Meetmeintheafterglow

by Lazydaily

Stark back alive after NWH. For TTS in the app

af·ter·glow / ˈaf-tər-ˌglō

noun

definition: a glow remaining where a light has disappeared

He wouldn't say he does well after that final battle and Doctor Strange's Stephen's spell, but he gets by.

Yeah. Yeah, that's it. He gets by.

He gets an apartment and figures out how to get a GED. Through trial and error, he figures out how to do life by himself. He learns basic recipes that don't pose any risk of him accidentally burning down his apartment. He learns how to make a budget off of the very few resources that he has. He learns tricks to stretch food so it lasts longer, even for his metabolism. He learns (and honestly he should have known this, but apparently he's an idiot) not to mix white t-shirts with any red article of clothing. He learns how to live utterly alone and not shrivel up and die from lack of human connection.

It's the last lesson that's the hardest to learn.

(Because you can learn tips and tricks to survive, but it's community that makes you thrive.)

Needless to say, he doesn't thrive. But he gets by.

He continues his role as Spider-Man, making a new suit inspired by Spidey-2 and Spidey-3's suits, in vibrant shades of red and blue. He does what he is meant to do. He protects people. He saves their lives.

He even gets a real paying job. It's an ironic one, that's for sure, and not one he particularly enjoys or agrees with, but it's a job and he'll take it because New York rent is expensive , even for an apartment where there is a constant smell of mold in the air and the only visitors he gets are cockroaches, and if the only job he can get to pay the rent is one where he takes pictures of himself as Spider-Man and sells them to a man like J. Jonah Jameson, then by golly, he'll take it.

It's not great, but it's functional, and he gets by.

Oh, who is he fooling? Not himself certainly, and he doesn't have anyone else in his life to fool.

He's not getting by. Not really.

Life sucks .

He remembers a book May had read to him as a kid: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day . He feels like that could be the title of a biography about his life right now. Only it hasn't been just one bad day. It's been two bad months. Two terrible, horrible, no good, very bad months. Really a whole lifetime of bad moments with a few good ones sprinkled in. Right now though, this is the epicenter of the awfulness.

His girlfriend doesn't remember him; his best friend doesn't remember him; Happy doesn't remember him; his parents are dead; his uncle is dead; his aunt is dead; his pseudo-father/boss/saver of the universe is dead; he has no money, no identity, no one who loves him. He is completely and utterly alone.

But at least he has a purpose. At least he can do something in his life that is worthwhile.

He can confidently say that if he didn't have Spider-Man, he would not be alive.

He's not proud of it and he does his best not to think about it, but there had been a moment, after the coffee shop with MJ and Ned, when he had gone back to his rat's nest of an apartment, coffee going cold in his hands, and he had very honestly considered killing himself. It would have been easy. He was hard to kill, hard to hurt, but he wasn't invincible. A knife in the gut, a bottle of pills, even a fall from very far up—he can be killed.

It wasn't that he wanted to die necessarily. He wanted very much to be alive, he wanted to laugh until his stomach hurt and to see new things and meet new people and eat new foods and fall more and more in love with someone and feed the goats in petting zoos and go to the Grand Canyon and learn to paint and do all the things that came with life.

But he didn't want to be alone when he did those things. He wanted to have MJ and Ned and Happy by his side, laughing at him, laughing with him, while he did those things.

He wanted to exist, he really did.

But could you really exist if literally no one else knew you were alive? Could you exist if only you were aware that you existed in the first place? It was a disheartening concept.

So, no it wasn't because he wanted to die, but because he didn't want to feel the stinging pain of being alone anymore, the pain that crawled up him like a rash and consumed him, and the easiest way to not feel that pain anymore… was to die.

But as he had sat in his apartment, pondering the idea with a weird sort of detachment from his actual self, the thought had come to him like an oasis in a desert that he was more than just Peter Parker. He was Spider-Man.

If Peter Parker died, then so would Spider-Man. And if Spider-Man died…

Who would look out for the little guy? Who would help defend those who couldn't defend themselves? Who would feed all the stray dogs in the alleys who didn't have anyone else who loved them?

He had a great power, as May had said, and therefore he had a responsibility.

To die would be to take the easy way out. To die would be selfish. To die would be cowardish because he had a service to the people of his city, he had a responsibility to those who had loved him, and he wanted to go back on it, to betray that responsibility, to stop saving people, why? Because he was sad ?

He felt alone, and okay, he was alone, and he had a valid reason to be sad. But he still had a purpose. He still had a responsibility. People still depended on him.

So he couldn't die. He wouldn't.

Spider-Man didn't give up when things got tough. Neither did Peter Parker.

That night, Spider-Man, who had saved so many other people's lives, saves his own.

He cries himself to sleep that night, but he wakes up alive the next morning, and that is the important thing. Sometimes being alive just has to be enough.

For a very long time, being alive is just enough. For a long time, too long in his opinion, he merely exists.

And then, one evening while he's out on patrol, his life changes.

It's not very late into his patrol when he swings by a cheap café he's taken a liking to lately to grab some food. It's only been about three weeks since Christmas and people are still gung ho about robbing pedestrians who are decked out in all their new Christmas attire. He's been out for only thirty minutes, and he's already stopped three armed robberies (none of the robbers had been very skilled, they were obviously new to this), five pickpockets (he'd caught three of them on the same road in under five minutes. Man, he loves New York, but it has problems), and one shoplifter who had tried to steal a watermelon by hiding it under his shirt (that one had nothing to do with Christmas; that one was just weird). Needless to say, he could tell it was going to be a busy night, and he needed fuel, and this place made excellent bagel sandwiches.

The little bell over the door rings when he opens it, and he grins under his mask when his favorite night-shift worker, a skinny teenager with the biggest ears Peter has ever seen named Dennis, perks up from his spot behind the counter.

"Hey, what's up, Spider-Man!"

"Ahh, just a bit of light burglary," he jokes, sounding lighter than he actually feels as he always does when he enters this place. The café is empty except for the workers, and his voice echoes around the room. "Did I make it before closing?"

"You know we're always open for you, Spider-Man." Dennis shoots him finger guns. "But we don't close for twenty more minutes, so you're fine, man. The regular?" he asks as Peter makes his way up to the counter.

"Lightly toasted?"

Dennis nods in assent. "Lightly toasted," he confirms. Peter watches as the teenager pops a bagel in the toaster and then starts readying the cheese.

"How much do I owe you?"

Dennis waves him off. "It's on the house, man."

Peter groans lightheartedly, as he has the last fifty times he's come to the café. Dennis is always giving him some discount, making up things like 50% off if you're wearing spandex day; buy one, get one free if you're dressed like a spider day; stuff like that. "Come on, Dennis, you can't keep refusing my money."

Dennis waggles a finger at him. "Nah, man, you listen to me. You're out there each night, making the streets safe for my granny and my ma, I'mma give you a free sandwich if I want to give you a free sandwich. Now shut up and wait for my masterpiece."

"You're the best, Dennis," he says, and it's true for more than one reason. Not only does Dennis truly make the best bagel sandwiches he's ever had, but this café is the only place where he feels like his old self, the only place where he jokes anymore. Everywhere else, he's more serious. More mature. More adultish. Here, he can just be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Here the pain escapes him for just a few moments. It's like the new Delmar's. And it's Dennis who's opened him up just a little bit. Who's offered him human company and companionship for just a moment each day. It's not like it was with MJ or with Ned—he doubts anything will ever measure up to those two—but it's something, and he'll take every little bit he's offered.

Dennis hums some song under his breath as he readies the food for the bagel, and Peter turns his attention from the counter to the muted TV in the corner of the café.

He almost has a heart attack when he sees who's on the screen.

Because talking to a reporter from some local news station is Tony freaking Stark. In the flesh. Very, very alive.

The man is sitting on a bench somewhere in a park or something (all Peter can see in the background are trees), wearing a fine pressed suit and clearly having the time of his life being interviewed. His iconic sunglasses are propped up on his nose, shining in the sun.

For a second Peter allows a tiny, desperate hope to plant itself in his chest, but as quickly as it begins, he squashes it. It's probably just an old interview they're playing in light of recent controversies about Stark Industries. It's nothing. Dead people don't come back to life.

Except… except just a few months ago, there had been Norman Osborn and Otto Octavius and all the other guys. They had definitely been dead before, and they had definitely come back to life. But those had been people from other universes, and it had been because of Strange's spell.

Except this didn't look like an old interview, it looked like Tony right before he'd died. He had the same creases he'd gained during the Blip on his face.

But he could have given an interview during the Blip right before he'd died where he'd looked like that.

He goes back and forth like this in his head for a full minute, coming up with a desperate hope and then quickly telling himself why it can't be true.

If you expect disappointment, then you can never really be disappointed.

There's no way. There's absolutely no way. Dead men don't come alive.

He doesn't break his gaze away from the TV when Dennis walks back to the counter with the bagel sandwich. "Got your sandwich, man. What are you staring at?" In his peripheral vision he sees Dennis's eyes go wide. "Hot dang! Is that—"

Peter finishes his sentence. "Iron Man." His voice is a whisper, barely audible, but there.

It can't be.

But it is because as Dennis fishes around for the remote to take the TV off mute, the banner on the bottom of the screen changes to say "Iron Man Alive! Tony Stark Makes Miraculous Return from the Dead!"

He feels like his heart is going to pound out of his chest as Dennis finally grabs the remote from under the counter and hastily points it towards the screen, spamming the volume button.

On screen, Tony is talking, and it sounds so much like him that Peter can feel tears welling up in his eyes. This has to be a trick, there's no way Tony can actually be back. But whoever this intruder is, he looks and acts so much like the actual man that Peter's heart aches. Just another reminder of what he has lost.

"You know I've actually been back for like two months. Actually a little longer, so I think I've done a great job hiding from the news. No offense." He raises a hand in a conciliatory gesture towards the interviewer woman, but she seems simply delighted to have been insulted by the one Tony Stark/Iron Man judging from the beaming smile on her face.

"How have you managed to stay away from the media for so long?" the woman asks. She has a heavy New York accent.

"Well, Sandra," Tony replies, voice just dripping with sarcasm, and now Peter is definitely crying underneath the suit which is going to be a mess to clean up, but he doesn't care. The two other people working at the café have wandered out from their various hiding places to stare at the TV with him and Dennis, "I did something quite simple. I stayed in my house and didn't spend my first five minutes back on this beautiful green earth broadcasting my presence on Twitter."

Either Sandra is dense enough to not recognize that she's being made fun of or she is enough of an Iron Man fan to not care. She continues with her questioning.

"So, can you tell us anything more about this spell that brought you back? Who cast it? And why?"

Peter starts. A spell? No freaking way.

Tony chuckles, and to anyone else, it would seem like a normal laugh, but Peter knows Tony well enough that he can distinguish between the man's laughs. This is a nervous, covering-something-up laugh. Wait, when did he start believing that this is actually Tony? This is a joke. It has to be.

But it's a very well pulled-off joke because this Tony looks and acts and speaks just like the one he knew. It's scarily accurate.

"I was joking about the spell," possibly-fake-Tony continues. "I don't actually know how I'm back, just that I am." The man continues, but Peter tunes him out. He can tell when Tony is lying, and this is one of those moments.

What if it actually is him? What if he somehow got brought back? He's lying about the spell, so what if that whole messed up spell did actually bring him back somehow?

He thinks about it for a minute.

The spell had obviously no qualms about bringing back people from the dead. It had brought back Goblin and Doc Ock, so there was no reason to suggest it couldn't bring back other people from the dead. They just had to have known Peter Parker as Spider-Man. And Tony had definitely known Peter-Parker as Spider-Man. So it made sense that he could have been brought back, and then when Strange reversed the spell, the people who were dead didn't die again, they just went back to their own universe, and since Tony was from this universe, he didn't have to go anywhere, so he would still be alive, and he would be here in this universe, and…

Oh gosh—it all made sense. Was this possible? Was this really possible?

The tears, which at this point had just been a trickle, ramp up to a steady stream, and then he can barely breathe underneath his mask because he's crying so hard.

But it's worth it.

It's all worth it.

Tony's back.

He's back.

He's back!

And then, because of course he can't be happy about anything, a voice whispers in the back of his head.

He won't remember you.

All the excitement rushes out of him like a pricked balloon; he can almost feel himself deflate. Tony's back, but his memory of Peter is gone.

It's like he's losing him all over again.

"You okay, dude?" Dennis asks, and he realizes he's shaking and gasping for breath from his side of the counter.

"I got to go," he rasps, turning and running for the door, suddenly filled with the need to get out .

He hears Dennis calling after him, reminding him about his sandwich, but he doesn't care. This is more important.

He swings back to his apartment in record time which is probably dangerous with the way tears are blurring his vision, but he doesn't really care, and he makes it back without breaking anything important.

He manages to close his window behind him and rip his mask off before he's on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up to his stomach, hyperventilating.

He's cried multiple times in the past months, but this is the first time he feels like he can't breath, like he's dying. He's gasping for breaths he isn't getting, and the noises he's making are honestly pitiful, a mixture of crying and choking sounds as he tries to sob and breath at the same time. This is the hardest he's ever cried in his life.

Because Tony is alive. Tony is alive and breathing and spitting out witty retorts, and he doesn't remember Peter, but it doesn't matter because Tony is alive .

He's cried before in the past couple months, but now he weeps.

The tears aren't pretty. They're not like in the movies where the hero gets one solemn tear rolling stoically down his cheek. These are ugly and messy and noisy and nothing like the heroes in movies.

(Maybe that's because he's not a hero. Maybe that's because he kills everything he touches, everyone he loves, and he doesn't deserve the pomp and recognition that heroes get.)

His back hurts from where he's leaning against the wall, his legs are cramping from the way they're pulled up to his chest, and the salt from his tears stings his neck where a cat he'd rescued the other day had scratched him. He feels like a mess.

But the truth is, he's been a mess for a while, and this is just the release of it all, the final public display.

He feels like he could cry for hours, and he might have if it hadn't been for the sound of his phone ringing.

He wipes the tears from his face and his breath hitches as he reaches for his phone which is lying on his bed, buzzing against his blanket.

The caller ID reads "J. Jonah Jameson," and he groans. Part of him wants to throw the phone back to its place on the bed, but he really can't afford to lose this job, and if this is an offer for a bonus, he does need the money.

So, to his everlasting annoyance, he answers the call.

The man on the other side doesn't even wait for Peter to say anything (which he wasn't going to anyway, but still he would have appreciated not having his ear blasted with orders the moment he accepts the call).

"Parker! I want pictures of Tony Stark on my desk Tuesday afternoon at the latest! Got it?"

He clears his throat, trying his best not to sound like he was having the biggest breakdown of his life five minutes ago. "How do you want me to get pictures? I don't even know where he is right now." It's not technically a lie, he doesn't know where Tony is, but it's not like he wasn't going to try and find out after he finished crying.

As he expected, J-Cubed (as he's taken to calling the man, it's much easier than calling him by his full name and at least the nickname doesn't fill Peter with instant irritation and rage) couldn't care less about his excuse. "You get me pictures of Spider-Man, don't you? You can find Stark. Just make sure you take good photos, and get them to me ASAP! I want to be the first one to release official photos of Stark, do you hear me?" The man sounds like a barking dog, and not for the first time Peter wants to chuck something at his face. Tony is not something to be gawked at. No human is, but especially not Tony who has done so much good and deserves to live in peace with his family now without the media butting into his face.

He mentally counts the days. Tonight is Sunday. This gives him about a day and a half to find Tony, take pictures, and get them back to J-Cubed. He would be screwed if he didn't use to know Tony and therefore know how to find the man, but he has an advantage, so…

"I'm on it, boss." Boss . The title grinds his gears, but there's nothing he can do about it. J-Cubed can probably hear the tiredness and passive-aggressiveness in his voice, but the man doesn't care.

"Don't let me down, Parker!" he says, by way of thank you, and then there is a click, and the call drops.

Peter groans, leaning his head back against the wall with a thunk. "Great." He tosses the phone back onto the bed. His first time seeing Tony in over a year, and the man won't even recognize him. In fact, he'll probably be annoyed, thinking that Peter is just another eager journalist, in it for the fame and glory when really all Peter is going to want to do when he sees the man again is give him a big hug and cry into his shoulder. But he wouldn't be able to do that of course, so creepy photographer it was then.

He was getting ahead of himself though. He had to find the man first before he could take pictures of him.

Where would Tony go? Where would he be?

"Well, Sandra, I did something quite simple. I stayed in my house and didn't spend my first five minutes back on this beautiful green earth broadcasting my presence on Twitter."

"I stayed in my house."

"My house."

The Lake House.

Of course.

Well, that wasn't too bad. The Lake House was only a few hours upstate from New York City. He could make it there and back with time to spare. He'll probably miss Spider-Manning tomorrow night, but it'll be worth it.

He makes a mental list in his head of the things he needs for tomorrow.

A car for starters. He doesn't own one, and he doesn't fancy paying for an Uber all the way out to the Lake Cabin (plus that would reveal where Tony lives and that would just be a whole other mess), but he has a favor he can call in so hopefully that's settled. He'll need his camera too, a damaged Canon he'd fished out of the garbage and fixed with a good amount of luck, helped along with random parts he'd also found in the trash. His phone takes good photos too in a pinch, but there's something about an old fashioned camera that he just likes better. Also on the list is food. He can probably scrounge together something from the fridge. If not, the nearest 7-11 has him covered.

Transportation, camera, food. All three bases covered. Now all he needs is courage, a good amount of luck, and the best acting skills he can pull off so he doesn't break down in tears when he sees Tony again.

It should be easy. Right?

Right.

(It's not going to be easy. It's going to hurt like hell, seeing Tony again, but this time as a stranger, like when Tony had first appeared in his apartment, back when he was still a loser with Ned and May was alive and he didn't even know MJ existed. But pretending it will be easy is easier than actually thinking about that, so he pretends. He's good at pretending. It's all he's been doing the past few years of his life.

Pretending he's not Spider-Man. Pretending he doesn't care what others think about him. Pretending he isn't minutes away from a nervous breakdown. Pretending he's alright. Pretending he's not dying inside. Pretending he's a hero.

He's good at pretending.

He wishes he wasn't.)

He pushes the thoughts away. You can't cry if you have nothing to cry about, right?

Ahh, using humor to deflect. This is bad.

But these are problems for a different day, he decides, and so he strips out of the Spider-Man suit, peeling off the material, corporeal reminder of who he is (Spider-Man exists on the inside too of course, he couldn't exist just on the outside, but the outside is a lot easier to cover up and not think about than the inside is. The suit is a visual reminder that's easily hidden. His body's internal capabilities are not).

He changes into sweatpants and his I Survived My Trip To NYC shirt (he's worn this shirt so often the graphic is starting to fade; this is his Tony shirt) and curls up on his bed under his blankets. Outside, the sounds of The City That Never Sleeps are loud and busy. Maybe that's why he likes New York City so much. The city is like his thoughts. They never rest, never shut up, not completely. But sometimes they can settle down just enough, or maybe he just gets used to it, that he can rest.

Like now, the sounds of the city and the internal clammer of his thoughts are quiet just enough that he can feel himself starting to drift off to sleep.

Tomorrow will be… well, tomorrow will be a day. He'll just say that.

But he'll get by. And maybe one day there will come a tomorrow he won't have to just get by. Maybe one day there will come a tomorrow he can enjoy, one where he won't be weighed down by burdens, one where he will laugh, one where he can be happy.

Everyone had always said there was a difference between happiness and joy. That happiness was circumstantial, but that you could choose joy. He'd never understood that, not really. He still doesn't fully understand, but maybe he does understand it a little more now.

He is getting by right now. But there is joy because Tony is alive. There is joy because there will be a better tomorrow someday, even if it isn't exactly tomorrow or tomorrow's tomorrow, but one day there will be, one day he will be there and he will look back and he will realize that it is no longer a tomorrow that he is waiting for, but that the tomorrow is today. There is joy because there is hope. There is joy because it has been dark for so long, but now there is light.

Light like a flaming match in the dark.

Light like a lightbulb screwed into place after being dead for a long time.

Light like hope after sorrow, like an afterglow.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Tony gives his first interview after coming back from the dead and reflects on the strange absence he feels which is probably nothing (spoiler alert: it's something).

Notes:

I'm not in love with this chapter, but sometimes the scene needs to be set up before we can get to the spicy stuff

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Tony skims the email one more time. It's short and concise, clearly Pepper's writing, not his, as evidenced by the lack of sarcastic comments.

Mrs. Lauster,

New information has come to light regarding the current controversies concerning Stark Industries. It is the wish of Mrs. Virginia Stark, née Potts, to share this new information with you at this time. Mrs. Stark requests a meeting with you at Palatine Park Playground in Germantown, New York at 4:30 EST this afternoon. Upon your arrival, information can be discussed near the pond. She trusts that this visit will remain confidential until the end of the requested meeting at which time all information gathered may be revealed to the public.

Mrs. Stark eagerly awaits your arrival and wishes you a good day.

Stark Industries

"Perfect." Reaching into the bag sitting open on the table, he grabs a carrot, biting into it with a crunch. "Hit send."

Pepper's lips press together in a disapproving look. He's gotten a lot of those looks lately (but also lots of worried looks, so he can't complain because he knows she's just concerned for his well-being). "Not what I asked."

"What?" he pretends to look confused, which Pepper, having been his wife for half a decade, his girlfriend for longer, and his assistant for what feels like forever, doesn't buy into one bit. She just glares at him again, and he concedes.

"Yeah, I'm sure. It's been more than two months, sweetheart, I think the public should know about my whole resurrection act." He wiggles his fingers to give it more pizazz.

One of her eyebrows arches in skepticality. "You just want to make fun of the news because you've been evading them for so long. You're bragging."

She knows him well, he'll give her that.

He takes another bite of the carrot before responding. " If , emphasis on if , I wanted to brag, don't you think I have the right?"

Pepper's face softens. "You have the right to whatever you want, Tony." She points at the laptop where the cursor is hovering over the blue send button. One click will seal his fate, one way or another. "Including the right to keep your business away from the press."

He considers for a moment before he shakes his head.

"I can't hide forever, Pep. I might as well do this now. It can be the channel's belated Christmas gift, getting to break the news of my return."

"Ok," she says, "if you're sure." She gestures towards the computer.

"I am," he says, sounding more confident than he actually is. His fingers don't shake as he hovers over the blue button. One simple movement, and in a few hours the world will know that Iron Man is back.

He pulls his fingers away.

"Tony?" Pepper's voice is laced with concern.

"Are you ready?" he asks, looking up to where she's perched on their dining table. She looks beautiful, the way she's sitting, with her hair falling over her shoulders in light waves (she must have curled it today) and her blue top slid down just enough to expose her collarbone.

She also looks tired, he notices, her concealer showing just a hint of the dark circles under her eyes. And of course there are the ever present stress lines on her face, from age, yes, but mostly from worry. Worry which he has caused. This is a decision that will impact her too. She's been through just as much hell with the media as he has, maybe more so, having been bombarded with cameras and microphones after he died. And now there's the whole controversy with Stark Industries and everything that that entails. Not to mention the crazy fact that her husband is back from the literal grave, and while that is a happy occasion, yes, it is also, you know, crazy , and unusual; he knows the adjustment hasn't been easy. He doesn't want to put her through another media scandal if she's not ready for it, and the hailstorm that's about to hit them, be it good or bad, is definitely not going to be for the faint of heart.

But being the beautiful, courageous, crazy strong woman that she is, Pepper nods. "If you're ready, Tony, so am I. We'll face it together."

He holds her gaze for a moment longer. "Just wanted to make sure."

She nods again. "Thank you. But if you're ready, I'm ready."

He heaves a sigh. This is a monumental moment. "Okay then. And Iron Man is officially"—he clicks the blue button—"back." The email goes through in a fraction of a second. When the undo button comes up as an option, he ignores it, and then his only shot at taking it back is gone. The email is officially sent.

Silence weighs heavily upon them for a moment, realization sinking in like a stone. He grabs another carrot from the bag, shaking his hand to get rid of the drops of condensation clinging to his skin.

"Do you think she'll come?" Pepper asks, breaking the silence.

He studies the carrot like it has all the answers to her questions. It doesn't. Because it's a vegetable. Sometimes he feels like a vegetable. He has no answers to any questions in life.

"She'd be crazy not to, right? She's a news reporter. This is news. Big news."

Pepper shrugs questioningly. "I don't know. You're asking her to drive four hours round trip to sit by someone at a random playground near a random pond for information that she doesn't even know is going to be worth the money it took her to buy the gas to get there."

"Well," he sighs, "if she doesn't, it will be her loss. But I think she will."

Pepper leans forward, to take his hand in hers. Their fingers intertwine; no matter what happens, they'll face it together. "You ready for Iron Man to be back?"

He pats the top of her hand with his free hand. "Let's do this."

—

He's ready three hours later when the news truck pulls into the playground's parking lot. The playground is mostly empty, the New York winter afternoon not appealing to many people. On the other side of the pond, there is a mom and daughter, bundled up in puffy winter jackets, but they are focused on a pair of swallows making a nest in a tree and haven't looked at where he is sitting once. Besides them, there is no one to notice him sitting on the far side of the pond, legs freezing on the cold bench he's perched on.

No one except Sandra Lauster, who, as he watches, gets out of the news van and readies the team she's brought. He breathes a sigh of relief. Even after receiving a confirmation email less than ten minutes after their original email had been sent, there had still been a small part of him that worried that the reporter would not show up, despite the confident demeanor he'd put on for Pepper. Before the news team can make their way over to where he is sitting, he takes the moment to straighten his suit and polish his sunglasses. The sun is at just the right point where it will glint off the sunglasses, adding a little flare to the meeting, just as he likes. He checks to make sure his suit will come to him when he calls for it, and double checks the alarm on his watch. Everything is set. Soon, the world will know that Iron Man has returned.

Over by the van, Sandra seems to have gotten everybody settled, and he tears his gaze away for a moment as they begin to make their way over. No doubt, they think he is a representative of Stark Industries. As they get closer, they will maybe think about the curious resemblance of the representative to the Industry's late namesake. Maybe they will begin to wonder, to guess, to hope when they are a few feet away from him, but they will surely not allow such thoughts to take hold, afterall, everyone knows, dead men don't rise. It will not be until he turns toward them fully and confirms it, that they will know. And even then, they will be in shock. But they will get over it quickly. They will ask questions, shove cameras and microphones in his face, and he will pull on his best sarcastic attitude and answer their questions, and then he will leave, and the world will be changed. All this will happen, he is sure of it.

But for now he breathes.

It's been two long months since he woke up, cold and utterly confused, in the area where the Avengers Compound used to be. Two months since he laid there for what felt like forever, searching back through memories, trying to figure out what was going on, how he was alive since he very clearly remembered dying. Two months since he managed to make his way to the nearest payphone (finding an actual working payphone was as much of a miracle in his opinion as the fact that he was back from the dead), put in fifty cents he'd managed to find on the way, and call Pepper. Two months since he stood, cold, confused, and weary, while Pepper cursed on the other side of the phone and demanded to know where Tony was, how he was alive, and why on earth he hadn't come back sooner. The following two months had been a whirlwind of hugs, tears, reunions, and a million questions that were very hard to find answers to. The nearest they could figure, he was back as a result of some sort of spell that Stephan Strange could remember casting but couldn't remember what the spell was or why he had cast it in the first place. A bunch of medical tests had confirmed that he was indeed alive, that he wasn't in danger of an imminent death, and that he had sustained no damage from the snap where he'd destroyed Thanos, but other than that they had very few answers to any of the questions he had. This bothers him. He dreams constantly of a shadow that was constantly one step ahead of him or behind, but never visible, and he can't shake the feeling that the shadow holds the answer to some of his questions.

Yes, it's been a long, hard two months, but they've also been the best two months of his life. He's finally gotten to live the life he's wanted to for so long, with his wife, his daughter, and his friends. There is no one to interfere, no reporters to flash cameras in his face, and no villains to fight. The name Tony Stark is the name of a martyr, the name of a dead person. He is finally free. Inviting the media back into this will erase such freedom. His name will be plastered everywhere. He will be back in the thick of it, and always associated with Iron Man is the threat of danger. Revealing himself will be like painting a target on his family's back for whoever is still out there that he's pissed off (and there's a lot of people he's made mad).

But he can't hide forever, no matter how much he wants to.

So he takes a deep breath, puts on his best I'm back face, and turns to face the music.

"Here they come," he whispers, for the benefit of Pepper, who's listening in via a microphone in his jacket. He can't hear her response, but he likes to think she wishes him good luck.

Sandra Lauster, a young twenty-something up-and-coming news reporter is making her way over to his bench, blond hair (real blond hair, not bleached) whipping back and forth in the afternoon wind. Everything below her chin is obscured, first by a scarf, then by a giant winter coat, and then by slacks. Behind her is a man holding a camera and another woman with a boom mic. They've clearly come to conduct an interview.

It's not until they're a few feet away that Sandra gasps, and he sees realization come upon them as quickly and powerfully as a tsunami. He smirks, and holds out his hands, as if beckoning them forward to his throne.

"I'm back."

It takes five minutes of gasping, several "I can't believe it"'s, and more confirmation from him than he can count for the news team to be satisfied that this is real, and that he's not some guy who just really looks like Tony Stark trying to confuse them.

"This is incredible," Sandra stammers finally. "You were my favorite superhero when I was a kid. I can't believe it."

"Hmm, that's nice," he says, resisting the urge to point out that she is practically still a kid. "I have three minutes. I'm supposing you want an interview."

"Oh, yes. Yes, thank you." Sandra is practically glowing as she flits quick hand motions and gives quiet commands towards the camera crew who rapidly move into place. The boom mic lady grabs another microphone out of her bag, handing it to Sandra, and after a few quick tests of equipment, the interview begins.

"I am here in Germantown, New York, with breaking news," Sandra begins with a flourish. "After dying during the final battle with Thanos, and being the person to single-handedly defeat Thanos and his army, the one Tony Stark is back from the dead! That's right—Iron Man is back!" The cameraman swivels to Tony, and he flashes his biggest smile. "Tony, could you explain for us how you made your miraculous reappearance!" Sandra shoves the microphone into his face.

"It was a magic spell," he says, tone intentionally ambiguous. Let people work out for themselves what that means.

"A magic spell," Sandra repeats wondrously, like she's discovered some new creature or a cure for an incurable disease. "That's amazing! Can you tell us anything more about this spell? Are you injured after the battle with Thanos? How are you doing now that you're back?"

He deliberately ignores the first question, starting with her second question. "No, I'm as fit as ever. And I'm doing splendid, Sandra, how about you?" He relaxes, leaning back into the bench. It's just like old times, back when he had first revealed himself as Iron Man and everyone had been awed by the "Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist." Now there's a good percentage of people out there who want to kill him. Except for Sandra apparently, who seems absolutely thrilled, as she should, to be the one breaking the news of his return.

"Oh," she blushes, "I'm doing marvelous. Thank you for asking! So, you're adjusting well back into life? Have there been any surprises once you, for lack of a better term, were resurrected? What do you think of the media interfering in your homecoming so soon?"

"Uh, nope, there haven't really been any big surprises." That's a complete and utter lie, but whatever. "As for the news, I wouldn't say they're really interfering in my homecoming soon . You know I've actually been back for like two months. Actually a little longer, so I think I've done a great job hiding from the news. No offense." He raises a hand in a conciliatory gesture towards Sandra, who beams at him despite the fact that he's basically insulting her.

"How have you managed to stay away from the media for so long?" Sandra asks.

"Well, Sandra," he replies, voice heavy with sarcasm, "I did something quite simple. I stayed in my house and didn't spend my first five minutes back on this beautiful green earth broadcasting my presence on Twitter."

"So, can you tell us anything more about this spell that brought you back? Who cast it? And why?" The questions come rapid-fire. He laughs, trying to buy time to come up with some other story. Strange would probably be mad if the whole situation about the spell (the situation being that Strange had kinda made an oopsie in the spellcasting realm by completely forgetting, one, which spell he had used, and two, why he had used it in the first place. Apparently, that was a big no-no) was revealed. It would make the man look sloppy, and while Tony can't really argue with that assessment, he doesn't fancy making a sorcerer mad at him either. "I was joking about the spell," he lies. "I don't actually know how I'm back, just that I am."

Sandra doesn't seem to care. The questions keep coming. "What have you done in the two months that you've been back? Have you seen your family? Does anyone else know you're alive?"

He shakes his head. "Absolutely no one knows I'm back. I waited two months, then went directly to the media before seeing my family." Sandra gapes up at him. "That was a joke," he clarifies.

"Of course," she laughs awkwardly to save face. "Well, what do you plan to do now that you're back?"

He opens his mouth to reply with a sarcastic answer about saving the narwhals, but the beeping of his watch cuts him off.

"And it seems that time has run out." He clasps his hands together apologetically though he doesn't feel apologetic in the slightest. "Before I leave, however, I feel I can answer your last question." He taps his goatee and pretends to think. "What do I plan to do now that I'm back? Well, I suppose the easier answer is what I'm not going to do."

He pauses, waiting for Sandra to take the bait, which she does.

"Well, what are you not going to do?" she asks, mouth open slightly in anticipation.

He doesn't have to pretend to smile then, it comes naturally. "I'm never going to give you up. I'm never going to let you down. I am certainly never going to run around and desert you."

The meaning of his words are slowly sinking into his audience, and he grins wildly to himself as he calls for the suit. It is at his side in almost an instant, startling the news team.

"I'm never going to make you cry, or say goodbye, or tell a lie and hurt you," he finishes, before stepping into the suit and letting it envelop him. He waves metal clad fingers. "Bye." And then he's gone, leaving behind a very confused news team staring up at the sky, the camera whipped up to record him as he flies off, quite literally, into the sunset.

—

Pepper is waiting in the living room for him when he gets back. She stands when he enters the house, crossed arms and an annoyed look on her face.

"You have been back for two months," she says, drawing each word out like it means something, "and the very first words you say to the press are lyrics from a Rick Astley song ?"

He smirks. "It was kinda funny though, don't you think?"

Pepper does a considerable job hiding the smile on her face, but he can still see the slight uptilt of her lips, and the way her eyes do all the grinning he needs to see as she stares at her shoes to avoid his eyesight. "That poor lady. You were just playing with her the entire time."

He shrugs. "Eh. She deserved it."

She shakes her head at him and finally lets the smile peek through a little bit. You're crazy , it seems to say, but I love you for it . "You know people are going to think it's fake." Her face is business-like again.

He walks toward her, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Let them think it. I don't care." A kiss on her cheek. "I know it's real." A kiss to her other cheek. "You know this is a big moment for me; this is the first time in my life I've known what's real, and that is you and me and our beautiful daughter who is growing up way too fast and Rhodey and I guess Happy too, may he rest in peace—"

Pepper frowns. "He's not dead."

He waves her off. "The point is, I don't care what they think anymore. Let them call it fake news for the rest of their lives." He cups her face with his hands, running his thumbs on the stress points under her eyes. She smiles. "This is real," he whispers. "This is real."

It's Pepper who closes the gap, leaning forward to press a kiss against his mouth. It's as sweet as the first time he kissed her, maybe more so, because they've been through so much, and this kiss is a sign that they've survived.

"I love you," he whispers, once they've broken apart and he's resting his forehead on hers.

"I love you too." She leans back, locking her hands together behind his head, like they're in a dance. "This is real," she says, like she needs to confirm it for herself one more time. "We're finally complete."

"Yeah," he nods, but even then as he assents, he can't help feel like some part of the equation is missing. Something isn't right, something isn't whole. He swears there's something missing, like when you're at the grocery store and you know there was something else you needed to add to the list, but you can't for the life of yourself remember what it was. It's like that, only stronger, more intense. But what could he possibly be missing? He has his wife, his daughter, his best friends, what else could he be missing? No, this is just a bad case of déjà vu that he needs to get over. He needs to be thankful for what he's got, thankful that he gets a second chance at doing life. His family deserves it.

So he pushes the itch that something isn't as it ought to be to the back of his head. "Yeah, we're complete." He leans in for a kiss again.

He's put Pepper through hell the last few years—no, for pretty much as long as he's known her. She deserves his full attention now and his love. She doesn't need him to be questioning everything and searching for something else when he's got quite the gift right in front of him. Pepper deserves to be valued and taken care of and loved, which is something he is willing to do, something he wants to do, something he will do.

So if the smile on his face isn't genuine (and it's not because no matter how many times he denies it, he can't quite get rid of the lingering feeling that something's missing), Pepper never has to know.

—

He dreams that night, the same recurring scene that's been haunting his sleep ever since he first dreamt it a few days after his miraculous return from the dead.

He's on a red planet not his own. There is dust in the air that clogs his lungs and clouds his eyesight. He chokes on it. His eyes are watering, tears spilling down his face, trying to get rid of the irritants. There is an ache in his side, and when he puts his hand there, it comes away red with blood. He has been cut or stabbed or something of the kind. He falls to his knees.

For a moment, he is utterly alone, then there is a figure on the ground, and he is kneeling down, taking the figure into his arms, supporting him. His eyes can't focus; all he sees is blurs of red and gold. He can feel metal beneath his hands, and then he can feel the thud, thud, thud of a heartbeat. As the scene goes on, the heartbeat gets faster and faster, like the crescendo of a drum. And then suddenly the heartbeat reaches its peak and his eyes are focused and he sees a suit, the suit he created out of nanotechnology. It's Spider-Man, the mysterious superhero he'd drafted for the Avengers. How had he met him? He can't remember.

Thud, thud, thud, the heartbeat continues, beating a fast pulse beneath his fingers. An urge comes then, to rip the mask away, to see the face underneath of the superhero he's worked with for months now, but he can't. His fingers betray him, refusing to move, stuck where they are around Spider-Man's back, lifting his body inches from the ground.

Then Spider-Man begins to dissolve into dust, first his legs, then his torso, and Tony knows that this is the time, if he wants to see the man underneath, he needs to unmask him now. But his fingers refuse to move and then Spider-Man is just dust in the wind, and the moment is gone.

As always, when he wakes, he remembers the scene.

Titan. Thanos. The Blip.

He remembers it clearly, the pain in his side, the sudden desolation, the long trip back home.

The only thing that is out of place, that he doesn't understand, is the sadness.

There is a sadness accompanied with the memory, the grief of a deep, personal loss that he doesn't understand. Why does he feel so strongly about this memory, especially about the disappearance of Spider-Man, a masked vigilante whose actual name he never even knew? Why does he feel like there is a personal connection there? It aggravates him, this feeling of loss that he can't explain. He can't wish it away, it's there, but he can't understand it either. It follows him around in his sleep, haunting him.

The clock next to his bedside reads 5:27, the red letters standing out in the darkness of the room. He's not getting any more sleep this morning.

Gently extracting himself from the blankets which are twisted around his arms, like he was trying to hold them together like he was with Spider-Man in the dream, he makes his way out of bed and down the stairs.

The morning passes in a slow haze. He can tell he's dissociating, it's like he's watching himself go through the motions, watching himself pour a cup of coffee and do the dishes that are still in the sink from last night and pick up Morgan when she comes running in and putting waffles in the toaster for her as requested instead of actually doing those things. This has happened a few times since he's come back, this disconnection from reality. Bruce and Stephen had both said it was normal. He wasn't supposed to be alive in the first place, so he was bound to experience dissociation, along with temporary amnesia (there were gaps in his memory, but he had been assured they would come back eventually), phantom pain (sometimes his arm still hurt, like he still had the gauntlet on), and PTSD (not that he didn't already have that from all the traumatic experiences he'd had before he came back from the dead). They hadn't been wrong, he's experienced those things and more, but just because it's normal doesn't mean he has to like it.

At some point, Pepper comes downstairs, presses a kiss to Morgan's head, and disappears to go on a jog. He lets Morgan pick out her clothes for the day which results in a mismatched outfit of polka dot leggings, a ruffled denim skirt with red hearts on it, and a striped shirt in shades of orange that are an insult to his eyesight. Pepper comes back in, makes him promise to eat something, then leaves to take a shower.

The food makes him feel better, and so when Pepper reappears, he feels a little more connected to reality. "Rough morning?" she asks, fishing around in the fridge for something.

"Do you ever feel like there's something missing?" he asks, a question in response to a question. "I can't shake this feeling that some piece is out of place here."

Pepper abandons her search in the fridge to lean against the counter and stare at him softly. "I think that you feel like a lot of pieces are out of place because they are. You're back, and that goes against reality, but yet it's true. Things have been messed up, the fabric of life has been tampered with. It's normal to feel like something's off."

"No, it's not that." He shakes his head as if that will unjumble his thoughts and shake his memories into place. It doesn't. "It's something else. Something… smaller."

Pepper shakes her head apologetically. "I don't know, Tony. I wish I could explain it for you, but I can't. Stephen said this would be normal. It's probably nothing."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "It's probably nothing." But he's not quite sure.

Pepper sighs. "In other news, we are out of milk. I'm going to make a run into town, are you good to watch Morgan for a while?"

"Yeah." He looks over his shoulder to where Morgan is sitting on the couch, dutifully coloring inside the lines of a Disney coloring book. "Hey, Morgan, mom's going to the store, what do you want to do while she's gone?"

Morgan's reply is enthusiastic and immediate. "Candyland!"

"Alright, Candyland it is then."

In his peripheral vision, he can see Pepper groan and roll her eyes. "Better you than me."

He turns to face her. "You know, I'm going to make you play it with me tonight, just out of spite."

"Yeah," she laughs, "we'll see about that."

Thirty minutes later, he is reminded why Pepper carries a personal grudge against the creators of Candyland. One round is fine. Five rounds with a six year old? Yeah, not so fun.

He's about to suggest they do something else when FRIDAY saves him from the agony of trying to prevent round six.

"Boss?"

He sets his pieces down (Morgan had insisted that he play with both the red and gold pieces simultaneously to match the colors of his suit), and stares at the ceiling. "What's up, FRIDAY?"

"There appears to be a stranger on the premises."

He tenses. That's a problem. Next to him, Morgan sets down her piece.

"Daddy?" she asks.

He raises a finger to shush her. "Do you have a description, FRIDAY?"

The A.I.'s voice is the same as ever when she responds, calm and unhurried. "It appears to be a teenage boy. Cacuasion with brown hair. He's wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans. He does not appear to be armed."

He frowns. If it's a teenage boy, then it's probably not some old enemy he's pissed off, but then again, he never can tell. The real problem though isn't necessarily why he's here, but how he's here. The Lake House is supposed to be a secretive location. "What's he doing, FRIDAY?"

"He appears to be taking photos of the house, boss."

Photos. This can't be good.

"Ok, that's a problem, uh, FRIDAY keep an eye on him please. If he moves, tell me."

"Of course, Boss."

He turns to his daughter, who is staring at him, a confused look on her face. "Daddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, honey. Daddy just needs to go look at something outside real quick. Do you want to go play in your bedroom? I'll be there in a moment."

"But I want to play Candyland."

"Yeah, honey, and we will, but I need you to go play in your bedroom for a minute, can you do that for me?" He smooths down one side of her hair which has escaped her headband.

She sighs and mopes off, but at least she's gone. The photographer outside is probably not a problem, but he can never be too careful and the last thing he wants is his daughter getting hurt. "FRIDAY?"

"He is still in the same position, boss, by the corner of the lake and the woods."

"Thanks FRIDAY. If he tries to get into the house, launch Operation Home Alone."

"Got it, boss."

He debates calling the suit to him, but decides against it. The element of surprise is better in this circumstance than armament.

It takes him five minutes to get out of the back of the house and creep around to the side where the intruder is. Slowly, slowly, he makes his way to where the boy is indeed aiming a camera at the house. Only, as Tony gets closer, he realizes that the boy isn't actually taking photos, he's just staring through the lens.

The boy's hood is sticking out, at just the right angle for Tony to grab, and he creeps forward, arm outstretched. The boy doesn't move. When he's a few feet away, he stops. Still, no movement from the boy. Something inside of him protests, a little part of him that senses something wrong, some abnormality about the situation. He ignores it. The boy finally takes a picture, then goes back to just staring at the house.

Tony pounces.

Lunging forward, he grabs the back of the boy's hoodie, yanking him around. The boy yelps. "Who are you? What are you doing?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The boy's hands fly up, whether in surrender or defense or apology, Tony doesn't know. Clutched in one of the hands is the camera. A Canon, he notices, though some of the parts are different colors, like it was put together using a hodgepodge of pieces. "I'm a photographer, I work for J. Jonah Jameson, for the Daily Bugle . I know I shouldn't be trespassing, I'm so sorry, I just wanted a photograph." The boy is rambling, but it's interesting, Tony notices, the boy doesn't look afraid. Rather he looks sad, and he's gazing at Tony with such longing in his eyes and fondness, that for a moment Tony feels like he's seen this boy before.

"Whoa, slow down for a minute." He releases one hand from the kid's sweatshirt to hold up as a silent stop talking gesture. The boy stops, and there it is again, the brief flit of recognition, there and gone before he can properly think about it.

"Do I know you?"

If the kid had looked sad before, now he looks like a wounded puppy, which is weird, but he shakes his head. "I don't think so."

Tony's brow furrows in confusion. He could have sworn he knew this kid from somewhere, but apparently not. "What's your name?"

The boy gulps, staring into his eyes like they're in some sort of rom-com, before answering.

"My name's Peter Parker."

Notes:

You cannot tell me Tony did not Rickroll reporters at least once in his lifetime

Chapter 3

Summary:

In which Tony is very confused and Peter just wants a happy life.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The drive up to the Lake Cabin is painfully nostalgic, but seeing the house itself, the place where he mourned Tony, where he played with Morgan and told her stories about her father, where he had been assured by Pepper multiple times that it wasn't his fault, where he had slowly healed after the battle with Thanos, where he used to go at least once a month, but where there is no one there anymore who remembers him even though Tony is back and Pepper and Morgan are still around, is a special kind of torture. Just the smell of the place, pine and forest and water and wool because of that stupid alpaca (he's not actually stupid, sorry Gerald), a smell which had once felt like coming home, is enough to make him want to puke. What hurts the most is that it still feels like coming home, only he knows he will be like a stranger to the people inside. He may remember his home, but his home does not remember him.

Does that even make it a home anymore?

He doesn't know the answer to that.

Sometimes he wishes the spell had wiped his memory too.

He crouches down among the bushes that mark the border between tree and water and gazes through the camera at the house he used to be welcome in, but where he is welcome no longer. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that this is a game of hide and seek, that in a few moments Morgan will come running out of the house, looking this way and that for Peter.

But that isn't how his life is anymore. His life isn't family or game nights or brunch at least once a month or love .

When was the last time he was loved?

It hurts to think about.

He wonders what life is like for Pepper and Morgan now. Does Morgan wake up early as usual? Does she crawl into Pepper's bed and snuggle under the blankets, especially now that the left side is occupied again? Does she still ask for juice pops for breakfast? Does Tony hoist her up into his arms and swing her around playing pretend? Does Pepper laugh, a rich, lovely sound, and smile as she looks at her family which (in her mind) is now complete? What do they think about the photograph in the kitchen with him and Tony and the fake certificate of his intern work at Stark Industries? What do they think about the dresser drawer full of his clothes and his extra toothbrush in the bathroom? Do they notice, do they question? Or did the spell wisk those reminders away too? How invisible did the spell make him?

The questions run rampant in his head, circling like a carousel where each horse is a different person he used to know, or, rather, who used to know him, pointing fingers and mocking him.

You're invisible. No one knows who you are. You are worthless.

He wants to scream at the voices that he knows this already, that every waking moment is a reminder that in everyone else's world he doesn't exist. He knows only too well that he inhabits a world known only to himself. But the voices don't care. They go on screaming.

In retaliation, he stares at the house harder.

Not much is happening inside. From the angle he's at, he can see part of the living room and into the kitchen. He sees only blurs of the countertop, but he can tell it's messy, not the way Pepper always had the countertops when he was at the house after Tony died. They were always organized then. The spices had their own little jars, complete with chalk labels. A china cup and saucer she'd received at her wedding was always shining in the window, the gold edges glinting under the light of the sun. There were always flowers by the sink, and she never forgot to water them. She had told him once that it helped her manage the grief, the organizing. It meant there was one thing in life she could control.

He'd like a little control in his own life. Is that too much to ask for?

Apparently so.

He's spacing out again, he realizes. He snaps a random picture of the house, just so he can say he tried. Then he goes back to thinking about the cabinets.

Maybe it's because he's so focused on the damned cabinets and how their messiness alone is a sign that Tony's back because the world could be literally ending and Pepper would still have clean countertops that his Peter-tingle doesn't kick in, or maybe it's because it's Tony who creeps up behind him, and Tony is family, and the Peter-tingle doesn't warn him about family, but whatever it is, he doesn't realize there is someone behind him until he's being grabbed by the back of his hoodie and swung around.

He yelps, and all his instincts scream at him that he's getting attacked, but, no, he knows these hands.

It's Tony.

Tony, the man he's looked up to since he was a kid. Tony, the man who showed up in his apartment one day with a disguised plea for help and the offer of a lifetime. Tony, who bailed him out of more than one conflict and gave him harsh love when he needed it and who made him a new suit complete with everything a teenage superhero could want and who inducted him into the freaking Avengers. Tony, the dumb, brave idiot who sacrificed himself for not just the world, but for Peter himself. Tony, the martyr who died fighting against Thanos. Tony, the resurrected miracle who should be dead, but who is standing in front of him very, very alive and very, very angry. Tony, who apparently loved him like a son.

"Who are you? What are you doing?"

Tony, who doesn't remember him.

He flies into defensive mode, holding his hands up in a show of surrender. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." He doesn't know why he expects Tony to hit him, Tony's never hit him in his life, but then again, Tony doesn't know who he is. "I'm a photographer," he stammers, and the mere fact that he has to explain hurts. He shouldn't have to explain. Tony should know who he is. "I work for J. Jonah Jameson, for The Daily Bugle. I know I shouldn't be trespassing, I'm so sorry, I just wanted a photograph." He's rambling, he knows he is, but he can't stop. He feels like he's meeting Tony for the first time again, and oh, how innocent he was then, stammering questions and thank you's and sorries without a care in the world. How he wants to be that kid again, not just because of the innocence, but because at that point Peter Parker hadn't lost anyone whose fate was in his hands. Yeah, his parents had died and so had Ben, but those hadn't been his fault. All the other ones have been his fault. Including Tony's.

But Tony is alive now, and he can hardly believe it, even though he listened to the man's interview fifteen times on the way over here just to hear his voice again. And here the man is, in the flesh. His hand is still on Peter's hood, and this is the closest he's gotten to a friendly touch in almost three months. It makes him want to cry and throw his arms around Tony and press himself to him in a desperate embrace because he hasn't hugged anyone except for a cat he rescued in more than two months and Tony is back from the dead . But he can't do any of that because Tony doesn't remember him, and he can't help the way his eyebrows crease together, not in fear, but in anguish. Is this the cruelest fate of all, to love so deeply someone who looks at you and sees a stranger?

It would be more than he can take if he hadn't already lived through more than he could take.

One of Tony's hands leaves his hood, rising in a silent stop talking gesture. "Whoa, slow down for a minute."

Then there is a question Peter wasn't expecting.

"Do I know you?"

For a second, just one glorious second of hope, he wonders if maybe Tony could remember him, if Tony could be immune to Strange's spell. Just Tony would be enough. He could survive if only Tony remembered him. But the man isn't looking at him with recognition, just confusion, and his hope is rubbed out a moment after it's ignition.

He wants to say yes so badly.

He doesn't.

"I don't think so," he says instead. He hates himself for it.

Tony's brow furrows deeper in confusion. "What's your name?"

Damn.

Now, there's the kicker.

He stares into Tony's eyes and it's all he can do to not start crying then and there. He clears his throat. The words must come out perfectly. They must be treated delicately, like fragile glass that could shatter at any moment. The words are such delicate things. Such meaning is held within them, like the white shell of an egg in which concealed is a life, well protected from those who would wish to destroy it. The words are his shell, they conserve the memory of who he used to be. These are all he has left of his old self. Without them, he is nothing. He speaks them gently, like a whisper of a promise from one person to another. They are a promise to himself that he still means something, that he's still someone, even if no one remembers. Often he has repeated that solemn promise late at night, during the middle of patrol, or at the apartment he calls home now. They are his vow, his memorial, his remembrance.

Four simple words.

"My name's Peter Parker."

He doesn't know why he expects Tony to react to that. What does he want? Some dramatic reveal where Tony remembers everything? He's not naive. It's not going to happen.

It doesn't.

Tony doesn't seem to give a crap about his name. Instead, he merely raises a solitary eyebrow. "Well, Mr. Parker, do you want to explain what you're doing trespassing on my property?"

He holds up his camera again, though he's sure Tony already noticed it. "I wanted a picture. For the paper, you know."

"I do know," Tony says, and it appears he's speaking one of the many languages he's fluent in—sarcasm. "Did you know that trespassing can earn you up to fifteen days in prison in the state of New York?"

"No, sir." He shakes his head. He actually didn't know that. Watch him get arrested today; it would be just his luck. But to his surprise, Tony doesn't seem to care. He moves along.

"You said you worked at the Bugle with good old JJ." He peers closer at Peter's face, as if inspecting him for cracks and flaws. "You look a little young to be working. How old are you—fifteen?"

Peter's mind casually decides to remind him of all the times Tony had deliberately labeled him a younger age than he actually was or called him a kid to tease him. He pushes the memories aside. Those had all been jokes, but this is real. This is Tony actually not knowing his age.

"I'm seventeen." Wow, is he really only seventeen? He feels like he's thirty. Or a hundred. "This is my first job."

"Hmm. Your first job, and you chose The Daily Bugle?" Tony looks incredibly disappointed in Peter's life choices. He can't argue with that.

He grimaces. "I'm not proud of it."

Tony merely "hmmm"'s again. Then there is a silence and the only two things Peter can think are you're alive, you're alive, you're alive , and also, please don't call the police, please don't call the police . Then Tony nods at the camera Peter is still holding up. "You know if you wanted a picture, you could have just come and knocked on my door instead of sneaking around my property."

"Oh." He hadn't thought about that. Why hadn't he thought about that? He's an idiot, he's actually an idiot . It's like the moment where his first thought was to go to Strange and request that he mess with the fabric of all time, space, and reality instead of calling the freaking college admission people which is the other idiotic moment which got him into this whole mess in the first place.

Maybe he needs to invest in a "Decision Making for Dummies" book. Or just a new brain.

Tony seems to agree with him. " Oh indeed."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I appreciate you not, you know—" he trails off.

"Killing you?" If Tony's eyebrow arches any further, Peter thinks, it's going to become a caterpillar and wiggle off the man's face.

"Yeah," he admits, feeling guilty.

Why didn't I just knock on the damn door?

There is another silence for a moment, and though he's deliberately not looking Tony in the eye, he can feel the man staring at him. He wonders if this is how a frog would feel in a biology class right before it gets dissected, if the frog was still alive at that point. He imagines the feeling is pretty close.

After a while, he becomes sure that Tony is going to smite him. His ex-hero (is he an ex if he doesn't remember Peter. Or does only Peter have to remember him for him to be Peter's hero? This whole thing is confusing) is going to call his suit to himself and kill Peter. He's going to die and Tony isn't even going to know the weight of what he did. Or would he? If he died, would everyone's memories come back? He really wishes he'd gotten a pamphlet or something from Strange before the spell on how everything worked because sometimes he gets really confused.

Like now, he's confused because when Tony opens his mouth, it's not to call his suit to him, or tell Peter that he's going to be arrested, but to ask him a question Peter really did not see coming.

"How do you like your coffee, Mr. Parker?"

—

Five minutes later, after a lot of confusion, he finally has a grip on what's happening.

He's sitting (albeit very stiffly) at Tony's dining room table (and he was right, the counters are a mess, or as Tony would have called it, "organized chaos") being served coffee after he technically trespassed on the man's property. He doesn't know what he expected from today's visit to the Lake House, but this is not it.

He's not mad at it though.

In this moment, he can pretend, just for a second, that he's home, that it's his Tony who is pouring the coffee, and that when he turns around, he'll have a smile on his face, and he'll pat Peter on the back as he sets the coffee mug down in front of him and ask "how's school going, kid?" It will be just like old times.

And then of course Tony turns around, and his face is a neutral expression with no recognition, and he really needs to stop imagining, stop pretending because it makes the moments of snapping back to reality all the more painful.

"So," Tony starts as he slides a mug of coffee over to Peter, "why did the Bugle decide to send a fifteen year old to go take pictures of an old man like me?" He takes a sip of his coffee, never taking his eyes off Peter.

"Seventeen," Peter automatically corrects, "and taking pictures of superheroes are kind of my specialty." He blushes. This is not how he wanted this conversation to go.

"Oh, your specialty, huh?" Peter doesn't know whether to nod or not, but Tony continues. "What other superheroes have you taken pictures of?"

"Spider-Man," he says. His voice cracks in the middle of it. He clears his throat.

That gets a response. Tony looks closer at him, and there's that feeling again, like he's being dissected. He takes a sip of coffee and almost chokes when he gulps too fast and simultaneously burns his throat and feels it going down the wrong pipe. "You know Spider-Man?" Tony asks, but his voice is guarded now, like Spider-Man is a touchy subject for him.

"Yeah," he gasps, still recovering from the disastrous coffee incident. "Yeah, I do." It's weird talking about himself like this. He'll never get used to it.

Tony gets up then, retreating to the corner of the kitchen. He grabs something from a corner shelf and then returns, placing the object in front of Peter.

It's a picture.

It's the picture.

The one he and Tony took with the faux-certificate that marked his internship with Stark Industries. Before May knew what he was really doing. Only the picture has changed. It's not him anymore, well, not Peter Parker him. It's Spider-Man in the picture. He's wearing the suit Tony built for him and they're still doing the cheesy rabbit ears and the certificate is still upside down and he's still there, but it's different.

"I know Spider-Man too," Tony says, and his tone is ambiguous. Peter can't decipher if it's a good know or a bad know or a I-don't-really-know-what-to-think-about-him know. Tony is looking at him weird, eyes flashing between him and the picture. "Do you see Spider-Man a lot?"

"Yeah," he nods, "a decent amount."

"Do you ever talk to him?"

He swallows. "I have once or twice."

"Well, whenever you see him next, tell him I said hi." Tony fiddles with the picture frame, turning it over and taking it apart. "And would you give this to him." He slides the picture out of the frame, gently freeing it from the glass, cardboard, and acid-free paper it's tucked between. Then he hands the picture to Peter.

He takes it as gently as he can, careful not to bend the edges or get thumbprints on the picture. This is a precious gift, even if Tony doesn't realize who he's giving it to.

"Yeah," he manages to get out through the giant lump in his throat, "I can give it to him."

"Thanks," Tony says awkwardly. "I'd, uh, give you the frame, but I think Pepper likes this one."

"No, no, you're good. I understand. I'm sure he'll love it, Spider-Man that is." He places the picture in front of him on the table and brings his coffee mug up to his mouth to hide the way he's blinking back tears.

Tony settles back in his chair. "So, the boss sends you to take pictures of me. And you figured out where I was by…" he trails off, sipping his coffee in a clear signal for Peter to finish the sentence.

Shoot. He hadn't thought about this. He hadn't really thought about what he would say to Tony because he hadn't thought he'd talk to him at all. He still hadn't fully comprehended the fact that Tony was even back in the first place.

"Um, context clues, yeah, I figured it out through context clues." He doesn't know if enthusiastic nodding helps support his position (probably not), but he nods enthusiastically anyway. Tony doesn't seem to react in one way or another, he merely waves a hand in a "go on" gesture.

Dang it. Tony is not working with him right now. He'll have to Sherlock Holmes it.

"Um, well, you met the reporter lady, Sandra, in Germantown even though she's from a news channel based in New York City, which was kind of weird. And I figured you would want some place discrete to stay, you know, somewhere to stay out of the limelight and all that. And then there were clues… online, from other people. And I just kinda put them together, picked a spot, drove around for a little bit, and I, uh, got lucky, I guess." He hurriedly takes a sip of his coffee. Man, deduction is hard. Benedict Cumberbatch made it look so easy.

He wishes he could say the truth, and some part of him wants to. Wants to spill it all, even if Tony doesn't believe him or won't listen. But he doesn't. He's too scared.

Coward. The voices in his head start up again. He shoves them back down.

He doesn't know if Tony believes him or not, but he doesn't seem to question it.

"You figured all that out just to get a picture?"

He nods. "Um, yeah. I really want to keep my job, so, you know, gotta do what you gotta do."

Tony nods a little, and there is just the tiniest bit of admiration in his eyes when he looks at Peter. "Well, I have to admit, the fact that a seventeen year old kid can figure out where my secret house is makes me think I need to amp up my security here, but you did a good job, kid, I'm impressed."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Those words were all he wanted to hear from Tony for so long. Now, he would take all the rebukes and corrections over this one compliment if it meant Tony really knew the boy he was correcting. This compliment is unemotional, unattached. It's a compliment given to a stranger, not a friend. He hates it.

He hates how much he needs it.

"I guess you deserve a picture, huh."

He shakes his head and blinks, leaning forward in question. "Sorry, what?"

"I said you deserve a picture, after going through all the trouble just to find this place." Tony pulls out his phone. "What would you say to a selfie? Would that make JJ mad?"

"Oh, no, I think, um, I think that would work just fine." He flushes as Tony scoots his chair close to his own so that they're almost touching.

"Say cheese, kid."

For a moment, it feels like old times. Peter and Tony pressed close together, taking some weird random photo. Only this picture isn't going to Aunt May as an attempt to fool her into thinking Peter's "internship" is normal. It isn't going to Pepper or Happy or even Peter himself. It's going to J. Jonah Jameson because Peter is treating Tony like a piece of meat to be pulled this way and that, all to show the media where he is, so more cameras can be brought to this place that is supposed to be peaceful.

He makes a pact with himself, then and there, as he smiles widely for the camera, his heart beating at a pace that would make his old physician very worried because Tony is so close to him, and the urge is back to tackle the man with a hug, that he will not give these photos to J-Cubed. Even if it costs him his job. Tony means too much to him, he won't present the man like it's show and tell even if the man has forgotten who he is.

He'll keep the photo for himself though.

One small piece of home. Of love. One moment of selfishness to keep close to his heart.

He's earned that at least.

The moment is over far too quickly and then Tony is asking for his number and he's giving it and a few minutes later his camera roll has been enlarged by one. He quickly favorites the picture before slipping his phone back in his pocket.

"A second cup?" Tony asks, after the photo's gone through, motioning to the coffee mugs.

"Oh, yes please. Thank you."

Tony grabs his mug (which Peter is just now realizing is one of Tony's many MIT mugs, and if that doesn't sting like hell) and makes his way over to the coffee pot.

"So, Peter," he says, "you a senior in high school this year?" He starts to refill one of the mugs.

Peter's about to say that he's actually working towards getting a GED when the front door swings open with a bang and Pepper barges in, looking like she's ready to knock someone out with the gallon of milk she's holding. He jumps in his seat, startled. Tony calmly places the coffee pot down.

"Hey, honey," Tony calls out, "grand entrances are my thing, what's the rush?"

Pepper looks harried as she scans the room, stiffening when she sees Peter, then relaxing when her eyes meet Tony's. She lowers the milk jug. "I got an alert from FRIDAY," she says, voice an anxious mix of worried and weary, "that there was an intruder." She sets the milk jug down with a thud on the side table beside the door.

Shoot. FRIDAY. He'd completely forgotten about all of Tony's security. He didn't realize that Strange's spell applied to Artificial Intelligence Units as well, but apparently so.

He stiffens in his seat, but inside his heart drops. Pepper doesn't remember him either. Not that he'd expected her to, but it still hurts, especially after all they've gone through together, mourning the loss of Tony. That connection is all gone now. Just another fraction of his life he's lost.

Over by the coffee pot, Tony waves off Pepper's concern. "Oh, that was a false alarm."

"Uh-huh." Peter notes sarcasm in her assent. She takes a step forward and points at the dining table, where he is. "And who is that? Tony, don't tell me you brought the intruder into our kitchen—"

"He's not an intruder—"

"FRIDAY said—"

"I'm sorry, Peter," Tony apologizes, raising his hand in a conciliatory gesture, "she overreacts."

Pepper looks outraged. "Overreact?! Tony, you—"

"Honey, this is Peter, he is our guest , so why don't you put the milk jug down"—Pepper had picked up the jug again and was looking like she might throw it again, but at Tony this time, not him—"and come join us." Tony waves toward the empty chairs at the table.

Pepper slams the milk jug down again, eyes giving Tony the death glare the entire time, and Peter starts to get the inkling that he needs to go. He's seen Pepper mad before, like really mad, and it's not a pretty sight. He moves his chair back with a screech and stands up. "Pep—uh, Mrs. Stark, I'm so sorry for—"

Tony shakes a finger at him. "With all due respect, Mr. Parker, shut up." He turns to face Pepper who is still glaring at him. He holds up the coffee pot. "Coffee?"

Peter can see her eyes roll from his spot behind his chair. "I'm getting the rest of the groceries," she says, disappearing through the door and not bothering to close it. The milk jug sits, slightly dented, on the side table.

His face is pale, he knows, as he grabs his picture from the table, clutching it tightly like it is likely to be taken away by the wind if he loosens his grip. The whole thing is getting too much for him. It's like seeing a ghost who's died (literally in Tony's case), watching these people he used to know so intimately speak over him like he isn't there.

You're invisible. They don't know who you are.

He would cover his ears if it wouldn't make him look insane. Then again, maybe he is going insane.

"I should go," he stammers. His heartbeat is racing at speeds that would put racehorses to shame. Breaths come quick, too quick. His hands are starting to shake. He needs to leave.

"Oh, don't mind Pepper, she'll come around."

He shakes his head emphatically. "No, no, I shouldn't have intruded. Uh, thank you for the coffee, Mr. Stark."

He called Tony "Mr. Stark" for practically as long as he knew the man, despite the man's undying efforts to try and get him to call him Tony. Why is it so hard to say "Mr. Stark" now? Why does it carry a heavier weight than it did before?"

"You're really not intruding, I mean technically you were on my property without permission which is kind of the definition of intruding, but it's fine," Tony says, and Peter's not sure why Tony seems to be angling for him to stay. Why can't he just let Peter go so he can leave this place as fast as humanly possible so he doesn't have to keep staring at a living, breathing reminder of why his life sucks so badly right now.

"I, uh, I have a work thing," he lies, "but thank you."

"I can send them a note," Tony offers.

"No, I should go. It's going to be dark soon, and I have a long drive ahead of me, but thank you, really." In one last moment of courage and desperation, he holds out a hand.

"It was nice to meet you Mr. Stark."

There is confusion in Tony's eyes, but he reaches out and shakes Peter's hand anyway. It's a good handshake, strong and firm without feeling like his fingers are going to break off.

"It was good to meet you too, Peter."

"Bye," he says, and he turns around and heads for the door.

He's almost made it, he can almost breathe, when Tony calls out.

"Wait!" he calls, and Peter pauses by the open door which is starting to create a chill in the room. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

He doesn't turn around. If he did, Tony would see the tears that are too much for him o hold back. One rolls down his face.

Say yes.

Say yes.

Say yes.

He doesn't. He's a coward.

"Maybe in another life." He doesn't wait for Tony to reply before walking out the door.

—

He makes it out the door, past Pepper who is grabbing the groceries in the slowest manner possible, back to his car which is parked a quarter of a mile away, and twenty minutes down the road before he has to pull over because his breathing is so erratic he feels like he's dying.

He's not dying. He knows that. He's been through this before.

He stumbles out of the car, falling to his knees on the forest floor. There is no one around, no cars, no bikers, no joggers. He is alone, just like he will be when he goes home, and when he wakes up in the morning, and the day after that, and the day after that, for the rest of his life.

And then, like someone has flipped a switch, his panic turns to anger.

(Whoever said depression comes after anger in the five stages of grief is a damn liar.)

"I didn't ask for this!" he yells, to no one; to everyone; to the birds who, startled at his outburst, have taken flight (even the birds leave him, he has no one); to himself. "I didn't want this!"

There are no tears. He has cried them all. There is only anger and no one around to hear his cries.

"I just wanted to keep my friends safe. I just wanted them to have a future! Is that so wrong?"

His voice is hoarse already from screaming; it will be sore in the morning.

"What did I do, huh? Why do I deserve this? Why is everyone I love ripped away from me? Why? Why? Why!?" He grabs a stick on the ground and throws it as hard as he can at a tree. It doesn't even splinter, it just falls to the ground with a dull thud.

He slumps against the passenger-side door. The metal is cool against his head. Why is he so exhausted?

"I know it's my fault." His voice is broken now. He's still not sure who he's talking to or why he's talking in the first place. Is he pleading? Bargaining? Processing? All three? Neither?

He doesn't know.

He hasn't known anything for a very long time.

"I just want a good life for the people I love," he continues. The sky's the only one who hears him. "But I want something good for me too. Is that so bad?" He's shaking. "I just want something good. For once. I want it to stay. And I just—I just missed him so badly. And now he's back, but he doesn't know me."

The wind answers him, a low, lonely whistle.

"He used to know me," he whispers back, like it's an oath that needs keeping. Like it's a sacred memory (which it is) that needs to be preserved.

Then again, louder and more angry, this time a metaphorical fist held to the sky in rage, a curse against the invisible barrier that hovers between him and everyone he loves.

"He used to know me!"

Notes:

I swear I tried to write fluff and all that came out was angst. I am so sorry.

Chapter 4

Summary:

In which Tony consults his wife, science bro, and estranged wizard friend about his missing memories. It goes kinda okay.

Notes:

The penultimate and also longest chapter so far is here! The quote contained in the story is taken from "Charlotte's Web" by E. B. White, and does not belong to me.

(Also, I'm seeing No Way Home for the third time tomorrow, and I'm very excited!)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The boy is oddly familiar.

Tony doesn't know what it is about the young Peter Parker that he recognizes—the way he walks or the how his hair flops over his forehead or the soft brown of his eyes (the depths of which hold a deep sadness that he recognizes too)—but whatever it is, it makes his heart ache. And as the boy makes to leave, clutching that photograph (Tony doesn't remember taking that photo, why doesn't he remember?) to his chest, Tony realizes he wants Peter to stay.

Maybe it's simple curiosity, a need to know why this boy, this Peter Parker, is causing him to experience an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Maybe it's something more, something deeper. Maybe it's the feeling stemming from the bottom of his soul that cries out with an urge to protect, to hold, to love.

Why does he feel these things so strongly in regards to Peter? It's almost unsettling. He can't explain it.

Whatever it is, whatever is creating this longing for the boy to stay, it brings forth words from his mouth.

"Wait," he calls, and Peter stills, "are you sure we haven't met before?"

He has to have known Peter before. There's no other explanation.

Peter stands statuesque in the doorway, his hand hovering over the doorknob, but he doesn't turn around. Tony sees him stiffen, his back straightens, his shoulders tense. "Maybe in another life," he says, and then he's gone.

Disappeared, like Tony's memories of him. For some reason they have slipped from his brain. It's like one of those old chalkboards from school that has enough dirty white marks left on it to know that writing has been there before someone had erased it, but not enough for someone to know what the words had said when they were still complete. Tony has enough of a feeling left to know that he must have seen this boy before, but he doesn't have the memories to tell him where. It's aggravating.

Peter's face haunts him, swimming before his vision, even though the doorway is empty and Peter Parker is gone. The boy's last words seem to hang in the cold air like frozen mist from his breath.

In another life, his foot! Tony has seen Peter Parker before, and in this life. He's almost certain of it.

When Pepper comes back, having taken far too long to grab only three bags of groceries, he is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, trying to remember the ghost from his past, trying to place Peter in his memories.

Pepper pauses to stare at him, standing in the doorway where Peter had paused too only minutes ago.

Peter. Pepper. Peter. Pepper.

Both people are so familiar to him. Both seem to fit in his life like a glove, their faces, their movements, their way of talking, all of it, so natural and intimate to him. He knows it, knows them , like muscle memory.

He knows Pepper. He knows his wife, he has memories of her.

He has no memories of Peter before today, and yet he knows Peter just the same as he knows Pepper. He knows.

"I saw the boy leave." Pepper's voice is factual. To the point.

"His name is Peter," he says absently, moving purely out of habit to take two of the bags from Pepper. The weight of them settles into his arms.

"Oh, is it?" she asks, grabbing the forgotten milk jug and following him into the kitchen. Her voice is hard.

He grabs bread from the top of one of the bags, being careful not to smoosh it. "You shouldn't judge him so harshly."

She laughs ironically. "He was trespassing on our property." The milk goes into the fridge with another thud, and he's surprised that she hasn't broken the jug already. As it is, the jug wobbles on the fridge shelf, the bottom too warped to sit flatly.

He sets the bread in the fridge, on the shelf underneath the milk. "He's seventeen, Pep, he's not even an adult, he's a kid."

"Oh, and that makes it okay," she huffs. "If he's seventeen, he's old enough to know better."

He pauses in front of one of the bags, staring at it uncomprehendingly. "I knew him," he says, his words standing out in the silence of the kitchen.

Pepper stops too, turning to stare at him with a look of concern on her face. "You knew him?" She looks at him incredulously.

He shakes his head. "I can't explain it." He turns to face her, hands grasping at invisible words that aren't there. "But, Pep, there was something about him. I swear I've seen him before. I've been having dreams, ever since I came back, about the Avengers and Thanos and there's always some… some absence in them. Like there's someone there, but I can't see them. It's like I see their shadow, but not their face."

Pepper shifts, leaning against the counter. "And you think this… shadow is that boy ?"

"I know it sounds crazy." It sounds insane really, but he knows he's not imagining things. The boy was familiar. Too familiar.

Pepper nods. "It does."

"But I think I've met him before. And maybe… maybe the spell that got me back here tampered with my memory and I forgot him or something, gosh, I sound insane." He rubs his hands over his face, the beginning of a headache forming in the back of his head from trying to remember the boy, trying to place him in his muddled memories. He knows he knew the boy, but from where?

"You want to know what I think?" Pepper asks softly. "I think Dr. Banner was right and that an aftereffect of the spell was some sort of memory loss. And because you don't like missing pieces, you never have, you're trying to fill in the blanks anyway you can, even if that means taking an intruder, inviting him in for coffee, and trying to imagine him into your past."

He bites his lip, frustrated. "You don't believe me."

Pepper sighs. "I believe you're tired and confused and under a lot of stress. And you have every right to be, Tony. It's not everyday you accidentally come back from the dead, but you have a family to help you through it. You have a daughter who has missed you every ounce that I have, and she deserves your attention. You don't need to be spending it on teenagers who spend their weekends trespassing on other people's property."

He waves his hand in annoyance. "He was just trying to get a photo of me. He's like every other news photographer out there, his only weapon is a camera."

Pepper frowns at him. "Which can do a lot of damage. I don't have to remind you of all the times the press has screwed with your representation." She turns her back on him, reaching into one of the brown grocery bags.

"Well maybe you do need to remind me because apparently I can't remember anything correctly!" He regrets the comment as soon as he says it, but before he can take it back, she spins back toward him, so fast he's surprised she doesn't get whiplash..

"That's not what I meant!" Her finger points accusingly at him, and he knows he's pissed her off. Well, fine. He can be pissed off too. "Bruce said—"

"Bruce isn't a real doctor!" he shoots back.

"Well that's not what you said when you refused to go to an actual hospital!" She's yelling now, a sign that this argument has crossed the line.

"Look," she continues, mouth still in a firm line portraying her annoyance, but lowering her volume in an apologetic gesture, "if you knew Peter before… before Thanos, don't you think I would remember him, even if you didn't. But I can say, just as sure as you are, that I haven't seen him before today."

He can't argue with that logic, but he can ignore it. He stares past her head, arms folded across his chest.

Pepper throws her hands up in defeat. "Ugh, you're incorrigible." She digs angrily around in the bag, and he hears the paper tear. "Put these in the cabinet under the sink." She practically forces a small paper box into his hands.

He glances down at it. It's a box of bandaids, the kid kind. These particular ones are decorated with decals of Iron Man.

He glares at her. "Really? Iron Man bandaids?"

"They were on sale." Her voice is cold, calculated.

He laughs, an insane laugh that makes him feel like he's going mad. Maybe he is going mad. Maybe that's his problem. "And I'm a billionaire. You don't buy things because they're on sale, Pepper ."

She glares at him again, whatever small surrender she'd given previously taken back and replaced with her previous anger. "Well maybe I bought them to remind you of who you are."

"Yeah, and who do you think I am?" Their voices are nearing yelling levels again.

"Well you're supposed to be dead!"

He gapes at her. "What's that even supposed to mean ?!" He slams his hand down on the countertop.

"Daddy?"

They both spin at the same time, plastering smiles on their faces, to see Morgan, who's standing at the threshold of the kitchen, a stuffed pig clutched in her hand.

Crap. He'd forgotten about Morgan, who he'd sent to her bedroom when FRIDAY had first caught Peter on the property. The kitchen was directly under her room, she must have heard them yelling.

He crouches to her eye level. "What's up, Morguna?"

She holds her stuffed animal close to her chest, and he hates the spark of fear that shows in her face. "Why are you yelling at Mommy?"

He sighs. It's times like these that he feels like Howard, when he wonders why he ever thought he would make a good parent. Not that they'd been exactly trying for a baby when Pepper had gotten pregnant.

"You know how sometimes you have trouble with your words," he says hesitantly; he never learned how to be a parent, this feels out of his element, "and you say something you shouldn't say."

Morgan nods. "Yeah."

"Well," he sighs, "sometimes Mommy and Daddy have trouble with their words too. Sometimes we say things that aren't nice because we're sad or we're angry, but that doesn't make it okay. Sometimes Mommy and Daddy make mistakes too."

"Oh," says Morgan, and he misses the days when life was so simple. When problems could be fixed with an easy answer.

"Now, what do we tell you whenever you say something you shouldn't say?" Pepper asks, stepping up behind him. He feels her hand settle on his shoulder.

Morgan frowns, contemplative for a moment. Then, "you tell me to think about what I said, and then you tell me to say sorry."

"That's right," Pepper says. "Sometimes adults need to do the same thing." She crouches down next to him. "I'm sorry, Daddy." She looks at him sincerely, and he sees true apology in her eyes.

"I'm sorry too, honey."

"See, even adults have to say sorry sometimes," says Pepper. She's always been better at this parenting thing than he has. "We all make mistakes, and we all say mean things. The important thing is that you apologize and that you know you still love each other afterwards." Pepper brushes a strand of Morgan's hair behind her ear. Morgan smiles at her.

"Ok," says Morgan, acceptance showing on her face. The fear is gone from her eyes. He breathes a sigh of relief. "Daddy, can you read to me? I'm bored."

He almost laughs at the abrupt change in subject as he glances up at Pepper who gives him a slight nod that says we'll resume this conversation later . "I'll put the rest of the groceries away, you two have fun." She pats him on the shoulder and gets up. He turns and smiles at Morgan, sweeping her up into his arms, stuffed pig and all.

"Alright, what do you want to read. There's An Introduction to Mechanical Engineering: Fourth Edition . Now that is a page turner."

She laughs in his arms, and it's moments like these that remind him why he's so thankful he's a father. What an incredible gift it is, to be able to hold her in his arms and make her laugh. He's been blessed. "No, Daddy," she pretend-frowns at him, "I want to read Charlotte's Web ."

"Again?" He gasps, exaggerating on purpose.

She rolls her eyes at him (this is definitely his child, he thinks; she's got the sass). "We've only read it two times, Daddy."

"Yeah, that's two whole times ."

"Please." She scrunches up her nose; she knows it gets him every time.

"Ok," he says, tossing her up in the air and catching her. She giggles. " Charlotte's Web it is."

He carries her up the stairs and into her bedroom. On the top shelf of her bookcase sits Charlotte's Web , its pages slightly bent and the front cover tattered from many openings and closings. He sets Morgan down on the bed and grabs the book.

"Alright," he says, sitting down next to her on the bed, both of their backs leaning against the headboard. He ruffles through the first couple pages, flipping past the title page and the table of contents. "Chapter one."

Next to him, Morgan nestles into his side. He wraps an arm around her and clears his throat.

"'Where's Papa going with that ax?' said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast…"

—

He's back on Titan again.

Nothing has changed. The planet is still a dull red color. Thick dust still hangs in the air. Blood is still coming from his side which still aches.

He knows the drill by this point.

He stumbles, falls to his knees, takes in the desolation of the planet again. This is all routine, all normal, he knows what's happening and what's going to happen.

Then, for the first time since he'd started having this dream, it changes.

He knows what comes next, or at least he thought he did, because when the figure appears on the ground and he goes to take the figure into his arms for support, it is not Spider-Man, but Peter Parker, the boy from earlier.

No, that's not right. He can still see the blurs of red and gold of the Spider-Man suit. The figure is still Spider-Man.

But the figure is also Peter Parker.

That does not compute with his brain.

Spider-Man/Peter Parker starts to dissolve, as he always does, dust floating into the air. Only this time, he isn't silent. This time he speaks.

"Mr. Stark," he cries, and it sounds exactly like the way Peter did, sitting at the dining table, only this time he is panicking, "please, I don't want to go. I don't want to go!"

It breaks Tony's heart. The boy scratches at him, like maybe if he holds on to Tony for long enough, he will survive. Tony knows the ending though. He knows it won't work. He wants it to work nonetheless.

More dust is in the air, clogging Tony's nose. The boy goes limp in his arms. "I'm sorry," Spider-Man/Peter Parker whispers. Then he's gone.

Tony stretches out a hand through the dust, hopelessly lost, seeking something, anything. There is nothing. Nothing but ashes and wind and the horrible, gut-wrenching sting of grief.

"Tony."

There is a voice on the wind.

"Tony."

There it is again. He looks around him. There is no one. Nothing but a red planet.

"Tony, wake up."

His eyes snap open.

Pepper is standing over him, holding Charlotte's Web . Next to him, Morgan is curled up under the blankets. He's still sitting up against the headboard; his back is sore now. When did he fall asleep?

"It's one-thirty," Pepper whispers. "You guys slept through lunch."

"Oh," he says as he gently begins to extract himself from the bed, being careful not to wake Morgan. "Sorry, I wasn't planning on falling asleep." He shakes his head. "I must be getting old." He gazes at Morgan, who is still fast asleep, her stuffed animal pig (which she had of course named Wilbur) clutched under her arm.

"That's alright." Pepper gently sets down the book on Morgan's nightstand. It must have fallen out of his hand whenever he fell asleep. "I enjoyed the peace and quiet," she says, a little too pointedly.

Right. Their argument from earlier. They still have unfinished business.

He sighs. "Pepper, I'm sorry."

"Not here." She thumbs towards the door. "I don't want to wake up Morgan."

"Right." He makes sure that Morgan is covered up and in no danger of rolling out of bed before following Pepper into the hall. He gently closes the door behind him.

They sit at the top of the stairs, Pepper on the left, him on the right. The house is silent for a moment.

Pepper caves first. "I'm sorry for yelling, Tony."

"Yeah," he says, "me too."

"I wasn't mad at you."

He raises an eyebrow. "The yelling said otherwise."

"Tony, please just let me talk for a minute."

He shuts his mouth.

"Ok," she admits, "maybe I was a little mad. But that's not how it started. I'm just—I was worried, Tony. You—look, right now you shouldn't be here. You're supposed to be dead. You were dead. For a year. And I just had to live with it. It wasn't like the Blip, there wasn't a way to bring you back, there was no time travel equation to solve. And it's only a miracle that you're alive right now.

"And that scares me, Tony. I'm scared that one day I'm going to wake up, and you're going to be gone. Or, even worse, you're going to do something brave but incredibly, incredibly stupid, and it's going to cost you your life. You got a second chance, Tony, and I don't want you to screw it up. Because we're out of second chances, and if you die again, there won't be a redo.

"And, look, I know that talking to Peter and inviting him in for coffee was probably harmless and I probably overreacted, but Tony, you can't just adopt every person that comes wandering by our door."

He protests at that. "I don't—"

"Tony."

He has the dignity to look abashed. "Sorry." He shuts up.

"When FRIDAY sent me the alert about the intruder, I'll be honest, I thought you were going to die. And then I come in and see you drinking coffee with him, and then you play it all off as a joke, and I'll admit, I did get mad then. Because what if Peter hadn't been harmless? What if he'd been dangerous? I was just worried, I didn't want to lose you again."

He reaches out across the empty space between them to take her hand. It's cold as usual. He rubs on it to warm it up. "You're not going to lose me again. Ok, not for a very long time. I'm sorry that I scared you. I promise no more taking in intruders for coffee or doing anything dangerous."

"Don't promise me that."

He pauses, confused. "You want me to… not make you a promise to not do anything dangerous."

Pepper squeezes his hand. "I was going to make you promise me that, at first. But I know you, Tony, and I was thinking about it and—you're not going to give this up, are you? The thing with Peter."

"I would," he begins, hesitant, not wanting to make another promise he doesn't intend to keep, "if you asked me to." It would be hard. Everything inside of him is yearning to push this, to find out what he's missing. But he would stop for Pepper. She deserves it, after everything she's been through because of him.

But Pepper, being the saintly woman that she is, gently shakes her head. "I won't ask you to do that, Tony. Asking that would be selfish. You feel like you have a responsibility toward this boy, and if you have a responsibility, who am I to keep you from it?"

"That wouldn't be selfish, Pepper. You deserve this. You make so many sacrifices for me, and I know I don't always appreciate them—"

Pepper shakes her head, cutting him off. "They're sacrifices worth making. Tony, I told you once I wanted just shirts in the closet. And I do want that. But it's unrealistic, isn't it. You're Iron Man, and you're always going to be Iron Man. And yeah, I would prefer it if you didn't go galavanting around like you used to, but I understand that you have things you need to do. I trust you, Tony. If you feel like you need to do this, then I support you."

"This isn't about Iron Man. This is stupid curiosity. I should just forget it." He doesn't want to forget it. Forgetting things is his problem in the first place.

She smiles gently at him. "You said something very similar when you discovered time travel. Do you remember what I said to you then?" She rubs her thumb over his knuckle.

He stares off into the distance of the house, remembering a conversation from over a year ago.

"Would I be able to rest?" he murmurs, knowing that his answer is the same this time around.

"You won't be able to until you fix this, will you?" Her eyes are understanding.

"No," he whispers.

"Ok," she says, like the answer to this is easy, "then do what you need to do. You said this wasn't about Iron Man, but it is, isn't it. Peter, he's connected somehow."

He remembers the dream then. Spider-Man having the face of Peter Parker. Or rather, Peter Parker having the body of Spider-Man. What if they're one and the same? The boy had reacted strongly to the picture of Spider-Man that Tony had given him earlier. And it made sense. How else had a seventeen year old managed to get pictures of Spider-Man and talk to him. He had to know the guy. And if Peter was Spider-Man, then he might have been to the Lake House before, or at least heard about it, which would explain why the boy had been able to find him so easily.

It all made sense.

It still didn't explain why he had no memories of Peter.

"I think Peter is Spider-Man." It's weird saying it outloud. But it's like he needed to hear himself say it because once he does, it's like a lightning strike. He knows it with as much certainty as if Peter himself had confirmed it.

Pepper's eyes widen. "That's… not what I was expecting."

"Yeah, me neither," he says, a far away look in his eyes. So he knows Peter is Spider-Man. That explains why the boy felt familiar. But that doesn't answer a whole lot of other questions, the main one being why the heck doesn't he remember this. His memories have been messed with, but he doesn't know how to fix it. He's good with science, but once you throw a piece of the body like the intricacies of the brain into the mix, he's pretty useless. He doesn't even know where to start. He probably needs scans of his brain or something—wait.

That's something.

"I need to talk to Bruce."

"Ok," says Pepper, "go do what you need to do."

He turns to her. "Are you sure you're okay with this? Say the word, and I'll stop. I've put you through hell a thousand times. You deserve some rest."

Her hands reach up to cup his face, fingers tracing over stress marks that weren't there a few years earlier, but that he wouldn't trade for the world because they're a sign that he's alive and breathing. "And you saved the world. You deserve peace, and if you think figuring out that boy will give you peace, then so be it. That doesn't mean I'll ever stop worrying about you though. And I fully expect you to come back home."

"You're a saint."

She smirks. "I know." She smiles and then kisses him, long and slow. When they break apart she looks at him with heartfelt sincerity.

"You make me proud, Tony. When we met, I'm not going to lie, you were an asshole."

He snorts, but he can't deny the statement. It's true. "Thanks."

"But over the past years, especially the last five, barring the one you missed, I have seen you grow into a kind, self-sacrificing, loving person."

"Most of that was you," he says, and he means it. She has changed him for the better.

She shrugs. "I played my part. The point is, I'm proud that you're Iron Man, and I love the person you've become. Don't get me wrong," she laughs, "you still have your moments. Don't forget that. But, Tony, I think you're doing the right thing, figuring out… whatever it is you need to figure out. So go do what you have to do. Just don't be stupid." She shakes her head at him.

"I promise I'll be careful. No galavanting." He grins.

"No galavanting," she repeats, and leans in for another kiss.

—

He calls Bruce.

It's a long conversation and basically a repeat of the one he'd had with Pepper only with 100% less yelling and 50% more stubbornness. Bruce does not bend quite as easily as Pepper did, but in the end, they come to an agreement.

Bruce will look again at the brain scans Tony had done when he'd first come back from the dead, report his findings, and then if nothing is amiss (which Tony insists there will be), Tony will drop the subject.

The last part is a lie.

Well, partly.

Tony will drop the subject with Bruce at least, but not altogether. One way or another, he'll figure it out.

For now though, he has to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Bruce had warned him that it would take a while, especially since he wasn't a specialist in neurology, or any other type of medical "ology." Tony's an impatient waiter. Bruce doesn't call back that evening, or during the night, and Tony spends most of the next morning anxiously looking at his phone every five minutes, each time willing there to be an incoming call or a text, and each time disappointed. Finally, as he's in the middle of eating lunch, his phone vibrates on the table. He picks it up in an instant.

It's Bruce.

The call doesn't even have the chance to ring more than once, he answers it that quickly.

"Talk to me, Big Guy," he says, throwing in the nickname to try and lighten the weight he feels in his stomach. Some intuition of his, some premonition, tells him that this call is going to be life-changing.

He's not wrong.

"Tony," Bruce starts, and he sounds incredulous, "you were right."

He can feel Pepper's eyes on him as he stands up and walks into the living room, his quesadilla lying forgotten on his plate. "What?" he asks. "What is it?"

"When we ran tests when you first came back, I took extensive scans of your brain as you know, including some detailed scans of your hippocampus, neocortex, and amygdala. Those are the parts of your brain that deal with explicit memories."

"Explicit memories meaning what exactly?" he asks, perching on the arm of the couch. He may have two master's degrees in physics and engineering, but when it comes to parts of the brain, he feels lost.

"Explicit memories are specific occurrences that you remember, like what you had for breakfast this morning or what your first car looked like," Bruce explains. "There's also implicit memories which deal more with muscle memory like knowing how to ride a bike and such, but those are currently unimportant. The big thing here, is that I'm seeing an anomaly within the hippocampus, that's where all the memories are stored for the most part."

"So there is something wrong with my memory?" He doesn't know whether to feel worried that he can't remember something he's pretty sure is important or relieved that he's not imagining things and going crazy.

"Yes, there is definitely something unnatural going on here, but Tony, this is unlike anything I've ever seen before. Do you know how memories are formed?"

"Yeah, that's a definite no," he says.

"Ok, well, memories are formed through a process called synaptic plasticity, which is when—you know what, actually, I'm not going to try and explain that. Basically, you remember stuff when specific patterns and groups of neurons that have formed are activated in your brain. I'm not a neuroscientist so please don't ask me to explain that anymore. But basically, I ran a bunch of tests, and Tony, your neurons are definitely messed up."

"Thanks, I appreciate the compliment."

Bruce seems unimpressed with his joke. 'Very funny, Tony," he deadpans. "Seriously though, the best I can explain it, there are huge black spots where some neurons should be. It's not a literal black spot, just a metaphorical one, but it's like some of your memories have been messed with."

The words should probably scare him more than they do, but instead all he feels is vindication. He's not losing it. Well, he may be losing his memories, but he's not going insane.

"Messed with, as in I don't remember them anymore?" he asks.

"Yes, either that or tampered with and altered. It's hard to explain, but the pattern of the neurons in your brain are all whack. So there's probably some things you don't remember and some memories that are there but are factually incorrect or incomplete."

The image of Peter Parker flashes up in his brain, the weird sense of recognition he got everytime he looked at the boy. "So could I potentially forget an entire person?"

"Uh, yeah, potentially. I can't actually see the memories that aren't there, all I can see is neuron configuration patterns."

"But it's possible?"

"Yeah," Bruce says, "yeah, that's possible. Why, do you have a person in mind?"

Peter Parker.

"Yeah, maybe. But—but I don't get this. If my memories aren't… as they used to be, why am I aware of that? Why do I have such a strong feeling that there's something missing? Shouldn't I just be moving on with my life not knowing that something's wrong?"

"Because," Bruce draws out the word, and there is the sound of wheels squeaking, like he's swiveling around in a chair, "according to this scan, your amygdala is still firing on all cylinders."

"My amig-what?"

"Your amygdala," Bruce corrects. "It's the part of your brain that connects strong emotions to your memories. So you remember something frightening that happened to you as a child, and your amygdala makes you feel scared. You remember something tragic, and your amygdala makes you feel sad. Basically, your memories have been tampered with, but the emotions connecting you to those memories are still intact. So you feel the emotion, but you can't remember the memory that goes with it, and that's what's causing any discrepancy you might be feeling."

So he must have strong emotions associated with this Peter Parker if he feels so strongly connected to the kid. But what kind of emotion? What kind of connection did he have with that boy?

"What kind of emotions are we talking about here, Bruce?"

"Well, anything strong really. Anger, shame, grief, love."

Love.

Why does that one stick out?

Did he use to love Peter Parker?

"Can I get the memories back?" He almost doesn't want to know the answer to his question.

"That's the thing," says Bruce, and he does not sound very confident. Tony's heart drops. "Whatever messed with your brain, it wasn't natural. There's a weird sort of energy in your brain waves, ones you only get from—"

Tony finishes his sentence. "From magic."

"Yeah," Bruce confirms.

Tony lowers his voice, casting a gaze to the dining table, but Morgan is busy stacking her cucumbers on top of each other and Pepper is deliberately avoiding his gaze. "So you think it was the spell?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I mean what else can it be, Tony? It has to be whatever spell Strange used to bring you back. There's no other explanation."

A thought comes then. "Wait, Stephan said that he had forgotten what the spell was—"

Bruce gasps on the other end. "You think the spell may have affected him too?"

"I mean, if it was some sort of memory spell, that makes sense."

"This is big, Tony," Bruce says, and Tony can sense the other guy's brain practically exploding with realization on the other side of the phone. "This is big."

"Yeah, yeah, it's huge. I just need to know—can it be reversed?" That's all that's important to him right now. He wants his memories back. It feels like an invasion without them, like someone has reached into his brain and stolen a piece of the puzzle that makes him who he is. He wants the puzzle pieces back.

"Potentially. I would have to talk to Strange to be sure. You know, normally, with other forms of memory loss, there isn't really any type of cure. Although for this kind of problem, I really don't think there would be a natural cure, even if there was one for the other types of memory loss. But I wonder if another spell would fix the problem. If it was magic that took your memories away, it would be possible that magic could give them back."

His heart beats faster. He can fix this. There is a solution. "That's brilliant, Bruce, you're amazing! If I was there, I would kiss you."

Bruce, on the other hand, does not sound as thrilled. "I'm not telling you to go try that, Tony. If we don't know which spell Strange used, then we don't know if it can be fixed. There could be disastrous consequences. You may just have to learn to live without those memories."

"Bruce, with all due respect, when have I ever listened to you in a case like this?"

Bruce sighs. "I wish you would listen to me now."

He doesn't. Of course he doesn't.

"Bruce, thank you so much. I owe you one. And whatever happens, it's not on you. Thank you for the warning."

Bruce's voice rises an octave. "Tony, don't—"

Tony hangs up.

He can fix this. He can fix this.

Pepper looks at him expectantly when he walks back over to the table. "So, should I be saving you a plate for dinner or no?" She stands up from her chair, smoothing down her shirt as she rises.

He shakes his head. "Best not. I'll probably be spending the night in town, or well, in the city."

"New York City?" Pepper asks.

"Yep. I've got business there that needs attending to. Don't worry, it shouldn't be dangerous."

There could be disastrous consequences.

He shoves the echo of Bruce's warning to the back of his mind. He'll be fine.

Pepper doesn't ask questions. She merely takes his left hand in both of hers. "Be safe. I love you."

He presses a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too. I promise not to do anything too reckless."

Pepper gently shakes her head, a reminiscent smile forming on her face. "I don't think you could keep that promise if your life depended on it."

He winks. "You know me too well."

She releases his hand and he goes to kiss Morgan, leaning down to wrap an arm around her. "Daddy's going away for the day," he explains. "I'll be back soon okay. I love you. Be good for Mommy."

"I will, Daddy," she croons before promptly knocking her cucumber tower down.

"Good girl." He stands to find that Pepper has already retrieved the car keys and is holding them out to him. She drops them softly into his hand. "Thank you," he says.

She nods, a silent "you're welcome. He's almost out the door when she calls to him again. "Do whatever it is you need to do, Tony. I support you." She nods firmly, a sign of stability and assurance.

"Thank you," he says, and then they both turn and break away to their separate tasks. Pepper goes to sit down next to Morgan, and he goes to start the car.

It's time to find a wizard.

—

"No. Absolutely not."

Apparently, finding a wizard is the easy part, one has only to knock on their front door. Getting said wizard to help you? Comparatively harder.

Tony spreads his arms in a come-on sort of way. On the stairs in front of him, standing with his arms defiantly crossed across his chest, is the ex-Sorcerer Supreme, Doctor Stephan Strange. "I haven't even asked you anything yet."

Strange smiles, but it's not the sure-I'll-help-you-with-what-you-need-Tony kind of smile that he wants, but more of a you-can-kiss-my-ass-goodbye kind of smile. "I don't need to ask. Bruce called me."

"Come on!" he protests, "What does Bruce know?"

Strange raises a hand, and Tony flinches slightly, but when he doesn't get turned into a pile of ashes, he relaxes, watching as a mug of something—probably coffee—floats out of a doorway and toward Strange's hand. "Last time I checked," the man starts, grabbing hold of the mug, "he knows enough to have seven PhDs." He takes a sip of whatever drink is inside the mug, and even then his smile still shows, like his main goal in life is to mock Tony.

"Well then forget what Bruce said. Look, will you just please help me get my memories back, and then I will be on my merry way, and you drink your coffee and forget I was even here."

Strange glares at him (Tony glares right back). "Three things. One, this is hot chocolate, not coffee. Dumbass. Two, even if Bruce hadn't called me, I still would have said no. What you want to do is too dangerous. Those memories were probably wiped for a reason. And the spell to recover lost memories isn't one hundred percent fool-proof. With your luck, I'd probably rip a hole in the universe, and then we'd actually have a problem. And three—no!" He takes another sip of his coffee, sorry, hot chocolate, wearing a smug look on his face.

Tony opens his mouth, ready with a rebuttal, but Strange cuts him off before he can get a sound out.

"For the last time! No!"

Tony groans. He's not here to listen to Strange's bullcrap about "messing up the universe." He just wants his memories back, and he was going to get them back one way or another. Even if he has to fight someone, and he'll be honest, he's not above punching Strange. The man deserves a broken nose. But Pepper would be mad at him if he got into a fight, so he plays one of the last cards on his belt—guilt tripping.

"Did Bruce explain to you about my memories? You, know, how all of my neurons are messed up, and because of that, my memories aren't—"

"I was an accomplished neurosurgeon before I got this godforsaken job," Strange cuts him off. "I know how the brain works."

Right. He'd forgotten that Strange was a neurosurgeon. Maybe he should have come here first.

Tony glares at him again. "Ok, well all my neurons are messed up because someone played around with some magic that they shouldn't have been messing with."

"Yeah, the magic that brought you back in the first place. You're welcome."

"Yes, yes, and I'm grateful for that. Really, I am. But can't you just fix the one tiny mistake you made when you somehow erased some of my memories. You owe me. After I kinda saved the universe and all that."

Strange scoffs. "I don't owe you anything. Goodbye, Tony." He turns to walk back up the stairs.

"It messed with your brain too. You can't remember what the spell was."

Strange turns around slowly, and when his face meets Tony's, it's dangerously guarded, like a lid covering a pot with boiling water underneath. "What are you insinuating, Stark?" Ironically, inside that very statement is the insinuation that if Tony tries to pull something, Strange is not in the mood to deal with crap today and that this could get ugly real quick.

"All I'm saying," Tony starts, knowing that he's on unstable ground here, and that this has a good chance of going south very quickly if he's not careful, "is that I know some very influential people, and I'm sure you would hate for the news of your… shall we say "momentary amnesia" to go public."

"Blackmail, Stark? You would stoop so low?" The red cape thing floats down from somewhere upstairs and settles on Strange's shoulders.

"Hey, modern problems require—"

"Modern solutions," Strange finishes. "I am a man of culture, Stark. Only, I don't think blackmail is a very modern concept. Nor is it effective on me. Tell the media what you wish, but then you will have nothing left to hold over my head, and tell me, Stark, what will you do then?" The words come to a smooth but threatening finish.

Well, so much for blackmail.

He does have one last card in his arsenal, however. Besides begging, but that's a last resort.

"I don't suppose you'd change your mind if I said please."

Please: the magic word. It works every time. (That's a lie.)

Strange's facial expression changes from ticked off to just tired. "Please is definitely better than blackmail, but it's still a no. Tony, you don't understand. Look, I am sorry that your memories were tampered with, but magic isn't something you can bust out because one thing is inconveniencing you.

"Why do I get the feeling that that's exactly what you did?"

Strange just sighs.

"Ok, sorry, that was low," he apologies with a sigh of admittance. "But look, I am asking you, very sincerely, to please help me with this. This is bigger than memories of my favorite food or my seven year old birthday party. I can feel it. This is something drastic." And here comes the crazy part. "I think you erased a person from my memory."

"Why would I do that?" Strange is giving him tired-and-overworked-college-senior-who-is-surviving-on-coffee-and-sheer-willpower-alone vibes here.

"I have no idea," he admits. "Look, do you know anything about the spell you cast before I came back? Or shortly after I guess."

It looks like it pains Strange deeply to admit his next words. "I did some digging, and"—he looks off to the side like he'd prefer to be anywhere but here—"I cast a memory spell of some sort. I don't know why or any specifics, but I did do something. There, are you happy now?"

"I'd be more happy if you helped fix the problem," he says, and when Strange looks like he's about ready to chuck the mug at him, he hurries on. "I know whatever you did, you probably had a good reason for it. I don't doubt that. And I know that sometimes when you're in this kind of job, you have to make decisions that are… morally ambiguous. But my memories were taken without my consent, and I would really like them back. You do have a spell that can do that right?"

"There's one," Strange says hesitantly, "but you would remember everything. And I mean literally everything that you've ever been through. That may not seem like a big price to pay, but trust me, it is. Especially for someone in our line of work."

"Do it," he says with no hesitation.

"Tony." Strange's voice is a warning.

Tony sighs. He's been making lots of life changing decisions lately. Might as well make another one. Maybe then the shadow will stop haunting him. He just needs to remember.

"I understand the cost," he says, and he does. There are many times in his life that he's glad he doesn't remember, at least not with absolute clarity. This spell will bring back all of those moments in crystal clear sharpness. There is a price, but one he's willing to pay. He knows, deep inside of himself, the part of him that knows without a doubt that he loves Pepper and Morgan more than he will ever love himself and that dying for the cost of half the world was the right choice, that part of him knows that he is missing something important. Something huge. He needs it back. Whatever the cost. "But you took my memories from me. I want them back."

"Ok," Strange says, "I'm probably going to regret this in the morning, but follow me."

—

The wizard has a wizard dungeon.

The room is dark and a little musty and not really the place where Tony would like to recover all of his memories, but he has to admit, the place is pretty cool.

Man, I could have used a place like this back in like, 2012.

Strange has him stand in the middle of a stone circle next to some floating block and it's really starting to feel like he's part of a two man cult. But he's come too far to take it back, so when Strange asks if he's ready, he nods. "Let's do this thing."

Strange is unimpressed with his enthusiasm. "Yeah, calm down. You're not doing anything, you're just standing. Still . And be quiet, please ."

Tony glares at the man, but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't need Strange messing up the spell and accidentally causing the universe to explode. That would be unfortunate.

He closes his eyes when Stephan (when did he start thinking of him as Stephan and not Strange?) starts moving his fingers in weird ways and shiny yellow lines start appearing. Nothing happens for probably thirty seconds and Tony is tempted to open his eyes again, but then there is a pounding in the back of his head and his breath catches. The pain gets increasingly worse and worse, the throbbing in the back of his head increasing until it feels like his entire head is on fire. He groans and kneels down, holding his head in his hands. Underneath his knees, the rocky floor digs into his skin.

He groans louder and louder, the sound progressing until he's basically yelling, and then the memories come.

People always said your life flashed before your eyes during near-death experiences. They hadn't been wrong, Tony had experienced the same thing before he actually had died.

But this is different. This is more.

This is everything he's ever done, ever seen, ever experienced, flashing before his life at once. Colors and smells and tastes and textures and sounds all at once. He wonders if this is how an epileptic feels watching a movie with flickering lights. Everything comes into his head in a big rush, and wow, he was not prepared for this.

It is painful. His head throbs; his brain feels like it's going to explode; his body shakes; and there's the weird sort of pens and needles feeling you get when your arm falls asleep and you shake it to get the blood flow back, only it's over his entire body and one hundred times more painful.

Not to mention there are the memories themselves.

Memories of when he was young and trying his best to be a good child for his father to love, of nights he'd spent blackout drunk, of tragedies he's experienced, of the long ride back to earth after Thanos when he was sure he was going to die, of every single painful moment of dying that he'd forgotten. Those hurt just as much as the actual pain does.

But then there are the good memories. Time of peace and love and happiness. Moments he'd forgotten. Movie nights with the Avengers back when they were all alive and didn't completely hate each other. Tiny moments with Pepper, a kiss on the cheek here, a finger trailing the inside of her wrist there. Nights with Morgan as a baby that were long and sleepless but full of so much joy because he had a daughter . Hanging out in his lab, ruffling the hair of a young boy beside him.

Peter.

He remembers Peter.

A boy who had meant nothing special to him when they'd first met, but to whom he had meant everything. Gradually realizing that this kid meant more to him than he was willing to admit. An argument on a rooftop and a "I Survived My Trip To NYC" shirt. A growing affection he was too scared to admit was love. A spaceship, a glowing green rock, a boy dissolving into dust. Sorrow, heartbreak, grief. A long five years. A picture, only it's Peter holding up the bunny ears, not Spider-Man. A reunion, and a long awaited embrace. A crying, kneeling, desperate boy calling out to him as he faded.

How did he not remember? How could he have forgotten? The thought makes him want to throw up. He'd forgotten his kid. How could he do that? What kind of man is he?

As quick as it comes, the pain leaves, and then he's gasping from his spot on the floor.

"Tony?" Strange sounds worried, although it's probably less because he actually cares about Tony's wellbeing and more because he would probably have to go into witness protection if Pepper found out that he killed her husband two months after Tony had come back from the dead.

He takes in a shuddering breath. The words come harder than he thought they would, weighed down by the burden of painful recollection.

"I remember."

Notes:

There you go: I fixed it.

I hope everyone who celebrated had a very wonderful Christmas! Final chapter coming soon :)

Chapter 5

Summary:

Peter gets a surprise visitor at his apartment.

Notes:

And the final chapter is here! I hope you enjoy it :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It is snowing again.

Peter can feel it as soon as he wakes up. It's the quietness.

New York City, just like any major metropolis, is loud. There are always cars honking and people yelling and tires screeching and bells ringing. It is the noise of people, of community, of togetherness.

(And even in the midst of all that, he is alone. Go figure.)

When he wakes however, rubbing sleep from his eyes after his impromptu afternoon nap, the sound has dimmed. It is not completely silent, no city ever is, but it is quieter. More subtle. Like a distant whisper instead of a imminent roar. It is a result of snow, he knows, this muted city. A glance out the window confirms it. He can see a blur of white outside.

If he were younger, back when his innocence allowed him to get excited about such things, he would have leapt from his bed and rushed to the window, eager to see the sharp gleam of white, coating everything outside in it's brilliant glow. He has always loved snow. When he was little, snow meant hot chocolate with marshmallows (and whipped cream if he was especially lucky) and slightly burnt chocolate chip cookies (the burnt edges were courtesy of Aunt May) and Christmas movies ( Elf was a frequent movie of choice, as was White Christmas when he grew old enough to understand it) and a snowball fight with Uncle Ben on the sidewalk outside their apartment, where they did their best to not hit passerbys. The first few days of snow after Uncle Ben died had been bittersweet, but he still loved that kind of weather, especially with the added bonus of an occasional day off from school if it was bad enough. Even after he'd gotten bit and found that one of the unforeseen consequences was an extremely hard time staying warm in the snow (thank you, poor thermoregulation, you suck) or any type of freezing weather, there had still been a sense of glee he'd experienced every time he woke up to a winter wonderland.

It's not the same now.

It's not that he hates the snow. He still thinks it's pretty (even if it makes going on patrol ten times harder) and he enjoys watching other kids get excited about it. It's just that he can't muster up the energy to get excited about anything anymore, much less snow. Especially when he would be getting excited about something that would just remind him of all he has lost.

He hates that he's not excited about it. He hates that he's lost his childhood innocence. Why had he been so eager to grow up once upon a time?

What he wouldn't give now, to be able to go back to that blissful time of ignorance. Oh, to experience the childlike joy of waking up to snow and being so excited just one more time. How hastily he rushed through those moments, always moving from one thing to another, never stopping to relish what he had.

A million years ago, when he was, oh, so overjoyed to see snow, he would have rushed to the window. Now, however, he moves slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his arms as he sits up to gain some semblance of warmth. He needs to invest in another blanket. Or, you know, money to actually pay the heating bill.

He pads to the window. The floorboards are cold underneath his feet. He presses his face to the window just like when he was an overeager child and watches the snow come down. The flakes drift down slowly, lazily, like they have all the time in the world to fall. The flakes are big and fluffy, the kind May called "pretty snow." She would have loved tonight.

Loved.

He hates that he has to use the word in the past tense. She should be here right now. She should be able to see fifty more winters like this. It's what she deserves. It's not what she got.

Condensation coats the window, and he drags his finger through it, drawing letters on the glass. He lifts his finger when he's done, revealing three letters in the best cursive he can manage.

May.

He leaves her name there, an imprint on the window that will drip and fade by the sunset that is only about twenty minutes away. Already he can see the sun descending. But until that comes, her name can remain there, watching the city outside as she liked to do on days like this. She had never liked going outside, it was too cold she would always complain. But she liked watching the people outside: little kids, shrieking with laughter; a group of women, bundled up in scarves and winter jackets, clutching hot cups of coffee as they talked together; a dog and it's owner, making separate but parallel sets of footprints, a dog paw beside a human foot.

A glow gradually overtakes the sky as he stands there, gazing at her name which is already beginning to fade from the glass. He doesn't wipe it away, this is the only way he sees her now, unless he is at her grave or looking at photos of them together, but most days that is still too painful. So he writes her name in places, on windows and on fliers and in booklets and in the snow collecting near the bottom of her grave, immortalizing her in pen and paper. He learns how to write it in cursive, learns the simple rises and falls of the "m," the roundness of the "a," the delicate swoop of the "y." He writes it beautifully, like how she was beautiful, how the life she lived was beautiful.

It is his way of remembering, of honoring, of healing.

Eventually the window blurs again, her name disappearing from the pane. He can no longer see distinct images out of the window, only general shapes and blurs of color. People walking, a car pulling up to his apartment building, the setting of the sun. It will be dark soon, or at least as dark as it can get in a city of more than eight million people.

He retreats from the window. The floor creaks under his feet as he makes his way over to his small excuse for a kitchen. He's not surprised when he opens up the refrigerator and the only thing it contains is a half eaten loaf of bread, some jelly (strawberry, not grape), and an old cheese stick. The pantry turns up with just as few contents when he opens it with a squeak of hinges. Sighing, he shuts the pantry door then opens the fridge again, like maybe out of sheer want, the contents will have changed since he checked it thirty seconds ago.

Unsurprisingly, there's no change, though the cheese stick does look a tad moldy this time around. Looks like it will be peanut butter and jelly for him tonight. Payday is on Friday, he'll just have to survive until then. That is, if he's still employed at the end of the week.

He glances over at his phone, but it's silent from it's spot on the table. No calls or texts. Huh, he thought J-Cubed would have called him by now to chew him out for not handing over pictures of Iron Man by his appointed deadline of this afternoon. Maybe the man has decided to have mercy on him. More likely, he's too mad to say anything. He'll call eventually though. Hopefully he's not too irate. If Peter loses this job, then he's going to have a problem.

He doesn't regret his decision to keep the photos to himself though, as he gazes at the picture Tony gave him, carefully framed and placed on the counter. He'd do anything to keep Tony safe and happy, even if the man doesn't recognize him anymore.

He winces. Some of his tragedies and losses have scabbed over enough for him to think about occasionally. But this wound is still too fresh. He pushes Tony out of his mind. He'll process everything that happened yesterday sometime in what is probably the very distant future, when it doesn't feel like he's losing Tony for the second time.

The sound of his stomach rumbling echoes throughout the room. He's hungry.

Finally, a problem he can fix.

He's just gotten the peanut butter out of the pantry and is reaching for a knife, when there is a knock at the door. He sighs, glaring in the direction of the sound. The only person who ever knocks at his door is his landlord, usually to complain about something.

He's not in the mood to hear another complaint. He just wants to eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwich in peace and then go back to bed. He's too tired to go Spider-Manning tonight, too tired to do anything really, other than sit motionlessly and stare at the wall.

Maybe he's depressed.

He should probably do something about that, but he doesn't have the energy to, so it only gets gradually worse. It's a harsh repeating pattern.

There is the knock again, louder this time. He drops the knife back in the drawer.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." He's grouchy today, and it shows. He should really shut up or at least fix his tone. The last thing he needs is to get on his landlord's bad side.

Only, when he opens the door, it isn't his landlord standing on the other side, but Tony Stark, holding a brown bag and wearing an emotion that Peter can't understand. Like sadness, relief, and confusion, all at the same time.

"Um, hi," he says, utterly confused as he raises his hand in an awkward wave, dropping it a second later because no, that's awkward, he doesn't remember you .

What is Tony doing here? Did he mess up? Is Tony mad about him trespassing and has come to inform him that he actually is going to prison?

"Peter." That's all Tony says, just his name, but he says it desperately, like a vow that needs to be kept, and it hurts . It hurts because that's how Tony had said his name after they reunited during the final battle against Thanos and Tony had enveloped him in a tight hug. All of this right before Tony had gone and decided that it was a good idea to die for the universe. And now Tony is back and saying his name again like that, like there is genuine affection and love behind it, but he knows that can't be the case because Tony doesn't remember him.

And yet here the man is, standing outside Peter's apartment door and saying Peter's name like it's the most precious thing in the world. It makes his body physically ache. Part of him wants to close his eyes and sink down, right through the floor into nothingness.

But he doesn't, he can't, not when Mr. Stark is standing right outside his door blessedly alive and breathing.

"Hello, sir, do you want to—I mean come on in, unless you just need to say something, and then you don't have to come in if you don't want, but I mean you can if you want to, and, uh, hi," he trails off.

Stupid, stupid. Pull yourself together, Parker.

Tony holds up the brown bag, and it smells suspiciously like Delmar's. "I brought dinner."

Peter opens the door wider. "Thank you, uh, come on in." Inside his chest, his heart is pounding, and he can feel his hands start to shake. He wills them to stop trembling which of course they don't.

Tony walks through the door slowly, taking in the room around him, and suddenly Peter feels embarrassed. Tony is a billionaire, and Peter knows that he's barely paying rent on this apartment even though it's pretty much crumbling from the inside. The apartment feels dirty and claustrophobic, and he's suddenly wishing he had some febreeze to spray to cover up the scent of mold. Tony doesn't belong here, it's out of place for him. But it's all Peter has.

Tony doesn't say anything as he makes his way to the table, setting down the bag. He opens it and ruffles inside while Peter hurriedly puts back the beginnings of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He's just shutting the pantry door when Tony holds up a deli sandwich. "Number five with pickles and smushed down real flat. That's still your favorite right?"

His heart skips a beat.

He freezes where he's at, hand hovering in midair. "How do you know that?" he asks, but it comes out as a whisper. A small desperate whisper into the dead of night that he knows will bring no response.

Tony doesn't remember him.

Tony doesn't remember him.

Why can't his stupid brain accept that? Why can't he just move on?

Tony doesn't answer his question. Instead, he puts down the sandwich and looks at Peter with pure, unadulterated concern, and the look is so compassionate and loving , that Peter begins to shake his head in denial. Tony shouldn't be looking at him like that. The rest of his body has caught up to his hands, and now all of him is trembling. "Peter," Tony says hesitantly, "do you remember me?"

Peter breaks.

He rushes Tony with a yell, pulling a fist back to punch this imposter because whoever is in front of him can't possibly be Tony. Tony doesn't remember him; this isn't right. His entire body is screaming at him not real, not real, not real . Tony catches his hand, and he goes to swing with his other hand, but it's half-hearted and weak because he can't stop shaking, and Tony catches that one too.

"Peter—" Tony starts, but Peter cuts him off with a hoarse scream that's more like a sob.

"You don't know me!" He struggles to get free, trying to kick the other man, but Tony sidesteps him easily. "You don't know me!"

"Peter."

"What kind of trick is this? Stop it!" His voice is rough and irritated. A tear slips down his face. "You don't know me!"

"Peter, listen to me!" Peter thrashes in Tony's arms, managing to get a hand free of the older man's grip. He rears back to smack Tony, only this isn't Tony, this can't be, it's a trick, a deception, Tony doesn't know him, but his hand is caught once again before it can make contact. He can barely see through his tears, and he's shaking so hard he can barely control how his body moves, but still he wriggles and fights, emboldened by his anger at whoever is giving him this hope that he knows can't be real. It's impossible. There's no way.

"Peter Benjamin Parker!"

It's the use of his full name that finally causes him to still. Maybe it's just the surprise at the yelling, or maybe it's the fact that Tony knows his full name.

He shakes where he's standing, trembling so violently he's surprised he hasn't already fallen over. And then there are the tears, coursing down his face like a river, and he can feel his nose dripping. For a moment he thinks he's actually going to puke with the way the crying is tearing at his stomach.

"Peter, oh, Peter, Peter." Tony's hands are on his face, wiping desperately at the tears, and oh, how could Peter have ever thought this was someone else because Tony's hands are so real and warm that it can't possibly be a trick. But how? How?

"I know you," Tony says. "I know you."

This is love in its cruelest form! To give him such hope, to hear the words he so desperately wants to hear, even though he knows it's impossible.

"No," he manages to whisper, "you can't."

Tony looks heartbroken as he shakes his head. "I promise I do, Pete." And he looks so sincere that Peter has to believe him even though he doesn't understand. Tony's hands ruffle through his hair, and it's such a familiar gesture and so full of love that it takes his breath away.

Tony knows him.

Tony knows him!

Tony knows him!

How, how, how? He can't believe it.

He reaches his hands out, but this time not to hurt but to hold, desperately seeking out Tony. His hands are shaking too hard to do anything but grasp at the man's shoulders. He holds them tightly, like if he lets go, Tony will disappear.

Tony steps closer, closer than a stranger would get, and for some reason it's this closeness, this intimacy, that finally breaks down the wall in his mind. "Peter, I'm so sorry."

A whisper. A whisper that tells him everything he needs to hear.

He crumbles.

Tony falls with him as he crashes down, his knees shaking too much to support him any longer. For just a split second he's by himself, kneeling on the floor, then there are arms wrapping around him in such a familiar, familiar way.

He sobs desperately, a mix of happy and relieved and sad all at the same time. Tony just kneels beside him and holds him tight against his chest, one hand rubbing his back slowly, the other one firmly planted in his hair like an anchor to reality. He can smell pine and cologne and something that almost smells like smoke, and it's all so real, and this is everything he's wanted during the past couple of months, to be held like this. For the first time in what feels like forever he feels safe, he feels loved.

"How?" he manages to choke out amongst the tears. "How do you remember me?"

"I saw Strange. He gave me my memories back, and oh, kid, I'm so sorry that I forgot you. I am so sorry."

Peter shakes his head from where it's tucked in the hollow between Tony's neck and shoulder. "Not you," he mumbles, "it was me."

"What do you mean, Pete?"

"I did it," he croaks, "it was all my fault. I messed up really badly, and Aunt May died, and MJ and Ned could have died too. And there was the multiverse and people were breaking through, and I had to make them forget me. I made Strange cast a spell to make everyone forget who Peter Parker was, but I didn't realize you were alive, I didn't realize I was making you forget me too." His voice breaks after that and he's back to gasping for breath through his sobs. He can't believe it. This feels unreal.

"Oh, kiddo," whispers Tony, and it's only then that Peter realizes Tony is crying too, "you did that?"

His fingers ache and he realizes he's been clutching the back of Tony's shirt. He lets go, pulling back and wiping his eyes. His knees hurt from where his position on the floor, and he can only imagine how Tony's knees feel.

"I had to," he hiccups, as Tony brings his hands up to cup Peter's face again, swiping at tears and snot and he knows his face must be a red, blotchy mess. Even Tony's face is flushed, and there are tears lines on his cheeks too. What a mess the two of them are. He wouldn't change it for the world. "It was all my fault. I was being stupid and selfish and I really messed up and I just wanted MJ and Ned to have a good life, so I had to make them forget me." He's about to start crying again.

"Kid," Tony whispers, "it's not selfish to want a good life for yourself too. It's not selfish to want peace."

"It's been so lonely, Mr. Stark," he manages to croak out and then there go the waterworks again. Tony draws him close once more, wrapping his arms around him.

"What do you need me to do, Peter?"

Go back in time and make it so none of this ever happened. Have Strange restore everyone else's memories. Bring me back to the Lake House. Fix me somehow. Hold me. Love me.

"Can we just stay like this for a while?" This is all he wants. This is all he needs.

"Yeah," Tony whispers, "we can do that."

Peter doesn't know how long they kneel on the floor, arms clutched around each other desperately. He does know that he cries and cries and that Tony holds him the whole time and whispers platitudes in his ear. He does know that there is finally someone who remembers him, someone who loves him.

And when he stops crying and shaking and breaking down, Tony doesn't pull away, but stays where he is, arms wrapped around Peter even tighter than when he first got pulled into the hug.

The feeling that washes over him is the first pleasant feeling he's had in a long time. It feels comforting and warm and peaceful. It feels like coming home.

Eventually, once his mind settles and his heart no longer feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, he disentangles himself from Tony and sits back, leaning against the wall. Tony relaxes too, settling beside him. "So, the multiverse, huh?" asks Tony.

He laughs, and it's watery and weak, but it's the first real laugh he's uttered in a long time, and it's the most amazing feeling in the world. "Yeah. I met two other versions of me. They were really cool. Peter-2 shot real webs out of his wrists." He wipes at his face, doing his best to rub away the tears and snot.

"No kidding," Tony breathes, a statement more than a question.

"So you really went and got your memory back from Strange?" he says quietly, like it's still too good to be true.

"Yeah, and you better be worth it, kid, because I now remember being in my mother's womb."

Peter laughs again and it's such a rich feeling that it takes him a moment to realize that Tony's being serious. "Wait, really?"

Tony just shakes his head. "It's a long story, one for another time. You were worth every memory though, Pete." He reaches out an arm and Peter leans forward for a moment, letting Tony wind an arm around his shoulder. He settles back down, head leaning against Tony's. There is a rustle next to his head, and then he can feel Tony press a soft kiss to the top of his head. A warmth spreads through his veins. "I love you, kiddo," Tony whispers against his head. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again, you hear me? You're gonna stay right here with me."

"I love you too, Tony," he whispers back.

He's not planning on leaving any time soon.

And with that, on the floor of his dirty, cold apartment, the place where he's picked himself up from heartbreak after heartbreak, as snow flutters to the ground outside, Peter Parker begins to heal.

It's been a long time coming, and it will be an agonizingly slow process from here on out with setbacks and tears and days where it feels like everything is crashing down around him again, but he's found the light at the end of the tunnel, the better tomorrow, the afterglow.

He'll be okay.

Eventually his phone will ring from its place on the table, and it will be J-Cubed calling (as he expected) to chew him out, but he won't care. And Tony will take the phone from him and say some very harsh words into the speaker. And then Peter will be out of a job, but it will be okay because Tony will insist on spending the night, and then the next morning, he will help Peter pack his stuff into Tony's car, and then Tony will rev the engine and look at him and ask "you ready to go home?"

And then he will. He'll go home.

Not all of his problems are fixed. Ned and MJ still don't remember him, and neither does anyone else. He still doesn't have a social security number or a bank account or a birth certificate. Aunt May is still dead, and that will be the hardest loss to recover from because no matter how many people's memories get fixed, it won't bring her back. So yeah, his problems aren't over.

But this—this is a start. And for the moment, that is enough.