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On the last day of June, Peter spent less than an hour packing up his belongings. He had two suitcases; Ben's old one and a new one that Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark had bought him. Though there was plenty of room still left in Ben's case, he felt the need to separate his things accordingly. His old stuff in Ben's case and new things, all bought for him within the past month, in the new case. They sat side by side next to his bedroom door. Shabby and frayed pressed up next to sleek and pristine.

That night Peter slept in his sparsely furnished hotel room and surrounded by non-offensive, neutral coloured decor. The duvet had always been too heavy and Peter was glad to be leaving it behind. In fact, he was glad to be leaving all of it behind. His guest status included.

On July first, Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts stood with Peter in their new home. The three of them stood close together in a little cluster in the large, open space. Mr. Stark had gone ahead and chosen the penthouse on 79th street. The one closer to Peter's school. Just over the bridge and a twenty-minute drive away, as Mr. Stark had told him. If they were living in different times, in a different life, Peter might've been annoyed by the reminder of his guardians' close proximity. The sound of helicopter engines rumbling, poised and ready for takeoff, would've driven him crazy. But now… this didn't feel like hovering. This was reassurance.

The promise of stability. It soothed something raw in Peter, the intensity of which he hadn't fully felt until it was relieved. He had a home, and more importantly, people to come back to. Only weeks ago, he hadn't been sure if he would ever have that again.

The kitchen and living room were connected without walls to stifle their space. High ceilings towered above and lent the penthouse an air of grandeur. On both ends, hallways led to more rooms, out of sight and in need of exploring. Without furniture, the sprawling space seemed even larger.

Such an empty space, bereft of anything to absorb sound waves, begged for something to break the silence. Something that would create a nice crisp echo. The temptation was presented and Peter's palms itched. A voice in his head, the one that urged him to stay quiet and polite lest he offend his guardians, cautioned him not to clap. A week ago, Peter would've listened and obeyed, without a doubt.

But things had changed. Just as Mr. Stark had said they would.

Crack!

Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts jumped. They moved in unison, both flinching and then looking at Peter, the culprit whose palms were still pressed together. Mr. Stark's eyes took on the look. The one that Peter had no name for, but which seemed to be reserved for him whenever he was being a little too much. The 'can you not, right now?' look. It had been a while since Peter had seen it, or had squirmed under it to be more precise. There was a softer edge that accompanied it now, which took away some of Mr. Stark's exasperated severity.

"Sorry," Peter said while not really feeling sorry at all. "I had to do it. It won't echo like this when the furniture and stuff get here." His hand made a sweeping gesture to illustrate expanse of the rooms. Mr. Stark rolled his eyes and reached over to flick Peter on his temple. Ms. Potts shook her head, a fond smile playing at her lips, and peeled away from the little group to talk to the movers standing just outside the front door. Mr. Stark clapped Peter on the shoulder and steered him towards one of the hallways.

"It doesn't look like much, but we'll dress the place up and make it homey." Peter's eyes widened and he had to hold in a disbelieving laugh. If Mr. Stark considered this place to be 'not much', what did he consider lavish? He had never set foot in any of Mr. Stark's homes, so he honestly could only guess. It was too bad that terrorists blew up his mansion in Malibu. That place must've been the epicenter of opulence. "I bought the floor below us too. It's gonna be the new lab." On reflex, Peter cast his eyes down to the hardwood floor that they were walking over, and then he looked up and quirked a brow at Mr. Stark.

"Really? You didn't buy the whole building? I'm shocked."

"Don't be a smart-ass, kid. It's not a good look on you." Mr. Stark chastised, but the hint of a smirk ruined the effect. "I thought it would be a dick move to kick everyone out of the building just 'cause I want more elbow room."

Peter blinked, surprised by Mr. Stark's consideration. He wasn't really known for his sensitivity and mindfulness, and yet he had thought of the other tenants and their attachment to their homes. Peter had assumed when Mr. Stark had been apartment hunting, that he would have offered to buy everyone out of the building for the sake of retaining his privacy. Well, that and Peter knew Mr. Stark well enough to know that he wasn't big on sharing. Peter imagined that he would've offered each tenant a buyout at double or triple the value of their homes, and most would jump at the offer. For them, it would've been a great offer and the sum of money would probably be more than a ten-year salary, for Mr. Stark it would've barely tapped the surface of his wealth. But then again… these were different times. Security these days couldn't be bought. Not really. Forces beyond anyone's control could rip away stability and no amount of money could buy it back. The ones who were lucky enough to survive and hold on to their place in the world might not be so keen to trade it all for a few extra bucks. Perhaps Mr. Stark bore that in mind when he decided to only buy the top two floors.

Ahead, Peter saw a closed door painted white and adorned with a gold door handle. For the briefest of moments, he imagined it open and off kilter. The hinges bent unnaturally as it had been forced too far open. The handle suspending the door in the drywall, the force of his rage having punctured it cleanly through. Through the open doorway lay the hallway leading away from his trashed apartment. His home that had been picked apart and looted. Eleven years of living snatched out from under him before he was even aware that it was in danger.

Peter's step only faltered for a second, but that was enough for Mr. Stark to tense.

"You okay?"

The door was as it was before; closed, perfectly painted, and completely innocuous. Mr. Stark's gaze was all at once concerned and searching.

Get it together. Don't ruin this.

Peter plastered a shaky grin on his face. Forced or genuine, he wasn't sure which was shining through. Sometimes, he himself couldn't tell the difference. These days, it seemed as though he was straddling the line between those two opposites. Some days he lived and breathed his life under Mr. Stark's roof with ease. Other days he merely inhabited the space. Some days, Peter had no idea where he stood, and those were the worst of all.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Peter was relieved to hear his own voice sound so steady. Perhaps today he could genuinely belong instead of just pretending like he did. The concern in Mr. Stark's eyes was mitigated, though it didn't entirely disappeared. He must've felt it best to move on because he flashed Peter a smile in response.

"Dum-E and U will be shipped out here soon. We'll have ourselves a nice little homecoming when they arrive." They continued down the hall, approaching the door at the end of it.

"Of course, gotta have the whole family together," Peter teased, alluding to his recent discovery that Mr. Stark apparently considered his early robots like his first children. He expected him to scowl or to throw back some light hearted snarking, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead his shoulders rose in a casual shrug as they stopped outside the door.

"I like to have all my people under the same roof. Even the absolutely useless ones that won't follow simple instructions." That last bit came out light, but the look that he gave Peter was decidedly poignant. He squeezed Peter's shoulder and then let go, making his implication clear.

Well, that was uncalled for. Dum-E was a menace in the lab, having broken more smoothie blenders than Peter would ever know. And sure, Peter may have accidentally set popcorn on fire last week. Yeah, okay, there were instructions on the bag, but the microwave shouldn't have a 'popcorn' button unless the manufacturers intended for it to actually pop the corn. Not combust it. That was false advertising, totally not Peter's fault.

"We're still talking about Dum-E, right?" Peter asked leadingly. Mr. Stark smirked and grabbed the doorknob.

"Sure."

He opened it, and a sudden flood of light struck Peter's eyes from tall windows. The harsh transition from the semi-dark hall to the bright room made his eyes water.

"And I'm the smart-ass?" he muttered, blinking hard and rubbing the tears from his lash line with his thumb. He followed Mr. Stark in to the room and stopped in his tracks when Mr. Stark whirled around to look at him.

"You know what? Just for that comment, you don't get this kick ass room with a sweet view."

Only then did Peter's eyes clear enough to see the view before him. It was awesome. Even with nothing in it, it was still way more impressive than any room Peter had ever had. Outside, windows showcased a variety of buildings; little pockets of old heritage buildings coexisted next to sleek, reflective skyscrapers. Peter knew these sights. He had swung through them as Spider-Man nearly every day, but somehow from here it managed to be special again. Like he was a tourist instead of a local.

"Okay, I'm sorry." Peter grinned like the smart-ass that he was and held up his hands placatingly. He made himself look as contrite as possible – a difficult feat when he couldn't wipe his smile off- and he faced his guardian's feigned ire.

"No, no, my mind's made up." Mr. Stark waved a hand dismissively, but the spark in his eye gave him away. "It's a cardboard box under the stairs for you, Underoos."

"What? Oh, c'mon-"

"Don't worry, I'll drop off three square meals a day." Mr. Stark promised, and Peter raised an eyebrow at his devotion to the bit. "Plus, you can eat any stray mice you find sneaking around. And crumbs off the floor, those are totally up for grabs. That should be enough to sustain a growing spidey-boy's metabolism, right?"

Damn, Mr. Stark was really laying it on thick. In the midst of wondering if he was serious about the mouse thing – this was New York after all. Rodents were unavoidable, even in the posh neighbourhoods in the Upper East Side - Peter noted that Mr. Stark was dipping in to his arsenal of spider nicknames again. Those had become rare and Peter suspected that he was avoiding the whole Spider-Man thing all together. Now was probably not the right time to press the issue, so instead he let it go.

Play along.

It was getting easier these days.

"I said I was sorry, jeez!"

Peter rallied back. The ball was in Mr. Stark's court. He eyed Peter critically, though there was no real hostility behind it. It was all for show. All to conceal how happy he was to see Peter playing at all. Engaging in the bit instead of being… well… himself, but lesser than before. Muted. Cautious.

"You're lucky I'm in a forgiving mood." Mr. Stark walked to the window, which was tall and had a wide ledge like a built-in bench. "We'll be short a mouser around here, but that's okay. We'll get by." He sat down and scooted to one side of the ledge, leaving an empty space large enough for someone else to sit. The invitation was clear.

'I'm gonna sit here, so you move your leg.'

A different apartment with a different bedroom flashed before Peter's eyes. A different Peter too, one who couldn't string together a sentence without stuttering in front of his… not even a mentor back then. At the time, nobody to him except a wealthy benefactor and heroic icon admired from afar. But now, someone much more.

How things could change in two short years. How much more they could change in an instant… in the snap of fingers.

Don't think about that. Play along.

Peter smoothed out his expression before Mr. Stark had a chance to ask about it. He sat down in the spot next to Mr. Stark and stretched his legs out in front of him. Relaxed and casual, on the outside at least.

"So, you're saying we should get a cat?" Peter asked innocently and turned to look at the man next to him.

"No, the building doesn't allow pets." Peter thought that sounded like code for 'I don't want a cat'. He was pretty sure if there was a 'no pets' rule, that would only pertain to renters, not people who owned their apartment. Mr. Stark's expression adopted a hint of distaste as he added: "Plus, cats are a little too conventional, don't'cha think?"

So cats weren't off the table as long as they were unorthodox? Interesting. Peter's mind conjured up an image of a different Mr. Stark, one that had transformed in to a shameless celebrity peacock. The kind that owned white Bengal tigers as pets just because he could. Like Mike Tyson. The two of them could start up a pet walking service for fellow celebrities with ridiculous and exotic pets. The thought had him grinning like an idiot again.

"So, you're saying we should get a tiger? Can't get much more unconventional than that." He tried to deliver that question as innocently as the first, but it was hard. There were definitely cracks in his façade and Mr. Stark's deadpan expression was making it difficult to keep it together.

"I'm not saying that, you're saying that. And also, no. A thousand times, no."

Peter nodded seriously and eyed the space around them.

"Yeah, I guess a tiger would be too big. Even for this place. The poor guy would suffer." He let his head fall back and felt the cool pane of glass against it. "What about an ocelot? They're like the size of a Maine Coon." They probably weren't, but that wasn't the point. The point was to play the game and get under Mr. Stark's skin. His guardian's exasperated 'I can't even' sigh, further proved that Peter was winning.

"I can't believe this needs to be said out loud, but nothing that's gonna disembowel me in my sleep."

"An unconventional mouser that won't try to disembowel you?" Peter asked as he folded one of his legs up to his chest. He rested his chin on his knee and felt the slight pressure clack his teeth together. "I think you're asking too much, Mr. Stark. I mean, even regular house cats would kill you if they could. They just know that they can't do it, so they don't even try."

"It doesn't matter. The building won't allow any sort of pet, vicious killers or otherwise."

A beat of silence as the matter was closed. But then…

"So, we're gonna live with mice?"

A sharp look with no bite was shot at Peter. He tilted his face down to smother his smile into his knee.

"I'm demoting you back to the box."

Peter's laugh was muffled by the fabric of his jeans. A second later, a hesitant hand ruffled his hair. It was strange and familiar all at once. Like those days in the lab when jokes and sarcastic quips were tossed around with ease. But also, it was something new. Not for the first time, he felt the presence of something familial. Since returning to Earth, it had settled in the silences and in the spaces between words. Like always, it ignited a spark of panic, because that familial feeling was, of course, imagined. It was his own desperation and fear trying to make something out of nothing. Taking kindness and trying to stretch it into something more. It was important to be aware of that impulse, even though he couldn't seem to make it stop. But for some reason… he just couldn't bring himself to care this time.

Real.

Imagined.

A sense of peace enveloped him and extinguished the panic before it had a chance to grow. Because maybe… this could be okay. Good even. Playing along was so much easier than resisting. Maybe happiness, like everything else, just needed to be practiced in order to be comfortable.

Peter knew for certain that his smile, still hidden by his knee, was genuine. For a moment, he marveled at how that too was getting easier.

It just took practice.

And time.

Three days later, it was the fourth of July. An annual national holiday since 1777, and Captain Rogers' birthday since 1918. Peter remembered learning about that ironic coincidence back in 2012, when Captain Rogers had resurfaced, aliens had invaded, and the world had been irrevocably shaken. Fourth of July 2018… that was his centennial birthday. The big one-oh-oh. He remembered seeing Captain America in Germany. They had fought and Peter had multitasked fighting and lowkey geeking out over one of his greatest heroes. He remembered the same man, haggard and worn, who had haunted the compound in the week that the they had coexisted there. The difference was staggering, and Peter wondered who he must have lost to the snap. Someone, now vanished, had the power to break him when a world war, many more battles, and temporal displacement couldn't. Love and compassion; the sharp edge of the human experience could cut deep wounds. Peter could understand that. So could many others. Everyone had lost someone.

Captain Rogers undoubtedly wouldn't be celebrating his milestone birthday, just like the rest of America wouldn't celebrate Independence Day. An unimaginable devastation had gripped the world, all worlds everywhere, and as a result perspective had been gained. What did celebrating his country's independence matter in light of everything that had happened? Who cared about something so trivial? Moreover, who could celebrate, and truly enjoy themselves, without feeling the hollow absence by their side? The chilling emptiness where someone should be standing, but never would again. Peter knew from experience, in the years to come, that void would become less threatening though it's significance would never diminish. It would always remain, but it would hurt less to acknowledge it.

To put it simply, it was too soon for celebrations and parties. That was why Peter was so surprised when he heard an explosion from somewhere outside. Not the dangerous sort of explosion, like the kind that had rang in Peter's ears during battle… and for some time after. No, this sound was unique and unmistakable.

Fireworks.

Peter was certain that was what it was. Perched on his bed – bought for him the day that they moved in and completed with a duvet that didn't feel like it was trying to smother and roast him – the first bang cracked through the night air.

Bang!

Forgetting his phone in the folds of his duvet, Peter sprung to his feet. Outside his room, he heard the low voices on the tv suddenly muted.

Bang!

In between ringing explosions, Peter could hear his own hurried footsteps pad across his carpeted bedroom and in to the hallway. The living room came in to view and Peter saw Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark standing at the tall windows that overlooked a couple of blocks of buildings and the East River beyond them.

Bang!

Beyond the pane of glass, a smattering of red, white, and blue exploded in the distance. Tiny specks of brilliant colour hung in the air, glowing for a second, before falling through their arc and burning out.

"Someone's setting off fireworks?" Ms. Potts muttered as Peter reached her side. He glanced over and saw her disbelieving expression just as another bang rang across the distance. Peter understood completely without her having to verbalize it. On the surface, fourth of July fireworks were to be expected, but the context for this was all wrong. "Whoever decided to do this is very brave. The public backlash is going to be a nightmare."

Peter couldn't help but smile at that. People are who they are he supposed. It would seem that decades of maintaining Stark Industries had caused Ms. Potts' default mode to be to view everything through a PR lens. A small part of her was always concerned about the repercussions of bad decisions, even when the company wasn't her own. But she was right. Already, Peter could imagine the outrage that was likely breaking across various social media platforms, declaring it as inappropriate and insulting. Peter had to admit, the stunt was bold.

"I guess there's something to be said for tradition." Mr. Stark said lightly. Another Bang. All blue this time. The embers shot out farther and created a larger sphere. From where Peter stood, it was about the size of a grape. At the river side it would've been enormous. "Think we should head down there and check it out?"

"No," Ms. Potts said. "It looks like there's only one barge on the water. They'll probably have run out of fireworks by the time we get there."

She was mostly right, but it was a boat not a barge. Peter could barely make out it out, but with squinted eyes, he could see the vague shape of a sailboat. The fireworks were all contained to that one area, like some bizarre sparkling geyser, or a sinking ship sending off oddly patriotic distress flares. Well, that seemed dangerous. It didn't seem likely that a company would've sent it out. It was far too small for anyone to attach their name to it with pride. The boat must've been privately owned. For some reason, the idea of one guy – or more likely a small crew – setting off alone on the water to light some fireworks because tradition demanded it, hit him in a way he hadn't expected. His heart felt light, though at the same time it ached.

He was five, sitting on Ben's shoulders and watching a dazzling spectacle for the first time. Eight, and begging Ben for money to buy one of the big glow sticks that a vendor was selling. Thirteen, and watching some little kids lightsaber battle with the glow sticks before the fireworks started up. Secretly, he had wanted one too, but his newly realized teenaged dignity and no Ned around to enable him, prevented him from buying one and schooling the young Padawans in the ways of the Jedi Knight. He and Ned were self-proclaimed, of course, but when you clocked as many hours as they had, the title was earned.

"We used to go see the fireworks every year, me and Ben. And May too if she could get the night off from work." Peter wasn't sure what made him say that out loud, and he was keenly aware that was the first time he had brought his aunt and uncle up in casual conversation. A second of stunned silence followed, just long enough for his heart to feel weighted.

"That sounds like it must've been a lot of fun."

Instantly, the weight was lifted at Ms. Potts' remark. He breathed out, as subtly as he could, a breath he had been holding. His hands shook, so he buried them in pockets of his hoodie.

"It was."

They all remained facing forward, watching the fireworks, which were launched with larger time gaps between each one. Their stock must be getting low. Mr. Stark was the first to turn his attention away. Peter felt his gaze on him but he couldn't turn to meet it.

"Why don't we go next year?" Mr. Stark rushed out. There was an urgency to his excitement that made Peter's stomach twist. "It'll be great!"

Peter knew he should say something. He knew he should respond in kind with 'Yeah, let's do it!'. He should meet his eye at the very least, but he couldn't do it. He imagined standing at the river side, fireworks in full swing, but May and Ben were cardboard cut outs. Fragile figures that could be knocked over with a gust of strong wind and replaced by anyone who cared enough. Of course, he couldn't say that out loud. Not without being disrespectful and cruel and all the things that Peter never wanted to be. But all the same, standing with a crowd by the river, or on the bridge, where ever they could find a place, and watching the Independence Day fireworks, that had been their thing. Ben, May, and Peter's. That period of time had begun and ended, and was now untouchable. Just like all of his other fond memories. Replicating that time for the sake of recapturing something that didn't exist anymore was just wrong.

Say something.

He couldn't. He was at an impasse. Trapped between loyalty for his old family and acceptance of his new… guardians. People who had nothing but the best of intentions for him. How could he say 'no' when he owed everything to Mr. Stark? Fortunately, Ms. Potts came to his rescue, and Peter didn't have to say anything.

"You know, I grew up in a rural town," Peter could see in his peripheral vision that she was looking at him now. "So, we had bonfires instead of fireworks."

Pepper Potts; Vanquisher of awkward moments. The way that she made tension disappear was a gift that neither he nor Mr. Stark possessed. She always knew what to say and when was the best moment to say it. Truly she was the unsung hero. A tiny pinch of guilt gnawed at Peter's insides. Honestly, he had been living with Ms. Potts for over a month. How did he not know that about her? He had always assumed that she was born and raised in the city, like he and Mr. Stark were. Peter imagined that it must've been nice, growing up somewhere less crowded and much quieter. It must be so different from anything he knew. He was on the verge of asking her more about it. A question was on the tip of his tongue when suddenly lightning struck him.

"Let's do both!" he said, perhaps a little louder than he had intended. He turned to look at the two of them, and they both seemed shocked by his excitement. Or maybe they were just startled by his near shouting. He fought to keep his tone down as he added: "We can see the fireworks from the roof, and we'll be far enough away that the sound won't disturb Morgan. Oh wait, babies go to be super early. Even better, we'll already be home. Putting him to bed won't be a hassle." Mr. Stark's stunned expression quickly morphed in to one of cautious elation. That expression was familiar, though he had never seen it on Mr. Stark. Rather he had felt it himself whenever an experiment turned out better than he hoped, but there was still time for it to go south. Seeing it on Mr. Stark, knowing how hard he had been working to make Peter feel at home, it made his heart clench. He tried not to show it, and pressed on. "Do you think the building would let us have a bonfire up there since we own the two floors below it?" A tiny frown appeared on Ms. Potts' face, and Peter braced himself for the inevitable rejection.

"No, that's not how that works," Ms. Potts replied frankly, ever the realist. "Also, that seems like a pretty serious fire hazard if it's not properly contained-"

"So, we'll contain it." Mr. Stark interrupted and Ms. Potts shot him an annoyed look. "I'll talk to them. See what I can't swing." He promised, his elation taking on a defiant edge under Ms. Potts' annoyance. Peter predicted that later tonight decades old battle would recommence. Mr. Stark wanted something unreasonable and Ms. Potts had to be the practical one and say 'no'. Between feelings guilt and exasperation for unintentionally causing another argument, Peter wondered how many times they had had that fight. At this point, did they feel like they were jumping through hoops?

It couldn't be helped, Peter decided. Not really. People are who they are, and even without Peter's suggestion they would've inevitably found something to argue over before breakfast. It's just who they were together. For the first time, Peter made a conscious decision to not worry about it. He turned his attention back to the lone boat on the river.

Bonfire and fireworks. A new tradition in the presence of an old one. Peter liked the idea. Seeing the fireworks, being present but distant from them just as he was now, it eased something in him. Something that Peter had been resisting since Mr. Stark had first told him that May was gone. He didn't have to choose one life or another. Richard and Mary's boy. May and Ben's boy. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts' boy. Tragedy shaped him each time in to slightly different version of himself, but ultimately, he was the same.

It was too soon to enjoy fireworks at the river side. Without his family it was too painful. But from the roof top, from afar and in good company, it could be good.

Present but distant. Peter had a feeling that would be the way of things from now on. Not just for him, but for everyone. Acknowledgement of a life, now gone, but moving forward. It's all anyone could do. It was all everyone had to do. The alternative was to live in misery forever.

In his mind's eye, Peter saw himself standing alone on the river side. He watched the lone boat shoot off fireworks for an audience of silently indifferent dead and outraged living. And for Peter too, he supposed, though he felt no anger or resentment for the crew who refused to drop the torch. Just a profound sense of loss for his aunt, who came when she could, and his uncle, who had introduced him to it all. And the missing Padawans, whose fighting stance Peter wouldn't be able to silently judge and critique.

And that… that's no way to live.

A week had passed since the fourth of July, and Peter kept his ear to the ground. He listened and he read whatever he could to get a feel of the terrain. The world and his neighbourhood. Even though he couldn't do anything, being benched and all, he needed to know what the situation was like out there. Mr. Stark had said that he would give his suit back when the state of his neighbourhood wasn't so dangerous. When all the escaped convicts were rounded up again. He ignored the voice in him that wanted to whine that Spider-Man was made for fighting criminals. Whining was counterproductive and plus… Peter had something to prove. He wanted Mr. Stark to see that he did have integrity, so he forced himself to be patient and wait. Wait for the mess that Mr. Stark wanted him to be nowhere near to be cleaned up.

And then it was. For the most part anyway. Some were still at large, but according to local news bulletins the majority had been reincarcerated. A few days passed and Mr. Stark said nothing. That was nothing to worry about. He and Ms. Potts were getting married within a week. It wasn't going to be a big event, just a small ceremony at city hall with fewer guests than Peter had fingers on one hand. But still, he was preoccupied. That didn't mean that he was withholding Peter's suit. Peter reassured himself, multiple times daily, that Mr. Stark would walk in to Peter's room, suit in hand, and give him his permission to go. Having his mentor's faith in him restored and having the ability to help people again… the thought was intensely satisfying. It would all be worth it. Peter just had to hold on a little longer.

But a day turned into the next. And then the next…

What he didn't expect was for Ms. Potts to be the one standing in his doorway. But there she was, leaning against the frame, his suit folded neatly and pressed securely against her body by her arm. The sight of his colours, red and blue, cast in webs, made his heart leap in to his throat.

"Mr. Stark's gonna let me patrol?" Peter asked. He was too excited to be embarrassed by his voice, which had skyrocketed up an octave. Ms. Potts didn't smirk like Mr. Stark would've. Instead she walked to his bed and sat on the edge, laying the suit between them like an offering.

"He doesn't know I'm letting you go."

"Oh." Peter realized that Mr. Stark wasn't in the apartment at that moment. He tried to remember where he said he was going but couldn't quite remember. Oh, Ms. Potts had asked him to take care of something at Stark Industries. That seemed… suspiciously well timed. Did she make up an errand just to get Peter alone? The evidence would suggest that, but it was hard for Peter to believe. He didn't know that she had it in her to be so sneaky. Being roped in to the situation made him feel uneasy, like he was doing something that he shouldn't.

"Consider tonight a trial run," Ms. Potts said. "Make it back here before dinner, without any injuries, safe and sound, and I'm sure he'll warm up to the idea of you patrolling again."

Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, sitting on the sidelines when the world needed help most was torture and he wanted more than anything to get back out there. On the other hand, superhero stuff was his and Mr. Stark's thing. It was the entire basis of their relationship, and the reason why Mr. Stark had sought him out in the first place. Sure, Ms. Potts was one of Peter's legal guardians – all of that had been hashed out in a court room not long after leaving the compound- but he had been waiting on Mr. Stark's permission not hers. Peter remembered how Mr. Stark had sounded that night when he and Ms. Potts had been discussing his future in hero work. Those brief words, delivered all torn up and tired, had left him guilt ridden for days. Peter had to do better than he was, because the prospect of betraying Mr. Stark's trust again made him feel deeply ashamed… and apprehensive. How many times could he make the same mistake and still expect to be forgiven for it? Patience and understanding were admirable qualities, but they were finite just as all valuable things were. Peter didn't want to know what would happen when Mr. Stark's ran out. What the bottom of the barrel looked like.

And yet… there was his suit. Flexible armor with an AI to keep an eye on him and to snitch if things were getting too dicey. Wearable anonymity to protect himself and those closest to him. The rush of swinging – falling and catching himself in an entirely self-controlled balancing act of safety and danger- it called to him. He could hear the echo of wind rushing in his ears and his blood quickened at the memory. It had been so long since he had felt that particular high; adrenaline unmotivated by fight or flight. Just himself surrounded by hundreds of feet of empty air. Without meaning to reach out, one of his fingers traced the black web lines on red background.

"Won't he be mad that you're letting me go?" Peter asked keeping his eyes on the webbed pattern. Yes, he will. He hated that he was putting Ms. Potts in this position almost as much as he hated that he knew that he was going to leave anyway, whether Mr. Stark liked it or not.

"You let me worry about that," She said firmly in her no nonsense tone, which Peter nodded numbly to.

Thin fingers touched under Peter's chin and lifted it up. 'Hey, I'm talking to you. Look at me,' May scolded in his ear. Eye contact had always been hard for Peter when he was troubled. Ms. Potts' fingers were softer than May's dry ones. Her job as a nurse had her constantly washing her hands while Ms. Potts' CEO hands mostly typed or held pens. Peter's gaze was physically lifted up and the eyes he met were simultaneously Ms. Potts' and May's. Not his mom's though. She hadn't lived long enough for Peter to remember them looking at him like that; concerned, but ringing with the silent command: Pay attention. Ms. Potts would be a mother soon too, he reminded himself. Not that Peter had forgotten that. Morgan's invisible fourth presence filled the room wherever the three of them were just as if he were already born. But the fact was brought to the forefront of his mind with sharp clarity. Trailing after it, the image of an older Mrs. Stark sitting just as they were now and looking at her own son with that universal 'mom face'. An eerie chill swept Peter and his finger halted its tracing. Ms. Potts eyes searched his expression and she retracted her fingers quickly from under his chin as if he'd burnt her. Whatever spell had been cast was broken and suddenly they were Ms. Potts and Peter again. Not Ms. Potts and her practice son.

"He cares about you a lot, you know," she said calmly. Her hands folded themselves in her lap, severing the connection between herself and her ward and making them two islands once more. Peter was left stumbling to catch up to what the hell they were talking about. Right. The suit. Mr. Stark. Patrolling. He arrived at that conclusion as Ms. Potts pressed on. "And he worries. What you two went through… well, it's made him a bit overprotective. It's understandable, of course, but this can't carry on." She fixed him with another 'pay attention' look, but this time the eyes that delivered it were more 'boss Ms. Potts' than 'mom Ms. Potts'. They both had the effect of making him sit up straight, but the former didn't feel like a gut punch like the latter did. "You'll need to show him that you can take care of yourself out there, otherwise I don't see how he'll ever let you go. There'll always be some reason to keep you from leaving."

Huh.

So, Mr. Stark had been lying after all? He really hadn't intended to give Peter his suit back? That was disappointing, but Peter tried to not let it show. He wasn't supposed to know about any of that after all. Surprisingly, he found the blow didn't really wound him. Maybe it was because his suit, the other half of his identity, was lying before him, and maybe now he could feel whole again. Or maybe it was because something wonderful, albeit obvious, was solidified in words by the person who knew Mr. Stark better than anyone.

Mr. Stark cared about Peter.

That fact shouldn't have made Peter's heart soar like it did, because he already knew that. This wasn't new information. Even during times of doubt, when Peter had worried whether his mentor would decide to keep him around, he had always known that he cared at least a little. The problem was that Peter didn't know where the limit of that compassion lay. It existed, of course. It was finite, just like his patience and understanding. He still didn't know where Mr. Stark's care for him capped off. At some point, he expected that he would learn where the ceiling was. But through their time living together he had found out that it was much higher than he had expected. After all, someone who didn't care wouldn't have invite him into his home to live with his newly formed family. Nor would he have made plans for the next fourth of July, or trouble himself to settle his home near Peter's school. A thousand acts and gestures, big and small, piled up and fortified an indisputable truth; Mr. Stark cared about him. Mr. Stark liked him a lot, clearly. And maybe even…

'I love you, kid.'

Nope.

Peter blinked hard, squashing the thought and smothering it in darkness. There it was. That was it. A glimpse of something that existed beyond the limit in a territory reserved for Morgan. He tried not to be jealous. It was ungrateful for Peter to want to stray there when he had already had sixteen years to feel its warmth when it had been given by his own family. To be loved like that, by those who made you, was unique. Once it was lost it could never be recreated by anyone else.

Peter had had that epiphany weeks ago, during one of his nights plagued with insomnia. Up until that point, he had understood that to lose May was to lose someone integral to his life and his being. But that night he had realized, suddenly and completely, that with her went the last of something irreplaceable.

That night had been rough, to say the least. As had been the night after it. That time on existed for Peter in a new understanding of his life. One where he was aware of the extent of what he had lost. But the funny thing was… each night that followed hurt a little less. This new state of being, it became easier and easier to embody. Maybe because there was no other alternative other than acceptance.

The truth was simple. Peter had had his time. It began with his parents and ended with May. Now it was Morgan's turn to feel what Peter had taken for granted throughout his childhood. Morgan wouldn't appreciate it either. Not until it was gone. The absence of something that had always been present wasn't truly felt until the warmth of it had vanished entirely. That's just how it was. And that was fine. that was normal. It just didn't belong to Peter anymore.

When Peter opened his eyes, Ms. Potts was a mom again. And there was the gut punch, though he felt a little less winded this time around. To busy his hands and avoid her gaze, he reached down and scooped up his suit. The light weight rested comfortably in his hands.

"Thanks, Ms. Potts." He tried to say it strongly, and to his satisfaction it came out as he had intended. He looked up again and steadily held her concerned gaze. Not flinching. Not breaking away.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he answered automatically. Ms. Potts' expression didn't waver, and the pity was starting to make his hackles rise. He was telling the truth. He was as okay as he could be. But he couldn't snap at her. For once, he managed to have the foresight to look ahead and prevent something regrettable. Deflecting with humour, however, was perfectly acceptable in this house. And he had learned from the very best. "Don't worry. I'll be careful not to break anything while I'm out." Success. Ms. Potts' gaze didn't pity him anymore. But she did look confused. "Any of my bones, I mean," he clarified. "I promise, no ugly cast or crutches will muck up your wedding photos."

Ms. Potts shook her head in much the same manner that she did whenever Mr. Stark was being avoidant. But he could see the look in her eye, her defeated air that suggested that she was going to let this one go.

"You must not think very highly of me if you think that I would prioritize my wedding photos over your health." Peter cracked a small smile at that, hoping it was enough to clear up some of the offense. She smiled back, so he assumed he was forgiven. "Honestly though, if you come back here with anything more severe than a bruise, nothing's going to be able to stop Tony from bubble wrapping you. Not even me."

A bubble wrap suit actually sounded like a lot of fun, but Peter knew that wasn't the point she was trying to make.

"You think?"

"Oh, you better believe it." Ms. Potts said. Behind her words, a culmination of twenty years of pent up annoyance made her sound so very tired. "He'll probably pad all the sharp corners and edges in the apartment while he's at it. All the dull edges too."

"That'll happen anyway once it's time to baby proof the apartment. You can't blame that one on me. That's not my fault."

Ms. Potts gave him an odd look that Peter found vaguely insulting. It sort of reminded him of how MJ would look whenever she found something to be obvious and was waiting for Peter to catch up to speed. It was gone in a second, and Peter was left with the distinct impression that she had decided to let it go. Whatever it was.

"I hadn't even thought that far ahead," She confessed and then sighed in defeat. "So much time is going to be wasted unlocking and relocking anything we want to use. My morning routine is going to get dragged out at least fifteen minutes."

"Probably more," Peter agreed while trying to bite back his smirk. Ms. Potts rose to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants with her hands as she straightened up.

"God help us," she muttered, already annoyed by something that hadn't happened yet.

"He won't," Peter said. Ms. Potts quirked a brow at him. "Mr. Stark's a force. God ain't got time for that."

Ms. Potts laughed at that and Peter was taken aback. He realized that he had never heard it before, and he took a moment to soak in his small accomplishment. She was still laughing as she left, shutting the door behind her, and padding down the hall.

"Of course he's not around to hear that." She muttered ruefully to herself from somewhere in the kitchen. A drawer slid open and metal utensils clacked together. "figures. The one time the kid dishes out a crispy burn, he's not even here."

It was Peter's turn to laugh. For the sake of transparency, he made sure to laugh loud enough for Ms. Potts to hear him down the hall. The sound of her rummaging through the kitchenware halted.

"Right. Enhanced hearing. Forgot about that." Peter coughed as he tried to contain his laughter. He looked down to his hands and curled his fingers more securely in to his spider suit. "Dinner's at seven. Better get going before I change my mind."

Peter was already in his suit before she finished talking. A second later, Spider-Man crawled out of his top floor window.

The unconventional pet conversation is my hat tip to Gerald the alpaca – a deleted scene in the movie. And also his predecessor, Howard Stark's flamingo, Bernard Stark. I'm not sure if I want to keep Gerald in my version of events. I don't know how he'll fit into things, if at all. So here is his moment to shine in case I decide to scrap him.

Reviews:

Mary: Thanks! Hope this one lives up to your expectations!