Chapter Text
The morning dawns rainy and grey, and that satisfies Peter in some instinctual way. It’s like Mother Nature validating his decision to never, ever remove himself from his bed.
It feels like the morning after he died again, like he’s ripped open a very old wound. He can practically feel it oozing. The vastness of what Peter feels is like extreme cold. At a certain point, it just becomes too much, and the mind reacts with numbness.
His body aches in what might be a good way, if it weren’t for the specifics of his circumstances. He grabs both the edges of his duvet and makes himself into a human burrito. He calls Anna Maria from inside his fluffy burrito cave.
“This better be good, Peter,” she says, picking up on the first ring.
“You know, technically I am your boss,” he grumbles. “You might be a little nicer to me.”
“I could, but please remember that it is 7 a.m. You call before my second Red Bull, you suffer the consequences.”
“Listen, I’m not gonna make it in today.”
“No, Peter. No. Also, why?”
“I’m sick,” Peter says, not having to reach very far to sound pathetic.
“You’re Spider-Man. You’re not sick. Also, you’re coming to work.”
“I got hit by a bus,” Peter tries.
“You didn’t because I would have seen that on the news. Go for three.”
“Look, Anna Maria, I am currently recovering from a bit of a mental health crisis, ok? I need you to handle things today.”
“Damn, that I actually believe,” she says. “Peter, we’ve got that acquisition meeting today. I really need you to be there.”
Peter momentarily buries his face in his pillows. No. Just, no. Today he is going to drink enough to truly test his liver’s super healing ability and mourn. He cannot fathom of more interaction with the world than this single, snarky phone call. And even it feels a little much.
“Reschedule it,” he mumbles. “It’s a good negotiation tactic anyway.”
“We want them more than they want us!”
“Then have Brant go and handle things.”
“You said if I was good this month I could fire Brant.”
“Then fire him!” Peter shouts. “Fire everyone. I don’t care.”
Anna Maria pauses for a long beat.
“Are you sure you’re ok, Peter?” she asks cautiously.
“I’m really fucking not,” he says.
Then he hangs up the phone, nestles deep down into his blanket tortilla, and drifts into another uneasy sleep.
The next time he wakes up, it’s to a thin haze of smoke and the smell of something burning. There’s the instinctual panic that hits at the threat of fire, but another, more despondent part of Peter’s brain thinks of course. Of course his apartment is going to burn down, on top of everything else.
He decides the sprinkler heads the landlord installed are probably fake, which means he does actually have to move, and then struggles out of the blankets. Peter follows the smell of smoke out to the kitchen, where he finds the source of the smoke.
There’s a pan of what once might have been bacon on the hob. It is now charcoal, and also on fire. Peter feels like he’s looking at the world through a fish-eye lens. Nothing is really computing.
There’s a bang from one of the lower cabinets and an exclamation of “Shit, fuck, ow!”
Then Tony Stark pops up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the counter, rubbing the top of his head and grimacing.
“Do we seriously not have a fire extinguisher in this apartment?” he implores Peter. “That seems like a really bad idea considering the me of it all.”
“It’s … It’s in the cabinet by the microwave,” Peter says, faintly.
He tips his head slowly to the side, the baroo of a confused puppy, and watches from that angle as Tony triumphantly finds the fire extinguisher and sends a spray of fluffy sodium bicarbonate onto the pan to smother the flames.
He smiles and holds his hands out to the resultant mess of grease and chemicals, as though he’s presenting an exciting new invention. But his face falls when Peter doesn’t immediately respond.
“Ok,” Tony says, holding his hands out consolingly. “Ok, yes, I realize this did not exactly go to plan. But I was actually trying to be nice, and I feel I should get some credit for that.”
Peter manages to make some kind of noise in response.
“Whu-ump,” he says.
That’s not a word. When did words become so hard?
“I agree, it is a shame to waste good bacon,” Tony says. “That’s on me. But to make it up to you, I’ll order something in, anything you want. Even if it’s that weird congee stuff from that place in Chinatown. And I will eat it without complaining about it being the texture of mucus. Much.”
“That’s a lie,” Peter snarks, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth almost immediately after the words have escaped.
He can’t help it. When the man starts talking, he just gets carried along with him, no matter what else is happening in the moment. He’s like a current. A force of fucking nature.
“It is a lie,” Tony admits, wide smile creeping up his face and making his eyes crinkle. “I’m gonna whine about it like a baby. But you’re used to that by now.”
God, Peter loves the little crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. And the barely-there scar on his chin just at the edge of his goatee, and the way his mouth always tilts down just a little bit right before he smiles.
“You, uh, still with me here, Pete?”
Oh. He’s been quiet too long. Caught staring again. Well, in all fairness, he didn’t think he was ever going to see that face again. Staring is the most sensible thing to do.
“I do want congee for breakfast,” Peter says. “And egg dumplings.”
“Done,” Tony says.
“I’ll order,” Peter says. “You clean up the disaster area.”
“Kinda feel like I’m getting the raw end of that deal.”
“You set fire to my kitchen,” Peter points out. “There were flames.”
“So there were,” Tony says, contritely.
Peter steps forward and wraps his arms around the man’s neck. He kisses the corners of his eyelids, the tips of his nose, the curve of his jaw, before bringing their lips together. As their tongues tangle, he feels tears prick sharp in his eyes, but he won’t let them out. There will be other days, perhaps very soon, for crying. I’m going to keep you, he thinks, for just as long as I possibly can.
“Something’s wrong,” Tony says, when they break apart. “Something you aren’t telling me.”
He runs a hand through Peter’s sleep-rumpled hair, and Peter leans into the motion like a cat.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Peter says, fighting to keep his tone level and light.
“I like to help, you know. Makes me feel useful in my dotage.”
Peter chuckles at that.
“You do help,” he says. “You make everything better.”
*
Peter doesn’t really understand how he could have gotten everything so wrong. But for once, he’s glad to have missed the mark.
Tony’s visits seem to last for longer now, and happen more frequently. That first day, after, they get the whole day. After breakfast, Peter lays Tony out on the couch and runs his tongue over every inch of his skin, lingering on each curve and divot until he has the taste of him properly memorized.
Afterward, there’s hardly a day that Peter comes home from work when he isn’t somewhere in the apartment. Tony seems to adjust quickly to Peter greeting him by launching himself bodily into his arms.
“You’re a little heavy, you know, Pete,” he says, fondly, the first time.
“You’re not to supposed to say that,” Peter informs him, legs wrapping tight around Tony’s torso and nipping at his collar bone. “You’re … Supposed to say how I hardly weigh anything.”
“You’re 26, and I think that spider gave you super dense muscles because you, my darling, are a lump.”
“Rude,” Peter says, putting just a little more teeth than necessary into his caress in retaliation.
“It’s just good that I’ve added weights to my training regimen,” Tony says.
But he doesn’t try to put Peter down. Instead he lugs him into the bedroom and tosses him onto the mattress with a bounce, following swiftly behind.
At work, Anna Maria notices a marked difference in his demeanor.
“What’s that face you’re making?” she asks Peter one day when she barges into his office to argue about the projects making it through to the next phase of funding this quarter. It’s an important part of their process.
Peter turns in his chair from where he’s been staring out the window and daydreaming for at least a quarter of an hour.
“I’m not making a face,” he says.
“You are,” she assures him. “It’s kind of disturbing, actually. Stop it.”
Peter raises his fingers self-consciously to his lips. Soft, upturned. Besotted, he thinks. Jesus.
“Don’t panic, but I think it might actually be a smile,” he says.
“Ew,” Anna Maria says. “Then definitely stop it.”
The hitch comes a couple weeks later when Pepper calls to make arrangements for Morgan’s visit. It’s Peter’s weekend with her. He usually takes her for a weekend each month – more often in the summer – because Pepper thinks its good for her to have good male role models around. Maybe, working together, Peter, Happy and Rhodey are covering the necessary bases. Peter hopes so, at least.
He usually looks forward to those visits. He’s put himself in charge of Morgan’s pop culture and scientific education, and their days together are usually filled with old movies, junk food that her mother refuses to let her have, and the occasional explosive experiment.
Their last couple weekends together she had been mostly interested in quizzing Peter on boyfriends. She’s 14 now, and there’s a boy in her class that she has her eye on. She’d wanted to hear all about his own first crushes. He’d reluctantly told her about Flash (Ok, yes, he has a thing for dark-haired assholes), Liz and MJ.
But this time, when he and Pepper are discussing what time Peter needs to be at Morgan’s school to pick her up on Friday, Peter gets a twinge of anxiety. What happens, exactly, if Tony shows up? Obviously he’ll have to ignore him. He doesn’t want Morgan to think he’s gone completely round the bend. But he knows it’s going to be a challenge. He’s so used to treating his hallucinations like they’re real, without even an ounce of incredulity.
Still, he can’t imagine putting Morgan off until next month. So he’s there at the gates of her fancy private school promptly at 3:30. He’s in time to hear the final bell ring and see the kids rush down the stairs in a stampede, throwing off their grey school jackets and yelling back and forth.
Peter spots Morgan by the giant red headphones over her ears. They’ve become a bit of a signature for her over the past year as she explores her dad’s classic rock collection with guidance from Friday. Pepper’s concerned that they’re becoming a crutch for her already existing loner tendencies, but Peter remembers vividly the need to shut the world out at that age just to be able to hear the thoughts in your own head and know they’re your own. He’s not worried.
His heart gives a little twinge when he sees the smile that spreads across her face when she spots him, and her steps get a little quicker. When she gets to the gate, he greets her with a double high five, and she slips the headphones down to rest around her neck.
“Hey kiddo,” he says. “How was school?”
“Ugh,” Morgan says with an eerily familiar roll of her eyes. “So boring. Hey, can you sign an office note for me?”
“Again?” Peter asks as they amble down the sidewalk. “Morgan. What happened this time? Also, no, you know that has to be your Mom.”
“Whyyy,” Morgan whines. “I didn’t even do anything bad. You could argue I did something good. I corrected Mr. Eames in class when he was talking about transition state theory. I was just making sure the class had accurate information.”
“Mmhm, and I bet you said it with absolutely no attitude.”
“You’re one to talk, Spider-Man.”
“But I was never Spider-Man during school.”
Morgan shoots him a look of disbelief.
“Alright,” Peter amends, choosing his words more carefully. “I was never Spider-Man in the middle of class.”
“That’s because you’re a nerd.”
“You’re in honors chemistry and bio.”
“And yet,” she says. “I lack the natural … what’s the opposite of Je Ne Sais Quoi? … To be a real nerd.”
“And I think you’re awfully high and mighty for someone with half the Foundation series in her backpack.”
“Which you recommended.”
“Which you love,” Peter says, knocking his elbow against her shoulder. Morgan hasn’t developed her mom’s height yet. “C’mon. Give me this one.”
“Fine,” she says with an exaggerated groan. “I like it, ok.”
Peter nods his acceptance of this boon.
“So what’s on the agenda this weekend?” she asks.
“Oh, you’re gonna love it,” he says, excitedly. “The theme of this weekend is … Robots!”
Peter pans a hand across the horizon to emphasize his last word. He’d been inspired by watching Tony rewire the little drone that still hasn’t been moved off of Peter’s coffee table. He knows it’s something that Morgan will take to immediately.
“Robots?” Morgan asks skeptically.
“Yes. So, movie marathon and takeout tonight, your choice. I’m thinking Wall-E, Iron Giant, Short Circuit …’
“Ooh. Can we watch Terminator?” she asks. “I’ve heard good things.”
Peter weighs briefly how much trouble he’ll get in for not keeping all his selections PG against how much Morgan is going to love the movie and makes the call.
“Yes,” he says. “If you do not tell your mother.”
“Agreed.”
“Alright. So, then, tomorrow we build battle bots, test them out in a street fight, see who reigns victorious.”
Peter doesn’t miss how Morgan perks up a little at that. She does love a little competition.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “That might be cool.”
“See?” Peter says. “I can be cool. You wanna stop by the record store on the way home?”
Morgan lets out a little squee of excitement, and takes off down the street ahead of him, running in the direction of the storefront.
When they get back to the apartment, Peter’s got a heavy brown paper bag full of discount vinyl under one arm, and he’s listening to Morgan rhapsodize about the perfection of the Back in Black album. He leaves the records propped by the door, and pulls a handful of worn takeout menus from a drawer.
They get fanned out on the coffee table for Morgan to look over.
“So, what are we thinking?” Peter says, sorting through the menus. “We could do Thai. You like larb, right? Or we could try this new Japanese place that opened down the street. They’ve got, like, a million flavors of mochi.”
“What’s that thing we had before?” Morgan asks. “With the weird sauce.”
“Um, you’re gonna have to be more specific than that, kiddo.”
They’re debating between Thai and Indian curry when Peter’s shoulders go rigid at the creak of a door hinge. He watches Tony saunter out of the office and into the kitchen to start rooting around in cabinets for a snack. He clocks them on the couch.
“Hey babydoll,” he calls. “I didn’t realize it was your weekend with us.”
Peter schools his face. He will not react. It’s just a normal afternoon. He turns his attention back to Morgan with a wide, fake smile plastered on his face.
“We can always ask them to tone down the heat,” he’s saying before he notices that Morgan actually isn’t looking so good.
Her eyes have gone wide, and her hand is just stopped mid-gesture, because she always speaks with her hands. Shit. Act normal, Peter.
“Or, you know, we could leave it alone?”
“Hey, you wanna come look at a drone I dragged home?” Tony asks, holding the bag of dried snap peas he’s found up in triumph. “He’s real cute, but Pete says we can’t adopt him.”
Shut up, Peter wants to scream. It shouldn’t be this hard to just ignore the situation.
“Morgan?” he prompts, because her face really has gone pale. “We can do pizza if you aren’t up for anything too spicy. Are you feeling ok?”
Morgan presses one hand to Peter’s mouth, her fingers trembling against his lips, and slowly turns her head.
There’s a long silence when Peter’s spidey senses focus completely on Morgan’s quick, shaky breaths.
“Daddy?”
Her voice comes out wet, cracks at the end. Her hand shifts down from Peter’s mouth to clutch his fingers in a vice-tight grip. She shoots to her feet and spins so that she’s fully facing the spot where Tony’s standing.
“Morgan?” he says, taking a few tentative steps toward her. “What’s wrong, babydoll?”
Blindly, Peter clutches Morgan to his chest, her back against his ribcage where he can feel her breaths coming faster and faster. It’s for her support, but also his own because what in the ever-loving fuck is happening right now?
“Can you see him too?” she asks, clutching at the protective arm Peter’s thrown across her collar bone. “Please, Peter, can you see him too?”
“Yes,” Peter says, hoarsely. “Yes. And you …”
“What the hell …”
“Ok,” Tony says decisively, stomping into the living room. “What is up with the two of you? Somebody better start talking right now.”
Reflexively, Morgan flinches back from him, stepping on Peter’s feet. Tony stills at her reaction. His mouth is a thin, pale line, his eyebrows creeping together. And Morgan can see him too.
“I’m not crazy,” Peter whispers to himself, mind a tangle. “I’m not crazy.”
Tony’s completely focused on Morgan. He crouches down, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet.
“Morgan, honey, can you tell me what’s wrong? I can’t fix it unless you talk to me.”
They seem to stare at each other for a drawn-out moment, and then Peter watches as Morgan’s face crumples in on itself. she jerks free of his grasp, flinging her arms around Tony’s neck and sobbing against his t-shirt.
“You died,” she’s saying. “You died. I missed you so much.”
“It was a dream, honey,” he says, rubbing her back. “You must’ve had a dream. I just saw you Tuesday. I’m fine. We’re all just fine.”
“How could you not tell me he was here?” she wails, turning her head in Peter’s direction, but still clinging desperately to her father.
“I …” Peter has no idea what to say. Not a single clue. “I … I thought I made him up inside my head.”
“I’m sorry, what now?” Tony gently untangles Morgan’s arms from his neck so he can stand.
“Mr. Stark …” Peter begins.
“Ok, seriously, Pete, it is fine in the bedroom …”
“Ew,” Morgan exclaims. “Oh my god, you mean you two are …”
“But it is just weird when we’re with other people.”
“It’s bad enough that I can’t get Mom and Rhodey to soundproof their room …”
“Especially since we are both Mr. Stark now.”
“You got married without me?” Morgan cries.
There’s no reason that this, after all the things that have happened in just the past ten minutes, should make Peter feel like he’s been flipped on his head, but it does. His eyes flick down to Tony’s left hand to find a silver band on his ring finger. Didn’t that used to be gold? Peter honestly can’t be sure. There’s definitely nothing on his own finger. And also, yeah, Tony Stark is dead. Or was, until extremely recently. He’s still figuring it out.
“We most certainly are not married,” Peter says, voice coming out far too loud and angry.
He can’t help it. It’s the cruelest thing his mind has done yet. It was one thing to think he could have Tony. In a way. For a little while. It’s another thing entirely to think he could keep him.
“Oh, we sure as hell are, sweetheart,” Tony bites back. “You made me promises. Honor and obey.”
“Well, now I know you’re full of shit,” Peter snaps at him. He doesn’t miss the wicked smile Tony gives him as he does. “Besides, if we’re married, then why don’t I have a ring?”
He wiggles his naked left ring finger at Tony in a way that feels like a lewd gesture.
“Oh, I don’t know, kid, maybe because after you lost lucky number 9 at the bottom of the ocean doing a favor for our old pal Namor, we both decided there were better things to spend our money on than a replacement every six months.”
“You know Namor?” Peter asks, ridiculously. This entire conversation is ridiculous, and he might be a little hysterical.
“If you had invited me, I could have been your maid of honor,” Morgan says, tugging at the hem of Peter’s shirt to catch his attention.
“I’m sure you would have looked beautiful at our imaginary wedding,” he says.
“Honestly, it’s a hundred times worse than it was with the backpacks you kept losing in every corner of the city,” Tony is muttering to himself. “Backpacks and wedding rings. I should be insulted. You never lost the suit I built you.”
“Ok,” Peter says, trying to get a handle on the conversation. “Ok. Look, Tony, there are things we need to discuss.”
“If this is your strange way of trying to break up with me, kid, I gotta tell you, you’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that.”
Peter lets out an agitated groan and tugs at his own hair in frustration. He takes a few deep breaths to clear his mind out.
“What do you remember,” he asks. “About the end of the battle with Thanos?”
“That was 10 years ago.”
“Indulge me.”
“I mean, what do you want me to say here, Pete? Stole the Infinity Stones, snapped his ass into dust, got the last word.”
“Right,” Peter says. “Ok, yes. But what about after that. It hurt, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, rubbing at his shoulder as though the burns are still there. “It hurt. I was in the hospital for weeks, and in physical therapy for almost a year after. You were by my side the whole time.”
And Peter wishes for that version of things to be true. Wants it so badly that it burns in his veins.
“Well, that’s not exactly how it happened from our perspective.”
“Our?” Tony asks, making quotation marks with his fingers around the word. “What does that mean?”
Peter takes a big breath and looks Tony directly in the eye.
“I don’t know what it was like for you, but for everyone else? You died.”
He doesn’t look down, but Peter feels Morgan curl into his side and hide her face in his shirt. Tony’s face twists in pain for just a flash, and then he’s back to smiling a big, fake smile.
“I think you might have hit your head or something, kid. We need to take you to see Banner?”
“Tony,” Peter says more forcefully now. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. But it’s true. Using the stones was too much for a human body to handle. You died. And then about three weeks ago you showed up here, in my apartment, acting like you’d been here the whole time.”
“And you just did nothing when a dead man showed up in your home?”
“Not nothing,” Peter says, cringing in anticipation of the next bit. “I went to see my therapist. I thought you were a hallucination.”
“That was your first thought?”
“Well, it’s not exactly the first time it’s happened,” Peter says, his face heating. “I used to see you a lot. I figured you were there to remind me … Remind me it was my fault.”
He sinks down onto the couch with Morgan still curled against him. The side of his shirt is wet where she’s been pressing her face. He places his elbows on his knees and scrubs his face with his hands.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Fuck,” Morgan echoes, a little punched out sound.
“Hey,” Tony says to her. “Language.”
She chokes on a laugh and wipes her runny nose with her sleeve.
“I’m 14, Daddy.”
“I know how old you are,” he says.
Tony settles beside them on the couch, wrapping an arm around Morgan and letting his hand brace, warm and comforting, against Peter’s back. He relaxes into the touch.
“So you got my going away present, then?”
“You mean EDITH?” Peter says with a bitter chuckle. “Yeah, asshole, I got her. Really terrible call giving control of a security satellite to a 16-year-old, by the way. I almost killed one of my classmates with a drone strike the first time I put them on.”
“You seem to have done alright for yourself.”
The hand creeps up his back and into his hair, rubbing soft circles in that now familiar way.
“Would’ve done better with you there,” he says to his knees. He feels 16 again, and helpless, and just so desperate for Mr. Stark’s attention.
“There is literally only one thing that could’ve stopped me, kid.”
The three of them sit quiet and wrung out, leaning against each other, for what feels like a long, long time.
“I really think we need to call somebody about all this,” Peter says at last.
“What, like ghostbusters?” Morgan asks, her voice a little panicked around the edges.
“You saw ghostbusters without me?” Tony looks down a her, teasing, to lighten the mood.
Peter realizes that he’s never actually gotten to see him be a dad. He thinks he might be really good at it.
“Peter and I watched them all,” Morgan confirms.
“Who’s your favorite ghostbuster, then?”
Morgan rolls her eyes at him.
“Holtzmann,” she says. “Duh.”
“Alright,” Tony says with a nod. “Solid choice. I mean, she’s no Egon, but still. I can respect that.”
“Not ghostbusters,” Peter says, running a hand over Morgan’s head before turning his eyes to Tony. “I was thinking more Dr. Strange?”
“Ugh,” Tony groans. “Do we have to?”
*
It’s less than half an hour later before they’re all piling out of a taxi in front of the brownstone with its weird fish-eye window where Dr. Strange lives. Peter gives the driver a big tip for getting them there quick.
It’s twilight, and the light from the house pours out golden onto the sidewalk. Tony and Morgan both loiter on the stoop, so it’s Peter that has to ring the big brass doorbell. He just hopes someone is home.
It takes him a minute to recognize Stephen Strange without his signature cloak and blue robes. When the opens the door, he’s dressed in jeans and a pullover. It’s bizarre, like seeing a teacher outside of school.
Dr. Strange looks first a Peter, then his eyes roam down to Morgan, and up to Tony.
“Oh,” he says, unperturbed by the dead man on his stoop. “We’re to that part now, are we?”
Peter feels a painful pressure building in his head. For a second there’s a flash of white light across his eyes. He’s overcome with a burning rage. Dr. Strange knew this whole time. Knew this would happen, and decided to do jack shit about it. He realizes he shouldn’t just sucker punch anyone in front of Morgan, but damn if he doesn’t want to.
“Yeah,” Peter says through gritted teeth. “We’re there. Mind if we come in?”
He doesn’t actually wait for an invitation, just shoves his way into the big, echoing foyer, knocking his shoulder satisfactorily into Strange’s chest. He tugs Morgan along beside him, and by extension Tony, a little caravan.
When the door has clicked closed behind them, he rounds on Strange.
“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You’ve known for fifteen years that this was going to happen, and you decided the best strategy was to sit around with your thumb up your ass?”
“Pete,” Tony cautions from the sidelines, casting a meaningful look down at Morgan.
“Oh, she’s heard ass before,” Peter says.
“Yeah,” Morgan agrees. “I’ve heard ass before.”
Tony places a hand over her mouth and ignores her muffled protests.
“I saw this when I looked into our potential futures, yes,” Dr. Strange says. “And to be frank, up to this point there wasn’t much for me to do, so I chose not to interfere. Will you come through to the library? It will be more comfortable for the child.”
He does something complex with his hands, conjuring an emerald glow, and then they’re all standing in a cozy library – shelves lined with leather-backed books, a pair of squashy sofas set on either side of a roaring fire.
Dr. Strange shoots his cuffs, and then walks over to a bar cart that includes a number of jars of dried herbs, all in a line, in addition to the usual liquor bottles.
“So why, exactly, have you decided to pay me a visit?” he asks, looking back at their little huddle over one shoulder.
Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath in and out. I will not punch the wizard, he thinks. I will not punch the wizard.
“We were hoping you could tell us what the –“
He pauses as Tony clears his throat meaningfully.
“We were hoping you could tell us what’s happening,” he continues, without the intended profanity. “Tony died, Dr. Strange. I saw it happen. But now he’s here. And he seems a bit too … Solid. For a ghost.”
“Yes, well, you’re right he died. But he was only ever mostly dead.”
He does something weird with his voice on the last two words that Peter doesn’t really get. His accent is outlandish, anyway. Maybe it’s just a verbal tick?
Tony snorts and shakes his head. He jostles Morgan over toward one of the couches, and the two of them settle there, Morgan leaning against her dad with her feet pulled up under he school uniform skirt. She’s being abnormally quiet, but Peter’s guessing that it’s all a little much for her to process. She does hang out with superheroes regularly, but outright magic is new for her.
“Alright, Miracle Max,” Tony says. “You care to elaborate on that? Because I’m still not really getting it.”
Oh. Now he gets it. Well, Peter can’t exactly begrudge a man for a joke in the middle of a crisis.
“The Infinity Stones are not just powerful rocks, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now,” Strange says. “They’re also just a little bit … sentient.”
“Right,” Tony says. “Sentient rocks. Not even registering on my weirdness scale right now. Do go on.”
“Well, it seems they were impressed by your sacrifice,” Strange says. “Ill-advised as it may have been. Your body died, too much damage, but they preserved your soul in order to bring you back. You’ve been given a second chance, Stark. Literal new lease on life.”
Peter’s heart lurches, and he reaches out to clutch at one of the bookshelves near where he’s standing. It sends a couple heavy volumes tumbling loudly to the ground. He’s been doing everything he can not to think about this possibility, running instead on anger and panic. He’s got those in reserves. The idea that this could be permanent, that Tony might get to stay, feels like too much of a gift. Peter just knows at any second it’s going to be ripped from his clutching fingers.
“Sorry,” Peter says, possibly to Strange, possibly to the books. “Sorry.”
He bends down to pick them up, and when he stands, he sees Tony giving him a soft look over Morgan’s head.
“Ok,” Tony says, directing his attention back to Strange. “But if they were going to do that, why not just do it? Why wait ten years?”
“It’s not easy work re-corporealizing a soul,” Strange says as he takes pinches of herbs from several of the bottles in front of him and places them one by one into a mortar. “It took time. You could think of it like a deep sea diver making his way back to the surface. Come up too fast, and the body can’t handle the pressure. Death is so much deeper than any ocean.”
“Oh my God,” Peter groans. “Do you actually listen to yourself when you talk?”
Tony snorts a suppressed laugh. Strange doesn’t bother to look at him, he’s busy crushing his mystical herbs together with a stone pestle.
“Something on your mind, Mr. Parker?” he goads.
Peter glares at him, but of course he has questions.
“When Tony started, um, re-corporealizing? He did it at my apartment. As far as I know, Morgan and I are the only ones who’ve seen him. Why? I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to return to the Avengers’ compound or something?”
Strange does turn around at that and narrows his eyes at Peter.
“That’s actually a clever question,” he says.
“Sorry, I’ll try not to do it again.”
Strange glares a little harder, then turns back to his concoction. Pouring the crushed herbs into an infuser, and then popping the infuser into a delicate blue-pattered tea cup.
“It’s a question of mechanics,” he says, pouring steaming water into the cup. “A living soul, if it wants to stay that way for long, requires a body. Tony didn’t have one anymore, so the stones tethered him to you.”
“He’s a diver, I’m on the boat reeling him in?”
“Well … Yes, actually. Almost exactly like that,” Strange says, sounding stunned.
“You got really terrible marks for bedside manner in medical school, didn’t you?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“That’s what I thought,” Peter says. “Ok, so a tether. I’ll buy that. But why me?”
“I’ve got a couple theories,” Strange says.
He plucks the infuser out of the teacup, blows gently on the surface of whatever he’s brewed, and carries it over to the sofa.
“Drink this,” he says, forcing it into Tony’s hands with a sharp clink.
Tony sniff suspiciously at the drink, hesitantly takes a sip. He pulls a face, but then a stern look from Strange encourages him to go back in for another long swallow.
“Best. Guess,” Peter grinds out.
“What?” Strange says, looking at Peter like he’s surprised he’s still there. “Oh. Right. My best guess, it has to do with proximity and repetition. You and Stark were both near the stones together when you were trying to remove the gauntlet, and then you were there with him after the battle. They saw there was a connection, so they chose you.”
“Makes sense.”
“What’s the other theory?” Tony asks, obediently continuing to sip his tea.
Strange gives him an almost smile and a shrug.
“True love?” he says sardonically.
Peter snorts at the joke. Fairytale princess he is not. He nearly misses a flinch from Tony as he does so, artfully disguised by another glug of tea.
“This stuff is disgusting,” he tells Strange. “So is it supposed to help re-corporealize me or what?”
“No,” Strange says. “It’s just tea.”
Tony pauses with the cup halfway to his lips, looks accusingly at the china, and then sets it down on the arm of the sofa.
“It’s got antioxidants,” Strange says. “It’s good for you. Drink it.”
“No,” Tony says, stubbornly, crossing his arms. “So tell me what I gotta do, then, to make this Lazarus act permanent. Virgin sacrifice? Daily ritual cleansing in the Hudson? I’m not really planning on making this a temporary visit.”
Strange sighs and retrieves the only half-empty cup.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “It’s already done.”
He turns to Peter.
“He’s been corporeal for more extended periods lately?”
“Yes,” Peter says. “Almost every day, hours at a time.”
“Right,” Strange says. “So, don’t operate any heavy machinery for a few weeks, and you should be fine. Congratulations on your resurrection.”
Peter more than understands Tony’s skeptical look. He’s been thinking, too, about what price would be exacted from them for this. You don’t get miracles for free. He’s more than willing to pay, he was just bracing for it to hurt.
“Anyway, if that’s it, I really do have things …”
“Hold up there, Dumbledore,” Tony says. “I’ve got another question.”
“Of course you do,” Strange says, raising his eyes to the heavens in a silent appeal.
“I have memories,” Tony says. “I have a decade of memories. I got divorced. I got remarried. I went on Avenger missions. I invented things. Last month I remember going to Morgan’s school production of Peter Pan. You were a wonderful Wendy, by the way, babydoll.”
Peter feels ice trickle slowly through his veins. That actually happened. Peter had gone to three different performances because Morgan had begged, and he’s never been able to resist her puppy-dog eyes. Things are beginning to click into place. There’s always a catch. Always.
“They wouldn’t let me be Captain Hook,” Morgan mutters, discontentedly. “I wanted a sword.”
“A travesty,” Tony agrees. “We’ll sign you up for fencing lessons. Anyway, I obviously wasn’t here for that stuff. So what gives?”
“The stones must have created a reality for you, one that would keep you from questioning things too much, struggling against their work. I imagine it was quite pleasant?”
“Yeah,” Tony says, thoughtfully. “Yeah, it was.”
“Well then,” Strange says, clapping his hands together. “I was actually in the middle of something when you barged in. I’ve taken the liberty of summoning your driver.”
“Oh no, Linda, did we interrupt your stories?” Tony asks.
But the end of his quip comes out in a strangled yelp because he starts speaking right as Dr. Strange whirls his hands again. They all stumble as they land unceremoniously on the sidewalk outside the brownstone. Both Peter and Tony reach out to steady Morgan
“Wizards are mean,” she says, regaining her balance. “I think Harry Potter lied.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right, kiddo,” Peter says.
He’s looking around for the taxi Strange said he called, when he hears a squeal of tires and sees a black sedan pull up to the curve, one wheel bouncing onto the sidewalk. When the driver’s door opens, Happy Hogan flops out. The knot of his black tie is tugged down and to the side, and his suit looks rumpled.
“Peter!” he calls out. “Christ, kid, there you are. I got a 911 text for this address, what’s …”
Peter guesses his surroundings are finally catching up with him as his words trail off. His eyes are locked on Tony.
“Boss?” he says, tentatively.
“Hey, Hap,” Tony greets him. “Long time, no see I guess.”
Happy takes a few steps toward Tony, and when he’s close enough, sticks out a finger and gently pokes him in the ribs. When he confirms that Tony is, in fact, solid he lets out a deep belly laugh and pulls him in for a back-slapping hug.
“You lucky SOB, I don’t even want to know how you managed to pull this one off,” he says.
Then he tugs on Morgan’s hand and hauls her up into a bear hug, her sneakered feet dangling almost a foot off the sidewalk.
“Is this ok?” Happy says, squeezing tighter. “I’m just feeling really emotional right now.”
Peter’s chest warms a little as he watches the reunion. Best to give them time to catch up, he thinks, so he backs away and slips into an alley adjacent to Strange’s house.
There’s something leaking from one of the dumpster’s back here that makes the asphalt sticky, and there’s an overwhelming smell of decomposing vegetables and the sharp vinegar stench of piss. Honestly, it’s suits Peter’s mood pretty well.
He’s all a jumble. It’s not that he isn’t happy. He is so, so happy. Something in his bones just feels more right now that he knows Tony Stark is back among the living. But now this stretch of time where he had the man all to himself, where they existed completely wrapped up in one another, is over. Peter doesn’t really have a claim on Tony, at least not one to rival his daughter or his best friend.
Whatever history Tony thought they had together was only a fabrication. Peter suspects it will fade soon, like the details of a dream upon waking. And that’s fine. That’s as it should be. Peter doesn’t deserve any more than that. He knows this because, among all the emotions that are swirling around in his brain, the primary one is guilt. Always guilt.
He crouches down in the alley and leans his back and head against the brownstone wall. He wouldn’t change it, wouldn’t trade the living, breathing Tony out on the street for the false one in his head. But none of that means it doesn’t hurt right now.
There’s a scuffle of shoes at the entrance of the alley, and Peter looks up to see Tony silhouetted in the yellow light of a streetlamp.
“So, Morgan hasn’t had dinner yet, and Happy is taking us all out for cheeseburgers to celebrate, kid. Kid?”
He steps further in and seems to get a good look at Peter crouched against the wall.
“You feeling ok, Pete?”
Peter nods. He can’t really speak right now, with the way his throat is constricted, and he’s carefully controlling his facial muscles so as not to let any tears fall. He stands, but keeps his eyes on the pavement.
He focuses on breathing, on the expansion and deflation of his chest, and it helps a little. Then Tony leans against the wall beside him, their shoulders and elbows touching in a warm line. When he slides his hand into Peter’s and tangles their fingers together, Peter let’s out a sound that’s half-sob, half whimper, and his eyes blur as they stare at the black asphalt.
“Are these happy tears, or are they more complicated? I’m a little confused here,” Tony says.
“I’m really sorry, Tony,” he says, in a rush of shaky breath.
“Kid, I think you might want to re-examine your philosophy on apologies. Like, maybe start with only apologizing for things that could, conceivably be your fault, and work from there.”
“I think this might actually be my fault,” Peter says.
“And I don’t think you’re really a stellar judge of these things, Pete. Your track record is kind of shit.”
Peter squeezes his eyes closed.
“Just … Listen. You didn’t go to Morgan’s play.”
“Yeah, no, I get that. It’s all gonna take a little adjustment.”
“Tony,” Peter implores. “You didn’t. But I did.”
“Have I mentioned I’m really glad she’s had you all these years? You’ve been helping take real good care of my girl.”
“You’re being obtuse on purpose,” Peter says. “Look, Dr. Strange said I’m your tether to the real world, right? But if that’s true, then it follows that the reality you were living in wasn’t based on anything you wanted. It was all me. It was the things I saw, and I knew. The things I wanted.”
Tony’s tone goes completely blank.
“Say what you’re trying to say, Peter.”
“We were only together in your reality because I …”
Say it, Parker, Peter thinks to himself. Say it now, and then never again.
“Because I love you,” he says. “Because I have for a long time. And I’m sorry, because I forced that on you for years, and I feel like I’ve stolen all this time from you with Pepper and Morgan. And I can’t fix it. But I hate that I did it all the same.”
The quiet builds around them into a tangible thing, heavy on Peter’s chest, making it even more difficult to breathe.
Then Tony gently reaches for Peter’s chin with his thumb and forefinger and turns his head so that he has no choice but to look him in the eye. Somehow, there’s no blame there, just an unaccountable warmth.
“For the record,” he says. “I think you’re wrong. But even if you’re right, it’s a good sign, don’t you think? That it’s so hard to tell the difference between your fantasy world and mine?”
It takes Peter entirely too long to parse that, but it makes the ache in his chest transform from cold and empty to searing and just the right side of too much.
“But …”
“What I want is to go have a cheeseburger with Happy, and then go home with you and Morgan, and start actually living the life I thought I had all along. That is, if that’s something you …”
“I do,” Peter says, interrupting him. “I do want that.”
Instinctively, he presses their bodies closer together, burying his face against Tony’s shoulder. When the other man’s arms wrap around him, it’s complete relief.
“Thank God,” Tony says into his hair. “I really was not looking forward to convincing you to date me again. You are not an easy touch, kid.”
Peter smiles up at him.
“You’ll have to tell me that story sometime,” he says. “Sounds like an ordeal.”
“Oh, it’s quite the saga,” Tony agrees.
He brings a hand up to smooth through Peter’s hair, tilting his head slowly back as he does.
It’s a bit of a disaster of a kiss. Peter’s feet are in a puddle of something suspiciously sticky, the air smells of ripe garbage, and Tony’s mouth tastes of bitter herbal tea when he opens it to Peter’s questing tongue.
But it sends Peter’s stomach swooping in a sensation he feels down to his toes. Of all their kisses – gentle, and desperate, and teasing, and sincere – this is his favorite because this time, this time, Peter knows that it’s real.