Archive of Our Own

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,

No birth, identity, form—no object of the world.

Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing...

-Continuities, Walt Whitman

***

The first time Peter saw Tony awake after the battle against Thanos, he wasn’t sure what to expect. 

Tony had lost an arm and his entire left side was covered in grisly chemical burns that were still healing. But Peter knew all of that already. He’d been stationed by Mr. Stark’s bedside for nearly two weeks, after all, sometimes coloring with Morgan or catching up with May or just sitting in silence with Pepper and Rhodey. 

What Tony’s mood and emotions would be like when he woke up and understood what Peter had done—well, that was anyone’s guess. 

Peter was optimistic, though, and when Pepper called him to say that Tony had finally squeezed her hand and opened his eyes, he swung over to the Tower as fast as humanly possible. He ran through the Med Bay to get to Mr. Stark’s room, grinning broadly. 

“Peter!” Bruce called. He’d been spending most of his time in Med Bay since the fight, helping Dr. Cho tend to the wounded. 

“Hi, Dr. Banner, can’t stop—I heard Tony’s awake,” Peter waved, jogging past.

“Peter,” Bruce called again. This time, his tone of voice made Peter stop in his tracks. 

“Is everything okay? Is Tony—is he—”

“He’s fine,” Bruce said quickly. “He’s still awake; I was just in there. I wanted to warn you, though—the first thing he asked Pepper and I was if you had—you know…”

He wiggled his fingers vaguely. 

Peter nodded. He knew. 

“And he’s a bit—just—I don’t think he took the news very well.”

“It’s okay,” Peter assured Bruce. “I’m going to explain it to him. Plus, we’re all alive, and that’s what’s most important. It’ll be fine.”

Bruce looked dubious, his mouth twisting into a concerned line. But Peter didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say on the matter. 

***

He’d been expecting Tony to be groggy and disoriented, but that wasn’t the case. As soon as Peter stepped into the room, Tony’s eyes were on him, tracking him with intent precision.

Peter should’ve known then, but he ignored the warning signs.  

“Hi, Mr. Stark!” He exclaimed happily, practically flinging himself into the chair next to the hospital bed. He wanted to hug his mentor, but—well, there had probably been enough of that already lately. 

Mr. Stark stared at him in silence for a long moment. 

Peter’s heart sank in his chest. The last time he’d seen Mr. Stark awake, Mr. Stark had actually embraced him. He’d seemed so happy that the time travel and Bruce’s snap had worked, and that Peter was back. But now—

“How long?” Tony asked coolly. 

Peter momentarily wondered if he could get away with playing dumb, but he scrapped the thought when he saw Tony’s expression.

“You know, my mom always used to say that it’s not an exact science—”

“Peter. How long.”

He couldn’t meet Mr. Stark’s eyes.

“Ten years, probably.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I’m fine. It’s not a big deal,” Peter said, unable to keep from sounding sullen. 

“Bruce said you were unconscious for nearly a week, after. They thought you were going to die of magical exhaustion.”

When he finally chanced a glance at his mentor, it almost looked like Mr. Stark had a glimmer of tears in his eyes. 

It turned out to just be a glint of anger. 

“What were you thanking?” Mr. Stark said in a tone that made Peter’s stomach drop. He’d never heard this cold, flinty tone of voice directed at him. At Captain America, at various bad guys, at Thanos, sure—but never him. Even when he’d almost sunk the ferry, early on in their relationship, Mr. Stark had been direct and disappointed. 

Not furious. Not disgusted.  

“I was thinking,” Peter said, holding his chin high to distract from how his voice shook slightly. “That I didn’t want you to die.”

“Yeah, well, you picked the wrong person to give ten years of your life to,” Mr. Stark retorted, still using an odd, detached kind of voice that made Peter want to seize him by the shoulders and give him a good shake. “I’ve manufactured weapons that killed millions of people. I failed to stop Thanos the first time around. You really think that I, out of all people—” Mr. Stark trailed off, drawing in a deep, pained breath. “To have this on my conscience now, on top of everything else—”

Peter was torn between crying and screaming in frustration.

“You think I don’t know? That children are dying of cancer at New York Presbyterian? That domestic violence probably happens somewhere in my apartment building? That I could stop some of these things? I’m so sorry about your conscience, Mr. Stark, really,” he snapped. “It must be tough to feel a crushing sense of guilt and responsibility over matters of life and death, huh?”

“You had no right—”

“I had every right!” Peter yelled, suddenly on his feet. “I couldn’t stop my parents and Ben from dying, but I could stop you! And I would never change that. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

His chest was heaving like he’d just run a marathon. Mr. Stark’s face was white with an unidentifiable emotion. Probably anger.  

“You’re going to grow up and get married and have a family, and then you’re going to just—die. Way before your time. And that’s going to be on me.”

You’re my family, Peter wanted to say. But then the doubts crept in, the same doubts he’d been having since he’d returned and learned about everything that had changed in the years he was gone—Morgan, and the lake house, and the wedding ring they’d placed on Mr. Stark’s bedside table after surgery, since he no longer had a left ring finger to wear it on. 

Years of grief and fury seemed to spill over, all at once. “That’s not true,” he said, low and tight. “Because I’m never even going to have a family, besides May and Ned. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a freak!”

His voice had risen to a shout by the end of this statement.

Mr. Stark flinched as if he’d been slapped. 

“Peter,” He started to say.  

“No,” he retorted, hating how his voice cracked, hating how he ached to wrap his arms around his own torso in a familiar self-soothing gesture. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

He pulled his sweatshirt sleeves up so that he could access his web shooters, and then he swung out the window and into the night, ignoring how Mr. Stark called after him. 

He muted Karen and turned off his phone. He didn’t speak to Mr. Stark again for a long time after that. 

i. 

Even before the spider bite, Peter was never quite fully human. 

When he was five, he heard a strange sound, almost like crying, in the alleyway behind the duplex where he lived with his parents. He was supposed to be asleep, but he couldn’t just lay in his bed when someone or something was hurt and scared. He slipped down the stairs, tiptoed past the kitchen where his parents were washing the dishes and chatting, and made it out the back door undetected. 

He wasn’t allowed to play in the alleyway past dark, but his concern gave him courage. He found an orange tabby cat hiding behind some garbage bins. The cat had clearly been hit by a car, and she was in bad shape. Peter wasted no time in scooping her up and holding her close to his chest, being careful of her back leg, which was bent at an odd angle, and her side, where he could feel blood matted in her fur. He felt her little heart beating, fast and shallow, through his pajama shirt. He heard her soft, pained whines. A kind of love and determination like he’d never known before swept through him.

“It’s okay,” he promised the cat. “I’ll make it better.” 

When he burst into the house a moment later, his parents looked up, startled, to see Peter, exhausted, his pajamas stained with blood and his hands glowing a soft, unearthly blue. There were golden runes trailing down his fingers, and he was clutching a perfectly healthy cat in his arms.

***

It came from his mother’s side of the family. Because his parents died when he was only six, however, he never got the chance to completely understand what it was. 

“Many people in my family had gifts,” his mother told him a few days after his gift manifested for the first time. She reached over and petted the cat, who Peter had named Leia. Leia, the picture of perfect health, was lounging next to them in a spot of sunlight on the front porch, purring and cleaning her paws. 

“Your path will not be an easy one,” she continued. Her green-gray eyes were sad. A vine full of bougainvilleas curling down from the roof seemed to sway sympathetically towards her.

She told him then that his gift had an important drawback: if he hugged people, he would give them some of his life force. But once it was given, she didn’t know if he could ever get it back again.

It sounded fantastical, even to his open, creative five-year-old mind, but it turned out to be true. If Peter thought about it hard enough, he found that he could make the runes appear and disappear from his hands. Sure enough, a tiny smidge was now missing from the top of the markings. 

“That’s how much of your life force you used up by healing the cat,” his mother said. “Maybe as much as a whole year of your life, gone. You have to be very careful, honey.”

“I don’t care,” Peter declared staunchly, looking at Leia. She blinked at him lazily and yawned, trusting and warm and perfect. “I’m glad I did it.”

His parents exchanged worried glances, and nothing was quite the same after that.

***

Mary Fitzpatrick Parker’s gift was more innocuous than Peter’s—she had a green thumb in the extreme. Their garden had won a neighborhood award five years running, but his parents had never planted any seeds or pulled a single weed. The horticulturists from the local botanic garden had even come by to ask his mom for tips, and they were shocked to learn that she was a trained geneticist, not a botanist. 

Mary often took Peter to the park after school, and she liked to lay in the grass and read a book while Peter played on the swings and the slide. When she’d stand up and call to Peter that it was time to go, the ground beneath her would be full of blossoming flowers—purple crocuses and blush-pink peonies, yellow tulips and even red roses, sweet-smelling and opening to the late afternoon sun. 

When Richard and Mary left to go to a conference in Hawaii, and May and Ben heard the breaking news that a plane traveling from New York to Hawaii had crashed in Nebraska, they sat on the couch with Peter between them, white-knuckled and waiting for updates. 

And even before the newscaster announced that there were no known survivors, they knew Richard and Mary were dead. 

“We’re still waiting for news about casualties, but it’s very strange,” the reporter said, frowning thoughtfully at the crash site, located just off-camera. “When the first responders reached the plane, they were expecting it to be in flames. Instead, the whole area, including the plane, was covered in a bed of fresh white lilies.” 

***

Gift was the word his mother had always used. “I’ll teach you to harness your gift, Peter,” she’d assured him. “Magic is different for everyone, but we’ll figure it out together.”

But then she’d died, and there’d been no one left to teach him. Adrift and alone as a magic-user, as Peter grew, he began to think of his ability as more of a curse. May and Ben agreed with him fervently. 

“It’s like he’s being punished for his goodness and empathy,” he once heard May complain to Ben. “If he helps people, he loses some of his own life. But it’s Peter. How is he ever supposed to sit back and not help someone who needs it? It goes against who he is as a person.”

This was why The Rule existed. 

The Rule was this: Peter wasn’t allowed to hug anyone until he turned eighteen. 

It was a compromise, after a long discussion between Ben and May. “We can’t ban him from ever using his gift,” Ben had told May. “But maybe it can wait. When he’s grown up, he’ll be able to assess situations independently and decide if he wants to give his life energy up.”

May heartily disapproved of this logic. “Never, Peter. Never,” she told him after he came home from soccer practice one day in fourth grade and confessed that he’d used his magic to heal Ned Leeds’ ankle, which had broken when Flash Thompson slide-tackled him. 

“Your life is your own,” she’d said, holding his face in her hands to emphasize the point. “Your time is your own. You’re never obligated to use your powers, and you never should.”

He knew that May said this out of love and concern and a fierce desire to protect him. But he’d never had a best friend before until he healed Ned Leeds’ ankle. 

He learned at an early age that some things were worth giving up a year or two of his life for.

***

Then there were the more serious situations. 

When Peter was eight, he saw a car accident. A truck sped through a yellow light and t-boned a car that was turning left. Before Ben could stop him, Peter dropped his hand, ran across the street, and threw his arms around a little girl with long dark hair who’d been thrown from the vehicle. 

His gift had saved her life and mended her crushed spine, but it had cost him what May and Ben estimated was about three years. 

When he was eleven, he’d stopped by his elderly neighbor Mrs. Williams’ apartment after school to say hi. She’d babysat him sometimes when he’d first moved in with May and Ben, and he liked to look at her collection of antique baseball cards. Plus, he’d never known any of his grandparents, and he liked to think that Mrs. Williams thought of him as a grandson too, since she didn’t have grandkids of her own.

She’d fallen to the ground in the middle of his story about math class that day, obviously in the throes of a heart attack. 

Fortunately, Ben had heard his frantic yell for help from next door. He’d run over, already midway through a conversation with the 9-1-1 operator, and yanked Peter’s glowing hands away from her.

Mrs. Williams rallied briefly, but died three days later. 

Peter was heartbroken. May was furious. 

“Magic can’t fix everything, Peter!” May shouted, pacing around their living room. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her quite so angry before, not even when Ben forgot their anniversary one year. “Mrs. Williams was 89 years old. It was her time to go, and not even you could change that! You gave up a year of your life for nothing!”

Peter felt hot tears begin to drip down his face. “It wasn’t for nothing!” He shot back defiantly, his voice cracking. “She—she was my friend. I loved her!”

May took one look at his face and started crying herself. 

She crossed the room in an instant and threw her arms around him. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured remorsefully into his hair, shaking and holding him close. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. I know. I just want you to have a long, happy life. Mrs. Williams never would’ve wanted you to give up a year for her. She loved you, too. She was so happy whenever you visited her.”

That didn’t make it any easier to accept her death, though.

***

And then there were the psychological ramifications. 

Peter had always been an easygoing, affectionate kid. Before his gift manifested, he gave his hugs freely and often. 

After he saved Leia, however, he had to stop hugging altogether. When Peter fell off his bike and scraped his knee, his dad picked him up cautiously and tentatively, holding him slightly away from his body so that Peter’s magic wouldn’t try to latch on. When Ben or May picked him up from school, they’d have to remind him not to run up and hug them.

“If I just hug you for a few seconds,” Peter tried to argue, “it’ll only take away a few hours or days of my life.”

Unsurprisingly, none of the adults thought that this was an acceptable compromise. At first, his parents and May and Ben tried to shower him with more affection than ever to make up for it. Especially after his parents’ death, May and Ben hugged, kissed, and squeezed him within an inch of his life.

After awhile, however, it became clear that this actually made things worse. The more Peter was touched, the more his magic wanted to jump out of his skin and help the people who loved him. Even if May or Ben didn’t have any physical ailments, his magic still wanted to spill from his fingertips to rejuvenate and sustain them. He’d have to sit on his hands, teeth gritted, and fight to force the magic back down.

By the time he was seven or eight, he’d stopped almost all physical contact with other humans. 

May and Ben found little ways to get around it—a quick pat on the head or the shoulder, plenty of stuffed animals for him to hug and cuddle at night, a brief hug every year on his birthday and on Christmas, sitting extra close to him on the sofa while they watched movies.

Ned, who’d known about Peter’s gift ever since Peter fixed his ankle, offered him a fist bump every day at school. 

That was about it. 

As a result, Peter became a little bit obsessed with physical affection. 

He watched his fellow students flood out of the main doors of the school and run to hug their parents every afternoon. 

(He once saw Flash’s mom coldly wave at him to hurry up before turning back to her cell phone, and he thought that, for once, he understood how Flash felt). 

He tried not to stare as a dad at the park swung his daughter up in the air while she giggled happily. 

He almost cried when his eighth grade science teacher, Ms. Eames, put an arm around his shoulders to congratulate him for getting a scholarship to Midtown. 

And when the dental hygienist cleaned his teeth and the barber cut his hair, Peter absorbed every neutral, professional touch with amazement, his slightly-glowing hands tucked firmly into his pockets.

“You’re one of the only people I know who falls asleep every time he gets his teeth cleaned,” Mario, the dental hygienist, always told him with a laugh. 

But Peter didn’t know how to explain what it felt like when someone finally touched him after all the weeks and months of waiting, how his brain went quiet and calm, how the tension and the fear of his own skin faded away. You’re a real person, the dental hygienist was unconsciously saying when he tilted Peter’s head so that he could see his back molars. You exist in this world. 

And the older he got, the more it all ate away at him—the forced distance from others, the fact that he had the potential to help people, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know how he felt about love and marriage and all of that, but how was he supposed to even try being in a relationship with somebody if he couldn’t hold their hand or hug them?

And why was his life more valuable than anybody else’s? If he had the power to give part of his life away, who was he to keep it? There were adults out there who died and left their children behind. There were little kids who were born with terrible illnesses, living in terrible agony, and he could cure them. There were lonely old ladies like Mrs. Williams, who lived next door and always remembered that he liked sugar cookies better than chocolate chip cookies. 

Leia died of old age when Peter was thirteen. He’d gotten eight amazing years with her; eight years that he never would’ve had if he hadn’t given up one year of his life to save her. 

He tried to focus on that—the time he’d given other people, the time they gained, not the time he’d lost. He tried not to do the math in his head—90 year lifespan, probably, minus a year for Leia, minus a year for Ned’s ankle, minus three years for that little girl’s crushed spine, minus a year for Mrs. Williams—

Time went on. May continued to lecture him, Ned continued to be supportive, Peter got bit by a radioactive spider and acquired a whole new set of problems, and Ben—

Ben got shot while out looking for Peter after they had a fight about Peter’s newfound evasiveness and secretiveness. From the moment Peter arrived on the scene, it was evident that Ben was beyond saving. 

That didn’t stop Peter from pouring two years’ worth of his life energy into his uncle’s fading soul in a last-ditch attempt to bring him back, though.

ii.

Tony Stark was the first person that Peter hugged in almost a decade who wasn’t actively dying or injured. 

It was a fluke, he told himself later, as he carried the metallic case with his new suit up to his and May’s apartment, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

What the hell were you thinking?! He asked himself, trying to get his emotions under control before he walked in the front door. May always knew when he was trying to hide something, and she always knew when he’d been using his powers.

The answer he settled on later, kicking his shoes off and staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars he and Ned had stuck on his bedroom ceiling in sixth grade, was this: He hadn’t been thinking. 

He’d been sleep-deprived and so excited to be talking to Mr. Stark, his science idol and his favorite superhero. And when Mr. Stark had reached across him to open the door, Peter had just gotten a bit carried away. He hadn’t truly hugged anyone in ages, he missed Ben with a fierce ache that never seemed to fade or diminish, and he rarely saw his aunt nowadays since she had to work a lot of double shifts to make up for Ben’s lost income. 

(Ben had still hugged him sometimes, always when May wasn’t home to complain about it. And every once in a while, if Peter had a bad dream or a really hard day, he let Peter hug him back. Just for a few seconds. Even though it probably cost him a few hours or days of his life.

Ben had always understood.)

Yes, the thing with Mr. Stark had just been a weird one-off, fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of working with the Avengers.  

***

He ignored the fact that his magic had sung out happily when Mr. Stark’s arm wrapped around him, that it had cheerfully jumped from Peter’s fingers to soothe Mr. Stark’s aches and pains from the fight. 

We trust him, his magic seemed to say. We should stay close to him.

It was...odd. His magic was usually pretty friendly, just like Peter himself, but its response to Mr. Stark was stronger than most new people he met.

“I don’t need Mr. Stark in my life,” he muttered irritably to his magic, quietly, so that his aunt wouldn’t hear. “You’re just upset because we lost—we lost Ben. And you saw Mr. Stark, he wasn’t interested in a hug. At all. So calm down.”

His magic subsided, a little sadly. But it was stubborn, just like Peter.

***

Peter threw himself into being Spider-Man. 

He came home bruised, scraped, and exhausted most nights, but incandescently happy. 

For the first time, he had a gift that he didn’t have to hide away and fight against. He could use his spidey abilities to help people without holding back or thinking of his own well-being. 

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Ben had often said in reference to Peter’s gift. He’d always known, in a way May didn’t or couldn’t, how hard it was for Peter to not use his magic to help others.

“When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen...they happen because of you,” Peter told Mr. Stark the first time they met, sitting across from one another in Peter’s small, cramped bedroom. 

He’d never meant anything more in his life.

Mr. Stark gave him an odd, pensive look, as if Peter wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

“So you want to look out for the little guy, you want to do your part, make the world a better place, all that, right?”

Protect him, Peter’s magic said eagerly. Help him. Make him proud.

***

Peter tried. But he almost sank a ferry full of commuters and tourists. 

“I just wanted to be like you,” he said, sick to his stomach. 

“And I wanted you to be better,” Mr. Stark replied, and Peter hated how he said it so calmly, like some part of him had been expecting Peter to fail all along. Mr. Stark wasn’t much taller than Peter, but in that moment, Peter felt about as tall as a five-year-old kid. 

Mr. Stark took the suit away and brought Peter home in a tourist t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants. 

Peter spent the entire car ride trying to keep the tears welling up in his eyes from spilling over. 

Mr. Stark only looked at him once during the drive. Something complicated passed over his face, and it was only then that Peter realized he had wrapped his arms around himself in a poor imitation of a hug. 

He immediately dropped his arms by his sides and turned away, looking out the window. 

***

Something odd happened after that. 

Peter actually managed to prove himself. 

It was...strange. Peter was used to being good at school, but not much else. He’d been a bad athlete before the bite, uncoordinated and asthmatic. He was good at photography, but he had no other artistic or musical talent to speak of. And he had a good sense of humor, but he wasn’t witty or charismatic in a way that would ever make him popular in the lunchroom or at parties. 

Hell, he spent most of his time repressing his gift, so he couldn’t even say he felt like a good magic user. 

So maybe some part of him had always expected to fail at being Spider-Man, too. To be good, but never great.

But when Toomes toppled the warehouse on top of him, Peter realized something else: he was good at helping others. And as long as Toomes was out there, trying to steal Avengers tech and threatening the safety of his fellow New Yorkers, Peter would do anything in his power to stop him. 

So he lifted the warehouse off his back. He saved Mr. Stark’s stuff. He got Toomes put away. 

And in return, he got the invite that all kids dreamed of: a chance to join the Avengers, to live at their compound and train with them. 

He said no. He wanted to help the people he knew. His neighbors. Fellow residents of Queens. He walked through his borough every single day, holding back from using his magic to save the people who lived there. He wouldn’t relocate to a distant compound and jet off to fight crime around the world. He’d stay in his own backyard and use his powers there.

Of course, giving up the Avengers opportunity probably meant that he’d never see Mr. Stark again, but Peter accepted that. He was even a little relieved—he still thought it was odd how strongly his magic reacted to Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark put an arm around Peter’s shoulders when he welcomed him to the Avengers compound, and his magic bubbled up happily. He had to shove his hands in his pocket to prevent their slight blue glow from being noticeable. 

It was best this way, he told himself when he left the Compound. Mr. Stark would’ve gotten bored with him soon enough, anyway. Or Peter would’ve messed up again, and it all would’ve fallen apart a second time. 

“Good riddance,” May said when he came home that afternoon and told her that he thought his internship had reached a peaceful, natural conclusion. “I don’t like that he thought he could just kick you out of the internship program. No matter how badly you messed up, that’s the point of an internship—trying things, messing up, learning. No, you’re lucky you got out now.”

Peter couldn’t say her opinion of Mr. Stark improved at all when she found out that Peter was actually Spider-Man.

May made him give her Mr. Stark’s phone number, and she shouted at him for an hour straight. 

That’s really it, Peter told himself that night as he laid in bed and stared up at the ceiling (he’d been grounded for the foreseeable future, so there wasn’t much else to do). There was no way Mr. Stark was going to call him again after what May had put him through. 

***

“Dude, the character design is so flawed. By having Kylo Ren kill Han Solo in the first movie, there’s nowhere to go with his character. He’s too evil to be redeemed.” Ned shook his head remorsefully as they followed a group of sophomores outside of school. 

“But why does he need to be redeemed? Can’t he just be evil?” Peter asked to play devil’s advocate, zipping his jacket up against the bitter early winter cold. 

“Why does he need to be redeemed? Because the point of Star Wars is that good triumphs over evil, ultimately, and Ren—”

Peter was so into his discussion with Ned that he almost walked right past Happy Hogan.

“I thought you had super senses,” Happy said grumpily when Peter finally noticed him and gave a small jerk of surprised recognition. 

“Happy?” Peter hurried over to the shiny black car that Happy always drove, tugging Ned along with him. “Why are you here? Is everything okay? Is there a, uh, emergency?” He asked, careful to keep his questions neutral in case anyone overheard. 

He glanced up at the sky out of habit, since it tended to be very noticeable when New York got attacked by something, but everything seemed quiet and peaceful. A few snowflakes had begun to fall, but there were no alien spaceships or gods fighting overhead. 

Happy rolled his eyes. “Get in,” he directed, just as unenthusiastic as ever. 

Peter glanced uncertainly over at Ned. They were supposed to hang out at Ned’s apartment and study for an upcoming Spanish test. 

“Dude! Go!” Ned hissed, poking him. “Are you kidding? Maybe there’s a mission!”

Peter opened the back door of the car tentatively. He almost expected to see Mr. Stark sitting there, frowning unhappily, demanding the suit back. The seat was empty, however, and he couldn’t decide if this made him more or less anxious.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked when Happy started the engine.

“The Tower. Boss wants to see you.”

Peter spent the entire car ride mentally reviewing his recent patrols to see if he could recall anything he’d done wrong. It had been a month since May found out he was Spider-Man, and she’d just started letting him patrol again about a week and a half ago. He’d been very careful to stick to his curfew and not get involved in anything too big, since he didn’t want to risk May’s wrath again.

He couldn’t come up with anything bad that he’d done, but that didn’t mean he was in the clear. The ferry incident had started off as something small and quickly turned into a near-death situation for dozens of people, after all. Maybe somebody he’d webbed up was actually innocent, and now they wanted to sue him.  

Or maybe one of the mugging victims from yesterday was more injured than he let on, and he’d died of his injuries. The possibilities were endless, really, oh god, he was definitely going to lose his suit for good—

Peter was a wreck by the time Happy escorted him to Mr. Stark’s lab.

“Mr. Stark?” He called, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

“Over here, kid.” Peter followed the sound of his voice and found Mr. Stark sitting on the floor near a lab bench and fiddling with the feet of a partially-constructed Iron Man suit that was suspended in mid-air. 

“Whoa,” he couldn’t help gasping. “Is that—"

Mr. Stark looked up at him, and to Peter’s surprise, he grinned. 

“Go ahead, ask away. I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing the suit.”

“Is that how the arc reactor transmits power to the rest of the suit?” He asked, eagerly pointing at a series of intricate wires.

“Yeah. C’mere, I’ll show you,” Mr. Stark said, beckoning him over. “Oh, and grab those pliers for me, will you?” 

***

Three or four hours had passed before Peter remembered his earlier fear and anxiety. 

He’d just finished checking the wiring of Mr. Stark’s gauntlets when he sat bolt upright. 

“My suit,” he blurted out, regretting it almost instantly. It had been...really nice to work alongside Mr. Stark. The man was surprisingly patient with Peter’s barrage of excited questions. He hadn’t made Peter just sit and watch, either; he’d given him a few simple tasks to carry out. 

Peter was even more awed by Mr. Stark’s genius than ever, having seen the guts of the suit. And now he was going to have to give his own Stark-made suit back. 

“Oh, yeah—right,” Mr. Stark nodded. He looked more relaxed than Peter had ever seen him before, completely at home with hands buried in the guts of a suit. He had grease smeared on his chin, and Peter suspected he had a few grease marks of his own. “That’s the whole reason I made Happy bring you here.”

Peter’s stomach sunk. He went over to the sink and washed his hands, and then he dutifully pulled the suit out of his backpack and handed it over. 

To his surprise, Mr. Stark smiled at him, looking up from his phone. “You like Chinese food?” He asked. 

Peter blinked at him. Was Mr. Stark going to buy him dinner to make him feel better about losing the suit?

“Sure,” he nodded, trying not to seem morose or ungrateful.

Mr. Stark swiped a few more times on his phone, and then he picked up Peter’s suit and plugged it into his laptop using a USB port. 

He waved Peter over, pulling up a screen full of code. “So here’s the coding for the suit. We shouldn’t need to check it too often, I’m thinking once a month or so, or if you have any glitches or bugs, of course. Most of the maintenance will be physical.”

“I—what?” Peter responded inarticulately. 

Mr. Stark looked puzzled. “Your suit, Underoos. It needs regular maintenance. You don’t want to find out the hard way that your parachute isn’t working or that your web shooters are jammed, do you?”

“You’re—you’re letting me keep the suit?” Peter stammered.

Mr. Stark’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. What—did Happy tell you I was taking the suit away as a joke or something?”

"No. He just said that you wanted to see me. I thought—”

Mr. Stark sighed. “Alright, listen up, kid. Look. I...shouldn’t have taken your suit away. It was far more dangerous for you to be out there in that onesie—”

“Not a onesie.”

“Fine, in those pajamas, then. No, don’t argue. Anyway, lesson learned. I’m not going to take the suit away again.”

“R-really?” 

“Well, if you disable my protocols again or do something reckless, I might take it away temporarily.”

“You’re going to ground me?” 

As soon as he asked, Peter felt mortified. Mr. Stark wouldn’t ground Peter. That was something that parents did. Not superheroes. 

To his surprise, Mr. Stark didn’t seem freaked out. “Sure, if that’s how you want to think about it,” he shrugged. “Anyway, suit maintenance. It’s gotta be part of your superhero routine, kiddo. I’m thinking every other week, what do you say?”

Peter could only nod, still in a state of shock. 

“Mr. Stark...I wanted to say. I’m sorry about May, uh, yelling at you.”

Mr. Stark laughed. “Trust me, Pete. That isn’t the first time an attractive woman has called to yell at me for being an asshole. Probably won’t be the last.”

Mr. Stark clapped him on the shoulder. Peter barely managed to stop himself from leaning into it.

***

He and Mr. Stark never talked about it, but once every other week gradually became once every week. And after a few months, once every week turned into Wednesdays and Fridays, with an occasional Friday overnight thrown in if they found themselves working late. 

At first, there was a lot to be done with the suit. Peter needed to learn how to do the maintenance himself, what to look for in the code, how to check that everything was in working order. He started manufacturing his web fluid in Mr. Stark’s lab, too, and it was a lot easier to concentrate and make improvements to his formula when he didn’t have to hide what he was doing from his chemistry teacher. 

But after a while, he just started helping Mr. Stark out with whatever projects he was in the middle of.

“You seem happier,” Ned commented unexpectedly at lunch one day after Peter finished describing the modifications they’d been making to Rhodey’s leg braces the previous evening. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked, suddenly uncomfortable. 

Ned held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Nothing, Peter. I just think working with Mr. Stark has been good for you.” When he saw Peter’s suspicious expression, he quickly added, “Think about all the engineering experience you’re getting.”

Even May, who’d taken to scowling every time she saw Mr. Stark’s face on TV or a magazine cover, seemed to have softened somewhat. 

“Alright.” May clapped her hands together when he emerged from his bedroom in Ben’s old suit, ready for Midtown’s spring dance. “I’ve got the usual YouTube video pulled up. Let’s figure out that tie.”

“Oh,” Peter said. “I actually—I can do it. Mr. Stark taught me last month when I had to wear a suit to that conference.”

May watched thoughtfully as Peter carefully went through the motions that Mr. Stark had drilled into his head. The knot was a bit lopsided at the end, but it was passable.

The next time they were grocery shopping, the magazine rack next to the check-out featured several unflattering paparazzi photos of Mr. Stark with the usual headlines: “Shocking New Proof That Tony Stark Is Dating Vladamir Putin’s daughter,” and “Is Stark Industries Designing a New Line of Weapons for Child Soldiers?” and Peter’s personal favorite: “Is Rihanna Pregnant with Tony Stark’s Love Child?”

“She just had lunch with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts when she was in town,” Peter clarified to May. “Pepper really loves her music.”

“The paparazzi should mind their own business,” May sniffed disapprovingly. “It’s really disrespectful to spread rumors like that. These are real people with real lives.” 

Peter wisely kept his mouth shut and kept piling food on the conveyor belt, but he smiled when he was sure May wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t a compliment or actual approval, but it was a start. 

***

Here was the thing that Peter didn’t tell May or Mr. Stark: He sometimes used his magic in the line of duty as Spider-Man. 

He’d started off resolved against it. After all, Spider-Man was a way for him to make up for selfishly conserving his life energy. It was supposed to be something different, something separate. Not to mention, it made May sad and anxious when he used his gift, and she was barely allowing him to be Spider-Man at all. Plus, Ben had always wanted him to wait until he was eighteen to decide how to use his magic. 

But people bleeding out and dying couldn’t wait until he was eighteen. 

It was just bits and pieces, here and there. A woman who’d been stabbed during a mugging gone wrong on her morning jog in the park. A teenager who’d crashed his car into a pole. A middle-aged man who had a heart attack while sweeping the front stoop of his bodega.

He did the proper thing and always called the authorities first. But sometimes, when he was waiting for an ambulance to show up, he couldn’t help but soothe their pain with just a bit of his magic.

It cost him a few days. A few weeks. A month or two, tops. 

Of course, it would all add up over time. 

But Peter was used to ignoring the math.

***

There was another pressing matter to worry about, too: Tony Stark turned out to be, surprisingly, a very physically affectionate human being. 

He was the same type of second-generation Italian-American as May: he talked with his hands, he made the sign of the cross whenever he was shocked by something (despite no other signs of having any sort of religious belief), and he was a hugger. 

Peter had first observed this last phenomenon in relation to Mr. Rhodes and Ms. Potts, who often hung around the Tower. Mr. Stark was always throwing an arm around Rhodey’s shoulders, hugging him hello and goodbye, kissing Pepper on the cheek after a long work day, leaning around her during dinner prep to grab a pan or some salt. Once, as he and Mr. Stark sat on the couch watching a movie after dinner and Pepper sat on the floor in front of them typing away on her laptop, he’d even watched Mr. Stark absentmindedly braid her hair.

It made sense, Peter supposed. Mr. Stark had been through a lot, when you really stopped to think about it. His parents had been murdered, he’d been kidnapped and almost died in Afghanistan, his dad’s business partner had betrayed him, he’d almost been sucked into a wormhole, one of his inventions had gone power-mad and tried to take over the world—and, oh yeah, just last year, one of his best friends had taken a bunch of his other friends and gone rogue, caused an international crisis, and disappeared—and the list went on.

Here was the thing that Peter now realized: he’d known all of this about Mr. Stark for years, but none of it had been real until he knew Mr. Stark. 

Mr. Stark’s public persona didn’t have any trauma. He was brash, swaggering, and confident. A party animal. Genius, billionaire, playboy, etc. 

Mr. Stark—the real Mr. Stark—had very few people he trusted and was actually close to. 

And Peter...wasn’t sure where he fit into that continuum. 

There had been a few times, early on, when Mr. Stark had tried to pat him on the shoulder, or ruffle his hair, or even wrap one arm around him, seemingly on autopilot. Peter flinched back or ducked away every single time, even as his magic tried to nudge him forward. 

It was awful. 

He missed Ben. He was trying to be strong for May. And here was Mr. Stark, his idol and kind-of mentor, who seemed to be trying to say through his body language, I’ve got you, kid, you belong here. 

And Peter brushed him off each time. 

At first, Mr. Stark just looked at him kind of weirdly, retracting his hand. He tried it another time or two after that and looked confused and a bit...upset?...when Peter shrugged out of his grip. 

And then he stopped trying to bestow any kind of physical affection on Peter, which...sucked. Sometimes, they’d be working close together on an engine or a piece of nanotech, and Mr. Stark’s shoulder would accidentally brush against his, and Peter would think, Please, god. I’m so tired. I just want a hug. 

But the less he used his magic, the more reactive it was. 

And he definitely didn’t want Mr. Stark to find out about his magic, so he’d reluctantly drag himself back, scooting a few inches further out of Mr. Stark’s personal space. 

One time, he fell asleep on the couch in the penthouse after dinner, exhausted from a long day of school and lab work. Mr. Stark gently nudged him awake and escorted him, stumbling and half-asleep, to the guest room he always used when he stayed over. 

This time, when Mr. Stark wrapped an arm around him to support his weight, Peter slumped into it. He had the common sense to make sure his hands were buried in the sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt in case they started glowing blue, but he didn’t care much beyond that. His guard was down, and it felt good to lean against Mr. Stark, to trust someone else with his weight. 

“Whoa,” he dimly heard Mr. Stark grunt, adjusting his grip so that he could keep Peter upright. “When you let me hug you, you really go all in, huh, kiddo?”

Peter tried to say something, but it just came out as an unintelligible mumble. 

The bedroom was dark, except for the silvery light of the moon. Over the past few months, more and more of Peter’s stuff had ended up in this guest room. Mr. Stark and Pepper had eventually started calling it Peter’s room instead of the second guest room on the left. 

Mr. Stark pulled back the covers so that Peter could flop into bed. 

He felt gentle hands pull the blanket up near his chin. The last person who’d done this for him was Ben, just a year or two ago. It felt like lifetimes ago. 

Mr. Stark was quiet for a moment. Peter had almost drifted off again when he felt a warm hand reach out and rest on the top of his head, just for a second. 

“G’night, Mr. Stark,” he managed to say. 

“Night, Pete,” he thought he heard before he fell back to sleep. 

***

It was all going swimmingly until an apartment building caught fire off 31st Ave in Jackson Heights. 

“Peter, per my protocols, I’m—"

“No, no, no, no—” Peter chanted breathlessly as he scrambled up the side of the building. The façade was alarmingly hot to the touch, and he had to move quickly so his fingers didn’t burn. “Don’t call him. Please, Karen.”

“I’m sorry, Peter, but you have repeatedly entered and exited a building that is on the verge of collapse. Per my algorithms, once you have engaged in a risky behavior, you are unlikely to disengage without intervention."

Peter was only listening to this with half an ear. A mother waiting with the assembled crowd of onlookers had screamed to him that her kids were trapped in their bedroom on the fifth floor. 

“Peter, my scans show that the building is extremely volatile, and the fire is at the point of flashover,” Karen continued. “Mr. Stark says—”

“Mute, Karen! Mute,” he commanded quickly. If Peter couldn’t hear Mr. Stark’s message, then he couldn’t be at fault for disobeying. 

If an AI could be reluctant, he was sure that Karen was reluctant. But she obediently fell silent, and Peter focused on his task again. Having reached the fifth floor, he began to wall-walk horizontally, stopping by each fifth floor window and calling out. 

He made it to the eighth window before his super hearing picked up on faint coughing noises. Wasting no time, he used his elbow to break the glass and clamber inside. 

“Hello?” He called, beginning to cough himself. His mask filtered the air, but the room was almost pitch black from the smoke, and some of it inevitably seeped into his suit. 

“Help!” He heard a faint voice call from under one of the beds. 

Peter stumbled forward blindly until his legs made contact with something soft but solid. He dropped to his knees and shouted under the bed. 

“I’m here! Crawl out and we’ll go out the window!”

A preteen boy crawled out from under the bed. He looked to be just a few years younger than Peter. 

“My brother,” he choked in a weak voice. “He’s unconscious.”

Peter nodded grimly, fumbling around until he found the younger brother. He picked the unconscious boy up and grabbed the other one by the arm. Together, they made their way to the window. 

“Peter!” Karen shouted suddenly in his ear. It must have been something bad if she’d been able to override his mute command. “The east side of the building is about to collapse. Evacuate immediately.”

Fortunately, they were on the west side of the building. But there was no telling what the impact of half the building falling would be. 

“Right,” Peter told the boy at his side, trying to sound calm. “Hold on tight, okay?” He quickly scanned the surrounding area, looking for something he could web onto to swing them down. They couldn’t rely on the building facade anymore. 

“Spidey!” A familiar voice shouted. Peter thought he’d never been so grateful to see Mr. Stark before. Iron Man flew towards them. “Give me the kids!” 

Peter helped the older boy jump into Mr. Stark’s grip. But then the entire building began to rumble ominously, and there was no more time to pass the younger brother over. Peter shot a web at the closest building, and, clutching the remaining brother with a death grip, swung away from the falling building. 

He slammed into the wall of the building he’d webbed onto, and only the tensile strength of his webbing saved himself and his charge from plummeting four stories down to earth. 

Peter hastily swung down, carefully laying the unconscious boy on the ground. He looked to be about 10 or 11, with freckles and a shock of bright orange hair. His face was deathly white, almost bluish. He didn’t stir when Peter rubbed his sternum and spoke loudly. His pulse was thready. Peter’s heart twisted when he noticed that the kid was wearing Avengers-themed pajamas. 

Fortunately, they were in an alleyway, out of the view of the crowd. 

“Alright, buddy,” Peter muttered determinedly. “Let’s do this.”

He wrapped his arms around the boy as best as he could without moving him too much, allowing his magic to swell to the surface. It was always eager to help, especially after he kept it locked away. Peter felt the magic jump from his arms to the kid, clearing his lungs, easing his breathing, healing the burns on his arms and legs. 

Once the boy seemed stable, Peter began to withdraw, exhausted from expending so much energy. He wanted to slump over and join the kid on the ground, but he still needed urgent medical care and Peter was sure that his mom was panicking somewhere nearby. 

“Okay,” he sighed tiredly. “Let’s get you over to an ambulance, okay?” He had just mustered the strength to stand up when he heard a sudden movement behind him. 

When he turned around, Mr. Stark was standing there, staring in shock at Peter’s hands, which were glowing bright blue through his suit.

***

“Hello,” Mr. Stark said pleasantly when May opened the door, breezing inside and helping Peter over to the nearby couch. “Either your kid has a serious circulatory problem with his hands, or he’s about to turn into a blueberry like that girl from Willy Wonka.”

Through his haze of weariness, Peter winced. This was probably not the best way to break the news to May, especially since she wasn’t exactly Mr. Stark’s biggest fan. 

Mr. Stark kept one hand on Peter’s shoulder as Peter slumped further into the couch cushions, perhaps in a gesture of support. May, noticing this, quickly pushed his arm away from Peter. 

“Get your hand off him!” 

Mr. Stark obeyed instantly, looking confused and concerned. Peter sighed in relief, letting his head tip back against the couch. Now that Mr. Stark wasn’t supporting his weight or touching him, his magic finally began to settle. In a matter of seconds, the blue glow faded from his fingers.  

Mr. Stark’s face paled. “I...Pete, I’m sorry. Was I hurting you?” 

It seemed wrong for Mr. Stark to sound so uncertain. 

Peter grimaced. There went any chance of him possibly getting away with not explaining his magic. 

“It’s nothing,” May said firmly. “He’s fine. You should just—go.”

“It’s okay, May,” Peter said. “He should know. He's trying to keep me alive, just like you.”

Mr. Stark looked between the two of them slowly. “Know what?” He asked. 

***

Mr. Stark took it about as well as Peter had thought he would. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers and pacing across their living room disbelievingly. “So you’re telling me that every time I patted you on the shoulder, I was...what, sucking a week of your life away? Like a...like a dementor?”

“No,” Peter said quickly. “I mean, good analogy. But it’s only if I hug you. Usually. But...if people hug me or get too close, my magic wants to reach out and latch on. It’s a bit difficult to control, so I usually just...don’t let people touch me.”

“Christ, Pete. That’s—”

“It’s okay,” Peter shrugged. “You ever read that old book, Ella Enchanted? Where her fairy godmother gives her the gift of obedience, but it really turned out to be more of a curse? It’s kind of like that. Cool idea, yeah, sure, save lives—but turns out that it’s not super practical.”

May had been mostly silent, allowing Peter to explain everything to Mr. Stark. She cut into his rambling now, and her accusatory tone of voice instantly put him on alert. “You’ve done this before. You’ve been using your magic as Spider-Man, haven’t you?”

Mr. Stark stopped pacing to stare at him, horror dawning on his face as he seemed to understand the implication of what May was suggesting.

Peter looked between the two of them nervously. “Just—just every once in a while,” he admitted meekly. 

May looked crestfallen. “Peter, you promised.”

“It’s not that easy! If someone is dying and I can save them, I can’t just do nothing. ” 

May shook her head. “This is why I knew the superhero thing was a bad idea. You’ve never been able to keep from using your powers when someone needed it, and now you’re deliberately putting yourself into situations where people are hurt and dying.”

“Please, May,” Peter pleaded, looking frantically between her and Mr. Stark. “Don’t take the suit away again. Being Spider-Man—it helps. It makes it easier not to use my gift. I swear!”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“Emergency medicine,” Mr. Stark said finally. 

They both looked at him, confused by the non sequitur. 

“Summer is coming up in a few months. Peter can take an EMT class at the community college. And I can put a function in the suit so that he can call my Med Bay during any kind of medical emergency, and they can advise him.” Mr. Stark looked directly at Peter now. “That way you can help save people without using your magic.”

May was quiet for a minute. “That...isn’t a half-bad idea,” she said slowly. 

“And I can put a protocol in the suit that will alert me if Peter uses his magic.”

Peter groaned. 

“Sorry, Peter. Those are the terms and conditions if you want us to trust you with the suit,” May said decisively, crossing her arms over her chest.

It was then that Peter perceived a shift in the room’s dynamics. May and Mr. Stark were suddenly united and determined to work together to keep him safe. 

He was sure that the increased scrutiny and mother-henning was going to be a pain in the ass. But some small part of him was pleased, too, remembering what it had been like when Ben and his parents were alive.

***

The next time Peter used his magic on the job, Mr. Stark showed up looking ready for an argument. It was late at night, nearly an hour past Peter’s 11 PM curfew. Strike 2 was the fact that Peter’s hands were still blazing bright blue when Mr. Stark arrived, evidence of his misdeeds.

All of the fight seemed to leave Mr. Stark the second he saw Peter sitting in an alleyway with his arms wrapped around his knees, however. It was a rainy night, but Peter took no notice of the cold drops of water pelting his skin. 

“Hey, Underoos,” Mr. Stark said, dropping into a crouch in front of Peter and popping an umbrella open so it covered both of them. “What happened?”

“The ambulance just left,” Peter whispered. “The guy...he didn’t make it.”

“Oh, kid,” Mr. Stark sighed. He reached out like he wanted to put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, twitching and stopping at the last second when he remembered how overactive Peter’s magic always got after he used it. “Come on. Let’s get out of this weather, okay?”

Peter shrugged, but he obediently followed Mr. Stark to the waiting car. 

Mr. Stark cranked the heat up, and they drove in silence. Peter was surprised when they pulled up in front of the Tower’s parking garage. 

“Oh. You could have brought me home,” he protested weakly. “I’m fine.”

Mr. Stark gave him a look that was difficult to decipher. “Your aunt usually works a double on Thursdays, right?”

Peter nodded. 

“Then that settles it. Come on up.”

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside, quiet and dripping wet from the rain. The ride up to the penthouse took a few minutes, since they had to go up so many stories. Peter stared straight ahead, completely numb. The rain had washed most of the victim’s blood off of Peter’s hands, but he kept remembering how scared the man had been, how he’d tried to tell Peter something about his wife, probably that he loved her. 

Peter didn’t realize he was shaking until Mr. Stark tentatively reached out and removed Peter’s mask, gently tugging it over his face and hair.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Pete?” He asked, looking carefully at Peter’s face.  

“I just keep thinking…” Peter’s voice faltered.  

“It’s okay, bud. Take your time.” Mr. Stark once again lifted a hand like he wanted to put it on Peter’s shoulder, but he stopped himself at the last second.  

Peter swallowed. “It was just like Ben.” He wrapped his arms tightly around his torso to hold himself, shivering uncontrollably. “The guy, he was shot by some muggers. And I couldn’t save him.”

Peter still remembered how Ben used to sit next to him on the couch while they watched TV, close enough to offer comfort without touching. He remembered how, on the first anniversary of his parents’ deaths, Ben had taken him on a camping trip up north, in Maine, far away from all the familiar old places that hurt to drive past or think about. They’d stayed up late, lying on a blanket and looking up at the night sky. Once their campfire had dwindled down to a smoky flicker, they’d been able to see millions of stars. Ben had pointed out some constellations, and then he’d told Peter about how every person was made up of bits of stardust, and that no energy in the universe was ever lost or gained. His parents still lived, Ben had said, even if it was only through Peter’s curly hair and his keen interest in science and his inherited dislike of mushrooms. 

Even if it was only in the broadest sense, in the equilibrium of the entire universe. 

Peter had only been seven, so he hadn’t been able to put it into words then, but when he looked back on that night now, he thought, That’s what it’s like to be held by somebody, even without them ever touching you. 

“Pete,” Mr. Stark was saying in the present. “You did everything you could. For your uncle and for this guy tonight. Hell, you did more than any other human could do for both of them.”

Peter’s magic felt like a wildfire inside of him, burning to get out. 

“It still wasn’t enough. It’s never enough,” Peter whispered.

Mr. Stark looked physically pained that he couldn’t put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

“Right,” he said when the elevator doors opened at the penthouse. “Here’s what we’re going to do: You’re going to take a hot shower and change into something warm, okay? Let me take care of everything else.”

Peter shrugged but went to do as he was bade. 

When he emerged from his room some time later, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the first thing he noticed was a pile of what looked like clothing on the couch. There was a note on top of it. 

Underoos, it said, meet me on the roof.

The bundle turned out to be a thick, warm blanket and an old MIT sweatshirt that he’d seen Mr. Stark wear around the lab sometimes. He found himself smiling slightly as he picked the sweatshirt up. It smelled just like Mr. Stark—like coffee and cologne and machine oil. It was like Mr. Stark, ever the engineer, had calculated the closest way possible to hug him without actually hugging him. He felt his magic instantly begin to settle as he pulled it over his head.

Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, he took the elevator up to the roof. He’d never been up here before. He got cold easily to begin with, and the weather hadn’t been quite warm enough yet, especially this high up in the air. 

But when he stepped outside onto the rooftop deck, he saw that Mr. Stark had a plan to keep them warm and dry. There was another blanket spread out on the ground with a few different thermoses on top of it. The rain had trailed off into a drizzle, and Mr. Stark had set everything up, including a heat lamp, under a covered part of the rooftop, so they wouldn’t get wet or cold.

“There’s tea in that thermos,” Mr. Stark said by way of greeting. “And I’ve got the heat lamp turned up, but let me know if you’re still cold.” 

“It’s—it’s great,” Peter said, suddenly at a loss for words. “Thanks.”

Mr. Stark watched with a slightly anxious gaze as Peter settled himself on the blanket. 

“I know it’s not exactly a great view, with the rain and all the city lights,” he apologized. “But I think being up here is kind of nice, regardless. It always gives me a bit of perspective—kind of like flying over the city in a plane.”

Peter nodded, looking out at the immense sprawl of the city. It stretched on for miles in each direction, interrupted only by the blank, dark splotches where the river and the ocean were. 

“Makes you realize how many people are out there who need protection,” Peter remarked soberly. 

“Or,” Mr. Stark said gently, nudging Peter’s shoulder with his own, just a fleeting second of physical contact. “It could remind you of the fact that you’re just one human, and even if you do your best, you’ll never be able to save everyone.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile wistfully at that. “You sound like Ben,” he said, watching the tiny red lights of cars flicker in the distance below. “May always just comes out and tells me not to use my magic. Ben—he understood that it wasn’t quite that easy.”

Mr. Stark was quiet for a moment. “He sounds like he was a good man.”

“I think he would’ve liked you,” Peter found himself saying. “May was always telling me not to look up to you. No offense—”

“None taken. I was a shit show,” Mr. Stark snorted. 

Peter laughed. “But Ben saw what I saw. That your real superpower was your brain, not your wallet or your famous name. I think he—I think he wanted me to look up to someone like that. You couldn’t control being a Stark, just like I couldn’t control having the Fitzpatrick magic.”

“I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

Peter nodded, his throat tight. “Me too,” he whispered. It was the most he’d spoken about Ben since he had died nearly a year earlier, he realized.

They sat in silence for a long time after that, just watching the city go by below. It was silent this high up, the noises of cars and pedestrians 93 stories away from them. The only sound was the rain gently pattering on the awning above their heads, and it was a blissful relief to Peter’s overtaxed super senses. 

Some time later, well into the night, a cloud descended and blanketed the top of Stark Tower. Peter dozed off, but when he awoke again, he found that the cloud had completely blocked out the view of the city below. 

“Pretty amazing, right?” Mr. Stark asked. He’d brought a circuit board with him, and he was messing with some coding on his Stark Pad. He set it aside when Peter woke up, though, and for some hazy amount of time, they watched the clouds swirl below them.

It felt like they were the only two people in the world at that moment.

The next time Peter woke up, it was just before dawn, right when everything took on a soft bluish cast. The clouds were still there and so was Mr. Stark, working on his circuit board, like a sentinel guarding Peter from his nightmares and his grief. 

***

Sometimes there were days when Peter could barely get out of bed. 

It had been the same way after his parents died, but it was almost worse with Ben. At least his grief over his parents had been simple and guiltless. Now, he would lay in bed, listening to May get ready for work a few rooms over, and he would think to himself: She could get hit by a car while crossing the road. A patient could attack her. 

She could die too. 

Fitzpatrick Luck had cursed him with a magical gift. Parker Luck had gotten his parents and Ben killed. 

It could happen again. 

On the bad days, he’d sit on the subway on his way to school and look around at all the people, some chatting quietly with one another, some listening to music. An old lady doing a crossword puzzle. A baby smiling at the man sitting next to her, who couldn’t seem to stop himself from smiling back. 

And he’d wonder, on the bad days, how these people could do it. How they could put on their work clothes and leave their homes and stop for a coffee, all the while ignoring the fact that people died every day, in horrible and tragic ways. 

But sometimes there were days when everything felt okay. 

Days when Ned would send him a funny meme in the morning, and they’d text each other on their respective train rides to school. Days when MJ would sit with them at lunch, and she’d glare so fiercely at everyone who walked past that not even Flash would come over and bother them. Days when May would get off work early, and she’d pick him up from school and take him to their favorite Thai restaurant. Days when he’d have a good patrol, and he’d fall into bed at night knowing that he’d helped people. 

And, increasingly, days where Mr. Stark would swoop in and keep him so busy mixing web fluid and rebuilding old car engines and programming new nanotech that he didn’t have time to think about Ben, or May dying, or Ned going to college on the other side of the country and no longer needing him. 

Or days when there was a knock at the door and Mr. Stark was standing outside of his apartment, holding a bag of groceries. 

“Um. Did I forget lab day or something?” Peter asked, scratching his head. He’d just gotten home from patrol half an hour earlier, and he could’ve sworn it was a Tuesday, not a Wednesday—

“Gee, thanks for the warm greeting, kid,” Mr. Stark said cheerfully, inviting himself in and heading straight for the kitchen. 

Peter followed, nonplussed. “Yeah, sure, make yourself at home.” He watched as Mr. Stark began putting vegetables in the refrigerator. “Did the penthouse kitchen spring a leak, or something?”

Mr. Stark didn’t quite meet his eyes. “What, can’t I come visit my favorite crime-fighting spider without an interrogation? You wound me, Pete.”

“No,” Peter said slowly. “But—I mean. You’ve never shown up and cooked dinner here before.”

Mr. Stark didn’t seem to want to talk about it. “Cute pajama pants, kid.”

Peter looked down and flushed. He hadn’t been expecting to see anyone tonight, since May was working late, so he’d put on the Hello Kitty pajama pants after his shower. 

Well, if Mr. Stark could change the subject, then so could he. 

“I was already making dinner,” he said, pointing to a tray on the counter where he’d been laying out pizza rolls. 

Mr. Stark looked offended. “You’re not eating pizza rolls when I’m here to make you my mom’s spaghetti alla puttanesca. Put that away and get a knife. You know how to mince garlic?”

Peter nodded. “But I have a lot of reading to do for my English class.” He felt bad as soon as he said it. Some of the fake cheerfulness slipped from Mr. Stark’s face, and Peter realized, for the first time, that Mr. Stark probably had bad days too. Maybe he wasn’t here because of anything related to Peter. Maybe he was just here because he needed to go somewhere and do something to get his mind off his problems. Pepper was on a business trip in Japan, and the penthouse was a big place.

“I could play the audiobook version, though,” he added quickly. 

Mr. Stark nodded, and Peter quickly set up his phone’s YouTube account to play Pride and Prejudice. 

“Really?” Mr. Stark groaned. “Pride and Prejudice? They still make you guys read this stuff in school?”

Peter shrugged. “I guess so. I’m a few chapters in. May loves it, and it’s easier to understand than Beowulf. That’s about all I know about it.”

Mr. Stark snorted and tossed him a bulb of garlic.

“You okay, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked cautiously. 

Mr. Stark shook his head as if to clear it. “Just...got some news. Every so often, I hear rumors of a new threat to the existence of the universe. But...95% of the time, it turns out to be nothing. I’m sure it’ll be nothing in this case, too.” 

He didn’t look entirely convinced of his own words, but he turned away and began to loudly rummage around for pots and pans, effectively ending the conversation. 

***

By the time that May arrived home a few hours later, they were sitting at the kitchen table and hotly debating whether or not Mr. Darcy’s proposal to Elizabeth had been out of line. 

“He insulted her family!” Peter exclaimed. 

“But her mother was extremely objectionable! You heard how she was going around and basically bragging that Jane would marry Bingley and make them wealthy!”

“No!” Peter shook his head furiously. “No, she’s a product of the system. She has no other agency in this society. The only way for her to secure her daughters’ futures is to marry them off. Of course she’s a bit overeager—”

“Just because she’s a product of her circumstances doesn’t mean that she’s not a ridiculous person!”

“Hi, boys,” May said, barely holding back a laugh. 

“May!” Peter greeted her happily. “Come eat some spaghetti alla puttanesca."

“Yeah, and tell us that Darcy was right to be honest about his concerns with Elizabeth’s family.”

“Don’t listen to him, May. He’s not exactly a shining example. He only proposed to Pepper because I said no to joining the Avengers and he’d already called a press conference,” Peter said, laughing. 

Mr. Stark pretended to be mad about this comment, but he ended up laughing too, and Peter suddenly found himself wanting to memorize the moment—May, home safe from a long day at work, pouring herself a glass of wine. Mr. Stark, looking far more at ease than when he’d arrived here earlier.  

Something could go wrong, Peter’s anxiety told him. Or maybe it was his spidey sense. Something could change. This could all go away. 

But this was a good day, so Peter didn’t let himself dwell on it for long.

***

He told Ned an abbreviated version of the story a few days later. It was a field trip day, and they were using the bus ride to debrief. 

“Dude,” Ned said, sounding impressed. “I think he, like, really loves you. Oh my god, man, Iron Man is basically your dad!”

“Ned!” Peter hissed, panicked. “Keep your voice down. And don’t say stuff like that! He’s not—he’s just—”

Ned backed off, holding his hands up in surrender. “I know he’s not literally your dad. It just—it kind of seems like a dad type of thing to do, that’s all. He made you his mom’s pasta, Peter.”

“He’s just my mentor,” Peter grumbled. “And he barely wanted that job in the first place.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure he’s changed his mind by now. I mean, you spend the night over there like once a week now, dude!”

Peter shrugged. “I think he’s just paying careful attention because he’s afraid of May, to be honest.”

He didn’t like the knowing look Ned leveled at him. But he didn’t want to think about his relationship with Mr. Stark right now. He just—he needed time. Time to mourn Ben, time to figure everything out. And now, he actually had time. Homecoming was long over, and he was really starting to get the hang of being Spider-Man.

What was that old saying—Had we but world enough, and time—?

“Hey,” Ned interrupted his thoughts. “What do you think we’re going to see on the field trip? I haven’t been to MOMA in ages.”

Peter was about to reply, but all of a sudden, his skin erupted in goosebumps. He scrambled across the bus to look out the window. When he saw smoke and chaos in the distance, he activated his web shooters and swung out the bus and off to find Mr. Stark. 

iii. 

When Peter came back to life on Titan, everything was a blur. It felt like he’d been asleep for a very, very long time, in a place where the sun was always orange, just like the last moments of a sunset. 

He looked around and saw others reappearing, and then Dr. Strange said that five years had passed and he transported them all back to earth and—it was a lot to wrap his mind around. Where was May? Was she okay? What about Mr. Stark? And Ned? Had they gotten dusty too? If so, had they reappeared like Peter? Why was a battle happening at the Avengers compound?

It wasn’t until he saw the familiar Iron Man suit again from across the battlefield that his stomach began to unclench. Mr. Stark was the safest person he could’ve seen in that moment besides May. He was the only constant variable in a quickly-shifting nightmare. Surely he’d be able to reassure Peter that, no, five years hadn’t passed, and yes, everything was fine. This was just a bizarre dream and he’d wake up soon and everything would be like it used to. 

He swung over, helping Mr. Stark up after Ant-Man stomped past. 

Mr. Stark retracted his mask, then, and the illusion of safety fell away. Because Mr. Stark looked—different. Worn. Older. And he was currently staring at Peter with a completely unfamiliar look—shock and disbelief and wonder and other emotions openly warring for dominance on his face.

“Hey! Holy cow, you will not believe what’s been going on,” Peter rambled nervously, desperately trying to cling to something familiar. If there was anything that was a constant in his relationship with Mr. Stark, it was him spouting off nonsense and Mr. Stark bantering with him in response. 

“Do you remember when we were in space? And I got all dusty? And I must have passed out, because I woke up and you were gone, but Dr. Strange was there, right? And he was like, ‘It’s been five years; come on, they need us.’ And then he started doing the yellow sparkly thing—”

He stepped back slightly to demonstrate the yellow sparkly thing, and he was startled when Mr. Stark stepped forward into his personal space. This was another thing that Mr. Stark normally never would’ve done, because he was just as zealous about Peter not using his magic carelessly as May was. 

Please, Mr. Stark, he wanted to plead. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me it hasn’t really been five years—

Mr. Stark murmured something unintelligible, and then—the world must have really been ending, because Mr. Stark was hugging him.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, bewildered, before his brain caught up to his body and he registered the fact that Mr. Stark’s arms were pulling him close. And he remembered that his last memory before the eternal orange sunset had been of crumbling into tiny pieces, clinging to Mr. Stark and crying and begging not to go. The battle had distracted him from the remnants of that fear and grief, but it was still there. And he remembered all the other times he’d wished for a hug from Mr. Stark; all the times that Mr. Stark had held a hand out to touch him but backed off at the last second. 

“Oh...this is nice,” he said inanely. 

He should’ve known then, what Tony planned to do if he had to. 

Tony was the last person, besides May, who would ever give him a long, close hug. The only reason Tony would allow it was as a way to say goodbye. 

So he should’ve known, but he didn’t. He was too busy enjoying the way it felt to be cradled in Mr. Stark’s arms, temporarily shielded from the battle and his own anxious thoughts about May and Ned.

Perhaps his spider sense knew the truth on some level, though. When Tony let him go after a minute, Peter’s throat instantly closed off with inexplicable tears. 

It didn’t feel like a reunion, he realized later. It felt like a farewell.

***

“We’re going to be okay. You can rest now,” Pepper promised Tony as they all stood in front of his crumpled form. 

Tony looked up at Peter then. He seemed beyond speech, slipping away more and more each second. 

Yet somehow, Peter knew what Tony was saying, even though the only part of his body he could move anymore was his eyes. 

Don’t do it, kid, he was saying. Let me go. 

“No!” Peter snapped suddenly, interrupting Pepper’s peaceful goodbye.  

Mr. Stark couldn’t rest now. And they weren’t going to be okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again after this. 

Mr. Stark still had to take him to see the redwood trees in California. He was supposed to be there when Peter graduated high school. He had to finish teaching Peter how to parallel park. And sit on the roof of the Tower with him when things got rough. And make him spaghetti using his mom’s old recipe—

Peter dove forward, wrapping his arms around Mr. Stark’s shoulders, calling on his magic like he’d never called on it before. 

With great power comes great responsibility, Ben had always told him. 

Ben had been too far gone when Peter had gotten to the scene of his death. He’d tried to use his magic anyway, and later, he’d found himself thinking bitterly, You were wrong, Ben—with great power comes great grief and guilt and loss and pain. 

Now, as he poured his magic into Mr. Stark’s wounds, he could sense that he wasn’t too late. There was the slightest chance that if he stopped the radiation from spreading any further than his arm—if he could block it from reaching Mr. Stark’s lungs and heart and other organs—he might survive. 

His magic greeted Mr. Stark like an old friend, swiftly neutralizing the radiation, reversing the damage, easing Mr. Stark’s pain. 

“What’s he doing?” He heard Rhodey ask behind him. 

“I don’t—Tony is trying to say something! What are you saying, Tony?” Pepper called frantically.

That was the last thing Peter heard. Every fiber of his being had tunneled down to the golden threads of magic connecting his fingers to Tony. 

Are you sure you want to keep going? His magic seemed to be asking him. This is further than we’ve ever gone before. 

Give as much as he needs, Peter thought back instantly. His vision was beginning to dim, but he kept his arms wrapped tightly around Mr. Stark’s neck, even as he felt someone trying to pull him away. 

For a blurred, glorious moment, it felt like he and his magic were one being instead of two separate entities, completely united in the task of saving Mr. Stark. 

Give it all, if he needs it, was his last thought before darkness swept over him and he lost consciousness.

iv.  

“You have to talk to him, Peter,” May sighed, handing a plate to Peter to dry. They’d just eaten dinner, and Peter was helping her clean up the kitchen. “I know this is killing you inside just as much as it’s affecting Tony.”

It had been a month since his fight with Tony in Med Bay, and May had been relentlessly on his case about making up with his mentor.

Peter rolled his eyes, drying the plate and putting it in the cupboard above. “Yeah, he seemed really affected when he was shouting at me.”

“He’s been calling me every single day and trying to get me to put you on the line. He said you haven’t been answering his calls, either. I swear, if he wasn’t banned from leaving the penthouse until he’s feeling a little stronger, he’d be breaking down our front door right now.”

Peter just shrugged. 

“It’s not like you, baby. You usually don’t hold grudges.”

Peter frowned. “It’s not—it’s not a grudge. I’m not mad at Mr. Stark. He’s mad at me, in case you forgot.”

“Peter,” May sighed. “I think you know that he was only mad at you initially because he was scared and upset. And I think you know, deep down, that there’s another reason why you don’t want to call him or see him now.”

She passed him a mug. Peter dried it, and then he found himself staring at the maze of cupboards, trying to remember where it belonged. 

“Mugs go above the stove,” Happy reminded him from the doorway, pointing at the correct cabinet. “Just there.”

“Thanks, Happy,” Peter said. 

This was just another thing that was different since he’d come back from the blip—May and Happy’s new apartment, with different places to put cups and plates from the old place. 

“Boss has been annoying me about you everyday, too, for the record,” Happy added. He pulled some wet wipes out from underneath the sink and began to wipe down the stove and the countertops. It was clearly a familiar ritual and it was still bizarre to Peter—Happy being here, in his apartment, dressed in old sweats and a t-shirt, holding hands with May while they all watched TV before bed. 

“Okay, I get that you’re on Tony’s side, Happy,” Peter said, frowning at his aunt. “But what about you, May? You used to hate him.”

May smiled at him. “That was ages ago, honey. Nowadays, he worries about you even more than I do. Can’t take issue with that.”

“He doesn’t understand,” Peter sighed morosely, flopping onto one of the kitchen chairs. 

“You haven’t really given him a chance to, Peter,” May reminded him gently. 

***

The thing was: Peter knew, deep down, that May was right. People sometimes said things they regretted or didn’t mean in anger, and he owed Tony a chance to explain himself. 

Peter decided that he didn’t have to tell May she was right, though. 

So one day, he gathered up all of his courage and swung over to Stark Tower after patrol. The Starks were spending all of their time there while Mr. Stark recovered, but apparently they lived at a lake house three hours north most of the time now.

Just another new thing. 

He webbed his way up to the ledge of the penthouse’s balcony, and he was about to swing his legs over the balcony fence when a light flicked on in the penthouse. He’d entered the penthouse by climbing up the side of Stark Tower countless times before, but something made him pause in this instance. Feeling like an intruder, he remained where he was, peeking over the edge of the balcony.

He watched as Tony, Pepper, and Morgan entered the room. Mr. Stark must’ve just come from a physical therapy session or something. He was dressed in workout clothes, and he looked exhausted. He appeared a million times better from how he’d looked in the Med Bay, especially wearing a new prosthetic arm, but it was still strange to see him walk so slowly and carefully. 

Morgan kicked off her shoes and tossed her backpack on the couch, immediately grabbing some stuffed animals off the floor. Pepper helped ease Tony onto the couch, and he propped his feet up on the ottoman, looking like he was about to melt into the cushions for a long nap. 

Pepper settled on the couch next to Tony on his good side, leaning against him. 

As Peter watched, Morgan said something that made both her parents laugh. She skipped over to the couch and gingerly climbed onto Tony’s lap, obviously having been warned several times to mind Tony’s injuries. 

She leaned her head against Tony’s chest, and Tony smiled down at her. Both of their faces were bathed in golden lamplight, and the whole scene was warm and cozy. It was clear how much the Starks all loved each other and—

Peter suddenly understood what May had meant when she’d suggested that maybe there was another reason why he didn’t want to talk to Mr. Stark. 

Because if he kept his distance, it was easier to pretend that Mr. Stark was still the same. His aunt was different, Happy was different, his apartment was different, and now—now Mr. Stark was different, too.

Because Tony had a kid now. A normal kid, who didn’t cause life-and-death problems when she hugged people. A kid who didn’t stick to walls or have super powers. A kid who was his by blood, who had his exact same dark eyes and bright smile.

All of a sudden, all three Starks turned their heads in his direction, and Peter quickly ducked out of sight. 

“Thanks a lot, FRIDAY,” he grumbled, assuming that the AI had ratted him out. 

“FRIDAY apologizes, Peter,” Karen informed him. She could connect to FRIDAY when they were in close range of the Tower. “She said that you often come to the Tower this way, and she presumed you wanted her to inform Boss that you were here, like usual.”

Peter shot a web and swung away before Tony or Pepper could come find him. As he soared through the air, he couldn’t help but remember all the times he had entered the Tower just like FRIDAY said—running across the balcony to show Mr. Stark the new LEGO set Ned had bought him for his birthday, staggering into the kitchen with a stab wound after a patrol gone wrong, swinging by for dinner because Ms. Potts was traveling for work and he knew Tony got lonely, even though he would never say it—

“Tell FRIDAY to cancel that protocol,” Peter informed Karen woodenly when he landed on a nearby building.

***

It was almost inevitable. 

Peter had been burning both ends of the candle and running himself ragged. The world was in chaos in the aftermath of the blip’s reversal. Patrol was the easiest way to help others and avoid seeing Mr. Stark, so patrol was what he did. He completely ignored the curfew Mr. Stark had set on his suit, muting Karen whenever she reminded him that it was time to head home. 

He walked people to relief centers. He gave directions to people whose sense of place had been thrown off by the cityscape’s many changes in the last five years. 

He fought against people who wanted to take advantage of the mass disorder to rob convenience stores and banks and mug people in back alleys.

On this particular day, it was just a run-of-the-mill evil guy in Flushing Meadows Park, wearing a stupid-looking green costume that he’d obviously sewed himself. It was probably supposed to look streamlined and reptilian, but it made him look like someone dressed up as an alligator for Halloween, ill-fitting and with odd swaths of extra fabric. Said guy had created, bought, or stolen some kind of alien technology. He had scaled the giant globe in the center of the park and was brandishing a ray gun and was taking shots at random passersby. 

“Cute costume,” Peter called casually, climbing the side of the Unisphere with very little effort. 

“Get lost, Spider-Boy,” the man had the nerve to say. “I have a new world order to create.”

“Yikes—no can do, Crocodile Boy.”

The man actually stopped shooting momentarily to wheel around and face Peter. “It’s Lizard Man,” he hissed. 

Peter knew he shouldn’t escalate the situation when there were innocent bystanders at stake, but he couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Now that he’d gotten closer, he could see that the man was relatively short and slim. He had a mask on, so Peter couldn’t see his face, but his nasally voice was hardly intimidating. Hopefully, he could web the guy up in a matter of seconds and be on his way. 

“Peter,” Karen spoke up. “I recommend calling Mr.—”

“Mute, Karen,” Peter snapped. 

“At least I do my own work, Spider-Boy,” Lizard Man taunted. “What, you have to call Stark to get his approval to climb up here and fight me? How touching. Your sugar daddy made you that suit, and he—”

Peter shot a web right at Lizard Man’s mouth, not particularly wanting to hear the end of the comment. He watched with satisfaction as the web hit its mark, wrapping around the lower half of Lizard Man’s face. 

“I have to say, Crocodile Boy, I like you a lot more when you’re not talking,” Peter said, shooting more webs to fix the villain’s legs to the globe they were standing on top of. “And even more when you’re webbed up.”

He was getting ready to web the ray gun and pull it over to himself when something odd happened. Lizard Man ripped through the webs and freed himself, making it look as easy as ripping through tissue paper. Then he reached up and yanked the web off of his mouth. 

Peter stared. It had taken him nearly six months of trial and error to engineer a solution that would dissolve his webs. How—

“Looks like someone didn’t do their research,” Lizard Man grinned smugly. 

“Unmute, Karen,” Peter immediately ordered. 

“As I was attempting to say earlier, you are currently fighting Lizard Man, Peter, a highly wanted fugitive who has been attempting world domination over the course of the past three years.”

“Oh, shit,” Peter breathed. Peter hadn’t been around for the past three years. He hadn’t even known that Lizard Man was a thing. 

“Yes, that’s what I thought you would say,” Lizard Man continued, his mouth curling unsettlingly. “You see, Spider-Boy, I’ve been planning this day for a long time.”

Peter’s spidey sense had been tingling for the past few minutes, but it grew even stronger now. “Call Dr. Banner, Karen,” he muttered under his breath. He had a bad feeling about this. 

“Look, I’m not really interested in your tragic backstory,” he said in a louder tone. “Lots of people have tragic backstories. Including a lot of those innocent people you’re shooting at down there. Have you ever thought about trying therapy? Or recreational gardening or something?”

“Stark ruined my plans,” Lizard Man said in a low, dangerous voice. “He defeated Thanos, destroying the possibility of—”

“—creating a new world order, yes, I got that already.”

Peter took a step closer to Lizard Man, who was holding the ray gun behind his back. If he could just get the ray gun and eliminate the risk to the people below—

“I knew I would meet you if I came to Queens. Brave little Spider-Boy, to the rescue.”

Peter’s mind was racing. “Great, cool trap. You got me. Where’s the catch? Because all I see is some dude in a kids’ costume.”

Lizard Man ripped his mask off, and for a second, Peter caught a glimpse of a pale, unremarkable face with mousy hair. But then it looked like Lizard Man’s face was—melting and changing. 

Peter recoiled in shock. It almost seemed like Lizard Man was—getting taller? And changing shape?

“Karen,” Peter said slowly, his heart in his throat. “Why is he called Lizard Man?”

“Because he consumed a super serum that turns him into a radioactive lizard at will.” 

“Ah, right. Yes. Okay,” Peter said, trying to keep a note of hysteria from his voice. 

***

When the horrible transformation stopped, Lizard Man looked undeniably like a lizard. He was grotesque, huge, and hulking, with green scales, a long tail, and glowing yellow eyes. 

Peter immediately began shooting webs, because it was his usual go-to battle maneuver. But once again, Lizard Man was able to shrug the webs off as if they were confetti. They were on top of Unisphere, which meant that there was nothing nearby for him to web onto. Thinking quickly, he grabbed onto one of the pieces of metal making the top of the dome, and then he dropped his body into the hollow part of the globe, holding onto the metal as if it were a rung on the monkey bars. 

He shot a web across the underside of the top of the globe and swung through the globe, building up some speed. Using the momentum, he flipped back out on top of the globe on the other side of Lizard Man, landing a sharp kick to his back. 

Lizard Man barely flinched. He whipped his tail around, catching Peter in the side. Peter relied mostly on his webbing, which meant that his suit was lightweight and not designed for close combat. He fell hard and rolled. His ribs aching, Peter dived for the gun. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange. His midsection had begun to glow a familiar shade of blue, and the ache in his ribs instantly subsided. 

Had his magic just healed his own injury, completely unbidden?

There was no time to think about it in great detail, however, because he had to abruptly change course when Lizard Man fired a blazing bolt in his direction. In order to dodge the blast, he was forced to flip closer to Lizard Man at the last second, putting himself in a vulnerable position. Sharp claws raked down his back, and Peter couldn’t help the scream that escaped him. It felt like Lizard Man’s claws were dipped in acid or poison, the wounds immediately beginning to burn. 

Staggering to his feet, Peter jumped at Lizard Man again, landing on his back and using his stickiness to adhere to the villain. He began to pummel Lizard Man with kicks and punches, but the guy clearly had managed to acquire the thick skin characteristic of reptiles. 

Still, he was able to snake one hand down and grab onto the gun. He used his stickiness to latch on and he refused to let go. He and Lizard Man began a rather inelegant game of tug-of-war then, each of them determined not to yield the gun. His back was on fire, but he kept holding on. 

Using all of his might, Peter suddenly kicked the gun. He watched with satisfaction as it fell towards the earth below. His wounds were burning so badly that he could barely see or stand anymore. 

Lizard Man let out a furious, wordless bellow. Peter staggered and struggled to catch his breath. He realized, with a sudden surge of panic, that his limbs were beginning to go numb, perhaps from whatever toxin Lizard Man had on his claws.

As a result, he wasn’t quick enough to move out of the way when Lizard Man’s tail lashed out and whipped him in the legs. Peter scrambled to catch his balance, but there was nothing he could do. The top of the Unisphere was full of gaps and holes. Peter was falling, falling, falling then, careening towards the concrete below with alarming speed. He tried to move his arm to shoot a web, but it barely twitched in response. 

As he plummeted towards the earth, darkness crept around the edges of his vision. 

He waited for impact, but it never came. He thought felt strong arms metallic arms wrap around him at the last second. 

The last thing he remembered was a frantic voice near his ear, calling his name and saying something over and over again to him. 

Over the sound of the voice, he thought he heard a familiar heartbeat—just slightly offbeat and uneven, beating unusually fast with fear. 

***

Peter woke up in the Med Bay at Stark Tower, and for a moment, it felt just like the good old days—staggering in after patrol, concussed or stabbed, begging Mr. Stark not to tell May what had happened. Waking up in the morning with Mr. Stark dozing next to his bed or working on his Stark Pad. 

Mr. Stark was sitting in the usual visitor’s chair, but his gray hair and prosthetic arm immediately reminded Peter that the good old days were long gone.

Mr. Stark was watching him with an unreadable expression, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

“Did they get Lizard Man?” Peter asked cautiously. 

Mr. Stark scrubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. “Yeah, Pete. They did. You did good.”

Peter shook his head, remembering how stupid he’d been. “I was ignoring Karen. She was trying to tell me about Lizard Man, but I muted her. It was dumb. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “It’s my fault, Pete. I knew he had a grudge against me. I’ve been monitoring him for a few years now, and I knew Thanos’ defeat would piss him off. I just didn’t expect that he’d go for you. And we both know that I’m the reason why you wanted to mute Karen—”

“It’s not your fault,” Peter quickly interjected. “None of this is your fault.”

But Mr. Stark suddenly surged to his feet. “You almost died,” he croaked, his face pale. “Lizard Man’s claws were coated with enough poison to take down a small army, let alone one superkid. Your magic was the only thing that kept you alive. You were glowing blue all over when I caught you at the Unisphere.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Peter stammered.

Mr. Stark shook his head emphatically. “You don’t understand, Pete. Bruce and Helen were in here working on you, and all I could think about was the fight we had, and how the last thing I ever said to you was said in anger.”

Mr. Stark’s voice had changed from the dead, flat tone he’d been using during their fight in Med Bay. He was back to the Mr. Stark that Peter knew, the one who always ordered pizza from Peter’s favorite place, even though he didn’t like their crust. The one who’d bought him Hamilton tickets after he played the soundtrack in the lab a hundred times. The one who’d designed a million safety features for his spidey suit. The one who’d promised him a summer road trip down the West Coast once Peter graduated high school

“Pete,” Mr. Stark repeated, his tone raw. “Buddy. About the fight we had—”  

It was all Peter had been wanting, this entire time, since he’d come back to life on Titan. The easy comfort and familiarity he and Mr. Stark had once shared. But he couldn’t accept it, because Mr. Stark still didn’t understand. 

“Mr. Stark,” he said firmly, even though he could feel himself leaning slightly closer to his mentor, like one of his mom’s flowers stretching towards the sun. “I’m not going to apologize or act sorry for what I did. I don’t regret it, and I never will.”

Mr. Stark took a step closer to the bed, as though testing the waters. 

“I know, Pete. I’m sorry for the things I said. I just—I hate that you have to deal with this. I was scared and sad, and it was easier to be angry. Can you just—can you try to imagine how I felt, finding out that you gave me ten years of your life?”

Peter shrugged, picking at a thread on his hospital blanket. 

“You shouldn’t have come to get me from the Unisphere,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “You’re retired and you’re still recovering. You could’ve injured yourself again.”

“Of course I was going to come for you.” Mr. Stark stared at him. “C’mon, Underoos, you can’t honestly believe that I wouldn’t.”

Peter shrugged.

Mr. Stark sighed and changed tack. “Okay, and what if I got a message that Morgan had been in a fight against a giant lizard-man and her vitals were bottoming out?” He asked, his eyes intent and serious. “What then, Pete? Would you expect me to sit at home at the lake house and wait for Sam and Rhodey to go out and find her?”

“No!” Peter exclaimed, horrified. “Of course not. But that’s Morgan!”

“How is me putting on a suit to help Morgan any different from me putting on a suit to help you?” 

“Morgan is four, and she’s not enhanced,” Peter scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest. He struggled into a sitting position and swung his legs over the hospital bed as if to stand, and Tony gently took him by the shoulders and held him in place, expression earnest. 

“It doesn’t matter, Pete! I would try to save Morgan even if she was an adult! Even if she was enhanced like you! Even if I was 96 and in a nursing home, I would try to save her! You know why?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. She’s your kid.”

Mr. Stark nodded back, looking encouraged. “Okay, you see where I’m going with this?”

Peter thought for a moment. It almost sounded like Mr. Stark was trying to imply that—

He quickly shook his head. 

Tony deflated slightly but kept going. 

“Well, think of it this way: What if it was Morgan who had magic, and she gave me ten years of her life?”

Peter’s fingers spasmed and clenched around the edge of the bed automatically. It was awful to imagine. He hadn’t spent much time with Morgan yet, but she was sweet and stubborn and such a perfect little mixture of Tony and Pepper. She deserved to have a long, happy childhood, unburdened by magic and superpowers.

“That would be terrible,” he said quietly, looking away. “You’d never want her to make a sacrifice like that for you. She’s your daughter.”

Tony nodded, and then he knelt down in front of Peter, so that he was just below Peter’s eye level. He was confused when Tony reached up, slow and deliberate in a way that he usually wasn’t. With his remaining hand, he lifted Peter’s chin so that Peter was looking at him. Tony’s expression was gentle and unusually serious.

“And you’re my son,” Tony said with such calm certainty that it made Peter’s eyes water. “And I’m always going to be sad when you feel like you have to make a sacrifice on my behalf. And I’m always going to want to protect you, no matter how old or strong or brave you are.”

Two tears dripped down Peter’s cheeks. Mr. Stark wiped them away. 

“I’m going to hug you now,” Tony said. “And I’m giving you a free pass to hug me back, just this once.”

And then strong arms were wrapping around him, one metal and one human.

It took Peter’s brain a long moment to catch up. This hug—it wasn’t hurried and urgent like the time they’d hugged on the battlefield, Tony’s hands clutching at him and verifying that he was really there, that he was really okay. This hug was gentle. Easy. Tony was just—just embracing him, because he could, because he wanted to, because they were both alive and they cared about each other. 

When the initial shock and disbelief faded, Peter practically dove into the embrace, burying his face in Mr. Stark’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of metal and coffee .

To his surprise, his hands began to glow their normal blue, but the golden runes never formed. It was as if his magic was saying, You’ve done enough. 

And, Just this once, keep this bit of life and let yourself be held. 

Peter happily acquiesced, tangling his glowing fingers in the back of Mr. Stark’s t-shirt, and it was as if his magic sighed in relief. 

Mr. Stark gave Peter a few minutes to hug him back before he broke away. 

“Alright, alright,” he said gruffly, but his eyes looked a bit damp. “Let’s not get carried away. You have to get those smurf hands to go away before your aunt gets here.”

“If May kills you, I’m happy to give another ten years up to revive you,” Peter grinned. 

Tony winced. “Too soon, bud. Way too soon.”

But he sat down in the chair next to Peter’s bed and turned on Brooklyn 99, and he was still there the next morning when Peter woke up, just like old times. 

v.  

Morgan came to visit him on the second day of his recovery, when he could sit up and hobble to the bathroom and stay awake for more than an hour at a time. 

“Have you ever seen the movie Frozen?” She asked, pulling two dolls out of her backpack. One had white-blond hair, and the other had gingery-red braids. 

Peter shook his head. 

Morgan handed him the blond doll. “You’re like Elsa, and I’m like Anna!” She kept the red-haired doll for herself, swinging her little legs over the edge of the plastic visitor’s chair idly. 

“This one is Elsa?” Peter confirmed, holding up his doll.

“Yeah,” Morgan nodded seriously. “She has magic powers, just like you. She can control ice and snow and winter.”

“And what about Anna? Does she have magic powers?”

Morgan shook her head. “She’s a regular person, like me. But she’s a good sister. And she’s funny.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile at that. He could hardly believe that Tony had called Peter his—his kid the night before. And if he was Tony’s kid, that meant Morgan was—

“That does sound a lot like you, Mo.”

“So anyway, Elsa has these magic powers, but she’s afraid of hurting people with them, so she has to wear gloves and she never touches people, and Daddy said you were the same way—”

Peter’s mouth fell open. 

“Seriously?” He asked, intrigued in spite of himself. “What—what happens in the story?”

He listened intently as Morgan recounted the events of the plot—sometimes in a style that was a bit difficult to follow, and with a few musical interludes, where Morgan insisted that he try to sing Elsa’s part in songs that he’d never heard before—but eventually she got to the end of the story. 

“And then Anna gets totally frozen, but Elsa hugs her and brings her back to life, because she loves her. And Elsa realizes that she shouldn’t be scared of her magic, because then she can’t control it.”

Then Morgan made him pull up a scene from the end of the movie where Elsa finally realized that she could use her magic to thaw the winter she accidentally created. 

As he watched, Elsa accepted her magic and made spring return to the kingdom, the ice melting and the sun shining overhead.

“Wow,” Peter said, a bit choked up even though it was a kids’ movie. 

But...he couldn’t deny that the connection between himself and her character made sense. He’d spent so much time repressing his magic that he had to admit that he didn’t fully understand it. And he definitely feared it. 

Maybe...maybe if he stopped caring so much, it could be harnessed. Maybe he and his magic could find peace with one another, and live in equilibrium. 

It was a thought that had been living in some corner of his brain for a while now, but he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it.

Now, though, he recalled how it had felt to use his magic to save Mr. Stark, how he’d surrendered the control he always clung to so fiercely and finally let his magic do what it was meant to do. He thought about how he’d hugged Mr. Stark the day before, and his magic hadn’t taken any of his life force away. He thought about how his magic had saved him in the fight against Lizard Man, healing his ribs and helping his body absorb the poison. 

And most of all, he thought about his mom, who had never held back her gift. Despite the neighbors spying over the fence to see how exactly she did her gardening. Despite the baffled stares of people at the playground, who wondered why a bed of flowers had suddenly appeared in the middle of Central Park.

Morgan was watching his face carefully. “Daddy cried when we watched the movie, and Mommy said he was sad because he missed you. And Mommy said I could only watch the movie on my StarkPad with headphones after that,” she recounted. 

“Maybe your dad would want to watch it now,” Peter told her. “I know I’d like to see it. We could have a movie night, or something.”

“Yeah!” Morgan shouted enthusiastically. 

Peter tipped his head back against his hospital bed pillow, listening to Morgan go on about how he was going to love the giant TV at the lake house, and how her mom always made the best popcorn on movie nights. 

When he’d first found out about Morgan, he’d felt threatened. Replaced. Unnecessary. 

Now he was beginning to understand that Morgan had been waiting for him all this time. She’d heard countless stories about him. She’d already made plans to play superheroes with him and show him how to catch fireflies. 

He hadn’t been forgotten. He’d been loved and missed, even when he was gone for those five years. 

***

He celebrated his sixteenth birthday at the lake house that summer, surrounded by his friends, his aunt, the Starks, and most of the Avengers.

“I’ve got to say,” Peter said solemnly when the candles on his birthday cake were lit and everyone was preparing to sing to him. “Being fifteen—it’s been a long year, waiting to turn sixteen. As a matter of fact, it almost felt like it was six years, not one—”

Everyone groaned. Morgan threw a blueberry at his head. 

Later, as the party was wrapping up, Mr. Stark came and found him down on the dock next to the lake. 

“I never had the chance to give you your gift,” he said, taking a seat next to Peter and passing him a small, rectangular box that was covered in Iron Man-themed wrapping paper. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, feeling a bit overwhelmed already by the party.

“It’s ‘Tony,’ kid, remember?”

“Okay, you didn’t have to get me anything, Tony, ” he repeated, refusing to be distracted. 

“Are you kidding me? I have five years of birthday gifts to make up for, here, kiddo. This is nothing.” 

“Yeah, I know. May told me she had to talk you out of buying me a car. ”

“Well, it was either that or an apartment building,” Tony shrugged. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I live in Queens. Where the hell would I park a car? And, if you haven’t noticed, I already live in an apartment building.”

“It would be a good long term investment,” Tony said, as if this was a perfectly normal birthday gift to offer someone. “But I think you’ll like what I’m giving you here more. It’s handmade, for one. Straight from the heart, and all of that.”

Peter had to admit that he was intrigued. As far as he knew, Tony had been spending most of his lab time working on his new prosthetic arm, not some mysterious gift for Peter. 

“I’ve been working on this for a long time,” Tony said gently, as if reading Peter’s mind. “Since before the blip.”

“Alright, you win,” Peter grumbled, curiously tearing the wrapping paper off. Tony looked pleased with himself. 

When Peter opened the box, he saw two wrist gauntlets—almost like his web shooters.

“Is this nanotech?” He asked, picking one up and inspecting it. “Or new web shooters?”

“Neither,” Tony said, looking oddly nervous. “It’s—okay, look, kid—it’s just a prototype right now. It’s a work in progress. But...these gauntlets. When I get them working, they should, you know. Temporarily channel your magic away from your body. So you can hug people without sucking your soul out.”

Peter’s mouth fell open. “You—you invented a way to block my magic?”

Tony shook his head quickly. “Just temporarily. Not permanently. I would never try to take your magic away.”

“You—you don’t even think magic is real!” Peter exclaimed in disbelief. “How—”

“Dr. Strange consulted on the project. So did Bruce.”

“You willingly took advice from Dr. Strange about magic?”

“It’s not magic,” Tony grumbled. “It’s just—”

“Science that we don’t understand yet,” Peter recited. 

Tony flicked him on the ear. 

“Dr. Strange also recommended some magic lessons. He thinks he might be able to teach you to channel your...mysterious science better, so that you have some control over it. He...he even thinks that you might be able to restore some of the magic you’ve given away over the years.”

Peter could only stare in shock. The idea was almost too fantastical to consider. Having the ability to hug May and Ned and Tony whenever he wanted, free of cost—it was insane. 

“Pete,” Tony said, unusually serious. “Your aunt and I have been talking—and we think we might have been going about this all wrong. Your magic is part of you, and it’s clear that repressing it is just hurting you.”

“It’s not that bad,” Peter deflected automatically, not wanting Mr. Stark or May to feel guilty on his behalf. 

“You called yourself a freak, buddy.” Tony’s gaze was pained. “In the hospital, when I woke up. I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“You and May—you’ve been amazing. You’ve been trying your best.”

But Tony shook his head. “Part of being a parent is being able to admit when you’re wrong. I know May wants the three of us to sit down and have a proper conversation about all of this. Expect profuse apologies and lots of crying from both of us.”

Peter winced. “Oh, what do you know, my calendar is really booked—I think I’m going to have to skip that meeting.” 

But there was an unfamiliar emotion buoying his chest, and it took him a long moment to realize that it was hope. 

When he looked at Tony, he could see that his mentor felt the same way. “Pete...if Strange can help you—I think you should try it.”

Peter nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. And...I want to try it.”

Tony bumped his shoulder against Peter’s. “Proud of you, kid.”

“Thanks for the gauntlets, Tony. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, well. I invented time travel to bring you back to life. It was the least I could do,” Tony shrugged modestly. 

“Yeah, well. I used magic to bring you back to life. So I win.”

“No way, kid,” Tony laughed, reaching over and ruffling his hair. Quickly, just like Ben always used to do.

“Morgan!” Peter shouted. Morgan was running around with Ned and MJ, having trapped them in some kind of imaginary game where she was a queen and they were her servants. 

“What?” Morgan shouted back. 

“Which is cooler—time travel or magic powers?”

“Magic!” She replied instantly. 

“See,” Peter said smugly, flashing Morgan a thumb’s up. “I win.”

Mr. Stark sighed. “Unbelievable. I slave away for four and a half years raising her, and then you come along and suddenly I’m nothing.”

But he was glancing between Peter and Morgan with unmistakable fondness, his eyes crinkled at the corners with happiness.

“Hey...did you and Pepper plant those flowers?” Peter asked curiously, suddenly pointing at a patch of white lilies that he was pretty sure hadn’t been next to the dock a few minutes earlier. They seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. 

Mr. Stark looked over at the lilies, his eyes widening. “No. We can barely manage to keep tomatoes alive, let alone flowers. And how did they appear so quickly?” He scratched his goatee, confused. 

But Peter just smiled to himself. His mom had always understood that their gifts were meant to be used, no matter how bittersweet and difficult it was. The root of their magic was love, after all—a kind of love that, when shared with others freely, could linger on for a long time, stronger than death, acting as a protector and a guide.

After all, Ned always swore that his left ankle had become immune to all injury ever since Peter’s magic fixed it. Leia had been an old cat already when he’d found her, and she’d lived eight more years. 

Maybe somewhere out there in the world, a little girl who’d survived a car crash was walking around with a spine of steel. And a boy with red hair and Avengers pajamas would have strong lungs for the rest of his life. 

And maybe his parents and Ben weren’t really gone, after all. Maybe they were still around somewhere. In white lilies. In his Parker earlobes. In his love of stargazing. 

Even if it was only in the broadest sense, in the equilibrium of the entire universe. 

So, really, how could he really regret having his magic, with all it had given him?

Later, he would pick some of the flowers and show them to May, who would understand what they meant. But for now, he and Mr. Stark would sit together in the moonlight, not quite touching, but still close enough that his magic swelled contentedly beneath his skin. 

And maybe someday—not today, but someday—he’d put on a pair of gauntlets, or he’d leave a lesson with Dr. Strange, and he’d lean his head against Tony’s shoulder, and Tony would wrap an arm around him—and nothing would happen.

Nothing at all. No empires would crumble. Nobody would live or die. There would just be comfort and silence, and the two of them looking up at the night sky. 

Not today, but maybe someday.