O Brother, Where Art Thou?

The problem with living (especailly if you were the kind of perpetual fuckup that Peter was), wasn’t that it was “too hard” or “not worth it” (both phrases used liberally in movies and dollar books in supermarkets), but that it didn’t make sense to keep burdening people with something irreparably broken. And Peter didn’t mean this in some maudlin, “woe-is-me” way, but in the realistic, “I-only-cause-problems-never-fix-them” sort of way. At his core, Peter was a scientist. And scientifically, Peter’s existence was no longer useful to the people around him. 

For a while, Spider-Man was a different story. Spider-Man, for a while, helped people. Spider-Man, for a while, did good. And it wasn’t penance for killing Ben (because there is no penance for someone damned from the womb), but it was something that Peter could quantify as being more helpful than harmful. Experiment after experiment showed him that Spider-Man made things better. (And, yeah, there were the outliers like the Ferry and Titan and the weird blob creatures that showed up about a month post-Snap, where Peter was a little too slow and Tony ended up taking a hit that made it difficult for him to walk for two weeks, but for the most part, findings declared Spider-Man good.) 

Beck may have been a sadistic asshole and a million times more frightening than Thanos, but one thing he taught Peter was that, in the end, as long as Peter was involved, things would eventually come to ruin. Spider-Man could never stay good because it was the person behind the mask that was the poison. The person behind the mask was the inevitable factor that caused the experiment to fail. 

This was proven at the Statue of Liberty. This was proven when Spider-Man couldn’t save May and couldn’t hold onto Pepper. This was proven when, after everyone forgot him, and the dust settled, and the Spider-Man memorial was built by a confused Tony Stark, Queens didn’t mourn much longer, and other vigilantes took up the mantle with hardly an interruption. Spider-Man was no more helpful than Peter Benjamin Parker. 

Peter was a scientist and scientists don’t keep failed experiments around for shit and giggles. It wasn’t depression or PTSD or addiction or whatever diagnosis Sam tried to talk to him about that one day when Tony ambushed him after finding him and Coop smoking pot at his birthday party—it was just common sense. 

Common sense that apparently none of the people around him had. Not Tony, who wasted kind words on him after his nightmare early that Christmas morning, who said things like, “sweetheart” and “you’re okay” and gave him bold hugs and comforting touches. Not MJ, who rubbed his back last night and called him “loser” and looked at him like he hung the moon. Not Ned, who currently sat in front of him, one strong hand on his knee, whispering “breathe” and “don’t worry about it.” In fact, the only one with common sense was his eight-year-old sister running from the room after verbalizing what he already knew: he was a failed experiment whose usefulness expired long ago.

Happy took the quilt out of his hands as Peter wondered what kind of functioning person dissociated during gift-giving to the point of destroying said irreplaceable gift and causing a child to run out of the room quicker than if Peter had actually looked like the monster he knew he was inside. 

‘Pete, you are kind and brave and wonderful and you have made our lives so much better by being in it. Please don’t let anyone tell you differently–especially if that person is yourself.’

‘Pepper, you don’t understand.’

‘Then explain it to me.’

‘People die when they get close to me. I am a curse.’

‘Peter Benjamin Parker. I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth again. You are a miracle.’

‘Yeah, right…’

‘I’ll stitch it to your eyelids if you don’t believe me.’

‘It’ll probably look better than the hat you quilted for Tony.’

‘Come here, you menace.’

‘Stoooop.’

‘I love you, you know. So much.’

‘I know. I love you, too.’

Friday’s voice interrupted his flashback. 

WEBS: Blackout protocol has been activated. Securing all windows and doors. 

Shit.

“Fri, baby girl, creation of my very beautiful brain, what are you talking about?” Tony blinked a few times as if coming out of his own flashback.

Peter choked. (By now, he was pretty sure he was the world-record holder for the most times of fucking everything up. The old backdoor protocol had been helpful a long-time ago whenever Peter just needed a breather from everyone and everything. He had been pretty sure Tony didn’t know about it, given he used it liberally back at the Lakehouse and no one said anything to him about it. Morgan must have overheard him one night. The WEBS Blackout played off of Tony’s own Blackout protocol. Lock all windows and doors from entry and exit for a set amount of time. The WEBS part just allowed doors and windows to be opened by himself—or, now, Morgan. It should have been impossible for her to use—at least for now—but then again, why would his life be anything but an amalgamation of impossibilities and bad luck?) 

In a soft Irish lilt, Friday spoke almost soothingly to Tony, as if she could pick up on the growing distress from her creator. Nate was complaining to Clint that he couldn’t get into his room, and Rhodey and Nat had returned without Morgan, wearing confused faces. 

The WEBS: Blackout protocol is classified, boss. My coding does not allow me to tell you. 

Peter knew that Tony no longer kept liquor in the house, but was inwardly cursing this fact as the room turned to look at him. But no one ever accused Peter Parker of having even an ounce of self-preservation, so he shrugged apologetically and looked up to the ceiling.

“Um. Fri,” his voice was cracking, an unwilling participant in this whole shitshow. Ned’s hand on his knee steadied him, but he still avoided Tony’s eyes. “Override that.” It was silent. “...Please?” He prayed to all the gods they had yet to discover that she wouldn’t say she couldn’t. 

I’m sorry, Peter. I can’t. 

Please don’t ask why. Please don’t ask why. Please don’t ask why. 

“And why, praytell, not?” Tony’s voice was steady, but he brought his hand to his temple as if to chase away a headache. 

Peter wondered if he could sneak out without being seen.

Junior Boss determined that Mini Boss would be the main user for all WEBS protocols upon his absence or, in his words, “timely death”—

“God, Friday, that’s enough. For fuck’s sake, mute.” Peter’s voice rose over the incredulous exclamations that came at him from all sides. Tony sat down woodenly, having procured a StarkPad and began working on Friday’s code silently. Peter didn’t have to look around the room to see the disapproving looks everyone was shooting his way. 

When experiments are no longer useful, they are trashed. When people are no longer useful, they are apparently made to stay in a hell that looks exactly like Tony Stark’s Malibu living room, consisting of several superheroes awkwardly avoiding all the elephants that just keep on multiplying due to said uselessness. 

As Tony worked on overriding WEBS, Clint and Laura continued to open presents with their kids. Rhodey and Happy were talking quietly in the furthest corner away from Peter. After knocking on Morgan’s door for the fifth time and getting no response, Natasha finally sat down with Bruce and began to watch A Miracle on 34th Street on the flatscreen above the fireplace. Peter didn’t think it was a coincidence that he was also kept in their line of sight.

MJ sat to his left, with Ned’s head in her lap as she played with his hair. He had fallen asleep about five minutes after sitting down, which (again) worried Peter more than he had bandwidth to process at the moment. (“You’re killing them. Mr. Stark. Stephen. Ned. They’re dying because of you.”) Tony was still silent, still typing furiously, but at a certain point, he had migrated to Peter’s right side, hand planted firmly on his knee as if worried he would get up and leave. And, yeah, that was probably a fair assessment. Every few minutes, he would pat it as if reassuring himself he was still there. 

“She didn’t mean it, you know.” Tony murmured in a low enough voice for only Peter to hear, eyes on the screen in front of him. If this conversation was going to happen, Peter was thankful for Tony’s lack of eye contact. He was pretty sure it was intentional, as most of them were currently treating him like a spooked animal. 

Peter scoffed quietly, unwilling to agree with his estimation—Morgan rarely said anything she didn’t mean, and Peter couldn’t imagine that would have changed in the past eleven or so months. Just as quietly, he pushed himself to talk. He could already feel his voice retreating back into his throat, and he couldn’t afford for them to think he was any more unstable than he had already appeared. Having them remember him finally seemed to complicate things even more—after getting used to the idea of not living, living seemed an unacceptable alternative. Didn’t this day already prove that? Peter could only imagine the joy this family would have been able to gather from this morning had his messed up self been out of the equation. He was smart enough not to verbalize this, though—not with the vice-like grip Tony still had on his knee. 

“Morgan’s smart.” It was a simple statement but the implication was heavy. 

Tony shook his head once and huffed. “Morgan’s eight. I’m not sure emotional intelligence is even on the table until high school. In my case, maybe until middle age.” 

Peter gave him a small smile. “You mean senior age.” 

Tony bumped his shoulder. “Watch it, bud.” He sighed and typed. “Peter. You are my son.” Peter tried to interject, but Tony held up a hand and turned to look at him intensely. “You. Are. My. Son. No buts or asterisks to that. And maybe magic can make me forget that for a season, but I will always find my way back to you.” He put his forehead against Peter’s as he whispered. “I love you. Morgan is my daughter. I love her. And nothing—nothing—will change that. But you’ve got to get out of your head, kid. You’ve got to, because I can’t lose you a third time. I’m incredibly selfish like that, you know. So you have to try.” Tony cleared his throat and looked back down at Friday’s coding. “And I’d be super proud of this brilliance—” he waved generally to the StarkPad “—if it weren't such a pain in my ass right now.” 

Peter smiled again, as MJ leaned into his other side. A few minutes later, Tony pumped his fist. 

“There we go.” He stood up as the rest of the room’s eyes fell on him. “Give it to me, baby girl. Cancel WEBS: Blackout. Protocol Open Sesame.”

Glad to be in service, boss. 

Friday’s voice was sardonic, but Tony just winked. “Maybe next time you don’t listen to the baby spider and his sister.” 

I’ll take that under advisement. 

“Anyway, please unlock Morgan’s door and let her know I’m coming to talk to her.” Tony patted Peter on the shoulder as he headed towards the hallway. Friday’s next announcement stopped him short, however, as dread pooled in Peter’s stomach. 

I’m sorry, but Miss Stark climbed out her window about fifteen minutes ago. She is no longer on the property. 

The room burst into motion as Tony and Rhodey both rushed down the hall to check Morgan’s room. In the commotion, Ned woke up with a startled yelp as Nat and Clint began to put on their coats. 

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Let’s. Let’s do something here.” Tony came back in, pacing. He swayed for a second, and Happy put a steadying hand on his back. He shook his head. “She’s never done this before.” He rubbed his hand through his hair and gave a quick look around the room, as if it were a joke, and Morgan was just playing hide-and-seek. 

“Calm down, Tones. It’s only been fifteen minutes. She’s eight. She couldn’t have traveled far. Friday, did you see which way she went?” Rhodey was grabbing his phone and keys as he talked. 

I did not. 

She sounded regretful. 

“Clint and I will take the road up north and Happy and Rhodes can take it south.  Michelle, can you and Cooper and Lila check the beach?” Nat moved smoothly around the room as she handed a glass of water to Tony and guided him to a chair. “Bruce—”

“I’ll stay here. Strange still needs monitoring.” He looked at the others, “And the rest of you need to eat and sleep.” He lifted his eyebrows at Tony and Peter as they began to protest. “You won’t be any help if we have to rescue you as well because you passed out on the road. We still don’t know all the side effects of that spell, and Peter, if you don’t remember, you still have a gunshot wound. Your healing factor hasn’t completely kicked in yet, and it won’t if you keep pushing yourself.”

“Like hell I’ll sit around—” 

Rhodey interrupted Tony. “Like hell you will. I am not telling your daughter she’s an orphan because you had a heart attack by being a stubborn jackass.” The words were harsh but delivered evenly. Tony, most likely knowing he was outnumbered, stalked out of the room. Bruce waved on the rest of them. “Go. I’ll talk to him.” 

As the room emptied, Happy walked over to Peter. Ned was watching quietly from the couch, looking pale but alert. Peter watched as the man bent down to look him in the eye. 

“Do. Not. Leave. This. House.” 

Peter was silent, as Happy snapped his fingers in front of his face, asking for eye contact. 

“Pete. Please.” 

“Hogan, let’s go.” Rhodey stood in the foyer, jacket in hand. He leveled Peter a look as well, and Happy got up. He made an aborted motion to pat Peter on the arm, but ended up putting his hands in his pockets instead. He nodded at Peter who returned his nod (barely) and left. 

“She’ll be okay.” Ned yawned, and gave a sympathetic smile to Peter. “Let’s watch Star Wars, yeah?” 

Peter grabbed a blanket and walked gingerly over to Ned, putting it over his friend. About ten minutes into the movie, he had fallen asleep again. Peter gently lifted the arm that had found its way on his lap when Ned first laid down, and got off the couch. He could hear Tony ranting to Bruce in the kitchen, and Laura laying Nate down for a nap. 

Walking back to his room without the wheelchair wasn’t as hard as everyone had been trying to make it, and he found he was barely out of breath. Looking out his window, he could see the backyard and the hills that spread out behind it. 

He grabbed a couple painkillers that had been left beside his bed and swallowed them, and then took a quick, cold shower that would hopefully combat the feeling of deep exhaustion that seemed to be settling in his bones. He threw on some sweatpants and hoodie he found in the back of his closet. There was a bottle of whiskey behind them, hidden from the last time they came to Malibu, over a year and a half ago. He put it down after a couple sips and was pleased to notice that the shaking that had been present in his hands for the past few days steadied a bit. Finally feeling warm and settled, he thought. 

Then quickly decided not to think. 

Thinking bad. Action good. 

He looked at the hills again, his words from earlier coming back to him with a new clarity. 

Morgan’s smart.

She wouldn’t have taken the road or the beach—not if she was really running away. 

He could barely hear Friday as he found himself climbing out his own window and walking determinedly across the backyard. 

Morgan’s smart. But Peter was smarter. 

He giggled. 

Smarter sounded like farter. 

Stumbling on something he couldn’t see, Peter righted himself and kept walking towards the hills facing the back of the mansion. 

He’d find her. Maybe he could be useful after all. Even scientists get it wrong sometimes.