You Close My Eyes So I Can't See
They (whoever they are) say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. As Tony found himself front and center to the play that was Peter’s life, he felt a profound sense of loss and longing, and wondered if this is what the kid saw every time he tried to take his life. Surely these memories would be overwhelming, and if what Ned suggested was true, then Peter had been dealing with them alone. Tony still had no real recollection of Peter, past his interactions with Spider-Man and Benjamin Fitzpatrick, but the more time he spent with each version of the kid, the more his very soul felt weighted with responsibility and concern. And something else. Best not to explore that.
The mosquito bite turned out to be a spider bite. Tony should have expected that outcome, really, but had been so busy taking care of the fevered teen that it didn’t really cross his mind until a few hours later when the kid sat up, no longer sick, and proceeded to stick to his sheets. The younger kids cheered as he climbed the wall. Tony found himself caught between amused and impatient—he was anxious to move on, especially as he realized he was beginning to fight a headache. Strange’s warning echoed in the back of his mind and he wasn’t sure exactly how long he had until he and Peter both were past saving. The older version of Peter had left the room earlier, and Tony hadn’t been able to follow him. He tried a few times to open the bedroom door but it was locked and Tony wasn’t able to break it down. He settled for sitting on the floor and building Legos with the 4 and 8-year-old.
“JUST SHUT UP. YOU’RE NOT MY DAD.” The walls shook as Peter slammed open the door and opened the window to the fire escape by his bed. The fourteen-year-old was angrier than Tony had ever seen him. Faintly, Tony could hear voices outside the door calling for Peter to return.
“Whoa dude. Calm down.” The eight-year-old grabbed Peter’s arm but was quickly swatted away.
“Leave me alone.”
Tony stood up and walked towards the teen, who fixed him with a glare rivaling the ones he received from him a few days ago at Caltech. “You aren’t my dad, either.” He climbed out the window as the kids shouted for him to come back. Tony’s head pounded as the words echoed around him. Colors swirled and the scene shifted. you aren’t my dad, either. The accusation echoed louder and louder until Tony could feel the ground underneath him settling. He was on a street in front of an apartment building, a lone streetlight casting a halo over two figures. Tony heard a quiet keening and realized Peter was standing over the body of a middle-age man, hair barely graying and a kind face. Blood was pouring from his chest, his eyes were open but unmoving. Peter’s own eyes were unfocused and darting around. He was tugging at his hair—hard—and it wasn’t until he had pulled a chunk out that Tony’s brain kicked back in and he rushed over to the distraught boy.
“Hey, hey, hey, kiddo. Let’s not do that, huh?” Tony gently pulled Peter’s hands away from his head and wrapped him in a hug. Peter’s sobs drowned out the sound of approaching footsteps, so Tony was startled when he realized they weren’t alone. Tony looked up and saw Peter, practically identical to the one in his arms, look at them with his head tilted as if he were figuring out a particularly difficult equation. The only difference between the two teens was the vaguely haunted look in the newest one’s eyes and the faint dark circles underneath. He clucked his tongue and Tony could tell he was steadfastly avoiding looking down at the man by their feet.
“Really, Peter. That’s enough. We’ve got a job to do.” Tony could feel the boy in his arms nod, as he watched the one standing across from them shrug and put on a mask and goggles. “Sorry about that, Mr. Stark. He’s upset, but he’ll deserves it.” The kid tensed as Peter went on. “Just move on, dude. You won’t bring him back by crying. Maybe you shouldn’t have killed him in the first place.” Peter turned towards Tony, who had opened his mouth to argue with him. “Watch this!”
Tony was pulled forward as they plunged off buildings and swung towards crime after crime. Where time moved slowly before, it sped up now. Scene after scene of Peter webbing up criminals and helping tourists and rescuing cats flashed by. At one harrowing point, a bus careened towards them, and Tony stumbled as he was pushed out of the way. Peter stood in front of the moving object, arms extended and shaky as it crashed into him. He stopped it and bystanders cheered, and Tony watched, concerned, as the boy walked up to him in high spirits.
“Did you see that, Mr. Stark?! Here! Have a churro!” Peter talked non-stop the whole time. He was a bundle of nervous energy, almost as if he were trying to distract himself from something. Tony, however, found himself oddly silent. He wasn’t sure if it was the headache or the frenetic way the scenes kept shifting and changing. He hadn’t seen another version of Peter pop up since the murder of his uncle, and he felt an undercurrent of fear that was vibrating around them.
“Pete, can you slow down a second? Let’s sit.” Peter shook his head (“I’m fine Mr. Stark!”), scene shifting again. Tony heard muffled voices as he watched himself give Peter a new suit. He watched himself lead the fourteen-year-old to Germany, watched him get beat up, watched him lean in for an aborted hug, watched him track down weapons and weapons dealers, being sent to voicemail after voicemail. Tony watched as both a ferry broke and a kid broke, and winced as he realized he was part of that breaking. He watched as a suit was exchanged for pajama pants and a teen, who knew more loss and grief than most, immediately exchanged the pajama pants for his old sweatpants and continued his investigation as if nothing happened.
The scene shifted as Tony smelled gas and concrete and dirt. He watched helplessly as Peter lifted a whole-ass building and crashed a plane and walked away covered in blood and sand and trauma. Tony was frozen, unable to move or speak, and not sure if it was because of outside forces that stuck him to the ground or his own growing horror. Everything was in fast-forward, as if they were both careening to a fixed point, to something the magic or the bond or the dream realm they found themselves in needed to show them.
Everything was muffled and muted after the beach. Tony became an outside observer to lab days and movie nights and a growing relationship that he couldn’t remember despite his best efforts. Every time he tried to speak to Peter, he ended up in a new memory. It was as if anxiety itself had become sentient—everything was coated in despair and panic and self-loathing, and it wasn’t until they were all on Titan that Tony realized it was generated directly from the kid.
Tony’s head pounded and he could barely see through the lights darting in and out of his vision. It was worse than any migraine he had ever felt—worse than any hangover or drug overdose. Tony could barely hear the fight between himself and Thanos and swayed over to a nearby rock to sit down. He felt a body next to him. He was surprised to find four-year-old Peter sitting down, holding the stuffed Dalmatian, still bloody from the plane crash, watching him expectantly.
“Let’s go home, Mr. Tony. You don’t look so good.” This was the first time Tony had been tempted. He knew how the story ended here. Spider-Man disappearing on Titan, crying from the pain, coming back five years later to a battle and victory. And, yeah, it hit different knowing that Peter was under the mask, and Tony couldn’t begin to piece together the way his heart pounded when he thought of the boy he was getting to know being dusted and then returning. He knew the outcome but still didn’t know how Fitz was born out of all this, still didn’t know how his memories went missing, still didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to do. And as the kid looked at him with trusting eyes, he wondered if he was making this harder than it needed to be.
Maybe he needed to go home. Maybe that was what he was supposed to do. Yeah, that sounded right. The four-year-old looked at him, trusting, full of encouragement and hope, and Tony thought he was better off leaving the older boy behind. He’d be fine.
His head was really hurting.
Peter would be fine. Isn’t that what he said to him earlier?
“C’mon, Mr. Tony! Let’s go.”
Yeah, okay. That was the right move.
He got up and started walking. Behind him, he could hear movement. Voices raised and a shaky one saying, “Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.”
He’d be fine. Tony knew the outcome of this. He walked forward and the younger kid grabbed his hand, smiling at him. “That’s right, Mr. Tony! This way!”
“I don’t know what’s happening.”
Tony stumbled. Black dots swirled in and out of his vision.
“I don’t want to go. Please. I don’t want to go.”
Tony turned around, hesitating. He felt the child he was next to tug on his shirt. “C’mon, Mr. Tony. We’re taking too long. Let’s leave.” Tony looked down. The kid looked impatient and a little put out. “There’s nothing for you here. He’s not worth it.”
That didn’t sound right.
“That…I can’t…” Tony’s head felt like it was splitting open. He was going to throw up and knew, deep down, that if he left now, it would all go away. He’d feel so much better.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” Tony’s voice was louder and clearer than he thought he’d be able to manage. He gently let go of the hand he was holding. “No, Pete. I can’t leave yet.” The kid leveled him with an unimpressed look. He bent down and lifted his chin so he could look in his eyes. “He—you—are worth it.”
The ground shook. The colors spun. And everything went black.