The plane was just as efficient as it was meant to be, if not more so, but this time there was a whopping 6-hour time difference working against them. The different maths involved with that time difference, the speed of the plane, and how it interacted with crossing timezones and whatnot made Peter's head spin.

"What are you doing, a little video diary?" Mr. Stark asked, gesturing carelessly at Peter's phone.

They were back in New York, Happy was driving with Peter and Mr. Stark in the backseat, and up until now, Peter had been texting May updates as Mr. Stark made FRIDAY stay on hold with the hospital.

Making some calls from the air that briefly made some ugly tension rear its head again when Mr. Stark got the news that, yes, they had in fact beaten Colonel Rhodes' flight, it had been decided that Peter would be dropped off first. Then Mr. Stark would go about harassing the hospital staff at Columbia University Medical Center.

Peter was grateful, honestly, because he just…really needed to hug his aunt and be done with this "retreat" which hadn't really been much of a retreat at all. "Yeah," Peter muttered in answer to the question, wondering, briefly, if that was okay with Mr. Stark; he was gonna just do something with no commentary, thinking Mr. Stark would continue to sort of be lost in his thoughts.

Peter had even just started to think he maybe knew a little bit about Mr. Stark. The different sorts of faces he put on. And up to now, since the phone call, he'd been worried. And trying not to look worried.

(This was familiar, to Peter.)

"It's all right," Mr. Stark grinned, adjusting in his seat. "I'd do the same thing."

"I told him not to do it," Happy called from the front. "Filming everything. I'm gonna wipe the chip."

Peter opened his mouth to object—to reassure them he wouldn't show anyone—but Mr. Stark was already saying something.

"Hey hey hey hey. Okay. You know what? We should actually—we should make an alibi video for your aunt anyway," he turned to Peter, eyebrows raised. "You ready? We rolling? Get in the frame."

Peter smiled. "An alibi? Sure. Okay."

"Hey, May! What are you wearing? Something skimpy I hope," Mr. Stark quipped, all smiles, and Peter couldn't help the glare his face morphed into.

Nope. Nope. We. Nope. The flirting. Not a thing.

(It was still way too soon.)

But Mr. Stark laughed, then, hand on Peter's shoulder, shaking it. "Peter, that's inappropriate," he said, and…he'd. He'd done it on purpose. He…he was joking.

Peter let his scowl melt. Slowly.

"Okay, let's start over. You can edit it," Mr. Stark shook it off with an ease that spoke of practice, counting them down. "Okay. Three, two one. Hey, May!" And the excitement and energy he was able to infuse in his voice was startling. Peter just smiled, waiting for an in. "My gosh, I wanted to tell you what an incredible job your nephew did this weekend at the Stark internship retreat. Everyone was impressed—"

Peter felt a shift, and looked up an instant before the car jerked, and Happy leaned on his horn.

"Come on! It's a freaking merge! Sorry," Happy directed the last back at them.

Mr. Stark immediately came back at him, and Peter got the feeling he was continuing an argument that they'd had previously. (This was often how Mr. Stark and Happy communicated, Pete learned.) "It's because you're not on Queens Boulevard."

Happy didn't respond, which invited Mr. Stark to explain to Pete's phone, which was still recording. "See, Happy is—is hoping to get bumped up to asset management. He was forehead of security, and before that he was just a driver. He probably—"

"That was a private conversation," Happy interjected, glancing to the back to chastise Mr. Stark. "I don't like joking about this. It was hard for me to talk to you about that."

"No, seriously, was he snoring a bunch?" Mr. Stark seemed earnest, glancing at Peter, sharing this joke with him at Happy's expense.

Peter was able to keep ahold of his phone as Happy lunged for it—while driving—and they did not, in fact, die in a fiery wreck, despite Mr. Stark merrily prodding Happy towards blowing his (already short) fuse.

"All right, here we are. End of the Line," Happy said jerkily, pulling the car over quick enough that Peter almost thwacked his head on the window.

"Whoops," Mr. Stark said, offering another conspiratorial wink to him, as Peter fidgeted with the phone, looking wildly around, hoping Happy wasn't going to make him walk the rest of the way, were they really here?

(Yes, must have been, that streetlight on the corner still hadn't been fixed since Peter had dented it a month ago.)

Mr. Stark laughed. "Happy, can you give us a moment?" Mr. Stark inclined his head, giving Happy a significant look.

"What, you want me to leave the car?" Happy replied in annoyance.

"Why don't you grab Peter's case out of the trunk," Mr. Stark raised his eyebrows.

Wait. His case? His case?

And Peter was realizing, despite the huge disappointment he'd been feeling—they'd lost the fight, not to mention Peter's stupid asthma attack with Happy, or the stupid panic attack where he'd broken Mr. Stark's plane— that this was something that would make it all almost worth it.

"I…can keep the suit?" Peter asked in disbelief.

"Yes, we were just talking about it," Mr. Stark said, like it was decided. Like it…wasn't something he'd said in passing hours ago on the plane. (He wasn't playing to Peter's phone, still limply in his hands, (still recording), he was…back to that glib, unaffected persona he usually was.) He slid his sunglasses back on and cleared his throat. "Do me a favor, though. Happy's kind of your point guy on this. Don't stress him out. Don't do anything stupid. I've seen his cardiogram."

Peter raised his hand, thumb extended, pointing to Happy at the trunk. And didn't actually open his mouth to make any clarifying remarks.

(Remarks that might have been helpful: defining what exactly Happy cared enough to label as 'stupid.' The dented streetlight, for example: stupid? The guys who were probably mobsters on the third floor: stupid?)

And it didn't even matter because he…he was keeping the suit?! The amazing suit that filtered out everyone's heartbeats and helped him focus? The suit with the cool gloves that still allowed for him to use his adhesion, and had the seams small enough that they didn't bug him?

(The suit that had let him actually get some good sleeping in, because he didn't have to keep waking up when he heard someone upstairs getting ready for work at 4:30 in the morning, or when he'd heard Happy snoring next door.)

"All right?" Mr. Stark emphasized.

"Yes," Peter said clearly. And then shut his mouth. And just nodded. He'd forgotten what he was even agreeing to.

(He'd probably agree to mostly anything for that suit.)

"Don't do anything I would do, and definitely don't do anything I wouldn't do," Mr. Stark continued carelessly.

Peter frowned, trying to work out the logistics of that sentence.

"There's a—there's a little gray area there." Mr. Stark held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger extended maybe an inch apart to illustrate. "And that's where you operate," he finished, his whole hand gesturing at Peter, then.

(No more sincerity, then? Just…glib Mr. Stark persona?)

"Wait. Does that mean I'm an Avenger?" Peter asked, and Mr. Stark…looked contemplative, again.

"No," he said decisively.

Happy knocked on the window, then, and Peter jolted. (He really wasn't at his best. He should have been able to hear Happy coming.) "This it?" Happy asked, holding up the silver case.

"Seventh floor," Mr. Stark said, raising his voice.

Peter knew exactly how much Happy would like that.

"I can take that up. You don't have to take it," Peter said, turning to the window. It wasn't like it would be hard. Peter hardly thought anything, anymore, of carrying heavy things. Not since the bite.

(He'd lifted maybe ten tons of that jet bridge. Not to brag.)

"You gonna take it?" Happy clarified, voice raising on the other side of the closed window.

"Yeah, I can take that," Peter said, a little louder.

"Thank you." Happy looked at Mr. Stark, then, setting the case on the ground.

Peter hurriedly looked back at Mr. Stark; he needed to know what the next step was. "So when's—when's our next – when's our next "retreat," you know?" he asked, fingers raising to put air quotes around the word to make extra sure Mr. Stark knew what exactly he was referring to.

"What, next mission?" he said blithely.

"Yeah, the mission. The missions," Peter said in the manner of correcting himself.

"We'll call you," Mr. Stark said definitively. With all the enthusiasm of his 8th grade Biology teacher when Peter asked (very politely!) when the grades would be posted for the test he'd just taken. Or the man at the Sears down the street from the Protestant church who accepted Peter's job application with a flat voice informing Peter that they weren't hiring. (Like he didn't believe Peter was old enough. He wasn't. But still.)

"Do you have my numbers?" Peter followed up immediately. Because this wasn't some stupid, flippant thing like his grades, or a high school job selling shoes. This was real. This was the most real thing in his life.

(Spider-Man was the most real part of who Peter was, Spider-Man stood for so much more than pukey puny penis Parker)

"No, I mean, we'll call you. Like, someone will call you. All right?" Mr. Stark…was distracted, again. Thinking thoughts a million miles away.

"Oh," Peter said, "from your team," nodding, chastising himself. It wasn't Mr. Stark's job to call him. The only reason Pete had gotten any special treatment was because Mr. Stark was smart, and had figured out who he was. And he'd just said that Happy was going to be Peter's person.

Okay. Peter could work with that.

"Okay. All right," Mr. Stark said, and he was leaning in, arm extended—

Peter hesitantly put his arms up, too, returning this impromptu—

"That's not a hug. I'm just grabbing the door for you," Mr. Stark said, straining to push Peter's door open. "We're not there yet."

Peter looked at the door behind him, then back at Mr. Stark.

"Boss, you have Dr. Stamos, fifth year neurology resident on the line," chirped FRIDAY then.

"Bye," the man said unceremoniously to Peter, and the car was pulling off the curb almost before Peter had entirely left it, certainly before the door had closed, tires squealing…

"They're gonna call me," Peter said definitively, his bag in his left hand, the silver case in his right, and he spun around, heading into the apartment building.

The elevator was too loud to take this late at night, so Peter hopped the stairs, not even thinking about the weight of his luggage, making sure to step quietly when he passed the third-floor landing, where someone from the mob ran a side hustle that Peter hadn't cracked, yet.

He set the case down when he reached his door, knocking out short taps and long taps on the door until May slid the chain off—he and Uncle Ben used to tap out each other's names in Morse, and it was still something that Peter did, on occasion, out of habit.

"Hey, it's Mr. Stark Industries intern back from—Jesus Mary and Joseph—Peter Benjamin Parker, what happened to your face?" May interrupted herself when the door opened, revealing Peter, whose smile dropped.

Oh, yeah.

"Hey, May," he said lamely, his brain firing off plausible excuses that he sometimes used to explain his brief Spider-Man injuries. "Uh, it looks worse than it feels, I swear. And part of it was my own fault, actually, since after the fight I ran into a frigging stop sign like any idiot would do—"

"Fight?" May latched onto the word, pulling Peter into the apartment, and making to shut the door before Peter protested, backtracking to pick up the case from where he'd set it down in the hall.

"Mr. Stark gave me stuff to work on, for the internship," Peter explained, indicating the case in his hand with a nod of his head.

"Not a good enough distraction, try again. When did you have time to get in a fight?" May said, folding her arms.

"Something sure smells good?" Peter smiled, and May narrowed her eyes.

"That's worse as a distraction, we both know I'm a lousy cook. Talk," she said firmly.

"Uh, it's no big deal," Peter said, slumping a little when it became clear he'd have to say something, and that it would have to be convincing…and he was just glad to be home. "It was a disagreement I got…caught up in. I wasn't even trying to fight at all, really. I think it was a misunderstanding."

Aunt May kind of wilted. "Oh, sweetie," she said, arms unfolding, squeezing his shoulder.

Pete felt her stiffen in surprise when he initiated the hug, which she happily returned.

God, he'd missed her.

"You okay?" she murmured.

He hesitated, and Aunt May interpreted that as a 'no.' Of course she did. "Tell me?" she asked, and the 'if you want to' was implied in her tone.

"Rode in a plane," Peter mumbled reluctantly. "I…I didn't like it. It was weird." Then, almost in a whisper, "H-had an asthma attack."

May pulled away, holding Peter at arm's length and glaring at him, though she looked more worried, now, than angry. (It was an important distinction.) "Asthma attack or panic attack?" she asked firmly.

Because he'd tried to pass one off as the other before, and May knew better than to not ask, now.

(And it made Peter feel so ashamed; he hid things from her, and that's why she knew exactly what to ask, and exactly what he needed, and he didn't remember much about his mom, but Aunt May made him feel safe always, even when he hadn't told her about Skip, yet, and hated hated when she fluffed his hair or touched him at all if he didn't see it coming, but he needed her to hug him still, he needed it and she just…had known that. And she asked, or let him hug her first, or just left him alone until he was ready. And…she was amazing, and Peter was scum, for hiding his vigilante stuff from her.)

Peter felt his heartbeat quicken, and he looked at his feet. "B-b-both," he admitted.

"Peter, baby, why didn't you call me?" she said quickly, pulling him back into a hug, squeezing him really tight, like he liked. (Like Uncle Ben always did.)

"Couldn't get away," he mumbled. "Couldn't find my phone."

And this. This was the hardest part.

Because she was asking him the questions she was supposed to. And after being triggered, after having an attack, he was supposed to tell her. That was the deal. After everything with…with Skip. And then…then when Ben… he was supposed to tell her. Before it got too bad, in his head. Before he got to the point (again) where she asked him things—simple things, easy questions—and he felt like crying because it felt too overwhelming.

(It's a natural 'flight' response, Peter. To shove the emotions away, to deal with them later. But it's unhealthy. Especially given the traumas of your past. Dissociating to any extent runs more risks, for you. Risks of a very serious disorder.)

Peter huffed at the calm voice in his head. It wasn't his voice. It was his therapist's. And she was right.

But she didn't understand. He was Spider-Man. And Spider-Man was different. (Better)

And it was too complicated to go into, right now.

He hadn't called May because he'd been fighting some Avengers. Because Happy took his phone for making too many videos about Avengers business.

There were too many parts of the story Aunt May wasn't privy to.

So it was better, this way. To just give her…bits. Pieces of truth.

"Peter, is there something else?" she asked next, and he'd known it was coming. He'd known it was coming, and he didn't wince in many ways that counted.

But Aunt May wasn't Tony Stark.

And she saw the ways that did.

"Pete?"

"Resting time," he said. That was all. Firm. Clear.

"O-Okay, Pete," Aunt May said quickly, though the hug, if possible, went just a little tighter. "Resting time now. Okay?"

Peter just nodded.

(He was scum.)

She kept hugging him because he needed her to. She stopped asking questions because he'd told her he was done. That he got to rest, now.

(It was a boundary he'd been allowed to set, when it was really bad, after Skip. Because Aunt May and Uncle Ben respecting boundaries that Peter set helped him feel safe.)

"I'll grab some ice. Okay?" May pulled away, eventually, and Peter let her.

"Ice machine's broken," he reminded her with a wince and a smile.

"You might have to settle for some frozen chicken, smart guy," Aunt May said, and her tone was more playful, now, less worried.

Resting time meant she stopped asking questions now. But it also meant Peter had to answer them later.

(Later was better. Later was after Peter would be able to process things. Later could potentially stretch days. A week.)

(Forever)

Peter offered her what he hoped was a firmly non-trembly smile. "I'm gonna put my stuff in my room," he said, kissing May's cheek, sliding past her and scooping up the case and his bag.

Then he was in his room, and he felt like he could breathe. Like the asthma medicine, but better. Because he had a break he knew would be respected, he knew exactly what the rest of his night was going to look like (homework, texting Ned, and taking his sweet time examining every inch of Mr. Stark's case) and Aunt May was here, and she was on his side, and she loved him, and even if he had to keep keeping Spider-Man from her, just knowing she was available was enough.

"Hey Pete, it looks like chicken nuggets. I'll wrap them in a towel, okay?" floated Aunt May's voice from the kitchen.

"Okay," Peter called back, and, at the thought of holding iced…chicken nuggets to his face, and remembering how easily he chilled, since the bite (and he hadn't been sure it was the bite, at first, but reading up on weird spider facts often did point Peter in the right direction, and apparently spiders couldn't thermoregulate), Peter scrounged a sweater from the back of his closet, pulling it over his head and sliding the case closer to the bed as he sat down, threading his arms through the sleeves.

He didn't give the suit much fanfare, this time: he hurriedly stuffed it in his backpack so Aunt May wouldn't see it.

He examined any other contents he could find, trying to figure out if there was anything he could pass off as being an internship-tinkering perk.

Then he found what looked like Stark-tech prototype web-fluid dispensers.

Oooh, shiny.

He pulled one on, pulling a screwdriver from his desk to fiddle with it.

Only to realize it wasn't a web fluid dispenser.

And it was now stuck on his wrist.

"Who was it? Who hit you?" May called from the kitchen.

"Uh, some guy," Peter answered, running his finger under the metal at his wrist, feeling for a catch, or a release. "So itchy, man, God," he muttered.

"What's "some guy's" name?" May wheedled.

"Uh, Steve," Peter answered honestly, and holy shit, it was glowing, now, what did he do?

A red light came out of a small lens at his wrist that he hadn't noticed. A projector?

"Steve? From 12-C?" May asked, clarifying. "With the overbite?" she said, and now there was a murderous tone.

Oh. Peter remembered that murderous tone.

(Let me go. Ben. Let me. He hurt our kid. He hurt our kid, I get to hurt him. Let me go, Ben.)

"Nonono, you don't know him. He's from Brooklyn," Peter said quickly, pointing the light at the ceiling. Then realizing he heard May's steps coming closer, and hurriedly tucking his wrist under his arm, holding his other hand over the bruise. He pressed on it, accidentally, and it really did hurt. "Ouch," he murmured as May came in, busying herself with wrapping whatever frozen offerings she'd found in lieu of ice into a towel, on his bed.

"Well, I hope you got a few good licks in," she said, apparently satisfied, holding out the towel to him.

"Yeah, I got quite a few in, actually," Peter said. "His friend was huge," he added. "Like…huge."

Aunt May was watching him, carefully. Making sure he held the cold there, and nodding when he winced, again.

"That's way better," Peter said, pandering to her a little bit. "Thank you."

May smiled, though. "Okay, tough guy." She stood, then, to go re-lock the apartment door and start doing her night routine, probably.

Peter smiled. "Love you, May. Hey, can you shut the door?"

She did, calling to him, as an afterthought, "Welcome home!"

Peter took the frozen stuff off his face, knowing that, even without its help, he would likely be healed by morning. And he whipped out the wrist with the not!web-fluid dispenser on it, pointing it up towards the ceiling, again, laughing a little when he saw some kind of interface with a familiar face on it: a red face with large, exaggerated insectoid-looking eyes, and a web pattern starting at the center of the face and going out from it in ribbed concentric circles. Mr. Stark's take on Peter's Spider-Man moniker.

He did eventually get it pried off his wrist, he tossed it back in the case, and moved over to his desk, pulling his travel bag with him to extract his needed supplies.

Homework. Protein bars. Headphones. Stark phone. Regular phone. Check.

Thus prepared, he set to winding down, letting himself take the night off from Spider-Man patrol, knowing it was a school night, knowing that he felt better, when he used coping skills that didn't require him to get all twisted up with guilt about lying to anyone.

The problems—the stressors that overwhelmed him—were still there.

But right now, he was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing, and he was setting up to have an awesome day tomorrow. An awesome week. He'd get to go on patrol again tomorrow, and check in with Happy, whose number he made sure to program in both his regular phone and the Stark phone, which he still didn't know quite what to do with. He knew the Stark Industries story backward and forward, and intended to tell Ned all about it at school tomorrow, and he…would figure out something to tell May.

And if he fell asleep at his desk, earphones inserted, pencil in hand as he neglected extra-credit Spanish homework? And Aunt May took it upon herself to take a picture before snapping his light off?

Well. No one had to know.