Keep On The Sunny Side
The first breaths taken after drowning are sharp and painful—cutting in a way Peter had never been able to explain, no matter how many times May or Tony asked him to talk about his nightmares. He experienced it with Toomes all those years ago (and Beck, later, though he never told anyone about that particular moment of his torture-fest)—the utter relief of meeting air like a long-lost friend paired with the sensation of knives stabbing one’s lungs over and over again. It would stand to figure, then, that taking the first breath after a metaphorical drowning would be just as sharp and painful. Because that’s exactly what those past eleven or so months had been for Peter—drowning. And maybe it wasn’t quite accurate to say waking up in Tony’s Malibu house to a roomful of family members who now remembered him was breathing—but it was closer than he had been to it in a long time. Which could be why it was hurting so much.
Huh.
Like so much.
Too much.
Peter’s lungs burned and he could feel his breath hitch faster and faster. He tried to be subtle about grabbing more air as he took in his surroundings, but the concerned faces of the crowd around him told him he was failing at that. (He failed at everything, so really, it was on brand.)
“Pete, breathe.” Tony’s deep voice reverberated through his body, but instead of steadying him, the kind command agitated him more. He felt his hands shake as he scooted up in the bed, back ramrod straight against the headboard. A body dipped on the mattress next to him, and he could feel himself being pulled over into a gentle hug. Distantly, he registered people quietly leaving the room and heard Rhodey whisper to Tony, “Give them a minute, Tones. Let’s get you something to eat and you can come back.” Tony said something sharply, but Peter couldn’t pick it up over the pounding in his heart and rushing in his ears. A rhythmic tapping on the back of his hand grounded him as the person holding him breathed loudly, deeply, and slowly. Peter focused on the breaths until he could match them perfectly.
His eyes felt heavy and he fell asleep to someone running their nails softly through his hair and humming the tune to Billy Joel’s “Vienna”.
When he woke up again, he found himself in his room, which was bathed in a warm blue light. A projection of geometric patterns and shapes glittered on the walls and ceiling, and Friday was playing a soft compilation of ocean sounds. The body next to him had fallen asleep as well, and Peter turned to look at her.
She opened one eye and looked back. “Hey,” she huffed softly.
“Hey.” Peter was quiet and unsure. She slowly sat up and he followed, scooting them both back against the headboard again. She traced patterns on his hand as he stared at the blanket covering them both. A long minute passed. Just as he had worked himself up to begin apologizing, she interrupted.
“You’re an idiot.” It was fond, and soft, and Peter could tell she was struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “The…the most idiot of idiots to have ever idioted.”
Peter laughed wetly. She put her forehead against his and he could feel goosebumps form on his arms as she looked into his eyes. “We have a lot to talk about, Mr. Parker.” She touched the necklace she was wearing. “You can’t do this.” Her breath hitched. “You can’t keep doing this. Not now. Not anymore. It stops. You’re here. I know you. We know you.” She sniffed, and Peter could tell she was desperately trying to get herself under control as she reiterated, “You’re here. You’re here and you stay here. You got it? You’re here and you stay here and you don’t fucking leave again.” She leaned back again and put her head on his shoulder.
They stayed like that, unspeaking, just being, for five minutes. Ten minutes. No longer than thirty minutes. Until a soft knock startled Peter out of his racing thoughts. He watched as Ned slipped in, wearing SpongeBob pajama pants and holding a tray of food. Friday raised the lights slightly until the projection on the wall and surrounding sound resembled more forest than sea.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Tony insisted.” Ned smiled easily and sat on top of the bed, next to Peter’s other side. A hot wave of embarrassment crashed over Peter as he found himself avoiding his best friend’s eyes. There were so many questions rattling around in his head, as well as so many apologies and excuses and an inexplicable mix of anger and regret and this strange feeling of betrayal (though, what about, he couldn’t put his finger on). Peter wanted to say something—anything—but all his words were caught in his throat. The idea of letting any of them out made a chill run up his spine. He picked at the blanket underneath him and could practically feel the worry radiating off of the two beside him. Ned knocked his shoulder with his own and pushed the tray of food towards him.
“Macaroni and cheese with gummi worms. Your favorite. Garlic bread, a side of steamed peas, and a large chocolate milk. I could only convince your…Tony to stay away if I got you to eat the whole thing. Apparently,” he used his fingers to indicate quotation marks, “I’m “too soft” on you. As if the man isn’t one big pile of dad-goo right now.”
MJ snorted, and Ned picked up a gummi worm and popped it in his mouth, “But I said to him, I said, ‘Mr. Stark, you can count on me. Just call me Nanny McPhee. I’ll take care of him!”
“Why Nanny McPhee?” MJ pushed the spoon closer to Peter’s hand as Ned laid a napkin next to him.
“Nanny McPhee does magic, MJ. Keep up.”
“So does Mary Poppins.”
“Well, Julie Andrews may be queen, but Emma Thompson is perfection.”
Peter let the voices wrap around him as he began to feel his body settle. Ned’s mothering encouraged him to take a couple of bites of mac and cheese (and, boy, did he miss this. The box stuff could not compare to Maria Stark’s recipe) but he still felt off kilter and it was only a few minutes in that Peter found himself pushing the tray gently away.
Peter watched Ned’s arms move as he told a story about a bird he saw in the subway (“A murder pigeon, at 33rd street heading towards La Guardia, I swear, Peter.”) and felt a stab of guilt as the tension between them eased but never dissipated. Peter knew there were a lot of things going unsaid (“You’re killing them. Mr. Stark. Stephen. Ned. They’re dying because of you.”)—he almost gagged at the thought of unpacking everything right then and there. Again, he tried to speak, to say something, anything, but he couldn’t find any way around the lump in his throat.
“Hey.” Ned’s voice was soft. “It’s gonna be alright. I promise. We got you.” Peter seriously doubted that. His mistakes made mistakes. For eleven months, when he hadn’t been trying to find a way to die, he was trying to find a way to forget. On the rare occasion when he couldn’t do that (when he couldn’t find alcohol or sex or the occasional hit), he would slip into such an intense longing for the Before that it almost felt like a trance. He fantasized about what it would be like if his friends—his family—still remembered him. What would they say? What would they do? Would they forgive him? Yell at him? Would they hate him? During those times, he didn’t know if he was better off being forgotten or if he had made a huge mistake convincing Stephen to cast that spell. If Peter was listing regrets, though, that would be just one of a million. It was a long list—beginning when he was 4 and he refused to say goodbye to his parents because he was mad they wouldn’t get him a dog. Peter knew he was a fuck up and fucked up, and now, facing the reality that everyone did remember him again, he was questioning his decision to come back instead of taking the gun his child-self offered him. He was such a coward.
As if she could read his mind, MJ pinched him lightly. “Look at me.” It took an awkwardly long time for him to meet her eyes, but MJ was nothing but stubborn and waited before speaking again. “I love you.” She was sure and her voice was firm and Peter had never seen her so vulnerable. She took his hand as he swallowed. Ned took his other hand.
“I love you, too. So does every single person in this house. They never stopped. They just lost their way a little bit.” He got out of the bed and grabbed the dishes, giving a half wave goodbye as he stepped out the door. Peter could hear him stop on the other side and sigh deeply. Quietly, Ned continued. “And so did you.”
MJ kissed Peter on the forehead and got up as well. Peter looked at her questioningly, and she shrugged. “Putting this off will make it so much worse. This house isn’t big enough for both of your guilt complexes. Just…let him in, okay, Parker?” She closed the door softly. Peter could her stop on the other side and sigh deeply. Quietly, MJ continued. “Let us all in.”
Peter closed his eyes and listened to the sounds in the house. The door opened a few minutes later and he felt the bed dip as another joined him. Keeping his eyes closed, he turned his body towards the newcomer and tentatively laid his head on their shoulder. Tapping his head with approval, Tony’s fingers carded through Peter’s hair as he began to hum an Italian lullaby.
Peter’s breaths evened out as he fell asleep again. He never even noticed Friday dimming the lights to hide the look of complicated grief and adoration on his adoptive father’s face.
Two thousand miles away, a goblin grinned.
After all, most monsters aren’t easily defeated. Even the ones not in your head.