The cool breeze blowing through Peter’s open bedroom window sent shivers down his spine. He pulled the duvet over his head and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately clinging to the few hours of blissful dreamless sleep he had been gifted that night (finally, finally, after so long). Morgan did her best to keep him awake. She poked his cheeks and excitedly jumped up and down on his bed.
“Too cold. Too early,” Peter mumbled and started a weak attempt to push her off the mattress.
“No!” Morgan yelled enthusiastically. “It’s perfect! Look!” and she yanked open his curtains. The first sunbeams of the day tickled Peter’s nose. He groaned. It was too early to go swimming.
“Petey!” Morgan squealed. She flashed Peter a bright smile, showing off a couple of sparklingly white and disproportionally large front teeth.
Adorable. Adorable was the word. And yet, as Peter watched Morgan plunge into the green-blue water of the lake, he felt a tinge of annoyance staining his heart. It was a dark, thick and bubbling tinge, unfair, unjustified, uncalled for. He did his best to ignore it, made sure that the grin he had plastered onto his face didn’t show any cracks.
“Petey! C’mon, get in! Get in!”
A splash of water hit Peter’s face and messed up his hair. The grin wavered for a second, just a second. He laughed, took a deep breath and jumped.
He hit the surface head first. The water felt cool on his hot skin and he went in, deep, deep, deep, deeper than he would have had to, deeper than he normally would. Water surrounded him, a loose embrace drenching his hair, making his eyes burn. Water filled his ears, his nose, his everything. Water was carrying him, letting him drift, dream - weightless, quiet, peaceful. Peter dreaded the moment when the burst of adrenaline from the jump would evaporate, when his head would breach the surface, the magic gone.
And he was right. It was bad when he came back up, panting and gasping and still laughing. It was bad and he laughed, laughed, laughed, tried to pull Morgan closer, playfully forcing her surprisingly big head underwater. I’m okay, he thought and he laughed. I’m okay.
Peter was still okay when they got out of the lake a few minutes later.
“It’s too cold,” he said and Morgan looked at him with huge puppy eyes.
“Just five more minutes!” she pleaded, but Peter stayed strong and he was proud of himself for that because, really, those eyes were difficult to resist, big and brown and mischievous.
Perhaps, on a different day, he would have given in, sighed and agreed that, yes, they could stay in the water for a bit longer – five more minutes and then, later, another five despite the goose bumps and blue lips, despite the splashes and screeches.
Maybe, he thought as he ruffled Morgan’s soft hair with a towel, it would have been worth it, just to see that happy, winning smile on her round face. Now she wasn’t smiling, not at all. “I can do it on my own!” she announced and snatched the towel from his hands.
He didn’t doubt that she could. She was six years old after all, and, as she liked to tell him at least twice a day, she already knew how to read (and count to 3000). No, he didn’t doubt that she could, he really didn’t, even as it became clear that she didn’t want to.
She rubbed the towel over her skin, one, two, three times, then she dropped it on the wooden boards of the patio. “I’m dry!” she said, crossing her arms and pulling her best sulky face. A drop of water slowly drippled down her check. She wiped it away angrily, deepening her frown in steely determination and, God, Peter was tired.
“I don’t think you are, young lady.” Mr. Stark was leaning against the doorway.
A familiar wave of relief washed over Peter. Mr. Stark was there, right there in the doorway, wearing a scowl that perfectly matched his daughter’s. He still looked a bit unsteady on his feet, still relied a bit too much on the support of the patio door. He still panted and grumbled whenever he tried to stand up. He still grabbed his arm (what was left of it) during dinner sometimes, when his hand shook and his features contorted because the stump stayed black and gnarly, no matter how many doctors meddled with it. But, well, he was there nonetheless and he was strong enough to constantly complain about his bed in the corner of the living room because Pepper, it can’t stay there. It takes up too much space, and because he could make it upstairs on his goddamn own, goddammit.
Mr. Stark was leaning against the doorway, and Peter was relieved for countless of reasons, but in that moment, it was mostly because Morgan’s bottom lip was trembling and, God, Peter was tired.
“I’m dry!” Morgan said again, screamed, really, almost.
Mr. Stark’s eyebrows shot up. He straightened and carefully stepped away from the door (still shaky, still a bit unsteady). For a moment, his gaze (softer, calmer than before) shifted and rested on Peter and he smiled just a bit.
There wasn’t a shred of anger in Mr. Stark’s eyes, none of the annoyance that was twisting and turning inside of Peter. It was impressive, Peter thought, or perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps this was normal, this calmness. Perhaps it was Peter who was acting strangely, who was feeling odd, who kept forgetting that Morgan was a child, a little kid who watched 'Pepper Pig' and couldn’t be blamed for anything.
“Come on, Morgan,” Mr. Stark muttered, “let’s get you dried off. We can visit the treehouse, mmh? Sounds good?”
Peter expected to see fat tears run down Morgan’s cheeks. He expected her to wail and scream and stamp her little foot, but she didn’t. Surprisingly, miraculously, she just sniffled, rubbed her nose and smiled.
Peter turned away, clenching his teeth, because the Mr. Stark from before wouldn’t have done that. The Mr. Stark from before would have snapped and pouted and stormed off. (The Mr. Stark from before wouldn’t have a child.)
On his way to the house Peter turned around one last time, just to see Mr. Stark reach down and ruffle Morgan’s hair affectionately. “No,” Mr. Stark said when she reached out expectantly, “you’re getting a bit too big for that, Mo, and I, well, I am getting old.”
Breakfast was delicious. The eggs that awaited Peter in the kitchen were juicy and soft. The coffee was still warm and tasted better than anything May had ever made.
To be fair, Peter mused, as he took another sip (not too cold, not too hot, just perfect), she didn’t have a proper machine, just an electric kettle (which Ben had bought a long time ago) and the tiny plastic bags filled with greyish instant powder (which Ben would have never bought because ‘this is an insult to the art of coffee making, May.’). It was faster that way, Peter thought, perfect for early mornings, and May used to have a lot of those. Faster, cheaper – really, and Peter scowled down at the cheesy 'Dad of the Year' mug in his hands, he got why May had never been tempted by a proper machine (not that they could afford one anyway).
The door swung open, creaking and groaning (why didn’t anyone oil it?), and Mr. Stark limped into the kitchen. He opened the cabinet and took a long look at the armada of colorful, stripy and dotty cups. He frowned and stuck his head inside. Peter took another bite of scrambled eggs as he listened to the clattering and the silent curses emerging from the cabinet.
“Are you looking for this one?” Peter asked finally, holding up his mug. Mr. Stark bumped his head as he stumbled back, rubbed his forehead and cursed once more, loudly this time.
“Yep,” he said, popping the p. He reached over the table, snatched the cup from Peter’s limb fingers, looked inside, hummed contentedly and dumped the rest of the coffee into the sink. “That,” he said, dutifully rinsing the mug for one whole second, “is mine.” He smiled at Peter, reached for the machine and poured himself a fresh cup.
Peter felt the corners of his lips turn upwards and tried very hard to school his face into a deep, offended frown. “I wasn’t finished yet!” he gasped, pouting and perfectly mimicking Morgan at the pool.
“Yeah, well,” Mr. Stark said, closing his eyes to relish the taste of coffee on his tongue, “don’t take my mug next time.” He sighed, sipped and frowned. “This is way too cold anyway,” he grumbled and collapsed into the chair next to Peter, leaving the cup on the counter.
Silence filled the room, only interrupted by Peter’s chewing, suddenly loud and moist to his own ears. He swallowed and put down the fork. Heat was rising to his face. Mr. Stark was drumming his fingers on the table top. He yawned and cleared his throat.
"She’s a good kid, you know?” he said.
For a moment confusion clouded Peter’s mind until he realized once more, not any less surprised or any less startled than when he had first found out, that Mr. Stark had a kid of his own now. Not now, Peter reminded himself. It wasn’t revolutionary, it wasn’t new. It wasn’t just now. It had been their reality, Mr. Stark’s and Pepper’s reality, for over five years. And because this was supposed to be normal, because this was Mr. Stark’s kid they were talking about and because the eggs really were juicy and soft, Peter nodded and smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled some more, “I know.”
“Do you?” Mr. Stark asked, arching his eyebrow. “As far as I’ve heard – correct me if I’m wrong - she woke you up by screaming in your face - way too early in the morning - forced you into the freezing cold lake and just barely scraped past a tantrum when you didn’t want to spend the entire day in there.”
Peter desperately wished for another cup of coffee. God, he was tired. “It wasn’t that cold,” he said lamely as if that were the point.
“That’s not the point,” Mr. Stark stated helpfully, grabbed a sausage from Peter’s plate and wriggled it in front of his face aggressively. “The point is,” he said around a big bite of sausage, “that she’s put a lot of effort into annoying the hell out of you.”
When it became clear that Peter wouldn’t reply (What was he supposed to say, really?) Mr. Stark continued, “She’s a good kid, really is. Smart, friendly, energetic. Very energetic. It’s just…” he swallowed heavily and Peter hoped, prayed that it was purely to gulp down the truly enormous amount of food Mr. Stark had stuffed into his mouth, “it hasn’t been easy for her. I mean, for any of us, but for her especially. She’s six, you know? She was scared, still is. That’s why she, ah, needs a bit more attention at the moment.”
Peter nodded. Mr. Stark smiled and reached out to clap him on the back and Peter knew that this was the end of that conversation, that this was all he would hear about Morgan and the last five goddamn years. He swallowed, not because of the food that he didn’t want to touch anymore, but because he was determined to force the fiery ball of anger that was travelling up his throat deep, deep down again.
“Bummer we haven’t really had time to chat. Bit tired, you know?” Mr. Stark said. The lopsided grin wavering on his face wasn’t convincing. “How about we catch up now?” he leaned over the table conspiratorially. “I still have some of the old stuff in the garage, just to, you know, tinker a bit. If you’re in?” he added hastily, as if he was suddenly scared that Peter would actually say 'No', but, how could he? How could Peter possibly say 'No' when his heart was dancing in his chest and the sun was suddenly shining just a bit brighter?
“Yeah, I’m in,” he said and he smiled.
The door opened with another ear-splitting screech. Pepper entered the kitchen, waving half-heartedly at Peter before turning towards her husband, a deadly look on her face.
“She fell out of the treehouse. Nothing bad, but she wants you,” she said and sounded so exhausted that a sudden wave of pity came over Peter.
Mr. Stark was already half way out of his seat, stumbling a bit, and grumpily shaking off Pepper’s steadying hand.
“I told you she shouldn’t be up there on her own,” Pepper said, looking at Mr. Stark accusingly.
“Yeah, well,” he replied, rubbing his face. All of a sudden, he looked very much like the middle-aged man he was. “She insists on it. And she’s a big girl now, isn’t she? And Peter and I would have checked up on her in a moment anyway. Right, Pete?”
Peter didn’t meet Mr. Stark’s pleading eyes, but nodded dutifully nonetheless.
Mr. Stark grimaced and shrugged his functioning shoulder. “Sorry, kid. We’ll get back to it. Remind me later, alright?” He casted one last apologetic glance at Peter before the kitchen door closed behind him with a soft thump.
Peter swallowed the lump clogging up his throat. He didn’t know what he had expected; maybe for things to be different here, to be normal. It had been naïve; he knew that now, naïve and stupid and short-sighted. At least, he thought, they had moved on. Others hadn’t. At least the Starks weren’t held hostage by their grief. At least they hadn’t given up. Others had.
He fished another cup from the cabinet, a boring one this time, with grey stripes and a small crack on the rim, and, God, he was tired.
Peter didn’t remind Mr. Stark of their plans, not after lunch, not after dinner and not when they were all sitting (or rather lying) in front of the TV later that evening. Pepper had picked the movie, because Morgan had wanted something involving unicorns and fairies and Mr. Stark, who had groaned loudly at the suggestion, insisted that he didn’t care what they watched.
Now Peter was curled up on the couch, a cup of steaming hot chocolate in his hands. It was cozy, it really was, and for a moment his heart warmed at the sight of Mr. Stark who was wrapped in a blanket and stared at the screen with a look of genuine excitement on his face.
Thankfully Morgan didn’t complain too much when the intro of Pepper’s movie flickered onto screen. No tears, no stomping, not even a pout. She looked completely content, curled into her father’s side, silently playing with his fingers and just occasionally chiming in to point out that 'Mrs. Falcron’s dress was suddenly a different shade of blue than it had been in the scene before'. Pepper smiled and threaded her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Peter felt it, too, that little flutter of affection, smothering the envy if only for a moment.
And what he was feeling was envy, he realized. Envy made movie nights and family dinners taste sour, vitriolic, searing envy of a six-year-old. He was jealous of a six-year-old, a little girl, quick-witted, curious, loving; a child who hadn’t done anything wrong, who had simply been born into a world without Peter in it.
He wasn’t Mr. Stark’s kid, Peter thought bitterly, as he watched the man pull his daughter closer towards himself. He wasn’t Mr. Stark’s kid, never had been, never would be, and that wasn’t Morgan’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Perhaps he would have stood a chance before. Things had been changing, just a tiny bit. Hesitant back pats and awkward side hugs had become more frequent just weeks before Peter had – before he had gone, not last year, but over five years ago.
Five years. A lot could happen in five years, Peter thought, and watched Mr. Stark smile fondly at Morgan. Fierce, unconditional love radiated from Mr. Stark whenever he held Morgan like that and Peter couldn’t help but wish that just a teeny-tiny splinter of that love was reserved for him, even though he knew deep down that it wasn’t his to claim.
(He wasn’t Mr. Stark’s kid.)
The last flicker of hope that Mr. Stark would remember their plans for the evening died when Peter sneaked a side glance at the man, just to find him dozing off, his eyes closed, his hand loosely wrapped around Morgan. It was a peaceful sight and Peter tried to enjoy it, tried so hard to be thankful that Mr. Stark was even sitting there, but it didn’t work, didn’t smother the jealousy pumping through his body, the dark secret lurking in the depths of Peter's mind.
(He wasn't a kid.)
Later, when Pepper muttered quiet 'Thank you's for Peter’s offer to put Morgan to bed, he smiled at her.
Upstairs, Peter waited in front of the bathroom for Morgan to emerge in her PJs, smelling of body wash and minty toothpaste. He followed her into her room where it took her at least ten minutes of intense concentration to pick a book from the overflowing shelf. In the end, she chose a small one with a colorful cover.
“It’s about Michael. He’s a piglet,” she said, her face very serious. "And he moves to a different barn and he misses his friends and his big brother really bad.” Morgan looked genuinely upset about the despair of the pig. “But it’s all good in the end!” she declared enthusiastically and far too loudly. “He finds new friends in the barn. Tobias and Lisa and a grumpy cat and then in the end Michael doesn’t want to go back to the old barn anymore and he says that this is his home now.” Morgan seemed to be very content with Michael’s speedy recovery from homesickness. “It’s a nice book,” she decided, nodding emphatically and crossing her arms. “Now read.”
As per usual, Morgan was right. It was a nice book, Peter thought, and it was a nice story. He looked down on Morgan who was cuddled into his side, warm and heavy, steadying his breathing, calming his heartbeat. It was adorable and she was completely silent, which Peter counted as a miracle. He resisted the urge to stroke her hair. That was a line he wouldn’t cross. If this last boundary fell, if he didn't keep it sacred, there was nothing to hide him, nothing stopping them from seeing what he was, a smudge on the family picture.
Peter finished the book with a sigh.
(A lot could happen in five years.)
After skipping five entire years, though, time seemed determined not to pass anymore, not when the curtains were closed, not when darkness was engulfing the lake house, not when everything was quiet and gloomy and grim.
Peter pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Maybe the stars were worth it. He hadn’t seen them ever, not like this. In New York they were overshadowed by countless of lights in the streets, in the tiny apartment windows, in the dodgy bars and fancy clubs. It wasn’t like that here where the air was pure and cold, where there were no flashy billboards and flickering street lights. No, here Peter could see the stars clearly. Here he could focus on the dancing and the glittering in the ink black sky.
It had been like this on his first night, when he had given up on sleep at 3 am, got up and walked towards the window, careful not to make a sound. And it was like this now after long hours of tossing and turning under his sweaty sheets.
A part of him regretted not staying with Morgan. His eyelids had felt heavy as he had listened to her deep, even breaths, her heartbeat, so calm. He hadn’t noticed Pepper coming up the stairs until she had been standing in the doorway, smiling fondly at them. A part of him had wanted to pretend to be asleep, had wanted to keep that soft gaze on himself, but it didn’t belong to him. It was meant for Morgan, was meant for Pepper’s daughter and so, Peter had smiled at Pepper and tiptoed out of the room, careful not to wake Morgan.
And now he was standing in his own room, in the darkness, alone. He pressed his forehead harder against the glass, hoping that the cold would swallow him whole.
He could see it. Pepper sitting on Morgan’s bed. Pepper stroking Morgan’s cheeks. Pepper pressing a soft kiss on Morgan’s forehead. Pepper-
Peter shook his head fiercely, fighting the bile in his throat. He was 16. He was 16 and not a child anymore. He was 16 and he had had his fair share of goodnight kisses from May and from Ben and probably from his parents, too. He had been put to bed, had been read to, had been cuddled. He had had all of that and now he didn’t need it anymore because he was 16 and not a child anymore and because he had died. He had died, had turned to dust, had survived. He didn’t need coddling. Morgan did. Morgan was six years old. Morgan was a child and she hadn’t had enough cuddles and kisses and love yet. Yes, Peter reminded himself and stared at the sky. He was 16.
Yet, even though Peter had been crushed by a building, dropped from the sky and turned to dust, even though he was 16 and not a child anymore, he startled when a harsh cough interrupted his thoughts. His head jerked up, his fingers froze on the window sill and he stumbled back, barely keeping his balance.
He muttered a curse when his forehead collided with the thick glass of the window and a hollow thump filled the quietness of the night. Ignoring his throbbing forehead, Peter stood there, frozen in place, and waited, waited, waited, prayed in strained silence that no one had heard, that no one would ask, that the soft carpet had smothered all noise when –
“Kid?”
It was a harsh whisper, almost inaudible. Peter clenched his eyes shut.
“Peter?”
It was louder this time, as though Mr. Stark wasn’t all that worried about Morgan waking up and bouncing out of her room, bubbly as ever and ready to start the day. Peter let go of the window sill, rubbed his forehead and sighed. He tiptoed towards his door and cringed when it opened with a loud squeak.
His feet carefully avoided the creaking step on his way downstairs, on his way to Mr. Stark. Peter didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to go to the living room, didn’t want to talk, but how could you say 'No' to someone who had cooked scrambled eggs for you, who had made space in their home for you, who had lost an arm for you? And so, Peter went downstairs, step by step, dreading the eye contact, dreading the conversation when he really was so tired and just wanted to sleep and just wanted to watch the stars.
His naked toes found an embarrassing string of comfort in the fluffy living room carpet and he dug into it, tried to focus on the frizzy fabric on his skin before he finally looked up.
Mr. Stark was sitting in his bed (it really shouldn’t be in the living room). He was wide awake.
Peter smiled. Mr. Stark didn’t. Instead, he wrinkled his forehead and stared. His gaze was piercing and clear and, in another world, Peter could have been happy that the familiar intensity had returned to Mr. Stark’s eyes, but not in that moment, not on that day, not when he wanted to be upstairs, not when he didn’t want to be seen.
“I was just on my way to the bathroom,” Peter explained stupidly.
Mr. Stark stayed silent for a moment, lifted his eyebrows and said, “You didn’t remind me.”
Peter paused. His mind screeched to a halt. “What?” he asked.
“Of our plans,” Mr. Stark said and swung his legs out of his bed with a frightening amount of energy.
(Peter had the sneaking suspicion that he hadn’t taken his sleeping pills that night.)
When Peter remained quiet, his mouth slightly agape, Mr. Stark rolled his eyes dramatically. “The tinkering. The tinkering. Try to keep up.”
“Oh,” Peter said and closed his mouth.
“Yes. Oh. I was slumbering on the couch, thinking I had ticked everything on the To Do list, but nuh-uh. Not true.” Mr. Stark turned to look at Peter accusingly. “You could have saved me from the disgrace of slobbering all over myself. It made me look old.”
Peter nodded numbly, tried to smile, tried to speak, failed and stayed silent.
“Well,” Mr. Stark continued, “wake me next time, will you? The small things tend to slip through the cracks... Will you get here and help me out?”
Peter hurried forward and awkwardly placed a hand under Mr. Stark’s arm, helping him up.
“That’s it, that’s just it…” Mr. Stark said with a pained groan. He winced, shook off Peter’s hand, straightened his back and started limping towards the kitchen.
“Erm,” Peter said, slowly following Mr. Stark who didn’t seem to hear him. "Shouldn’t… shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Mr. Stark was filling the tea kettle with water. He paused to gaze at the clock. “Considering that it is 4:49 in the morning, yes, your observation is probably correct. I should be in bed. Just like you.”
“I was just – “Peter stammered, but Mr. Stark interrupted him with another roll of his eye. “- on the way to the bathroom. Gottcha.” He nodded seriously and put the kettle on the stove.
“But your arm…” Peter said anxiously, a tingling on his neck reminding him that Pepper could come downstairs any moment, catching them both out of bed.
Mr. Stark waved his remaining hand, as though he was dealing with a particularly annoying fly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Have heard that one before. But I’m a big boy, kid, and I don’t have school tomorrow.” He pointed at the kettle. “Will you take care of this? My cup. No sugar.”
Mr. Stark limped towards the door without so much as a backward glance. “The view from the patio is just marvelous at night, especially when you have tea," he said leaving a very confused Peter alone in the kitchen.
Peter stared at the steaming mug and wondered when in the last five years Mr. Stark had started drinking tea. Now that there was a faint glimmer of light on the horizon and the birds were chirping in the trees, Peter wanted to ask, wanted to dig deep and find out everything about the lost years, but before he could find the words or the courage, Mr. Stark interrupted his thoughts.
“How are you doing?”
It was a simple question, open, demanding, painful (too much, too much, too much.)
“Fine," Peter said and smiled.
“Yeah?” Mr. Stark asked. He didn’t look at Peter, didn’t push further, simply sipped his tea and stared at the dark lake.
It was nice, Peter thought, having this just outside your door, being able to pour yourself a hot drink and come here when you couldn’t sleep, when it was too late to try and already too early to sit with the stars. The moon transformed the water into a glittering, colorful ocean. It was nice. Nicer than the flat in New York, nicer than the noise of the city, so confused, so overwhelmed by everything that had happened. And yet… And yet, Peter yearned to be back, yearned for his bed that didn’t smell like him, yearned for his aunt whose kisses and cuddles didn’t feel like they used to.
He yearned to be back, but not to the now, not to that flat, not to the new wallpaper and the new smell. He yearned to go back to before. To Midtown with his classmates, all of them, to lab days and friendly ladies with churros and to hugs and exhausted chatter with May after long night shifts. He didn’t want to be here. The lake house was fine. The clean air was fine. Mr. Stark was fine, but Peter didn’t want to be here.
“Have you been in touch with May?” Mr. Stark asked suddenly, as though the question had just now occurred to him.
Peter blinked, once, twice, sifted through the foggy memories of the past days. He shook his head. No. No, he hadn’t been in touch with May. “Not sure if she has her phone all the time,” he explained hastily.
Mr. Stark looked at him. A quick smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the corner that worked just fine (thank God), the one that wasn’t slack and tingly. “Call her today, okay?” Mr. Stark's empty shoulder twitched as though he wanted to pat Peter on the back or put an arm around his shoulder or pull him into his side. “C’mon, you gotta call your old lady.”
Peter watched the dancing lights on the water. He nodded.
The silence that followed was almost peaceful.
You gotta call your old lady.
Mr. Stark’s words rang in Peter’s ears. He had promised. Promised. And yet breakfast had passed and then lunch. Peter had cleaned the dishes. He had played with Morgan. He'd showered. He'd read a book and he had worked on his summer homework and he hadn't made the call.
Now he was sitting on his bed, late in the afternoon, breathing in the flowery scent of the fresh sheets, doing nothing. The phone was heavy in his hand, heavy and cold. His thumb wavered over May’s name, black letters on white. The cold, blueish light of his display glared at him.
Peter counted the seconds and then the minutes (One Two Five Ten Thirty). He closed his eyes, sat and breathed.
The phone rang and rang and rang, the sound echoing in Peter’s mind. (Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four) She wouldn’t pick up. She wouldn’t pick up because she was eating late lunch or early dinner, because she was in the middle of a group session, because she didn’t have her phone (why wouldn’t she have her phone?).
I’m sorry I can’t answer your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back!
She wouldn’t pick up. She wouldn’t pick up. She wouldn’t pick up. She wouldn’t pick up.
(A lot could happen in five years.)
“She didn’t pick up.”
Peter said it with a lopsided grin and a gentle shrug, but the world froze nonetheless.
Mr. Stark stared with empty eyes at the newspaper he had awkwardly propped up against a half-empty bottle of ketchup. Pepper stood in the kitchen doorway, frowning, a pile of dirty plates in her stiff hands. Even Morgan stopped her happy blabbering and peaked out of the blanket fortress she had built almost all by herself. Peter picked on the hole in his left sock, listened to the silence and counted the seconds.
“She’ll call back," Mr. Stark said finally and the world started spinning again. Pepper turned around. Morgan resumed her exhilarating story about how she had once caught a frog and Mr. Stark pulled his usual sour 'I’m reading the news. Leave me alone' face.
Peter, however – Peter couldn't look at any of them, couldn't even lift his head. Perhaps that was for the best because he was suddenly sure that the startling numbness in his limbs was the only thing preventing him from storming out of the front door and running, running, running until his lungs burst. He itched to move, itched to get away from the house, from all of them, from everything.
The numbness didn’t leave, though. On the contrary, it seemed to settle in, make itself comfortable. It slowly crept up Peter’s spine and carved the realization into his bone that he had been stupid, so stupid. It had taken him days – days - filled with lingering gazes, whispers and sudden silences to finally realize why he was here in the first place.
Pity.
It was pity.
“So, I’m just gonna ask you a few questions, alright, kid?” Mr. Stark said. He was sitting at the table with yet another cup of tea. Peter was standing in front of the kitchen sink, his arms covered in dirty dishwater.
Peter's silence didn't seem to discourage Mr. Stark in the slightest. “How have things at home been lately? In the city, I mean,” he asked nonchalantly.
“Alright,” Peter answered briskly. The brightness of the room was hurting his eyes. He wondered if this was what a migraine felt like.
"Really?" Mr. Stark asked.
Peter didn't reply.
“Pep and I have been talking." Mr. Stark's voice was unbearably soft.
Peter didn’t look at him, just stared at the soapy dishwasher running down his forearm. Here it comes, he thought. Here it comes.
“We… we’ve noticed- You look tired, Pete. Look at yourself. You’ve lost weight, you’ve- “, Mr. Stark trailed off and sighed deeply. It wasn’t an angry sigh. It wasn’t annoyed or exasperated, just tired, exhausted. “Listen, Pete, I know it’s been a tough… few months for you. I know. It’s been tough for all of us. But you gotta talk to me. Well, not me, if you don’t want to. I know Pep would be more than happy to listen and we could even get you someone else, someone who knows some stuff about this kind of– “
“No!” The force in his own voice surprised Peter. He took a deep breath. “Seriously, Mr. Stark, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to rest.”
Mr. Stark threw a pinched look at him. His easy, smiley attitude was long gone.
Peter grabbed the nearest plate and began scrubbing it relentlessly, hoping that would put an end to the conversation. He could hear Mr. Stark thinking and clenched his teeth preparing for questions or insults or both.
It turned out, though, that his escape plan had been stored in the back pocket of his jeans all along, together with a used handkerchief and a bunch of candy wrappers. Peter had never been so relieved to hear the familiar ringtone. He wrenched his phone out of his pants and accepted the call without even checking the ID. A quick wave at Mr. Stark, a brisk nod of acknowledgement and Peter was standing in the hallway, the kitchen door shut firmly behind him. Thank God.
“Peter?” a voice asked on the other end of the line. It was almost a whisper, uncertain and hesitant, but Peter knew who it was, of course he did. He swallowed. The rustling of the line filled his ears.
“Hi,” he whispered and leaned heavily against the wall.
A beat of silence, then, “Hello, honey. You called.” May’s voice was tense, exhausted.
“Yeah,” Peter croaked and, before May could say anything else, he asked, “How was your day?”
May was quiet for a few seconds, cleared her throat, swallowed. “It was alright. I… We had a good talk.”
Peter didn’t find the words, the strength to reply.
“But lunch was terrible, I’m telling you,” May said and Peter could hear the ghost of a smile in her voice. “I don’t know who they hired as a cook. A blob fish maybe.”
Peter closed his eyes and let his head drop against the wall. “Worse than it used to be at work?” he asked, playing along, taking a breather, pretending.
“You have no idea,” May said and giggled. It was a familiar, comforting sound.
Peter turned around and eyed the kitchen door warily. Perhaps Mr. Stark was waiting. Maybe he was listening to Peter’s every word, ready to emerge from the room as soon as Peter hung up, ready to continue his interrogation. The thought made Peter shudder.
“Hang on a sec,” he said, using his shoulder to pin the phone to his ear.
A wave of fresh air washed over him as he stepped out on the patio. It really was a beautiful view.
“May? Sorry, I was just… I was just going outside."
“Rude. You interrupted me before I even got to the good part,” May said, feigning annoyance.
Peter settled down on the grass next to the lake. A small duck family swam by. He smiled. “Yeah? Did they put ham in the vegetarian sauce again? Cause that’s hard to top."
“Worse! The fries…” May added a dramatic pause, “were frozen inside.”
It was easy. They bickered and laughed, exchanged stories of the worst meals they had ever had – the time the milk in Peter’s middle school lunch had been lumpy, the time May had almost choked on a splinter of bone in her hotdog, the time they both had had to bolt from their table at a dodgy Italian restaurant to make it to the bathroom in time.
“In all seriousness, though, Peter,” May gasped after she had just recovered of a particularly violent fit of laughter, “I’m getting better. I am.”
The laughter died in Peter’s throat.
“Peter?” May asked. She sounded anxious. “Honey? Are you there?”
Peter nodded slowly and then, remembering that May couldn’t see him, he added, “Yeah. I’m here.” The light-heartedness had vanished.
May sounded tired again, her voice strained. “Peter, I know… I know it hasn’t been… ideal. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, honey.”
Peter wondered numbly if she was crying.
“Honey?” May asked and Peter stopped wondering. There was no doubt about it anymore. May was crying. She was crying and she was miles away, somewhere in New York where Peter couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t hold her the way she used to, years ago, when he had skinned his knees on the playground.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I’m fixing it. I’m fixing it. You know that, right? Honey? You know that?”
She was begging. Peter stared at the grass. A tiny, unsuspecting beetle was spreading his wings on top of a particularly long blade. For a moment Peter wanted to squish it.
He listened to May’s stifled sobs. “Peter. Please, Peter. Can you answer me, honey? Can you tell me – It’s going to be okay, Peter. It’s all going to be okay. I’ll make sure that it’ll be okay. You know that? Right, baby? Tell me you know that?”
“Yeah”, Peter finally said, “I know.”
He hung up.
(A lot could happen in five years.)
Peter walked. And he walked. And he walked, stumbling over roots and jumping over puddles.
His t-shirt got caught in the thorned thicket. He pushed forward. The shirt ripped. His fingers curled around thin air and he lost his balance. Mud and a pillow of unruly weed cushioned his fall.
It took a few mouthfuls of dirt and the musky smell of the earth for Peter to realize what had happened. When he finally did, he didn’t try to get up. Nettles were burning his arms, his legs, his face. A small insect was tickling his nose. Countless of tiny animals were rustling in the thicket. The forest was alive.
Peter wondered what would happen if he didn’t get up, if he just stayed there until morning, possibly even longer. They would find him, surely, in a few hours. Peter hadn’t got very far and Mr. Stark was a rich man, even without any skyscrapers to show for it. He would find a way – a search troop, a bloodhound, a helicopter, whatever – but until he did, Peter would just stay right there with the nettles and the mice.
He rolled onto his back and stared up into the trees. Leaves and branches were blocking his view of the sky, but when he tilted his head, he could still catch a glimpse of the sun, just barely, slowly creeping over the horizon.
Peter didn’t know how long he lay there. He listened to the wind in the trees and the animals in the bushes, watched the sky change color, blue first, then pink, then red and finally black. The first stars appeared, twinkling in the dark, greeting him like an old friend. An owl hooted in the distance.
It was cold. Peter wanted to stay, wanted to be swallowed by the earth, become one with the forest and its inhabitants – but it was cold.
He got to his feet and brushed of the dirt and he walked.
Peter stopped at the edge of the wood. From where he was standing, he could see a swarm of bats circle over the lake in a peculiar yet graceful dance. Warm light was streaming through the windows of the lake house. Peter shivered because of the cold and because of the light.
He should go back, apologize and crawl into bed. He knew he should, but he hesitated to step out of the protective shadow of the trees, the only thing saving him from concerned glances and aching questions.
Someone walked out of the patio door, illuminating the garden - Pepper holding a flashlight, searching for something in the dark, searching for Peter, shaking her head, turning away in defeat -
Peter stumbled out of the wood, half walking, half running. He opened his mouth to shout Pepper’s name, suddenly desperate for the warmth of the house, when she turned around. Her eyes widened when she spotted him in the dark. Peter was fifteen meters away, ten, five, two – he stopped, frozen in place.
Pepper’s mouth tightened. “You look terrible,” she said, shaking her head.
Peter didn’t reply, just stared at Pepper in anxious silence. She frowned, opened her mouth, closed it, and stepped aside to allow him back into the house.
Mr. Stark was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked tired and old.
“Promise me you’ll take a nice bath,” Pepper said.
Her voice was strained, but she placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of Peter. Mr. Stark didn’t speak, didn’t look at Peter, just stared at his fingers lost in thought.
Peter lifted the mug to his lips and took a hesitant sip. The sweetness of the chocolate made him nauseous. He was sure that Mr. Stark and Pepper could hear his booming heartbeat, was certain that they saw the sweat on his forehead, but no one said a word. They sat in motionless silence, frozen in time and space.
The vein on Mr. Stark’s forehead was throbbing dangerously. Peter recognized the signs. This was what Mr. Stark had looked like after the ferry incident. This was what he had been like when he’d taken Peter’s suit. (Years ago. Years, years, years.) The memory stung and yet Peter wished desperately to go back in time to the Mr. Stark on the rooftop, insulting him, hurting him, shouting at him. He wanted to go back to the Mr. Stark he knew, not the man at the kitchen table with the grey hair and the missing arm.
He wanted to yell and scream and howl (Be mad at me! Insult me! Hurt me! Do something!), but he didn’t and Mr. Stark stayed quiet.
Peter had screwed up. It was done. There was nothing left for him, nothing to be fixed, nothing to be saved. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have come back.
The truth tasted like acid and burnt his tongue. He couldn’t blame May or Morgan or Mr. Stark or this damn house because it was him. The world had changed, of course it had, but the Peter Parker shaped spot in it was still there. It was just that Peter didn’t fit into the Peter Parker shaped spot anymore. He had come back deformed and disfigured. He had come back wrong.
Mr. Stark gasped. His face contorted and he grabbed his empty shoulder. His body was shaking. His lips were trembling and – the realization chilled Peter to the bone – there were tears in his eyes.
Pepper was on her feet immediately “You didn’t take your pills! Damnit, Tony!”, she hissed, but there was no fire in her words.
She placed a gentle hand on Mr. Stark’s forearm and helped him to his feet. He staggered.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she said and carefully led Mr. Stark (shaking, stumbling) out of the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a moment, Pete,” she called over her shoulder. Mr. Stark said nothing, didn’t look up, didn’t turn around, was pale and silent.
Peter listened to their footsteps as they shuffled away. It was dark in the kitchen, dark and quiet. Peter poured the hot chocolate into the sink and rinsed his mug with cold water. He missed the sounds of the forest, reminding him that he was alive, that some things hadn’t changed. It would be easy, he thought, and stared out of the kitchen window into the pitch-black garden – leaving, disappearing into the night, tasting freedom.
It would be easy.
Peter didn’t notice that Pepper had returned until she placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched. She stepped back and something inside of Peter shattered.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
Peter hated that question. He nodded, swallowed, looked out of the window. They stood there for a while, side by side, silent.
“Would you rather be alone?” Pepper asked.
The words startled Peter. Did he want to be alone? (No.)
“Yeah. That would be – yeah,” he stammered. Pepper nodded and smiled and left and Peter was alone.
Peter tried to be as silent as possible, tiptoeing through the pitch-black hallway. He bit his lips, determined to focus every bit of his attention on Morgan’s and Pepper’s even breaths and on Mr. Stark’s soft, wheezing snores.
He slipped on his jacket. It was only for the night. He’d be back early in the morning and none of them would be any wiser. The forest was waiting for him, the forest and the stars. (Only for the night.)
His hand froze on the doorknob. Did he hear little footsteps on the stairs? Was that a cough? A creaking floorboard? He whirled around and stared into the black hallway, holding his breath, too scared to move. Panic filled his heart, panic and hope.
(Hope?)
What if Mr. Stark woke up? What if he dragged Peter back into the kitchen and shouted and screamed and asked him what the hell he was thinking? What if he sat with Peter until the sun came up? What if he asked all the right questions and listened and-
Darkness. Silence. Nothing. No sounds, no silhouettes, no creeping shadows. Mr. Stark was asleep and Peter was alone. The forest was waiting for him.
Peter’s heart was racing in his chest as he opened the heavy front door inch by inch. A soft breeze caressed his face.
He slipped outside, sighed in relief, cherished the cool night air on his skin. The stars were dancing in the black sky. The moon was shining brightly. Freedom, Peter thought, just for the night. Freedom. He strode confidently towards the forest, wiped the sweat off his brow and inhaled the darkness. It was a world of possibilities, a blank canvas, just waiting for him to pick up the brush, to-
A creak.
The door.
“Pete?”
Silence, deafening silence. The darkness of the night withdrew, a coy animal sensing a predator. The rustling branches stilled and the world held its breath. Peter could see Mr. Stark clear as day, standing six feet away from him and squinting into the night.
“Pete?” Mr. Stark repeated, a shouted whisper echoing in the dark.
Peter didn’t reply. He screamed at himself to move, to tear his legs away from where they had become one with the earth. He should turn around and run, feel the rush of air in his lungs and the adrenalin in veins. He should run, as fast as he could, run and never look back.
“Peter?” There was a hint of panic in Mr. Stark’s voice.
Finally, finally Peter’s legs came loose. He held his breath, closed his eyes, stepped back, careful, careful, careful. A branch snapped under his weight. His heart skipped a beat.
“Peter.” Mr. Stark’s eyes scanned Peter’s pale face. “Come back inside, will you?” he whispered and reached out.
Peter flinched. He shook his head violently, staring at Mr. Stark like a deer in the headlights. Mr. Stark sighed. He looked old, so old, his hair silver, his cheeks hollow, the wrinkles on his forehead carved deep into his flesh.
Mr. Stark looked old and it made Peter quiver and crumble and shatter. The sleepless nights and the restless days and the scrambled eggs and the hot chocolate and the new wallpaper in his old flat – all of it came crashing down. They were not going back inside. They were not going to sit on the patio with a steaming cup of tea until the sun came up. Mr. Stark wasn’t going to listen and ask all the right questions. None of that was going to happen because Peter’s bottom lip was trembling.
His eyes darted through the darkness, searching for something to cling to, something to keep the shaking under control. He could feel the quiver travel down his spine and settle into his limbs, making his fingers twitch and his knees grow weak.
He helplessly watched recognition flash through Mr. Stark’s eyes, bright and blazing and useless. He saw Mr. Stark’s mouth move, saw him take a step forward, get closer, closer, closer, so far away.
Peter stared and stared until there was nothing left, nothing but the tremor in his spine, his limbs, his eyes, his mind. And then even the tremor was fading, a distant memory, a whisper buried deep in the creases of his brain, nothing more, nothing but blackness.
The world returned to Peter as suddenly as it had left him and it returned with a bang.
He was shaking. There were silhouettes in the dark and colors whirling in front of his eyes. The sounds of the forest, the trees, the animals, the wind, the leaves were smothering him. He wanted to curl up, seek refuge in the blackness, but the world was inside him, taking on the form of the cold in his bones, the exhaustion in his muscles and the terror in his heart.
Peter was going to die two feet away from Mr. Stark’s patio and years away from home.
He was going to die.
Sometimes in the long hours between dusk and dawn Peter had yearned for this moment. He had thought of it as peace and relief, a gentle embrace. Now, however, there was no relief in the thundering of his heart and the violent tremor in his limbs. There was no peace in the icy horror that had taken hold of his brain.
Peter was going to die. Every cell in his body knew it. Every fiber of his being felt it. There was nothing to be done about it, nothing to change the fact that his heart was already skipping beats, nothing to keep the deadly cold from seeping into his brain. Peter was going to die and he was going to do it alone, impossibly alone. He squeezed his eyes shut in silent prayer and gasped for air that just wouldn’t come, wouldn’t fill his lungs, wouldn’t quench the fire in his chest.
Breathe.
Peter tried, tried, tried, tried, but he couldn’t.
Breathe.
Something had gone horribly wrong; he was sure of it. Something in his body had finally given up and now the air wouldn’t come and his chest was on fire.
Breathe.
He was trying! He was trying!
You can breathe, bud.
Peter’s eyes snapped open. He gasped.
“That’s it, buddy. That’s it.”
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. Peter's heart fluttered in his chest, his throat, his eyes. It was too loud, too violent and he was dying, dying, dying - A gulp of air, another gasp, a cough –
“You’re doing good. You’re doing so good.”
Peter was pressed against something solid, something that steadied him as he coughed and panted and wheezed. He touched his lips with trembling fingers. The blood would come. It would come soon and he would choke on it, bubbling and bawling.
Something heavy settled on his shoulder. He looked up, stared into a face. Grey, black, brown. Skin. A beard. Mr. Stark. Of course, it was Mr. Stark. Somewhere deep-down Peter knew it was, but the face seemed strangely distorted. Blurry. Scary. Peter tried to shuffle away, free himself from the tight embrace.
“Shh. You’re good, buddy. You’re good.”
It was the lack of oxygen. Peter had read about it before. Dizziness, blurry vision, chest pain. His hearing would be the last thing to go. He’d hear his heart slow down and fall silent. He’d hear his own last, desperate gasp for air. He’d hear it all, everything.
(Dying, dying, dying.)
“Okay, Peter. That’s quite enough.” Rough fingers were brushing over Peter’s forehead.
“You can breathe. You know that. Okay? Let’s do it together, alright? We can do it together.”
Peter couldn't. Why wouldn't anyone understand that he couldn't breathe, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, no matter, no matter, no matter.
"In."
Peter gasped. It hurt. It hurt.
"Out."
He coughed and it hurt, hurt, hurt, but there was air. There was air.
"In. Out."
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, fought against the burning in his heart and the fire in his chest.
"In. Out."
Dying, dying - A hand on his chest, warm and heavy, and air, more air, flowing in and out, in and out, in and out.
In Out In Out In Out In Out
Peter’s throat ached. His chest ached. His arms, his legs, his face, his brain – everything ached. He was tired. God, he was so tired.
They were now, in fact, sitting on the patio, each clutching a steaming cup of tea. Mr. Stark stared off into the distance. Peter watched the bats circle over the lake.
“I think I need help,” he said.
A particularly small bat dove down and snatched an unsuspecting insect out of the air.
Mr. Stark took a contemplative sip of tea. “Yeah,” he said. His empty shoulder twitched. “I agree. We should find you someone to talk to – if you get what I mean.”
Peter dropped his gaze. His face was burning. “That was quite… intense, I guess? Not the right word? It was a lot is what I’m trying to say… so… sorry, basically. I guess,” he mumbled.
Mr. Stark waggled his mug impatiently. Tea splashed onto his shirt. He regarded Peter with a disapproving look. “Don’t apologize, kid. Okay? Never apologize for that.”
Peter closed his eyes. Everything hurt.
“Yeah, no,” Mr. Stark said, “we’re gonna find you someone to talk to – I promise. First thing tomorrow. But its 4am, so, I mean, we could start here. Right now. You know?” There was a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.
“No,” Peter replied automatically.
Mr. Stark’s shoulders slumped.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Peter added hastily.
“Well,” Mr. Stark said very slowly, “I’m just saying, everyone else is asleep. And you’re, well, you look like you need a chat. So, what I’m trying to say – ask – life is all about asking questions, isn’t it? – do you want to tell me?”
Peter was silent.
“How you’re doing,” Mr. Stark clarified.
Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. “What is there to tell?” he asked. His bottom lip was trembling again.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Mr. Stark replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Getting dusted. Coming back. The battle. Over 5 years have passed-“
Peter cut him off, his voice quivering with anger, “Five years? For you. For you it’s been five years! For me – nothing! I was gone! So – what is there to tell? Nothing happened! Nothing fucking happened to me!”
The hurt on Mr. Stark’s face and the very reasonable worry that any noise might wake Pepper (or worse, Morgan), made Peter lower his voice to a horse whisper.
“I get it – everything changed for you. I understand. You had five years. I didn’t. You built yourself a life. You built the house. You built doll houses for your daughter – jeez, Mr. Stark, you have a daughter – and you read to her and cook for her and, and – man, Mr. Stark, I get that I’m just not, well – I’m just not part of the plan. Right? Okay? I was gone. You were not. Nothing happened to me and everything happened to you and that’s, you know, that’s fine. That’s alright. That’s just life. I guess.”
Silence. Peter scratched his nose and stared at the wooden boards of the patio. He took a sip of his tea. It was getting cold. Mr. Stark didn’t say anything for a while, just drank his tea looking terribly thoughtful. It scared Peter.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispered timidly; the anger vanished. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. I was just … thinking,” Mr. Stark said slowly. He lifted his mug to his mouth and downed the rest of his tea. “You know, in a way you’re right. I did have five years more than you. No way to sugar-coat it. And I did build a life. Yeah. And dollhouses for Morgan. So many of them, you wouldn’t believe it.” He chuckled softly to himself. “And not everything was bad. I was – when we went back in time – I was scared I would lose this. That would have been bad. Yeah, but, Pete, you got to understand that I had to build this life because everything was gone. Everything. And a lot of what happened was pretty shitty, I’m telling you. We lost. Miserably. And I had sworn to protect you. And then you were gone.” Mr. Stark looked Peter straight in the eye. “I watched you die.”
The words were flat, as though they’d been uttered a thousand times already, a helpless effort to take away their power.
“So, Peter,” Mr. Stark continued, his voice hoarse and impossibly soft, “you are part of the plan. Of course, you are. We went back in time to get you, didn’t we? I went back to fix the fucking mess I’d made.” He spat the last words, as though desperate to rid himself of their bitter taste.
“It wasn't your fault,” Peter whispered. Mr. Stark wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it was supposed to be like this.
Mr. Stark smiled bitterly and shook his head. “Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Thought about it a lot, you know? During the five years. Constantly asking myself what I could have done… How I could have prevented- It’s over now, but it is my fault that you don’t feel like you’re part of the plan anymore. And I’m sorry.”
The apology thickened the air and made it difficult to breathe.
Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat. A shiver ran down his spine. The Mr. Stark he knew never apologized.
“Don’t say that,” Peter whispered. “It’s not your fault. It’s just difficult.”
He wanted to leave it there, wanted to shut up and move on and pretend this whole conversation had never happened. And yet-
He thought of May, the phone call, the night in the forest, the bottles in their flat. He thought of the new wallpaper in his room, the new furniture. He thought of Ned and how empty their conversations had become, of MJ whose curves and full lips didn’t excite him anymore. He thought of the anger, the guilt and the envy he felt whenever he looked at Morgan, thought of Mr. Stark’s shattered frame in the hospital bed, of the empty arm, the limp and the burn, of the food Peter didn’t taste anymore, of the nights he spent lying awake in bed or gazing at the stars. He thought of the exhaustion buried deep, deep in his bones.
Peter opened his mouth. “It’s not May’s fault. It wasn’t easy for her. She’d lost Ben – you know that. And then she lost me – you know that, too, I guess. I really don’t blame her, especially because she did a good job at first. At moving on, I mean. She… she met a guy while I was gone. He’d lost his daughter, I think, and his wife. And they, well, they clicked. I guess, they built a life, too. They changed everything in the flat. My room – it’s not my room anymore. I hated it when I came back. Suddenly there was this guy and – everything smelled differently. It was a stranger’s flat, not ours – not mine. But May, she seemed to like the new furniture and the guy, especially the guy. Of course. And I tried so hard. Please, you have to believe me…” Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I tried, but it didn’t work out. She says it’s not my fault, but they started fighting a lot. And then he left. And then he didn’t come back.”
Something was burning deep inside of Peter. He had started a fire, he realized, and he didn’t know how to put it out. The words were flowing freely, no barrier to stop them anymore.
“Well. That’s when – that’s when she started, you know, drinking a bit too much. Well, I’m not sure if that’s when it really started – they did sometimes get a bit wine drunk, you know? But nothing serious, really. She was doing good. It was only when he left, when I came back that it … that she changed. And – you know that – I just found her lying on the floor one day. And she was crying. It’s not her fault, but she was crying so bad, Mr. Stark.”
Peter could hear the whininess in his own voice. A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and reassuring.
“Anyway. She went to the clinic – you know that. Said she’d get better for me. But, you know, she was doing good. She had a boyfriend and everything. It was fine until I came back. When I moved here to stay with you, I don’t know what I expected. You’re still sick and you have a family and of course they come first, I understand, really, I do, but I can’t sleep, Mr. Stark. I can’t sleep anymore. I don’t want to eat and I’m so tired, so tired. And then when I look at Morgan – it’s her home and you’re her Dad, so this is really not okay, I know that – when I look at her, I get jealous, Mr. Stark. I’m so jealous.”
Peter’s voice cracked. He fell silent.
Too much, a voice inside of his head whispered. He had told him too much, too much, too much. He should never take anyone up on their offer to listen. Never. He knew that. He knew that. It was the exhaustion, he decided. The exhaustion had loosened his tongue. He turned away.
“Yeah, no,” Mr. Stark said. His thumb was drawing small circles on Peter’s back. “Will you look at me for just a sec, so I can keep apologizing to you? I really don’t think I’m done yet.”
Reluctantly, Peter lifted his eyes.
“I want you to listen,” Mr. Stark began, very slowly, very carefully, as though talking to a small child, “and I want you to really, really understand that you,” he poked Peter’s chest, “will always, always have a place here. Till hell freezes over. Fuck, who am I kidding. Even if hell freezes over.”
Peter didn’t move, just stared at Mr. Stark’s face, his new face, soft with concern, kind and tender and gentle.
“Okay?” Mr. Stark asked.
His eyes were shining brightly in the darkness and for a moment Peter could feel a spark in his chest, old and long forgotten, a bit dusty and weak, but there. For the second time that night there were tears gathering in his eyes, and yes, there it was, the first drop trickling down his cheek. He hastily wiped it away with his crusty sleeve. Mr. Stark was kind enough not to mention it. Instead he looked away and took a deep, calming breath.
“I really do want to say sorry, kid.”
Peter shook his head fiercely, trying to blink away the tears.
“No, I really do,” Mr. Stark said. “I didn’t want you to feel like this. Pepper and I, we talked about it, you know? Your … state.”
Peter could feel his heart sink to his stomach.
“I’m sorry”, he whispered and he meant it. They had enough on their plate, didn’t need this, didn’t need him, a picky eater, an insomniac, a moody teenager.
Mr. Stark shook his head. “C’mon. Let me finish. We worry about you- and,” he caught a glance of the guilt written all over Peter’s face, “that’s not a bad thing. People are supposed to worry about you. That’s what you do when you ... care about someone.”
Mr. Stark cleared his throat and continued hastily, desperate to shake off the moment.
“Well, we thought it best to- I don’t know, when you went on your little field trip to the forest – scared the shit out of me, kid – we just thought that maybe it was a bit much for you. Being so close to, well, us. Seeing the family, seeing what had changed, seeing me when May couldn’t be here. And tonight we – or rather I,” he nodded at his empty shoulder, “I distanced myself a bit. Had to really because sometimes... yeah, sometimes it's still not easy, but I also just wanted to give you some space. Let you, I don’t know, come to me when you felt ready. Not force anything on you, I suppose. There was a reason you left after all.”
Peter swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more, "for scaring you like that. I know I shouldn't have-"
Mr. Stark cut him off. "Don't," he said briskly, "You shouldn't have, yeah. And I was mad. You really - fuck, kid, I didn't know what to do. Almost brought out the suit." He chuckled bitterly, "Pepper told me you'd come back and she was right, of course. She always is. And, yeah, I felt like I had to calm down first, before talking to you. Another reason that I kept away tonight." Mr. Stark was silent for a moment.
Peter could feel shame and guilt burning in his chest. He opened his mouth, wanted to make this right, wanted Mr. Stark to stop being silent and gloomy and apologetic when it wasn't his fault, when nothing was his fault.
Mr. Stark cleared his throat, interrupted Peter's thoughts. He glanced darkly at the tear tracks on Peter’s cheeks and the bags under his eyes. "Yeah, I realize now that was a mistake," he said heavily, “I should have been there, should have made it clear that I’m kind of here for you, you know? Whenever you need me. Even at 4am in the morning.”
A smile danced over his lips, a flicker in the darkness. “ Even if there were 10 Morgans in this house – god forbid – you’d still have a place here. You don't need to leave. Okay? You have a place here.”
“Okay”, Peter murmured. Perhaps, he thought, he'd be able to believe it one day.
Mr. Stark pulled him close, his arm a comforting weight on Peter’s shoulders. The steadiness of Mr. Stark’s breathing, the rhythmical beats of his heart were slowing Peter’s mind, drawing him in. The tears were still flowing, but Peter didn’t bother wiping them away and Mr. Stark didn’t comment. Instead he rested his chin on Peter’s head.
They sat like that for a while, silent and peaceful.
“It won’t be easy, will it?” Peter whispered finally. The tears had dried on his cheeks.
“No,” Mr. Stark said. “It won’t be.”
The first sunbeams were dancing over the lake, tickling Peter's nose and covering the world in gold.