Tony usually finds himself caught up in a particular pattern, when things are absolutely godawful: try to solve it, fail at solving it (spectacularly), drink and brood, panic a lot, and then somehow magically see some light at the end of a tunnel. And when that moment arises, he works and works and works — and he smiles as he does it, because he finally has something his hands can do for him other than shake as his anxiety builds. Peter's re-emergence, however short, was that light at the end of the tunnel, but it left him asking questions: how do I fix this now? What is the next step? What can I do, to solve the equation that is Peter Parker? The answer isn't as enjoyable as his other 'Aha!' moments, but it's still something nonetheless.

Everyone is huddled around the couches in keen interest at their mute cargo, and even Strange has made a short return to learn of what little progress had been made with his own ears. Peter had been an unfortunate casualty of heroism in these halls, more like a ghost or a reminder. They worked with him like he'd been a shot in the dark, because he really was one; nobody knew whether or not they were housing a dead kid reanimated. Wanda had been adamant about it before, but now she watches from a small distance with uncertainty in her stare. They're clustered like Peter would humor them and appear before their very eyes — almost like children waiting for Santa to deliver presents and eat up all the cookies, and it's ridiculous and not realistic at all, but none of them can peel their attention away tonight.

They've been so elbow-deep in hero work outside of the facility, they can give up some time for this.

"There's still no actual activity going in his head," Bruce says from where he's standing almost timidly, tapping a pen into his hand.

"Something's clearly tethering him to his body, though," Strange says. The man had no memory of the soul world, from what he'd told Tony — something that no doubt frustrated him, 'Master of the Mystic Arts', or whatever dumb schtick he kept correcting. Tony was more than happy to bust the guy's balls every chance he got and he'd do it again now, but his stomach is too busy being in knots over Peter's potential return.

Clint rubs a hand over his mouth. "If Cassie had no way of knowing about Gamora, then—"

"Then he's out there, trying to come back," Nat concludes, fingers laced where they hang over the backrest of the couch.

"Mr. Quill was right," May says, mumbling almost to herself now, "We keep trying to bring him back."

"Alright, that's easy enough," Rhodes says. "We just gotta keep talking at him, maybe do things the kid's familiar with."

Tony is a little awed by the cooperation going on in the room. But he supposes one child in need is a hell of a lot easier to come together about than Sokovia Accords. His hands still feel utterly useless — but he's relieved, like maybe they'll really get to see Peter, whole and mended, like he is in so many of Tony's guilt-riddled dreams (just before they become nightmares). It's funny because in the long run, the people in this room all will be scattered in the wind for the weeks, months, years to follow, cleaning up corruption and damage wrought by Thanos and his terrible deeds... but they can all come back here, and they can all assemble as a unit for at least one socially awkward spider kid that most of them have never even gotten to formally meet. If they can't save one teenager, what good are they? What good is he? All the victories in the world aren't enough, not until there's recognition in Peter's eyes when he looks back at Tony.

Then sleep will come so much easier. The memories he has with the kid won't be tarnished by how badly he'd failed him.

"Alright, I'll put it on the whiteboard. Operation Itsy Bitsy Spider, underway."

They all agree to help. Tony doesn't ask why they all decide to so quickly.

He doesn't need to know, as long as it means he's got more hands across the board, beside his own.

When he palms the back of Peter's neck with a firm, supportive grip, he's happy to find his fingers aren't shaking.

"We gotcha', kid."

("You got bit by a spider? Can it bite me? Well, it probably would've hurt, right? Whatever. Even if it did hurt, I'd let it bite me. Maybe. How much did it hurt?"

"The spider's dead, Ned.")

When Ned met Peter, it was during a low point in both of their school careers: seventh grade, when he was on the ground with a black eye, and Peter trying vainly to put himself between Ned and one of many school bullies (who probably had a helluva' lot to work through mentally). It ended with the kid darting off at the harsh sound of a pissed-off teacher, and then Ned peeled one confused eye open to Peter Parker sniffing blood back up his nose and trying not to cry. It was a funny thing to him, 'cus he could hold his own way better than this bony, puny kid — in fact, he was about to get back up and start throwing the weight people made fun of around, before Peter's pencil-thin shadow eclipsed him.

"You defend other people, but you don't ever stick up for yourself," Ned told him as they walked down the hallway, "What's up with that?"

"I don't know," was his quiet answer.

The bottom line was that Peter Parker thought very little of himself. He was practically a turtle, ducking into his collar almost comedically at the first sign of social discomfort. He wore these big-ass glasses and he didn't know the meaning of the words 'hair gel' just yet, so his hair was fast approaching little-orphan-Annie stages. And his choice in style has not once changed in all the time Ned's known him: cheap sweaters, button-ups, and the goofiest nerd shirts you could dream up. He wasn't a caricature of a nerd like you'd see in old movies, with the pocket protectors and slicked hair and pants up to the navel, but he was a perfect Exhibit A of one in real life. And hey — so was Ned.

They were both smart and loved stuff to a probably too-passionate degree, so they hit it off so quickly.

People liked to point out what a 'fat-ass' he was, but it didn't bother him the way it rightfully could've. It was just that he was comfortable with himself and had confidence in what his brain could do, even if he wasn't the beef-cake sports star his older brother had surfed his way into, so he did Peter a solid and let him leech some of that confidence off of him. Peter didn't take much, but he at least stopped hiding in corners to do his homework, and y'know, once he got him to stop being so anxious about things — so isolated in his own little bubble — Peter was flippin' hilarious.

He was witty and he had a brain as big as his heart, which was no easy feat. He snorted jokes that nobody else would get but Ned, and they would stay up way, way too late playing video-games at Ned's place. He knew Ben and May didn't make much, so Peter's room was pretty sparse compared to his, and that was fine. He liked being the friend who could give Peter whatever. He'd buy the big LEGO sets, he'd get the new fighting video-game, he'd take Peter out to the arcade so they could blow all their money on House of the Dead 4. He loved Peter. He loves Peter. He missed Peter, he misses Peter. College is fine and dandy and all, but he spent too much of it looking out his window and wishing his best friend had been there by his side. Especially through the boring classes.

Peter had escaped out of their school bus, and Ned never got to say goodbye.

He stared at an alien spaceship while Peter swung away to defend them from it, and he never got to thank him.

Not for being Spider-Man and protecting them, but for being Peter Parkerand protecting him.

("... Do you lay eggs?"

"What? No-ho-hooo."

"Can you spit venom?"

"No."

"Can you summon an army of spiders?"

"... No, Ned.")

Now he's standing outside of May's apartment, watching with a hammering heart as Peter's led down the familiar hallways; when she told him he'd be coming home in an attempt to jog him free of his mental prison, Ned was more than happy to drive a couple of hours at the drop of a pen (probably driving too fast, Peter'd be so mad at him for being an idiot like that). It wasn't gonna be easy, it was never gonna be easy, because Peter's all sorts of messed up — but Ned would always be there for him, alright? He would always be that guy in the chair, waiting for his friend's call. And there he is alongside May, not himself but undoubtedly alive. It takes approximately five seconds for him to burst into tears and cross the distance that had been so wide and vast weeks before.

May steps aside and gives them space, and Ned stands there swaying Peter side to side in his big arms, encompassing him and getting his shirt all wet. It's a dam that he'd been meticulously building, chipping only at things Peter should have been at — things like high school graduation, or his first boyfriend, or the birth of his little niece, or his eighteenth birthday, when he was officially a grown-ass adult (but not really, because being an adult is boring, right, Peter?). He hates how he cries — he hates how high his voice is when he sobs, and he hates how ugly and pinched his face gets. But for Peter, he'll cry. Oh, he'll cry, because he's walked through two years of a life marred by a friend-shaped hole — a series of dotted lines where someone snipped Peter right out of his world.

"I missed you so much, I missed you so much," he manages, thickly. Peter doesn't move, barely even seems to breathe in his arms, but it's more than anything they've gotten in so long. The halls of the apartment feel desolate, like its just them in the silence, just his buddy and him, his number one accomplice, his reason for bold-faced lying to teachers and family and friends alike. "I love you man, I'm so glad you're here — we're gonna make this better, I swear, Peter. I'm gonna help you. I can't believe you're really here. My freaking hero."

(""You were here?"

"Yeah."

"You could've died.")

He takes Peter's hand firmly and walks him to the apartment door.

"I haven't cried this hard since my chihuahua Simpson had to be put down. Uncool, dude."

The hand around his twitches. He doesn't notice.

May is dabbing at her eye with a kleenex out of a box on her kitchen counter when he leads him back inside; a third of his emotions are dull pangs of worry and loss as Peter stands like a withered scarecrow in the middle of the apartment. He will come back, he tells himself. He's Spider-Man, he always comes back. And anyway, Ned can talk so much that the air'll have no time to settle into despair. "MJ's gonna freak when she gets back from visiting her grand-folks. You know, a heck of a lot's happened — but lucky you, most of our favorite franchises were put on hold thanks to the whole — y'know, half the casts being wiped out thing. Which is super fucked up, right? Pardon my language, May, sorry. Peter is 100% innocent and an angel and would never cuss."

May laughs. "I somehow have my doubts."

Ned talks for the two of them. Enough for fifty Peters. He sits at the table as May prepares Peter's favorite chicken meal she makes sometimes, the one with the spice and lemon and all that. Peter can't eat it, but she says Sam Wilson (the Falcon? holy crap, the Falcon) says it helps with what's going on, maybe. Ned can eat for both of them, especially because he's starving, honestly; he hasn't eaten since May called him and told him Peter would be coming home. That waaaas... eight hours ago? His stomach gurgles angrily at him as he nudges Peter where he sits beside him. "Oh! And I got a boyfriend. Yep, I'm officially batting for both sides. That's probably really weird to hear like this, right? But that's totally not my fault that you missed my coming out party. I mean, it wasn't really a party, more like me freaking out at telling my parents. And neither of them seemed to even remotely care or anything! What the hell was up with that, huh? I thought it'd be like a dramatic ABC television show, but they just kept watching Jeopardy."

Peter was his first crush.

Kinda funny, that.

("Hey, can I be your guy in the chair?"

"What?"

"Yeah. You know how there's a guy with a headset, telling the other guy where to go? If you're in a burning building, I could tell you where to go. There'd be screens around me, and I could swivel around — I could be your guy in the chair!")

Ned helps Peter go pee and washes his hands in the sink for him, and adjusts his bangs a little for him the way he remembers him liking it. Then they start back to the nice smell of something nice in the oven, and Ned's voice has become the buzz of the room, thrumming confidently and filling the space around them as it almost always does, even before Peter had vanished. It almost feels natural again, but he would give all of his tuition to hear his friend's voice again (shushing him and telling him to keep it down, he was always so noisy, Peter was always so quiet, when when he was excited).

They converge again in the kitchen and Ned steps forward to smell the air in earnest anticipation. "Man, May, you're killing me over here. That smells so flipping good."

"It's one of the only things I think I never burn," she says, adjusting the bun on her head. "No Thai tonight, I think we... actually... n..."

Ned worries for a second that May's having a stroke or something with the weird trailing and the sudden paleness that bleaches across her face — but then he hears the creak of the floorboards behind him and turns to see Peter's back as he wanders away. Into his room. On his own. His breath catches in his throat and for once he's struck mute by the scene; neither of them dare say anything in case the spell is broken, but May drops her oven mitt and follows after the roaming body. Ned is quick on her heels, eyes wide and hopeful.

Peter, Peter, Peter, he chants in his head.

In the small bedroom they'd spent so many nights hanging out in, the teenager stands with his hands at his sides, not particularly looking at anything — not even the stack of dusty and untouched Christmas and birthday presents strewn on his desk (some are from Ned, of course, of course some would be). It's just him standing there, but it's big, because he moved. He walked into his own room without anyone touching him. It has to mean something, just like him talking to that little girl meant something.

After a few beats of heart-stopping silence, May carefully calls out to him.

"Peter?"

Peter doesn't seem to hear her. Instead he slowly pulls back the blankets on his bunk bed and crawls under them, nestling into the pillow and — and closing his eyes. They both stand there in awe for a long moment, watching Peter's breathing even out, their wet and wide-eyed stares turning to meet each other's. Ned isn't sure whether he should laugh or not, but he thinks Peter would love it if he laughed — so he does, hoarsely, his heart feeling fluttery and full of hope. "Did he just dip on us for a nap?"

"He just ditched us for his bed," she says, and laughs, too.

The two of them probably look and sound like crazy people, but they both laugh so hard, he very nearly pisses himself.

("It looked so insane. That whole — like, it was just crazy. He — He was just, like… bzzzht! And you were like… aaah! And then I just hit him with the… pssht! It was so — Oh, my God."

"I mean, you saved me.")