Life is gray, dull in a way that scrapes at his insides. Peter tried to believe it could be different— a fresh start, a clean slate. He clung to that tiny sliver of hope, held it tight like it was the last thing keeping him afloat. But that hope had since slipped through his fingers, like sand he couldn't hold onto. There’s no future waiting for him— no college, no MJ, no Ned. Just Spider-Man.
On rare days, donning his mask feels like a flicker of light— a spark in a dark room. But most days, he’s too drained to suit up, to swing through the city streets, saving strangers while his mind echoes with all the people he couldn’t save. The ones who mattered. The ones he lost.
And it’s them who haunt him the most. Not the people he sees in passing, those who walk through life unaware of the dark storm cloud that hovers over his head, casting shadows over anything bright. MJ and Ned, they’re in that safe world, untouched by his darkness. He’s almost glad for it.
But it’s the people who couldn’t escape him— the ones who got too close, who were drawn to his fire only to get burned— who fill his mind like ghosts he can’t shake. The memories of them replay, again and again; wounds that never stop bleeding. They are in every silent moment, every night that stretches too long, alive only in the memories relentlessly burned into his brain.
He used to check on MJ and Ned all the time—too often, maybe, hoping to catch a glimpse of his old life, of what it might have been like if he hadn’t lost everything. Now, he watches them once a week, no more, because it hurts. They’ve replaced him— and he should feel angry, should feel betrayed. But he can’t, even when he sees them laughing with Flash Thompson, of all people. Flash, who used to make his life miserable, now filling the space Peter once occupied. Maybe it truly was Peter who was always the problem— the one who brought trouble, who held everyone back. The thought gnaws at him, bitter and relentless.
The jealousy feels sharp, a stab of sickly green that twists inside him, yet he has no one to admit it to. Shame follows close behind, sinking heavy and cold in his gut. He’s watched MJ blush at Flash, seen their stolen glances, the way her lips quirk up in that familiar way, once reserved for him. Has seen the way her head ducks down— trying to hide the warmth rising in her cheeks— the laughter spilling out as she teases Flash, their fingers brushing in moments that last just too long. Peter can’t bear to look. They’re strangers now, and he’s just an idea, a shadow cast aside, a story that never quite made it off the page.
Sometimes, he dreams of being saved, of the Avengers breaking through the fog that has become his life, pulling him out of the suffocating loneliness. But the Avengers feel like a distant memory now, fragments of another life. The world doesn’t seem to need them anymore, and they don’t seem to need the world. Peter knows, deep down, that their absence has something to do with him. The one who held them all together. The one Peter couldn’t save.
Those days are the worst— the days he finds himself thinking about Him. The man who believed in him, who gave him hope. And then Her, the only other person he failed so completely. He sees their faces in his mind, clear as day, and it feels as though he’s drowning in regret, a tidal wave that never stops pulling him under. He was there for both of them, there in their last moments, watching as their light faded. People have always told him it’s a blessing to be able to say goodbye, to have those final moments— but for Peter, it’s a curse; a weight he can’t ever shake.
Sometimes, he tries to convince himself they’ll remember him. That if there’s an afterlife, maybe they know he tried, and that he loved them. But then he wonders if even those memories are gone, erased by the spell, and the very thought is like losing them all over again. He can’t let his mind linger there, not if he wants to survive this.
He checks on Morgan and Pepper sometimes, when he has the strength. There’s a twisted comfort in it, because they too have lost someone who meant everything. They’ve since moved back to Stark Tower, and Peter finds himself slipping through the vents just above the hallways; moving in shadows, unnoticed. FRIDAY never announces him. Rather, she lets him pass in silence— perhaps knowing that seeing them is both his comfort and his punishment. Clint once taught him all the tricks in order to move undetected, and now he uses them to wander those empty spaces; a ghost in a place that once felt like home.
He finds Pepper in her office some days, holding a worn photo of Him in her hands, the faintest tear sliding down her cheek. In those moments, Peter wants to break the silence, to step into the light, to tell her he misses him too. But he knows he can’t, knows he doesn’t belong there. To her, he’s just a kid— worse, a stranger— sneaking into a place he has no right to be.
But he remembers, can almost see it, the way they would appear out of nowhere, startling Pepper, her laughter spilling out in that rare, soft way. He wonders if FRIDAY still has those recordings hidden somewhere in the system, or if the spell erased those moments, too— wiped him from even the memories that used to anchor him.
Morgan is brightness incarnate. She was so young when she lost her father that, while she remembers him, the loss doesn’t cling to her the same way it does to Peter. Little kids are resilient, bouncing back as if life’s weight rolls right off of them. He wishes he could be like that— could shake off the grief as effortlessly as she seems to. He watches her from a perch high up in the trees surrounding her schoolyard, hidden and still. He knows it’s strange, probably looks worse than it is. “Spider-Man spotted spying on a little girl from the branches,” would be a headline he’d rather avoid. But he’s not here for anything else; he’s here for Morgan. She’s his… well, not his, but sometimes, his mind slips, and he lets himself believe that she’s family. But he knows better. He forfeited that right when he couldn’t save her father.
From his vantage point, Peter knows the small details of her world— like the fact that she has three best friends at school and that their favorite game at recess is superheroes. She’s got an attitude to rival her father’s, a sharpness that cuts through the air even from a distance. She’s her mother’s daughter, too, with a bossiness that feels as familiar as breathing. Watching her has become his last connection to something pure, a glimmer of light he clings to in the dark. But even that light dims on the days she cries for her daddy, and the sound of her grief punches through him like a blow, leaving him hollow. In those moments, Peter almost wishes for a mercy he knows will never come. He’s thought about it—what it would be like if Thor were around, if he could beg him to end his pain with one swift, merciful strike of lightning. But Thor isn’t here, and Peter can’t bring himself to end it. Not yet, though every day feels like another step closer.
It’s not like he hasn’t tried to reach out, to make a life again. The world has forgotten him, leaving him a blank slate. He could start over, make new friends, rebuild. But he knows better. He’s a walking disaster, and the people he lets himself care for… they die. That’s just a truth carved deep, a brutal fact etched into every scar and memory. Especially when he’s standing there, staring at Her grave. A grave that doesn’t even bear his relation to her, a place where he doesn’t belong. He knows he doesn’t deserve that place, not after he let her slip away, failed to save her from the chaos he’d pulled her into. No matter how he tries to rationalize it, it always circles back to him, to his fault, to his failure. The world doesn’t know, but he tortures himself enough for all of them.
She rests next to Uncle Ben now. Peter takes some hollow comfort in that— that at least she’s with someone who loved her. They have each other, even if all that remains to show for it are silent stones and empty spaces. The pain of it doubles, staring down at their names, the weight of his failures laid bare in front of him. He stands there at least once a week, sometimes more. There isn’t much else to do; life has shrunk down to this endless cycle of regret.
Peter has carved out a hollow existence in an abandoned warehouse, a few floors up from street level, with a webbed hammock strung across a corner that passes for his bed. Not that he sleeps. Not really. Closing his eyes is an invitation for the nightmares to strike, waiting like wolves to pounce the moment he lets his guard down. The exhaustion runs so deep it feels as though it’s woven into his bones— but even that is better than waking up in a panic, drenched in sweat, calling out for someone who will never come. No one’s there to sweep back his damp curls, to hum softly until he falls asleep again. No one’s there to lead him down to the lab, to fill the silence with the quiet whir of machines and the warmth of a presence that made the darkness seem less vast. Those people are gone.
So he stays tired. Bone-tired, soul-tired. It’s better that way— better than hoping for a comfort that’s never coming back.
*
Tonight, Peter lies curled in his webbed hammock, body battered and bruised, worn down to the bone. He went out on patrol tonight, and it went badly— really badly. He’d been outmaneuvered, left stumbling, barely able to stand as Spider-Man, let alone fight. That failure alone feels like a crack running through what’s left of his resolve, a shove toward the edge he’s been teetering on for what feels like forever.
His sides ache, throbbing sharp and relentless, from the repeated, brutal impacts of steel-toed boots. His back bears a fresh slice, deep and ragged, refusing to heal because his body is too starved to keep up with his own metabolism. He should have seen the knife coming— should have been quicker, sharper— but he was careless, unfocused, and now he’s paying the price in the form of a raw, searing pain.
Then his mind turns on him, the worst torment of all, replaying everything in a cruel, endless reel he can’t turn off. Frame by frame, he’s forced to watch; no pause, no escape. Grief presses in, heavy and suffocating, draping over him like a shroud. He can feel himself sinking, slipping closer to the edge of consciousness, but just as his eyes begin to close, he hears it— a faint, unmistakable whir, a sound woven into his soul.
The whir of repulsors. And then… His voice.
His chest clenches, and he tells himself it’s a trick, his exhausted mind baiting him with one more cruel illusion. Tony Stark is dead. Peter knows this. He was there, clutching Tony’s lifeless hand after the final battle, feeling the last shuddering beats of his heart fade into silence— a silence so profound it swallowed him whole, a silence louder than any scream. That moment is branded into him, each second seared into his memory. It’s why he knows, knows this can’t be real. He’s trapped in a dream, another twisted fantasy crafted by his mind to keep him tethered to an impossible hope.
But the dream shifts, and his surroundings melt. The hammock vanishes, and he finds himself standing in a dim, crumbling space, dust and debris swirling in the air, filtering through a door blown apart and barely clinging to its hinges. At first, the figure before him is a blur, indistinct, until he catches the glint of red and gold— the unmistakable gleam of Iron Man’s suit. And there he is, landing with a heavy, resounding thud. Tony. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.
Usually, his dreams pull him back to that battlefield, looping him through those final moments like some sick lullaby. But tonight, this one is different. The light flickers, glitches, and he realizes he’s trapped in a warped version of his own reality. The warehouse feels less like a haven, and more like a cell— a place meant to hold him captive.
There are no bars, but his hands are bound by chains hanging from the ceiling, forcing him to stand with his arms stretched above him. His wrists are raw, bruised, and burning, as though he’s been suspended like this for hours, maybe days. Sunlight pours through cracked windows, harsh and blinding, and he squints against it, struggling to make sense of his surroundings.
“Peter?” The voice slices through the haze, and Tony’s face comes into focus, his expression taut with worry, tinged with an unfamiliar desperation. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’m here now. I’m here, you’re okay.”
There’s panic in his voice— a deep, aching sadness, and Peter’s chest tightens painfully. In some twisted way, this nightmare almost feels like a gift, a world where Tony comes to save him, where everything can somehow be fixed.
“Peter, can you hear me?” The words are vivid, more real than he wants them to be, and he feels the pressure of warm hands fumbling with the chains around his wrists. The pain flares, his wrists burning as they’re freed, and the sudden release sends his body collapsing to the ground, his limbs too weak to hold him up. A broken sound slips from his parched lips— a half-gasp, half-sob— and above him, he hears Tony’s soft, pained voice in return.
“Bambino, shhh. I know. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Peter’s throat tightens, and a part of him whispers that this is where the dream should end. It needs to end, because if he stays in this fantasy any longer, he’ll be torn apart, left bleeding in ways he can’t bear when he wakes up alone. He wills himself to open his eyes, to escape this endless, torturous hope. But he’s exhausted, too tired to fight, and his mind clings desperately to Tony’s presence, as if holding on tightly enough could make him real, could bring him back, erase Peter’s failure on the battlefield.
He knows it’s a lie, a cruel illusion spun from his own guilt, a punishment that feels like it will never end. Tony can’t come back, no matter how much Peter wishes he could, no matter how deeply he longs to hear his voice, to feel that grounding presence that made everything okay. Tony is gone— the man he looked up to, who filled the void Uncle Ben left, who became his anchor. And Peter is alone.
The ache sinks deeper, burrowing into his bones, and he’s left clutching at shadows, drowning in the weight of his own grief, haunted by a voice that will never answer back.
He feels himself lifted, weightless, cradled in the rigid yet careful hold of the Iron Man suit. The metal is cold against his skin, but there’s a gentleness to the way it grips him, as though Tony’s aware of every bruise, every ache, trying not to add to them. He’s never been held like this— not just carefully, but almost tenderly, as though he’s something fragile; worth protecting.
Faint voices drift through the suit’s communication system, distorted and distant, slipping in and out of focus.
“We’ve got Beck. We’ll bring him to the Compound for questioning.” It’s Steve Rogers, his voice steady and familiar, cutting through the static. Peter’s chest tightens. He hasn’t thought about Steve in so long, doesn’t even know what became of him after the battle. The last he’d heard, Steve had passed the shield to Sam, stepping back from the life of Captain America. He’d seen it on the news, and something about it had felt… right. Sam would be a good Captain America. But hearing Steve’s voice now is jarring, a reminder that this isn’t real, can’t be real. Steve doesn’t go on missions anymore. For all Peter knows, he might not even be alive.
“I’m headed for the Tower. Cho is there and—” Tony’s voice falters, catching on a note of something Peter can’t name, a crack that pulls him sharply into the moment, anchoring him there. “—Peter, he doesn’t look good. I need to get him checked.”
There’s a brittle edge to Tony’s tone, a familiar forced composure Peter knows all too well. He’s watched Tony steel himself like this countless times, seen him brace his voice, keep his face steady. But Tony had eventually stopped doing that around him, letting him see the man behind the armor, the vulnerability, the cracks in the iron. It had always felt like a gift, seeing Tony real like that, stripped of the strength he wore like a second skin. Now— here in this strange, fragile dream— Tony sounds worried, genuinely afraid, and it twists something raw and aching in Peter’s chest.
“Let me go,” Peter manages to whisper, his voice dry and hoarse, the words scraping out of him like they haven’t been used in months. They’re in the air now, metal arms wrapped securely around him, holding him close. “Please… I’m sorry. I need to wake up.”
The Iron Man helmet tilts, just slightly, and Peter knows Tony’s looking at him. He can imagine the familiar gaze, intense and unwavering, faceplate or no faceplate. The wind is sharp as it cuts through them, Tower looming just ahead, and Peter steels himself, waiting. Any second now, the dream will twist, the moment will shatter, and he’ll be dropped back into the cold, unforgiving grip of reality, back to the hollow silence of his lonely world.
But then… the Tower windows slide open, smooth and seamless, welcoming them like a hundred times before. Like it’s still his place, like he belongs here, as though nothing’s changed. They sweep into the familiar light, the warmth brushing over him, and for a moment, he’s back. He’s back in a world that makes sense, back when things weren’t fractured and broken, back when Tony had scooped him up from rooftops and alleyways, half-beaten and bruised— injuries Peter had shrugged off as “just part of the job.” Back when Tony was there to patch him up, to pull him from the wreckage.
He feels the urge to cry, so powerful it builds like a heartbeat, a tidal wave of grief and relief that threatens to swallow him whole. It presses against his chest, tight and unyielding, and he’s caught between the need to hold it back and the desperate desire to let go, to let the tears fall, to sink into this impossible, fragile warmth. Because right now, held tightly in Tony’s cold, unyielding yet impossibly careful grasp, he almost believes it. Almost believes that he’s been brought home.
He’s laid onto a bed— soft and plush, familiar in a way that feels like home, though he barely remembers what home feels like. The blankets are warm, cradling his battered body, and the clean, sterile smell grounds him, settling over his senses like a thin veil between him and the pain. Comfort isn’t something he’s accustomed to— not anymore. It feels almost foreign, like something he’s long forgotten but aches to remember. He hears Tony’s steps, the soft whir of nanobots retreating as the suit retracts back into his watch. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, refusing to look, knowing that the sound of Tony’s voice alone will haunt him long after he wakes. To see his face… that would be unbearable.
The bed dips beside him, and he feels Tony’s presence, so near he could reach out and touch him. Tony’s knees hit the floor, and though Peter keeps his eyes shut, he feels that familiar scent wash over him— motor oil, sweat, a faint hint of cologne. It’s so real, so unavoidably Tony, that Peter’s throat tightens, a raw ache clawing its way up. A soft shushing sound reaches his ears— and Peter realizes, distantly, that he’s crying. Hot tears slide down his cheeks, each one a painful reminder of how much he’s tried not to feel.
A calloused thumb brushes against his face, wiping the tears away with a gentleness that shatters him, piece by piece.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” Tony whispers, his voice thick with regret. “I’m so sorry, Pete. I let you down.”
The words slice into Peter, deep and raw, a balm and a blade all at once. He doesn’t have the strength to respond, to tell him it’s not his fault— that it was Peter who failed, who let him down. So he lies there, clinging to this impossible moment; this beautiful, aching lie, because he knows it won’t last. Soon, he’ll wake, and Tony’s touch, his voice, everything will be gone, leaving Peter alone again, haunted by the ghost of a kindness he can no longer hold onto.
Footsteps echo down the hall, steady and deliberate, growing louder with each step. Peter braces himself, wondering who’s next on his mind’s list of ghosts to haunt him. Maybe Uncle Ben, maybe Aunt May— it would be fitting, wouldn’t it? He’s in the Medbay, after all, and she’s a nurse. His mind could easily conjure her here, bending over him, soothing him like she used to.
But it’s not Aunt May. Helen Cho steps through the door, Stark Pad in hand, her green-grey eyes sweeping over him with a strange look of relief, like she’s been waiting, hoping for this. Peter’s stomach churns. It doesn’t make sense— but then again, none of this does. His mind has its way of twisting memories, conjuring faces he’s not ready to see. He steels himself, waiting for the inevitable sting, the blow this illusion will bring.
Helen’s gaze is gentle yet clinical as she examines him, her hands moving with practiced precision, poking and prodding his battered, exhausted body. He flinches at her touch but keeps his silence, determined not to play along with this delusion.
“He’s malnourished, dangerously so,” Helen says, though her words aren’t meant for him. She’s talking to Tony, who’s still there, still perched by Peter’s bedside, eyes unwavering. Peter doesn’t meet his gaze, can’t bring himself to look. If he had the strength, he might’ve noticed the flicker of hurt in Tony’s eyes when he pulled his hand away, but he shuts himself off from it— the wound too raw, too close to face.
“We’ll need to start him on an IV drip to get nutrients into his system quickly. He’s got a couple of broken ribs— they haven’t set, but given his malnourishment, his healing factor seems to have stalled,” Helen continues, her voice a soft, steady presence. “As bad as that is, it means we won’t have to rebreak them for proper alignment. We’ll set them in surgery.”
Peter tunes out, letting her words drift over him, muffled and distant. Fragments register in his mind— “deep incision on his back,” “fresh but hard to tell,” “wrists cut up from the cuffs.” He hears her mention an MRI, a scan for his brain, but none of it feels real. He’s numb, floating somewhere beyond pain and fear, until she says Beck’s name.
The name slices through his haze, sharp and biting. “Mr. Beck—”
A low, dangerous growl escapes Tony, and it’s so visceral that Peter’s eyes flicker open, if only for a second. Quentin Beck. The man who’d lied, who’d twisted his life inside out, who’d exposed him, painted him as a villain. The name stirs something bitter, a rage simmering beneath his exhaustion, and his hands curl involuntarily into fists. He forces them to relax, though— slipping back into that numbness, trying to drown the anger, the shame. Beck may be dead now, but Peter’s decision— that decision— still lingers, a scar he can’t erase. Taking Beck’s life had left a mark, a choice that weighs heavy on his soul, no matter how deeply he regrets it. It doesn’t matter what Beck did; Peter knows the weight of that moment will haunt him, like an invisible brand.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Tony says softly, his voice pulling Peter back, grounding him when he desperately wants to drift away. “May will be here too.”
The words hit him like a punch, hard and unforgiving. He wants to tell Tony that when he wakes, they’ll all be gone. This illusion will shatter, leaving him stranded in the cold, empty reality that’s become his world. But the words stay lodged in his throat, swallowed by a despair so thick it leaves him mute. He feels the IV prick as it slips into his arm, cool and numbing, and his vision blurs, reality slipping further away. He catches one last glimpse of Tony, that familiar worry etched into his face, as the darkness pulls him under, wrapping him in its embrace.
And in that last, fleeting moment, he clings to the warmth, the impossible comfort, holding it close before it vanishes, leaving him alone with nothing but memories that refuse to fade.
*
Peter’s eyes flicker open, and he knows what he should see—the cracked walls of the warehouse, paired with the filthy, battered backpack he’d stolen— stuffed with the remnants of a life long forgotten. He should see the graffiti scrawled across the walls, "Martha is a bitch," etched in faded, angry letters. But he doesn’t. Instead, it’s dark outside, an unusual calm in the air, and he’s not sweating or gasping for breath. He’s not alone.
The walls around him are pristine, white, scrubbed clean of graffiti and grime. There’s no backpack, no hammock strung in the corner. Instead, there’s a couch with a figure curled up on it, fast asleep. He’s in the Medbay, sterile and orderly, and the realization is like a punch to the gut. The dream isn’t over, and the weight of it all crashes over him, so overwhelming that the tears come unbidden, hot and blinding. He breaks, sobs wracking his chest, breath coming in desperate gasps as he tries to pull in air that won’t come fast enough.
In an instant, the figures beside him are awake— Aunt May, rushing to his side, her face filled with worry, and Tony, still seated where he was before, watching him with that same look of pained concern. It only makes him cry harder. It’s too much, this unbearable sight of the two people he’d failed most, the two people who died because of him.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he begs to the universe itself. “Please, I can’t do this. It’s not real, I can’t do this. It’s not real.” He repeats it, again and again— as if the words might somehow shatter the illusion, pull him back to the cold, empty reality he knows. But nothing changes.
Aunt May’s hand smooths curls out of his face, the same gentle touch he’s longed for in countless sleepless nights, but instead of comfort, it only deepens his agony. This memory, too, will be torn from him eventually, leaving him hollow all over again. He can’t let himself sink into this, no matter how much he wants to, because he knows the pain will be twice as sharp when it fades.
“Honey, we’re right here,” May says, her voice laced with desperation— like she’s pleading with him to listen, to believe her. “We’re not leaving you. I promise.”
He hears her words, the promises she’s trying so hard to make him believe, but they’re empty. She doesn’t know— can’t know— the fate that already claimed her. She’s just a dream, after all. Yet the anguish in her voice cuts through him, no less real for being imaginary.
“You’re not here,” he whispers, clenching his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up, to escape this endless torture. “This isn’t real. Please, please let me wake up.”
Then Tony speaks— his hand reaching out and wrapping around Peter’s, despite his feeble attempt to pull away. “This isn’t a dream, buddy. We’re right here. We found you, and you’re okay. We’ve got you now.”
The words sink in, but they feel wrong, impossible. They can’t be true. He remembers too well the sight of Tony’s lifeless hand slipping from his grasp, the silence that swallowed him whole on that battlefield. He remembers the loss, the pain, the terrible finality of it.
“You died. Both of you are dead. You’re not here, you’re not real,” he shouts, voice raw, almost a plea.
He doesn’t want this to be real. He can’t face the possibility that this fragile moment could be ripped away at any second. The words hang in the air, and he feels himself trembling, holding on to the frayed edges of reality, dreading the inevitable moment he’ll wake to find himself alone, left with nothing but ghosts.
But instead, the hell stretches on endlessly— a relentless loop. Peter sobs and begs for the universe to let him wake up, to return him to his empty, desolate life. He cries until his body, drained and spent, fades into darkness again. When he wakes, it’s always the Medbay, always Aunt May and Tony beside him, their faces twisted with concern that grows more desperate each time. It’s agony because he can see it’s him who’s breaking them. May’s face is worn, her expression cracking, and Tony— there’s a hollowness in his eyes, usually so sharp and confident, now glazed with unshed tears.
Each time Peter opens his eyes, gasping and sobbing, they’re there, unwavering. Just like he knows they would be if they’d survived, if he hadn’t tampered with magic and sealed his fate in loneliness. If he’d deserved kindness, love— if he’d deserved them.
By the fifth time, he’s too exhausted to keep fighting. His breaths are shallow, and he doesn’t have the strength left to resist.
“Peter?” Tony’s voice is careful, his eyes studying him as Peter’s own flutter open. Both he and May look weary, bracing for another outburst, another round of panicked tears. But Peter’s tears are dry for now, and fighting this illusion has taken everything he has. Maybe, for once, he could give in. Just for a moment. Just for a brief reprieve from the weight pressing down on him.
He lets his head loll to the side, letting himself really look at Tony for the first time since this started. He notices a long scar trailing up Tony’s right side, and then— his arm. It’s metal, sleek and precise, and Peter only now realizes it. He can’t help the question that tumbles out, his voice rough and disbelieving.
“What… what happened to your arm?”
Tony’s brows knit together, glancing from May back to Peter, clearly thrown.
“You— you don’t remember?” he asks, voice tentative. Peter shakes his head slowly, confused. He thinks he’d remember if Tony had a bionic arm— should remember, but maybe his mind is just playing tricks.
“Thanos? The Snap?” Tony urges gently, as if the words should summon some recognition. And they do, but not the kind that would explain Tony losing his arm.
“You died that day,” Peter says numbly, the certainty in his voice absolute. Tony’s face twists, a slight grimace pulling at his mouth.
“I almost died that day, Pete. But they got me to the hospital just in time… you too.” Tony looks away, the memory sharp in his eyes. May’s hand reaches across the bed, taking his in a soft, reassuring squeeze. “And then you were gone. You told Pepper you were just going to get something to eat from the cafeteria… and then you never came back. I woke up from surgery and you were gone.”
Tony’s version of events is so wildly different, so wrong, it twists Peter’s mind. It doesn’t make any sense.
“No… that’s not— that’s not true.” His voice rises, growing desperate, hoping that if he insists enough, if he pushes hard enough, maybe they’ll vanish, maybe the universe will let him wake up. “I… you… we were on the battlefield, and I had the gauntlet in my hands. I was going to snap, but you took it from me. You took it from me, and I… I let you…” His voice cracks, jagged and hollow. “And then you snapped, and it killed you… and it should have been me. I could’ve done it, but you— you couldn’t take it, and I sat there and watched you die… I listened to your heartbeat stop.”
He’s not crying; he’s too drained to cry. But his voice is raw, cracking, his breath hitching in broken gasps as he fights for air. He turns to May, something breaking deeper inside him as he looks at her.
“And you—” he begins, the words catching in his throat. “You tried to help me. When… when the multiverse opened, and all those people came through… all the bad guys. They came in because I went to the wizard, and he did the spell, but I messed it up… and you died.” His voice is barely a whisper now, a broken confession. “You died trying to save me, because I was trying too hard to play hero.” He swallows, throat dry and aching. “You’re buried next to Uncle Ben in the cemetery in Queens. I visit you… every week.”
The words hang heavy in the air, raw and ragged, as he stares at them, willing them to understand, to see that this isn’t real. This can’t be real. The reality he lives in is carved out in pain and loss, a world where they’re both gone, and he’s left to carry the weight of their absence.
For a moment, the room is silent, the only sound his shallow breaths as he looks between them; desperate, pleading for something— anything— that will finally break the illusion.
“Peter,” Tony says cautiously, his voice soft, each word chosen with care. “How long do you think it’s been since the battle against Thanos?”
Peter blinks, thrown by the question, struggling to piece it together. His sense of time has been so warped, stretched thin and worn raw. “I… I don’t know? Almost a year, maybe?”
He remembers Tony’s funeral, Aunt May at his side, the suit Tony had given him hanging heavy on his shoulders. Just days after the battle, they’d said goodbye, and then, not long after, he’d gone to Europe with his class. He remembers meeting Beck, being approached by Fury, and how his whole world began to unravel when Beck exposed his secret. It had been like watching his life, and his friends’ lives, crumble under a spotlight he couldn’t escape. That’s when he’d gone to Doctor Strange, desperate, because being tied to Spider-Man had ruined everything for the people he cared about most. It had wrecked their dreams, stained Aunt May’s job, turned their lives into collateral damage. He’d wanted to fix it, tried to make it right, but he’d only made things worse.
Then there were the other versions of himself, faces he’d never imagined, fighting by his side until they’d finally won. But in the end, Peter had still lost. The spell had been cast, and he’d said goodbye to everything, erased from the lives of those he loved most. Peter Parker became nobody, just a faceless stranger drifting through a world that no longer knew him. He’s lived in that gray, hollow existence for what feels like an eternity.
But May’s eyes are wet with fresh tears, her voice shaking as she speaks. “Peter, baby, it’s been a month.”
The words hit him like a blow, his head shaking instinctively in denial. “No… that’s not— that’s not right. It can’t be.”
There’s no way everything he’s endured could fit into four mere weeks. This has to be a nightmare, something twisted he’ll wake from soon.
The door swings open, drawing everyone’s attention, and Peter looks up, half-expecting Morgan to be tagging along at Pepper’s side, her little shadow as always.
“Where’s Morgan?” he asks automatically, the words slipping out before he can catch them. Confusion floods the room, and Aunt May’s thumb rubs soothing circles on his hand.
“Morgan?” she echoes, glancing to the others, her voice cautious.
“Yes?” He looks between Pepper and Tony, waiting for them to explain.
Pepper’s face softens, a mix of worry and confusion flickering across her features. “She’s at school,” she says tentatively, as though unsure herself.
Tony shifts, studying Peter carefully. “Bud… how do you know Morgan?” His tone isn’t angry, just curious, tinged with a sadness that makes Peter’s chest tighten.
“I… I watch her,” Peter admits, shame curling in his stomach as he forces the words out. “I watch over them both, ever since you… ever since you died. Just to make sure… to make sure they’re okay.”
Pepper steps closer, kneeling at his bedside beside Tony, her expression tender and full of worry.
“You watched us?” she asks softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Peter nods, feeling the weight of his own words settle heavily between them.
“Why didn’t you ever come to us?” she asks, voice breaking. “Morgan’s been dying to meet you.”
Peter shakes his head, the shame twisting tighter. “No, she hasn’t. She doesn’t know me. None of you do. You don’t remember me because… because the wizard did a spell, and the world doesn’t know who Peter Parker is anymore.” His voice trembles, a raw edge of desperation creeping in. “I— I didn’t mean to make you all forget me. But it had to happen… Beck… Beck, he—”
Tony cuts him off, his voice steady but intense. “Quentin Beck kidnapped you, Pete. He held you hostage in a warehouse, miles outside the city, for a month. That’s what Quentin Beck did to you.”
Peter freezes, his words catching in his throat, confusion and disbelief warring in his mind. Tony’s voice breaks through the haze, low and controlled, as if he’s fighting to hold back a tidal wave of emotion.
“I don’t know what lies he fed you, what he did to warp your reality so badly that you think May and I are dead, that Pepper and Morgan don’t know you.” Tony’s voice softens, his hand squeezing Peter’s tightly. “But we’re working on it, bambino. We’re going to figure it out, I promise. Whatever you think happened after the battle against Thanos… it’s all a lie.”
Peter’s throat tightens, his body stiffening as he stares into Tony’s face, raw with a vulnerability he hasn’t seen before. “We’ve all been looking for you, Pete. The whole team, May, Pepper… everyone. It took longer than we wanted, but you’re here and we found you.”
Tony’s words hang in the air, resonating— but they feel surreal, a distorted echo of reality. Peter wants to believe him, but he’s afraid— terrified that if he lets this sink in, if he lets himself believe even for a moment, he’ll lose them all over again.
But Tony’s eyes hold steady, unwavering, full of a fierce determination that makes Peter’s heart falter. He swallows, trying to push away the fear clawing at him, struggling to find his way through the fog that’s kept him in the dark for so long. And for the first time, he feels a tiny spark of hope, hesitant and fragile, flickering against the dark.
*
It’s been two days since Tony explained everything. Since his whole life and everything he thought he knew was turned on its head. Peter sits alone in his Medbay bed for the first time, and surprisingly, he doesn’t feel as lonely as he expected. The solitude feels like a breath of fresh air, a quiet space he hadn’t realized he needed. Between Tony and Aunt May, he hadn’t been left alone for even a moment. It was comforting, grounding, but also overwhelming. After what he thought were endless months of isolation— torturous, inescapable— returning to constant company, especially from people he’d believed dead, was a lot to process. Too much, at times.
But he’s grateful, deeply so. He wouldn’t pretend to be anything else. Their presence is the only thing that’s convinced him, slowly and cautiously, that maybe this isn’t a dream. That everything he’d believed, every agonizing moment, was all an illusion, a nightmare Beck had trapped him in for weeks. The memories feel tangible, though, lodged so deeply that the pain still throbs in the edges of his mind. All the suffering, all the fear— it’s real, no matter that the events themselves were projections. Quentin Beck had wired himself into Peter’s mind like some twisted Bluetooth device, reading his thoughts, distorting his memories, creating an entire reality from which Peter couldn’t escape.
The details don’t matter anymore. The Avengers— all of them, because, yeah, they’re all alive, even Natasha, who Peter could’ve sworn had died during the time heist— captured Beck when they rescued him. They pieced together enough from him and Peter to understand what happened, to untangle the nightmare Beck had trapped him in. Peter doesn’t know what became of Beck, doesn’t want to know. Tony told him this morning, “Beck won’t be a problem anymore,” in that low, dangerous tone of his. Peter doesn’t know a lot right now, isn’t certain about much, but he’s sure he never wants to be on the receiving end of Tony’s voice when it carries that edge.
After that conversation, he’d drifted off again, only to be startled awake by a nightmare. A nightmare that felt far more real, almost more convincing than Tony’s or May’s reassurances. A nightmare that had been frequent since he'd been brought to the Stark Tower.
Unlike those he’d previously endured in the warehouse, the fear wasn’t some distant, cerebral sensation; it was primal, raw, the kind of terror that thrums through every nerve, right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. But with these nightmares, he hasn’t been waking up alone. Each time he’s jolted awake, gasping and disoriented, Tony or May is there, carding gentle fingers through his hair, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, and murmuring soft reassurances that he’s safe.
Today, May stayed with him until she had to leave for her shift. Tony and Pepper made plans to by for dinner tonight, and they’re bringing Morgan for the first time. Despite feeling like he’s known her forever, he realizes that he’s never actually met her outside of the illusion. Now that he’s stronger, less prone to collapsing under the weight of what’s real and what’s not, they’ve decided it’s time. He figures they don’t want to risk scaring her with one of his panicked episodes, and he can’t blame them. He doesn’t want to frighten her either— if anything, he wants her to like him. The thought of disappointing her gnaws at him, making him feel like his place in Tony’s life is fragile, like he’s still clinging to something that could slip away if he doesn’t measure up.
So he waits, hands fidgeting with the small fabric beads on his blanket, worn soft from countless washes. He’s nervous, a knot of anxiety coiled tight in his stomach, but there’s a strange calm, too. The Medbay is silent except for the steady beat of his own heart, and for the first time in what feels like ages, he isn’t on edge, waiting for the next blow. The world, he’s learned, has been quiet since Thanos was defeated. The Avengers have focused solely on finding him, doing what they could to help the blipped adjust to life once more. Because, as he keeps reminding himself, it’s only been a month. Not a year. Only four weeks since his world imploded. It’s hard to wrap his head around, and every so often, he has to stop and remind himself that this reality is his reality now.
He hears them before he sees them. Tony’s footsteps are unmistakable, and Pepper’s follow close behind, their familiar cadence something Peter’s grown to recognize over the past few days. Even if they hadn’t visited so frequently, he knows their steps almost as well as he knows May’s. Of course, nothing could ever compare to the bond he shares with her, forged over years, but Tony’s a close second. And Pepper… she’s quickly becoming a close third.
The third set of footsteps is smaller, quicker, moving with an energy that Peter can only describe as enthusiastic. His enhanced hearing picks up her voice, high and clear, carrying that same curious lilt he remembers from the playground, though he’s never actually met Morgan in person. He’d only met a version of her in his illusions, Beck’s twisted recreations. It’s unnerving to think Beck had known her well enough to capture that energy so perfectly.
The door presses open, and Peter holds his breath, too nervous to even move, afraid of somehow messing this up. Tony steps in first, giving him a cautious grin. “Hey, bud, you up for some company?”
Peter can hear Pepper shushing Morgan outside the door, gently explaining that he may not be ready to have everyone crowding in just yet. But Peter nods, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. This is what Tony wants, what May wants— what they all want. For him to get better. So he says yes.
Tony taps the doorframe, signaling Pepper and Morgan to come in. Pepper steps forward, offering Peter a gentle smile. Before anyone can say a word, Morgan barrels into the room, darting past her mother and father, who both reach out in vain to slow her down. Her wild brown curls bounce as she bounds to his bedside, scrambling to climb up, her face lit with an infectious grin.
Pain flares through his ribs as she presses her small hands against him, but Peter grits his teeth, holding back the whimper that threatens to escape his dry lips. His healing factor is still sluggish from the malnutrition and exhaustion that Beck had forced him through, his broken ribs barely starting to mend. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t bring himself to complain or risk ruining this moment.
“You’re Spider-Man?!” she exclaims, her voice lifting in an eager question, her wide brown eyes fixed on him with awe. She looks so much like her dad, that same spark of curiosity and mischief shining through. But there’s a bit of Pepper there too— a warmth, a subtle softness that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Whoa, whoa, hey, missy,” Tony chides gently, scooping her up and shifting her to an empty spot on the bed, away from Peter’s aching ribs. “We said you have to be gentle with your brother.”
Peter’s body sags in relief, his discomfort evident enough that he knows Tony caught it. But Morgan seems too caught up in excitement to notice, and for that, he’s grateful. He watches as her face lights up at the word brother, and something stirs in him, something hopeful and fragile. He’s never really had a family— never parents. Sure, he’s looked up to Tony as a father figure ever since the Vulture incident (Moving Day, as he remembers it), when Tony had taken him under his wing; since he’d begun training him, organizing movie nights, and eventually giving him his own room at the penthouse. Since he started spending weekends at the Compound, training alongside the Avengers as a junior member after the Accords were resolved and the team reassembled. Tony even went to his parent-teacher conferences with May, and over the years, they’d celebrated holidays together, dividing his time with them like some child of divorced parents.
Maybe… maybe he really is their child. Not in the same way Morgan is, but close enough that he can feel that pull, that sense of belonging he’s always craved.
“Petey?” Morgan’s voice snaps him back, her expectant gaze fixed on him, waiting for an answer to her question. Tony and Pepper exchange tentative glances, as if preparing to step in, but Peter finds his voice.
“Yeah,” he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Spider-Man. But I’m also just… Peter.”
Her grin widens, and she scooches closer, stopping only when her mom and dad give her a gentle warning look. She leans in, whispering like she’s sharing a treasured secret. “Daddy told me stories about you all the time. You’re my favorite superhero… Daddy’s too.”
The words hit him with a warmth that spreads through his chest, soothing some part of him that’s been aching for so long. It’s surreal, hearing it out loud, feeling the genuine admiration from a little girl who sees him not as a stranger, but as family. And as he meets her gaze, he feels a spark of hope— a tiny ember— that maybe, just maybe, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
*
Dinner drifts by in a soft blur, warmth wrapping around Peter in a way he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. Somewhere along the way, he stops being so cautious, stops overthinking each word and movement. The presence of his family blankets him gently, letting him rest, letting him breathe without fear of shattering the moment. Morgan’s joy spills over like sunlight, her laughter bright and untamed. At five years old, she’s a whirl of energy, a spark of innocence and wonder, and it’s the lightness Peter didn’t know he needed. She was that brightness in the illusions, too, a beacon of something good and untouched— and now, real and right here, she’s ten times more vibrant than he ever could have imagined.
When it’s time for her to go to bed, Pepper leads her to the door, and Morgan turns back, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Peter’s cheek.
“You’re the best big brother ever,” she whispers, her words tinged with a kind of simple, unfiltered adoration that makes his chest ache. Peter glances at Tony, whose grin stretches so wide it’s as if he’s trying to hold the entire moment in it. Pepper’s eyes glisten, and she turns her head just slightly, but he catches the subtle sniffle, her emotions held in the quiet space between them.
The sky outside is inky and deep, stars just beginning to wink into view, and the Medbay lights cast a gentle glow over the room, making it feel smaller, cozier. It’s just him and Tony now, the silence stretching over them— long and comforting. Peter feels something unsteady in his chest, something that tugs at him, as if he’s at the edge of a cliff, peering over.
Tony lets out a sigh, leaning against the bed with an exaggerated groan, faux drama lacing his voice.
“Alright, kiddo, scooch over,” he grumbles, muttering about how he’s way too old to be cramming himself into a hospital bed.
Peter rolls his eyes, though a smile breaks through, stubborn and warm. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he teases, his voice carrying a playfulness he’d thought had left him.
But Tony just ignores him, maneuvering onto the bed and wrapping an arm around Peter, drawing him close. They both let out a long, slow breath, the kind of exhale that releases something more than air, something heavy and unspoken. The synchronicity of it makes them both crack a smile; a shared moment that feels as natural as breathing. Peter can feel the steady thrum of Tony’s heartbeat against him— a quiet, solid rhythm that he’d once thought he’d lost forever.
For a while, they sit in silence, words unnecessary, the quiet settling over them like a soft blanket. Then, Tony speaks, his voice a low murmur, edged with a rawness that Peter’s never quite heard before. “You have no idea how much I missed you, Pete. How scared— no, terrified— I was of not finding you… or of finding the worst-case scenario.”
Peter swallows hard, his own heartbeat loud in his ears. Vulnerability from Tony is rare, always hidden behind layers of humor and bravado, and this unguarded honesty leaves Peter feeling both grateful and unsteady. He hadn’t stopped to consider what his disappearance had done to the people who cared about him, the way his absence might have torn through their lives like a jagged edge.
“You know… I kind of thought for a while that everyone was better off without me,” he says, his voice a quiet confession. It’s not exactly shame he feels, but there’s a weight to it, a hesitancy, like he’s only now letting himself see the truth. Before all of this, there had been the smallest thread of doubt, a lingering question of whether he was good enough, worthy enough. But Beck had twisted that doubt, amplifying it into something monstrous, something that had made him feel like a shadow of himself.
Tony’s hand finds his, holding it firmly, grounding him. “Peter,” he says, and there’s an intensity in his voice, a fierceness that makes Peter look up, caught by the depth of Tony’s gaze. “I may not say it enough, haven’t had the real opportunity to, but I love you. So damn much— don’t tell your aunt I cursed in front of you— but I do.” He pauses, squeezing Peter’s hand, his eyes unwavering. “You’re the reason Morgan’s here. You’re the reason we were able to reverse the Blip.”
The words hit Peter like a wave, washing over him, and he blinks, stunned.
“You— huh?” he manages, his voice barely a whisper.
Tony’s face softens, and he meets Peter’s gaze, his eyes warm and unguarded, filled with a tenderness that makes Peter feel safe in a way he hadn’t thought possible. “The team came to me, asked me to help with time travel, and I said no. Losing you… it was hard, kiddo. Almost broke me. Even after Pepper had Morgan, I wasn’t really there. Not completely. You disappeared in my arms, out there in space, and you took part of me with you.”
Peter feels his throat tighten, his eyes misting as Tony’s words settle in, heavy with a love that feels as steady and unfaltering as a heartbeat.
“And then I saw that picture of us— your fake internship letter from school,” Tony chuckles, though it’s a wet, broken sound, his voice trembling. “I figured if there was any chance of bringing you back— of bringing everyone back, but mostly you— I had to try. And when I saw you on the battlefield…” He pauses, blinking rapidly as if to keep the tears at bay, his voice quieting. “We got one hug that wasn’t nearly enough… and then you were gone again.”
Tony’s hand grips his tighter, his thumb rubbing small circles into Peter’s knuckles. “I fought so damn hard for you, only to lose you again. Those first days, stuck in that hospital bed recovering from the Snap… I don’t think anyone could stand me.” He lets out a shaky breath. “But as soon as I could, I was out there, leading the search, fighting to bring you home. And I don’t ever want you thinking that anyone, least of all me, would be better off without you. At the very least, I know for a fact I wouldn’t be… and I’m Tony Stark, so that’s basically the same as all of America and maybe Australia, too.”
The words might be a joke, but Peter can feel the way they anchor him, the way they reach inside and settle something that’s been restless, hurting. His laugh is watery, his breath catching as he wipes a stray tear from his cheek. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him close in an awkward side hug that tugs at his sore ribs but he doesn’t care, because he needs this, and he knows Tony does too.
“Thank you,” Peter whispers, his voice muffled against Tony’s chest. “For fighting for me. For finding me. I… I love you, Tony.”
Tony’s arms tighten around him, his voice soft but sure. “Love you too, kid.”
They sit there, the silence returning, but it’s warm now, comfortable. After a moment, Peter pulls back, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “So… when can we go back to the lab? Soon?”
Tony chuckles, rolling his eyes, but there’s a spark of joy in his gaze that tells Peter he’d do anything to see him this alive, this Peter, again.
“Soon,” he promises, ruffling Peter’s hair. “But only if you keep resting up, got it?”
And as they sit there, Peter feels the certainty settle over him like a blanket, soft and unyielding—this is where he belongs.