Thanks for all of the feedback, everyone! You made a slightly sleep-deprived writer very happy. This chapter, as noted in yesterday's chapter, switches over to Peter's perspective. Enjoy!

TWO.

"Earth to Peter."

Peter flipped a page in his textbook. Chemical equations swam before his eyes. He traced sodium phosphate on a page, felt along the bumps of some hard-pressed ink. He needed to finish his chemistry homework—he was a little behind, especially after sleeping in by accident yesterday. Peter winced, remembering the scramble out of his suit and into his school clothes. He had entirely forgotten about breakfast, zipped past a startled Aunt May, and landed in second period without too much of a hitch until Ned reminded him that he had missed the chem quiz.

"Peter. Hello?"

A pair of fingers snapped in front of Peter's eyes once, twice, three times before he finally lifted his head. Ned, still snapping his fingers, sighed. "Finally," he said, exasperated. "I've been calling you forever."

"Sorry," Peter said, closing his textbook. "Just studying."

"You'll be fine," Ned snorted. "And Mr. Harrington's quizzes are always easy for you, anyways."

Peter managed a small smile. "I guess," he replied. He pushed his textbook away from himself. The sunlight streaming from the window hit the cover, causing the purple illustration of the textbook to glint into Peter's eyes. He shoved the textbook out of the light. "Anyways, what's up?"

"New Star Wars Lego set back at my place," Ned replied. "Nearly four thousand pieces. You in?"

Peter blinked. "But the Death Star set has, like, three thousand eight hundred."

"I know!" Ned laughed. The sound, as cheerful as it was, seemed to ring in the otherwise empty classroom. The two sometimes holed up in these empty spaces after classes, whether it be in a classroom or the gymnasium. But the last time Peter had actually willingly stayed in school since—well, since—felt like a lifetime ago. "It's gonna be awesome! So you wanna get it done or what?"

Peter fiddled with a part of the textbook's spine. A corner of the spine had just started wriggling away, and Peter figured that he would have to duct tape some part of it together again. "Sure," he replied. He looked up at Ned, hoping his smile this time was stronger than the last. "Sounds fun."

"Great!" Ned beamed. He picked up Peter's textbook. "I'll meet you outside after you take your quiz."

"Thanks," Peter said, standing up. He shouldered on his bag and giving Ned a halfhearted wave, he walked out of the room and into the hallway. His shoes squeaked against the freshly polished linoleum floor, and his shadow lengthened from behind as he passed other classrooms with opened windows and doors. From the distance, he could hear students running on the track for sports practice, and, from an even greater distance, Peter could hear other students laughing and shouting from outside the school property itself.

Readjusting his grip on his bag, Peter forced his attention away from the sounds outside. Super hearing and sensing and whatever would be for a later time.

"Peter."

"Hey, Mr. Harrington," Peter said, walking into the chemistry classroom. "Sorry about missing class."

"It's fine," the teacher replied, handing Peter the assessment. "Everything okay lately?"

Peter only caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Harrington's face before forcing his eyes back down on the quiz. He concentrated on the way his fingers gripped the corner of the paper. "Everything's fine," he said, hoping his voice sounded as light as Peter wanted it to be. "Aunt May's back to work and stuff."

"That's great," Peter heard Mr. Harrington say from above. There was a pause before he added, "If you ever need to talk to someone about what happened—"

"Everything's fine," Peter repeated, jerking his head up. His teacher—who, to Peter, had looked so much younger for what only felt like a few days ago—only smiled sadly back down at him. Like almost every other adult who hadn't been dusted away, Mr. Harrington looked older, with grey streaking his dark hair and more wrinkles lining his forehead and eyes. "Really," Peter added. "You don't need to worry about me." He waved the quiz in the air. "I'll just…take this."

Mr. Harrington only nodded once before Peter dropped himself down at a desk. Ducking his head down at the quiz, Peter scanned through the questions only once before he started sneaking glances back up at his teacher. He wondered how many talks Mr. Harrington had to give to other students who had suddenly come back from being declared lost. Just the other day, Peter had seen a freshman curled up in front of a locker. When Peter had gotten closer, the freshman had kept repeating, "it was dark" before someone called over the school counselor.

Peter had noticed people staring at him, too. People who weren't his classmates—not the classmates he grew up with, anyways. He had checked Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter all to find that the students now missing from his supposed graduating class (or his old graduating class?) had all moved on to college. He found out that the girl who had been in his fifth grade class had just gotten engaged while going to school at USC, while the boy who had been in his eighth grade English class had decided to join the military. The twins who lived across from him had both moved to Alaska to start some kind of business, and the girl he used to have a crush on in first grade was publishing her first book in Boston.

Peter stared down at the chemistry equation sitting in front of him. Balance the following equation, the problem read. Empty blanks where the coefficients of elements bore into Peter, and he traced the bare outlines of numbers onto the paper. There were other blanks, Peter knew, not just in this stupid equation. But elsewhere. Deeper elsewhere.

A pain erupted in Peter's chest, and the equation started to fade in and out of focus as some part of him started desperately searching, clawing for something to fill an empty blank in his memory. An empty blank that was distinctly shaped like a half-burned man right in front of Peter—an empty blank that was distinctly shaped like a wreath slowly floating away on a lake from a month ago…

Peter swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his pencil. He stared down at the sheet of paper, at the empty blanks, at the scramble of letters that was supposed to make up water and carbon dioxide and nitrogen phosphate and—

The pencil snapped in Peter's hand.

Mr. Harrington startled from his desk. "What—"

"Sorry," Peter said quickly, dropping the broken remnants of his pencil into his bag. "Was holding it a little too hard." It hurt to smile. "Do you have a pencil I could borrow?"

"Hey, Karen—anything new?"

"We've been doing this for approximately six and a half hours, Peter."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter muttered, swinging his legs from the fire escape. He peered down at the cars zipping from underneath him. "It's a Friday, though. We've got some more free time."

"It is eleven thirty PM."

"Uh-huh," Peter said. The cars below him had slowed down at a red light. From here, he could see a couple bobbing their heads up and down and up and down to some music. A little girl in the backseat of a red car was watching something from a phone. A boy probably a few years older than Peter was sticking a cigarette outside the window of his black car. Peter couldn't help but wonder if they had all been dusted before, or if they had just grown up with people suddenly missing from their lives. He watched the boy throw the cigarette to the sidewalk.

The light turned green, and the cars were zipping off again, the couple and the little girl and the boy all speeding away back to their lives. Peter kept his eyes trained on those cars, letting them gradually turn into nothing more than little bits of color underneath the city lights until he finally heard something shuffling from behind him.

"Only a rat," Karen said as Peter turned his head. "There is no one of any immediate danger within a five mile radius."

A second later, a cry sounded from Peter's left.

"A five mile radius?" Peter asked, already jumping to his feet.

"Miss James was not in immediate danger until approximately point three five seconds ago," Karen replied, and if an AI could sound defensive, then Karen was definitely such. "She is currently two blocks away."

"Thanks," Peter said and leapt off the building.

Air rushed up to his face, and Peter shot out his hand for a string of webbing to swing him from building to building. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windows, took note of the glint of his suit reflected against the glass. Even in the dark, Peter could make out the distinct red and blue and even slight gold that flashed right back at him.

Peter's throat tightened unexpectedly, and he forced his eyes back forward. He kicked off the building, distancing himself from the windows as far as he could before crashing back down to the ground.

A young woman wearing a red sweatshirt was yanking back her bike from some taller, clearly stronger figure in a ski mask. "Back off!" she screamed, gripping the handlebars. The figure only growled something in response, but before he (or she?) could do anything else, Peter let a length of webbing fly from his palm.

"Hey!" the thief protested as he slammed back against a wall.

"I'm getting kinda tired of people stealing each other's bikes," Peter only said, walking towards the thief. "Seriously, man, it's been the third time this week." He turned to the woman. "Have a nice night, ma'am."

"Thanks, Spider-Man," the woman replied with a slight bob of the head. She narrowed her eyes at Peter. "Gotta ask, though—new suit?"

The tightening in Peter's throat returned. "Um—" He took a few steps backward. "Something like that."

"Nice." Then the woman was peddling away, and Peter was still backing away, one foot at a time.

"Just to let you know, I've only tried to take that lady's bike once," the thief called as Peter kept walking back. "I don't know who the hell the other two were."

"Yeah," Peter said, his own voice sounding distant in his ears. "Great. Keep it up." He slowly turned around and shot himself upwards. He flung himself from window to window, wall to wall, his head, heart, everything pounding in his ears as he tried not to look at his reflection or at the suit or at anything that could shine in the light, which was all stupid because he was living in a city, so everything looked metal and shiny and red and gold under just the right angle.

"Your heart rate has increased," Karen noted, and though it could have been Peter's imagination, he could have sworn the AI's voice had quieted. "I suggest stopping on one of the nearby buildings."

"I'm fine," Peter managed, grappling another bit of webbing around a street lamp. "Everything's fine." The pavement and cars and people blurred beneath him as he flew past. "Everything's fine," he repeated. His breath came out in labored, puffed pants. His hands, even though they were covered, felt slick and clammy at once. The pounding had gone from a distant rhythm to a loud, beating pain in the head.

"You should rest now," Karen suggested.

"I'm almost home," Peter replied, swinging from the spire of some building. "Just a little further."

For a second, Karen didn't say anything, and Peter felt a surge of relief until suddenly, Karen said, "Naptime Protocol activated."

"Naptime—hey!" Peter shouted as his webs shorted out. "Karen—wait!" Without Peter even moving, just enough webbing shot out from Peter's hand to lead him to the closest rooftop. Peter slammed into the ground with a grunt. "What was that for?"

"Mr. Stark—"

Peter clamped his hands over his ears. "Not now," he said, digging his forehead into the rooftop. "Karen, no—"

"—implemented Naptime Protocol in the likely event that you might overexert yourself, whether it be in physical or mental circumstances."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "I didn't need that," he said, hating how his voice cracked. "Karen, deactivate the…protocol."

"Mr. Stark—"

"Stop!" Peter shouted, slamming his hands to the ground. He wanted to stop hearing Karen speak over him, wanted to stop hearing this name over and over again. "Just get rid of it!" He lifted his head from the ground, the pain in his head beating around like a drum. Peter ripped off his mask, letting air rush into his mouth, his throat, his lungs. Peter held the mask limply in his hands, feeling the strength slowly sap away from his fingers, his wrist, his grip until he lifted his head.

"You've got to be kidding me," Peter murmured.

He stared up at the blue, red, and gold painted mural painted over the brick wall in front of him. Blinking frantically, Peter stared right back at Ironman flying right towards him, armored hand outstretched and ready to fire. Peter fell forward on his knees. He took in the red, gold, the Ironman helmet.

And then the pain in Peter's head moved down to his chest, and then Peter was curling forward, inward, as the mural continued to gaze down on him. Peter couldn't even remember when he started crying, but suddenly he was shaking as tears streamed down his face. He slammed his hand against the ground over and over and over again, ignoring the pain that shot up his arm every time skin made contact with concrete. With each flash of pain, Peter saw Tony's face flash before him—first the wink and the sly smile Tony shot him when Peter walked into the living room on the first day, and then the worried and frightened look Tony wore when he told Peter that "you're done". And then the laugh and smirk as Happy drove Peter home, and then the surprise as Peter walked away from a new suit. And then the eye-rolls and grins and exasperated raised eyebrows that came along with every time Peter came to the Compound to train or learn something new. And then the wariness of being in space, and then the fear as Peter stumbled forward with bits and pieces of him being blown away, and then the relief and dazed joy as Peter shot through Dr. Strange's portal, and then—

Peter gasped out a long, shuddering breath. He lifted his head up to the mural. Ironman—no, Tony—looked back down at him.

Peter figured he had to go back home. Back to the apartment, back to his room, where he could forget that this mural ever existed.

But as Peter pushed himself up to his feet, he looked back down at the city and felt like something had decided to sit on top of his chest.

Because the glints of red and gold in his city weren't just glints of red and gold under a certain angle—those flashes of red and gold were the hundreds of thousands of more posters and murals all with a certain suit of armor. Ironman splayed across shop windows, apartment and office buildings, schools.

As Peter put his mask back on, Karen noted, "It would be safer to not use your webbing for now. Naptime Protocol is still activated."

Peter's throat tightened. "You mean I have to walk?" he asked, looking down at the posters and murals.

"Or you can sit and wait until your heartbeat has become steadier," Karen replied. "As it is about twelve thirty AM, however, I believe going back to your apartment as soon as possible would be the best option."

Peter forced his eyes up to the sky. There weren't any stars. If NASA hadn't released pictures, and if Peter hadn't been up there himself, he wondered if New Yorkers would even believe if space existed. "I'll be fine," he said, and he sat back down on the ground.

A/N: No, I do not plan on making Peter Parker bubbly and happy-go-lucky, because after what the poor boy's been through, how would he? As always, review/constructive criticism are always appreciated!