Dear Karma

Peter felt like he was going to throw up. Maybe it was the amount of wracking, ugly sobs that shook his ribs and left him reeling. Maybe it was the reality of the man holding him in a one-armed grip, wearing the exact face of the mentor he had watched die, hearing his heartbeat stop a foot away from him. Maybe it was the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich he had scarfed down at 2 in the morning. There were many reasons his stomach was rolling, and he was inclined to believe all of them held a part in the clenched, searing pain that crawled up his esophagus. 

Tony Stark was alive, and he remembered him, and he was sitting on the floor of his apartment, leaned against the wall, holding Peter’s head to his chest and trying to comfort him in his unrelenting grief. Tony Stark was alive, and he remembered him, and he was here. 

Peter pushed himself up quickly, his nose running and his breaths still coming too fast, and he tried to pretend like he was composed. A hiccup built in his throat, and his shoulders shuddered, and he wiped furiously at his face. 

“You shouldn’t be on the floor,” He found himself saying, raw and crackling past the lump in his throat. He continued to scrub at his face with his sleeve, leaning backwards onto his knees and forcing himself to stand within the same momentum. He stumbled, Tony steadied him, and they both swayed a little on their feet. 

“It is pretty dirty,” His mentor brushed his hand along the back of his pants, frowning at the creaking wood beneath their feet. His eyes were shining and he sniffled as he continued to straighten his clothes, keeping his shoe pressed against Peter’s, a weak attempt at holding contact in the absence of a second hand. 

“You’ve been using a cane,” He clarified, giving up on the mess his face must be, pointing towards his kitchen table and the shiny, metal stick propped against it. “I…if you need a cane it’s probably not good for you to be on the floor. Especially not this floor,” He folded his arms to himself, tucking his fingers under his armpits and keeping his shoulders up, tight and tensed. “Because it’s dirty.” 

“Pete…” Tony began, looking miserable and soft, leaning towards him as if he were about to hug him again. Peter wasn’t sure he could handle that; he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop the tears leaking from his eyes if he had a literal, physical shoulder to cry on. 

So he stepped away, inhaling shakily and walking backwards into his apartment. “Let me get you something to drink,” He said, and turned, and hated how much he missed the warmth already. 

He puttered around, trying to ignore the eyes he felt trained on his every move. He put his bag down at the table, grabbed his good mugs (one of them was just a cup, chipped on one side, but it wasn’t plastic at least), and let the tap run as cold as it got. There were only so many things for him to tidy, stalling the conversation the two of them needed to have, and he tried not to let the anticipation prick at the edges of his skin. There was something heavy in the air, thick with the tears they’d already shed, murky with all of the things that had yet to be said. He wasn’t sure he would be able to keep his voice from breaking. He wasn’t sure he would be able to look Tony in the eyes and tell him how horribly he’d turned out. 

Peter let out a long, slow breath through his nose, turned to face his former mentor, and walked forward. 

“I went on a field trip to Europe, a year after you died,” He began, running his tongue along his teeth and praying his hands would stop shaking. He handed Tony the mug, then forced his own cup to the table, staring down at his seat before taking it. “And I got fucked over double-time by an interdimensional fraud and a clone of Nick Fury.” 

Tony looked at him, his face blank and his eyes red, tired and sharp. “Tell me everything.” And Peter did. 

He told him about getting EDITH, about being unceremoniously forced into helping Mysterio fight the elementals, about trusting the man and his sob story. He talked about just wanting to spend time with his friends, with Michelle, and dodging Nick Fury’s calls until he hijacked his entire trip and drove his classmates right into the line of fire. He talked about handing over the only thing he had left from the man before him, about putting his trust in a perfect illusion, about trying to run away from a responsibility that was given to him in place of a kindness. He talked about finding out the truth and watching Quentin Beck die on that bridge, wishing that it could just be over and his mistake would right itself. And then, he got to the final and lowest blow taken at him.

“You’re not the only one who made contingencies from beyond the grave,” He joked, dabbing at his eyes with his thumb. “Just, yours were a lot more helpful. I mean, you didn’t even try to plan my downfall or anything.”

Tony frowned, obviously not fooled by his weak attempt at levity. “What contingencies?”

He told him about how his identity was revealed, how the city, the world turned against him at the condemning words of a con artist. He talked about being cleared legally, but the backlash that scorched everyone who dared stay close to him. He talked about MIT, about Ned and Michelle, about no longer feeling safe in their apartment and moving in with Happy. Then, he got to the more complicated part. 

“I’m assuming something else happened,” Tony guessed, when Peter took a long moment to steady himself. “I mean, you don’t exactly have a mob outside your door.” 

“I had to fix it,” He stared at his cup of water, drops of condensation sliding down the rim and into the pads of his fingertips. “My friends didn’t get accepted to school. May was getting harassed. Happy had to clean up my mess, and he was getting in trouble with the government because of Stark Tech. I…asked for help. To make everyone forget.” 

Tony frowned. “I’m guessing you didn’t just scrub your record from the interwebs?”

“No,” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I kind of panicked. I needed a quick, magic fix for everything.”

“Magic?” His mentor seemed to want to laugh, before a bit of recognition dawned on him. “Oh god…don’t tell me you went to Doctor Dumbledor.”

Peter shot him a dry smile, hurting the muscles in his cheeks with how forced it was. “He was the only person I could think of who would actually help me, he was the only one…” He let his jaw snap shut, letting his shoulders droop and his fingers sag against the tabletop. “It sort of felt like the whole world was against me, and you were gone, and I couldn’t go to Mrs. Potts, and…and I just thought, like, ‘hey! I died with that guy on that alien planet that one time! Maybe he’ll be able to do something!’” 

Peter tried to laugh, a bitter, clogged sound from his throat, and it was enough to make both of them startle. Tony sat up straighter in his seat, his hand on the table moving as if to reach for him, but finding some invisible resistance that halted the gesture. 

“What did he do?” He asked, softly, and there was a strained quality to his voice; a willful omission of a more reserved emotion. Peter wondered why he was trying to sound so calm, even now. He never used to do that before. 

“I asked him to make everyone forget that I was…” He stopped himself short, and the expectant, gnawing grief pulled at his intestines and stomach. “I asked him to make everyone forget me.” He lied. 

Tony nodded, his face a controlled type of blank, and he began to stand from his chair. Peter watched him, curious and hurting, as he steadied himself with his cane and nodded again at the chair he’d vacated. 

“Where are you going?” He found himself saying, weak and pitiful. 

“I’m going to beat the shit out of a wizard,” Tony replied, just as quickly, and shuffled for the exit. 

Peter jumped up, unburdened by the stiffness of injury, rushing past the man and throwing himself in front of the door, blocking his way out. “Don’t,” He pleaded, and he was met with the furious eyes of a man back from the dead. “He doesn’t even remember he did it,” He added, his voice small, and stood his ground with his back pressed against the knob. 

“He did this to you,” Tony accused, and the composure he had carefully manufactured seemed to crumble in one swift moment, his brows furrowed and his shoulders shaking. “He made the whole damn world forget who you are, and I’m going to make sure he remembers that.” 

“Don’t,” Peter repeated, more forcefully. “It won’t do any good.” 

“I don’t know,” Tony argued. “Hitting him until the memories come loose seems like a pretty good plan to me—”

“I don’t want you to do this,” Peter said, his voice even and dry. His mentor paused, frozen, and he shrugged his shoulders, helpless. “It won’t do any good. It won’t…it won’t do me any good. It’ll only make me feel worse. That you’re angry at him for something that…that never happened, as far as the rest of the world is concerned.”

Tony’s lips pursed, and he moved his fingers against the handle of his cane, and he looked so very sad. “Kid…”

“I’m sorry,” He said, and it hurt his throat. Tony gave him this look, all wide-eyed and raised brows, so he continued, “You miraculously come back from the dead and you have to spend all your time worrying after me. I’m sorry the spell didn’t work on you,” He lifted his shoulders in a horrible attempt at nonchalance. “I’m sorry you remembered me.” 

His mentor scoffed, a noise that seemed to surprise the both of them, and he shook his head. “Don’t be sorry for something stupid,” He placed his hand, heavy and fast, against Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t be stupid enough to be sorry about that. It’s nonsense luck that I remembered you, and that I found you, and that you’re not alone anymore,” He shook him, gently. “I’d have lost my mind if I cracked up out of the grave and didn’t even have the decency to remember my own kid.” 

“I’m not—” The words stuck in his throat, a gooey, hot rebellion that he realized just in time that he didn’t truly believe. I’m not your kid, he wanted to argue and push and kick away. I’m not worth it, he needed him to understand, so he wouldn’t keep coming back no matter how hard he bit down. “I’m fine being alone. I can handle myself.”

“Pete, you’re using oneset of plastic silverware. You have six cupboards and five of them are empty,” He swept his arm in a wide motion, gesturing vaguely to the interior of his apartment. “You don’t even have sheets on your bed, there’s just a quilt and a…is that a pillow pet?” 

Peter felt himself blush, his ears feeling hot and his fingers twitching. “It had a hole in it. I got it for two bucks.”

Reasonably, he shouldn’t have felt so embarrassed; he was dirt poor, scraping by but self-sufficient. He knew where the clearance section was in most stores, hoarded coupons for anything and everything, used duct tape and hot glue to keep his shoes together, and he had been paying his rent (mostly) on time! Sure, he wasn’t living in a penthouse with a five star meal every night, but this was his normal. This was his survival. 

It bothered him that it got under his skin so much; that he would so easily feel the trickle of shame down the back of his neck because he hadn’t splurged and bought bedsheets. It bothered him in a way only Tony could. It was just one more thing to wash, he’d told himself, it was just one more thing to worry about. 

He felt himself instinctively hunching his shoulders, defensive and red. “I stitched it up myself, and it’s…” Peter looked back towards the other man, his face kind and fond in a way he had forgotten about. “What?”

“I forgot how stubborn you were,” He said, his eyes misty and crinkled. “I think…just, it was easier to remember the hero worship, the voicemails, the endless enthusiasm,” He shook his head, smiling. “I forgot why we butted heads. Stubborn meets stubborn,” He laughed.

Peter felt a bit of his fight draining from him, subconsciously leaning more into Tony’s grasp. “I’m sorry,” He told him, even when he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. 

“I’m not,” He squeezed his shoulder. “I missed it. I missed you. I’m honestly torn between jumping for joy and crying in relief.” 

Something cracked, mushy from the time spent in the company of someone who recognized him, knew him, and he let out a wet, startling laugh. “I don’t know if you can jump,” He managed between the conflicting mess in his throat; a tired resignation of humor jumping between the strain of his vocal cords, frayed and hardened with his sobs. 

“Then I’ll cry,” His mentor decided, tears already slipping past his cheeks. “I’ll weep for you, Pete, doesn’t that feel good?” 

“Not really!” He yelped, indignant, and Tony chuckled and brought him back into a hug. Peter was too stiff, too caught between too many emotions all bubbling up at the same time from his toes to his collarbone. He allowed himself in that moment, selfishly, to shift just a little into his embrace, tucking his nose in his shoulder and closing his eyes. It would only be for a moment, he told himself, he would only pretend for a moment that everything was okay.