His breath was the first sensation to come back. Slow, at first, but it got steadily quicker, it hitched up, fast and hard, as the next sensation exploded inside him. Terror. Seconds ago, he'd been nothing, floating nowhere, formless and intangible somewhere out of sight, then suddenly air moved through his lungs, hell he had lungs, and solid ground underneath him. The ground was the third sensation, and it was closely followed by the fourth, the awful sound of own wheezing, panicked breath.

"Easy kid," said the fifth. It was a voice hovering out there in the dark, and then number six, hands that surely belonged to that voice gripped his shoulders. "You're alright. You're good. You're back."

That voice was immediately associated with safety. His breath slowed, and he stopped making that terrible gasping sound. It compelled him to open his eyes to see the speaker, and once they were open, the counting had to stop.

There were too many things, all at the same time. This was reality. It was here, and wherever here was, he was back.

And that was good. He knew that, but that was just about all he knew.

"Peter?"

He focused his eyes on the man kneeling on the ground next to him. He wore red armor, and a face full of concern. He was drenched in the comfortable familiar, but still, Peter couldn't place him.

"Who's Peter?"

Concerned shifted into alarm.

"You. You're Peter," he told him.

"I am?" he asked. It was obvious, only after he was told, that he had a name. Everyone had names. His was Peter? He supposed that was fine. It just didn't click.

He looked around the wasteland. That where he laid. A wasteland. There wasn't anything around, not any building, or people. It was strange, even if Peter couldn't figure out why it had to be strange, and he could only stand looking at his surrounding a few seconds longer before he had to return his eyes to the man and let his comforting, familiar presence wash over him.

He was the only source in this world that didn't make any sense.

"This isn't home."

"No," he agreed. If it was possible, he the lines on his face tightened even more than when Peter had first opened his eyes. "But I'm gonna get us there, okay?"

Peter nodded. He believed him, out of instinct, and so he figured he must be trustworthy.

"Can you stand?"

He moved his legs, and they worked, sort of. He did wobble a bit, so the man, who still hadn't introduced himself, supported him as they walked towards the spacecraft. It felt safe, and Peter thought he understood the reason the man didn't feel the need to explain who he was. Maybe Peter did remember something. Just this one thing.

They stood outside the door to the spaceship, and Peter looked the man in the eyes again.

"Are you… dad?"

He winced, pained, before his face reset back to its default setting of concern.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" he asked him.

Peter shook his head.

"That's me," he said, and Peter choose to ignore the way his voice sounded slightly off just then. "And we're going home."

Together they climbed into the spaceship, and once again, it was his dad doing most the work for before of them. As they moved into the back of the ship, Peter ignored the other people on board. He didn't recognize them. Not even in the vague way he remembered his dad, so he deemed them unworthy of his attention, especially when he was still just so confused about why his chest ached so badly for home, wherever that happened to be.

There was a strange man with a floating cloak who was harder to ignore than the others, and to Peter's annoyance, him and his dad began talking about him, as if he weren't sitting right there next to them, clinging onto his dad's arm like he might disappear.

"He doesn't remember anything," he said. "What can you do about it?"

"Nothing."

"Listen Strange – "

"-His memories will come back," said the man, who was apparently, literally called Strange. "Forcing them would have… regretful consequences. Just talk to him, Stark. Tell him about his life. Maybe you will trigger something."

His dad heaved a heavy, annoyed sigh, shook out of Peter's grip and instead slung that arm around his shoulders. He recited to him the life of Peter Parker. There were somethings left out, like his entire childhood, which seemed suspicious, but he learned about getting bit by a spider, developing superpowers, and becoming Spider-Man. He told him about the mission he didn't come back from, and the final battle where the Avengers reunited to bring back the dusted.

They, of course, had been successful. There were no sacrifices, no deaths, except for Thanos, required.

Just like a perfect, happy ending from a storybook, but it wasn't completely happy. Not for Peter. He didn't remember any of it, and he had a sinking suspicion in the pit of his stomach. None of the stories felt real, none of them felt like they ever happened to him.

Like his name, they just didn't click.

"If you're my dad," said Peter. "Why are our last names different?"

Stark didn't answer him. He didn't have the chance to. A bell dinged, and he stood up, eventually instructing Peter to do the same. Together they looked at the circular window. In the distance, in the black vast of nothingness, a blue and green and white ball sat, or more like floated. Nothing visible held the planet in place, and Peter wondered if it was the work of the same invisible powers that were keeping his memories hostage.

They dressed him in grey sweat pants and a plain white shirt, and they put him in a room that wasn't exactly a hospital room, but also, it wasn't exactly not one either. There was medical equipment, there were doctors and nurses who ran their tests and went on their ways. Peter didn't know what his real bedroom looked like. It wasn't this, tough, wasn't anything like this, and he knew that for a fact, the same way he knew the massive Avenger's compound wasn't really his home.

He was closer than before, just not quite there.

They make him eat, and he wanted to refuse. Tony watched him from a chair in the corner wearing a look Peter definitely remembered. An expression that inspired irritation as well as the compulsion to do the thing he didn't want to do. Once everyone was satisfied that Peter was adequately fed, Tony gave him a tour of the compound.

Walking wasn't so much of a strain anymore, and it was good for him, or at least that what they said. The compound was buzzing and alive, filled with people rushing off from place to place, too busy to look up or down.

"It's not usually this bad," Tony explained. "When half the population reappears, it creates a nightmare."

Peter didn't even want to know what it'd been like when they disappeared. He didn't ask. Hearing Tony tell the story once was enough.

When they got back to the medical wing, Tony took him into a room that was identical to the one Peter was staying in. He introduced the two men inside as Captain America, who stood by a large window, and the Winter Soldier, who sat on the bed. They both stared at Peter with a curiosity he didn't care for.

"I don't like you," said Peter. Steve's hand hovered awkwardly in midair, until he gave a good-natured chuckle and withdrew, realizing Peter wouldn't participate in the handshake. "I just can't remember why."

"You'll get it," said Steve. His voice was gentle and kind and inspired hope that his words were true, and that confused Peter. He didn't trust that man. He didn't know why, but he didn't think it mattered. "And when you do, I'll give you a proper apology."

"That's the boy who blocked my punch?" asked Bucky. He didn't bother getting up from his place on the bed, and his curiosity had been replaced by a narrowed disbelief. Something flickered. A flash of a memory broke loose.

"You have a metal arm… that is awesome, dude."

Bucky shook his head. "No. There's no way. I'd have to see it in action. To the gym?"

"Uh, no. Absolutely not," said Tony. "His brain is rattled and you wanna knock it around even more, Barnes?"

"It is not rattled," said Peter. He turned and looked up at Tony. "Please, dad? Maybe it could help?"

"Not today, kid," he said. He put a hand on his back and shepherded him towards the door. "Let's leave these old men to their bridge, we've got more lively people to meet.

Peter paused at the door, and turned, facing Steve and Bucky again. There were images, blurry ones, and some words too.

"Brooklyn?"

Steve smiled. "Queens."

It was a conversation they had before, but Peter couldn't remember the details. Steve looked too content, though, too pleased that Peter had remembered something about him.

"I still don't like you."

Tony busted out into a loud laugh, and it's a rush of pride for Peter, making his dad laugh. Steve took the insult in stride, with patience, making him even more irritating. Peter let Tony steer him into the hallway, and to his displeasure, towards his assigned room.

"No not yet," said Peter. He was tired of that room already, and he wanted to see more of the compound, wanted to see if any more of it would poke at his memories the way Steve and Bucky had.

"Time for bed."

Peter sighed but put on his pajamas anyway. Tony was wearing that look again, and that look wouldn't be disobeyed.

He grabbed the photo album off the counter and settled into his bed. He got comfortable, placed the album across his legs and flipped through the pictures. It was like looking at someone else's life. He was even in some of the pictures, but the other faces, they were strangers. He didn't remember anyone of them. Not one.

And stranger still, Tony wasn't in any of those pictures, either.

"Kid," he said, walking back into the room. "Strain your eyes all you want, but it won't help. You know what the doctors said. We gotta let it happen naturally."

Peter let Tony take the photo album off his lap and put it back on the counter.

"Maybe if I could use my powers, go to the gym – "

"-Not yet, Pete," said Tony.

End of the discussion. Tony always got the last word. It was silently frustrating. He just wanted to go home, to satisfy that ache in his chest, and he didn't under why Tony wouldn't take him.

Peter crawled further under the covers, and Tony tucked him in. It didn't feel familiar, and it made Peter wonder if this was normal, or if he was being extra parental after having lost him for all those months. He suspected it was the latter, but that was the least heartbreaking of his suspicions.

"Dad… are we even related? At all?"

"Close your eyes," he told him. "Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

It wasn't an answer, and yet it told Peter everything he needed to know. He closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep, and waited until he heard Tony leave the room. Once it was safe, he threw the covers off and left his room. He wanted his memories back, and he was determined not to come back until he had them.

Peter didn't knock on Bucky's door. He walked in, walked across his room, stood at the foot of his bed and frowned. Bucky was asleep. He cleared his throat, loudly, and that was all it took. Bucky's eyes snapped open, and he flew into a sitting position with a sharp intake of breath. Tense, and ready for a fight.

Great. A fight was exactly what Peter was searching for.

"What the hell?" He growled out, through gritted teeth, once he detected the threat was just Peter.

"Umm hi."

"Does Stark know you're out of your room?" he asked. He was still fighting for breath. "What are you doing here?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm ready now. To go to the gym. Get up, come on."

"No thanks. I don't really feel like getting lectured by Stark tomorrow morning."

"Let me worry about my dad."

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure he's even your father?"

Peter frowned again. He didn't want to pull at that thread any more than he already had. Tony was a bit paranoid, and way overprotective, but Peter was attached to him in a way he couldn't put into words. He didn't think he could take it if he found out he had some other family waiting to take him away.

"Please Mr. Bucky," said Peter. His eyes were wide, pleading. Bucky was his last chance of the evening. "No one understands what it's like not to remember your own life."

"Just Bucky," he said, his eyes narrow. "You're right. I have no idea what that's like, but I imagine it's horrible."

Somehow it sounded sarcastic and kind at the same time. Peter didn't get how that was possible, but then again, he didn't care. Bucky agreed to escort him to the gym, and that's all the mattered. The gym was huge, with high ceilings and punching bags and large areas with nothing but space to fight in.

Peter began jumping up and down, switching from foot to foot, while Bucky stared at him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting ready for our rematch," said Peter. He stopped. He stepped closer to the man he now realized towered over him. "Okay. I'm ready. Hit me."

"I'm not going to hit you."

"Why not? Just take a swing," said Peter. "I'll block your punch and maybe it'll jog my memory."

Bucky held the same expressionless gaze on his face, so Peter knew he was going to have to start the fight. He pushed him, and Bucky, who was considerably surprised by his strength, fell back a step. Peter then moved into a punch, but Bucky caught his fist and pushed him back. Then they were fighting, they were punching and dodging and kicking. Neither of them was using full force, but still it was exhilarating, and Peter had been right, it did bring somethings back.

Like swinging through the buildings, saving people, catching criminals, and he missed it. He remembered it enough to miss it.

And that's when the tragedy happened. Peter stepped back, to step out of one of Bucky's punches and slipped, lost balance and went tumbling to the floor. The fall wasn't bad. It was the yell that came after the fall.

"What the fuck do you two think you're doing?"

Peter looked up to see Tony marching into the gym, and he wanted to melt into the floor. He forced himself to stand up, though. He figured he'd have to protect Bucky from Tony's wrath.

"Listen Stark – "

"No, zip it, I don't wanna hear from you," said Tony. "We'll talk later. Peter, what the hell are you doing out of bed? And in the gym? We talked about this. This isn't good for you right now. Are you trying to give me a heart attack…"

Tony kept going on and on and on. He was in full lecture mode, but Peter had stopped listening. There was something wonderful happening inside his brain. His memories, they were rushing back.

He was Peter Parker.

He got shouted at on a rooftop by Mr. Stark when he was fifteen.

He danced in his living room with his aunt May. His May, who he loved, and who loved him.

He laughed in the hall with his best friend.

It was his life, and it was beautiful, and he was back. It figured it took one of Mr. Stark's lectures to snap him out of it. Things just weren't normal if he wasn't, with love and care, yelling at him over something.

"Peter are you even listening to me?"

Peter's attention snapped back to the man himself. He stood across the room, angry, and all Peter could do was smile. He closed the distance and wrapped him in a hug, pinning Mr. Stark's arms to his sides.

"I'm back," he said, and he was sure. "Dad, I'm back, and I remember everything."

Peter felt him sigh, then seconds later, his hands in his hair.

"I want to see May," he said. He had remembered her all along. She was the ache propelled him towards home.

"I'll send someone for her," he said. "We needed to wait until you remembered. I knew you wouldn't want to break her heart by not remembering her. You wouldn't want to put her through that, and I didn't want to put you through it, either."

No one had been looking out for Mr. Stark, though. Peter wondered how he felt when he looked at him like he was a stranger. He hugged him tighter, until he gasped that he couldn't breath and Peter was forced to let him go. They stepped away from each other and noticed Bucky had decided to leave while they were both distracted.

"Glad to have you back, Pete," said Mr. Stark.

Peter looked around the big, empty gym, a place with lots of possibilities, like his future, or like the future in general. It was good to be back. His life was just starting.