tighter underneath his warm comforter. It's pouring down raining; he can hear the soothing, steady patter against the roof and his window. All he wants is to go back to sleep—they'd just made it home from Florida two short days ago, and he's still exhausted from all the traveling. He finally understands why adults are always saying they need a vacation after a vacation. 

As fun as the trip had been—minus the whole having a fight with Tony and almost drowning, which to be fair, had turned out to be a good thing in some ways—arriving back home was the best feeling ever. The last thing Peter wants to do right now is get out of his nice, warm bed. A few more minutes won't hurt anything…

Something big and soft hits him directly in the face, effectively interrupting any plans to continue dozing in peace.

“Hey!” he yelps grumpily, shoving the—literal—throw pillow aside and peeking one eye open just enough to give Tony a serious death glare.

The man ignores it. “Come on, up, kiddo—up, up, up. You're gonna be late.”

“Urgh,” Peter groans again. “I'm tired,” he whines.

“Tough.”

“Mean.”

“I know, I'm terrible. Making you go back to school after a whole week off—the horror.”

Peter huffs. Seriously? And they say teenagers are dramatic. He stays put, savoring the comfort and warmth of his thousand thread-count sheets.

“Daddy!” Morgan's too-loud voice echoes down the hall, borderline whiny. “I need help—I can't find my rainboots!”

“One sec, Maguna,” Tony calls back. He leans forward into the room and says to Peter in a too-cheery voice, “If you're not up and moving by the time I get back, I'm dumping ice in your bed.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me, Parker.” The parting remark is followed by a laugh as Tony's footsteps tread away from the room.

Peter lets out a dramatic, world-weary sigh, desperately wanting to tug his blankets back over his head but not willing to face Tony's wrath if he does. He knows good and well the man would have no qualms about “surprising” Peter with a cup of ice water over the head. In fact, he would probably take a large amount of pleasure in it.

It's that knowledge that finally gets Peter up and moving—but it doesn't mean he has to be happy about it.

As he slinks over to his closet, he catches a glimpse of the digital clock on top of the nightstand—shoot, it is late. He must have slept right through his alarm. Why hadn't anyone woken him sooner?

By the time he pulls on some clothes, grabs his stuff, and stumbles out of his bedroom, the common area of the penthouse is like an anthill, alive with activity. 

“Morning, sweetie,” May says as she rushes past, attempting to put in an earring while heading for the coffee pot on the counter.

Peter mumbles out a response, still rubbing at his eyes in hopes of ridding himself of the lingering tiredness. He spots one of Pepper's premade breakfast sandwiches sitting on the counter, which he assumes is for him. They've become a go-to for him on school mornings—quick to heat up and easy to eat with one hand.

He's barely finished wolfing it down when Tony reappears in the kitchen, Morgan trailing behind him at a much slower pace. She looks about as happy about being up early on this gloomy morning as Peter feels.

“All right, let's go, let's go, let's go,” Tony says, each chant punctuated by a handclap. “The Happy Hogan school bus is waiting downstairs.”

“I wanna go back to the beach,” Morgan grumbles. She's decked out in her yellow polka-dotted raincoat and boots, the hood already tugged over her head, almost covering her eyes.

“You and me both, little sand monster, but unfortunately that's not on the agenda for today.” Tony glances at his watch. “And we don't have time to argue about it. Capisce?”

Morgan scowls, a certain look sparking in her eyes—the one Peter has come to recognize means she's thinking about pitching a fit. 

He really hopes she doesn't—the only thing it will accomplish is putting Tony in a bad mood, and Peter would also prefer to not spend the drive to school listening to his five-year-old sister wail next to him in the backseat. The thought alone is almost enough to drive him back to bed, ice cubes in his sheets or not.

He risks a glance in Tony's direction. The man is holding Morgan's gaze, a challenge bright in his own eyes. They're two of the stubbornest people Peter knows, and it's a gamble from day to day on who's more likely to come out on top in a situation like this. Well, that's not entirely true—as the parent, Tony definitely “wins” more often than not, in the sense that he isn't one to give in to his daughter's whining. But everybody still loses when Morgan decides to utilize her lungs to their full capacity. It doesn't happen often, but it is a possibility—and it's in those rare instances that Peter can find it in himself to actually be grateful for the small amount of hearing loss in his right ear.

Thankfully, today's father-daughter standoff only lasts for a moment and does not result in screaming or crying or foot-stomping. Morgan wisely chooses to refrain from making a scene; instead, she turns to glance over to where May is busy pouring her coffee into a travel mug, the little girl’s brows puckering in the picture of perfect innocence. “Is Aunt May riding with us today?” she asks, only a hint of sullenness lingering in her voice.

Both Peter and Tony let out a collective sigh of relief.

“She is,” Tony answers.

Happy often drops May off at F.E.A.S.T., sometimes even staying to volunteer with her. On the days she works early morning shifts, they'll coordinate their schedules to drop Peter and Morgan off at their respective schools before heading over to the shelter.

“Okay.” Morgan drags her backpack over toward the elevator. “Come on, Peter, let's go!”

“I'm coming,” he answers around a yawn. He only makes it two steps before Tony's voice stops him in his tracks.

“Pete—you forgetting something?”

Peter glances down. He's got his backpack and his rain jacket, and he's pretty sure he remembered to try to tame his sleep-mussed hair even in his rush to get ready. What could he possibly have forgotten—?

His searching gaze lands on his empty right sleeve, and his mouth goes dry. Surely Tony isn't expecting him to wear his prosthetic today? He hasn't worn it to school yet, and they just talked all this out—

From his position at the kitchen counter, Tony holds up a small red bag and shakes it. “Lunch.”

Oh. Peter grins sheepishly as he moves to take the proffered item from the man, relief filling him. “Oops. Thanks.”

Halfway through mixing creamer into her coffee, May shakes her head. “You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached,” she says with a smile.

Tony taps Peter's lucky fin. “Ah, so that's what happened here.”

A breathy laugh of surprise bursts out of Peter. He elbows the man in the ribs good-naturedly.

“He comes by it honestly,” May adds. “I can't tell you how scatterbrained I am on a good day. Sorry, honey.” As if proving her point, she spins around and begins digging through her purse, nearly knocking the coffee over in her haste.

Tony watches with amusement for a moment before he pats Peter on the shoulders again and gives him a nudge forward. “Go on, get down to the car before Happy leaves without you.”

“He won't leave without May.”

“I'm ready!” May calls cheerily, grabbing her bag and her coffee off the counter and making a beeline for the elevator. “Let's go.”

“Bye, Daddy,” Morgan calls with a wave, her earlier bad mood already forgotten.

Tony lowers himself to a crouch to press a kiss to the girl's forehead. “Later, munchkin.” 

“Later, alligator,” Morgan corrects.

“After a while, crocodile. Take care, polar bear. Toodle-loo, kangaroo—”

“Ugh, Dad, stop!” she groans, skipping into the elevator and slipping her hand into May's.

Tony chuckles. He stands to his feet and repeats the same gesture with Peter, adding a fond hair ruffle—which is not quite as appreciated. “See you, bud. Have a good day.”

“Bye,” Peter returns, unable to hide his smile despite himself.

They rush downstairs to the waiting car. Happy complains about them having no respect for his time—and promptly shuts up when May gives him a sweet smile and an apology followed by a long explanation for their delay. Morgan chatters throughout the whole ride, describing what makes it rain and officiating a race between two raindrops on her window.

Peter is still tired, but as he leans his head against his own window, watches the rain and the traffic outside, and listens to his little sister's rambles, he feels more at peace than he has in a long time.

Maybe, just maybe…things are looking up.

***

When Peter enters his classroom for second period and sits down at his desk,  MJ appears out of seemingly nowhere. She greets him with, “You told them.”

“What?” Peter's eyebrows bounce. “Uh, yeah, I did—how did you know?”

“You’re lighter,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“Okay.” Peter slides his backpack off and sets it under his desk, near his feet. Even though he's early and there are still nearly ten minutes until class begins, he begins rummaging through it for his textbook.

MJ slips into the seat next to him, which isn't the most unusual thing ever, but usually she prefers to find a desk toward the back of the room, where she can properly survey and analyze everyone else, or maybe take a catnap if she gets bored.

Peter watches her out of the corner of his eye as she settles in. Her hair is different today—two neat braids that definitely have some sort of special name he doesn't remember—rather than her usual half-hearted attempts at pulling it back out of her face. It looks really nice. Peter barely has time to try and determine why that simple little thought has his cheeks warming when she speaks up again.

“So,” she says, “they understood?”

Peter nods. 

“Even Stark?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” There's an extra little note of relief coloring her tone that has Peter cocking his head in interest.

“What?” he asks. “You thought he wouldn't?” Because he had definitely thought that, somewhere in a back corner of his brain, but MJ had seemed fairly certain—

“I don't know much about Tony Stark except what I see on the news,” she admits, clasping her hands in her lap. “But I don't put much stock in what the media has to say. The way you talk about him is different. Sounds like he wants the best for you.”

Peter isn't sure he's ever heard the normally observant-but-silent MJ say so much at one time. Then again, before she started hanging around him and Ned more often, he was fairly certain she only spoke dry sarcasm one-liners. Her being more open…it's different. He blinks.

“Y—yeah, he does,” he responds, thankful that his voice doesn't wobble with emotion the way it's seemed to in recent days when he thinks too much about his and Tony's newfound understanding of each other. An image of the man's spider tattoo flashes in his mind.

“That's cool.”

“Yeah.” It's better than cool. It's everything Peter could have ever wanted. After all he's been through in his seventeen years, all he's lost…finally gaining something new in the form of a whole family is somewhat of a shock to his system—but in the best way possible.

“I’m getting better with my prosthetic,” he adds, needing something to prevent an awkward silence. His words stutter out one after the other, and he doesn't know why it's so weird trying to talk to MJ without Ned around interjecting his own random thoughts. Come on, he thinks. It's just MJ. “It'll, uh, it's gonna take some time, but my physical therapist said she thinks I'll be fully functional with it before too long.”

MJ hums, eyeing him carefully as she leans forward against the desk and lowers her voice. “So does that mean you're going to try to be Spider-Man again?”

Peter's world whites out for a second. Is this a dream? That was not on his list of possible sentences that would come out of his friend's mouth. Alarms bells go off in his head.

“Wh—what?” He laughs nervously, mustering up all the innocence he possibly can, hoping he appears clueless. How—how could she know? “Spider-Man? MJ—”

MJ cranes her neck around in quick, analyzing movement, as if to ensure none of their classmates are within earshot of the two of them. When she seems satisfied that no one else is paying any attention, she leans in closer and says with a half-smile, “Come on, Parker, it doesn't take rocket science to figure it out. You're not exactly subtle.”

Peter scrunches up his face, wondering if he should take that as an insult or not. His brain is still stuck in the instant panic mode of oh my gosh she knows she knows she knows. Can his life never have five minutes of peace?

“I mean, do you want me to show you all the evidence?” MJ asks. “I have a list.”

“You…you wrote out a list of evidence for me being Spider-Man?”

“No, of course not. That would be creepy and borderline stalkerish. Also a terrible way to keep information private. You never know who might discover it.” She taps a finger to her forehead. “Like I said, not hard to figure out. It's all up here.”

Peter thinks he might pass out. His palm is slick with sweat, and there are entirely too many thoughts racing through his head right now. He has a sudden, desperate urge to call Tony and ask for help.

“I'm—I’m not Spider-Man.” The words come out a hissed whisper, and he's beyond grateful that the classroom is still mostly empty.

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm not,” he stresses, even as he hates himself for lying. Because it's MJ.

But Spider-Man is a secret he's kept close to his chest for so long—it’s a shock to have it out in the open even with his closest family members and friends. There's no way he can spill the beans right here in school to a girl he…he…

He what?

And technically he's not Spider-Man right now. So he isn't lying.

“I'm not,” he repeats.

“Okay,” she says, sounding suspiciously patronizing. Her eyes are twinkling, and she's smiling at him in a way he's never seen her smile before. It's mesmerizing.

Suddenly, Peter just wants to admit it, to tell her the truth, but the words get stuck in his throat. He's never admitted it to anyone before. Everyone who knows found out on their own or through someone else.

Desperate to change the conversation and get away from all these conflicting thoughts for the time being, he clears his throat and says, “Hey, um, MJ? Would you—I mean if you want to, I was just—just wondering? If…you would like to hang out…sometime.”

The girl raises her eyebrows. “Like a date?”

“No! I mean…maybe. Yes. I guess.” Peter knows his face must be as red as a tomato. If he were here right now, Tony would be laughing at him.

Smooth, bud, real smooth.

MJ stares at him for a second. “Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

Peter feels his eyes widen. “Really? You don't care about—I mean, you don't mind that I only have one arm?”

He knows he shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he can't help the insecurity that bubbles up in his gut. His left hand reaches over in its subconscious anxiety to rub at his lucky fin.

MJ gives him a deadpan, borderline offended expression. “How shallow do you think I am?”

Peter shrugs, ducking his head down in embarrassment. “I don't think you're shallow!” he says hurriedly. “I just didn't…I don't know, I know it's kind of—”

“It makes no difference, Peter,” she says, frowning. “You're still you.”

The words, nearly identical to Tony's just last week—coupled with the fact that she called him by his first name in such a serious tone—are enough to send all of the anxiety spiraling out of Peter's chest. It's replaced instead by an all-encompassing warmth. 

There's probably a stupid grin on his face, but he can't seem to bring himself to stifle it. “Cool,” he says, going for nonchalant. “Awesome.”

Yes, things are definitely looking up.

***

“Should've known you two eggheads would be down here. Do you even know what time it is?”

At the sound of the new voice, Peter twists around to look over his shoulder, neck craning at an awkward angle. His pliers remain partially jammed into the open flap on the wrist of his prosthetic arm that sits on the worktable. “Hi, Rhodey!”

“Hey, kid.”

“Ah-ah—Pete, watch what you're doing,” Tony huffs, though there's no heat behind the words—if anything, it's exasperation that colors his tone. “Gonna fry the arm or yourself,” he mutters.

“Oops.” Peter offers an apologetic grin. “Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you're going to be if you electrocute yourself,” Tony warns, cuffing him upside the head before turning to address Rhodey. “What brings you to my humble abode, Sour Patch?”

“Uh, Thanksgiving dinner. Have either of you bothered to check the time recen—you know what?” Rhodey sticks his hands out and shakes them as if erasing the unfinished question. “Don't answer that. Pepper sent me to drag you out of your little man cave. You got ten minutes to wrap it up.”

Tony whistles. “Ten minutes? Pep’s feeling extra generous today.”

“Must be the spirit of the season,” Rhodey quips, rolling his eyes. “What I'd like to know is why you're down here while your beautiful wife is slaving away in the kitchen.”

“So dramatic,” Tony mumbles under his breath, just loud enough for Peter to hear.

“She banished him,” Peter says brightly, spinning around on his stool to face their visitor and twirling the pliers around his fingers. “Something about ‘being underfoot.’” He ducks preemptively to avoid the incoming swat from Tony.

“You don't say?” A smile twitches at the corners of Rhodey's lips. He crosses his arms over his navy blue knitted sweater and leans against the door frame.

Peter nods with enthusiasm, leaning forward to add, “She chose May over Tony as her assistant chef.”

Rhodey's eyebrows bob in surprise. Everybody knows about poor Aunt May’s inability to exist in a kitchen without some sort of culinary disaster occurring.

“All right, enough,” Tony breaks in, grabbing Peter by the shoulder and spinning him around so he's facing the table again. “You—focus on that arm. It's not gonna calibrate itself, and this isn’t a game of Operation where you can just restart if you mess something up.”

“I'm fine,” Peter says, waving off the warning. “I've been doing this for days. Pretty sure I could do it in my sleep at this point.”

“Yeah, well, I don't want you waking up to your arm punching you in the face, so keep at it.”

Peter barely conceals his snort. Speaking of dramatic…

But Rhodey shakes his head, gesturing to his leg braces with a sly smirk. “Don’t worry, kid, I've been using Stark tech for years—you get used to it malfunctioning at the worst possible times.”

“Hey!” Tony interjects, lobbing an oil-stained rag at the other man's face. “First of all, that is entirely inaccurate. My tech doesn't malfunction.” He uses finger quotes around the last word. “And secondly, I take offense to that. Everything I make is top of the line.”

“Uh-huh. Just remember, I know what your first Iron Man suits looked like.”

“Oh, like that's a burn. Please.” Tony kicks his legs up onto the lower bar of Peter's stool, crossing one ankle over the other and leaning back a little. “You're just jealous the War Machine was never as cool as any of my suits.”

Peter rolls his eyes and leans back over his prosthetic, letting the sound of Tony and Rhodey’s ongoing banter fade into the background along with the hum of lab machines and tools. They've been working on various ways to improve the prosthetic over the past few weeks since their beach trip, developing and testing new ideas based on Peter's experience with PT and other training. Collaborating on it has been a great way for the two of them to spend time together and really come to a better understanding of one another. Peter wonders why they didn't try something like this sooner; maybe they could have avoided a lot of misunderstandings and drama.

But what happened happened, and while the situation may not have been ideal, it's led to a number of breakthroughs—mentally and relationally, among other things. So Peter chooses to be grateful for where they are now.

“Done,” he announces a few short moments later, setting his tools aside and closing up the prosthetic, giving it a quick once over.

Tony’s gaze also scans the prosthetic, and he nods his approval. “Looks good. You gonna wear it today?”

“Yeah,” Peter says after a moment.

Although things have begun to improve with his prosthetic over the past month, he often still chooses to go without his arm. Part of it is just the acclimation aspect, but it also has to do with him finding some sense of…self…as an amputee. It's part of his identity now, not something he wants to shirk away from or hide like he maybe did at first. 

Plus, now that he's more independent with only one arm—as proven by his impromptu ocean rescue—he also feels more confident when he's without the prosthetic than before. It's a balance—but overall, he does find he likes the arm more and more with each passing day. Maybe it was a mindset thing. Even the way Tony talks to him about it—for instance, the question he asked just now—is different. Peter doesn't feel quite so pressured, like he might be making the wrong decision if he says no. It's freeing.

He picks up the vibranium arm with his left hand and connects it to his lucky fin. The limb whirs, and Peter flexes his fingers—easily, to his delight. “See? No explosions or electrocutions.”

“I have to tell you, Pete, that's a pretty low bar for success,” Rhodey says.

“Hey, stop bullying my kid, Rhodes.” Tony slings an arm around Peter's shoulders and gives him a little shake, poking a finger at Rhodey with his other hand. “No pumpkin pie for you.”

The other man rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. I’m the one who brought the pumpkin pie. You have no authorization to decide who does or doesn't eat it.”

“Good, now I know what to avoid. Last thing I need is heartburn.” Tony snorts, adding a muttered, “Authorization. What is this, a military operation?”

Peter stifles a laugh with a cough, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

Rhodey sighs, the sound loud and long-suffering. “Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Can we just get upstairs before Pepper sends a search and rescue party? I'm not missing out on turkey just because you yahoos like the taste of motor oil better.”

“Whatever you say, Colonel.” Tony lifts the hand not wrapped around Peter to his forehead in a stiff salute. “Lead the way.”

He gets another eye roll for that, but Rhodey refrains from starting another verbal war and turns back toward the lab doors.

Tony prods Peter forward. “Hope you're hungry, kid. ‘Cause I saw Pep’s prep list. There's going to be a lot of food.”

Peter knows; even from a floor away, he can smell the mouthwatering scents of meat, veggies, desserts…all of it.

Tony waves off his own words before Peter can formulate a response. “Ah, who am I kidding—you’re a teenage boy. You're always hungry.”

On cue, Peter's stomach growls loudly. His cheeks flush as the two men laugh.

When they arrive at the penthouse, Morgan is waiting like a lion ready to pounce. She practically attacks him the moment he steps into the dining room, poking a finger in the direction of the array of dishes on the counter. “Peter! I helped make the mashed potatoes.”

“Wow, good job, Mo,” Peter says.

“And Uncle Happy and I saw a Spider-Man balloon on the parade!” She whirls toward the living room where the TV is playing a rerun of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade from this morning. It wasn’t that far from the apartment, but no one had been particularly eager to go watch it in person after the outcome of the last parade they’d gone to.

“What about an Iron Man balloon? Tony questions, heading for the sink to wash his hands.

The girl just shrugs. “Don’t remember,” she says noncommittally.

Tony feigns offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ouch, kid. You really know how to wound your old man.”

“I know.”

Pepper, in the middle of pulling a hot pan of rolls out of the oven, stifles a laugh. “She’s your daughter.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, yeah.” He pauses to press a kiss to his wife’s lips.

After Peter washes up, he allows Morgan to drag him over to the table, who insists he sit next to her. The dining room is like a scene right out of one of the five-year-old’s storybooks—golden light spilling from the fancy chandelier overhead, the sound of mingling laughter and conversation filling the air, and the scent of perfectly roasted turkey, sides, and fresh cider completing the picture-perfect atmosphere.

Everyone else takes their seats, May on Peter’s other side with Happy next to her at the end of the table, Pepper and Tony across from them, and Rhodey at the other end. It isn’t long before dishes are being passed around, voices overlapping as food is piled high onto plates. 

Morgan starts chattering happily about the dessert she helped make as she stuffs a roll into her mouth, Happy and Rhodey are arguing over whether canned or fresh cranberry sauce is superior, and judging by the expression on his face, Tony is definitely debating whether or not he should mention the slightly-burnt top crust of May’s mac-and-cheese.

Peter pauses to take it all in—the warmth, the laughter, the clatter of silverware. For so long, holidays were just him and May, trying their best to make things feel normal when their world had been anything but. And then, for five years, there had been nothing at all.

But now… He has a family that extends beyond blood, one that has formed around him in ways he never expected. People who tease him, worry about him, show up for him—love him.

His fingers tighten briefly around his fork as he lets the moment settle, allowing it to imprint itself in his memory. He doesn't want to forget what this feels like 

“Hey, Peter.”

He blinks back into focus, looking up over the table to find Rhodey watching him with a soft expression.

“You all right?” the man asks, voice quiet.

Peter exhales, glancing around the table once more before looking back at Rhodey and nodding with a small but genuine smile. “Yeah. I am.”

Chapter Text

“And this is my big brother, Peter!” Morgan announces, gesturing to the teenager standing awkwardly next to her with a flourish.

“Hi, Peter!” comes the chorus of young voices.

Peter’s gaze drifts over the twelve rambunctious preschoolers staring at him with wide eyes. He wonders, not for the first time, how he managed to let the five-year-old talk him into doing this.

There's no school for Midtown students today; a parent-teacher conference taking place instead. Tony and May are both there, leaving Peter with a rare day off. 

Upon hearing this information two days ago, Morgan had decided it would be the perfect opportunity to drag him along to her class for Show and Tell, as he would be a much better choice than her stuffed puppy, Oreo. If there’s one thing Peter can’t do, it’s disappoint the girl he considers a sister. So, Show and Tell in Miss Lawson’s preschool class this morning it is.

The kids are all sitting in a semicircle on the big, colorful rug on one side of the room. There are whispers and giggles as they fidget around, boundless energy keeping them from sitting still even as their eyes all remain fastened on their surprise visitor.

“How old are you?” one boy asks eagerly. “Are you twenty-seven like Miss Lawson?”

“Do you know how to read?” another chimes in.

And perhaps the most blunt: “Why do you only have one arm?”

It isn’t that Peter didn’t expect the interrogation, especially regarding his obviously-empty right sleeve—he knows it’s innocent curiosity, which is a lot easier to handle than the rude stares he sometimes gets from adults or even his own peers. Nonetheless, his tongue feels like it’s in a knot, and he finds himself thankful when the barrage of questions are smoothly interrupted by the teacher.

“Hey, everyone, listen up: let’s all catch a bubble.” Miss Lawson tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and waits until each pupil has blown their cheeks wide before she continues, “I’m sure Morgan will tell us all about Peter if we sit quietly—criss cross applesauce—and listen, all right?”

She’s met with a chorus of nods and agreements. Her bright but calm demeanor is infectious, and Peter finds himself relaxing as much as the students, tension easing out of his shoulders.

“Thank you—okay, Morgan. Is there anything you would like to tell us about Peter?” Mrs. Lawson asks, a kind smile gracing her face.

Morgan has her right hand curled tightly around Peter’s left, and she swings their hands back and forth as she talks, completely in her element in front of a crowd—a trait she must have inherited from both of her parents. “Yes! A lot of things. He's almost a grown-up—and he’s super duper smart,” she says, eyes round and serious.

The same little boy from a moment ago lifts his hand and waves it in the air. “How old are you?” he asks again, directing the question at Peter.

“I’m seventeen,” he answers.

Awe fills all the little faces before him.

“Yeah, he’s way older than me,” Morgan says. “He’s almost as tall as my daddy. But he still likes to color pictures with me and play games like Uno!”

“I love Uno!” a brown-haired girl pipes up, and several others echo their agreement.

Morgan steers the conversation back on track. “We do lots of things together.”

“What made you decide to bring Peter for Show and Tell?” Miss Lawson probes.

“I brought him to Show and Tell because he’s the coolest and nicest big brother ever.”

Peter is sure his cheeks redden at the complimentary words, but the other kids are clearly enraptured by the story Morgan is weaving about him, all leaning forward with interest and chiming in with their own comments about their siblings or favorite things to do.

Calmly, like she’s leading a press conference, Morgan lets the chatter continue for only a few moments before she takes over again. She holds up a hand and clears her throat before speaking like she’s delivering the most important, groundbreaking news of the century. “And guess what? Peter doesn't have one arm anymore, but he's got a pros…prosthetic—which is like a fake arm that he uses sometimes—and he has a lucky fin, just like Nemo!”

The other preschoolers gasp collectively over that last point.

“Can I see?” one of them asks, and everyone else immediately chimes in, overlapping voices all clamoring for a turn to see Peter's limb up close.

Miss Lawson starts to intervene, rising from her chair. “Class—”

But Peter waves her off with a crooked smile. “It’s okay,” he says. He lowers himself to their level, crouching down and tugging his jacket off his right side to make it easier for the kids to get a better look.

They crowd forward, all peeking at the residual limb, marvel written across their features.

“Whoa!”

“That's so cool!”

“I wish I had a lucky fin!”

Peter can’t hide his blush this time, though thankfully the kids don’t seem to notice or care. He's beyond grateful he told Happy to just wait for him in the car—the last thing he needs is the man laughing at him as a bunch of four- and five-year-olds “ooh” and “ahh” over him. The teasing would be endless.

As the eager onslaught of chatter continues, Peter answers each question as carefully as he can, ensuring no one feels left out or ignored. He finds himself settling in, channeling his inner Spider-Man persona in a way that engages all the preschoolers. The fact that they just accept him for who he is lodges as a ball of warmth in his chest. There’s no ulterior motives or hidden truths; they say what they think in all of its raw honesty. Just a bunch of preschoolers boosting his ego.

“He can tie his shoes with only one hand,” Morgan announces proudly.

“Wow,” one of the kids breathes, awe written across his expression. “I can't even tie my shoes with two hands yet.”

A soft chuckle finds its way past Peter’s lips. “It took a lot of practice,” he says, “but yeah, I can tie my shoes with one hand now.”

The kids stare at him in renewed awe, as if he’d just performed the magic trick of a lifetime.

Morgan tilts her head in a firm nod. “See? I told you he was the coolest.”

Peter grins and ruffles the girl’s hair. “Thanks, Mo.”

“Can you show us how you do it?” he’s asked next.

His eyes drop to the rubber toes of his white Converse—a new pair Tony had recently gotten him—and he nods, amused at their interest. “Sure.”

As the children all crowd in close to observe the art of tying shoelaces with one hand, he can feel Morgan’s beaming grin on his back, and a now-familiar warmth floods his chest.

“Okay, make sure you watch closely,” he tells the preschoolers with a wink, “because you guys have to try it next.”

***

Peter has barely slid into the backseat and buckled his seatbelt before Happy is interrogating him about his fifteen minute “presentation.”

“So? How was it?”

“Uh, yeah, it was good.” He shrugs. “The kids all asked me to come back again.”

“Of course they did.” There’s a smirk on Happy’s face as he pulls out of the school parking lot and turns out onto the main road.

“It was fun,” Peter reiterates. Maybe a smidge overwhelming to have a dozen squealing preschoolers shooting question after question at him, but they were all so excited to have a “real live” visitor for Show and Tell, and despite their exuberance, they were all—mostly—good listeners, so he can't really complain.

“Hm.” A beat passes, then Happy asks, “You hungry?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Is that a trick question? Peter is always hungry. “Why?”

“Thought we could stop somewhere on our way back.”

The words are said casually—a little too casually for Peter's liking. His brow furrows. Happy certainly isn't as gruff and aloof as he was when Peter first met him, but he also doesn't normally offer a random pit stop like this, especially on a weekday when he probably has other important things to be doing.

“What's wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Happy asks. “Nothing's wrong.”

“You want to stop for lunch?” Peter clarifies.

“You don't?”

“No—I mean sure I do, I was just wondering why you would want to.”

Happy shrugs, making a right turn. “I mean, it's about lunchtime, so I just figured we might as well go eat somewhere.”

It's not the first time the two of them have gone to grab a bite to eat together. Happy has really made an effort over the past few months to connect more with Peter, which Peter really appreciates. But right now, the man looks a little nervous, and his odd behavior is making Peter nervous. Something is definitely going on. He doesn't like the way Happy is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, or how he keeps glancing back at Peter.

“And…?” he presses when Happy doesn't add on to his previous sentence, despite the clear indicators that he has something else to say.

“And I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay…” Peter's suspicion rises further. “About what?”

“Uh, about your aunt, actually—”

“May? Wait, are you guys breaking up?” Peter can't keep the disappointment out of his voice. “But Happy, why? You two are so good together, and I thought things were going really well—”

“Peter, Peter, hey. Slow down,” Happy interrupts, lifting a placating hand as he glances in the rearview mirror again. “We're not breaking up.”

The sigh of relief has barely left Peter's lips before another equally horrifying thought strikes him. “Oh my gosh, is she pregnant?” he splutters.

“No!” Happy practically shouts—or maybe yelps is the better term for the noise the man makes. A series of car horns blare around them as he nearly swerves into the next lane over. “Geez, kid, don't say stuff like that.” 

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” Peter asks, voice pitched higher than normal. He rakes his hand through his hair. “You get all serious and tell me you need to talk to me about Aunt May. She hasn't said anything to me, so—”

“Okay, hold on. I can't talk about this and drive.” Happy begins to scan the streets, presumably for somewhere to pull over.

“You brought it up,” Peter grouches, still not over the way the man had scared him. He's pretty sure he's gone through all five stages of grief at least three times since he's climbed into the car.

“Right, but I expected you to say something like ‘okay, cool’ and then once we got to the restaurant, hash it out over lunch.”

“Hash what out?”

They pull into a parking space on the side of the road, right in front of a little café. 

Happy kills the ignition and gestures to the building. “Can we go inside?” 

“Okay, fine.” Peter throws his car door open, hopping nimbly out onto the street and leading the way into the restaurant. What in the world is this all about?

His mind races as they wait in line to order, flicking through options of what Happy could possibly want to talk to him about. It's unusual to see the head of security so frazzled and uncertain; the man is generally the perfect picture of confidence. Watching him twiddle his thumbs like an anxious schoolboy is definitely a new experience.

By the time they get their sandwiches and drinks and find a table, Peter's limited patience has waned. They've barely set their trays down before words are spilling out of his mouth. “Can you please just tell me what's going on?”

Happy slides into a chair and scratches at his beard, letting out a breath. “Right, yeah. So, you know May and I have been dating for a while now.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says slowly.

“She's great. Not that you need me to tell you that, obviously.”

Peter nods.

“I know the two of you are really close. She adores you, really. She's always telling me—”

“Happy,” Peter interrupts in exasperation, fingers curling around his cup, “I’m really glad things are going well between you two and all, but you're rambling and I'm kind of freaking out here. Just tell me what you want to tell me. Please.”

Is it Opposite Day? Peter's used to being the one rambling while Happy tells him to “just get to the point already.” This current role reversal is one of the weirdest experiences of his life. Is he in some sort of simulation right now? Could this be a glitch in the matrix?

Happy clears his throat. “Right, getting there.” He leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. I guess… I know your aunt has talked to you about it before, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay with all of this—with us, you know, being together.”

Peter feels his brows leap upward. “Of course I am. You guys are great together,” he says sincerely. It had taken some getting used to at first, seeing his aunt with someone—but as long as May's happy, he's happy. And from the sound of it, Happy's happy, too.

Doubts mostly assuaged, Peter begins to unwrap his sandwich, noting with pleasure that he barely has to put in any extra effort to do it with only one hand. “Is that all you wanted to ask me? Because as much as I appreciate it, we didn't need a whole sit down lunch for that.”

Happy’s food remains untouched. “The thing is, kid—I like May. A lot. She's…she's incredible. And we're kind of just going with the flow right now, but…one day it might be—well, I'm kind of hoping to, you know—”

“You want to propose?” Peter blurts out.

“Not—not anytime soon,” Happy says in a rush. “But eventually, one day…yes.”

“So you’re…asking my permission to date my aunt with intent to marry?”

Happy chokes on his sip of iced tea. “Well, when you put it like that—”

“That's…that's really thoughtful of you, Happy.”

Peter has heard plenty of horror stories of new boyfriends or girlfriends who didn't care about what their partners' kids thought of them. He remembers a classmate from middle school that only met his dad's girlfriend twice before she became his step-mom. So the fact that Happy is not only careful to spend time with Peter—even when May’s not around—but is also including him in conversations about his future with Peter's aunt…that means a lot.

Happy's eyes are wide with surprise. “O—oh,” the man says, clearly not having expected such a calm reaction from his girlfriend's nephew. Though after making Peter think they might have been breaking up, or that May might've been pregnant, this revelation is mild in comparison.

“And of course you have my, uh…permission.” That seems funny to say, but Peter isn't sure how else to word it. “I'm—I’m really happy for you guys.”

A rare grin splits across Happy's face. “Thanks, kid,” he says. “And hey, look—I know you have Tony, but you know you can come to me for anything, too.”

Peter bobs his head in appreciation. For so long, it was just him and May. Now he has a whole village—a family—bigger than he could have ever expected. He'll take every ounce of support he can get.

“Okay.” Happy exhales loudly and reaches for his food. “Now that I don't feel like I'm about to upchuck anymore—let’s eat.”

***

“Kid?”

Peter turns away from the voice, digging his knuckles into his eyes in a desperate attempt to stave off the tears trying to push their way to the surface. This is stupid. He shouldn't be so upset.

A hand lands on his right shoulder, strong fingers beginning to squeeze out the tension in the sore muscles around his residual limb. The motion is familiar and soothing.

“I'm never gonna get there,” Peter says, voice wobbly and throat aching as he holds back a sob.

“You absolutely are.” Tony's voice leaves no room for disagreement.

Peter grunts, gaze remaining straight ahead.

“Hey, it was one bad session. We all have off days.”

Peter's fingers curl into the hem of his sweat-damp shirt. “I should be better,” he mumbles, exhaustion tugging at him. “I want to quit.” 

“You don't mean that.”

No, he doesn’t, but the words slipped out anyway. He shrugs, unwilling to take them back.

Tony pauses for a moment. “Look at how far you've come—you're so close, Pete. Are you really going to give up now?”

Peter sniffs. “No,” he whispers miserably, knowing the man is right. He's made so much progress, he can't deny it. But on days like today, where it feels like everything is going wrong and he's running backward, all he wants to do is hide under a blanket on the couch and pretend he doesn't exist. It's not fair that his PT sessions can go perfectly one day and the opposite the next. He wants consistency. He wants to be better.

Frustration wells up within him anew, and he kicks at the nearest object, which happens to be one of Morgan's building blocks. It flies across the room, rolling to a stop on the floor near the coffee table. “I hate this,” he chokes out vehemently.

Tony steps forward, angling his body so that he's standing in front of Peter instead of behind him. He reaches out and grasps Peter's shoulders, forcing their gazes to meet. 

“Hey, listen,” he says. “You're allowed to be mad—you can yell, cry, whatever you need to do—but then let that anger be what fuels you to keep pushing forward.”

Peter snorts, the sound wet as he averts his eyes. “When did you become a motivational speaker?”

“Who, me? I've always been this way.”

The lighthearted comments bring some levity into the room, and despite his best efforts, Peter can’t hold back a small laugh. He still feels that edge of aggravation lingering under his skin, the mindset of defeat fluttering around in his head, but he takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself of all the ways he’s improved even in just the last few weeks.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, wiping at his face. “I know I'm just being stupid—”

“You're not. Seriously, this is mild compared to some of my outbursts. Ask Pep.”

Peter sucks in another breath. “I just feel like I should be better, you know? It’s been months—”

“Hey.” Tony gives his shoulders a little shake. “What did we say?”

“That it’s a process, not a race,” Peter recites.

“Bingo. I know it sucks, trust me—you’re looking at the most impatient person in the world. But I promise you’re doing way better than you think.”

Rather than giving Peter a chance to respond—likely knowing it will be something else self-deprecating because on days like these, it’s really hard to “look on the bright side”—Tony tugs him closer, pulling him into a tight hug instead. The unabashed show of physical affection isn’t new; Tony has been so much more tactile ever since the Blip ended, but it seems like lately it’s become even more commonplace. 

Peter curls his left arm around the man’s back, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt and letting the embrace ground him. He closes his eyes and exhales. It’s hard, wanting to be back to one hundred percent but having to take things day by painstaking day. He’s willing to put in the work, he is, but sometimes he just gets tired. It’s been a long, hard few months, and the road ahead has no definite end in sight. 

That knowledge is easier to handle some days than it is others—there’s usually no real rhyme or reason to his bad days, though every so often there’s a conversation or bad dream or PT session that will trigger it. May often has to remind him that life is just like that and it’s okay. He just has to remember that he has a huge support system around him, and that matters more than if he ever reaches his goals with his prosthetic.

“Thanks,” Peter finally says, voice muffled against Tony’s shoulder.

Tony pats him on the back of the head. “One day at a time. You got this, bud.”

Peter lets himself believe it.

***

Peter wakes with a start, lurching into an upright position before his brain fully registers where he is. His heart is thudding, remnants of a dream he can't quite remember swirling in his mind. A quick glance at his alarm clock reveals it's only been about an hour since he went to bed.

He clears his throat, licks his too-dry lips, and decides some water might not be a bad idea. Any lingering sleepiness will probably fade if he gets up, but he isn't too confident he'll be able to fall back asleep right now even if he tries to just roll over and pretend like he's not thirsty. So he throws his thick comforter aside, leaving rumpled sheets behind as he fumbles through the darkness to get to his door.

One quick trip to the kitchen later, his thirst is satiated and he's feeling a little better. He's not unsettled, per se, but he knows he's too keyed up to go back to sleep. As he ambles down the hall back toward his room, he notices the small sliver of light peeking out from under the door of Aunt May's room. His feet change direction of their own accord. 

He pauses at her door, giving the wood a gentle rap with his knuckles as he nudges it open further and peeks in. “Hey.”

His aunt is sitting up against the headboard of her bed, glasses on and a small lamp casting a dim, relaxing light across the room. The TV on the wall is playing some game show May and Pepper have been into watching lately.

“Hey!” She smiles widely at him, immediately lifting the remote to lower the TV sound and patting the open space on the bed next to her in invitation. If she's surprised he's up at this hour, she doesn't show it.

Peter obliges, slipping into the room and situating himself on the mattress with his legs curled up underneath him. He relaxes further when May’s slender fingers reach out and gently rub the back of his neck.

“How are you doing, baby?” she asks, pulling off her glasses and setting them in the nightstand.

Peter considers that for a moment. “Good,” he answers, and he means it.

She smiles.

“How are you?” he reciprocates.

She slips her hand down to squeeze his. “Grateful,” she says, the single word encapsulating so much more.

Peter is glad to hear the genuine and the lighthearted lilt in his aunt's voice. She has seemed more relaxed lately, more carefree—like she used to be. Maybe even more so than before; although she always put up a front, he knew she often fretted over finances and her ability to provide for them. Now that's something she doesn't have to worry about.

The realization knocks something loose in Peter's chest, a weight he wasn't even aware existed there. He knows May was focused on and concerned about him for so long since he snapped, which he hated almost as much as he appreciated. She deserves some peace.

“That's—that's good,” he says with a nod.

“I know that seems weird to say, you know…to be so happy while the rest of the world still in just—chaos—”

“It's not weird.”

“Selfish, maybe. We've been gifted so much—”

“It's not selfish,” Peter insists, craning his neck to look at his aunt. “Besides, you're helping a lot of people with F.E.A.S.T. And the Starks are doing a lot for the Displaced too.”

“We're doing the best we can,” May says.

Peter squeezes her hand this time. “That's all we can do.”

His aunt tilts her head to the side, a smile playing on her lips. “When did you become so wise, my sweet nephew?”

He grins cheekily, echoing Tony's words from the other day: “I've always been this way.”

She plants a gentle smack on his leg. “Humble, too, I see. You've been spending too much time with Tony.” 

They chuckle together, petering off into a companionable silence. Peter rests his cheek against his aunt's shoulder, eyes slipping closed as she begins to rake gentle fingers through his hair. It's a familiar routine, one that he's come to know and love over the years.

“May?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you ever…do you have dreams about—Blipping?” 

After the question leaves his mouth, Peter isn't entirely sure why he asked it. Decimation Day isn't something that's discussed a lot; it's more or less a taboo subject in most places. For good reason—most people don't want to reminisce about the moment they fell apart into dust, and those who were left behind don't want the painful reminder of losing their loved ones. Based on what Peter’s heard, the anniversary of that day has been a somber affair for the past five years.

May’s fingers pause for a brief moment before resuming their repetitive track through his curls, and she hums a quiet affirmative. “I think we all do,” she says honestly. “It was traumatic. No one's immune.”

“Even everybody who didn't Blip?”

“I would imagine so.”

Peter closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about what it would have been like to watch his friends or family dissipate into dust. He shudders. The mere thought is almost too much to bear. How did anyone left behind manage it for five years?

“Is that why you came in here?” May asks. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I don't know,” he says honestly. “I saw some pro-Thanos people today.”

“Not at school, right?” 

He knows his aunt is thinking of Grant. Thankfully, Midtown has been serious about their strict, zero-tolerance policy for any type of anti-Blipped rhetoric—which includes the wearing of any apparel with discriminatory symbols or slogans toward the Blipped. Ever since that one incident in gym class, Grant has mostly kept his distance from Peter. He’s pretty sure the other boy had been suspended again for his bullying, and another incident would likely put him at risk for expulsion. So although Peter has found himself on the receiving end of a few disgusted stares and rude, muttered comments from the senior and his friends, that has been as far as it’s gone.

But especially since the parade, May has been very careful to keep any Thanos Was Right content away from Peter, and any discussion of it to a minimum. As if he doesn't have a phone with Internet access. He knows what the haters are saying about people like him. 

“No,” Peter answers. “Just some people with ‘Thanos Was Right’ shirts on the way home.”

“Ah.” She nods in understanding, nose wrinkling slightly at the mention of the protestors.

“I guess I just…don’t really get it,” he says. “I mean, I know everyone coming back was—is—really hard for everyone.”

Doesn't he know it. It's difficult to go anywhere without being faced with some sort of issue caused by the sudden reappearance of half the population. It's a wonder society didn't completely collapse when everyone disappeared five years ago, and perhaps even more of a miracle that it also didn't when everyone reappeared. It's come very close though, with chaos reigning more often than not—especially during those first few months following the return of the Blipped.

Peter splays his hands outward to finish his thought. “But…what do they want us to do? Die again?” His voice wavers on the last words, and May’s expression softens immediately.

“Oh, honey,” she says, pulling him closer to her side. “No. No. It's just—they're hurting too, in their own ways. The only way they know to show it is through anger. But it's not right, and I'm sorry.”

Peter leans into his aunt's comforting embrace, his mind a tangled web attempting to process and understand a situation with dozens of complicated layers. There are so many differing opinions, all shouting for equal attention, and each time he thinks he knows what's right, he comes face to face with someone or something insisting it's the opposite. Months have passed now and yet he still wrestles with the complexities of it all.

“Do you think Tony was wrong?” he asks, voice slightly muffled from the way his cheek is pressed up against May's shoulder. “And the other Avengers? To bring everybody back?”

May takes a deep breath. “I think,” she says carefully, “that there's no use in beating a dead horse. We can go over what-ifs for the rest of our lives, but it isn't going to change what happened.”

The words aren't dissimilar to sentiments that have been brought up in regard to Peter's own situation. Looking back now, when it had come down to him, Thanos, and the gauntlet, could Peter have made a different choice? Was there something he or someone else could have done to keep the battle from getting to the point it had—or even from starting in the first place?

Those questions only start an unnecessary spiral, and they've all learned over the last few months that it isn't a helpful exercise for anyone. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

May continues, “They had an opportunity, and they took it. And you could argue that they could have prepared better, but at the end of the day they had no idea if their plan would even work. There's only so much you can do, you know? Who anticipates a situation like that, much less is able to anticipate every potential consequence?”

Peter hums.

“So, to answer your question—no. Were I in their shoes, I would have made the same exact decision,” May says firmly. “And I think everyone who lost a loved one would agree.”

Peter nods slowly. He has to agree with his aunt's assessment; he can't imagine losing May, having the chance to bring her back, and not taking it. Is that selfish? Maybe. But humans are prone to that sort of thing, to make decisions that are ultimately to their benefit. From a young age, there's an innate desire—a need—to protect themselves, to preserve what's important to them and their way of life.

And either way there was a cost.

There's always a cost.

Every decision has consequences. It's just the art of weighing the good versus the bad, determining if the benefits outweigh that cost.

“I would too,” Peter says. He worries his lip and adds, a little quieter, “But not everyone thinks that.”

“I know. But what happened happened, whether you agree or not, and they have to accept it and move on. Telling people they shouldn't be alive again isn't a solution. It isn’t helping anyone.” There are tendrils of anger fringing May's voice now, and Peter knows it's directed at the vocal Thanos supporters.

He hums. “Yeah.”

“I'm sorry,” May apologizes. “I know I can get a little…passionate sometimes.” She laughs, tucking the edge of her blanket around Peter before moving to brush her fingers against his cheek. “Hey. I'm so proud of you, you know that?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She presses a kiss to the side of head. “These past few months have been…well, they've been a whirlwind to say the least. And you've handled it all so well.”

Peter scratches the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the praise. “Thanks,” he settles on. “You know I wouldn't be where I am right now without you.”

“Oh, you.” She tries to wave him off, but Peter remains insistent.

“I'm serious,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for his aunt—and the rest of his family—helping him through one of the hardest times of his life. “I really mean it, May. You—you’ve always been there for me, even before all this, but especially after everything. It's just…it means a lot.”

“Aw, Peter. You're trying to make me cry, aren't you?”

“No!” That’s really the last thing he wants. He doesn’t handle a crying May very well; he never has.

To his relief, she smiles instead, pulling him in for another tight hug and kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“And I couldn’t have done any of it alone,” May adds after a moment. “I don’t know where we’d be right now without Tony and Pepper and everyone who’s helped us.”

“Guess there are some perks to losing your arm and saving the world,” Peter says with a smirk, half-lifting his lucky fin.

“The handicap sticker for the car is definitely a huge plus.”

Peter snorts, nudging his aunt playfully. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“I know, I know. You've got to admit it though, prime parking is a nice bonus.”

“Happy definitely appreciates it.”

She chuckles. “That he does. I have never seen a man who hates traffic so much.”

“He’s got the road rage down, that’s for sure,” Peter agrees. He scrunches his face up like Happy does when he’s irritated and says in his gruffest voice, “Come on! That is not a left turn lane! Idiot—learn to drive!”

May dissolves into laughter, putting a hand over her mouth to smother her chortles. “Oh, Peter, that was spot-on. You’ve got him pegged.”

“I swear, May, it feels like I’m in a Fast & Furious movie whenever he’s behind the wheel.”

“Okay, okay,” she acquiesces, still grinning. “He can definitely be a little…passionate sometimes. It’s one of the things I love about him.”

Peter’s face must do something without his knowledge, because May pauses.

“What?” she asks suspiciously.

“What? Nothing.”

“Nuh-uh, I saw that look.”

Peter rolls his eyes, flopping back against the pillows and admitting, “You were being mushy.”

“Mushy?”

“Yeah.”

“About Happy? I can do mushier, if you’d prefer.”

“I wouldn’t,” Peter says in a rush, already considering making a break for the door.

“You know, sooner or later you’re going to experience that kind of love. It really blossoms and grows, often in the places where you least expect it. For me and Happy—”

A loud groan escapes Peter's mouth. “May, I love you both, but please can we not talk about this?”

“What, you don’t want to hear about my love life?” she teases.

“Not really.” Actually, Peter has zero desire to discuss his aunt's romances, especially not after his awkward conversation with Happy the other day. They’re all in a good place right now, and he’s heard all he needs to hear. He wrinkles his nose. “You can spare me the details.”

May laughs again, the sound genuinely happy, and Peter can’t help but smile.

“I really am lucky though,” she says, “to have such a wonderful family—however chaotic it may be.”

Peter bobs his head in agreement. Their lives sometimes feel like some weird version of Modern Family or Yours, Mine, and Ours, but honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Involuntarily, his mouth widens in a large yawn, eyelids beginning to feel heavy.

“I think that’s your cue for bedtime, mister.”

“Hm,” Peter hums, adjusting the pillow underneath his head and shifting so that he’s fully lying down.

“Excuse me, you know you have your own giant bed right down the hall.”

“Yeah, but that’s down the hall,” Peter slurs, eyes closed and already half-asleep. “I’m comfortable right here.”

He can picture his aunt shaking her head, exasperated but fond as she lets out a light huff. “You’re lazy is what you are.”

“Guilty as charged.”

The lamp is flicked off a few moments later, plunging the room into darkness. The soft, familiar sounds of the city outside drift up to their window as a soothing lullaby, and a gentle hand sweeps through Peter’s hair.

“Good night, sweetie,” May whispers.

“Night, May,” he manages to mumble in return, a wave of peace encompassing him as he drifts back off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Waking up to a new sunrise
 Looking back from the other side
I can see now with open eyes
Darkest water and deepest pain
Wouldn't trade it for anything
Scars by I AM THEY

***

Peter sits on the padded bench in the physical therapy room, waiting for Jenna to join him so they can get started on today’s session. His leg bobs up and down in a repetitive motion, his gaze lingering on his prosthetic sitting in the open case in front of him.

Truth be told, he really doesn’t feel like doing this today. It was a long day at school, and he’s tired. But he promised himself—and Tony and May—that he wouldn’t give up. He knows he can’t—he’s gotta persevere and put in the work even on the days when his body and mind are telling him it would be easier to just give up.

The door to his left eases open, and Peter glances up, already halfway into his greeting for his physical therapist before he sees dark hair and a familiar black and gold arm and realizes it isn’t Jenna who’s just entered the room.

“Bucky!” Peter bounds over to greet his friend, jaw going slack as he takes in the difference in the man's appearance. “Your hair!”

Bucky rakes a hand through his shorn, dark strands. “Thought it was time for a change.” The words are accompanied by a nonchalant shrug, but Peter gets the feeling the decision to chop off that shoulder-length hair went deeper than the inconvenience of washing and styling it.

“Wow, it—it looks great.” Peter's grin wavers slightly as confusion begins to take over, warring with pleasure at the unexpected visit. “Um, what—what are you doing here?”

“Moral support,” Bucky says with a wink. He reaches out and bumps Peter’s shoulder good-naturedly with his fist.

Peter tilts his head to the side. He’s willing to bet Tony was the one who put Bucky up to this, which is definitely surprising but not at all unwelcome. Well, mostly.

“I’m still not, like, great with the prosthetic,” he says in a rush, finger twisting into the hem of his shirt. 

If Tony were here, he’d probably cuff Peter upside the head for saying that and insert some ridiculously cliche comment about self-talk. Truth be told, Peter knows his progress with the prosthetic over the past month has been remarkable; he’s come a long way.

Even though he's been steadily improving, he wants to ensure Bucky’s expectations aren’t too high. He cringes at the thought of his every move being analyzed by the man—he doesn't mind when Tony sticks around for the sessions, and things have admittedly been easier on that front since their vacation. But this is different, because Bucky uses his prosthetic like it's his flesh arm, and he's just so good at it. Peter is, well, lame in comparison.

“Really?” It’s Bucky’s eyebrows that shift this time, lifting upward in a minuscule show of surprise. “From what I heard, you’re doing fantastic. And based on what I know, Stark doesn’t brag like that on just anybody.”

Heat rushes to Peter’s cheeks, and he ducks his head a little, snorting. “He’s got too much faith in me.”

“I’m thinking maybe you just don’t have enough.”

Peter snaps his gaze up, but Bucky is already striding toward the bench and the case holding the prosthetic.

“We getting started or what?”

“Uh, I have to wait on—”

“Peter!” The door swings open again, and this time it is Jenna who enters. She’s wearing blue scrubs and white tennis shoes today, and her auburn hair is pulled back into a tight braid.

“Hey,” Peter says, giving a little wave.

Jenna steps into the room and catches sight of the extra person standing next to Peter. “Oh, hello!” She greets Bucky with a smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Jenna West.”

“Bucky Barnes.” The man accepts the handshake with a nod.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark mentioned you might be dropping by this afternoon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She flashes one more bright smile at him before she redirects her attention to her patient. “Peter, you ready?”

Knowing there’s no chance of worming his way out of today’s session, he lets out a sigh and mutters, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

To her credit, Jenna doesn't ever play into Peter's grumpy or “poor me” days. She never coddles him, instead somehow managing to coax him into a better mood more often than not and handling his bad days with more grace than he deserves. She pushes him hard and he knows he's better for it, so even though he doesn't always recognize it in the moment, he appreciates her encouragement and drive to help him improve.

“What's going on today?” she asks conversationally as she works to prep the equipment. “How was school?”

“It was all right,” he says with a shrug.

She hums. “Just all right?”

“Long,” he amends, voice tinged with weariness. He'd had two tests and a pop quiz, and listening to Flash’s offhand remarks during AcaDec practice is always a chore. He says as much to his physical therapist, leaving out the last part about his classmate.

“I remember those days,” Jenna says with a chuckle, setting aside the resistance bands and motioning for him to take a seat. “I definitely don't miss the exams. All right, you know the drill. Let's get those warm-up stretches going.”

Peter complies, beginning to work through the familiar routine of stretches. It's become second nature at this point, although sometimes Jenna has to correct his form or throws in something new to shake things up.

Bucky stands nearby, leaning against one of the pieces of equipment used for exercises with his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he observes.

“You're tighter on this side,” Jenna notes, deft fingers gently pressing into the meat of his right shoulder. “Did you sleep funny on it last night?”

“Maybe.” It wouldn't be the first time.

She hums and adjusts his position. “Okay, I want you to hold that for fifteen seconds.”

Once she's deemed him sufficiently loosened up, she nods toward the case on the bench next to them. “Let's move on to the prosthetic.”

Peter glances over at the arm and hesitates. Sure, he has been improving overall the last couple of weeks, but…

“Come on, you got this,” Bucky says. “You underestimate yourself.”

Peter lets out a little huff but can't keep back a smile at the man's encouragement. He slips on the prosthetic, another motion that is slowly becoming second nature. His arm no longer feels so heavy or awkward when he first puts it on—even the phantom pains are fewer and further in between. For that, he's extremely grateful.

They start off simple, doing more stretches to work on Peter's range of motion while wearing the prosthetic. Those he's gotten used to—it’s some of the finer motor skills he still struggles to consistently complete.

The majority of the session goes by smoothly, but as expected, once they move on to the more intense exercises, Peter quickly tires, frustration setting in when his arm won't do what he wants it to.

“Remember what we talked about last week,” Jenna says as she sets a medium-sized rubber ball on the bench next to him. “Just relax.”

“Yeah.” Peter takes a breath before reaching out to his right and letting his metal fingers curl around the ball. The motion is smooth enough, but when he lifts his hand and brings it forward to throw the object as instructed, his wrist locks up. The ball falls from his grasp straight to the floor below.

Peter growls.

“That's okay.” Jenna retrieves the ball before it can roll away and sets it back down. “Try again.”

Three attempts later, Peter has managed to actually throw the ball, but not remotely close to the level of power or accuracy he could have before. Although any amount of improvement is a good thing, he still finds himself disappointed.

“You're overthinking it, kid,” Bucky pipes up. He's already taken two steps forward before he pauses, glancing in Jenna's direction and smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, not to interrupt—”

“No, no, by all means.” She sidesteps to give him more room. “Sometimes I think he tunes me out—I probably sound like a broken record at this point.”

Peter tries to protest at that, but Jenna just laughs it off. “I'm teasing, Peter. But some fresh insight wouldn't hurt.”

The corner of Bucky's mouth quirks upward, and he leans in closer to tap a finger against the metal of the prosthetic. “Listen, these things are ridiculously intuitive. Yeah, focus is important, but you start trying to force every little movement and you're gonna be choppy. Let the arm do what it's supposed to do—just like how you don't even have to think about using your left hand.”

Of course, Peter has heard versions of the same advice before now, and it's on the tip of his tongue to tell Bucky as much. But he just nods instead.

“Okay,” he agrees.

“Deep breaths,” Jenna reminds him, hands hovering around either side of his arm.

Peter nods, inhaling and exhaling rhythmically as he looks at the ball resting next to him. He closes his eyes for a moment, imagining his right arm as it used to be rather than a vibranium limb. Before his mind can start working its way through every intricate step, he simply picks up the ball and hurls it forward with all of his might.

His aim’s a little off, forcing Bucky to duck in an effort to preserve his life, but the ball flies across the room, slamming into the wall with a resounding thud. Even from where they sit, it's clear it left a round dent behind.

Peter's eyes widen as he swivels back around. “Oops.”

But both Bucky and Jenna are grinning like they just won the lottery.

“That was—impressive, Peter,” Jenna says.

Peter looks down at his prosthetic limb, turning it over to stare at his palm. Huh.

“Let's move on to something a little less…potentially destructive,” she adds with a sly smirk, and the other two occupants of the room laugh.

By the time their session is over, Peter is exhausted, sweat soaking the front of his shirt and plastering his hair down to his forehead, but there's a triumphant smile on his face and a joy in his heart that even his sore muscles can't take away.

“You did amazing today, Peter,” Jenna tells him genuinely as they finish their cool-down. “Seriously.”

Knowing she isn't one to pat a person on the back undeservedly, Peter preens under the praise. “Thanks.” He takes a long sip from his water bottle, the cool liquid a balm to his parched throat. Even better, as he lowers his hand, he realizes it's his right—his prosthetic. He'd used it without even thinking and the movement felt entirely natural. A grin creeps onto his face.

“And I'm thinking you should come by again,” Jenna says, turning to Bucky. With a twitch of her lips, she adds, “Ever thought of going into physical therapy?”

“Nah, that was all you and the kid.” Bucky chuckles, offering a high-five to Peter. “See? I don't know what you're so stressed out about. You got this.”

Peter ducks his head, cheeks flushing at the praise. “Thanks.”

“He's right,” Jenna chimes in. “You're doing so much better than you think.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. You've come a long way from where you first started—give yourself some credit.”

Bucky nods his agreement.

Realizing it will probably be as pointless to argue with them as it is with Tony, Peter gracefully accepts the flattering comments. Jenna is right; he's a far sight from the fragile kid who could barely walk when he first woke up in Wakanda all those months ago. His progress from then to now is pretty impressive, even if his mind sometimes tries to tell him he's not doing good enough. That's what his family and friends are there for—to remind him of his steps forward and cheer him on as he takes the next ones.

“All right, I have to head out for my next appointment.” Jenna briefly glances at her watch. “Peter, do you want to go ahead and take off your prosthetic?”

Peter considers it for a moment. “I think I'll keep it on,” he concludes.

Jenna smiles. “Okay. I'll see you Thursday?”

He nods in return. “See you Thursday.”

After giving Peter's shoulder a quick squeeze, Jenna turns to shake Bucky’s hand, bidding him farewell. “It was really great meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“And I seriously mean it—you should come by again.”

Bucky gives her a half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his vibranium hand. “Well, if I’m invited, I guess I don’t have an excuse. Just maybe no dodgeball next time,” he adds, gaze flitting to Peter, who ducks his head with a sheepish grin.

Jenna laughs lightly. “I'll make sure to leave any exercises that involve throwing off the schedule for our next session,” she promises. With a final wave, she gathers her things and heads for the door, white sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.

“Thanks for coming by,” Peter tells Bucky as Jenna leaves. He closes up his prosthetic case to carry back up to the penthouse with him.

“Yeah, of course. Hey, let me see your palm for a second.”

Peter's brow knits together, puzzled. “What?” he asks, even while he slowly extends his right hand toward his friend.

“Okay, now…” Bucky mimics the motion of deploying web shooters before raising an eyebrow. “Let's see it.”

Peter can't refrain from rolling his eyes. “Seriously?” he says.

“Yeah, come on,” Bucky prods. “I want to see you do it.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter relents, shaking his head in amusement. He practices the familiar movement once with his left hand before attempting the same with his right.

His middle and ring fingers curl toward his palm in an almost instinctive motion. 

In case it's just a fluke, Peter tries flicking them out and back again several times in a row. His prosthetic responds with a smooth, impressive speed each time, rivaling his left hand.

“Whoa,” he breathes, unable to keep another wide grin from spreading across his face. Wait until Tony sees this!

When Peter glances up, Bucky's smile is mirroring his.

“Oh, yeah.” Bucky claps him on the shoulder and winks. “He's back.”

***

“Okay, Peter, it's okay. You've totally got this.” Peter takes a deep breath, attempting to still his slightly-trembling fingers as he stands in front of the little café where he'd suggested meeting MJ for dinner. “It's just MJ.”

That's the problem, though—it’s not “just” MJ. Well, technically speaking, it is. But this isn't them doing homework together in detention or chatting with Ned at the lunch table. This is, like, a for real date. A maybe-more-than-friends date.

A particularly chilly gust of wind sets the rest of his body shivering—although he's not sure how much of that should be attributed to the temperature as opposed to the butterflies in his stomach. The sun hasn't quite set just yet, but the mid-autumn evening air is cutting right through his thick jacket. He steps up to the door and ducks inside, deciding to wait for MJ in the much warmer lobby area of the restaurant.

It's a fairly small place, but it has a calm and inviting atmosphere that he thought MJ would appreciate, with black accent furniture and dim lighting. Various types of plants and flowers add a pop of freshness to the rest of the juxtaposing decor.

Tony had offered to make them reservations at one of the finest restaurants in the whole city, but Peter had politely declined. An upscale Michelin-star restaurant sounded nice in theory but felt a little too…serious. Peter wanted to keep things simple. This is their first date, after all. And he knows MJ well enough to recognize that overpriced steak or lobster risotto won't impress her. 

Of course, the rejection of a first place spot on a normally month-long reservation waitlist hadn't deterred Tony one bit from his involvement with tonight's date. The man had been a fountain of well-intentioned advice and wisdom all afternoon, offering Peter tips on how to navigate the conversation and prevent any awkwardness during the meal.

“Remember, smile, make eye contact—but not too much, you don't want to come off as creepy.”

“I'll be fine,” Peter protests, even as the butterflies in his stomach multiply, suggesting otherwise.

May, on the other hand, had been on the verge of tears when he'd left, saying something embarrassing to Pepper about how grown up he is and how handsome he looked in his nicest button-down and carefully-styled hair. He’d rolled his eyes and bolted downstairs to where Happy was waiting to drive him to the restaurant, the ladies’ overdramatic croons echoing behind him.

Peter takes a steadying breath and fiddles with the zipper of his jacket, doing his best to quit thinking about May’s misty-eyed farewell and Tony’s overcomplicated list of dating do’s and don’ts. He’s stressed enough as it is—which is ridiculous, but trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t be stressed just seems to be causing the feeling to build. His fingers twitch, and he resists the urge to check his phone for the millionth time. Just in case MJ decided last minute that she didn’t want to meet up after all, or maybe—

The little bell above the entrance jingles as the door swings open, bringing with it a gust of cold air. Peter whirls around, heart lurching as his gaze lands on MJ. All the air leaves his lungs like he’s just been punched, his stomach dropping to the floor at the mere sight of her. All the alarms in his mind are flashing red, screaming at full blast: Girl girl girl date don’t screw this up!

She spots him standing near the hostess stand and makes her way over, the corners of her lips twitching ever so slightly. “Hey,” she says as she approaches.

It takes Peter a long few seconds to restart his brain. “MJ! Hi—hi.” He winces internally, hoping he didn’t look like a frog catching flies.

Tony's voice echoes in his mind. Tell her she looks hot—though maybe go for a more eloquent word choice.

“You—you look really nice tonight,” he says, trying not to wince as soon as the stuttered words come out his mouth. Really, that's the best I could come up with?

But MJ smiles, brushing her wind-tousled curls back out of her face, the movements quick and slightly-jerky. “Thanks. So do you.”

He lets out a short, definitely way too awkward laugh. Before he can open his mouth to give what would surely be an equally awkward reply, her gaze lands on his right side. Specifically, the vibranium fingers peeking out from the edge of his jacket sleeve.

Although it would go unnoticed by anyone else, Peter’s ears pick up her short little intake of breath. His stomach clenches instinctively. He’d debated for hours about whether or not he should wear his prosthetic arm out tonight; he’s never had it on while in public before. 

MJ had told him at school that his amputated limb didn’t matter one bit to her, that he was still Peter Parker whether he had a “real” arm, prosthetic arm, or no arm at all. And maybe the lack of pressure is why he’d ultimately chosen to slip the artificial limb on before leaving the penthouse earlier. He’s not entirely sure what reaction he was expecting from the girl, but her brief pause and analyzing gaze makes his pulse spike as he awaits her response.

MJ doesn’t say anything right away. She doesn’t gasp dramatically or fumble for words. She just looks, head tilted at a slight angle and sharp eyes that never miss anything flitting over his right side. Peter resists the urge to tug his sleeve down further, to shove his hand in his pocket and out of view. Instead, he forces himself to stay still, to simply hold MJ’s gaze and wait.

Finally, her head tilts back up, bobbing in a small nod.

“It looks good,” she says simply. Her tone is light, but there’s something softer underneath—something careful. She’s not making a big deal out of it, and Peter realizes with a rush of gratitude that it's exactly the response he needed.

“Thanks,” he replies, something inside of him settling. He stretches his right hand out to her in a tentative motion, pleased when the limb cooperates. “Do you, uh, want to go sit down?”

Her warm, slender fingers curl around his prosthetic ones, almost reverently. “Yeah,” she says with a nod. “I'm starving.”

Peter chuckles, trying to ignore the rapid palpitations of his heart and beyond grateful that his vibranium arm doesn't have the capability to sweat. He scrubs his left palm against his pant leg as he leads MJ over to an empty table on one side of the café.

Once she's seated, Peter slides into the booth across from her, hoping his face isn't betraying how flustered he feels. He can totally do this. He'd rehearsed it in the bathroom mirror a hundred times today. There has to be the perfect moment to tell her…

“You okay?” she asks, shrugging off her jacket and setting it next to her. She looks as calm and effortless as ever, while Peter…well, Peter is still trying to remember how breathing works. Which is ridiculous—he needs to chill out.

Peter jolts in his seat, poking a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

She cranes her neck around at the empty tables in their near vicinity. “Don't know who else I’d be asking,” she says dryly.

“Right, yeah.” Duh. “Sorry. I'm fine.” His foot bobs up and down underneath the table, negating the words. “Were your, uh—what did your parents say about…this?” He motions back and forth between them.

MJ shrugs. “Nothing. I just told them I was going hang out with a friend. Trust me, the last thing either of us would have wanted was my dad escorting me in so he could give you the shovel talk before dinner.”

Peter winces at the thought, thankful for MJ’s foresight. “Maybe that's what I should have done, too,” he laments, glancing up at the lantern hanging above their table.

“Oh?” A combination of interest and amusement sparks in her expression. “You got the helicopter parent treatment?”

He snorts. “That's one term for it.”

“See, now I need details.”

Peter rolls his eyes, internally cringing at the level of mother-henning he was subjected to before leaving the house earlier. He leans forward, bracing his arms against the table. “I got this whole pre-date pep talk from Tony. He, like, tried to give me this whole strategy guide on how to make conversation.” The words spill from his mouth unfiltered, his brain realizing too late that maybe not all of this information needs to be shared out loud with his date.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” MJ says. “I’m curious though—what exactly did he tell you? Did you get a bullet-point list? I feel like that's something he would do.”

“No.” Thank goodness. “But apparently I’m not supposed to talk about quantum mechanics or order spaghetti.” Peter wrinkles his nose, glancing briefly at the menu. “I don't even think they serve spaghetti here.”

“I happen to like quantum mechanics. And what’s wrong with spaghetti?”

“Something about avoiding an accidental Lady and the Tramp moment.”

“You're joking.”

“I wish I was,” he groans.

MJ lets out an honest-to-goodness giggle, and Peter is left trying not to gape at the unexpected sound that just left her mouth. He doesn't think he's ever heard her laugh so genuinely before.

They joke for a few more minutes about the pains of over-the-top parents. The conversation flows easily, and little by little, the tension in Peter's chest begins to loosen. He'd been so nervous leading up to tonight, afraid that maybe it wouldn't work out and the date would only end up turning their friendship sour. But now that they’re here, chatting and sipping their drinks, it just feels…normal. Right.

But then his stomach twists, because there’s still something he needs to say. Something that if he doesn't admit to her now, he isn't sure he ever will.

Tony's encouragement from earlier today plays on repeat in his head. It's not something to take lightly, he'd told Peter. But you know that. I trust your judgment.

So Peter musters up all the courage he can possibly find and waits until the next lull in their conversation before he clears his throat and says, “Um, MJ?”

She glances up at him, her expression neutral but observant. “Yeah?”

He swallows hard. His left hand tightens around the wrist of his right, stilling the limb’s sudden twitchy movements—because apparently even his prosthetic arm recognizes how anxious he is.

“I, uh… I have something really important to tell you.” He sucks in a deep breath. “About—well. You…you were right.”

He expects MJ to smirk, to say something along the lines of “yeah, of course I was, loser.” But she just lifts a curious eyebrow, fingers playing with the edge of her menu, like she's waiting for him to say it outright.

After the way he handled this topic when it came up at school, she deserves that much. 

Here goes nothing. “I’m Spider-Man.”

***

The penthouse is dark by the time Peter makes his way upstairs late that night. He stifles a big yawn, shrugging off his jacket as he steps inside and tossing it haphazardly onto the coat rack by the door. He does his best to move quietly, toeing his shoes off and leaving them where they land—he's sure to be scolded by Pepper for that in the morning, but he's too tired to care.

He and MJ had ended up spending several hours together, busy chatting and enjoying spending time with each other. The initial “first date” awkwardness had quickly faded, melting away into easy, comfortable conversation. After finishing their meal, neither of them had been in a hurry to call it a night, so they'd decided to walk a few doors down to a local bakery for hot chocolate and dessert. The cozy atmosphere matched the steadily-growing warmth in Peter's chest; even the chill of the brisk autumn night he'd been faced with on the way home couldn't snuff it out.

“Hey, kiddo.” 

The words are just a notch above a whisper, and Peter startles, turning to see Tony eased back on the couch in the living area, feet propped up on the coffee table. He has one arm wrapped around a sleeping Pepper.

“Hey,” he says back just as quietly, tiptoeing his way over. “Did you guys really wait up for me?”

Tony's eyes drift across the three other people surrounding him. “No, not all of us, apparently.”

Peter follows his gaze. The TV is on, but only the little screensaver is bouncing around the otherwise-dark screen, indicating it's been a while since anyone was actually watching anything. A quick glance at the other couch reveals May and Happy curled up together, both sound asleep as well. When he glances back over at Tony, he finds the man frowning at him. 

“How'd you get home?”

“Took the train.”

“Seriously?”

Peter shrugs. “It was late. I didn't want to bother you or Happy.”

“Pete. There are plenty of other options that don't involve you hiking your way back home at ten p.m. in the cold.”

Dramatic, Peter thinks, refraining from rolling his eyes. “It's not that big of a deal. I can take care of myself.”

To his surprise, Tony doesn't try to argue the point further. “I know you can,” is all he says. “Doesn't mean you have to.” He pats the couch cushions on his free side, inviting Peter to take the spot. “So. How'd it go?”

After lowering himself down next to the man and considering the question for a moment, he answers, “It was…really good.”

“Okay, good, because May and Pep are already planning the wedding.”

Peter makes a face, suppressing an exasperated groan as he slumps further into Tony's side, appreciating the way his body relaxes now that he's off his feet. “They're ridiculous,” he mutters.

“Oh” —Tony clicks his tongue as if just remembering something else— “and Morgan has already claimed her title as flower girl.”

“Okay. Sure.” Peter doesn't know all that much about weddings, but he does know his little sister well enough to be certain that she'll find a way to be in the spotlight on the definitely far, far off date that he does get married. He's already dreading the long, embarrassing speech Tony is sure to give.

Thankfully, Tony must find the in-depth discussion of marriage and weddings about as thrilling as Peter does, because he glides over to the next topic without any further discourse on color schemes, bridesmaid bouquets, or venue options.

“How was the arm?”

“Great,” Peter says, pleasantly surprised at the sincerity in his own tone. The limb had performed stellarly all night. Although it was certainly different—and maybe even a little awkward at first—having two arms again, the prosthetic hadn't felt obtrusive or out of place like it used to when Peter would put it on. It felt…good. Normal.

He pulls his right arm across his body and rests the prosthetic hand in Tony's lap. “All those recent upgrades are really making a difference.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He knows Tony has been working tirelessly to adapt the limb to increase its functionality for Peter, and he's still searching for even more ways to improve it. That combined with Peter's recent improvements through PT—and his newfound attitude toward the whole situation in general—have made a notable difference in his progress with the prosthetic in the last few weeks.

“Good.”

Tony runs his thumb across the prosthetic’s palm, the gentle, repetitive motion a soothing pressure against the smooth metal. A peaceful silence falls over the room—save for Happy’s snoring. It’s one of those moments, so unassuming and ordinary yet so special, that Peter wants to live in forever. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, a fresh wave of gratitude coursing over him. After he’d snapped, it seemed like his life was over in so many ways. Although he was grateful to be alive and to have so many supportive friends and family members around him, the path forward often seemed too daunting, too overwhelming. Some days he wondered if he’d make it.

The road back was—is—riddled with ruts. The struggles, pain, and frustration…it’s all been a part of the journey. One thing Peter has come to learn, though, is that without the bad days, he wouldn’t really understand the joy of the good ones. Without the difficulties he’s had to face each and every day as a result of what happened, he would never have learned or grown or changed.

So he’s thankful for every hard moment, because without them, he would never be who he is today. He’s lost some things, yes, but more importantly, he’s gained so much more. In the end, it was all worth it.

The words “thank you,” pop out of his mouth before he even realizes they were sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“For what? My stellar dating advice?” Tony teases. “The ladies’-attracting magnet I put in your prosthetic?”

“Definitely not that,” Peter says with an eye roll. “Just…you know. Everything.”

The man chuckles. “Real specific there, bud.”

“You know what I meant.”

Tony is quiet for a moment, and when he does speak again, his voice is a little softer. “Yeah, well,” he clears his throat, “you being here right now is thanks enough for me.”

There's an underlying heaviness in the words that nearly steals Peter's breath away, the same way it does every time something happens that reminds him just how much he means to Tony. He has no idea how they got to this point, when reluctant mentor became father figure, but he wouldn't change it for the world.

Another wide yawn overtakes Peter, and the heavy arm around his shoulder gives him a gentle shake.

“All right, Romeo. I think it’s time for bed. It’s late.”

“But I’m comfortable here.”

Tony snorts. “I am too, but my body is not as forgiving as you kids’, and I’d like to be able to walk properly come morning.”

A long sigh leaves Peter’s lips. He pretends to pout but lets his body slide dramatically down Tony’s arm until his head hits the couch cushions instead.

“Dramatic.”

Even with his eyes at half-mast and face pressed up against the couch, Peter can picture the eye roll happening above him. He grunts in response as a hand lands on his head and ruffles his hair.

Tony leans over, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Goodnight, bud.”

“Night,” Peter mutters back, trying to dig up the motivation to get up and head to his room for a shower so he can collapse into bed. “Love you.”

He hears the quick stutter of Tony's heart. “Love you too.”

With one final shoulder squeeze, he releases Peter and stands to his feet, stretching out probably-stiff muscles and stepping over to whack a heavily-snoring Happy on the leg. “Hogan, wake up—I charge extra for overnight couch stays.”

Chapter Text

A Couple Months Later…

Peter flexes his fingers, the cool metal of his prosthetic shifting seamlessly with the motion. He gazes across the beautiful, vast landscape of New York City stretching out before him. The afternoon sun is bright, reflecting off the glass windows of towering skyscrapers, but there's a biting chill in the air that undercuts the warmth of the light. 

He inhales deeply while marveling at the view. It's been so long since he's been able to see it from this vantage point, and as he takes it all in, he realizes just how much he's missed it.

His feet lead him over to the ledge of the building’s roof with determined steps, a thrill racing down his spine at the almost dizzying distance between him and the bustling sidewalks below.

Peter takes another deep breath and closes his eyes. He's been training for months—he knows he can do this.

“HQ to Spidey, come in, Spidey.” An all-too-familiar voice crackles to life in his ear.

Peter groans. “I thought I told you not to stalk me today. I don't need a micromanager.”

“You're picking up Morgan's affinity for whining. FYI, it's not cute.”

Peter rolls his eyes under his mask, fiddling with his web shooters and double-checking the web fluid levels even though he'd literally just replaced them before leaving. “I'm just saying,” he says, “I’ve been working toward this for months. I've done the simulations, I've practiced with you. I got this.”

And sure, maybe he's saying all of this in an attempt to fully convince himself—because despite the truth behind the words and the head knowledge that he's ready, there are definitely still some doubts lingering under the surface.

“Yeah, I know—and all of that is great. Love the confidence. But swinging between skyscrapers is a little different than training in a controlled environment.”

It's almost comical listening to Tony act like such a helicopter parent when it comes to Spider-Man now, such a juxtaposition to when he just left Peter to do his own thing after Germany. That seems like ages ago now—and in some ways, it was. How on earth did he go from basically being ghosted by both Happy and Mr. Stark to having them become some of the most important, overbearing people in his life?

“I’m gonna be fine,” he promises, bouncing on his toes in an attempt to let out some of his pent-up nervous energy. “You made sure of that.”

And he most definitely had—Peter has lost count of the amount of safety features and back up protocols in both his suit and his prosthetic. When it comes to Peter's safety, the man doesn't cut any corners or leave any stones unturned.

He listens to Tony hum on the other end of the line. “You’re gonna be golden, kid. Just remember what I said, all right? Ease into it—no going full throttle. Think of this as more of a…test run of sorts.”

“Sure, we can call it that if it makes you feel better.”

“Brat.”

Peter grins. “I'm going now,” he says, flexing his fingers in anticipation. “I'll be back home in a couple hours.”

“All right, Spidey. Be careful—and remember we've got places to go and people to see tonight. Don't be late.”

“I won't be,” Peter promises. He has an AcaDec meet this evening, and they have dinner reservations after that.

“If you need anything, I'll be on standby. Waiting.”

“And not watching the live feed from my suit.” When Tony doesn't answer right away, Peter prods, “Right?”

“Not making any promises.”

Peter sighs. “You're impossible.”

“That’s Pep’s line,” Tony says, entirely unbothered. “Let me see your first swing. That way I can call for medical right away if you pancake into the sidewalk.”

Peter reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You are not helping here.”

“Sorry.” Tony doesn't sound sorry at all. He clicks his tongue. “Come on, let's go. Day’s a’wasting.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” Peter shuffles closer to the edge of the roof, enough so that his toes are hanging off the ledge. He tries his best to compartmentalize the anxiety and focus on what he knows he can do.

Three, two…

All of the encouragement from his family over the past months comes flooding back to him in one big, warm burst.

One.

Without giving himself time to overthink it any longer, Peter bends his knees and launches himself off the roof.

The wind whips past him, stomach lurching as he goes into a free fall, letting himself enjoy the feeling of floating through the air before he moves to deploy a web. His prosthetic arm moves on instinct, fingers pressing against the pressure plate of his web shooter. The thick webbing comes flying out in a smooth, precise motion, latching on to the next building and pulling him forward.

Before Peter knows it, he's swinging down the street with ease—flying effortlessly through the city, muscle memory taking control as if he'd never stopped patrolling. He lets out a gleeful whoop, exhilaration coursing through his veins, relief settling in.

“I did it!”

“Yeah, you did.” There's pride oozing from Tony's voice—Rhodey would probably call it sickeningly sweet. “Now watch where you're going.”

“Whoops.” Peter ducks and lets another web fly, narrowly avoiding a flagpole protruding from the side of a building. “I totally saw that.”

“Uh-huh. Arm feels okay?”

“It's great,” Peter chirps with a nod, losing himself in the rhythm of his swinging. Oh man, he's missed this. So many times he considered never attempting to be Spider-Man again, a thought born more out of his doubts about his capabilities as an amputee than anything else. He's so grateful he didn't listen to those little voices of doubt and fear—he’s even more grateful for the external voices of encouragement and confidence that spoke louder than anything in his head. Tony and May—and everyone else around him—made sure of that.

Now, back out here in his element, Peter feels like he could take on the world—except he's already done that once, and he's in no hurry to repeat the experience. So conquering the streets of New York for the afternoon will do. 

“Good,” Tony says. “You’re looking great out there.”

“Thanks.”

“All right, Spidey, I'm out. Go do your thing.” 

“Okay.” Peter fires off another web, using his momentum to swing himself up onto another rooftop. “See you later, Dad!”

It isn't until there's a slightly-longer-than-normal pause on the other end of the line that Peter's brain registers what just came out of his mouth. All of the blood drains from his face at once. Oh no. Can he hang up and pretend the last five seconds of this conversation never happened?

He opens his mouth, trying to figure out if there's anything he can say to fix this—maybe joke that he's been hanging around Morgan too much lately—but all his excuses fall short, and he comes up empty.

When Tony finally responds a moment later, his voice is suspiciously rough. “Yeah, see you, kid. Be safe.”

“I will,” Peter says.

The call ends, and Peter lets out a long breath, unsure how to process what just happened. He decides to just not think about it at all, instead swinging closer to the ground to check out what's going on out on the streets today.

His reappearance stirs up quite an uproar when pedestrians begin to notice the red-and-blue-clad superhero flying above their heads. People point and cheer, and it isn't long before several news vans are hot on his heels, trying to catch him in action. Each time he stops to help someone out—whether it's carrying groceries for an elderly gentleman or breaking up a tussle between a couple of teenagers—he gets wide-eyed looks of surprise and excitement. 

“We missed you, Spidey!”

“Hey, you're back!”

“Spider-Man! My friends are never gonna believe this.”

Being back out as Spider-Man is even better than Peter could have possibly imagined. He can't describe how confident and free he feels flinging himself through the air, prosthetic arm and all. He never thought he'd get to this point—but here he is.

Tony had warned him to take it easy today, so after wandering around a bit longer, Peter decides to spend his last hour visiting patients at the children's hospital. It was something he'd started doing on a regular basis not long before the Blip, and it was always one of the highlights of his week. He loved having the opportunity to put smiles on the faces of kids—and their families—who were going through rough seasons. What better way to finish off his re-debut as Spider-Man?

He eagerly swings over in the direction of the hospital, noting the slight twinge in his arm where the prosthetic meets his residual limb. Maybe Tony was right about taking it easy the first few patrols. Not that he'll ever admit as much to the man.

When Peter steps through the automatic front doors, the nurses and staff welcome him in with excitement; his enhanced ears pick up the buzz his unexpected arrival has created. He follows a nurse to the rec room first and is promptly swarmed by a crowd of overenthusiastic kids—and even a couple of parents, all overlapping with much of the same fanfare he'd received from the rest of the city.

“Spider-Man is back!”

“Wow!”

“Hi, Spidey!” 

“You're my favorite superhero!”

“We saw you on the news!”

“Whoa, hey, everyone!” Peter grins behind his mask, lifting a hand in an awkward wave, feeling much like he had that day in Morgan's classroom. “I just wanted to drop by and say hi—it’s been a while.”

“It’s been a long time,” one boy pipes up. “Why were you gone so long?”

Peter hesitates for only a second. “I just had to take a break for a bit. But I'm back now.”

“Because of helping the Avengers save the world?” another kid asks.

“Yeah, sort of,” Peter says with a chuckle.

There's a gentle tug on his hand, and he glances down to see a small girl about Morgan's age standing at his side. She's wearing a nasal cannula and has curly blonde hair.

“My big sister always tells me stories about you,” she tells him, brown eyes round and serious. “I never saw you for real before because you were away when I was born.”

Right—it’s crazy to think that there's a whole generation of kids out there who only know of Spider-Man as a story; an enshrined hero, gone too soon and now returned. The Blip is a confusing enough concept for adults to try to wrap their minds around. Peter can't imagine how much harder it is for little kids to comprehend.

“Well, then it's extra nice to meet you,” he says, crouching down to the girl's level and holding up his hand. “Guess I'm gonna have to make up for all that lost time, huh?”

She nods and accepts his high-five with a big grin.

The visit goes by in a whirlwind. Peter takes pictures with families, signs casts, and colors pictures—of superheroes, of course—around a tiny table with little plastic chairs, answering question after question from curious kids. Everyone is excited to see him. He even has several adults tell him how glad they are to have him back. With such limited details about the battle against Thanos released to the public, and even less on the status of Spider-Man, no one really knew what had become of him. To Peter's surprise, lots of people have been thinking of and asking about him for the past several months and are overjoyed to see him back in action.

Once things quiet down in the rec area, Peter begins to make his way down the halls, peeking in various rooms to greet kids who aren't able to get up or move around much. He can't help but see himself in some of these kids, and Tony and May in all the exhausted and clearly worried but trying to hide it parents. It makes him sad, but at the same time he's grateful for the opportunity to brighten everyone's day—even if it's just a little.

Speaking of parents, his are going to be on his case if he doesn't make it home soon, so Peter decides to make a stop at one last room at the end of the hall before swinging back over to the penthouse. The door is already cracked open, but he raps on the wood before sticking his head inside. There's a little more color on the walls in the children's rooms, bringing a splash of life to an otherwise sterile and serious environment.

A young boy, probably eleven or so, is sitting up in the hospital bed; there’s no one else in the room. Ironically, he has a superhero comic book propped up between his hands. But what catches Peter's attention are the kid's legs that are resting on top of his blanket—or more specifically, the carefully-bandaged stump several inches below his left knee.

Peter inhales, and the sound draws the attention of the kid. His eyes widen when his gaze lands on Peter, dropping his comic book in his lap.

“Whoa, Spider-Man?”

“That's me,” Peter says with a nod, the words knocking his limbs loose. He eases further into the room. “What's your name?”

“Cole.”

“It's super nice to meet you, Cole. I'm really sorry it's under these circumstances, though.”

“Thanks. It's okay.” Cole still looks a bit starstruck. “I can't believe you're actually here. My dad's going to freak—he went downstairs to the cafeteria. Do you think you can wait ‘til he comes back and say hi to him too? It should only be a few minutes or so.”

Peter checks his nonexistent watch. “Sure, I've got some time to spare.” He probably doesn't, actually—the sun is starting to drop further westward, putting him pushing it to get back home at a decent time—but at this point a few extra minutes isn't going to hurt.

He plops down into the standard, uncomfy couch next to the bed and leans forward with his arms resting on his knees. “So, what's the verdict?” he asks, nodding at the book splayed facedown. “Good read?”

“Definitely,” Cole says.

Peter himself has always loved comic books—though what superhero-obsessed kid doesn't? He often spent hours flipping through them, imagining himself fighting alongside heroes like Iron Man and Captain America and Thor. Needless to say, it was a surreal experience when just a few years later, he did start showing up in them. Admittedly, he'd managed to compile a pretty vast collection of all the Avengers comics, including every single one with Spider-Man. 

Oh no—he really hopes Tony didn't see any of those when they packed away his and May’s things after the first Snap.

He shakes the embarrassing thought away. “Favorite superhero?”

“Iron Man,” Cole says without missing a beat, a playful grin twisting his lips.

“Whaaat?” Peter feigns offense, clapping a glove-clad hand to his chest. “You sure? Because I know him, and he's, like—the corniest dad in the world. An old man superhero.”

Cole laughs, leaning back against his pillows. “Okay, fine—I guess Spider-Man is pretty cool too.”

“Just pretty cool?”

“Maybe really cool.”

“That sounds right,” Peter teases before adding, “Maybe next time I visit, I can bring you a new comic to read.”

“Would you really?” Cole asks eagerly.

“Yeah, for sure. I'll even sign it for you.”

The boy's face splits into a wide smile. “That would be awesome. I have a bunch, but I've read them all, like, a million times. There's not a whole lot else to do for fun here—except play games with my dad or watch lame kid shows on the TV.”

Peter knows the feeling. As much as he'd had going on during his hospital stay in Wakanda—with plenty of visitors and PT to keep him occupied—spending hours cooped up in a bed is enough to drive anyone crazy, let alone a young boy or teen.

Peter's gaze drifts inadvertently toward the boy's bandaged leg. The fingers of his prosthetic twitch. “Do you know how much longer you'll be here?”

“I'm not sure…maybe another week?” He reaches down to rub at his knee, catching Peter's gaze. “They had to amputate it to keep it from getting worse,” he explains briefly.

“I'm sorry,” Peter says, aching with empathy.

Cole shrugs. “It's okay. Mostly I just miss playing soccer.”

“Oh, yeah? You like sports?”

Cole nods, enthusiasm taking over his demeanor. “I play for my school's team.” His lips twist in a wistful smile. “Or, well, I used to before I got sick. My dad says I'll probably be able to play again one day once I get a pros—prosthetic” —he stumbles over the word— “but I'm not so sure.”

“Nah,” Peter scoots closer and shakes his head, “I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit.”

“It’s just…even if I get good enough to use it, I don't think I'll ever be as good at soccer as I was before.”

“The newer prosthetics are so high-tech,” Peter tries to encourage the boy. “And you know what, Cole? You can do whatever you set your mind to. I promise. It might take a lot of hard work, but if you really want to play soccer again, I bet you can. And if you decide you don't want to, that's okay too—but don't be afraid to try.”

Cole just hums, looking somewhat unconvinced but unwilling to admit as much to his hero.

Peter glances down at himself. He only has to deliberate the idea in his head for a moment. “Can I tell you a really big secret?”

Cole leans forward and nods, clearly intrigued to be offered to share a secret with Spider-Man. “Yeah,” he practically whispers.

With one quick movement, Peter allows the nanos of his suit to retract from his right arm, revealing sleek metal instead of flesh. He places it, palm upturned, on the edge of the hospital bed mattress between them.

“Wow,” Cole breathes, eyes wide. “You…you have a prosthetic arm?”

“Yep. So trust me when I say that I know how you feel. And if I can be Spider-Man with a prosthetic arm, you can be a star soccer player with a prosthetic leg. Got it?”

There's a trace of awe in Cole's blue eyes as they trace over Peter's bare arm, and this time when he nods, the motion is much more sure.

Peter winks, allowing the nanoparticles to reform into their proper place. “Remember, it's a secret.”

“I won't tell anyone,” Cole promises solemnly.

When Cole's dad returns a few short minutes later, Peter makes sure to tell him what a brave son he has. He chats with them for a moment longer before bidding them goodbye—with a promise to return soon with a signed comic book. 

As he ducks out an open window and swings his way back home, a newfound lightness settles over him, calming the uncertainty that was once rooted in his chest. This—this is where he's supposed to be. It took him a while to get here, but he made it.

It feels good to be back.

***

“Peter! There you are.” Ned hurries over, elbowing his way into Peter's personal space bubble as he's so often wont to do. He takes a deep breath, adjusting his mustard-colored blazer.

“How was it?” he asks, lowering his voice to a loud whisper, not quite pulling off the attempt at nonchalance.

But Peter grins. “It was great,” he whispers back. “I'll tell you about it later.”

“Hey, Tin Man!” Flash saunters by. He hasn't been terribly annoying as of late—or maybe Peter just hasn't paid as much attention to his lame nicknames and comments. “That thing better not short-circuit when you're trying to hit the buzzer tonight.”

“The only thing that short-circuits during competitions is your brain,” Ned shoots back without missing a beat. “Which is why you're an alternate and Peter is actually competing tonight.”

Peter snorts at his best friend's unexpected retort, and Flash's grin falters, his expression turning disgruntled. At one point not so long ago, the teasing remark might have flustered Peter. Now, it rolls off his back like water off a duck.

“Don't worry, Flash—unlike some people, my arm actually handles pressure pretty well. But thanks for the concern.”

Flash splutters at the implication of those words, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water for a few seconds before he lets out a huff and brushes past the two boys, muttering a “whatever” under his breath.

Ned grins and pats Peter on the shoulder. “He's just jealous. And if he knew who really made that arm, he'd probably have some nicer things to say about it.”

Peter just shrugs, unfazed. He’s got more pressing concerns than Flash's pointless jabs—their AcaDec competition is slated to start in just a few short minutes, and Peter needs to be in the zone if he wants to perform at his best.

On cue, a distorted announcement comes over the loudspeakers, calling both AcaDec teams to the stage. With a deep breath, Peter flexes his fingers and steps out onto the platform along with his teammates. He finds his eyes immediately scanning the crowd on their own accord, searching. Although he already knew they'd be there, the flickering flame of warmth in his chest bursts into a blaze when he spots his family sitting amongst the sea of parents and other spectators. They take up nearly a whole row—May and Happy, Bucky, Rhodey, Pepper with Morgan on her lap, and of course Tony next to her. 

The physical representation of support is almost overwhelming. Peter remembers the days when he faced auditoriums of unfamiliar faces, knowing May was busy working to provide for them—as much as she hated missing so many of his school events—but still feeling empty inside as he watched other kids’ families cheering them on. And while he's forever grateful to May for everything she's done for him, he can't deny how amazing it is to have so many people who love him and have his back—who support both him and his aunt and claim them as family. It takes a village, as they say.

Tony looks up just then, and their gazes meet. His lip quirks upward; without a word spoken out loud, Peter hears everything the man is saying.

You've got this, kid. Proud of you.

Peter gives him a crooked grin and a thumbs-up—with his vibranium arm, of course—in return before taking his seat alongside his teammates and turning his attention to the moderator as they prepare to begin.

***

The high of tonight's win is still coursing through Peter's veins as the car comes to a stop in front of the fancy restaurant. Ned is practically vibrating beside him, though it's unclear whether that's due to his own excitement from their AcaDec win or the fact that he's about to join the Stark family for dinner.

“Here we are!” Tony announces from the driver's seat, adjusting his blazer once the vehicle is in park.

“I hope this place sells a dish I can pronounce,” MJ mutters near Peter's ear as she eyes the sleek building, and Peter snorts.

Even after months of living with one of the richest men in the world, he still can't quite comprehend the allure of weird, “gourmet” foods. Delicacies mean nothing to him—the portion sizes aren't enough for Morgan, much less a teenager with an enhanced metabolism.

Tony gets out of the car and comes around to open the back door on MJ’s side. “Come on, come on, let's move, kiddos,” he says cheerily, propping one arm up against the door. “The others will be done eating by the time we get inside.”

“It hasn't been that long,” Peter protests, exiting the vehicle behind his friends. After their hard-fought victory, the decathlon team had spent some time on a post-meet debrief and mini celebration. Mr. Harrington does have the tendency to drone on, though, so the rest of Peter's family and friends had gone ahead to the restaurant while Tony stayed behind to drive Peter, Ned, and MJ once they were finished at the school.

“Long enough.” Tony pats his stomach as though starved, directing the teens toward the building like a sheepdog herding a wayward flock.

They are ushered inside through a smaller side—but still fancy—entrance, and a host guides them toward the hall of individual rooms reserved for large or private events. The posh atmosphere of the place makes Peter feel very underdressed in his jeans, button-down, and casual jacket. Tony would have told them if they needed to wear suits, right? Usually they know beforehand if there's a dress code.

Warm fingers curl gently around his cool metal ones, and he smiles over at MJ as she presses her shoulder against his.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks.

“For what?”

She doesn't answer, eyes sparkling mischievously as she tugs him by the hand into the room Tony and Ned just entered ahead of them.

“Happy birthday, Peter!”

The shouts echo in unison, each word punctuated by the party horn Morgan is blowing. The room is completely decked out; bouquets of balloons adorn the back of one chair and another small table off to the side—which is also covered with neatly-wrapped gifts. Everyone is standing around with big smiles.

Peter blinks in confusion at the scene before him, fingers tightening around MJ’s. “Wh—what? What's all this for?”

“You're officially seventeen!” May explains with gusto, sweeping her hand in gesture to all of the lavish decorations surrounding them. “We're celebrating!”

“But…but we celebrated my birthday in August,” he argues weakly, jaw still slack at the unexpected surprise. His brain feels like it's a little broken. Like—what is going on right now?

“Who says there's a law that you can only celebrate your birthday once?” Rhodey asks.

Tony's hand lands on his left shoulder and squeezes. “Besides, I have five years of missed birthdays to make up for,” he adds, soft enough that no one else catches it.

A lump forms in Peter's throat, a myriad of indescribable emotions stirring up inside of him. He hasn't really given much thought lately to his post-Blip birthday—which isn't a “real” thing anyway—too busy with school and PT and Spider-Man training. Evidently, the others haven't forgotten. 

He turns and wraps his arms around Tony in a tight hug, burying his face in the man's shoulder as he tries to swallow back tears.

“Love you, bud,” the man murmurs quietly.

“Love you too.” 

Peter knows everyone else is standing around waiting for his response, so when he feels like he's gathered himself enough, he pulls away from Tony and turns to the rest of his family and friends.

“Wow,” he manages, looking around the room again at all the smiling faces. “This is…this is—amazing. Thank you so much. It really means a lot.”

“You deserve it,” Pepper says.

Morgan runs over, bouncing up and down with barely-contained enthusiasm. She stretches her arms out toward him. “Peter! Peter! It's your happy birthday surprise party! Were you surprised?”

Peter chuckles, crouching down to accept his little sister’s big hug. “Very surprised,” he says. “Was it your idea?”

“It was everybody's idea. But mostly Daddy and Mommy's and Auntie May’s. Do you want to come see your cake?”

Without giving him a chance to answer, the girl grabs him by the hand and drags him—and MJ—over to the table where next to the gifts sits a large, frosted sheet cake. The icing is white, with blue and red edges, and right in the center is a giant Spider-Man decal.

Peter groans, turning to look over his shoulder at Tony. “Seriously?”

Tony has the audacity to look affronted. “What? It’s perfect.”

“And look! Presents!” Morgan eagerly moves on to the next important thing, the pile of gifts beside the cake. “Daddy said we'll open them after dinner.”

Rhodey leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “I just want you to know that the majority of those are from me.”

“Uncle Rhodey always buys lots of presents,” Morgan chimes in as she swipes a stray strand of carefully-curled hair out of her face, not bothering to keep her voice down.

From his position at the dinner table, Tony snorts. “That's because he's an extortionist and has no qualms about spoiling my children in return for the title of favorite uncle.”

Rhodey doesn't bother to deny the claim.

Peter grins. He slowly makes his way over to his designated seat, stopping to thank each person who came to celebrate him—fist-bumping Bucky with metal hands, hugging Pepper tightly, pressing a light kiss to MJ’s cheek. The last action makes them both flush, but Peter is too happy to care too much about the teasing he's bound to get for it later.

“I can't believe you did this,” he mutters to May as he leans down next to her chair and wraps his arms around her neck. “How did you keep it a secret?”

She laughs. “It wasn't easy, trust me. We waited until the last possible minute to tell Morgan—and Ned.”

Peter shakes his head fondly. He'd been oblivious to any planning—though now that he thinks about it, he does remember catching the adults whispering amongst themselves more than once and then quieting down when he entered the room over the past few weeks, but he'd never thought much of it.

“Happy birthday, kid,” Happy says from next to May, already a quarter of the way through the charcuterie board on the table in front of them. “And congrats on the win tonight. You did great.”

“Thanks, Happy.”

Peter slides into his chair at the white tablecloth-covered table, taking a sip from the water glass in front of him and looking around at the people chatting and laughing, just taking it all in. Trying to memorize this moment, this joy he feels.

Life isn't perfect by any means—but then again, it never is. It's a wild ride of highs and lows, sometimes unexpected twists and turns. You have to take it one day at a time, look for the silver lining in every cloud, and turn to the people around you when the going gets tough. Peter hopes he never takes for granted the support system he has in this group of family and friends—and so many more who aren't in the room right now. Although this journey has required him to make the choice to get up every day and keep pushing forward even when it seems impossible, their unrelenting encouragement is the reason he's made it to where he is today. They're a constant reminder that he's loved, and that no matter how much he's lost…

He's got so much more still with him.

He is a wise man who does not grieve

for the things which he has not,

but rejoices for those which he has.

-Epictetus

End