It's not very long after her fainting spell that May feels well and ready to return to reality. And to be fair to her, finding your nephew — your child — unresponsive and no longer himself is reason enough to hide away in the depths of unconsciousness for a while. She had been ready to tear Tony Stark a new asshole, it was true, but now as she wakes up exhausted in a medical bed, she's starting to at least understand why he'd been hesitant to call her. It doesn't excuse him, not in the slightest, but she also is more than aware of Stark's involvement with Peter's life; she and Stark had one slightly drunken hang-out session together on a couch in this very same facility one night, coping in solidarity, when Tony had said so very seriously, "I loved that kid. I love that kid. I'm so sorry."

The day after, they both had hangovers the size of the moon, and Stark had sworn off liquor from that point on. As far as she knows, he hasn't touched it since. She still drinks sometimes, though — grabs herself a bottle that she and Ben used to save for emergency occasions, and gets just tipsy enough to let her feelings bleed out while she cries on her couch or at her kitchen table. It's not a graceful response to losing the last of her family, but she figures it's understandable and a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Peter was back now. But he also wasn't. Her eyes burn with tears where she lay, swallowing a lump in her throat.

"Oh, hey, welcome back to the shitshow," Bruce says from where he sits nearby. He looks over and smiles a little.

"... Dr. Banner," May says politely.

"Mrs. Parker," Bruce nods.

"I guess I — didn't take that as well as I could've." And lord help her, the sting of tears becomes a drip of them as she fights to control what feels like sobs, bubbling up from some dark place she's always reserved for mourning Peter, in the last two years. She almost laughs at it, because of all the Parkers left standing, it had to be the two who cry the easiest, right? But Bruce doesn't say anything to her weeping. He does turn and pass her a half-used box of kleenex that she rips a few out of, studying her with a doctor's eye (is he even a real MD, she wonders?). One minute, she tells herself. She will give herself exactly one minute of being a mess, before she fixes her hair, puts on her glasses, and gets back to business. Peter is here, even if he isn't; that's enough for her to suck it up ASAP and work on a solution here.

There will be a solution, so help her. She sniffs hard and meets Bruce's patient gaze.

"What's wrong with him?"

Where is he?

"We're not completely sure yet. We know that when the deaths were reversed, everyone's bodies reformed and were consequently re-inhabited by their souls." And you know, she had not been a big religious person through life — but the sound of someone outright admitting that souls were a real thing has her a little dizzy. Then again, half of the population died in one moment and returned from the graves years later like Jesus Christ Superstars, so who is she to be shocked by anything anymore? Bruce continues, "It's possible he's having trouble returning, for some reason..."

It hurts to ask, but she needs to know. She needs to be thorough. Her eyes press shut, expression pained.

"How do we know he's — even out there and not still..."

"He definitely is out there." It's not Bruce who speaks, and May turns her head toward the doorway that leads into the medical area, where a man with sharply angled facial hair and a red leather jacket stands, tall and solemn. He seems like someone you'd see out of a Blade Runner sequel, or some kind of science fantasy adventure. He goes on, "I saw him on the other side, just before I went back to my body. He was scared to come back, I think, but he is somewhere out there."

"Who're you?"

"I'm Star-Lord — uh. Peter Quill's probably a better pick, actually... I worked with your son," and then clears his throat, "Er. Nephew. We both... fought together. Against the purple dickhead who did all this."

She's glad the man decided to make his presence known, this... Star-Lord, Peter Quill. The next twenty minutes is a flood of information — details about Thanos and the final battle a month ago from Bruce, the story of their reawakening from Quill's side of things, and then the predictions surrounding this 'soul world' or wherever they had all been trapped in. It leaves her reeling, but it's better to know all of this than to be in the dark any more than she has been before. To think of her kid having to face these sorts of terrible things, trying to protect whole galaxies from a madman like Thanos... It makes her stomach sink to the floor. He was on the side of an alien ship, for christ's sake. It's insane, a thought that would have sent her crumpling in shock to her knees before Spider-Man became a known name in her household.

The most important question comes once they have little else to say, and their own silence trickles in heavily alongside the buzz of machines. "What can we do for him?"

"Keep his body healthy," Bruce says, hands folded. "... If you're okay with it, we'll go through with the g-tube surgery so he can get proper nutrition, and then we'll all be working on any potential methods we've got to pretty much glue a soul back to a body, for lack of any better terms." Her expression pales, she knows it does, because his voice softens a little and his hand gently covers hers. "I'm not gonna lie, Mrs. Parker, it's, uh... It's all in the air. Whatever happens, it'll be by the skin of our teeth. Tony screwed up keeping you out of this, but I swear, that guy'll do whatever he has to, to make this right. He's really good at not quitting when things seem ugly."

She nods. "... What can I do?"

"Keep trying to bring him back," Quill says, something determined flashing in his expression. "Don't let him go yet."

Peter blows out a long sigh, sitting beside Gamora in a way that was becoming more and more normal for him. It's like when you move into a new apartment (because you can't afford your last one anymore), and everything seems so crazy-different? But then by the third or fourth month you couldn't imagine being elsewhere? It's that kind of thing.

It had been a while since he returned to Gamora's side, after he'd nearly been pulled through the soul realm and back out to — his body? Or at least he thinks that's what he'd seen, before the pain had pushed him back subconsciously into this place again. Explaining the whole thing to Gamora had left her lost in thought, sitting with an arm on her knee and a half-lidded gaze to nowhere. And ever since then, they've had many a conversation about what it could all mean. It's been a couple days since that had all went down, and she's never wasted an opportunity to tell him he's an idiot for not taking Quill's hand out of there.

"But what about you?" he asks, one moment in a sea of moments.

"I'm dead, Peter," she says softly, patiently. "I have no body to return to."

"... I can't just leave you here," he mutters.

She rolls her eyes toward him. "Because you're Spider-Man?"

"Because I'm Peter Parker," he says, looking at her with a small, defiant scowl. "Your friend. We're — tight!"

A surprised pause overtakes her, before she sighs softly and shakes her head, magenta curls tossing about. A sad smile graces her lips as she places a hand on Peter's shoulder and pulls him in a little. Even though they're without their physical forms, it's... warm. Makes his soul warm, like the sunlight he'd felt when he floated in the abyss. She takes a moment to speak, as they enjoy the quiet. "The things you've told me... It means that there's a way back, do you understand? The smells of food, the sensations of being touched or the whispers in your ears from those familiar voices... If you can follow them, I think you still have a chance to fix this. I know that you said it — hurts. And I cannot imagine the feeling. But staying here in this place, it's no way to live. There are people waiting for you."

"... I've tried," he whispers, defeated. He doesn't want to think about the white-hot pain scraping all up and down his insides, raw nerves twisted up in him like bundles of exposed wiring on the fritz. Every moment felt like he was old, garbage-scavanged tech, and that his archaic pieces wouldn't fit the new system. "I tried, once. To go back. I can't... I can't figure out how it worked the first time. Nothing's pulling me like it was. I mean, I get these little tugs, but..."

"We'll keep working on it, then. Little tugs must mean something."

"But you have people waiting for you, too. Gamora."

Groot and Drax and Mantis and Rocket and Big Pete—

She grabs his chin, turning his face toward her a bit sharply, and he winces as she peers deeply into his eyes. One of the most dangerous ladies in the universe, right there. She could probably kill someone with a glower. "Listen to me, Peter Parker. I will not allow you to be another one of my so-called father's casualties. If I can do one last thing as a Guardian of the Galaxy, it will be to tell you that this is not your end. I can't do much, but I can threaten to kick your ass if you stay here any longer than necessary."

He gulps, eyes round and wide. "Y-yes ma'am."

"Alright, then," she says, and pats his cheek as her fierce expression softens. "... How often do you meditate?"

"Ummm... never?"

"I figured as much. Let's work on your focus."

"That's gonna be hard. One time I was stuck in a storage vault and—"

"Peter."

"Hmm?"

"Focus. Do as I do."

"Oh, right, sorry! Focusing now. Now is the focus. I will be the Spider-king of focusing—"

"Shh."

"... Sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Sor—oh."

Quill has to excuse himself not long after his talk with May to run shifts the other Guardians, around the circumference of the planet (Earth has never been more a target that it would be now, that's for certain). Bruce lets her go with a clean bill of health (though he adds both humorously and with sincerity: "but please, try to avoiding fainting anymore"), and she makes her way back through the Avengers facility. When she emerges from the medical bay she's making a beeline for the last place she'd seen her nephew, hugging her arms around herself and staving off a chill that is likely from her own nerves. Bucky's the only one left in the kitchen — Mr. Barnes, that is. May knew them all by name and face, at the very least. This man had been a criminal, hadn't he? And yet he sits here with an aura of normalcy to him, stacking used plates as he glances up during her approach.

"Where is he?" she asks, feeling a trill of panic up her spine.

"Being taken to the restroom," he says, rather kindly. "His head's not all there right now, but he still functions with a little normalcy... You push him along, his feet do some walking. And if you put him in a bed and pull a blanket over him, the kid's out like a light." Has her boy been getting tucked into bed by a criminal? By multiple technical criminals? She supposes she has no room to judge right now; they all saved the world, after all... and they've been overseeing what was left of her nephew. The one that will be going into surgery later today, so he doesn't starve.

"He doesn't eat," she says, and she's not sure why she's trusting this sort of talk to Mr. Barnes. Maybe because it's clear that he's decided, for some rhyme or reason, to involve himself in Peter's life enough and be up-to-date on what he can and can't do. Or maybe she talks to him because he called him 'kid' and was eating his meal alongside the mute in a way that was neither babying nor pessimistic. "He's — He's lost some weight. They're..."

"I know," he nods, and his calmness is helping her a little. His metal arm gleams in the light streaming through the large window, as he moves to put the dishes in the sink. Peter's plate is empty like someone ate from it, too, but she's pretty positive that it was one of the other men leaving no meal wasted. "He'll be alright; nobody here's gonna let him suffer, that much I can promise you."

And it occurs to her suddenly, that that's true. Everyone here has clearly pitched in to keep an eye out for him, despite knowing so very little about Peter. When she came in and found him sitting here in this kitchen, he was in a clean, well-pressed T-shirt — an outfit carefully picked out that someone must've been patiently changed him into. And someone had combed his hair the way he likes it, slightly to the side and not quite so wildly curled like it had been in his pre-teens. Someone had made sure he bathed and shampooed that head of his. Someone must've brushed his teeth for him.

"Who's been caring for him?"

"Mostly Stark," Mr. Barnes says without missing a beat. "But we take care of our own, here."

"One of your own?"

"An Avenger. A protector — a soldier." He looks up at her. "He's done a lot for his fellow man. There's a lot to be proud of."

She feels that familiar feeling of tears in the corners of her eyes, but she doesn't dare let them go any further.

He's not a soldier. He's not someone who should be protecting others. He's a boy, just a kid in high school.

And yet — he'd made his choice years ago, and she knows that someday she'll have to come to terms with that.

"He's a... very good boy," she says after a moment, thinking about the photos of him on her walls. Of the videos she watches, to gather strength to face the day. Of the untouched presents in his room. "I couldn't be prouder."

The shuffling of feet turn her around, and she wanders out impatiently into the hallway to see Steve Rogers leading Peter back towards her, one hand gently squeezing the boy's shoulder and keeping him on the right track. She can hear the captain speaking in a patient way, "Alright, Queens, one foot in front of the other. Don't get all tripped up on yourself here." Peter looks down at the ground, his feet barely lifting; a pair of converse that squeak as he goes, expensive and new, probably from Stark. Steve looks up and his expression relaxes a little. "... She's all yours, kid."

May walks the distance and wraps her arms around Peter, burying her face in his shoulder while Steve stands back respectfully. Her kid smells brand new, clean and fresh — warm and alive — as the long curls at the nape of his neck tickles her cheek. He doesn't hug back when she runs her fingernails along his the back of his scalp, like he used to enjoy when he was stressed and wanted a reminder that someone was there for him, in his corner. He doesn't do anything but breathe, and that's enough for now. That's something they can work with.

Her voice is low and almost a whisper, but stays level. Firm. "I love you, Peter. I'll do whatever I have to, to help you come home. Okay? I promise you, baby... I'll do whatever I can. Just please, don't take too long, because I've already done my waiting."

She doesn't want to assume anything, but she could swear that he leaned into her grasp with his weight, as if she could carry him out of whatever he was lost in. His eyes flutter shut beside her cheek, a facsimile of relief that everything would be okay.

It would be okay.

Meditation sucks.

Peter has never really been very good at sitting still, alright? It's true that most school classes had always been a bit of an exception, a place that he could just sort of zone out and tap his feet or a pencil while he zeroed in on equations on the whiteboard... Before the spider bite, if he wasn't reading or keeping his hands busy with little robot kits or chemistry sets, he was practically running up the walls. Um. Less literally than now. That was back when he was all skinny limbs and a white boy 'fro, and his glasses were getting knocked off by bullies at least every other month. Backpacks were hard enough to replace; imagine breaking prescription lenses.

He makes it about forty minutes into the first meditation session before he flops backwards and groans.

"I can't see anything! It's all the same! I'm gonna go crazy."

Gamora doesn't open her eyes, just resumes the pose; he would have imagined Dr. Strange doing this kind of thing, not someone as fiery and tough and reactive as her, but in her own words: 'Sometimes, the Guardians make it a necessity.'

"These things take time, Peter. You need to learn how to voluntarily focus on something of your choice; in this case, you need to feel one of those moments where you're sure something from the outside is reaching in, and then you need to reach back out. Focus on your breathing, focus on the darkness, and pinpoint which of your senses you should be zeroing in on in the moment. Focusing on these are things have helped me through my life, when it seemed to be too much."

"... Pinpointing a sense? Have you met my senses?"

Peter closes his eyes, listens to Gamora's soft and sure voice as she runs him through old alien practices — things that certainly have names on Earth, if Peter were world-weary enough to know them. Adjustment. Tolerance. Time. Energy. As a being currently formed out of nothing but spiritual energy right now, the theory is that meditation should be even more successful than it would have been in the flesh. And Gamora's right about that. It takes time, but eventually, it happens — like a light switch from day to night, almost too literally. Closing his eyes and reliving the darkness, it brings in the distant, muffled sounds more clearly: he hears footfalls, can feel the pressure of something on his shoulder, notes the tinny sound of squeaky converse soles on a floor.

It takes hours of sitting and feeling, with his hands folded and his breathing steadied into something nearly non-existent, but it's doing something he can't comprehend. It's helping a numbed part of him gain back feeling — or, or recreates the feeling of being pulled, albeit so weakly that it does little to tether him to something tangible. But he hears them again, in the inky black world behind his eyelids. His people. The real world.

'Alright, Queens... one foot in front of the other.'

Captain...! Mr. Rogers...! Steve's hand is on his shoulder, ushering him. Peter is all but blind to what's happening where he meditates, unable to look through his own physical eyes, but he knows suddenly that someone is pulling him into a warm and strong embrace — arms...! Arms are around him, and he nearly twitches to hug someone back, someone who isn't in the soul realm with him and Gamora. He knows that hug. He's felt that hug so many times, he'd never be able to count them, not in a million years.

'I love you, Peter.'

Aunt May, he mouths, a pang in his chest.

'I'll do whatever I can.'

He feels it. He feels her holding him tight, running her hands through his hair. He wants to say something back. He wants to see through his own eyes and see her again and tell her everything'll be alright. The last thing he's ever wanted to do in his life is make her worry about him. He never told her about the bullies. He never told her about how he's watched her tally up money they do and don't have at the kitchen table, when she thinks he's in bed. He never told her how he slips money from odd jobs into her purse sometimes. He never told her about the bite, or the powers, or how dangerous life had been up until the day she found him in his suit.

He just wanted to protect her, like she protected him for so long.

Peter entangles his fingers in his shirt, over his chest, and feels like his whole body is glowing with love and adoration and longing.

He misses her so much; it feels like it's been forever since she held him like this — and when the feeling of her arms around him starts to fade, panic starts setting in.

"No, no, May — May, wait! Come back!" His voice cracks as his eyes fly open, Gamora's soul realm the only thing that greets him as his outstretched hand lingers in empty air. He can't feel that warmth anymore, but the memory of it leaves him hurting in ways he hasn't felt in a while: he's homesick, so homesick he thinks he's almost literally ill from it. He unfurls from where he'd been cross-legged and hiccups a sob; Gamora gently pulls him into her arms so he can at least cry with the comforting presence of someone around him. Sometimes he hates when he acts like a kid, but right now, he just wants to cling until the ache goes away.

"You felt her? You heard her?"

He nods against her collarbone, too distraught to speak. May's name is a chant in his head, and Mr. Stark's humored face is a pulse behind his eyes, and Ned's laugh is a flutter in his stomach, and Michelle's hand is a vice around his heart. He misses them so much, more than he's ever realized, maybe in his whole entire life. He doesn't know how long it's been — but it's felt like forever. He thinks maybe he'll feel whatever crippling pain he has to, if it means finding a way back to his body — and back to them.

I wanna go home.

Gamora's voice is marked by pride and approval. Stalwart. "Good. Rest for a little bit... then try again."

It takes a while for him to gather himself — but he'll try again.

However many times it takes.

May's voice rings in his ears, long after the fact: 'Just please, don't take too long, because I've already done my waiting.'