Peter was discharged from the medical wing a week later. He didn't return to his bedroom. That was gone. He was upgraded to a new room with a private bathroom and a walk-in closet. All of his belongings were moved into the new bedroom, including his books and vintage Star Wars poster. Other things were added into the room like a flat screen television, a compartment equipped with a console and video games, more books, and a spacious desk with a fancy new model computer. His twin bed was upgraded to a queen, giving him plenty to space to sprawl his limbs in any direction he wanted without falling off.
The most exciting new addition included in his room was his own personal AI. It had a woman's voice, kind and gentle, always patient with whatever Peter needed or asked. He named her KAREN, and he grew to appreciate having his own AI. She was helpful and supportive of everything he decided to do. Kind of like a mother, watching over him.
His new room was located a floor below Mr. Stark's penthouse and adjacent to Vision, who often walked through the walls rather than knock on the door. Peter would have to reiterate boundaries to the android.
Happy restarted their driving lessons and that was still much the same. Happy sat in the passenger seat, all sweaty, white-knuckled and hyperventilating, but he toned down his shouting. After all, Peter nearly died and he knew Happy still felt guilty over it, despite the numerous times he told him it wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known Powers's plan of attack. Yet, Happy took it to heart and was now less annoyed and more patient toward him.
Peter never saw his teammates again. Mr. Reynolds stopped by once while he was recuperating, coming to check-in on him and to apologize for not doing more to keep him safe. Not that the man did much to help Peter in all the times he spent under his command, but Peter remained polite and told him to not worry. He survived. It was the last time he saw Mr. Reynolds. Col. Rhodes took over Peter's training in a private gym.
Peter learned of Powers fate. After he gassed Peter, Luke jumped him and wrestled Powers away while Jack kicked the gadget out of Powers' hands. Mr. Reynolds tried to help Peter, but Peter's delirious state kept him running and breaking everything in his path (apparently, what Peter believed to be him slipping was actually him pulling the wood and tiles right off with his excessive strength). Luke kept Powers subdue until Mr. Stark had time to deal with him. And apparently Mr. Stark laid down the hammer. His antagonist and almost-killer was sent straight to the hole.
With Powers gone, Peter thought he would return to his team. That was not the case. Mr. Stark and Col. Rhodes thought it would be safer if Peter trained on his own, away from the adults who may want to retaliate against him. Training one-on-one with Col. Rhodes was nice. He didn't have to constantly double-check if someone was about to trip him or drop him. And the dull headache he always got around his team vanished when he worked with Col. Rhodes. His spidey-sense at ease, relaxed.
Nighttime was a different scene altogether. For weeks after the attack, Peter suffered from nightmares. Most from the Horrible Night. A few were of Powers, laughing manically at him as he blinded him with green mist that choked him. And the others were of his aunt, disappearing from sight and him searching endlessly, calling her name over and over again. And he'd wake up crying or screaming or fighting to breathe. Each time he woke, he either found Mr. Stark, Col. Rhodes, Happy or Vision, right by his bed, trying to calm him down. Most of the time it was Mr. Stark or Vision. The android overheard his distress and KAREN alerted Mr. Stark. Once calm and realizing it was all a dream, Peter fell back asleep. Sometimes, Mr. Stark would stay until he fell asleep or, if the nightmare was bad enough that sleep became impossible, Mr. Stark brought him to the garage or the workshop to distract his troubled mind. They didn't talk very much while they worked. Only if Peter started the conversation did Mr. Stark join, but otherwise, they worked in peace.
After one particular horrible nightmare, Peter asked Mr. Stark if he could call his aunt. "I don't know why Mr. Stark," he said, feeling cold and his fingers twitching, "but I feel like she's in trouble. Like something bad is going to happen if I don't talk to her or... or something."
"You know I can't do that," Mr. Stark said. "I already got an earful from Ross about the last time an unknown signal was sent out from the Compound. I can't let you call her. Not until it's all over. Okay?"
It wasn't okay. The nagging feeling sat uncomfortably on Peter's thoughts. "But... if she's in trouble—"
"I already had someone check in on her. She's fine. Safe," Mr. Stark informed him, a little terse. "It's all in your head, Peter. She's fine. Your nightmares are messing with you. Happened to me too after New York. You start thinking bad things are going to keep happening all the time. But, trust me. Nothing bad is going to happen to her. Gotta stop thinking it will. Think happier thoughts, Peter Pan."
Peter tried. He pictured his aunt alive. He recollected his happier days with his uncle, building rockets and catching frogs at Corona Park. He remembered their smiles, the pride and happiness in their faces right as he closed his eyes for sleep.
Time ambled on, each night becoming easier and easier to fall asleep. The first time he slept through a single night was one of the best nights he ever had. He woke up fresh, alive and rejuvenated. And the adults kind of made a celebration out of it. Nothing flashy, but Mr. Stark ordered the chef to make Peter's favorite dish for dinner, and then afterwards, Mr. Stark brought out another surprise.
He gave Peter permission to wear the Iron Man helmet—only for a few minutes. It was crazy! The helmet had so much going on. The interface displayed power levels, both radio and radar sensors, and it had FRIDAY communicating to him at all times.
"Wow! I always wanted to know what goes on inside. Now—I know," Peter grinned behind the Iron Man mask, as he rotated his head to look at everything around him. "How does this stuff not overwhelm you?"
"You get used to it," Mr. Stark answered, "and realize how helpful it is when needed."
Peter wished he had one. An interface to assist in his Spider-man activities. Or, well, when he did his Spider-man patrols around his neighborhood. His old mask did nothing, but make it harder for him to breathe.
"Oh man, wish I had one of these when I was Spider-man," Peter said as he took of the helmet. "Would have been so helpful on my patrols."
His relationship with Mr. Stark changed again. He became more than an intern. Peter managed to insert himself into Stark's little family unit. He no longer needed to receive an invitation to go up to Stark's residence. He walked in, unannounced, and it wouldn't be awkward or odd. Mr. Stark and Pepper found it normal for Peter to be lounging in the living room, snacking on a bag of chips. He sometimes did his homework in the living room for greater space to spread out his work. When not doing his homework, Peter ran down to the boxing ring to practice his rounds. Happy would come only after FRIDAY alerted him Peter was hitting the bag without supervision. Not that he needed to be supervised on hitting a punching bag, but Happy came to give him proper instruction.
Every night, Peter ate dinner at the dining table with Mr. Stark and Pepper, if she didn't have to stay in the city for work-related reasons. Occasionally, Peter dined alone as Mr. Stark had to stay late for work, both for Stark Industries and the UN. But, even then, Col. Rhodes or Happy or Vision would be with him. Or check-in. Make sure he was doing okay.
Peter enjoyed Col. Rhodes' company. He was much more relaxed, despite his military background and posture at times. He was able to laugh off jokes and enjoy simple things, things that Mr. Stark probably didn't know existed as his wealth spared him. They watched movies, buying new ones from iTunes.
"Tony won't notice," Col. Rhodes said right before he purchased Alien, a classic that Peter needed to watch before he fell asleep.
And when they weren't eating Mr. Stark's snacks and buying off movies from his account, Peter learned different tricks and combat tactics in a close-range fight. Naturally, Col. Rhodes supported the idea to avoid confrontation all together, but he offered a few tips to help Peter win a fight if necessary.
"In the end, you're not fighting," Col. Rhodes told him. "You're defending. That's what you are doing. Defending yourself and others. Nothing more."
That made a lot of sense. Mr. Reynolds drilled the idea that fighting meant winning. All that mattered was defeating the bad guy to win. Not that you were doing it for defense. Not oppression.
After their practices, Col. Rhodes praised him effort and said he could see Peter as a big-time hero in the future. "You're going to be one of the good guys, kid."
Peter liked to think so. He hoped he was living up to the reputation of his uncle. Living up to the man's legacy. The future Uncle Ben wanted for him. He wanted to be the good man his uncle was.
Both as Peter Parker and as Spider-man.
Despite all the domestic life he took up at the Compound and all the attention he received from everyone at the Compound, Peter felt out of place. An outsider. An intruder, really. He knew it was odd of him to think of it like that. It's not that he craftily tricked Mr. Stark to bring him into their lives. Mr. Stark willingly introduced him and granted him entrance into his world, with an invitation to stay forever. Yet, Peter couldn't stop the insecure feeling that this was not where he belonged.
He was a poor boy from Queens, who lived in a cramped bedroom, ate cheap, processed meals and tried to complete his homework with spotty Wi-Fi access. That was what he was used to. That was home.
Well… his old home.
He lived at the Compound now. He slept in spacious a bedroom, ate chef-cooked gourmet meals three times a day, and owed a set of the most advanced technology systems on the planet. He had personal trainers, instructors and an AI that controlled his bedroom and answered to any of his commands or questions. He hung around heroes—Avengers!—everyday. It was a life that the boy from Queens would never, ever imagined to happen to him.
Life at the Compound became the new normal for Peter. That was his new life. His new home.
The boy from Queens was gone.
And Peter didn't know how he felt about it.
Peter awoke to someone shaking him awake. He turned over, groaning as he attempted to lift his heavy eyelids up. The room was dark. Whoever was shaking him didn't bother to turn on the lights.
"W-What?" he grumped, not taking it kindly to be shaken from slumber.
"Focus up, Crockett."
Peter blinked and rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to get them awake. His vision adjusted to the dark and he saw Mr. Stark standing by his bed, looking down at him. He didn't look scared or worried. And Peter's spidey-sense wasn't going off. So, why was Mr. Stark harassing him to wake up at... three in the morning?
"Mr. Stark? You know it's three, right?"
"Yeah, which is why I need to ask you this right now," Mr. Stark said, getting straight to the point. "Are you interested in touring Stark Industries?"
Peter crinkled his face, bizarre that was the immediate reason for the ungodly wake-up call. "That's the emergency question?"
"Peter—"
"I, uh, yeah," Peter answered, restraining a yawn. "Yeah—I would love to see the place. Pepper was saying she wanted me come visit."
"Good. It's settled," Mr. Stark announced and without another word, he strode across the bedroom back to the door.
"That's it?" Peter called after him, perplexed why he was aroused from slumber to answer a question that could have waited until morning.
Mr. Stark paused at the door. "Oh! Yeah, we're leaving seven sharp in the morning," he said to Peter, shooting him a wink. "Go back to bed."
"Wait... w-what? Today?" Peter threw off his blankets to go after the man. "Are you serious?"
Mr. Stark poked his head back into the room. "Kid—if I wasn't serious, I wouldn't be talking to you now," he answered. "Get some rest. Don't need you to be cranky."
And like that, Mr. Stark was gone, leaving Peter in a befuddled mess. He dragged his fingers through his hair, looking around the room, half believing it was all a dream.
"KAREN?"
"Yes, Peter?"
"Was Mr. Stark just in here?"
"Yes. Mr. Stark left your room a minute and twenty-eight seconds ago."
"Did he say something about leaving in the morning? To Stark Industries?"
His AI answered in the affirmative. "Yes. You are scheduled to leave at seven this morning to visit Stark Industries."
Not a dream. Peter looked back to his clock. It counted up, scaling to the number seven. He only had three more hours of sleep. Three more hours of rest, but Peter's hyperactive mind took over. In three hours, he would be traveling to Stark Industries. The world's famous technology conglomerate. The company he and Ned often fantasied of working at one day and now… now he was going to visit it.
How was he ever going to go back to sleep after that revelation? Peter fell back to his bed, eyes up on the ceiling. A little giggle on his lips as his eyes shined bright.
"I'm going to Stark Industries," he muttered in wonderment, "with Mr. Stark… is this even real?"
"Yes," came KAREN's reply. "It is very real."
Ten minutes 'til seven, Peter hauled a packed duffel and went out to the corridor to find Mr. Stark. He was surprised to find someone already standing outside his bedroom door. Someone dressed in a bodyguard capacity as Peter noticed the communicator in his ear. Must be one of the SHIELD agents that currently coincide with Mr. Stark and the United Nations.
The agent directed him to the elevator. A personal escort. Maybe Mr. Stark thought Peter would get lost heading to the garage. They climbed into the elevator and Peter expected a descent, but it moved up. They were going up.
"Um… I think I'm supposed to meet Mr. Stark in the garage or something," Peter told the agent.
The agent shook his head. "Mr. Stark is up on the roof."
The roof?
The elevator doors parted and Peter soon learned why. A helicopter parked on top of the landing pad, right over the normally visible 'A' for Avengers. The blades were swinging, chopping the wind into slices of burst combustions in different directions. Peter had to use his adhesives and muscular strength to support his balance from the strong winds.
A strong grasp around the back of Peter's head forced him to bend down. The agent muttered him to start hurrying, keeping his head ducked as they hurried to the helicopter. The sound grew louder, almost like a thundering boom. Peter rolled his eyes up, eyeing the low-swinging blades that dangerously came close. He could feel the air ruffle through his hair, causing it to stand straight up. Peter bowed his head a little more. After all, decapitation wasn't his preferred way of dying.
The door slid open and Peter got bundled inside, his duffel taken to be loaded.
"Hey there, squirt."
Mr. Stark. Already seated, groomed and completely relaxed. He had his aviation headset around his neck and tinted orange sunglasses over his face. He acted very much at home sitting on a massive metal vessel that would shoot them up into the sky.
Peter immediately looked for his seatbelt. He struggled, trying to get it untangled from one another. It was an odd seatbelt. Reminded him of life vests than a seatbelt. Peter fidgeted as he looped the belts out of knots, his hands trembling as he tried to get himself fastened to safety.
Then, Mr. Stark leaned forward and helped. He took the seatbelt from Peter's hand and easily untangled it and got it up over Peter's shoulders and then fastened it in front of his chest.
"Ever been in a helicopter?"
Peter shook his head. "Never flew before."
"Well, all you gotta do is sit and the rest is done for you."
The pilot announced their intentions to go. Mr. Stark flashed them a thumbs up and pulled up his headset over his ears. "Here—" Mr. Stark revealed another pair and placed it right over Peter's head, cupping both ears. "There—now you can have the full experience."
Peter fidgeted in his seat. "W-Why aren't we driving?"
"Pepper wants us there early and Happy is with her. No chauffeur, no car."
Peter's brows dipped in thought. "But… don't you usually drive yourself, anyway?"
Mr. Stark was slightly taken aback. "Well... yeah. I usually prefer to drive myself, but this is quicker."
A little jolt rocked the helicopter, wobbling as it rose. Peter clasped his seat, double-checking his seatbelt to ensure it was fastened well.
"Are you nervous?"
Peter rapidly shook his head. The blades blared over them and a pressure bored right into Peter's head. He winced at the slight pain, squinting in reaction to the sharp grumbling of the engine.
"It's okay," Mr. Stark promised, squeezing Peter's shoulder to keep him calm.
"Is it supposed to make that sound?"
"Yes. We're hovering only a few feet," he assured him. "Peter, it's okay. You're going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen."
Peter remained tense. The pressure continued to drill into his head, and his ears filled with intense buzzing sounds that wouldn't seem to ever end. Why couldn't they take a car? Peter would have preferred his feet on the ground.
"Peter."
A hand took his chin and directed it to face Mr. Stark. The man looked serious, but calm. Not at all afraid. "It won't crash."
Peter's heart skipped on hearing that word, but Mr. Stark continued. "And if it did, you'd be safe."
"Because of my super-fast healing?"
"Because I would catch you."
Oh. Oh. Peter didn't realize Mr. Stark had his Iron Man suit on hand. He scanned the small passenger compartment, looking for the famed briefcase that carried the valuable and indestructible suit. He didn't see it. Maybe it was in a hidden compartment. Somewhere only Mr. Stark knows and can get to in time if the helicopter started to fall.
Peter's stomach flew up suddenly, causing him to grip his seatbelt and squeeze his eyes shut. Don't throw up, he scolded himself. Not on Mr. Stark. Not all over the fancy helicopter's seats.
"It's okay," Mr. Stark reassured him. "We're just gaining altitude."
Altitude. Higher then. They were going higher.
"Peter? Look."
Peter slowly peeled his eyelids back, seeing Mr. Stark directing his attention to the windows. Oh, no. He didn't have any interest to see how high they were up.
"Gorgeous, right?"
Peter didn't look. "Yeah."
A low sigh. "Peter—look," he said, pushing Peter to look out the window.
"I'm good."
"You really are afraid of flying, aren't you?"
Peter gulped, but shook his head. "No—I'm… enjoying the scenery here."
Mr. Stark broke out in a laugh. "Yeah… because the seat cushions are exciting," he remarked. "Look, just take a quick peek to your left. You won't regret it. And if it would make you feel better, I'll let you hold my hand."
It was an obvious tease. A tactic to pressure Peter to look. It kind of worked. Peter didn't want Mr. Stark to think of him a coward. After all, there was nothing dangerous about looking. A quick look. He could handle that.
Peter rotated his neck. His gaze shifting from the seat cushion to the glass window that reveled a massive color of dark and luscious greens. Peter jumped a little and Mr. Stark's hand found its spot on Peter's shoulder to hold him still.
"See?" Mr. Stark said, pointing to the open range of nature below them. "Beautiful right?"
It actually was. Large canopies branched across the green space before them. The sunrise's gold light glazed the land in rich colors, dawning them awake and in awe. Peter leaned a little closer, spotting the small cottages and barns speckled here and there, farmlands that rolled on forever.
A woven tapestry of nature and towns, with traffic a silvery vein through it all. No boarders. Everything mingled together into an enchanting motion pictured as they flew onward over the world. It made Peter feel like a god, looking down at all of creation.
Soon, nature started to give way to more homes that turned into bigger buildings. The traffic grew heavier, the veins bulging with an assortment of colors. Then, trees faded into the lamppost and billboards and Peter couldn't spot grass. A rush of a train came into view, driving straight through the crowded buildings, heading overhead and crusading forward, deeper into the city.
The helicopter trailed after the train, charging ahead toward the towering skyscrapers that all challenged one another on height and presence within the skyline. Yet, only one completely dominated. Only one had the flair of attention compared to all the others. A startling beauty amongst the skyline.
And it was the skyscraper the helicopter headed, hovering over another large 'A' on a helipad. Peter's stomach flipped again as the blades slowed, the aircraft dropping faster than he expected. He grabbed his seatbelt, fingers tight on the straps as the helicopter balanced itself out before it settled on the ground.
The winding down of the blades and the pressure in Peter's head eased up, signaling the end of the ride.
Peter quickly unhooked his seatbelt, ready to jump out of the helicopter to be on solid ground. Mr. Stark had to reel him back in to keep him from jumping out with the headset. They exited the helicopter and Mr. Stark thanked the pilot as the co-pilot fetched Peter his duffel, returning it to him.
"Good ride, son?" the co-pilot asked.
Peter nodded, too afraid what his words may be if he spoke. He clutched his duffel to his chest as Mr. Stark made his way to him. He slug an arm around his shoulder, directing him off the helipad.
"You did good, kid," Mr. Stark complimented. "You see? It wasn't that bad."
No, it wasn't, but Peter preferred road trips.
As they moved off the helipad and down a ramp to an open lobby, Mr. Stark smiled warmly at Peter. "Welcome home, Peter."
Peter looked up at the building, spying the massive Stark logo that once was titled Avengers. Peter gawked up at it, neck craned back as far as it could before he shifted his gaze, turning to look everywhere else.
He spotted the Chrysler Building first, followed quickly by the Empire State Building. The Flatiron building next and then the Brooklyn Bridge. And, further out, he saw Freedom Tower, rising among the buildings around it like a phoenix, dominating the attention of all in its circle of fire.
Peter's mouth hung open, eyes round as he took it all in.
New York. He was back in the city.
Peter was led down the ramp into a large, open lobby. Similar to the Compound in style, the inside was rich, sleek and minimalistic that screamed wealth and professional. Peter was even afraid to step on the black marble floor, afraid he would break it or smudge it. Ruin it in some manner. A person like him didn't belong in a world lavished with private helicopter rides, people waiting on him and walking on pitch black marble.
Mr. Stark, however, didn't notice any of it. He strutted across the lobby, pass the fancy architecture and furnishings that was worth more than Peter's entire existence. "Hurry up there, short stuff," he called. "I'll show you the party deck later."
"Party deck?" Peter scrutinized the whole room again. This was a room to party?
Mr. Stark shrugged. "For corporate events, celebrations, etc.," he replied. "It's nothing. Elevator is here."
They rode up, ascending floor after floor until it reached near the clouds. It was the penthouse suite. Peter noted the homey style to the one at the Compound. A lot of natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the whole penthouse shine and sparkle. FRIDAY greeted them and Peter returned the pleasantries, which always humored Mr. Stark.
"Lemme give you a quick tour," he started. "Obviously, this is the living room, kitchen down to the right, bathroom across and that over there is..."
Mr. Stark rattled on, but Peter tuned him out to gaze at the majestic view. Clouds hovered slightly above them, with a vivid blue sky peeking from behind with good promises. Rows of skyscrapers stretched below him, with roads cutting through them in a grid pattern all the way down until it met the sea. Peter barely heard the city life below. His hearing only picking up the shrill of sirens and sharp blares of aggressive honks. Everything else was quiet. Too far away to be heard.
Standing so far away from civilization, residing up in the clouds, Peter felt like a god, looking down upon the world's greatest city.
Strange for a boy of Queens, a boy of taped backpacks and old sneakers, to see the world from such heights and perspective.
"The view from top is always better," Mr. Stark said from behind, coming right next to Peter by the large windows. "From here you can see Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island (if you want, but you can always avert your gaze), and... you can even see the Statue of Liberty from here."
Peter peered and sure enough, he spotted the green lady rising up from the sea.
Mr. Stark directed Peter to the other side of the penthouse. "Over here we got the entertainment area. TV and everything. Pep's and I's room is in that direction and this way..."
He turned Peter around to another door, opening it. "... is your room."
Expectantly, the room was smaller than the one at the Compound. New York City was notorious for small living space, but the room deigned for him during his stay was still big by the city's terms. It contained a queen bed, large closet, and a shelving unit with exact books found in his bedroom back in the Compound.
"Didn't have enough time to fully redecorate," Mr. Stark explained as Peter dropped his duffel on the bed, checking the place out. "The rest of the stuff will come sometime this week. Supposedly."
"Stuff?" He thought the room was generous as it was, considering he wasn't going to live in the Tower permanently.
"Desk, chair, monitors, computer, telescope," Mr. Stark listed off. "Even ordered a lightsaber. Not the plastic toy one either."
Peter's mouth fell opened. "A w-what? Are you serious?"
Mr. Stark smiled. "Of course. Always serious on fictional toys," he teased, but then sobered up quick. "Shipment was just delayed. Nothing I could do about it, but once it comes in, we can get it all set up in here however you want it. Sound good?"
Sound way more than good. Basically unbelievable. He meandered through the bedroom, going right up to his massive windows that pooled natural sunlight into the center of his room. A single glance, he caught sight of the biggest park in New York City, stretching two miles right through the middle of the packed city. The shadowy Bronx resided beyond, its cramped three-story building bundled together as it circled the exclusive Yankee's stadium in the distance.
Peter frowned at the stadium. Yankees suck. The motto of the Parker's residence.
Mr. Stark followed his gaze. "Big baseball fan? I can get us tickets for this week. Believe the Yankees are playing the Blue Jays," he said. "Front row? Right where the foul balls go. Or box seats? Any seat you want."
"Oh, um... that's okay, Mr. Stark," Peter's gaze moved away from the stadium to the rest of the scene. "This is a great view. You can see everything."
"That's the point. On this side you get Central Park, the Bronx, Randall's Island and Queens," Mr. Stark beamed, pointing at each neighborhood. "Basically the penthouse gives you an eagle's eye view of the entire area of New York."
Peter didn't realize. The whole apartment sat at top of the stunning tower, with windows as walls to give each room a different view of the world below them. They saw miles and miles of everything from the top of this tower, never missing anything. New York laid at their feet.
He heard Mr. Stark sigh. "It's good to be home, isn't it?"
Home.
Peter side-glanced back to Queens. The distant sprawling city across the bridge lulled in a deep, browning gloom, unglamorous compared to the high tower he stood. Funny to think that while everyone looked up toward him, in that spectacular, lofty tower, he looked on toward them, desire building in his chest. Only a window pane away from him. Roads and trains winding through the buildings and over rivers, all those cars and subways leading straight to the edge of the earth. All the way back home.
His old home, he reminded himself. Queens was where he used to live.
And yet, Peter couldn't stop the tugging desire to run straight there.
A gentle nudge rubbed against his side. "C'mon," Mr. Stark said. "The view will stay. Pepper's waiting. She thinks you would be interested in visiting the R&D floors first."
Peter loved the Research and Development department!
The department composed of three floors, each floor consisted of teams to find different usage of technology that would be beneficial to society and financially profitable. Peter's favorite section was the team tasked to design products to help disable veterans. He spoke with Dr. Gray Armond, incessantly jabbering about the mechanical concepts Dr. Armond's team were currently working on to support veterans with nerve damage.
Dr. Gray Armond was nice and patient, answering all of Peter's endless questions. At times, Peter got the feeling he annoyed the man. Not that the scientist would ever tell him, especially with the great Tony Stark standing nearby. The good scientist probably would have entertained Peter all day and night to appease his boss and not be fired.
Peter doubted Mr. Stark would fire any of them. All them were experts in their field and beyond talented in their developments. Peter understood that the business kept them busy, but everyone seemingly took the time to be introduced and make acquaintances with him. Almost everyone lined up whenever they walked onto a new floor. It got to the point that Peter's hand was tired and sore from all the constant handshaking. Again, Peter got the feeling they only did it to earn Mr. Stark's approval. Otherwise, he doubted they would even take gander at him.
Pepper met up with them later for lunch, having a meal at the restaurant down in the lobby. Peter was allowed to order whatever he wanted. When he got the menu, his eyes bulged at the listed prices. There had to be a mistake. No food would ever cost this much. Even the appetizers cost at least three paychecks.
He looked up from the menu to Mr. Stark and Pepper. Already, they had their menus closed, discussing about a meeting Pepper attended and Mr. Stark avoided.
"You were supposed to be there, Tony."
"Couldn't find a babysitter," Mr. Stark remarked. "What? Don't look at me like that. When have I ever gone to one of those meetings? Trust me, everyone doesn't want me there."
They kept bickering until a waiter arrived for their order. Pepper went first, next Mr. Stark and then the waiter turned to Peter.
"And for you, young man?"
Peter glanced back down at the menu. "Um… Um… soup."
Mr. Stark incredulously raised his brows. "Soup?" he repeated, deadpanned. "Kid—you didn't eat any breakfast this morning." Pepper shot Mr. Stark a vexed look. "What? I got him here." He turned back to the waiter. "Give us a minute."
The waiter obliged, promising to come back later. Mr. Stark twisted in his seat to Peter. "Okay—what's the problem?" he asked, "'Cause I know you're starving and soup isn't going to fill you up. What? You have trouble understanding the menu or something?"
Peter shifted in his seat, looking from Mr. Stark back to the opened menu in his hand. "I can't afford it."
"What?" Pepper said, eyes squinting and head lowered to hear. Even Mr. Stark looked a bit puzzled.
Peter averted his gaze down, moving his shoulders in. "I can't afford it," he said a little louder as his cheeks pinked. "Everything is… pricey."
Pepper and Mr. Stark shot a look to one another. Then Mr. Stark cleared his throat. "Don't worry about that," he told him. "Order whatever you want."
"But—"
"We have money," Mr. Stark stated, reassuring Peter that it wasn't a hindrance. "If you want the steak, get it. Or the ribeye, or the oysters..."
Peter glanced back down at the menu and saw the oysters listed in the seafood section. "Do they come with pearls?"
Pepper's soften face cracked in laughter. "Oh—if they did, I ordered the wrong meal!"
Mr. Stark slowly shook his head, smile peeking up from beard. "Unfortunately, they don't, but you can still get it," he said. "You don't need to worry about money, Peter. Order what you want."
As if on cue, the waiter returned to the table to get Peter's final decision. Peter went with the steak, which Mr. Stark promptly doubled the order ("Remember? You didn't eat breakfast."). As the kitchen busied making their meals, Pepper asked Peter about his time in the R&D department. Peter enthusiastically babbled everything that came to his brain. He talked about the disability equipment, the prosthetic prototypes for spinal cord injuries and helicarrier's invisibility cloak.
"There was also this biotech thing to help paralyzed patients be able to feel again," Peter rambled as he tried to recall what the researcher said about her product. "It targets their dead nerves to revitalize them, and it that works, then maybe it could be used to help diabetic patients too. Cancer patients as well."
Pepper smiled. "I know what you're talking about," she said. "It's part of our new health program. After everything that happened with New York and the Avengers, Stark Industries thought it should go into health technology as a way to help those injured in such catastrophes. A way to repay any and all damages done. We're holding ourselves accountable."
He remembered New York. The destruction. The collapsed buildings and roads and subway tunnels, all slowing the normally busy city to an almost standstill for months. People said it was as bad as 9/11. Some say it was worse because it opened to the fear that they may not have power over those from outer space. Peter saw the damages when he went with his aunt into the city. He saw the barriers. The roped sections and dump-trucks and men in black suits and sunglasses. He saw policemen patrolling the barriers, keeping everyone out. He didn't see bodies. They were taken away long ago before he walked across the site of the battle. But, he knew people died. A lot of good people died.
That guilt must claw at Mr. Stark's insides forever. No wonder he directed so much of his money and time into the health research, created subsidiaries to assist any and all catastrophes that occurred under the Avengers' watch. Mr. Stark must blame himself for all the consequences that followed the Avengers. No wonder he agreed with the Accords. It would be something like a weight off his shoulder.
Pepper suggested he come with her the next half of the day. She would show him other departments that keep companies like theirs afloat, such as human resources, personal relations, marketing and accounting. Not exciting things, but Peter didn't have the heart to tell her that he preferred to stick with the R&D.
Lunch came to the table in record time, and Peter was amazed by the aroma that filled his nostrils. His mouth watered as the first steak was settled right before him. Then someone from behind took his napkin to fold it on his lap. Peter immediately stopped that.
"I can do it, thanks," he said, taking the napkin. Why would a waiter need to put a napkin on his lap? He wasn't a baby!
Napkin on lap and utensils in hand, Peter admired the perfectly seasoned, seared steak. It looked exactly like a million dollar steak as advertised. Peter cut into the meat, juice following right off the tender meat and pooling underneath. He stabbed it, raised it to his mouth and slipped it right into his mouth.
Peter melted into his seat. Never had he ever tasted such deliciousness in his life! The meat was tender, breaking apart right in his mouth. He hardly chewed the pieces before he swallowed another. His face was right up to the steak, shoving piece after piece into his mouth until he heard Mr. Stark's voice calling to him.
"Slow down, Pete," the man advised. "You're going to choke if you eat it like that. C'mon, one piece at a time."
"Sorry," Peter mumbled, sitting back in his seat. "It's just... really good. Like this is the best steak in the world. Hands down"
Mr. Stark smirked. "And you were going to order the soup," he reminded Peter. "Glad you are enjoying it, but don't let it kill you. Chew, then swallow. Savor the best steak in the world."
Peter slowed his eating, enjoying the satisfaction he had. Once he licked the first plate clean, the waiter brought the second plate, much to Peter's delight. He had forgotten he was getting two.
As he ate, other paying patrons stopped by their table to talk to Pepper and Mr. Stark. They greeted them with pleasantries, asking how they were and how the company was doing. Pepper was polite. Her talk minimum, but Mr. Stark, depending on who came up to the table, was easy to dismiss or quick to repartee with them. Some laughed it off and others scolded in his direction.
Only a handful of the visitors looked at Peter. They stared at him, unashamedly expressing their surprise and aversion to his mere appearance. Like they knew Peter wasn't one of them and wondered as to how a lowly boy like himself ended up at the table with the world's most powerful couple.
"Who's the kid, Anthony?" one man commented as his green eyes bored down at Peter. "Didn't know you to being around youngsters."
"This is Peter," Mr. Stark introduced, but not really. He gave no inclination to have Peter shake the man's hand.
"He's interning at Stark Industries," Pepper added after Mr. Stark refused to go into more details. "He's a brilliant boy."
The man studied Peter. Eyes narrowed into a severe judgment, picking Peter apart in an almost flippant dismissal. Peter's appearance did not impressed the damper man with sleeked hair combed back from his forehead and fine threads for his sport's jacket. Nonetheless, the man placed a fake smile on his face.
"How do you do, Peter," the man said. He did not extend a hand to Peter. "I'm Norman Osborn."
Peter's eyes widened at the name. "You wrote a paper on nanotechnology."
It was meant to be a casual statement. A polite compliment. Instead, it sent waves over the table. Pepper turned her head to him. Mr. Stark's eyebrows flew up and Mr. Osborn appeared almost startled, taken aback.
"Why... yes," Mr. Osborn said after a quick composure. "I did a few years back. You read it?"
"Yes."
"And you understood it?"
Peter noticed the questionable brows on Mr. Stark's face. "Err... yes," he said, hands smoothing down his pants. "I like science."
Suddenly, Peter became more interesting to Norman Osborn. The man looked back to Mr. Stark, who fixed his face again to one of nonchalance. "I see why you keep him around," he commented to Mr. Stark. "Can't lose that. Am I to expect to see you at the gala tonight?"
The question was directed at Peter, who redirected the question to Pepper and Mr. Stark with a single, confused look.
Pepper quickly answered. "Oh, Peter's not going to be there."
Mr. Osborn clicked his tongue in disappointment. "What a shame," he said. "Would have loved to talk more about science. Another time, perhaps?"
"All right, Normie," Mr. Stark grunted. "You got your two minutes. Good bye!"
Mr. Osborn frowned at the brush off, but gave Pepper a tight smile and an apologetic one to Peter. He strode away, doing his best to save face as others looked on at them.
The second Mr. Osborn was away, Mr. Stark spun to Peter.
"You read his papers? Don't read his papers," Mr. Stark warned. "It'll rot your brain. Read comics instead. Far more stimulating."
Peter obediently nodded without pause. Pepper, however, sighed heavily. "Tony… don't poison his mind."
"I'm not," argued Mr. Stark. "Pete probably already knows it's all crap."
"Tony!"
Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, half-heartily shrugged as a compromise to stop talking poorly about Osborn. Unlike the two of them, Peter didn't really care about Mr. Osborn. His thoughts were ticked with questions about what Mr. Osborn said.
"What gala was he talking about?" he asked them.
"Oh, it's nothing," Mr. Struck brushed off. "A lame party."
Pepper shot him an annoyed look. "Stark Industries is hosting a charity gala tonight to support children's hospitals," she answered Peter's questions. "And it's mandatory that the owner and CEO make appearances."
She directed that last comment to Mr. Stark. That meant Mr. Stark couldn't back out of it. Not like he did with the meeting that morning.
"You know?" Mr. Stark started, sniffed as he glanced at Peter for a second. "Why can't the kid come? I mean, it's better than sitting at home."
"It's an adult party," Pepper reminded him.
"So?"
"It means no kids," Pepper turned to Peter, apologetic. "Sorry."
"No, that's okay," Peter said, not at all offended. "I don't really do parties anyway. Not that I get invited to many. Or any. T-That's not important. I just…kind of prefer my space. So, parties aren't me."
The two adults stared at him. Peter's cheeks burned, rolling his lips as he wished he didn't ramble on about his social life. They must think he's some pathetic loser.
Then, Mr. Stark snapped his attention to Pepper. "Oh, now we really need to bring him."
"No."
"The party would be ten times better with him there. Don't deny it," Mr. Stark tried to convince Pepper. "You would find it far more entertaining with Peter there."
"Peter won't have fun, Tony," Pepper counter-argued. "He's a kid! Did you like all the parties your parents dragged you to?"
"That's different. This is us. I'm way more fun than my dad."
"Tony—let Peter have his night. I'm sure he'll be exhausted and I bet he didn't pack a tux in that bag of his."
Mr. Stark studied Peter for a quick second. "I think I have a suit that could fit him."
"No."
Peter watched the two bicker. They were fast, each jabbing the other with words without pause or falter. Almost like married couples he'd seen on television. Wait… were Pepper and Mr. Stark married? He thought they were engaged.
In the end, Pepper won, much to Peter's relief. He didn't have to attend the gala. He didn't have to dress fancy, socialize with smart and powerful people or be critically judged by those who didn't know him. A much needed postponement of his inclusion to that world.
With Mr. Stark and Pepper busy for the night, it freed Peter to do the one thing he had wanted to do since he arrived back in the city.
Return to Queens.
Peter sat on the bed, watching Mr. Stark try to pick out the right shirt, and then the right tie and jacket to go with the shirt. Mr. Stark was telling him the importance of dressing right for any and all occasions.
Mr. Stark looked suave and rich. Everything was on point, including the man's posture and the air around him. Peter, no matter what clothes he wore, would never be able to pull it off. Mr. Stark carried that confidence and attention well enough. He could walk in sweats and people would respect him. If Peter did that, he would be booted to the curb. And mocked.
"There," Mr. Stark fixed his bow-tie. "Well—not exactly how I want to spend my night, but things you gotta sacrifice for."
"I thought you like parties."
"Occasionally," Mr. Stark agreed, checking himself in the mirror, "but not these. These are schmooze fests. People wanting to talk shop and politics. Rub shoulders with you in hopes your luck or money will fall right into their pockets." He adjusted his sleeves. "You know—things that drag a party."
"Pepper seems to enjoy them."
"She puts up a nice front," he said. "It's just part of the job, kid. Gotta network. Even with other assholes."
Finished with the suit, Mr. Stark gestured Peter to follow him out. They returned to the living room and Peter plopped himself on the couch as he watched Mr. Stark double-check the time.
"So—got any big plans for tonight?" Mr. Stark asked.
Peter stiffened. For the past few hours, he considered telling Mr. Stark of his plans to visit his aunt. Go to Queens and just say hi. Or have her come to the Tower. But, each time he got the nerve to tell him, Peter faltered and backed out. Too afraid the answer would be no. Too afraid it would mean a babysitter for the night to ensure he didn't try while they were out. And Peter didn't want no. He didn't want to be told he couldn't see his aunt. Peter didn't want that answer and; therefore, he didn't talk to Mr. Stark about it.
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
So, Peter shrugged and said, "No, probably just work ahead in my homework."
Mr. Stark rolled his eyes as he exasperatedly shook his head. "Nerd," he muttered. "C'mon! You get the whole apartment to yourself and you're going to study? No—you need to do something else."
"Like what?" There wasn't much else he could do.
"I don't know, but you're young only once," Mr. Stark said. "Don't waste it on learning things that you can learn later. Do what rebel teenagers do. Throw a kegger. Drink booze—actually. No. Don't do that. Leads you to horrible life choices. But, you gotta do something other than study."
Peter gave another thought of telling Mr. Stark. It would be a lot easier for Peter to go through Mr. Stark to get to his aunt. It would make Peter feel a lot better knowing Mr. Stark had his back against the UN. It was on the tip of his tongue to confess, but the words choked at the back of his throat.
He couldn't do it. Deep down, he couldn't tell Mr. Stark. The man wouldn't agree to the plan at all. Would claim it to be too dangerous. The UN would be watching. They would find him and take him away. Send him straight to the hole to rot.
Peter gave in and changed his words. "Okay… maybe I'll watch a movie."
"Rated R," Tony jested with a wide smirk.
Peter shook his head, mimicking Mr. Stark's eye roll when he heard the sound of heels clattering closer and closer. He picked his head up and spotted Pepper walking into the living room.
She looked absolutely stunning! Her dress was a long, green gown with a respectable V-neckline that featured a crystal rose embroidery along the waist. Hair done in natural waves and make-up minimum, if any at all.
Pepper looked extraordinary beautiful and approachable. Almost the complete opposite of Mr. Stark. It had crossed Peter's mind multiple times that Pepper was way out of Mr. Stark's league. Mr. Stark was a lucky man.
Peter continued to stare, doe-eyed and hypnotized. "You look beautiful, Pepper."
His statement surprised Pepper. Her eyes widening a bit before her cheeks tinted pink. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark gave him a long side-glance before he teasingly scolded him.
"Hey! That's my line," Mr. Stark suddenly quipped, and then he turned back to Pepper. "He stole my line."
Pepper playfully rolled her eyes, used to Mr. Stark's wit and sarcasm. "Thank you, Peter," she said. "That's very sweet of you," She then gave her attention back to Mr. Stark. "All set? Got a car waiting downstairs."
"Yep," Mr. Stark said, holding out his hand to lead Pepper to the doors. "All set to get this over with."
"Peter? What about you?" Pepper called to him. "Will you be okay by yourself?"
Peter nodded. "Oh, yeah. I'll be fine. I'm used to being on my own," he reassured Pepper. "You guys have fun."
"Oh, we won't," Mr. Stark avowed. "But thanks anyway. Now—if you need anything, let FRIDAY know. Or Happy. He'll be downstairs. If you're bored, call him up. He'll do whatever it is. Just remind him that I'm paying him.
"And if it's something serious, call me," Mr. Stark said, tone changing into a more somber expression, "I mean it. Call us if you need us."
Peter nodded. "Okay."
Mr. Stark was satisfied with the promise. "Good—we'll be back soon enough. These parties never last long."
"For you," Pepper corrected. "You leave fifteen minutes after it starts."
Mr. Stark merely shrugged, unconvinced. "Anyway, we'll be back soon and tomorrow, we'll do something together."
Peter followed them out to their private elevator, listening to Mr. Stark making wisecracks and dishing out suggestions on how to spend his time. Most of them were things Peter would never do, and at one point Pepper slapped his shoulder, which Mr. Stark promptly reneged. In the end, he resigned to his last advice.
"Just don't do anything I would do. And definitely don't do anything I wouldn't do," Mr. Stark said to him as the private elevator arrived to take them down to the lobby. "Just… sit tight here until we get back."
And with that last parting instruction, Pepper and Mr. Stark were gone, leaving Peter alone in the apartment all by himself. He didn't waste any time. He bolted for his room, unzipping his duffel and digging out for his web-shooters.
Time to gear up.
It was easy to escape from the Tower. Using his web-shooters, he swung himself over to another rooftop before hoofing it down through a series of escape ladders. The need to limit his web-shooters were crucial for success. If news reached the government that he was swinging through the city, unsanctioned, Peter's freedom would be at stake. As well as Mr. Stark. Peter didn't want him to get in trouble. Not after everything he's done for him. But, Peter needed to see his aunt. Too many days passed and with all the memories of Ben returning, Peter needed to visit his aunt. If only for a quick minute.
Peter arrived on the streets, popping up his hood. No one noticed. He was unseen by pedestrians. All distracted by their mobile phones and their immediate destination. Peter blended in the crowd, hitting the subway station, jumping over the railing to grab the F line out to Forest Hills.
He took his seat on the subway car, noticing the different, creative ads promoting mattresses and Seamless. It was a long ride from Manhattan to the edge of Queens, so Peter sat back, thinking what he would say or do when he saw his aunt. At each stop, people shifted in and out. Beggars preached, calloused hands outstretched for a single coin. Peter felt guilty for not having anything. Mr. Stark didn't give him money. If Peter ever needed anything, Mr. Stark only needed to snap his fingers and it magically appeared. Or at least, that was how it appeared to him.
Peter also kept track of the people coming and going from the subway car. He noted the blonde-haired woman, pursed right atop her lap, face frozen and eyes straight ahead. There was a big African American, slouched near the doors, phone in hand and bobbing his head to the music playing out of his phone, not at all giving a damn about others preference. Another African American sat across from Peter, dressed in business attire, tie knotted around his neck and a briefcase snugged to his side. His body rocked against the motion of the subway. He was holding onto a book, doing his best to read despite the wavering motion of the ride.
None of these people have gotten off the subway since Peter joined. When the passenger across from him glanced in his direction, Peter slouched and looked away. Keep a low profile. Don't draw attention. Peter checked his web-shooters. Still invisible by his hoodie's billowing sleeves. The man went back to his book and Peter relaxed, if only for a little bit.
It was dangerous for him to be out in the open. He worried that maybe he should have told Mr. Stark of his plans. Spoke to him about wanting to see Aunt May. He may have come up with a better idea than hitch a ride on a subway and hope no one noticed. Hope the UN wasn't watching him. Mr. Stark probably would crafted a fail-safe plan to reunite him and his aunt. Even if it was against the government's orders.
His gut squeezed, an ache running across his abdomen. It was a bad idea. He shouldn't have run off. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If he got Mr. Stark in trouble with the UN… Peter nervously ran a hand down his face. Doesn't matter anymore. The deed was done. Peter couldn't turn back nor would he.
The subway came to his station—7th Avenue. It looked the same as always. Long tunnel with green, metal pillars to keep the peeling roof from collapsing. Unappealing and foul smelling, like old pee, as mice mingled down below on the tracks. Good, old New York.
Peter climbed up the stairs and reentered the world, the night air tickling his skin in greeting. Queens Boulevard was alive. Shops were alit, lights bright and a colorful array of objects cluttered the windows to lure in customers. He walked passed Rite Aid, Subway, Austin Dental and local businesses that do their best to stay afloat. Peter walked past several empty commercial buildings. The long deserted Moe's Sneaker Spot stayed unfilled, empty. The local grocery store Foodtown stayed hopping despite it nearing closing time. Peter spotted an employee carrying the keys, getting ready to lock the front doors. Groups of people loitered outside their respective bodegas, sitting in lawn chairs and playing dominos or talking loudly over the music blaring from their stereo that have hooked up to a nearby car. Good, old Queens Boulevard.
Peter walked passed it all, turning off onto Ascan Avenue. He charged ahead, striding through his old neighborhood, passing churches, Chinese restaurants and threading saloons all to get to his old street. His old building.
He spotted his street sign. Turn right. Pass the streetlight. Past the closed up mailboxes. Over the uneven sidewalk that constantly trips people and twist their ankles. Peter hurried down the sidewalk, coming to a halt when he spotted the high-rising apartment complex.
It was nothing compared to the Tower. The Tower was all sleek, modern and innovative. The apartment building before him consisted of yellow and red brick, black window frames and a single, manual door that was the lone entrance into the building. Air conditioners hung outside the windows, most of them making a rickety sound as if the screws were loose. Best to avoid standing underneath any of them.
Peter hesitated to enter through the front door. What if someone was watching his aunt? What if the UN had spies tailing her, ensuring that they were kept apart? Peter scanned the area from a safe distance. He didn't see anything unusual, but then again, professional spies at work. They could be hiding in that pile of garbage and Peter wouldn't know until it was too late.
Waltzing through the front door wasn't an option. However, there was another way.
Peter backtracked, going to the street behind the apartment complex. There was no door to enter, but Peter didn't need a door. He only needed a window. He craned his neck back, spying his old bedroom window from where he hug the shadows. Eleven floors up. He could do that.
Fingers latched on the brick, Peter scaled. It was like old times when he was a newbie hero, trying to find ways getting in and out of the apartment to perform his civic duties without Aunt May knowing. Peter climbed, avoiding any window that had a light on. He couldn't be seen. He needed to stay in stealth mode.
He got to his bedroom window. He peered through the glass, spotting his Mets pendent on the wall. It was his room. Peter unstuck one hand from the brick and placed it on the window. He gently lifted and the window came with the pull. Peter smiled. His aunt never noticed it was unlock. Then again, she doubted anyone would scale eleven floors. He wouldn't.
Peter quietly opened the window and slunk in, climbing on the ceiling. He scanned the room and when he saw the door closed, Peter relaxed. As quiet as possible, Peter dropped from the ceiling to the floor. His landing made no sound. All that practice with Mr. Reynolds helped him in that covert tactical. Peter closed the window, sealing it as he turned to take in his room.
It was not the way he left it. His chessboard was missing. His X-wing model gone. So was his set of Legos. His dartboard was gone as well. And why were there all these boxes in his room? Peter checked them, spying May's scribbled writing on the side: Goodwill, Salvation Army, Library… Trash?!
Peter cocked his head. What? He opened the box labelled Library and found his collection of Stephan Hawking books nestled inside the box. Why did his aunt pack up his favorite series? Peter looked around the room. His bunk-bed was stripped. The sheets, blankets and pillows were all gone. Only a bare mattress left behind.
What the—
A clatter spooked Peter. He jumped, swiveling in a circle and back to the door. Sounds of rummaging and the clicking of the gas to light under the stove-top alerted Peter someone was in the apartment. Someone was outside, unaware of his presence.
Aunt May.
Peter swallowed, hand stretched for the door. He cracked the door opened, knowing the speed he needed to go to avoid the creaking sounds of an old door. The sounds grew louder, coming straight from the kitchen. Peter stepped out, moving down the corridor so quiet, it was almost as if Peter was a ghost, haunting his old stomping ground rather than alive and heading to meet his aunt.
Rounding the corner, Peter stopped.
Aunt May was in the kitchen. Her long, red hair hung behind her as she tried to get the kettle to work. A mug was on the countertop next to the stove, a tea bag ready. Her nightly ritual of warm tea, three cookies and reading the latest chick-lit book. She wore her favorite blue jeans with a red tank-top, socks on and sliding about the kitchen tiles to get what she needed. Unaware that her nephew was behind her, watching with a sad smile.
His face burned and Peter knew tears were coming.
God—he missed her so much and seeing her only a few feet away made him never to want leave her again.
May suddenly spun around, hand reaching for one of the drawers. She casually glanced at him, not comprehending at first. But, then she jumped, jerking away and grabbing on the counter-top for balance before freezing in stunned fright.
Peter stiffened, recoiling for a second as he stared, wide-eyed at his panicked aunt. May looked as beautiful as ever, but the fear and shock coursing through her made Peter feel guilty for startling her. He tried to speak, but his words were too thick and his throat tight, too overwhelmed with a canopy of difficult emotions. And May, petrified as stone.
Peter breathed. His lungs loosened up from the overall shock to say something to break the tension. "H-Hey, May."
May stared. Then, her eyes rolled back behind her head, swaying before plummeting.
"MAY!"
Peter caught her before she crashed onto the tile floor. Hoisting her up, he carried her to the couch. She looked paler than ever. Heart drumming, Peter rushed back to the kitchen, grabbing a washcloth and opening the freezer for ice cubes. He didn't know much about first aid. It wasn't part of his training regiment, but Nellie often gave him an ice pack.
He knelt beside May's head, dabbing the cold cloth along her forehead. "C'mon, May," he muttered. "You're okay. Please be okay..."
He may have said that more for himself, but he watched his aunt's eyes fluttered. Her head turned, face compressing at the cold touch of the ice melting through the cloth onto her forehead.
"May?" Peter said, lifting the cloth away. "May? Can you hear me?"
May blinked once. Twice. Then her eyes widened at Peter before she lurched back, scrambling up the couch.
Peter raised both his arms. "No-no... no, it's okay, May. It's me... It's just me."
May's breathing was fast. Rapid and shallow, eyes wide as saucers and lower lip quivering in utter astonishment and disbelief. "That's not possible."
"Huh?"
"Y-You're dead."
"What?" Peter worried May had actually hit her head when she fell. "May—I'm not dead."
"I-I saw... your body," she stuttered, her lips quivering with every word. "You were in the morgue…"
The morgue? That was ridiculous! Yet, when Peter inquisitively peered at his aunt, she was serious. She truly believed he was dead.
"No! May I'm not… I'm not dead," he said, firmed. He took her hand, held it in his own, feeling the heat between their palms. "See? I'm alive. Very alive."
May looked at their hands then back to Peter, her expression fading from shock to muddled confusion, "B-But… how?"
"I never died, May," Peter insisted. "I—Look, it's a long story, but I'm back. I'm here. It's me, Aunt May. Really."
May studied Peter's face, uncertain, but hopeful. He could tell she wanted it to be true, if only for her own sanity and heart. She pulled her hand out of Peter's grasp, moving both hands to Peter's head, cupping the sides as she continued to study long and hard at him.
Tears stung Peter's eyes as he swallowed hard, looking back at his aunt. Please remember me, he thought. Please. Please!
May drew out a long, heavy breath. "Peter?"
Peter, sniffling through his tears, smiled. "Hey, Aunt May."
Suddenly, Peter was yanked over the couch and captured in the tightest hug he ever felt. May bawled, crying into his hair and pressing him close to her. He hugged her tight too, rocking slowly side to side before he dropped his head to her shoulder. Peter breathed in, smelling Aunt May's lavender scent from all the essential oils she dabbled in. She always smelled like flowers.
God—he missed her. Everything about her.
Peter didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace, but May eventually pulled back to look at him. One more time for confirmation. Her face was blotchy. Eyes red and irritated as her face creviced, a deep crack that broke her normally strong mien. More lines showed on her face than he last remembered. She wiped away tears as she took slow and deep breaths to calm the rising hysteria.
"Peter… where have you been?" May said with a frail trill. "Where did you go?"
"I was upstate."
"Upstate?" May looked at him with confusion. "What? What were you doing there?"
"I was at the Compound."
"Compound?"
"Avengers Compound."
May didn't blink. Face stunned and muddled, unable to comprehend everything Peter told her. He thought they told her. He thought Mr. Stark took care of it, told her what happened. How did she not know where he was? Why did she believe he was dead?
Her blank expression stayed and Peter got a horrible feeling in his gut. "Didn't Mr. Stark talk to you?"
May's face scrunched together in great puzzlement. "Why would he talk to me?" she questioned, voice pitching in emotion, tired and done with all the unanswered questions. "What's going on? Peter—what were you doing? How come you didn't call me? For nine months, I lived with the belief you were dead and all this time you were alive? Upstate? W-What? Why didn't you call? Let me know? You don't do this, Peter! You don't… you don't disappear on me like that! I mean… god! Do you have any idea how it felt? Living all alone here thinking I lost the last of my family? Believing my kid dead? Burying him!?"
Peter's heart dropped, falling into a deep abyss. A low rumble reached the back of his mind, pulsing as guilt's dark curtain closed around him. He didn't mean to hurt her. He never wanted that and if she knew how much he missed her, she would know that he truly didn't want to hurt her.
None of it made sense to Peter. Mr. Stark updated him. Told him about his aunt, spoke about his amendments to the Accords to get him back to his aunt. He assured Peter that he was working on it, that his aunt was informed of everything. That everything was okay.
Yet, his aunt sat next to him, tears returning to her eyes. Droplets spilled out and over her rosy cheeks as her wrecked state broke even more as she stared at her nephew. Both in happiness, confusion and grief. Peter sniffled, doing his best to not cry with her. He hated when she cried. And he hated it even more when it was his fault for her tears.
"I'm so sorry, Aunt May," Peter blubbered, trying to keep his voice steady and strong. But it sound more brittle and unsteady. Even as both his heart and head pounded in panic and pain. "I thought they told you… Mr. Stark said he talked to you. Explained—"
"No one called except the police!" May freaked, mouth drawn in grieving frown. She started to cry again, dropper her forehead on her propped hand. "They found you. Asked me to come to the morgue. ID you. I… worst day of my life. To find my missing child dead."
"But... I called you. I left a message."
May shook her head. "Peter—I didn't get a message from you," she said. "And trust me, I would know if my dead kid called me."
Peter's brows pinched together. "But Mr. Stark..."
May crossed her arms, frustratingly befuddled. "What does Stark have to do with any of this?"
Everything, Peter began to realize.
His head was swimming. The pounding worsening. It grew loud, the rumbling noise overpowering his aunt's words to him. It filled his head, nagging and picking at him. It demanded his full attention and it certainly had it.
And, slowly, Peter realized it was not a migraine.
It was his spidey-sense!
Peter jerked his head up, leaping to his feet. "We need to go!"
May looked startled by the sudden announcement. "Go? Peter—are you okay? You don't look good."
Peter brushed aside her concern. All that mattered was fleeing the apartment. Trouble was coming. Danger lurking closer and closer. "Trust me, May," Peter pulled her up from the couch, gripping her hand tight as he tugged her along behind him. "We gotta go now! I'll explain everything—"
He stopped. The front door. His spidey-sense shocked him. Warning! Warning! Impending doom.
Peter backtracked, causing his aunt to collide against him. "Peter? What's going on?"
The answer came in a mass explosion. The front door burst and a roaring fire followed, licking the ceiling and walls. Pictures flew off the wall, shattering, and the coat stand next to the door toppled before it splintered into pieces, burning into ash. Smoke fogged the front of the apartment, making his vision hazy.
The explosion rocked Peter and May off their feet. Peter's head drummed on, despite the other aches he gained from being flung aside. May was next to him, hair all over her face and groaning as she tried to recover herself. Her hand reached over, trying to find him. Peter grabbed hers, pulling her up. They had to move before...
"Hey there... Itsy Bitsy!"