You'll Never Know Dear, How Much I Love You
No one likes an interlude, and Morgan was no exception to that. As established earlier, she was impatient, and it made no sense that they sent her to her room in the very house her dad owned. Sneaking out of her room to listen to Mr. Doctor Strange talk to the grown-ups (which, rude, she was practically one herself, how dare they) was easier than she thought it would be. Typically when she was Up To Something, her Aunt Nat would be right next to her, teaching her how to be up to it better. And sending her back to bed. But as she crept closer to the living room, she could see that her aunt was distracted. Troubled? The others looked even worse.
She was tempted (for a small moment) to walk in with a “told ya so” as she listened to Mr. Strange and Ned describe their memory loss. She knew Fitz was Peter, she knew he was her brother, and all she got so far from the adults for that super important knowledge was a lecture about leaving her hotel room at 11 PM and a firm “stay away from him.” But she couldn’t say anything because her dad was sleeping heroically or something like that and the rest of the adults were freaking out in the next room. She hoped MJ would help her with her own portrait of people in distress, but her babysitter super cool friend looked more upset than she had ever seen her, and Morgan didn’t want to be…insensitive. (She learned that word one day at school when her teacher told her it was inappropriate to tell Brady Groggins that his breath smelled like moldy cheese, even though it was true and he had called her an annoying baby just a few minutes earlier.)
“No, I’ll do it.” Morgan could hear Mr. Strange speak over Ned and the grownups bristle. She took a chance to peek around the corner. Ned looked faintly surprised but nodded. Uncle Rhodey spoke up, “What exactly does this entail?”
“I will conduct a ritual to give each of you back your missing memories. It is a powerful one, which will take much concentration on my part so please try not to interrupt.” Ned looked annoyed by that, especially as Mr. Strange looked at him pointedly.
“Will it hurt?” Aunt Nat briefly glanced at Morgan’s hiding place but Morgan didn’t think she saw her.
“No.” Mr. Strange said this shortly, but Ned interrupted.
“Only the one doing it. Think of the worst headache you’ve ever had and then multiply that by a million.” Ned looked at Mr. Strange weirdly, “There’s also the possibility of losing your magic.”
Mr. Strange looked uncomfortable. “I defy possibilities,” he said archly.
Ned rolled his eyes and addressed the rest of the room. “I can’t promise it will be a pleasant experience, though. Memories can be difficult on the best of days—this will be like a flood of them all at once. I think it’s best if we stay together when we do it.”
Aunt Nat looked pointedly at Morgan’s corner, beckoning her over with a finger and a raised eyebrow. Morgan squared her shoulders and walked in casually, tripping slightly over her Spider-Man nightgown.
Uncle Rhodey snorted and ruffled her hair as she walked by and Uncle Happy shook his head resignedly. Mr. Strange didn’t say anything, but began moving his hands. Morgan was more than ready. She hated an interlude.
Love is weird and full of contradictions.
Like how it can make someone feel light and full at the same time.
How it can cause pain and heal and expand and contract and linger and never go away but never feel oppressive.
Love is like its own magic (or maybe it is the basis of magic)--it doesn't follow rules, it doesn't discriminate, it doesn't give a fuck.
And maybe that's why it gets angry when it is forgotten.
Maybe that's why it hurts more when it is remembered.
Harold Hogan has regretted many things in his life, but there was nothing he regretted more than forgetting Peter Parker.
The magic swirled.
Happy swore.
James Rhodes made several promises to Tony throughout the years, but failing the most important one--protecting his children--hung over his head like a sword.
The magic swirled.
Rhodey cried.
Natasha Romanov was an expert as reeling in her emotions. She took pride in her ability to roll along with the punches.
The magic swirled.
Nat stumbled out of the room.
Bruce Banner knew what it was like to hide, and knew how dangerous it was not to be found.
The magic swirled.
The Hulk roared.
Clint Barton prided himself on being a father, citing no greater responsibility.
The magic swirled.
Clint threw up.
Michelle Jones was fine, thank you very much. Just fine.
The magic swirled.
MJ. Was. Just. Fine. Thank. You. Very. Much.
Morgan Stark told them all, every one of them.
The magic swirled.
Mo smiled.
Doctor Strange was the best at everything, except, perhaps, keeping the most important people safe.
The magic swirled.
Stephen collapsed.
Tony Stark held on as tight as he could, as long as he could, until the fucking storm and the fucking wind pushed him off that fucking cliff.
The magic swirled.
He woke up yelling.
Heroes and children alike gathered around Peter Parker's bed (the wizard in the bed next to him). They looked like a walking Visine commercial, and even Friday, with her hesitant recitation of Peter's vitals, seemed concerned.
"Keep talking to him." Ned's voice was shaky, and Tony could tell he was running on fumes. He, himself, felt like shit and since he woke up, he hadn't been able to move his eyes away from Peter's prone body. Peter. His son. His boy. Sweet, stupid, sacrificial, suicidal Peter whom he had torn the universe up and down to get back just for some asshole with a grudge to ruin it all. Just for magic to take away everything they worked so hard to get.
Tony felt like throwing up and fainting and screaming and retreating and losing it eighty-million times over, but he couldn't do much else but stare. Stare at Pete's anxiety-lined face. Stare at his messy curls and his thin (too thin) frame. Stare at his calloused hands and the bandages over his head from the fucking gunshot wound from fucking Norman Osborn. Stare at the birthmark right under his earlobe that Tony used to kid him about. 'Pete, it looks like a button. Is that what you press when you don't want to listen to me?'
"Tesoro, I need you."
And if that wasn't the kicker. To find out that you need someone right as they choose to leave you. But if Tony could help it, this wouldn't be the end of their story. Their fucking, tragic story.
MJ put a hand on Tony's shoulder. She leaned over the bed and Tony could barely hear her whisper.
"Peter Parker, come home."
Love is weird and full of contradictions.
A person can love someone very, very much, but not know how to show it.
Fear can obscure love.
Terror can twist it.
But love hates to be forgotten.
And even though it hurts, it will make itself known.
Peter Parker knew a lot about fear and terror.
But he still had a lot to learn about love.
And as he opened his eyes, and heard the air around him still--as he felt large, rough hands stroke his palm, as he smelled the familiar smell of cherry chapstick by his cheek, as he counted the anxious heartbeats of the people standing around him--he wondered if it would be worth it.
His own tears responded with a resounding yes.