Good Lord, Show Me The Way
Tony wheeled Peter into his room. It was a silent trip—Peter lost in his thoughts and Tony either frustrated or confused enough to allow him to wallow. (Distantly, Peter was proud he was able to rile him up so easily. Old him would have been appalled, but new him relied on aggravating them all into leaving him alone long enough to make his getaway.) Seeing Ned threw him completely off his axis—he was preparing for MJ, knowing that her typical aloofness with strangers would be his saving grace. He could handle Michelle for a few days, as much as it would hurt him. She was easy to distance from—she didn’t push if she didn’t care and she would never care about Benjamin Fitzpatrick—he was the antithesis of the type of person she admired. He wondered if that played a role in his original decision to take on the Fitz persona—he knew it would make him the least palatable person to most of those in his life. Then, of course, there was the added benefit of the alcohol and pills. If he couldn’t yet figure out how to take himself out of the equation permanently, he’d at least be able to do it temporarily.
Ned, though, was an unknown. Morgan hadn’t mentioned he was coming, and seeing him in person shook him to his core. His best friend looked gaunt and sickly. He was thinner (and not in some sort of “I chose this for myself” way but in a “this person may have a very serious disease” way) and his smile seemed strained. And, more concerningly, he appeared like he did in Peter’s dreams. In the past, Peter had always believed it was his subconscious taking on the face of Ned lecturing him after a risky move (it was not suicide—it was protection and necessary and the only way to ensure no one else would die because of his stupidity and uselessness). He knew it was his subconscious because Ned, in person, did not look like the ghost that was in his dreams. Ned, in person, was life personified. Strong and warm and happy. But the Ned Peter just saw? It was dream Ned. And it was fucking terrifying.
“Here’s your room.” Tony interrupted Peter’s thoughts. Peter looked around. Of course it would be his old one, because nothing was ever simple in his life. He wondered if he was part of some cosmic joke—that when he was snapped back into existence, someone asked that Peter carry the world on his shoulders like Atlas, but a less important one. Tony cleared his throat and stood in the door awkwardly. It was weird for Peter to watch him swing back and forth from an aloof and annoyed Iron Man to a concerned and curious dad-like figure, especially when it happened regularly in their conversations. It’s like Tony couldn’t decide if he liked Peter or hated him, if he wanted to be near him or to keep him far away. Deep down, Peter could feel himself screaming to tell everyone the truth and allow them to help, but he couldn’t afford that kind of vulnerability. He could imagine the hurt and trauma they’d all need to work through, and Peter refused to bring any more tragedy to their doors. He knew he couldn’t die (yet, he’d figure it out), but he wondered he’d be able to yeet himself out to space until he drifted away from anyone else he could doom.
“So, anyway, make yourself at home. Let Friday know if you want to leave. I think Morgan was hoping you’d meet them in the game room.” Tony tried to seem unaffected, but Peter could tell he was uncomfortable. “Um…yeah, don’t try to get up on your own. You’ll fall on your ass. Do you need anything?”
Peter shook his head and Tony closed the door. Peter sighed, locked his wheelchair, and stood up.
Mr. Fitzpatrick, I recommend that you ask for help before moving positions.
“Friday, mute.”
Mr. Fitzpatrick, you do not have proper access to mute me. Shall I ask Boss or Mr. Hogan to come assist?
Peter huffed. “Override: Whiskey Echo Bravo 10. Go check on someone else, Fri. I’m fine.”
As you wish, Junior Boss.
“Oh my God, Friday. You can’t call me that.”
She paused as if processing what he said.
I do not understand. The WEB protocol makes it clear that it can only be accessed by Junior Boss.
“Shit, Fri. I don’t have time to reprogram that. Please call me Fitz. Nothing else. Do you even know who I am?”
You are Benjamin Fitzpatrick, also known as “that little shit” according to Boss, or “menace to society,” according to Mr. Hogan, or “Tony 2.0” according to Col. Rhodes. You do not have any other records on file.
Peter hummed, relieved. “That’s right. Thanks. For now, stick to Fitz. Nothing else. Also, do not share this conversation with Tony.”
If I may…
“You may not.”
My protocol is clear in its directive to protect Boss’s family from anything that would be harmful.
“This is not harmful.”
My observations tell me that it would be beneficial to you that Boss know about your designation in this system. The Junior Boss profile has several corrupted files I am unable to access and may provide clarity around what seems to be troubling you.
“Friday, you’re not my therapist. Mute.”
Peter waited for five minutes. When he was positive that the AI would not continue, he pulled himself out of the wheelchair. What had Dr. Cho said? Dexterity issues, fatigue, and forgetfulness. (He snorted at that last—like that would even be a problem?) He shakily walked over to the walk-in closet, taking tentative steps. Stepping into the large closet, he climbed up the wall to a small alcove. There was a shoebox papier-mâchéd with pictures of spiders and unicorns on it. He shook his head fondly and opened it up.
In the immediate weeks after Peter had been erased from the world’s consciousness, he tried his best to figure out how thorough Stephen had been with his spell. Turns out, it was extremely thorough. His phone had been wiped of every picture that he was in. He had no identification, no birth certificate, no transcript. He checked the volunteer logs at the F.E.A.S.T. center where May worked—his name missing from the running list. After listening in on the memorial that Tony had held for Spider-Man and searching online (and stalking his old friends) and interacting with Happy that one time at May’s grave, he got a feeling of what stuck and what didn’t. Memories of Spider-Man stayed—as long as they weren’t connected to Peter. Memories of Spider-Man that were connected to Peter were altered—where Peter’s face or identity had been known (for example, turning to dust on Titan), Peter was replaced with Spider-Man. But even with all that, Peter was finding that the spell had leaks. Small ones, but concerning ones.
Like the way Morgan kept insisting she was dreaming about him. (Tony too, apparently, if his conversation in Peter’s hospital room was anything to go by.) And how Morgan said she thought he was named Peter. And how Friday could find files connected to him but they were too corrupted to access. For someone who called himself Sorcerer Supreme, he really didn’t do that great of a job at erasing everything in existence. Like this box.
Peter pulled out the letters he and Morgan wrote to one another last time they stayed in this house. She was going through her Victorian romance stage (as Pepper fondly called it) and wanted Peter to pretend that he was her long, lost brother in Europe, trapped and unable to get home for her wedding. They spent the week writing each other notes, each one more overwrought than the last. He was curious if they still existed, as she didn’t refer to him as Peter but Baron Pierre VonRainbow.
He smiled as he read them, grabbing a few of his favorites to take with him before he eventually skipped town. He wondered if he was tempting fate by welcoming his old life so readily, but he knew he would lose himself to the abyss completely and totally if he didn’t have something to hold on to. And while the abyss sounded nice to him most of the time, being around Morgan again made it a little less tempting.
He heard a knock at his door and quickly dropped down to the floor. He swayed and put his arms out to steady himself against the closet walls. Walking out (slowly, but surely, so fuck you, Natasha), he went to answer it. Morgan was waiting for him. Her face had been painted (by MJ, no doubt, because it was the most beautiful and intricate painting of a butterfly he had ever seen) and she was practically vibrating with excitement.
“C’mon, Fitz! We want to play Mario Kart before dinner. You have to come because Uncle Clint said that he is the best and I know that’s not true. Please, please, please?”
For the briefest moment, Peter wondered if he could get away with staying in his room all night, but as he watched MJ walk up behind Morgan, he knew it was a lost cause. His heart always (always, always, forever and always) betrayed his head and common sense was always (always, always, forever and always) the first thing to go when faced with a determined Stark.
“Okay, Morgs. But I’m Yoshi. Time to whoop some bird’s butt.”
MJ snorted behind Morgan as she crossed her arms and leveled him with an unimpressed stare.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in a wheelchair?”
“I didn’t know Iron Man paid you to babysit me. Hope it’s worth your while.” He winked at her, but cringed internally. Annoy them and get away.
“Oh, I couldn’t care less. I just don’t want you fainting on my favorite client.” She tickled Morgan, who looked at her funnily. “I’m your only client.“ MJ smiled conspiratorially, “And that’s why you’re my favorite.” She turned back to Peter and shrugged, “I tried to warn you.”
She walked away with Morgan, as Peter stood there for a minute watching.
“Get in.” He startled as Natasha appeared in front of him. She gestured to the wheelchair. He rolled his eyes and sat down, waiting for her to move. When she didn’t, he looked up at her.
She was staring at him, face unreadable. She began to speak, voice nonchalant but dangerous, gesturing towards where Morgan had been standing. “Don’t ruin this for her.”
He stared back and then smirked. “Morgan is the only reason I’m staying. So maybe drop the dramatics and go tell someone who gives a shit.” Peter pretended not to feel the bruise that formed when Natasha “accidentally” drove his wheelchair into the wall in the hallway. “Oops. Clumsy me.” He rolled his eyes.
Natasha brought him to the game room. Several beanbag chairs surrounded a large screen, and Clint was in the middle holding four controllers. Morgan and Nathaniel sat up front. Lila was talking with MJ and it seemed like Cooper and Ned had just finished playing air hockey. They didn’t pay Peter any attention as he transferred to the couch, but Morgan bounded over to Clint to grab him a controller. She handed it to Peter and winked.
“STARK,” Clint whined. “Who beat my score?”
“What are you yelling about in there?” Tony came around the corner, wearing an apron stained in spaghetti sauce over his signature white t-shirt and slacks.
“My top score. It’s gone. Someone named PBP is in first place.”
Peter choked on the hot chocolate Morgan had also handed him and couldn’t stop coughing. His cheeks reddened as they turned to look at him. “Sorry. Hot. Burned my tongue.”
Ned and Cooper sat next to him and Peter tried not flinch as his best friend’s shoulder bumped into his. “Well, Fitpatrick. Show us what you got.” Clint smirked at him and turned back around.
Ten games later, Clint was pouting and Ned and Cooper cheering for him. Morgan was doing a victory dance and Lila was teasing her father. Peter could feel a smile (a real one, and boy how long had that been) start to form. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed MJ and Natasha watching him intently. Ned patted him on the back. “Wow, dude. That was awesome. We were thinking about checking out the pinball machines. Mr. Stark has a Star Wars one.” Ned jumped up and grabbed the wheelchair. He looked brighter and healthier than when Peter first saw him. He went to give him a high five. Out of instinct, Peter began to do their handshake. Horrified, he watched as Ned completed it perfectly, a quizzical look on his face. The room was silent. Ned laughed awkwardly. “Huh. That was weird.”
“Fitz! That was so cool, teach me, please! Ned, teach me!”
Ned looked at Peter and then at Morgan. “Um. I’m not sure. I…I’ve never done that before.”
Right as MJ began to walk towards them, Tony came into the room, unaware of the growing tension. “Dinner’s ready! Someone grab Wheels over there and get him to the table.” Morgan, ever Peter’s savior, didn’t miss a beat and pushed him out of the room. “C’mon, Fitz! Sit next to me!”
He could feel several eyes on him as she steered him out. Cursing internally, he kicked himself for being so stupid. How could he forget his plan? Keep your distance, annoy them, get away. Bang up job, Peter. Really. Way to go.
They sat down, Morgan on his right, Tony on his left, MJ directly across from him. He refused to look up and instead played with the napkin in his lap. As everyone started eating, Peter wondered how everything could get so twisted so quickly. Just a week ago he was perfectly happy content fine working on the JACCASS and planning a quiet, much required exit from life. But now, he was trapped in some sort of Miracle on 34th Street fever dream eating spaghetti with every single person who should be avoiding him like the plague. Things were never simple.
He was so deep in thought, that he missed the orange portal forming in the kitchen and the damned wizard who stepped out of it. He was so deep in thought, that he missed Ned collapsing and Morgan’s crying and Tony’s shout. He was so deep in thought that all he could focus on was the headache that was forming and the words burned in his brain that told him he was worthless and better off dead.