Archive of Our Own

Sometimes, Peter hates himself. 

Sometimes Peter’s hatred - of the world, of himself, of the unfairness of it all - takes such a deep-rooted hold in his heart that it’s impossible to imagine what life was like before the hatred. Before everything fell apart. 

(But Peter’s life has been in a constant state of self-imposed destruction since before he can even remember. 

Sometimes, Peter wonders if there was ever a time before the hatred. He thinks there was, at one point, before Ben died. Before Spider-Man. Before Peter’s world fell apart again, and again, and again.)

Sometimes the world feels like it will stop moving under the force of Peter’s intense hatred: like his chest will seize up and collapse under the constant pressure… like the fact that Peter even exists has to be wrong, because there is no way he was supposed to survive the life that has been thrown at him. 

Sometimes, when Peter thinks about all of the ‘what-if’ moments in his life - and there are plenty to choose from - he wonders what if he hadn’t been there for them at all?

What if he hadn’t insisted on helping the (not his problem, not his problem, not his-!) villains from the other dimensions? What if he hadn’t insisted on bringing them to Happy’s? What if he hadn’t let them be around May?

What if he hadn’t put MJ and Ned in danger time and time again , what if his identity was never revealed, what if he wasn’t stupid enough to try and change the shape of the universe to fit his liking? 

(What if Peter left this world and never came back ? What if he had stayed away?)

But then, if Peter is in Queens when the hatred starts to get too strong (and he most often is , because Peter doesn’t go anywhere - it’s kinda his job to be in Queens, after all), he’ll inevitably find himself looking around. And he’ll see - in every alleyway, at every intersection, and on every rooftop - a memory. Spider-Man saving someone’s life, Spider-Man evacuating a building, Spider-Man helping a person with their groceries… Peter Parker making small talk with people who might not know him, but are kind enough to say “Hello” or “Good morning” or “Have a good day” and even if they don’t remember their exact words even three seconds later, Peter does . On every street is a memory (from Spider-Man, from Peter, with May, with MJ, with Ned, with Miles and Johnny and Wade and Matt and-!) and a sign of his impact. And if Peter Parker didn’t exist, then who would have given a lost tourist directions two days ago? Who would have stopped a college-aged kid from being mugged a week ago? Who would have helped Miles on his homework? Who would have been Peter ? 

Someone being Peter , as Peter has slowly been learning, is something that is pretty instrumental to quite a few people. 

Or, if he’s really being honest with himself, someone being Peter matters quite a lot to the entirety of Queens, and even to the greater part of New York City. 

Because Peter is Spider-Man, and there are people who - miraculously, impossibly, somehow - love them both. Or, rather, love Peter in all his entirety: hatred and shitty luck and what ifs and all. 

So sometimes… sometimes Peter hates himself. It’s hard not to, when the guilt and grief and weight of the world press down on his shoulders, grinding him into the ground in a truly awful way, suffocating and stifling Peter into a horrible sort of silence. But when Peter’s quiet - when Peter is quiet, because there are people who know Peter now, who know him , who know how quiet he can be (how quiet he is ) when something is really wrong - there are those who can make the noise for him, who can break the silent and overhanging doom of what if with their beautiful, beautiful presence: their impossible-to-silence selves, who make noise when Peter feels like he can’t . Like he doesn’t deserve to.

When Peter ‘goes quiet’ - as he has taken to calling those moments when making sound (when existing ) isn’t just hard but practically impossible - it’s because he doesn’t know how to be . It’s because he’s never been a kid, because he’s had to grow up far too quickly, and because sometimes Peter doesn’t know how to handle the world and participate, too.

Remarkably, Peter is still here when he goes quiet. He celebrates every day of living in the moment, even when it gets hard ( especially when it gets hard), as a success.

Sometimes Peter slips - sometimes he’s not quite there , not quite able to face the world - but he’s gotten better at living inside his own mind, in his body, in the present. And when it gets hard - when it feels impossible - Peter goes quiet, watching and observing rather than interacting, but still undoubtedly there , and Peter doesn’t know how to articulate how much that means to him. How much his own success - his own progress - means to him. 

But, Peter supposes, he doesn’t have to articulate anything. Because they , more often than not, seem to already know , probably because they have been there, too.

(Except for Miles, who instead practices a soft sort of patience and understanding about the simple fact that sometimes Peter just can’t , and Peter wouldn’t have it any other way. He doesn’t want Miles to understand - to ever understand - but he does want Miles to be kind. Compassionate. Good . But Peter’s never had to worry about that with Miles. He’s always been good.)

So, yeah , sometimes Peter hates himself. Sometimes he slips into a state of quietness that feels impossible to break. 

But, that’s the thing: it does . No matter how shitty things are in the moment, the hatred and the quiet don’t last forever. They aren’t permanent. 

And when Peter slips, there is always someone there to catch him. That kind of comfort - that security - is more constant than the reminders Peter knows exist at every corner of Queens, because the knowledge that Peter isn’t alone nestles itself deep inside Peter’s heart. In his soul.

And sometimes Peter hates himself, but all of the time he’s loved. And love doesn’t magically fix anything, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. 

Before leaving his own universe, Peter didn’t ever ‘go quiet.’ He was either in his head or not, aware or not, engaging or not. Then Peter forced himself to stay inside his head, and things were alright. Kinda. (Not at all, but Peter had to fool himself at the time into thinking they were, or else he would have lost it.) Then he came back from Gotham, and Peter went quiet, and at first he thought there was something wrong with him, because- because!

Because Peter had been living in reality and engaging (for the most part!) before leaving, so why was he backsliding now?  

Shouldn’t he be better?

Peter wasn’t expecting to reveal his identity to the people closest to him and be miraculously fixed by doing so. He wasn’t expecting to wake up the very next day and suddenly be okay , but he also hadn’t expected, a week after returning, to wake up one morning and think “I need to tell Ned about-” and be smashed over the head with a sudden wave of despair because there was no Ned to tell. And Peter… felt stupid. He felt ridiculous and stupid and exhausted and like the world was crashing down right on top of him like a bulding, suffocating him, and the white of Peter’s ceiling blended into gray and it was like there was concrete above him and- and- and Peter can’t breathe-

He didn’t end up leaving his apartment that day, and instead scrambled into the bathroom with a hurried desperation and threw up in his toilet for longer than Peter would like to admit. Longer than he should have, considering his metabolism. Long enough to form purple-red bruises on his knees from kneeling on the cold tile floor.

But, coincidentally enough, it was Thursday and Wade both a) knew where Peter lived and b) still felt a raw sort of terror at the idea of Peter disappearing from their universe forever (Peter would feel sorry for scaring Wade, once he wasn’t in a state of nauseatingly heavy despair. Even though he brushed off every apology, the fear in Wade’s voice as he smashed into Peter’s apartment… echoed around in Peter’s mind for a while.), so of course he showed up.

Peter could hear the knock on his window. Then he could hear the banging. Then he could hear loud cursing (which was what alerted Peter to the fact that it was Wade who was trying to give him a heart attack, and not some random asshole) that would definitely result in complaints being filed against Peter in the morning, but the place was enough of a shithole that Peter didn’t really care.

(Except there was a family in the apartment below him with a newborn and fuck Peter didn’t want Wade to wake the kid.)

Luckily Wade decided to take matters into his own hands by, quite literally, grabbing Peter’s poor window with his own hands and breaking into the apartment. 

What’s some casual breaking-and-entering between friends, after all?

“Peter!” Wade’s voice doesn’t crack, but it’s a bit too high pitched and hurts Peter’s ears, so he flushes the toilet to alert Wade of his presence (and wash away the most recent round of vomit) and hears heavy feet and a chest full of intense breathing storm their way across the floor not even seconds later. In contrast to the heaviness and intensity that makes up… all of Wade, all the time, the knock on the bathroom door is soft. Gentle, “Peter? Y’in there?”

The coolness of the toilet rim feels good against Peter’s feverish forehead. Fuck the germs: it’s his ass anyway. He’s managed to work himself into an intense, grief driven sickness which isn’t exactly helped by the fact he can’t keep food down. Or get up to even try to keep food down. “C’m in,” Peter groans quietly, and Wade doesn’t hesitate to throw the door open, although he catches it before it can slam into the wall and make Peter’s headache worse. 

“Oh.” Wade’s voice drops to something even softer than it was before - softer than Peter’s ever heard it - and it reminds Peter of May and Alfred so much that it hurts. Before Peter can even comprehend what’s going on, his face turns from Wade and toward the toilet bowl and he’s hurling even though there is nothing left inside of him to puke up. The air is heavy and rancid and smells like sickness, but Wade doesn’t even hesitate to get in close and rub Peter’s back gently, “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

It’s not okay. Nothing’s okay. Nothing will ever be okay, but Peter’s never been a pessimist, so between gasping lungfuls of air he manages an, “Okay.”

Before, when Peter couldn’t stand to make noise or to even be (and he’s always gone quiet, really, just in different ways), he’d put on the Spider-Man mask and become someone else - someone that isn’t Peter - because Spider-Man is supposed to be happy and quippy and perfectly unaffected by the shitstorm that is his-  

Before, when Peter was Peter and Spider-Man was Spider-Man, Peter thought that no one would want Peter to infect Spider-Man with his rotting feelings of disappointment and grief. 

Before, Peter was alone.

( Now Peter knows that he was never alone - not really - but that he hadn’t been willing to see that before .)

Now, however, when Peter finds the world to be too large - too much - there are friends (and is that a remarkable concept? Peter can barely believe it himself) who, although they can’t change the size of Peter’s problems, manage to make the quietness more bearable.  

Now, when Peter goes quiet, when the world is too much, he can reach out. He doesn’t, of course, his fears of being a burden, of being too much, of reaching out and not getting an answer keep his hand from asking for help. He breaks his own heart, sometimes, at the idea of them not having the time for him, and to keep his heart from breaking he stays quiet, even though that hurts in an entirely different way. But Peter’s used to being alone, so he can handle it . 

Now, Peter doesn’t have to just handle it .

Now, they know that Peter loves them. That Peter treasures them. That Spider-Man - that Peter - doesn’t have everything perfectly under control, that he needs them, and that he wants to be needed in return. 

So now… Now when Peter can’t make himself reach out, they reach out to him.

Miles sends him a variety of games on Game Pigeon (The day after Peter came back from Gotham, Johnny bought Peter a phone from this century, despite Peter's protests that he really didn’t need one. He was immediately added into half a dozen group chats, all of which were severely lacking in the witty-name department, which Peter quickly rectified) which Peter can’t help but respond back to. He hates leaving games unfinished, but that, at least, is not due to some big traumatic thing that occurred in Peter’s childhood/teenagehood or whatever, but because Peter finds himself getting far too invested in any competition.

Wade brings their Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays (with a trademark and everything, because somehow Wade managed to get a trademark, and Peter places every ounce of blame on Matt as their resident lawyer) straight to Peter, or just straight up brings food to Peter even when it isn’t Thursday, although it is still sufficiently greasy. 

Matt is Matt. He’s… He’s, as May would call him, “Good people.” May would have - and did , Peter remembers, because she had met Matt “I’m Just A Really Good Lawyer” Murdock - liked him. She would have liked the way he was there for Peter even more. Whenever Peter goes quiet for a bit too long, Matt will invite himself over, some fat and completely obscure codex or novel or collection of well-worn poems in hand, and say, “There isn’t a PDF or audio version online and Foggy’s tired of reading it out loud.” And Peter - voice dry and hoarse from days of silence, because Game Pigeon and Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays don’t require Peter to talk, and Matt only breaks out the ancient fucking tomes that he must have either special ordered or found in some ancient tomb because no one casually gets their hands on shit like that in a bookstore when Peter’s been silent for a bit too long - will stumble over the words at first before falling into his rhythm. 

And it isn’t a solution. It isn’t a solution, but Peter’s always loved to learn. 

It isn’t a solution, but the company is good. 

It isn’t a solution, but Peter likes to feel needed . Likes to feel helpful, even when he doesn’t have the strength to be a superhero. 

So it isn’t a solution, but it helps . 

And, if Game Pigeon and Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays and ancient codices or tomes aren’t enough, then Peter will find his apartment becoming the host for some sleepover or another. He’ll find his apartment filled with family. He’ll find himself cared for in ways Peter doesn’t know if he deserves, but, with May’s voice urging him on in his head, will take anyway.

A few months after Peter’s glorious return from his little interdimensional vacation, the entirety of the Fantastic Four showed up at his door (not even the window , what the hell is his landlord going to think??) after Peter hadn’t left his apartment for over two weeks save for a few solo-patrols he had to force himself to go on, and Peter doesn’t know if he will ever emotionally recover from seeing the Reed Richards comfortably sprawled out on his (very tasteful, thanks Wade) rug, surrounded by a mound of pillows that Peter didn’t buy yet somehow now owns, with Sue curled into his side, jokingly fighting over what movie to watch on Peter’s laptop. He tried to tell them that they didn’t have to cram into his crummy apartment: that if they were really going to do this he could have gone to the Baxter Building so no one had suffer from Peter’s lack of seating, but Johnny just wrapped his arm around Peter’s neck playfully, ruffling his hair with a cheerful, “You can’t get rid of us!” 

Peter’s hair was greasy. His breath probably stank and he would have been in the midst of a horrible acne breakout if his spidery healing hadn’t kept his skin from ever changing. But Johnny didn’t shy away, didn’t make Peter feel ashamed or embarrassed even as his skin crawled at the idea of anyone seeing him at one of his lowest points.

Halfway through the first movie, Peter fell asleep after not having slept (after not being able to sleep) for the past four days and woke up in his own bed. There was a vague moment of unease as Peter wondered who had managed to move him from the floor to his bed without setting off his danger-sense, but the unease faded as he remembered who , exactly, had been with him in his apartment.

His, Peter only now notices, as he scans his surroundings, now clean apartment, which had definitely not been the case when Peter fell asleep last night. Johnny was leaning against the side of the bed, scrolling on his phone, with Reed, Sue, and Ben nowhere in sight, and before the idea of abandonment could even enter Peter’s mind, Johnny noticed that Peter was now awake and murmured, “The others went on patrol around Queens. Even though things have been quiet, people will think twice before getting into trouble after seeing the Fantastic Four sniffing around.”

“Oh.” 

Peter doesn’t know how to even begin to express his gratitude, but Johnny must have interpreted his reaction as something different because he stills and a guilty expression crosses over his face, “That’s… that’s okay with you, right? We aren’t overstepping?” 

The lump in Peter’s throat is too big to speak around, but he makes himself do it anyway, trying to push every ounce of gratitude he feels into his voice, “No, not at all. Thank you .” 

Johnny smiles and looks absolutely brilliant, “Want breakfast?” He offers, and Peter shakes his head apologetically, “I don’t think I have anything other than, like, canned soup.”

“Nah, Reed went grocery shopping. I can make pancakes?” Peter’s brain whites out for a second. Reed Richards - Mister-fucking-Fantastic - went grocery shopping for me , he thinks to himself in a daze, and finds himself nodding.

“Yeah. Yeah . That sounds… that sounds good.”

Johnny gets up eagerly. He gets up eagerly to make Peter breakfast and Peter doesn’t know how to handle the emotion that wells up inside of him so it swallows it down, “Imma shower.” 

He hasn’t showered in days. Johnny smiles, and Peter doesn’t know why his heart both calms and races at the sight, so he gets out of bed and flees the scene before the fondness he feels shows too obviously on his face. Walking into the bathroom, Peter finds that his towels have been cleaned and neatly folded, and that his overfilling hamper was now empty.

They did his laundry. They did his fucking laundry , and the tightly wound ball of anxiety in Peter’s chest eases up at the realization. The state of his apartment and the seemingly insurmountable task of getting his life back on track again after a week of rotting in his own silence (that stretched into two and would have probably turned into three since Peter was paralyzed by his inability to even start cleaning, being so completely overwhelmed by the task) had been looming over him, and now it was gone. Fixed. Overnight.

Stepping into the shower, Peter lets the water run over him and thinks of it like a cleansing: washing away everything that has ever touched him. Washing away every fight, every bruise, every unwanted and violent touch. Peter scrubs himself until his skin is raw and red and his fingers go pruney, and that . That’s the type of mark that goes away. That’s the type of mark that is supposed to go away: that when they disappear in a matter of minutes, will be a perfectly normal thing to happen. No one will look at him in the store and say, “Ah, that’s a bad bruise you’ve got there. Is everything okay? We have some ointments in stock…” And they’ll think someone hit him, and they’re right but Peter can’t exactly explain that he got walloped in the face by some two-bit criminal with some sort of strength enhancement, so he’ll turn down the bruise cream because it would be a waste of money when the damn thing will heal overnight anyway but then the employee who originally asked him about the bruise in the first place will follow him out and press the tube into his hands and she’ll smile and say, “It’ll be okay,” and it’s - she’s - an old classmate of Peter’s and her eyes don’t spark with recognition when they look at him. She sat next to him in English and they would proofread each other’s essays. She wrote like she was dying, like every word would be her last, and Peter knows her. He knows how she writes, what her handwriting looks like, her name, what her parents do for a living, that her grandmother died when she was sixteen and it destroyed her. And all she knows is that he has an ugly bruise spreading across his face. She doesn’t know that it’ll be gone by tomorrow. But she’s kind today. And she’ll be kind tomorrow if Peter shows up again, even though she’ll be thrown off guard by his bruise disappearing, but she wouldn’t say anything about it because Peter knows her. 

And she doesn’t know him at all.

When Peter had woken up the next morning - expectedly bruiseless - something in him screeched to a halt. 

But red and raw skin fades quickly in the cool air on every person after a shower. And pruney fingers don’t last that long at all. And Peter can imagine that with every harsh scrub that he’s washing away every sign of violence, so that when he looks at himself in the mirror and sees his scarless, bruiseless self (pruney fingers, skin raw from scrubbing, face flushed from the heat, Peter’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive) it won’t feel as wrong. 

(When Peter walks out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy robe that wasn’t there yesterday but has Sue written all over it, and into his - Peter’s , this is Peter’s place, and maybe his home, and he doesn’t think he hates it anymore - living room, he is greeted with the smell of pancakes and sausage and something sweet. And Johnny. He’s greeted with Johnny shuffling around in his kitchen wearing Peter’s “Kiss the Spider” Spider-Man themed apron, which had been a gag gift from Wade. And the scene looks right. He looks right, existing in Peter’s space - in Peter’s apartment - so effortlessly. He’s greeted with Johnny, who looks over his shoulder at Peter and looks at Peter like he means something, and Peter doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything but enjoy the softness of the robe, the feeling of being clean, and blames the redness of his face on the shower.)

Some weeks or months later - he doesn’t really keep track - Peter opens his door to Foggy and Matt and they make a cake together. There wasn’t a reason, other than the fact Foggy wanted cake. Peter doesn’t question why they came to his apartment to use the pre-packaged cake mix that had somehow ended up in Peter's pantry over the course of the last week when Matt was - apparently - an expert chef or whatever (They had invited him over to dinner a couple of times. Peter always went back to his apartment (back home?) loaded up with leftovers). He didn’t question why they wanted to cook in his tiny kitchen instead of their far nicer setup.

(He doesn’t question the fact that they showed up on May’s birthday.)

A different time, there is a light tapping on his window and Peter realizes with some level of surprise that he doesn’t know who it could be, because he has visitors nowadays, and it could easily be anyone. It could be anyone, and Peter wouldn’t be surprised, and he feels all soft and warm at the realization as he turns toward the window. 

It’s Miles, who, after Peter opens the window, hands him a stuffed Spider-Man toy and says, “Thanks for being my hero,” and Peter sobs like a baby after Miles awkwardly (but not uncomfortably ) leaves, full of teenage-bumbling at admitting to one’s hero worship. Peter’s reminded of how he used to behave around Tony, but also not quite, because their relationship had been distant enough that the bumbling wasn’t a softly comfortable, shyly embarrassed sort of awkward. But this? Peter and Miles? Peter thinks… Peter knows that he’s doing alright with this mentor-gig. He’s not afraid of screwing the kid up. He’s not afraid of Miles doubting, for even a second, that Peter’s got his back. He’s not afraid of Miles keeping a distance for the foreseeable future because he’s worried that he made the situation awkward. He’s not afraid because Miles had only left awkwardly because Peter had started to tear up and said Thank you with such a deep sincerity that one couldn’t help but feel awkward. 

(Peter’s not afraid of being a mentor. He thinks that - just maybe - Tony had always been afraid.)

In the before , Peter didn’t ‘go quiet.’ For a time, he thought that there was something wrong with him because it’s one thing to backslide but it’s another to develop an entirely new trauma response out of the fucking blue.

Animals will oftentimes stall giving birth until they feel safe.

It was a line in one of Matt’s more modern (but still old) books. It had been about farming or ranching or whatever. And Peter isn’t an animal and he certainly isn’t having kids, but he thinks that maybe he didn’t go quiet before because he hadn’t felt safe enough to do so. After the world forgot Peter, he existed in a constant state of “ just trying to survive” for two years, and now that he feels safe enough to, well, feel , the hatred and anxiety and grief have crashed down harder than ever, overwhelming him entirely and causing his limbs and mind to freeze and lock in place: imbalancing his mere existence.

But Peter gets back up. Even when it feels impossible, Peter gets back up, but he doesn’t do it alone , and he thinks that’s the only reason why he’s able to keep on going - keep on trying - despite the ever-looming risk of his body and mind shutting down on him every time he leaves his apartment.

Peter promised that he would try to be brave again, after all.

It takes a different sort of bravery to face the world knowing it can destroy him than the type it takes to be a vigilante and risk his life in a much more life-or-death way. It’s harder to be brave when the villains can’t be webbed up or punched or put in jail, but instead exist in his own mind, waiting to strike at any moment, at any reminder of what if and what could have been . 

It’s a different sort of bravery, but Peter’s been getting better at trying to be brave.

Johnny asks Peter what he wants to do for his twentieth birthday. Johnny’s the only one who knows Peter’s birthday, and Peter knows Johnny wants to throw him a party: to have a big celebration to show Peter just how glad everyone is that he’s here . 

But Peter is slowly learning how to be selfish and so he asks, “Can we do the same thing we did last year?” 

And Johnny wanted to throw Peter a party but he looks so incredibly pleased that Peter just wants to spend it with him , and as they sit on top of the Empire State Building and Johnny lights the candle on Peter’s cupcake with his finger and then playfully blows out the flame like one would a smoking gun, Peter laughs and laughs and makes a wish even though he’s jaded as hell because Peter is - somehow - still not a pessimist: 

“I wish for life to keep on being like this.”

Slowly, it became easier to accept the help of others. To accept that they don’t mind helping him, don’t mind supporting him, because he - somehow - matters to them. 

But they always come to him, because Peter doesn’t think he can handle finally trying to reach out for help and then being horribly alone because no one was available, so it’s better for them to just… just come when they have the time. When they notice he isn’t responding in the group chats, when he isn’t showing up for patrols, when he isn’t himself . 

(Right?)

At least, that’s what Peter tells himself. He tells himself that if he reaches out, it's an inconvenience, and it's been over a year since Peter came back - his birthday has come and gone, May’s birthday has come and gone, the days have come and gone, and Peter’s been here for them, even when it gets hard - and he’s been… he’s been okay . He’s getting there, at least, and Peter feels as though he can confidently say that he is genuinely doing better . He hasn’t gone quiet these last two months, and even in the month before that, when he felt himself retreating, it hadn’t been for more than a few days. Peter hasn’t felt this… present… in his own mind for a long time, and he doesn’t want to start retreating into it again. He wants to be okay , he wants to be fine . He wants to live in the present and just… exist.

Peter knows that he won’t ever be normal. He won’t ever be “healed” or done grieving, but even as Peter knows that, he can’t help but want for things to stop being so hard . It’s not selfish or greedy to want to stop struggling: to want things to be easier. It’s normal. It’s human . And Peter’s learning to accept that, too.

He can handle fighting villains. He can handle getting physically beat down and still get up again and again and again and-

Peter can handle making hard decisions. He’s starting to be able to handle all of the little reminders, he’s starting to feel okay in his own skin again, he’s stopped seeing blood ( May’s blood) on his hands and under his fingernails. He’s started to be brave again. 

(About a week ago, Peter visited May and Ben’s graves for the first time since May died and had the most awkward conversation ever with Happy. He went to his aunt and uncle’s graves and the inscription on Ben’s grave had been changed, like Peter expected. He was no longer an Uncle but he was still Ben Parker and that’s… that’s enough. He told them about everything that happened and left the flowers and something loose slotted back into place. Peter couldn’t have done that before but he can now , and its progress and Peter is so fucking proud of himself. )

He’s started to love living again. 

When December (the month that everything fell apart) rolled around, Peter had thought “Maybe I’ll be okay.” 

(Peter’s started being hopeful again, too.)

Then he saw MJ and Ned hanging out. There’s a person walking beside MJ with short hair and a golden nose piercing that Peter’s sharp eyes catch on for a second as it gleams in the light. They’re not holding hands but their shoulders brush up against each other with each step like Peter and MJ used to do. MJ, Ned, and the stranger are all back from M.I.T. for winder break and Peter is so fucking proud of them for going to college. And he’s so goddamn happy for MJ because the scratch on her forehead didn’t scar and she’s still wearing the necklace he gave her and there’s a matching (unbroken) black dahlia bracelet on her wrist that jangles lightly with each step. The person Peter doesn’t recognize is also wearing one.

Perhaps it’s presumptuous - and they’ve all changed as people, no doubt - but Peter still knows MJ, and he knows the soft look on her face that she’d playfully punch him for pointing out.

He stops walking on the sidewalk. 

They’ve all changed as people.

They have, haven’t they?

Peter’s not the same Peter MJ knew - not anymore. He’s still Peter , but too much time has passed. And Ned is still Ned and MJ is still MJ, but they aren’t Peter, Ned, and MJ like they used to be. And that’s okay, because Peter still remembers when they used to be Peter, Ned and MJ . 

Even if they remembered his face right now, as they pass by him on the sidewalk laughing at something the stranger said, it wouldn’t mean that they could jump right back together. He wishes they would remember him. He wishes they would remember him with all his heart, even though he knows that all he does is put them in danger. But it would be stupid to think he and MJ would - or could - jump right back into a relationship when they’ve changed so much, when so much time has passed. They wouldn’t fit together the way they used to.

Peter feels like he’s been hit by a train (again) at the force of the realization and feels sick even as he’s so incredibly relieved , too, because he’s been guilty avoiding loving someone like he loved (Loves? Peter thinks he will always love her, even though the love isn’t in the same shape it used to be. He loves Ned, too, because they were the most important people in his life for a long while, even as it's not - and never will be - the same) MJ. Only now does Peter’s brain catch up to what his heart has long known, and Peter realizes that he’s allowed to move on with a suddenness that makes his breath catch and the faces of strangers on the street waver before him.

He throws up in the public bathroom of a cute artisan shop he’d ducked into and then proceeds to buy one-hundred dollars worth of Christmas presents that he definitely can’t afford as an apology for throwing up in their bathroom. After paying for the overpriced (but cute) gifts, he texts Miles that he won’t make it to patrol tonight: that something came up.  

It’s a lie. Nothing came up, except for maybe a lifetime of regrets in the timespan of like three seconds.

Peter had thought that December - his least favorite months of the year - would be, somehow, okay . He had thought that maybe - just maybe - he would hide in his bed and sob like a baby on May’s death day and maybe (most definitely) the days before and after, too, but that he would be able to keep going in the end. Peter thought that he could handle this , but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

But Peter also knows that he undoubtedly can .

He can handle the grief, the loss, the nightmares. He can because he has , and he can because he’s had to . 

…But maybe Peter doesn’t have to . At least, he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Peter’s not brave enough to approach Ned and MJ. He’s not brave enough to see their blank faces - had barely been brave enough to look at blank graves - and he isn’t brave enough to call for help.

But his body has a different idea. Peter doesn’t retreat into his own mind - he doesn’t , he knows he doesn’t - but he does know that he’s distracted and that he trusts his feet to bring him home on autopilot. 

When Peter feels his body stopping, he’s looking at the Baxter Building.

That… is not Peter’s home. It’s about a forty-fucking-billion dollars too expensive to be his.

Peter may not be brave enough to call, to ask for help, but he is brave enough, somehow, to walk into the lobby. And he’s brave enough, somehow, to have the concierge call the Fantastic Four’s residency. 

And, when the concierge (who has come to recognize Peter’s face this last year as one of the few regular guests the Fantastic Four receives, and who could have just let Peter go up without calling if Peter didn’t insist on him doing so (considering that Peter has both a key and a permanent welcome: one that had been written out and given to the concierge as a mere formailty)) signals to Peter he’s good to head up, Peter’s brave enough to step into the elevator. 

He’s brave enough to knock on the door.

He’s brave enough to look Mister Reed Richards in the eyes.

He’s brave enough to cut Mister Reed Richards off as he opens his mouth to playfully tease Peter on getting the concierge to call him when Peter knows that he’s always welcome.

He’s brave enough to say: “I need…”

And Peter isn’t brave enough to say the word help , but Reed Richards is a hero and takes a second look at Peter’s pale and gaunt (because he can say that he’s been okay, but Peter hasn’t had an appetite since the first of December) face and he says, like it’s just that simple (And maybe it is? Maybe it is that simple? Can it be that simple? Is Peter allowed to not have to struggle - to claw - towards help? Is it allowed to be that easy?), “Okay. Okay. ”

(And maybe, when Peter lets go of his fear and stops pretending he isn’t brave, allowing his shoulders to relax, when he stops holding everything so tightly to his chest, when his senses reach out and catch onto how Reed’s heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, maybe, Peter thinks, this is scary for them, too.

Maybe they’re all being brave.)

The Fantastic Four end up announcing that they were throwing a New Year’s Party for the greater New York superhero and vigilante populations. It’s a “mask optional” party because - ahem , hypervigilance and paranoia and also secret identities - and Peter debates for about half a second going without his mask before deciding that he’s not a fucking idiot and puts on the Spider-Man suit, plus a hoodie and his actually nice jeans, because there was no way he was going to be just partying it up in skintight spandex. 

Gross. That actually sounds like hell.

Peter had also briefly debated on just straight-up not going but after reading through (in a probably self-destructive and borderline masochistic need to know everything because why the hell was his first instinct to look at J. Jonah Jameson’s Spidey-slander upon returning home??) all the news pieces that had been released while Peter was taking his aforementioned interdimensional vacation, he'd been pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn’t just his closer friends that had taken care of Queens for him. 

It was everyone. 

( Everyone was a gross exaggeration because there are far too many heroes and vigilantes in New York City, but Peter is feeling hyperbolic.)

And Peter wanted to say thanks.

…That doesn’t mean that Peter is going to be there for the whole party. He’s never really been a party-person or very outgoing, after all, despite his quippy and loud-mouthed Spider-Man persona, so he shows up fifteen minutes before the ball is set to drop and chills on the outskirts of the designated party floor that apparently exists in the Baxter Building. 

Peter does not understand how people can just… have money. It’s wild to him.

But he says hi to a few people, flits in and out of conversations, thanks the people he wants to thank, and overall remembers why he hates parties because the sensory overload is absolutely insane. Even the goggles of his mask - meant to narrow down Peter’s line of vision to keep him from getting overwhelmed - don’t do much to help, and the sounds, smells, and heightened amounts of anxiety Peter is getting absolutely pumped with as his danger sense decides that a room full of not-super-stable people is - har-dee-fucking-har - surprisingly not very safe. 

It’s about a minute until the ball drops and it’ll officially be a new year and Peter is heavily debating just leaving now before people get even louder with their chanting and break his eardrums. No wonder Matt’s response, when Peter asked if he would be going, was “Absolutely the fuck not.”

And then there’s a familiar presence at Peter’s side, and he turns his head to the side to face Johnny. 

Johnny has to yell in order to be heard, “How are you liking the party?”

Peter makes a little X shape with his pointer fingers and yells back, “Super senses suck ass!”

The press of the crowd is suffocating and the ceiling looks gray in the dark lighting but Johnny’s shoulder is pressed alongside Peter’s. Johnny’s heartbeat isn’t synced with his own, both of them jackhammering at too great of speeds to even have the possibility of beating as one. 

But Peter doesn’t need someone whose heart beats to his same rhythm. In fact, Peter quite likes their dichotomy, because they match where it matters. Johnny is brash, passionate, impulsive, gorgeous, good… and Peter is quieter but still loud, polite but not a pushover, passionate but not impulsive (Peter thinks about things far too much), and good .

Peter is good. Peter is good and Johnny is good and MJ is good, too, so she would want Peter to be happy, just like how Peter wants her to be happy. And Johnny makes Peter so incredibly happy. 

The countdown starts.

“Twenty!”

“Johnny.”

“Yeah?” His attention instantly snaps to Peter, and the way Johnny looks at Peter with such a single minded focus brings a redness to Peter’s face that can’t be blamed on showers but could be blamed on the suffocating atmosphere, “Is it too much? We can dip.”

“Fourteen!”

“I’m okay,” Peter reassures him, and wrestles his mask up over the bridge of his nose. Johnny looks at him like he’s crazy and also like he loves him, and neither of those expressions are unfamiliar. Peter just hadn’t been willing to see the second one before, “Wanna kiss?”

“Nine!”

“Just ‘cause it’s New Years?” Something twists in Johnny’s expression even as he keeps smiling.

Peter shrugs, “Nah. ‘Cause I wanna.” 

There’s four seconds left until New Years.

They kiss anyway.  

It’s short and soft, more of a peck than anything, and they break away as the countdown reaches two. Peter is thankful for Johnny’s hoodie because it means he can grab onto it and keep Johnny from going far. There are stars in his eyes and his hair is on fire, and a smirk twists on Peter’s lips, “This one is for New Year’s.”

And they kiss again as the countdown ends and the ball finally drops. Johnny’s hands are warm against Peter’s side, warm even though the fabric of Peter’s hoodie, and everything… everything feels like it's going to be okay. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” The confession is quiet, shy, but utterly sincere. It’s been about a week since the Fantastic Four’s New Year’s party, and Peter and Johnny hadn’t had the time to talk about anything at all - about them - with the rush of crime and mayhem that had cropped up with the coming of the New Year, but neither of them were too worried about it.

Not the crime part - they both worried plenty about people’s safety and maintaining a sense of relative peace and stability in New York - but about themselves. About them . Above all - above all kisses and warmth and anything that seems terrifyingly close to love - they were friends . The security of their friendship and knowledge that, no matter what, they’d figure it out made the wait easy, and made their occasional team-ups during the week a non-issue. Johnny and Peter worked as they always have: as Johnny and Peter . A kiss or two (or three) wouldn’t change that.

But it still felt good to finally sit down at Peter’s meager dining table to talk things out, each nursing a mug of hot chocolate in the soft lighting of Peter’s semi-new lamp. 

(Johnny had called Peter’s horrifically bright overhead lights a crime against humanity. Peter hadn’t seen an issue with them before, but now that he wasn’t getting headaches nearly everyday from the overstimulation, Peter can comfortably admit to being quite fond of the new addition.)

The lamp emits a soft, warm glow, casting gentle shadows across Johnny’s face. The shadows aren’t scary or harsh, and only highlight his sincerity. They are sitting across from each other, although the table is small enough that they can hold hands while doing so, which they do with a comfortable ease. 

Almost playfully, Peter raises an eyebrow and squeezes Johnny’s hand, “You don’t know how to do this?” 

Peter can also see the anxiety in Johnny’s gaze and he wants to soothe it. To show Johnny that this doesn’t have to be hard . And Johnny seems to get it, because the anxiety creeps back and is replaced by fondness. 

“You know what I mean,” Johnny complains lightly, “I don’t know how to… I dunno. Be in a relationship. Make this work. But I wanna make it work,” he hurries to add on, as if worried that Peter will think that Johnny doesn’t want them , “I wanna make us work.”

“I know,” Peter reassures, “I know.”

“I’ve never been in a relationship before, y’know. It’s always been…” Johnny’s ears are red. He’s embarrassed. Peter is horribly fond of him, “Flings. Casual. Never- never actually serious.”

“It’s hard to do something serious,” Peter agrees quietly. He had a hard enough time having something serious with MJ and that was without the entire world knowing his secret identity and being famous enough to have expectations about his personality thrust upon him. It’s hard to have something serious when anyone who Johnny dates will automatically be in danger: when they’ll inevitably appear in gossip magazines and tabloids which paints a big red “Lookie here!!” target on their back. Johnny has only ever been able to have no-strings-attached flings, and even then they still appear in the tabloids. It’s been happening since Johnny was far too young to have his social life broadcasted to the world ( no one should have their social life broadcasted for all to see, but certainly not a sixteen year old just trying to go on a goddamn date ), and Peter knows that’s affected him. He knows that’s part of the reason why Johnny Storm and Johnny are so different. Johnny Storm is a public figure who has to laugh it off when his random fling airs all the details to the highest bidder. Johnny is the one who takes it to heart. Johnny is the one who doesn’t know how to do ‘serious’ because he’s never been able to trust someone enough to try. 

Johnny is the one who trusts Peter enough to try. 

“It’s hard,” Peter repeats, and he squeezes Johnny’s hand again, relishing the warmth against his skin, “But it’s us.”

Johnny smiles. It’s real. “Yeah,” he agrees, squeezing back, “It’s us.”

There’s more to talk about. Peter has his own baggage: his own fears about being in a relationship. He’s terrified. Nothing about this - about them - is simple, despite how Peter makes it sound. Johnny isn’t stupid: he knows that their situation is complex. They are both complex people, after all, but it’s them . It’s them - together - and there is so much to talk about, but for now…

For now, Johnny and Peter can sit in the soft lamplight and sip their hot chocolate. For now, they can be two people enjoying the other’s presence and relish their single point of contact. For now, it’s easy.

Peter sees MJ and her stranger once more before they head back to M.I.T.. 

They’re at some hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that Peter and MJ never went to before and that’s the only reason why looking at them doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t wait for long, just pauses for a second outside the window after spotting them sitting together in the corner of the shop, and from an outsider’s perspective it would just look like he was debating going inside. 

MJ and her stranger are seated across from each other, heads tilted toward each other, drawn to one another like sunflowers to the sun. MJ’s back is to the window, and that’s how Peter knows they’re together: she trusts the other person to watch her back. Peter can’t see MJ’s face but he can see the stranger’s. He can see the way they look at her like she’s everything: like they love her. Peter’s seen the same sort of look on Johnny’s face for almost three years now, knows he’s looked at Johnny that same way for the past few months even as his heart has known there was potential between them for far longer, and he can guess that MJ’s face is reflecting back the same expression. 

It’s been three years since the world forgot Peter Parker, but he hasn’t gone three years being unknown. He’s spent three years forging new friendships, finding family, making himself a home , even though he didn’t know it at first. Or, rather, didn’t accept it at first.

And now, after being back from Gotham for around a year, Peter finally feels steady on his feet. He might go quiet tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, but he has ways to cope. He has healthy ways to cope, to come out on the other side and be… not stronger , but alright. Peter’s learned that it's okay to just be alright.

MJ has moved on. Peter’s glad. Peter’s moved on too, and when he thinks about holding Johnny’s hand and spending time together, there is no sense of guilt or pangs of loss. MJ is MJ and Johnny is Johnny, and Peter will always love them both but while the love he has for MJ isn’t going anywhere, it’s not the same as what he feels for Johnny, because Peter has moved on . 

Peter’s moving on.

(He isn’t just talking about MJ.)

It’s during Family Game Night - with the not-so-new addition of Matt and Wade - at the Baxter Building that Peter finally breaks his silence. Sort of.

They’re playing Never Have I Ever , which is admittedly asking for trouble in a group of highly traumatized vigilantes and heroes (plus Wade). 

It’s Sue’s turn, and she takes a few moments to think before leaning into her husband’s side smugly, “Never have I ever had a girlfriend.”

Reed groans the loudest, “That,” he snarks, “Is a low blow, my dear wife. ” 

Sue is unrepentant and smiles with all of her teeth. Reed puts down a finger. Matt also puts down a finger - everyone starts the game with a full hand of fingers. Five strikes and a person loses. Normally Never Have I Ever is a drinking game, but hypervigilance and a need to always be aware is a real killer (as are Wade and Peter’s metabolisms). Wade and Ben also put a finger down, while Johnny doesn’t, smiling smugly at his sister when she levels an accusing look at him, “You said girlfriend . I haven’t had one of those. Just flings.” Sue - ever the older sister - flips him off. 

Johnny presses a hand over his heart, feigning mock offense. 

Peter deliberates quietly to himself while they mess around, deciding if he wants to risk opening that whole can of worms, then puts a finger down in the spirit of truthfulness. It’s his last one and he drops his hand down to his lap, the sound catching Matt’s attention, “Wait, Peter. What? Who? When?”

There are many ways that Peter can go about this, and as he looks at the faces of the people he trusts most in the world - in any world, really - Peter just sorta shrugs, “A girl from high school. She knew about the whole…” Peter makes the Spider-Man hands and mutters two rapid-fire thwip sounds, “Thingy. We were…” A horribly fond smile stretches across Peter’s face as he stares into the distance, not looking at anything in particular. He can’t picture MJ’s face as it used to be in perfect clarity anymore, three years of time wearing on his memory, and her fuzzy edges don’t hurt as they overlay with how she looks now, “We were good.”

Johnny - who has his feet resting in Peter’s lap as he leans against the arm of the couch, even though there is a perfectly good foot rest right in front of him - hums quietly. Glancing over to him, Peter worries guiltily if maybe he shouldn’t mention MJ, but Johnny only looks softly happy, “What was she like?” Peter searches his face carefully, trying to detect any amounts of hesitation or uncomfortableness on Johnny’s face. If he sees any, Peter will back off. He’ll stay quiet. He doesn’t want to hurt Johnny, but Johnny only rolls his eyes at Peter’s gentle prying and wiggles his feet in Peter’s lap, “I wanna hear about her, if you’re willing.” 

There is a heavy weight in the air. Johnny’s offering Peter an out, in case the conversation is steering towards somewhere too private, and Peter can’t put a name to the swell of affection he feels in his chest (He can, but he’s not quite ready for that yet. It’s far too soon). Leaning back against the couch, he glances at the rest of the group. They’re all looking at him with curiosity and hesitation, as if afraid of pushing him too far, and Peter gets their worry. He’s been flighty about his past for as long as they’ve known him, avoidance tactics ranging from a quippy deflection to straight up running away. 

Peter can’t look them in the eyes, so he leans his head backward and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. His laugh is pathetically weak and forced, “I guess you’ve unlocked my tragic backstory.” 

The legs in Peter’s lap tense, and it's an unconscious action to put a soothing hand on Johnny’s shin. 

“Her name was MJ,” Peter started slowly, “And she was great. We were a trio - me, Ned, and MJ. He was my,” Peter’s short exhale of laughter doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, “He was my ‘ guy in the chair .’ Found out when my aunt let him into our apartment and I swung straight into my room in the suit. MJ figured it out herself, ‘cause I was shit at keeping it hidden. My aunt walked in on me in the suit, too.” Peter tilts his head forward to gauge their reactions.

“Your… aunt?” Matt asks, trying to avoid the landmines and keep Peter from blowing up in their faces. Similar worries can be found on everyone’s faces and Peter loves them so much. He loves how patient they are with him. He loves the fact that they care enough to stick around and sometimes he doesn’t quite understand why.

(On his twentieth birthday, perched at the top of the Empire State Building, Peter had said something similar. Something like, “I don’t think I deserve all this,” and Johnny’s smile dropped as he looked assessingly at Peter.

“You don’t realize it, do you?”

“Realize what?”

“You’re good Pete. Real good. You’ve saved all of us, in one way or another,” Johnny shrugs and looks off into the distance, avoiding Peter’s gaze, “You have this way of… of inspiring people, y’know? Of making people wanna be good. Of always being there when we need you.”

“It’s not-” Peter protests, and Johnny’s voice isn’t harsh as he cuts Peter off, but it’s firm, “Don’t you dare say it’s not the same. You, you-!” Johnny’s volume raises in frustration but he quiets himself down and takes a moment to think. 

“Pete… I dunno, man. You’ve always got everyone’s backs. Let us watch yours.”

Peter’s family doesn’t try to ‘fix’ him. They aren’t trained professionals and aren’t equipped to really do anything, psychologically. But they can support him. They can support him, and show him that he’s loved, and just be there . Their presence makes Peter want to feel brave. 

Their presence makes Peter brave. )

“Yeah. You’ve actually met her, Matt,” Peter didn’t set out with the intention to share everything tonight when he brought up having a girlfriend. He still doesn’t exactly intend to get into it, and backtracks, “Me ‘n MJ were opposites. She was… super confident and cool and just. Just awesome. Witty, too. Could run circles around me. Did run circles around me, all the time. She…” Peter steals a glance at Johnny, to check in on him. Johnny’s relaxed, with an open expression. He’s curious, and gives Peter a reassuring smile, “I got, like. Accused of murder or something this one time and she was involved and I remember her being ushered past me by, like, the CIA or whoever it was, and all she did was yell at me to not say anything without a lawyer. Wasn’t even concerned about herself - about the fact that she was potentially going to be implicated in murder or whatever. And whenever shit really hit the fan… she was there till the end.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from someone and Sue murmurs “Oh honey…” and Peter hastens on, “Oh, fuck! No! She’s not- she’s not dead or anything. We’re just…” Peter doesn’t know if he should lie, if he should say they separated, because it’s sort of the truth but not really, “She doesn’t know me anymore. Her or Ned. Or anyone.” 

Johnny swings his legs off of Peter’s lap and there’s a second where Peter’s heart stops beating and he thinks shit , he messed up again, but then Johnny’s sitting beside him and placing a warm and comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder, “You don’t have to,” His voice is soft and earnest, “You don’t have to say anything. We all know you have your secrets, Pete, and no one is gonna force you to share them.”

Peter wants to share them. Share some of them. His fists tighten together and he can feel his nails biting into the flesh of his palm. It doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is sharp, and Peter thinks that he actually really wants to share, “...But can I? It’s a lot.” Peter won’t make them listen. He won’t say anything if they don’t want to hear. It is a lot. Peter’s been through a lot and he refuses to just… force that onto someone.

“We’re all ears,” Reed reassures.

Peter’s stare is glued onto his lap: at his hands. At hands that have dabbled in the multiverse not once but twice , and thinks to himself, Yeah. I’ve got this .

“Did’ya know I used to know Tony Stark?” Peter starts, because that’s the only thing he can think to say, “The guy used to be…” He wasn’t quite a mentor, wasn’t quite there , but he tried. He tried and it wasn’t enough and Peter’s not okay with that - he’s not - but he understands that Tony tried his best, “I used to look up to him. Idolized him. He made my suits, hovered like a freaking fly, didn’t trust me to do anything,” Peter’s nails bit further into his palms, “I was there when he died. He… he invented time travel for me, y’know? To get me back. After the snap. I was up in space with him and…” Peter looks up, flutters his hands, “Got all dusty in his arms. Died in his arms. I think it broke him, a bit.”

Sue is pale and Johnny’s hand on his shoulder feels heavier. Peter uses it to ground himself, “But. Uhm, yeah. And I came back and we all fought that shitty alien and then Tony fucking died . I watched him die. Watched the arc reactor go out.”

“Shit,” Ben swears, quietly, like he can’t hold it back, and a smile that doesn’t quite feel real but isn’t fake, either, flits across Peter’s face. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “ Shit is right. It was shit. Everything was shit, and Tony left me part of his legacy and I was fucking… I couldn’t… His face was everywhere after it all. Memorials. The news. Everything. People asking if I was gonna be the ‘next Iron Man’ like anyone could be Tony. Like I even wanted to be Tony. I told him I wanted to be like him, one time, when I was a kid. Just starting out, really. He told me he wanted me to be better . I didn’t understand what he meant by that at the time. I was just… I was furious, and pissed, and he was my role model and then he was gone and left me and- and-” Peter lets the tears of frustration fall, although his voice remained clear, if rough with emotion, “And then this guy came along and he seemed alright. He seemed good , like he could take care of everything, and I gave him the one thing Tony left me, and then he tried to kill me and my entire class and also destroyed London. And then framed me for his murder and revealed my identity to the world.”

Wade is frowning behind the mask: Peter just knows it by the way his voice sounds, by the way he’s holding himself, “But… I don’t remember that happening?” 

Peter scoffs and he doesn’t mean it in a rude way, “Yeah,” Peter agrees, “That was kinda the point. I fucked around with Doctor Strange and we cast a spell so that everyone would forget about the whole identity reveal thing but then I fucked things up and the multiverse started to… combine? Or something? I met two alternate versions of myself and six asshole villains from their universes. I almost got Ned and MJ killed in the process, my aunt died, and the multiverse started to collapse.” 

Shrugging, Peter picks at his nails. It focuses him. There was a bit of red underneath his fingernails, which meant that he had accidentally drawn blood, but the crescent marks on his palms were already fading. Gone, gone, gone, “So I did what I had to.” 

“...Peter…” Reed sounds horrified, and Peter wonders if he knows. If he connected the dots. Or if he’s just horrified in general. Both could be true. 

“...I asked Doctor Strange to cast a new spell. Make the world forget Peter Parker . Everyone. Every one- ” Peter’s voice cracks, “Photos. Documents. My best friends. My uncles fucking grave .”

There is a horrified stillness in the air and Peter takes a deep breath and tastes salt and thinks he’s breathing for the first time in years, “...And then time passed. And I met you guys. And things are. Are better. No ,” Peter corrects himself, “They’re good. And I. I regret a lotta things. But I don’t. I don’t regret…” Looking up, Peter spreads his hands uselessly, half-shrugs, and drops his hands, “ This .” The word feels triumphant. Peter is triumphant. He should have broken down a long time ago. He should have given up. He should have done a lot of things, but he didn’t - both good and bad - and Peter’s learning to accept that.

“...You said I met your aunt?” Matt’s face is strained, and Peter knows it’s for his sake that he’s asking.

“When I was accused of murder,” Peter agrees, “You were my lawyer. You’re a damn good lawyer , y’know? Someone threw a brick through our window and you caught it with your bare hand ‘cause it was aimed at my head, even though I’m the one with super senses and super strength.”

He looks pained, “I don’t remember that.” 

“No,” Peter keeps his voice soft, because he doesn’t have the strength for anything else, “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“Christ, Pete,” Wade tries for cheerful and falls flat. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen Wade fall flat, even in the worst situations, “No wonder you’re so fucked up.” It’s supposed to be a joke: a tease to lighten the mood. Instead, the words just sound sad .

“That’s why you tried to leave, right?” Johnny is the one who asks, and Peter might be willing to share about the past-past but he’s not willing to touch Gotham and those hurts quite yet. But he presses his lips together and nods stiffly, and Johnny takes the cue and backs off, though not without a pained sound. 

“How?” It’s Sue who asks, and she’s crying. There are tears running down her face. She matches Peter and Johnny in that regard, “How did you…” And Peter doesn’t know what she’s going to accuse him of and stiffens in preparation. 

The funny thing about having everyone forget him is that there’s never been anyone to yell at him for breaking the multiverse, or for making some really shitty choices. Peter’s been waiting for a reprimanding for years and tries to prepare for it, but he can’t. He can’t, because he can’t picture Sue ever getting truly mad at him like Peter thinks he deserves. He can’t picture her blaming him because her expression looks destroyed, but not angry. 

“How did you make it?”

Peter blinks. There’s no yelling, no accusatory shouts, no anger for screwing with the fabric of reality and almost destroying the world and then being stupid enough to do it again : this time with a machine of his own. There’s nothing but Sue’s wide, open expression that makes Peter feel safe. He isn’t surprised. Instinctively, Peter knows she isn’t talking about his transporter. 

“I dunno,” He answers honestly: shattered, but not permanently. Not irreparably, “I don’t think I should have.” 

A sob that sounds like despair catches in her throat, and Reed pulls her close even as he looks equally as destroyed. 

Peter isn’t happy that they are hurting, but in the core of his heart - in his unfixable and broken center - he feels something shift into place. It’s not shifting into the same place - the pieces of his heart are too small to fit back together perfectly - but it's close. It’s close. It’s close, and the empty hole feels one shard smaller now. Maybe , Peter thinks, with a desperate sort of optimism, maybe one day most of the shards will be back in place, and then there will be only little areas where the emptiness can seep out.

Peter isn’t afraid of the emptiness seeping out. There are people who can help him clean up the mess, after all. Who have been helping him clean up the mess.

Clearing his voice, Peter doesn’t allow himself to hesitate, “But I’m glad I made it. I’m glad I can be here. I’m… I’m happy, y’know? I didn’t… I didn’t think I would ever be happy again, in the aftermath. But. But I’m here , and I’m happy. I really, really am.” Peter doesn’t have any other words. He’s tired. He wants to stay quiet for a month and simply bask in the presence of the people he loves. Of his family . Of his home. 

His home. 

Peter Parker’s home.

Johnny is pulling him into a tight hug and Matt’s making his way over and Peter knows he’s going to ruffle Peter’s hair because Matt doesn’t know how to handle all the emotions in his chest. Peter’s already prepared himself for all six-plus feet of Wade that - as expected - tackles into his side. Sue moves to sit beside Johnny and smothers them both in a hug, and Reed’s hand on Peter’s shoulder is good . Ben is quiet in spite of his hulking size: a silent comfort. Peter meets Ben’s eyes over Wade’s shoulder and there is grief in Ben’s face. Peter knows it's for him: grief for what Peter has endured. What he’s been forced to endure. 

Surprisingly, the grief doesn’t bother Peter. It feels… comforting. Like a blanket. 

…Peter could get used to this.

He has gotten used to this. To them . 

To life. Peter’s life. 

(Peter’s allowed to have a life.)

Sometimes, Peter hates himself. 

But that just means that the rest of the time… he’s doing pretty okay.