The Stars
Stars always look different when you're about to die.
Peter would find himself sitting outside Mister Stark's door more often than not. He never had the courage to open the door or ask Friday to wake his mentor, so he relied on resting his back against the simple white door, listening to the steady heartbeat from just beyond the door until he got the courage to go home.
It was the perfect position to see out the window and watch the stars flicker into existence and slowly out of view as the sun would rise in the horizon. Peter always tried to mimic the stars in his everyday life. Most people would agree that he did a pretty good job at being just as vibrant and brilliant as the stars overhead.
Nights were long and Peter found himself staying up to the late hours, sometimes until the early hours. Days were long, but some days, Peter could barely leave his bed.
The clock is constantly ticking in the back of his mind. Reminding him of his dwindling time.
It's hard to sleep, when the reality of time running out is ever present.
It's another night like all the others.
Sitting with his back pressed up against his father-figure's door, focusing intently on listening to the even breaths coming from the sleeping man on the other side of the door. His heart had long since calmed from the erratic speed from earlier, but he isn't ready to move yet from outside Tony's bedroom door.
He shifts to get comfortable, stifling a yawn and tugging the sleeves of the stolen MIT alumni sweater over his hands.
The unseen breathing shifts for a moment, speeding up and blankets shift, and then it falls back into the regular patterns once again.
Peter leans his head back against the door, allowing his lungs to match those of the man behind the door, letting his heartbeats slow to a normal pace once again.
His leg is beginning to cramp with how tight he's pressed himself against the door, but he doesn't mind too much. He runs a hand through his curls, pushing the mess away from his eyes, getting worse from the static in his hoodie sleeves.
A light smile touches his face as his eyes droop in exhaustion. It's already nearing three in the morning, and it's been a long time since he's slept well.
He stifles another yawn, forcing his tired eyes to stay open, training them on the perfectly silver doorknob. He knows he has to get home in the next two hours, or May will notice his absence when she leaves for work, but he can't convince his legs to work.
He was told the story of when Steve Rogers was changed from the scrawny boy into the soldier. He was told about how Steve was worried for a long time that the serum might just wear off one day. That he'd be forced back into the tiny body of the asthmatic boy with the long list of issues that no one took seriously. That he'd be forced back to the way it was before everything.
Peter never thought it would happen to him.
Sure, he worried that one day his powers would diminish. He worried that he'd be forced to become Penis Parker again. (Although, technically he still is.) He worried he'd have to stop fighting crime and Queens would be wrecked with chaos when criminals realized no one was protecting the precious city. Of course, he worried.
But now, he's having trouble once again. His senses are still dialed up like always, but sticking to things requires more concentration, works less often. His spidey-senses are less predictable, getting him hurt more often on patrol. Wounds take too long to close up. He no longer sees the world in slow motion.
He tried to come to terms with it when it first started, three weeks ago.
Only recently did he realize the issue with what was happening.
The spider DNA was warped with his own. Intertwined. If the spider in him were to die, he had been worried he would die too.
("Mister Bruce Banner, sir? I think I need your help."
"It's three in the morning, Peter."
"I think I might be dying.")
Bruce came as quick as he could.
Turns out, Peter's smarts came in handy.
Peter was dying.
If the spider in him were to die, so would Peter.
And there's no way to save the spider in him.
*
Nobody but Bruce and him know. Not May, not Tony, not even Ned.
Instead of preparing himself for the inevitable of death, he chose to sit outside Tony's door and listen to his father-figure's even breaths and steady heartbeat. At peace. This is how he'd like to die, except this would be an awful way to be found. He doesn't want people to grieve for him, though he knows it's impossible. May would fall apart.
("You sure you're feeling okay, honey?"
"I'm fine, May. I promise."
"You look about as bad as you did after that Oscorp field trip."
"I'll be okay.")
He knew the smart thing to do was to tell Tony, but what good would that do if Tony couldn't find a cure?
Tony would blame himself for the rest of his life if he were aware of what happened.
Instead, Peter sits outside Tony's door. Aware of the heavy lie between the two of them, but refusing to do anything about it.
*
Seconds move slowly, but before he knows it, it's already morning.
Sun rising over the horizon in the distance between the skyscrapers, moon still hanging in the sky as though it forgot it's stage cue to exit.
Peter yawns, listening intently to Tony begin to wake up on the other side of the door. Shifting blankets, stumbled footsteps, creaking closet doors, shower turning on, a door closing.
Finally, Peter drags himself to aching legs, head pounding in resistance to moving.
He rubs his eyes tiredly, making his way towards the elevators.
"Would you like me to inform Boss of your nightly adventures?" Friday asks. She asks this every time Peter spends the night outside Tony's bedroom.
"No, it's fine, Fri. Take me down to the main level." Peter's voice is wrecked. Hoarse and shaking. It's been a long time since he's felt particularly okay.
The elevator moves smoothly and Peter leans back against the wall behind him, taking in counted breaths to keep his heart under control.
("Will I feel it when it happens?"
Bruce's face falls, sympathetic pain radiating off him. "I hope not, kid. I really hope not.")
The elevator dings when it arrives to the main floor of the tower and Peter steps out into the lobby, thanking Friday.
He knows he looks out of place.
Everyone around him is dressed up in fancy, expensive clothing. Watches that cost more than his apartment does, suits and pant suits, pencil skirts, clacking heels, tapping dress shoes, briefcases, handbags, tight smiles, high buns, smell of expensive perfumes and colognes, not a thing out of place.
And then there's Peter. Messy curls, bags under bloodshot eyes, stumbling steps clad with fuzzy socks, hello kitty pajama bottoms, MIT hoodie, sweater paws, radiating with tired sadness, sniffling nose, stifled yawns, in desperate need for coffee and a taxi ride home from the long night.
And then he catches eyes with the one of the people he desperately did not want to see on this very morning.
Pepper Potts.
"What are you doing here, Peter? Shouldn't you be getting to school?" she says, a soft motherly tone taking over her normally professional voice.
Peter lets his chin fall to his chest, letting out a quiet sigh. "Please don't tell Mister Stark."
"Tony doesn't know you're here? When did you get here?" Pepper asks, tugging him off to a quiet section of the floor.
"Last night," Peter admits. He's not a good liar, especially to Pepper.
The woman sits him down on a couch in the break room area, sitting next to him with a soft puff of air. She smells like roses and laundry detergent. It sends a wave of exhaustion over the kid.
"You look like you haven't slept," Pepper points out, cupping Peter's face and running her soft thumb under Peter's eye. The kid subconsciously swoons into the touch.
"Haven't," Peter replies, shrugging halfheartedly. "Can you keep a secret, Miss Potts?"
"I told you to call me, Pepper, kid. And yes, I can, depending on what it is? Does Tony know?"
"No! And he can't know!" Peter exclaims, before shrinking back into himself. "I'm dying, Pepper."
It's weird to force the words into the air. They've been trapped inside his head for too long that they sound foreign coming out of his mouth.
Pepper wordlessly brings the kid into her body, squishing him in a much needed hug.
*
The thing about having a clock ticking down to your inevitable death and not know when it'll happen, means that every second feels wasted if it's not filled with living out the lasts of a bucket list.
("Hey, Mister Stark?"
"What's up, Pete?"
"Instead of working, can we watch Star Wars again?")
Peter makes sure to be even more of a ball of sunshine than usual, smiling more and helping more and talking more and hugging more. Just to make sure people knows he cared even though he won't be around for much longer.
("May? I feel like I don't say it enough, but I really, really love you. And thank you for everything you've done for me."
"What's this about, Peter?"
"Just felt like you needed to know."
"I do, kid. I do. And I love you too.")
Ned seems to have noticed a difference. Peter puts less effort into homework and more effort into making people happy at school. His grades are dropping but by bit. Not enough for teachers to really notice, but enough that Ned knows somethings up. Even Flash has been acting weird around him. Peter always replies with something nice instead of just ignoring Flash.
("Hey! Penis Parker!"
"Hiya, Flash! How are you today?"
Flash looks absolutely stunned. "I'm, uh, I'm good, I guess..."
"What the hell, man?"
"I don't want him to feel guilty, Ned."
"If what? If you die?!"
"Nothing like that, Ned...")
And he sits outside Tony's door at night, wishing he could explain the circumstances and let his mentor get prepared for the inevitable, but refusing to open the door let alone let the words escape his lungs.
*
It's a sunny Saturday morning, around noon when Peter wakes up.
And the sinking feeling in his stomach tells him everything he needs to know.
Today's the day.
Today's the last day.
Today's his death day.
And he knows exactly how he wants to spend it.
Ned picks up on the first ring, voice joyously coming through the phone.
"Hey, Peter! What's up?" Ned exclaims.
"Nothing really.I just woke up and I'm probably going to be spending the afternoon at the tower. Do you wanna come by the apartment tomorrow?" Peter asks. Peter won't be there anymore, but May's going to need a shoulder to cry on.
"Sure, man. I'll come around at noon with that LEGO set, yeah?"
"Sounds good! I, uh... I don't feel like I say it enough, but I, uh, I really do care about you, you know?"
There's a few moments of hesitation before Ned replies, "I know, Peter. You say it plenty. I care about you too."
*
As much as Peter wants to spend the night with May, Peter knows he can't burden May with watching him die like he will. Sure he doesn't want to burden Tony with it, but he's sure he can sneak off to some quiet section of the tower when it inevitably happens.
He says that he loves her about a thousand times to May before he ducks off into Happy's car, hoping that May will find the envelope he left on his bed in the morning and won't mourn him as much as he thinks she will.
Happy says hi and Peter makes sure to ramble happily about absolutely anything that crosses his mind, pretending he doesn't see the small smile that touches the driver's face.
It makes Peter feel more at peace with his inevitable fate.
*
It's only late that evening, after a day filled with having fun with Mister Stark.
("You hate doing the dishes, Pete."
"I know. I just worry you'll forget to do them, Mister Stark.")
("The Lion King? Again, kiddo?"
"Please! We haven't watched in forever!")
("You're more cuddly than you normally are, kid. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's great, Mister Stark. I just really like your hugs.")
("Please can we bake a cake, Mister Stark?"
"Those Bambi eyes don't work for everything, Mister Parker... Fine, but I'm blaming you if Pepper gets pissed.")
("Hey, Mister Stark? I just wanted to let you know, um... I just- I really do care about you, you know? In case anything happens... I just- I needed you to know- know that I really do care about you."
"Is something wrong, kiddo? What do you think's going to happen?"
"Just in case, Mister Stark..." The sniffle is poorly concealed.
"Well, just in case, I care about you too, kid.")
*
The stars shine bright overhead in a way that Peter always tried to mimic in his everyday life. Most people would agree that he did a pretty good job at being just as vibrant and brilliant as the stars overhead.
Peter wonders if it'll be like those scenes in the movies. If Uncle Ben and his parents will show up in his last moments. If they'll say they love him and offer him their hands to lead him into whatever comes next.
He's not religious, but he believes in some higher power watching over them at least a little bit.
He believes he's done enough good to deserve something good in whatever comes after.
Peter's lying on the roof of the building, almost wishing Tony would go to sleep so he could sit in front of the bedroom door and listen to Tony's soft heartbeat put him into an eternal sleep, but on the other hand, he desperately does not want to have to do this alone.
He counts the stars overhead instead of letting his brain wander any farther than it already has.
He makes it to 32 before the door behind him opens.
"Kiddo? What are you doing out here? It's a bit chilly," Tony calls out, approaching the boy cautiously. Peter immediately relaxes, seeking Tony's heartbeat out in the quiet of the night.
"Wanted to see the stars," Peter explains halfheartedly. He knows it's going to happen sometime tonight. This will be it. He doesn't want to waste the last bit of time he's got.
Some part of him, shoved so far down inside him that he barely recognizes what it is. Anger. He's angry that somehow, after everything, he only got sixteen years of life to live. It's not fair, but there's nothing to do about it now.
"You see the stars every night as Spider-Man. What makes tonight special?" Tony questions, pausing for a moment before sitting down next to the teenager.
Peter sits up, but refuses to tear his eyes off the dark sky. He's glad there's not a lot of pollution disrupting the stars tonight. He feels like he deserves it. He's going to die, but at least he's got the stars and Tony as company.
Peter doesn't respond, letting his eyes trace over the Orion constellation. When he was really little, his mom taught him some of the constellations on late nights where his dad was held up at work. They'd sit outside on a cute wooden bench, little Peter swaddled in a heavy hoodie and Iron Man pajama bottoms, and his mom would teach him the constellations in the sky.
"Stars always look different when you're about to die," Tony says, tipping his head up to see the stars as well. His face holds peace, but his eyes hold a nostalgic pain to them.
"When?" Peter sounds small.
("When will you be back, Aunt May?"
"It's just a few hours, Peter. I'll be back before you know it.")
"I couldn't see the stars, but Afghanistan. I dreamed about how beautiful the stars would be if I ever escaped," Tony says, soft voice almost getting lost in the breeze.
"Were you scared?" Peter asks. He feels at peace despite his failing healing factor desperately trying to piece his DNA back together as it gets torn apart.
"Course I was. I get scared all the time, kiddie. Just because we're superheroes, doesn't mean we don't get scared."
"I'm scared," Peter admits, refusing to take his eyes away from following the stars in the sky. The light is blurring through his unshed tears.
("I'm scared, Uncle Ben."
"You don't have to be scared, Peter. Everything's going to be just fine.")
"Why?" Tony asks, eyes burning holes into Peter's head.
"Stars always look different when you're about to die."
Tony stops for a moment, head tipping to the side as he looks over Peter's perfectly healthy body.
"You're too young to die," Tony finally says, as though it can fix everything.
Peter ignores it, finally looking over at Tony. "Can we sleep out here tonight?"
("Momma? When's daddy getting back?"
"I don't know, sweetheart. He should've been back hours ago."
"Can we sleep out here tonight?"
"You sleep. I'll keep watch for you.")
Tony doesn't respond, just shifts until the two are lying back on the roof, stars shining brightly above them. Peter curls tightly against Tony's chest, letting himself absorb his mentor's body heat.
It's a thousand times better than sitting outside Tony's bedroom door. Now, he can feel every even breath, lifting his body gently ever time. Steady heartbeat lulling him into serenity.
"Tony?" Peter says. If Tony was surprised by the use of his first name, it didn't show. He simply hummed in response, the sound letting Peter's eyes fall shut. "I love you."
("You don't have to be scared, Peter. I love you."
"I'll be back before you know it. I love you, Peter."
"You sleep, I'll keep watch for you. I love you, sweetheart.")
"I love you too, kiddo... I love you too."
His parents died in the middle of the night, his uncle died at night, it only seemed fair for Peter to die at night too.
Peter was always a star. Always shining, brilliant, light up the room smiles, contagious laughter, stumbling over his words while rambling about whatever excited him, just radiating pure joy and handing that light out to anyone in sight.
Tonight was different, but still a good different. At peace, slowly being lulled to sleep by the steady heartbeat of his father-figure, a soft smile touching his features, big Bambi eyes slipping shut, a peaceful serenity to him that he had never experienced before.
Peter was always a star, and see, stars always look different when you're about to die.