The Clouds and Storm Will, In Time, Pass Away
Grief can be complicated. Difficult. Messy.
It can be long-lasting and confusing and just as devastating as purple aliens with weird chins or sadistic men with devastating technology. It can come on quickly, like a squall over the ocean, or slowly, like an author taking two years to finish a short story.
In Peter’s case, grief was not just a blip on the radar of his life, but something so woven into his DNA that it rooted and fruited and grew into something that buried itself deep within his bones and blood and soul.
Bruce called it PTSD.
Tony called it his “big, beautiful brain.” Tony was a sap, but Peter didn’t really mind.
It was a wake-up call honestly to witness Morgan’s meltdown. And Peter, more than anything, wanted to blame himself for her bruises (Did she learn it from him? Why did he drag her into all this? Stupid. Idiot.) but sitting on her bed, as Tony spoke softly, he thought back to the discussion with Bruce. The one he ran away from. The one he threw a tantrum over. If it was true—if Bruce was right (and he usually was)—then everything he was feeling and thinking this past year (longer) wasn’t necessarily something he could control. Wasn’t necessarily his fault. Wasn’t necessarily a fight he could fight alone.
Peter wasn’t sure how much he believed this, but he knew it wasn’t helping anyone around him to keep sulking. He couldn’t find it in himself to completely turn it around—he felt hollowed out. Exhausted. And a smile seemed to be too much, too soon. So he settled for something neutral and slipped out of Morgan’s room while Tony was reading a book to her. He raised his eyebrows as Peter left (are you ok?) and Peter nodded and gave a small thumbs-up (eh. I think so.)
He walked the Compound’s hallway, dodging the living areas he knew Rhodey and Nat and Steve and Happy might be hanging around, and slipped into the guest room MJ said Ned was given for the duration of his recovery.
His friend was dozing, a small bedside lamp illuminating a book on late stage Capitalism that Peter just knew MJ had gifted him. He pulled up an armchair next to Ned’s bed and slid down so his shoulders were ensconced in the back and put his feet on the bed by Ned’s feet. He had cracked the door, and MJ peeked in after about 10 minutes. The smug smile she had when she saw that Peter was there was totally forgivable since it was on MJ’s face and Michelle always looked like perfection no matter what face she had. She raised her eyebrows at Peter and Peter flipped her off. She rolled her eyes and then tossed him the gentlest, fondest look he had ever seen from her. She walked away as his ears turned a bright red.
Peter drifted after idly flipping through the book on the nightstand. He woke up with a loud snore and Ned smirking while filming him on his phone.
“Nice.” Peter said dryly.
Ned turned off his phone and laughed easily. It was easier for Peter to look at his hands than his best friend’s eyes, and soon the room fell silent again.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. He remembered Ned’s last words before falling into that coma (“Do you understand what it’s like to have your brother decide the ground is a better place to live than with you? Fuck Peter. You have a whole group of people who would do anything for you…and you have the audacity to sit there and tell me it would have been better to let you die?”) and a heavy shame rolled over his body.
(In the second grade, Ned Leeds found Peter Parker under the playground’s geo dome. He was new to school, had just moved to Forest Hills with his aunt and uncle, and was hiding from the fourth graders who made fun of his lisp. Ned climbed under the bars and sat down next to him.
“Hi. I’m Ned. Want to be my friend?”
Peter looked at him with wide eyes and nodded.
The rest was history.)
It seemed like Ned was always destined to save Peter. What a waste, Peter’s brain said.
“Remember when you saved me back in sixth grade?” Ned’s voice said.
Peter looked up warily and found Ned staring back at him, concern written on his eyebrows, but otherwise neutral. He shook his head. Ned sighed.
“Yeah, that’s the problem, isn’t it.”
“What?” Peter snapped. (Because he was a fucking horrible friend.)
“You have such a selective memory, dude. It’s not even funny. You tend to remember the best about everyone and only the worst about yourself. I can see you, right now, beating yourself up. Stooooooooooop.” Ned whined until Peter gave him a small smile.
“I had the flu, and had thrown up during Mrs. Stultz’s Geography lesson. When I came back, Flash started calling me “Ned Heaves” instead of “Ned Leeds” and getting the whole class to pretend to vomit every time I walked by them. You printed out pictures of Flash picking his nose and stuck them in his backpack with the words “You’re next” cut out from May’s Mary Kay magazines. He skipped school for a whole week after that!”
Peter laughed softly at the story. Ned patted the space next to him on the bed and Peter climbed on. He laid his head on Ned’s shoulder and Ned cleared his throat.
“You don’t deserve any of the shit you went through, Pete. You know that right? I’d do anything for you. You’re my best friend.”
Peter sniffed. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
They sat in a comfortable silence. After a few minutes, Peter spoke again. “So, ancient, powerful magic, huh?”
“Yeah, dude. Ancient, powerful magic.” Ned said in awe.
“Ned?”
“Yeah, bro?”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
MJ found them sitting like that thirty minutes later, watching Buzzfeed Unsolved on Ned’s phone.
“Hey losers. Scoot.”
Peter ended up in the middle, and Michelle tapped her fingers gently up and down his arm, grounding him.
They stayed there until Tony called them for dinner. The three walked to the kitchen and found Happy and Rhodey fretting over spinach puffs. Ned made a Emperor’s New Groove joke that only Morgan understood, and the whole room seemed to be filled with an infectious joy. Natasha was teaching Steve and MJ a new way to cheat at play poker. Clint and Tony were having a fierce debate over the most recent Bachelor episode (and when Tony had the time to catch up on that, Peter didn’t know) and Bruce was sitting at the end of the long kitchen counter working on his laptop. Peter hopped up on the stool next to him and swiveled it back and forth.
Bruce looked at him for a moment before returning to his screen. “I’m looking at the readouts of Strange’s most recent MRI. Wong called and said he’d be able to check on him tonight, so I’m getting everything ready.”
Peter hummed and picked at a stray piece of lint on his sweatpants. “Dr. Banner—”
“Bruce, Pete.” Bruce said kindly. “I’m not mad at you kid. You don’t have to be scared of me.”
Peter scoffed. “Buh.” He puffed out air. “I’m not scared of you. I just…” He trailed off.
Bruce closed his laptop and looked searchingly at Peter. His green face was pinched in concern. “You just?”
“Did you mean everything you said? This morning? With Tony?”
Bruce’s voice softened. “Yeah, Pete. I did.”
Peter nodded. Bruce cleared his throat. “You know, when I first had my…accident…that resulted in the Hulk, I destroyed so much of my shit. Other people’s shit. I get it. It’s hard to confront the things inside you that are scary, that feel so foreign. But if you run away from them, they’ll keep hurting you. And honestly, it seems like you’ve been hurting for a very long time. You don’t have to anymore, Peter. You got us in your corner. We never left…we just…forgot for a moment. I can guarantee that we will never let that happen again.”
Peter sniffed and ignored the way his eyes felt hot and wet. He nodded. “I know. Tony said the same thing. Do. Do you really think there’s something that can help?”
Bruce smiled. “Yeah, I do. I think we can whip up something to help you feel better in the short term. I think we can find someone to help you feel better in the long term. And I think we can at least get a handle on some of the symptoms that seem unbearable right now. Granted, you need to be honest with us. If not all of us, at least me. And preferably your dad. I think the bigger your support system is, the best chance you’ll have to start feeling better.”
It made Peter’s skin crawl a bit to be talking about this but he couldn’t deny the hopeful spark in Bruce’s eyes as he let him plan. He watched as Bruce outlined his plan and watched as Tony watched him from across the kitchen. The man smiled softly when Peter made eye contact and gave him a thumbs up with a questioning tilt of the head. Peter gave him a half-wave, cheeks reddening in embarrassment at his totally sappy display.
Bruce showed Peter the chemistry behind the medicine he wanted to synthesize, and they had to be dragged away to eat.
The night ended with the group in the Compound’s movie room, throwing pillows and popcorn at each other’s heads. Tony stood up.
“Simmer down, you plebeians. Honestly. You’re children. In honor of what will go down in history as the most exciting Avengers’ and Friends’ holiday season ever—”
“That’s not a thing!” Rhodey heckled.
“--in HISTORY EVER,” shouted Tony over the jeering, “I propose we offer tonight’s showing in honor of Underroos, here. Petey!” Tony threw a Junior Mint at Peter who had been talking to Morgan about whether or not they could code Friday to get them Taylor Swift tickets.
“What?” Peter yelled back.
“Shut up, we’re all in the same room!” yelled Clint. Natasha boo’d him. Morgan giggled.
“Your choice, bud. What do you want to watch tonight?”
Peter looked around at his family and friends. His heart lurched. His brain said he didn’t deserve it. His brain told him to run away and never return.
“Empire Strikes Back?” Half the room cheered and half the room groaned.
He told his brain to shut up.
Wong walked into the med bay later that night. He waved a hand over his unconscious friend, mentor, and former boss, saying a few words. Orange sparks like fireworks told him exactly what he suspected.
He patted Stephen’s hand and hummed.
“Have a good rest, friend.”
He turned around and saw Tony Stark and Bruce Banner standing in the doorway. Stark was eyeing him speculatively.
“So, what’s the prognosis, Ron Weasley?”
Wong scrunched his nose at the comparison.
“I prefer Alex Russo if you’re going to be gauche, Stark.” Wong deadpanned. “He’s going to be fine. I asked around and consulted everything I could. The Guardian Tree is an ancient clan, family spell, which is also going to be the most powerful type. It does a lot, as you witnessed, but in an effort to protect clan members from other magicians who may have a grudge, it creates a feedback loop for magic users who are involved.” At both Stark’s and Banner’s blank stares, Wong sighed.
“All it means is that Strange will be in a magical sleep for the same amount of time Peter was under the memory spell. 11 months, right? Also, since he reversed the effects of his own spell on you, he lost access to his ability to do sorcery.”
“What?” Stark looked shaken.
“He knew that was the consequence of his actions. It’s why the Guardian Tree didn’t outright kill him. He sacrificed something large enough to give the kid back what he lost. This timeout will probably be good for him. He’s not hurting right now, and he needed the rest. We can help him adjust once he wakes up.”
Both men were speechless.
Wong was uncomfortable, so he did what he always did when he was uncomfortable. He abruptly ended the conversation and made his way to leave.
“I’ll transfer him to a more comfortable location at the Sanctum. Goodbye.”
Just as he was about to leave, he remembered one more thing.
“The boy. The one who cast the Guardian Tree?”
“Yes?” Stark seemed wary.
“Tell him to stop by soon. We have an offer to make him.”
The orange portal glowed, and Wong left with Strange in tow.