Peter was diagnosed three months ago.
Stage four cancer, already affecting his lymph nodes, his liver.
He had seemed to sag at the news, and he hadn’t gotten any better. The inevitable was surely coming, they knew, but he put on a brave face.
It was hard for him to walk anywhere, now, and the chemo had long since taken his hair. He was feverish an shook constantly, staring into nothing.
Rhodey had taken him to the beach two weeks ago, trying to scare away the cold hand of death. While Peter found this exciting, and he toddled around in the sand, dipping his toes in the water, he came back just as sickly. They had known that it wasn't a cure, but they had held out hope that something would have changed.
There was a general air of somberness in the Tower, now, as they began mourning for someone still alive. It made their meals taste like sawdust, and they no longer found themselves laughing about dumb movies.
Peter mostly kept to his bed, the covers pulled up tight against his chin. Sometimes he was talkative, his shaking hands tracing pictures through the air, but usually he just stared up at the ceiling, eyes glassy. The only way they knew he was still alive during those times was because of the heart moniter that followed him around.
"I feel...spacey, today." He said one morning, as the Avengers gathered for tasteless breakfast, now relying on force of habit to get them the things they needed.
"What if...what if there isn't anything? Just...an endless void, for eternity?" He asked, leaning back in his chair. His skin is sallow, translucent, almost ghost-like in the light.
The Avengers shake their heads, because he can't talk about it, as though it means nothing, as though they will not lose everything.
Peter has been moved to the Med Bay, where they continue trying to synthesize a treatment that works with his capabilities. Its a constant cycle of his enhanced healing trying to cure him, and then draining him so much it just makes it worse. The cancer has almost completely set in now, and his healing is barely doing anything to combat it.
Their sure Peter will die soon.
They don't like to dwell on it, or think about it at all, actually, but in the dark hours of the night theres nothing to distract them from the horrible thoughts. Its led to many of them checking on the resting teenager, making sure the heart monitor still shows a steady rise and fall, and then not being able to sleep afterwards.
They wait at his bedside, because if he passes in the night they want someone to be with him. They don't want him to go alone.
Its a few days later that the doctors come to them with sorrowful shakes of their heads, clutching onto clip boards as though they are lifelines. They've grown to adore Peter as well.
The treatment isn't working, we don't think he'll last the night.
And so the Avengers stay in his little room, decorated colorfully with balloons and flowers and half assembled Lego sets. His Aunt isn’t there, dead under the earth, and his friends can’t come, on a field trip. He's barely lucid, eyes fluttering open a few times, but mostly he's still, hands pale and heavy on the ironed sheets. His eyes are lifeless, holding something dark, as though that is where the sickness started, it’s breeding ground.
They aren't ashamed when they cry.
There is a moment-only a few minutes-when Peter wakes up, sits up slowly and shakily, as though it pains him, as though it is the most excruciating task. He looks around and beams so wide that all his teeth show, and talks for those few minutes, the Avengers listening in rapt attention. He talks about the plans he and Ned have for his birthday (plans they know may never get fulfilled) before he slows, stutters in his speech. He slumps back down, tongue working drily at his lips as though the talking has exhausted him. Natasha slips a plastic straw into his mouth, which he drinks from greedily until he falls back asleep.
Will he ever drink anything ever again?
They shift around, not talking, eyeing the many machines he is hooked up to. They listen to the beeping of the room, and under it, just barely perceptible, a song. It has no discernible words, but it has a soft, slow tune, and makes them feel as though their lungs will expand and never stop expanding.
If they tilt their heads too fast it is gone, but if they are as still and silent as the dead, they can hear it.
The laughter of children, melancholy but sweet.
Its comforting, but it also makes them want to gouge out their eyes.
The sun sets, and they all gather around Peter's bed. They hold his limp arms, fingers against his shoulder, a palm on his knee. They keep one eye on the heart monitor, one eye on him. They don't want to miss it if he dies, but they don't want to miss it if he lives.
Their eyes trace over is skeletal frame, wrecked and pale with medicine and sickness. His arms are bony-the muscles still prominent, but the only thing on the bone-and his fingers twitch very slightly. His nails are yellowed and brittle, some of the places chipped, the cuticles ravaged by teeth.
His veins are blue rivers against his skin, prominent and strange, as though there is poison in his veins.
They watch his chest rise slightly, deflate again as little breaths ghost across his forehead. They are small, barely noticeable under the white covers.
But they are there.
His eyelids are closed, only a few eyelashes still hanging on. They hide eyes that used to be bright, eyes that are now dull.
"It hurts. It hurts a lot. I ache everywhere, and what happens if I don't survive? Was it for nothing?" He had said, out of the blue one day, during the first week when they had figured out about the cancer. The Avengers were having a movie night (as Peter was still up to them) and the question had taken them by such surprise that they didn't respond, until Pepper had the sense to wrap her arms around Peter.
He stayed like that for the rest of the movie, crying silently.
The Avengers think about this now. Is Peter going to die in pain? Its not a pleasant thought, and they don't want to think about Peter dying, but they do want to be logical.
Was it for nothing? Would Peter have suffered just to die?
The Avengers had, by now, come to terms with the fact that Peter so flippantly talked about his looming death. No emotion (rarely, at least) but that doesn't mean it didn't bother them. To see someone they love discuss death as if they were old friends? Something they wished had never become the regular.
Peter's lips are blue-ish now, cracked. His cheeks are sunken in, and the breaths that work their way from his lungs and out of his mouth look painful. They don't know if this means that he's fighting for survival or if it means he's not able to breathe.
For three more hours they stand vigil at his bed, smoothing the covers, tucking in the sheets that don't need to be tucked again. Peter's eyes only flutter open one more time, and at twelve in the morning Rhodey vanishes (not before pressing a kiss to the teenager's forehead) and comes back minutes later with enough fruits and protein bars for everybody. They don't feel like eating, and most push the items away, but end up chewing a few pieces of orange into mush and letting it sit-heavy-on their tongues. They can't swallow, and they wonder if Peter will ever eat again.
"Y'know, I once found him eating a bowl of Cheerios at four in the morning. While he was on the ceiling." Clint whispers, as though this is a thing that must be shared quietly. Perhaps it is.
The Avengers exchange watery smiles, glancing away when tears start falling down the archers face. Its a sacred moment, right at this moment, and depending on the decisions made could be one of the most important moments ever.
"Did I ever tell you that he once brought a doberman to the Tower and tried to hide it for three days?" Steve says, smirking slightly at the memory. The Avengers exchange incredulous looks, because they had no idea, while Natasha and Pepper trade knowing smiles.
"In MY Tower?" Tony asks, still whispering, but a touch of fondness is attached to his words. Steve just nods, steepling his fingers in his lap.
They trade stories, memories that are made sad simply because of the moment, as they wait for the inevitable. It’s a melancholy way to pass the time, one that makes their chests ache, but it’s necessary-a ritual.
Peter needs to be remembered.
”Y’know, I never thought I would have a kid-I thought I would be a horrible parent. and then Peter came along-“ Tony starts, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s going to happen if I lose him.” He stresses, shoulders shaking as little sobs wrench their way from his throat. What are the avengers to do but offer silent comfort?
This is Tony’s moment just as much as it is there’s, his needs to let his emotions out just as important as theirs. And they do. The stories get sad, fearful, the questions dark and sorrowful. They want to be realistic.
Why had Peter been cursed with this? Why had he suffered, was still doing so? If they had noticed sooner, paid attention to his fatigue and nausea more closely would they have stopped it? Would a treatment have been created sooner, before Peter was said to be dying?
They watch him take one more shaky breath in, and his chest doesn’t move again. They fear the worst, eyes welling with tears, but then he coughs, taking in another gulp of air. A constant cycle of panic and peace.
What happens if they lose everything?
Who will they be without him?
Its not until the doctors come in again that they realize something.
Peter has survived the night.