Extra long chapter to appease my (probably) irate readers? Sorry for the long absence. We're moving in to the last few chapters of this arc, and I wanted to make sure that all my ducks were in a row before posting. I've spent a large chunk of time since this quarantine started writing, so there'll be another chapter next Friday too, and so on and so forth (hopefully, if I can maintain this pace, every Friday for a while).
I went back and revised the dialogue between Peter and Nebula in chapter 4. It doesn't change the plot at all, but the dialogue felt off before. So I tweaked it to something that I thought would be more accurate.
Thanks for favoriting/following/reviewing, and all of you stay healthy and safe out there!
Stepping in to the World
The glass of Peter's bedroom window was sun baked from the intense July heat. He clung to the outside of it, allowing the warmth to seep into his skin as he looked in to his bedroom from the opposite side. It was neat, far neater than Peter usual kept it, and he suddenly realized how confining the walls were. The room seemed so dimly lit in comparison to outside. The brilliant sunlight was blocked out by the walls and suddenly all the shadows and dark corners became noticeable in a way that they hadn't been when he sat within them. His heart beat fast in his chest and it was hard to contain the broad smile stretching across his face. He didn't fight it as he flipped himself over, still clinging tightly to the window, and faced the city.
New York had never looked more breath-taking than it did in that moment. Rows upon rows of giant buildings organized themselves in a procession of elegant high rises, quaint shops, and imposing business sectors. It was familiar and foreign at the same time. The Upper East Side was a neighbourhood that he had swung through from time to time, but since he knew no one here, he never had a reason to stay for long. If Queens were smothered in a layer of varnish, it might shine up nice like this place did. But then, Peter supposed, if that were to happen it wouldn't be Queens anymore. He closed his eyes, shutting out the gloss and feeling the sun beating down on him. A deep breath filled his lungs, expanding them completely, and he noted that the air smelled cleaner than he remembered it being before. Less smoggy. More crisp.
'Less cars means less air pollution', Peter thought and his pulse hastened at the implication. He couldn't turn his attention on to that thought for too long. His heart was fluttering. Soon it would escalate to an erratic pounding. Peter knew this. He had felt it countless times over the past couple of months. He needed to escape the thoughts that nipped at his heels before they sunk their claws into him.
Jump.
He did.
Coiling and releasing his muscles, he threw himself off of the window and into a free fall. The familiarity of wind howling in his ears welcomed him home like an old friend. His blood was rushing to his head, plummeting downward just as he was. Wide, unblinking eyes watched the sidewalk draw closer and a laugh burst from his lips. A niggling sensation tugged at the pit of his stomach; the split-second warning before his spidey-sense screamed at him to turn back or die. Righting himself in mid-air, he shot out a web. The line went taut, the muscles in his arms burned from disuse, and the tips of his toes graze concrete as kinetic energy carried him through the arc. When the force of the swing had thrown him up as high as it could, he was weightless for an instant, suspended in mid-air and completely untouchable. Then he was falling again.
God, he had missed this: the rush of falling and soaring. But there was something else. Something that he couldn't name, but he had felt the crushing weight of it bearing down on him since the snap. It was eased in that moment, as Peter realized the deep appreciation that he had for his absolute control over falling. Tumbling through air, his life was in his hands and only his. He had never truly understood before how important it was to have complete control and possession over his own life. His choices. His future. How had he managed to live his life, in the days before, with such a tenuous grasp on his life? His life was his. A wave of euphoria accompanied that simple epiphany, and suddenly, Peter was laughing.
"Peter."
"Karen!" he cried, a grin splitting his face. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her until he heard her voice again. He didn't even care that she sounded kind of ticked-off. "Oh my gosh, it's been forever since I heard your voice!"
"It's been 67 days."
"Like I said. Forever." He was laughing again, or maybe had never really stopped. He was just so happy to be here again. Patrolling the streets with his one friend who wasn't threatened by mortality. Karen was a system of codes and algorithms, and yet Peter couldn't help but view her as distinctly human. Like a friend, one that could never disappear. No… not quite a friend. She nagged him and looked out for him far too much to be just a friend. "How've you been?"
"I am well." She replied sternly, and Peter got the feeling that he was about to be chewed out. "That fall brought you in dangerously close proximity to the ground."
And just like that, all that good feeling and euphoria dried up.
Of course, she was concerned. Mr. Stark had programmed her that way after all. She was the eyes and ears that kept tabs on him at all times. He had probably triggered some sort of protocol when he fell too far. The term 'baby gate protocol' flashed before his mind, and a flush heated his cheeks. The knowledge that Mr. Stark apparently didn't trust Peter to know his own limits stirred some long-buried resentment in him, the like of which he hadn't felt since the Staten Island Ferry debacle.
"I'd like to remind you that your web shooters are in perfect working order."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he replied, trying and failing to keep the snarky edge out of his voice. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off his annoyance and regain that exhilaration that he had experienced just moments ago. "I'm just getting the blood pumping. It's been stagnant for 67 days. You said so yourself."
"Placing yourself in unnecessary danger in order to incite a rush of adrenaline is not-"
"Oh, relax Karen. I'm fine." He cut her off, trying to sound more carefree than he actually was. "I promise I won't do it again." He aimed his webs higher, gaining more altitude and a better view of the city streets. He noted that they were largely empty, and those who did see him didn't react like they would've before. No pointing, no waving, no frantic fumbling with phones to get a video before he was gone. Just dead eyed apathy that unnerved him and shattered the illusion that this was an ordinary day of patrolling. "You see anything out of the ordinary, Karen?" A second passed with no answer. "Karen?" Still no answer. Peter frowned and touched down gently on a flat rooftop. Unease twisted in his gut and nervous energy made his feet shuffle. "Hey, are you mad at me?"
"I'm an AI and therefore not capable of feeling human emotions such as anger."
Yeah, Peter had definitely hurt her feelings. He didn't care what she said, her defensive tone rang with feigned indifference. His throat tightened and he wondered, with a sort of sad bewilderment, what was wrong with him. Why could he not stop himself from being such a dick to the few people he had left in his life?
"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be a jerk. It's just…" He took a moment, trying to collect his thoughts and put his frustration in to words. His arm wound across his middle, fingers curling in to the material on his side. "Things have been tough lately," he finished, and then cringed at how lame and cliché that sounded.
"How so?"
Peter almost laughed at that. God… where to begin?
"It's kind of a long story," he sighed, hoping she would take the hint and drop it. He ran a hand over his face and felt the bumps and ridges of a million tiny wires and circuits pressing against his skin. Karen waited, silent and patient, for him to continue. Peter realized that if he really wanted to, he could just leave right now. He didn't need to explain himself… but the thought of patrolling such a quiet city with an equally silent companion sent a chill up his spine.
No. He needed things to be good between him and Karen. Someday, in the not too distant future, she might be the only one left in his life.
"Nothing's really up to me anymore. I don't have any control over any part of my life," he admitted, giving voice to his recent moment of clarity. Saying it aloud unwound something in him, and before he knew it the rest came tumbling out. "And I don't just mean that in the deep philosophical, life and death, sort of way. It's the little stuff too. Everything I do, anywhere I go, it all needs to be approved by Mr. Stark. And, like, I get it. This is a weird situation we're in. No one asked for it, and no one wanted it." Much to his shame, his voice cracked in his tight throat. His cheeks flushed under his mask, and he angrily bit his lip. He had had a month and a half to get used to things as they were now. How much longer would that fact sting him? It wouldn't always, surely. Everything came to an end eventually.
"Now I gotta reassure Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts that I'm fine like a million times a day. And it's pointless too because I know they don't really believe me." He was rambling now. And whining. Even he could hear it. If Ned were here, he would've talked to him about this. His guy-in-the-chair always knew what was up in Peter's life. He had never realized before just how much he had taken Ned's willingness to listen for granted. Weeks worth of pent up frustration flowed from him and animated his hands with exaggerated gestures. "And before you say anything, Karen, I am fine. Really, I am. I mean, I wish things were like how they were before. Back in the days when Mr. Stark had enough faith in me to leave me alone for a little while. Back when I could leave the house without security levels being raised to DEFCON 2."
"Do you want to be left alone?"
Karen's question ground Peter's tirade to a halt. An enthusiastic 'yes!' teetered on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it before it could be spoken aloud.
He was never alone. At least, not physically. And yet, a profound sense of loneliness haunted him. Sometimes he could push it away, but it always came creeping back eventually. During moments of quiet contentment with Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, it would cruelly wind its way in to his consciousness and sink infectious roots into his happiness. It whispered ugly things to him: That he didn't truly belong anywhere anymore and he was a guest in Mr. Stark's life. He would see his mentor with Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes, and feel wisps of jealousy sear his insides because it was just so unfair that Mr. Stark got to keep his MJ and Ned while Peter had to lose his. That was the ugliest thought of them all and the fact that it existed, even unspoken in the confines of his mind, scared him. It felt like a threat, or even more terrifying, the beginning of a degradation in to a person that he didn't want to be.
"I don't know what I want," he said weakly, and deflated under the helplessness that came with that confession. His hand cupped the back of his neck and rubbed the tense knots there. "Sorry… I'll stop whining now."
"Perhaps you would feel better if you communicated these feelings with-"
"You got anything for me, Karen?" he interrupted, already knowing what she was about to say and not wanting to hear it. "Any muggings? Robberies?" Hell, at this point he'd welcome anything. Even a grand theft bicycle or a cat stuck in a tree. He rolled his shoulders to loosen up his muscles and waited for Karen to report. After a long moment, she did.
"The police scanners are flooded with much more activity than usual." Well, that was… strange. Peter's eyes flitted down to the empty streets. Where was all that hiding? "A security alarm has been set off at a local furniture store; 'Crawford and Sons Hand-Crafted Designer Furniture'. Its location is five blocks west of here."
A little map appeared in the upper left corner of his vision, a red path marking out the most direct route to the shop pinged with a little spidey marker. The effect was instantaneous and Peter felt himself swelling with excitement. Small time robberies… this was what Spider-Man was made for. Helping out the little guy, or in this case the little family owned business. With his original purpose unearthed, he felt a hint of normalcy returning to him. He bounced on the balls of his feet and punched the air.
"Thanks, Karen! You're the best!"
Turning on his heel, Peter ran in the direction marked out for him and kicked off of the roof.
"Happy to be of service," she said while not sounding at all happy. Her tone and the content of her words made Peter frown. 'Happy to be of service' was some customer-service sounding bullshit, and that wasn't them, right? Peter didn't think it was… and he had assumed that Karen thought so too.
"Hey, c'mon, don't be like that!" His voice came out high and squeaky, with no hope of lowering to something respectable. He wouldn't be embarrassed by it. He wouldn't. "I mean it, you're the best AI ever!" He miscalculated a sharp corner, and ended up running along the side of a skyscraper to avoid getting squished. 'Focus up, Parker', he thought to himself in his mentor's voice.
"That's very flattering, thank you," she said just as flatly. Peter chewed the inside of his cheek, measuring the genuineness of her words and coming up short. Maybe that wasn't such a great compliment when the only other contender for the title was FRIDAY. Well, he'd said best AI ever, so throw JARVIS into the mix too. "I meant what I said too. I am happy to be of service," she added with a softness reminiscent of their time together before Thanos.
Before Peter's hold on his life had started to slip and he'd fallen into a version of himself that shouldn't have ever existed.
A weight sunk in Peter's gut. Then that treacherous loneliness crept in. 'Are we friends?', he wanted to ask, but fear of the answer held him back. 'Karen, do you even like me? Mr. Stark programmed you to stay. Would you leave if you could?'. The thought of being barely tolerable to his literal partner in crime was so devastating that it rendered him silent. Instead, he listened to Karen's soft voice giving GPS-style directions that he didn't need, because chatter was always preferable to silence.
"Turn left."
He did.
"In five seconds, jump on to the roof of that Starbucks and run across to the other side."
A part of him itched to say that he could follow a map just fine, but that would just make things worse.
"We have arrived at the destination," she declared unnecessarily, as if Peter couldn't see two guys lifting a couch out of the smashed store front. A pick-up truck without a driver was parked on the curb and its tail gate was down. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he muttered a quick thanks to Karen and landed solidly on the pavement near the two thieves.
"Hey, Guys!" Peter called out to the two men; One short and burly with brown hair and a red beard, the other tall and lanky with a blue Hawaiian print shirt. Red Beard was lifting with his knees, Blue Hawaiian with his back. That'll hurt in the morning, Peter thought. Idly, he thought that he had seen Red Beard before, but he wasn't sure where. The pair blinked in surprise but didn't try to run like Peter thought they would. "That doesn't belong to you!"
Blue Hawaiian dropped his end of the couch as a look of genuine fright passed over his features.
Thwip.
Peter webbed him to the wall. Red Beard, still holding his end, followed the action with his eyes.
"What the-?"
Thwip.
Red beard looked down at his web covered body, as though trying to process how he'd gotten there. The couch clacked on to the street and fell on to its back. The rough pavement scraped the fine silk upholstery and left little pull marks in the fabric. Peter winced and quickly moved to set it on its feet.
"Oh, Spider-Man. You're still around?" asked Red Beard, a pleased smile stretching over his face. Peter stiffened halfway between straightening up the couch and he stared at the guy in stunned silence.
"Umm…Yeah?"
Red Beard's smile broadened, as if he had spotted an old friend at his high school reunion, and he nodded his head appreciatively.
What the hell was happening?
"You know this guy?" Blue Hawaiian asked, shooting his friend a speculative look.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Red Beard nodded with more vigor and flinched when he bumped his head against the exposed brick behind him. "You probably don't remember, but you stopped some asshole from hitting me in the intersection between 75th Avenue and 164th Street."
Peter's eyes widened as he recalled the incident. Nothing about it had been particularly memorable – he had saved tons of people from hit and runs – except for the way Red Beard had reacted. He had thanked Peter over and over again, asked for a selfie, and wanted to just talk with him. He either didn't pick up on Peter's polite cues that he wanted to leave, or he chose to ignore them. That day, Peter had realized two things: that Spider-Man was something of a celebrity, and that he felt uncomfortable being one. Not that he didn't enjoy the gratitude, but that whole experience felt like gratitude on steroids.
"He ran a red and was about to run me over," Red Beard added to his friend, who looked shocked and slightly wary. They both turned their heads forward to face Peter, Red Beard still starry-eyed and Blue Hawaiian maintaining a look of uncertainty. They looked at him expectantly, and Peter realized that they were waiting for him to say something. He coughed to clear his throat, and Red Beard leaned forward as much as the webbing would allow him.
"Yeah, I remember," Peter finally said, awkwardness permeating every syllable. He resisted the urge to scuff his toes on the pavement. He was Spider-Man and he ought to show a little more grit. Also, he had a job to finish up here. With little effort, Peter hoisted the couch. It wasn't heavy, but its size made it rather cumbersome to lift. White silk cushions filled his vision as Peter walked in the general direction of the broken store front.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
Peter had had that question thrown at him often enough as Spider-Man, but usually it was a rhetorical question shouted in a fit of rage. Red Beard sounded innocently confused, and the stupidity of his question caught Peter off guard. He staggered to a halt, couch slipping slightly in his arms, and broken glass crunching under his feet. He readjusted his hold and craned his neck to look at Red Beard.
"Putting this couch back. It doesn't belong to you."
Red Beard's bushy brows pinched together, and he regarded Peter with a look of pure astonishment. How clueless was this guy? Did he really not understand what was happening, or was he just playing dumb?
"It doesn't belong to anyone anymore. There's no harm in taking it."
Something hot coiled and released in Peter's chest. In his mind he saw a door suspended in drywall, strangers living in his home, and he, the lone survivor, returning to find his home completely in tatters.
He set the couch down with unnecessary force. Not enough to break it, but enough to send a loud 'thud' resounding through the street. Blue Hawaiian recoiled, back pressing in to the wall. Red Beard's brows shot up into his hair line.
"You don't get to decide-!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Red Beard interrupted, all the while staring at Peter like he was the irrational one. "Listen buddy, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Lemme explain." His voice was placating, as if this was all one big misunderstanding and not the collective deterioration of societal standards of morality. Peter struggled to level his breathing, and a small part of his brain whispered to give him the benefit of the doubt. Because maybe… maybe… this really wasn't what it seemed. Seeing Peter's ire contained visibly relaxed Red Beard (but not Blue Hawaiian, who had long since gone pale) and he continued. "I knew the guy that ran this furniture store. Gerald Crawford. He and his oldest kid ran the shop and his youngest was in little league with my boy. Anyways, he's gone. Him and his family. They ain't coming back."
Peter was a statue; perfectly still and body equally as heavy. Horror and disgust immobilized him and made him speechless. How could this guy be so cavalier about the worst tragedy to befall the world? His excuses sounded like he was explaining to his boss why he was late for work. It was all just so… so… God, Peter didn't even have words for this.
"So, you see, no one owns all of this stuff," Red Beard finished, sounding far too cheerful to be considered sane by Peter's standards. "It's just sitting here collecting dust. If we don't take it now, you know that those big chain, corporate suppliers will repossess all of this unbought surplus, and that's the real crime 'cause Crawford paid for it. Don't you think it would be better if it were given to the community? Distributed among us survivors who are look at hard times ahead?"
A shiver wracked over Peter despite the summer heat. Red Beard had laid his reasoning out with such strong conviction, as though it were only logical that Peter would agree. And maybe he would've if he had found thieves stealing groceries or some other essential need. But no one really needed an Italian silk couch.
"Karen," Peter hoisted the couch up again. "Let the police know I got a couple thieves here waiting for them."
"Sure thing."
Peter stepped with the couch through the broken window and ignored the spluttering protests from Red Beard.
"Hey, what the hell!"
Ah. There was the outrage. He was finally acting the part of the thief. Peter set the couch down in the middle of the showroom and took a moment to look around. In the far end, there was a desk. Peter decided, if he was gonna be Spider-Man again, he better do it right; He'd leave a note for the cops.
The stationary, headed with the company name, was crisp and had a heavy weight. Even the pen glided smoother than what Peter was used to. Flipping an invoice over to the blank side on the back, he wrote:
'Found: Thieves profiting off of genocide. Sorry the couch (the white silk one) got dinged up. – Spider-Man'
Peter stared at his words for a moment, pen poised and ready to scrub it out. It was harsh, he could see that even through his boiling blood. But something inside him was deeply satisfied by calling that psyco out on his shit. Call a spade a spade, he thought and set the pen down on the desk. In the top drawer, among the miscellaneous office supplies, was scotch tape.
Red Beard and Blue Hawaiian were craning their necks sideways to get a look at Peter as he clambered through the window again.
"The fuck, man! Get off!" Red Beard shouted as Peter tore off some tape and stuck the note to his chest. Red Beard tilted his head down, craning his thick neck in his struggled to read it. He gave up just as Peter had turned his back to walk across the street. "Hey, can you read that? Whazzit say?" Peter turned to look back, just in time to see Blue Hawaiian's eyes flying across the note. For a second, their gaze met. Peter had expected to see some hostility there, but was met with only shame. He pressed his lips in to a thin line, and dropped his gaze, leaving Red Beard to grumble in his silence. Peter turned to keep walking, and he heard the fast, irate drumming of a heeled shoe against the sidewalk. "The cops got other shit to deal with! Prison breaks and murderers and real criminals! You think anyone's gonna care about this!?"
Peter's stride halted mid-step as he neared the other side of the street. He had heard about that. How could he not, when Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark had argued about it at length? But he had made a promise to Ms. Potts to come back uninjured… avoiding highly dangerous situations ensured that he was able to keep his promise. His stomach knotted painfully, and he tried to ignore its presence.
It's not that he was avoiding responsibility. He wasn't. He was just… getting back to his roots.
But something about Red Beard's comment stung. In response, Peter's pulse hastened, as panic took hold of him. Would anyone care? He needed to know that they would. Petty crime was still crime, even if it seemed to be increasingly common in this chaotic new world. Surely, theft still mattered. Because, if it didn't… what else wouldn't matter? What would that lead to? Allowing a petty crime to go unpunished would ensure that a more serious ones would result from it. Things would escalate, and Peter knew all too well that horrific consequences could come from turning a blind eye.
Hadn't he once let a thief escape only to then be robbed of his uncle?
In an instant, the image of Uncle Ben, shot and bleeding out, flashed before his eyes. His life could've been saved before it had ever been in danger, if only Peter had the courage to stop a thief. But he didn't because at the time, he hadn't thought that a hundred bucks from a register mattered all that much. Later, when he'd felt his uncle's life slip from between his fingers, he realized all of what his apathy had cost him.
Something in Peter hardened, turning his doubt in to determination. Let's prove him wrong, Peter thought, beseeching the world in general. With the bait caught up in his webs, all Peter had to do was wait for the police to claim it. He took a running start through an alley and vaulted over a chain link fence. He disappeared from sight, slipping through back roads until he was far enough away that he knew that the two thieves wouldn't be able to see him. He crept up the side of a building and crouched down on the roof.
In the distance, Peter's sharp eyes could barely make out the blue smudge of Blue Hawaiian's shirt.
"Hey, Karen, activate enhanced reconnaissance mode, please?"
"From this distance, it is unlikely that the audio will be comprehensible."
"That's fine," Peter said brusquely, settling himself down as comfortably as possible on the rough surface. The hot cement tiles made him squirm uncomfortably. Sensing his discomfort, Karen silently activated his suits cooling system. He mumbled a quick 'thanks', folded his arms on the raised ledge and dropped his chin on to his forearms. "I don't need to hear them. I just need to see if he's right," he muttered ruefully. The lenses on his mask magnified the vision in the distance, and his two captives were brought in to sharp focus. They were wriggling like flies in his web and Peter smirked at their struggle.
"Do you intend to wait for the police to arrive?"
"You betcha."
Karen fell silent and for once Peter was glad for it. He had never had much patience when it came to waiting. That time he had been trapped with Karen in the Damage Control Deep Storage Vault, he had chatted endlessly with her about everything and anything to pass the time (all thirty-seven minutes of it). He had overshared a bit too much, if he was being totally honest with himself. But now, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence with pointless chatter. A new found calm settled over him and focused his attention on the captive criminals. It would seem that being stranded in space with nothing to do for weeks on end had done wonders for his patience and endurance.
Well, how about that? It may have taken a month and a half, but he finally managed to find a silver lining to that shitty situation. If Peter weren't so preoccupied with the outcome of his test, and the moral implication that rested contingent upon it, he might've laughed.
"Peter…" Karen said and he perked up. "I don't believe that the police are coming. Perhaps it would be better if-"
"You've barely given them a chance. Just wait," he seethed through clenched teeth. A weight settled in his stomach, and he resented its presence. There was no need to be anxious. "They'll show up in a minute. You'll see."
Peter kept his eyes focused on the two in the distance. They were arguing, it would seem, though Peter couldn't hear them. Blue Hawaiian stood poker straight and Red Beard fought relentlessly against his bonds.
A minute became two. Then five. When it became fifteen, Peter stopped shooting glances at the clock in the bottom right corner of his vision.
Red Beard had stopped struggling, and the two of them stood slumped against the wall. Like children who were running down the clock, waiting for their time out to be over.
A chill fell over Peter, startling him from his post. He glanced away quickly to see the tall building beside him stretching out its long shadow and engulfing him in the shade. He leaned forward to see around the building and got a peak at the setting sun. His muscles groaned at him for sitting for so long. When he looked back at his captives, his stomach dropped.
They were pulling bits of dissolved webbing off of their bodies.
Red Beard pulled at handfuls of silver string and wiped them on the wall he'd been stuck to. Blue Hawaiian freed himself enough to move his limbs, and left the rest as it was. Scrabbling wildly at the note on his chest, Red Beard ripped it off, read it, and laughed. Though Peter couldn't hear it, he could see how it shook his whole body. Blue Hawaiian remained silent and still, and Peter hoped that he might leave. But then Red Beard disappeared in to the store, and without hesitation, his friend followed. They emerged, lugging a couch, in much the same manner that they had when Peter had arrived. They loaded it in to the truck, got in the cab, and drove off.
And Peter… he let them go.
Go after them!
He didn't.
He knew he should. That was Spider-Man's purpose. But suddenly his limitations became apparent to him. He was the middle man. The person who webbed up criminals so the cops could receive them. But without them…
What was his job now? Was it just to apprehend criminals that the justice system had no interest in prosecuting? Minorly inconveniencing them until the webbing dissolved and they could leave? What was the point of such a Sisyphean task? He imagined the days, months, maybe even years to come, with him doing his part to capture criminals. All of it for nothing.
All of that time wasted. His double life suddenly stripped of its value.
He was tired, he realized, despite having done virtually nothing all day. It was a weariness that sank into his bones and settled heavily. This sort of fatigue made no logical sense to Peter, but it had plagued him in odd spurts for months.
"Incoming call from Tony Stark."
Peter's eyes widened and darted down to the clock.
7:01 pm.
"Oh, shi-"
"Hey, Spider-Man." Mr. Stark's scowling face popped in to his field of vision. "Pepper tells me that she gave you some very simple rules to follow."
Dinner at seven. You had one job, Parker. Somehow, even his own inner chastising voice managed to sound tired.
"Yeah, I know. I'm coming."
Mr. Stark's scowl dropped and was replaced with a subtle concern that Peter was deeply familiar with.
"Hey, you alright?"
Peter hummed in agreement, but it didn't seem to ease his worries at all. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Go ahead and eat, don't wait for me."
"Peter-"
"End call."
The call cut off, and Peter was alone once more. He sat on the roof for a few long moments, trying to summon the energy and motivation to stand. To move. He felt drained, but despite that he rose to his feet. He had imposed a time limit on himself, and for now that was enough.
Jump.
He did. But this time he made sure that a web was securely attached to a structure before doing so.
Ten minutes, he reminded himself as he rose and fell again and again. This time without any trace of thrill, just a prevailing sense of disillusionment that mutely throbbed like an ache under anesthetic.
True to his word, Peter arrived at the apartment in ten minutes.
True to her word, Ms. Potts had dinner ready and keeping warm on the stove when he got there.
Getting back to the apartment, Peter had watched the scenery flow past like frames in a film strip. Karen provided unnecessary and unsolicited directions, which he mutely obeyed, until he found himself clambering through his bedroom window. Moving without thinking, he'd pulled off his mask while walking to the kitchen. He'd sat himself down at the table and saw Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark exchange a brief worried glance.
'Peter, you need a shower,' Ms. Potts had told him gently, so as to not offend him. Registering the indirect order, Peter had gathered a change of clothes from his room and slipped into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of his stringy, sweat-soaked hair in the bathroom mirror, Peter couldn't help but think that statement had summed up perfectly the difference between his old life and his new one. Ms. Potts was cautious while May had no qualms with telling Peter that he smelled like garbage when he did. Vaguely, Peter realized that he drew a comparison between the two women far too often, and with an increasing sense of dread he wondered why he felt the need to do that. Their similarities began and ended at legal responsibilities, to expect anything more was unfair to them both.
Shrouded in that disquieting revelation, Peter failed to notice that he was still standing under the shower head as he turned the water on.
Cold water hit him, and made him jump out of his skin. A few seconds later it warmed and he relaxed, reveling in the warmth and sudden clarity of his mind. The shock of cold water had shaken him out of his stupor, and Peter marveled at how easily he'd snapped out of… whatever that was. Hot water washed over him, and made him come alive again.
Get a grip.
The order was more manageable now than it had been seconds ago.
Hastily washing, drying, and dressing himself, Peter returned to the dining room to find Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts, and steaming, delicious pasta waiting for him.
Dinner was a tense affair.
Well, it was for Peter anyway. If the heavy set of Mr. Stark's shoulders was anything to go by, it was tense for him too. Ms. Potts, immune to the atmosphere, ate her spaghetti in the same casually dignified way that she did most of everything. No one was keen on small talk, or any other sort of talk, so they ate in silence.
The trouble with awkward dinners, Peter decided, was that once the food was gone there was nothing left to divert his attention to. He had experienced his fair share of tense dinners with May, writhing under her heated gaze. It was no less torturous under Mr. Stark's. Ms. Potts cleared the table, and usually Peter would help… but Mr. Stark remained seated and he was pinning Peter down with a stern look. So he followed Ms. Potts with his gaze until finally the dishes were piled in the sink. With that done, she met Peter's eyes with a small apologetic smile, placed a hand on her belly and murmured something about an upset stomach and hormones and needing to lie down.
Well, that was fishy. Peter didn't buy it for a minute. Glancing over at Mr. Stark, he saw his eyes flicker upward with an air of tired annoyance. The sort that Peter had seen on Ms. Potts' face innumerable times, but rarely on Mr. Stark's. It spoke of an argument that Peter didn't need to witness to know had occurred. Peter's stomach clenched, knowing that he'd been the cause, as usual. Mr. Stark waited until they both heard his and Ms. Potts' bedroom door click shut.
And then it was just the two of them.
Peter's knee was bouncing, seemingly of its own accord, to alleviate some of the stifling tension that was cramping his body. Mr. Stark's eyes dropped to the table, as though he could see through the wood to the offending leg, before tilting his head towards the kitchen in wordless invitation. Peter sprang to his feet, his chair wobbling and threatening to fall over. Mr. Stark shot him a wry smile before turning to the kitchen.
"Relax, Spiderling," he called over his shoulder. "Jury's still out on your execution."
Peter scampered after him. Coming to stand by his side at the sink, Peter glanced at the dishwasher by Mr. Stark's other side. He expected him to reach down and open it, but instead he threw Peter a dish towel. He caught with ease but the setules in his fingertips and palm, reflexively raised from his distress, clung to the fibers of the towel and it hung limply from his open hand.
"Oh, c'mon," he grumbled, narrowing his eyes at the towel. He tugged it gently and heard the telltale sound of fabric beginning to rip. A choked laugh made him look up, and the sight of Mr. Stark suppressing a grin, as though he were trying to remind himself that he was mad at Peter, made relief wash over him like a wave. The towel fell from his hand on to the counter, and Peter followed it with his eyes.
"I'll wash, you dry," Mr. Stark said, still smirking as he squeezed some soap into the basin of the sink and turned on the faucet. Well, that was new… and kinda weird. They'd never washed the dishes by hand before. They didn't even have a drying wrack, so Peter guessed that he'd just dry the dishes and stack them on the counter. His brow furrowed as he eyed the counter space, but he didn't protest.
Citric lemon wafted through the air, enveloping Peter and giving him comfort in its familiarity. Mr. Stark handed him a wet plate, and for a few minutes Peter allowed the rhythmic work calm his nerves. Plate after plate, dried and placed on the counter. They had moved onto the cutlery when Mr. Stark spoke again.
"So, Pep tells me that it was totally, 100% her idea to let you go and that I shouldn't be mad at you for patrolling without running it by me first."
Peter froze, clutching a handful of forks, and watched the drops of water drip off of the handles. Washing dishes was kind of therapeutic, he decided. Standing on the threshold of his mentor's impending anger didn't feel nearly as intimidating as it had just moments before. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of the day wearing him down, but the lecture and punishment that awaited him didn't incite as much dread as he knew it should've. It all just seemed so trivial.
"You can be mad if you want. I could've said no," he answered honestly, and placed the dried forks beside the plates.
"See, that's what I said. Nice to see we're all on the same page."
Peter balled up the towel in his damp hands and stared down into the depths of the sink. A second passed, then two, and finally he turned his head to look at his mentor. He looked… not angry but not happy either. Just some sort of lukewarm shade in between the two. Nothing at all like he had when he'd reamed Peter out on top of that building near the Staten Island Ferry. But then again, Peter hadn't endangered anyone's life this time. All he was guilty of was trying to get back to his normal life. The righteousness in that justification made his spine stand a little taller.
"Well, Ms. Potts tells me that you were never gonna give me permission to leave."
Mr. Stark's eyebrow quirked, and Peter's spine shriveled back down in response.
"She did, huh."
"Yep," Peter nodded, and then cringed as he realized his small betrayal. "Not trying to sell out Ms. Potts or anything, but she did say that."
Mr. Stark clenched his jaw and turned back to the sink. He fished out a glass and scrubbed it with a bit more vigor than usual.
"Well, contrary to what she believes, Miss Potts doesn't know everything that I'm thinking." He handed the rinsed glass to Peter, who dutifully dried it. A flush of heat was creeping up his neck, and he tried to ignore it.
"So, you were gonna let me be Spider-Man again?" he asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. Mr. Stark's sharp look informed him that he'd failed.
"Of course. I'm way too invested in your spidey adventures to pull the plug on it now."
He handed Peter another glass.
"When was that gonna happen?" He didn't even try to keep the disbelief out of his voice that time. A flustered look passed over Mr. Stark's face, and Peter knew he'd called him out on… well, maybe nothing as harsh as a lie, but certainly some lesser degree of dishonesty that existed between the absolutes of lie and truth.
"When you were ready," he replied with a bit of bite. He placed the sauce pan in the water and tomato sauce leeched out, staining the white suds an angry red. "Which you clearly aren't, by the way."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not hurt," he corrected. "I know that you're not fine cause you wandered in here looking like an extra on the set of 'the Walking Dead'." Peter cocked his head, and took the rinsed pan from him. "Zombie-like," Mr. Stark clarified with a sigh, and Peter nodded in understanding. "Yeah, okay, that wasn't a great analogy. Cut me some slack, I've been up here stress eating banana bread while you've been out gallivanting through the Upper East Side," he tipped his chin towards the loaf sitting on a cutting board on the kitchen island. A dirtied bread knife sat beside it, and Peter noticed that a significant amount of his boredom baking creation was missing. "You gonna tell me what happened out there or are you gonna make me guess?"
Peter frowned at the drops of water glistening on the pan. He didn't already know? Mr. Stark had Karen at his disposal, he could've just reviewed the footage. But he didn't. Peter realized with an equal measure of astonishment and shame that his mentor had always respected his privacy. He didn't deserve Peter's doubt and suspicions.
"Would you guess?" Peter asked to distract himself from the guilt churning in his gut.
"No," Mr. Stark said and the bluntness of it made Peter's hands halt in the middle of drying. "With you, there's no such thing as improbability. Anything, no matter how unlikely, has just as much chance of happening as the average, mundane stuff. Just tell me, or we're gonna be here all day playing twenty questions."
Peter made an involuntary high-pitched noise, and threw an indignant glace over at his mentor. He was washing the big pot that Ms. Potts had boiled the pasta in. A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. Well, that was rude. He could've at least had the decency to look apologetic while saying that.
"That's not true-"
"No need to deny it, my cosmic stowaway," he flapped a hand at Peter, flecking him with drops of water. "There's no one here to save face for. Just me, and I've been here for all of it. The good stuff and the bad."
Well, okay. He might've had a point there. Peter's defense sounded pretty weak when he considered the fact that he was only sixteen and had been to space. Deep space, too. Not even anywhere in the known universe.
He sighed, refocused himself, and squished the mostly damp dish towel in his hands.
"I stopped a robbery."
Mr. Stark pulled the plug out of the drain, watched the water start to lower, and when no further information came, he shot Peter a prompting look.
"And?"
"And nothing. That's all."
"Then why the long face?"
Peter clenched his jaw, as though to trap the words behind his teeth. He took his time with the pot, drying every last speck of water on it and setting it down gently. With nothing more to occupy his hands, and sensing Mr. Stark's growing impatience, he opened his mouth.
"I think that Spider-Man might be obsolete."
There. He'd said it. His feeling of resignation existed outside of his own mind now that Mr. Stark had heard it. In some strange way, voicing his tormenting thought felt liberating. He felt light, until he glanced to the side and saw Mr. Stark's stunned expression.
"What?"
With a sigh, Peter's shoulder's bunched, and he launched into his long-winded tale. He told Mr. Stark all of it; how he had once saved Red Beard's life, how neither of the thieves considered themselves to be criminals, his worry over the normalization of crime, and most importantly, how Karen had informed the police but they never came.
Somewhere during his long, rambling tale – he wasn't a good story teller, and probably never would be. So, sue him- he had migrated over to the kitchen island.
"So, yeah," Peter mumbled, hopping on a bar stool and pulling the cutting board and bread knife towards himself. "You might have to pull the plug on Spider-Man, since there's no work for him anymore."
Or I might have to. The bleak thought, even without being spoken aloud, made his stomach do complicated and painful twists. Giving up would be so much easier if someone forced his to do it. Quitting of his own volition made something inside him seize in protest. The stool next to him slid out and Mr. Stark sat down.
"Hey, Pete, remind me again. What's your MO?"
Peter's lips pressed into a hard line as he cut himself off a generous slice of banana bread.
"To look out for the little guy," he muttered.
"Right," Mr. Stark leaned his elbow casually on the marble topped island. "Well, I happen to know for a fact that there'll always be a little guy that needs looking out for." Peter stared down dejectedly at his slice, flopped over on its side on the wooden board, and started ripping off and rolling the edges in to sticky crumbs with his fingertips. "Spider-Man does more than apprehend thieves, right?"
"Yeah. He also stops grand theft bicycles, muggings, and gives directions to lost tourists."
He glanced up, determinedly meeting Mr. Stark's gaze. He could see in his eyes his thoughts shifting as he pieced together what Peter was getting at.
"What about all the other good stuff you've done? You stopped Adrian Toomes from getting ahold of my tech and selling it to nefarious hands. Doesn't that count?"
"There was a lot of dumb luck involved in that," Peter reminded him in a low voice, casting his eyes down to avoid the oncoming disappointment. He was surprised to hear Mr. Stark scoff instead.
"Three quarters of hero work is 'dumb luck'. Or 'strategic utilization of one's surrounds at the most opportune moment', as I like to think of it." His tone was light, joking, carefree, and just so… infuriatingly Mr. Stark. At any other time, a welcomed presence that put him at ease, but now staggeringly tone deaf to his plight. Peter bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to give in to the upsurge of frustration he felt. His fingers continued to rip the banana bread in to little chunks while he quelled the turmoil within him to submission.
"I thought you didn't want me to patrol at all. Why're you trying to encourage me?" he snapped, and a hand came to rest on his forearm.
"Cause I know you," Mr. Stark's fingers squeezed his arm, causing Peter's own to cease their bread mangling. "I admit it, I'm not happy with this clandestine meet up between you and Pepper. Seriously, I'm not a fan of the sneaking around behind my back part of you guys' relationship, or the making decisions without me part of it." Peter tensed under Mr. Stark's hand, and he withdrew it. "But your return to Spider-Man was bound to happen one way or another. Even though you're trying to sell yourself short, I know you're capable of doing more. I've seen it."
Peter's breathing hitched, and he rubbed his tacky fingertips against each other. To have his efforts recognized in such a way… it was everything that Peter had ever wanted to hear from his mentor. How ironic that it came at precisely the wrong time. When he glanced up again, Mr. Stark was looking at him in a way that made all the fight leave Peter's body.
"Seems to me that you're scared," Mr. Stark said without a hint of taunt or ridicule. Defensive hackles raised inside Peter, and it was on the tip of his tongue to snark back that he wasn't scared. But that knowing look, saturated with profound understanding, unsettled him and muted any sort of retort.
With a frustrated sigh, Peter realized that this was getting him nowhere. He needed to make Mr. Stark understand, because the man had so spectacularly missed the point that Peter was trying to make. This wasn't about him. He wasn't the one with the problem. He was fine. The problem was with everyone else.
"The world's changed," he finally said, taking a moment's pause to piece together his scrambled thoughts. "I first created Spider-Man so I could help the little guy. Then we met and you gave me a suit that made the whole crime fighting job a lot easier. Then I got way too ahead of myself, and tried to do too much." Mr. Stark's face pinched in confusion, and Peter knew he was wondering where he was going with this. "Then, I got my ass handed to me by the Vulture and nearly got squashed to death under a building." Mr. Stark flinched and his fingers twitched, as though tempted to ball into a fist. A fleeting stab of guilt passed over Peter for having brought up such a sore spot, but then he pressed on. "And, y'know, that whole experience really taught me a lesson about humility and staying in my lane. So, I decided to stay the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man and to keep looking out for the little guy." He took a breath then to strengthen his nerve before moving on. "And then Thanos' minions showed up and I tagged along 'cause it was the right thing to do. Then I got my ass handed to me again, but in space this time."
"You, me, Strange, and Flash Gordon's ragtag band of misfits all got our collective asses handed to us," Mr. Stark interrupted. "Hell, I got shish kabobbed with my own sword, and out of the two of us I'm supposed to be the seasoned veteran. The fall out of that shit show's not on you, kid."
This time, it was Peter's turn to flinch. The image of Mr. Stark's wounded stomach, already packed and sealed with nanotech coolant, flashed before his eyes. He remembered helping Mr. Stark to his feet, terrified of internal bleeding and ruptured organs, and trying so desperately to not hear Uncle Ben's wet, bloodied coughs echoing in the recesses of his mind.
Not now. Move on, he commanded himself, and with steely resolve, he placed that memory on the shelf.
"I just don't know if I'm cut out for more than robberies and muggings," Peter finished, ignoring Mr. Stark's softening look. "Seems like every time I try to step up and be more than what I am, things go off the rails." Mr. Stark opened his mouth and Peter flapped a hand at him before he could speak. "No, no, let me finish, please. I'm getting to the point here." With some reluctance, Mr. Stark closed his mouth and waited for Peter to find his words. It took a few moments to desperately flounder to the surface of his tangled thoughts, as Peter struggled to find a concise way to express how everything had been turned on its head. He looked down to his pile of bread crumbs, for no other reason than to avoid Mr. Stark's searching gaze.
"The world's changed," he reiterated. "It's gotten way bigger, and chaotic, and… nothing makes sense anymore. I created Spider-Man to help the little guy back when the little guy's problems were smaller. Now, they're bigger." He meant to elaborate on that. Express how exactly they were bigger, but suddenly the gravity of the situation became all encompassing. Its weight bore down on him, and all Peter could do was power through with a ragged sigh. "The thing is I still want to be the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Nothing's changed there. But the world I grew up in is gone, and I don't know if I have a place in this new one."
"Your place is here."
Peter froze as those words struck him with paralyzing force. Mr. Stark said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and yet it was delivered with the ringing tone of sudden comprehension, as if a great mystery had just revealed itself to him. In the depths of his mind, a voice chastised him for not clarifying that he'd meant that Spider-Man had no place, not Peter Parker. But almost as soon as the thought had presented itself, doubt and uncertainty extinguished it.
"Hey, look at me."
Peter could only obey, as his mind was suddenly devoid of thought. Mr. Stark's eyes flickered over his face, searching for something unknown to Peter and seemed to be disappointed to find it absent. He nodded to himself, and Peter saw quick flashes of an internal struggle fought behind his pained expression. Peter's stomach bottomed out, but he could barely feel its eerie presence before Mr. Stark's face smoothed in to one of hardened determination.
"Spider-Man is yours. Period," he told Peter, his usual bluntness colouring his tone. "He always has been and always will be yours to use or not use however you want. You got full autonomy on that. It was wrong of me to try to hold you back from it," he paused and his mouth snapped shut. Peter could sense him swallowing the rest of whatever it was that he wanted to say. His eyes became lost in thought, but only for a moment, before he continued. "Figuring out Spidey's place in the world is up to you. If you want to limit yourself to petty crimes, that's fine. And if you want to retire him and join the old geezers club super early, that's fine too. We'll tinker in the lab, squeeze in some rounds of bingo, and eat dinner at four like the seniors do."
Peter could tell that Mr. Stark was fishing for a smile, but he went completely unaffected by his usual brand of humour. Instead his eyes widened as he processed the option given to him. There hadn't been an ounce of judgment or disappointment there. Only a sincerity that chased away the tension in his body. His shoulders dropped – he hadn't realized that they'd been bunched – and in response Mr. Stark's expression softened. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed briefly. His face slid into something decidedly serious, and he continued.
"Alright, listen up, 'cause this is the part that I need you to understand," he gave his shoulder a little shake before pulling back his hand. "Peter Parker's place in the world is here." He rapped his knuckles on the marble island top to punctuate his point, and Peter's throat grew tight. "You're gonna be here, with us. In a week, the shiny new lab will be finished and in need of a mad science christening. Honestly, I've gone too long without some controlled chaos in my life. It's good for the soul." He was rambling, like usual, and Peter listened with rapt attention. He allowed it to wash over him like the tide going out and pulling him closer with each wave. "And I know that you'll continue to win Pepper over with your awkward teenage charm. Before you know it, she'll like you more than me and I'll just have to deal with it." His mock hurt teased a smile out of Peter. "And in about six months, there'll be the cutest baby known to man available for cuddling."
Mr. Stark paused, eyeing Peter with an open earnestness that made him feel vulnerable. His words settled over him, painting a picture that he had stolen glances at in his periphery countless times, but had been too frightened to fully look at before: Peter's place in Mr. Stark's life.
They had never really talked about it before, Peter realized, and in the past month or so, he'd been too overwhelmed by his grief and intimidation of the future to dare broach the topic. Not wanting his presumption to ruin whatever he did have, he'd taken it upon himself to assume that he was a minor player. To be told otherwise was all at once jarring and surreal. The idea that he could just live his life in the company of the people he cared for – and who cared for him -, without the expectation that he uphold his vigilantism, was freeing in a way that Peter hadn't expected. If he stopped being Spider-Man his original tie to Mr. Stark would effectively be severed…and yet, there was no hint of pretense in what Mr. Stark was saying: He still wanted Peter around.
"So, I guess the point that I'm trying to make here is that I got plans and you're in them," Mr. Stark finished, his casual air undermined by the look of trepidation in his eyes. They stayed on Peter, cautiously taking in every part of his reaction. Peter remained silent, even though he knew Mr. Stark wanted him to say something. His throat was too tight to speak. Honestly, he really wanted a hug, but kept that to himself because Mr. Stark looked distinctly uncomfortable. "In case that wasn't clear before, now it is."
A silence fell and grew more and more stifling with each passing moment. Peter coughed around the lump in his throat.
"Crystal clear," he choked out, though the smile that followed it was genuine. Mr. Stark smiled then, but shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes trailed to the cutting board where the loaf of banana bread sat next to Peter's crumbled piece.
"That's some good banana bread, by the way," he said appreciatively, and Peter recognized his desperate need for a change of subject. Suddenly exhausted, he was only too happy to go along with it. "Keep up your baking-out-of-boredom thing and I'll have to start hitting the gym again. Or let my pants out. What the hell, I'm retired. I can let myself go a little."
Peter cast his eyes down and smirked at his pile of crumbs. He tried to imagine a chubby Mr. Stark but couldn't.
"Thanks," he said instead. "It's May's recipe."
"Really? She could cook?"
The genuine shock in Mr. Stark's voice made him laugh, as did the mental image of May's offended expression if she were here. She could take any kind of criticism without any hard feelings, except when it came to her cooking. In all the years that Peter had lived with her, he'd only ever seen Ben get away with it. And that was only because he'd mastered the art of framing criticisms as compliments.
"Sometimes she could whip up something edible."
"So that walnut date loaf she gave me was a failed assassination attempt?" Peter quirked a brow at Mr. Stark. "Was it supposed to prepare me for the cyanide loaf? Lull me into a false sense of security and then bam, death by high fiber fruit? I didn't think she hated me that much."
The knots in Peter's stomach were eased by his laughter and he eyed his crumbs with renewed interest.
"Maybe it's a good thing that you never came back to our apartment," he said while scooping some of the larger chunks into his cupped palm. "Billionaire murdered in Queens by a middle-aged woman with poisoned zucchini loaf sounds like the lamest game of 'clue' ever."
"It'd make a killer headline though. Pun intended," Mr. Stark mused. "One of those ones that jumps out at you and gets crazier the further you read."
Peter nodded and raised his cupped hand to his mouth.
"Seriously? You're still gonna eat that?"
He paused, hand suspended in front of his face, and glanced at Mr. Stark's disgusted expression.
"What? It's just a little misshapen."
"You disintegrated it. It's basically atoms now."
Peter shrugged and tipped the pile into his mouth.
"S'all goin' to da same place," he mumbled and patted his stomach. Mr. Stark's eyes narrowed and he shook his head.
"Gross." Peter's smiled as best he could while still chewing, and Mr. Stark's disgust became tinged with fondness. Then he sighed and heaved himself to his feet. "Guess I should go give Pepper the 'all clear', so she can stop faking pregnancy distress. And honestly, I might just turn in for the night. It's been one hell of a day," he ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired. He eyed Peter evenly and asked: "You good?"
Peter didn't even have to consider the answer. It came easily to him.
"Yeah. I am," he said honestly, and for the first time since returning to Earth, it looked as though Mr. Stark believed him. There was no doubt, no suppressed fear, no poorly hidden skepticism in his expression. The air suddenly became breathable, and Peter realized that he felt truly relaxed, albeit completely worn out, in a way that he hadn't felt in a long time.
"Alright," Mr. Stark reached over and patted him lightly on the back as he walked past. "Night, kid."
"Night," Peter echoed back as he watched him disappear down the hall.
Turning back to his 'atomized' pile of crumbs, he took a moment to bask his overwhelming feeling of complete happiness. His hands were jittery with energy, and without fully realizing that he'd done it, they had swept over the pile, evening them out on the surface. His finger pushed doodles into the crumbs. Some squiggles, his Spider-Man insignia, finally two dots and a curved line smile up at him, and Peter became aware of how ridiculous he was being.
He shook his head, reminding himself that he wasn't twelve, and swept up the crumbs off of the island and into this hand. They made a sound like rain when Peter threw it in the trash. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched out his tired body, before turning to wander towards his room.
It had been a long day. With the world in the state it was in, there would likely be many more long days ahead. But if they all ended like this, Peter didn't mind.