Dear Karma

He shifted for probably the hundredth time, trying to keep an equal, respectable distance between both Tony and Colonel Rhodes on either side of him. He wondered if he was breathing too loud, or if he smelled particularly dirty, or if this was just as weird of a situation for everyone around him and it constituted some type of inherent space between them. 

Rhodey was staring at the side of his head, and Peter could only inspect his fingernails for so long before he knew he would combust into a fiery explosion. Tony, for all of his impulsiveness, was trying to soothe some of the awkwardness that seeped into the backseat, leaving a heavy, lingering silence that felt almost worse being broken. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked as soon as they’d left the street of his apartment complex. 

“No,” Peter told him, quietly, trying for a reassuring smile. 

“Are you cold? You’re probably cold,” He tried, when the car had breached the interstate, leaving the city through the Cuomo. His mentor was already reaching to the side, fiddling with the dials to change between the AC and heating, although it was barely mid-September. 

“I’m alright,” He responded, even as the warm air began to blow at him. He sort of felt like he was annoying the other two passengers, being needlessly doted on by his former mentor while also feeling viscerally intolerable to such treatment. He kept pushing away simple kindness, and he felt the sour looks he was receiving, even if he was avoiding them.

“So,” Rhodey said, after a couple of minutes had passed. Tony was trying to point the air directly at Peter, fiddling with the vents and sliding forward and back, as if the quality of the heat would increase if he pressed himself far enough into his seat. Peter glanced up at the other man, from where his gaze was trained on his shoelaces, and found a hardened type of curiosity in his face. “You’re Spider-Man.”

Peter nodded, even though it wasn’t a question, and tried to force himself to smile. “Betcha you were expecting someone…taller?” He tried, one of his worst attempts at levity. 

“Older,” Rhodey corrected, the lines around his mouth tightening. “I expected someone a lot older. You can’t be older than eighteen,” 

“Well, actually…” He began, and Tony stifled a laugh from next to him. 

“Kid, you could be thirty-five and I swear you’d still look sixteen,” Peter turned to him, moving his entire body as he made an offended noise in his throat. 

“I would not!” He argued, then chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Would I? Do I need to start growing a beard? A mustache? Wrinkles? I don’t think I can look more tired, but I can definitely get more wrinkles,” He pressed his thumb to his forehead, pushing the skin above his eyebrows around a bit. Maybe, by strength-of-will alone, he could impose a few more lines of age. 

“You’re shrimpy,” Tony mused, grinning as Peter continued to poke and stretch his face muscles. 

“I’m taller than you ,” Peter muttered, dryly, and Rhodey chuckled. Both of them seemed to pause, looking over to him as he shook his head. 

He looked at Peter, almost fondly, and tilted his chin towards Tony. “It’s not really an impressive feat, getting taller than Mr. Stank over there,” It was an invitation, a small gesture to bring him into some type of comfortability, to have a joke between them. 

Peter’s mouth twitched, and he swallowed thickly, touched that he was so quickly accepted into their dynamic. If he closed his eyes, forgot about all the things that had complicated his relationship with the Avengers, he could almost imagine that nothing had changed. He could pretend that they were poking fun at Tony, teasing and taunting as a weak distraction to their adoration of the man, just like they always used to. He could pretend that Rhodey remembered. 

Instead, he kept his eyes wide open, staring right back at Colonel Rhodes, trying hard not to cry through his grin. “No, I guess not,” he agreed easily. “But at least I don’t need a stepping stool to reach the top shelf,” He wiggled his fingers. “Perks of being sticky. Sticky and taller than Mr. Stark.” 

Rhodey laughed, a deep, bellowing sound that came from his diaphragm. It nearly startled Peter for a moment, how genuine it seemed, how quickly he had wormed his way into the man’s good graces. The older man snarked a few more things at Tony, who shot back just as much, his eyes crinkled as he looked at Peter, then past him. Rhodey patted his knee, almost a light slap of amusement, informal and chummy. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

The rest of the ride went as smoothly as expected, consumed with moments of awkward, suffocating small-talk that took on a lighter tone once he had gotten into the Colonel’s good graces. Every so often, he felt the weight of Happy’s gaze on him through the rear-view mirror, and he tried not to let the sour taste in his mouth show in his expression. It was something he needed to get used to, he knew, the distrust that came from those he used to consider his confidants.

Hell, at one point in time Happy was the only person he could turn to, providing space in his home and endless support to the slandering of his name, whether it be his leaked identity or his vigilante alter-ego. Now, through the smallest barrier of glass between the row of seats, they were strangers, and Peter was deserving of the wariness, apprehensive side-eyes and heavy frowns. He was just the stranger who climbed in his backseat at the insistence of an eccentric billionaire. He was just another unknown variable in the revival of Tony Stark. 

The sun had gone down by the time they turned onto a dirt road leading through the woods in Catskill, mere moments away from the tucked away Stark safe haven. Peter pressed himself a little further back into his seat, the car rolling to a stop just before the house. Happy popped the trunk, looking pointedly at Tony, and then turning the car off. Rhodey cleared his throat slightly, and then climbed out after the driver. It was clear, palpable in the air between them, that Peter and his former mentor needed a moment. 

Tony looked at him sideways, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You’ve been here,” He said, and there was an edge to his voice, almost as if he needed Peter to confirm with him.

He took a moment to respond, opening the car door for Tony and then scooching to the other door, hopping out and walking towards the trunk. He steadied his breathing as he hoisted out his duffle, slipping the strap over his neck and shouldering his backpack. Mr. Stark stood, his cane absentmindedly pressed next to his foot as he approached, and looked at Peter. He was still waiting, he knew, for his answer. 

“I have,” He told him, and gripped the lining on the inside of his coat’s pockets. “It’s just…” He looked at the porch, at the hanging seat and the potted plants and the welcome mat. The last time he was here was long before his field trip to Europe. It was only a few months after his mentor's funeral, and everything but the wood foundation seemed to cling with the somber space his absence left. He had never been here before when Tony was alive. He felt himself frowning. “It’s been a while.”

Tony put his hand on his shoulder, almost instinctively, and Peter didn’t have the energy to pull away. They started forward, following behind Rhodey and Happy, who had already stepped inside. He still felt tight, stiff and wrong-footed, as if there had been too much time being acknowledged and scrutinized in the car. He wasn’t used to spending so much time around people, especially not people he was entirely familiar with. He felt like his tongue was too heavy in his mouth, and his skin was crooked on his body, and everything sort of itched and ached in all the most uncomfortable places. He wasn’t used to being a person, after spending so long as the imitation of one, forgotten and bruised and tiny. 

Pepper Potts stood in the doorway, a sweater pulled around her shoulders with the arms hanging loose. Her hair was tied up, little strands of red and gray spilling along her forehead and neck. She looked comfortable in a way Peter had never seen her, always watching as she tried to shoulder a burden too heavy to balance. He felt horrible the moment her posture straightened when she spotted him. 

“Peps!” Tony greeted with a flourish, and Peter hovered behind him as he scaled the few steps to the porch, making sure he didn’t lose his balance in an attempt at greeting his wife enthusiastically. 

“You said you’d be back before dinner,” She said, in lieu of a hello, kissing him on the cheek and quickly returning her gaze to Peter. “Who’s…” She didn’t smile at him, which made him hold his bag a little tighter to himself, as if he could disappear behind it. 

Tony’s expression flickered, an obvious intensity hovering above his brows. He looked disappointed. He looked tired. “Honey,” He started, his voice pinched. “This is the kid. Underoos. Spider-Man. This is…” He clicked his tongue, looking irritated and sad. Peter stepped forward, hesitantly, and steadied him with a hand on his elbow.

“It’s okay,” He told him, and tried not to feel frustrated at the incredulous look he received in return. “I’m used to it by now,” He turned toward Pepper, extending a hand and trying to remember how to smile. “We’re strangers, and I don’t expect us to be anything different, so I’ll introduce myself. I’m Peter.” 

Her eyes widened, and she seemed to have trouble focusing on him and not her husband, but she took his hand. “It’s…nice to meet you,” She managed, and she even sounded pretty composed. He figured being the CEO of a company and a successful entrepreneur probably gave her a few conversational skills, or maybe she was just better at being a person than he was. Regardless, he was a little impressed. 

Tony grumbled again from over his shoulder, but he just shook her hand firmly. “Likewise.” 

Her gaze softened, just a little, and she reached out instinctively and smoothed the collar on his coat. “Well, why don’t you two come in. I put dinner in the oven for whenever you’d get home,” She sent a pointed look to her husband. “I wasn’t expecting guests, so I’ll go see what I can scrounge up.” 

“Thank you,” Peter told her honestly, and his voice sounded tight. 

“I love you forever, honeybun,” Tony added, and then ushered Peter through the threshold into the mudroom. 

He took his shoes off, then helped the other take his shoes off, receiving indignant grumbles for his efforts. He allowed Tony to take his duffle from him, but kept his backpack, and suit, close to him. Happy and Rhodey were already settled in the living room, talking animatedly with the youngest member of the Stark family, Morgan, who was beaming under the attention. Peter froze, just as the other’s seemed to notice their entrance, and felt his lungs splutter to take in oxygen at the sudden strain given to his chest.

It felt, for a moment, that he was merely an observer for the scene in front of him, as if looking through a window at a museum exhibit. If he were even a few steps further away, that illusion could almost seem real, if it weren’t for the curious looks he felt along his cheeks. He felt as if he were intruding, inherently out of place in the room, in the warm, familial dynamics right in front of him. He felt like he needed to bolt. 

“Mongoose,” Tony greeted, brightly, after he had deposited Peter’s bag next to the stairs. The girl had aged since the last time he had seen her, a little bit taller and a little more aware of herself. She was delighted to see her father, the two of them meeting in a tight embrace as Tony made it to the couch, picking her up with his one arm and swinging her onto the cushions. He groaned as he took his seat, exaggeratedly, and Morgan quickly popped into his lap, recovering from a fit of giggles. 

“You’re late for dinner,” She told him, in nearly a perfect impression of her mother, her face in a controlled pout. It broke, quickly, as Tony leaned back into the cushions, taking her with him, his hand swung around her middle. 

“Oh, deary me,” He tickled her sides, smiling despite his dramatic tone. “I seem to have forgotten my pocket watch, little Miss, and I lost track of time!”

“You don’t even have a pocket-watch,” She insisted, pronouncing each syllable carefully. 

Tony sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I guess it wasn’t all my fault. If you have any complaints, bring it up with Peter.” 

She made a confused sound in her throat. “Peter?” She asked, and Tony nodded seriously, sitting up and turning to face him, his face open and happy. 

“Peter,” He called, tilting his chin towards the couch, a gesture of invitation. “Come on, I know you’re not shy, kiddo,” 

He stayed still, in a way hoping that if he didn’t move, maybe he would sink into the background. Tony stared at him, expectant, worried, and finally something in him decided to jumpstart. He took a step forward, tentatively, and set his backpack against the back of the couch, standing there awkwardly as all eyes in the room seemed to track his movements. 

“Um, yeah,” He said, and tucked his hands into his armpits, glancing around nervously at all the gazes. Tony’s eyes were crinkled, slightly, and he gestured with his head towards the seat next to him, more forceful this time. The more important look, however, was the one right in front of him. Morgan peered at him past her father, her eyes big and her mouth slightly open, innocent in her fixation on him. He looked right back, his smile small and wobbly. “Hi.”

“Hello!” She returned, loud and excitable. She climbed over Tony, standing on the couch cushions and extending a hand, mimicking the formal, business-like pose her mother had taken earlier. “I’m Morgan!”

Peter took her hand, matching her attempt at seriousness, shaking it and nodding his head with the action. He remembered, distractedly, the very first interaction he had had with her, on this very couch at her father’s funeral. You’re my big brother , she had told him then, having no real idea what that entailed, my daddy talked about you all the time . He’d tried to spend time with her, past the senseless grief he felt with any association of Tony Stark and his family. He felt guilty, in a way, that he was glorified in stories and narratives spun by a dead man. He knew he would never live up to the tales he had starred in, to the version of him that was happier before the five years he’d lost, before the deaths he couldn’t prevent at the hands of a psychopathic alien. So he’d spent time with Morgan, but he never let himself stay; he didn’t want to be another disappointing constant in her life. 

He still had small, fond memories of what little they had done together. The movies they’d watched on this very couch, the blanket forts, the bedtime stories he’d made up for her. He pulled an all-nighter once watching videos of french braiding, practicing on May and MJ so he could surprise Morgan with his skills the next time he saw her. They would draw together at the coffee table, and he used to hold her up by her arms as he climbed across the ceiling, rocking her back and forth as she shrieked with laughter. He tried to be a big brother to her, even when he had no clue what he was doing, or what she needed. He tried to fill half of the role her father had promised he would take.

Then, everything with Mysterio happened, and he figured it would be better for her and Pepper if he stayed far away from them. Now, as she looked up at him, her hand so small in his, he was a complete stranger once again. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Morgan,” He told her, trying to hold on to the good memories, and Tony seemed surprised at the fondness in his voice. “Your dad already told you, but I’m Peter, and it was my fault that he was late for dinner.” 

“Oh,” She squinted at him, using her grip to yank him closer. She scrutinized him, her cheeks puffed out as she looked at his shoes, pants, shirt and coat. She searched his expression for a while, long enough that he began to feel a little nervous, glancing at Tony, who wasn’t trying hard to hide his amusement. Finally, she exhaled, satisfied at whatever she had found, patting the back of his hand. “Well, that’s okay. You seem nice. I like your curly hair. Your jacket is very puffy.”

“Thank you,” He said, belatedly when it seemed as if she was waiting for his reaction. 

Pepper poked her head out from the kitchen, leaning around the corner. “Dinner’s warmed up!” 

There was a chorus of hungry voices, murmurs of gratitude and complaints of stomachs rumbling. Morgan’s attention was diverted, but Tony wasn’t as easily distracted. Happy disappeared in the kitchen to help Pepper set the table, and Rhodey offered his hand to Morgan as they skipped to their chairs. Still standing, awkwardly, behind the couch, Peter shifted from foot to foot. Tony, unaffected, smiled at him and slapped the couch cushion as he stood, wobbling for a moment as his body regained balance. 

“Well,” The man said, mostly to himself, cheerful and exuberant. “I bet you can smell whatever’s been cookin’ far better than me, but don’t tell me yet, I want to be surprised.”

“Mr. Stark…” Peter mumbled, glancing towards the dining room table, dishes clinking and silverware clattering as soft, casual conversation drifted to him. He watched the domesticity of it all, and he felt so removed from it, even though he was barely a room away. He didn’t belong there, at that table, with people who barely knew his name. He didn’t belong here, safe, in a home where strangers would welcome him regardless.

Tony continued, unaware that he had spoken at all. “Now, I’m thinking if we play it right, we could get two servings of dessert, you just have to use those big puppy dog eyes of yours, and Peps will fold, I can tell—”

“Mr. Stark.” Peter interrupted, more forcefully, his lungs too crowded in his chest, a funny feeling of claustrophobia gripping between his ribs and squeezing any hunger that may have waited there. “I…I don’t feel so good.” 

And he didn’t. He felt nauseous and tired and out of breath. He felt like any steps he would take towards that perfect life in front of him would only chip away at the walls he had so carefully constructed around himself, years of loss and grief too heavy to be undone so quickly. He felt like the kindness, the softness and warmth he was being given, doled out to a stranger at the whim of his former mentor, was entirely too much for him, too undeserving for a man who was still atoning for all the consequences he’d wrought in an attempt to fix his mistakes. He felt, in the swirling pit of his insides, gooey and hot and painful, bad . 

Tony looked immediately stricken, his face paling and his posture tightening. “It’s okay, Pete,” He hurried to assure him, eyes wide and legs shaking. He scrambled around the couch, reaching Peter and forgoing his cane entirely to grip at his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He asked, then quickly added, “What do you need?” 

A ride home, he thought, feeling his breathing hitch, a hole to climb into and a shovel to pack him in. He looked towards the kitchen table, at the meal just beginning, then he looked at Tony. He was staring right back at him, calculating and empathetic and scared . He looked afraid, underneath every wrinkle around his eyes, terrified that anything could be wrong after he had finally gotten Peter ushered into his home, into his life with family dinners and inside jokes and an endless loop of kindness and easily given affections.

He wanted to disappear again, selfishly, to blend into the background and have no one to miss the empty space he’d left behind. He needed, on a more practical level, a moment to collect himself. To pretend like it wasn’t hard being welcomed to a meal. To pretend like it didn’t ache every time someone looked at him and failed to recognize any part of him that hadn’t just been introduced. 

God, he felt so dramatic, unable to even consider the possibility of incorporating himself into the dynamic before him. How could he? How could he dare to imagine himself happy, content, with a place to come back to again and again? How could he find any comfort when he had done nothing to deserve it?  

“I think,” He began, after he’d paused for too long. “That I need to use the bathroom. Is it still down there?” He gestured vaguely towards the hallway running past the kitchen and stairs. 

Tony blinked at him, caught off guard. “Yeah, yup, same as always,” He replied, his voice jumping, hopeful, back into a more relaxed edge. Peter gave him a smile that felt more like a grimace, stepping backwards out of his hold and ducking his head as he scurried down the hall. 

The door clicked behind him, and he felt every last shred of self control seep out of his body in a single choked exhale. He pressed his palms to his eyelids, shuddering to keep his fragile composure, his thoughts racing and his ears rushing with his heartbeat.

Despite it all, he could still hear, quietly, the sound of Tony picking up his cane, taking a few steps to follow him, and then standing still in the moment he had run from.