The aftermath of the battle is… unimaginable.
The Compound is crumbled to dust. The land surrounding it used to be luscious and green, glimmering emerald under a sapphire sky – but now all that is left is dust and debris, blood and carnage. A flaming sky, thankfully free of alien aircrafts and possibly apocalyptic harbingers.
Captain Marvel – Carol, she says, after she saves you from being slashed in two by some alien-like dog – rushes Tony to the hospital after he uses the Infinity Gauntlet, leaving a trail of starlight in their wake. You see the emptiness in his face and the cloudiness in his eyes and your heart drops to your stomach. Pepper and Rhodey follow after her, and you pray to every god there is that he’ll be okay.
In the meantime, you traipse the battlefield. There are corpses of good people laying about. Loyal, honest people. You close their eyes and whisper a prayer for them, pull them out from under chunks of metal and rock – and then–
“Hey, kid.”
The cry that escapes you is more animal than human but Sam and Bucky don’t say anything. If anything, the Winter Soldier seems to be holding back tears, and Sam isn’t holding them back at all. You’re sniffling and sobbing as you wrap your arms around them, whimpering unintelligibly about the last five years without them – how the halls had been too quiet and how nobody really was the same without them, how Steve started one of those therapy groups and was always hounding you to join and–
“You’ve gotten so big,” Sam whispers, and the tears flow harder, if possible. You remember that you were only 15 when… when the incident occurred. You’re 20 now – hardly a child. Stronger, smarter. Powerful, but not proud enough that you don’t melt into another bout of tears at his words.
Bucky throws his arm around your shoulder and leads you to where the rest are gathering in the distance, exchanging tearful greetings and well wishes. Your heart swells at the sight of the returned; T'Challa and Shuri, Wanda and Strange, Hope and the Guardians of the Galaxy, and… and…
“Peter!”
The web-slinger pulls away from hugging Steve, his eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears as he seeks you out – and gods above, does your heart hurt. You had almost forgotten about him in your rush to stay alive in the scuffle with Thanos and his armies – but now that you’ve gotten a peek at him, his chestnut hair and his pale, freckled skin (hair longer and skin tanner than you last remembered), you wonder how you had ever let him slip your mind.
And then he’s meeting you halfway, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground, and he’s in your arms, all muscle and skin and him. He’s not the same lanky 16 year old that left you in Central Park to chase a doughnut shaped spacecraft, that much is evident in how tall he’s grown. There are tears soaking your shoulder and no doubt tears soaking his, your limbs shaky and weak – how long have you dreamed of this? Of having him back? Of hugging him again, tangling your hands in his hair, breathing in the scent that was purely Peter Parker.
Too long.
×
The Compound takes almost a year to rebuild. The halls are different, not just in their new-tile smell but in the sudden bustle that they contain after the silence that had reigned during those long three years.
On the one year anniversary of the Great War – as many were calling it –, a gala is thrown in the Avengers Compound. Tony drives up from his cabin (read: mansion) with Pepper and Morgan, Steve comes in from the city with Sam and Scott and Bucky. Clint makes an appearance with his family, and T'Challa, Shuri and Okoye fly in from Wakanda. Even Thor and his brooding brother have managed to reconcile, and sit with Brunhilde and Carol and the Guardians of the Galaxy, who’ve stopped by from whatever nearby galaxy they were traipsing.
Tony coughs, tapping a spoon against his glass way too many times until Pepper pats his arm and stops him. There’s a microphone attached to his glasses, a tiny inconspicuous one that shouldn’t carry his voice as far as it does.
“Well,” he speaks, looking around the room at the odd assortment of heroes and agents. “I won’t stall you guys forever. It’s, uh, been… a long year.”
An understatement, truly, and it shows in the round of laughter that resounds in response.
“Most of us almost died. I, myself, am still recovering from the, uh, nasty side effects of the magical bedazzled glove… But more than that, we – we lost a lot. Some who’ve been with us from day one. Some we didn’t know at all, yet still decided to fight for the same thing we were fighting for. We keep them in our hearts and minds the way they would do the same for us, we keep them in our memory – because we know we wouldn’t be here without them.”
The air stills. Many are sniffling, some are full on crying (Scott), some can only stare at the table in front of them, reminiscing the ones they lost and the ones who had passed. But everyone feels the deep sadness that permeates each of Tony’s words, because they feel it too; in the white of their bones and thrum of their hearts.
“I look out into this crowd and I see people who loved deeply enough to risk their own lives. Who carried on the fallen’s own wishes and hopes. You didn’t need to but you did. And no amount of thank yous can express the gratitude you all deserve – god, I hope these chefs I flew in from Paris will–”
More laughter. Tony swipes away a tear that’s caught on the tip of his nose.
“All jokes aside,” he says, lifting his drink, eyes drifting over those who’ve gathered, “I’m glad that we’ve accumulated this… this family. Even if some of you are literally the most irritating people on Earth–”
Rhodey gives a hey! that has Tony grinning.
“Thank you for being here,” Tony finishes. “Thank you.”
Clapping ensues, and Tony sits down with another swipe at his dewy eyes and a clap on the back from Sam, who sits almost back to back with him. He lifts his head, and meets eyes with you and Peter – and you’re glad that your mascara is waterproof, because there are wet tracks down your cheeks. Peter isn’t doing much better, but he returns the grin Tony sends him in kind, and he doesn’t stop beaming until the starter is placed in front of him.
You sit with Peter, May, Happy and the Starks through dinner. You hold hands with Peter under the table as you eat, catching his eye every few moments. He’s got a smear of red just underneath his bottom lip – a shade of lipstick that Natasha had applied a few hours before – but you won’t tell him. He looks pretty good wearing you, and you smile coyly to yourself when he shoots you a clueless grin (besides, it was him that pulled you into the coat room to smooch, not you. He brought it on himself.).
During dessert you find yourself staring at him. The glasses of champagne and white wine have made you less guarded, more affectionate, more thoughtful. You look at the sharpness of his jaw and the slope of his nose, the warmth of his hair and the stretch of his lips as he laughs across the table with Tony.
It’s strange, being together like this. Older. Grown. You were 15 and 16 respectfully when the Incident occured – when you started ‘dating’; innocent kisses and holding hands and napping together in front of the TV. Now you’re adults. You don’t know where it will take you, and the uncharted territory is terrifying. But you love this boy – this man. You know you do. You doubt you will stop.
(And Peter won’t admit it, but he’s scared too – notices the new scars on your body, the new length of your hair and that darkness that plays in your eyes when you remember that day in Central Park. ((He’s still sorry for that. He still apologises for it.))
He doesn’t quite know how to navigate these new waters – doesn’t know if, after all these years, you’ve changed too much for each other. If you had sought comfort in someone else while he was gone, if your flame doesn’t burn quite as bright as he thinks it does, if you’d even want the kind of life he does–
But then he looks at the way you play with Morgan as Tony and Pepper quietly converse between themselves, smiling and helping her cut up her fancy chicken nuggets. How you lift your head and meet his gaze with nothing but affection and care in your eyes – and then your hand squeezes his, and he wonders why he doubted in the first place.
The ring in his pocket burns into his skin. Tony had helped pick it out – a simple ring of diamonds and opal, something you’d like.
He looks at you again – doesn’t mask the raw affection in his eyes or the itching need to hold you. Instead, he rolls the ring between his fingers, imagines it on your finger.
Soon, Parker, he tells himself. Soon.)