For Six Long Years I've Been In Trouble
If someone were to write a story about Peter's life, he was pretty sure it'd be rejected by editors as being too fucking, unbelievably tragic for any normal person to read. He was also pretty sure that if MJ could see him now, she'd be able to fill up a hundred notebooks of his face just from the past year alone. So it felt like some sort of poetic or artistic or literary justice to find Iron Man standing in front of him, arms crossed, as Peter held a half-full bottle of vodka in one hand and Morgan's right hand in his other. He snorted as he thought about how Tony—his Tony—would probably be a lot angrier with him than Morgan if he still remembered him. Small mercies that Peter was now just Benjamin, the drunk fuckup some old college professor suggested he meet, and not Pete, family and beloved.
'Underoos, we need to talk, bud.'
'Tony, I told you I'm fine.'
'You're really not, though. And that's okay. No one said you have to be—hell, I'm not, and I wasn't the one fighting that bastard. Forget about Beck right now. Forget about the media—Pep's on it, Happy's on it, we have protection for your friends and May, and I've called MIT to give them a piece of my mind. We've got your back.' He bumped Peter's shoulder with his own. 'But you need to talk to us. You can't keep it all stuffed down.'
'Really. I'm handling it.'
'Peter, I found an empty bottle of scotch in your room and you're sitting on top of the Empire State Building. Nothing about this screams 'handling it'. Just—please. Come home.'
In the small moment between Tony speaking and Morgan bursting into tears, Peter noticed how quiet everything had gone. Rhodey stood behind Tony, considering him silently, while Happy ('I'm not a maid, Pete. For the love of God, clean a dish.') was ushering everyone out of the dorm room as he made them delete the photos and videos they had been taking. Inexplicably, he also had a trash bag in his hand already filled with empty bottles. Peter couldn't even remember the last time they owned trash bags.
Morgan's crying got louder. It hurt Peter's heart head, so he lifted the bottle to his mouth for another drink. Quick as lightning, Tony grabbed it out of his hand and handed it to Rhodey, who, with practiced ease, dumped it into the sink. Peter huffed sullenly, and walked over to the couch, arms wrapped around his stomach (because he was sure it was going to self-combust with anxiety and alcohol), and watched Tony disengage his suit and pick up Morgan.
"I'm s-s-sorry, Dad." She hiccuped, breaths coming haltingly. Peter was compelled to sweep her up in his arms, but instead stayed rigid and unmoving on the couch. "I just had to. I HAD TO." She was practically screaming at this point. "Mom told me to. He's my brother. I know he is. He looks just like him. His name is Peter and he's in trouble and we HAVE to do something. Mom told me. It's real. It's not just a dream. She told me."
Peter was drowning. He knew he couldn't die because, you know, he already tried that so many times this year and his stupid, idiotic mutation or the stupid, idiotic magic with its stupid, idiotic hallucinations kept him alive, against all his best efforts, but at that moment, as Morgan wailed and Tony looked so broken and confused and lost, Peter felt like he was dying. Like he was on Titan again, each and every molecule ripped forcibly from his body.
Peter barely felt it when Morgan's arms wrapped around him. "Tell them. Please, Peter. Tell them. I know it's you. It has to be."
"Morgan." Tony hesitated, holding her like she was going to disappear. "Honey. I know you've been having a hard time. It's so, so hard. And we'll figure this out. We will. And I know those dreams seem so real. So, so real. But bambina, they can't be." He threw an almost apologetic look to Peter, who was clutching his fists so tightly, he could feel his nails cut deep into his skin. Tony's class ring, which had been given to him right after everything that went down with Beck, felt like it was squeezing off his circulation. He rubbed it subconsciously. Tony wiped her tears. "Sweetie. Think about it. How can you have a brother I don't remember? That you don't remember? Uncle Rhodey, Uncle Happy? Aunt Nat? Uncle Bruce? It's not possible." Peter had never seen Morgan so worked up. Her eyes were like fire and she wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She pointed at Peter.
"I don't care. It. Is. Him."
Rhodey stepped in. "Morgan, we don't know him. His name isn't Peter. You just gave him his id, hon. Didn't you see a different name on it?"
Morgan wiggled out of Tony's grip and walked over to Peter. He eyed her warily, head and heart at war, desperately trying not to throw up all over himself. She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please. Tell them your name."
It was so quiet. Peter didn't understand why the adults around him were even humoring her. He just wanted everyone out. He wanted to lay down and never wake up again. Peter looked at a spot on the wall past her shoulder.
"I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat a few times. "I'm so sorry." He said it like a prayer. "You..you have the wrong person. My name is Ben Fitzpatrick. Call me Fitz." He did half-hearted jazz hands, still refusing to look at her.
Morgan let out a strangled sob and ran out of the room. Tony quickly followed. Peter couldn't begin to examine why he felt that loss so profoundly. He looked at Rhodey who was eyeing him strangely. "Listen, man. I am sorry. Will—will she be ok?" Rhodey just pursed his lips together as Happy handed him a trash can.
"Better in, than out, Ben." Confused, Peter looked between the can and the colonel's face. "Wha-" Peter then vomited spectacularly. Happy immediately gave him a large glass of ice water.
"Listen. We don't know each other. But I knew someone like you a long time ago. Let me give you some advice. This—" Rhodey gestured around him,"—this will not help whatever is going on in there." He tapped Peter's head. "We have an appointment in the morning, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Don't keep us waiting." He gave him another searching look, shook his hand, and he and Happy walked out the door.
Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before he woodenly stood up and walked back to his room. Closing his door, he plopped himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He went to fiddle with the ring on his finger. Slowly, disbelievingly, he tried again. But it wasn't there. Before Peter could consider the implications of that, he fell asleep, drunk off of a newly-opened bottle of tequila and a million deep regrets.
A few thousand miles away, a man opened his phone to several new notifications. He smiled as he saw the pictures that were sent to him. Perfect. Let's get started.