Chapter 2
Then Christmas Eve rolled around, as it so often does. Peter had been on patrol all day, deterring last-minute Christmas thieves and distracting himself from the cycle of disappointment and self-embarrassment, yet had held out some semblance of hope that maybe, just maybe, the tower’s residents would come together and surprise him.
He swung through his open window and into his bedroom, careful to avoid stomping on the presents he had made for his friends. He quickly changed out of his suit, shivering all the while, and changed into some sweatpants and an old hoodie. Nothing like comfort for the holidays.
He rode the elevator down to the communal floor, wondering against his better judgement what could be waiting for him. A blow-out Christmas party, an Avenger’s movie night, or even a few cups of hot cocoa would be alright. Even the most serious of adults must do something for old Saint Nick, right?
Wrong.
Peter nervously stepped out of the elevator as he familiar ding sounded, socks sliding across the cold floor, and felt his heart plummet. The gigantic room stretched on forever, lined with elegant white fairy lights and shimmering silver tinsel, which only seemed to subtract warmth from the place. The only two people in it—Steve, who was sketching idly on printer paper, and Sam, who was scrolling through his phone—were dwarfed by the vast beauty of the metal and tile universe around them. Peter pushed down memories of three people squeezed into a tiny kitchen that looked more like a kindergartener’s art project than an apartment that costs thousands of dollars a month.
No one in the room laughed heartily as cheesy Christmas carols danced in the background. No one made fun of another person’s pajamas. No one sharpened a candy cane into a point or rewatched a traditional Christmas movie or watched the Christmas countdown like a hawk as the seconds ticked by. If it hadn’t been for the meager decor, it would be hard to tell that one of the most celebrated holidays in the country was mere hours away.
Before anyone could notice him, Peter turned on his heel and walked straight back into the elevator.
——
Peter Parker was no longer himself. Now, he was Spider-Man. He was no longer a sniveling teenager, he was a local superhero who saved people rather than annoyed them. It was a perfect time killer and an even better distractor.
However, it seemed even the criminals had retreated from the streets to be with their families, and Peter was left alone with the rats in the back alleys of New York City, the echoes of elated screams and bubbling laughter drifting by like a sorrowful breeze.
Well, fine. He wasn’t going to mope the whole night—he had a job to do. He remembered what MJ had always said—Alright, good cry. Now dry it up, straighten your back, and get back in there. You’ve got a job to do.
Well, not always, but she had said it the time that Peter had freaked out before an algebra presentation, and it had always sort of stuck with him. So he did just that.
Because of the strange lack of criminals, though, he found that less people needed saving and more simply needed cheering up on a night where they felt just as alone as he did.
Peter swung around Queens rapidly despite the biting wind, waving at children through their windows—Abby, I promise it was really Spider-Man!—and dropping off disposable containers of hot chocolate and cookies for people on the streets who were truly alone. At one point, he saw a lone woman who strikingly resembled May hobble by, and ended up putting on a bit of a show for her and anyone else who happened to catch a glimpse.
And, somehow, the hours melted away. He lost track of time, favoring instead to mark time through the night by the people he had helped with a gift, a performance, or nothing more than a quick wave.
Then before he knew it, he was back at the cemetery. Thankfully, it was empty—probably because it was closed.
“Gates can’t stop you when you can swing over them,” he laughed quietly to the stones before him. “I, Uh—I brought you guys some stuff. Didn’t wrap them, since none of you can unwrap them.” Peter did not wait for the laughs that would never come. Instead, he pulled out the torn-up bag that usually housed his suit. Tonight, though, it was filled with a little bit more.
”I wasn’t going to stay for long,” he whispered to the empty air, “But nothing’s really happening at the tower, so...” Peter trailed off with a light cough, but recovered quickly.
”Anyways, I got presents.”
He quietly addressed each individual grave as he placed the packages on top of them. For his mother, a delicate rose carved out of glass. For his father, a little birdhouse he’d made during woodworking class. For Ben, Peter brought a box set of the Back To The Future series, bonus features and all, and for May, a golden bell on a ribbon, the kind used in choirs.
Peter sat back in the spot he’d cleared of snow, admiring his work. Then, staring down at his gloved palms, began, “I know that it’s stupid to be upset on a holiday, but it just doesn’t feel right, you know?” No reply. “We’re not eating he same food or watching the same movies or anything. It’s like Christmas doesn’t matter to them.”
”And don’t get me wrong,” he hastily added, ”It’s awesome living with the Avengers, it’s just...” Dry it up, Parker. Dry it up.
“They’re not family, I guess.” Something he’d never dare say to their faces, but who could blame him now? The only souls listening were the ghosts and the wind. “It’s like being in an office all the time. It’s just a work place. It’s not a home. God, I sound just like Esperanza,” he laughed somberly. “But I already told you guys about how that book went.”
Peter didn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sat and listened, like if the snowflakes drifted into his ears, they’d whisper words of comfort. By the time midnight sounded on the church bells, he was laying with his cheek on May’s grave and his feet on his father’s, his mask discarded next to him despite the freezing temperatures.
”Ding...ding...ding...” he raspy sang to himself in time with the clock, twelve perfect rings to signify Christmas. Somewhere far away, a drunk party cheered.
Peter mustered up his strength and sat up. He whispered his goodbyes, pulled on his mask, and with one more woeful glance over his shoulder, swung to where the moonlight faded into the lights of the city.
——
Rhodey always got stuck with the crappy jobs. He was always the one who had to guard the tower when no one else wanted to, and sweep the city to mark it as safe before bed (Tony had been a bit paranoid ever since his house had been blown up).
He was absentmindedly scanning Queens for druggies and goons when a flash of red caught his eye. Immediatly, his heart sank; it was Peter Parker, and he had just landed at the cemetery.
Rhodey knew he shouldn’t have been nosy. And of all the times to be nosy, in a cemetery with a kid was definitely one of the worst.
But, fuck, what did he have to lose?
He landed silently on a rooftop nearby, and whispered to his suit to give him better audio.
Straight away, he could hear everything the kid was saying. He was sat on the ground, slouched and still, just like the first time they had met. Well, not including the airport. It felt weird to see Soider-Man in any other state but cocky, and Rhodey almost felt uncomfortable watching it.
That was, of course, until he heard a familiar name.
He tuned back in and absorbed everything Peter had said, committed it to memory as best he could, even the obscure literature reference. Nearly ten minutes, when the kid finally laid down and Rhodey couldn’t stomach any more, he sped off silently to the tower to figure out what to do next.
——
Peter had stumbled in some time around one A.M. and had barely put on pajamas before collapsing on top of his quilt. When he awoke, it was to sunlight streaming through his windows and a mix of robotic voices and panicked hushing beneath him. He was too groggy to decipher it, though, and laid staring at the ceiling for just a moment too long before getting up to brush his teeth and trudge out of his room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and letting out indignant grunts every once in a while.
He heard nothing but cool silence as the elevator went down, a stark contrast from the talking and laughing he knew lifetimes ago.
Strighten your back, Parker. Dry it up. You’ve got this.
He had expected there to be very little decoration on Christmas. He had not expected it to all be taken down.
He gaped and rubbing his eyes at the scene before him, Sure he was still dreaming; all of the Avengers were wearing matching pajamas (except for Natasha, who sported her usual black with an added Santa hat) and standing in front of the barren tree that looked out of place without surrounding decor to support it. Tony himself was at the front, his arc reactor glowing through the thin flannel top.
They said nothing. Peter said nothing. They smiled shakily. He reminded himself to shut his jaw.
Finally, he stepped out of the elevator and uttered, “What...the fuck?”
The silence had been broken, and now the room was filled with a chorus of “watch your mouth!”s, but Peter could do nothing but stare, wide eyes, at the people that he had assumed wouldn’t care about such festivities.
Thankfully, the room quieted down, and Tony draped an arm over Peter’s shoulder, gesturing towards the empty room before him. “Merry Christmas, kid!” He exclaimed, and Peter felt genuine shock at such sincerity. Tony’s eyes were crinkled from the huge smile lighting up his face, but Peter still didn’t understand. Luckily, Tony continued. “A little birdie—“ a not so subtle wink towards Rhodey, “—told me that you’d been feeling down about Christmas, so we thought we’d scrap it and start over!” He lead Peter to a huge pile of cardboard boxes that he hadn’t noticed before. “I went out to the dollar store and dug through my attic and found a bunch of heartfelt crap to hang up, and we can all do it together!”
Tony beamed at him expectantly. Peter, though, felt heavy guilt settle in his gut. Finally, after a tension filled few seconds, with the eyes of the most powerful people on Earth on him, he responded, “Tony, I...You did all this for me?”
Tony nodded enthusiastically.
”I mean...ah, hell, I’m sorry. This is stupid,” Peter muttered.
Tony’s smile faded away, and the ball in Peter’s stomach only got heavier.
”What do you mean, Pete?”
Peter shifted nervously and sighed. “I just—I made a big deal out of something dumb and you guys probably stayed up all night trying to make me feel better. I’m sorry, don’t worry about it. I’m gonna go upstairs—“ Peter turned to leave before anyone could protest, but Tony’s hand stopped him.
He let his gaze wander to Tony’s before he could stop himself, and the absolute concern in his eyes only hurt more. “Kid, no, we had fun! It wasn’t stupid, it was a real thing that you were worried about.”
”No, Peter groaned, moving away from the warm hand on his chest. “It was, you guys probably have a system that I barged in on.”
Tony scoffed and gestured to the people behind him, a few of which gave small waves. “Peter, no. None of us had any system. You’re one of, like, three people in here that had a halfway decent childhood, one that made holidays important. I’d like to, you know, have Christmas for once,” he mumbled.
Peter glanced between the familiar faces around him and felt his heart begin to swell like a balloon. These people...didn’t mind?
”Are you sure?” Peter whispered.
Tony smiled. “Positive.”
——
Peter didn’t open a single present on Christmas. No one in the tower did. Instead, they ate Steve’s homemade cinnamon rolls and hung up ninety-cent ornaments of themselves that they found or little Iron-Man letters from hopeful kids that had been saved around He holidays. The Grinch played in the background, and Sam and Rhodey nearly killed each other fighting for who would pick the movie (Sam eventually one, but Peter agreed with Rhodey; Polar Express was way better).
They chatted and played games and threw tinsel at each other until the room looked like a Jackson Pollock painting of cheap trinkets and childish handwriting, and for once, it felt familiar. The minutes seemed to slide away in between Avenger’s showing off powers and skills (Peter’s triple-backflip-land-on-the-ceiling was second only to Wanda’s make-the-furniture-dance-and-Natasha-sqwak-like-a-chicken) and bad Hallmark Christmas rom-coms.
Finally, As the dying sun shot rays of gold and red through the wide windows, Wanda levitated the Star to the top of the tree, Peter directing her from the ceiling.
Sam, who had not been paying attention, threw his drink at Peter with a yell when he dropped to the ground
That night, Peter went to bed with hot chocolate splashed down his front and a rare smile playing on his lips.