Don't You Cry For Me
After Thanos, after almost dying, after everything, Peter was ready. He was ready when the reporters hounded him for answers about joining the Avengers and ready when Tony Stark pulled him aside a quiet Wednesday evening. But he was without a doubt not ready to be told that the answer was a firm,
“I’m sorry kid, but I can’t lose you again. The answer is no.”
There was a resigned, exhausted look in Tony’s eyes when he -not begged, because Tony Stark never begged- but pleaded for Peter to wait just one more year of doing normal, neighbourhood-friendly crime fighting before he considered joining. The rejection didn’t sting like Peter thought it would; instead it ached. A steadily growing part of him insisted that this was the right choice; he was simply just not good enough to join. Peter wasn’t powerful enough, moral enough to be part of the team.
But he waited. He waited because Tony asked him to, and Peter would be damned before he saw that haunted look back on Tony’s face again. It was a long, drawn-out year of being confined to fighting pickpockets and burglars after Peter’s body knew what it was like to save the world, to look into the gaze of death and face it head on. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy making his city safer, or the gratitude he received from families and neighbours, but rather Peter missed being part of a team. He missed the rapid communication and the fighting that when it went smoothly was like a coordinated dance, a sort of synchronised swimming where to fall out of line would be fatal. And once again, Peter was ready when Tony didn’t show up, didn’t arrange to see Peter in person, but phoned at midnight exactly a year later. A drunken slur tinted his voice and Peter could just about decipher the words coming out of the speaker to make out Tony’s insistence on,
“just a little more time, kid. Then I’ll- you’ll be ready.”
The second rejection seemed to cut deeper, if that was possible, and a realization pushed through the jumbled mess in his head. There was always going to be a one more year, Peter was always going to be inferior and Tony was always, always going to be out of his reach. He hung up with sudden rush of anger and grabbed his jacket to leave.
Hours later, Peter found himself sitting at a bar a few blocks away and with a bitter surprise found that if he drank fast enough, he could get somewhat tipsy. He felt so fucking naïve sitting there, still waiting to have sex with someone and refusing to look for a team who wanted him, because it wasn’t right, it wasn’t Tony. Peter’s whole heart was in the palm of that man and Tony didn’t even know it. But with that realisation he decided a change was needed. No more waiting. There was a life outside of Mr Stark and even if Peter’s heart held onto him forever, Peter could at least try to change that.
As if summoned, he noticed a man with a maroon leather jacket looking vaguely familiar staring at him. Peter Quill. The man had jokingly suggested that Peter join their ragtag team a few times by now, but not once had he seriously considered it. That could be the change that Peter needed. His priority was Earth first and foremost, and Peter knew Quill usually travelled across other galaxies, but he’d heard distance was the best way to get over someone. And what more distance could Peter have than space. He tipped his glass in acknowledgement to Quill and walked over to the stained, rickety table the man was seated at. Quill gave him a questioning look but kicked back the spare chair for Peter to sit at.
“What’re you doing here, Spider-boy? The team just stopped for a refill and decent, edible food. Now don’t run off again man, Rocket is gonna be so pissed if he doesn’t get to experiment with your-”, Quill mimed shooting out webbing from his sleeves.
Peter sat down and gave him a slow, considering smile.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”