ash tree
The ash tree symbolizes the World Tree―a tree that joins all different realms, the branches and roots symbolize the blending of the past, present, and future.
In his life, Peter has blacked out more times than he would like to count, and after a while, he came to the conclusion that there are levels to passing out. One is knees buckling and his body giving up just for a second whereas five is complete silence with no dreams and no consciousness, hence there is no pain, no sentiment at all.
This certainly is not a five.
For a little while, he is completely separated from reality and only becomes aware of the changing surroundings and time with the movement of his body. There are gaps in between the little frames of very, very slight consciousness, but it’s never enough to make out the sounds and open his eyes. Ever so often, he feels as if the air lifts his body to the ceiling and he flies in between walls and furniture, feeling like he is about to burst from the heat radiating from his shoulder, his head, his eyes.
It’s an eerie, dreamy stage where he knows he is not fully asleep, yet he isn’t awake either. It’s the limbo, he presumes, except he is fully aware of the pain on his shoulder as if a thousand little pins are being hammered into his skin every second. He sees disappearing images of May and Ben running around, bringing him wet towels and his inhaler during one of the many times he’s been sick under their care. However, their presence, or the lack of it, only makes his eyes burn with a different sort of heat.
After a period of sleep that simultaneously feels too abrupt and dragged out, Peter wakes up with a halt, but his body doesn’t follow his mind. Instead, he hangs on level three where the sounds mostly become coherent words, but they don’t make sense altogether. It’s too dreamlike to be certain, but Peter thinks the whispering voice he hears belongs to Ms. Potts.
“Tony,” she insists with a whisper, “are you sure there is no one you can call? Parents, guardians, partners… anyone.”
“Pep,” Tony says gently, “I don’t think he is old enough to have a civil partner.”
A gasp is followed by stuttering words that sound too thin for Peter’s eyes. He hears a few random words thrown out, mostly Ms. Potts but the alertness he has is draining steadily.
He hears what he thinks is the word “hands” before he swears something feather-like grazes his hand. In the last month or so he has woken up from many dreams thinking May is stroking his hair or Ned is sleeping in the bed next to him, but each time as the bleariness and confusion fades away, he realizes the hand is simply a figment of his imagination. Except-
Except this time, the gentle fingers stay there even when Peter drifts off. In his dream, he is taken back to a few months prior, to his first encounter with Ms. Potts a little after Mr. Stark’s funeral where they all stood shoulder to shoulder and pretended to fulfill Tony’s legacy with fake laughter and forced smiles. Behind closed lips, everybody knew no one would even be able to act as good as Tony did.
Still, after they smiled at each other in pathetic curved mouths and red-rimmed eyes, everyone left wordlessly, and Peter didn’t hear a single word from anyone up until that moment. He vividly remembers his profound confusion when Happy insisted he was to come to the cabin with him upon Ms. Potts’s request. It’s one of those memories that’s permanently engraved to his brain from the color of the carpet to the way sunlight danced on the bare wooden floors.
“Hello,” says the dreamy form of Ms. Potts. “I’m glad we could see each other in…” she wavers for a second, which oddly seems out of character for her, “better conditions.”
She is right. First, it’s the fight with Thanos, then Mr. Stark’s funeral. They truly only came across each other in the worst moments of their lives. When they hold Mr. Stark’s dead body together. When they watched him fall.
“Hello,” Peter mumbles weakly. Ms. Potts looks slightly better than he is, at least the circles around her eyes are less prominent and she presents herself with a sorrowful grace. The conversation is weird and uncomfortable, something they need to get out without either breaking down completely or lashing out. They don’t give each other their condolences or pray that Mr. Stark rests in peace. No. Their anguish is much more tangible, too raw to be drowned by meaningless sentiments. Both of them are forced to smile and say it’s okay and they are doing okay because Ms. Potts has a child and Peter simply needs to survive, but in each other’s presence, they understand how they would rather break the entire universe in two rather than accepting Tony is gone.
They look at each other, just like how May looked at Peter when they saw each other the first time after Ben’s death, his blood still in Peter’s hands, and they understand.
Then, just as if someone has pushed a button, they start weeping. It’s soft, quiet tears rather than sobs. Peter assumes they are both too exhausted to be screaming their guts out. They look at each other, and Ms. Potts suddenly takes her in her arms.
Her hugs are different from May’s. May hugs him as if he wants to take her body apart and put him inside her chest. It’s different than Mr. Stark’s hugs, he assumes, as he has only experienced a single one. Mr. Stark engulfs him, puts his chin on his head, and rubs his back.
No, Ms. Potts isn’t like that. He hugs Peter as if she is trying to make sure he is real and makes sure he isn’t a porcelain doll that will break with the impact of her tender fingers, and he hugs her back as if he’s hugging a lifeline. Even though he is trapped in the haze of the dream, Peter can feel how her arms gently squeezed him.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Potts says quietly to his ear. Peter knows that she isn’t sorry that Mr. Stark is dead, but rather about how well they understand each other’s pain.
“It’s okay,” Peter manages through a struggle, and the conversation flows as if it’s not the first-ever exchange they have ever had, “I’m glad you’re not alone.”
They stand in the middle of the living room, hugging each other quietly until a soft patter of feet is heard from the hallway. “Mommy?” a quiet voice asks before the owner is seen.
Ms. Potts lets Peter go and wipes her eyes with her thumb. Her face lightens quickly with a smile. “Yes, love,” she says as she turns around to face her. However, the second Ms. Potts stops blocking him, Morgan squeals and runs right into Peter’s arms.
Peter’s arms.
Peter instinctively kneels and lets the child who he has never seen in his life hug him with all her might. He knows the child is Morgan, yet he doesn’t know how Morgan knows who he is.
“Peter, Peter, Peter,” Morgan almost screams into his ear, “you are finally here! Daddy said you would come one day. I’ve been waiting for so long.”
“Uh,” Peter croaks with mild confusion, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Morgan says without budging, but stares carefully into his eyes, “are you sad? Your eyes are sad.”
“Yeah,” Peter decides after a second, “just a little.”
“It’s okay,” Morgan repeats, “I’ll give you my coloring book. Come.” Morgan is like bottled-up sunshine, a ball full of energy and smiles and laughter. Her smile is always so big and so genuine that even if it’s not contagious, it feels Peter with the urge to make it bigger, livelier.
Peter glances at Ms. Potts for a second and sees her shrug with a smile tugging at her lips, and lets Morgan drag him into his room. As soon as they leave the living room, the cloudy form of the dream dissipates, leaving its place to a deeper level of unconsciousness, perhaps a state of rest.
He remembers that sometime later Ms. Potts explained to her how Morgan’s therapist was trying to teach her some healthy coping mechanisms to channel her grief, and after she completely stopped tinkering and building things with her father’s death, even LEGOs, drawing became a way for it. Hence, every time she thought Pepper, May, or Peter was sad, she would bring out the coloring book.
Peter can’t remember whether they actually colored that day, but he remembers vividly how he abruptly fell into the lives of Pepper and Morgan Stark, and how deeply he misses those days. Perhaps that’s why the tender fingers on his hand remind him of Ms. Potts. Nonetheless, as long as he feels them drawing gentle circles on his palm, he peacefully sleeps.
*
Peter comes to himself with a jolt, taking in a sharp breath as he tries to get up. This time, his eyes open slightly, but he struggles to make out the blurry shapes around him until a spark of red fills his vision. Fuck, no, Peter thinks to himself.
“Damn, Underoos,” Mr. Stark pipes up, “you kiss the kittens you save from trees with that mouth?”
Peter looks up to him, barely seeing the outline of his face and idly wondering whether the man can read his mind.
“Strange, what did I tell you? Look at him,” he points at Peter before turning to face the other man, “the sedative was too much. Kid, you are speaking out loud.”
Doctor Strange.
Peter would like to think that except for the never-ending psychosomatic ache in his entire body and mind, he has overcome the events of the last few months relatively undamaged. Except, maybe, the relativity comes into play when his entire mind goes haywire as soon as he feels the presence of Doctor Strange because it painfully reminds him of all the mistakes he’s made and all the horrible things he can’t take back. The younger, indulgent and scared part of him screams with hope at the sight of the man. The little child wants to get up and fall to his knees, and beg until somehow Doctor Strange makes things right. But Peter hasn’t been that little child in a long while.
With all his might and will, he forces the thoughts down and stomps on them with fury. He knows it’s not safe to ask for help and he knows it’s not safe for him to have what he wants, or needs. With great power, like May said, comes great responsibility. The responsibility of knowing he changed the course of time and space with a single wrong word and stupidity of a child. The responsibility of his sacrifice, if one could call it that.
The responsibility of the entire world on his shoulders, bearing him down like Atlas. However, if he lets it fall, it will crack and crash Peter under it, so he simply stops thinking of all the what-ifs.
Doctor Strange’s hands keep turning and flicking with sparkles around them as a flying bandage rolls itself around Peter’s arm.
“I find this a little excessive, Mr. Doctor Strange, sir,” he mumbles as he lets his head fall back to the pillow. “Like, bandage magic?” Speaking makes the ache feel numb for a single second as he is too focused on getting the words out before slurring them.
“Stark,” the man says annoyedly, completely ignoring Peter, “how long have you known him?” Peter, who has spent a good few days with Doctor Strange in another life, knows this sentiment is briefly translated into, how did you corrupt the boy in so little time?
“Don’t look at me,” Mr. Stark exclaims, throwing hands in the air as if insinuating he is innocent, “that’s just him. The kid’s a natural.”
Well, Peter thinks, and this time it’s actually in his mind, he would say it’s probably more like an equal division between MJ, Mr. Stark, and May. “What time is it?” he opts to say instead.
“Around six pm the next day,” Mr. Stark says.
Peter really, really wants to throw out a curse he heard from a mugger a few months ago, something so vile he is pretty sure even Mr. Stark would blush slightly, but after being awake for a few minutes he becomes too conscious of his actions. Plus, if May had ever heard him say fuck in front of not one but two adults, she would probably lose her mind.
But, oh man, fuck. Not only did he miss his shift without even giving notice, but he missed MJ’s again, and he knows she will be out for a few days next week for an online university orientation program. Great. Amazing. It’s alright, he thinks. He will solve this problem as well. It’s alright.
“You are stressing him out,” Doctor Strange says accusingly, “he will asphyxiate.”
“I won’t asphyxiate,” Peter pipes up quickly, “just, like, hyperventilate a little maybe.” The words spill easily from his mouth when everything feels too surreal. He is in a hospital bed with Mr. Stark and Doctor Strange standing next to him, with his mask still on his face.
“Why’s the long face? Did you miss the show and tell day? Morgan loves those,” Mr. Stark chimes in.
“I missed a day of work at my paid, full-time, college-degree requiring job,” Peter says carefully. And a chance to see one of the only people I love for another day, to make sure she is safe. “Just wondering,” he says carefully before the two men could answer, “did any big-scale event happen when I was away? Alien invasion in New York, fully-fledged earthquake, a deadly pandemic type of thing.”
“Morgan’s lost another tooth,” Mr. Stark remarks, “she looks like a reverse bunny now.”
“No, Spider-man,” Doctor Strange, “nothing remarkable has happened since you passed out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Doctor Strange,” Peter mumbles and takes his healthy hand to rub his temples aggressively.
“Call me Steven,” the man retorts, “and you will probably have a bad headache until the morning.”
“Nope,” Peter answers quickly. Nope, he has made that mistake once. Now, he knows that you should never, ever, ever ask a sorcerer for help to change the interdimensional time and space continuum. He will not be calling him Steven. “Thanks for helping.”
Doctor Strange nods curtly before swinging his hands in the air and disappearing into a portal, leaving a few golden sparks to hang in the air for a while. “Now that was excessive,” Mr. Stark points out. “How are you doing?”
“I’m alright, everything feels fine,” he says, and suddenly feels too self-conscious and awkward to continue this conversation when there is no one else left to buffer. “Look, I’m really sorry for-”
“No, none of that,” Mr. Stark interjects, “I needed help, you helped me. You needed help, I helped you. Think of this as a business transaction.”
A business transaction. That’s what it is now. Suddenly, regardless of how much it suffocates him, Peter is glad the mask covers his stricken face.
“You sure there is no one I can call for you?”
Riled up by the older man’s previous words, Peter speaks with an uncharacteristic burst of anger, “Why can’t you just accept I’m an adult? I don’t need you to call anybody.”
“Being an adult doesn’t mean you don’t need anybody when you have a ridiculously bad burn infection on your arm that will require constant medical attention. Why is it just so hard to accept help?” The man almost says annoyedly, but his voice sounds calmer than Peter’s.
“Because I don’t need it,” Peter says, emphasizing each word.
“Well, you didn’t look like you didn’t need it when you fainted like a Victorian lady in the lab.”
“I would have survived if I didn’t come here. I would have found a way. I always do. By myself,” Peter spits out, feeling the burning anger and pain in his gut. “I do it, everything, all by myself.” As much as he is aware that he sounds like a little petulant child, he can’t stop himself from spitting the words out.
“But you shouldn’t,” the man finally snaps. “In this business, when you are alone, you die, and let me tell you clearly: when you die there is no going back. There is no sass and no I can do it myself, you simply die, and everything is gone.”
“It’s the cycle of life,” Peter says sarcastically. The irony of his words covers how much it hurts to hear Mr. Stark talk about knowing what death feels like.
“And you are in the first quarter of that cycle,” Mr. Stark says before taking a deep breath and putting a hand through his hair, “maybe, just maybe the second. You have so much in front of you. What is this eagerness to kill yourself?”
“I’m not trying to kill myself,” Peter retorts indignantly, “how can you be so sure of how young I am anyways? How do you know I’m not older than you?”
“Because, kid,” he emphasizes, “you have the type of recklessness and life in you only someone who thinks they are immortal. Pepper asked me about it the second she saw you. She thought you were a child. Call it maternal instinct or perception, I don’t know, but she is never wrong.”
Peter puts a hand on his eyes over the mask as if the fingers can wipe away the tears slipping down. His throat gets too congested to speak, and he refuses to look Mr. Stark in the eyes. How is he supposed to reject his words when he stays there as if he can lean forward and touch inside Peter’s mind with his bare hands?
“Look,” Mr. Stark starts again, and his voice is much gentler this time, “I don’t care about your age. I promised you I won’t remove the mask and I won’t try to find who is behind it but we have to compromise. I can’t let you roam the streets when no one in the world knows where you are, what you are doing, and whether you are alive or dead.”
“But why?”
“Because, kid,” Mr. Stark says quietly, “when you have the power and resources I have, kid, and can do the things that I can, and you don’t, and bad things happen? They happen because of you. I won’t let anything happen to you because of me.”
Peter, consequently, sobs. It’s a choked-out sound rather than a fully-fledged sob, but it still hurts. Suddenly, he doesn’t have a single bone left in his body to oppose the man’s words. “Okay,” he says after a second, “okay. I will let you help me.”
“Thanks, kid,” Mr. Stark whispers, gingerly putting a hand on his thigh resting beneath the covers.
“Peter,” he pipes up abruptly before he realizes what he’s saying. “My name’s Peter.”
“Well, then, Pete,” Mr. Stark says. “It’s really nice to finally meet you.”
To finally meet him on the third anniversary of their first encounter. To finally meet him after going to space together. After fighting purple space giants and armies. After spending nights keeping vigil next to each other in the Medbay. After arguing about whether to get Vietnamese or Thai takeout at three in the morning. To finally meet him after Peter became dust in his arms and Peter held his dead body in his warm hands, wondering whether there was any way of transferring some of the life inside of him to the man who was growing cold by second.
It’s ironic, surely, to think that this is the time they finally meet.
“Yes,” Peter finally croaks out with a smile between the tears, “it’s really, really nice to meet you too, Mr. Stark.”
*
Peter’s having a few too many deja-vu’s these days.
As he wakes up a few hours later on the same day, he hears the whispered conversation between two people. “But I want to see him,” a child whispers petulantly.
“He really needs to rest, Maguna,” Mr. Stark whispers, “I promise you will meet him someday.”
“I’m awake,” Peter croaks out, and even before he opens his eyes, a small child runs into the bed with a squeal, “Spider-man!”
“Uh,” he says dumbfoundedly, “hi.”
Just like the first time, Morgan ties her hands around Peter’s neck and gives him a strong, full-body hug, squeezing her body to the blank space in the ridiculously large hospital bed. “Spider-man is here! Daddy, Spider-man is here!”
“Your father is literally Iron-man,” Mr. Stark says as he crosses his arms on his chair, “you puked on War Machine more than your father did.”
“You are daddy and that is Uncle Rhodey,” Morgan explains with a belittling face as if not understanding why her father couldn’t grasp the very simple context, “this is Spider-man. He can swing from buildings.”
“I can swing from buildings,” Mr. Stark retorts.
“Tony,” a third voice joins the conversation, “stop arguing about your child’s favorite superhero, who is clearly not you.” She pauses and turns to Peter with a smile. “Are you okay with Morgan there? We couldn’t keep her from this floor anymore.”
“I wanted to come earlier but they wouldn’t let me,” Morgan pouts.
“It’s okay, she can stay,” Peter says. He has missed Morgan and her antics.
“Mommy, did you bring my coloring book?” the child asks, finally rearing herself apart from hugging Peter.
Ms. Potts nods and gives her a book and a pencil case. Morgan immediately turns around to face Peter, “They told me you shouldn’t get out of the bed, but the bed is very boring so we will color now.”
Peter chuckles at her authoritative voice. “Okay. I like coloring.”
Morgan stops looking through the images to look at Peter with wide eyes and a shocked expression as if this is the most surprising news she’s ever heard, “Me too.”
When the clock hits ten, Peter feels more energized than ever, and Morgan is about to fall asleep. “I think it’s time to go,” he tells Mr. Stark quietly.
“You think you are well enough to swing?”
Peter shrugs and checks whether his shoulder hurts as much. “I told you, I heal fast. If not, I can take the subway.”
“You can stay as long as you need,” Ms. Potts chimes in.
“Okay, how about that compromise we talked about? You are free to go but come back in a few days so we can see the progress, and send me a text if it gets bad.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You do now,” he disappears through the door for a second and comes back with a small, grey suitcase. “Here is the suit. I connected Karen to Friday. You can text me whenever.”
“Uh,” he says, once again that day, feeling utterly stupid, “thanks.”
“Do you have to go?” Morgan asks with a frown.
“Yes, sorry, Morgan,” he says, “but I promise I’ll come back to finish the painting someday.”
Morgan shrugs non committedly, but carefully rips a page from her notebook, depicting the picture she made of her and Spider-man swinging. “This is for you,” she nudges the page forward and jumps down from the bed, switching from Peter to Ms. Potts to cuddle.
“Thank you, Morgz,” he says with a smile, “it’s really pretty.”
That night, when he finally enters his dingy little room, he immediately takes the picture out of the suitcase, and carefully smooths it out on the kitchen counter. With some duct tape he found on his desk, he tapes it above his bed, and suddenly, perhaps not like what he and May had, but the room feels a little like home.