NOTE: There are differences in format and scenes may jump a bit, so please hang on.
Subjects in here will be explained in the next few chapters. There'll be three chapters left, and I might be writing more for this fandom!
From here on out, it gets more challenging to write for me. So, smell the fear, (feel the tear?) I guess.
"Say ahhhh, Peter, eat your veggies!"
Grumble.
Pout.
"No!"
CLANK.
"I don't wike it!"
Huff.
An exasperated mother.
"He's so stubborn."
Sigh.
And everyone else.
"Nah, I think that's good, Mary. He's a fighter, that kid."
"What do you think, May? Peter Parker: The hero in the onesie."
"Stop it Richard. You're going to make her gush about it for hours on end again. The victim? Me."
"Don't mind him. Ben's hiding it with his complaints, but he's just as excited as I am when baby Gwen comes. I can already see them in matching onesies!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Parker. It's not your fault. We will make further examinations to see if you can still conceive. But Gwen is already…" ehem, "Again, I am truly sorry for your loss."
There is only the sound of sobbing.
Emptiness.
And then footsteps.
Echo.
"I'm- I'm sorry May. Gwen—she—"
A wretched, broken wail—
Wrong move, wrong move. Shouldn't have started there.
Take a few steps back.
Recalibrate.
Hum.
"You know," um, "We'll always be here, Ben, May. Peter's still, he's still here."
"We reckon, he needs more than a pair of parents looking out for him."
"Richard… Mary…!"
Reach out.
Hug.
And then.
Cry.
For a long time.
Together.
"Gwen… she will be looking out for us. I know it. And. To have her as his guardian… Peter is lucky."
"Mommy?"
Turn.
The earrings won't come in.
"When will you be back?"
"In a few weeks, baby." Trembling lips. "Come here," coos Mary, "No need to worry, honey. Aunt May and Uncle Ben will be here until we're back. Don't you love it when they're here?"
A baby boy feels the course of anticipation like a drug.
"YES."
"Then, you'll have the best weeks of your life!"
"I will, won't I!"
"Are you excited?"
"Yes—indubitably!"
…
"Where did you learn that word?"
"Adventure time!"
Grin.
"Oh, come here, my little genius!"
And an ever so lovely laughter between mother and son.
Enjoy it till' it lasts.
They laugh until Mary and Richard has to go.
They don't come back.
3 a.m.
Cold.
Can't sleep.
Need drink.
Creak.
"Ben?"
Sniffle.
Shuffle.
Hoarse voice.
More:
Creaaaaak.
Red eyes.
"Why are you up so late, Pete?"
Stuffy nose.
"I was thirsty and… and I heard you crying." Pause. "I- I thought maybe I can help you, since you take care of me always. Are—are you hurt, Uncle Ben?"
"Oh Peter—" Jump back, only to be dragged back into his favorite hugs. This time it is quite different. Maybe because Uncle Ben is crying, and Peter isn't laughing like he always does, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I couldn't do more. I will be your father now. You won't be alone, I swear, and I promise I will protect you for as long as I live—"
Nine years.
It takes Ben nine years, fulfilling his promise.
When the breath leaves his body, Peter curses the old Gods, but before anything—
"Pe—Peter. Look at me. Look at me, my boy."
"Ben, no- no—"
"Shh, shh, it's alright. You're going to be alright. Just—please. Protect May. You're the—you're the only one she has left. Tell her— tell her I love her so much…"
"Please don't go, Ben- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't leave me—!"
From then, it distorts.
"Uuuuuuuurr ahhhhhhr uhhhr aaaahhhhr… argggg."
Nine-year-old Ned growls.
"Who is that supposed to be?"
They are playing… charades?
Eight-and-a-half-year-old Peter squeals. He knows who that's supposed to be!
He screams:
"It's not wise to upset a Wookie…!"
And then, an instant connection, two strangers finding a brother in each other. They're allies.
It starts here.
"GASSP!"
"STAR WARS!"
"Did Ned just—did he just say 'gasp' out loud?"
"Come on man, these two nerds here are about to fall in love."
It doesn't really end.
"You know, you're about to turn forty and you're still eating a whole-ass cake."
"Well, I can."
"Come on, Peter. The kids?"
"Aww, MJ, the kids. Our kids. Isn't this a wonderful world indeed?"
"Stop distracting me. You've never been good at diversions. Plus, spider bite or not, you could still succumb to diabetes if you give it enough of a reason to."
"Psh, I have Banner and Dr. Cho, they'll fix me up in no time."
"And you have to set up a good example to your equally troublesome children."
"They got that from your side of the genes. All they got is my adorable smile, beautiful hair—"
"Peter."
"Ugh, fine mom."
May is alone in her apartment. She doesn't understand what just happened, but she's back now. Losing five years, and then coming back just like that. And the news outlets are talking about big explosions, space-ships and—
BGDGH—!
"What the… Peter?!"
He falls on his knees.
"Why—why does it always hurt May?"
Blood.
On his hands.
Bruises.
On his face.
A hole.
On his chest.
"You're—you're here…!" Touch. Disbelief. "You're really here—Oh my God Peter, please don't ever leave like that, I tried calling you, looking for you everywhere but even Ned doesn't know. And then, that thing with the dust—"
HUSH.
Something is wrong.
He's not jumping in joy at all.
May is careful to ask.
"What happened, Peter? Are you- are you hurt?"
"Not…" exhale, "Not in the way than can be healed, May."
"…can I try?"
"Please—it hurts."
What to do, what to do?!
Uhh…
"Talk to me. Tell me everything Peter."
Faraway look. Realization, all over again. And then, distance.
"I don't know, May…" Sniffle. "I just, you'd think I'd get used to it now—by the time Ben—"
"What are you saying Peter?" Never talked about Ben until now. "Get used to what?"
Eyes, lock.
Fear, hurt, destruction.
May knows then and there, that something is wrong. And she might not be able to fix it.
"…what happened?"
The first tear drops to the floor, covering Peter's fragile face in a sweet caress, too sweet than it should ever be—
And.
"Tony's dead."
Do you hear that?
It is dark. You probably won't see it at all. But the magic of sound is that you only have to hear it for you to realize it is real.
So, listen. If you strain hard enough, and lean just a little bit more to the right, maybe then you will hear it— the dark promise of tomorrow, the sound of whipping hair, standing over the hill, existing in a time where there is neither night nor day, only you and the sunlight that is about to crack.
The breaking of dawn and of hope.
In his room, in every fraction of a breath, or the flitting blink of the eye, or the way the air settles around, filling it with blinding blue light—
Pay attention.
Don't listen to the whirring machine, or the sigh that never escapes Peter lips (he is holding his breath, he cannot have done it).
It will only distract you.
Just.
Focus.
Look for the sound of crumbling hope, the build-up of despondence—a heavy gear shifting.
If you can't, and you don't think there isn't any, that this is all a lie, try again.
You will hear it. You must hear it.
Because in every ticking of the clock, in every new wave of thoughts, or the movement of dust—the way it settles on this boy's face, and the way it dances around the blue light—whatever will happen in the next seconds, whatever it is that he does next, it will be the line that connects Peter.
To the past and the present and the future.
It will be the thing to transcend time and live an eternity in this boy's chest.
This is what makes him.
Peter swallows the sun.
And then, and then—
"It's…" shaky breath, hollow and tearful, "It's been a long time, Pete."
It does not take much to break one Peter Parker.
In fact, he is already broken. A toy thing for the Old Gods, entertainment for some.
And it is in this pain, the fraction of whoever he thought he was, lying in pieces, that he finds his identity.
He is not Peter Parker if he is not hurting.
But there is also something else. It always stays, an annoying presence that disturbs the solace he finds in darkness.
He hears it as if he is in the meadows, laughing. The sun is warm in his chest and his feet fly with electric energy.
He sees it in the new promises that he is always trying to believe.
Feels it in the new chances he takes.
And even if he doesn't want it, as he so desperately tries to break from its clutches, it never does fade away.
It is as much a part of Peter as pain his most familiar companion.
And there, his voice— so real, so close as if he is here—
Here is hope, it whispers.
Here is, Tony.
Here is…
Home.
For the whole moment it takes him to hear his heartbeat, and the second he realizes it isn't his, Peter snaps from the daze of discovery.
A rhythmic promise of presence, more than mere imagery, or holographic technology—an orchestra sings in Peter's chest, reaching a constant, powerful chant, a great desire to see what would happen if—
He stops himself.
Wary of hope.
But it is too bright to ignore, and he is too real to think it is not him.
He waits, though.
And the cymbals hiss, as the snare beats in trepid anticipation.
First, he sees the lines.
The heavy lines in his face that accentuates an experience he thinks he knows so well, this mourning, this loss.
The next are his shoulders, slump down, and then his eyes flitting to the ground in undeniable defeat—Peter takes it all in.
Even more, Peter gets it all.
Tony is pressing his lips in a thin line and groans, his hands relaxing forcibly in an attempt to stop fidgeting—that's a thing he does when he's nervous or uncomfortable, and its' one of those things that only Peter and Pepper— and not the world— knows.
He is sitting on a chair in front, all blue color fading into a brilliant blend, a quality, high resolution image of the man himself.
Tony sits straighter.
Then— then he looks up, at the camera presumably, and all but straight into Peter's soul. He is caught off guard, and Peter almost falls on the floor, torso hitting tile, mind succumbing to sleep, and thinking this is all just a dream—
But he doesn't.
Instead, he drinks in the image— hungry and needing, desperate.
Every line, every wrinkle, every spec of color in his eyes. Brown under love, tender. And then golden like a messenger bottle from across the sea held against the brilliant sun. Spark that is dulled by grief, eyes that are dormant and subdued, but damn ready to be awoken anytime, just—
Not yet.
It is at that exact moment, when his eyes meet old comfort, and he feels the restless energy permeating from Tony's body as if it is yesterday, that Peter is hit with the realization that this is the first time he has seen him in his full glory.
And the colors come unbridled, the beautiful painting that is a living, breathing Tony.
The tears, they come uninvited. Instantaneous and loose. His mouth open in wide wonder, and tears blurring his sight.
Peter wipes his eyes, but they come running and so he keeps on wiping and wiping and wiping until the sight of Tony is as clear as if he is here with him, right now.
And he's thinking, this might be it, the answer he has been waiting for so long. Because he has been asking the question to the wrong people, getting every different answer that he forgets just what the question had been. But now he remembers, and now he will find the answer.
When he talks, looking as lost as Peter feels, he sees Tony's eyes reflect the same desolation, the same helplessness that Peter has been carrying for the longest time.
How strong May and MJ and Ned had been, to hold their tears when they see him like this.
Because Peter cannot do that. Well. He doesn't have to. Not in the safety in his room. But if tested, he knows, he cannot be that strong. He will try though. That he can promise.
Tony starts, his voice an ephemeral presence in the whole room, a safe blanket like the moon in the night sky. Strained, it comes out, "You know what—this isn't working. I'll. I'll try again later, Pete."
Peter moves to stand up, his hand reaching out to the leaving, fading Tony. But he is quick to catch his mind this time and doesn't allow himself to be too crushed. And, really, before he could even consciously decide on what to do, Tony is coming back again.
This is a different time. Tony looks a bit older, and flecks of golden locks intermingle with his brown and greying ones.
"Hey there, Peter."
He is happy.
And Peter—he slaps his mouth for the sob that escapes without his consent, because he is- he is so relieved that he got that chance.
(I wonder, when will I get mine?)
"So. I found Harley."
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He must hear this, and he can't if he is sobbing, gasping for air.
Instead, he tries to reign in his mind. Listens to everything, watches the little things. And his mind busies itself with pretending that this is all good. After all, he has always been good at pretending.
Tony settles himself on the chair, and he notices just now how much thinner he is, a certain hollow in his cheeks and the frailness with which he carries himself. Before he dwells, Tony is chuckling.
It is a sad kind of chuckle, like he is only doing it because he is uncomfortable, or sad or something. But it strikes Peter, because it is a hint of the old Tony— the one with the brilliant mind, and an even more brilliant heart.
"I'm sorry for laughing, I just, I imagine him with you, and I don't know if I'm supposed to fear or anticipate it. I mean, it's quite… impossible now. But. But a man can just imagine."
And woe is the wonder in his voice.
He stops, eyes seeking validation.
"Can I?"
Fragile.
"Am I allowed to imagine, Pete?"
Yes, Tony, now please—
"When you were so young when you were taken—I wonder how many things you have imagined then, that have never come true."
A flash of shadow hovers over his face.
It passes.
Tony smiles.
Sad.
Regretful.
He covers it again with something else, and he's saying, tilting his head to the side in contemplation, "You could have been great friends, you know."
I don't know Tony.
"I mean. I can already hear the explosions of failed experiments," laugh, "and I think I might suffer a few strokes, or a heart attack because of you two. But nothing you can't fix. Anyway, you're young and you're allowed to be stupid. Plus," mischief (whoa), "I won't be the one to deal with the damage. Pepper's like your super scary megatronic mom or something. You're going to answer to her."
Excitement flashes in Tony's face, adapting a youthful shine, and then replaced with something calmer—a sea breeze over a warm sunny day.
"Pepper," he starts, "Pepper's going to be a mom. And. I'm. I'm going to be a dad. Daddy. Because she's gonna be a girl, and you can't call me that. That'd be weird." Laughter escapes Peter's breath and he struggles to understand it. He doesn't have to, though, because Tony is still talking, like he has found the answer to life's greatest question, the treasure to the most sought-after thing in the whole world and he needs to listen to that.
"And she, she's going to be the most wonderful child, only because Pepper's her mother, and you and Harley will be her brothers. Nothing but the best people for my kids. And no one will be more beautiful, more intelligent, and more loved than she will ever be."
Contemplation.
"And we're going to name her Mor—"
"—gan," Peter whispers.
"You're going to have a little sister. And we're going to be a family."
His eyes freeze into the camera, and he is looking at Peter like he is a faraway dream, a beautiful future that should have been.
The way his face falls into stark realization, the way his eyes surrender hope for reality—it was just too much for Peter.
Then.
Then he shakes his head.
And he's back to the ugly truth, this Tony.
Fantasy is over, it seems.
There is a harshness in the way he says it, but a deep vulnerability that shows in his eyes, he spits, "How I wish."
CUT.
Another video.
Another Tony.
Another time when he was still alive.
START.
He is already there, and his eyes are dead center.
His shoulders rest on his knees and he is leaning forward.
When he speaks, it reflects his old self— rapid-fire speech and potential for a better, brighter future in a few words, in a few inflections of his voice.
(Or maybe that's just what Tony is.
The future.)
"I always knew babies were intense criers, loud at night, and all. It's like, part of the whole package deal, you know? And I think I'm the only one who enjoys it. Because I don't usually sleep. And those midnights, we spend it together. If I'm feeling particularly sentimental, I would bring her outside and we would watch the stars." He looks somewhere to the left, something Peter can't see, or could ever hope to know.
(It is his photo with Tony, framed and treasured. It is better that he does not know.)
His eyes find Peter's and he's murmuring regrets, voice low and in agony, "We could have watched them together, you know? I don't know why it took you so long to ask me. And I used to think we had all the time. But then, Friday of that week—they attacked. And suddenly there was no time anymore."
Pause.
And it might have become far too weepy for Tony's liking, with the way his voice cracked in the middle and the way his fingers trembled visibly by his knees, because he's cancelling it all, a hint of anger and a whole lot of sadness, "—Cut—cut that Fri," Friday doesn't, "I don't- I don't even know why I'm doing this," he laughs, "—recording messages to ghosts."
Tony spits it so bitterly that Peter is stunned. He had been the cause of this, the reason why Tony carried such a heavy heart and— "The plan failed, Pete, I failed you," and his voice is hoarse, the clawing of something deep and destructive.
Every atom in Peter's body moves to cry out—No, Tony—you didn't, please, don't think that—
But then again, this is a hologram and whatever he says will never be heard, so. Fuck that.
His body, instead, raises itself, suspended and ready for whatever to come.
"Look," Tony continues, eyes beseeching, and Peter hangs on to every word, "I might not do this anymore. Therapist says this is causing me to relapse, said I should move on. Maybe. I guess. But," and his eyes find the softest spot in Peter, the affection that can never be replaced by anything, because this—this is Tony's love and no one can ever hope to replace that, "I will never stop thinking about you in any way. And I will never forget you kid. Because you are one of the greatest things to ever happen in my life."
Bzzt.
Blue wonder.
Color, again.
Tony.
And… Morgan.
A toddler Morgan, who has never known anything but her father's love.
The empty room is filled with the laughter of father and daughter, happiness preserved in time, and making its rounds for the bleaker world it arrives in. Tony kisses her cheeks, blowing raspberries into her stomach that makes her burst into another fit of giggles. Peter doesn't envy that. He just wishes Morgan could have had more.
Tony doesn't look like he's noticed though, that its recording, because when he looks up, he is surprised and turns back to Morgan accusingly, "Did you touch my iron suit?"
A cute, playful voice pipes in, "Noooo."
But he knows she did it, and just shakes his head fondly at her, moving to turn it off.
BZZZT.
Just as the video with Morgan fades, another Tony walks in. He looks so much older, the lines under his eyes increasing, but he's looking more content than ever.
Tony sits down.
And smiles.
It is sad but uplifting, sincere but still scarred.
"It's been three years now."
The tears have dried in Peter's eyes.
His lips are chapped and a little metallic in his mouth.
It feels like it's been three years.
"And I dreamed about you again."
Three years.
"For the longest time."
Gone.
Three years that should have been spent together.
And another two years of suffering.
But Tony is looking like he could be happy, a semblance of peace in a life so troubled. So, Peter listens on, intent and hungry for the words that he speaks. It is his to take and he takes it all.
(It is all he could take after all.)
"It was a cute one, happy one. I remember laughing so much, that even as I woke up, I was still doing it. Laughing. Smiling.
"Remember the sunset? When you kidnapped me into the other building?" Chuckle. "Yeah, well. We came there again. But this time, we have Harley. And both of you conspired to bring Morgan without my permission." Cringe, "I must have been such a stickler, then. To 'want Morgan to be safe, don't your dare bring her to the sky scrapers or so help me—' that was what I said. And you and Harley gave each other looks like, 'who the hell is this old man to tell us what to do.' Let me tell you. I am your father."
And then Tony is laughing again, the one where his teeth show, his head thrown back and his hands slapping his knees. The real kind of laugh. The one that you can feel in your chest and in your stomach.
"Did you get that? I made a Star War's reference. God, I hate this world."
And then sober up.
There is a certain serenity in his eyes, and then a deep yearning that Peter shares so desperately. His eye looks at the floor, but he sees more than just wood and patterns.
Peter stops his hand from reaching out to that wonderful dream, stops walking toward it because he will only be setting himself up for disappointment.
The matter of life and death is permanent and irreversible.
Peter would know.
"Pepper called us, then. And when we came back, everyone was there. Happy, Rhodey, even May and Harley's sister, Annie. Pepper cooked all our favorites—not just mine, but everyone's. Because she's the best."
An insurmountable affection and undeniable compassion.
"And we," his voice breaks, he clears his throat, it comes out weak, a whisper of the wish he holds true in his heart, "We were just together… so goddamn happy…"
A certain kind of silence falls on Tony, and the crickets from outside his cabin fill the air. This is the silence that comes when you have so much to say, but so little time to say it. Or, all the words come crashing down, and you have to think for a few seconds, what should be said and what just couldn't.
In that space where Tony thinks of what to say, Peter tries to acquaint himself of this Tony.
The one he never really had the chance to know and the one he always wondered about.
Now, he gets that chance.
Tony's brows fold as if it is relenting to the weight, and his eyes shine with unshed tears.
"You know, Pete, I wish I could have known you more. I wish, I wish I could have seen you grow older. Get your first date— won't follow you around, but my bot will—" he chuckles to himself, and then he falters, so wrapped up in his own dreams, in the enticing beauty of a life with Peter, of completing his family, "and just… dinners together every night— movie nights, pizza parties, anything you want—hell, anything—
May will be there, Rhodey, Happy, Pepper, Morgan, Harley— you. You will be there, and maybe then, maybe then this hole in my chest would be filled again, perhaps, then, I could be truly happy. Because Peter, if I could be really honest with you, losing you felt like losing a large portion of myself, that it's just not the same anymore. And I wish you didn't say you were sorry, I wish I could have given you that hug earlier, not when- not when you were dying, God— I wish—" and it is a whisper now, because if it would get any louder, the world might find out, the world might know just how broken Tony Stark is— "I wish I had a thousand years. A thousand years, and I would give them all to you. Just so I could see you again."
It fades out a few seconds longer, Tony's eyes holding out, and then. Gone. In bright crystalline.
Tony's tears shine with it as they fall.
And Peter thinks he might just be bleeding, from all the pain that gathers in his chest, pulling, twisting, hurting.
He doesn't realize it, but he's already clutching at his chest, tugging at something.
He almost jumps back when Tony mutters. This time, in clear distress.
"Harley," he breathes out, a shaky exhale that comes out thick, "He, he found out I was making these videos. And he thought. He thought it would be a nice idea to send a— a 'hug' to the other side, even though it's quite fucking impossible—but. But anyway. We fought for a while and he might have had a point. Maybe this'll ease a bit of that guilt that eats inside me."
A long silence stretches.
A brilliant mind thinks it is not too brilliant after all.
His eyes look up, "Can I? Am I allowed to- am I allowed to heal?"
And Peter finds the pattern of life—of a father trying to be a good father, of a son trying to be a good son, of both of them finding each other, only to be torn apart every single time—and then, when one of them is gone, the other is destined to mourn. Both of them don't think they deserve peace, but it is what they seek—it is what demands to be sought.
Tony finds no reprieve, and the silence only works to give pause to his noisy mind. His voice is low and subdued, he is looking down, and then up again, as if he is shy to say it.
"Any—anyway, it only works once."
Still, Peter doesn't understand what he is trying to say. What hug? How?
His mind has been spent so much that he couldn't bear to try anymore.
He lies on the floor instead, drowning in the blue projector light, and then the bright colors that form Tony's wonderful cabin room.
The sound of nature comes in and Peter is not prepared for it.
Because this time, it is an older, more aged Tony, and he is wearing a suit instead of his customary tee and pants.
There is a long silence that threatens Peter, a pause that promises Peter that whatever will come after this is a furious, raging storm that can never be calmed.
Tony starts.
"I dunno, Pete, things might not end up well for all of us."
If Peter could stop Tony from talking right now, he would. Because he can't say that, thinking he might be right, and still doing it—and for what?! For what, Tony?!
"And if it doesn't, you scare away those stupid boys from Morgan alright? You're going to be a good big brother to her. Harley the inevitable bad cop, and you the good cop. If it's a girl, Pepper will handle it."
Even facing the possibility of death, Tony is still thinking of others.
"I want you to live your life,"
But fuck that.
"Because you have so much of it, Pete."
What life is there in mourning and pain and suffering?
What life is there with no Tony Stark in it?
What life is there when everyone you loved dies and will die?
"And Morgan, you take care of her. Pepper might seem like she's infallible, but even she needs help. Be there for them, please?"
I can't, Tony. I'm sorry. I'm so weak—I just can't—!
"I don't think I should be the one to say this, but… we're a family. And I love you so, so much. That's why… if you come back, and I don't… please understand. Please, I beg of you, don't blame yourself for whatever might happen, or for whatever you might have done. And I know you will, because you're stubborn like that. But let me just tell you this. Everyone's got a hero in themselves. Wherever we go, we're heroes in our own stories, and none so much more than you. But sometimes, it's okay if the only person you end up saving is yourself."
The tears that escape Peter's eyes are loose but burning. Every breathe he takes sends electricity all over his head, lines of lightning forming in his forehead, and a burning caldera, of lava bursting in his chest, rising up to his neck, to his cheeks and to igniting his soul in a thousand explosions.
His mouth is lax, and a deep tormented groan escapes his throat, his body suspended in the air. His hands are twitching, but every muscle holds down the strongest urge to just run up to him and touch him—
Tony fidgets in his seat, a deep kind of resoluteness set in his eyes, and he offers, "I worked this thing again, that tech I told you about. I made it so we could both 'exist' in the same plane of reality, in a time when—in a time when that might not be."
Peter shakes his head, because that is all he could do. And he feels like he is being strangled, with the way his throat constricts from all the suppressed screams. His hand forming a vice-like grip on his forearms, veins jutting out in defiance.
"So, how about it, kid? You and I. One last time. Could you—could you come here and give me that hug?"
Pause. Then. Smile.
A serene sort of expression falls on Tony's face, and he feels like a full circle has come, connecting the past with the present and to the future.
And he might just be right, because Tony is stretching his hand out, his stance open and welcoming, looking just like home, and he's smiling the only way Tony can, and saying like a promise fulfilled, "Come on kid, we're already there."
Before anything else, a certain sort of omniscience comes over him. Peter notices three things.
The first one is in the way Tony seems like he is expecting something, and then his face transforming into that of absolute happiness, like he has finally found it- the answer.
(Tony welcomes the holographic recreation of one Peter Parker. This is the first time he's seen him face to face.)
The second is that the air in the room suddenly got heavier, not even in the metaphorical sense—but in the physical, I can touch it sense. And if Peter held out his hand for long, he might get tired easily. Because the air is dragging it down, and Peter has been brought down too many times tonight not to surrender.
The last thing that he sees is that Tony is still looking, expecting, waiting. And Peter doesn't know what to do.
And then, everything disappears—he is dragged back to his body, and the only thing he sees, the only thing he thinks of is him.
There is no scream lodged in his throat, or an itch in his body, like every other time.
There is just realization, and an extreme, forlorn sadness, a certain loneliness that can never be filled with any amount of love or people, a Tony Stark-shaped hole, the strongest yearning and the basest desire to touch and to feel and to hug him.
To feel like he is here again, with him.
To feel life coursing through his veins.
To feel that this life would be worth it again.
And the man presents himself, like salvation and a reason for hope, with his calm smile and bright eyes, wrinkles and kindness, love and more love.
Peter surrenders to it all. To this beautiful, enticing prospect of a future, of a hope, and of believing again.
Because somehow, Tony has come from the dead, has surpassed time and life using his own brilliant mind, as a fuck you to the stars above, probably- but it doesn't escape Peter, that, maybe he did this, he did the impossible—
Just to talk to him.
And Peter, he isn't too scared anymore. He's been disappointed before, broken down, killed—the worst thing that could happen is for this to be a dream.
Even then, this would be the most beautiful dream.
And so, with nothing holding him back, and everything telling him to just—do it, please—
He does.
And when he jumps, it is toward something better, a semblance of the old peace in his mind, comfort and the lovely echo of contentment, like something is finally right.
And he leaps off, feeling wood, and forest air, and freedom.
And he falls, from the highest tower of his fears, to the safest place in this world.
Do you hear that?
It is dark. You probably won't see it at all. But the magic of sound is that you feel it in your soul, the excitement or fear, when you hear that little twitch, and then—it gets louder. Then, you won't have any doubts if it is fake or not.
So.
Listen.
And if you strain hard enough and lean just a little bit more to the right, maybe then you will hear it—the promise of tomorrow, beat, beat, beating in the heart of one boy, echoing the heart of the other, older man.
In the way their breaths meld into one, the quick blinking, and then stare, memorize everything, just, just because this might be the last time—or the way the air settles around the room, and the colors that come from all around the room, they become brighter, the dust flying in calm suspension, like snow in a wonderful winter night—
Pay attention.
Don't listen to the gasping, sobbing boy, or the sigh that escapes Tony's breath.
It will only distract you.
Just.
Focus.
Look for the sound of desperate love, the build-up of something beautiful— the gears of a long-frozen clock, shifting, clicking into place, finding where it belongs.
If you can't, and you don't think there isn't any, that this is all a lie, try again.
You will hear it. You must haveheard it.
It's not that hard to find, not that hard to hear, in this starry, tranquil night in the tower.
And in every ticking of the clock, in every new wave of thoughts, or the movement of dust—the way it settles on this boy's face, and the way it dances around the blue light—whatever will happen in the next seconds, whatever it is that he does next, it will be the line that connects Peter—to the past and the present and the future.
And it transcends time, and it lives an eternity in this wonderful boy's chest.
This- whatever this may be, this is what will complete him.
When Peter breathes, he is swallowing the sun with him, and becoming the stars that decorate the night, transforms into the galaxy that makes the universe—
And when he looks up, at him who he calls home, it is a look of terrific wonder, one of incredible love, and the deepest sense of rightness.
He stops just a few inches before him, this man who he has been looking for so long, and the questions that he asks are answered. When he takes the step, the one movement to connect it all, it is with certainty and acceptance.
And then—AND THEN—
"Tony?"
It comes out every bit of broken he is, unsure, afraid, and… just like a kid.
Peter doesn't know what he expected— for it to fade and fly away, or for him to stand there in madness.
But to touch, and to feel, and for him to actually be here—
It is Tony, in all his glory. With Peter feeling his hands, its warmth, spreading.
But Tony doesn't hear him, or he doesn't respond, because instead, Tony is tightening the hug, his eyes close and eyebrows furrowed deep.
And he's really there—they're really hugging—and it feels like home.
It is a moment suspended into infinity, father and son defying death, in their yearning to touch each other once again.
Peter could hear it—the lublublubdub of Tony's heart, and the physicality of him enraptures him—
His curls brush Tony's face, and he could feel wet tears on his shoulders. Before he could think about it, Tony turns and kisses cheeks, and Peter has never felt more vulnerable.
Peter feels his warmth, every folds of the fabric of his suit, and the trembling that escapes Tony's chest.
(Tony is right here, hugging Peter, as if he is alive and breathing—but this is a hologram, how could—how could that just be the work of technology?)
And if you listen harder, look at them longer, you might see the way Tony's lips move, the soft smile that escapes his face, and the way Peter moves to look at him as he says it—the way he couldn't because Tony is hugging him too tight.
Maybe, if you stay still, and just look at their faces, ignore the world around, you will see the love that passes between the two of them, and then the absolute destruction that befalls on Peter when Tony says it.
It is a whisper.
Only for Peter.
But it holds the gravity of the sun, and like a supernova exploding, it creates a beautiful, destructive ripple across the universe—breaking, destroying, and then, rebirth.
Because Peter might feel like he's dying now, but when he wakes up tomorrow, he will be stronger than ever.
So, please.
Do your best.
Listen.
Because this is when Peter gets better.
In those few words, those few syllables, and the whole weight of his love—
In the middle of an abandoned room, a lone figure is joined by another.
And it isn't so much as abandoned anymore, because in that second it takes for them to touch, and hold each other again, it becomes something of the stars, and then, something so much more.
When Tony fades, he isn't too surprised. But it doesn't stop him from trying to hold on, to bring him back, to hug him again, thinking it would be enough.
And he's falling, clutching at light and dust.
He sits there, waiting, hoping for another projection to come, for Tony to—"Come back… please…!"
He doesn't.
And he's never going to.
But Peter remembers his smile, the way it's only for him—and his touch, the feeling of safety and contentment, of peace.
And he thinks, maybe, maybe that's enough.
So, it is then, as Peter is laid curled up, that he looks up at his hands, the one that held and was held, relishing in the feeling of flesh to flesh, of father to son, of love and love and love—
That is the moment, the exact second that he decided it might not be too late to make a tribute after all.
And he knows exactly what it's going to be.
Peter slowly stands up. And when he does, it is firm and sure.
And in every step that he takes, the connection that binds the past, the present and the future strengthens.
As the room drowns in darkness, a lone boy opens his old computer. Light comes again.
In a few words, the stars are aligned, and the wrongs are forgotten.
Everything is alright.
These words, Peter will always find comfort in- when he is twenty, or forty or eighty.
He will remember these for the rest of his life.
And so, it goes:
"We're here now, kid. I'm here. We're home."
Notes: PLEASE DON'T MURDER ME! I SWEAR I TRIED, I REALLY TRIED TO FIND SOME SCIENTIFIC THING TO EXPLAIN THAT BUT LETS JUST ATTRIBUTE IT TO TONY'S BRILLIANCE PLEASE!
My theory though, is that Friday scanned and replicated their heat signatures and molecules that might imitate their smell, etc. It would be powerful and take a few seconds of physicality—and Tony as well was hugging a light version of Peter, whom he was able to replicate from his suit biometrics. And some nanotech shit.
Please suspend a little bit of disbelief!
Please review!