I can't
After the initial tears, they had settled into an easy calm, and Peter found the courage to explain a little more of what had happened past Iron Man's funeral.
“Beck,” Mr. Stark was saying, lowly, gripping a water bottle so hard the plastic was bending. “I fired him years ago. And you’re saying he…”
“Was still upset about it,” Peter said, simplifying it, even as the words burned as they left his tongue. A small part of him still blamed Mysterio for most of his problems, knowing that not all of it had been his fault, that he had been manipulated, and that it led to much worse than just his identity leaking. “Most normal people go to a rage room, or write bad reviews, but Beck decided to really embrace his inner psychopath and…well…he died, in the end,”
Tony exhaled roughly through his nose, and he was sure that the man would make sure one thing was equivalent in both universes. “But he still leaked your identity…”
“And framed me for his murder,” Peter finished, nodding, the entire thing sounding ridiculous at this point, and he was able to distance himself from it a little, with the worse things that followed it.
“And people believed that crap?” Tony asked, which he already knew the answer to, but the anger felt kind of vindicating, to Peter. He nodded, glumly, and Tony set his drink on the table, a little harder than he needed to.
Peter rubbed at his face, eyes still sore from crying, feeling more exhausted than he had walking into the kitchen. “He was very charismatic, very persuasive. I don’t blame the people for how they treated me—I mean, I fell for it too, at the start of it…”
“But you were a kid,” Tony defended, and Peter felt his eyes close, wishing secretly that Tony would blame him, too. Then he would feel more justified. “Why the hell was Fury sending you there, anyways? What, I die and suddenly he loses everyone's goddamn phone number?”
Peter remembered sitting in the FBI’s office, information being thrown at him, proving his guilt even when he knew his innocence. That Nick Fury had been off-world. That the tech belonged to him, now. “Technically…”
“Actually, don’t answer that,” Tony was rubbing a crease on his forehead, looking far too pissed for someone who had just been sobbing. He sighed, his frustration fading as he focused back on Peter. “It doesn’t matter. It all worked out, right?”
Peter felt his chest tighten, miserably, and he forced himself to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it all worked out,”
Tony patted him on the shoulder, a few things clouding the relief he was trying to display, but Peter was just trying to keep himself from vomiting, wondering if he would be able to keep Dr. Strange’s spell to himself, at least until he could go home. His mentor seemed appeased for now, knowing more than he had, and being able to relate to the unique grief that came with Thanos and the Infinity Stones.
“Peter,” Tony broke the silence, and Peter hummed in response. “You agreed to come to the Compound,” He hummed again. “Is there any chance I can get you to do the other thing?”
He began to respond, his vocal chords thrumming, but he paused, trying to recall his to-do list. “What other thing?”
Bruce Banner was more startled and less green than he remembered. Tony had sat Peter down on the exam table before the poor man could even get a word out, and Peter felt the sudden urge to apologize, even when it wasn’t his idea to begin with.
“If you need a physical done, just ask Dr. Cho,” He was saying, as Tony crossed the room to get a stethoscope. “I’m not sure if this meets my qualifications,” He glanced at Peter, almost sheepish, a wild look in the back of his eyes, one he had grown accustomed to the past few hours. “No offense,” He added.
Peter shrugged. “None taken. I keep trying to tell him that I’m fine,” He raised his voice at the end, looking pointedly at Tony’s back, where he was rummaging through cabinets filled with medical supplies. “But he has his heart set on it, I think,”
Dr. Banner looked amused, his expression softening, and Tony finally reappeared, handing him a tray with various medical examination tools on the surface. “C’mon, Brucie,” He pleaded, frowning. “Your PhD’s can be flaunted elsewhere—”
“Flaunted?”
“—the kid needs a check-up. He hasn’t had one in at least a year,” Peter wrung his hands self-consciously, knowing that he probably looked a little worse for wear. He still hadn’t gotten any sleep, and he wasn’t exactly running on a billionaire's salary, so grocery shopping had been…disappointing, for lack of a better term. “He’s also enhanced,” Tony whispered, as if this was news that Peter wasn’t supposed to hear, which was ironic, with his enhanced hearing and all. Bruce had known this as well, but it seemed that Tony was trying to play any pity card he could think of.
“Okay,” Dr. Banner said, slowly, looking more closely at Peter, ignoring Tony as he cheered next to him. “I’ll get some clean gloves,”
Tony stepped out for sake of privacy, which was a sweet gesture if Peter ignored the fact that he was definitely watching the entire thing through FRIDAY’s cameras. Dr. Banner had him change into a gown, checked his eyes and ears, his blood pressure, and had him step up to a scale. Peter tried to keep the red out of his face when he saw how low the number was, knowing how thin he’d gotten, feeling it more forcefully through the thin layer of the gown. Bruce was silent except for quiet instructions; when to open his mouth, where to look, where to stand or sit.
“Alright,” He said, once Peter had settled back onto the table, scooting a chair over with a clipboard and pen. It was almost amusing how much he looked like a normal doctor, finishing his appointment and ready to offer him a lollipop. “You’re a little underweight, but I’m assuming that your metabolism has been the thing wearing you down?”
Peter scratched his arm, swinging his legs back and forth, stripped to his socks. The air was cold against his knees. “Yeah,” He agreed, readily, knowing there was a little more to it, but not feeling the need to disclose it. “I haven’t, um, been eating all that much. Y’know,” He tapped his thumbs together, a nervous habit. “When money gets tight…”
Bruce frowned, the hard line of his brow only broken by the frame of his glasses. “If I remember correctly, we manufactured a few different calorie efficient bars for you to keep your metabolism righted. Was this not the same case in… your universe?” His tone sharped at the end of the thought, as if he couldn’t imagine why an identical world would neglect his needs. Peter had that thought himself, a few times over the past year.
Peter shifted slightly, and his gown made a noise against the paper along the bed. “Not exactly. You made them for me, but then…um, it’s complicated. Let’s say that, uh, the circumstances were not in my favor,” Bruce continued to stare at him, critically, having perfected the look a doctor gives to a patient being uncooperative. Peter sighed. “I no longer had access to those things. I…no longer had access to a lot of things that come in the ‘Avenger’s package’,”
“Alright,” Dr. Banner said, sounding like he wanted to say more but stopping himself. “Well, anyway, you have a small fracture along a few of your ribs, it seems mostly healed but not perfectly straight. I can get you wrapped up to fix that, but if I might ask…”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter subconsciously raised a hand to his stomach, knowing exactly where the cracks had been and how roughly they had knitted back together. “I was fighting the Rhino, and he…well, I don’t know if you have the Rhino, actually, but he’s like this angry Russian dude named Aleksei, but he has a huge mechanized suit that’s kind of shaped like a rhinoceros,” Peter gestured with his hands, trying to emulate the size and shape of the suit.
“And he does a lot of smaller crimes like robbing banks, but sometimes he gangs up with the Scorpion and some other guys and they just absolutely…” He imitated an explosion, making the sounds with his mouth, then laughed at his own ridiculousness. Bruce had a weird, confused but endeared expression on his face, like he was sure Peter had lost his mind but he liked him too much to tell him flat-out. Peter kind of felt a little crazy, so it was nice not to be too judged.
“I’m sorry, a Rhinoceros?” Both of them whipped their heads towards the doorway, watching as an exasperated Tony Stark re-entered the room, a forced nature to his teasing. Peter knew he had been listening, but it did feel a little better that he would admit it so plainly.
Peter obediently lifted his arms as Dr. Banner directed, having taken out a compression wrap, beginning to tend to his ribs. “Yeah,” He managed, trying not to wince as his body protested. Bruce handed him back his clothes, and he pulled his sweatshirt back on, careful of the wrap around his chest. “I’d say it's kind of weird, but I don’t think I can,” He pointed to himself, then mimicked shooting his webs. “Spider-Man and all,”
Tony shook his head, helping him off the table even when he didn’t really need it. He slipped the gown all the way off and pulled his shorts over his boxers as Bruce and Tony talked, quietly. “How underweight,” He was whispering, and Peter felt himself rolling his eyes.
He was picking at his sleeves, listening to the two men talk when he felt the prick at the back of his neck. His senses were alert—not of anything dangerous, it wasn’t that strong—but of someone new approaching. He couldn’t help the goosebumps crawling up his skin, and he straightened, staring at the door.
Tony noticed, looking at him, his brows furrowed. “What’s up?” He asked, calm, but Peter didn’t spare his attention, trying to place where he knew those footsteps from.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Peter responded, distractedly, and Tony pulled a face, confused, just as the door began to open.
Happy Hogan stood under the threshold, pale and stony, staring directly at Peter. He felt himself swallow, looking right back, even as Tony began to step in front of him, a quick gesture of protectiveness, one that he did instinctively. He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and he hadn’t realized he had been shaking.
“Haps,” He greeted, falsely cheerful, his lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “I knew you were going to be going over security footage today, I just didn’t think you would be—”
“Tony,” He interrupted, his voice rough. “What…what is this?”
He tightened his hand, squeezing reassuringly. “Haps, this is Peter. Did you forget already?” His tone was light, joking, but he knew that if he looked up, his mouth would be quivering. Peter felt light, kept from floating away by the weight of the fingers pressed into him. He was already tearing up.
Happy shook his head, slowly, still pale. “But he’s…Tony, Peter is—”
“Right here,” Tony interrupted, firmly. “He’s right here, Haps,”
There was a long stretch of silence between them, the air stiff and uncomfortable, broken only by the tight breaths coming from Happy and the sound of a vacuum running two floors down. Well, it broke the silence for Peter, at least.
“Um,” He cleared his throat, trying to lift his hands to scrub at his eyes as casually as he could. Tony kept his hand steady against his shoulder, but Peter forced himself to relax under it, glancing back at him as if to convey all of his feelings. He lowered his hand, slowly, and Peter turned back to the other man, frozen in front of the door. “Hi Happy. I know this is super weird, and I’m supposed to be dead right now.
"Well, I mean, technically I am dead, but not actually me . Because I’m not the me that’s dead here, I’m a different me. From a different universe. Which is pretty cool, right?” He took a few sharp breaths, falling into a word vomit that seemed to be endless, watching helplessly as Happy stared at him with wide eyes and stiff shoulders. “Yeah, well, anyways.
“I’m Peter, but not your Peter, but still kind of the exact same Peter, which we really only just found out. But, um, since I’ve been gone and all, I guess that we don’t quite know each other the same way we did, when I lived in your house and you dated my Aunt and you helped me fight a robot army and…uh, I guess none of that matters to you because it never happened here, but it did happen to me. And I’m grateful that you helped me so much, and that you stuck around to make sure I was okay,”
His throat got a little tight, and his voice thick, so he stopped, gulped some more air, and tried to ignore the way Tony must have been looking at him, stifling laughs or sobs from behind him. “You were there for me. And it means a lot to me that you stood by me and stuck out your neck, even when I was screwing everything up. So, um, it’s really nice to see you. If that means anything, I guess,”
Happy was looking at him, his features perfectly encapsulating what it felt like after being slapped. He had heavy bags under his eyes, and it looked like he was trying to process the words Peter had haphazardly thrown at him, trying to get all of his feelings out before he was too afraid. His eyebrows pinched, and he opened his mouth, only to shut it again, closing his eyes and beginning to shake his head.
“Oh my God,” He muttered, then lifted his hands to his face, covering his mouth, his head still moving from side to side.
Tony moved past Peter, towards the man in the doorway, his steps slow and calculated. “Haps,” He said, cautiously, and his head of security raised his face, his eyes a little red but his mouth pulled into a wretched smile.
“It’s really him, Tony?” He asked, and when his mentor nodded, slowly, he broke out into a choked sort of laughter. “Oh my God!” He repeated, and Mr. Stark pressed his hands to his shoulders. Peter felt awkward, not unlike he had been feeling the past day, and Dr. Banner nudged him gently, urging him closer to the pair. He approached, nearly tripping over his socked feet, and Tony moved aside just in time for Happy to open his arms, slightly, and Peter found his way into the hug.
He was reminded, suddenly, of a tulip field in the Netherlands, his body broken and battered and Happy, solid and confused. He held onto him tightly, glad to hide his face in his suit jacket. He could practically feel Tony’s eyes on the back of his neck, and he knew he would be making a fond little face at him, the weight feeling warm and comforting in his stomach. Happy’s fingers were steady if not tight against his shoulder blades, and he let himself sigh, a tiny little exhale of his stress.
“This is nice,” He muttered, and he heard three sets of laughs in response.