O Death, Please Consider My Age
Sometimes, it felt like bugs were crawling in Peter’s brain. He imagined what the people around him would say if he actually said this out loud. The first time he sat on a building and considered falling, he couldn’t stop thinking it—what would MJ’s face look like if he told her how messed up he was? He imagined the way Tony’s lip would curl in disgust, May’s appalled gasps, Happy’s disdain, Ned’s apathy. In technicolor (only the way enhanced senses could), he thought over and over and over again until Karen pushed a call through and Tony asked him to come home and Peter learned to hide the building sitting a little better.
It was like Peter’s anxiety was on constant broil in the background of everything he did. And honestly, it wasn’t like there was much to refute the growing dread that was building up in him. Realizing that Ned had slipped into a coma was further evidence that everyone who came into contact with Peter was eventually screwed—finding out Tony followed shortly after was only confirmation of it.
So when Rhodey said, “We’re not better off without you,” it took everything within him not to shout back, “obviously you fucking are.” It was only hearing Morgan listening from her room that kept him from saying everything he wanted to. (Which may have been why Rhodey chose to have that argument outside her door in the first place…)
After Morgan fell asleep, Peter slipped out of her room. He walked down the hallway, into the kitchen. A small lamp was turned on above the stove, and Peter started looking through the cabinets quietly.
“You’re not going to find anything.”
He stiffened at the words but didn’t turn around. “I mean, you don’t even know what I’m looking for.” It was an attempt at levity. It fell flat.
The tension grew until he finally caved. He locked eyes with her. MJ was wearing an oversized cream and burgundy cable knit sweater and black leggings. Her hair was gathered in a ponytail, wisps of it falling into her face, and she was looking at Peter as if she saw his past, present, and future and found him wanting. Her eyes crinkled at the edges—worried and questioning. He was overcome with such an intense wave of shame that he almost buckled at the knees. He chose to smile crookedly instead.
“I just wanted a muffin.”
She raised an eyebrow, and handed him a muffin from the plate of them sitting in the middle of the counter.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks.”
“What are you doing, Peter?” She didn’t mean in the kitchen.
He sighed and walked over to her. He could smell her strawberry shampoo and wanted nothing more to wrap her arms around him. He settled for leaning his shoulder into hers. “I don’t know.”
They stayed like that until the sun began to peek through the windows. They stayed like that until the other residents of the house began moving. Until Happy came in and started the coffee maker. Until Laura began gathering breakfast. Until Rhodey began gathering bags.
She took his hand, somewhere in the middle of the growing crowd, and led him to the same couch he and Ned occupied only a day or so ago. Peter traced his finger along a small coffee stain—Pepper had got onto Tony for that one—Tony never told her it had been Peter holding the cup.
“There’s something you aren’t telling us.”
Peter straightened and looked at her. He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She hummed and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear. “Ok, Dork.” They sat and watched the hubbub around them. Happy had begun loading the car and Nate was chasing Lila around the living room with some slime he got for Christmas.
“I got a text from my dad this morning.” She looked off to the side and Peter could feel her tensing even though she sounded nonchalant. “He asked me where the remote was. Apparently he looked all night and couldn’t find it.” She snorted humorlessly. “That’s the first I’ve heard from him in two weeks. You know, I don’t think he even knows I’m in California.”
Peter felt a growl in the back of his throat. He squeezed her knee gently, and turned her face towards him.
“You don’t deserve that.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t.” She stared at him for a moment and then kissed him on the head. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
Shame ate at him again. She swatted his arm as if she could swat away all his self-recrimination. “I need you to listen to me, please. When Ned and Tony get better, you will sit down and talk to us. You will get help. You will stop drinking. You will stop running. I don’t have a lot of people in my life that care about me, Parker. Don’t make me beg.” The last was said in the barest of a whisper—Peter didn’t think he was supposed to hear it.
As they boarded the quinjet later, Peter sat down next to MJ and laid his head on her shoulder. And at that moment, it was a promise. He fell into a light sleep wondering if the orange dust he kept seeing would even let him make those anymore.
“Wake up, Tiger, we’re here.” MJ helped him to his feet as he hastily wiped the sleep from his eye. Everyone else had deboarded and the jet was quiet. She looked sheepish. “Thought you could use the rest. Rhodey just texted and said Bruce and Cho are now ready for us in the med conference room.”
They walked off the jet and jumped into a golf cart that was left for them at the bottom of the steps. Peter drove it to the New Compound’s East Entrance where the Med Bay was located. They walked into the building where Happy was waiting for them. He patted Peter’s shoulder and led them to the main conference room. Peter and MJ slid into the last two seats at the table—Bruce and Helen Cho were standing at the head with a projection of stats and brain scans behind them.
Bruce nodded to Peter and MJ, acknowledging them, and then gestured for Helen to speak.
“I’m going to jump right into this. We examined Ned and Tony last night and ran several tests. I’ll try not to get too medical-jargony here—the important thing to know is that neither of them have brain damage that we can see.”
Bruce took over, highlighting a scan with the pointer he was holding. “Both Tony and Ned are breathing on their own. As you can see here, their brain is working—but it is working overtime. Our MRI showed increased activity here and here.” He pointed to the highlighted chart. “We ran a full body CT and ultrasound just to cover our bases. Surprisingly, we found this.” Bruce put up a chart with several numbers. Peter was trying to decode it when Rhodey spoke up.
“What is this?”
Bruce nodded. “This scan is a scan of Tony’s brain tissue put next to a scan of another patient’s brain tissue. The other patient in question has a grade 3 glioblastoma.”
“They look the same,” Happy offered.
Helen and Bruce looked at each other. “Yes. Exactly. Ned’s is extremely similar. And it is the only thing we can find.” Helen showed both Ned’s and Tony’s vitals on the screen. “We consulted with Wong as well. Stephen’s issue is another thing altogether—he said that was the result of a different spell. Since the last known use of the Guardian Tree was during King Arthur’s time, there’s not a lot of information on it. But from what we could find, people who died after using it, died from symptoms consistent with patients who succumbed to this specific tumor. We think that because the Guardian Tree is cast on the brain, that’s where it leaves its effects. Kind of like radiation. It mutates the genes just like cancer.”
“So…” Peter spoke slowly as his mind raced, “If you could cure the tumor, they’d wake up and be fine?”
Bruce nodded. “That’s the idea. The problem is that it’s moving pretty quickly. Most of our current treatments include surgery and chemo, but we’re afraid that won’t have the impact needed for the aggressiveness we’re seeing.” He looked at Peter seriously, “In fact, Pete, we’d like to run some tests on you since you were also exposed to this spell. We need to make sure it didn’t have the same effects. I have you scheduled for the first MRI after this. No excuses, kid.” Bruce put up a green hand as if to forestall any protests. Peter shrugged his agreement, still thinking.
Happy sighed heavily. Helen went on, “We would like to get this taken care of soon but as with anything happening with the brain, we need to be careful. Unfortunately, medicine hasn’t come far enough to actually have something that can quickly cure cancer.”
Rhodey cleared his throat and Peter looked up, both coming to the same conclusion at the same time.
The JACCASS.
“How long do you think we have?”
Bruce looked at the notes, “I would say a week, maybe more?”
Rhodey looked at Peter. “Theoretically, it should work. Do you think you can replicate it without Dr. Prentiss’s notes?”
“Most of that work was mine anyway,” Peter said dismissively, “but we have the flash drive with the schematics and equations and everything we need, so it won’t take long. I’ll go get it. Do you think we can get the vibranium by tomorrow?”
“I’ll call T’Challa. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
The rest of the room looked at them in confusion. Bruce snapped his fingers in understanding. “Wait, Pete. You guys are talking about the project you were working on with Dr. Prentiss, right? Tony told me all about that. God. If you were as close as he said you were, that might be the answer we’re looking for. Go get your notes and I’ll fill everyone in.”
Buoyed by a solution—by a mission, by a chance to be fucking useful for once in his goddamn life—Peter walked to the room Clint set his bags in. He opened up his backpack (still bloodstained from the fight with Norman in California) and looked for the flash drive he packed.
The flash drive he waved in front of Norman Osborn’s face.
The flash drive that he dropped when he dove in front of the bullet meant for Tony.
The flash drive that was nowhere to be found.