The more Peter worked on it, the more he found that he could 'slip through the cracks' — or something like that. He wasn't really sure how to explain it; at first it was all just a heavy darkness that encompassed him when he reached out to his living form. It had always kind of hurt, like a toothache all over his body, but Gamora was adamant that he had to push through it. And he knew he had to as well, if he wanted to find his way back to May and the others. He'd just wished he could see, instead of relying on the nearly nonexistent sensation of touch, or the sounds that ended up muffled in his ears. Wherever he was physically, he always heard people left and right, like maybe it was a community of some kind; he knew Mr. Stark was around, and he knew Aunt May was lingering close. Everyone else slowly became more and more familiar as he forced himself through the pain and strained to listen: Dr. Banner, Miss Potts, Happy...

He excitedly reported to Gamora what he realized: he was back home, at the Avengers facility. He knew the bed he was being led to every night, and when his head had hit the pillow, the texture told him it was his room. Not his room at home, but the one he spent time in on the weekends sometimes, when Mr. Stark had let him wander around the lab and contribute to his suit's features and design.

"I swear, I heard Thor. I heard freaking Thor," Peter told Gamora excitedly, his eyes lighting up. Gamora huffed and ignored his fanboy-ish charm to check him over, because every time he spent a lengthy meditation focusing on his body, he would come back pale and shaking, the effort clearly taking a strain on him spiritually. He felt like crap, yeah, but for every new discovery he pieced together, he felt more and more prepared to dive back into it. It eventually came to a point where he was only legally blind (which was a step forward, at least) — colors came back to him, swirling and impossible to suss out. He could at least tell which wiggly shapes were actually people, because they moved and gestured and approached him.

It was like being stuck in a crystal ball full of foggy shades of reality? Like, he expected someone to just magically appear like a prophecy in the middle of one.

And someone kinda did, during one of the trips back into his own head.

He had been sitting on what was definitely the lounge couch in the headquarters, struggling to make out the many, many voices bouncing off the walls around all around him, when he at last smelled the distinct scent of Taco Bell. It made his stomach twist hungrily, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to give up for the day and return to Gamora, empty-handed but feeling a little less — pardon his french — shitty. As he considered abandoning the unfair wafting of cheap burritos and tacos, though, someone spoke to him:

"You're not gonna eat anything? Hey, you should go hang out with the others."

He had been surprised at how clear the voice had been. It was definitely unfamiliar, that of a young girl. Trying his damnedest to control his body, his head only twitched and moved a few inches to the side, but he could see the brown curls of a pre-teen who was smiling and trying to be pleasant. He had no clue who she was, but it didn't matter — he tethered to her voice, forcing himself to endure and keep staying in the present. He tried to reply, he honestly did, but his jaw felt like it was sealed shut with wiring.

I'd love to eat something. Just stuff an enchirito in my face and see if I suck it down my windpipe or not?

"Don't talk much, huh? I understand that. My name's Cassie — Cassie Lang. My dad's a super cool Avenger. Ant-Man. You ever heard of him?"

Holy crap, yeah, yeah! I totally do know him; I kinda beat him up once. Really sorry about that.

"Anywho, it's fine if you don't want to say anything. I didn't talk for a long time, either. I mean, after everyone..." He could see her hands crystal clear, motioning dramatically as she carried on. "After the really bad day nobody likes to talk about, anyway. I lost my mom and my stepdad... and a lot of other people, too. Everyone did. I took it pretty bad, though... I don't think I said much for a whole year, I was so messed up..." Peter felt a pang in his heart. It had been horrible to die, but he didn't want to ever imagine being a survivor. He didn't want to think of going home and finding anyone he loved turned to dust — black marks on furniture, or trickles of powder in the air.

Floating there in the expanse, he could feel his sympathy pulse through him like veins for this kid. I'm really sorry, Cassie. That sounds awful. I wish I could've done something for you.

"I'm fine now, though. I got therapy. It's not as bad as they show you on TV shows, you know? Usually it never, ever works on TV. But it did for me, so that's pretty cool. Hey, are you thirsty? You keep swallowing like you're thirsty." She peered closer at him, close enough now that he could see her face as clearly as he could see Gamora's, back in their little world. Her eyes were wide and round and full of kindness.

And somehow, he could feel his face enough to hoarsely speak: "Thirsty."

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, chipping away at his own body, and it left him utterly exhausted... but if there's anything he had learned in his efforts, it had been to play through the pain. Cassie looked satisfied as her face disappeared from the clutches of clarity again, turning into squiggly colors and rounded shapes. "Oh, cool! Maybe I can get my dad or your mom to get you something. Can you have some tea? Tea's pretty good, and it's super easy to make. I could make it with my eyes closed."

"Yyyes," he replied, unable to move his head — unable to sound like a normal freaking person. "Gamora..."

What a pain.

A literal pain.

His body felt like it was on fire.

"Peter, you should stop," Gamora said firmly, on the other side. "You're pushing too hard. Peter." He couldn't see her, but the hand on his shoulder, he realized, was her trying to usher him back. The colorful world around him — and Cassie with it — began to dim further and further, as he drifted back deeper and deeper into the soul realm.

Cassie asked, "What'd you say? What's a Gamora?"

He forced himself to speak against a throat that wanted to close up. "Gamora would like it. The — the, the tea."

"Peter, what're you talking about?" Gamora asked.

Not Cassie. Cassie was gone; everything was dark again.

Gamora...?

"... Gamora... you'd like some tea, too..."

"You're speaking nonsense...!" A hand swatted him on the cheek at last and he startled back awake, sitting on the grassy knoll of his and Gamora's world. His face throbbed a little where she had given him a slap, and her shoulders sagged with relief as he touched the tender spot with a hand. She sighed, "That's enough for today."

She was right; his body felt like it had ran a marathon, muscles sore and too taut to move much. He laid back in the grass and tried to relax himself — he supposed it wasn't really physical pain, because his body back in reality didn't hurt. Maybe it was more a reflection of his soul being under duress. Maybe? He wished he knew how the hell all this worked. But most importantly...

"Gamora?"

"What is it."

"I think I actually talked to someone."

It begged repeating: time was impossible to track in this place. But he was pretty sure days had been slipping off the calendar since the first time he'd felt May hug him tightly in that hallway, what felt like forever ago. The whole thing felt like an 'against the clock' sensation in his bones, like if he didn't figure all this out fast enough he'd wake up and be an old man. Or something severe and dramatic. Gamora just rolled her eyes at that, but it was an entirely logical fear!

The natural thing to do was dive right back into his body when he woke up, in any attempt to tether himself to reality. It almost felt like being a ghost, possessing his senses temporarily to remember what it felt like to live.

Only it hurt a lot. But the pull was stronger. It was definitely stronger.

And when he heard Ned's voice break through the mists in his head one day, it was like Christmas. He felt his friend's warm hand on his, ushering him down a hallway of drab colors that felt too familiar; god, it was good to hear that voice again. It felt like it had been forever. It felt like he had lost him forever. The prickly stabbing along his arm was worth it, when he forced his hand to grip Ned's back. I'm here, Ned, he thought, I'm still in here. Don't think I'm quitting anytime soon.

The colors. The colors were coming to life. He realized with some awe that he was standing in their apartment: the Parker Residence, in all of its beat-up, colorful glory. The shapes were difficult to make out — like he was a newborn trying to piece together the world through near-sighted eyes — but he could tell his aunt's goofy novelty lamp from anywhere. He could see her filing cabinets, no doubt filled to the brim. He could smell her favorite little plug-in scent machine... thingy. And later, his stomach gurgled at the sweet, sweet odor of his favorite meal that was clearly baking in the oven. God, he wished he could use this stupid mouth and shovel food into it. That was on a very intensive list of things he wished he could do. He sat there, almost petulantly, unknown to the other two in the room. Unfair.

Meanwhile, Ned's voice was like its own radio station, drifting endlessly from hit to hit.

It was the longest he had been able to stay in reality.

As he faced Ned in the bathroom, watching him meticulously fix Peter's bangs, he felt a wave of warmth that almost overshadowed the aches and pangs of staying there too long. His friend was here. His aunt was here. They were both alive and sounded so kind and warm, the ones who inspired him to try and be just as kind and warm, too. He felt stronger — he felt so strong, he could do anything. He could move a whole rooftop, or throw a whole diesel truck, or whip a whole bridge like a rug (he'd never, of course, but he was totally strong enough to). He could — he could do anything —

He walked. He moved his body with that wave of good will and walked. The world around him was a Pollock painting, but he could remember the layout of their little humble home. He counted his heavy footfalls, every step a victory he had not yet known. By the time he got to his room, he was grinning like a madman; behind him, he could hear Ned and May waiting and staring at the back of his mussed head with anticipation.

But you know what?

He was tired as freaking heck.

It was instinctive, to crawl into bed and let the overwhelming weariness take him over.

Nap time, he thought, yup, yup, existing takes too much effort, time for oblivion. I walked a few feet, I deserve this. Do not disturb.

When he woke back up in the soul world, he thought he may have heard ridiculous laughter in the distance.

He got stronger.

He felt more.

He heard things easier.

You know how a baby gets mad crazy when it learns how to walk?

That was him. He had mastered the art of wandering aimlessly through the Avenger's facility, and though he was practically a prisoner in his own body, he could at least throw his weight around. Case in point: some brave soul took his favorite sitting spot in the kitchen. That just wouldn't do — Operation People Mover in progress. He talked to Gamora about it in length, unable to quell his newfound excitement over mobility in general. "Can you believe the nerve of some people, taking my favorite stool? That stool's practically my stoop. I'm not giving up my stoop for anybody. I deserve it, 'cus I'm a weird zombie who eats through a toothpaste tube in my gut."

"You're rambling again." Gamora said. But she looked pleased, anyway.

"Oh, yeah? I guess I'm just — I'm feeling alive again, for the first time in a bajillion weeks—"

He hesitated, smile fading. Gamora was sitting here, looking wistful about him blabbering on and on about all the new updates in his quest to go home... but there was nothing for her to return to, because she was dead. The thought had struck him so suddenly, it left a lump in his throat and a tongue too swollen with regret to move. When she noticed his sad expression, she rolled her eyes and flicked a clump of earth at him. "Don't start the sad eyes. I can't stand the dejected dog look."

"I just — It feels like I'm rubbing this all in. I shouldn't be so loud about it."

She looked at him sharply. "... What are you doing right now, Peter?"

"Um... talking with you?"

"No, no. In the real world. Tell me what's happening."

After a beat of hesitation, he focused on that very world — didn't even have to close his eyes to see and feel anymore, it became such a second nature. The only difference was the pin-cushion pain in his back and the throbbing ache in his bones, something he'd grown to ignore as he adapted. He smiled a little and breathed in deeply. "I'm coming back from a walk with Miss Potts and Pepperoni." (-and isn't that the cutest nickname for a Stark baby? That's freaking cute, Mr. Stark-) "Groot was trying to talk to Happy, which is a pretty funny thought. Everything kinda fades in and out a little, um... I think something about... video games?"

Gamora smiled. "Focus again. Where are you going?"

"To play games," he said, grinning. "I loved this game — Street Fighter was so cool back when I was little, because I never thought I'd get to be as tough as anyone in it. Groot really, really likes it, I think." And man, Gamora seemed so happy to hear about the Guardians — ...ah. His expression relaxed a little at the thought, and his hand gently pressed over his heart to fidget as he considered what to say next. "Umm. Rocket and Drax are there, too. I smell popcorn... Mr. Quill's letting me borrow his headphones again."

Gamora laid her head on the grass, and Peter joined her on his stomach. He talked about everything he could gleam, even if it went to static sometimes. He couldn't really tell her about what everyone was saying thanks to the old music bouncing around in his head, though. Gamora's eyes grew glossy regardless before she closed them, and not for the first time, he wanted to hug his friend. But he also knew that wasn't what she wanted, right then. She said, "Will you hum the songs to me?"

Peter blushed — his singing was pretty bad, and it felt weirdly vulnerable — but soon he was humming every song he could recognize.

In his own way, he thought maybe he was making Gamora feel alive again, too.

He didn't feel quite as guilty when he described Star Wars movie night in as much detail as he could, in the days that had followed.

He looked out a window, but there was only darkness beyond it.

He couldn't feel anything.

He couldn't even feel the hem of his shirt, bunched up in his fingers.

His eyes felt too full and too raw.

Some days were too much, too fast.

Tired, I'm so tired, I'm so, so tired, he thought. He was roaming, listless. It was all just shapes. It was all so blurry. It ached in his bones. I'm so tired, I feel trapped, I feel like I can't — I can't do this. I can't do this. Help me, Mr. Stark. I can't come back. I can't do this, I can't think, but I feel so much, too much. My skin hurts. Everything —

He walked.

Natasha pressed him to his bed. He couldn't remember where she'd come from. He didn't remember her footsteps seeking him out.

You don't understand, Miss Romanoff... I can't sleep. I can't eat, I can't think, I can' see — I can't close my eyes. I need help. I need out.

"Sleep," he heard Mantis say kindly beside the two of them. Then he felt her slightly cooled hands on his face before he melted away into the dark.

When he woke up in the fields, it was with Gamora's arm curled protectively over their huddled forms while she slept. He couldn't remember passing out. How long had he been trapped on the other side? Blinking lazily, he nuzzled himself closer to the warmth of Gamora's soul.

"I'm sorry I make you worry," he murmured, trying not to wake her.

She only tightened her grip around him.

"Can you hear me, Pete? Spider-Man?" Tony asked, a sliver of desperation in his voice.

Fireworks were bursting in the sky, and Peter could see each one of them if he focused hard enough. Not the crispness of their lights, but their hues and shades, which temporarily stained the state he loved like new paints. Peter sat temple to temple with his mentor — and if you had told him four years ago Tony Stark would be nestled under a blanket with him watching New Years fireworks, Peter would have thought you were absolutely insane in the membrane. If you told the eight-year-old boy wearing the Iron Man mask that he would someday fight alongside one of his heroes, he'd be stunned. If you told a mourning Peter Parker from freshman year that he would have another man in his life who would look out for him when he was at his most lost, he'd probably scream and throw something at you and wish he had taken that bullet meant for Ben.

But here he was. He had died, yeah. He'd fought against some of the most evil beings in the world, and he had experienced terrible pains. But he would not trade it away for anything — he would never trade away that bite on his hand, not if it meant losing all the things he'd seen and done as Spider-Man (the people he'd saved, the lives he looked into for a fleeting moment), and especially if it meant never knowing people like Happy or Pepper or Tony.

His mouth refused to work, which was the most frustrating thing most of the time.

He wished he could say something. Anything.

I can hear you, Mr. Stark. I'm still here.

Don't give up on me just yet.

Peter is telling Gamora the meaning behind the math joke on his shirt, when the stifling scent of smoke floods his nostrils, his throat.

He stands slowly, his voice trailing away, and she quickly joins him.

"What's wrong?"

"I — do you smell that?" He already knows she probably can't — there's a distant whirring, and then a pop-pop-pop that he realizes are tiny, distant explosions. Detaching himself from the soul world and anchoring into himself where he'd been sitting in bed, he walks out of his room back on Earth, his bare feet pattering along smooth metallic flooring. May isn't here tonight; she's sleeping soundly at the apartment because she's got a meeting she can't miss — she's unaware and safe. Peter is happy to know that much, because none of this sounds or looks good to his blurry, spattered vision.

FRIDAY sounds off alarms, but he can't make out what she's saying, strain as he might.

However, he can definitely hear the blurry figure that rushes toward him, basked in her own red light and screaming for him to move — Wanda?

The explosion rocks the floor under his feet, this time. Wanda flies from his sight, or maybe he flies from hers, or maybe she's the one who moved him — but he hits the surviving floor and can't get himself back up, not with what little control he has over his body. Debris stinks in his nose. He can't even think over the hiss of broken pipes from across the facility. Voices are too distant, too muddled. What's happening? He wants to call out to someone, ask, but his mouth won't work; it never works when he wants it to, not even to scream out for help. His already delicate and dialed-up powers are so overwhelmed, he's kicked back near instantly to Gamora and their orange oasis, left gasping in a cold sweat in her hands. His spider senses are screaming so loudly that he almost wants to cry.

Instead he grips Gamora's shoulders and looks at her in wide-eyed panic.

"Something's wrong—" he croaks. "Something's attacking us."

He looks around wildly at the place he'd called home with Gamora and is stunned by the ash floating down through the tinted sky. The smell of smoke is stronger now, all-consuming and fogging up the sun above them. Something is pressing into his back — it feels like a foot, like a heavy foot that is pinning him. Stepping on the spider. It's too big to be a human foot. His enhanced ribs are creaking beneath it, but he can't go back, he can't handle so much at once—

"What's attacking?! Who's attacking?! Peter, are the Guardians still there? Who's looking after you?!"

He can't help but worry about the woman who had flown from his sight, moments before he lost control of his body. God, is Wanda okay? Did he fall, or did she?

"I don't know. I don't know, I can't see—" A white hot pain, too real to be phantom. He screams out hoarsely and crumples. Something'sin his shoulder. Something's burrowing through his shoulder, like a snake burrowing through dirt. He feels it in full and can't stop gasping for air that doesn't seem to return to his lungs. Gamora clings to him, tries to keep him upright, and is mortified by the blossoming rose-red stain on his T-shirt.

"My shoulder," he coughs. "My shoulder, it hurts. Oh, shit, Gamora, it hurts— what's happening?"

I don't know what's going on —

The boot-shaped pressure on his back, it feels like it's gonna crush him.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...!

Mr. Stark, somebody, help me; I'm stuck, I'm stuck and I can't move — I can't move—