Peter spent most of the first week sleeping. He was awake for only an hour or two, here or there, which he spent in some kind of discombobulated stupor. He was faintly aware of Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner running constant tests on him, and May to their side — watching, worrying, crying.

Peter didn't quite understand everything just yet. The last thing he really remembered was jumping through a bunch of magical, well, portals (but they were all yellow, instead of one blue one yellow) and kicking some tall purple alien called Thanos. After that, it was just fragmented images that refused to come together to form a coherent reel, and faded sensations — pain, fear, discomfort; some flashy lights, loud noises.

And then there was just darkness — darkness, silence, and terror.

Objectively, Peter knew what had happened. He'd managed to glimpse pictures and videos of the Dusting, as the media called it, because it was practically unavoidable. He saw people just collapsing, disintegrating, fading away. It horrified him, yet fascinated him more — was that what he'd experienced?

But then May found out he'd been watching those news reports and just freaked out, and when she freaked out, Peter freaked out. To make things worse, apparently May and Ms. Potts — Mrs. Stark, rather — were on a private number basis now. May called her, and an hour later the TV was removed from his room, leaving Peter with nothing but the impenetrable darkness of his memories.

Peter tried to pierce that oblivion which surrounded him; tried to force his mind to remember. But the more he tried, the more tired he felt, and before long he would get a massive headache. It actually got so bad one time that he puked, which almost gave May a heart attack. So after that he just stopped.

So Peter started asking questions. He wanted to know how and why the Dusting happened, and why it happened to him, and why he didn't remember any of it. He first tried May, but gave up because she kind of just sobbed and touched his face and refused to answer, and Peter wound up crying with her without really knowing why, and later it just became too difficult to ask her anything. Then he tried Happy, who he heard had shared the same experience — except, like him, Happy didn't remember much of it. Finally he tried Mrs. Stark, but in the few instances when she did drop in, she was so brisk and business-like that Peter never really worked up the nerves to broach the topic.

Which left the man himself, Tony Stark. After all, if anyone knew about the Dusting, it had to be the guy who ended up bringing about the Reversal, right?

Peter knew he dropped by, because May said as much, and because sometimes when he woke up, he could kind of retrace the sensation of fingers in his hair, or a soft low voice, or his hand being held but not having the strength to squeeze back. The problem was, Peter could never catch the man when he was actually awake and lucid. This went on for a day or two until Peter finally gave up, and resigned himself to the fact that he was going to get out of bed one day with enough strength to stay awake for more than two hours, and everyone was going to give him answers.

There were all sorts of lines and fluids going into him, but on the fifth day Peter was finally allowed to eat through his mouth, after confirming for the sixth time that, yes, he farted that morning. It was a good day, even if May's meatloaf had to be ground into pulp before anyone let Peter ingest it. Peter even stayed awake long enough to watch the sunset.

Peter woke up the next day to a beaming, tearing face. He squinted, still groggy, and was suddenly dragged to a sitting position.

"Careful with him," he heard someone say, before he was crushed in a hug.

"Ned," he croaked in belated recognition, wrapping his right arm around the much larger boy.

Ned didn't really say anything. Just sort of sob-babbled about how he's missed him, about everything that has happened, and asking whether or not this meant he was now a year above Peter.

"Hey," Peter said as he patted his best friend on the back. "Hey, Ned."

"And me?" came a quiet, snarky voice.

Peter turned his head to see MJ, standing about three feet from the bed. She smiled and gave him the finger, like her usual aloof self, but it was completely unsuccessful because she's got tears streaming down her face, and her eyes were the level of puffy you'd only get after literal days of crying.

Peter felt his heart lurch. With some effort, he lifted his left arm in invitation.

MJ hesitated a little. But then she shrugged and rushed forward and buried her face in Peter's shoulder, and he pressed both of them close, and the three of them shared the warmest, most awkward group hug in the history of group hugs.

They ended up spending three days at the compound. Peter tried his best to be a good host — he played board games and cards when his brain could handle it, and binged movies when he couldn't. They chatted to catch up to a year's worth of events. It was still hard to wrap his mind around it sometimes — to Peter, it had only been a couple days; to his friends, it had been a gruesome, hopeless year.

All the same, they never asked him about what actually happened, on that day. And when he tried to ask them, they just looked at each other uncomfortably and changed the topic. Peter tried to not be bothered by it, but it gnawed at him, especially as his body gained strength and he had more hours each day to think about it. Yeah, it was really good to see his friends and hear about their lives, but he was so done with everyone keeping secrets from him.

It wasn't a sudden thing. Mostly fleeting images — being punched, being thrown down to the ground, trying to get some metal gauntlet off. Saving aliens. It came to him in dreams at first, which he desperately grasped at when he woke up. He was almost afraid they wouldn't come back, but they did, and grew clearer, stronger. Before long, he was able to recollect bits and pieces even when he was awake.

Peter was absolutely thrilled. He started to push into that boundary again, even if each attempt still left him aching and nauseous. Slowly, the mist in his mind begrudgingly retreated, giving Peter back his precious memories one image at a time. His physical condition seemed to be coming back at an exponential rate as well, and with each passing day he felt more like himself. He also resolved to keep his recovery from everyone else, which admittedly made him feel a little bad, but they had brought this upon themselves by being so secretive in the first place.

Then, ten days after the Reversal, it happened for the first time.

Peter had been dreaming about that day again. He went through the events relaxed and comfortable, like watching a favorite film for the tenth time, or like taking the backseat as his body took him on a wild but predictable rollercoaster ride. He saw himself notice the giant donut ship appear above Manhattan, saw Ned distracting everyone so he could go and help. Mr. Stark was already on the scene, because obviously he would be, fighting some Draconian rip-off from Dungeons and Dragons. Before they could finish the fight, though, Peter was told to save a wizard with a necklace (because D&D, why not).

He knew what would happen next. He got beamed up to the space ship. Mr. Stark got a bit mad. They saved the wizard. Mr. Stark made him an actual Avenger! But then they crashed the ship, and met up with some dude from Missouri, a really scary antenna alien lady, and The Rock but with tattoos. Mr. Stark never quite explained why they needed to stop this guy called Thanos, but everyone knew it was for the good of the universe, and Peter gave it his all.

Peter liked these dreams. He was pretty cool in these dreams — he was brave, he fought hard, he saved people. He was the embodiment of what Spider-Man was supposed to be, through and through. He sat back and let the dream take him to the big fight, the one with everyone pinning the alien down and trying to take his gauntlet. They almost had it, but the dude from Missouri heard something about someone called Gamora, and everything went into chaos. Peter didn't blame him, though — he knew he wouldn't have kept his cool either, if he came face to face with Uncle Ben's murderer.

He expected the dream to stop after that. They always did, and he'd always wake up, wanting to live in it for a while longer. So when it continued after Thanos disappeared in a portal, Peter was confused. He watched as the dream took him through brand new memories, of the moments after the battle; he was helping Mr. Stark get back up to his feet, they were taking stock of their options on the alien planet…

That was when he realized he was going to get his memories back, the rest of it, or however much he could take. He almost let out a whoop of delight.

Then the alien antenna woman disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Peter didn't even have time to feel shock when, in barely ten seconds, The Rock and the dude both disappeared.

He didn't even have time to notice the wizard disappearing.

Because he knew he was. He knew with every atom of his being, every hair telling him danger, danger, danger he was going to die, he was going to disappear, like everyone else, and he hadn't even had time to call home to May to let her know he was okay, nor to respond to that kiss MJ had given him, and it was danger danger DANGER, and Peter didn't know where he was going, it was dark and there was —

Oh, god. Oh no. Oh no, no, he could feel it, his fingertips, his body was trying to hold itself together, but he could feel the molecular structure of himself disintegrating, he wanted to fight it, he needed to fight it, he had to see his friends, he had to see May, he wanted to spend more time with Mr. Stark, he'd just become an Avenger for crying out loud, but it was massive, empty, abysmal, something like Hell made manifest and Peter didn't want to go, he didn't want to be alone —

Suddenly he was hugging Mr. Stark, just holding on to him like he was the last solid thing in the world, like he was the life line, the only hope — hanging on by the last thread. The man said something to him, and Peter begged, he begged, he didn't want to go, he wanted to stay in a world where there were so many more things to do, stuff to talk about, cool things to invent…

And Mr. Stark held him, but Peter's body couldn't really register the man's arms because his mind was still screaming danger, like the worst stomach flu and fever and headache all rolled into one. And the pain. Peter tried to hold onto Mr. Stark as tight as he could, but he felt every nerve fiber getting torn apart, and it was a billion times worse than when he fell off his bike and broke a bone, a million times worse than that time he got shot in the stomach… He saw the man trying to say something, felt his grip even though his senses were beginning to numb.

That was when Peter saw the fear, the helpless, horrifying terror in Mr. Stark's eyes. And that was when he knew no one could ever save him. Not even Iron Man, the genius billionaire who always had a plan. Peter was alone. He would always be alone, he couldn't save everyone and now he couldn't be saved…

Peter's vision was beginning to get blurry — he felt tiny, helpless, unable to do anything, like he had when Uncle Ben died in his arms, when he was crying and trying to staunch the flow of blood. He saw the familiar pitch black boiling below him like a tar pit of all the ugliest memories he ever had, and he tried, he really did, he fought so hard but he couldn't get that gauntlet off in time and because of that he was going to disappear, disappear, disappear…

It was too much. Peter was exhausted. He couldn't fight it anymore, the nightmare that had grabbed hold of his feet and was dragging him down, down to where no one will ever know or remember him. He should have done a better job. He wasn't strong enough. Like that time on the ferry, like this time with the gauntlet — if only he'd been stronger. If only he'd thought things through more. He shouldn't have made May worry. He shouldn't have inconvenienced all his friends. He shouldn't have thought he could possibly help Mr. Stark.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out. He wasn't sure what he was sorry for. Maybe it was for not trying harder. Maybe it was for leaving the people he cared about before he was ready to leave them. Maybe it was for making Mr. Stark worried.

And if you died… I'd feel like that's on me.

Ah, Peter thought. So that's why he apologized. He looked at Mr. Stark and wanted to say more, to say it would never be his fault, to say it has been so much fun being Spider-Man, being Peter, with the greatest mentor he could ever hope to have helping him along the way.

Thank you, he wanted to say, but he never got the chance.

As his world disintegrated into ash, Peter Parker bolted upright in his bed.

He tried to hide the incident. The next morning, when May got him breakfast, he smiled and finished it and told her how good it was, but he had to use his other hand just to steady the fork.

The rest of the day he spent watching movies or reading the books MJ brought him. He tried his best to focus, but randomly, again and again, he would find himself back on that desolate planet, the roof and walls collapsing around him, dusted away, and he would be alone, fighting and kicking but still being dragged toward the ultimate doom, helpless.

And then he would snap out of it, panting, his clothes drenched in sweat, his knuckles white on the page. He felt awful because one of MJ's books was ruined this way, the cover torn by his super strength.

"Peter?" May had asked, walking in at that moment. "Is everything okay?"

Peter smiled, hiding the book under his covers. "Yeah. Yeah. That smells delicious, by the way."

May beamed. "It's meatloaf day," she said, setting the tray down. "Honey, are you sure you're alright? You look pale."

"Absolutely fine," Peter said with forced joviality. "I'm getting better every day!"

He was lucky he didn't have other visitors today, for it drained him to act. He managed to wolf down the lunch in record time, and convince May that he needed a nap. After she left, he went to the bathroom and threw everything up. He didn't understand why it disturbed him so much. It's all over, he told himself, splashing water on his face. All in the past.

When evening came, he told May he had to go to sleep early. It felt rotten to lie to her, but he had no choice. He didn't know what to do, what was happening, and the last thing he wanted was for her to worry. He needed to be strong for her. He hugged her good night, and spent the next three hours curled up in his blankets, awake and shivering.

From that day forward, Peter became afraid to fall asleep.